Having (considerably) older siblings

This week my brother Mark and sister Debbie have birthdays (Deb's is actually today). They are two years apart, but they have always shared a birthday week.

I will not tell you how old they are, though I will say the age difference between us can be measured in double-digit years.

I will also add that, when I was born in November 1969, my oldest sister Judi was in her junior year of high school and was only 3 1/2 months from turning 17.

While not exactly rare, it is uncommon nowadays for a 17-year-old to have a newborn baby brother. Trust me when I say it was even more uncommon in 1969.

As the story goes, my siblings found out my mom was pregnant not from Mom herself, but from our Aunt Peg. I don't know if Mom was unsure how they would react or what, but I'm told they were all pretty thrilled by the idea of having a little brother or sister.

There was a time when all six of us lived in a 900-square-foot house with no upstairs, no basement, and only one bathroom. I don't remember that time because it all happened during the first two years of my life, but having spent 22 years in that same house myself, I can imagine how chaotic it must have been.

By the time I was in kindergarten, Judi and Mark were both married (he would later join the Air Force and spend several years overseas). And while Debbie technically lived with us, I don't remember seeing her all that much.

I always say I was essentially raised an only child, even though I'm the youngest of four.

As often happens as we age, I'm much closer to Debbie and Mark now than I ever was as a kid (and I was close to Judi before she passed away). We don't see each other as often as I might like, though Debbie cuts my hair every two weeks and, as of this writing, Mark and I were planning to take in a baseball game together this week.

All the same, I hope this is the happiest of birthday weeks for my brother and sister. My much, much older brother and sister.

Do you like your first name? I'm always surprised by the number of people who don't.

I have always liked that I'm named Scott. It's a good, solid guy's name, as far as I'm concerned. Not too popular (it was a top 20 name in the 1970s, but never ranked high on the list before or since) and not too, shall we say, exotic.

My middle name is Patrick, which I also like. I wouldn't mind it as a first name, though I would insist people call me "Patrick" and not "Pat." Big difference.

It's interesting to me the number of people who don't like their first names or who, at best, are apathetic about it. When I learn that about someone, I always ask what they would change their name to if they could, and in most cases they have a very quick answer, like they've given this a lot of thought.

Legally speaking, of course, there's little standing in the way of them changing their names to something they like better, but the hassle usually far outweighs any benefit from being able to sign a check as "Ace X. Studburger," or whatever.

I've posted on this blog the list of names I wouldn't mind having, if for any reason I was forced to change my name. If you don't feel like clicking on that link (and really, who could blame you?), my five approved alternative names are Bruce, Tim, Dave, Hank, and Kai.

"Hank" and "Kai" are surprise entries, no doubt, but I would be fine with either.

As I also explain in that post from 2013, my dad wanted to name me "D.J.," though it wouldn't have stood for anything. Just "D.J." Mom overruled him, however, and "Scott" it was.

Incidentally, "Patrick" apparently came from a guy with whom my dad used to drink down at the Hob Nob. I don't think I ever met him, but as a rule, the drunks at the Hob Nob were all pretty nice people, so I'm sure he was lovely.

Canned fruit: A blast from the past

As my wife and I were dealing with COVID recently, my wonderful sister Debbie graciously ordered a whole bunch of groceries and had them delivered to our house so that our family could still, you know, eat while we were laid up.

She quizzed us on some of the items we normally buy, while others she simply selected herself and included them with our order.

An example of the latter was a can of Del Monte Bartlett pears.

I don't remember the last time we bought canned fruit, but those pears were delicious. They also put me in mind of the days back in the late 70s and early 80s when I would come home from school for lunch.

My K-6 elementary school was right at the end of our street. Once the noon bell rang, I would sprint out the door and be home in 2-3 minutes.

When I got there, my mom would (without fail) have a TV tray waiting for me with my already-prepared lunch. As I think back on it, I was unbelievably spoiled by this.

The main course of the lunch varied, but more times than not, there would be a bowl of canned fruit included. It would either be fruit cocktail, peaches, or pairs.

As so often happens when we eat a food we haven't eaten in a long time (or smell something we haven't smelled in years), a rush of memories came flooding back as I ate those pears Debbie ordered. It was suddenly 1979 all over again, and I was sitting in front of the TV watching Card Sharks and happily eating my lunch before going back to school.

