What is a household chore you do absolutely every day?

My days tend to vary, which I like, but there are two things that happen every morning, virtually without exception:

(1)  I feed our five cats, give them fresh water, scoop out all five of their litter boxes, and sweep around those litter boxes.

(2) I empty the dishwasher (having most likely been the one who loaded and started it the night before).

Unless I am traveling and away from home for one reason or another, these are unchanging parts of my daily schedule.

There is a certain comfort in the routine, I'll admit, though I always feel better having tackled these chores than I do when I'm starting to tackle them.

The one tiny variation with the litter box box thing is that, on Sunday mornings, I sweep a much larger area of the basement, since there are always pockets of stray litter that somehow get transported as far as 30 or 40 feet away.

Other than that, it's the same thing over and over and over. They're jobs that have to get done, and someone has to do them, and it just happens to be me.

How about you? What is on your to-do list almost every day of your life?

Thirty-five years later, asking my wife out was a pretty darn good decision

We took my 1979 yellow Chevy Chevette (much like this one) on our first date

I have a head for dates, to the point that my wife often turns to me when she can't figure out the specific year when some event happened, or the day on which a particular person's birthday falls.

In many cases, the dates that stick in my head are there for no particular reason, and there's no practical purpose to which I can put them. But they're there anyway.

Today, however, is not one of those dates. This one has significance, even if I'm the only one who regularly recalls it.

Thirty-five years ago today, on February 27, 1986, I asked my wife out on our first date. I wrote about the actual date experience here, as there were a few memorable moments to it.

We were 16 years old at the time. Just babies. The fact that she still wakes up every morning and thinks, "OK, I'll give him another day" is borderline miraculous. One of the true divine blessings of my life.

I asked her at the end of the school day as we were both standing at our lockers, which were near each other. I was very nervous. She said yes. I was relieved.

The rest is history and all of that, though I probably should have made a disclaimer at the time. Something along the lines of, "Hey, just so you know, if we keep dating and eventually get married, I'm going to routinely do things that make you shake your head. And I can't fix anything at all. And for a time, I will get irrationally upset at the failure of my sports teams to win games. Are you good with that?"

On second thought, maybe it was for the best that I kept my mouth shut.

Do you feel you were born at the right time?

This is at heart a silly question, because it implies people are either born at some vaguely defined "right" time or they should have lived in another era altogether.

In my opinion, you get what you get and you live when you live for a reason (even if you don't ever understand what that reason is). There is no "wrong" time for you to be here on this planet.

But...I realize many people are convinced they are better suited for living at a different time in history, so for the sake of this post, we'll run with it.

I will go on record as saying I'm perfectly fine with the age in which I'm living, and I'll tell you why.

I listen to a lot of Conan O'Brien's podcasts, and on one episode he said something that struck a chord. He looked at the things he does well and concluded (probably rightly) that in no other era could his individual talents have made him as rich and successful as he is right now in the 21st century.

I get that.

I am by no means rich, and any success I have is much less tangible than Conan's. But honestly, I can't imagine me living in, say, the 16th century.

For one thing, I would have to have a trade, and most trades involve the type of intelligence and/or mechanical and/or manual labor skills that I lack. Badly.

Oh, I know I probably wouldn't starve if I had been apprenticed to a cobbler or mason or anything like that. I would have managed to get to "semi-proficient" in my trade and found a way to support my wife and our 17 children, all of whom would have been living in a hut just outside of London or some such place.

But I never would have been especially good at it.

My skills and interests lie more in areas (writing, communications, etc.) that were the pursuits of a very small upper class until as recently as a century ago. They would have gotten me nowhere when it comes to putting food on the table.

Only here and now, in this age, are there abundant opportunities to put those types of skills to use and generate an income.

So for that reason, I'm thankful I was born in 1969 and not 1569 or sometime in the Middle Ages when my life expectancy would have been (generously) about 35 years.

If you think about it, there's really only a very narrow window in history when knowing the proper usage of a semicolon could earn you a living.

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.

Please wish my friend Mike happy birthday, and read about the time I tried to steal vampire blood while he was with me

Today is my friend Mike Ostack's 51st birthday. I have not seen Mike in person in something like 30 years, but the magic of social media has allowed us to reconnect to a degree. At least virtually.

Mike was my best friend in the world from the ages of 8 through 10. He lived down the street and we hung out together a lot. Then he and his family moved to Georgia. He would occasionally come back to Cleveland to visit after that, but eventually we lost touch. It happens.

I found him on LinkedIn a few years ago, which allowed us to catch up. It's not the same as seeing someone in person, of course, but it's better than nothing.

So then, two things:

(1) Happy birthday to Mike. There's something special about an elementary school best friend, and he deserves to have a great birthday.

(2) If you're so inclined, please read this blog post from five years ago in which I describe my attempt to steal vampire blood from the drug store while Mike was with me. Four decades later, it's still a funny story.

I know who Jen Lilley is, which means I know far too much about Hallmark Channel movies

My wife enjoys watching movies on the Hallmark Channel. Many people do, and most of them happen to be women.

Working from home this past year, I've been exposed to far more of these movies than I had been in the past. As I sit in the kitchen on my laptop, for example, Terry will have one playing on our living room TV, which is only 25 feet or so from me, so I can't help but hear it.

My first reaction was to make fun of these films, usually something along the lines of, "Hey, do you think those two will get together by the end? I can't wait to see how it turns out."

