​This is not about beeping car horns. No, this is how to stop the beeping of the smoke detector in your home, or more accurately, the “chirping” of the device.
 
The bird-like sound recently kept a friend of mine from his sleep. He has a bad knee, soon to require replacement, and his wife recently had her hip replaced. Neither being able to climb a ladder, they called me to help, not knowing my technological incompetence. Or, maybe he did, and he wanted some laughs.
 
Whatever it was, he rang me on the cell and asked if I could come over to replace the battery in the smoke detector, as it’s bird-like sound was waking them up in the middle of the night. Despite my inability to master electronics, I jumped at the chance to make a piece of equipment function properly by replacing a battery. Sounded like I could do it.
 
Of course, nothing ever turns out the way you project it will. That’s why life is filled with curse words and harried individuals. In our gut we think we can handle something, but logic dictates otherwise.
 
I drove to their house. We chatted. Discussed the hip and knee and how both were doing physically and emotionally. The ladder beckoned.

I ascended confidently. Popped the lid open. Pulled the battery out. Replaced it with a new one. Done. Yipppeeeeee.  Sealed it back up. Shot the breeze with my buddy for a few more minutes and I was on my way.
 
The big BUT came later, as the chirp returned at 2:30 a.m. to disturb their sleep patterns again. Dang. Still, another challenge.
 
The next day after replacing the battery, the chirping started off and on while I was still at the house. Okay, what next? We turned off the power. Nope. We turned the breaker off, then back on. Still a problem. We checked another smoke detector to see if we aligned the battery properly. Still couldn’t figure it out.
 
Having worked in the security industry in the past, I contacted a friend and colleague for solutions. He suggested all the steps we took, or hit the “reset” button (a suggestion my wife also provided when I called her for my usual new technology-fixing introduction lesson). There was no “reset” button.
 
My security industry buddy suggested I take a photo of the brand name and unscrew it to take a photo of the connection as well to see if we could cut or disconnect the wiring. In doing so, lo and behold, there were some directions on what to do if the device stopped working.
 
And, yes, it suggested the steps we took, but there was one more: blow air through the openings in the device. We got a hair dryer, turned it up, and blew air through that sucker for a couple of minutes.
 
I reconnected everything, clamped the pieces back together. No noise. I crossed my fingers. We waited 15 minutes. Nothing.
 
The next day we had coffee. Guess what my first question after we grabbed the java was? You know it. “Did the chirping stop?”
 
“Yup,” was the reply. When you don’t have much knowledge of electronic devices, even a simple fix feels like you designed a project to bring high speed broadband to an under-served community. You get that conqueror feeling.
 
Part of the joy was overcoming frustration and learning as we went. The rest of the joy was knowing that the directions work. Next time, that’s where we need to start. 

​We’ve all gotten the question put to us at some point: If you could have a superpower, what would it be?
 
You’ll get the typical responses: x-ray vision; the ability to turn invisible; flying; change my molecules so I can walk through walls; shooting spider webs from my hands. Whatever.
 
Here’s an atypical response: I’d like to have the superpower to change the rules of certain sports. Why? Because there’s a huge need to improve sports. The rules haven’t kept up with the athletes and their abilities.
 
I’ll give you a few quick examples, with fixes, and if I had the superpower, I would make it so immediately.  If you watch the NBA, you will notice how frequently the players accidently step out of bounds (this happens often in Division I college basketball as well).

Why does this happen?  Because the players have gotten a lot taller and bigger over the years, the court is now too small for them. A normal step puts them out of bounds.
 
What’s the solution? Make the court bigger.  Add 10 feet to the length of the court and five feet on the side (two-and-a-half on each side). That should do it. It will give the players more maneuverability and space to create their magic. Done. My superpower just changed it. The game will now improve, with the participants better able to perform and demonstrate their incredible talents.
 
Second change: raise the rim in the NBA and college basketball to 10 feet, six inches. The current height is 10 feet. That’s too low. Too easy to dunk. Too easy to get above the rim. The players at their current size don’t have to push themselves and their leaping abilities. Plays occurring above the rim are routine.

Raise the rim, and make those plays special again. Force the players to improvise and push themselves with a higher rim. Superpower to change sports has now raised the rim.
 
