I'm trying not to let the old man in, but modern travel makes it difficult

Country singer Toby Keith recorded a song called "Don't Let the Old Man In" that was apparently inspired by Clint Eastwood. The two were playing golf together in a charity event a few years ago when Clint remarked that he was about to turn 88. Toby asked what kept him going, and Clint's reply was "I get up every day and don't let the old man in."

I still have a long way to 88 (or 93, which is Clint Eastwood's current age), but I'm already familiar with the concept of not letting the old man in.

At some point in middle age, it gets very easy to be cranky. For many of my fellow Gen-Xers, surliness and general irritability are a point of pride. They revel in the old man (even the women).

Not me. Or at least, I don't want to be grouchy and disagreeable. The old man still makes unwanted appearances every day, and I have to make an effort to push him back into his corner and maintain a optimistic, cheerful outlook.

At no time does this get tested more than when I have to travel, and specifically when I have to travel for work.

Leisure travel is fun, and generally speaking when I do it, Terry is with me. The travel experience, like everything else in life, is a lot more enjoyable when she is there.

But work travel tends to be a lonely solo venture. For many who travel as a requirement of their jobs, there comes a time when it stops being fun.

For me I think it happened about 10 years ago. I'll still travel as much as the company needs me to, but I don't mind being in a position where I can sometimes go to a person on my team and say, "Hey, how do you feel about going to Milwaukee next week in my place?"

I did recently undertake a business trip to Milwaukee, as a matter of fact, and let me say here it's a very nice town. My problem with travel rarely has anything to do with the destination. It's getting there and getting home.

Compared with many places I've visited, a trip to Milwaukee is a breeze, involving just one flight and a rental car. But my one-hour flight to Chicago was crowded, hot, sweaty and generally uncomfortable. There was turbulence, which normally doesn't bother me but feels 10 times worse when the plane's air conditioning system leaves something to be desired.

Then there's O'Hare Airport, which as airports go is probably not too bad but is still huge and takes time to navigate. Getting to the rental car area feels like I've covered the distance from Cleveland to Chicago all over again.

Then there's the rigmarole of getting the car and driving the 70+ miles to Milwaukee, checking into the hotel, unpacking, etc.

If you're someone who doesn't work a white-collar job, you're reading this and wondering, "Where exactly is the problem?" And you're right. There is no problem there. This is all first-world whining by the old man, and I sometimes have to pull him aside and give him the "hey, it beats real work" lecture.

I didn't think this would be an issue for me at the comparatively tender age of 53, but I guess I'm going to have to spend the rest of my days taming the old man. I find him a lot easier to control when I'm at home than, say, when I'm sitting at the airport gate and my phone tells me the flight is "slightly" delayed and I'll be stuck reading my book and drinking Starbucks for another two hours before we even board.

In those instances, I allow the old man exactly three minutes to quietly seethe, then I order him back into his cage. That's probably more time than he deserves.

You wake up one day and realize you've been sent back to the 80s...now what?

I'm a nostalgic guy who looks back fondly on his younger years.

The music to which I listen is one example of this. I have many modern/semi-current tracks in my library, and I try to listen to new stuff all the time, but there's no denying that my tastes lean very heavily toward the 1980s.

For every Harry Styles song I own, you'll find 30 by The Police, 25 by Men at Work, 20 by Duran Duran, and heck, probably five by Kajagoogoo.

I follow quite a few retro 80s accounts on Twitter because I enjoy the cultural memories they feature. One of those accounts recently posted a question that caught my interest: If you woke up one day and realized you had been transported back to the 80s, what would you do?

If you are younger than 33, the first thing you would do is wonder why you had been sent to a time before you were even born.

But if you are 53 like me, this becomes something to ponder. If I was sent back in time 40 years, and if, let's say, I was only allowed to stay there a few hours before returning to the present, what would be my priorities?

Here are the five things I would probably do:

(1) Sit and talk with my mom and dad (and if they happen to be visiting, my sisters and brother): Kids, once your parents are gone, you can't believe the things you would do to see them again. They would wonder why 13-year-old me had suddenly taken such a deep interest in having a protracted conversation with them, but it would be amazing. The first thing I would do is walk into the living room and talk with them.

(2) Head to the arcade: I would have to spend at least a half hour at Galaxy Gardens, our local game room. I expended untold amounts of time and money there and it was wonderful. I could do without people smoking indoors like they used to, but hey, that's the price you pay for the privilege of time travel.

