Decisions, Decisions...

Here’s the forecast for Short Pump for the next five days...Sunny. High temperatures in the upper 50’s, lows in the middle 30’s. That, my friends, is perfect fall weather. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!

So, this morning, my friend is recovering nicely from yesterday’s chemo. She is under doctor’s orders to work from home for the next few days with no contact with people and lots of rest. Accordingly, I felt that my dad Joke game needed to be top level this morning. So I sent her these three:

What do you say when a knight from Prague puts on his armor?

...the Czech is in the mail

What’s the best way to watch a fishing tournament?

...live stream

I hadn’t planned on visiting the family over Christmas, but Mom promised to make Eggs Benedict, so I decided to go...

...home for the Hollandaise 

In case you people have been living in a cave, I guess you’ve noticed that there’s an election next week. If you have a mail box, you have no excuse for not knowing that there’s an election because 80% of the mail you have gotten for the past month has been election related. I’m starting to think that the only thing keeping the USPS afloat financially is election junk mail. But, it must work or why would they send so stinking much of it? The closer we get to Election Day, the more hysterical the mail becomes. Have you noticed that? I read the fliers and think...what a bunch of losers. Check these out...

So, this Rodman women is depicted as the Hindenburg and Dunnavant as the Space Shuttle. Well, that settles it, right? Why on earth would I want to send a gas-filled blimp to the State Capital? Don’t we have enough of them already?? Especially one with such poor taste in eyewear. This add is for this woman’s opponent but there’s no picture of her opponent not even a mention of her name...just three pictures of these horrible glasses...

But wait. Not so fast. Apparently, this Dunnavant woman is in favor of more and more gun violence...

But, if that decision isn’t difficult enough, now I have to deal with being publicly shamed for my less than stellar voting record...

There it is for all the world to see. My neighbors, Allison, Charles, Andrew, Brittany, and David are all more civically engaged than I am. When I first saw this piece I thought, “great! This is like 8th grade geometry all over again. Damn B- !!” But upon further investigation I discovered that the Republican Party was not impressed with the fact that I had not voted in either of the last two primary elections, thus my lower grade...

Well, you can’t argue with the facts. I mean, my neighbors are doing their part. I feel so ashamed of myself.

You know, it’s this sort of thing that makes me question the entire democratic experiment with self government. Is this the type of thing that James Madison and Thomas Jefferson had in mind? I’ve got to walk into the voting booth next week trying to remember which woman is the Hindenburg and which one was the Space Shuttle? 

Ahh...democracy in 2019

Say a Prayer For My Friend

Just a note to anyone who reads this blog. If you are the praying type, I would appreciate your prayers for my friend who will be taking her third chemo treatment today. Today marks her halfway point through chemo and so far it’s been quite unpleasant. Every possible horror story you may have heard about chemo she has experienced. Despite it all she walks into that treatment center dressed to the nines, like she owns the place, head up and boldly confident. She slaps on her headphones and listens to upbeat praise music and lets them pump three bags of poison into her blood stream for eight hours. She says they call the third bag the red devil because it’s filled with not only a witch’s brew of toxins but also a cocktail of drugs designed to relax her for the hour and a half drive home.

When she tells me this I try to imagine myself having to submit to such a thing and I just can’t. The only way I could make it thru eight hours of sitting that still would be for them to give me the red devil first, otherwise I would be a raving lunatic and disturb all the other patients. But, my friend possesses other worldly determination not to be victimized by the trauma of it all. There will be not sweatpants for my friend. No, she strides in there dressed for success, large and in charge. I would love to be a fly on the wall, watching her make her swaggering entrance...but I’m not sure there is an IV small enough for my little fly arms, because even as a fly, I would have to be heavily sedated!!

So, again...if you believe in prayer, as you go about your day today, offer one up for my brave friend.\

Thank You.

Game Seven!!!!!!

Since I’m going to be as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I’ve decided to keep an in game blog of my observations during Game Seven. I am doing this not because I think I might have some profound insight, but rather to keep me relatively calm by giving me something to do during commercial breaks and pitching changes..etc..

- Decent National Anthem. Some country singer I had never heard of with the good sense not to butcher the song and the upbringing that prevented him from wearing that God-awful hat while he was singing.

-Whenever I see Ken Rosenthal on TV I want to bring him home and build him a tiny little house to play in out back.

-I wonder if Juan Soto gets his hair cut for half price, since the barber obviously quit halfway thru.

-Adam Eaton is the type of guy I would hate if he were on any other team. What a pest.

-Max Scherzer looks like a really angry assassin. 97 mph in the first inning. Whoa.

-Pretty much can’t stand Bregman, so consequently love watching him make an out.

-I’m really, really surprised that Charlize Theron drinks Budweiser.

-Gurriel is tough. Hit a good pitch.

- Great catch by Soto. Now, lets get some runs boys!

-Altuve is great. How does he put THAT pitch into left field??

-I don’t want to jinx him but this umpire hasn’t missed a pitch yet. A huge improvement over the last two nights.

-Max is grinding.

-I vow never to enter a Taco Bell franchise for as long as I live just from spite for these stupid commercials.

-Let’s try hitting them to someone besides the pitcher.

-Greinke is dealing. Between him and Rendon they look like they are sleep walking through the game.

- Houston keeps leaving men on base. This could come back to haunt them. Trick knee is telling me that Washington can win this game the longer it goes on this close. But at some point we need to stop hitting ground balls to Greinke.

-Huge moment. Two on. Correa at the plate. Max needs to get out of this!! Just one run. We’re still alive.

-Good Lord. Greinke looks like the reincarnation of Cy Young. Our guys taking fastballs right over the middle of the plate and swinging at everything else. Totally off balance. Looks like we are going out with a whimper. So...I have changed viewing strategies and am now upstairs in the recliner, watching the game on the MLB app. A reverse rally cap of sorts.

-One of the most terrifying phrases any Nationals fan can hear? “Tanner Rainey now warming up in the bullpen.”

-Anthony Rendon, superstar...and now Greinke out of the game. Here we go.

-HOWIE FREAKING KENDRICK 

-And now the Astros bring in their wife beating closer in the seventh inning. 

-Corbin...the guy we could afford to sign after we got rid of Harper pitches two great innings in game seven. Yes.

