When Your Airbnb Is Basically Just a Place to Sleep

area, and suddenly you’re living the glamorous traveling-worker lifestyle.

You know, the kind where you get to stay in an Airbnb instead of your own house.

Sounds pretty exciting, right?

Well… not exactly.

When you’re working 12 hours a day, that Airbnb isn't some relaxing vacation getaway. It’s basically a temporary bedroom with plumbing.

I’m not there to sit around and admire the furniture.

I’m not there to explore the neighborhood.

I’m definitely not there to take advantage of all the amenities.

I'm there to sleep.

I get up in the morning, grab my stuff, head to work, and spend the next 12 hours getting beat up by construction. By the time I get back to the Airbnb, I have just enough energy to shower, eat something, stare blankly at my phone for a few minutes, and wonder why my feet hurt so damn much.

Then it's time for bed.

Repeat.

Every.

Single.

Day.

The Airbnb could have a five-star kitchen, a giant television, a swimming pool, a hot tub, and a view of the ocean.

I probably wouldn't know.

The only amenities I’m interested in are:

A bed.

A shower.

A refrigerator.

Wi-Fi.

And preferably a toilet that doesn't make any strange noises at 2 a.m.

At this point, the Airbnb isn't really "home away from home."

It's more like:

"Place where I temporarily store my exhausted body until it's time to go back to work."

And there's always that weird moment when you first get there.

You walk in and look around thinking, Well, this isn't bad.

Then you remember you're only going to see it for about 8 hours a day—and most of those hours are going to be unconscious.

You might even unpack.

Or you might do what every tired worker does:

Throw your bag on the floor and tell yourself, I'll deal with that later.

Later never comes.

Because tomorrow night you'll probably throw something else on top of it.

By the end of the week, you've created your own little archaeological dig.

"Let's see what we have here… one work shirt from Tuesday, a pair of socks, a receipt from Wednesday, and something I don't remember buying."

The funniest part is when people ask, "How's the Airbnb?"

I don't know.

I've barely seen it.

Ask me how the bed is.

Ask me if the shower has hot water.

Ask me whether I can get six hours of sleep without somebody slamming a door.

Those are the important Airbnb reviews when you're working 12-hour days.

I'm not traveling.

I'm temporarily relocating my exhaustion.

And when the job is finally finished, I'll pack everything back into my truck, head home, and probably appreciate my own bed more than I ever thought possible.

Because after working 12 hours a day, home isn't just where you live anymore.

It's where you can finally take your boots off, throw your stuff down, and say:

"Nobody needs anything from me until tomorrow."

Now THAT'S a five-star vacation.

Looking to the Skies for Help

 

At this point in life, I’ve decided that maybe I’m looking for help in the wrong direction.

I’ve spent plenty of time looking around at the world thinking, “Surely somebody has a solution to all this.”

Then I look up.

Maybe the answer is in the sky.

I used to dream about having my own island. You know, somewhere peaceful where I could disappear from everybody and everything. A little piece of paradise where nobody could bother me.

But I’ve upgraded the dream.

I don’t want an island anymore. I want my own planet.

Yep. Forget the island.

Give me a planet.

I want my own atmosphere, my own weather system, my own rules and preferably a complete lack of people yelling at me about things I didn't do.

On my planet, if something breaks, I’ll fix it myself.

If I screw something up, there won't be anybody standing there saying, “Who did that?”

I did.

And I'll fix it.

If I put something together backward, I won't have to explain myself to anybody. I can just stare at it for a few minutes, scratch my head and say, “Well, that wasn't supposed to happen.”

Then I’ll take it apart and try again.

That's freedom.

The best part about owning my own planet is that I get to control the population.

And by “population,” I mean me.

Maybe I'll allow a few visitors.

But don't get too excited.

You’ll need an invitation.

And if you're lucky, I might even let you stay for the weekend.

Just remember: bring your own food, don't touch my tools and don't ask me to fix anything while you're here.

I’m trying to relax.

Because there is just too much stupidity floating around this world.

Everywhere you look, somebody is arguing about something, somebody is making something harder than it needs to be, somebody is creating a problem that didn't need to exist in the first place, and somehow I'm expected to understand what the hell is going on.

I'm starting to think Earth needs a timeout.

Maybe the whole planet needs to sit in the corner for a while and think about what it has done.

Meanwhile, I'll be upstairs looking through my telescope.

