Blog Posts – Page 3 – Deep Dark Thoughts

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.

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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.

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.

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.