“It’s kinda sad your birthday is in December,” I told Wifey this morning. “Yours is the 13th and son Joe is the 30th right before New Years. You guys sorta get lost in the Holiday hoop-la, don’t you.”

“Maybe ... and so?”

“Well, your birthday was a great success, Hon. Now how ‘bout I e-mail all the kiddoes, friends, and family that we’re doing a cards-only Christmas? Save our old bones all that shopping, sending, and spending Hoo-ha. Do charity instead. What-da-ya-say?”

“You’ve already e-mailed them, haven’t you.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d agree. It’ll give us a break, OK?”

“You’re becoming an old Grinch, you know.”

“‘Grinch’ is a little harsh, but ‘old’ is fer sure. Arthritic in mind and body; that’s me. I can’t even find my slippers in the morning. I veer and trip and slump around the house, as you like to point out. In the kitchen, I shatter the crockery and hurt myself. Yesterday I sliced my finger trying to cut that brick of fruit cake Aunt Fannie sent.”

“In other words, you’re a big sissy.”

“I’m no longer even big. I’m a little sissy. In the crossword this morning, I couldn’t remember who said, ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore.’ Who was it?”


“See! I’ve gone totally senile. How am I going to deal with Christmas?”

“You can’t go senile on me. I just retired. What about MY golden years?”

“You should have thought of THAT before you asked me to marry you!”


“... or however that went. I can’t remember.”