You will note that the leading characters in every Hallmark movie get together. Every time. There is always some sort of conflict, but in the end, they get together. And of course they kiss, but only right at the end of the film. That's a pretty strict rule.

After a while I started folding laundry in the living room while Hallmark movies were playing, and I was actually following many of the plots.

Then I graduated to plopping down on the couch next to Terry while she watched, and in some cases I was there for half a movie or more.

Now it's to the point that I've started seeing some of the same actors and actresses appearing in movie after movie. Hallmark has a stable of maybe 10-15 attractive men and women whom they mix and match to crank these flicks out.

One is Jen Lilley, who is pictured above. I don't remember why I know her name, but she's in a lot of these things. I mentioned her recently to Terry, who had no idea who I was talking about.

So there we had it: It had gotten to the point that I knew more about some of these actors and movies than she did. How did we get here?

Well, for one thing, I have to admit: As predictable as they are, these are entertaining movies. They switch up the settings and the essential romantic dilemmas well enough to continually engage you, as long as your expectations for great cinema aren't too high.

And really, who doesn't like a happy ending? You will always get a happy ending with Hallmark. This is what the audience wants, and this is what the production company delivers.

Fun fact about Jen Lilley: She is also a regular on "Days of Our Lives," the only soap opera I've ever watched with any regularity (and this was back in the 90s), and only because my wife got me into it.

That woman clearly has too much influence on my taste in TV and film. And by "this woman," I'm not sure whether I mean Jen or Terry.

The update on my family you didn't ask for

Not long after I launched this blog more than nine years ago, I wrote a post titled "Dramatis Personae" that gave brief descriptions of the various family members and boyfriends who comprised our little family unit.

It was not an exercise in vanity so much as a "who's who" of the various people about whom I was writing, intended for what was then an expanding group of readers visiting the blog.

It's fun to read that post from February 2012, though as you might imagine, much has changed in nearly a decade. Here's the current rundown on the main characters of this blog, which I fully acknowledge you did not request:

TERRY: Amazingly, she has continued to allow herself to be married to me. We have our 29th anniversary coming up in June. She is often tired, as moms/wives are, and devotes whatever free time she can muster to serving as treasurer for the Wickliffe Swing Band (our local high school band, for which I serve as the PA announcer). This is a way, way bigger job than you would think, to the point that it should almost be a part-time paid position, in my opinion. Anyway, she likes Hallmark movies and spending time in her craft room upstairs, and she continues to be the best cook I know. And she's as pretty today as the day I asked her out way back in the Stone Age.

ELISSA: Our oldest child will turn 27 this March. We will write about that when the time comes. Suffice it to say that she no longer lives with us (though she's close...just one city over) and is killing it as a Content Specialist at thunder::tech, an integrated marketing agency based here in Cleveland. Marketing agency life is rarely easy and Elissa expends a lot of professional and emotional energy on her clients, which is what makes her so good. She is also a vegan and lover of giraffes, and will happily talk with you about either subject. She has been with her boyfriend Mark forever and a day, and I can't tell you how grateful we are for that (and for him).

CHLOE: First, she is 24 and married to Michael, a construction engineer who shares my interest in military history. Second, she is officially a first-year doctoral student in Neurosciences, though I always explain that she's working toward her PhD in a research lab focused on swallowing disorders. Third, she is a mom to two cats who have no idea how lucky they are. She lives just far enough away in Stow that it's difficult to see her very often, but she and Michael are looking at houses and may relocate a bit closer to us, which would be nice. The takeaway: Chloe is rocking life.

JARED: My 22-year-old oldest son is a senior at Cleveland State University majoring in sports management. He's a hard worker who currently finds himself serving an internship within CSU's sports information department. He's very good with money, has taught himself woodworking and all sorts of useful handyman skills during the pandemic, keeps himself in a very good physical shape, and occasionally finds me PA announcing gigs, for which I am very grateful. He also brought his girlfriend Lyndsey into our lives and gets extra credit for that.

MELANIE: Mel is somehow 20 years old. I don't know why, but the older she gets, the more amazed I am. She is a sophomore at Cleveland State progressing toward a bachelor's degree in business/marketing, though she earns spending money working in retail and occasionally Door Dashing. Mel is often seen in our living room with Jason, her boyfriend, with whom I love talking sports. They go well together. She is smart and will succeed no matter which direction she chooses, career-wise.

JACK: We recently wrote about Jack, who turned 15 not long ago. He is one of the funniest people I know. He is also a sophomore in high school who runs track and cross country and plays the trumpet, among other things. Terry and I have spent many years attending and involving ourselves with various school activities and events, and Jack represents our swan song. Everything he does in school is a "last" in our family, which is both fun and sad at the same time. Jack is also an avid gamer, though I feel like you can say that about 70% of 15-year-old boys these days. We think Jack may be a hair taller than Jared at 6-1, making him the tallest person in the family, and he has managed to get his weight all the way up to 140+ pounds. So that's an accomplishment.

I'm a pencil guy...and I mean REAL pencils

I don't know why, but I consider writing with a freshly sharpened pencil to be one of life's greatest small pleasures.

Even better is having multiple sharpened pencils at my disposal.

I'm talking long, new pencils. Not the nub-like, virtually eraser-less sticks that make me feel like I'm scoring a miniature golf game.

