God knows I have enough on my mind. Most of us do. And how do we spend our days? Checking off tasks on a thought list. Get the kids to school. Go to work. Get the kids to band practice. Go back to work. Pick up food. Pick up kids from band practice. Go home. Mentally practice being calm for the wife and kids. Return phone calls and emails. Tell the wife she is appreciated. Tell the kids they are not. It takes a pretty awesome thought process to keep all that straight.

The stuff that rambles around in a normal human's brain each and every moment of each and every day is enough to confuse a stone. Hell, I spend most of my daily thought reciting over and over again all of my account screen names and passwords. One day, I will have them all memorized. That will surely happen the day before someone hacks into half of those accounts.

But thought lists certainly are not limited to the nuts and bolts of everyday life. Those necessary thoughts bouncing around in the brain like neutrons are nothing compared to other things like depression, love, life cycles, jealousy, self-worth, and all the stuff that really drives us crazy.  Eventually, in any given day, our brain runs out of space for further thought.

We are saturated. Beyond saturated, really. There is just no room for anything more in our brains. At those times, all we should be required to do is to find a warm and comfortable setting on a sofa somewhere and watch a re-run of a 1970's Suzanne Somers' made-for-TV movie.

The other day I was at a local grocery store. I noticed an older couple pushing their cart full of groceries to their car. There was no conversation. Just two old grocery shoppers alone with thought lists of their own. Then I heard the woman say to the man the words my brain and I just cannot handle. Judging by the man's reaction, he was mentally reciting account names and passwords, too. He had no response at all. After hearing the woman's word's, I did focus on the man's jaw. Yeh. He said nothing audible. But his jaw was as clinched as a hungry gator's on a side of beef. And he was grinding those molars, too. He knows what I am talking about.

At the very moment one's thought list has reached capacity, a spouse or someone will invariably say what the old woman said to her husband that day: “Remind me to call Barbara. I need to get her squash recipe.”

So what was she actually saying?

“My own thought list has reached capacity, and surely YOU have nothing going on in there, so think for me, okay Sweetie?!”

The nerve of the old woman! She has reached thought capacity, so, instead of, oh I don't know, maybe WRITING THE REMINDER DOWN, she chooses to load up on the husband's brain. Why is her spare brain space more valuable than his? Is she not at all aware that the old man has account numbers and passwords and such to memorize and process? How dare she dump one more thing – HER thing - on the already over saturated brain of someone else?

Thought invasion should be criminalized. Hell, I would even vote for Ron Paul if he would promise to issue an Executive Order criminalizing “remind me's.” But until such time as a government leader can do such a thing, may I suggest that you do what I do when confronted with these inconsiderate impositions. Begin the reminding process no more than five seconds after the request, and repeat the reminder every ten seconds until the spouse or whoever does what you were asked to remind them to do.

Or until the spouse tells you to go to hell.

Whichever comes first.

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Look, my child has faults. His 27th birthday was last week, and while I'd like to continue the praise and celebration of the young man, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't acknowledge his flaws.

He's a good man, and I love him dearly. But he “married up.” Now that's to his credit. Not a flaw at all. She just happens to be better than him. He knows it. I know it. He tells her that.

But his flaws? He eats way ...

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I gotta tell you guys, I'm confused here. I am writing this on Friday night, December 30. I like to write on Friday nights. But frankly, I don't even know what I am writing about. That's just how confused I am.

As much as my life would seem to indicate otherwise, I do treasure routine. Many times I feel like my routine is to have no routine at all. Maybe that has never been truer than this New Year's weekend.

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I don't know y'all. New Year's Eve has always puzzled me. You get drunk, put on silly hats, and wait until some magical moment to kiss the woman you are with. At the same time, I understand the logic behind it all. After all, wouldn't a woman have to be drunk to kiss a man wearing a “Welcome 2012” hat?

As I recall, one time when I was a young college student, I traveled to Atlanta for New Years. I was there with some ...

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I'm really not a scrooge. Now some folks who know me well might be saying, “What?” But I'm really not. The pressure is just getting to me, y'all.

The pressure of Christmas. You know, the pressure you feel when little Johnny wants a $300 Play Station at the same time the power company wants a $400 bill paid – from AUGUST.

The pressure you feel to be home on time for the pre-Christmas neighborhood ...

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As if the poor woman needed an annual event to drive her even deeper into emotional crisis and anxiety, along came Christmas for Mama. Every year around December 15 or even later, without fail, she'd put aside her psychotic distress caused by eleven and a half months of normal life, and focus on that thing that really stressed her out – Christmas!

“I've got to do my cards,” she'd say well into January of the new year.

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My best friend my junior and senior years in High School called me “Scarface.”  So did one of my best friends in college. But I used to make fun of the college guy’s nose, too. The man had a Roman nose. It roamed all over his face!  (I think I got that from Shecky Green, but I’m not sure. It sounds like a typical Rickels’ or Rivers’ retort.)

Honestly, I was so young when I got the scar, it never really bothered me. I grew up with the damned thing. By the time such ... << MORE >>

My sister is out of her mind. That’s okay, really. She always has been. It’s like a family thing. It’s hereditary. Thank God it’s apparently restricted to the female Moons.

But like my mother and my nieces and a couple of crazy aunts, so too is my sister kind of out there and obsessed with things. My sister’s obsession is holiday decorating. I swear, this woman would make billions for Hallmark if they would only name her Creative Director for In-Store Display. She’s very good. Still it’s a crazy Moon obsession with her. ... << MORE >>

When I was a kid, I really did feel like life was unfair to me. So many more had so much more than did I. And I did feel trapped. I was the poor little country boy in a city of successful social climbers.

Today, I am thankful for growing up in the only rental house on Beverly Avenue in Jacksonville, Florida. I did my best back then to transform our sand spur farm into a landscaped lawn showplace worthy of the perfectly manicured lawn at the Mason family home up the block.  ... << MORE >>

Now don’t get me wrong here. I wouldn’t wish my past few months on anyone. But, man!  I went back to school for a while. It wasn’t as intense or involved as the Luke Wilson, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell version of “Old School.”  Nevertheless.

The past few months, while being “between homes,” I got to live with three old college buddies. Like me, they are each fathers and are each living as single men again. But for a short time, we were all back at the University of North Carolina.
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