I had some bad news while out for dinner with my family for our Christmas Eve tradition. My uncle called me to let me know that his girlfriend, who he lived with in Wisconsin, had died last Friday. My heart just sank for what he must be going through.
I didn't know Phyllis, but had spoken to her on the phone when I would call for Uncle Jerry and he wasn't there. She knew she was dying, and he had wanted to go back home, but wouldn't leave while she was like this. I understood, and also understand the pain he is going through now. No one should lose someone they care about during the holidays. But we can't always choose who we will lose, at what time and in what way. In a strange way, I feel like this was Phyllis' way of making things right so he could go home, like he wanted to. She had said many times that she wanted him to divorce my aunt and marry her instead. I knew before he ever told me, that that would never happen. I think Phyllis knew it too. No matter what happened over the years, my aunt and uncle would remain married. And so it is. There are a lot of people who wouldn't necessarily agree with the way my uncle has lived his life and the things he's done, but I chose a long time ago not to judge him. My own life has not been lily-white, and I have no room to judge others. Instead, I chose to accept him and his new life, even if it was flawed, as we all are. We have always been able to talk to each other... always close. My decision not to condemn him made us closer. I'm glad. No one should judge anyone else too harshly. After all, are YOU perfect? Thought not.
This brought something to mind that happened earlier this year. Whenever I am in Chicago, I try to spend some time with family, and my Aunt Marge had come in for this funeral. I hadn't seen her in 40 years, since I was a young teen. We were visiting at the home of my sister, "Little Miss Greed", when she said something to my Aunt Marge that horrified me. She was talking about Busia, my grandmother, and said that Busia "was a horrible person". I was stunned. How could she say such a thing? Whatever Busia was to anyone else, she was a good grandmother to ME. She came through time and again for me.
I remember one Christmas when I was young and we lived at the house on Oglesby. I asked Santa for a Barbie doll. Barbie was new at the time, and I wanted one so badly. Santa brought me a doll, but it wasn't a Barbie. It was a "Barbette". I was crushed. It may not have mattered to my mother (who bought this doll) whether it was a name-brand doll but it mattered to ME. But it might not have mattered at ALL if I were able to use regular Barbie clothes for the Barbette. The whole idea was to be able to dress up the doll. The thing was, Barbette was larger than Barbie, and so I couldn't use them. I had a doll that I would never be able to dress up. I don't know if I told her, or if someone else did, but that's when Busia went into action.
Despite losing the thumb on her right hand (an accident with a drill-press machine at work), Busia went to work and sewed clothes for my Barbette. There were suits, dresses, blouses and pants. I remember looking at them in amazement. She put snaps on them... teeny, tiny snaps... and even put snaps at the cuffs of sleeves so they wouldn't hang ridiculously. She made small collars, and crocheted sweaters and ponchos for the doll. Barbette was the most fashionable doll around. Busia loved me enough to do this for me... to make hordes of clothes for my doll so her granddaughter wouldn't be disappointed. She made it RIGHT for me.
A horrible person? Your premise is incorrect.
Merry Christmas and Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Open Season on Rocky
I'm gonna kill me some dog. Yes I am. The next time Rocky tears up one of my Christmas angels or starts playing with the toilet paper. Rocky is our 6 month old rompin' stompin' bundle of dynamite. Everything is fair game to her and now she's started to teach Tucker some bad habits.
When the two of them get together, nothing is off-limits. And I caught them. Today. Rocky had the ribbon from one of my angels and Tucker had the angel itself, wedged between his front paws, and he was gently gnawing at the angel's clothing. The head was already long gone. This was not the first casualty this holiday season, nor do I expect it to be the last. The first poor soul lost was another angel. Then came a tapestry ball. Yarn. Oh, and the pedal kit for my sewing machine. What, is it open season on everything in the house? No, it's gonna be open season on dogs. I'm gonna kill me some dog. Yes I am.
Rocky has been a royal pain ever since she wandered, unbidden, into our lives last June. She has torn up just about everything, and uses the furniture as chew toys. And now that she is teaching Tucker to do the same thing (and he thinks it's just fine, thank you very much), it's time to think about what kind of restraints can be used. We have already employed the child gate at the door to our study, so that our computers are safe. It's only a matter of time before she figures out that she could probably climb over the gate by putting her front paws on the crossbar and then heaving herself over. If my computer ends up on the floor or with toothmarks on the mouse, I'm gonna kill me some dog. Yes I am.
