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Jell-O Head Strikes Again

Some people have moody days.

Some people have bad hair days.

I, on the other hand, have Jell-O Head days.

Allow me to explain:  Normally, I consider myself an adequately intelligent, relatively self-sufficient member of the human race.  However, about once every month or two, for some unapparent reason my brain abandons me for the day to go do whatever it is brains do when they’re not in your head and leaves a Jell-O mold in its place.

You know, to take care of all that pesky higher cortical functioning.

And since Jell-O molds are notoriously bad substitutes for brains, I am left with no choice but to lurch through the day, slack-jawed and drooling and generally posing a safety hazard to myself and those around me.

These are the days where I fumble to cram words together into coherent sentences, blank on what year it is, and forget basic personal information like my address, shoe size and middle name.  I put cereal boxes in the fridge and spoon salt into my coffee and squeeze Clearasil onto my toothbrush.  I’m positively stumped on how to spell words like “people” and “because” and spend half the day looking for things that are already in my hand.

On these days, it is only by the grace of God and vigilant adult supervision that I do not venture into public without pants on.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because Monday was just such a day.

It all started when I couldn’t find my car.  Apparently I’d completely forgotten that I’d parked it on the street right outside the apartment door the night before, which means I moseyed right past it in the morning so that I could go blink at the empty space where it’s usually parked for a good 10 minutes or so until I realized what had happened.

Then, upon locating said car, I drove it to the VW dealership for its scheduled maintenance since a service reminder had been popping up on the dashboard display for several days.  However, when trying to explain that to the mechanics, I completely blanked on the word “dashboard” (it’s a tricky one, I know) and ended up telling them that I’d come in “because the blinky thingy told me to.”  As a testament to the fine people at Fitzgerald Automotive, they didn’t even try to capitalize on my moron-itude by overcharging the ever-loving pants off me.

But the pièce de résistance occurred later in the day while applying online for an editor position that sounded absolutely perfect for me.  The company’s ad was lighthearted and whimsical and stressed, above all, the necessity for a sharp eye for detail.  Eager to demonstrate my editorial prowess and, uh, eye sharpness, I spent four hours crafting a charming yet professional cover letter and carefully combing it multiple times over for even the most minute error… only to notice seconds after I hit ‘submit’ that–oh wait, what’s this?  Ah, yes. I’d misspelled the name of the company.  Frick.

Maybe Jell-O head is caused by hormones or a vitamin deficiency or lack of sleep or the phase of the moon.

Maybe it’s early menopause or acid flashbacks or alien technology implanted in my brain.

Whatever the reason is, it should at least come with some sort of hiring preference.

Happy Hallo-schwing! (Or, Asphinctersayswhat?)

Ever since I was old enough to understand what it was all about, I’ve loved Halloween.  It’s a holiday where you get to dress up, stay out late, gorge on candy, and you don’t have to buy your ungrateful family members gifts (kidding, guys!).

So what’s not to love?

In fact, the only slight drawbacks to the holiday nowadays are the fact that (a) costumes cost roughly the same price as a black market kidney and (b) every women’s costume—whether it’s mechanic, dentist, or offshore oil rigman—requires fishnets and a push-up bra.

I’ve never been the type to dress up as a slutty cheerleader or slutty witch or slutty fairy on Halloween–not that I’m a hater.  In fact, I’m fully of the if-you’ve-got-it-flaunt-it-cause-it-sure-ain’t-going-to-be-flauntable-forever school of thought.  But my personal beef has always been more with the utilitarian aspect of these types of costumes.

The equation in my head goes a little something like this:  Delicate exposed flesh + 30 degree temps + five hours of bar crawling = Hells to the no.

While I fully appreciate the “You go, girl!”-ness of showing off the goods in the spirit of Halloween, I’m not passionate enough about it to risk losing said goods to hypothermia just to prove I had ’em to show off in the first place.  That’s a little too The Gift of the Magi for my liking.

Besides, I almost always go for the gag—the more silly, dorky and ridiculous, the better.  So given all these factors, when I finally find a costume I like, I will proceed to wear its ass out.  No lie–I will trot out that  bad boy year after year until either its vital components begin to disintegrate or I am no longer able to tell in which decade the Halloween photos were taken.

Here’s my lifetime progression of Halloween costumes:

– Tiger.  Worn age 1.  Comfortable, stylish, flattering.  I’d still be wearing it to this day if I could fit into it.

