33

I celebrated a birthday this past week, which means there’s a new number assigned to me. As much as I’d like to call that number meaningless and trivial, it’s obviously not arbitrary; it does stand for something That said, I don’t claim that there’s much significance to being 33 years old.

I’ve never been one to sweat about age anyway. The gray hair has already been around for many years, and I don’t care so much about the color of the hair changing as long as the quantity of it does not.

So this most recent birthday came and went with an appropriately tempered level of fanfare. There was a nice dinner at my parents’ house on my birthday eve, featuring my favorite dinner dish (veal parmesan); I had a nice birthday lunch with my co-workers at my favorite downtown KC lunch spot (Gordon Biersch Brewery); and I had a very pleasant birthday evening with my family upon my return home that evening.

That was more than I needed, in fact. These days, my wife and I have agreed that we don’t need to waste our money on each other for birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, etc. We spend plenty of money throughout the year on things for the kids, the house and any day-to-day needs.

But my wife usually breaks the rules on my birthday and gets me a little present. This year it was a really good one: a gym membership. Of course, that’s actually breaking the rules in the worst way. Not only was it an extra expense, it created a new recurring monthly payment. That’s alright, though, because it was something we’d been seriously considering in since moving into our new house last year. This was a good time to make it happen.

She’s forgiven, and I’m certainly very thankful for everything that I have been given.

***

A few random thoughts:

- I’ve been trying to figure this out for about nine months: Why was Michigan State’s run in last year’s NCAA tournament so “magical”? They were a two-seed, a perennial national contender that tends to be in the Top 10 just about every year. Was it just because the Final Four was being played in Detroit? Sorry, that’s not enough for me. A city and state ravaged by the country’s recession, rallying around one of its state schools? I’m not fully buying that one either. Maybe I’m bitter because my Illini are almost always chasing the Spartans in the Big Ten. About the only exception over the past decade was the 2005 Illini that reached the title game. By the way, Michigan State reached the Final Four that year too. It’s not fucking magic. It’s a really good coach who knows how to recruit very good players and get the best out of them on the court.

- Am I the only one who pronounces the first ‘r’ in February? I don’t know why it would be universally silent. I have to assume, therefore, that its usual pronunciation is based simply on laziness. Yes, February doesn’t really roll off the lips as easily as Febuary. But does that make it right? I don’t think so.

- My stepson has had some extra Christmas and birthday money burning a hole in his pocket the last few weeks, as he’s been dying to get out and buy some new CDs or video games. His most recent pick-up was the “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader?” game for Nintendo DS. What I find interesting about this purchase is that Dominic is only nine, so he’s only in third grade. Now I’ve never watched the TV show, but I understand its premise. The producers are trying to see if they can make adults look like asses by posing questions that are part of a usual fifth-grade curriculum. It’s more of a reality comedy than a quiz show, right? At least equal parts. But the comedy of it is surely lost when it’s a third-grader playing. So what’s the attraction for Dominic? As usual, I have no fucking idea.

- Somehow (I know how it happened but don’t feel like explaining all of it) my kids have recently been introduced to the Austin Powers trilogy. Somehow (I’m less certain of this part) they have become addicted to these films. Consistent with the vocabulary they’ve gleaned from being around me, the Austin Powers movies have become known as “the Fat Bastard movies.” The Fat Bastard scenes are the ones they want to watch first, and that’s understandable. For a two-year-old and a nearly-four-year-old, a ridiculously fat guy who talks funny is clearly the closest thing to a cartoon. Now, predictably, they repeat the things he says. Some of the more common phrases heard around my house recently:

“I’ve got a crap on deck that could choke a donkey.”

“I’ve had bigger chunks of corn in my crap.”

