Deep Dark Thoughts – Page 17 – Deep Dark Thoughts

A Good Old Fashioned Halloween

Next week is Halloween, and all over the world there will be children dressing up in costumes and knocking on their neighbors’ doors asking for handouts. These wandering vagrants-in-training will be wearing all the latest safety gear our modern world can provide them; bright day-glow colored costumes that stand out for hundreds of feet, flashing lights attached to various body parts, and open-faced masks that allow for full peripheral vision while crossing busy streets.

But where is the fun in all that?

I miss the good old days when children had to take their lives in their hands if they wanted to pester the neighbors for those little compressed chunks of sugar and chocolate. If the rewards come too easily, nobody truly appreciates what they receive. After a few near misses with cars in poorly lit streets and dark alleyways, kids of my generation learned to truly savor every fun-sized candy bar and cellophane-wrapped hard candy.

I remember one year of trick-or-treating as a young child, I was wearing a store-bought dinosaur costume. The main costume was a dark green, vinyl one-piece that covered me from neck to feet. Of course, the material was so cheap one of the sleeves had already torn most of the way off while I was putting it on, but it mostly held together. The color was so dark, car headlights could not illuminate it no matter how close the driver came to running me over. I felt like a ninja, cartwheeling through roadways as traffic blew past completely unaware of my presence.

The mask I had was a hard plastic thing that covered my entire face and was held in place by a single elastic strap that went around my head. The strap was attached to the mask with a single staple on each side, adding the risk that at any time it might break and the elastic would recoil and snap out one of my eyes. Or at least leave a nice red welt on the side of my cheek.

There were two small eye holes cut out of the mask. The holes were about the size of a quarter and they were placed way too close together to allow for any peripheral vision or depth perception. They were perfectly designed for maximum risk of injury to the child wearing the mask. I’m not sure if that was a design flaw, or a pre-planned feature of the costume.

Every year, we lost a few people while they were out trick-or-treating. But those were just the slow ones that let their attention wander during crucial moments of wending through the neighborhoods. The survivors came away faster, smarter and more experienced than their failed counterparts. It was a harsh, but effective, selection process. The winners got candy. The losers got lovely newspaper articles written about them the next morning.

Keep in mind, the world was not so badly overpopulated in the 1970’s and 1980’s as it is now. I think that may have been due to the annual culling of the children we call Halloween. In the 1990’s, people demanded children’s costumes be safer and the obvious result of that trend is that now the world has way too many people living in it.

Maybe the old ways weren’t so bad after all?

We have made child panhandling too safe these days. The fun has disappeared along with the risk.

Several years ago, the United States even pushed back the end of Daylight Saving Time a week so children would still have sunlight during the prime trick-or-treating hours.

What was the purpose of that? Trick-or-treating in daylight is like wearing skis in the desert. You can do it, but it makes no sense to anybody watching.

Trick-or-treating was meant to be done in the dark. Why else would people put on costumes? In the dark, that vampire costume looks cool. In the daylight, you just look like the weird kid nobody at school wants to talk to. You know the one: the overly pale kid that always overdresses for whatever event he shows up at.

A cape and a tuxedo just don’t cut it when the sun is still shining.

I think our current generation has weeded out everything that made Halloween fun. We might as well be keeping the kids at home and handing them a pile of candy purchased earlier that day at the grocery store. Costumes can be sweatpants and t-shirts as they watch TV and eat their “loser candy.”

I say we need to bring back the cheap plastic costumes and the suffocation risks that came with it. Start remaking the hard plastic masks with no breathing hole over the mouth and zero visibility for anything that isn’t standing directly in front of you. And change the clocks so the sun goes down at 3 PM on Halloween night.

Are we going to lose a few kids in the aftermath? Of course, we are. But the ones that live to see November 1^st are going to thank me for all the fun they had the night before.

Happy Halloween!

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Natural Born Athlete

I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I will say it again, but I am out of shape. I know I am out of shape because my body keeps sending me little reminders that I’m not allowed to do things I did all the time when I was younger. Things like play sports, run long distances, or touch my toes without sitting down and breaking into a cold sweat. It is a little bit discouraging when you have to get down on the floor and brace your back against a wall just to tie your shoes. It isn’t the greatest start to a new day.

When I was younger, I got hurt all the time, but the injuries all made sense. I earned each and every one of my battle scars. In my teens, I dislocated my knee while playing football. I also tore a muscle in my leg playing baseball. In my twenties, I injured my shoulder in a fight. I was in my thirties when I broke my hand playing softball, and I bruised two ribs in my forties sparring in a karate tournament. Every one of those injuries happened for a good reason. Perfectly understandable forces of nature interacted with my body to cause all of them.