-We need to get six outs, which would be much easier with a few more runs. Come on boys.

-That’s what I’m talking about!! Juan, Juan Juan!!!!

-Three more outs. Dear God in heaven, saints preserve us!!!!

- I swear, if Davey brings Fernando Rodney into this game, I might spend the rest of my life in prison.

-I will feel so much better about our ability to get these last three outs if we can score a couple more in the top half of the ninth. Bases loaded...I will never get to sleep tonight...YES!!! Adam Eaton!!!! I cannot believe what I’m seeing!!

- Ok...Here we go...three outs to get, four run lead.

ARGHGHHHHH!!!!! HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!

The High Water Mark of My Marriage

What a Series.

I could regale all of you with the intricacies of why this particular World Series has been so special, the clutch hitting, the stellar pitching, the dazzling defensive plays. But last night provided all the proof I need that 2019’s Fall Classic is an all-timer...my wife watched the game.

To those of you who don’t know, the beautiful and talented Pam Dunnevant doesn’t do sports. I can count on one hand the number of times she has watched any sporting event for more than two minutes at a time. I can tell the way she looks at me when I stomp around the house bitching and moaning about some horrible call or when I scream and fist pump like some lunatic after a home run, that she thinks I’m unwell. But, there I was last night, trying to change the fortunes of my team by watching the game on my MLB app upstairs on my iPad, when I heard my sainted wife let out a scream of her own. Juan Soto had just crushed a 96 mph Justin Verlander fastball into the cheap seats in right field, and before I could even let out a wild welp of my own, my wife could be heard woo-hooing downstairs. For a moment I thought, “Wait, is she ok? Was that a scream of pain...has she fallen??” Then a couple of innings letter I heard her yell, “Oh NO!! Altuve is up!!!” My wife was watching the game...by herself on the television downstairs!

At that point, I must admit, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more attracted to her. Never has my reservoir of affection been so filled to the brim, than when I heard my wife grasp how crucial it was that Jose Altuve was striding to the plate with two runners in scoring position in the bottom of the fifth inning. This would be the equivalent of me suddenly exclaiming, “Oh my gosh, look at the incredible consistency of that hollandaise sauce,” while watching an episode of The Pioneer Woman. So, the 2019 World Series has turned out to be a seminal moment in our 35 year old marriage. Oh, the remarkable, transformative power of October baseball.

To be fair, I must admit that she does occasionally watch sporting events. She likes figure skating....sigh. She also likes the Olympics, but only because that two week long broadcast is 90% heart warming back stories about the athletes and only 10% actually...sports. But, this World Series marks the high water mark of Pam’s engagement with sports...and I am loving it!!

Go Nats.

My Bad

So, my team lost game three last night, and since this is baseball we’re talking about, fans everywhere are making the necessary adjustments required to assure that this doesn’t happen again. See, in baseball’s post season, it’s not how well or poorly the players play or the managers manage. Winning or losing all hangs on fan behavior. More rational observers would refer to this as...superstition, but every real baseball fan knows better. How we behave, how we dress, even our choice of food or beverage can doom our team’s effort to failure. To quote that noted philosopher, Michael Scott, “We’re not superstitious, we’re just a little stitious.”

I had a premonition late yesterday afternoon that something bad might happen when I was on the treadmill at AMFAM and a buddy of mine, Bland Weaver, approached me with an irritated expression on his face. True, with Bland that’s pretty much his go-to facial expression, but nevertheless he seemed particularly put out with me:

Bland: I wanted to grab you by the throat and kill you this morning.

Me: Again? What did I do this time?

Bland: That blog you wrote.

Me: ??

Bland: You don’t write about your team in the middle of a hot streak, you moron! That’s the kiss of death. When they lose tonight, it’s going to be your fault. Thanks a lot!!

Then, I get home and my tender hearted wife suggested that since my buddy, Chip Hewette, is home alone this weekend while Lynn is visiting her mother, that we invite him over for dinner and watch the game with him. I agreed out of my unfortunately deeply ingrained notions of Christian hospitality. But any rookie baseball fan knows that you don’t invite a non-partisan observer into your house on game night during the post season! What was I thinking??

My third unforced error came later when I arrived home having forgotten that I was supposed to stop by the grocery store to pick up the fixings for a proper baseball meal of hot dogs and baked beans and home made Mac and cheese. Because of the late hour I made the critical mistake of agreeing to, “gasp”...order pizza instead.

Under the circumstances, it’s a miracle that the Nationals didn’t get blown out, that Anthony Rendon survived the game without a season ending knee injury and Anibal Sanchez does not require Tommy John surgery this morning. Oh... and that group text thing I set up for the first time last night between my brother, my son in law, and my buddy Al Thomason??  That’s never happening again.

A Beautiful Thing

Today is going to be crazy. I can just feel it. You ever wake up and think, uh-oh, something’s up? Yeah, me neither. But this morning it was like that for me. I looked at the small digital time display across the room, the one I now have to squint to read, and saw that it was 4:59. I noticed that Lucy had slept through the night without the need to go outside with the squirts. There she was, stretched out to her full length at the foot of the bed like she owns the place—which she kinda does. I patted her on her sweet head and said, “little Miss Lucy,” which reminded me of the nursery rhyme, little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet eating her...which naturally morphed into:

An army led by Miss Muffet fails to arrive in Syria. Apparently there were Kurds in her way.

Once downstairs, I began searching for this morning’s jokes for my friend. Found a couple of decent ones:

How come the Hong Kong Police get up so early?

So they can beat the crowds.

Did you hear about the new movie they are making about a visitor from outer space who has three balls?

It’s called ET the extra-testicle.

What do you call a depressed vegetable?

A despairagus.

