Author: Mike Gibbons

Categories
Family Food

PEE-can, PICK-ahn – the debate continues.

Here are some things that take about 30 minutes:

  • Viewing a network sitcom
  • Cooking some chicken
  • Watching about 1/10 of “Gone With the Wind”

Here is something that should NOT take 30 minutes:

  • Ordering fast food at a drive-through

My wife, son and I recently got to experience this unnecessary delay, and we would have been far more angry had it not been a comically amazing display of ineptitude.

It started at the speaker, where we placed our order. I ordered a few fairly standard items — cheeseburger, Coke, chicken nugget meal, vanilla milk shake, apple pecan chicken salad, and an unsweetened tea.

The voice from the speaker came back, “Sir, we don’t have that salad.”

I said, “It’s right there on the menu. Apple pecan chicken salad.”

A slight pause. “Um, we have a PEE-can chicken salad.” I know there are some distinct camps on the the pronunciation of “pecan.” I fall into the “pick-AHN” camp, and I don’t begrudge those who don’t. But I acknowledge they exist.

I looked at my wife. She was laughing too hard to help. I turned back to the speaker. “Yes, I meant the PEE-can salad.”

We pulled up. There was one car ahead of us. It took them about 15 minutes to get their order, and most everything that was passed to their car window was quickly sent back. This wasn’t going to end well.

So here’s a summary of the calamity that we then endured:

  • Handed an unsweetened tea. My wife tastes it. It’s sweet. Hand it back. Get a second. Also sweet. I hand it back. Dude at the window says, “Oh, that’s just how our unsweetened tea tastes.” No. No it does not. Third time an unsweetened charm.
  • Handed my Coke. Take a sip. Clearly Diet Coke. Hand it back. “Oh, that’s just how our Coke tastes.” No. No it does not. He says, “Look, that’s what came out of the Coke button.” Perhaps your Coke button is broken. He hands me another drink, and it is, miraculously, Coke.
  • Dude opens the window. “And you had a chocolate milkshake?” No, I told him. I am sure that, had he given me a chocolate milkshake, he would have said, “Oh, that’s just how our vanilla milkshakes are.”

After about five more minutes, I am growing increasingly, um, let’s just say, not happy. But still being nice. As is my way.

I leaned out my car window and motioned back to the car behind me and gave what I can only describe as the universal sign for, “I’m sorry I’m delaying everything but it’s not my fault because there is nothing but chaos inside.”

A manager saw me motioning and opened the window. “Everything OK?” he asked.

No, I told him. I said that we had been in line for, at that point, 26 minutes, and nothing we had gotten had been right on the first try. And occasionally the second try.

“But you have your food, right?”

That’s a big negative there, boss.

The manager said, “Hey, I apologize for the wait and everything. He’s new and learning.”

I responded, “He’s not ready, and you need to get him some help.” The manager give me the look of a gifted painter who knows what paints he has at his disposal to create his masterpiece. And he has a child’s dried up water color set.

A few minutes later, the manager returned and began handing us our food. I said, “I know the drive-through is backed up, but I’m going to check and make sure everything is right, since nothing has been right so far, OK?”

First bag. Salad – check. Second bag – nuggets – check. Third bag – Cheeseburger, some more nuggets, and some fries. I stared into the bag for a second.

“I threw some extra nuggets and fries into the last bag. I apologize for the wait.”

So at least the manager tried to make right by throwing us some nuggets and fries. I feel bad for the new employee, as he was clearly in over his head. Hey, maybe we were somehow to blame for setting everything off the rails. Maybe it all could have been avoided had I ordered a PEE-can salad from the start.

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.

 

Categories
Childhood Family

The internet: Not always awful.

I think we can agree that, oftentimes, the internet is really just an awful place. If you are in doubt of that, just visit any YouTube comment section. I was going to give you an example of some, but pretty much every popular nice, sweet and innocent video I went to had comments so vile and hateful that I felt dirty after kicking around for about two minutes.

That said, the internet does have its redeeming qualities. For example, in the fall, when we are traveling on a Sunday, my son can give be a play-by-play commentary for football games, watching live feeds of NFL games. Or, you can use it to find virtually any recipe you want, which is fantastic, but I would like it known that no one — no one — wants to read an essay before you get to the recipe. Gimme the measurements and the oven settings.

