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Childhood Family

I Spy a dad who needs to step it up

I know that parenting can be hard sometimes. But there are some things that, let’s be honest here, should not be that difficult.

Playing I Spy is definitely one of those.

I witnessed this the other day when I went to pick up lunch for my wife and me. (Quick side diversion: It was cold and rainy, and so a grilled cheese and soup sounded like a good combo. Apparently, that sentiment was felt by roughly everyone else on the planet, which resulted in a long line at the soup place. Two different people in line took turns complaining about how long the line was. Yes, how dare all of these people have the same reaction to cold and rain that you did. Anyways, back to the story.)

As I waited my turn in line, I heard a little girl behind me. “Dad. Let’s play I Spy. Dad. Dad. Daddy. Daaad. Dad. I Spy. Let’s play I Spy.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Dad was not responding. Dad was on his phone. Dude, I’ve been there. Probably in the last 24 hours. I get it. But there are a few things you need to accept in life when you are a parent, and one of those is certainly that you are not only obligated to play I Spy, but to play it correctly.

I considered playing I Spy with her, but then I reminded myself that I am some random dude in a restaurant. Eventually, the dad heard her and he looked up from his phone.

“Yeah, um, fine, I Spy something yellow.”

“Banana,” she said, pointing at the enormous banana picture on the wall, and the only yellow thing in sight.

“I Spy something blue,” he said.

“Ummm.”

“We did it last time we were here,” he said, which we all clearly can see is a violation of internationally agreed upon I Spy protocol.

“Blueberry,” she said, pointing at another painting on the wall.

She decided it was her turn. “I Spy something yellow!” She said proudly.

“Yeah, banana.”

Fortunately the line progressed and it was my turn to order, and I stopped eavesdropping. And I could stop twitching a little bit at the dad’s horrible grasp of how to properly play I Spy with a kid.

As much as I wanted to, I did not do my civic duty and tell the guy how I Spy is supposed to work with little kids. So, in case you are wondering, the rules are:

  • When you are the dad, the first color you pick needs to be one of the most common colors that is in your current field of vision. That keeps the kid occupied for a long time. The only way his banana choice was an acceptable option is if there was a painting of multiple bananas, a sun, Spongebob and lemons. That way, you can draw the game out, as it is designed. “Is it a banana?” “No!” “Is it that banana?” “No!” Is it a lemon?” “No!” Is it Spongebob?” “It IS Spongebob.”
  • When you are a dad, never guess the right answer first. This is not a race. This is distraction action. If your competitive nature leads you to the point where you need to win quickly, you need to recalibrate your life.
  • Never go back to old answers. Kids have amazing memories. And again, the point of I Spy is to kill time. If you picked the blueberry last time, find a different blue. Trust me. There’s something blue. The sky will work.

OK, in fairness, I don’t know that dad was going through. I am sure the dad was plenty harried and was at his wit’s end, as every parent is pretty much all the time. But I just believe that there is a certain baseline of parenting that needs to be adhered to, and that starts with the basics of I Spy. It just makes sense. Kinda like a grill cheese and soup order on a cold and rainy day.

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.

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Uncategorized

It’s not easy being crimson

So we have had a few days to process The Game. Bama’s fourth national title in seven years. That’s eight in my lifetime (although I readily admit to not being aware of the first three; I was 1, 6 and 7, respectively).

This game was one the cleanest I’ve seen – only six penalties, hardly any chippiness, and no Public Enemy No. 1 from either team. It was a heavyweight slugfest, start to finish. Clemson played as good of if not a better game. But Alabama had just a smidge more, and thus ended up with the trophy at the end.

The crowd, on TV at least, was a decidedly Clemson crowd. Those I know who were at the game confirmed that. They were going nuts with excitement. Bama fans, while certainly cheering, were not in a Mardi Gras mindset, even after the final whistle blew. One friend of mine noted that the Bama fans weren’t even smiling on the way out of the game.

It’s true. We probably weren’t. The feeling after the game was just … relief. And it’s hard to explain this, and most people will roll their eyes and hold very insincere pity parties for me when I say this – but it’s hard to be a Bama fan.

Yes, I know. Poor me.

But when you have had this level of sustained excellence, you really do become defined by championship or bust. The day after the championship game, I was taking my kids to school. There in car line was an SUV with Ole Miss flags flying high. And it made me mad. The trophy hadn’t even left Arizona, and all I could think of was how this season was flawed, and we have a two-game losing streak against the Rebels.

