The Doctor's Appointment

If you weren't aware, You are now. Mark's health isn't the greatest. Because of that we have to go see doctors every once in awhile. So on December 27th he had an appointment, which the doctor's office cancelled on him. Mark let me know that I wouldn't have to sit in the doctor's office that day and that the appointment had been rescheduled for January 30th. Fine, I would be ready. Taking Mark to the doctor is an involved affair. Yesterday Mark took an early shower, picked out his finest going to the doctor's office clothing and announced that he was ready. Now it was my turn. First thing, I went out to the garage in the morning and made sure that his electric mobility cart was all charged up. Then before we left I went back out to the garage, took the cart apart, and loaded it up into the trunk of the car. I then went back up into the house, helped Mark put on his coat, got his portable oxygen machine ready, and we headed for the door. Seven steps, that's how many from the kitchen down to the backyard. You would have thought we were walking down from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Mark has a bit of a problem with the stairs. Anyway, we eventually made it down and I load him into the car. I then drive on off to the doctor's office where I encounter a delivery truck parked in the one and only handicapped spot. So I squeeze in next to it on the part that has those yellow diagonal lines. As I struggled to put Mark's electric cart back together on the  pavement behind the car, the driver of the truck returned.

"HEY! Asshole, you're parked in an handicapped parking spot." I said, while being my most tactful self.

"What you mean, I'm no park in handicap."

His concept of parking was right up there with his grasp of the English language.

"See that line? Any asshole with eyes can see that line and the sign. You're in the fucking handicapped spot."

"I have delivery. Besides, I'm leaving."

"IT'S NOT A FUCKING LOADING ZONE FOR JACKASSES LIKE YOU!"

I probably could have let it all go, but I needed the extra space to open the door wide, and pull Mark out of the car and get him on the cart. That's why handicapped spots are much larger than an average parking space. I fully expected to get punched out or maybe shot. But the truck pulled out, and I was able to get Mark on his cart. We then went into the building where the nice lady at the desk informed us that Mark's appointment was not Thursday afternoon. Mark's appointment was Friday.

Back Where I Belong

I like Chicago. I grew up around here and it's comfortable. But there are problems. Corrupt politicians, crime, the weather. Three things that a whole lot of other places have in common with Chicago. Rare is the city or state that does not have corrupt criminals who run for office as smiling good guys. Crime happens everywhere. It certainly wasn't a gang of Chicago kids who shot up Columbine, or Parkland. So I can live with the corruption, I keep trying to vote the bastards out. I deal with the crime by not making myself a target. But the weather, what to do about the weather? It's like your life is on hold around here at this time of the year. Gray skies, gray trees, gray pavement covered with slop. Slop that is either frozen or in the process of freezing, or melting. Taking the dogs out isn't as pleasant as it is in June. Neither is taking out the garbage. Yes, I enjoy taking out the garbage when the weather is nice. I tend to run into my neighbors and we talk. Not this time of year. In winter I see my across the alley neighbors only when they pull the SUV out of the garage and drive away while waving to me. The backyard is a mess right now. Filled with dog turds, slushy snow, and mud. No way can I pick up that dog shit because I'm usually out there in my slippers, and I'm not wading into that in my slippers. Poor Mark hasn't been out of the house since November. He does have a doctor's appointment later today, so maybe. But what the hell, I'm in my hometown city and despite the gloom of January and February, I love it. Come April all is forgiven. Green things start popping, I can pick up the dog crap and daylight lasts longer than the darkness. Spring, summer, and fall are coming. That's when Floridians lock themselves up in the house with the air conditioner blasting non-stop for the duration.

