Rambling Josh

I’m not entirely sure how this happened. The other day I was giving my daughter, Sierra, a piggyback ride up to her room as she excitedly filled me in on all the fun stuff her class was doing during the last week of kindergarten. Then, one maybe two days later, she pulls into the driveway with some friends and I overhear them excitedly talking about their last few days of high school before they graduate.

Graduate! From high school! Say it ain’t so. I guess that would explain the graduation gown hanging on her bedroom door, the pile of graduation announcements sent far and near to family and friends and the steady stream of congratulatory cards in our mailbox addressed to Sierra. I’m not old enough and surely not mature enough to be the father of a high school graduate. My mullet and I just graduated a few years ago.

How’s the parent of a high school graduate supposed to act? Old, groggy and slightly medicated? What do they look like? Rundown, rickety and mostly out of style? There must be some mistake. I’m just not ready for this. You can’t just spring something like this on someone. Can’t we go back and try it again?

Try it again. Wouldn’t it be something if this parenting gig were more like making a movie. “Nope sorry….I didn’t like that take…let’s do it again.” Instead we get one take, no script, no director, just non-stop “ACTION”.

I do feel very fortunate that my job allowed me not to miss much during Sierra’s K through 12 days. It seems like a simple mundane thing but what I especially enjoyed was being able to drop her off and pick her up at school most every day. Each day I’d send her off with; “Have fun…learn a lot” and she’d smile and say, “I will. I love you” and skip off to join her friends on the playground. Mornings aren’t my thing but that was always worth getting up for.

Then it was off to work for me. Where I would often wonder what she was up to and how her day was going? I suspect I’ll wonder those things for as long as I’m able to wonder. My children fill my world with wonder…always have…always will. For instance, right now I’m wondering when they’ll get around to picking up the dog crap in the back yard…minus what I picked up on my shoe.

Ready or not Sierra is in fact graduating from Stevens High School this week. Pomp and Circumstance will play and she will cross from this stage to the next where a new adventure awaits. An adventure that will be more hers than anything she’s ever done. We are quite proud of what she’s accomplished thus far and look forward to her future endeavors as she pursues a degree in film and photography at Montana State University.

Many changes are on the horizon but the advice I gave Sierra every day when I dropped her off at school remains the same, “Have fun and learn a lot.”

Congratulations to the class of 2014…go get em’.

Yet another May Day has come and gone without a knock on my door or ding dong of my doorbell. Each year I awake on May 1st, carb load with Cap’n Crunch, limber up with some light calisthenics, put on my running shoes, and wait…and wait…and wait.

I wait for some poor misguided soul to ring my door bell and dash away leaving a May Basket teaming with left over Easter candy in their wake. This is where it gets interestingly odd for all directly or indirectly involved.

Those directly involved would be the dasher and myself, of course, and those indirectly involved would be the innocent neighbor who picked the wrong time to tend to her azaleas or the unfortunate UPS driver leaving a package that’s mistaken for a May Basket teaming with left over Easter candy by an overzealous idiot in a cashmere track suit hopped up on Cap’n Crunch.

On a side note (I love side notes…they’re generally more interesting than the actual note), I used to wear a cashmere track suit in high school during chilly football practices. It was graciously loaned to me by one of my classmates, who shall remain nameless, as his father may still be wondering what ever happened to his cashmere track suit. Only a quarterback can get away with wearing cashmere. Ahhh…glory days.

Getting ran down, tackled, and smooched should not come as a surprise to anyone on May Day unless this May Day Basket tradition was merely a ruse perpetrated by a sadistic elementary school teacher entertaining themselves at the expense of the ill-mannered students they’ve been stuck with for an entire school year. I’ve chaperoned a few elementary school activities in my day and would not hold any elementary teacher at fault for such a stunt.

They are after all human and elementary students are not. They are fidgety little things with wild imaginations, a surplus of energy, and a steady stream of absurd questions and comments that pass from their brains to their mouths without the benefit of any sort of filter. Many advance into adulthood without ever developing such a filter and wind up being the subject of reality T.V. shows or columnists for their hometown newspaper. So it goes.

At any rate, if it weren’t for the May Day Basket tradition there would be little use for the cardboard tubes from toilet paper rolls, pipe cleaners, and leftover Easter candy. This also explains why many parents find piles of unrolled toilet paper on the bathroom floor on the morning of May 1st…kids aren’t so good at planning ahead. What do you expect from people that rely on “number of sleeps” instead of a calendar to plan future events?

