Did ya see it? Did ya see it?

Oh, my God!

Chicago has been lit up all weekend long. That was the single most fantastic game I ever heard of. Not to mention Wise's catch was possibly the greatest catch I've ever seen!

Wow!

What a game!

If you missed it, Chicago White Sox pitcher Mark Buerhle threw a perfect game against someone. I can't even remember. It is the second in White Sox history, the last being in 1922, and something like the 18th in baseball history. From what I understand, Buerhle and his catcher, A. J. Pierzinski were joking about it beforehand. Pierzinski wasn't catching that day. He said somthing like, "Hey, throw a no hitter." And Buerhle said, "I already have one of those." and A.J. said, "Then throw a perfect game." So, I guess he did.

But then again, he almost didn't. Bottom of the 8th, 2 outs, and someone hit a ball almost out of the park. It should have been out. It would have been out. Except that Dewayne Wise jumped into the air like he was coming off a trampoline and robbed the batter of a homerun. Un-freakin- believeable! The most unbelieveable thing about this, Ozzie had to send someone down to the minors. He decided to send Brian Anderson because Brian had an option left and Dewayne didn't. Dewayne also has speed and a better bat. Ozzie sent him out in the 8th to replace whoever was in the outfield. Word is that's bad luck. So is talking about it. From what I understand, that's all they talked about in the dugout. Broke every rule and still pulled it off! Damn, what a game! I think I'll rent it on pay for view, considering I only saw the highlights on the evening news.

This Week

I know I'm a few days late here, but that's been my week so far. I don't know if anyone born after 1969 can appreciate what a big deal the moon landing was. We had accomplished the unimaginable. So unimaginable, that there are still people 40 years later who are convinced that the landing was shot in a hanger on a Texas air base. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. But then again maybe JFK still lives on a private island somewhere in the Caribbean. Whatever.
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In July of 1969 I was 13 years old. My 14th birthday was just a few days away. I celebrated both events in Troy, Wisconsin, at the Juniper Knoll Girl Scout Camp. For two week, girls from the Chicagoland area swam, hiked, slept in tents, enjoyed nature and each other. To celebrate such an incredible achievement, we gathered on the beach. We sang, and told stories. One had to do with the Indians of the area. Someone ran a wire from a close by tree to a fire pit. That person made a cage from chicken wire and loaded it with gas soaked sanitary pads. At just the right moment during the story about the Indians, that person lit the pads on fire, and released it from where it was hooked on the tree. It looked like fire flew from heaven, striking the logs in the fire pit, and making them burst into flames. As the fire burned, we continued to sing long into the night.
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I chose this to write about because of the changes this has made, most of which were unexpected. By now we thought we'd have a settlement on the moon and would be exploring Mars. Instead we have better computers. I heard someone say that the our cell phones have 69 times more memory and function than computers way back then. We've made incredible advances in medicine, in weaponry and in all phases of communication.

I am sad to report that one of my favorite authors, Frank McCourt, died of melanoma on July 19th. He wrote Angela's Ashes, 'Tis, and Teacher Man. I haven't read the last one, although I very much enjoyed the first two. I recommended Angela's Ashes to my friend, George. She damn near hit me with the book a couple of days later. "Damn it," she said. "Don't ever bring me a book like this again. It was the most depressing book I ever read. I couldn't put it down. It actually kept us up all night."

Angela's Ashes was about McCourt's childhood in Limerick, Ireland. It is the tale of the most miserable upbringing any child should suffer through. In spite of that, there are places where one can't help but laugh out loud.

Speaking of the moon landing, Walter Cronkite, the most trusted man in America, covered it. This past week we were reminded of just how emotional he could get on occasion. When the word came out about the actual landing, Cronkite showed his wonderment. When JFK died, he shed tears on air. In spite of that, he reported real news. He was everything a real journalist wanted to be. He reported without bias, without cherry picking, and without comment. Nothing like Fox News and MSNBC is today.
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Walter Cronkite also died on the 17th. According to Wikipedia, the cause was cerebral vascular disease.

