The Birth Of A Man-Cave

For the better part of a month now, we have been in the process of remaking the upstairs of our house. I say “we”, when it would be more accurate to say “Pam”. It’s not that I am uninterested in the project or that I disapprove of anything that has been done; rather, I am more like a willful participant in Pam’s vision. My contribution so far has been to respond, ”I love it”, when asked, “What do you think of this?” This system has worked beautifully, producing as it has, a complete remake of the kids’ wing of the house. The new paint and decorating touches make that end of the house nearly unrecognizable, leaving barely any evidence that we ever actually had kids. That’s not entirely fair, of course. Kaitlin and Patrick will always own their end of the house. It’s just that everything over there looks so…clean, a marked contrast to the years when they ran the place.

Now I’m told that I need to take the lead in redecorating my little office from where I am typing this blog. I have been given the liberty to create a “man-cave” out of the place, which sounds wonderful, but from the size of it, I think that the word “cave” is a bit too grand. But a “man-closet” sounds terrible, even effeminate, so Man-Cave, with capital letters, it shall be.

First order of business will be to clean out the mountain of official marriage paperwork. These are the documents, photographs, paper memorabilia and assorted debris which 29 years of a happy life produce. On the shelf above me are 9 picture albums. On the cloth board in front of me are no less than 22 pictures pinned up with thumbtacks, the unfortunate ones who never made it into frames, but if thrown away by yours truly might insure that year thirty never comes. To my right hangs evidence of our 13 free resort vacations courtesy of Life of Virginia from 1989 to 2001. To my left is a shelf dominated by as random a collection of “Pam stuff” as can be imagined. This particular shelf is so precarious, so filled with danger, so fraught with peril; no amount of money could induce me to touch it. But this particular shelf is a garden of delight compared to what lies behind the doors directly behind me in the left corner of my office. Here lies that space that shall not be named. It is the “closet of doom”, containing as it does, Pam’s filing cabinet from hell. In this ordinary looking tan metal cabinet there are four drawers. On the doors of the top three are affixed aqua colored sticky notes. Drawer number one, “KIDS church”, drawer number two, “Scrapping Pics”, and door number three, ”Travel”.  Door number four has no label, making its contents too terrible to contemplate. The chances of me touching this filing cabinet are about as high as the chances that I will win the gold medal in the decathlon in the 2016 Olympics.

Once proper care has been taken in organizing this minefield, I will then move on to the business of painting, buying furniture and all the accompanying nick-nackery so essential to modern decorating. When completed, I will publish a photograph of the results. I am told that the room should reflect my tastes and sensitivities. Hmmm. Maybe a Blazing Saddles theme with a Fathead of Cleavon Little, or perhaps a baseball theme with a simulated pitcher’s mound in the corner with real dirt!

I’m going to drive Pam crazy.

The Most Disgusting Blog Topic Ever

I have written before in this space of my wretched opinion of the month of February. Nothing that has transpired in the 2013 edition has done anything to elevate my views of this miserable month. This morning I see that on Thursday we can look forward to heavy rain and 40 degrees. Peachy.

Spring training has begun, the only bright spot that occurs during this festival of dreariness. I now get to read baseball gossip each morning, my lifeline to sanity. There was a professional basketball All-Star game yesterday I’m told, and it appears that a woman has won the poll for the Daytona 500. I can hardly contain myself.

The big event for me every February is a story that never gets told, largely because it is something that is seldom mentioned in polite conversation. But, if I am ever to write on this subject, February would be the logical choice. Yes, I am referring to the annual mid-winter dog-poop removal project, or AMDPR for short.

Dog owners in this audience know the drill. All year we go out into the back yard every Friday or Saturday, usually right before cutting the grass, to remove the week’s damage. It is a mundane task requiring only 10 minutes, rubber gloves and a grocery bag. But then winter comes. The weather gets bad, the back yard becomes a bog, so the job goes undone…for weeks and weeks. Finally, once the middle of February rolls around, it takes the dog 15 minutes to find a bare spot. Something has to be done. So, on the most favorable day available, you gird your loins, and begin the hour long ordeal of filling a 45 gallon garden leaf bag with 8 weeks’ worth of Fido’s bowel movements.

This is the only time of the year where the great old joke about dog-poop and women doesn’t apply, since…what, wait…you haven’t heard that joke? What do women and dog poop have in common? The older they are the easier they are to pick up…that doesn’t apply during AMDPR, since the opposite is true. Eight weeks of exposure to the elements does horrible things to canine feces, let me tell you. But there’s a job to do, so you trudge on, reminding yourself, that you really do love your dog, and spring is on it’s way.

