A Juan and a two…

For the past year, The Boy has lived the life of a nomad, working as a field auditor for power and communications companies. He isn’t home to visit often, but when he’s in town we’ve adopted a new tradition – Bad Juan margaritas at the local TexMex dive.

These are not just any margaritas.  Not the frozen girlie variety sold in chain restaurants.  Not the syrupy-sweet stuff that bachelorettes drink to excess in Vegas. They are both terrifying and magical in their potency – bringing inexplicable cheerfulness when consumed responsibly. And by “responsibly”, i mean “less than three”, as the restaurant generally won’t serve any individual patron more than three of these things*.

But what fun is that?

We continued the tradition on his last visit.  Bashing tortilla chips and sipping the neon-green power-punch, The Boy talked about the frustrations of life on the road.  Ten to twelve-hour days.  The work is repetitive enough to be mind-numbing, but still requires just enough intellectual effort to prevent him from completely zoning out.  He doesn’t
want to do this forever, but isn’t quite sure what’s next.

daisyfae:  In the meantime, you’re not stuck behind a desk.  The pay and benefits are good.

The Boy:  True. But how much money do I need?  If you have enough, it loses meaning.

daisyfae: Then reframe it into terms that DO have meaning!  How many Bad Juans do you earn an hour?

The Boy:  I like the way you’re thinking here…

We did some basic math.  At $7.00 per drink – accounting for overtime, taxes and other adjustments to income – he earns more than enough to get really, really shit-faced drunk.

Motivation.  We haz it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This month, The Boy is working in Florida, so it’s a bit more difficult for him to visit for the weekend.  He uses my place as his permanent mailing address.  Usually, i just pile his mail up in a basket on his desk, but the letter from his auto insurance agent was likely a bill.  i realized last weekend that he wouldn’t be home before the due date, so i
paid it.  Sent him a text afterwards…

daisyfae:  Just paid your car insurance – $392.  We can settle up next time you’re in town!

The Boy:  Thanks!  If you take payment in Bad Juans, it’s exactly 56.

daisyfae:  That would more than kill me.  Nice try.  Cash or check preferred.

The Boy:  Shekels it is!

it'll get you drunk

image found here

* unless you time your visit to coincide with a shift change, when you can sometimes scam a fourth one…

The Morning After

 i have delicious friends.  i also have an issue at the moment with a gentle pounding in my brain.  tequila.  it was dinner.  happy birthday to me.  ow… 

Was very surprised last week when some family photos appeared in Facebook-world.  Many photos i’d never seen before.  Over the weekend, a cousin began the tedious process of scanning in photos from her mother’s photo albums.  And there we were…  Nice way to celebrate my 47th birthday.  Well, posting photos is easier than writing while still ensconced in a tequila-induced hangover cloud…

Shhhh…. please read quietly.  ow…

that is either a flaw in the photograph, or i was tethered to the ceiling by a small rope through my nose.  either is possible...

that is either a flaw in the photograph, or i was tethered to the ceiling by a small rope through my nose. either is possible...

 
 
 L-R: Sister T, Dad, Sister S, Brother T, daisyfae sporting a turd-filled diaper, Mom

L-R: Sister T, Dad, Sister S, Brother T, daisyfae sporting a turd-filled diaper, Mom

 

Family Pouting Contest, 1967.  My brother lost.  i earned bonus points for sweating profusely.  That's me in the orange...

Family Pouting Contest, 1967. My brother lost. i earned bonus points for sweating profusely. That's me in the orange...

 

i'm going to grow up to be a twisted, cold-hearted woman, writing trash about my family.  mom knocked out my teeth.  wanna buy my gerbil? 

i'm going to grow up to be a twisted, cold-hearted woman, writing trash about my family. mom knocked out my teeth. wanna buy my gerbil?