– Black cat.  Worn ages 4 to 10.  Crafted with minimal parental oversight, this unelaborate getup featured a black headband with ears I made out of paper Scotch-taped to it, a black leotard, black tights and a tail pinned to the seat of my britches.  Which, when you think about it, is basically every slutty adult cat costume, too.

– Mouse.  Worn ages 10 to 12.  Same costume as above, just different-shaped ears.  The cat tail made it somewhat confusing.

– From ages 12 to 17, I was far too cool to be bothered to dress up for Halloween, so I guess I just went as a punk-ass teenager.

– Flapper.  Worn age 18.  The store-bought costume was thin, insanely itchy and, three weeks later, I was still picking sparkles out of some unlikely nooks and crannies (uh, hello, like my ears, people?  Geez.).  In the spirit of the holiday, the day after Halloween I gave it to Goodwill so that next year it could go forth and haunt other poor, hapless victims.

– Nerd.  Worn ages 20 to 25.  This costume went the distance because it was comfortable, cheap and, c’mon, awesome.  Since I was a broke, unemployed college student at the time (unlike the broke, unemployed adult I am now), I went to Goodwill and bought men’s plaid pants, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a tie with ducks on it for like $4.  I then added white tape to the glasses, gelled my hair down into a slick part, acted like myself all night–and bam!

A word of caution, though:  Be sure to wear full-coverage underwear because you will be fending off unprovoked wedgies from friends and the occasional creepy stranger all night long.

– Princess Toadstool.  Worn age 28.  I think we all know by now that I’m not the princess type, but the hubs and our good friend Kevin were hell-bent on dressing up as Mario and Luigi, so it was either be her or Toad, and I don’t need to draw any more undue attention to the ginormous-ness of my head by wearing a gigantic, phallic-like mushroom cap, thank you very much.

And, yes, that is a blowup doll taped down on the table behind us.  It was that kind of party.

This year’s costume, however, is by far one of my favorites:

Wayne’s World!  Party time!  Excellent!

This was a last-minute Hail Mary idea–there was a party Saturday night and it was Saturday afternoon and neither my friend Christine nor I had any idea what we were going to be yet.

And the best part is this entire look cost me about $10.  I already had the plain black shirt and Chuck Taylors, but I found the flannel for $3 at Goodwill.  Then I went to Michael’s and bought iron-transfer letters and a black hat for $6 and had myself a little Crafty Craftertons moment.

And since I had some letters left over, I went the extra mile and made a T-shirt that says “Schwing!”

How ’bout them apples, Martha Stewart?

Happy Halloween, everybody!

(PS:  The title’s a Wayne’s World reference:




Now go forth and prosper with that information.)

People Say We Monkey Around…

Ok, we’ve been toying with your emotions for long enough.

We’ve teased and flirted and played coy, but now it’s time to finally give up the goods.

That’s right, folks.  It’s time… for monkey pics.

But first, I have to tell you a little story of how we came to get them.  This’ll just take a minute.  Patience, my pretties.

Here goes…

On our way to Tamarindo to spend one of our last days in Costa Rica at the beach, we made a detour to Congo Trail, a canopy tour company located just outside of Playa del Coco in the small town of Artola.  In addition to offering zipline tours, ATV rides and other invigorating outdoor pursuits designed for people with far more pep and energy than we have, the park features a butterfly preserve, snake exhibit  and monkey refuge.  Becs had visited the monkeys earlier in the year and loved it, and since she’s been pretty much dead-on with every other recommendation, we were dying to check it out.

So we arrived, wide-eyed and eager to handle us some monkeys–except, when we got there, the staff informed us that the regular monkey handler (how sweet of a job is that, by the way?) would not be in today and, as such, the monkey exhibit was closed.

Considering we’d just spent the last 40 minutes driving 20 mph down a dirt road, puttering past goats and straw huts and people who looked startled to see a large metal object moving of its own accord, this was not the news we wanted to hear.  Fortunately, after a little haggling and pleading and cajoling, they agreed to let us in.  All they had to do was prep the cage for us and then we could commence getting our sweet monkey action on.

Only there was one small problem:

This guy.

Apparently, there’s a strict social structure amongst the capuchin monkey community (totally not the hippy, free-lovin’ Phish concert vibe I was expecting), and this bad boy just so happened to be the alpha male of this particular clique.  And while he may look all “Aw shucks, ma’am” in the above photo, believe you me, he ruled his 9×9 foot domain with tiny Totalitarian fists.  And he was positively pissed about us trying to come up in his house.

