Mike's Life

Over the last week, I’ve heard a lot of people say that they want to put up their Christmas decorations early this year, probably right after Halloween.

I’ve seen a lot of folks on social media express the same sentiment, even saying that, while they would normally provide a tsk-tsk to people doing so, this year, everyone gets a pass.

And I couldn’t agree more. I try to live my life not getting upset about what other people do if it doesn’t affect me or hurt other people. And putting up a bunch of lights surely doesn’t check either of those boxes.

That said, I am normally a Christmas decorating stickler. For me during normal times, no lights or trees or Christmas music until after Thanksgiving. But this year, I may, too, break my personal guidelines and light the house up Griswold-style sooner rather than later.

I’m not exactly being a philosopher when I say that 2020 has been kind of a bummer year. And I also know the joy that Christmas decorations bring so many people. So, folks, if there is joy to be found out there, by all means get that joy up sooner rather than later.

My Christmas decorating tradition usually starts on the weekend after Thanksgiving. I bring out all of the boxes with our outside lights, and I pop open the lid to find my usual nice surprise: My note from last year’s Mike reminding this year’s Mike which lights go where. I am always appreciative of past me.

My kids usually enjoy decorating with me, although I will say that if I ever decorated without my daughter, it would be one of the more hurtful things I could do. My son is usually like, “Yeah, if I’m around, cool, but if not, it’s fine.” But the toughest thing about my daughter’s first year at college? Her worry that I would light up the night without her. Don’t worry, kid. I gotcha.

My wife also loves to decorate the inside of our house. We always do a live tree, but we have now added an artificial tree as well. My wife loves the tree because it is one of those all white ones, and she can hang a bunch of our nicer ornaments on it and make it her little art project. Which brings her joy. And thus makes me happy.

Our live tree will be adorned with lots of homemade ornaments, going all the way back to when my wife and I were kids. It also has at least one ornament from every vacation we’ve taken, so it’s always a fun trip down memory lane when they go on the tree.

And it will also be time for the birds. I am not sure how it started, but my wife has begun to amass a collection of these adorable birds that are about six inches tall. They are plump little rascals, and are all decorated with different seasonal flair. Currently, the birds that line our stairs have very fall-themed looks. But she has a host of Christmas-themed birds she can’t wait to put out. As she said just this morning, “I usually only get to see my Christmas birds for four weeks. This year, I want to see them for eight.” Joy. And I agree.

We also have a plastic Gingerbread house that the kids have decorated for years. If you are not familiar with it, it’s awesome. It’s a plastic frame that can be washed. You coat it with icing, and then decorate it with various candies and treats and such. You don’t just have to do it for Christmas. Name your holiday and decorate accordingly. Even though my kids are now 17 and 20, it’s still something fun to do that, again, brings joy.

So if you are feeling festive, get the decorations out. 2020 is probably still not done doling out unpleasant surprises, so every little bit of joy can help. Be well, readers, and find – and share – joy.

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

 

It was your usual close to the end of a workday: My co-worker turned to me and said, “We’ve gotta go catch that chicken.”

It all started when I noticed a commotion outside my office window. I saw some people with a stick trying to get something out from under a car in the parking lot. A cat, I assumed, as we have a bunch of cats that hang out near my office.

Nope, chicken.

It came strutting out from under the car, but had no interest in going anywhere. It was just hopping around the parking lot. We watched for a short while when my co-worker, Louise, made the proclamation. Needless to say, I was in.

We headed downstairs and into the parking lot. We are on the second floor of our building. The first floor is a utility company that has a drive-through where the chicken was now trotting about.

There were a couple of people watching the chicken. I said, “Is this your chicken?” I was half-way joking. One of the people turned and said,“Can y’all do something with it?” It was clear she wanted the chicken to be taken care of, but would prefer someone else do it. I’m cool with that.

We sprang into action. We formed a loose circle around the bird, hoping to be able to safely get some hands on it. Sensing the panic, it darted underneath a pick-up truck that was in line at the drive-through. Fortunately, those folks were kind enough to put the truck in park while we were trying to coax it out.

And then it decided to hop up into the truck chassis. It was WAAAAY up in the truck, clucking at me telling me that it was fine there, thank you very much. 

One of our fellow bird herders grabbed me a long stick, and I climbed under the truck and gently prodded the bird out. After a few soft pokes, it hopped down, and back into the parking lot.

I turned to Louise. “We need a blanket or a jacket or something to throw over it.” I glanced at Louise’s blazer.

She didn’t hesitate. In a flash, she had her blazer off and in her hand, and as we closed in the circle, she spread it out like a net. The circle got closer. And closer. And closer. And Louise flung the jacket. Bullseye.

