“You’re very brave,” one of the parents said while surveying the scene — 10 kids at a birthday party. In a bowling alley/arcade/seizure-inducing crazy fun land. Ringed by big screen TVs, retina-scarring lights, howling video games and enough screaming kids to scare away bears. I shook my head and smiled. No problem-o. I wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth, delusional or just didn’t want to show fear. That she was leaving her priceless child with a man who was on the cusp of losing complete control. That we were a good five minutes away from the riot police being called. It was a birthday party for my daughter. She just turned 9 on Dec. 26, and this year we decided to throw a shindig somewhere besides our house. Preferably somewhere with concrete walls that could survive a Cat 5 hurricane, or whatever damage 8- and 9-year-old children could cause. “OK. So, I’m just going to go run a couple of quick errands …” and she didn’t even finish her sentence. She just turned and ran for the door screaming, “Poor delusional fool!” I wondered if I would ever see her again. And if it was as bad as it seemed. The chaos my wife and I were overseeing. Let’s see: We had a kid topple backwards over the seat. My daughter dropped a bowling ball on her finger. Another kid had a bowling style that resembled Olympic shot putting. She would launch the ball off her shoulder high […]
The crazy-grandfather-mafia-“this-is-happening” Christmas gift list
I’ve never heard my father talk that way. Stern. Forceful. Commanding. A little like a general. It scared me, a bit. He’s an understanding man. A great listener. Compassionate. Reasonable. One who would rather help you see the way than simply tell you which direction to go. I appreciate that about him. It’s a great trait. But this was different. “OK, just go away,” he said. I think it’s the only time in my life he’s ever spoken like that to me. Head down, I trudged off. I knew I was doomed. “And shut the door, please,” my daughter said as I went. I left her alone in the office. On the computer. Using Skype. With my dad. To talk about … CHRISTMAS PRESENTS!!! He has been bugging me. Cryptic emails that read, “For your eyes only!” in the subject line, and then Web links to a toy page on Amazon.com. It had specific instructions: “identify the circus ones she most likes and RANK them (and no holding her back, I’ll filter them).” What does that even mean? Aside from the fact that I have completely lost control. That the mild-mannered man has gone Christmas mad and has every intention of doing whatever he wants. Grandfathers spoil kids. They can buy whatever they want. I’ve learned that now. For a half hour the two of them chatted back and forth on Skype, wandering through Web page after page as they mulled over various Playmobil sets. I sat in the other […]
The ever-expanding Christmas decorations
The Empire State Building had been erected in my living room. It tottered and teetered from size-to-side, threatening to topple. The weary dog, trembling, was busy packing. She had the car keys. Was fleeing town. I heard boards in the floor creak. We all stood around it and stared. This tower of … of … of … Christmas decoration boxes! It touched the ceiling. Shoot, we could skip the tree and just decorate it. The stack was taller than the tree. We would start a new tradition. But how had our collection of holiday stuff grown to this monstrosity? “Did you get the box of Christmas books down?” my wife asked. My head cocked toward her. The way a zombie would. My spinal cord had long-since become detached from my body, ruined by all the life-threatening trips into the attic. I was the Christmas Sherpa. And I was lucky to be alive thanks to the wobbly fold-out stairs. “The box of Christmas books?” I said in disbelief. “You mean there’s more!?!” “Oh yeah,” she said. “It’s right next to the box of Christmas CDs, and the box of Christmas 8-track tapes, and the box with the note that reads, ‘Don’t throw away, but don’t put out. Too hideous for company!’” The wha … never mind. I fetched the box. It didn’t used to be like this. Once upon a time, there were one, maybe two, Christmas decoration boxes. A manageable lot. Decorating wasn’t a monumental task. It wasn’t like unloading […]
The in-demand, under-wraps Christmas gift list
