Bringing another cat into the house is way more complicated than I remembered it

 

That's Cheddar soaking up some sun near our front door.

For many years we owned five cats. This was just how it was, and I spent the first few minutes of every morning feeding them, getting them fresh water, scooping out their litter boxes, and ensuring they were all present and accounted for.

Then our three boys (Fred, George and Charlie) each succumbed to various feline diseases in one 16-month period, and suddenly we found ourselves down to two kitties in the house: our girls Ginny and Molly.

As much as I miss Fred, George and Charlie, I have to admit I've enjoyed the relative ease of taking care of only two cats vs. five. All along I've said that as soon as these two ladies pass on – something I hope doesn't happen for quite a while – we would start living cat-free.

No more food bowls, no more litter boxes, no more clumps of fur blowing randomly around the house.

You know where this is going.

A few months ago, my daughter Melanie found a sweet, affectionate orange cat living outside her house. She started to feed and pet him, and the next thing you knew, Mr. Orange was living inside her home along with the two cats she already owned.

This would have been fine except that the two existing felines weren't especially nice to Orange. They made his life miserable, which is all the more sad considering what a nice little guy he is. He loves receiving pets, being around people, and just generally loving everyone.

Mel didn't know what to do. She wanted to find him a new home where he could live in relative peace and quiet, but there were no obvious candidates outside of her family.

Again, you know where this is going.

I had already resigned myself to the fact that Cheddar, as she had named him, would be coming to live with us, even before the formal request was made. Our oldest daughter Elissa offered to take him, but it was agreed that we could offer Cheddar the best home.

So one Saturday Mel brought him over. He lived in our master bathroom for a few days while he got acclimated to his new surroundings.

Actually, him living in the bathroom was done mainly to allow Ginny and Molly ample time to get used to his smell and accept the fact that he would be their new brother.

I read online how integrating a new cat into an existing cat family should be a gradual process. One thing we did, for example, was to feed the girl cats treats on one side of a bedroom door while Cheddar was getting his own treats on the other.

This not only put them in close proximity, the treats also (theoretically) created a positive association for them with their mutual smells.

Slowly we started giving Cheddar more freedom. When the girls first encountered him visually, their reactions were predictable: Light but insistent hissing and facial expressions that clearly conveyed the message, "We don't know what you are, but you are not welcome."

As I write this in mid-April, this is still the state of affairs, though I think Ginny and Molly are coming to the realization that Ched isn't going anywhere and they need to get used to the idea.

Who knows? Maybe in time they'll become pals.

All I know is that I envisioned this process happening much quicker and going much more smoothly. We've done the cat integration thing before, but apparently I've forgotten how reluctant they can be to welcome new companions of their own species.

We had a much easier time when we were bringing home new (human) babies every two years back in the 90s and early 2000s. At least back then the kids didn't hiss at their new brothers and sisters.

I'm sure my wife doesn't take unfair advantage of the fact I can't leave a dirty dish in the sink

I should go back and watch the video of our wedding, because I can't remember the exact vows Terry and I exchanged back in June 1992.

I'm pretty sure the traditional "honor and cherish" was in there, though, which is why I can say with some confidence that she doesn't use my neurotic approach to housecleaning against me.

You can't cherish someone, for instance, and purposely leave the kitchen messy knowing your partner is absolutely incapable of walking away and leaving it dirty.

This is what I choose to believe.

Terry has always been a busy person. In the early years of our marriage, if she wasn't working full time, she was taking care of one baby or another. Or volunteering at the school. Or doing yardwork.

There is and always has been something on her plate.

Which, speaking of plates, is why I never get suspicious when I come home to dishes in the sink and miscellaneous items strewn about the kitchen. This, I tell myself, is not a case of her leaving it all to me, but rather her focusing on another important task with plans to come back later and clean it all up.

The thing is, I have some sort of mental condition that does not allow me to relax knowing the kitchen needs to be tidied. I simply can't do it. I must clean it and clean it immediately.

(Actually, this condition doesn't allow me to relax at all, period, regardless of the condition the kitchen is in.)

This sounds like a positive trait. Something to be admired. After all, who wouldn't want a spouse who tries to do their fair share of housework?

But it's not. It's annoying, both to me and to others. It's why I'm constantly picking up half-filled glasses around the house, dumping them, and putting them in the dishwasher, only to be asked 15 minutes later by a family member or guest where their drink has gone because they haven't yet finished it.

It's why I have to (HAVE to) scrape the pots and pans and put away leftover food after holiday dinners while everyone else is playing a family game I should also be playing.

My insistence on a clean kitchen is not a noble act, it is a compulsion.

It is borderline unhealthy.

Terry knows this. And I know my wife, so I will always give her the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, I also know how smart she is. And how tired she gets by the end of any given day. Who among us can stave off the temptation to sneakily pawn off a chore to our significant other when all we want to do is put up our feet and watch TV?

My wife is not immune to such impulses.

Yet whenever I come home from work and am greeted by a messy kitchen (which really isn't that often), I regard cleaning up as the least I can do in return for the three decades' worth of delicious meals she has cooked for me – and not some devious plan to leverage whatever mental disorder makes me this way.

