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If there is one thing my family can attest to, it’s that I am fantastic with lectures on driving safely. They’ve heard them all. The perils of texting and driving. Why following too closely is a fool’s errand. And don’t get me started on blind spots.

So you can imagine I had no fun enjoying that bite of crow when I recently got in a wreck that was completely and totally my fault.

First off, no one was hurt. My son was in the car with me, and he was a little shaken, as this was the first (and hopefully last) car wreck he’s ever been in. And the damage to the vehicles, while unfortunate, was not catastrophic, as both of our cars were driveable after the incident.

And don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting my family took delight in the fact that I caused an accident. I just know that they have heard the lectures from me for years about how there are two kinds of accidents: Ones you couldn’t have possibly avoided and ones you could have avoided but you didn’t. And here I was firmly entrenched in the latter camp.

It was a foggy, rainy Sunday. My wife and daughter had headed out to go shopping. Prior to leaving, I gave them one of my surely appreciated driving lectures. Roads are slick. Visibility is low. Keep those eyes moving! Alas, I should listen to my own lectures.

My son and I decided we would head to the Mace Brown Museum of Natural History in downtown Charleston. It’s a small but wonderful museum at the College of Charleston with amazing and cool exhibits, and definitely a hidden gem in Charleston. Fun fact: My Facebook profile picture is of my kids standing in front of a skeleton of a giant cave bear that is on display there. OK, that fact is probably not that fun.

Anywho, we were driving downtown and searching for parking. I figured that since it was a rainy Sunday, parking would be fairly plentiful near the museum. As I approached the building, I decided to see if there were some spots on a side road. I turned right and was traveling along, and saw an open spot on the road to my left. As I went to turn, I saw something in my peripheral vision. Yeah, that would be a car, in a left lane that I did not actually realize was there, as plenty of Charleston’s downtown streets are like 6 feet wide but still designed for two cars for some reason.

Now, I know it sounds like I am giving excuses for getting hit. I’m not. I screwed up. I completely own that. When the police officer showed up and asked the other driver and me what happened, I spoke first. “Yeah, this was my fault. I pulled in front of him and didn’t see him, and he didn’t have time to stop.”

I know conventional wisdom is that you should never admit to fault at the scene of an accident. But I have always told my kids that when you screw up, you own it. And I screwed up. So I owned it.

The officer wrote up an accident report, noting that I was the one who caused the accident. And he is correct. I have filed the appropriate paperwork with my insurance company, and we will hopefully have all this behind us in due time.

It’s an unfortunate life hiccup, but one you just have to deal with. I guess if there is a silver lining, I can tell the rest of my family that, “Hey, accidents can happen to the best drivers out there.” Even if I may have to do some convincing to them that I am still one of the best drivers out there…

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.

 

Fun scientific fact: One of the longest measurements of time identified by scientists is that block between the time your phone falls out of your hand and the moment you retrieve it from the floor and flip it over to see if the screen is cracked.

I recently experienced this near-epoch when my phone, for inexplicable reasons, decided to leap from my hand at a restaurant. I watched my phone tumble toward the ground, time grinding to a halt. Seasons passed, species evolved, continents shifted.

And then boom. It hit. Face down. I had that pit in my stomach that I have felt before. Quite a few times, I have been quite relieved upon picking up the phone to find it perfectly fine. This was not one of those times.

As I surveyed the damage, a server walking past said, “Did it crack?” Apparently the look on my face said it all. “Oooh, it cracked…”

Indeed. I texted my wife. “And I just dropped my phone and cracked the screen. So yay.”

She responded, “See if you can find somewhere to get it fixed quick.”

I opted not to respond to that text because it was the worst advice ever given in the history of mankind, as I dropped my phone at 3 p.m. On a Sunday. On Christmas Eve. There was no hope for a quick fix.

On a whim, I went to Google. A nearby repair place popped up. Just to be able to prove to my wife that her advice was just awful, I called, waiting for the obvious voice mail that would no doubt say, “You broke your phone on Christmas Eve? Guess who’s outta luck? Hint: Look in the mirror.”

I did not get that however. Rather, I got Steven, who asked how he could help me. I told him I had just broken my phone screen and was hoping to get it fixed. To my surprise, he did not let out a sinister laugh. Rather, he asked me what kind of phone I had. I told him an iPhone. He said, “No, I mean, a 6, a 7…”

Ummmm….

