I'm Not Sure How I Feel About This...

I've been going to the health club now for over a month. I'm not sure if I feel any stronger or healthier, but I will give it at least three months to see results. If not, screw it. One thing I hate about this particular health club are the old people. I don't hate the old people, I just hate them being there. They sit on the machines for long periods of time, chatting away with the other old people. One old guy is exceptionally careful to fully wipe down the entire machine, both before and after use. I mean he uses a little towel with cleaner spritzed on it and wipes and wipes. I wipe down the machines after I use them, but I'm not crazy. Besides, that guy probably catches a CTA bus to go home, and has no problem with sitting on those seats.

The worst part about the health club is the locker room. Nothing but naked, fat old men, strutting around with their big bellies hanging over little mushrooms poking out of a nest of pubes. So now, with that burned into your mind, let me tell you what I saw yesterday. A man brought his little daughter, around four years old, into the men's locker room while he changed into his street clothes. I'm not sure if I am shocked, appalled, or don't care. She and her little brother were running around in there having a great time. If I were her father, I would be worried that she'd be traumatized for life. After all, she was at the right height to come face to face with one of those button mushrooms. Maybe her family are 'naturists'. If so, then I'm sure she's used to seeing disgusting, naked bodies all the time. Sometimes playing volley ball. Anyway, I just turned my back on that scene and got dressed. It really didn't matter to me, because I never get fully naked at the health club. Last thing I would want is some asshole seeing me nude and writing a blog post about my fat ass.

Robo Cop

I love my dogs, but they have a problem... or I should say they create a problem. Hair, fur, fuzz, whatever you want to call it, they have a lot of it and it does not stay attached to them. When I vacuum the house I have to empty the canister three times. Seriously, I could knit another dog the size of Scout if I knew how to knit, or knew how to make yarn out of dog hair. Scout isn't too bad, her hair is long and stringy and she does not shed that much. Chandler, well Chandler is a dog hair factory. I take him out in the back yard and brush him, and brush him, and brush him. No matter how much I brush him there is still more hair on the brush. You'd think he would be naked of all hair by the time I finish, but as he trots back into the house I can still see that white hair dropping off onto the floor. So Mark had a solution. One of those robots that comes out at night and cleans the floors. Okay, I'll buy that, or I mean I'll go along with that if Mark buys it. Which he did. I have named her 'Rosie', after the maid on the Jetsons. The first night after I had set it up, it did a great job. The floor in the living room was spotless as was the hallway. Around one in the morning that night, Scout started barking. I got up and looked through the French doors that separate the dining room from the living room and there she was, busily moving around the living room floor. So I told Scout to go back to sleep and forget about the stranger in the living room. The next night Rosie did her job again. I was happy. Each morning I opened up her little canister and dumped a huge hairball of dog fur into the garbage. But on the third night Rosie stopped working. I found her trapped under the sofa so I hit the home button and she started back to her charger station. Unfortunately she didn't make it. She stopped, beeped, flashed her lights and that was it. On the fourth night she got stuck under my big fluffy chair. So I re-read the instructions. They told me to, "Clean the rotating brush once a week." It had not been a full week yet, but I popped that roller brush out of there. It was choked with dog hair. It had dog hair wrapped around the spindle and jammed in the intake. So I now know that I have to clean Rosie every day. I have to take her apart and unclog, detangle, and unwrap the mounds of dog hair. Other than that and the fact that Scout likes to bark at her, Rosie is now doing a very good job. I might even give her a promotion and add the dining room to her rounds. The dogs are pretty good at cleaning up the bits of dropped food in there, but they shed a lot of fur while doing it.

Original Man Cave

I continue to scan photos at my Mom's house. I did one full book and I am one fourth of the way through the second one. There are about eighteen more after that. I find it to be a fun exercise and by including Mom in the process, I think she's benefitting. Although, at one point, after identifying a number of people in the photos, Mom looked at me and asked, "How did I get here?"  I was not ready for an existential question like that. I thought for a moment, then asked her, "You mean how did you end up in this house?"  She looked at me with some confusion, and said, "Yes, when did I move here?"  Oh, I was relieved. So I started with her and Dad buying the house on Ravinia, then the house on 68th Court, and then explained how she and Dad had the house she lives in built. She then asked what year it was so I told her. She thought for a minute then said, "Oh, your dad has been gone for eighteen years now."  Mom seemed satisfied at that point. I think she had what we would call a 'brain fart' from looking at all those photos. It kind of took her right back to the 1950s.

I'm enjoying going through all the old photos myself. I can't believe how short I was. Besides all the family photo shots, I am scanning some that make no sense to me at all. I'm sure when my dad put them in the books he knew who was who. I just don't recognize all the old neighbors in there. For instance there's this one of a nice lady standing under a tree. I like the composition, but the real reason I scanned it was the car. A 1955-56 Pontiac.

And then there is this one of a picnic in the summer of 1958. I do not recognize anybody in the photo other than my older sister Peggy, and my Mom. What I love about it is what's on the picnic table. A can of 'Buckeye Sparkling Dry Beer', brewed in Toledo, Ohio, and a large can of "Healthful Food" New Era Potato Chips. The two curious boys staring into the camera are a hoot too.

But the one at the top of the page is my favorite. My dad in his garage sanctuary. One summer he built himself a large screen enclosure that fit over the garage door so that he could sit out there and watch his baseball games in peace. This photo brings back tons of memories. All that stuff behind dad, the lounge chairs, and that portable television. I remember that the television was pink. Unfortunately for dad, his little hideaway didn't last long. Seven children looking for a fun place to play, pretty much destroyed any illusion of solitude for him.