After a long day of adorning my cardboard tube with construction paper and affixing the pipe cleaner handle I remember leaving school with my third grade buddies discussing whose step we were going to leave our baskets on. Before any of us could decide or get up the courage to follow through with the May Basket tradition some cooty infested girls broke the rules and took chase. We zigged and zagged for all we were worth and then, fearing the worst, we wildly flung our May Baskets in an attempt to create a diversion.

The diversion was successful…I guess. The girls got all our candy and we were left empty handed and confused. Some things never change.

We’re looking forward to venturing to Upstate North Dakota this weekend to be a part of “Otto’s Roundup”. Otto’s Roundup is a gathering to celebrate my wee nephew reaching the ripe old age of 2. The entire contents of my underwear drawer are older than that and not due to be decommissioned until cheesecloth status is achieved.

Two years old. I remember when I was 2…the year was 1974 and I was spiraling out of control, consuming an alarming amount of Pixy Stix and Licorice Whips in an attempt to deal with the birth of my brother, a birth that signified the end of my innocents and the beginning of being an instigating older brother.

I believe my second birthday had a bit of a cowboy theme as well. I received a leather cowboy vest complete with conches and tassels from my Great Grandma Arlene. I still have the vest but it fits a little snug so I have to wear it without a shirt under it and it appears that a varmint of some sort gnawed a few of the leather tassels off.

My Grandma Rose made me a birthday cake, as she did every year, until the powers to be shipped me off to work at the brewery (college) when I was 18. The 1974 model was western themed topped off with a 12-inch toy horse. I still have the horse but I can only play with it when I’m wearing my leather vest…without a shirt of course…can’t play horsey in restrictive clothing.

The horse and I didn’t always have such a congenial relationship. On the day of my birthday, while I was off playing nail the tail on my little brother, my Grandpa Ardell crumpled up a chocolate cookie behind the horse and told me it pooped on my cake. No 12-inch toy pony is going to get away with crapping on this hombre’s cake. I refused to play with that pony until my Grandma convinced me of the 12-inch pony’s innocents…last year.

Otto, like his father, is an entertaining little cuss and I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful host for his roundup. My son, Jackson, went through a cowboy stage as well back when I could count his birthdays with one hand tied behind my back. Seems like yesterday that our living room was a rodeo arena and I was the kids bucking bronc. It all goes so fast.

John Lennon was right when he said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” I’m thankful every day that my children are part of the life that’s happening to me. Being a Dad is a great gig. The pays lousy but the benefits are phenomenal.

For Otto on his special day I wish him nothing more than many, many more and to Gabe and Marki…enjoy the ride with your little cowboy. See you at the roundup pardner.

Well here we are…another Spring valiantly attempting to roll into the Dakota’s. Spring always seems to bring snow here in the Black Hills. Heavy wet snow that bends branches, bows power lines, and buoys the hopes of children that they will awaken to reports that school has been cancelled. A snow day is pure magic to a kid.

Of snow day’s the most prized and sought after would have to be a Monday snow day. A Monday snow day is like a last minute phone call from the governor right before the switch was thrown on “Old Sparky” for some heinous crime you were wrongfully convicted of.

A Monday snow day where you’re mom wakes you from a fitful dream where you’re standing in front of your 5th grade classmates attempting to give a report on the migratory patterns of whooping cranes when you look at your reflection in the window of the classroom and discover that you’re wearing nothing but your great grandma’s underwear and a pair of rubber wellies.

None of your classmates seem to notice so you attempt to carry on with the presentation as planned but there’s not much waist band left to speak of in your great grandmother’s skivvies. She was of that generation who believed the phrase “waste not want not” applied to everything which has left you with waist not.

To receive full points the report had to have a demonstration component but try as you may you cannot properly demonstrate whooping crane wing dynamics because you only dare remove one hand from the waist band at a time. The teacher is obviously not pleased with your one winged whooping crane demonstration and a nervous flop sweat overcomes you and you can feel your rubber wellies slowly filling with sweat as you flap and whoop…whoop and flap.

You’ve been hovering around a “B” all semester but if you can pull off an “A” you’re dad has promised to buy you a new BMX Coast King. You would like nothing more because your old bike was backed over by your drunken uncle and you’ve been forced to ride your little sister’s My Little Pony banana bike with the sparkly handle bar tassels and pink basket that she insists remain forever full of My Little Ponies and My Little Pony accessories.

