What we did right with each of our kids - Part I - Elissa

(NOTE: Parents are forever lamenting the things they wish they had done differently with their children. "I should have been more strict about this" or "I wish I had let her participate in that." That type of stuff. I see nothing productive there, so instead I choose to celebrate the things that Terry and I appear to have done well with our children. Plus, it's a good way to fill five days of blog posts. So there's that.)

Elissa is my newly minted 23-year-old daughter. I don't mean "newly minted" in the sense of "we just got her." I mean she just turned 23 recently.

Also, you will note that I did not hyphenate "newly minted" in that first sentence. Long ago when I first started at The News-Herald, Robin Palmer taught me not to hyphenate "ly" words. I don't know if that was an AP Style thing, a News-Herald thing, or just a Robin thing. But to this day when I'm editing copy, I will remove the hyphen after a "ly" word.

Anyway, Elissa. When she was little, she was shy. A borderline genius, mind you, but shy and introverted. As she grew, she became a little more extroverted with each passing year. Now, the thing comedian John Mulaney says about Jewish women also applies to Elissa: You do not need to ask how she's feeling. She will tell you.

And this is an exceedingly good thing. Women are often conditioned in this society to believe that "shy and quiet" is more attractive than "opinionated and vocal." I will take the latter any day of the week, and I like to think we encouraged her to be that way.

Here are five other things we did right with Elissa:

(1) We made her play her oboe until she graduated from high school. She was ready to be done with the instrument by her junior year (maybe sooner), but we prodded her to stick it out. I believe studying and performing music is an inherently beneficial thing. As is seeing through something you started. Elissa would disagree with me, but I think we did right by her in this decision.

(2) We let her make her own decision about college when it came to living on campus. She could have saved a ton of money living at home while she attended Cleveland State University, but she wanted the on-campus experience, and it's clear how much less she would have grown over those four years had we made her live at home.

(3) I played Barbies with her when she was little. Whatever you think of Barbie and whether she actually imposes unrealistic standards of beauty on little girls (I happen to think most little girls are smarter than that), we had some of our most fun times together playing with the gigantic stock of Barbie merchandise stored under Elissa's bed. Of course, once I got sick of playing, I would concoct some sort of fiery death for Barbie, Ken, and whomever else joined us in our adventures. But PRE-DEATH, Barbie sessions were fun.

(4) We let her make mistakes. This one is going to come up a few times in these posts about my kids, because I see great value in being allowed to screw up in your life. Protecting your children from every stumble and fall is unrealistic and ultimately counterproductive. To Elissa's credit, she has made relatively few mistakes to this point, but she has learned from the ones she has made. I'm pretty sure, anyway...

(5) We helped develop within her a healthy appreciation of 80s music. Elissa listens to a lot of stuff I like and a lot of stuff I probably don't understand. But in the end, we can always find common ground in "Come On, Eileen."

Cross country runners are among the toughest people on the planet

And so are wrestlers, but that's another blog post for another day.

My youngest son, Jack, is running cross country for the first time. Well, officially what he's doing is known as the Wickliffe Junior Olympics program, but for all intents and purposes it's Wickliffe Middle School's offseason cross country training program.

(NOTE: Apparently there are people who think the phrase "all intents and purposes" should actually be rendered as "for all intensive purposes." What? Why? Why would you think that? What is an "intensive purpose?" What makes it so much more intensive than other purposes? I don't understand human beings sometimes.)

Anyway, the boy is running cross country. He's still learning the ropes, but the program is clearly awesome and well tailored to someone of Jack's age (11) and temperament (mildly eccentric and easily distracted).

His coach is Coach Todd, a great guy with whom I ran track back in the late 1800s at Wickliffe High School. Or maybe it was the late 1980s. It just seems like it was a long time ago.

Todd was a distance runner way back when and is still in great shape. He pushes the kids, but he doesn't drive them until they throw up or anything. He understands they're at an age where an experience like that will turn them off of the sport forever.

Jack and I go out running together a couple of times a week, and I can see his endurance and focus improving every time we lace up our shoes. It's kind of fun to watch.

I was a Wickliffe track athlete for six years, but I was a sprinter. As I've mentioned before, I thought distance runners were nuts (they are). I didn't join their ranks until I was older and perhaps a little wiser.

Cross country was and is a fall sport. During the fall I played football. Every once in a while I would see the cross country team practicing, which is to say they were out running. You "practice" cross country by running. Lots and lots of running.

