A man's got to know his limitations. I have many.

The list of subjects about which I can confidently say "Oh, I know a lot about that" is exceedingly small.

This comes as no surprise to my friends and family. They'll tell you my knowledge tends to be extremely focused and not altogether useful.

Which I suppose would be OK if I hadn't spent the past 50+ years expecting that at some point, through some unknown process, I would come to understand a wide range of things.

But it hasn't happened. I have very little wisdom and even less common sense. I continue to be mystified by how appliances in my own house work, for example.

It also bothers me that I write every day for both personal and professional reasons, yet I'm not confident I can fully explain the proper use of a comma.

And a semicolon? Forget it.

I am, in short, stunningly ignorant on most topics.

This is one reason I have very few opinions, especially when it comes to politics. Someone will explain their point of view to me on an issue and I'll say, "Well, that sounds right to me." Then another person with an opposing viewpoint will explain their perspective and I'll say, "You know, that sounds right, too."

Maybe I just don't understand the nature of opinions. I'm looking for 100% black-and-white clarity when instead I should be looking for the perspective that seems to carry at least a little more weight. You can, I guess, acknowledge that a person brings up some valid points and still overall disagree with them.

Now, I don't want you to think I'm entirely useless as a human being. There are subjects on which I'm a pretty reliable source. Or at least you could do a lot worse than me if you have questions.

Here is the complete list of those subjects:

• The Australian band Men at Work's full discography and song lyrics
• The 1979 Cleveland Indians
• World War I battles on the Western Front, 1917-18
• Oatmeal: Is it just for breakfast? (THE EXTENT OF MY KNOWLEDGE HERE: "No.")
• Rolling a 300 game in Wii Sports Bowling
• Ottawa Senators goaltenders, 1992-present
• Choosing the correct container size when cleaning up after dinner and storing leftovers

And that's probably about it.

Oh, I'm also pretty good when it comes to Flintstones trivia. Call me the next time someone asks you what Barney Rubble did for a living.

I think of our cats as tiny humans, and I constantly have to remind myself they're not

Ever since Cheddar the cat entered our lives a year ago, this scene has played out hundreds of times.

Cheddar (the orange cat above, lower right) will be sitting in the living room minding his own business, when suddenly calico Ginny, one of our two girl cats, will come charging at him. The two will tussle for a few seconds, hisses will be exchanged, then order will be restored.

When this happens, I give Ginny a stern talking-to. "Why would you do that?" I demand of her. "Stop being a bully. Leave Cheddar alone! You're mean."

Then I pause for a second and realize a few things:

• Ginny does not generally understand English, outside of the word "treats" and her own name.
  
  
• Ginny is acting on instinct. She is not "mean" by nature.
  
  
• These lectures of mine never seem to have an effect, and she is likely to repeat this behavior an hour later.

NOTE: Cheddar is not entirely innocent in all of this. Maybe it's because he's fed up with being attacked, but increasingly, he is the aggressor when he and Ginny or he and Molly square off.

Other than the occasional nose scratch, no one ever gets hurt in these confrontations. But I always feel like Cheddar, a cat who was plucked from the mean streets of Wickliffe by our daughter Melanie, deserves some peace and quiet.

Then again, he's an animal. Does he even know what "peace and quiet" is? Isn't he built to handle this kind of thing?

Regardless of how much we love them, the fact is that our cats, as domesticated as they are, are cats. They have instincts that make them act in ways that, while unpleasant to us, are perfectly natural to them.

Overall, they seem pretty happy with their lives.

This tendency of mine to treat them like people also extends to their facial expressions. Or at least what I interpret as their facial expressions, because again, I read their faces the way I would read people's faces.

Which is also a mistake. Cheddar, for instance, has what Terry calls "Resting Sad Face." He always looks like a forlorn little human child, but he looks that way even when he's sitting on my lap purring and is clearly very content.

So while I still don't like it when the cats fight, as I said, no permanent damage is done and they all seem fairly happy with their lot in life.

Of course, I would know for sure if they stopped being so stubborn and learned to speak English.

