I was dispatched on an urgent, critical mission to check on a woman in the hospital. It was my aunt. She had landed herself there after suffering a mini-stroke at home in Tampa. A mini-stroke is the Good Lord’s way of saying, “Listen, I’ll let you off the hook this time, but maybe slow down on the bacon?” Or at least that’s what the doctor seemed to be implying. I drove down to Tampa to see what I could do for her. She lives alone with two Pomeranians, who would steal the car if no one was keeping tabs on the keys. When I found she was doing well, suffered no permanent damage and was expected to make a full recovery in a matter of weeks, if not days, relief switched to figuring out how to get her affairs in order. So, I was dispatched on an urgent, critical mission to her condo … for her address book. Address book?!?
Family home videos, and that humbling, crazy feeling
I used to think there were few things worse than hearing the sound of my own voice played back to me. That nasally, frenetic, aimless voice that rambles through the bramble like it’s in no hurry to get anywhere. Anyone like hearing the sound of their own voice played back? Nope. But the other day I realized there is something so much worse: Like watching myself on old family videos. Realizing in full color and high definition not only what I sound like — a marauding rock slide — but also what I look like to the real world. And the truth is: I look kind of like a lunatic. My daughter was on the computer watching old movies when she frantically called me in: “Dad, you have GOT to come see this.”
Luxurious, rejuvenating shower power in a water filter
My wife has been talking about the hard water here in Northeast Florida and how bad it is for your skin and hair. Apparently, your hair gets frizzy and falls out, and your skin begins to look like a cross between a Nevada dessert and a molting lizard. All because of various mineral deposits and lime scale and a host of other things that sound totally made up by infomercial “scientists.” But I wouldn’t say that in public because I don’t want to sleep on the sofa. Oops! I’m a dutiful husband, though, and I certainly don’t want to look like a molting lizard or the Nevada dessert, especially after a night of sleeping on the couch. So, when she forwarded me an article about water filters for showers that take out bad stuff and help to rejuvenate your body and hair, I did some research, feigned interest and actually bought one. “I ordered the shower filter,” I told her. “Oh goodie!” she said clapping like a seal. “Did you get the one with the Vitamin C infused ceramic beads and the micro luffa sponges and the seaweed extract that turns chlorine into butterscotch candy?”
Reflections on a family Fourth of July cookout
Sometimes deadlines are not the friends of writers. They fall at inopportune times. Before events actually happen, leaving the writer to hypothesize, to conjecturize, to see the future and try to tell what happens before it actually does. And that’s what I’m doing this week. Because I desperately want to write about my family’s Fourth of July cookout. But it happened after my column was due. Only … I just can’t wait! I know how it will go. I know how it will turn out. And I think it went something like … The Fourth of July cookout at my mother’s house. Actually, it’s not a cookout. My wife for years has been saying we should make it a REAL cookout. Make it easy and just grill. My mother does have a grill. Only, it’s NOT for grilling. She uses it for wheeling the cats in their baskets to the car when she has to take them to the vet. Every word of that is the God’s honest truth. She wheels her cats to the car in a grill! You can spend all the time you want trying to make sense of that, but good luck. It will never add up. Every Fourth of July we go over to my mother’s. It’s just blocks from the fireworks. We take a bunch of food that we cook on our own. It’s the kind of food that will clog your arteries and make you the weight of a granite boulder. The kind […]
Hey non-World Cup fans: Here’s your primer to get into it
I get it. Not everybody in America is a soccer fan, or gives a hoot about the ongoing World Cup. Sure, more than 3 billion people are tuning in and it’s kind of a big deal. But between the fact that the U.S. failed to qualify this year (boo!) and that most Americans are still hung up on why there are black spots on the ball (did it get run over by a car?), it’s understandable. Non-soccer lovers are scratching their heads and trying to figure out the world’s biggest sporting spectacle. So, I put together a primer for those struggling to make sense of the grand soccer hootenanny in Russia: • Yes, it is perfectly natural to feel like the world’s ugliest mammal after setting eyes on soccer stars like Ronaldo. Just remember: While they might have looks and super stardom, you don’t have to worry about what to spend millions of dollars on or which exotic car to drive to practice each morning.
