Author: Mike Gibbons

Categories
Uncategorized

A key issue

I was heading out the door for work the other morning, and I found myself missing one tiny little thing that was kinda critical to getting to work: The key to my car.

Now, most people would just grab their spare key and head on from there. Unfortunately, my spare key decided to head out on its own several years ago to a destination unknown, so I have been operating with a single key for quite some time. My wife and I looked all over the house, and could not find my car key. And a meeting was fast approaching.

Being the forward thinking guy I am, I told my wife, “I’ve got to take your car.” She reminded me that she, too, was about to go to work, so we found ourselves in a fun game of “Whose Next Meeting is More Important?” There are no winners in this game.

My wife, being the quick thinking problem solver she is, called a co-worker who agreed to pick her up.

Not having my key led to another obstacle, however. My wallet was in my car. As were my work keys. (Yes, they are on separate key rings. I don’t need a lecture. Again.)

I went into work for the meeting, and headed straight back home afterwards. I am a creature of habit, and I always pitch my keys in the same spot. But perhaps I deviated from my usual routine. Perhaps it was in my pocket and I pulled out something else, flinging it to the ground. Perhaps it fell into a grocery bag and got pitched in the trash. Perhaps one of my kids saw the key and said, “Hey, you know what you would be fun? Throwing Dad’s key on top of the cabinet and making him sweat it for a while.”

Guess where my key wasn’t? The trash, the cabinet, and 83,000 other places where I could have possibly passed by the night before (and that includes the dryer, the clothes hamper, and several drawers I may or may not have opened). I searched my car as best I could from the outside, but could not see every nook and cranny, so there was still hope that it was inside the locked car.

I called the dealership and explained my predicament. I asked if I could come in and get a new key. No problem, they said. Just bring the car up there and they would get a new one programmed. I had this conversation:

ME: Wait, you need the care there?

THEM: Yes. We have to program it here.

ME: But I don’t have a key.

THEM: Hmmm. Guess you’ll have to have it towed. And we will need your ID.

ME: But that’s locked in the car.

THEM: Hmm.

ME: Can you make a key that will at least open the car?

THEM: Sure! It will unlock the car, but you won’t be able to drive it. Just make sure you bring some ID.

ME: Sigh.

Knowing I could not bring my driver’s licence (let’s just overlook the fact that I was having to drive without one for the better part of a day, OK?), I gathered up as much information as I could to prove who I was. I brought my birth certificate, a copy of my car tax bill, a newspaper column with my name and picture on it, and a badge from a conference I attended a few months back. Because no one can dispute a statewide arts conference badge.

When I arrived at the dealership, I shared my story and presented my proof of who I was. He glanced momentarily at the pile and said, “Do you have the VIN?” Apparently, he didn’t think I was someone who needed intense vetting to prove who I was. And I guess most seasoned car thieves don’t bring reams of paperwork to a dealership to get a key that won’t actually start the car. I handed him my car tax bill, and about two minutes later, he returned with a metal key that would, in fact, open my car.

Alas, when I opened it, no key. When my wife got home from work, she began the search for the key and started looking in all the places I had already looked. No key.

I needed to remove myself from the search, as I was becoming just a smidge testy, and had resigned myself to getting my car towed and buying a new key. “Well, you’re not going to have it towed there tonight,” my wife said. “Just relax.” I hate it when she’s right.

I headed out to the store, and about two minutes later got a text from her. “Found it.”

My key had fallen snugly in a chair, resting against the cushion and some slats. My wife was able to find it because she has the patience of Job and the detective skills of Columbo. I, meanwhile, have the patience of a puppy and the detective skills of Inspector Clouseau.

Fortunately, the key is back now, in its usual spot. I think I will go and get a spare made at some point so I can have that backup should the need arise. Most likely, I will do this just in time to lose my original key.

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
Animals

Dog day afternoon (and morning and evening)

My wife and I are dog people. We had a cat for a long time, and she was the most evil creature the world has ever put forth. We kept her for the entire 18 years of her life, despite many people over the years suggesting we get rid of her. We could not do that, as she was our cat, and even though she may have made us question our sanity at times, we had a responsibility. And part of that responsibility, apparently, was to randomly get attacked by a mewling ball of rage as we sat on the couch watching TV.

