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.
Those moments when you realize you’re not the king
The full force of my mother’s lie sank in as I walked to see the King and Queen of Spain at Government House. She had always told me, “You can be anything you want in life?” “Oh yeah,” I thought as I waited to see them. “What about royalty?” She bamboozled me! Your life is never quite the same after a brush with royals. (My “brush” was from so far away, and so obscured, that I might have been looking at a light post, and not the King at all.)
Early Christmas shopping already?
May my daughter not see this. It is mid-September. By my count, at least three months from the holidays. Yet, there is a study out from CreditCards.com that says 14 percent of consumers have already started Christmas shopping. Yes, that means nearly 32 million Americans are buying gifts … in SEPTEMBER!!! I’m aghast. For a couple of reasons. First, it’s still technically summer. And I haven’t finished Christmas shopping … from last year. Then there’s my real concern: the damage it could do to my household. Once upon a time, my daughter was only exposed to toys that advertisers could sneak into commercials she didn’t skip on DVR. Or maybe a catalog that arrived in the mail. Or a toy she saw at a friend’s house. It was limited. Controlled. Filtered. Restrained. But now she’s almost 10, wired into the world and incredibly capable of searching online for toys like some kind of high tech bloodhound. With that power at her fingertips, I can’t afford (financially or from a mental sanity standpoint) the wave of requests that could begin this far out.
Viva St. Augustine!
There are moments when you realize you are part of history. A piece of something very special and rewarding. Even awe-inspiring. That there will only be one 450th anniversary of St. Augustine, and that it is an incredible honor to play a small role in it, like rowing Pedro Menendez ashore aboard a 16th century chalupa — a Spanish longboat. I love that feeling. There are also moments — not as special or rewarding — when you realize that your authentic 16th century pants are … um … well … on backwards. That the rest of your crew is having a mighty good laugh at your expense.
To the magical hurricane blocker
We have two things to celebrate this weekend: The 450th anniversary of the founding of St. Augustine — hooray! — and the fact that we weren’t struck by a hurricane, or a tropical storm, or any other force of nature. Because for a while last week it sure seemed like that might be in our future, didn’t it? Tropical Storm Erika picked up steam in the Caribbean and got us all in a tizzy. Five-day cones started pointing straight at us. Batteries and bottles of water disappeared off of store shelves. People started rioting in the streets when they realized they might have to eat canned meat. A locust sighting caused panic and cries that it was the end of the world. (Lucky, for us they weren’t locusts at all.) But even the tropical doubters — the ones who think there’s a magical force field over the city that bounces storms to the Carolinas — had to think twice and steady their resolve.
The reluctant reenactor
My daughter laughed. Not “hee-hee” laughed. Not snicker, snicker, “how funny” laughed. It was an all-out, snort-inducing, “I can’t believe how ridiculous you look” laugh. The kind that makes parents scream, “BREATHE, child. You can’t go that long without oxygen!” She was looking at a picture of me in a re-enactor’s outfit. Dressed up like an Old World Spanish oarsman. Puffy white shirt with chest exposed. Pants about the size of a circus tent. Good thing I wasn’t wearing the hat that looked like a pastry puff or the rope sandals. It was quite a getup, I have to admit. I will be wearing it as St. Augustine celebrates its 450th anniversary. I’m one of the lucky few helping to re-enact the landing of Pedro Menéndez at the Fountain of Youth on Sept. 5 and then at the big founder’s day celebration on Sept. 8 at the Mission of Nombre de Dios.
The sick dog medicine puzzle
Oh, the joys of dog ownership. Being a K9 parent. Getting to deal with the unpleasantries of an ill animal. My dog got sick last weekend. Real sick. How do I say this in polite company? Stuff was emerging out of places in ways that stuff should never emerge out of places. Let’s just call it the mother of all upset stomachs. It was bad enough that it landed us in the emergency hospital on a Sunday morning where she needed an IV while my bank account flat-lined. It was not good. And then, just like that, she was fine and able to go home. Dogs bounce back like super balls, and we’re left broke with a bag of drugs and special food to dispense. And that’s when the fun really begins. When you find that stuff emerging out of places was the easy part. Paper towels, cleaning spray and cotton stuffed up your nostrils will solve that.
Ways to keep that summertime vibe all year long
And BAM! just like that, summer is over. Every one in the household has either gone back to school, gone back to work or just gone crazy. Even the dog has started carrying a briefcase. The mood is somber. Business-like. Flip flops have been stowed. Tans have started to fade. The lazy starts to the morning have been replaced by something resembling a panicked mob fleeing Godzilla. Oh, summertime vibe, where have you gone? Determined to hold onto some semblance of that relaxed, cherished time — when the living was easy — I’ve instituted new rules in a desperate attempt to hold onto the fleeting feeling. Here is the law I have laid down in my house: • Everyone must wear bug spray or suntan lotion, even if they’re staying in doors. This is to mimic that wonderful smell of summer. Anyone caught not wearing some will be required to don 1980s zinc oxide sunblock on their nose and cheeks.
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.
The remote control infestation
The look on my wife’s face was one of disbelief. Not anger. Not disgust. But quiet, solemn, exasperated resignation. Like she knew her husband had a problem — maybe even an addiction! — and wasn’t sure how to approach it. How could this be? “I know,” I said, “but it’s just one more.” There were five remote controls laid out on the coffee table in the living room. Two of them had joined our family in the last week. TWO! “So, what does that one do?” she asked, pointing to the newest addition. “That one?” I said. “Oh, that one controls this so we can use that.”