Friday night I blabbed with my oldest friend. We were on the phone for nearly two hours. We talked about nothing of consequence, really. I don't know how she's feeling physically, or whether Medicaid has helped her get her meds. I don't know how she's doing emotionally or financially. She didn't seem to want to go there, and I didn't want to force it.
Instead we laughed a great deal. We talked about TV, her kids, the Cubs, Frank Sinatra's penis ... I miss her. I don't laugh with anyone like I do with her.
I hope she's OK. I'm going to try to get her on the phone more often. Perhaps I can get her to open up a bit more. And besides, it makes me happy to talk to her, to remind me of the decades-long connection we share.well.
Saturday I saw Joanna with my movie group. I was recovering from a bout of diarrhea, so I didn't join her for drinks afterward. Perhaps I should have, for she looked
different to me. Older, smaller and more vulnerable. She's usually so sophisticated, so stylish. It's as though the problems she's had this summer have diminished her somehow. She had to say good bye to both her cat and her dog this year -- such a cruel coincidence -- and I'm not sure her business is doing well. We're meeting up again soon. I'll have to go out of my way to spend some time with her afterward. (And avoid potato salad. I think that the potato salad, while delicious, could have been the culprit that messed with my digestion.)