We have used a muzzle on Rocky. When we weren't looking, she chewed it up. She has torn up my wicker furniture, and destroyed the backyard. I have given her toys that she has my permission to tear up, but does she want to chew on those? Noooooooo! She wants whatever is in the trash, my underwear and whatever candles she can find. She has taken plants apart, broken their clay pots and used them as toothpicks. She terrorizes the cats, the chihuahuas, and takes flying leaps at my ponytail when I'm relaxing or writing. Oh yes, I'm gonna kill me some dog.
Maybe someday she'll grow out of it. Maybe she'll stop chewing on the fence and digging in the yard. Maybe she'll stop hanging on Tucker's collar and stop trying to eat Gidget's tail. Maybe I'll live to see it. Or maybe I'll just kill me some dog.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
When the two of them get together, nothing is off-limits. And I caught them. Today. Rocky had the ribbon from one of my angels and Tucker had the angel itself, wedged between his front paws, and he was gently gnawing at the angel's clothing. The head was already long gone. This was not the first casualty this holiday season, nor do I expect it to be the last. The first poor soul lost was another angel. Then came a tapestry ball. Yarn. Oh, and the pedal kit for my sewing machine. What, is it open season on everything in the house? No, it's gonna be open season on dogs. I'm gonna kill me some dog. Yes I am.
Rocky has been a royal pain ever since she wandered, unbidden, into our lives last June. She has torn up just about everything, and uses the furniture as chew toys. And now that she is teaching Tucker to do the same thing (and he thinks it's just fine, thank you very much), it's time to think about what kind of restraints can be used. We have already employed the child gate at the door to our study, so that our computers are safe. It's only a matter of time before she figures out that she could probably climb over the gate by putting her front paws on the crossbar and then heaving herself over. If my computer ends up on the floor or with toothmarks on the mouse, I'm gonna kill me some dog. Yes I am.
We have used a muzzle on Rocky. When we weren't looking, she chewed it up. She has torn up my wicker furniture, and destroyed the backyard. I have given her toys that she has my permission to tear up, but does she want to chew on those? Noooooooo! She wants whatever is in the trash, my underwear and whatever candles she can find. She has taken plants apart, broken their clay pots and used them as toothpicks. She terrorizes the cats, the chihuahuas, and takes flying leaps at my ponytail when I'm relaxing or writing. Oh yes, I'm gonna kill me some dog.
Maybe someday she'll grow out of it. Maybe she'll stop chewing on the fence and digging in the yard. Maybe she'll stop hanging on Tucker's collar and stop trying to eat Gidget's tail. Maybe I'll live to see it. Or maybe I'll just kill me some dog.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The Recliner
I believe that no house is really a home without the obligatory La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room. My own home is no exception. We have had this "country blue" recliner since the Stone Age, and I just don't have the heart to get rid of it. The poor thing has seen better days, and we are in the process of repairing it once again. I tend to think of the recliner as an old friend... and I don't just throw old friends out just because there is a squeak here or there. In this case, it needed a new bolt to keep the left side from sinking backward, and still it needs two extension springs to hold it together. The upholstery is tired and in need of replacing, and the padding on the arms could use a boost. Steve keeps telling me to get rid of it. But I remember a recliner that kept getting fixed, no matter what.
My grandfather (Dzia Dzia) had an old recliner that was covered in a blue/green leather-like fabric and occupied a place of honor in his living room. Although I only saw him sit in that old chair a few times, I remember well that it was HIS chair and we were not allowed to sit in it. So we didn't. We jumped on it, we played on it, we made the leg rest come out over and over. It was a great toy. And as a result of us using it for our own personal jungle gym, it was always broken. Dzia Dzia was always either getting it repaired or fixing it himself. Despite all the repairs, it remained in his home until after he passed away. I loved that old chair. And I loved the "old man" who sat in it. So when I grew up, I knew my own home would have to have a recliner in it.
I remember when I got our recliner for Steve. It was his only gift for Christmas that year, but it was a bargain at $200 at Sam's. It became his favorite place to "watch" a ballgame, and whenever I found his spot next to me in bed vacant in the middle of the night, I would find him in it, snoozing and snoring the night away. I didn't have the heart to disturb him, so would just tuck an afghan around him, and there he would stay until he woke to find all the lights out and me gone to bed.
Over the years, the recliner was shoved to the side and never really used like it was when the boys were young. But with the renewal of our home came a desire to see that chair put into use again. So despite the constant barrage of "let's just get rid of it" comments, the boys and I are doing whatever we can to fix it. So far, the repairs have only cost us $5. I figured that a new recliner costs upward of $400, and it would do my heart good to not have to spend that kind of money, especially around this time of year.
