Key cards and ice machines.

I like hotel rooms and the sensation of being somewhat anonymous. Checking in at the front desk feels as close to hiding out as a modern, full-time corporate employee can get without stirring up trouble. Disappear down the hallway, and you’re merely a room number and a random window in a big building.

Don’t get me wrong, I fully appreciate how fortunate I am to have a home—it’s just a place that’s more familiar than ever. A place where your comfort zone can become a rut. Where sitting around can become acceptable. And these days, where 9 to 5 is just one of your many priorities. Worlds have collided with the work from home revolution and I often wonder if it’s for the better. Time will tell, I suppose.

Now, as we prepare for another weekend away, I think of vending machines, mini-fridges, and the smell of bleached pillow cases at 4 AM. We’re off again. Small-time road trippers with perfectly reasonable expectations, and predictable routines. But we won’t be here checking mail, taking out the trash, cleaning toilets, or vacuuming the rug. We’ll be hiding out in a room with a digit on the door and a mint under the pillow. Incognito—family style.

Green lights at Midnight.

Funny being back in your hometown when it hasn’t been your hometown for twenty years.

The familiar scenery without any current significance. The sense of superiority without any justification. The realization that you don’t matter no matter how connected you may feel.

Goodnight Lawrence, Kansas—you’re a strange place on the map.

It’s personal.

After four years of COVID as a big, red flashing light in our lives, I managed to bring it home a little over two weeks ago. Looking back, the whole situation is laughable. The goofy masks, the air filters, the dramatic news coverage combined with heartfelt ad campaigns, the stickers on the ground outlining special arrangements for social distancing, all the extreme precautions around every corner, and I’m pretty sure I got it at the dentist’s office.

My case started with chills overnight. I tested. I was positive. By the 5 PM, I had a prescription for Paxlovid. The symptoms were never bad but my head was swimming for a couple of days. The strange twist to the whole thing is I’m still testing positive after nearly 15 days. And no one seems to care. At all.

I’ve stayed somewhat close to home but when people do approach me, I give them a quick “testing positive for COVID!” Most just shrug it off. A few of my favorite replies: “I’ve had it five times,” “it’s just a cold,” “is that still a thing?”

Is COVID still a thing? That’s a question I can’t answer. Not because of brain fog or fatigue, but because at this point in time, it’s personal. As far as I can tell, the answer to that question depends on where you get your news, what you like to do in your free time, and your tolerance for making special arrangements (see paragraph above). Meanwhile, I’m infected with no symptoms wondering if this whole thing is just a matter of how your body is built and which variant finds its way to your system.

You could wind up like me—wondering why this has been such a hot topic for so many years. Or, based on a handful of horror stories I’ve heard, you could wind up in the hospital on your death bed. That’s a scary gamble. But obviously one hundreds of thousands of people are willing to take just to live their lives. Or get their teeth cleaned. Whatever the case may be.

Juiced.

Stumped.

Just sitting here contemplating a tree stump I’d like to get rid of.

Stumped.

The stump made me think of my buddy who just this week texted me a picture of his chainsaw. It occurred to me that I don’t know anyone close to home that’s likely to help me out with my stump problem.

Stumped again.

Then I started wondering whether I can even use a gas-powered tool on any given day in Marin County, USA. Would the neighbors be OK with it? Would my wife approve? Is it OK to refer to my wife as “my wife” or is there an approved term for our modern times that I’m supposed to use instead?

Stumped again and again.

Lots of rules looming these days. And I haven’t actually done anything but think it over. Not sure whether to laugh, cry or go chainsaw shopping. So I’ll just grab another cup of coffee and see what perfectly safe, perfectly free, environmentally-friendly plans are on the agenda today.

Not stumped.

Ten-feet tall.

Rhyming words and contrast have been big themes around here the last couple of weeks.

“Hey, Dahdee, me…free…tree…bee…see…[followed by hysterical laughter].”

“Hey, Dahdeeeee, the opposite of cat is dog. And the opposite of upside down is upside up. And the opposite of big is small.”

