The last hold-out is gone. The move into the 21st century is finally complete. We tried to repel that one piece of modern technology trying to push its way into our lives, but just couldn’t fight it anymore. The temptation was too great. Its power too strong. Its ascension inevitable. The Thompsons now own a microwave. Sure, that’s no big deal to you. And you’re probably amazed we’ve never had one in the first place. You’re probably judging us — wondering what’s wrong with us, how we could raise a child in this world without a microwave. Yes, there are people in parts of the world without electricity who still own microwaves. And yes, we know it’s the best way to make popcorn, and that it borders on un-American not to have one. It’s not that we don’t believe in technology. We have a dishwasher, high-speed Internet, XM satellite radio, a chain saw, a digital camera and a very fancy apple peeler that can also do trigonometry. But deep down, we’re simple people. If I wanted to heat up leftovers, I would go outside, build a fire and do it the old fashioned way. Or I would leave it out in the sun or the back seat of the car, which could take the chill off a pasta dish by about sundown. We never needed a microwave, or for that matter, never wanted one.
Big plans, and little accomplishments, for week off
A week off at home. What to do with the time? So many possibilities. So many projects. So many things that will never — even in the fantasy-land I live in — ever get started. I always take time off to go somewhere, but never to just stay at home, to get things done, and spend time with family. It always seemed such an appealing idea, though. And that the possibilities — the accomplishments — would be so well possible. Why not have fun, and get stuff done? So that was my big plan this week. How’s it going? Well, let’s take a look: Planned activity: Paint the shed. I improved, fixed, re-sided and generally did just enough on my shed to keep it from collapsing into a heap of rubble and termite-eaten dust. The only thing left, my wife has pointed out on numerous occasions, was to paint it. E-gad!
Drink Coffee from What?
OK, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration to say this heralds the end of the world, but you have to admit it comes pretty darn close. I read this story in the paper the other day. It’s about a pricey — $600 a pound — coffee called “kopi luwak.” Kopi luwak apparently is derived from the Indonesian words that mean, “your coffee came from poop” or “I can’t believe they’re actually drinking this.” Sweet, red coffee beans are devoured by a hungry critter called the Asian Palm Civet in Sumatra or Indonesia. It digests what it can, and then reintroduces the hard bean centers to the world after a 3-day, 4-night all-inclusive Caribbean cruise through its intestines. The beans are picked out of the civet dung, hopefully washed, and then roasted to make the coffee. Apparently, as the story tells it, enzymes in the civet’s belly do something to the beans to help smooth out the flavor and cut down on the caffeine jitters. Now, I would actually develop new jitters knowing that I was drinking something a weasel-creature’s intestines couldn’t digest, but people love it.
Teeth, Toddlers, and Beer Bottles. SMASH!
Common sense tells you beer bottles, toddlers and teeth don’t mix. But I, my friends, lack common sense. Combine all three of those elements at the same time and you get a perfect storm — a confluence of bone, glass and enamel where the only loser is the one in my mouth. That is why a couple days ago I was looking like a snaggle-tooth, with a chipped-out front tooth with a shard dangling down that would make a vampire coo. A tooth is not going to win that battle. I had been working in the yard all day, trying to break a world record for most sweat lost from a body. It was quitting time, I had showered and was feeling parched. So when you’ve lost 13 gallons of water and your blood is little more than sand coursing through your veins, nothing gets you re-hydrated quite like beer. Sure, you might die of sunstroke and dehydration, but you go out with a smile.
Who Stole My Rightful IQ?
Well, boy have I been gipped. Ripped off, you might say. My birthright — even my honor! — has been sullied. I don’t know who to take this up with. Is there some federal agency who rights wrongs? That hands out reparations, or at least cookies, to people in my position? Maybe just a laminated card I can carry around that says, “He was robbed, and should be smarter than he is. Forgive him for his stupidity. It’s unnatural.” An injustice has been perpetrated, and I don’t know how I will go on. My wife brought it up: “Did you read the story about how firstborn children are the most intelligent?” she asked. It was on a Norwegian study that found boys who were born first — like me — had higher IQs than their younger siblings. The blood rushed to my head and boiled. “I saw something about it,” I told her, “and I’d like to know JUST WHAT HAPPENED TO ME!”