Which is the best (and the worst) day of the week?

Supposedly, early "Garfield" cartoons like this one from the mid-1970s were not copyright protected, meaning I can post it here without threat of punishment. Or maybe that's made up. We'll see.

Every once in a while, my son Jared will text our family group chat with a set of "power rankings" in which he rates a group of items from his favorite to his least favorite.

Like, for example, he has previously sent (always randomly, always out of the blue) power rankings of the cats in our family and various breakfast cereals.

These lists are always cause for much discussion and debate within the group chat.

Recently, Jared sent his rankings of the days of the week, from the best (in his opinion Saturday) to the worst (in his mind Tuesday).

It immediately reminded me of a similar list I posted here on the blog way back on July 5, 2013. I figured I would revisit that list and make changes based on 12 additional years of life experience. Surely I don't look at the days of the week the same now as I did when I was 43, do I?

It turns out I do. Following are my days of the week power rankings, which ring as true for me now as they did back in 2013. (Oh, and for comparison's sake, Jared's list from best to worst went Saturday, Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday.)

#7 - Tuesday

Tuesday is the worst day, hands down. Maybe because it lacks an identity. It's not only the middle of the work week, it's early in the middle of the work week. Few good things happen on Tuesdays, as far as I'm concerned.

#6 - Thursday

"I could never get the hang of Thursdays," says Arthur Dent in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And I agree. Some people choose to go out and party on Thursday nights. I don't even go out and party on Saturday nights, so that's definitely not for me. Thursday lures you in with, "Hey, the weekend is right around the corner!" But it's not, because Thursday ends and you still haven't arrived at the weekend. You can't fool me, Thursday, you temptress.

#5 - Monday

This is higher than most people would slot Monday on any day-of-the-week ranking list. But Mondays do have some redeeming value. They always hold out the promise of a solid, enjoyable week ahead, and I always start them well. Sometimes they really are the vanguard of a happy five days. But sometimes they aren't. So you never know what you're going to get with Monday, which is why I can't trust it with a ranking any higher than #5.

#4 - Sunday

It is with a guilty conscience that I rank Sunday in the middle, because Sunday is when we go to church and that's supposed to be the highlight of my week. Sunday morning definitely ranks right up there for me, but Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening? All I do is think about my responsibilities and appointments for the week to come, which really defeats the purpose of a weekend. Sunday is lucky I put it as high as #4 on this list.

#3 - Wednesday

That Geico commercial about a camel on Hump Day makes me laugh. And that's all I really need to say about Wednesdays.

#2 - Saturday

I realize Saturday is the calendar equivalent of Nirvana for most people, and I like it, too. But you know what happens to me around 6 p.m. every Saturday? I start thinking, "Oh man, the weekend is already mostly over and I haven't accomplished anything. And tomorrow is Sunday, which means I have to spend it getting ready for Monday." *SIGH*." It's a sad, lonely existence I lead, really.

#1 - Friday

I would never force you to listen to that "Friday" song by Rebecca Black, but I do offer the option of a link, should you choose to subject yourself to it. Fridays are life-defining for me. I am, for whatever reason, hugely productive at work on Fridays. I enjoy almost every Friday night one way or another. And my standards have fallen so far that I actually thrive on the experience of wearing jeans to work on "Casual Fridays." There is virtually no downside to Fridays, which is why I crown it The Champ among days of the week. For what that's worth.

Finding the line between "live your life" and "do what's best for your health"

From the outset, I should establish that I don't believe a fun life and a healthy life are mutually exclusive things. You can (and should) have both.

But there's no denying that, at least for me, a healthy life sometimes means making certain sacrifices and prioritizing my time in ways I might not otherwise.

As an example, let's take the gym-going habit I developed nearly a year ago.

When I started lifting last June, you could find me in the gym five days a week without fail. And it undoubtedly made a difference, to the point that my chest, arms and shoulders are now somewhat bigger, which means some of my button-downs and pullovers are harder to get on than they used to be.

It's a good problem (and a very healthy habit) to have.

