Bike Rides, Karate Chops and Being a Big Kid Again

“Jack, what happened?” asked his mom. He was clutching his hand and on the verge of tears. We were at the Jacksonville Zoo and he was grimacing terribly, as if an elephant had sat on his hand or one of the leopards had snipped off a fingertip. Little chunks of skin flapped in the breeze and I was wondering how long before tiny trickles of blood would bubble to the surface. “Uh, he fell in a cactus,” I told her. “He fell in a cactus?” she said. “Yep, fell in a cactus. He was trying to karate chop me, but with ninja-like reflexes I jumped out of the way and he … um … fell in the cactus. Just … splat! … right in there.” Yes, I did feel a bit guilty. There is the fact that he’s 5 years old and I’ll be 37 next month — a minor age difference, if you ask me. And there is also the fact that he WAS trying to karate chop me. What was I supposed to do, just take it? And how could I know he would fall in a cactus. I mean, it’s 2010 … who does that anymore?

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Save the Floridians. We’re freezing!

Save the Floridians. We’re freezing! “You liar!” I barked at the sleek digital thermometer, which sat comfy and cozy inside my kitchen. It didn’t even have to brave the weather outside to tell how cold it was. A little rat tail with a temperature probe poked out the window doing the dirty work for it. How lazy! I stared at it — shocked, but unconvinced. “You drunken monkey,” I scolded it. “You must have your numbers backwards.” Thirty eight it read … in the middle of the day. THIRTY EIGHT! That was the high! That’s just a few notches above freezing, and small consolation for my poor plants outside which looked like they had all spontaneously combusted in this unprecedented Florida cold snap. Let me remind you what we already know: We live in Florida. The Sunshine State. Where flip-flops are the state shoe, and possibly their own religion. Most households here only have a single sweater to wear between them, and usually it has a clump of fake plastic holly on the front — a gift from a cold-weather aunt up north.

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Trust in Janet

“Trust Janet,” he said. “Janet won’t steer us wrong. Janet knows what she’s doing. Janet knows the way.” “Harumph,” I mumbled, arms crossed as I threw myself back into the seat. “Janet’s going to drive us to Kansas … through a lake.” Janet is the GPS navigation system that sits on the dash of my wife’s cousin’s husband’s SUV. I don’t know if Janet is her real name or just the name they gave her, but she speaks in a very soft, sophisticated and (frankly) uppity voice as she politely dishes out directions to here and there. “You are approaching the intersection. Turn right.”

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