Mark's Ass

I am an ass. More specifically I am Mark’s ass. No I don’t mean that I am two, skinny, caramel colored bags of flesh hanging off Mark’s backside. I mean that I have become Mark’s pack animal. His donkey for carrying various suitcases, shopping bags, and whatever else he has accumulated during the course of our trip to Chicago. As I write this little blog entry, my back is killing me. I have schlepped heavy suitcases up stairs, and bags of dirty laundry back down. When we go shopping, or even if we are just passing through an area, Mark ends up with bags and bags of crap that he ‘just had to have’ that I end up carrying.

A few years ago Mark bought a cute picnic basket with dishes, wine glasses, and all the other accoutrements necessary to recreate a Georges Seurat painting. Ever since he dragged that thing home he has been begging me to go on a picnic with him. I have been pooh poohing that idea because I know it will end up with me dragging that heavy picnic basket across hundreds of yards of sand dunes, or through woods infested with bugs. Believe it or not he actually brought that thing up here to Chicago, with the intention of having me lug it along for some genteel gathering in the park that he imagined we would be going to. Wrong! I’ve seen picnics here in Chicago parks. Basically they consist of Mexicans and Puerto Ricans barbequing chicken, and kicking a soccer ball across gay boys picnic blankets. I hate picnics, but I managed to compromise with Mark this time. Instead of the picnic basket, he has allowed me to carry all his picnic stuff in a back pack strapped on my back. Just like a pack animal.