Tuesday, October 28, 2008


Maybe one shouldn't steal other people's posts.

's blog "My Journey Out," which I have been following for a while, is suddenly "protected"-- accessible only by username and password--and there's no way to find out how to get in unless you already are in. What's going on here?

I want my MAYPO!

How do I get my fellow-mexophile-fix back? You don't suppose my little thefts are the reason he closed it off, do you? [God, I hope not.] Do I have to say I'm sorry for stealing his stuff? Do I just have to "release" it and get on with life? These, and other great philosophical questions, have bedeviled the mind of man since time immemorial...

On Sunday the Goat and I dragged a fallen ash tree up the hill to the house and split it [well, actually, he cut it up and brought it up the hill, and I split it--me, the Hero of the Great Indoors]. Yesterday I loaded wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow with nice, clean, split logs, wobbled around the house with them, and dumped them by the basement window, restacking them so the Goat could reach them from inside, where he stacked them against the wall by the stove--halfway to the ceiling. He said it would do us a week or two, depending on the temperature OUTside.

Then we went upstairs, got into bed, and watched several episodes of a silly favorite series of his, and I got really depressed. It was partly the thought that we were going to spend all our time together watching TV I'm not that fond of and not doing anything else I might be rather fonder of, partly the echo of a conversation about Isis we had had lying in the leaves during a work break the day before, and partly the in-breaking knowledge that I am in fact never going to be able to afford a house anywhere I want to live, ever again. (We had talked about my buying a house near his daughter and her family... I think I could afford a chicken coop or other small outbuilding--either out there or here in the Big Woods...)

He asked how I was. I said I was not doing so well, and trotted out the reasons. I also told him I was in High Maintenance Mode, and needed lots of loving attention. So he told me to cheer up, and I said I would. I said it with grim determination, because as I was saying it, I felt as low as I had in a LONG time. Then, as I watched the Goat go through his obsessive routine with the weed paraphernalia, I started to laugh, and that made all the difference. We got high as kites and made love like maddened ferrets, and with that things fell back into perspective. Funny how that works.

I suppose it's possible to dissemble in bed [what was Dangerous Liaisons about, after all?] but it felt like the sweetest possible delivery of everything I'd asked for. Maybe not such a High Maintenance moment after all--maybe it's just maintenance, pure and simple.

At the doctor's this morning, I was told that the flu I can't shake is just one of those things going around and I had to hold on and... hang in there.

You do the same.



  1. I'm sure Chris didn't do that just to slap your fingers.
    Pretty sure, anyway.
    Why not email him and ask?

  2. TG:

    if I had his e-mail address, I would have asked. Silly me, I've never done anything but post a comment, and now that I WANT his address, I don't have it.

    That's the way this little cookie crumbles. Unless YOU have his address...