Someone asked my daughter if she had her Christmas list done yet. “No,” she said. “Not yet.” My jaw dropped out of my mouth. Oh yeah? Then what were all those sheets of paper littering my desk? They had piled up so high I thought a family of opossums had built a den on there. There were lists of animal figures with prices and multiple checkboxes next to them. So what were all those lists? Oh, simple, she said. They are just things she wants … but not specifically for Christmas. To be a kid! And at Christmas, no less. When you can dream big and put anything you want on a piece of paper and hope for the best. A real, live lioness and cub. A jumbo jet with spare tire. A teleportation kit (Real. Not fake!) To be taller. Why not? Put it on. It’s Christmas. A magical time. Dream big, or go home. That’s a kid’s motto. I always loved putting together my list when I was little. The sky was limit. And I asked for the sky once, too. But to be a parent, the gift list can be an all-enveloping, time-eating, stress-inducing whirlwind. And not because of the kid. Rather, it’s all the people asking what they should buy the kid. “What’s on her Christmas list?” they all want to know. No, no. That’s not right. They don’t “want to know.” They don’t ask to know. They DE-MAND to know. “Tell me! Quick! Hurry! Before […]
The new rules for Thanksgiving
Memo To: Future-self From: Still-recovering-present-self Subject: Newly established policies for Thanksgiving It has come to management’s attention that there were several “incidents” during this year’s preparation, serving and general devouring of Thanksgiving dinner that require addressing in order to prevent future calamity and general discomfort. After further review, it has been decided that new policies should be put in place in order to avoid a repeat of the above-stated familial mayhem that ensued. These new policies should not be viewed as a punishment, but instead guideposts to make future holidays are festive events, rather than an additional stop for local law enforcement or rescue personnel. Policy No. 3502 — All dinner guests shall be given cards upon entering that include this text: “Dear guest, It is widely understood that Thanksgiving is a joyous and wonderful occasion. Therefore, please refrain from all yelling, kicking, screaming, or general debating of subject matter that lacks relevance or will generally bore the pants off of a common citizen. These subjects may include: Why car bumpers are so flimsy. What the 12th century Greek battle of Yackamenethes says about the 2016 presidential election. Pointing out guests who have added belt buckle notches to account for overeating. Yapping dogs.” Policy No. 3503 — This Thanksgiving mantra shall be repeated over and over: “I can choose my friends, but I can’t choose my family.” Policy No. 3504 — Staff shall always be courteous and customer service-driven. This specifically means that when guest after guest enters the kitchen […]
Remembering the long-ago 1900s
My wife had been explaining how PE was when she was in school. Comparing it to today. Explaining to my daughter the differences. And that is when the world came crashing down … “Mom,” the little 8-year-old said in a dignified manner, “we don’t do it like you did in the 1900s.” Ka-Blammo! The 1900s. At first I got a chuckle out of it. “Haha, honey. The kid just called you an old person from the … Hey! Wait a minute. I’m from the ‘1900s!’” My daughter smiled. I don’t think she realized what she had done. How she had wrecked our worlds. I mean, dang, the kid was right. We were from the 1900s. She was from the 2000s. A child of the future. We were old-timey pioneer folk from the distant past. “Ma, could you run outside and fetch a pail of water while I change the oil on the family cow?” I felt like I should be sitting in a straw hat talking about life during the dust bowl. “Yeah, sonny, it was literally a bowl, and it was made out of dust. We ate our cereal from it.” “Quick! Look it up on your iPad. What’s the old coot talking about?” The 1900s. He’s talking about the far away 1900s. No, no, my wife and I reasoned. The 1900s refer to that period before the 1910s. Right? A mere decade. The 1900s shouldn’t lump together decades and decades of people like we do with the 1800s, […]
Conquering the Tough Mudder
I have a thigh bruise the size of an eggplant from climbing over walls. I wake up at night shivering from the ice bath I had to jump into. I learned I’m terrible at monkey bars. Midway through I slipped and fell into a murky pit of muddy water. I ran the Tough Mudder in Central Florida last weekend. I was part of a team from Flagler College that braved the 10-mile course with its 18 military-style obstacles — electrified wires you crawl through, a quarter-mile creek hike, 12-foot-tall walls you scale. It was brutal and grueling, and strangely, pretty fun. By the fact that I still have a pulse, I would call it a success. Well, that’s not entirely true. “You left a dirt ring on your pillow!” said my horrified wife the next day. I had no idea the mud would leach into my skin, cake my hair and plague me for days, no matter how hard I scrubbed. (I used half a box of cotton swabs just cleaning out my ears.) For a guy who hates dirt, that may have been the toughest part. That, and an obstacle at the end called “Everest.” It was a 15-foot-tall quarter-pipe covered in mud and grease. The objective was to run up it, leap at the last moment, and grab someone’s outstretched hand. If you missed, you landed with a flop and slid back to the mud. Onlookers would shudder and whisper, “Dude’s gonna’ be missing teeth!” It was intimidating […]