Our cat left us a few years back, and we decided then we would be a dog-only family from that point forward. The one caveat I have issued is that, should we ever have a barn, I would like to get a barn cat. Since we do not have plans ever to have a barn, I think we will be OK.

We currently have two dogs, a spry and loveable boxer named Maddux, and an old and grouchy Dachshund named Murphy. If you are a cat person, I have no issue with your personal inter-species preference. We are just, well, dog people. That said, as dog people, there are a few areas in which I ask the dog species on the whole to up their game a little bit, just to make sure there is no room for us to consider seeking another species:

  • I often sit on my back deck working. And over the course of any given hour, I estimate that I open our sliding glass door roughly 23,000 times per hour to let dogs in and out and in and out and in and out. Please. Inside or out. Pick one.
  • I’ve seen what you eat out in the yard. It’s nasty. So when a piece of cucumber falls on the kitchen floor, please stop pretending you’re better than that. Vacuum that up like you did the squirrel carcass the other day.
  • Yes, we are lenient on our furniture rules and let you hop up on couches and beds and such. That said, be happy with that. There is no need for a dozen rapid spinning turns, digging at pillows, flinging couch cushions onto the floor so that you can wedge yourself into some never-before-created couch crater.
  • We have established that you do not like fleas, and thus we spend good money to make sure you have the best preventative medicine out there. Once a month, you have to take one small pill to make sure you don’t get infested with the pests. Please don’t make us set out a family budget line item on cheese or turkey slices to get you to take it. Just eat it.
  • If I am inside and you are outside and would like to come in, one bark will do. I heard you. Can I please finish pouring my cup of coffee before you let off a series of barks and yelps as if a pack of wolves was closing in on you?
  • When we go on walks, I get that there are a lot of really amazing smells out there. And lots of territory to be marked. Could you maybe skip every, say, tenth one? A 30-minute walk should go more than 50 feet.
  • Those treats you love so much? Please remember that if I have no fingers, it will be difficult to give them to you. Gentle.

Dogs, you’ve got my vote. I’m solidly in your camp. So if you could just take a few of these small steps to ensure we stay a dog family, that would be great. And, of course, thanks for not randomly attacking us while we sit on the couch watching TV.

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 Childhood Family Uncategorized

Me Tarzan. Me stuck.

There I was, 35 feet above the ground, the grip on both hands weakening, and my arms quivering.

So this is how it ends, I thought.

No, not my life. I had a harness on and was securely latched to a cable a foot above my head. This is how my son’s social life at school ended, crashing and burning in a pile of ashes as he forever became known as The Kid Whose Dad Had To Be Rescued During The Ropes Course Field Trip.

Parker and me before our climb. The Tarzan ropes are over his left shoulder.
Parker and me before our climb. The Tarzan ropes are over his left shoulder.

I had agreed to chaperone this field trip because I want to be there for my kids. But also because, hey, ropes course. I have twice agreed to chaperone kayaking field trips. Because, you know, to be there.

When we got to the park, I started eyeing some of the 72 different obstacles. There were three levels of difficulty. Once we were outfitted with harnesses, helmets and directions, I noticed many of the kids in the class, my son included, migrated to the most difficult levels as quickly as they could. I eventually made my way up toward them as well.

I navigated an obstacle here and an obstacle there. I am not afraid of heights, and I am fairly agile and coordinated, so I was feeling pretty confident as I made my way from one elevated platform to the next. Then I arrived at the Tarzan obstacle. While many of the obstacles have wooden slats or metal cables to walk on, Tarzan does not. It is just a series of vertically hanging ropes, each with a few knots in them. You can either go across grabbing each rope by hand a la the eponymous jungle swinger. Or you can put your feet on top of the bottom knot of each rope as you go from rope to rope.

I know my limitations. I was not going to be able to do the prior, at least not the whole way. So I opted to hop from knot to knot. First knot, no problem. Second knot. Good deal. Only 43,000 ropes to go. (Perhaps fewer than that. My memory is fuzzy.) Each rope I went to, I had to hoist myself up and swing my feet over, capturing the next rope with my feet and sliding them down to the knot. I then had to shift my right hand to the next rope, followed by my left hand. And that takes more energy than I realized.

