Category: Adventures

Daddy Daughter Day

My kids are 13 and 15. Oftentimes on weekends, I set off on adventures with my 13-year-old son, tromping around whatever woods or swamps or marshes we can find to catch critters.

I do this because he is my favorite and thus deserves all of my attention.

Ha! Some more bad parenting humor for you. The reason he and I have set off on missions together more than my daughter and me is that my daughter is 15 and has a license and a car. By Friday afternoon, she has already booked her weekend with her friends, which invariably involves movies, shopping, Starbucks, shopping, Starbucks, Starbucks and then some Starbucks.

But recently, my wife and son were out of town, so it was just Allie and me for a couple of days. I told her that I could not wait to go to Starbucks with her and her friends and talk about One Direction or whatever it is teenage girls talk about. Or, I offered up, we could just go hang out, the two of us, and have a daddy-daughter weekend. For some reason, she opted for the latter.

We had a great time, and it was a good chance for just the two of us to hang out. I told her I was in charge of transportation and payment, and she could dictate the itinerary. Some highlights from the weekend:

On Saturday, she wanted to go shopping on King Street in Downtown Charleston. Fair enough, I said. When we got downtown, she realized that she had forgotten her sunglasses. I told we could buy some. We stopped in a store and she looked at a pair. She whispered to me, “Dad, these are $200. Let’s get out of here.” That’s my girl.
We got to see the best of people in a downtown jewelry store. As we were browsing, a customer was snacking on some gummy worms. The employee at the store told her to get out, as no food was allowed. Some words were exchanged, it was suggested the police would be called, and then some more words got exchanged, some of them of the four-letter variety. There were about a half-dozen other customers in there, and we all traded nervous “what in the world?” glances. My daughter whispered to me, “Time to go.” Wise child.
We went to a rooftop restaurant to enjoy the view and a cold beverage. My daughter said, “Can they make fruity drinks but without alcohol?” Sure, I said. The waitress came to take our order and my daughter said, “I’d like … um …” She looked at me. I suppose it’s good that my teen daughter doesn’t know any drink names. “Something fruity. Surprise her. Just, you know, no booze in it.”
That evening, we opted for a minor league hockey game. I learned early on that my daughter has a bloodlust. After about a 10-second fight, she was wide eyed. “ARE THEY GONNA FIGHT AGAIN!?!?!?!?”
We were sitting high up in the stands, and after the first period, I said to my daughter, “You want to keep sitting here, or do you want to go on an adventure?” “Adventure. Duh.” We left our seats and moseyed down toward the ice. The key in improving a situation like this is never to lie or cheat. But just see how far people will let you go. We approached a section near the goal. Down below were dozens of empty seats. We stopped at the usher. Had he asked for tickets, we would have been on our way. I said, “Mind if we head down there?” “No problem,” he said. Seats on the glass.
I did provide one incredibly embarrassing moment for my daughter when she was getting some Dippin’ Dots. As she was in line, I noticed there was a restroom right behind me. I told her I was going to use the bathroom while she ordered. I probably should have paid more attention to the fact that there were zero urinals, but I had to go. I slipped into a stall and used the restroom. As I stepped out, I saw a high heel stepping into another stall, closing the door behind. Oh, no. I scurried out and saw my daughter standing there with a look of horror on her face. “That’s the women’s room, isn’t it?” “YES!!! DAAAA-AAAD!” The Dippin’ Dots lady found it hilarious. I’m just glad I could inadvertently step into the political controversy du jour at a minor league hockey game. Yay, me.

It was a great time for the just the two of us, and I’m glad my teenage daughter actually likes spending some QT with me. Maybe next weekend, I’ll surprise and join her and her friends at Starbucks. We can talk about One Direction. Or something. She’ll love that!

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.

Adventures Family

San Francisco treat

Having just returned from a four-day trip to the west coast, I can tell you this for a fact: I have no idea what time it is.

My wife and I went west for a wedding, and took the opportunity to make it a getaway for just the two of us. The kids were safely locked in their rooms, and their water bowls were filled. Or they were with grandparents. Can’t recall.

We were going to the wedding of a college friend of ours, which meant a bunch of folks in their 40s got together to revert to being college kids. If you are an investor in Motrin and Gatorade, your portfolio is probably looking up this week.

