As sure as the sunburn on my face, little league baseball in Iuka held its Opening Day this past Saturday. The first column I wrote exactly one year ago was about Opening Day 2022. Some things …
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As sure as the sunburn on my face, little league baseball in Iuka held its Opening Day this past Saturday. The first column I wrote exactly one year ago was about Opening Day 2022.
Some things changed: the concession stand folks got a new grill, robbing us of a year’s worth of seasoning burned into the old grill by burgers cooked by various nonprofessionals who were guilted into missing a few innings of their child’s game so the league could make three dollars off a grandparent who believes that three dollars bought both the burger and the right to complain about the concession stand line.
Many folks say the burgers were never better than when jail trustees did the grilling at the fields for community service but, as your County Prosecutor, I’d hate to put myself in the ethical quandary of asking for an extra week of time for offenders with short order cook experience to get us through the season.
Some things stay the same: I was surprised I got sunburned. I sat out there, open-mouthed and staring like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, baking in the sun for hours, and then I had the audacity to be surprised when I took off my t-shirt that night and it felt like I was also peeling my skin off.
The same exact thing happened to me last year. I even wrote about it in a column published in this newspaper! It was like I was in Groundhog Day, but if it was directed by the guy that did Saw. No sunburn is like Opening Day sunburn, either. It’s early in the year, so the sun isn’t directly overhead making it hit you at weird angles. Somehow, I am burned on my neck, my left thigh at my shorts line and my right forearm.
It also got me on my left cheek. So, at Sunday’s Palm Sunday Service, I looked like my wife had given me her palm right across the face. I doubt anybody thought she was saying “Hosanna in the Highest” when she did it, either. And then, of course, there are some things you just never see coming: like your wife hiring a professional mediator to negotiate how many columns a month you can write about her.
I’m just kidding, my sainted wife would never waste money when some good ol’ passive-aggressiveness will get me to break within five minutes.
That reminds me - as summer approaches and wedding season will soon be upon us, a word of advice to all of you husbands to be: once you ask your wife, “Are you mad at me?”, you’ve already lost. Even if you didn’t know you were in an argument; you are toast.
Because, frankly, there’s like 30 reasons at all times a wife could be mad at her husband at any given time. We could have forgotten to buy flowers, or an anniversary, or to pick up the firstborn child for an hour after soccer practice. But, usually, wives push that anger down for the good of the family. She’s got too much sweat equity invested in you and she doesn’t want to have to learn the names of another man’s relatives.
Plus, it would be a shame to ruin that new manicure choking you to death in your sleep after you liked your ex-girlfriend’s Instagram post. So, when your new bride is sighing but, like, aggressively sighing; or she responds to your question, “Do you mind if I skip your little sister’s dance recital and go watch Cocaine Bear with the boys?” with a tear and a “I guess I’ll just have to watch Cocaine Bear by myself!”; or, worst of all, she won’t respond to anything you say at all - do not fill that silence with “Are you mad at me?” because YES, SHE IS, YOU BUFFOON and she shouldn’t have to tell you!
The only way to avoid a fight in that situation is to respond to her silence with your own silence. I don’t care if the two of you don’t speak for a week - if you speak first you won’t stop apologizing until you end up at Moore’s Jewelry spending two weeks’ salary on something called an anklet. Nine times out of ten, she will forgive you and break the silence.
Of course, the one time out of ten she strangles you in your sleep, so maybe you ought to learn to say, “Sorry.”
Anyway, thanks readers for a fun year. And, to my sainted wife, I’m truly sorry.