humor – Page 12 – Deep Dark Thoughts

Moving Day

My good friend, Wes Blalock, gave me a call recently. He told me that he and his family were leaving their current home and moving into a bigger place. During the past nineteen years that they had been in the current house they had accumulated quite a bit of stuff and he wanted to know if I would be available to drive down to San Jose and help him move.

There is an old adage that says: A friend will help you. A good friend will help you move.

Wes and I have known each other since we were kids, so when he asked if I could help I, of course, immediately told him, “I can’t. I’m busy that day.”

After Wes pointed out that he hadn’t told me what day he needed help, I realized I had inadvertently wasted the only excuse I had. With no other plausible reasons to say no, I agreed to participate. I really need to learn to be more patient and time my responses better. If I could simply learn to wait a few seconds before answering a question, I would have more friends and my back would hurt a great deal less.

When my wife got home from work, I told her that we had agreed to go to San Jose and help Wes and his family move into a new house. She put down her car keys, forced a smile, and asked when we were going.

“Next weekend,” I told her.

“Oh shoot. I’m busy next weekend. But you boys go ahead and have fun.”

Have I mentioned that my wife has much better timing than I do?

I don’t know exactly what my wife was “busy” doing during the weekend. Maybe she had plans to hand out clothing and food to the homeless. Perhaps she was volunteering her time at an orphanage. Or, it’s possible she was working her way through a couple bottles of wine in celebration of having the house to herself for a couple days. Regardless of her actual plans, the end result was that I had allowed myself to get sucked into helping someone move, and I would be doing it by myself.

When I got to San Jose, I received my first bit of good news. Wes told me that we were not going to be moving any furniture that weekend. He had hired a moving truck and a couple workers who would show up the following week and take all the furniture, appliances, and items too large to squeeze into a car. He said, “Today, we are going to be moving mostly dishes, books, and some potted plants.”

I figured I had lucked out, at least until he pointed me to the backyard where all the “potted plants” were arranged. There were about two dozen pots, each about the size of a garbage can, and a collection of flora that would be more correctly classified as trees rather than plants. Weighing in at about a hundred pounds apiece, they required two people and the assistance of an industrial-sized hand truck to get them into our vehicles.

As we relocated Wes’ portable forest into the backs of our pickup trucks, I made several suggestions regarding how to load them more efficiently into the vehicles so we could minimize the number of trips we needed to make to the new house. Wes then made a suggestion of his own that was decidedly less polite and may not even be physically possible. I took the hint and stopped talking.

Because I did not know the location of his new place, Wes had me follow him there. To get to the new house, we had to use the freeway. I must admit that this part of the move was by far my favorite part. At sixty-five miles per hour, the plants in the back of Wes’ truck reminded me of watching natural disaster shows on television. It was like observing a hurricane as it moved through a tiny tropical forest. The only thing missing was a troupe of monkeys fleeing for their lives.

Unfortunately, the show only lasted about fifteen minutes. Then we were back to the back-breaking chore of removing everything out of the truck and relocating it to its new home in the backyard. At least unloading the vehicles was a quicker process than loading them had been. Mostly, because by that point I had stopped caring whether or not I broke something.

When the trucks were empty, Wes felt there was still enough time in the day to go back to his house and move one more load. I told him that sounded like a great idea and I would meet him there. As soon as Wes’ truck was out of sight, I jumped onto the freeway and headed back for Sacramento. I will have to come up with some kind of an excuse for disappearing the next time I talk to him, but for now, I am just glad to be back home.

I know this makes me sound like a terrible friend, but I am at peace with that, because frankly, I am a terrible friend. And, Wes would be the first to tell you that.

Wes, if you are reading this, I just want you to know that I love you dearly. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, but from the bottom of my heart, I promise you that I am never going to do this again.

If you ever decide to move someplace else, don’t bother to ask. I’m going to be busy that day.