But she's smart, that one, very smart. And sometimes I wonder...

What, me retire?

Not long ago, Terry and I had an overdue check-in with Dave, our Merrill Lynch financial guy (NOTE: That's not Dave above. That's Alfred E. Neuman. If you don't know who he is, you're probably too young to be interested in reading this post in the first place.)

Maybe the conversation wasn't "overdue," though. I'm not sure how often you're supposed to talk with your money person, but it felt like we hadn't taken a step back and discussed the big picture for quite a while.

While Dave stays in touch regularly, some time had passed since I had gathered all of our account information, sent it to him, and allowed him to run the numbers and gauge our financial health.

The results were encouraging.

Lord willing and the creek don't rise, we're right on track for me to retire in about 11 1/2 years. My goal is to work until the end of 2035 before calling it quits and enjoying whatever comes next.

I'll have just turned 66 at that point and will have been a member of the full-time workforce for two-thirds of my life (that's 44 years for those who didn't have Mrs. Schwarzenberg at Mapledale Elementary School and whose arithmetic skills may therefore be lacking).

That "feels" about right. I would rather not work full time into my 70s, if I can help it, but I also don't want to get out of the game too early, for reasons both personal and financial.

There are several factors that go into deciding how much money you need to sock away for retirement, including the lifestyle you want to lead once you get there. Terry and I want to be able to travel with some regularity, whether it's to visit kids/grandkids or just see the world.

I'm not talking about boarding a plane for some exotic location every two weeks. Maybe "several" trips a year, with most domestic and one overseas.

"Comfortable but nowhere near extravagant" is how I would describe our desired post-retirement lifestyle.

That's somewhat vague, I realize, but it was enough for Dave to decide we're ahead of the curve with our savings and investment plan, given the vagaries of the markets, my presumed ability to continue working for another decade-plus, and all of the other unpredictable realities that come with aging.

This was all somewhat of a revelation to me. I'm 54 years old. I don't think about retirement very often beyond how much I throw into my 401(k) and occasional dreams of touring World War I battlefields in France and Belgium once I have the time to do so (that's likely to be a solo trip sans Terry, if I had to guess).

For the first time, the conversation with Dave made retirement seem like a tangible thing and not just a far-off hope. I've still got a ways to go, and like I said, you never know what's going to come your way. But the fact is, it could happen, and that's fun to think about.

Again, though, as quickly as time passes these days, I still have several career-building years ahead of me, which is OK. We'll get there when we get there.

The closer it gets, the more real it will become, I'm sure.

I need to quit whining, go to bed earlier, and regularly lift heavy things

"The problem is we have a problem. It's not that we don't know what the problems are; we've known those for years. It's not that we don't know what the solutions are; we've known those for years. The problem is we haven't done anything about it." - Former Cleveland Mayor Frank Jackson

I usually do this in the caption, but there's so much going on with the photo above that I had to address it in the main body of today's post.

I prompted the AI Blog Post Image Generator with "sleepy guy lifting weights." After several attempts even worse than this, I settled on the image at the top of your screen. I'm fascinated by (a) the bar running through the narrow end of the weight plate and on to...I don't know, another machine?; (b) the situation with the guy's right arm; (c) the condition of his right eye.

Why, you might logically ask, do I continually use such an inferior generative AI tool? The answer is a combination of it being free and my inability to look away from some of the images it creates. I can't stop going back to it.

Anyway, the quote above from Frank Jackson is famous here in Northeast Ohio. People make fun of it, but it perfectly encapsulates what I know to be true about my personal health – and what you may know to be true about your own health.

I am not unaware of the areas in which I fall short when it comes to taking care of myself. I do many things well in the bodily maintenance department, but there are areas in which I miss the mark badly.

Specifically, I don't get enough sleep and I don't strength train.

These are both bad things if you're looking to live a long and vibrant life.

Like Mayor Jackson, my problem is that there's a problem. And I've known for a long time what the problem is. And I've known exactly how to fix that problem.

The problem is that I choose to do nothing about it.

My quality of sleep is good, but the quantity of it is not. I don't like sleeping as much as most other people do. It is, to me, a necessary evil at best.

It's also a key ingredient to peak mental and physical performance. We have to sleep, and we have to get enough sleep. Most nights I get around 6 hours, sometimes less.

I fall asleep almost right away when we turn out the lights, but I also wake up earlier than I probably should. I almost never get the recommended 7 to 9 hours.

I should choose to go to bed earlier, but I do not.

I have also, for many years, chosen not to engage in the practice of lifting weights. My exercise focus has been on cardio activities, and for good reason. A healthy heart is vital.

But so is muscle mass and overall strength, much of which you lose after the age of 35 or so.

I am well past the age of 35.

The dilemma I face is that while I love getting outside and running/walking in the mornings, I do not love the act of lifting weights.

I do not even like the act of lifting weights. I find it as tedious and unenjoyable as I find running/walking to be uplifting and fun.

But as with many things in life, there is an element of "too bad, so sad" in play here. My choice is either to suck it up and start going to bed earlier so I can get up and lift some weights in the basement a few times a week, or to continue complaining about all of this.

