November 2020 – Deep Dark Thoughts

A Thanksgiving Like No Other

Today is Thanksgiving in the USA. As a child, I happily celebrated this holiday with my family every year. I was young enough and self-centered enough to be unaware this was an American tradition rather than a world-wide phenomenon. It was only later, when I grew up and attended college, that I learned that other cultures did not also recognize this unique excuse for a holiday.

While it is true that many other countries happily took part in the extended extermination of the Native Americans, it was only those of us that later chose to stay in the newly vacated territories who annually elect to celebrate the racial extinction called manifest destiny.

Relax, this isn’t going to become a history lesson or politically correct rant. I promise. Read on.

Despite its socially distasteful past, I love Thanksgiving. I enjoy celebrating the holiday as a chance to gather with family for the sole reasons of eating too much food, drinking too much alcohol, and arguing about why the Lions – the worst team ever to walk out onto a football field – continually get scheduled to play on Thanksgiving Day. Is the NFL punishing them by never allowing them to be home for Thanksgiving? Or are they punishing us for never watching Lions games during the rest of the season?

It’s a mystery that may never be resolved in the Wilbanks household.

We have a large family, and every two years the entire extended group shows up at our house to celebrate Thanksgiving. If you are a longtime reader of Deep Dark Thoughts, you probably already know this. You have been informed of past years’ trials and tribulations during this time of year. I fully expected this year to be able to regale readers of yet another year of alcohol-fueled political discussions, hurt feelings, insulted relatives that I wouldn’t hear from for another twelve months, and the general mayhem that goes along with squeezing a large group of related people into the same room for three days.

Unfortunately, due to circumstances being what they are, this will most likely be a more subdued celebration. We may all see each other, but it will most likely be through computers and phones, and the arguments will be much shorter as hitting the disconnect on a phone is much quicker and easier than trying to find out who stole your keys while you were drinking your eighth glass of the holiday punch.

The gathering will be much smaller, limited to those family members that we have been quarantined with for the past eight months and those willing to brave the cold of the backyard patio. I’m sure there will be a few sturdy souls sitting in lawn chairs and waving at us through the sliding glass door. It won’t be comfortable out there, but hey, free food is free food.

We will be following all the recommended rules of engagement as we dine. The turkey will be wearing a mask for five hours as it sits in a 350-degree oven. When it is placed on the table it will be properly socially distanced from the rest of the food invited to attend. I too, will most likely be socially distanced from the cranberry sauce as I have been accused many times of taking more than my fair share of this commodity. The rest of the family continually insists that cranberry sauce is a garnish for other side dishes and not to be confused as a side dish itself.

I respectfully disagree and will continue to fill my plate as I see fit.

But I digress.

There will most likely be the same amount of food prepared as past years, but the actual attendees will be fewer. We will all be appropriately spaced from each other, of course, so as not to risk exposure to someone else’s cooties. This will be a benefit for me actually as the smaller members of my family have in the past found it totally acceptable to sneeze at the table with their mouths full. I have more than once had to politely brush away partially chewed olives and bread rolls from my plate and clothing while at the same time pretending I didn’t want to beat a child to death with a drumstick off of the turkey.

The drawback, however, is that regular social discourse will also be greatly hampered. A normally simple act such as passing the salt from one family member to another will now more closely resemble a last second, 50-yard, Hail Mary pass in the final seconds of a football game.

A Lions football game, as I can almost guarantee the intended recipient is going to miss the catch.

Conversations will be stilted and awkward as well. Statements shouted across the table will invariably be misheard or misunderstood. Although, I actually think this might be the best part of the meal. We could make a game out of it. When someone shouts, “I would like some more fruit salad,” and Aunt Mary runs out of the room to lock herself in the bathroom and cry, we can all take guesses as to what the hell she thought she heard.

To be honest, we already play this game every year since Aunt Mary is hard of hearing and easily offended.

She’s also a Lion’s fan.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Season of Temptation

The season of temptation is once more upon us, and like most years, I am failing dramatically. Usually I get a little further in before I undergo a complete collapse, but this year I started early.

