Saturday, March 28th. My 49th birthday.
My last year in my 40s.
Unless, of course, you subscribe to the theory that zero doesn’t count, in which case you’re not really in your 50s until 51. That’s less math and more emotional self-defense, but I respect the argument.
All I wanted this weekend was simple.
Not stuff. Not gifts. Not plans.
I just wanted to exist.
Watch some sports. Sit in my chair. Be left alone in the most loving, family-surrounded way possible. Watch some hockey, maybe baseball – Hey the Houston Open was on. (I’m not crying at the commercials with the kid’s hospital, you’re crying!)
It was a full slate of “do nothing and feel fantastic about it.”
My kids absolutely delivered.
My oldest drove an hour for Jet’s Pizza-real Detroit-style, not that square imposter stuff.
My daughter made me a red velvet cake.
My wife made Guinness brownies.
My youngest made me a handmade card.
This was shaping up to be an elite birthday.
And then… we teed off.
Hole 1 – The Boogers
My youngest wakes up with a cold.
Not a casual cold. Not a “sniffle and rally” situation.
This kid had more mucus than a plumbing supply store.
He doesn’t want to hug you. He doesn’t want to be near you. He looks at you like you’re the reason this happened.
Which, as a parent, you assume you somehow are.
Hole 2 – The Tooth
Out of nowhere, my upper right tooth decides to get involved.
Not sharp pain. Not “go to the dentist immediately” pain.
More like… someone an old 1970s-style retainer, shoved it into my mouth, and just started tightening it with a wrench.
Every bite felt like my jaw was being slowly re-engineered.
No warning. No explanation.
Just:
“Hey – happy birthday. Let’s adjust your bite mid-meal.”
Hole 3 – The Flat
We didn’t have enough chocolate for the Brownies, so we sent the oldest out to get some from Publix.
He calls.
“Dad… I have a flat.”
No problem. Turn around.
“No. One PSI.”
One PSI isn’t a tire pressure.
That’s a hostage situation
This is in my Jeep Gladiator – a vehicle marketed as capable of crossing deserts, rivers, and small wars.
Apparently not cul-de-sacs. (Watch out for the kids at the lemonade stand, they can be feisty!)
I head out (after four Miller Lights, which I consider hydration at this point), and he’s doing everything right. Spare’s coming down. We’ve got momentum. Which, in hindsight, was premature
I ask:
“Where’s the wheel lock?”
He gives me the look every parent recognizes.
The look that says:
“I have made a mistake, and now it is your problem.”
Hole 4 – The Wheel Lock That Went on Vacation
The wheel lock is not in the vehicle.
It has, at some point in the last six months, relocated itself to our foyer like it pays rent.
Why? Unknown.
Who moved it? Also unknown.
Why would anyone think, “You know what belongs by the front door? Lug nuts.”?
So now we’re Googling.
Google says: AutoZone has a tool.
AutoZone says: Google needs to mind its business.
At this point, I make a leadership decision.
I drive the Jeep home at one mile per hour with three PSI, sounding like I’m escorting a wounded rhinoceros through a minefield.
At one point, a cop pulls up behind me, assesses the situation, and just goes around.
Didn’t stop me. Didn’t question me.
Just silently said:
“You’ve got enough going on.”
Hole 5 – The Birds
We get home. Garage opens.
Two cardinals fly in like they just signed a lease.
Not one. Two. A pair. A couple that clearly discussed this beforehand.
They immediately decide:
“This is better than outside.”
I try everything:
- Broom
- Fishing net
- Light yelling
- What I would describe as “aggressive encouragement”
At one point I’m a middle-aged man in gym shorts trying to outmaneuver two birds that are basically F-16s with feathers.
They are mocking me. I’m losing badly.
Eventually, I surrender. Close the garage. Leave a note:
“Do not open. Birds.”
They stay the night.
They absolutely destroy the place.
(Look at those Calf’s!)
Hole 6 – The Morning After (and My Moral Collapse)
Sunday morning, birds are still there.
I open the garage, retreat, and start pounding coffee like I’m training for something.
Eventually, they leave.
Garage looks like they hosted a music festival.
And then my son hits me with this:
Apparently, cardinals are a symbol of good luck.
Or angels.
Or loved ones visiting.
So now I’m standing there, looking at the aftermath of what I can only assume was a spiritual visitation, and realizing I spent the previous evening trying to capture it with a fishing net and mild hostility.
So that’s great.
If that was a loved one stopping by…
I’d like to formally apologize for the broom.
Hole 7 – The Wiper
Time to regain control of my life.
I install a new windshield wiper.
Premium Bosch. Cost roughly a mortgage payment and a piece of my soul.
I open it.
Lose the adapter.
Realize it’s the wrong size.
So now I have:
- No wiper
- The wrong wiper
- And a growing suspicion I shouldn’t be allowed to own tools
The replacement wiper comes with:
- 14 adapters
- Instructions written like IKEA furniture
- A quiet confidence that I will fail
After two trips, multiple tools, and language that voids warranties, I get it installed.
I don’t feel accomplished.
I feel… less defeated.
Hole 8 – The Trees
The plumerias.
My wife’s pride and joy.
Destroyed by frost.
I’m tasked with cutting them back while she watches like I’m performing surgery with zero medical training.
We’re talking 60–70% removal.
Every cut feels like I’m reducing property value and emotional stability at the same time.
No pressure.
Hole 9 – The Power Washer
Time to clean them up.
I fire up my electric power washer.
Used maybe six times.
It delivers:
- 20 seconds of greatness
- Followed by deep personal disappointment
Over and over.
At this point, I’m not even mad.
I just nod like:
“Yeah… that tracks.”
The Scorecard
Didn’t watch a single shot of golf.
Didn’t see a minute of hockey.
Didn’t catch an inning of baseball.
But I played a full round.
Boogers. Toothache. Flat tire. Missing wheel lock. Birds. Wipers. Trees. Broken equipment.
Nine holes.
Straight 8s.
The Turn
it’s Tuesday now.
The tooth is better.
The Jeep survived.
The birds have moved on to bless someone else’s garage.
The trees… we’ll see.
And honestly?
It’s funny now.
Not then.
Definitely not then.
But now? Yeah.
The Close
All I wanted to do was sit around and watch golf.
Didn’t watch it once.
Still shot an 8 all weekend.
And somehow…
Life’s still great with an 8 – even when you’re driving home at one mile an hour with three PSI… and accidentally trying to evict angels with a broom.