So Anyways...

Lt. Trouble's operation was a success. Which is not to say it didn't have its moments. Do you know how you sometimes get those awful headaches when you put new glasses on? Especially if the prescription's been changed fairly radically?

He had that. Times three. Two percosets and four extra-strength Advils (or Tylenols, I forget which) and he still couldn't sleep.

But damn, he sure could see.

He called me the next day to tell me he was alive.

He called me twice the day after that, the second time after leaving the emergency room at the base hospital. Seems he was putting eyedrops in every two hours that were supposed to go in every six.

He called me five times today. He's bored out of his skull. He's so ready to go back to work.

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For those who were wondering: here's the skinny on why Texas knows when we buy chips: My daughter's teacher was trying to make a point about technology and commerce, using potato and/or corn chips as an example. Frito-Lay's headquarters is located in Plano, Texas, and that they keep track of where chips are being purchased, and in what quantity. I'm guessing that the teacher said something along the lines of "So whenever we buy a bag of chips, they know about it in Texas," where "Texas" was shorthand for 'Frito-Lay's Headquarters in Plano, Texas.'

My daughter's 8-year-old brain didn't grasp the subleties.

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Last weekend, we discovered that the father of two schoolmates of my kids lives across the street and three doors down. His kids were visiting for the weekend, and all four kids alternated between my backyard and theirs. I don't know much about these kids, so I spent some time on the porch, keeping an eye out, making sure there were no problems.

At one point, while I was on the porch, my daughter ran halfway back to my house and bellowed 'Can I have a Pepsi?' I'm pretty lenient about these things, but caffeine and my daughter don't mix well, so I told her she couldn't.

A few minutes later, she did the same thing, inquiring about orange juice. That she could have.

A woman appeared on the front porch of the kids father's house. She was wearing a miniskirt, high heels, and dark stockings. I was far enough away that I couldn't make out features, but she looked like she was dressed to go nightclubbing. Which was a little bit unusual, since it was three o'clock on a hot Friday afternoon. I figured it was the kids stepmother or something.

A few minutes later, she started walking towards my house. Cool, I think, I'll get to check her out. Maybe she's a babe. I smile my best welcoming smile, and watched her approach. She had a trim figure. Very trim. nearly shapeless. Her arms, however, were muscular.

And tattooed.

And she seemed to need a shave.

Oh, dear.

Unlike the girl in the bathroom I met in 1985, there was little doubt that this person was born a male.

But you know what? It didn't matter.

She was being a gracious host to my kids. And that's all.

In many ways, I admire her. Because she's made a choice. It had to be a hard one, but she made it anyway.

We had a nice chat, and I told her if my kids were any trouble to send them home. She welcomed me to the neighborhood, and I said thanks.

If this is what maturity feels like, I kinda like it.

Yeharr