How To Ruin A Six Year-Old’s Birthday Party

Calamity.

Tragedy.

Havoc.

CAKETASTROPHE.

When I woke up Sunday morning, I found myself staring into a box that surely signified misery, anguish, and doom.

The Attitude’s 6th Birthday party was just over three hours away, and in the windowed, white bakery box that not eight hours earlier had held his finished, decorated, homemade Pac-Man/Jack o’ Lantern hybrid cake (complete with fleeing Ghost!), I gazed down upon a spongy, crevassed  ruin that represented a parent’s nightmare.

When I went to bed Saturday night, the Pac o’ Lantern cakes looked like this:

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But, morning brought disaster (as is usually the case, because morning is a terrible time for anyone):

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Upon witnessing our loss, as I’m sure you can imagine, we spent the next half hour wailing like orphaned children while hugging our knees and rocking in place.

We had failed at the most basic of Modern Parental Tests: The Themed Birthday Party with the Handcrafted Cake.

In retrospect, I can’t imagine how or why we were so foolish. We should have hired armed guards to protect the cakes on pain of death for the handful of hours that we slept. And, why, in the name of the Four Fiery Dragons Of Parental Judgment, did we not think to trade a pound of butter and a soul or two (I mean, the family has six altogether…surely we could spare one) for the occult bakery blessings of Madame Pettifor, the Dark Priestess of Crafted Party Sweets. Surely for the right price she would have granted us safe passage through the dangerous night, when vengeful, mouth-less spirits apparently roam the mortal plane in search of bakery goods to demolish.

But we didn’t, and instead we paid the price for our arrogance.

And the worst part?

The worst part would not even be the inevitable, unceasing shame that would burn us from pancreas to medulla as our families looked down in anger and disappointment upon our abject failure.  No, the worst part would be hiding.  The Lies by Omission. The inability to post pictures of the party’s icing-enriched success to Facebook and Instagram for all our followers to Heart or Like or celebrate in joyful wonder.

Instead, pictures of cake would be conspicuously absent from our Sunday feeds. A void that was certain to be noticed, called out, and mocked by all the Skilled, Perfect Parents of American Social Media Society.

Mighty confectionary gods, we were going to have to delete our Pinterest accounts, the modern day equivalent of racing out of town at midnight with an angry, buttercream-frenzied mobs on our heels. And only If we were lucky, could we maybe, in a few months after the event had blown over and terabytes of holiday pictures had been pinned to an endless whirlwind of Other People’s boards, might we create new users and begin rebuilding our online reputations.

The anguish—the struggle—that morning was very real.

Well, that is until we decided to remake the cakes before the party.

And hours later, The Attitude, unfazed by any of it, enjoyed the frosting from a cupcake and then immediately began wondering when he could start opening his presents. Because he’s six. And whether or not a cake is perfect means about the same to him as whether or not tax day is coming up.

In the end, he couldn’t have cared less just as long as he had a candle to blow and and got a little icing.

cakes

Which brings us to today’s question: how do you ruin a six year-old’s birthday party?

Duh. You can’t. At least, not as long as you try to give them something.

And I’m thinking maybe there’s a lesson in there about parenting as a whole.

Now then, who wants a piece of cake? I think we have some extra.

Pud’n

A Movie In 100 Words Or Less: Live Die Repeat: Edge Of Tomorrow

EdgeOfTomorrowBelieve it or not, I apparently haven’t written one of the tired and tried “A Movie In 100 Words Or Less” posts since way back in March. On March 25, I offered my (wildly complimentary) thoughts on The Lego Movie. But I suppose when I wrote that post voicing concerns about my approach to evaluating movies (which was triggered by the DVD release of Man of Steel), I sort of decided maybe I wouldn’t do it any more after that.

I mean, I did do it again after that when I gave you 100 words about The Lego Movie, but I guess I only got my nerve back for a Very Special, One Post Appearance!

