I Prefer a Nice Camembert Myself.

My two dog's senses are amazing. They hear things I don't hear. They see things I don't see. They smell things I don't smell. (Yet, when Chandler farts, he doesn't seem to smell that. I'm thinking of installing a pilot light on his butthole to ignite the noxious fumes as they come out. ) Over the last few weeks both dogs have been hyper-excited every time I let them out in the backyard. They run along the fence and sniff all along the back wall of the porch. In fact Scout found a little hole near the porch wall and was really excited about what she had found. Over the last week the hole has gotten bigger and bigger, mostly because Scout has been shoving her snout down into it.

Rats, that is what is down that hole. The dogs know that there are rats in the yard when they are not around and that hole, it's a rat hole. So I baited a rat trap with some brie cheese that's been in the refrigerator for a few months, and stuck it under the porch. Every morning when I let the dogs out, I look under the porch and check to see if I have caught one. Yesterday morning I let the dogs out and they did a cursory check of the rat hole and walked away. No excited yaps, no clawing at the dirt around the hole, no running up and down the fence sniffing and barking. Sure enough, I looked under the porch and there was a rat, its head firmly smooshed in the rat trap. I was impressed. It was big, it was very furry. I figure it had its winter coat on as it went out looking for some food. Probably was quite surprised to find some delicious, well aged, French cheese under my porch. I disposed of the dead rodent and for the rest of the day, every time I let Scout and Chandler go out in the yard, they ignored the rat hole. They seemed to know it was gone, dead and disposed of. That is until late last night when I let them out for their last poopies. Once again Scout began clawing at that rat hole, Chandler ran up and down the length of the porch wall sniffing and barking. It seems the dead rat has a spouse. I didn't do the brie cheese again this time. Instead I'm trying good old American white bread, all balled up and stuck to the rat trap trigger. Bon appetite.

Big Al

(A reprint from three years ago.)

I am not a father and I never wanted to be a father. Oh, on occasion Mark has suggested we adopt a child, but I think one big baby around here is more than enough. My dad was the opposite. I'll never understand why, but Dad and Mom had eleven children. I realize that Mom had the biggest share of raising us and she spent the most time with us (How she stayed sane all those years I'll never understand), but Dad did his fatherly duties. When he was home, he was really there. You knew that there was a force in the house greater than all the child temper tantrums in the world.

I have a lot of memories of my dad. Baseball games on the little black and white television, with a bottle of Blatz Beer sitting on the table next to his favorite chair. The Saturday grocery shopping when he would return home with an entire station wagon full of food. All of it purchased with coupons or on sale. My dad did his job as prescribed by the culture of the time. He worked, he housed us, he fed us, he sent us to school, and he disciplined us. Oh, that damn belt hurt. One dad job that I don't envy were the phone calls. At work he would get the call from my mom on a stormy, rainy day, "Al, the basement is flooding. There are actual turds backing up into our basement."

Or the call from my school, "This is Sister Mary Vindicativam. We have a problem, it's Alan."

And then there was the one he got from the police late one night, "Sir, I'm afraid there's been an accident." I'm sure it wasn't easy for him at times, but he never gave up on any of us. I miss that guy. I sure wish I could call him right now.

Allspice

(I know, I know. I just wrote a post about shopping at the supermarket. You have to understand that as you get older your outside activity options shrink. Go to the doctor, go shopping at the supermarket, walk the dogs, rinse, repeat.)

Yesterday Mark decided he was going to make Swedish meatballs, problem was he had no allspice.

"Is allspice really that important for making Swedish meatballs?" I asked.

Mark looked at me as if I were the most stupid person he had ever met.

"Go to Tony's Market and get me some allspice."

"Now? You want me to go now?"

"Also, get some Persian cucumbers, some dill, and a can of beef broth."

I let out a long sigh as I dragged myself out of the big, fluffy chair.

I was so proud of myself. I drove to Tony's, found all four things I needed, picked up two slices of pizza from Jimmy's Pizza, and got back home in thirty minutes. And then I looked in the bag of groceries.

"Goddamnit, sonofabitch! They didn't put the jar of allspice in the bag. The only reason I got out of my chair and drove to Tony's was the allspice. Sonofabastardbitch."

"Hmmm.. I guess you better go back." Said Mark as he stuffed a slice of pizza into his mouth.

I don't know what happened to the people of Chicago. They used to be so conscientious. Fifty years ago, when I was a bagger at Jewel, not once did somebody come back into the store complaining that something wasn't put in the bag. Never did anybody complain that the eggs were put at the bottom of the bag, or that soap was packed in the same bag as the meat. I wasn't the smartest guy shoving groceries into bags, but at least I did it right.

Anyway, I got into the car and drove back to Tony's. I returned to the aisle where I had checked out.

"Excuse me, I bought a jar of allspice and it was not in the bag when I got home."

The girl looked at me quizzically. I repeated myself.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just came on duty."

(I have a problem with young women. They all look alike to me.)

So I turned and walked over to the service desk. I told the lady behind the counter the same sad story about my allspice.

"Yeah, you left it behind."

Up until that comment, I had put a cork in it. I had tried to keep my cool but now I lost it.

"I didn't leave anything behind," I loudly and sarcastically responded. "Your cashier didn't put my purchase in the goddamned bag."

