There were windfalls and pratfalls, and good family and friend time. Two dozen ping pong balls are providing endless hours of
|Thanks, George Takei. My sentiments exactly.|
Let me give you one little glimpse into how I define golden these days.
See these gloves? I love me these gloves. They are my dog-walking gloves. I've easily had them for at least 15 years -- maybe more. They've weathered frigid football games and soccer matches and countless early morning, below-freezing walks at Comstock Park. Though well-worn, they remain largely impervious to snow and ice. And when not protecting my dainty digits from the delights of winter, they safely reside in the pockets of my trusty dog-walking jacket, Fat Bastard.
Until Thursday morning when I reached into said pockets and found only one glove.
Damn. Must have dropped it in the garage when I was brushing five inches of snow off Ben, the dog.
Nope. No glove. Not even after my date scoured the place. I had lost one of my precious gloves -- probably, as it now occurred to me, during one of the 80 bazillion times I stopped to pick snow out Ben's paws on Wednesday morning's walk.
The world dimmed just a tiny bit.
But here's when golden comes in.
Wearing a pilfered pair of my date's winter gloves, Ben and I headed up to the park yesterday morning. Passing by the neighbor's house across the street, I spotted a single, black digit peeking up through three inches of snow -- in essence, flipping me off.
|By the time I got the old boy inside, it had thankfully thawed into a |
more acceptable gesture. This is, after all, family-friendly blog.
And that's golden, my friends.