This year I learned a lot of things. I learned:
• That the grocery cart battle is not a futile one. Together, we can put up carts and shame others into it. And I learned how to keep my children from telling adults to put their carts up. Quickly.
• That adulthood begins at 9. That is the only explanation I can find for, “Dad, I’m not gonna order off the kids’ menu. I’m not a kid anymore.”
• That a major, overlooked milestone in a child’s life is the “OK, I’ll try it and see if I like it.”
• That no matter how much you yell at fleas, they do not go away. You have to unleash chemical warfare on them, combined WITH the yelling.
• That Snuba – the hybrid of scuba and snorkeling – is the way to go check out reefs 30 feet below the surface.
• That if you are a week out of knee surgery, and Santa delivers a trampoline to your backyard, move away for a month. It’s for your own good.
• That the coolest three words a 9-year-old girl can hear as someone shakes her hand are, “Hi, I’m Miley.”
• That there are still decent people out there. A few days before Christmas – and a few days after my knee surgery – I was hobbling out to my car, pushing my wife’s bike/Christmas present to the car. My son, bless his heart, was helping as he could. When I got to the car, a man walking by said, “Lemme help you” and helped me load the bike into the car.
• That those types of things don’t happen enough. I was at the grocery the other day and saw a woman straining to reach a bag of cat food on the top shelf. When I handed it to her, she said, “Oh, I thought you were going for the same thing.” I responded, “No, just taller than you and grabbing it for you.” Her response: “Wow, that doesn’t happen often.” That should happen more often.
• That an alligator’s tail can loosen a child’s tooth.
• That family time is not reserved for holidays. During an evening in September, my family was trying to work out details of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’m 37 and the youngest of four kids, and we were all sitting there with my folks, my wife, my in-laws, my kids and my nephews. We were all trying to formalize plans to all get together. When we were all together. On a random Tuesday. And that is awesome.
• That life is better when Alabama football is ... well, Alabama football. At least, it is for me.
• That the Discovery Channel’s “Boom De Ya Da” commercial is audio hypnosis for small children.
• That loop roller coasters were put on this planet to remind you that man’s greatest achievements continue to be in the Field of Awesome Things.
• That pulling off the side of the road of a busy Florida highway so your kids can see a roadkill python is looked at strangely by other motorists.
• That the iPhone will be one of those change-the-world signature devices. I should have invented it.
• That Anne Frank died of typhus. I am not quite sure how that came up in conversation.
• That the best way to fix a burger is topped with a fried egg.
• That utility companies can go where they want, when they want and cut down your fence if it’s in the way.
• That my childhood can make some blockbuster movies. “Snorks: The Movie” cannot be far behind.
• That you can feel sorry for yourself if your last six weeks include a hospitalization, a family helping of swine flu, a broken HVAC unit and knee surgery. And then you can look around and realize there are plenty of people who would gladly trade for my troubles. As I often tell my kids, “You’re right. It’s not fair. And you don’t want the world to be fair, because it’s not fair in your favor.”
Happy 2010, everybody.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A warm gift
Call me a hopeless romantic. Try as I wanted, there was no way I was going to be able to hold off giving my wife her Christmas present early.
And she felt the same way. Our gifts simply could not wait until Dec. 25.
Plus, the downstairs was freezing, and we needed the heater working again.
Yes, my wife and I have given the mutual gift of a downstairs heating unit. It's "The Gift of the Magi" for boring married people.
We discovered it was broken back in October when a cool spell hit, and I went to turn on the downstairs unit.
We have mainly hardwood floors downstairs, and here's a little know trait of hardwoods - when temperatures dip below 75, hardwood turns to ice. It can be a springlike 72 outside, and my den is suitable to hang meat.
When I turned on the unit, it did nothing. But that was not unusual, as it would often take anywhere from 10 seconds to an hour to cut on. Several people told me that was not normal. I told them that if I can ignore it, so can they.
But this time there would be no cutting on. The closest it came was a clicking at the thermostat.
I called the heating repair folks, and they came out for what I hoped would be our usual drill. (That's where they come and look at the machine, tell me that I have to turn it to "heat" and then charge me a $60 dummy tax.)
Not this time. I was informed I had a cracked heat exchanger, which, in addition to making my unit inoperable, can apparently also pump scads of carbon monoxide into my home.
Wow, it's cold inside AND it's as if an idling Ford Pinto is parked in my den - double win!
I asked him how much it would be to fix the heater. He looked at me with one those, "Oh, you poor thing" looks.
I knew it was not good.
Granted, I was not surprised that the unit was going to have to be replaced. Best I can tell, the unit was actually constructed in the 1930s, and our house was built around it some 50 years later.
