May 2021 – Deep Dark Thoughts

It Takes the Right Motivation

After years of living in the country and hiring people to come out and fix problems that I created myself, I finally fixed something on my own. It was pretty minor, I admit, but I still did it all by myself. Rather than calling for help and paying someone else to rescue me from my own ignorance, I decided to try to figure it out on my own. And I was successful.

Turns out, all I needed was the proper motivation.

And it appears that shame and the fear of further personal humiliation was that motivation.

A couple months ago, I noticed some of my plants were dying and the drip system responsible for watering them had stopped working. I hired a sprinkler repair guy to come out, only to have him inform me that the lines were full of mud and all I had to do to get them working was run some water through them.

I documented this particular ordeal at the time it happened. If you are so inclined, you can read about it HERE.

What I didn’t tell you, is that a couple weeks later, some of my front lawn began to die. I was able to isolate the problem to a particular sprinkler valve that was not turning on when it was supposed to. I attempted to manually turn it on a few times, but the water continued to refuse to run through it.

I hired the same sprinkler guy to come out and take a look at it. He came out the next day. Why not? He made $100 bucks for 30 seconds work the last time he came to my house, so he probably figured he could make a quick score again.

I, however, knew it would not be so easy this time. This time there was really something wrong that he would need to fix. I was sure of it.

When the sprinkler guy showed up, he asked me what was wrong. I showed him the sprinkler valve that wasn’t working and pointed out the section of lawn it was supposed to be watering.

Sprinkler Guy knelt down and turned on the valve. Nothing happened. I was starting to feel vindicated about my decision to call for help this time. Next, he twisted a knob on top of the valve.

The sprinklers turned on.

“Um, what did you do?” I asked him, already realizing that I had done it again. I had called for help to fix something that was apparently not broken.

“The water flow control was turned off.”

Now I was really feeling stupid. It was like calling an electrician to fix a light fixture only to find out I had forgotten to turn the light switch on.

Sprinkler Guy turned the water on and off a few times to be sure there were no other problems, but everything was working fine. I thanked him for coming out and then trudged into the house to get my checkbook. Fortunately for me, this time, he told me there would be no charge since he didn’t actually fix anything. He got into his truck, waved at me, and said, “I’ll see you next time.”

He has gotten to know me too well.

Fast forward a few more weeks. I was outside the house and I wandered over to where I have several fruit trees planted in the backyard. The entire area was flooded. The bubblers that water the trees were all dribbling water.

I said several words that would probably have gotten me fired from most places of employment.

I narrowed the problem down to the control valve again. Instead of refusing to turn on, this time it was refusing to shut off. I grabbed my phone and was about to call Sprinkler Guy again. Then I paused. If I called him out for another false alarm, I would never live it down.

Besides, he would probably see my number come up on his phone and send it direct to voicemail. Assuming he hadn’t blocked my number from his phone altogether at this point. I had already wasted his time twice. He would not be eager to come out a third time.

I also did not want to be exposed for a complete moron a third time. I decided that I would dismantle the valve and check to see if I could find the problem myself. I figured that even if I couldn’t fix it, I could at least do so much damage to the mechanism that Sprinkler Guy would be forced to replace the valve when he arrived.

He’ll have to earn his money this time, I figured.

I shut the water off to the valve from the main water pipe, grabbed my screwdriver, and completely took the damn thing apart. When I opened up the valve, I noticed a tiny piece of orange plastic stuck to the rubber diaphragm that is responsible for sealing the water pipe closed. The plastic was lodged under the edge of the diaphragm preventing it from closing completely.

Could the problem be that simple? I didn’t believe it could, but I removed the plastic and put the valve back together anyway. It was worth checking, right?

When I turned the water back on, the valve closed normally and the bubblers under the fruit trees stopped leaking.

I had actually fixed it! I didn’t need Sprinkler Guy to come out and make me feel like an idiot, then charge me for the privilege. I could make me feel like an idiot all by myself, for free.

I’m sure this success is only temporary, however. I fully expect in a few days that particular valve is going to explode into a million tiny pieces because I did something stupid to it while I had it open. But that is a problem for tomorrow.

