The Drill Sergeant.

Weird. That’s the best way I can describe an encounter Jez and I had with a woman and her Golden Retriever around 6:30 this morning.

Here’s the situation:

Jez and I are making our way to the park. We were a few minutes early today. In the distance I hear a loud whistle. Jez’s ears perked up and my muscles tightened. The only sound breaking the early morning silence, I wondered who the hell would have the nerve to blow a whistle at this time of day.

And then we saw her.

A skinny woman decked out in urban survival gear—a Columbia fleece, $200 trail running shoes with about 20 strategically placed reflectors for maximum visibility and a designer ball cap of some sort (perhaps LL Bean) with pre-worn seams to look older than it really is.

As I unhooked Jez’s leash, the woman glanced over her shoulder to reveal a disapproving grimace.

“Good morning,” I said.

She quickly looked away, let out a big sigh and blew her goddamn whistle. A dog came running from the other side of the park. In its mouth was an umbrella-looking training toy. Immediately Jez was curious. In a classic dog move, she went right for the other dog’s butt.

The drill sergeant looked at me with utter disgust.

“Please call your dog NOW,” she demanded.

I smiled and paused for a moment—processing the details. Public park. Two dogs off leashes. One mean lady. And me. The woman was now very upset. There may have been foam around the corners of her mouth.

“Hey Jez, come here baby,” I said, doubting that she would actually comply. She slowly walked away from the dog as if she was annoyed with the woman as much as I was.

Then the woman let out a huge grunting sound. The sweet Golden Retriever came to attention and focused on the umbrella-looking device in her hand. She threw it and the dog took off. Jez squatted to take a crap. The woman gave us one last dirty look. She blew the whistle again and the dog came running back with the fetch toy.

“Have a great day…it was REALLY nice to meet you,” I said with a bag full of warm dog poop in my hand.

The woman didn’t acknowledge me. I laughed out loud in hopes that she could hear my chuckle. I turned around one last time. The woman was storming off. I guess Jez and I must have interrupted the morning drill. Oh well. Maybe next week we’ll get there 10 minutes early and then she’ll really be furious. Until then, have a great weekend and make sure to taunt as many mean people as you can.

These days.

Hi mom. And anyone else that may have happened on to this odd little collection of thoughts called ‘Opposite Day.’

Unfortunately for you the reader (mom), I haven’t had any big, incredible epiphanies to share. And the dramatic life-altering experiences have been at a standstill. And I’ve traded the wild and crazy nightlife I once knew for a DVD and a 6-pack of High Life. Is this old age? I don’t think so. Instead, I think it’s probably the result of long hours at work and a serious commitment I recently entered into called home ownership.

These days, the little disposable income we have is quickly disposed of at the hardware store. Our “free time” is usually interpreted as an opportunity to paint a wall. My answer to the standard “how was your weekend” question everyone asks on Monday morning is directly connected to the number of projects I successfully marked off the to-do list.

And this is not the work of my wife. Instead, she suggests I walk away from it.

“We don’t NEED blinds on the bedroom window—a towel will work just fine,” she says with a sweet smile.

“If the towel rack in the bathroom won’t stay on the wall, then it wasn’t meant to be there,” she tells me as I stand there cussing with a drill in one hand and a screwdriver in the other.

This is my obsession. And something tells me this one could keep me occupied for a very long time.

Just in time for fall, the Summer Cold.

The entire left side of my face throbs with pressure. I’m completely deaf in one ear and one nostril constantly drains mucus as thin as water. The back of my throat feels like mice have been chewing on it. A slight cough tickles my throat every 10 minutes or so. It isn’t bad yet, but I fear what the nasty, little germs might have in store. Bastards.

My intestines begin to churn. I rush to the bathroom, but I’m unsure which end of my body to position over the toilet. I’m wide-awake, but thinking a quick dose of something in a bottle with a childproof lid will put me to sleep. Or perhaps a pill would do the job? That’s it. I dig through the hall closet, past extension cords, drill bits and extra light bulbs to find a stack of tattered boxes with expiration dates printed on the flaps. Most of the cold medicine expired in 2006, but I pop a liquid cap anyway. I pray for sleep. I yearn to be better again and to rejoin the world I usually curse.

