Today is my 41st birthday. Dr. Wife is taking me to our favorite local Italian place for dinner, and surprised me with a nice card and a cool LEGO set. I spent the morning selling two big-ticket items on Facebook Marketplace—both of which have been dangling around my neck like an albatross for weeks—and we’ll be attending the swearing-in of new Lamar Town Councilmembers this afternoon (my term is done).
More updates to come!
Happy Saturday!
—TPP
My chunky old girl, Murphy, turned twelve last Sunday, so I figured I should give the girl a bit more attention (both on the blog and in real life) with some recent Murphy posts:
Happy Sunday—and Happy Belated Twelfth Birthday, Murphy!
—TPP
Other Lazy Sunday Installments:
My old bull terrier, Murphy, turned a whopping twelve-years old this past Sunday. The average life expectancy for bull terriers is between eleven and thirteen years, but Murphy shows few signs of slowing down. Granted, she’s always been pretty slow, but she still gets the zoomies before bed and loves her rawhides (now she eats “rawhide-free” pork chomps, which are safer and better for her stomach).
Murphy has relaxed more as she’s gotten older, but she gets anxious around other dogs. I’m going to inquire about putting her on canine Prozac—Dr. Fiancée assures me it exists for dogs, and that Murphy would benefit from it—just so she can relax a bit more when she’s in unfamiliar environments. Like most modern Americans, and especially American women, Murphy may soon be taking an SSRI.
Regardless, Murphy is relaxed when it’s us hanging out. She spends more time sleeping now than she used to, and enjoys sticking to the bedroom, especially since I tossed the rug in the den (she doesn’t like the wood flooring on her nails and paws). But she is still a sweet, albeit sassy, old girl, and I love her dearly.
With that, here is “TBT^2: Happy Birthday, Murphy!“:
Today I am forty-years old.
It is also the first day that teachers are back to work after Christmas. You’d think we’d have this Friday off—the Friday I’ve waited to enjoy for forty years—but instead we have a mandatory professional development day to work on reaccreditation.
What could be more appropriately middle-aged than mandatory meetings?
I’ve officially reached Dwight Schrute levels of birthday significance:
I have not, indeed, cured cancer. I doubt I’ve cured much of anything beyond boring music (and I’ve probably created my fair share of that, too).
Despite my droll tone, I am actually really excited to be forty. I’m looking forward to this new decade in my life.
The 2023-2024 academic year was a brutal one for yours portly. I had developed this strange notion that I would not leave to see my fortieth birthday, which is one reason I composed so much in 2024; I felt like I needed to get it all out of my system before I succumbed to… something. I never quite identified why I thought I wouldn’t last the year—and as I am writing this on 19 December 2024, I suppose my dark consideration could become true, which would make this post truly macabre—but I think it was a combination of burnout, severe depression, and loneliness.
The Lord Works wonders, though. The current school year has been a true blessing. I’m deeply and sincerely in love with Dr. Girlfriend, and she is The Real Deal. Murphy is still kicking, defying the odds of an elderly, chunky dog. My spiritual life is back on track, and I am submitting myself to God fully.
2025 is a big year in the family, too. I’m forty today; my sister-in-law turns 40 in December. My Dad turns 70 in August, and my niece turns 10 the same month. My maternal grandfather will turn 90 in February, which further calls into question my thought that I was going to shed this mortal coil in 2024.
Things are looking up for yours portly. Ultimately, God Is in control, and He Could Allow the devil to Job me, but… well, let’s not tempt the hand of Fate, shall we? I am submitting to Him, and that has made all the difference.
Tomorrow I’ll be featuring a post about my plans and schemes for 2025. “The best laid plans of mice and men” and all that; still, I think it’s worthwhile to put it down in writing.
Thanks to everyone for your kind support and comments.
Here’s to 40!
—TPP
This past Saturday my sassy old bull terrier, Murphy, celebrated her eleventh birthday (humorously enough, she and my recent ex-girlfriend share the same birthday).
The old girl is doing well enough. I adopted Murphy when had just turned eight, and I can tell she is slowing down as the years progress. She still has a bout of the “zoomies” in the evenings before bedtime, but that usually wears her out. Mostly, she spends her days lounging like a diva and begging for scraps from me, her all-too-manipulable owner. As I write this post, she’s relaxing on the floor near me, and I can tell she is considering whether or not she wants to get up and go out—which, when she hears the clackety-clacking of my keyboard, she usually wants to do!