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Toiling in Obscurity

G. Allen Wilbanks, somewhere in the mountains (of Disney’s California Adventure Land)

As we enter the month of April, Deep Dark Thoughts reaches a new milestone. It has been eighteen months since I started writing down my personal observations, thoughts, and irrational musings and posting them in a public forum. For seventy-eight weeks I have complained, whined, and attacked my family on a weekly basis, all for the sole purpose of allowing people to come to this website and wonder, “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

If Deep Dark Thoughts was a baby, this thing would be walking and banging its head into the furniture by now.

After a year and a half, I still find the weekly rant to be cathartic, as well as much cheaper than actual therapy. For those reading it, it may be simply a waste of five minutes of your life that you can never have back, but I hope not. On occasion, I even try to add little bits of helpful information, such as: if you put lettuce on top of a plate of nachos, it becomes a salad and is therefore healthy. (At least, that’s what I told myself at breakfast, today.)

You’re welcome.

I suppose it’s a good thing I get personal satisfaction out of the act of writing down the jumbled mass of misinformation that is my thoughts. There is no other real reason to keep going. Fame and notoriety have thus far escaped me, but that’s fine. I’m getting used to the idea that I am the most famous person no one has ever heard of. When I ask, “Have you read my blog this week?” I know the answer will be, “You have a blog? Since when?” That’s why I no longer ask my wife and kids that particular question.

On the bright side, if I ever stop writing, I never have to worry about explaining to people why I quit. I doubt the question would ever come up.

Because April first was last week, I briefly debated if I should do an April Fool’s prank and post an old blog from a last year. Or maybe even put up a blank page for the week. I decided not to do that because, frankly, I was concerned that no one would actually notice.

Or worse, somebody might see the blank page and think to themselves, “Yup. I figured this thing was going to fall apart sooner or later.”

So, no blank page. Just more of the same stream-of-consciousness drivel we’ve all come to expect and love. (Okay, maybe ‘love’ is too strong a word. ‘Tolerate’ maybe?)

Besides, there is still so much to write about. For example, last weekend I was going to mow the lawn. The task normally takes about an hour. My lovely wife wanted to help out and said she could take care of the lawn and I could use the time to work on some other, more enjoyable, task. She jumped on the riding mower and proceeded to run over and destroy a sprinkler head.

Digging up and replacing the damaged sprinkler took about three days to accomplish. So much for saving time.

I also recently got a call from a police officer asking if I knew that my car was sitting in a neighborhood in Sonoma. Apparently, my oldest daughter was carpooling to classes with friends to save gas, which I guess is a good thing. However, she had not moved her car in over three days and a neighbor called the police to report it had been abandoned. The officer was calling me to let me know me that they were going to tow it away.

A family of Killdeer built a nest and laid eggs in our driveway. The whole family thought it was really cool that we had birds building a home right in front of the house. Then UPS pulled in to deliver a box of squeaky dog toys and crushed the nest. Somehow that became my fault because I didn’t get outside fast enough to stop the truck.

I went to Costco this week, and while I was there, I couldn’t find some of the items I specifically drove for half an hour to buy. In frustration, I broke down and purchased the industrial-sized box of Twinkies. I don’t even like Twinkies that much, but by God, I’m going to eat every one of them.

What I’m saying is that I have plenty of material and even more pent-up useless rage. My life abounds with stupidity, minor tragedies and crap that pisses me off. You may as well buckle up tight, because I think we are on this trip for the long haul.

So, after all that, if you’re still curious enough to keep reading, tune in next week for another episode of, “What the hell is wrong with this guy?”

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Unlicensed Driver

Last week, I took my nineteen-year old daughter out for a driving lesson. No, you don’t need to go back and reread that sentence. I will say it again so there is no confusion: I took my nineteen-year old daughter out for a driving lesson.

When I was a teenager, I couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of a car. The day after I turned sixteen, I was at the DMV taking my behind the wheel test, and I was a licensed driver … well, eventually.