“Yep… still looking for a new planet.”

I don't need a mansion.

I don't need a yacht.

I don't even need that island anymore.

Just give me a little planet somewhere out there.

I'll build a house.

I'll build a workshop.

I'll probably build a deck.

And I'll sit outside at night looking back at Earth thinking:

“Man… I'm glad I don't live there anymore.”

Of course, knowing my luck, somebody would eventually find my planet.

They'd land in my yard.

I'd walk outside and they'd say, “Hey! We're here to see what you've got going on.”

I'd probably just stare at them.

Then I'd point back toward their spaceship.

“You got five minutes.”

Because sometimes the best solution to the problems of this world isn't fixing everything.

Sometimes you just need to find a place where you can chuckle at it from a very, very safe distance.

And if I ever get that planet...

I'll send postcards.

Maybe.

Kids These Days: The Work Ethic Has Left the Building

 

I’m starting to think the hardest job some young people have nowadays is actually showing up for the job they were hired to do.

Now before somebody gets offended, I’m not saying every young person has no work ethic. There are some good ones out there. You can spot them pretty easily because they actually show up, work, think, and don't look at the clock every six minutes.

But then there are the others.

They show up whenever they feel like showing up, pick and choose what they feel like working on, and somehow manage to disappear whenever there is something that resembles actual work.

Meanwhile, I'm standing there thinking:

“We have a job to do.”

Not a job to consider doing.

Not a job to eventually get around to.

And definitely not a job where we spend three hours deciding which part looks the easiest.

I know how long the work should take because I've actually done it.

And I can still do it.

That might be the part that gets me the most.

I'll watch somebody spend half the day doing something I know should take a couple of hours, and I'm thinking, “Did we build this house or are we raising it from the foundation using interpretive dance?”

Then quitting time gets close.

Suddenly everybody becomes extremely efficient.

Tools start disappearing.

Phones come out.

People start looking toward the truck.

And you can practically hear the internal countdown:

“Only 17 more minutes until I can leave.”

Meanwhile, I'm still looking at the job thinking, “We're not done.”

Apparently, that's an old-fashioned concept now.

And Then Comes the Paycheck

Here's where my blood pressure gets a little extra exercise.

Somebody shows up knowing how to do practically nothing, needs to be told what to do every five minutes, doesn't want to think for themselves, and somehow expects to get paid more than I ever did when I was doing the same work.

That's when the old blue-collar calculator starts smoking.

I'm thinking:

“Wait a minute... I've spent years learning how to do this, fixing other people's mistakes, figuring things out when nobody else knows what to do, and crawling into places I probably shouldn't physically fit into.”

And you're getting paid more than I did because you know how to operate a phone?

That's impressive.

I guess scrolling skills have finally become a trade.

Work Used to Mean Work

When I started out, you didn't get to pick the jobs you wanted.

You worked.

If something needed to be done, you figured it out.

If you didn't know how, you learned.

If you screwed something up, you fixed it.

If you finished your part, you helped somebody else.

And if you were standing around doing nothing, somebody would find something for you to do.

Usually very quickly.

You didn't walk around saying, “That's not really my thing.”

You were more likely to hear:

“It's your thing now. Get it done.”

And somehow, we survived.

The Thinking Part Seems To Be Optional

One thing that really gets me is the lack of wanting to think.

Construction isn't always about somebody standing over you telling you every single move to make.

Sometimes you have to look at something and figure it out.

Measure it.

Think about it.

Look at what you're working with.

Ask yourself, “What's the best way to do this?”

That's how you learn.

You can't always Google your way out of everything.

Sometimes you actually have to use the equipment located between your ears.

I know... radical concept.

Maybe I'm Just Getting Old

Maybe that's part of it.

I'm getting older, and I've been doing this long enough that I know what I'm looking at.

I know when something should take an hour.

I know when something is going to turn into a three-hour problem.

I know when somebody is working hard and when somebody is just moving slowly enough to look busy.

I've been around construction long enough to recognize the difference between “I'm working” and “I'm making enough movement that nobody notices I'm not working.”

That's a skill all by itself.

And believe me, I've seen some Olympic-level performances.

I'm Not Asking For Miracles

I'm not expecting everybody to work like a machine.

I'm not expecting somebody to know everything on day one.

Everybody has to learn.

I've had to learn.

The difference is that when I didn't know something, I wanted to learn it.

I wanted to get better.

