Travel

Old-School Fly Wars: A Swatterless Survival Guide

Since moving, my relationship with fly killing has taken a turn for the primitive. With my trusty fly swatter sitting in retirement (or lost in a moving box labeled “Misc”), I’ve had to return to the ancient, honorable art of manual fly extermination. Let’s review the current arsenal:

1. The Clap: Thunder in the Kitchen

This is the classic method—two hands, one fly, and a prayer. Does it work every time? Absolutely not.

  • Best used: When the fly is on an unobstructed surface, preferably somewhere elevated.
  • Technique: Approach from behind—their getaway car is always in reverse.
  • Success rate: Lower than my high school batting average, but occasionally glorious.
  • Note: If you miss, pretend you were applauding yourself for trying.

2. The Smash: Window to the Soul (of the Fly)

When a fly camps out on a window, the Smash is your go-to.

  • Needed: Napkin, tissue, or whatever paper product is within reach.
  • Method: Cover the fly, scrunch, and hope your hand-eye coordination hasn’t gone the way of your fly swatter.
  • Real-world example: Yesterday’s attempt resulted in a close call—the fly escaped with a story to tell at the next Fly AA meeting.
  • Disclaimer: All my rage is directed at “guy flies.” I like to think the lady flies are just lost on their way to a garden party.

3. The Grab: Picnic Table Panic

This move is for flat surfaces only: countertops, picnic tables, or any place where the fly can’t hide under your toaster.

  • Execution: Skim the surface, grab from behind, and listen for the telltale buzz of success.
  • Finishing move: If the fly is buzzing inside your hand, give a couple of shakes, then toss to the floor and quickly enforce the “no fly zone.”
  • Caution: May result in bystander confusion and/or admiration.

Swatter Status and the Flies’ Perspective

  • Fly swatter purchases: On indefinite hold, unless I stumble into a homeowner trade show or a hardware store offering a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a new plunger.
  • Reliability: Swatters are still king if the fly is parallel to the ground. My hands? Let’s call them “aspirational.”
  • House rules for flies: If you’re a fly who prefers dining while facing down, congratulations: you’ve found a safe haven.
  • Good news for flies: None of them read blogs.

Final Buzz

Until the fly population reaches DEFCON 1 or I cave and buy a new swatter, I’ll keep clapping, smashing, and grabbing—one primitive, questionably effective method at a time.
If you hear thunderous applause from the kitchen, it’s just me, celebrating the one that didn’t get away.

When Brisket Bites Back: A Tale of Smoked Hubris and Redemption

Act 1: The Brisket Blunder

Saturday’s dinner was supposed to be a triumph of smoked meat. The sides were flawless, the company delightful, but the brisket… oh, the brisket. The first three hours on the smoker gave us hope. Then Judy made a quick trip to Abby’s, and apparently, the brisket decided to use this window for its escape from “tender” into “chewy boot leather.”

Approximately one-third of the brisket was edible. The rest? Let’s just say it would have made a fine rubber band collection.

Act 2: CSI: Brisket Edition

We launched an investigation:

  • Was it the missing orange juice when we wrapped it in foil? This is our favorite theory, as it makes us look less incompetent.
  • Was it the smoker running too hot? (We plead the Fifth.)
  • Did I over-trim it? Possibly. Maybe. Okay, likely.

No matter the cause, our brisket won’t be joining our greatest hits playlist any time soon. And after two out of three brisket fails with the kids, we’re keeping the next attempt private. I’d rather have a meal as a backdrop for conversation than as a reason for continuous apologies.

Act 3: The Vegetarian Perspective

There was one bright spot: our resident vegetarian gave the meal an “A.” Black bean burgers, veggies, all the fixings—she was blissfully unaware of the brisket fiasco. Sometimes it pays to skip the main course.

Act 4: Sweet Redemption

Thank goodness for blondie brownies and ice cream. Dessert provided just enough sugar to help us forget our meaty missteps.

