writing

Mostly Harmless: A Defense of the Kind-Hearted Annoyance

This is a further explanation of one of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Reminder Wrangler)

My wife has a habit of looking at me and saying, “Can you remind me to call so-and-so tomorrow?” or “I have a doctor’s appointment; don’t let me forget.”

She seems to believe I have a dedicated “Spouse Schedule” processor running in the background of my brain at all times. In her mind, she’s delegating a task. In my mind, she has just hit “Install” on a piece of high-persistence malware.

Being a human reminder is a high-stakes game. It comes with two distinct curses: the crushing dread of forgetting, and the social suicide of over-reminding.

The “Nag” Sacrifice

Admittedly, smartphones have chipped away at my market share. But even in a world of haptic feedback, I still find ways to offer my “invaluable” services. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become so committed to the role that I have officially slipped into the “nag” category.

I am a human pop-up ad. I am the “Update Required” notification that you can’t swipe away. I have willingly tanked my reputation, descending into that murky social basement occupied by influencers and other bottom-dwellers of the untrustworthy food chain.

Why do I make this sacrifice? Because when she says “Remind me,” it is a binding contract. That initial charge supersedes any later, frustrated comments like, “Okay, you can stop reminding me now!” I bought in until the objective was completed, honey. I’m a shareholder in this phone call now. Why can’t you stay as committed as I am?

The Glory of the Checkbox

I understand she has a full-time job and “life distractions” that are several priority levels above our current joint focus. But for me, the task stays on my mental dashboard until the very last second.

I can’t take it off the list until I look at her and start to open my mouth. Usually, before a single syllable escapes, she snaps: “It’s done. Okay?”

Victory. With that comment, I get to check two boxes. First, the “self-tickler” part of my brain finally stops itching. Second, and more importantly, I go to Google Tasks and watch my “Completed” count climb from 627 to 628. For a semi-retired grandpa, that is a statistical triumph worth celebrating.

Bring Back the Nag

My life isn’t overly complicated, and I like it that way. It’s these small, irritating transactions that give me value.

While your phone may give you a reminder from the cold obscurity of a pocket, you should consider bringing a kind-hearted nag back into your life. We are mostly harmless, we take your chores more seriously than you do, and we only want the best for you—mostly so we can finally stop thinking about your dentist appointment and move on with our lives.

The “Get-To” vs. The “Have-To”

I’m currently coming off a 60-day streak from my other blog, and I’m protective of that momentum. With “Grandpa’s Daycare” eating up about 30 hours of my week, I never truly know which day will be the one where the wheels fall off. My goal for this past weekend was simple: bank a three-day buffer of posts so I could breathe.

I missed that goal by 100%.

It started Saturday at 4:30 AM with an airport run for my wife. Here’s what 4:30 AM looks like: three cars on the road, darkness that makes 7:30 AM look like high noon, and a version of me with zero sarcasm loaded. I’m a sarcastic person by nature — it’s basically my factory setting — but apparently it doesn’t boot up until after sunrise. My wit didn’t come back online until I was halfway home, alone, with no one to appreciate it.

That low-grade exhaustion shadowed me the rest of the day. My son and his fiancée came over for quality baby time, and my job quietly shifted. My future DIL is anxious to start her own family, so when she’s in the room, my grandpa instincts take a back seat. My real role became reading the baby’s cues and redirecting — making sure the DIL banked every possible minute of the Ellie experience she craved. I’m not just watching my grandkid grow. I’m watching my future family grow.

I wasn’t exactly winning “Host of the Year,” but the baby stayed alive, so I’ll call it a win.

Then came Sunday. And the Eggplant Experiment.

My son wanted to make Eggplant Parmesan, which — fine. Noble ambition. The problem was his vision was… limited. One small eggplant will not feed a crowd. Bread it, fry it, done. No sauce. No provolone. No oven time. Now, most of his cooking lives in the Instant Pot or air fryer, clean and contained. Hand him a pan and grease, and you’ve introduced variables: splatter, smoke, and a look on his face that says he’s improvising in real time. Sensing a nutritional void and a quiet anti-eggplant contingency in the house, I scrambled. I resurrected some chicken parm from Thursday night, prayed I could add enough juiciness to make the “recycle” respectable. By then, the endless volley of “Where is the…?” and “How do I…?” questions had made any hope of retreating to my den to bank those blog posts evaporate.

