Yellow Ants

The temperatures dropped into the teens for a couple of nights last week which required me to dress differently. I got up to walk the dogs on Friday morning and the thermometer read eighteen degrees. So I pulled on my thick winter jeans to keep my legs warm. Then I put on a tee shirt, a long sleeved shirt over that, a sweat shirt over those two things, an insulated vest that zips up to my chin over that, and finally I put on the big fluffy coat Mark bought me last year. That's the one I think is actually made for a woman but it is very warm, so what the hell, I'll wear it. The problem with all this clothing is that after putting it all on, I can't bend over and slip the dogs into their harnesses. Too many layers. This is how I get the dogs ready. Scout jumps up on the window sill so that I can put her harness and leash on. For Chandler, I make him stand at the top of the stairs while I walk down three stairs until he and I are at eye level. After getting all that together, I take the dogs out for their walks. But I still have a problem, I cannot pick up dog shit with all this crap on. When I am swaddled in these winter clothes I can't bend over to pick up my dog's poop. To reach the pile of poo, I have to drop to my knees. I'm sure I look like a complete moron, on my knees in the snow, scooping up dog shit. And I'm sure I look even more silly when I try to stand back up. On occasion I have had to drop and roll to the nearest tree so that I could drag myself back up. Yet despite these hardships, I still do not miss Florida. Have you heard about the hordes of yellow ants invading homes in FortLauderdale?

Lock Them Up, Lock Them Up

There are some people who should be locked away forever and never heard from again. Like politicians, or wannabe politicians who have no idea what the hell they're doing. Or they do know what they're doing, stealing from the tax payers. But that's not what is pissing me off right now. What has got my shorts all in a twist are the assholes who have ruined a decent holiday. I don't mean Halloween. The twenty something's who dress up as sexy nuns, sexy doctors, sexy fill-in-the-blank, can have that one. I'm talking about Christmas. Seriously, all I want for Christmas is for it to start about two weeks into December. On December fourteenth people can start wandering around singing carols. The pretty lights can all be turned on. And that's when I want to start seeing Christmas cookies, cakes, wines, and what have you. What has got me in a tizzy, besides the guy down the street who put up a Christmas tree the first week of October, is on the radio. Those assholes who have the sixth button on our car radio, right after Mark's Justin Bieber station, are playing nothing but Christmas music already. On the way out to see Mom yesterday, I kept mistakenly hitting that button. Just one bar of Christmas music is too much at this early date. I do not want to be put into the Christmas mood the first week of November. Hell, by the time December twenty fifth rolls around I'll be ready to kill somebody. Nobody can sustain that kind of cheer for that long. Nobody can stay merry for two full months. Human beings just aren't built to stay that upbeat. At least I'm not. Maybe we could get those moron politicians to pass a law prohibiting Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Then after they do that, we lock them up.

From Red to Blue

I was walking Scout around the block last night and I noticed the big Penske rental truck out in front of my neighbor's house. Pedro was in the back of the truck, huffing and a puffing, shoving all his family's belongings up in there. Pedro is about my age, retired and moving to Florida. He sold his two flat, informed his family that they're moving down south, and that was that. I'll miss him. I've only lived here about eighteen months, but I got to know Pedro. He's a real good guy. The thing is, that the big truck with all of his earthly possessions jammed in there brought back some painful memories. Moving. I swear, I'll never do that again unless I can just leave everything behind and buy all new stuff. I would have all new furniture delivered, assembled, and arranged. I'd have all electronics connected by a professional and all the utilities up and operating the day I moved in. I never want to pack another box. I never want to see packing tape again.

So Pedro is moving down to Florida. He is taking his extended family with him, and he seems real happy about it. Even though I related stories of hurricanes, heat, humidity, and cockroaches that fly and are the size of a football, he didn't care. I told him about the various other vermin that seem to find their way into the house no matter what you do. He doesn't care, he's happy because he won't have to shovel snow or wear piles of clothing just to keep warm. "Ah ha," I told him, "you have to air condition year round and electric in Florida is very expensive." Pedro doesn't care. So I wished him a safe and pleasant trip down there in the big truck. I told him to enjoy himself in the warm weather while we freeze up here. And then I told him to remember to register to vote as soon as he can. Because between good Democratic voters moving to Florida from Chicago, and disgruntled Puerto Ricans moving to Florida because of slow hurricane relief, look for Florida to flip from red to blue in the coming years.