It’s pretty freaking amusing. The only real annoying part for me is Dominic thinking he needs to repeat the same lines and attempt a Scottish accent in the process. It instead comes out like a really, really bad Arnold Schwarzeneggar imitation. Anyway, I accept the blame since they are my movies, and my wife has also seemed to somewhat enjoy the comic relief during our otherwise hectic lives. I didn't, however, think my lead-by-bad-example style of parenting needed to be broadcast out to the wife's entire social network. Her online chirp was something along the lines of “Thanks to my husband my kids are now walking around the house saying …” Fuck you again, Facebook.

- Thanks to my new gym membership, I can now go work out any time it fits into my schedule. That includes late at night or early in the morning. I’ve already taken advantage of that, recently hitting the gym at about 10:00pm the other night. Of course, when I came home I found my wife putting the finishing touches on a fresh batch of Rotel. Yeah, nothing screams "Healthy Lifestyle" like a big bowl of cheese with chili tomatoes. Whatever, like I’m going to turn that down. You need to refuel after a workout anyway, right?

Everything Happens in Intervals of ... How Many?

As the holidays approached, I learned that my brother-in-law, his girlfriend and their dog would be staying at my house for more than half of the vacation time that I was taking from work. Doesn't sound like much of a vacation, does it?

But it didn't get any easier.

The week before Christmas, my stepson was diagnosed with Mononucleosis.

Over the holiday break, we hosted my mother-in-law for a visit that culminated in a shouting match between my wife and her mother.

Shortly after the holidays, my three-year-old contracted Croup, a respiratory virus that caused the swelling of his throat, which made it difficult for him to breathe and caused a terrible-sounding cough.

Joey recovered, but Lukas caught the same ailment before it had fully faded from his older brother. Great news for dad. Two kids with a pretty bad respiratory illness.

Anything else? Sure. Last Thursday night, while all of the kids ate dinner calmly in the kitchen, my wife ran to the garage to get her phone from her car, only to stumble off the garage stairs. The result: a broken ankle. The actual break is in the fibula, the outer leg bone just above the ankle joint. Regardless, not good news for a high-stress dad and husband. Fuck, my wife later told me that she thought when I'd run out to the garage after hearing her scream that I was going to hit her. Not quite the nurturing nature of a spouse that one might wish for.

So my wife continues to recover, now with her left foot in a hot pink hard cast. And as a daycare provider, this isn't a perfect scenario for her. It certainly doesn't bode well for her to have to hobble around while chasing eight or ten kids, not just our own. Things have been rough the last few days, to say the least.

But it doesn't just end there. I got a call from her Tuesday night around 6:00pm, letting me know that her car had suffered a flat tire on the way home from work; a not-so-subtle reminder that we needed to have the tires on our SUV replaced soon anyway. Hell, what's another few hundred dollars?

So what's next?

Tonight (or early this morning, rather) I received some news even worse than I could have expected. An old friend from college is no longer with us. Honestly, it had been a long time since I'd spoken with him, but that doesn't really lessen the impact.

At the mere age of 33, which I'll reach next week, my friend Adam has passed.

Adam was a good egg. He was one of those guys who was smarter than most of us ever could wish to be, a scholarship student to one of the best public universities in the country. But he didn't necessarily know his place. What he did know, however, was how he wanted to be perceived by his friends. A junior college transfer student, Adam was glad to be the designated alcohol buyer for our group, knowing that was a role he could successfully fill. The year that most of us, as freshman, turned 19, Adam turned 21. He was simply glad to be part of our fraternity (not a fraternity in the gay college Greek sense), and we enjoyed each other's company.

But it wasn't just for that reason that we respected him as a friend. Adam was probably about 5'11" and maybe 140 pounds, but that guy would have taken on a University of Illinois lineman to stick up for one of his friends. And it's for that reason we'd all look back now and know that we'd have done the same for him.

Midway through my sophomore year, Adam visited my roommate and myself to let us know he wasn't coming back to UI. His grades had suffered, probably due to apathy. He didn't feel challenged by life, so I think my roommate and I felt a little responsible for not giving him more of a reason to continue with his education.

