Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Cookie_Jar::offsetExists($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetExists(mixed $offset): bool, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php on line 63

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Cookie_Jar::offsetGet($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetGet(mixed $offset): mixed, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php on line 73

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Cookie_Jar::offsetSet($key, $value) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetSet(mixed $offset, mixed $value): void, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php on line 89

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Cookie_Jar::offsetUnset($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetUnset(mixed $offset): void, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php on line 102

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Cookie_Jar::getIterator() should either be compatible with IteratorAggregate::getIterator(): Traversable, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php on line 111

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Utility_CaseInsensitiveDictionary::offsetExists($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetExists(mixed $offset): bool, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Utility/CaseInsensitiveDictionary.php on line 40

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Utility_CaseInsensitiveDictionary::offsetGet($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetGet(mixed $offset): mixed, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Utility/CaseInsensitiveDictionary.php on line 51

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Utility_CaseInsensitiveDictionary::offsetSet($key, $value) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetSet(mixed $offset, mixed $value): void, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Utility/CaseInsensitiveDictionary.php on line 68

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Utility_CaseInsensitiveDictionary::offsetUnset($key) should either be compatible with ArrayAccess::offsetUnset(mixed $offset): void, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Utility/CaseInsensitiveDictionary.php on line 82

Deprecated: Return type of Requests_Utility_CaseInsensitiveDictionary::getIterator() should either be compatible with IteratorAggregate::getIterator(): Traversable, or the #[\ReturnTypeWillChange] attribute should be used to temporarily suppress the notice in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Utility/CaseInsensitiveDictionary.php on line 91

Warning: Cannot modify header information - headers already sent by (output started at /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/Requests/Cookie/Jar.php:15) in /home4/nutshel5/public_html/wp-includes/feed-rss2.php on line 8
Nutshellcity.com https://www.nutshellcity.com Sat, 03 Sep 2022 11:24:29 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.0.7 After 24 years in print, it’s time to say goodbye https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2435 Sat, 03 Sep 2022 11:24:02 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2435 I didn’t realize it had been that long. Not until I counted up all the years. More than 24. Dating back to … can it be?!? 1998. Wow.

Remember that year? So long ago? Google was founded. Bill Clinton was doing things in the White House that you shouldn’t do in the White House. The Spice Girls were pretty darn popular. What a year!

It was also when I first started writing this “Life in a Nutshell” column for the St. Augustine Record, and kept it going, uninterrupted, for 24 years. Fifty-two a year. More than 1,200 in total. That’s nearly 1 million words. Wait, do the math again … yep. I’ve written almost 1 million words in this little weekly column.

How are there still tips on my fingers? Maybe that’s why I have the calluses, and my pinky is like a crooked twig.

Now, 24 years later, I’m sad to say I’m writing the final one for The Record.

Farewell, farewell.

Hey, all good things come to an end. It happens. Things change, and they’re making changes. I mean, Google’s still here, but do we really listen to The Spice Girls anymore? Well, some of us do.

I’ve been lucky to get to do this for so long. It’s been a privilege, really. A wonderful opportunity.

In more than 1,200 columns I’ve been able to do something I love: share stories. About my life. About my marriage. My daughter – chronicling her as she’s grown up. About my animals – the dogs, the cats, the chickens. Family. A 100-year-old house. A yard that has swallowed me whole countless times, and thankfully spit me out every time. Trips. Milestones. Ailments. Additions. Grand prognostications. Foolish observations. And to this day, the only known use of the saying, “Open up a can of dumb-dumb.” Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever used it in this column. Good thing I get one more …

I’ve done things in a small-town newspaper that I never thought possible. From these pages I won 8 Florida Press Club awards for commentary. (Don’t ask me what the judges were drinking!) Even more remarkable, one year I took home second place from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists in their humor writing category. I’ve done radio commentaries and seen my work picked up by newspapers around the state, and even further. For a while I taught a class on Opinion Writing at Flagler College, where I work full-time, and even penned a section on commentary for a book on college journalism.

Along the way, this column encouraged me to encourage others: To find their voice. To take a stand. To not be afraid to speak up. I heard the great Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Connie Schultz once say, “Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes.” How true.

It’s really been such a joy.

Or … most weeks.

People often ask if it’s hard to come up with an idea and write a new column week in and week out.

“Hard?” I said. “Pshaw. No, not really ‘hard’ per se. More like … excruciating. Terrifying. Like a root canal without novocaine. That’s what it’s like writing a column week in and week out.”

You never know what your next idea will be, or when it will come. Or if it does, whether it will be any good. For instance, do you know how many times I’ve sat at my desk the morning a column is due and thought, “Could I turn out 900 words on the theme of … pasta?”

Would it be any good? Could I get it done in time? Will people read it, and will they care? Will it resonate? Will it matter? Will it mean something to someone?

But somehow over the years, many of the stories seemed to resonate. Mainly because they were about everyday universal things that we all experience. Something we could all share a laugh over because we’d all been there.

I’ve always kind of lived by a mantra: Laugh to keep from crying. It’s like a guiding light for me. An anchor. A safe port in stormy seas. Because things happen to us, right? Unpleasant things. Embarrassing things. Frustrating things. Stupid things. The kind of things that make us look in the mirror and ask, “Are you one of the two dumbest people in the world? You looked right at that rusty nail and somehow you STILL stepped on it!”

We all do it. And in times like those, a good laugh at my own expense (along with 17 tetanus shots) could always get me through it. It was cathartic. Calming. Rejuvenating. And when I shared those moments – commiserated with others – we could all share the laugh together. We didn’t feel so silly anymore. Because we weren’t alone.