After replacing a bolt that has been long gone, it no longer sags to the left and comes apart in the back like it did before. A few springs ought to tie it all together and make it workable again. If it needs a few nips and tucks along the way, I'm sure we'll do that too. After all, you'd spend time to help an old friend, wouldn't you?
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
My grandfather (Dzia Dzia) had an old recliner that was covered in a blue/green leather-like fabric and occupied a place of honor in his living room. Although I only saw him sit in that old chair a few times, I remember well that it was HIS chair and we were not allowed to sit in it. So we didn't. We jumped on it, we played on it, we made the leg rest come out over and over. It was a great toy. And as a result of us using it for our own personal jungle gym, it was always broken. Dzia Dzia was always either getting it repaired or fixing it himself. Despite all the repairs, it remained in his home until after he passed away. I loved that old chair. And I loved the "old man" who sat in it. So when I grew up, I knew my own home would have to have a recliner in it.
I remember when I got our recliner for Steve. It was his only gift for Christmas that year, but it was a bargain at $200 at Sam's. It became his favorite place to "watch" a ballgame, and whenever I found his spot next to me in bed vacant in the middle of the night, I would find him in it, snoozing and snoring the night away. I didn't have the heart to disturb him, so would just tuck an afghan around him, and there he would stay until he woke to find all the lights out and me gone to bed.
Over the years, the recliner was shoved to the side and never really used like it was when the boys were young. But with the renewal of our home came a desire to see that chair put into use again. So despite the constant barrage of "let's just get rid of it" comments, the boys and I are doing whatever we can to fix it. So far, the repairs have only cost us $5. I figured that a new recliner costs upward of $400, and it would do my heart good to not have to spend that kind of money, especially around this time of year.
After replacing a bolt that has been long gone, it no longer sags to the left and comes apart in the back like it did before. A few springs ought to tie it all together and make it workable again. If it needs a few nips and tucks along the way, I'm sure we'll do that too. After all, you'd spend time to help an old friend, wouldn't you?
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Gob, Shrimper and Buck, Among Others
In my family, there is a "tradition" of giving the youngsters nicknames. According to my Uncle Jerry it all started with Dzia Dzia. It may have begun before then, but let's just start with what we have.
Dzia Dzia loved to have family around. He was so fond of family that over the years, he gave everyone a name that he would call us by... a nickname. The first came with his oldest son, my father, who he called "Gob". No one seems to know why, but Gob it was. Aunt Shirley was next, who was Dzia Dzia's only daughter, and was called "Shrimper". Then came Uncle Jerry... the youngest of the three, who he called "Buck". I understood "Shrimper" and "Buck", but never understood "Gob". Not very flattering, but it is what it is.
When I was young, I got my own nickname from my beloved grandfather. "Stinky". Ugh... couldn't he think of anything better than "Stinky"? How in the world was I going to justify "Stinky" to a potential boyfriend/husband as I grew to gangly teen? And although I never said anything about it not being the most flattering name for a cutie like me, I grew to like it, because it came only from Dzia Dzia. I remember the last time I heard myself called that. It was the last time I saw Dzia Dzia, about a week before he passed away, when I came to the hospital to visit him. He and I had an understanding about hospitals. They weren't pleasant, and you should have as many visitors as often as possible. So I went. I hated seeing him that way, but I sat there, nonetheless, not knowing what to say or how to say it. I didn't stay long. I saw a tube that Busia was "fiddling" with, and there was blood coming through it. One end of the tube went to a bag. The other end went to Dzia Dzia. I closed my eyes tightly when I saw it. I knew he wasn't going to make it. I got up to leave and all he said was "Oh Stinky..." Thud.
As the years went on, I found myself giving others nicknames, if only for the fact that I could do so. Steve became "Bubba", Jason was "Puddin' Head" and Rhys was "The Rhyster". I don't know if they ever gave me a nickname, but I can just imagine the names they called me under their breath when I was chiding them for one thing or another. Whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't a term of endearment.
I've given others names over time. I once worked for a man that I called "The Demon Seed". He was horrible, and the name was appropriate. Our first dog, Rebel, I called "Puppy". You'd have to understand how large Rebel was to have an appreciation of the name. Rebel was 72 pounds of coonhound. But he always had the heart of a puppy. Tucker has been "Tucker Bug". Who knows why. But he's been Tucker Bug since day one. Lexie has been "Lexarinapuss". Shelby is "Speed Bump" (she's got a slight weight problem). Samantha is "Sammy Toes". Rocky is "Rockamania" or "Rock Monster". Gizmo is "The Giz" and Gidget is "Gidgy Goo". Ginger was always "Ginger Lee". I said that she was the only cat to have a southern accent, because she would yell "me-OWOW".
