After my wife’s conversion, ours includes cats
There must be hundreds of thousands of parking spaces in Dallas. They’re literally everywhere, covered and uncovered, wide and narrow, brightly striped and barely visible.
The thing about Thanksgiving is that most of us have so much to be thankful for, that we aren’t thankful. I know that sounds impossible, ungrateful even, but it’s not unusual. Think about it: The better off we are, the more likely we are to take what we have for granted rather than consider it a gift or a blessing.
When you talk with people about the fair, all of the usual talking points aren’t really what they remember, particularly if they’re longtime attendees who make the trek annually to the country’s most attended fair.
My wife was silhouetted in the doorway, late afternoon sunlight streaming from behind, arms on hips, head cocked slightly to the right, voice smooth as silk, looking on as I sat in a recliner, feet up and head back, angling the remote control toward the television. “Honey,” she purred, “we have to get you out of your rut.”
I don’t see too many people taking responsibility for their actions anywhere — corporate, government or private individuals. All I see in the media is finger-pointing and shoulder-shrugging and excuse-making, and if everyone else can do things that way, I should be able to do the same thing, too.
Finding “happy people” is more challenging as we venture further and further from high school.
No one wants to answer the question, “Does this make me look fat?”
There’s something to be said for figuring out what you want to do and then just doing it — no overthinking, no hand-wringing, no regrets.
In youth sports, there’s the extremely occasional blaze of glory and the rare inspirational, heart-stopping finish. But what I remember most often are the many minutes of my life ticking slowly away in the most surly of weather, with a beat-down on the field occurring at precisely the same moment rain or wind or sun (or all three) beat down on those of us in the stands.
Talking about loving baseball with someone who doesn’t is like telling a Victoria’s Secret model you love her — both will look at you as if you’re an idiot, and you’ll probably be slapped by at least one.