Author: Mike Gibbons

We may be late to the party, but we have finally joined the Instant Pot club.

I know that plenty of folks are waaaay ahead of us on this front. But we were … busy … or something.

For those of you non familiar with Instant Pot, it’s a brand of pressure cooker. There may be others, but that’s the only one I can tell you off the top of my head. Also, I used to think it was called Insta Pot, but I guess I was shortening it because that’s what we cool kids do.

My wife was very excited about the Instant Pot, as she is one of these people who loves to prep meals in advance and also loves a good soup. The Instant Pot, she told me, would be a game changer on both fronts.

Now I do my fair share of cooking, and I feel like I know my way around a kitchen pretty well. So you can imagine my bewilderment when I unboxed the Instant Pot and had the realization that, hey, I have no idea how to use this thing.

Now, lest you think I’m that old cliche of men not reading directions, I’m not. I’m very good at following directions, in particular when installing things or assembling stuff. But when it comes to directions on operating things, I will admit to getting enough information to get rolling, and maybe not following all the way through. Fortunately, my wife is.

She took the time to read the directions, and then patiently explained to me how things worked. (Her time as a pre-K teacher really paid off.) Soon, we had the ingredients for our first meal – a chicken pot pie soup (https://tinyurl.com/t453cbu) – in the cooker.

“So we push the button and it’s ready in an instant?”

My wife sighed. OK, so maybe listening isn’t always my strongest trait. Turns out, the Instant in Instant Pot does not refer to a magical space age zap button that Instantly makes dinner. “I mean, it says Instant right there in the name.”

She ignored me, pushed a few buttons, and I saw a timer start. I noted that 30 minutes is NOT instant.

When the soup was ready, I have to say, even if it was instant, it was one of the best soups I have ever had. I even had second, which I very rarely do at dinner.

We have now used the Instant Pot about a half dozen times, and each time it was a home run. (Just last night we had a chicken soup (https://tinyurl.com/w5h8qoe) that was delish.) Last night’s soup was a prime example of hour you can do the prep work ahead of time and just dump it all in together when you’re ready. We added the chicken straight up frozen, and it came out perfect. So I guess maybe the Instant refers to that. If you do enough legwork, “You can get dinner started in an Instant.” (Instant Pot, please message me for PayPal information for this amazing slogan. You’re welcome, and I don’t even need to Google this to know that no one else could have possibly come up with the same thing.)

My wife and I have enjoyed finding various recipes and bookmarking them to try later. And I am finding that it’s one of the rare times I don’t hate having a giant essay before the recipe, as it helps me learn the Instant Pot process. (Pro tip – Google Chrome’s recipe filter sniffs out those essays and brings the recipe to the top. Good changer.)

Most likely, we will look at finding some Sundays to prep a few meals and store them so they can wait until they are called into duty. We will get dinner started in an Instant. Or an Insta, as the cool kids say.

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.

Those of you who have read my column for a while know that one of my recurring themes is my loathing of rogue shopping carts left in parking lots.

And I appreciate all that you have done to help stem the tide of this menace. And while the battle against non-returned shopping carts is not yet won, it is clear we have the high ground. We are legion, and we are going to eventually get every used shopping cart to its proper home.

I am proud of everyone who has enlisted in the cart army, and your work is valiant.

So now, I ask you, noble cart warriors and other defenders of things that make the world kind of a bit more decent: It’s time to turn our focus to another menace.

We’ve got to take on dog poop. And I’m not talking about cleaning up when you’re walking your dog. I think the vast majority of folks are in full agreement about carrying bags with you and taking care of your dog’s business. Yes, there are a few people who do not clean up after their dogs, but you already know they don’t return their carts. So let’s focus on the real problem: Bag droppers.

I have noticed of late that there are a lot of people who walk their dogs, dutifully bag up their mess and then, rather than taking said bags to a proper disposal station, just … drop them.