Occasionally one of my football teammates would say something about the cross country runners and how they wouldn't last five minutes on a football field. I would laugh and suggest that he wouldn't last five SECONDS in a cross country meet.

I ran with these people every day during track season in the spring, and I knew what they were capable of. I also knew how hard they worked to get better. By the time kids get to high school, you can push them a lot more, but most of the cross country runners I knew pushed themselves. They didn't need a coach with a whistle and a clipboard to motivate them.

Which is to say that cross country runners are, for my money, among the most disciplined, hardest-working athletes in all of sports. And having raised a family of kids who were mostly soccer players, I'm excited at the prospect of having a cross country warrior in our ranks (I think old-time sports writers used to call them "harriers," by the way.)

If you're looking for someone with mental toughness and a true drive to succeed, find a distance runner. You won't be disappointed.

Are you bad at telling jokes? You can be 100% better in 8 minutes.

Look, I know, 8 minutes doesn't sound like a lot of time, but it IS a lot of time in this day and age. You've got things to do like, I don't know, watch "Alf" reruns or play Candy Crush on your phone or read this blog. Important things.

But if you're someone who ever tells a joke, or if you're a fan of stand-up comedy, or both, this 8-minute breakdown of what makes one hilarious joke by the comedian Louis CK truly funny is for you. This is fascinating stuff. Not to mention the fact that the joke itself is great, to be appreciated particularly by anyone who has ever had to take care of little kids.

Here it is:

Wasn't that cool? I know that neither you nor I necessarily have Louis CK's talent for telling a story, but that doesn't matter. What matters are the elements of the joke and presenting them right, and being committed to the joke. That's how you get laughs.

I'm taking this too seriously, aren't I? I don't know. I just really appreciate a well-told joke. If you're going to tell it, tell it right. That's all I'm saying.

Should you get a stand-up desk?

Yes, you should.

OK, that's a sweeping generalization. A stand-up desk isn't for everybody, but I would suggest it's a good option for most people. I have one in my office and have benefitted greatly from it. Here's what it looks like:

You will note a few things:

(1) See that blue mat? It's a life saver, especially the first few weeks when you're getting used to standing up for most (or part) of the day. Vitamix Chef Adam Wilson gave me that tip, something culinary professionals who are on their feet all day learned long ago.

(2) The desk is adjustable. It can go down to desk level in case I need to sit for any reason.

(3) That little shelf is nice for my coffee cup, Post-It Notes, a handy pen or pencil, knick-knacks, etc. I also have on my mine (you can see it on the left side of the shelf in the bottom photo) a rock from the Appalachian Trail given to me by my neighbor Tim Warneka. It's a reminder that one day I really will walk the entire 2,150-mile AT. I'm telling you, I'm going to do it.

The adjustable height thing is important because you want to get your monitor level just right. Otherwise you'll eventually pay for it in your neck and shoulders. But once you make the initial ergonomic adjustments, you'll be golden.

I find that standing all day keeps me more alert and attentive, and lends itself to having more energy. It's to the point that I can't take sitting for long periods anymore.

Speaking of which, the reason I got the standing desk in the first place wasn't because I have back problems, which is why a lot of people prefer to work standing up. It's because of the emerging body of research suggesting that long periods of sitting are just plain bad for you. That whole "sitting is the new smoking" thing is real. Or at least it's real to me, which is why I keep myself upright most of the day.

Anyway, it's something to consider, assuming your company will allow and/or pay for it. There are other types of stand-up desks from which to choose, including some with larger shelf/desk space, and even treadmill desks on which you can walk while working and get your steps in. I haven't tried one, but they do seem cool.

Ultimately, I wholeheartedly endorse the stand-up work lifestyle. It's what all of the cool kids are doing! Or maybe it's just one uncool kid: me. Either way, think about it.

Thank you for clicking on the ads. You're very nice people.

This past Saturday I wrote a post asking you to click on the ads on my blog because I could make money that way. I was serious that I would appreciate the clicks, but in no way did I expect you to do it. It was mostly a joke.

Except you did it. And you did it well.

So well in fact that I just checked Google AdSense, which tells me that in the last seven days, I have earned $14.98 from blog ad views and clicks.

For comparison's sake, you will note that this was, according to Google AdSense, a full $14.89 higher than what I earned the previous seven days.

So, then...Money earned in seven days before I groveled for clicks: 9 cents. Money earned in two days after I groveled: $14.89.

