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When it comes to cars, the most important feature I look for is not having a car payment.

I have had only three cars over the last 20 years, and frankly, that actually seems like a lot to me. I drive my cars as long as they can still serve their intended function, which is getting me from point A to point B.

My current car is a 2010 Honda Civic that is creeping toward 200,000 miles. It replaced a payment-free 2000 Ford Explorer that was well over 100,000 miles when it was removed from service by someone running a red light, plowing into me and getting his fifth (fifth!) driving without a license ticket. That beaut of a trooper replaced my 1994 Honda Civic, which I had driven since college and I had to get rid of because my wife and I added a second child in 2003 and found out that a 1994 two-door Honda Civic did not really accommodate two car seats.

But, alas, I am afraid I may need to add my next car in the lineage. My current noble steed has served me well, having traveled these United States and ferried my family on gas-efficient adventures throughout the country. It has gotten me to and from work reliably, save for that one time I drove over some lawn-dart looking thing on my way into work and blew a tire out, but I can hardly blame the car on that.

I started wondering if I was going to be due for a new car when it began having a few little problems here and there. The first thing was the auxiliary cable port going out. This was the thing I could use to plug my phone into the car stereo system so I could listen to podcasts, because I am a 46-year-old dude and am required by law to not only listen to podcasts but start least three conversations a week with, “Oh, so I listened to this new podcast…”

Next thing was the parking brake. The problem – it kinda falls apart. It can be put back together, and appears to still work, but generally speaking, I’m fairly certain that having the handle splinter off into three separate pieces each time you engage the parking brake is not ideal.

And then the steering wheel started to, well, disintegrate kinda. The top part of it started peeling away, and then chunks of rubber started falling off, to the point that the top of my steering wheel is exposed metal. And that is fine sometimes. And then it’s super not fine when you live in the South and your car gets 8 billion degrees inside in the summer.

But these were problems I could look past. After all, refer back to my car’s prime directive: Point A to Point B. Check that box!

And then my air conditioner stopped working, and I quickly recalibrated my car’s prime directive to read “Point to A to Point B without soaking your clothes in sweat on a three-minute drive.”

I took my car to a couple of places to find out how much it would cost to get my AC fixed. Turns out, AC is one of those things in your car that, when it breaks, you have to pay a good bit of scratch in order to find out what is wrong with your AC. Eventually, I paid one place a nominal amount and was told it would cost me about $3K to fix my AC.

So I’m at decision time. As the temperatures are currently fine, I can enjoy windows-down transit. But as the temps begin to creep up, I have a decision to make. Do I need to pay a little bit to see if I can get another estimate on repairing my AC? Or do I read the writing on the wall that this proud servant has been a dedicated warrior in my daily transportation journey, but it’s time to retire it? Or do I ride out the upcoming summer without an air conditioner?

I don’t know the answer to the first two. But I sure as sweating heck know the answer to the last one. No, no, and not a chance.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

So apparently Marie Kondo is a thing.

For the remaining two of you out there who had until very recently thought a Marie Kondo was a timeshare, allow me to explain her. (For the rest of you, I don’t know, go throw out something you thought you loved but now actually agree you only kinda like.)

So Marie Kondo is a famous organizer who wants you to go through your things and throw out the things based on a criteria of … OK, I admit this is where my Marie Kondo knowledge ends. To be honest, when I started this column, I thought her name was spelled “Condo,” hence the timeshare joke. But what I get based on Facebook posts and Tweets is that Kondo wants you to pretty much throw out everything that is taking up worthless space in your life. Fair enough.

But here’s the thing – Maria Kondo is Johnny Come Lately to a game I’ve been at a long time. And sure, she was named one of Time magazine’s most influential people in 2015, but I just learned of her very recently, so really that’s Time magazine’s fault.

Anywho, so we were moving a few years ago, and we had only a few weeks to get to our new home a few hours away before school started. Apparently, schools are super picky about actually sending your kids to the whole school year.