Here’s the thing, though: I realized last week I genuinely miss writing those 100-words movies posts. Much as I genuinely miss mid-afternoon weekday naps, spontaneous road trips, and having friends willing to sit at the bar until the end of each week’s Monday Night Football game, Tuesday’s early morning alarm clock be damned.

Unfortunately, at 40+, the Tuesday morning alarm clock is likely always going to carry more weight than Green Bay vs. Tampa, weekday naps are a non-starter, and spontaneous anything is right out, lest you expand the meaning of spontaneous to mean “a minimum of 24 hours of notice so that responsible child care can be retained”.

That does not, however, leave me hopeless. I can still bring back A Movie In 100 Words or Less.

So let’s do it. One night last week I stayed up too late watching Edge of Tomorrow. Or is it Live Die Repeat? Or Live Die Repeat: Edge of Tomorrow? Screw it, I don’t know what to call the thing. What I do know is that I’m not going to call it Shirley.

And I am going to tell you what I thought of it, in 100 words or less.

Live Die Repeat: Edge Of Tomorrow

I’d read somewhere that Edge of Tomorrow was effectively the sci-fi intersection of Independence Day and Groundhog Day. It IS that, but so much more, too. It’s an extremely well-written science fiction action movie with a hint of humor that didn’t get anywhere near its due in support from the studio (see: pre-DVD release title change). It’s an amazing ride that keeps you riveted until the very last shot, and more importantly, provides realistic motivation for a reluctant protagonist in a harrowing situation. If you genre at all, you definitely should see it. Heck, I’d watch it again tonight.

So, hey, here’s to the movie no one knows what to call. In fact, I guess I’ll just go with Tom Cruise and The Missing Commas of Title Punctuation.

I mean, seriously, “Live Die Repeat”? At least go with “Live, Die, Repeat.” or “Live. Die. Repeat.” Something. But this nothing? It makes my eyes itch.

But whatever, itchy eyes or not, at least I’ve got my 100-word movie reviews back.

With a little luck this will start a brand of new series of Review. Post. Repeat, for the days and months to come.

Pud’n

Fourteen Years Later

She was folding my shirts all wrong. Instead of folding both sleeves back and then folding the shirt in half at the torso, she halved the thing longways like folding a paper airplane.  And it wasn’t just my shirts, either. She folded my pants all wacky, too, not along the creases in the legs.  Hell, I even took exception to the way she balled up my socks. Didn’t she know that when you ball them up, it stretches out the top so eventually the sock won’t hold on anymore and just slinks down your ankle, limp, useless, and irritating like a lasagna noodle?

Fourteen years ago, when the Puddinette and I were but wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked newlyweds, the method of her folding my clothes sticks in my mind as one of the first times I got really irked with my new bride.

Not surprisingly, this led to a, um, verbal expression of our joint displeasure at that moment. Because having ridiculous arguments about laundry is the kind of thing you do in the first of your marriage.

Well, if you’re lucky.

Of course, in retrospect, from a guy who had spent the previous five years of his life taking clean socks out of the dryer on a weekly basis because actually folding the laundry was not a task he often deigned to set aside time for, complaining about his new wife’s folding customs seems a little…gigantically jerkface?

Actually, I can think of twenty different expressions to describe the arrogance in action there, but most of them I wouldn’t use around my kids, so I suppose I probably shouldn’t post them here either.

That’s not to say I was the only one with the occasionally irrational expectation when it came to learning to live together. It probably wasn’t more than a week or two of the Puddinette and I sharing a home before she threaten to claw my eyes out with a ice cream scoop and a dirty garden trowel if I didn’t close the lid on my contact solution bottle. Apparently, just knowing the bottle of solution was typically left sitting on the counter with the pop top open and mocking her was enough to bring a red tinge haze of murderous intent to her eyes.

Never mind that not once in the history of all mankind has a life or home been endangered or otherwise harmed by an open bottle of contact lens solution.

