Author Archives: nsahm

Friday Night Flight

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This past Friday night found me sitting on the couch looking at my iPhone.  Hubby was on my right watching the baseball game through his eyelids.  And Sonny was on my left reading a book about the history of the Cyclops.  (Sissy?  She was up in her room singing the entire soundtrack to Frozen.)

Why yes, this IS my Friday night.  Wellllllllllcome!

When ‘Ding!’  An email about the week-end’s Big Lots “Friends and Family” sale came through.

Sonny casually looked over at my phone and homed in on the section of the electronic flyer that said, “22-28% off Zero Gravity Chairs.”

“Oh my GOSH, Mom!  Click that to see how much they are!”

I could already tell that Sonny was calculating how much money he had in his wallet and if the zero gravity chairs are cheap enough at the sale price, then perhaps he could buy two.  One for himself and one for his sister.  Afterall, it’s no fun to ride around the neighborhood on your zero gravity chair by yourself.

Yep.  My life on a Friday night.  Where I can predict the thoughts of a 10-year-old-boy.  Wellllllllllcome!

So I clicked through and it took us to a display of patio chairs.  Loungers to be exact.  Some with canopies.  Some without.

“Wow.  That’s really crappy.  Those are totally terrible zero gravity chairs,” he said manfully after his dreams of flying-through-the-neighborhood were dashed.

Hubby (who I THOUGHT was sleeping, but who actually must have been eagerly anticipating the cost outcome of the zero gravity chair research) piped in with, “That IS a terrible name.  Truth in advertising and all that.  You’re just never going to be able to live up to a name like that.  So why name it that?”

Good point.  And someone seems a little angrier than the situation calls for.  Welllllllcome!

So in summation, Zero Gravity Chair is a terrible, terrible name.  It means there will be no flight for us at a discounted rate. 

But you know what a GREAT name is?  A name that PERFECTLY describes my Friday nights??

Coulditbe Goin’ Out Drinkin’ Mom?!? 

NAW! 

I’m a Stay At Home Mom.  A mom.  Who stays at home.  Wellllllllcome!

What Skinny People Eat

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I saw this intriguingly titled article recently and assumed it would provide me with all the skinny secrets of the world.  Then, eventually I would become skinny too!  Right?!

But guess what?  BULLS**T!  [Insert coughing noise that sounds suspiciously like BULLS**T! here.]

Because artichokes?  Really?!?

Preparing artichokes is like preparing tree bark for consumption.  It’s so tedious and time-consuming and the return is minimal.  And that’s why people don’t eat tree bark.  Nor should they eat artichokes.  Scraping a quarter-inch of “good stuff” off with your bottom teeth?  See coughing noises above.  Plus, by the time you’ve gnawed your way through the nonsense, night has fallen and you just wanna go sleepies. 

The list has started out poorly and number one on said list leaves you thinking that skinny a$$holes only eat mind-numbing, nap-producing crap, right?

But no!

Because number two on the list is “Plain ‘Ol Water.” 

Which assures you that not only are skinny people skinny, they are also moronic.  Because – news flash, slow boats – you don’t EAT water!  And if the secret to skinny success is nummy, num, num waawaa for snackypoo, then I suggest you keep your “Feelin’ Fancy” fruit-infused water (AND your $25 Fruit Infusion Pitcher) and shove it in your piehole.  Give me some PIE for my piehole at snackypoo time and we’ll call it even.

Next up?  Chocolate.  Anyone who has eaten melted, re-congealed Rolos off the wrapper knows this is not an adequate foodgroup.  Skinny people are liars now too.

Fourth on the list is almond butter.  Hmmmm.  Maybe.  But then the article shows a teensy bit smeared on that annoying brown bread.  That kinda bread leaves me feeling like I just worked my way through a sack o’ oats.  Hate it.  Movin’ on…

Fifth is cottage cheese.  Oy.  It only tastes good if you add canned-pineapple-in-heavy-syrup to it.  Which I think defeats the whole purpose and that could be why the pineapple trick isn’t mentioned once in the article.  So…no go.

Avocados.  NOW we’re cooking with oil!  Which isn’t recommended by skinny people.  They recommend the non-fat cooking spray.  But oddly enough, nowhere does it mention that you should mash up the avocados and consume them with half a bag of tortilla chips.  Either it’s an error of omission.  Or the skinny people are now sending me subliminal signals of the “fly, be free!” variety.  I sense the skinny people want others to be happy, so I’m going with the signals theory. 