I am sure many of you feel as if you would gladly trade your team’s last seven years for mine. If you asked me if I would switch, say, Bama basketball for, well, most any program, my answer would probably be yes.

But beware of your cursed blessings. When you have become integrated into The Process, failure is losing in the playoffs. Failure is a 10-win season. Failure is certainly that Kick Six that just will never go away. Failure is anything short of a title. And it doesn’t even feel like a total success when you have that one blemish from way back in September.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Woe is me and the rest of Bama Nation. Poor us. But when next year starts, and you are full of hope and excitement for a new year of possibilities, the Crimson and White head back to work. There are no moral victories. We know we’ve got a long haul ahead of us, with only one acceptable destination. And a stop in Oxford, Miss. on Sept 17 is a key part of that journey. And should we leave that game 3-0, we probably won’t smile leaving the stadium. We’ll just leave relieved.

Categories
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.

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
Childhood Family

It takes a village (especially when you lose your kid)

Most anyone who has been the parent of a small child has experienced this: You are out in public, and you make the mistake of taking your eyes off your child for three-tenths of a second, only to look back and see that your child is nowhere to be seen, at which point your brain says, “Well, I guess this is how you become a made-for-TV movie, so pretty much time to panic.”

It happened to me years ago when my son was about five. I was at the Children’s Museum in Atlanta, and my son pretty much vanished before my eyes. As in any children’s museum, there are eight bajillion places a kid can be, so I didn’t immediately go to panic mode. Of course, I did have one of his grandparents with me, so that certainly put a sense of urgency to locate said grandchild.

Parker had climbed under a table and we found him rather quickly, and thus we were not forced to go to Defcon Level Grandparent.

My kids are older now, and I don’t really need to worry about them wandering off or disappearing. In fact, if I’m at a store with them these days, I’ll often remind them that they are free to go and shop at any other place in the store I am not.

But the other day, I had a flashback to that sense of panic. I was checking out at the grocery store when a woman walked in with a small child, probably two or so. She was old enough to walk fine, but she was still at that age where you know that if you introduce a slight incline, her walk will gradually develop into a run which will without a doubt develop into a roll. Fun fact: Most dads find that roll hilarious when done harmlessly on grass, but never share that with moms.

Fortunately, no incline in the grocery store. But there were cookies. The grocery store keeps a little bin of sugar cookies right by the customer service desk, and clearly the little girl knew there were cookies.

As they entered from the other side of the door, the mother stopped and peered into a shopping cart. It was one of those carts that had a whole bunch of items marked down. As she stopped to consider whether she should get the candy canes for 80 percent off, Cookie Monster took off. She sped up, toddling and wobbling across the grocery store.

The mother looked through the cart for about three seconds, tops. She then looked down to her right. And then to her left. Nothing but grocery store floor. She looked left. Then she looked right, in my direction. I saw the look. Panic. Sheer, abject panic. Her worst fears were coming true. Her baby was … and then she saw me pointing at her daughter. Then she saw the woman in the aisle next to mine pointing. And the older gentleman at customer service. And the grandmother who was blocking the other exit doors with her cart. Don’t worry, mom. The village is here.

The mom nodded a rather embarrassing smile and began a hurried walk/run/shuffle combo over to little Ashley, who now had her cookie. Fortunately, we are not a judgmental village. The grandmother walked past and told the mother what a pretty young girl Ashley was.

The mother smiled and said thank you, taking her daughter’s hand (the one that was cookie-free). The walk back to her starting point was no doubt one of those chats we have all had. “Ashley! You CANNOT walk away from me! You need to stay with Mommy!” And let’s be honest — those conversations are way more for the parent than the child, as more than likely, what Ashley was hearing was, “Eat the cookie” on loop.

So in the end, it was that scary moment for a parent at the time that all of us old seasoned vets knew was no big deal at all. It was just cookie time.

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. Visit his blog at www.mikeslike.us.

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Family

Continuing resolutions

I’ve never really done New Year’s Resolutions, mainly because I am, well, perfect. Nothing to improve on here.

Clearly, the first paragraph was not written by wife.

So the reason I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions is not some contrarian, anti-establishment thing. It’s just that I never really have done it. I’ve tried to quit or start numerous things in my life, with varying degrees of failure, and I’ve found that the best time to do it is when everything lines up. Basing it on a single date never seemed like the best strategy for success.

