Miriam... (Not her real name)

Mark had a doctor's appointment yesterday and because they took blood he had to fast. Really, when you have that situation you should really schedule your appointment for early as possible. Anyway, Mark didn't get out of there until lunch time and he was starving. So we decided to try a restaurant that we didn't even know existed until recently. It's called the Greenhouse Inn Restaurant and it is located on the grounds of the Misericordia Home. The restaurant is staffed by Misericordia residents, who are developmentally disabled. It isn't the fanciest of places, and the food was of good cafeteria quality, but that isn't the point. The profits go to a good cause and the staff was quite friendly. When we walked in, we were greeted by a nice lady with a name tag. We'll pretend her name tag read, 'Miriam'. Miriam suggested we sit out in the actual greenhouse, which was very pleasant. After a quick, informative explanation of how ordering works (most of the staff can't read) Miriam engaged in some small talk with us.

"Well I guess it's finally fall weather isn't it?"

"Yes, I love it. After twenty seven years in Florida I..... "

Miriam interrupted my most interesting story about Florida, "Oh, Florida! My husband and I used to visit Florida all the time. I had a cousin who lived down there. We would spend a lot of time down there. Blah, blah, blah, blah...."

"Where in Florida did... "

"We were down by Tampa.. "

 "Oh, Tampa. We lived... "

 "...and we had such a wonderful time down there. We would blah, blah, blah, blah..."

Miriam would not stop talking. I could barely get a word in and all this time she had still not turned in our order to the kitchen.

"Is this your first time here?" Miriam asked.

"Yes, we... "

"Let me tell you how it works here. You know that most of the staff are all residents. So please allow for that. Do you fellows live around here?"

"We do. Over by Peterson and California Avenues... "

"I lived in Long Beach for awhile. I loved California.." Miriam launched into a story about Long Beach.

"Um, no. We aren't from California. We live near California Avenue.... "

"That was back in the seventies, and I had such a good time, blah, blah, blah, blah...."

By this time Miriam had pulled up a chair and was sitting down at our table having a nice conversation. A one sided conversation, and she seemed to be enjoying herself until another lady with a name tag came over and urged Miriam to turn in our order.

Now you might think that Miriam was one of the residents of the Misericordia Home for developmentally disabled people. But no, Miriam was one of the lovely elderly ladies who volunteer. The actual residents who work there are much more efficient and business like. But that's okay, Miriam was a hoot and made us feel very welcome and important.

The Greenhouse Inn is located at 6300 North Ridge Avenue, in Chicago. Their hours are from 11am to 2:30pm, Tuesday through Friday, with brunch on Sunday. Click here for their web site.

Daddy

I was walking Scout out in front of the house and as usual she was sniffing everything, checking it all out. Who peed here, who pooped there, what's that candy wrapper all about, when suddenly she got real interested in something laying deep in the grass. It was a phone. Not a real fancy iPhone, but it was a smart phone. I picked it up and looked it over. It was a bit moist from the morning dew so I took it inside and let it dry off for a few hours. When I was sure it wouldn't short out, I plugged it into my charger. The phone was not locked, no password needed, so I looked through the photos to see if I recognized anybody. I didn't. They were horrible, blurry photos taken in Orlando, Florida. Next I checked the contacts. There were only about fifteen of them, but one was labeled "Daddy". Oh, I thought, this could be kinky. I still could not figure out if the phone belonged to a female or a male, but if it was a male he was kind of childish. I started calling the contacts on the phone, but nobody answered. Then I asked one of my neighbors if he recognized any of the names in the contact list. He did. The phone belonged to a guy named Tony, two doors down. So I walked around back to the alley where Tony's grandfather, Croatian Steve, was working in the garage and gave him the phone.

"Ah, that Tony. He bad boy. No keep any-ting good. I give it back to Tony."

Tony is six years old. I should have figured it was a kid since most of the apps on the phone were games. Simple, stupid games.