Sometimes we all just need the bottles closed and the creases in our pants to line up.

Today, fourteen years to the day since she and I promised to take care of each other for all the days of our lives, I make sure to snap the bottle shut every time I use it. And while she still folds everyone else’s laundry her way, she pins the sleeves of my shirts back and folds them over at the torso. My pants get hung up with the creases just where they should be, all lined up like soldiers.

Now, there will be people who read that and cluck their tongues and shake their heads. “Changing yourself is no way to be married. You got to be true to you first, before you can be good for anybody else. He should just fold is own damned pants.”

I would not disagree. But see, making sure that the cap of the contact lens bottle is snapped shut isn’t exactly what I’d consider changing myself.  Marriage—at least, a successful one—doesn’t mean rerouting your internal wiring to please another person. Because, yes, that way lies madness. Possibly ruin. Also, yoga pants, due to the consumption of excessive numbers of Oreo Double Stufs, because, hey, the Oreos will always love you for who and what you are.

Oreos never judge. Even for the yoga pants.

What it is, though, is an intentional effort to see the world through someone else’s eyes when going through your day-to-day. Have I become a “neat” and/or “clean” person? Sweets drops of kryptonite soup, no. As I’m constantly reminded, if left to my own (pathetically slothful) devices, I’d probably wallow in a dumphole of my own filth for weeks before the EPA sent a hazmat-swaddled team out to assess environmental damage and force a clean up operation.

But I do try to cap bottles when I find them open. And because I attempt to see the family room as the Puddinette will see it every morning when she gets up, I do what I can to straighten it enough that there’s no visible evidence of Hurricane Family. Am I always successful? Nope. No more than she always succeeds in putting the tupperware away the way I like it, stacked symmetrically and stored at right angles (because if it’s not a right angle it’s a wrong angle).

We do our best at these things for each other not because we’re trying to be someone else, but because marriage, real marriage—the kind you have to work at a little—means making one life out of two personalities. And, sure, we fail on occasion, since it’s like seeing the world through a lens. Sometimes lenses just don’t do the job well enough (or we forget to put them on at all).

But it’s the trying the counts. The intention that proves there’s more to the life together than just the sum of your two respective parts.

As I’ve said before, and again, and even again,  on this day, on our fourteenth anniversary, I’m the luckiest guy alive. I’m blessed to have the Puddinette, a wife who somehow manages to tolerate the snoring, the stinky, the maturity of a thirteen year-old (at best), the overall buffoonery, and the utter, total, complete inability to ever get something truly clean.

I may never make things perfect, but I will always try to make you happy, to put a smile on your face. Because you put on my mine, and returning it only seems fair.

Happy anniversary, Querida. Te amo con todo mi corazon. Te amo mas que tango las palabras.

Pud’n

It’s Alive! ALIVE! (My First Post For Middle Grade Minded)

mgmindedRemember when I said I had a new gig thing happening that I was all excited about? That I was all geeking out and exuberant to be writing occasional posts over at Middle Grade Minded, which—as an added bonues—might hopefully mean not boring you lovely readers so frequently with the insurance-seminar-dull details of what’s bugging me about my latest work in progress?

Surely, you remember it? Oh, here, to refresh your memory, the post about it is right here.

Anyway…SO! My number came up in the rotation o’ bloggers at Middle Grade Minded this week, meaning that it was finally time to share a thimbleful of my thoughts (it’s all I can spare) on writing for middle graders.  Traditionally, one’s first post for MGMinded is an examination of “Why I Write Middle Grade”.  And well, I’m not one to buck tradition.

Okay, except for that one custom of eating buffalo wings with ranch or blue cheese. Why would anyone ruin a perfectly good, perfectly spicy fried chicken wing with thick, creamy ick? Oh, also, the tradition of hanging heavy things overhead for “good luck”.  Someone with questionable skills with weapons of mass destruction hand tools should probably not be hanging concussion-inducing iron horseshoes overhead.