Bye-Bye Blacky, Part 2

Blacky,

October 13, 1996 to July 20, 2009

We miss you so badly.

When I was little, we would visit relatives in Wisconsin. They had farms. And they had cats and dogs running lose. Every year one of us would fall in love with one of them and beg to bring it home. Almost every year my Dad would give in and say, "Sure, why not." Before the year was out, he'd get drunk and take the cat or dog for a ride. If he didn't drop them off out by the Doty Road dump, he'd leave them in the forest preserves. If not that, he dropped them at the Humane Society. One year he left so many animals there, they sent him a Christmas card. Everytime he did that we were devastated. We had fallen in love. And then they were gone.

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That kind of upbringing can really affect a child. It did us. All four of us decided that if we take on the responsibility of a pet, we would live up to it and not dump it or give it away. It's one of the reasons I had so many animals at one time as an adult. My boss dumped Sheeba on me. And Becki brought Mike home in a carrying case. His owner was moving back to California and had to get rid of one of her cats. I said I'd keep either until I found a good home for them. Well I guess I did. Our home.
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When I started this in the last post, I said guilt. I meant it, too.

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Once upon a time we had a very close friend. I'll call Maizie. She baby sat for our boys when they were really young. At first her behavior seemed a little eccentric. As time went on, it became worse. She needed to work and was very capable of doing anything she put her mind to. She was intelligent. If she allowed herself to, she could learn anything she wanted to. When it came to job hunting she froze. Maizie couldn't make herself ask an employer for an opportunity. She couldn't take care of herself yet she was convinced that everyone she knew couldn't survive without her help. Her interference became so bad we had to step back from her. I've always felt guilty about that, like we turned our back on her when she needed us the most. She had gotten us to the point where we were worried about our sanity and the health of our children in her hands. We were desperate.
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Maizie had a dog. That was it. She lived in her parents' house by herself, just her and her dog. The dog was as obnoxious as she was. Once we cut ties, she picked up another dog. And then another. And another. And quite a few cats in between. At one point Maizie had 17 dogs and I don't know how many cats. When I worked at the bakery, she would come in to update me about their hi jinks. I know she showered or bathed daily, and I know how fussy she used to be about herself. By that time, she stunk. She smelled of that odor dogs have when they have a skin infection, only stronger.My boss would litterly have a fit. One of the strongest selling points of baked goods is the smell. Maizie's odor covered up the smell of sugar and butter, and all the good things that went into all the goodies.

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I went to her house one day when another friend wanted a cat. Things had changed a lot since my last visit. There were dogs everywhere. And the house didn't smell like pee, but like pure ammonia. It made my eyes water. I was told that the dogs stayed upstairs in the house while the cats stayed in the basement. As bad as the upstairs smelled, I could only imagine what the basement smelled like. I wouldn't go down when my other friend chose a cat.
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Maizie honestly thought that she was 'rescuing' lost animals. She'd take them in and give them a home. As I said, she didn't work. She couldn't support herself, but she thought she could support these animals. Her neighbors objected to the smell and the mess, and she couldn't understand why. There were kind souls in town who brought her cat and dog food. I tried to tell people, 'no. Don't do that.' They said they realized that they were just making a bad problem worse. They felt so badly for the animals.
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A year or so ago, the bank repossessed the house. Maizie took ill and needed transport to the hospital. The fire department came in and carried her out. The next day they took 7 dogs from the house. From what a firefighter told me, the dogs were in very poor health. I was told the other dogs died from old age or illness, or were poisoned by the neighbors. The firefighter also told me that he knew nothing about cats. I tried to encourage the authorities to check it out. I don't know if anyone ever did. I pray I was wrong.
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As I said, I still feel guilty, even sick about the entire situation.
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Now let me get back to my situation. The economy sucks.
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Life was much different when I got Patch or Pizza. The year between when Pizza came to us and when she gave birth, life had changed. Money was tight. Where I should have had Pizza fixed immediately, I didn't. The money I should have used on her went to other things. Blacky actually had gotten pregnant a third time. At that time, we had taken out a loan in order to buy cars and make a few repairs. Anyway, we used some of it to have the animals fixed and get their shots. We found out then that Pizza had peritonitis. The vet told us that if we kept up with a peritonitis vaccination, we could keep her from succumbing to the illness. For some reason, not only did the vaccination prevent the illness if given prior to exposure, but it seemed to hold off the onset of further symptoms if the cat already had it. He also told us that if Pizza had it, the other two would get it. He asked me if he should test them. I told him no. What was the point? It wasn't a matter if they would get it, but when. And the treatment was the same. We kept it up as long as we could.
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As I said, the economy sucks. I swear last year I fractured one of the long bones in my leg when I slipped on ice. I couldn't put any pressure on it for quite a while after. I lived with it. I don't have insurance, and I sure as hell didn't have the money sitting around to pay for X-rays and to have the bone set. This summer I have several infected teeth. I'll live with that for a while longer as well. How the hell was I suppose to take care of a cat? I don't know if either Pizza or Blacky could be saved, but I do know that I could have had them put to sleep a few days earlier if I had the money to do so. I also know that I will never, ever bring another animal into this house until I can afford to take care of it. I also know that I couldn't turn out J.J., Mike or Sheeba anymore than I can my kids. I miss my babies so badly.

