Happy New Year

 "Can't we all just get along?"

Wienie

I try. I try, but I'm a weak man. Almost every morning as I walk my dogs around the block, I think to myself that this is going to be the day I start eating right. I'm not going to let that skinny bastard tempt me again today. The problem is that I live with a food pusher. Not just any food pusher, but a hundred pound lightweight who eats anything he wants, and never, ever gains weight.

"Alan, I'm making some cocktail wienie wraps. Do you want some?"
"No Mark. I'm not hungry, thank you."

I'm trying to be good. I know those things are full of nitrates and calories. Besides, I just ate breakfast two hours ago. I am not hungry. I continue to watch my football game and try to ignore the aroma wafting in from the kitchen. At some point my mind goes numb and my body goes on autopilot. I don't even remember getting up out of the chair, yet I suddenly find myself standing in the kitchen watching Mark pull a sheet of little wienies out of the oven. I know I shouldn't be there, but when I see Mark mixing up a batch of honey mustard in a little bowl, I succumb. Mmmm... little wieners dipped in honey mustard. Add a large glass of Cherry Diet Coke, and before I know it I am sitting back in front of the television with a dozen on a plate. For five minutes I sit there stuffing my face, occasionally tossing Chandler a small bit of wiener just to get him to stop drooling on my leg. When the dish is empty, reality comes rushing back to my brain. I did it again, I gave in to Mark and his never ending conveyer belt of food. In my mouth is the aftertaste of too much honey mustard, various cow bits, and a list of chemicals too long to list here. I disgust myself, and I know that there is only one cure for this food fetish. Kill Mark. Either that, or grow a pair and just say no. I could make it my New Years resolution. No, not killing Mark, but learning to say no. That should last until say, noon tomorrow.

Sixty Three

63

I woke up yesterday morning. My back hurt a little bit, and my sinuses were a murky mess. I pulled on my pants and shoes. After feeding the cats, I took the dogs for their walk. Halfway through the walk my knees started barking as loud as Sasha, and my feet felt like they were being poked by sharp sticks. As each dog squatted and left their pile of steaming poo, I fumbled with the little poop bags that I carry, my fingers no longer as deft and nimble as they once were. By the time we arrived back home my stomach was telling me I should eat, while my colon was telling me no, you have something else to do first. My colon won the argument which only reminded me of another consequence of aging, hemorrhoids. The day ground on as I struggled to remember the names of things, and why I had walked into any particular room. At eleven in the morning I was ready to nap. Growing old truly, truly sucks. After my nap I awoke to find Mark in the dining room snacking on McDonald's hamburgers and fries. He graciously offered me one which only exacerbated my propensity to pass gas. Of course passing gas is not something new to me. I've done it since I was young. The only difference is that now that I'm old, my sphincter has the elasticity of a two day old, helium party balloon. It isn't a pretty sound. After my McDonald's lunch, and a short spurt of energy that I directed towards cleaning the kitchen, I was ready for another nap.

It was a long day yesterday, my birthday, and despite all those naps I still found that I was tired and ready for bed. My eyes had gone blurry, my legs felt like I had walked ten miles, and my finger joints felt like somebody had hit them with a hammer. There was only one thing left to do, vodka cocktail and an Excedrin. All in all it was a pretty normal day for me. I was one year older, and I was feeling every year. As I lay there in bed waiting for Mark to finish watching his "Real Housewives" show, I mulled over my day. Not so bad, I thought, I woke up this morning.

Peanut

The agreement was that if I bought the bedroom furniture, and did all the work painting, putting down the floor, putting up the crown molding, and installing new light fixtures, I wouldn't have to spend anything on Christmas. So how come I'm as broke as a peanut today?

