You Learned Well Grasshopper

One of my favorite television shows is something called Mythbusters. It's a show that takes so called urban legends, or myths, and either proves them to be true or proves that they are unsupported bunk. Their method of doing that is sort of pseudo science, but I like to take it as fact. That's why I was so happy when they proved the myth that cursing actually helps lessen pain. I come from a family of cursers. My dad could let out a string of profanity that would make the paint peel off the walls of our church. Old ladies would blush a mile away if my dad slammed his thumb with a hammer, or peeled open his scalp walking into low hanging hardware. You could be going about your business, and off in the distance you might hear my dads voice bellowing out in pain, followed by a litany of shit, crap, sonofabitch, and other combination of words that might not have true meaning but still sounded nasty.

When it comes to my swearing, I am a student of my father. I learned at the feet of the master, and when we were kids my mom never asked the question required of mothers, "Where did you learn such vulgar language?". My mom knew exactly where we learned it. My vulgarity is actually a bit advanced when compared to my dad's. You see I have never had to worry about children being within earshot when I let loose, so I have expanded and enhanced upon the knowledge I gleaned from dad. I have come up with some new combination's that he never would have thrown out there, including new things to do with fecal matter, and sexual profanity that involves just about every living thing.

How good am I at cursing? Well seventeen years ago, I moved into this house, and the neighbor lady came over to welcome me. "Oh, those people who used to live here were horrible. They cursed all the time, I could hear them clear as day across the fence.", she whined. Yes, I assured her, that was awful. It was just a few months later that she sold the place and moved out.

Stray Cat Blues

On more than one occasion I have asked Mark, how did a kid who grew up in the Bronx become so spoiled? His answer is always, "I'm not spoiled, and I only lived in the Bronx until I was nine.".
Still, the middle kid in a family of five, in a lower income neighborhood, how did he decide that he deserved the best of everything? I know from the stories I've heard from his brothers and sisters, and from him, that his parents didn't put up with any shit. How did I end up with this spoiled child?

Speaking of strays, I've been having a problem with all the orphan cats I've taken in. Not only Fat Kitty, but the two outside cats, who if not for me would be living in prison right now, have decided that the food I feed them is no good. I have always fed them either Friskies or Nine Lives canned food, and at first they seemed to relish the piles of stinky mush, but lately they have been turning up their noses at it. So to fix the problem, I went out and purchased the stuff in the tiny cans that cost about the same per ounce as gold. At first they liked it and gobbled that shit right up. Then last week all together, they decided even that wasn't up to their standards. In fact after putting out the food this morning, one of them took a whiff of the little pile of expensive stuff in her bowl, and started scratching around it as if she were burying one of her turds.

Spoiled rotten cats, and spoiled husband. From now on I don't care if the cats don't like what's in the bowl. If it's that bad, maybe they can start killing some rats around here. I hear they're very tasty. And as for Mark, I am not buying a nice new car. I don't care how embarrassed he is driving the PT Cruiser. It gets him to and from the mall just fine, and it's paid for.

Like a Virgin

I was reading a story online about a Virgin Airlines flight from Europe that was diverted to an airport in Connecticut. Because the airport had no facilities for processing overseas flights, i.e. customs, the passengers had to sit on the runway for four hours without food, water, or air-conditioning. I started thinking about that. Would I sit there quietly in a stifling tube filled with crying babies, and Mark next to me whining louder than the babies?

You have no idea what Mark is capable of if he feels he's been slighted or inconvenienced in any way. On our flight back from Italy a few years ago, I and the rest of the passengers had to endure a full on hissy fit by Mark because the flight attendants ran out of chicken meals before they got to us. "I don't want this pasta. I want the chicken I was promised you stupid bitch.", Mark shrieked (note: he may not have used the words 'stupid bitch'. I have condensed all the horrible things he said into those two words.) On and on he whined while I sank back into the seat trying to disappear, or at least trying to look like I wasn't with this crazy man. His behavior actually made me physically ill. I can remember the three worst migraine headaches I have ever had in my life, the kind that make you vomit and unable to open your eyes because of the light. The one I got on that flight is number two on that list.

