Gary – Page 11 – Deep Dark Thoughts

Not a Cruise

This past week, my wife, both daughters, and I were supposed to be on a cruise ship travelling around Alaska. We booked the cruise over a year ago and were greatly looking forward to our first vacation together on a ship with the entire family. We have never previously done anything like this with just the four of us.

In April of this year, we received an e-mail from the company that owns the cruise ship informing us that due to the recent pandemic, all of their scheduled trips were canceled until further notice. Our vacation was off.

The company told us that our money would be held in reserve so we could schedule a new trip when the ships were all back in the water, which is only reassuring if you believe the cruise company isn’t going to go out of business in the meantime. We will just have to wait and see.

Since we already had the time off scheduled for the middle of the summer, even though we couldn’t go on a cruise ship, we still wanted to take some sort of vacation. My wife and I decided that we would take our camping trailer and go on a short trip to an RV park. It’s not a cruise, but at least it was something.

It was something all right.

Instead of being on the Pacific Ocean, floating past massive glaciers and watching marine life swimming around the ship, we drove to an RV park located 45 minutes from our house with spotty Wi-Fi, 100 degree temperatures, and garbage trucks driving through at 3 o’clock in the morning. Not quite the same experience.

We left the kids at home because I didn’t want to listen to their complaining. It would interrupt my own complaining. Besides, someone had to stay home and feed the overabundance of cats that have recently collected in my home. (The kids wanted to adopt two new kittens, so I figure they can stay home and take care of them).

We originally scheduled a trip to Alaska because I thought if we went far enough away, my wife would be forced to stop thinking about work and actually enjoy her vacation. I still think it’s a good plan. However, because we ended up less than an hour’s drive from home, my workaholic spouse spent more time on Zoom meetings and phone calls than she did talking to me.

Of course, maybe finding reasons not to talk to me is her idea of a great vacation. If so, I can tell you that she had a wonderful time.

The RV park we selected was connected to the Jackson Rancheria Indian Casino. We decided on the casino for a couple of reasons. Namely, cruise ships have gambling and lots of food available, and casinos have gambling and lots of food available. It would be almost as if we were onboard the ship after all.

Except most of the casino was shut down because of Coronavirus. Half the slot machines were turned off, and the few that were still working were filled with sad-looking little old ladies trying to smoke cigarettes through tiny holes cut into their cloth masks. It felt like a scene from the Walking Dead, and I half expected at any moment for the people around me to suddenly stand up and begin shambling menacingly in my direction.

In addition to the ghost-town feel of the place, the restaurants were all closed as well. The only food available was a single food court where they expected you to line up, grab your food, then get the hell out. As far as cruises go, this was the worst one I had ever been on.

I still stuck around long enough to lose a hundred bucks in the slot machines before slinking back to the trailer park in defeat. It was not quite the dream vacation I had planned. My stomach hurt from eating like a raccoon rummaging through a garbage can, I was $100 poorer, and my wife spent most of her time sitting next to a slot machine on her phone, texting and sending e-mails.

After about two hours in the desolate remains of a once proud gambling establishment, we finally gave up and wandered outside to catch the shuttle bus back to the RV park. When I boarded the bus, the driver put on his mask for our safety and I watched as his glasses immediately fogged up.

Hmm. Coronavirus, or fiery bus crash? Decisions, decisions.

Oddly, I almost hoped that we did crash. As we careened off the road and down a steep hillside, I could pretend we had just hit an iceberg and I was going down with the ship. If we were fortunate enough to drive into a lake, even better.

No such luck. We made it back to our trailer in one piece.

Well, it wasn’t the vacation we originally booked. There was no boat, no scenery, lousy food, hot weather, and we were practically walking distance from home. On the bright side, though…

Nope. No bright side.

We wanted a cruise, and what we got was definitely not a cruise.

We are going to try again, however. We will use the money we have already spent to schedule a new cruise to Alaska for next summer. The entire family still wants to go. I only have one question about next year’s trip:

Should I wait until next year, or go ahead and book the RV park again now?

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How Not to Write a Blog

I have been writing Deep Dark Thoughts for over two years now, writing about my friends and family, daily events, my childhood, my job and, occasionally, things that for some reason just irritate the crap out of me. It has been frustrating, cathartic, enjoyable, and everything in between and I hope to continue writing this blog for many years to come.

Those that read this blog may wish I would just go away, but you don’t get a vote. Sorry.

While Deep Dark Thoughts has been around, it has led to many interesting conversations about blogging. Usually, I will be talking with a friend, family member, or a complete stranger and the subject of blogging will just naturally come up.

