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Breaking down at the car wash

To me, a freshly cleaned car is a great feeling. I spent a lot of time in my car, and I love having a nicely tidied up ride. That said, I often tromp out in the woods or go to the beach and I tend to not exactly stay on the beaten bath, so my car often gets a little of nature coming with it.

Every so often, I run my car up to the car wash to give it a nice bath and then a good cleaning on the inside to purge the dirt and sand, and bag up the things I need to bring in to the house to find homes for, which often includes bones and such, because, well, my son finds a lot of those.

On my recent trip to the wash, I ran my car through, and then pulled in to vacuum it. Side note – the emergence of the car wash with vacuum at the end is one of mankind’s greatest accomplishments. Also, the removal of the spray cleaners and wipe cloths because someone kept stealing them is one of mankind’s greatest indictments.

I finished vacuuming my car (but not wiping it down, because thanks, people!). I went to start it and my car did something really weird. The dash lit up and started clicking with every single light it seemed to have. The one thing it did not do is start. I noticed one blinking light I had never seen – a blinking green key light.

I did what any mechanic of my stature would do, and Googled “Honda blinking green key light.” I quickly learned that the car no longer recognized my key fob. I clicked on the first video that was going to tell me what to do. This video was WAY longer than it needed to be, as the first four minutes of the six minute video were a guy telling me that he had the same problem and he was going to tell me how to fix it. And then telling me that watching the video would tell me how to fix it. And then reminding me that at the end I would know how to fix it. I fast forwarded a bit here and there and got to the end of the video. His solution? Put the key in the ignition, turn it and hold for five seconds, and the key fob would reset itself. 

Slight problem. I don’t have a key ignition slot thingee. I have just a fob, and my car starts when I push a button. Except, you know, this time.

I Googled a few more things, as any master mechanic like me would do. One suggestion I found was that my key fob battery might have died. That’s as plausible as anything else, I suppose. I called my son and asked him to bring my spare fob up to the car wash. About 10 minutes later, new fob in hand, same result.

I called my Honda dealership, as I had just spoken to them about an hour prior to set up a regular service appointment a few days from now. Fortunately, I got the same person on the phone I had gotten an hour earlier. “Hey, I just talked to you a bit ago about an appointment Wednesday morning. Wondering if you might be able to help me a little sooner…” She remembered me (I’m unforgettable), and transferred me to a service tech. I told him what was going on. He told me the worst case was I was going to have to get my car towed in. But he said probably my battery was just shot. “Have you tried jump starting it?” Being the expert mechanic I am, I said, “Um, no. Should I?” He said, “Yeah, I’d try that first.”

I hooked my jumper cables up to my son’s car, and, first try, it started. Whew.

There was an auto parts store right next door, so I drove my car over there, and they confirmed that, in fact, my battery was pretty darn dead. Twenty minutes later, I had a new battery, and all my fobs were magically working again. Way better deal than a tow to the dealership.

I’m happy it ended fairly easily, and I’m also glad my car is now a nice clean ride to scoot around in. Just wish I’d been able to wipe it down inside.

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.

 

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Roombas and Bitcoin

Two things happened this week that really made me feel my age, and surprisingly neither involved my back hurting.

That’s because my back always hurts now, so I can’t really count this as a new thing. It’s just a thing that happens when you start to close in on 50. It’s just part of the deal, like worrying about how my lawn looks and wondering if I should get my cholesterol checked.

No, I am referring to, as you probably guess, cryptocurrency and Roomba replacement parts.

What, that wasn’t your guess?

So first on cryptocurrency. I have to admit that I simply do not understand it, and I am OK with that. I have a neighbor who is much younger than me and is a computer programmer. He has tried his best to explain it to me, but I think it’s akin to if I were to try to explain trigonometry to my dog. No matter how much Maddux the Stoic wants to know about cosine, he’s just never going to get it.

And don’t get wrong. I’m not one of these Luddites who resists change as it sweeps upon us. I’m not sitting in my horse buggy refusing to drive a car. I’ve just decided that this thing is either going to happen or not, and if it does, it will sweep me up and I will be assimilated accordingly. It was the same thing with smartphones. I was never for or against them when the talk about iPhones came out. I just decided that when it was something I had no choice but to part of, I’d shrug and just get on board.

