It seems March 2020 has been canceled. (and yes, spellcheck just informed me I spelled canceled wrong.) This whiteboard, which is usually bursting with color-coded activities, is blank. We even made a paper chain to get us through the next three weeks because quite frankly, the only way I can cope is by thinking in terms of three weeks.

Every generation has their world life event that they look back on and remember with extreme clarity.  For my parents’ generation, it was JFK getting shot.  For me, the tragedy of September 11th is ingrained in my memory.

I hope my children don’t have too many of these events in their life.  But I know that this quarantine will be one of them.  Someday, they will look back at their life and count this as a surreal point in time.  And we are just beginning. How I felt Friday is completely different from how I felt Tuesday and how I feel today.  Things are changing so quickly that I have no idea what will be going on in the world next week or tomorrow.

DON’T STOP READING…IT’S GOING TO GET FUNNY!!

First, let me start by issuing a disclaimer.  I am taking this virus very seriously.  My intention is not to be flippant about the severity of what’s happening.  But we could all use a little humor and let’s face it, staying at home with all of our family members for an unlimited amount of time is going to be HARD.  That being said, being at home with all of our family members is also going to be HUMOROUS.  Even if it is the kind of “I want to strangle you right now but someday we will look back on this and laugh” sort of humor.

So please enjoy my online journal as I document my time as a mother, cook, maid, laundress, mediator, and now, homeschool parent.

Side note: It’s too bad that I used the intro to the Real World when I blogged about my summer vacation last year because honestly, there is no better description right now than those words: This is the true story, of four family members, stuck in a house, living together, working together, except we can’t leave.  Find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real.

Day One: (Saturday, March 14th)

No one gets out of bed until noon.  This is not a lie.  It’s almost as if we live in the southern hemisphere and have no idea if it’s day or night with nothing to do and endless amounts of time to do it.  It is day one and the kids are happy.  They both texted me from school yesterday excited they had so much time off.  Franny spends most of the day making a fort in her room.  I can hardly believe it. Maybe this will be a time for renewed creativity?  Back to the good old days before technology!  Nope, it turns out, she has been face-timing with all of her friends the entire time.  And when I say face-timing with her friends, I mean SEVEN GIRLS are talking to each other at the same time in their respective forts.  Good thing we are past the days of shared data plans.  She asks if she can hang out with them.  Ummm…you ARE hanging out with them.  And also…UMMM…NO?  Why do you think there is no school? We are supposed to be staying AWAY from people.  She spends approximately 8 hours on the phone with them, but she is keeping herself busy and she isn’t on traditional electronics so I’m ok with this virtual “hang.”

Teddy also asks if he can hang at his friend’s house?  UMMM NO?  I am not understanding why everyone thinks this is some fun vacation.  He is MAD.  He decides that if it’s too dangerous to hang with four kids at a house, then certainly 100 are too many to be with tomorrow at church.  He announces he will NOT be going to church for safety purposes.  Unlike his sister, he has not made any sort of a fort and I assume is not talking with his friends since as far as I am aware, he DOESN’T SEEM TO KNOW HOW TO ANSWER TEXTS OR PHONECALLS.   He settles for playing Xbox all day.

Later that night church is canceled.  It’s an unprecedented move and stunning to the church metropolis.  I can tell from my kids’ faces they are torn between fear (things are bad if church services are canceled) and masked glee (we are getting a vacation from church!)  I guess they have momentarily forgotten their dad can find an online Divine Liturgy faster than he can sniff out the last banana.

We end the night playing Monopoly.  A game I usually groan at, but since we have all the time in the world and still like each other, it seems appropriate.  I am out sooner than you should be while playing Monopoly, even WITH houses on all the yellow properties and Boardwalk.

Today has seemed ok and like a regular weekend.  We order pizza and still hand cash to the driver with a shared wink, haha, this will be over soon and see you next Saturday.  (oh, yes, hindsight tells us that next Saturday I will be choosing between “contactless delivery” and “curbside pickup”.)

Day one is in the books and we still have hope.  I can DO this for three weeks.

Post note: I realize I am a week behind.  Believe it or not, I have been busy with all this “time off” and so I am playing some catch up here. But honestly, does it even matter?  At this point, I don’t even know what day it is.  And let’s face it, how much stuff can happen within my four walls?  Also, my mental health may get to a state where these diary entries might get ugly.

