The Way Things Are






Fine. Fine. Sheesh. All right, already.
2005-11-16, 9:51 a.m.

Fine. Fine. Sheesh. All right, already. Hereís a post-weekend update. Itís unfortunate that I really have not all that much to report. And as is my wont, I will totally launch into some endless blatherÖrightÖaboutÖ.


So on Friday night, I met DW at the Sports Bar downtown for a quick drink, and as often happens in small towns, one of our good friends came in (not Don, surprisingly enough, who was in Seattle visiting family, so I supposed the bigger surprise would have been if he had indeed shown up), and we ended up sitting there for a few hours. But being a good girl, I cut it off at one beer, because I am (1) a lightweight (2) terrified of the DWI (or the worse things that happen stemming from DWI), and (3) I got kinda bored and really just wanted to go home and eat after a while.

But DW kept remarking how very cool I was NOT to bail out on the happenstance meeting of said friend at the bar, so I stayed so that I could bask in the glow of being deemed cool by the very cool DW. Iím all about the cool kids thinking Iím cool.

When we got home, we learned on the 10:00 news that one of our friendsí father had died in a freak accident. I had never met the father, but this friend was DWís wingman on our first date. He was DWís bail-out in case our date wasnít going well, and as it ended up, the three of us played pool til the wee hours, and after that was the infamous swipe, and then after that I gave DW a second chance, and then after that we got married and this friend was in our wedding.

If you donít know what Iím talking about, go dig through the archives. But I will tell you this: DW got very drunk on our first date, and grabbed my crotch out in the parking lot. Not so much a grab as a swipe. And he uttered the now infamous line, that our friends make me repeat whenever weíre all in a room together, slurringly, ďI got a hard-on a cat couldnít scratch.Ē For the record, he isnít allowed to act like that anymore. Very much. Awwww. Wouldnít you marry him?

Back to the present. Saturday was a day like many other Saturdays. DW played in a golf tourney raising funds for our local high schoolís golf team (apparently, the golf team was very generously given a whole $500 for the year by the school district. Mother fucking school district. What about the nerds, I ask you? What do they have besides golf?) while I stayed home and cleaned cleaned cleaned the house and then grocery shopped.

Arenít yíall glad Iím updating? I have so many very interesting things to tell you.

But Saturday night was actually, very truly fun. First, some background. Back in 1999, there were all these TV commercials for something called ivillage, some website for simpering women who were all global villagey and supported each other and whatnot. And being a woman in need of divorce-support, I took a look-see one day, and found a message board of the funniest, sharpest, smartest, and frankly foul-mouthed kinswomen you could ever hope to meet. So six years and several get-togethers later in Austin and Las Vegas, I have a score of friends (SCORE!) with whom I email on a daily basis, talk to on the phone a bit, and meet in person every few years.

So on Saturday, one of my imaginary friends from the computer, along with her husband, moseyed down IH-35 our way, and met up with DW and me at a local eatery-drinkery. We had met before Ė this wasnít like a first-time internet sex date. However, I did insist upon calling it an internet sex date, and we descended upon the eatery-drinkery and proceeded to SHUT IT DOWN. Letís just say that Sunday morning, DW was surprised that I was up and about at the early hour of 9:00, and letís also say a big God Bless Coffee and Bacon and Eggs. Can I get an amen?

Sunday was a day of moderate recovery. I hate it when Iím just hung-over enough in the morning to not be able to make sense of the newspaper. Itís as if my neuron pathways have been ravaged, and either need to heal up, or I need completely new ones formed, like a river forging a new path around a landslide of rocks, and my reading comprehension levels are WAY down until late in the evening, when my brow finally unfrinkles and I begin to understand the world around me. But Iím good for manual labor in these situations, so there were French door windows scraped, and shelves installed, and some laundering and cooking and other wifely duties performed.

Monday. I got nothiní. Really. My left buttock was hurting from a bout of sciatica, and I left work early because I was too cranky to get any work done.

And that brings us to yesterday. We attended the memorial service of our friendís father, and the speakers made me wish I had known him. But our friend seems to be doing all right, and he and DW chatted a bit, remarking on the fact that they were both wearing suits, which is a sure sign that things are getting back to normal.

I sat next to my friend Deb, who was all teary-faced when I got there. She explained that she got there early, and had been listening to the pianist play the favorite old-fashioned hymns of every dead relative sheís ever had. ďIím a blubbering idiot, and I didnít even know the guy!Ē

I squeezed her arm, and that, my friends, is a kind of a breakthrough for me. Iím not much of an arm squeezer. I might be breaking out of my antisocial, awkward affection shell. Sure, Iíll have sex with you (let me qualify that: if you are a man who is my husband), but donít necessarily count on me delivering that comforting arm squeeze when you are distraught and tear-stained.

Last night, our new dining room furniture was delivered, which replaces our former shitty-ass dining room furniture. One of these days, when the lighting is just right for my picture-phone, Iíll get some shots of it for you. Itís very beautiful and it seems to have been made for our house specifically. And itís a very large table. As I explained to DW, you could totally butcher a deer on it, or even perform dueling autopsies. Itís just that big.

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