May I have another...

One of my brothers is a Marriage and Family Therapist. He went to a number of years of school, earned his PhD and is very talented. Being a therapist and having a number of clients, he has a confidential phone system where you can confess anything you would like to him in private.

I, however, being somewhat of a jokester love to leave messages on this line that may or may not be 100 percent true. Quite frequently, these messages revolve around my manhood and its length. I mean, 38 inches is not much, but you have to work with what you were endowed with, am I right?

Earlier today, however, my brother returned my call, because he is nice and, more than likely to ask me to stop leaving crude messages about my romantic talents.

And while I apologized for stating the truth, I really wanted to find out what was so confidential that it had to be stated on a private and secure phone line.

I was convinced that the results had to be shocking. Really, when you think about it, no one ever calls a confidential line and says, “I just called to say I love my spouse.” In fact, more than likely, they would always use a confidential line to confess a plan to whack their spouse.

After my less than heartfelt apology, I asked him, “What do people say on your confidential line. What could be so private?”

He told me that no one really said anything shocking on that line and it was more of a convenience issue to make people feel more comfortable.

But that answer was not good enough for me. I wanted more. I needed to dig deeper. So I followed up by saying something like the following:

“Stop lying to me, I bet they say things like ‘I just punched my husband,’ or something.”

His response: “Oh no, I never deal with people who have it that bad in their marriage.”

“Oh, yeah, ah, that would be bad, I guess,” I said, as I sheepishly hung up the phone. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I called my wife and said, “I guess we’re the worst of the worst.”

You see, I have a pretty good marriage, and even I have been punched by my wife. We’re men. We deserve it. It comes with the territory. And to be specific, I am not even counting the time they had to use smelling sauce to wake me up. OK, the smelling sauce is a joke.

But it is not all about the punches. No sir, you also have to include the eye lash curler, lip stick case and shoes that have been hurled in my general direction. While most of those missed the mark, they did send a message.

And that message is a simple one: Without fail, in every good marriage, you are going to have conflict, or as us optimists like to call it, “passion.” And when that passion is displayed, you never really know what you are going to get.

But when you think about it, passion is the act of showing you care. It is the glue that holds everything together. It is the bond that makes life worth living. It is what makes life exciting.

Every football coach I ever had, said, “You better start worrying, when I stop yelling, because that is a sure sign that I have given up on you.”

It is no different in a relationship. Without passion, without excitement, without love, what do you have? The answer, in short, is nothing.

Without passion, you are left with two people, living together, who lack the desire to care, to give and to receive. You are left with hollow individuals who are living life through the motions, but who are empty on the inside.

It should be reassuring that your spouse loves you enough to scream, shout, yell, punch or fight for you or with you. It shows they care; that they are willing to go through the deepest, darkest moments with you, without giving up on you.

That is love. That is unconditional support. That is true romance.

Without fail, passion is the key to happiness and to a fulfilling relationship. And while passion may lead us to do things we normally would not do, no one is ever going to judge anyone for loving with their entire heart, for acting like a fool for love.

Passion shows that you are invested, that you are committed and that you are in love. In the end, without a doubt, I will always trade the unintended quick right hook to the jaw for a life filled with passion.

Who knew kids took this much time...

How much is too much? Does anyone have an answer for this question? It seems impossible to fully comprehend. Can you be too rich? Too thin? Too cute? Too smart? No, no, no and of course not. But I have found out that you can be too busy.

As school started this year, each one of our kids started a sport. Soccer, softball and soccer, respectively. It may sound like I mistakenly listed soccer twice, until you realize I have five kids two of whom play soccer in different sections of the city.

Even better, each of these aspiring athletes have two practices a week and then a game on Sat. Oh, and Boston has two games on Saturday and sometimes he has a game on Friday night, which is awesome and makes me totally love his coach and everyone in his league.

Then, to further fragment ourselves, we decided to “encourage” Boston to start playing an instrument. He picked the Baritone Sax, which is huge by the way and somewhat awkward to carry around, unless you’re the Hulk, but I don’t remember him having a lot of patience in the musical area.

He, Boston, not the Hulk (I really don't know what the Hulk is doing now), is currently learning to play the score from Star Wars, which accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance onto the screen. I’ve asked him to follow me around and begin playing this tune whenever I walk into our home or an important business meeting to psyche out my other children or business partners. It’s been VERY effective.

But with Boston picking up an extra talent, we decided it was important to “encourage” Brooklyn and London to participate in a cheerleading camp, which went every night for a week and included a, you guessed it, game on Friday night. Brilliant.

Throw in scouts, campouts (YES! I can camp.) and church activities and the week starts to become a non-stop, caffeinated sprint from one activity to another.

But we can’t be the only ones, right?

Who else is pulling out their hair as they drive from practice to practice?

Anyone?

Bueller. Bueller.

This entry is dedicated to Matt Smith, my brother-in-law, who said my posts where too long to read, when he visited my house…I think its more about his attention span, but I digress.

PS – "Digress" means to turn aside especially from the main subject, Matt. Just in case you were wondering…

PSS – “Encourage” means I had no shot in heaven or you know where, in changing the outcome, so I simply relented.

Cell phones...for kids?

My son started sixth grade this year, which meant he was sent packing from his cushy elementary school and was asked to enter the cold, heartless world of middle school. With a new schedule and a set of busy parents, we wanted to ensure that when we inevitably lost him, it may be easier for us or the police to find him.

Using fear as a motivating factor, we had a weak moment and broke down and bought him a cell phone. As you may imagine, we are now in constant communication. I know when he is relaxing after school, when he is preparing to start school and when he attempting to miss school.

I am informed. I get text messages all day long, from sun up to sun down. We are connected. I know when it is raining by our house, when he is in the backyard and when he is in the bathroom, photos included.

Yes. I even know what he had for an afternoon snack. No, not from photos of his waste (you sick people), but from the pictures he takes and sends me of his peanut butter sandwich, right before he eats it.

But how many texts are too many? 13 texts? 20 texts? 50 texts? I picked up my phone the other day and I had more than 75 texts from my kids. But don’t worry, each text was carefully crafted and contained a vital piece of critical information, just like the photo above. Some texts had pictures of my son, some photos included all of my kids, while some showed me how much they loved their toys, which now all have names and a special place in our lives and my heart.