Then, it occurs to me that tonight the city of Washington will be hosting it’s first World Series game since 1933. That ballpark is going to be a madhouse. Win or lose, it will be an event. I will watch every pitch. I will yell at the home plate umpire for either A. Squeezing the strike zone or B. Calling pitches six inches off the plate strikes. I will bemoan each National batter who swings at ball four in the dirt. I will scare the be-jeezies out of Lucy every time I let out a wild shout whenever one of the good guys gets a clutch hit. I will delight in every gut wrenching moment, realizing that I may never get to see this again in my lifetime. I’m so excited I can hardly stand it. Nothing that comes my way today will have the power to dampen my enthusiasm for tonight’s game, even the fact that I have to complete my Broker-Dealer’s annual on-line compliance questionnaire, an hour and a half slow walk through the hell’s half acre of the internet. I will persevere. I will forge ahead with confidence knowing that I hold in my hand a ticket to Game Three of the World Series. I will be sitting in the climate controlled comfort of my living room, eating something delicious and sipping my golden beverage of choice, firing off texts to several like-minded buddies. It’s going to be a beautiful thing.

Game One and My Sick Puppy

Poor Lucy. For the third consecutive day our girl has had the runs. At night that means she wakes us up two of three times a night whining to be let out. Afterwards, we have to clean her up. Not fun. Then, this morning she unceremoniously threw up a rather large chicken bone in the doorway of our bedroom. We are flummoxed by this since neither of us feed her anything but dog food. She must have picked it up during her late night ramblings in the dark. The odd thing about this is that she has no other symptoms. Her appetite is good. She seems energetic and even her nose is relatively cool and wet. But for three days, nothing but mud pies every three or four hours.

Needless to say, her condition made watching last night’s Nationals win in game one problematic. Lucy seems to have horrible baseball drama timing. Every time the bases were loaded, or every time a pivotal moment of the game would arrive, she would need to go outside to do her business. Invariably, when I finally got her back inside and cleaned up I would tune in just in time to hear one of the announcers exclaim, “What a play!!!!!” Thank God for instant replay.

So last night I’m texting back and forth with my good friend, Al about the game. He’s a big baseball fan like me so we have fun doing our own twisted brand of color commentary. Every now and then one of us comes up with a pretty decent line. Last night it was Al’s turn. When twenty year old phenom, Juan Soto, crushed his opposite field home run onto the train tracks in left center field, he fires this one out to me:

“Can’t give that ball a Jewish funeral ‘cause it was TATTOOED!!!”

Unfortunately, I was out on a potty run at the time and didn’t see it until later. But, Holy Cow, what a great line. I would pay just about anything to hear Joe Buck say that on national TV!

A Hard Morning

This morning was hard. I shared a few jokes with my friend. She laughed out loud at one of them and I got a coveted four face palms on another. But then I asked her how she was feeling...

My friend is a tough broad. She’s a successful woman in a man’s world. To become so, she had to be tough. Now with cancer it’s been no different. She takes everything it has thrown at her with grit, determination and a positive attitude that is sometimes hard to comprehend from where I sit. But this morning she offhandedly made the statement that her doctor says that she is now anemic, which means that her immune system, already weakened by the chemo, is now even less effective. Her doctor’s advice is that she should work from home instead of going into the office during flu season. 

Something about that revelation got to me. And in my usual ham-fisted way, I blurted out, “OK...if you get the flu, I’m lodging an official complaint with God!!” Her reply was, “I’m trusting him with all of it. No need to complain, my friend. He’s got this.”

When I replied with, “Yeah, but sometimes enough is enough,” she offered this matter of fact description of her condition:

I know...I have sores in my nose, hands that are so chapped they peel the skin off, blurred vision, no hair, constant diarrhea and sores inside my mouth. But, I’ve been reading Job and reminding myself that I’m still better off than he was. Also, there’s a guy at our church who is younger than me and has stage four cancer in his jaw and throat. He has been on chemo and radiation. I think he’s already quitting and they are going to call in hospice. So, I can still see positives in all this mess. When your group meets this week remember to pray for my husband. I think he’s depressed about all of this but would never admit it.

Whenever I post something about my friend, it makes me uncomfortable whenever people respond by telling me what a great “friend” I am. When people do that they are completely and totally missing the point. What’s remarkable about all of this is not some guy who sends texts to a sick friend every morning filled with corny jokes. What’s remarkable is the almost supernatural endurance, faith and toughness of a woman who is battling cancer with more honesty and grace than humanly possible. After that dissertation of horribleness she asks me to pray...for her husband.

It didn’t end there. Before I could summon enough composure to respond she changed the subject to...baseball. She and her husband are big Orioles fans, they drive to Baltimore three or four times a year to their games. But she’s become a temporary Nationals fan for the Series. “I figure the Nationals are as close as I’m gonna get to seeing Baltimore win a World Series, so GO NATS!”

Just like nothing ever happened. She signed off with, “Have a happy Monday, Doug!”

I have so much to learn about toughness, grace and faith, it’s not even funny. 

Heaven on Earth

Now that the Yankees have been eliminated from the playoffs and the world is now back to spinning merrily on its axis, I can get back to other concerns. Of course by other concerns, I mean finding and disseminating the absolute worst Dad Jokes known to exist anywhere in the free world. Like:

Have you heard about that new strain of lice that are resistant to conventional treatments?

They have scientists scratching their heads.

What do you get when you divide a pumpkin’s circumference by it’s diameter?

Pumpkin Pi

I keep asking what LBGTQ stands for...

But I can never get a straight answer.

You may have noticed, (or not), that I haven’t been writing as many posts here recently. It’s because of this bizarre novel I’m writing. I’ve never experienced anything like it. My two previous books took between 6 and 8 months to write. This one has been flying out of my head and onto the page at all hours— morning, noon and night for just under 2 months now and I’m almost done. My friend with cancer says it reminds her of her diarrhea—which I found hysterically funny. The fact that she can find humor in her circumstances is remarkable. Anyway, between watching post season baseball and writing this story, The Tempest has gotten the short end of the stick. I intend to remedy this at some point very soon. I wouldn’t want any of you jumping out of windows from the overwhelming disappointment of not getting your Tempest fix. On the other hand, I’m sure there are plenty of you who are asking yourselves the question, “How can we miss him if he never leaves??” A fair point.

Getting back to the Evil Empire, watching the Yankees get beaten in the postseason every year for the past decade or so has been something very close to what I imagine heaven will be like. But last night was something special. There was their 330 million dollar walking hamstring pull, Giancarlo Stanton, riding the pine...their golden boy Aaron Judge getting doubled off first base, and their wife-beating closer getting lit up by the smallest player on the field, Jose Altuve. I mean if that’s not heaven, what is???

