We celebrate two anniversaries every year. This year is the 26th year that I’ve delivered a Limoges Box with poem that we call our “Limogesaversary.” However, I cut some corners this year with a Shamrock box from Bernardaud rather than the accredited Limoges sources. With most of my spending money going for medical expenses, I did the best I could. They are not really what we call “No-Moges” because they are still French made, but obviously less expensive than those bearing the “Paint Main” identification. The second box celebrates our 24th wedding anniversary – 2 for one. We’ll also be attending the Queen Nation concert the night of our actual date. Also see Post #2675 – St. Pat’s for the rest of the story. 

Anniversary Thoughts

Twenty-Four years,

And little to spare.

But a plate for spaghetti,

And a poem to share.

 

The box is not authentic,

But the message sincere.

“Happy Anniversary” dear,

Tho’ it’s been a tough year.

 

You’ve been very patient,

Loving and kind.

I’m not a good patient,

Whimpered and whined.

 

I’ve hobbled along,

Tired of the pain.

Done what I can,

On walker and cane.

 

You’ve slept at my bedside,

Worried and cried.

And when I’ve been lost,

You’ve been my guide.

 

These are favors,

I wish not to return.

I wish you good health,

Hope it’s never your turn.

 

We’ve traveled the world,

A home with a pool.

Living the dream,

“Miss Denise” teaching school.

 

A happy pup,

And her older sister.

Plus, my Cutie Pie lover,

Just wanna Kiss her.

 

Kids on both coasts,

Friends that come stay.

Wonderful neighbors,

Resort life to play.

 

Another year,

Has passed us by.

All we’ve been through,

I wonder WHY?

 

Next year foretells promise,

Let’s hope for the best.

Our love conquers all,

Positivity our quest.

As I continue to struggle with sciatica pain in my left leg, my wife did not hesitate to invite the neighborhood to our house to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Since this event happened over a week ago, I’ve since met with my surgeon and have a L4-L5 spinal fusion scheduled for next week. Wish me Luck!

St. Pat’s 

A party for 60,

Your husband a gimp.

No help from him,

He walks with a limp.

 

No luck from the Irish,

You organized it all.

Then cleaned it all up,

And repaired the wall.

 

You made it look easy,

Took time for bridge.

Dyed the beer green,

Sliders in the Fridge.

 

You’re the party queen,

In your grass skirt.

You make me proud,

Even when I hurt.

 

Not a true Limoges,

Though at least made there.

No “Peint Main” mark,

As I’m sure you’re aware.

 

Our cash cupboard is bare,

Did the best that I could.

So I honor Twenty-six,

With this poem, as I should.

 

Another Limogesaversary,

The first was Ninety-Nine.

Soon a Queen Nation concert,

For the date I made you mine.

 

I love you more,

Each and every day.

Here’s to remembering,

A Happy St. Pat’s Day.

As we head back to Indiana in a week, I’ve prepared this poem for a group of eight media friends celebrating their 70th birthdays:

Six Ad Chicks and Two Dicks

As we enter old age,

We honor six Ad Chicks,

And a couple of sales pimps,

Known as the “Two Dicks.”

 

We forgot a few,

I have no doubt.

But like so many buys,

Some were just left out.

 

We party at the Mousetrap,

This family of Media friends.

And will blow out the candles,

Before the evening ends.

 

England, Kaiser, Albrecht,

Reilly, Flora, and Roman Chicks,

You all don’t look your age,

Warner, Harbin Birthday Dicks.

 

Septuagenarians unite,

No, I didn’t say SEX.

Back then, it was calls,

Not e-mails and texts.

 

“The client has needs,”

Numbers to crunch.

Settling our differences,

Over a cocktail lunch.

 

Agencies and Media,

Never on level ground.

One rounds up,

The other down.

 

Arbitron ratings,

Were still a thing.

Stuck at our desks,

Ring, phone, ring.

 

It wasn’t as though,

We could take it along.

Plugged in the wall,

The cord not so long. 

 

The phone was your friend,

Or the nagging enemy.

What’s my share?

Came the desperate plea.

 

Billboards and print,

Added so many choices,

Does the client prefer,

Pictures or Voices?

 

Let the Buyer Beware,

And the Seller prepared.

Or those promised spots,

May not get aired.

 

Your insert or display ad,

Might not be placed.

Then a disgruntled buyer,

Had to be Faced.

 

Being Queens,

And dealing with Jokers.

It often led,

To heavy smokers.

 

There once was no cable,

Podcasts or streams.

We all had comp tickets,

To follow our teams.

 

Events and concerts,

Payola galore.

Trips made the bad buys,

Hard to ignore.

 

Another powerpoint,

Stacks of Media kits.