Raspberries.  Uhhhhhh…ok.  If we HAVE to.  But those seed things jack up my back teeth.  Which might be part of the plan.  To make the eating process so painful that you stop eating?  Fool’s errand, my skinny friend.  I tend to eat THROUGH the pain.

Number eight is eggs.  Snooze.  And for anyone who ever did Atkins, snooze AND barf!  Can I get an Amen on that?!  Because about a week into Adkins (and, funny enough, for the rest of your life), the smell of eggs makes you wanna gag.  Plus?  While on Adkins, you’d KILL for an apple.

But you know what you’d NEVER kill for?  Spinach, number nine.  Because why you would aspire to be a one-good-eye sailor who smokes and has oversized forearms is beyond me.  Popeye much?  Guh-guh-guh-guh-guh.

TEN?  Pickles.  If served atop a bacon cheeseburger, yes.  By themselves?  A plate full of pickles?!?  Completely wack.  This proves the “These People are Insane” theory and I suspect they may have a sodium overdose issue.

Ok.  Well – that was an interesting list. 

It only took me four snickerdoodles to get through, and I’ve come to the conclusion that skinny people can keep their skinny.  Clearly their parties are boring. 

At my parties, our lime-infused “water” tastes suspiciously like margaritas.  And we serve our avocados guacamole-style.  With…gasp!…chips. 

Signals received.

I may not be skinny.  But I am FUN!

Go, You Chicken Fat, GO!

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Did I ever mention I have two older sisters?

When we were growing up, Most Honorable First Older Sister had her own-room-with-a-double-bed while I had to share my bedroom-with-twin-beds with Second Older Sister.  Naw!  Not still bitter about that or anything.  Why?  What gives you THAT impression??

And to make matters worse, Most Honorable First would sometimes take advantage of her “own bedroom” status by putting a table across the threshold and holding a candy sale.  No one was allowed in the bedroom, you could only transact from the door.  And the candy consisted of all her old and broken Christmas candy (and maybe some Halloween leftovers too).  The sale was usually held in July and I believe I may have been her best customer.  Cut me some slack – I was five!  But at least I paid for my candy.  Second Older used to just steal it from under Most Honorable First’s mattress.  Oopsie!  Did I let the cat out of the bag on that one?!?

But on the bright side, the bedroom I shared with Second Older contained the record player.  This resulted in our room being Dance Party Central.

Technically, I suppose, one could have attached the blue, fabric-covered top onto the base of the record player using the buckle-y things on the side and ported it to another room by aid of the handle on the top.  But one did not do that and instead it just stayed in my shared (I SAID IT’S NOT AN ISSUE ANYMORE, WHY WON’T YOU LET IT GO ALREADY?!) bedroom with that fat, black cylinder attached to the middle part so it was perpetually ready for any ol’ 45 record that might come along.

Which  they did.  Frequently.  We had plenty of little, long-playing records in Dance Party Central.  One of which my grandmother had given us entitled, “Chicken Fat.”

My sisters and I would play it and goose step around the room, fast-like.  And then lie down and do some air bicycles.  I couldn’t say for sure that those motions went with the lyrics since I never did listen too closely (well, other than for the “Go, you Chicken Fat, GO!” part which we would all belt out mid-exercise).  Mostly, I spent my time during that song picturing the weird globs of yellow stuff that you would find floating at the top of the Chicken and Stars soup can when you first open it…wondering WHY my grandmother had given us the record…determined to find out when the next candy sale was gonna be.

While this stroll down memory lane has been super fun and all (and not bitter in any way), where I’m going with all of this is that I just saw that Apple iPhone 5s commercial today.  Have you seen it??  THEY PLAY THE “CHICKEN FAT” SONG!!!

But it has NOTHING to do with grandmothers, bedroom candy sales, dance party central or Chicken and Stars soup.

Weirdos.

Order ON the court!

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I just saw my first 10-and-under tennis match today.  Or as I call it: Monkeys with Rackets.

Or as I call it ten minutes in: Everybody line up so I can start clockin’ heads, ‘cause I can’t stand this.  Or you.

