My wife may or may not be marooned up north in the far hinterlands of lower South Jersey. (Ever wonder where hobbits come from?) But I have escaped once again into the fantasies of the past, as is my wont.

She doesn’t recall, or even recollect, that I used to drive the entire length of the lawn on our little garden tractor. I was a veritable miniature farmer. ‘Back in the day.’ (Have I mentioned that that’s one of my most hated phrases of the decade, along with “body of work” as applied to football players?) Sorry. Body of work. I — forget it. Now it applies to running backs; it used to apply to artists and writers. Michelangelo had a body of work. Barry Sanders had a yardage total. But what do I know? I have so many different bodies of work you’d fall asleep listening to all the categories.

Where were we? Oh yeah. Probably, every guy has a memory of a movie he scouted on his own and showed his wife that she actually liked. Doesn’t happen often, does it? Here’s mine. Why? Because it’s a Snow Day, and because she actually trilled like a little girl, and then she cried, which she never ever does. Cry, I mean.

Three parts.

Yeah. This is the one I showed Lady Laird that knocked her socks off. The source of all my movie credibility.

P.S. Can’t help noticing that nobody’s commented on Michelle’s little tantrum. She can’t be that mad, can she?