Tag: humor

Everybody in the Pool

Just the other day, my oldest daughter announced that she wanted to go swimming. That wasn’t a big deal, or a surprise either, since for the past week we have been having 100-degree days outside and the weather report for the coming fortnight does not promise to get much better.

The problem is that we do not have a pool.

Well, we do have a pool, but it is not one of those pools that is always there just waiting for you to jump in. We have a ten-foot diameter, partially inflatable, wading pool.

Extensive assembly required.

I told EM1 she could set up the pool if she really wanted to, but I was not going to help her do it. The very next day I had to listen to two hours of whining as she begged me to help her put up the pool.

“Please, Dad. I can’t do it by myself. I just need you to help me get it out of the garage and blow it up.”

I reminded her of my refusal to get involved with the assembly project. Several times. Her mother eventually cracked, however, and pulled the duct tape-wrapped box out of the garage and out onto our back lawn. I watched as the two stood outside, yelling at each other as they pulled acre after acre of blue plastic out of the box and spread it over the newly mown grass. Grass that I would have to replant in September after the pool finished killing it.

If you have ever had a blowup pool on your lawn during the summer, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Next, EM1 asked me how to inflate the pool. I told her where she could find the air compressor in the garage and how to turn it on. The next thing I knew, she was dragging my air compressor into the house and shouting at me that she didn’t know how to turn it on. This particular compressor has a 100-gallon tank and sounds like a jackhammer firing up when it is running.

And my daughter had just brought it into the house.

I explained (EM1 would call it yelling, but I believe she exaggerates) that it needed to be outside before she turned it on. Firing up the compressor in an enclosed space such as a house would be as ill-conceived as setting off fireworks in an empty bathtub while sitting in it. The end results in both cases would involve immediate physical discomfort and subsequent deafness, making it difficult for EM1 to hear my “explaining” as to why I strongly suspect she was dropped on her head as a baby.

She dragged the compressor back outside.

That little confrontation was followed by an hour of EM1 inflating the pool, then another eight hours as she filled it with water from our garden hose. By the time the pool was full, it was dark outside and my daughter no longer wanted to go swimming.

The following morning, EM1 and her sister told me they were going to drive into town to buy smoothies so they could drink something cold while they sat out by the pool. Clearly, this saga was not over. I had hoped the pool would be forgotten and I could drain it and put it away over the weekend, but no such luck.

About two hours after they left, my children got back home. EM2 was carrying a smoothie in each hand, while EM1 lugged in two large boxes.

“What did you buy?” I asked, not really caring other than trying to figure out how much they had charged to my credit card.

“Pool floats, so we have something to sit on while we’re in the pool,” announced EM1.

The girls proceeded to unpack two enormous, donut-shaped floats and lay them out in the back yard. The floats were almost as big as our pool and probably cost twice as much. EM1 looked at me, and before she could even get the question out, I told her, “No, I will not help you inflate those.”

She said something very cruel and unflattering that vaguely sounded like “bass pole.” I won’t repeat the actual word since I don’t condone such language. I’m not even sure where she learned that kind of trash.

I blame the public schools.

An hour later, the floats were fully inflated, the girls were hyperventilating, and the smoothies had completely melted in their cups. Both of them still climbed into the pool, however, red-faced and sweating as they drifted on their oversized floats across their homemade duckpond.

The water probably felt nice. But it was still over a hundred degrees outside. I think it was only stubborn pride that kept the kids in the pool for the next couple hours. They did not want to admit the entire ordeal might have been a mistake. That was just fine with me.

I was content to remain inside, sprawled on the couch with the house’s internal thermostat set to a frosty 76 degrees. I had the TV on, a diet Pepsi in my hand, endless snacks waiting for me in the pantry, and two hours of uninterrupted relaxation. I think I definitely got the better end of this deal.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll recommend the girls take another pool day. I can always use another break, and I figure they owe me at least that much.

Especially since I know that neither one of those kids is going to help me when Autumn rolls around and it’s time to plant a new lawn.

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Comfort Food

I’ve been sick recently. Nothing major or life threatening; just feeling a little out of sorts so that all I want to do all day is curl up on the couch and sleep until I feel better. My wife tells me I’m a huge baby when I’m sick, but I see nothing wrong with taking the time to be lazy and recover from an illness. I admit I could probably get away with a little less whining and complaining, but that’s just the way I roll.

My wife’s threats of suffocating me with my own pillow aren’t going to change anything. I’m about 67% certain she won’t actually do it.