Old Food

I remember when I was a kid and Mom would be damn tired of cooking meals as if she were running an Army mess hall. Seriously, she had to cook for eleven kids and my dad. That was like cooking for twenty (Dad ate a lot). So on some nights we would have what we called "leftovers". Mom just called it dinner. Whatever we had on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, would be combined somehow as Thursday's dinner. I never complained, it was food. Friday was different, we were Catholic. Friday's meals could be anything from fishsticks to pancakes, no meat. Hard to do leftovers without meat.

The other night Mark suggested that we either order out or that I go across the street to Wolfy's and pick up dinner. He didn't feel like cooking.

"We have tons of food in the refrigerator. Leftovers coming out of our ears." I suggested.

Mark turned up his nose.

"Ewww... that's all old food. I'm not eating old food."

Yes, that's what Mark calls leftovers, 'old food'. As if it has been sitting in the refrigerator for the last twenty years. I know that it hasn't, because the fridge is only one year old. So I have this problem with leftover buildup. Tupperware containers, foam take-out boxes, and mystery foil wrapped packages filling up the refrigerator. I try to eat some of it for lunch, but again, Mark wants something new for lunch. About once a week I have to clear out the fridge and throw away huge amounts of food. Sadly, I can't even give it to somebody who might need it. By the time I get around to dumping it, it's rotten.

Friday morning I went into the kitchen to make Mark and myself breakfast. I was scrounging around, looking for something different, and I found four slices of raisin bread at the bottom of the bread box. I opened the wrapper. No blue fuzz on it. I gave the bread a little squeeze. Still pliable. So I made French toast with it. Mark sat down for breakfast and I put the French toast in front of him. He stared at it for a moment.

"Where did you get this bread?"

"It was in the bread box." I informed him as I shoveled French toast bits into my face.

Mark stared down at his plate.

"This bread is weeks old."

"I don't know. Maybe a week or so old, but it's okay. It wasn't stale."

"No, it's old. I remember buying it. I can't eat this crap." Mark told me with his best pouty face. "You know that I don't eat old food. This is old food."

I continued filling my mouth with French toast while I stared at Mark.

"What kind of Midwest yahoo am I living with. I can't believe you eat old food." Mark said as he pushed the offending pile away.

Yep, I sure do. And if I don't end up with a stomach ache, botulism, or the trots, I consider it a win-win situation.

Oops

I had to apologize to my next door neighbors yesterday. On Halloween I gave their daughter a big double handful of candy. We like the kid, she's about ten years old and she and Scout are best buddies. We call her monkey girl, but that is not her real name, and of course we never actually call her that to her face. She is called Monkey Girl around our house because she climbs the trees in front of the house, way up into the trees. She also climbs up the brick facade of the house next door. It is very disturbing to look out the window and see this little girl clinging to the bricks above the doorway. Anyway, I had to apologize to her parents because as she walked away with all that candy I remembered. Monkey girl is diabetic.

Halloween 2017

Dave, Debbie, and Alan 1955

Another Halloween come and gone. We did not get as many trick or treaters as we got last year. Mark said it was because it was so damn cold out. He has a point. I remember when I was a kid and the weather interfered with our Halloween celebrations. One year it was rain and we had to go around begging for candy with our fabulous costumes covered by rain coats. We also had cold weather on occasion. That meant kids had to wear winter coats with only a hint of their costume peeking out from underneath. That's what happened last evening around here. All these little kids coming up to the house and I had no idea what their costumes were. They all had a bag brimming with candy though. That's how I knew they weren't Jehovah's Witnesses. Like I said, there weren't as many this year as last. It could have been the cold weather keeping them away, or it could have been Little Cujo, and Big Cujo. Seriously, I thought Scout was going to go through the window after them. More than one kid ran away, screaming in terror.

The Sound and the Fury