Tag: Deep Dark Thoughts

‘Twas the Night

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the joint

Not a creature was stirring, there just seemed no point.

With mom in her sweatpants, talking on Zoom,

The kids had all fled to hide in their room.

I sat surrounding by bright red and green,

Decorations put out since before Halloween.

When out in the yard I heard such a crash,

I grabbed my shotgun and threw open the sash.

When what on the dew-covered lawn should appear,

But a battered red sleigh tied to five exhausted reindeer.

The sleigh and the deer lay scattered about

Gasping and panting like ground-landed trout.

From out of the mess, a shadow arose

And a tiny green figure struck a bone-weary pose.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I expected St. Nick.”

The elf gazed at me and said, “He’s been sick.

The guy you expected is home and in bed,

He’s so fat and so old I’m surprised he’s not dead.

Covid, you see, has made it to the North Pole,

Even on reindeer, it’s taken its toll.”

I invited the poor tired elf in the house,

He thanked me for the kindness and said hi to my spouse.

I offered him treats and milk in a glass,

He just shook his head and said he would pass.

“What I really need now is a frosty cold beer.

It’s been a rough night. In fact, fuck this whole year.”

I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer off the shelf,

Then paused before grabbing one for myself.

I figured the elf shouldn’t drink all alone,

Or what kind of a host would I be in my home?

He emptied the bottle in a swallow or two,

So, I got him another. What else could I do?

As he drank, I noticed his nose grew much redder.

He belched and then told me, “I feel so much better.

Now it’s time to leave gifts and get back on my way.”

He glanced around and then swore, “They’re still on the sleigh.”

I told him forget it, the girls would be fine,

Besides, they’d been brats for most of the time.

If gifts were part of their holiday wishes

They should have at least once or twice, washed the dishes.

The elf gave a laugh like I’d tickled his ribs

Said, “You’re a terrible father, you should never have kids.

But I’m running late so I’ll take your warning.

Your girls will get nothing. Good luck in the morning.”

The elf slunk away, unsteady in stride,

Returned to his sled and climbed back inside.

The reindeer stood up, looking tired and lame

As the elf shook the reins and called them by name.

“On Dasher, on Vixen, on Thomas and Hugh.

On Cupid. Nope, not Cupid. Which one are you?”

The sleigh took to the air with a bump and a twist

That left the elf swearing and shaking his fist.

As he flew out of sight, I heard his last shout.

It wasn’t fit for children, so I’ll leave those words out.

THE END

Merry Christmas, and may 2021 be much better for us all.

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Leaky Pipes

Picture of leaky faucet

During this holiday season, our kitchen faucet decided to spring a leak. I don’t know why or how it happened. I can only assume the kitchen sink looked around and thought, “Gee, there aren’t enough things wrong with the house right now. What can I do to change that?”

Leaky pipes in the middle of the holidays seems like a perfect metaphor for this entire year. Especially since it wasn’t just a normal leak. You see, most faucets would have the common decency to simply drip right into the sink where the water could go harmlessly down the drain.

Not our faucet.

Our faucet decided to drip down a pipe situated in the cabinetry below the sink. The first we were aware of the problem was when I stepped in a puddle of water on the kitchen floor. I opened the cabinet doors under the sink and was met with the joyful discovery that everything in the cabinet was wet and saturated with water.

Like I do, I immediately sprang to action. I took all 54 years of my accumulated plumbing knowledge and experience and attacked the problem as I knew it was meant to be dealt with.

I jiggled the handle on the faucet.

The drip kept going.

Next, I banged the pipes and faucet with the palm of my hand just as my father had taught me. It was a tactic I had seen him utilize many times when fixing electronics, cars, toasters, and yes, plumbing fixtures. Unfortunately, this approach also failed, so I attempted my last ditch, never-fails move.

I swore at the sink and begged it to stop leaking.

Disheartened that my life lessons had proved to be of no avail, I placed a plastic bucket under the drip to minimize further damage to the woodwork in the cabinet, and I called a plumber.