Size is funny subject in our household of short people. But, as he proves on a daily basis, one can stagger the odds and confuse the masses if small comes with a big personality and a tenacious attitude.

Nothing like life with a tiny, developing human to remind an adult how significant they are.

Pot of gold.

I’d never be one to preach rules and regulations regarding how to raise a kid. Not even now that I’m a father. I say do what works. Do what keeps them safe and still allows you some freedom and a little time to sleep. Basically, do what you gotta do. But when it comes to potty training, we’ve had tremendous luck with the reward system.

Number one has been relatively easy. The dude gets it. But number two is a bit more challenging. Poor guy will hold it for three or four days. And then when he does finally go, it drops like a load of rocks. Enter Hot Wheels. The 99¢ toy that’s led to decades of idiots like myself yearning for a driveway full of cars, this tiny incentive has led to the absolute BM success.

The only catch is that you need a good supplier. Our local Target is often picked over and Ben is sly when it comes to repeats—cars with slight variations in paint or decals are quickly identified and suspect. Fortunately, I recently discovered a forgotten bargain bin at a nearby Safeway that’s been the jackpot for the new and unexpected. I was there the other night stocking up when the checker asked to see my ID.

“You know why I asked to see your driver’s license? Not for the whiskey…I wanted to see why someone your age was so interested in Hot Wheels.” I went on to explain the, um, back story and eventually had the whole line of people cracking up about “poop cars.”

The best part? I have fun with the whole routine, too. I don’t have much recollection of learning how to poop in a toilet but I’ll never forget how great it felt to get a new “little car” as they were called in our household growing up.

I know this will eventually have to end. It’s expensive. Storage is an issue. And he’s getting picky. But for now, it’s keeping his britches clean and his eyes on the prize. And that’s good enough for me.

Making his selection from the Hot Wheels collection “hidden” in the garage.

Pooping in pretty places.

What, what?

Sometimes you’ve just gotta stop and think it over. What exactly, who can say. My what is likely drastically different than the neighbor’s what, the guy working at the grocery store, or the dude who pulled me and the family 4Runner out of the mud on Monday. We all have a what—even as life goes on and we slide further and further out of touch with anything that makes any logical sense.

So we establish our motivational checkpoints. Attempt to strike a balance between business and pleasure. Try to take care of each other while also trying to take it easy. Some personal brand of self-care that doesn’t feel selfish.

But it goes in cycles. Like the seasons, positive perspective will eventually lapse. Time will run out. And you’ll have to pick yourself up again. Tell yourself the same story you’ve heard at least a thousand times before.

And just like that: Another chapter begins. A strangeness that will eventually become familiar. Something new that will eventually become another layer in the pile of life experiences that we’re so lucky to have.

Now as Friday night becomes Saturday morning, the ritual prescribes sleep and sleep I shall seek.

See you tomorrow, tomorrow.

Recharging all the batteries.

I guess I’ve adopted a digital format as the place for random thoughts. Device-in-hand doesn’t feel abnormal anymore—it actually seems quite the opposite these days: people not distracted by their cell phones are seen as creepy. “Why are you so interested in watching the world go by…weirdo?”

All this observed while camping in the rain. Which sounds worse than it is thanks to a little planning and quick deliveries by our friends at Amazon. Yet another digital entity that’s changed the way we function.

So there’s two gold stars for the power of screens and connectivity. Clearly there’s no going back at this point. Even if you wanted to go off the grid, you’d likely still need to buy a lightbulb or box of aluminum foil at some point? And why not have it delivered to your doorstep?

But I’m proud to let the world know I just made an excellent pot of coffee on a fire without a single one of my moves being tracked. No power-source but my hands. No fuel but firewood. No process but percolation. So I suppose that’s why we camp. Or at least why I’m sitting here in the woods, somewhat dry, somewhat comfortable, 100% satisfied with my state of being.

Call it therapeutic. Call it meditation. Just don’t actually try to call because there’s little to no reception out here and we’ll waste a bunch of time going back and forth with “can you hear me nows” until we both give up in frustration. Let’s circle back tomorrow. Ping me. Chat soon, OMG. LOL. K. Yellow-hand-thumbs-up-emoji.