Youth. That’s the size of the red bike helmet with pink tiger stripes. It arrived in the mail for my daughter. (Not for me! I would have picked butterflies.) The size? I’ll say it again: Youth! With an exclamation point. As in, “daggone” or “are you kidding me?!?” Because that’s the way it made me feel when I read it. More like: Youch! The old bike helmet had started fitting her like a Yamaka. Like one of those silly, undersized hats that monkeys sometimes wear. I had tried to loosen up the plastic strapping and press it down hard on her head. “Suck in your breath!” I told her. “I think we can squeeze it on if I get the rubber mallet.” But the “child” size helmet, which had long ago replaced the “toddler” size helmet, was done. We stared at each other in disbelief. What did this mean? Certainly not that my darling baby girl had become a “youth.” Could a bike helmet really be the arbiter of that? We both cried. I cursed the world. Here’s Merriam-Webster’s definition of youth: “The time of life when someone is young.” Here’s another definition — the one that will make a parent like me wet his pants: “The period between childhood and maturity.” Gulp! “Between childhood …” — as in no longer there? “… and maturity” — where she’s heading like a wild cheetah? Way to lay it on heavy, Merriam-Webster. Have you no decency? No respect for a poor parent coming to […]
Time for summer vacation planning 101
Now comes the time when talk turns to getting out of town like you’ve robbed a bank. Travel books come home from the library. Credit cards are polished and prayed over — “Please have money on you! Please!” It’s vacation-planning season. Time to start thinking about where to go, how to get there and most of all, how to screw it up when you arrive. I love vacation-planning. Almost as much as the trip itself. So as we all ready for excursions, here are some planning tips from my years of experience: • Make sure you get your dates wrong. You know, make a hotel reservation in some far-off land with checkin the day AFTER you get there. I did this once. My wife and I were going to the Keys. We had booked a house in the historic area. (I say “we” liberally. I was the culprit.) When we got there, they told us “we” weren’t expected until the next day. Nothing is more relaxing than starting a vacation homeless. • Pick a place with lots of wildlife. Indoors! Like the cabin we rented in the North Carolina mountains a couple years ago. Beautiful place. Little stream running by. Luscious landscape. And at night, flying squirrels used the rafters for dune buggy races. Mountain avalanches make less noise. We expected to click on the lights to find base-jumping squirrels leaping off the giant deer antlers perched above the living room. “Yippeee!” My daughter still asks if we can go […]
How about a week of Mother’s Day
And now the day in which we give many thanks to moms everywhere. (And try to do something nice, like make a huge Mother’s Day mess in the kitchen that mom will feel obligated to clean up — she knows her family is a bunch of incompetent boobs.) Happy Mother’s Day! You deserve it! You really do, moms. You never get the credit you deserve. For taking on the challenge. Shoot, you would have been better off signing up for a polar exploration or a trip to Mars. It would be easier. Less physically demanding. And at some point the mission would end. There’s no retirement in motherhood! You took the job anyway. Thanks. But one day to celebrate you?!? Pshaw! It should be a week. A celebration of the stages of motherhood: Day 1 – For all you bore, lugging us around in the womb. A parasitic bowling ball. That’s what we were. We know it. But did you complain? Never to our faces. You did it with grace. Didn’t charge us rent. Acted like it was the most wonderful thing in the world. Day 2 – For giving birth to us. The “exit strategy” for bringing a child into the world reads like a horror movie. Doesn’t matter how you spin it. Shoot, I got a giant gumball stuck in my mouth once and just about gave up on life. But you went through with it. You got us out, and many of you still carry the physical […]
Never trust Little Joe
At 41, I’ve decided it’s finally time to start listening to my mother. At least on some things. Like Little Joe. Her cat. Little Joe threw his knee out. How he did this, no one knows. In fact, no one even knew cats had knees until this. My mother worried the vet would think she did something to him. Because how else can you explain a cat whose knee started popping out of socket. But take one look at Little Joe and you realize if any cat can do it, he can. He’s pure mischief. His coat is midnight black — like a bandit. You picture him with jewel thieves in exotic cities pulling off million-dollar heists. As they bask in their riches, they would always toast, “Here’s to Little Joe!” He has yellow eyes. He slinks about low to the ground. Like a panther. Or a snake! I think he knows how to do card tricks. I think he’s the one responsible for pickpocketing downtown. For global warming. For that wily computer virus that steals credit card info. Oh, and my mother reports he’s not using the litter pan anymore. He’s peeing on her favorite chair! That Little Joe. Who knows how he got injured. He climbs up on roofs and leaps off like he’s base-jumping. Without a parachute! He’s lucky to have knees at all. So he’s been housebound. Under strict doctor’s orders. Keep that miscreant inside. Make him rest. See if his knee heals up on its […]