In a few short weeks this will all be over. The grass will begin to grow, the birds will begin to sing, tulips will bloom and February will be but a hideous memory. Hopefully by then I will be able to find more noble topics to write about.

Synonymetry

Welcome, students to today’s edition of Vocabulary Enhancement Training. As you know, in this class we take quotations from famous people, pick out phrases, and try to come up with other, perhaps more creative ways to communicate the same meaning…sort of advanced synonymetry…if you will.

So, today’s quote comes from Former Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi who, when told that if the sequestration went through, Congressmen and women would also get a pay cut, responded that a paycut would be “beneath the dignity of a congressman’s job”. Now, I want us to concentrate on the phrase, “dignity of a Congressman”.

What are some other ways that we can say the same thing more creatively, without changing the original meaning? Anyone?

 “How about instead of “dignity of a congressman”, we use…chastity of a prostitute?”

Excellent!

“I’ve got one! “scruples of a banker”.

Perfect!

“self-control of a toddler?”

Wonderful!

“soft hands of a brick layer?”

Beautiful! Class, I must say I’m overwhelmed with your responses today.

“Basketball skills of a white midget?”

That’s very creative, but let’s try to keep race out of our language. Oh, and the term “midget” might be seen as pejorative towards the vertically challenged. Bill? You’ve been awfully quiet today. Do you have any ideas on our topic?

Bill: “dignity of a congressman”? That’s a tough one. How about the efficiency of the DMV, or the Friendliness of the IRS, or maybe the fidelity of Bill Clinton?

All of those are excellent! Class, you have outdone yourselves today. Ok, next week our phrase will be “audacity of hope”.

Dad's Valentine's Day

Last night after a marvelous dinner that featured the insanely beautiful and delicious dessert pictured above, my wife prepared a special Valentine's plate for my Dad. There was a helium filled balloon with a Valentine's greeting and a giant picture of sugar cookies. Pam picked that one because it reminded her of the ones Mom used to make for the kids every Valentine's Day. She also bought a package of heart-shaped Reeses peanut butter cups. Then she placed the delectable treat in the picture above underneath a clear cake bowl and off we went to the hospital to see Dad.

When we first arrived he was laying back in his bed looking particularly tired after his second full day of rehab, but as soon as he saw this cake, he perked up. When asked if he wanted to eat it now or wait until later he answered, "Give me that fork!". He sat up and plowed through it with unrestrained glee, and as is his practice, cleaned the plate. For the rest of our visit, Dad was animated, his voice clear and strong, demonstrating once again the value of a sugar rush. It's been 9 days now since he first was admitted to the hospital and last night was the best he has looked. I credit my wife's gift of thoughtfulness, her cheerful love for Dad, and her culinary skills for his turnaround.

 

My "Paying-For" Problem

 Nancy Pelosi, the remarkably well-preserved former Speaker of the House, has contributed mightily to the ongoing debate about the 6 trillion dollar debt explosion we have endured over the last 4 and a half years. Appearing on Fox News, she told Chris Wallace that it was a “false argument to say we have a spending problem, when in fact we have a budget deficit problem.” To make it even more clear Rep. Steny Hoyer added this valuable insight, “we don’t have a spending problem, we have a paying for problem.”

Crickets.

Far be it from me, a mere business owner who over a thirty year career has managed to overdraw his checking account only once, to question two savvy veteran politicians, but I would say that if you have spent 6 Trillion dollars more than you have collected over 4 and a half years, you have a problem that sure looks and sounds like it has something to do with spending. But if Nancy and Steny and President Obama are convinced that our financial problems have nothing to do with spending too much money, well then, it must be true. I do wonder though how this explanation would hold up down at my bank:

 Wells Fargo Banker:  Mr. Dunnevant, thank you for coming in this morning. We have a problem with your business checking account. It seems that over the weekend you wrote three checks, one to the Melting Pot for $158, another to the Apple Store for $3205, and a third to Martins for $219. However, you only had $2100 in your account, so we have a problem.

Me:  A problem? What? I don’t understand.

Wells Fargo Banker:  Well, generally speaking, one needs to have sufficient funds in an account to cover checks written. In your case, you spent $1482 more than your balance, so there’s a spending problem.

Me:  No, no. You don’t seem to understand. I don’t have a spending problem. It’s more like a deficit problem.

Wells Fargo Banker:……………yes…but that’s pretty much the same thing.

Me:  More specifically, I don’t really have a spending problem as much as I have a paying for problem.

Wells Fargo Banker:  Wait…what?

Me:  Here’s the thing. Yes, my accounts seem to be out of money, but just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I can just stop making investments in my business. That computer I bought over the weekend is going to pay huge dividends down the road in improved efficiency at the office.

