Categories
Home improvement

Make it work

Such wisdom from a teenager: “Dad, don’t tell Mom ‘I told you so,’ ok?”

I took a deep breath. “I can’t promise you that.”

My daughter and I were trying to replace a gazebo canopy on our back deck, and this was moments after we realized we had gotten the wrong size.

The canopy had torn last year courtesy of Hurricane Matthew. I had tried to patch it together with some heavy duty tape, which looked just as classy as you would expect.

My wife and I had been in a home improvement store recently and saw an entire gazebo for sale for the, it seemed to me, quite reasonably price of $200. I said, “Let’s buy it.” My wife, being the sensible one, said, “Yeah, let’s not right this second, ok?”

When we got home, she began searching online, where she found a canopy for sale for $25. I am not a mathematician, but I think that’s less than the $200 for the entire thing.

The seller sent my wife some pictures and the specs. We went to the back deck and checked the measurements and tried our best to make sure the pictures matched our model. It looked FAIRLY close. “I’m not sure it’s the same model,” I told my wife.

She reminded me that $25 is waaaaay less than $200, and that it would (a) fit or (b) not fit, and we can chalk it up in the “C’est la vie” category.

I went and picked up the canopy and brought it home. My wife and son were gone, so I decided it would be a fun surprise if I got it up before they got home. It was definitely a two-person job, so I enlisted the support of my daughter.

The first thing we did was savagely rip the old canopy off, celebrating the removal of our torn and worn covering. Once done, we unfurled the new canopy. Seemed to be the right size, just as the measurements had promised us.

Then I looked at the corners, where it attached to the frame of the gazebo. Not at all the same. And not at all going to work. I climbed on a ladder for closer inspection, as if being six inches from the obvious mismatch would somehow make it fit.

I mumbled something about how I knew it wasn’t go to be the right one. OK, mumbled probably isn’t the right word. Grumbled loudly, probably.

I dropped the canopy and let it fall to the deck flooring. I stared at my daughter, who decided to offer up the choice words of household harmony.

My daughter, being the perpetual optimist, said we could probably find a way to make it work. I told her that the connection points were for a different model, and that it would not ever work and that it was probably the worst thing that had happened to anyone in the last decade or so.

“What if we used zip ties to connect it?”

Oh. Right. Sure, let’s try that.

After about ten minutes, we had the canopy secured, with the zip ties firmly in place and tucked away out of sight. My daughter asked if she could tighten the zip ties, which I realized after the fact was so that she could remind me that it was not only her idea but her sweat equity that got the job done. No credit for Mr. Pessimist. Rightfully so.

When my wife came home, she was pleased to see the new canopy up. Our daughter was quick to tell her that she was the brains and brawn behind the assembly, which she was. And I gave her full credit for that. I was proud she came up with a solution and executed it. I told my wife that our daughter had done a great job, and I thought the canopy looked great. Even if it was a different model. Just as I had told her.

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

 

Categories
Home improvement

Washed up

My wife and I have been together for more than 20 years. So suffice to say, I can determine with fairly good accuracy what situation awaits when I hear my name called from another room at a louder than usual level.

For example, there is, “MICHAEL!” in a high, fast, curt tone. That means there is a roach crawling across the floor.

Or, “MI-CHAELLLL…” in a sing-songy sweet delivery, which means she has found the missing wallet I have been trying to find for our hours, having located it exactly where she had suggested I look hours earlier.

And then there is, “MICHAEL!!!!” in a quick, urgent yelp, which clearly says, “Pause ‘Dr. Strange’ and get in here right now because the laundry room is flooded.”

Yep, heard that last one the other night.

As I leapt from the chair, I told our daughter to pause the movie. Even the teenager who was really into the movie knew that pausing the movie was the a-plus move based on mom’s tone.

Sure enough, I entered the laundry room and water was everywhere.

“That’s not good,” I said, making the single boldest statement ever.

Safe bet it was the washing machine, as it’s the only thing in that room that routinely hangs around with gallons of water. We began putting towels all over the floor, and pulled the washing machine out to clean up as much as we could. Fun fact: Do you know what is behind and under your washing machine? A nightmarish collection of yuck that probably makes beneath your fridge look like an operating room. Also, several pairs of underwear.

Once we cleaned the entire area we decided to start the washing machine and see if we could pinpoint the problem.

