Nightmares Are Made Of THESE

07 June 2026

1166

R. Linda

At Guido's school, the board of eddie (his words) did a fundraiser to buy a few ping- pong tables for the recreation of the "children" when they finish lunch, so they are occupied with something safe and something that will keep them from smoking outside, or running to the local general store for snacks. I mean, when I heard this, I was thinking "yeah, sure." But Guido said he and his "buds" thought it was a wonderful idea, and they are all into ping-pong. Who knew?

I have since found out ping-pong is a real pastime for teens, and well, I say to the board of eddie, "You go!" 

Now we just happen to have a ping-pong table that no one uses. With the school buying a few tables, Guido and "buds" wanted to brush up on their skills, and yours truly was informed that the "gang" would be over to play. Ok then. I had no problem with that. As long as they weren't in my basement guzzling beer, I was good and said so. 

Tonya went out and got chips and sodas, then stored them in the mini fridge, making sure the place was presentable and everything was ready.

Until…

Guido came home to check it all out and discovered there were no ping-pong balls. Oh, what to do? I'll tell ya, he came up out of the basement and had a hissy fit, and somehow it was all me fault that we had no ping-pong balls, and geez, what was he to do? Worse, what would the "buds" think?

Tonya told him to hold his water; she knew where there was at least one. And that was in the cat's toy basket. The cat seemed oblivious to the ball's disappearance until the night the "buds" were down in the basement, batting it around. Then there was the cat on the ping-pong table, and no one could play until someone caught the cat and locked it upstairs. I tell ya, the trials and tribulations of being a teenager and worse the cat!

I was later informed that everyone had a great time and that they had arranged a tournament of sorts at the school as soon as the tables arrived and were readied. SO, meanwhile, it would be great if I got some more ping-pong balls so they could practice, since the cat's was somewhat dented from the power swipes the "buds" were employing.

I went to Amazon to shop, and they couldn't get the ping-pong balls here in time. SO, I went Internet surfing and found a company that could send me a package of ten, and I could get $3.00 off if I ordered as a subscriber. Well, okay, I could (like Amazon) cancel that later. Or, so I thought. Since they were so cheap, I had them overnighted, and that cost me more than the $3.00 I was supposed to save, but what the heck, if it kept teens out of trouble, I'd have no problem paying the extra for delivery.

Well, the very next day, the ten-pack arrived, and I told Guido we were in business. Little did I know what business. Because the day after that, I got 25 more ten-packs of ping-pong balls. I was puzzled, I was. It was late when I came home, so I was knackered and thought to deal with the delivery the next day.

The next day, I got 25 more ten-packs of balls, which added to the prior package and, including the first ten-pack, brought the total to 510 ping-pong balls. I unfortunately had overslept and didn't have time to deal with all this craziness, so I went to work. When I came home again, I was too knackered to think, so I went to bed. The next day, the same thing: 250 more ping-pong balls arrived. Again, unfortunately, I was working on a series of important articles, and I just didn't have the time to deal with all this nuttiness. I did ask Tonya to "handle" it for me (probably the wrong word because she was not happy), and when I came home to 250 MORE ping-pong balls and a crazed wife, I was ready to get on the damn phone, no matter how tired or late it was, to get these stupid things out of me life. 

I looked up the invoice, and well, feck me, I had inadvertently signed up for a life of ping-pong balls! The subscription could not be cancelled until the end of the month! What's up with THAT? I suddenly was in the ping-pong ball business. I had enough to supply everyone in Japan! 810 ping-pong balls (and counting) was ludicrous in me opinion. 

I did not see the fine print that said, and I quote: "Your subscription will begin immediately, with an initial 10-pack of ping-pong balls delivered right away. Following this, the first 25-pack delivery will occur on the next business day. Please note that all subscriptions require a minimum commitment of one month, after which you may cancel at any time. If we do not hear from you, AUTOMATIC RENEWAL BEGINS IMMEDIATELY."

WHAT?

I looked at me credit card, and yup, I was being charged for 25 packs of ping-pong balls a day, plus POSTAGE! I rang the company up and was told I had to wait until the end of the month to cancel. I was also told they cannot legally stop sending them! My life is slowly becoming dominated by ping-pong balls! Every cupboard is full, the neighbours are asking questions, and Dragon's suggestion that I'm now one administrative error away from opening the world's least successful sports shop is not helpful.

Here, take a look at this. There must be 20,000 of them!

Feck me!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Donkey Barrel Racing - You Haven't Lived!

06 June 2026

1165

R. Linda:

All right, here it goes or is, as the case may be. I was told, for a good cause (the abandoned mice charity), that yours truly was signed up to ride a donkey in a barrel race! Yes, R. Linda, barrel race. You know the drill, usually with a horse and not a donkey, where one barrels around set barrels at high speed to get the best time and win the competition. Someone tell me how that's done with donkeys, please? Because I can attest there is no speeding around barrels, no, there is not, but there is such a thing as being mounted on a slow-moving donkey that has a mind of its own, and it isn't on speed or going in a straight line or any line for that matter.

Yup!

I swore after the Captain, and of course, the Weasil had me entered in that donkey race way back when, I'd never get pulled into anything that was a race, or riding a donkey. But no, this time the Wolf boys got on me case about horseback riding when I told them I'd never been on a horse, and they told me I wasn't a true Irishman to not have ridden a horse. I, in turn, informed them I was a city boy from the lovely little borough of Newry in County Down, and horses didn't exactly flood the streets. This started a back-and-forth. It started with one Wolf, the one with the good hair. Somehow, one of his cousins got wind of this and wrote me that I needed to get on a horse or something akin to a horse to achieve true Irishness. At first, I thought this was funny, and they were joking, but then the son of the first Wolf chimed in that he had a horse I could borrow, and he'd take pictures to prove to the other two I had done the deed and was to be knighted as a true Irishman. Right. 

Here is a three-way conversation that just frustrated me.

Wolf #1: Um, if it's a horse you need … wait a minute, but it isn't, is it? You're in fear of the animal itself, is that it? 

Wolf #2: I already told him I have a horse for him. You know the one, the mare?

Me: I heard it's a gentle animal, and no, I'm not afraid of a horse. You forget I am not in Ireland.

Wolf #2: We will send ya a ticket, and you can fly over, fly back if it suits ya.

Me: That is not the problem, and you both well know it. Seems ludicrous for me to fly all the way to the old sod, jump on a horse, have me snap taken and fly on home just so you two can declare me what I already am. 

I won't bore you with the rest of this malarky, but they decided between themselves that if I got on a four-legged horse-like animal (I should have been suspicious then) that they would indeed "knight" me as a "full-blown Irish Person." Whatever the hell that means. I said, NO! 

They told me a llama would do the trick if I couldn't find a horse. I mean, really! I also found out the so-called gentle mare was anything but. Un huh. I further heard one of them drank a full bottle of Bushmills before attempting to "jump on that devil of a mare" and got thrown for their trouble into a bog no less, after being taken for a whirlwind of a ride for three miles at full speed. 