More recently, I have discovered that I sustain injuries for no apparent reason. I might be sitting on the couch and get a sharp pain in my neck, or perhaps I will stand up too quickly and get a massive cramp in my calf. Just a few weeks ago, I woke up in the morning and, as I got out of bed, I realized that at some point during the night I pulled my hamstring muscle.

Apparently, I can’t even sleep anymore without risk of sustaining physical damage. I thought that lying perfectly still for several hours surrounded by blankets, a mattress and a pillow would be about the least risky thing I could do, but somehow, I managed to hurt my leg during that prolonged period of inactivity.

My body has completely failed me. It is breaking down and falling apart all on its own with no need of further help from me.

I have never been what people refer to as a “natural born athlete.” I am not, and never was, a paragon of physical prowess. However, once upon a time, I did have the ability to successfully remain motionless without serious bodily damage. Not anymore. These days, massive muscular and skeletal failures may be just one overly exuberant breath away.

I need to work out more. I need to lose weight and eat better. I know these things. None of that is mind blowing news. The day I woke up and discovered all of my Hawaiian shirts were now form-fitting outerwear was a huge clue that I am no longer the same size I was in high school. But how am I supposed to risk getting on a bicycle or lifting weights when I know that pulling a muscle in the back of my leg only required me to lie down? If I attempt anything more strenuous that total immobility, am I going to just spontaneously explode?

Maybe I should just accept these phantom pains and injuries as a sign. The universe no longer wants me to work out, play sports, or involve myself in any further physical activities. I should be taking up more sedentary activities to keep me busy, things like movie marathons, rocking chair calisthenics, or competitive slow mouth breathing. I bet I could be really good at that last one. If they ever make it an Olympic event, I could probably win a medal. Maybe not gold – I’ve met some fierce competitors in my day – but certainly silver or bronze.

Since exercise appears to be a non-starter for me, I guess I will have to find other ways to improve my overall health. I suppose I could start eating better. It’s just that most of the stuff that’s supposed to be good for you tastes like dirt and sadness.

I am going to have to think about my limited options for a while; come up with a new plan for improving my overall health that doesn’t involve risk of self-harm or eating kale. However, sitting upright in this chair as I write down my thoughts is beginning to take a toll on my fragile physique. I need to rest and recover my strength.

I think I am going to go take a nap. I just hope I can lie down on the couch without causing any bruises or broken bones. No pain, no gain, I suppose. I’ll let you all know how it goes.

If I survive.

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Wishful Thinking

Four years ago, I dropped my oldest child off at the dorms to start her first year of college. I admit that at the time I was a bit sad. My baby girl was growing up and taking the first steps to becoming an adult. I thought that it was only a matter of time before she left her mother and me for good.

That was just wishful thinking.

In June of this year, EM1 left school and moved back home. And not just for a visit. She lives in my house full time once again and there is no exit date in the foreseeable future.

I wouldn’t mind so much if things went back to where they were before EM1 went off to college, but unfortunately there have been some drastic changes over the past four years. Changes that might be improvements in her eyes, but they have not made living with her any easier.

Now that she is an adult (her words, not mine), she has developed certain habits and ways of taking care of herself that no longer fit the previous family dynamic. She behaves less like a daughter and more like a roommate.

To clarify: she behaves like a roommate that eats everything in the fridge, pays no rent, and makes a mess of the house without even attempting to clean up after herself. If she actually were just a roommate, I would have kicked her out of the house three months ago. But because she is family (although the DNA tests haven’t come back to confirm that yet) I am compelled to let her stay.

For now.

When EM1 was merely a child, I could ask her to do chores and she didn’t complain. She did not actually do the chores, but at least she ignored my requests silently. Now, when I ask her to pick up her stuff or help with cleaning the house, she tells me that the house is fine as it is, and she sees no reason to change it. If I want it cleaner, she says I should clean it because I’m the one with the problem.

For example, EM1 left half of a tissue on the counter recently.

Half. Who the hell uses half a Kleenex?

She had a cold and was constantly blowing her nose. Although we asked her to throw her mess away, my darling child declined the request. The half tissue (along with several other used tissues) got tossed in the garbage by her frustrated mother. EM1 immediately complained that she had set the half tissue aside to use later and we had wasted it.