Bye-Bye Blacky

Please excuse me if I ramble. I'm not thinking to clearly right now. This is very hard to write, yet I think I need it. I need to get my emotions and my guilt down somewhere. This is it I guess.
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Blacky is gone. She followed her mother to be with God. Yes, I honestly believe that God will care for her now. It's just that I miss her now so badly. And all over again, I am grieving for her mother, and for Lefty Lou. Again. When Pizza died we said our goodbyes and we went out. We were required to be somewhere. Today, I had an errand to run, and that was it.
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I got Pizza in 1995, when she was nearly a year old. I wasn't going to get another cat. I wouldn't do it. But Patches died. She was almost 20 years old. We cared for her, and loved her, and when we didn't have kids right away, we kind of let her and the dog take their place. I got her the year after we were married. Bill said he never wanted a cat. Then my Dad died. When opportunity to get a kitten came along, he went along with it because of my recent loss. I look at that now, and I can almost laugh. A cat, no matter how pretty, wasn't going to replace a parent. Anyway, I named her Patch because she had patches of cream, white and gray all over. She was more my friend than my pet. We used to play hide and go seek together. And yeah, she got it. She'd hide and I'd walk by and she'd jump out at me. Then I would chase her and she'd case me back. I'd feed her when we ate and she'd pick up each piece of her food with her paw, one at a time. When I went to bed at night, I'd curl up on my side, and she'd curl up against me. When I traveled with work, I actually missed her more than I did my husband. She was warm.
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When she died I vowed I'd never get another cat because I didn't want to go through another loss, even if it happened 19 years down the road. But then the mice moved in with the winter monthes and I couldn't deal with that. Patch died on Thanksgiving. We got Pizza in the Spring. Pizza was born the July before on Bill's best friend's birthday. I remember telling my Bill, 'Go to Bill E's house and pick out a kitten." Bill E.'s cat, Sandy, reproduced like crazy. In fact prior to getting Pizza, my friend, George, went to Bill E.'s house and picked out Tabitha. Now that cat is crazy.
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Anyway, my Bill picked out a cat they called Tiger. I didn't want Tiger. She was too old. But no, Bill fell in love with her long before he brought her home. He even named her in the car on the way. He called her Georgene, after a cat I had when I was little. My George, a male, was an orange Tabby just like Tiger was. Anyway, he got home with the cat, and she met the dog. We had Heidi at the time. Tiger was so terrified, that she climbed up the drapes and walked along the curtain rod in the living room. We got her down and she headed for the bathroom. She climbed again, until she could walk along the top of the shower doors. The next time we got her down, she headed for my bedroom and dug a hole right in the middle of the bottom side of the box spring, and then climbed in. I know she was scared, but I was more concerned about the dog. Heidi just wanted to be friends. When Patch died, Heidi just got old suddenly afterwards. When Tiger came into the house, she was all excited, thinking maybe she had a replacement for Patch. Although truthfully Patch only learned to like one dog, and it wasn't Heidi. Anyway, we sat down to eat dinner and discuss the cat. We figured we'd let her be and she'd find her way out of the box spring. She did eventually. We took a vote and agreed that no one thought that Tiger looked like either a Tiger or a Georgene. (Especially since my friend's name is not George, but Georgene.) Becki was 5 at the time. She said, "We're eating Pizza, so let's call her Pizza." We laughed and the name stuck. Bill promised he'd never call her Pizza. That didn't last long.
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Anyway, Pizza proved to be an outdoor cat. I don't care what the experts say about keeping cats inside. Yeah, okay, some cats will stay inside. Pizza threw herself in front of the door everytime someone closed it, and actually growled at anyone getting near her. She wanted out. When I finally let her out, I figured that was it, she'd take off and I'd never see her again. Middle of the first night, she woke me up by knocking on my bedroom window. My neighbor let me know that Pizza knocked on her bedroom window that first night, too.