I wanted to be able to do more.

That's what work ethic means to me.

Show up. Give a damn. Learn something. Take some pride in what you do.

And when the job is finished, you should be able to look at it and say:

“Yep. I did that.”

Not:

“Thank God it's quitting time.”

Although, let's be honest...

After a long day of construction, I'm probably saying both.

Because these days my work ethic may still be strong, but my back, feet, and knees are filing formal complaints with management.

And unfortunately...

Management is me.

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My Interactive Platform: Population Me

 

I always thought having an interactive platform meant people would actually interact with you.

You know… comments. Likes. Questions. Maybe somebody would say, “Hey, that’s pretty funny.”

Instead, I apparently built the internet’s first one-man interactive platform.

Population: Me.

I post something.

I wait.

Nothing.

I check again.

Still nothing.

So eventually I interact with myself.

And honestly, I'm pretty good company.

I don't need a huge following. I don't need 10,000 people commenting on everything I say. I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.

I can sit there, come up with an idea, write about it, read it, laugh at it, and then tell myself, “You know what? You should probably do better.”

And then I answer myself.

That's when I know the platform is really taking off.

The Conversation Is Getting Out of Hand

Sometimes I'll ask a question in a post.

Nobody answers.

So I think about it for five minutes and answer it myself.

Problem solved.

No waiting for somebody else.

No arguing in the comments.

No strangers telling me I'm wrong.

Just me having a complete conversation with me.

At this point, I'm basically running a podcast where the host, guest, audience, producer, and guy yelling from the back of the room are all the same person.

And somehow, we still can't agree.

My Biggest Supporter Is Apparently Me

I've discovered something important about having an online platform:

You are your own biggest supporter when nobody else is around.

I see my own post and think:

“That's actually pretty good.”

Then another part of my brain says:

“Yeah, but you could have done better.”

Then I say:

“Fair enough.”

Then I continue scrolling.

That's engagement.

That's interaction.

That's the kind of community management you get when your entire audience is sitting six inches away from you.

I Don't Need Everybody

I'm not looking for millions of people.

I'd actually be happy if a few people stopped by, had a laugh, and thought, “Yep, this guy is a little nuts.”

That's good enough for me.

Because let's be honest, I already have plenty of opinions.

I can entertain myself.

I can tell people who aren't even around me that they're idiots.

I can point out how somebody should probably do better.

And if nobody is available to argue with me about it?

Even better.

I win every debate.

Mostly because I control both sides.

The Ultimate Interactive Experience

My platform has some incredible features.

Comments: Me.

Likes: Also me.

Questions: Me.

Answers: Unfortunately, still me.

Customer service: Me talking to myself.

Technical support: Me yelling at the computer.

Quality control: Me looking at something I made and saying, “That ain't right.”

Motivation: Me telling myself to get off my butt and do it.

Negative feedback: Me.

Positive feedback: Also me, but I don't give it out very often.

And let's not forget the most advanced feature of all:

Accidentally Answering My Own Question

This is where the platform really shines.

I'll be thinking about something and ask myself:

“I wonder why nobody interacts with this?”

Then immediately I'll think:

“Because you don't interact with anybody either.”

…

Well, damn.

There goes another question answered.

No algorithm required.

No analytics.

No focus group.

Just me sitting there accidentally solving my own problems.

At this rate, I might not even need an audience.

I'll just keep posting, keep making things, keep joking around, and keep having conversations with myself.

Because somebody has to keep this platform alive.

And apparently…

that somebody is me.

So if you're reading this and you actually interacted with it somehow, thank you.

You've officially increased the population of my interactive platform by approximately 100%.

Please don't let the fame go to my head.

I've already got enough people up there arguing.

And most of them are me.

so to keep the interaction or non interation alive you can at least look at Shop With Chuckle. 

Trust Me, I know What I'm Doing... Probably

I like to think I’m a pretty trustworthy guy.

If you ask somebody who has actually worked with me, they’ll probably tell you I know what I’m doing. I show up, do the work, fix what needs fixing, and try not to leave somebody standing there wondering what the hell they just paid me for.

That’s how it has always worked for me.

Word of mouth.

You do a good job for one person, they tell somebody else. That person tells another person. Pretty soon somebody is calling you because their cousin’s neighbor’s brother said, “Call that guy. He knows what he’s doing.”

That's the kind of advertising I understand.

Then I decided to try selling stuff online.