To those who make them, good on you. Go to church more. Hit the gym. Quit smoking. Stop spoiling Star Wars for people who haven’t seen it. I wish you success in your endeavor, and hope you make it past next week.

For those who don’t succeed with their resolutions, to those I say: You are an abject failure and a disappointment to all who believed in you.

Ha! Little demotivational humor there. Seriously, get back up on that horse and finish what you started. Or quit. Or whatever it was you decided you would do.

As for me, I’m not going to make any real definitive resolutions again this year. There are several areas of my life that could use improving upon, as is the case with anyone. But I’ll address those in due time. Instead, I think this year I will offer up some Continuation Resolutions, although not the kind normally reserved for political maneuvering. This new year, I will vow to continue doing — or not doing — some things that I think make me just a swell person.

I resolve to continue to put back my shopping carts in either the corral or back in the store, as that is the easiest and most direct way of proving you are not horrible.

I resolve to continue to give a courtesy wave that is clearly seen by a fellow motorist who lets me in traffic.

I resolve to continue to stick rigidly to the 10 item limit at the grocery store express lane, and never, ever try to justify it with, “Oh, it’s only 11, and the store is practically empty.” Integrity. It’s what’s for dinner.

I resolve to continue to be fascinated by airplanes, deer, dolphins, and As Seen on TV products. Yes, I really am a simple man. But those things always bring me child-like happiness.

I resolve to continue to let birds come eat at my squirrel feeder.

I resolve to continue not complaining when the trash guys leave my trash can in the middle of my driveway after emptying it. I backed into it one time, and my initial reaction was, “Oh, come on — did you have to leave it right behind my car?!?!?!” I then reminded myself (a) I should have looked and (b) dudes are hauling away my garbage. Leave it wherever. I’ll take it from there, and I look forward to next week’s visit.

I resolve to continue to take the dogs out in the morning as a pair, not individually, since apparently a big bad boxer will cry and whine if the old Dachshund doesn’t go with him. The big baby.

I resolve to continue to try and convince my wife to watch a Marvel movie with me. Any of them. I feel confident 2016 will be the year I break her and convince her superhero movies are one of our nation’s greatest exports.

I resolve to continue to look at the boxes in storage in my garage and strongly consider going through them.

I resolve to continue visiting with you good folks each week and sharing what I hope is a pointless but enjoyable diversion, which will most likely be needed during a presidential election year.

Happy 2016 to you all, and thanks for continuing to put up your shopping carts.

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.

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Childhood Family Uncategorized

Christmas memories

The other day, my son found an old video recorder. He wanted to charge it and use it shoot some nature videos. No problem, I said.

I dug into a basket that has roughly 48,000 assorted chargers and eventually found the right one. (For what it’s worth, I am fairly confident that, should you ever need a charger, we have the exact one in that basket. There are far more chargers than the number of electronic devices I have ever owned, so I can only assume they multiply and evolve.)

Once the camera was charged, I turned it on and saw the video screen on the back come to life. There are nine panels on the screen, each a thumbnail of the video it represents. Eight were blank. The ninth showed a tiny image of two little critters sitting on some stairs.

I pressed play on the video. The image filled the screen. The two critters were my kids, sitting on the third step of the stairway in our home. I heard my voice. “It is 2010. We’re on the third step. Merry Christmas!”  (The third step is a critical Christmas morning barrier, and anyone who lives in a one-story should assemble a three-step stairway unit that kids are required to sit on Christmas morning. It’s the most effective child containment device ever assembled. The third step is the ultimate Christmas morning blockade. Leave the third step and Santa’s offerings will have disappeared. I don’t make the Christmas rules. I only enforce them.)

My kids were 7 and 10 in the video. My daughter is an old soul, so she probably had already figured out that Santa had certain helpers who were key players in the Christmas morning bounty, but she was not about to let on any doubt. Hedge your bets. My son, however, was all in. I asked my wife what was next. The kids chimed in.

“Look at the carrots!” my son said. “The carrots!!!” my daugher echoed. I looked outside. Indeed, the chewed up carrot bits left on the front steps showed that the reindeer had, indeed, been there and feasted upon their treats. I really don’t like carrots, so I am glad the reindeer did. And that we are now beyond that. You know, for other reasons…

“Back to the third step!” my daughter said. Training.