Feeding her has become a problem as well. When she was little, EM1 ate whatever meals I fixed because that was the only thing available. Now, if she doesn’t like what’s on the plate in front of her, she will fix herself something else. Of course, she is still using stuff in the house that I paid for and probably had planned to use later. If she can’t find anything in the house she likes, she will go out and get something from a restaurant using the credit card that I pay for.

A few days ago, my wife made some scrambled eggs for us. EM1 asked if she could have some and my wife said, “Of course.” EM1 then proceeded to say, “But don’t use so much salt and pepper. You season it too much and I don’t like that.”

In a restaurant, that behavior might work. In a house where you don’t pay for rent or food, you keep your mouth shut unless you’re saying, “Thank you.”

Somebody did a lousy job raising that kid.

It must be nice to always get what you want and not worry about where the money comes from. If my dad wasn’t already dead, I would move back in with him and see if I could get away with the same crap that EM1 pulls on me.

I am getting a little tired of my “roommate” treating me like the hired help. I am running out of patience for the constant criticism and complaints.

If I fix stuffing or pasta, EM1 asks why we’re not having rice. If I bake a potato, she wants it mashed. If I open a window or a door to let in some air, she closes it and says she’s cold and that I’m letting bugs into the house. The counters are covered with dishes that seem to appear overnight, and the hallway is full of clothing and furniture that has somehow managed to escape from EM1’s room. It seems even inanimate objects are trying to get away from her.

Yesterday, I was watching a movie on television. I paused the movie to pull some laundry out of the dryer, fold it, and put it away. The process took about ten or fifteen minutes. When I returned to the living room, EM1 was on the couch holding the TV remote and watching a Korean boy band talk about the most interesting foods they ate while on a tour in Europe.

Apparently, the fact that the TV was on pause did not register with her that someone else just might have been watching before she sat down.

Again, as a daughter, I love her very much. As a roommate, she sucks.

Living with a twenty-two-year-old that has had four years of being on her own requires a significant adjustment period. I am learning that the hard way. We are butting heads over things that never occurred four years ago. My wife keeps telling me that I need to be patient and things will eventually smooth themselves out.

I hope so.

If not, the kid is going to find herself on the streets looking for a new place to live, and I don’t think her chances of finding an apartment will be very good.

Especially since I will probably be the only reference on her application.

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When the Wife is Away

Homemade pizza on a wooden pizza paddle.

My wife plays the trombone in a German band. I have mentioned this before (And the Band Plays On), so I won’t go into too much detail other than to say that this time of year is her busiest season with the band. She is gone every weekend during the last half of September and during October for Oktoberfest.

Because I enjoy German music about the same way I enjoy getting wooden slivers rammed under my fingernails, I do not go to the Oktoberfest events with my wife. I just stay at home on my own and enjoy not listening to polka music played nonstop for five straight hours.

Ordinarily, being home by myself is not a big deal. Recently, however, there have been a few changes in my life.

I went to the doctor a couple months back because I was having some issues with my blood pressure. It was getting a bit higher than the typical level for sustaining human life and I decided I should get checked out and make sure it wasn’t anything to worry about.

It was something to worry about.

The doctor advised that because of my weight (yes, I have gained a few pounds since retiring, but who would have guessed eating more and moving less could do that?) my blood pressure had gotten high enough that I might have to start taking medication to control it.

I dislike taking medication, so I asked if there was another way to deal with it. The doctor said if I could lose some of the extra fat I was carrying around it might make a difference. He advised me to cut my calorie intake to 1500 or fewer each day, and to stop consuming alcohol, sugar, processed foods, and caffeine for a couple months and see if that helped.

I’m not sure if his attempt to suck all the joy out of my life was to improve my health or if he just had a bet with some of the other doctors to see if he could make a patient suicidal.

I asked if there might be a third option in this scenario. He told me, “no.”

Then he asked which was more important to me, to see my grandchildren grow up or to eat fast food.

That question really hit home. I don’t care for my kids all that much, and I don’t expect I’m going to like theoretical future grandkids much better. Especially if they’re being raised by the wild animals that call themselves my daughters.

Plus, I love cheeseburgers.

I explained my quandary to the doctor, and he said, “Forget it. Go on a diet or I’m prescribing pills to get your blood pressure down.”

So, I went on the diet. And I’ve been really good about sticking to it as well. Except when I’m left on my own. Which brings us back to Oktoberfest.

With my wife gone on the weekends, I am left to take care of myself. This is never a good idea in the best of circumstances. My youngest daughter is still away at college, and my oldest, although she moved back home with me, is usually out with her friends in the evening and I don’t see much of her except at about noon when she is getting out of bed and getting ready for another day of leaving me alone in the house.