Or, it can be when good folks come together to help out a 10-year-old on a school project.

My nephew Sam has to do a state project, and he chose Washington, as his teacher is from there. He sent a letter to the governor’s office to request information.

Now, I remember being his age and having a similar project. I chose Massachusetts, as my aunt and uncle lived there at the time. I wrote a similar letter (with no doubt awful handwriting), and a few weeks later received an awesome package in the mail with gobs of brochures and maps and such. It. Was. Awesome. I don’t remember what I got on my project, but I assume it was an A++++.

Well, imagine Sam’s disappointment when his package arrived. It was a single sheet of paper. Among the things in the letter, it said, “Due to budget constraints, we are no longer sending packets of information. However, a wide array of information is available on the Governor’s website and other state websites.”

What followed was a paragraph highlighting these websites, and included hyperlinks to various sites. Not sure when the last time you tried to click on a hyperlink on a printed piece of paper, but, yeah, you can’t. Because it’s on printed paper, and NOT THE INTERNET!

This bothered me. I get that budgets are tight. And I understand that we want our public officials to be good stewards of our money. But it’s a 10-year-old! Wanting to learn about your state! Is there that much demand for the Evergreen State info from elementary school kids? How big does the budget have to be to throw a few pamphlets in the mail?

So, with my sister’s OK, I went to a few Washington-centric message boards and posted a link to the letter he received and a plea to help out a 10-year-old. I said:

“My nephew is 10, and was really excited about his project on Washington, as his teacher is from there. Unfortunately, budget cuts have apparently nixed getting a cool package of Washington-specific stuff. If there is anyone out there who might be able to help him out, that would be awesome. Also, it would further cement my status as Uncle Awesome.”

And this is yet another time when the internet is not awful. About a week later, I had received several packages from folks who had gathered up brochures, guides, maps, etc. all about Washington. Those folks didn’t have to do that at all, but it’s a great reminder that awesome people do exist, and, yes, they exist on the internet.

I gave my nephew is Washington packet the other day, and I can’t wait to img_0887see his project. He’s got plenty of information, and, as I told my sister, the pamphlets that were sent make me want to go visit Washington.

I hope the Washington governor’s office will reconsider their stance on not sending out packets. Maybe they need to have some guidelines that can help keep the budget lean, such as, I don’t know, when it’s a 10-year-old in South Carolina trying to learn about your state, it’s OK to send some stuff.

Even if they don’t change their policy, I’m so glad some folks stepped up and helped out a kid trying to do a project. It’s what makes the internet not so awful.

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.

 

Categories
Family

The Gospel of Dalton: Be nice

In what we all agree is one of cinema’s finest moments, bar bouncer Dalton, in the critically acclaimed film “Road House,” instructs his team of bouncers to “Be nice.” If you are unfamiliar with this movie or this scene, you can pretty much turn on cable any time and find it. That and “Shawshank Redemption.”

But Dalton’s point rings true: Be nice. And good readers, I implore you today: Be nice. I have experienced some non niceties recently, and I think we can all be better.

So a few ways you can, like Dalton says, be nice:

  • If you drive a truck or an SUV, you are not, by definition, a compact car. So please, in a parking garage, don’t try and wedge yourself into a spot designated for a compact car. Oftentimes, you take up two spaces, which is not nice. Other times, you park about three inches from my driver’s side door, which means I have to climb through the passenger’s side car to get in. Add to that I was wearing a suit at the time, and while I will grant you the visual is worth a chuckle, it’s not nice.
  • If you are at the grocery store and have an overflowing shopping cart and a guy behind you has just a jug of milk, let him go ahead of you. Especially if he looks remarkably like me.
  • Speaking of the grocery store, you know those plastic bags they put your stuff in? Yeah, you can hang on to those, and then, when you are walking your dog, you can use said bags to pick up your dog’s mess from other people’s yard. Or you can be extra fancy like me and get a little thing that clips to your leash that carries bags just for that purpose. The little container is even shaped like a bone.
  • People are often criticized for failure to use turn signals. However, equally egregious is assuming that a turn signal is an automatic pass to begin merging over into a lane. You know what’s nice? When you make sure the other driver actually sees you and lets you in, rather than just barging into the lane nearly causing a collision.
  • That crying baby in public? No, it’s not pleasant to listen to. But you know who it’s most unpleasant for? The parents trying to soothe it. That said, parents — it’s nice to maybe take said unhappy camper outside for a little jaunt. Goodness knows I have taken plenty of walks out of events in order to soothe a crying baby, and that includes quite a few meals at restaurants, as well as my sister’s wedding.
  • I love sports, especially college football. One aspect of sports I have never loved is the trash talking, in particular to strangers in public. We’re a Bama family, so we have had our share of success over the last few years. That said, hey, awesome job by the Clemson Tigers, and a well deserved national championship win. But you know what’s not nice? Walking up to my son, while he is wearing a Bama shirt, and pointing to your Clemson shirt and saying, “Yeah, we rolled you! HAHAHAHAHA!” That’s not an indictment of Clemson fans. I know there are plenty of obnoxious Bama fans, too. Every fanbase has them. And they should all be nice as well. And really no grown-up should ever talk trash to a kid. You’re a grown man, and I don’t care how many beers you’ve had.
  • I am legally required to include returning shopping carts in this column.

