Merry F***king Christmas: Yogurt Edition

 

When I was a kid, my brothers, sisters, and I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the lights, the nearly two weeks off from school was special. Life seemed so wonderful in those days immediately before the big day. However, it was not so great for my dad. We didn't know he had to pay for all of the stuff that showed up under the Christmas tree. I never thought about what a bitch it was to lug that big tree home, set it up, and then drag all the decorations down from the attic crawl space. So at some point in the days before Christmas something would set him off. Dad would blow his top and in his thunderous big man voice, burst into a symphony of profanities. It could be a burned out string of lights. It could be something that happened in traffic on his way home from work. It could be me saying just the right thing in front of him. All I knew was to get the hell out of the way. I'm not much different. I've had my Christmas disasters that have turned me into a raving maniac. Disasters that send me screaming every foul, nasty curse word I can muster at the top of my lungs. One year in Florida it was an open window that allowed the tropical breezes to topple Mark's beautifully decorated Christmas Tree.

I make my own yogurt. Every eight days or so, I pour twenty four ounces of milk into the six hundred dollar Vitamix blender that Mark made me buy for him one Christmas. Then I add my live yogurt starter and blend it at the very lowest speed for a minute. It takes about eighteen hours to cook and then you have yogurt at a third the cost of buying it pre-made. Today was yogurt day. After pouring the milk and the live yogurt starter into the blender, I turned to throw away the yogurt carton. At which point some part of my body brushed against the blender and flipped the on/off switch to on. In a panic I flipped the wrong switch and turned the speed up to 500,000 rpm blasting all the milk and yogurt straight up onto the cabinets, walls, floor, and me. Immediately the dogs came running in to help clean up the mess. Just as immediately they ran as I burst into my impression of my dad.

It took about an hour to clean it all up. I think I got it all, but it's hard to tell. White milk, white yogurt, white kitchen cabinets and counters. I may have missed some. I'm sure I'll know if I did in a day or so. That's when the aroma of sour milk will make it known.

Busy Week

 

I've had an odd week that could have been overwhelming. However, if I break it down into smaller compartments I can deal with it all. I'm babysitting my sister's dog. Two of my sisters are in the hospital. I got a new housekeeper. I lost Dennis.

First off, the dogs. My older sister had surgery this week so I took her dog in while she recuperates. Nothing funnier than watching me walk three barking, snarling dogs down our street. Snarling because the two smallest dogs seem to think that every approaching human is a threat, and every cat or squirrel needs to be chased. Scout, the big girl of the group, has been an angel about the whole deal. By the way, finding tiny small dog turds among the fallen leaves of autumn is quite a challenge.

The housekeeper. As for her cleaning abilities, she's great. Very diligent, which can be a drawback since she spent four hours cleaning my bathroom and kitchen. I had to stop her at four hours because I am paying her by the hour. But that bathroom is spotless and the kitchen shines. I'll have her start in the living room next time she's scheduled.

Dennis. No, he's not dead. Literally, I lost him. On Tuesday I dropped him off at his doctor's office for an appointment. Around three in the afternoon I texted him, "Do you need me to pick you up?" Crickets, no answer. At five I tried calling him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Then for the next three hours I kept calling every half hour or so, and every time straight to voicemail. I was getting worried about him. No doctor's office is still seeing patients at eight in the evening. After checking the bushes in front of the house to see if maybe he fell into them while coming up the stairs, I decided to call the hospital emergency room by his doctor's office. "Oh yes, Dennis is here in the waiting room. He's been here for four hours." So relief and panic all rolled into one. HIPAA rules and his phone taking me straight to voicemail meant that I had no idea why he was there. Which is where he stayed for over thirty hours. Finally the next evening, the dogs started going batshit and I looked out the window. Two men were helping Dennis up the porch stairs. A taxi driver and a stranger who helped pick Dennis up after he fell getting out of the taxi.

So, Dennis is fine, the dogs are fine, and I surely hope my two sisters are/will be fine. Meanwhile the two smallest dogs have staked out their sleeping positions on my bed, inches from my face.

Zombie Dog

 

This morning I Googled, "How long are dreams?". I dream a lot and sometimes they seem to go on for a long time. Google says, "Five to twenty minutes." Seems about right. My craziest dreams used to come after watching episodes of The Walking Dead earlier in the evening. If you don't know, it's a show about zombies. To try and stop the bad dreams I would record The Walking Dead and then watch it during the daytime. That didn't totally clear the dreams, so I stopped watching it all together. I haven't watched it for a few of years now.

Last night I had what seemed like an extended dream involving zombies. People I knew were turning into zombies. Everybody was trying to bite me and turn me into a zombie. Worst of all, I knew it was a dream and I couldn't wake up. If you ever watched The Walking Dead, you know the growling sound the zombies make. That was what I kept hearing in my dream, until I finally woke up. Next to my bed, in the dark, was Scout. She was doing her "I have to go out and poop" growl while staring up at me. It's a very low, almost inaudible growl, that is not meant to scare. Only meant to let me know she has to poop. I can only assume she had been sitting there for quite a while before I woke up.

The Magic Chair

 

When my grandfather was in his eighties I would often stop over to visit when my delivery job took me close by. If it was during the baseball season I would find Grandpa asleep in his recliner chair with the television on very loud, and tuned to the Chicago Cubs. Not that Grandpa was a big fan of the Cubs. He had the Cubs on because he was a fan of naps in the middle of the day and the Cubs didn't play night games back then. No sleeping pill could compete with the Cubs of the 1970s and a can of Meister Brau Beer. The recliner chair helped too, I believe.