I have a trail I like to hike on a regular basis. On my last hike, I picked up five bags that were left along the trail. Now, you may think, “Hey, Mike, perhaps these folks had just dropped these bags and were going to pick them up on their way back.” Two problems with that:

The trail I hike is a loop. They weren’t coming back this way.
I saw a social media post recently that showed where folks walking over a particular bridge over a train track had been pitching these bags off the edge, leaving a big pile of poop bags piled up. And those folks certainly aren’t circling back on that trail to pick up the bags. Also, in the picture, it shows several different kinds of bags disposed, which tells me this isn’t just a lone poop pitcher.

Now, unlike grocery carts, this is not the thing we can easily start fighting just through our actions. If someone leaves a cart, it’s easy to go and snag the cart and send the very clear message that you are making the world a better place. The dog bags are dropped surreptitiously. We never see it happen. We just have to pick it up or leave it. And struggle with the very real inner thought of, “Why did you even bother bagging it? At least if you didn’t bag it the poop would go away eventually.”

So what do we do? Simple. We stay nice. We pick up the bags. And as we pass our fellow travelers, we hold up the bags and say things like, “Crazy that folks don’t pick up their bags!?!?!?” If someone were to say that to me, my response would be, “I know, right!?!?!” Granted, I’d also probably be carrying a fistful of bags in my hand.

But if you were to say it to someone who drops their bags, maybe they would get the picture and stop doing it. And if you are someone who does drop your bags, I’d love to hear from you. E-mail me and tell me why it’s a good call or what I’m missing. I’d love to hear your explanation. I’ve done the same challenge to cart abandoners, and I have gotten a total of two responses over the years: (1) “It’s not my job.” (Vounteer: True, but it’s also not your job to have my car hit by your rogue cart in a parking lot and (2) “It IS my job to gather carts, and I really like when I can leave the store and spend forever chasing carts down and listening to music and not have to bag groceries.” (Counter: I don’t have a lot for that one).

So in closing, let’s put our energies to spreading the word through actions: Pick up your dog waste. And dispose of it properly. It’s as easy as returning a grocery cart.

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.

I need jeans. And I’m not looking forward to this journey.

I have one pair of jeans I normally wear – one trusty pair, and they have served their time. I actually have a second pair of jeans, but they are the rattiest things you have ever seen, and are reserved for yard work and such.

But my usual jeans are my go-to when the weather is cold. I usually wear a coat and tie to work, but the moment I get home, I change into my casual clothes. When it’s warm, I go for shorts, a t-shirt and sandals. But we occasionally get cool temps here, so I have to have my jeans at the ready. The moment I get home, I slide into comfort and enjoy a nice cozy evening.

Alas, their time in service is coming to a close. Oftentimes, jeans start to get threadbare and begin a slow march to disintegration. But this was not the case.

My jeans are still of hardy stock in most areas. But one weakness has presented itself, and I am afraid it is a fatal flaw.

I noticed it the other day at the grocery store. As I was shopping, I went to glance at my list while standing in the produce aisle. I try and make a list and stick to it religiously. Otherwise, I will go to the store for milk and bread, and come up with a trunkload of groceries because, hey, we should make a cake!

As I unfolded my list, the paper tumbled out of my hands and onto the ground. I bent over to pick up the list, and heard the so unpleasant sound of the back of my pants splitting open. 

I did the natural reaction, which was to put my back to the wall (actually, more accurately to the broccoli bin) and assess the damage.

I reached back and felt a tear at the left pocket. It was about five to six inches long. I was wearing a T-shirt, and it mostly covered the tear.

But just mostly. I decided to bail on the shopping trip and get home post haste.

Once I was home, I proceeded to survey the damage more closely. This was not good. Not something I could just stitch up and be good as new. This was a fatal tear, and appeared to be one that would continue to grow with each wear. I began to envision myself wearing not jeans, but flowing ribbons of denim trailing behind me. It was not a pretty vision.

So I begin on a quest for new jeans. I have had these jeans for years, as is probably reflected in their fashion. But I don’t particularly care about fashion in my lounging about clothes. If I’m comfy, I’m good.