About two-thirds of the way across, my body stopped cooperating. I moved my feet over to a rope. I tried to lift myself up high enough to swing my body over to the next rope. My arms laughed at this notion. They were no longer interested in this obstacle, they informed me.

I still had my feet securely braced on the knots. I’ll just hang here for a second, I thought, until my arms are better.

At that point, my legs informed me that if my arms didn’t have to work, then they didn’t either, and also informed me that they were about to play a fun little game called Jelly Legs.

If I let go, I was pretty sure I would be in trouble, and probably not making it back to the platform without some help of the crew. It is really not promising for your social standing for your entire class to have to see your dad get hauled to safety from the ropes courses they were navigating like squirrels.

I had to make one final stand. I looked over my shoulder. A crew member was on the platform behind me. “Just put your feet on the platform and you’re good,” he said. If only he knew about the limb revolt.

With every bit I had left in my body, I grabbed as tight as I could with my hands and pulled up as much as I could, and then launched my feet toward the platform. My heels landed solidly on the wooden stand. I was now in a sitting position. I gave the rope a little swing back and then forth, and then pulled as hard I could, digging my heels onto the platform for leverage. I let go with my right hand and grabbed the last rope. I repeated with my left. One. More. Pull. After a few seconds, I was standing upright on the platform.

While I did not complete the Tarzan obstacle in the purest of fashions, I consider it a win on my part. I went from one platform to the other and did not require rescue. That’s a win in my book. For me and my son.

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

Laundry list

There are a lot of places I don’t go in life. Some of those are because I have good sense and know to avoid them. Others, however, are because I just don’t really have occasion to go there. For example, jewelry stores. (I know, my lucky wife.)

I identified another locale I am vastly unfamiliar with recently. For only the second time in 25 years I visited a laundromat. They are fine places that offer a valuable service, and I’m glad they are here for anyone and everyone. It’s just that, much like jewelry stores, I’ve not been to many.

The last time was about 10 years ago. We were fortunate enough to have a horrid flea infestation, and in order to eradicate them we had to wash every bit of clothing and bedding we had. (I would have burned everything in a large bonfire in the yard, but local ordinances wouldn’t allow that.)

The time prior to that was when I was in college and I had to go to a nearby laundromat and explain to them that (a) I had not been to the laundromat and that (b) that check that just got returned had handwriting surprisingly similar to my roommate’s.

Unfortunately, our dryer was damaged recently, and its repair would not be complete for a few days. I took a quick poll of the house. “Can everyone make it through the next few days without washing clothes?” No, was the general consensus. For what it’s worth, I found that amazing, as if you saw their closets and dressers, you would feel pretty confident they would have enough clothes until roughly 2034.

So I told everyone to gather up the bare basics of what they would need to get them through a few days. And I gave very strict rules: It must be dirty or stinky, and it must be worn next week. I don’t care if you have to put a pair of shorts over those newly cleaned jeans. If I wash it, it’s getting worn.

So a few observations from the laundromat:

  • I came in with about $3 in quarters in my pocket. I am a fool. A wash load costs $8.75, which, by my estimate, is more than $3. Also, that is for a 20-minute wash. Thus, washing machines make $26.25/hour, which translates to around $54K a year in salary. Feel free to compare yourself accordingly to a washing machine.
  • I had no idea what I was doing. As I fumbled around trying to figure out how to start the washer, it occurred to me that I was not totally certain I was at a washer. I turned around and noticed several folks staring at me. I looked toward an older woman and said sheepishly, “This is the washer, right?” She smiled and nodded, with a bit of a “you poor thing” look.
  • Once I confirmed that is was the washer and loaded my clothes, I went to close the washer door. It bounced back at me. Slammed it again. Bounce. “Turn the handle,” the older woman said. Good call. Sure enough, there was a handle on the door that, when turned, very much prevented it from bouncing back.
  • You cannot use just the dryers there. You wanna use the dryers? Oh, you are going to use that $8.75/load washer first.
  • I believe a federal law should immediately be implemented in which every laundromat should have wifi available. Or require there to be a Pizza Hut with free wifi next door, as this one has. Thanks, Pizza Hut!
  • I do not know laundromat etiquette, so I just sat there quietly. Case in point — a woman was removing things from a dryer and an article of clothing fell on the floor. My first thought was to say, “Ma’am…” But then I stopped. What if it was some unwritten code of the laundromat, in particular for a man letting a woman know a pair of her underwear was on the floor. I figured silence and a focus on my computer screen was the best option. The woman next to me did say, “Ma’am,” caught her attention and pointed at the floor. But I still don’t know if it was OK for me to do so.
  • I do, however, know personal space etiquette. And you know who violated it? The little girl who was watching YouTube videos on her phone and repeatedly drifted over about three inches from me, leaning very much into my personal space, craning her neck at my screen.
  • You know how at a restaurant, if a baby starts crying, there will inevitably be a few people rather annoyed at that? Yeah, not at the laundromat. A baby started crying and the laundromat turned into maternal central. There were moms and grandmothers converging on the child, cooing and tickling and offering colorful magazines and singing and what not. It was actually quite sweet. Almost made me regret loudly stating, “Would someone please quiet that baby down. I’m trying to launder.”