It landed squarely on top of the bird, and I was able to then grab it. Louise retrieved her blazer, and the bird calmed down a bit. We placed it in a box and got it some water and Fruit Loops (the only possible bird food we could find in the break room) and it seemed quite content. It began to purr and cluck to Louise, as they were clearly pals. She named the bird Betty.

I don’t know where Betty is from. But I know that I work on a very busy six-lane road, and there is no chance that a chicken is ever crossing the road at 5:00 on a weekday. Betty is now at my house, and we have a nice farm home for it to go to soon. Betty will get to go and live out her life as a chicken should – just free to roam in her farmyard world. And not in the chassis of a pickup truck.

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

 

If you were to present me with a choice of getting some extensive dental work or doing some minor plumbing home repair, I would need to get back to you after a lot of thought on which to choose.

Of all of the home repair things that can face a homeowner, plumbing is by far my least favorite of all tasks. Dealing with anything electrical would be at the top of the list, but since my wife has already made it very clear there is no need for me to ever even attempt such repairs, I don’t even have to consider that an option.

But when plumbing repairs present themselves, I can’t plead, “I might set the house on fire so we better call someone.” Such was the case recently when the toilet in our bathroom broke. It was fairly easy to detect that something was broken, because generally when you flush a toilet, you should not be holding the handle free of the tank.

Alas, that was how we found ourselves, when the handle snapped clean off. I did the sensible thing, which was to turn off the water to the toilet, place the tank lid on top of the closed seat, and tell the rest of the family, “Sorry, folks, but we no longer have a functioning toilet in our bathroom.”

Apparently this was not an acceptable decision. (Granted, I did manage to kick the can down the road for two days, which, quite frankly, I consider quite the accomplishment.)

I went to the home improvement store to pick out a new handle. To my surprise, I found out that they could be bought for a mere $2. When I returned home, I put the new handle in, connected the chain, and quickly found out why it cost a mere $2, when it immediately snapped. Chalk that up to a $2 lesson in the pitfalls of frugality.

Prior to heading back to the store, I noticed that the little plug thingee that keeps the water in the tank was looking a little ragged. Might as well fix that as well, I thought. Because when you are doing something you hate, it’s always good to double up the effort.

I went back to the store and grabbed a slightly hardier handle. When I went to get the plug thingee, I glanced at the options hanging on the wall. Some said they were for particular brands of toilet. I am like most people on the planet and have no idea what kind of toilet I have. However, I did see one choice that read, “Universal stopper. Fits all toilet brands.” Winner, winner. Or so I thought.

When I got home, I went to install the stopper. And I quickly saw that it was not fully plugging the hole in the bottom of the tank, which pretty much defeats the whole purpose. I returned to the store to exchange the item. When I went back to the Wall o’ Stoppers, I noticed that the first “universal” one I got was the two inch model whereas what I needed was the three inch version, which also marketed itself as being “universal.” Cue my inner Inigo Montoya. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

I brought the two new repair parts home and set to doing my home plumbing. First, I put the three inch universal stopper in, which I was surprised to see actually worked, because I am cursed at home improvement and I expect everything I do, in particular with regards to plumbing, to result in more problems.

I connected the handle, and then linked the chain to the handle. I cut the water back on, fully expecting a full-on geyser to erupt in my bathroom. The tank filled. I flushed. And it … worked. Just as it was supposed to. 

Perhaps I have somehow exorcised my demons of the most basic plumbing tasks that present themselves. Maybe I have finally conquered that mountain. Maybe it’s time to branch out and see what else I can do. Except anything involving electrical stuff. I feel pretty certain my wife won’t budge on that edict.

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

 

If you are thinking of a perfect Tuesday, I am guessing you do it by starting with a visit to the DMV, and then close with a visit to the dentist.

Yes, this was my recent Tuesday, when I had these two delightful events book-ending my day.

I wouldn’t have normally planned it this way. My dentist appointment had been set for many months. And my DMV visit was dictated by living in a pandemic world. I had to get a replacement for an expired plate, so I had to actually go into the DMV, for which you need to set an appointment.

In pre-pandemic times, I usually just do a do-drop-in at the DMV. I live right around the corner from one, so I zip over at various times, gauge the line, and if it’s a problem, I just come back another time. But these are not those times.

Several weeks ago, I went online to set my DMV appointment. When I went online back in early July, I saw that there was one at 4:30 on the very day I was currently living. Perfect, I thought. Then I remembered that I had a work meeting at the same time, to which I thought, imperfect. No worries, let’s see what else is open.