Because the kick in the pants in all this is that you can watch from the sidelines.  But you can’t coach.  In other words, you can see everything in the world going wrong, but you can’t say boo about it.

What you WANNA say?  Hey!  Head’s up, Schmuck!  Here’s another orange dotted ball fer ya because the two you already have seem to be in the wrong pocket and you can’t access them without taking up a full thirty minutes of the excruciating one hour we have together.  And your partner isn’t any help because they’re peeking through the fence at the field behind the courts while they could be handing you one or two of the twenty balls THEY have shoved in THEIR shorts.  So I’m happy to sit here in the ninety degree heat at 8:30 in the ante meridian just to feed you the balls so we can all walk away with our sanity intact.

What you ACTUALLY say??  Yoo-hoo.  Hi, Server!  Would you like another ball?

While the monkeys may have perfected the use of their opposable thumbs – despite the tennis coach’s best efforts, they haven’t perfected much else.  As a result, the whole match is complete chaos.  Tennis court-sized chaos.  Chaos that is worse than any cubscout meeting or wrestling match I’ve ever been to.  There’s so much milling around and facing the wrong direction and calling balls out that are actually in (and vice versa) that you become worried the screaming in your head might soon be heard by those on the court.

When you can’t take it anymore, to balance out the mental screaming with the no-coaching rule, you settle on a series of “gentle reminders.”  Hey, Folks.  One idea here would be to talk among yourselves and review the 10-and-under court lines with eachother.

Another gentle reminder might go something like this, “Yep.  Sure is hot!  Why don’t you get a drink as you’re switching sides.  Speaking of which, should you actually be switching sides?  Because what’s the score?  Do we switch sides on odd or even scores?  And since we’re talking sides now, which side of the court do you start serving from?  Did it seem like some of you were serving from the incorrect side?  Why don’t you all just plan to keep eachother on track with that.  Now, who wants a drink?  This nice lady wants a drink!!  You better BELIEVE she wants a drink.  Believe.  It.”

Eventually the match dies its painful, monkey-pox death.  And as you’re walking off the courts, you keep up your stream of gentle reminders, “Do you have your water bottle?  How ‘bout your RACKET?!  ‘Cause what were you just here doing?!?  What were you doing it with??  That thing you were just doing it with would be pretty important to take.  Right?  And how ‘bout your heads??  Everyone got their heads on?  Yeah?  Locked down tight?!?  YEAH???”

It goes without saying that the whole thing is eerily similar to conducting a work meeting with people over whom you have no direct supervisory authority.  Yep.  Very, very similar.  INCLUDING that drinking part.  Believe.  It.

Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

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So I’ve been pretty sure (for the last two years or so, but why rush?) that I have a rhubarb plant growing in my back yard.  I confirmed it with a woman at bookclub on Tuesday by asking insightful questions like, “Are you sure there’s no such thing as a poisonous-to-humans rhubarb plant?”

Despite the odd looks she was shooting me, she assured me that the man-high-plant-that-looks-like-celery-with-big-leaves is indeed rhubarb that you can eat…and that there’s a great strawberry rhubarb pie recipe in the Betty Crocker cookbook.  And that I should give it a whirl!

Whirling…whirling…

So Wednesday?  Wednesday I bought twenty bucks worth of strawberries because I was gonna make me some pie!

Yee-haw!!

Fifty minutes after starting the rhubarb harvest and prep shtick, I only had about one cup of the crunchy crap and it all had the consistency of corn husks DESPITE my attempts to peel it with the carrot peeler. 

And?  My hands smelled like pipe tobacc-y.

Crap!  Maybe this ISN’T actually rhubarb.  Book Club Lady doesn’t know everything.  I’m sorry I took on the whirl challenge.

I was supposed to have two cups of rhubarb and two cups of strawberries, but I figured that if this wasn’t really rhubarb that I was peeling and husking, then one cup of it and THREE cups of strawberries might make it less deadly to humans; All while increasing my nummy pie mojo.  Also, I already said about the twenty BUCKS worth of strawberries, right?  So what better way to use those up than to use them up.