Then it dawned on me I was already on a four-legged horse-like creature, thanks to that insane donkey race of long ago, and said so. BUT because I couldn't find the pictures of that fiasco, they said they didn't believe me. 

I heard from the third clan member, the cousin, whom I don't know. He was worse than the other two on this subject. Suggesting all kinds of ways to get on a horse in the States, short of stealing one. Typical Irishman, HE! The thought that they had no proof of me riding a horse or donkey brought to me addled mind the thought that I had not seen them on a horse or a donkey, and I challenged them to show me the money (so to speak). Unfortunately, they took me up on that, and they did. 

When a challenge is a challenge

And they had the nerve to inform me they took that picture on a rainy day and did not look their Irish best! Like I care. Anyway, with the arrival of the Weasil, I should have known they'd put him up to making me the baffoon of an "Irish Person."

A day later (I know, no prior notice or anything), I found meself at the fairgrounds ten villages away! I was shown a donkey named Old Jasper, saddled up and ready for me to get on. I complained I was too tall for such a thing and, in turn, was told to just pick me legs up so they didn't drag on the ground, and scuff up me shoes. Right you are!

I was directed to the field where two yellow barrels were placed, and told to (you'll see the humour in this statement) "gallop" around the barrels; if my time was the best, I would win $10.00 toward the mouse charity and bragging rights. Oh, that's what I live for, NOT. And $10.00? This wasn't worth $10.00.

It was too late to back out of this stupid fiasco, so I made the best of troubled waters, got on Old Jasper, who grunted when I did (not a good sign), and as soon as I took up the reins, he let out that ear-piercing bray that just keeps on giving. I think both eardrums were shattered because when he finally stopped protesting, I couldn't hear the directions I was given. I just sat atop Old Jasper, wondering who the hell I really was, that I'd let meself get into these predicaments that I seemingly have lost control of. I didn't have long to sit there thinking about that because someone took a strap and slapped Old Jasper on the hind end, and we were off, me more than him, because I almost lost me balance and would have slid off his behind if it wasn't for the saddle horn I gripped by reflex. 

Old Jasper didn't gallop; he trotted maybe three feet and stopped. It took me 30 minutes to get him to the barrel. It took me 20 more minutes to get him to sort of go around it; it took me another 45 to sit there admiring the barrel before he slowly, and I mean slowly, moved off in the opposite direction to where we were supposed to go. It took me 4 hours tops to get from and around both barrels to the so-called finish line (which I couldn't see). See for yourself:

Yup, fun times for Old Jasper and Old Gabe

So, I won $1.00, yes, I did. I was fourth in a field of four. A photo was sent to the Wolf Clan, and they, in turn, declared me an honorary member of the Irish Race, after they laughed their arses off. How nice of them, the prats. The rest of the time, Weasil, Dragon, and some people they picked up drank themselves stupid with beer. Not only did I ride a donkey, but I had to drive EVERYONE home. No one was in any condition to drive but the one sober IRISHMAN, me!

I tell ya!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Another Unwelcomed Visitor With A Hairbrained Offer

 05 June 2026

1164

R. Linda:

I did not want to tell you about this latest fiasco, but I feel like me arm is being twisted by certain members of an Irish clan who thought me troubles were funny. As if the Dragon-in-law cooking up strange brews was not enough, and as Murphy's law seems to be the way of it, what was left of my sanity was blown to hell and back by the timely arrival of THE WEASIL!

Yes, the young scamp (not so young anymore, I might add) appeared out of the blue (or in his case, fire dancing around his vintage, implying he was thrown out of hell for a wee bit), on me doorstop. I was speechless, I was. I couldn't get the word 'why' out of me mouth for the life of me. He, of course, was all cheery and glad to be out of the fire (I be guessing) and ready to wreak havoc on what was left of me life.

I reluctantly let him in, to the sound of Tonya's voice, saying NO, over and over. What could I do? He was already inside and headed straight to her for a bear hug she did not want or appreciate. Then it was onto the kitchen for coffee without asking, and when he saw the Dragon, it was this:

"OCK! Me girl, cummere, ye beautiful thing!"

After I barfed in the loo, I came back to find him sitting at table with her majesty the Dragon and the two of them chatting up a storm, both overtalking the other, to which it was a mad gab fest between them, that made no earthly sense to normal souls, but to the two children of Lucifer made perfect sense.

Meanwhile, the wife was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding a wooden spoon as though for protection and shaking her head NO this can't be happening. I wanted to console her, but truly, who's going to console me?!

I watched as Weasil went for the coffee pot, and you know he drinks straight out of it, and that got not only me in action, but Tonya got herself between him and the coffee as I grabbed his arm to hold him back.

"Just wait a minute!" I told him. 

With an evil smile, Tonya turned to the cabinet and got out the special cup we bought just for Mr W.

 

Weasil's Special Cup

Tonya and I thought this looked enough like a coffee pot he'd use this instead of the real thing. AND, he was thrilled with it. He insisted he'd pour his own coffee into his new cup and just wait. He reached into his bag and brought out another cup he just happened to have for ME! He poured us both black coffees, and while I was trying to find words for his generous thought for me, he chattered on about the fact he'd been in contact with the Wolf clan and how he'd signed me up for something THEY told him about, and all thought it was a perfect fit for me!

Talk about squirming in one's seat, that was me. UH OH. I knew this could not be good, BUT it was better than Captain Jack coming up with something for me, and that thought was short-lived because it was just as stupid an idea as Jack would come up with! I was shocked, I was. 

I downed me coffee and went for another cup when I looked inside and saw this at the bottom:

Yup, I should have expected anything less?

No wonder he was so happy I liked the cup. That is, until I saw the writing at the bottom. What a guy, huh?

So, back to the beginnings of the fiasco. I was told that somewhere in me neck of the woods, there was a donkey race, and, being a "professional donkey racer" (couldn't be further from the truth), I was signed up to represent some charity for abandoned mice. Yup, MICE. Like, there is such a thing.

I hemmed and hawed, I did. I did not like any of this and said so in many unchosen words, which set the wife to thinking, it would be a great way to get EVERYONE out of the house so she could have at least one day of quiet bliss. Is she selfish or what? At my expense, even!

I knew if I didn't do it, she'd be mad, and that would be one more person I'd have to tiptoe around, so I reluctantly, and I MEAN reluctantly, agreed to this stupid donkey race for a mouse charity. 

"Gabbie, my daughter will be so proud of you since she has an extensive collection of mouses herself."

"Mice." I corrected. And yeah, she does, she's a mad scientist, and well, if anyone needed to be outlawed in owning mice, it was HER!

What do I get meself into, I ask ya! Anyway, once me nerves settle from the "experience", I will write it down for your viewing pleasure. All too recent and still trying to get past it.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

OK, So THIS Sort Of Thing Has Gone On Long Enough

04 June 2026

1163

R. Linda:

Well … it has been a while, it has. I had just gone from emotional alert to emotional complacency WHEN I was given the tragic (for me at least) news that me old mother-in-law would come traispsing up from the Pine Barrens of New Jersey for a visit to the abode.

