Friday, May 29, 2009

There's More to Love Than Just the Irish Butter

Something crazy happens when I go over to my neighbor/landlord's house. I lose track of time and, or possibly because of, the fact that the baby behaves himself for extended periods of time. Did you hear that? To my friends who've not yet sprung life from their gonads, I will interpret: (in list form, of course)

a.) When you have a baby it's so easy at first because they're basically a stationary object, much like a giant hungry potato.
b.) When the baby grows, it acquires many new skills which are amazing and adorable.
c.) Eventually you realize God makes babies cute because the trick's on you and those adorable skills now render you a homebound, shut-in bunch of haywire nerves ready to self destruct at every moment and around every bend.

But for some reason, which may have something to do with several facts concerning how my neigh/lords are straight off the boat Irish, drink like fish, resemble TV characters, and speak in accents thicker than molasses, Griffin is completely at home and relaxed and good. I don't even dare talk about it less I break some kind of spell and he turns back into the firebreathing couch clutcher he once was long ago. Brrrr.

Anyhow, the neighlords are so sweet they are kind of obscene. Friends, listen. They actually love to cook me dinner. Comprende? Also? They push alcohol on me like they're my own flesh and blood. And that says AMEN all over it. I haven't been treated this nice since before I hit puberty and my parents decided I was adopted. The majesty. Needless to say I'm pretty much over there every day and you know its bad when I don't even bitch at Grant for coming home so late because I'm 3 sheets* and it's 10pm before I even know it. So what if my new best friends are 60+ years old? At least they can order off the Seniors menu at Bob Evans. What can you do?

*To the wind. Aka: shitty, shitty, bang, bang.

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