I assure you, that’s not going to result in good luck for anybody.

The cranial traumatizing effects of gravity when occurring in conjunction with poor workmanship aside, the good news is that I think Middle Grade Minded’s tradition of starting with a “Why I Write Middle Grade” post makes a ton of sense. I was delighted, then, to follow along. And that’s exactly what I did for my first MGMinded post, which just went live this morning. If you’re the bookish type or a writerly type, why not skip on over there and check it out?

Don’t worry, we’ll be here when you get back.

Probably still complaining about ranch dressing while side-eyeing that hammer.

Have a great weekend! And, uh, don’t set the place on fire.

Pud’’

Help With My Fruit of Advancing Years

I have a problem.

Well, actually, I have many problems. I have a problem getting to bed at a decent hour like normal people. I have a problem with my current manuscript-in-progress, Project Hermey. I have a problem with ranch dressing. I have a problem with the sheer number of uneaten M&Ms in existence at any given moment in time. I have a problem with the McRib.

But none of these are important problems at the moment.

My bananas, on the other hand, are becoming damn near critical. Yes, my bananas. No, that’s not a euphemism. I’m talking about the fruit. The yellow ones that grow on trees and come in bunches?

Look, here are my bananas.

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No, no, these aren’t the problematic bananas. I put the picture of those hideous things in the link before these shiny, new bananas. The others, though? Well, see, they’re old. Like, “dinosaurs make fun of them” old. The sight of them, well, maybe they aren’t for the weak stomached. You shouldn’t let children see them, probably.

Now, if you did look at the link of the Old Bananas, you know what I’m talking about. You could probably tell that they’re hella old because you’re not a toddler, and like most other non-toddlers, you undoubtedly recognized that bananas as brown as these are several decades beyond their prime. In fact, you likely recognized that the bananas in question are even older than your 2nd grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Watley, whose first name had to have been an old-timey one like Agatha or Eleanor, but no one really knew because lunchroom gossip was that she would unhinge her jaw and consume whole any child who learned her first name, like a snake from ancient legend.

How you survived 2nd grade to recognize old, brown-spotted bananas is still something of a miracle.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I have a cluster of old, brown-tinted bananas. This is especially a problem because at the moment some nefarious government agency is going to use ultra-classified snooping technology to pinpoint the location of my extremely decrepit bananas. At which point we’ll surely get a visit from Men in Dark Suits who have no verifiable credentials because they don’t exist in any system, anywhere, at all. And these Ghost Agent People will confiscate my  geriatric bananas, thus robbing me of their $2 value and pretty much ruining all my hopes of retiring to Bali next year*.

Which brings me to my proposed solution….which, you know, is SO revolutionary it’ll Blow. Your. Freaking. Minds.

Ready?

Better sit down.

Here it Comes…

Continue reading

Dear Amtrak, About Those Writing Residences

Dear Amtrak,

The hazy, self-loathing, liquor-soaked writers of the world straightened in their seat slightly, closed their twitter window, washed their faces, shaved whatever parts needed shaving, and—begrudgingly, I admit—put on a pair pants earlier this year when you announced the opportunity to let a small number of wordslingers take part in a free residency program on some of your more scenic train routes across America.

For a time afterward, you basked in the glow of marvelous PR as beleaguered writers, desperate for a chance to escape the shackles of everyday distraction, salivated over All The Work They Could Accomplish while steaming* across this great nation.  Such an opportunity could mean finally stamping a big chunk of accomplishment all over that stagnant novel-in-progress that always somehow seems to come in last place in the Great American Modern Priority Contest behind such key tasks as “feeding the kids”, “going to work”, “doing laundry”, “avoiding phone calls from the in-laws”, “binge watching old seasons of Big Brother on Netflix”, and even “staring at pictures of feet on tumblr”.

So, yeah, this whole idea for writers was a Pretty Big Deal.

