The Great Florida Adventure 2009 has come to a close.
Yes, Team Gibbons has completed its summer sojourn, putting behind us much of the state of Florida during our road trip down to the Keys, across the Everglades, up to Sarasota and Tampa and a stopover in Orlando.
My wife made the plans for the trip, and I am pleased to say that we even managed to do some of it without actual plans, which cut into the very core of my soul.
I like order. Structure. Definitive schedules. (And I wonder why my 8-year-old is obsessed with what time it is.)
But I tried to go a little carefree, put the wind at our back and sail wherever it took us. But that’s irresponsible on an interstate.
So we set the cruise control, headed in a general direction and off we went for a fun-filled week-plus adventure. Here is the trip, by the numbers.
0 – Number of public city parks I would rank ahead of Sugar Sand Park in Boca Raton. Any playground in which kids can see if they can run faster than skunks is OK by me. The only downside – it was not actual, live skunks.
2 – Number of dead Burmese pythons we saw on the road in Florida. When I swerved the van off the road to get one to show to the kids, my wife said, “What...why...but...” And then she shrugged and said, “Kids, get out and see the dead snake.”
3 – The number of sea turtles that hung out by the bridge where we went fishing one day at Duck Key. It was good that they were there to entertain us, because of the two fish we caught, it was hard to distinguish them from the bait.
3.5 – The average length, in feet, of the iguanas we saw in the Keys. Since my last visit to the Keys three years ago, the population seems to have grown. By my estimate, there is roughly one iguana per square foot of Key.
4 – Number of otters we saw. Three were in an aquarium in Tampa. One owned a house in Ft. Lauderdale where we spent one night. Always good for fraternity nicknames to stick 20 years later.
5 – The longest time I waited in a line for a roller coaster at Busch Gardens, making Busch Gardens the greatest amusement park in the history of mankind. Oh, and speaking of roller coasters, both my kids rode their first loop roller coaster, The Scorpion. They were not able to ride Sheikra, the newest attraction, which is one of the scarier (read: better) roller coasters I have ridden. When you step off a roller coaster and your legs feel as though you have been on a boat for 12 hours – good times.
7 – The length in feet, I guesstimated, of the spotted eagle ray I snorkeled next to for a few seconds. It was a fantastic site, and as I swam next to it, I thought, “Hey, I have no clue if they have barbs or not, but I don’t want to be stabbed in the chest.” Bye-bye, Mr. Ray.
9 – Total number of days we spent on the trip, my longest trip since ... well, a college summer off. The last full week I took for a vacation trip was my honeymoon a decade ago.
10 and 75 – Years of the two birthday celebrants during the trip, my niece and father-in-law.
20 – Feet below the surface Allie and I went SNUBA diving. Yes, SNUBA. Tune in next week for more on what SNUBA is.
25 – Total number of friends and family members we saw along our journey, including stays at several kind friends’ homes.
27 – Length in feet of the giant squid preserved at the Mote Aquarium in Sarasota. My wife found out that standing alone looking at a giant squid enclosed in glass combined with a recent viewing of “Night at the Museum” is not a good combination. She is fairly sure it started to attack.
56 – Number of times my wife scolded me for commenting on the poor driving abilities of everyone else on the planet, most of whom who have no concept of what the left lane is for (answer: For me.)
400 – Average temperature at SeaWorld in Orlando last week.
1,800 – Miles we logged during the trip.
2,500 – Miles my parents logged during a trip to Maine during the same time period, which made our 1,800 less impressive.
So it was a great trip, and I certainly am glad that we did it. My wife and I have already started planning the next one. She said it will be an exciting summer of 2011. Apparently it will take a couple of years to get me ready to go again.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Under pressure
Over the years, I have told you of the single greatest invention on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, because I get quite excited about many things, the single greatest invention has been replaced every, oh, four days. Among the few anointed ones: the Dial-A-Dumpster program (They bring a Dumpster to your house! For free!!!!); the Chill Wizard (It chills a warm canned beverage! In under a minute!!!); The race car shopping cart (Kids can ride in a race car! And you can get shopping done!!!); and the Roomba (It vacuums and terrifies the cat! And I don’t have to be there!!!).