Anyway, my point is, driving was something every kid my age wanted to do. A driver’s license represented freedom to a teenager; the ability to go places you previously couldn’t get to on foot or by bicycle. Maybe my parents weren’t so thrilled to know that I was out late at night, unsupervised on the roadways, but for me, it was the best thing in the world.

Today, that desire to get a driver’s license doesn’t seem as important. At least not to my kids. EM1 didn’t get her license until she was eighteen. EM2 is currently nineteen, and I don’t know when (or if) she will be getting hers.

EM2 has her learner’s permit. She has had it for almost a year and a half now. She has had it for so long, she had to go back to DMV a few months ago and renew it because it had expired. I don’t think I have ever previously known a kid with a learner’s permit that expired. It is mind boggling to me that she actually had it in her possession long enough that she needed to go get another one. Who does that? It’s like someone handed her a ticket to the Super Bowl, and she tossed it in a drawer and said, “Maybe, I’ll go to the next one.”

If my daughter was the only person impacted by this decision, I would be happy to let her remain a pedestrian. It isn’t just her, however. At nineteen, she should not still be relying on her mother and me to chauffer her around town. She’s in college, for crying out loud, and we still get phone calls from her asking us to drive her places. I’m sorry, but I have better things to do during my day than drive an hour across town, pick up an ungrateful kid and relocate her three miles from her original location.

Okay, I don’t have anything better to do. But, I still don’t want to do it.

So, last week, during EM2’s spring break from school, I told her she was going to get some practice driving and then make an appointment with DMV to test for her license.

She wasn’t terrible behind the wheel. She only tried to kill me once. While pulling out of a driveway, she “forgot” that cars come at us from both directions on the roadway, and she didn’t notice there was car coming at us from the right while she was making a left turn. Fortunately, had that car hit us, it would have only impacted with my side of the vehicle.

EM2 would have been fine.

I think I yelled a little bit. Or maybe, I yelled a lot. I don’t really remember. I was sort of busy watching my life flash before my eyes.

Look, I am not the most patient teacher. I know that about myself. Despite my best efforts to stay calm and supportive, I lost my temper a few times. On a couple occasions, we needed to pull the car over so EM2 could cry. I am not exactly proud of that.

Well, maybe a little bit. After being retired from law enforcement for almost three years, it was nice to find out I still know how to make a new driver break down into tears.

Some skills, you just never lose.

The rest of the drive was fine. EM2 does pretty well when the car is moving. I did discover, however, that she has no idea how to park a car. Whether she is parking in a parking lot, at the curb, or in our own garage, EM2 somehow managed to stop the car in the wrong place, and at an odd angle, every time. It happened so often, I started to think she was intentionally messing with my head.

Every time she stopped the car, it involved backing up and pulling forward a dozen or more times, and during the entire procedure, I had to listen to her talking herself through each move:

“Nope. Hmmm. Okay, I think I need to go … left. No. Wait, I got it. Nope. Is that straight? What if…? Okay. Oops. I meant to… Back up. There. Got it!” (Opening the door, to look outside.) “Nope. One more time…”

I just hope the DMV evaluator doesn’t fail her when she puts a wheel up on the curb, parking after her test.

Whatever happens in the next couple of months, my wife and I are done playing shuttle driver. If EM2 successfully gets her driver’s license, that would be wonderful. If not, we are buying her a bicycle. Although, if she ends up with a bike, I will need to teach her how to ride it.

Did I forget to mention, EM2 never learned how to ride a bicycle, either?

Sometimes I am amazed she ever learned to walk.

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Auto Service

I don’t think I should take my car to the dealer for service work anymore. It is getting too expensive. It seems as if every time I take my car in for a simple oil change, there is something else that requires immediate attention and several hundred dollars to fix.

