Sam the Man

Sam The Man

I mentioned her in a post a while back, but never really explained the joy in my life named Sam the Man. No, it is not a mistype and I have not just fucked up Doctor Seuss, she does not like green eggs and ham but does really enjoy Italian food. She is the one who introduced Alex pasta into our life, along with osso bucco and her dad makes amazing chili. She was also a history major, and at Skidmore, Sam lived up the hill from us with two female house mates who are both as girly as they come. I mean, shriek when you see a spider, tons of man problem kind of ladies. But, in every house you need someone who is going to be designated spider-picker-upper, and that fell to my friend Sam. In my apartment, it was three girls and Sweet Man, the poor guy, and so deal with the overpowering femininity,  he would invite his friend Steve Jobs (I know I know, but this whole coming up with pseudonyms is really really hard and it’s 10am) over to barbecue. Sweet Man received a charcoal Weber for Christmas a few years ago, and the two of them would stand in the back yard with fire having a manly time of it. (And as a side note, don’t you love how women buy the meat, marinate it, make all the sides, set the table and lay out all the serving dishes, but the man cooked becuase he threw the meat on the grill and poked it a few times?) So, Sam the Man was invited to these events, and they all swore up and down that the grunts of acknowledgment over each others grilling prowess was really a language so superior that women couldn’t understand it. The title of Man of the House allowed Sam to escape her estrogen palace and enjoy racks of lamb so she never complained. She really is one of the best people we know, and she just called me yesterday to tell me that her dog was put to sleep and she needed some cheering up. So, all my love Sam, and I hope this day is better than the one before it.

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