I know what I should do. And I think, as I write this on April 9, I'm going to start doing it soon.

Really, I will. Or, by the time you read this, maybe I already have.

First, though, I should probably hire Frank Jackson as a consultant to help me better understand the problem.

Three ways to develop a taste (or at least a true appreciation) for any artform

Last night, my daughter Chloe and I were at Cleveland's Severance Hall to hear the world-renowned Cleveland Orchestra perform Camille Saint-Saens' Piano Concerto No. 2 (featuring rock star pianist Lang Lang) and Hector Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique."

Or at least I assume we were. I'm writing this in early April, and that's what's on the calendar for May 2. I have a partial season subscription to the Cleveland Orchestra. I use it to nurture my love of classical music and to spend time with my daughters Elissa and Chloe, who accompany me to these concerts.

I did not grow up a fan of this style of music, you understand. It's something I developed beginning in my early 40s and that continues to grow today through constant listening and reading articles about these works written by people who know what they're talking about.

I don't really know what I'm talking about when it comes to classical music, but I do, as they say, know enough to be dangerous. I'm constantly buying CDs off of Amazon and eBay to hear recordings of certain pieces you just can't get on a streaming service like Spotify or Apple Music.

I really can't enough of it.

Like I said, though, I was intentional in developing this artistic interest. I wanted to better understand and appreciate it starting around 2011, and I'm pleased with the progress I've made these past 13 years.

I have so much more to listen to and understand, though, which is the part I love. There's never a shortage of new stuff to discover.

If you have a similar potential interest in something artistic – whether it's music, visual art, dance, poetry, or whatever – you may benefit from doing three things that helped me get started as a classical music fan:

(1) Begin with the stuff you know you like
In my case with classical music, this was Tchaikovsky (unapologetically emotional, melodic, accessible) and Beethoven (familiar, powerful). Listening to those two well-known composers early got me acquainted with common forms like symphonies, chamber music and piano concertos. It also taught me to listen for and identify themes and recurring passages and how cleverly they can be used in a piece. Most important, though, starting with music I already somewhat knew kept me coming back and allowed me to develop a real thirst for more.

(2) Get a book or check a website for beginners
Every artform has a set of books or online articles for those who want to learn more about it. In my case with classical music, I own four books that were indispensable in helping me understand what I was hearing and directing me toward the most important works. In case you're interested, those are:

• The NPR Curious Listener's Guide to Classical Music
• The NPR Guide to Building a Classical CD Collection
• The New York Times Essential Library of Classical Music
• The International Guide to Building a Classical Music Library

(3) Go and see it live when you can
If you want to learn more about painting or sculpture, you have to get to an art museum to see the medium up close and personal. If dance is your thing, find a live ballet performance. In the case of classical music, you have to hear a good orchestra play in person. You just have to. There's nothing else like it. I'm spoiled having a world-class ensemble in my backyard, but there are plenty of highly skilled orchestras in every state/province and country. Get thee to a concert hall (or museum, or live poetry reading, or dance theatre...) and your understanding of your chosen artform, much like the Grinch's heart, will grow three sizes that day.

I'm increasingly behind the artificial intelligence curve

My brother Mark knows a lot about artificial intelligence (AI). To the point that he's considered an "industry thought leader." (That link, in which Mark talks about the business use of AI, is worth your time.)

To be clear, what Mark knows is generative AI, which our friends at Wikipedia define as "artificial intelligence capable of generating text, images, videos, or other data using generative models, often in response to prompts."

AI that creates stuff for you, basically.

We all use AI more than we think, whether it's a digital home assistant (think Alexa), facial recognition on our phones, or browsing the recommendations Amazon has for us based on our shopping history.

More and more of us are also using generative AI tools like ChatGPT, and I really want to tell you I'm one of them. I am, after all, a corporate communicator. My people have helped lead the generative AI revolution in recent years.

But I would be lying if I said I was an AI power user. Or even a regular user.

Honestly, it just doesn't occur to me to use AI tools day to day in my personal or professional life. ChatGPT is incredible (most people don't understand what it and similar apps like Claude and Microsoft Copilot can really do), but it's simply not top of mind for me.

There's also a certain Lazy Old Guy factor at play. I don't always want to make the effort to learn new ways of doing things, especially when the old ways serve me just fine.

(Of course, Mark is 12 years older than me, and he doesn't seem to have any problem learning how to use these tools to their full potential.)

The more I read about generative AI and its growing importance in 21st-century society, the more I worry I'm missing out.

There's an easy way to fix that, I know. I just need to get with the times and become an AI guy.

But hey, my brother uses it often enough for the both of us. For now I'll stick to my method of doing things, which I know is SO 2018.

I don't know what other bloggers do, but this is how I come up with topics to write about

The nose. Work on the nose, AI Blog Post Image Generator.

STEP 1: Go to blogger.com and click "+NEW POST" button. This opens up a blank white screen. Big, big mistake. The level of intimidation engendered by a blank white screen cannot be overstated.