The season of temptation is that period of the year that starts somewhere in mid-October when you buy your fist bag of Halloween candy in preparation for trick-or-treaters. In many homes, that bag actually lasts until October 31^st. In my house, we stopped pretending long ago that the first bag of candy was ever going to be seen by kids. We live in an area that doesn’t even get trick-or-treaters, so seriously, who were we trying to fool?

The season then drags out through the next two and a half months, through Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not really coming to an end until halfway through January when the last of the Christmas candy and baked goods finally run out. In that window of time, I usually see about a fifteen-pound weight gain. I have enough difficulty not overeating on normal days. When holiday cookies and pies start showing up, I’m done for.

People tell me that surviving the holiday season is simply an exercise in self-control. Well, as anyone who has ever seen me knows, I’m not really that into exercise in any form. Especially not the kind that requires self-control.

I spend the other nine months of every year simply trying to lose enough weight to be able to survive my holiday food compulsions. I say ‘trying’ because I have rarely accomplished those goals. Usually, I lose about five pounds, then get so excited I reward myself by consuming an entire box of Lucky Charms in one sitting. The milk is optional, as is the bowl.

This season of temptation has started out worse than most. I suppose since it’s 2020, this shouldn’t have been a surprise. Everything this year seems to be worse than most. This year, being trapped at home, my daughters have suddenly gotten the urge to make sugary baked treats. They’ve never cared about baking before, but now, for reasons unknown to me, they have decided that sugar, butter, and flour are the main staples of life.

It began in early October, when EM2 told me she wanted to make a pineapple upside down cake. She has never seen a pineapple upside down cake before, much less made one, but now she decided if she didn’t bake one in the next couple of days, her life was about to become meaningless. So, we baked a cake. Later EM1 told me I needed to help her make six dozen pumpkin spice cookies. Not to be outdone, EM2 immediately informed me we would be making six dozen sugar cookies the next day.

Halloween came and went, but not before EM2 made crème puffs filled with chocolate pudding, and a dozen lime flavored, mini cheesecakes. EM1 added two dozen Halloween decorated cupcakes into the mix.

We haven’t even begun to make a dent in all those high-calorie sweets and EM2 has already made me promise that we will try to make a cherry pie before the end of November. I have never made a cherry pie before and, frankly, never intended to try, but because I’ve been unexpectedly sucked into this self-propelled vortex of baked goods, I will be attempting to bake a cherry pie in the near future.

I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m anticipating it won’t go smoothly, which might be a good thing because if the pie turns out completely inedible that will be one less item increasing my waistline this year.

In addition to the cherry pie, I have also been locked into the commitment of making two pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. This is a Thanksgiving, I must add, that we might not be having any guests over due to the current pandemic conditions in the state of California. This means that there will only be four of us eating both of these pumpkin pies. And my wife doesn’t like pumpkin pie, so make that three of us.

And as soon as Thanksgiving baked goods are done, Christmas candy and chocolates are just around the corner. I’m already having heart palpitations thinking about the amount of sugary foods still ahead of me over the next six weeks or so, and my pancreas has been threatening to go on permanent strike if I don’t find a way to corral this snack assault.

I know that not eating isn’t an option. As I’ve already admitted, I have no self-discipline to speak of. I’ve never been able to walk past a plate of cookies without picking up one or four. I suppose I could try working out to burn off some of these extra calories, but who am I kidding? There aren’t enough hours in the day to burn off the amount of junk food I’m consuming this time of year. I would have to live in a gym and sleep on a treadmill to have any hope of keeping up.

With those options off the table, I only have one more weapon in my arsenal to get through the next six weeks without suffering serious lateral growth complications.

Alcohol.

I have discovered that I tend not to eat as much when I’m passed out on the kitchen floor. Besides, a bottle of gin has fewer calories than half of a pumpkin pie. Maybe I need to explore this tactic in a little more detail.

I think I might actually have the willpower to stay on this diet plan. I only need to keep the liquor cabinet well stocked and the unwanted pounds should melt right off.

I wonder why I haven’t tried this before. Or maybe I have, and it worked so well I don’t remember?

Anyway, if nobody hears from me in the next two months, don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m just sticking to my new diet.

