Quick Sadstuff Update: My mom is getting Gamma Knife Radiation today. I talked to my dad after lunch, and of course, the hospital was late as hell getting her in. They always do that shit... she had to get up at 4:30 a.m. and should have been finished hours ago. I'm nervous. I talked to her on the phone last night and wished really hard that I could have given her a hug. Let's just say, it's no fun hearing your mom's scared, especially when she's the bravest person you know.
Enough of that. Worrying isn't going to do me any good.
Last evening, I drove home from a council meeting through a much-needed rainstorm. It was pouring, with those crazy sheets of silver rain that look like there are people up there just dumping buckets into the middle of the downpour. I jumped out of CAR2D2, grabbed my crap, and ran under the awning above our front door. As I fiddle with my keys, I noticed one of my neighbors had gotten our mail, and put it on a chair on the porch. We do this for each other occassionally, and it's usually nice. But last night, it meant scooping up a pile of sopping, dripping mail.
I finally got in the apartment and sat down on the couch to see what Mr. Postman brought me. Soggy Delia's catalog, two credit card apps, and what's this?
A postcard.
From your favorite tall dark cup of steaming java.
From the man who makes the ladies swoon.
From Mr. Monkey himself.
That cuppa cuppa burnin' joe...
Yowza.
Actually, it was just a nice postcard of Montreal, during a season I haven't seen in almost two years... autumn. I don't know if that was done on purpose, but it was pretty.
It was strange having something tangible from someone I only know online. Proof of existence, or something. Weird.
