Mark Invites a Crazy Person to Dinner

 A reprint from November 23, 2012

Sometimes you'll be sitting in a bar minding your own business, and suddenly you find yourself talking to another bar patron. When the smiling, black lady asked me to slide the note she had written on a bar napkin over to Mark, I found it amusing. Before I knew it she and Mark were deep in conversation, and within minutes I was part of it all. Yes, we yukked it up while the vodka flowed and everything seemed so funny to us, but eventually it was time to go. On the way home Mark quietly stated, "I invited her to Thanksgiving."

Yesterday afternoon, when she called for directions, I noticed that the name she had given us in the bar was different from the caller id on the phone. Just a little red flag, but none the less it made me nervous.
"That's close enough to walk. I can walk over there, can't I? My titties won't be all sweaty by the time I get there will they?"
Did I mention that she sounds exactly like Wanda Sykes, but not nearly as funny? Anyway, I thought the sweaty titties mention was humorous, so I figured everything would be all right. It wasn't. That girl talked non-stop for five hours. It wasn't intelligent conversation, or even funny stuff. It was all about her curing Mark of whatever ails him, and how alcohol is poison as she pounded down half a bottle of Maker's Mark Whiskey. Most of what she was saying made little sense, and her rapid fire delivery left the rest of the guests speechless. It was when I was in the kitchen that I realized we had reached critical mass. One of the other guests had enough. From the other room I heard, "Could you just shut the fuck up for awhile? My god woman, what is wrong with you? Put a sock in it. Alan, do you have a sock?"

It was two hours after the dinner party before I was able to get crazy lady to finally leave. I had to physically urge her out the door, down the sidewalk, and out to the street. Even then, as I was walking back up the sidewalk, I could hear her calling from down the street.
"I love you guys."
I locked the doors, and hoped she was way too drunk and wasted to remember where we live.

God Save the Queen

I like to sit at home and watch a movie on Saturday night. Sometimes there isn't a decent movie to be found on television. Not on TCM, HBO, nor Showtime. I refuse to watch a commercial channel with advertisements. Such was the case on Saturday, so I turned to Netflix. The problem with Netflix is that you start cruising through the available products, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling, finding little of interest. If something doesn't grab me within the first two minutes I usually opt out and continue searching. Six years ago while surfing through Netflix, I came across Breaking Bad. It sucked me in instantly. The opening scene with the careening motor home got me. I don't know why, but I then binge watched the first four and a half seasons in a period of ten days. It was as if I were hooked on meth, I had to have more. Every day I would watch three to five episodes until there were no more. Luckily for me the second half of season five began the week I finished my binge. Since then I have binge watched the entire series twice, from episode one to the demise of Walter White and escape of Jessie. Now I have become hooked on another Netflix show. The Crown. I find it fascinating. I love the fact that it is history dressed up to entertain me. I watched three episodes Saturday and one last night. Like I said, if something in the opening scene doesn't grab me right away I move on. For some reason King George VI, coughing up blood in the bathroom sink, piqued my interest and I kept watching. So that's what I am now watching every chance I get until I am all caught up with the story line. So please, don't tell me how it turns out.

Twenty Five Years of Computer Repair Pays Off

From the bedroom you could hear the screeching and wailing in the middle of the night. What the hell is that, I wondered? Somebody getting killed in the alley? Mark in the bathroom? No, not Mark. He was right there next to me. So I got up out of bed, stepped over Chandler, and investigated. Between the front of the house and the dining room are French doors that I close every evening before bed. That's to keep the dogs from looking out the front window and barking at late night party people, and it also keeps Rosie the Robot in her domain. Looking out through the French doors, I could see Rosie moving back and forth across the living room. She was screaming like a white woman in a horror movie. She had a problem. I turned her off, knowing I could figure out Rosie's  problem in the morning. The next day I cleaned her thoroughly and turned her on. She was still making that horrible noise. I gave up until I could research Deebot n79 robot maintenance. Two days passed and despite Googling robot maintenance, nothing I found fixed her. Three days in I found help on YouTube. I learned how to take the covers off Rosie and look inside her. She was filthy, so I cleaned her out, put her back together, and turned her on. Sreeeechhhh..... No go. Now it was panic time. If I didn't get her fixed I would have to pull out the big vacuum and actually clean the living room and hallway floors myself. There was serious dog hair buildup already. Large piles of Chandler hair rolling across the living room like tumble weeds in the desert. Finally, last evening I figured it out. I removed the main brush motor from inside the guts of Rosie and took off the cover over the drive belt. It was packed with dog hair. I cleaned it out, put it all back together, and gave Rosie another try. Perfect, Rosie glided across the floor as she was intended to do. I think I might have found myself a second career after retirement. Robot repair. I just have to hope the robots don't become so cheap that they become disposable. 

