Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Popping Fresh



There is a bit of upheaval in my world lately. I am getting ready to put the house on the market. It was supposed to be done last Saturday, but Mark and I haven't seen eye to eye on a few points. This makes me nervous. When things don't go my way and arguments ensue, I get nervous, and when I get nervous two things happen. One of the things is that I break out in pimples. Right now I have a giant, painful, pimple on my nose that rivals anything that I ever experienced in my teen years. Back then I often walked the halls of my high school looking like Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Anyway, I also have a few pimples popping up on the rest of my face. Luckily those are not as immense as the one saddling my nose. That one is a real finger popper, although unlike my teen years, I will not do that. Besides the pimples, my nervousness about selling this house has generated some bizarre dreams. Dreams in which I am naked and not in the confines of my own home. Two nights ago the dream was that I was out in my front garden naked. I was behind the six foot privacy fence, and that did allow me some relief until the fence started falling away. I awoke finally when one of my neighbors waved hello from across the street. Last night I had another naked dream. This time I was in Chicago taking a taxi across town, up to somebody's house. I remember that I had a big woolen scarf on because it was cold and something else wrapped around me. It wasn't until I was inside the house that I realized that I was really only wearing two woolen scarves and neither of them covered anything important. That's when I woke up. I certainly hope I get this whole house sale, home buying, moving thing over with quickly, before I find myself naked and covered in pimples, wandering around outside for real.

Monday, March 2, 2015

Invasion of the Hair Snatchers



I remember when I first started finding little piles of audio tape in a jumble on the streets and sidewalks. At first I couldn't understand how the hell it had ended up there, until the day the cassette deck in my car ate a tape. At first you try to save it, you eject the cassette and gingerly try to dislodge the tape that's tangled within the machine. If you're like me it doesn't take long before you become enraged and start yanking on it until you end up with a useless pile on the car floor. I assume all the tape I was running across was tossed from cars with cheap cassette decks. Over time I noticed that there weren't any more piles of audio tape along the street, but instead I was finding cracked and broken CDs. Now even the CDs have largely disappeared as more and more people plug their iphones into the car stereo. What I have started to come across along the street, along the railroad tracks where we walk the dogs, and just today in the church parking lot, is hair. Large clumps of long hair. What kind of trend is this? Are people yanking their hair out in traffic and throwing it out the window? I've been informed by Mark that it is probably hair extensions, something black women use a lot. I've looked these clumps of hair over, and I'm not even sure that it is real human hair. More like Yak hair, or maybe even hair of the polyester. Assuming that Mark is correct and black women are losing their hair extensions while driving, why is it I haven't seen a lot of bald women driving around town?

Friday, February 27, 2015

Mark and the Five Steps of Grieving



If you don't know, I am planning on moving to Chicago. Mark has known about this plan for a while, and I have explained to him my reasons for what I am doing. Oh, and yes, I am taking Mark with me. So  yesterday I told Mark that today I would be having a couple of real estate agents over so that I could decide on who would get the listing of our house.

"So soon? That's a little fast don't you think?"
Denial.

"You hate me, don't you. Why are you doing this to me? I'm too skinny, I'll fucking freeze to death up there. I hate you!"
Anger.

"How about if I give you more money? I can afford to give you enough money so we could stay here."
Bargaining.

Silence.
Depression.
More silence.
Still depressed.
"Think about it Mark. There is so much more to do in a real city. Theater, restaurants, culture, parks, museums. You'll enjoy it, I guarantee it."
Still silent.
Continued depression, and then.

"Can we go to Lollapalooza if we move there?...   Oh, and look here. This looks like a really cool show at the Oriental Theater. I guess you're right, there are so many more things to do in Chicago. And I can hang out with my friend Sam, and I love your family. Let's look on line at some houses. What neighborhood do you want to live in? Lakeview, Lincoln Park, Andersonville?"
Acceptance.

I was happy that Mark was finally on board, but Lollapalooza?

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Not About Swedish Fish

I watched this show on PBS last night (actually I DVR'd it), and found it to be very interesting. It is about a Swedish man who did a study on race relations in the United States back in the early 1940's. It is interesting to an American because he came here with no idea of what he would find. This was on the PBS show Independent Lens, and if you see it scheduled you might want to watch it. It is history, and it is what is happening to our country right now.


Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Turn, Turn, Turn



The 1938 Buick was the first American automobile to have factory installed electronic turn signals. Before the electronic turn signal came along, you signaled which way you would be going by sticking your arm out the window of your car. Either straight out for a left turn, or straight out with your forearm in an upright position to signal a right turn. One problem with hand signals was that if you wanted to turn and it was pouring rain, not only would you get moist, but the car behind you might not see your signal. Other drivers could also be confused if you happened to be the friendly type who was always waving at people. I actually had to use those hand signals in my first car, a 1935 Studebaker, because it was not equipped with any turn signals. Luckily, in modern times, an electronic turn signal is considered integral to the auto. Unfortunately, the people of Florida cannot deal with such a high tech concept such as moving a lever. The problem is that almost nobody, and I mean like over ninety percent of the population of Florida, ever uses the turn signal that was installed in their automobile. Not the natives, not the people who moved here to get away from the cold, not the people who moved here to get away from the dead bodies they left up north, not even the tourists use a turn signal. I'm not sure why, or what they think that stick on the steering column is for, but people seem confused about the whole concept. It's like one big guessing game. Where the hell is grandpa going? Should I go, or is that schmuck turning? It's very frustrating when you are trying to get through an intersection. The funny thing is that it has got me using some old hand signals again. Just not the ones they taught me in Driver's Ed.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The Big Fluffy Chair




My first recliner chair was heated, dispensed refreshments, and was probably the most comfortable
place I have ever sat in. That was sixty five years ago, and after only nine months my mom kicked me out. I've been looking to recreate that experience ever since. I've tried memory foam and even a water bed once, but nothing was quite like the womb. Unfortunately, the best I can do in my adult years is the big fluffy chair. I started with a fashionable recliner around thirty years ago. It fit my butt, supported my back nicely, and looked good. Since then I've gone through around five different chairs. Hours of watching television, snoozing in them, and the damage caused by cats and dogs have taken their toll. The chair I have now is disgusting. It is covered in dog drool and man sweat, and wedged deep within its folds are a few pounds of chips, popcorn, and nut fragments. I do like to snack while watching television. So once again it's time to find another 'Big Fluffy Chair', but not until after we move. On the day we move out of this house I will drag the old red chair out to the curb, where some garbage picker will think he has scored big. And he will if he can dig those quarters out of the cushions.