(3) Turn on the TV: It wouldn't take long to cruise through the 36 channels we had from Continental Cablevision, so I would stop at MTV and watch some of those classic music videos when they were still fresh and new.

(4) Round up my friends: This would involve actually going to their houses and/or calling their landlines (gasp!), but any combination of Matt, Kevin, Jason, Mike, Todd, etc. I could rouse would be worth the effort. Even if we just headed down to the railroad tracks and hung out (it was much more fun than it sounds, believe me).

(5) Enjoy the freedom of being without a smartphone: I could easily do this now by simply leaving my phone at home, but it wouldn't be quite the same. There was something appealing about a world in which you were mostly unreachable most of the time and everyone was OK with that. As miraculous as the iPhone is as a technological innovation, it also comes with hidden shackles I wouldn't mind shedding for a few hours.

HONORABLE MENTION: 1983 was three years before I started dating Terry, so I might ride my bike to Robert Street on the other end of Wickliffe and see if I could catch a glimpse of her at home. This sort of stalking was frowned upon even then, however, so it might also lead to me spending a few hours in an early-80s jail cell.

We come here every year for a week of exhausting relaxation

Probably my favorite thing about Slippery Rock University is the fact that, for more than 60 years, fans attending University of Michigan football games have cheered when the public address announcer gives updates on the Slippery Rock football team.

This is funny because Slippery Rock is a tiny, obscure Division III school nestled in the hills of Western Pennsylvania, while Michigan is, of course, Michigan (I can say that respectfully despite being a fan of THE Ohio State Buckeyes).

It all started in 1959 when the Michigan PA guy started announcing the score of Slippery Rock games simply because he thought the name "Slippery Rock" was so funny. And he was right. Now it's a tradition at Michigan Stadium for the crowd to give a raucous cheer any time it's announced that Slippery Rock is winning.

I bring this up partially because I just love the story, but also because Terry and I spend one week every July on the Slippery Rock campus. It's where our church holds an annual Bible school/retreat we help to organize and run.

This retreat is known as "the Gathering." I have been attending Gatherings since 1989 and had never given the name a second thought until a few years ago when someone remarked that "the Gathering" sounds creepily like the name of a Stephen King book.

For years I had been telling people we were headed to "the Gathering." Only then did I realize it sounded like we had joined some sort of weird cult. It's both horrifying and hilarious.

Trust me when I say, the people who attend the Gathering are very nice folks with whom we enjoy spending time. There is nothing especially creepy about them.

Our days at Bible school are filled with classes in the morning, recreational activities in the afternoon, an evening assembly with a featured talk and/or musical performances, and generally spending time with people we have come to know and love over many years.

Each day is packed with activity, and by Sunday of Gathering week we are usually dragging. As I used to say when I served as superintendent of the event, there ain't no tired like Bible school tired.

Anyway, I thought it was important today for you to realize two things:

(1) Slippery Rock, if you didn't already know about it, is a great school.

(2) There are probably better names than "the Gathering."

My wife makes fun of me for that time I was a neighborhood narc

This happened maybe 15 years ago. It was the Fourth of July or right around there, and some people who lived near us were shooting off fireworks.

We didn't have babies in the house at that point, but these were loud fireworks and we could hear (and feel) them even with the windows and doors closed.

After a while, a Wickliffe police cruiser appeared on our street, driving slowly past each house. The officer was peering into backyards, presumably trying to figure out where the amateur fireworks artists were located (setting off fireworks without a license/permit was illegal in Ohio at the time).

Seeing him out our front window, I opened the door and helpfully yelled, "I think they're over on Jackson! One street over!"

I did this with the noble intention of helping the police, who I've always thought have a pretty tough job. It seemed altruistic to me.

My wife thought differently. As soon as I came back in the house and closed the door, she looked at me and asked, "Did you just snitch on the people setting off fireworks?"

Well...yes, I had. But "snitch" is such an ugly word. I preferred to think of myself as more of a "citizen law enforcement agent."

Terry wasn't buying it. I believe she saw me in a new light from that moment on...and not a good one.

To this day, especially in early July, she will often say to me in a mocking voice, "They're over there! Over there! One street over!"

If she keeps this up, I will have her arrested for harassment. She forgets I have friends in the police department.

I eat fast food maybe twice a year. I don't think I'm really cut out for it.

