A Rainy, Beerless Saturday

I have been really bad the last month or so at writing in my blog.  I think about it all the time, but my life has been so dull the past little while that I don’t want to infect any potential readers with it.  If I were experiencing any swashbuckling adventures, I would be sure to inform the world.

This weekend I am back on antibiotics for the third time in six weeks.  I stabbed a dirty screwdriver into the palm of my hand, and my palm reacted by swelling up so that I couldn’t make a fist about 12 hours later.  On top of that, it is raining hard enough to keep me inside, and there isn’t even any hockey to watch as our American overlords have scheduled the Stanley Cup Final to begin on Monday.  On the bright side, hockey will be back in a couple of days, and after tomorrow afternoon it isn’t forecast to rain again for at least a week or two.  And when the hockey returns, it will be a nice intense Final between two teams who skate and score.  It shouldn’t be a snoozefest of 1-0 games and a lot of neutral zone trapping, a la New Jersey/Anaheim 2003.
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Today is my son’s 31st birthday.  It is also the 51st birthday of one of my best and oldest friends.  They were born 20 years apart almost to the minute.  Last year I went to two birthday gatherings, but this time their new ages don’t end with a zero, so it’s passing by without much fuss.  I love my son a lot, but it turns out I hardly ever say it to him.  I wasn’t brought up in a house that said it much, but I never questioned it or felt any great absence over not hearing it.  I hope he understands.

4 thoughts on “A Rainy, Beerless Saturday”

  1. cartierbraceletlove Thanks for your wonderful comment Mary. You have confirmed what I wrote in that blog, using your own story as an example. And yes, when a father “nicely” does this to his daughter, how utterly confusing it is to a young child who has yet to learn the difference between his kind of love and the love she wants and needs. Makes me wonder too what was missing in your parents’ marriage that he turned to you for his needs … a question I’ve asked myself over and over about my own father. Or is it just that our fathers had some warped streak in them and didn’t acknowledge the difference themselves. So hard to know …
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    1. That’s sad and very personal. It wasn’t meant for me, but I’m sorry your childhood had this blemish on it.

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