With the new BMX Coast King clouding your judgment you decide to just go for it and give a proper whooping crane wind dynamics demonstration. Exactly what you feared would happen if your waist band was left unattended has happened. You know this because you’ve sensed a breeze in places you weren’t sensing one previously. This fact has managed to gain the attention of your classmates and as they laugh and point you turn to run out of the classroom.

As you turn to run you find that one cannot run fast or far with undergarments around their ankles and you slowly totter towards the ground still whooping and flapping for that “A”. As you hit the ground the sweat from your rubber wellies sends a warm wave up the backs of your legs and then suddenly you’re awake.

You’re awake and your mother is telling you that school has been canceled. The words, “school has been cancelled” slowly register and you realize that you have more time to prepare your report on the migratory patterns of whooping cranes. You also realize that you should have listened to your mother and not drank that huge glass of Tang before you went to bed. So it goes.

Happy Spring.

Two old Pollock’s and a middle-aged Welsh-German-Norwegian-French Canadian-Irishman walk into a blue grass festival. The middle-aged mutt says, “Should we sit over here?” One old Pollock says, “Sure I’ll have a beer.” The other says, “Should we sit over here?” The middle-aged mutt says, “It looks like there are three empty chairs over there.” One old Pollock says, “I emptied my underwear before we left the house.” The other says, “It looks like there are three empty chairs over there.” The middle-aged mutt says, “Let’s sit here.” One old Pollock says, “Sure I’ll have a beer.” The other says, “Let’s sit here.”

The middle-aged mutt says, “The music’s about to start did you turn the ringer off on your phone?” One old Pollock says, “Yes I got a low interest car loan.” The other says, “The music’s about to start did you turn the ringer off on your phone?” The middle-aged mutt says, “Would you like a beer?” One old Pollock says, “No I want to sit here.” The other says, “Would you like a beer?” The middle-aged mutt says, “How do you like the music?” One old Pollock says, “Yes I used to have moustache before I joined the army.” The other says, “How do you like the music?”

My father-in-law and his brother, Tony, have stopped in for a few days on their return trip from their yearly bowling pilgrimage to Reno. They are an entertaining duo and we always enjoy having them here for a visit. Lots of card playing, coffee drinking and general farting around (figuratively and literally) is usually on the agenda when they come to town.

I’m not particularly good at playing and remembering card games and poor Tony gets stuck being my partner all the time in whist. Thankfully he is patient, forgiving and has learned to have very low expectations when sitting at a card table across from me. He doesn’t expect me to play a certain suit at a certain time because I have absolutely no idea what suit to play at a certain time.

It’s not from lack of instruction from those that know how to play the game…I just have a blind spot in my brain for card games…a big blind spot. Several well-meaning people have went through agonizing hours to teach me a card game only to have it slip from mind sometime between them saying, “Ok…you got it?” and them shuffling the cards.

Several of my college baseball teammates used to play cards on the bus during our endless road trips to far reaching corners of the Midwest. One of them got spooked when he overheard me conversing with a cornfield we were driving by and in an attempt to salvage my psychological well-being, insisted I join them in playing cards. I wasn’t really conversing with the cornfield, I was conversing to the cornfield. I’m well aware most cornfields don’t talk but they are all wonderful listeners…they are all ears after all. So it goes.

We had a wonderful weekend of blue grass, bowling, basketball and bantering over cards and we look forward to their next visit. I would like to promise Tony that I’ll be a better whist partner next time we play but the cornfield insisted that giving him false hope was worse than giving him no hope.

I hope you had a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day. As some Irishman once said, “May those that love us love us…and for those that don’t love us may God turn their hearts…and if he can’t turn their hearts may he turn their ankles so we’ll know them by their limping.” Luck to ya till we meet again.

Family and friends from near and far gathered this past weekend to celebrate Grandma Rose’s 80th birthday. Grandma Rose is truly an angel on earth whose loving, kind, quiet and gentle way is the medicine those of us fortunate enough to call her “Grandma” needed and wanted as children when we were sick…or at least pretending to be sick.

There are a few years between me and my childhood, but even now, when I’m not feeling well, I often find my dreams filled with grandma’s soft soothing humming. It’s hard to put into words the gratitude and love we all have for this selfless saint of a women that manages to see the good in each of us no matter how deep we sometimes bury it.

