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Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28
Put THIS in your pipe and DON'T smoke it! - 2014-10-23
Max, Wolf, and the goats - 2014-10-15
Maloney for Congress - 2014-10-08

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4:45 p.m. - 2013-03-04
If he came on that pale horse with vicodin...

It's getting to be quite the ghost town here, eh?

Not intentional, I assure you. Well, keeping my grumbling to myself when I have a case of the ass or am in physical pain is deliberate. Finally learning some discretion in my old age. Not trying to deny anyone the juicy parts (and lordy how some people love a trainwreck!), it's that I have a husband who cares these days and so don't need to fling myself on the kindness of cyber-friends for a little sympathy and some concern. Not alone anymore, you know?

However this does not absolve me from the contract of friendship, especially the clause that says it's only decent to keep my buddies in the loop and not just show up when I feel like it. That's barely a step up from those 'friends' (*coff*) who only come by to hit you up for a loan or when they want you to help them move a couch.

"Oh, it's LA, wonderful of you to grace us with your special self today. To what do we owe the honor?"

Yeah.

I mentioned a cramp under my shoulder blade a while back. The evil thing migrated south to my lower back and I ended up whacked out of my gourd with pain for several days unable to stand, sit, or lie comfortably for more than 10 minutes before I hobbled off to find someplace new to park my aching bod. For a couple days I stayed out of my office altogether. The new chair and I have yet to find a good working relationship. So an entry from those days would have sounded something like, "OW! Fuckity fuck! OWOWOWOWOWOWOW!!!!! Snivel, whine, boo hoo, furious dialog with self for letting our bod get this flabby and out of shape, snarl, boo hoo, OW!"

My back has since cut me a small break. I'm still uncomfortable but coping. Also I made an appointment with Mick's chiropractor. The soonest I could get an appointment is this coming Wednesday morning and, my friends, I tell you what...I have NEVER looked forward to having some strange man put his hands on me this much. Ever. "Yo, Dr R, give me a squeezy hug, okay? Snap me, crunch me, shove my bones around, you darling man you."

In other news, after deliberately arranging for our refunds to be directly deposited into our checking account when we had our taxes done (something the Feds managed quite nicely) the State of New York in all its wisdom decided to send us a physical check. Something which might have actually gotten tossed out with the junk mail if it weren't for Mick's sharp eyes. Whew! Today I made nice young Henry the bank teller's day by presenting him with said check (endorsed, of course), my savings account passbook, a slip of paper with my checking account number handwritten thereon, and a complex list of instructions as to the division of monies. This much in checking, this much in savings, and this much in my hot little hand. Poor Henry. Such a nice boy and he is always unfailingly polite but I know he's gotta have a mental groan when he sees me coming through the doors. It's not that I am haughty or impatient, far from it, it's just that what I want to do with my money is always at such odds with stodgy bank policy. And twerp that I am I never attempt to fill out the requisite forms first, I simply show up at his window with my list of demands like a smiling grandmotherly financial terrorist.

On the home front, Wolf is doing fine. Still in that awful growth spurt. Damn kid is going to top me any day now and so far nothing I've done has stopped it or even slowed it down. Not junk food. Or letting him sleep until noon on the weekends and giving him plenty of video game time and only the lightest least physically taxing of chores. I've tried plying him with coffee even. (Remember when we were kids and adults told us coffee would stunt our growth? Total lie.) Doesn't matter anyhow, this maddening son of mine refused the coffee out of hand. Not foolish enough to turn down the package of Oreos though, but he did negate it by ingesting a truly infuriating amount of broccoli, organic chicken, baby carrots, Granny Smith apples, asparagus, green beans, eggs, and 5 gallons of milk. Sure enough, my nutrition Nazi mom thing has come back to haunt me. My wretched offspring will hit the six foot mark by April despite my best efforts. And then I will have a complete breakdown.

Shut. Up.

I have been an active-duty, hands-on, fulltime mom since January 16, 1985! It's about the only thing I know how to do! Who am I if I'm not The Mom? A six foot tall Wolf is a Wolf rapidly leaving behind the need for The Mom. GAH!

I might have to find a hobby or even get a real job! Do you have any idea how distressing this is?

All silliness aside for a bit, my darling man Mick lost a dear friend this week. A compadre from his life before me. My guy is so, so, so sad.

Among the Inuit each person has a Laughing Friend and a Serious Friend. Butch was Mick's Laughing Friend. That crazy buddy who was up for anything yet always had Mick's back. A goomba. A partner in crime. Butch was Mick's pal. That nut job whose voice on the answering machine was an instant day brightener. After their respective divorces Butch got caught up in some bad stuff and sadly has paid the ultimate price. Mick tried. He tried hard to bring his friend back into his life. My darling wanted to show Butch the new Mick, the guy who'd defeated his demons and came out the other side happy and so very much in love. With me. With life. But it was too late. And now Butch is gone.

There's a brief wake tomorrow evening and we will be there. I arranged for some flowers today. Mick spoke on the phone last night with Butch's ex-wife, she's as grieved as Mick. And as angry at the stupid waste. It wasn't a lack of love that drove them apart, only self-preservation in the mess of Butch's path toward destruction.

My poor mannie is so sore right now. Hurting and frustrated. Prickly and difficult and more anxious than ever to insist on order in the chaos. I understand. Truly. It's not just Butch he's mourning. It's Gram, gone almost 3 years now. It's Mick's father. Not dead yet but no amount of trips to the ER and forcing him to drink Ensure is going to put it off for much longer. Butch's death is a closed door on Mick's old life too. And it's a reminder of Mick's own mortality. Something I feel most keenly today because when I read the obit to get the info of where to send flowers to Butch's wake I saw the death notice of a guy I went to high school with. Not an especial friend, but someone I knew. Someone I'd goofed with and mocked for his jock ways during the hippyish weed-smoking 70s. A guy I danced with at our 20th high school reunion.

Shit.

That's where I'm at and where I've been, my friends. Dealing with everything as lightweight as a son turned magic beanstalk to Death with a capital D. With stops at lower back pain, trips to Rite-Aid, Shoprite, and the bank in between.


Wanting to be a more faithful correspondent but knowing how it is with me these days, ~LA

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