Sappy Birthday

There was a time when a sign like the one above would have precluded half my family. As of yesterday, that is no longer the case.

My firstborn just turned 21.

Hard to believe.

I look terrible for a man of 29.

It seems like only yesterday my wife would emerge from the bathroom, show me her ovulation kit and send me scurrying to the local Whack Shack to fill up the cup with 15-20 million little swimmers in the hope that one would break through and do the touchdown dance.

Oh, you want to read more about our hilarious travails through Fertility Hell? Well, it's all documented in the book RoundSeventeen & 1/2, The Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Inefficient, still on sale via amazon.com

Today, Monday, you will not find me in my office writing banner ads for the local hi-colonics clinic or disruptive page takeovers for pUber, the newest break through in Internet, community-based dog doo removal.

Nor will I be hounding Creative Resource Managers for the next gig, like the 10,000 other available freelancers who seem to have misplaced their dignity and have been reduced to public begging.

Either you want a smart writer who can solve your marketing challenges quickly, efficiently and inexpensively. Or you'll call Erik Moe.

Today, my wife and I and the newest grown up in the house will be trekking up to a local Winery in Malibu.

There, the three Siegel simpletons will speak in hushed tones and mock our fellow wine drinkers.

"This one has a nutty glow and a strong cherry finish."

"I found this to be fruity, robust and ambitious."

"Where's the bourbon? Do you guys make bourbon?"

We will eat like adults.
We will drink like adults.
And if all goes according to plan, we will be getting home like Uber passengers.