When I was in high school I tried out for the Cheerleading/Pom squad three times. If you are one of my children you know how this ends. I did not make the team. Not the first time. Not the second time. And certainly not the third time where I was laughing so hard at the absurdity of it all I could barely get through the “original routine” part of the tryout.

I guess no one wants to see a short Greek girl hopping around to Huey Lewis’ “Back in Time,” complete with hand motions that included pointing to my wrist where a watch would be in order to illustrate the “time” component.  It was horrible. And awesome. And funny. And I tell this story all the time.  So often, in fact, that when I felt stuck last week and asked my brother what I should write about he said: “Make it about the Pom squad.”  You would think after two years of writing this blog I would have exhausted my embarrassing stories, but I guess not. In my defense, I had to be talked into that third try-out.

Here’s the thing: I am not graceful.  I am not delicate.  I am not even athletic.  Once, several years ago, I tried to hit a baseball during Teddy’s batting practice. I just wanted to see if I could do it.  Someone videoed me, and honestly, it was painful to watch.  And not just the batting. If you are in the least bit clunky, I do not recommend watching yourself run to first base. You can never unsee that image.

Of course, none of these challenges stopped me from entering the Jr. Miss contest senior year of high school. I am laughing just writing this. What business did I have participating in a beauty pageant? (I would imagine in this day and age this contest does not exist anymore or is called something else).  I am not sure if I simply had unwarranted confidence or if I was just “too dumb to doubt,” but there I was, in my formal gown, sashaying to Aquarius by The Fifth Dimension.  We actually had a detachable cape that we used as a prop for our choreographed poise and appearance routine.

Next came the physical fitness routine.  I’m sure you can guess how well I did, so I won’t bother to elaborate. I seem to remember jumping around in a sparkly leotard and tuxedo jacket with tails.  The third category was talent. While the other girls played the piano, sang, or did gymnastics, I chose to dance.  Nope.  Not what you’re thinking. It was GREEK FOLK DANCING. And there is nothing elegant about it. I mean, how much worse can it get than me stomping around in a costume from the 1800s while everyone else is prancing around in sequins and sparkles?  Once again I will ask myself the question I have asked myself almost every time I write a blog.  What were my parents thinking?  Why didn’t someone put me in piano lessons when I was 7 or 8 like the other parents’ did? Why not a tap class here or there?  I wasn’t even in Little League. I did try church basketball once but my contact fell out during my very first game and that was the end of that.

Back to the pageant. So even though I struggled through the dancing and the tumbling and sashaying, the joke ended up being on all the other girls.  And you want to know why? Because the SCHOLARSHIP portion of the contest counted for FIFTY PERCENT of the total score!!  YES!! And everyone knows you can’t be pretty AND smart!!  (Just kidding, just kidding).

While all the cool kids were playing sports and taking dance classes and going to the beach and having friends and generally just having fun at parties, I was at home reading and doing homework.  Well, I’m sure you can guess how that paid off.  (HINT: Not socially).  But I ACED that 50% of the Jr. Miss pageant. Bumped me right up to third runner-up.  I don’t think anyone in my family (let alone me) could believe it.

Side Note: The winner of Clarkston’s Jr. Miss 1987 was my then (and still now) BFF Mary Ellen.  This was not a surprise as Mary Ellen singlehandedly disproves the “you can’t be pretty and smart” theory.  She is also kind and funny and totally deserving of winning blah blah blah. Someday I will write an entire blog on how Mary Ellen Wins at Life but then I will have to let her write a rebuttal probably titled,  “You guys I’m not perfect” so that day is not today.

Here is where there is usually a “lesson learned” wrap up. And I won’t let you down. Years later, when I was in sales, I used to read a lot of motivational training books.  One of these offered a somewhat novel point of view for the time.  It recommended that you forget about practicing hard on what you’re NOT good at.  Instead, just work harder on what you ARE good at and get GREAT at that.  Reading this book was liberating. Forget about “I think I can I think I can”…maybe just accept I CAN’T! Why should I try to throw a frisbee or toss a ball?  Everyone knows I’m not going to catch it back. Why keep trying to make intricate cakes? Time and experience have shown me I CANNOT decorate a cake! This philosophy gave me permission to quit.  I was DONE trying to iron shirts! Done trying to swim laps and only make it halfway across the pool!  No more guilt over getting that cleaning lady…I can’t help it if I am no good at scrubbing toilets.  From that point on, I started to focus on the things I WAS good at.

