We get pretty set in our ways. Used to our lives. Like them just the way they are with their set patterns and rhythms and schedules. That’s the way we like our home life and our houses. To the guy who came up with the saying, “the only constant in life is change,” we blow you a raspberry and say, “Yeah, well, when was the last time you dog-sat for your brother, you old philosophical coot!” Nothing makes you question whether the world will ever be the same again like dog-sitting. “Oh great deity, please restore order to the chaos … I have a dog towel with muddy footprints on my kitchen floor!” My brother went out of town this week for his son’s birthday, and his part-dog, part-cow named Ella came over for her regular re-orientation of the Thompson house. It’s not the dog’s fault. Human houseguests at least have some awareness that they are in someone else’s home. They realize they need to TRY to adapt their ways to your ways in order to keep from getting kicked to the curb. A dog has no concept of this — no situational awareness. No clue that there is such a thing as three strikes and then they spend the night in the shed because they kept hopping on the sofa.
Navigating a dis-connected world … for a couple days
“What do we do now … talk to each other?” I don’t know who asked it. We were all in kind of a daze. A blur. Wondering what had happened. How this could be possible. What we would do next. Was the Internet … the WIFI … the cable … even the daggone landline phone (who even has those anymore!?!) really out? And for two days? There had been some kind of outage in the neighborhood cable lines. Trucks were dispatched and crews went to work fixing it. Little ants, all up in the lines. And fix it they did. Only, there was a bigger issue with our line, and no one thought to take care of it right then. We knew this because no matter how many times we poked at our phones, tried to reset the modem or cursed at the remote control, no signals ever screamed from our devices, giving us the rush of data we sorely craved. Funny how we’ve become so used to voice-activated devices that in crisis we ACTUALLY think yelling at them will get answers: “I am NOT going to say it again, ‘WHAT … IS … WRONG … WITH … YOU!?!’ Answer me or I’ll put you under the chickens’ perch again.” Nothing. Silence. The world had gone dark. We sat around on the sofa, trembling. Staring at each other.
School lunches finally hit the big-time
There’s a new arms race shaping up, America. It’s taking place in our homes. Our very own kitchens. Every morning, it’s being waged to win the hearts and minds of … school children? What am I even talking about?!? It was an article in The Wall Street Journal this week headlined, “The Competitive World of School Lunches.” And it made me realize that I’m a slouch. See, parents are taking it up a notch in the school lunch department. They’re creating mesmerizing displays of fruit and pressed sandwiches that, well, don’t deserve to be wasted on kids who will only discard them because the crust is 2 mm too thick. There are themed lunches. Lunches that resemble beautiful banquets. Lunches that parents shoot photos of and then post to Instagram because, why not?!? It’s not whether your kid likes it, but whether all your friends on social media do. But I was blown away. Straight-up shock and awed. When I’m in charge of putting together lunch for my daughter, it looks a lot like my poor, lackluster leaf blowing skills. Not focused. Just happy I attempted it in the first place. My porches and sidewalks always look worse after I’m done.
The birthday cake bake-off
“So, where you want me to buy your birthday cake?” I asked my wife earlier this month. On such things, I don’t just do whatever I want. I get advice. I’ve learned the hard way. You don’t take risks when it comes to birthday cakes. Countries have fought wars over less. “No, don’t buy it,” she said. “Why don’t you both make a cake.” Make … uh … wait a minute … make a cake?!? Is that even a thing? And if it is, why would you wish such a thing upon us. My daughter and me. And mainly me. Because here’s the thing about me in the kitchen. I like things a certain way. By which I mean, I don’t like when stuff gets everywhere. By which I mean, my daughter tends to get things everywhere. By which I mean, I make a big ‘ole deal about it, freak out because the cocoa powder spilled and start screaming about how she ruined Christmas … and it’s not even Christmas! That’s how crazy baking cakes gets for me. It’s not a good way to start a birthday celebration. “Or, I could just go buy a cake,” I said. “You know, we do need to support the economy and all. Don’t want another recession.”
Hey dog, I can see you on the spycam!
There are great mysteries to be solved in this small world: Is there anything prehistoric swimming around in Loch Ness? What size shoe does Bigfoot wear? Why does a calendar reminder keep popping up on my computer telling me to drain the hot water heater tank? (Yeah, like I’m going to do that!) And the biggest of all: What does your dog do when you’re not home? Turns out the last one I’ve finally solved. Glory be! It’s thanks to the proliferation of these tiny home cameras you can install for security purposes, or keeping up with your animals. My brother calls it the “doggie spycam.” Mind you, I’m not spying on my dog. It’s setup more for home security. And if the dog would just stay in her bed, and not stroll through the camera’s frame, I wouldn’t know anything about it. But the minute she does, a little alert pops up on my phone.
