We are such strange beings, us parental units. Things we would never have done in our former lives — that we would have turned up our noses and snorted at — we now do freely. Things that seem so outlandish, ridiculous, and frankly, disgusting. Take for instance the other day at pre-school as we dropped my two-year-old daughter off. I was in the passenger seat of the car giving her a kiss goodbye. My wife was carrying her and I noticed a little something in the little girl’s nostril. It was a “UNO” — an unidentified nasal object. I couldn’t let her go into school like that, and after failing myself to extract it, my wife — the old pro — went in for the kill, sans tissue. (We were already late and unprepared for duty such as this.) “Now what do I do with it?” she asked, stumped. Then, even shocking myself, I said, “Here, give it to me. I’ll figure something out.” My wife thanked me and trudged off with child, leaving me with the UNO. “Now what do I do with it?” I thought. But that’s the life of a parent. Never in my wildest imagination — not in some crazed hallucinatory delirium brought on by spoiled fruit or bad fish — could I ever have pictured this: me sitting in a car staring at a “boogie” on the end of my finger. I couldn’t even have ever imagined myself being so selfless, so thoughtful, and shoot, […]
An Extended Stay on Crutches
Things you learn during an extended stay on crutches: • That we as a nation have made incredible strides. We are innovators and overachievers capable of dreaming big and overcoming all manner of great hurdles. We’ve landed men on the moon and cured major ailments. We feed the world and, as far as I know, invented duct tape. Yet, we have never come up with anything better than the lowly, awful, excruciating device known as crutches. Why not? Millions of Americans a year get injuries and hobble around on these horrid things. Is this the best we can do? What about levitation or a third leg that you can strap on to your hip? How about crutches that walk for you, carrying you effortlessly to your destination? Or at least add some frills to the wretched beasts, like drink holders or satellite radio. Nothing is more frustrating than digging a nice, cold frothy beverage out of the refrigerator, only to realize you don’t have enough hands to make it back to the sofa. One day I put a beer in the pocket of my shorts, and it nearly exploded it was shaken up so much. • That co-workers can have an awful lot of fun at your expense. It’s so easy. All they have to do is put your crutches a little bit out of reach as they leave your office, or even more diabolical, change the height of them so you end up hunched completely over. A real cruel […]
A Little Long Distance Care from Home
The worst part of being laid up with an injury, besides that you sit on the couch so much that you might as well throw it away once you’re healed, is the long distance telephone care you get from your mother. That’s not to be ungrateful or unappreciative. Moms will be moms, no matter if you’re three years old or 73. The truth is moms care and moms worry. And more than anything, moms want to be there for you and they think they know the answers, even if they have no idea what the problem is. “Brian, did you ask them about clotting?” she quizzed me the day after my freak surfing injury a fin punctured my upper thigh and left me with 40 stitches on the surface, and many more in the muscle beneath. “There could be a problem with clotting. You know it runs in the family, and the doctor probably needs to know that.”
Surfing, Stitches, and Growing One with the Couch
We were supposed to be on our way to Amelia Island to celebrate our 10th anniversary in a wonderful seaside lodge. Instead, I found myself firmly planted on the sofa in boxer shorts massaging a three-day-old beard and gathering up the strength to go…um…pee. How is it major injuries always hit right before momentous occasions? I guess an explanation is in order. But first, some much needed thanks. To the outstanding paramedics who tended this wounded surfer on the beach last Thursday night; to the doctors and nurses in Flagler Hospital’s ER who laughed at my jokes while putting over 100 stitches in my thigh; and to our good friends Len and Kristy Weeks who happened to be there on the beach in my time of need and helped not only me, but also my wife and daughter as I stained the beach red. “It’s pretty bad isn’t it?” I asked Len as he kneeled by my wounded leg. His answer I’ll never forget: “You know, Brian. I don’t really do that well with blood, so I’m trying not to look down there right now.” Told me what I needed to know, and you guys were great. To all of you, I can’t thank you enough. You don’t know how much it means. And a huge thanks to my traumatized wife who easily could have drawn up divorce papers right there, but played it cool, stuck by my side and never once said, “See, I told you surfing would kill […]
Ten Years of Marriage and All I Get Is Foil?
My goodness gracious, I have been married for 10 years. Ten WHOLE years! All 520 months, a complete 3,650 days and, except for a tense five minutes several years back when I said her pants looked like a road map back to the ’60s (I blame tainted beer), I’ve made it more than 87,000 hours. Isn’t that amazing, and wonderful? Doesn’t that sound like a monumental accomplishment? Like I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records? At least deserving of a medal. The life expectancy of modern marriages is unfortunately not that long. But this woman — a wonderful, beautiful, smart and witty woman — has put up with me for that many years. Me! Little ‘ole me. A lot of people figured the whole thing wouldn’t last more than 15 minutes because I have a knack for saying really stupid things and thinking they’re funny. When we were at the altar and I was asked if I would take this woman, I think I said out loud, “Now, point out which one she is again.” I jest. I’m not that quick on my feet.