Besides, she is the kind of personality that when she gets sick, she denies that she’s sick until she passes out and has to go to the hospital. Personally, I think a couple days of staying in bed is the better way to go, but I will never convince her of that.

My favorite part of being sick, is the ability to indulge in comfort food. Mashed potatoes with lots of butter; grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup; and my personal favorite, soft boiled eggs.

Eggs might sound a little odd to some people, but when I was sick as a kid, that was what my dad would make for me in the morning. It always made me feel better. Probably because I could eat it and keep it down even if my stomach wasn’t really cooperating with me that day. Most of the things my mom would cook were practically inedible at the best of times. Breakfast usually consisted of a bowl of cold cereal because I knew better than to ask my mom to fix anything for me. There is only so much raw bacon and burnt toaster waffles a kid can swallow before he just gives up on the idea of breakfast completely.

But on the days I was sick, my dad would make me three, soft boiled eggs with butter, salt and pepper, then make some toast to go with it. It was pure heaven. It was even better on those rare days that I was sick enough to stay home from school. I could curl up on the couch with my breakfast and leisurely eat while I watched the TV. This didn’t happen very often, however. My mom was one of those people that believed if you are capable of physically standing up, you can go to school.

If I was in the bathroom throwing up, my mom would come in and say, “Well, since you’re already awake, why don’t you get dressed and go to school? We’ll see how you feel when you get there.”

I already knew how I’d feel when I got there. I’d feel like: “why the hell am I at school with a 103-degree fever?”

When I got older and lived away from home, I learned to make soft boiled eggs for myself when I didn’t feel well. It was never quite as good as when someone else made them for me, but I still enjoyed the reminder of those days at home.

I tried making soft boiled eggs for my kids when they were little. I wanted to pass the tradition along to another generation as sort of an homage to my dad. It didn’t go as well as I had hoped.

I remember when EM1 was about five years old and got sick. I made her some eggs and toast. I was genuinely excited to make breakfast for her and couldn’t wait to see the smile on her face as she enjoyed the same breakfast I had loved so much as a child.

She took one bite, chewed on it for a minute, then spit it back into the bowl. She ate the toast, and asked, “What else you got?”

Not the outpouring of gratitude I was hoping for.

EM2 liked it even less. She just looked at the eggs before running out of the room saying she would rather be hungry. Of course, EM2 currently lives on a diet of Hot Pockets and gummy bears, so what does she know about food?

My wife isn’t a fan of soft-boiled eggs either, so I guess, for now, I’m the only in the family keeping this particular tradition alive. That’s fine, though. It means I only have to cook them for myself. The rest of the family can fix their own breakfast and be miserable.

Cold cereal anyone?

Maybe when I have grandkids, I can try again. And maybe this next time, I shouldn’t start out giving the kids soft boiled eggs right away. It’s possible that the reason I like them so much isn’t because my dad made them for me, but perhaps because my mom didn’t make them for me.

Maybe a few years of charcoaled toast and runny pancakes is necessary to prime the palate to the point that it is ready for the delicacy that is the soft-boiled egg. Good things can never be truly appreciated without a little hardship to put them in proper perspective.

And it is also possible that I am making way too big of a deal about this whole egg thing and I should just go lie down for a bit.

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Not a Cruise

This past week, my wife, both daughters, and I were supposed to be on a cruise ship travelling around Alaska. We booked the cruise over a year ago and were greatly looking forward to our first vacation together on a ship with the entire family. We have never previously done anything like this with just the four of us.

In April of this year, we received an e-mail from the company that owns the cruise ship informing us that due to the recent pandemic, all of their scheduled trips were canceled until further notice. Our vacation was off.

The company told us that our money would be held in reserve so we could schedule a new trip when the ships were all back in the water, which is only reassuring if you believe the cruise company isn’t going to go out of business in the meantime. We will just have to wait and see.

Since we already had the time off scheduled for the middle of the summer, even though we couldn’t go on a cruise ship, we still wanted to take some sort of vacation. My wife and I decided that we would take our camping trailer and go on a short trip to an RV park. It’s not a cruise, but at least it was something.

It was something all right.

Instead of being on the Pacific Ocean, floating past massive glaciers and watching marine life swimming around the ship, we drove to an RV park located 45 minutes from our house with spotty Wi-Fi, 100 degree temperatures, and garbage trucks driving through at 3 o’clock in the morning. Not quite the same experience.

We left the kids at home because I didn’t want to listen to their complaining. It would interrupt my own complaining. Besides, someone had to stay home and feed the overabundance of cats that have recently collected in my home. (The kids wanted to adopt two new kittens, so I figure they can stay home and take care of them).