Those texts that did not include photos of people or inanimate objects dealt with such weighty issues as, “Hey.” And, “What is going on?” And, “Whatcha doing? Or, "Can we download a Jonas Brothers' song from iTunes?" Which, by the way, is always yes, because they are simply too talented to ignore.

Each and every one of you have now been warned. if you get your son a phone, you'll get into the details of my life, which is the entire point, right?

14 and counting...

Happy Anniversary, Holly! 14 years and counting. I love you, Babe!

Give Me Some Power…

By Matthew Brimhall and Guest Columnist Jennifer Robinson

Is it wrong that I love power bars? I love everything about them. The texture on my tongue, the somewhat nauseating flavor, the fake chocolate. You name it, I love it.

The thing is that they really don’t make me more powerful. When it comes to everyday things, they do work a little, though. I feel more robust, more ready to rock. Maybe it’s mental? Who knows. All I know is that I can’t stay away from those little nuggets of well…power.

Try this exercise. Imagine that all of the aisles at GNC have a different type of super power. The middle aisle is flying, the one to the right is x-ray vision, and the one at the other end is super speed. How about super hearing? That would be great when your kids are whispering about tying you up, while your wife is hanging out with her friends.

(YEAH, my kids did that. I, innocently lying on the couch asleep, them, tying up my arms and feet with tape. Not funny. It took me twenty minutes to get loose and 30 minutes to stick each of their heads in the toilet. I missed an entire hour of TV).

I, for one, would want to fly. I love to travel, but hate going through security. You have to show them your laptop and take off your belt. The worst is when they make you take off your shoes. I despise walking bare foot on the airport floor - GQ recommends going without socks with some types of pants in the summer. It gives you a very streamlined look and makes you feel like you are on vacation.

But flying would be remarkable. If I wanted to go to the Bahamas for a vacation, I would not have to consult a travel agent; I would simply put my family on my back and fly there. Also, while in the Bahamas, after a delicious meal at the resort, I could point to my ear, as if I am sensing trouble, and fly away right before the check comes. No one is going to worry about sticking me for a $400 bill after that type of exit.

So, tell me, what type of power bar are you looking for?

(Editor's note: You to can be a guest columnist if you are witty, an excellent writer and editor and, most importantly, you are willing to forward the link to every single one of your friends)

Show me the...

One of my favorite past times is looking for a deal at Target or any other big box retailer. I love to rummage through the $3 bin of CDs or meticulously scan the $5 DVD rack. I’ve convinced myself that as my wife is busy buying a bunch of things that we may or may not need, if I can somehow find a hidden treasure, at a reduced price then everything is even. This lets me feel like I have settled the score and sometimes even swung it in my favor, although it really just ends up as $250 for Target, $5 for me. Or really, just $255 for Target.

It was one such Saturday of bargain hunting where I came across a $5 price tag on Jerry MaGuire, one of the greatest movies of all time. This had to be a typo, I thought to myself. I just could not believe that Jerry MaGuire was listed for $5. I was so happy that I stuck the DVD up my shirt, so that no one else would be able to take it from me before I checked out.

After spending an hour or so with the store security explaining to them that I had, in fact, planned on buying the DVD, I was on my way home to watch it. Jerry MaGuire shows the true genius of taking my two favorite things, sports and chick flick movies, and combining them.

Now there are movies you could quote and there are movies you should quote. Movies that you should quote teach you something. Jerry MaGuire is that movie. It displays the lessons of life so clearly and accurately, that its lines should be memorized, sewn on a pillow or carried around in a wallet. I mean, if you are a fanatic or something.

Take, for example, Renee Zellweger’s monologue in the kitchen, after she goes out on a date with Jerry. She is standing by the sink, pouring herself a cup of coffee and is in the process of explaining her relationship to her well meaning, if not completely judgmental sister, when she says, “I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.”

This could be one of the most beautiful lines ever written. All women believe that men have their share of inadequacies. However, the best women love their men for those inadequacies and see unprecedented potential in them as individuals, providers and lovers. I LOVE her for saying this. I LOVE her for having hope and for her faith in the person she loves, who may be just a little flawed.

And while this is a great line, the show gets even better.

Months later, after doubting their entire relationship, Tom Cruise (because men have inadequacies) busts into their family room which is now filled with a group of 30 divorced women and proclaims his deep love for his wife in a series of passionate phrases that climaxes with, “I love you. You... you complete me.”

In truth, nothing could be more fulfilling. When you find an individual who truly completes you, you have everything. Finding that person who is there for you and makes up for your weakness, is the most important aspect of life. I love this line and I love my wife for fulfilling this role in my life.

But almost better than his line is her response when she says, “Shut up, just shut up. You had me at ‘hello.’" Which translates into, I have been here for you, I will always be here for you and I will never stop being here for you. There is nothing more loving than someone who loves you unconditionally. This is the type of person who sees everything, your light and your dark, and still loves you regardless of the dark.

But maybe the best is Cuba Gooding Jr.'s search of Kwan. A word he created to express his search for true happiness and true love. The entire package, the worth of everything. He says, “Some dudes might have the 'coin,' but they will never have the 'Kwan.' It means love, respect, community, and the dollars too. The entire package. The Kwan.”

We should all be so focused on our desire to find the ultimate Kwan. Because when we achieve that true sense of happiness and love, we find that we are able to give others this amount of love and everyone around us begins to see life in a better light and becomes more loving in return.

Plus, how much better does life get, when someone SHOWS YOU THE MONEY!

And, maybe the best line in the entire show is below….

Ray: D'you know that the human head weighs 8 pounds?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that Troy Aikman, in only six years, has passed for 16,303 yards?
Ray: D'you know that bees and dogs can smell fear?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that the career record for hits is 4,256 by Pete Rose who is NOT in the Hall of Fame?
Ray: D'you know that my next door neighbor has three rabbits?
Jerry Maguire: I... I can't compete with that!

New BlackBerry...

This, is quite frankly, awesome. I can't wait to get one.

First foldable BlackBerry unveiled
By Peter Svensson, Associated Press
NEW YORK — Research in Motion, the maker of BlackBerry phones, is set to reveal Wednesday a phone that folds in half, a departure from the slab-like design that has defined its products.

The long-rumored phone will be called the BlackBerry Pearl Flip, and will be available from T-Mobile USA and with overseas carriers later this year, at an undisclosed price.

The "flip" or "clamshell" design, where the display and keyboard are separated by a hinge, is a popular one for conventional cellphones, particularly in the U.S. Jim Balsillie, co-chief executive of RIM, said 70% of handsets in the country have this shape.