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When Pizza went into heat that first time, I managed to keep her in. No accidents. The next time, though, she got out before I knew what was happening. As Paul Harvey used to say, "Now you know the rest of the story." Pizza had 4 kittens. She had them under a fold up cot in the kids' room. The coolest thing was that we folded the bed up and watched her as she delivered the last 3 kittens. They were really beautiful. There was a white, black and orange cat Becki called Princess. The next one could have been Patch's kitten. She was almost an exact reproduction of a cat she wasn't related to. Except Patch II had cream colored bracelets around each wrist. Next came and white and orange cat. Ed decided before they were born that if there was a yellow tabby like Pizza he'd name it after a Pizza ingredient. That was Pepperroni. He and Patch II were inseperable almost instantly. The very last one to be born was a black and orange cat that Jon called Blacky. She was miserable from day 1. She was the runt of the litter and the loudest and neediest kitten I ever met. The other three sought their independence almost immediately. Not Blacky. Poor Pizza would get up to use the cat box and one meow from Blacky, and my poor cat was right back to nursing. I don't think she peed for three weeks after giving birth.
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I made up my mind that I wanted to keep Pepperoni and Patch. They were just too cute and full of life. I don't know how many time I nearly tripped over these two. I'd hear a screech, and I'd see a multicolored flash as the two of them chased each other all over the house. They'd tackle each other and wrestle, and just have fun all day long.
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We put the word out that we needed adoptive parents for four cats. Two people came. Someone took Princess, and then Becki cried. Then a man brought his kids to pick out one cat. They walked out with both Pepperoni and Patch II. We kept asking around if anyone wanted Blacky. No such luck. We were stuck with her.
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She was the single most loving, and pigheaded cat I ever met. When she lost her temper, watch out. She never hurt any of us, but she sure as hell scared each of us at one time or other. Poor Ed got trapped in the back room with her one day. I don't know what he did, only that she wanted his hide, and he knew it. He kind of skirted the room with her on the prowl until he was able to dash out of there. She even scared the hell out of her mother. The only one she didn't scare at least once was Heidi. That dog was so in love with those cats. It was funny to watch her. At dinner time, she would line them up. First Heidi ate her fill, and then Pizza would be pushed into place. Behind her, came Blacky. And if either of the cats tried to walk away, Heidi would push her back into place.
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Blacky had two litters. We were very lucky in finding homes for eight of 9 cats. The last one, again was Jon's. He named him John Jacob Jinglehiemer Schmidt. Jon thought it would be funny if the cat went out and Jon wanted him home. He go outside and call for Johnny. "No," I said, "We'll call him J.J." That stuck.
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The long and short of this is that we fell in love with all three cats. I remember telling everyone about my orange, orange and black, and black cats, and how all three where seperated by a litter. Now mind you, Patch belonged to both Bill and I. When the kids came along, she and the dog were going to protect our babies. When Pizza came along, she decided who she'd spend time. She was primarily my cat, and that was fine with me. She was friendly with eveyrone else, but not as lovingly as she was with me. Blacky was definately Jon's cat, but she was everyone else's, too. She loved everyone and everyone loved her, too. J. is Bill and Becki's cat. He comes to me when he needs something. More than anything else he's a tease.
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Losing Blacky was hard. Harder still was losing her so soon after Pizza and Lefty. I don't think I even mentioned Lefty. She was the guinea pig Becki bought Bill for Father's Day last year. She didn't last a year. I had been feeding her food from a local pet shop. Then one day I picked up Hartz Mountain from the local grocery store because I didn't have time to run to the pet shop. Poor Lefty blew up like a balloon. Anyway, she's gone. That was hard again because of losing a great pet and so soon after another great pet. So here we are. Hurting one more time.
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I'll continue in another post.