By the time I was in sixth grade, a big part of lunch time for me was racing back to school so I could play football at recess with the other guys. Why I didn't just pack a lunch and eat in the school gym, rather than having to wolf down my food at home and sprint back to the playground, I have no idea. It would have been easier.

I suspect that, even then, I knew how good I had it. What a great mom I had.

And man, seriously, what I wouldn't give for a can of cling peaches right about now.

Death and taxes: You learn to live with both

That old saying about death and taxes can take on new meaning the older you get.

Well, the death part does anyway. Taxes are taxes. You may choose to complain about them (which is pretty useless), but you either pay them or go to prison. I choose to pay them.

Just recently Terry and I filed our federal, state, and local/regional tax forms, as we do most years in early to mid-February. We like to get it done early, and for a long time I've used TurboTax to make the job easier. I'm a big fan and recommend it to almost anyone.

As for death, well...it's about as preventable as taxes, and even more useless to rail against.

I don't mean to be Davey Downer here (NOTE: Davey is Debbie's younger brother), but it's coming for all of us. First it gets those you know and love. Then it comes for you.

That's just the way it is.

Have a great day, everyone!

Seriously, though, death doesn't worry me so much. Whenever it's my time, it will be my time. In the overarching scheme of things, the length of my life on this earth doesn't really matter all that much.

But that doesn't mean I don't get a little sad over the reality of it sometimes.

I know people who have experienced far greater loss than me, but I've now lost my mom, my dad, my mother-in-law, and one of my sisters.

That sister, Judi, would have turned 68 years old today.

She seemed so youthful that a 68-year-old Judi is a little hard for me to comprehend. I'm sure she would have made 68 look good, though.

She also would have continued to love and spoil my kids in that way only the best aunts manage to do. My sister Debbie has more than picked up the slack, but I do miss Judi whenever my kids experience any sort of milestone.

Graduations, marriage, first jobs, etc. As our children have experienced these life events over the last 11 1/2 years, they have done so without Aunt Judi there to celebrate with them.

That's the part that hurts the most, I think.

Same for my dad, and more recently, my mom and mom-in-law. I wish they were all still here for so much of this stuff.

Something happens and you think, "Oh, I need to call and tell Mom." And then there's the dull, painful realization that Mom isn't there to take the call anymore.

Part of me gets sad over that, and part of me simply sighs and moves on.

What else can we do? It's either accept it or allow ourselves to be paralyzed by sadness and grief.

Mom wouldn't have wanted that. Nor would Dad, Judi, or mom-in-law Judy.

I'm getting old, I guess.

But for the time being, at least I'm still here. And so are my brother Mark and my sister Debbie.

And that should count for something.

The middle-aged man with the graying hair and the wonderful life

I get sentimental in October.

I have no idea why this is. It's not like October should be any more likely than another month to make me intensely grateful for the things in my life. And there seems little reason for me to become more appreciative of friends and family now vs. other times, though I suppose next week is the 19th anniversary of my father's passing, and later this month is my daughter Chloe's birthday.

It probably has something to do with the coming of fall, the closing of another summer, the change in the weather, and the way all of that makes you take stock of where you stand.

A month from tomorrow I turn 49. Nothing really special about that, other than the fact that it officially begins the countdown to 50. Turning 40 didn't really bother me. We'll see if 50 is another story.

Fifty is a half-century. That's a milestone by any measure, and it's also the point when they start insisting you undergo various invasive and potentially unpleasant medical tests. The underlying message is, "Hey buddy, the bloom is off the rose now. We're going to have to start performing more routine maintenance on you so that we can delay the inevitable as you start to fall apart."

Which is cool. I can deal with that.

I'm also probably more in big-picture mode these days because of my mom. She is 86 years old, and she is enduring all of the physical and mental challenges we associate with that age. She recently spent a few weeks in a long-term care facility after surgery and a hospital stay led to some health complications.

She is back home now, but she isn't alone for long periods of time. My sister Debbie, saint that she is, arranges a schedule for someone to visit her every morning and every evening. Debbie herself pops in more often and calls Mom throughout the day. Meals on Wheels visits, as well.