So there you go, America. A few simple measures you can take to just be nice. Dalton thanks you for your service.

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.

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Fast break

You know that great feeling of karma when you see someone driving down the road breaking the law and then suddenly a police officer appears?

Yeah, glad I could provide that great feeling to a couple of motorists the other day.

My wife and son and I were traveling down a back highway recently. We travel a lot of back highways, and usually traffic is fairly light. I don’t speed for the most part, but I also don’t like traveling 10 miles under the speed limit for long periods of time.

On this day, we found ourselves the sixth car in a line of cars going about 45 miles per hour. We were at the rear of the pack, so I was going to have to wait for the cars in front of me to pass. And they apparently had little motivation to do that. Eventually, two cars turned off. Then one finally passed. Then another. I was now in prime position to pass.

As we approached a long stretch of road. I took my opportunity and passed the car. And just as I got back into the proper lane, along came a state trooper.

“He got you,” my wife said.

“Yep,” I said.

He immediately hit his brakes and turned around. Fantastic.

About five seconds later, here came the blue lights.

I pulled off to the side of the road and could feel the laughter as the other car went by me (at 45 mph).bluelights

I rolled down my window and pulled my license out of my wallet as my wife retrieved the registration from the glove box. As the trooper approach, I stuck my head out the window and screamed, “I PAY YOUR SALARY!!! ALSO, AREN’T THEIR MURDERS TO BE SOLVED!?!?!?”

Ha! A little bad citizen humor there. I passed on those chestnuts for multiple reasons, but the main one being that, yeah, he had caught me speeding.

As he approached, I leaned out the window and said, “You got me. I was speeding. I know.” I handed him my license, and explained to him that I had been behind that car (along with a bunch of other cars) for about 20 miles, and finally had an opportunity to pass. I told him when he passed me I had was beginning my deceleration but that, yes, in fact, I was speeding at that time.

“I’ve got no reason to think you’re lying,” he said, taking my information.

About two minutes later he came back to my car. “I’ve issued you a written warning. Have a good day, sir.”

No. YOU have a good day, sir. In fact, have a GREAT day, new best friend!

We headed on down the road, and then this thought occurred to me: I needed to find that car and let them know that they no longer got to delight in my comeuppance, because I just got a warning. To do that, I would have to drive probably 90, something that was not going to happen because (a) I shouldn’t be driving that fast and (b) my wife became the ultimate speed monitor in the car every time we hit 56 mph.

At one point, we had this exchange:

ME: So is it like I have a learner’s permit now and you’re the driving instructor?

MY WIFE: I’m not the one who got pulled over for speeding.

ME: You and I have the exact same number of speeding tickets today: zero.

OUR SON: But you got a warning for speeding.

ME: Stay out of this.

I never did find the slow car so that I could let them know about my warning victory, although I did monitor every gas station we passed, just in case. Granted, had I found the car stopped somewhere, I am pretty sure I would not have gone and said anything to them. For one thing, I don’t think my new driving instructor would have allowed it.

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

 

Categories
Adventures Family

Burn, baby, burn

The last really bad sunburn I got was about five years ago. Well, prior to last week.