But I can’t wrap my head around the whole bitcoin thing. Plus, once new wave things such as this start to become a mainstream media story, I figure there is no point in my trying to get in on the game as an early win. The early win was long gone by the time I learned about it. It was similar to the GameStop craziness that happened a while back. If you are getting in on the action because you learned about it from Lester Holt on NBC Nightly News, you’re too late to the game.

And that brings us to my ridiculous excitement over receiving replacement Roomba parts. Our Roomba, named Sallie, needed a few brush replacements. Sallie had been shelved for a few weeks because she needed these parts to be her best Roomba self. (Apparently, stray fishing line on the living room floor does a number on a Roomba’s hardware.)

When the package arrived, I opened it while I was the only human in the house. I saw the replacement brushes and said, out loud,, “YAY! THE BRUSHES ARE HERE! MADDUX!!!! SALLIE!!!!!”

I am confident Maddux and Sallie were both as excited as I was.  

In installed the new brush, and set Sallie off to do her thing in the kitchen. I am pleased to report that she cleaned like a champ, and, I am pretty sure, even gave me a little wink and nod as she was cruising the floor with her new brushes.

So that’s where I am in life. Confused by technology, and excited about a replacement part for a cleaning device. I am sure 20-year-old me would have shaken his head at who I have become. But I’m OK with it. I’m just going to go with it. I will celebrate my new Roomba parts. And I will let the younger, smarter folks figure out cryptocurrency. Who knows. Maybe one day, I will be fully assimilated, and buy my next Roomba replacement parts with some bitcoin.

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.

 

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Childhood Family

Boxes checked. And the best is yet to come…

If there is a book title that accurately describes my son, it would definitely be, “Dude, seriously, what makes you think that’s a good idea?”

Ok that’s probably not an actual book. But it would sum him up pretty well, oftentimes when he is, say, stringing his hammock 40 feet in the air.

But if I were to pick an actual book title that accurately describes my son, it would be a 2017 book titled “I Love Learning; I Hate School.”

This sentiment is what made his high school graduation last week a wonderful end to a really long journey for him.

Many of you know (or know of) Parker. And often people most relate to him being outside catching critters or tromping in the mud or riding his unicycle. Before he was old enough to drive, he would unicycle through the neighborhood to one of his favorite fishing spots, his fishing pole on his shoulder. I would always remind him to make good decisions, not just because it’s the right thing to do, but also because it’s pretty easy to narrow down suspects when it’s described as a “teenager on a unicycle carrying a fishing pole.”

But it was often tough to get Parker excited to go into a building and sit still for eight hours. (Any former teachers of his reading this are no doubt nodding in agreement. Also, any former teachers of mine reading this are probably thinking, “Gee, I wonder who he gets that from…”)

He yearned to be outside and he longed for nature. Now, before you say, “Well, tough. We all have to do it. Suck it up.” I agree, somewhat. That is the deal. We all have to do it. (Now, whether we should all do it the way it’s always been done is a debate for another day.)

And that is why he walked across the stage last Friday night and accepted his diploma. He checked the boxes. And he did so with a lot of help along the way, from some amazing villagers who all helped raise a pretty cool kid.

I am thankful for that elementary school teacher who understood that Parker just didn’t care about chapter books, but she still wanted him to read. So she let him do his book reports on field guides he was reading. She said it was the first time she’s gotten book reports on a salamander field guide followed by a mushroom field guide.

I am thankful for the middle school teacher who, during parent orientation, held up his cell phone. He said, “Parents, whether you like it or not, your kids have access to all of the world’s information. If you want your kids to memorize exact dates, you’ll have to do that at home. I’m not going to teach them when Gettysburg. I’m going to teach them why Gettysburg.”

I am thankful for the high school teachers who “got him” and realized Parker was a really sharp kid who was doing some really cool things, but maybe needed a tweaked approach in some of the ways he learned.

I am thankful for our many naturalist friends who have seen Parker grow up in the woods and in the swamp and on the water, and who have provided guidance, knowledge, and a healthy dose of humor to keep his ego in check.

