The Way Things Are



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Help me out with my metaphor.
2006-08-29, 11:27 a.m.

Hey! God DAMMIT. Don’t let me do this again. It seems like every single day, I have something fun and interesting and life-changing for you, and I try to think of ways to finagle an hour or so to write it down and fling it, monkey style, at the internet, and what do I do? I probably sit around and pick my nose. Mary asked why I seem to get so many pictures of myself with my finger in my nose, and this is the answer: it would be hard NOT to get a picture of me with my finger in my nose. Even when it’s a self-portrait. You would think I’d give myself ample advance notice that I’m taking a picture, BUT EVEN THEN. I’m still picking my nose.


See? Do you see what I’m sayin’ here?

Here’s whassup with the new job. Oh, I know! I’ll make a list.

Things that have changed:
-To whom I report
-The names of my board members
-The source of my paycheck
-The amount of my paycheck
-The amount of my workload
-The interesting factor of my workload
-The number of hours I work. I mean, actually WORK
-My check-signing ability. It’s down, way down. In fact, check-signing is right out.

Things that have not changed:
-The properties I deal with
-My office
-My phone number, email address, and mailing address
-The people who report to me
-My freaking colleague “Mike” and his incessant presence in my office, baffling me with details that I (1) neither asked for nor (2) care to know about and (3) have no intent of remembering, and (4) make me daydream of ways to kill him and dispose of his body.

Moving right along…

DW was telling me the story of his sister, let’s call her SIL, because she’s my sister-in-law. Specifically, it was the story of when she “ran away”. I put that in quotes, and in fact, am making big sarcastic finger quotes in my head because the girl was 20-years-old and “ran away” to Corpus Christi FOR A JOB.

In fact, the only thing remotely “running away” of her departure was that she left in the middle of the night with her belongings packed in luggage she stole from her parents, allegedly climbing down an extension ladder to make her escape undetected.

“Wait a minute – how did the extension ladder get there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were your parents having work done on the house? And how would the extension ladder just happen to be in the exact right spot for SIL to make her dead-of-night escape?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she put it there.”

“But why would she go downstairs, right past your parents, go out to the garage, get an extension ladder, put it up against the house, and then go back upstairs, and climb down the ladder with all that luggage she stole from your parents? And really, why does this luggage always play such a big part in your story?”

“Well, it was brand new luggage. And it would be JUST LIKE my sister to go downstairs and get the ladder, and then go back upstairs and escape down the ladder, rather than just leave through the garage the first time she was downstairs.”

“Why is this story so dramatic? Do you realize that when a 20-year-old kid leaves home to take a job in another city, it’s not really running away? It’s just leaving home? I would suspect she left in the middle of the night, whether by ladder or just walking downstairs with the luggage to avoid a big scene with your mother.”

“But she just left without telling anybody. That’s running away.”

“Running away is for 15-year-olds who go off and live on the streets. Your sister just left home without saying good-bye.”

****

Anyway, the more I dig into this story of DW’s the more it falls apart. I’m hoping to catch my SIL this weekend with a few margaritas in her, and try to get HER side of the story. I was telling the story to Lil Guy this morning, not so much to tell the story of his Aunt SIL, but more to share with him how funny and flimsy the details of the story are. We both appreciate DW’s knack for telling a story so full of holes you could, hell, I don’t know. Help me out with my metaphor, people. Throw me a frickin’ bone.

“Son, if you ever drop out of college and live at home when you’re 20 —“

“I’ll be paying rent, right?”

“Well, yes. But if you ever decide to leave home because you found a job in another city, please feel free to walk right down the stairs and through the front door with your luggage. You don’t have to escape down an extension ladder.”

“Thanks, mom.”

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