She brushed her hair back in a flourish … over her ear. Something glimmered. And sparkled.
Gasp! Are those …
I do notice things, even though I’m just an oblivious male, the type of species that has gone hours before recognizing its own body parts are on fire. Hey! It was easy to miss. There was a basketball game one!
But I had noticed this.
Are those … Are Those … ARE THOSE … EARRINGS!?!
How the memories came flooding back in. There we were, at a middle school track meet. The first for my daughter since joining her school’s team.
If you’ve never participated in a track meet then you’ve missed out on one of life’s unforgettable experiences. It is also the closest thing to war that most of us will ever see. There are super sharp javelins flying in every direction. There is constant gunfire from starter pistols. People are always running for their lives or rolling around on the ground in agony … sometimes with javelins sticking out of their ribs. And coaches sound like brave generals giving poetic and inspirational talks that basically revolve around: “If you’re gonna’ die, then today is a great day to do it.”
WHAT?!? Die?!? I’m running one time around the track, coach! What the heck are you talking about?
Will somebody please save me from this cord heck I’m drowning in?!?
I say “heck,” and nothing more serious, because I recognize this is a first world problem – not a pandemic or a natural disaster, or even a minor-grade disaster, like missing trash day.
This is the stuff of developed nations and a people who no longer need to hunt and gather. Whose only real issues stem from words like “mortgage” and “upgrade.” I’m trying to put it all in perspective. But it’s not easy.
I realized this the other day when I heard my daughter call out from her room: “Dad …
can you charge my Kindle?”
“Hey, take a moment to look around at all these people,” I told my daughter. “See them?”
“You mean all these pale, pasty, semi-translucent people?” she asked, gazing at the beachgoers around us. They were mostly tourists. It was President’s Day. Un-seasonably warm. And the beach was hoppin’ with out-of-towners, all keen on turning their skin lollipop red. You could tell they weren’t Floridians because they tromped into the freezing, glacial-like water without screaming as if their skin was being burned off by acid.
“Yes … these people,” I said. “Take a moment and think about how they have worked and saved and planned for months to come here to enjoy a day at the beach, maybe the only time they will see something like this.”
Part of my mission in this column is to help you, the loyal reader, better navigate the tricky twists and turns that is this life we live. So this week I will provide tips on how to survive a teenage slumber party. My daughter, who turned 13 last month, just had one and I learned some very important lessons:
• Invest in a good pair of noise-cancelling headphones. It is the only hope you have of getting sleep.
• Don’t worry about setting a “lights out” rule. In fact, don’t worry about setting any rules. None of them will be followed, and inevitably the whole group will stay up until 3 a.m., eat pizza on the sofa and quite possibly order $1,000 worth of (insert something ridiculous and unnecessary here) on the Internet.
Thirteen has always been viewed with disdain and fear. There are lots of reasons why. Some say it all began with Judas. The disciple who betrayed Jesus was the 13th person to arrive at the Last Supper. Before that, it was the tricky little god Loki who showed up 13th at an exclusive dinner party of gods, forgetting to bring a hostess gift and creating all kinds of mayhem.
Today, whole buildings are constructed without 13th floors. Think of that! Can you imagine the physics and engineering behind creating a building that can defy gravity by leaving out an entire floor?!? It’s incredible!
Whenever Friday the 13th comes around, it sends us into a panic, and we have never looked at a hockey mask the same way again.
“Bri-ANNE!!!” It should be known that the way my mother says my name sounds like she’s calling me a girl. And she starts out every phone call like this. “Bri-Anne!!! Are you coming over Sunday with Amelie to see the rocket launch? Your brother and Striker are coming over.” “Who is this?” I like to ask into the phone, just to rile her up. “Bri-ANNNNNE!!! Sheesh. Are you coming or not?” To the meat of it: My brother’s son just turned 5. His name is Striker. For his birthday, my mom got him a rocket. It was from the Smithsonian. It had to be a good one – and educational – because, well, “… it was from the Smithsonian!” My mother emphasized this about 95 times at his party. As if there is some genius museum developer actually IN the Smithsonian building all of these toy rockets that they sell to people like my mother.
There’s a new arms race shaping up, America. It’s taking place in our homes. Our very own kitchens. Every morning, it’s being waged to win the hearts and minds of … school children? What am I even talking about?!? It was an article in The Wall Street Journal this week headlined, “The Competitive World of School Lunches.” And it made me realize that I’m a slouch. See, parents are taking it up a notch in the school lunch department. They’re creating mesmerizing displays of fruit and pressed sandwiches that, well, don’t deserve to be wasted on kids who will only discard them because the crust is 2 mm too thick. There are themed lunches. Lunches that resemble beautiful banquets. Lunches that parents shoot photos of and then post to Instagram because, why not?!? It’s not whether your kid likes it, but whether all your friends on social media do. But I was blown away. Straight-up shock and awed. When I’m in charge of putting together lunch for my daughter, it looks a lot like my poor, lackluster leaf blowing skills. Not focused. Just happy I attempted it in the first place. My porches and sidewalks always look worse after I’m done.
“So, where you want me to buy your birthday cake?” I asked my wife earlier this month. On such things, I don’t just do whatever I want. I get advice. I’ve learned the hard way. You don’t take risks when it comes to birthday cakes. Countries have fought wars over less. “No, don’t buy it,” she said. “Why don’t you both make a cake.” Make … uh … wait a minute … make a cake?!? Is that even a thing? And if it is, why would you wish such a thing upon us. My daughter and me. And mainly me. Because here’s the thing about me in the kitchen. I like things a certain way. By which I mean, I don’t like when stuff gets everywhere. By which I mean, my daughter tends to get things everywhere. By which I mean, I make a big ‘ole deal about it, freak out because the cocoa powder spilled and start screaming about how she ruined Christmas … and it’s not even Christmas! That’s how crazy baking cakes gets for me. It’s not a good way to start a birthday celebration. “Or, I could just go buy a cake,” I said. “You know, we do need to support the economy and all. Don’t want another recession.”
Maybe I was in a hurry. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough. Or not as careful as I usually am. The soap on my hands made the mug slick. Maybe sometimes accidents just happen and that’s all there is. Anyway, I fumbled it. Felt it slip from my grasp as fingers scrambled to catch it. The “clank” from hitting the porcelain sink in the kitchen was a sickening sound. The handle broke free, and a chip looped through the air for dramatic effect. As if to say, “Look at me! I’m flying!” “Oh no,” I gasped. The coffee mug was dead. Odd really, now that I think about it. I have never held any affinity for mugs. Not like others do. Put a new coffee mug on some people’s desks and you would think they were just given gold. Or a baby animal. They cherish it. Go ga-ga over it. Promise it a college fund.