Me first words were, "For how long?" Not "oh goody" or "can't wait to see her"-no, no, none of that stuff. 

The complacency went right out the old window, it did, and me nerves started to do the shaky thing, of jumping around me heart with a cold chill coming in to muck the feeling up more. 

How the feck did this happen and when? I was not consulted (and for good reason; I would have had a fit of epic proportions with resounding NOs all over the place). However, I'd be shouted down by the other occupants of the abode (all except me own Mam who would have been out the door at the first mention of the word "Dragon"), it would have been nice to have some notice (so I could arrange a trip out of town, so to speak), but no, it was an hour before her arrival I was notified of the impending doom.

To say I was beside meself is saying exactly what I was. Realising I couldn't book a trip in time, I turned to the next idea: where to hide. Defeated, because no matter where I took meself SHE would find me, I plopped meself into a chair and looked like a man ready to be electrocuted. 

Just as me wife was about to berate yours truly over such behaviour, the door slammed open like the north wind had blown in, and there standing in dark silhouette in the doorway was the bulky figure of THAT woman, the wicked witch of the south, Dragon-lady.

Everyone went to greet her, everyone but me and me sainted mother, who must have been hiding under the kitchen table (I think because she was nowhere to be seen), and I was instructed to go bring "Mother's bags inside."

"Where'd you leave the broom?" I asked her, as I looked down the porch stairs at the massive amount of luggage that furthered me angst, if the old Dragon was going to move in. 

Well, it didn't take her more than three seconds to take over me living room chair, put the lovely green comforter you knitted for me over her gigantic knees, and demand to know where my mother was. She was ready for a cuppa tea after her long travels. 

Mam came out from under the kitchen table, shouting she was not the Irish housemaid, and fecking Dragon could get her own tea, but she didn't get to say all that because I instantly got hold of her, turned her towards the kettle and whispered (with much urgency), "Just do it. We'll figure this out later."

And so, mumbling under her breath, she went to make the strongest Booley's tea I had ever had a sip of. Yes, a sip, because it was THAT strong. No one drank it but the Dragon, who has no clue about teas and sipped it like it was Nirvana time. How she managed it, I do not know, but we all looked at each other, then at me, smug mother, and, as covertly as possible, shook our heads at her, as if to say, "THIS is not going to win us points."

I won't bore you with the rest of that day, but let me say, the old Dragon lady settled in a little too fast for my liking, and to further make things sketchy between her and me sainted little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam took over the kitchen, which belongs exclusively to Mam. 

We were subjected to recipes, the old thing found on Facebook, which were half-recipes. You know the kind where there is a delicious-looking meal pictured with a few ingredients to the side and the wording, "I made this, and everyone wants the recipe!" and you have to click on a website to get the full instructions for making whatever deliciousness is pictured? Well, it was worse when half the ingredients were used and the surprise of the Dragon tasting whatever gorgeous meal she saw, saying, "Well, the photograph looked more appetising than THIS."

Me Mam caught onto the problem almost instantly. To save us from gut problems later, she'd ask Dragon what she was cooking up or, more Irishly, "kooking-up" for dinner. As soon as she knew, she'd run to FB, find the recipe and then get the rest of it to save us from indigestion and gastric bypasses later. That is, she was successful in this venture UNTIL she had the opportunity to go to a community dinner and left us to the small or, more like, non-existent mercies of the Dragon lady. 

I came in from work to see a strange line-up of "ingredients" on the kitchen counter and a flummoxed Dragon scratching her head in perplexed agitation. 

"Wot be the matter?" I asked, not really wanting to know, but when it was the food we were all about to consume, and knowing she only used half the ingredients, I felt inclined to ask.

"Well, I got all this that is asked for, and I can't figure out how they go together," said she.

"Here, let me take a look," I said, taking the recipe from her. 

OMG!!! Let me put it here so you can see it.

What be wrong with THIS?

She had a batch of me Mam's chocolate chip cookies on the counter. She had the leftover S'mores Tonya had made the night before, and she had Thumbprint cookies, which she must have made herself (God only knows what they taste like), and she was perplexed over what a Lavender Honey Lemon Loaf was, as well as the Key Lime Loaf. She had plenty of eggs out, but for the two ingredients in the 2 Good 2 Be Baked recipe, she had no clue what they were. 

I started to tell her that what she had wasn't a recipe but an advert for baked goods, but she wouldn't listen, because she's NEVER wrong. Without me Mam, to back me up, or anyone for that matter, I left her to it because what could I do? 

I went out to mow the lawn just to have noise that would kill any thoughts of all this out of what's left of me brain. I have no idea what dessert will be, but I do know I won't be eating it, whatever it is. I did think I should go in and print off warning labels that say: Attention: What you are about to consume may look delicious, but it isn't healthy. The ingredients are from an unknown source, so be aware that you may do permanent harm to your body.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

What Is Happening At Me Abode?

27 May 2026

1162

R. Linda:

I get a phone call from Tonya, that O'Hare is upset and off the wall, so to speak, over his car. Seems he took it to an auto place for an alignment, and the mechanic informed him he needed $600 worth of work and no alignment until he got new tyres. He had got new tyres, and that's why he was there for the alignment, so what the heck?

She and he got into an arggy over this. I don't know what was said or how, but suffice it to say they were yelling at each other, and she wanted me to know he was headed me way and to be ready. 

Now, let me preface this by saying that the two of them are two peas in a pod. You can be having a calm conversation with one or the other, and suddenly, they are upset with YOU. Over, nothing you know you did, but you are accused of either raising your voice or belittling them. Usually, in the first case, I raise me voice to be heard because one or the other of them has started yelling. In the second case, if I make a joke, it is taken as sarcasm and belittlement. Therefore, I be damned if I do, and damned if I don't. Because if I don't raise me voice, I am accused of not caring and wanting to end the conversation. If I don't quip about something they said, then I am disinterested. I tell ya, I can't win.

So there I was, just off the phone when the driveway alert went off, and I knew O'Hare had arrived. I had been thinking I had time to brace meself, that he had 30 more minutes of driving time before he reached me. In that time, I was about to pour meself a stiff whiskey or two, or three and mellow meself out before the storm descended upon moi.

But in came Guido, fresh from work, and informed me that his friend was coming over and that they would be going for fishing licenses and then fishing.

"Don't fall in the river," I quipped, "water be 40 degrees, though the air is warm."

It was a minute later that O'Hare came waltzing in. I tensed thinking here we go, but notta. He was fine; he told me he had quite the experience at the car place and started to tell me about it calmly, I might add. I commiserated with him and shared an experience I had that was nearly the same, and said all these businesses were hurting, so yes, they will find things wrong to make some money, and all was right with the O'Hare. 

UNTIL

His brother had come downstairs to wait for his friend. He was haunting the front hallway, and we were in the back, but he could see us and we him, worse, he could hear what we were talking about. Now, let me say this: Guido prides himself on his mechanical prowess and started telling his brother how mechanically stupid he was, etc. As you can guess, this started an argybargy to end all argybargys.