It was enjoyable seeing so many that have shared in Grandma’s life at her party wishing her well and sitting down for a visit with the birthday girl. It’s hard to fathom the extent a single person’s influence can extend through time, but after seeing how many people took the time to venture out into the arctic air to be a part of Grandma’s celebration I’m confident her reach will extend beyond my years on this earth.

Whether March came in like a lion or a lamb is up for debate. The day wasn’t particularly blustery and the sun was shining but it was colder than the stares I got from all my former elementary teachers that came to grandma’s party. Just kidding, they all smiled and said, “Hello” but I kept a watchful eye on them just in case they came with revenge on their minds. They say that time heals all wounds but they never say exactly how much time…they need to be more precise so I know when I can quit worrying about retaliation.

If you ask me the sun was wasting it’s time. If you’re going to shine, shine warm…that’s the same advice my interpretive dance coach gave me right before I stepped on stage for the national “Jazz Hands are Happy Hands” competition. I was narrowly defeated by a former cosmonaut in a highly controversial and scandalous judging fiasco rumored to have been orchestrated by the Russian mafia. Not wanting to risk having a spirit finger snapped, I left well enough alone, took my second place trophy, and went on to enjoy great success as a hand stunt double in power tool and dish soap commercials.

That being said, I think the lamb wins the March 1st battle due to the simple fact that I spotted several lambs out and about on that frigid day but neither hide nor hair of a single lion. Could a lamb beat a lion in a one on one face off? I think Marlin Perkins answered that question years ago in the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom episode, “Lamb Chops”. Shari Lewis’s hand was not harmed in the making of that episode.

The North Dakota air was brisk, the conversation was lively, and, as always, the Chrest kids organized a fine get together fueled by more food than anyone could ever consume…no matter how hard we tried. Fear not, none of the leftovers went to waste. Grandma taught us better than that.

Grandma Rose has given each of us more love and kindness than we could ever use, leaving us leftovers to share for many generations to come. The sweetest flowers never stop blooming.

On February 13th my brother Jarvis’s odometer ticked over to 40. Dad and mom brought Jarvis home to my turf when I was all of 18 months old and I’m sure our first fight took place shortly thereafter. Fighting was what we did. We never conversed we disputed, disputed absolutely anything and everything the other said, did or thought about saying or doing. We embraced any and all opportunities to fervently like what the other disliked and dislike what the other liked.

One of my favorite stories from our childhood occurred when we were about10 years old. Since we were so good at sharing Jarvis and I thought it a good idea to go halfsies on a Shetland pony that our Dad’s boss, Buck Guthrie, had for sale. For $100 bucks a piece we got a saddle and Suzie, a cantankerous 20 year old pony that hated little boys. We were the only kids in Lignite with a horse in our backyard. Motorcycles, go-carts, unicycles, throwing stars, and an ill-tempered pony…our parents went to great lengths to rid themselves of us but like a bad rash we came back time and time again.

When Fall rolled around it was decided that Suzie should move out to our grandparents farm where she could hang out in the barn during the winter months. Someone also decided that instead of hauling her in a trailer we, Jarvis and I, would take turns riding Suzie the 12 miles from town to the farm.

Suzie didn’t hate little boys equally. She harbored a special disdain for Jarvis and was quite creative in her attempts to dislodge him from her back. Suzie would stand stock still until the backside of Jarvis’s Toughskin jeans touched the saddle. That was her signal to become erratic, unmanageable, and generally unpleasant.

Suzie twisted, turned, bounced, and tried to bite Jarvis’s feet as he took the first leg of our ride to the farm. His first leg was more of a foot…30 feet to be exact…then Jarvis dismounted and said, “Your turn, I’m done.” He wasn’t done for now, he was done for the day and set out with dad in the pickup to wait for Suzie, and hopefully me, at the farm. I’m sure he fantasized about both of our demises while he lounged at the farm working his way through a half-dozen of Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.

It wasn’t a smooth or pleasant ride by no means but Suzie and I made it to the farm. I checked her into her new digs and gingerly hobbled up to the house for some salve for my southern region and a tall glass of ice cold Tang to wash the trail dust out of my throat. Although it didn’t dampen her hatred of little boys Suzie seemed to enjoy roaming around the farm. She especially liked all the new obstacles at her disposal for smearing Jarvis out of the saddle. The upturned wings of the cultivator seemed to be her favorite.

