The last-minute gift-giver’s guide to Christmas

It happens every year. You wait too long to get Christmas gifts for family and friends, and you realize you’re in mortal danger of having to handout rolls of quarters. And thanks to COVID-19, this year it’s even worse. Gift delivery is backed up, shortages abound everywhere and the thought of going to stores sounds both risky, but also like something a Neanderthal might do. I mean, what is this? 2019?!? So, I thought I would share a few simple, last-minute gift ideas, including some that DIY-ers in desperate straits could whip up in a hurry.

• Take an example from the kids and actually make something for loved ones and friends. Try finger-painting portraiture or making a sculpture of Alexander Hamilton out of glued-together macaroni. It works for them, why can’t it work for adults, too?

• Better yet, put the kids to work making gifts for you. They love that kind of stuff. And if you don’t have kids, try the neighbor’s children down the street. They look artsy and in need of something to do.

• Extension cords. I can guarantee that if you give anyone an assortment of indoor and outdoor extension cords in all manner of lengths and duty ratings, plus timers and splitters, they will love you forever.

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The fountain of youth in a face mask?

OK, folks. I know masks have become a polarizing, hot potato issue. So, I’m not here to lecture about the health benefits or reasons to put them on in order to ward off COVID-19. Rather, I’m here to share one little-known benefit that not everyone realizes about face coverings: They make you younger!

I’m living proof of this. I kid you not.

I don’t know that a lot of research has been done on the topic, but I have all the proof I need. The truth is, they can take at least 25 years off of your age, if not more.

Don’t believe me? Listen to this: It all happened to me at the grocery store while I was wearing a gray mask with black trimming. (Not sure the coloring is the key, but wanted to share that in case.)

I was piling all of my groceries — mostly cookies, ice cream and my weekly ration of beer in a case so big you could carry a bear in it – onto the conveyor belt.

As the nice cashier slid the behemoth carton across the scanner, she looked up at me and without the slightest hesitation said, “Can I see your ID, please?”

A choir of angels sang and I could hear celestial trumpets playing in the background.

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The dad and daughter drive

“Wo,” she told me while sitting down in the passenger seat. “I’ve never gone on a trip this long upfront.”

“Wo” was right, as the same thing struck me.

A 3-hour car ride to Tampa. Just a few inches apart. What in the heck does a dad and his 14-year-old daughter talk about for that long?

Wo!

It was just a dad and his daughter getting away to visit some family. The two of us. My sister was in town from Chicago. My dad wanted to show off the tear-drop trailer he was building. We hadn’t seen my aunt in who-knows-how-long, and you always need to make sure she’s staying out of trouble.

It was something we hadn’t done – couldn’t have done – in the longest time as everyone battened down the COVID hatches and stayed close to home. As safe as we were being – masked up and carrying an extra 50-gallon drum of hand sanitizer – it was stretching us out of our safe confines and comfort zones.

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The COVID-induced, back-to-school rush, rush dance

And then, “BANG!” like a starter gun, we’re off in a flash.

Hurry, hurry. Rush, rush. No time to think. Just do. No time to ponder or worry. No time to reflect or ruminate. No time to consider whether we’re ready. It’s too late. It’s here. We’re out of the blocks. Now it’s just mayhem and early-morning madness. Something akin to normalcy, only not quite normal. The “idea” of normal in an UN-normal world. And the truth is, it doesn’t matter. Because who cares: It has already begun!

And you better hurry, hurry. Rush, rush.

Yep, it’s school time again. School time in the age of the pandemic. “Fake-summer” is over, and the looming fall stopped looming and dropped out of the sky like a sack of textbooks.

It hits particularly hard in a house like mine that runs the education spectrum. My wife teaches pre-school. My daughter just started high school, and for now is taking the remote route online. I work at Flagler College, where part of my gig is teaching journalism students. Throw in the fact that we think the dog has a side hustle lecturing about French romantic poetry with an online course and it’s a world of education in the Thompson household.

After a summer of planning and worrying and speculating and trying to sort it all out, we’re all suddenly thrust back in it, just like that. And it’s kind of anticlimactic really. The starter gun just went off and we threw up our hands one day and said, “OK, I guess we’re running!”

GO!!!

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Predictions for the rest of a jinxed year

Yeah, it’s 2020. A year ruled by Murphy’s Law, that good ‘ole adage about anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And go wrong in spectacular fashion. In fact, “go wrong” might include one of your body parts spontaneously combusting, and then you get attacked by a murder hornet … WITH MANGE!

All in the actual law. Look it up.

We’re eight months into the year, and if you’re keeping track, we’ve had a major pandemic, an economic crisis, riots and unrest, wildfires in California, some weather event in the Midwest called a “derecho” (I thought that was a breakfast burrito, but apparently that’s not right) and most recently two hurricanes in the Gulf nearly colliding in an ultimate violation of social distancing. Earlier models even called for the two storms to meet on Bourbon Street, which would have just about topped it all.

So, if you’re like me, you’re asking yourself, “What else could possibly go wrong in 2020?” And if you’re like me, you should NEVER ask dumb questions like this because the universe will promptly respond: “Are you mocking me? How about I make your pinky finger spontaneously combust and send a murder hornet for you!”

We still have a rip-roaring presidential election to go, a long hurricane season to slog through and another four months before we can flick 2020 the middle finger goodbye. What else could go wrong? I’ve decided to try and answer that question with a few predictions and prognostications that might come to pass before the dawn of a glorious new year:

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Hooked on space and riding to the Heavens

Maybe it’s a desire to get out of here – to break the COVID-inspired cabin fever – but I’ve been hooked by the space bug recently. Anything space-related that might take me to the Heavens above, both literally and figuratively.