STEP 2: Look around the room to see if anything there inspires an idea. Usually it doesn't, unless I want to write about mundane objects in my immediate vicinity like pencils or dictionaries.

STEP 3: Think about all the things that have occupied my time and attention over, say, the past week or so. This is almost always a series of boring work-related events or chores around the house, so rarely does an interesting topic spring to mind when pursuing this line of thought.

STEP 4: Mildly panic. Go get a cup of coffee to reset myself and perhaps gain some inspiration. Briefly consider writing about coffee. Realize I've done it before. Many times.

STEP 5: Return to ominous white screen. Think about the advice my wife would give me in this situation, which is always some variation of "write about me." Briefly consider this. Sometimes follow through on it. Other times realize that, like coffee, this is ground I've covered many times.

STEP 6: Try panicking again. Say a silent prayer of thanks that I write these posts 3-4 weeks in advance just in case writer's block rears its ugly head, as it so often does.

STEP 7: Stumble upon a promising idea, begin to write about it, quickly realize I've had this idea before. Delete everything. Return to blank screen.

STEP 8: Read my friend Peter Vertes' excellent blog to see what he's writing about. Quickly realize I am highly unlikely to successfully replicate his point of view or choice of topics, as I do not happen to be witty nor Jewish nor gay like him.

STEP 9: Swallow my pride and find an old post I can run again, since no one except me remembers anything I wrote in 2014. Position this post as an ultra-exclusive "Blog Rerun." Feel shame.

STEP 10: Sometimes I will mercifully end this process with Step 9. More often, though, I feel obligated to come up with something new and eventually find an idea that is probably only of interest to me. I bang out 300 words about it, make the AI Blog Post Image Generator come up with an illustration to go with it, and set it to publish on a future date. I come away feeling neither satisfied nor accomplished.

And that, my friends, is what I go through to produce these blog posts...which, as I always say, are worth about what you pay to read them.

The family text chat group: Misplaced mail, memories of years past, and endless cat photos

We have a family text group that includes all seven of us plus two significant others (Mark and Lyndsey). It is active almost every day and is used for a variety of purposes.

One recent conversation, for example, centered on Chloe's ongoing attempts to convince the post office that a former resident of her house is, in fact, a former resident and no longer lives there. Several times she has taken items intended for this person and written "Return to Sender" and "Not at This Address" on them, but mail for the previous occupant keeps on coming.

This was followed up by texts from other family members with suggestions on how to handle the situation, and one threat from Jared to alert the authorities that Chloe is committing mail fraud if she starts simply throwing these misaddressed cards and letters away.

He was kidding (I think).

Almost every day it's something different in the chat group, but there are at least three common types of activity you'll find there:

(1) Cat content: We are a cat family and my kids like to share photos of their current cats as well as the cats with which they grew up. I enjoy all of this because it's sometimes the only way I can keep tabs on my grand-kitties. (As you can see above, the official photo of the text group is an old image of Fred, George and Charlie, three of our former cats who have each moved on to their greater good, as my friend Kate Tonti would say.)

(2) Random memories: These conversations will often begin with one kid texting something like, "Thinking about the times Lissy and I used to sit at the computer at the old house and play Harry Potter." Then they will all go back and forth about the details of the game that have stuck with them. We also sometimes get memories of stuff we wouldn't let them do when they were little that their friends were allowed to do. There's always some bitterness there.

(3) Big announcements: Suddenly one child or another will text, "Attention everyone, I have a new job," or some such off-the-cuff piece of important news. Everyone then celebrates through congratulatory messages, "heart" and "exclamation point" reactions, and the occasional funny GIF. Twenty years ago, conveying this news would have involved separate phone calls to parents and siblings. Now it's just a single 7-second text. I'm not sure which is better.

Gotta go, Melanie just sent a great picture of two of her cats standing on their hind legs looking out the front door. <heart emoji>

I am still the family copy editor

I want to ask the AI Blog Post Image Generator why it thinks the woman (it's presumably a woman) holding the red pen in this image only painted half her thumbnail. Still, as you'll see if you scroll to the bottom of this post, it could have been a lot worse.

Every family has at least one person to whom everyone else goes when they have written something they want proofread.

"It's a 200-word statement for a scholarship. Can you look it over and fix the mistakes, and maybe jazz it up a little?"

I used to regularly receive requests of this sort from my kids when they were in school. Now these assignments are less frequent, but they still occur. Recently, for example, Chloe asked me to spruce up a few paragraphs she wrote as part of an application for an academic prize related to her PhD program.

Actually she asked both me and her older sister Elissa. Elissa is a professional marketer and has always been a great writer and editor. Jared also makes his living with words and can be counted on to clean up your copy in a pinch.

We don't have any bad writers in the family, but there's a tendency, when one of your siblings is in the trade, to doubt your own ability and ask a professional to help.

I will admit I may have rewritten a couple of the kids' scholarship essays over the years in an attempt to take them from "good" to "very good." Or even "money-worthy."

NOTE: As I recall, both of the essays I rewrote resulted in the child receiving a scholarship. I should have asked for a cut.