But there are downsides to a five-day-a-week gym routine, again, at least for me. They include:

• Sometimes getting less sleep than I really need because I have stuff going on the night before I work out
• Perpetual soreness
• A higher risk of injury and less chance to recover

To that last point, in the past year I have sustained injuries at the gym to my shoulder, back, forearm and foot. All were lifting-related, and while all probably could have been avoided with better form, the fact is they happened and they didn't heal quickly.

That was probably because I kept on going to the gym five days a week and never gave those muscles a chance to heal themselves.

Then I cut back to four days a week of lifting, and now sometimes I'm at three. And voila, as I type this, I'm suddenly injury-free!

Who knew?

When it comes to diet, we all have to decide what we're willing to do to maintain a reasonable weight without being in constant self-denial. Few people can get by without indulging in less-than-healthy treats from time to time.

You have to decide what "from time to time" means for you, though, and what potential long-term health consequences you're willing to accept in exchange for the happiness that extra piece of cake or the double cheeseburger bring you.

As I mentioned recently, you and I each have an expiration date, and we can only push it out so far. As Colin Hay, one of my favorite singer-songwriters, puts it: "Nobody gets a sequel, no, everyone gets shown the door."

I think a lot nowadays about these tradeoffs. Maybe it's because I have a grandchild on the way. Or maybe I'm at an age when everyone starts to look ahead to whatever is left of this life, which for me should be at least a few more decades, though you never know.

Pick a philosophy and stick to it. Find your balance. Then go and live your life the best you know how, even if the final number of years you live isn't as long as it could be.

That's the best advice I can give you.

I'm living in the lap of luxury...or laziness, it's hard to tell

We don't have a hammock, but the point is, if I wanted to sleep while Nick our lawn guy cuts the grass, I could.

When Terry and I bought our first home in 1992, I was by default in charge of lawn maintenance, snow removal and leaf clean-up. These traditionally masculine roles fit me well, and I took some pride in keeping a relatively well-maintained lawn and a clear winter driveway.

Fast forward to 2025, and my how things have changed.

I now have a guy (Nick) who mulches my flower beds in the early spring, cuts my grass all summer, and removes my leaves in the fall.

I have another guy (Jeff) who plows my driveway in the winter, leaving only some light shoveling to do around the entryways to our home.

It's not that I can't physically do these things anymore. I can. It's a combination of not wanting to do them and having the discretionary income to pay someone else to do them.

It helps a lot that Nick is very good at what he does, and that Jeff is thorough and reliable whenever winter storms smack us in the face. If they did their jobs poorly, I might rethink my decision to outsource all of this work.

As it is, though, I'm fortunate to have access to skilled, responsible help that makes my life a lot easier.

Not that I really need life to be that much easier. mind you. I'm ridiculously blessed, and I'm of a socioeconomic demographic that benefits inordinately from the system.

You don't have to be wealthy to have it as good as I do. Just lucky.

Still, I'm waiting for the day when my manly pride gets the better of me and I tell Nick, "You know what? I don't need you anymore. I'm going to go back to cutting the grass and raking up the leaves myself. Thanks for your service."

When that happens, I give it one, maybe two lawn mowings before I'm on the phone asking whether he can work me back into his schedule.

I hope I continue to realize how good I have it.

I give more thought to scheduling my vacation days than NASA gives to manned space missions

When you add up my vacation, personal days and floating holidays, I have something like 19 days of leisure to play with in 2025.

That's probably fairly typical of a white-collar professional of my age. Some people (particularly those with many years of tenure at their companies) have much more, others have much less. But that's what I have.

While I find it to be pretty generous, I realize I'm looking at this through very American eyes. Those in other countries tend to have more off time – often considerably more – than we do. I'm so conditioned to our system here that if you gave me the Scandinavian treatment and granted me six weeks off a year, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

In any case, those 19 days are what I have, and I give careful thought as to how I use them.

And to be clear, I do use them. All of them. As I've written before, I don't understand those who leave paid holidays on the table.

