Month: September 2017

Dear Summer,

I love you. I really do. Now go away.

Love, Mike

P.S. That was a lie. I hate you.

Yes, it’s that time of year when we have technically transitioned into fall, but where it is still a bajillion degrees outside and mosquitoes still feast on me if I am outside for about a millisecond.

I am in my fifth decade on this planet, and I have lived most of it in the South. And pretty much every year when this time rolls around, I have the same sentiment.

Now, I know what you may be saying. “Mike, if you don’t like the weather here, why don’t you move.” Well, first off, while I don’t like summer, I like winter even less. I have a friend who moved from south Florida to Rochester, NY, a few years ago, and I assure you I don’t envy him when I see pictures of him using a snowblower for what seems like eight months out of the year.

And I love living in the South. Sure, we have our warts and the occasional PR issue, but for the most part, it’s a lovely place to live. My family is here. Most of my friends are here. The food is fantastic, you’re never that far away from anything you want to do, and Cheerwine is readily available at most any store. Our beaches are beautiful, our mountains are majestic (if a little shorter than those out west), and our dirt roads, while oft mocked, can lead you to some of the most scenic drives around.

So, I love you, South, but once again you’re killing me with the weather.

As it does most years, this fall teased us a little by giving us a few days of lovely temperatures. We all get excited and open windows and maybe, just maybe, even consider making sure we know where our favorite sweatshirt is.

Then, after two days of that, Southern Mother Nature says, “Just kidding, y’all. I’m gonna make it 90 again.”

I remember years ago when my grandmother, who spent the vast majority of her life in the South, told me, “You know when you get used to the heat in the South? Never. That’s when.” And every year about this time, I am reminded of how right she was. But I am especially reminded of it when we have officially entered fall and I go to sit on my back deck to work and have to use bug spray and a fan, which, oh by the way, is really just pushing around more hot air, so it’s kinda like someone standing there with a hair dryer pointed at me. When college football has kicked off, I should be able to wear my good luck Bama sweatshirt, by gum, and not die of a heat stroke as a result.

But I will weather (ha!) a few more weeks of this, and eventually we will get to the point where the temps will dip to the appropriate levels, and my family can have our first big batch of chili of the season. And I will ease into the rest of fall and then winter knowing that the temperatures will soon be more to my liking. I will take delight in drinking the occasional Cheerwine and not shoveling snow. And before I know it, it will be summer again. And I will remember that I will never get used to it.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

When my daughter was little, probably the most common thing she heard me say was, “Hula hoop!”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Either (a) that’s a very odd thing to have your child Hula hoop on command or (b) why?

Hopefully, more of you went than (b) and thus don’t think I simply order my children to do party tricks.

The reason for this command actually has a straightforward origin. I am a big fan of personal space. When my daughter was young, she was not a big fan of personal space. She had no problem standing right next to you. This was especially problematic when we were walking places, and she would begin drifting into my air space. We’d be walking along, and suddenly, we’re shoulder to shoulder and she’s pushing me off of my very straight line.

Now, before you get the idea I am some anti-personal affection father who will send my children to a lifetime of couch sessions because of my inability to hug my children, that’s not the case at all. I just don’t want to be careened into when I’m walking down the grocery aisle.

So, when my daughter would drift, I would say, “Hula hoop!” I told her to pretend she had a Hula hoop around her at all times, and that’s how much personal space she should give. And if she did not heed my warning, I would get her an actual Hula hoop, and that would certainly not bode well for her social life should classmates see her out in public.

My daughter is 17 now, and I don’t have much occasion to remind her of Hula hoop space limits. I do, on occasion, have to remind her to look up from her phone lest she walk into the kitchen table.

The Hula hoop directive popped up in my brain recently when my son and I went to a restaurant to watch a football game. This place is clearly a destination for Sunday football, as when we walked in wearing our Falcons shirts, the hostess told us where the Falcons game was on and seated us right by a TV. Also, below the TV was a sign that read, “Falcons vs. Bears, 1 p.m.” Kind of a pretty big hint that those in the area would be watching the game.

Side note: There was a group of Eagles fans in the bar. Those dudes are intense. We’ve all heard stories of how rough Philly home crowds can be. I now believe every single one of the stories I have ever heard.

As we we were watching the game, I was amazed at the number of people who consistently ambled by and stopped RIGHT in front of us, all up in our business, oblivious to the fact that they were standing right in front of people who had been seated at a table to specifically watch the TV that really clearly stated it was there for folks watching that game. Naturally, I tapped each on the shoulder and said, “Hula hoop.”

I kid. Rather, my son and I just made angry faces at each other and the occasional grunt or growl, and then loudly shifted our chair so we could see the game and hopefully get the attention of the person. No such luck.

Cluelessness abounded. Each time it was like when my daughter was little. Just come on in and occupy my space and have no compunction about it.

Now I get that places get crowded on game days, and sometimes it gets a little snug. But this was not one of those times. There was ample floor space to not be almost sitting on my lap, blocking my view.

I think the next time we go out to watch a game, should the same thing happen, I will gently tap the person on the shoulder and ask if they might take a step or two to the side to clear the view. Surely most decent people will realize their error and politely step away. Granted, I will probably just let it slide if it’s one of those Eagles fans.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I am a simple person, with simple pillow needs. The other three people in my house? Complex people, with ridiculously complex pillow needs.

