Lunch

Lunch

When Mark and I first got together he would make fantastic dinners. Huge spreads with more food than my mom used to make for her giant family. I had never seen so much food on a plate in my life. Mark has always said that he enjoys the fact that I like his cooking. He also said that he likes to have enough food on the table just in case somebody drops in, which does happen once in awhile. I, having been brought up by Lila, was taught to never waste food. As a kid I was constantly reminded of the starving children in Europe. So I would force down my peas and carrots. I would choke down the dried out, overcooked "steak" which was more shoe leather than meat. And when it came to Mark's dinners, I would do the same. Except Mark's food is delicious. It is like the best restaurant food from the best restaurant, only better. I quickly gained around fifty pounds after Mark moved in. One by product of Mark's extravagant dinners, are the leftovers. Having been taught by Lila not to waste food, I would neatly pack all the dinner leftovers into plastic containers and store them in the refrigerator. Everything from the giant salads that Mark would serve, to the desserts and all that came in between. The problem came when I realized that Mark does not do leftovers. Every evening Mark would cook a complete new meal while the food from days before aged in the refrigerator. Sometimes it would age to the point of turning into a disgusting goo. So I have learned to not save so much. I pick out the best of a meal and store that away in the fridge while throwing the rest in the garbage. Then every few days I have lunch. I open the refrigerator, grab all the leftovers, and make lunch. Sunday's lunch consisted of a pork chop stewed in watermelon juice from Thursday night, a chicken enchilada that Mark had made on Friday, and one non-Mark dish, orange chicken from the Chinese restaurant. I am never going to lose those fifty pounds, never, ever.

Mom

Mom is getting up there, ninety five years old now, and sometimes she forgets things. Anyway, I try to see her at least once every week. Usually on Wednesday or Thursday. This week my sister Mary Beth told me that Mom had a doctor's appointment on Wednesday, and on Thursday I had to take Mark to the doctor. So those two days were out. On top of that, I have had a very bad pulled muscle in my back this week and the last thing I wanted to do was drive fifty miles out to Tinley Park. But being the considerate son I am, I called Mom yesterday to let her know that she would not be seeing me this week. After around ten rings, Mom answered the phone.

"Hello."

"Hi Mom, it's me, Alan."

"Yes, I know who it is."

"I hate to tell you this, but we won't be coming out to see you this week. Mark has a doctor's appointment today, and I know that you had a doctor's appointment yesterday."

"I did?"

"Well that's what Mary Beth told me, that you had a doctor's appointment yesterday afternoon."

"I don't think so. I don't remember going to the doctor."

That does not mean that Mom did not go to the doctor. In her advanced age Mom has been having trouble with short term memory. She can give you a detailed description of what she did when she was fifteen years old and took a streetcar downtown, and what she bought downtown, and who she was with, but she cannot remember if she has eaten her lunch today or not.

"So you don't remember going to the doctor at all?"

"No, I don't think I did... Oh, Alan. You know I'm getting goofy in my old age."

"Well don't worry about it. We all get goofy sooner or later. I'm halfway there myself."

She laughed, and we talked a bit more. I then apologized for not visiting this week and we said goodbye. It's kind of sad to see her struggle with her memory like that, but I look on the bright side. Next week when I see her I'll remind her of how much fun we had when I visited this week.

I Have Big Plans For Friday

I don't usually plan my television watching, but I decided to do that for this coming Friday. It being winter and the fact that I tend to stay inside the house with the television on, I decided that I needed a plan. I just cannot chance my tuning in to the wrong channel on Friday. So here is what I have on my schedule.

