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Because he doesn’t get having to sit next to those who can’t walk, or speak, or hear as well as he can, even though he is ten years their senior.
Which makes this a post about realizing that I must seem like “one of those bloggers.” About letting my readers know that although I’m still here, I am unsure about what to do with RG.
When he says he will take the “lunch,” I know he won’t eat it. His date with the heart broken years ago by my fun and handsome neighbor actually seemed okay with it all, even though she sparked the crisis in her own drunken stupor on the way home. Well, except my great guy, who has never been a waste of time, but who certainly could ask himself if he has wasted time with this crazy and confused RG, who is too old to be this crazy and confused. “Your phone is ringing,” yelled my great guy, his voice raspy and drugged with a deep sleep broken. I relived it all day on my neighbor’s behalf, wishing I could have known him and old Junior better, in order to be a better friend. South Florida Daily Blog, it appears, has closed up shop–back in March, no less.
When he says he’ll root for my horse in the Derby, I know he will. I apologized to my fun and handsome neighbor for yelling at him when we got home. For five days, I planned my escape from So Fla, gave myself a six-month deadline, and cried myself to sleep because of the time I figure I have wasted in this miasma of a seaside locale that always lets you down–the crappy jobs, the friends you never really make, the edge and ugliness of most of those around you. ” he asked, knowing I have no money to buy gas, much less to move. “And when I move, and I hope it is with you, I have to be near one or both of my kids.” To which my great guy agreed. My phone rang this morning, early, as I was drying my hair and dreading another day in hell, also known as my job. “I think Junior is done,” came my my fun and handsome neighbor’s voice. I know the pain of willingly putting a sick best friend to rest. One of my favorite blogs, and one that gave RG some lovely recognition, is no more.
Today our beach is closed, thanks to hurricane Sandy who didn’t come within 300 miles of us.
At least I don’t own a million-dollar home on that now virtually nonexistent strip of sand.
I don’t get the traffic, but I know it’s better than the 24-7 rush hour on 95 South. I brought water to his sofa-side and brushed my dripping fingers across his muzzle to get him to drink. “No, someone there will help me,” he said, maybe because he wanted to be alone, or maybe because he was still angry with my week-ago stupidity. And I bent toward Junior and told him to please say hi to my first dog Mrs. “I don’t know if you remember me,” began her recent her email. I had never forgotten her and often wondered how she was doing. We readers will wait patiently for you.” Again, I was surprised and touched. Busy with my event planning work and three mutts, for sure, but that’s not really a reason for not writing.
Just goes to show, no matter how nice the neighborhood, there goes the neighborhood when it’s So Fla and you can’t afford 00 a month in rent to live a block away on the Intracoastal.
This October, I was determined that my beloved Bostons would win a costume contest at their vet’s office. So this morning, I grabbed one of my dogs and a camera and took a walk to water’s edge at high tide. My son and his friends swam at this beach a week ago. My continuing inconvenient commute to work pales in comparison.