The most embarrassing thing I ever wrote about? Probably a toss-up between the time I got electrocuted after accidentally snipping the chord of a backyard fountain while trimming weeds or the time I was drinking a beer with my daughter on my lap and she jerked her head just as I took a sip from the bottle. Sheared the tips right off my front teeth.

Why did I share that? Laugh to keep from crying, I guess.

My favorite column? The time my daughter and I freed a lightning bug from a spider’s web while we were sitting next to a North Carolina stream and enjoying a fire.

So many memories stored up in those columns.

This doesn’t mean it’s over. Afterall, this column has always lived another life here online at www.nutshellcity.com. I’ll probably take a little break and then figure out something else to do on here. So, keep an eye out and stop by.

But for now, I guess these fingertips will get a break. For the first time in 24 years, I won’t have to startle myself awake on a Monday morning screaming, “I DIDN’T START MY COLUMN!!! I’M GONNA’ HAVE TO WRITE ABOUT PASTA!”

Twenty-four years. Wow! Not sure how I ever turned out so many words. How I could dream up so many ideas. How I could share so many embarrassing moments. And … whether my fingertips can stop now. Probably not.  

So for now, I’ll just say, “farewell, farewell,” and thank you for reading.   

]]>
Wrestling with the hurricane addiction bug https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2433 Sat, 27 Aug 2022 16:21:56 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2433 It’s that time of year, and I’m feeling the pull. The call. The urge. The bug.

All I want to do is stare at weather maps, charts and forecast models. All pointed at the Atlantic. I’m in search of tropical waves and storms brewing out in that vast seething ocean. Kicked off the African coastline and riding a freight train for the Caribbean and parts north. Think: Elementary school kids released on the last day of school. Completely cut loose. All screaming, “Freedom! Let’s flatten some houses!”

Hurricane season is in full effect.

And just as the tropics start getting down to business, I get my annual hurricane obsession. Part fear, part fascination, and a whole lot of morbid curiosity sprinkled on. (Like, what would happen if two hurricanes collided … OVER MIAMI!?!). Plus, my own brand of amateur forecasting. (Translation: Another dude who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.)

I’m turning into a bit of a weather geek. I sit at my computer studying Web sites, discussions, animated maps and lots of forecast charts with squiggly lines and strange numbers that I can’t make sense of no matter how long I stare at them. Maybe it’s color by numbers? Maybe if I stare long enough, I’ll see pictures of rabbits or rocket ships?

I don’t know, but it’s all so fascinating. Because it’s weather. And it’s science. And it’s hurricanes. I’m into it, man, and can’t get enough.

I don’t want to just make sense of it. I also want to use it to draw my own analysis and conclusions. Something I see and the experts missed. That I can add to the story. It leads me to cook up wild theories, none of which have any basis in established meteorology. I’m more conspiracy theorist than sanctioned weatherman. My predictions rarely come to pass, and are often based on ridiculous assumptions: That cloud pattern looks like a buzz-saw … or Pac-Man! I bet it will do some damage in the Caribbean.

Or environmental evidence I notice that must have some deeper meaning for events thousands of miles away in the Atlantic. “You know, I saw three cardinals dancing a jig in the street,” I might say. “I think that means the tropical patterns are really in flux.” Or “You know the pentas didn’t bloom very well this year. Betcha’ we’re in for a hot hurricane season.”

It makes me more witch doctor than weather guru. Or nuts.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying. Or learning. Or studying. Because it’s such a fascinating ballet out there. How wind shear and even Saharan dust can dash the hopes of so many aspiring tropical waves. How seemingly benign thunderstorms blowing off the coast of Africa can spin up into city-destroying monsters. The power of mother nature on full display. Seeing historical events played out on weather maps. Knowing that cardinals in MY yard are playing a role! It’s incredible.

Only, for weather geeks to be happy, there unfortunately has to be weather. And this kind brings destruction. Last time we had a hurricane blow through here, the backside of my house got a little too acquainted with an overly affectionate Southern Red Cedar. It wanted to come inside and watch TV. Luckily my porch got in the way.

I find myself struggling with this all the time. The thrill of these storms surging through the Atlantic versus the fear of a homeowner who knows one coming here could spell doom for my 100-year-old house that is blocks away from the water on all sides.

This morning I dropped checks for flood and property insurance in the mail. For that kind of money, I could have bought an island off the coast of Portugal. It’s all to make sure that I’m covered in the eventuality that the worst happens. There are few things that you pay for in life that you hope have zero return on investment. But this one of them.  

It makes me wonder why I’m not wishing them away, rather than cheering them on. Getting excited when I see the National Hurricane Center maps pop up with yellow X’s and percentage predictions about storm formation. Waiting excitedly for new runs of forecast models so I can see what the computer simulations are predicting for the paths and power of these developing storms.

Really?!? Do you remember how not-fun power outages are? Wondering if your roof has the will to stick it out, or the urge to visit your neighbor’s front yard? How there might be other Southern Red Cedars looking to come inside from the rain?

Maybe my fascination – this weather bug I’ve got – is a little unhealthy. Maybe I should be praying to the Weather Gods to spin-down storms, not fire them up. Maybe I should be praying for November to get here, when the season officially ends and all goes calm in the Tropics again.

Well, at least until June. Then I can get excited all over again. A hurricane junkie can’t go too long without his tropical fix.  

]]>
Back to the back-to-school rhythm https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2430 Fri, 19 Aug 2022 11:44:19 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2430 Oh, how quickly the summer vibe goes away. That easy-going, relaxed, smooth as a new car’s coat of paint feeling that the mornings had.