Fortunately, I was there with my kids. I asked Steven to hang on a second, and asked my kids what kind of phone I had. “6S,” they said in bored unison, which tells me they may have had to tell me this before.

I told Steven. “Sure, bring it on in, and I can knock it out for you.”

I responded, “You mean, today?”

“Sure. Bring it on up.”

I headed to the store, fully expecting the bottom to drop out of this and find out there was some catch or something, and Steven would say, “Oh, THIS model of 6S costs $8,000 and won’t be ready until March.”

No such misfortune. He did a quick once-over on my phone and said, “Should have it ready for you by 5.”

I had about an hour to kill during the repair, at which point I learned two very important things:

1. I am very tethered to my phone on NFL Sundays, and found myself feeling very left out when unable to watch constant score updates
2. I have no idea what to do when in line at a Starbucks without a phone. My daughter was with me, and I would have considered having a conversation with her, but she was busy on her phone

I headed back around 5, and Steven had fixed the phone, good as new. He was nice as he could be about it, and sent me off with a Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, indeed, Steven.

The phone shattering was an unfortunate detour on Christmas Eve, but I am glad it all got sorted out quickly. Granted, the moment I saw it was shattered, I was never in doubt that it would get fixed that very day…

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.

 

After a couple of recent incidents, I have retired from being the guy who tries to make other drivers be courteous.

I have done this for two reasons: (1) It doesn’t seem like it’s really making a difference and (2) my wife politely asked that I not get shot in traffic.

Now before I tell you of the incidents, I have to say that I am not a road rage person. I don’t scream and yell at other drivers. But I have been known to maybe offer a kind word of suggestion to my fellow motorists, in the nicest ways possible.

Of these last two, the first was when I was heading into work the other day. I was driving along on a big highway, with traffic moving at a pretty good clip. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw a truck barreling toward me. He swerved to the other lane just as he neared me, almost clipping my bumper. My window was down, and I instinctively threw my arm up in the air, palm open, giving the international sign for, “Dude, really?”

And he instinctively threw his arm out the window giving the international salute that comes with a single finger. And of course at the next traffic light we were right next to each other. He turned and said something to me. I rolled my window down so I could hear what he was saying, which was surely just something along the lines of, “How’s your day going, good sir?”

Nope.

Turns out he asked what my problem was, although he added a an adjective before “problem” that is unfit for family newspapers.

I responded, “My problem is that you’re driving like an idiot. Slow down and stop weaving in and out of lanes before you cause an accident.” The light turned green, he again saluted me, and we parted ways.

The second incident occurred in a parking garage. I park in garages a lot, and one of the biggest peeves of my life is people who cannot park between the lines. Topping that? Great big ol’ vehicles who think they fit in a compact spot.

I was behind a truck that tried to park in a compact spot. After about five tries, he still could not get it. Traffic was backing up behind me as this guy kept at it. Eventually, he backed out and started to pull forward. Finally, I thought. Some sense.

Nope.

He put his truck in reverse and began trying to back in. To a spot clearly labeled Compact. I rolled down my window and said, “That space is for compacts.”

He responded to me, “Guess I’m a compact now!”

And about nine tries later got his giant truck in the spot, thereby also making it difficult for the two compacts on either side to access their vehicles.

When I was relaying these stories to my wife, she pretty much said, yeah, I should stop doing that. And she’s right. These two individuals live their lives in a selfish manner, and no amount of lecturing from me is going to change that.

So this column is not for them. It is for you, good reader. The decent, kind souls who I know are out there. The ones who don’t need to drive like maniacs when traffic is already thick. The ones who make sure they don’t park where they inconvenience others. The ones who have a full shopping cart and let the person with a single bag of dog food go ahead of them at the grocery store. The ones who pick up their dog’s mess. The ones who tell a manager when their server has been fantastic. And, of course, the ones who return their shopping carts.

You, good people, are the ones we need to make this world a better place. And I know you’re out there.

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.

 

I love Halloween. As I write this column, my wife is wearing a witch’s hat and decorating the inside of our house with various Halloween themed knick-knacks. (Seriously. She’s hardcore with this stuff.)

We moved from my hometown about three years ago. Back at our old house, our neighborhood was the go-to place for trick-or-treating on Halloween. In fact, it was such a go-to place that we had to get the police involved to help with traffic control every Halloween.

Because of the perfect setting – flat streets, lots of street lights, and ample candy – folks would come from all over to go trick-or-treating in that neighborhood. And they came trick-or-treating one year to the point where we had a traffic backlog that would make Bangkok impressed.