The conversation usually goes something like this:

“Do you want ham or turkey on your sandwich?”

“Why yes, I do write a blog. Thanks for your interest.”

Okay, sometimes I have to insert it into the conversation with a hammer. But once it does come up, I typically get the same response.

“You write a blog? Is it any good?”

I try to explain that “good” is really a subjective qualification, and that everyone has different opinions of what is good or bad. And, yes, even to my own ears it sounds like I’m saying:

“No. No, it really isn’t good at all. You should stay as far away from it as possible.”

The person I’m talking to will often say they would like to read some of my blog posts, and they ask where they can find it. I tell them how to find me and sometimes even recommend a particular post they should read. A few weeks later, I find that person and I ask if they liked my blog. Generally, the response I get is:

“You write a blog? Is it any good?”

It can get a little discouraging. And repetitive.

The second most common question I get is: “Is it hard to write a blog?”

If you are reading this page right now then you have probably already figured out that the answer to that question is, “no.” Clearly, if I can keep a blog going for two years, then any chimpanzee with a computer can a write a blog. If you have $15 you can buy a domain name, and there are dozens of companies out there that are happy to give you a free platform to set up a webpage. After that, just start typing words on the screen and voila! You have a blog.

The tough part, honestly, is staying dedicated long enough to build consistency. If you get bored after about three posts (which I have seen happen to quite a few bloggers out there) and your webpage is only getting updates every couple of months or so, you should probably go look for something you find more interesting to do with your time.

Question number three seems to be: “What do you write about?”

I write about nothing of any real consequence, but a blog can have any theme or topic you want. If you want to write about dinosaurs, write about dinosaurs. If you want to write about girl scout cookies, then write about that. If you feel contentious, put the two together and try to convince people that girl scout cookies were what originally killed off all the dinosaurs.

Any topic is fair game. Personally, I try to avoid topics that have anything to do with politics or religion because I do this whole blogging thing for fun, and getting my house firebombed by some nut job with an opposing viewpoint to my own does not seem like a lot of fun.

Of course, if you like to live on the edge, your blog can be about whatever violence-triggering subject works for you. You can title it: WHAT GOD DID YOU VOTE FOR? Then we can all sit back and see what the comments page looks like over the next few days. Hopefully, the death threats stay to a minimum.

Question number four: “Do you make much money doing a blog?”

This is typically met by a great deal of laughter on my part, followed by a few tears.

Question number five about blogging is most often something along the lines of: “Oh, you’re still talking about your blog? I thought we were done with that.”

That’s when I take the hint, add a drink to the sandwich order, and go sit down to eat my meal alone.

To anyone that may have started reading this blog because the title made them think I was actually going to give helpful information about starting a blog, I apologize. I have nothing constructive to offer. In two years of doing this, there is only one thing of which I am 100% absolutely certain:

If you can’t decide between ham or turkey, get both on the same sandwich. It’s delicious.

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Another Year Older

This week, I celebrated another birthday. Perhaps celebrated is too strong of a term as the truth is closer to I “tolerated” another birthday.

I turned 54 on Monday. This isn’t a milestone by any means. Nobody thinks of 54 as a goal or accomplishment. Nobody is going to go skydiving at 54 to prove they’re still young, or that they still “got it” (whatever “it” is). It is simply another annual marker on the slow journey to acknowledgement of our own mortality.

As a side note, I have no plans to go skydiving at any age. I don’t consider myself a daredevil. I get plenty of excitement in my life just leaving the house and standing 5 feet away from a total stranger who decided not to wear a mask that day.

Like any birthday of no particular note, it went about the way you would expect. For example: I woke up to a surprise birthday breakfast. When I got out of bed, my wife kissed me, wished me happy birthday then drove away to go to work. Both girls were still in bed and didn’t stir until sometime around noon.

No breakfast.

Surprise!

That was alright, though. I hadn’t really expected anything. The plan was to enjoy a really nice dinner that evening anyway. We had even ordered a shipment of my favorite sparkling wine the week before so I could have a glass on my birthday.

Instead of a case of wine on my birthday, I got an email stating the weather was too hot, so the winery was postponing the delivery until the weather cooled down. I’m guessing that means sometime in October. Hopefully, it will arrive in time to celebrate Halloween.

Damned global warming.

Not everything went wrong that day, of course. In fact, most of the day was quite pleasant. My wife gave me a very nice set of wine glasses and tumblers as a gift. I think it was her passive-aggressive way of saying “You’ve been drinking an awful lot lately and I figured if you’re going to kill your liver you should at least do it with a clean glass.”