It just wasn't worth it.

The danger of railing against fast food is that you can easily come off sounding preachy and self-righteous.

So let me say from the outset, I am far from perfect. I make questionable food choices all the time.

Still, if you looked at my diet over a long period, you would likely conclude that I'm a relatively "healthy" eater. Which is why, when I do grab myself a fast-food burger, it rarely goes well.

Once my body realizes I've ingested a slab of fried meat and a cardboard sleeve of greasy fries, it immediately lodges a formal physiological protest.

It's not intestinal or anything. It's just that vague overall feeling of being stuffed, bloated and nutritionally deprived. I lose most of my energy and virtually all of my will to live as my digestive system begins working through the processed glop I have given it.

That's when I tell myself, "OK, even twice a year is too much. I shouldn't be eating this stuff."

And I don't, at least until another six months go by and I need to grab something on the run. I try to convince myself that maybe it will be better this time.

It never is.

You can make fun of my almost-daily kale salads all you want. At least with kale I've never considered giving up eating permanently.

I'm wondering if leaving my wife little notes in an attempt to be romantic is too cliché

Some months ago, I began writing short notes to Terry and leaving them in places she will find them.

The challenge is not figuring out what to write, but rather finding new places to hide the notes.

There are only so many spots in our house where I can leave something and know with certainty she will find it. Thus, most of these have ended up:

• In the bathroom drawer where she keeps her toothbrush
• In the little cannister of coffee she stores in a kitchen cupboard (RECENT VARIATION: I put one in the K-Cup holder of our coffee maker.)
• On the driver's side seat of her car
• Resting on or near the TV remotes

Any place more creative than that and I'm afraid it will be years before she finds a particularly well-hidden one.

I guess I should start asking each week whether she has found the most recent note, because I rarely get confirmation that these little slips expressing 37 years' worth of feelings for her have actually been noticed.

I'm fairly certain she sees them all, and I'm fairly certain she appreciates them. It's just relatively rare for us to talk about them.

Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe a small act of love like this is best left unacknowledged. Maybe, like so many things in a long-term relationship, the best parts don't need to be talked about.

Or maybe she wonders why the crazy buffoon she married keeps wasting the small pieces of notepaper we keep on top of the refrigerator with corny two-sentence love letters.

You know, I really should ask her.

My life has devolved into a battle against the driveway weeds

I don't water our lawn, so I don't feel bad when it starts to turn a brownish green about this time every summer.

I'm also not too put out by the honeysuckle that grows unimpeded along the fence and threatens to claim our entire property if left unchecked.

There is, however, one plant I cannot stand. I don't know its name, and I don't actually care.

All I know is I want it dead.

I'm referring to the insidious weeds that somehow manage to take root in the cracks of our driveway then proceed to grow like...well, like weeds.

Each year I wage a battle against these little green monsters that inevitably ends in my favor, but not before much weeping and gnashing of teeth (on my part, not the weeds').

I don't know why these small botanical devils enrage me so much, but I can't stand it when they make their first appearance in mid-spring. I get even madder when I pull or spray them and they pop right back up less than a month later.

Just die already, demon plants.

If only I felt half as much enmity toward the weeds that grow in our flower beds. Our yard would win awards if I hated them the way I hate the driveway weeds.

I think it has something to do with the fact that the driveway didn't ask for any of this. The lawn is fair game because it's several hundred square feet of plant material that understands its position in life. It knows weeds are part of the deal when you're a large blob of sod. 

But the driveway? The driveway is a dozen or so innocent concrete squares that know little of plants and care even less. Its only job is to convey our cars smoothly onto and off of the road, and it does this beautifully.

Then suddenly weeds burst onto the scene and ruin everything for the poor driveway. They have the audacity to grow from cracks a fraction of an inch across. They besmirch an otherwise pleasantly gray expanse running up to your garage or alongside your house. They are an eyesore that refuses to go away without the application of brute force or copious amounts of Round-Up.

I have a grudging respect for their staying power and tenacity, but that does nothing to reduce my desire to kill them.

Of all the things that threaten our society today, driveway weeds are among the least regarded and therefore among the most deceivingly dangerous. Ignore them at your own peril.

Now, I will freely admit this is not the sentiment of, say, a 25-year-old single person.  This is the way a grumpy 53-year-old homeowner thinks and the way he blows a relatively minor irritant all out of proportion.