Mom is almost always cheerful and happy when we visit her, but the reason we all have to visit in the first place is to make sure Mom is OK. Just like she always made sure each of us was OK. She gets confused over which pills to take. She has lapses in memory of which she is aware, and which frustrate her at times. She shows early signs of dementia.

Mom has another surgery scheduled in two weeks to address a cancer-related issue, and none of us knows what the outcome of that will be.

I love her, I love what she has meant to me, and I love her attitude toward just about everything. I want her to be around for a long, long time, and so does she.

We just don't know how long that will be.

So it goes.

There is also my wife, who – if you have visited here with any frequency over the past seven years – you will recognize as the central theme of my writing. It always comes back to Terry, and that is only fitting, because my life always comes back to her.

Terry recently quit her job at the library after nearly two years of working there. She enjoyed it, but too often it got in the way of the things that are most important to her. She missed too many track and cross country meets, too many soccer games, too much of everything for her taste. So she decided it was time to hang it up at the library and go back to being Full Time Mom.

She is awesome at this job, you understand. My goal is always to make sure I have my own life in order so that she can focus on the kids and the house and the day-to-day craziness of our family instead of me.

Yet she still worries about me sometimes, God bless her.

It's what she does. It's what all truly selfless people do. She remains the most generous, most honest, most beautiful, most giving person I know. It's impressive to watch her work.

Part of her caregiving efforts in the near term will focus on Jack, our 12-year-old youngest/fifth child who, I've said many times, has essentially been raising himself.

Jack, like his brother Jared before him, is tall for his age. He's pushing 5-9, which is tall-ish but certainly not freakish for an eighth grader. Except he's not supposed to be an eighth grader yet. He accelerated midway through his second-grade year, so technically he should be in seventh grade right now.

Combine that with the fact that he's a 12-year-old boy and beginning what is likely to be the most hormonal, most chaotic, most confusing time of his life, and you can understand why he might need a little guidance these days.

But he'll be fine. I know that. Terry will see to it.

And I'll be fine, too, though I whine a lot about the fact that my days are so busy. My job is part of that, of course, but there's also the self-imposed burden of school.

I started a master's degree program seven weeks ago. If all goes well, it will take me until the end of 2020 to complete it.

Graduate school – even when it's just online – is tough, as it should be. I'm working toward a Master of Science in Integrated Marketing Communications through West Virginia University, the ancestral home of my people. Go Mountaineers!

It takes a lot of time, and I knew that going in. But I reserve the right to complain about it, even if I have no one to blame but myself.

In the meantime, the other kids are thriving. Elissa, my whirlwind of a 24-year-old oldest daughter, works for a marketing/branding agency and maintains the kind of schedule that makes me tired just looking at it. She's smart, she's organized, and as my mom likes to say repeatedly, is "just so different from what she was when she was little!" I love her.

Chloe, who will turn 22 in a few weeks, is engaged to be married in a couple of years. She is working toward a double major in biomedical engineering and chemistry at the University of Akron, and is back interning at a medical device company. She has a lot going on. She is all-around impressive. I love her.

Jared, my 20-year-old firstborn son, is a sports management major at Cleveland State University. He lives downtown in a nice apartment with a friend, works when he can at the Cleveland Indians Team Shop, and has a sweet internship with the Mentor Ice Breakers, a new professional hockey team not far from our home. He works hard and I don't see much of him these days, but I'm so proud of him. I love him.

And then there's Melanie, my recently-turned-18 high school senior. She drives out to Mentor High School every day for a marketing course that is preparing her for a career in business. Maybe HR. Good choice. She's also an intern like Chloe, working for a metal products company. Melanie is finishing up a 12-year soccer career over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to miss watching her play. She always goes hard. Always. I love her.

I already told you about Jack, but I should have added that I love him.

I love almost everything about my life. I am insanely, wonderfully, absolutely undeservedly blessed.

And as the leaves start to turn and the air gets a little colder, I'm reminded of that again and again.

Happy birthday, Mom!

My mother turns 85 years old today. Every year I announce her age on social media without asking her if it's OK and without fear of retribution, because Mom is further away from getting a Facebook account than your typical Amish farmer is.

Mom could handle a computer just fine if she wanted to. I know this because she's smart. She either doesn't admit or doesn't know how smart she is, but that's because she's Mom and self-deprecation is what Mom does.