We had a wonderful time catching up with old friends, meeting new ones, and, most importantly, being there to see the beginning of a new marriage. So, without further ado, a few highlights from the trip:

Our flight out was fairly uneventful, which is exactly how a flight should be. As we boarded the plane in Atlanta for San Francisco, I overheard the man behind me say he had just been hired as a pilot for a different airline. I told him I was glad to have a backup on the plane. He told me he had never flown this type of plane. I assured him he would be a far better option than me. “I guess so. Pointy side goes first…” Pilot humor, I guess.
It is amazing that this country was ever settled beyond the Mississippi River. Kansas, Colorado, Nevada, Utah and the eastern part of California look like wastelands from the air. Pretty sure my Conestoga wagon would have given up much sooner.
While in San Francisco, we went super-tourist. Fisherman’s Wharf, Golden Gate Bridge, chowder in a sourdough bread bowl, riding the streetcars, etc. I absolutely loved the City, but the top three takeaways: (1) Streetcars have the right-of-way, and if I ever drive in San Francisco, I will make sure not to get in front of one, as I saw a brakeman get out and yell at a driver to get off the tracks. Bad for the driver, entertaining for us. (2) In-N-Out Burger is everything everyone promised me it would be. Well done, west coast. Well done. (3) Seals and sea lions are loud, smelly, and generally awesome, especially when they start trying to knock each other off the docks. I could have sat and watched that mass of marine mammals at Pier 39 all day, but I had to go and find my wife, who I kinda lost. (I found her.)
I saw a neon green Lamborghini out there. Hanging from the mirror was a Berkeley student parking decal. When I was in college, I drove a 1984 Toyota Corolla. So pretty much the same thing.
The Pacific Ocean is cold. And the sun is backwards out there. The sun is supposed to rise from the ocean, not set into. What kind of weird sorcery is that?
California was not nearly the bizarro world I was expecting, although I did hear overhear someone say, “I made a vegan, dairy-free birthday cake, and it was fantastic.” So I guess that was kinda California.
On the flight home, I was reminded that people really just care about themselves. Our plane was delayed leaving San Francisco, which meant we would be landing with about 10 minutes to make our connecting flight in Atlanta. As we landed, the flight attendant took to the intercom asking folks to please let those with immediate connecting flights leave first. We were in the back of the plane and were hoping to sprint off the plane and do our best to catch our connection. On a huge, full plane, a grand total of three people had stayed in their seats. Yeah, all of you had immediate connections. Sure. One of the three still sitting was on her phone, and said, “We’ve got nowhere to be for a while, so we’re just going to sit here.” She was wearing an Alabama Crimson Tide shirt. Roll Tide, ma’am.

So we’re back home now, tired and a smidge delirious. But we’re a complete family again, and I’m glad to be home and ready to get back into the routine. It was a great trip with some great friends. Hopefully, we can do it again soon. But first, I need to figure out what time it is so I can see if it’s time to chase another Motrin with a Gatorade.

Adventures Family

20 years and counting

I just realized that I have been writing this column for more than 20 years. My first stab at this was published Dec. 13, 1995. Going back and reading it, I have to say — I cringed a little. I was a 23-year-old reporter with mile-wide idealism and ambition and the deep philosophical insight that only a worldly 23-year-old such as myself can make.

The column was about moving back to my parents’ house, one year after having graduated college. Now, I will say — I had some points, even if I presented them in a way that makes me twitch a smidge now. The column talked about how so many people my age had earned the “Boomerang Generation” title by circling back home after college.

When I left college, I took a job in Orlando as a college textbook editor. Note to those searching for jobs after college: Getting paid to read college textbooks does not make you want to read college textbooks any more than when you were in college.

After a year, I had had enough of that job, and I just wanted to go home. And so I went. I got a job at the newspaper and started on Adult 2.0.

And so here we are, 20 years of Mike’s Life columns later. More than 1,000. There are columns I am very proud of. There are columns that make me want to figure out time travel so I can go and find me writing said column and smash the keyboard over my head.

I have received some very nice comments from folks over the years. I have received some very not nice comments, including one from a gentleman who hated everything about me and my stupid column. That one was delivered in person, and included an invitation to step outside at a bar. I declined. A week later, at the same establishment, a beer I had not ordered arrived at my table. The waitress said, “It’s from that guy over there. He said he’s sorry about last week.” We made eye contact. He gave a quick nod. All good, sir.

I think I’m like most writers in that I absolutely hate reading my own stuff. All it becomes is an exercise in questioning yourself or, even worse, finding a mistake. It’s just not good for the soul. Once I realized I had been doing this for 20 years, I did go back and read some, and I’m pleased that I really haven’t changed that much. Sure, having a family and changing careers and such tweaks who you are. My hair may have some gray, my pants may be an inch (or two) bigger at the waistline, and my ability to eat two Whoppers in a single sitting may be gone forever. But that’s a natural evolution. I’m glad I didn’t go back and read old columns and think, “My goodness, you were an awful person!” Or worse, read and think, “You were such a nice boy! What have you become, you monster!?!?!”