The art of not getting ready
Here is what the Merriam-Webster Dictionary has to say about the word “ready:” “prepared to do something;” “available for use;” “prepared mentally or physically for some experience or action.” Yep, exactly how I understood it. And then the definition I didn’t realize existed. The one that made it clear that it wasn’t our beloved children who fail to understand the meaning of the word. No, no, in fact it was us — the parents, the old folks, the ones who haven’t spent time in elementary school honing our legal skills in vocabulary class, diligently studying the meaning of words to one day use against us. For there, at the bottom of the list, sat the most eye-opening, the most startling, the most infuriating definition of “ready.” It said: “Almost about to do something.” Golly gee willikers! As a parent of almost 9 years I realized what a fool I had been. Because when I’ve screamed, “Child! If you are not READY for school in five minutes I am going to threaten something horrible and awful that I will never follow through on,” I only IMPLIED that she needed to be ALMOST ABOUT to go. And technically she was … even if her teeth weren’t brushed, and her hair wasn’t combed, and breakfast wasn’t eaten, and come to think of it … SHE WAS STILL IN BED!!! What a fool! What fools we’ve all been. We try to wield the English language to our advantage without fully understanding it. We’ve been […]
Countdown to Tough Mudder doom
So this is what doom feels like. Huh, I’ve always been curious. It’s a sensation of being lost. And helpless. And seeing your fate — your entire future — washed away in a flood. There is moody, imposing, bass-heavy theme music. You sweat a lot. People stare at you. Pity you. Know you’re going to meet your maker. “Poor sad doomed fool,” they say. They say it out loud! SO YOU CAN HEAR!!! I realized this — my doomedness — last weekend while in Orlando. My daughter was begging me to go into the hotel pool with her. But the water was cold. I made it up to my calves before I realized I would rather eat the backsides of dead frogs than go into that chilly water. “I ain’t doing it kid,” I said, and ran off to build a fire in the room. Later I realized my impending doom. DUN-Dun-dun-DUHHH! (Imposing theme music!) Big dummy, I thought. You won’t go into a moderately cold pool, yet in a matter of days you’ll take part in a Tough Mudder — a 10- to 12-mile race with ridiculously imposing obstacles … INCLUDING one that will require you to jump into a pool of freezing ice water and swim under a board with barbed wire. But you don’t even like to get your precious little toes-ies cold. DOOMED! Yep, I can hear the music. It’s a rag-tag Tough Mudder team we’ve put together at the college. I’ve come up with a […]
The DIY guide to surviving hardwood floors
I’m a guy who fancies himself a real do-it-yourselfer. Just enough knowledge to take on large household construction projects, yet not enough to do them competently. This past weekend I laid down more than 400 square feet of new hardwood flooring in my old house. Hundreds of little blocks of wood needed to be positioned just right. Thousands of air-fired nails had to be pounded in. And one dog had to be so traumatized by the sounds of an air compressor that she stole the car. Rewarding? Ask my permanently-hunched-over back. But on the whole, yes. Which is why I’m here to give you some reasons why you, too, not only can, but should become a DIY master and take on a hardwood floor project yourself: • Your back, thighs and hands will love you for it. My hands are still partially numb from all the hammering and gripping. I have splinters the size of vampire stakes. And even three days later, my legs feel like they’re made of concrete. I have consumed more ibuprofen than some states will go through in a year, and I still can’t feel two toes. • You will finally understand what “DIY” REALLY stands for. It’s not “do-it-yourself,” but “done-it-yet?” Because it will take you twice, or four times, or possibly infinitely longer than you ever expected. Because you have no sense of “project” time. And you’re optimistic and ambitious, and ultimately, pretty stupid. You think to yourself, “I have a football game to […]