Dinner blurred for me. After the dishes were cleared, my reward for the day was another airport run to pick up my wife. I felt a little guilty about leaving the house mid-activity, told the kids so, and then spent the drive enjoying fifteen minutes without anyone asking me where anything was. Getting her home before 8:30 PM is a world better than an 11:00 PM pickup. Some wins are quiet.

Later, sitting with zero banked posts and approximately zero relaxation, I chewed on that question from my future DIL — something rooted in our faith, about whether certain things we’re called to do feel more like obligation than privilege. “Do you get it?” The contrast she was drawing: some things in the Christian life aren’t always fun, but with the right mindset, you get to participate in something most people don’t even realize is available to them.

As I thought about this question, I reviewed my weekend. Do I get it?

Yes. I get a life so full of stories I don’t have time to write them all. I get to be a dad and a granddad multiple times a day. I get to cook for people I love — and not every time I do, do I feel grateful, I’ll be honest. But if I have to cook anyway, I might as well frame it as a “get to” rather than a “have to.” The food tastes the same either way. The choice is just which version of yourself shows up at the table.

When you’re exhausted, it can all feel like a “have-to.” But it’s a “get-to” that most people would pay a premium for.

The Morning Scrimmage: Why Every Marriage Needs a “Billeted” Punching Bag

My wife and I have been married for nearly 35 years, and I’ve learned one absolute truth: Marriage isn’t just about love; it’s about managing the “chirps.”

I am a natural-born chirper. If I have a witty observation or a mild grievance, it bounces around my skull like a puck rattling around a dryer drum until it finds an exit. My wife, however, is a “slow-thaw” morning person. She is not a fan of dialogue—and certainly not banter—until she’s well into her second cup of coffee.

For the sake of our domestic harmony, I have to get those chirps out of my system without bumping into her morning rhythm. Fortunately, we have “The Boys.”

The Peanut Butter Defense

Currently, our kitchen is populated by billeted hockey players. They are the perfect targets. They provide the friction I need to reach my “optimum flow” without waking the dragon — my wife, who is lovely precisely because she hasn’t spoken yet.

Take, for instance, the “Bagel Bandit.” This kid has a specific talent for “nutty perfection.” He’ll smear peanut butter on a bagel and then, as a final flourish, leave a thick glob on the knife before dropping it in the sink. Within minutes, that peanut butter undergoes a chemical bonding process that makes it “dishwasher-proof.”

On a morning when my wife is still on her first cup, I’ll drop a line on the Bandit:

“The dishwasher is a machine, son, not a miracle worker. Clean the blade.”
“If you lick that knife clean, the dishwasher will thank you for your service.”

The “Agile” boys—the ones with a high hockey IQ—will fire back. The “Slow-Mo” rookies just nod and say, “Okay, next time,” while they internally calculate how many minutes until practice.

The Buffer Zone

There is a method to my madness. My wife knows I like to banter, and as long as I don’t go too hard on the kids, she lets me run my plays. In fact, she’s grateful. By the time she’s ready for conversation, I’ve already burned off my sass on a 19-year-old defenseman.

The boys are the grease that keeps the marriage rolling through the years. When my wife is an “obstacle” to my flow—meaning she just wants to eat her toast in peace—the hockey boys step in to cover the difference.

The Sentiment in the Sarcasm

I’ll admit, the sentimental side of this gets hidden under the layers of trash talk. But it’s there. My wife gets the lion’s share of my heart, and whatever is left over goes to these boys who have become part of our daily chaos.

We had a visitor the other day who mentioned he does the dishes for his billet mom because she’s been ill. I looked at my most “agile” resident and asked if he’d ever consider such a noble act.

He didn’t miss a beat: “Well, if you were gravely ill, I might consider it. But since you’re healthy, I guess I’ll just keep letting you sharpen your wit on my dish-loading skills.”

After he made his comment, we exchanged a glance. We both knew the chirping wasn’t entirely one-sided.