So if you need me, I’ll be at Starbucks focusing on getting GREAT at things like telling jokes, making fun of people, speaking impulsively, playing the Yahtzee app, relaxing, scrolling the internet, and curating an entire Twitter feed of dog videos. Wish me luck.

Happy New Year!  It’s been a while. I took some time off but I’m back with a new entry.  And appropriately, this one is about what I learned last year.  Specifically, what I learned last year about the small community I live in.

And what I learned is that a heck of a lot more people in Downers Grove own turtles as pets than I would have guessed.  Yep, that’s it.  You know what else?  I had no idea how often and seemingly quickly these suckers can escape.  Last year there were a bunch of lost tortoises running (very slowly I’m thinking) around town. What on earth could account for this new trend?

I think it all started with the coyotes.  Like many small towns, we have an app/website called Nextdoor. It’s an electronic bulletin board for neighbors to use for communication. You can sell things, buy things, recommend businesses, ask for recommendations, and in some cases, simply complain. At its best, this is a place to buy a second-hand piano or sell your treadmill.  At its worst, it is a place where people who apparently don’t want to go to Target ask an entire community if “anyone has any extra scissors lying around” so they can avoid spending any money. I mean, geez lady, go to Jewel and get the damn scissors!!

So about a year ago people started posting on Nextdoor about the coyotes they were seeing around the neighborhood. I cannot overemphasize the sheer amount of posts about the whereabouts of the coyotes in our town. Did someone have trackers on them that we didn’t know about it?

I’m going to assume that for those who check email incessantly, these notifications may have been helpful. Like a Life360 for wildlife. You could find out, say, if you were walking your dog on 59th and Washington, if there was a coyote snooping around there. But for those of us who don’t read emails at the moment they arrive, these posts seemed silly and pointless. Why do I care that there was a coyote down the street this morning while I was at Starbucks work? It was becoming an epidemic. Not the coyotes, the reporting of them.  No matter how often and commonplace the coyotes became, people kept going on about them as if they were a novel occurrence.  Nevertheless, they persisted. Again, the reporting, not the coyotes.

And then came the comments.  Always the comments.  The same ones.

“We are taking over their habitat, not the other way around!”

“Leave them alone they won’t hurt you!”

“Put your small dogs inside!” (not much of a help when it was posted at 9am and you are checking email at 4:30pm).

“Stare them down, wave your hands and make a loud noise and they will run away!”

“What are they doing out during the day?”

“It’s coyote season!”

“Is it sick? Is it rabid?”

“Don’t feed them!”

“That one’s a male! This one’s a female!”

“I saw some pups!”

“They are looking for food!”

Unless you’re getting this information in real time, at a certain point it seems a bit ridiculous. Finally, it seemed it was over.  The coyotes had raised their pups and moved on.

But no.  Then came the foxes.

At first the reporting didn’t seem much different than the coyote reporting. But it was. This time there were supporters. There are very few coyote fans, but boy do we suburbanites love our foxes. The coyotes had become boring. Residents had a new and interesting animal to muse about. Plus, foxes are much, much cuter and not nearly as scary or threatening. The fox fan club was out in full force.

“Foxes don’t hurt anyone!”

“They eat the mice.”

“They kill those pesky rabbits.”

“They won’t hurt your pets!”

I have to admit. The foxes WERE cute. I may have even stopped once on my way home from school drop off and taken a picture of one myself. He was trotting up someone’s driveway and literally went into their flower garden, dug a little hole, and buried whatever he had been carrying in his mouth. I sat in my car watching him for a while.

But I digress. 

Which leads us to the turtles. Or tortoises. I’m not sure what they were quite honestly. (For the purposes of this blog I will use the words interchangeably.) The tortoise notices started getting posted mid-summer. And they were of another realm altogether. These people could have saved the world the way they worked together and supported each other. Once in a while there was the random angry person who needed to remind the others that this turtle you rescued was NOT in fact a lost turtle but a SNAPPING turtle and put that poor thing back in the creek before it dies or bites someone’s finger off! But in general, they were happy, helpful folks.

It would start with someone saying they lost their tortoise. Now how on earth someone can lose an animal that moves .13 mph (I googled it) is really the million-dollar question. But it can happen. And apparently it can happen often.

Now for the second dilemma. How do you know if it’s YOUR turtle that has been found? I mean, it’s not like they wear collars. I don’t want to offend turtle owners, but there is no way I could pick a turtle out of a lineup. A turtle is a turtle.  Not to mention the fact that there are WILD turtles just walking around the earth too, so what if you accidentally “rescued” one of them instead? And when you are reunited does your turtle recognize you and then run (slowly) to you and snuggle you like your dog might? Who knows? All good questions I would like to find out some day.