I am thankful for wonderful friends who have been a safety net/cheering section all through the years.

And of course, I am thankful for a large, loud, wonderful family who definitely gets that Parker is a bird of a different feather, and how they have been there all along the journey encouraging him to fly.

A lot of people have asked us what Parker is doing post-high school. The answer: We’re going to figure it out. He’s taking a gap year and is first doing an internship tracking rare reptiles and amphibians in a nearby national forest, which is pretty on brand.

After that? We’ll figure it out. The idea of the traditional college life is not something that is appealing to him. He is far more interested in tegus than togas, of finding a Farancia, not a fraternity. (A little one-two herpetological humor punch for you there. If you didn’t get it, fortunately, you have your cell phone, and thus access to all of the world’s information.)

But wherever this next journey takes him, I know it will travel through marshes and deserts and rivers and swamps and mountains, with a lot of cool critters along the way. And lots and lots of learning. Because, man, that kid loves learning…

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.

 

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Family Home improvement

Rake rake

My wife and I have always had two levels of cleaning. I clean. She clean cleans.

I do what I would, I guess, is what the base level of cleaning most people do. Meaning I put up dishes, sweep the floors, maybe mop, etc. This is just the starting round for her. She has to go to clean clean level. That includes such things as scrubbing baseboards, which is something my wife is very big on. She loves some clean baseboards.

Fun fact: If you asked me what my baseboards look like, I might very well answer, “What are baseboards?”

So we have a good system in place. I do the general cleaning in the house, and every now and again, my wife comes in to clean clean. Which means getting on her hands and knees and scrubbing things that I have never in my life paid attention to. But it’s important to her, so go do your thing!

And so the other day we discovered that we can take our clean vs. clean clean differences outdoors. We found that I like to rake, and she likes to rake rake.

We were working in our backyard, trying to clean out under some bushes that had accumulated a rather impressive collection of oak leaves. Admittedly, these had not gotten our utmost attention over the years, so we had a good bit of catching up to do.

We raked leaves into piles, and I began the job of bagging them. If you live in a place where you can load all your leaves on a tarp and just drag them to the side of the road where they will be magically sucked up via giant city-owned leaf vacuum, thank your lucky stars. We have to bag ours in these big, brown yard bags that always weigh more than you think they will once you will them. One upside – “The Leaf and Lawn Chute,” which was created by a modern-day Prometheus. You put it in the bag, and it makes it so much easier to put leaves in the bags. Why The Leaf and Lawn Chute creator hasn’t won a Nobel Prize of some sort (Nobel Prize for Lawn Care?) is beyond me.

We kept raking and bagging, and dragging each bag to the street. But every time I would return from dragging one bag off to the road, my wife would have a new pile, right where I had just scooped up all of the leaves. Finally, I said, “You know, you don’t have to get ALL the leaves, right?”

Her look told me that we would, in fact, be getting ALL the leaves.

I kept hauling bags, and she kept finding new leaves, despite the fact that, so far as I was concerned, any leaves left were merely survivors who earned their place in my yard. Turns out, leaves in our backyard do not, in fact, get rewarded for sticktoiveness.

I eventually hauled all of the bags to the street, and I have to say, it looks really nice. I don’t know how many bags I actually took out to the street. (Side note: Yeah, I do. It was 19.) But at the end of the day, I am glad we accomplished the task to her level of rake raking, rather than just my usual level of raking. However, I am not sure I can bring this enthusiasm inside, at least for team projects. I am all for working together, but there are some times where I will have to let her fly solo. Such as when it comes to baseboards, which may or may not actually exist in my house.

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.

 

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Kitchen warrior

I am not normally one to suffer kitchen injuries.

Now, for those of you are not regular cooks, you may be asking yourself, “And what exactly is a kitchen injury?” Well, just google “Avocado injury” and you will see that the kitchen is a minefield that has to be navigated carefully.

I am a big fan of avocados, and I have never suffered the avocado injury that many have. Thus, clearly I am a pro.

