My Words Come Back to Haunt Me

This past weekend I attended a wedding shower for a young couple. After dinner we were to split up into groups of men and women to dispense advice to the bride and groom. When it was my turn, the gist of my comments were about how important it is to listen to your wife. This morning, with clear algorithmic malice, my Facebook feed offered the following piece of evidence highlighting my hypocrisy....

Why Men Don’t Listen to Their Wives—November 12, 2013

Last Friday, I informed my wife that I would be getting the leaves up in the yard. Henrico County picks up leaves in my neighborhood only twice this fall, and one of those days would be the following Monday. Since we would be in New Jersey for the weekend, it had to be done on Friday. Our conversation went something like this:

Pam: Wait, you’re going to bag up the leaves on the day before you have to drive 5 hours to New Jersey??

Me: ..er, well…yeah.

Pam: With that shoulder? The last thing you need is to screw up your shoulder or throw out your back right before making that kind of drive!

Pam and I have had variations on this conversation at least a hundred times over the nearly thirty years of our marriage. I make a simple declaration of my intentions to do A or B. Pam replies with a couple of paragraph-long warnings about all of the horrible things that might happen because I plan on doing A or B. I proceed to do A or B anyway. Many times, she is proven right by events. But it doesn’t matter, because although I listen to my wife, I often choose not to hear her. Why is this? I have a theory.

All of my life, I have been accused of doing the sorts of things that women seem to think are dangerous. When I was a kid, I was the tree climber, the bull chaser (a story for another time), and the kid who would throw rocks at hornet’s nests in the tops of trees. So, the first influential woman in my life, my mother, would be the one yelling things like, “Douglas, you better put your old shoes on before you walk through that trash fire,” or “Don’t shoot that BB gun in the house,” and “If you fall off that roof and break your leg, don’t come running to me!”  Then, as I became a teenager, it would be various girlfriends who would say, “Doug, are you sure that recruiting the football team to lift Mr. Jefferson’s MG on top of the breezeway roof is such a good idea?” Now, as a grown man, it’s mostly Pam looking incredulously at me as I’m walking out of the door to play golf. “You’re going to play golf today, the hottest day of the year, seriously? 100 degrees in the shade today and you decide to play golf?”

What all of them are essentially saying is, “Be careful. You might hurt yourself.” And, that is why I don’t listen. The possibility that I might hurt myself is half the fun of the thing. This is what women don’t understand. Asking a man to be careful might seem like prudent advice, but to a man it sounds like, “don’t have any fun.” If men throughout history listened to this type of womanly advice, we would all still be living in mud huts, eating berries and roots.

The fact that Pam has, more often than not, been prescient in her warnings isn’t the issue. The reliability of our wives’ instincts are not the point. The reason men don’t listen is because, we don’t want to be reminded about the calendar. We don’t want to be reminded that we aren’t twenty-two anymore. We are fully aware that back then a badly turned ankle meant Bayer aspirin and a bag of ice, while today it means x-rays, crutches, pain-killers and three weeks of rehab. We know all of that.

But to acknowledge it would mean admitting that we aren’t real men anymore. We would rather take the risk, or better yet, deny there even is any risk. Doing so helps us to hang on to our sense of worth, our dignity, and the last vestiges of our self respect.

So, we look at our wives as they warn us about the latest harebrained scheme we have cooked up, and we nod in agreement. All the while, we hear nothing, just like the parents in Peanuts television specials, “Wa, wawa, wawa, wa.” We would rather be daring than careful. Besides, if a leisure activity does not carry with it at least the possibility of putting ones eye out, is it really worth doing in the first place?

My New Favorite Politician

 

 

 

This is Ron Ford.

Ron Ford is the mayor of Toronto.

He's in trouble because a video has surfaced showing him smoking crack.

Hard to believe, eh?

Glad That's Over With

Thank God that’s over with. Ever since the rollout of ObamaCare, we have been inundated with story after story, (including mine) of Americans being kicked off of their health plans by the new law, this despite the President’s ironclad campaign assurances about how if we liked our health plans, we would be able to keep them.

