Mer and I had planned, in honor of her waiting for her divorce to finalize, to hit a Greek/Serbian/Macedonian party in Chicago while she was here, and that Sunday there was one at Excalibur, this bar that I don't know HOW it survived past '92, maybe. But anyway, we go, and hilarity ensues of course, since Mer was on the hunt to nail an Eastern European hottie. As we were leaving, I ran into my friend Sammy and her friend, while Mer, totally shitcanned, was busy picking up this dude named Zoran from Lincolnshire, who I think she blew in the parking lot. So Sammy, her friend and I, after we almost got killed by our cab driver while picking up my car from the pound in a scummy neighborhood because it got towed (from August 13 to September 30, the snowball got towed three -- count 'em THREE -- different times, and that was number two), went back to Sammy's crib so I could get some bandaids for my feet and she could change. Her friend didn't know about Dad dying, so while Sammy was changing, I told her all about the cancer and the three weeks it took to kill him, blada blada blada.

If there was one thing Dad hated more than anything ever, it was talking about illness period, but his illness? He better not have caught you talking about it with anyone, because you'd be getting some serious hairy eyeball from him. He never even told his students how ill he was, even though it wasn't like they didn't notice he'd lost what was left of his hair and eyebrows. He always told them his plumbing was bad.

So. I'd put my purse on Sammy's desk in the living room, and I was telling her friend about the eeeevils of cancer when all of a sudden, my purse fell to the ground. It wasn't particularly near the edge of the desk, nor did either of Sammy's cats walk past it or under the desk to knock it over. It. just. fell. And no one will ever convince me that that wasn't Dad's out-there-somewhere-beyond-the-ether version of the hairy eyeball.
Oh, whatEVER.