Things would have been okay if Guido had minded his own business and not offered an opinion on how dumb O'Hare was about car maintenance. I broke the argy up by sending Guido upstairs and had managed to calm O'Hare's fiery temper. The friend arrived just then, and I sent him up to calm the other one down. O'Hare decided to go to his room to get something he had made on his 3D printer, which he wanted to show me.

I had thoughts I would be a full-fledged alcoholic by day's end if this kept up. 

Guido and his friend came down to tell me they were leaving. A good thing. They leave, and O'Hare comes down with a double light sabre. He made the handles on his 3D printer, cut a long pool noodle in two, and voilà, long arse light sabre. The dog thought long chew toy and came in trying to grab the pool noodle, and O'Hare ended up gently batting the dog, which just made the dog want it more, and the barking was ear-piercing. I told him to stop, and he informed me, after using it to swat at me, that he was going upstairs to beat up his little brother with it.

"Fine, have at it," I said, wondering if we had any 100-proof alcohol around. I texted Tonya, told her the sorry story, and all she could say was, "Well, I guess he has to beat up someone."

"That or start drinking," I said.

He reappeared, and I asked him if he'd like a shot of whiskey to soothe his day. He said he was tempted. We both weren't serious, or at least I wasn't. Then he started showing me pictures of Guido at his junior prom, holding a Coors Light, and another of him lying in the middle of empty cans of Tito's vodka, laughing. 

"Has your mother seen these?" I asked, curious.

"I dunno, but she knows." He said (I found out later she did not).

I told him to tell the wee one to get ready; we'd go out for something to eat. It was then that I got a text from Tonya asking me how everything was going.

"We are going out for some Tito's after O'Hare feeds the dog, and we are taking the wee one with us. We'll pass the wee one off as a leprechaun when we get to the bar."

And what did she text me? She texted: "Sounds good."

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Fun Times

25 May 2026

1161

R. Linda:

I sometimes wonder what the heck be going on with me Mam. On Friday. I had the pest service guy out to spray for insects and vermin around the house. I have had this service since I moved here. With the number of horse barns in the area and the grain in the barns, the small mouse critters get around. As an added bonus, I have insect spray applied around the edges of the house for one reason and one reason only. Tonya is scared of spiders. ANYWAY, that all aside, me own apple-cheeked, grey-haired little Mam must be getting on because after the chemical man did his thing, two hours later she went out to the front deck to cut some lilacs. 

"Oh my, it smells so good out here. I wonder what kind of insecticide they used."

I had come out with the scissors she couldn't find and took a whiff. What she was smelling was the lilacs. She went on about the insecticide smelling so good, but thinking it wasn't healthy to breathe it in. I shook me head and went back inside, laughing that she must be losing it.

To make matters worse, she had an appointment with her financial advisor. I offered to drive her there since she isn't a highway driver (which is rather interesting to me since Irish drivers are natural-born speeders) and she had no problem in Ireland, but here, "Can't drive with these people, Gabriel, they are dangerous and nuts they be." I wanted to say "Who's the nut?" but I refrained. All I could do was shake me head, because I just don't know about her. ANYWAY, we get there, get in the door, and the receptionist asks who we have an appointment with.

"I doon't no." Says she, looking rather perturbed, she was even asked.

"Wot do you mean ye doon't no?" Me Irish accent came out to my surprise. "Do ye even haf an appointment?" I asked.

"Well, for sure I do." Said she. "I just doon't remember wit whom. He's da new one." She said this to the receptionist.

Name taken, time of appointment taken, receptionist looks that up and says, just as it strikes Mam, "Mr Pica," said in unison. 

"Ok then," I said as we were gestured to have a seat.

As we are sitting there, this young professional-looking man sits down, and he is glued, and I mean glued to his phone. Outside, there was a fender bender, and did he look up once? No, he did not. Everyone else ran to the large windows to watch the two drivers looking over the slight damage. One calling the police (I suppose), the other his insurance agent. People inside went back to their respective areas, but the buzz was about the accident, and still, the young gent was phone-bound.

Me Mam was sitting across from him, and she nudged me and, in a theatrical whisper, said, "THAT is a solid case of TOD." And she shakes her head in affirmation.

"TOD?" I whispered.

"Terminal Online Disease." Says she knowingly. 

I tell ya, the woman is a piece of work, she is.

Lastly, as events in me life seem to happen in threes, we had a community dinner where, at the end of it, instead of having awards for the town leaders, there were joke prizes(?) for want of a word. All the "prizes" had numbers, and when the town leaders came in, they were shown a hat containing folded papers, each numbered. They'd get to pick a number at the end of the evening. That number would correspond to one of the "prizes."

We all wondered what the prizes were and who would get what. That was until me sainted little apple-cheeked, grey-haired Mam says in a low voice, "Isn't dat da hat dey used fer da Yankee Swap at Christmas?"

Tonya looked, as did I and yes, why yes, it was. 

"Why?" Tonya asked her concerned mother-in-law.

"Well, if ye remember, at the Yankee Swap, soom noombers were revealed, soom persons put dem back in da hat, an soom did not." She looked knowingly at us, like we would get the problem. 

She sighed. We are obviously two stupid people.

"Old John put blanks in da hat to fill out later, but knowing him, he probably fergot. AND no one counted the noombers in dat hat, but I did; dey went from 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, an skipped to 11; there were no 6, 7, 8, 9, or 10. So dat means 5 people won't haf noombers, just blank pieces of paper! OR," she said, "soom papers be blank, soom haf da same noomber a few times, an half the noombers dunt exist because Old John isn't all dere in da head, he isn't!" She said, quite exasperated with the two of us. "I tole 'em not to leave Old John in charge of dat hat!" She said emphatically. 

"Well, might make a fun last part of the evening," I quipped and got a dirty look.

And indeed it did.

At the end of supper, the committee members went up to the chairs set out for them on stage, and as each passed by Old John, they took a piece of paper from the hat he held. Some smiled, and a few looked perplexed, probably thinking their blank pieces of paper were part of a joke.

A smiling Father Murphy stood at the prize table and announced in his solemn church voice, "And now, our appreciation awards for the town committee." Laughter followed that remark as Father chuckled along with the joke he made. Father picked up the first wrapped prize and handed it to the Mayor, who proudly announced, "Number 6!"

Silence.

"Number 6," he announced again.

The hall went quiet. Father Murphy squinted at the number on the wrapped prize, then looked up at the stage, as if someone with a 6 might appear if he believed hard enough.

Mam leaned over to me, folded her arms, and said, loud enough for half the hall to hear, "Well now, dere's a surprise. Old John lost anutter one."

"There is no 6 Father," Said one of the committee women after rummaging through the committee members holding their numbers in growing panic. That is, only the ones lucky enough to have actual numbered papers remained calm. The others had no clue. No one on stage understood the joke, and they were plainly flummoxed.

Father Murphy looked at the wrapped number 6 joke gift, then at the ceiling as though appealing directly for divine intervention.

The Mayor shrugged and picked up another wrapped prize. 

