It finally hit me. This, too, was a test from the Stoic gods. Okay, I reasoned with myself. Time to take a breath and chill out.

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“Was that you in the pool yesterday morning?” she asked me. “I could see someone in the pool on my camera, and it looked like you.” Yes, I told her. I was in the pool. “You can’t be in the pool until eight o’clock,” she said, sternly. “That’s the rule.”

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While she’d presented the general’s offer as a suggestion, it was anything but. Put another way, the major’s message was, Get Your Asses To The Front Of The Plane. Now.

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I noticed there were a handful of other dads in the crowd, some nursing over-priced beers like I was. We were all wearing a look that said, let’s just get this damn thing over with.

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Mulch makes me hate living in a house. Maybe I should live on a boat. Or in an apartment. I think I’d like an apartment.

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“Of course,” he continued, “if you got somebody else ready to do the work, then go right ahead. Won’t hurt my feelings.” This wasn’t some negotiating ploy on Fred’s part. He was totally serious. He’d be just fine if someone else did the work.

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I am well familiar with the razor blade business model. Gillette charges you ten bucks for the Mach 3 Turbo, then three times that for a pack of blades. And they do so in perpetuity. It’s pretty genius, actually. But toilet seats?

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“What the hell is this?” asks my brother-in-law as he fishes another bottle from the back of the refrigerator. “No idea where that came from.” Famous words from an epic day after Christmas.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

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