At the time, my kids were heading into sixth and ninth grades, which is a tough time for most any kid. Throw in the “Hey, you’ll now live in a city for a whopping whole week prior!” and it was a bit of a panicky time. So, as we were packing up the house, my wife and I made the conscious decision that the the kids had enough change going on in their lives, so let’s not make them decide what things mattered in life to them. Let’s just pack it up.

Pretty much everything in their rooms was packed up. Books. Clothes. Pine cones. (Yes, pine cones.)

And most of those boxes were stored in our garage when we moved. We were renting a house, and we decided we would merely make this a short-term stay, and only unpack what we needed. And we didn’t need pine cones.

We also didn’t need 14 casserole pans, which is I believe the number we had acquired. We brought the standard amount of plates and bowls and glasses and silverware inside. But for cooking, we brought into our kitchen a couple of skillets, a few pots, a cookie sheet or two, two casserole dishes, and maybe a colander. The rest we left in boxes in the garage when we moved.

After renting the house for two years, the owner asked if we were interested in buying in. We were. At that point, my wife and I began going through the boxes in our garage. Over two years, we had found that he had needed a grand total of zero things from our kitchen stockpile. And we certainly had no occasion for more than a dozen casseroles at once. Those kitchen boxes in the garage? Off to charitable donations.

And as we went through the half-garage full of boxes? We found that we had also not needed those over the past two years, and in fact our kids went through some of their boxes we had moved and stored for two years and had this reaction, that pretty much sums up the things you store: “Why did y’all pack a box of pine cones?”

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

Look, I get that I can’t fix cars. Fine. I accept that. But if the universe could let me enjoy my rare auto-repair victories for more than an hour, that would be great.

It happened the other day when my wife and I were driving back home from … somewhere. I don’t recall. But I assure you it wasn’t any place very interesting, and even if I remembered and told you where, you’d probably respond with, “Wow, that’s really … not interesting.”

So anywho, I was driving her car, a relatively new vehicle. As we got up to around 35 mph, a weird noise began to sound. It sounded like it was coming from the left side of the windshield, kind of a whooshing noise that got worse the faster we went. Eventually, I got the car up to 100 to see how bad it would get.

Ha! A little bad driving humor. We were on a road where the speed limit was 40, so I got it all the way up to probably 43, because I gave up fast speeds many decades ago, probably around the same time I became in charge of my own insurance payments.

We listened to the sound and hypothesized about what could be causing it. My wife was worried that perhaps a seal on the window had been compromised, creating the sound. I took my usual approach on car issues and suggested that it was probably nothing and if we turned the radio up it would straight up solve itself.

When we got home, I decided I would investigate. I figured there were two potential outcomes: (1) I would give up after about 15 seconds and say, “I’ve got nothing” or (2) I would found a massive hole in the windshield, perhaps with a big arrow pointing to it and the words “PROBLEM IS HERE.”

Surprisingly, I ended up on option 3. I noted that there were some leaves that had gotten into a small opening by the windshield. I told my wife that I wondered if those had been making the noise, rattling louder as the speed increased. Using standard issue mechanic tools – a magazine in the back of my wife’s car – I flipped the leaves out of the tight crevice, clearing them out.

A short while later, we were heading out again, this time on the freeway. As we approached 70 mph, my wife said, “The sound has stopped. I guess it was the leaves.”

I responded with, “I would like the record to reflect that I fixed your car.” She reminded me that (a) we were not in court and (b) this was not exactly rebuilding a carburetor. Whatever. I’ll take it.

And then came an hour later. We were heading home from shopping, and cruising along, the windshield quiet as it is supposed to be. And suddenly my wife said, “Fiddlesticks!” OK, she didn’t say that, but this is a family newspaper. And then she pointed to the windshield. Something had hit it, sending a long crack across the passenger side of the windshield.

