- Member for
- 3 years 9 months
So someone very close to me — NOT MY WIFE — is turning 50 this year, and, believe me, I know what this person — NOT MY WIFE! — is going through as she — OR HE!! — prepares to reach this particular milestone. That’s because I am just now putting the finishing touches on my 50th year of existence and, as such, I feel like I have some wisdom to share with this person — WHO IS NOT MY WIFE!!! COME ON! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO MAKE THAT CLEAR?!! SHEESH!!!!!!!!!! First of all, 50 is just a number.
So ... upper chestal area pockets. Now that I have your attention, let’s start in on this week’s topic: Upper chestal area pockets. Well, not just upper chestal area pockets, but also aluminum can recycling and public restroom hand dryers. All worthy subjects, to be sure, but “upper chestal area pockets” is the only one that’s fun to write, read and even say out loud. Try it right now. I’ll wait here. DRAMATIC PAUSE AS YOU SAY “UPPER CHESTAL AREA POCKETS.” ISN’T THAT FUN? TRY IT AGAIN.
So we’re a few weeks into June, which means the summer events are piling up faster than a weekend TV weatherman’s mispronunciations of Iron Range towns.
So my daughter Kaylee is a golfer and she’s amazing, if I do say so myself. Every summer, she drops about 10 strokes off of her score as she dodges mosquitoes, rain drops and errant golf carts that careen out of control on the fairway. (It wasn’t my fault; the pedal got stuck. On the plus side, we didn’t see any ducks for the rest of the day.) But if you’ve ever picked up a club yourself, you know how frustrating golf can be. Profanity comes raining down harder than a June flood and that’s just from the road construction on the way to the course.
So let’s say you are a columnist and you have a looming deadline for some local, random, fictitious newspaper that’s probably completely made up. Definitely not one you’ve ever heard of, no sirree! In fact, let’s call it, uh...The Smudgeteer. And then let’s say further that, not only do you NOT have any column ideas for that completely mythical and nonexistent newspaper, you don’t even have the beginnings of a germ of the genesis to the origination of a thought of a column idea. What do you do? No, seriously, what do you do? I’m asking for a friend. Wait, I know!
So I have a confession to make. Well, actually, I have two confessions to make, but I’m not ready to talk about my binge-watching “Cake Boss” Netflix addiction yet, so let’s stick with one. Are you ready? Cuz it’s a doozy. I don’t know that you’ll be able to look at me in quite the same way again (with your “come hither” stare and my “when did you get that lisp?” gaze right back atcha). Here we go ... OK, I can do this ... deep breath ... everything’s gonna be fine ... they’ll still love me and respect me and idolize me ... according to Mom ... here it is ...
So the warm weather is finally here to stay ... until June, so enjoy it while you can. Head to your favorite park for some outdoor romping and frolicking, but please don’t forget pants. Parkas can be removed in May, but everything else must remain fastened and in place. As this new summer season tentatively slips into the Northland, a few other things start to slide away: colder temps, long underwear and glorious sleep. We like to hibernate around our house.
So the rain has finally washed away the snow, the muck and all the winter random thoughts that had been stored up in my brain since last November. Luckily, some new ones have arrived and rushed in to replace them, just in time for spring! • Liquor stores definitely need to be open on Sundays during Vikings season. I can’t stress this enough. • Found out that the directions on a shampoo bottle are there for a reason. Last week, going off memory, I repeated first, then lathered, then rinsed.
So I am never going on Facebook again, but it’s not for the reason you probably think. I don’t mind reading posts filled with silly weather outrage, especially when it comes to that huge, evil, Season That Must Not Be Named that finally seems to have packed up and left. No, the problem I had with Facebook recently was that it was the place where I learned about three people from my past passing away. Seriously, every time I logged on last weekend, the prioritization of my News Feed was put together by the Grim Reaper. First, it was a Minnesota political icon, Jim Oberstar.
So we made it! After a record-setting winter (#3 in your programs, dead last in your hearts), we chipped out our rock-hard icy souls and found the melted mental fortitude to keep on keeping on. But lately I’ve noticed that spring fever has smacked some Twin Ports citizens a little too hard upside their frostbitten noggins. They want to reward that rugged winter perseverance by feasting on frustration and dropping an entire repertoire of hydrogen f-bombs all over the region.