The following year, we were proactive. Working with the local police, we had the entrances blocked off to cars, and those interested in coming to trick-or-treat had to park across the street at a nearby rec field parking lot. We kept count for a few years, and we had more than 1,000 trick-or-treaters each Halloween. And it was awesome.

Granted, some neighbors did not like the trick-or-treating onslaught. I respectfully disagree with them. I am all for anyone and everyone coming out for a nice night of trick-or-treating in a safe place and I’m happy to fill their treat bags with goodies. Like many neighbors, we would pull a table out to the front of the driveway and invite friends and family to pool candy resources together with us, so as not to break the bank on candy.

Our neighborhood now is still a fine place to trick-or-treat, although we don’t get nearly the same volume. Plus, my kids have aged out of the whole process, so they are more content with giving out candy, or, in some cases, just standing around and Snap Chatting.

So, Halloween, good. We all agree? Well now I have to say, “Halloween” bad. And I add quotes because I am referring to the movie. And I am not making a commentary on the merits of the movie itself, but rather as it is representative of the one movie genre I simply cannot watch.

Now, I know there are plenty of horror movie junkies out there who find this to be blasphemy. Let’s be clear: If you like ‘em, go watch ‘em. But I’ll pass.

I’m 44 years old and I know full well that a movie is just people pretending to be someone they aren’t in real life. And I also know that asleep Mike does not know that.

I know precisely the origins of my horror movie issues. It was the early 80s, and we received a free weekend of Cinemax, as the cable channels would periodically do. Unlike the other cable channels, Cinemax showed R-rated movies during the day. My mom told me that I was absolutely not to watch any R-rated movies. So naturally, I watched an R-rated movie during the day, specifically, “The Shining.” And I am pretty sure I did not sleep for about the next 14 months.

Having learned my lesson from that movie, I had a pretty good drought of horror movies until somewhere around 1996, when I watched “Scream.” At that point, I was in my mid 20s, and I was of course fully aware that it was just a movie and surely nothing that would creep into my subconscious late at night. And cue viciously horrific nightmares that kept me up for the next few nights.

I have not watched a horror movie in more than 20 years, and I plan to keep that streak going. As everyone enjoys Halloween in their own special ways, I hope that those who love horror movies will keep enjoying them. I, however, will not be partaking. I’ll stick to what I know. Which is handing out candy and wondering just how long my wife will wear the witch hat around.

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.

 

Dear Summer,

I love you. I really do. Now go away.

Love, Mike

P.S. That was a lie. I hate you.

Yes, it’s that time of year when we have technically transitioned into fall, but where it is still a bajillion degrees outside and mosquitoes still feast on me if I am outside for about a millisecond.

I am in my fifth decade on this planet, and I have lived most of it in the South. And pretty much every year when this time rolls around, I have the same sentiment.

Now, I know what you may be saying. “Mike, if you don’t like the weather here, why don’t you move.” Well, first off, while I don’t like summer, I like winter even less. I have a friend who moved from south Florida to Rochester, NY, a few years ago, and I assure you I don’t envy him when I see pictures of him using a snowblower for what seems like eight months out of the year.

And I love living in the South. Sure, we have our warts and the occasional PR issue, but for the most part, it’s a lovely place to live. My family is here. Most of my friends are here. The food is fantastic, you’re never that far away from anything you want to do, and Cheerwine is readily available at most any store. Our beaches are beautiful, our mountains are majestic (if a little shorter than those out west), and our dirt roads, while oft mocked, can lead you to some of the most scenic drives around.

So, I love you, South, but once again you’re killing me with the weather.

As it does most years, this fall teased us a little by giving us a few days of lovely temperatures. We all get excited and open windows and maybe, just maybe, even consider making sure we know where our favorite sweatshirt is.

Then, after two days of that, Southern Mother Nature says, “Just kidding, y’all. I’m gonna make it 90 again.”

I remember years ago when my grandmother, who spent the vast majority of her life in the South, told me, “You know when you get used to the heat in the South? Never. That’s when.” And every year about this time, I am reminded of how right she was. But I am especially reminded of it when we have officially entered fall and I go to sit on my back deck to work and have to use bug spray and a fan, which, oh by the way, is really just pushing around more hot air, so it’s kinda like someone standing there with a hair dryer pointed at me. When college football has kicked off, I should be able to wear my good luck Bama sweatshirt, by gum, and not die of a heat stroke as a result.