We started the wash and the water started flowing into the unit. “We may have to wait for the whole cycle to run,” I told my wife, “so we can determine where along the cycle…”

And then water came pouring out from underneath the washing machine.

Never mind. It’s this part of the cycle. I turned the washer off and we cleaned up our newest flood. Wondering if perhaps I could fix this problem myself, I watched three YouTube videos on how to remove the cover from a washing machine. After realizing I was unable to even figure out how to get the cover off and look at where the problem may be, I confidently said, “Yep, time to buy a new one.”

OK, I am sure I could have called a repairman or someone with a hint of mechanical skills. But the bottom line is this washing machine is older than my oldest child, and has slowly been breaking down over the years. Even if I could fix this problem, I would just be delaying the inevitable.

So we set out washer shopping. I say “we” because that makes me feel like I played a part in this. I did not, as I would have walked into the store, seen a washer, and said, “I’ll take it.” My wife, however, actually does research on these things and finds out which units are, you know, good.

Eventually we (she) found some potential models. She humored me by taking me to the store and showing me the two finalists. She asked which I preferred. I said, “That one. It’s cheaper.” She informed me there was more to it than that. I told her that’s why she is in charge of important things in our house, and I am in charge of killing roaches. Skill sets.

So our new unit should be delivered in a few days, and hopefully this one will serve us for many faithful years. And if it does have some issues, especially after its warranty has expired, I will just YouTube some ways to fix it. And then buy a new one.

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

It’s a gas gas gas

Folks, here is one truth I know: There is only one correct response if your significant other says, “You go on. I’ll call the fire department.”

That’s right – hit the road! You’ve been given the green light, and your best guy/gal is shouldering the worries of whatever the fire department may be coming out to tend to so go take on the world!

Oh, wait. I mean, exactly the opposite of that.

The other day my wife and I were planning on heading out for the day, and my wife told me she smelled something. “Don’t you smell that?” she said. My wife walked around the house like a bloodhound, nose in the air, sniff-sniffing wherever she went. “There. There. Not there. There.” Eventually, I decided to uproot myself from my chair and walk the house with her. After a few sniff-sniffs, I caught a whiff, too. And it was strong.

We found the smell concentrated in an upstairs bathroom and our downstairs laundry closet. As we wondered aloud if it was a gas leak, it was at that moment that my wife and I both had the frank discussion where we admitted to ourselves that we did not know if, in fact, we had gas coming into our house. I am sure some of you mock us for that. Just a hunch an even higher percentage of you are saying, “Wait, do we have gas?”

After a thorough search, we found no culprits. I told my wife that we should cut the air up a little higher, head out of the day, and come back when it had all sorted itself out. This is the same approach I take to car repair and personal health.

My wife said she was not going to leave the house like this. At that point, she decided we should call the fire department and that I could just go on, if that was my prerogative.

I am sure you are not surprised to learn that I did not, in fact, head on out. Even I am not that dumb. I called dispatch and explained to the operator what was going on. She instructed me to get everyone out of the house and that the fire department would be there soon. My wife, son and dogs were already out back. I called up for my daughter and told her that we had to evacuate the house. She said, “I need to find my hairbrush!!!!” I told her to Get. Out. Now. “I’M LOOKING FOR MY HAIRBRUSH!!!” I ruin everything, with silly little evacuations and such.

The fire department showed up in a few minutes, and they searched the house and found nothing. Their meters weren’t showing anything harmful. They checked every room, every appliance, every nook and cranny. They told us we could come back in, and my wife, poking around in the laundry room, found the culprit – a gasoline-soaked blouse that was wrapped in a towel and tucked up snug against the washing machine.

We sorted it out in short order. A cousin who is staying with us had headed out early in the morning. She stopped to get gas, and the gas splashed back on her. She came back to our house, showered upstairs, and rinsed off the blouse. There were items in the wash, so she put the blouse in a towel by the wash and sent us a text letting us know what the deal was, as she didn’t want to wake us at 5 in the morning.

Turns out, said text never left the starting blocks. She was very apologetic about it, and we told her not to worry about it because, hey, if nothing else, column material.

I told the firemen that I really appreciated them coming out, and I was sorry if I had sent them on a wild goose chase. They assured me that they would much rather residents give them a call when in doubt, rather than, say, crank up the air and just hope it all blows over.

