I lost my cell phone. Pretty sure it’s at the beach. Perhaps, I left it there deliberately because I don’t want to talk to anyone. I think that’s fair…..to everyone but my wife.

I grew up with a rotary phone, and I’m still alive. Luckily, the long cord didn’t strangle me when twisting and turning around with siblings saying, “Who are you talking to? Is that your girlfriend? Where did she come from? What’s her favorite part of a BLT”. Jerks.

I would always say to this girl on the phone, “I can’t talk now. In fact, never call me here again. Let’s just speak in English class.” That was in the eighth grade.

She is now my wife.

To those of you who give a crap, my excuse for not writing recently is because I’ve been reading an article from The New Yorker for the last three months. It’s safe to say The New Yorker isn’t known for its succinctness. I won’t bore you with details because I’ve drifted off to sleep too many times while reading it. Let’s just say when your wife has to knock on the bathroom door to ask, “Are you ok in there?”, you know it’s a long, boring article. At any rate, I’ve left the bathroom and am back in business.

I love records.  I’ve aspired to hold a few.

“Can you get me a glass of milk in 45 seconds?  That’s the record.”  “Can you bike down to 7-11 and get me some gatorade in less than a half hour? That’s the record.”  “Can you go downstairs while I’m peacefully watching Loony Toons, grab me a hot cup of chocolate milk, and bring it to me without spilling it within sixty seconds? Cuz that’s the record.”

To this day, I haven’t broken a record, but I tried every time to break it.  It was strange, I never held a stop watch, but I was always one second shy of holding those sacred records according to my brother.  Equally as strange, I never knew who actually held those records, and equally as stupid, I never asked.

What’s the deal with yodeling?

Good morning. I wish it to be a happy year for all of you earthlings, but I’m not going to wish anyone a happy new year. After day one, it becomes redundant. I do wish everyone a bunch of great days to follow after and beyond January.

However, I’d like to specifically mention people like my friend who has made this a good year. Thank you.

Take Care.

Yesterday, Jesus stopped by our house for biscuits and gravy, so that was pretty cool. We hadn’t met him before, and we have to admit, he’s quite an affable fellow. Upon arrival, He tossed off his robe and Birkenstocks replacing them with a cashmere sweater and sneakers. “Even I get cold and uncomfortable sometimes.”

It was a short visit because we didn’t have any wine to offer. We told him we do have plenty of water though. He just laughed and said, “I get where you’re going with this. That’s a myth…..just like Santa. That bearded mountain of Jolliness couldn’t climb down a chimney if there were cookies deep fried in chocolate sauce in the fire place. Ha! Merry Me Day. Take it easy, and God Bless you. I’m out.”

Green bean casserole is widely known as the most difficult and treacherous thanksgiving side dishes since wine.

I’ve struggled with this dish with green beans, store bought onion strings and cream of mushroom soup.

My wife offered to prepare it this year, while I, for the last fifteen years have prepared cornbread dressing, and stuffing for the bird. Gravy included.

I will give her this. If she makes the casserole, I’ll take her to Hamilton.

I’ve heard it’s 3 hours long.

Punishment

Van Morrison, one of my favorite unintelligible song writers, wrote a song regarding the simple notion that “There will be days like this.” His Mama told him this.

Some people take that so negatively.

We all get sick and it stinks. We have to take out the garbage. That stinks. Your wife likes watching birds more than holding her husband’s hand. My Mama never told me about those days.

Birds were fun for my mom to watch, analyze and depict. Britt, my wife, feels the same. My mother told me to embrace the goodness of the world while accepting the fact that we are all flawed. According to my wife and late mother, birds can even be flawed, but it’s not deliberate. It’s simply the isosceles triangle of life.

On Halloween, one of my brothers gave out baked potatoes for trick or treaters. My brother, Steve ,who baked them, in return, received a few of the potatoes crashing through one of his windows. He actually laughed and knew the trick was on him.

Spending 7 and a half hours should be something special at a ballgame. And, it was….when you are 10. Actually, it was still terrific the other night and we are in our fifties…other than my wife. (She’s 25).

My wife, brother, friend. and I spent this amount of time and 18 innings at the park. Was it fun? Yes! Did you feel as though you were at a Catholic Mass sitting and standing? Sometimes. Because the game was quite stressful, did you want to slit your throat? Never.

In our backyard, 7 and a half hours was nothing while playing baseball. I can’t speak for any other of my brothers or hooligan neighbors, but after ten hours, we were still having fun until the dinner bell rang.