Hollywood...

Do you ever wish you would happen upon a murder? You know, you would be the first person there, as the other person (the killer) was fleeing the scene. Don’t get me wrong, it totally has its down sides. You have to deal with the blood and dirtiness of it all. And the whole sadness thing really is not that great.

I am sure you would also have to sit around all day and talk to the cops in the heat or the cold, depending on where you lived and what time of year it was. And worse, I’m sure they would want to frisk you and ask you what you were doing at the scene. Nothing is cool about getting frisked by a cop, not that I would know. It totally sounds painful and not enjoyable. So, yes, I agree, there is the potential for a bunch of drawbacks.

But, more importantly, being at the murder scene may get you discovered by a Hollywood producer, acting coach or talent agent. And that is really what I would like to take out of the experience. I know it always seems like I am in it just for me, me, me, and I kind of am, but, you know, someone has to look out for me.

Take for example when I had to go to Hong Kong for ten days in late 2005. Holly and her running partner Kami (it is a K, right Kami? I remember that Holly had spelled it with a C, and that may have made you sad. So I want to get it right.)

Anyhow, Holly and Kami were running near our house and came upon a police situation where three large dogs started charging at them, as a policeman (rookie) began discharging his weapon at the dogs and directly into the homes behind them.

And although he missed the dogs, he stopped them from attacking Holly and Kami, which made them like him even more. Even better news is that he also managed to miss all of the people in the homes, which was fortunate for him and, especially, for them.

Nothing ruins a good day like getting shot by a cop. Unfortunately, I only know this through third hand accounts and never from a first hand experience. So I will have to take their word for it, but it does seem to make a great deal of sense.

And while Holly and Kami were not hurt in the incident, they were pulled in front of a TV camera and asked to describe what had happened for all of America to see. Well, at least the people in Las Vegas, at 7:55 a.m. on the third rated station in the area.

As Holly described the incident for the reporter, the TV cameras zoomed in on her face for what seemed like forever. Being professional newsmen, they wanted to ensure that the audience felt the suffering she had endured. They wanted the audience to sympathize with her and live the ordeal through her eyes.

As I watched the tape, I was amazed how long they stayed on her face. It seemed to me like she was on air for more than five minutes. It felt like forever. They asked her to discuss all of the drama to re-count every detail. I was completely transfixed as she re-lived the moment.

I am quite sure that if a Hollywood producer had been in Las Vegas and awake for the morning news (which would never happen; they may not even be back to the hotel room at that time of day), Holly would be ordering her live in man servant to buff her toes better, instead of telling me to do it. Her tone is so harsh sometimes. I am just a man with a buffer.

Anyway, this is why it is key that it be a murder and a high profile one at that. Before OJ whacked his wife and her lover, who was Kato Kalen? He was simply a person who crashed on someone’s couch. But you can’t talk to one person, age 32 – 72, who does not know who he is now.

But this type of fortunate event could not happen without a great deal of planning and preparation. It is going to be key that I always look my best, through a series of wardrobe upgrades that may be a little pricey now, but will clearly pay off when I sign my first movie contract. I will also have to start wearing a little base or foundation to ensure that the camera does not wash me out. It has a tendency to do that, you know.

And, last but not least, I have got to work on my look of surprise and, more importantly, desperation. Those two looks will be key when the camera pans down and they see a man filled with inner strength and determination, who looks good for the camera and has on an excellent outfit.

This sense of inner-strength and determination should be a mix somewhere between Peter Parker and Batman - two worthy men and two worthy adversaries once I hit the Hollywood scene.

But I guess I should not get my hopes up too high. I mean, what are the chances of an average guy like me seeing a murder. I guess guys like Kato Kalen have all the luck.

No, well ok...

When did the first day of school start costing parents more than Christmas or any other holiday?

I know Santa picks up the cost for Christmas, so it is a given that the first day of school would cost more than that holiday. But every other holiday, including Thanksgiving, Halloween and even throw in the 4th of July; they all seem to cost less than the money I recently spent on the first day of school. Am I right? Amen!!!

In fact, if you add up all of the money I spent on Valentine’s day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Boxer’s Day and Labor Day, combined, it would still cost less than what I shelled out over the weekend. And, take it from me, I was not alone.

I sat inside Target, with about 400 other parents, wandering around looking at a never-ending list of cleaning solutions, paper towels, hand wipes, pencils, paper, pens, pen boxes, yada, yada, yada. There was such a rush on school supplies that Target completely ran out of erasers. And don’t even get me started on the new clothes I had purchased weeks before.

OK, so I should not complain. That is why I work and that is why my kids picked me, to be their dad. Because, somewhere deep down inside of me they know that I am a sucker. I can’t say no. I have no ability to tell them that they can’t get this or they can’t get that.

I would love to have me as my dad. I would clean me out big time. It would be an endless array of new shoes, cars, clothes, backpacks, iPods. Whatever. It would not matter. It would be my world, and I would be living in it.

But I am not the only one that my kids take advantage of. When my dad comes into town, it is even worse. They will convince him to go back to the concession stand five and six times during one half of Boston’s football games. At some point, he just relented and signed over his car.

My biggest problem is that everything seems to be important at the time of purchase. But looking back now, I can think of a couple things that don’t seem all the important. Like, why did I have to get Sydney botox? I mean, sure she looks great, but did she really need it. She is only three.

And was it so important that I go to California and fly MC Hammer back to Vegas and have him personally illustrate how important it is for Boston to know that he is "Too legit to quit." To me, that just seems a little excessive.

But in my defense, that was not one of MC Hammer's most successful songs, so it was cheaper than say, "You can't touch this," which was just too outlandish to even consider.

But those things pale in comparison to the time London and Brooklyn asked me to bring one of the Jonas Brothers to their neighborhood party. Sure the airfare was expensive, but it was all of the extras that killed me. 50 gallons of Evian water, backstage, does that not seem to smack of self importance?

So I am determined. I have made up my mind. I am resolute. I will not bend. I am solely focused on completely turning over a new leaf. Without question, I will start saying no and I’ll mean it. But first, I have to run down and pick up the new pony I ordered for my kids. But when I get back, it is going to be no, no, no. Well, unless someone really needs something. Let's not get crazy with the no.

Dance, Dance, Dance...