But I will weather (ha!) a few more weeks of this, and eventually we will get to the point where the temps will dip to the appropriate levels, and my family can have our first big batch of chili of the season. And I will ease into the rest of fall and then winter knowing that the temperatures will soon be more to my liking. I will take delight in drinking the occasional Cheerwine and not shoveling snow. And before I know it, it will be summer again. And I will remember that I will never get used to 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.

 

When my daughter was little, probably the most common thing she heard me say was, “Hula hoop!”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Either (a) that’s a very odd thing to have your child Hula hoop on command or (b) why?

Hopefully, more of you went than (b) and thus don’t think I simply order my children to do party tricks.

The reason for this command actually has a straightforward origin. I am a big fan of personal space. When my daughter was young, she was not a big fan of personal space. She had no problem standing right next to you. This was especially problematic when we were walking places, and she would begin drifting into my air space. We’d be walking along, and suddenly, we’re shoulder to shoulder and she’s pushing me off of my very straight line.

Now, before you get the idea I am some anti-personal affection father who will send my children to a lifetime of couch sessions because of my inability to hug my children, that’s not the case at all. I just don’t want to be careened into when I’m walking down the grocery aisle.

So, when my daughter would drift, I would say, “Hula hoop!” I told her to pretend she had a Hula hoop around her at all times, and that’s how much personal space she should give. And if she did not heed my warning, I would get her an actual Hula hoop, and that would certainly not bode well for her social life should classmates see her out in public.

My daughter is 17 now, and I don’t have much occasion to remind her of Hula hoop space limits. I do, on occasion, have to remind her to look up from her phone lest she walk into the kitchen table.

The Hula hoop directive popped up in my brain recently when my son and I went to a restaurant to watch a football game. This place is clearly a destination for Sunday football, as when we walked in wearing our Falcons shirts, the hostess told us where the Falcons game was on and seated us right by a TV. Also, below the TV was a sign that read, “Falcons vs. Bears, 1 p.m.” Kind of a pretty big hint that those in the area would be watching the game.

Side note: There was a group of Eagles fans in the bar. Those dudes are intense. We’ve all heard stories of how rough Philly home crowds can be. I now believe every single one of the stories I have ever heard.

As we we were watching the game, I was amazed at the number of people who consistently ambled by and stopped RIGHT in front of us, all up in our business, oblivious to the fact that they were standing right in front of people who had been seated at a table to specifically watch the TV that really clearly stated it was there for folks watching that game. Naturally, I tapped each on the shoulder and said, “Hula hoop.”

I kid. Rather, my son and I just made angry faces at each other and the occasional grunt or growl, and then loudly shifted our chair so we could see the game and hopefully get the attention of the person. No such luck.

Cluelessness abounded. Each time it was like when my daughter was little. Just come on in and occupy my space and have no compunction about it.

Now I get that places get crowded on game days, and sometimes it gets a little snug. But this was not one of those times. There was ample floor space to not be almost sitting on my lap, blocking my view.

I think the next time we go out to watch a game, should the same thing happen, I will gently tap the person on the shoulder and ask if they might take a step or two to the side to clear the view. Surely most decent people will realize their error and politely step away. Granted, I will probably just let it slide if it’s one of those Eagles fans.

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.

 

I am a simple person, with simple pillow needs. The other three people in my house? Complex people, with ridiculously complex pillow needs.

Over the past 20 or so years, I have had two pillows. The first one was a fine pillow, probably purchased for something like $3, and it did its job for years, which was to provide some minor elevation for my head during sleep. I didn’t need it to do much more, because during 98% of my time spent with it, I was unconscious. The pillow could have been writing angry manifestos in its spare time and I wouldn’t have cared. I was asleep.

A few years back, my wife informed me that my pillow was, well, kinda awful. I told her it was fine, as it was doing its job. She told me that pillows are supposed to be thick and fluffy, and mine was kinda like a piece of cardboard at this point, in thickness and texture. I assured her it was fine, and if it eventually disintegrated, I would just grab a nearby T-shirt, coat, dog, etc. and use that as a pillow. I’m REALLY good at sleeping, and no pillow is going to get in the way of that.

Eventually, I gave in to the mocking of my pillow. We buried my old pillow in a somber ceremony in the backyard, marking its service with a simple yet dignified headstone. Or we put in the garbage. I can’t remember.