We originally scheduled a trip to Alaska because I thought if we went far enough away, my wife would be forced to stop thinking about work and actually enjoy her vacation. I still think it’s a good plan. However, because we ended up less than an hour’s drive from home, my workaholic spouse spent more time on Zoom meetings and phone calls than she did talking to me.

Of course, maybe finding reasons not to talk to me is her idea of a great vacation. If so, I can tell you that she had a wonderful time.

The RV park we selected was connected to the Jackson Rancheria Indian Casino. We decided on the casino for a couple of reasons. Namely, cruise ships have gambling and lots of food available, and casinos have gambling and lots of food available. It would be almost as if we were onboard the ship after all.

Except most of the casino was shut down because of Coronavirus. Half the slot machines were turned off, and the few that were still working were filled with sad-looking little old ladies trying to smoke cigarettes through tiny holes cut into their cloth masks. It felt like a scene from the Walking Dead, and I half expected at any moment for the people around me to suddenly stand up and begin shambling menacingly in my direction.

In addition to the ghost-town feel of the place, the restaurants were all closed as well. The only food available was a single food court where they expected you to line up, grab your food, then get the hell out. As far as cruises go, this was the worst one I had ever been on.

I still stuck around long enough to lose a hundred bucks in the slot machines before slinking back to the trailer park in defeat. It was not quite the dream vacation I had planned. My stomach hurt from eating like a raccoon rummaging through a garbage can, I was $100 poorer, and my wife spent most of her time sitting next to a slot machine on her phone, texting and sending e-mails.

After about two hours in the desolate remains of a once proud gambling establishment, we finally gave up and wandered outside to catch the shuttle bus back to the RV park. When I boarded the bus, the driver put on his mask for our safety and I watched as his glasses immediately fogged up.

Hmm. Coronavirus, or fiery bus crash? Decisions, decisions.

Oddly, I almost hoped that we did crash. As we careened off the road and down a steep hillside, I could pretend we had just hit an iceberg and I was going down with the ship. If we were fortunate enough to drive into a lake, even better.

No such luck. We made it back to our trailer in one piece.

Well, it wasn’t the vacation we originally booked. There was no boat, no scenery, lousy food, hot weather, and we were practically walking distance from home. On the bright side, though…

Nope. No bright side.

We wanted a cruise, and what we got was definitely not a cruise.

We are going to try again, however. We will use the money we have already spent to schedule a new cruise to Alaska for next summer. The entire family still wants to go. I only have one question about next year’s trip:

Should I wait until next year, or go ahead and book the RV park again now?

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How Not to Write a Blog

I have been writing Deep Dark Thoughts for over two years now, writing about my friends and family, daily events, my childhood, my job and, occasionally, things that for some reason just irritate the crap out of me. It has been frustrating, cathartic, enjoyable, and everything in between and I hope to continue writing this blog for many years to come.

Those that read this blog may wish I would just go away, but you don’t get a vote. Sorry.

While Deep Dark Thoughts has been around, it has led to many interesting conversations about blogging. Usually, I will be talking with a friend, family member, or a complete stranger and the subject of blogging will just naturally come up.

The conversation usually goes something like this:

“Do you want ham or turkey on your sandwich?”

“Why yes, I do write a blog. Thanks for your interest.”

Okay, sometimes I have to insert it into the conversation with a hammer. But once it does come up, I typically get the same response.

“You write a blog? Is it any good?”

I try to explain that “good” is really a subjective qualification, and that everyone has different opinions of what is good or bad. And, yes, even to my own ears it sounds like I’m saying:

“No. No, it really isn’t good at all. You should stay as far away from it as possible.”

The person I’m talking to will often say they would like to read some of my blog posts, and they ask where they can find it. I tell them how to find me and sometimes even recommend a particular post they should read. A few weeks later, I find that person and I ask if they liked my blog. Generally, the response I get is:

“You write a blog? Is it any good?”

It can get a little discouraging. And repetitive.

The second most common question I get is: “Is it hard to write a blog?”

If you are reading this page right now then you have probably already figured out that the answer to that question is, “no.” Clearly, if I can keep a blog going for two years, then any chimpanzee with a computer can a write a blog. If you have $15 you can buy a domain name, and there are dozens of companies out there that are happy to give you a free platform to set up a webpage. After that, just start typing words on the screen and voila! You have a blog.

The tough part, honestly, is staying dedicated long enough to build consistency. If you get bored after about three posts (which I have seen happen to quite a few bloggers out there) and your webpage is only getting updates every couple of months or so, you should probably go look for something you find more interesting to do with your time.

