So, I haven’t mentioned the catastrophe of Hurricane Maria that flattened my father’s family island of Puerto Rico. (My other family home of Alabama has also been hit pretty badly by Harvey and Irma.)
Puerto Rico is really, really bad. I don’t want to get into the politics of it all (because, it looks really bad for Washington D.C.) The island of 3.5 million American citizens (!) cannot get basic necessities like food and water. Electricity, which powers the water, communication, and distribution system is largely shut down. The roads are chocked with debris.
After a month.
If, the President of the United States won’t dedicate our nation to supporting the full recovery of this far-flung island of Americans in the middle of the “very big ocean,” how can you count on him for anything?
Please, Mr. President. Help.
Sitting in my Draft posts from years ago (April 2013).
Mere minutes ago, at bedtime (while it is still fresh in my mind…). I’m snuggled with Julianna (she’s 8).
J: Daddy, ghosts aren’t real, are they?
Me: No, Honey. Not real.
J: And, Heaven is a place in the sky that is dead.
J: And, ghosts come out of your body when you die.
Me: Uh… Huh? Well…
J: My friend Adam said so. He’s a vegetarian.
Me: A vegetarian?
J: Yeah. He says you should pour flour over them so you can see them better. He’s a vegetarian.
J: Yeah. But, ghosts aren’t real. Right?
Me: Um. No.
I’m not sure who’s going to need psychotherapy more: Me or Julianna. Or, Adam.
[Editor’s note… To my vegetarian friends: Personally, I am making absolutely no judgement here. Huzzah to you for your commitment. But, these are the (almost) verbatim quotes from an 8-year-old. Julianna may very well end up being a vegetarian herself. I really don’t care, as long as she gets enough protein (and not too much roughage). But, seriously… How do you pour flour over a ghost?]
I don’t want to leave you with the impression that the ONLY reason I bought these cupcakes was that they were on the clearance rack at the supermarket (originally $8, I got them for $2! What a deal.)
But, you know, sometimes, a fella just needs the comforting sweetness that only a purple frosted chocolate Princess cupcake can provide. And, if I should happen to get a cheap plastic Princess crown ring in the process, well, that’s a bonus in my book. To hell with society’s gender norms.
That’s how I always labelled them.
Politics aside (right wing), their chicken is awesome. Though their wings are, mostly, from the right side.
My 10-year-old is desperate for a Chick-Fil-A sandwich. So she encourages me. Beckons me. Nags me the F…. to drive to Pasadena. To get her a chicken sandwich.
I order 8 of them. And, I will tell you: That is some fine eating. Man, those are good.
So, I’m taking my daughter to gymnastics practice yesterday. And we hit a red light. My right arm is on the arm rest, That is what they are designed for. And, suddenly, I feel plucking. On my arm.
Isabella (she’s 10): You have white hairs on your arms.
Me: Yes. probably. But I am driving. I am old.
Iz: You also have them in your nose. White ones.
Me: You know I am driving an actual car., Yes?
Iz: Also, your ears. Long ones. Daddy, Can’t I pluck them?
Me: Good God, No. We are driving. And, when did you become an English waif?
[Re-read that wif an English girl’s voice.]
I’ve lost almost 20 pounds over the last 12 weeks. And, I did it with two simple words.
<clickbait> <clickbait> <clickbait>.
Also, when your doctor says words like: Diabetes. Heart Failure. Erectile Dysfunction. These are words that catch your attention.
(I’m still funny, right? Yes? No? The lady in the back is clapping….)
“They” (children, wife) made me buy a dozen donuts the other day from Yum-Yum Donuts. A dozen in Yum-Yum land is 14. Because, math. Hard.
I’m not saying that losing weight is easy. Because, crap, my life is over when I lose my keys. I mean, “Lite” beer is not beer.
[Editor’s note: This has been sitting in my ‘Definitely not approved” folder for about 5 years. Someone gave the green light. I don’t know why.]
We’re all adults here, right?
They happen. You know, the thing from the subject line above. Don’t make me say it again.
Sometimes they are planned… Usually unplanned… Occasionally, medically-induced.
They’re all good… Well, often. (Honestly, some are better than others.)
So… I had me one of them the other night. It was not quite like a “I shall lay ruin to the entire Amazon Empire” type of one. More like a: “Dude it’s one o’clock. Anything going on? ‘sup?”
My reply: “Well, what’s going on is that it is the middle of the night. I’m asleep. Who invited you? Where were you two hours ago when I could have used you? And, now you show up?”
This is common. So, in the middle of the night, a guy is faced with two options: Commit or Ignore.
In youth, “committing” to this is pretty simple. Doesn’t take much. Trust me. Tissues.
As an actual grown-up adult, though, I hate to describe these appearances as a “nuisance.” Because at my age….
But, sincerely, Dude, I really need my sleep so I can make it to the meeting at 8:00 a.m. It’s 5:35.. You’re not helping.
It doesn’t matter. “Where’s the party? ‘sup, Bro? Let’s get some.”
Me: Party? Get some? It’s much more complicated than that. Sleeping wife. Not now. ‘Bro.’
‘Just so you know, I’m planning to be around for a while.’
By the way, Bullshit to the four hour Viagra warnings. They sometimes last exactly: All. Night. Long. All night. (“Long” is how I kid myself. Self-delusion.)
For this discussion, let’s assume you have a sleeping buddy. For me, she is a “she.” Your mileage may vary.
There is always the matter of etiquette. And probably, liability. But, she has a hip. Her right hip. And a 1:00 a.m. snuggle/grind with a close friend is always nice. Also, there might be a boob squeeze.
Again, check with your lawyer first. Consent is the key.