quickley

And, so, what I was upset about.

Weiner friend Mat has a hilarious mental picture of my New Brunswick family, including ridiculously effeminate, gay-hairdresser Dad, Happy House-wife French June Cleaver Mum, and, most hilariously, a pair of identical (save for, maybe, differently tartaned plaid flannel shirts) Brawny-men Lumberjack brothers, who'd stomp into the dining room, lay their axes down on the table, and each proceed to devour their respective turkeys.

It's really not that far off. My older brothers are, indeed, lumberjacks, as well as they are truckers. I like to refer to them as "Trucker-Jacks" and defer to this pair of Big Strong, 300-lb men when the boys are bothering me.

And so, you see how, when Dad calls during the intermission of the closing matinee of I Am Yours (Which, incidentally, went really well, and sold out on it's second week! Huzzah!) to tell me that Fabien, the eldest of the two, having drunkely rolled his mini-van into, and out of a ditch, was pulled out by the Jaws of Life and was in precarious condition in the ICU, I kinda freaked a bit.

Because. Showtime is sensitive, and big blows don't go over well. Because my the image of my big, burly, big brother, battered, broken, incapacitated and unconscious, breathing only with the help of a respirator does not compute. I got through the second act with a really constipated, holding-back-tears expression, and bolted for the SAQ after the show.

Now, I'm pretty near unflappable. A Broken Brother? No big deal. All she needs is some whiskey, some good company, and a movie, and she's fine. So, having acquired said Whiskey, I proceeded to call the current-romantic interest, who, before I even get a chance to tell him the story and invite him to share my mickey and my concern, dumps me. I shoulda bought a bigger bottle.

So, I was a wreck. The individual incidents wouldn't have been so bad, but compounded, and during show time, made for a very difficult week for our Hostess.

I have found a new happy place, working quietly alone at the very top of the ladder. I never got a chance to sit, and mope and cry and wallow, because I kept getting called in to do techie stuff.

I have very few, but fabulous friends who call and check up, invite a girl to dinner, make her laugh and bring her fine smokables.

I'm better.

My brother, 8 broken ribs, a badly punctured lung, a seriously fucked up joint, some surgery and a pair epidurals later, is recovering normally.

The boy in my life, is seceretively dealing with manifold life crises which led him to believe that he's better off never participating in personal relationships, platonic or romantic, ever again, regardless of the quality of these liaisons. His investments, he said, have never paid off. That's it. It's over.

This Get Me to a Nunnery approach never works. I know, because I was saying it, not six months ago. And so, I swore to persist, because I don't have a lot of friends, and I so seldom meet people I truly like, that not persisting would lead to serious cosmic dissonance. He did not register persistance as offensive. He needs space, I figure. Works out well, cause I do too.

It's scary. But I'm still here. My investments are their own pay-offs.