Every Junkie’s Like a Setting Sun

I just got back from checking in with my parents, who’ve been at the cardiac ER since 11 AM when my dad started complaining of chest pain and lightheadedness. He wasn’t having a heart attack, and they say it’s nothing to freak about, but they’re monitoring him overnight.

Meh.

My “no, really, I’m being helpful” attitude might not come through so well when I ascerbically quip that perhaps now he’ll consider ditching the cancer sticks. Ahem.

He might have done so in February, when his younger brother died of a massive heart attack (you know, the one that didn’t smoke). He might have done so last November, when his cancerous prostate was cut out.

And yes, I know I can’t make anyone do anything they don’t choose to do themselves. But.

He’d better knock off the stupid right the fuck now.

Fight

I’m sitting at my table at midnight, about to get offline, and the couple in the adjoining apartment is fighting about how he ALWAYS has to wait for her after work, and she NEVER has to wait for him.

It makes me glad that I know how to have a productive argument, devoid of such absolute terms, and more than that, how not to have ridiculous fights about such stupid things.

Of course, that’s easy for me to say, sitting in my kitchen, hearing their voices rising from behind the wall and resisting the urge to open the cabinets to get a better listen.

So then I start wishing I had a live-in partner, so I could test my theory that divorce and bad marriages are good for something and that mine taught me how to fight fairly.

Meanwhile, I hope Sam & Travis don’t go to bed angry.

Scowl

Joe is having a cardiac catheterization this morning.

Luckily for him, he’s nice and doped up on Valium. I am, however, preoccupied with the idea. Not only is it something I didn’t think I’d be dealing with at my age (he’s twenty years older than me–welcome to the wonderful world of May-December, ladies), but I’m in a particularly delicate position.

I was the first person he called.

He told his sister and kids on Monday night. They don’t know about me.

Chances are that everything will go well and he’ll be home by the end of the day. But if things don’t go as expected, he’ll be having surgery. He promised to let me know either way.

But if he can’t call, there is no one else who will.

Feeling helpless = Worst thing ever.

Update: Next to someone whom I love very much slurring his speech in amorous drunken exultation of me, I’ll take someone whom I like very much calling to tell me his procedure went well while he’s all loopy on pain meds and amnesiacs. Cuute.

Awesome!

Me: Miles, Jack, your room is a disaster. We need to do something about it this weekend.

Jack: Why? You said you don’t care if it’s messy.

Me: It is no longer messy, it is a danger zone! Also, Meg is coming to visit us on Wednesday and your room needs to be picked up.

Miles: Meg? Is she the one with the kittens? On the computer?

Me: Yeah, right, you saw her on the webcam. That’s the one.

Miles: Aw, yeah, she’s awesome!