So today I am not going to tell you that the gas-powered pressure washer is the greatest invention ever. But it does join the Hall of Fame that the aforementioned have notably entered.
I base this on a lifetime of experiences with pressure washers, including my latest encounter with one.
For those of you not familiar with gas-powered pressure washers, the concept is simple: Combine an incredibly loud lawnmower engine with a water hose, and you get a water ray gun of death, one with equal parts of awesome cleaning power and destructive foot shredding capability. I have used them in the past, which means I have learned from my past mistakes ONLY to use them when I am good and ready to start cleaning. Most first-time pressure washers have made that mistake. For example, let’s say you want to clean your sidewalk. You get your pressure washer set up, you fire it up, and you point the hose at the ground. Sploooosh!!!!! The stream of water barrels out and blasts the funk off of your sidewalk. Pretty cool, you think. And it doesn’t take much time for you to come to the following conclusion: “I could write my name with this.”
But the sidewalk certainly isn’t a big enough place to write your whole name in pressure washer script. No, you need a much bigger canvas. And before you know it, you have written a big cursive “MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS” in your driveway. (OK, that would be weird if you wrote MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS in your driveway. I would hope you would have written your own name.) Anywho, looking at the big pressure-washed signature, you’re mighty proud. And then you realize that when you start pressure washing, you have to finish. It would be like ironing the sleeve of a shirt while the rest is hideously wrinkled. And if you have ever pressure washed an entire driveway, you know that it takes about 11 days to complete. So the key for the experienced pressure washer is only to start the jobs you are ready to finish. Don’t get cute. Don’t get fancy. Don’t write your name. Don’t do what you think are funny wisecracking pictures that only your neighbors can see from their second stories. If you don’t want to pressure wash something in its entirety, don’t get the pressure washer anywhere near it.
My latest pressure washing adventure came after my wife made the comment that the brick walk at the front of our house was no longer brick. “We have a moss and dirt sidewalk,” she told me. Pshaw, I told her. That’s brick. Weathered. Aged. Has a story to tell. And then I looked at it. Actually, not a lot of discernible brick there. It was very much like we had a dirt path leading up to our house. Well, a dirt path with some moss growing on it. The story it had to tell: “I need to be pressure washed.”
So I borrowed my brother-in-law’s pressure washer. I knew he had one because I was over at my sister’s house and saw him out back using it. He had made the mistake of letting the pressure washer touch a single square inch of his back patio, which means he was then relegated to spending the next two weeks of his life finishing that project.
When I got the washer, I was careful to make sure that only the brick walk was touched by the pressure washer. And the best way to ensure that? Do not allow children within one mile of the pressure washer. Sure, a pressure washer is a good fun toy for kids. But you’ve got to keep focused.
As I blasted off the walk, I was amazed at the gunk coming off of the sidewalk. Slowly, an actual brick sidewalk began to emerge. By the time I finished, it was amazing to stand back and see what looked like a brand new brick sidewalk.
I still have the pressure washer, and there are a still a few odds and ends I want to knock out with it. For example, I’d like to clean off the shutters and maybe clean off the eaves. Of course, there is part of me that really wants to sign my name in the driveway.
So today I am not going to tell you that the gas-powered pressure washer is the greatest invention ever. But it does join the Hall of Fame that the aforementioned have notably entered.
I base this on a lifetime of experiences with pressure washers, including my latest encounter with one.
For those of you not familiar with gas-powered pressure washers, the concept is simple: Combine an incredibly loud lawnmower engine with a water hose, and you get a water ray gun of death, one with equal parts of awesome cleaning power and destructive foot shredding capability. I have used them in the past, which means I have learned from my past mistakes ONLY to use them when I am good and ready to start cleaning. Most first-time pressure washers have made that mistake. For example, let’s say you want to clean your sidewalk. You get your pressure washer set up, you fire it up, and you point the hose at the ground. Sploooosh!!!!! The stream of water barrels out and blasts the funk off of your sidewalk. Pretty cool, you think. And it doesn’t take much time for you to come to the following conclusion: “I could write my name with this.”