We are a spoiled people. We have come to expect air-conditioning, the food we want when we want it, and the connectivity of computers, and television at all times. When something goes awry, we complain, we bitch, and we moan, but nobody can bitch, and moan, and complain with such a piercing voice, or such insistence as Mark. I thought about being on that Virgin Airlines flight, and being stuck there with Mark for an indeterminate amount of time, and I’ve come to the conclusion that no, no I would not put up with it. I would get up, go to the emergency exit, and open it. I would deploy that blow up slide, and tumble down it to the pavement below. I don’t care if they arrested me and threw me in jail. At least I would have air-conditioning, food, and water, and I wouldn’t be sitting next to that wailing banshee.

Photo Friday

As part of Mark's plan to keep me fat, and unattractive to other men, he has baked me another cake. Mark makes all his cakes from scratch, no box mix. This is a coconut cake. White cake with coconut extract, for flavor. The frosting is a butter creme with toasted, shredded coconut.

It's all gone, and it was damn good. Mark's plan is working.

Video Thursday

Video Audio Thursday

Yes, I know I'm a real nerd sometimes.

If you didn't grow up in Chicago during the 1960's this will mean nothing to you. It is what I was listening to during my high school years. No ipods, just a little plastic transistor radio with an earphone (yes singular, mono, no stereo) stuck in my ear. We only had two rock and roll stations, which from what I gather was a luxury back then. A lot of people grew up in hick towns with no rock and roll at all. That's why all across the midwest at night, kids would find WLS on the radio. It would carry hundreds of miles after the sun went down because that was when the FCC allowed them to crank up the wattage.

If you aren't bored yet, here's a bit of WCFL from the early 1970's for my younger brothers and sisters.

Porn Stars

Well I went to my semi-annual eye exam this past week. It was sort of good news. After having my eyes poked, blinded by a strobe light two inches away, and dilated so the doctor could shine even brighter lights into them, the doc says they haven't really got much worse. So what was the good news? I'm not totally blind.

While I was there the doctor told me about a new patient he had,  who was having the same trouble as me. It seems the guy wasn't taking the idea of near blindness quite as well as I do, and the doctor wanted to know how I deal with it. I explained that not driving was a little inconvenient, but between the near death experiences I have with Mark chauffeuring, and the little free bus here in town, I manage to get around. Then I explained that the most dangerous, and frustrating place for me was in Mark's kitchen. On more than one occasion I have slammed my head, or shins into cabinet doors, and drawers that Mark has left open. I am also constantly knocking over the piles of crap he leaves out on the counters. It is possible that Mark is trying to kill me and make it look like an accident, but the jokes on him, I still haven't signed the will.

After our little discussion about coping with blindness, the doctor started asking me about my insurance and if I was in pain. At least that's what I thought I heard. After exchanging a few odd sentences back and forth I finally realized he was asking me if the insurance company was paying me what they owed me. Are they paying, not are you in pain?
"Where are you from Doc?"
"New York, why?"
At that point it all became much clearer. I explained that I live with somebody from New York/Jersey, and I misconstrue what he's saying all the time. It's like he speaks a different language. Just the other day Mark was telling me about a show on television called Porn Stars.
"Porn Stars, what kind of trash is that?" I asked.
"It's not that trashy. It's very interesting."
Now how could a show about pornography not be trashy? It took a while, but I finally figured out what he was saying. Turns out Mark was saying 'Pawn Stars' in his best New Jersey accent.

It All Depends

One of the things that scares me the most about growing old, is the fear of peeing in my sleep. When I was a kid I couldn't go an entire night without taking a leak. Unfortunately that was also the period of my life where I could sleep through a nuclear bomb. As a result, much of my childhood was spent trying to figure out how to hide the evidence of the night before from my mom. Thankfully I tend to sleep pretty light now that I'm older, and that's a big help because I've found the frequency of my nocturnal pees have increased to a minimum of three per night. So far I always make it to the bathroom, or at least near it.