My older brother Wayne became "Butch". Other nicknames in my family were "Itsy-Bitsy" AND "Droopy Drawers" for Cheri, "Butterball" for Don, "Red" for Julie, "Peggy" for Peggy (I guess she already had enough baggage with Marjorie Mary for a first name), "Holly Terror" for Holly (in honor of the holy terror she was when she was little), and although I don't remember a name that Joe was called by everyone else, I called him "Giuseppe".
Do I have a favorite? Well... I guess I wouldn't mind being called "Stinky" again.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Dzia Dzia loved to have family around. He was so fond of family that over the years, he gave everyone a name that he would call us by... a nickname. The first came with his oldest son, my father, who he called "Gob". No one seems to know why, but Gob it was. Aunt Shirley was next, who was Dzia Dzia's only daughter, and was called "Shrimper". Then came Uncle Jerry... the youngest of the three, who he called "Buck". I understood "Shrimper" and "Buck", but never understood "Gob". Not very flattering, but it is what it is.
When I was young, I got my own nickname from my beloved grandfather. "Stinky". Ugh... couldn't he think of anything better than "Stinky"? How in the world was I going to justify "Stinky" to a potential boyfriend/husband as I grew to gangly teen? And although I never said anything about it not being the most flattering name for a cutie like me, I grew to like it, because it came only from Dzia Dzia. I remember the last time I heard myself called that. It was the last time I saw Dzia Dzia, about a week before he passed away, when I came to the hospital to visit him. He and I had an understanding about hospitals. They weren't pleasant, and you should have as many visitors as often as possible. So I went. I hated seeing him that way, but I sat there, nonetheless, not knowing what to say or how to say it. I didn't stay long. I saw a tube that Busia was "fiddling" with, and there was blood coming through it. One end of the tube went to a bag. The other end went to Dzia Dzia. I closed my eyes tightly when I saw it. I knew he wasn't going to make it. I got up to leave and all he said was "Oh Stinky..." Thud.
As the years went on, I found myself giving others nicknames, if only for the fact that I could do so. Steve became "Bubba", Jason was "Puddin' Head" and Rhys was "The Rhyster". I don't know if they ever gave me a nickname, but I can just imagine the names they called me under their breath when I was chiding them for one thing or another. Whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't a term of endearment.
I've given others names over time. I once worked for a man that I called "The Demon Seed". He was horrible, and the name was appropriate. Our first dog, Rebel, I called "Puppy". You'd have to understand how large Rebel was to have an appreciation of the name. Rebel was 72 pounds of coonhound. But he always had the heart of a puppy. Tucker has been "Tucker Bug". Who knows why. But he's been Tucker Bug since day one. Lexie has been "Lexarinapuss". Shelby is "Speed Bump" (she's got a slight weight problem). Samantha is "Sammy Toes". Rocky is "Rockamania" or "Rock Monster". Gizmo is "The Giz" and Gidget is "Gidgy Goo". Ginger was always "Ginger Lee". I said that she was the only cat to have a southern accent, because she would yell "me-OWOW".
My older brother Wayne became "Butch". Other nicknames in my family were "Itsy-Bitsy" AND "Droopy Drawers" for Cheri, "Butterball" for Don, "Red" for Julie, "Peggy" for Peggy (I guess she already had enough baggage with Marjorie Mary for a first name), "Holly Terror" for Holly (in honor of the holy terror she was when she was little), and although I don't remember a name that Joe was called by everyone else, I called him "Giuseppe".
Do I have a favorite? Well... I guess I wouldn't mind being called "Stinky" again.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Chicago - Day Three
Repost from August 7, 2006
Chicago - Day Three and the trip home
Current mood: tired
Where do I start with this... there's so much...
Yesterday (Sunday) wasn't very eventful, which was just fine with me. After the previous two days, I was hurting pretty bad and needed the time to rest.
We did go out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The lunch was the best part. We went to the world famous Gino's East Pizzaria downtown and had the deep dish pizza that Chicago is famous for. This was always our favorite place to go for pizza, and we haven't been there for quite a few years, because whenever we would go visit my family, it seems that if they get north of Route 30, they get a nosebleed. But I digress... we had an absolutely marvelous time there and decided to take some random pictures around town, including the Bartman ball inside Harry Caray's, Marina Towers, The House of Blues, etc. Hope you enjoy them!
Now... for our trip home...
We had an early pickup at the hotel (5 fucking AM) and got to Midway Airport well before boarding, went through security, and found a place to have breakfast (another Harry Caray's... so sue me!). We knew our new-found friends from the Billy Goat and Parrothead Porkers (Gayle and Tommy Lancaster) were going to be on our flight, so we got a chance to talk a little ahead of time. When we got on board, there were a few problems.