According to the American Kennel Club, the life expectancy for a bull terrier is between twelve and thirteen years, though I have known of bull terriers that live longer (interestingly enough, the miniature bull terrier has a similar life expectancy). Other than slowing down a bit, I don’t think Murphy is going anywhere anytime soon, but she is nearing the end of the breed’s average life expectancy.
Here’s hoping the old girl has at least a few more birthdays in her. She’s a good, albeit sassy, dog, and I’m thankful to have this chubby, stinky old diva in my life.
With that, here is 15 June 2023’s “TBT: Happy Birthday, Murphy!”
I’m very busy today and did not have a Lazy Sunday scheduled in advance. We celebrated my grandfather’s 89th birthday yesterday. It was all smiles:
Happy Sunday! I’ll be back with more posts soon.
—TPP
Today is my birthday. I’m thirty-nine today, drawing ever closer to forty.
Last year I was sick on my birthday. At the time of writing (around three weeks before my birthday—I’ve really been working ahead) I might be coming down with something again, but if I did get sick, let’s hope it’s cleared up by today.
Also like last year, I am back at work today. I’m used to that, as I frequently went back to school on my birthday growing up. Thanks to 2024’s leap year, my fortieth birthday will fall on a Friday, but from looking at my school’s 2024-2025 academic year calendar, I’ll be back at work that Friday, 3 January 2025 for a teacher workday. I can’t win!
Of course, when you get to my age—I write as though I am ancient—a birthday is just another day. I’ve never been one of those people who takes a day off for his birthday (although I might next year out of principle), and I’m happy to celebrate it with friends and family at whatever time is convenient. Indeed, I like it a bit better that way: I end up getting several weeks of various celebrations. Mwahahahaha!
Hmmm… perhaps I care more about my birthday than I let on. Whatever the case, I’m thankful for another year enjoying God’s Creation.
My sweet, bossy, chunky, lazy dog, Murphy, turns ten today! She is a bull terrier, a notoriously stubborn yet loyal breed. Here’s a picture of her from a few days ago:
I adopted Murphy in 2021 from the Bull Terrier Rescue Mission after her original owner turned her over to a North Carolina animal shelter. What a terrible thing to be abandoned after eight years!
But his callous decision was Murph’s gain—I hope!—and mine. We immediately took to each other, and while she loves many people, she’s always most excited when she sees me.
She is a good dog, and I consider myself fortunate to have her as my first. Other than her innate orneriness, extreme stubbornness, and tireless neediness, she’s perfect. Those might all sounds like criticisms, but they’re just part of what make her so special.
I love you, Murphy!
With that, here is 15 June 2022’s “Happy Birthday, Murphy!“:
Today is my birthday. I’m thirty-eight today, and on the downward slide towards forty.
Growing up, school always started back on my birthday, and this year is no different. I’ll be ringing in my thirty-eighth year with a long day of mind-molding, followed by a few after-school lessons.
I’m also sick, with the same mysterious respiratory malady that struck me last year. I can tell that I am on the mend—at least somewhat—at the time of writing, and I hope to wake up today breathing free, but I’m thinking it’s going to be a long day of popping cough drops and chugging water.
^Since writing that earlier on the day on Monday, my fever worsened. Here’s hoping it breaks overnight and I can get to work, but it’s possible yours portly will be sick on his birthday—and at home. I hate missing work if I can’t help it, so for me to contemplate taking a day off is a huge deal. An at-home test for The Virus came back negative, but I’m running a fever of 102.5-102.9 degrees Fahrenheit (Ponty, convert that into Celsius).
I was going to write a bit more about goals and aspirations for my thirty-eighth year, but I’m going to stop here. It’s time for a hot shower and some Vick’s Vapor Rub.
—TPP
Today my dog Murphy turns nine-years old. According to the records I have from The Bull Terrier Rescue Mission, she was born 15 June 2013, which is a pretty easy date to remember.
Last summer I suddenly, inexplicably went a bit dog crazy. I was not looking for a bull terrier at all, but stumbled upon one on at Petfinder. I spoke with a representative from BTRM, and we realized that that particular dog would not be a good fit for me due to his advanced age and delicate health issues.
She put my information into their database and said it might be a few months before a dog came available in my area. One week later, while moving a then-girlfriend to Athens, Georgia, I got a call from BTRM asking me to foster an older girl who was good with children and other dogs.
About ten days later, I had Murphy.
The Portly Politico 