So I’m tugging on this dog of mine. “Come one. Come on!” I tell her. “It’s cold. You just sniffed that. You’ve sniffed it for like 15 minutes. You sniffed it yesterday. It’s the same spot. It hasn’t changed. It’s just pee. Come on!” I do this all the time. Pull, pull, pull. Tug, tug, tug. She doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. Or even care. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” her eyes seem to ask as she … Wo! Wait a minute. I gotta’ sniff this. A walk for my dog is like a trip to the perfume counter. “Oh, this is nice. Very nice. Hints of corned beef hash and vinegar.” I love walking my dog. But it’s like dragging concrete … that’s already been set in the ground. And it must look ridiculous to strangers. This crazy man standing in the street saying things like, “Come on, you meathead! Let’s go! Let’s get there! Don’t you want to get there?” I pull on the leash like I’m trying to rip a tree stump from the ground. The dog? An immovable object. Oblivious. Un-fazed. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” We move. Freely. Gracefully. Quickly. For 3 seconds. She finds another spot. “Wo, wo, wo! Can’t miss this one. I think it’s a little cat throw up!” To be a dog. I have to stop and explain things to her. In the nicest tone I can muster. I say, “Now listen here, Lily. You can’t stop at […]
Parental panic as child turns ‘halfway to 16’
Math has never been my thing. I can do simple arithmetic — two plus two stuff. Put a couple numbers together and see what comes of it. Like this one: 8 + 8. You know what that one is? It’s 16. Eight plus 8 equals 16. SIXTEEN! I came to this conclusion over Christmas break when my daughter turned — GASP! — 8. She’s lived 8 years already. When she lives another 8 she will be … no, I can’t say it again. It’s too horrible. Too terrible. The big 1-6. The age. It’s just over yonder. That’s been my reality the last couple weeks. Thinking about how my wife and I now have a daughter halfway there. It’s all psychological, of course. The damage caused when we get hung up on what we think numbers mean. I remember when I was 6 looking up to some 8-year-old girls in my neighborhood. I shouldn’t say “looking up.” I should say “idolizing” or “dreaming about” or “drooling all over myself.” They were “big kid” girls. Older. Mature. Wise. And (as much as a 6-year-old knows something about this) super cute hotties. “Man, I can’t wait until I’m 8,” I remember thinking. I was probably staring out the window. Head propped on my wrists. Sighing. Cooing. (I cooed!) Little pink hearts floating above my head. Everything would be better when I was 8. Everything would seem different. I would get a mortgage. Start reading the newspaper over morning coffee. Start wearing suits […]
Polar vortexed in Florida
Ahhh, feel that? Recognize the sensation? Feeling returning to your fingers and toes. We forgot that, poor Floridians that we are. Unaccustomed to brutal winter weather. Polar vortexes? That sounds like something we order from an ice cream truck. Cool. Refreshing. Summer. Not something that fries our yards. Freezes our pipes. Forces us to bundle up in whatever is available — “Will anyone look at me funny if I wear this Christmas tree skirt around my neck?”
Searching for a New Year’s resolution with the Magic 8 Ball
“What do you think, Magic 8 Ball? Should I let you decide everything for me in the New Year?” I shook the little hunk of plastic. Turned it over and waited for the ghostly message to appear in the window. What would it say? Would it accept such a massive responsibility? I trembled with excitement. My whole life was about to change. I was getting back on the New Year’s resolution train. I never do resolutions, but this year I felt called to make one. But not just any resolution. Something big! And that’s when I came up with this: Let the Magic 8 Ball make all of my decisions for me. BUT … only if it agreed to take on the challenge.