Aging is tough. Just this morning as I walked out the front gate with Chandler, a feeling of panic came over me. For a moment I actually thought that I had forgotten to put my pants on. A quick glance down, and a just for good measure tug on my zipper, put my mind at ease. I probably should have a checklist before leaving the house. Pants on, check. Zipper up, check. Keys, sunglasses, Chandler, check, check, check. I should also make sure I go to the bathroom before leaving because on more than one occasion, halfway through the morning dog walk, I have had to run back home.

Incontinence is no laughing matter. Some years ago I lived on the ninth floor of a building in Chicago. One of my neighbors was an old lady named Helen, and for some reason the guy who ran the little grocery store in the basement of the building hated her. Every time I was down there and Helen would walk in, the guy would start yelling at her to hurry up. I never could understand his animosity until one day I was waiting behind Helen at the checkout counter, and I could hear water splashing. Looking down at my feet, it was obvious that Helen was taking a leak right then and there. She seemed oblivious to what was happening, but the store clerk knew. As he screamed at the poor old girl, I grabbed her purchases and escorted her back up to her apartment. When she opened the door, I just about swooned. I've smelled homes with twenty cats that had a more pleasant odor than her place. It is that picture and smell, etched into my memory, that always keeps me aware of the Depends aisle as I follow Mark through the grocery store. You never know, I might need to find that aisle again some day.

Grinning Politicians, and Sweat Soaked Drag Queens. It Must Be The Gay Parade.

 (My Friend Rudy, 1988 Chicago parade)

Yesterday, Sunday, was the annual Stonewall Gay Parade and Street Festival here in our town. Unfortunately, because I forgot to bring a camera and I have no idea how to get photos from my cell phone to my computer, I can't show any of it to you. That's too bad because some of it cannot be described in words alone, but I'll try.

Tossing aside the successful practice of having the parade in the early evening, this year they put it on at eleven in the morning. Now that wouldn't be so bad if you are living in say, Nome Alaska, but here in South Florida in the summer, eleven in the morning is like sitting under a French fry lamp at McDonald's. Add to that, ninety percent humidity, and you have the worst case scenario for drag queens riding on floats. In what seemed like a scene from a horror movie, float after float, and convertible after convertible, passed by carrying Ru Paul wannabes with their faces melting, and the cheap makeup running down their sweat soaked gowns.

Interspersed with the melting drag queens were the politicians. I guess it is kind of nice that times have changed, and instead of being pariahs, gays are now considered valuable voters to be catered to. Unfortunately for the politicians, they have now become the pariahs. At least I was entertained when the county mayor who passed the one bite, your dog is dead law, Ken Keechl, came by on a truck, and Mark started screaming "Dog killer!" at the top of his lungs. This caused the perfectly coiffed politician to break out in a shit eating, sweaty grin, and provoked questions from all around us as to why we would scream at that nice looking man

All in all we had a pretty nice time, even if I came close to having heat stroke, and Mark came close to being run over by the truck carrying Ken Keechl. However, I think wandering up and down the street at eleven in the morning with a drink in my hand is just too damn early. At least when they held the parade in the evening my ice didn't melt nearly as fast.

Photo Friday

Father's Day

 (That's dad on the right)

Video Thursday

Not Jersey from Big Gay Al on Vimeo.

More Pestilence

The bug man was here, again. Last week I wrote that I was having an invasion of palmetto bugs (Florida cockroaches), and that thankfully my exterminator had shown up with buckets of palmetto bug killer. Apparently encircling my house with that stuff didn't help because I flipped on the lights in the kitchen the other night, and found a roach party in full swing. Even I, who fancies himself to be a somewhat butch man, let out a girlie scream this time. I'll say one thing about those bugs, they are damn fast. By the time I regained my composure, all but one of them had skedaddled off behind the stove, and under the counters. So I took out all of my vengeance and aggression on that straggler. First I beat him with a towel, then I shoved him off the counter into the sink, and then with great pleasure I stuffed him down the drain and turned on the disposal. A few hours later the bug gods retaliated.