Either Way...I Win

My daily joke therapy for my friend with cancer is now well into its second month. This responsibility has been a challenge for me. No, its not hard encouraging someone with cancer every morning...its hard to find jokes!!! I have had to search far and wide for material. The good news is I’ve found several amazing sources for some of the worst/best Dad Jokes ever. Some are so stunningly bad, they boggle the mind:

My daughter wants to drop out of college to become a midwife.

She thinks it’s time to...cut the cord.

My wife bought me some soy sauce to ease my depression.

Kikkoman when he’s down, she said.

I ran into my very short friend, Peter, down at the pub. He started telling hilarious stories about the flatbread factory where he works.

I love the pitta patter of tiny Pete.

Now, when my friend reads jokes like these at six o’clock in the morning, she has a decision to make. She can A. Roll her eyes, B. Laugh, C. Question my sanity, or D. All of the above. In addition, she can realize that no matter what the day may bring, it couldn’t possibly be any worse than Doug’s jokes. Either way...I win.

Our Fall Getaway in Pictures

Ever wonder what it would be like to be forced off the internet? The Dunnevant family is finding out! The lovely cabin we rented for our Fall getaway was advertised as having WiFi, which is technically true, I suppose, since it does have a network. But we have come to the conclusion that the router must be powered by two gerbils spinning a treadmill...somewhere back in Short Pump. To call the internet around here slow is to abuse that word. The internet at Carolina Dreamin aspires to one day be slow.

So, I will write this post, attach some of the pictures I’ve taken, then attempt to publish the finished product. If I’m lucky, it will appear on Facebook sometime before we leave for home on Monday!

Ok, what is wrong with this picture? This was taken Thursday night after dinner and before any of the kids arrived. Lucy is resting. I am resting. Pam is doing dishes. Now that I think about it...there is nothing wrong with this picture!

We finally got to meet this very good boy, Frisco. All of us fell head over heels for this adorable, lovable goof ball. By the way, Patrick and Sarah are going to make excellent parents someday!

...I was clearly his favorite.

Of course. Jon and Kaitlin brought my favorite wrecking ball, galloping galoot of a dog to ever to grace this earth with his presence...Jackson. 

I am clearly his favorite.

Occasionally I had to have stern talks with them about the proper way to interact with the new puppy. Here, Lucy and Jackson listen intently to my admonition about patience being a virtue when dealing with little Frisco.

Here, Pam lectures all three of them about the importance of sharing their toys.

Here’s a shot of Sarah urging them to put their paws together in solidarity. Jackson was unmoved by such crass sentimentality.

Frisco, wondering what kind of family he has gotten himself mixed up with.

Just in case you’re wondering if we took any pictures without the puppers...yes. 

I am clearly her favorite.

Need a New Vision?

A friend sent me this poem this morning. I forwarded it to another friend who, like me, needed to hear it. Now I pass it on to you...

Disturb Us

 

Disturb us, O Lord, when

We are too well pleased with ourselves,

When our dreams have come true

Because we dreamed too little, when we arrived safely

Because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, O Lord, when

With the abundance of things we possess

We have lost our thirst

For the waters of life;

Having fallen in love with life,

We have ceased to dream of eternity.

And in our efforts to build a new earth,

We have allowed our vision

Of the new Heaven to dim.

Disturb us, O Lord, to dare more boldly,

To venture on wider seas

Where storms will show Your mastery;

Where losing sight of land,

We shall find the stars.

We ask You to push back

The horizons of our hopes;

And to push us in the future

In strength, courage, hope, and love.

This we ask in the name of our Captain,

Who is Jesus Christ.

Prayer of Sir Francis Drake as he left Portsmouth, England To circumnavigate the world on his ship, “The Golden Hinde.” December 13, 1577.

Getting The Right Perspective

Every year, my broker-dealer puts on an annual meeting. It lasts for three days or so and features a series of speakers, dozens of break out sessions, and cocktail parties. In other words, lots of sitting in meetings, and rubbing shoulders with a thousand people you don’t know, trying to make small talk, “Hey, how ‘bout those new compliance regs, eh? Sheesh!” It would be almost impossible to design anything for which I am more ill-suited by education, training and life experience than a three day meeting. So, I avoid them like the plague. Thank the God of the Universe that these confabs are not mandatory. I attend once every five years whether I need to or not. 

So, yesterday my partner and his girls—who always go to these meetings—conducted a debriefing where they shared the highlights of what they had learned from this year’s session with me. I sat at the end of the conference table and girded my loins for what I was sure would be a white knuckle emotional roller coaster. I was not disappointed. Let me summarize:

1. All of us are one mistake away from being sued and losing everything.

2. IF we don’t get sued, we will probably get fined a gazillion dollars if one of our office computers gets hacked and client information gets compromised...oh, and our errors and omissions coverage probably won’t cover it.

3. None of us know the first thing about computers and this fact will probably wind up causing our financial and professional ruin.

4. The way I do business is likely to be rejected by the latest regulatory regime within a year or so, causing me to change the way I charge clients for my services, the net result being I must charge them WAY MORE in exchange for less performance.

And this, my friends, is why I don’t attend these meetings. This industry is tough enough without having to be beaten over the head with  just how tenuous my survival is for three days in a meeting that I have to pay to attend. I mean, if I wanted to cultivate suicidal thoughts I could stay home and watch CNN for free.

But then I talk with me friend about her cancer and what kind of day she’s having and I check myself. It’s a hard day. She’s tired and fearful and feeling defeated. She’ll snap out of it because she’s tough as a two dollar steak...but this morning it’s rough. She wants to feel normal, she is tired of thinking about cancer, she’s tired of the relentless burden of it all. I tell her a couple of bad jokes. She laughs. Then she gives me a passage of scripture to look up. I do. It’s about perseverance. She tells me she feels better now. She reminds me that I don’t have...any problems. And unless you’re facing a chemo treatment this Thursday morning...you probably don’t either.

My Very Dumb Friend

I have a good friend who isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I mean, bless his heart...Anyway, he called me the other day to tell me that he was really bummed about his new girlfriend. He said he had to break up with her even though at first he thought she might be the one.

I asked him, “What happened?”

He answered, “Well, one night I was snooping around in her night stand and I found a French Maid outfit, a nurse’s outfit, and a police officer’s uniform.”