“Every rose has its thorn. Yeah it does.” I was reminded of this phrase last Sunday night as I was swimming with friends in my pool. As this particular ballad started playing, I was instantly transported back in time to a particular high school stomp (dance) where I fondly remember dancing with Dana Whittle and softly singing along to the words playing over the speakers in the gym.

Although I had no talent in signing, I made up for it in a lack of timing and pitch. I truly had the trifecta working for me that night, but it did not matter. Nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. It was 1989, I was in high school and my feet were sliding all over the floor from the sawdust they put down to protect the basketball court. Life felt good. I felt alive. I was dancing. I was in heaven.

At that point in life, I knew every rose had a thorn. It made so much sense. I also knew how to walk like an Egyptian and do the Humpty Dance.

Fast forward to 2008. I still love music and I still love to dance. However, if I want to hear that same sweet music played over speakers, I drive down to the New York New York to the dueling pianos. Here, two professionals play the best music from the 80s and 90s for the highest bidder. They, unlike me, have rhythm style and grace and get paid to sing on a nightly basis. They are professionals. Not wanting to compete with them, I have long stopped singing in the ears of others and because people always told me to stop. Which is rude, rude, rude.

But dancing. Dancing is another story all together. Dancing is something that can’t be cured. I have the disease and there is not antidote. Although, if you would like to donate to a cure, simply send me a check for no less than $20 and I will begin the appropriate research.

One night, in particular, as I sat and listened to the show, I heard a familiar tune. It was a sound from the past and before my mind could process the information, my body began moving to the beat. I started to move, then shake, which led to dancing. Full on dancing. I felt it. Everyone felt it. People began to cheer, not loudly at first, but it soon turned into a palpable energetic rhythm that could not be controlled.

As “Play that funky music white boy,” boomed from the piano, I did what any true dance junky would have done. I started moving and shaking and something to the rhythm, and just when it hit me, I screamed, play that funky music white boy, ahhooooooo.

Yes, my dance moves had whipped the place into hysterics. And while all good things generally come to an end, this was no exception. But being the ultimate performer, just as the song was concluding, I decided to take it to another level, which left me somewhere in mid-air contemplating, why I was trying to do the splits (maybe it is the yoga) at 35, when I had not been able to do them at 25, 15 or even 5.

My brain seemed to understand the pain I would be in, but my body did not seem to care, that is until I hit the ground somewhere between grace and goofiness. But not being one to stop a show, I sprang to my feet with my fist in the air, waving it like I just did not care. But in actuality, I cared. I cared a lot. I was hurting, with a capital H. So, after three or fours waves to the crowd; I ran out the front of the establishment and headed for home. The good news, I can still walk. The bad news, I have a slight limp.

The night was not a total failure. When I went home, I made each of my kids make me a trophy which crowned me, Funkiest White Boy, New York New York. It’s not much, but it is something that I have on my resume.

And while many of you would try to eradicate the rhythm from my soul, it just does seem to be possible. Monday, as I was driving home from Mesquite, that same iPod that started it all was blaring my favorite songs from today, when I looked in the rear view mirror in horror as I watched Boston, sitting in the back of the car, movin’ and groovin’ to the music.

So what am I to do, it’s hereditary. I guess it is a disease and I am just going to have to live with.

PS – Make the checks out to the Matthew Brimhall fund for eradicating embarrassing behavior that shames his family, wife and those within view of his moves.

Hurry, only you can prevent uncontrolled dance moves.

From the future...

We were shocked and surprised to find the following communication in Holly's email inbox this morning. We're not sure how or why this happened, only that we feel very fortunate to have received it and we'll surely learn from all it has to offer. For those of you who were not lucky enough to receive such a communication (maybe you don't like yourself in the future) we decided to post this most precious gift below. Enjoy.

Holly - This is an email from you, from the future. I know, totally exciting. Anyway, I wanted to write you and let you know that you are getting ready to go through the most amazing time of your life.

Life here is great and we are all so very tan. In the future you will love and appreciate your husband even more than you do today. I know, I totally did not think it was possible either, and you must think I am crazy, but hey, I'm from the future, I have to be right.

However, if you are going to be truly happy you should buy him a number of very expensive gifts. Nothing cheap or ill-fitting, but really nice stuff. Things he would love. Then, just to make yourself even more happy, go on and on about how spectacular he is and about how much he does for you. And don't forget about the gifts. They work wonders.

Oh yeah, don't worry about Red Bull either. It is the only thing we drink in the future. They recently found out that large consumptions of this beverage make you immortal.

PS - Not that you were worried, but your hair looks GREAT. But really, why should that change.

LOVE YA,

Holly Brimhall

PSS - Your boobs get even bigger. It’s something in the water, we think. However, we still are not sure why it's happening. Anyway, you'll LOVE them. I think Matt has something to do with this as well, but it could never be proved in a court of law.

(Editor's note:) If you want to get or send an email from the future, simply log onto your partner's email account at Yahoo, or whatever they use, and address it to them and send. It is simple really, but seems so futuristic at the same time.

Home of Scholars and Champions ...

It is amazing how long a phrase or mantra will stick with you. Back in 1989, when I started high school, the institution, no not mental, lacked a certain amount of school pride.

Students could be seen arguing with their teachers in class, vandalizing the school and even yelling face-to-face with their respective coaches during the middle of athletic contests.

To say it was mass hysteria would be an overstatement, but the school did lack a certain sense of accomplishment, which was further proved when the principal found his Volkswagen Bug parked in the middle of the hall on the third floor, inside the school.

Maybe because he thought the car jacking was a sign, he resigned and a new executive was installed. Although we did not expect to see any differences, it became apparent that we would no longer be allowed to disrespect the school or its tradition.

And while there were many changes installed under the new administration, one caught my eye and was emblazoned into my soul. It was a simple change, to the outside world, but a historical shift in the values and beliefs of those students who called Cyprus home.

Prior to the beginning of the school year, this new principal had a phrase installed on the side of the school, in huge block letters. The phrase? Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions. Was the phrase encouraging, yes, somewhat. But at the time, we did not understand the power it would have to positively change our behavior.

Soon, however, that phrase was everywhere. We said it after each wind sprint we ran at football practice; it was artistically displayed in the lunchroom, the auditorium and throughout the halls on every floor.

To further solidify the message, the principal would walk through the cafeteria at lunch and if he saw a piece of paper on the floor he would take out a mega-phone and ask students to dispose of this trash accordingly because, as he put it, that is not what champions do. He walked on the sidelines during our athletic contests and encouraged us with those simple words, “You are a champion.”