There was this lady who described her lost turtle to a potential rescuer.  It wasn’t him, but luckily, she had an offer from a guy who was more than willing to give up his own turtle that looked similar enough.  Can you imagine?  “I’m sorry you lost your schnauzer, but we have one we are tired of that looks a lot like yours. He’s had all his shots but we find him boring. You can have him.”

One lady found a lost turtle but the consensus was that it was just a snapping turtle. Someone recommended she put it back the way it was “originally headed.” Another woman saw one “headed north.”  There was a suggestion that in the future owners tape a balloon to the backs of their turtles in case they escape. I think this is a terrific idea and I would LOVE to find what I thought was a loose balloon only to find it attached to a tortoise.  One person chimed in that all these lost tortoises are bordering on negligence. Fair point. I mean, honestly, how long do you have to be gone for your tortoise to get lost? Going .13 miles per hour that’s like only 686 feet. How long did you look away?  Plus, how are these guys getting out of their houses/crates/cages/hutches?

It had all died down by September.  I was a little sad to see the entertainment end.  There is a silver lining though.  Thanks to the internet and Siri and Alexa and Google and Facebook and everyone else out there tracking my every word and thought and listening to everything I say and possibly being aware of everything I’m even thinking, this popped up in my twitter feed just days after I started writing this blog.  What a great solution.   

I have never met a woman who looked forward to trying on bras.

Now let me stop you right here. To all the females reading: This post is going to be pretty much what you’re expecting.  You will probably relate to what I’m saying and laugh. To all the men reading:  This post is nothing like you are hoping or expecting. So if I haven’t already lost you by the title alone, I encourage you to keep reading so you can understand one of the horrors we have to go through.  But be forewarned: it very well could change your fantasy about women and lingerie.  And a special shout-out goes to my husband. I know you’re probably going to be mad I wrote this and remind me that someday our kids might read my blog, but too bad. I get to write about what I want.

So let me walk you through the inevitable process that is shopping for a new bra.

First, you make the decision that you need a new bra. Yes, I know, you already own 32 bras. But admit it, you really only wear two or three of them. If you’ve been married a while, chances are the pretty, lacy ones are at the bottom of the drawer and rarely resurface.  The “good” ones are too tight and show a LOT of back fat.  The comfortable ones are worn out and barely give support anymore. The sports bra (which you have been known to leave on all day) gives you a uni-boob.   That leaves the old beige standby.  And this one is long beyond stretched out and threadbare. Let’s face it, you are about six months past needing a new one.

So when you finally make the decision to go buy a new bra, the next step is where to go.  If you are a regular-type lady, you might go to Victoria’s Secret to get your bras.  If you are the full-figured type, you are headed to a Department Store.

Now let me start by saying to those of you with smaller chests: SHUT UP.  Stop thinking we ample ladies are humble-bragging.  We are not. We are uncomfortable. Our backs hurt.  We can’t wear spaghetti straps or halter tops unless we want to be pulling up our strapless bra 238 times a day.  We can’t find our sizes easily in stores.  Very few colors are in stock for us.  Our bras cost a fortune. (Why is that?  All the extra material?) And going braless? Forget it.  I mean honestly, if there were a fire in the middle of the night and we had to run out in our pajamas (braless) to save ourselves, the flames wouldn’t be the primary emergency.  So what I am saying is, it isn’t as great as you think it is.  I guarantee, trying on bras is much worse for us than for you.

So the other day I head to Nordstrom and start browsing. As I am trying to inconspicuously look for my size, a saleslady approaches me. Michelle, it seems, was just leaving for her lunch break, but she is the rep for this brand so she will stay and help me.  She is carrying her purse and does not have on a name tag and the thought does cross my mind that this lady with her bag slung over her shoulder the whole time she is measuring me is not really a rep at all and is just some weirdo trying to get in the dressing rooms. But I just go with it.  Did I mention she also has a coat on? Yes. She does. But I figure a lady with no name tag carrying a purse while helping you is not the worst thing that could happen while trying on bras.

Now at this point, she asks me if I want to be measured. They always do. You may or may not agree to this humiliation depending on your confidence level and modesty level. Note: your bra size will change based on who sizes you. You will think that you have finally solved the problem only to find out the next time you go shopping for bras or the next time you watch Oprah that you have been wearing the wrong size all along.  