But hey!  Here’s a fun fact!!  Whatever is in this pie makes it bubble up and OVER the sides of the pie plate so that now the entire bottom of my oven is burnt to a blackened, may-have-been-rhubarb-may-NOT-have-been-rhubarb crisp.  And by the time I discovered the double, bubble toil and trouble b.s. there were big black plumes of smoke roiling along the kitchen ceiling.  Yep, sure wish they’d put THAT fun fact in the Betty Frickin’ Crocker cookbook!  Screw you, Betty!  Strike one.

So the burnt-mess-in-the-oven combined with the fibrous stalk-shards-gumming-up-my-garbage-disposal and the I-only-used-two-dollars-worth-of-strawberries-and-now-have-to-find-a-use-for-eighteen-dollars-more nonsense have turned this pie making venture into a huge PAIN IN THE A$$! 

Strike two.

Finally, when it was cooked and cooled, I dished up a slice for the neighbor boy.  And the kids.  But they were only interested in a slice after neighbor boy had completely consumed his.  I don’t think he even noticed that the kids were watching him like hawks for any signs of…distress…before they had their piece. 

After which I myself was planning to take a teeeeeny-tiiiiiiny bite so that in case it WASN’T actually rhubard, I wouldn’t die.  But it was only when I had fork in hand that I realized this was the same sort of gypsy-cursed pie that the protagonist in “Thinner” (by Stephen King under the pseudonym Richard Bachman) used on-purpose to kill his wife while also accidentally killing his daughter.  The book pie was made with blood.  Mine was made with fear.  Still… 

Strike three.

I’m out. 

Pas de pie for me.  (That’s French for “No pie for me.”  And I know!!  Why haven’t I been hired yet???  Multi-lingual on the pie topic.  Come on!) 

P.S. We’re still watching the neighbor boy closely.  He said the pie was good and ended up having two pieces.  But you never know.  Deadly-may-not-be-rhubarb and/or gypsy curses might take time.

P.P.S. If you have any comments on my mothering and/or neighboring skills…then you can just shut yer everlovin’ piehole!!  Heh, heh, heh.  You were waiting for that, weren’t you?

Inferno

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So I’m finally reading Inferno by Dan Brown.  

Is it just me or does anyone else think that “The Consortium” in the book is eerily similar to “The Foundation” that Kelly Taylor worked for on that show from the late 80’s, Beverly Hills 90210?!

For some strange reason my husband always referred to Beverly Hills 90210 as Beverly Cheese Nine Oh Cheese One Cheese. I can’t think why ’cause it was a real “quality” show wherein all of the eating disorders were solved at a restaurant-com-nightclub called the Peach Pit (After Dark). Total. Quality. Show.

Anywho, Inferno has all the usual Dan Brown bidnid – history, art, codes, symbolism blah, blah, blah.  But with the added benefit of being based on Sandro Botticelli’s extremely gruesome “Map of Hell” drawing – which itself is based on the descent-into-hell portion of Dante Alighieri’s “Divine Comedy”.  So that’s…fun.

There’s even this one part in the book where the main character, Robert Langdon, describes how one theoretically gets to Hell.  And if you’ve ever taken Robert Langdon’s Harvard Hell 101 course, you know that you have to cross the River Styx to get there.  The ferryman Charon takes you in his boat to the mouth of the underworld.

Wait.  A.  Second.  Did someone say FERRYMAN?!? 

Dah-nahhhh-nah-na-nah!  Dah-nahhhh-nah-NAH!!

Don’t pay the ferryman
 Don’t even fix a price
 Don’t pay the ferryman
 Until he gets you to the other side

And now?  Now the Chris de Burgh song “Don’t Pay the Ferryman” is in my head.  And yes, that IS the same song from de Burgh’s “The Getaway” album which hit number 34 on the Billboard Hot 100 song list in 1983. 

This thing I do with 80’s songs?  How I make it seem like there’s an 80’s song for every moment in life??  It’s a gift really.  But still, there should be an award for being so good at it.  Being able to take a hellish book about all of the hellish symbolism in a hellish painting and give it a theme song?  Amaze-balls.  Awards Materials.

Dan Brown who?

Dah-nahhhh-nah-na-nah!  Dah-nahhhh-nah-NAH!!

Knighty Knight

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Have you ever been so stunningly wrong about something that it still occurs to you, years later, how you never, ever saw it comin’?!?

Yeah.  No, me neither.

But I came close once.

Several years ago, in the car, on the way to church, Sonny was asking about knights.  Do they exist?  Are there still knights around today?  What about the swords?  Are knights still using swords??