But that may not have been what he wanted anyway. We knew that Adam wasn't your everyday kind of guy, and it probably wasn't just an education he was looking for in Champaign, Illinois.

So it's a little tough to swallow right now knowing that he's no longer around. His friendship is not forgotten.

Ok, Now What?

Let’s talk a little bit about my last couple of weeks.

I essentially ended 2009 with 11 days off of work, not returning to the office from Christmas Eve until January 4. But note that I’m not going to make the mistake of referring to it as vacation time. That’s how it’s logged according to my employer’s HR department, but the use of vacation days certainly doesn’t automatically mean one is enjoying a true vacation.

Trust me; I wasn’t.

The holidays were filled with predictable strife. Stress over the Christmas budget, stress over holiday scheduling with the family and stress over family interactions in general. That’s bound to happen with a family of five, a wife who comes from a perfectly broken family and a few houseguests who crashed for about two-thirds of my time off.

Consider this: The highlight of my year-end break may have been going out with the family on New Year’s Eve to see Alvin and the Chipmunks II: The Squeakquel. Yes, computer-generated rodents singing Beyonce and other bad Top 40 hits provided a breath of fresh air.

It seems like this so-called break might have been a good time for me to air some detailed grievances via the blog, but I couldn’t really do that since my brother-in-law, his girlfriend and their dog were staying in my basement for seven days. That’s where my computer is set up, and since I’m a fucking idiot and fucked up the configuration of my wireless router, I still need to go downstairs any time I wish to go online. Ok, you can blame that one, at least in part, on me.

So it’s not like I’d ever experience a post-holiday hangover. In reality, it should be more like a post-holiday bender. But there’s no rest for the emotionally abused, and I’ve learned that yet again recently.

Over the last six days, the water pipes at my house froze, my three-year-old son contracted Croup (a fairly common and rarely serious respiratory virus that causes swelling of the throat and caused Joey to wake up at 2:00am Wednesday gasping for air, wheezing and trying desperately to scream and cry), and it was all topped off last night when my wife took a tumble in our garage, breaking her ankle.

As much as I hate clichés and hate talking about the weather in just about any context, perhaps it’s true that when it rains, it fucking pours.

Yes, the stress of raising three children, making a decent living, justifying two house payments and helping my wife manage her own business is not enough. I know, “that’s life.” That’s what the assholes say about things like this. But it’s not unreasonable to think that I’m getting at least slightly fucked here. Just when I bought in for arguably a little more than I could afford, I’ve been dealt some seriously shitty cards.

Everything on the periphery is just as jumbled. In the past, work used to be seen as a good break from home, and I’d seem to be heading home not long after my patience at work was wearing entirely thin. But not so recently. Too often I’ve been antisocial at work among a group of like-minded colleagues whom I’d argue are my best friends these days, and upon returning home my fuse with both the wife and kids has been even shorter than usual. In the meantime, of course, interaction with my non-work friends continues to be less frequent than an Illinois victory over Penn State.

But the Illini did sneak past the Lions this week in Champaign, so maybe things can be turned around. However that win came prior to the arrival of the barking Croup cough and the snapping of my wife’s ankle.

I dream of a more simple life and pray (not literally) that this mess is more manageable than it currently seems. If the Illini can pull of a win in East Lansing tomorrow, then maybe I’ll be a believer -- a believer in the fate of both the Orange & Blue and this crazy life that I lead.

This Fucking Stinks, Literally

Last week was my stepson’s final week of school prior to the start of winter break, and he managed to be in attendance for about an hour of it. He was sent home in his dad’s care Monday morning after having vomited, and he was kept out of school the following day as well. Upon picking him up from his dad’s house Tuesday night, he told me he was feeling well. He hadn’t vomited since the previous morning, felt okay overall, and he even wanted to ask a neighbor friend to play outside together that evening.