“Had,” as in past tense. What your life used to be. Calm. Peaceful. Tranquil. People rising slowly. Birds singing sweetly in the trees. A kitchen all to myself in the morning and no one with anyplace to go, and no hurry to get there.

When you are the only one working during the summer, mornings are absolute bliss. My wife is a pre-school teacher, and my 16-year-old daughter’s only summer responsibility was to see if watching too many shows on Netflix could make her TV to burst into flames.

Nobody got up before 7. Sometimes 8. Who am I kidding? There were days when I didn’t see a soul before heading off to work. This meant I “had” run of the house. Run of the kitchen. Run of the vibe. All the bird singing to myself.  

Had!

Now it’s all gone. My wife is back to her classroom and my daughter just started her junior year of high school. It’s chaos in the house again. Mornings are manic. Like standing in the middle of an interstate and trying to dodge semis. Like wandering around in a house fire. Like trying to navigate a Black Friday riot at a big box store.

It’s not their fault. It’s just the school-time tornado that spins up every August.

We’re all desperately searching for our back-to-school rhythm, only no one can remember how we used to make this work. How to cut through the chaos. How to walk the dog AND get to work on time.  

For starters, I can’t remember the new schedules to save my life. What time does my wife go to work? What time does my daughter go to school? What time do I go to work? Why, if I got up at 5 a.m., did I not have time to get a shower? I went to work for an entire week without a shower! And wearing my bedroom slippers.

It’s like mornings are a giant black hole that suck time no matter how much extra you think you have. You cut corners left and right. Only shave half your face. Only brush half your teeth. Eat so fast you’re physically ill. Scream insane things like: “If we get stuck by the train, we’ll all be homeless by October!” What?!? Why would I even say that?

Then there’s the dog. She is of the belief that she needs to eat AND get a walk every day. That these two things go hand-in-hand – even though I’ve seen no scientific proof of this – and that if this doesn’t occur, we could be fined or even jailed by the authorities.

Walking my dog when we’re in a hurry is a nightmare. I explain it to her nicely: “I’M LATE, OK!!!” I scream in front of horrified neighbors. “SO, YOU BETTER POOP RIGHT NOW SO WE’RE NOT HOMELESS BY OCTOBER!”

She’s unfazed. There’s stuff to smell, and every time I break her concentration, she needs to start over.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the school-age world is in the exact same boat. All racing and freaking out and driving like maniacs as they try to get back into the swing of things.

The first week is always the worst. None of us parents have any concept of how to pull up to a school, drive around a circle and deposit our precious cargo at the front. We stop in all the wrong spots. We go the wrong way. We get out of our cars to take first day of school photos or deliver a kiss and a hug to little Jonny or Suzie in front of everyone. I literally saw this happen the other day. The kid was mortified and ran off in the direction of Georgia screaming, “YOU’RE SO EMBARRASSING! I’M TOTALLY GETTING A TATTOO AND DROPPING OUT OF SCHOOL!”

But I have a secret weapon: My daughter got her driver’s license this summer and has a school parking spot. Ha-ha! I never thought I would be so excited about my child driving. But as soon as we can muster up the courage to let her drive herself, I’m free of car-line duty. That should add gobs of time back into the morning. Return some of the sanity, and even the tranquility. I’ll listen to the birds again. And drink coffee more slowly. Then I’ll go out outside to yell at my dog to do her business so I won’t be late to work. Talk about peace in the household again.

]]>
Goodbye to the high-tech of yesteryear https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2428 Mon, 15 Aug 2022 17:54:54 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2428 “Oh no!” my wife said. “The CD player on my boom box is broken. What am I going to do?”

If there was ever a more dated thing to say, it was this. Why not just mention the 8-track player in your 1978 Gremlin was acting up again? Or the VHF stations weren’t coming in clear on your rabbit-ear Magnavox?

You do know what a boom box is, don’t you? A box that brings the boom. It wasn’t that long ago we actually used these. It was a big black or silver box with a CD player or terrestrial radio that would pump out music through two bass-heavy speakers the size of tractor tires.

Total weight: Kansas!

Cheaply made in recent years, they’re only built to last about as long as you can hold your breath. But when you need one, you need one. Like my wife, a pre-school teacher gearing up for the start of the school year. A fair amount of what she does revolves around simpler technology like pencils and tape and songs about dancing hamsters learning the alphabet.

They can only be had on CDs – those shiny, silver disks that transmit music via laser players that read the digital information, scoff at how you’re listening to dancing hamsters and then begrudgingly play it, even though it’s ridiculous and unrealistic. CD players are known to be highly judgmental.

But they’ve gone out of style over the years thanks to streaming music, and the fact that we want our lasers to destroy things, not play music. Teachers, however, have vast libraries of educational songs stored on these little discs, and therefore are still reliant on CD players and boom boxes.

When one of these devices dies, the Earth shakes with screams of, “OH NO!!!”

Husbands are highly insensitive: “Can’t you just stream or download it?” I asked my wife.

She looked at me like I was one of the world’s three dumbest people. Maybe first on the list.

“Are you kidding me?!?” she said. “This is vintage. They don’t make stuff like this anymore. These are classics only found on CD. Without a player, it’s game over. I’ll probably have to change professions. What will I do?”

Because I’m one of the three dumbest people on the planet, I offered a solution: Since I’m pretty much a technical wizard and love doing research, I offered to find her one. Because, I mean, come on! How hard could it be? It’s just a CD player with some speakers. This would be a piece of cake.