• Right off the bat I know I'll burn a week's worth in late July for our church's annual Bible school/retreat at Slippery Rock University. It's a highlight of the year for us and a non-negotiable expenditure of off time (even the recovery day I'll take after we get back).

• As I mentioned last week, we just recently scheduled a trip to Brazil. It's a Wednesday-to-Wednesday thing, but one of those days is a holiday, which means I only have to use five off days. Good deal.

• I also burn a day every spring on high school track PA announcing gigs. I'm announcing five meets this spring over six days in April and May. Some of those are weekdays, with meet start times all in the range of 4pm. That means I have to leave the office around 3pm to make it to the track and get myself prepared before the announcements and event calls begin. Total those early departures across the spring and it means I need to burn a personal day to ensure the company and I are square. Again, that's fine.

I already used one vacation day this year when Terry and I went to Florida in early February to visit Jared and Lyndsey. Add up that day, plus the track announcing day, plus five days for Brazil, plus the six days I take for Slippery Rock, and we're down to just six days to use throughout the rest of the year.

Here's where you have to have a strategy. Do I hold onto them just in case something happens? Like, when Chloe's baby is born, will it be during the week, and will I want to burn a day or two to spend with her and my grandchild at the hospital? Maybe.

Do I want to take off 5-6 days in late December so I don't have to work at all over Christmas and New Year's? Possibly.

Or, rather than using most of it at one time, do I instead enjoy a series of three- or four-day weekends in the summer and fall, as I wrote last August?

These are all legitimate questions, and while I've certainly given them due consideration, I've not yet reached any decisions.

I've said this before, but I think the planning and anticipation of vacations is as much (or more) fun than the vacations themselves. I can't wait to see how this all goes.

I do our taxes, but I'm pretty sure I don't do them right

(NOTE: This post originally appeared on the blog 10 years ago tomorrow on April 15, 2015. For the record, I have yet to be audited or imprisoned for tax fraud.)

I know a lot of people who hire an accountant or H&R Block or a friend to do their taxes.

Not me. Ever since we've been married, I've handled preparing and filing our federal, state and local income taxes.

I have no formal training in finance, tax law, or generally accepted accounting principles, yet year after year I take on the responsibility of filling out these forms on behalf of myself and my wife, knowing that I'm risking an audit or, frankly, arrest.

Because I'm pretty sure I never get it quite right. Which is saying something since I use the popular TurboTax software to do my taxes, and the creators of that program try their best to make the whole thing as easy as possible.

95% of it really is easy. It's just a matter of filling in numbers and answering relatively simple questions.

But there are always a few things on my taxes about which I'm not quite sure. Like, for example, when and how to claim my daughter Elissa's college expenses. Or how much to claim. Or even why I'm claiming them in the first place.

A good, conscientious person would take time to do research not only to get the numbers right, but to ensure he or she fully understands the applicable tax code.

Then there's me. Once I start doing taxes, my only goal is to finish doing taxes, and to finish them as quickly as possible.

So if I'm the least bit stumped, I kind of guess a little. To my credit, I try to guess in a direction that favors the government rather than me. But I do guess somewhat.

In the end we always end up getting a sizable refund, not because I'm a tax genius or anything, but mainly because we have five children. And the tax code is set up such that you are encouraged to be prodigious in your childbearing. Got 10 kids? Cool, we're give you a deduction for each and every one of them.

It's always with some degree of trepidation that I click the "File" button in TurboTax to send my information to the IRS. I second- and third-guess myself, but I rarely change anything I've already entered. At some point when it comes to taxes, you figure prison is probably preferable to combing through that stack of receipts one more time to make sure you got everything right.

This past year my employer stopped withholding local tax from my paycheck. When that happens you're supposed to make proactive, quarterly estimated payments to your local tax authority, which we sort of tried to do with the City of Wickliffe but failed.

And then, when I did file our city taxes, I forgot to mail a W-2 form. So the city sent me a letter, the gist of which was, "Hey genius, thanks for your tax forms. Wanna send us a copy of the ol' W-2 this time?"

At least they didn't audit or arrest me. Which is more than I can probably say for the IRS once they stumble on this post.

