Show A Little Faith, There’s Chocolate

“Happy Easter!”  Holly greeted Aaron with a beaming smile and presented him with a candy Easter bunny.  “I wanted to make sure you got something, and I know anything chocolate peanut butter is your favorite.”

It was Easter Sunday, and the best friends were seated on their favorite bench next to the river.

“Thank you,” Aaron replied as he looked at his treasure.  “This will be a yummy treat when I’m watching the Yankees game later.”

Her smile grew a little wider now that she had confirmed her gift was a success.  “I was going to ask if you had any big plans, but it sounds like you’re going to be watching baseball.”  She sipped her coffee and waiting for a response.

He nodded and took a long chug of his Snapple.  “You know Easter isn’t a big deal for me.  The nuns ruined it for me a long time ago.”

“Explain again how they did that,” she asked as a mischievous grin passed over her beautiful face.  Holly was well aware of the answer but listening to Aaron rant about it every year had become an Easter tradition.  The cost of the show was well worth one Reese’s Easter bunny.

“Every year I’d ask the nuns what chocolate, baskets, eggs, and bunnies had to do with the resurrection of Jesus, and every year, I’d get sent to the principal’s office,” he explained.  “They treated me like I was a blasphemous heathen, when I was just a curious kid who wanted answers.”

“You’re not supposed to question your faith,” she teased because she knew it would inspire more of a tirade against his upbringing.  “You’re just supposed to follow along and believe.”

“Yet anytime I would ask why I couldn’t do something that one of my friends was allowed to do, I’d get the answer, if he jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too?” he grumbled.  “Apparently, it was okay for me to follow blindly when it came to religion, but not when I wanted a new pair of sneakers or permission to go to a movie on a school night.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Holly giggled and drank some more coffee.

“That was exactly it,” he agreed.  “I simply wanted to understand faith.  In social studies, we were taught how wrong it was for nations of people to blindly follow charismatic leaders who led them into wars and committed great atrocities.  In religion, though, we’re taught to blindly follow these tales of a man who could rise from the dead, walk on water, and turn water into wine.  My logical mind craved clarification, and the nuns told me FAITH! and then sent me to the principal.”

Holly reached across and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.  “I can see how that would confuse that big brain of yours.”

Aaron nodded and took another hit of Snapple.  “It quickly became clear to me that faith meant accepting something as truth because the nuns told us to believe it.  I then concluded that candy and eggs on Easter were bribes meant to distract us and get us to accept a story that made no sense.  If we were too hopped up on chocolate, we couldn’t question how a man rose from the dead.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Holly agreed.

“Of course, once I learned about zombies, I had so many more questions about Easter, but by then it was too late,” he lamented.  “I’d accepted my share of Easter candy and had forfeited the right to question the faith the nuns had forced on me.”

“But at least you got the candy,” she reminded him.

Aaron smiled and pulled a giant chocolate egg from the pocket of his hoodie.  He then presented it to his best friend.  “Thank you for putting up with the same rant every year.  Happy Easter.”

Holly blushed and accepted his offering.  Then, rather than discuss why they always did such sweet and loving things for each other, they turned their attention to the river.

Nine Innings of Normal

The world is slowly returning to normal, Modern Philosophers.  The snow from this weekend’s big storm is almost completely melted, the wind is supposed to finally die down this morning, and the Yankees are playing winning baseball.

Opening Day finally arrived on Thursday and did not disappoint.  I stopped on my way home for proper baseball snacks, which ended up being fried chicken, French fries, and root beer.  The Yankees quickly fell behind 4-0 but ended up winning the game.

I cheered, I yelled, I commented with my fellow fans on Yankees Twitter.  All while stuffing my face with yummy food.  It was a perfect afternoon and evening.

What really mattered most, though, was how relaxed and happy I was watching the game.  It was three hours where I could follow my heroes, listen to baseball talk, and not worry about all the nonsense going on outside of my little baseball cocoon.

And there is so much nonsense out there!

My weekends can now return to a much more comforting routine.  I’ll write my novel, catch up on the shows on my DVR, and watch the Yankees.  It doesn’t take much to make me happy.  After six months without baseball, I’d forgotten how getting caught up in the season helps me forgot about the little things that increase my stress levels.

My mind is constantly running, and I’d much rather have those thoughts focused on my favorite baseball team.  It’s only two games into the season, and I’m already excited at how statistics, matchups, and potential lineup combinations are keeping my thoughts occupied.

