June 2021 – Deep Dark Thoughts

The Biggest Little City

My wife, my in-laws, and I recently took a trip to Reno to hang out, eat some quality food, and do a little gambling. We had a nice time overall, but there were some things that popped up that I hadn’t expected. As in all things, the reality doesn’t always live up to the advertisements.

First, my wife and I spent a little extra on our hotel room because it was the “Deluxe, spa, suite.” That sounded really cool, but what it meant was simply they had dropped a bathtub in the middle of the bedroom. Not even a jacuzzi with water jets, but just a big, square bathtub. Who the heck wants a bathtub in the middle of the bedroom? Especially when the positioning of the tub forced the decorators to put the bed in a corner with no view of the window or the television set.

Granted, I probably watch too much TV already, and didn’t need to watch more while on vacation. But still. It would have been nice to have the choice.

Second, the food was definitely sub par. I thought Reno had come a long way from the days of $3 dollar buffets with two-day-old food in the trays. Nope. The restaurants are all new and much fancier, but the food still seems to be coming from the same slop bucket in the back alley. The only real difference is the cost. My wife and I ordered one sandwich with fries to be delivered to our hotel room from a restaurant literally thirty steps from our door.

The sandwich cost $30. About a dollar per step. I suppose it’s a good thing we weren’t any further away or we might have blown our whole budget for the weekend on one shrimp po’boy. For thirty dollars, I would think the sandwich should have come with edible gold flakes sprinkled over it and a generous dollop of caviar in the middle of the fries.

Again, nope. If there was anything dolloped on our food prior to its arrival at our hotel room, I really don’t want to know what it was.

The other fun, unexpected surprise I got in Reno was the number of homeless people wandering around the streets and finding their way inside the casinos. Security in the hotels was kept rather busy by the flow-through of destitute wanderers coming in to beg food from the restaurants and use the casino restrooms to bathe in the sink.

And the situation only got worse once you went outside.

One morning, I was walking along the sidewalk, trying to make my way to another casino a few blocks down the road. I passed a woman sitting on the ground, leaning up against one of the buildings that seem to be constantly under construction in that town. She waved a hand at me and asked if I had a lighter.

I told her I was sorry, but that I didn’t smoke.

She then began to scream that I had stolen her lighter.

“What happened to the one you took from me? Where’s the f***ing lighter that I gave you.” And lots of other fun, family friendly stuff like that.

I increased my pace to get away from her. The woman continued to rant and swear. That’s when I realized that in my haste, I had left my wife and in-laws behind. She was now cussing at them.

I felt a little guilty, and almost went back to them, but eventually decided against it. It just wasn’t safe. Like the woman in the high heels that always falls during the chase scenes in every horror movie ever made, the slow ones are destined to be taken out first. It’s simple Darwinism and there is nothing I can do about that.

Somehow, the whole family survived the encounter, and we made it to the next casino. We opened the doors and, upon entry, were immediately hit with that distinctive casino smell: cigarette smoke, carpet cleaner, and the desperate tears of people gambling away their next car payment.

Speaking of cars, one of the casinos was holding a contest to give away a new car. Ten slot machines were lined up in front of a brand new, white Tesla. Anyone that could hit the mega jackpot on any of the machines would win the car. I figured I had as good a chance as any to win, so I sat down.

My daughter, EM1, is in need of a new vehicle since her old one was finally pushed beyond its physical limitations and died. Winning one from a slot machine seemed a natural next step to me.

I sat down with a pocket full of cash and an absolute certainty in my mind that I was going to win a car for my child. Four hours later, I had done it!

Lost all my money. Not won a car. Were you not paying attention? I was in a casino where decades of technology and research have been put into separating idiots like me from their life savings.

I got up and walked away while the Tesla sat on a display floor over my head, taunting me and whispering things like, “Get out your credit card. I’m sure if you spend a couple hundred more bucks, you’ll definitely win me. You’ll hit that jackpot any moment now.”

The car was lying. It just wanted more of my money.