Apparently, that whole trust thing works completely different on the internet.

I can spend years proving to people in the real world that I’m dependable, but put something in an online store and suddenly I might as well be a guy standing in a dark alley saying, “Hey buddy… wanna buy a shirt?”

People hesitate.

And honestly, I can't completely blame them.

There are about seventeen million websites out there, and every one of them says they're trustworthy.

You see a website with fancy graphics, five security badges, a countdown timer telling you ONLY 3 MINUTES LEFT!!!, and somebody claiming their product will change your life.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting here thinking:

“I just made a funny shirt. I ain't trying to cure anything.”

Then there are all the people who have ordered something online and never got what they paid for. Or got something that looked nothing like the picture. Or dealt with customer service that apparently went into witness protection.

So I understand why people are cautious.

But it still makes you wonder:

How the heck do you prove you're trustworthy online?

For my regular work, I don't really have to think about it.

The work speaks for itself.

A customer sees the finished job. They tell somebody. I get compliments. I get another job.

Simple.

The internet?

Not so simple.

I've got an online store, and I'm still trying to figure out what makes somebody look at something and think:

“Yep. I trust this guy enough to buy something from him.”

I've even had family members say, “I'll buy something from your store.”

I'm still waiting.

At this point, I'm starting to think their shopping cart got lost somewhere between my house and the internet.

I don't need everybody I know to buy something from me. That's not the point.

What I would really like is for friends and family to tell me what they actually like and don't like.

Tell me if a design is stupid.

Tell me if the wording doesn't make sense.

Tell me if something looks good.

Tell me if something looks like it was designed at 2:00 in the morning after eating three hot dogs.

I can handle criticism.

That's how you improve.

Instead, sometimes you get:

"Looks good!"

Then nothing.

No order.

No explanation.

Just silence.

It's like getting a compliment on your truck and then watching the person walk away without telling you that your tire is flat.

And then there's AI.

I've been changing words, phrases, titles, descriptions, tags and all kinds of other stuff based on what AI says.

Change this.

Try that.

Use these keywords.

Don't use those keywords.

Make it funny.

Make it shorter.

Make it more searchable.

Make it sound natural.

Apparently, I need a marketing degree just to sell a T-shirt that says something funny.

I've changed things so many times I'm starting to wonder if my original idea was actually better.

And that's when I started thinking:

Maybe AI isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Or maybe I'm just not smart enough to know how to cheat the thing.

Everybody keeps saying, “AI can help you do anything!”

Well, apparently it can't help me convince somebody to spend $24 on a shirt.

I can remodel a house.

I can figure out how to fix something when the instructions don't make sense.

I can look at a problem and usually come up with a different way to solve it.

But apparently getting somebody to trust a website is where I finally meet my match.

Maybe that's the real difference between working with your hands and working online.

When you're doing construction, people can see what you did.

Online, people have to trust that there's actually a guy on the other end of the screen who gives a damn.

And that's what I'm trying to figure out.

How do I make people believe there's a real person behind the store?

Not some giant company.

Not some marketing department.

Not some mysterious internet warehouse.

Just me, trying to come up with some funny ideas and hoping somebody else gets a chuckle out of them.

Maybe that's something I need to get better at showing.

Because I know I'm trustworthy.

I've just got to figure out how to prove it to somebody who has never met me.

And apparently, that's harder than rebuilding a bathroom.

At least with a bathroom, when you screw something up, you can see the leak.

With an online store, sometimes you just stare at the screen wondering:

“Was it the shirt?”

“Was it the price?”

“Was it the wording?”

“Was it the picture?”

“Did anybody even see the damn thing?”

And then you refresh the page one more time.

Still nothing.

Well...

Back to work tomorrow.

At least when I finish a job, I know somebody actually saw it.

Maybe someday the internet will figure out I'm trustworthy too.

Until then, I'll keep trying, keep laughing, keep making stuff...

…and maybe stop asking AI what I should change every five minutes.

Because apparently the only thing I haven't tried yet is leaving the damn thing alone.

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The Funny Side of Labor Day: Apparently, Labor Didn't Get the Memo

 

Labor Day is supposed to be the unofficial celebration of not working.

At least, that's what I've been told.

It's supposed to be a long weekend where you relax, fire up the grill, hang out with friends and family, and enjoy that beautiful three-day break from the daily grind.

But somewhere along the way, Labor Day apparently got confused.