I remember when Mom was the single smartest human being I knew (and she still ranks right up there, though she has admittedly been surpassed by my wife, who over nearly 25 years of marriage I've come to find out knows at least a little bit about virtually everything...and I don't mean that sarcastically).

From birth until the age of 5 or so – and really quite a ways beyond that – my mom was my world. She was the person I was with most or all of every day. I don't know if it's because I was the baby of the family or whether I just had social issues or a little bit of both, but I was especially dependent on my mom for a long time. My only problem with starting kindergarten is that it took me away from Mom for hours at a time.

After awhile, of course, it was fine. By necessity, you learn eventually to untie yourself from mother's apron strings because, otherwise, a 47-year-old man living at home and hanging around his mom all day would be a little bit strange, wouldn't it? Or maybe "demented" is the word.

Anyway, no matter how old you get, your mom is still your mom and she deserves your time and respect. My respect she has. Lately what I haven't given her is my time.

I could give you the excuse that I work long hours, that I have a lot going on, that I'm not home most of the time, blah blah blah blah. But Mom lives all of 7 minutes away in the house where I grew up, and where she has lived for 54 years since the latter days of the Kennedy Administration.

Getting there for a 15-minute visit, or calling her most days of the week, isn't and shouldn't be that difficult. But sometimes I treat it like it is.

So note to self: More phone and face time with Mom. Do it.

In any event, happy birthday to Mom. I owe way, way more to her than I could possibly realize, and I hope she's around many more years for me to let everyone know exactly how old she is.

One time I tried to steal fake vampire blood from Medic

You know what I like best about the title of this post? The fact that I felt compelled to call it "fake" vampire blood. As if, you know, there's REAL vampire blood that you can buy online or something, but I found it important to clarify that what I tried to steal was the fake stuff.

Anyway, yeah, I don't know why I'm thinking about this right now, but one time I tried to steal a tube of FAKE vampire blood from Medic, which for those who aren't familiar is/was a chain of drug stores. Or pharmacies, if you prefer. Or chemists, if you're British. You get the idea.

My friend Mike Ostack and I walked into Medic one day, and I guess it must have been around Halloween because they had vampire blood there. Not an item you're likely to find on sale in, say, April.

I had no money with me because I must have been, I don't know, nine years old at the time? It was before Mike moved away to Georgia, so maybe he'll know. We were very young, in any case.

I saw that vampire blood and I wanted it, but I didn't have a cent to my name. So, in a moment of true genius, it occurred to me that I could just TAKE it. That way I could have it but not pay for it. Problem solved!

I was wearing a sweatshirt, and I believe the high-level expert thievery technique I opted to use was to take the vampire blood – which I think was in a cardboard package – and stuff it under my sweatshirt. And then I attempted to walk out of the store. Quickly. With this huge bulge in what before had been a relatively flat abdominal area.

Amazingly, this display of stealth did not fool the Medic cashier, who saw me as I approached the door and said (very sternly), "Young man! Come here! Come here right now!" Or some such thing. I couldn't believe she had foiled my plan.

With knees trembling and a bladder threatening to expel its contents (I was not a kid who got into trouble often...I wasn't sure how to handle this), I walked over to the cashier and produced the vampire blood from under my sweatshirt. She told me to wait there while she walked to the back of the store to get the manager.

That was bad enough. But things got exponentially worse when one of the customers who was waiting to check out – an older gentleman, as I recall – looked at me and said, "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" I was mortified. I will never forget those words or how he said them.

At that moment, I pretty much panicked. There was no way I was waiting for the cashier to return with the store manager, so I made a run for it. I just dashed out the door and ran all the way to Drenik Drive and hid behind some bushes.

Now, you'll recall that I wasn't alone. Mike was with me. I hadn't clued in Mike on my escape plan, and I guess I just assumed that he would take off with me. But only when I jumped behind the bushes did I realize he wasn't there. And that my situation had probably just gone from bad to worse.

I waited a few minutes and then saw Mike coming down the street. I jumped out and asked him what happened. In a trembling voice, he told me he had to give the store manager my name and phone number, Which I totally get. I know he felt bad, but we were nine. What was Mike going to do? You're not smart enough at that age, in that situation, to come up with any sort of elaborate lie.

