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And Boy, Are My Arms Tired. No, really.

Ever since I began dating this dude who had the audacity to live four hundred miles away from me, I have been traveling back and forth between Sacramento and Los Angeles. That started sometime in 1998. I have been ignoring listening to phrases like “seatbacks”, “tray tables” and “upright position” on a more-or-less weekly basis for about ten years.

I’m not much of a proactive, take-charge-of-my-life kind of person. Wanting the easy way out of making a decision about my life, I decided to assume that Fate would dictate who would have to cave and move to the other person’s city. What I failed to anticipate was that Fate would take her sweet ass time about it. It was a staring contest of wills and Fate blinked first. Woo hoo! I won! I think.

Fate either lost the contest or finally decided to step up and be a man this past year and inform me that I would be the one caving. Why? Because I’m the one who got laid off, and both sets of parental units require our physical proximity and assistance in Sacramento. (Curses to our strong sense of familial responsibility!)

Oh, well. My crotch hurts from riding the geographical fence for so long anyway. Plus? It’s kind of a time hog. Like commuting, only the freeway isn’t a parking lot at 30,000 feet. (Yet. Give those corporate fat cats time though, right?)

Living in two cities does not a simple life make. Sometimes you can’t keep up with everything: the dust, the mail, who’s sleeping with whom in the condo building. And good luck trying to get anything remodeled.

During this week’s stay in Los Angeles, I found a container of … stuff, in the back of the fridge:


I’m estimating a probable shelf hang time of 4-6 months, so my question is: Should I serve red wine or white wine with it?

I'm a divider, not a uniter

Thank you Muse-Swings for my latest bestowance:

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