The Long Game

How long will we keep these “billeted victims (their term, not mine)” around? Only until the grandchildren are old enough to hold their own in a verbal sparring match. I need a house full of relatives with finely honed wits to keep me humble.

Until then, I’ll keep chirping at the boys. It keeps my mind sharp, the sink (mostly) clear, and my 35-year marriage exactly where it needs to be: in a state of graceful, quiet, peanut-butter-free peace.

The Price of a Name (and a Perk)

I proposed to her on my birthday thirty-five years ago. It was the best gift I ever got, but it also kicked off a season of high-stakes negotiations. Back then—before kids, mortgages, minivans, and the general sense that I should stretch before standing up—we hit the big question: What are we calling ourselves once we’re married?

She was a freshly minted attorney, which meant this wasn’t the old-fashioned “she’ll take your name” layup I thought it might be. I tried logic. I tried the “think of the children” argument. I probably even tried sounding worldly and modern, which I absolutely was not. But attorneys don’t accept logic as payment. They want terms.

So, I started mentally inventorying what I could offer in a trade. She didn’t smoke, so I couldn’t nobly quit smoking. She wasn’t a vegetarian, so I didn’t have to pretend tofu was a personality. But there was one thing she loved with the kind of devotion usually reserved for religion or college football.

Coffee.

She treated coffee like a constitutional right—after dinner, with dessert, on weekends, on weekdays. Meanwhile, I had never intentionally purchased a cup in my life. The only coffee I’d ever choked down was during an in-home sales job when a customer brought me a piece of apple pie and a black coffee. I wanted the sale, so I drank that lukewarm battery acid like it was a dare, praying my stomach wouldn’t stage a coup on the drive home.

During those months of seating charts and cake tastings, I figured coffee might be the ultimate bargaining chip to seal the deal on the name. It turns out there was no real wrinkle at all; she would’ve taken my name without requiring caffeine-based reparations. She just wanted to see me sweat a little.

But here’s the twist: I ended up liking the stuff.

Thirty-five years later, I like it for breakfast with my peanut‑butter bagel. I sometimes like the quiet of an afternoon cup with something sweet. And most of all, I like bringing her morning refills. It feels like one of those tiny, everyday vows you keep long after the wedding is over.

In the end, she got the name, I got a lifelong habit, and we both got the better end of the deal.

The Hot Tub Hero (Or: Why I Should Never Be Left Alone With a Bucket)

Yesterday’s grand group project quickly devolved into a solo mission of poor life choices.

The original plan was simple: freshen the hot tub water by draining 50% of it. In my head, I had a literal squad of “strong young men” to handle the heavy lifting. Specifically, my son and two local hockey players. But as it turns out, young athletes are surprisingly fragile, and my son has this pesky habit of “working for a living.”

Between one hockey player claiming the “achy flu,” the other nursing a wrist strain from the weekend’s festivities, and my son refusing to fake the “Super Bowl Flu” just to haul water for his old man, I was left as a department of one.

The Methodology of a Madman

There were two ways to handle this.

The Siphon Method: This involves a hose, gravity, and the vast amount of patience required to watch water move at the speed of a tectonic plate.
The “Active” Method: This involves a “big strong guy” (hypothetically) dipping 5-gallon buckets into the tub and marching them to the driveway like some sort of suburban sherpa.

Being famously impatient and unwilling to have the tub out of commission for more than a couple hours, I chose the bucket brigade. I figured I’d just use my knees, stay balanced, and knock it out.

Math vs. Reality

Why was I doing this? Because of the cyanuric acid, or as I like to call it, “The Chemistry of Too Much Fun.”

I filled the buckets in groups of four. I told myself, “This isn’t so bad,” for exactly three minutes. Then, reality set in. My math was optimistic: in a 400-gallon tub, four 5-gallon buckets should be 5% of the volume. Simple, right?

Wrong.

My Chest: Started screaming by the third round.
My Shoulders: Notified me they were no longer “willfully participating” and were now working under extreme duress.
The Water Level: Decreased at a rate significantly slower than my remaining will to live.