One … of … three … dumbest … people.

CD players haven’t completely gone the way of the dinosaur. You can find them out there if you hunt. But what you’ll realize is they fall into two categories: 1) Cheaper than dirt, made by some company you’ve never heard of with a name like “Zoomacrappa” and guilty of some major downsides (like you might receive more radiation than you get at Chernobyl) or 2) Super hipster-y and ultra expensive with a polished mahogany case, a spiritual adviser app and the ability to receive the latest images from the James Webb Telescope.

My “easy” research started going down an endless rabbit hole of futility and frustration. Exasperated, we went to a brick-and-mortar big box store and asked in the electronics department. The guy did a double-take and then contorted his face into something that looked like a melted pretzel.

“Hold on: So, you say you people are looking for a CD player that is ALSO a boom box?” he replied. “And nobody – say a friend, or maybe a relative – explained to you that it is 2022 and if you really want one, you better go try an archaeology dig? HAHAHAHA!”

OK, maybe he didn’t say this, but his look sure seemed to say it. Surrounded by cel phones, OLED flatscreens and wireless soundbars, he was perplexed. It was like asking a rocket scientist if he had a glider.

I can’t say the last time I’ve listened to a CD. Like so many things – terrestrial radio, photos actually shot on a camera or churning ice cream by hand – I’ve moved into the future. My music streams wirelessly and I wouldn’t know how, where or even if you can buy a so-called “album” anymore. Where do you go? The black market?

But while searching for a CD-compatible boom box, I got nostalgic. The more desperate the search became, the more I started feeling … sad. It wasn’t just about another piece of technology fading into the background as we streaked into a wireless, discless future. I had grown up on CDs, graduating from mixed tapes to this pinnacle of sound at the time.

It was a time when stereo systems resembled mission control at NASA. Separate components for the CD player and the receiver had enough wiring to run a city. Big box speakers looked like I was about to host a Bon Jovi concert. A teenage boy’s sound system in the 80s could draw enough power to require its own nuclear power plant.  

Only, in the age of streaming, CDs have become nearly obsolete. But not for teachers, and there’s something thrilling and wonderful about that. Which is why my wife and I will keep hunting. Keep digging. Keep posting on social media in hopes of finding someone who has one in the backseat of their 1978 Gremlin, along with a dusty box of 8-track tapes.   

]]>
A critter who is getting chummy with my critter https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2424 Fri, 05 Aug 2022 12:12:48 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2424 My critter has a critter problem.

My critter is a geriatric 11-year-old chicken name Ruby. I think that’s 275 in people years, and sometimes she walks with a cane. She is a buff Orpington – picture what a basketball would look like if a kid glued feathers to it and stuck a beak and red comb on top.

She is the last of her brood – outliving all of her original sisters, and even a second round of poultry – to become the queen of her house: House Pollo.

Her egg-laying days are long over. She never really cared for all the work it required to provide us with something we would scramble or add to cakes. She saw her purpose as more of “house chicken.” A pet. A bird who preferred to be given the attention she deserved. She demanded to be carried around like a football, tucked snug under your armpit. There she cooed, watched the world and told you where to go.

Now, my critter has developed a critter problem. A vermin. A rat. From House Rattus. Infiltrating our chicken run, which has stood nearly impenetrable for all these years. It is wringed with thick wire mesh, locks, sturdy doors and even used to house a chicken who could dispatch invaders with a merciless strike. Not a chicken to be trifled with. 

No more – we’ve been breached.

“AHHHH … RAT IN THE HEN HOUSE!!!” I heard my wife call out. “Hurry! Come quick!”

Hurry?!? Like that’s going to help being totally ill-equipped to deal with the situation. Like if I get there faster, this critter is going to take one look at me and think, “Man, this guy means business. Look at his lightning-quick reflexes. We better bounce.” Like I’m going to rush in there, scoop it up and … wait … what am I supposed to do? My first instinct was to run the other way.

For years it was a fortress. It kept out raccoons, hawks, the armadillos now rooting around under the shed, hurricanes, a cedar tree that fell during a hurricane and a whole mess of little kid birthday parties. It was built to be impenetrable. It has always been impenetrable.

And now my critter pen has a critter. The chicken seemed no worse for the wear. She was sitting calmly in a bed of pine needles, barely giving it a thought. “Eh,” she seemed to say. “He comes here from time to time. I think his name is Fred.”

We don’t name our vermin! Fred had to go, and suddenly my weekend task list had a new item on top: De-rat the hen house.

There are times in your life when you realize things haven’t quite worked out the way you thought they would. It was all going all right. You didn’t mind so much that things weren’t exactly the way you dreamed. You weren’t rich, living in some mansion with gardeners tending your manicured grounds. You weren’t calling out to for someone to bring you another bottle of the Chateau Le Stinkefeet. That was OK. You could get past all of that.

Or, you COULD get past all of that … right up until you heard: “RAT IN THE HEN HOUSE!!!”

That’s when you realized what your life really was. How far you’d fallen short of your hopes and dreams and aspirations. That your critters even have critters.

This is your life. Where did it go so wrong?

But it IS your life, and you might as well accept it. Own it. And get to work figuring out how to eradicate House Rattus from the hen house.

I’ve set traps, but the bugger is too smart. He knows to gently reach over the triggering mechanism to snatch the cranberry without getting his neck snapped. I added peanut butter to glue it in good, but I found he had licked it clean. I gave up when I realized I stood a better chance of getting stuck in the trap than he did.