They say you get wiser as you grow older.  With me, it was more of a case of picking the Yankees as a companion rather than another human.  Afterall, the Yankees disappoint me far less.  And they never argue with me or say bad things about me.

Tonight’s game doesn’t start until 7:15, so I plan to fill my day with writing.  How can you not love a weekend that’s all about writing and baseball?

So, if you haven’t already done it, I highly recommend focusing your attention on baseball while you ignore the world and everything about it that causes stress.  You’re sure to thank me!

Why Do I Stay Here?

Yesterday, I found myself questioning why I stay in Maine, Modern Philosophers.

I haven’t had such thoughts since the time of my divorce, and I’ll be quick to tell you how much I enjoy the slower pace of life in Maine.  And the people are so nice.  The area has inspired my writing.

But there’s something evil about this place that heightens my anxiety and makes me want to run like hell.  Not that I know where I’d go, but the desire to flee is there…

I took that picture yesterday.  I was sitting in my driveway after spending four hours clearing the snow.  That’s right, I said FOUR HOURS!

WRITER’S NOTE: I had to delete the photo I took yesterday because it ended up distorting the page for some reason.  This is an old stock photo from a previous storm.  Imagine you can see the tools I talk about in the next paragrh, though…

If you look closely, you’ll see the four different tools I had to implement in the clearing process.  There was the plastic shovel that I usually use.  The only problem was that it was useless yesterday.  Sticking up in the snow is the tool one would normally use to dig holes in a garden.  Then there is the ice chopper.  Finally, there is the old school metal shovel that I found in the garage when I first moved in twenty years ago.  I rarely use it, but it came in handy big time yesterday.

You see, Modern Philosophers, it snowed for twelve hours.  Then, for the next twelve hours, a wintry mix fell on top of that snow.  That wintry mix turned the snow into something so heavy and solid that many of my friends described it as “concrete”.

Snowblowers could do nothing to move it.  Snow shovels were mostly useless.  I had to get the ice chopper and chop away at the snow like it was ice.  Then I could use the shovel to transport the chunks of ice to the side of the driveway.

My arms are still sore from all the chopping.  When I was finished, my right arm cramped up so badly that I couldn’t move it.  Later in the day, both hands cramped up to a point that I couldn’t move my thumbs and index fingers.

As usual, the city snowplow left me my most difficult work.  The mountain of snow at the foot of the driveway was knee high.  There were chunks of icy snow so large that I had to lift them off the pile with both arms and move them to the side.

I used the garden tool to tackle the end of the driveway mountain range.  I’d break up the mountain with that, and then use the metal shovel to scrape the bottom layers away until I hit black top.  I had to stop several times for breaks.  At one point, I just collapsed on the porch and stared up at the roof.  I was too exhausted to move.  Too dehydrated to think clearly.  I was also determined to get the driveway cleared because I knew I wouldn’t want to deal with it in the morning.

So, I kept at it.  As the sun started to hit the driveway, the snow got a little softer.  At this point, I traded the ice chopper for the metal shovel.  I was able to slide the shovel under the snow, and then apply pressure to the handle.  That caused the snow to break off in huge chunks.  I’d snap off a dozen chunks at a time, and then, because they were too heavy for the shovel, I’d lift them with both arms and toss them onto front lawn.

It took me four hours to clear the driveway.  I gave up at that point.  The sidewalk is still covered in snow, but none of my neighbors have cleared their sidewalks, either.  Then city will eventually come through with a mini snowplow and clear a path.

I did not clear a path from the driveway to my front porch until I got home from work tonight.  I was honestly too tired to function after four hours.  When I took off my jacket in the foyer, I discovered my shirt was soaked through with sweat.

I took a shower, I made some soup, and I barely left the couch for the rest of the day.  I have never been that drained after clearing the snow.  It made me wonder why the hell I stayed in Maine.  It was four days until Opening Day, and I spent four hours clearing snow.

It’s just not right.

I’m starting to think Maine isn’t the place for me…

What Is Spring?

“I don’t care what the calendar says.  If I’m shoveling snow, it isn’t spring!” Aaron declared as he stomped the snow off his boots.

It was Palm Sunday, and the best friends were seated on their favorite bench next to the river.  Of course, they had to clear off the snow first since it had been covered from the previous day’s storm.

“You’re the one who always says spring doesn’t start until April,” Holly reminded him.  She loved tossing his words back in his face to see how he’d react.