When I was a kid my mom would give me ten cents and tell me to find a pay phone if I needed her to come pick me up. And that was only if I were going to the skating rink. Otherwise we were on our own. Off to the woods, on our bikes to the stores uptown, or over on the other side of town with our friends. No phones. No way of tracking us down. I think my mom kind of liked it that way because it meant the house was quiet for awhile. Seriously, if I had kids I would not get them phones. And if for some reason they did get phones, I would not put some kind of app on them that told me every move they made. Last thing I would want to know is what the hell they were up to, because ignorance is bliss. Ask my mom. The few times she did find out what the hell I was doing, I think she really wished that she hadn't.

Timing, It's Everything

Sometimes I think it's a game the dogs are playing with me. Seriously, how is it that I can be awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of a dog doing the heave ho's and can never get there in time. I fumble to get the blankets off, then I fumble in the dark for the light switch. By this time the dog is near the crescendo of puke preparations, making that heave ho sound while moving its belly up and down. I trip over the other dog sleeping on the floor, bang my shin on the end of the bed, and just as I reach down to grab the dog that is about to puke, the dog pukes. And never on the easy to clean up hard wood floor. Always on the rug.

Makin' Bacon

Yesterday, it was a beautiful morning. Birds singing, windows wide open with a fresh breeze blowing through. A perfect morning for bacon, eggs, and some brioche with butter. Mark went to Costco yesterday and brought something home called brioche, so I included it in the breakfast. At our house I cook the breakfast. So there I was, carefully turning the eggs so as not to break the yolks and then the bacon so that each side was evenly crisp, when.... Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

It hurt so bad, it happened so fast that I didn't even have time to curse. I could only scream, loudly. At least an ounce of bacon fat, rendered down into three hundred degree lava, had spilled onto my thumb and it hurt like hell. My perfect morning had turned into crap. The hell of it is, I don't even like bacon that much. I don't like cooking it because I can never get it perfect. Too fatty, too crisp, too chewy, never right. I'd rather have a pork chop for breakfast, or a steak. Anyway, it was like that question, "If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there, does it make a sound?" Neither dog noticed me screaming out in pain. They were in the living room barking at all the people walking by on their way to work. Mark was in bed. When he finally did get up, he casually walked into the kitchen, looked around, and didn't say a thing. If it wasn't for the blister bubbling up on my thumb, you would think that nothing had happened. I could have been seriously hurt and nobody seemed to care. Oh, and when I did serve breakfast, the bacon was burnt. That, was noticed.

Dotard

I have an good friend in South Florida who has reached a sad state in his old age. The people he moved down there with have all died, his friends have moved away, and now he's all alone and in bad health. I feel real bad that there's nothing I can do to help him. Even if I were to fly down there for a few days, he'd still be in the same situation when I left. That right there is the main reason I moved back to Chicago. The fear of being all alone in my old age. Oh, I realize that even with relatives living within easy driving distance, I could still be alone. But I know that I could make them feel guilty, which is good enough.

I do have a few requests for when I reach the age of dotard, like our president. There are things that I'd like those who know me, those who are related to me, to do for me.

• First of all, if I ever start walking around smelling like a billy goat, tell me. Old noses don't work as well as young ones. Seriously, I have been in the supermarket on more than one occasion and thought that the meat had turned, but it turns out some old guy thinks the shirt he has worn for five days smells just fine.
• Feel free to tell me that my barn door is open. I've already reached that stage where I will walk around for hours with my zipper down and nobody will tell me to zip it up.
• If at some point I have more hair sticking out of my nose than is on my head, feel free to point that out. However, do not try to pluck them. I'll just shove them back up my nostrils until I can trim them.

I also have some don'ts.

• Don't step on my teeth. I may have left them on the floor somewhere.
• Don't try to take away the keys to my car. I intend to keep driving until I hit something really big. Hopefully the air bags work.
• And most of all, do not try to put me into some old fart home for the 'aged'. I do not want to sit around all day looking at a bunch of old people. Unless of course all the attendants are hot young men, then fine. And if they give sponge baths, so much the better.