Betty

Pickling Along

Today was a red letter day in the annals of pickle ball. Today my wife, my very own wife who despises exercise, actually met me at the courts and played the game of the hour.

To my surprise she played well, using a strong backhand, a stroke she doubtlessly developed during the years of whacking her two bull-headed sons upside their respective heads. Unfortunately, the game requires accuracy in placing the ball where the opponent ain't and for that the backhand is not the best stroke. But she learned and gave me two good games; one went to ten—ten.
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ON A WELLWORN BUT IMPROPER NOUN

As I was telling my wife this morning I have this ache of compassion for people without the resources to express what they think of a person whose behavior falls short of what we expect of, what we assume, and all secretly believe a human being to be capable of. "Asshole", the word that issues from our mouths most readily and has come to greater and greater use in the grand cacophony of human speech, within all strata of society and among children of all ages, seems painfully inadequate. Worse, it reflects too much upon the person sounding the very fetid, flaming word.
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JULY 7, 2009

Another birthday. For someone who thought he'd never make it past thirty I'm doing pretty good. A birthday. And it wasn't just any old birthday, it was a lulu. My wife, who is the woman of my dreams, kicked it off with a spontaneous expression of her love, her passionate love, for me. Then—would you believe it?—breakfast in bed (eggs done perfectly). Then, while the world holds its breath, in that delicious early afternoon quiet, I exude a story. It comes so easily it hardly seems to be written.
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