“I know that!” he clarified.  “I’m just saying I’m tired of all these people prattling on about how it’s spring because the calendar says it is.  Spring is more of a state of mind.  It doesn’t simply happen on a set schedule.”

“How philosophical of you,” she quipped.  They paused the conversation to enjoy a beverage.  Holly sipped her coffee, while Aaron chugged half his bottle of Snapple.

“Calendars set unrealistic expectations,” Aaron started back in on his rant.  “You see an official looking document stating that spring has sprung, and you expect sunshine, warm weather, and some flowers poking their heads through the dirt.  Instead, you get snow, ice, and naked trees swaying in the stiff wind.”

“Unfortunately, calendars aren’t official documents, so you can’t take out your anger by suing the manufacturers for false advertising,” Holly advised.  “Calendars are really just places to scribble your upcoming appointments while enjoying a silly photo of a cat playing with a ball of yarn.”

Aaron shrugged and swallowed more Snapple.  “I’m just tired of winter.  I’m ready to move on to the next phase.  I want to open some windows, stash the snow shovel, and put on shorts.  I don’t ask for much from life, so the powers that be could at least give me that.”

“Your list of demands is not at all outrageous,” she agreed.  “Hopefully, someone with pull will read this blog post and get you the warmer weather you requested.”

“That would be nice,” he sighed.  “If something were to go right for once, I’d allow myself to be happy for a few moments.  Wouldn’t that be a kick?”

“Definitely,” Holly confirmed.

Tuckered out from all his whining, Aaron turned his attention to the river.  Of course, he couldn’t actually see the water since it was frozen solid, but he looked in that direction nevertheless.

Fastball, Curveball, Snowball

Opening Day is five days away, Modern Philosophers, yet I’m looking out the window at the falling snow.  We’re supposed to get anywhere from four to eighteen inches.  The weather people can’t seem to make up their minds on that.  The one thing they can agree on, however, is that this is the second snowfall in Maine since the first day of spring.

I use the start of the baseball season as a measuring stick for when I can come out of hibernation and put the perils of winter behind me.  Of course, that worked much better when the first pitch of the season was thrown in April.  Now that games start in March, there’s still a good chance that Maine is still going to be in Snow Miser’s icy grip.

I’ve had enough of winter by New Year’s Day.  It’s a dark, depressing, cold, and treacherous time.  Years ago on the blog, I labeled what passes as winter in Maine as the 182 Days of Terror.  It basically lasts from October 1 through March 31.  This year, it clearly has no intention of ending early.

Despite the weather report, I am thinking positive.  I have the MLB Extra Innings package ready to go.  I have put in to leave work early on Thursday so I can watch the Yankees kick off 2024.  For weeks, I’ve been pondering what sort of snacks I need for Opening Day.

The weather outside might be frightful, but I stopped at the library last night to pick up a good book.  I’ve got several shows waiting for me on the DVR, and there’s a novel I need to finish writing.  When we do get a blizzard, it’s preferable it hits on the weekend.  That way, there’s no rush to clear the snow and no need for me to drive in it.

I plan to make the most of my snowy weekend and daydream about the Yankees’ chances of winning the World Series this year.  Hope you all have a great weekend!

Kiss Me, You’re Irish

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” Holly wished him when he arrived.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, and the best friends were seated on their favorite bench next to the river.  They were both wearing green in support of the holiday.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” Aaron replied.  “I made sure to wear green so that you wouldn’t spend the morning pinching me.  I bruise easily!”

“Poor baby,” she teased with a mischievous smile.  “You’re the one who’s Irish, so I’d think you’d enjoy the traditions.”

He shook his head and took a long sip of his Snapple.  “It’s the non-Irish ones who get into it more.  Yes, I’m looking at you.  Let me guess, that’s an Irish Coffee in your cup.”

Holly giggled and sipped her coffee.  “I’m not telling.  I thought you were proud of your Irish heritage.  Why aren’t you more excited about the holiday?”

He shrugged.  “Maybe because I’m secure in my heritage, I don’t need to boast about it one day a year.  Green happens to be my favorite color, so I wear it plenty on days other than March 17.”

“Let’s not forget that when Notre Dame is playing, you make it a point of mentioning that you’re Irish.”

“That’s easier than explaining why I’m a Notre Dame fan,” he countered.  “I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood that was half Irish and half Italian.  Everyone wore their religious gang colors this time of year.  The Irish kids showed up for school in green on March 17, and the Italian kids showed up in red two days later to celebrate St. Joseph’s Day.  The nuns loved it because we were taking sides with a Catholic saint as our leader.  Looking back at it, that was kind of messed up.”

