What's with those blessed Irish?

Rrrrr! Keep neglecting Blogger! Must resist urge to be lazy! Must... resist...!
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Crazy story, Daddy, CRAZY...

Dear high school chum Matthew Dwight Brainard dropped in on his way back from New Zealand. What an adventure this fellow had. Stories galore. Here's one:

To better facilitate blowing around the islands, Matt and his pal Cooper purchased a wee junker of a car for just over $300 American. By the end of the trip, only 3rd gear worked and they managed to set the thing alight, leaving only the charred, cinder memory of a Plymouth Laser in an abandoned New Zealand parking lot. But that's another story.

After Matt's journey was in full swing, he happened upon a lanky Dubliner named Mark (aka - The Irishman). The Irishman swore and drank up a storm and it wasn't long before he accompanied Matt and Cooper in their travels. They ripped all over the islands in their Laser (which is fairly dangerous - a lot of steep, mountainous curves over there and no guard rails). Eventually, The Irishman asked if he could drive and the boys grudgingly conceded.

Well, it wasn't long before The Irishman was skidding and gliding pell mell through the mountains, over-correcting and under-estimating every turn. Finally, at the climax of his tomfoolery, the car slid out of control, through the mud, and OVER A CLIFF. The boys' eyes bulged and hearts skipped as the car teetered on the edge of a deadly drop. After much careful tiptoeing, they maneuvered their way out of the car to safety, but the problem remained: the Laser was still teetering over the edge of a cliff. Finally, they managed to contact a towing service to haul their car back to the road. A close call and they dumped The Irishman (who didn't fork over any tow truck money) soon after, cursing his name and swearing that if they never saw his face again it would be too soon.

And how.

So I picked Matt up at the airport on Friday. He spent several days with us, mostly recuperating from his overseas antics. A good guy, that Matt. While he was here, he even helped us pick out some paint for the living room and other Home Depot-related treats.

On Saturday, though, Matt decided that he wanted to see L.A., stipulating that he didn't give a flying fart about the Walk of Fame or the Chinese Theater or Rodeo Drive or the Hollywood Sign or Brad Pitt's Beverly Hills Home. No DisneyLand. No Staples Center. No Everyboyd Loves Raymond tapings.

"Fair Enough," I told him, "let's go hang out in Santa Monica."

I'd never been to Santa Monica, but it's famous for its big pier (the place that, sadly, became nationally famous when several folks were injured and/or killed earlier this year because of some incompetent driver). We'd only been walking around for about ten minutes, looking for a place to get a decent corn dog, when Matt stopped and said, "No way. NO! WAY!" He approached some lanky bystander and yelled in his face, "you've got to be kidding me!"

It was The Irishman.

Needless to say, the odds were positively astronomical that we'd happened to run into this crazy whacker at that exact moment on the L.A. leg of his around-the-world journey. Since I'm fascinated with European culture, I spent the rest of the night grilling the poor mick about life in Ireland (and he was more than happy to fill me in. And then some). Very interesting bloke, that Mark whats-his-head.

Matt still hasn't been paid for the tow-truck, though.
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What can I say about Thanksgiving? Um.

It was nice. We had Kelly Larned over, along with Steve Groff and his sister Rebecca. A medium-sized turkey and some good conversation. No, it doesn't replace family, but it really was the next best thing.

Also nice was having an honest-to-goodness excuse to get our wreck-of-a-condo looking presentable. I can't lie: Carey and I put a couple of good, solid days into the endeavor. By the end, though, it was clean. For the first time since we moved in, we were able to look at each other and admit, "this really is a cool little pad we've bought for ourselves." We knew it all along, but it's nice to have it confirmed.
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Last night, because we're just so damned on-the-ball, we picked out our Christmas tree. There's something really peaceful about having a tree, isn't there? Something homey and adult. Anh, I don't know. It's Carey's and my fourth Christmas as married people and it's interesting to see how many traditions we already have.

But, of course, it's this time of the year that makes me miss my family the most. Maybe next year a Christmas visit will be in the cards, but for now we're still too poorly.
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So, I hesitate to post this, but screw it, it's on my mind.

I'm concerned for the wife. For those who don't know, she was diagnosed with Lupus about six years ago. Insurance coverage has been a continual battle and it looks like she's experiencing a flare-up. Unfortunately, our insurance is a piss-poor HMO, so they're giving her the runaround. She's had to go back and forth with referrals and approvals for a single friggin' visit to a rhumetolog-- a reumotologi-- a roomo-- hhh... a Lupus doctor.

It's maddening because she's losing her strength and ability to function as a human being more and more each day and all we keep hearing is "just two more weeks for approval! Hang in there!"

Yeah, two more weeks, you unfathomable horrors of humanity. I swear it makes me want to choke somebody. Competent medical care is a service these shits have been paid for and they're hanging us out to dry, even though Lupus, unchecked, can be lethal.

So there. Rant over. We're considering just pooling our savings and paying for it ourselves, but who knows if that would drive us into further debt.

posted by Jeremy Bear 4:21 PM

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