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SWAT Training

Before the knee injuries, shoulder muscle tears, back strains, and all the other general aches and pains that come with living on this planet for 50-plus years, there was once a time that I wanted to be on the police SWAT team. I was in my twenties, lean and healthy, and I still had that young person’s feeling of immortality. In other words, I was young and stupid.

The Hillsborough Police Department (HPD), where I worked at the time, did not have their own SWAT team. We were too small. With only 20 or so people working for the agency, it was not possible to fund and train our own emergency response team. Instead, we requested to be part of the San Mateo County SWAT team.

They trained us and, in return, we agreed to send SWAT trained officers to assist the County during any emergency call-outs. It was a good deal and benefitted both agencies.

HPD’s goal was to have two SWAT-trained officers on each shift. This was a bit tricky since most of our shifts only had three or four people total. Between trying to schedule time off for training and the high failure rate of SWAT candidates, we were lucky to have one officer on each shift with the desired certification.

After a few years with my department, I advised my supervisors that I was interested in attending the training. They put my name on a list, then told me that before I could go, I needed to meet certain physical requirements before I could attend the training.

I was told that I needed to be able to run 2 miles in under 15 minutes, complete 50 pushups in under a minute, complete 60 sit-ups in under 2 minutes, do two pullups while wearing a 40 pound backpack, and qualify as “marksman” in both the pistol and rifle.

With a bit of work, I was able to achieve each of these goals.

So, what made me think about SWAT physical fitness requirements after all these years? Let me tell you.

The other day, I got up and went for a two-mile run through my neighborhood. When I was done, I was feeling pretty proud of myself that I had finished the two miles in under 20 minutes. That was when I realized that I was still 5 minutes slower than my pace for the same distance 30 years ago.

That doesn’t bother me too much, especially since I know I’m fortunate to be running at all after the beating my body took for so many years. 20 minutes is a freaking Olympic gold medal performance for me these days. It did, however, get me thinking about the other requirements on the list and how well I have held up over the years.

I no longer hold “marksman” certifications at the range. I can still hit a target when I absolutely must, but my accuracy has slipped the tiniest bit over the past few years. In fact, the nicest thing one of the department range masters has said to me in years is, “Well, Sarge. I’ve seen you do worse.”

Not exactly SWAT-worthy I suppose, but at least I passed.

I can still do 50 pushups. It just takes me a few hours and several rest periods to manage it. Same thing with the 60 sit-ups, and that’s only if you count lying on the floor and bobbing your head back and forth as a sit-up.

I discovered that I can still do two pullups, but that’s if I’m standing on the 40-pound backpack instead of wearing it. I’m already carrying around an extra 40 pounds that I didn’t have when I was 25 years old, so wearing a weighted backpack is just redundant anyway.

Besides, I can’t think of a time in my entire career that I’ve ever run into a pullup emergency. I’ve never shown up on a call for service and had somebody say, “Officer, you have to save his life! You just need to grab onto that bar and pull on it until your head rises just above it!”

Not once in 25 years.

Basically, I’m not exactly ready to pass a SWAT physical agility test anytime soon. Not that I really have any desire to do so. These days, the only emergencies I have to respond to are mad dashes to the store because I’ve run out of something I needed to fix dinner. And sometimes, I’m not even up to doing that.

I’m just happy with my morning 20-minute run. I don’t need anything more.

If anyone is wondering whether I ever joined the San Mateo County SWAT team, the short answer is:

No.

The long answer is:

… No.

By the time my turn came around to go to training, my wife got a job in Sacramento and I had made the decision to move there with her. My bosses told me they were not going to pay to send me to training just so I could take that skillset to another agency. I guess I can’t argue with that logic. Why buy a chauffer a brand-new car just so they can drive someone else around in it?

Now, you’re probably wondering if I ever went to SWAT training with Sacramento County.

Nope. Didn’t do that either.

By this time, I had two little girls in the house. After spending every free moment of my time chasing EM1 and EM2 around, I decided occasionally getting some sleep was more important than joining the SWAT team.

I still think that was the right decision.

The sleeping thing. Not necessarily the having kids thing. The jury is still out on that one.