So, what happens when I’m alone? Let me walk you through a recent day of fending for myself.

I spent the morning and early afternoon sticking to my diet and keeping busy working in the yard and doing some writing in my den. About three o’clock in the afternoon, I started eyeing a bag of potato chips in the pantry that are definitely not on my diet. Instead of eating them, I decided to go out and get some exercise, so I put on a pair of sweats and went for a walk.

While I was out walking, I started feeling sorry for myself because I was alone and hungry. Mostly the being hungry part. I began to think about what food I had in the house and what I should fix when I got back home. We had lettuce and vegetables for a salad, and we also had some leftover meatloaf from a few nights previously.

Those items would have been perfect for dinner, if there was someone else at home watching to see what I was eating. Which there wasn’t.

So, I made myself a pizza with extra cheese, and ate it with a bowl of ranch dressing (nature’s most perfect, artery-clogging food). To wash it all down, I opened up a couple of Mike’s hard lemonades which are mostly sugar and alcohol, neither of which is physician approved on my current diet.

All I really needed to cap off the evening was to smoke a carton of cigarettes to assure that I would be dead by Monday.

That was just one weekend. I have four more to get through without any adult supervision. I don’t anticipate my self-control is going to improve over the next month so I can already hear what the doctor will have to say the next time I see him.

“Mr. Wilbanks, I can see by your test results that your blood is 30% ranch dressing. Your blood pressure is still high, but the good news is your arteries are so plugged nothing is moving around inside your body anymore.”

I blame my wife for all of it. She has seen firsthand what happens when I’m left by myself. She should know better by now.

I need to have a talk with her about her poor decision-making skills.

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Yet Another Trip to the Vet

Let me ask a hypothetical question. Say you have a really old cat. I mean really old. This animal is so old you have to pick it up and hold it next to the food bowl before it starts to eat. It’s so old, the cat’s idea of play is to vaguely wave a paw in the general direction of a toy. I’m saying people just have to look at the poor animal and they can immediately see, holy crap, that’s an old cat. Now say this cat starts to pee all over the house because it can’t always find the litter box, and you notice that there is blood in the urine.

Here’s the question: Do you take the animal to the vet, or just take it out into the backyard with a shovel, and dig a hole?

Now, before PETA starts rioting on my front lawn for even suggesting a painless, blunt trauma, euthanization of a cat, let me just clarify. I did end up taking her to the vet.

But she hated every second of it. We both did, actually.

The cat, Sheba, started yowling the moment she saw the carrying crate. She would have run away when I brought it out, but she was too tired to move from the spot she had been sitting in for the past two hours. (Did I mention this cat is old?)

I put Sheba in the crate and placed her in the car. She immediately started to throw up and pee in the carrier from panic. She panted and cried during the entire thirty-minute drive to the vet. I’m surprised the ride itself didn’t put her out of her misery.

When we arrived, I found clumps of hair in the carrier. Her fur was falling out because she was so stressed out from the trip. I wondered if, by the time I got her back home, she was going to look like one of those naked, loose-skinned cats you occasionally see on television (because no sane person would ever actually own one). You know the ones, I’m talking about. The cats that look like a cross between a newly hatched baby bird and a malformed demon from Hell.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen. She still has (most of) her fur.

At the veterinarian’s office, Sheba was pulled out of the crate and given a full examination, including taking her temperature (no, not oral) and stabbing her with needles to draw blood.

The doctor wanted a urine sample as well, but because Sheba had already peed in her carrier, they took her into a back room, kept her in a cage for two hours (not an exaggeration) so her bladder would fill back up, then used a catheter to get a sample. You can imagine just how much the cat enjoyed this whole process.

When the vet finished torturing Sheba, it was my turn.

“That’ll be $700, Mr. Wilbanks.”

$700!

I don’t pay that much when I take one of my own family members to the doctor. Why are cats so expensive? It’s insane. Especially when you can wander down to any animal shelter in the city and get a new kitten for free. Who sets these prices?

I don’t know who felt more violated by the trip; me or the cat.

I stuffed Sheba back into the carrier and brought her home. When I got into the house, I opened the door of the carrier and the cat had just enough energy to step out of it and lie down in the middle of the hallway. I poked her with a finger just to make sure she was still breathing.

She was.

The next day, I got a phone call from the vet. The vet told me Sheba had a urinary tract infection and it needed to be treated with antibiotics. I got a prescription (Another $100. Whee!) and brought it home.