Admittedly, not all of us applied for the chance to escape our daily commitments on a 5-day trip to San Francisco so we could finally hammer out the last few chapters of our “amphibians in space meets buddy heist” novel. You know, like Ocean’s Eleven but with multi-armed Frog People? It’s awesome, trust me. The point, though, is that even though I didn’t apply for your fancy program, I’m betting a significant number of writers did.  Like, probably enough that you couldn’t count them all. You probably started to count them but then Eddie from the mail room always interrupted you right around application number 62,564,987, to drop off that catalog from Office Depot and tell you about how he caught a striper bigger than a wheel barrow over the weekend, never mind that fact that you haven’t ever been fishing (since you’re a train company and all) and wouldn’t know a striper from a Clown Fish named Marlon.

No, no, that’s “striper”. Not “stripper”.  Very different things. One’s a kind of fish, I think. Maybe with a stripe?  The other is…well, you know what the other is.

At any rate, even though I didn’t apply, I was very interested to see who did earn the prestigious Writer In Residence opportunity, since we all know you got more applications than you could probably shove onboard the 8:25 from New York to Yuma.  And earlier this week, you finally announce the 24 lucky, lucky devils who won them.

I have to say, Amtrak, it’s a solid list. Well, I mean, it seems like a solid list. I don’t actually know any of the writers on it any better than I know your sweet, blue-haired grandmother.  But, still, these people all seem like bona fide writers who are capable of doing some real, quality work being writers while riding.

It’s just. Well, they seem a little too bona fide, if you ask me. Admittedly, I understand that you really, really needed to make sure the scribes you picked would be doing actual work on your magic free train rides, because the last thing you need is some poser type who just wanted a free trip to New Mexico and a 18-hour engagement in the bar car, if you know what I’m saying. 

Still, though, the bio’s from your list of winners make them all sound like pretty accomplished professionals.

Which brings me to my big question: would it have killed you to take a chance on just one struggling, working slob, the parent of one or three or n kids or maybe zero offspring but with one ungodly needy Chihuahua? Someone with a trunk full of practice novels and an even bigger load of personal baggage, but a deep, driving aspiration to succeed and a manuscript that’s smart and fresh and just this close but needs a little dedicated time and attention away from the unending demands for TPS reports, a fresh band aid, or more macaroni and cheese?

In summary, Amtrak, I guess what I’m saying is that, wow, you picked yourself a fine crop of writers to work while coasting across America. They seem polished and accomplished and successful. And I totally get why you picked them. But would it have killed you to pick one—just one—writer from your endless heap of applications whose bio was more like:

Brenda McCayhee is a Nebraska mother of two whose last published work appeared on her refrigerator in the form of a grocery list.  She spends her days struggling to remember what adulthood feels like while wrangling twin toddlers and trying to cling to whatever paper-thin shreds of her sanity remain intact amid a house full of laundry and Nick Jr. cartoons. Every free moment (when she’s not exhausted), she pours her heart and soul into capturing the stories of adventure and intrigue that fill her imagination. Usually with wine. She’ll be spending her Amtrak writing residency basking in the glow of having multiple consecutive hours to work on her upcoming novel without interruptions for apple juice or phone calls from her mother asking for the 3742nd time if she’s ready to give up this writing nonsense and focus on being a good wife.

Anyway, that’s what I was hoping for, Amtrak, just one of those on your list of 24.  Because I know plenty of writers with fewer shiny credentials but a pretty intense need for a handful of hours to work.

Maybe keep that in mind the next time around?

Pud’n


*Yeah, okay, trains don’t “steam” anywhere nowadays. Screw you, I still like it as a verb.

The Rise and Fall of Autumnal Equinox

Soooooo, I know I’m way past due sharing some errant thoughts and/or possibly insightful comedic ramblings with you all, but I’m still plowing along on Project Hermey, and hoping to finish up the first draft soon so I can call the thing Done!