Trying to find a bright side, I noted that it was right around the time of my wife's birthday, so I could get her that for a present. Not so fast. My wife decided she had other plans for her birthday, namely getting sick and having to go into the hospital for a three-day stay. Nothing but high-ticket items for my gal.
So the heater went to the back burner (ha!). I used a couple of space heaters to keep the kitchen warm, and generally avoided the rest of the house. When the kids would complain that the den was cold, I would tell them that they are just like the pioneers, braving a sub-70 den to watch Tivo'd SpongeBob. It's that kind of fortitude that built this country. After about six weeks of not having a heater, I had experienced all of the fortitude I cared to. The heating folks came out with a new unit.
It's a Carrier, so named, I believe, because it is the size of an aircraft carrier. They also installed a fancy new digital thermostat that, I am fairly certain, was used as a prop on the latest "Star Trek" movie.
They showed my wife how to use it, and she showed me. We had this conversation:
HER: You can even set it for both heat and cool to come on.
ME: Why would you do that?
HER: In case the temperature fluctuates.
ME: Do you really think that's going to be a problem?
Fortunately, it also has a manual mode, in which I can push one of four delightful options: heat, cool, an up arrow and a down arrow.
Yes, I know I can set it to come on automatically and do all kinds of fancy tricks. I can also get up in the morning and cut it on. I feel confident it will heat up in short order. I'm not trying to warm up the Biltmore House.
So now that my wife and I have settled in with our cozy warm downstairs Christmas gift, we can enjoy the holidays in comfort. And then I will look forward to Valentine's Day. I'm thinking of getting her the matching upstairs unit.
And she felt the same way. Our gifts simply could not wait until Dec. 25.
Plus, the downstairs was freezing, and we needed the heater working again.
Yes, my wife and I have given the mutual gift of a downstairs heating unit. It's "The Gift of the Magi" for boring married people.
We discovered it was broken back in October when a cool spell hit, and I went to turn on the downstairs unit.
We have mainly hardwood floors downstairs, and here's a little know trait of hardwoods - when temperatures dip below 75, hardwood turns to ice. It can be a springlike 72 outside, and my den is suitable to hang meat.
When I turned on the unit, it did nothing. But that was not unusual, as it would often take anywhere from 10 seconds to an hour to cut on. Several people told me that was not normal. I told them that if I can ignore it, so can they.
But this time there would be no cutting on. The closest it came was a clicking at the thermostat.
I called the heating repair folks, and they came out for what I hoped would be our usual drill. (That's where they come and look at the machine, tell me that I have to turn it to "heat" and then charge me a $60 dummy tax.)
Not this time. I was informed I had a cracked heat exchanger, which, in addition to making my unit inoperable, can apparently also pump scads of carbon monoxide into my home.
Wow, it's cold inside AND it's as if an idling Ford Pinto is parked in my den - double win!
I asked him how much it would be to fix the heater. He looked at me with one those, "Oh, you poor thing" looks.
I knew it was not good.
Granted, I was not surprised that the unit was going to have to be replaced. Best I can tell, the unit was actually constructed in the 1930s, and our house was built around it some 50 years later.
Trying to find a bright side, I noted that it was right around the time of my wife's birthday, so I could get her that for a present. Not so fast. My wife decided she had other plans for her birthday, namely getting sick and having to go into the hospital for a three-day stay. Nothing but high-ticket items for my gal.
So the heater went to the back burner (ha!). I used a couple of space heaters to keep the kitchen warm, and generally avoided the rest of the house. When the kids would complain that the den was cold, I would tell them that they are just like the pioneers, braving a sub-70 den to watch Tivo'd SpongeBob. It's that kind of fortitude that built this country. After about six weeks of not having a heater, I had experienced all of the fortitude I cared to. The heating folks came out with a new unit.
It's a Carrier, so named, I believe, because it is the size of an aircraft carrier. They also installed a fancy new digital thermostat that, I am fairly certain, was used as a prop on the latest "Star Trek" movie.
They showed my wife how to use it, and she showed me. We had this conversation:
HER: You can even set it for both heat and cool to come on.
ME: Why would you do that?
HER: In case the temperature fluctuates.
ME: Do you really think that's going to be a problem?
Fortunately, it also has a manual mode, in which I can push one of four delightful options: heat, cool, an up arrow and a down arrow.
Yes, I know I can set it to come on automatically and do all kinds of fancy tricks. I can also get up in the morning and cut it on. I feel confident it will heat up in short order. I'm not trying to warm up the Biltmore House.
