It was something I realized while riding with my daughter. We were taking our dog to a park. She’s almost two, that dingo of a dog. We were going to throw the ball to burn off some of her energy. It gets stored up in reserve batteries she keeps in her haunches.
A Christmas gift from a brother … almost
This is the actual text message exchange with my brother: He writes: Just got my Xmas present from you. You were very generous this year. Perplexed, I write: Huh!?! He replies: I just bought my Christmas present from you … for myself. Therefore unless you are some Christmas hating heathen, you are required to spend the same amount on yourself, or you get the Scrooge/Grinch Before They Learned Their Lesson Award. Confused, but playing it off — like I know what in the heck he is talking about — I write: Cool. How much you spend?
The rocket fast (or was it?) little kid go-kart extravaganza
I don’t know how fast I was going. Or how slow. It felt quick. Adrenaline speeds things up. So does wind in your hair. Gripping a steering wheel. Breathing noxious engine fumes. Knowing your hindquarters are just inches off the ground. Who cares how fast you’re going? It’s really how fast you THINK you’re going. And it felt FAST! Rocket car fast. These were go-karts at a local “adventure speedway.” We were there for a birthday party. One of my daughter’s closest school chums. It warms the heart to see two little girls hug. Like they haven’t seen each other in ages — not just a couple days ago. Little boys don’t do that. They slug each other in the arm and say, “Happy birthday, pickle breath. Hope your momma’ got you good looks for a present.” Little boys don’t show affection. That is until they see something amazing and incredible and stupendous … like a go-cart. Then they scream, “I LOVE you!” and run over to hug it like they haven’t seen each other in ages. That was pretty much my reaction when a ticket to the speedway was tucked into my hand.
The perfect freshly-cut ex-husband Christmas tree
It’s the age-old question: Do you tell your mother it was her ex-husband who picked her Christmas tree? On the one hand, she might throw it out. She might burn it, causing a fire that incinerates half the town. On the other hand, it’s delicious information. It might be fun to see her reaction … if used at just the right moment … like when she criticizes me for letting my daughter wear this or that. “Oh yeah!” I could retort. “Well, dad picked your Christmas tree. HA! Your house has ex-husband cooties.”
And then, much thanks was given …
And now the column where much thanks is given for the little things in life: • I’m thankful that my dog can hold her pumpkin. Little pumpkins, left over from Halloween. They were part of a display on the dining room table. A nice, simple Thanksgiving display. Very nice. Then they started disappearing. One by one.
A grand experiment to slow down time
Great men — brilliant men — have often speculated about time machines. Devices that might take us backward or forward to our past or our future. But why hasn’t anyone explored the idea of a time-slowing machine? This occurred to me the other day after walking my daughter to school. As I strolled back carrying her scooter, I marveled at the Christmas blowup toys in someone’s front yard. “Already out!?!” I thought. “How can this be? It’s too early.” But it isn’t. Thanksgiving is almost here, and that means we’re locked and loaded, buckled up and bundled in with a heavy foot on the gas, headed for Christmas.
Coughing fits, like the crackle of thunder
Why is it whenever you’re hacking. When you have tissue stuffed up your nose. When there are noises emanating from your lungs that sound like tree branches snapping. Like thunder crackling. Like little mice being squeezed. Why is it whenever you’re in this state, people always stare you right in the eyes and ask, “Are you sick?” Oh, no. I’m fine, thank you. I always sound like this. Then I sneeze on their head. Right on their head!
Elementary school field trips: The adulthood reminder
Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids. On a field trip. In a school bus. It’s chaotic chatter — like birds in the trees — until one child starts humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Why Beethoven’s Ninth? And then they all start to join in, one after another. Only … wait a minute … no, they’re not humming. They’re moo-ing. They are all moo-ing like cows! Beethoven! All of them now. Every last one. The bus is filled with the sound of bovines. And I just have to smile. Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids.
The questions we weren’t hearing in the presidential debates
Here’s my problem with presidential debates: I can’t help but sit there and think that the hard questions aren’t being asked. The tough questions. The questions we neck-deep-in-it Americans have on our minds. No, instead it’s the same old hum-drum questions that give us no better understanding of two candidates we have to choose between. So after watching the second presidential debate, and with the third one coming up, I thought I would share a few questions I would love to see the candidates answer. Here they are:
No drama in the elementary school lunchbox
There is no drama in my daughter’s school lunch. I just realized this the other day. There’s no mystery. No excitement. No surprise. No “ick!” And I don’t know how I feel about that. Because isn’t that what school lunch is all about? It was for me.