So I successfully navigated the waters of the laundromat. I am glad that, should I need to visit one again soon, I will be well prepared for it. But I’m still not ready for the jewelry store.

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

Weathering the storm

When Gov. Nikki Haley issued the evacuation order last Tuesday for Charleston, she was about on the third syllable of the word “evacuation” when my wife was on the road.

OK, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But my wife made it clear to me a while back that, should a hurricane even consider coming to visit, she would not be there to welcome it. Perhaps this is because of her folks living on the Florida coast and having endured several major hurricanes over the years. Perhaps this is because she is no dummy.

Mostly, though, it’s because when the remnants of Tropical Storm Julia came over our house, we sat in our den, rain pouring and winds swirling, and she said, “Nope. Not doing this if it’s bigger than a tropical storm.”

I was very much in favor of this plan. She and our son headed on out ahead of much of the traffic, while I stayed back with my daughter to secure the house.

This was a good call for a few reasons. First, our son is not a fan of storms. I blame this on me, as when he was a toddler I decided to make a mad dash to our car during a thunderstorm. Hey, here’s a fun fact: you know what a transformer getting hit by lightning sound like when it’s about 20 feet from you? It sounds like you are about to die. Yay, fun!

So when storms do come a calling, it’s not exactly his thing. Plus, as with many tasks in life, streamlining your work force makes for a more efficient process. You can only bring one patio chair in at a time, so no need for a traffic jam at the sliding glass door.

Also, this was one time I was going to use teenager apathy in my favor. Our daughter is 16, and (mostly) a quite lovely human. That said, she is also a teenage girl, and often lets her mood drift into the category best described as “whatever.”

But I decided to use this to my benefit. With earbuds firmly entrenched and the soundtrack to Hamilton blaring, the approaching storm did not even enter her mind. She just very efficiently and robotically brought chairs and bird feeders and such inside, occasionally stopping to belt out a line from the show.

It only took a few hours to make sure everything was as secure as we could make it. Lots of folks asked me if I planned on boarding up or taping the windows. Nope. I brought stuff inside, locked up the house, hit the road and hoped for the best.

When we got home, we were pleased to see that our house had been spared of much of the damage. We had a lot of debris in our yard, but nothing that couldn’t be raked up and hauled to the curb.

The process of moving all of the stuff outside was done mainly by me, as I was in the car with my daughter, and my wife and son were about an hour behind us. My daughter wanted to go see a friend, and I saw this as an opportunity to have the absolute most streamlined work force possible. It probably took me 30 minutes, tops, to get my outdoor stuff out of the indoors.

When my wife and son arrived, he was eager to get on his bike and pedal off some pent up energy, which we gladly encouraged. My wife and I actually enjoyed the couple of hours of yard work required to clean up from the storm, as it was a chance for us to enjoy a beautiful day and spend some time outdoors together.

I’m glad that Hurricane Matthew was not as bad as it could have been for us. But I’m also glad we had a good test run of evacuating our house.

When the next storm approaches, I’m confident we know what to do and how to do it. We’ll send half the family on early and tell my daughter to crank Hamilton, because we’ve got things to do.