"Number 10!" He said loudly in anticipation.

Mam never blinked.

"Dat's wot 'appens when ye leave Old John in charge of anyting wid noombers," she muttered into her tea, but loud enough to be heard.

By the third missing number, half the room was crying with laughter. Father Murphy was threatening to bless the prize table into obedience, and Old John kept insisting everyone was being dramatic because "sure, there's plenty o' numbers left," as he gestured at the committee members.

The Mayor looked embarrassed and confused all at the same time.

"Mine is blank," one of the committee members shouted.

Old John, meanwhile, kept insisting the numbers had to be there because he remembered writing "most of them."

"Did ya use invisible ink, John?" Someone shouted, and everyone laughed.

Ever the optimist, the Mayor picked up another prize and read the number.

"Number 5!"

Mild applause. Someone had a number 5 paper! Finally!

"…11."

A pause.

Three committee members raised their papers at once.

Then another pause. Seems all three had 11. 

"11?" The Mayor croaked, unsure what was going on with the three committee members arguing among themselves.

By the fourth "11," people were shifting in their seats, and Old John had gone mysteriously deaf.

Finally Mrs. Donnelly stood up and snapped, "How can there be three elevens and no sixes?"

Dead silence.

From our table, Mam crossed her arms, leaned back like a prophet proven right, and said loud enough for the whole hall to hear:

"Because ye let Old John near dat hat agin."

And that is how the Town Council Awards ended with five leaders sharing three joke prizes, one man winning a decorative cabbage twice, some received sympathy, and Mam was proven right in front of God and everybody, which, if you ask her, was the real prize of the evening and a personal victory.

This fiasco, the town is calling, The Incident of the Missing Numbers, and Old John is no longer trusted with raffles, bingo, or anything requiring arithmetic above the number four.

Yup.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

When You Live In The Middle Of Nowhere And Need A Coffee Fix

23 May 2026

1160

R. Linda:

The first sign of trouble was the silence. Not normal silence — silence like you are missing some sound, some familiar sound. I live forty miles from the nearest grocery store, seventy from anything that could legally be called a “town,” and exactly one dirt road away from becoming a cautionary documentary. Silence was part of the deal, but this silence was different and rather upsetting, without me knowing why.

As I got me coffee mug from the cabinet, I noticed something else was missing … the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Tonya must have been running late and didn't turn on the brewer. I turned around, and there, sitting on the counter, was the Buun (the same as Dunkin's, but the home version). No coffee in the pot, but a post-it note showed writing on its glaring yellow surface. I ripped it off, and the note said: Seems the coffee maker died in the night. I threw the last of the grounds in the trash; they will be stale by the time you read this. We need a new maker and some bags of coffee. I'll pick all that up tonight.

"NOOO!!!" 

I threw the note on the kitchen table and turned around. The machine stared back with all the warmth and humanity of a cinder block. Not trusting what I read, I pressed the ON button. And nothing. So I did it again, just to be sure, you know? And still nothing.

I sighed. I looked out the window. Dawn was disappearing, and inside, a grown man in thermal underwear negotiated emotionally with a coffee machine.

“Listen,” I said, gripping the counter. “We’ve had five good years together, oh no, make that ten!”

The machine remained unmoved.

I checked the outlet. I checked the fuse box. I even smacked the side of it as if that would resurrect the thing to life. Finally, after twenty increasingly desperate minutes, I accepted the truth: I had no coffee.

Not “out of cream for the coffee,” no, no coffee. No “guess I’ll drink tea instead,” no, no, I needed coffee. I searched the cupboards for K-Cups because grief makes people irrational. I found none, not even decaf, just one stale granola bar, a can of kidney beans (a lot of help that would be), and a single packet of Hot Cocoa mix, no sugar, added milk product. Yuck!

I looked out the kitchen window toward the endless woods. The nearest Dunkin' was 45 minutes away. I looked for me keys, then the weather report, because after all, this is New Hampshire, weather turns on a dime. One minute it's 90 degrees in the shade, and the next it's snowing. It looked like it was doing something, so I squinted me eyes, still not sure, got me glasses and yes, yes, it was raining, that light farmer's rain. It must have been raining for hours, and it's that light kind you don't hear on the roof. The usual band of coyotes that I see smelling around the kiddo's chicken coup wasn't even out. Apparently, they had called in sick. I plopped into a chair, ran me fingers through me hair and realised I needed to get dressed if I was going anywhere. But such was me depressed state, I just sat there cursing the coffee machine.

By eight-thirty in the morning, I had developed symptoms. Mild headache. Irritability. An irrational hatred of birds, because by that time the rain had stopped and the song birds were heralding that glaring sunlight that comes after a rain.

By nine-fifteen, I found meself watching a YouTube video titled “How People Made Coffee in the 1700s” while chewing dry cereal directly from the box. By ten, things got dangerous.

That was when I remembered Marty. Now, Marty lived three miles west in a log cabin assembled from equal parts lumber and bad decisions. Nobody knew his exact age. He trapped rabbits, repaired engines for cash, and once claimed he could predict storms using only knee pain and “the behaviour of chipmunks.”

BUT Marty always had coffee. ALWAYS!

I ran upstairs, got dressed, and then downstairs, one last smack at the coffee machine, in the stupid hope that it might come to life, but no, and out the door into humidity that would not only curl hair, but toes. I took a breath, trying to breathe, but the air was stagnant and heavy. Like a man crossing a battlefield, I went towards the path behind the house that leads into the woods and that haunted bridge and graveyard. Yes, I was THAT desperate, I'd fight ghosts to get to Marty's. 

The path was pretty overgrown (no one, and I mean no one, had traversed it since the Headless Horseman fiasco (see Story #1002 The Road To Nowhere, 16 Oct. 2020). The overgrown branches whipped across my skin, hard enough to exfoliate it. The trail had vanished beneath growth, but I knew the route by memory: follow what was left of the ancient granite wall, cross the dilapidated bridge, avoid the suspiciously deep-looking patch near the dead pine tree, and ignore the steam rising from the graveyard; it was moisture, not ghosts, and just keep going, Gabe!

Halfway there, I questioned every life choice that had led me to this moment. Most people, I thought bitterly, could simply walk to Starbucks or Dunkin's.  Most people also had neighbours within shouting distance and blood pressure under control.

By the time Marty’s cabin emerged through the mist, I probably looked less like a human being and more like laundry abandoned during a rainstorm. The low-hanging tree branches dripped on me head and shoulders as I walked what seemed like miles (and probably was), leaving me drenched as they dripped down.

I hammered on the door, and God help me, NOTHING. I did it again, and the door creaked open. Marty stood there wearing an old flannel robe, wool socks, and the expression of a man deeply disappointed that someone had survived long enough to bother him.

“You dyin’?” Marty asked.

“Worse,” I croaked. “I need coffee.”

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then nodded once.

“Fair.”

Inside, the cabin smelled of cedar, engine oil, and glorious, miraculous coffee. A tall, old, pot hissed softly on a cast-iron stove. I nearly wept, I did.

Marty poured two mugs without speaking.