As much I love pencils, I will throw them out long before they're past their usefulness. I need a constant flow of smooth young pencils (and no, this is not a metaphor for some strange mid-life crisis I'm experiencing).

Full erasers, sharp points. That's what I want.

Teeth marks are OK as long as they're my own.

Most important? No mechanical pencils. Those fake abominations are useless. They snap with the slightest pressure and don't come close to recreating the feeling of writing with a solid Dixon Ticonderoga #2 or one of those environmentally friendly, non-colored Palomino ForestChoices.

(NOTE: I am almost surely the only person outside of the pencil industry with intimate knowledge of pencil brands and their relative strengths. I consider this to be a point of pride.)

We used to take standardized tests when I was in grade school. "California tests," we called them. "Iowa tests" is what they used in other schools. These were fill-in-the-circle, machine-graded assessments that were used to determine whether you had paid any attention in class at all that year.

They always emphasized to us the importance of filling in those circles completely. I took those admonitions to heart, filling in every circle thick and black using the pencils my mom had bought for me. And the pencils stayed sharp because there was a pencil sharpener mounted on the wall in the back of the classroom that we were encouraged to use regularly.

No matter how ridiculously wrong some of my math answers turned out to be, there was no mistaking my intention. Those circles were FULL.

Try doing that with one of those awful erasable pens of the 1970s and 80s. (Hint: You can't.)

Why some pages really are intentionally left blank

Have you ever started reading a book (or just finished reading one) and come across a page that is almost entirely empty, save for the phrase "This page intentionally left blank?"

These pages always made me laugh, but I was never sufficiently curious to find out why they were there.

And by the way, most things that seem ridiculous to us have some rationale behind them, I've noticed. That doesn't mean you have to agree with the rationale, but in the majority of cases when you come across something that seems entirely weird and nonsensical, someone along the way had a reason for making them that way.

Anyway, this article is a good read if you have a minute: Why are some pages "intentionally left" blank and why do they say this?

If you're looking for the Cliff Note's version, the reasons include these:

(1) Simply to let you know they put the page there on purpose and weren't just careless.

(2) For timed test booklets, they're there to make it a little more difficult (and a little more obvious) when students are flipping ahead to sections of the test before they're supposed to.

(3) To prevent bleed-through of ink from subsequent pages

(4) Because printed works are often printed on sheets of four pages each, and there's simply not enough text to fill a particular four-page sheet

(5) In case you suddenly want to take notes in the middle of the book (though this one seems fishy to me)

So there you go. If nothing else, you can come to this blog to learn things for which you have no use whatsoever. You're welcome.

I am impressed by customer service professionals whose native language may not be English

In my experience, middle class Americans like to complain about things.

Actually, all Americans like to complain about things.

Well, really, all humans like to complain about things.

But for the moment, let's focus on good old, middle-of-the-socioeconomic-road Americans.

One of the things against which I often hear my fellow proletarians rail is when they call a company for customer service and have to deal with someone who is obviously not an American.

I don't mean to imply they're being racist. They just find it challenging to understand the person on the other end of the line, which I get.

In the past couple of days, I have made a total of seven combined customer service calls to our now-former cable provider but still Internet provider WOW, and our new streaming provider AT&T TV.

Every one of these calls resulted in me talking to a person who had what I would describe as either a Spanish or maybe Filipino accent.

I was blown away by two things: (a) I could understand all of them clearly. I've studied and practiced a lot of French in my life, but if I had to assist a French person over the phone in French, they simply wouldn't be able to understand me, no matter how hard I tried. (b) They could understand me.

That second point gets to something I've often mentioned over the years to those who, like me, have lived their whole lives in Northeast Ohio: We have an accent. Many vehemently deny it, but we do. Linguistics scholars have classified and described it in detail.

Maybe it's because they're exposed to so many American movies and so much American TV, but these customer service pros never seem to have trouble understanding me despite the mix of Midwestern flatness and curved Cleveland vowels with which I speak.

I know they have a lot of practice at it, but really, it's impressive.

I realize others have had far more negative experiences with customer service people they simply couldn't understand, but it seems both WOW and AT&T have done a great job hiring technicians who can be understood conversing in English.

(And by the way, make no mistake: These professionals often come from countries where prevailing wages are low. I'm not saying this is necessarily good or bad, but there's no doubt labor costs are lower when organizations go this route, which is why the person identifying themselves as "Jenny" on the other end of the line almost certainly wasn't born with that name.)

The best part: Our transition from a cable-dependent household to one that uses streaming TV (and that installs and outright owns its own equipment) has gone off with very few hitches. Thanks to these wonderful people who patiently answer my questions in their second language.

Curbside recycling apparently requires constant vigilance

I am grateful my city provides curbside pick-up of trash, recyclables, and yard waste. It's a convenience too easily taken for granted (though of course you do pay for the privilege).

For many years, I have been in charge of waste management in our house. I generally collect everything and wheel it to the curb on Sunday afternoons, and any time there's a recyclable item in the kitchen, it's usually me who takes it to the temporary staging bin in the garage.

"Temporary staging bin" sounds very official, but it's really just an old recycling container from a previous service provider. It's easier to open the door from the mud room into the garage and toss an item into that container rather than walk all the way outside to the big wheeled recycling container to drop something there. Once or twice a week I'll empty the smaller, temporary bin into the larger container.

Not that you needed to know any of that.

