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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Piecing together the back-to-school puzzle

Does anybody have any idea how any of this is supposed to go?

You know, back to school. Back to work. Back to the fall routine.

Back to the manic morning shuffle. The back-to-school puzzle. How all the pieces fit together, interlocking in a chaotic ballet of furious activity and utter panic.

When people scream, “Oh, the humanity!”

And someone else screams back, “There’s no time for ‘humanity!’ Forget your shoes and get in the car. Your school will be fine with bare feet.”

Amidst this madness, I often think to myself that this must have been what it was like when the meteor took out the dinosaurs. Only, that was calmer.

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Tips for surviving summer to-do list crunch time

Here we are again. Reaching the end of summer. When you come to the realization that you’ve squandered all your free time on frivolous things like watching sports, nacho chips and a little thing you like to call freestyle nap-drooling. (Don’t look for it in the Olympics, but it SHOULD be there!) Meanwhile, the massive lists you’ve spent the year building – all with the expectation that you would do them during the dog days of summer (so-called because you’re lazier than your dog) – have gone un-filled. Non-complete-o. And you’re running out of time.

If you’re like me, you’re about to start mad-scrambling. It’s summer crunch time for the project punch list. So, I’ve gathered a few tips on how to navigate the to-do deluge:

• Have patience. This is a must. It is highly likely that with a lot of patience, and a little faith, your wife will eventually talk to you again. Remember, the shame and frustration she is feeling over your complete and utter failure to finish a single thing is understandable. Afterall, this is likely the 8th or 9th year you’ve been given the same tasks.

• Cram. You need to think back to your high school and college days. Remember? Right before a test? The one you always forgot about. Until, say, 20 minutes before. But do you know what you were capable of when pressed? When the pressure was on? In 20 minutes, you could do remarkable things. You could plow so much knowledge into your head. You would go into that test feeling on top of the world. Like you owned it! I mean, you still failed. You ALWAYS failed. But for that briefest of moments, you felt really good.

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Not quite the ‘whoopers’ we used to be

“Dang,” I said. “I really thought we were going to ‘whoop it up!’”

Definition of “whoop it up!”: To enjoy oneself and have a very noisy celebration. You know … to party. To cut loose. To go out drinking all night. And to drink things that are lit on fire. Maybe get in a bar fight. Definitely get arrested. But not like major-crime arrested. More like, “Sir, reciting Shakespeare in the middle of the road is definitely frowned upon. I mean, who even reads Shakespeare anymore?”

To cut loose. To run free. To live.

Whoop … it … up!

Because … that’s what you’re supposed to do when your kid goes away on a summer retreat for a week, right? Your 15-year-old daughter. Your only child. Which really means you’re only ever alone when she goes on a youth retreat to North Carolina. And once when she took a middle school trip to Washington D.C. And before that? That 5 minutes she was sleeping in the womb, right before she woke up with a startle and kicked your wife so hard she swears there’s still a bruise on her stomach.

“We are going to ‘whoop it up!’” I remember saying before she left. “We might even cash in your college fund and fly to Vegas. Because we are free, sucker!” (I’m not exactly the greatest parent.)

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Travel is great, but there’s no place like home

Ah, it’s good to be home.

I love to travel. LOVE to travel.

I love packing a suitcase. I love trip checklists. I love the nervous feeling you get when you head out the door, and the excited feeling you get when you arrive. I love buying coffee in strange places. I love trying to figure out how I’m going to manage to go for a run when I only packed one running shoe. (Good thing I brought the duct tape and my flip-flops!)

But there are few things better about traveling than coming home.

I love to come home.

Maybe the best thing about traveling is appreciating how important home is. How welcoming. How comforting. How reassuring.

This is especially true after spending 13 days on vacation, with the last one stuck in a car for 14 hours on a rainy slog from Virginia on the Friday before the Fourth of July.

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Trials and tribulations on a summer road trip

Ah, the good ‘ole American road trip. Nothing makes you feel more alive and in touch with your roots than cramming more stuff in your car than you could use in a year. You set off down the highway in a vehicle so unbalanced that a ladybug fluttering at you aggressively could tip it over. And before you make it two blocks, you realize you forgot your wallet, your toothbrush and maybe even your child.

Two blocks and you’re already heading back home.

Yes, it’s the greatest of experiences. Your back aches. The coffee is usually bad. Most of the hundreds of miles you see are entirely unremarkable, aside from the occasional billboards for “adult stores” that truckers frequent and you have to explain to your child why people like us don’t go there. Luckily, my child is now 15, which means she has zero interest in looking out the window. She has an iPhone and a Kindle that she watches simultaneously, and I spend most of the trip yelling: “Those are going to rot your brain. Now look out the window and count the garbage!”

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