The Way Things Are






Itís official
2005-07-05, 12:02 p.m.

Itís official. Yíall get me one of those scooters, some sandals and socks, and a pair of polyester pants. I woke up at 5:45 this morning, sans alarm, and went ahead and got up because I couldnít go back to sleep, and hey, why not?

So, itís all over. Life as I have previously known it is over.

Friday night, DW and I went to a wedding reception dinner for our friendsí son who knocked up his girlfriend last year. They married in Vegas a few weeks ago, with their one-year-old in tow, and they had a dinner in town so that non-Vegas-traveling homebodies like us could share in their joy.

Iím not even going to get going about 23-year-olds who get married because they are pregnant. Wait a minute, (ahem) (cough) Ďscuse me while I clear my throatÖ

* cough * DONíT DO IT DONíT DO IT DONíT DO IT DONíT DO IT * cough *

Ah, thatís better. I hate it when I get that hacking * HACK * *DONíT DO IT * cough. I make such a spectacle of myself.

Actually, itís not as bad as all that. They waited til they graduated from college, both are gainfully employed Ė he as a middle-school coach, she as a teacher, and I guess if you can still love somebody enough to marry them, when you donít really have to, after going through pregnancy, childbirth, and that wonderful first year of babyís life, then the relationship has a pretty good chance of surviving.

As per usual, the wedding reception DJ played ACDCís touching ode to marital love, ďYou Shook Me All Night LongĒ, to which DW and I performed our special interpretive exotic dance. Much of this crowd is already hip to our jive, because who in town havenít we gone drinking with, so there was much participation on the dance floor in the form of women spanking DWís ass (donít you want us at your next wedding reception?), but there were a few of our friends in the audience who hadnít ever seen the performance before, and couldnít quite make eye contact with us afterward. Ah, good times.

We spent the rest of the weekend with my brother and his family in the Greater Houston Metropolitan Area (Iím not sure thatís what they call it, but it works for me), and we heard the following things spoken:

(1) Aunt Wawa! Come see how organized my woom is! (this from my four-year-old nephew, who has to organize EVERYTHING and wouldnít stay out of the beer cooler because he kept wanting to reorganize all the beer) (and his mother says heís a pain at the grocery store because he gets upset when the cart is unorganized)

(2) Watch out or sheíll breathe on you. Or spit a rotten tooth out at you. (my brother explaining why we donít let their Chihuahua give us kisses)

(3) Cockroaches are called water bugs because they like to go swimming in the pool. (as we sat outside Sunday night around the pool, watching the big-ass cockroaches come out for their own version of adult swim) (you gotta love Houston)

(4) Did you see your nephewís underpants lying on the floor in the hall? (yes, I kept stepping around them) Did you see what they were full of? (ah, not my worry)

Last night, we went to the local burger joint with Don and his friend-girl. Before friend-girl got there, I was grilling Don on the status of their relationship. ďItís not a hot and heavy kind of thing; itís a friendly kind of thing,Ē he told me.

Later on, I told DW that that kind of bullshit wouldnít fly with me. I said by now, Iíd be pressuring Don for sex, and if he couldnít give it up, Iíd be frustrated and moving on along. My husband thanked his lucky stars that he is married to a woman who has no problem pressuring the man for sex.

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