Just a Southern Boy Braving the Chills of NYC
Boy, only in New York can you hit the events of an entire newspaper front page in just about 5-10 square blocks. I was in Manhattan for a College Media Advisers’ conference, and took Monday morning to visit a Flagler College alum who had been working with Rudy Guiliani on his ill-fated campaign. After hearing about that, I wandered outside his high-rise office building to stare in awe down the street at rescue efforts on that construction crane that crashed to Earth killing several people. Blocks later, I strolled past the homes of JP Morgan and Bear Stearns where one of the business world’s biggest news stories had just unfolded. Both were swarmed with news trucks and TV reporters. And as I trudged on, I fought my way through the gathering crowds for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade down Fifth Avenue. Wow, New York, you sure do pack a lot into just a few square blocks. What a city!
Wind and Running: A ‘No-Fun’ Cocktail
National Weather Service’s definition of gale warnings: Sustained surface winds, or frequent gusts, in the range of 39 mph to 54 mph. What not to do during gale warnings: Parasail. Take small craft with leaky hulls out to sea. Windsurf. Change your contact lenses. Blow glass. Do your tax return. Do anything that involves tar and feathers. Juggle expensive China. Or, run a 9.3-mile race that includes a towering bridge that’s tough enough to get over in a car not to mention tall enough that you need an oxygen tank. That race was the Jacksonville River Run, and it was finished by more than 12,000 crazy lunatics just like me this past weekend. Twelve thousand crazy people who didn’t understand that if the winds were strong enough to blow down power lines and knock over trees, running across a mountainous bridge that is highly exposed to the elements isn’t the wisest of ideas.
Procrastination and Never-ending Tile
At what point do you wise up in life? At what point does the great light bulb go off above the noggin and zap some sense into you? When do you stop becoming so naive? When does it occur to you that what you might think is only a simple weekend project — “No problem, honey. I’ll be done in a couple of hours” — will really turn into an unending, epic struggle of man versus the project where only one of you will emerge the victor (only it won’t be you.) I let a few cracks in the grout of my bathtub go over time because I’m not really that smart, don’t fully subscribe to the widely-circulated “myth” that running water can be damaging to walls, and generally don’t like to act on a problem until I’ve properly studied it over the span of about seven months. I should also note that at the end of that seven months, I discover that damage from running water is definitely NOT a myth, and that I now have to spend another three months trying to figure out what in the heck to do now. You can call it procrastination, but I like to blame household problems on a fumbling bureaucracy (even if it is my own). These didn’t look like cracks that you fear, so I waited a bit longer to deal with the problem then I should have. I’m a big enough man to admit that that was probably not […]
The Temperamental Treadmill
It was on a temperamental treadmill in downtown Atlanta that I realized I could never be a traveling salesman or part of any profession that made me go out on the road repeatedly. Don’t get me wrong: I love to travel. But I hate it almost as much as I love it. I like seeing new things getting out and experiencing a distant city, a new culture, new sights, whatever. But I hate living out of a suitcase and having my regular routines snapped in half and shredded to bits. Take, for instance, running. I have to run, and it’s not so easy when you travel, especially in a city like Atlanta. There I was in the hotel, the thought of traveling outside into the blustery cold to roam the bleak and desolate streets of that concrete and asphalt wasteland about as appealing as going underwear shopping. It was painfully cold, and as far as I could tell, there were no trees and no squirrels to chase. Enter the treadmill. It was a nice hotel with a nice gym, and since I’ve never belonged to a gym and never really run on a treadmill, I thought I would give it a shot. Besides, that’s what all those other business travelers seem to do. And if they can do it, why not me?
The Joy of Pegboard
What is it about human beings that we get so excited over everyday, who-gives-a-toot stuff? And it divides right down the middle for men and women. “There’s nothing more exciting to a little girl than a comb and a brush,” my wife said as my daughter ran about the house the other night with both those objects. She looked like a deranged caveman with that big round brush hoisted high above her head like a club. As it swung wildly, the dog high-tailed it for Mexico. For me, the heavens opened up and sang a chorus of “Hallelujah” when I brought home pegboard for my shed the other day. Yes, I will repeat that: like a doo-wop quartet of angels sang to me while I brought home pegboard. We all get our simple pleasures from the most mundane things. I can’t explain to you why pegboard got me in a tizzy. You do know what pegboard is, don’t you? It’s a big, thin sheet of pressed cardboard that you screw to the wall of a shed or workspace. It’s covered in holes, which lets you stick all manner of metal holders, hooks and “pegged” containers upon it so you can hang your tools in plain view and marvel at how rusty and crappy they look. Think of it as a vertical tetanus delivery system. For some reason, it’s always been my dream to have a shed lined with pegboard. Maybe I thought it was a sign that I finally made […]