So now that my wife and I have settled in with our cozy warm downstairs Christmas gift, we can enjoy the holidays in comfort. And then I will look forward to Valentine's Day. I'm thinking of getting her the matching upstairs unit.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Mayor
Just call me Mayor. That's right. Mayor. Of Bedford Falls. Yes, that Bedford Falls. You see, I've been in the Aiken Community Playhouse performance of "It's a Wonderful Life: The Musical," for which we started rehearsing, by my recollection, some time around 1982.
The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.
As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:
* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."
* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.
* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.
* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?
* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.
* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.
* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.
* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.
* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.
* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.
* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."
* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.
I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.
The Mayor role is a small part, which is fine, since this is a musical, and those with big parts in musicals should be able to, oh, I don't know, maybe sing? My only singing role ever was in my senior class play, in which I was cast in the role of a camp counselor who could not sing on key. I apparently nailed the audition. There is also dancing in this play. Several years ago, my wife banned me from trying to do the electric slide at weddings. That's right - I cannot do a dance that the 90-year-old great-grandmother of the bride can do. I think we can go ahead and sit out the dance scenes, too.
As we head into our final week of performances, I thought I would share a few things I have discovered during the show's run:
* It's really cool to be in a play with both of your kids. You know why? Because they play two of the Bailey kids, so, as I tell them when we walk in the door, "Hey, don't come to me with your problems. Go find George Bailey. He's your dad now."
* Intermission. It's called intermission. People tend to look at you funny when you refer to the show's halftime. On a similar note - dressing room, not locker room.
* Some people think it takes courage to get on stage. You know what takes courage - to be one of the three or four folks - including my wife - in charge of wranglin' a children's cast of about 30 kids, sometimes until 11 at night. Medieval knights didn't have to exhibit that kind of bravery.
* It snows in this play. Every night. Now, if we can make it snow inside of a building, can it be that hard to make it snow every Christmas, at least in my yard?
* This play has done what I thought was the impossible: It has finally pushed several of the songs from "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" from my head. Oh, wait. Shouldn't have done that. They're back. Dangit.
* It's nice that, when someone asks, I can tell them I have been doing this since the 1980s. So what if I fail to mention that little 20-year gap when I didn't get on stage. Our little secret.
* The Mayor of a New York town in the 1940s did not wear New Balance hiking boots. Fortunately, my wife was able to get home and get my other shoes before the curtain opening on that night.
* If an actor goes on stage with a cell phone in his pocket, and it goes off midscene and the ring tone is a chicken clucking, then know this: The time that ceases to be a source of jokes and ribbing is just after the Earth crashes into the sun.
* One of the best things about being in a play: Food. There is always food. Add bunches of kids and the Bag of Snacky Goodness, and lawdy it's good-eating time. Fast fact: The longest a pizza has survived a set-build: 11 seconds.
* Speaking of set-build, you will be pleased to know that, despite using several power tools over the course of the set construction, I still have 10 - count 'em , 10 - fingers. I would guess I have used up my power tool karma, and will now not pick up another one again until some time around 2018.
* The message of the show, I was gently reminded, is NOT: "If you have a forgetful relative, end it all."
* With a cast and crew of around 60 people, you never really know what you're getting into. While I wasn't expecting folks to split into rival gangs or anything, you never know the dynamics that will form when you get that many people together. The great part - it's a fantastic group of talented people who have fun, enjoy each others' company, pick each other up when they need it and are just a generally nice collection of folks.
I'm lucky to have spent this time with them. I just hope they re-elect me.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Eye got it
While there are plenty of things that you never want to hear your children say, I've got one near the top: "I THINK I POKED MY EYEBALL OUT!"
Yes, nothing enlivens a day of fun like gouging out your eye.
It happened at my parents' house. The kids were playing in a neighbor's magnolia tree, which is possibly the finest climbing tree ever assembled. From the din of play, I heard Parker scream.
Parker is a tough dude, and he usually doesn't overreact when it comes to being hurt.
Quick side story: About a week ago, he was running through the yard when he tripped over a ladder that was lying on the ground. He took a pretty good tumble, so I went to check on him with two of my sisters trailing me.
When I got down there, I found Parker lying on his stomach, and saw his foot turned in an incredibly unnatural way away from his body. When I grabbed his leg, I saw his foot flop to the ground. "OHMIGOD!!!" I yelled, thinking my son had suffered a Joe Theisman wound. No, turns out his shoe had come off. No foot inside of it. Way to stay cool, Mike.
So back to the eye poke: I made my way over there quickly, really hoping I wasn't going to find his eyeball rolling around on the ground.