Did it work? We took first place in our division that year in football. We went to the state playoffs in basketball and our tennis team excelled beyond all reasonable expectations. And while those goals were certainly fulfilling, it pales in comparison to the mantra that those who attended the school continue to carry with them.

For proof, you simply have to visit my sister’s blog. After all these years (sorry, Missy) she still describes herself as a scholar and a champion. But more important than the description of herself, is the fact that once you believe that you are a champion, failure ceases to be an option.

And while this mantra was powerful when we went to Cyprus, being a champion is something that continues to carry us through each and everyday.

“Brimhall, Brimhall pick on one and you pick on them all,” was a simple phrase that my dad taught us when we were young. However, it is now something that my children say, and their children will say. It is a phrase that we write on our shirts at our family reunions and something that we believe when we feel like we are alone. It is a powerful remembrance of those that love you. It shows unity and more importantly, displays the strength of a family unit. It is something I care deeply about. Without question, it is a huge aspect of my life.

Find a mantra, repeat it. Write it down. Teach it to those you love. But be careful, it will most likely stick with you for the rest of your life.

Too cute for her own good...

Holly almost never swears. Except when she does. And even then, it is much less than a longshoreman, but maybe just a little more frequent than a sailor. So it should come as no surprise that one of Sydney’s favorite words is ****.

Now, not being one to kiss and tell, I am not going to say which word she loves to use, but no one needs to call the division of child services, this is more of a bible swear word than anything.

Some people don’t like people to swear, but if they heard how cute Sydney is, I think they would change their mind. “**** this Barbie, I can’t get her shoes on,” may sound vulgar in print, but coming out of her cute face, it seems almost angelic.

Or, “**** I want chocolate milk, not white milk,” may get some kids grounded, but at our house it only makes our trip to change out the milk much more entertaining. It is almost hard to get mad at her. In fact, it is. It’s completely impossible.

But it is not just our family members who think she is cute when she “expresses herself.” Just last week, we were at the grocery store and she said, “Mom, I want to get some of those **** crackers.” People three rows over were busting a gut. But not me, I was laughing hysterically.

So, my advice to parents everywhere: Don’t sweat it if your kid is going to swear, just make sure they look cute doing it.

That seems to be the only thing that matters.

Potty Talk...

What is it with kids and potty talk? They are obsessed. You can’t have a two-minute conversation without a kid between the ages of 3-12 trying to work it into a sentence.

And if they can’t work it into the sentence, sometimes they will just blurt it out to make them feel better.

Take last Sunday night. I, being a fabulous father, gathered our kids together, shut off the TV, radio, Internet, etc. and sat down with our family and started to play charades. However, I wanted the kids to be invested in this game as well, so I asked them to each write down ten activities and place them in a bowl, so when they said, "Who wrote this stupid idea down," it would have come from them and not me. Harmless, right? A perfect little family sitting down together, acting. What could go wrong?

I was wrong. It quickly became clear after the first three pieces of paper were drawn, that these kids are 100 percent obsessed with potty talk. Poop was the first word drawn from the bowl. I can forgive this, I thought to myself. Pooping is an activity. And although it may not be what I had in mind, it did fall into the ground rules I had set for the game.

After we guessed poop, I sat excitedly, waiting to see what we would act out next. Although I should not have been surprised, the second word presented to the group was poop throw. Now I am not even sure this is a real activity, but I let them have the benefit of the doubt, to keep the game rolling. However, when the third word was pooping, I had to stop the game.

I could not believe that we had picked three selections, out of thirty, and all three had to deal directly or indirectly with fecal matters. "Enough," I stated. "No more poop. No more potty talk, no more anything about the bathroom." Laughing under their breaths, they all agreed.

Then, as Brooklyn picked out the fourth selection, I watched in astonishment as she proceeded to act out something she thought said poop corn. And while I am not sure what a poop corn is, I did see it acted out with a great deal of effort.

When I asked to see the paper, it said popcorn. “That is it,” I said. “No more poop talk. I am sick of this.”

And, if by fate, as I stood up to walk out of the room, Sydney came running in and said, “What is wrong, Poopy Daddy.” Then she proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And while this fascination boggles my mind, it is something that seems to have been around since we started having kids. However, as your kids get older, you do start to see a distinct change in a child’s openness with these movements (pun intended).

For example, when Boston was the tender age of four, he would walk into Holly’s Salon, downstairs in our home, while she was working on a client and say, “Mom, I have to…” and then sensing that he should not say what he had to do, he would place his hand by his behind and open it up 5 or six time and make a gassy noise that sounded like the longest and loudest toot in the world.

Yes. It was very subtle. No one had any idea what he meant. No one had any idea that he had to go to the bathroom. But once Holly said OK, he would run off to do his business and when he came back he would never let onto what he had done. Somehow, he understood that this is something that we talk about less and less as we grow up and become young adults.

But if things are complex when we are younger, things get much more sticky when we become adults. Adults will do anything to hide that they are going, have to go or ever went at all.

I can recall, with distinct clarity, coming home from a dinner at a friend's house where I must have had 15 bottles of water. Holly’s mom and dad were staying with us and I had to sleep with the kids, in their bunk bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and was 100 percent sure that Boston had peed on me.

That is, until I realized, I had peed on him. Not my proudest moment, but sadly, not my most infamous either. I quickly ran downstairs and let Holly know that Boston had peed the bed. I acted disgusted as I quickly hid the fact that it was me that was soaking wet from my waist down, while he was mostly dry.

So maybe our kids have had it right all along. Maybe it is us adults who have it wrong. It is only a natural aspect of being a human. Let’s take a firm stand and be absolute in that fact that we will no longer be ashamed when we pee the bed, write poop in a game of charades or use it for a nickname for our father….Let’s embrace our humanness and feel pride when it is time to, ahhh, go.

Maybe I need a prescription…

Since Holly and I have been participating in our Bikram Yoga classes, we have started to focus on what makes our bodies feel better. Surprisingly, I concluded that my body is basically allergic to white flour, ranch, pasta and chips. I should have picked up on this fact years ago, as anyone who knows me will attest.

Nevertheless, I always tried to ignore my allergies and attempted to sweep them under the rug. Many times I would simply chalk my discomfort up to the combining of foods that should not go together. Like take Twinkies and beef for an example. Even though the combination sounds good, some would even say terrific, it can be deadly when eaten together.