Not that it’ll  be anywhere near really, actually, ready-to-show-someone-I’m-not-married-to done at that point. No, see, because first I’ll have to put it in a drawer for a few weeks and try to forget what it was supposed to be about. After that short cooling off period, I’ll put on my bunny slippers and read what I actually put on paper, which, it turns out, isn’t so often what you intended and/or recollection.

At it turns out, it seems that an author’s brain is not just capable of making up stories, aka, lies for entertainment purposes, but also it’s often equally, if not more, skilled at lying to the author in question.

So after a minimum of 45 minutes of uncontrolled sobbing, wailing, and generally bemoaning my cursed, miserable lack of skill, I’ll consume several slugs of bourbon-colored encouragement, and then set to work on revising Project Hermey into something less suck. With a little luck, that’s when it might become something maybe, possibly, hopefully worthy of an existence beyond lining a hamster cage twenty-four hours after Taco Tuesday.

hermey_stats

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m still at least ten thousand words from finishing the initial draft. Which, as you can see from this screen shot of the current State of The Project, means it’s going to be at least ten thousands words longer than the original goal. But, hey, whatever. A story’s got to be as long as that story needs to be, even if that means 10-15% longer than planned. That is, at least until I go back and Ginsu it up during the revision phase.

That said, the good news is that things are not all weeping and overwriting in my life at the moment. There’s also football and pumpkin beers. Yep, because yesterday at 10:29 PM (here in Cincinnati, at any rate) was the Autumnal Equinox.  That means that today is the first full day of autumn, and, as we all know, autumn is glorious time here on the surface of Old Earth, which makes me a happy camper, no matter how much work I have stacked up in the corner.

In celebration, then, that the place in the hemisphere where I live, at least, is tilting ever-so-slightly away from that scorching, blinding ball of nuclear fusion at the center of our solar system and ushering in a brief time of more moderate temperatures, candy-laden, spirit-based holidays, and a pumpkin-spiced version of anything you could possibly want to put into your body, I give you a previously posted Puddintopia picture. I made it with the mostly rudimentary graphics manipulation software I could find and skills that most Kindergarten kids would be ashamed to display on the fridge.

But I don’t even care that most people don’t recognize that it’s a supposed to be a football in the frame, not a loaf of bread.

Because, fall, dammit. And that, my friends, is reason enough.

Pud’n

Puddin’s Got A Brand New Gig

Sometimes I get the feeling deep down in the hard, crystally, freezer-burnt depths of my stinky soul that I’m not being as prolific a blogger as I’d like to be these days. Because the fact of the matter is…

HEY!

WAIT! Come back!

Look, I know you’re about a millisecond away from closing this browser window with a woeful sigh and mumbling that I’m getting all petulant and whiny about “not having time to write posts” or whatever, and if you wanted to listen to moping you’d go back and review your first year philosophy notes from college. I get it. But, please. Give me a chance. This isn’t that. I swear on the sweet, dark chocolately souls of all the M&M’s I’ve consumed in the past year.

*moment of silence for M&M’s*

What I mean is that I feel like I could be posting more because I’m not always confortable rambling excessively about what’s on my mind. Sure, sometimes it’s not problem. My life amuses me plenty, and I fairly often do something ridiculous enough to warrant mentioning it.  Plus, cookies and/or brownies are always good topics of discussion.  But when I’m not acting like a fool or making delightful snacks and/or shoveling them down my munchietube*, I’m mostly thinking about books.

Specifically, that is, my books.  And writing them.  Or even writing in general, and everything that goes along with the daily trudge from Chapter One to The End. It’s a life-altering, swear-inducing, hair-curling, soul-crushing, joy-giving, confidence-affirming process that can swing your emotional pendulum from one side of the sanity arc to the the other in less than twenty minutes flat.

I just don’t want to bore you with all of it.

Because I spend so much time writing and/or contemplating it, it’s hard to shove my attention onto something else.  Many days, then, I don’t have anything else swirling about in the ghost town of my head compelling enough to be the subject of an entertaining blog post. For instance, I can’t even think of interesting things to write about beer anymore, and if that doesn’t tell you how serious I am bout this, nothing probably will.

