"I felt 15 years younger, knowing I had you with me."

So said my mother Sunday night, when she called to tell me the good news she received from a call to Medicare's 800 number. Right now, it looks like she will get help with her prescriptions for less than an additional $10/month.

I gave her the number, but she has to make the calls herself. I was very firm on this.

But the important thing is, I know that while my mother simply expects me to help her with this, she also appreciates it.

That is important to me.

Not the message I wanted

My oldest friend developed a powerful fixation on Michael Jackson at the time of his death. As one who grew up on the Jackson 5 and was a fan through Bad, I admire his talent if not his life. I worry that her obsession with his fragility and victimhood is unhealthy, but she now has friends within his fan community. She has been very lonely since moving to Southern California to be near her (ugh!) family -- why aren't they more supportive of her? -- and was very excited about seeing some of the Midwestern Jacko fans who were making a pilgrimage to see his grave and his exhibit in the Grammy Museum.

She was so looking forward to this past weekend.

That's why I am worried about the email I found this morning. What is she doing in the wee small hours, so upset that she can't remember "the name of that place in Santa Monica," the "halfway house for depression/anxiety?"

What has that asshole son of hers broken/destroyed/ruined now?