“BUT I JUST FIXED THIS!!!” I lamented. She reminded me that removing some leaves is not car repair, and this crack was also completely unrelated to that anyhow. I reminded her that I was, in fact, a successful window repairman, and I would not let her cracked windshield take away from my previous victory.

When we got home, I called our insurance company, and we have an appointment set up to have her windshield replaced. Granted, when it comes time to replace it, I hope they realize that I did the heavy lifting prior to the crack and got all the leaves out of the way.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

So, what’s your Wizard Tree?

I know what you’re thinking. And I can assure you I have not been hit on the head.

My hunch is you have a Wizard Tree. You just probably don’t call it that.

Our Wizard Tree is an actual tree. And as far as we can tell, also an actual wizard. It certainly looks like one.

We first saw the Wizard Tree when we moved from Aiken to Charleston. The kids were both a week away from starting sixth and ninth grades, and they were moving from the only home they’d ever known. It was a scary time filled lots of understandable anxiety. On one of the back highways we were taking during the move, we saw him: A gangly, vine-clad tree, limbs spread wide. We dubbed it the Wizard Tree, and decided the Wizard Tree would be one of our signature milestones whenever we traveled to and from. And so began our tradition.

We made a lot of trips between the two towns as we were moving, and we still thankfully make the round-trip on a regular basis. Sure, we have our usual, typical milestones along the way, such as an interstate truck stop we stop at every time because it is, as my wife once described it, “Just a nice place to stop.” (She’s right. Clean restrooms, an attached restaurant that sells fried chicken so it smells amazing, and a super nice staff.)

But everyone who passes that truck stop knows what it is. I feel confident that most folks pass right on by the Wizard Tree and never give it a second thought. But it’s become a special part in our family trips. It’s always there for us, and it’s a moment of collective family goofy fun.

Every time we pass the Wizard Tree, we as a car always give a high five to him. We remind the kids that he has our back, coming and going.

The kids always look forward to greeting the Wizard Tree. Well, almost always. One time, as we were heading to Aiken with our son and one of his friends, and we approached the Wizard Tree. And, as we always do, we both raised our hands and said, “WHAT’S UP, WIZARD TREE!”

From the back we saw our 15-year-old burying his head in his hands saying, “Ugghhhh!!!! NOOOO!!!” Joe Cool and his SOOOO embarrassing parents.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. As he showed his absolute horror at his awful parents’ nerdy behavior, he still threw a subtle high five. The Wizard Tree was cool with it.

After we passed it, we explained to his friend about the Wizard Tree. She said, “Cool!” Fun fact: She happily high-fived the Wizard Tree on the way back.

And, yes, I know that it is an exceptionally dorky thing to routinely air high five a tree. But it’s become our family thing. And I’m sure that your family has something, too. Or there was something when you were a child that was regularly part of your family routine. It’s a fun little comfort food to have in your life.

I don’t know how long the Wizard Tree will be standing. Every time we near it, I get a little nervous, wondering if we will take the turn and see that the Wizard has left his post. Of course, it’s been there for at least four years, so maybe he only looks frail, but is actually like Dumbledore and has a good couple of centuries left in him.

Whatever the case, the Wizard Tree will forever be a part of our family story, as he stood by the road, always there to high five us on our latest journey. Thanks, Wizard Tree. And may the next 200 years treat you well.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

On the morning of my daughter’s 15th birthday, she insisted we be at the DMV the moment it opened so that she could get her permit as soon as possible.

On the morning of my son’s 15th birthday, well, it was a Saturday, so he probably slept in. I might have made mention of him being able to take the permit test, and his answer would have most likely been a shrug or a “Yeah, at some point, I guess.”

As the weeks and months passed, I would bring the topic up more often to him. Same response. At one point he asked me if we could just get a golf cart. He was a bit bummed when he found out those required licenses, too.

But fast forward 10 months later, and a switch flipped. I asked him if he had read the DMV book I had gotten for him in preparation for the test. He had that look all children do when they feel so much more hip and with-it that their parents. “Uh, they have a test app, dad.”

