Ma Pista (green coat) met me in Chicago this past weekend. I had to remind her a few times not to read every sign, menu, and store name aloud, but that is to be expected. She did the same thing in the 1980s when we took a Pista family road trip to Montana, and then again when we went to Colorado and Florida. (There are a lot of things to read aloud between Rochester, Minnesota, and Orlando, Florida). In other news, remind me to tell you about how she inspired Mrs. Robinson complexes all over Wrigleyville. I laughed so hard I almost cried.
I plan to revisit this topic after I find a sharp object to shove into the balls of my feet, with which I will extract enough pus to make a creamy blister chowder.
Speaking of creamy chowders, one of the last things I saw in Chicago was a man face first on the concrete at the bottom of the steps of my El stop. We all kind of gawked a little bit while a worker person called for help. He had a huge gash in his head, and when he moved there was a huge pool of blood. The weirdest part is that we all kind of made a single file line and paraded around him sneaking peeks at him.
It's a cold, cold world.