The one five years ago was a doozy, and my entire family got scorched at the beach.

Now, you’d think, “Hey, Mike – isn’t sunscreen something that, you know, every single person on the planet knows you should take to the beach, especially if your family is comprised of fair skinned people who will turn the color of a fire hydrant if exposed to direct sunlight for about five minutes?”

The answer is yes. And we did have sunscreen. Lots of it. And applied it frequently throughout the day. And apparently we would have been just as protected had we just rubbed some of the seawater on us.

On that day, we learned that sunscreen goes bad. This was a reliable brand we had used for years, but apparently this bottle was kaput.

So we are pretty diligent about keeping our sunscreen fresh. Every year, we restock our sunscreen supply, and we have been sunburn free since then. Until last week.

Hey, fun fact – it doesn’t matter how effective your sunscreen is if you don’t use it.

This was my fault and my fault alone, and I accept full responsibility. And now I will give you the reasons why it was not my fault and blame other factors, thereby shirking any and all responsibility.

My son and I were going to meet my dad and some folks about three hours away to tromp in the woods looking for critters.

I had set all of our stuff out the night before, as we were going to have to get up early to leave. But I was doing this at night. And it was cold. So sunscreen didn’t come onto my radar. My wife had gone to bed when I was getting stuff ready, so I think we can all agree she shares some blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

The next morning, we left before the sun came up. And it was still cold. And my wife had not woken up yet, so I think we can all agree she shares more blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

When the sun began to rise, I realized that I had forgotten something. No, not the sunscreen. My sunglasses. I hate being without sunglasses when I am driving, but we were too far down the road at this point. Power through it, I figured.

We arrived at our destination and I realized I had forgotten another item. No, not sunscreen. Ball caps. When I’m going to be out in the sun, I always try to wear a cap, as does my son. He was half asleep when I put him the car, but I still think we can all agree he shares blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

I dug through my trunk and found a baseball cap in there for him to wear. I would just try to change my position throughout the day, avoiding too much sun on one spot at a time, which dermatologists will tell you is probably one of the dumber ways to avoid a sunburn.

Around noon, my dad turned to me and said, “You’re getting a little red there. Did you not bring a hat? Or sunscreen?” “No, dad,” I said, suddenly becoming 11 again.

One of the other people in our group had some sunscreen, which I applied liberally, although I knew this was pretty much akin to taping an aspirin to your head after several hours of a headache.

I sprayed my son down as well, although I was pleased that the hat had done him some good. His neck and his right ear had not fared so well. Clearly, he was not rotating himself as well as I was, or his left ear could have bore the brunt of some of it.

So here we are a day after, and my face and neck feel like they’re 8,000 degrees. My son’s neck and right ear are fried, but the aloe seems to be abating that.

I will remember this incident and make sure it doesn’t happen again. And if I do stumble, I think we can all agree others share some blame in this. Yes? Hello? Anyone?

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.

 

Categories
Family Home improvement

Nailing the ‘industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know’ look

My wife and I have begun decorating our house. The most surprising part of this is not that we have lived in the house for more than two years and haven’t started decorating until now.

That part is explainable. We rented it for the first two years. We didn’t do a whole lot of hard-core decorating, because it was not our house. No sense in putting your stamp on something you may be moving out of.

But then we bought the house from the previous owner. The surprising part is that my wife and I are decorating it. Or, to be more specific, the “I” part. There is really no reason for her to include me in this, as I have the decorating sense of a color blind capuchin monkey.

In fairness to my wife, she is doing the heavy lifting. We’ve already painted, put in new flooring, and changed out numerous light fixtures. My wife asked me for my input on these things much in the way she asked for me for input when we were picking our dishes before we got married. She asked for my opinion, kind of how you ask for a child’s take on dinner. It’s not to find out what the child likes. It’s to find out what they are going to have a temper tantrum over, and you can therefore eliminate that one.

This was the absolute right choice, as I am terrible at picking out these things, and I completely defer to her on what is the best choice in these matters. If she picks out 100 options, I probably can’t tell the difference in 99 of them. She just wants to make sure we don’t end up with the one choice that I am going to harp on for decades.

So on a recent Saturday morning, my wife asked, “So you wanna go look for stuff for the house?” I was a bit taken aback, as I assumed that I would be in my usual (and understandable) role, which would be to have her narrow down the finalists, and I would say, “Hmm. Whatever you like.”