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

Color me clueless

After nearly two decades of marriage, I think my wife has accepted the fact that I have the interior decorating skills of a shoebox.

We are looking to get new flooring in our downstairs. We currently have a mix of carpet, tile and hardwood, which all roughly looks the same to me.

We have tile in our kitchen, hardwood in the hallway, and carpet in the rest of the house. I probably would not know this if she had not pointed it out to me, as the only way I process floors is through my current shoe selection, and quite frankly, when I roll down for my morning coffee, all I’m feeling is the sweet, sweet comfort of my 10-year-old slippers that my wife begs me to let her replace every Christmas. (Answer: No. They’re national treasures.)

But I am a good soldier, and as we move on to this phase of home improvement, I have dutifully gone to the flooring places with my wife to “help” pick out the floor we will have.

At one point, my wife had a couple of samples and asked me what I thought. I pointed at one sample. “Do you think that’s darker than our kitchen floor?”

“Our kitchen floor is white. So yes,” she said with a sigh.

“No, our kitchen floor…”

“Is white,” she interrupted. Later observations confirmed our floor is, in fact, white, and so pretty much anything she picked out other than a white sample would, in fact, be darker.

For what it’s worth, I have never been very good with noticing nuances such as color or texture or whether things actually exist in my house. We bought our first house nearly 20 years ago. At one point during our tenure there (and I can’t even begin to fathom what started this conversation), I referenced that our house was gray. My wife looked at me as if I had said that our house was a giant mushroom. Our house, it turns out, was tan. Fine. But that really never registered with me, because those are details that clearly are more complex than what I can comprehend.

We (she) eventually settled on a couple of samples she liked. We brought them home with us and she began strategically placing them at different points in the house. We had conversations such as this, when she placed them next to kitchen cabinets:

ME: Looks great!

HER: Looks terrible. We’ll have to paint the kitchen cabinets.

ME: Well, yeah, except that.

We are now in the estimate stage, which I am actually very helpful at, because when someone comes in to measure our house, I can absolutely be there to let the person in and can also identify where the downstairs is.

We are also planning on painting some rooms, and my wife has pretty much taken that on by herself, and not just because I have the color sense of a coffee table. I have told her that, much like the floors, I will be happy to be at the house and open the door for painters giving estimates, and also feel quite confident I can point out which walls we plan to paint (assuming my wife reminds me a few times).

In my defense, my wife knows that this is a limited skill of mine, and also not one that really ranks high on the caring scale in my world. I really don’t have much of an opinion on what colors our walls are or what kind of flooring we have. It REALLY matters to my wife, and I yield those decisions to her. She knew what she was getting into when she married me. For example, when we picked out our china prior to our wedding, she asked me for input. I told her that I really didn’t care, as plates were simply a functional device to hold my food. Ultimately, she offered this deal: She would narrow down the choices to three patterns, and I would cast my vote. As we stood in the store, the three plates before me, you might as well have put three different size Chinet disposable plates in front of me. Because all of them seemed plenty capable of hosting a turkey sandwich. I pointed at one, hesitantly. She gave a slight turn of the head and squinted her eyes. I moved my finger to another one. A quick nod down. “I like this one!” I said. “Hey, me, too!” she said. And those plates still do a bang-up job of holding our dinner.

I’m glad we’re doing some of the renovations in the house, and I know it will look stellar when we are done. I am most pleased that my wife is happy about getting to put her expert interior design skills to work. And that I am getting to put my expert skills of opening a door and pointing out where our downstairs is.

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 Animals Childhood Family

The possum king

Sometimes, you’re just where you’re supposed to be in life.

I was off to my local grocery store recently, as I was hunting and gathering for the night’s spaghetti and meatball dinner. I parked and headed into the store. As I approached the entrance on the right side of the store, I noticed there was a barricade of carts blocking off the entrance. Odd, I thought. Perhaps the door was broken. Perhaps a customer had dropped a jar of Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce, and the staff was cleaning it up, and it was the last jar of fire roasted tomato and garlic and thus I was not only going to be inconvenienced but spaghetti and meatball night would be just ruined.