He was so enamored with the knight trappings that it seemed like he was considering knighthood as a viable career option.  Well…as long as there were still knights and swords and everything.  Thus all the questions.

But nope.  No knights.  No swords.  No more. 

And except for a bizarre sidebar about Sir Elton John (which left Hubby shaking his head and me knowing it was confusing even before words like “honorary” and “Order of the British Empire” started vomiting out of my mouth), my blanket statement was: Nope.  No knights.  No swords.  No more. 

So we get to church and go to the Cry Room*.  This particular cry room was up on the second floor of the church and was fronted entirely by glass, so that you had an eagle’s eye view of the proceedings down below.

I’m seated towards the back and am gazing out into empty space as Sonny approaches the window.  There he completely freezes.  Stands stock still and stares.  He turns back to me and whispers furiously, “Who are THOSE GUYS?!?”

I approach the window and look down.  And there – row upon row – as far as the eye can see, are men in big, plume-topped hats.  They’re parading in, wearing black capes with various jewel-toned linings.  They have Miss America sashes of medals across their chests.  And?  THEY ALL HAVE SWORDS STRAPPED TO THEIR WAISTS!!!

WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?!??

Er.  The Knights of Columbus.

And for the record: NO!  No there are NO MORE headhunters!  Anywhere.  Anymore.  None.  No. Headhunters. 

They’re called Recruiters nowadays.

 

*For those who don’t know, the Cry Room is a special, sound-proof room in the church that sports a huge glass window.  People in the room cannot be heard, but they can see and hear what’s going on in the church.  And this is the special room where kids who shout “CHIPS!!!” everytime the Holy Communion wafers are presented have to sit so that everyone else can enjoy their chips in peace-and-quiet without being harassed about not sharing.

Coca-Cola Mad Men

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I was at a gas station the other day – deciding which arm and leg to hand over this time.  (Come on!  You have to agree that gas is soooo expensive.  Remember way back in the early 90’s when we had our Chrysler LeBaron convertibles and it only cost us a whopping $10 to fill the tank completely up?!  That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Remember that?  And remember how we didn’t care what the temperature was?  We were in a convertible!  So if it meant we put the top down but kept all the windows rolled up and the heater blasting, then that’s what we had to do.  And remember that one time we left the top down overnight and it rained into the car and come the next morning we couldn’t deal with the stupid mess so we took our sister’s car to work and left her with a sopping wet car to take to school??  Wasn’t that so creative what she did with the beach towel?!  Ohhhhhh, weren’t those convertible days FUN?!?  Hey.  Wait.  I see what you were trying to do there; You were trying to distract me from the price of gas with all of our fun convertible memories.  Nuthin’ doin’.  Movin’ on…)

I’m staring at the digital readout at the gas pump which indicates I am purchasing upwards of fifty THOUSAND dollars’ worth of gas when two guys in a white, unmarked pickup truck pull in.

They’re wearing polo shirts and khakis and they approach the pump I’m at, but from the other side.  On foot.  iPhone cameras clicking away.

No…that’s not disturbing or suspicious at all, ya Weirdos.

So I say, “Hey!  Are you guys somehow stealing my credit card information with your phones?”

They don’t say anything, they just laugh.

So then I say, “Ha, ha, ha.  I noticed you just laughed.  And didn’t actually SAY that you weren’t stealing my credit card information.”  You gotta put it out there.  Let the criminals know you’re on to them.

Sensing I’m kindof hoping we’re all just joking about the credit card stealing, one guy replies, “Yes, we’re taking pictures of your credit card information.  It makes it easier to remember that way.”

Good point.  Hardy, har, har. 

Immediately afterwards the other guy says, “Actually we work for Coca-Cola.  We’re just taking pictures of our latest advertisement.”

Hmmmm…sure.  Because the advertisement above MY side of the pump is talking about how you can buy three candy bars inside for $2.00. 

So then the guys come around my side of the pump and exclaim, “Oh!  You don’t have one over here.” 

So then I go to their side of the pump and exclaim, “Oh!  Look.  There’s a coke advertisement over here.  We should get a picture of it.”

Aren’t we all so funny?  And I’m glad we were just joking about the credit card stealing.

We walk away chuckling.  The end.