But the sidewalk certainly isn’t a big enough place to write your whole name in pressure washer script. No, you need a much bigger canvas. And before you know it, you have written a big cursive “MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS” in your driveway. (OK, that would be weird if you wrote MICHAEL WHITFIELD GIBBONS in your driveway. I would hope you would have written your own name.) Anywho, looking at the big pressure-washed signature, you’re mighty proud. And then you realize that when you start pressure washing, you have to finish. It would be like ironing the sleeve of a shirt while the rest is hideously wrinkled. And if you have ever pressure washed an entire driveway, you know that it takes about 11 days to complete. So the key for the experienced pressure washer is only to start the jobs you are ready to finish. Don’t get cute. Don’t get fancy. Don’t write your name. Don’t do what you think are funny wisecracking pictures that only your neighbors can see from their second stories. If you don’t want to pressure wash something in its entirety, don’t get the pressure washer anywhere near it.
My latest pressure washing adventure came after my wife made the comment that the brick walk at the front of our house was no longer brick. “We have a moss and dirt sidewalk,” she told me. Pshaw, I told her. That’s brick. Weathered. Aged. Has a story to tell. And then I looked at it. Actually, not a lot of discernible brick there. It was very much like we had a dirt path leading up to our house. Well, a dirt path with some moss growing on it. The story it had to tell: “I need to be pressure washed.”
So I borrowed my brother-in-law’s pressure washer. I knew he had one because I was over at my sister’s house and saw him out back using it. He had made the mistake of letting the pressure washer touch a single square inch of his back patio, which means he was then relegated to spending the next two weeks of his life finishing that project.
When I got the washer, I was careful to make sure that only the brick walk was touched by the pressure washer. And the best way to ensure that? Do not allow children within one mile of the pressure washer. Sure, a pressure washer is a good fun toy for kids. But you’ve got to keep focused.
As I blasted off the walk, I was amazed at the gunk coming off of the sidewalk. Slowly, an actual brick sidewalk began to emerge. By the time I finished, it was amazing to stand back and see what looked like a brand new brick sidewalk.
I still have the pressure washer, and there are a still a few odds and ends I want to knock out with it. For example, I’d like to clean off the shutters and maybe clean off the eaves. Of course, there is part of me that really wants to sign my name in the driveway.
Granny Ann
God bless Granny Ann.
Or Granny Anne. Or Granny Annie. Truth be told, I’m not totally sure of her name, since her introduction was not to me, but to her theater seatmate, my son, Parker.
We met Granny Ann during the Sunday matinee performance at the Aiken Community Playhouse’s production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
Parker and I were going to see his mother and sister, who were both in the fantastic performance. It is not because my gals were in this performance that I say it was fantastic. It was one of the most outstanding performances I have seen in a long time, although I would kindly ask that several of the songs get out of my head. I like them. I really do. But I can’t go to sleep these days without, “There’s one more angel in heaven ...” playing on loop in my head.
Anywho, I am always hesitant about taking little ones to shows, mainly because I don’t want to be the one leaving the show where everyone is motioning to me saying, “Yeah, that’s the one whose kid crawled under the seats, onto the stage and bit an actor.”
Parker and I talked extensively about expectations. Among the rules:
• You cannot point out when Mommy or Sissy is on stage. For two hours, they are someone else.
• You cannot have snacks. This is not the movie theaters, where we sneak in Skittles.
• You cannot go to the bathroom. There’s an intermission. You can hold it.
When we sat down, I was worried about who would be seated next to us. I know that people go to a play to enjoy the show and not be pestered by a little critter next to them, fidgeting, wiggling, singing the theme song to “Diego,” etc. Despite my preplay prep work, I was less than assured that Parker would be a perfect angel. He’s a good kid, but a play is still tough work for a 6-year-old boy who would REALLY like to be out hunting bugs.
I approached our seats. They were the two seats on the aisle. There, three seats in, was a woman with several friends. At first, I went to sit in the inside seat, thinking Parker could be safely wedged between the aisle and me. Our theater mate said that she would welcome Parker sitting there, which possibly could mean she simply didn’t want to sit next to me. I suppose that would not be the first time.
