Friday, January 1, 2010


It's hard to admit it, it really is, when your life has become unmanageable. You have to be an alcoholic in recovery, seriously, or you have to work with these wonderful souls, to even be aware that there is such a thing, limitations, and that we should be respectful of our own.


It's why I haven't blogged since September. This proverbial sandwich, you know, people like me, the meat. I like the position, there seems to be power in there somehow, barging in and out of people's lives at their will.

Dad's been in and out of the hospital, each time it seems life-threatening, each time he leaves smiling that smile that says, "Did you see the fish I brought home? Have you ever seen fish like that?"

I'm deep in flashbackland. We're not talking about tropical fish, not the kind that I raise, but the type that real fishermen fish for, with a real rod and reel, real hooks and worms, whatever.

I can hook a worm, learned with the best. Caught a huge trout once, too. Huge.

There's much to say, so much to catch up on. This is one of the parshiot (Hebrew: rhymes with or sounds like, car-tree-oat) of life, chapters of life that is well worth recording. And even though it feels as if there certainly isn't time to record it, I intend to try.

The pasta is hot and in the winter, we Chicagoans get it while it's hot. The post says it published on New Year's Day, but the truth is, I wrote it on January 3, 2010.

Does that make me a bad person?

Flying Hopeful, if at all, despite the meshuganah kup who wanted to blow up that flight to Detroit.

Flying Bubbie

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Cry, it's okay, bubbala. Tell me everything.