The White House has struggled mightily to spin their way out of what seemed to some  a bald-faced lie. First, they denied people were actually losing their coverage. Then they claimed that the people who were losing coverage would find better and even cheaper coverage on the exchanges. When that explanation turned out to be false, they blamed the insurance companies. When that charge was debunked by none other than the Washington Post’s fact checker, it was time for the President himself to offer an explanation. In a speech three days ago, he told a crowd of 200 true believers that what we all heard him say more than 30 times over the past 4 years wasn’t what he said at all. The word IF was added to the sentence in question, as in “IF your insurance company made no changes to your plan after March of 2010, you could keep it.” The trouble with that explanation was that nobody can find any tape of the President ever uttering this new formulation. Even for our famously in-the-tank news media, this was a bridge too far. So, the wise men surrounding the President got together and decided to have the President do what he should have done months ago.

There was the President sitting across from NBC reporter Chuck Todd, a portrait of George Washington hanging forlornly over a fireplace behind them. When asked about the nearly 5 million Americans who will be losing coverage because of Obamacare, President Obama said, “I’m sorry.”

“I am sorry that they are finding themselves in this situation based on assurances they got from me.”

Well, ok then. We can all move on. There’s nothing else to see here. The President is sorry that the empty assurances he employed so brilliantly to get his law passed in the first place didn’t turn out to be…well, true. But isn’t that what really matters, that he’s sorry? I mean, hey, we all make mistakes.

I watched the entire interview. The only thing that was missing was Oprah, and tears. The President could have greatly helped his cause if he could have managed to tear up a bit, to demonstrate the depth of his contrition. But Chuck Todd is no Oprah Winfrey. No tears. In fact, the President looked like someone who would rather have been having a root canal without Novocain, than to be forced to apologize to a lousy 5 million Americans too stupid to know what a great deal they were getting with Obamacare. Seriously?! 5 million people lose their health insurance? 5 million out of 250 million?? How in hell are you supposed to make an omelet without breaking a few eggs?

But, there he was, having a difficult time maintaining eye contact with Chuck, galled beyond human understanding to have been put in such a humiliating position, but there he was saying those magic words, “I’m sorry.”

Glad that’s over with.

Kids No More

This coming weekend, Pam, Kaitlin and I will make the drive to Princeton, New Jersey. The famous Westminster Choir will be in concert on Sunday. Kaitlin will get to see Princeton for the first time, and we all will get to hear this phenomenal choir for the first time. There will be a morning of sight-seeing and good food. It will be the first time that all four of us will have been together since July. Then, two weeks later we will be together again for Thanksgiving. Sensational!

Last night I was reading A Moveable Feast while listening to Ella Fitzgerald on Pandora, but could concentrate on neither. All I could think about was how it seems like just a few months ago when the four of us were crammed into a booth at Friendly’s enjoying sundaes after a day of Little League baseball at Tuckahoe. Pam would be consoling Kaitlin over some tough last inning loss, while I was trying to get Patrick to stop kicking his sister underneath the table. It was my daughter who was the intense, brutal competitor, while my son’s favorite part of the game was wearing the cool catcher gear.

In Princeton, we will sit around a much more sophisticated table. The conversation will be of things literary and musical. Pam and I will glance at each other in the midst of it with astounded wonder at what we have managed to present to the world. They, after all, will one day be our replacements. In more ways than I can begin to articulate, they will be a vast improvement, not because we were such great parents, but because of something both fascinating and ethereal, the constant visitation of God’s grace in their lives. Often it took the form of talents, endowed upon them at birth, flowered into maturity by skilled and loving teachers. When I consider the impact that people like Larry and Diane Collawn, Sherri Matthews, Mark and Joanne Terlep, and Jeremy Welborn had on the two of them, it is impossible to calculate. When I think of the incredible people in the extended family to which they are connected by blood, I realize that some of their success is indeed hereditary. No two kids on Earth have been endowed with such a loving and supportive tribe of uncles, aunts and cousins. Surely such love and acceptance helped sculpt their self-image as human beings of value and worth. Whatever it was and however it happened, Pam and I are two lucky parents.