The main kitchen injury I have endured over the years is when I am doing a skillet dish in which you sear your meat of choice on the stovetop, and then bake it in the oven. After about 20 minutes, you bring the skillet out of the oven. And I have on occasion, after having brought the skillet from the oven, grabbed the still-hot skillet by the handle. Fun fact – When you pull a metal skillet out of a 400-degree oven, the handle stays kinda hot for a while.

But for the most part I have remained unscathed. Until the other night. I was preparing some squash, zucchini and radishes for pickling, as my wife and I have gotten into pickling most anything we can find and keeping them in jars in the fridge for tasty snacks.

When we first started pickling things, we did some onions and cucumbers. After the first batch, we decided that we had cut the cucumbers too thick. Easy solution to that, we thought: We’ll use our mandolin slicer and get some super thin pieces that would be just delectable treats.

So I sliced up the latest batch of veggies and put them in their pickling jars. Success! Only thing now was for clean up. 

Now I normally take on clean-up in the kitchen, as that’s kind of my zen time. Put on a movie, put on some music, put on some game show I like and just kinda robotically clean. 

We were getting ready to head to a neighbors’ house for a cookout, and I told my wife to head on over to their house, and I would clean everything up and be there shortly.

She was just about out the door when I called out to her, “Hey, Jenn, can you come back? I think I cut my finger off…”

If there is one thing I know about my wife, she is Usain Bolt-fast when it comes to things such as this. In no time, she was in the kitchen. She said, “How bad is it!?!?!?”  I assured her that I had not, in fact, cut my finger off, but that I had dropped the mandolin while I was cleaning it and it had fallen and taken off some of my pinky. She asked me how much. I held up a paper towel wrapped hand. I said, “I’m not sure but…” She looked around at the spray of blood that was all around the kitchen and said, “Lemme see it. You may need stitches.”

At this point, we were at an inflection point. Yes, I may have cut the end of my finger off. But we were also heading over to a cookout in which a neighbor was cooking fresh fish that was caught earlier in the day. Decisions had to be made. “Never mind,” I said. “I’m fine.” I do love fresh fish.

But she was having none of it. She made me take the paper towels off. It … wasn’t pretty. She said, “You need to go to the doctor.” I said, “Fish.” Not the best rebuttal.

I assured her that the wound, while gross and really bleeding, was one that a repair would merely be cosmetic. I’d be fine. She went into nurse mode and bandaged me up with dressing that a field medic would have been proud of. The next day, we assessed the damage. It’s not pretty, but it seems to be healing fine now. Yeah, I probably could have gone for a few stitches. But I would have missed the fresh fish. 

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.

 

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Congraduations!

I’ve often seen people post things on social media when their child reaches a milestone, and they state that they can’t believe it’s happened. And while I understand that it can be surreal to see your kid get a driver’s license or graduate high school and head off to college, my wife and I have always taken a bit of a different approach.

This milestone was the best option we could arrive at, hands down.

I get that parents lament the passing of their children’s youth. But we have always maintained two pretty steady beliefs when it comes to parenting: (1) We are trying to prepare our kids for the next step in life and (2) Time only goes one way.

So when our kids reach milestones, rather than lament the passing of time, I look at it more like, “Hooray! I helped get a human across the finish line of a particular life goal!”

And such is my feeling with our daughter, Allie, graduating from college. On Saturday, she walked the stage in Columbia and turned the tassel, becoming an official graduate of the University of South Carolina.

I’ve been to Williams-Brice Stadium a few times over the years, but I have to say this is the first time I have been and not enjoyed a few beers and some wings prior to entering the stadium. Her ceremony was at 9:30 a.m., so that probably would have been a bad idea for myriad reasons.

When her name was announced and she crossed the stage, we had an immense sense of pride and happiness. But not a moment of sadness.

I do not look at this like, “Where has the time gone!?!?!” But rather, “Wow, another finish line crossed. We are CRUSHING this parenting thing! Or at least staying enough out of their way where they can succeed on their own.”

But she is the one who deserves all the credit. Obviously. I didn’t attend any of her classes. I didn’t endure a year of remote learning thanks to a pandemic. The main impact I had on her in college was to suggest that, during parents’ weekend – which happened to be the Bama-USC game – she NOT wear a Bama shirt to the game, where she sat in the USC student section. She’s a Gamecock through and through, but it’s tough to take Bama out of your football spirit when you’re born into the family.

