As everyone knows, here, my household has been turned upside down by the illness of Mr.

Astor.  Thankfully, I am here every day to take care of him.

Meanwhile, let's get back to nonsense, and her name was Sweetie.

I inherited Sweetie from a boyfriend in New York.  She was a mess.  She liked drugs, alcohol, and cheap boys.  I felt obligated to look over her.  I bailed her out of more messes than a normal human could.  Sometimes it was a "rough position" in Stuyvesant Part and others in a back room.  Still, I loved (and love) my Sweetie daughter; she didn't know what she was doing some of the time and did most.

When I took this photo of her in the the glamorous Thompkins Square park, she said something to the the effect of:  "Work?  What do you mean?  You slave all day from nine to five.  Whatever you earn, goes to taxes.  Why should I work?"

That was, and is, my Sweetie (although her father left her a long time ago.)  Sweetie worked her way up to the travel agent of the stars.  Only in New York.