I got into the run and tried to fortify it. I took a flashlight and carefully studied all the joints, all the corners and all the edges. It was like searching for the source of a roof leak. Rats are even more wily than water, though. They can fit through cracks that H2O wouldn’t try. Finding nothing obvious to seal up, I developed far-fetched explanations: “This rat can teleport! We have to move!”

Ruby sat in her bed of pine needles the whole time watching me. It was 95 degrees in the chicken run with humidity hovering around the bottom of a swimming pool. She didn’t mind. I tried to ignore the fact that she likely knew how he was getting in. That she didn’t want to hurt my pride by pointing it out. “It’s right there … where I pulled the wire back. But he’s so close. Let him have this win.”

After days of searching, I think I finally found it. A little hole in the ground where I’m pretty sure he was burrowing in. From the underground. A tunnel rat! The worst kind.

I buried lots of wire mesh under the run. I covered it with dirt. I felt pretty proud of myself. I don’t know if it will work yet, but I think I’ve done it. Ha-ha! I feel proud, and accomplished. That is, until I’m reminded that this is what my life has become: Battling tunnel rats. Carrying around a geriatric chicken. Even … wait, did I say armadillos under the shed? Where did THEY come from?

My younger self would shake his head in disbelief. Probably choose a different path. Probably get into Bitcoin early and have a helicopter by now. If only he knew. If only he could have headed it all off. Then hired someone to guard the critterhouse from the critters. That way he could drink more Chateau Le Stinkefeet.

]]>
The great mystical quest for the license of drivers https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2421 Wed, 27 Jul 2022 11:36:40 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2421 They call it a driver’s license. With this license, you are legally allowed to drive. It does not specify in the rules where you can drive. You can drive wherever you want. To the store. To Alaska. Running guns to rebels in Central America. They leave that up to you. The license gives you the freedom to move, as long as you have an instrument of movement. A vehicle.

To get this license, you must first take a test. This test will quiz you on all the keys to successful driving. It is like a mythical quest. It might be the toughest, most demanding, most psychologically grueling thing you ever do. Well, after childbirth, your first day of kindergarten, the SATs, the time you got caught with a cigarette and that time you fit the giant jawbreaker into your mouth and had to go to the ER so they could remove it with surgical tongs.

To pass this test, you must show a mastery of driving, including how to park on an incline. Forget that this seems kind of absurd because you live in a flat state where there hasn’t been an incline since 1952. That’s when someone decided to build a hill. Everyone’s ears popped from the elevation and they bulldozed it the next day. It’s been flat ever since.  

Anyway … the point is these tests are a big deal. You taken them when you turn 16. This is an important age in society because it represents the year when you are, coincidentally, also the same age that scientifically you are guaranteed to make the worst decisions of your entire life. It isn’t your fault. It’s something about hormones or puberty or brain development. Maybe it’s the fact that your diet subsists of only breakfast cereal.

Whatever it is, the state thinks this is the ideal age to give you the test that will decide if you get the license that will permit you to drive and got out into the world where you could crash into us. You! The one whose single ambition is to see if you can stay in bed long enough each day to just ride it right on through the night.

People like you, my 16-year-old daughter.

So, to ready you for this trial, parents like us embark on our own preparative tests. We develop grueling, mentally-draining, patience-annihilating challenges designed to not only get you ready for your big day, but also to frustrate you so much that you swear off driving forever. That you scream: “I hate you! You’re so frustrating and embarrassing and you just want to boss me around. Well, I’m not doing it. And I’m never going to drive in my life. Nor am I getting married or trying booze or going to parties in Ibiza or running guns to rebels. There! Happy? See what you’ve done?” This is the way a parent thinks.

So, we parents won’t make driving an act of fun or freedom, and certainly not independence, but instead a living hell. There will be many lectures: “Driving is a privilege. And your ancestors – the ones who lived in caves and wore beaver skins as loin cloths – never got that privilege because they didn’t pass the driver’s test. They didn’t respect the SANCTITY of parallel parking! That’s why they had to hunt with spears and speak in grunts.”

There will be tense drills: “OK, see this fire truck next to the house on fire? Do a 3-point-turn right in front of them.” There will be surprises: “At some point on this drive I’m going to test your reaction skills by … YELLING STOPPPPPP!!!!”

There will be tow-trucks and trips to the autobody shop.

There will meaningful explanations – “It’s called a three-point turn because if I have to point at more than three things you almost hit, you’re done!”

Tears, by both parties. Foul language not for the faint of heart. Spiritual epiphanies. Shouting contests. Trips to the law firm to inquire about childhood emancipation. And if lucky, a donut run.

It will be the most terrifying, demanding, stressful, agonizing and painful event you have ever taken. And it will make the actual driver’s test seem like a piece of cake.

You’re welcome!

The big day will come. The test will be ready. A person, possibly with a clipboard, will administer it. The trial will begin and the quest embarked upon. You will either pass or fail. Life will begin, or you’ll realize it was a mistake to get out of bed. For the victor, independence will come in the form of a shiny card with your picture on it. Big dreams will come with it. Maybe freedom and a career as a gun-runner. But you sure better know how to park on an incline, even if you do live in Florida!

]]>
The men who fight lions, and win https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2418 Sun, 24 Jul 2022 17:43:27 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2418 It was one of those headlines that will catch a man’s attention.

It was also one of those headlines that will make a man think. And what it should make us think is: “What’s wrong with us?!?”

Or at least some of us. The insane ones. The ones who think it isn’t crazy, or a joke. Maybe a sign that women are clearly the more intelligent of the species. I mean, if that wasn’t already obvious. But here’s more proof!

