Observations

The Sooner Move

After using trash days to target my weekly “purge” goals, the day finally arrived. No matter how much is tossed, donated, left at the curb the night before trash day, or loaded with kitty litter so it can be thrown out with the normal trash (mostly paint), the day before packing was full of surprises. The box of photo albums hidden behind clothes in the closet is an example of little things that threw our box count off. Fortunately, Home Depot and Lowes both got some of our business.

On moving day, the crew arrived at 9:00ish. (I was out making a box run when they arrived.) They had an indoor and outside crew. (Think “tear-down and load furniture” crew and a “load boxes from the garage” crew.) Labels were slapped on everything, and the Tetris began. We had to do some last-minute shuffling of items to accommodate the “no chemicals or perishable foods” rule. Once this was done, we were pretty confident we could make everything fit in the two cars. (The van was already packed to the rim. The Camry was the overflow vehicle.) After a Sonic run to get everyone drinks somewhere at the midpoint of the loading, the “goodbye” was all that remained.

This house was where family, exchange students, hockey players, and a few random others ate pizza and carnitas. It was a happy place with a swimming pool and quirks only an inhabitant could appreciate. Yet, it was a place of SO MANY memories. We are confident new memories and adventures await us in that “state up North.” (Our previous state was Ohio, where the “state up North” has a much more negative connotation.)

Jump ahead 5 hours…

My wife and I both enjoyed our separate feast on the way up. (She did the Chick, and I did the Arby’s “4 for $10” special.) The unloading time was half of the packing time. Things would have stretched out if the crew had been better at putting boxes where they were supposed to go. However, because we still under-purged, there were more boxes than floor space. The garage became a 50+ box pileup.

Two days into the future (Thanksgiving morning), most boxes/containers seemed to have survived their encounter with the OK state line. My desk was on life support (dumb particle board) before we left Texas. It was an unfortunate casualty. We haven’t found the lamps yet. Except for the wall “ding” and the usual mishaps, the move to Sooner-land crawls forward. May we make it a home and avoid any of the windy mischief that visits this part of the world!!

**Note: Apparently, moving truck drivers can only be on the “clock” for 14 hours in a row. Then, they need to be off the road for 10 hours before they can drive again.

Trash Days Prior To A Move

When you are preparing to move with 33 years of marriage and 4 grown kids who have moved out of the house, trash days are like holidays. How? The days leading up to that day are full of preparation and excitement. I cheer on my wife. I set unreachable goals, and I count the number of trash days leading up to the move. All normal behavior, right?

When the move was a “maybe” or “eventually”, the pace was much more casual. As the switch flipped into the “yes” column, the strategy changed. No longer was I content to create a bag or two of trash per week. The pace was accelerated and the goals were not limited. Based on my desire to stay ahead, the goals were immediately raised as soon as they were reached. If we had 6 bags of trash for Tuesday’s trash day, I would start campaigning for one more. (If 7 was reached, I would raise it again.)

With two trash days per week, consistency has been a problem. The weekend efforts allow us to have a handful or more bags on Tuesday. The Friday pick up day is limited to big items or stuff where sorting isn’t necessary. Some of my old work stuff was not patiently explored. It was dumped into trash bags with no regard to specific value. “If it is over 10 years old and in a box that was part of our previous move, then it is dead to me.” Maybe a little over-dramatic, but a pre-moving purge is not for the overly-sentimental.

My wife is charged with the sentimental choices. If the kids might like it, she puts it in a group chat for them to comment on. If none of them like it and it seems too valuable to throw out, it is posted on the local gifting exchange. This has caused a stream of strange individuals creeping towards and front door to acquire their “one level above trash” item. (They are placed outside the front door. Our interaction is typically limited to watching them park in front of our mailbox and rapidly slink up the sidewalk. One incident was especially funny. A china cabinet we had no use for was gifted, but the husband picked up a dresser instead. Dutifully, the husband returned and made the swap.) Granted, Goodwill may be the ultimate home for some of these items. That way, the item might still be sent to the trash but our consciouses will be clear.