Over the past 20 or so years, I have had two pillows. The first one was a fine pillow, probably purchased for something like $3, and it did its job for years, which was to provide some minor elevation for my head during sleep. I didn’t need it to do much more, because during 98% of my time spent with it, I was unconscious. The pillow could have been writing angry manifestos in its spare time and I wouldn’t have cared. I was asleep.

A few years back, my wife informed me that my pillow was, well, kinda awful. I told her it was fine, as it was doing its job. She told me that pillows are supposed to be thick and fluffy, and mine was kinda like a piece of cardboard at this point, in thickness and texture. I assured her it was fine, and if it eventually disintegrated, I would just grab a nearby T-shirt, coat, dog, etc. and use that as a pillow. I’m REALLY good at sleeping, and no pillow is going to get in the way of that.

Eventually, I gave in to the mocking of my pillow. We buried my old pillow in a somber ceremony in the backyard, marking its service with a simple yet dignified headstone. Or we put in the garbage. I can’t remember.

My wife got me a new one, and it’s one of those memory foams pillows that I have to say is quite comfortable. But it’s not like I’ve made light years of sleep progress with the new pillow. It’s just a pillow. It’s something that rests between my head and the bed for the five minutes before I’m out.

The rest of my family, however, is a collection of escalating degrees of pillow maniacy. My son has his pillow on his bed. But he also has a travel pillow that he likes to use in the car. When he was at camp last summer, he left his travel pillow behind at the camp, and I’m fairly certain he would not have been as concerned had he left his pancreas at camp. Fortunately, you can buy travel pillows at any truck stop. You cannot buy pancreases as far as I know, but who knows what goes on in the parking lot.

My daughter is next on the scale. She has a gaggle of pillows that makes this lumpy fortress of sleepy-time that she nestles into each night like it’s a cocoon. I have gone to wake her up some mornings and wondered if there was actually a human in the room, or if she has been swallowed by Freddy Krueger in the night, leaving only a massive pile of pillows on her bed.

And then there is my wife, who takes pillows to a whole different level. She has these two big candy cane shaped things that she uses to build part of her evening fortress. Then she has a smaller candy cane pillow that she puts behind her head. Sprinkle in at least three more pillows wedged in various places around the bed and my wife’s pillow fort construction looks like the Michelin Man is lying next to me.

Meanwhile, I’m just sawing logs with my good ol’ trusty single pillow. I’ve had this one for a while, and I think it’s probably starting to show its wear and tear. Of course, it doesn’t bother me, as it’s doing it’s job. But if (when) my wife tells me it’s time for a new pillow again, I will simply agree that it’s time. And I’ll take one of hers. There is no way she’ll notice.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

I try to be a courteous driver. And with that comes resisting the urge to become a vengeful road vigilante when other drivers are not.

Granted, if I did go to vigilante mode, it would be super passive-aggressive, where I would do something like leave a note on someone’s car window long after I was sure they were nowhere around to see me place it.

But recently, a couple of driving events pushed me to the brink of perhaps considering a sternly worded note.

The first happened as I was leaving work. My office is located on a very busy road, and when I turn left to go home, I often have to wait a good while for traffic to clear. No worries. I just plan for the occasional several-minute delay and go with it.

But the other day, as I was waiting, the car behind me did not have the same patience. He did not at all like how I was, you know, waiting for traffic to clear. He whipped around me and shot out into traffic, causing oncoming cars from both directions to have to slam on brakes.

Now, you may be saying, “But, Mike, perhaps he had a loved one in his car and they needed medical attention. Or perhaps he was a surgeon and he had to get to his transplant surgery immediately.”

No, because his maneuver did little to save him time, and we were side by side at a stoplight about three blocks away. I assure you he was just impatient. I gave a mean side-eye to him just to let him know I meant business.

The next event happened on my way into work. I was in the right lane of a four-lane road, a few blocks from the office. The light turned green, and I started to go. I heard a loud rumble, and looked in my passenger’s side mirror and saw a motorcycle coming at a very high rate of speed. He was passing all of the cars in the right lane. He shot past me and took off down the road. Alas, he was gone before he could see my look of disappointment, as I know that would have really stung.

But sometimes, you get the tonic you need for such an ailment. My daughter and I were driving over the Ravenel Bridge recently. For those of you not familiar, the Ravenel is about a three-mile, eight-lane bridge that goes over the Cooper River in Charleston. When we first got on the bridge, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a car coming at a very high rate of speed.

We were in the third from the right lane. It shot past us, and my mental radar guessed it was going about 90. Fun fact: The speed limit on the Ravenel is not, in fact, 90.

As it past us, it swerved over all four lanes to the far left. It passed another block of cars, and swerved four lanes to the right. Rinse, repeat.

On his fifth pass across all four lanes, that sweet, sweet tonic appeared. An unassuming SUV that was traveling the bridge activated its blue lights. My daughter was exceptionally excited, as this was the first time she got to witness road karma first hand.

I feel like that took away a little of the sting of the other road incidents. Granted, the other two still kinda bum me out. I just don’t get why it’s necessary to, well, be that guy. I mean, we’re all in a hurry. We all have places to be. Just suck it up and deal with it. There is really no reason for behaviors such as that. If everyone on the planet would just slow down a little and be respectful of everyone else, the world would be such a better place.

But that’s not going to happen any time soon, unfortunately. So I will do the only thing I can: Keep a notepad in my car for passive-aggressive messages, and hope for more unassuming SUVs.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.