Move along. Nothing to see here.


For the gelatenous few who read our little page, I have very little new to add this week. Really. TV still works, back feels better, Mrs. A's still pregnant (some would say even more so) Little Miss Austin is still little, and at last check, still a Miss. I think the hottest news is I got new running shoes and Mrs. A went to see Willie Nelson with her dad.

I suppose I could pontificate about that lovely experience.

If you are in a relationship with someone you adore more than your own life you tend to do things that to them seem extraordinarily endearing and well intended. You get out of a warm bed to fetch some water, you take off early from work to pick up the kid so they can go out to happy hour, you offer to babysit so they can see a movie or hang out with an old friend or pick up some comics. You do these things because that's your job and you do it gladly. If you didn't, you shouldn't be on the HMS Relation. It's that easy.

So when your wife or husband or partner says something like, "Honey there's been a problem with my concert tickets." You immediately jump into the fold, sword drawn, ready to slay the ticket conglomerate beast even if it takes your own life in the process. You offer to help, you ask, "Ok, what's the problem?"

"Well, I haven't got them yet."

"Yeah, that's a problem. Did you call them?"

"Yes, they're going to hold them at Will Call."

There it is, problem solved. You've shown genuine interest toward an issue that was resolved before you mounted your noble steed.

"Oh, good."

"Well, but there's a problem with that."

And yet the shadow of the threat looms near, always lurking. It's a darkness that never leaves you.

"What's the problem?"

"I used your card to get the tickets, so I have to use your card to pick them up."

Whirling, the knight is incapable of tracking the monster.

"So, take my card. I'll be home with the kid."

"Well they need your ID too, and basically you need to pick up the tickets."

As if the Gabriel himself blew his horn and opened the sky above our hero, the beast falls and crushes the knight with his mighty talloned foot.

"You're kidding. So I have to go all the way out there, with LMA (I don't actually say LMA), pick up the tickets and drive back? That's the best they could do for you after the post office lost the tickets?"

"I'm sorry?"

*sigh* "No, that's ok. We'll hit the comic store on the way back. No big deal."



No big deal. I should avoid using words like "No big deal" and "Sure you can borrow that" and "No I don't have plans this weekend" because I always get the short, dirty end of the stick. What neither of us knew was that it wasn't just a trip down and back, I had to park a half o' mile away just like all the other concert goers, hike myself and an nigh 3 year old to general admission, get the tickets, then walk back, then drive home.

Had I known they were going to not give me back my credit card, I wouldn't have stopped for gas.

And the beasts foot twists and turns, grinding our hero's back into the hot, acrid brimestone.

So I had to call Mrs. A at the concert from a payphone, then again at home, to get her to get my card. All in all it wasn't a bad experience, I mean, there have been worse. I think the point is I handle situations poorly. I'm like a little kid whose routine has been disrupted. I get grumpy and pissy and just generally abrasive to be around. I make people promise me favors and gifts and retrun investments for the hardship I'm currently enduring. I make people fear the retribution that will follow. I'm like this if I can't sleep or someone stands me up. I really wish I could deal with it better because I'm sure as a role model, it's not the best trait to have.

So, in the end the concert was great and I got home in time to hear the Avs get their butts kicked. Mrs. Austin promised me a 19" flatpanel monitor for our PC for my troubles, I settled for a few new packs of comic art paper.

...slowly the knight grasps his fallen sword and swings up at the beast, piercing its soft underbelly. The beast recoils in pain. The wounded knight rises and lunges one last time, arm high, sword raised for the killing blow...

Told you I didn't have anything to talk about.

I'm playing with new templates on Blogger, so if you don't see anything over here -->
try stretching your browser a bit, it's just down below but the frames don't like it.
I know, I know, giant pain in the ass, but if you're a current reader,
you won't need the archives anyway, right? Maybe someday I'll host the whole thing myself
and there will be no more ads, and I can post pictures of naked hedgehogs with swastika tattoos.

Ah the dream.

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