But I'm telling you, don't sleep on the driveway weeds. They're crafty. They're relentless. They have no qualms about making your life a landscaping hell.

Death is too good for them, but I will nonetheless deliver them there with a small pointed shovel in my hand and a smile on my face.

I'm trying to remember how we planned vacations in the pre-Internet age

As I mentioned a few days ago, my family and I recently took a fun and relaxing vacation to Bethany Beach, Delaware. I booked our rental house through the VRBO app. We navigated the 9-hour drive using Waze. And of course we looked up information about local attractions online.

At no time during the planning or execution of this vacation did I speak directly with anyone. It was all facilitated by the little electronic miracles known as smartphones.

So now I'm wondering, how did we do all of this before, say, 1996? How did we plan vacations without the Internet? I simply cannot remember.

Here's a good example: At the end of my freshman, sophomore and junior years of college, I took trips to the beautiful city of Montreal. Each time I did this, I brought a friend (Kevin in 1989, Nate in 1990) or family member (nephew Mark in 1991) and we drove the 10+ hours from Wickliffe to Southern Quebec.

As I look back on it, I wonder:

• How did I make hotel reservations? That is, how did I know my hotel options, and where did I find the correct phone numbers to call? I couldn't just Google that information back then.
• How did I purchase (in advance) tickets for the two Montreal Expos baseball games we attended? Did I send them a letter or something? How did I know how much the tickets would be? Where did this information come from?
• How did I know the correct driving route to cover the 560 miles from my house to Downtown Montreal?

I can't remember how most of this was done, but I do know the answer to that last question.

The two options when it came to long drives back then were having a road atlas in the car with you and/or ordering a AAA TripTik. I always had the atlas handy, and at least once I remember getting the TripTik, which was a paper printout of very thorough driving directions provided by the helpful folks at the American Automobile Association.

Many of us back then had the special ability to decipher an absurdly detailed road atlas map while safely driving a car at 60MPH and trying to figure out exactly where we were and where we were going.

But what of the first two points? It's not like they listed Montreal phone numbers in the Cleveland Yellow Pages. How did I figure out who to call and what their numbers were?

I think the two answers were (a) library books, and (b) directory assistance.

Back when libraries mainly loaned out actual books, there was an array of destination-specific travel guides you could borrow when planning a trip. If these guides had been published in the previous 5-10 years, the phone numbers in them were probably going to be accurate. So those certainly helped.

There was also directory assistance. As long as you knew the area code of the place you wanted to go (in this case 514 for Montreal), you could dial <AREA CODE>-555-1212 and ask the nice person on the other end of the line for whatever phone number you needed.

There was a charge for this, of course, but it worked.

So I guess that's how I mapped out these trips to Montreal: Books, long-distance directory assistance, and large bound driving maps?

All I know is we somehow found our way there and back, and those vacations remain some of my most memorable.

But I'll be honest: I would much rather go the smartphone route. Fewer fines for overdue library books and no separate charges for each Google search. Technology has spoiled us far more than we probably realize.

We're going to the Paris Olympics next year and I'm pretty sure we'll be sleeping in the street

Some months ago, my daughter Elissa called and asked, "Hey, do you want to go to the Olympics?"

My response was a somewhat bemused, "What?"

She repeated the question.

"The answer to that is always 'yes,'" I replied, "but tell me more."

It turned out Elissa had won a lottery giving her the right to purchase tickets for up to three events at the 2024 Paris Olympics. Seeing the Summer Olympics in person has long been a bucket list item of mine, so I didn't need to be asked twice.

When the day came to buy tickets online, Elissa was equipped with a list of our preferred events and the amount we were willing to pay. As you might imagine, some sports are more popular than others, to the point that you're much more likely to score front-row seats to, say, handball than you are for women's gymnastics.

Elissa spent a frantic 15 minutes typing and scrolling, coming away with four tickets each to a women's quarterfinal field hockey match, a women's quarterfinal soccer match, and the one thing on which I had my heart set, a full day of track and field.

In the event, gaining admission to these events was the easy part. And I'm sure we'll have no problems booking a suitable flight to take Elissa, Terry, Mark and me to France next summer.

The issue lies with our accommodations. We immediately tried booking Airbnb and Vrbo houses, only to be denied each time without explanation.

No explanation was needed, though. The owners of these rental properties are (wisely) going to jack up the prices by a factor of 3x or more, and they were all waiting for the market to sort itself out before fixing their fees and accepting reservations.