Fortunately, the eyeball was still in his head. But he had run into a stick, which had jabbed in the corner of his eye. When he would take his hand away from his face, I could see it was bleeding. Yech.
I rushed Parker inside. My wife knew it was serious, as I normally respond to injuries thusly: "You'll be fine." He kept saying that he thought his eyeball was out. We assured him it was there.
Once we got him to sit still for a little bit, we were able to flush out his eye and - brace yourself - get the splinter out of his eyeball. I am fairly certain that "eyeball splinter" ranks high on the unwanted scale.
My wife decided that, even though I am one of the finest eyeball splinter technicians in the world, he should probably have an actual doctor look at him.
For what it's worth, the doctor, with all of that fancy medical school training, also diagnosed that his eyeball was, in fact, still in his head.
Parker was given some antibiotic eye drops, which he takes without any problem.
I am not sure how he does this, as I am 37 and still have a hard time putting in eye drops. Sad when you realize your 6-year-old is tougher than you.
He said his eyesight is still a little fuzzy, which will hopefully clear up soon. And, in the evenings, when he gets really tired, he sometimes says his eye hurts.
Not sure if that is because of the evil stick attack, or because he's 6 and tired.
Because no matter how tough you are, when you're 6 and tired, it sometimes feels like your eyeball fell out.
Yes, nothing enlivens a day of fun like gouging out your eye.
It happened at my parents' house. The kids were playing in a neighbor's magnolia tree, which is possibly the finest climbing tree ever assembled. From the din of play, I heard Parker scream.
Parker is a tough dude, and he usually doesn't overreact when it comes to being hurt.
Quick side story: About a week ago, he was running through the yard when he tripped over a ladder that was lying on the ground. He took a pretty good tumble, so I went to check on him with two of my sisters trailing me.
When I got down there, I found Parker lying on his stomach, and saw his foot turned in an incredibly unnatural way away from his body. When I grabbed his leg, I saw his foot flop to the ground. "OHMIGOD!!!" I yelled, thinking my son had suffered a Joe Theisman wound. No, turns out his shoe had come off. No foot inside of it. Way to stay cool, Mike.
So back to the eye poke: I made my way over there quickly, really hoping I wasn't going to find his eyeball rolling around on the ground.
Fortunately, the eyeball was still in his head. But he had run into a stick, which had jabbed in the corner of his eye. When he would take his hand away from his face, I could see it was bleeding. Yech.
I rushed Parker inside. My wife knew it was serious, as I normally respond to injuries thusly: "You'll be fine." He kept saying that he thought his eyeball was out. We assured him it was there.
Once we got him to sit still for a little bit, we were able to flush out his eye and - brace yourself - get the splinter out of his eyeball. I am fairly certain that "eyeball splinter" ranks high on the unwanted scale.
My wife decided that, even though I am one of the finest eyeball splinter technicians in the world, he should probably have an actual doctor look at him.
For what it's worth, the doctor, with all of that fancy medical school training, also diagnosed that his eyeball was, in fact, still in his head.
Parker was given some antibiotic eye drops, which he takes without any problem.
I am not sure how he does this, as I am 37 and still have a hard time putting in eye drops. Sad when you realize your 6-year-old is tougher than you.
He said his eyesight is still a little fuzzy, which will hopefully clear up soon. And, in the evenings, when he gets really tired, he sometimes says his eye hurts.
Not sure if that is because of the evil stick attack, or because he's 6 and tired.
Because no matter how tough you are, when you're 6 and tired, it sometimes feels like your eyeball fell out.
Giving Thanks
So tomorrow we all sit down for turkey and stuffing and football and such. Thus, it is time to unveil my federally required thankful column. So, I am thankful:
* for the fact that one column per year requires no thinking whatsoever, unlike those other 51, which were clearly the product of a team of geniuses working around the clock to produce brilliant commentary on things such as how I got stuck on the roof and how you can take a play fort down with an ax in under a half hour.
* that cleaning up the house can involve the phrase, "Just put the crayons in the sombrero."
* that my kids have a sense of humor. For example, when my son, Parker, was sick with the flu, we went to put on his shoes. In his shoe, he found a small plastic pig. His comment: "Why is there a pig inside of my shoe? Oooh, maybe because I have the pig flu." Allie, meanwhile, often comes up with creative ways to, say, give away her brother.
* that my car still runs, and I fixed the last mechanical glitch, which could have cost me $1,500, with a couple of quarts of oil. Did it make the problem go away? No. Did it make the sound reminding me of the problem go away? Yes. Yes it did.
* that at least a few times a month, I have this feeling rush over me that says, "You know, it doesn't actually matter if the shoes get put up in the closet."
* that every few months the shoes actually get put up.