It is in this role of self discovery that I sat down and decided it was time I made a list of the other things that make me ill. After a great deal of meditation, I came up with six things that cause me bodily harm.

And while this list is posted on the blog, it is also taped to my refrigerator so I don't accidentally slip up. You can't be too careful these days when you're dealing with allergies of this magnitude.

· Heavy Lifting: I know this is something I should love, but I think I’m allergic to lifting furniture, refrigerators, pianos and sofas. I seem to break out in a huge sweat when I lift these, especially when I am asked to move them from room to room “just to see how it would look.”

· Bad Hair: I realize that I would have bad hair if I were not married to Holly. However, I am so against bad hair that I would advise anyone I know to find a stylist who can make your look happen everyday. It is so worth it.

· Bad TV: TV is now the most overrated and under performing medium in our lives. There is nothing on TV that makes me fascinated, intrigued or mildly entertained. It only makes matters worse that our kids hide and break the remotes, forcing me to stick to one channel for an entire 11 minutes until a commercial break. Without a remote, I refuse to watch anymore. It is too painful and a complete waste of time.

· The fact that John McCain looks older everyday: Although he may have a fighting chance to become our next president, it does not help the Republican Party that he looks more and more like a grandfather getting ready to enter a nursing home than he looks like a president preparing to enter the White House.

· A lack of time: I want more and more time. Time where I can choose what I want to do, not what I have to do. I want to drive across the country, making occasional stops at national monuments and waffle houses. Yes, in some states, those are one in the same. I realize that. But I want a chance to explore the country and see what’s good.

· When people I like say, “Let’s call it a night.”: No. Let’s NOT call it a night. Let’s stay up and swap stories until the sun comes up. Let’s have fun. I hate when people want to call it a night. I always want to say, “Let’s call it a weekend, and hang out until Monday morning.” I think this problem goes back to the allergic reaction to the bullet point above.

I pretty much like everything else. In fact, I love the following things:

1. Running outside: I love to be outside, running. It clears your mind, body and soul. Everything seems possible after a five mile run.

2. Yoga inside: It teaches you how to love yourself, with a truly unconditional heart.

3. Tennis: There is a certain ping of the racket that almost puts you into a trance when you hit with someone good.

4. Kickball: My kids love it. I love it. It’s perfect.

5. Swimming: Ahh, so refreshing.

6. Having friends over: Nothing is better than good friends and good conversation.

7. Blackberries: Puts everyone you know, in the palm of your hand.

8. Texting: It is so easy and so much fun and it provides you with an instant hook-up to your best friends.

9. Blogging: Trying to write something people will read is a challenge that is fun, I think.

10. Reading other blogs: I love to read what others write. Plus, when you see them, they instantly know you care because you took the time to read.

11. Eating pasta, French bread and ranch: I know, this is cruel irony.

12. Bulldogs. I LOVE bulldogs. Why won't anyone let me take care of their bulldog? Or just give me one?

13. Singing along with the iPod: All your favorite songs in one place, what could be better.

14. Playing with my kids: I love to see them happy and doing something that totally makes them excited.

15. Singing with my kids: I love to hear my kids sing a song they love.

16. Madden Football 2009: Every year I decide not to buy it and every year I get it the fist day, program the Chargers in and start beating butt. Love it.

17. The San Diego Chargers: Who does not love the Chargers? Lighting bolt on the helmet, powder blue jerseys. Shawn Merriman. The best city in the United States.

18. Dancing: Not real dancing, but jumping up and down in a mosh pit type of style. Especially to good music. Yes. Really good music.

19. The beach: Walking hand in hand with your kids, jumping waves and feeling the sand under your feet. Awesome.

20. California: The air smells better. The people are great and the food tastes like you’re a Hollywood star. I love California.

21. Vacations: You have the pre-vacation build up, which is great. The post-vacation glow, which is tremendous and the in-vacation who cares about anything but what I am doing right now bliss, which is unbeatable.

22. Ties: Thick ties, with a huge knot are boss.

23. Linen Pants: Although they always wrinkle and only look good for about the first six times you wear them, nothing says cool like linen pants.

24. Nice shoes: Really nice shoes, feel great, look great and make you taller. That, my friend, is as much as you could ask from anybody.

25. Watches: I love putting a thick, heavy watch on my wrist. The weight and the class, makes everything else you are wearing somehow seem better.

26. Redbox: Late fees, yes, but not as many.

27. Pizza: How could you not love pizza? Especially if it is a little on the doughy side.

28. People who play the piano: Rock N Roll never sounded so grand.

29. Swedish Fish: I have eaten more Swedish Fish in my life, than I have eaten real fish. Plus, some of my favorite memories are eating too many fish, while laughing too much.

30. The HOT TUB: Come on, it’s hot and it makes your muscles feel alright. And that’s a good thing.

31. GQ: Best mag ever.

32. XM Radio: All music, all the time.

33. REM: This is a music group, who although they may have peaked, had some of the greatest tunes of my high school life.

34. Las Vegas: Excellent service, tons to do. Great people, having the time of their lives. I love Las Vegas.

35. Montana: I love the people, the landscape and the lakes. What a beautiful location. And if you believe my friend, Vinnie, the football is world-class.

36. Mountain air: So crisp, so clean. You always feel better just being in the mountains and breathing in and out.

37. Cows: Is there anything more beautiful and majestic than a cow?

38. Bulls: I used to be afraid of bulls, until I started riding them when I was in the first grade, now, I love them.

39. Red Bull: The sweet, tangy nectar of excitement and energy.

40. Atari: This was the best game system around when I was growing up. I almost started our house on fire because the system overheated when I scored a million points on Asteroids.

OK. I know. I love a lot more things than I’m allergic to. But I would’t have it any other way. What do you love and what are you sick of?

30 Day Challenge…?

As a founding member of Las Vegas’ most exciting Runner’s Club, I take great pride in bringing a number of topics to the table every morning. These topics range for the insane to the asinine.

It’s critical that every member of the runner’s club bring something to talk about or you are all forced to sit around and listen to each other pant and breathe.

And, even more important, you need your topic to be a conversation starter. You want a topic that sparks a great debate and gives everyone a chance to respond and get involved. The best topics are those that people can one-up. For instance, you may reminisce about the time you threw up a pound of Swedish Fish, just outside the movie theater, when you and your dad were watching The Naked Gun in ninth grade.

