Impressions

Observations from a slightly frozen fellow who says or does what guys most often do … the wrong thing.
While vigorously ringing my Salvation Army “ding-a-ling” bell outside Kingston Food City the past couple of weeks, I picked up on a trend.
I spied a steady stream of guys toting out red roses.
Most carried out a single bud.
Others juggled at least a dozen.
“Hmmm … must be in the doghouse.”
I’m going to have to check with the Food City marketing director to see if he’s noticed a measurable increase in sales in that category lately.
Unscientific research — based completely on observation and my own experiences — suggests more than one of my fellow Roane County gentlemen either said or did something that put them in the crosshairs of their wife’s wrath.
Hence, a suspected up-tick in floral department successes.
Pretty much every morning, a couple or three of us guys here at the office report in about our doghouse status.
It’s really pretty simple. We always have some sort of proximity to the doghouse. We’re either under it, in it, just about in it, just about out of it … or, worst of all … unsure.
The latter condition means we suspect the loves of our lives are digging a hole in some remote and hidden spot where our spouses are planning on clandestinely disposing of our remains before collecting on our life insurance policies.
We brush off the menace to our well-being  with the reminder to one another that while we are relatively well educated and well insured, we can’t quite summon enough sense to keep our mouths shut.
There’s no “brave talk” between any of us. We’re clearly understand our stations in life.
I find the conversation therapeutic. It’s nice to hear that my colleagues are in the same boat and that we all share in the occasional “misery-loves-company” state of being.
Seriously, none of us are miserable. While our wives may think our behavior is, we’re of the opinion we’re just overgrown boys who have chosen not to grow up.
Given a series of recent events in all of our lives, I suspect at least the three of us should be visiting a floral department in short order.
My colleagues might get by with it. As for me, well, it would only make matters worse.
You see, I well remember the time I surprised the boss with a dozen roses.
I sent them to her classroom at the middle school where she’s taught for nigh on 30 years.
That particular evening, she came home sobbing.
She looked up at me and asked,  “Are you having an affair?”
Needless to say, that’s not the case.
Since before we married, I promised her my only mistress would be the newspaper.
I still feel that way.
Good or bad, depending on who’s looking at it from what perspective, when not with Kimberly, I pour my life into this living, breathing thing called the Roane County News.
What I do wonder — especially this time of the year — is if someone else is watching.
I suppose I will find out come Saturday morning.
Because, don’t you know …
“Oh! You better watch out, You better not cry, You better not pout, I’m telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! He’s making a list, He’s checking it twice, He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town!”
It’s my hope Little Johnny didn’t make the naughty side of the Big Guy’s ledger.
Merry Christmas, guy friends.
Here’s hoping you are FOR SURE on Santa’s nice list!
And Merry Christmas to the rest of you as well.
A special Christmas wish goes out to you ladies who have to put up with overgrown boys with loose lips and a penchant for their own doghouse inducing phrases: How’s about keeping Christmas in your heart all year ’round?
Guys like them, us and me will most certainly appreciate it!
Ho! Ho! Ho!