At this point, they were, understandably, most interested if Santa had come. I told them to wait for a second while I checked with mom.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” my daughter said, trying not very well to hide her annoyance at the Christmas delay.

The video showed me trailing into the den, surveying the scene. We had a slight pause as my wife had to plug the tree lights on. This did not please some. “Don’t peek, Parker!” I heard my daughter say. Ever vigilant. It appeared Santa had indeed been to our house. They seemed almost relieved. Apparently, there had been some doubt. I suppose they were sitting on the third step going over the previous year’s behavior and wondering what was potential for nullification.

Once my wife was in place, we told them they could come in. They sprinted into the room and squealed with delight. There was Felicity (which I think is a doll), my daughter’s very own “hair supply thing with my name on it” that she had wanted (whatever that was), some hex-bugs (whatever those are), a Razor scooter that sparks (because that sounds safe), and a mechanical dog that walks on a leash (because our three actual dogs weren’t enough apparently). There were also Smurfs somewhere in the mix. Also, Santa left a letter to the kids, which was awfully nice of him. The video was three-and-a-half minutes of bliss.

This year, Christmas will be, hopefully, full of similar bliss. But it will be different. I think that was the last time they will have both been at the age where Christmas magic envelopes them in a sphere of awe and amazement. Christmas is still awesome, but seeing a kid completely swathed in the moment is pretty special. I’m glad my son dusted off the video camera and I found that clip. It was a special moment for our family. That time of mystical amazement may have passed, but I still look forward to every Christmas morning with my family. Certain things may be missing now, but that’s OK. It’s the nature of life. And if we need to find even more positives, carrots are no longer part of the equation.

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.

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May the Force (Awakens) be with you…

We are just a few days away from the most anticipated movie in a franchise in decades.

I am talking, of course, about “Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Road Chip.”

Ha! Little nervous humor there. Like any good 40-something, I cannot wait for my Christmas to come early this year, when the latest Star Wars movie hits theaters. I have not been this excited for a new Star Wars movie since the last time they rebooted the franchise, with the oft-maligned prequels.

I had a similar anticipation for those movies, and while they weren’t exactly the same caliber as the original trilogy, I don’t hate them with the white-hot intensity some do. The main reason for that: Yoda.

When “The Phantom Menace” was re-released in theaters in 2012, I took my son and nephew to see it. When Yoda appeared on screen — in particular when he busts out his lightsaber and a heaping helping of green Jedi fury — I watched a 7- and 9-year-old experience the same thing I had years ago. All the Jar Jar hate in the world can’t take away the image of seeing two little boys experience big screen Star Wars awe for the first time.

And so here we are again, wildly anticipating the next chapter. And 43-year-old me feels like 8-year-old me all over again. Is it a little silly for me to be this excited about a sci-fi movie? Probably. But I don’t care. So a few thoughts as we bide our time waiting for Dec. 18:

  • My kids are excited about going to see the new movie and asked if we could do a marathon viewing of the earlier movies. I said that we could, but we’d probably just skip the prequels because, you know, Jar Jar. Then I realized why no longer having brick and mortar Blockbusters around is a bummer. You can’t rent Star Wars anywhere. You can buy it online for $20, but that’s about all I could find. So, one day when they are grown, my kids will get to share the story of how their dad showed them the original trilogy by stringing together YouTube clips.
  • I still have all of my Star Wars toys, and have passed them on to my son. They are in rough shape, especially the greatest Christmas present I ever got, the Millennium Falcon. They are not in rough shape because of my son. They were in rough shape when he got them, because I played the heck out of them when I was a kid. Anyone who kept their Star Wars action figures in the packaging to preserve them should not be allowed to go see the new Star Wars movie. In fact, if you are my age, I think you should have to present one busted up action figure in order to be admitted. (“Here’s a one-armed Lando Calrissian. If that doesn’t work, here’s a C-3PO I spray painted blue, and a Darth Vader with a plastic martini sword glued to his hand.”) If you are a kid with action figures and a Millennium Falcon, you need to play with them. And make the “pew pew” noises.
  • My Chewbacca and Yoda impressions are strong, and my wife will undoubtedly have to endure a larger number of them than usual this week. Please keep her in your thoughts.
  • Anyone who posts spoiler information online is a bad person and hates good things. I’ve never quite understood why ruining surprises in a movie is fun for some people.
  • I don’t particularly like it when movies in a franchise make cheeky references to previous movies. That said, if somebody doesn’t “have a bad feeling” about something in the new movie, I will be disappointed.
  • When “The Phantom Menace” came out the first time in theaters in 1999, I went to a midnight showing with some friends. I did not have kids then, and thus I will not be doing that this time. It’s not that it’s too late for me. Rather, I don’t want to endure the next day with two grouchy kids who didn’t go to sleep until 3 a.m.