I knew that was inappropriate and kept him indoors. And that was a good thing. At dinner, Dom unexpectedly mentioned that it hurt him to swallow everything except his drink, and he sounded like someone who’d been stuffed up for weeks.

Well, it turns out that he might be laid up for weeks.

I took a vacation day (all out of personal/sick days so late in the year) on Wednesday to take him to the doctor and attempt to relax as much as possible, but the doctor’s diagnosis didn’t help that.

Mononucleosis. No shit.

The good news is that mono is rarely transmitted to younger kids. In fact, it’s plenty rare in Dom’s age bracket as well. But it happens to be quite infrequent with kids the age of mine (two and almost four), and adults are fairly immune to it as well. Yeah, so that’s the good news.

The bad news is that a third-grader who usually walks around with a chip on his shoulder is doing so even more now. Sure, I want to feel sorry for him, but it’s not easy. He still doesn’t listen worth a shit, which sucks real bad with someone you’re trying to keep relatively quarantined. He still often carries himself and speaks with the attitude of a 12-year-old girl rather than an almost-nine-year-old boy.

And he literally fucking stinks.

I don’t know if it’s the mono-causing virus, but something’s making the kid fucking reek. I mean he smells up a whole room. I don’t know if it’s coming out of his pores or if it’s coming from his mouth, but I’m not going to take a deep breath close enough to figure it out. I have seriously never smelled anything quite like it, and I don’t care to come across it ever again. The doctor says the symptoms could last a little over a week or over two months. Luckily, they already seem to have started to subside just seven days after the diagnosis. Hopefully that means the stench of death will soon fade too.

Go ahead, call me fucking heartless.

Here’s some other stuff that stinks, too, just not literally.

Today is my last day of work until after the calendar turns. I’ll actually have 11 days off in a row, which sounds like a pretty good deal. But, realistically, how much rest will I get? It is the holidays after all. And that’s always turns into a clusterfuck, especially with the usual heavy dose of in-law drama.

Part I: No one wants to hang out with my mother-in-law, but everyone wants to know what she’s doing, where she’s going to be, etc. My wife's family is always talking about her, and I always went them to just shut the fuck up about her. She treats you like shit and doesn’t give you the time of day; return the fucking favor. But, against my wishes, she always gets invited to our house one night in late December. She usually never even responds to the invitation though. That’s clearly fine with me.

Of course, this year she not only says she may come over, she also says we could come over to her place on one of a couple nights over the next week or so. I think that’s the first time we’ve been invited to join my wife’s mother’s side of the family for a holiday occasion since Easter 2008.

My fingers are firmly crossed hoping it will fall through.

Part II: The day after Christmas, my brother-in-law arrives in town for his annual holiday visit. This year, he’s been invited to stay with us since we now have room for guests. He and his girlfriend are staying for an entire freaking week … along with their dog.

Now I love dogs, a far cry from the Steve of old, but I still don’t think this is a good idea. I, of course, had no input in the decision.

My wife says Jet is a very well-behaved dog, and he’s perfectly crate-trained. So when we’re all gone, he’ll be fine down in the basement in his little private kennel. Well great for him, but 1) what happens when we are here and he has a full run of the house? And 2) what about our little 13-pound dog who isn’t crate-trained and is used to having a free run of the house in our absence? My guess is that she’ll be all over the basement door the whole time, scratching and yapping while enjoying the fresh scent of a foreign dog’s asshole floating around from upstairs.

Yes, this certainly has the makings of an another holiday clusterfuck. Though I may have plenty of stories to tell over the next two weeks, the amount of true rest and relaxation that I enjoy remains to be seen.

Appetite for Dysfunction

It wasn’t too long ago, maybe four or five years, when my stepson’s dad hated me. Yeah, we’re told from an early age not to use the word ‘hate’ because it’s such a strong word; but trust me when I say it could certainly be used in this case.