I just hope Sprinkler Guy is still taking my calls.

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An Anxious Night

I don’t typically sleep well at night. It’s been this way for years. Between insomnia, kids up late watching the television too loud, trips to the bathroom, and the occasional panic attack, sleeping through the night has become a rare occurrence.

So, it was doubly disturbing the other night when I was awakened in the small hours of the morning by the sound of my wife’s voice. I had been fast asleep, deep into a lovely dream, and enjoying several hours of restful sleep strung all in a row.

As I swam toward wakefulness, I heard her repeat, “What? What is it?”

I turned toward her, thinking she was talking in her sleep and wondering if I could fix the problem with a well-placed pillow and a length of rope. Then I heard another voice in the hallway outside our bedroom. It was our daughter, EM2. She was complaining that her chest hurt, and she could not sleep.

Knowing that EM2 was in the middle of her finals week at college, and that she had spent a rather stressful weekend writing papers and studying for her upcoming tests, I told her she was most likely experiencing some anxiety, and that she should take some antacids to settle her stomach and try to go back to sleep.

She agreed and left.

I turned back to my pillow, who waited faithfully for my return. I was asleep again in moments. I recall dreaming of an idyllic forest, with a small stream running through it, and a deer drinking from the flowing water. The deer raised its head and looked at me. It opened its mouth, and said, “Hey, Dad. Are you still awake?”

Groggily I opened my eyes and found EM2 standing beside my bed, staring down at me.

“What?” I asked. Perhaps with more emphasis than absolutely necessary.

“My chest still hurts. Are you sure its not a heart attack? I think I need to go to the hospital.”

EM2 is twenty-one years old and, while heart attacks do happen, they are extremely rare at her age. Plus, I have suffered from anxiety and stress for many years, and I know the symptoms when I see them from personal experience. Still, to be cautious, I told her to call the on-call advice nurse at the hospital and see what they had to say. If they wanted her to come to the emergency room, I would drive her.

I figured the nurse would realize right away that they were talking to a stressed-out kid who was NOT having a heart attack. They would tell EM2 to relax and try to go back to bed. I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

Ten minutes later, I was in my truck, still not fully awake, driving my daughter to the emergency room.

We arrived, and hospital staff brought EM2 to one of the examination rooms right away. For the next ninety minutes, I sat in the hallway watching medical staff in comfy blue pajamas wandering the premises while EM2 had her blood pressure checked, blood drawn, and an EKG performed to check for irregular heart rhythm.

All tests were negative.

The doctor’s determination? She was suffering from anxiety.

If only someone else had recognized the signs early on. This whole trip might have been avoidable.

Before EM2 was released from the hospital, the nurse handed her two written prescriptions. He said one was for a steroid, and the other was an antibiotic. EM2 asked if she needed to take them, and the nurse explained that yes, the doctor wanted her to take the medications.

I honestly wasn’t certain why a 21-year-old needs steroids and antibiotics after an anxiety attack, but what do I know? The doctor wanted her to take them. And doctors are trained professionals. They take two or three extra weeks of schooling just so they can get their doctor’s permit, or medical ribbon, or whatever the hell it is they get that says they know what they’re doing.

Next stop, hospital pharmacy.

EM2 handed the pharmacist her prescriptions and then was told she did not have insurance through the hospital and would need to go to another pharmacy to get it filled.

Hold on a minute. My daughter is a Kaiser member. We went to a Kaiser hospital to get treated. She received a Kaiser prescription, written by a Kaiser doctor on a pad of paper that said “Kaiser” at the top, with a ballpoint pen that said “Kaiser” on the side of it.

And the medications weren’t covered?

The pharmacist said EM2 would need to go to a Walgreen’s to fill the prescriptions, but that they would be covered and wouldn’t require a co-pay if we did. Otherwise, if we got the medications at the hospital, they would cost us full price. Completely confused but having no other recourse but to go find a Walgreen’s to fill her prescriptions, we left.