The medication was a white liquid that needed to be sucked up into a dropper and squirted into the cat’s mouth. Twice every day.

For fifteen days.

I don’t know if you have ever tried to force something into a cat’s mouth but let me assure you it is not an easy or pleasant experience. Those furry little monsters have some nasty sharp teeth and they aren’t afraid to use them. I’m sure it’s no fun for the cat either. I can only imagine if twice a day for two weeks someone dragged me out from under the bed and stuck a turkey baster in my mouth. I might start wondering if simply crawling into a corner somewhere and letting death claim me might not be the better option.

Which brings us back to my original question. Did I do the right thing by dragging that poor old cat to the vet and putting her through two weeks of misery for a treatment that might extend her life for another sixteen seconds? I’m not totally sure.

I’m thinking about it from my own perspective as well. When I get so old that I start peeing all over the house and someone notices blood in my urine, I don’t know if I want doctors poking me with needles and making my last days absolutely miserable.

I’m just saying that maybe we should give the whole backyard and shovel thing some serious thought.

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Vacationing with a Workaholic

I am a writer. Most days, I am at home, sitting in front of my computer trying to create something both entertaining and commercially viable. This occurs with varying amounts of success. My friends and family do not see my activities in quite the same light that I do.

According to them, I am unemployed and don’t do anything all day long. My existence is just one long vacation with no responsibilities or concerns. Usually, I just smile and laugh off their comments. I can see why they would think that. My car never leaves the driveway and the only time my skin sees sunlight is when I stagger out into the open air long enough to grab the mail. However, these comments can get a little frustrating when I actually do want to take a vacation.

The stares I get when I bring up the topic are confused at best and threatening at their worst.

“What do you need a vacation for? You never leave the house.” This is the typical response I receive.

And that is exactly why I need the vacation. When most people have a day off, they are excited they don’t have to go to their place of work. They get to stay home. When I take a day off, I’m still right where I always am. Same four walls. Same view. Same everything.

When I take a day off, I want to go somewhere.

Here is where it gets a bit sticky. I am married to a workaholic. Even when I am ready to leave the house for a couple days, I have to convince my wife to go with me. Well, I don’t have to. I suppose I could go without her, but that would create a whole different set of problems that I really don’t want to deal with.

My wife is an elementary school principal, and she absolutely hates taking time off.

She works late most nights, and when she gets home, she is still checking emails and making phone calls right up until she goes to bed. On weekends, she is frequently fielding questions from parents and teachers at her school, so the time we spend together is usually me on the couch looking at a paused television screen while listening to my wife explain to a hostile parent why little Johnny is failing arts and crafts despite his surprising facility at eating paste.

If I can’t get her to pay attention to me for five minutes on a weekend, you can imagine the lack of success I have getting my wife to leave town with me for a few days.

Our last camping trip together is a perfect example.

We had a reservation at a camp site from Thursday through Monday. I asked my wife if she could take a couple days off. I told her I wanted to leave Thursday so we could have three full days at the campgrounds.

She took Friday off, but decided she still wanted to work on Thursday. She suggested I go to the campgrounds, set up our camp, then drive back into town on Friday to pick her up.

I took a hard pass on that suggestion.

She next suggested she could work a half day on Thursday, then we could leave town in the afternoon. I agreed to that one, albeit reluctantly.

Thursday arrived, and apparently there was “an incident” at school that day. While she did come home in the afternoon, my wife was writing emails and talking on the phone the entire time I was packing the truck and hooking up the trailer.

And during the hour and a half drive to the campgrounds.

And while I set up camp.

And while we ate dinner.

And … well, I’m sure you get the picture.

Friday was not much better. I sat in a folding chair in front of a campfire the following morning, while my wife wandered through the trees looking for better cell reception.

The weekend did improve slightly. I believe we had a couple five-minute conversations between emails. I finally got her settled in and got her to turn off her electronic devices about halfway through Monday morning. Of course, that was also the day we had to come home.

During the drive home, I could see her brain start to heat up again as she thought about going back to work the next day. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she started having imaginary conversations with parents and students. She could have passed for a Baptist minister at a tent revival meeting.

That was our last vacation. I did get away from the house, I suppose. But it would have been nice if there was someone to talk to while we there. Someone besides the kids, I mean. I talk to them enough already, and most of those conversations start with one of them asking for money.

The next trip we have planned isn’t until next summer. That’s about ten months away. My wife will have to miss a couple days of Summer School for us to go.

I should probably start easing her into the idea of it now. I hope there’s enough time.

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