Snow Blows

Our first winter back in Chicago, after twenty seven years in Florida, was not so bad. Very little snow with lots of warm days. I was a little disappointed because I had bought a brand new snow blower. I wanted to use that thing. The second winter, last year, proved to be snowier. I got to use my snow blower. I also felt that we got the right amount of snow. Moving that white fluff around was starting to get tiring. This winter we've had very little snow. Some back in November and very little since. Last Saturday we got about one inch of the stuff. I looked out the window at that one inch of snow and decided it would be stupid to bring out the snow blower for such a small amount. I grabbed the snow shovel and started shoveling. Up and down the sidewalk, pushing snow off the front porch and to the side of the yard. Done in no time flat. By Sunday morning I felt a twinge in my back and by Monday my back had stiffened up. Shoveling even one inch of snow is too much for this old fart. Tuesday, my bowling night, I was in pain. I doubled up on the Excedrin and went bowling anyway. All because of one inch of snow, my back has been screwed up. This weekend they're predicting snow again. I don't care if it's no more than powdered sugar on a donut, I'm using that snow blower.

In The Company of Al Roker

On January 6th, 2013, NBC weatherman Al Roker came out as a sharter. Not only did he admit that he sharted, he admitted to sharting in the White House.

Saturday I went shopping at the Jewel for groceries. I went armed with a grocery list and Mark's debit card. On that grocery list was Progresso Soup, Manhattan clam chowder. The thing about Progresso Soups is that there are so damn many of them. Must be over fifty varieties on the shelves of the Jewel, but Mark only wants tomato basil and Manhattan clam chowder. So I started looking across all the shelves, back and forth, up and down. When I got to the more obscure soups, where the cans are nearly at floor level, I had to get down on my hands and knees to look. Now I had been feeling a bit of pressure ever since the produce department, but I felt I could hold it until after I checked out. Unfortunately, as I got down on the floor to look for the clam chowder, something came out. It was not a nice little flappy thing that makes a small noise. No, it was something else. I immediately clenched. I dragged myself back up to my feet, cursing Jewel for putting the things I needed so low on the shelves, and made my way up to the bathroom. It was locked. This giant store with hundreds of shoppers and many employees, had only one bathroom with only one toilet in it, and it is always in use. Usually by an employee. So after waiting my turn for five minutes, I gave up and went back to shopping. I had to hurry it up because I really had no idea just how long I could hold that clench. Lucky for me there were no long lines at the checkout counters, and when I was done and I checked the door to the bathroom again, it was open. What a relief.

So let this be a warning. If you are going to be doing anything outside your house, away from easy access to a bathroom, don't eat oatmeal with blueberries for breakfast.

Float Like a Fruit Fly, Sting Like a Bee.

Back in November I was in the kitchen and I thought I was having what my eye doctor calls 'floaters'. I was sure I saw a tiny black spot in the corner of my eye and when I tried to follow it, it kept on moving out of my sight. The doctor always sounds so serious when he asks me if I have floaters, so it did worry me a bit. Then I had the same experience in the bathroom. I was looking in the mirror shaving, and a floater appeared. When I blinked it was gone. When I mentioned it to Mark, he told me that he was having them too. Odd. It wasn't until I moved the bag of onions in the kitchen that it became clear. I did not have an issue with floaters, but bugs. Fruit flies. A small cloud of them scattered as I picked up the onions. The more I poked around, the more fruit flies I saw. So I threw all the onions, all the potatoes, and whatever other loose produce was sitting around the kitchen, away. It didn't help. I Googled how to get rid of fruit flies. The Google said to put out a bowl of apple vinegar with a couple of drops of dish soap in it. Sure enough, this caught a lot of fruit flies but not all of them. So I bought bug spray and sprayed the kitchen. I think the fruit flies laid eggs on the bug spray residue and multiplied because they just kept on coming. I continued throwing away food that I thought they might be living in. Then I looked at the bar in the dining room. There was one bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream that Mark had put one of those bar spouts on so that he could have fast access. Mark likes Bailey's. I popped the spout off and poured a bit of the Bailey's into a rock glass. At the bottom of the glass was a creamy puddle with about fifty dead flies floating on top. I showed it to Mark.

"Oh my god!! I've been drinking that."

"Well, you've been getting some protein with your drink."

So the other day I bought two bug bombs at the hardware store. I closed off the kitchen and dining room, and sealed the doors with tape. I set the bug bombs off and ran out the last open door which I taped shut after me. After about an hour I went back in there. It was ghastly. Nothing could have survived the smelly fog, so I threw open all the windows, turned on a fan, and aired the house out. Yesterday morning I got up and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. For the first time in months there were no bugs. I was happy.

Wednesday is my Mom day. I drive out to Mom's house and spend a couple of hours with her. Mom has no bugs in her house, never has. It is spotless. So after my visit with Mom I returned home and found that Mark had made dinner. The kitchen smelled wonderful. He had made some kind of Spanish pork chops with rice. As he puttered around the kitchen, I asked him if he had seen any bugs. Knowing full well we had killed the little bastards.

"Yes, I saw one over there, by the bread box."

I stood there in disbelief. How could one have survived?

"Get your eyes checked Mark. I think you've got floaters."

It Rhymes With Slut

 (So I don't get sued, I have changed the name of the offending restaurant.)

Chicago is known for pizza. Good pizza, not that slimy stuff you buy on the streets of New York. Just for this post let's not even talk about that thick, deep dish pizza outsiders always talk about. No, Chicago pizza is thin crust with real Italian sausage, mozzarella cheese, and decent sauce. It is cut into squares, not wedges and is crispy at the edge. I worked in a pizza place when I was fifteen years old and I know how it is made. I mixed many hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds of dough back then. I was up to my elbows in flour and yeast, and when I went home my sisters would complain that I smelled like pizza. Those old school Chicago pizza places are disappearing. Up by our house we have the Candlelight, and Calo's. That's about it. Besides those pizza places there are a lot more local pizza parlors that I have not tried. They probably have pretty good pizza because locally sourced ingredients make for good pizza. So why Mark ordered pizza on Saturday from Pizza Slut is a mystery. He must have had a coupon. It was horrible and we threw half of it away in the garbage. It wasn't even drunken breakfast worthy. In fact I couldn't tell where the crust left off and the cardboard carton it came in began. I'm sure there are people who think Pizza Slut is great pizza. Good for you, and good for Pizza Slut. But I'll bet those are the same people who think rice cakes are delicious. They aren't.

The Dirty Truth Behind All the Glitter

Oh my god, it's almost over. And not a moment too soon. Dust bunnies have gathered under the Christmas tree because it's so damn hard for Rosie the Robot vacuum to get under there. The plants on the window sill behind the Christmas tree are dried up and dead because I couldn't get back there to water them. (They'd be dead anyway. I always forget to water plants in the house.) Mark has spent himself silly. Packages are still arriving and there is no more room in the house for another damn thing, and that includes the basement. Last night I unplugged the outdoor Christmas lights so they wouldn't come on again. I didn't take any outdoor decorations down out there, too cold. But I'm sick of seeing them, so I pulled the plug. Later today I will go down into the basement and bring up all the tubs and boxes so that Mark can put Christmas away for another eleven months. Luckily for me, he has a specific way of packing all that crap away. So all I have to do is schlep it up and down the stairs. So the holidays are over. I'm fatter, poorer, and I now have a house full of things that Mark gave me that I don't need. Around October I start dreading the upcoming December holidays, and by the first week of January I hate them. That includes my birthday. By this time next year I'll be seventy goddamned years old. I'm not ready.