passing and gassing

Sharaun‘s grandfather died on Saturday; I took the call from her mom, and broke the news when she returned from Christmas shopping. She took it well, as did I, because there’s really not much else you can do. It was until Sunday night that she really took some time to think about it. I was brushing my teeth and she had already crawled into bed. I called out to ask if she’d set the alarms for the morning, and could tell by her choked reply that something was wrong. I walked over, toothbrush in hand and mouth full of paste-spit, to find her crying. I knew why, so I just gave her a little hug and went to finish my teeth. After that we both lay in bed, crying about Papa. He took a turn for the worse the day we left Florida for our Thanksgiving visit. For some reason, we didn’t visit him this time while we were there. Maybe it was the three-hour drive, maybe a too-packed schedule, but I think that really upset Sharaun. We made it a point to see everyone, but missed Papa this time.

Last night, while passively watching television at Pat’s place, Ben and I noticed a McDonald’s commercial announcing the return of the McRib. Oh man, I haven’t had a McRib since high school… and I think they were 99 cents back then. Anyway, nostalgia took hold – and Ben and I decided we’d hit the Golden Arches for lunch at work Monday, to once again taste the McRib. Now, I can’t rightly remember the last time I went to a McDonald’s. I’m not measuring it in years or anything, but it has been quite a while. If I do go, it’s usually a road-trip pit-stop for a couple of those old-skool hamburgers, and I think the last time I did that was on the haul from Houston to my brother’s base in Killeen this summer. We rolled up to the local McD’s around noon, and walked right up to order our McRib Value Meals. Pat and Wes decided to accompany us, so between the four of us we ordered four of the rectangular sandwiches.

McRibs are bad, guys. I mean, they are not good. Sure, they’re swimming in BBQ sauce, and loaded with little onions and pickles, but they’re not really meat. I mean, they are probably meat-based, but they sure aren’t off any bones that I know of. This tiny little rack of ribs, which, if you think about it, is kinda gross. What little animal’s ribs are this size? A kitten? A squirrel? The meat is reminiscent of the little glued-together strands of wood in a sheet of OSB… pressed together with some unholy glue into little rib molds. It tastes meaty enough, and barbecuey enough, and even kinda yummy if you can remove yourself from the notion of its origin. At $2.50, the thing is hardly a steal… so I don’t think I’ll be going back again soon. But it was at least fun to tell everyone we were going to get McRibs for lunch…

Quarter to eleven on Monday night. I’m sitting here listening to an illegally-downloaded copy of U2’s new LP, while I refresh the indie group looking for more tunes to steal. I don’t care. Just got back from a nice get-together at Anthony’s, where we had some chili, beers, and made new friends. The wind is howling outside the window, making my newly-hung Christmas lights sway back and forth from the eaves. I can hear the gusts in the exhaust vents on the roof, echoing in the attic above. It’s only raining a little, but it’s cold. The wind makes it seem colder when you step outside. I like it. I sat and watched the gray skies at work today. Sure, I was in a meeting, but I can stare and think at the same time. What’s important, anyway? Trying to figure out the deep undercurrents of office politics, or watching gray clouds roll in for an evening storm? That’s what I thought.

So the indie group produced a hit, and now I’m happily listening to the new Iron & Wine EP to close down the evening. About time to hit the sack with my book and relax. Shaine’s promised me more scanned correspondence from the 6th grade, and I’m waiting anxiously to see what other whale-tales I may have spun to impress him. For now it’s time to call it a night though. Work comes in the morning, and I want to be ready for it, y’know? Like, ready to trudge in under the cold morning sun, resigning my day to sitting a’fore a CRT with a boom-mic hanging from my ear, talking of bits and bytes and current and loads and pins and bandwidths and spreadsheets and margins and deliverables and milestones and customers and ROIs. Argh… send me to the woods, where I can sleep on the ground.

I’m kinda tired of the whole “Dave out” thing. Goodnight, good morning.

Also written on this day...

• about nothing really - 2018
• both glee and stress - 2010
• constructive criticism - 2006
• lessons for the dunce - 2005