It’s over. The presidential election between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton is mercifully over. Look, forget who won or lost, just for a moment. If your candidate won, you’re still smiling and gloating. If your candidate lost, you’re still researching real estate in Canada. I get it. It’s been a tough one on all of us. It’s been emotional. It’s been trying. It’s tested us, individually and as a nation. But mercifully — whether you won or lost — there is this: We can all start to get our lives back. This election has been all-consuming — as if the oxygen was sucked from the room. We spent the past year or two straining for breath. It’s felt like that. Without making light of it — without trying to sweep under the rug what is a major victory for some and a difficult-to-heal loss for the rest — we at least don’t have to listen to speeches anymore. So in the spirit of moving on — at your own pace — I suggest a few things to fill your time now that you don’t have to worry about the election, or hanging on endless polls, or watching all those TV pundits you couldn’t stand anyway. • Have a meal with your family where you actually feel present again — not worrying about this statement or that poll. We been so invested in this election that dinner conversation has become background noise. Something we’ve heard, but not really taken part in. You know what? The most important words you […]
When marathons collide … with marathon elections
I have come to the conclusion that elections are like marathons: They force you to endure long stretches of misery and inflict interminable pain. This week I am testing that theory/cliché by running a marathon — the Rock ‘n Roll Marathon in Savannah, Ga. — just a couple days before the presidential election. Heaven help me! I do this knowing that the stress of the two within the same week could be too much for my poor body. I could spontaneously combust. I could go insane. I could vote for the green party or write-in “Bette Midler” for president. Nobody knows what will happen. But I endure it for you, America! I’ve found many similarities between running 26.2 miles and a presidential election, especially THIS election. For instance, feelings and emotions change over time. When I signed up for the marathon all those months ago, I was giddy, excited and full of optimism. Four months later I am racked with uncertainty, self-doubt, fear and the sense that I have made a horrible mistake. (Plus, I could lose some toenails in the process!)
Critical steps for all you DIY-ers
When did “do it yourself” become such a trendy, positive, popular term? I mean, it used to be a negative. Something you would shout when you were fed up with someone, and usually with a bit of nastiness tacked onto the end: “Oh yeah, well do it yourself … jerk face!” But, not today. Not when we’re all proud “do-it-yourselfers.” And even though I’ve sworn off doing-it-myself — numerous times — I always find I’m pulled back in. Lured to a new project I should have hired out. Like when I decided to fix a water filter assembly in my refrigerator. Yeah! Good idea! So here are a few tips I think everyone should ponder before launching into their own DIY nightmares … I mean … projects: • Make sure you do it right before heading out of town on a business trip. Your wife will absolutely love this when she realizes the “fix” you may (or may not) have just completed could send a jet of cold water spraying into the kitchen while you’re gone.
Surviving a hurricane … with mom
I don’t mean to sound over-dramatic, but I really feel lucky. I don’t mean to make light of the situation. It’s just that people have told me this in jest. Not because I made it through Hurricane Matthew, but because I made it through two nights in a stuffy hotel room with my mother. With her dog. Without electricity. With only a couple of cold chicken fingers and the few sandwiches I grabbed from work. And maybe most of all, because my wife didn’t kill me for staying with my mother, and not with her and my daughter. It certainly wasn’t the way I planned it. Looking back on it, I’m still not sure how it worked out that way. But I do remember a phone call one early morning, right before Matthew started huffing and puffing our way. It was my mother: “Brian! The hotel just called to say they’re canceling my reservation! They’re evacuating the city!” (My mother talks with a Southern accent, but she is Cuban. And Cubans talk in exclamation points!)
The lesson from Hurricane Matthew
St. Augustine, Florida — “Boy, one big bubba truck riding down the road could have swamped her,” the friend said. I was telling him about my mother’s house in downtown St. Augustine. When I got back into St. Augustine early Saturday morning — cutting down a side street clogged with debris and garbage and tree branches — I pulled into her driveway and shined a light through her door to see twinkling cat eyes staring at me. Then I noticed the high water line along the siding. It’s where the flood waters stopped. Barely an inch from her doorway. That was how close her house came to flooding. Had the storm jogged a few miles west — had that “bubba truck” ridden down Riberia Street — it would have been a different story. Remarkable. She’s one of the lucky ones. I was, too, and my brother.
