Thanksgiving At The Limpy Household

This year we'll be celebrating Thanksgiving at our house, just as we have every year for at least the last 13 or so, although 2-3 of those were in an apartment and not a house, but it's awfully picky, and dare I say rude, of you to have pointed that out.

The morning will start out with me rolling out of bed around 8 am and eating a couple of bananas. Actually, the morning will start out for my wife considerably earlier, as she has to get up and start cooking a delicious meal for 8-9 people, with trimmings, and clean the house to her specifications for a celebration, (you could do surgery in any room in our house on Thanksgiving), and that's not going to happen getting up at 8.

Regardless, I get up around 8. Then I'll wait around for my brother, who will inevitably be late. While waiting I'll offer helpful cooking tips to my wife as she runs around the kitchen, most of which not only would result in burning the turkey but wholly defy the laws of physics. Eventually she will suggest that I get the fuck out of her kitchen, generally at about the same point that my brothers death-trap of a car rolls to a stop against our shed. He'll come shuffling to the door with some excuse about traffic, bad alram clocks or dead hookers and we're off for the highlight of the day.

Every year since 1995 I've run the Manchester Road Race. It's the second largest race in New England, after the Boston Marathon. They expect 10,000+ to run. It's a fairly well-known race in running circles and attracts world class runners. And me. One year I'm pretty sure the winner passed me at the 3.5 mile mark while taking a victory lap.

After staggering to the finish, hopefully in less than 38 minutes, (it's one lap around part of Manchester, clocking in at 4.758 miles. The winner will do it in 21-23 minutes), I will try valiantly not to leave my bananas on the road, then drive home. I will then shower and try to help clean the house. After being told repeatedly that I am not doing it right, I will start drinking. if it's good weather, this will be done outside while playing catch with the children, or making them do yard work.

At some point the football games will start. I will watch the Cowboys game. I may watch the Lions game, but only out of a sense of morbid curiosity. Early in the afternoon we'll eat. Then I will start clearing the table, because fair's fair, and if my wife spends all day cooking, the least, (literally, the least), I can do is clean up. I'll start doing the dishes. This is the only day we use the sink over the dishwasher, as there's just too damn much to cram in the washer. And trust me, Ive tried.

Then there's dessert. After which I will feel sick, but in a good way. I will lie on the couch and gaze vacantly at whatever happens to be on television. If I'm lucky, someone will be running an "A Christmas Story" marathon. If I'm not lucky, Kate will be screeching at Jon about something. Either way, I will lack the energy to reach for the remote.

At some point I will get a second wind and recover enough to chase the kids to bed, grab another beer, (eleventy-first if you're counting), and finsih the dishes. The dog will be let out, the wife carried up to bed and I will sit down to stare at the TV and, as my knees throb, wonder why I keep running that fucking race!?!?

I hope your Thanksgiving goes as well.

Drill Baby, Drill

Ordinarily, I'm quite the tree-hugger. Hell, the under the right conditions, (soft moonlight, a couple of drinks, just the right elm), I might go so far as to be a tree-fondler. I have no patience for those who would pave over the wilderness just to keep the oil taps flowing for another six months. But there are certain goals for which I would put my environmentalism aside and say that you've just got to break out the drills, cut through the ice, and release that sweet, sweet liquid.

And this is one of them.

Seriously, this sounds like it involves pulling up some floorboards and busting out an axe. Why hasn't this been done on the sly already? I'd love to tour Antarctica, and if I ever get there, and if I ever get to see Shackleton's shacks, (see what I did there?), I can guarantee you there'll be a hole in the floor when I leave.

EDITOR'S NOTE: If you haven't read about Ernest Shackleton, do yourself a favor and look him up. Amazing story. Somewhat odd that Scott gets all the glory, but Shackleton came back alive. With all his men.

What Has Two Thumbs And Just Finished A Bottle Of Jack Daniels?

This guy!!

Oh, wait, that doesn't work if you're not in the room with me does it?

And for the record there wasn't all that much left in the bottle. Perhaps the equivalent, (I'm sure I spelled that wrong. Screw you for noticing), of two fingers.

I was getting tired of the wholesomeness of the last post. The gap in time was bothering me too. I'd write more, but am too tired. All is well here in Limpyville. I may start writing again, I may not. Sometimes I miss it. Other times I don't. And so it goes.

It is interesting to see the number of others who have stopped. And unlike me, didn't have the common decency to make a last post telling everyone they were quitting. Because I'm just cool like that. And also am apparently quite the liar, since I've put up several posts since retiring lo these many months ago. Although in my defense, most of the new posts sucked.

Anyway, just wanted to stop in and say hi. We'll see how many people still stop in here. Vaya con dios.