You get used to your parents being gone, even if you don't want to

Today would have been my mom's 93rd birthday. She passed away five years ago this summer, right in the middle of the pandemic.

What made the whole thing tougher is that we didn't get the chance to see her in person from mid-March, when she went into assisted living after a stay in the hospital, until the day before she died in early July. Covid restrictions and everything, you know.

We got to see her on FaceTime during those chaotic months, but that's obviously not the same thing.

Terry and I were scheduled to see her on July 2nd for a "window visit," where the assisted living folks would bring her to a window (maybe a window screen so we could talk? I can't remember) and we could actually see her face to face.

But a catastrophic fall earlier that week changed those plans in a hurry. Yes, we did get to see her in person on July 2, but it was instead at hospice when she was unconscious and nearing the end of her time on this earth.

She passed away the next day, but not before we had the chance to say our goodbyes. I've always been grateful for that.

Anyway, with my dad having died several years earlier, I've been without my parents for a while now. Terry's mom passed away less than three weeks before mine, and she lost her dad a year and a half ago, so she's in the same boat.

You still have those moments when you want to call them and share some big news or just talk about something that happened to you, and then you remember they're not around anymore. It's a sad, jarring realization.

It happens less frequently now, but it still happens. I've become accustomed to being an "orphan" (as my daughter jokingly put it), though I'm not sure that makes any of it easier.

Have you seen that meme going around on social media that shows a phone screen with an incoming call from "Mom" and "Dad?" It says something like, "If you still receive these calls, be grateful."

I agree. You don't know what you have until it's gone.

Having an adventurous daughter means you end up in some exotic places

 

One day several weeks ago, Elissa sent me the text above.

The minute I read it, I knew my fate was sealed. There was no way I was saying no to an invitation to visit Brazil.

Thus, next month, Elissa, Terry, Jack and I are hopping on a plane and heading south for five days in Rio de Janeiro.

It would never have occurred to me to travel to Brazil. I simply wouldn't have thought of it on my own.

But Elissa thought of it because she is a traveler (and travel planner) par excellence. One time she went to Sweden by herself and attended a Kendrick Lamar concert in Stockholm.

Again, by herself. Who does that?

Elissa and her boyfriend Mark will have just returned from Scotland by the time we take this Brazil trip, so Mark opted to sit this one out. I don't blame him. International travel, while always a thrill, is also exhausting.

You may recall that my last overseas trip was to Paris to attend the 2024 Olympics. I came home with a head full of memories and a body full of COVID.

You take the good with the bad, I guess.

One of the great things about Rio for American travelers is that the time difference is negligible. The city is just one hour ahead of Cleveland this time of year, which is great.

On the other hand, getting there is going to be a bit arduous. We take an afternoon flight down to Houston, stay there a few hours, then board another plane for an overnight flight to our destination.

I don't sleep particularly well on planes when I'm not in business class, so I'm expecting that first full day in Brazil to be a tiring one.

Still, it's Brazil, and who knows whether we'll ever have the chance to get back? So off we go.

We have somewhat of a personal connection to the country in that we hosted two Brazilian students in our home for a week back in 2012. Paula and Luiz were wonderful young people, and we still occasionally connect with them on Facebook.

(Click here to read a 13-year-old blog post about that experience.)

I'm looking forward to meeting new Brazilian people on this next adventure. They are, as a rule, outgoing, generous and very hug-oriented people.

I just wish we could get to them without the whole overnight flying thing.

The 40-year-old niece and the 50-year-old nephew

Here's a video from 1988 in which 18-year-old me writes my 3-year-old niece Jessica's name on a piece of paper for her. And she delivers a harsh critique of my work.

Last month my niece Jessica turned 40. Tomorrow my nephew Mark turns 50.

These are wonderful milestones worth celebrating, but they're also strange to me.

For one thing, when I think of a "niece" or "nephew," I think of a child. Having a nephew hit the half-century mark, and a niece who isn't too terribly far off, tends to knock one for a bit of a loop.