But beware of men in unmarked cars taking pictures of your credit card with their iPhones at the gas station.  They may not always be Coca-Cola Mad Men.  My mother would want me to warn you of this. 

Now the end.

County Coroner

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On my way home from Costco today, I saw a sign that said, “Elect So And So for County Coroner.” 

[And yes, I DO still go to Costco despite what I said in previous posts about never going to Costco again.  So yes, yes, my pants are on fire and the telephone wire is in imminent danger of burning down from my pants.]

But anyway…does anyone else see the flaw in the elect-the-county-coroner plan?

I mean, shouldn’t we be hiring the most qualified person for that job; Rather than someone who can run a good political campaign??

It just seems a little bass ackwards to me that County Coroner would be an elected position.  Would we really want someone who has the looks and money to throw a successful political campaign fiddlin’ around with the dearly departed?

Wouldn’t someone who knows his (or her, the mother can be the doctor, after all) way around a dead body be a better choice??  In which case, just APPLY for the job and be judged by a panel of experts on your credentials and success rate like the rest of the world does when they’re trying to get a job.  And no, I don’t have a job yet, but thanks for BRINGING IT UP!  stink eye, stink eye  

Of course, it could be that the elect-the-county-coroner process makes a ton of sense, and I’m just talking out of my Coroner’s hole here.  So I should probably ‘fess up right now and say that I don’t really know anything about politics.  It seems too close to math (with all that talk about “left” and “right”) for my comfort, so I steer waaaaaay clear.  In which case, Political Science Major Hubby will weigh in shortly with a “take your blog down NOW before the world knows of your ignorance.” 

Until then, I’m picturing the County Coroner election winner Day One on the job, grinning at his landslide while elbow-deep in some poor, unfortunate’s thoracic cavity, “Bodies schmodies.  Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout no bodies.  Hey, what’s this squishy thing? Wee-eeeh, eee-eeeh!”  [That was our big winner making silly noises while squishing something inappropriate because he’s completely unqualified to be elbow deep in someone’s thoracic cavity].

All I can hope is, once he hits the stinky bits that come next, his too-straight nose will pillow him gently as the floor rushes up to meet his face.

Anyone else think the whole elect-the-county-coroner process would be akin to hiring corporate job candidates based on how funny and pretty they are?

Because we all know if THAT were the case, I’duv been hired about twenty THOUSAND times by now.  Winner, winner, chicken dinner!!!

But I haven’t been.  And wait.  I think I just insulted myself – usurping my mad job skilllzzzz with my personality and beauty.  But pay that no attention.  Let’s talk about what we’re making for dinner.  I’m making chicken.  And when I say I, I mean Costco.  It’s one of their rotisserie chickens which I bought for the reasonable price of $4.99.  I hope it’s not squishy.  Wee-eeeh!  Eee-eeeh!!

Peace and Quiet

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Every year – for his birthday, Christmas, Father’s Day – we’d ask my dad what he wanted for a gift and he would invariably reply, “Peaceandquiet.”  Like it was all one word and something you could wrap up and hand over at cake time.

Well I’m here to tell you that peaceandquiet doesn’t come easy in a house with five kids and, quite frankly, is impossible to give.  In a house with five kids.  (All gag gifts of ear plugs aside and I already mentioned about the five kids, right?)

But today?  Today for Father’s Day, I wanted to finally, FINALLY give my father that gift.  It makes no never mind that all five of us kids have been out of the house for decades, and Dad has a plethora of peaceandquiet now.  (Well, other than what my mother can make inroads into, that is.  Hi, Mom, rock on!)

So, to the man who: left the gift-of-a-cool-flashlight under my pillow when I was a kid so I could discover it on my birthday while you were away on a fishing trip; who strategically placed pieces of cardboard all over our rocky driveway so that you and I could practice bounce passes and layups in preparation for my highschool basketball games; who wrote letters to me on your work letterhead when I was in college; who calls me now every Wednesday because you said you would.  I thank you for being a great father and for all the big and small ways you showed me your love.  And now…without further ado…I present you with: peaceandquiet. 

Everyone, everyone!  Shhhhhh!!  It’s starting!!  Be vewy, vewy QUIET!!!! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love you, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day!

P.S.  Hi, Hubby.  Thank you for being a great father to our own kids.  I love you and Happy Father’s Day to you too!!