By my count, my driver’s license (Texas) expires in less than three months.

For the last ten years, I’ve gotten away with just renewing it on line.  It would seem that the state is aware that people age nowadays, and as a result of that epiphany, they feel compelled to have a more current picture of my mugly ugg on file.  I’ll probably try to take care of it at the end of March when I begin my 3rd annual staycation event.

All in all, I haven’t been very impressed with the age of 43.

Okay, I have two non-sequitur topics to tangentially introduce here. I was originally going to lament over how age 43 has generally sucked and that I’m looking forward to 44.

*yawn*

This one goes out to the doosh bag at work who insists on using a stall instead of a urinal in which to pee.

Dude.

Close the damn door.

It’s not like you’re extending your level of privacy to hide whatever shortcomings you possess by peeing in a stall with the door open.  There are partition walls between the urinals which keep others from checking out your junk while you shake twice for Texas.

Even worse is the fact that you’re using the handicapped stall where the door opens out instead of in.  Do you know what that means?

That means that you’re closing off the narrow corridor which passes by the stalls which are on the way to the urinals.  Leaving the larger door on the handicapped stall open makes the corridor about six inches wide.

That also means we have to close the door on your worthless ass as we walk by just to get to the place where we can take part in the national pastime of urinal etiquette.

Seriously man.  Are you even thinking about what you’re doing?

Speaking of peeing with the door open, Wifey and I tried a new Mexican food restaurant tonight.  It was quite sad really.  Just a matter of months ago, the building had been occupied by a burger joint which had great fried jalapenos and breathtaking views of well worn denim.

*pause for reminiscence*

For reasons unknown, the burger joint didn’t survive.  The eatery which took over the building brags on it’s menus that it’s related to another Mexican food restaurant which has been here in town for quite a long time.  Sad to say, the food wasn’t as good, and the waiters wearing dirty hot pink aprons didn’t really provide the same aesthetic appeal as the previous establishment.

As much as I would like to say that the one saving grace of the joint was the variety of greases I encountered on the complimentary chips, the odd-tasting enchilada, or even my napkin, I can’t.  Instead, I was amused by the brilliant display of luchador masks across the top of the bright orange wall adorned with various crosses.

Now if you excuse me, I have a grease laden misery to deal with, and I’m pretty sure I’ll need to close the door.