But If you agree,

I’ll get you in the Pits.

 

And in retirement,

There’s no front row seats.

Back Stage passes,

Or fancy suites.

 

So glad we got together,

Before more of us departs.

And those who couldn’t make it,

Are forever in our hearts.

 

Happy Birthday to you….

 

As promised, here is the summary poem of our Disney/Portland trip to celebrate my wife’s birthday. We stayed with her daughter, who works for Nike, and husband who is campaigning for City Council. We went to some of our favorite restaurants like Apizza Scholls, Salt & Straw, Buffalo Wild Wings, and Ling’s, after our final Disney dinner with my family in Orlando at Be Our Guest. We ventured into wine country with friends, visited the Portland Art Museum and other downtown haunts, and took their dogs, Ham (who barked at me incessantly) and Falco, to the Thousand Acre Park. I continued to struggle with my legs, but their vehicles shuttled me close to all of our destinations. The final Bridgerton episodes were on Netflix, a service we no longer subscribe, so we watched on their projection screen, ate fresh morel mushrooms from the farmer’s market, drank wine, and went to a Portland Pickle’s baseball game. Before we left, we stopped by Powell’s Bookstore where they were married five years ago and caught some magnificent glimpses of Mount Hood. Once again, you had to be there to understand all the subtle, humorous nuances of this particular poem. We’ll see them again in January. 

C.U. in January

Disney Grey Stuff,

Beauty and the Beast.

For a family of 6,

A Pricey feast.

 

Dreaded presentation,

For Marriott bucks.

Off to the airport,

Middle seat sucks.

 

Midnight arrival,

Baggage delay.

Barely get there,

Before THE birthday.

 

Screen door lunch,

Apizza pie.

No Birthday Bear,

But Megan buys.

 

Mitch campaigning,

But time to make eggs.

Mike having issues,

With cramps in his legs.

 

But walked a Thousand Acres,

And peed behind a tree.

Let my natural instincts,

Take ahold of me.

 

Wings with Matt,

Bridgerton finale.

Remembering walks,

With Falco and Tally.

 

With the IU gang,

At Domaine Willamette,

In case you’re wondering,

It’s Wag-yu, dammit.

 

Pasta Allora,

Flor wine.

Farmer’s Market,

Morels to dine.

 

Art Museum,

Monet and shoes.

Salt and Straw,

Mount Hood views.

 

Stranger Danger,

Ham annoyed.

His growls and bark,

Hard to avoid.

 

Golf Shuttle,

Ling farewell.

Suitcases packed.

New truck smell.

 

Once amused,

By drinking Dickel.

My new favorite,

Is “Pickle, Pickle, Pickle!”

 

A stop at Powell’s,

But not to Marry!

If not Next Tuesday,

C.U. in January.

Copyright 2024 johnstonwrites.com

 

Another birthday and another Limoges gift for my wife. The tradition continued after several frustrating attempts to provide some memories from our Egypt/London adventure. A broken box was delivered (I jokingly patched it with a Band-aid), then a second effort failed to be mailed, while a third attempt turned out to be a duplicate. Finally, I settled on Stonehenge to celebrate her 68th. We were off to Disney World and Portland with great expectations, as portrayed in this poem:

More with Every Year

London landmarks,

Were twice broken.

Booth and Bridge,

Band-Aid jokin’.

 

And with so many,

In your collection.

A duplicate order,

Upon inspection.

 

But on these boxes,

I continue to binge.

As we go to places,

Like Stonehenge.

 

Compared to Egypt,

Not too impressed.

But, this pile of stones,

A bucket list quest.

 

I would build such,

Monuments for you.

But, lacking handy skills,

Wouldn’t know what to do.

 

Bluey and Disney World,

Lead up to your Birthday.

But being with your Megan,

Makes it a special day.

 

Flight into Portlandia,

Ling’s, Apizza, and wine.

Another brief glimpse,

Of the White Stag sign. 

 

Wishing you,

A five-peak day.

Banana Cake,

And kitty play.

 

“So Happy Together,

With Falco and Ham.

Then to the spa,

For some glam.

 

Fosse and Tally,

Schnauzerville bound.

With Pee on the floor,

As she comes unwound.

 

But we’ll be back,

In eleven short days.

To watch her attack,

The dry food maize.

 

It’s time to turn,

Another page.

And you’ll be closer,

To my dreaded age. 

 

Happy sixty-eight,

Let it be clear.

I love you more,

With every year. 

copyright 2024 johnstonwrites.com

 

The trip itself will be summarized in the next poem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Continued from Post #2543. Written for an upcoming 70th birthday party:

Seventy times Two!

I attended the 40th,

When we were just kids.

And since that time,

We’ve all hit the skids!