As a side bar, I was happy to throw up after the movie, because it hid the pee spot on my pants. Am I right? That was a hilarious movie. In fact, I had to give my dad the Heimlich maneuver during it, because he was laughing so hard a fish became lodged in his wind pipe. This was back when Swedish Fish were a lot bigger than they are now, and they came in big barrels of candy at the grocery store.

Which reminds me of the time Justin Brown, Jeff Hatch and I were at a grocery store in Utah and Justin begin eating as many gummy bears as he could, right from the barrel. We kept telling ourselves we were just sampling the batch, but after 50 or so, they asked us to leave.

But not to get too far off topic, these morning topics are best when they make people think and even better when they help you to forget that you have 4.2 miles left to go.

This morning, my brain started thinking about an article I had read in the NY Times, which is an excellent thing to start off a conversation with, because it proves you can read and gives you instant credibility.

In fact, I learned this conversation tool from Jeremy Jones’ uncle on a family vacation one year. He was excellent "confirmer," and everyone greatly appreciated him. During group conversation, he would validate anyone’s claim with a quick confirmation that was simple and precise. For example I would say, “Global warming is up 25 percent this year.” And he would jump in immediately after and say, “You’re right, I read that in Time Magazine.”

I always appreciated that guy. Being young and naive, I would sometimes make up facts and stories, however, he never missed a beat in protecting me. Together, we could have traveled the world selling snake oil to retired folks.

Never the less, the article I am referring to in the NY Times, discussed the antics of two separate married couples, who had recently written books about their commitment to have sex with each other every day for an entire year.

The article chronicled the fact that many married couples have little time to spend together in today’s busy environment and went so far as to say that if a couple made more time to spend together, in the bedroom, the divorce rate that continues to increase would begin to dissipate.

And while I can only assume that couples who spend more time together, are happier, I was not really focused on this element of the article.

Instead, my mind instantly started to consider if the high percentages that are associated with birth control are due to the effectiveness of the birth control in itself or if they really are effective based on the lack of time that couples spend together.

I started thinking that we could really be looking at 50 percent effectiveness rate from birth control and 50 percent from lack of time together. Really, in all actuality, this could be a huge crap shoot. Something that may be as sure as crossing a busy street at rush hour. Everyone knows that there is a 50 percent chance you are going to get hit by a car at rush hour if you dart across the street. However, on the bright side, there is that same 50 percent chance that you will make it through and live another day.

And if you are paying attention, you will quickly realize that this "Running across the street" study was, in fact, performed by Time magazine, and is still one of my favorites. I think it was done in '89, could have been '90. I don't really recall.

And while the other members of the Runner's Club did not share my same enthusiasm over this new discovery, I was enthralled. However, I did notice that many of the members started running a little faster after this assertion, which made the run that much better, and resulted in a successful morning for us all.

So, today, in the glow of my discovery. I challenge all married people everywhere to take the 30 day challenge and spend “time” every night with your spouse. Not only will it make you closer, it will allow me to test this new birth control theory.

And, because I know you all like guarantees in life, I am 100 percent sure that it will make you happier. At least that is what I read in Time magazine.

Dad...

If I had to make a list of what makes me happy, it would be long and detailed. I love my kids. I love to spend time with my wife. I love doing yoga and I love being outside, working out or doing anything that is related to sports.

But something I love to do, but few people know, is that I like to get up very early in the morning on a Sunday or a Saturday and drive around down town or through the city. This is something I am sure came from my dad, as he used to wake me up early on the weekends and take me to Dees Family Restaurant or through downtown Salt Lake, long before anyone in city woke up.

He loved walking around when everything was quiet. Frankly, this almost led to his ultimate demise, when I became a teenager and started to sleep in. This forced him to take my sister with him one morning on a beach in Mexico. They were jumping waves, alone, when one wave picked him up, knocked him down and cut his head and shoulder. He came back to the hotel room looking like he had been in a knife fight. Head bleeding. Shoulder bleeding. Hat, somewhere in the ocean. Missing swim trunks. It was quite an ordeal.

My dad taught me so many things about life and I love him for it. He taught me how to interact with people and how to make them laugh. He ensured that I always treated others with respect and inspired me to do my best.

Growing up in my house, you automatically were employed as a member of the Red Flame catering business. It did not matter how old you were or how inept you were, you were hired. My first such soirée included an awkward scene where my dad asked me to put dry ice into the punch bowl at a wedding we were doing. Needless to say, dry ice is hot and I was worried about getting burned, so I just kind of dropped it into the punch bowl and hurried back to the kitchen.

Moments later, I was summoned back out to explain why red punch was sparkled over all the walls and over some of the bride’s maid. My dad quickly decided to change to a peach colored, less staining, punch in the future.

The summer was when we did our most damage. We would go on three or four catering parties every day, ranging from the women’s prison to water parks around town. It was in the summer when my dad and I really had a chance to hang out. One such day we were late for setting up a party, which always stressed my dad out, and made me want to work that much harder. At this particular party, we had to bring the chairs, which were heavy restaurant chairs, for the guests to sit on. We were unloading chairs for hours and I could tell we were going to be late.

At this point, I decided to start unloading rows at a time. After 400 chairs or so and 100 degree temperature, I turned to my dad and realized that I had a full-blown bloody nose from heat exhaustion. This was not a trickle, but more like someone had opened the flood gates to my nose blood. He looked at me and was like, whoa, you better come have a seat in the shade. Then he told me how much he loved me for working so hard and that he was very proud of me. I was so happy that he felt my love for him. I always wanted to show him that I would do anything for him and that a bloody nose was nothing in regards to how much I cared.

During the family reunion, I watched my dad take care of my son and was so grateful that Boston has the same type of relationship I do with my dad. They walked all over the resort together and I loved seeing them hang out. Once when we were in Salt Lake, the three of us were sitting outside, eating ice cream and my dad was telling us a story or two and I felt so happy to be so connected, dad, son and grandson.

I can only hope that I will have the same impact on my son as my dad has on me.

The whole truth...

So, my son is getting pretty good at lying. But I guess it is not his fault. Really, he is just a chip off the Ol’ block, as they would say.

Earlier today, Boston went into great detail to tell me how much fun they had, what they had done and what they were wearing when they went to the park to play. I had asked him to take London and Brooklyn to play at the park for at least two hours, to get them out of the house and to see if they could beat the 118 degree weather.