She’s very thoughtful that way.

Dinner was take-out from my favorite Chinese restaurant. I even got to pick two of the items we ordered so it was a particular treat this time. Usually, I just accept what arrives and consider myself fortunate that I’m allowed to pick through the scraps after everyone else has filled their plates. I’m like the runtiest lion cub waiting for everyone else in the pride to finish mauling the wildebeest. I know my place in the pecking order.

After dinner came an amazing chocolate cake. I don’t usually throw plugs into this blog, but the cake came from Joyfully Baking and Catering and they did an incredible job. I would recommend this place (and this cake) to anyone.

If it bothers you that I just put a commercial in the middle of my weekly rant, remember that you’re reading this for free. If you want a commercial-free blog, I would be happy to discuss a small monthly fee to make that happen.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Before I was allowed to cut the cake, my wife lit candles and the whole family sang happy birthday (mostly) non-sarcastically. There were only five candles on the cake instead of 54, but that was for several good reasons.

One) 54 candles would generate an awful lot of heat and probably set off the smoke detector and fire sprinklers.

Two) The number 5, despite my advance physical age, more accurately depicts my current emotional and mental status.

And Three) There were only five candles in the junk drawer, and nobody had bothered to think about buying candles the last time we were at the store.

I blew out the candles, cut myself a ridiculously large piece of cake, then proceeded to push it down my throat despite the fact that I was still full from eating too much dinner. When I was finished with my cake, I waddled over to the couch and collapsed into the cushions, feeling like an overly-stuffed reject from Build-a-Bear.

The remainder of the evening was spent dozing in and out of a food coma while the kids fought over who should have control of the TV remote. I don’t recall the final outcome of the struggle, but I have some vague memories of subtitles on the television screen and listening to a foreign language that was probably Korean. If you are a regular reader, that last part should be no surprise to you.

All things considered, it was a good day. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my birthday.

And the best part is now that it’s over, I have an entire year before I have to do it all over again.

That, and there is a ton of leftover chocolate cake in the refrigerator.

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Sheltered

Sometimes I wonder if I have sheltered my kids too much while they were growing up. Or maybe it’s just that the world they grew up in has gotten much too protective. Neither one of my girls ever broke a bone, or got in a fight, or was injured just doing stupid stuff.

Which is good, don’t get me wrong, but it makes me wonder how they got this far without getting hurt. And is there a negative side to getting through childhood unscathed? Does this mean that all the life lessons they should have already gotten are still ahead?

Or are too late to learn?

Life isn’t always going to go your way, and I hate to think that I haven’t properly prepared my own kids to face the crap coming their way and keep pushing forward regardless of how hard things might get. I don’t want them thinking that everything should come easily to them and to quit the second anything becomes difficult.

I, on the other hand, have accomplished all of the above childhood goals while growing up: broken bones, fights, avoidable injuries. I learned a great deal about life while earning each and every scar. Some of them, I would do all over again. Others … not so much.

I don’t consider myself a role model, and I don’t recommend the crap I did as a kid to anyone. Much of it was stupid, reckless, and straight up dangerous.

But it was a hell of a lot of fun.

I played football in the street. We didn’t have a park nearby, and the roadway was the only open area large enough to throw a football without breaking somebody’s front window. It wasn’t tackle football. We were morons, but we weren’t suicidal. I fell on that gravel and tar playing field numerous times and have the scars on my knees to prove it. I still remember the wire brush my mom used to wash out all the dirt and rocks that had lodged in the cuts. It was painful and unpleasant, but a couple days later I was back out on the street with my buddies, dodging cars and counting the minutes until the next time I took a nosedive on the pavement.

If I wasn’t playing football, I was riding my bike. We would build flimsy wooden ramps and jump over boxes, bushes, and sometimes even each other. The jumps were not always successful, and I recall multiple occasions when I or one of my friends had to head home with a split lip, bloody nose, or some other (mostly) non-serious injury.

As soon as we got the requisite bandages or ice packs, we were back outside trying another attempt at whatever had knocked us down in the first place.

I learned to not be afraid of getting hurt, taking risks, or even of my own stupidity. That last one has come in remarkably handy my entire life as I do not seem to have outgrown the stupidity.

My girls didn’t take the same risks when they were growing up. Probably because they are both smarter than I am, but also maybe because I didn’t give them the opportunity to try. I wonder if that safe environment was good for them or will ultimately make it harder for them to push through the unavoidable, eventual failures that life will hand them.