I said, “Umm....

He said, “I just figured if she can’t hold down a job, she’s not for me.”

The Latest News From the Fight

Up at 4:30 again. This is getting ridiculous. With the Nationals playing on the west coast tonight, this is going to be one very long day. 

But you know who’s also up every morning around this time? My friend who has breast cancer. She and her husband can never sleep past around 3:30 or 4:00 so, weather permitting, they go for a walk down by the flood wall in Buena Vista.

As you know, every morning since she got sick I’ve been texting her jokes and trying in my ham-fisted way to encourage her. Most of the time, she’s the one who ends up encouraging me. This morning's exchange was fairly typical. I share it here with just a few minor edits to give you a feel for what kind of person she is. . .

Me: I called my wife and asked her if I should pick up Fish and Chips on my way home from work and she hung up.

Her: ?

Me: She’s still angry she let me name the kids.

Her: Horrible! But, expected. Ok, hair started falling out in handfuls yesterday.

Me: To be expected. But, how do you feel about it?

Her: I wanted to cry but I didn’t.

Me: Oh dear girl...

Her: They told me I would be bald by October 8th when this all started. Even though I knew it was coming, it’s still another life changer.

Me: (Unable to think of anything helpful to say)

Her: So I went into my chart last night and saw where my first chemo treatment’s price was listed. Guess how much?

Me: No idea.

Her: $89,471

Me: Insanity! Somebody is getting rich off your illness. Pisses me off...wait, how many chemo treatments are you going to get? Four, right?

Her: Six total.

Me: Freaking chemo is going to cost somebody a half a million dollars. Grrrrr.....

Her: I know! It’s very sad. I’m so grateful for Johnny’s health insurance.

Me: Speaking of Johnny, did you hear about the time he took his granddaughter to a restaurant and the waitress reminded him that kids eat for free?

Her: Sigh....No. But you’re gonna tell me.

Me: So, Johnny said, “Ok then, I’m gonna have a glass of water and some chicken nuggets and she’s gonna have a T-Bone steak medium rare with a Bud Lite.

Her: You are not right.

Me: Oh, and what do you call a Wednesday without any rain?

Her: Lord Help me Jesus...

Me: A dry hump day.

Her: (three face palm emojis)

Me: Love you guys. Have a nice walk

I have listened to her describe her battle with cancer for weeks now. It’s a mixture of tragedy and triumph. Some days she is a pillar of strength. Other days she is worn out. But through it all her great faith and intrinsic optimism keep shining through. There’s very little self pity. Her biggest fear seems to be...how her cancer is affecting her family. She feels bad for putting them through this ordeal. 

I just shake my head and marvel at her tenacity.

Pass The Pepto-Bismol

And so it begins...

Last night my stomach was tied in knots. I spent long periods of time with my heart firmly lodged in my throat. I was frustrated, resigned to disappointment and wallowing in despair...right up to the moment when I began dancing around my house in a fist-pumping frenzy. What was the cause of this manic-depressive behavior?

Post Season Baseball.

My small group met last night, so i actually missed the first couple of innings—an act of stunning spiritual devotion I might add! By the time I arrived at home, my brother called declaring that all was lost and he simply couldn’t take it anymore. I replied, “Bro, the Nats are only down two in the fourth inning!! Weren’t you the guy who just yesterday was predicting a deep playoff run for this scrappy, resilient team?” Then he launched into a dissertation about the fact that our nation’s capital is home to loser franchises, blah blah blah. My brother can jump on and off a bandwagon quicker than a fat kid jumps on a box of donuts.

Anyway, I labored on as the Nationals blew chance after chance to mount a comeback. Then finally they managed to load the bases in the bottom of the eighth with their 20 year old phenom, Juan Soto at the plate. The kid promptly turns a 98 mph fastball around and sends it rocketing toward the right fielder, a single which could tie the game. Then the ball took a crazy sideways hop and rolled past the befuddled outfielder. Three runs score and the Nats go up 4-3. Now it was just a matter of getting three outs in the 9th to preserve the win...something that the Nationals have been tragically awful at all season. When Don Hudson retired the last Brewer hitter on a fly ball to center field, I scared Lucy half to death with my aforementioned demonstration.

It will be this way for the next three weeks, each game an agonizing nail-biting gauntlet to be endured. I will be up late watching every one of them, my headphones on to hear the radio announcers call the game instead of the far inferior TV talking heads. Lucy will keep a weary eye on me, fearing the latest irrational outburst. Pam will roll her eyes at me as she goes off to bed.

And I will know when it’s time to start paying closer attention when my brother calls to declare the season is over for the Nationals!

Highlights Of The Week

Highlights of the week of September 23-28

- Started shooting left handed, since my left eye sees better over distances and it has suddenly transformed my effectiveness. Have killed four and maimed two other squirrels since going lefty...a deadly adjustment in my campaign to plow a path of death and destruction through the squirrel community.

- Continued prodigious output on my latest literary effort, completing five chapters since Sunday.

- My friend who has cancer had a rough week, lots of negative reactions to her chemo. Her daily Dad Joke therapy wasn’t as effective as it has been in previous weeks, but the worst of it seems to be over for now and she is battling on, even sending me several thumbs ups and laughing emojis to this morning’s offerings:

What’s it called when they put an inmate into a cell with nothing but a deck of cards?

Solitaire confinement.

I began reading a horror story in Braille.

Something really bad is going to happen...I can feel it.

Then there was a twist that I didn’t see coming.

- Pam and I started watching the latest Ken Burns documentary on Country music. Amazing and fascinating. Although Burns could make a documentary about diarrhea fascinating as long as Peter Coyote’s voice is the narrator:

In the pre-dawn mist of the 3rd of September 1953, Ed Moszkawitz’s condition took a turn for the worse. With his wife cringing in a room down the hall, Ed’s diarrhea entered a new phase, having turned a color resembling magenta, which Ed thought might either be blood or the result of the strained beets he had eaten the night before. 

- Profitable week at the office, no doubt the result of the insanely expensive renovation project just completed by the Greenwood Girls. Of course, when I told my indomitable assistant to go out and buy a new chair for her office she returned with a beautiful striped, upholstered beauty that fit the space perfectly. Everyone who has seen it has raved about how great it looks. Price?  $59.99

Genius!!