The bedroom was finished, and I had a little bit of extra money in my bank account. I was fine with it all, and then those gaily wrapped packages started showing up under the Christmas Tree.
"What are those for?" I asked Mark.
"Your Christmas presents silly."
I stood there staring at them, and then looked back over to Mark.
"Christmas presents? But I thought...  "
"We are exchanging gifts on Christmas aren't we? I can't have Christmas without presents to open on Christmas morning."
"Can't I just put a big bow on the bedroom wall?" I asked.
Mark gave me one of those looks that I know so well. Goddamnit, I thought to myself, sonofabitch, crap... I silently cursed him with a string of filthy profanities. Things I knew better than to say out loud. Instead I kept my mouth shut, and retired into my office to go shopping on Amazon. Click, click, clickety click. In less than five minutes I had found five gifts for Mark, and for less than one hundred dollars. Even better, I was able to order them gift wrapped. Four day later I had five gift wrapped packages under the tree for Mark.
"Ooooh, look. Christmas presents."
He was happy.
"Thank you Alan. Now about my birthday."
I had forgotten about his damned birthday on the Sunday before Christmas.
"Sure, where do you want to go for dinner?" I quickly countered.
It didn't work. Mark didn't want to go to dinner. He wanted a new chair for his desk, and not just a cheap office chair. No, Mark wanted a fancy ass upholstered chair. So on the morning of December 23rd I took Mark out to breakfast at a nice French restaurant, and then drove over to the Coral Ridge Mall where I charged my Visa card within pennies of the limit so that Mark would have his fancy ass chair. I hate Christmas, and Mark's birthday, and myself for falling for the bedroom being our Christmas gift bullshit.

Merry Christmas

1953

1963

1993

 

At Abandoned Pet Rescue With Kobi

Thursday is one of the two days I volunteer at APR. Today I thought I'd take a few photos. All are available for adoption except for Chanel. Click on the animal's name for more information.

This is my absolute favorite dog, Kobi. He has electric blue eyes, and he always makes me feel so bad when I leave. If it weren't for Chandler I would bring this guy home.

This is Puss-n-Boots, Two-Tone, and Gypsy in their cage.

Chanel is lucky. She was just adopted and is waiting to be picked up.

Here is Polly. She came in morbidly obese. She has shed almost all of her fat, and now enjoys a special spot behind the front desk on her own love seat.

Bye, bye.

The Duvet

I have heard somewhere that you shouldn't go to bed angry with your partner. Sounds nice, but what if the argument starts in bed?

I don't like quilts on my bed. Not for some aesthetic reason, but because they are hot. Mark loves them. Since the day he moved in here I have had to put up with a heavy quilt on my bed. The problem is that we live in South Florida. It is hot, it is humid, it is sticky, and it is like living in a vaporizer for most of the year. For me to put up with Mark's desire to sleep under fifty pounds of quilted blankets, I have had to crank the air-conditioning to artic temperatures at night. It is both expensive, and it makes those prostate induced trips to the bathroom at night, very chilly. Anyway, when we decided to upgrade to a king sized bed I asked Mark to get something a bit lighter than those big, heavy quilts he prefers.
"Okay, I'll see what I can do.", He said with a twinkle in his eye.
I hate that twinkle. It means he has found an excuse to go shopping. Nothing makes him happier.

The day our king sized bed was delivered Mark pulled out a giant bag from the Home Goods store.
"What's that?" I asked.
"A duvet."
"Duvalier? Papa Doc or Baby Doc?"
"Not Duvalier, duvet. It's a cover for blankets. You can stuff it with either a light blanket, or on cold nights a heavy blanket."
I looked it over, and I was skeptical.
"How do you keep them from moving around in there? Won't they bunch up after awhile?"
With my misgivings brushed aside, we proceeded with great difficulty, to stuff a blanket in the thing and spread it across the bed.
"There, doesn't that look nice?"
Of course I didn't argue with him then, it did look nice. No, the argument started last night, as I tried to cover myself with Mark's precious duvet. I pulled the thing over myself and realized there was nothing in it. I felt around and found the blanket inside all scrunched up on Mark's side of the bed. So I gave it a yank. A hard yank that pulled it off of Mark, leaving him covered only in his tee shirt and little skivvies that he prefers to wear to bed.
"What the hell are you doing?" He screamed.
"I need some covers over here, and you had them all."
"So now you get all of the covers?"
He gave a mighty yank with his skinny little arms, barely moving the covers back to his side.
"Give me the goddamned covers Alan."
"I told you this thing would bunch up. I told you to get a couple of lightweight blankets, but no, you always get exactly what you want."
"Well maybe if you didn't let that gigantic moose dog on the bed, the duvet wouldn't have bunched up."
"You're the one who originally invited Chandler onto the bed when he was a puppy. Don't blame me."
All this of course was said in loud voices. Mark's a very high pitched screaming voice, and mine in just a loud obnoxious voice.

I woke up this morning feeling a bit chilly. Not just because Mark and I ended the evening in a loud argument, but because the duvet was firmly anchored on Mark's side of the bed. All I had was the bed sheet over me, and a gigantic snoring moose dog lying against me.