I walked toward the other entrance. I saw a young employee emptying trash cans and asked him why the door was barricaded, bracing myself for the possibility of there not being fire roasted tomato and garlic sauce. “There was a possum by the trash can,” he said.

My time to shine.

I reversed course and went back to the barricaded area. I separated two carts and stepped into the quarantined area. There, behind a trash can, was a medium-sized possum, doing what possums do, which is mainly nothing.

As I was sizing up the situation, the door opened. A manager emerged. I took the lead. “I’ll get the possum for you.” He was not quite sure what to make of this. “Trust me, I’ve done this plenty,” I said. Which is true.

I pulled out my phone and called my son, who was on a bike ride in the area. When he answered, I said, “Hey, meet me at the grocery store. We’ve got a possum.” “Be there in a second,” he said. It’s how we roll.

The manager said that he was going to call a pest control company and that he was absolutely not asking me to get the possum. “It’s OK,” I said. “All on me.” I should carry around an “I’ve got this” waiver form.

About that time, my son pulled up on his bike. “Where’s the possum?” he said, in full-on mission mode.

A crowd was gathering at the store door as well as on the sidewalk. I saw the little critter’s tale at the back of the trash can. I told my son I was going to grab it, but he was the front flank, should I miss. (Fun fact: I never miss.)

I darted my hand in and grabbed the possum’s tale and pulled it out from behind the trash can. At this point, I realized I had not planned my exit strategy 100 percent. I said to Parker, “Here, hold this,” and handed him the possum. As I walked to my car to get a cloth bag, I looked over my shoulder and saw a lot of folks staring at my 13-year-old, standing just outside the grocery store front door, holding a possum. I am sure several folks had some parenting questions about me.

I returned with the bag and Parker dropped him in. I tied up the handles, which would be plenty sufficient for the short transport to some nearby woods.IMG_8537 (2)

I had quite a few questions from the onlookers. What was I going to do with it? Can’t it bite you? Why? (Answers: Release it. Yes. Because why not?)

I know we’re not the normal family when it comes to wildlife. I’m the son of a biologist who grew up catching critters. My son has led a similar path. We know which ones we can handle and which ones we can’t. Possums, we certainly can. I just wanted to get the little fella off into some woods so he could go do his possum thing for the rest of his life, which I hope does not include staring blankly into oncoming car headlights.

When I returned a short while later for my actual grocery shopping, the store staff shared with me that their day at work had been kinda cool thanks to the possum adventure. Glad I could help.

The grocery store now has, by my count, zero possums. And, more importantly, by my count, plenty of fire roasted tomato and garlic spaghetti sauce.

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

Life hacks. But, you know, good ones…

If there is one thing the internet is good at, it’s spreading ill-informed information at light speed. And one area we as a society have gotten really proficient at sending out bad information is in the form of “life hacks,” those tips that are designed to make your life better with some simple twist on a common problem that makes your life changed forever.

Only problem, most of these “life hacks” are often unnecessarily complicated or just don’t plain don’t work. For example, I once saw one that solved the non-problem of putting pancake batter into a pan. It suggested you put the pancake batter into an empty ketchup bottle, and you then could easily squirt the batter into a pan. There are a couple of flaws with this. First off, putting pancake batter into a pan isn’t really something that needs improving. If you’re having trouble with it, you probably should just go to IHOP and let them handle the pancakes. Second, while I haven’t tried doing it, I am just guessing the task of getting the ketchup bottle clear of ketchup smell is no easy task, and that pouring the batter into said ketchup bottle is WAY more messy than just dropping it into a big ol’ pan.

So I normally don’t even bother reading these things any more when they pop up on my computer. But recently one caught my eye as I saw it several times.

It said that for stubborn stains in a skillet, soak the pan in soapy water, but add a dryer sheet. An hour or so later, no scrubbing or scraping. The funk in the pan would slide right out. So I tried it.

And you know what? It worked. Like a charm. Thanks, internet. I have actually added something useful to my world because of you.

So I started wondering if perhaps I had some actual functional life hacks that didn’t involve old ketchup bottles. And I do. Since the internet so often feeds us misleading information, today I give you these Mike’s Life Hacks that, like the dryer sheet trick, actually make your life dramatically better. OK, not dramatically. But maybe nominally.