The headline in Esquire read: “8 Percent of Men Believe They Can Beat a Lion in a Fist Fight, According to New Survey.”

I have read the headline over several times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from bad cheese. Or victim of a prank. Or, most importantly, to reflect on whether I myself was one of the 8% of certifiable dum-dums walking around waiting – just hoping! – for the opportunity to prove themselves.

Newsflash: I’m not.

I would be eaten on a poppy seed water cracker while trying to reason with the King of the Jungle. “Nice kitty. Wouldn’t you rather devour that nice little squirrel over there?”

The story was about an actual survey done by YouGov. I have to include “actual” because if you’re like me, you often wonder if surveys like this are real, or why anyone would dream them up. Maybe someone got tired of all the serious political polls about Trump or Social Security shortcomings. Maybe boredom. Maybe someone was joking at a meeting and everyone thought he was serious.

Survey Guy 1: “Ah, jeez, another poll about Jan. 6?!? Hells bells, why don’t we just ask people if they can beat up a lion?” Survey Guy 2: “Hmm. You know, you might be on to something! And then we can ask whether they think lions had anything to do with Jan. 6.”

I was very intrigued by this survey. Enough that I clicked on the story, and then through to the poll itself. (I then wasted all of 15 minutes typing it up into this column. I have lots of time on my hands.)

It led me to think about very deep and serious questions like: How stupid do the poor poll takers feel when they have to straight-faced explain that, no, they’re not joking, and no, they’re not trying to trick someone into buying a timeshare. Yes, they really DO want to know how you think you would stack up against a crocodile or a kangaroo or maybe an gingivitis-ridden egret.

Even worse must be when they have to record a real-life American so sure of himself that he nods proudly and remarks: “No weapons involved? Yep, I could take a lion. Not a whole pride, mind you, but definitely a loner.”

To be fair, not everyone felt this way. Only … uh … 8 percent.

There were other causes for concern in the survey, too. For instance, while a more realistic 92% were fairly sure they would be mincemeat in the face of a lion, there is also a vast majority of our countrymen who don’t think they could win even against an eagle. An EAGLE! I mean, what would an eagle do?!? Carry a human off and feed him to his children? Even worse, only when they started asking about critters like medium-sized dogs, a goose, a house cat and a rat did Americans’ feel confident enough to say they could win. We are a country of extremes.

Interestingly, 29% of men don’t even think they could beat a goose. I’m afraid I probably fall into that category. Not because I’m weak, per se. (“Per se” is Latin for, “I AM weak and a goose would also steal my credit cards.”)           

Rather, I wouldn’t even know how to fight a goose. How would you go about it? That’s what the poll should have asked: “If you had to fight a goose, what fighting style would you use?” Um, I don’t know. Boxing? Karate? Beak attack? Maybe a neck-lock?

Besides, geese are mean. And quick. They’re not going to stand around trying to figure out how to attack you. They’re just going to aim for that special “male zone” and make off with our wallet.

Back to the lion … think of this: these 8% of men – they’re out there! Walking around. Just waiting for the opportunity. And now that someone has bothered to ask the question, they’re absolutely sure about this. “Honey, I always told you I could fight a lion, and if people are asking the question, then you know it’s gotta’ be possible!”

I love the confidence. The bravado. The intense belief in one’s own abilities and strength. I love these folks!

Who are they? Why do they think this way? What were their childhoods like? Do they chew leather and punch trees? Do they have tattoos that read, “Born to fight lions” and “Kitty going down!”

I’ve never been so confident. Never in a million years could I believe in my own abilities that much. I don’t even think I could die a proud death if attacked by a lion. I would be screaming, “Eat the fat guy over there. He’s juicier!”

So, amen for the 8 percent. You do you. Be proud. And confident. Believe in the impossible. That if the opportunity ever arises, you’ll seize the day. Prove them all wrong. And while you’re at it, ask if the king of the jungle was involved in that Jan. 6 thing so we can get some more political data.

]]>
Gettin’ all veggie with it https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2416 Sun, 17 Jul 2022 23:52:03 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2416 “You’re just going to sit there and eat that steak in front of me?” my daughter asked across the table of the little bistro in Paris.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I definitely am. And I’m not even going to pretend it’s not delicious. Because it IS delicious. I mean … Béarnaise sauce on a steak? Talk about decadent!”

“You know that poor cow had a life before someone came along and slaughtered her, right?” she said.

“Yes, I do know that,” I replied. “And by the taste, I would say she lived a rather good one.”

My daughter grumbled at me and glared.

It had been one of my few forays into the world of red meat in over a year. I can count on one hand the number of times beef had gone down my gullet. Two burgers, a burrito, a meatball calzone and some unidentifiable substance on a sandwich in New York that may have contained meat by-product.

This move to meat-less was all thanks to my 16-year-old daughter, who has been trying to drive us down the vegetarian road. Red meat, and his good friend, pork, were pretty much left behind. Chicken was still on board, although with much less frequency. Fish like salmon could hitch a ride once in a while, but she was looking to cut that, too. (Shrimp, oddly enough, were too foul a creature to care about, and therefore fair game.)

And the occasional steak, which came with mean looks and a big dallop of guilt.

Her journey down the road to semi-vegetarian had been spawned by a desire to do something for the environment, and save a few critters along the way. It’s a noble, and important cause, and she’s stuck to it. Made a go of it. Managed to even find suck down a few more vegetables (which is impressive, considering before this foray, she had only eaten three in her entire life.)  