She pursed her lips, made a face, and handed me the jar of allspice. I turned and walked towards the door, loudly cursing and bitching about having to make two trips to that store. Not one of the store employees even looked up from what they were doing. Not one customer looked at me. They didn't care, it didn't bother anybody that a customer was unhappy. Either that, or they were scared shitless of the cursing man with a small jar of allspice in his hand. I know that's how I deal with crazy people. Pretend they aren't there.

Jewel vs Mark

"What?!  You bought beer, and it wasn't on sale? Stop putting things in the shopping cart when we go shopping."

Mark and I were sitting in the car, in the Jewel parking lot, and he was going over the receipt. He was not liking what he was seeing. For the record, the Corona Beer was on sale, one dollar off regular price.

"Whaaa... Squawk... sputter... What kind of coffee did you buy? I told you Maxwell House. It was supposed to be Four, ninety nine, not nine dollars."

I took a deep breath.

"I bought Maxwell House. If they charged you too much, that's your problem. Your responsibility is to stand there and watch the cashier."

"Go back. Go back in and get my money back."

So like a good boy I go back into the Jewel. I find the service desk and point out the error to the lady behind the counter. She is crabby, not in a good mood and gives me the stink eye as she turns to the cash register. "Do you want that back on your debit card?"

"No, I left that out in the car."

She gives me a look as if I were stealing money from Mr. Jewel, or her own purse. Back out in the parking lot, I open the car door and hand Mark the money that had been returned along with the receipt. I start the car and begin backing out when Mark lets loose with another tirade.

"Go back! Right now, go back. They overcharged me for spaghetti sauce."

"Okay, that's it. From now on you have to do all the shopping. You have to put everything in the cart. You have to stand there and make sure you're not overcharged."

"Just go get my money back."

So again, I go inside to the service counter and show the crabby lady the receipt, and explain that the spaghetti sauce was supposed to be two for one. With a sneer and a slight shake of her head, the lady places the money in my hand. I know what you're thinking, 'Why does he put up with all that crap from Mark'? The answer is because Mark feeds me.

Fifty two years ago Jewel Foods hired me as a stock boy. Every Wednesday evening, the day before sales started, we would get a list of what was going on sale. As a stock boy I had to take that list and erase the price on each and every piece of stock on the shelf, then put the new sale price on it. There were no computers, no scanners, only stock boys. Now all the store has to do is download the sale prices into the store computer and they're done. No excuse for getting it wrong. Seriously, next time I will stuff Mark into the shopping cart and wheel him back into the store so they can deal with him in person. He'll wipe that sneer off the service counter lady's face.

Date Night

I watched Bonnie and Clyde last night for what must be the hundredth time. It obviously is one of my all time favorite movies. Oh sure, the story is good, the cast is good, it's all good, but what I really loved were the cars. Some people love the sound of a Harley motorcycle, some like the roar of a Chrysler hemi. I like the sound of a model A Ford moving down the road, like a popcorn machine on wheels. Back in the 1960s I went to see a lot of movies and fell in love with them. When my sister Peggy started to drive, she would take me along when she and her girlfriends would go to the movies. It was great fun because they always saw the movies that the Catholic Church condemned. I saw Alfie, The Cardinal, and To Sir With Love. Oh, and I saw The Sandpebbles with Steve McQueen.... dreamy Steve McQueen...   

Anyway, when I started to drive I got a girlfriend and I went to the movies with her. Usually we would double date with my friend Dave and his girlfriend. Again, we saw quality movies, not stupid action crap or horror movies. I still remember sitting in the Evergreen Theater watching The Graduate. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. I still watch that movie every time it's on television.

Going to the movies with a girlfriend worked out okay. I could get totally immersed in the film because I truly had no interest in the girl I was dating. The only problem with this whole double dating thing was that after the movie, Dave, his girlfriend, and my girlfriend, wanted to go to a forest preserve and "Park". For anywhere from half an hour to an hour I had to make out with my girlfriend while Dave and his girlfriend made out in the back seat. Tongues flailing, fingers wandering, clumsy attempts at bra loosening, and then there was me and my girlfriend. I never got past sticking my tongue in her mouth while we kissed. She even took my hand and put it on her bra once. I panicked, "Oh look at the time. We've got to go. Dad wants the car back by midnight." That was the price I paid to go to the movies, making out with a girl. Thank god for the 1970s. That's when I started to go to the movies with other guys. I vividly remember going to see, The Last Picture Show. I really loved that movie. Besides that, a very horny lawyer named Darryl had taken me to see it, and the after movie antics were much more satisfying than going to the forest preserve with my girlfriend.

They're Here !

Crocus, next to my front porch

I've been keeping an eye out for the first signs of spring. Up until Saturday I hadn't seen anything but dead leaves, dead grass, and bare trees. Then suddenly, Saturday afternoon, I looked out the window and there they were. The crocus had popped their little heads up, checking to see if it was safe to come out. Down in the basement, next to the window, I have pansies and nasturtiums trying to grow. I sure hope they're ready to plant outside on time. You know how those pansies are, so fickle. It got up to sixty degrees yesterday so I gave the back yard a good going over, trying to find every single dog turd that I could. I certainly don't want to be digging through all that shit to plant my flowers. And before the sun set yesterday, I moved the snow blower from just inside the back porch door to its summer place in the garage. I sure hope I didn't jump the gun on that one. This is Chicago and it has been known to snow on the opening day of the baseball season.