Make sure to cut the head off.

I trekked all over my neighborhood on Saturday. Grocery store, hardware store, barber shop, coffee shop and all the busy roads, broken sidewalks and Spanish-language billboards in between. Not only did I notice a lot of things that could be easily overlooked when speeding by on a bicycle, I heard a lot of things that I found highly entertaining. But my favorite had to be the snippet of conversation I witnessed on Glenwood around 9 AM:

Woman in garden:
“Make sure to cut the head off.”

Two men standing on sidewalk:
“We’ll make sure to cut the head off just for you.”

The crowd that comes with beauty.

It’s a storybook Saturday morning in Chicago. 70 degrees, sunny, slight breeze. And yet I’m reluctant to leave the confines of our condo. You see, in a city where the frigid winters can last for over 8 months, Summer’s last breath brings everyone out. That means cars on popular retail corridors will be lined up for three or four blocks at a time battling over one parking spot that’s in front of a fire hydrant. That means the path along the lakefront will be so crowded that it’s unsafe to navigate. That means sidewalks, parks, flower gardens, bars and restaurants with patios and basically any other place with exposure to a sliver of sunshine will be bombarded with people trying to soak up every last ounce of the season that’s quickly coming to a close.

So, for now, I’ll remain on the deck considering all the things I’d like to do—if only there weren’t 400 others with the same inclination. If you happen to be in the neighborhood, come on by, we have beer and some outdoor seating where the crowds are minimal.

Regional dialect.

In less than 30 years, I’ve lived in 4 states. Of course, with every zip code, I’ve been exposed to differences that are noteworthy.

A few of my most insightful observations:

- Kansas is quite beautiful if you go beyond I-70
- It doesn’t snow in Oakland, CA
- People in Wisconsin really do love cheese
- It’s easy to find a hotdog in the city of Chicago

Beyond food, weather and scenery, I also enjoy taking in the local language. For example, the other day I said the word “boogan” in Chicago and my audience of co-workers looked at me as if I’d just dropped the f-bomb. But when I explained that “boogan” is often used a synonym for “redneck” or “hick” they all began to smile.

“Hey, BOOGAN,” they said loudly, testing out the newly discovered slang to see how it rolled off the tongue.

Wisconsin also offered a native Kansan a few dialectical discoveries. Ever heard of a “bubbler”? That’s what Wisconsinites call a “water fountain”. When I questioned a Wisconsin native about the expression, she questioned my logic.

“A water fountain is one of those things in front of banks or at rich people’s houses—a bubbler is what you drink out of,” she said, making sure to look at me as if I were crazy.

Then there was California, where I stopped getting “excited” about things and started getting “stoked”. And the first time I offered someone a “bag” at the coffee shop where I worked, they laughed hysterically. Apparently in the Bay Area, a bag is something that comes with marijuana in it, while a “sack” is an item you might expect to receive from a reputable retail establishment.

But with all these great cities and their unique expressions, I have never experienced anything quite as entertaining as the yellow and black signs posted all over the city of Chicago that simply read “Speed hump”. You see, where I come from, a pile of asphalt strategically placed to slow people down in their cars is known as a “Speed bump”. A speed hump, well, now that’s an entirely different thing inappropriate for this family blog. But the city of Chicago posts these signs everywhere, relentlessly promoting careful driving—or careless sex—depending on your interpretation. And naturally, true to the juvenile tendencies I hold dear to my heart, I laugh and laugh.

And the picture below proves once and for all that I’m not the only one that chuckles when they spot the “Speed hump” signs along the alley or on the street. And while I’m tempted to get into the “Deliver all goods in rear” signs at the main entrances to big apartment buildings, I’ll save that subject for another blog. Perhaps next week.