On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam realizes that he really had no choice over what he gave up for Lent - it was given to him and he's not happy about it.

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Our new puppy continues to rule the house and my life. She was trained by the breeder to urinate on a pee pad which is exactly what it sounds like – an absorbent mat for dogs to urinate on indoors. At our house, that means the carpet. She'll trot off the hardwood floors, pass the open back door to find the Persian rug and squat and look at me with an expression of "look how good I am!" Meanwhile the whole yard in available to her.

Making this a bit more challenging is, as I write this, my wife is in Raleigh with her parents, and my twins are in the throes of their senior year of high school which means friends are greater than puppies. That leaves me. I find myself explaining to the puppy why a yard is better than a rug to leave her mark. Her expression is, well, skeptical.

As I write this it is my deceased mother's birthday, giving me a solemn feeling and I learned today that I had volunteered to spend the night with my father after his knee surgery helping him dress and get to the bathroom and all that.

All this leads me to this – apparently, I gave up happiness for Lent. I don't remember choosing this. I think it was put upon me by the Almighty. And it has started out strong, I must say. I can only hope it's easier from here on out.

I mentioned my Lenten happiness sacrifice to a friend and he paused and said, "Yeah, but Cam, is that truly a sacrifice for you? I mean, is that really much of a change?" which stung a bit and made me unhappy. However, considering that I've committed to unhappiness for lent, I thanked him.

In order to maintain my commitment, I plan to do the following until Easter:

First, I will read the headlines and scroll through social media within five minutes of opening my eyes each morning. This will set the unhappiness expectations for the rest of the day. If something that I've seen or read gives me lift, I'll immediately add flavored creamer to my coffee which will return me to my targeted Lenten disposition.

Next, I'll list all my unachievable goals and list everything I've ever wanted to own and don't own. I'll read the lists aloud each day.

Third, I'll live in the past and recall my regrets and worry about the future and the bad things that will certainly befall me. That's a good one. Happiness evaporates when you do that. Works every time.

Fourth, I'll become an Auburn fan.

Fifth, I'll beg my sons to get a haircut.

If I run out of ideas and find myself slipping into happiness, there are a few of you I know I can call to get me right. You seem to have mastered unhappiness. Not only are your cups half empty, your cups are full of holes. Normally I avoid you but until Easter, I'll need your help.

I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam wonders what the life span of a titanium knee is and whether his father might need one or two more with the way he's going.

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My eighty-nine-year-old father is scheduled to get a knee replacement next week. Let me say that again - he's eighty-nine and getting a new knee and is eager to return to his very active life when the pain subsides. He's done this once before and wants the same results.

People stop me nearly every day to ask about my father. They comment on how healthy he is and how he never slows down. This is true, though I can attest to him slowing a little over the past several years. He is eighty-nine, after all. Over Christmas holidays my brothers and I were with him at his property in Clarke County. We were all sawing on an oak tree that we were sectioning for firewood. We've done this nearly every Christmastime for about forty years now – felling the tree, cutting it into pieces and then splitting those pieces and stacking them in a rack near the camp. It will become the wood we'll burn next Christmas, letting it age about a year before burning, and we cut a lot of it every year. Dad has always led the way on the firewood. He finds the tree and leads the way on the cutting. His use of a chainsaw on a tree is the equivalent of Michaelangelo's use of a chisel on a block of marble – his dissection of the tree is a work of art. This past year, though, with four saws all buzzing at the same time, I heard one stop, saw dad put his saw down and step back and rest. "I'm going to let you all have at it," he said over the noise of the saws. Good, I thought. My brothers and I are beyond capable. But it may have been the first time I ever saw him step back.

A story lives in the lore of that cabin in the woods. It comes from when I was a pre-teen and I had a friend there with me. Dad started cutting trees for firewood. Our job was to drag branches, do our best to split the logs, and put the split pieces in the trailer then unload and stack the wood in the rack. It was hard work and we were tired. We had gone through three trees and Dad stopped. My friend's face showed relief – finally, he was saying. Enough. We had some water. Maybe a sandwich. Then Dad cranked his saw up again and said, "One more" and marched off towards another oak tree. My friend's face fell and we all heard him say over of the noise of the saw, "Another tree??" That line lives on today when we're cutting wood. Another tree? Yep. Another tree.

I don't know of any other eighty-nine-year-olds getting knee replacements. It's remarkable. He's always been able to outwork me. And in a few weeks, he'll be back to blaming his partners for losing at pickleball. He'll be sharpening his chain saw. And he'll be eyeing another tree.

I'm Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.

In a few coastal cities in the deep south, in the weeks before Lent begins, a strange behavior begins to appear. Honorable and respectable people step into a different personalities for a short time. They do it together, and it's a heck of a good time.

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Grown people acting like fools for a few days might very well be good for the soul. I'm not sure how large groups, primarily of men, agreeing to behave silly is therapeutic, but it is. I'll leave it to some psychologist try to explain it. As a participant, though, I assure you, it's good stuff. Over the top costumes, over the top floats, parading, parties, dancing. It's not behavior most participate in unless it's limited to a certain calendar window and amongst friends and neighbors.

My wife's cousin visited over the holidays. She toured one of Mobile's museums and saw the extraordinary displays of costumes and the photos of floats and our city's royalty and their flamboyant, extravagant attire. It was all over the top, as it is intended to be. I told her that some people simply don't get it and she summed it up perfectly – to enjoy it, you have to be in on the joke. And that's it. I've not heard it said better.

You've seen skits on TV or pranks where one person is playing the fool but won't let on that he's doing it? His face and behavior are serious and intentional, but all the while, but his behavior is, well, foolish. The people around him play along and everyone enjoys the spoof. Well, what if a group of people are in on the joke, behaving ridiculously for a narrow window of time but not letting anyone know that they know it's a spoof. In Mobile, Alabama, these groups are largely called Societies or Orders. In New Orleans they're called Krewes. They're all in on the joke.

And what is the joke? The joke is that this doesn't matter but we act like it does. That our supposed kings and queens are kings and queens of nothing. Kings and queens of a type of Kabuki theater played out in front of the masses in elaborate, flamboyant costumes for their own entertainment and the enjoyment of their Societies, Orders, Krewes, their invited guests, their mothers and fathers, and, perhaps, their whole cities. There is no reason to do this. There are stories that tie these celebrations to preparations for lent, to Easter, even explaining the behavior away to the days before food could be refrigerated. But, underneath it all, there is no good reason to do this. And that's why we do it. That's part of the fun. We agree that for a while we look at each other out the side of our eye and for a few days and we'll not hold each other accountable for the silly things we say, or do, or wear. All is understood, Ok'd and soon forgotten.

I have a ridiculous top hat that I'll wear in the coming days with my Mardi Gras costume. People will tell me I look like a fool. They're not in on the joke. They don't get it. Of course I do. And my reply to them will be this – and it's something they won't understand. I'll simply say, "Happy Mardi Gras."

I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to Keep it Real.