Dripping sarcasm

A. was sick last week. She didn't care. She still came in to work, all loogified and dripping from her various head holes. She had absolutely no concern for how her terrible malady might affect anyone else, meaning me. She hawked and breathed on me, as if to say, "If I'm going down, you're going with me." No, she didn't say it -- but I know she was thinking it.

For three days, she couldn't speak. It was beautiful. Touching, really. Around Wednesday, I started making plans for her demise. It was inevitable, as far as I was concerned. A small send off at Chuckie Cheese, followed by bowling and scattering her ashes on Dane Cook. But by the afternoon, she was actually feeling better - she even called me after work to announce she regained her voice. Again, just flinging my plans all over the place without even considering what was on my agenda.

Now, this week, she's back to the healthy, bouncy, insanity-laced scheme of things. Thanks a lot, A. Now what do I do with all of these kazoos?

This is A.

This is A. She is funny, beautiful and highly intelligent. She also is 18 years younger than me -- a fact she reminds me of in some form or another at least once every other day ("Let me get the door, what with your bones being brittle and all"). I'm okay with that reminder - the theory being that my vast experience honed over the years places me in a superior position. Yes, that would be the theory.

A. is one of my most favorite people in the world. I know she loves me, too. Sometimes, the way she shows love is akin to the way my brothers used to show they loved me by hanging me upside down by my feet, poking me in the ribs, and tickling me until I hurled. It's that same sweet, sweet family love that has forced many a good person to spend thousands of dollars for therapy and screwed up their sense of self worth for the rest of their lives. That's what A. and I share, along with a love of animals, a good intellectual fight, and gallons and gallons of coffee. It truly is awesome!