First, it seems that the airline switched planes on us and we went from a 717 to a 737, which for some reason caused a whole lot of double booking. This double booking caused us to remain on the ground for about an hour past our schedule takeoff time. When we FINALLY got in the air, the captain told us that air traffic control routed us about 150 miles out of our way, and this would put us in Atlanta at about 12 noon, which was just 3 minutes from our connection. Well, so much for that, I thought. But as we were taxiing up to the gate, we saw that our connecting plane was still at the gate we had to board at, which was just one gate away. So when all the bozos who were blocking us (on the plane) were taking their sweet time getting their carry-ons, I yelled (I've got a 3 minute connection!!!) and quickly the waves parted. I ran out into the terminal, and heard someone say "Connecting flights"... I yelled out our flight number and was directed to the customer service agent who would help us. He started telling me how we had to wait for the next flight, which was 4 hours away, and we couldn't get on the flight that was still on the ground. SO ran over to the gate and started putting the squeeze on the agent there, which did no good. They had already given our seats away and were not opening that damn door for anything! So... everything has an upside, right? We found the Budweiser bar and spent our little comp tickets on Buds and lunch. We had the most marvelous time swapping stories with the Lancasters, and honestly, I hated that we had end our good time to get on the plane. I thought there would be nothing more to report at that time, but I was wrong!
We were having our usual good time with the people boarding, but then the male flight attendant (Bob) came over to us and asked us if we would mind changing seats with this couple in the very back of the plane because the woman was extremely claustrophobic. Bob told us he would comp our drinks if we would do it. Quickly (like a split second) I said sure... sign me up! Little did I know that I would have the same reaction that woman had... I sat down in the rear of the plane... with a wall to my right (no window), a seat in front of me, SO on my left and a wall to my back, and suddenly I had this overwhelming urge to escape or I would die!!! I told SO to move, and if he hadn't, I was going right OVER him! I'm pretty fearless on most things, but this really got to me. I kept apologizing, saying "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would affect me like this." Bob asked us if we would like a cocktail... that he appreciated that we tried... but I politely declined and tried to get comfy again. The sight of that closed-in area lingered in my mind, so I tried reading. We weren't off the ground yet... in fact, the flight attendants were still trying to fill 4 seats, including the two we had just vacated. We heard this oriental woman giving Bob a hard time about having to move back to where we were before. Poor Bob... he was being as nice as he could be, but this woman was on stand-by, so she should have just taken what she was given and shut the fuck UP about it. Bob came over to us and said, "I'm about to slap Yoko". We just died laughing and it took all the pressure out of the situation for me.
So we finally took off... and this young woman sitting next to me was reading... and I asked her if she would mind opening the window shade so I could watch the takeoff. Actually, I was still feeling a bit claustrophobic, so I wanted to be able to see out. She quickly opened her shade, but it dropped about 1/3 of the way down. She kept putting it back up and it kept dropping. It really got comical. We were laughing about that too, when I told her that it was okay, as long as I had some light coming in. The plane went through a lot of turbulence coming into Memphis, and I sighed a bit as we came in... Memphis is such a downer after being in such a wonderful place all weekend. Oh well...
Going through the Memphis airport pissed me off... mostly because when we were departing Memphis, security took away my leatherman, which I had forgotten was in my laptop case. When we came back, I went to security and demanded to have it back. I didn't get anywhere with the so-called "supervisor" who just wasn't going to go look for it and would rather sit there and stuff his face. I told him that I would write and letter and that that son of a bitch owed me $50 for a new one. Asswipe...
Our sons came to pick us up at the airport, and we took them out to eat... all three of them... my chosen adopted son, Ron, had been staying at our house all weekend, so we invited him to dinner too. Rhys' 18th birthday was Sunday and the birthday boy always gets to go where he wants to go. He chose Coletta's, so we had pizza again... I had to get to Wild Oats before going home so we'd have food for the morning. Now we're doing laundry and settling back in.
Work tomorrow... and I'm so tired...
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Chicago - Day Three and the trip home
Current mood: tired
Where do I start with this... there's so much...
Yesterday (Sunday) wasn't very eventful, which was just fine with me. After the previous two days, I was hurting pretty bad and needed the time to rest.
We did go out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The lunch was the best part. We went to the world famous Gino's East Pizzaria downtown and had the deep dish pizza that Chicago is famous for. This was always our favorite place to go for pizza, and we haven't been there for quite a few years, because whenever we would go visit my family, it seems that if they get north of Route 30, they get a nosebleed. But I digress... we had an absolutely marvelous time there and decided to take some random pictures around town, including the Bartman ball inside Harry Caray's, Marina Towers, The House of Blues, etc. Hope you enjoy them!