I will begin the journey by stopping at various clothing places and trying on umnpteen pairs of jeans, each having just a hint of something that annoys me. And then I will loudly announce the price of the jeans in an outraged shock, to which my wife will say, “Yeah, those are $20 and that is super cheap for jeans.”

I will keep shopping until I find the perfect pair, the ones that fall into place just like my old ones did. I know that may be an elusive find. But I will keep plugging away, until I find the new jeans. Or at least until it’s warm enough I can switch back to shorts in the evening.

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.

 

I received an email the other day from a company I have a subscription with. The subject line was “Payment Declined.”

Like many of our bills, this one is on autopay, so it just gets processed each month. The subject line told me fairly clearly that this one did not get processed.

I opened the email. It read, “The card you recently tried to use to pay for your  subscription is not valid. Happens to the best of us.”

My first reaction: The “Happens to the best of us” is a nice touch not to make folks feel bad. My second reaction: Whoa, wait a minute. My bank card is tied to that account.

I grabbed my wallet and checked my card to see that it was still valid. Good through 2023.

My next step was to call my wife, as she is the financial brains in our household. She handles all the bills and does the taxes and all that other stuff regarding money in our house. It’s really a tradeoff. She tends to the important financial things, and I walk the dog each night. We both really do our part to keep the house afloat.

I asked my wife if she knew what was up. She told me she did not, and did offer a rather smart suggestion. She said I should probably go try and use my card somewhere to see if there was a problem, in particular because this was a Friday afternoon and if it was a problem, I’d be without any way to pay for things for the weekend.

I went to a gas station. I didn’t need gas, so I went inside and grabbed a few items. I took them to the counter, and the clerk rung up my purchase. I swiped my card. Card declined

“Can you run it again, please?” I asked.

The clerk looked at me kinda sadly. “Oh, sure thing. I’ll run it again.” Card declined. Great. 

I decided to head to my bank. It was about 20 minutes away, so I figured I would call the toll free number for my bank to see if I could reach a customer service person before I got to the bank. After a few minutes of arguing with the automated menu (“I DON’T KNOW MY ACCOUNT!!! OPERATOR!!!!”) I was on the phone with a live person.

I told him that my card had been declined at a couple of places and I didn’t know why. He said, “Oh, your account was part of a mass data breach and your card was suspended. A new card should have been sent to you.” Ok, first off, mass data breach? Great. Second, well it apparently never made it to me.

I told him that I was near a local bank and asked him if I could get a temporary card so I could, you know, buy groceries and the like. Indeed I could.

I pulled in about an hour before the bank closed for the weekend. I explained what was going on. The bank teller asked, “Did you get a notification?” Yes, I told her. From a subscription service and the gas station. Other than that, no.

In short order, I had a temporary card, and a new card is on its way. I wasn’t given any information on what exactly the “mass data breach” was, and my guess is I will never find out. It’s kind of unsettling that most of our money isn’t actual money, but just a bunch of digital footprints. I’m considering going old school and just keeping my money in coffee cans I bury in my backyard. I hope my online subscriptions can figure out how to come find it each month.

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.

 

Things I will never truly understand:

1. How film cameras work.
2. Why the other people in my house can’t put shoes back where they belong.
3. Why people don’t merge when the gigantor digital sign spanning the interstate very clear says, “Left lane closed ahead ½ mile. Merge right.”

The first one is one I could probably watch a few YouTubes and get a better understanding, but I prefer to keep that a sorcerer’s secret. The second I’ve just resigned myself to, and will just keep randomly finding one shoe in a bathroom and its mate in the kitchen.

But the third one is truly a modern curiosity of human behavior. I most recently studied this behavior on my way home. There is a bridge near where I live that has been under repair for a while. Part of the bridge was shut down in 2018 for repairs, after discovering “extensive corrosion and degradation.” And I completely understand that traffic has to sometimes be slowed a bit for repairs and stuff, especially when the diagnosis makes it sounds like, you know, the bridge is about to collapse into the river below it.