“I think all your stories about Catholic school are messed up,” she replied and took a long sip of her coffee.  “They go a long way towards explaining why you’re so weird.”

He chuckled.  “I don’t disagree.  One of the Italian kids fancied himself to be a ladies’ man, so every St. Patrick’s Day, he’d go up to the Irish girls and say, Kiss me, you’re Irish.”

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Only if his goal was to get slapped in the face or cursed at,” he told her.  “The girls at my school were pretty bad ass.”

“Which I’m sure explains why you didn’t get your first kiss until you were in high school,” she shot back with a laugh.

Aaron took a long drink of his Snapple.  “I’ve never had the luck of the Irish when it comes to the fairer sex.  I guess I’m like St. Patrick in that rather than driving all the snakes out of Ireland, I’ve driven all the women out of my life.”

“Awww.  That’s such a sad story,” she remarked.  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now and say Kiss me, you’re Irish?”

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the river.  She taunted him for a moment with kissing noises, but when he didn’t comment, she turned her attention to the river as well…

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

When Rejection Becomes the Norm

Writing has always been my escape, Modern Philosophers. I also find it to be highly therapeutic. So, I’ve decided to write about something that has me down lately…writing.

When I decided to try my hand at writing a novel, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Breaking into the world of screenwriting was a chore and I really didn’t want to deal with all that rejection again. I’m thin skinned and have a tendency to slink back into my quiet corner when no one wants to play with me.

However, I’ve spent a great deal of time writing the Bruno novel (which debuted on this blog as a serial) and I refuse to give up. Well, let me be a little more truthful. I feel like giving up, but I’m not going to allow myself to take the easy way out.

I’ve sent out over 200 query letters and have had only seven requests to read my manuscript. None of those seven requests led to offers of representation. I’d estimate that 80% of the time, I don’t even receive a response to my query. I’m just supposed to assume that the lack of a reply means the agent isn’t interested. I know agents are very busy, but I still think it’s rude to not send anything.

The other 20% of my replies are form letter rejections. Most of the agents use the same form letter, which is a bit depressing. I’m tempted to write back with some witty comment about the lack of originality from the agent, but that would most likely only earn me a form letter response.

You can probably understand why I want to stop trying. It’s gotten to the point where when I get a reply, I assume it’s a rejection. I don’t even open the email right away because there doesn’t seem to be a point to adding more negativity to my life.

One way to deal with all this rejection has been to shelf the Bruno novel and start on a new one. This way, I’ll have something new to offer agents. And I can look forward to two hundred new rejections.

With that kind of attitude, you’re never going to succeed!

First off, being able to make jokes about my failure is one of my coping skills.

Secondly, my attitude has nothing to do with whether or not an agent is going to read my manuscript. I don’t care how positive or confident I am, it all comes down to the agent. It’s a helpless position to be in, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.

Unless, of course, I want to self-publish, and I do not think that is a viable option.

I am eighteen chapters into the new novel. I like the way it’s going, and I think it’s going to be a success. Then again, I thought the same about the Bruno novel.

Regardless, I logged onto the query site today and sent out five more queries. I expect nothing to come of that endeavor, but at least I’m still trying.

Like a friend recently told me, it only takes one agent to say yes.

But I’m not holding my breath. I’m not giving up, but I’m not very optimistic. But I am never going to stop writing.

Total Eclipse of the Funny Bone

I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand comedy, Modern Philosophers, but it is a blast being involved in the process while trying to figure it out.

Last night was another exciting taping of The Nite Show.  It came at the perfect time, as life has been stressful, and I needed a reminder that it has a positive side.  When I’m working on The Nite Show, I go into full Writer Guy mode, and that makes life so much better.

During the monologue, Danny told a joke that I’d written.  It got the longest laugh of the night, and I have to admit I was surprised because it was just a silly joke.  I’d written it almost as an afterthought, but it got such a wonderful reaction.  The laughter went on for so long that Danny actually paused to ask the audience if there were still laughing at the joke, or if something had happened in the crowd that he had not noticed from the stage.

I love sitting in the audience during a taping so I can get the live reaction to something I’ve written.  It’s an incredible rush, and I highly recommend you get a job writing a TV show so you can experience it.  After the little joke that could had its moment last night, the stress of the week was magically wiped from my memory.