We went to the DMV prior to school. When I got there, I gave them the required documents, including birth certificate and social security card. When I handed them to the woman at the counter, she said, “Sir, these are two birth certificates, long and short.”

And indeed they were. I had merely glanced at the size of the small card and my brain said, “Good enough!” Not good enough. I went ahead and took him to school and told him we’d try again after that.

I came home and began going through drawers and folders where my wife keeps all of our important documents. I could not find his social security card. I called my wife and, in an exasperated tone, shared with her that I could not find the card and now he’s never going to get his permit and I’m going to be his personal chauffeur until he’s, like, 40.

My wife came home and let’s keep in mind – who ultimately found the card in a matter of maybe two minutes isn’t important.

Fast forward to that afternoon. I sat in the DMV office, watching my son start taking the test. It was rather excruciating, trying to read his emotions as he answered each question. I’d see a slight grimace, and then a subtle fist pump. If he cut eyes my direction, I’d look away so as not to make him nervous.

After about 10 minutes, he took a deep breath and stepped away from the testing machine. A smile. A nod. He passed.

A few minutes later, he had his new permit and was ready to get behind the wheel. As the DMV is located at a rather busy intersection and it was right at 5:00, I told him we would wait until we were back in the neighborhood before he took his maiden voyage as pilot.

I will continue to let him drive in less-than-crowded areas as he gets familiar, just as I did with our daughter. Charleston, SC, has some crazy traffic that, when it’s not standstill, can be less than fun to drive in, and certainly not the best place to cut your teeth initially.

He will also start driving lessons, something that is required by state and federal law. That may or may not be true, but my wife I decided years ago that we would treat that as gospel, so doesn’t really matter if it’s actually factually correct.

I’m just glad he finally mustered up the desire to get his permit. At this rate, thankfully, he should have his actual license well before he turns 40.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

We’re not sure how old our dog, Maddux the Stoic, is. We think he’s around 9.

But I can assure you this: He is definitely now in the demographic of finicky old man.

We don’t know how old he is because he was a rescue. Maddux had a less than stellar start to his first (we guess) couple of years in life, but I’d like to think he has enjoyed his time with us.

I base this on a few observances over the years:

1. Since pretty much day one with us, Maddux has made himself quite at home.
2. If my wife is sitting anywhere in the house, he will make sure he is (a) sitting next to her and (b) resting his head on her shoulder, snoring loudly, except when…
3. There is a new person in the house, in which case he will make sure he is climbing up in their lap and pretending to be an 11-pound dog, rather than the 75 pounds of solid Boxer that he is.
4. If he goes out the front door without a leash, he pretty much stands there, with a look that says, “Um, aren’t you coming with me?”
5. We have numerous relatives and friends who have assured us that if we want to get rid of Maddux (we don’t), they’ll take him (they can’t).

Maddux is a unique dog, partly because I think he does not understand that he is a big dog. He is equal parts people and small dog, in his mind’s eye.

He is now our only dog, having been one of three at the start of his tenure. Now, it’s just him. And Father Time spares no one, Maddux included. But, in true Maddux fashion, he even faces aging in unique form.

Namely, it’s the morning walk.

Maddux has a couple of beds in our house, one in our den, and one in our bedroom. Those are his spots to chill, unless, of course, there is a human he can climb on to snuggle with.

Each night, when we head to bed, Maddux relocates himself to his bed and takes a few minutes to dig and claw at the blanket on his bed to get it just right. He then lies there until we are asleep, at which point he slips onto the bed for the rest of the evening, so I wake up most mornings with a big ol’ cuddly boxer with his head plopped on my shoulder, snoring his night away.

Used to be, in the mornings, we would just open the back door, and he would go out and do his business. A few months ago, everything changed.

A stroll out back would not do, thank you very much. Now, as I am getting my morning coffee, he will trail me, tap dancing wherever I am. And when I approach the leash hanging by the front door? Oh, it is game on, tap dancing times 100.