I took one sip and felt me soul reboot.

Colour returned to the world. Me heartbeat stabilised. Birds seemed less personally offensive. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. Out here, silence wasn’t awkward. Silence was just the weather for conversations.

Finally, Marty leaned back in his chair.

“Machine break?”

“Died this morning.”

“Hm.”

Another sip.

Then Marty stood, shuffled to a cupboard, and returned carrying a battered metal object.

It looked ancient.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Percolator, older one, but like the one on the stove, a spare ya might say.”

“I thought those went extinct in the seventies.”

Marty snorted. “Electric coffee makers are fer people with optimism.”

He set the old metal pot on the table like a sacred relic.

“This thing works on fire. Fire don’t care about power outages or breakdowns.”

I stared at it. Honestly, it looked indestructible enough to survive reentry from space.

“You can borrow it,” Marty said. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Bring it back clean.”

I nodded solemnly.

It was then that I realised this was how alliances were formed in remote territories.

An hour later, I slogged home clutching the percolator beneath me jacket like a rescued infant.

The sun was out. The world was still wet, and the humidity was inconvenient to an unreasonable degree.

But now?

Now I had coffee.

And out in the middle of nowhere, there was basically hope in liquid form, until I realised I had no coffee grounds to brew.

I won't tell you the hissy fit I had in the middle of the woods, but I had a gigantic one. I hemmed and hawed like no one's business, which probably scared any ghosts hanging around that graveyard or the bridge. Tonya said she'd pick everything up TONIGHT. What good was that going to do me? I needed coffee to survive the DAY. That meant that drive in the wetness I did not relish was in me immediate future. Am I pissed? That I be.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Excitement In The Theatre Wing

07 May 2026

R. Linda:

1159

I be sleep deprived today and feeling it mightily. Last night was a rainy night, of constant downpours, and all was quiet except for the sound of the rain. Perfect sleeping weather. There was even a faint rumble of thunder that gave me the chills as I turned on me other side, thinking that position a better one for sleeping, but alas, not to be. I was listening for O'Hare to come home. He usually has two late nights of work and rolls in around 11:30, but it was 12:14 and no O'Hare. I got up and looked out the window, and I did not see his vehicle, which made me wonder where he was. 

We turn our phones off at night when we charge them, so I started mine up and no, no messages. I was tempted to message him, but he gets all insulted. He's 21 and, in many ways, independent, so he doesn't need to be treated like a teenager. I get it, but still. 

Tonya has a head cold, so she had taken some medicine that put her in a deep sleep (or coma, I like to say), so I couldn't commiserate with her. I took meself to the kitchen, it was 12:40 now and still no O'Hare, put the tea on, and I used the electric kettle, so the usual one that whistles (the Simplex) wouldn't wake the household. 

12:58, and still nothing, so I texted him. I reckoned it was less invasive to him than me calling. I poured meself tea and nothing, no response. Ah ha, me brain woke up and ticked on the Find My Phone app where I could locate members of me family. There he was still at work. I was like, what???

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Mr. O'Hare had been locking up around 11:15 when he heard a banging in the theatre wing of the Boys and Girls Club where he works. Basketball had ended at 11:00 p.m., and everyone had gone home. He had to lock up, but he heard the loud bangs and looked inside the theatre, which isn't small. He flipped on the lights, saw nothing, and called out, "Who's there? Anyone there?" 

The banging stopped, and it was silent, he said, except for the rain pounding outside. He turned the lights off and listened at the door, and sure enough, the banging started again. This unnerved him, and he turned the lights on and called out again. Nothing answered, and the banging stopped. He called his associate and told him what was going on. That person, instead of turning around (he was already on his way home), suggested O'Hare call the boss. He did. The boss, in turn, told O'Hare to call the local constabulary. He did. 

A few minutes later, they arrived (three squad cars, guns out, yelling for whoever was trying to break in to show themselves). Yes, drama in and outside the theatre wing, with O'Hare not knowing what to make of all this. Three squad cars? Really?Two officers in each one, guns drawn? He was told to step away from the theatre door as they entered. They proceeded inside the door, one first with his gun outstretched in firing position, then the other stepping in front of that officer, and they do this leapfrog as they "clear" the theatre. O'Hare wanted to tell them that whoever was banging had to be outside; no one had got in. 

He looked out the club doors, and there was one squad car parked outside with the lights flashing. He was thanking his lucky stars that there were no homes around to light up the night and bring curious neighbours down to view the show. And, down in the other parking lot was another squad car, lights flashing blue in the darkness and further down by the stage door of the theatre was the third car, same thing going on, blue flashes of light everywhere, lighting up the rainy night.

The squad car outside the entrance

All this excitement was for nought. Seems the theatre people (one in particular) in charge of the lights and sound equipment hadn't turned the sound machine off, and when there was a sound in the theatre, it activated the equipment. This activation manifested as a banging sound. When it was quiet, the machine would be silent, but if there was a noise, it would activate, and this was what had happened. 

All O'Hare wanted to do was go home to his cosy bed and be done with all this. He was knackered and somewhat embarrassed for the theatre personnel, but it was what it was. So, after another 30 minutes of waiting for the police report to be done, he was left on his own to travel home. Because he was preoccupied, he did not see my text or the phone call I eventually placed (his phone was on silent with no vibration). 

Whilst I was sitting in the kitchen, now at 1:00 a.m., the rain pounding away, worry crossing me forehead, I happened to look down at me phone. The text screen lit up like a Christmas tree, the text was addressed to Tonya, me, Mam, and Guido. It said:

O'HARE: I forgot to get half and half on my way home; it is on me. I had to call the cops, and everything after that was a mess tonight, so that's my bad. I will get some tomorrow on my way home if you guys would like. 

GUIDO: Originally, my fault. I will get it today if not done.

I was like WHAT? Guido is up? What time is it? 1:03 a.m., and we are talking cops and Half and Half? I had a mind to go up to Guido's room, but decided not to. I knew if I texted O'Hare about "cops," I wouldn't hear from him because he was (according to the Find App) driving home. 

Feeling really knackered and trying to keep me eyes open, I found I could not. I went up to bed thinking that as soon as I heard his car, I'd get up and find out what was going on. Only that didn't happen. I reckon me brain was satisfied he was all right, and so I slept.

The next morning, there was more text, which I looked at on me way to splash cold water on me face to wake up. It said:

TONYA: Lucky you peeps weren't around this morning. No coffee=someone may die.

O'HARE: I'm here, just hiding.

MAM: LOL

GUIDO: 😅

I got dressed, went down to find coffee had been made, and there was no container of Half and Half. Just as I was about to go sit down and let that sink in as I contemplated suicide for want of Half and Half, in came Tonya, waving a container of Half and Half over her head, saying she had saved us all from suicide, murder and general mayhem towards whoever was the culprit who didn't replenish the supply. 

Tonya set the Half and Half down on the table like she was presenting the Holy Grail, and I looked at her with the sort of gratitude usually reserved for saints and lottery winners.

“Crisis averted,” she declared.