If you aren't the person who handles proofreading chores in your household, you should write a thank-you note to whomever fills that role.

Make sure you read it over very closely before you give it to them, though.

EXTRA NOTE: Every time I ask the AI Blog Post Image Generator to come up with an illustration for one of my posts, I have it create a few possibilities from which I can choose. Following is the second image it spit out in response to the one-word prompt "Proofreader." I...I don't know what to say. The tiny red pen is somewhat amusing, but the outsized thumb is borderline terrifying. This is what I get for using a free and unproven AI image tool.

Don't be a hero: If you have vacation time, use it

Of all the things that confuse me about Americans (and I say this as an American), the most perplexing is probably the concept of unused vacation time.

I don't have all the numbers in front of me, but I'm willing to bet that nowhere else in the world do people leave 25% or more of their paid time off (PTO) on the table. That's about the average percentage of unused PTO in the U.S. each year, according to figures reported by Forbes.

I happen to really enjoy what I do for a living, but the idea of someone offering to pay you the same amount of money to go off and do something fun and relaxing as they do when you're at work, and you responding "No thanks, I'm good!" does not compute in my brain.

I use every last hour of PTO every year, without exception. It's silly not to.

Now, I realize some people are in job situations where they simply can't take time off, for whatever reason. Or at least they think they can't take time off without something bad happening at work.

If that describes you, please know that I love you. Truly I do. But understand, you're not indispensable. Life at the office/plant/hospital/store goes on without you.

Actually, that's one reason some people give for not taking their vacation time. They're afraid that if they leave for a week or two and everything goes well, their boss will think they're not important to the success of the organization.

I am a boss, and I have worked for many bosses. I can say with confidence that no boss I've ever encountered would think that way.

Admittedly, this all assumes you have paid time off available to you in the first place. The folks at Forbes say 28 million Americans don't get any PTO at all, making the U.S. "the only advanced economy in the world that does not guarantee its workers paid vacation and paid holidays."

This is not a point of pride, my fellow Yankees.

Of course, there are also those who have started their own businesses and simply don't have the financial wiggle room to take off for the beach and go unpaid for any length of time. That I get.

To you hearty entrepreneurs I say, "Good luck and Godspeed."

But as for everyone else, we need to understand that taking vacation time is good for us and it's good for our employers. We can't be "on" 24/7/365, nor can anyone reasonably expect us to be. Human beings are more productive and more engaged when they're intentional about scheduling downtime to rest and recharge.

I'm not the best relaxer in the world, but even I realize the truth of this.

Take those PTO hours, folks, please. For your own sake.

Talking to yourself is either a sign of intelligence or mental instability

A few minutes ago I walked past a co-worker who was mumbling under his breath. I asked, "Are you talking to yourself?" And he replied, "Well, I'm the only one who will listen!"

On the spectrum of Corny Office Small Talk, this ranks right up there with "Working hard? Hardly working!" and "Thank God it's Friday, huh?"

But there is also some truth to it.

I talk to myself a lot.

A. Lot.

To the point that I'm fairly certain I say more words out loud to myself each day than I do to Terry or anyone else in the world.

People will walk past my closed office door, peek in and see my mouth moving, and assume I'm in a Teams meeting or on a call. They will make that thumb-and-pinky-extended-near-the-ear gesture, which is of course the universal request to "Call me!"

This will momentarily confuse me until I realize what's going on, and usually I wave for them to come into my office. When they do, I explain, "Sorry, I was just telling myself I need to remember to write that organizational announcement email today!"

They will then look at me uneasily with an expression that suggests, "Wow, I had no idea Scott was insane."

I talk through virtually everything with myself. And rarely are these conversations silent and internal. They are almost always broadcast loudly to anyone who happens to be nearby.

This is OK when I'm driving and loudly saying to myself, "I think I need to turn left up here, right? Or do I keep going straight? Maybe I should have used Google Maps!" No one hears my crazed rantings then.

But when it happens in the grocery store, I notice other shoppers give me a wide berth. I'll be standing near the canned fish products and saying (in a voice that can clearly be heard two aisles over) "WHY DO THEY ONLY HAVE THE SARDINES IN HOT SAUCE? I DON'T WANT THE SARDINES IN HOT SAUCE, I WANT THE SARDINES IN WATER. WHO BUYS THE SARDINES IN HOT SAUCE? NO ONE, THAT'S WHO."

I take consolation in the fact that, the older you get, the more acceptable this behavior seems to become. It goes from "scary" and "potentially threatening" to "cute" and "eccentric."

Right now I'm somewhere in between.

Over and over I tell myself – loudly and proudly, even when no one else is in the room – that it's OK and I'm not at all crazy.

Which of course is exactly what a crazy person would say to himself.

I never anticipated being at the top of my game in my mid-50s

Three times I asked the AI Blog Post Image Generator for a photo of a "happy 50-year-old white man." This is what I got.

If you would have asked me when I was 18 at what age I would "peak," I probably would have said 30 or 35.

And sure enough, life really was good in my 30s.

But it's even better now at age 54, and I didn't see that coming.