Once again, writing proved to be the perfect escape.

You might be asking yourself why I would submit the joke if I thought it was silly and wouldn’t get a laugh.  To explain that I’ll need to walk you through the writing process.  Danny sends the writing staff a list of topics that he thinks will make for good monologue jokes.  We’re also free to write about anything that tickles our fancy, but the thought starters are our bible for building the monologue.

As a personal challenge, I try to write two or three jokes for every topic on the list.  Just to see if I can do it.  Sometimes, a topic can be approached from several different humorous perspectives, so it’s a good idea to write multiple jokes in hopes of finding the perfect combination of words.

I’ll often write jokes that I know won’t make the cut but will amuse me.  I like to laugh.  Ultimately, it’s Danny’s show and my job is to write jokes in his voice that will appeal to the show’s audience.  Since writing monologue jokes is also highly therapeutic, however, I’ll send jokes to Danny that I need to get out of my brain even though I know they’ll never make it on TV.  After all, we’re a little show in Maine, and we tend to focus on local topics.  I like to write about big picture topics like national politics, time travel, and zombie invasions, so sometimes putting the joke on paper feels like an accomplishment.  Basically, I get to vent about someone or something, which helps my overall mental status.

For example, there might have been a joke in this week’s batch about a certain presidential candidate and a former evil German dictator.  I knew that would never make it on the air, but it felt SO GOOD to write it.  And it was damn funny.  Danny even told me it made him laugh.

As for the joke that made it to air and got the unexpectedly long laugh, it was the last of several I turned in about the upcoming eclipse.  It was very dry and sarcastic, which is definitely my brand of humor, but not necessarily Danny’s.  I was surprised he chose it, but glad he did.

Like I said in my opening, I’ll never fully understand comedy, but experimenting with it is a hell of a lot of fun.  For the record, I’m trying to convince Danny that we need to do a podcast where the writers tell their favorite jokes that didn’t make the monologue, and then we debate about why he didn’t choose them.  Sadly, some very funny material never makes it onto TV.

Writing is a blast.  If you don’t do it, you should give it a shot…

The Ghost of Marriage Past

I’m a very anxious person, Modern Philosophers.  When a concern gets into my brain, it tends to nest there.  It makes itself at home and then grows to such a size that it becomes a nuisance that cannot be ignored.  Problems rarely disappear from my mind.  They simply move over a smidge to make room for the next thing that’s going to send my stress levels skyrocketing.

This week, however, I was able to banish an anxiety from my muddled brain.

When I arrived home from work last Monday, my neighbor came out to tell me that the Sheriff had been knocking at my door.  I immediately went into a state of panic.  Why was Johnny Law looking for me?  I’m a Grade A, Olympic Level Introvert, so what in the world could I have possibly done to put myself on law enforcement’s radar?

My neighbor could not give me any details other than that the Sheriff had a stack of papers in his hands.  He told me not to worry about it, so clearly, my neighbor of twenty years does not know me very well!

I excused myself to go for a walk, but I called the Sheriff’s Department as soon as I was out of earshot.  I explained to the dispatcher that the Sheriff had been to my house, and I was calling to see what he wanted.  She put me on hold for an eternity but came back to tell me she had spoken to the desk sergeant, and there was no indication that I was in trouble or wanted by the long arm of the law.

Of course, that did nothing to soothe me.  I spent the rest of the night peeking out at the driveway through the drawn curtains, always expecting to see flashing lights and the arrival of a SWAT team.

I somehow managed to fall asleep after much tossing and turning and obsessing over what the Sheriff wanted.  Unfortunately, when I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, my mind went right back to the issue of the Sheriff at my door.  I eventually fall back asleep, but it was a restless night.

All week, the mysterious visit weighed on my mind.  Each night, I’d return home and check the mailbox and the front door for a card or a notice.  I continued to peer out into the driveway in search of the Sheriff’s vehicle that I was certain was coming for me.

I tried to figure out what I could have done.  I’m not lying when I say I rarely leave the house or interact with anyone.  I tried to convince myself that the Sheriff had the wrong address.  If he really was looking for me, he would have come back, shown up at work, or called me.

The incident slowly slipped from my mind, but it was always there.  Like all of my anxieties, it lingered in the waiting room of my brain and popped up to remind me of its presence when I least expected it.  Of course, I was distracted by the weekend weather.  It was very windy and there was the threat of snow and flooding.  Worrying about losing power or roof shingles kept my mind occupied.