Question number three seems to be: “What do you write about?”

I write about nothing of any real consequence, but a blog can have any theme or topic you want. If you want to write about dinosaurs, write about dinosaurs. If you want to write about girl scout cookies, then write about that. If you feel contentious, put the two together and try to convince people that girl scout cookies were what originally killed off all the dinosaurs.

Any topic is fair game. Personally, I try to avoid topics that have anything to do with politics or religion because I do this whole blogging thing for fun, and getting my house firebombed by some nut job with an opposing viewpoint to my own does not seem like a lot of fun.

Of course, if you like to live on the edge, your blog can be about whatever violence-triggering subject works for you. You can title it: WHAT GOD DID YOU VOTE FOR? Then we can all sit back and see what the comments page looks like over the next few days. Hopefully, the death threats stay to a minimum.

Question number four: “Do you make much money doing a blog?”

This is typically met by a great deal of laughter on my part, followed by a few tears.

Question number five about blogging is most often something along the lines of: “Oh, you’re still talking about your blog? I thought we were done with that.”

That’s when I take the hint, add a drink to the sandwich order, and go sit down to eat my meal alone.

To anyone that may have started reading this blog because the title made them think I was actually going to give helpful information about starting a blog, I apologize. I have nothing constructive to offer. In two years of doing this, there is only one thing of which I am 100% absolutely certain:

If you can’t decide between ham or turkey, get both on the same sandwich. It’s delicious.

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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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Another Year Older

This week, I celebrated another birthday. Perhaps celebrated is too strong of a term as the truth is closer to I “tolerated” another birthday.

I turned 54 on Monday. This isn’t a milestone by any means. Nobody thinks of 54 as a goal or accomplishment. Nobody is going to go skydiving at 54 to prove they’re still young, or that they still “got it” (whatever “it” is). It is simply another annual marker on the slow journey to acknowledgement of our own mortality.

As a side note, I have no plans to go skydiving at any age. I don’t consider myself a daredevil. I get plenty of excitement in my life just leaving the house and standing 5 feet away from a total stranger who decided not to wear a mask that day.

Like any birthday of no particular note, it went about the way you would expect. For example: I woke up to a surprise birthday breakfast. When I got out of bed, my wife kissed me, wished me happy birthday then drove away to go to work. Both girls were still in bed and didn’t stir until sometime around noon.

No breakfast.

Surprise!

That was alright, though. I hadn’t really expected anything. The plan was to enjoy a really nice dinner that evening anyway. We had even ordered a shipment of my favorite sparkling wine the week before so I could have a glass on my birthday.

Instead of a case of wine on my birthday, I got an email stating the weather was too hot, so the winery was postponing the delivery until the weather cooled down. I’m guessing that means sometime in October. Hopefully, it will arrive in time to celebrate Halloween.

Damned global warming.

Not everything went wrong that day, of course. In fact, most of the day was quite pleasant. My wife gave me a very nice set of wine glasses and tumblers as a gift. I think it was her passive-aggressive way of saying “You’ve been drinking an awful lot lately and I figured if you’re going to kill your liver you should at least do it with a clean glass.”

She’s very thoughtful that way.

Dinner was take-out from my favorite Chinese restaurant. I even got to pick two of the items we ordered so it was a particular treat this time. Usually, I just accept what arrives and consider myself fortunate that I’m allowed to pick through the scraps after everyone else has filled their plates. I’m like the runtiest lion cub waiting for everyone else in the pride to finish mauling the wildebeest. I know my place in the pecking order.

After dinner came an amazing chocolate cake. I don’t usually throw plugs into this blog, but the cake came from Joyfully Baking and Catering and they did an incredible job. I would recommend this place (and this cake) to anyone.

If it bothers you that I just put a commercial in the middle of my weekly rant, remember that you’re reading this for free. If you want a commercial-free blog, I would be happy to discuss a small monthly fee to make that happen.

And now back to our regularly scheduled program.

Before I was allowed to cut the cake, my wife lit candles and the whole family sang happy birthday (mostly) non-sarcastically. There were only five candles on the cake instead of 54, but that was for several good reasons.

One) 54 candles would generate an awful lot of heat and probably set off the smoke detector and fire sprinklers.

Two) The number 5, despite my advance physical age, more accurately depicts my current emotional and mental status.

And Three) There were only five candles in the junk drawer, and nobody had bothered to think about buying candles the last time we were at the store.