A few minutes later, during the drive to find a Walgreen’s somewhere in our vicinity, EM2 received a phone call from the hospital. The nurse told her that the prescriptions she had received had been a mistake and that they were intended for someone else. At least now the mystery of why her insurance wouldn’t cover the cost was solved. It wasn’t her medication. EM2 was advised to take some Motrin if she was still not feeling well, but otherwise there was no follow up treatment, and she was free to go home.

I made a U-turn at the next light and started driving toward our house. I noticed the time and realized that I would be arriving home right about the time that my alarm clock would be going off on my bedside table. I turned toward the passenger seat to comment on the irony of the timing to EM2.

But she was sound asleep.

Shopping Etiquette

I have noticed an interested phenomenon while grocery shopping, lately. This has been occurring for many years, it’s nothing new, but I only recently began to wonder about it.

What is the proper etiquette when you come across an item that has fallen off a shelf and onto the floor?

Countless times, I have wandered down a grocery store aisle, minding my own business as I pushed my shopping cart with the wobbly wheel, trying desperately to keep it moving in a roughly straight direction, when suddenly I see a loaf of bread on the floor. It isn’t always a loaf of bread. It could be a can of corn, a stray potato in the produce section, or even a bag of chips that is now somewhat worse for wear due its six-foot plummet from its previously lofty perch. It really doesn’t matter what the item is, the point is it was on a shelf, but now it’s on the ground like a suicidal jumper during a Wallstreet collapse.

For now, let’s just stick to the bread analogy.

What is my responsibility to that loaf of bread and the rest of its kin still on the shelf peering down on their fallen brother?

Sometimes I will pick it up and place it back on the shelf. Other times I will leave it, unsure if returning it to the shelf might lead to someone purchasing damaged goods when the item should have been thrown away by store staff.

Which response is the proper one?

Clearly, if a jar or bag has fallen and broken open, the intelligent option is to leave it on the ground and notify an employee so they can clean up the mess. But what if the item isn’t broken? What if it is merely slightly injured and limping about, hoping some good Samaritan will come along and return it to all of its horrified friends?

And what about those items that aren’t just on the floor? Is it my responsibility to relocate that stray bag of tater tots that I discovered among the jars of spaghetti sauce? Or the bottle of coffee creamer that has mysteriously teleported into a stack of canned black beans?

Let’s take this discussion up a notch. Say I’m browsing through the jars of green olives and I accidentally drop one. The jar breaks at my feet and olives go bouncing and rolling in all directions. What are my responsibilities in this situation? Do I need to notify staff? Should I offer to pay for the items I destroyed? Or can I slink away like a soldier behind enemy lines, searching for an unoccupied barn to hide in until the immediate danger is past?

I know that it is NOT okay to throw additional jars on the ground and then claim that a tiny, very localized earthquake just tore through a two-foot section of shelving. Store staff will quickly realize that you are lying and escort you to the parking lot where a nice man wearing a blue uniform will inform you that you are no longer welcome to shop at that particular store.

At least, that’s what I assume will happen. I haven’t actually tried that excuse or anything. Not that anyone can prove, anyway.

New topic. Let’s talk about grazing. If you don’t know what grazing is, that is the practice of wandering through a store and helping yourself to a bite or mouthful of various items. This is usually limited to the produce section where people may sample a grape or other small piece of fruit, but I have seen much more egregious examples. I have seen people open a bag of chips and drink a can of soda they liberated from a cardboard carton. I assumed at the time I witnessed these actions that the shopper was eventually going to pay for the items, but I didn’t follow them around to be certain.

At what point does this practice stop being acceptable behavior and drift into the realm of theft? No really, I’m curious to know what people think because I’m planning on going to the store later today and I’m thinking about making myself a sandwich while I’m there.

Last scenario. Forget about all the stuff on the floor and who is eating what. How about the music that plays in the store while you are shopping? Are you permitted to sing along? I have heard people humming before. I even heard one older gentleman whistling along to a lively version of Man Eater by Hall & Oates. What is the cutoff point? How exuberant can you get?