  • When you have a gift card for a store, go the store to browse. And leave the gift card in the car. This is especially helpful with kids. That way, you do not buy the first thing you see, and actually go through the store and find something you actually want beyond the first aisle. And when you decide on an item, you may be surprised how much you actually don’t want it on the walk back to your car to retrieve the gift card.
  • When you are going grocery shopping for a big grocery haul, park next to a shopping cart corral. I have been to a lot of parking lots in my life. And never have I been to one where even the farthest parking spot is that far of a walk. Load your groceries, put the cart up right there, be on your way. So many problems solved.
  • Speaking of shopping, if you are like and me and use cloth grocery bags, you are probably also like me and routinely get into the store and realize you left the bags in your car at best and sitting on your kitchen counter at worst. So, when you get ready to go, thread the handle of one of the bags through your belt loop and sit on it for your drive to the store. Even if you forget over the course of your three-minute drive, you’ll quickly be reminded when you get out of your car.
  • There is very little chance you will drive anywhere without your keys. Need to make sure you bring something with you when you leave? Put your car keys with them. On at least two occasions, co-workers have come to me and said, “Uh, are these your keys in the fridge?” “Yes,” I tell them. “Because I bought milk at the grocery store at lunch and put it in the fridge to make sure it comes home with me. So back to the break room with my keys!”
  • Next time you go through a drive-through for some fast food, there is a good chance they stuff about 20 napkins in your bag. Rather than throw them out with your quarter-pounder wrapper, put the napkins in your glove box. I don’t know when you will need them, but you will.
  • The next time you take out your household garbage, pitch a couple of empty, folded trash bags at the bottom of your now-empty trash cans, and then add the new trash bag on top. That way, for the next few times you take out the trash, your replacement is there. If you are not using trash bags, ewww.

I hope these help make your life so much finer that you are in an eternal state of bliss from this point forward. But, if they are not enough for that, maybe we can figure out someway to include a ketchup bottle.

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

 

Categories
Family Home improvement

Home sweet home

Two years ago, I was relocating my family to Charleston. My new job was starting just about the same time school was starting, so this was a perfect time for everything to just magically fall into place and all of us start anew together.

Turns out, the Charleston housing market doesn’t believe in short-term magic. We made several trips down looking for places to live. Because we had not sold our house, we were just going to lease for the first year.

We looked at a few places with our Realtor, and at one point we were pretty sure we found the right place. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work. For one thing, it was on some water, and my son saw an alligator, so as far as he was concerned, it was perfect.

And then that fell through. Plan B. Nope, taken. Plan C. Taken. Look online and see a listing about seven seconds old. Taken.

And school was approaching. We had decided on the schools we wanted the kids to go to, as I can drive to work from anywhere. Unfortunately, the school district doesn’t accept “We promise to move here just as soon as we find a home” as an address. Some friends of ours who have a second home here said we could use theirs as a stop-gap, which was incredibly generous and kind, and at least made my wife and me slightly less insane for the short term. It also thankfully ruled out my plan, which was just to camp under the Ravenel Bridge.

Shortly before school started, still not having a permanent residence, our Realtor called. “I made an executive decision and got you a house to rent. I hope you like it.”

She had been to enough places with us to know what we needed in a home. We trusted her.

After the first year in the house, we started looking at houses to buy. We again went to our Realtor and starting talking about various houses we found online. And pretty much every house in our neck of the woods, when it goes on the market, immediately gets 8 bajillion offers on it. So we upped the lease for another year.

As the second year of the lease neared expiration, we began talks with the homeowner. And by “we” I mean my wife, because, let’s be honest here, she’s the brains of this operation. It’s why I turned over bill duties to her some 20 years ago, as apparently you are supposed to pay them EVERY month. Who knew? (She knew.)

Turned out the homeowner was getting tired of having a second home and would be willing to sell the house to us. The house would never see the light of day on the open market thereby avoiding 8 bajillion competing offers for the house we had occupied for two years.

We decided to ask the kids what they thought of buying the house we were in. It’s a pretty darn good houses in a great location with wonderful neighbors. Turns out, opinions on such matters are as fluid as the teen hormones flowing through their bless-their-heart bodies. Their opinions ranged depending on the time of day, the weather, astrological signs, etc. But the end of the day, however, they both agreed that not having to box up all of their belongings and move again pretty much trumped anything else.