Because these days, Labor Day seems to mean work your butt off before you can finally go home.

You spend all week looking forward to Friday.

Then Friday arrives.

You're thinking, "Finally! Three days off!"

Then you look around and realize there are still things that need to be done.

So you work a little longer.

Then a little longer turns into, "Well, I might as well finish this."

Before you know it, you're standing there wondering why you haven't left yet.

And that's when Labor Day really starts to make sense.

Labor Day isn't about eliminating labor. It's about laboring until you can finally escape it.

Then comes the best part—the long drive home.

You've already worked more than you wanted to, you're tired, and now you get to sit in traffic with approximately 14,000 other people who had the exact same idea.

Everybody is trying to get home.

Nobody wants to be on the road.

And somehow the person in front of you has decided that Labor Day weekend is the perfect time to drive 11 miles per hour under the speed limit.

You're sitting there thinking:

"I worked all day to get home so I could relax, and now I have to work emotionally hard at not losing my mind in traffic."

By the time you finally get home, you're exhausted.

You unload your stuff, take your shoes off, sit down, and realize you have absolutely no desire to do anything.

The grill?

Maybe tomorrow.

The projects around the house?

Definitely tomorrow.

Cleaning?

That's a future-you problem.

Right now, you're celebrating Labor Day the traditional way:

By doing absolutely nothing.

And honestly, after working all day and then spending hours driving home, doing nothing doesn't feel lazy anymore.

It feels like a well-earned retirement plan that lasts approximately 12 hours.

That's the funny thing about Labor Day.

We're supposed to celebrate the American worker by taking a day off.

But for a lot of us, the real celebration doesn't begin until the work is finished, the truck is parked, the tools are put away, and we're finally sitting in our chair thinking:

"Well... I guess I survived another one."

Happy Labor Day!

May your weekend be long, your projects be short, your traffic be moving, and your boss have absolutely no idea where you are.

And if you do have to work before that long drive home...

At least make sure you get paid for the part where you're sitting in traffic questioning every life decision that brought you there

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When Your Neighbor's Tree Decides to Visit Your Yard

You ever wake up after a big storm and think, “Well, at least my yard is going to be okay. I don’t have any trees.”

That was my first mistake.

I don't have a tree in my yard. Not one. I intentionally skipped the whole “plant a giant tree next to my house” thing because I enjoy having a roof, power lines, and a relatively low-maintenance yard.

But apparently, my neighbor's tree had other plans.

The storm rolls through, the wind starts howling, branches are flying around, and eventually one of those big branches decides it has had enough of life.

CRACK!

Down it comes.

And where does it land?

My yard.

Of course it does.

Apparently, trees don't understand property lines.

I walk outside expecting to find a couple sticks and leaves scattered around. Instead, I've got what looks like a small logging operation happening in my backyard.

And just to make things more interesting, that giant branch didn't simply fall into the yard.

Nope.

It decided to take out my cable line on the way down.

Because apparently the storm wasn't satisfied with just giving me yard work.

It wanted to make sure I couldn't sit inside afterward and watch TV while complaining about the yard work.

Now I'm standing there looking at this giant branch thinking:

“I don't even own a tree, and somehow I'm now responsible for tree removal AND cable repair.”

That's when the cleanup begins.

First, you start dragging branches around.

Then you start cutting branches.

Then you discover that the branch you thought would take five minutes to cut is apparently made out of reinforced concrete.

You cut one piece.

Then another.

Then another.

Pretty soon your yard looks like you've been harvesting firewood for the winter.

Leaves are everywhere.

Twigs are everywhere.

Branches are everywhere.

And somehow there are leaves in places where leaves should have no physical ability to reach.

You sweep.

You rake.

You pick things up.

You drag things away.

Then the wind blows another three leaves across the yard.

Thanks.

At that point, you're no longer cleaning up debris.

You're negotiating with nature.

Eventually, you get the big stuff cleaned up and stand there looking at the pile.

And that's when you realize:

“I don't even know what I'm going to do with all this.”

The tree isn't mine.

The branch isn't mine.

But apparently the debris has officially become my responsibility.

And somewhere along the way, my cable company is probably looking at the service outage thinking:

“Yep. Somebody's tree did something stupid again.”

Meanwhile, I'm looking at the cable line thinking:

“I didn't even have a tree!”

That's the frustrating part about storms.

You can do everything right.

You can have no trees.