We all left at the end of the weekend, tired, broke, and ready to be back home. We had fun, but it was loud, stressful at times, and expensive. I was looking forward to my nice quiet house and a chance to relax, wondering why I had ever left the peaceful comforts of home in the first place.

I walked in the front door and was immediately met by two adult children, both telling me how hungry they were, and asking what I was going to fix for dinner.

Oh, yeah. That’s why.

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The Cat is Out of the Bag

Sometimes, despite your best intentions, things don’t go as planned. Even when you try to do everything right, there are days when the odds are just stacked against you. I can personally recall an event in my life that went wrong before I even knew that I had screwed up.

I was still working for the Hillsborough Police Department when this happened, and although it wasn’t anything terrible that occurred, it is an accident that I still think about on occasion. I was assigned to patrol and working the south end of the town when I received a radio announcement that a burglary alarm had been activated at one of our private residences. I acknowledged that I had received the dispatch call and was heading for the location in question.

Because we typically received thousands of residential alarm calls every year, and because on average less than one percent of those calls were the result of an actual burglary, I advised dispatch that I did not need a cover officer and I would advise if I needed assistance when I arrived at the house.

Although any police officers reading this will immediately point out that responding to an alarm call without a cover officer is a mistake, I just want to make it clear that this is not the mistake I am referring to in this blog. That’s coming up in a minute.

I arrived at the house and parked my patrol vehicle a few doors away so as not to advertise to any potential burglars that I was coming. I then began a systematic check of all doors and windows around the home to determine if anyone had attempted (or succeeded) in gaining entrance to the house. I could hear the interior alarm ringing as I wandered around the house.

While checking the side yard, I found a door that led into a laundry room. The door was unlocked and opened easily when I turned the doorknob. I announced on my radio that I had found an open door and requested a cover officer at this time. Better late than never, I suppose.

Because the alarm was still blaring, and burglars generally did not stick around when loud noises were announcing their presence, I assumed the house was most likely empty and decided to go inside and check for damages or theft.

As I opened the door, I saw a grey and white striped cat poke its head out through the gap. It meowed at me, clearly very upset at the loud noises in its house. It had probably been rudely awakened from a pleasant nap on some windowsill. The cat looked up at me as if to say, “make it stop,” then darted outside between my legs.

I let him go, figuring he was better off in the yard rather than inside with all that noise. I went into the laundry room and closed the door behind me. From the laundry room, I found another open door leading into the house. I began a systematic search of the residence. My partner arrived a few minutes later and assisted in the search. We found nothing out of the ordinary and decided the alarm had been an accident. Possibly even caused by the very cat I had let outside.

I walked back to the laundry room, planning to leave by the same door and attempt to lock it behind me. As I looked at the door, I noticed for the first time, a sign written with a black sharpie on a piece of paper. It said:

PLEASE DO NOT LET THE CAT OUTSIDE

Okay. Too late for that. In my defense, who the hell puts a sign on the inside of the door where anybody reading it has already let said cat out into the yard? With a sigh, I removed a business card from my pocket and wrote a note to the homeowner apologizing for letting Fluffy out of the house, along with the number to the police department in case they wanted to make a complaint.

Looking out into the yard, I noticed a grey and white cat perched on the fence separating the property from the neighbor’s yard. I immediately ran over, grabbed it, and carried it back into the house. I figured, I couldn’t go back in time and prevent the cat from getting out, but perhaps I could put things right by returning it to the house. The animal scratched, bit, and hissed the whole way back into the residence.

I admit to feeling a bit of concern when I noticed the cat in my arms did not have a collar or name tag on it. I would have sworn the cat that bolted out of the house had been wearing a red collar. I wasn’t certain. I could have been mistaken. It’s also possible that the cat had managed to take the collar off when it got outside.

Maybe.

Regardless, I removed the note I had written from the house and tore it up. I didn’t want to leave any evidence behind in case I had accidentally performed a cat swap. I figured I could always come back when the homeowners came home and discovered that someone had broken in, stolen their cat, and replaced it with a stray.

I would take the report, nod solemnly, and tell them that we would search diligently for the perpetrator that had switched cats. Then I would never speak of this incident again.