Make It Stop!

It’s currently 4:17 in the morning, the third time this week I’ve been wide awake at this hour. Each time it has been for the same reason. Inspiration. For over a month now a story has been pouring out of me and the flow won’t stop no matter what the hour. It has consumed nearly every waking and sleeping moment. For whatever reason, my mind cannot turn it off. After 17 chapters it still doesn’t have a name. A couple of nights ago, I fell asleep thinking about how I was going to introduce a strange memory sequence. At 2 o’clock I woke up with the solution, stumbled down the stairs and starting writing, then crawled back in bed two hours later.

The strangest thing about it is the fact that I’m not even sure I particularly like any of the characters. The story itself is pretty good, but I’ve had better. But this one feels different. This one feels relentless. The pace at which it has revealed itself has been staggering. . .and it’s wearing me out.

Deep Questions.

There are times when an idea gets stuck in my head and just won’t go away. It’s quite annoying, especially when the idea in question is something ridiculous, unproductive, or both. Well, thanks to my small group, I woke up this morning with the most ridiculous, most unproductive idea possibly of all times living rent free in my head. The only way I’m going to be able to shake it is to get it out of my system by writing out the stupidity here on The Tempest.

So, someone made the casual observation during our small group discussion last night that we know very little about the childhood of Jesus. Aside from that one story about him in the temple as a child there's nothing in scripture about his childhood or adolescence. Then, someone who will remain nameless, although her initials are Renee Carter, cracked us all up with, “I wonder if he was nice to all the lame children?”

This morning, I can’t stop thinking about what Jesus might have been like as a five year old:

When the other kids were stomping through mud puddles, was he walking over them?

When Jesus and his buds went on picnics did Jesus turn their water into lemonade?

Did Jesus’ friends get annoyed whenever they played hide and seek with him because he always knew where they all were hiding?

When he wrestled with a buddy and pinned his face into the dirt would he say stuff like, “See, I told ya! The meek will inherit the earth!”

Did Jesus ever sneak out to go play a game of spin the cask in that storage shed behind the temple?

Ok, I feel better now. 

The Downton Abbey Movie

I can think of at least a dozen reasons why I should hate Downton Abbey. The idea that someone with my sensibilities would not only have faithfully watched all seven seasons, but also just dropped $100 to watch the movie version at Cinebistro is astonishing. Let me explain.

Although I am fully aware of the debt which western civilization owes the British Isles, in addition to the great contributions those countries made to the establishment of our own. . .I have always held on to a bit of resentment towards Great Britain. I find them to be condescending, and their silly monarchy embarrassing. Whenever one of them gets married, women in America completely be-clown themselves with their fawning worship of the most ridiculous institution to survive modernity, second only to Free-Masonry. The British monarchy is the biggest collection of talentless, entitled white people ever assembled in one place. The closest we come to it in Virginia is cocktail hour at the Commonwealth Club.

And yet, there I was last night, thoroughly enchanted by Lord and Lady Grantham and their pretentious family, none of whom has done an honest day’s work in their collective lives. What gives?

Well, for one thing, Downton Abbey is a feast for the eyes. The grand old house and the lush grounds are simply gorgeous. There’s something to be said for beauty, no matter the source. Then there’s their impeccable, for lack of a more precise term—manners. To watch a group of people speaking to each other with courtesy and respect for seven years has been something like a salve for the soul. To hear adults, whether upstairs or down, use complete sentences, with such precise grammar and diction is to be reminded that verbal communication is now in decline. Then there's this...

We live in a loud world. We are people with short attention spans, who must be constantly bombarded with flash and pop. Turn on any television program these days, go to any movie, no matter the genre, and before long a car chase scene will break out. Everyone involved in the entertainment business seems to be screaming at us. They have come to the conclusion that we cannot be entertained without a full frontal attack on all of our senses. They are probably correct.

But, last night, hardly anyone raised their voice for nearly 2 hours. No one was gruesomely killed (although there was an aborted assassination attempt). No one felt obligated to shower us with 16 different varieties of the F word. No one got naked. And there were no thinly veiled preachy climate change sermons. What there was was fine acting, terrific writing, and freaking Maggie Smith. Watching her deliver her lines with that delightfully aristocratic tilt of the head was worth however much it cost me last night. 

Plus, I was with these wonderful people...

So yeah, me of all people, I’m a Downton Abbey guy. There. I said it.

Four Saturday Dad Jokes

Some of you have expressed great appreciation for my endless stream of Dad Jokes on Facebook. Others. . .well, others. . .lets just say, not so much. Nevertheless, I persist essentially for one reason—humor, even weak humor is better than bitching and moaning about politics. Attempts at getting people to laugh is more rewarding than pointless debates. And with the 2020 election cycle fast approaching, we’re going to be begging for something...anything to make us laugh soon enough!

So, here are four cringeworthy dad Jokes for your Saturday morning. I scared these babies up from their deepest, darkest hiding places on the interwebs.

1. Why are Irish bankers so successful?

Because their capital’s always Dublin.

2. My job is telling real trees from fake trees. I was worried that I would be bad at it, but it turns out I’m quite good.

That’s a real leaf.

3. I lost my job at the bank yesterday. An older woman came in and asked me to check her balance.

So, I pushed her over.

4. Studies have shown that 4 out of 5 men will have diarrhea at least once a month.

The other guy is full of it.

You’re welcome.

Praying For My Friend Today

My friend has her first chemo treatment today. You would think that I could have come up with something better than. . .

What do you call a hymn of embarrassment?    A facepsalm.

—and—

“Doctor, I can’t stop saying, ‘Halt! Who goes there??”

“We’ll have to do some tests but it looks like you might have...Friendorphobia.”

Some days are better than others, what can I say? 

So, she goes in and gets the chemo from 8:30 until 3:30. When she told me this I’m thinking, are you freaking kidding me? Seven hours of chemo? First of all, having to sit still for seven hours would be horrible enough, but to have to sit still for this would be excruciating. I assume that she will be in a room with others getting chemo too. How’s that gonna go?

“So, what’s you in for?”

“I’ve got pancreatic cancer. What about you?”

“Breast cancer here.”

