Thirsty spider.

As active Netflix members, we’ve become documentary fiends. Birds. Insects. Water crisis. Energy crisis. Phyllis Diller. Cross-dressing playwrights. Superhero impersonators. You name a subject and we’ve probably invested two hours on the sofa soaking up the details. As you might expect, exposure to fairly in-depth information on such a weird range of subjects can change a person’s point of view when observing the world at work.

Now, every time I a little old lady walking down the street I want her to tell me joke. Whenever someone leaves a light bulb burning in an empty room I curse them, “Think of the earth! Al Gore would be so disappointed!” And, since we watched the entire insect documentary series “Life in the Undergrowth,” I put a lot of thought into whether or not to kill bugs. Hosted by David Attenborough, this series of documentaries captures the lives of some the world’s smallest creatures—the ones we humans most like to step on—doing their thing. Which brings us to the spider story I mentioned in the title.

It was dinnertime in the Shipley-Green household. As usual, Cristi was doing all the real work and I was standing by—waiting for my chance to jump in and wash a few dishes. Suddenly, from under the cabinet, a tiny spider dropped down over the sink. We both approached the critter to observe the situation.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Let him live,” Cristi replied, “He’s not hurting anything.”

I went out to walk the dog. When I returned Cristi was smiling.

“That spider was thirsty,” she said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Well, I was chopping some garlic and I turned about to rinse the knife and that spider was hanging over a small spot of water on the counter top. He sat there drinking for a long time.”

This morning, before I left for work, I splashed a little water on the counter before I closed the door. Hey, you never know when that spider might need another drink of water.

Cold Chicago.

Smart, simple advertising.

Client: V&A Museum
Agency: Abbott Mead Vickers BBDO, London

Obama’s Balls.

I was home sick again today with a sore face, sinus congestion and the usual cast of wintertime cold symptoms. Unable to sleep, but not really feeling up to doing much, I tested the waters of daytime TV. 172 channels and all I could find was garbage and a steady loop of news that wasn’t really news. Here’s a recap:

“Thank you, Dianne, and here’s Mr. Obama dancing with some old white lady.” Click.

“My sister is a whore and a stripper!” Click.

“Yes, Jack, this is a very exciting day, now let’s watch as Mr. Obama ties his shoe.” Click.

“Family Sex Secrets REVEALED! Next on the Maury Povich.” Click.

So I killed the TV and proceeded to clean the house. While I hate to be presumptuous, I’m fairly certain scrubbing the toilet bowl was a far more enlightening experience than finding out what brand of toothpicks the Obama family keeps in their cupboard or that some guy in Kentucky has a secret obsession with midgets dressed like Marilyn Monroe.

Clam chowder.

It was -17 this morning when I woke up. So cold the dog didn’t even want to go out for a walk. By noon, the temperature had risen to a balmy -1 and I headed to Jewel for some much-needed wood floor cleaner for the weekend.

“Man, please, I’m just tryin’ to get something to eat…” was the plea, as I turned my hooded head to the left and spotted a homeless man. We made eye contact. Either he’d been crying or the cold had started to get to him. His nose was running too. Then I noticed one of his pant legs was frozen up to the knee as if he’d spent the night in a snow bank.

I reacted the way the city has taught me to react. I looked away and quickly made my way toward the revolving door of my destination.

I walked the aisles of the grocery store, found my wood floor cleaner and contemplated the situation. I was about the spend 4.99 plus tax for some soapy shit in a bottle so I could wipe away the dog paw tracks in my overpriced condo. My warm, overpriced, condo with a soft bed, running water, cable TV and a well-stocked whiskey cabinet. My home. The thing I have and the guy begging out front does not. I’m not a bleeding heart, sympathy-for-the-world type of person, but I was having trouble making sense of the thoughts floating through my head. I had to do something.

Soup. Bread. A five-dollar bill. I packed a plastic bag and went back out into the cold. The guy was still there. I walked toward him and he seemed confused—as if he remembered me as the jerk who would barely look at him ten minutes prior.

“Clam chowder?” I asked, wondering if he might’ve preferred the Chicken with rice instead.

“I love clam chowder. GOD BLESS YOU! I’m starving,” he said as he took the bag.

I wanted to say, “God bless you too,” but I’m still undecided on the whole god thing. I wanted to say have a good day, but that seemed like a completely idiotic thing to say to someone in such a bad situation. I wanted to say something smart, but instead I just cinched up my hood and took off in the opposite direction. All I can say now is that I hope he enjoyed that clam chowder and the rest of the care package. I hope it’ll hold him over until dinner.

Sweetie.

We met a wonderful dog at the bar on Saturday.

Pennies from heaven?

Both my Grandpas were bankers, but my mom’s dad was a connoisseur of cash. If you got him started, he could eloquently expound upon the joy that came from merely holding a twenty-dollar bill.

When he passed away, we filled his suit coat pockets with coins. It was a cool moment considering the sad occasion. It was like a mob wedding when people drop off envelopes full of cash for the bride and groom—except in this case it was pocket change that would spend eternity in the ground. Everyone was into it. Then, the  tradition spread and people started putting stray pennies, nickels and dimes on his headstone. Nice tribute, I always thought.

End of story, right? Not exactly. Soon after the funeral pennies started showing up in odd places intermittently all over the country in friends and family’s houses. Now, after three years of penny spotting, the trend continues. Most recently, my Aunt reported an unexplained pile of pennies in Phoenix. Then, a few months later at my folks’ house on Christmas Day a random penny appeared on the coffee table. Now, here in Chicago, a few pennies appeared on our back deck just the other day. Sure, there’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. After all, pennies get discarded everyday all over the place because they’re worthless, right? But I would argue that maybe they’re not so worthless after all. At least not among those who knew and loved Grandpa Rehmer.

Frosted.

Walking my brown dog in big city snowstorms is one of my favorite things. Actually, honestly, I could take it or leave it, but it makes her really happy and that winds up making me feel good. Anyway, today was no different than any other. She was running like hell and I was standing by—amazed that a 15-year-old lab/mix can move so fast.

Well, after 10 minutes of racing around in circles and chasing squirrels, it was soon time to go. I called her and she came running—a thick layer of snow stuck to her back.

“Look at you, you’re a frosted dog. You cute brown frosted dog,” I said in a most annoying look-at-that-cute-baby voice as I clipped the leash to her collar.

A second later, we turned around to discover a couple of saggy-panted-high-school kids staring at us in utter disbelief. Clearly they’d witnessed the whole scene: me, the dog, me talking to the dog like a soft little baby. I laughed and the frosted dog and I headed for home.

Snow tank.

I mean no harm.

Yesterday, following my daily peanut-butter-sandwich lunch at the computer, I rinsed the knife in the office kitchen and took off to run a couple of errands on Michigan Avenue.

Roaming the streets with a checklist on my mind, I noticed a handful of strange stares. Then, at the intersection of Rush and Ohio, I was startled when a girl abruptly stepped away from me while we waited for the walk signal. I was mystified. I realize I’m short and funny looking, but I couldn’t fathom why I was suddenly so particularly offensive to everyone. My fly was buttoned. My shoes were tied. My deodorant was doing its job—so what was the problem?

Turns out, I slipped the butter knife from my PB&J into my blue jeans and it was sticking way out of my left rear pocket. It’s hard to tell whether people were concerned because it looked like a weapon or if they just thought I was some kind of silverware wielding weirdo, but I suppose I should be more careful next time I decide to take my utensils on the road.