Hopefully we won’t be calling them anytime again soon, but I am relieved to know that they are quick on the draw when responding. Should we have a similar event in the future, I won’t hesitate to call them. But I will make sure I keep an emergency hairbrush outside of the house, just in case.

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

Mow, mow, mow your yard

I used to have a very simple three-part checklist to go over when purchasing a new lawnmower:

  • Does it meet my wife’s pre-approved budgetary ceiling?
  • Does it start after one or two pulls?
  • Can it roll over any and everything its path — including but not limited to sticks, rocks, toys, lawn furniture and laundry that has fallen off a clothesline — and still keep grinding away?

If the answer was yes to these, consider new mower purchased. And based on number three, that might explain why I purchase lawn mowers slightly more often than most people purchase shoes.

Yes, I am not exactly gentle on my mowers. But after my previous mower’s death, I found it was time to reevaluate things in my life.

My last mower was purchased off of Craig’s List, so while it did not come with a warranty, it did come with the guarantee of hours of anxiety leading up to the sale as I went through the many scenarios in which this transaction would go bad and I would end up in the news as just another one of the Craig’s List Lawn Mower Killer’s victims. “HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE SEEN THIS COMING, MIKE!?!?!?” I said to myself about 30 seconds before getting out and handing a guy some cash in the driveway of his very nice home. (Spoiler alert: He did not kill me.)

This mower was pretty solid for the first few uses. Started quickly. Mowed over whatever was in its path. Seemed to be a pretty solid character.

And then it revealed itself. I had filled up the gas tank prior to cutting the yard. My yard is not that big, so it does not take a whole tank of gas to cut the entire thing. In fact, it maybe takes a quarter of a tank. So when I finished, there was plenty of gas still in the mower.

Fast forward about an hour, and there was not plenty of gas in the mower. There was plenty of gas on the mower. There was plenty of gas around the mower. Even I can determine that is not ideal functionality from a gas tank.

At this point, something in me snapped. I was tired of messing with mowers. (Even if I was often the reason they were breaking.) I was tired of dealing with gasoline. I was tired of having chunks of children’s toys shoot out of the mower at lethal speeds when I run over them in the yard.

So I decided punt my requirements for a mower. I went rogue. When I told my wife my decision, she said, “Really?” Indeed, I had decided I would buy an electric mower. The cheapest one I could find. One that was just probably slightly more powerful than a ceiling fan.

I found one online for under $100. “Remember,” my wife said, “you get what you pay for.” I reminded her that my last purchase cost more and resulted in about three mows and a gas leak. “Fair enough,” she said.

In a few days, my mower arrived. The assembly took roughly four seconds, as it involved snapping the handle onto the base.

There is no cord to pull to start. Rather, you plug it in and push a button, and off it roars. OK, purrs.

It is not going to run over any large objects any time soon. In fact, the first time I used it, it ran up against some rather thick St. Augustine and had to make a few passes to get through it.

And yes, trailing an extension cord did occasionally present a hiccup during the mowing as it decided to get tangled around a wheel or a foot or a nearby tree. Upside – just stop and untangle, and then push the button again and you’re back and running.

And yes, I have to manage my personal expectations of yard manliness (or lack thereof) I am exuding. Sure you can have a conversation at normal tone while the mower is running. That doesn’t make me any less of man.

I have now mowed the yard a few times with it. It takes me a little bit longer than previously, but not by more than a few minutes. And so far, I don’t have to deal with any mechanical issues, and certainly no gas issues.

So I will continue with my adorable little electric mower for the time being. I will clear the path before I mow, and I will deal with the cord as I need to. And I will try and keep this one in good condition and hopefully won’t have to buy another one for a long time. After all, I’ve dodged the Craig’s List Lawn Mower Killer once. No sense in tempting fate a second time.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

COWS! and other parenting tricks

We were having dinner the other night, and we decided a good topic of conversation would be “The times we tricked you foolish, foolish children.”

OK, so that wasn’t expressly what was stated at the beginning, but the conversation did head that way. My kids are teens now, and we find it fun to look back on when they were little and my wife and I navigated the parenting waters and we maybe used a smidge of literary license to help us get through the day. I am sure other parents can relate. For those of you with young kids or planning on having kids in the future, tuck some of these away for future use.

