Experiencing all the joys of standardized testing

And now for some REAL fun at the dinner table, it’s time for …

SAT Vocabulary Flash Cards!

Because you don’t know how to suck the marrow out of life until you sit down with the entire family for a nice, nutritious meal, and then proceed to show how little you grasp about the English language.

Now, that’s what you call living, kids.

It’s been all about gearing up for the PSAT the past couple of weeks in my house. The PSAT stands for “Preliminary Scholastic Aptitude Test.” It is a practice exam for high school sophomores like my daughter, and it has one simple objective: Scare the living daylights out of you so you go back and prepare for the real SAT. Because the SAT, as we all know, is the mother of all standardized tests – the T-Rex of its class. It is widely used for college admissions, and guaranteed to have fewer than two questions that are actually relevant in the real world. (Plus, you get to show your skill at filling in bubbles with a No. 2 pencil.)

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Stumbling through those dark, scary early morning runs

I have achieved my life’s long dream. No, that’s not exactly true. My life’s long dream is to hike mountains all day long. Or to invent hip extenders, so pants sit on my waist better. Or to not have permanently stuffed-up sinuses.

Yeah. I go big!

So, if not my dream, I have achieved one of my long-simmering goals. Aspirations. White whales. Something I have been trying to achieve since pretty much the fall of the Roman empire. Always to fail. Always to come up short. Always to lose interest and try to come up with that hip extender thing.

But I have finally done it. I have become … a morning runner.

Because for most of my life I’ve been an afternoon runner. One of those people who comes home from work tired and thinks the idea of going for a run is second only to having a tree sloth clip your ingrown toenails. It’s also the time of day when the fridge calls to you and says in a sing-song fashion, “You know, I’ve got cold beer.” And you think, “Who needs willpower, good health or to be in shape? My shape is awesome. I’m kind of bulge-ie and pear-shaped. Like a modernist painting of a sack of potatoes! LET’S DRINK BEER!!!”

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The life of a ‘historic’ house owner

It was one of those booming laughs that surprises even yourself. The sheer volume of how loud it was. That it had come from so deep in my chest. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

The letter came from the city. It was very official looking. “Dear Property Owner,” it began. What got me was two lines in: “Out of more than 8,000 buildings in the city you are the owner of one of the 1,659 designated historic buildings.”

Ha!!!

That was it. That was the line. That it said – described my house! – as “historic.”

“Historic?!?” I thought. “Mine? Have you seen it? Have you lived in it? Have you understood the pain and heartbreak and trauma I have endured. For what? History!?! Again, good sirs and madams, I say, ‘HA!!!’”

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A New York City getaway where the rats steal the show

It was a heck of a knock to the ego. A trip to New York City full of Broadway shows and cultural attractions, shopping and good food, lots of lazy strolls through the most exciting city on the planet. But what makes one of the highlights for my 15-year-old daughter?

Semi-befriending a rat in Central Park.

What does that say about my planning? My inability to create the perfect fall getaway to Manhattan?

Or maybe it says something more about her big heart. Her inability to look down on any living creature.

It wasn’t one of those subway rats, it should be noted. More of a country rat. It wore overalls and could have passed for a squirrel if only it had a bushy tale. But it was a rat all the same, and you don’t drop this kind of cash to stare at vermin!

Either way, it’s part of what makes New York such a unique experience, no matter what you do or where you go.

There’s always some adventure to be had. Like when we saw a bunch of New Yorkers in the park frantically chasing a brightly-colored flying insect. One of them had pulled off a shoe and was screaming, “Quick! Kill it!”

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In the height of the hurricane season, doing some amateur meteorological … stuff?

Tighten the chin strap on your helmet. Tug gently on your shoulder pads to make sure they’re good and snug. Growl, slowly and deeply. From down inside you. Like a bear. Or someone choking on a cough drop. Slide down into a three-point-stance. Make sure your feet have good traction. Dig in. Take a deep breath. Focus.

Then … pull up some hurricane forecast models and make yourself crazy!

It’s hurricane season, baby. Hut, hut, HUT!!!

We’re now in the height of hurricane season. My wife mentioned this the other day. How she read we are officially at the peak. That time of year when the Tropics become their most active, erratically launching wave after wave of spinning storms like a drunk in a shooting gallery.

And me? I spend my entire existence staring at animated forecast models and mumbling, “We’re doomed … and drowned … and all in between!”

Some might call it an addiction, but I like to think of it more as a hobby. I’ve always wanted a hobby. Especially one that ruins my blood pressure.