We also tried several hotels, but in most cases, you couldn't book anything outside of a 365-day (and in some cases a 400-day) window preceding your arrival.

Now we're getting to the point of being one year out, and as I type this, we're still looking for places to lay our heads for the week we plan to be in Paris. The cheapest VRBOs are $3,600 for six nights, which actually isn't bad but also doesn't provide the type of bed situation we need.

We may ultimately end up staying somewhere outside of Paris and taking a train into the city each day, which would be OK.

But part of me still wonders how comfortable a sleeping bag under the Arc de Triomphe would be on a warm French summer night.

(NOTE: A few days ago, long after this post was already written, we were able to procure a nice Airbnb in Paris. That's a relief, of course, but I hope you don't mind me having strung you along there for a couple of minutes.)

I love the concept of beach vacations. It's the execution that presents problems.

As I type this, I'm sitting in the enclosed patio of our rented house in Bethany Beach, Delaware.

Terry is next to me doing some sort of craft that involves creating a picture of Lilo & Stitch from small beads.

Jared is across the table on his laptop writing media notes that are, as he says, of interest only to a very small group of writers and broadcasters covering tonight's Major League Baseball game between his employer, the Tampa Bay Rays, and the Seattle Mariners.

Elissa is to my right crocheting a yarn bikini for the plastic goose that sits in the front window of her house (that statement is 100% true).

Jack is reclining on a nearby chair, playing on his phone.

Light music is coming from Jared's laptop. We are all conversing and laughing.

This, to me, is exactly what vacation should be.

Here's the problem, which I know isn't really a problem at all: The Atlantic Ocean is about 400 feet away. Our nephew Chandler is driving up from his home in Newport News, Virginia, and due to arrive in a half hour or so. Once he gets here, we're all going to change into swimsuits and head to the beach.

That is, after all, why we drove 9 hours from Ohio. This is a beach vacation, and beach vacations by definition involve going to the beach.

I love the idea of going to the beach. And I love the first 10 minutes of being at the beach.

Then it all kind of goes south for me.

I'm not a water guy, but I plan to spend some time in the chilly ocean waters because I would hate to leave here in a few days without having done that.

I'm not a sand castle builder, but I'll chip in if everyone else is doing it.

The boys and I will toss a ball around, which is fun but after awhile makes my 53-year-old rotator cuff cry out for mercy.

We were never a beach vacation family until we first came here to Bethany Beach in 2016 and had a really good time. Seven years later we're back, having coordinated the complicated schedules of eight 20-somethings, a teenager, and two parents.

I wanted to recreate that 2016 vacation, though I realize now that what I wanted to recreate was not so much the beach part of it. It's being together that most appeals to me, whether or not we ever get close to the water.

There's also this: As I have often noted, I am not a particularly good relaxer. Or at least I don't relax in the same way other people relax.

I almost always need to be doing something. So far on this trip, that has meant playing several games of cribbage, enduring two disastrous losses in Battleship to Jared, washing and putting away the dishes, making our bed, doing some laundry, carding a brisk round of mini-golf, and taking a walk.

Some of those are vacation-type activities while others are not. All of them give me satisfaction because that's just the way I am. Getting stuff done is what I like, whether I'm at home or traveling. I suppose it's how I maintain some semblance of control over my existence.

I admire real beach people. People who can plop down in a chair, slather themselves in sunscreen and read a book for hours. People who don't mind sand in their shoes. People who never tire of frolicking in salt water.

I am not one of them, nor will I ever be. But I admire them.

At the same time, I almost never feel particularly stressed or uptight. I'm perfectly happy the way I am.

You have your way of relaxing, I have mine.

There are sting rays in the ocean, you know. The only foolproof way of avoiding them is not going to the beach at all.

Spotify is an all-around better experience, but I still use Apple Music

Depending on who you ask, Spotify has something like five times as many users as Apple Music. They are the two dominant players in the world of streaming music, but it's really no contest in terms of subscribers and total users.

I have accounts on both platforms. We pay for family subscriptions to both.

Yet I can't tell you the last time I used Spotify.

On the surface, this makes no sense. Spotify is #1 for a reason. They have a better user interface and, in my experience, a better algorithm when it comes to recommending new music I might like.

The only reason I continue to use Apple Music is that  – again, in my experience  – it is far more accommodating when it comes to handling local files. And by local files, I mostly mean my vast library of bootlegged live concerts and obscure classical music CDs.