So that was it. My fate was sealed. I was pretty much dead. No doubt, by the time I got home, the Medic people would have called my mom to tell her what I had done. I honestly don't remember if I went straight home to get it over with or whether I stalled or what.

But I do remember eventually walking in through the back door and seeing my mom sitting at her sewing machine in the living room. And Mom lifting her head and looking at me for a moment. Oh man. That look. It wasn't so much anger as extreme disappointment. That's way, way worse than anger. That's the you-let-me-down-I-thought-you-knew-better face. Agony.

I immediately burst into tears. Mom scolded me for a few minutes. She didn't yell, just...scolded. It was terrible. And then I asked her not to tell my dad, and to my amazement, she said she wouldn't. As far as I know, she may never have told him. I could have hugged her on the spot. And I should have.

Anyway, there is no point to this story other than that I can tell you I never remember trying to steal anything again. The thought of standing there in Medic waiting for the store manager to come, and feeling ashamed just like that old man said, was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.

And to this day, I've never actually had a tube of vampire blood. I should go out and BUY some, just for the satisfaction of knowing I finally got it the right way.

My poor mom

I should start by saying that my mother is a wonderful woman. A real saint. Salt of the earth. All of that stuff.

But I reserve the right to make fun of her, and will do so now.

I can do this safely, you see, because my mother doesn't own a computer and therefore there is no chance she will ever see this post. Unless one of you snitches shows it to her or tells her about it, in which case we'll need to meet on the playground after school and settle our differences through old-fashioned, bare-knuckle fisticuffs. You're totally going down.

Anyway, my mom is not what you would call technologically savvy. The last semi-electronic appliance she learned to operate was the microwave, and that was back in the early 80s when (true story) she was afraid she would somehow incinerate the planet and therefore didn't use it for the first several weeks it was in her kitchen.

NOTE TO MOM: It's not a thermonuclear device. It's a microwave. It's deadly only to the Stouffer's frozen pizzas you stick in there.

It's not that Mom is anti-technology or anything. She just isn't interested in having a computer or a smart phone. Many of her friends and relatives are on Facebook and the like, but it's not something she particularly wants. Which is fine.

The problem is that when she does interact with modern technology and finds herself stuck – which I will say here happens on a fairly regular basis – my sister, brother or I are the ones called upon to bail her out.

And given all that Mom has done for us throughout our lives, this is in no way a problem or an inconvenience.

But you would think that once we show her how to solve a particular technological dilemma, she would write down the solution or otherwise memorize it so that it doesn't become a problem again.

And again. And again. And again.

This happens most often with her TV. It's a simple flat screen for which she has digital cable service. Time-Warner, in their infinite wisdom, has given her a remote that only a trained fighter pilot could confidently operate. It has (and I'm estimating here because I haven't actually counted) 4,718 buttons, all but three of which do things for which she has no use.

So what often happens is that Mom wants to watch TV, but she can't figure out how to turn the darn thing on. Or, if she does manage to turn it on, how to get to the channel she wants.

Or – and let me assure you, this has happened – how to make sure the TV is operating in English and not in Spanish. This is my absolute favorite Mom TV Conundrum, because listening to her try to pronounce the onscreen Spanish words as they appear makes me laugh so hard I cry.

I know I'm a terrible person. You don't have to tell me.

So every couple of weeks, I am summoned to her house to get her TV back in working order so she can watch Oprah or the Indians game or whatever (and in English). And every time I forget to write down what I did so that she can fix the problem herself next time.

In the meantime, I think I've figured out what we need to do to the remote control to help her:

Watching Mom grow old

My mom turns 81 years old today.

I'm not sure if I was supposed to tell you that. But considering the fact that she has never really used a computer in her life and has no plans to use one any time soon, I think it's safe to assume she won't be visiting our little blog to see this.

In many ways, it doesn't seem like my mom is or should be 81. She doesn't have gray/white hair, and she still moves fairly well.

I'm not sure anyone ever envisions their mom being 81. Their grandma, sure, but not their mom.

Yet there are plenty of signs that eight decades of living have indeed taken their toll on her. She's had a lot of health problems to deal with in the past year, including breathing and sinus issues and some nasty back pain. She wears an oxygen tube when she's sitting around the house (doctor's orders...believe me, it's not by choice).