So my fingers are crossed that the new movie will live up to the hype that we had for the first reboot. Even if it falls more into the prequel camp than the original trilogy in terms of quality, at least I will be heading back into the Star Wars universe again on the big screen. If you are not a Star Wars fan and just don’t get the hype, that’s fine. You like what you like, and I’ll like what I like. And may the Force be with you.

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
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.

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
Childhood Family

Respect the cows.

I just completed a 1,500 mile road trip with my family, and I am pleased to report that we will never, ever go on a trip in a car again.

I say this not because of my family, but rather because it feels like someone has inserted hot needles into my lower back. I am sure this pain will subside in due time, and by the time we are ready to head out again, I will have forgotten the white-hot intense pain that sitting in a car for eight hour stretches does to me. Plus, I have taken the proactive healing approach of reminding my wife every six minutes that my back hurts.

Fortunately, my family is getting to where they can travel in a fairly civilized manner. My daughter is 15 and my son is 12, so the main issues that arise are summed up in two sentences that were repeated my son approximately 43,000 times:

  1. “Allie, I can hear your music. Turn it down!”
  2. “Allie’s Snapchatting again.”

Ah, little brothers. As my three older sisters would no doubt agree, they are wonderful. His first complaint is rather trivial. My daughter has her earbuds in perpetually, usually listening to Broadway songs. If he can hear so much as a peep from “Hamilton,” time to sound the alarm.

The second one comes because of our constant warnings to the kids about using too much data on their phones. We made a mention once that the social media app Snapchat can be a data hog. And, since my daughter is 15, she is Constitutionally required to Snapchat every waking moment of her life to her friends. That said, I don’t need Deputy Parker to enforce our data laws constantly on the interstate. Sheriff Mom will handle that in due time.

As we were driving (and getting constant updates on Allie’s music volume and data consumption), my wife and I reminisced on how this was waaaaaay better than traveling with them at other stages of their lives. We thought of the stages:

STAGE ONE: One brand new child. We drove to Florida, and she screamed. The. Whole. Time. When we discovered that Elmo would practically hypnotize her, we became car TV converts for life. “La la la la. La la la la. No screaming…”

STAGE TWO: One toddler, one brand new child. Toddler is old enough to inform us that brand new child is ripe, something we could already determine because, you know, we have the sense of smell. One particular time, brand new child decided to evacuate everything possible, and just for fun did it during a torrential downpour. I pulled off at the first interstate exit we came to — with toddler giving running commentary the whole way — and pulled into a fast food place. Turns out, this was probably the sketchiest, filthiest fast food restaurant ever, and I managed to clean up a brand new child while he was balanced on a raised knee, lest he come in contact with anything associated with a Sketchyburger restroom. Meanwhile, my wife and toddler had the pleasure of sitting in the car, windows rolled up because of the storm, with toddler commentary going strong about the wonderful smells her brother had left behind.

STAGE THREE: Two kids, both mobile, both communicative, both wanting to watch a different movie at the same time, despite the fact that there was only one TV. This was one of the times my wife went Super Jedi Mom and laid down the ultimate mind trick on both of them. After miles of squabbling over, I don’t know, which Toy Story to watch, we had both had enough. My wife does not often raise her voice. Thus, when she does, it comes with some serious gravity. She whipped around in her seat and barked, “PARKER! ALLIE!” They both stopped and looked at her. She pointed out the window to a field — “THERE ARE COWS. NOW BE QUIET!” They both immediately went mum. After a few miles of silence, I quietly said to my wife, “Cows?” She said, “It worked, didn’t it?”

So I guess we’re at Stage Four, teen and a pre-teen. I guess the next big road trip we take will be Stage Five, two teenagers. Perhaps at this point, they will both be so consumed with social media and massive data overuse they will simply ride for the duration of the trip in silence. Granted, if they do start to get out of hand, I know how to handle the situation.

Cows.

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
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.

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.