I figure if I start breakdancing in the soup aisle or screaming out Back in Black in my best Brian Johnson impersonation, I have probably overstepped a wee bit.

But at what level does enjoying the music become simply annoying the other shoppers and require a response from store security?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. If I did, I would probably have a better relationship with the supermarkets in my area. (Pro tip: having your picture on the wall next to the entry doors of a store is not always a good thing.) I am only asking because I’m hoping someone might be able to offer me some guidance in my quest to become a better store customer.

Until then, I will just have to use my best judgement as to the proper etiquette and behavior within the hallowed walls of our local grocery stores.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to fix myself that sandwich I mentioned earlier.

You Have to Read the Small Print

Recently, my wife and I celebrated our 29^th wedding anniversary. Our daughters, EM1 and EM2, got us the same gift this year that they got for us last year. And the year before that.

Nothing.

They forgot it was our anniversary. They only remembered that night when they were asking what was for dinner. I told them that we were doing take-out from one of their mom’s favorite restaurants. They didn’t like the idea so began to complain that we should go somewhere else. I told them that it was our anniversary and mom’s decision was final.

EM2 responded, “It’s your anniversary? How long have you been married?”

I would expect this reaction from someone I met on the street during a random conversation. Not from a child who has been living in my house for 21 years.

My children are not terribly observant, and the example doesn’t end there. About four days later, EM1 volunteered to run out to the mailbox to grab the daily mail. This is something that she does about two or three times each year, and it usually corresponds to something expensive that she ordered for herself that is arriving that day.

She came back from the mailbox with a large smile on her face and announced to the entire household: “Hey, mom. Dad. I got you an anniversary present.”

My first thought was that I had misjudged my daughter all these years and that I should really be more willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. My second thought was, nope. I know this kid too well. Just wait for the other shoe to drop.

EM1 held up a flyer that had arrived in the mail and told us that there was a restaurant in town that was offering a free dinner for one person and a guest. She showed me the cover and asked, “You like this place, don’t you?”

I told her I did. My wife and I have eaten at this place several times and very much enjoy their food. I then told her that I had no interest in going.

“Well, maybe I’ll go then,” she told me. “And I’ll take EM2 as my guest.”

“You don’t need retirement insurance,” I said. “You can’t retire for another 40 years. You don’t even have a job to retire from, yet.”

She gave me a look like a raccoon rummaging through the garbage that has just been pinned in a flashlight beam. “What do you mean?”

EM1 had clearly not read the inside of the pamphlet before announcing the free meal. I told her to take a closer look. She did. When she still did not seem to understand the significance of the pamphlet, I explained that it was an insurance scam. Someone was trying to get people to sit down and listen to a three-hour lecture on retirement planning by bribing them with a free meal.

It wasn’t even a good meal. The cover of the pamphlet showed a lobster tail and a steak as the main course, but when you read the small print, it only offered chicken or salmon as your meal options.

I had fallen for one of these ploys several years ago while my wife and I were at a casino in Las Vegas. They were offering a “One hour demonstration” that promoted some pans and cooking utensils. In exchange for listening, they would give us each ten dollars credit for gambling in the casino. After almost three hours of watching some dude in a chef’s hat make scrambled eggs with a hacksaw to prove how durable their pans were, we began wondering if they were ever going to stop. The only people who had been allowed to leave up to that point, were three people who had already agreed to buy thousands of dollars worth of cooking crap.

As hour four began with no sign of an ending in sight, we gave up and left. We didn’t even get our twenty dollars for our trouble. We also didn’t get fed, despite the demonstration being all about cooking.

Never again. Fool me once, shame on you.

“Are you still going for the free meal?” I asked EM1.

“No, I guess not,” she admitted.

“Do you have another anniversary present for us, since this one didn’t work out?”

“No.”

She looked one more time at the flyer. Her eyes lit up for a moment, and she said, “What if I gave you a new face mask?”

“Why?” I asked. “Are they offering a free face mask along with the free dinner?”

When EM1 didn’t answer my question, I took the pamphlet from her and glanced at the back of the add.

Yup. I know that kid too well.

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