Burr Oak Cemetery

When I drove by Burr Oak Cemetery sometime last week, I noticed that at the far northwest corner, along 123rd Street, earth moving equipment and a lot of rubble. That seemed odd to me, as the view through the fence at any angle is usually unhindered. The ground is flat here, allowing one to see from one end of the property to the other. There are very few headstones, although there are a lot of family placed flowers and wreaths. It's obvious from the get go that a lot of poor people have been buried here. The grounds are pristine, weeded and the grass is tended. It has always impressed me that even if the people who had family there weren't rich, they cared.

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Prior to the Civil Rights Movement, African Americans were not allowed to be buried in most cemeteries. Burr Oak Cemetery is one of three that I know of. It is the resting place of many blues musicians as well as players from the old Negro League. Possibly the most famous person buried there is Emmett Till.

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Wednesday I went shopping. Before leaving Bill told me that his best friend, Bill E., had called. Bill E. said that 127th Street was closed off and there were State helicopters flying back and forth over head. An hour or so later I pulled up in front of the house. Ed ran out to meet me. "We just saw it on the news," he said. "There's human bones all over 127th Street, coming out of Burr Oak Cemetery."
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I rushed inside to catch another newscast about how human remains had been dug up and deposited all over. Cook County Sheriff Tom Dart spoke about how there were people coming from all over the City of Chicago to check on the disposition of their loved ones. The news reporters said that he deputized family members, telling them to go look for graves.

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Here it is two days later. Sheriff Dart was still there and still meeting with people. The crowds are larger and people are in tears. Sheriff Dart was visably shaken. He said, "They want to know where their parents are, or where their babies are. I don't know how much more of this I can handle." Early this afternoon, he reported that 2 to 300 graves have been disintured. Records have been altered or destroyed.

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One of the first questions from the news media was whether Emmet Till was still where they were buried in 2005 after his body was exhumed for another autopsy. Till was the 14 year old boy who was murdered in the summer of 1955 while visiting family down South. He winked at a white woman. Family members found his mangled body in August of that year. He had been chained to a wheel and dropped into a pond or lake. He was shipped back to Chicago for burial. His mother insisted that his casket remain open and that visitors see what was done to him. When he was reburied in Burr Oak, his body was placed in another coffin. I heard a rumor today that his old coffin was found in a cemetery warehouse.

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Four cemetery employees were arrested and charged with dismembering a human body. One was the manager, and the other 3 were grave diggers. This went further than just a morbid fascination. It was a get rich quick scheme where cemetery employees dug up corpses, disposed of them, resold the grave sites, and apparently it has been going on for years. It is estimated that they have taken in as much as $300,000. The mastermind was the manager. She is being held in a psychiatric facility.

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Another employee was interviewed and dismissed. She took orders, but according to investigators, hasn't profited from the scheme. When she questioned others about inequities, she was told not to make problems.

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Someone asked how it could be possible that the owners weren't aware of this. They are based in Arizona, and were responsible for finally calling in the Sheriff.

