The Way Things Are






In order to honor something
2005-08-05, 3:01 p.m.

In order to honor something that we around here like to call free-form Friday (I just made that up – we do no such thing), I present to you the two Yahoo news stories that I will steadfastly refuse to read, because their headlines are just too perfect, and I don’t want to ruin them.


“Green sea turtle makes rare Va delivery.” Legal documents? Pizza? A cryptic message or love letter, perhaps? Turtles, I am sure, make very notable deliveries, but I am afraid that their widespread use as delivery agents is not the best idea. There’s a good reason this is rare. They are rather slow, turtles are…on second thought, let’s not go there. ‘Tis a silly place.


"Air France jet landed too far down runway." This is exquisite for its “derr” factor. You say the plane landed to far down the runway? Like off it? DERR!

San Antonio is home to a comestible sensation called Murf’s Better Burger. Better than what, you ask? That remains to be seen. Better than a sharp stick in the eye, I reckon. I’ve lived in and around this town for 18 years, and never did quite trust the looks of Murf’s. As of today, I am no longer a Murf’s virgin, as I ate a Murf-burger and fries for lunch, at the behest of a co-worker. Peer pressure. These people always getting me to do stuff…

Sad news is that one or two or several or a few years ago, Murf passed away. Go ahead, google it. Maybe you will find Murf’s obituary. But Murf’s Better Burger, home of the Murf-burger, lives on. Vive la Murf!

So how was the burger? Kind of yucky, actually. But the fries rocked the house. Fat crinkle-cuts limp and loaded with lard. Like me, right?

In other news, here’s a snippet of the most confusing conversation ever had between two confused people, one of whom is a 12-year-old boy, and therefore chronically confused by the stirrings of testosterone coursing through his bloodstream and polluting his addled brains. And me:

Lil Guy: So after I spend Saturday with Lou, his parents are going to drop me off here so I can spend Saturday night with you.

Me: Huh? Your dad’s coming home (from Santa Fe) on Saturday, so you will stay at Lou’s house and your dad will pick you up there on his way home from the airport.

LG: I thought I was supposed to spend the night with you.

Me: Who told you that?

LG: My dad.

Me: Huh? But he told me he was coming home on Saturday. Or at least he said he would be gone Wednesday through Saturday. I assume that means he’s coming home Saturday. We need to figure this out.

LG: ……Look! A new Mustang!

I asked my XMIL, and she didn’t know nothin'. She and I performed a group snort at Surly’s lackadaisical planning, and the fact that he doesn’t understand or honor the carefully choreographed ballet that we all (all except him) perform each day getting the kid where he needs to be, with the shit he needs to have with him, each and every day.

So I called Surly. Here’s how that went:

Me: Where is LG spending Saturday night?

Him: Wherever. With you, with Lou. Wherever.

Me: I thought you were coming home Saturday…

Him: No.

Me: OK. Bye.

Him: Bye.

My people! Wherever? WHEREVER? I don’t even need to say anything else about this. But…WHEREVER?

Anyway, I called XMIL back and told her of the conversation and said “What if “wherever” was on the front porch because I had made plans to be out of town?” She got it, like totally. For sure. We laughed, we cried, and I am documenting it here in case it comes up in court. KIDDING. I nurse no grudges.

I took a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror (relax, it’s not drrrty – we don’t do that here):

What troubles me is that I look drunk. And yet I’m not. Yet.


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