  • We were at Disney years ago, and they had a station where you could make and then buy your own Star Wars light saber. My son was about three, and he was very excited about building his own. At the conclusion, I told him, “OK, now put the parts back in their right places so other kids can build them.” I never mentioned that you could actually buy your creations. Dutifully, he put all the parts back, and we didn’t buy one. Lest you think I am awful, remember that this was rather smart savings, as there was roughly a 100 percent chance that the light saber would not have made it out of the store intact.
  • The ice cream truck went through our neighborhood a good bit. And we USUALLY went out and got a treat. But some days, ice cream is just the last thing we wanted to contend with. “Yeah, I used to turn the TV up so you wouldn’t hear it sometimes,” my wife confessed. Sometimes, the ice cream truck just isn’t in the day’s plans.
  • We used to live in a very popular Halloween neighborhood. The kids would come home with pounds of candy. They could have eaten nothing but candy until the next Halloween and had plenty left over. After they went to sleep on Halloween, we would get a decent selection for them to have over the next week or so, and the rest would magically disappear, often at our places of employment. One year, we decided to store all of the candy in a bin and just hang onto it until the next Halloween, at which point we could repurpose it for trick or treaters. Fun fact: If you store candy in a bin where squirrels can get to it, you will, a year later, find yourself a bin with nothing but shredded candy wrappers and squirrel droppings.
  • Never upset cows. We were riding home from a trip, and the kids were starting to squabble in the back seat. As we rode through some rural country land, surrounded on both sides by cow pastures, my wife loudly announced, “KIDS! QUIET! THERE ARE COWS!!!!” Both kids went silent immediately. I glanced at my wife. “Cows?” I mouthed. She shrugged. But they were quiet for the next half hour or so.
  • We used to have a pool, and we would always sit with the kids when they were swimming. One of our strongest rules: Thunder = no more pool. In the house. Now. There MAY have been a time or two when, as both kids emerged from underwater, I said, “I heard thunder. Everyone inside.” Sometimes,  you’ve gotta get homework done.
  • Turns out, dentists do not require you to come for a wiggly tooth. When my daughter was young, my wife informed her that a tooth that was dangling by a single nasty little thread had to be dealt with, or, per our dentist, we would have to come in for an appointment, that we may have told her was already set. Thank goodness she did not call the bluff and she let my wife deal with the tooth, so we didn’t have to fast track a non-necessary dentist appointment.

Now, I know some of you are perfect people and never stretch the truth to fit your parenting agenda. And congratulations. You’re better than we are. I think our kids have grown up just fine, and I kinda enjoy sharing with them the stories of how we had to creatively parent at times. Hopefully, this will help them when they are parents, and their children are upsetting the cows and the thunder is getting closer.

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

Categories
Childhood Family

Because everyone loves Cleaning Day

I think we can all agree that the single most fun day a family can celebrate together is Cleaning Day.

Just listen to the shouts of joy from the kids! (Teenagers shouts of joy sound strangely similar to whines and moans.)

Yes, we (and by “we” I mean my wife and I) decided we (and by “we” I mean “my wife and I and the kids even if they came kicking and screaming”) were all going to knock out some housekeeping. My wife and I dutifully informed the kids that they both had a few chores they were going to have to take care of. We informed them of this when we were in a moving car so they had no escape and would have to listen to what their tasks would be.

The chores were fairly simple. Granted, based on their reaction, I think it’s a pretty good thing my kids weren’t born into Little House on the Prairie.

My daughter is 16, and we let her have as much privacy as possible in her room. And as long as the door can shut, we don’t really care too much what her room looks like. But every so often, we are greeted with two options: Good ol’ cleaning overhaul or we cut that section out of the house, move it safely away, and burn it.

She set off on her room cleaning initiative with minimal grumbling. I clean at a rather frenzied pace, so I decided I would let my daughter clean without being near her as she cleans at the speed of a very tired sloth, and it probably wouldn’t be very productive if I kept saying, “CLEAN FASTER!!!”

I did offer to assist by taking down any cups she had in her room. Fun fact: A teenage girl’s room can house well over 1,000 half-full Tervis tumblers.

Our son’s assigned chore was very specifically geared toward him: Clean up the giant tackle box that our front porch had become.

He is an avid fisherman, and he spends as much time when he’s at home at the ponds near our house. He keeps a lot of his fishing gear right at the front door so he can grab his stuff on the go.

