Short Pants

Monday morning I woke up and felt a bit of a chill in the room. It was six in the morning and time for the dogs to go outside. So I slipped on my shorts and threw on a sweat shirt, then led Chandler and Scout out to the backyard. Holy crap, it was cold. I could see my breath in the air. This was it. Summer, in my mind, was over. The autumn weather was here. Sure, most of the trees in the neighborhood still have green leaves on them, but being able to see my breath was the truth. No more shorts, no more walking the dogs with just a tee shirt on in the evening. Goodbye summer, I enjoyed you immensely. Now I shall enjoy autumn.

First thing, I pulled the air conditioner out of the living room window and stored it out on the back porch. I cut down some of the failing garden, turned the soil over, and then mulched it. I pulled out all my long pants, and my cool weather shirts. The lawn chairs have been put away in the garage and I've Googled how to prepare the grape vine I planted last spring for the coming winter. Down in the basement I oiled the pump motor on the hot water heating system and turned on the boiler. Yes, I have been very busy with my change of season chores. There are really only a few things I'll miss until next summer. One would be sitting out in the back yard with a beer while the dogs chase invisible bugs, and another would be my short pants. So easy to put on and take off.

Ball Sack

Thirty six years ago, my new boyfriend talked me into joining his bowling league. So I got me a bowling ball and some shoes and I became a bowler. I was horrible at it and I always felt that I was responsible when our team lost. I probably was, considering the number of times my ball ended up in the gutter. After a while the newness of the boyfriend wore off and we were more like an old married couple. A little more time passed and then we became exes. But I did continue bowling, only not with him. I joined a lesbian bowling league. I'm pretty sure that some of the other bowlers did not appreciate our team of all men being involved. Especially when we came in second place. I still remember accepting that lovely trophy with the lady bowler on it.

When I moved to Florida I naturally joined the gay bowling league. That is the easiest way to meet new people when you move. Oh sure, I could have joined a church to meet people, but they don't drink or curse. After many years of bowling in Florida, I decided to quit. Not because I wanted to, but because I looked around and I was now the oldest guy on the league. Also my team dumped me... assholes.

A few weeks ago I went up to the bowling alley here in Chicago, on the night that the gays bowl. A few people I know bowl on that league, and I suddenly got the urge to bowl again. Unfortunately I could not find my bowling ball bag with the ball and shoes in it that I had in Florida. That was a very good bowling ball, and I was really sorry that it got lost in the move. So I went to the pro shop here and bought another ball along with a pair of shoes and a bag. While I was waiting for the guy to drill my ball, I called my friend Dennis.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the bowling pro shop buying a new ball and shoes. I can't find my old ball anywhere. I'm pretty sure the movers stole it, those thieves."

"Alan, you just aren't right in the head."

"Huh, what do you mean?"

"I was with you when the movers were there. You picked up your bowling bag, with the ball and shoes inside, and you threw it in the garbage. You told me that you would never bowl again."

It was a long day and I must have been very, very tired.

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.