From the Surfside

  We recently installed a bidet in our bathroom. Now, I have to admit, even as a person who is content to live with just about anything no matter what condition it's in, I thought there were other appliance upgrades and changes we would have made to the house before a bidet made an appearance. You know, converting the electric stove to gas, replacing the 15-year-old microwave with the broken handle so I don't have to keep adding superglue every six months, or maybe even ductless AC. But as the contented one, when Jenn suggests we replace something or get a new "something," I typically shrug, yank the handle of the microwave, and look for the superglue. Jenn carries the heavy burden of acquiring upgrades in our home. I'm more like Schneider or Bookman, here to fix and install. So after speaking to some friends and hearing about the life-changing effects of life beyond toilet paper, Jenn wanted to give it a go. And it turns out, with modern advances in the toilet se...

Sometimes I feel like a jackass in a restaurant or bar for overpaying for beers, wine, and mixed drinks. When you think about how bad you're getting pantsed in these places for something they sell at a fraction of the price at a store, it doesn't add up. But it also doesn't matter. Because they've got you. And people will pay. And what's worse is that at a sporting event or concert venue, knowing they have you trapped inside, these places notch it up a level as if to challenge attendees by saying, "what are you going to do...not drink?" and ask for twice as much as the bar you felt was already robbing you. But then I take my family out for ice cream. And all of that is wiped away. Not because of the joy of going out for ice cream, but because it's almost worse. Seriously. What the hell? Each time we go out for ice cream, I extend the age I think I might be able to retire by a month. According to Wikipedia, "ice cream is a colloidal emulsion made w...

  Author's note: If you’re easily offended, slightly prudish, or believe potty humor has no place in this world, don’t read any further. For those who continue, I apologize in advance. I grew up watching a lot of Benny Hill.  On our 17th wedding anniversary this year, Jenn, our two boys, and I spent the day enjoying one of our favorite activities, an outing to Marconi Beach in Wellfleet. This is something we typically do multiple times each summer. So, while it’s not a new experience or a once-in-a-lifetime moment, these times are special because it’s becoming harder to pull off as frequently with kids getting older and their obligations and activities eating up a lot of summer weekends in July and August. Plus, the fact that the date of our anniversary landed on a Saturday this year notched it up a level A newer part of our routine this year is ordering sandwiches on the way from a little sandwich shop in Wellfleet center. I’ll spare them the humiliation of being associated ...

Today I sent my two teenage boys to the grocery store with my credit card and a short list of things to get. They came home with a couple of things that weren’t on the list but obviously felt we also needed. The big thing we were out of was lunch meat. The hour was quickly approaching lunchtime and even though I could list a number of options currently available in the house, all of which teenagers would agree sound incredibly delicious and satisfying, none of them would come to fruition powered by nothing more than the energy level of a high schooler in the last full week of summer vacation facing a quite manageable, yet still daunting, load of summer reading. These are sandwich days, and driving to the store to get lunch meat was more appealing than making something else, even though it would require more effort. Somehow, to them, it sounded easier. It would actually be the 17-year old’s first meal of the day because he spent the hours since 8:30 this morning stretching out across hi...

  You always remember your first. Where you were. Who you were with. What song may have been playing. In our case, it was back in the spring of 2003 in Hingham. Lowe’s on Route 3A to be exact. I knew I was ready and although a little nervous, felt confident I was up to the task. It started as most trips to a big box home improvement store do. Navigating the parking lot through display racks of perennials and annuals. Trying to find a spot that’s not taken up by a metal shopping cart. Eyeing rows of fencing, imagining how good they’d look on your property with the surest confidence you could install the entire fence yourself if you just had the time, and the tools, and the knowledge, and the experience, and maybe the slightest bit of carpentry and measuring skills.  We parked, I’m guessing, about a mile away — not by choice, but because it was the only place we could find a spot that wasn’t occupied by a stack of mulch, a row of sod, or a nondescript white work van straddling t...

  My son’s favorite word is “Bullshit”. He hasn’t come out and actually told me that. But as a parent who spends a lot of time around my son and can answer with confidence that his favorite food is chicken tenders and his favorite sports are baseball and basketball, I have just as much confidence saying that his favorite word is bullshit. Now, this has been building for a while. It’s not like he just woke up one day and thought, “Bullshit. I like it. I think I’ll go with that.”  I will admit, up until recently I thought his obsession was more of an exploratory curiosity that a lot of kids are struck with around the age of 14. You know, cursing, testing it out. Seeing how much he can get away with. However, I’m quite sure we’ve moved on from that. And these days, I have no doubt that bullshit is indeed my son’s favorite word. And let’s be honest. It’s a great word. In fact, it’s such a great word, that in 2005, a philosopher by the name of Harry G. Frankfurt published a book ca...