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One man described to a reporter how he had found the headstone of a family member in the street and a human skull on a dirt pile a few years back. He took photos which he brought to the Sheriff. The officers laughed. 'Of course you'll find skulls in a cemetery.' I can almost understand their reaction. Who, in their right minds, would expect that this could happen?

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Tonight Bill and I went out to dinner. It was after 7 and rush hour had ended. I asked him to please take 127th Street because I wanted to see it for myself. We tried driving up Kostner, except that was blocked off. We retreated to 123rd, back to Pulaski, and up to 127th Street. Bill made a right and immediately pulled into the left hand lane as traffic on the right wasn't moving. Most of the residential streets right there were restricted to residents only. My brother's business is located within spitting distance of the cemetery. His driveway was blocked by police vehicles. I haven't talked to him, but I bet he hasn't opened since Wednesday. When we came near the light outside the cemetery we saw full parking lots on the left and people all over. There was a trooper directing traffic, and allowing people to cross from one side of the street to the other. Most of them were dressed up, talking on cell phones and wiping away tears. On the right side, further up, it seemed as if hundreds were walking the cemetery paths.

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This evening we heard that Babyland had been destroyed and that this might encompass even more than 300 people. Sheriff Dart even commented that it will be months before we know all the damage.

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It's very hard watching all of this, and yet it's like a train wreck. It's even harder not to. It is all we are talking about. Someone said, "I bet some of those people haven't been to the cemetery in 30 years." Maybe not. Some people visit cemeries and some don't. Even so, when you entrust the remains of your loved one's to someone, you don't expect this to happen.

Politics at its Worst

Besides playing Travian, I got involved in something else in January, and stayed with it hot and heavy through March and the early portion of April. It was time for the municipal elections. I worked my butt off. Let me just say one more time, I am not allowed by my editor to express my political intentions or feelings. And truthfully that is the only fair, logical or ethical way to report any story. It's damned hard sometimes though.
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I'd say that this was the dirtiest election I've ever seen, except that I'm the daughter of a former Chicago employee who earned his job as a firefighter some 50 or so years ago because he was a loyal, hard working Democrat. After the antics of Blago, George Ryan, and many other Illinois politicians, Democrats and Republicans both, I shouldn't have to explain.
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With this election, secrets came out, signs and personal property were damaged, people were threatened and lies were told. In the end nothing changed. A lot of people were hurt or disappointed and a lot retained their seats. Eight years ago the winning party said that they were privelaged to be reelected, particularly since they ran unopposed. They punished their opponants quietly, but effectively behind the scenes. The same people this year continued with recriminations, but with a little more viciousness and more in the open. It's as if they are empowered because of their win. I hate watching people get hurt.
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Still, I can only report what is said, and not the intent. When I do report, I am very careful how I chose my words.
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Because I can express my opinion in this media, I'd like to say something that really just rankles the hell out of me. I like listening to political opinions on TV and radio. I've listened to both the 'right' and the 'left.' What I am finding about myself is that I am more of a 'centrist' with leanings towards the right. What I hate, and what I refuse to listen to or be part of is hate mongering.
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A close relation and I are going around in circles about 'Tiller the Baby Killer'. She's not sorry he's dead. He's killed over 60,000 babies. Someone should have taken him out long ago. He will rot in hell for all that he's done.
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My opinion? Well, I agree that abortion is wrong. It should never be used as birth contro. It should only be available to women whose lives are in peril, or whose babys' lives are in peril, and there is no other out. My understanding that George Tiller is only one of three doctors in the U.S. that did that kind of work. I know he was prosecuted for illegally committing late term abortions, and I know he was acquitted. According to Kansas law, another doctor must agree with the diagnostician before a late term pregnancy can be terminated.
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Commentors from the far right found an issue with George Tiller. They claimed he was a murderer, and demanded that something be done about him. They railed against him and railed against him, and railed against him. His office was broken into, he was protested against and his life was threatened. Someone finally took him out, not in his office, but in his church.
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My anger stems from the idea that commentators from either end of the political spectrum have been caught in lies before. If the facts don't fit the scenerio, then change the facts. Why the hell should I or anyone else trust them? They say they aren't responsible for the man's death, yet they wouldn't shut up about him. No one would have known who George Tiller was if not for these people. I am angry because a man was shot down because someone said something about him. I am angry because I don't know how true it is that he unabashedly took lives. I don't know how or why he treated his patients. I was no more in the operating theater with him then his accusers were. I am angry because a vigilante used a gun where other people gathered. It was lucky someone else didn't die. I am angry because this smacks of McCarthyism. Point a finger, tell a lie and ruin a life. I just wish that the editors or producers of shows like these felt the same way my editor does.

