It Had to Happen

If you live with someone who has cooties, you get cooties. If someone you live with shares space with cats (as I have learned) you get cats.

So it's no surprise that if one lives with someone who has a blog, one gets blogs. I invite you to the launch of the SO's blog.

Meantime; here's my latest vehicular acquisition. It's a 1973 Yamaha U7, possibly a U7E. I'm looking for bits, so if you have one of these odd beauties tucked away in your garage, why not contact me? Leave a remark in the comment section below.



There comes a time in one's life when one realizes one can no longer return to the things of youth. For me, that time was last weekend, where the crux of several intersecting events occurred:

Item one: about two weeks ago, one of my oldest friends, with whom I'd fallen out of touch, called me to say she was beginning her second divorce and could I help her move. Stupidly, I said yes. It's a three-hour trip one way.

The weekend I went, another old and dear phoned to tell me that she too was getting divorce #2 and would I like to put an offer on the house?

Upon arrival at the home of Divorcée(-ée) "A", a third friend whom I'd also fallen out of touch with informed me that she was considering dumping hubby number one-and-only.

The most important event, though, was the moving. I have reached the following conclusion: Once someone is A) over 35, or B) married, and especially if said someone is encumbered by children or animals; if you are asked to help them move . . .
SAY NO!

Once the above conditions are filled, the person has generally accumulated sufficient quantities of junk that professionals should be consulted. In this case, the amicably divorcing couple were splitting costs and paying $200 per day for a truck. The truck was out for two days.

As I rode home from an exhausting two days, my friend's ex said:

"Y'know, we should have hired movers. Then we could have sat in the living room drinking coffee and saying 'don't break that, eh?'"

I reluctantly let him live.

The moral is that at a given age, one has to knuckle under to the combination of consumerism and one's own instincts. If you are over the age of 25, get professional help.

If the move is precipitated by a parting of the ways, I will kick, scratch, gouge and bite to give her all my stuff. Then if a moving truck shows up I will pay the driver and swamper to go away.

After a day or two, the SO will let me have everything, I'm sure.