For the men still reading, here is what ACTUALLY happens in that dressing room. Not what you think or hope. (Well actually I don’t know. Maybe it IS what you think and hope. Who knows? When it comes to boobs, boys get weird).

The bra expert/stranger takes a freezing cold measuring tape and wraps it around your chest over the boobs. She then disappears and returns with the bras. I would imagine at this point if you are a C or under she brings in a plethora of different styles of bras in a variety of colors and price points. If you are me, she brings in three beige or black bras that look like life preservers and cost more than the Kate Spade handbag you would rather be buying.

And by the way, did you know there is a size beyond DD? And DDD? And E???!!! Oh yes, sizes go up to H as far as I am aware.  Who knows, it might be higher, but they do not carry that size at your average department store.

Now she helps clasp it. I don’t know why this happens only with bras. I have never had a salesperson help zip up a pair of pants for me or button a blouse for me. This is embarrassing and humiliating but this is the way that it works.  I do not know who invented this.  If you are less voluptuous I imagine you can snap your own bra with ease, or at least do that junior high thing where you snap it in front first and then slide it around to the back.  But if you are big-chested, you are going to have a three-inch band that is reminiscent of a powerlifting belt and you might need help hooking that sucker up.  (Now you can always just take the bras from the saleslady and close the door, but that wouldn’t make for a funny blog.)

Then she asks me what I think. This is one of those times where it feels like there is a right or wrong answer. Like when you take an eye test and they ask you “Which looks better, one or two?” and switch back and forth. Do I like this bra or not? Does it fit me? I don’t know, does it? How do I know? You just said I have been wearing the wrong size for three years!!

“It feels a little loose and big,” I say.

“No,” she says. “You can’t go smaller,” and she proceeds to cinch me tight to show me how a smaller size would feel.

I knew it. Wrong answer.

“Do you have this in any other colors?”

“Not in your size. Just nude and black.”

Every time.

The Layman’s Guide to Bras:

Push-up: So this is for when you want to be sexy.  Not a lot of need for this one for moms in the carpool lane. Not that it can’t be used in private; but in public, this bra isn’t too useful for you after a certain age without getting stares.  However, if you are wearing this bra, that tells me you are looking for some stares, so this is the one to go for.  Now we big-bosomed ladies tend to spill over already, so push-up bras don’t really make sense for us.  Plus, there just isn’t a lot of space for them to go.  If we WERE to attempt to push our boobs up, they would be hitting us somewhere under our chin.  So I say no to this one personally.

Sports: Good for running or exercising. Not great if you leave on all day due to laziness or thinking you will work out but then not actually ever getting around to it. Could cause back or neck pain. Causes uni-boob.

Strapless: Cuts into your skin. Lots of spillover, possibly leading the dreaded “four-boob illusion,” where half the boob is over the cup and half is inside the cup.  May not be able to withstand your boob weight for an entire evening.

Front-clasp: Front clasp = collapses under the pressure like an empty paper bag.

Minimizer: This is a busty gal’s best friend.  It flattens you a bit so that you can finally see your feet. You also tend to look slimmer since you are not so top-heavy.  Negatives are if it pushes down too much and you are slightly voluptuous (which you are or you wouldn’t be wearing this bra) you will have square boob, which is a variation of uni-boob but wider and flatter.

Full-coverage: Pros: Full coverage = Support = Curvy girl’s favorite. Cons: Lots of material. Might feel like you are wearing an all-time-built-in camisole or tank top.

The padded push-up: WHAT. THE. HECK.  If you have reached a status with a D in it you do not need padding.  Nor do you need push-up. (See above). Push-up plus padding?  Why do they even make this in sizes above B or C? Where is the boob going to go?  Right outside the cup that’s where. I don’t need extra padding on my own extra padding.

Bralette: Just break down the word.  Bra-lette. Little bra.  Nuff said. Let’s move on.

Demi-bra: Half-bra. See above. No thank you. I am not paying $74 for half a bra.

Underwire: Lift and support. Hello angel! (Warning: may also cause digging into the skin. And watch out if one of those wires breaks free of its casing. YOWZA!!)

PS: I could not find a friend who was willing to pose for a picture for this blog. I even offered to blur out their faces, but there were no takers. That is why you will have to just suffer through with some stock photos of quotes about bras. Sorry about that. Blame my friends.

I was only 6 years old, but I can still remember my mother sitting in the brown wingback chair in our living room, announcing to my extended family that she was going to have a baby.  This was met with excited cheers, but also shock. My mother was 40 and pregnant…not common back then.