Calling the plumber offered me my first (and last) bit of good luck on this horrific journey of defective plumbing. My call was answered by a friendly gentleman I shall call “Plumber Steve.” He told me that he had a few free minutes the very next day and that he would come over and take a look at my sink. Against expectations and all my previous experiences with house calls, plumber Steve actually showed up as promised at the agreed upon time. Herein ends the good parts of the story.

Plumber Steve advised me that the faucet in our sink was a special-order faucet designed to meet the exact specifications of the person who had originally installed it. This meant that Plumber Steve was unable to purchase a standard faucet and make it fit in the granite countertop we currently had in our kitchen.

“Not to worry, though,” Plumber Steve assured me. “I will just call the company that made it and have them send us a new one.”

Huzzah! thought I. Problem solved.

Two days later, Plumber Steve called me to say he had contacted the company. They informed him that the faucet I wanted had been discontinued in 2011. They no longer had any in stock.

I couldn’t help but feel this as a personal attack on me and my house. I coincidentally had moved into my home in 2011, the same year they discontinued making the faucet. It was almost as if the faucet company had a meeting on the day my family moved in.

“Is the Wilbanks family in the house?”

“Yes, boss.”

“And it’s too late for them to back out of it?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Great. Go ahead and stop making the faucet.” (This statement followed by evil laughter and the petting a large white cat sitting in his lap).

I asked Plumber Steve what he thought I should do next. He told me not to worry. Although the company no longer made the faucet, they still had some parts in a warehouse somewhere. Plumber Steve could not get me a new faucet, but he could repair the old one. It would still look like crap, but it would no longer turn our lower cabinetry into an aquarium.

I asked him how long it would take to get the parts. I could actually hear him shrug on the other end of the phoneline. “They’ll get here when they get here.”

Fast forward two weeks. The drip continued to get worse, and I was emptying the plastic bucket under our sink four or five times every day.

I received a white, plastic pouch in the mail. Inside the pouch was a tiny, paper envelope. In the envelope was a silver, faucet cap screen. Not having any idea why the hell I was receiving a faucet screen in the mail, I called Plumber Steve.

“I think they mailed a part of my faucet to my house,” I told him.

“They should be mailing all the parts to you. Let me know when you get them.”

“I have one, now.”

“There should be about fifteen different pieces.”

“I have one,” I repeated.

“There should be a lot more.”

“I have one.”

“So, what does that tell you?”

I thought about it for a moment, then said, “I’ll call you back when I have more.”

“Way to go, Stud,” he said, then hung up. (By the way, that is a direct quote.)

Fast forward another week.

By this time, I had a large pile of tiny faucet pieces gathered on my counter. I did not know if I had them all, but I was tired of waiting, so I called Plumber Steve one more time. When he asked if all the parts had arrived, I told him with absolute conviction, “I have no f***ing idea.”

I might have cried a little as well. I’m not sure. Either way, Plumber Steve agreed to come over and look at what I had collected.

It must have been everything, because about ten minutes after Plumber Steve got to my house, I had a fully functioning, non-dripping faucet again. Plumber Steve tipped his hat, took several hundred dollars of my savings, and drove off in his bright, white and blue truck, probably humming Christmas carols to himself as he left.

Currently, all plumbing fixtures are working as they should. I still have Plumber Steve on speed-dial, however, just in case. It’s 2020, and anything could happen. Besides, I don’t totally trust the toilet in the guest bathroom. I think it’s been having some late-night conversations with the kitchen faucet, and it might be getting some bad ideas.

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An Open Letter to St. Nick

Dear Santa,

Let me start by saying that I have been a very good boy this year. By good, I of course mean that I haven’t done anything that might get me arrested. (Detained and questioned for a few hours, maybe, but not actually arrested.) And by year, I mean January and February, since I don’t consider the rest of this crap-fest we call 2020 to count.

Since March, I have been basically huddled in a hole with a large rock pulled over my head, so the opportunities to do anything that might put me on your naughty list have been severely limited. I expect bonus points for this, despite what that snitch, Elf on a Shelf, may have been telling you. I think we both know from past experience that little guy is a liar and should have been fired as your field representative a long time ago.