Or maybe it’s that for the first time in a long time, space is at the forefront again. There are so many exiting missions and moments and milestones. Rockets are constantly rising from Cape Canaveral. American astronauts are launching from American soil again, and splashing down in must-see events. Plutonium-powered planetary rovers as big as SUVs are Mars-bound. A tricked-out dune buggy named Perseverance stuffed with so many fascinating experiments that science geeks need therapy just to figure out which to get the most excited about.

Meanwhile, SpaceX is testing its giant “Starship” launch vehicle that looks straight out of Buck Rogers and promises to take humans to the moon and even Mars. That way actual people can ride around on the plutonium-powered dune buggy. Tee up more therapy for science geeks.

I’m fascinated by it all, too. Like how the Mars rover Perseverance is carrying a mini helicopter so it can test out flying on the Red Planet. Which to me is just the pinnacle of audacity. I take my daughter’s drone out here on Earth, and in 5 minutes I’ve made it a permanent Christmas ornament in a pine tree. But know-it-all, fancy-pants Perseverance is going to drive out into the middle of an open field, set his little bugger off and probably nail it on the first try. He doesn’t even have to worry about pine trees!

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A recovering ‘doomscroller’ tries to break free from the news

Oh, no! Am I a “Doomscroller?” Have I succumbed to this affliction? A pandemic within a pandemic? I fear I have. All the signs point to my transformation into one of these poor, wretched, ravenous beasts.

Did you even know this was a thing? Doomscrollers? That people could become one?

I didn’t either. Not until the other day when … well … I was doomscrolling on my phone, looking for the next breaking news article about how mankind was about to end. That’s when I came across this story from the Web site Wired: “Doomscrolling is slowly eroding your mental health.”

Oh, NO!

So, I doomscrolled through it and realized: Yep, that’s me. I’m a Doomscroller, all right.

The subheadline on the story read: “Checking your phone for an extra two hours every night won’t stop the apocalypse — but it could stop you from being psychologically prepared for it.”

Yikes. Punching a guy in his psychological gut. Not to mention I had already noticed funny neck pains. I thought at first they were headaches, but when I realized my neck was permanently pitched forward at a 90-degree angle, it got me wondering if the chronic reading of news sites on my phone was the culprit. Oh, and I think several vertebrae had popped out, too.

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COVID crisis meet high school trepidation

Come on, COVID crisis. Because going to high school isn’t, like, scary enough without you lurking around. Because I mean, like, oh my God! It’s high school, you know?

Shoot, just the thought of it has me talking like a goofy late-80s teenager.

Thanks a lot, COVID-19!

You just had to pile on with fears of contracting your virus and agonizing over whether to send my only child off to her freshman year in a pandemic. Because going to high school in normal times wasn’t hard enough?!?

I mean, most of my memories of the high school experience lie somewhere between being stuck in a vice grip and dropped in a sausage maker. Plus, I still have regular nightmares over how to say “algebraic.”

As we approach this major milestone for my daughter, I’ve found myself reliving more and more of those wonderful days. Transported back to an era when I wore clothes so bright and colorful that it ensured retinal damage to anyone who looked at me. (On particularly dry days, I could even start brushfires.) Shirts were a patchwork of different fabrics that resembled a designer hobo tent. Yet, in spite of this and my poof-ball hair, I fancied myself a pretty cool dude, strutting about the halls in my skinny legs that looked like chopsticks in a pair of oversized canvas boat shoes.

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Getting away in a mountain stream

Dang! Dogs sure do love mountain streams. The cool, bubbling, rambling ones. Strewn in river stones where they can run and bound and realize how their little wolf-like paws were meant to tear through the world like a brush fire or a blast of wind.

Free. Frantic. Frenzied.

Oh, to be a dang dog!

Same with kids. They like them, too, those streams. With the same gusto. Even at 14. Big splashes. Shoes soaking wet. Egging the dog on. No care in the world. “Come on, Lily, this way!” they yell, and the dog jerks about and tears down the other way.

Not a care in the world.

There we were. Out along little trails with no one else in sight. Somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina. Near to Blowing Rock, but not really near to anything. Anything civilized, it seemed.

Or anything that started with “c” and ended with “virus.”

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The over-the-top packing expedition

Sometimes, the packing is the real expedition. Forget the trip. The trip isn’t the issue. The trip isn’t even the adventure. In fact, the trip is the vacation you need just because of all the packing and the planning and the getting it to fit in the car.

Especially in a pandemic. When, after several months of social distancing in your house – venturing out only to buy groceries and see if the sky is still blue – you decide to take the family away from home. To a rented house in the North Carolina mountains. Easy to get to. You can take everything you need. You know the area. And you can spend all your time socially-distanced on trails and out-of-the-way places where hopefully no coronavirus will show its face … because of bears.

But … sometimes, the packing is the real expedition. Sometimes, getting ready is so exhausting that you need an extra day just to recover from it all. Before you can go out and try to enjoy yourself. You need that time to recover from the planning. The loading. The fear that it would burst your car at the seams. Carrying it all in.

All so you can do it again a few days later … after you’ve used maybe 2 percent of everything you brought.

But I’m a planner. A worrier. A planning worrier. I’m so obsessive-compulsive that I keep detailed lists in order to manage my proliferation of detailed lists. That was certainly the case for this short, four-night trip designed to limit grocery store jaunts or anything that would take us out of the comfortable wilds and into the unknowns of civilization.

To achieve this feat was relatively easy. All I had to do was pack our entire house, plus our dog, into the back of our Toyota RAV4.

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