High-speed shifts and Seven Marches

A tremendous two days in Nashville with Ashley have left me overly-optimistic about the rest of the year ahead.


On Sundays twice a month, we clean the house. Ashley specializes in the downstairs, while I tackle the upstairs. Some trash-talk ensues, mostly from my side. I like to highlight the speed with which I accomplish the task. Honestly, Ashley is more thorough, but I like to pat meself on the back, likes, then take a drink. It’s very satisfying.

With the Venturi effect pulling a breeze through the front side window in our “office” through the back of our bedroom, it’s a perfect time to pause to say Hello to all of you.

Some years ago on the line at Uncle Sam’s, Marco and I stood in front of blazing Vulcan Wolves (Wolfs?), slinging piles of chopped steak and onions. Truthfully, I always overcooked mine a little bit, but it seemed to all balance out by the end of the first swallow. There’s a metaphor in there, somewhere, but let’s let sleeping dogs lie for the now.

Anyway, Marco had a theory that every March had been bollocks for quite some time. He had evidence to back this up, as well–several anecdotes that did, indeed, feature large degrees of nonsense and unnecessaries. With a light perspiration clouding my judgment and some non-linear customer-related shenanigans, I did agree with Marco. March was proper Bollocks, based on his foundations.

In the years since his cheese steak confessional, though, I find that my revelation is quite the opposite. I am not semi-prepared to thoroughly explain, I instead will offer this: I find March to be the early redemption of each year. I have put some thought into this.

Ashley and I are both big December people. We now live in the (fairly) Deep South, and there is precious little snow to be had, so it’s never a proper December whilst we’re here, but we do what we can. Truly, I love mid-November all the way through the end of the year with you, Ashley. After the holidays, we don’t know what to do with ourselves. There are no snow days. There are no comparable Februaries than those with you.

My sister Amanda’s birthday is after Christmas and right before New Year’s Eve, so that’s another reason to celebrate. Cheers, Sis.

My father’s birthday is in March. We have little in the way of proper Irish heritage, and yet I have always been fascinated that his birthday is on St. Patrick’s Day. Truly, a fine holiday, and celebrated every year to its proper extent by yours truly and his constituents. Slainte, Da!

So, here we are, a week after St. Patrick’s, and spring has maybe sprung. A glorious concert of Mumford & Sons in Nashville, and a possible giant shift in the Dynamic.

What a year!

Marco, this March has delivered. I humbly over-cook this sandwich and slide it behind us to be finished.

To everyone else, I sincerely hope you can say the same. To your health!





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