I have a water cooler in the bedroom, and every time I get up to go take a pee (which is a lot the older I get) I stop and take a slug of water. Not a lot of water, that would defeat the purpose of my going to pee. No, I just put about two ounces in the cup I keep on top of the cooler, and chug that down on my way to the bathroom. I can do this with the lights off no problem. So the other night I grabbed the cup off the cooler, gulped down some cool, refreshing water, and proceeded on into the bathroom. While standing there doing my thing, I swished the water around in my mouth once before swallowing, and felt something non liquid. In a panic I flipped on the lights and spit the water, and what turned out to be a cricket, into the sink. Once again, I screamed like a little girl.

The exterminator has been here already and this time he did a pretty thorough job inside the house. It doesn't matter, I won't be drinking things in the dark again for quite a while. Unless of course I'm in a dimly lit tavern.

The Vuvuzela Is Not Part Of The Female Anatomy

I am perplexed. I have just sat here for almost two hours watching the most popular sport in the world, and I feel as if I just opened a birthday present only to find the box empty. The World Cup. It has been hyped no less than the Super Bowl, and over and over again we have been told how provincial we are for not jumping on the band wagon. Well, Saturday afternoon I jumped on the band wagon. For ninety minutes I watched a bunch of guys in shorts running up and down a huge green field, kicking and head butting a ball back and forth. Apparently during that ninety minutes, two goals were scored, but I didn't see those. I'm pretty sure I nodded off for a while. After ninety minutes the game didn't stop but kept going for a few minutes past that time, and then without any fanfare, the game just stopped. It was over, ending in a one, one, tie. This is the worlds most popular game? This causes people to go crazy, and riot? I think that maybe they're just pissed because nothing happened.

There is excitement at soccer games. Unfortunately it's not on the field, but among the fans in the stadium. I have never in my life seen so much face painting, and costuming for a sporting event. While the athletes down on the field were kicking the ball around, and running back and forth accomplishing nothing, up in the stands a huge drunken party broke out. One of the things adding to the fan excitement was a plastic horn called the vuvuzela. Thousands of people were blowing on their vuvuzelas making it sound like a swarm of gigantic bees had invaded the stadium. While some people don't appreciate the vuvuzelas, I kind of liked it. It had an effect like electronic background noise. It was almost soothing. In fact it puts soccer right up there with baseball as my most favored afternoon nap inducer.

Sir, Have You Been Drinking?

A friend of mine just finished off his punishment for DUI. If I could give anybody a bit of advice besides don't drive if you've had too much to drink, it is don't get a lawyer! It took my friend eighteen months, and many extra thousands of dollars to go through this because he had a lawyer who loved continuances in court. I tell you this because I have another friend who went through the same thing without a lawyer, and it took one third less time, and one half the money for the exact same outcome. Let's face it, DUI convictions have become much less about keeping dangerous people off the road than making money. It is now much more about a revenue stream for the government, and the ancillary people involved, including the asshole that came out and put a boot on my car. Oops, I guess I might have given away who that second friend is. All I can say is, it wasn't me.

