Spare me the "Gosh you should look into some sort of 12-step group" shite. I am tired. It was a long night. And I am jonesing for a beer belying the post I wrote yesterday. I can't take something messing up my routines. I walked into the house this morning to a hundred emails (I am avoiding email), two messages on my answering machine, and Maggie sitting in the floor tearing up a pair of my dirty underwear. Just great, I thought as I peeled off my clothes and put on the most comfortable attire I could find. I am sitting here in what my ex-wife called my "wankey shorts" as wanker was slang for penis in the U.K. and these shorts show a hard-on like a lighthouse shows light on a dark New England shore. The night was spent at the hospital with Joyce. She had awoken with belly pains and she had recently undergone a kidney transplant. I got a call from her around 1 a.m. asking me to drive her to the medical center. "The tests look fine," the doctor said walking into our sterile, white waiting room. "It must have been cramps." Joyce laughed nervously and turned to me and said, "I am so beyond cramps. I've been menopausal for years." I sighed with relief that nothing more major was wrong and drove us home in the early hours of the morning.