It’s a Beautiful Thing

Defining My Own Happiness

I am not known for my smiling, sunny countenance. I smile when I have reason to, otherwise, generally, my face is an expressionless mask. My wife has told me that sometimes she can’t tell if I’m having a good time or not. However, despite what some people think, I do experience happiness. So, in today’s essay, I will share some of the wonders of life that bring me happiness.

A bowl of butter pecan ice cream.

I think I have mentioned this before. I love me some butter pecan ice cream. It has been said I am nuts for nuts, and it is so true. I like nuts of all kinds and I’ll eat practically anything that has nuts in it.

Here’s the shocker, though. The pecans in the butter pecan ice cream are not my favorite part. What I like best about it, is when the outer edges get just a little bit melty. It is heavenly when that buttery, creamy, melty goodness overwhelms my insides as it slides on down my gullet. Outwardly, I may not be smiling when I have a bowl of butter pecan ice cream, but inside, I’m grinning all over the place. For those moments, I am indeed a happy boy.

Such a pretty sight.

Hanging with Pearl.

My happiness quotient goes way up when Pearl sits on my lap or between my lower legs. In the winter, our house is a bit on the cool side, so I’ll have a blanket on my legs and she’ll get up under there and we’ll keep each other warm. In the summer, when the house is warm, we rarely have a blanket, but we still like being together. I would guess I get more out of it than she does.

I often say when Pearl is hanging with me, she is in her happy place. Actually, the truth is, when we’re together, I am in my happy place.

Pearl and me, sharing our happy place.

Pitchers who throw strikes.

I’ve watched a lot of baseball games over the years. To me, watching a pitcher throw strikes consistently is a thing of beauty. Pitchers who cannot throw strikes just drive me crazy.

I really enjoy a well-pitched, well-played game. I like a pitcher who pitches efficiently, who has excellent control of all his pitches, who knows the difference between pitching and throwing, and seems to have an idea as to what he is trying to accomplish out there. The best pitch in baseball is not a 100 mph fastball, or a sharp-breaking curveball. No, the best pitch in baseball is “Strike One”.

Pittsburgh’s super rookie Paul Skenes paints the corner to the great Shohei Ohtani.

Blue Sky by The Allman Brothers Band

Listening to Blue Sky just kind of makes me feel happy. It was released in 1972 on the album Eat a Peach, and was written by the late, great Dickey Betts, who also sang lead and shared lead guitar licks with Duane Allman. The lyrics are joyful and optimistic:

Don't fly mister blue bird, I'm just walkin' down the road
Early morning sunshine, tell me all I need to know, oh

And:

You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day
Lord, you know it makes me high
When you turn your love my way
Turn your love my way, yeah

In addition to the lyrics, the sweet guitars of Dickey Betts and Duane Allman contribute greatly to the happiness of the song. I am not musically sophisticated or knowledgeable enough to describe why this is, all I know is those guitars produce a joyful sound.

I can be all mopey, then when I hear Blue Sky, my day brightens. Of course, when the song is over, I go back to being mopey. But, for those five minutes and twelve seconds, the mopes go away.

A clean kitchen.

I get a warm feeling all over when I walk into our nice, clean kitchen. And, guess what? I do not mind being the one who cleans it. Yeah, I said it and I don’t care who knows it.

Now, I know some husbands out there who might be thinking, “Come on, Norm, buddy, what the hell are you doing? That’s woman’s work, man. You’re going to mess it up for the rest of us.”

My reply would be, “I lived by myself for a long time before I met my wife and I got used to cleaning up around the house. We both live here and we both contribute to messing the place up, so why shouldn’t I contribute to cleaning it? And, anyway, mind your own goddamn business.”

After I have scoured the sink, and cleaned off the counter tops, and put stuff away, and after I have secured the appreciation of my wife for what I have done, I feel prettay, prettay, prettay good. What’s wrong with that? Not a darn thing.

Pearl admiring my clean kitchen.

When Donald Felonious fucks up.

Anyone who has read my stuff knows how much I hate the convicted felon who, to our country’s everlasting shame, somehow became the 45th President of the United States. Hate that bastard. I abhor everything about him. So, how does he, of all people, make my happy list? Simple. I get a tremendous kick out of when Donald Felonious fucks up.

There are so many examples from which to choose. Recently, he was blathering (when isn’t he blathering) about how his former White House physician administered a “test” to measure his cognitive abilities. The Orange Turd has bragged about this ‘“test” many times, claiming that he “aced” it.

Anyway, he was blathering about this “test”, and he screwed up the name of his own White House physician! Kept calling him Ronny Johnson! His name is Ronny Jackson! Jackson, you shriveled up prune-brained moron, not Johnson! Stupid idiot has no right whatsoever to question anyone else’s cognitive abilities.

Now, certainly, Donald Felonious has done many, many things much worse than this. He’s weak, he’s a loser, he’s a coward, he’s a liar, and he’s a convicted felon, after all. And, there is plenty of evidence of his cognitive decline, too. He has confused Nancy Pelosi with Nikki Haley. He thought a picture of E Jean Carroll was a picture of his second wife. He goes on incomprehensible tangents about sharks and batteries and famous fictional cannibals.

So, while bragging about his superior brain power, he screws up the name of his doctor. I found this particular serving of irony quite delicious. I do not laugh out loud much, however, this episode made me guffaw with glee. And, it takes a hell of a lot to make me guffaw, I’ll have you know. Especially with glee.

And when this malignant orange tumor is excised from American society for good, oh my, I’ll really show the world some gleefulness the likes of which have never been seen before. I’ll have a smile on my face that could not be removed by a bulldozer. Can’t wait.

Former Physician to the President and current Orangenoser MAGA moron and US Congressman, Ronny Johnson . . .er . . . Jackson.

Springtime.

I detest the cold ugliness of winter so much, I can’t help but love the onset of spring. The days get longer and warmer, the trees and plants shed their deathly winter dormancies and become green and beautiful again. We can take the heavy blankets off the bed in favor of lighter sheets and bedspreads, and I begin to believe, once again, all is right with the world.

In fact, spring makes my heart sing! Ah . . . okay . . . got a little carried away there. My heart never “sings”. But, I surely do love spring.

A lovely field of dandelions on a warm spring day.

A well-written essay by me.

I always feel happy when I post a new essay. Some folks might find this hard to believe, but, I spend a lot of time on some of these postings. I borderline obsess over commas and phrasing. I make every effort I can to not sound like a complete dumbass.

Then, once I reach the point where I can accept what I’ve written, once it has passed whatever internal obstacles I put in its path, once I believe it is good enough for public consumption, I schedule it for posting and get a feeling of accomplishment and, dare I say, happiness. It’s a beautiful thing.

Not going to lie, it feels even better if the post gets lots of views and likes, and inspires lots of folks to subscribe. But, if it doesn’t, well, that’s okay. If the rest of the world does not like what I have written, I’ll still be happy with it. Because I will know what the essay and I had to go through to make it publishable. By remembering the process, I feel happiness with each post. Even if I am the only one.

To visit one of my happiest of happy places, click on the button below! Enjoy!

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