White Bred

A few years ago, for Mark's birthday, I bought him one of those DNA kits. He was delighted with the gift and dutifully spit into the little vial and mailed it away. For weeks we anticipated the arrival of that DNA information about Mark's makeup. When it finally arrived, I was impressed. Mark is a combination of many nationalities. His family heritage spans almost all the continents. He was happy when it was shown that he is of majority African descent, but barely. Only fifty one percent African. Huge chunks of his DNA were shown to be British, Irish, Scandinavian, and surprise, surprise, East Asian.

So this past birthday Mark gave me the DNA kit. I too spit into the little vial and mailed it off to the Mormons. (In actuality the Mormon Church does not own Ancestry.com. Much like my mother does not own me.) For weeks now I have dreamed that maybe I have some exotic blood running through my veins. Maybe one of my ancestors had a secret tryst with one of the servants, or was one of the servants and bopped the boss. Anyway, the time has come, the results are in. Last week it showed up in my email, and here it is. I probably could be whiter, something about less than one percent of my DNA coming from Caucasus. But even that is where the word Caucasian comes from. It appears that other than that tiny bit from the Caucasus region, I am all European. Bits and pieces from Scandinavia to the Iberian Peninsula. The largest chunk is simply described as 'West Europe', seventy three percent, and that doesn't even include the large bit of British and Irish I have in me. Funny thing, Mark is actually more British than I am and I can trace my ancestors way back in England. I was hoping it would be just a little bit more targeted than simply 'West Europe'. The only time they got real specific was my Irish heritage. On the report it zeros in on Munster, Ireland, with a little blurb describing it as a place of "Rebels and Outlaws." Seriously, I was expecting more than Europe. After all, I tan very easily and I can get pretty dark in the summer.

Lassie Come Home

(Actress, Not the real 'Lassie')

We're on our way home from the hardware store and Mark suggests we stop at Popeye's Chicken to pick up some lunch. I pull into the parking lot and Mark hands me a coupon and a twenty dollar bill.

"Here, take this coupon for five pieces of chicken, and make sure I get mashed potatoes with that."

So I go inside, there is no drive through here, and at the counter is the same woman who is always behind the counter, Lassie. Her name tag says 'Lassie'. She is a short, older black woman, with swagger. I place my order and hand Lassie the coupon.

"I don't take that coupon. You can have that order, but it will cost ten dollars."

I look at the coupon again, and then at the sign above Lassie's head. Sure enough they both say 'Popeye's Chicken'.

"But it isn't expired. It says seven, ninety nine, for five pieces..."

"That ain't my coupon, I don't take it here."

"Okay, I'll have to check" I turned and walked back out to the car, where I explained to Mark what Lassie had told me.

"What? Sputter... spit... how... "

He flung open the car door and stormed off into battle, his jacket and seatbelt flopping out onto the pavement behind him. I took a seat in the car and listened to the radio while waiting for him to come back out. Five minutes later, a chickenless Mark came storming out in a rage.

"No chicken?" I asked.

"That bitch doesn't know me. I'll have her job. She does not know...  Go to KFC.. I'll never step foot inside that place again. She gave me a corporate phone number. I called it while I was in there and nobody answered... sputter....spit... Just wait, she'll see... "

I started the car and drove off to KFC for our chicken lunch. Once again, Mark handed me the twenty dollar bill and instructed me to go get him his chicken. When I returned to the car, Mark was half in, half out, cursing and screaming.

"I can't find my wallet! Help, I can't breathe, I can't breathe."

While Mark stood there hyperventilating, I searched under the car seat, behind the car seat, and all around the car seat. No wallet.

"Where did you get that twenty you gave me?"

"I don't know. It's all your fault. It's a nightmare, a nightmare."

"Okay fine, it's a nightmare and it's all my fault. Now think, where did you get that twenty dollar bill you handed me?"

"My wallet. I got it out of my wallet."

The car got real quiet.

"I got it out of my wallet at Popeye's."

"So your wallet is probably at Popeye's."

I turned the car back towards Popeye's Chicken, the place Mark said he'd never step foot into again. He was real quiet until I pulled into the Popeye parking lot.

"I was real mean to her. I said some very nasty things."

I got out of the car and went inside. When I walked up to the counter, Lassie looked up at me with a look on her face that said, 'I got you now, sucker'.

"Did anybody here find a wallet?" I asked, knowing this was not going to be fun.

"Hmmm... And what am I supposed to do about that?"

"Um, well... "

"Is it your wallet?"

"No, it belongs to my friend, the guy out in the car."

Lassie just stared at me.

"Tall, skinny Black guy. Kind of nervous." I added, knowing that wasn't needed.

"He's gonna have to come in."

So I went back out to the car and informed Mark that Lassie wanted him to go inside.

"I was really nasty.... " Mark mumbled as he got out of the car and slinked into Popeye's.

Five minutes later, Mark comes walking back out with a Popeye's bag in his hand.

"Did you get your wallet back?"

"Yes."

"Is that chicken in that bag?"

"Yes."

"You bought more chicken?"

"Yes. She honored the coupon. She said that she was going to give it to me all along until I got nasty."

"So you bought more chicken? We have a bag of KFC already."

"I apologized. Lassie and I are friends now."

"You apologized and paid for another bag of chicken?"

"Shut up."