You can keep your yard cleaned up.

You can mind your own business.

And some tree three houses away can still decide:

“Today's the day I'm getting involved.”

So after a storm, if you see somebody outside dragging branches around, don't assume they're doing some landscaping.

They might just be cleaning up the consequences of a tree that doesn't even belong to them.

And if their cable is hanging down too?

Just leave them alone.

They're probably trying to figure out whether to call the cable company, the tree company, the neighbor...

or just sit in the yard and stare at the mess until they develop a new personality.

Storm cleanup: Because apparently you don't need a tree to own a whole bunch of tree problems.

Why Does New Stuff Never Work Like the Old Stuff?

 

I’ve come to the conclusion that the word “new” is just another way of saying “we haven’t found out what’s wrong with it yet.”

You buy something brand new, bring it home, and for the first five minutes you’re feeling pretty good about yourself.

“Look at this. Brand new. This thing ought to last forever.”

Then reality walks through the front door.

The new thing starts making a noise.

A weird noise.

Not a normal noise either.

It’s the kind of noise that makes you stop what you’re doing, stare at it, and say:

“Well… that ain’t supposed to do that.”

And it seems like everything is built this way now.

You buy a new tool and somehow the battery lasts about as long as your patience.

You buy a new appliance and it has 47 different settings, but somehow the one setting you actually need is hidden behind three menus and a button combination that requires a college degree.

You buy something that is supposed to make life easier, and instead you spend two hours trying to figure out why it won't turn on.

Meanwhile, the old one sitting in the garage looks at you like:

“You idiot. I told you not to get rid of me.”

That's the part that gets me.

The old stuff might have been ugly, heavy, loud and inefficient, but it worked.

If something broke, you could usually figure out why.

If a switch quit working, you replaced the switch.

If something needed tightening, you grabbed a wrench.

If a motor quit, you started poking around until you found the problem.

Now something stops working and the first thing you hear is:

“Have you tried resetting it?”

Yes.

I've reset it.

I've unplugged it.

I've plugged it back in.

I've stared at it.

I've threatened it.

I've questioned my life choices.

It's still broken.

And don't even get me started on durability.

It seems like some new stuff is designed with a very specific lifespan.

Not “How long can we make this last?”

More like:

“How long can we make this last until the warranty expires?”

You can have an old tool that has been beaten, dropped, covered in dirt, used in the rain, left in the truck and abused for 25 years.

It still works.

Then you buy the modern version.

First week:

“This is awesome!”

Six months later:

“Why is this piece falling off?”

A year later:

“Where's the receipt?”

And two years later:

“I should've kept the old one.”

That's probably the biggest lesson I've learned.

When something old keeps working, don't get rid of it just because something newer came along.

That old thing has earned its place.

It's been through things.

It doesn't need an app.

It doesn't need Wi-Fi.

It doesn't need a software update.

It doesn't need you to create an account just to turn it on.

You just turn it on.

And it works.

What a revolutionary concept.

Maybe someday they'll start advertising new products differently:

“Introducing our newest model! It works for almost three years!”

I'll take two.

But until then, I'll probably keep fixing the old stuff.

Because sometimes the best new thing you can buy…

is nothing.

Just keep using the old thing.

At least you already know what's wrong with it.

And if something new does break?

Well, that's okay.

I'll just add it to the growing pile of stuff that was supposed to make my life easier.

I'm Not a Sellout... Unless the Price Is Right

 

People have accused me of being a sellout before.

And I just want to set the record straight:

I am absolutely not a sellout.

Now, if somebody wants to make me an offer so ridiculously large that my calculator starts smoking, then I may need to reconsider my position.

But even then, I have provisions.

Lots of provisions.

I’m talking about the kind of deal where there are so many zeros on the check that I have to turn the paper sideways just to count them.

You want me to promote your product?

Sure.

You want me to wear your shirt?

Absolutely.

You want me to stand on a stage and tell everybody that your product is the greatest thing ever invented?

Well… let's discuss the contract.

Because I have standards.

I’m not just going to sell out for a couple hundred bucks and a free sandwich. I have dignity.

My dignity has a price.

And that price is apparently somewhere between “I’ll think about it” and “Where do I sign?”

Of course, I’ve always preferred simple arrangements.

No complicated paperwork.

No fifty-page contracts.

No lawyers explaining what paragraph 17, subsection B means.