My wife got me a new one, and it’s one of those memory foams pillows that I have to say is quite comfortable. But it’s not like I’ve made light years of sleep progress with the new pillow. It’s just a pillow. It’s something that rests between my head and the bed for the five minutes before I’m out.

The rest of my family, however, is a collection of escalating degrees of pillow maniacy. My son has his pillow on his bed. But he also has a travel pillow that he likes to use in the car. When he was at camp last summer, he left his travel pillow behind at the camp, and I’m fairly certain he would not have been as concerned had he left his pancreas at camp. Fortunately, you can buy travel pillows at any truck stop. You cannot buy pancreases as far as I know, but who knows what goes on in the parking lot.

My daughter is next on the scale. She has a gaggle of pillows that makes this lumpy fortress of sleepy-time that she nestles into each night like it’s a cocoon. I have gone to wake her up some mornings and wondered if there was actually a human in the room, or if she has been swallowed by Freddy Krueger in the night, leaving only a massive pile of pillows on her bed.

And then there is my wife, who takes pillows to a whole different level. She has these two big candy cane shaped things that she uses to build part of her evening fortress. Then she has a smaller candy cane pillow that she puts behind her head. Sprinkle in at least three more pillows wedged in various places around the bed and my wife’s pillow fort construction looks like the Michelin Man is lying next to me.

Meanwhile, I’m just sawing logs with my good ol’ trusty single pillow. I’ve had this one for a while, and I think it’s probably starting to show its wear and tear. Of course, it doesn’t bother me, as it’s doing it’s job. But if (when) my wife tells me it’s time for a new pillow again, I will simply agree that it’s time. And I’ll take one of hers. There is no way she’ll notice.

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.

 

I try to be a courteous driver. And with that comes resisting the urge to become a vengeful road vigilante when other drivers are not.

Granted, if I did go to vigilante mode, it would be super passive-aggressive, where I would do something like leave a note on someone’s car window long after I was sure they were nowhere around to see me place it.

But recently, a couple of driving events pushed me to the brink of perhaps considering a sternly worded note.

The first happened as I was leaving work. My office is located on a very busy road, and when I turn left to go home, I often have to wait a good while for traffic to clear. No worries. I just plan for the occasional several-minute delay and go with it.

But the other day, as I was waiting, the car behind me did not have the same patience. He did not at all like how I was, you know, waiting for traffic to clear. He whipped around me and shot out into traffic, causing oncoming cars from both directions to have to slam on brakes.

Now, you may be saying, “But, Mike, perhaps he had a loved one in his car and they needed medical attention. Or perhaps he was a surgeon and he had to get to his transplant surgery immediately.”

No, because his maneuver did little to save him time, and we were side by side at a stoplight about three blocks away. I assure you he was just impatient. I gave a mean side-eye to him just to let him know I meant business.

The next event happened on my way into work. I was in the right lane of a four-lane road, a few blocks from the office. The light turned green, and I started to go. I heard a loud rumble, and looked in my passenger’s side mirror and saw a motorcycle coming at a very high rate of speed. He was passing all of the cars in the right lane. He shot past me and took off down the road. Alas, he was gone before he could see my look of disappointment, as I know that would have really stung.

But sometimes, you get the tonic you need for such an ailment. My daughter and I were driving over the Ravenel Bridge recently. For those of you not familiar, the Ravenel is about a three-mile, eight-lane bridge that goes over the Cooper River in Charleston. When we first got on the bridge, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a car coming at a very high rate of speed.

We were in the third from the right lane. It shot past us, and my mental radar guessed it was going about 90. Fun fact: The speed limit on the Ravenel is not, in fact, 90.

As it past us, it swerved over all four lanes to the far left. It passed another block of cars, and swerved four lanes to the right. Rinse, repeat.

On his fifth pass across all four lanes, that sweet, sweet tonic appeared. An unassuming SUV that was traveling the bridge activated its blue lights. My daughter was exceptionally excited, as this was the first time she got to witness road karma first hand.

I feel like that took away a little of the sting of the other road incidents. Granted, the other two still kinda bum me out. I just don’t get why it’s necessary to, well, be that guy. I mean, we’re all in a hurry. We all have places to be. Just suck it up and deal with it. There is really no reason for behaviors such as that. If everyone on the planet would just slow down a little and be respectful of everyone else, the world would be such a better place.

But that’s not going to happen any time soon, unfortunately. So I will do the only thing I can: Keep a notepad in my car for passive-aggressive messages, and hope for more unassuming SUVs.

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.