Nothing. Not a single opening for the rest of July. I am really curious how that one 4:30 appointment managed not to get snagged.

So I booked the soonest one I could, which was early August. 

I arrived for my 10:45 appointment with all of my paperwork in order. I approached the front door, and it was clear the DMV visit was going to be different. There were a handful of folks out front, waiting for access. There  was a woman at a desk right inside the front door. An employee standing near the store said to me, “Do you have an appointment?” I told him I did, and he directed me inside. I spoke with the woman at the desk who got me checked in and said, “OK, you can go wait outside or in your car and we will text you when it’s time to come in for your appointment.”

I went to my car and cranked it up, wondering if the folks who were all standing out in the heat maybe didn’t have air conditioning in their cars or something. I turned on some music, leaned my seat back, and set in for what I assumed would be a usual DMV-sized wait. And about 30 seconds later I got a text from the DMV telling me it was game on time.

I walked back in and the woman asked my name. “Window number 7,” she said.

That’s it? Just … walk to the window? No sitting in a crowded waiting room with my chair backed up to someone who wants to lean back and nap on me? No child who really doesn’t want to be at the DMV who is constantly reminding everyone of that? No person who wants to watch YouTube videos with the sound up and no earphones in? This is not the DMV I know.

And sure enough, I went to window 7, and I got the new plate, and I was done. And it was not even 11. Not even 15 minutes total.

I went back to my car and texted my wife. “That was unsettlingly easy.”

I know COVID has changed a lot of our lives forever. But I am still hopeful that some of these changes stick for the future, as I think they are for the better. Six feet distance from people? I’m super good with that. People washing their hands on a regular basis? Not sure why they weren’t doing this before. But I did not even start to think the COVID could make the DMV a breeze of an event. I am hopeful that appointments and hanging out in your car (or out front) stays a thing from here to eternity. It made for a super easy (and fast) interaction. It will almost put a spring in your step. And make you forget you have a dentist appointment later in the day.

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

 

For almost five decades on this planet, I did not have much success growing a beard.

Yes, I know that for everyone that first decade is a wash. For me, the next three decades also did not experience much beard growing success, despite my occasional feeble attempts.

I don’t recall a lot of beards when I was in high school, but I do recall taking my kids to high school over the years and seeing bearded folks walking into the school, and my thought was, “Why is that teacher wearing a backpack and a letter jacket?”

Maybe kids could grow beards when I was in high school. But I know I couldn’t. (Fun yet slightly related fact: There used to be a video tape of me in my freshman year in college at a fraternity party, and my voice is cracking a la Peter Brady. Thankfully, that tape was shown so many times (despite my objections) it eventually broke and died. I think that may answer some of the questions as to why I didn’t have a whole lot of facial hair experience in my first two decades.)

I tried to grow a beard a few times over the next couple of decades, with little success. Usually, I would give up after about two weeks, when it just looked like I had just not washed my face for a while.

My beard would come in scraggly and uneven, and often presented multiple colors that made it look like someone had thrown a calico cat at my face at an exceptional velocity.

On the occasions I made it past a few weeks, I usually bailed at about the six-week mark, when it became too itchy for me to bear.

A few years ago, after one of my latest failed attempts, my wife said to me that I had made some notable attempts, and it was time to just wrap it up and call it a lifetime on the beard. And that’s OK. And she was right. Then.

Because “then” was not during a pandemic. So when it all went south and we went into quarantine, I decided I would stop shaving. But to have a clear out, I put in what I thought was a handy escape clause.

I vowed not to shave until the Atlanta Braves threw their first pitch of the season. I made this vow in February, confident that the March 26 opening day would be just fine.

What fools we were early in this whole mess…

When the baseball season was postponed in mid-March. I had two choices. Give up my ruse that I was actually thinking I could grow a beard, or buckle up and see how long this thing goes.

Which is why, in late July, I finally shaved my beard. The Braves opened with the Mets in a real baseball game, and I was finally at the point where I could acknowledge that I had accomplished a beard. 

I weathered the storm of the itchiness. And I finally got there. An actual beard. Like grown ups (or high school kids) have. I got to the point where my wife on occasion said, “You know, you could trim it a bit if you want?”

So for the past few months, I have had a beard. I know new neighbors and co-workers who have never known me without a beard. The young neighbor across the street saw me one morning and stared blankly at me, having no idea who I was. Based on my kids’ and wife’s reaction when I shaved, they had gotten used to me with the bearded look. But I think it will be retired. I have proven that I can do it, and I can now revert back to my babyface shaved look that I have known most of my life. From here on out, I’ll leave the beards up to the pros. You know, current sophomores in high school.Unless there is another pandemic.

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