But, hey, why not be a part of the process for a change. We headed to the store and my wife told me what she was looking for. She wants our house to have what she has described as “industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know…” I’m going to just go with her on this, as everything has turned out great so far.

We strolled the aisles of the store for about two hours. She had a few priorities she wanted to address, the first being a basket of sorts to hang on the wall by our front door where mail could be placed, rather than having it just plopped on our dining room table. Fun fact: big box craft stores carry 43 billion types of rustic baskets that can hold mail.

After we hit the 18th aisle and my wife found her 19th basket that would just be perfect, I decided that I would offer up an opinion. “Hey, see that one in your hand?” I said. “That’s the one. It’s perfect.” Pretty sure that my wife started regretting inviting me at that point.

But she is a smart one. That’s when she assigned me my job. Decorate the backyard. She has known for a while that I had a vision for our backyard, and it involves a rather eclectic vision that includes wanting lots and lots of colorful, tin animals on our backyard fence. Yeah, I know. We’re weird.

I set off on my own, and found three new members of my now-growing fence club. By the time I was done shopping for my colorful critters, I can only assume my wife subbed out the baskets another 25 or so times. She settled on one, and I have to say, it’s a fine addition to our home’s personality.

Over the next many weekends, we will continue to shop for things to keep changing our house into our home. I know my wife will add the little things that give us the “industrial, rustic, farmhouse, you know” vibe we’re looking for. I just hope I can find some more tin animals for my fence.

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.

 

Categories
Uncategorized

Being the better human

I try not to be an inconvenience in other people’s lives.

For example:

  • When I am walking across a street, I actually get on across and, to the best of my knowledge, have never once stopped to respond to a text message in the middle of the road.
  • When my kids were little, if they turned into tiny balls of rage and fury while in public, I would take them out of that situation and thereby away from people who don’t want to have their dinner music accompaniment be screams.
  • I know that the only proper way to put toilet paper on a roll is the over method, and anyone who thinks it’s under should be viewed through suspicious eyes from that point forward.
  • Grocery carts. Duh.

So imagine my dismay when I was called out for inconveniencing another person. My first reaction — what have I done? Me? Am I monster? That lasted about 1/10 of a second, at which point my reaction turned to, “Are you kidding me, pal?”

It happened at the grocery store the other day. I had gotten the groceries and was wheeling my cart out to my car. Because I plan ahead, I had parked right next to a cart corral. Maximum efficiency, maximum awesomeness.

I put the groceries in my car and sent the cart to its proper destination.

I hopped in the driver’s seat and went to put on my seat belt. At that point, the sound came.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!!

I looked over my right shoulder, expecting to see a collision near-miss between other cars. Nope. It was clearly directed at me. The horn continued, and a hand extended out of the window, giving off a great-big “What is wrong with you!?!?!” vibe. Which is why I had my initial reaction. And then it occurred to me that I had been in my car for about three seconds.

I wasn’t hanging out placing a call or adjusting the radio or anything non-mission critical.

Sit. Insert key. Buckle seat belt. Reverse. I know this drill.

Clearly, this guy wanted my parking space, and he wanted it right then. And I was not moving fast enough for him. Well, good sir, guess who just got waaaaaay slower than he normally is?

I also noticed there were plenty of other open spaces in the lot. He was going to honk at me to hurry rather than walk an additional 10 feet?

Again, he was having the opposite effect of speeding me up.

I considering just getting out of my car, locking it up and heading back into the store.

Then the part of my brain that is slightly more evolved made the point that this guy who was honking at me was probably not going to see me go inside and say, “Well, he showed me. I should probably be nicer to people from this point forward in life.”

Some people just aren’t nice people. Some people are just rude. And it’s not worth my energy to be an active part of their world or attempt to help them evolve as civilized humans. Some you come in contact with are as far along as they’re going to get.

So I backed out and headed on my way, not even looking back at Beepy. As I pulled toward the exit, I approached a crosswalk. A shopper was exiting the store with a cart. I stopped, and waved her across. She smiled and waved back as she scooted across the lot to her car. A little mutual civility back and forth. That’s where I’d prefer to spend my energy. That and making sure toilet paper is placed over.

