It was a cryptic little text message that took me a minute or two to figure out. It read: “Hi, it’s Lauren. Do you remember what day it is today?” It was from my sister in Tampa, that high schoolin’ theater nut with a penchant for dying her hair pink and thinking her brothers are running on two expired brain cells, share between us. She had impeccable grammar for a text message, and I was impressed. But did I know what day it was? What kind of question was that? “Of course I do,” I almost texted back, “it’s Saturday.” But as she’s the smart one in the bunch, it occurred to me there had to be something more. What she really meant, in high-school-kid-code, was: “Hey, doofus. Today is a very important day and you better shake that bag of rocks on your shoulder so you remember … quick!”
Hello, Dreaded Hole in My Sock
So, there I was taking off my shoe when what to my wondering eyes did appear but a big, bald toe poking through a hole in my olive green sock. A HOLE … in my SOCK. Me! It looked like General Patton staring back at me, and I could have sworn it barked out, “Boy, don’t just stand there. Get me a ham sandwich.” I was horrified. Humiliated. Totally embarrassed, even though I was the only one there to see it. “Quick,” I said to myself. “Throw them away before someone looks in the window and sees. What would the neighbor’s think? Oh, the shame. Me? A hole in my sock? What’s next? A hobo hat, three-day-old stubble and a bottle of cheap, cough syrup-flavored wine in a paper bag? The humiliation.
Old house meet new house — now play nice
I ran into Joe Segal, the sculptor, at the grocery store and he asked how my addition was coming along. “Just a bit more trim,” I said. “Only thing is it’s making the old part of the house look even older. And I’ve got a lot of projects I’m going to have to finish now.” “Ah, don’t worry,” he said, before uttering what should be the motto of every homeowner. “Just use your imagination and finish them in your mind.” Spoken like a true artist. And strange as it seems, it was oddly comforting. It’s been weighing on me as we near the end — those handful of things I’ve never finished in the old part. Who am I fooling? It’s not a couple — there are dozens of little and big things. And the more complete the addition becomes, the less complete the old house looks — like it’s never been finished, and never will be. Suddenly it’s so obvious and glaring.
Scratching my head in St. Augustine
This week I would like to introduce a new feature I am calling, “Scratching My Head in St. Augustine.” I’ll run it every once in a while — whenever I think, see or read something that makes me scratch my head and say, “If we can clone sheep and make salmon pinker, why can’t we figure out how to stop breeding stupid people?” So off we go on our first trip down what I affectionately call “What the Heck Lane”: • I don’t mean to make light of something as serious as murder, but this Reuters story definitely had me scratching my head: “A customer banned from a Tokyo ear-cleaning salon was arrested in Tokyo Monday on suspicion of stabbing a young woman working at the salon and killing her grandmother, Japanese media reported.” Obviously murder is tragic, but let’s back up for a moment so someone can — please! — explain to me what in the name of wasabi an “ear-cleaning salon” is? How dirty are their ears? The story explained the salons this way: “Japan has many salons where workers, often women, clean customers’ ears with ear picks, sometimes as the customers lie on the workers’ laps.”
Attacking Theme Parks in the Heat of July
Like a general. That’s how you launch an attack on a theme park, especially if it’s the middle of July. A Florida July. Have you had that kind of an experience? Sweat pouring down your face in salty streams. Shoulders sagging under the weight of a 3 ½–year-old child who is riding you like a pachyderm. Storm clouds turning the sky plum purple. Seventeen million people encroaching on your personal space. Seventeen million people who smell funny and like to stop suddenly in your path, causing the 3 ½-year-old child on your shoulders to catapult into the shark tank. Only a general — a great general, a grand and glorious general — could navigate that and bring the troops back alive. Such a man would grip the land with a steely gaze, jam a fat stogy the size of a salami in his mouth, and bark out commands like: “Men, we must march toward the penguin exhibit with gusto!” or “Mam, your Britney Spears T-shirt is two sizes too small. Now fish my daughter out of that pool.” As I navigated the hordes at Sea World, I became that general. A military tactician. A strategist. Someone who grabbed control of the situation and said strong and forceful things like, “Shamu starts in five. Let’s roll, maggots.”
Pinky and the Missing Newspapers
It’s one thing to be robbed by a perfect stranger, and quite another to be robbed by someone you know — a friend, an acquaintance, a neighbor. A feline. One named “Pinky.” The back story: For the past week or so someone has been swiping my morning paper. At first we thought the paper carrier had just missed us. We called to complain and he showed up apologetically with a new paper, explaining that he really had delivered it. He said he took special care trying to get it over the construction trailer on the street — an Olympic task. I pictured the poor guy pulling a muscle as he tried to launch it at a trajectory so high only space shuttles usually attempt it. He told my wife someone was probably swiping it and that he would try his best to get it even closer to the porch. What a good guy, but I worried he might wrap his car around a tree in a vain attempt.