In reviewing two decades of columns, one fact was driven home: I have the most patient and tolerant wife on the planet. I have written about her getting her hair stuck in a curling iron. I have written about her having to crawl through the trunk of her car when she locked her keys inside. I have written about the time she killed a drifter just for sport. (That last one may be slightly off. Memory’s fuzzy.) But she has been a heckuva good sport over the years, often enduring this question from her friends: “Why do you let him write those things about you?”

So it’s been a good 20 year run, and here’s to the next 20. It’s a treat to be able to visit with you each week and share the silly and pointless observations I have. I realize this column is not exactly the Federalist Papers, but I hope they have brought an occasional moment of levity to your world. If you have read my column for a while, thank you. That means a lot. If you haven’t read my column regularly (or at all), that’s fine. There are plenty of other things you can do with your time. Such as putting up your shopping cart.

Adventures Food

A cut above

Nobody likes line cutters. Well, at least no one who is adhering to the actual rules of the line.

I am a fan of order, so I think a nicely formed line is something to be admired and find it abhorrent when people cut in line. However, I am not sure how to handle it when I become the line cutter.

It happened recently at a Sam’s Club. When my family signed up for our membership, they had a promotion going on where, upon signing up, you would get a free rotisserie chicken. That wasn’t the sole reason we signed up, but hey, nice bonus because, hey, free chicken.

We didn’t have to get the chicken the day we signed up. A few weeks later, I found myself in the Sam’s vicinity. I remembered that we had a chicken waiting on us, and that my wife and I had not made plans for dinner that night. Free chicken to the rescue!

When I entered the store, I headed toward the customer service line. I was not sure how the chicken procurement process worked and decided I would just go there. There was a short line, but I had time to kill. As I stood in line, I noticed that the line leaving the store was growing longer. For those of you not familiar, when you leave a Sam’s, you have to show your receipt to the clerk at the door to make sure you’re not stealing a 412-pack of toilet paper.

As I stood in my line, I watched the line leaving the store grow. And then I heard her: “EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!” A woman was barreling through the store, pushing her cart past all of the folks in line. The folks in the exit line took turns staring at her, and then back at each other, wondering who was going to be the line vigilante. No one, it turns out.

She got to the front of the line and handed the clerk her receipt, completely ignoring all the decent folks who were respecting the line. The clerk looked at her, and looked at the line. No good choices here. While the vengeance part of my conscience wanted her to summarily reject her push to the front of the line, the clerk probably took the best path — she checked the receipt and sent the woman on her way. Not sure where the big win was going to be had the clerk decided to exact justice on the line cutter.

As I sat watching the line collectively hate the woman who had cut, my turn was up at the customer service desk. I explained to the clerk that I was here for my chicken and needed to see what the protocol was. The clerk told me to go and grab my chicken and come right back to her. “Don’t get back in line,” she said. “Just come back to me.”

Oh, boy.

I went to the other side of the store and got my chicken, which was about a six mile walk. When I came back to the customer service area, I saw the line, as well as the line going out the door. And I was about to go cut in line, as I was directed to do.

I walked to the clerk I had spoken with earlier and set my chicken down on the counter. I looked around and felt the eyes on me. They saw me as the Excuse Me lady.

“Everyone thinks I’m cutting in line,” I said, trying to make small talk to someone who probably had no interest in small talk.

That’s when she stepped up to the plate and tried to make my line cutting OK. She turned to the lines, all of whom I certainly felt like were staring holes in me. “It’s OK, everybody. I told him to come back here.”

I gave a little wave to say, “I’m not a line cutter!” to the folks, and grabbed my chicken and headed out the door, making sure not to make eye contact with any of the folks who were no doubt staring a hole in me.

I hope some of the folks in line understood that I was not cutting, per se, as the other woman had clearly done. I was just following directions, and thus helping to keep order, right? Because order is good. As good as free chicken.

Adventures

Driven to extremes

The biggest problem with driving, in my observation, is that other people also drive. If the roads consisted only a single driver — me — few of the headaches of operating a vehicle would ever enter my world. Alas, I suppose the rest of the world isn’t going to forego driving anytime soon, so I will have to accept the fact that I will have to coexist.

But thanks to them, I will get to experience the wide range of emotions that comes with driver interaction. The other day, in a short period of time, I experienced two very different parts of the driver emotional spectrum.