Once that 15 bucks or so gets added officially added to my account (I think your earnings accrue once a month), my balance will be more than $110, which means Google will finally issue me a check after five years of blogging.

I owe you. Big time.

As I cruise to work in my car listening to a Haydn string quartet from a CD purchased using my blogging revenue, I promise I will think of you. Fondly.

(NOTE: You don't think the Google AdSense people will read this and take away my cash, citing some obscure rule about soliciting ad clicks or something, do you? Maybe we should just keep this between ourselves...)

I'm a puppy, I'm adorable, and I have no qualms about murdering you

(EDITOR'S NOTE: We have no idea where this came from. Maybe it was that two-week-old spinach we ate. We weren't ourselves when we wrote it. Please excuse us.)

Yeah, I know, I'm cute as all get out. And let me tell you, all get out is pretty cute, so that's saying something.

I'm even cuter when I put my head down like this and look up at you. You people are such suckers. I would just as soon bite every one of your faces off, but you all have access to The Food and I need The Food. So cute and cuddly it is.

What you forget is that I'm a wild animal. Well, not "wild" so much anymore. My kind was domesticated a couple of thousand years ago. But that wild gene is still in there, and if you take me to the vet and do that thing to my privates that happened to my brother Max, I will kill you. DO YOU HEAR ME? I WILL KILL YOU.

You don't think I would kill, do you? Perfect, that's exactly what I want you to think. Adopt me, play with me, shower me with affection. Just so long as there's nourishment involved.

But the day will come when you push me over the line. Oh yes, that day will come. Maybe you'll stop giving me The Food that comes in a can and is so much better than The Food that comes in a bag. Maybe you'll forget to let me out and yell in my face when I do the inevitable wee wee on the carpet. Or maybe you'll foolishly subject me to that thing at the vet I mentioned before.

Whatever it is, you will eventually go too far. And when you do, it's lights out time, human. Lights. Out. See this cute little snout of mine? Underneath is a set of fangs that will tear right through your flesh. I'll do it while you're sleeping. Heck, maybe I'll do it while you're awake and amuse myself with your screams of pain.

Because that's how I roll. I'm a natural born killah. Not a "killer," but a killah.

Bottom line? You should have gotten a cat.

My wife, the female Benjamin Button

I have written before about the transformation my wife underwent a few years ago. She became, while not an entirely new person, certainly a different person. An improved version of an already-awesome model, if you will.

Nowadays she's living life in the chaotic context of our family, doing the superhuman things moms do to keep us all going. And she's also working outside the home for the first time since the mid-90s. She's a circulation clerk at Wickliffe Public Library, and that job takes up a considerable chunk of her time.

But then there's also this: She's getting hotter. Women often complain that the aging process discriminates against them, as men get more "distinguished" and they feel they just get, well, older.

That, however, is not the case in my marriage. While I find myself weathering under the ravages of nearly half a century, my wife seems to be getting younger.

This is good in that, you know, I like having the hot wife. But it's bad because I start to look pretty lame in comparison.

It was like this when we were first engaged, too. She was young and thin and pretty, and I looked like I weighed 400 pounds.

Actually, at the time we took our engagement photo (January 1991), I WAS at the heaviest point of my life at 217 pounds. And it was apparently all in my gigantic head. I look like I'm going to lean over and eat her in one bite in that picture.

Anyway, we're back to Beauty and the Beast mode, and I have mixed emotions.

But hey, she has to wear reading glasses and I don't! So there's that.

I'm never going to make real money blogging, but I could make 100 bucks if you do one thing that won't benefit you in the least

This is an insanely selfish blog post and I'm a bad person for writing it.

But I want my $100.

If you've been a reader of this space over the few years, you may have noticed that Blogger.com places ads here and there around the blog. I get money for displaying those ads. Pennies, mind you, just pennies.

But those pennies add up.

The more people that visit the blog, the more money I get. And what's more, the more people that actually click on those ads, the more money I get.

Do you see where I'm going here?

My plan is this: How about you go off and click on one or two of those ads? I don't care if you stay on whatever website they take you to. Just click on them. Then go about your day as usual. Don't even give me or my bank account a second thought.

What will happen, though, is that my Google Ads account balance will grow. Again, by pennies, but it will grow.

Right now that balance is about $95. It represents several years' worth of on-and-off blogging and thousands of subsequent eyeballs that have viewed and/or clicked on ads in my blog.

Google Ads will not issue payment until a blogger reaches $100.