We are very proud of her, obviously. She graduated in three years, with a degree in psychology, and will be attending graduate school at The Citadel in the fall. She wants to be a school psychologist, which I think is about as noble of a calling as you can get. I have always told my kids that they should pursue what they love, and if they don’t find it right away, not to worry about it. It will present itself. I also told my kids – both lefties – that if either could muster up a 95 mph slider, I would highly recommend they pursue a love of a middle reliever’s contract in the majors. Alas, neither of my kids were blessed with lightning bolts for left arms. So school it is!

The next three years of grad school will be a fun and challenging time for her. I am glad she will be near us, so we can see her on a regular basis. And I feel certain that when she gets that graduate degree, she will go and find a job where she makes a difference in a lot of young people’s lives. It’s pretty clear that was what she was destined to do. That said, if her slider does develop in the next few years, I’m going to suggest she keep that option open.

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.

 

Categories
Childhood Family

St. Parker’s Day

Eighteen years ago, I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my second child, and only son. Our daughter was two years old at the time, and Patrick Whitfield Gibbons was on his way to complete the family. And then, mid-delivery, my wife made an executive decision.

She was in the middle of a C-section, as family members awaited Patrick’s arrival. And then it occurred to her that it was March 17. St. Patrick’s Day. And she wanted none of that.

The doctor told us Patrick was about to be born. “PARKER!” she exclaimed. “HIS NAME IS PARKER NOW!” 

The doctor told us she didn’t have to make that decision right now. “PARKER!” she said, with a really aggressive tone. Never mind that she was in a surgery having a small human cut out of her.

“Yeah, let’s go with Parker,” I said. The doctor and all of the nurses agreed this was not a woman to argue with.

We have been blessed to have one of the most spirited, fun, energetic and adventurous kids in our lives from day one. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that my immediate family is all adults now. I guess that’s equally hard when you spend time around us and realize that there’s really only one person who acts like an actual adult most of the time. (Spoiler alert: Yeah, it’s my wife.)

As a baby, Parker was one of the most easy going critters you could have around. He mostly slept. When he started walking, he mostly ran into things. Constantly. He ran 90 mph through life. One time, we heard him wailing in the den. When we rushed in, we found him standing there, blood streaming down his face. When we asked him what happened, he said, “ I don’t know. I was just playing and then I guess I hit my face?” We took him to the doctor to get what would be the first of many trips for stitches or glue on various cuts. He once even got stitches from a tape measure cut. Because why not?

We moved to Charleston when Parker was heading into sixth grade. Admittedly, he was not thrilled about it. He was leaving the only home he ever knew, as well as his close proximity to lots of extended family. While the move was a tough adjustment, he quickly found that living on the coast provided him an opportunity to let blossom a love of fishing. 

Parker has always been a unique individual, and that is something we have celebrated. He found early on in life that he marched to the beat of a different drummer, and that drummer played a pretty cool beat.

He rides a unicycle. He walks on stilts. He juggles. He does magic tricks. And he loves nature. Boy, does he love nature. If you gave Parker the option of a day playing video games or a day tromping in the swamp, the swamp wins 100 percent of the time.

Parker is a rare spirit, one that I humbly suggest this world needs. He’s a spitfire who can challenge you at one turn, but then surprise you with his warmth and compassion. He wears his heart on his sleeve, which I can relate to, as I do too. He is fiercely loyal to his family. Even his big sister. They may bicker and argue and get in squabbles on family trips (yes, even to this day), but if it came down to defending her, I am fairly certain he lives by the mantra, “You can’t talk to my sister that way. Only I can talk to my sister that way.”

I’m really trying hard to grasp my brain around the fact that our son is now 18. I’m incredibly proud of him, I’m excited for the future, and I can’t wait to see what’s next. And I’m really glad my wife made that executive decision. It just feels right.

Happy St. Parker’s 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.

 

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‘Push debit or credit button to pay’

There I was, sitting in my car and the thought came to me, “What if they just never let me leave the parking garage?”