But as the resident chef in the family (translation: dude who gets stuck in the kitchen), this lifestyle change certainly comes with challenges. I’m aiming to be respectful and encouraging. How often does a kid decide to do something positive for the world, actually stick with it and the end result is you actually feeling better, and healthier? I got a belt loop back! And my arteries don’t feel like there’s a beaver building a damn in there.

Only, now I have to figure out how to expand beyond our staple of three vegetarian meals: pasta with broccoli, pasta with peas and pasta with broccoli AND peas.

I’m trying to branch out. To get more creative. To add more nutritious and protein-rich foods to our diet. Like vegan Béarnaise sauce!

I hunt around for recipes: Mediterranean diet, grain bowls, even vegan. And there are some really delicious and filling meals to be found. It’s surprised me how much I actually like eating this way.

But the more I hunt, the more I also come across some real weirdos. Recipes and combinations that will make you question whether a plant-based diet is ruining peoples’ sanity.

A sweet potato and black bean burger with vegan mayonnaise, rolled oats, curry power, almond milk and fresh dill. The recipe also called for a shot of turpentine to wash it down and get the taste out of your mouth.

Free-range strawberries. Corn grown not only sustainably, but also with compassion and daily doses of classical music and massages. Cruelty-free avocados that are not “painfully” snatched from the branches of trees, but lovingly coaxed to voluntarily fall into pillow-lined baskets where they are made to feel strong and like champions.

There are also some strange products out on the market, too. Meatless vegan beef jerky. A canned vegan Peking duck, which is guaranteed to never have shared a zip code with an actual duck. A canned vegan tuna, scientifically-engineered to give off the authentic smell so your co-workers stay away and never invite you to a meeting after lunch. Even a meat-free haggis. Although I don’t know, nor care to find out, how you can make vegetables taste like sheep organs. Or why in the world a vegetarian would even try.

I will move down this vegetarian road, but I ain’t going there!

I am finding I really like it. Like feeling better, and seeing my weight drop, not rise. Like that we’re doing it as a family, and my daughter has found something to get behind and commit to for a good reason.

But I still reserve the right to eat some chicken, some salmon, and when a steak presents itself drenched in Béarnaise sauce, to forget the beaver dams building up in my arteries, or whether the cow had a fulfilling life. Some things a plant just can’t replace.

]]>
Dealing with the post-trip readjustment blues https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2413 Sun, 10 Jul 2022 22:10:40 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2413 Commencing post-trip re-adjustment phase. Re-acclimation in T-minus 10 minutes. Must clean house. Must get back on a schedule. Must remember that to make money, you can’t sit around in a café all day drinking espresso.

Damn you, real life!

It’s been about a week since our little family returned from our two-week journey to Europe. So amazing! We survived canceled flights, crazy airports, Dutch taxis, Dutch bikes, the French language, jet lag and maybe the toughest of all, the line to get a photo with the Mona Lisa.

But as with all great trips, they eventually come to an end and you return home. To real life and the world you left behind. Where there are routines to remember and houses to clean. Clothes to unpack and a host of other things that make you wonder, “Why did we ever come back? Why didn’t we just join a circus troupe and live the rest of our lives as traveling carnies?!?”

I’m certain I could be successful as an artisan cotton candy maker.

Anyway, it’s over and we’re all home trying to get back into the swing of things.

It’s not going well.

Our bodies have shaken off the jet leg and mostly responded to the 6-hour time change. Mostly. I can get up at 5 a.m. like I used to, but the minute it becomes 8 or 9 at night, something within me screams, “Hey, skunk weasel, it’s 2 in the morning. Go to sleep!” and I crash like I’ve been drugged by spies.

Wherever I am, I collapse. I could be holding a cup of scalding hot tea. I could be chased by maniacal guard dogs. I could be receiving a medal from the queen. It doesn’t matter. I just topple over and begin snoring like an asthmatic elephant.

The issue with dozing off so deeply that early in the night is that someone will inevitably walk over, poke me with a pencil and say, “Hey, dum-dum, time to go to bed.” This causes me to jerk straight up, totally disoriented and with no idea where I am. I also don’t know why someone is poking me with a pencil and calling me dum-dum, and if they are spies that I need to fight.

The first couple of nights I would sit on the edge of the sofa trying to make sense of where I was while my family tried to make sense of whether I was crazy, possessed by evil spirits and maybe in need of being stabbed with the pencil. Luckily, I would come to my senses and stumble off to bed.

There’s so much to do when you get back from a big trip. Unpacking on its own is an agonizing project. The laundry that must be extricated from suitcases. Most of it has become petrified from the pressure and heat of being stuffed in a plastic bag and crammed into a suitcase for two weeks. There are stories from really long trips of dirty clothes actually turning into diamonds from the heat and pressure.

Organized suitcases when you began are now like garbage dumps. The shampoo bottles that exploded from the pressure in the baggage hold. The fragile gifts now broken into millions of pieces because you thought ultra-thin tea cups could withstand ultra-careless baggage handlers. The fact that your “going home” packing style resembles that of a gangster who is making a dash from the law. “THROW IT ALL IN!!! WE’RE LATE FOR OUR FLIGHT!!!”

Then there’s getting your house back in order. The cleaning. The re-organizing. The remembering how your dog is a super-shedder and that she’s spent a lot of time at your house while you were gone, but nobody ever thought to teach her how to run the vacuum. Which explains why your house now looks like you have shag carpeting … on the walls! The Florida yard with the grass that has grown as tall as your waist, and likely now holds a family of jungle cats.