When initial efforts to remove El Capitan from the cage were unsuccessful, the interim handler got down to business.  Sensing an ensuing battle, he called for backup and escorted the three of us outside the fenced area, suggesting that we go walk around, see the sights and come back in 15 minutes or so.

Not easily deterred, we let him guide us out but quickly scrambled to find a good vantage point on the other side of the fence from where we could watch the juicy drama unfold.  And man, are we glad we did, because what happened next was the most unintentionally hilarious hour-long standoff involving five grown men and a monkey that we will ever see in our lifetimes.

It was hard to tell what the staff’s battle strategy was, but it seemed to involve each man taking a turn tentatively stepping into the cage, only to sprint out two seconds later with three pounds of screeching, frothing, pure and unadulterated monkey rage quick on his heels.  At one point, one staff member finally succeeded in snagging the little guy in a net; however, in his excitement, he failed to follow through by covering the gaping hole at the top and the monkey ended up escaping and scaling onto the top of the nine-foot-tall cage.  From there it proceeded to shriek and taunt the staff members, possibly even saying bad things about their mothers.

With this latest turn of events, the group below did a quick huddle and, after some lively discussion and finger-pointing, one of the staff members climbed up on top of the cage as well and the two reluctantly began an awkward  interspecies tango involving zigging and zagging, advancing and retreating, parrying and thrusting, shucking and jiving.  After about 15 minutes, the monkey finally decided it had had enough of making a fool of the staff and allowed itself to be humanely captured.  Although Katie, Becs and I didn’t actually witness the resolution because, by that point, we were steeped in our very own melodrama of trying to laugh without peeing our pants.

But  the saga did have a happy ending and the grim-faced, beady-eyed staff finally allowed us in.

And here’s what I learned about monkeys that day:

They are very affectionate.

Very, very affectionate.


Maybe even a little too affectionate.

They like to eat sunflower seeds and have atrocious table manners.  As such, you will spend the rest of the day picking  shells out of your hair and from down the front of your shirt.

They have zero qualms about personal space.

None whatsoever.

And although they are masters at volumizing, oddly enough they do not make the best hairdressers.

Mainly because they don’t take customer feedback well.

Yes, a monkey bit my scalp.

So that’s that.  Thanks again to the Congo Trail staff for all the memories!

And, don’t worry, we made sure to tip them.

Our stylists were another story.

Wal-Mart Should Make the Fourth Trip Free

As you know by now, Katie and I are now back home, safe and sound and at least as sane as before we left on our whirlwind tour of Costa Rica.

I know I’ve been slack on the posting lately but that’s because the last two days have been a blur of laundry and phone calls and sleeping and hourly trips to Wally World because I no longer have even the vaguest idea what this household consumes on a regular basis.  And the few days before that –the last ones we spent in Costa Rica – were a whole different kind of frenzy.

In fact, everything last week happened so fast that we didn’t even get to say goodbye to a good chunk of the people we’ve come to know and love in Bagaces.  Which is just as well because I’m incredibly bad at farewells, so all they missed out on is me muttering something unintelligible, smothering them in an awkward bearhug and then punching them in the arm before sprinting away.

Nevertheless, to those who we didn’t get to say goodbye to, please give yourselves a big, sloppy hug for us and know that we fully expect—nay, demand—to be on your Christmas card list for the rest of eternity.

Anyway, we’ve still got a few saucy tales from Costa Rica up our sleeves—specifically, about what we did in the days just before we left—but we’re also in the midst of relearning how normal life works so even though I know the suspense is absolutely destroying your will to live, you’ll just have to hold your horses until we can piece this big ol’ mess together.

Just know that upcoming posts involve daring animal encounters, escaped inmates, exotic beaches, death-defying stunts in the jungle wilderness and… wait for it… freakin’ adorable monkeys.

I dare you to try telling this face that you’re not going to read about it.

And just to maintain a satisfactory level of chaos, I’ve got a nasty cold right now (because my immune system likes to kick me in the proverbial cojones at every inopportune time it can) so let me rest my bones for a spell and I’ll try to crank out a decent (or at least substantially less lame) post by tomorrow.

Which should be about the time I’m done unpacking my toiletries bag.