I mean the guy basically told my wife, who was then just my girlfriend, that he wanted to kill me. He actually once told my wife after they’d broken up that if she ever became pregnant with another man’s baby, he’d kick her in the abdomen until there was no more living thing in there.

And I thought I didn’t handle rejection very well.

It was those kinds of comments that made me on several occasions tell my wife that I was going to smash his head through a wall. (I don’t know why, but that always seemed like the thing to do, grabbing him by the back of the head and just driving his head through some sheet rock.) To avoid complication, and perhaps some actual physical violence, my fair lady advised me not to be around when there was any exchange of Dominic. I usually complied for the sake of simplicity, while also acknowledging the absurdity of this aspect of our life together.

Fast forward to 2009, when somehow the guy is now a truly reliable friend of the family. At some point in the recent past, he figured out that he didn’t want to go down the path of the enemy. He realized that he should embrace those who love his son and treat them with the respect his son receives.

Sadly, I think it was the death of his mother that ultimately made him change his philosophy. He was openly remorseful about the ways he’d acted in the past. For all intents and purposes, he declared himself a new man.

That new man helped move us into our new house this fall, he takes Dominic to and from school everyday, and he fairly regularly brings beer when he has reason to show up at our house.

One of those random occasions was last week. After one of many recent trying days in my stress-filled life, the night was pleasantly capped by drinking about a half dozen beers with the man who was once my Lex Luthor.

I’d have never guessed five years ago that this would be the case.

And, sure, it’s plenty weird, in part because my wife always feels the need to freshen up her makeup before he arrives. But I consider the alternative, the Old Sal, as my wife sometimes says. This is much better. Especially the free beer.

But it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s normal … not that much else in my life seems to be either.

And a little more about dysfunction:

Wanting to hold a baby is one thing, but volunteering to shove something up his tailpipe? My wife’s a proverbial nurturer, and she should be since she’s a childcare provider. But this shit with my nephew is getting a bit overboard. She had to stop at her brother’s place last night to give the kid a suppository. Right, no one wants to do that; it’s an exit, not a point of entry. But when it’s needed, a parent fucking does it. Well, not in that family, I guess. For all I know, they can’t even change a god damn diaper on their own.

I also find it a little odd that every time we’re around the kid my wife goes way out of her way to reinforce how cute the kid is.

“Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
“Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?

I’m sorry, but when that kind of stuff is said repeatedly in the presence of a kid’s parents, it seems an awful lot like just trying to justify it for them. Translations:

Aloud: “Isn’t he cute, Steve?”
Translation: “Come on, Steve, tell them you think he’s cute too.”

Aloud: “Didn’t I tell you he was cute, Steve?”
Translation: “I swear, I do think he’s cute, and I brag about him!”

Merry Christmas to you, too, A-hole. My mom is a Christmas list Nazi. She wants detailed lists from everyone in the family, adults and children alike, and we’re hounded until we provide them. These lists are usually provided via email, broadcast to all family members who celebrate the holidays together. This includes my mom and dad, my two brothers, myself, my wife, my sister-in-law and my aunt. So you might expect these exchanges to be innocuous. Well, not always.

One of my brothers had the dubious distinction of being the last to submit his wish list this past weekend, and among those items listed was a gift card to Banana Republic. This prompted the following comment from my other brother:

“Don’t a lot of gay guys shop at Banana Republic?”

The response, which went out to the entire group:

“Gay guys who get a lot of pussy, mother fucker.”

Yeah, that was received by his wife, my wife, our mother, father and aunt. Classy!

Shortly thereafter, a text from one brother to the other served as a reminder that the email went out to the whole group, suggesting an apology may be in order to the ladies. Brother #2’s response:

“I apologize for nothing.”

I love my freaking family.

Observations from a Grinch

Note that I say a Grinch, not the Grinch. There are surely a lot of other people out there who are more anti-holiday than I am. My overall lack of spirit is more due to a combination of indifference, annoyance and realism. It's not driven by true hatred or distaste, although I do have plenty of that reserved for other things in life.

