Mark and the Five Steps of Grieving

If you don't know, I am planning on moving to Chicago. Mark has known about this plan for a while, and I have explained to him my reasons for what I am doing. Oh, and yes, I am taking Mark with me. So  yesterday I told Mark that today I would be having a couple of real estate agents over so that I could decide on who would get the listing of our house.

"So soon? That's a little fast don't you think?"

Denial.

"You hate me, don't you. Why are you doing this to me? I'm too skinny, I'll fucking freeze to death up there. I hate you!"

Anger.

"How about if I give you more money? I can afford to give you enough money so we could stay here."

Bargaining.

Silence.

Depression.

More silence.

Still depressed.

"Think about it Mark. There is so much more to do in a real city. Theater, restaurants, culture, parks, museums. You'll enjoy it, I guarantee it."

Still silent.

Continued depression, and then.

"Can we go to Lollapalooza if we move there?...   Oh, and look here. This looks like a really cool show at the Oriental Theater. I guess you're right, there are so many more things to do in Chicago. And I can hang out with my friend Sam, and I love your family. Let's look on line at some houses. What neighborhood do you want to live in? Lakeview, Lincoln Park, Andersonville?"

Acceptance.

I was happy that Mark was finally on board, but Lollapalooza?

Not About Swedish Fish

I watched this show on PBS last night (actually I DVR'd it), and found it to be very interesting. It is about a Swedish man who did a study on race relations in the United States back in the early 1940's. It is interesting to an American because he came here with no idea of what he would find. This was on the PBS show Independent Lens, and if you see it scheduled you might want to watch it. It is history, and it is what is happening to our country right now.

Turn, Turn, Turn

The 1938 Buick was the first American automobile to have factory installed electronic turn signals. Before the electronic turn signal came along, you signaled which way you would be going by sticking your arm out the window of your car. Either straight out for a left turn, or straight out with your forearm in an upright position to signal a right turn. One problem with hand signals was that if you wanted to turn and it was pouring rain, not only would you get moist, but the car behind you might not see your signal. Other drivers could also be confused if you happened to be the friendly type who was always waving at people. I actually had to use those hand signals in my first car, a 1935 Studebaker, because it was not equipped with any turn signals. Luckily, in modern times, an electronic turn signal is considered integral to the auto. Unfortunately, the people of Florida cannot deal with such a high tech concept such as moving a lever. The problem is that almost nobody, and I mean like over ninety percent of the population of Florida, ever uses the turn signal that was installed in their automobile. Not the natives, not the people who moved here to get away from the cold, not the people who moved here to get away from the dead bodies they left up north, not even the tourists use a turn signal. I'm not sure why, or what they think that stick on the steering column is for, but people seem confused about the whole concept. It's like one big guessing game. Where the hell is grandpa going? Should I go, or is that schmuck turning? It's very frustrating when you are trying to get through an intersection. The funny thing is that it has got me using some old hand signals again. Just not the ones they taught me in Driver's Ed.

The Big Fluffy Chair

My first recliner chair was heated, dispensed refreshments, and was probably the most comfortable

place I have ever sat in. That was sixty five years ago, and after only nine months my mom kicked me out. I've been looking to recreate that experience ever since. I've tried memory foam and even a water bed once, but nothing was quite like the womb. Unfortunately, the best I can do in my adult years is the big fluffy chair. I started with a fashionable recliner around thirty years ago. It fit my butt, supported my back nicely, and looked good. Since then I've gone through around five different chairs. Hours of watching television, snoozing in them, and the damage caused by cats and dogs have taken their toll. The chair I have now is disgusting. It is covered in dog drool and man sweat, and wedged deep within its folds are a few pounds of chips, popcorn, and nut fragments. I do like to snack while watching television. So once again it's time to find another 'Big Fluffy Chair', but not until after we move. On the day we move out of this house I will drag the old red chair out to the curb, where some garbage picker will think he has scored big. And he will if he can dig those quarters out of the cushions.  

Wax on, Whacks off

Here in Fort Lauderdale they used to have a car wash where the employees all worked in bikini bottoms only. Unfortunately they only hired young women. It was everything that you would expect. Breasts covered in suds pressed up against the windows, while drooling perverts sat in their cars doing what perverts do. Once again, I was very sorry that they didn't employ young men.

I used to love to wash my cars. When I was young I'd make sure that my car was always clean and shiny. My first car was a 1935 Studebaker and I was constantly washing that car. I would lovingly caress those art deco curves while waxing the black lacquer paint. That car would buff out beautifully. Through the years I had many cars and I would regularly wash and wax them all. It was a labor of love. I don't seem to have that urge any more. A few years ago things changed, and I think it was the PT Cruiser that did it. I traded in my beloved Sebring convertible for the Cruiser and I have just had a hard time loving that car. Yesterday morning, when I stepped out to walk the dogs, I noticed that the PT Cruiser was filthy. There were leaves from the oak tree wedged in every crevice. The windows were nearly opaque from dirt. And spattered across, from the front of the hood to the back of the roof, was bird poop. Chalky white splats of bird poop everywhere. I started to think back, when was the last time I had washed that car? It might have been a year ago, it might have been nine months ago, or what seems more likely, it might have last been washed in the year 2013. So yesterday afternoon I got out the bucket and soap, and I washed the PT Cruiser. And although I thought about it for a moment, I decided to do it with my shirt on. No need to press my sudsy breasts up against the car window while I washed it. There was no tip in it for me.

Ronco Hand Warmer (As seen on TV)

I just got back from walking the dogs and I am a little cold to say the least. I know it is cold north of here, but you guys are used to it. It was forty degrees here this morning, which is considered within the +/- 10 degrees of freezing for us to go into an all out panic. I pulled out the heavy pea coat, wrapped a wool scarf around my neck, and put on my Chicago Bears stocking cap before walking the dogs. Down on the corner, where my neighbor has a vacation rental for those who want to escape the frozen north, the visitors from Michigan were walking around outside in shorts and a tee shirt. Their blood must be as thick as molasses. Meanwhile, my dogs and I braved the cold and continued on around the block. Just a little more than halfway around, I had to pick up Bette and carry her because she was shaking like a cold diesel engine. This is the coldest weather she has ever experienced. Not so for Mister Chandler, he was all perky and seemed to like the cold. I unfortunately had forgot to pull out my gloves from the corner of the closet where we keep the coat. My hands were freezing. By the time we got around to the church property where Chandler loves to take his morning dump, my hands were numb. My hands were so cold, that when I bent down with the little plastic bag to pick up Chandlers pile of steaming crap, I realized just what I had there. Instant hand warmer. Yes I did. I stood there for at least a minute caressing that bag of warm shit, first in one hand and then in the other.