The latest from the home improvement zone.

My building manager and his little buddy are filling in paint holes in our paint job so my living room is covered in drop cloths and plastic. I am currently blogging from and undisclosed location in my living room under a sheet.
I think my building managers little buddy is stealing underwear. I can't elaborate at this time.
No bras stolen. No money stolen...as far as I can tell.
Monday maybe I'll call into work and stay under my bed all day waiting...waiting.
Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. I guess you'll just have to see if you feel lucky "little buddy".
The wife and I are thinking about leaving out more "bait" underwear. (More bait under where? More bait under there.) Then I'll hide my video camera and leave it recording for six hours.
I need surveillance equipment.
Today I got home and "Little Buddy" wasn't there. But shortly after I arrived he began trying to get in. I guess he only had the key to the doorknob and I had the deadbolt locked. When I opened the door, he said, "Oh. Sorry." and then he put down his bucket, his ladder, his extendable roller in the hall and walked off. He didn't come back for like twenty minutes. And I don't know what he did when he got here. I fell asleep in my bedroom, guarding panties. And when I woke up he was gone and there was no change in our living room.
Was he waiting for me to leave again? Was he surprised and disappointed to see me home so soon? How do I address this? "(Building Manager) Mike, have you ever heard any complaints about your little buddy? Does his wife seem to have trouble keeping underwear? Does she gamble them away? Does he cross-dress for crack? Because I think he's stolen some underwear. He's been in the apartment for two days and it still looks the same. It's just we're now a little lighter in the underwear department."
My neck and back hurt now because I'm typing under a sheet from on the floor. I hear sirens outside.
Signing off.

Finding more stuff.

Today, as I walked to my van, I found something else. Thirty-one dollars, neatly folded to reveal the "one" first with the "ten" behind it and then all the way in the middle that excellent "twenty". Just right there in the street. Those tiny bus accident kids (see "My Favorite Piece of Trash") are still watching out for me.
Apparently, I find stuff now. It's a trend in the universe that cannot be denied or resisted. So I suggest if anyone out there has anything, you may as well let me have it, because eventually I'm going to find it.
Capeche?

My favorite piece of trash.

Nine months ago as I was stretching my legs over by the Adler Planetarium while my trolley passengers were taking pictures of themselves in front of the skyline, I saw on the ground a smashed up top half of a toy school bus. I reached down to pick it up and I noticed that it had the word "Chicago" printed in red on the roof of the bus. For some reason this piece of trash made me laugh. I assumed (having spent the last six years talking about Chicago's worst disaster or tallest building or oldest shopping center) that this was perhaps Chicago's smallest disaster. Thirty-five tiny lives lost in the great school bus smashing of '04. So I put it in my pocket so that I could show others and perhaps add it to my tour so that the visitors from outside of the U.S. could become even more baffled with the stuff I say as the day grows long.
I get tired toward the end of the day, as does everyone. In my job as tour guide, being mentally tired makes the job especially difficult. Most tour guides have at least major portions of the tour on this imaginary CD in their heads. At the end of the day, the CD skips a lot. For instance: "To the right, The Merchandise Mart, the fourth tallest building in the...sorry. My CD skipped." or as your pulling into the Field Museum, "This is Navy Pier." It happens. So around 4pm, I'm hoping that one day the tour will sound something like this: "Okay, folks. If you were wanting to take some pictures of the skyline, this is the worlds busiest agricultural fire survivor. Please be sure to ask one of our 45 retractable skyscrapers when the Blue Man Group is going to start the fireworks tonight so that you can get half off the free day at the 144,000 Art Institute covers in the city. And now, I'd like to bring down the lights and talk to you seriously for a moment. Do you see this tiny top half of a bus that says, 'Chicago'? The tiniest disaster in Chicago history. 35 tiny lives were lost. Many believe that my right jacket pocket is haunted to this day. Sometimes there's a little girl in there running around on Dennis Rodman. Thank you and try some of the Cincinatti Chili while you're snorkelling in the Adirondaks."
You see, it's a strange dream, but it's a dream nevertheless.
However a few months ago (I didn't even really notice) I lost contact with the tiny bus wreck. It was about that time that tiny things turned up missing. Tiny pieces of furniture were being moved around. Tiny ghosts? No. Tiny Jerks. So, any reasonable person would assume, I guess that great piece of trash is gone forever.
So two days ago, I'm walking out to my van to start my day. Another day of trolley driving. I was about a block and a half from my apartment and a flash of yellow painted metal caught my eye. As it was before, it was half buried but I recognized it immediately. I looked down and boggled at the coincidence. Then I quickly picked it up and inspected it. This was the exact same piece of trash that I had found nine months ago on the museum campus. Apparently some undeterminable period of time ago I lost it. Also apparent it the fact that no one in all the time it laid there had anywhere near the same interest that I had in my tiny tragedy. Or perhaps someone did like it, used it until they were tired of it, and coincidentally, just happened to throw it away or lose it a block from my home.
I like to believe that those 35 tiny lives weren't lost until I lost them. And now they've found their way home. It's not Chicago's Tiniest Tragedy anymore. It's Chicago's L'illest Miracle.
Happy Daylight Savings Time!