That said, I understand when there's a need to come through with a little cheer. Last Thursday would be a good example.

We were due to attend my stepson’s holiday music program at his school. This was especially important to Dominic, who loves to belt out his vocals. Sure, I give him a hard time occasionally about how it’s relatively gay, but I do prefer that he’s happy. This, singing in a school program, clearly was going to make him happy. So he promoted his upcoming music program pretty aggressively as it approached.

Predictably, it didn’t all go as planned.

Among those expected to attend, my parents backed out Thursday afternoon seemingly due to my dad’s full-day hangover. Likewise, my father-in-law also informed us he wasn’t going to be in attendance. His excuse, well, sounded an awful lot like he simply forgot, then he stumbled while telling us about something work-related that had apparently come up.

The final straw, however, came just minutes before heading out the door that evening. We came downstairs to find Dominic in tears. His dad, who had arrived a few minutes earlier with plans to follow us to the school, left and told Dominic he wasn't going to the program. This officially had all the makings of a train wreck.

Our trip to the school was understandably tense, with my wife leaving several inflammatory voicemails on Dominic's dad's phone. The tension was spread around too. It was apparently partially my fault that we were late because I didn’t help enough, not with finding clothes, getting the diaper bag ready, etc. It was also clearly part Dominic's fault because he lied about what he was supposed to wear (either that or he's an even worse listener than I thought. A light-colored shirt and shorts for a winter holiday program. What the fuck? My wife actually called a neighbor to confirm the correct and more formal attire that we’d expected).

But that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that Dominic’s big night was going to be a big turd.

After just a few songs, he clearly wasn’t feeling it. I pointed out to my wife that it looked like Dominic wasn’t giving it his all. She thought that was a good thing because it meant he wasn’t being flamboyant in a Disney Channel girl type of way. But, as I pointed out, “No, I mean you can tell his heart isn’t in it.” That made my wife sad, and even me a little too.

Luckily, there was a late rally. Dominic’s dad showed up after all, and maybe it was because Dominic noticed him that his demeanor on the stage changed. He was all smiles for the second half of the program, and by the time it was over he was ready to relive all of his favorite songs and favorite moments.

Good for him. Even a Grinch can appreciate that … although it should be noted that Dominic has since reproduced the entire program – all eight songs – on three separate occasions for those who weren’t able to attend the show. So I’m officially done with this aspect of my holiday spirit.

As you might guess, I have some other thoughts as well.

Political correctness reigns. What was Dominic’s favorite song in his program? “Oh Hanukkah.” He loves it and still sings it around the house. During its actual performance in the program, the opening notes sounded straight out of “Fiddler on the Roof” and it did seem pretty jolly. Nice clever beat. Keep in mind, of course, that there was a Kwanzaa song and a Mexican Christmas song in the program too. It’s great that everything was so balanced, despite the fact that 90% of the kids on stage appeared to have blond hair and blue eyes.

Welcome to December. It’s supposed to be fucking cold. If it’s two degrees outside, you can complain about it being cold. If it’s in the 20s or 30s, don’t complain unless it’s April through September. Get the hell over it. Also, it’s not an “event” when it fucking snows. If it snows a whole hell of a lot, perhaps a foot or more, maybe you can call it an event. Otherwise, it’s weather. It’s the type of weather we’re supposed to get, for Christ’s sake.

I have a defective cranium. As has become tradition over the past couple of years, my boss hosted myself and my fellow team members along with our spouses this weekend for a holiday dinner. Just like last year, it also involved a fair amount of alcohol and a friendly board game. Perhaps it was a problem that I'd already had a steady flow of beer since noon, seeing as my Fighting Illini played at 11:30. So by the time we arrived close to 5:00, I was probably already in a place that most people didn't reach by the end of the night. Add to that the fact that I'm really competitive and a really sore loser, and you have the makings of an at-times unpleasant game of Cranium. That includes me cursing the rules, cursing my opponents and cursing my teammates.