“Two for one, eh?”

I can’t even imagine how scared she will be. I would be a mess. But she won’t be wearing sweat pants. My friend is dressed for an important meeting with a client, dressed to the nines. Her husband will be right beside her, and all of her friends will be praying. 

Office Makeover

A week ago I promised all of you that I would send before and after pictures of my office renovations as soon as they were complete. Well, everything isn’t 100% finished, but close enough. The only reason things turned out well is because my wife took matters into her capable hands, whipped out our VISA card and whipped the place into shape.

BEFORE.                                           

AFTER

That’s right, no more credentials on the wall. Just a map of the world so I can point out where we all are.

BEFORE

AFTER

No more golf pictures and no more chair rail. Just this handsome artsy thing that from this angle looks like a giant barcode.

BEFORE

AFTER

You will notice that the amazon jungle plant I used to have devouring my bookcase, and the sheet rock behind it is no longer there. This has come as a great relief to my colleagues who had become quite fearful at its prodigious growth, imagining the day when all of us would find ourselves trapped inside and suffocated by its rapidly expanding tentacles. Also, you will notice the new clock. This will help me remind my clients just how late they were arriving for their appointment.

BEFORE

AFTER

So...there you have it. 

Our Disposable Life

I volunteered at my church’s thrift store yesterday. I love that we have a thrift store. I love that it is run so well and that it offers such a wide variety of very good stuff for very little money. I’ve seen the looks on young mother’s faces as they are told that the shopping cart full of like-new clothing for their two middle school age kids comes to $64. I’ve seen the tears form and the thankfulness come pouring out. It’s a beautiful thing. But yesterday I noticed something else not so beautiful.

My favorite part of working at the store is trash duty. As you can imagine, an enterprise like Hope Thrift produces prodigious amounts of trash. You can also imagine that when a thrift store decides that something is worthless...it’s ridiculously worthless. Anyway, yesterday I emptied the huge rolling trash receptacles—the ones that are shaped like cubes that you could fit several dead bodies in—at least five times. It was a huge trash day. There’s a big dumpster out back. My job is to separate the run of the mill junk from the cardboard, since the cardboard goes in a different dumpster. The reason I love this job so much is that I get to throw everything made out of glass into the dumpster...violently. There is nothing quite so therapeutic as the sound of breaking glass!! My favorite is when I run across a set of like. . . Iowa State shot glasses or something. They make a heck of a satisfying sound breaking into a million pieces.

But yesterday, I took more time actually looking at the things I was throwing away, noticing what kinds of things people sour on, get tired of and eventually reject. So much plastic. I think we humans have an intrinsic understanding that no matter how convenient and lightweight plastic is...it’s cheap. We don’t prize things made out of plastic. Once it serves its purpose, we move on. Plastic things are disposable. Lots of things are disposable, and I have two huge dumpsters packed to the gills to prove it. The kids today, these millennials are trying to ween themselves off of convenience. Their big mantra is sustainability. We grownups mock them for it, shake our heads at their minimalistic world view. Well, if you spent a day hanging around the Hope Thrift dumpster, you would develop sympathy for their desire to produce less trash. But, this isn’t what struck me yesterday as I was firing fastballs with tea cups into that big green dumpster. I was thinking of how our relationships have also become disposable.

Pam and I have been married for over 35 years. We’ve enjoyed great successes and our share of failures great and small. We brought two little ones into this world and watched them both become beautiful grownups. We’ve built a home and crafted a family. But none of it would have happened if we both weren’t totally committed to each other. If either of us had walked away as soon as it got hard, or thrown in the towel when suddenly marriage was no longer fun and games, none of the life we now enjoy would have been possible. Our relationship, like all marriages has featured moments of great joy, deep love and combustible romance...but also epic disappointment, titanic frustrations, and times where the only thing combustible about our relationship was our tempers. Ok...my temper. But we stayed together because we aren’t disposable. We aren’t made of plastic. Human beings aren’t built for convenience, we are built for commitment. Our society is filling up dumpsters with all manner of things never intended to be so easily discarded, like small gold-framed pictures of a woman in her wedding gown—I threw one of those away yesterday. There was a lump in my throat. I hear stories of newborn babies ending up in dumpsters, the barbaric end game of this disposable culture.

So, yeah...yesterday I was reminded of just how much I love my wife while working next to a dumpster.

Thanks, Hope Thrift.

Out With The Old

Nobody would ever accuse me of being trendy. I use that word not as a pejorative, as in—someone obsessed with stylishness over substance. What I mean by trendy is someone who is tuned in to the very latest things when it comes to decorating and such. Be that as it may, I do consider myself sufficiently with the times enough to know not to cover my office walls with hideous paisley wall paper. I say all of this because this week, my office has been rendered unuseable by a horde of workers with a mission to completely renovate  the entire place from ceiling to floors in one week. You see, my business partner—more precisely the three women in his life—have decided that our office feng shui is all wrong. Yes, after ten short years, everything about the place from the floors to the drapes to the wall colors to the furniture is hopelessly and irretrievably outdated. 

They all knew this would be a hard sell to their minority owner, since I would have been completely fine with my ten year old feng shui for a minimum of ten more. But I am nothing if not a team player, so I politely nodded my approval to all of their ideas...

Blair: Doug, look over this color palette and tell me what you think.

Me: Well, er, I...

Allison: What about your accent wall, Doug? Don’t you think it should be a couple shades darker?

Me: Sure, I think, er...

Blair: Of course, this chair rail will have to go. Sooo 1990’s

Me: Wait, you’re taking the chair rail down?

Allison: Doug, we will be going with a blue-ish tint with the office carpet so your diplomas will probably have to be re-matted. Although, this might be a good opportunity to take them down anyway...nobody hangs their diplomas in their offices anymore.

Me: But, I thought, er...

Blair: Doug...these golf prints? The 1970’s called. They want their pictures back!

So, now all the furniture in my office has been shoved into the center of the room and covered in plastic. The walls have been painted a steely gray color. The chair rail is history, and by this time next week there will be wood floors all over the place, new televisions hanging on the walls—our old ones weren’t adequately smart—and two brand new chairs in the lobby. The old law firm chic having been replaced by industrial chic. I have been assured that this is what the new 21st century clients will love.