Catching Up Again

Hello, everyone. How are you? It's been quite a while since my last entry.
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Truthfully I committed myself to playing an on-line war game called Travian. You have Romans, Gauls or Tuetons, and you build villages, and make alliances, and attack other alliances. Somewhere along the way I started out as just a player. I chose to be a Gaul, only because I read all about them once upon a time when I was writing about them. Fascinating people. Anyway, before we got too far into the game, I found myself running a wing of one alliance. We are currently in end game, which is too long and too silly to explain. It's taken more time than I ever expected, and I promise, I will never do this again. Ed got me involved. He played for a few months last summer, but then quit because school was more demanding. I should have followed his lead.
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Now to update you on all three of my children and the world that is mine: First off, Ed finished his second semester at U.C.L.A. (the University Closest to LaGrange Avenue), as he did his first semester. He earned 4 A's and one B. The B came in the same subject as the semester before, and that would be math. We applied for a FAFSMA grant, and he has been approved. He is still 'kind of' looking for a job. Some how, some way, he will have to come up with the money to pay for his books and to get him to school daily. This semester most of his classes will be at the main campus. Last year he never left town.
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In February Jon finally paid off his education with the 'pumpkin patch.' To celebrate, he threw a kegger. He found out the hard way how much beer is in a keg. I also found out who has a drinking problem, and who doesn't. Jon had a disagreement with his friend, David, that night. They pledged that their friendship was over and that they would never talk again. When I woke up at 6 the next morning, I found David sitting in the kitchen with his arms about the keg. Becki's boyfriend sat next to him. Chris was sober. David was wrecked. I asked them why they were still here. Quite drunkenly, David informed me that there was still beer left. Chris finally drove David home. We haven't seen David since that night. Jon is not interested in rekindling their freindship. The next day, Jon dumped out a lot of 'skunk' beer.
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He left his job at the 'pumpkin patch' a few weeks ago. He said the stress was way too much. A few months before leaving, his company had hired a new dispatcher. According to Jon, this guy was a jackass. Jon lost his regular route to someone else, and had his two days off moved. Apparently the man had screwed someone else over, and promised the better off days and the regular route if the person would stay. Jon quit. The dispatcher promised him all kinds of benefits if he'd remain. Jon said no. He is currently driving for a window manufacturer. Jon says that his new job is great. He still drives for long hours and is bored out of his mind from time to time. There's a lot less stress, his longest trip so far took 3 days, and he's off every weekend. Better yet, this is a Union job.
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He and Gloria are still hot and heavy, and maybe moreso. Gloria got a promotion that has moved her out of her neighborhood. She loves her job, although it requires longer hours.
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She's not doing well in other aspects of her life. Her parents went away for a weekend, so she decided to surprise them by having work completed on their home. The contractor drove a pick up truck. The day he started he had a long piece of wood protruding out of the back of his truck. When he backed out of her driveway, he drove the wood right through the driver's side window of her car. It destroyed her door as well. She's temporarily driving Jon's car while he's out of town.
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Now Becki is another subject. I'm ready to explode. This last semester of school looked like it would be her ruin. Her grades were sinking and she was hanging around with this 'boy' who had once dated Crazy Ann. Strike one. He has several other strikes against him as well. He's a musician. He has long hair. He was laid off from work and not actively looking. He has a child with another girl friend. He's 3 years older than her and he smokes.
