Inflated Balls

Don't bother me Sunday evening. I'll be watching the Super Bowl, admiring Tom Brady's cleft chin and good looks, rooting for the winner, and snacking on crappy junk food. Actually, it's fine. You can bother me all you want because I really don't care about either team. Just like all Chicago Bears fan of my age, I am still living in 1985 when it comes to football. To me the only Super Bowl that ever mattered was the one they played in January, 1986. I still worship the Punky QB, Walter Payton, The Fridge, the 46 Defense, and Mike Ditka (He should really stay out of politics). Until another Bears team can rise to the level of that 1985 team, until they win as many Super Bowls as those goddamned Greenbay Packers, that will be what I will always think of when the Super Bowl rolls around.

Click to watch the Super Bowl Shuffle

Sticky Situation

From the movie, Behind the Candelabra.

I just don't understand why we have to have so much goddamn food in this house. Every month we have to throw away hundreds of dollars worth of food that spoils and goes out of date because Mark insists on buying more food whether we need it or not. And then there's the Field of Dreams factor that has helped me pack on fifty extra pounds. "If you build it, they will come" which translates to, "If you refrigerate it, I will eat". Our fridge is packed so tightly that not one more morsel can be put in there. Yesterday I tried to put some sodas in the fridge so that we would have cold soda later in the day. It was overflowing with leftovers, meats, produce, and various mystery packages, so I tried to balance the cans of soda on the edge of a shelf. The first two cans sat there precariously as I tried to fit in can number three. I managed to squeeze it up against a pound of butter and started to close the door. It wasn't to be. As the door slowly swung shut the can of Cherry Coke sprang off of its perch and slammed to the floor. Sugary brown liquid spewed across the kitchen floor and onto my legs. As I realized the gravity of the situation I went into one of my rants, spewing out the filthiest words I could think of in the filthiest combinations possible. When I regained my composure, I got out the mop and some towels, and tried to clean up the mess. Funny thing about soda that explodes in your kitchen, it's nearly impossible to clean up. There was Cherry Coke everywhere. Our kitchen floor and my legs (I was wearing shorts) are now as sticky as Liberace in a dirty book store.

Who Taught Her How to Drive?

"Ack! Where the hell is she going?" Mark screamed.

"For Krissakes, slow down." I yelled back at him, "Don't follow so damn close. And how do you know if that driver is a woman? I couldn't see a thing through those tinted windows."

"They are all 'she' until proven otherwise." Mark sneered.
"For god's sake, look out! This isn't a one way street Mark!"

As is the case most of the time, the driver Mark cursed wasn't doing anything particularly alarming. Just the changing of a lane or the pulling out of a side street sends Mark into a tizzy. All I had asked for was to be taken to the ghetto barber shop where I get my hair cut. What I ended up with was being kidnapped for one of Mark's shopping safaris. For three hours yesterday I was shuttled between B.J.'s shopping club, Home Depot, Aldi Super Market, and the post office, all the while clutching the arm rest in the PT Cruiser until my finger prints were embedded in it. Mark's driving scares the living shit out of me. No amount of screaming, no amount of pleading can get him to drive like a normal human being. What I cannot figure out is how the hell he hasn't killed himself or somebody else when he's out driving alone, because I am certain that is only my screaming out in terror that has saved us from certain death.

Frozen Snot

Thank goodness that the news media is around to tell us that it is winter and that somewhere during that time snow will fall and cold air will happen. Not only have the national cable news networks advised us on how winter works in the northern part of the United States, but our local news people here in Florida have also spent hours warning us that it will snow up north in the winter. I'll just assume that they do that so we can gloat.

I got up early this morning to walk my dogs in the chilly Florida air. It was around fifty five degrees so I put on long pants, a sweatshirt, and my  leather jacket. Still, the wind was strong and the cold air was finding its way down my collar and up my pant legs. Brrr...  It all reminded me of living in Chicago and just how bad it can get there in the winter. It reminded me of walking outside and experiencing my nostrils freezing on contact with the subzero air. Childhood memories flooded back of woolen mufflers around my neck, pulled up over my mouth and nose and soaked with frozen snot. When I lived in Chicago, for the duration of winter, I had cold feet. Not just chilly feet, but painfully cold feet. It seemed that no matter what I put on over my feet, they were cold. I remember the ice on the car and having to let it run for half an hour to melt it all off. I once locked myself out of the car doing that. It sat out in front of my house, on the street, running for three hours until AAA could get there to open the door. For once, not a car thief to be seen when you need one. Ah, winter in Chicago. Coat checks, anti-freeze, salt stained shoes, frozen pipes, frost bite. Looking forward to it. Not sure what Mark will make of it.

Banks Bank

He was the first black player on the Chicago Cubs, was a Gold Glove winner, was elected MVP of the National League twice, picked to play in fourteen All Star games, was the National League home run champion two years in a row, and was the all time most beloved Chicago Cub ever. And I got to shake his hand and have a little chat with him thirty four years ago. It had nothing at all to do with baseball.

"Hello there. How are you doing today? Did the Bank of Ravenswood take good care of you?" Asked the tall black man in the suit coat.

I was walking through the lobby of the Bank of Ravenswood in Chicago and the very familiar looking man had stopped to talk to me.
"Um, uh...  yes." I stammered out, realizing it was Ernie Banks.

"Were you able to get all your business done?"

"Well, yes." I answered.

"Is there anything else I can help you with today?" Ernie asked me.

There wasn't. I had just closed my account at the bank, I was moving my money to a bank closer to my new apartment further south. But how do you tell Ernie Banks that you aren't going to be using his bank anymore? I mumbled something about having to close my account and Ernie Banks shook my hand and thanked me for my business. With a big smile he promised me that if I ever wanted to open an account again, I would be most welcome. So why was Ernie Banks, one of the greatest baseball players in history, greeting people and talking to schmucks like me in the lobby of a Bank ? Why did Ernie Banks have to take a job in a small Chicago bank after a long baseball career? Maybe it had something to do with his salary for all those years he played ball.

1953	$2,000
1954	$6,000
1955	$10,000
1956	$17,500
1957	$20,000
1958	$27,500
1959	$45,000
1960	$50,000
1961	$57,500
1962	$55,000
1963	$55,000
1964	$57,500
1965	$52,500
1966	$55,000
1967	$55,000
1968	$55,000
1969	$60,000