Here’s the thing. Once everything is finished and in place, I’m sure I will like it just fine. It will all look great. But then again, I was totally fine with my old law firm look. Sure, I bought those golf prints back when I actually played golf, and sure, when I hung those diplomas it was to impress clients with my credentials. Now, I give them chocolates and ask them if they would like a low-fat chai latte.

The times, they are a-changin’ and I must keep up. To do so, my wife is going to have some work to do over the next couple of weeks to properly accessorize the place—new pictures, new knickknackery etc..

I’ll share a picture when she’s done.

Some Things, I Got Right

Every other year since the early 1990s, my big brawling family heads to the Outer Banks for a week. Each year we all hike up to the top of Jockeys Ridge to watch the sunset and take pictures. Some years they turn out better than others...

This one was taken by my niece’s husband, Matt. I look at it and think, How in the world did I ever get someone like her?

This is my crew. Each of them special, invaluable. Each one of them brings something unique to the family table. None of them could be replaced.

I suppose it’s the same with you. Families are that way. Unique. Invaluable. Astonishingly photogenic! 

When I look back at my life I can spot a thousand mistakes. There were things I should have done but didn’t. There were things I did which I had no business doing. There were opportunities missed. Ill-advised projects attempted. Bone-headed decisions. But when I look at these pictures I am reminded that there were some things I got right. 

Lucy Is On The 10-Day DL

Unfortunately, Lucy has landed on the 10 day disabled list retroactive to Saturday morning. The injury was sustained during one of her favorite activities, chasing this:

Yes, the Chuckit Paraflight 2000 has been Lucy’s go-to toy for her entire life. This particular version is the fourth one, the other three having long ago been destroyed from use. Nearly every day, weather permitting, the two of us go out in the backyard. When I pull out the frisbee she begins a series of hysterical jumping maneuvers as she awaits the first throw. I loft the thing on a practiced trajectory, high and arching from right to left. I’ve done it so many times, I’m like one of those pitching machines. Lucy takes off on a dead run and then at the perfect moment launches herself skyward, snatching the frisbee out of the air with the elegant lines of an Olympian long jumper. It is a thing of athletic beauty. Then she brings it to me, insisting on a little bit of tug-o-war before relinquishing it for another throw. She tells me she’s done when she catches the frisbee, turns to me for my applause, then drops it to the ground and prances around the yard in a victory lap.

But I am not a pitching machine. Sometimes my throws are off target and she either can’t catch it, or her valiant attempt places her body in a contorted position from which a successful catch is nearly impossible. Such was the case yesterday morning when my second throw of the day was too high. She overran it a bit so when she launched herself to catch it she found herself too far under it and to its right. Instead of just letting it go she attempted an acrobatic catch by contorting her body wildly mid-flight in one of the most athletic displays I have ever been privileged to witness. Somehow she was able to snag the thing, a truly miraculous catch. But when she landed back on terra firma her legs were wildly out of position. She landed awkwardly, while somehow being able to maintain her balance. But when she began running back towards me she abruptly stopped and held up her front right paw, like she wanted to shake. Then she tried running again, only to stop again, holding out her paw again. Poor girl. 

So, this morning she still has a bit of a limp but is better. As a precaution, there will be no more Chuckit Paraflight 2000 workouts for a week or so. She will NOT be happy with this verdict and will no doubt want to seek a second opinion. But my decision is final.

Time For a Fight

Here’s an update on my friend with breast cancer:

She’s had an up and down week. She received some good news from a biopsy. She received some bad news from the doctor who detailed the course of action required to battle the thing. He described what she should expect over the coming weeks and months. It won’t be pretty. There will be nausea, diarrhea, loss of hair, etc. etc. First of all, I like a doctor who doesn’t sugar coat things. I would rather know exactly what I’m dealing with at the beginning, than to wake up a couple of weeks in and discover that one leg is considerably shorter than the other and be like, “What the??  GAKKKKK!!!!” But that’s just me.

As she was explaining all of this to me, she said something really encouraging—and she probably didn’t even know she was doing it. She said, “I’m not discouraged by any of this...just mad.”

I loved hearing that. For one thing, she has every right to be mad. I would be furious. What has she ever done to deserve this? Not a damn thing. I have no idea why things like this happen. Absolutely none of it is fair. But hearing her say she was mad tells me she’s ready for a fight. I’m not sure that this cancer knows exactly what it’s up against. We’ve all heard that old expression, “Never mess with a woman from the Valley” and its pre-#metoo codicil, “Don’t piss off a broad from Buena Vista”

To help fortify her for the fight, I have promised to text her a steady supply of Dad Jokes. I figure that having to endure a stream of horrible jokes will toughen her up. Comparatively, chemo will seem like child’s play. So far she has responded with some form of the face palm emoji and/or replies that start with the words...Lord help me Jesus...

So, it looks like my friend has no intention of being a passive bystander in this battle. She will fight. Her faith is strong. So she will bring some very righteous indignation to the battle. Godspeed, girl!

Bummed

This morning, I fully expected to wake up to the sound of wind and rain slashing against the windows of my house while Lucy lay wedged between us, trembling in fear. Instead. . . Crickets.

As of 6:55, still not a drop of rain. However, the wind is starting to pick up. I’m disappointed. Am I the only one who kinda enjoys bad weather? Seriously, crazy thunderstorms, blizzards, hurricanes, they are all exciting to me, at least the build up and anticipation are exciting. Dealing with a whacked out Lucy, shoveling snow and cleaning up fallen tree limbs isn’t much fun, but the storms themselves are a blast. Admit it, you like them too.

I have a theory as to why this is...uncertainty and danger are therapeutic...in small doses. When a huge storm is in the forecast there’s this feeling that comes over you of dread, a sliver of fear that you might be at the mercy of the natural world. The reason that this brings something close to a thrill is because it reminds you that you are alive and that the safety that you assume is all a paper thin illusion. This explains why we talk so much about the weather, why the only reason most of us turn on the local news is for the weather forecast. It’s the one part of our daily lives which can’t be sterilized and sanitized. We are at its whim, and if it turns suddenly nasty and violent, there isn’t a single solitary thing we can do about it. Pretty cool when you think about it.

So, this morning, I’m bummed.