Just hand me the money, give me a nod, and we'll both pretend we never had this conversation.

Now, before somebody gets the wrong idea, I'm joking about the whole “under the table, no documentation” thing.

You still have to keep things legal.

But hypothetically speaking, if somebody showed up with a suitcase full of money and said, “Chad, we need you to endorse this,” I’m not saying I'd sell out…

I'm just saying I'd at least sit down and hear the proposal.

Because everybody has a number.

Some people say they could never be bought.

I believe them.

They just haven't been offered enough yet.

Me?

I'm not a sellout.

I'm selectively available for extremely serious financial negotiations.

And if the offer is big enough, comes with plenty of provisions, and includes enough money to make me forget what I was originally mad about…

Well, congratulations.

You didn't buy my soul.

You just rented my opinion for a very reasonable amount of money.

And apparently, my opinion is now accepting bids.

Shop With Chuckle — because apparently even my dignity has a price.

The Year Is Flying, But Monday Is Taking Its Sweet Time

 

Have you ever noticed how the year seems to be moving at about 900 miles an hour, but somehow one Tuesday afternoon can last approximately three business years?

Seriously, I swear I just put the Christmas decorations away, and now we're already halfway through another year. Pretty soon people are going to start asking what I want for Christmas again, and I'm still trying to remember where I put the screwdriver I had five minutes ago.

The strange part is that the years fly by, but the days drag.

I think I know why.

It's because my brain has about 47 projects it wants to do at any given moment.

I want to build something.

I want to fix something.

I want to remodel something.

I want to organize the garage.

I want to work on the yard.

I have ideas for things I could make.

I have things I've been meaning to finish since approximately the invention of electricity.

Then I look at the price of everything.

Suddenly, that project doesn't seem quite as important.

"Yep. That's a great idea."

Looks at price tag.

"Actually, I think I'll just sit here."

And that's when the project goes directly into the "Maybe Someday" department.

The funny thing is, I'll spend an hour thinking about how great the finished project is going to look.

I'll plan it in my head.

I'll figure out how I'm going to build it.

I'll decide what tools I'll need.

I'll even imagine how much better my life will be when it's finished.

Then I remember that lumber costs money.

Hardware costs money.

Paint costs money.

Tools cost money.

And apparently even the air you breathe around a home improvement store probably has a surcharge now.

So I put the project on hold.

Then another idea pops into my head.

And another.

Before I know it, I've got enough unfinished ideas to start my own construction company.

The problem isn't that I don't know what to do.

The problem is deciding which thing to do first...

and whether I actually want to pay for it.

That's probably another reason the days feel so long.

You spend the whole day working, thinking about everything you want to accomplish when you finally have some free time.

Then you get home.

You sit down for "just a minute."

And suddenly it's 9:30 at night.

Apparently that chair has a time machine built into it.

Then you wake up the next morning and think:

"Well, today I'll get something done."

And the cycle begins again.

The crazy part is that when you look back, the year feels like it disappeared.

January was yesterday.

Summer showed up for about twelve minutes.

And somehow we're already talking about fall.

Yet there are days where 4:00 PM feels like it should legally be tomorrow.

Maybe that's just getting older.

Or maybe it's having too many ideas and not enough money, time, energy, or motivation to do all of them.

But I think there's something good about still having projects you want to do.

Even if they sit on the back burner for a while.

Because as long as you're still thinking, creating, building, fixing and dreaming up something new, you're not standing completely still.

And eventually, I'll probably start one of those projects.

I'll buy the materials.

I'll drag out the tools.

I'll get halfway through it.

Then I'll discover I need one more thing from the store.

And that's when I'll stand there staring at the receipt thinking:

"Well... this project just got a whole lot more expensive."

Then I'll laugh, put it on the credit card, and keep going.

Because apparently that's how projects work.

And that's how the years work too.

The days drag.

The years fly.

And somewhere in between, we're just trying to get a few things done without spending our entire paycheck doing it.

So if you have a project you've been putting off because you don't know where to start...

or because you don't want to spend the money...

don't feel bad.

You're not alone.

Just pick one thing.

Start small.

And if that doesn't work, sit in the chair for five minutes.

Just remember to set an alarm.

That chair is dangerous.

Apparently Your Cell Signal Has a 7 AM Shift

 

I’ve come to the conclusion that cell phone companies have figured out something the rest of us haven’t.

Apparently cell phone service has a work schedule.