‘Tis the season to make an ass of oneself, no?

Half-full or Half-Empty? Thankful or Not?

I've never been accused of being optimistic. I've said that to my wife many times, along with such similar unpopular statements as "I've never been accused of being fun" and "I've never been accused of being romantic."

Trust me, those are real fucking winners in the eyes of a woman.

Whatever.

Anyway, it's no mystery to those who know me that I'm rarely going to sugarcoat things. Case in point recently when I questioned a communication strategy at work and my boss said, "Steve, the glass is half full."

Now that's one of my least favorite expressions. Honestly, regardless of which way it's interpreted, there's a flaw. I don't see how it's reasonable for someone to look at a glass and say, "Wow, it's half-full! That's great!" Pardon me, but that sucks. Seriously, how could you not look at that and think, "Why the fuck is it only filled halfway? That's retarded."

Sorry, but that's reality. And excuse me for being a fucking realist.

Enter Thanksgiving, a day on which we're basically supposed to ignore all flaws and be thankful for all that we have. I have no problem appreciating my wife, children, job, etc.; but that doesn't mean that all of life's other problems have disappeared. It's just not in my personality to pretend those things don't exist, and I'm at a point in my life when there are a lot of plenty of other things on my mind.

With two of my own kids and a stepson, plus the recent addition of a second house payment and double the utilities, cable, etc., I don't think it's unfair for me to be more concerned with my day-in day-out responsibilities rather than taking time out to honor the people/things I already recognize each day. Trust me, while I'm not a religious and prayer kind of guy, I think about my many blessings everyday, and that includes my parents, my siblings, my wife, my children and my belongings. Please don't try to tell me when I might need to truly acknowledge them. Instead, please just give me a chance to relax.

It's probably not difficult to imagine that I have a few other Thanksgiving-related thoughts to share. Here are a few:

Can someone really be referred to as a Grinch prior to Thanksgiving? Maybe this is more of an indictment of our society and the way it identifies "The Holiday Season." (Thanks to my good friend Nick for helping me realize this.) Because the so-called Holiday Season revolves around shopping and because holiday shopping revolves around the so-called Black Friday that follows Thanksgiving and the many days of hype that lead to it, I suppose it's okay for people to interpret the attitudes of their peers and family members before the last Thursday in November. My wife apparently had no qualms in doing so early last week as she spread holiday cheer and decorations throughout our house, much to the obvious delight of our children and to the palpable indifference of yours truly. (Please see the paragraphs above should you need further explanation.) After placing a very small plug-in Christmas tree in our basement, the part of our house that might be known by the terrible title of 'man cave', my wife told my stepson that "even the Grinch needs a tree." Again, pardon me for not needing to be told when and how to celebrate things.

Consider this chain of events on a Thanksgiving weekend for a sports fanatic who also had to work on the month's final Friday: Illinois football pummelled Friday afternoon, Illinois basketball losing in heart-breaking fashion Friday night to an inferior opponent, followed by another hoops loss the following night to an in-state non-BCS school, capped by a Chicago Bears' blowout loss to hated divisional opponent Minnesota, who happens to be led by longtime hated quarterback Brett Favre. Sorry, but at the age of 32 I still don't have the capacity to handle all of that negativity like a true adult.

And here's how I contributed to Thanksgiving this year. My wife is the kind of person who insists on bringing something to contribute to a holiday celebration that's being held outside of our own home. This year, I enjoyed her choice of bringing a large jug of warm apple cider. Very seasonal. I was the first to indulge once we'd arrived at my parents' house, and as wonderful as it smelled while being warmed on our stove top, it tasted even better when mixed with a great cognac like Courvosier. My father and brother followed by pouring their own, and I'm pretty sure they were happy to have such an option to warm their souls.

So passed Thanksgiving 2009.