A few weeks later and with virtually zero effort, and — boom — we were sitting at closing. OK, there was a lot of effort. My wife did all of the heavy lifting, as she often does, because she is good at this type of thing. My main tasks involved driving paperwork to the mortgage company and signing things. Again, not the brains.

There are some things I will miss about leasing a home. Mainly, the next time something breaks, I have to fix it. But I am looking forward to making this house our home and putting some touches on it that we have held off on for the last couple of years because, well, it wasn’t ours. We’ll make it our true home in due time. Everything, it seems, is falling into place. It just takes magic about two years to happen here apparently.

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

 

Categories
Uncategorized

The calm during the storm

After two years of living on the coast, we have experienced our first named tropical system to directly impact us in the form of our good friend Hermine.

Fortunately, we just got lots of wind and rain, and only lost power for a few hours. But I learned a few things over the course of the storm:

  • I already knew many people can’t drive. They can’t drive even more during storms. And the main way they become infinitely worse drivers occurs when traffic lights go out. Folks, it’s simple: If the intersection you are approaching has actual traffic lights, but the traffic lights are not on, it becomes a four-way stop. Simple as that. And even if you choose to ignore that fairly basic rule, could you at least slow down a little when you barrel through the unregulated traffic intersection?
  • IMG_8350The beach is as fun as you would expect. During one break in the storm, I told my wife that I was going to run down to the beach with my son and one of the dogs to see what the ocean looked like. She had that look on her face that she has a lot. The break in the storm lasted far less than I thought, and as we were walking up to the beach, the rains started again. And this was a blinding, stinging rain. “Daddy, it hurts!” said my son. “That means it’s working!” I said. When we got right up to the beach access, the swirling winds were picking up sand and whipping it at us, giving us a lovely sand blasting. My dog is still not speaking to me. And my car smells like wet, angry dog.
  • I have found my wife’s tolerance for tropical weather, and it’s right at whatever level Hermine was at when it rolled over Charleston. During one point in the day, as the winds were swirling and the rain was going sideways and the trees were whipping back and forth, she said to me, “You know, this is just a tropical depression. The moment someone says the word ‘hurricane’ I’m hitting the road.” I noticed she didn’t say “we” were hitting the road. I think she is allowing for the real possibility I say, “Eh, let’s go have a look at the beach first.” And she’ll give me that look. And then promptly evacuate.
  • Speaking of those swaying trees, I am not sure why I (and probably you) have a fascination with watching the trees sway back and forth in heavy winds. At one point, I was standing in our front yard, watching trees go back and forth, and I said to myself, “What exactly am I doing this for?”
  • Kids getting a weather day off from school? Awesome! Kids cooped up at home on a weather day? Not awesome. When my daughter said she wanted to go to a friend’s house, my wife said, “Allie, you are not driving over there.” Being the quick thinking problem solver I am, I said, “But I’ll drive you over there.” My wife gave me her other look, the one that says, “Maybe he’s got a couple of brain cells still functioning.”
  • A power outage is a good reason to try a new restaurant. We opted for an Irish pub near our house. My son ordered what he thought was burgers and mashed potatoes. It was bangers and mash, which is slightly different. When it arrived, he saw the sausage piled on top of the mashed potatoes, and he said, “Um, where is the burger?” I said, “You ordered bangers and…” My wife cut me off. She did a masterful mom misdirection and started describing the fantastic Irish offering he had been served and did some kind of voodoo sleight of hand only moms can do. In no time, his plate was cleaned.
  • I had to run into work to take care of something, and I am reminded how much fun it is driving in high winds, in particular on tall bridges. I cross the Ravenel Bridge to get to work, which is roughly 83 miles up in the air. Local news estimated the winds at 40+ mph. If that’s the case, I am fairly certain that 50 mph can pick up a Honda Civic up and carry it away Wizard of Oz style.

So we have literally weathered the storm, and hopefully things will be back to normal in no time. I’m sure there will be another tropical storm event in our future. I just hope I get a chance to check out the ocean before I have to catch up with my wife’s evacuation.

 

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