I started taking “strategic breaks” to play chess on my phone, watching my near-retired body slowly go on strike. It turns out that 5% math only works if you fill the buckets to the brim, which I stopped doing about ten minutes in because water is heavy and I am a mortal man.

The Merciful End

Eventually, my wife appeared and pronounced the project “done.”

Was this because we hit the 50% mark? Or was it because she reached her limit for my “exhaustion whining”? The world may never know. By that point, the water was too low to even get a full scoop. I didn’t “quit”—I simply decided that my time was no longer being spent effectively.

Lessons (Hopefully) Learned

Next time, there will be a pump. The process will look like this:

Attach hose.
Turn on pump.
Read a book for two hours.

The only muscle I plan on straining next time is my eye muscles as I scan the pages of a novel while a piece of $50 machinery does the job I was clearly never meant to do.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

Grills, Grandkids, and the Smoke Detector Saga

The Great Grill Misstep

Last night started innocently enough: we grilled up a feast of brats, hamburgers, and some andouille sausage. As usual, after taking the meat off the grill, I cranked up the heat to incinerate any lurking germs. It’s my personal version of a germ exorcism. Normally, I remember to turn the grill off afterward. Normally.

Fast-forward 18 hours. I’m feeding my granddaughter a bottle, gazing out the back window like a serene caretaker, when my brain suddenly asks, “What are those heat ripples coming off the grill?”

Cue the realization.

I stepped onto the porch, and it hit me like a ton of bricks: I never turned the grill off. The gas knobs were still wide open, and when I lifted the lid, I was greeted by a mountain of white ash. My grand plan to “clean it later” was quickly followed by a mental debate: Do I tell my wife about this? Spoiler alert: keeping secrets isn’t my strong suit.

Smoke Alarms: The Plot Thickens

Barely an hour later, with my granddaughter swaddled and happily snoozing in her crib (a rare victory in our new “Grandpa’s 30-hour-a-week daycare” schedule), I finally sat down at my computer. That’s when it happened. The smoke detectors went off.

At first, I thought, Oh no, not this again. A few months ago, we had a smoke detector malfunction, and the screeching symphony was unforgettable. Hoping for a quick resolution, I checked the baby—still sound asleep—and sat back down.

Then the alarms screamed again.

The baby stirred, letting out a pre-nap protest, while my heart sank. Time to play Smoke Detector Roulette. Armed with a ladder, I started disconnecting units. Which one of the seven is the ringleader? Who’s the boss of this noise parade?

Two attempts later, I finally silenced the screaming. Relief washed over me. Then paranoia set in: What if this wasn’t a malfunction? I rushed to check on my granddaughter. No signs of carbon monoxide poisoning. She woke up soon after, demanding bottle number two, blissfully unaware of Grandpa’s mini heart attack.

The Reconnection Gamble

Once the baby was settled, it was time to reconnect the smoke detectors. Hooking them back up wasn’t the hard part—my fear was that one rogue detector would throw a tantrum in the middle of the night. And let’s be honest, my “middle-of-the-night hugs” are more like aggressive shoves.

Theories and Lessons

So, what triggered all this chaos? My best guess is that the unvented grill might’ve released something the detectors didn’t like. Or maybe it was dust. Or humidity. Or, let’s face it, the universe just wanted to spice up my day.

Whatever the cause, I’d like to file a formal request with the smoke detector gods: next time, can you schedule your shenanigans around the baby’s nap?

In the end, I learned two things: always double-check the grill, and never underestimate a smoke detector’s ability to keep life exciting—even if it’s at the worst possible moment.

Confessions of a Title Tinkerer: How a 40-Year-Old Business Card Inspired My Latest Obsession

The card that I have been thinking about the past few decades. How could I put my spin on it?

When Inspiration Strikes (And My Family Worries)

Sometimes, I get so laser-focused on a project that my family starts giving me that look. You know, the one that says, “Are you okay, or do you need an intervention?” Well, I’m happy to report that I’ve finished the 1.0 version of my latest obsession. And no, it’s not a new app, a groundbreaking invention, or even an NFT. It’s… a business card.

But not just any business card.