And then he was born. The Golden Boy. The first grandson after NINE girls. In a GREEK family.  Born at 10 1/2 pounds with a unibrow that would make Bert from Sesame Street jealous. The christening was a spectacle even for Greek standards, complete with banquet hall and band.

This boy became the bane of my existence.  A boy who anytime I would bring a boyfriend home would bring out my 6th-grade picture to humiliate me. A boy who would throw cups of freezing cold water over the curtain while I was showering. A boy who would put soaking wet towels in my bed so that I had to sleep on the floor for two days until my mattress would dry.

I’ve sprinkled some screenshots throughout of our texts to give you some insight into our relationship.

This is not the aforementioned picture. Believe it or not, this is BETTER than that one. (If you click on a previous post titled “Looking at life through rose-colored glasses,” you will see that picture)  This feathered-hair stunner is from 5th grade.  I recently found it along with the drawing, which is worse than a sideshow carnival caricature. We have come to the conclusion that my cousin, who is an artist for Sony Animation, is the culprit. Let it be known I am taking credit for giving him his start in the business. 

Let’s face it, this boy was doing his best while surrounded by a lot of estrogen. My brother was raised by four women, which was probably three women too many.  Each one more loud and outgoing than the next, a gaggle of girls who “talk too much and ask too many questions.” (Or so I’ve been told.) Growing up in my family is not for the faint of heart.  Or the quiet and introverted.  It can be overwhelming.

By the time he was two, my oldest sister Chris was able to drive. (If you have kids, you know that by the time your oldest child can drive, you are READY to pass over that responsibility.) Two years later, Melissa was driving as well. One of our “family stories” is that when either one of them would be alone with Abe, strangers would occasionally think he was their child.  This would elicit opposite reactions from the girls.  Chris would be annoyed and insulted, Melissa would be thrilled and honored.  Which also tells you something about the personalities and temperaments of my sisters.

He and I had a different relationship though. We were too close in age for me to have that maternal instinct toward him.  Yet too far apart to have a close sibling relationship in our youth. He was the annoying brother and I was the mean older sister.

It took many years for us to forge a friendship. But now I can honestly say that he is one of my go-to people when I need to talk. Men have a reputation for being terrible listeners, always wanting to “fix things.” But not him. He has figured out the difficult balance between knowing when to talk, when to listen, when to advise, and when to simply commiserate. I always feel better after our conversations.

I will also begrudgingly acknowledge that he is one of the funniest people I know. Which if you know me is hard to admit because I would like to think that I am also one of the funniest people I know.  This is particularly challenging for me because he usually won’t give me the satisfaction of a laugh even though I know secretly he thinks I’m hilarious.  In this, way he reminds me of my dad. (Well, that and the way he has the exact same body and face as my dad). It once took me three days of trying to get him to laugh until he finally caved.

Yet I will guffaw with abandon at his quick wit, his recapping of stories, his one-liners, and even his dad jokes.  Which is why I am the person he will text when something funny happens. When it comes to humor, he and I have a connection that no one else understands.

But even though when I think of him my first thought is FUNNY, his other traits are what make him a wonderful brother. He is kind, which is not a trait that you find easily anymore. He is thoughtful.  He is smart AND talented. He is artistic. He has extensive knowledge of music. He can write a play, compose a song, and play any instrument. He loves the Golden Girls and The Beatles. He can, and will, beat you at Scrabble. He makes a mean chili. He has his own cartoon about a mouse that lives in a cup titled “Cupmouse” because why not? In fact, for all intents and purposes, he is the real deal.

Left: An example of his “Dad humor.”            Right: His insane knowledge of music.

You might be wondering how he will feel after reading this post. Will he be embarrassed? Proud? Sentimental even?  Well, here’s the thing:  There is a pretty, pretty, good chance he won’t even see it.  I mean, it took me several months to get him to even sign up for my blog. (“I don’t really like to subscribe to things because they just send me stuff all the time. “Umm.  But this is not spam, it’s actually ME you dork. I am the one who is doing the sending of the blog so I think you will be ok. Sign up NOW!”)

And let’s say he does read this. Well, there is a VERY good chance that I won’t know it anyway because he won’t comment on it. Unless he argues about the accuracy of something I wrote, I may never know what he thinks. Which can be very frustrating for a person like me. Which might just cause me to call him up and talk too much and ask him too many questions…