I'm not yet in my eighties, but I do understand now how all that worked. I've owned a string of recliner chairs over the last forty years. Some were cheap and some were expensive, often they were uncomfortable. Then there were those giant fluffy things that seemed to want to swallow you. Whatever, I like to recline when I watch television. When my last one broke down, I went to the La-Z-Boy store and spent a lot of money on a new recliner chair. It is like nothing I have ever experienced before. I've had it for a year and a half now and it still feels like new. I sit in that thing when my back hurts, and the hurt subsides. What I didn't expect was what it would do for my napping. I sleep better in that chair than I do in bed. The problem is that it puts me to sleep when I don't even want to sleep. I will turn on a program, see the first few minutes, and then I find myself opening my eyes to a completely different show. I won't even remember closing my eyes. It's like magic, kind of like time travel. If it weren't for DVR's I would miss a lot of shows. Also, if it weren't for the two dogs that live with me I'd  probably never wake up. They don't put up with this ignoring them shit.

The Real Reason For the Time Change

 

Day one of government enforced sleep deprivation. At 4:00am on that morning, ten pounds of Daisy dog walked across my mid-section and leaped to the floor of the bedroom landing next to the other dog, Scout, sleeping on the rug. Scout then took up the cause, letting out the soft whining that she uses to wake me up. Welcome to the world of the deep state, big brother, the conspiracy to ruin my life. Time to fuck with time again. I'm not sure if it's a Republican conspiracy or Democrat conspiracy to ruin an entire week for me. Probably just those embedded, secret government bureaucrats trying to keep Americans from thinking clearly. Yes, wake up sheeples. Haven't you noticed that it comes right before the November elections so you vote in a fog?

By 2:30pm on Sunday it was already getting dark and the dogs started to remind me that they will need to be fed at any minute now. Normal dinner time for the dogs is 4:30pm, with a nice walk afterwards. Now, six days later, nothing has changed. I am still awakened in the dark, early hours of the morning by a very insistent little fur ball. Around 2:30 in the afternoon they both stand in front of my recliner chair, staring at me, expecting to be fed and walked. Meanwhile, I am constantly looking at clocks all day because I have no idea what time it is either.

All this is because some evil beings, hidden deep within the halls of the government, want to screw with us and the elections. You think I'm kidding? Just watch. They'll do it again next year right before the Presidential elections. Then we'll all go to the polls and vote for the wrong candidates, while those really in charge sit back and giggle.

Daisy

 

Grrrrrrr......

This is Daisy, my third foster dog so far this year. She gets along really well with Scout, seems to like me very much, and she has killed two rats so far in the back yard. I plan to keep this one. No dog is perfect. Daisy has her flaws. The previous owner had Daisy's DNA done and she is 49% Yorkshire Terrier, 49% Pomeranian, and 2% Chihuahua. Yorkies are energetic and feisty. Chihuahuas are energetic, feisty, and bold. Pomeranians are energetic, and like to spin in circles. What all those breeds have in common is "energetic". Daisy is energetic, and she spins in circles. In fact sometimes it's like living with a tiny, furry, crack head. Ever since she got her first kill in the back yard it has become her favorite place. She runs the entire perimeter of the yard along the fences checking for rats, thus pointing out to me all the places rats enter and exit my yard. Not too many are visiting anymore since Daisy took over.

Next week we have to go through the stupid ritual of changing the time again. I am not looking forward to that. Mostly because my dogs are very attuned to the schedule I keep. Up at 5:30am. Eat dinner at 5:00pm. At around 9:00pm I turn off the television and lights in the living room, and move to the back of the house. If I don't do that Scout will stand in front of my chair and stare at me, letting out an occasional little bark. Daisy has now joined her in that routine. I've been trying to get them used to later times so that they'll be acclimated by next week when the clocks get turned back. I don't want to be getting up at 4:30am and have Scout telling me to turn off the television at 8:00pm. Seriously, if I don't get up out of bed at the right time, Daisy just keeps walking on me until I do.

Nobody Died

 

Me when I could still run... kind of.

Last Wednesday I was walking Scout and Daisy around the block as we do twice every day. Down at Thorndale Avenue there is a long stretch of grass between the street and the sidewalk that they love to take their time investigating. I assume many dogs leave messages in that grass for each other. That day I heard what I thought were firecrackers going off over by the high school, which is half a block from that street. It was not firecrackers, but three volleys of automatic gunfire. Within seconds high school kids were running towards me, and right past me. One kid across the street in a leg cast with a crutch, dropped the crutch and took off running too. Meanwhile, my two dogs ignored it all and kept on smelling the grass, picking up all the gossip of the day. I used to have a black lab named Molly who would start shaking if she heard the barely audible pop of a firecracker two miles away. Not Scout and Daisy, they acted like the hadn't heard anything. I can't run anymore. So all this time I'm looking for a place to drag the dogs and hide. There were no cars parked nearby that I could hide behind and behind me was a long stretch of brick wall. So I just stood there waiting. I did tighten up my grip on the dog leashes just in case I went down. Now before anybody makes disparaging comments about Chicago and shootings, remember this can happen anywhere. Guns are everywhere because the NRA and politicians have made sure that they armed all the crazy people in our country. Murder is not new, guns are not new. My grandfather was murdered with a gun in Chicago, eighty one years ago. It is the easy access and the increased lethal capacity that the NRA, the Supreme Court, and politicians have unleashed upon us that is different.

Anyway, we all pooped right after that. Scout and Daisy in the grass, me in my pants.