Chandler Goes to the Vet

I took Chandler to the vet for the first time in two years. Nothing wrong with him that is obvious. It's just that he is getting older, turning twelve in three months, and I wanted to establish a regular veterinarian for him. This was a new doctor and a new office. The reason I haven't taken him back to the vet we used when we first moved to Chicago is that I felt violated. I felt like I had a bunch of smiling faces who claimed to want only the best for my dogs, reaching way too deep into my pockets. I was told that my dogs need a shot for some bacteria that is transmitted by rat piss. I was told that my dogs will get heart worm. I was told that they needed vaccine after vaccine or they will die a horrible death. Personally, I think the only thing veterinarians do well is give your dog a rabies shot and distemper shot when they are puppies. Then, after many years, help you end their life with dignity. Everything in between is simply a money grab.  So, with all that said, the new doctor's office is modern, clean, and efficient. They were very nice to Chandler and gave him a good examination after which he received numerous doggy treats. Chandler loved all the attention. But here's the down side of all that. I was told he needed a vaccine for the rat piss, that he will get heartworm, and if I don't get his teeth fixed he will die a horrible death. All of that will cost a lot of money. Like I said, Chandler is nearly twelve years old. Dogs his size live thirteen to fifteen years. So of course I will cough up the bucks and get his teeth fixed. Even if he were to die the next day, at least his teeth will be looking good. Oh, and that rat piss vaccine. He'll get that too.

Weather Report

Okay, yes. To my friends and family in Florida I say yes, six degrees was very cold Sunday morning. Yes, I had to bundle up in a heavy coat, muffler, hat, and gloves to take the dogs out at six in the morning. And though not probable, I did worry for a moment that poor Scout with her stubby little legs might actually freeze to the ground when she squatted to pee. Meanwhile, Chandler was dancing on the ice/snow trying to find a place to poop. Chandler is a Florida dog and to this day still looks for lizards when we go for walks. He also hates the cold weather and his feet do not like walking on frozen tundra. I can handle the cold weather now that I am retired. Too cold outside? Stay inside, no problem. The only reason I go out there is because my dogs know peeing inside the house is the original sin. None of this matters because within a few days the temperatures will rise again and all the misery of single digit temperatures will be forgotten. What I don't understand is why Chicagoans obsess over the weather. Get the hell over it. On channel nine, WGN, they devote over fifteen minutes to the weather in a thirty minute newscast. Just tell me what the hell is going to happen over the next twenty four hours and then shut the hell up. Even worse are the evening news broadcasts on the major networks. They now do this thing where they tell you how many people will be affected by a snow storm. "More than seventy million will be impacted." I'm told. I seriously do not care about sixty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine of those folks. I only care about what will happen to me and whether I will be stuck in the house with Mark. That is what is important to me.

Cashew

On the dining room table, shortly after Christmas, I noticed a blue box that said 'Sea Salt Cashews'. I didn't know where it came from, if it was a gift or if Mark had bought them. I just knew that such a thing sounded delicious. I love nuts, so I tore off the seal, opened the box, and dug in. Over the days and weeks that followed I would stop and grab a couple of cashews every time I passed through the dining room. One week ago, on Thursday, I ate the last of the cashews. That was around eight in the evening. At about eight fifteen in the evening a howling started.

"I was saving those for company!! WHY DO YOU DO THAT?? WHY DO YOU EAT THINGS AND LEAVE THE EMPTY PACKAGE FOR ME TO FIND??"

I tried to ignore the crazy man screaming at me. I knew Mark's sister and her husband were arriving on Friday, but I did not know the prized cashews were being saved for them. After all, Mark had seen me shoving cashews in my mouth on a number of occasions. Where did he think those were coming from? So I defended myself.

"I didn't know you were saving those. Why didn't you just tell me not to eat them? Seriously, I......  "

"Waaaa... you're a pig. You do that all the time."

Things escalated from there. Dark thoughts entered my mind. Disparaging names were hurled back and forth, and I went to bed angry. I woke up still angry, but Mark's family was visiting that day. So I tamped it down, buried it deep within my soul and put on a happy face.

Mark's sister and her husband were just what I needed to forget about our horrible argument. They were fun and I took them on a little tour of Chicago, which got me out of the house. We left Mark at home. So it was off to the lakefront, down to Michigan Avenue, over to see the Michael Jordan statue, and then we picked up lunch at Harold's Fried Chicken, a Chicago institution. By the time we got back to the house all the bile and anger had passed. Mark and I were happy together again. After Melena and Reggie left on Sunday, Mark and I had a little discussion. We apologized and made up. Mark even told me that I could eat anything in the house I wanted to eat. His fancy chocolates, any of his many snacks, cookies. I was welcome to even eat the extra tin of cashews on the kitchen counter.

I see those cashews sitting there. I see that pile of snack bags next to the tin of cashews. I also see a nice box of Frango chocolates on the bar. He's out of his mind if he thinks I'm going to fall for that.