Unfortunately, over time the gear gets rather spread out, often occupying the table and chairs on our front porch. My son doesn’t quite get the need for organizing something such as fishing gear on your front porch. He also doesn’t get the need for shoes, showers, shirts or eating off a plate. (We do hope one day to fully domesticate him.)

His first attempt to get out of the chore was to tell me that his tackle box was broken. I pointed at the very much not broken tackle box sitting amidst the lures and hooks and such. He informed me that was his saltwater tackle box. Oh, silly me. How foolish not to know.

Then, in what can only be described as a brilliant Jedi mind trick, we soon found ourselves at the store, picking out a new tackle box for his freshwater stuff. And a new rod. And some bobbers.

Oh, wait it can be described as something else: I’m a sucker.

In short order, he had his new tackle box organized, and the front porch looked far more orderly. He was off fishing in no time. (For what it’s worth, I am sure the order will be maintained for, oh, let’s give it two hours.)

So their onerous workday complete, both kids were able to resume their life of leisure and get back to doing the thing they love most: Not having to clean. Ma and Pa Ingalls would be so proud of their efforts.

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

Squirrels will be squirrels

Alright, squirrels. Enough is enough.

I have been accepting of squirrels for a long time. I get that plenty of folks don’t like them. But I find them somewhat entertaining, and I am willing to let them take part in my feeders. In fact, I adopted my father’s approach on this: Call them squirrel feeders, and then you are pleasantly surprised when birds show up.

But this has gotten out of hand.

By my estimate, I am on my 4,000th consecutive day of having to repair a feeder because squirrels make it so we can’t have nice things.

I have one small feeder I keep right on my porch. My back porch is my default home office, and I spend as much time out there as I can, as I enjoy being able to sit in peace and quiet for a good six seconds until the door slides open and someone says, “Dad, (insert sibling here) did (insert annoying thing one sibling did to the other that could easily be ignored but has to be a national emergency instead).”

But during my few moments of solitude, I enjoy seeing numerous different types of birds come to the feeder. We have a good understanding: I’ll keep the feeder stocked, and they will flit up and give me a nice moment of nature to enjoy.

The squirrels do not approach when I am on the deck. I will occasionally see them walking the fence or scurrying about in the trees. But they keep a wide berth when I am outside. And I think I know why. I think they know that if they approach, they will get a good talking to as to why, when I came outside, my feeder was on the ground again, and sunflower seeds were strewn about the yard.

Science fact: Squirrels loathe a good talking-to.

The feeder I have is not a fancy one at all. It’s a small wooden one that is easily dislodged by a couple of playfully destructive squirrels swinging it back and forth. I know there are numerous anti-squirrel feeders out there. Some of them quite hilariously sling the squirrels off. If you haven’t seen it, off to YouTube with you.

But there are two problems with the squirrel-proof feeders: (1) I kinda like the squirrels (2) my feeder is already in place and getting another one would require both time and money, neither of which I am readily eager to dispense with.

As I came out to my deck to write this column, I found the feeder on the ground again. And I had made the rookie mistake of leaving the bag of sunflower seeds in a chair on the deck, so the squirrels had also happily torn into that and left shells all over my deck. Really, squirrels? This is how you thank me?

I considered bringing them to the table for a summit to iron out our differences and find some common ground. But squirrels are notoriously stubborn negotiators, so I knew this would be a non-starter. Thus, I have decided on the only option left for me. I am going nuclear: I am now classifying my feeder as a bird feeder. You hear that squirrels? Yeah. I did it. This is for the birds. In a good way.

I hate to have to bring the hammer down in such a strict manner. But if there is one thing that raising children has taught me it’s that sometimes, you have to make the hard decisions for the long-term greater good.

My hope is that the squirrels will understand this harsh change and learn and grow. To any of my neighborhood squirrels reading this who have not been destructive to my feeder, I’m sorry that you are being punished for the bad actions of a few. But that is life.

I’m glad we are at a point where we can move past this, and I look forward to the time when I can welcome you back to the feeder, and you have matured to the point where you can show it the respect it deserves.

Also I’m guessing that some time around, oh, say, tomorrow, I will be buying a squirrel proof feeder.

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

 

Categories
Childhood Family

Fidgeting, flipping, and slime, oh my.

We were bored on a recent Saturday night, and my kids were wanting to do something fun. We weighed our options.

