My Ties

When my father went to the hereafter a couple of weeks ago, (First Class, by the way -- in the style to which he is accustomed) he left a bunch of ties. What a sense of humor, Father! You didn't seriously wear these things, did you?

But he did, and my mother mailed them to me from California. Brigitte warned me that I'd be without a partner if I wore some of them in public, but whaddyagonnado. They're my deceased dad's ties, for chrissakes! Gotta wear those! Do some penance! Show some respetto!

So it's a running battle: Brigitte, the insurgent, trying to loosen my Ties. Me, the Hero, trying to rescue every single one of them.

She hates stripes. Hey, Stripes are fine with me! Live and let live. My life revolved around stripes! My school tie, which I tied about eight billion times all by myself, was black with green diagonal stripes! That's EIGHT BILLION, people! Not seven!

Therefore, I LIKE STRIPES.

I sense a battle looming. Thank God she rarely reads this blog, or I'd find myself in Goodfellas with a chef's knife poised over my chest.