Yes, can’t wait for the weekend. I’ll let you know if Patrick kicks his sister under the table for old time’s sake.

Voting "NO"

I made a mistake yesterday. After spending nearly fifteen minutes in the voting booth trying to decide between impossibly flawed candidates, I made the mistake of declaring on Facebook that I couldn’t bring myself to vote for any of them. Instead, I had only voted against the Meals Tax. This morning I read the results and it is clear that for the 1,659^th time in my life…I should have kept my mouth shut. Among other things I was accused of inexcusable apathy. I was reminded of all those who had fought and died to preserve my right to vote. I was told that since I had not made a choice in the voting booth, I had lost my right to complain. I was accused of aiding the Democratic candidates by not voting. Even my credentials as a Christian were challenged since I didn’t vote against the Democrats since they are the only party in America completely bereft of morals, principles, and values.

Politics is an enterprise that doesn’t respond well to reason, so mounting a defense against these charges is in many ways a pointless exercise, sort of like attempting to answer the question, “does this dress make me look fat?”  But, I do love a challenge, and pointless exercises are for me, the spice of life, so here goes.

1.     INEXCUSABLE APATHY. If I were truly apathetic, I wouldn’t have gone to the polling station in the first place. I did, in fact, vote. If apathy is the lack of passion or excitement, I can make a reasoned argument that this is a good thing when it comes to politics. In our nation’s history, it has been the true believers in the power of politics who have done the most damage to life and liberty. Woodrow Wilson’s deranged progressives at the turn of the century provide a textbook example of what happens when a group of people get fired up over the possibilities of political power. I would think an intense skepticism about politics would be a much wiser approach, given the history of partisanship.

2.     People have died for my right to vote. No, they haven’t. The brave men and women of the United States military who have fallen in battle did not do so to preserve my right to vote. They did so to preserve my freedom, which includes the freedom to not vote. If you want mandatory voting as a requirement of citizenship, move to Cuba. Besides, any thinking person who knows anything at all about this country does not want every citizen voting. Do you really want the 40% of Americans who can’t name the Vice-President, and think the Supreme Court was the name of Diana Ross’ second album…voting?

3.     By not voting, I lose my right to complain. Bullshit. I am a tax-paying, fully functioning citizen of the United States of America. The fact that I couldn’t in good conscience pull the lever for the candidates that our cash-addled political parties vomited up onto the ballot this year takes my right to complain away in much the same way as refusing to eat poisoned food takes away my right to starve to death. Again, people who say this are describing Cuba, not a free Republic.

4.     By not voting, I helped the Democrats get elected. I, er..uh, what??

5.     Even if I didn’t like the Republican candidates, I should have voted against the Democrat since they are immoral. Several people made this point, bringing up the Democratic Party’s support for abortion and gay marriage as evidence of their immorality. First of all, I agree that abortion is immoral, and I believe that homosexuality is a sin. But to make the leap to, “democrats have no morals” is ludicrous and insulting. One can be mistaken without being immoral. Are these two issues the only two things that require morals, principles and values? I can make a reasoned and intellectual argument against the entire welfare state apparatus on the grounds that it is injurious to the very people it claims to help. But I can concede and even admire the moral underpinnings of my Democratic friends who support it, since it is their moral, principled, value system of caring for the poor that undergirds it. You might even say that they believe that it is their Democratic party that is trying to follow the commands of our savior to care for the “least of these.” I believe them to be merely mistaken, not immoral. The assumption that underlies the view among many Christians that  Republican Party support equates to genuine Christianity is an insidious slander. Besides, “blessed are the peace makers” isn’t exactly a description of the Republican Party these days. What about that moral? Or how about Capital punishment? Surely reasonable people can disagree, right? Seeing as how roughly 50% of “born again believers” end up in divorce court, does that mean that they have no morals, since divorce is clearly contrary to scripture. You can’t cherry-pick moral values, and any assertion that any secular political party has a monopoly on values, principles and morals is lazy and disingenuous. Still, many of my Christian friends will say that regardless of where a candidate stands on a thousand other issues, a Christian cannot vote for him if he is pro-choice. Ok. So, does that mean that if a Pro-Life candidate came along who was for Obamacare, raising taxes, and an expanding welfare state, that Christians lose their right to complain about losing their health plan and their higher taxes?