Board game? Nah. Movie? Nah. Chase you sister around the house with a Nerf gun and shoot her all night? One yes, one no, one abstention.

My daughter said, “We should make slime!”

Now, keep in mind my kids are teenagers, and well past the age when they were first introduced with making slime in school. That said, it kinda sounded like something fun to do, so why not.

I sent the kids to the store to get the required ingredients, which are incredibly complicated (glue and Borax). For all the parents who dread their kids driving, trust me, there are perks. Wanna make slime on a Saturday night? Fine. Go get the stuff yourself while I sit in a quiet house for a few minutes.

They were back in no time with the ingredients and in short order we had slime. I posted a picture on Facebook with the kids making their concoctions, with the post “Never too old to make slime.”

A teacher friend of mine commented, “I’m sorry, but that stuff is the bane of every teacher’s existence.”

And teacher friend, I feel your pain. My mother was a teacher, and I know how hard it is to be a teacher, and not just because my mom had the unfortunate teaching experience of having me as a student.

There are quite a few annoying fads that teachers have to deal with, and more pop every year. I remember when I was a kid, and one fifth grade teacher had to put a moratorium on bee catchers, these little paper contraptions we concocted that made a fantastically annoying clacking noise when you smacked them back and forth. We found them delightful. The adult tasked with trying to teach us math? Not so much.

There are several other fads that are quite popular right now that I am sure teachers cannot wait to see them go the way of the bee catcher.

Among those:

  • Bottle flipping. For those of you not familiar with this, bottle flipping involves a partially full bottle of water that is flipped, with the goal of landing it right side up. Or, you can really show your pro level and “cap it,” meaning you land it on the, surprise, cap. If you have never been around a bottle flipper before, do this: Have someone every so often come and just slap the table you are sitting at. Or the coffee table next to you. Or just any surface near you, in particular when you are sitting at your computer trying to compose an email.
  • Your mom. Not, not yours. But apparently, responding, “Your mom” is the trendy way to respond to any and every question. Seeing as how this was a popular thing back when we were making bee catchers, I’m not sure this one will die any time soon.
  • Fidget spinners. If you’re not familiar with these, they are these little spinner devices that kids love to constantly spin. And fidget. And there is a reason most every teacher on planet earth currently wants all fidget spinners to disappear forever.

I am sure there other annoyances teachers would love to see go away, and I’d love for you to share them with me. I’ll be happy to write a follow-up column. Until then, remember, summer is close. And you will soon be out of the bottle-flipping, fidget-spinning, your-mom nightmare. I just hope I haven’t inadvertently starting a resurgence in bee catchers.

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

Honk if you love new driving lessons

When a teen gets a driver’s license, they have to (in most states) take a driving course prior to taking the driving test.

This is a good idea, even if it can certainly be debated that letting teens drive is not.

That said, there are a few things that aren’t standard in driver training course, and I think it’s time they added some.

Some of the no-brainer additions: changing a flat tire, jump starting a battery, and how to properly wave thank you when someone lets you in traffic. But a recent event brought one more to me recently: proper honk protocol.

I was at a stop light the other day, and I will admit I was daydreaming a smidge. The light turned green, and I didn’t notice. The car in front of me had maybe gotten two car lengths ahead, so it’s not like I’d been sitting there for hours.

Now, the courteous thing to do – as the gentleman behind me would have learned in driving school had this been taught – would be to give two or three quick little beeps. Just a, “Hey, buddy, green light.”

Instead, he just laid on his horn. Even when I began to go, he continued with the horn. He also added some aggressive hand gestures, because clearly I had not gone immediately as a direct attempt to inconvenience him.

I considered slowing down as I approached the green light and hoping to wait for a yellow, but then I realized that was the dark, little vindictive corner of my brain that I have to hush on occasion.

I got through the light, as did the driver behind me.

But he was still mad. Either that or there was a bee in his car and he was trying to shoo it. And he was tailgating me. Or he was really interested in reading my license plate. Pretty sure it’s the prior on both accounts.

My son was in the car with me and glanced in the side mirror. “Dad, he’s mad.”

“I know, son. And when we get to a stopping place we are going to get out and fight him. Both of us.”

My son stared at me. “Ok, you’re joking.”

I find it somewhat disturbing that my 14-year-old thought, if only for a moment, that the best way to combat road rage was for a father-son battle royale.