Seacrest, out.

Will Work for Beer

With the end of our two-month trip in sight (PS: If you’ve been following us since August and still haven’t caught on that we’re in Costa Rica, you’re officially fired from reading our blog), I’m starting to think more and more about what I’m going back to.

Hopefully, I will still have the following items upon my return:

One (1) Husband, tall

One (1) Apartment, shoe-box sized

One (1) Car, Volkswagen

Two (2) Cats, disinterested

However, once I’ve done a quick survey to ensure that said items are in their proper places, the game plan gets a tad hazy.  One of the major burning (huh-huh) questions I know I’ll have to face is:  What in the sweet Sam Hill am I going to do for work?

A little part of me always expected that some amazing job opportunity (like, oh say, National Geographic travel writer?) would magically present itself–without requiring any effort whatsoever on my part, mind you–while I was over here developing multiple overlapping farmer’s tans and writing drug-fueled rants.  But with only four measly days left here, I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that such is not the case.

So now what?

An easy-going and understanding husband Chuckles may be, I doubt he’ll suffer in silence while I spend the next 20 years slouched on the couch staring off slack-jawed into space while systematically inserting rows of Chips Ahoys into my face.  At best, I think I’d have about a month tops before he shipped me back to the wife factory for a functioning model.

And, when I really think about it, as tempting as it may be to feather myself a cozy little couch-nest out of Kleenex, socks and Pop-Tart wrappers, I don’t really want to do that with the rest of my life anyway.

Or do I?

Nah, I guess not.

Which means there’s going to come a time—and soon—that I’m going to have to put myself back on the market.  The job market.

Job hunting is the most torturous form of dating ever invented.  You spend hours upon hours each day primping and preening your resume to make it as attractive as possible, you buy uncomfortable new shoes and wear your hair in a bun (a bun, for gods sake), you attempt to exude an air of confidence and capability and togetherness to hide the fact that you’re egregiously ill-equipped and criminally underqualified to operate in the adult world.  You spend your mornings poring over the interwebs, screening for the few job ads that aren’t clever euphemisms for telemarketing positions and mail order bride scams, you “put yourself out there” and “network” and “mingle” and “make contacts” and “follow up”, you exchange firm handshakes and cards and wait with increasing agitation for calls that never come, you try to appear available—but, hey now, not too available–and brag about yourself without seeming like you’re bragging about yourself, all the while desperately (but, geez, not too desperate) trying to find a long-term relationship with something decent and presentable and complimentary that you aren’t ashamed to tell your parents about.

Sure, he’s gay, but at least he offers a good dental plan.

And job interviewers never ask about the qualities that really matter, anyway.  All they ever want to know is where do I see myself in five years and what are my applicable qualifications and why do I have so many gaps in my employment history, yadda, yadda, yadda…  Do you think even once I’ve been asked if I know any good knock-knock jokes or am able to bake a mean Apple Cinnamon Brown Sugar Bread?  Have any of them have ever bothered to query as to whether I’ve had the dedication and fortitude to watch every single episode of Sex & The City?

If the world were fair, I would be able to list the skills and qualifications that really make me stand out, like:

1. I invented my own dance called ‘The Crab Waft’.  (Trust me, it’s huge in Japan.)

2. I know fancy words like ‘ineluctable’ and ‘ingenue’.  (Feel free to bask in my vocabu…lar…um…ical? prowess.)

3. I can pick up small objects with my toes.  (You say you dropped your pencil there, bossman?  I am on the case.)

4. I can crack both my shoulders.  (It’s gross, but in an impressive kind of way.)

5. I am one bad mammajamma at crossword puzzles.

6. I always remember to clean the dryer lint trap.  (Except when I don’t.  Which is sometimes.)

7. I can eat really, really spicy food.  (Indian and Thai food, you are my biznitches.)

8. I have never appeared on COPS, To Catch a Predator or Sixteen and Pregnant.

9. I know all the words to Pearl Jam’s “Black”.  (Anyone who can understand Eddie Vedder can negotiate their way around any international language barrier.)

10. I’m really good at catching a Frisbee.

Just give me a jaunty bandana and call me Bandit.

11. I’ve never once passed out.  (This could come in handy in some work-type situation, I’m just not sure what that is just yet…)

12. I know the difference between “affect” and “effect”, “compliment” and “complement” and “then” and “than”.  I also know that “alot” and “misunderestimate” aren’t actual words, and I almost never end a sentence with a preposition.

