My daughter, and a carpenter bee the size of a VW Beetle, were not happy with me. This was detailed in a letter I received from my child that read: “Dad, I am not only mad, upset, and disappointed in you because you took down a piece of my childhood, but also because somebody was living in there.” The somebody was the gigantic bee. He, or she — I didn’t stop to ask — was hovering above the pile of cut and rotting wood I had stacked up. I heard little buzzing curses directed my way. Whether they were coming from the insect or my daughter, I wasn’t quite sure. Clearly, I had not made friends. The pile was what remained of my daughter’s fort — an elevated playset with a green plastic slide, a steering wheel and telescope, and enough memories to fill a book.
The mind-whirling Star Wars card game
“Couldn’t you have a simple card game, like Old Maid?” I asked the boy. An 11-year-old cousin. Visiting for a week. He came complete with a couple pairs of underwear, a thirst to take a ghost tour in town and a Star Wars card game that requires a Ph.D. in quantum gaming. “I already had Old Maid,” he said. “Lets get back to the instructions. Now leave your objective cards face up next to the force cards in the player area …” The instructions! Whew. I stared blankly, trying to take it all in. Secretly I was hoping a grizzly bear would crash through the front door, creating a big enough disturbance that I could run away. (Or eat me. I was fine with either one.) This was no easy-to-master card game. Not like Blackjack or Go Fish. Those you could learn in a sitting. This came complete with a 32-page instruction booklet. Thirty-two pages? I hadn’t read a book that long all year!
A TRUE Disney dream come true
Some people dream of riding rocket ships. Climbing to the top of Mt. Everest. Traveling to far off lands where they teach remote villages how to play “Candy Crush” on their iPhones. Then there is me. My dream? Much more epic: To arrive with my family at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom just as the park opens, allowing us to scamper about, deliriously riding whatever we want while unimpeded by crowds. In my fantasy land we do everything … twice! … before most people even get off the parking lot trams. There is a parade for us. Triumphant music plays. Park management declares we have broken a Guinness record for accomplishing 220 rides before 9 a.m. They give us each a medal while we recover in the medical tent (possibly while we are hooked up to IVs.) THIS is my dream! Last weekend I came as close to accomplishing it as I have ever been. It wasn’t easy. To make it happen, I first had to make a spiritual journey. I had to go to another “place” where I was transformed into a new person. I call him: “Lunatic Dad.” Lunatic Dad rises before the crack of dawn, drinks about $45 worth of Starbucks coffee and then proceeds to march about the hotel room screaming like a drill sergeant: “People! Do you have no respect for yourselves?!? Do you think Small World will come to your pretty little behinds?!? Do you think the rest of the 15 million people going to […]
Lessons on spring yard work
Oh, the lessons. Those that we should have learned by now when it comes to spring yard work. The ones that could have saved us pain and mental anguish this year if only we had remembered. For instance, how … • A dingy fence is better than an aching back. It is known fact that no back pain has ever been reported by a homeowner who chose NOT to repaint a fence. Zero instances. Medical fact. But if you choose to repaint that dreaded fence, with dozens of gothic pickets that require extra attention for those tough-to-get spots, it will feel as if elephants have tap danced on your spine. Not to mention inner thigh pain. (Why does that even hurt!?!) Plus, you will miss so many spots on the fence that your neighbors will gloatingly point this out while asking if you need glasses. Or, since you’re covered head-to-toe in white paint, whether you used the wrong end of the brush. • You should never point out needed repairs to your wife. As we painted the fence, I noticed how a piece on the gate had come loose. By “come loose” I mean that there is no scientific explanation for how it actually stayed attached. It was totally defying physics. “Oh no,” my wife said. “You should probably fix that. And now that you mention it … the whole gate is looking like it might need to be replaced.” Ten minutes later and this casual mention had turned attention […]
Return of the Star Wars toys
I’m not proud to admit it. That of all the news stories — all the monumental things happening in the world — this was the one that stopped me in my tracks: “Star Wars toys will be out in September.” Shame, shame. Let the record show: I am a 42-year-old man. I do not own or play with toys. At least, not ones that don’t belong to my 9-year-old daughter. I am not a toy collector. I do not crowd my shelves with kitschy stuff I find on eBay. Yet, part of me considered adding Sept. 4 to my calendar. It would read: “New Star Wars toys released. No appointments!” I have a problem and I must seek counseling.