Anyway, it came to my attention a year or two ago that Kimble, our waste management/recycling provider, will only recycle certain types of plastics. Other plastics need to go into the regular trash container.

Specifically, Kimble accepts plastics labeled #1 or #2. Higher numbers cannot be recycled.

Actually (and my understanding of the process is admittedly limited), I think they can recycle higher numbers, but our city's contract with Kimble only allows for recycling of #1 and #2 plastics. I assume recycling the higher-numbered plastics costs more, but I don't know that for sure.

What this means, of course, is that I'm constantly checking the bottom of plastic jugs and containers for that little number surrounded by the three arrows arranged in a triangle shape. Again, 1s and 2s are good. They go into the recycling bin. All others are destined for a landfill, I guess.

This has led me to realize that many things I've dropped into the recycling over the years will not in fact be recycled, and are presumably picked out of there and dumped into the general flow of trash by Kimble service workers who (and I'm guessing here) probably hate all of us for not paying closer attention to what goes into which container.

Chi-Chi's salsa, of which we consume a lot and therefore produce many empty plastic jars? That's a #7. I used to recycle it, now I throw it out.

Milk jugs? #2s. They're OK.

Greek yogurt containers? The ones we get are #5. No dice.

I don't want to pat myself on the back or anything, but I'm going to wager that a relatively low percentage of my fellow Wickliffe citizens pay this much attention to getting the plastic recyclables right.

So yes, I do want both a cookie and a medal. The medal can be made of plastic. #1 or #2 only, please.

It isn't 1982 anymore: Cutting the cable cord and digitizing your music

Live long enough and you're going to see all sorts of advances in technology.

Actually, with the pace at which things advance these days, you don't even have to live all that long to see revolutionary changes.

The most noticeable shifts in my 51 years seem to have come in the way we consume various forms of entertainment.

Think back to the mid-70s when I started watching TV and listening to music. The TV was a big (and I mean BIG) old console model that sat in the living room and did not budge for a decade or more until one or more internal components blew out beyond repair.

Changing channels involved twisting a plastic dial. If the weather was bad, your reception could be iffy.

As for music, I began listening on record and 8-track players, and later graduated to a Sony Walkman, which my brother secured for me when he was in the Air Force and stationed in South Korea. Cassettes! Portable! Lightweight! In 1988 I moved up to CDs, which were mind blowing at the time.

Now consider the way these things work in 2021.

A couple of weeks ago, we finally cut the cable cord and signed up for a streaming service (AT&T TV). I can now access far more channels on far more devices that are far more portable than the heavy Zenith unit on which I grew up.

I can just as easily watch TV on my mobile phone or iPad as I can on an actual TV.

On the music front, it's all digitized and stored on that same mobile phone (or iPad). No actual material media to worry about.

And it sounds great. I know audiophiles prefer vinyl, but I'm just fine with the quality of the sound being pumped through my AirPods.

Those AirPods are wireless, by the way.

Maybe I'm just easily impressed, but it's all so amazing to this Gen Xer.

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.

For a short time, I wrote insurance plan documents. God bless the people who do it.

Whenever you sign up for health coverage through your employer or purchase new life insurance, you receive a thick booklet in the mail called the plan description.

Under almost no circumstances will you or anyone you know ever read one of these documents.

I have never met a non-attorney or someone outside of the insurance industry who has read even two pages of one of these things.

I, however, have read them. Several of them.

This is because, for a seven-month period spanning late 1996 into 1997, I wrote health insurance plan documents for a living.

It was an excruciatingly dull job for me, largely because I had previously been a newspaper sports journalist.

On no one's scale of excitement does "insurance plan document specialist" outpace "sports writer."

In retrospect, though, it was an absolutely vital step in my career path. Terry and I were starting to have kids, and our goal was for her to be able to stay home full time to take care of them.

The only way this was going to happen was for me to switch professions and work my way toward a job that (a) paid more, and (b) had regular 9-to-5 hours instead of the strange night-owl schedule of the sports writer.

So I answered an ad in the paper (this is how we used to get jobs, kids) and went to work for a third-party insurance plan administrator writing these documents. I didn't especially enjoy the job, but I learned a lot.

It also gave me enough exposure to health care that I was able to get my next job, which was serving as managing editor of Urology Times magazine. While obviously not sports, it was a position in which I could again put my journalism training to some use.

From UT I moved on to the Cleveland Clinic, my first job as a public relations professional. From there, I went in succession to a PR agency, a community foundation, a large nonprofit, and now Vitamix.

There's probably no way that particular chain of events comes to pass without my time writing those endless insurance documents. People who make a living writing them have my undying admiration.

If there's a moral to this story for those just starting in their careers, it is probably this: Every job is likely to benefit you in some way. Stick it out for at least a little while and use it as a springboard toward your ultimate goal.

Even if that goal is writing thick legal documents that no one is ever likely to read.

The pandemic has pushed me into a routine of laundry every other day and cleaning the bathroom on Saturdays

I don't know why it took the coronavirus to create this routine in my life, but ever since I've been home full-time starting last March, I have fallen into a nearly unbending routine of doing our laundry every other day and cleaning the bathroom on Saturdays.

Actually, on that last point, I don't clean the whole bathroom every Saturday. Most of the time it's just the mirror, the sink, and the inside and outside of the toilet. I reserve full bathroom cleanings (which include the shower and the floor) for once every 4 to 6 weeks.