No matter how often I replace the battery belts, or how frequently I top off my headlamp fluid, whenever I take my car to the dealer, they tell me it needs to be done again. I don’t want to accuse anyone of anything underhanded, but I’m starting to think that they may be taking advantage of me.

Last week, I took my car in for service. The odometer told me that it had been 6000 miles since the last time the oil was changed, so I decided to take the car in for its 3000-mile checkup.

Before I went, I checked online and found a coupon for $30 dollars off a regular service and oil change. Last time I went, the basic service cost me $119. So, this time, when I gave the coupon to the service technician (Brad was the name on his shirt), he told me my oil change would only be $119.

Now, I am not an expert on coupons, but in general, I know that they should make the price go lower. I asked the technician why it was the exact same price with a coupon as it was last time I came in without a coupon. Brad said they must have charged me the coupon rate even though I didn’t have a coupon. I asked him why they waste money making coupons if I could get the discount rate without one. Then I asked if I was paying extra money for my oil change to pay for those wasted coupons that nobody was using.

Brad said he was going to get me some coffee and walked away. Before I could tell him I didn’t want any coffee, he was gone.

About ten minutes later, my new service technician, Mike, said that he would be helping me. Apparently, Brad had gone home with a headache.

Mike took my information and my car keys, then told me my car would be ready to go in about an hour. This was at 9:30 AM. At 11:30 AM, I was sitting in the waiting room watching my toenails grow, when Mike finally told me my car was done.

I asked him if everything was okay with the car, and he told me everything was fine. Then he handed me a bill for $150. I asked why it was higher than the $119 that Brad had quoted me.

Mike said, “We put on new windshield wipers. They needed to be replaced and they cost $30.”

I said, “You just told me everything was okay on the car.”

“Right. Everything except the wipers, and we fixed those.”

I asked if there was anything else, and he said, “No.”

I handed Mike my credit card. He thanked me, and then said, “You’re going to need new brake pads. They’re pretty low so you should replace them as soon as possible.”

“Brake pads?” I asked

“Yes. Brake pads.” I must have had a confused look on my face because he continued. “They make the car stop. You know, so if there is a baby duck or something in the road you don’t run it over.”

“Baby duck?”

“Right. Baby duck. Why? Do you have something against baby ducks?”

I assured him that I had no animosity toward ducks, I was just surprised that I needed brake pads when he had so recently told me that my car was perfectly fine. I asked once again if there was anything more I needed to know about my car.

Mike said that there was absolutely nothing else he needed to tell me. He ran my credit card and handed me a receipt to sign, then said, “Did I mention that you should replace your tires? The tread is worn out and you really should get four new tires.”

“Tires?” I sighed.

“Yeah. If they get too bald, you’ll skid on the road when you’re trying to stop, and you could lose control of the car.”

“I don’t want tires,” I told Mike.

He glared at me and said, “That’s exactly what I would expect to hear from a duck killer.”

By the time I finally got away from the dealership, my entire day was ruined. I had started out that morning thinking that I was going to save thirty dollars getting my oil changed. After spending a few hours with Mike, I now needed to come up with $500 to replace my brake pads, and $800 for new tires.

But the money wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part of my day was the fact that during my entire drive home, I was terrified I was going to run over a baby duck, and somehow Mike was going to find out about it.

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Saving Daylight

I want to talk about Daylight Saving Time. Spring forward. Fall back. What the hell is that? And just what exactly are we saving?

The typical story I have heard about Daylight Saving, is that it was enacted during the summer months so that farmers had more daylight to work in the fields. This turns out to be a big load of garbage. Farmers had nothing to do with this phenomenon. If a farmer wants more daylight to work, he just gets up when the sun rises regardless of what the clock says. Farmers don’t need an artificial change in time to get their work done. Besides, it is incredibly difficult to change the settings on a rooster.

With a little research on Wikipedia, I discovered the real story. Apparently, Ben Franklin came up with the original idea so that, during the summer, there was more daylight in the evenings. This wasn’t a terrible idea, since in the late 1700’s after the sun went down it was too dark to do much besides go home and barricade yourself indoors until the next morning.