Also, it means it was 10 years ago tomorrow I wrote this post, calling Mark "The 40-Year-Old Nephew." I've always liked that one.

I remember relatively little about Mark's birth in the spring of 1975, to the point that it's funny to consider there was a part of life when he wasn't around. He has just always been there, whether it's coming with me to live performances of the 80s musical acts we both love, sharing texts with word-for-word bits from our favorite stand-up comedians, or just getting together for family holidays and spending most of our time laughing.

As for Jessica, I do remember when she was born in the spring of 1985. I was a freshman in high school and, while still mostly clueless, at least old enough to understand what was going on. She would quickly become my honorary younger sister. When she was little, I would take her around in my yellow Chevy Chevette on field trips ranging from Gold Circle to Geauga Lake. (80'S ALERT! 80'S ALERT!)

Mark is a good father of two and now a good half-centenarian. Jessica is a good mother of two and now a good...almost-half centenarian?

Whatever you want to call them, I welcome them both to the Society of Middle-Aged Parents. We old fogeys are happy to have you.

I miss the feeling of flying around the track

High school track and field season is underway here in Ohio. My dad always said he didn't mind watching my cold October football games nearly as much as he minded watching my cold (and usually windy) early-April track meets.

Having had a few of my own kids run track, I understand where he was coming from. And while I don't miss freezing in the stands, I do miss being a sprinter and long jumper like I was in the mid- to late 1980s.

I was the only guy I knew who played football to stay in shape for track season and not the other way around.

Like any sport, track had its good days and bad days. But looking back, the good days were so good that I've blotted the bad ones from my mind. My track memories consist mostly of sunny dual meets and long Saturday invitationals that offered up far more wins than losses for my teammates and me.

What I miss most is the feeling. The feeling of being at the peak of your athletic ability. The feeling of hitting the long jump board just right and flying 20-plus feet into the sand pit. The feeling of attacking the curve in the 200 meters and blowing by the competition.

There's really nothing else like it.

I stayed in touch with the track world after high school first as a newspaper sports writer then later as a track parent and now as a public address announcer for track meets. I watch these young kids speeding up and down the straightaway and I want them to know how fleeting these moments are. I want them to appreciate every race, win or lose.

I want them to understand it all goes away much more quickly than you think it will.

It's not that I abandoned running the minute they handed me my diploma. But for many years starting in my mid-20s, running no longer meant sprinting, but rather long, slow distance races. I can't remember the last time I full out sprinted, though I'm guessing it was sometime in the early 90s.

Nowadays if I tried going all out in a sprint, my hamstrings would probably explode in a gooey mess all over the track.

But there was a time when I and the kids with whom I competed could move. Like, really move.

If they could figure out a way to bottle that feeling, I would buy several cases. As it is, though, I have only my old guy memories of races long completed and medals fairly won.

And maybe, given the ways things work in this life, that's enough.

You're not fooling me into false hope, April

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

T.S. Eliot, "The Wasteland"

We have entered the month of April, which you know.

What you may not know is that April's only purpose in this world (at least for those of us living in decidedly temperate climates) is to trick us into thinking spring has arrived.

Sure, technically, spring has arrived on the calendar, but no self-respecting Northeast Ohioan really believes that.

I'm writing this post on February 24. I have no idea what the weather will be like on April 2, and it almost doesn't matter. Even if it's sunny and warm, it won't last. It will be 70 degrees one day and 35 the next.

That is far worse than a week of mid-January temperatures in the mid-teens. At least in January you know what you're getting and don't expect anything better.

But in April? The crocuses and other signs of emerging life make you think everything is going to be OK very soon. And it is going to be OK.

Just not now. Not this month.

You have to wait for May for "OK." In the meantime, winter's long death rattles continue for the next few weeks. You think you see the finish line, and suddenly it moves 100 yards farther away.

You have hope, then April blithely crushes the part of you that believes summer is right around the corner.

We're not finished yet. Not by a long shot.

It was the character Red from "The Shawshank Redemption" who said it best: "Let me tell you something, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane."

Indeed it can, Red, indeed it can.