Winter rolled around and on Christmas Day we were at the farm when Dad came in and broke the news to Jarvis and I that Suzie had died. One would think that a little boy’s pony dying on Christmas Day would be cause for sadness but you never attempted to ride Suzie. Jarvis and I bundled up and went out to pay our last respects.

Seeing his former tormentor lying there Jarvis was overcome by the desire to settle the score once and for all. He approached Suzie like Charlie Brown approaching a football and delivered the hardest kick an 80 pound 10 year old can muster. The kick was solid but so was Suzie and Jarvis howled and hopped around clutching his foot. Suzie got him one more time. I suppose the moral of the story is don’t kick a dead horse…especially in North Dakota in December.

Happy Birthday Jarvis…may the rest of your ride be smooth.

I have been a fan of Garrison Keillor and his National Public Radio show “A Prairie Home Companion” for quite some time and have always wanted to be a part of the shows live studio audience at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, Minnesota. My wife made that wish a reality when I found two tickets to his show under the Christmas tree this year.

My wife willingly listens to the show on the radio when we’re traveling but informed me that my good friend Paul was to be the number two of the two tickets of which I was one. Yet another adventure for us to partake in, or allow to partake on us, as seems to generally be the way of such things. As Guy Clark sang, “I got a pretty good friend who’s seen me at my worst…he can’t tell if I’m a blessing or a curse…”

We’re not too hard to entertain. Generally, a bottle of rum, some jerky, a couple of cigars, and excessive flatulence will do the trick, but now we had actual tickets to actual entertainment by actual entertainers.

As mentioned earlier, the show takes place in St. Paul, Minnesota, which is a few miles east of a stone’s throw from Rapid City so a road trip was also on the agenda. In the interest of abiding by the law and not marinating the car and ourselves in carcinogenic stogie soup we chose the lesser of our four entertainment go to’s for the journey east. So as I enjoyed a particularly tough strip of jerky Paul sat with his window cracked contemplating the value and worth of friendship and hoping I didn’t get as good a gas mileage as the car.

Driving 600 miles to see a radio show may seem odd to some, but to the odd it seems about right. The odd manage to recognize the justification for things of this nature and harbor an appreciation for opportunities of exploration of that which they’ve yet to explore and experience.

So off we went, rolling east on I-90, bucking a north wind that made for the untimely demise of many a tumbleweed that seemed to be hastily trying to make a dinner date somewhere in Nebraska. I picked two out of the grill of the car at a rest stop, and with few sticks short of a full tumble, they limped south in search of friends, family, and a better way of life. Godspeed tumbleweed…Godspeed.

As luck would have it we hit Minneapolis approximately the same time as a snow storm which effectively transformed the fast and furious big city traffic to slow and slippery. An exit ramp guard rail attempted to put a hitch in our giddy up, but thanks to my cat like reflexes and superior driving skills, the attempt was thwarted and we crept onward unscathed and oddly entertained. With the help of my navigator we located our hotel and then got lost in the parking garage. You weren’t there…don’t judge.

It just so happened that the Fitzgerald Theater is located about one block from Mickey’s Diner. I hadn’t been in Mickey’s Diner since about 1993 and I had questioned its actual existence since that time. Twenty years ago, without the aid of GPS, my college buddy and I stumbled upon Mickey’s at 3AM with a hankering for some greasy food to fill the void our liquid diets had left vacant. Our preferred mode of navigation, dumb luck, always seemed to get us where we didn’t know we wanted to go. So in the spirit of dumb luck Paul and I had our preshow meal at Mickey’s. A patty melt, a mound of hash browns, a shot of penicillin (Mickey’s could use a good scrubbing) and I was ready for the show.

The show was great and the Fitzgerald Theater is a grand old venue that first opened its doors in 1909. As Garrison spun his yarns of life in a small Midwestern town I got a little misty eyed and felt the stirrings of the emotion that overcomes you when you’re witnessing the making of something special. Something you’ve only heard, and now get to see and be a part of and most likely won’t again. Thank you Dawn.

When my brother and I were approaching our teen years my mother decided that it would be a good idea for us to become altar boys at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Exactly why she thought this to be a good idea I’m not real sure. A desperate attempt to save our souls perhaps, or maybe it was simply a way for her to wash her hands of us for an entire hour one day a week. If the latter is the case I’m not sure that the grief she put up with to get us to church was worth that single hour of freedom, but I could be wrong.

