Coccinella novemnotata, & Mr. Frank

Out of the house by six AM with Betty, 89; Pop, 92, to pick up Great Aunt Doss, 94. Then, out to a Dominick’s in Buffalo Grove. There, wait — with fold-up chairs — in line, (ideally) until eight AM to get three “numbers.”

They’ll give out one hundred fifty, the haggard-sounding voice told me over the phone.

Upon securing the numbers, distribute said seniors to their preferred destinations. Later, round up the gang, and return, (ideally) sometime before three PM, for the "as scheduled" shots.

Post injections, return Betty to Presbyterian Homes, Doss to her house; make it home in time to make and eat dinner, and for Pop to shuffle off to his adult (not XXX) Bar Mitzvah class — where he can’t hear a thing the Rabbi says, even when she’s standing steps away. But the Rabbi is cute, and that's why Pop goes. (OK, maybe XXX, but only in Pop's mind.)

According to the sheet Dr. Goldberg’s office gave Pop, tomorrow is our second to last chance to get the vaccination in this area. Of the twenty-eight listings on the sheet, only eight, it turns out, have the vaccine, and they are all Dominick’s pharmacies.

Because of various shit that’s been hitting the fan of late, this’ll be only our second try.

Really, it’s all my fault for not being on the ball.

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Why do all the ladybugs think they’ll be better off here, in Pop’s house?
Why can’t they take a cue from the birds?
Go south, ladybugs!
Go south!

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I’ve got my Joe Frank ticket for Friday night at the Art Institute.
Have you got yours?
Well why not?

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