The Old Grey Mare, He Ain't What He Used to Be

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been waking up to Tim's shrill interpretation of a sick cat meeting a moaning banshee, the result of his back seizing up like puckered lips on a sour lemon. Like clockwork, I hear something that stirs me from early morning dreams and in my grogginess I open my eyes and there he is. On the floor. On all fours. Peering over the bed at me while moaning and swearing like that girl from the Exorcist. It's a disturbing and slightly comical mess all wrapped up into one cussing heap on the floor. If he were an animal, we'd have to seriously consider putting him out of his misery.

Apparently, the Universe doesn't mind kicking the newest member of the old guy club while he's down because during the same time period, Tim has been asked via mail (twice!) to consider relocating to Rose Villa....Portland's newest old folks home.  (Which has resulted in him being bestowed with the new nickname, Old Man Larson.)

All mail for Tim should be directed here.

 Strangely, the first time he was invited, the invitation 'mysteriously' disappeared and I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I repeated this to anyone, he would have no choice but to retaliate. I half expect a counter-blog to pop up defending his virility and describing the torment of living with a wife who possesses a wild imagination and a knack for spinning tall tales about her ever-loving husband.

Of course, he'll most likely will be writing from the floor, on all fours, from his lovely new room at Rose Villa.*

*You're such a good sport, my dear.