Whatever her motivation and reasoning was there was no way out of it and the job of transforming two knuckleheads into altar boys fell to the Busch boys. They were a little older than us but I’m pretty sure Jarvis and I had already managed to fall further from grace. Despite our general propensity to be disruptive and disorderly we were good students of the cloth and the Busch boys had us properly ringing bells, genuflecting, and lighting candles in no time. The lighting candles is what hooked us…fire is such a temptress.

Thus began our pious careers and thus began our relentless Sunday morning whinefests. The whining and complaining would begin the instant we heard, “Go get ready for church boys.” All hopped up on Frankenberry and Count Chocula we would rant and rave like lunatics while our mother would attempt to ignore us. She had an exceedingly high tolerance for our displays of disproval but being overachievers we could generally push her past the snapping point.

I always knew when she was approaching that point and would give in and accept the fact that I had altar boy duties to attend to. Jarvis, on the other hand, either didn’t notice mom was teetering on the edge of sanity or didn’t care, and would carry on until she was in teeth gritting mode or beyond. Mom spoke to us through gritted teeth quite often. Gritted teeth…wild eyed…the whole transformation was effective in scaring the stupid out of me for a good minute or two but Jarvis was more resilient. I think it encouraged him…he’s more of a thrill seeker than I am.

Once round one came to a close and we were both dressed for church, round two would immediately commence. Round two generally consisted of a last ditch standoff where Jarvis and I would proclaim that we weren’t going as mom headed out the door to rev up the Ford Econoline. We would stand steadfast in the entry way while the van roared to life. Then mom would honk. I always gave in on the first honk and shuffled on out. Besides, if I went out first I would get to ride shotgun.

Jarvis, ever the antagonist, would hold out for a couple honks and wouldn’t come out until mom had finally had enough and decided to leave him. She would start backing out and he would come out slamming the door, kicking gravel and muttering. Muttering bible verses I believe.

Then it was off to St. Mary’s where we would push and shove each other down to the basement to change into our altar boy garb and then push and shove each other up the stairs to play with fire and ring some bells. Mom settled in for her hour of solitude with our little sister Amanda kneeling close to her side. Her little hands clasped tightly together and eyes squeezed shut, praying for a bolt of lightning to strike her brothers down sometime before next Sunday.

  Apparently, Santa decided this was the year he would settle up for all the years he turned a blind eye and gave me the benefit of the doubt in situations where I behaved closer to naughty than nice.  In my defense, most of the questionable behavior occurred while I was misbehaving, well within my rights, in the capacity of an older brother.

            So this Christmas Eve, despite visions of sugar plums dancing in my head, Santa gave me heaping helping of the flu.  My wife, an innocent bystander deemed guilty by association, also got a Christmas sprinkling of influenza.  You might want to put a mask on while you read this and take a bleach shower when you’re done to protect yourself from any wayward influenza flak.

The flu wasn’t even useful in getting me out of work as we are spending Christmas vacation in Houston with Dawn’s sister’s family.  Christmas vacation down south, a whole week away from snow, away from cold, and for three days I lay in bed quivering like a sparrow in a dilapidated barn on an abandoned North Dakota farmstead.  Thank you Santa.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had the flu and I hope it’s a long, long while before it visits me again.  The flu shots always a crap shoot and I lost the crap shoot this time around.  Better luck next year I guess.

I guess it’s one way to keep from gaining that holiday weight that tends to hang on and haunt people throughout the year, and the next, and the next…I’m surprised there’s not an infomercial selling the flu as a weight loss method.  You send them your money they send a verified flu transport technician to sneeze on the door handle of your fridge or for an extra $39.95 you can get yourself a long wet kiss…while supplies last…a great stocking stuffer.

You take for granted how good it feels to feel good until you don’t feel so good.  In a just a few days you forget what it was like to perform easy tasks easily.  Brushing your teeth and putting on socks suddenly takes an effort that seems equal or in excess of giving piggy back rides up Mt Everest.  So many teeth and only one tooth brush…oh the humanity of it all.

On a positive note, I guess ending 2013 in such grand fashion doesn’t leave many directions but up for the beginning of 2014.  So with an eye towards the New Year I’ll take the nasty influenza riddled hand I was dealt for Christmas and play it out until everyone’s sympathy has been sufficiently depleted.

I wish you all an eventful and enjoyable New Year filled with more than your fair share of good times and laughter.  The flu might be infectious but so is laughter…spread it liberally.