The laundry, though, is thoroughly done every other day, almost without fail. To be clear, it's specifically the laundry that's thrown into the hamper in our master bathroom, which mostly belongs to me and Terry but occasionally includes kids' towels and other miscellaneous articles of their clothing.

When I first began this every-48-hour laundry thing, I would do it all myself. But then Terry began wondering where half of her stuff was, and eventually she had to tell me to just put her clean clothes into a laundry basket and she would fold them, put them away, and hang them up herself.

For some reason, I cannot figure out which of her stuff goes where. I'm sure it's not that difficult, but there you have it.

I can't stand to see an overflowing hamper, so I keep up with the laundry. This must be one of those things that helps me feel more in control of my life, much like my beloved to-do lists. If I do the laundry every other day, it can be finished in two loads every time and it's not that big a deal.

Not that three or more loads are a big deal, but I like to stay ahead of the curve.

As for the bathroom, well, as Terry once told me when I asked her how often the mirror, sink, and toilet need to be cleaned, the answer is always. Those three things can always stand cleaning no matter what. So Saturdays it is.

And no, for the record, I will not be coming over your house to wash your clothes or clean your bathroom. Just so we're clear.

I must have my to-do list every week

One of the things I do every Sunday afternoon is create my to-do list for the coming week.

It is exactly as it sounds: a list of things I want to accomplish over the next seven days.

I do it every Sunday not only because that's the start of the new week, but also because making my weekly list is always on my Sunday to-do list.

Yes, creating a list is on my list.

And I do whatever the list says, no matter what. How else am I going to enjoy the sublime pleasure of checking a task off the list once it's complete?

This may sound a bit compulsive, and I suppose it is, but checklists are my tool of choice to bring some sort of order to what is otherwise constant chaos swirling around me.

My home and work lives are built largely around Microsoft OneNote, a tool that among many other things creates excellent and easy-to-manage checklists.

When I accomplish a task, I check it off the list. It makes me feel better. It ensures I don't forget things.

Because otherwise, believe me, I would forget things. My mind is whatever you call the opposite of a steel trap.

Things fall into and out of it all the time.

If a thing falls into it and I write it down or type it into my phone, it gets retained. And in the case of stuff to do, it gets done.

I admire people who think to themselves, "You know what? This week I need to wash the floor and renew my car registration," and then they just remember to DO it. It sounds simple, but I cannot do that. I must remind myself of everything.

You will not be at all surprised to hear that, at this moment, there is a small notepad to my immediate left that includes this entry: "Write blog post."

I am about to check off that entry, and I will be smiling as I do it.

My wife and I recently had COVID. One star, do not recommend.

OK, let's not bury the lead here (NOTE: I should have spelled that "lede" since that's how journalists spell it and I used to be one of them.)

Three things that should first be noted:

• Yes, I had coronavirus, as confirmed by a test at CVS (which I realize isn't exactly the Cleveland Clinic) and a host of symptoms that simply wouldn't go away for the longest time.
• My wife also contracted the virus, though hers was never officially confirmed by a test. But she was right there with me in the duration and severity of her symptoms.
• As annoying as the whole thing was, we had decidedly mild cases in that they did not result in either of us having to go into the hospital or be put on a ventilator like several people we both know.

Like many who have had COVID, I would compare it to a nasty flu bug that hangs on and on. The funny thing was, I really didn't think I had it all the way up until the moment the nurse practitioner from CVS called to tell me my test had come back positive.

Yes, I had been experiencing symptoms for a week-plus at that point, and when I get sick it never lasts that long. But I also never lost taste or smell, nor did I at any time have much of a fever.

I thought those were the two main telltale signs of coronavirus, and in many people they are. Just not in everyone. It turns out the virus manifests itself very differently from person to person.

My main symptoms were constant fatigue and an overall heavy sick feeling that hung over me for two weeks. I was also pretty congested, though that part isn't uncommon for me in the winter.

Terry had an on-and-off fever, that same general sick feeling, and congestion. She was a day or two ahead of me in the cycle, so I could always look to her to get an idea of how the next 24-48 hours were going to go for me.

Thankfully, none of our younger three kids who still live with us got it from us. My daughter Melanie was actually the first in the family to contract the virus a few weeks earlier and managed not to relapse (helped by the fact that she temporarily moved in with a friend after I was diagnosed). And despite significant exposure to both of us, neither Jared nor Jack got it, either.

That was a blessing.

Bottom line: If you get it and are fortunate enough to have a mild case, it's going to take you a while to really feel normal again, but you'll be fine. It's annoying, but it's light years better than a severe case.

Still, if you can avoid it, I would. Stay home when you can, take care of yourself, mask up to protect others in case you are carrying it, etc. You've heard all of this before.

Oh, and break out that Beverly Hillbillies DVD boxed set. You're going to want something to distract you from the fact that your head feels like it got run over by a truck.

Getting sick suddenly isn't what it used to be

(NOTE: This post was written a few weeks ago as I was starting not to feel so great. In tomorrow's post, I'll let you know what the outcome of that process was. Hint: I'm proud to now be an official U.S. government statistic.)

There was a time (say a year ago) when you could start to feel sick and it was...OK. You took your zinc pills or drank orange juice or threw back a quart of your grandma's magic elixir or whatever and it was fine. The only question was whether you were getting a cold or the flu.