I Have Foot in Mouth Disease

My Actual Feet

Before I start let me assure you that my podiatrist is a very good doctor and the problem is me, not him. Okay, so I went to see the podiatrist Saturday morning for my annual checkup and to get orthotic insoles for my new shoes. We usually have a very instructive discussion, where I learn a lot things about my feet. This time, however, I got to show the doc a little something. At  the Fleet Feet Shoe Store, they had me stand on a little platform and they took a three dimensional photo of my feet. That photo was then downloaded to my phone so that I was able to show it to my doctor. He found it interesting and told me it confirmed everything he had told me. That my feet are screwed up. Then the conversation turned to when I was a little boy and my mom took me to the shoe store. I told the doctor about how the store had an x-ray machine that you would stick your foot into so that you could get an exact fit. The shoe store machine had no shielding, and no protection at all. I still remember staring down into it at my feet, radiation streaming into my face. The doc shook his head and said that he had heard of those machines, but that he had never seen one.

"Really, you never went to a shoe store that had one of those x-ray machines?"

"No, that was before my time."

"Huh," I looked him over and said, "How old are you?"

"I'm fifty eight years old. How old did you think I was?"

The doctor was not smiling. I was embarrassed. I thought he was at least near seventy years old. Gray hair, wrinkles, smart, all the signs of a wizened elderly doctor.  So I changed the subject.

"Yes, so this right foot. The neuroma stump you told me about, that thing is hurting a lot lately. Maybe we can just cut the foot off and you can give me one of those springy feet like the amputee runners have."

The doctor's face looked grim.

"Not funny. Not funny at all. I've had to do too many amputations in my life and I don't like it."

My visit with the doctor ended soon after that. I hope he doesn't put me on the do not allow back list.

The Throne Room

The first thing I do when I move into a new home is change the toilet seats. Even though I have used public toilets over my many years, I have an aversion to constantly using the same seat that the previous home owner used. I know, it doesn't make sense. Anyway, when we moved into this place I ran out to Home Depot and got me a very nice, soft shut toilet seat. It was not cheap. You would think that when you paid more for a high quality toilet seat, that toilet seat would last a very long time. But, after just three years of our butts, that toilet seat started to show wear. I'm not sure if it was the fumes or the ruggedness of our man asses that made the outer coating crack and chip off. The thing was discolored and ugly, so Mark bought us a beautiful new toilet seat. And because I bought the white one three and a half years ago, Mark decided to integrate our bathroom with a nice new black seat. I sure hope it lasts a very long time, because removing an old toilet seat is disgusting. I used rubber gloves and lots of spray bleach before I would even touch that thing. Remember, it's two men living here, and one of them does not have good aim.

Lost in the Supermarket

Another Saturday, another trip to the supermarket. As has become the custom, Mark made up a shopping list for me and I toddled off to the store alone. Mark is very good at putting the list in the order that I move through the store. Deli first, then produce, followed by the meat department, and on and on in order. I should have known something was wrong when I told the deli lady that I wanted sliced corned beef, the stuff on sale for $9.99. She mumbled something about that price, but then proceeded to slice my corned beef. I went through the produce department without any drama, but when I got to the meats things started to get odd. So I picked up my phone and called Mark.

"Mark, where did you see the lil' Smokies sausages on sale for $2.50? The tag says $3.99."

"It's in the circular that came to the house."

"Well that's not what it says here."

"I hate that store."

Again, when I went to pick up bagels, the price on the tag was not what Mark had written on the list. So I called him again.

"Now what?"

"Thomas bagels aren't buy one, get one free. They are on sale, but that's not what the price will be."

"Are you sure? It's right there on the first page of the circular."

I had picked up a circular just to be sure.

"What the hell are you talking about? There's nothing on the front of the circular about bagels."

"Waaaaa..... I hate you."

I continued shopping. Now I had got to the part of Mark's list where he tells me that I must buy the following items in multiples of ten. The dreaded bundling ploy. I just wish the supermarket would stop with that crap. Anyway, I start filling the cart with ten cans of chicken broth when I notice the tag does not say 'Must buy in multiples of ten. Mix or Match.' I go to another aisle to get canned tomatoes. Again, the price does not match Mark's list. So I call him... again.

"Mark, nothing is matching up with your list. Are you quite sure you looked at the correct week?"

"Waaaa.. goddamnit. I'm never going to that store again. This is just bullshit." he screamed into the phone.

Suddenly it dawned on me.

"Mark, what store am I supposed to be shopping in?"

"Mariano's. You are at Mariano's aren't you?"

"Ooooh... No, I'm at the Jewel store."

"You idiot. Just leave that cart full of crap there and go over to Mariano's. What the hell is wrong with you? I wrote 'Mariano's right on the top of the list."

"No you didn't."

"Squawk.. sputter... YES I DID! RIGHT THERE ON TOP!!!"

I looked at the list again. It did not say Mariano's at the top. This is what it said.

 Thank goodness the liquor lady was there giving out free samples.