The Way Things Are






Here’s to you, Minnesota Transplants to South Texas!
2005-08-12, 2:16 p.m.

Here’s to you, Minnesota Transplants to South Texas!

You, with your neatly maintained automobiles and functional U-Haul trailers.

Your road etiquette…sticking to a safe 55 mph, hugging the right lane of I-35…

We welcome you, Minnesota Transplants to South Texas! May you be ambassadors of safe driving and organized moving to South Texans everywhere!


So we do indeed have lights and ceiling fans at the new house. It’s amusing to see which areas have been overlit, and in which areas we may have misunderestimated our lighting needs. For example: the closets. You could grow an illicit crop of say, medicinal catnip in any of the closets, or the laundry room. However, Lil Guy’s bathroom is dim and dismal, as is the master bath wee potty room. Perfect for cultivating a medicinal crop of 'shrooms.

We’re hoping that a bump-up in bulb wattage will help out.

But we may need to carry flaming torches with us to go to the bathroom, especially if we expect to get any reading done. And that would help keep the werewolves and Frankensteins away, too.

Right about….mmm…NOW…we should have a driveway, a front sidewalk, and front porch steps poured. Sadly, poured from concrete, not from liquid hot MAG MA like I had wished for.

A/C and floors happen early next week. Much to our surprise, we found that the floor people won’t deliver our deluxe cheap-ass laminate wood-looking floor until the A/C is functional, due to the potential of devastating warpage. That’s warp-age, not war-page.

And then all we have to do is sit around for another month and wait for the FUCKING PLUMBER to get his shit (literally!) finished. So that our shit will have a place to go, a little home once it leaves the safety and security of our bodies and ventures out into the wide, wide world. Or, actually, underground in our front yard. Don’t you want to have a picnic on the lush green grass, under the trees there? No?


Last night, I was half-awakened by a knock on our front door. Either I actually told DW to answer the door, or I dreamed it, but I promptly went back to sleep. After what seemed like hours of sleeping, but must have been mere seconds, there was the knock again. It was a polite “Come answer your door, please” knock, not a frantic “Your house is afire!” kind of knock.

DW got up to investigate. I heard him shuffling around the house a bit, peering out of the blinds next to the front door, checking door locks, etc.

He came back to bed, and said he saw some girl walking down our street, and turning onto the adjacent street. Jeans, t-shirt, casually walking along. Nobody he recognized. I have no problem with folks being out and about, walking the streets at the ungodly hour of 11:30. But why would she be knocking on our door politely?

If something were wrong, wouldn’t she be beating on our door, hollering for help? Isn’t that just about the only reason you would knock on the door of an obviously sleeping houseful of strangers at practically midnight?

Or if this were a home invasion ploy, wouldn’t she have had some accomplices somewhere that DW would have seen?

I had my old house in San Antonio knocked up a few times in the middle of the night. Once, it was a bunch of drunken frat boys looking for the girl that lived two houses down from me. I freaking screamed at them and kicked the inside of the door, I was so pissed off. They were BEATING on the door, hollering for Melissa to let them in. I hope they didn’t find her, and if they did, I hope she called the cops. I know I nearly did, but they cleared out too quickly for me to make them very, very sorry.

The second time it happened, it was a little person of indeterminate age and gender. Looked like it might have been a woman in her early 20s or a young teenage boy. Or David Bowie. Was reasonably polite, and obviously a home invasion ruse. S/he said that hisher car had broken down on McCullough, half a block away from me, and that they needed to use my phone. Oh, OK. How about if I call a taxi for you, friend? I already did that! wailed my would-be assaulter. Then do you need me to call the police? No, ma’am.

Hmm, fishy much? You’re going to have to work on your story before half-asleep morons let you into their house.

I wonder what our near-midnight caller had in mind last night? Wouldn’t it be funny if it were one of the many marginally sane women that DW has “known” in his lifetime (cue the music: to all the girls I've LOOOOVED before), making a mixed-up drunken bootie call? I promise you all, if that ever happens, I WILL take notes and transcribe the conversation for you word-for-word.

I’m trying to imagine who would be confused and inebriated enough to be knocking on the wrong door….maybe it was Lindsay Lohan.

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