Now, however, it's a little different. You may have heard—it's been in all the papers—that we are in the midst of a pandemic. The novel coronavirus or COVID-19 or The Rona or whatever you want to call it has inserted itself into our lives in the rudest of ways.

So now, of course, whenever you start to feel achy, tired, feverish, stuffed up, etc., you're thinking, "Is this COVID? Can it be COVID? I have COVID, don't I? I HAVE THE RONA."

Even if you don't.

It's difficult to rule out coronavirus in your self-diagnosis, even if your taste and smell are perfectly fine. Everyone seems to manifest the symptoms of the virus differently, so having your taste and smell intact doesn't necessarily mean you only have a common cold.

It could. It's just not definitive.

As the virus has spread, it has gotten to the point that each of us has either definitely had it, knows someone who has had it, or we're pretty sure we had it but never got a test.

As of this writing, I'm in the "known someone who has had it" category, but every little symptom I manifest makes me think, "THIS IS IT."

So far it hasn't been it.

As I type this, I'm not feeling great (NOTE: In English class, they call this "foreshadowing.") Given my chronic lack of sleep and generally packed scheduled, I can expect to get that "not feeling great" thing about once each winter.

Because someone in my house had COVID and recently got over it, The World's Most Famous Virus is naturally on my mind. Do I have it? Have I joined the ever-growing case numbers?

<Takes sip of coffee>

Ah, the unmistakable taste of Maxwell House.

I never thought I would say this but, if I'm lucky, I'm only coming down the flu. (NOTE: Again, this may or may not have been the case. Tune in tomorrow...)

You will not deter me from my love of CVS

I do not shop.

Or at least, I shop very little.

Terry handles the shopping in our house, from grocery shopping to Christmas shopping, and she does it well. I figure, why mess with a good thing?

There are really only two stores in which you will find me with any regularity.

One is Marc's, a local chain of grocery stores that is quick and convenient when we need, like, bananas or whatever.

The other is CVS.

CVS, for my non-American friends, is a national drugstore/pharmacy chain (the Brits may call it a "chemist") that I have frequented for many years.

And when I say "frequent," I mean it.

I go to CVS twice a week, sometimes more often. There are many things I buy there, from the nasal mist to which I'm addicted to the gum I chew in the car to the 95% cocoa content chocolate bars I sometimes pick up as treats for myself (since no one else in the house wants anything to do with them).

I am not only a CVS ExtraCare member, which is like their frequent shopper program, I am also a CVS Advisory Panel member. This means I occasionally am asked to fill out extensive marketing research surveys for the company, in return for which they give me ExtraBucks, which are basically like cash I can use in the store.

I am also a member of their CarePass program, which contains a mid-word capital letter like all good CVS initiatives AND gives me $10 in ExtraBucks to spend as I choose every month.

Much like Apple, they have me hook, line, and sinker.

It has been explained to me that my loyalty to the good folks at CVS may be a tad misplaced, in that their prices are high and their merchandise is perhaps middle-of-the-road. Or some such nonsense.

Please understand something: MY DEVOTION TO CVS WILL NOT BE DERAILED BY YOUR FACTS. Much like many people's choice of political candidate, I base my choice of drugstore not on objective truths, but rather on the world as I wish it existed.

We recently undertook an exercise at work in which we had to identify our favorite "relationship brand" and describe what that brand does to connect with customers and why we like it.

I of course chose CVS. I described all of the wonderful things they do for me.

After my little presentation, I was summarily mocked by my colleagues. Something about being "90 years old."

They can laugh all they want. I'm going to CVS today with $12 in ExtraBucks in my account and a 35-stick pack of Wrigley's Peppermint Cobalt 5 Gum with my name on it.

Do not bother acting as if you're not jealous.

I remember delivering papers at 3 in the morning and people's front doors were wide open

When I had a News-Herald paper route back in the Paleolithic Age (1981-83), the Saturday morning papers were sometimes delivered to my house obscenely early. Like, to the point that it was still basically Friday night when they were dropped off at the bottom of our driveway.

When that happened, I would occasionally just stay up late and deliver the papers in the middle of the night so that I could sleep until noon the next day.

This was always an adventure because, really, it's not often you're roaming the neighborhood in the dead of night at 12 years old. So it was kind of fun.

Anyway, when I did this in the summer, it was not at all uncommon for me to open someone's door and toss the paper into their wide-open, not-at-all-protected house. Only a screen door separated their living room from the outside, which was presumably to allow cooler air to circulate through their house during the night in the age before central air was common.

I could easily have walked in and taken whatever I wanted.

Not that I ever did that or even thought about doing that. The point was, many people felt just fine sleeping while leaving their house entirely unsecure.

This would not happen today. People like to say society was safer back then, but I'm not so sure. I think there was just a greater illusion of safety, and people for the most part got really lucky they didn't get robbed more often.

Nowadays, if I purposely left the front door open all night long in order to cool down our house, Terry would kill me.

Even if I did it accidentally, she also would likely kill me.

I would rather deal with a burglar than an enraged wife, if I'm being honest.

Three things I actually miss about driving to work every day

For nearly 11 months now, I like many white-collar Americans have been working from home.

There is much to be recommended about this approach to work. The free and easily accessible snacks for one, and the massive savings on gas and car maintenance for another.