So we dutifully take our walk through the neighborhood each morning, and he spends his time walking as slowly as possible to ensure that he stops and checks out every dog that has come before him (spoiler alert: It’s a lot).

It’s actually a quite nice time, except when it’s raining, because – fun fact – boxers are allergic to water and it burns with the white-hot intensity of the sun. Either that or they are really wimps when it comes to water. One of the two.

I’m fine with the change in the morning routine. I don’t know if it comes with him just being an old man who wants to take a stroll with me. I enjoy our morning jaunts. Besides, when we get back, he can resume his normal routine of climbing in the lap of anyone who’s at the house. He may be in the twilight of his time, but I hope it is a long twilight, filled with as many morning walks and as many sniffs along the way as he deems necessary.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

It took six years, but it appears the training is complete. It is time to send our son to join the circus.

Now, lest you think that’s just a horrible thing to say about your child, I think most folks who have met Parker are nodding their heads and saying, “Yeah, that seems about right.”

It started six years ago, when he was nine, and we got him a pogo stick for Christmas. It was only a few days later that he had mastered said stick and was doing most of his personal transportation via pogo stick. He also enjoyed playing basketball on the pogo stick and playing harmonica on it. Why? Because he’s Parker, that’s why.

Fast forward a few years, and he received a unicycle for Christmas. That was a big hit, and while it took a little more time than the pogo stick, he was quickly traversing the neighborhood predominantly on unicycle. As he would head off, often with his fishing pole slung over his shoulder, I would remind him, “Should you do anything that catches the eye of a concerned neighbor, it will be PRETTY easy for them to narrow down who exactly you are, as there aren’t a lot of fishing-pole-toting-unicyclers in the area.”

So this year, we are confident that he has completed his training, and there is nothing else we can do for him. To wit: He can now walk on stilts.

He received the stilts Christmas morning, and he said that he would put them aside and do some research on stilts and stilt safety, and perhaps schedule a class to learn about the nuances of stilt walking.

Kidding, of course. He immediately began strapping on the stilts, right in the middle of the den. I suggested he pump the brakes as (a) we needed to go outside to start the training and (b) no stilt walking inside. I am pleased to report he was perfect at adhering to the first rule.

We went outside and strung up his slackline. For those of you not familiar with a slackline, it’s a thin strip of trampoline-type material that you string up between trees, and you can walk it like a tightrope or bounce on it like a trampoline. More for the circus resume.

He had used the slack line to help learn the unicycle, stringing it higher than normal so that he could use it as a guide as he learned to balance. He would take the approach with the stilts. However, while it took a few weeks to master the unicycle, he took to the stilts a bit faster.

As in first try.

In no time, he was strolling around the front yard. He marched steadily over to the front porch, standing at what we would later measure at 7’4”, and noted that he could now help me get the Christmas lights up and down at the front of the house. No more ladder for decorations? I’ll take it!

He walked around the front yard for a good hour. I got a hoot watching cars slow down and check him out as he strolled around taller than Shaq. After a while, he was starting to get a bit tired, and he decided he’d take a break.

We headed inside, certain that the stilts would be shelved until the next day. My wife and I were sitting in the den, when we glanced back to the kitchen. And there came Shaq Parker, strolling along, checking out the tops of the cabinets. So much for rule (b).

So now that he can add this to his list of talents, I think it’s clear that he is destined for a life on the road. Time to find him the right circus to join. As soon as he helps me take down the Christmas decorations.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

I didn’t know until recently who Strava is, but I can tell you this much – you’re no fun, Strava.

For those of you as in the dark as I was, Strava is a social network for runners and cyclists. I heard about them because I saw quite a few news stories pop up recently that said that Strava had determined that most people abandoned their New Year’s Resolutions by Jan. 12. Well that’s just throwing a wet blanket on folks trying to do better.

