I currently live in New York City, but as a young lad I grew up in the beautiful and verdant working class area of Southeast Portland. The side streets are lined with uniquely painted craftsman houses and feature lush yards full of vegetation. People raised families there in this relatively safe neighborhood, and the streets were often filled with children and pets running around. They still are.

I’m addicted to the Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. I’m not kidding. One weekend, I watched six of them in a row. That’s 12 hours, including commercials, if you’re doing the math. I’ve viewed sixteen overall, and their cheesy, predictable plotline is outstanding.

I find myself in an awkward life-and-death situation. I need a bell, but if I buy my own, it will not work well. And if I ask for the bell, the one I receive will possess fewer protective properties. If I neither buy nor ask for the bell, it’s unlikely that I will get one. The consequences could be dire. Let me explain.

I know I’m not being politically correct, but I hate weddings. It’s not that I don’t like the institution of marriage — it’s the ceremony I can’t stand. It’s painful watching a couple agonize over the number of guests to invite, the size of the wedding cake, and the seating arrangement. And it’s uncomfortable to watch the couple say their vows. You see the stress on their faces that says: What did I just agree to? 

Gabby Star married my Grandpappy when he was a body-building swarthy hunk of a man and she had a Dolly Parton wig and waist. Gabriella Stella was Gabby Star’s given name but she preferred the anglicized Star lest someone miss the glorious implications of her naming. And Gabby to balance the glory with accessibility. And never Grandma, Nana, nothing to suggest she had lived long enough to see two generations birthed. Gabby Star preferred to be called nothing but Gabby Star. Unless it was a deep bass Baby from hunky Grandpappy across the room. That seemed permissible.