Wells Fargo Banker:  I’m sure it will, but Mr. Dunnevant, you are $1482 overdrawn and I will have to charge you $150 for the bounced checks.

Me:  Fine, just put it on my tab. One of my kids will be getting married at some point and then it won’t be long before I’ll have a grandchild. He’ll be good for it, I’m sure.

We are being governed by morons.

Underboobs?

This morning in my news feed are these headlines:

President Obama’s State of the Union Speech

Mysterious end to man-hunt

Alicia Keys underboob incident at the Grammy’s

 Now, I ask you, which one of these sparked the most curiosity? In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I watched neither the State of the Union show, or the Grammy’s. I did watch the live reports from California of the burning cabin where Christopher Dorner was supposedly holed up. As of this moment the remains found inside have not been identified as those of the cop-killer.

 But as interesting as these stories may have been, I was most intrigued by this underboob business. First of all, what a cool word…underboob. It’s even fun to say, let alone the “titillating” prospect of what it may mean. So, I did my research and discovered that an “underboob” is exactly what its name would suggest, ie…the revealed lower section of the female breast. Well, apparently CBS came very close to pulling the plug on Ms. Keys’ revealing underboob garment since it clearly violated its pre-show dress code. This is where it gets confusing. CBS, or any other network to my knowledge has never had any problem with plunging necklines that reveal practically every part of the female breast EXCEPT the underboob, so why all the fuss about this rarely revealed section of the female anatomy? Maybe we’ve run out of things to be scandalized about. Ever more scantily clad women have been paraded in front of us for so long now that we’re bored with the female form, and must create some new forbidden thing? It’s ok for Beyonce to give a concert in her underwear, but as a society we must draw the line at the over the top display of underboobs? (or should it be UNDER the top?) And I haven’t even mentioned the growing sideboob controversy.

I’m with Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart. I might not be able to define pornography, but I know an underboob when I see it!

Late Night Conversation With My Dad

Last night at the hospital with Dad, he was especially talkative. He began telling me stories from his life, ones I had never heard before. There was a crazy one from his days in the navy during World War II. On the day that Japan surrendered, bottles of booze materialized out of thin air. Since Dad had famously never taken a drink in his life, a couple of guys decided to force him to by cornering him and pouring it down his throat. When Dad realized what was up, he grabbed the bottle out of the guy’s hand and cracked him over the head with it leaving only the jagged- edged neck in his hand. The other guy backed off as his buddy lay out cold in a puddle of bourbon. Dad even remembered that his would be attacker was from Waycross, Georgia. This from a man who can’t remember what he had for lunch, but can recall the home town of a man he hasn’t seen in 68 years.

 Then he told me in great detail the story of Charlie Newton. When Dad became the pastor of Nicholsville Baptist church in Nicholsville, Alabama in 1965, he was warned by the members not to bother visiting Charlie. He was something of a celebrity in that small farming town because he was so violently hostile to the church in general and preachers in particular. Of course, Dad determined to visit him first before anyone else. Dad went through all the details of the long and tortuous relationship that he gradually built with Charlie, all the nastiness that he endured from this wretched and profane man. When Dad got to the part where Charlie knelt on the kitchen floor of our trailer early one Sunday morning to become a Christian, my father broke down in tears. “When the people saw Charlie Newton walk into church, in his right mind, and a bible in his hand, they just couldn’t believe it.” Dad said through his tears. “ I never can get through talking about Charlie without crying son, even after 48 years.”

 Later, I asked him to look back on his amazing 88 years and try to pick his favorite year. “I’ve had lots of favorites,” he said with a smile. Then he talked about the year he was saved, the years he was going to University of Richmond full time, while working midnight to 7 every night, and the years in Seminary where he spent 5 nights a week loading freight as a teamster, while pastoring a church in Alabama, and taking a full load of classes at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary as a 41 year old man with four kids. “Dad,” I said, “Those were the hardest years of your life, how on earth can they be your favorites?” He looked at me with an easy smile on his face. “It’s not a hard year when you’re in the center of God’s will.”

 After talking for the better part of an hour, he was tired and fell silent for awhile. Then out of nowhere he says, “You know, your Mother didn’t marry a preacher. She had a preacher thrust upon her. She had to learn to be a preacher’s wife, but she ended up being the best preacher’s wife in the whole world.” Once again he began to cry.

 

I’ve written this down because I don’t ever want to forget these conversations. My dad is laying down a marker for me and my children and their children to aim for. Not sure any of us will hit it, but even if we miss and just end up in the neighborhood, we will have lived well.