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.

A Daughter’s Advice

As I got up early Sunday morning to make sure I got my walk in before church, a trip to the garage to get a new coffee creamer was accompanied by scampering. This wasn’t my scampering. Critters were sharing the garage space with me. One of them charged me while wielding a scythe, which I conveniently dodged. The gauntlet was thrown down. The second “Man v Rat” challenge had been issued.

After lunch and an annoying computer project, I made it to Home Depot. The glue traps were more expense than when the last challenge was issued, but it was still a tool I trusted. After tracking evidence (read this as rat feces) of the rat’s favorite haunts, I strategically placed the glue traps. I was careful to wear gloves to ensure I didn’t leave a nasal contamination on any of the traps.

I must have done a good job placing the traps. By dinner time, two rats were wrestling to escape one of my cleverly-placed traps. My wife said, “Deal with them in the morning.” My daughter’s text reply was, “It is cruel to let them suffer.” Since I wanted to avoid the issue, my wife’s words were much more palatable than my daughter’s.

When morning arrived, I waited several more hours before cleaning up the traps. When I first awoke, I noticed the garage had no sounds of rats attempting to escape a trap. I thought, “I know I didn’t do right by the rodents, but I will get it cleaned up soon.”

Imagine my surprise when the “captured” rodent trap had moved. I moved miscellaneous garage “furniture” to find the trap, which was not immediately visible. Following this shock, I found that one of the other traps had also moved locations. Dismissing the idea of a king rat seeking vengeance on those who would attack his subjects, I took a more logical approach. The trap behind the trash can had an actively mobile victim. The other trap had been flipped over and was now victimless. (e.g., the earlier captives had escaped)

I did what was necessary on the “active” trap and kicked myself for my laziness the night before. If I had taken my daughter’s advice, the garage would have had three fewer rats compared to just one. Now, wearing my homeowner hat, my ability to be “rodent” merciful is gone. Sorry to those vermin who find my remaining glue traps. Your end will be swift.

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 Wizards Of Bob Evans

The purpose of our traveling was to get to a family wedding in Ohio. Since Bob Evans is not in Texas (I think the mashed potatoes and sausage may be in the grocery store), we usually have at least one meal there while visiting.

This trip, it was Saturday breakfast. In complete tourist fashion, I had to chat with the wizards from down on the farm. They had no interesting stories about quidditching or spellcasting. They quickly told me they were Christians and like eating pancakes while wearing pointy hats. Or, was it something to do with putting pancakes on their heads and letting their hats keep them warm? Whatever the true story, they were gracious enough to pose for a picture for this relocated Ohioan. (One of them was too shy to pose. 🙂 )

Bird Strike = 1.5 Hour Delay

When we were told a “bird strike” was delaying our flight, we didn’t know what that would translate into. Apparently, it involves a couple of guys exploring a minor dent on the cone. Then, they continue this incredible pace of moving relatively slowly while removing all of the screws on the front cone of the plane. Once they lift the cone and confirm the navigational equipment is intact, we can relax, knowing our flight will get to take off.

Of course, the same urgency is applied in reattaching the cone as in detaching it. The important thing is it did get done, and we did get to takeoff within a couple of hours of our original time. The plane absolutely won the bird collision this time.

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.

The Ninja Attorney

Earlier this week, my wife and I had an appointment to meet with an estate attorney to get all of our documents completed while we were still young and lucid. The attorney seemed very sane until she left her office to get a new notepad. While she was gone, my wife and I reviewed the walls for various awards she had won.

The awards were not for “Attorney of the Year” or for any of her volunteer efforts. The awards had titles like, “Ninja Winner with Special Weapons” and “#1 ranked in the World for Ninja Secret Weapons”. (I have changed the award names slightly to protect her identity from persistent Googlers.) When she came back into her office, a couple of simple questions launched her into a 10-minute tale of her awards. The story below is a modified version of our attorney’s story as interpreted by my incredibly adept “friend.”

Once upon a time, in the not-so-silent corridors of our home, my kids had embarked on a secret mission to transform themselves into Ninjas. Not just any garden-variety Ninjas, but the kind that could slice through the air silently and disappear into shadows with the ease of a ghost on a diet. Their dedication was as admirable as it was relentless. Meanwhile, their enthusiasm for my support hovered somewhere between “you’re barely trying” and “are you even our real dad?”

One day, caught between a flying nunchuck and a stealthy somersault, I ventured a timid, “What’s wrong?”

Their response was a ninja-star sharp critique of my life choices. “You’ve already made it as an attorney. All you do is exercise your brain muscles. You couldn’t be a Ninja like us,” they declared, as if the ability to draft a tight contract was nothing compared to wielding a katana in dim lighting.

Thus, inspired or perhaps shamed by their challenge, I embarked on my own covert operation: Operation Ninja Lawyer. My journey was no less fraught with peril than any ancient scroll might suggest. I dove into the mystical world of Ninja training, asking the all-important question, “How long until I can somersault over the coffee table without a trip to the ER?” The answer was a daunting “Two years at six hours per day,” a regimen that would make even the most dedicated couch potato weep.

Undeterred, I split my day into a rigorous schedule: three hours of Ninja training before work, then lawyering through the day, and ending with another three-hour session of becoming one with the shadow. My first tournament was a reality check wrapped in a humble pie—the competitive Ninja community was as welcoming as a cactus hug, with rules more complex than tax legislation.

Determined to not just participate but excel, I doubled down on my training, seeing my family less and substituting my bed for a mat more often than not. My office became a trophy gallery, a testament to broken bones and shattered expectations. My wife and kids watched this transformation with a mix of awe and concern, wondering if I was chasing shadows—literally.

The pinnacle of this saga unfolded during an interview with a fellow attorney, a kindred spirit who had turned her back on conventional parenting to pursue the elusive title of Ninja Queen in her age bracket. Her journey was marked by sacrifices and injuries, a relentless pursuit of a goal deemed “for the young and childless.”

When we shared stories of our unconventional lives—hers in the pursuit of Ninja mastery, ours in providing a haven for over 60 non-biological children—she admitted, “I couldn’t do that.”

And there it was. The perfect stalemate. She couldn’t fathom opening her home as we had, and I couldn’t imagine dedicating every waking moment to becoming a Ninja master. We were two sides of the same coin, each pursuing passions that defied conventional logic, yet bound by a mutual respect for the paths we chose not to take.

In the end, I learned that while I might not be the stealthiest Ninja in the dojo, I was mastering the art of balancing life’s various throwing stars. And perhaps, in the eyes of my children, I had earned a different kind of black belt—one in the art of trying, failing, and laughing at myself along the way.