Well, after about four seconds, I knew we had hit seating gold. In no time, Parker had very little interest in my conversation, as he and Granny Ann were having a detailed conversation about bugs, grandkids, people he knew in the play, etc.
Parker, to his credit, was golden during the performance. He had a couple of times where he had to lean over to me and whisper, “That’s MOMMY!!!” But he and Granny Ann had a big time together, and at the end of the play, she told him that the next time she went to a play, she would look for him so they could sit together. He beamed a huge smile, and several times later that day, he reminded me that, essentially, he had a standing play date, as he was VERY good at the play, and Granny Ann even wanted to sit with him again.
When I was telling my wife about Granny Ann, she recounted another gift grandma we had. Several years ago, on a flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Atlanta, our plane was struck by lightning while still on the ground. The plane was unflyable, and we were bumped from flight after flight, finally getting on one about 10 hours later. Parker was 3, and Allie was 5. You can imagine how delightful they were after 10 hours stuck in an airport. When we finally boarded a plane, we were told there were two seats together in the very back, one right in front of those, and one at the front of the plane. Being the team player I am, I opted for the seat in the front of the plane. I am still working off those demerits.
But my wife and Parker sat in the back, and Allie sat in the row in front of them. There, next to her, was a Jamaican woman who chatted with Allie and sang songs to her and generally kept her calm and happy during the flight and became the Patron Saint of Flying with Kids.
So Granny Ann – or Anne or Annie – has joined to ranks of Jamaican Grandma on the list of people who have played special parts in our kids’ lives – and our lives – and may never know it. She is the Patron Saint of Sitting Next to Wiggly Kids at the Theater. Granny Ann, if you’re reading this, thanks for making a little boy’s day. He can’t wait for the next one. But remember – no wiggling and no Skittles.
Or Granny Anne. Or Granny Annie. Truth be told, I’m not totally sure of her name, since her introduction was not to me, but to her theater seatmate, my son, Parker.
We met Granny Ann during the Sunday matinee performance at the Aiken Community Playhouse’s production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”
Parker and I were going to see his mother and sister, who were both in the fantastic performance. It is not because my gals were in this performance that I say it was fantastic. It was one of the most outstanding performances I have seen in a long time, although I would kindly ask that several of the songs get out of my head. I like them. I really do. But I can’t go to sleep these days without, “There’s one more angel in heaven ...” playing on loop in my head.
Anywho, I am always hesitant about taking little ones to shows, mainly because I don’t want to be the one leaving the show where everyone is motioning to me saying, “Yeah, that’s the one whose kid crawled under the seats, onto the stage and bit an actor.”
Parker and I talked extensively about expectations. Among the rules:
• You cannot point out when Mommy or Sissy is on stage. For two hours, they are someone else.
• You cannot have snacks. This is not the movie theaters, where we sneak in Skittles.
• You cannot go to the bathroom. There’s an intermission. You can hold it.
When we sat down, I was worried about who would be seated next to us. I know that people go to a play to enjoy the show and not be pestered by a little critter next to them, fidgeting, wiggling, singing the theme song to “Diego,” etc. Despite my preplay prep work, I was less than assured that Parker would be a perfect angel. He’s a good kid, but a play is still tough work for a 6-year-old boy who would REALLY like to be out hunting bugs.
I approached our seats. They were the two seats on the aisle. There, three seats in, was a woman with several friends. At first, I went to sit in the inside seat, thinking Parker could be safely wedged between the aisle and me. Our theater mate said that she would welcome Parker sitting there, which possibly could mean she simply didn’t want to sit next to me. I suppose that would not be the first time.
Well, after about four seconds, I knew we had hit seating gold. In no time, Parker had very little interest in my conversation, as he and Granny Ann were having a detailed conversation about bugs, grandkids, people he knew in the play, etc.
Parker, to his credit, was golden during the performance. He had a couple of times where he had to lean over to me and whisper, “That’s MOMMY!!!” But he and Granny Ann had a big time together, and at the end of the play, she told him that the next time she went to a play, she would look for him so they could sit together. He beamed a huge smile, and several times later that day, he reminded me that, essentially, he had a standing play date, as he was VERY good at the play, and Granny Ann even wanted to sit with him again.