Now, on to my list of demands, er, I mean requests:

First, I would like world peace, not because I actually care what happens outside of my own backyard, but because I know that kind of selfless request is the only guaranteed way to get your attention. If I start with what I really want, you will just assume I am one of the thousands of selfish individuals who only think of themselves. (By the way, I think that is a terribly unfair assumption, and you should take a good long look at yourself before you start judging others so harshly. I mean, come on, if you have the power to grant world peace, why haven’t you done it already? Seems pretty callous of you to sit in your ivory tower all year long and let the rest of us suffer, don’t you think?)

My next request would normally be for the opportunity to spend the holidays with my family. I’m not going to waste a wish on that particular ask this year, since I have spent the last ten months locked in a small residential home with the whole Wilbanks brood and I have frankly had my fill of family togetherness. There is only so much bliss and closeness one human being can stand. Instead, I am hoping that you might find some way to get them all out of the house at the same time for a few hours so I can sit on the couch in my underwear and watch a few things on television that I actually want to see. I’m getting a little tired of the kids hiding the remote control after setting the screen to an endless cycle of K-pop videos.

Which brings me to wish number three: Is there anything you can do to make those K-pop videos go away? Not forever. Just a couple days would be nice.

Number four, there is a woodpecker that keeps landing on my house and pecking holes in the side of the eaves. Is there anything you can do about that? You could even make it look like an accident if that helps. Do birds have heart attacks? Nobody would suspect foul play if the damn bird just toppled out of a tree one day. Happens all the time, am I right? Give it some thought. I’ll leave the actual method of removal to you. Whatever the method you choose, though, you should probably burn this letter afterward so we don’t leave a paper trail.

Number five, is there a way to proactively get myself placed on the liver donor list? I seem to have done quite a bit of damage to mine during the past year. My doctor says I can’t get on the list until I completely obliterate the poor thing, but if I wait until then, it seems like it would much too late. I’m hoping you can get me early access. If early access to the liver list is impossible, maybe you could get me a couple nice bottles of whiskey. At least I can finish the job I’ve already started in style. (And, hey, speaking of liver failure, that might be a good idea for taking out that damned woodpecker. Think about it, that’s all I’m asking.)

Six, I don’t need any socks, ties, or coffee mugs. I have plenty still stocked up from previous holidays. For the love of god, please knock it off with that sort of shit.

Seven, as a personal request, please leave the family stockings on the front porch this Christmas. I know you do a lot of traveling this time of year and visit people all over the world. The rest of us are staying home and practicing appropriate social distancing, and since I have no idea what sort of precautions you’re taking (if any), I would prefer you stay out of my house. Nothing personal, I just don’t need you spreading whatever germs you’ve collected all over my living room. On a side note, when you get back to the North Pole, you might want to isolate yourself from Mrs. Claus for a couple weeks as well, just to be on the safe side.

Finally, I would like this year to end. I know it is going away soon anyway, but anything you could do to speed up the process would be greatly appreciated. Maybe you could let the Baby New Year know he can show up a few weeks early this time around. I don’t think anybody would complain.

To sum up, I’ve been a good boy and deserve presents. World peace, family harmony, blah, blah, blah. Stop K-pop, kill the woodpecker, (burn this letter), new liver, ditch the socks, and stay out of my house.

Am I forgetting anything?

Oh, yeah.

Merry Christmas.

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

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What Do You Want for Dinner?

A conversation occurred in my house recently. It was a conversation that unfortunately has happened on more occasions than I would care to remember or admit to. It has happened enough times that I should know better by now not to participate, and yet it still recurs on a much too frequent basis. This conversation has led to strife, arguments, yelling, and hurt feelings, but I still get sucked into it every time.

It never comes as a surprise. I can always see it coming, yet the knowledge of what is about to happen never changes the outcome. This conversations always starts the same way:

Somebody asks, what do you want for dinner?

Usually, we try to plan out the weekly meals during the weekend at the same time that we make our grocery list. We know what we need to buy because we have carefully orchestrated the evening meal for each night of the week. If we cook something new every night, on occasion, we end up with too many leftovers and food goes to waste. Because of this, we will often plan a gap day which is designed to be an opportunity to clean out the fridge.

