The great end-of-the-year wind down can’t get here soon enough

For millions of Americans across the country, the great end-of-the-school-year wind down has commenced. That time when two great tides of emotion crest simultaneously: the joy, elation and relief of school almost being out and the absolute freakout that comes when you realize how much there is to do BEFORE it lets out.

It’s in full-effect in my house. We are a family ruled by education. My daughter is a sophomore in high school, my wife is a pre-school teacher and I work at a college. If the dog were capable of learning even the most mundane new tricks, it would be the great quadruple. But for the rest of us, we’re navigating choppy and churning waters.

My school year is already over, so I’m pretty chill in comparison. More of an observer to this fascinating world of epic highs and looming lows as the others try to get free of their educational entanglements. The elaborate calendars listing test dates, pickup times, pre-school graduations and dozens of other school commitments. The motivational messages: “Don’t fail. Dad won’t support you your whole life.” The countdown clocks. The books, binders, worksheets and handouts strewn like a tornado has torn through.

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How will we manage when mom goes away

How will we manage when mom goes away

Now we’re on our own. For a couple days at least. The two of us – my daughter and me. Trying to manage by ourselves. Whew! Heaven help us.

My wife had to travel out of town on Easter Sunday. Sadly, her aunt passed away last week. Her family was gathering on Long Island, New York, to lay her to rest at a cemetery near the North Shore. It happened just before Easter, and that Sunday we drove her at five in the morning to put her on a flight. We said our goodbyes at the departures dropoff and wished her luck. The two of us got back in the car and looked at each other. Kind of lost.

Now what do we do.

Our little family is rarely apart. You take one member out of the mix and it becomes a strange troop of disoriented monkeys. The rhythms and routines altered. The noises different. The needs different. The household emptier.

Add to that, so many things we know nothing about.

I looked at my daughter and said: “I think we’re doomed.”

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The great recipe weed-out down memory lane

The green plastic binder bulged at the seams. It swelled and throbbed as if it had a pulse. A heartbeat. A hunger for more. “Feed me more recipes!” it demanded.

The dreaded recipe binder.

The once-tame beast had broken its bounds. Grown gargantuan and overflowed with sheets filled with ingredients and steps for meals that we would NEVER undertake. But it didn’t stop us from printing more off and stuffing them in the binder.

“Oh, this looks simply delicious. Squid ink pancakes. I’m sure we’ll make that someday.”

Chomp, chomp, chomp. “Give me more.”

Only now, when you pulled the binder out to find something, its guts spilled all over the floor in a 17-ton tsunami of loose copy paper and magazine clippings.

“AHHH, I hate you, recipe binder,” I would cry.

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Remembering the glory days of childhood money-making

“Where did you get all that money?!?” I asked my daughter. We were leaving my mother’s house and she had a handful of cash.

“I don’t know. Grandma Evie gave it to me,” she said.

“For what?” I asked. “I’m her son! I didn’t get any money.”

“She asked me to clip some grape vines, and she gave me $30 for it.”

“Thirty dollars!” I replied. No, actually I didn’t “reply.” I spat! A combination of horrified and disgusted. “It only took you like 5 minutes. Why did she give you $30?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe because I had to climb a ladder? Like hazard pay. All I know is I sure wasn’t going to turn down $30.”

Oh, to be a kid again. No, not even a kid. My child is 16. A teenager for sure. But she still makes “kid cash.” You know, when family – and I’m talking grandparents especially – shower you in money for simple, and sometimes silly, reasons.

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A plea for more useful how-to articles on the Web

If you haven’t noticed, the Internet is awash in how-to articles. I stumbled across a few gems the other day: “How to make a candle at home,” for those who don’t know how to flip a light switch; “How often to clean your dryer lent,” Answer: When you can’t shut the door or smell smoke; and “How to play Wordle, but look like you’re doing work,” which is actually kind of handy.

But with all the problems in the world, why aren’t so-called “experts” writing about useful topics we can actually use? How-to articles about things we might actually need. For instance, why isn’t anyone tackling these pressing topics:

• How do you get your dog to stop shedding? I came downstairs the other morning when the early morning light was starting to crack through the French doors and light up my pecan-colored floors. I gasped.

“Honey!” I called out. “When did we install carpet?”

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The neurotic summer trip planner gets back to work

It’s been too long. Far too long. Too long since taking a really big trip. A test-your-mettle and get you out of your comfort zone trip. A trip that doesn’t involve just a car or a state you’ve already been to. A trip that makes you lay awake at night wondering, “What made me think a camel safari was a good idea?!?”

I want a big trip. Like an overseas trip. And with summer starting to loom, and the prospect of the world opening up after the long pandemic, I’m getting back into planning mode. Loading up on travel books for various locales. Tracking airline prices. Testing out ideas and themes on the family. (“So, is anyone allergic to camel hair … or their spit?”) Generally getting my OCD travel bug out of the closet and back into action.