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.

 

Categories
Uncategorized

A free lunch

I try to eat fairly healthy. We have never been much of a junk food household. And most of our dinners are homemade affairs that only on occasion involve deep frying wings. (Those occasions are football related, so that counts as healthy.)

Alas, I am not perfect when it comes to eating, in particular when I am left alone. For example, there may have been a time within the last year that my family was out of town and I ate pepperoni pizza for four straight meals. Maybe.

Other times when I find myself eating less than healthy are when I am hurried for lunch. Oftentimes, I come home for a standard turkey sandwich-type lunch. However, when I am rushed, I find myself grabbing a quick bite on the go. And pretty much as a rule, you can’t combine healthy and quick. While I am not a nutritionist, I am just guessing that a gas station hot dog is not exactly the pinnacle of healthy eating. It is the pinnacle of delicious guilty pleasures, but I digress.

So I was in a rush and in need of lunch the other day. I decided I would swing into a drive-through and grab a burger and fries to eat in the car as I traveled to my next appointment. It was right about 12:30, so there line was fairly long. That said, it is fast food, and none of us were going to stump the chef with our orders, so the line would move quickly.

I placed my order and made my way to the first window to pay. The window opened, and the woman told me my total. I extended my hand to give her my bank card. “Oh, our credit card machine is broken,” she said.

Now for plenty of people this would not have been a problem. They would have just handed her some cash and moved along with their transaction.

I am not one of those people. For one thing, I have teenagers. On the rare occasions I do have cash, it usually disappears a few minutes before school starts, when a panicky teen comes to me and says, “Dad! I need $10 for the field trip t-shirt and the order is due today!” Or “Dad! The shaved ice truck is at school today and I need $5 or I will be ostracized by all the kids if I am the only one without a sugary and colorful cup of ice!” Or “Dad! I’m taking money out of your wallet as a constant reminder of how much children cost!”

I told the woman that I did not have any cash. She said, “Oh, well.”

“Um….”

“I’ll void your order. Thank you.” And she went to close the window.

“Um….”

I sat there for a moment trying to figure out what my next move was. And what lunch would be.

At that point, I heard a voice behind the woman. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

A manager emerged and fully opened the window. “Sir, just a moment,” she said.

She turned to the employee. “Yeah, you need to tell people the credit card machine isn’t working.” The employee gave her a rather blank stare.

“Sir, please pull forward and get your order. It’s on us. Have a good day,” she said.

And off I went, free lunch in hand. (Fun fact: There IS such thing as a free lunch!)

My day got immediately a little bit better, as would anyone’s who had just gotten a free burger and fries. Had this been a mom and type of place, I would have gladly gone to a bank machine, gotten some cash and gone back and paid for my order. But I feel fairly confident this company will be McFine.

Now that I’ve had my less than healthy quick-fix lunch, I will try and get back on track and get back to eating healthy. Granted, I know at some point I will have a lapse and I will find myself needing to get a quick bite on the go. Hopefully, I can I find a place where their credit card machines are down.

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.

 

Categories
Home improvement Uncategorized

Let there be lights

My house is currently not on fire. I consider that a big win.

While I know most of you operate on your day to day life without your house on fire, most of you have not just changed out four light fixtures. And most of you are not as inept at home improvement as I am.

My wife decided we needed new light fixtures when we bought our house. The light fixtures we had were fine with me, as they did their no. 1 job, which was to provide light. Apparently, that was not enough.

We visited a few lighting places, and she spent a prolific amount of time online researching lights. On occasion, I reminded her that our house was, in fact, bathed in light. This did not stop her.

The fixtures all arrived on the same day. My son had gotten home from school and he called me. “Dad! We’ve got, like, six boxes on the front porch!”

“They’re light fixtures,” I said.

Cue the disappointment. “Oh. Well, yeah, I’m going for a bike ride.”

I installed the first one fairly easily, with only one text message to my brother-in-law, who is an electrical engineer.

Next two, piece of cake. Only caused my wife to say, “That’s it. I’m going to the store” one time. In case you are wondering, I’m a lot of fun during home improvement projects.