When I was telling my wife about Granny Ann, she recounted another gift grandma we had. Several years ago, on a flight from Ft. Lauderdale to Atlanta, our plane was struck by lightning while still on the ground. The plane was unflyable, and we were bumped from flight after flight, finally getting on one about 10 hours later. Parker was 3, and Allie was 5. You can imagine how delightful they were after 10 hours stuck in an airport. When we finally boarded a plane, we were told there were two seats together in the very back, one right in front of those, and one at the front of the plane. Being the team player I am, I opted for the seat in the front of the plane. I am still working off those demerits.
But my wife and Parker sat in the back, and Allie sat in the row in front of them. There, next to her, was a Jamaican woman who chatted with Allie and sang songs to her and generally kept her calm and happy during the flight and became the Patron Saint of Flying with Kids.
So Granny Ann – or Anne or Annie – has joined to ranks of Jamaican Grandma on the list of people who have played special parts in our kids’ lives – and our lives – and may never know it. She is the Patron Saint of Sitting Next to Wiggly Kids at the Theater. Granny Ann, if you’re reading this, thanks for making a little boy’s day. He can’t wait for the next one. But remember – no wiggling and no Skittles.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Snap to it
Bullwhips.
That’s the easiest solution.
This idea came to me the other day when I was in the grocery store. There I was, preparing to self checkout. I had two items. The limit at the self checkout is 15. I was golden.
I noticed that all four spots were full. Fair enough. That happens sometimes. As long as these folks met all the requirements of entering the realm of self checkout, no problem. The requirements are simple:
1. Absolutely, positively no violation of the 15-item limit. And no getting cute. You can’t have 17 boxes of Lucky Charms and chalk that up as one cereal. It’s items, not categories. Also, you cannot have two orders of 15 items each. That is 30. Thus, no self checkout.
2. You must know your produce and how to spin the produce wheel. If you do not know what the produce wheel is, you are not ready to self checkout your squash.
3. Coupons may only be used if they just happened to come attached to a product you were already buying. I’m all for saving. But this line is for saving time, not money.
So when I noticed the backup, I scanned the four spots to see what was blocking me.
• Spot one: Woman with basket, maybe six items. It appeared she was preparing for breakfast, based on the eggs, biscuits and bacon. She passed.
• Spot two: Twenty-something guy. Case of beer. Cash in hand. Perfect candidate.
• Spot three: Woman fumbling through her purse. Possibly looking for discount card, which could be a violation. Hold off judgment.
• Spot four: Bingo. There he was, a cart with roughly eight of every item in the store. And he appeared to be examining every single product before he scanned it, as if somehow his Kraft cheese would have evolved into a different type of food during his visit.
I locked eyes with the clerk who was manning the self-checkout aisle.
She gave me this look of helplessness, an almost shrug of disappointment.
I glanced up at the sign above me. “Fifteen?” I asked.
She shook her head, again sending the message that there was nothing she could do.
She motioned to the guy with the case of beer. “He should be done in a second,” she said.
“Good, because that guy won’t,” I said. He did not hear me, as he was busy intently studying a bottle of Cran-Grape.
In a matter of about 11 seconds, I was done with my self checkout transaction, because I am easily a pro, and most likely a first ballot hall of famer of self checker-outers.
When I left, the clerk gave a look of quasi-apology, I think a little frustrated that she could not enforce the rules of self checkout.
Which is when it hit me. The resounding crack of a bullwhip over someone’s head will surely get your attention.
The clerk does not have to be rude. She does not have to be pushy.
She just has to serve up a CRACK!!! over someone’s head, who will no doubt cower down and turn his head, to which she can politely say, “Sir, this aisle is reserved for 15 items or fewer,” as she rolls her whip back up and hangs it on her belt.
Find me the man who would continue checking out.
Now, understand, there would have to be Bullwhip Certification School, and no making contact with the customer without a majority vote of the people waiting behind him. I think that’s only reasonable.