But I've come to realize there really are some things I miss about that drive to the office I used to take all the time, and that I presumably at some point in 2021 will begin taking regularly again. Here are three of them:

(1) THE GUM: I keep a stash of intensely flavored (and intensely scented) peppermint gum in my car, and my habit was always to pop a stick into my mouth at the start of my morning and evening commutes. It's not like I can't chew it when I'm at home, but I just don't think to do it and, for whatever reason, it's not the same. My wife, it should be noted, is not at all a fan of this gum or the way it smells, so I have to be careful not to chew it around her. She refers to my car as "The Mint Mobile" because of it.

(2) THE MUSIC: Over the last decade, I have become an avid fan of classical music. In that time I have built a considerable library of CDs covering most of the basic classical repertoire. I usually listen to those CDs in the car. Less commute time = less Beethoven time. This is unfortunate. I've tried to make up for it, but again, the car is my concert hall.

(3) THE 40 MINUTES OF QUIET TIME: Not that my life is the same sort of loud, chaotic daily existence it used to be when the kids were little, but there's something to be said for being by yourself, listening to what you want, and just generally enjoying the experience of driving to and from work every day. I do kind of miss that. It will return eventually, but for now, I miss it.

That time I mistakenly called a guy Bill...over and over

We all have things we've said or done in our lives that make us wince when we recall them.

And they're not even necessarily "bad" things, just embarrassing for one reason or another.

I have many of these things. One is the "Bill" incident.

Some background: Terry and I have, for many years, been fans of jazz saxophonist Dave Koz. It's a long story, but we have gotten to know Dave well and always avail ourselves of the two backstage passes he leaves for us every time he plays in Cleveland.

For many years, Dave's keyboardist and musical arranger has been a guy named Brian Simpson. Brian is very talented, and I always enjoy his arrangements of Dave's songs and how he holds the band together.

Some years ago after one of Dave's shows, we went backstage and I wanted to tell Brian how much I appreciate his work. I caught a glimpse of him as he was walking away and called after him.

Except, for some reason, I suddenly thought his name was Bill.

"BILL! BILL!" I yelled as he, inexplicably to me, just kept walking down the hallway, not turning around. "BILL!"

Very quietly, Terry leaned over to me and said, "I think his name is Brian."

It was, of course. And still is.

It was embarrassing. And Brian never did hear/see me that night.

As we were driving home, Terry looked over at me and saw a grimace on my face.

"Are you thinking about the fact that you called him Bill?" she asked.

"Yes," I said through clenched teeth.

A couple of years ago we again found ourselves backstage after a Dave Koz show, and this time I did get a chance to meet Brian. I even called him by his actual name. And I told him the story of the time I yelled "BILL!" when trying to track him down.

I now think the story is hilarious. Brian seemed a bit confused and honestly not especially amused by it.

No matter. Any time Terry and I encounter someone named Bill now, one of us will inevitably say, "BILL!"

No one else gets it, but we think it's hilarious.

That's marriage for you.

I spent hours playing with Slime, and I really can't figure out why

Back in the 70s, the good people at the Mattel toy company came out with a product called Slime. It was exactly what you would assume it to be: oozing green slime.

It came in a little plastic green garbage can and the idea was pretty much just to play with it. There was no end goal or any sort of competition involved with Slime, unless of course you had contests to see who would dare to eat any of it.

You just sort of felt it, squeezed it, stretched it, and wrapped it around your arm or whatever, much like the kids in the vintage ad above. It should be noted, however, that I never came across anyone who, like the kid in the bottom left corner, turned criminally insane upon playing with Slime.

It wasn't a threat to stick to your clothes, really, but you did want to keep it out of your long, thick 70s hair, or there could be problems.

In later years, Mattel released Slime with Worms (which was purple and which I owned) and Slime with Eyeballs (which I think was green and which I did not own).

I can't decide whether Slime is a toy that works across generations and reflects a certain innocence on the part of all young kids, to the point that they can derive hours of amusement from it. Or whether it was something that only could have worked in the time when I grew up and was more a product of longer attention spans and less exposure to electronics.

Maybe both.

Either way, I can't tell you how much time I spent playing with my cans of Slime. The chemical smell of it still sticks in my head.

Not the taste, though. I never went that far.

As far as you know.

Hockey is back, Beethoven not so much

We are, and long have been, big hockey fans in our house.

We have been season ticket holders for our local American Hockey League team, the Cleveland Monsters, ever since the team came to town in 2007. We have two seats to every game every season.

The 14th of those seasons, COVID-delayed as it has been, starts next Friday as the Monsters host the Rochester Americans.We plan to be there for most of the 14 scheduled home games this winter and spring.

(NOTE: The Monsters were originally supposed to open their season tonight in Rockford, Illinois, but their two games this weekend against the Ice Hogs were postponed for reasons related to COVID protocols.)

I am also a subscriber to The Cleveland Orchestra. That group was planning to begin in-person concerts in early March, and I had intended to be there.

Sadly, however (and perhaps not surprisingly), I received an email from the Orchestra this week announcing the cancellation of live concerts this spring. They tried hard to make it work, but considering the advanced average age of a symphony orchestra audience, this decision is likely for the best.

Instead, they will continue offering online "virtual" concerts every couple of weeks, as they have been since the fall.

The question of live event attendance nowadays is an understandably sticky one. Is it safe? What precautions are being put in place? What risk is involved, and is it worth the utter joy of moving back toward something resembling normalcy?

