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08.25.2002 - 4:25 p.m.


It's the end of the weekend and the weather is grey and sorta dreary and you know, the whole afternoon has that long-dark-teatime-of-the-soul feel to it. It's 3:50, is that too early for vodka? Probably.

Yesterday my mom finally visited the new house. You could compare the relationship JB and I have with our mothers like this: JB's parents visited 2 weeks after we had the new house, driving all the way up from Coos Bay, OR; my mom just came over yesterday. From Port Angeles. In a plane, so the trip took about 45 minutes.

My mom lives in Port Angeles with a wonderfully nice man named John. He owns a Mooney plane, and he looks a bit like Santa Claus. I'm happy that she has someone to be with. My parents were divorced when I was 2, and she never had a boyfriend while I was growing up. I'm glad she's not alone now.

We spent some time sitting around in the backyard, grilling burgers and shooting the crap, and then we took them back to the Renton airfield. On the way there, JB was blathering to John about the XM satellite radio he just had installed. You can listen to the same station from New York to L.A, he enthused. John was excited to hear about it and told my mom how great that seemed, never losing the station you want to hear.

I don't know, she said. I kind of like that about travelling, how you slowly lose one station into static, and then eventually something new comes on. It lets you know you're getting somewhere.

Well, said JB, what about when you can only get country or some hellfire preacher or something?

Then, she said, you must fall back on that old standby - conversation.

I sat there and thought how much I enjoy what she has to say, and I don't know why we don't spend more time together. Why I don't even know her phone number without looking it up. Why neither one of us seems to be able to reach out to the other.

We drove to the airport, and stood by while they got in their plane. We waited until they took off so we could wave at them. JB said to me, did your mom hug you? No, I said. He said, it didn't really seem like there was much of a goodbye. No, I said. I guess not. I guess maybe we don't know how.


Today JB and I went to a driving range in Bellevue. Annoyingly, he seems to be taken with golf recently, having been sucked in by some business outings. I used to play a little golf, and I thought hitting some balls today would be easy - like riding a bike, it would all come flooding back to me and the balls would be straight and true and fly hundreds of yards away.

Oh, except even when I did play golf, I sucked like an Electrolux.

And JB? He's like fucking Happy Gilmore. No style, but he can hammer the shit out of a golf ball. With each of my pathetic whiffs and ka-thunks and dammits, he was sending balls into outer space.

It's not fair. Can't I be better at one single stinking thing that he is?

Something other than "able to fill the Brita so the next person who wants water doesn't get screwed", please.

0 comments so far.

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Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
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