• 7:00am; Green Acres. It just seems so appropriate for the day. What better way to kick off black Friday than a show about a rich guy and his beautiful wife, ripped out of New York City to go live in a swamp. Go ahead, sing that theme song to yourself as you read this.
• 8:00am; Showbiz Korea. I've been wanting to watch this one for awhile, but haven't had a good reason to turn it on before now.
• 9:00am; Eat Breakfast while watching Match Game 74, hoping that Betty White and Charles Nelson Reilly are on the panel. It's Charles at his best before he got a bit bored with it all. You also hope that it's a show they taped for a Friday, because by the fifth taping of the day, the panel was usually pretty drunk.
• 10:00am; Walk Miss Scout. Well, take a shower and then walk Miss Scout. It's a little routine we have. I spend a half an hour in the bathroom while Scout lays in front of the bathroom door waiting. She then bites my toes while I try to tie my shoes and put on my coat. So damn cute.
• 11:00am; Gilmore Girls. I have never even watched one second of this show. I have no Idea what it is about, but really, I'm trying to escape from reality here.
• 12:00pm; Mariah's World. I have watched this show before. I love Mariah Carey's music, but there is something creepy about seeing her do this reality show. Not as creepy as what I am trying to avoid though.
• 1:00pm to 3:00pm; Tiny House Hunters. I have quit watching this show because I got tired of yelling at the television, screaming that those morons are going to regret trying to live in a 200 square foot home with two kids and a dog. However, like I said, Friday is Pretend Hell Hasn't Frozen Over Day.
• 3:00pm; The Closing Bell on CNBC. I will turn that on just long enough to see if the world has ended, or at the least see if the stock market has crashed.
• 4:00pm; Nap....  take a nice nap with the dogs.
• 5:00pm; Feed the dogs.
• 5:30pm; Mark feeds me.
• 6:00pm; Begin watching the six American Pickers shows that I have on Tivo while keeping an eye on the horizon for the mushroom cloud.

The Winter of Mark's Discontent

So here I am, still alive. I'm not frozen and I have not turned cannibal on Mark because I can't get to the supermarket. I have not lost one single extremity to frostbite while walking the dogs in the brutal, sub-freezing cold. My body seems to have adapted quite quickly to the change of seasons here in Chicago. Twenty seven years in Florida and you would think that I would be soft. I am not. A little chapped with dry skin, but not soft. I can take it. And look, halfway through winter and we are looking at temperatures in the upper forties and even a day or two over fifty. I'd like to say, thanks to all of you who have burned fossil fuels without regard for the climate for the last hundred years. This global warming thing is working out pretty good here in Chicago. I am just happy that I sold that house in Florida when I did. Six feet above sea level was making me a little bit nervous. So we have one and a half months of winter left before spring comes along. I consider March to be the start of spring, and March snow storms to simply be the wakeup call for the crocuses. They say that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. Sure, sometimes that lamb is a little bitchy, but I can take it.

Oh, I forgot. Mark. He's not taking it too well. He is not dealing with the sub-freezing temperatures, the ice on the streets, and the snow. Mark spends most of the day whining and complaining. He hates to set foot outside if the temperature falls below thirty three degrees, and even then it's a bitch-fest. At least once a day Mark tells me that he hates me for bringing him to this hell hole, and I remind him that O'Hare is only a few miles away. They have a lot of planes that can take you right back to Florida.

Where I Will Go When I Want to Escape From Mark

I remember my dad's workbench down in the basement on Ravinia Drive. It was a child's fantasy playground. Hammers, saws, screwdrivers, and the screws to go with them. There were drills, and a vice on that workbench too. The vice was one of my favorite toys. It was almost as fun crushing things in the vice as it was smooshing them on the train tracks. At least I didn't have to hike three blocks over to the railroad tracks for my smooshing. Now I am an adult, sixty seven years, and I finally have my own workbench. Well, almost have my own workbench. If I can figure out these cockamamie instructions on how to assemble it I will. There are serious flaws in these instructions. I did not notice where this thing was manufactured (My dad's workbench was manufactured by him, from lumber.),  but I suspect it isn't the United States. So I have had to improvise a little bit. Hopefully it turns out well and I can start all my winter projects next week. You know, all those things I promised Mark I would build last summer.