Politics has often been called the ‘art of the possible.” Well, morally pure, totally principled political parties don’t exist. You make the choice the best you can between very flawed men and women. And every now and then, when presented candidates for whom the bar has been lowered beyond comprehension, you do the moral, principled thing…and vote “NO.”

Election Day

Getting ready to go vote. I must make a choice among a field of candidates for Governor, Lt. Governor, and Attorney General. Then I have to approve or disapprove a proposal that would allow Henrico County to impose a 4% “meals tax” on all prepared food, the proceeds of which would be earmarked for schools.

Terry McAuliffe vs. Ken Cuccinelli offers up the classic matchup between a big government carpet-bagging liberal and a dreary right wing scold. For three months now Mr. McAuliffe has been warning me about Mr. Cuccinelli’s plans to outlaw abortions, and deny women their birth control pills. Seriously, that’s it. That’s all I know about Cuccinelli. He apparently has it in for women. For the past two months and three weeks, all I heard about Mr. McAuliffe was about how much he was planning to raise my taxes, $1746. Only over the past week have I heard that a vote for McAuliffe would be equivalent to a tacit approval of Obamacare. At this point, I would be willing to pay both of these guys $1746 to shut up already! I suppose I should point out that there is also a Libertarian candidate on the ballot as well, some guy with a bi-racial family who wears sear sucker suits and goes around pointing at McAuliffe and Cuccinelli saying, "I'm not them!"

Then there’s the most worthless office ever created, Lt. Governor, the guy who sits around for four years waiting for the governor to die, while piling up cash for his own run for governor. This year I must choose between some guy named E.W. Jackson and the Democrat candidate who wouldn’t shake his hand after their last debate. The fact that I can’t recall his name says something either about his candidacy or my poor citizenship. A quick Google search informs me that he is one Ralph S. Northam. That’s too bad, since the name “Ralph” doesn’t have much of a resume in modern politics. All I know about Mr. Jackson is that every politically active member of my church is in love with the guy, plastering my Facebook wall with testimonials to their undying devotion to this Harvard educated, fire-breathing social conservative, who lists as qualifications the volatile combination of preacher and lawyer. I haven’t seen a single add for either candidate.

The Attorney General race has been a mud-slinging tour-de-force, with Mark Obenshain and Mark Herring accusing each other of being notorious, pathologically lying bastards. So, there’s that.

The meals tax thing has been recently pitched by its proponents as “for the children." Whenever any political cause is presented to me on these terms I instinctively throw up a little in my mouth. Generally, it’s never truly about the children. It’s usually about manipulating you into paying higher taxes so the teacher’s union can finally have that convention in Hawaii next year. Any political movement pimped as being for the children is almost always really about the people who make money off the children. Sorry. No deal.

So, there you have it, Election Day in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

My Weekend in the Mountains

What does $485 buy these days? Not as much as it did twenty years ago, for sure, but that’s not to say it is a worthless sum. I spent $485 this past weekend on an idea that lodged itself in my brain when I woke up Friday morning, and wouldn’t let go. The idea was, “Get out of Richmond.”

I started poking around on the internet, searching for some out of the way place in the mountains where Pam and I could escape for a couple of days. Since the leaves had begun to burst with color practically overnight, I figured that I had little chance finding a decent place that wasn’t already booked. I got lucky. Apparently, there is an actual town near Lexington called Vesuvius. With volcanic enthusiasm, I discovered a quaint and extremely isolated destination at 2800 feet of altitude called the Sugar Tree Inn. One of its cabins, the St. Mary, was available for one night and one night only. I clicked the “book it now” button, then texted Pam, hoping against hope that she hadn’t scheduled us to attend some wedding planning seminar or something. A more intelligent approach might have been to check with her first, before plowing ahead with such a spontaneous plan, but that’s not how I roll.

