I generally only watch nature shows on television when I want to appear as though I’m educating myself about something important, like the plight of the prematurely balding Rogainian monkey, when in fact I’m actually planning to do an independent study of the REM sleeping pattern on our couch.
However, while watching a documentary about the Kangaroo Sanctuary in Alice Springs, Australia, I discovered something I never knew:
I want my own kangaroo.
As I watched three babies snuggle together in a blanket and play with each other’s big floppy ears, I inadvertently let out a sound that my wife mistakenly thought was a joyful whimper.
“Was that you?” she asked from the dining room.
“What? No WAY! Ha Ha! It was the kangaroo babies.”
“It sounded like it came from the couch.”
“Must be the Surround Sound,” I said. Continue reading I’d even be willing to settle for a Wallaby

n, by their very nature, are grillers of food. If you follow me on 
I’m not sure what my parents were thinking when they had sex 50 years and 9 months ago.
As I 

I don’t have good-looking legs.
Eight years ago tomorrow, I stood at the altar, watching as my wife crossed the courtyard toward the church. I remember smiling so much my cheeks hurt; I remember the pride and appreciation I felt knowing I was about to be her husband; and I remember a momentary breeze lifting a strand of hair away from her face, like God’s finger gently brushing it aside as she entered the chapel.