We're so close, people, so close. Well, I'm so close. As I've freely admitted, there's absolutely nothing in this deal for you, other than the satisfaction of knowing that, with just a few mouse clicks (or even a few dozen, if you're so inclined), you've added to my collection of classical CDs.

Because that's what I'm going to do with the money, you understand. I'm going to go on a classical CD shopping spree on Amazon.com. It's exactly the sort of stupid, nerdy thing you would expect me to do, and I don't plan to let you down.

The CDs I like can be had for less than $10 apiece. Far less than $10, in some cases, even when you include shipping. I'll have more CDs to listen to on my drive to and from work, thus making me happier and more relaxed, and therefore more healthy.

So, by extension, if you choose not to click on any of the ads, it's entirely accurate to say you're killing me.

Shame on you. Get out there and click on those ads and clear your conscience immediately. You're welcome.

My daughter is 23, and there's almost nothing interesting about that age

The following post ran on this blog on March 23, 2016. I bring it back to honor the fact that my oldest child, Elissa, turns 23 today. Go ahead and, uh, celebrate, Lis! You've earned it!

At what point do your birthdays suddenly become a lot less exciting?

I think it's when you turn 23. And I'll tell you why:

Every birthday you have from 1 to 20 is exciting because you're a kid, and kids get excited about their birthdays for various reasons (even 20-year-old kids). That's a given.

Then you turn 21 and that's cool because ADULTHOOD. Self-explanatory.

Twenty-two is also pretty good, especially for college kids, because it's generally the age when you graduate with your bachelor's degree. Life is about to begin in earnest and you can feel it.

And then you turn 23 and...well, nothing. You're either in grad school or out working. And 23 is just a really, really nondescript age. There's nothing vaguely interesting or special about it. It's even a prime number, for gosh sakes.

Twenty-three just kind of sits there. And I think for many people, it's the first nearly meaningless birthday they experience.

All of which is to mention that my daughter Elissa turns 22 tomorrow, and she's on track to graduate from college sometime this year, so there's that. It is perhaps her last exciting birthday, and I don't even know if she's excited about it because I don't see her very much. I'll have to ask her.

Every Elissa birthday makes me reflect on the passage of time because she's our oldest and therefore is always the first among our kids to turn a given age. I suppose the next time her birthday will really, really affect me will be when she turns 30 because...well, by then, there will be no denying the fact that we her parents are old. You can't have a 30-year-old and be a true young'un.

So until then, I'm going to hold on for dear life to her 20-something birthdays. Even the boring ones.

All of the jobs I've had since age 15 and the pros and cons of each

Hey kids, trying to figure out what to do with your life? Can't decide which career to pursue? Well, here's a handy list of possibilities, all of which I've done in my life and most of which at least provided a living wage so that my family didn't starve. Which is a plus.


Dishwasher in an Italian restaurant (1985)
PRO: Free food.
CON: It turns out there are a LOT of dishes to wash in an Italian restaurant.

Wendy's employee (1986)
PRO: Free food (whether or not it was supposed to be free).
CON: Drunks who came through the drive-thru at 2:35 a.m. after the bars closed and thought they were hilarious when they ordered a Big Mac.

Newspaper sports department clerk (1988-90)
PRO: The thrill of deadline, helping to put out an award-winning sports section every night and getting paid for it while still in college.
CON: No free food.

Newspaper sports writer (1991-96)
PRO: See the "PRO" entry under "Newspaper sports department clerk" above.
CON: When they ask how much money you make, people can hear in your voice the implied quotes when you talk about your "salary."

Health insurance plan document writer (1996-97)
PRO: Each day would eventually end.
CON: Each day would inevitably begin.
(NOTE: In all fairness, this was with a very solid, reputable organization. It just wasn't a job that fit me especially well.)

Managing editor for a urology-themed trade newspaper (1997-99)
PRO: Urologists are hilarious. Seriously, some of the funniest people I ever worked with.
CON: Almost everything you write and talk about in the course of a normal work day involves penises, prostates and assorted old person problems.

Hospital public relations guy (1999-2002)
PRO: Being in the operating room and getting to tell stories about amazing research and clinical care at one of the finest academic medical institutions in the world.
CON: Lots of blood, some of it not your own.

Public relations agency account executive/vice president (2002-06)
PRO: Travel to many cool places.
CON: Travel to many cool places while your kids are little and your poor, pregnant wife is stuck at home.

