humor – 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.

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.

You Have to Read the Small Print

Recently, my wife and I celebrated our 29^th wedding anniversary. Our daughters, EM1 and EM2, got us the same gift this year that they got for us last year. And the year before that.

Nothing.

They forgot it was our anniversary. They only remembered that night when they were asking what was for dinner. I told them that we were doing take-out from one of their mom’s favorite restaurants. They didn’t like the idea so began to complain that we should go somewhere else. I told them that it was our anniversary and mom’s decision was final.

EM2 responded, “It’s your anniversary? How long have you been married?”

I would expect this reaction from someone I met on the street during a random conversation. Not from a child who has been living in my house for 21 years.

My children are not terribly observant, and the example doesn’t end there. About four days later, EM1 volunteered to run out to the mailbox to grab the daily mail. This is something that she does about two or three times each year, and it usually corresponds to something expensive that she ordered for herself that is arriving that day.

She came back from the mailbox with a large smile on her face and announced to the entire household: “Hey, mom. Dad. I got you an anniversary present.”

My first thought was that I had misjudged my daughter all these years and that I should really be more willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. My second thought was, nope. I know this kid too well. Just wait for the other shoe to drop.

EM1 held up a flyer that had arrived in the mail and told us that there was a restaurant in town that was offering a free dinner for one person and a guest. She showed me the cover and asked, “You like this place, don’t you?”

I told her I did. My wife and I have eaten at this place several times and very much enjoy their food. I then told her that I had no interest in going.

“Well, maybe I’ll go then,” she told me. “And I’ll take EM2 as my guest.”

“You don’t need retirement insurance,” I said. “You can’t retire for another 40 years. You don’t even have a job to retire from, yet.”

She gave me a look like a raccoon rummaging through the garbage that has just been pinned in a flashlight beam. “What do you mean?”

EM1 had clearly not read the inside of the pamphlet before announcing the free meal. I told her to take a closer look. She did. When she still did not seem to understand the significance of the pamphlet, I explained that it was an insurance scam. Someone was trying to get people to sit down and listen to a three-hour lecture on retirement planning by bribing them with a free meal.

It wasn’t even a good meal. The cover of the pamphlet showed a lobster tail and a steak as the main course, but when you read the small print, it only offered chicken or salmon as your meal options.

I had fallen for one of these ploys several years ago while my wife and I were at a casino in Las Vegas. They were offering a “One hour demonstration” that promoted some pans and cooking utensils. In exchange for listening, they would give us each ten dollars credit for gambling in the casino. After almost three hours of watching some dude in a chef’s hat make scrambled eggs with a hacksaw to prove how durable their pans were, we began wondering if they were ever going to stop. The only people who had been allowed to leave up to that point, were three people who had already agreed to buy thousands of dollars worth of cooking crap.

As hour four began with no sign of an ending in sight, we gave up and left. We didn’t even get our twenty dollars for our trouble. We also didn’t get fed, despite the demonstration being all about cooking.

Never again. Fool me once, shame on you.

“Are you still going for the free meal?” I asked EM1.

“No, I guess not,” she admitted.

“Do you have another anniversary present for us, since this one didn’t work out?”

“No.”

She looked one more time at the flyer. Her eyes lit up for a moment, and she said, “What if I gave you a new face mask?”

“Why?” I asked. “Are they offering a free face mask along with the free dinner?”

When EM1 didn’t answer my question, I took the pamphlet from her and glanced at the back of the add.

Yup. I know that kid too well.

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The Danger of Dishes

Danger lurks behind every corner in our lives. We might be peacefully going about our business one moment, then the next we become the victim of fate, circumstance, or simple bad luck. Having worked in law enforcement for 25 years, I would say I have witnessed more than my fair share of random accidents and bad luck.

One event in particular comes to mind. It occurred about twenty years ago while I was working as a patrol officer in the city of Elk Grove. I was cruising around my beat in the late afternoon hours, watching traffic and waiting for my next call for service. It had been a rather slow day (which is always nice) and I was only an hour or so away from going home if things stayed that way.

I observed a car speeding and driving a bit erratically. I accelerated and tried to catch up to it. Before I got close, I saw the vehicle run through a red light. Now I had a definite hazard on the road, and I needed to react to it. I activated my lights and siren and went after the car.

I caught up to the vehicle a few miles later and the driver pulled over as soon as she saw my lights behind her. I used my radio to notify dispatch that I was on a traffic stop, then got out of my car to contact the driver.

The driver rolled down her window as I approached. I noticed her reach across the steering wheel with her left hand to turn off the ignition. I felt that was odd but didn’t really give it too much thought. As I stood next to her open car window, I noticed the smell of alcohol on her breath. That explained the erratic driving, I figured.

I explained why I had stopped her, then asked if she had been drinking that day.

She said, “I’ve had a couple glasses of wine. I probably shouldn’t be driving, but I needed to get to the hospital.”

Okay. She admitted she had been drinking, and even said she probably shouldn’t be driving. In my head, I had already begun to write my report. I was also lamenting the fact that I most likely would not be getting off work on time. Drunk driving investigations typically take a few hours.

Then I paused. The last part of her statement finally sunk in. “I needed to get to the hospital.”

I mentally shifted gears and asked, “Why are you trying to get to the hospital?”

“Oh, I was washing dishes at home. I broke a plate and cut my hand.”

She held up her right hand so I could see it. At first, I thought she was wearing a red glove with something white in the palm. It was not until I realized that I was looking at exposed tendon and bone in the palm of her hand that I understood the “glove” was actually a disturbingly large amount of blood that was no longer inside of her body where it rightfully should have been.

I guessed that it was going to be a coin toss as to which one of us passed out first: her because of blood loss, or me because of the shock of seeing how much damage you can do to the human body with just a broken dish.

I asked her why she hadn’t called for an ambulance. She told me she didn’t think it was an emergency and she figured she could get herself to the hospital faster. She said initially, she didn’t think the cut was that bad.

She was wrong.

It was bad.

I requested that the fire department send immediate medical assistance, then rummaged through the trunk of my patrol car for a medical kit. I grabbed a ball of medical gauze and placed it over the woman’s cut and told her to squeeze it in her hand. I didn’t bother to wrap her hand because I knew as soon as the fire department showed up they would just cut the bandage off so they could see how badly she was injured.

I asked her if she had someone she could call that would come and pick up her car. She narrowed her eyes and stared at me like a grade schoolteacher debating if she should hold back a particularly slow student for an extra year. Then she said, “If I had someone who could drive my car, don’t you think they would already be driving?”

Good point. Apparently, the intoxicated lady with massive blood loss was still thinking more clearly than I was. I told her that I would move her car to a nearby parking lot (we were half a block away from a Target store and I figured her car would be fine in the lot for a day or so), then I would bring her car key to her at the hospital. She agreed.

The fire department showed up and transported her to the hospital. As I promised, I moved her car and returned her car key.

In the end, everything worked out, but I still think of that incident every now and then.

Particularly when I have had a few drinks and my wife asks me to do the dishes. I remind her of this story and tell her that it is probably a bad idea. There are simply too many things that could go wrong, and I don’t want her to have to drive me to the hospital. I wouldn’t want to ruin her whole evening.

She accuses me of being lazy and trying to find an excuse not to do dishes.

She may be right. But with all the terrible accidents that happen every day, I think it is better to be safe than sorry.

I think that is what makes me such a good husband.

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