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Laboring through Labor Day

Ah, Labor Day! That annual holiday celebrating the hard work of so many men and women. And to honor them, we get to sit on our duffs and do absolutely nothing. Like me. Three straight days with nothing planned, prescribed or penciled-in, aside from sitting down with a good book in a comfortable chair and a beer the temperature of an arctic ice flow. Almost too cold … until I remember I live in Florida, and there is no such thing as “too cold!”

So, I just plop down, flip open my page and … huh. That’s interesting. There. See it? Hanging from the ceiling fan. Swinging from some translucent rope. Like Tarzan on a vine. Is that a … SPIDER!!!

Oh, well, I’ll just have to take care of that. I can’t sit here and read a book knowing that’s right there above me. I might try to concentrate. To tune it out. To say things like, “Cold beer makes problems go away.” But I know arachnid Tarzan would still be up there, watching me. Knowing that my ambivalence is a sign of my weakness. And that he can just invite all of his friends over to laugh at me and mock me and build webs that spell, “You look ridiculous in your little L.L. Bean slippers, silly human with only two arms.”

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Why is the Internet trying to keep us up at night?

Hey Internet, stop freaking me out! You think that’s cool? It’s not cool. It’s freakin’ … me … out.

All kinds of things. Everything you do and say has me worried. You keep publishing stuff. Stuff that is supposed to be helpful. Stuff that is supposed to give guidance and support. Stuff that is supposed to be advice.

But it’s all scary as heck! All of it.

Investing and financial planning advice. Health advice. Hygiene advice and even the weather. Yeah, the weather. Like how if your zip code drinks too much beer, it’s more likely to attract hurricanes. (OK, I made that one up. But I bet you there’s someone out there who thinks that’s true. And they’ve written a story about it and posted it on the Internet. I’m going to read it and I’m going to FREAK OUT!!!)

I don’t know why, but the financial advice is scaring me the most. Maybe it’s because I’m getting up there in years, but I see a lot more of it now. It’s all terrifying. “Three big 401(k) mistakes you’ll regret in retirement.” “Everyone’s going to be a millionaire … but you.” “Why you should give up now because your future is doomed!” “You could have bought cryptocurrency, but you got tacos instead.”

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Better do something when your dad turns 80

“You realize your dad is turning 80, right?”

My wife said it in such a way that it wasn’t really a question. More of a statement. I sat on the sofa with a blank expression on my face. I mean, I was trying to watch TV. Probably YouTube. Videos with titles like, “10 times when people did really dumb things.” I did not see the irony. Or where she was going with this.

For starters, I barely know how old I am. How am I supposed to remember my father’s age?

Did I know his birthday was coming up? On this one I was proud to say I did. Because my computer calendar saw to it that I don’t forget. It was all set to remind me on when I should call him and say something thoughtful and profound, like: “Happy birthday, dad! OK, gotta’ go.”

But my computer had no idea how old he was – what good are they?!? And if my wife was right, this was certainly going to change things.

“… turning 80, right?”

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The Florida summer fine-line between fun and crazy

You know, in Florida there has always been a fine line between really fun and really stupid. I don’t know why that is. And I say this as a third generation Floridian. It means I can say it without having anyone read into too deeply into it. Look, we all know it’s true. And no one can say for sure what causes it.

It just is. That’s Florida.

It causes us to do crazy things. Like try to tickle alligators to see if they laugh. Drive at incredibly high speeds on the interstate while hanging out the window. Buy expensive houses on the coast. Go to Disney World in August.

Let me repeat: Go to Disney World in the HEAT of August. The blistering, driving, pounding, unrelenting heat. The kind that will turn the weak into beef jerky in a matter of minutes. And because a pandemic is still going on, will mean you have to wear masks in various locations. One more layer of fabric to keep in the heat.

This is what we decided to do as a family last week. One last hoorah before the start of the school year. A quick overnight trip to Orlando and a day in the park. Crowds were supposed to be slightly thinner, and average temperatures only slightly higher than the surface of the sun.

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The cord-cutter strikes back

I did it! I absolutely did it. Totally and completely. After months, and even years. Waiting, procrastinating, dawdling, worrying, researching, testing, praying, previewing and then praying some more.

And then finally, I pulled the plug.

No … I believe the correct term is: I cut the cord!

You know what I’m talking about here, right? The cable cord? Th e wire that comes into your house and brings 3,200 channels of live, 24-7 non-stop content … none of which you actually watch. It just flows in like a raging mountain stream, you pay for it, it flows back out, and then you say, “Yep, hit me again next month.”

And it goes on like this month-after-month, year-after-year. Paying for a premium service you don’t use – I mean, I’ve never watched a regional sports network in my life, but I had them! – to the tune of thousands of dollars a year. (I would say millions, but the good journalist in me who values accuracy thinks that might be too low.)

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