None of us knows what's around the next corner of our lives, but at this moment, I can say things are humming along way better than I would have anticipated.

I have no chronic pain, I get to exercise regularly, I have a job I enjoy at a company that appreciates me, my family continues to be awesome despite my influence, and I engage in hobbies that are a heck of a lot of fun.

Like I said, any or all of that can change on a moment's notice. I have no idea what God has in store for me (read the book of Job for a case study in "whoa, didn't see that coming").

But right now, in 2024, my cup pretty well runneth over.

I have as much energy now as I did 25 years ago, though that's partly because we had a house full of little kids 25 years ago that made me chronically tired.

Still, I remain able to go hard from dawn to dusk and generally accomplish a lot of things in the course of a day that I find satisfying, both personally and professionally.

I have earned none of this privilege, by the way. I am entitled to zero of these blessings. And again, bad news could come tomorrow that puts a damper on all of it.

But right now, at this point in my life's journey, I am happy, relatively care-free, vibrant, and maybe a tad less dumb than I used to be.

(Still relatively dumb, of course, but getting smarter in slow, painful increments.)

And that's enough.

Whatever is coming down the road, my experience is that life begins at 50.

Who knew?

A small phone that fits in my pocket vs. a larger phone that I can actually, you know, see

Unless you're a woman who regularly wears pants and keeps your phone in your pocket (and I'm sure there are many), this may be an issue only for men of a certain age.

My age, to be specific.

I have an iPhone SE. It was provided by my employer, who also pays the monthly bill for it. Free phone, free data. That's a deal I can get behind.

This phone fits easily into my pants pockets, whether I'm wearing dress pants or jeans. Its relative portability is one of its strong points, as far as I'm concerned.

But there is a price to pay for a smaller phone.

If, like me, you have reached a point in life where reading glasses are a key element of your daily existence, a small phone screen can be a problem. You can't always tell what you're looking at when watching a video or looking at a photo. Text defaults to an impossibly tiny point size unless you're proactive in doing something about it.

It is, in short, quite often a pain.

I have thought about upgrading to a larger phone and footing the bill myself, but the issues there are patently obvious:

1. The whole "footing the bill myself" thing
2. The inability to stuff said phone conveniently into a pants pocket

The solution is likely a foldable phone. The trouble there? I'm an Apple/iPhone guy, and currently available foldable phones are all Android/Google-based. Apple is planning to release a foldable phone, but last I checked, this little piece of technology is at least two years away from hitting the market.

I could be legally blind by that point.

On balance, I guess I'll keep my free SE and squint every morning as I watch NHL hockey highlights on its tiny screen.

It's better than carrying around a much larger device, at least for me.

You know you're first-world spoiled when something like this is among the toughest issues you're wrestling with in life.

I should be more motivated to brush up on my French before we head to the Olympics

Nice job with a "stereotypical French guy" photo, AI Blog Post Image Generator!

One of my favorite things about traveling to French-speaking areas of the world is getting the chance to put my 14 years of French language education to use.

As I've chronicled here before, I grew up in a school district where everybody took French in 1st through 6th grades. I continued taking it throughout middle and high schools, and nearly pulled off a minor in the subject with three years of additional French classes at John Carroll University.

The result has been that, on my eight or nine combined trips to Montreal and Paris over the years, I've been able to hold my own when it came to ordering in a restaurant, asking directions, getting answers to simple questions on the street, etc.

Actually, I've held my own in Paris much more than in Montreal. The Quebecois accent is such that my Parisian French education, combined with my Northeast Ohio inflection, renders me as unintelligible to some Montrealers as they are to me.

The point is, I know some French. Having not used it much, I read it much better than I speak it.

My daughter Elissa had almost as much French education as me and has taken actual French classes in recent years as an adult. She and I (along with Terry and Elissa's boyfriend Mark) are scheduled to arrive in Paris 16 weeks from today to take in some Summer Olympics events and generally see the sites as we're able.

I figure that, with our collective French proficiency and past experience in Paris, we should navigate just fine in the City of Light.

But I'm not going out of my way to review French vocabulary and syntax before we jet off to the continent. I should, but I'm not.

There are any number of excuses I can give for this, but the reality is that I'm simply a lazy American.

Language-wise (and many other wises), we are among the most spoiled people on earth. There are few places we can go where people won't either willingly speak English to us, or else roll their eyes and switch to English because we're obviously not going to make the effort to learn their language.

This is even worse because I mostly know their language. It wouldn't take much for me to get back into Francophone shape, but especially with a multi-cultural event like the Olympics, it will be easy to get around using only English.

I'm hoping to get more motivated between now and early August, but don't bet on it.

C'est la vie.

At some point in a marriage, you've pretty much seen everything you're going to see

She has read the whole book that is her husband and she still sticks around.

No matter who you are, you have a limited number of funny stories and jokes.

You have a finite list of special talents and tricks.

You have a set amount of quirky habits and preferences.

You have certain faces you make, certain things you say, certain nervous ticks, certain chewing noises, certain ways of sleeping, certain favorite movies and TV shows, certain likes and dislikes, and certain ways you behave, speak, and just generally exist.