The unfortunate part of it is that clerks are pretty helpless in enforcing the law of the grocery store.
I mean, let’s be honest – collectively, we can be a pretty nasty bunch of consumers on occasion.
We have morphed “The customer is always right” into “The customer can stomp on clerks and take advantage of the system and still complain about the way THEY’VE been treated.”
Sure, some clerks are inattentive and ineffective. But I have found that for the most part, the people at a checkout line are hard working folks trying to get you and your groceries headed out the door.
They respond in kind to a kind word and share an appreciation for being treated with respect. Nothing wrong with that.
And nothing brings respect like the sound barrier breaking snap of a bullwhip over your rule-breaking head.
So be nice to clerks. And obey the rules.
That’s the easiest solution.
This idea came to me the other day when I was in the grocery store. There I was, preparing to self checkout. I had two items. The limit at the self checkout is 15. I was golden.
I noticed that all four spots were full. Fair enough. That happens sometimes. As long as these folks met all the requirements of entering the realm of self checkout, no problem. The requirements are simple:
1. Absolutely, positively no violation of the 15-item limit. And no getting cute. You can’t have 17 boxes of Lucky Charms and chalk that up as one cereal. It’s items, not categories. Also, you cannot have two orders of 15 items each. That is 30. Thus, no self checkout.
2. You must know your produce and how to spin the produce wheel. If you do not know what the produce wheel is, you are not ready to self checkout your squash.
3. Coupons may only be used if they just happened to come attached to a product you were already buying. I’m all for saving. But this line is for saving time, not money.
So when I noticed the backup, I scanned the four spots to see what was blocking me.
• Spot one: Woman with basket, maybe six items. It appeared she was preparing for breakfast, based on the eggs, biscuits and bacon. She passed.
• Spot two: Twenty-something guy. Case of beer. Cash in hand. Perfect candidate.
• Spot three: Woman fumbling through her purse. Possibly looking for discount card, which could be a violation. Hold off judgment.
• Spot four: Bingo. There he was, a cart with roughly eight of every item in the store. And he appeared to be examining every single product before he scanned it, as if somehow his Kraft cheese would have evolved into a different type of food during his visit.
I locked eyes with the clerk who was manning the self-checkout aisle.
She gave me this look of helplessness, an almost shrug of disappointment.
I glanced up at the sign above me. “Fifteen?” I asked.
She shook her head, again sending the message that there was nothing she could do.
She motioned to the guy with the case of beer. “He should be done in a second,” she said.
“Good, because that guy won’t,” I said. He did not hear me, as he was busy intently studying a bottle of Cran-Grape.
In a matter of about 11 seconds, I was done with my self checkout transaction, because I am easily a pro, and most likely a first ballot hall of famer of self checker-outers.
When I left, the clerk gave a look of quasi-apology, I think a little frustrated that she could not enforce the rules of self checkout.
Which is when it hit me. The resounding crack of a bullwhip over someone’s head will surely get your attention.
The clerk does not have to be rude. She does not have to be pushy.
She just has to serve up a CRACK!!! over someone’s head, who will no doubt cower down and turn his head, to which she can politely say, “Sir, this aisle is reserved for 15 items or fewer,” as she rolls her whip back up and hangs it on her belt.
Find me the man who would continue checking out.
Now, understand, there would have to be Bullwhip Certification School, and no making contact with the customer without a majority vote of the people waiting behind him. I think that’s only reasonable.
The unfortunate part of it is that clerks are pretty helpless in enforcing the law of the grocery store.
I mean, let’s be honest – collectively, we can be a pretty nasty bunch of consumers on occasion.
We have morphed “The customer is always right” into “The customer can stomp on clerks and take advantage of the system and still complain about the way THEY’VE been treated.”
Sure, some clerks are inattentive and ineffective. But I have found that for the most part, the people at a checkout line are hard working folks trying to get you and your groceries headed out the door.
They respond in kind to a kind word and share an appreciation for being treated with respect. Nothing wrong with that.
And nothing brings respect like the sound barrier breaking snap of a bullwhip over your rule-breaking head.
So be nice to clerks. And obey the rules.
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