The Way Things Are






Well, hello. How are you?
2005-09-13, 1:25 p.m.

Well, hello. How are you? I’m fine. And you? Fine. And you? Fine. This could be an endless loop of inane conversation, couldn’t it? Stop it right now.

We went to the middle school football game Friday night, and DW realized that there are 6th, 7th and 8th graders all on the same team. Big guys! Little guys! In-between guys! He says he wouldn’t have played on such a team, either, until he was in 8th grade. So as it turns out, my Lil Guy made an intelligent decision to bail right out of football.

LG's lovable-but-not-quite-on-the-ball-bestfriend Lou is on the team. Lou’s brilliant 2-second play of the evening consisted of this: go in, stand on the end, run forward before the ball is snapped, get a flag for off-sides, and be immediately pulled from the game. That’s it. He was in for 2 seconds, long enough to get a penalty. We LAAAAAUGHED and laughed at how proud Lou’s parents must be. I could feel them rolling their eyes, and I couldn’t even SEE them. That’s how strong their eye-rolls were.

LG and I together went to Home Despot together on Saturday, returned yet another set of ill-advised towel bars (that’s the 3rd set I’ve returned, and I haven’t finished returning ill-advised bath hardware yet), purchased 3 closet shelving systems, and installed one in his new closet. We are mighty proud of ourselves, and he has a pretty cool shelf and hanging rod thingy in his closet now. It was really fun getting him involved in the process. He helped me carry heavy things, helped me with the install, and I couldn’t have done it without his help.

Everybody say AWWWWWW!

This morning, thanks to hormonal upheaval, I weigh 490 pounds, my stomach feels like yuck (that’s a fancy medical term: yuck), my clothes are tight, my stomach was hanging out of the bottom of my shirt so badly I had to layer a tank top underneath to bridge the shirt:pants gap, and all I wanted all weekend was brownies and ice cream. So I made brownies and bought White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream to go on top. I highly recommend this combination, but do you think this might be related to my stomach feeling yuck, and its tendency to hang out of the bottom of my shirt this morning? And how could my clothes be tight? I don’t understand.

I was sorry to hear in my comments from Friday that Mary is allergic to personal moisture products. Might I suggest that those of you with allergies use Crisco, should the need ever arise? It could even be considered “warming” if you just melt it in the microwave. Ah, the empty nest and the opportunities afforded by it. She probably doesn’t even need personal moisture products. I’ll bet her thyroid and pelvic glands and internal organs and guts and entrails all work together just fine.

Me? I have a permanent button imprint from the waistband of my pants, and I have to keep pulling my bra out of the creases under my boobs and across my back. What the holy hell have I let happen to myself?

Welp, I’m covered up in people needing ME and only ME – HELP US LAURA YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN FIGURE THIS OUT AND HELP US PLEASE OH HELP US – to find that bond statement, or re-fax that letter, or dig out that tax-exempt number, or kick some ass via email, or look up a phone number in the fucking phone book for them. That last one really gets to me. Work shuts down…there’s a noticeable blip on San Antonio’s economic radar screen because work just shuts down because somebody can’t find somebody else’s phone number, and HELP US LAURA YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN HELP US OH PLEASE WE CAN’T FIND THE PHONE NUMBER AND NOW NOBODY IN THE WHOLE SAN ANTONIO METROPOLITAN STATISTICAL AREA CAN WORK…and I make quite the production out of hauling the big yellow book off the floor, riffling through the pages, muttering the names of businesses under my breath ::Halftime, Halka, Hall, Hallmark, Halo, ah! Here it is!:: and finding the number.

They’re in alphabetical order in there, you know. It makes it easier to use. I’m just saying.

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