It has been difficult for me to do any personal writing for the last few days. That is how busy I have been, writing for the two newspapers and attending holiday events.

And no, I am not complaining. It has been ages since I’ve been invited to a dinner party or to attend a festive gathering and not expected to write about it.

I will complain about a lack of mistletoe, though.

Along with these things, I also have my usual chores to complete. Since my wife works outside the house and I work from home, for the most part, I do much of the laundry, including making beds.

Of course, I also get the occasional ‘honey-do’ list, which isn’t so bad. Oddly, holiday events have become the difficult thing.

Why? I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut and only listen.

So, what am I saying as I spin this post into something more extended than it need be? If I’d be quiet and listen, I’d probably have something decent to write and worth reading.

Now, to deal with the limited time I have each day because two hours of sleep every night is far too much to maintain such a crazy schedule.

I don’t get nearly enough credit for all the things I manage not to say.

Do you know why God didn’t allow dogs to speak? To teach us that love and loyalty are demonstrated by actions and not words

I can’t believe it’s Omicron season already. I still have my Delta Variant decorations on display.

Wrapping Presents is Folding Laundry’s asshole cousin.

Home is where you trust the toilet seat.

When born, her parents saw nothing but a bright future ahead for their only child, a daughter they named Sally. But try as hard as they could, though an attentive and imaginative little girl now a toddler, she refused to talk.

Then one day, when she was out of her parent’s sight, she found a bobby pin on the floor and proceeded to slip it into an electrical wall outlet. The results were as expected, with a power surge vacating the home and the child shouting in pain.

Sally’s parents spent the next fifteen years trying to shut her up, and were thankful when she went to college.

Omicron, when unscrambled, is Moronic

Since the economic downturn of 2008, we have used a plastic Christmas tree instead of fetching one ourselves from the forest or paying for one already cut and sitting in the corner of some near-deserted parking lot. Last night, I promised I would bring it inside so my wife could decorate it.

First, I combed the garage for the red and green container I put it in last year. I did not locate it, but I did find our outdoor Christmas lights and hauled them in to make sure they still work.

Next, I rummaged through the containers in our shed. Again, nothing.

Frustrated, I looked through the closets, in the crawl space beneath our home, and inside the attic area that we sealed off with R-13 insulation to save energy. Still, I could not find the damned thing.

My wife came home from work, and I told her about not finding the tree. She looked at the red and green plastic storage box I had dragged in earlier in the day, the one with the outside lights.

“Did you look in that one?” she asked.

Sheepishly, I answered, “No.”

She opened it up, and guess what was right on top.

Our Roomba beat me to an M&M, I dropped on the floor. This is how the war against the machine started.