The next night, we redeemed ourselves with fajitas—chicken grilled to perfection (thanks, 10+ years of chicken experience!). Judy and I shamelessly angled for compliments, and the kids, to their credit, tossed us a few. The watermelon and street corn were the real MVPs, making the meal feel like a true celebration.

Epilogue: A Weekend Turnaround

We finished the weekend on a culinary high—proving once again that while brisket may occasionally defeat us, chicken (and dessert) will always have our backs.

Oklahoma Snow

As the weatherman gave us a couple days notice of the upcoming winter weather, I didn’t believe him. Having been exposed to how Southerners feel about snow, I expected a light dusting and empty shelves at the grocery store. We got more winter than I could have imagined, but it was done Southern-style.

  1. When we woke, the flakes were following. In Texas, flakes are often greeted by a layer of ice. In Oklahoma, our first winter storm had no ice. It was a very damp, packable snow.
  2. With no kids in the house to confirm, it appears that because of the snow and lack of significant snow removal equipment, the schools are closed until Monday.
  3. While I hadn’t completed my research at the local Walmart, my son, who has lived in Oklahoma for 10 years, assured me that the shelves were empty. His conclusion is formed more by stereotypes than validation.
  4. Who clears the snow from their driveway and sidewalk? I do. Why? I am a Midwesterner who has moved to the south. Southerners, those I have met, believe letting it melt is far superior to any physical exertion. It is better to have a chance of slipping than to remove the snow and remove the risk of injury. (Their apparent logic.)
  5. Oklahoma (and by extension, Southerners in general) extend a great deal of latitude when their children want to enjoy the snow. While walking yesterday, I saw an elementary child in his underwear (bottoms only) diving into the snow. I only saw one dive. I don’t know if it was his last or if he went to warm up before diving again.
  6. Finally, tornadoes bring far less fear than winter storms to those in the south. Yes, I could be exaggerating a little. Yet, when you have a storm shelter in your garage, the world “is your oyster.”

The Rec Center Walk

This past weekend, it was really cold in Oklahoma. With flurries blowing, I had three choices: take my walk outside and be miserable, skip my walk entirely, or go with my wife to the rec center and walk as she swam. I opted to go to the rec center.

We have an “old folks” rec center near our home. If you are over 50, you can join and take advantage of the programs specifically designed for more seasoned citizens. While I don’t physically put myself in this age group, I can’t hide from the chronological facts. So, as she swam, I took my first walk on the 11-laps-per-mile track.

When I first started, the track was not crowded. As I added laps to my total, more people came to join me, and I was glad to see people doing healthy things. But, I had some criticism. If people want to walk 3 -across and take up the whole track, I consider this rude. When I walk outside, I stay aware of who is coming toward me and who is behind me. On the rec center track, I had to get in the habit of yelling, “On your left” while a few yards behind. (Also, good etiquette outside.) They moved with slight annoyance. I thanked them for allowing me by…or was I thanking them for sharing the track like a civilized person would do? While this was annoying, I had a far greater frustration.

Typically, I walk 15-16 minute miles. I have gotten in the habit of using a phone app that announces the miles and the minutes per mile. When the app told me I had completed my first mile at a time of 19+ minutes. I was appalled. Prior to this disturbing announcement, I was convinced I was walking an average pace. Yes, passing people and diving through gaps does cause me to break from my normal stride. Yet, walking 3 minutes slower than normal did not sit well. The only way to solve this problem was walking faster. When the 3 miles were completed, I did not greatly improve my minutes/mile speed.

After doubting my masculinity and almost accepting the fact I am old, I developed a theory. I am certain my phone app and the GPS function were actively working against me. The GPS was not able to detect whether I was on the outer ring or the inner walking ring.

My extremely well-read friend gave this response to my question:

Walking small, repetitive laps (e.g., around a track or small park) can sometimes confuse GPS systems. The curves and overlapping paths may result in under- or over-estimating distances due to signal "drift" or smoothing.

Whether this is accurate or not, I am claiming it. As long as I am in control of my faculties, I will not trust a sporadic electronic hiccup over my gut. And, by extension, I am unlikely to walk rec center laps again…

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.

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. 🙂 )

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.

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.