It began as the slightest tingling. Hardly noticeable. Nothing memorable. But it grew, and spread, from my chest down into my arms and legs. My toes trembled and tapped. My hair stood at attention and I felt hot as the blood raced quickly through my veins. Most of all, I could feel it in my eyes. They danced and darted about like googly eyes, latching onto this or that in a wild frenzy. I felt strange urges — primal urges — like I should hunt and gather or scream things like, “Woo-hoo! The Promised Land!” “Damn it, man,” I told myself. “Compose yourself. You’re drooling and children are starting to stare. That woman thinks you’re rabid and is probably going to hit you with her umbrella.” But I couldn’t help it. I JUST couldn’t help it!
And the craft project reared its head
It’s officially the holidays at my house and that can mean only one thing: a super nova explosion of Christmas craft projects. Epic. Extraordinary. The paint flies in such a frenzy that it tickles the ceiling. The glue gun is begging for mercy — “No, not another piece of construction paper!” The colored markers have run as dry as a Texas desert and the glitter is falling like snow. (Question: Why in the world would you ever give glitter to a 3-1/2-year-old who has questionable motor skills and a penchant for saying things like, “Is this candy?”) The biggest of the projects so far was the one we did on Thanksgiving. My wife devised it in order to amuse, entertain, and mostly preoccupy the time of the grandparents and my aunt. She was concerned that a stocked liquor cabinet and my family’s genuine love of fighting like rabid badgers could negatively affect the holiday. So in order to head off the fireworks she saw coming, she put them all to work. Why not? Big kids are like little kids: Want to keep ‘em out of trouble? Give them something to do. It was either that or resort to muzzles and shock collars.
All to be Thankful for …
It’s so easy to forget what Thanksgiving is all about when there are so many demands on your time — trying not to throw family members off bridges, putting out kitchen fires that rival anything jet fuel could produce, and how you will sweat turkey for the next couple of weeks. But remember it’s really about giving thanks. Too often we forget that, which is why I wanted to take a moment to remind you of this fact (after the fact), and to also share what I was most thankful for this turkey-infused holiday: • The beer fridge in the utility room — To allow for more room in the main fridge, my wife decided to cart a mini-fridge from the shed into the house. She placed it in the utility room and moved beer and anything else she considered “unessential” (pretty much just the beer) into it. “Can that stay there permanently?” I asked, starry-eyed and nearly overcome with joy. When she said “yes,” it was like Christmas early. Never mind that she was really just banishing beer from the kitchen permanently. Truth is it has always been my dream to have an appliance dedicated to chilling brew. And this Thanksgiving that dream came true! Granted, not exactly what the Pilgrims had in mind, but still I’m thankful.
Getting Mentally Prepared for Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving dinner preparations have begun. I don’t mean shopping and menu planning. Who has time for that? I’m talking about mental preparations. Making sure my mind is sound, ready and up to the occasion. For there is no place for a weak mind on Thanksgiving when you’re the one doing the cooking. That’s how people die, a ladle sticking out of their chest or a cork screw protruding from their temple. Some can’t handle the pressure, crack and get sent off for professional help, screaming, “I told you it was too early to start the stuffing!” Cooking on Thanksgiving is really a cocktail of skills, tricks and mental fortitude — 2 parts food, 3 parts high-wire juggling act, 2 parts actual skill, 11 parts self-doubt (“I just can’t take the heat in the kitchen!”), a pinch of moderated crankiness, and a peeled carrot for decoration.
A Love Affair with ‘Carny Food’
What is it about carny food that is just so damn delicious? You know, carnival food. Festival food. Street market food. The stuff you buy from vendors who often look questionable, in need of a shower and say things like, “I just can’t figger’ out what happened to the cat? Now you want sauce on this pulled pork sandwich?” What makes it so additictive? So tantalizing? Is it the sight — or the smell! — that lures us in like a tractor beam? “Must eat carny food! Carny food is my friend!” I just can’t resist it. I got to thinking about this at the Riverside Arts Market in Jacksonville last weekend. There were vendor stalls for art, crafts, soap and all manner of things. I was there with the family and wandering about, taking in the knickknacks and assorted “stuff” I didn’t need when a whisper through the crowds called to me, “Brian, it’s your true love. Come to me … over here in the boiling fat.”