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Now let's turn this around. Becki pulled her grades way up and graduated with the best grades she ever had. She even won 2 scholarships, one with ROTC, and another from her high school. Neither come to much, although every little bit helps. When we met with the financial aid officer at her college, we found that not only did she get the FAFSMA grant, but because of the Stimulus, she's qualified for other money. We were told that she would have to mortgage at least $8,000 a year when we first sat down with the financial aid officer last year. This year, it seems that with the scholarship money she received, and the extra grant money available, we might not have to find a loan for this year. We just might be able to pay the balance off on a payment plan. Now she's thrown herself into two activities, one being school and the other being a diet. Oh and Christopher, her boy friend, is really a nice guy. As I said, he stayed behind to care for David and make sure he got home that night.
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Last weekend we threw her a graduation party. Wow. What a party. I put it together in the blink of an eye. I rented the park district meeting hall from the next town over, and I put together a knock out menu. Because my favorite caterer retired, I had to find a new one. The guy I intended to hire never answered my calls. 'Screw that,' I figured. Instead I hired three catereres. We had an international buffet. We had sausage lasagna and spinach lasagna, and an antipasto tray from an Italian restaurant; lo mein, beef fried rice, egg rolls, pot stickers and crab ragoon from a Chinese restaurant; and a variety tray, refried beans and rice from Tenotchitlan. I bought a decorated chocolate cake from the bakery I used to work for.
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I asked a friend of Ed's to make me a mini sweet table. Yellow is a pastry chef. I gave her $100 and told her to make me a white or yellow cake and whatever little goodies she could come up with. Spend $50 on ingredients. She came up with a few ideas.
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Ed and a few other friends spent the two days prior to the party with Yellow and her boyfreind. Ed said he reminded her a few times about the party. He called her the day of the party just to check on how she was doing. "So," he said, "You're ready. Right?"
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"Ready for what?" she asked.
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"The party."
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"Is that today?"
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"Ah, Mom," Ed said when he finished his call. "You do remember that Yellow has ADHD, right? (Ed and most of his friends have ADHD.) You know she might forget something. Right? I think we have a problem....." He went on for the next ten minutes about how she has ADHD, and it looks like she might have forgotten. He reminded her like 3 times. Over and over, he said. He asked her if she was ready. She kept saying, 'no problem.' And she forgot. And he was going to really kick her a.... How could she forget about this? He reminded her. Damnit all..." He started slowly and before you know it, he was so upset I thought he'd do something desparate.
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It took forever before someone came along to pick us up and get us to the party. By the time I got there, most of the family had arrived, as had the caterers. At one end of the room we had all kinds of good food. At the other end we had two cakes, mini chocolate-cherry cupcakes, tiny squares of toffee flavored fudge, Rice Krispie treats with Oreo on one tray and broken pretzels and chocolate chips on another, and lemon blueberry muffins. The entire table was covered with pans of treats. And right next to that was a card to Becki from Yellow and Matthew. I just wish I had taken a photo of Ed's expression. He looked so silly.
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The party happened on the last day of the CrossTown Classic. Now if you followed my blog since AOL, you know what that means. I even brought a TV with us. It didn't work too well, so we followed the game via cell phone. Now my friend, George, my S-I-L, D, my husband and my son, Jon, and his best friend, Eric, are all Cubs fans. What a game. They went inning by inning, hit by hit. By the time I caught up to it, it was 6 to 6 in the bottom of the seventh. It was at the Cell, so the Sox were up. Nothing happened. Not for four more innings. We were all on edge until someone got up and knocked the ball out of the park in the 11th. Okay, I'm not sure about that. It was the eleventh, and someone scored. Sox won 7 to 6. I knew it ended when my B-I-L, C, led everyone in a rousing chorus of 'Go, Cubs, go. Go, Cubs, go....." C is a Sox fan. It might be the only thing he and I ever agreed on. Mixed marriages can be hell. What makes it worse is that in the long history of the CrossTown Classic, the Cubs and Sox are tied at 66 games each. Sometimes I honestly think this has been was planned.