But Strava, the thing is, the reason so many people fail is because they often set unrealistic goals. Look, I get it. A lot of folks make resolutions they’re going to fail at. Go to the gym, go the church, quit smoking, stop betting your mortgage on a college football game. Of course you’re going to swing and miss within two weeks.

Which is why I encourage each and every one of you to adopt my approach on New Year’s Resolutions: Make ‘em achievable. You can pat yourself on the back 12 months from now when you have crushed it.

My first New Year’s Resolution, every year, is one I have been consistently successful at and I feel confident you can do, too. The following ones are ones that I am equally confident you can add to your list and make magic happen.

So, to that end, in 2019, I hope you will join me. I resolve to:

• Not rob a bank. I have never robbed a bank. I am confident I can keep this up, and I think you can, too. See? Jan. 12 will be no problem. On to others:
• Park awesome. I will park my car in between those lines like a champ, and I will not have a single moment in 2019 where another driver pulls into the grocery store, starts to park, realizes someone has parked awfully, and has to say, “Well, that’s the worst person ever.”
• Ask to speak to the manager. And not because you’re having a bad experience. Ask because you had a good host or waiter, or because your food was awesome. And after you tell the manager it was good, go online and give them a good review. If we reward awesome the way some people punish less-than-awesome, we’ll know where the awesome lives.
• Stop and appreciate the day. I was heading out the other day, and I noticed it was the most beautiful blue sky, without a cloud in the sky. It was lovely. And then I thought back to a day a week or so ago when it was pouring rain. And I thought about how nice it was to hunker down inside and enjoy the torrential downpour. Whatever the day presents, appreciate that nature is rather awesome.
• Make fudge. I learned how to make fudge in 2018, so now I just assume everyone should do the same. Seriously. Go make fudge. Your friends and family will love you for it. E-mail me. I’ll send you the best recipe.
• Wave. Not to everyone. That would be weird. But when you get let into a spot in traffic? Shoot that hand up out the window and tell your fellow traveler that you appreciate it.

So these are some easy ones you can conquer, and go well beyond Jan. 12. So go off into 2019 and tackle it and succeed the way I know you can. And, of course, put your shopping carts up. It makes the world a better place.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

I fear the end is nigh for a pair of dear friends.

After years of dedicated service, I am afraid my trusted slippers may need to be retired.

They have been faithful companions for almost 15 years. They have slept patiently by my bed each night during that tenure. They have faithfully protected my toes from stubbings during a late night bathroom break or snack. They have kept my feet warm every morning as I got ready for work, waiting until the last minute until I go Mr. Rogers and switch out my footwear. And they have dispatched countless cockroaches that have dared enter my house.

(Those of you who know me know that I am am a big animal guy. I often relocate animals to safety. I even escort spiders outside of my house, and have asked my pest control guy to leave the ones outside alone, which he does, although he did look at me kinda funny when I made the request. But mice, mosquitoes and roaches – nope. It’s war.)

I call them my slippers, but I know that some people call them house shoes. I cannot call them house shoes in an effort of complete description. I would have to call them house and dog walk and driving kids to carline and oops I forget to get gas in my wife’s car like I promised so I better hurry up there before she’s ready for work shoes.

Quite simply, these two friends have been faithful companions. But even the most faithful of companions will succumb to Father Time.

If you were to ask others in the this house, they have been in need of retirement for some time. For at least the last six Christmases, my wife has casually said, “So, have you thought about Christmas?” and I’ve responded with, “My slippers are fine.” And the conversation stalls.

This year, however, I think she was taken aback when she asked the question and I just remained silent. I applaud her for hiding a smile.

But I know that the time is here. They are threadbare, inside and out. The tops are dotted with stains, primarily, I presume, coffee sloshed from a carelessly toted coffee mug on a morning dog walk.

Inside, there is not much of that precious yellow fuzz that looks like fiberglass but feels like someone captured a cloud and lined the shoes with it.