 

Zoomin’ and Dickeling,

Are now in the past.

These thirty years,

Have gone by fast.

 

Juneteenth is now,

A National Holiday.

My wife, Denise, born,

The very same day.

 

The banks are closed,

Or I’d enclose checks.

And today’s your best chance,

To beg for some sex.

 

Instead, you get,

Another rhyme.

But there won’t be,

A next time.

 

We know Tim’s got,

And Karen, too!

Tom Walton genes,

But “E,” NOT you!

 

I’d suggest a shot,

Or two, on a dare.

But that’s not covered,

By Medicare.

 

The bald truth,

Is under those caps.

Let’s get this over,

And return to our naps.

 

We’re still neighbors,

Though far away.

Wishing you both,

A Happy Birthday!

 

Copyright 2024 Johnstonwrites.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been a tough week since returning from our cross-Atlantic adventure. I haven’t felt much like sitting down at the keyboard after bouts with dizziness and nausea. Initially, I thought I might have Covid, but the test proved negative. I sat down at my desk on Monday and the room began to spin. Maybe in the back of my mind I was suffering from Tax Day, but I had already sent in my pound of flesh before the trip. My wife was playing bridge, while I watched our new schnauzer puppy, Fosse and her sister Tally. Otherwise, I was ready to settle into a homebound routine. By dinner time, I had the chills, lost the chocolate that filled my stomach, and couldn’t maintain any sense of balance.

I was hard pressed to remember the last time I was this sick, undoubtedly vulnerable after heart surgery. I was soon in bed under a pile of blankets but still couldn’t control the chill spasms that racked my body. Also, my head was pounding like the Iron Claw had a death grip on me. In the past, I would have probably recovered by morning, but the day was spent on the couch with a diet of plain toast, rice, and sips of Gatorade. My wife picked up my grandson at the bus stop and prepared for her first day of school in more than a month. She also had an evening Zoom meeting with her former high school classmates as they finalized details for their 50th reunion. I struggled to set up the computer. 

Wednesday wasn’t much better. Dog duty was a hassle, and the grandkids were coming over to see the new puppy. We ordered for Pizza Boss delivery. I took a couple of Nyquil Cold & Sinus Nighttime tablets to knock me out. By morning, I suffered another relapse and made a doctor’s appointment. All the energy I had went into binging of the Stormy documentary and the series, Truth be Told. I tried to go for a walk but was just too weak and unsteady.  I was not looking forward to driving my wife to and from school the next morning, along with picking up my grandson, and running a slew of errands in between. There would be no time for a nap before our Borrego Street get-together in the evening. 

An early alarm set me scurrying for dog duty, followed be a quick shower and drive to school. The doctor then scheduled me for a MRI, wanting to take a look at my inner ear. I picked up a prescription for Dramamine, got a haircut, shuttled my wife home, mailed a package, and delivered my grandson home from the bus stop. It turned out to be a nice evening with the neighbors, but I had little energy. 

Today is our 23rd wedding anniversary. We were married in Las Vegas at the Bellagio. My wife had already bought herself some pearl earrings on the cruise, claiming them as an early gift from me. We’re headed to the Pink Elephant in Boca Grande for dinner. I wrote this poem to celebrate the occasion:

Pink Elephant 

Not too much to drink,

Or a hallucinogenic pill.

I saw a Pink Elephant,

And it was a thrill.

 

We dined there, too,

In a romantic light.

As the sun sets,

On our anniversary night.

 

Gasparilla Island,

Surrounded by Gulf.

Where the privileged play,

Tennis and  golf.

 

No more pirates,

Just Bush and Saban.

Snowbirds abound,

A tropical haven.

 

Boca Grande,

With its beaches nearby.

As we drove the miles,

Under a sunny Blue Sky.

 

It’s the perfect spot,

For a Twenty third.

No flying Elephants,

Bird is the word.

 

I want to express,

My love for you.

Because of all,

The things you do.

 

My wife, best friend,

And nurse of late.

Travel companion,

And dining date.

 

You cook and clean,

Without much help.

While mothering two pups,

The newest full of “whelp.”

 

My go-go girl,

You’re always busy.

Maybe it’s you,

Making me dizzy?

 

Afternoon bridge,

Aqua-fit and tap.

While elderly me,

Takes a nap.

 

You thrive on friends,

And party planning.

And if there’s time,

Poolside tanning.

 

You love the beach,

And your golf cart.

Thanks for giving,

Your whole heart.

 

I couldn’t ask

For any better.

Lover, Looker,

And Go-Getter.

 

Twenty-four hundred miles,

From where we said I do.

I’d do it all again,

As long as it’s with you.

 

Copyright 2024 johnstonwrites.com