“Oh, Skippy–do you love me?” she asked.

“Of course,” I replied.  “I’m wearing my best bow-tie and suspenders.  Not everyone rates such snazzy duds.”

“But, Skippy, I need more.  You’re dashing in the tie, and no one, not even Mork, could shoulder snappy suspenders like you can, but it’s not enough.  I crave… something.”

What was it, I wondered.  Diamonds?  Rubies? Leather gear?  A socket wrench or a bowl of cereal or a cute chipmunk or the smell of a ringing phone or the cat’s meow sans cat or a mime’s vocal cords on a silver platter (the mime objected, but it was a mute point) or maybe a rhubarb pie?  “Maybe some pie?” I suggested.

“No, Darling, not pie.  Not even rhubarb trimmed by mime bits.  Something else, something that says you love me, but says it in neon, in flashy, in shoo-bop, shoo-wadda-wadda, yipitty-boom-de-boom.  I need–”

“Yes?”

“–a mix CD.”

And so, I made one for her.  Filled with the cheesy goodness I listened to back in the days before I turned into an old grump.  And if you want one, it’s yours.  Just shoot me your name and mailing address to this address (click me!) Want to know what’s on it?  Too bad! (If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.  Plus, you know, you might not want it.  Let’s take things slowly, you and I, so that our passion doesn’t burn out so quickly.)

I’ll also send you one of our cats. (Not really.)  And one of our dogs. (Very possible.)  But mostly, the CD. (This one’s true.)  ‘Cause I’m giving like that.  Look at me: I give.  I’m a giver.