I came to this life changing question when I was trying to leave a parking garage recently, attempting to pay the whopping $1 fee I had accrued. I pulled my car up to the kiosk just before the arm that blocked the exit.

It told me to insert my ticket. I did. A computery voice said, “Push debit or credit button to pay.”

I scanned over the unit. There were five buttons – three silver ones that had no markings, one marked “Cancel” and one marked “Call for help.”

I pushed the first silver button.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

I pushed the second silver button.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

I pushed the third silver button.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

I looked over the machine again. Maybe I was missing a button? Nothing. I decided to insert my card into the card reader and see if that maybe triggered something to start working.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

Ok, time for help, I guess.

I pushed the button. A moment later, a voice came over the speaker. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m trying to leave the parking garage, and it keeps saying to push the debit or credit button to pay, but there is no such button.”

“Did you insert your card?”

“Yes, and it told me to push the debit or credit button.”

“Did you push the button?”

“There IS NO button.”

“Pull out your card and try again and it should work,” the voice said, and it disconnected.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

Sigh. This is now my home, I guess.

I pushed help again. As I waited for the speaker to engage, I noticed a car pull up behind me. This was a single lane exit, so I was blocking the only egress. I leaned out the window and shrugged, pointing at the machine to convey the international sign for “Not my fault but technology’s fault.”

I pushed the help button again.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, it still won’t let me out. It just keeps saying ‘Push debit or credit button to pay.’ And there is no such button.”

At that point, an ally  emerged. I heard a voice from outside my window. “Sir, hang on a second. I’m coming.” I looked up and saw a man wearing a reflective vest approaching my car. I explained the situation to him. He said, “Are you sure the card is good?” I replied, “I am. It’s also a dollar to get out. Can I just give you a dollar in change I have in my car door?”

No time for direct change-based transactions. He pushed the help button. 

The voice came back on, and he said, “We have a customer here who cannot get the machine to work, and it’s asking him to push a button that, well, isn’t here.” Vindication.

The speaker and the vest guy had a few back and forths, and then it was decided I needed to back up and try again. He directed the car behind me to back up, and then I backed up, and then approached the machine again. I inserted my ticket.

“Push debit or credit button to pay.”

The speaker crackled. “Hold for a moment. I’ll let him out as a courtesy.”

A few moments later, and the arm lifted. The vest guy told me to go on, and apologized for the issue. Just a hunch that the guy in the car behind me was going to have a similar issue.

But at least I am free of my parking garage prison, and do not have to spend my remaining days, wandering the decks of the garage, contemplating my existence, wondering what went wrong, and quietly mumbling under my breath, “Push debit or credit button to pay.”

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.

 

Categories
Home improvement

Feeling trashy

I froze in my tracks when I saw it. There it was. Perfection that eluded us for so long. I pulled out my phone and took two quick pictures and sent them to my wife. I knew – I just knew! – she would be just as excited as I was about this kitchen trash can on sale at the store.

Perhaps it’s our age. Perhaps it’s a pandemic. Perhaps it’s a combination of things. But we have been on a quest for a new kitchen trash can for a while.

I know what you’re thinking – Mike, why not just go and buy a trash can? Might I remind you it took us about six months to find the perfect bowls (bigger than soup, but smaller than chili, but perfect for, say, Buddha bowls. We both know what we want, and we will definitely not settle.

Also, I’m not saying we are cheap, but I am saying we are not spendthrifts. We don’t buy a lot of things. It’s not our style. We are currently looking at getting a new TV, and I am guessing we will be pulling the trigger on that some time well post-pandemic.

But back to the trash can. The reason we needed a new one is the current one we have was designed by someone who hates us. I do not remember the origins of this trash cans, but I believe it may be when we moved into the house a few years ago, and I made some purchases without supervision. The, I believe, is the last that needed to be corrected. (Previous correction: The horrible microwave that most college dorms would have been ashamed to even have.)

The biggest problem with this trash can is the lid. It is one of those swinging tops you push, revealing the trash can. But for some inexplicable reason, the one has a little indentation right at the lip, about half an inch deep and two inches wide. Dumping out coffee grounds? Why not deposit some in that groove. Scraping our plate after dinner? Maybe some leftover potatoes can fall in there. Emptying the vacuum? Yay, for a little collection of dust and dirt!