Blast From the Past: The Original Card That Started It All

Back in the good ol’ days of selling cell phones—closer to 40 years ago than 30—I came across a business card that stuck with me. It was a bold, hilarious card with no contact information, clearly a joke (or maybe a way to avoid being constantly called). But it wasn’t just a joke—it was art. It described someone’s services in a way that was both ridiculous and oddly compelling.

Fast-forward to today, and this quirky little card still “lives” rent-free in my brain. So, naturally, I decided to create my own version—a card that reflects my personality and skill set, but with a nice guy twist.

The Creative Process: When Chatbots and Family Weigh In

Crafting my own version of this card wasn’t as simple as slapping a few titles on a piece of cardstock. Oh no. It became a full-blown project. Here’s what went into it:

Family Feedback:
- I tested multiple titles on my family, only to get vetoed with comments like, “That’s not you,” or “Please don’t put that on a card.”
Chatbot Creativity:
- I fed some titles into a chatbot, asking it to come up with catchier versions. It responded with alliterative gems and ideas that screamed, “Include me!”
Trial and Error:
- I experimented with formatting, swapped titles in and out, and gauged success based on whether a title made me laugh or at least smile.

The result? A business card brimming with quirky, creative job titles that feel just right.

What’s Next: Titles and Their Stories

The card itself is done, but the project isn’t over. Each title on my new business card represents a different facet of who I am, and I plan to write a post about each one. These posts will:

Explain why I chose the title.
Dive into how it reflects my personality, skills, or sense of humor.

It’s a mix of self-reflection, storytelling, and (hopefully) entertainment. Entertainment or not, I am going to write them anyway. 🙂

The card I ended up with. It is the 1.0 version. I may shuffle a title in or out. Wherever the 2.0 version goes, I have a good start!

Father’s Day: Same Tune, New Dance Steps (and a Double-Fly Finale)

Father’s Day this year had all the usual suspects—family, food, and a flurry of “Happy Father’s Day” messages—but also a few new twists that made it stand out. Here’s the recap from the Dad’s-eye-view:

Family Greetings: The Modern Medley

In person: Two kids, now in the same city, delivered their best wishes face-to-face—always a treat.
Remote: Another kid texted (he’d visited the day before, so he gets partial credit).
Combo platter: The youngest offered a text/phone hybrid greeting. Due to half the family being present during her call, her full “Father’s Day” enthusiasm was politely restrained. (I’m saving up for the encore performance.)

Highlight Reel: Dad’s Day Moments

1. The Double-Fly Clap of Legend

With my son as witness, I pulled off an Olympic-level “clap” maneuver—taking out two flies at once.

No fly swatter, no problem: Just raw dad reflexes and an innate sense for dramatic timing.
Aftermath: Flies disposed of, hands scrubbed, and my son reminded that Dad’s still got it.
Flies’ perspective: Worst Father’s Day gift ever.

2. The Men’s Choir: Not Quite the Tenors

At church, all the men got a front-row seat in the choir area.

Songs sung: Zero, unless you count my “joyful noising” (which the congregation might not).
Dress code: Just face forward at an awkward angle—wide shoulders are a blessing and a curse.
Practice required: None, unless you count my wife noticing my unorthodox posture.

3. Wicker Assembly: Dad vs. The Allen Wrench

Outdoor furniture assembly—round two, or, more accurately, round two out of four.

Muscle strain: Apparently, the Allen wrench is mightier than the sword…and my lower back.
Recovery time: Longer than it used to be, but I still have two chairs left (and plenty of excuses).
Note to future self: Next time, consider a nap before assembly.

4. Grandpa Duty: The Sleep Whisperer

After grilling chicken and enjoying dinner, I settled into my most important role—grandpa.

Game night: The rest played “Exploding Kittens” while I deployed my legendary baby-rocking skills.
Battle of wills: Granddaughter resisted, but ultimately surrendered to sleep, confirming my status as the Baby Whisperer (Retired, but still active).

Looking Ahead: Future Traditions

More grandkids? Bring them on—there’s always room for another lap.
Father’s Day traditions: If assembling wicker furniture is required in the future, I’ll propose that as my only contribution (with a generous side of supervision).

Here’s to Father’s Days that are the same, but a little different, every year—just the way I like them.

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.