I never got a call back. I like to think that’s because I actually managed to find the correct cat. I suppose it is also possible the owners didn’t notice, or didn’t care enough to say anything.

Either way, if you ever come across someone who tells you a story about the day they left one cat in the house, then came home later to find a different cat living with them, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention my name.

Java Time

Since I started writing this blog a little more than three years ago, I have tried to steer clear of politics, religion, or any other topics of a heated or controversial nature. I decided long ago that these pages should be reserved for mundane, everyday highs and lows of life that hopefully more people than just myself can relate to. I believe that, for the most part, I have succeeded in this endeavor.

This week, however, I am going to break my own rules. There is an important statement I must make. A personal belief that I must address. This statement may cost me friends and readers (which I can’t really afford to lose too many of either) but I feel it must still be made despite the controversy it might create.

If you choose to read any further, consider yourself warned that you may not like what I have to say. Ready? Here we go.

Coffee tastes terrible.

Not just some coffee, and not only sometimes. All coffee tastes like garbage. Hot garbage.

I don’t like the stuff. I never have and I never will. I don’t believe that anybody actually likes the taste. I think it more likely that people that drink coffee are simply trying to punish themselves for horrific acts they committed in a prior life.

Before you try to convince me otherwise with suggestions of frappes, macchiatos, mochas, or what-have-you, I don’t consider any of these to be actual coffee. If you are adding caramel, whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle, you aren’t drinking coffee any longer. You’re drinking a milkshake.

And you’re drinking a crappy milkshake because it tastes a little bit like coffee.

I know this is not a popular opinion. Most people are not comfortable saying this openly in public due to the immediate, vocal disagreement it will generally create. Still, no matter how vehement the denial, it is a fact that cannot be ignored.

The first time I drank coffee, I was about twelve years old. In addition to being bitter enough to kick my gag reflex into overdrive, the coffee was also too hot. I felt as if my mouth had been instantly converted into a dumpster fire. It was a taste that haunts me to this day.

Years later, I tried drinking the noxious beverage again. This time I added about a half of a cup of milk and six tablespoons of sugar. I discovered that I could swallow it and keep it down when diluted heavily with dairy and sweetener, but what was the actual point? I could probably drink motor oil with enough cream and sugar, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to buy a six-pack of Penzoil the next time I’m at the hardware store.

Yes, coffee will wake you up in the morning when you’re tired. But smashing your thumb with a hammer will bring you fully alert as well, and it will happen a lot faster than sipping a cup of coffee. I don’t think anyone is keeping hammers in their kitchen for a daily morning dose of flattened fingers. So, why do so many people have coffee in the cabinet?

I think, if people are honest with themselves, they will agree with my assessment that drinking coffee is the taste equivalent of licking melted rubber off of asphalt. The only reason anyone still drinks the stuff is because they have been doing it long enough that they have just gotten used to it. The same way martial artists get used to hitting stuff with their hands. The callouses finally build up to the point that it stops hurting quite as much.

As to why they start consuming java in the first place, I have heard three main reasons for why people start drinking coffee.

One: “I was in the military, and coffee was always available.”

Two: “I needed something to keep me awake at night while I was studying for exams.”

Three: “I grew up in (fill in the name of a ridiculously cold place) and coffee was a cheap way to keep warm.”

I’m willing to bet that if you drink coffee, you fall into at least one of those three categories.

Note that not one time in my life, not ever, have I asked somebody why they drink coffee and been told, “The first time I tried it I just loved the taste. Coffee is delicious!”

Not once. And if somebody did say that to me, I would immediately accuse them of being the deceitful liar that they clearly are.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think less of people simply because they have chosen to drink coffee. My own children drink coffee, and although I do think they are terrible people, it isn’t because of the coffee. There are multiple other reasons for that.

To be fair, coffee isn’t toxic or likely to shorten your life. I have even read a few studies that suggest it might have a few health benefits. But so does kale, and I would rather chew on a burlap sack than put that stuff in my mouth.

So, to sum up my arguments: Coffee tastes terrible. It’s an awful drink, and it was most likely invented by the Devil.