In the case of both the Monsters and the Orchestra, I felt comfortable that the proper steps had been taken to keep audience members like me safe. For hockey there will be limited seating, social distancing, mask wearing, plenty of hand sanitizer, etc.

I am 51 years old and healthy. The typical hockey attendee is even younger and healthier than me. It all seems relatively safe.

Still, I completely understand the rationale of those who believe otherwise and opt out of this shortened season.

I just can't wait for the day when it's not even a question anymore.

Go Monsters, and uh, go Orchestra!

Most of us have no business being anywhere near a classroom full of kids

My niece Mallory turns 30 today, which in itself is a time to step back and reflect on your own mortality. When your little baby niece is 30, that must mean you're...well, considerably older.

She is a third-grade teacher, which makes her a superhero in my book.

(It can be argued, by the way, that we as a society throw the "superhero" or just plain "hero" designation around a little too freely. But I count as a hero anyone who does a job society needs but that I would never in a million years take on. Soldiers, teachers, custodial staff, etc. Who's going to do their jobs? You? Me? No? Well, then, they're heroes.)

Anyway, she spends her days teaching often-unruly 8- and 9-year-olds, which even in the best of times isn't an easy task and has to be 10 times more difficult in this age of the pandemic.

I have been told I could and even should have been an educator.

I don't know what people base this on, but I am not nearly as tough, smart, or dedicated as the people for whom teaching is a calling.

Going into classrooms as a guest speaker, as I have done a number of times, is one thing.

Coming up with lesson plans and doing it day after day after day after day? That is quite another, thank you.

And trust me here: It ain't as if these folks are getting rich.

There is a small sliver of the population that has the brains and the mental and emotional disposition to teach. And to them I say, thank you for your service.

I would have given up within six months of taking the job.

Oh, and happy birthday, Mal!

Favorite movie candy: Raisinets. Your results may vary.

Not that we were ever especially frequent movie-goers, but I do miss deciding on a Saturday evening to go out and see a new flick at the local cinema. I think it's one of those things that you only truly appreciate when you can't do it.

Actually, I think a lot of theatres are open these days, so you COULD still do it. But it's obviously not the same sort of experience as it used to be.

One day things will go back to normal, though, and when they do, we will once again be free to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a movie ticket and an even more obscene amount for snacks. When that happens, what's your go-to at the concession counter?

Mine is Raisinets, hands down. Love me some chocolate-covered raisins. Actually, love me some raisins, period. I'm a fan of the little dried grapes.

True story: At Christmas, among other things they would get me, my in-laws used to buy me a four-pound bag of Sunmaid raisins every year.

It was not at all uncommon for that entire bag to be gone by New Year's Day.

I'm not kidding. I could eat a four-pound bag of raisins in less than a week and be none the worse for wear.

Of course, I was in my 20s at the time. Nowadays, this simply could not happen.

We won't get into the details, but if there's such a thing as Exploding Colon, that's what would happen to me if I were to attempt this feat now.

Still, I can stomach a little box of Raisinets, and from time to time I do.

Most people are going with popcorn, Junior Mints, Reese's Cups, or some other movie theatre staple here. Some of you may even opt for the Sno-Caps, which if I may say is a bold and admirable choice.

Or Goobers. I do like Goobers. The only thing keeping them from being #1 on my list is that they're seemingly named after a character on The Andy Griffith Show, and that's not what I'm looking for from my movie candy.

It would be like eating a box of Floyd the Barbers or Barney Fifes. Both entertaining characters, but neither of which I'm looking to snack on while watching Shrek VI.

The definitive(?) statement on how many Groundhog Days Phil Connors lived through in the movie

I am a big, big fan of the 1993 Bill Murray movie "Groundhog Day."

I am also one of many people who have wondered just how many times Murray's character had to relive Groundhog Day in the film.

That number, I used to figure, was probably 100 times or so.

Not even close. The piano scenes alone should have convinced me of that.

The actual total is likely higher. Considerably higher.

How do I know? Because I've watched this video. And if like the movie, you should watch it, too.

God bless you, Phil Connors.

You get an all-expenses-paid trip to any place in the world. Where do you go?

I like to travel.

Actually, I like to be in other places. I'm not a big fan of the process of actually getting to those places.

The older I get, the less I like airports, long car rides, etc. But once I get where I'm going, I couldn't be happier.

I've had jobs that required a good amount of travel, both domestic and international. I don't have nearly the travel resumé of many people I know, but I've hit a few interesting spots.

I think I still have 13 or 14 more states to visit to check all 50 off my list.

Country-wise, I've been to China, Australia, Canada, Mexico, the UK, France, Germany, and Spain. And I guess you could technically say I was in The Netherlands, but I never left the Amsterdam airport so it really doesn't count.

So if you came to me and said I could pick one place to go and you would pick up the tab, what would it be?

I really do need to hit Italy and Japan at some point, and I've never set foot in South America, which makes Brazil inviting.

But I'm pretty sure I know what my choice would be, and I have a feeling it probably doesn't match yours.

I would go to Antarctica.

Why? First off, how cool would it be to say you've been in Antarctica? Very cool, at least as far as I'm concerned.

Then there's this: Any other place in the world, I could eventually find my way there if I really wanted to go. But there aren't regular tours exploring the continent that sits at the bottom of the world. Other than a few cruises that skirt the coast and/or make brief stops to say you've been there, you generally have to be a research scientist to make it to Antarctica.

So if you're footing the bill, that's where I'm going.

How about you?