You are not, in short, a well of infinite possibility. You are human, and there is only so much another person can uncover.

If that person is your spouse, there comes a time when they have essentially seen the entirety of You.

I don't know exactly how long you have to be married for that to happen, but it probably takes considerably less than 10 years for them to have experienced 99% of what you have to offer.

That's the point when, if they decide to stick around, you know they love you.

Unconditionally.

Terry has heard every one of my little anecdotes. She has a thorough understanding of my faults and shortcomings, along with my good points. She can generally guess how I'm going to act and react in any given situation.

There is very little I say or do that surprises her.

The same is true for me when it comes to her.

And yet here we are, 32 years down the road of marriage and more than 38 years into our relationship. Without ever actually saying it, we have come to an agreement that despite anything about us that is less than attractive, the positives outweigh the negatives and we're going to ride it out together as long as we can.

That's my favorite thing about being in a long-term relationship: You've seen the entire show, yet you're sticking around for whatever comes next...even if you're pretty certain you know what it is.

With apologies to Benny Goodman, Bette Midler and anyone else who has ever performed the song, that right there is the story of, that's the glory of, love.

The day is finally here! Yes, my nephew's birthday (what day did you think I meant?)

I don't know what year this was, but my choice of full-body thermal underwear suggests I was about to embark on an Arctic expedition of some sort. That's my nephew Mark on the right.

Oh, I guess it's also Eclipse Day for those of us fortunate enough to be in the path of totality. As I write these words on March 13th, I have no idea what the weather will be in Northeast Ohio for the big event. But even if it's cloudy, I'm hoping the sudden mid-afternoon darkness will at least be worth going outside for.

Anyway, what I meant was that my nephew Mark turns 49 years old today. Nine years ago, I wrote a tribute to him on his 40th birthday. Now, a year from his 5-0 milestone, I hope you have a minute to go back and read about an awesome husband, father and lover of Oasis. Click here to give that 2015 post a look.

As for me, I'm going to dig out those long johns and head outside this afternoon to take in whatever celestial spectacle the skies over Wickliffe will afford.

Happy Mark/Eclipse Day!

My greatest Facebook fear is using the wrong reaction button

 

I've always liked the fact that Facebook offers a wide range of reactions you can click in response to someone's post or comment.

"Like" and "Love" simply didn't offer a sufficiently broad palette of sentiment. They have been augmented over time by Care, Haha, Wow, Sad and Angry.

Together, these little clickable emojis are like the Seven Dwarves of Emotion, and I use them liberally.

The only potential pitfall – and it's a big one – is ensuring I choose the correct reaction to any given post or comment.

Specifically, my biggest fear is that I'll choose the wrong one on someone's heartfelt post and immediately continue scrolling without realizing my error.

Every time someone posts about the death of a loved one and I click on a reaction (often in addition to leaving a comment), I check, double check and triple check that it's the correct reaction.

I have nightmares that a friend posts their mom's obituary and I mistakenly click on "Haha!" in reaction to the news, rather than the little heart-toting Care button.

It almost feels inevitable that this will happen eventually, and it hangs over me in ways that Mark Zuckerberg and team can never prevent.

Anyone who knows me will automatically understand it was done in error, but that doesn't take away the shame of appearing to laugh at someone else's tragedy.

"Your mom died? That's hilarious!"

Like I said, it's only a matter of time before it happens, no matter how diligent I am.

Despite what I thought, an empty nest can still sometimes mean an empty wallet

 

My longtime Wickliffe friend Laura Jones got a kick out of it some years ago when I posted the image above in reference to how expensive it can be to have kids.

This was back when most of our children lived at home and there were always school fees, sports fees, large grocery bills and related accounts payable to attend to.

My assumption then was that one day, when they moved out, the constant outflow of cash would cease, and Terry and I would live in peace and financial prosperity the rest of our days.

What can I say? I was young and naïve.

The reality, I'm now finding with only the 18-year-old living under our roof, is that while there are fewer kid-related expenditures now than they're used to be, we still end up funding our offspring from time to time in various ways.

For example, the rule in our family has generally been that, if you decide to move out and live on your own, this is an admirable choice that comes with certain realities and consequences. Like, you need to get your own car insurance and start paying for your cell phone.

That kind of thing.

This doesn't automatically occur the second the child gets his/her own house or apartment, but over time it does become reality.

In the meantime, during the transition period, we end up providing unintended subsidies to ensure our kids are driving legally, kept connected to the outside world with a functioning phone, and, you know, eating regularly.

We do this willingly and lovingly, of course. But the point is, we do it.

So does Laura with her two daughters.

And probably so do you if you have older kids.

You never stop being a parent, but eventually you do stop being a savings and loan for your children.

It just takes a bit longer than you might think.

And that's OK. Particularly if you don't mind eating cat food in your retirement years.

I should have hired a copy editor (or "I can't believe how many typos there are in my book")

I asked the AI Blog Post Image Generator to give me something related to the prompt "book editor." On its own, the app apparently decided this fake editor must have fat fingers.

If there's a lesson in today's post, it's that when you're doing something that's important to you, be willing to put in the time and spend the resources (dollars included) needed to ensure it's done right.

