Setting aside a day to deliver compliments

Take a moment to recognize what you like about your husband or your co-worker.

Today is National Compliment Day. It was invented by two women from New Hampshire, Kathy Chamberlin and Debby Hoffman. It’s one of those unofficial holidays, like Talk Like a Pirate Day. Me, I love invented holidays. Like Jan. 2 was Run It Up the Flagpole and See If Anyone Salutes It Day. I keep coming out on National Coming Out Day, Oct. 11, even though I’ve got nobody left to come out to. I get a charge out of Jan. 9, Static Electricity Day. I keep meaning to celebrate Procrastination Day, but I always seem to put it off. And yes, I do draw the line at Feb. 1, which is Work Naked Day. There isn’t a deputy alive who wants to see that.

If I ever invent a holiday, it’s going to be National Sarcasm Day.

But until then, let’s all celebrate National Compliment Day. I don’t mean one of those left-handed, “Gee-for-a-fat-boy-you-don’t-sweat-much” compliments, but something from the soul. Take a moment to recognize what you like about your husband or your co-worker. Not only will it make the other person feel better about life, but odds on are, it will make you feel better as well. After all, smiling has been shown to burn calories.

Have I ever told you readers how kind you are?

Back in Ozone Park, Nurse Vivian would always blush when my father complimented her. She would say, “Hap, you’ve got the gift of blarney.”

That may have been his Irish heritage, but hers was superstition. She never sat down to a table where she was the 13th person. Sparrows flying through the window meant someone was about to die.

She believed in “the luck of the Irish,” but as it turns out, that wasn’t meant as a compliment. It comes from our very own Gold Rush, when a lot of the Irish came to California. The phrase meant that Irishmen could never succeed on brains or skill, so if they ever did get rich, it would be on dumb luck.

“Troubles come in three,” Nurse Vivian said. So if Brother X failed his geography test (which happened every other week) on the same day that I got voted worst player in the bowling league (which only happened once a year), then she would take one of our Flintstones jelly glasses and smash it on the stoop.

But it turns out Nurse Vivian was wrong about the three thing. Troubles come in twenty-sevens.

If you put the Fisher-Paulsons’ past month to music, you would end up with a bad country song. It started with a kitchen renovation, and, since the original wiring to the bungalow was done by Thomas Alva Edison, we failed the electrical inspection. Power blackout. The apple tree died. The sump pump went into a slump. The furnace failed. Our beloved Krypto passed away.

When Zane got clipped by an aggressive forward from Burton’s JV basketball team, we just assumed that his elbow was dislocated. Turns out it was just a major bruise to his ego. The next day, he remained in a bad mood. His fifth-period teacher texted us to say that Zane was so mad he used the f-word 27 times. Now, I’m all for holding my son accountable, but why tabulate? I mean, what’s the limit? Twenty-six f-words is a warning, 27 a suspension?

We figured we’d just about run out of bad luck.

It’s been two weeks without heat in the house, and I feel a little guilty complaining, because this is a top-shelf problem. Not like we live in the Arctic Circle. Not like there isn’t global warming. No, we can’t boil water and we gotta wear sweaters to bed, but there are a lot of people with a lot less.

Here’s what I like about my son Zane: When we drive through McDonald’s, he orders an extra Big Mac for the man on the corner. When we walk down the street, and he sees a person without shoes, he asks me for five dollars. “Dad, we don’t have a furnace today. This guy never has heat.”

Here’s what I like about my son Aidan: He makes bad luck into good. No stove. So he walked into the Diamond Heights Safeway with a shopping list: Duraflame. Hershey’s. Kraft Jet-Puffed. Honey Maid. We got back to the Bedlam Bungalow, opened up the fireplace, and off he went. Bright-yellow flames dancing against the stained glass screen. We had no branches, as the apple tree was gone, so Aidan stuck the marshmallows onto the ends of chopsticks. When life gives you broken furnaces, make s’mores. LEAH GARCHIK will return.