“When are we going to the gift shop?” Those were the words from my daughter. It was the 3,200th time I had heard it. In the last 20 minutes. We were in the nation’s capital. In the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. We were surrounded — literally swarmed — by towering rockets, Mars landers, lunar rocks, Wright brothers planes and lots of lost tourists who thought they were at the White House. They couldn’t figure out why there were satellites hanging from the president’s ceiling. “Look at this!” I told my daughter. “An actual Apollo command module! This thing went into space. See the burn marks from re-entry. See! See! See!” “Eh,” she said. “Now, is the gift shop upstairs or down?” Aaaghhh!
Invasion of the summer smoothie
It is smoothie time in my house. Morning. Lunch. Afternoon. Not that I’m complaining. It is the result of a new blender. A good blender. One that doesn’t sound like a rock crusher that has thrown a belt. That was the old one. Loud. Tedious. Troubled. It made smoothies with the consistency of a fruit cocktail. Once I sprained my face trying to suck a mango chunk through a straw. So I bought us a new one. I didn’t know what I was unleashing. It’s a good one. Powerful. With multiple sets of blades that chop and dice and pulverize. Smoothies come out smooth, and rescue personnel don’t show up at my house after neighbors hear what they thought was a rock slide. I haven’t sprained my face once.
Father’s day … Yay me!
Fellow dads, I make this declaration on this immensely important holiday: “WE ROCK!” Yes, it’s Father’s Day. Our day. When eating cheese puffs on the sofa and drinking beer at 9 a.m. is not only permitted, but actually required by law. We are dads! We should celebrate. Sure, we’re not perfect. We mess up our share of stuff. We have no idea how to use the washing machine (believe us, we just don’t understand!), we have shorter attention spans than fruit flies (high school biology taught us they only live .023 seconds,) and … wait a minute … what was I talking about? Anyway, we certainly have our faults. But as fathers extraordinaire, we just as often take one for the team. Not to brag, but take me for instance. I was in the swimming pool with my daughter the other day. She was tossing a tennis ball around with a friend, only the depth made it hard for her to catch and throw.
Signs of vacation on the brain
It’s called “vacation on the brain.” It can be a debilitating condition, and every year it afflicts millions of Americans who can’t stop thinking about an upcoming trip. For some it means loss of sleep, twitchy legs, mis-matching socks, only shaving one side of your face, putting on sunscreen and goggles for no apparent reason, carrying fold-out roadmaps, and loss of productivity at work. (And let’s be honest: Most of us were already pretty un-productive as it was.) Vacation on the brain is a serious epidemic. Think you might be suffering from it? Here are a few warning signs to watch out for: • Do you practice loading the car in the middle of the night? Do you critique previous loading strategies for trips? “What were you thinking last year stacking a water jug on top of the Oreos!?!” Do you draw complex, geometry-defying diagrams for how suitcases, a cooler the size of Delaware and 11,000 toys your child plans to bring will fit in perfectly? Do you share strategies on Internet message boards with other obsessive car loaders (who may or may not inhabit insane asylums)? • Do you find yourself staring at Google maps and studying driving routes for hours? Do you calculate fuel stops and research interstate gas stations/coffee stops, all in an attempt to “maximize efficiency?” (If you have actually read gas station reviews online, or consider a particular gas station because it has a great view AND donuts, you might need immediate medical attention.)
Paying tribute to passionate teachers
The little sparkly gift bag with the turquoise tissue paper fountaining out the top sat on the dining room table. Something told me there was Dove chocolate inside. Dove chocolate! My chocolate radar had picked it up the minute I walked in the door. “Fight the urge,” I told myself of the temptation to stealthily fish around for a chocolate or two. “That’s a teacher present.” My daughter finished up third grade this week. Another school year done. How could that be? Another classroom in the rear view mirror. Another grade under her belt. Another teacher goodbye. A great teacher. We’ve been lucky — they all have been great at Ketterlinus Elementary in downtown St. Augustine. Inspiring. Thoughtful. Caring. Smart. Passionate. You can’t teach a teacher to be those things. It’s something they just have. It’s a love for what they do.
The first sunburn of summer
The true meaning of Memorial Day is never lost on me — that freedom comes with a price, and that many brave men and women proudly served this wonderful country. But there’s always a second lesson I wish was as easily understood — that the sun is a giant ball of scalding hot gas and it will fry you like a paper-thin sliver of bacon. So as last weekend’s Memorial Day also marks the semi-official start of sun-scorching season, I thought I would share a few tips on how to ensure your summertime sunburn horror stories are something your friends will talk about for weeks: • Make sure when you’re spraying on sunscreen that you do it haphazardly. Just spritz it on like cologne. A little here, a little there. Miss whole sections of your body. This is what I did, and it explains why my shoulders are perfectly fine, but my sides are the color of a fire truck. There’s nothing more ridiculous — and uncomfortable — than a sunburn on your mid-section.
The grown-up backyard
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 […]