The bridge reopened a short time after the closing. But ever since that closing, bridge work has been done off and on. Usually, the work is done on weekends, closing just a lane, to minimize impact. This decision was made to do it on weekends because I take that bridge to and from work every day, and they did not want to further inconvenience me. I assume.

I got to experience the weekend construction when I was heading home on a recent Sunday from an out-of-town trip. I had left on Saturday and saw the lane closure and the traffic clogged up on my way out. I said to myself, “I should make a mental note of that and not come back this way.” I then immediately purged that from my brain to maintain ample room in there for movie quotes and sports trivia, thus completely forgetting to take an alternative route on my return.

As I headed down the interstate, I saw the first sign pop up, informing me of the impending left lane closure and to merge to the right. My first reaction was to spend 8-10 seconds berating myself for not remembering to take a different route. (Fun fact: I have a dashcam in my car, and I am really split on whether or not I want to hear what it sounds like when Mike berates Mike on his poor route choices.)

After the berating, I dutifully got in the right lane, as the sign instructed. Half mile to the lane closure.

Some cars were still zooming past me in the left lane, but that was our first sign, so plenty of time for everyone to get in line.

Nope.

By the time the right lane was at a standstill, the left lane kept a buzzing. We inched toward another sign that told us of the lane closure again. I wish it had said, “Get in the right lane. We all have to wait in this stuff. Wait your turn, too.”

Every now and then, as I sat on the interstate waiting for cars to move, I would see a car whip out into the left lane and start darting up, passing the stopped cars. Clearly, those cars contained people far more important than the rest of us peasants. Also, side note: If you are driving a car with your business slapped on the side, I’m gonna go ahead and recommend you don’t drive like that.

A few cars were continuing to pull out when we were a mere 100 yards or so from the lane closure. I was really hoping all the cars in front of me would maintained bumper solidarity and not allow anyone who broke ranks that late in the game to merge. I am all for being kind and letting your fellow drivers merge. I am not for rewarding people who are straight up cutting in line. Imagine if you were in the queue line at Wendy’s and someone a few spots behind you just steps to the front and tries to ease in front of you.

So people, I ask you – please. For the sake of my sanity. When the signs says merge, just go ahead and merge. We are all going to have to sit in a line.You’re not less deserving of a wait than the rest of us. Just get in line. In fact, without the logjam at the lane closure, it will probably speed up everyone’s wait. It’s really a win-win. We can all get home sooner to take care of important tasks. Such as finding where the matching shoe to the one on the living room couch is.

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.

You have two choices in life. You can be Allie, or you can be let’s call her Sally.

This Allie is not my daughter Allie, although being her can also have benefits, such as spontaneously bursting into song or finding joy in the littlest things in life, such as texting me excitedly about seeing the latest Wonder Woman trailer.

The Allie I am referring to is a clerk at a local book store. The Sally I am referring to is a clerk at a different store.

My wife and I went Christmas shopping the other day. It was exceptionally busy at the shopping center we went to. Side note: I am really not sure why parking becomes extra difficult for some folks during the holidays. I am resigned that many folks are plenty cool with being just abysmal at everyday parking. But when the parking lots are extra full – come on! Just step up your game a smidge and try and not take up two spots.

Anywho, my wife and I had been shopping for a while at a very busy place. We found it actually kind of fun to be in the hubbub and decided we would just go with the flow and let patience be our superpower.

When we went to check out, we had a fairly decent line in front of us. Rather than lament the wait, we decided that we would celebrate that others were shopping for holiday gifts for their loved ones, and we were all in this big ol’ seasonal traffic jam together. 

When we finally got to the checkout, we were greeted by Allie. She welcomed us with as cheerful of a welcome as you could ask for. My wife said, “Our daughter’s name is Allie!”  Allie responded delightfully as she expeditiously checked us out. Our daughter had just gotten her hair done, and had sent us a picture of her new ‘do. My wife pulled a picture up and turned her phone to book store Allie. “That looks just like me!” book store Allie said. Indeed, it did. They were dopplegangers.