Today, however, we have electricity and batteries. We have flashlights, headlights, and street lamps. Night time isn’t the mandatory end of the day that it used to be.

If only somebody in Ben Franklin’s time had discovered electricity, maybe Daylight Saving Time never would have happened. Someone like… Um. Oh, yeah.

So, maybe once upon a time there was a reason for it. An extra hour of daylight in the evening could be very useful while you’re trying to shoe one more horse before closing down ye olde blacksmith shoppe. But, why is it still here? I have worked all hours of the day and night in my career, and changing the clock forward or back one hour has never made any difference to me other than totally screwing up my sleeping patterns for a couple weeks each time.

I also used to work weekends, which meant if you forgot to set your clock ahead the night before, you would be late for work on Sunday. And apparently, it happens a lot. Every year, at least one person would show up to work an hour late on the first day of Daylight Saving Time. It became such an expected event that we started a pool the week before and bet on who was going to forget. I won $200 in 2003.

I bet on myself that year.

For me, the biggest headache is making sure that every clock in the house is adjusted so that it reflects the correct time. My phone and computer update automatically, but everything else requires me to adjust it by hand. Every six months, I am reminded just how many damn clocks I have in the house.

The bedroom alarm clock is of course everyone’s priority. Forget to adjust that one and we have the situation I outlined above. But, in addition to the alarm clock, I have two mantle clocks and the cuckoo clock in the living room. There are clocks on the microwave, the oven display, and electronic toys throughout the house. I have several watches, including a couple of pocket watches, that get adjusted over a period of months, since I forget about them until I decide to pull one out of a drawer and wear it. My greatest joy in life is pulling out a watch I haven’t worn in over six months and discovering that it is displaying the correct time and I don’t have to mess with it.

It really doesn’t take much to make me happy.

I also have to change the clocks in every one of the cars. I always have a little panic attack when I climb into my truck to drive to a one o’clock meeting somewhere and the digital clock in the dashboard says it’s already one-thirty.

And just when I think I’ve adjusted every clock within a five-hundred mile radius, I discover something I’ve missed. For example, this morning, my wife woke me up to tell me that she almost froze to death getting out of the shower because the heater never turned on. Yup, you guessed it. Another damned clock. Our thermostat has a little timer that tells it when to turn on and turn off.

One hour. Twice a year. I find the whole process to be a major pain in the nethers. But, don’t get me wrong. I’m not proposing that we do away with Daylight Saving Time. I think that we should actually expand on it. Instead of jumping forward an hour in the spring, I suggest that we jump an entire day.

Or better yet, one whole week.

I think we should all jump ahead and completely skip the third week of March this year. Go to your calendar and black out March 17^th through the 23^rd. No one is going to miss it, and it means that we will get to Easter a whole lot faster than usual. To make up for it, we can just repeat the last week of October. That will make all the kids happy since they can go Trick or Treating two weeks in a row. It’s a win-win.

And it’s a whole lot easier to tear a page out of your weekly desk calendar that it is to adjust all your clocks. So, if you hate Daylight Saving Time as much as I do, I just solved all your problems. You’re welcome. And, if you need to talk me, don’t bother trying to get in touch with me next week.

I’m springing forward.

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Burn Baby, Burn

I live in a house surrounded by five acres of land. The space is nice, and I must say that I do enjoy working outside, gardening, tending the fruit trees, and puttering around the property. One of the negative parts of owning five acres, however, is the fact that, in the Fall, I can’t just rake a few leaves, toss them into a can and put them out on the curb for the garbage truck to pick up. There is just too much clutter that accumulates from all the trees, bushes, and other plants.