It occurred to me recently that the last time we went on a really big trip was in 2019. In COVID time, that was like 15 years ago. We went to London and then drove a car around Ireland in a semi-successful attempt to not make hood ornaments out of sheep. Or drive off a coastal cliff that landed us in Boston. We were only attacked and swallowed by a hedgerow once.

That long-ago trip was supposed to be the start of some much bigger adventures with our daughter. She was getting to an age when traveling farther, and more exotically (meaning places that didn’t just serve chicken nuggets), was easier and more enjoyable. Plus, the ticking of time meant there were only a finite number of summers left to take these family jaunts in.

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A few things you learn when a family member gets COVID

Oh man! We went almost two years without anyone in my house getting COVID – two years! – and then: BLAMMO! My wife got it.

The night before my daughter got back from her snowed-in ski trip, my wife was making sweet potato chili and asked the most peculiar thing: “Isn’t chili supposed to smell strong?”

Uh-oh!

Um, yeah. That’s why they call it chili. It’s spicy. Like curl-the-hair-on-your-head spicy. Clear-out-your-sinuses spicy. So … what you’re saying is … ?

She proceeded to run about the house trying to smell everything – alcohol, vinegar, harsh cleaning products, bourbon. All to no avail.

The next morning, we each took a COVID test. Remarkably – and someone would even say wildly unfair – the responsible, safe person in the house came back positive. The one who needs to be told not to eat things off the floor and to wash his hands regularly was negative.

Two years and BLAMMO!

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A Florida kid who ‘got snow’ in North Carolina

“Good morning. Got snow?” my text read.

I sent it to my 16-year-old daughter. She was knee-deep in a ski trip to North Carolina with a youth group from Memorial Presbyterian. They were hitting the slopes at Beech mountain and hunkered down in their cabins the night a winter storm named Izzy pounded the East Coast. It dumped white stuff all across the region, blanketing that corner of the world in snowdrifts and winter scenes that seem like a fairy tale when you’re from a place they call “the Sunshine State.”

Got snow?!? Oh yeah, they got snow.

The weather map in North Carolina showed precipitation levels in colors I had never seen before. In Florida, we gets greens and yellows, and when it’s really bad, reds. But this was a kind of baby blue mixed with some type of neon pink. “Does that mean radiation leak?” I wondered.

No, it means “butt buried in snow.”

Lots of snow. Where they measure accumulation in inches, or even feet. When the roads are impassible, and you open your cabin door to be met with the giggly white stuff just beckoning you to dive in and bathe in it.

A sea of it. As far as the eye could see. And because you’re a 16-year-old kid who doesn’t have to worry about how to get home or whether you’re going to have to eat frozen woodland critters to survive, it’s the most glorious thing ever.

Ah, so lucky. Got snow!

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Chaos and hunger at the holiday theme park

There are several un-written laws of Florida: Never tickle an alligator on its snout. Only on its tail. When sunning yourself, always rotate mid-way through cooking and make sure to baste. Always wear your formal flip-flops to important dress-up events, especially black tie.

But maybe most importantly, and the only “law” that should never be bent, broken or even slightly tinkered with is one every Floridian knows from birth: Don’t go to a theme park the week after Christmas.

It’s not just a violation, but also great way to risk life and limb. Not to mention your wallet.

Which is why I found it astonishing – even mind-blowing – to be sitting in a line of cars backed-up for almost a mile as we waited to get into the parking lot of Orlando’s Sea World … three days after Christmas.

“AAARRRGGHHHH!!!!” I growled. “I should have known better. I was raised smarter than this!”

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Christmas shopping early this year … for me!

I’ve always been a last-minute gift shopper. The kind of person who goes down to the wire. Like the dawn of Christmas is cracking over the horizon and I’m out in the shed trying to build my own 4K flatscreen TV because I waited too long to order it.

“The picture’s a little fuzzy, but that’s just WIFI issues,” I tell my family as I hang a piece of hastily cut and crudely painted plywood on the living room wall. “Just wait and you’ll see the colors pop!”

But this year, I’m taking no chances. I’m heeding the advice of experts, analysts and retailers who say that you can’t wait to do your shopping. A host of supply-chain and shipping issues combined with parts shortages and climbing prices have managed to make things we want more scarce, and more expensive.

Shoot, even if you’re giving the latest in high-tech toiler paper, you might be … well … something out-of-luck.

So, I’m pre-empting my procrastination and getting on the ball. I’m buying everything I can right away. Asking for ideas early, and placing orders left and right. Box-after-box of gifts are thrown over my fence. I have a cardboard fort of delivery items stacked up in my front room. I have no idea what most of them are. My keyboard keys and mouse were flying so fast, and I was just buying at random. Anything that popped up on my screen.

And I fear I’ve taken it too far.

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