Now, the insides are more like a slab of cold plastic, serving its purpose of staying between my feet and the ground, but unable to provide amenities beyond that. I know it pains them, as everyone knows devoted slippers can feel pain. That’s just science.

I have spent some time online searching for a new pair. At one point, I even did it while wearing my slippers, but I kept them well under the table so they did not know. I have considered going to the store and shopping, but then I would be conflicted with the desire to want to try them on but the eww factor of not wanting to put my barefoot where someone else’s barefoot might have been. And let’s be honest here, trying on slippers with socks is just an insult to what the slipper is there to do.

I will keep looking, and eventually settle on a noble replacement to serve the next decade or so. I will not be getting anything fancy. No tassles, not patterns, no monogramming. I need my replacements to be like their predecessors – basic, effective, efficient.

Once the replacement slippers do arrive, it will be tough to figure out what to do with my old slippers. Obviously, I can’t donate them to a clothing place because, well, eww. But it will be so hard to just toss them aside as if they have no worth. I would be tossing away memories of thousands of mornings, where they were always here for me and my feet.

In the end, however, I know what must be done. I will don my new slippers. And I will grab the dog’s leash. And the moment I step out the door, my wife will throw those bad boys straight out.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.

I need a new phone.

I don’t want a new phone. I would be perfectly fine with my existing phone. But phone manufacturers are not fine with the status quo, and thus I am being ushered into new phone territory whether I like it or not.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not some anti-technology fuddy duddy who harrumphs kids today with their new fangled whiz-bang gadgets.

I love me some good tech. My iPhone is a remarkable achievement in technology. When I go through the list of phones I’ve had in my life – from the rotary wall mount to a flip phone to this bad boy – I am in awe and appreciation of the strides we have made. That old rotary wall mount? Not once did it give me play by play updates on a football game or show videos of people wrecking on skateboards.

But at some point, a phone for me reaches what I refer to as Babe level, as in Babe the movie pig: “That’ll do, phone. That’ll do.”

For the life of my, I cannot really think of anything my phone can do for me that would up the ante that much. I suppose it could add some sort of smell function, but that really seems like it would have far more downside that up. I don’t know that I want to smell my football highlights.

But my phone does not care how satisfied I am, as it has decided to chip away at two functional components which are kinda vital to a working device: memory and battery.

The memory is constantly full. While I do have plenty of photos and videos on my phone, the main way it keeps filling up is through my kids’ music downloads, which somehow end up on my phone. Now, before you inform me of the simple way I can stop that from happening, I’ve been there. As has an Apple tech, who informed me that it should not be doing that.

I found out that my storage is full periodically, usually when I have pulled out my phone to take a picture and it informs me, “Nah, no pictures until you delete some stuff. May I suggest the entire catalog of every Broadway song ever recorded that somehow appeared on your playlist overnight?” I am not sure if I delete these off of my phone if they also get deleted from my kids’ playlists, but I haven’t been contacted in a panic by either of them about missing music, so I am guessing not.

The battery is also on its last legs. I pretty much have to keep my phone plugged in at all times. It winds down quickly, and when it gets to 30 percent, it essentially turns into a timer. While this is normally not that big of a deal – I’m pretty habitual about plugging it in when I’m inside or in my car – this can present a problem when I am away from an outlet for a while. This can be especially problematic when I am at one sporting event while simultaneously trying to follow another sporting event on my phone. Just a reminder to how awesome technology is – that old rotary phone? Worthless in that capacity.

I contacted Apple support, and they ran a couple of tests for me and informed me that my battery is, in fact, hot garbage. I can replace it for about $30, or I can finally get the upgrade on my phone that I’ve been eligible for since about a year ago.

I could limp through with a new battery and keep trying to sidestep the memory issue. But in the end, it would probably make more sense to just get a new phone. I am sure it will have a handful of new functions that I will love that I didn’t even know I needed. I can almost smell them from here.

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 or at www.mikeslife.us.