* that the good folks at Krazy Glue figured out that they could sell four one-time-use tubes instead of one big tube that would get used once and then become a rock-solid chunk of unusable metal and glue that you would find the next time you needed Krazy Glue.
* that my dogs want more than anything to go upstairs and climb on the bed. Even if they aren't allowed up there (and even though Maggie the Attack Basset couldn't do it given the chance), it's nice to know you're in demand.
* that my kids still like being around me, although I am sensing that the window may be short with a certain fourth-grader who has already informed me that she cannot order from the kids menu anymore because, as she said, "Dad, I'm not a kid."
* that I have become so brutally organized with Christmas decorations that I can get them put up in no time whatsoever, and can flip a switch on Friday to have them shining bright.
* that I have learned to be patient and say, "Yes, dear" as my wife has me redo all of the Christmas decorations for the bulk of Saturday.
* for Rich Rodriguez, who decided not to coach Alabama.
* that my wife and I took the kids on a Christmas wish-list trip to Toys "R" Us. Granted, it turned into us channeling our wish lists from 1982 ("Oooh, put this on your list!"), but why shouldn't they know the joy of light sabers and My Little Pony?
* that I have a wife who gets mad only if I don't give an honest opinion, even if that opinion is, "I really don't care which shirt you wear. They both look the same to me."
* that I have an evil cat who hates everyone but me. Not thankful that she is evil and hates everyone else. Just glad she likes me.
* that Carl Kasell, while retiring from Morning Edition, will still be on "Wait, Wait. Don't Tell Me," as I would gamble that there is not a funnier 75-year-old man doing impersonations of Sarah Palin, Bill Clinton or Kim Jong Il.
* that I have been fortunate enough to write this column each week for 13 years. If nothing else, it's kept my team of geniuses employed.
Happy Thanksgiving!
* for the fact that one column per year requires no thinking whatsoever, unlike those other 51, which were clearly the product of a team of geniuses working around the clock to produce brilliant commentary on things such as how I got stuck on the roof and how you can take a play fort down with an ax in under a half hour.
* that cleaning up the house can involve the phrase, "Just put the crayons in the sombrero."
* that my kids have a sense of humor. For example, when my son, Parker, was sick with the flu, we went to put on his shoes. In his shoe, he found a small plastic pig. His comment: "Why is there a pig inside of my shoe? Oooh, maybe because I have the pig flu." Allie, meanwhile, often comes up with creative ways to, say, give away her brother.
* that my car still runs, and I fixed the last mechanical glitch, which could have cost me $1,500, with a couple of quarts of oil. Did it make the problem go away? No. Did it make the sound reminding me of the problem go away? Yes. Yes it did.
* that at least a few times a month, I have this feeling rush over me that says, "You know, it doesn't actually matter if the shoes get put up in the closet."
* that every few months the shoes actually get put up.
* that the good folks at Krazy Glue figured out that they could sell four one-time-use tubes instead of one big tube that would get used once and then become a rock-solid chunk of unusable metal and glue that you would find the next time you needed Krazy Glue.
* that my dogs want more than anything to go upstairs and climb on the bed. Even if they aren't allowed up there (and even though Maggie the Attack Basset couldn't do it given the chance), it's nice to know you're in demand.
* that my kids still like being around me, although I am sensing that the window may be short with a certain fourth-grader who has already informed me that she cannot order from the kids menu anymore because, as she said, "Dad, I'm not a kid."
* that I have become so brutally organized with Christmas decorations that I can get them put up in no time whatsoever, and can flip a switch on Friday to have them shining bright.
* that I have learned to be patient and say, "Yes, dear" as my wife has me redo all of the Christmas decorations for the bulk of Saturday.
* for Rich Rodriguez, who decided not to coach Alabama.
* that my wife and I took the kids on a Christmas wish-list trip to Toys "R" Us. Granted, it turned into us channeling our wish lists from 1982 ("Oooh, put this on your list!"), but why shouldn't they know the joy of light sabers and My Little Pony?
* that I have a wife who gets mad only if I don't give an honest opinion, even if that opinion is, "I really don't care which shirt you wear. They both look the same to me."
* that I have an evil cat who hates everyone but me. Not thankful that she is evil and hates everyone else. Just glad she likes me.
* that Carl Kasell, while retiring from Morning Edition, will still be on "Wait, Wait. Don't Tell Me," as I would gamble that there is not a funnier 75-year-old man doing impersonations of Sarah Palin, Bill Clinton or Kim Jong Il.
* that I have been fortunate enough to write this column each week for 13 years. If nothing else, it's kept my team of geniuses employed.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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