So concocting a post topic can be like going to cupboard for the cookie jar and finding nothing but an endless supply of beef jerky. Sure, I love beef jerky. But if I gave you twenty pounds of it and nothing else, you’d want to shove it down my throat until I sneezed dry, salted beef flakes.

Which is why I’m thrilled to announce that I was recently selected as one of the new, regular blog contributors for Middle Grade Minded, a blog with a laser-like focus on Middle Grade stories and the variety of ways people like me tell them.

The hope is that with that particular writing-related itch scratched, I’ll have a little more headspace available to ramble about Oompa Loompas, the rise and fall of civilization, and possibly even why my shoes make me uncomfortable. You know, all the things that have traditionally filled the pages of Puddintopia since 2010.

And if that doesn’t get your follicles all a-tingle, well, I guess you should maybe be using a different dandruff shampoo.

Pud’n


*Seriously, “munchietube” might be the worst word I’ve ever made up. I can’t decide if reminds me more of one of those annoying kids shows with fully-costumed sing-a-long monsters, or one of those kinks that requires a full-color diagram and a strong constitution. Let’s agree to never use it again.

One Geek, Two Geek, That Was A Good Week(end)

As it turns out, I did not actually fall off the face of the Earth this past week. Or even into a vat of cookie dough large enough to house all of Wonka’s Oompa Loompas plus a goodly portion of his walnut-testing squirrels, despite the fact that I’ve done nothing but think of making cookies for the better part of a week.

Because, well, they’re cookies. Duh. How do you not think about them?

I did, however, fall face-first into a good chunk of writing for Project Hermey prior to the holiday weekend.  Hurray for progress! And then, well, it was the holiday weekend. Let’s be honest, nobody got anything doing over the holiday.

Of course, my traditional Labor Day probably differs a good bit from your average Joe’s boating-and-barbecuing bonanza. Because mine typically revolves around video games, shouting “Huzzah!” whenever possible, and a litany of other things that pretty effectively scream, “Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrd”!

Oh, did I forget to mention that Labor Day weekend is when I traditionally get the annual visit from my high school best friend? Because that’s what happens every year on the first Monday in September, and when it does, I gleefully revert to the awkward dork I desperately pretended not to be way back in 1990.

Um. Wow, that was a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong time ago.  Can we pretend I didn’t say that? Or maybe add 10 years. Great. Perfect. Awesomesauce.

Truth be told, though, we don’t really get up to the same sort of hijinks nowadays as we did back then.  See, because:

  1. Nobody wants to go bowling that often
  2. I am kind of responsible of other living human beings, and ignoring them is largely frowned upon by the authorities, and
  3. I have my own house and can buy alcohol now, which makes sitting around my kitchen a much more entertaining prospect than it was when we were 18

We did, however, spend the weekend wandering castles, marveling at knights, knaves, ladies, and wenches while consuming smoked turkey legs at the Ohio Renaissance Festival,  and staying up much too late playing Magic: The Gathering with Actual Cards (some of which were older than my kids). Oh, and we ate grilled food. Because, hey, even when you are trying to keep things Nerd-fully Atypical, grilled bacon burgers are still delightfully mouth-watering.

To round out the weekend of fun and good times, we acquired a new pet at La Casa de Puddin. We are now the proud owners of a brand new betta fish, giving us a happy pair.  I mean, happy so long as they stay separated. Betta don’t get along with pretty much anything else. They’re like the TV sitcom Mother-In-Law of the home aquarium set.

IMG_0599

But that’s okay, because even with them living separated lives, I can still now point to our happily swimming pet fishies, and say (with a seriously ridiculous amount of joy)…

One Fish, Two Fish
Red Fish…well, I think you get the gist.

All of which is to say, my holiday was awesome.

How was yours?

Pud’n