We call this a “scrounging” night. It usually works out fine, but once in a while, when the stars do not align properly, a day will come along when we run out of both plans for meals and leftovers on the same night.

This is when the trouble begins. This is when the conversation starts that everyone in the house knows is about to lead to ruin. I’m sharing this recurring nightmare because I’m hoping we’re not alone in this. Perhaps our pain will bring some comfort to someone else.

Of course, it’s just as likely that my family is just a bunch of unorganized sociopaths and this experience is unique to us. I guess we’ll see.

Once it has been determined that we are hungry and there is no meal planned, I often get the ball rolling with the aforementioned question:

“What do you want for dinner?”

To which my wife will generally respond, “Anything. Just pick something.”

Seems innocuous enough, and yet with those two comments, the rest of the evening is destined to unfold as follows:

Me: “Are there any leftovers from dinner last night?”

Wife: “No, I took the last (fill in the blank) for my lunch today. Is there anything in the freezer?”

Me: “Nothing that will thaw out in time to eat before tomorrow.”

Wife: “What about that chicken we planned to cook this weekend. We could make it tonight.”

Me: “No. I didn’t really want to do that recipe tonight. There’s too much prep work and we wouldn’t be eating until ten o’clock. I’d rather fix something easy.”

Wife: “What about eggs?”

This is usually where the dialogue spills out into the rest of the family.

EM1: “What are we doing for dinner?”

Wife: “Dad might make some eggs.”

EM1: “I don’t want eggs. I fixed eggs for breakfast and don’t want to eat it twice in one day.”

Me: “Okay, then. What about going out to dinner?”

Wife, EM1, EM2: “I don’t want to go out. I’m tired. I already put on my pajamas. It’s cold and I don’t want to sit outside. Etc. Etc. Etc.”

Me: “How about fast food? Somebody could run out and pick something up and bring it back home.”

EM1: “Like what?”

This particular question is usually followed by a twenty-minute argument about what restaurants each of us doesn’t like as we slowly whittle down to the same two places we always go.

Me: “Okay. EM1, If I pay will you go pick up the food?”

EM1: “I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t feel well and don’t want to drive anywhere.”

Me: “How about you, EM2? Will you pick it up?”

EM2: “It’s dark outside and I’m not comfortable driving in the dark, yet.”

Me: “I don’t want to go either. Don’t we have hotdogs in the refrigerator?”

Wife: “We don’t have any buns.”

Me: “EM1, write down hotdog buns on the grocery list so we have them for next week.”

EM1: “Okay.” Then she doesn’t move off the couch.

Me: “Go write it down now, before you forget.”

EM1: “I’ll remember it.”

Me: “No, you won’t.”

EM1: “No, I won’t what?”

Me: “Remember to write it down.”

EM1: “Write down what?”

I won’t repeat what I normally say next as I march over to the refrigerator and add hotdog buns to our shopping list. Suffice to say I’m usually questioning my wife about the true parentage of my oldest child while my daughter stares at me from the couch, looking like the RCA dog confused by sounds coming out of a record player.

Me: “Great. We can have hotdogs next week. We still need something tonight. What do you guys want?”

Wife: “Anything. Just pick something.”

And thus, round two begins. Usually everything devolves into name calling over the next few minutes as we rehash exactly what we said in the earlier round. Occasionally, we even roll over into a round three which includes some very colorful language as we all realize that nobody is going to eat tonight.

While the argument itself might fluctuate slightly in the tone and words used, the end result is almost always exactly the same: two children eating dry ramen for dinner while mom and dad polish off half of a bottle of gin.

It’s a scene I’m not proud of, and I’m fortunate that both of my children are legal adults so Child Protective Services doesn’t have to get involved. Although, if they did show up, I would happily send them off with both EM1 and EM2 in tow. It might turn out to be a benefit to our whole family.

Maybe CPS could teach one of those useless kids how to cook.

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.

A Thanksgiving Like No Other

Today is Thanksgiving in the USA. As a child, I happily celebrated this holiday with my family every year. I was young enough and self-centered enough to be unaware this was an American tradition rather than a world-wide phenomenon. It was only later, when I grew up and attended college, that I learned that other cultures did not also recognize this unique excuse for a holiday.