When it comes to football, some of these same types of issues come into play. Because of the size, speed and athleticism of the players at the NFL and collegiate level, it’s become clear the field has shrunk. What’s the solution? Make the field bigger.
I don’t have a miracle for how much wider or longer the football field should be for college and the pros, only that there needs to be more space for the athletes to do their thing. Add five yards to each side. Add 10 yards to the length. I don’t know. Let the experts decide how much room is needed. I only have the superpower to make it so.
 
There is more, but I’ll stop there because you never want to abuse your superpowers. Step in where necessary and use your abilities for good. Improve something. Turn a negative into a positive.
 
Someday we may need to institute the four-point line in basketball. Or, we need to award four points for a field goal over 50 yards. Why not? There’s no reason for sports not to evolve to meet changing circumstances.
 
Adjusting and adapting to a world of new circumstances is a sign of health and well-being. It’s hard, but changes can happen with or without superpowers.

​My two brothers and I have a phrase called “Winner of the El Klutzo Award,” which simply states you’re a clod and have done something amusingly clumsy. This happens often. For all three of us.
 
Our father passed the gene to us. In fact, he may have originated the phrase. If he didn’t, he should have, because it starts with him – bonking his head when he would try and step into the golf cart, reaching to get something at the dinner table and splattering spaghetti sauce all over his shirt. Things like that.
 
Those are clumsy things that probably everybody does at some time or another. But, as a family, we seem capable of raising that talent to a new level. If you’re a klutz, you belong in our family and we welcome you warmly.
 
It’s amusing to write up your El Klutzo episodes when they happen. This becomes particularly funny over email as you work to juice up your escapades.
 
For example, in my quest to be King of the El Klutzos, I strategically inserted my coffee traveling container in the proper receptacle in my car on the way to Walmart recently. Dum dee doo doo dum dee doo, I drove with complete authority and confidence to my destination.

There were no “sudden” stops or starts. No major mountains or hills to climb. No sudden turns to avoid potholes or deer.

But, of course, as I neared America’s shopping destination, I reached down for the container and it had tipped backwards into the other cup holder behind it, which held all my Covid face masks. I looked down at the brown marsh created, and went, “F…..ck!”
 
You feel like you do everything right. You slow down gently at lights. You don’t pump the pedal when accelerating. And, still, your coffee tips over. You rise to the top of the standings for the El Klutzo Award.
 
A favorite of mine, which I typically don’t relate to others, is my inherent ability to step on very small branches while walking our dogs in the woods, forcing one end into the air, which then contacts my other leg, suddenly twisting it in directions the knee doesn’t want to go. This hasn’t caused me to go into surgery yet, but it adds to my ability to stay on top of the El Klutzo standings.
 
My wife is astounded at my ability to do this. I have no idea how I do it, but she can’t. It NEVER happens to her, and I mean never. Yet, here I go, regularly stepping on some twig and it leverages out to push my other foot, wrenching the knee and leg and throwing me off balance. Maybe my feet are too big, or I weigh too much. Or, I’m clumsy.
 
Clumsiness is key to winning the El Klutzo Award. Bonk your head on a golf cart. Spill cigar ashes so they burn a hole in the sleeve of your new shirt. Knock a glass off the table as you reach for the grilled asparagus tips. Drop your glasses to the floor in just the right way so they hit on the lenses and crack.

There are so many ways to excel on the path to being King of the El Klutzos. I could write a book. Maybe I will.

​I love Swiffer Sweeper cleaning mops. Seriously.
 
There are some things around the house I enjoy cleaning. Mopping the floor is one of them. It’s like mowing the yard. A measure of the pleasure is looking at the results. In the case of mopping with Swiffer, you not only get the clean, but also a nice smell.
 
Mowing the yard is about the perfectly matched rows of clipped grass and the aroma of the shorn green stalks. Mmmmmmmm.
 
But, why Swiffer? Giving away my age, when I used to mop the floor during my single days (either living alone or sharing a place with roommates), there was the old mop, the bucket and Mr. Clean. You dumped the cleaner into a bucket of water, squeegeed  the mop and went about slopping the tiles.
 
Dip and do it again. Dip and do it again. Watch the water get gray in the bucket. Try to decide if you need to dump the water when it gets so dirty that you figure you’re not even cleaning the floor anyway.
 
It was a process. Not with Swiffer.
 
You slap the saturated cleaner sheet onto the rectangular cleaning end of the mop and you’re ready to go. The sheet plugs easily into four plastic receptacles the grabs the sheet, adhering it so it doesn’t dislodge as you work. Start swishing.
 