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Baking Like a Grownup

My daughters don’t like when I treat them like children. They want me to see them as partners in our home, with an equal say in all decisions that affect them. As fully grown, legally recognized adults, my children are trying to assert their independence.

By “independence” I mean they still want free housing, free food, clothing, entertainment, a car with full insurance provided, phones, no required house chores, yard chores, or responsibilities, they want their privacy respected while maintaining open access for themselves to all parts of the house at any time, and they have the nerve to expect….

I think I’m getting a little derailed here. What was I talking about?

Oh, right. Independence. The girls want the freedom to come and go as they please, and to treat dad like a painted backdrop in a high school play.

Anyone reading this blog already knows that I have clearly failed as a father. It’s too late to change their behaviors now. They will continue to live their lives right under our noses while at the same time pretending they have no parents. I know this is true because, for the most part, this is exactly how I treated my parents at the same age. I’m not proud of it, but I am acknowledging that lousy kids raise lousy kids.

Since I am desperate for attention because both of my children see me as little more than an extension of the furniture, it should come as no surprise that a couple weeks ago, when EM1 asked me if I would teach her how to bake homemade cookies, I jumped at the chance to interact with my child as something other than a bank ATM.

EM1 really likes a pumpkin spice cookie recipe that I found a few years ago. She wanted to know if I had enough fresh pumpkin from the garden to make some with her and teach her how to do them for herself. I said I did, and of course I would show her how.

On the Friday we agreed upon, I began pulling out pans and ingredients. I asked EM1 how many she wanted to make. She paused a moment, then told me that six dozen should be enough, but we should probably make a few extra in case some of them were bad.

Surprised, I asked her why she wanted to make so many. That was when she told me, “My pastor asked if people could bake some homemade goods and bring them to distribute to the church families since we haven’t been able to do group services. I told him that you could make cookies for everyone.”

Yup. My lovely daughter volunteered me to bake six dozen cookies for her church before she even thought to ask me. And because I was so starved for affection from my own kids, I dove headfirst right into her devious little plan. I wasn’t happy about her suckering me into what felt like a middle-school bake sale, where the teachers rope parents into helping by making the kids agree to it before mom and dad know it’s even coming.

EM1 defended herself by saying, “But I told them you make really good cookies.”

Which wasn’t really the point of my complaint, but I still enjoyed the compliment. Hey, I’m human.

I spent the next five hours measuring, sifting, stirring, mixing, shaping, baking and bagging pumpkin spice cookies. I made sure that EM1 did most of the grunt work. I figured this was her idea, so she didn’t get to sit on the couch eating test batches while I did the cooking. To my surprise, she actually did a pretty good job once we got the assembly line rolling. She was baking like a real grownup.

About halfway through the whole baking process, EM2 wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a cookie without asking, then asked, “Why are you baking with her? How come you never do this with me?”

I told her to grab an apron and a spoon, but she shook her head. “I don’t want to help, I want us to make Halloween cookies and decorate them, just the two of us. Hey! We should do that tomorrow!”

I told her I didn’t really want to spend another entire day of my weekend baking.

She said, “Okay. We’ll do Halloween cookies tomorrow.” Then she grabbed another pumpkin cookie from the cooling rack and disappeared.

Because I am … well, me, I spent all day Saturday making Halloween sugar cookies with EM2. In order to make sure I was being fair, EM2 insisted that we couldn’t just make a dozen or so cookies. Her sister got to make six dozen cookies, so I had to make six dozen more with her.

As I have demonstrated time and again, I have no real backbone to speak of, so once more, I spent my day measuring, sifting, stirring, etc. Only this time it took even longer since we had to make frosting and decorate each cookie after it was baked.

If it sounds like I’m complaining, it’s because I am. But I acknowledge that for two entire days, I was relevant to my kids. Maybe even important. Perhaps that was only because EM1 devised a devious plan to obtain baked goods, and EM2 was too jealous to see EM1 do anything that she couldn’t do as well, but I’ll take it. Sometimes even the worst intentions can result in something positive.

I spent time with my kids.

Now I just need to figure out what to do with all these damn cookies in the house.

Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.