And most of all, you can see it in her eyes. Getting old is not for the faint of heart, and the limitations it puts on my mom are clearly frustrating to her. She's used to being active. Getting things done. Working into the late hours on her sewing.

She's a seamstress, you understand. For years, that was the definitive image of my mom: either hunched over a sewing machine or pulling a needle and thread through a pair of pants or someone's new jacket that needed to be taken in.

She would sew and sew and sew. We would tell her she needed to take a break and she would just laugh and say, "That's OK, I need to finish this." It was only years later that I realized she did it because she loved it. She loved keeping busy.

After my dad died 14 years ago, Mom stayed active (and still did plenty of sewing). But year by year, you could see her slow down. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

My sister Judi started doing more and more things for her. Then, when Judi passed away four years ago, it was my sister Debbie who took over. Whether it's picking up a prescription or making a bank deposit or just dealing with the cable company over an unnecessary charge, Deb is the one who takes care of the mundane, increasingly difficult tasks in Mom's life.

And God bless her for it, too. I step in whenever asked, but it's Deb who keeps Mom feeling safe and happy. I'm not sure I could be more proud of my big sister.

I drove my mom to a doctor's appointment the other day. When we pulled up to the front door of the medical building, she opened the passenger side door of the car and got out. But it clearly took some effort. And a few seconds longer than it used to.

I watched her do all of this and was ready to get out and come around the car to help her, but she managed by herself (and she would have waved me away anyway).

As I drove away to go and park the car, I got a little misty-eyed. It wasn't because I suddenly saw that Mom is getting older, and that our bodies slow down as we age. That I already knew.

It was because, for whatever reason, it was at that moment I realized we had turned a corner. Mom is never going to smoothly get in and out of a car the way she used to. She's not suddenly going to become pain-free or never have to see a doctor.

The reality is that, for the rest of her life, she'll face increasing physical and mental challenges. That's just the way it works. When you get to be 80 or 90 years old, your body and your mind start to wear down. Unless you're blessed with exquisite genes, that's the reality of life.

And I know that. But in those couple of minutes between dropping Mom off and parking the car, I very quietly mourned the loss of the mother I grew up with.

I know that sounds morbid and probably overly dramatic, and I don't mean it to. It's just that, the 40-something Mom I remember from my childhood is gone forever. And for that matter, so is the 5-year-old Scott that depended on her for everything.

As Kurt Vonnegut used to say, "And so it goes."

I know I'm not the first person ever to deal with the reality of an aging parent, nor will I be the last. My own kids will go through it themselves in a few years. (Of course, they think I'm old now...)

It's just one of those life experiences you know will eventually come, but that you don't spend much time thinking about in advance.

Life goes on. Time moves forward. And we either move with it or get swept up.

I just hate seeing Mom getting swept up in it after so many years of being the one pushing forward. But that, if I'm being honest, is more my problem than hers.

Happy birthday, Mom. I hope you enjoy your day. You deserve it.

The return of five random thoughts on a Friday

(1) When my job went bye-bye, so did my newspaper subscription. Consequently, I have no idea what "sequestration" is and why everyone's talking about it. I do so much else online that you'd think getting my news there would be natural, but I can't get out of the newspaper paradigm. I really like holding sheets of newsprint in front of me in the morning. Eventually I'll adapt. But for now, I'm an old fogey.

(2) I just looked out my window and saw Hound Dog Guy and Relentlessly Waddling Lady pass by. These two (whom I assume are husband and wife) often walk up and down my street, and I used to see them frequently on my morning runs. Not anymore, though, as I run earlier in the day and finish long before they're out. I've been running regularly for about 15 years, and in that time I've given names to many of the neighborhood characters I encounter. I used to run past Cologne Guy in the morning, and the smell of his English Leather was actually quite pleasant. There was also Ridiculously Tan Woman and May or May Not Be Psychotic Guy. Hound Dog Guy, incidentally, derives his name from the fact that he walks his dog a lot, and at one point we thought it was a hound dog. It's not, as it turns out, but the name persists.