Most of all, there’s the loss of that relaxed feeling you reveled in while on vacation. Without a care in the world, aside from, “Where’s the next café where I can get espresso?” You pledge to find a way to hold onto that feeling. To bring it back to the real world. To adopt that tranquil, carefree attitude in everything you do. That glorious, relaxed feeling that felt like you were tip-toeing across clouds and dancing in Heaven.

It doesn’t take long for your dog-fur walls to do a number on that. How quickly that feeling seems to slip away like soapy rope.

Damn you, real life with your problems and your realities and your chores.

If only I had taken that circus troupe job and learned how to make artisan cotton candy. I bet most of that job just involved sitting around cafes drinking espresso and never having to worry about spies poking you with pencils. Now, that would be the life.

]]>
Dispatch from abroad: A European summer excursion https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2411 Mon, 04 Jul 2022 10:41:53 +0000 https://www.nutshellcity.com/?p=2411

London. Paris. Amsterdam. A two-week adventure. Shows on the West end. Wandering the winding roads of bohemian Montmartre. Boating on the canals. And stroopwafels! Still journeying. Still exploring. So here are some random thoughts on my family’s summer adventure abroad.

• In Amsterdam, death by bicycle is a real thing. You may have heard that the Dutch love their bikes. What you may not know is that there are more than 800,000 bikes in the city and a population of only about 700,000. What this means is that 100,000 of those bikes are out there riding themselves. No human operators! Which is why you have to be so careful. Everywhere you go there are bikes. Zipping along the bike lanes like cruise missiles. We hide in the bushes watching for them. When we see the coast is clear, we dart across the road and dive into another bush. You never know when an un-piloted bike might be coming for you.

]]>

London. Paris. Amsterdam. A two-week adventure. Shows on the West end. Wandering the winding roads of bohemian Montmartre. Boating on the canals. And stroopwafels! Still journeying. Still exploring. So here are some random thoughts on my family’s summer adventure abroad.

• In Amsterdam, death by bicycle is a real thing. You may have heard that the Dutch love their bikes. What you may not know is that there are more than 800,000 bikes in the city and a population of only about 700,000. What this means is that 100,000 of those bikes are out there riding themselves. No human operators! Which is why you have to be so careful. Everywhere you go there are bikes. Zipping along the bike lanes like cruise missiles. We hide in the bushes watching for them. When we see the coast is clear, we dart across the road and dive into another bush. You never know when an un-piloted bike might be coming for you.

• France reminds me of my Cuban roots: Why say five words when you can say 50, and flap your arms around for added influence? An example: I was sitting at our hotel eating breakfast and people-watching. An older French gentleman walked up to the fresh orange juice dispenser and looked befuddled. He began a very animated discussion with the server. It was most dramatic. Complete with wild, exaggerated hand-flapping. Like a traffic cop, or swatting at a fly. He seemed upset. The server responded in kind. It went on like this. Back and forth. Like they were debating politics, or religion. Finally, the server stuck out a finger and showed the man he had to push down on the level, not press it. Voila! The old man smiled and got his juice. I was mesmerized. I thought only my Cuban family could expend so much energy and oxygen on such simple tasks. Right then I realized why I connected so well with the French.

• Another thing about France I’ve learned: You can spend as much time as you want studying the French language so you can order baguettes or crepes. But, if you know even a little broken Spanish, the minute you open your mouth, that is what will inevitably come out. It’s because your brain is the size of a macaroon. Unfortunately, I don’t know Spanish that well, either, so I’m often responded to with: “Monsieur, your Spanish is as bad as your French. And your English sounds like a parochial school dropout. Please take your baguette and go.”

• There is nothing — NOTHING! — worse than having a 16-year-old daughter who is dressed like a Parisian and reading a book on the Metro like all the other city dwellers and she looks the part so wel that some guy starts FLIRTING with her IN FRENCH!!! Right in front of ME! It was unbelievable. And I couldn’t even get the words out in Spanish to say, “Bugger off!”

• English in London can be just as hard to understand as French in Paris. That’s all I have to say on that.  

• Like Paris, Amsterdam is a pretty amazing city. It’s filled with unique architecture, a rich history and some of the friendliest people you will find. But put aside the pancakes, the rich chocolates and a brew pub inside a windmill, and my favorite part is when I realized the word “store” in Dutch is: Winkel. Winkel! That is easily the greatest, and most fun word to say, in the history of language.

• French kings like Louis XIV built incredible palaces. Versailles is breathtaking. Sprawling in size. Brash in its architecture, Dripping in gold like a giant poured it over a sundae. But why, with all that wealth, didn’t anyone think to brush their teeth? The Sun King was said to eat five meals a day, and lots of sweets. He developed such terrible cavities that his teeth rotted and needed to be pulled out. Lesson in life: If you can buy that much gold, you can certainly go down to the corner pharmacy and get a toothbrush!

• We move too fast, multi-task too much and work too hard in America. There is a sort of European chill to Paris and Amsterdam. Paris especially. The city taught me the importance of slowing down. Paris is all about pacing yourself and appreciating things. People sit in cafés for hours on end. Just people-watching and mindfully eating their dinners. They enjoy the weather and take their time. Life is not to be raced through, or shuffling from place to place. It’s to be lived. Enjoyed. It seems like a novel idea, and an important lesson. Especially for someone like me who is constantly on the move, jumping from thing to thing. Paris is all about finding a moment and savoring it. There’s something special about that. Maybe that’s my greatest souvenir. And if I’m not killed by one of the 100,000 human-less bikes in Amsterdam, I might even get to come home and try it.

]]>