13. I know how many “I knows” you have to sing in the middle of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine”.

Granted, there is the slight risk that I could lose out to someone who can hula hoop, play the harmonica, and do a one-handed cartwheel but, c’mon, I’m a pretty qualified candidate, right?

I’ll be accepting salary offers now, National Geographic.

Karaoke vs. Popped Collars: A Cultural Debate

Here’s a little Saturday morning SAT logic problem for all you brainiacs out there:

Costa Rica : Karioke :: America : _________

A. Popped collars

B. Justin Bieber

C. Bicycle shorts worn by anyone not presently competing in the Tour de France.

D. Metrosexuality

E. The Deep-Fried Twinkie

Here’s a hint:  It’s a trick question.

The answer is F: All of the above.  They are all awful, disturbingly rampant phenomena in the U.S. from which there is literally no possible escape.  Just as karioke is in Costa Rica.

Every weekend, all the hardworking Ticos and Ticas of Bagaces flood the five bars in our small town to take turns belting out played-out 80’s ballads and mournful Spanish songs about lost loves and painful memories and, for some inexplicable reason, cats.

Yeah, we couldn’t figure that one out, either.

And these people don’t just sing.  They sing.  They shut their eyes tightly, clutch the microphone and sway their hips.  They pump their fists and lean into the high notes like they are possessed by the vengeful ghost of Celine Dion.

My bad, Celine.  I hadn’t seen you since the early 90s, so I just assumed you were dead.

They have absolutely zero qualms about publicly displaying a level of raw, unharnessed emotion that most Americans would be embarrassed to show in the privacy of their own closets.

And while it’s not always pretty—okay, 95% of the time it sounds like this:

–even then, Costa Rica’s love affair with karioke is still far less offensive than any of the above-mentioned phenomena we’re forced to bear helpless, silently screaming witness to in America.

Allow me to elaborate:

… I rest my case.

And you can’t really blame the Ticos because it’s not like they’re out blowing off a week’s worth of steam by crushing 15 beers, getting into violent fisticuffs with traffic signs and puking in the backs of cop cars.

They’re just happy to be here, peacefully doin’ their thang.

And if their thang is belting out an off-key rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” to a crowd of strangers every Friday and Saturday night, so be it.

Just pass me a beer and the mike.

What a Load of Bull

Ed Note:  The pictures in this post are Katie’s because my camera battery died after only 10 minutes of shooting that day.  She agreed to let me use hers because A) she’s a good friend and B) she didn’t want to have to listen to me whine about it for the rest of the day.

This past Sunday, Katie and I visited the local bullring in Bagaces to watch them test the bulls for an upcoming event.

We went with our adorable Tica friend Stephany (far left) and her two equally adorable Tica friends whose names I don’t remember because I’m a terrible, terrible person.

It’s a good thing I don’t live here permanently, because I’d have crippling self-esteem issues.

Noon was when the event was supposed to start, but people didn’t actually start showing up for it until 2 p.m.  Katie and I have learned by now that Ticos exist in a completely different time-space continuum than the rest of the universe.  ‘Tico time’ is a fluid concept that can mean anywhere between 30 minutes and two hours later than the appointed time.  (This is super fun when you’re trying to catch a bus, by the way.)

It was such a holy scorcher of a day that everyone crowded in the shade under the bleachers.  I, for one, hadn’t been under the bleachers since the 9th grade, and it gave me such a wicked case of nostalgia that I almost tried to make out with the old man squatting next to me on a three-legged stool just for old times’ sake.

Avert your eyes, children.  It’s going to get handsy down here.

Anyhoo, the first bull came out…

…and put on quite a show.

You could tell he was a performer.  An artiste.  And the rider wasn’t too shabby either.

They looked like graceful dance partners.

Does anybody else have the R. Kelly song “I Believe I Can Fly” in their head right now?

(By the way, I hope the guy with the flag has a good insurance plan.)

I believe he’s indicating the size of his cojones here.

The next bull, however, was not so tranquilo.  Right out of the gate, you could tell that this bull had anger management issues.

And you could almost hear the rider’s thoughts:






Aw man, he got my chinos dirty.

Even after his rider was off, this bull seemed determined to learn them whippersnappers a less’n.

After they finally managed to get the beast back into its pen, they had a lassoing event:

I’ll bet that guy got bonus points for having the snazziest hat.