(3) I have yet to hear of: (a) a man who has an account on Pinterest, and (b) anything on Pinterest that would be remotely appealing to a man. I'm sure there are guys on there and they "pin" things that aren't related to crafts or fashion or whatever. It's just that I don't know any of them.

(4) The mention of English Leather above reminded me that I haven't had any cologne or after shave of my own in at least two years. I started wearing fragrances in high school, when Terry bought me a bottle of Polo. I liked Polo. I also liked Drakkar Noir, which was popular in the 90s, but Terry didn't, so I didn't wear it. When you're a married man or otherwise spoken for by a woman, your choice of manly aromas is not your own. This may or may not be a good thing.

(5) When I was in elementary school, I used to come home every day for lunch. My mom would have my food waiting for me and serve it to me on a TV tray. I would say thank you, but I don't think I ever really appreciated how awesome that was until...well, until just now when I typed it out. So I'll say it again, and this time it's heartfelt: Thanks, Mom. Those lunches were great.

I have half a mind...

Today is my half-birthday. I am exactly 42 1/2. No one in the world besides me cares in any way about this, but I think it's cool.

We mark half-birthdays in our house, or at least I do. And Chloe, too. Last week Chloe turned 15 1/2, which is significant in that it's the age in Ohio at which you are allowed to obtain your temporary driver's license. Chloe doesn't have her temps yet, but you can be sure it won't be long.

Because I have a head for dates, I'm generally the one who remembers that it's someone's half-birthday. Like Terry's is on September 18th because her actual birthday is March 18th. Every September 18th I remind Terry that it's her half-birthday, and every September 18th she tells me I'm a weirdo and openly wonders why she married me.

I can't help it, I just think there's something kind of cool about the concept of being half an age. On that particular day, you're exactly as far from your last birthday as you are from the next one. It's why I've always liked June 25th, too – it's the halfway point between Christmases. You probably don't think that's significant. I do.


You want to know what's even weirder? I remember details about specific half-birthdays. Not birthdays, mind you – half-birthdays. Like, for example, I'm pretty sure I remember what I did on May 2nd, 1987 (25 years ago today). It was a Saturday, and I drove to Brush High School in the morning to take the SATs, then to Solon High School in the afternoon to run in the Solon Relays track meet.


Why do I remember this? Why?!? I don't know, but I'm sure I will never forget it. I did OK on the SAT that day, and I remember having a fairly mediocre performance at the track meet, so there's no real reason to remember that day other than it was my 17 1/2th birthday and the details stick with me.

(NOTE: I realize "17 1/2th" isn't the way to render that, but I have no idea what the ordinal form of 17 1/2 is. I probably should have restructured the sentence to avoid the problem, but I thought I might figure out the answer by the time I finished typing it. I didn't.)

Anyway, I'm 42 1/2 today, which means I'm exactly six months away from being 43. The only significance I attach to 43 is that it's the first age I remember my mom being. She turned 43 in April 1975. I would have been 5 years old at the time, so I guess that's about when you become aware of your parents' age and the fact that it's a lot higher than yours.

Now, suddenly, I'm what my mom was in 1975. Minus the semi-bouffant hairdo and mad rush to menopause. OK, I made that last part up. I have no idea when my mom went through menopause, but I thought it sounded good. She's 80 now, so I can only assume that, yes, The Change did come upon her at some point. I should ask her.

Speaking of my mom, we spent a couple of hours at her house tonight, and it was great. Melanie and Jack stayed in the living room and watched TV while Mom and I sat in the kitchen eating dinner and talking. That doesn't happen very often anymore. It used to happen all the time when I was little and Dad was working a night job.

Oh, and speaking of Dad and night jobs, the best one he ever had was as a manager at a Convenient Food Mart. One time he took me to work with him and I was allowed to eat and drink pretty much anything they had in the store. And he would always bring home piles of snacks and junk food that had passed their expiration dates but were still perfectly good to eat. That job only lasted a year or so, but we never lacked for cookies and chips the entire time.

I just realized: You know what else is interesting about 42 1/2? It means that today I'm officially a quarter of the way through my 40s. It has been 2 1/2 years since my 40th birthday, and 2 1/2 years from today I'll be talking about how I'm now undeniably in my mid-40s. I wonder how I'll celebrate that fact?

Probably with some rambling, incoherent blog post...