The last one was the real challenge. And that had a lot to do with the factlight-directions that the instructions appeared to have been written, fed into Google translate as one language, and then fed back into Google translate as another. And then repeated 11 times. Among the instructions (and any typos and errors (including “elecrian”) you find here are verbatim from the instruction sheet, which tells you how helpful they were):

“Please cut down the power when you instaII Ihe Iamp or wire.”

“Please follow the install procedure when install the crystal and the shade.”

“The lamp should hang on the humidity lesser and in breezy environment.”

And my personal favorite: “Please asked professional elecrian(who had got electrician certificated) to install your Iamp.”

Feeling confident here!

The directions were, frankly, pointless. And the last fixture had three different sets of wires for three different lights. And by my math, there was only one set of wires coming out of the ceiling.

So I called my brother-in-law. He gave me easy to follow directions on how not to burn my house down. Apparently, all the black wires on the fixture can go to the black wire coming from the ceiling. Same with the white wires. Prior to getting my brother-in-law’s OK to do this, I just assumed that doing this would make our house explode. In short order, the last of the lights was up and actually working.

My wife has since identified some other lights in our house that she feels are worthy of replacement. Now that I have the procedure fairly down, I think I will be up for it. I shouldn’t even need to call a certificated electrician.

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.

 

Categories
Childhood Family

You’ll be fine. In three-four weeks.

Parker, clearly thrilled with his new cast.
Parker, clearly thrilled with his new cast.

The door flung open, and I heard a cry I heard many times before. It was my son, screaming, “OW! OW! OW! OW!”

This time he was holding his hand close to his chest.

I get these calls from him a lot. Not that he’s a hypochondriac. But rather, because he is a boy, and is prone to put himself in situations to get hurt on a regular basis.

A few of them have required medical attention: A cut knee, a broken thumb, and, my personal favorite, a magnolia branch to the eye, just to name a few.

But normally these wounds heal up in due time. A little ice, maybe some Neosporin and a bandage, and he’s ready to go back out and injure himself again in no time.

He had been playing on his slackline in the front yard. For those of you not familiar with a slackline, it is a thin strip of fabric made out of trampoline material. You attach the line between two trees, and can then bounce along several feet off of the ground. The amount of time you can stay on the slackline is very much dependent on your balance and slackline skill.

Parker has been working on a fancy move in which he stands on the slackline, drops to his bottom, and then bounces back up to his feet. Pretty nifty trick, actually.

I asked him what happened. He told me he was working on his trick, and he somehow got his hand in the way of the bouncing slackline, which smacked his hand when it bounced back.

He held his hand out for me to examine. “Ah, you’ll be fine,” I said. I’m a GREAT doctor.

He reiterated to me that it hurt. Bad. I told him we would ice it down. After a good three seconds of having the ice on it, Parker established that ice was cold, and that now his hand was both hurting and cold. I tried to reason with him and explain that ice was necessary. He reminded me that. IT. WAS. COLD. We were at an impasse. “I wanna call Mom,” he said. My wife was out shopping, and I figured I had this under control, so I told him that wasn’t necessary. “Call Mom,” he said. I told him I was not going to call mom, but then realized he was not talking to me, but rather Siri, who was happy to make the call.

My wife was home in short order. Apparently, she is a way better parent than I am.

She came in and examined the hand. She walked over to me in the next room. “Yeah, I think it’s broken.” I was unaware that my wife had X-ray vision, an observation I am sure she appreciated. I told her he was fine, and it would be way better the next day. “Not so sure about that,” she said.

Hey, guess who had a swollen hand and was still in a whole bunch of pain the next morning?

We made our way to the doctor’s office that day. As the nurse was getting his vitals, I asked her if he could get a shot just for fun. “Oh, dad,” the nurse said in a manner that indicated she was used to dad humor.

The doctor checked him out and then sent him for x-rays. A few minutes later, the doctor came back in the room. My son was on his phone playing some game. “I’m impressed you can play on your phone with a broken hand,” he said, breaking the news to us. The doctor said that it was a “greenstick fracture,” and that had the break been in an adult, it would probably require surgery. We are heading to an orthopedist next, and hope that since he is young and still awaiting his final form that will not be necessary.

He is in a brace for now, but will probably be graduating to a cast very soon. Kids heal quickly, so hopefully it won’t be for too terribly long. My hope is that he will be back in action in no time, finding new and exciting ways to injure himself.

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.