As we swing into the final week before the trucks show up, a few key areas of the house designated as “kid” areas have been reserved. After our daughters arrive today and tomorrow for our early Thanksgiving this weekend, they have been given the request to make their keep/throwout decisions by Thursday evening. That way, I can make sure all bags of trash can be ready for pickup by 8:00. And, if any trash is found buried in one of the remote secret passageways of our earthly castle, I can still get it out on moving day, Tuesday, next week.

Walmart Drones On

Yes, that is a drone you are seeing. The left is what I pulled out of the sky while dodging sunshine. The right is what it looks like closeup.

Yes, the Walmart drone has come to my neighborhood. As I was in the backyard earlier this week, I heard this buzzing noise. As I look in the direction of the sound, I see the drone rising from the neighbor’s yard. As soon as it reaches the proper height, it heads North to the cage in the Walmart parking lot. I am unlikely to ever use it myself. Yet, it would be an interesting experience.

Paper Jam At The Library

Before I tell the story, I should explain the title. Where I live, the state offices and city offices are on a different voting schedule. Voting for the state offices involves a trip to the local courthouse. To vote for the city offices, we go to the library. This is where my tale begins…

As I planned my errands today, I slipped the postcard into my pocket that suggested who I should vote for. When I showed up at the library, I waved my postcard in front of the people who were maintaining the proper distance from the front door. Yet, somehow, it was unavoidable to get into the library without passing them.

As I walked up, I could clearly see there was no line. That, combined with the postcard in my pocket, should get me out of there very quickly. After checking in and loading my ballot, I punched up and reviewed my voting choices. There was nothing left to do but push [PRINT]. This involved my voting choices being transferred to the ballot. After printing my choices, I was supposed to take the ballot and go to the final location to have it scanned in.

This is where today’s experience was unique. When the ballot was printed, it had a paper jam. It scrunched up like you have possibly experienced with your home printer.

After a poll worker came to my location, her first question was, “Can I touch your ballot?”

“Of course. I realize you want to protect my privacy. It’s no problem,” I said.

She thanked me for being understanding before she became the “voting machine whisperer.” She boxed out the voting machine after she ejected the mostly intact page.

“I will guard the machine until you get the page scanned in. If we have to print another one, I won’t let anyone use it.” Knowing the importance poll workers put on the integrity of the voting process, I knew no one would challenge her.

The ballot was scanned into the final machine smoothly, and I gave the enthusiastic poll worker a thumbs-up. I applaud her commitment. While not intentional, I am glad I could give her day a little variety. 🙂

Burning My Face Off

The picture just looks like rosy cheeks. The cracking skin and uncharacteristic hat scream of something else. The evidence smells of advice from a dermatologist. And, yes, you would be on the right track.

After visiting the dermatologist for several years annually, the visits bore fruit last fall. (Not happily born, but it was present nonetheless.) There was a small spot on my shoulder that was easily and almost painlessly removed. Yes, it did hurt. It hurt my dream of living forever more. The cancer was one of many strong arguments that confirmed I won’t be on this planet forever.

So, when I had another dermatology appointment 6 months later (2 weeks ago), I was hopeful it would be a quick body scan followed by a thumbs up. It wasn’t a thumbs down, but it did have a “…maybe you should consider.” Apparently, I had some pre-cancerous “stuff” on my face. I could ride it out and see if any of it graduated to real cancer, or I could apply this cream for 5 days. Being a cautious guy, I took the “short-term pain for long-term gain” approach. I only have a few regrets:

  • My face feels like it is cracking when I scrunch it up. Nothing a little shiny Vaseline won’t help.
  • Fortunately, people will never say anything in public about your shiny face. But, I am convinced they notice the Vaseline glistening off your face.
  • I was told to apply the cream to my forehead, temples, and the top of my ears. These 3 were not the source of emotional trauma. The lateral cheeks are where the redness/sunburn leaped off my face and into the eyes of everyone I encountered. An incredibly humbling location was the corner of my nose to the corresponding corner of my lip. It was a bright red, and to fulfill the sunburn warning I was given, these locations thrived on peeling.
  • The hockey games we attended were low lighting, but I was still convinced every conversation had the other party’s eyes riveted to my scorched face. The Brahmas baseball hat could not cover my whole face. The experience was very reminiscent of going through puberty and the challenges of unexpected acne.
  • The hat I am wearing in the image is my Outback Hat. It may not be what they wear in Australia, but in my mind, this hat style is tied to that continent. This hat has become my new companion as I continue to take my walks and limit sun exposure.
  • The humorous explanation was, “My wife’s superpower is her X-ray vision. As she has gotten older, her superpowers sometimes ‘sneak out’ without her being able to control them. She accidentally irradiated my face. Fortunately, my eyes were closed when she did it.” (Yes, I have come up with better stories, but the skinburn lingers. I will be able to laugh more about it next week.)

The Oblivious Driver

As my wife and I took the “last eclipse of our lifetime” eve bike ride, we had to cross a heavily trafficked highway. I had hit the “cross” button while waiting for my wife to catch up. The left-turning traffic was taking full advantage of the yellow flashing arrow…and then the lights changed, and my wife and I owned the crosswalk.

The image is not entirely accurate, but it is representative. As our bikes navigated the abbreviated crosswalk, I admit to holding a glare longer than I should have. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it may be one of the first times the driver seemed to show no guilt.

As far as the image goes, it is correct. The driver never looked up. The windshield? Yes, there was a windshield. The lack of one in the image might be me forgetting to mute my “super-heat” vision.

ReHoming Day

Not sure when this happens in your part of the country. It is more regular than Christmas, but for some it is better than Christmas. If you live in the country, you may not have the opportunity to experience this incredibly emotional day. Oh, yes, most of us call it trash day.

I have developed the habit of putting potentially valuable items out the night before trash day. These have been bicycles and, most recently, suitcases with problematic zippers. In the eyes of a rehomer, these can be great treasures. When I put the regular trash and the recyclables out the next morning, I get to play a little game and imagine the household that would find these items valuable enough to throw into the back of their already full pickup truck.

While my friend took some liberties with the suitcase’s appearance, here is the adventure he wrote for them:

In the quiet town of Oddsville, where the unusual was usual and the mundane was celebrated on the second Tuesday of every month, there lived two suitcases. These weren’t your garden-variety, run-of-the-mill suitcases; no, sir! One was a flamboyant pink with zebra stripes, the kind of suitcase that wouldn’t just turn heads at the airport but would cause full-blown whiplash. The other was a sober black number, with more patches than original fabric, looking like it had been around the world twice and fought a grizzly bear along the way. Their names were Pizzazz and Grit, respectively.

Pizzazz and Grit found themselves in the unfortunate position of being tossed into the trash. Pizzazz was indignant, “I’ve been to Paris, darling! The trash is no place for a suitcase of my caliber!” Grit, ever the stoic, merely grunted, “It’s just another adventure. Could be worse. Could’ve been recycled into a pair of unfashionable shorts.”

Their fate took a turn when the Johnson family, notorious in Oddsville for their love of secondhand treasures and questionable fashion choices, stumbled upon them. Mrs. Johnson, a woman with an eye for potential in the most unlikely places, declared, “These will be perfect for our family trip to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine!”

And so, Pizzazz and Grit embarked on their second life. Pizzazz was dolled up with an array of new stickers, each more eccentric than the last, from a glow-in-the-dark alien proclaiming “I Want to Believe” to a scratch-and-sniff pickle. Grit, on the other hand, was given a thorough cleaning before being adorned with a series of hand-drawn maps showcasing all the “adventures” it could look forward to—like navigating the perilous living room during the annual Great Uncle Ned’s Snoring Competition.