New York a Different Town with Toddler in Tow
What a different city New York is with a kid. What a different vacation it makes with a toddler. Not bad, just different. When you’re used to one thing, and then go back to find another, it’s well different. The New York we used to know was about all manner of things. Eating well, and in places that if you came with a kid, someone would come over, grab her, hand you a ticket and then stick her in a coat closet. I’m not joking, I think they check their kids in New York. It was about going to shows and long, lazy strolls through Central Park near dusk. It was picking up and going anywhere you wanted without looking like Sherpas heading up Mt. Everest, or shopping in places where you didn’t have to worry that a little one would dismantle thirteen dozen mannequins and ruin a dress worth more than most cars.
Surviving Toddler Traveler Trepidation
Nervousness and fear. I’m a big enough man to admit when I’m worried and scared, and I’ll come right out and say it: I was filled with trepidation. Toddler traveler trepidation. My wife and I have traveled by car for three hours with our 17-month-old daughter, but that’s been as far as we’ve ever dared to go. Diapers can explode, lungs can wail and temper tantrums can upset the Earth’s natural orbit. But we longed to take a trip like we used to and felt the little one was old enough to get a few miles under her wings. So we planned a week-long sojourn in New York with a visit to family in Long Island and a couple nights in Manhattan. It involved planes, trains and automobiles, not to mention subways, strollers, escalators and I think, at one point, a grocery cart. We’ve always wanted a child who travels well so we could re-commence journeying like in the past — a kid you could throw on your back and scoot off here or far over there. But you just never know if a toddler has the same ideas. You never know if a toddler is a homebody who thinks a trip to the mailbox is plenty ambitious. You also hear horror stories when you’re a new parent. Planes that have asked families with screaming or misbehaving children to disembark a flight while it’s still in the air. Babies whose shrill cries are so piercing that they poke holes in […]
Waiting on the Florida Melt
The Florida melt is not a sandwich. It doesn’t involve hamburger patties on Wonderbread with some unusual sauce that blends ketchup, beach sand and a mystery substance found in the fridge that turned a color no one has ever seen before. Rather, Florida melt is that time of year when spring finally fades, taking with it that sweet, candy smell of jasmine and the cool breezes that whisk across you like a silk kerchief. Spring fades, and quicker than you can say “scorched buttocks,” Florida’s molten lava summer kicks in. Socks melt to your feet and the jasmine catches fire. Florida melt is when climbing inside a pizza oven will give you more relief than standing on the street. It’s when the mosquitoes head up north in search of cooler skies, and you start making grilled cheese sandwiches al fresco on the asphalt in front of your house. During Florida melt, the heat pours down out of the sky, enveloping every part of your body. Your sweat glands get tested to the point that you need transplants.
O Yard Sale, Free Us From the Clutter
For years my wife has talked about having a yard sale. For years, she has stuffed things into the attic, the shed or the loft — not to mention my sock drawer, my closet, my desk, the car, the utility room, the pantry and a closet packed so tight that we have since boarded it up and plastered it over to keep it from exploding. All this saving has been in anticipation of an imaginary garage sale she figured would one day whisk down out of the heavens and solve our clutter and junk problems. But it has never come. So things piled up. Let me be honest here, I’m just as guilty. I can’t just place blame. Whenever I had something I thought I might need in the future, say a guitar with a broken neck or some old used reporter’s notebooks, I threw them in a box in the attic. What I would use them for in the future, I have no idea.
A Hobo Runner No More
Goodbye days of the hobo runner, I have new running clothes. And if I don’t mind saying so, I look like an Olympic track star. Truth is, I’ve never looked like any kind of athlete while out running. Maybe an athlete mauled by a bear. But that’s not to say I’m a bad runner. I’m pretty good — I finish OK in races and I’m starting to do some early training for October’s Marine Corps Marathon in Washington D.C. (I’m registered, so only an injury — self-inflicted if-must-be — will get me out of it now.) I’m a fairly good runner with a lot to be proud of. But while the rest of the world exercises in special track suits, designer duds, and aerodynamic, flashy threads, I always looked more like a fraternity brother after a long night … of being mauled by a bear. I have runner’s shorts with bleach stains on them and elastic that so long ago disintegrated that you have to wear them with suspenders or duct tape them to your waste. Sometimes when I wear them, the only way to keep them up is to hold on to them in the front, which makes for awkward strides and an odd running style. Passersby must look at me and think, “There goes a guy who really has to use the bathroom.†It was time for new running shorts. My socks started getting far too many holes in them. My toes would work their way through those […]