I know this now. I wish I would have known it a year ago when I started working on my book.

"5 Kids, 1 Wife" is my little contribution to the publishing world. Yet again, I will mention that it's available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and a variety of obscure online bookstores of which you and I have never heard.

It is likely the only book I will ever write, so you would think I would have done everything I could to make it perfect. Or as close to perfect as can be reasonably expected.

I did hire both an interior book designer and a separate designer to create the cover. No way I was going to try either of those things on my own.

My mistake was not hiring someone else to edit the actual text.

I have enough experience in editorial matters to know that no matter how many times you read your own copy, you're not going to catch all of the mistakes. You need a second (and sometimes a third) set of eyes to polish the sentences over which you have labored and agonized.

But what did I do? I read through the book myself a total of six times, figuring that would be sufficient and that surely there couldn't be any typos left.

This was an unwise decision.

I always assumed one or two boo-boos would get through in the finished book, but I've come to realize it's more than one or two.

As I type this sentence in early March, I'm a little more than halfway through recording the audio version of the book, and it seems like I'm discovering some painful little slip-up or another in every other post.

Missing words, double words, wrong usage, comma splices. You name it, I think I've found it.

I have no idea how I could have screwed up so many times.

And even less idea why I was so cheap that I didn't bite the bullet and allow a professional editor to correct my errors.

If you've not yet read the book, please don't let this deter you from purchasing a copy.

Please also understand that the author is a bit of a moron. A penny-pinching moron who is now paying the price for this own tight-fistedness.

Again, expend the resources to make your passion project as good as it can be, that's my advice to you.

I don't go to a lot of concerts, but the one I'm attending tonight is special for reasons beyond music

By Derek Russell - https://www.flickr.com/photos/184778751@N03/48954387052/, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=83341876

If all goes according to plan, this evening I'll be joining The Marks (my brother and my nephew, who share that first name) at the Kent Stage in Kent, Ohio, for a night of music and storytelling offered up by one Mr. Colin Hay.

If you know Colin at all, it's likely as the lead singer of the highly successful early-80s pop group Men at Work. In the years since, he has forged a nice solo career, having released more than a dozen albums.

Colin has always meant a lot to me, in part because Men at Work was the first musical act that really caught my interest. I bought their single "Down Under" on 45 in 1982, the first record purchase I made using my own money (from my paper route, of course).

I never got to see the group perform live before they broke up, but I've seen Colin in concert several times over the past 20 years. Nephew Mark is better at keeping track of this than I am – he has been there with me for every one of these shows – but I think tonight might be the seventh time I've been there in person to watch Colin work his magic.

And "magic" is actually a pretty apt word. Not only is he a wonderfully talented songwriter and musician, he's also a master of between-song banter. He tells stories and jokes in an understated Scottish way that holds audiences captive.

(Colin is known the world over for being from Australia, but he is Scottish by birth and lived there until he turned 14 and his family moved Down Under.)

Anyway, while I'm looking forward to the show, I'm more looking forward to spending some time with my brother and nephew. We probably don't get together as much as we should, but when we do, it never fails to be memorable.

Your takeaways today, then, are these:

(1) Make the effort to spend time with people you love.

(2) Colin Hay is still making music and is worth checking out if you've lost track of him.

Do you need an alarm to get up in the morning?

First, let's establish the fact that, yes, I have a clock radio on my nightstand. I realize this is very 1987 behavior, and my iPhone is a more-than-capable substitute, but I like having the time instantly visually accessible in big, blue shiny numbers whenever I want to check it.

As you would expect, my clock radio has an alarm feature. I used to set this alarm regularly, especially when I was running a lot and needed to be up by a certain time in order to get my miles in.

Terry always makes fun of my alarm, by the way, and with good reason. When it first goes off, it's very, very soft. Almost like it's whispering to a sleeping 6-year-old: "Hey buddy! Rise and shine, champ! Up and at 'em, tiger! Time to get up!"

The volume increases the longer you wait to turn it off, but this is a very gradual process. There used to be times when I was so fast asleep, the alarm tone would ring for minutes on end and wake Terry up instead of me.

Nowadays, though? I haven't set the alarm in at least a year. Maybe two. I no longer have need for it.

At some point in the past 24 months, my body has decided we're getting up every day at exactly the same time, without the need for an alarm or wake-up call.

That time is 5:30am. Regardless of when I go to bed, my eyes pop open each morning within 5 or 10 minutes either side of 5:30.

This is a good thing, since 5:30 is when I want to get up anyway. It's just uncanny how consistent it is.

There are occasions when I "sleep in" until 6:00, but these happen only once every two to three months, and only near the end of long weeks in which I've exerted a lot of physical or mental effort.

Otherwise, my internal alarm clock is as dependable as they come.

This may be an old person thing, and by the time I'm 80 my consistent wake-up time is going to be 3:30am instead.

If and when that happens, just show me to the nearest Denny's, order me a cup of coffee and a Grand Slam breakfast (using my senior discount), and I'll be fine. Tired, maybe, but fine.