High Anxiety

For the last couple of weeks I've been waking up at five in the morning. Not unusual, I get up two or three times a night to pee. Along with that sweet Social Security, young people calling you "sir", and senior discounts at Walgreen's, a swollen prostate is one of the perks of growing old. My problem is that once I wake up, I can't fall asleep again. Instead I lay there, my brain stewing over what I have to do in preparation for the move to Chicago. At five in the morning the task of moving seems insurmountable. The longer I lay there the more anxious I get about the whole deal, until I finally get out of bed. I figure that instead of worrying about what I have to do, I'll get up and do it. Plenty of packing and paper work to do. I have heard other people refer to having "anxiety attacks", but until now I have never really experienced such a thing. Now my whole life is a giant anxiety attack. I have to pack, do the real estate deal, make sure the phone, electric, and everything else is turned off, turned on, or forwarded, and I have to do it mostly by myself. I'm responsible for Mark, the two dogs, and just about every other living thing within fifty feet of me. Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh.....  !!!!

So I get up at five in the morning with the best of intentions. But before I take care of business, I turn on the computer and check my email, my facebook, and my blog. Then, just so I can calm down a little bit, I click on "games". Ten card games and two mahjong games later, it's time to walk the dog and take a nice little nap. Yes, I'm getting it all done around here.

Trots

Mark has been ill for the last few weeks. He's coughing and hacking, producing phlegm balls, and pretty much sounding like an episode of the walking dead. It isn't pleasant because he expects me to be his Florence Nightingale. The reality is that I am a horrible nurse, more like Florence Nightmare. I'm more likely to yell at him to stop coughing than get him a cup of tea. Anyway, I was walking Chandler around the block last night and I didn't feel very good. My stomach was churning, my guts were gassy, and I was wishing I could just stop and poop on my neighbor's lawn like Chandler did. The first thought to go through my mind was that I was getting sick like Mark. Just what I need, twenty days before the big move. As I continued walking while clenching and hoping that I could make it to the house and toilet, I realized that I was not getting sick. My innards were all screwed up because of Mark. For years I have complained that Mark was making me fat with his spectacular cooking skills. I have always made it a point to tell him that I did very well before he came along. I was quite capable of feeding myself. But something has changed. I have lost that self preservation knowledge. I  cannot feed myself anymore. Because Mark was not feeling well, he had not cooked for me in a few days, and I was horrified when I did an inventory of what I had eaten that day. Breakfast was four donuts from Krispy Kreme. Two of them Boston cream, one jelly filled, and one glazed. Lunch consisted of a Big Mac and a bag of French fries. And finishing off the day, three slices of pepperoni pizza from Times Square Pizza. Egads, no wonder I was doing the green apple quick step back to the house.

Über Cold

The other morning I noticed that it was twelve degrees in Chicago. March was coming in like a lion. As I walked Chandler around the block in the balmy seventy degree morning air, I thought about Chicago. At that very moment, if I were already living in Chicago, I would have had to bundle up for the morning walk. Thermal long-john underwear, a long sleeved shirt, long pants, a sweatshirt, a hoodie over that sweatshirt, boots, gloves, hat, scarf, and the new warm coat that Mark bought me. I estimate that it would take a good fifteen minutes for me to get ready for Chandler's walkies. That's fifteen minutes of the big dog pacing and making the gruff sounds that translate into "Take me out... NOW!"  I also thought about the snow falling up there in Chicago. I'm going to have to get a snow blower, and a stash of that blue salt that they spread on the ice. I'm going to have to get the dogs some little dog boots for their feet. And Bette, well Bette probably won't even step outside for six months. I'll have to stockpile a few dozen cases of puppy pee pads. Finally, I thought about Mark. Poor Mark, he does not want to move back up to the cold weather. I gave him the option of not moving, but he declined when I told him that the option was for him only. Anyway, poor skinny Mark with no "Chicago Layer" (AKA fat) on him, is going to freeze up there. However I now realize the extent of Mark's interaction with nature makes all that irrelevant. The only time Mark ever goes outside is when he walks to the car from the house, from the car to the store, from the store to the car, back to the house, and once in awhile from the car to a bar. And that last thing he can do with one of those Uber cars. It'll be all warmed up and right out front waiting for him.

Double Bubble

That moment when the fancy ass glassware that you are trying to pick up slips from your hands, lands on the floor, bounces intact off of the floor and you breathe a quick sigh of relief that it didn't break, and then it shatters into a hundred pieces when it hits the floor on the second bounce. Yes, that moment. I have lived that moment. That's when I hear the shrieking sound of Mark quickly closing in.

"Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit. What did you break now? You do that on purpose. You hate my stuff!"

No, I don't hate Mark's stuff. There is way too much of it around here, and I hate that, but I don't hate his stuff. It's very nice stuff, and I am now in the middle of packing it all away for the big move to Chicago. Unfortunately, I am constantly reminded of how many times I have broken pieces of Mark's fancy ass, glassware by the number of odd wine glasses I am packing in the boxes. It makes me move just a bit more cautiously while I handle all his stuff. So I am double bubble wrapping it and double boxing it all. I love that bubble wrap, but it takes a lot to do the job. I'm going through it like toilet paper in a cholera epidemic. I have found that it isn't very cheap, so I don't sit around popping it anymore. Up to eighty dollars a roll for bubble wrap depending upon the size and length. Almost as valuable as the glassware that I am wrapping up in it. Think about that the next time you are sitting around, popping away while you should be working.

Junk Yard Dog

We picked up Bette at the groomer and she looked so cute, so soft and clean. I held her up to my cheek and hugged my adorable little girl, the fresh smell of clean dog filling my nose. Not a hint of the sour pup we had dropped off a couple of hours earlier. On grooming days, Bette is like a little queen and she plays the part. She is the star and loves the attention. A soft, sweet, lovable little bundle of dog fur. That's Bette. Or is it?

"Yap! Yap!" Clean Bette is at the kitchen door. She wants out. So I reluctantly open the door, knowing that every time she goes out into the dog run she comes back in dirtier than when she went out. Not two minutes after I let her out I hear the yapping. Incessant yapping as Bette tries to pick a fight through the fence with our neighbor's dogs. The fact that there are four dogs on the other side of the fence, the largest ten times bigger than Bette, means nothing to her. I have to run out there and break it up. At least six or more times a day Bette wants out. The lure of the fight draws her to the back door. Bette is not the sweet thing she makes out to be on grooming day. She wallows in dirt, stands at the front gate loudly guarding her territory, and lord help the cat that dares enter her domain. Yes, it's Dirty Bette, the Junk Yard Dog.

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