Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

I asked Tom what he would do in the morning when he retires in T minus 6 days. He said, "I think I'll do what your dad does after he wakes up every single day: I'll do some calisthenics while watching TED talks on the computer at top volume." I nodded, sounds reasonable. Meanwhile, my dad has been working into a new routine. I don't mean that he altered anything about the calisthenics or the TED talks. I mean he and my mother moved recently and therefore he can no longer do his thing in the den of his former house. Pop had prepared for the big move. He got himself a yoga mat, but I don't think he's using it. Last we spoke, he had stationed his ankle weights and his kettle balls in the new living room on my mother's oriental rug. I'm not sure how long this particular set up will last. I think this because Pop mentioned he had been strongly encouraged by my mother to go visit the gym down the street. My mother said he can get in free with Sil

I never considered myself a knight in shining armor, but as far as Bumpy the Vacuum Robot is concerned, I'm obviously the real deal. I save him like 90 times a day. I save him so much I came down with some kind of Bumpy beep-triggered anxiety disorder. I told Tom to reset the little bastard's schedule. He shall not be released when I am home alone with him. Tom has to be present to share in the life guard duties.  To make my case rock-solid, I sent Tom photographic evidence documenting the many faces of my heroic derring-do.  Here's Bumpy beeping his little "rescue me" heart out behind the TV. I had to crawl back there in the middle of conference call: Wires are a problem. Major wedgie under the kitchen counter. I considered smearing Bumpy with olive oil: Bumpy is .0001 inches too tall. Seriously Bumpy?! This is a little alarmist. It's only a carpet: Bumpy really hates the chair from Ikea. He cannot go over it this direction: .

My 12yo nephew Jackson started talking about fountain pens, which I took as a personal triumph. So it was with great pride that I marched down to the Fountain Pen Hospital the Saturday before Christmas. My mission : buy the kid a fountain pen he'd remember long after he lost it. I told the sales guy at the Fountain Pen Hospital that I wanted the shiniest, most golden fountain pen they had in stock. My nephew enjoys treasures that have the distinct look of treasure. (When I told Wanda about my shopping trip later, she complimented my prowess. "Way to know your audience," she said.) Don't get me wrong, I qualified my price point to the FPH sales guy. They have pens in that place that cost more than my car. The sales guy replied, "For that price point ... ummm .... you can't get real gold." Ha ha, yeah. I pretended to look crestfallen. Nah, I wish I had the presence of mind to look crestfallen. In reality I rolled my eyeballs like a champion e

Tom, walking around the neighborhood commenting on everyone’s Christmas decorations: “There’s a lot of slack in that string of Christmas lights on that roof up ahead. Very droopy.” “I don’t like these LED lights that look like a tube of light. Not for Christmas." "It's definitely stylish to string the lights just around the front door." "Oh look, there's a guy with a little broom dusting off his lights. That's a well-maintained set-up right there." “Maybe I should go around with a clip board and write up my comments about everyone’s decorations. Give them a report.” “Look at that place - They have 4 big spotlights. Impressive.” “The lights wrapped around that person’s porch poles are a little bit asymmetrical. I don’t think I’d mention it in my report though. It’s trivial."