paul·a·ver

“Can I take sushi for lunch tomorrow,” Evan asked at dinner last night.

There were some 49 reasonable people and me in the pool of potential jurors.

“I’m not a bad dad just because I stink at pinewood derby.”

At Ramsi’s Cafe on the World, where one can order a fusion of Iberian and Thai, Mexican and Turkish, or any number of other surprising blends, we sit at a round table, Steve and Jessica, David and Jeanne, Jenn and I, talking Cub Scouts, expressive therapy, yoga, and Boy’s Night, when our table is filled with paella, Jamaican chicken, calamari, and lentils.

“You’re kinda prone to extreme activities aren’t you?” The surgeon asks. I’ve come in for my follow up after gallbladder removal and umbilical hernia repair, and he’s just green-lighted me for “aerobic activities,” but I want specifics.