Besides, it isn’t always the risks you take that end up causing you the worst injury. Sometimes getting hurt isn’t about being stupid or trying ridiculous things; sometimes it is simply about being in the wrong place at the wrong time or just letting your attention lapse for an instant.

When I was about nine years old, I was at the neighbor’s house playing with a friend of mine. He was using a baseball bat to knock flower buds off a tree branch. I walked up behind him while he was in mid-swing. He didn’t see me, and the bat caught me right across the nose during his follow-through.

The bat broke my nose and cracked my skull below my right eye. I’d like to say I handled the pain with dignity and decorum, but that would be a lie. Several of the neighbors came running out of their houses to see where all the screaming was coming from. I think they thought someone was murdering a cat.

Anyway, my point to that story is that even when you’re not knowingly participating in risky behavior, you never know when something that appears harmless at first glance is going to sneak up on you.

Neither one of us was doing anything wrong, and I still got laid out flat.

So, maybe I should have let the girls take those risks. Win or lose, they would still come away smarter and more experienced when they were done.

I am not suggesting to any parents that may be reading this that they should knowingly let their kids participate in activities likely to get them seriously hurt. It is our job to look out for their safety and well-being.

I am, however, saying that a few bumps and bruises aren’t always such a bad thing. Better they get a little banged up early on than be afraid to take risks later.

Once in a while, when the kids are building that rickety, wooden bike ramp, perhaps we just have to look the other way.

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Sometimes It Just Has to be Chicken

I’m a pretty easygoing person in most circumstances. I’m happy to go along with the group if it makes things a little simpler for everyone else, but I have noticed that not all people are like that. Some people don’t care if it’s easier. If they don’t agree with the group consensus, they’re going to go their own way.

For some people, sometimes it just has to be chicken.

I know that doesn’t make any sense right now, but I promise, it will soon.

When I was assigned to work at the Rio Cosumnes Correctional Center (RCCC) twenty years ago, I met a Deputy there named Edgar. Edgar was a really sweet guy, but he was the type of person that was always going to do things his way.

Also, while I worked at RCCC, I had a sergeant that taught Interview and Interrogation classes. My sergeant, Carl, came to me one day and asked if I would like to attend one of his upcoming classes because he had a couple empty spots still available.

Having been to hundreds of hours of training in the past couple years, I didn’t really want to go. However, as a new employee, I also did not want to tell my sergeant I wasn’t interested in going to his training class. Telling your boss, no, usually isn’t the best way to get onto his good side.

As I was trying to think of a polite way to decline that wouldn’t get me assigned to kitchen duty with the jail inmates, Carl happened to mention the class was being held in Las Vegas.

Let me say that again: Las Vegas!

In addition, he had recently purchased a brand-new motorhome which he planned to drive to the class. He said, a few other deputies were already going, but he had room in his vehicle for one more.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You are going to drive me to Las Vegas in your motorhome for free.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And the County of Sacramento is paying for the training? They are going to pay for my room and food while I’m there?”

“Yes.”

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life but turning down a free trip to Las Vegas isn’t one of them.

“When do we leave?” I asked.

We left about two weeks later. There were five of us in the motorhome for the trip. Carl was driving, and lounging in the back of the RV were me and three other deputies: Kevin, Joe … and Edgar.

Driving to Las Vegas from Sacramento takes about 9 hours on the best of days, and that’s if you drive the whole way without stopping. We weren’t doing that. We were all growing boys and we were going to need to stop and get something to eat at least once during the drive.

It was early afternoon and we were cruising through some tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know exactly where we were because I rarely pay attention to what’s going on around me in the best of circumstances. I just happened to look out the window and noticed a cluster of buildings and restaurant signs around us. Everyone agreed they were hungry and that it was time to take a short break.

Edgar noticed a KFC nearby and suggested we stop for chicken. He was quickly vetoed as the rest of us were in the mood for burgers. Edgar sat quietly, staring out the window at the KFC sign dwindling in the distance behind us. I swear he sighed a couple of times, and there may have been a small tear in his eye.

A couple miles down the road we found a Burger King and Carl turned into the parking lot.

The plan was to stop, use the bathroom, get food, and get back on the road as quickly as possible. We figured the whole process shouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes.

We all bailed out of the RV, went into Burger King and ordered. When we had our meals, we piled back into the motorhome, ready to hit the road again. Except, we couldn’t leave.

Somebody was missing.

“Where the hell is Edgar?” Carl asked, looking at us like we were playing some sort of practical joke on him and had Edgar tied up on the roof of the vehicle.

We all shook our heads. Nobody had any idea where he was. The last I had seen of him, he was getting out of the motorhome with the rest of us. After that, where he ended up was anybody’s guess.