It you disagree with me, it’s probably only because you’re drinking a cup of coffee right now while you’re reading this page.

In fact, I bet you are. You’re drinking coffee right now, aren’t you?

Yeah. You are.

Home Cooked Meal

Since retiring from my last job and beginning a second career writing, I spend a great deal more time at home than I ever did previously. In fact, I rarely ever leave the house these days. I have become pretty much a stay-at-home dad, except my children are both grown adults and don’t really need to have me around.

I guess that makes me a mostly useless, stay-at-home dad.

Anyway, hurt feelings aside, because I’m spending a lot more time at home, I have tried to make better use of that time by focusing on yardwork, house chores, and general home maintenance. Since I have more flexibility with my time than anyone else in the family, I also run most necessary errands and make myself available to meet with contractors, plumbers and other repair personnel that frequent my house.

Well, that’s not completely true. The kids also have all kinds of free time. They however don’t seem to be in any great hurry to chip in and help with the chores.

Most of the traditional duties of a stay-at-home parent have fallen onto my shoulders. And while that does at times include naps, movie marathons, and the occasional day drinking, it also means I try to have nice meals waiting for my wife when she gets home from a long day at work.

I try.

While I am not a terrible cook, I must admit that dinner at times does not turn out quite the way I had intended it to.

Recently, I decided I was going to make a meal that included turkey meatloaf and artichokes on the side. I have made this meatloaf many times before and it always turned out decent, so I was not unduly worried when I took out the recipe.

Despite several successful outcomes in the past, for some reason things did not go well for me on this attempt. I don’t know if I made a mistake on the ingredients, or if the meat I used was bad, or if food gnomes broke into my house and cursed my oven. Whatever the reason, the meatloaf turned out bad.

I mean, really bad.

I mean, epically, tragically bad.

When dinner was ready, I cut off a slice, sat down and took one bite.

“Nope!” I said and spit it back out onto my plate.

My wife saw my reaction and laughed. She insisted that it couldn’t really be that terrible, then took a taste of her own portion. She did not spit hers out, but she did stand up, carry her plate into the kitchen and dump it into the garbage.

I mean, it was truly, horrifically bad. It could not have been much worse if I had accidently baked a tennis shoe in a meatloaf pan.

I figured at least we still had artichokes. It wasn’t really a meal, but at least it was something. I tasted mine and discovered it was crunchy and badly undercooked. It was also extremely bitter.

Strike two.

EM1 and EM2 were both in the kitchen at this point putting food on their plates. I warned them not to eat any of it. Dinner was a complete failure and while I didn’t think it was poisonous, I told them not to take the chance and to just throw it all in the garbage can.

“Really?” asked EM1. I didn’t really like the look of utter joy on her face when she said it. I know meatloaf is not her favorite meal, but did she have to act like a death row inmate learning for the first time that she had received a full pardon?

“So, what’s for dinner?” asked EM2.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

EM1 ran out of the kitchen toward her bedroom. She came back a moment later holding her purse.

“I’m going to McDonald’s. Anybody want anything?”

I sighed, still scraping what should have been meatloaf, but somehow wasn’t, out of the pan and into the sink. It smelled like burned rubber, although it hadn’t tasted anywhere near that good.

I told EM1 to get me a double cheeseburger and some fries. My wife ordered the chicken nuggets. EM1 dashed out the door with her younger sister in tow, leaving me behind to clean up the carnage I had created in the kitchen.

When I finished cleaning the dishes, I decided to make one more attempt at salvaging the evening. I rescued a bottle of wine from the back of the refrigerator. I managed to get it open without breaking the bottle or cutting off any fingers (the way the night was going so far, I wasn’t absolutely certain I could manage either outcome), then poured two glasses. One for myself and one for my wife.

We had our wine while sitting on the back porch, enjoying the cool evening breeze. The kids were still out picking up food and wouldn’t be home for another half an hour.

It was a very peaceful half hour.

It wasn’t the evening I had expected when I made dinner plans earlier that day. But as these things go, I can’t really complain about how it turned out.