The Johnsons’ trip was anything but ordinary. Pizzazz found herself strapped to the roof of a car, next to a canoe that was used more for storage than water navigation. She couldn’t help but admire the view, though she often wished for a pair of sunglasses. Grit, ever the pragmatist, was stuffed to the brim with snacks, emergency supplies, and the kind of items one brings on a road trip when convinced they’ll be facing a zombie apocalypse rather than a tourist attraction.

Upon reaching the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, Pizzazz and Grit realized they had become more than just luggage; they were part of the family. They had contained everything from mismatched socks to the cherished souvenir twine ball (a mini version of the giant one, because who could resist?). They had been the pillow in a roadside nap, the impromptu table for a picnic, and the carrier of countless memories.

As the Johnsons headed home, the suitcases shared their stories. Pizzazz boasted about her rooftop escapades and the new stickers that now adorned her sides, while Grit recounted the tales of the snacks he’d safeguarded (and occasionally lost to hungry midnight raiders).

In the end, Pizzazz and Grit weren’t just rescued from the trash; they had found a new purpose. They weren’t just containers for belongings but vessels for the Johnson family’s adventures. And as they settled back into the attic, waiting for their next outing, they couldn’t help but chuckle at their good fortune. From trash to treasure, from forgotten to family—this was one adventure they’d never forget.

Scorpion About

In my nearly 14 years in Texas, this is the first time I have seen a scorpion. Yesterday’s rain must have chased him out of his den. He looks ready to strike something..? There is nothing close by I would have wanted to eat. If I were the target, I would have easily squashed or delicately picked him up and chocolate-covered him at home.

Ode to Pants

Everyone had pants under the tree this year. My AI friend, when prompted, came up with pant’s ditty:

(Verse 1)
Oh, pants, dear pants, you’re my daily strife,
Full of zippers, buttons, the story of my life.
High-waisted or low, you come in all sizes,
But why, oh why, do you hide surprises?

(Chorus)
Pants, oh pants, what’s your grand plan?
Sometimes too tight, or way too span.
But without you, what would we do?
Naked bottoms in the morning dew?

(Verse 2)
From skinny jeans to baggy slacks,
You come in styles that leave us waxed.
Cargo pockets or denim blue,
In pants we trust, forever true.

(Bridge)
So here’s to pants, our fabric friend,
Supporting us from start to end.
No matter the fashion, no matter the trends,
Pants, you’ll always be our rear’s best friends!

This was not “his” best work. Yet, with the extra sugar from cinnamon rolls and our caffeinated bloodstreams, it strangely hit a cord.

I Like A Better Ratio

A couple of weekends ago, most of my family made a quick trip to North Carolina to celebrate my in-laws post-50 anniversary. We were grateful we could go. We squeezed in a college graduation before returning to our home briefly, and then driving to the airport for the North Carolina flight. With waiting on flights, layovers, and time in the air, we had over 10 hours involved with transportation. Even including the two nights we spent there, we had less than 40 hours in North Carolina. It is travel:to:non-travel ratio I want to discuss.

I don’t know where “whirlwind” begins on the travel spectrum. If you are absent from your house for 48 hours and 20% of that time is spent in the “there” and returning from “there,” it may not qualify as a tornado, but maybe a “tree-bending breeze” or something like that. When we fly to Europe with a roundtrip travel time of over a day, I like to have at least 7 days between the flights. (Notice the greater than 4:1 ratio.) If you will travel great distances for a few hours at the destination before beginning the return trip, we are unlikely to be travel buddies.

Whatever your ratio is, your “whirlwind trip” will look different. If you hate traveling with no upside, there is unlikely to be any ratio of “travel-to-non-travel”. As a medium-ish homebody, I tolerate but accept brief periods with disruptive travel schedules…as long as I have a few months to prepare for the flurry of activity taking place within the compressed time. I may not be the most fun to travel with. Fortunately, my wife doesn’t complain…much.