“You're a hero,” I told her, taking the container before somebody else got ideas. That someone else, being me Mam, who had timed it just right to enter the kitchen for the morning brew. 

“Damn right I am,” Ton said, grabbing her mug away from Mam who had picked up the first one she came upon.

The kitchen slowly filled with life after that — chairs scraping, bacon hissing, somebody muttering about work. Normal noises. Safe noises. The kind that settle your nerves before you even realise they've been rattled.

I poured me coffee and finally let meself breathe properly.

Whatever had gone on with O’Hare the night before, he was here. Alive. Hiding, maybe, but here.

And for now, that was enough until I heard the whole dumb story.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Yelling Kid, Barking Dog

06 May 2026

R. Linda:

1158

I am surprised I have not been cited for noise disturbance in a quiet neighbourhood. Yes, indeed, I think it's a matter of time before that happens. The weather has taken a warm turn, so the windows are open for the first time since winter. For some unknown reason (at first), the wee one stayed home from school yesterday. I had the day off to go register our vehicles, take some packages to the post office, and look over outdoor pizza ovens for me Mam. At first, no one thought to tell me the wee one was home; it was by sheer hearing alone that I stopped in me tracks on the deck, listening to the F-bombs coming out of his mouth from his room window. 

"Why is he even home? He doesn't seem sick to me." I said to me Mam, who was letting the cat out.

"He was too knackered to go to school, he said, he pulled an all-nighter on that crazy game machine I told ye not to get him for Christmas."

I was rendered speechless because the cursing started again, like the true Irishman he is, he let it rip, and I almost covered me ears for the shouting, until I realised not only did Mam and I hear him, but with the windows open, so did the neighbours. Sound carries over fields. 

Wow, I was stunned. For a 12-year-old, I suppose that's not unusual, but to hear your own sonny boy spewing forth such language for the first time in your hearing, you take pause, you do. I was going to turn around and go back inside to confront the boyo over language, but Mam told me he does it all the time and just to run along and get me errands done. 

I supposed it was for the best; he'd only go back to it once I had driven off. But then, another thing happened as I started backing out of the garage: the dog started barking. I cut the motor, and it stopped. I started it up again, and the barking started too. Well, I pulled out, waited for the garage doors to automatically close, and once they did, the barking started again. Perplexed as to what the dog was barking at, I texted me Mam and asked.

"Oh, he does that all day when you and Tonya are gone. Never stops, gets annoying, but he won't shut up until you or she comes home."

"Huh," I said, and well, it was decided I should just go and get back, and that's what I did. When I came home, I wasn't halfway down my driveway when I could hear the dog barking AND the wee one yelling. It sounded like he was being attacked by the dog.

I pulled in, turned off the car, left everything, and ran up to his room to find him in the throes of some online game, the dog wagging its tail at me and dancing around, glad to see me.

"What was going on?" I asked him, out of breath from running up the stairs, thinking the dog was attacking him. Which wasn't feasible on me part, as the dog is a sweetheart (when he isn't barking).

"Can't right now, Da, in the middle of my game."

I was too knackered to argue, and seeing all was well, I went down to the kitchen where I saw me Mam relaxing with a "cuppa tae" as she says. Feet up on a chair, surrounded by the lovely homey smell of scones in the oven baking to a golden colour. You could tell none of that commotion above stairs was a bother to her. No, no, indeed, she was in her main domain, and all was right with her world. 

"Call me when the scones are ready, and please save me some tea," I said, leaving her to her revery.

I went to me office to see if I needed to do anything work-wise when the dog started barking. I saw nothing for two minutes and then, there, out the window, was the UPS truck making its way down the drive. I could hear him put on his parking brake, the door slide open, and, faintly, something being put against the garage door (which was a miracle considering the barking going on). Then it all went in reverse, as he pulled out and down the long driveway and out and away, and the barking suddenly stopped. 

It happened again with the FedEx man (which is quite the thing, since he doesn't seem to know where I live half the time and dumps me packages at other houses, or deep-sixes them in the woods). It was a good two minutes before he pulled down the driveway (for a change) that the dog had sensed his coming, and then kept up the barrage of loudness until he, too, left. 

I put the dog outside on the back deck, thinking a change of scenery would shut him up. But no. As soon as the Amazon truck pulled down the long driveway, there was a chorus of barking until the man got out of his truck and unloaded his packages, took his picture and then he went to the stairs to the back deck and up to MY DOG wiggling itself out of shape to see this guy. 

"Oh, puppy," he was saying, patting the dog's head. "You happy to see me? Aw, puppy." And he took a Milkbone treat out of his upper pocket and gave it to the traitor of a dog. Then he left, but not before waving goodbye to the dancing animal who, if he could, would have waved back. Instead, the silly dog jumped up on the gate and was hopping around like "COME BACK!" I tell ya. 

At this rate, I’m expecting him to start helping carry packages up the steps. Or worse—flagging the truck down. So now I know: the barking isn’t a warning system. It’s a notification service. Not “intruder alert,” but “snack opportunity approaching.”

Same thing with kiddos arriving home from school and then Tonya pulling in. He forgot the Amazon guy and was all about the family again. 

And just like that, the fearless guardian of the property—terror of delivery trucks, defender of the driveway—had switched allegiances for a Milkbone and a kind word. If the UPS man ever figures that out, I’m finished.

Guard dog, watchdog, traitor—it doesn't really matter. He just loves whoever shows up. Loudly. As for the potty mouth upstairs on the gaming machine, I'll let his mother deal with him. And if the police show up with a citation for disturbing the peace, I'll let me Irish Mam deal with that. I'm done with it all.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Guido's Birthday Consisted Of Me First Ride In A Miata

01 May 2026

R. Linda:

1157

It was the middle lad's 17th birthday. My, how time doth fly! The boyos had school vacation that week, but as parents, we didn't have off; we had to work. So, while Tonya took that Tuesday off and took the two lads on a hike, I decided to take the next day off and take them out to brunch since it was Guido's birthday. The wee one (who isn't so wee anymore) did not want to go. He's busy making his cardboard replica of the Titanic so he can sink it in the pond. Don't ask. I don't pretend to know how his mind works. So it was Guido and me (O'Hare was at work). 

I was thinking we'd go to McDonald's, but no, he wanted to go to the more adult eatery, The Maple Station. Now I enjoy the Station, but it is pricey, especially after the $51.03 doggy toenail-clipping bill (See Story #1156 $51.03 And Did They Paint His Nails Too? 29 April, 2026). So at the time, I thought it was the three of us, and it would cost me around $50. And I knew the wee one wouldn't be a fan of the food, he is a Mickey D's man. So big money wasted. When he told me he didn't want to go, me brain calculated $40.00 for the two of us. 