Community foundation public affairs representative (2006-11)
PRO: Some of the nicest, coolest, most talented colleagues I've ever had.
CON: It's amazing how much people hate you when all you're trying to do is give away money.

Tech-oriented nonprofit marketing and communications VP (2011-13)
PRO: Broadband access is fascinating.
CON: Startlingly few people care about broadband access.

Unemployed guy (2013)
PRO: No work!
CON: No paycheck!

Blender company director of communications (2013-present)
PRO: There's always food here.
CON: There's always food here.

I got a new car so I stopped speeding

We probably need to address three things about today's headline:

(1) I didn't get a "new" car. I got a "new to me" car. A "pre-owned" car, as they call it nowadays. A "used" car, as they called it when I was growing up. It's a 2015 Honda Civic. It's a great car and about the newest car I've had in my life. So it's new but it's not. Are we clear on that?

(2) To say I've stopped speeding is to imply I don't speed at all, which isn't true. I go about 5 MPH over the speed limit in most instances. It's just that I used to go 10-15 MPH over with regularity. So while technically I still speed, I don't speed like I used to.

(3) The headline also implies that the reason I stopped speeding is because I got the car. And while that's true, it's not the only reason. Sure, I don't want to jeopardize my nice new-ish car, but I've also felt for a long time that I should slow down.

To that last point, speeding always felt good in that it got me places faster. But it also felt selfish in that it (statistically anyway) put others around me in danger. And as a supposed follower of Christian teachings, I'm supposed to submit myself to the law, and the law clearly states how fast I should be driving on a given road in a given situation.

And really, I should clarify that I've only been slowing my roll for a couple of weeks now, so it's not like this is a permanently established habit quite yet. But I intend it to be.

I find, for example, that my morning commute is far more peaceful when I just kind of go with the flow and don't immediately slide over into the left lane and jam on the gas pedal. This morning I was listening to Wagner ("Die Meistersinger," for those who care) and having a good old time in the second lane from the right, averaging about 65 MPH. I got to work maybe two minutes later than normal and it was fine.

Seriously, it was fine. I didn't feel like I was missing anything by not joining my old friends in the speed demon lane – a lane that, by the way, averages about 75 MPH on Interstate 90 westbound heading into Downtown Cleveland most weekday mornings.

I felt a lot more relaxed as I drove and a lot more relaxed when I got to work. Relaxed is good. I could use more relaxed.

A lot of this has been brought on by the fact that I'm teaching my daughter Melanie to drive. She's the fourth of my kids with whom we've gone through this process, and with every one there have been awkward conversations like this:

CHILD: Aren't you supposed to turn into the left lane when you make a left turn?

ME (sheepishly): Well...yeah.

CHILD: Then why did you go all the way out into the right lane?

ME: You'll do the same once you get your license.

Translation: I know what I did is wrong, but everyone does it and therefore it's OK.

Not my finest parenting moments.

So I figure setting the example for my children and for others is a better-late-than-never situation.

Anyway, if you're a chronic speeder like me, I suggest you give, you know, NOT speeding a try for a while. At first you'll be antsy. Just itching to swerve around that slow poke in front of you who has the nerve to do the actual speed limit. MOVE OVER, IDIOT!

But then after a while you'll be that idiot. Except you won't be an idiot. As long as you drive in the correct lane (leave the passing lane for those still addicted to velocity), you'll be the responsible driver.

And that's what we're all aiming for, right? Safe, smart, responsible, relaxed.

Especially relaxed. I'm telling you, relaxed is good.

I just assume you're a good person

There are relatively few things I can say I strongly believe, but one is certainly the idea that most people have genuinely good intentions.

I truly believe this. I'm not saying that most people are "good" (whatever that means) but that, by and large, they intend to do good.

There are exceptions of course, though I'm not good at recognizing them. I have almost no ability to detect when someone is trying to take advantage of me. Call it naivete or whatever, I just don't pick up on it.

The result is that you could easily get me to buy a fake deed or to give you money to help with some nonexistent problem. But I choose to believe people don't do that to each other.

My wife, on the other hand, would disagree. She can point to several examples in which she would say my faith in humanity ended up biting me in the proverbial backside.

The most shining example of this was Maurice. Maurice was a man I met at a Shell gas station a couple of years ago when I was pulling in to put some air in my tires. He flagged me down as I drove in and explained that he and his girlfriend were staying at a nearby hotel, that they didn't have any money, that they had gotten into an argument (I think...I can't remember the details now), and in a nutshell, that he needed to get food and could use some money to buy it and to get them back to where they actually lived. I wish I could remember the specifics, but you get the drift.