While it is true that many other countries happily took part in the extended extermination of the Native Americans, it was only those of us that later chose to stay in the newly vacated territories who annually elect to celebrate the racial extinction called manifest destiny.

Relax, this isn’t going to become a history lesson or politically correct rant. I promise. Read on.

Despite its socially distasteful past, I love Thanksgiving. I enjoy celebrating the holiday as a chance to gather with family for the sole reasons of eating too much food, drinking too much alcohol, and arguing about why the Lions – the worst team ever to walk out onto a football field – continually get scheduled to play on Thanksgiving Day. Is the NFL punishing them by never allowing them to be home for Thanksgiving? Or are they punishing us for never watching Lions games during the rest of the season?

It’s a mystery that may never be resolved in the Wilbanks household.

We have a large family, and every two years the entire extended group shows up at our house to celebrate Thanksgiving. If you are a longtime reader of Deep Dark Thoughts, you probably already know this. You have been informed of past years’ trials and tribulations during this time of year. I fully expected this year to be able to regale readers of yet another year of alcohol-fueled political discussions, hurt feelings, insulted relatives that I wouldn’t hear from for another twelve months, and the general mayhem that goes along with squeezing a large group of related people into the same room for three days.

Unfortunately, due to circumstances being what they are, this will most likely be a more subdued celebration. We may all see each  other, but it will most likely be through computers and phones, and the arguments will be much shorter as hitting the disconnect on a phone is much quicker and easier than trying to find out who stole your keys while you were drinking your eighth glass of the holiday punch.

The gathering will be much smaller, limited to those family members that we have been quarantined with for the past eight months and those willing to brave the cold of the backyard patio. I’m sure there will be a few sturdy souls sitting in lawn chairs and waving at us through the sliding glass door. It won’t be comfortable out there, but hey, free food is free food.

We will be following all the recommended rules of engagement as we dine. The turkey will be wearing a mask for five hours as it sits in a 350-degree oven. When it is placed on the table it will be properly socially distanced from the rest of the food invited to attend. I too, will most likely be socially distanced from the cranberry sauce as I have been accused many times of taking more than my fair share of this commodity. The rest of the family continually insists that cranberry sauce is a garnish for other side dishes and not to be confused as a side dish itself.

I respectfully disagree and will continue to fill my plate as I see fit.

But I digress.

There will most likely be the same amount of food prepared as past years, but the actual attendees will be fewer. We will all be appropriately spaced from each other, of course, so as not to risk exposure to someone else’s cooties. This will be a benefit for me actually as the smaller members of my family have in the past found it totally acceptable to sneeze at the table with their mouths full. I have more than once had to politely brush away partially chewed olives and bread rolls from my plate and clothing while at the same time pretending I didn’t want to beat a child to death with a drumstick off of the turkey.

The drawback, however, is that regular social discourse will also be greatly hampered. A normally simple act such as passing the salt from one family member to another will now more closely resemble a last second, 50-yard, Hail Mary pass in the final seconds of a football game.

A Lions football game, as I can almost guarantee the intended recipient is going to miss the catch.

Conversations will be stilted and awkward as well. Statements shouted across the table will invariably be misheard or misunderstood. Although, I actually think this might be the best part of the meal. We could make a game out of it. When someone shouts, “I would like some more fruit salad,” and Aunt Mary runs out of the room to lock herself in the bathroom and cry, we can all take guesses as to what the hell she thought she heard.

To be honest, we already play this game every year since Aunt Mary is hard of hearing and easily offended.

She’s also a Lion’s fan.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.

Season of Temptation

The season of temptation is once more upon us, and like most years, I am failing dramatically. Usually I get a little further in before I undergo a complete collapse, but this year I started early.

The season of temptation is that period of the year that starts somewhere in mid-October when you buy your fist bag of Halloween candy in preparation for trick-or-treaters. In many homes, that bag actually lasts until October 31st. In my house, we stopped pretending long ago that the first bag of candy was ever going to be seen by kids. We live in an area that doesn’t even get trick-or-treaters, so seriously, who were we trying to fool?