Now... for our trip home...
We had an early pickup at the hotel (5 fucking AM) and got to Midway Airport well before boarding, went through security, and found a place to have breakfast (another Harry Caray's... so sue me!). We knew our new-found friends from the Billy Goat and Parrothead Porkers (Gayle and Tommy Lancaster) were going to be on our flight, so we got a chance to talk a little ahead of time. When we got on board, there were a few problems.
First, it seems that the airline switched planes on us and we went from a 717 to a 737, which for some reason caused a whole lot of double booking. This double booking caused us to remain on the ground for about an hour past our schedule takeoff time. When we FINALLY got in the air, the captain told us that air traffic control routed us about 150 miles out of our way, and this would put us in Atlanta at about 12 noon, which was just 3 minutes from our connection. Well, so much for that, I thought. But as we were taxiing up to the gate, we saw that our connecting plane was still at the gate we had to board at, which was just one gate away. So when all the bozos who were blocking us (on the plane) were taking their sweet time getting their carry-ons, I yelled (I've got a 3 minute connection!!!) and quickly the waves parted. I ran out into the terminal, and heard someone say "Connecting flights"... I yelled out our flight number and was directed to the customer service agent who would help us. He started telling me how we had to wait for the next flight, which was 4 hours away, and we couldn't get on the flight that was still on the ground. SO ran over to the gate and started putting the squeeze on the agent there, which did no good. They had already given our seats away and were not opening that damn door for anything! So... everything has an upside, right? We found the Budweiser bar and spent our little comp tickets on Buds and lunch. We had the most marvelous time swapping stories with the Lancasters, and honestly, I hated that we had end our good time to get on the plane. I thought there would be nothing more to report at that time, but I was wrong!
We were having our usual good time with the people boarding, but then the male flight attendant (Bob) came over to us and asked us if we would mind changing seats with this couple in the very back of the plane because the woman was extremely claustrophobic. Bob told us he would comp our drinks if we would do it. Quickly (like a split second) I said sure... sign me up! Little did I know that I would have the same reaction that woman had... I sat down in the rear of the plane... with a wall to my right (no window), a seat in front of me, SO on my left and a wall to my back, and suddenly I had this overwhelming urge to escape or I would die!!! I told SO to move, and if he hadn't, I was going right OVER him! I'm pretty fearless on most things, but this really got to me. I kept apologizing, saying "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would affect me like this." Bob asked us if we would like a cocktail... that he appreciated that we tried... but I politely declined and tried to get comfy again. The sight of that closed-in area lingered in my mind, so I tried reading. We weren't off the ground yet... in fact, the flight attendants were still trying to fill 4 seats, including the two we had just vacated. We heard this oriental woman giving Bob a hard time about having to move back to where we were before. Poor Bob... he was being as nice as he could be, but this woman was on stand-by, so she should have just taken what she was given and shut the fuck UP about it. Bob came over to us and said, "I'm about to slap Yoko". We just died laughing and it took all the pressure out of the situation for me.
So we finally took off... and this young woman sitting next to me was reading... and I asked her if she would mind opening the window shade so I could watch the takeoff. Actually, I was still feeling a bit claustrophobic, so I wanted to be able to see out. She quickly opened her shade, but it dropped about 1/3 of the way down. She kept putting it back up and it kept dropping. It really got comical. We were laughing about that too, when I told her that it was okay, as long as I had some light coming in. The plane went through a lot of turbulence coming into Memphis, and I sighed a bit as we came in... Memphis is such a downer after being in such a wonderful place all weekend. Oh well...
Going through the Memphis airport pissed me off... mostly because when we were departing Memphis, security took away my leatherman, which I had forgotten was in my laptop case. When we came back, I went to security and demanded to have it back. I didn't get anywhere with the so-called "supervisor" who just wasn't going to go look for it and would rather sit there and stuff his face. I told him that I would write and letter and that that son of a bitch owed me $50 for a new one. Asswipe...
Our sons came to pick us up at the airport, and we took them out to eat... all three of them... my chosen adopted son, Ron, had been staying at our house all weekend, so we invited him to dinner too. Rhys' 18th birthday was Sunday and the birthday boy always gets to go where he wants to go. He chose Coletta's, so we had pizza again... I had to get to Wild Oats before going home so we'd have food for the morning. Now we're doing laundry and settling back in.
Work tomorrow... and I'm so tired...
