You May Never Eat Prime Rib Again

The Frozen Tundra

8:30 last night, nineteen degrees below zero outside, and I have a desire for a snack. Ice cream. The most illogical snack in the middle of a polar vortex and that's what I want. So I'm sitting there in the living room watching television, munching down on something called Triapolitan American Dream ice cream, and the dogs decide it's time to go out. They really haven't wanted to go out much the last couple of days, but when the urge hits them they suck it up. By now, with twenty four hours of sub-zero temperatures, we have developed a routine. I bundle up like Nanook of the North, head to toe warmth, and take the two little furballs down the back stairs. I open the door and they shoot out there, pee, poop, and then run back in. We try to keep it under one minute. Best time so far, twenty three seconds. My dogs do not like this crazy weather, not at all. In fact there is none of that hunting around for the perfect spot to do a number. No, Scout will squat right there on the sidewalk, in front of the door. Chandler quickly runs out into the snowy yard and pees, and he has given up digging for that pile of diarrhea he left out there last week. For some reason he finds frozen diarrhea delectable. (The diarrhea was caused by Mark feeding him too much prime rib, which might explain why he wants it back.) Anyway, I am looking forward to the weekend when temperatures soar into the mid forties. That's forties on the plus side of freezing. What I am not looking forward to is the big thaw. I can just imagine what is under all that snow along with Chandlers puddle of prime rib.

Saturday Night at the Movies

Stinky

On Saturday nights I like to sit in my big recliner chair and watch a movie. This Saturday it was that movie 'Tag'. It kind of sucked. Anyway, I was sitting there trying to decide if I was going to sit through the whole thing when Scout jumped up on the chair with me. She loves to sit there with me while I scratch her head and back. We were both quite happy sitting there. Scout getting a nice back scratch and me getting some doggy love. Then I smelled it. An acrid, putrid odor that I have smelled before on occasion. Doggy anal gland stink. Scout's anal glands were leaking. The disgusting smell curled up around my nostrils and burned the back of my throat. I popped up out of the chair, Scout jumping off ahead of me.

"Arggggg.... Oh my god....the stench.. How could such a sweet dog smell so bad."

Meanwhile, Mark lay on the sofa undisturbed by my predicament.

"My chair... my clothes... " I cried. It was everywhere. So I went into the kitchen and got the bottle of Febreze deodorizer and I doused the chair in the stuff. That didn't help, I could still smell dog stank.

"It's probably on your clothes" Mark said as he lay there munching on a cupcake.

It was on my clothes, so I took off my pants and shirt and threw them into the washing machine. As I slammed the washer door shut, a little mouse came running out from behind the machine. I paid no attention to it and went back out to the living room to find Scout. She was sitting on top of the radiator basking in the heat, which helped spread the aroma of anal gland stench. It was in her hair, all over her rear end.

"You're going to have to give her a bath."

Mark was right, Scout would have to be washed. So I got the dog shampoo, emptied the kitchen sink of dishes, and put Scout in there. I scrubbed her ass, her legs, her entire body from the neck back. Then I rinsed her down and soaped her up again. There I was, living the life. In my under pants on a Saturday evening, giving the dog a bath in the kitchen sink.

Now my dog is clean and sweet smelling again. My clothes are in the dryer, washed clean from the aroma of dog stink. Out in the living room, my big recliner chair has been hosed down with Febreze. Almost all is right with my world again. Almost. Now about that mouse....

But Plug?

In the confusion of Christmas day I have forgotten exactly where it came from, but I do remember asking Mark,

"What is it?"

"It's a smart plug."

"Okay, why is it smart?"

"It's for the bedroom. After you install it, I can tell Alexa to turn off the lights when I'm ready to go to sleep."