One of the consequences of my friend’s DUI is that for six months he had to breath cleanly into a breathalyzer before he could start his car. Now that is not just a good idea, it's a great idea that could be used on a whole lot more things than just a cars ignition system. For instance you should have to blow into a breathalyzer before you go home with someone you've met in a bar. That would prevent so many awkward, and embarrassing mornings as you gather up your clothes, and dignity, and slip quietly out the door. Another place a breathalyzer would be quite helpful, is on my computer. It could be triggered by certain functions, like when I'm about to reply to emails, or leave a comment on somebody else's blog. Proving that I am sober could prevent some embarrassing, and inappropriate dispatches that may seem hilarious at the time. One thing is for sure, I wish I had a breathalyzer on the computer the other evening when I did some drunken online shopping. It was the next morning that I noticed an influx of emails from Amazon Dot Com, all informing me that my orders had been filled, and my purchases were on the way. I do remember listening to a very old cassette tape the night before, and thinking how distorted the sound was. Apparently I decided to replace all the tapes I had of that particular artist, with brand new cd’s, and thanks to the ‘one click’ option on Amazon, I was able to do it efficiently despite my inebriated condition.

Today the first of at least three packages arrived, and I have to admit, the sound is so much better than those thirty five year old tapes. But, it got me to wondering, what would my life be like today if I had to blow into a breathalyzer the night I met Mark?

Photo Friday

My 1950 Studebaker is almost done. It took me six years to restore it.

Before

After

 After

I am such a liar. For the real story of these photo's, click on this link http://tinleytime.blogspot.com/p/real-story.html.

Video Thursday

So there is oil spewing into the Gulf of Mexico, destroying an entire ecosystem. North Korea is pouting again. War is raging in Afghanistan. Politicians are spewing vile insults at each other. Cleanse your mental palate this morning with a nice video of cute little kittens.

Somebody dumped thirty cats and kittens on the doorstep of Abandoned Pet Rescue last week. They are trying to find homes for all of them, so come on by and adopt one. They are so damn cute.

http://apr.rescuegroups.org/

Don't Call a Politician a Dog. It's Insulting To Dogs.

Some years ago, while walking my late dog Molly, we came upon a neighbor and his cute little Maltese. Now up until this time I had never, ever, had reason to think Molly was in any way dangerous. She was a big old goofy black lab mix, who gave big sloppy kisses to everybody who put their face within three feet of hers. She had close dog friends who she outweighed five to one, yet she never showed any aggression towards another dog. That is until my neighbor's cute little Maltese snapped at her. For some reason Molly viewed this as extreme danger, and reacted by grabbing the little dog in her mouth, and ripping it open from the top of it's chest, down to it's groin. All hell broke loose. I was screaming, my friend Dennis was screaming, my neighbor's wife was screaming. As the dog's owner scooped the poor bloody thing up in his arms, and ran down the street, he shouted over his shoulder, "I'm going to get my gun and shoot you!". Now I have to admit, I panicked. I grabbed my dog, and dragged her straight home, hid her in my office, and told Mark not to open the door for anyone.

I am telling this story because a politician here in Broward County, passed a law dictating that if a dog bites another dog or person, just once, that dog must be euthanized. No second chance, no muzzle, just kill it. I did the right thing when my dog bit the Maltese, I called the police and asked them to accompany me over to the neighbors so we could settle this. In the end, the Maltese survived just fine, and I paid all the vet bills which came to $750. Right now, here in Broward County there are two dogs on death row who basically did what my dog did. One attacked a little dog that was not on a leash, and came running up to her, and the other one bit a dog that was on one of those reel type leashes, when the owner lost control. In both cases the dogs were well behaved animals who made one mistake. If my dog were to misbehave with the way the law reads now, I would immediately get him the hell out of the county. There is quite a bit of difference between a mean dog and a dog that simply reacts by instinct, the way dogs will. You can write a mean letter to Ken Keechl, the politician responsible for this, at this address.
CampaignManager@keechl2010.com
Broward County Mayor
Ken Keechl
115 S. Andrews Ave. Room 412
Fort Lauderdale, FL 33301
Telephone: 954-357-7004
Fax: 954-357-7798

The Bug Man

The bug man came by today and did his thing. I have found that it's extremely important here in Florida to have a good bug man. When I lived in Chicago I had a bug man. He wasn’t very good. No matter how often he came to squirt poison around the house we still ended up with stray cockroaches every once in a while. The fact that I thought he was good looking probably is what kept me from cancelling the contract. Besides, Chicago cockroaches, although very hardy, aren't all that big, and if they are kept to a bare minimum they are almost tolerable. I was always told that they hitched a ride on the bags of groceries that I brought home, that's why they were impossible to exterminate. Apparently they are part of the food chain.