College … way back when
Wham! It felt like a brick had been launched across the restaurant and hit me in the head. Or a sledgehammer. Or a bunker-busting bomb. Kablooey! That was the effect as I sat with my college students — members of the student newspaper, journalists, many soon-to-be graduates heading out into the world. Going to dinner with college students is surreal as it is. Similar to visiting another country where you don’t speak the language or understand the unique customs. I found myself nodding, smiling and politely saying over and over things like, “Yeah, I have no idea what you’re talking about … but it sounds illegal!” I will miss them, those who graduated this weekend. I was thinking about this at dinner — memories, their accomplishments, how they eat like ravenous dogs who have been starved for weeks — when the conversation turned to a topic that is tough to stomach when it comes to college kids. The year they were born. Maybe I asked it. I don’t remember how it came up. I just remember the hammer blow. How the room began to spin and everything turned blurry. The walls melted like a Dali painting. Did they put something in my water? It was all thanks to one answer to the birth year question: 1991. None of them knew what had just happened. It had been spoken so nonchalantly. They wondered why I was calling the waitress to ask for a defibrillator. Was he choking? Should someone give him […]
Time for family reading night
It sounded impossible. Unfathomable. A nice idea, sure. But nothing that could possibly pan out. Not today. Not in 2015. Not in our cell phone tweeting, video screen blaring, media invading, attention-free world. Nu-uh. Never happen. Nice idea, but not realistic. Whose idea was it? Strangest of all, it was the kid — not the parents — who dreamed it up: Family reading night. She wanted to read to us. My daughter had been planning it. Spending who knows how many hours coming up with the perfect book — “Abby Cornelia’s One and Only Magic Power.” (Ironically, it was written by personal technology consultant David Pogue.) She teased it for days. She must have had a huge marketing budget. Planes flew over the house advertising it, and there was a laser light show that flashed: “Coming to a night near you. Get ready for some reading!”
The rowing of the chalupa
I’ve never been a sailor. A boat man. In a city surrounded by water, with a nautical history going back over 450 years, I’ve always liked staring at the agua, but not necessarily floating atop it. That all changed this past Saturday thanks to four simple words: “Oars at the ready!” With that we launched the chalupa, a truly special boat. Two weeks ago it was christened the San Augustin, but thanks to low tide, it sat stuck in the mud. Saturday, the boat I’ve dubbed the S.S. Chalupa, finally stretched its legs (or whatever boats stretch) and made its maiden voyage under oar power, led by our captain and coxswain, Sam Turner.
The babysitters
“Would you like to color? How about we color? Want to color? Great. Hold on … Oh no! You can’t put a Crayon in the electrical outlet?!?” It was like I had never done it before. Like I had no idea what a toddler was. Had never had one before. Had no idea how to entertain one. My 9-year-old daughter stood mesmerized by her 1-1/2-year-old cousin. We were all babysitting so my brother and his wife could go to a wedding. We had him for maybe 2 hours, and we were exhausted afterward. Exhausted, like we had just wrestled a tornado. Like we had just herded wild horses. Like there were 17 of him. Toddlers are interesting people. How quickly I had forgotten. “Can’t we make him nap or just plant him in front of a basketball game?” I asked my wife. “What’s that medicine that makes dogs sleep on planes? Is that legal?”
Surviving the pollen apocalypse
It’s always a shock to the system. Leave the state for a handful of days in March and return to a very different place. Cool and glorious one minute, hot and yellow the next. Oh yeah, I live in Florida! Spring = heat + pollen. I wasn’t gone that long. Just a few days in New York for a conference. New York, where there was still snow on the ground. Where the temperatures dipped down to freezing at night. Where the color scheme consisted of gray, light gray and winter sludge — a combination of ice, gravel and 3-day-old pizza crust. Where the only REAL color was when the tip of my nose turned Rudolph red. Pollen is just a dream in New York, no matter how much the store displays with phony flowers and pastel-y prints try to convince you it’s spring. No, not yet. New York is still an atrocious shade of winter sludge — like living in a black and white film. But not Florida. I was only gone a couple of days, yet stepping off the plane I realized how much I take Florida’s lush green landscape for granted. AND … how I forgot about March’s pollen assault. How everything turns Tweety Bird yellow and it feels like there are sandspurs in your lungs. We Floridians know just how to deal with pollen season, don’t we? If you’re not familiar, here are a few tips: • Wash your car. Because there’s nothing more wonderfully futile then […]