As with everything in this house, I was expected to install the thing. So it sat around for over three weeks. Sometimes I need time to think about things before I actually do them. Sometimes I think about them for years. Anyway, on Saturday I decided to tackle the smart plug. First I had to download an app to my smart phone. Then I had to plug the smart plug into an outlet and press the little button for five seconds. When the little light started flashing I had to launch the app on my phone and tell the smart plug what wireless network to connect to, because it wasn't smart enough to do that on its own. I then plugged the table lamps on the bedside into the smart plug. When I touched the little green circle on my smart phone, the lights came on. Touch it again, the lights went out. Didn't seem that smart to me. Now I had to connect the thing to the Amazon Alexa.
(I have to say, Alexa isn't all that smart. Today I asked her about the civil rights history of Philadelphia, Mississippi and all she told me was that it was in Neshoba, County. She really is an idiot.)
I was instructed to open the Amazon app on my phone. I don't have an Amazon app on my phone, so I had to download that. Now I had to sign in to Amazon. I have an account, but I do not remember the password. I don't remember the password for most of the things I have signed up for and always have to click on that 'forgot password' thing. To make a long story short, after fucking around with Amazon, the smart plug, and various other things for an hour, I gave up. I instructed Mark that at night, when he wants to turn off the bedside lamp, to reach over and turn that little black on/off switch by the light bulb. It works very well and requires little effort. Now that's smart.

Snow Blows

Our first winter back in Chicago, after twenty seven years in Florida, was not so bad. Very little snow with lots of warm days. I was a little disappointed because I had bought a brand new snow blower. I wanted to use that thing. The second winter, last year, proved to be snowier. I got to use my snow blower. I also felt that we got the right amount of snow. Moving that white fluff around was starting to get tiring. This winter we've had very little snow. Some back in November and very little since. Last Saturday we got about one inch of the stuff. I looked out the window at that one inch of snow and decided it would be stupid to bring out the snow blower for such a small amount. I grabbed the snow shovel and started shoveling. Up and down the sidewalk, pushing snow off the front porch and to the side of the yard. Done in no time flat. By Sunday morning I felt a twinge in my back and by Monday my back had stiffened up. Shoveling even one inch of snow is too much for this old fart. Tuesday, my bowling night, I was in pain. I doubled up on the Excedrin and went bowling anyway. All because of one inch of snow, my back has been screwed up. This weekend they're predicting snow again. I don't care if it's no more than powdered sugar on a donut, I'm using that snow blower.

In The Company of Al Roker

On January 6th, 2013, NBC weatherman Al Roker came out as a sharter. Not only did he admit that he sharted, he admitted to sharting in the White House.

Saturday I went shopping at the Jewel for groceries. I went armed with a grocery list and Mark's debit card. On that grocery list was Progresso Soup, Manhattan clam chowder. The thing about Progresso Soups is that there are so damn many of them. Must be over fifty varieties on the shelves of the Jewel, but Mark only wants tomato basil and Manhattan clam chowder. So I started looking across all the shelves, back and forth, up and down. When I got to the more obscure soups, where the cans are nearly at floor level, I had to get down on my hands and knees to look. Now I had been feeling a bit of pressure ever since the produce department, but I felt I could hold it until after I checked out. Unfortunately, as I got down on the floor to look for the clam chowder, something came out. It was not a nice little flappy thing that makes a small noise. No, it was something else. I immediately clenched. I dragged myself back up to my feet, cursing Jewel for putting the things I needed so low on the shelves, and made my way up to the bathroom. It was locked. This giant store with hundreds of shoppers and many employees, had only one bathroom with only one toilet in it, and it is always in use. Usually by an employee. So after waiting my turn for five minutes, I gave up and went back to shopping. I had to hurry it up because I really had no idea just how long I could hold that clench. Lucky for me there were no long lines at the checkout counters, and when I was done and I checked the door to the bathroom again, it was open. What a relief.

So let this be a warning. If you are going to be doing anything outside your house, away from easy access to a bathroom, don't eat oatmeal with blueberries for breakfast.