About time to go, I am informed by Guido that we are going to The Maple Barn instead. I thought, great, that will be about $32.00 for the two of us. Yes, that's what I thought. Anyway, we headed off to The Maple Barn for brunch. It was an experience I can tell ya that much. Yes, the lad has his license, and he got himself a convertible sports car, a Miata. Have you ever seen one? They are low to the ground and do not have the legroom for anyone over 5' tall. So, consider me, a 6'2" frame, trying to jam into the passenger seat. It was painful, I can tell ya that much. I did have the panicky thought that I wouldn't be able to get out of the car … ever. There was no way I could bend me limbs to turn or step one-sided out the door. I was doomed for life to be locked in that car forever. 

Anyway, he drove, and once we had me in the car feeling like I was in a sardine can, we took off at warp speed. ZOOM! It's a good thing, I thought, that we weren't going to The Station. I don't think I'd be able to get out of the car, as it is a bit of a drive. However, in a semi-pretzel and paralysed state, I was able to extract meself from El Car at The Maple Barn and lurch inside. But not before he asked me if I needed help getting out. Well, yeah, but there was a parking lot full of people, and how would it look? Me being extracted from me seat by a young teenager? That would make me self-conscious and feel very old. So, I sucked it up and nearly landed on the ground (not that far to fall) by swinging me long legs to the side instead of trying to step out one leg at a time. I actually hit meself in the jaw with me left knee as I swung too hard to the right. That hurt, but I tried not to show I was counting me teeth with me tongue to make sure they were still intact. Honestly, I thought that I'd break a leg if I didn't use some force to move. This sideward motion almost landed me on the wet sandy pavement. I hoped no one witnessed me near disastrous exit. And trying to stand up at the same time was a bit of a trick. Somehow, I wobbly managed that, but not without people noticing. I could hear them whispering to each other, "Look at that drunken man, how embarrassing for that nice young man to have a father like that." Yup, I just knew they were about that.

I was happy we didn't go to The Station after the $51.03 fiasco at the vets, but that didn't make any difference when the birthday boy ordered up $23.00 worth of spare ribs and two other breakfasts, plus a starter! I tell ya, it was like being out with Weasil in disguise, who will order up an entire menu if the mood strikes him, that's the thing to do! I said nothing, just happy he was happy. 

The waitress was nice (everyone knew it was his big day; he works there part-time on weekends), and she gave him his 20% discount (unasked), which I appreciated.  Even after she stopped to talk to us, well, him mostly, and she said with a giggle, "I'm your favourite waitress, right?" Well, guess what, NO! I was stunned when he said, "My favourite waitress is Betty. I've known her longer. You're my second favourite."

WHAT??? I wanted to slide under the table at that, but she took it well, telling him she was somewhat disappointed not to be number 1. Who is he? After she left us to cry in the kitchen, I told him, "Never tell a woman she's number 2; lie like a rug and tell her she's number 1 forever." Geez.

"Oh, she doesn't care," says he. 

"Oh yes, she does. I don't know a woman who'd be happy to know she's second shift." I couldn't wait to get us out of there before something else went pear-shaped. But then I remembered, or I should say me body remembered, we had to jam our big self back into that sardine can. I've been in cars where I had me knees around me ears, but this, no, me knees were way above me head even! I be so glad there are no photos.

So once again I find meself in the awkward position of trying to slide into the passenger seat without looking like a one-hundred-year-old man. Somehow I managed it, but not without misjudging how low to the ground I had to go, so I fell into the seat with a thump! I couldn't reach for the seatbelt (which was way behind the seat) to strap meself in. I know I was taking a great risk by not belting up, but I was too full of food, and my stomach was jammed up under me ribcage, so trying to reach behind me wasn't an option. Even so, with the stomach being at capacity, would I even have enough length to buckle up?!

Off we went with ROOM ROOM BRROOM! That noise clearing anyone and anything out of our way as we were about to achieve warp speed from a stationary position. 

Somehow, we got home in one piece. And I walked off the boxed up and paralysed feeling from being driven around in a vehicle at speeds that were dizzying … with a full stomach yet! I can now say I have ridden in the very fine and cherished sardine can, I mean sports car. ZOOMA ZOOMA!

BUT the "fun" wasn't over. Since O'Hare had to work that night, I told Guido he could invite a friend. Well, he has a friend, a very nice young lad, but this person doesn't eat. He will sit with us, but won't take a plate. The excuse: he already ate. But the real reason is he's a health nut and adheres (much to his mother's chagrin) to his own food regimen. I said to Guido, "Why are you inviting someone who isn't going to eat anything? Why not a friend who will?"

Well, as it turned out, we had enough food for a small army, so Tonya texted Guido and told him he could invite two people. He then told her he had eight friends spending the night. Was that ok? Mind you, he had already asked them. I silently marvelled as to where all these people and we were going to sleep, or not sleep, as the case may be, with teenagers up all night. I didn't want to know, I shut our door when it was bedtime and left them to their own devices, in the hopes the house would still be standing the next morning. 

But let me tell you about cake. The levity came out over the cake, thanks to teen humour and small fry being roasted. Yes, the wee one came to the table and was instantly told by someone not related to him that he looked like a bug wearing his glasses. To which he informed that someone, he was called a bug all the time because of his glasses. So there! Nothing new. He then took the spectacles off and showed the same person the black electrical tape he used to keep the earpieces on until he could get them fixed. He proceeded to swing the glasses around, and his mother told him that if he kept doing that, the bridge would break. To which his Mamo chimed in that he would then have to put a big band-aid over the middle, and he would achieve instant nerd-dome. To which everyone got a laugh, except the wearer of said glasses.

This intellectual discussion was interrupted when Tonya brought the birthday cake to the table, and we all piped up (not in harmony) to sing the birthday song. The lad then proceeded to blow out the candles in one fell swoop, when his Mamo asked if he had made a wish, to which he looked like a deer caught in headlights, realising he did not. 

"Do you want me to relight the candles, and you can make a wish and blow them out again?" Tonya asked.

Well, yes, yes, he did, and so she did, and he made a wish, but he didn't blow out the candles like the first time; it took maybe three puffs to get them out. 

"Ah ha! Your wish won't come true because you didn't blow them all out at once." The wee one informed him.

"Do you want to do it again?" Tonya asked.

"Three strikes and you're out, or is it three's the charm?" Me Mam unhelpfully asked.

No, he didn't want to do it a third time. Well, the cake cutting was a disaster. I've never seen an oblong cake cut like an octagon, but well, it says a lot about Mr. Guid. He had requested Tonya make her delicious blueberry-topped vanilla cake (he didn't want the usual bakery cake), and she did, and may I say it was quite delicious? Even if it looked the right mess on the cake plate? It looked very nice until he cut it up into strange portions. All that care to get that blueberry topping just right, right out the window within seconds. 

Cake before anything happened to it

The next morning, I woke up to teenagers scattered about the place. All looking like they had an all-night bender. I had brought, in addition to the steak dinner Tonya made, three pizzas for the boyos to snack on. All gone, notta slice but a lot of crusts here and there. Let's see, it was 10:23 (23 the price of spare ribs), and they were all still here. Tonya was off to work, the wee one was held up with his Titanic model, and I was in me home office writing to you when I should have been working from home. 

Productivity may be questionable, but at least no one starved—unless you count the guy who paid for the pizzas.

Gabe

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