Early in the morning, my phone works pretty good. You can actually get a signal. Websites load. Weather apps cooperate. You can even send something without standing outside holding your phone over your head like you’re trying to communicate with aliens.

Then around 7 AM...

POOF.

The signal starts disappearing.

By 8 AM, your phone is looking at you like, “What exactly did you expect me to do with that internet?”

And by noon, forget about it.

You might as well throw the phone in the glove box and go back to using a road atlas.

Welcome to Rural Cell Service

Living in a rural area apparently comes with a special cell phone plan called:

“We’ll Give You Signal When Nobody Else Is Using It.”

At 5:30 in the morning, everything is great.

At 6:15, still pretty good.

At 6:59, you’re cruising along with full bars thinking, “Man, technology is pretty impressive.”

Then 7:00 hits.

Suddenly your signal drops.

Your data slows down.

Your weather app spins around like it’s trying to calculate the weather for the next century.

You click on a webpage and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

At some point you start wondering if the internet is being delivered to your phone by a guy on a bicycle.

Then Comes Noon

Noon is when things get really interesting.

That’s when the phone seems to decide:

“You’ve had enough internet for today.”

You can have a decent signal one minute and absolutely nothing the next.

It goes in and out all day.

One minute you have enough data to look something up.

The next minute your phone can't load a page that contains three sentences and a picture of a cat.

But don't worry.

Your bill still works perfectly.

Funny how that happens.

The internet may be struggling to reach your phone, but the cell company has absolutely no trouble reaching your bank account every month.

That system is apparently running on fiber optic cable.

I'm Paying for Data... Where Is It?

I understand that towers get busy.

I understand rural areas don't have the same coverage as big cities.

I understand there are probably technical reasons for everything.

But sometimes it sure feels like somebody is sitting in a control room watching the network thinking:

“Hey, that guy has been using his data for 14 minutes. Shut him down.”

“Sir, he's only checking the weather.”

“I don't care. He's already seen enough clouds.”

And you know what makes it even better?

I'm not asking my phone to run a space program.

I'm not trying to stream 4K movies while downloading a video game and controlling a drone.

I'm pretty simple.

I use my phone to make calls, look something up when I need to, check messages, and look at the weather about 47 times a day.

And even the weather apps aren't always trustworthy.

You can check the forecast and it says:

Sunny. 82 degrees. Zero percent chance of rain.

So you walk outside.

Five minutes later you're standing in a downpour wondering if the weather app was written by the same guy who installed the cell tower.

And Don't Get Me Started on New Phones

I'm also not one of those people who needs a brand-new phone every year.

If my phone still works, I'm keeping it.

I don't care if the newest phone has twelve cameras, a built-in coffee maker, satellite communication, and the ability to tell me what my neighbor had for breakfast.

If mine makes calls and lets me look something up, I'm good.

I'll walk around with a busted-up case before I spend hundreds of dollars replacing a phone that still does what I need.

You know you're a blue-collar phone owner when somebody says:

“You should really upgrade.”

And you look at your phone with the cracked case and say:

“Why? It works.”

Maybe the screen has a few battle scars.

Maybe the case looks like it fell off a construction roof.

Maybe one corner is held together by something that technically qualifies as tape.

But it works.

That's good enough for me.

Maybe They Should Just Let Us Use What We Pay For

I don't need every feature manufacturers cram into these things.

I don't need my phone making my breakfast.

I don't need it telling me my heart rate while I'm carrying a sheet of plywood.

I don't need it taking pictures with enough resolution to identify a mosquito's driver's license.

I just want a reliable signal.

If I'm paying for data, I'd kind of like to use the data.

Especially when I'm out in the country where there's already only one bar standing between me and complete technological isolation.

So if you see me standing outside at noon holding my phone in the air, turning in circles and waiting for a webpage to load, don't worry.

I'm not doing some new blue-collar meditation technique.

I'm just trying to get the damn weather forecast.

And judging by how often the forecast changes, I probably won't believe it anyway.

Final Verdict

Cell phone companies have somehow convinced us that paying more money gets us better service, while our phones spend half the day pretending they can't find the internet.

Maybe someday they'll invent a phone that actually works everywhere.

Until then, I'll keep my old phone, keep my beat-up case, keep checking the weather, and keep walking around the yard looking for that one magical spot where I can get three bars of signal.

Because apparently that's where the internet lives.

Right next to the shed.