“Yes, I am,” I assured him.

My son asked me what I would do if he followed us to our destination and said something to me.

I paused for a moment. Good question. I certainly wouldn’t engage angrily, as, although it has never happened to me, I don’t thinking getting beaten up (or worse) in a parking lot would be much fun.

I told my son I would simply say, “Hey, man. Thanks for the heads up on the green light. My bad.” And if he continued? I would add, “Hey, you’re gonna be OK. Have a great day.”

Fortunately, this scenario never had to be explored, as he turned off after a few miles. But a few quick lessons of horn protocol could have helped avoid any of this.

Need a gentle reminder to go? Beep beep beep.

About to merge into the side of my car? BEEEEEP!!!

About to merge into the side of my car while texting? BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!! BEEP!!! BEEP!!!!

(Can we stop for just a second to appreciate about much of a fun word “beep” is? Good. Carry on.)

Granted, even if you taught it, some folks are never going to follow the rules. Maybe this guy is one of those. If you’re reading this and the actions of the guy behind me sound a smidge familiar, just remember that not every bad thing in the world is someone out to get you. Sometimes, other people inconvenience you on accident and without malice. It’s nothing to get your blood pressure up over. You, good friend, are going to be OK.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s break into groups and have a discussion on the extreme severity of folks who don’t return shopping carts.

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.

 

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Cleveland rocks

Dear Ford,

Brilliant idea. And you’re 16 years late. You could have save me about 200 trips to Cleveland.

Sincerely,

Mike

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking a cat just walked over my keyboard and randomly typed a paragraph. Well, I don’t have a cat, so there.

Actually, when given context, it makes perfect sense (I think).

See, Ford has developed a prototype for a crib called the Max Motor Dreams that simulates a car ride. It looks like a regular bassinet. However, this bad boy plays car engine sounds and rocks in a manner akin to a moving car. Lights flash on and off to simulate streetlights being passed.

I think I speak for every parent who ever had to use a car as a sleep agent when I say, Ford, you must mass produce this and you must begin yesterday. Or, preferably 16 years ago.

When my daughter was a baby (guessing you can piece together that she’s now 16), her preferred method of going to sleep was never to go sleep.

For the first couple of years, my wife and I took turns trying to get her to sleep. This usually involved us walking the house at all hours of the night singing to her. If we so much as considered placing her in her crib, she would immediately become stiff as board and begin wailing a sound I am fairly certain is normally reserved for hyenas.

So we would walk. And dance. And sing. And walk. And sing. All. Night. Long.

But during the day, when it came time for naps, we had little success with the Mommy and Daddy Dance Party Remix. So we went to the old standby, a few laps around the neighborhood in the car. After a few blocks, she would fall fast asleep. Plenty of times, I remember pulling back in the driveway and thinking, “Hmm. She could wake up if I move her to her bed. Looks like it’s time to catch up on some NPR while I sit in my driveway for the next hour.”

This worked OK for the first few years. But then our daughter did what babies do and developed the ability to communicate with us. And, in particular, she developed the ability to ask questions. Lots and lots of questions.

Plenty of the questions were the standard ones: Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? Why can’t we put grass in the sky and make it green?

But one of her main line of questioning involved where we were going. Unfortunately, it’s not an acceptable answer to a curious three-year-old to reply, “Why do you care? You know like five places on the whole planet.”

So often times we would give her the answers. “Grandma’s” or “the store” or “the casino, of course.” But we knew quite well that our anti-sleep daughter was not going to be down with the answer of “We’re driving around so you’ll fall asleep and Mommy and Daddy can have one hour of peace and quiet and you won’t act like an angry cobra later this evening.”

So we went to Cleveland. Every time. “Daddy, where are we going?” “We’re going to Cleveland,” I’d say.

For some reason, she found Cleveland a perfectly fine destination, and eagerly got buckled in for yet another trip to the amazing place that is Cleveland.

Now, you may be wondering, why Cleveland? The answer is I threw a mental dart at the mental map in my head and that’s where it landed. We just had to go somewhere.

My days of tricking a kid into going to sleep are long behind me, but I still really wish I had such a thing as the Max Motor Dreams back in the day. It would have saved me countless of miles of roads traveled, and who knows how many hours of time. I could have put her in the crib and let the magic happen. Of course, the one downside is that she never would have gotten to go to Cleveland so many times.

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.