But search as we did, we just couldn’t find the right trash can. And we certainly were not about to pay $200 for one. And if any of you have a $200 trash can, I’m not judging you. I don’t get to spend your money. That’s solely your call. But I do get to spend our money, and oooooh, boy. I would not want to see the look on her face if I bought that. Messing up and buying a $29 microwave is one thing.

This trash can was well within the price range we had set, and there were probably a dozen left. My wife did not immediately respond to the text, and anyone who knows me knows how good I am at being patient. (Hint: Bad.)

I got the items I needed and headed home. When I got there, I asked my wife if she had seen the pictures. She had just seen them, and said, “What are the dimensions?” I said, “It was … trash can … size?” 

Because my wife is good like this, she said. “Our current one is 10 and a half inches by 17 inches. I’d like to get the same size, so if it is, let’s get it.”

I didn’t head back to the store until the next day, but I am glad I did, as there was but one trash can left. It was a miracle. 

OK, maybe that’s a little strong of a statement. But it sounds better that “it was supply and demand and retail economics and product placement marketing doing what it does.”

So far so good, on the new trash can, which even has a fancy sensor you can wave your hand over it to open. (A feature, I noticed, is NOT on the $200 model. So there.)

Now that we have this purchase over, I guess we focus on the television. And the most important part, if my calculations are correct, the moment that bad boy arrives is the moment we know the pandemic is done!

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.

 

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Playing with fire(logs)

I love it when you get your eyes opened to a world you hardly knew existed. I think back to when I was a kid and we first got cable, and exploring this amazing world of expanded channel choices. I think of the early days of the Internet, when it was still in the kinda fun phase. You know, before it became as shouty as it is today.

And I now am learning about the expanding world of fire logs.

My family loves a good fire, and pretty much any time it dips below 60, I’m game for one. And I usually prime it by using a firelog, one of those compact, sawdusty things that usually advertise 3-4 hours of burn time.

I usually buy a box of the Duraflame logs at my nearby grocery store, figuring the standard issue ones in the big yellow box was all I needed.

And then my eyes were opened. My wife and I were shopping at the store after a recent cold spell. Lows were pushing near freezing at night, which represents a fairly deep dive into winter here, so folks with fireplaces all go into action.

We were out of firelogs, so we went to the aisle where they live to get some more. Alas, no big yellow boxes. Not even single logs available. Then I looked on a lower shelf, and there it was – something called a Java Log. It said on the box it was “recycled coffee grounds firelog.” Color me intrigued.

We brought the logs home, and when it was time for a fire, I pulled out one of the logs. A slight coffee aroma wafted into the air. Delightful. 

When I lit the fire, the smell of coffee continued. It was nothing overbearing. Just as if a fresh pot of coffee had just been brewed.

And that’s when my world exploded. I mentioned the logs on social media, and people began sharing tales of KFC firelogs, which I found out is a real thing, and boasts of an aroma of “fried chicken-scented 11 Herbs & Spices.” I’m listening, KFC.

At that point, I knew there was more to learn. I went to the computer and looked up “scented fire log.” That’s when I learned of Yankee Candle’s scented logs. I learned of cinnamon-scented logs. I learned of the Irish peat-scented one, although admittedly, having never been to Ireland much less an Irish peat bog, I would not know what to expect. And, of course, I learned there is a bacon-scented log.

I may very well experiment with many of these different types of smells, although I have to say, KFC, your fire log appears to be a little too rich for my blood.

More than likely, I will revert back to mainly using the good old trusted standard issue firelogs. After all, I mainly use my television to watch Jeopardy! on network TV every night, despite the breadth of programming available. I mainly use the Internet to type word files and send emails, despite the breadth of shouty places.

But it’s nice to know the bigger world exists. And who knows – maybe one day, I will have an urge for a cinnamon fire. And I am sure we will be having plenty of fires, as I just checked the forecast, and with temps well into the 50s, it’s clear that the harsh days of winter are upon us.

 

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.