The week before last (week of the 13th), I was staying at M's apartment. For someone who's pretty serially bedded down in exactly one place for something like two years straight, and the previous interruptions being but a camping weekend here or there, this was what amounts to an adventure for me. An adventure of the order that is not exciting, insomnious, but sure enough different. One time years ago I arrived at J's house unannounced on a Sunday to join them watching The Sopranos and Johnny (our wretch) playfully commented, 'What are you doing here? Aren't you a mole-person that doesn't leave his home?' or something like that. For various reasons, I say John had me pegged.
The whole affair started with the white sox thrilling end of their division-winning season. What I'll call an air of melancholy ruined that whole thing for me-I said some things to my brother, and he suggested that I try this living arrangement. Call it our dumb German-Irish-Polish-American idea of respite care. I balked, thinking that it would be a pain in the ass... and mostly it was, but ought not to be the point. The arrangements were made, Ed came out from the city to take care of things around the house, and we started on Sunday.
It was a mixed start. Ed had packed up and taken the train out to GE, but there's been track construction all month and he got held up for an hour or so, and I had to go get him in Elmhurst-so he warn't in no talking mood at first. And since I'd gotten high just before noon it was what they call bad vibes. He cooled down though. Somewhere along the line we picked up Mike, went grocery shopping and had dinner together, and were generally hanging out. Evening rolled around; wanting to make the most of my time, I left them upstairs to go down and inebriate myself. I came back up and found Mike and Ed watching 3:10 to Yuma in my room, and I joined them. My brother does not have a high opinion of marijuana use-his loss-and this was the first time he'd been in my company whilst I was properly smashed and he tried to have some fun at my expense. He did what I guess is usual: trying to lean in out of the corner of my eye with a grotesque Nosferatu type expression, asking vapid metaphysical questions. That was all to no effect but I probably embarrassed myself plenty talking about parallels between 3:10 to Yuma, Cincinnatus and Rome and so forth.
I was able to pack up and load my car by myself; I was proud of that. Mike and I got in our cars and went to my home away from home, which was in fact only two or three miles away from home. When we got back to Mike's, Bowie had made a bad mess. Aside from going through the garbage, he'd gotten into (I guess) a bag of Mike's protein mix. Mike was all sorts of frustrated and angry, and started going on about security deposits and carpet cleanings. I was stuck off to the side, stoned, trying to figure how I was going to get Rodeo moved in while Mike was all t'ed off and sighing as he scrubbed the schmutz out of his carpet. (do people still say that? T'ed off?) I suppose I just shook out of it and asked Mike where his crate was that I could set it up for Rodeo. After a while I suppose mike cooled off and played some Mercenaries on his x-box, we walked the dogs, and that was it.
Despite a rocky, start things quickly settled down. The biggest concern seemed to be making sure both dogs were thoroughly walked, (I think with Mike's commute Bowie doesn't get enough regular mental stimulation) stopping in at home from time to time to clean the cats' litter box because I didn't trust Ed to handle cat shit, (though I did trust him to handle their food) and trying to get enough sleep because lights out at Mike's is much earlier than Rodeo and I are used to and he was always up earlier too. And sleeping on the floor didn't help either (my choice; I wanted to stay close to Rodeo that she didn't get spooked or worried at night). The following Saturday I moved back home.
Looking back I can't say it was earth-shattering but then again I don't know that it was supposed to be. If it wasn't rejuvenating it was thoroughly distracting. And since I was in a towering rage at me mah' within ten minutes of being back home, over some tedious and inane story she had to tell my about wheelchair maintenance... well shucks. I don't know precisely what to say about it. But that's what it was.
The whole affair started with the white sox thrilling end of their division-winning season. What I'll call an air of melancholy ruined that whole thing for me-I said some things to my brother, and he suggested that I try this living arrangement. Call it our dumb German-Irish-Polish-American idea of respite care. I balked, thinking that it would be a pain in the ass... and mostly it was, but ought not to be the point. The arrangements were made, Ed came out from the city to take care of things around the house, and we started on Sunday.
It was a mixed start. Ed had packed up and taken the train out to GE, but there's been track construction all month and he got held up for an hour or so, and I had to go get him in Elmhurst-so he warn't in no talking mood at first. And since I'd gotten high just before noon it was what they call bad vibes. He cooled down though. Somewhere along the line we picked up Mike, went grocery shopping and had dinner together, and were generally hanging out. Evening rolled around; wanting to make the most of my time, I left them upstairs to go down and inebriate myself. I came back up and found Mike and Ed watching 3:10 to Yuma in my room, and I joined them. My brother does not have a high opinion of marijuana use-his loss-and this was the first time he'd been in my company whilst I was properly smashed and he tried to have some fun at my expense. He did what I guess is usual: trying to lean in out of the corner of my eye with a grotesque Nosferatu type expression, asking vapid metaphysical questions. That was all to no effect but I probably embarrassed myself plenty talking about parallels between 3:10 to Yuma, Cincinnatus and Rome and so forth.
I was able to pack up and load my car by myself; I was proud of that. Mike and I got in our cars and went to my home away from home, which was in fact only two or three miles away from home. When we got back to Mike's, Bowie had made a bad mess. Aside from going through the garbage, he'd gotten into (I guess) a bag of Mike's protein mix. Mike was all sorts of frustrated and angry, and started going on about security deposits and carpet cleanings. I was stuck off to the side, stoned, trying to figure how I was going to get Rodeo moved in while Mike was all t'ed off and sighing as he scrubbed the schmutz out of his carpet. (do people still say that? T'ed off?) I suppose I just shook out of it and asked Mike where his crate was that I could set it up for Rodeo. After a while I suppose mike cooled off and played some Mercenaries on his x-box, we walked the dogs, and that was it.
Despite a rocky, start things quickly settled down. The biggest concern seemed to be making sure both dogs were thoroughly walked, (I think with Mike's commute Bowie doesn't get enough regular mental stimulation) stopping in at home from time to time to clean the cats' litter box because I didn't trust Ed to handle cat shit, (though I did trust him to handle their food) and trying to get enough sleep because lights out at Mike's is much earlier than Rodeo and I are used to and he was always up earlier too. And sleeping on the floor didn't help either (my choice; I wanted to stay close to Rodeo that she didn't get spooked or worried at night). The following Saturday I moved back home.
Looking back I can't say it was earth-shattering but then again I don't know that it was supposed to be. If it wasn't rejuvenating it was thoroughly distracting. And since I was in a towering rage at me mah' within ten minutes of being back home, over some tedious and inane story she had to tell my about wheelchair maintenance... well shucks. I don't know precisely what to say about it. But that's what it was.