The Way Things Are



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I am going to give you
2005-06-29, 10:40 a.m.

I am going to give you a picture of today’s shoes, but be warned: these are NOT kick-ass shoes. These are Target shoes from 2 years ago, and they were purchased to replace a pair of black summer-ish flats that had become those shoes. You know, the ones that you love, but have worn for so many hot summer months that they stink like a jar of rotten pickles when you de-shoe? Yes, those shoes, the ones that once you put them on your feet, it’s an all-day commitment, because they are NOT coming off. The shoes which my closet seems to be filled with these days, because between the home-building and the new vice – cigarette smoking – who has money for new shoes?

The shoes I am wearing today were purchased to replace those shoes. However, since I have been wearing these for two years now, these shoes have become those shoes in their own right. In addition, one of the heels was gnawed on by Dobie One Penobi, and the little heel cap was found in the next room. I hammered it back in (wishing I was using the dog’s head to do the hammering), and haven’t really looked back since.

I haven’t had to look because, actually, you can find these using your sense of smell only.

These shoes are in dire need of replacement. Note to self: do not wear Target shoes longer than one year. They were built for flash, not substance.

ABRUPT SUBJECT CHANGE

My sweet DishWasher played golf yesterday afternoon, which means he came home a little bit buzzed on the requisite golf beer. He was all philosophical, and when DW gets all philosophical, watch out! It’s one mind-numbing, rambling, half-baked sentence after another.

While we watched the news, there was a report of a mastah-batah in the park. Three little girls, jogging around the track in the park, nasty old man, exposure…you’re hip to the scene, I’m sure. The parents of the kids in the park chased him down, and I’m sure at least one of them said “Adios, Mofo”,
but in the end, he was held for police, not dispatched execution-in-the-hood-style.

DW lifted an arm in some kind of limp gesture of defeat and cried hoarsely “Is this…is this what the world has come to? Old men exposing themselves…?”

I briskly replied “Babe, the world has come way far beyond old men exposing themselves. I’m sure dirty old men have been masturbating in public since before Jesus was born. It’s probably in the Bible somewhere, cloaked in some antiquated King James vernacular. Fornication or some such.”

“But…THIS. THIS. Is THIS what we’ve come to?” Gesturing meekly toward the dining room.

“What, the curtains?
(obscure Holy Grail reference to all my people in the know) No, THIS is not what we’ve come to. THIS is what we have come FROM. Now go to bed, and finish a sentence once in a while, wouldja?”

OK, I didn’t say that last sentence, but I thought it really really hard, and I’m sure he received my brain message via mindmail.

In other news, we are going to my brother’s house in the Greater Houston Metropolitan Area for the 4th of July weekend. So all you stalkers in Houston (Nancy) be on the lookout for a stern, terse, librarian-ish looking woman drinking in bars with her sibling and assorted spouses and in-laws.

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