The cockroaches we have here in Florida aren't anything like Chicago roaches. For one thing, they don't swarm en masse inside the house. They seem to prefer to live outside, and only seek shelter inside the house at the start of the rainy season. Well, it is now the start of the rainy season, and the cats and I have started to find the Florida version of cockroaches, or as they call them here, Palmetto Bugs, inside the house. These roaches, or Palmetto Bugs, are huge. How huge? How about two inches long huge, and what’s more they fly. These things are so big you can actually hear them skitter across the floor as they run for their lives from Fat Kitty. And the crunch they make when you step on them is only a little less disgusting than the green slime that splatters out of them. That‘s why I was so glad that when I went outside to talk to the bug man, he was already spreading around Palmetto Bug bait to kill the little bastards. That’s going to deprive Fat Kitty of one of her favorite pastimes, but that’s okay, I’ll sleep better at night knowing a gigantic cockroach isn‘t going to be crawling up my nose.

Whachoo Talkin' bout?

“There's blood everywhere. I don’t know if he’s okay. I’m not down there right now because if I get stressed out I’m going to faint,” she told the operator.
“He fell. His head is bloody. There’s blood all over the floor. I don’t know what happened"
“Is there any way you can go down there at all?” the operator asked.
“I’ll try, I don’t know, I mean…” she said. “I don’t want to be traumatized right now,” the 24-year-old added.
“I just can’t be here with the blood. I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I can’t. … There’s blood all over and I can’t do anything.”
Right before the ambulance arrived, Price said, “I’m gagging, I got blood on myself, I can’t deal.”
 (Read more: http://bumpshack.com/2010/06/03/gary-coleman-911-call-audio/)

I was listening to the Gary Coleman 911 audio, and a horrific realization came over me. That's Mark! That is exactly the reaction Mark would have if he came across me involved in some kind of a mishap, like sawing my fingers off, or stabbing myself with a cork screw. The only difference is that Mark wouldn't be so calm about it. No, Mark would be running around the house, screaming like a white woman on fire while trying to dial 911. Just take the exact transcript above, add 'Oh Lord' after every sentence, and imagine it in a loud, high pitched wail. That would be Mark.

Mark is not good at handling adversity. Just the other day I was in my office and I heard a bit of a commotion in the kitchen, followed by a couple of loud squeaks. Upon entering the kitchen to investigate, I found Mark in tears, backed into a corner while flames shot up from the counter and licked the cabinets above. "I quit, I give up, waaaa..... squawk! I can't cook anymore....", Marks voice then trailed off into hysterical sobs. I calmly took the hose from the sink and put out the fire as Mark pushed past me, "You cook the damn dinner, I'm through!". As I cleaned up the mess on the counter, more flames shot up from the garbage can behind me. I guess Mark thought he could just throw the fire in there and it would go away.

I may have made a big mistake, I agreed to a road trip to Chicago this summer with Mark. I'm not sure that it's a good idea. The potential for something to go horribly wrong might be more than Mark can handle. I can't have him freaking out every time something goes a bit awry while he's driving. He tends to drive extremely slow on the interstates, and has even been known to stop in the traffic lanes when things go bad.  So,  I have given him strict instructions,  “Before we leave on this trip, you must refill your prescription for Xanax.", and then I told him to make sure he gets enough for me too.

Photo Friday

 Photo by Garet (or possibly Garett)

Summer 1988, on Lake Michigan. Chicago in the background. My brother on the left, me on the right, all puffy from chemo, sailing around on our sailboat. Nice sun glasses, hey?

This is what a party looks like to a dog.

If There's a Noodle on The Television Remote, We're Having Spaghetti Tonight.