His story was very convincing. So convincing, that I believed him hook, lie and sinker. I was so proud of myself, because I was even trying to trip him up by asking extra specific details about the visit, down to what color of sandals were worn, to see if they had really gone. Without hesitation, every answer was communicated perfectly. I was convinced. Case closed. I got the TRUTH and the TRUTH had been set free. Lord have Mercy!

Only three hours later, I found out that the truth, although it is out there, was not in the story I was told.

To say I was shocked, was putting it mildly. The shock brought me back to an occasion in my youth when I may have fabricated a story or two. In fact, one certain mom (not mine) was convinced that we were heading off to do a service project late one night (who does a service project at 10 p.m.? Really, it's not my fault when people are this gullible), when, in all actuality, we were planning on decorating Cyprus High School, home of scholars and champions, for senior graduation. Decorating may be in fact, the wrong word, unless you consider dumping 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts an enhancement to the school grounds.

(Note: It really was 500 pounds of peanuts, somebody Devin Despain, I think, worked at a packing plant and had access to loads and loads of Styrofoam peanuts…I would not have believed it either, but I saw it and it happened. I remember the truck pulling up with the biggest, most grand bag of Styrofoam peanuts I have ever seen. Devin was in the back, sitting on the peanuts like a emperor, on his throne. Once he pulled up, it would have been a complete waste not to grab the bag and dump it on the school grounds. And, after dumping them on the grounds, it would have been tragic not to start a peanut fight. I may be a liar, but I am not wasteful.)

In fact, our first stretch of the truth only led us to a second stretch when a kind-hearted police officer pulled us over and asked if we had anything to do with the peanut drop. We assured him that we did not, even as I sat in the back with pounds of peanuts in my pockets, shirt and all over in my hair. It was the 90's my hair was totally gelled. For some reason, even today, when I see 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts, I have a great desire to run as fast as I can and slide through them; just like I did that night.

And while the police officer believed us and let us go, we were not so fortunate when we got home and someone found out that we were not at a service project. Undaunted, however, we told her that the service project was not in our area and that she was simply mistaken.

Which brings me to the point of the story. Sometimes, you just have to lie. You don’t want to, you don’t think it’s right, but you get caught in trying to please everyone and you feel that your hand is forced.

I hate to let people down. It’s hard for me and obviously, from today’s lesson, it is hard for my son. He did not want to face the fact that he was going to let me down, so he made it up. He thought it would be better to lie, than to have someone he cared about upset with him. I totally get that and, sadly, he probably gets "that" from me.

However, there is hope. Boston and I are patiently learning from Holly. She is quite possibly the most honest person in the world and our only chance at salvation. In fact, when we first got married my dad and I were sitting at the airport with her, watching her fill out an application to work for the airlines. Anyhow, my dad started laughing at how hard it was for Holly to fill out the form. He turned to her and said, "You don’t have to be honest about everything."

But she does, and I love her for that, and she continues to teach me a huge lesson. She teaches me that first, and foremost, my dad is just like me and so Boston has no hope, because, my dad got it from my grandfather. And second, the truth never lets someone down, which I think is the main point. The truth just shows them that you love them no matter what.

I am sure that Boston and I will battle this addiction, but at least we have a beautiful antidote to help us in our affliction. And that, my friends, is totally true.

This all started April 13, 1973...

This year, my family decided to get together for a reunion. I thought it was an excellent idea and I was totally excited about going. I even asked for the time off, roughly five months in advance, so that when everyone at work pretended to have NO idea about me needing time off, I would have proof.

When we go to the resort, it was very nice. The rooms were nice, the people were nice, the pool was heated and the temperature was perfect. 84 degrees in June, when I am used to summer in Vegas, fabulous. What was also fun was that everyone was to plan one day, for the entire group. I think there was 30 or so, but who’s counting. 15 grand kids. I don’t know, but we have a big group.

At one of the events, Holly turned to my dad and said, “Look what you created. All of these people are here because of you.” This was no slight to my Mom, as my Dad’s skills at having babies only go so far. There are biological issues that complicate trying to have a baby without a woman.

It made me think and made me proud to be a member of this family. And it made me excited to see what is to come in the future, when I am older and wiser and sitting at a park with my 5 kids, and their 30 kids…or whatever, like I said, who’s counting.

Fam reunion...Thanks Heather, Angie...

This reminds me of growing up...

Born to text...

I love to watch my wife text. Yes. Text. OK, it is not really the texting that I love; it’s the window into her soul that displays itself when she texts. You see, I can tell you, with 99.9 percent certainty, what my wife is thinking at any moment in time. She is an open book; her facial expressions and body language always give her away.

Because of this, I love to see her react to things. Think through things. Laugh about things. She has such clarity to her. It fills me with joy to watch life happen to her. She rarely surprises me. Almost never. And, above everything, I love to see her put a humorous spin on things.

There is a certain light that sparkles in her eyes when she gets and sends texts. Case in point, we were driving nights ago, she had my phone and her phone, texting as fast as she could on both as I was speeding down the freeway. We were not sure what we were going to do, so she was texting to firm up our plans.

Time and time again, she would say to me, "What if I said this?" And I would laugh. Or "What if I said this?" and I would laugh harder. She has such a great outlook on life, that I love to see it on display. It is a simple pleasure to watch her think through what she is going to write and how she is going to respond. I love to see her interact with individuals and love to see what she is going to do, say or come up with. It’s fun to watch her do what she likes to do, without the pressures of kids, jobs, family, etc.

With this being said, it is a tad bit painful when my text suggestions are rejected. I consider myself somewhat polished and believe that I always offer up very funny responses, only to be given a look of, “I am not going to say that. That is ridiculous.”

For us, texting helps us have conversations that we could never have otherwise. Like when we took out entire family, plus nanny and mom to dinner for London’s birthday. It was a mad house. Waitresses dropping dishes, drinks, bread. Kids screaming. I pulled out my phone and I simply asked, how did we get ourselves into this? Especially when they handed me the bill. As a side note, that is how you know you are a grown up, when you look around the table at dinner and realize that there is no one else who could pay for this bill.

The other time, we were in a group of 50 people, and sat right next to each other and texted for an hour. People were like, who are you guys texting and we were like, ahh..., each other. But it gave us the opportunity to share an intimate moment, in the middle of a huge group. It was so much fun.

So, if you have not done it yet, send Holly a text. She’ll love you for it, forever.

Right before I feel down the mt...

Let's get together and fall off a bike...