Surviving that Horror Known as Airplane Travel
And yet we keep doing it to ourselves. We keep going back, asking for more. Please take my money. Overcharge me for my baggage. Lose my luggage. Delay my flight. Make me miss my connecting flight. Give me bags of peanuts that squirrels would laugh at. Make me sit in the airport for hours where I will inevitably devour food that makes my stomach squirm as if it is trying to get out. “Why did you eat that airport gyro?” your stomach whines. “Didn’t you learn your lesson after eating the airport taco? We’re still paying off the ambulance ride and that industrial-strength stomach pump.” We’re to blame. We do it to ourselves. I ate the airport gyro. I let them stuff me like cattle onto a flying sausage with no leg-room. And I believed the gate attendant in Austin, Texas, when she told me, “Oh, sure, this flight might be 45 minutes off schedule, but since all the flights out of Atlanta run late, you’ll have no problem making your connecting flight.”
Sharp Objects and Pumpkin Carving
The secret to carving pumpkins can be boiled down to one simple fact that you must remind yourself throughout the entire procedure: avoid all major arteries. That’s all you need to remember. That’s all you need to be aware of. Who cares what the pumpkin looks like when you’re done. So what if it appears to have been hit by a car or attacked by rabid badgers. Don’t worry about that! What matters is if all your limbs are still there. That the majority of your blood is still inside your body. That you haven’t skewered your spleen. Nothing — I repeat, nothing! — will ruin a holiday tradition faster than a major organ turned into a shish kabob. Or having to call in to the other room: “Honey, can you drive me to the hospital? I don’t think the kid can hold this tourniquet much longer.”
A Bad Day Rising
You know it’s going to be one of those days when your morning begins hosing down dried cat puke from the front walk. Nothing sets the tone for the day quite like that. Even worse: The only reason I noticed was I spied the dog dragging her tongue across it like it was some kind of feline-flavored popsicle. “Are you kidding me!?!” I shouted at the dog. “How many times do I have to tell you NOT to eat cat vomit … especially if it’s neon orange?” How many times, you ask? You’d be surprised … and we don’t even have a cat.
Retirement and Motorcycle Madness
“Brian!” came my dad’s quivering voice over the phone. He sounded shaken and even disturbed, like a nut had come loose in his brain … or he had just joined a cult. “How come you’ve NEVER bought me a retirement gift like your brother did — one that is all-consuming and a total bottomless pit?” His voice wasn’t accusatory. In fact, I think it was his way of saying thank you. My answer: “Because I’m the good son and I think you should enjoy your retirement.” A year or so back, my brother bought my father a vintage British motorcycle frame along with a greasy bucket of assorted parts. My brother — thoughtful lad that he is — figured the old gentleman needed something to fill his time. Every waking minute, to be exact, and even some of the sleeping ones. A project that would require endless, mind-numbing, nerve-racking, never-ending tinkering, wiring, assembling, cursing and mad scratching of the head with greasy fingers while mumbling things like, “Why doesn’t the (bleep) (bleepin’) (bleep) fit in there?”
The Kid is Growing Up Fast
Man, the signs are all there that my little kid is growing up. She’s 3 ½ and filling out her first college application. Actually, she’s not 3 ½ anymore. That’s the crazy part. She’s like 3 ¾, and well on her way to 4. FOUR! That’s a big kid number, and eons away from being a baby. I think at 4 they start going to cocktail parties and saying things like, “Yes, I did move my money before the recession hit, but unfortunately I put it all in Lincoln Logs. And you know how that market did.” Clothing sizes that used to fit her don’t anymore, and the other night she actually leaned over her plate as she stuffed a spoonful of couscous into her mouth. Nothing — NOTHING! — fell on the floor. “Oh my God, Amelie,” I shouted, startling everyone. “That’s amazing!” She got excited, too … because she thought Santa Claus was behind her.