I blew out the candles, cut myself a ridiculously large piece of cake, then proceeded to push it down my throat despite the fact that I was still full from eating too much dinner. When I was finished with my cake, I waddled over to the couch and collapsed into the cushions, feeling like an overly-stuffed reject from Build-a-Bear.

The remainder of the evening was spent dozing in and out of a food coma while the kids fought over who should have control of the TV remote. I don’t recall the final outcome of the struggle, but I have some vague memories of subtitles on the television screen and listening to a foreign language that was probably Korean. If you are a regular reader, that last part should be no surprise to you.

All things considered, it was a good day. I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my birthday.

And the best part is now that it’s over, I have an entire year before I have to do it all over again.

That, and there is a ton of leftover chocolate cake in the refrigerator.

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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.

Sheltered

Sometimes I wonder if I have sheltered my kids too much while they were growing up. Or maybe it’s just that the world they grew up in has gotten much too protective. Neither one of my girls ever broke a bone, or got in a fight, or was injured just doing stupid stuff.

Which is good, don’t get me wrong, but it makes me wonder how they got this far without getting hurt. And is there a negative side to getting through childhood unscathed? Does this mean that all the life lessons they should have already gotten are still ahead?

Or are too late to learn?

Life isn’t always going to go your way, and I hate to think that I haven’t properly prepared my own kids to face the crap coming their way and keep pushing forward regardless of how hard things might get. I don’t want them thinking that everything should come easily to them and to quit the second anything becomes difficult.

I, on the other hand, have accomplished all of the above childhood goals while growing up: broken bones, fights, avoidable injuries. I learned a great deal about life while earning each and every scar. Some of them, I would do all over again. Others … not so much.

I don’t consider myself a role model, and I don’t recommend the crap I did as a kid to anyone. Much of it was stupid, reckless, and straight up dangerous.

But it was a hell of a lot of fun.

I played football in the street. We didn’t have a park nearby, and the roadway was the only open area large enough to throw a football without breaking somebody’s front window. It wasn’t tackle football. We were morons, but we weren’t suicidal. I fell on that gravel and tar playing field numerous times and have the scars on my knees to prove it. I still remember the wire brush my mom used to wash out all the dirt and rocks that had lodged in the cuts. It was painful and unpleasant, but a couple days later I was back out on the street with my buddies, dodging cars and counting the minutes until the next time I took a nosedive on the pavement.

If I wasn’t playing football, I was riding my bike. We would build flimsy wooden ramps and jump over boxes, bushes, and sometimes even each other. The jumps were not always successful, and I recall multiple occasions when I or one of my friends had to head home with a split lip, bloody nose, or some other (mostly) non-serious injury.

As soon as we got the requisite bandages or ice packs, we were back outside trying another attempt at whatever had knocked us down in the first place.

I learned to not be afraid of getting hurt, taking risks, or even of my own stupidity. That last one has come in remarkably handy my entire life as I do not seem to have outgrown the stupidity.

My girls didn’t take the same risks when they were growing up. Probably because they are both smarter than I am, but also maybe because I didn’t give them the opportunity to try. I wonder if that safe environment was good for them or will ultimately make it harder for them to push through the unavoidable, eventual failures that life will hand them.

Besides, it isn’t always the risks you take that end up causing you the worst injury. Sometimes getting hurt isn’t about being stupid or trying ridiculous things; sometimes it is simply about being in the wrong place at the wrong time or just letting your attention lapse for an instant.

When I was about nine years old, I was at the neighbor’s house playing with a friend of mine. He was using a baseball bat to knock flower buds off a tree branch. I walked up behind him while he was in mid-swing. He didn’t see me, and the bat caught me right across the nose during his follow-through.

The bat broke my nose and cracked my skull below my right eye. I’d like to say I handled the pain with dignity and decorum, but that would be a lie. Several of the neighbors came running out of their houses to see where all the screaming was coming from. I think they thought someone was murdering a cat.

Anyway, my point to that story is that even when you’re not knowingly participating in risky behavior, you never know when something that appears harmless at first glance is going to sneak up on you.

Neither one of us was doing anything wrong, and I still got laid out flat.

So, maybe I should have let the girls take those risks. Win or lose, they would still come away smarter and more experienced when they were done.

I am not suggesting to any parents that may be reading this that they should knowingly let their kids participate in activities likely to get them seriously hurt. It is our job to look out for their safety and well-being.

I am, however, saying that a few bumps and bruises aren’t always such a bad thing. Better they get a little banged up early on than be afraid to take risks later.

Once in a while, when the kids are building that rickety, wooden bike ramp, perhaps we just have to look the other way.

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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.