Memories of waterparks
I have four distinct memories of going to waterparks as a child: 1) Nearly being drowned by a crush of friends in the deep end of the wave pool; 2) burning to such a crisp that I looked like a strip of bacon (and smelled like it, too;) 3) drinking no water, aside from what I swallowed while being drowned in the wave pool; and 4) putting my towel down on a beach chair and never — ever! — finding it again. I grew up in Tampa, and many weekends were spent at Adventure Island. My mother would drop my brother, me and a couple friends off with a towel, a glob of sunscreen to share and some wadded up money we were supposed to use for lunch. (We inevitably blew it at the arcade.) In summer, we lived at waterparks. In Florida you are required to attend waterparks. It’s the official state bird. But my daughter, now 10, had never been to one. (When you live close to the Atlantic Ocean, who needs fake waves?) So when we traveled to Orlando this past weekend so my wife could attend a conference, the two of us visited Aquatica, a waterworld filled with slides, wave pools, lazy rivers and tourists wearing odd bathing suits that leave nothing to the imagination.
Go to the doctor, dipsy doodle
I hope my gravestone doesn’t one day read: “Should have gone to the doctor. Might have saved him, if not for his stubbornness. Now he’s dead … and eternally stubborn.” It would be the greatest shame of my life. I guess I should clarify: I’m not dying. Not that I know of. And at no point did I think I was dying. But I did spend a couple weeks in sickness, lurching from one ailment to the next — first the common cold, then a sinus-something-or-other followed by what could be described as “bronchial bazooka,” and finally general hacking coupled with all the hair on the left side of my body falling out. You know, normal stuff! While it dragged on and on, I refused to go to the doctor, thinking all the time that I was finally punching through to better health, and that a visit would be a waste of time.
The no-good, lousy birthday gift-giver
The world’s worst gift-giver … is getting worse. Sad. Pathetic. A real louse. What’s wrong with me? “Did a package arrive today?” I asked my wife, nervously. Biting my nails. It was zero hour. Getting close. Her birthday? Near on the horizon. Just days away. “No,” my wife replied. “Are you expecting something?” “Me? … Um … no. Why do you ask?” Smooth lousy gift-giver. Any dolt could see through that, and my wife is no dolt. Not to mention I had specifically asked her to pick out her gift — to make sure I got the right one. Then I ordered it online. I waited two days for it to be delivered. Where is it?!? The gift? A Fitbit exercise watch. Counts steps, heart beats, rungs on your belt, even guilts you out of eating burritos drowned in sour cream. It was a gift, but also a replacement. I was responsible for … ahem … accidentally throwing away her old one. In an airport parking lot. Still not sure how I managed that one. Now I had turned an IOU into a birthday present. SURPRISE!
The REAL poll of polls
If your house is like mine, you’ve been getting lots of phone calls recently. And because no sane person actually makes phone calls anymore, you know all these calls are just automated election polls asking your opinion on this issue or that candidate. It’s not just the sheer quantity of the polls that bother me, but also that they ask the same questions and limit your answers to the same boring answers. So I’ve designed my own poll that I would love to see dialing the homes of millions of Americans (who will never answer their phones.) Here it is: Are you planning to vote on election day? A. Yes B. No C. Only if a family member is being held hostage D. There’s an election this year?!? How come no one said anything? Which party do you support? A. Democrats B. Republicans C. Independents D. That crazy dance party in the Nevada desert where they burn a big wooden man and then wonder why in the world they are listening to music in a desert.
What do dogs REALLY understand?
Busted! And I must tell you, I suspected it all along. I think we all did. Dogs are smarter than we give them credit for. But they play us! The proof comes in a recent study. Hungarian researchers — Hungary has been on the forefront of K9 research ever since proving that dogs ate the Christmas presents, not burglars! — learned that man’s best friend really does understand what we are saying. Well, actually that they analyze both the words that we say along with our tone to put together meaning. But that’s a bunch of scientific mumbo-jumbo. The fine print is this: My dog’s been scammin’ me! She’s smart. She understands perfectly what I’m saying, and always has. More insidiously, she thinks that I’m just a big, dumb human who lacks the neural pathways to know that Hungary is a country, not just when I want dinner. (To be honest with you, I was a little unclear on that. I mean, where is Hungary anyway?)