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Chicago - Day Two
Repost from August 05, 2006
| Chicago - Day Two
|
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Chicago - Day One
This is a repost from August 4, 2006.
Chicago - Day One
So here I am... in the most beautiful city in the world... Chicago. My SO won tickets from 93X to go to Lalapalooza, and we were whisked on a plane and down to the House of Blues Hotel. After getting settled in, we decided to take a walk and see what we would find.
The first thing we found was Harry Caray's Restaurant, which I have always wanted to go to, being the Chicago baseball fan that I am. We had a marvelous lunch... everything was simply perfect. And when we were done, we looked at all the memorabilia in the place. Harry certainly had a long career, and was well loved! One of the items of note in the restaurant was a shattered baseball, touted as the Bartman Baseball. This ball was intentionally shattered, as it was the ball that a fan (Steve Bartman) grabbed out of the hands of Moises Alou, during a game that would have brought the Cubs to the World Series in 2003. That catch would have been the last out of the game. Everything went downhill from there. By the end of the inning, the Florida Marlins had put 8 runs on the board, forcing Game 7. The poor schmuck had to be escorted from the stadium by 3 security officers when fans started chanting "ass-HOLE, ass-HOLE" and pelting him with cups. Ah yes, only in Chicago. The ball was bought at auction by the managing partner of the Harry Caray restaurants with the intent purpose of destroying it. And what did he pay for this honor? A whopping $106,600!!! Ugh... makes me sick to think about it, but hey... REVERSE THE CURSE!!! (We'll come back to this later.)
After lunch, we decided to stroll around downtown and take some pictures of the wonderful architecture that engulfs the city that I call home. I stood at the exact spot where Fort Dearborn once stood, at the Chicago River. I felt a little like Mary Tyler Moore at the beginning of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, wanting to throw my hands open wide, twirl around, and throw my hat in the air. I'm HOME!!! Downtown Chicago has always been my home, even though I grew up in the suburbs. It was in downtown Chicago that I had my first real taste of independence, and it was here that I felt I had a real life. Ah yessssssssss... to be young again and have all that ahead of me yet.
So back to my story about the curse...
We decided to find the world famous Billy Goat Tavern, which I had never been to. (The world MUST be coming to an end, because I'm getting to do things I've always wanted to do, and some of my deepest wishes are coming true.) Anyway... the Billy Goat Tavern was made famous by John Belushi and Bill Murray on Saturday Night Live, as the home of the "Cheezborger Cheezborger". We went into this little place, which really isn't any bigger than the Poplar Lounge in Memphis, and were having a great time with the guys who were working that shift, with them teasing us, and we, teasing them right back. We took some pictures and read up a little on the lore associated with the Billy Goat. This is where the curse comes in. As Wikipedia tells it: "The Curse of the Billy Goat, or Billy Goat Curse (curse supposedly began in 1945) is the name of an urban myth, superstition, used to explain the World Series drought that Major League Baseball's Chicago Cubs have had to endure since their last appearance in the 1945 World Series, and their last World Series championship in 1908. The curse is a classic example of a scapegoat.
As the story goes, Vasili "Billy Goat" Sianis, a Greek immigrant who owned a nearby tavern (the now-famous Billy Goat Tavern), had two 7.20 USD box seat tickets to Game 4 of the 1945 World Series between the Chicago Cubs and the Detroit Tigers, and decided to bring his pet goat, Murphy (or Sinovia according to some references), with him. Sianis and the goat were allowed into Wrigley Field and even paraded about on the playing field before the game before ushers intervened. They were led off the field. After a heated argument, both Sianis and the goat were permitted to stay in the stadium occupying the box seat for which he had tickets. However, before the game was over, Sianis and the goat were ejected from the stadium at the command of Cubs owner Philip Knight Wrigley due to the animal's objectionable odor. Sianis was outraged at the ejection and allegedly placed a curse upon the Cubs that they would never win another pennant or play in a World Series at Wrigley Field again and left the States to vacation in his home in Greece.
The Cubs lost Game 4 and eventually the 1945 World Series, prompting Sianis to write to Wrigley from Greece, saying, "Who stinks now?" Following a third-place finish in the National League in 1946, the Cubs would finish in the league's second division for the next 20 consecutive years, this streak finally ending in 1967, the year after Leo Durocher became the club's manager. Since that time, the cursed Cubs have not won a National League pennant or played in a World Series --the longest pennantless drought in Major League history. Sianis died in 1970."
So... all that said... enjoy the pics we took today!
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Monday, December 1, 2008
Clear and 2° in Ely, MN
As much as I love Ely, MN, there are times I'm really glad I live in the south.