Then last night, as I was preparing to watch the Oscars, there was a knock on the front door.  No one ever knocks on the door, so I knew it could not be good.

I could see the silhouette of a large, ominous figure through the shade on the front door.  I cautiously opened the door, and my eyes were drawn the badge on my visitor’s guest.  He introduced himself as a member of the Sheriff’s Department and explained that he was following up on a civil matter.

I swallowed hard, gripped the doorknob in hopes that it would support me if I passed out, and waited for the worst.  He held up a stack of papers and said he was looking for EX-WIFE’S NAME REDACTED in relation to a foreclosure on a property.

Did I hear him correctly?  He was looking for my ex-wife?  I happily explained that we’d been divorced for over fifteen years, and I had no idea how to reach her, or if she was even still in Maine.

He apologized for bothering me and said he would head back to the office to do more research.

I cannot tell you how relieved I was when I closed the door.  I finally had an answer as to why the Sheriff had come knocking and it had nothing to do with me!  I could finally get rid of an anxiety and breathe a little easier!

I’m not even going to get into how my ex-wife is still bringing me misery after all these years.  That’s a blog post for another day.

What a week it was, but at least it had a happy, or at the very least, a stress-free ending!

Breaking Wind

“I’ve made a major decision in regard to my relationship with the weather,” Aaron announced.

It was Sunday, so the best friends were seated on their favorite bench next to the river.  They had to speak up to be heard over the howling wind.

“How is your relationship with weather?” Holly replied.  “Hopefully better than your relationship with women, which has been close to nonexistent lately.”  She flashed a mischievous smile and then took a sip of her coffee.

“I’m not going to dignify your comment about my dating status with any sort of witty comment,” he informed her.  “Instead, I’m going to expand on my comment about the weather.  As you know, I’ve always hated the snow and considered it my main meteorological nemesis.  However, my thoughts on this matter have shifted, and I now consider the wind to be the great enemy.  Specifically, high powered winds that knock out the power, blow shingles off the roof, and knock down my backyard fence.”

“Those are very specific concerns,” she replied.  “I can see why you would consider wind to be your archnemesis.  All the evidence is there that it’s singling you out in its attacks.”

Aaron nodded in agreement and took a long sip of his Snapple.  At that moment, the wind picked up and tried to blow the Yankees cap off his head, but he reached up with his free hand to secure it.  “Surely you’ve noticed that we’ve had very little snow this winter, but a hell of a lot of windstorms.”

“That is true,” Holly had to agree.  “I wonder if this has something to do with global warming.”

Aaron shrugged.  “You’re asking the wrong guy.  My problem with the snow went back to my college days and a beef with Snow Miser over a woman.  I was in the wrong at the time, but he would never accept my apology.”

Holly raised an eyebrow as she enjoyed another taste of her morning brew.  “Are you thinking that Snow Miser finally gave up on his vendetta against you, and that’s why there’s hardly been any snow this year?”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” he answered.  “He always was a petty little punk, and someone else probably pissed him off and freed me from my curse.”

“Does that mean there’s a Wind Miser?” Holly asked with genuine curiosity.  “And if there is, what did you do to upset him?  Other than the obvious.”  She followed her comment with a giggle.

“As far as I know, there is no Wind Miser, but I suppose I could watch that Christmas special again to see if Mother Nature ever mentions having another problematic son.  Perhaps he got edited out for time or something.  And what did you mean by other than the obvious?”

Holly tries to suppress her smile, but simply can’t.  “You’re infamous for breaking wind, especially after you eat dairy or Mexican.  Maybe Wind Miser doesn’t appreciate that.”  She laughed so loud at her joke that people passing behind them on the path turned in her direction.

Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “You’ve always said fart jokes are immature and the domain of silly men with no sense of humor.”

She nodded in agreement.  “You’ve always taught me that when someone serves up a meatball, you’ve got to knock it out of the park.”

“Apparently, I’ve taught you well,” he replied with a chuckle.  “Can we drop the subject now?”

She shrugged.  “I suppose if you want to fart away this opportunity to make some great jokes…”

“I’m ignoring you now,” he advised.  “If the wind sweeps you up and blows you into the river, I’m not going to dive in to save you.”

“I’d end up having to save you since you can’t swim,” she reminded him.

“Excellent point,” he conceded.  Then he took another sip of his Snapple and turned his attention to the river.  Holly did the same after punching him playfully in the shoulder.