Thursday, June 23, 2016

Dear 21-Year-Old Self



Dear 21-year-old Self:

Enjoy the relative ease with which you can put on socks. This only gets more difficult as time goes on.

Hold your nose and buy Apple stock. That Steve Jobs fellow is really on to something with that iPod thing.

There's a thing called Facebook coming right around the corner. The temptation is going to be strong to post drunk party pictures on there. Don't do it.

Strong work ethic = good

Blondes = bad

All that money you spent buying DVDs and CDs was a waste.

Don't break up with women via email.

Don't snort powdered sugar.

Float trips are fun. Float trips without water shoes are still fun, but much more painful.

No one thinks your car stereo with the remote control is cool. Idiot.

I know you don't fancy yourself to be a romantic, but you're considerably less romantic than you think.

Seriously, you're not romantic.

Do the world a favor and stop wearing your hat backwards.

You do not need to bench press a Cadillac. Let's up the cardio and try living longer.

If someone offers you a cup of purple drink and you didn't make it, turn that shit down. Nothing good comes from purple drink.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Father's Day

Copyright 2016, Simple Man's Survival Guide

Recently my wife and I switched responsibilities, and I took our 5-year-old daughter to her ice skating class with her sister in tow. All was good. We rolled down the windows and rocked out to Kidz Bop and its infectious blends of "Worth It" and "Bad Blood," got to the rink on time and got our ice skates on without any tears, and all without the 3-year-old dropping a crap grenade. #smallvictories

And then at the very moment I thought we were gonna slip into cruise control for the rest of the evening, she inexplicably lost her mind and exploded in tears -- right in the middle of the doorway. While I was consoling my oldest, my red-headed youngest giggled, turned around, and took off running and laughing along the side of the ice rink, a Disney princess doll in each outstretched hand, and destined for God-only-knows where; like a tiny Joker, I think she just wanted to watch the world burn. If there were any parents judging me at that moment, I can't imagine they would have scored me much higher than 3/10. It wasn't pretty.

A few years ago we packed a lunch and took the girls to Cocoa Beach. It was a very big deal for them because it was the first time they'd been to the ocean. When I was younger, I have very clear memories of my mom and uncle throwing McDonald's french fries into the air for seagulls to catch, and how cool I thought that was. Fast-forward 20 years and I thought I had a wonderful opportunity to throw a piece of a sandwich in the air and lure some birds over so the girls could get a better look. What I didn't know was that over the last 20 years those birds had adopted a more aggressive (not nearly a strong enough word) approach to their pursuit of human food, and that feeding them was looked at as more of a required sacrifice than a voluntary donation. In a matter of seconds we had retreated back to the van, the girls were both sobbing like busted fire hydrants, my wife was calling me names that Donald Trump wouldn't even call Rosie O'Donnell, and I was was legitimately considering exiting the van and letting those pterodactyls have their way with me. It was definitely not one of my finer moments as a parent, and even years later when the girls hear anything that remotely makes them think we're going to a beach, they look at my wife and say, "Mommy, we're not gonna let daddy feed those seagulls are we?"