“Maybe he got kidnapped,” I suggested.

“Well, if he doesn’t show up in five minutes, I’m leaving without him,” Carl told us. “We can report him to the police as a missing person when we get to Vegas.”

He didn’t show up in five minutes. He didn’t show up in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes later, Carl was starting the engine and getting ready to pull out of the parking lot when we saw a speck in the distance running toward us on the sidewalk. When the speck got closer, we could see it was Edgar, and he was carrying a KFC bag in his hands.

Edgar had run two miles, ordered food at KFC, then run two miles back to the RV.

I wouldn’t run four miles if my life depended on it. Edgar had just done it for two pieces of chicken and a biscuit.

Carl opened the door and let Edgar in. “Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you just did,” he said.

Edgar shrugged with a big grin on his face, sat down, and started digging through his bag of food. “I wanted chicken,” he told us.

I suppose you’ve got to respect a guy who knows what he wants.

And Edgar wanted chicken.

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Too Many Cats

How many cats is too many cats?

I know people who will tell you that one cat is already too many cats. While their viewpoint may be personally valid, I am not talking about the merits of owning a cat. I am simply objectively asking: how many cats is too many cats?

I once went into a home that had eleven cats. The house was dirty, smelled bad, and every piece of furniture was shredded from years of animals sharpening their claws. I believe this example is an excessive amount of cats. The old lady that owned the house might have disagreed with me but, unfortunately, she had been dead for two days and her herd of feline friends had decided to do what cats do when they are hungry and the person feeding them is no longer providing free cat food.

It was a bit disturbing to say the least.

Since she wasn’t around to defend her decision, I’m going to say the consensus is that eleven is too many. So now we have narrowed down the number to somewhere between one and eleven cats.

Why am I obsessing over this right now? Well, let me tell you.

Recently we adopted two kittens. With the two cats we already have in the house, this makes a total of four yowling mouths to feed (not including EM1 and EM2). I have expressed the opinion that four cats is a ridiculous number of cats to have in one place. Other members of my family believe that four is an ideal number because each person in the house can now have their own cat.

Which is a completely bogus argument. Neither child in this house has a steady income to pay for “their own cat.” Basically, I own four cats and the kids can pet them whenever they want to, then feel free to ignore them when one of the fluffy little monsters is puking up a hairball on the living room carpet.

Four cats means four times the vet bills, four times the litter box cleaning, and four times the noises in the middle of the night as something gets knocked over and comes crashing to the ground.

So, why did we adopt two new kittens? The short answer is: we didn’t. At least, I didn’t. I thought four cats was a bad idea from the beginning, but apparently, I was outvoted.

One of our older cats, Sheba, is sixteen years old. She is slowing down and probably doesn’t have a whole lot of time left. EM1 and EM2 didn’t want to lose Sheba and only have one cat in the house, so they begged their mom and me to get a new kitten to replace the old cat before she dies.

I suggested waiting until after Sheba passes, but the kids insisted they would rather get a kitten now to torment our old cat and hurry the whole dying process along. Okay, they didn’t actually say that, but I’m pretty sure this was the plan.

Both girls started looking at adoption places and checking online for local residents that had kittens. After a couple weeks of looking, they found a family that had two kittens that needed a new home. The family was hoping that both kittens would be adopted together since they were siblings.

I told my family I thought two more cats was a bad idea. They agreed.

My wife asked if she and the girls could go see the kittens and perhaps just adopt one of them. I said, “Sure. Go ahead and take a look, but don’t do anything yet.”

“Okay,” said my lovely wife. “We will just go and look. Afterwards, we will come back home and talk to you about what to do next.”

I think that’s what she said anyway. My recollection might be a bit fuzzy since thirty minutes later, my wife and daughters were back home with a cat crate containing two mewling balls of flea-riddled fur. So much for just going to go look.

The younger of our two cats took one look at the new intruders, hissed, and ran off to hide under the bed. Sheba, our ancient cat, sniffed at the kittens then lied down on the ground at my feet. She just gave up. I think she was trying very hard to die right there in front of me.

Despite her best efforts, Sheba did not die. At least not yet. I believe if she had opposable thumbs, she would have tried to pull the cap off of the bottle of sleeping pills in our bathroom cabinet, but for now she is stuck with hanging around a while longer.

The kittens are rampaging around the house like they own the place, getting into absolutely every kind of trouble they can think of, and our other cat, Sukoshi, is still hiding under the bed.

So, getting back to my original question: how many cats is too many?

The answer is four. Definitely, four. Four cats is too many.

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