If you're like most people, you probably would have reacted in one of two ways:

Option A: You would have politely declined his request for money and driven away
Option B: You would have given him a few bucks and driven away

I, however, chose Option C, also known as The Dumb Option. I told Maurice to get into the car so that I could take him to Mr. Chicken for food, which I would pay for. I didn't know Maurice from Adam (or from Eve, for that matter). If any of my kids ever took a total stranger into their car like that, I would freak out at them. But for whatever reason, it seemed OK for me to do it because he seemed like a nice guy.

NOTE: My wife recently pointed out that many of my dumbest decisions include the sentence "he really seemed like a nice guy." She's probably right.

Anyway, we chatted as we drove to Mr. Chicken and I enjoyed the conversation. Maurice really WAS a nice guy, at least outwardly. When we got to the restaurant, I told him to order whatever he needed for him and his girlfriend. And there may have been a child involved, too, I can't remember. I think the order came to $20 or so.

Then, as we got into my car and started driving back to his hotel, Maurice said the only way he and the girlfriend could get home was by taking a cab. And since it was on the other side of Cleveland, it was going to be really expensive. I wasn't sure how much of his story I believed at this point – even I'm not a complete fool, though I know it seems like I am – but it was clear he was in need, so I told him I would take him to the bank and we would take out some money for him.

If you're a sensible person, you're probably staring at your screen slack-jawed at this point. "What the #^&?! were you thinking?" is something you likely want to say to me now. I know, I know. But did I mention how much of a nice guy he seemed?

I got $60 out of the cash machine and gave it to him. He had asked for more, but I told him that was all I could spare. Then I drove him back to the spot where I had originally picked him up. He thanked me as he got out of the car and told me he would be in touch to pay me back, which I never believed. Because again, I may be stupid, but I'm not dumb. Mostly.

Wait, you're wondering, how would he be able to contact me? Because I gave him my cell phone number. "YOU WHAT?!? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SIGN OVER YOUR HOUSE TO THE GUY, YOU DUMB ****?"

I know, I know, in retrospect maybe not a good move. But I thought that was the end of it.

Until a week or two later when I was sitting on a hillside in West Virginia. (This is absolutely true.)

Terry and I were attending my mom's family reunion, which every year is held in a rural park on the West Virginia/Pennsylvania border. We had climbed up a grassy hill and were sitting there by ourselves talking when my phone rang. I saw it was a Wickliffe number and picked it up, figuring it was somebody I knew.

And it WAS somebody I knew. It was my friend Maurice! He was at a different hotel this time and needed a place to stay, but at the moment he was short of cash and was hoping I could pay for his room until he was able to reimburse me.

It was only at that moment, I think, when I realized maybe not everyone is a completely honest person. In a few seconds, I would fall from the ranks of "completely honest" myself.

I wasn't about to pay for Maurice's hotel room, so I told him (truthfully) I was out of town and couldn't just come down and bail him out. He said that was probably fine and asked if I could come to the hotel the next day when I was back. So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I lied through my teeth.

"Oh, I won't even be back in Wickliffe until Thursday," I told him. "And even then I have work and I'm going to be really busy."

We were going back to Ohio that same day, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

Then came one of those moments that lives on in my relationship with Terry. After I told Maurice I wouldn't be home until Thursday (it was Saturday), I covered up the phone and said in a loud whisper to Terry, "I'M LYING!"

And she started busting up. Of COURSE I was lying, and of COURSE she knew I was lying. There was no reason for me to tell her I was lying, but I felt the need anyway. Now, to this day, any time Terry or I say something that obviously isn't true, one of us will look at the other and loudly whisper, "I'M LYING!" We have fun together.

Maurice hung up and, surprisingly, I never heard from him again. I really thought I would. Terry, from time to time, will mockingly ask me if he has called recently to arrange repayment of the $80 "loan" I gave him (which is how much it was when you add up the food and the cash). I tell her to shut up, she laughs at me, and life goes on. This is how you stay married for nearly 25 years.

Anyway, I tell you all of this not to suggest that I'm some virtuous person, but to drive home two essential points:

(1) Despite my stubborn belief in the inherent goodness of most people, I will concede there are indeed exceptions.

(2) I'm an idiot.

You instinctively knew both of these things already.