In other words, the stuff to which neither Apple nor Spotify own streaming rights, and that therefore you have to upload yourself.

I have gigs and gigs of this sort of music. A number of years ago when I tried to transition away from Apple Music, Spotify simply wouldn't accept a lot of these files. Some uploaded and processed just fine, but most simply went away when I attempted to port them over.

I tried a few different times, but I was never able to get most of my local files onto Spotify.

Since that's mostly what I listen to, it was easier to simply stick with Apple Music, on which I never seem to have any issues with local files.

Now before you say it, I am well aware that many, many people have no problem using local files on Spotify. I've tried their prescribed methods for uploading this music onto Spotify, but it has never worked for me.

So I stick with the clear #2. I choose Pepsi over Coke. Burger King over McDonald's. Crest over Colgate. Figuratively speaking, of course.

There are two potential morals to this story:

(1) Companies need to realize that one bad user experience, or one glitch in their product's technical capabilities, can decide a lifetime of brand loyalty.

(2) I am too lazy to try and make Spotify work for me.

I hesitate to tell you how true I believe #2 to be.

Can we keep our yard at graduation party levels of nice?

Not our yard. Or our house. Or our car. In case you were wondering.

We recently held Jack's graduation party. That evening, after much of the clean-up was finished, I fell into a chair and said to Terry, "I have an idea...let's never do this again."

Which of course we won't, since Jack is our youngest. Oh, if/when we have grandchildren and they have their own grad parties, we'll help in every way possible.

But never again will we be in charge of the preparations, and that's a good thing.

Grad parties are exhausting, and not just on party day itself. The prep takes weeks. The clean-up takes days.

Here's the one upside of hosting a grad party at your house, though: Your yard has never looked so nice.

Jack's party was in mid-June. Starting in mid-May, we weeded, power washed, mulched, mowed, trimmed and generally transformed our property into something presentable.

Not Yard of the Year presentable, but certainly grad party-worthy.

The question is, are we going to do what's necessarily to maintain it?

Summers are busy for us, and there are going to be stretches when we're simply not home.

On the other hand, life is so much simpler the following year if you keep up with yardwork the summer before.

The smart money says we'll keep it looking good for maybe a year.

Check back with me in summer 2024.

Two cats, two rats: Our dwindling household pet population

Just as the number of children living in our house has fallen over the last few years, so too has the number of non-human animals.

We peaked at five children in 2006, that much I know, but I don't remember when our menagerie reached its highest point. I want to say it was about that same time we had something like 10 or 15 different creatures in our care.

For many years we owned five cats. I won't whine here about the fact that I was solely responsible for cleaning their litter boxes and feeding them every day, though I'm afraid I just did.

We also had various rodents, from chinchillas and guinea pigs to hamsters and mice. And there were fish, as I recall, along with a couple of rats.

There are two possible reactions when you tell people you have rats as pets, by the way. One is, "Oh, they're so cute! I love rats!" The other, more common one is, "WHAT?!? RATS?!?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"

I never knew this, but it turns out rats are in fact fun and affectionate. They don't have the greatest reputation, what with the bubonic plague thing and all (though they really get a bum rap for that). But they have a lot going for them.

Rats comprise 50% of our current household pet roster. Jack bought two a month ago and named them Velma and Daphne in an admirable tribute to the Scooby Doo gang. He keeps them in a penthouse-like cage in his room. I have never held them, and have in fact only seen them maybe three times, but they seem nice enough.

Our two other current pets are cats Ginny and Molly. As recently as a year and a half ago, they were somewhat overshadowed by their elder brothers Fred, George and Charlie. That was until the three boys succumbed to various feline diseases, one after the other. At least two of those deaths were cancer-related, which is a common thing in older cats.

So now it's two cats and two rats. I miss Fred, George and Charlie, but I'll admit I enjoy scooping fewer litter boxes and filling fewer food bowls every morning. Ginny and Molly do throw up occasionally, but they don't pee in random places like the boys would sometimes do.

One thing on which Terry and I agree is that we are not accepting any new cats into our house. No matter how cute the kitten, no matter how desperate their situation, we are no longer the suckers we once were for homeless kitties.

The same goes for any other living thing, furry or otherwise, that wants to take up residence with us. If I have my way, the "no vacancy" sign outside of 30025 Miller Avenue will be permanently lit.