Today, I received a fun and completely unexpected surprise in the mail. My mom had mailed me a baseball signed by an American League umpire from the early 1980s.

What was even better was the note inside. Not so much what it said, but how it was said. I could see the style of an aspiring cookie blogger in that note (spoiler, it’s me). The conversational train of thought style. The use of parentheses. An approach to dialog that I replicate daily. A note that made me smile.

Somehow “Slushy the Wintry Mix Man” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

For whom does your dress shoe squeak?

It squeaks for thee…

…to order a new pair of shoes online, lest all your co-workers be driven crazy.

The boys received a PlayStation for Christmas. All was well and good. They retreated in delight to play their game. Every now and then, I would wander through the room. Play a little of a game. Not understand the confusing controller. Get my butt kicked. Shrug my shoulders. Wander off.

All of this changed, when we inserted the Atari Flashback disc. Game on. I suggested that we play Atari football. Game over.

One by one, I played my children. One by one, I crushed them. No matter that the controller was foreign to my old thumbs. No matter that I had not played the game in 30 years. No matter that I was turning the remote like a steering wheel (I was told that’s foolish and doesn’t help). No matter that I was holding the controller so hard that a blister was forming. Glory was in view. Atari glory of old. I was unstoppable.

My middle aged eyes embraced the poor graphics, horrible sound effects, and plodding pace of play. My children struggled to adjust to the 2D graphics and simplistic commands. I was in my element. I was the greatest of all-time (G.O.A.T.) back on the field.

Soon the kids became desperate taking turns just to keep the game close. No bother, their father was in the zone.

Then I set a new goal, one that my children accepted as a challenge. I was ahead in the football game, 100-28, but the score read 0-28. It looked like they were ahead. With a little over 90 seconds left, could I lap them? Challenge accepted. Ha! Game on!

A pick six here, a bomb there, the dust settled and their ancient dad had won, 142-28.

Someday, my children will beat me at Atari, as well. That’s just the way that life works. Christmas 2018, well that’s a different story. That day, today, this dad is still the G.O.A.T.

As I left for work, I gathered my boys around me. It was 24 hours until Christmas morning. I had one simple rule.

I looked them in the eyes and began, “Don’t…” My 10-year-old son Ben completed my sentence, “… screw it up.”

That’s right, boys. I know the awesomeness of the gifts that await you under the tree. So no back talk, fighting, misbehaving, ignoring of parental requests. Yes, Christmas is a short 24 hours away. 24 hours away, as long as you follow one simple rule, “Don’t screw it up.”

Merry Christmas (we shall see).

This past year, I have been so good about going to the gym. Morning workouts, spin classes, lunchtime crunches, and boxing classes. Yep, I worked it.

This morning, I was shaving and I glanced into the mirror. One of those long self examining glances. Only one thing seemed off. Way off. For the first time ever in the mirror, I saw neck muscles (yep, I’m sure that’s the anatomical term). Those disturbing muscles that appear to be reaching from the shoulders toward the base of the skull.

Yep,this past year, I worked out. Maybe a little too much.

Either one of the most brilliant wrapping jobs ever or way too much Christmas creepiness.

You are welcome.

When I found this simple ornament hanging above my cubicle, I realized that I had received the perfect gift for Christmas. No need for additional presents. Christmas is indeed a magical time.

Opening my office White Elephant gift, I was struck to see something almost beyond words. A statue of a childlike matador playing a fiddle-like instrument. Plus, it still proudly showed a $2.99 price tag from Goodwill. Perfect. Absolutely ugly, but somehow perfect.

Little fiddle playing matador, I’m so happy that you’re mine.