Instead, I tend to gather up this type of yard debris periodically and deposit it into large piles around the property to be dealt with at a later time. If I ignore it long enough, rows of these brush heaps accumulate all over the place. It looks like a family of beavers moved in and decided they were going to start building their dams on dry land. Tangles of sticks, brush, and tree limbs end up forming an extended barrier between my house and my neighbor.

Which I suppose isn’t a terrible thing. You know what they say about “good fences.”

And, just like a beaver dam, these ignored piles of rubbish end up teeming with animal life. Every bird, mouse, lizard, and stray cat from miles around decides these piles are the perfect places to establish a home base. I’ve even seen a hawk perched on top of one of my brush piles. It was probably just waiting for one of the aforementioned critters to try to make a run for it.

I have to admit, there is good news regarding these growing mounds of rubbish. Once or twice each year, I get to have a fire. And I don’t mean a little fire where you can stand around it and roast a few marshmallows. Oh, no. I mean a great big, awesome, signal flare into space kind of fire. The kind of fire that absolutely delights the pyromaniac little kid deep inside me.

The best part is that it is completely legal! In fact, the fire department wants you to dispose of your yard waste and issues burn permits for you to do it. Had I tried to do something similar at my old home, I’m quite certain the neighbors would have made a big deal about it and called the police. Apartment living can be so restrictive sometimes.

A few weeks ago, I had the immense pleasure of doing a yard-waste burn. It’s a lot of fun, but there are a few things that have to be done before you put match to wood. The first thing you have to do before setting fire to your yard is you need to call the fire department and let them know what you are doing.

When I called them last time to let them know I was going to be lighting a fire, the woman who answered the phone asked, “What is your address, please? The fire truck needs to know where to go to put out what’s left of your house.”

You’ve got to love dispatchers with a sense of humor. At least, I think she was being funny. Or maybe she knew me somehow and was just preparing for the inevitable.

The next step is to set up a folding chair nearby stocked with sodas, snacks and a couple of cigars. Yup, I said cigars. I figure if I’m going to spend the next four to six house inhaling smoke, I want some of it to be intentional. There is just something a little bit Zen about smoking a cigar while you watch a ten-foot wall of flame swirling around right in front of you. My psychologist has other opinions, but he wasn’t there so, I’ll deal with his disapproval later.

Last, but most important, is getting the brush pile lit. Usually this isn’t a big deal. This year, however, we had just had a heavy rain the night before and everything was wet and soggy. I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to light pile of wet wood and leaves, but it can be tricky. A lighter just isn’t going to get the job done.

Fortunately, I can be very resourceful. After rummaging through the garage and locating two cans of lighter fluid, a large bag of charcoal, and an old road flare, starting a fire was no longer a problem. And, you don’t have to be MacGyver to figure out the best possible combination of those items. Less than ten minutes later, me and my one remaining eyebrow were sitting comfortably in the camp chair smoking a cigar and sipping on a diet soda.

I spent the next few hours evicting wildlife from their homes as I dismantled the various piles of debris that weren’t on fire and threw them into the one that was. It’s a good workout and I broke a sweat a couple of times as I lugged some of the larger branches around. Okay that’s not completely true. I did start to sweat a few times, but it was less about the workout and more about me being fat and out of shape and standing too close to an 800-degree blast furnace. Telling myself that I was getting a workout, though, makes me feel better about the rest of the day just sitting in a chair and pushing Oreos in my mouth while giggling at the big fire I made.

At about four o’clock that afternoon, it was all over. There was nothing left to burn. I grabbed the garden hose and flooded the last of the hot coals smoldering on the ground. The gout of steam and ash as the cold water hit the glowing embers was almost as high as the original flames.

As I stirred and re-flooded the now dead burn site, I saw one of the fire trucks from our local station drive by the front of my house. It felt a little bit personal. The team was probably just making the rounds and checking the addresses of all the people that had called in a request to burn that day, so, it’s possible I’m just being paranoid.

But, I could have sworn that the guy driving the firetruck had a disappointed look on his face.

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