We continued to chat as we checked out, but Allie never got behind or slowed down. She was cruising along, but all the while with a great, big smile and happy banter. As we were leaving, my wife and I both said that it was a delight to have someone like Allie tend to you at a retail store. She was pleasant, funny and efficient.

And then we went to another store. We found what we needed, and as we checked out, I can tell you the exact number of words spoken to us by Sally: Two. Those words were a monotone “Thank you” as she handed me my receipt without eye contact. 

That’s it. Nothing before. No, “Hi.” No, “Find everything you need?” Not even a throwaway comment about the weather. Just robotic indifference.

Now, I have no idea what kind of day Sally was having. I have no idea what is going on in Sally’s life. But I do know that Sally was not forced to work retail at Christmas time. She chose this. And she can choose how she will take on the challenge of being at the register during Christmas season.

I write this not to beat up on Sally. Rather, I share this to salute the Allies of the world. To those of you working retail any time, but certainly during Christmas, when you channel kindness and joy, know that it is appreciated. If you encounter a Sally during the final weekend of Christmas shopping, I encourage you to power on and not worry about it. But if you encounter an Allie, I encourage you to snag a manager and tell them you appreciate her. 

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 had never been hunting in my life until last weekend.

I have nothing against hunting. I know plenty of folks who do it, and I have often enjoyed what they have brought back. It’s just not my thing.

I spend lots of time in the woods. Not once had I ever ventured out with a gun. But there I was, my dad and me, ready to find our quarry.

My dad is also not a hunter. I am not sure if he has ever been hunting, but I doubt very much if at all. 

As we walked into the swamp where we knew our target resided, shotgun in hand, I turned to my dad and said, “All these people who told us this was the way to get it, do you think they’ve ever actually tried it? I mean, what if it doesn’t work?”

He paused for a moment. “I don’t know…”

You see, our target was mistletoe. We have lots at my folks’ cabin out in the woods, and each year I had told my dad I wanted to bring home mistletoe for Christmas decorations. We had ventured into the swamp many times, easily finding the bright green orbs perched high in the leafless trees of winter. But they were high up on virtually unclimbable trees. We had talked about various ways to get it down. We considered a rope with a weight on the end that we would throw up and snag it. But the height and the terrain limited that. We had considered telling my son that we bet him he couldn’t climb the tree. But his mother and grandmother would most definitely limit that.

Numerous people over the years had said the way to get mistletoe out of a tree was simple: a shotgun. And so there we were, ready to put that advice to work.

But then I started wondering if this was just something people said, or if anyone had actually done it before. Thus we stood at the edge of the swamp pondering out next move.

Only one way to find out.

The swamp we hiked through was thick with underbrush. We tromped here and there, winding around trees and briars, sinking deep into the sphagnum and mud. After about 10 minutes, we spied some high up in a tree. 

We fought through the underbrush and stood at the base of the tree. “I guess we’ll find out,” I said.

Because standing right underneath the mistletoe and shooting straight up would be monumentally stupid, we found a spot of solid land a few yards away where we could aim at an angle. 

My dad loaded a single shell into the shotgun. I asked, “What are you going to aim for?” “The base,” he said with the confidence of a man who had hunted mistletoe a thousand times.

He shouldered the shotgun, aimed to the sky, and fired.

The boom resonated through the swamp, and almost instantly, mistletoe came raining down. We approached the base of the tree and found probably a dozen branches that had come to rest on the ground. Success.

We found two more batches that added to our haul, and can now safely say that, yes, a shotgun is a perfect way to hunt mistletoe.

After filling a bag with the greenery, we had ample for Christmas decorations (to be used in a 2019-compliant manner only).

It was a great time in the woods, and I look forward to this holiday hunt tradition. After all, this is the type of target I’m wired to hunt.

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.