It cleans, it picks up particles, the room starts to smell sweet. Pick up the bottom and check out how you’ve done. “Hmmm, not quite brown yet. I can get a few more pushes out of this one.”
 
As the liquid used in the Swiffer sheet loses its moisture, you know it. Look at where you’ve been cleaning. If it’s not wet, you know you’re getting to the end of that one and need to pull another sheet from the container and latch it on.
 
It’s not complicated. There’s no dirty bucket of water. There’s no squeezing the mop.
 
One “could” argue that you’re being less environmentally sensitive by using a product that must be disposed of afterwards, and that the scented sheets come in a plastic container. I wouldn’t disagree. We recycle the plastic container. The used sheets go to a landfill. But what about all the dirty water you used to have that you dumped down the drain with Mr. Clean’s forehead in it? That went down into your water supply. No wonder so many men have shaved heads today. Mr. Clean came to get them.
 
There is rarely a perfect environmental clean solution anyway. We are faced with “on the one hand this” and “the other hand that” many times in little ways we live our lives, and if we are thoughtful, we weigh the options and make the best decision for the planet.
 
In this case, the Swiffer Sweeper cleaning mop gets the nod for its convenience, speed and residual odor. And, one last thing – the damn cleaning head that holds the sheet is FLEXIBLE. It turns sideways. It slides into nooks and crannies. It shifts in directions easily like a hot sports car. You can’t beat it. It’s also lightweight. Easy to push around.
 
Okay, Swiffer, now you can call me for me endorsement. You can show me wiping our house clean, whistling the Maxwell House song as I go about my cleaning chore to prepare our place for the next onslaught of guests.

​If I had a choice, I’m not sure whether I’d rather be a doctor or a dentist. Probably a doctor because I think digging around in people’s mouths for decades would start to give you a lot of shoulder, arm and neck pain. So the Dentist thing is out.
 
Be that as it may, I think about joining their ranks occasionally because of what I do and don’t see in their waiting rooms: magazines. Currently with Covid, we still have not seen a return in many waiting rooms of those discarded magazines that you used to peruse while waiting to get into see the specialist.
 
Reading new magazines is always an expanding process. You get to dig into issues and news you had not previously considered. That’s a good thing to grow your mind, even if it means injecting stupid celebrity gossip into your brain cells. Wait, maybe not. Strike that. “Most” magazines help you expand your brain matter into positive territory. There.
 
As a kid, I remember massively looking forward to reading Highlights magazine and finding all the hidden pictures. I doubt I thought much beyond that and the stitches I was about to receive or the shot that was going to jolt my shoulder. But, if I found that hidden flag wrapped inside a candy cane, my day was golden.
 
Moving into adulthood, hidden pictures still provide some challenge. People magazine, for example, picked up on the challenge and inserted a section in the back pages to challenge you. I’d skip all the entertainment sections and head for that to figure out how picture one differed from picture two, and in the process forgetting about how my cracked tooth was going to require two visits and multiple injections of Novocain while the dentist pounded in my jaw.
 
Having fun is a good thing about waiting room magazines. You also frequently are rewarded with new topics to delve into, ones that you had not previously considered, or would have chosen on your own free will to explore.
 
An example could be Atlantic magazine, which, in our short-term reading and memory society, still chooses to write in-depth articles on important issues facing our country and the world. While you wait for that annual physical, you might be able to get through one full article, and be more informed than 27 eight-second segments you watched on TV. You use your brain while reading, and must put together the pieces, rather than passively being told what happened by an announcer with perfect teeth.
 
It’s that ability to share good reading with your patients what would drive me to want to be a doctor or dentist, a physical therapist or owning a fitness facility – putting out magazines of my choice to help better inform the world. I’d include humor magazines (too bad Mad magazine has been discontinued). If I found a quality story while randomly reading, I’d bring it to the office for display so others could partake of the information inside.
 
Calvin and Hobbs and Far Side compilations would adorn the tables. Patients would have time to chuckle and relax before joining me for their visit. Sports Illustrated would be a must. Milwaukee magazine would be included. The local daily newspaper would open for inspection.
 
Maybe conversation would be sparked. Maybe patients would feel better after some belly laughs. Maybe someone would tear out a page on a new local restaurant so they could go visit it in the future with a loved one. Regardless of the benefit, I’d feel I’d done just a little bit to make the world a better place.