Take today, for instance. I have been working around the house, getting rooms cleared out, and generally, I leave the windows cracked open to let fresh air mingle with the old oxygen-depleted air typical of the indoors. But this evening I'm cold. And when I say I'm cold, I mean I had to close all the windows... except the one in the powder room, which I keep cracked open almost all the time. But as cold as I have been this evening, it's nothing compared to the bone-cold of the Northwoods.
The weather report for the greater Ely area this evening is clear and 2°. Brrrrrrr! Whenever I think about how I would love to move up to the BWCA, with its crisp, clear water, unpolluted skies and abundant wildlife, I slap myself around and try to remember how cold COLD can be. Since moving to Memphis in 1982, I have had to adjust to milder weather than I was used to, growing up in the Chicago area. I can count on one hand the times we have had temperatures below the freezing mark, and snowfalls of four inches or more are equally as rare.
Usually, one inch of snow in Memphis is enough to close the schools. I guess the school system doesn't want to be responsible for the safety of their students once it starts to snow. But "White Death Panic" is not exclusive to the school system here. Colleges, churches and community activities shut down immediately. Some businesses close, but most have an "inclement weather policy" in which they outline what to do in case of a snow emergency. This policy generally states that although the employer will be open for business, they caution their employees to take care in traveling to work. Nice. Especially since mass pandemonium ensues once the first flake hits the ground. I remember one winter in particular, when we received 8 inches of snow. Weather forecasters went on the air saying "Do I see snow in the forecast? Details at 10." Just the mere mention of snow in the forecast is enough to cause unrest in the city. Grocery stores were emptied of all bread, milk and toilet paper the night before the storm hit. The city shut down for a week.
I guess I should mention here that there is no snow removal equipment in Memphis. Okay, "no snow removal equipment" is not quite accurate. There are four snow plows in the city of Memphis. Got that? FOUR! And what about salt-spreaders? None! They spread "cinders" here. Cinders = ash. Huh? How am I supposed to get around the scores of idiots who, instead of waiting it out a little, immediately take to the roads to get home before they melt if they are not using something that will give a little traction?
Add to that the fact that Memphis winters are not pretty anyway, and you have a place that has milder temperatures, but all in all, is not worth staying in for the winter. Suddenly, clear and 2° isn't sounding so bad.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Take today, for instance. I have been working around the house, getting rooms cleared out, and generally, I leave the windows cracked open to let fresh air mingle with the old oxygen-depleted air typical of the indoors. But this evening I'm cold. And when I say I'm cold, I mean I had to close all the windows... except the one in the powder room, which I keep cracked open almost all the time. But as cold as I have been this evening, it's nothing compared to the bone-cold of the Northwoods.
The weather report for the greater Ely area this evening is clear and 2°. Brrrrrrr! Whenever I think about how I would love to move up to the BWCA, with its crisp, clear water, unpolluted skies and abundant wildlife, I slap myself around and try to remember how cold COLD can be. Since moving to Memphis in 1982, I have had to adjust to milder weather than I was used to, growing up in the Chicago area. I can count on one hand the times we have had temperatures below the freezing mark, and snowfalls of four inches or more are equally as rare.
Usually, one inch of snow in Memphis is enough to close the schools. I guess the school system doesn't want to be responsible for the safety of their students once it starts to snow. But "White Death Panic" is not exclusive to the school system here. Colleges, churches and community activities shut down immediately. Some businesses close, but most have an "inclement weather policy" in which they outline what to do in case of a snow emergency. This policy generally states that although the employer will be open for business, they caution their employees to take care in traveling to work. Nice. Especially since mass pandemonium ensues once the first flake hits the ground. I remember one winter in particular, when we received 8 inches of snow. Weather forecasters went on the air saying "Do I see snow in the forecast? Details at 10." Just the mere mention of snow in the forecast is enough to cause unrest in the city. Grocery stores were emptied of all bread, milk and toilet paper the night before the storm hit. The city shut down for a week.
I guess I should mention here that there is no snow removal equipment in Memphis. Okay, "no snow removal equipment" is not quite accurate. There are four snow plows in the city of Memphis. Got that? FOUR! And what about salt-spreaders? None! They spread "cinders" here. Cinders = ash. Huh? How am I supposed to get around the scores of idiots who, instead of waiting it out a little, immediately take to the roads to get home before they melt if they are not using something that will give a little traction?
Add to that the fact that Memphis winters are not pretty anyway, and you have a place that has milder temperatures, but all in all, is not worth staying in for the winter. Suddenly, clear and 2° isn't sounding so bad.
Nazdrovie'
Paczki Puta
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)