The season then drags out through the next two and a half months, through Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not really coming to an end until halfway through January when the last of the Christmas candy and baked goods finally run out. In that window of time, I usually see about a fifteen-pound weight gain. I have enough difficulty not overeating on normal days. When holiday cookies and pies start showing up, I’m done for.

People tell me that surviving the holiday season is simply an exercise in self-control. Well, as anyone who has ever seen me knows, I’m not really that into exercise in any form. Especially not the kind that requires self-control.

I spend the other nine months of every year simply trying to lose enough weight to be able to survive my holiday food compulsions. I say ‘trying’ because I have rarely accomplished those goals. Usually, I lose about five pounds, then get so excited I reward myself by consuming an entire box of Lucky Charms in one sitting. The milk is optional, as is the bowl.

 This season of temptation has started out worse than most. I suppose since it’s 2020, this shouldn’t have been a surprise. Everything this year seems to be worse than most. This year, being trapped at home, my daughters have suddenly gotten the urge to make sugary baked treats. They’ve never cared about baking before, but now, for reasons unknown to me, they have decided that sugar, butter, and flour are the main staples of life.

It began in early October, when EM2 told me she wanted to make a pineapple upside down cake. She has never seen a pineapple upside down cake before, much less made one, but now she decided if she didn’t bake one in the next couple of days, her life was about to become meaningless. So, we baked a cake. Later EM1 told me I needed to help her make six dozen pumpkin spice cookies. Not to be outdone, EM2 immediately informed me we would be making six dozen sugar cookies the next day.

Halloween came and went, but not before EM2 made crème puffs filled with chocolate pudding, and a dozen lime flavored, mini cheesecakes. EM1 added two dozen Halloween decorated cupcakes into the mix.

We haven’t even begun to make a dent in all those high-calorie sweets and EM2 has already made me promise that we will try to make a cherry pie before the end of November. I have never made a cherry pie before and, frankly, never intended to try, but because I’ve been unexpectedly sucked into this self-propelled vortex of baked goods, I will be attempting to bake a cherry pie in the near future.

I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m anticipating it won’t go smoothly, which might be a good thing because if the pie turns out completely inedible that will be one less item increasing my waistline this year.

In addition to the cherry pie, I have also been locked into the commitment of making two pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. This is a Thanksgiving, I must add, that we might not be having any guests over due to the current pandemic conditions in the state of California. This means that there will only be four of us eating both of these pumpkin pies. And my wife doesn’t like pumpkin pie, so make that three of us.

And as soon as Thanksgiving baked goods are done, Christmas candy and chocolates are just around the corner. I’m already having heart palpitations thinking about the amount of sugary foods still ahead of me over the next six weeks or so, and my pancreas has been threatening to go on permanent strike if I don’t find a way to corral this snack assault.

I know that not eating isn’t an option. As I’ve already admitted, I have no self-discipline to speak of.  I’ve never been able to walk past a plate of cookies without picking up one or four. I suppose I could try working out to burn off some of these extra calories, but who am I kidding? There aren’t enough hours in the day to burn off the amount of junk food I’m consuming this time of year. I would have to live in a gym and sleep on a treadmill to have any hope of keeping up.

With those options off the table, I only have one more weapon in my arsenal to get through the next six weeks without suffering serious lateral growth complications.

Alcohol.

I have discovered that I tend not to eat as much when I’m passed out on the kitchen floor. Besides, a bottle of gin has fewer calories than half of a pumpkin pie. Maybe I need to explore this tactic in a little more detail.

I think I might actually have the willpower to stay on this diet plan. I only need to keep the liquor cabinet well stocked and the unwanted pounds should melt right off.

I wonder why I haven’t tried this before. Or maybe I have, and it worked so well I don’t remember?

Anyway, if nobody hears from me in the next two months, don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m just sticking to my new diet.

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Enjoying Deep Dark Thoughts? Follow me on Facebook so you don’t miss a post. Just go to my page and click the “Like” button to receive updates on my blog and other projects.

And you can follow me on Twitter @gallenwilbanks.