It’s no way to begin a Saturday, not when you’re sipping from a hot mug of Cuban coffee, reading a newspaper and contemplating an early morning run before the sun peeks out. A phone rings. It’s 6 a.m. And it’s my mother. I’ve learned there are two reasons behind calls at this hour: emergencies or absurdities. As I rushed to the phone and answered it, I wondered which way this one would go. “Brian! You have to come over … RIGHT NOW!” said the exasperated voice on the other end of the line. Long pause. Deep inhale, then … “Missy Daisy just brought a rat in the house … and she let it LOOSE!”
And the world looked different
“Everything looks so different,” my mother said as we drove down King Street. She had her face pressed up to the window like she had never seen St. Augustine before. Like this was her first time driving through town. If I had put the window down, I imagine she would have stuck her head out like a dog. “Um, it’s all the same,” I said. “You haven’t been in there that long.” “Well, it looks different,” she said, “and it has been ‘that long.’” She was right. I keep a list of dates on my phone. It chronicles my mother’s “Fall of Falls.” From the first one, when she broke a hip, to another one during recovery when she fractured her knee. It lists the surgeries. The discharges. And now the trip home, carefully executed with a car full of wheelchairs, walkers and other home healthcare doo-hickies.
A letter to Little Joe, the cat
Dear Little Joe, First off, I’m sorry for calling you a “Jerk Face.” You’re not a Jerk Face. That was wrong of me. You might be acting like one. Like when you ate three lizards and then … there’s no pleasant way to say this … hacked them up on the back steps. You have to admit, that was a little Jerk Face-y. But you’re just my mother’s cat. You’ve had a lot to deal with. She’s been in rehab recovering from a broken hip and a fractured knee. I need to be cognizant of that. You’re not a “Jerk Face” and I’m sorry. But I’m writing you this letter because we have to come to some kind of understanding. You and me. Mano a gato. Because, Little Joe, do you have to be so difficult? I mean, we’re all dealing with a lot here. It’s not easy. But we’re a family. We’re in this together. For instance, like when I call you for dinner and you just meow back from the other side of the fence. What’s that all about? “Little Joe,” I call. “Meow?” you reply. “Little Joe, come on. It’s dinner,” I say again. “Me-ow!” you cry. It kind of sounds like you want me to come around the fence and pick you up. Like you want to be carried to dinner on a golden chariot. But I’m not some Roman kitty chauffeur! When I told your mother this, she said you’re “just scared.” That I should […]
Old world technology meet new world technology
It sits there on my desk — like a beached whale. The world’s biggest business checkbook. Must be at least 8 feet long, and its faux-leather hides the fact that it is really a stone tablet. To lift it, I need a forklift. To use it, I need a lobotomy. My new world brain struggles with old world accounting. “Can’t we just pay bills online like normal people?” I ask my mother. No … I plead. I sound like a 5-year-old who wants a piece of candy. “PLEASE!!!” “No,” I’m told. “There’s something not quite right about paying bills that way.” And I get the idea she can’t quite figure out what is not right, but that it must involve a banking conspiracy, or the mafia, or a possible alien invasion.
The ‘sibling’ arguments between cousins
It was a heated argument. The kind that shakes the ground. That ends friendships. That counseling is required to remedy, and that in another place and time might have led to war between clans. Something good? Something juicy? Nope. The proper name of the new Jurassic World Blizzard at Dairy Queen. If you’re wondering, it’s “Smash.” My wife’s cousin and her 11-year-old son, Adam, were in town for the week. The boy is my 9-year-old daughter’s second cousin. Except, as they both come from only-child houses, they are about the closest thing they have to siblings. And pseudo-sibling-hood, I quickly found out, comes with all the accoutrements of real-life siblings.
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.
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.)
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 […]
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!”