We only stayed for about an hour lest our pale gringa skin melt off us under the heat of the Costa Rican sun, but we were happy to have had a taste of a real live bull riding event.  All in all, it was a fun time for everyone.

Well, almost everyone.

Today Katie’s an Old Lady…

Ok, I know I promised to post about our weekend shenanigans—and we will get around to it soon enough, I promise.

But, for now, that will have to wait because I have big news.  Huge news.  Ginormous news.

And that news is…

Today is Katie’s birthday.

That’s right, folks: Twenty-eight years ago to this very day, this bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, smunchy-cheeked little munchkin:

Made her grand debut into the world.

Even in her early years, you could see the kind of person she’d grow up to be…



Hmm, the Dow Jones is down 50 points.  Better sell.


Work those puffy sleeves, girlfriend.


To this day, she stills finds any excuse to expose her belly.

Sometimes, uh, sleeping:

And sassy:

So very.  Very. Sassy.

Little Katie is not amused.

So let’s all embarrass Katie horribly by celebrating the day that sunny, smart, stylish, shameless, sometimes sleeping, sassy, smunchy-cheeked munchkin decided to join the party.

‘Cause the party just wouldn’t have been the same without her.

Looks Like the Dog’s Had Lessons

We’ve had quite the whirlwind weekend here, friends.

And we’ll be sure to tell you all about it as soon as we collect ourselves, pull the twigs out of our hair and find our missing shoes.

Until then, though, rest assured that the next few posts will feature plenty o’ stories, plenty o’ pictures and plenty o’ inappropriate cross-species relationship such as this:

The dog is the only one who looks appropriately embarrassed about the situation.

C’mon, you know you’re curious.  So stay tuned…

A “Pop” By Any Other Name…

This here, ladies and gentlemen, is my Pop:

His name is James Dudley Valentine (seriously, how cool do you have to be to have the middle name Valentine?), but pretty much everyone who knows him calls him “Pop”.

I would tell you his last name but I don’t want to run the risk of you maybe deciding you want him to be your Pop, too.  And you might be younger and cuter and a better grandchild than I am and I wouldn’t be able to compete.  And then I’d have to make you mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night.

Beware, I am a possessive granddaughter.

Besides, Pop doesn’t need any more admirers.  He has a big enough fanbase as it is.

Everyone who meets him seems to fall in love with him.  Maybe it’s his charm.  Maybe it’s his years and years of experience as an accomplished salesman.  Maybe it’s the fact that he looks like a cross between Ernest Hemingway, a salty sea captain and Santa Claus.

Am I right??

Whatever it is, the man has what can only be described as charisma, which explains how he managed to woo my bombshell of a grandmother.

He is 91 years young and, at the rate he’s going, 20 years from now he’ll still be mowing the lawn and shoveling through five feet of Wisconsin snow while the rest of us shuffle around in orthopedic shoes and complain about draughts.

He attributes his longevity to the fact that he drinks Scotch on the rocks pretty much all day long.

(Did I mention we’ve got a lot of Irish in our family?)

My Pop is the kind of guy who jokes after a meal, “Your food has ruined my appetite.”

My Pop is the kind of guy who quips, “Be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you.”

My Pop is the kind of guy who mentions that the last truly good movie he saw was Stalag 17 (which, for the record, came out in 1953) every single time I see him.

My Pop is the kind of guy who challenges us grandkids to a one-yard foot race.

My Pop is the kind of guy who doesn’t get mad when I barf up Cap’n Crunch all over the backseat of his Jaguar.

To be fair, I was only six at the time.  But still, classy guy, no?

Perhaps one of the best qualities about my Pop is that he has a joke or a song for every single conceivable situation.   You could be shipwrecked on a deserted island with Alec Baldwin and 200 shipments of Crest toothpaste and he would have the perfect song to commemorate the occasion. It’s a talent, pure and simple.

It doesn’t hurt that he has a lovely singing voice, and he sings his brooding Irish ballads in a smooth and resonant tenor.  My Dad inherited his pipes, but somehow that gene skipped me, laughing and pointing as it passed by.  Dang.

With all of these traits, it’s no wonder he’s quite the stud.

Young or old, the ladies just can’t resist his charm.

Here we are on my wedding day…

…where he pretty much stole the show.  But I’m OK with that.

‘Cause he deserves it.

Love you bunches, Pop.