Nok Nok, who's gone?

If you’ve followed this blog for any length of time, and if you have feel free to use Covid as an excuse, then you already know I’m always thinking ahead.

A little over fourteen years ago, I wrote a fabulous piece about my estate plans. You can read it here. Now I know what you’re saying to yourself: “He’s been cranking out this crap for fourteen years?” Trust me, get in line.

At any rate, I was thinking about my exit strategy again lately, and realized while the big pieces of the goodbye puzzle are in place, there will be lots of loose ends to tie up. And it just seemed rude to leave it all for whoever draws the short straw and has to figure it out.

Which is why I ordered a Nok Box.

Frankly I’d be surprised if you haven’t heard of it. It seems like every third email I get and every second Instagram reel that comes up is selling them.

Hmmmm, what does the algorithm know that I don’t?

Nok stands for Next Of Kin. It’s a pre-made group of file folders, complete with individual instruction sheets for each of them, telling me what details and information to fill them with. Being the little organizer I am, because somebody has to be, this appealed to me in a big way. There are so many odds and ends to deal with at the end of the road, I wanted to make it easy on those I’m leaving behind.

Although just to be clear, I’m not planning on going anywhere soon.

So now begins the task of pulling all the info together, so my heirs will be able to find their way through their grief and cash the life insurance checks as soon as possible.

The one other thing I’m going to do to make it easy on them is plan my own memorial and funeral ahead of time, so the only thing they'll have to do is call for a pickup. I know they’ll be grieving deeply, which is why I thought an iPod in the casket playing the sound of someone frantically knocking on a heavy wooden door might add a little levity to the situation.

Anyway I’m not thinking anything fancy. Just a plywood casket, and markers so everyone can write something on it. I’d like to spend eternity in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts, and have a player with a fully charged battery and Thunder Road on repeat.

I know, I’m as shocked as you are.

Summertime, Spartans and bagpipes oh my

I have to admit as open and freewheeling as I like to think I am, the truth is I'm probably much more a creature of habit.

For example, there are two staples of my summer every year. The first is a four-and-a-half day trip to San Diego for Comic Con with my son. The second is our family tradition, now in its twelfth year, of a few days in late summer at the Hotel Del Coronado. I look forward to each of them equally, but for obviously different reasons.

I mean, you almost never see women scantily dressed as Spartans from the movie 300 at the Hotel Del. And try as you might, it's just impossible to find a four-piece shrimp cocktail for forty-five dollars at Comic Con (I've taken the liberty of not including a picture - you're welcome).

Each place is unique in its own way.

This year however, in a fit of wanderlust and gypsy channeling, the wife brought up the idea of going someplace different. When I heard her say that, two thoughts went careening through my head: first, by different I hope she means in addition to, because there's no way I'm giving up my two summer traditions (cue Tradition from Fiddler on the Roof).

And second, how much is this going to cost me? Especially at this late date.

Still, I like the idea of adding a third leg to the summer routine.

In summers past, before Comic Con and the Del, we’ve gone up north and spent a few days in San Francisco. One particular time, we enjoyed a week in the Hapsburg Suite at the Fairmont that we'd won in a charity auction. I like to file it under worse things could happen.

But I'm afraid the wife is thinking of a somewhat larger, more distant trip - more along the lines of Scotland.

Now don't get me wrong. I've been told more than once that I have legs that were meant for a kilt. And once I get past the idea that bagpipes sound like a bag of cats screaming to get out, I actually enjoy them.

The problem with a trip like that, as with so many things in life, is timing. We’re already late in the game as far as booking air fare and hotels at any kind of reasonable price. Plus – and this is a good problem to have – I seem to be getting fairly booked up work wise, so I don’t know how I’d clear the days. With freelance, no worky no money.

Still, because I've been known to occasionally act on a whim, pour gas on the credit cards and ask forgiveness later, I’m going to brush up on my brogue and see if I can acquire a taste for porridge and kippers just in case.

If it does turn out to be Scotland, the only thing I know for sure is I’m not playing golf when we get there.

Quick warning: clip has language not be suitable for the youngsters.