A Northeast Floridian with hurricane on the brain
Wake up, freak out, check the National Hurricane Center site, wet pants or breathe sigh of relief … and repeat. Do this about 20 million times a day, pass out exhausted at the end of the day drooling on the couch, and prepare to do it all over again at 5 a.m. the next morning. If you were like me this week, those three hurricanes tearing through the Atlantic in various directions got you properly worried. And there was good reason: IT WAS SCARY AS ALL GET OUT!!! We’re talking horror movie scary. We’re talking “are you kidding me!” scary. As I write this column on Wednesday morning (just woke up, freaked out and checked the National Hurricane Site …), Hurricane Florence was heading to North Carolina, but there’s still all kinds of bobbing and weaving to be done before it would be over. Who really knows? (Excuse me one second while I go check the …) If I’ve learned anything from living in Florida my whole life — and through the last two years of Hurricanes Matthew and Irma — it’s to take nothing for granted. Always expect the unexpected. Never turn your back on a tropical beast that twists and twirls, and can bulldoze a whole ocean into your backyard. Wake up, freak out, check the …
The (almost) electrifying fountain strike
There’s a rule in life (or should be): Never die because of a backyard fountain. First off, it’s embarrassing. Second, it’s one of three reasons that life insurance won’t payout. (The other two are death by pet piranha and swallowing too much toothpaste.) Truth is, it didn’t technically involve the fountain, and I didn’t almost die. But could have, I suppose. I wasn’t installing it. It’s been in place for over a year. I was snipping vines and weeds with a pair of garden clippers. Innocent. Harmless. Rummaging around in a line of ornamental grasses. Not giving a care in the world to where I was snip-snip-snipping. Because why would I? They’re plants. They haven’t unionized. They’re like kittens. Snip-snip-BZZZAP! That’s when the flash of yellow and blue flame appeared, right out of the long, green leaves. It seemed to jump at me – angry about something. Maybe I had disturbed its slumber with my trimming. Wait a minute … why were my plants exploding in front of my eyes? Maybe they had gone through with the union after all?!?
Memories of PE class, that ‘boot camp’ of elementary school
I don’t know if I would have read the article if it wasn’t called, “Wedgies? Or Golden Moments?” But it sure got my attention. It was in the Science section (don’t ask me why) of The New York Times, and it was all about a study looking at whether PE classes in school had any effect on how active adults were later in life. In essence, did your experience in gym make you want to keep working out, or running screaming from exercise for all eternity … and even longer if a tether ball is around? The study found a connection between people who liked physical education classes as a kid and went on to find exercise enjoyable in life, and those who thought PE was the coming apocalypse and wouldn’t exercise unless it’s court-mandated. The reasons were many: Hating being chosen last or fumbling through games were the negatives, while athletic accomplishment or the thrill of flushing some poor kid’s head in a toilet bowl were the positives. But I don’t know what to make of the study itself. Because I never saw PE as a net-positive or -negative. It was never that simple. Phys Ed at the Academy of the Holy Names, a Catholic school run by nuns when I attended it for elementary school, was boys-only. They kept the girls safely quarantined across the street where our swine flu and other disgusting habits could not rub off on them.
And down crashed the little kid coffee mug
Maybe I was in a hurry. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough. Or not as careful as I usually am. The soap on my hands made the mug slick. Maybe sometimes accidents just happen and that’s all there is. Anyway, I fumbled it. Felt it slip from my grasp as fingers scrambled to catch it. The “clank” from hitting the porcelain sink in the kitchen was a sickening sound. The handle broke free, and a chip looped through the air for dramatic effect. As if to say, “Look at me! I’m flying!” “Oh no,” I gasped. The coffee mug was dead. Odd really, now that I think about it. I have never held any affinity for mugs. Not like others do. Put a new coffee mug on some people’s desks and you would think they were just given gold. Or a baby animal. They cherish it. Go ga-ga over it. Promise it a college fund.
Wondering what my news feed says about me … and my belly fat
My news feeds having been doing a number on me recently. News feeds. You know, those apps on your phone or news aggregating Web sites that look at your past reading habits and then throw out a bunch of stories in hopes you’ll say, “Yes! I’ve always wondered why my dog follows me into the bathroom … I’ll read that!” Most of the time these algorithm-based timesavers have me pegged. Offering up the right amount of politics, soccer, the latest news from Star Wars and really strange stories with headlines like, “Viral ‘Goat Monster’ is Actually a Real Goat Breed.” Wo! That’s better than, “Bitcoin saved my marriage, but got me broke.” But lately, my feeds have taken a turn for, “Say what now?” They have me wondering. Questioning. Worrying. What in the wide world is going on!?! Like how I keep getting stories — sometimes 6-7 a day — that are a variation of this: “Seven top superfoods to lose stubborn belly fat.” Um … ok. Why exactly, dear algorithm, do you think I need to read so many of these stories? Because the “lose belly fat” topic is either incredibly trendy right now, or my digital devices are trying to tell me something!