So, Saturday morning, we got up, packed an overnight bag, had a bagel breakfast at Einstein’s, then hit the road for the two hour trip to a corner of Virginia where neither of us had ever been. It was a gloriously beautiful fall day, almost perfect with its bright blue sky and cool 60 degree breezes. By the time we hit Charlottesville, we were both starting to relax. Usually when Pam and I go somewhere like this we spend most of our time talking about our kids, but on this day we had launched into a full throated discussion of the myriad twists and turns of Breaking Bad. It was as if we had forgotten that we were married!

Most of the trip was on familiar roads, interstates 64 and 81. When we departed 81, everything changed. For me, there is something wonderful and exciting about driving down a road never before travelled. I suppose I get this from my Mother, that famous lover of those far away places with strange sounding names. Vesuvius, Virginia qualifies. It’s kind of like finding a town just outside of Paris named Bubbaville.

The further we drove the narrower and more precarious the roads became. Then we began a steady climb, further and further away from anything that looked at all familiar. Oddly, every home, every barn we passed along the way was meticulously maintained, each yard, neatly trimmed and free of junk. Each blind curve we went around revealed some new breathtaking vista, and with each new curve, Pam began to become more and more agitated. “What’s happening to the road? It’s too narrow! Where are the guardrails??”

Vesuvius ended up being a tiny hamlet containing a post office and an antique store dissected by a set of railroad tracks. According to my GPS, the Sugar Tree Inn was 5 miles straight up an extremely narrow road ahead of me where a sign greeted all those entering with this unsettling warning, “GPS navigation not recommended.” The rest of the drive was nothing short of awesome…for me, for Pam, not so much. 5 miles and several near death experiences later, we arrived at the Sugar Tree Inn sign and pulled off the State road onto the Inn driveway, a mile long, white knuckled thrill ride full of switch backs and hairpin turns. It was the kind of road you drive down while wondering if anyone making this drive had ever returned, and wondering what in the name of all that is holy you’re going to do if you meet someone coming the other way??

Finally, at the top of the last blind hill we arrived at the lodge. We climbed the staircase out front and turned around, marveling at the treacherous climb we had just survived. The view back down the valley was nothing short of stunning. How exactly we were going to coax our exhausted and traumatized car down this mountain would be left for another time. The Inn owners couldn’t have been nicer, as they reassured us that the driveway is actually ten feet wide. “We’ve measured it! Oh, and don’t worry, in the eleven years we’ve been here, we’ve only met another car coming the other way 3 times!” No explanation of what ever became of the unlucky three was offered.

Saturday afternoon was spent making the 1.7 mile hike up to nearby Crabtree Falls. Spectacular views and clean fresh air made for a wonderful climb. On the way back we discovered an incredible general store in the tiny town of Montebello. Pam would end up getting an unexpected jump on her Christmas shopping snatching up the mountain cabin motif regalia.

By the time dinner was served in the main lodge, we were both starving but unsure what to expect from such a remote kitchen manned by people who had only run into three other incoming cars over the past eleven years! Once again, we learned for the hundredth time not to judge a book by its cover. Pam’s beef short ribs were delicious and my braised pork tenderloin medallions yielded to my fork like a mound of rice, tender and juicy beyond description.

Our cabin was beautiful and new, hanging precariously out into the forest, a deep gorge just outside our back deck. Inside was a king size bed, two of the most comfortable chairs I have ever sat in, a gas fireplace and a TV that only worked with DVDs and VHS tapes, which were free in the lodge. It would have been asking a lot for a place this remote to have cable and internet. I felt fortunate to have electricity! We snuggled together after dinner and did something we hadn’t done in at least fifteen years… we slid a VHS tape in the oversized slot on the front of our 18 inch TV set and watched a jumpy, scratchy version of Bull Durham.

Sunday morning’s breakfast was sensational. We settled up our bill around eleven and then survived the free fall descent down the mountain to the relative safety of Vesuvius. By the time I filled the car with gas after a walking tour of VMI and Washington & Lee, the entire weekend’s bill came in at $485.

What a deal!