kvetching up

On pleasant spring evenings, I have taken to reading outside on the front patio. As I do on such occasions-- weather allowing--I took my book and curled up in the plastic Adirondack chair last night, excited to read Wm. Gibson. His writing is pithy, his sentences carefully structured. It requires more concentration than reading a Stephen King novel, but less than the typical Philip Roth joint.  For my next trick, I'll need a volunteer. The last few weeks, each time I sit, within a couple of minutes the Adirondack chair shifts a bit, which I presumed was it settling. It feels as if the legs are spreading a couple of inches. The movement has been--or so I thought--no cause for concern--it always stopped after the initial brief shift. It had become so regular, so routine, I didn't pay much notice to it last night when a couple of minutes after sitting down, the chair began to shift. I imagine this was the attitude Harry Truman had when he felt the earth rumble just before t...

And I might be more a man  If I stopped this in its tracks And said come on, let's go home.  But she's got the wheel, And I've got nothing  Except what I have on --from Drivin' With The Brakes On by Del Amitri 9:40 a.m. Jenny made it clear that she has no intention of stopping her relationship with Eric  the pinché motherfucker, last night in therapy. It came about in an ancillary discussion.  I brought up that Jenny, despite spouting resolve  to fight her disease  over and again last night, has routinely threatened to stop chemo, as recently as last week.  I raised this point not to debunk her claim of resolve, but to tell her that I don't want her to tell me she is going to stop chemotherapy, should she make such a decision, because she can't get the affection she wants "and deserves" from me, or from  Eric  the pinché motherfucker.  I agreed that it is true she can stop chemotherapy for whatever reason she wants, but asked h...