The first: Schadenfreude. Yes, the pure of joy of instant karma. I was traveling to work over the Ravenel Bridge, a multi-lane, several mile bridge that is a great place to showcase that you are an awful driver. That day was one of those days, when a driver in an SUV was apparently trying to see how many lane changes he could do in as short a time as possible. I saw in my rear view mirror as he weaved in and out of traffic, probably doing about 20 mph more than most of us on the bridge that day. Then, instant justice. Just as he shot by me, the car directly behind me whipped into another lane and accelerated to pass me. And just as he passed me, I saw his sweet blue lights of retribution. He accelerated and caught up to the SUV, who must have known he was pegged right away, as he slowed down and went all the way to the right lane. He still had another mile or so before the bridge exit, so I can only guess that was a fun rest of the bridge for him, as the blue lights flashed in his mirrors.

Oh, delicious karma. You taste so sweet.

As high I was riding on that event, I would get to experience a different roadway emotion a short while later — road rage. And the worst part, I didn’t even know I was part of the rage incident.

I was at a light, preparing to turn left onto a side street. A car was in front of me, also preparing to turn. The light turned yellow, and rather than proceed with the turn as most people do, the driver opted to put her car in reverse and back up, I guess to wait for the next light. This is when I found out that I was involved in a dispute with this person.

I was in the car with a co-worker, having a conversation about … I don’t even remember. But I do know it wasn’t about the person backing up. Apparently, the driver of the car in front of me thought I was talking to her. Anyone who knows me knows that I talk in a very animated fashion, and my hands often become a key part of any conversation I’m holding. I can’t help it. It’s just how I’m wired.

I can only guess that hand movements were interpreted as being directed at her, which they weren’t. She did not stop to determine that, and instead got out of her car and turned and shouted some very lovely words to me, and told me that she saw my “raggedy ____ car” and what I could do with the rest of the day.

Now first off, I drive a Honda Civic. Is it a Ferrari? No. Could it use a wash? Probably. But raggedy? I think not.

Second, I really don’t know how to respond to someone who is engaged in a fight that I neither instigated nor was planning on being part of.

So, I did the sensible thing. I got out of my car and screamed, “YOU WANNA GO?”

Ha! Not even close. I kinda just waved and said, “Uh, OK?”

She got back in her car, and made the turn when the light turned again. I went ahead and gave her some time to ease on down the road before I made my turn, lest we have round two of the fight I didn’t know I was a part of.

Both of these incidents could have been avoided had the other drivers simply not been, well, awful drivers. But unfortunately, those folks aren’t going away any time soon, and I don’t see me getting the roads to myself. I guess I’ll just keep control of what I can, and hope that the authorities are there when folks are driving poorly, and that I keep my hands in check when they are not.

Adventures Childhood Family

Riding in cars with boys and girls

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date November 4, 2015
No Comments on Riding in cars with boys and girls

My family traveled out of town for a visit to see my folks recently. It’s about two and a half hours away, and we normally can pile in fine in one car.

We are a family of four, so that seems reasonable, right?

Adventures Childhood Family

Round two with the sea

I don’t like losing. Granted, I don’t know many people who actually like losing, but I do know plenty of people who do not have it actively affect their blood pressure, even if it is something as important as a board game or a football game on TV.

Adventures Animals Childhood Family

Captain Hook

I’m not sure what hurt my son more: The fact that his sister caught a fish before him, or the hook in his hand.

Oh, wait. Yes, I do. It was the hook. Definitely the hook.

It happened while surf fishing recently. Both of the kids had their fishing poles rigged up and baited with some delicious mullet. I had a blanket spread out on the beach and was prepared to enjoy the sunset and read a book because, let’s face it, the only time we’ve ever come close to catching our limit would be if the limit was zero.

Adventures Childhood Family

Happy birthday, Allie-Bear

Post author By Mike Gibbons
Post date August 6, 2015
No Comments on Happy birthday, Allie-Bear

Happy 15th birthday to my Allie-Bear.

I haven’t publicly called my daughter Allie-Bear in a long time, mainly because she threatened never to speak to me again if I did, sometime around a fourth-grade field trip I was chaperoning.

Adventures Childhood Family

A gift to the sea

“When the Maiden of the Sea is granted alms, she shall never return them.”

— Ancient mariner saying I just made up

OK, so it’s not an ancient mariner saying. But it should have been, or, at least should be from this point on because I think it sounds a little better than saying, “I went crabbing with my kids and our chair was blown into the water and I didn’t get it back, despite spending 20 or so minutes walking on an oyster bed.”