The Way Things Are



%%%%


navigation
home
archives
profile

extras
links
about

contact
email
notes

credit
host
design

I asked DW this morning
2005-09-14, 2:21 p.m.

I asked DW this morning “Is Don mad at me? At you? We haven’t seen him in WEEKS and WEEKS, and I keep wondering, did I do or say something to offend him? Did he finally get tired of me making him hug me just for the “eww” factor? Last time we saw him was when we went bowling and I did get kind of drunk. Did I do or say anything to offend him? I think I patted his ass, but I was patting everyone’s asses. Why has he pulled away from us? Where has he been? He won’t come over for dinner anymore. He doesn’t come out and hang out and drink beer while we work on the house. I’m feeling really rejected. I keep wondering what I did.”

DW said, “Well, I see him at basketball 3 times a week. I’ll ask him what’s up, but he’s been going out with that girl and hanging out at the Sports Bar and playing that nerd bar trivia game a lot.”

Later that morning...

DW: I called Don and told him you’re mad at him.

Me: Oh, thanks. That’s completely NOT the message I wanted to get across. I’m not mad. I’m worried that HE’S mad. (lots of giggling because we are ¾ kidding around, and we think we are funny)

Cut to after lunch...

::RING RING:: (my phone really does go “ring ring” and I would kill, KILL I TELL YOU, if it would say in an actual human voice “ring ring”, but I digress) Caller ID says “Don Cell”.

Me: I’m not mad at you!

Don: I know! DW told me you think I’m mad at you.

Me: But that was a completely condensed version of the message I wanted to get across. I did a whole funny comedic rant, did my routine, a little soft shoe, jazz hands, the works, and he condenses it down to “Laura thinks you’re mad.” And what’s really funny is that when he recounted it to me, it had been garbled to “I told Don you’re mad.”

Don: That’s DW at his finest. That’s what he does best.

Folks, Don is not mad. He’s not mad-angry or mad-crazy. He’s been very busy working, in addition to dating a new girl that he met at the Sports Bar, playing nerd bar trivia. He really likes her, but he is a little worried about her ability to consume alcohol. Although he says he has never seen her get drunk, she does seem to drink constantly, and in fact he thinks that she stays at the bar after him and continues to drink, and people, my man Don can put away some alcohol compared to little old me, as he is a very tall and bulky man. If he is dating a woman who can out-drink him without showing any effects, that’s either impressive or very, very sad.

He said there haven’t been any incidents, but he does wonder what that kind of consumption would do to her health. I asked him if he wanted to check out her liver, maybe thump it to see if it springs back, or if it just crackles.

“OUCH! That’s my LIVER, you jackass!” Not very good foreplay.

We wondered if it looks like a potato that has been left baking in the oven way too long. Or perhaps like an acorn.

I asked him if he wanted me to pretend to fall on her in the steam room at the spa, and perhaps accidentally land with my hand on her liver.

“It’s small, brown and shriveled, and it’s spectacular!”

And just so you can all say AWWWW with me, I talked to him last Saturday (to see if he was doing anything and if he wanted to come over and watch the Horns game with us, and for which request I was promptly rejected in favor of the Drinkah) and got him to tell me about her, and as for her physical description, he said “Well, she’s got short hair and she’s cute like you…” and I said “Awwwwww.”

You know, Don and I live such a brother and sister existence (e.g., he freely and proudly farts in front of me) that it’s strange to hear him say something like that. It makes me want to touch-up my hair and say “You noticed!” and then punch him in the arm really hard and mime vomiting into my beer cup.

It just appears that our little boy, my stepson Don – Lil Guy’s stepbrother – is all grown up. He has friends that aren’t us, he goes places where we aren’t, he knows people that we don’t know, he has a new friend-girl that I didn’t have to pick up in the bar for him. Not bad for a 13-year-old trapped in a 45-year-old raggedy-ass saggy old body. It sounds like I’m describing myself, doesn’t it? I’d better stop now before he really IS mad at me.

4 comments so far

last - next