Golden

Quite inexplicably, the month of January turned out to be golden.

There were windfalls and pratfalls, and good family and friend time. Two dozen ping pong balls are providing endless hours of skullduggery entertainment at The Chambers of Horror my place of employment (more on that later), and a wallpaper-less dining room wall awaits a new coat of paint at the Nine-One-Four. The Bulldogs continue their winning ways -- sometimes by the hair on their chinny-chin-chins. And we damn near made it to February without any appreciable crap snow -- well, until Tuesday when we got the requisite dump that will now freeze and fester and be with us till mid-July.

Thanks, George Takei. My sentiments exactly.

But, you know, I really don't give a rip. Because I leave for Maui in 29 days. But who's counting? And that's golden, too.

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.

Yep. My beloved glove. Frozen solid in the bird position. And I am not talking yoga here, folks.

And that's golden, my friends.

Simply golden.