Nothing good comes out of a clean kitchen. Now don't get me wrong, the kitchen needs to be clean when you start, but if when you are done baking that bread, cooking that dinner, or even just making a late night snack, and there isn't crud and mess everywhere, then what you just made must taste like shit. That is the lesson I have taken from thirteen years with Mark.

Up until I got together with Mark, I was responsible for keeping myself alive. It was up to me to make sure that I ingested enough food to keep myself from wasting away, and it wasn't easy. Most of what I cooked for myself tasted bland at best, and like day old cat food at it's worst. The only up side to that, is that it kept me thin. What I do know is that my kitchen was always spotless. I could fry up some burgers, or chicken, and there would never be any splatter, crumbs, or need to wipe up any sauce drippings when I was done. Then I met Mark. Within days of Mark and I getting together, it was determined that I would never intrude upon the duties of making dinner. That was to be for Mark, and Mark alone. So now every evening around six-ish, I will hear the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen. Mark is making my dinner.

There is no argument that Mark is the best cook I have ever known, and I'm lucky to have him. He and I have an agreement. He cooks, and I clean up. So when dinner is over, I make my way into the kitchen and start the chore of cleaning up after Mark. To put it mildly, he is a slob when he cooks. He cannot toast an English muffin without leaving crumbs spread across the counter from end to end, with butter smeared on the cabinet fronts, and jam somehow stuck to the ceiling. When I clean up after dinner, I have to be thorough. I check for food on the walls, and sauce encrusted gadgets that he has hidden all around the kitchen. After loading the dishwasher, and scrubbing mystery goo off the door knobs, I finish the job off by scraping and mopping the floors. All of this can take me from thirty minutes to over an hour depending on the complexity of the dinner, but I have a plan. I don't know if it is feasible, but if we ever remodel our kitchen, I am going to look into making it waterproof. I will then put a drain in the middle of the floor and hang a garden hose on a wall rack.

It's My Party

Is it wrong to pick up a piece of candy from behind the sofa, and eat it? It was a Hershey's Krackle, which I love, and it had only been there since around Easter which wasn't really that long ago. I'm sure if I had bought it off the store shelf it wouldn't have been any more sanitary. After all, germ ridden numbskulls paw over that candy all the time. The reason I was behind the sofa, was because Mark and I were preparing for another one of our fabulous parties. Actually, it wasn't 'our' party. If it was up to me, there would never, ever, be any kind of social gathering in this house. Mark is the one who loves to put these things on. It's his opportunity to cook mountains of food, and spiff up the house as if we actually lived a nice place.

Having a party is good in a way, it causes me to go through with plans to upgrade things, like rebuilding the rotten deck, and remodeling the bathroom. What I don't like is the shopping. Let's face it, Mark likes any excuse to go shopping, and a party is a license to shop. It means that soon he would be spending hundreds of dollars for food, liquor, and crap to decorate the place. The only thing worse than going shopping with Mark might possibly be that colonoscopy I had a couple of years ago. So once again I find myself at the grocery store pushing a cart, while Mark runs ahead grabbing all sorts of crap, returning long enough to pile it into the cart, and then running off again. After wandering through the store for what seemed like an eternity, I asked for the tenth time, "Are we done yet?" Mark finally said yes, so I immediately pushed an old cripple out of the way, and turned the cart into one of the available checkout lanes. It was then that Mark muttered something about olives, and took off again into the bowels of the Store. "Son of a bitch! Get back here, you said we were done!" It made no difference, he was gone. As the little conveyor belt quickly moved our party goods towards the scanner, I decided I'd just let everything get checked out and leave if he didn't make it back in time. This is something Mark does all the time. It is rude to the other customers, and pisses me off, mostly because Mark usually emerges with his booty just as I am swiping my bank card to pay for it all. I wish I could say I checked out, and drove away without him, but no. Once again he had it timed perfectly. Besides, I didn't have the keys to the car.