Metric mania and other quirks of Canadian measurement
Canada is a beautiful country filled with wonderful people, and I was absolutely enamored … until I tried to buy gas. That’s when the panic set in. “$143 a gallon?!?” I screamed as I approached the gas pump, sweat forming across my brow. I was staring at the price shown on the digital display. “Oh my God, we have to go home! We can’t afford to drive 25 feet!” Here we were about to traverse hundreds of miles across this country, and I was going to need a mortgage just to fill-up. Oh, the joys of international travel. Even a country so similar to us has its many nuances and quirks and fun traditions to discover … not to mention confuse dumb people like me. For instance, how Canada lists gas prices in cents per liter.
Who needs a relaxing Canadian vacation, eh?
“We don’t take relaxing vacations, do we?” said my wife. We were driving south along the Icefields Parkway, near Banff, Canada. Actually not near Banff. Nowhere near Banff. Banff is civilization, and out here we had already driven 3 hours into this desolate land of other-worldly beauty. A land of glaciers and bighorn sheep. Of no cellphone reception for at least 100 kilometers. Does such a thing exist? My wife, daughter and I saw mother bears foraging with cubs on the side of the road. We drove through snow falling across the sub-alpine landscape … in June. JUNE! We took an ice explorer – picture a bus atop a monster truck with the attitude of a bulldozer – and then walked across a glacier. A GLACIER! The temperature hovered at freezing, and the winds gusted to 50 mph. It stung my face, made my teeth burn and a child in a puffy jacket was nearly cartwheeled away. A guy dug a hole in the ice so we idiots could drink the glacial water flowing below. I stepped in a snowdrift that swallowed my leg to the knee.
Tennis tips and cruel drills from a middle schooler
There are very good reasons why children aren’t allowed to be coaches. Truth is, they would be good at it. BUT they think everything is funny. And everything they think is funny usually involves making people do extremely ridiculous and cruel stuff while they point and laugh … then dream up something even more ridiculous. “OK, why don’t you hang upside down from that sketchy tree branch while you shoot your next basket … AND THE BALL’S ON FIRE!!!” My daughter and I went out to hit some tennis balls the other morning. It was one of those mornings when it was clear out, the temperature had already hit 96 degrees and the humidity was about the same as you would find on the bottom of a lake. I am what some commonly refer to as a tennis idiot. It means I understand the beauty and grace of the sport, but when I play it, I have the beauty and grace of a rhino on an icy lake. Plus, I think the whole objective is hitting the ball seven zip codes over.
Hey Mother Nature, how about paying attention to ‘Hurricane Season’
Look here, Mother Nature: We like constants. We like patterns and concrete dates. We like things that we can count on, where there isn’t a lot of room for surprises or guesswork. We thought you did, too. See, that’s why we have “Hurricane Season.” Maybe we weren’t clear about this, but that’s the season when you are ALLOWED to send hurricanes. Or tropical storms or even sub-tropical storms like last week’s Alberto. We don’t mean to get all legal on you, but we think it should be noted that Alberto came before June 1, which officially opens “Hurricane Season” (as stipulated in the agreement you signed and had notarized.) We have this Hurricane Season because we need a little time off from the storms each year. You know, to not only get things ready, but also because we get kind of tired and burned out, man. I mean, we need a break! To be able to go to the beach and just kind of bum around the house. We like to chill! We can’t be worrying all the time about whether our roof is going to blow off. Because here’s a little secret: OF COURSE OUR ROOF IS GOING TO BLOW OFF!!! It’s held on by these tiny little screws!
Summer is here, school is out … let the flying of shoes commence
It was like a jail break, wasn’t it? A feeling of euphoria. Total freedom. As if the floodgates had opened and set you — this raging torrent of water — upon the world. Nothing could hold you in. It was total liberation. And chaos! As the bell rang on the last day of school, kids raced from the classrooms. There was great yelling and shouting. Books flew in every direction. Shoes, too. Shoes! Why did shoes always sail through the air in the scrum and hootenanny of that final release? Who knows. If you had a pulled a fire alarm you wouldn’t have gotten such a flurry. But now, kids ran in every direction. Not even stopping at their cars. (“Johnny, where are you going?” parents yelled.) Just running wild and free with delirious smiles on their faces. Seven miles out they would finally stop, look around and think, “Mom? Um … where am I?” I’ll tell you where, little Johnny: You’re in summer!!! And there isn’t much in the world better than that. (Well, unless you’re lost in an industrial area on the south side of town, but the cops will locate you soon enough.) I was thinking about all of this one night earlier this week as our family sat at the dinner table.