The Wedding Day. Part I

It has been 48 hours since Katlin’s wedding. Already my memory is starting to waver, so I suppose I better get it all down before I forget anything:

6:30AM - I am awakened by the sound of harps and a gentle breeze on my cheeks from the wings of tiny bluebirds. I look out of my window and see a rare morning rainbow, God’s promise of a day like no other.

6:31AM – I startle myself awake from a horrible Disney nightmare, convinced that I am late for my Physics exam at the University of Richmond. It then dawns on me that this is July 12, 2014 and my little girl is getting married in exactly 11 hours….which is fine since I was going to flunk Physics anyway.

9:00AM – Arrive at Carmax for the third time in two days to pick up my daughter’s car. Carmax mechanics and technicians apparently graduated from the Helen Keller school of automobile repair since none of them could manage to hear the loud whining sound coming from the rear of the car the minute it reached 30 mph on the road. Suggested that next time they may want to consider taking cars for a test drive on the actual highway instead of their parking lot.

10:00AM – Arrive at Parkside Barbershop for the much celebrated and anticipated straight razor shave with all of the groomsmen. Was served a cold Yeungling draft upon arrival, which I consumed under the reasoning that it was 5 o’clock somewhere. Charm of the place began to wear off nearly 2 hours later when my name was called, the last on the list. Charm of the place totally vanishes when it dawns upon me mid-shave that I am alone at Parkside Barbershop with no ride home, since Jon had taken Kaitlin’s car, and Patrick had headed for home ten minutes ago with my car.

12:16PM – Get text from Pam directing me to drop by Martin’s and pick up “K-cups and a large case of bottled water. When I replied that I didn’t really feel comfortable buying women’s underwear especially bra’s, she informed me that “K-cups” were not in fact a bra size, but rather a brand of coffee used in our Keurig. Made mental note to help with grocery shopping more in the future to eliminate further such embarrassments.

2:09 PM – Caravan of cars leave house headed for Celebrations. Cadillac making frightening click-click-click noise. For a minute a vision of a blown engine on 288 flies into my head. To my eternal relief, all cars arrive on time and in good order. Women of the wedding party all disappear to the upstairs of the Manor House, while the men get comfortable downstairs in air-conditioned comfort, a good thing since it is hotter than homemade hell outside. It occurs to me as I ease back on a very comfortable sofa that I am at least off the hook for all of those things I promised God I would do if he gave us a beautifully cool day.

2:48PM – Fall sound asleep on ridiculously comfortable sofa and am abruptly awakened by a sharp poke on the knee by Toby, our intrepid “event coordinator,” who implores me to get dressed into my tuxedo and meet the photographer outside immediately. While I was asleep a flurry of pressurized activity is going on upstairs, with Kaitlin and Pam trying to get her wedding dress put on correctly amidst the buzz, clicks and blur of not one but TWO photographers capturing it all for posterity. Later, when Pam discovers that I was sleeping while she was going through Dante’s ninth level of hell, she is understandably perturbed.

3:00 thru 4:00PM – Spend most of this hour walking around in circles, barking out confusing orders to anyone who looked like an employee of Celebrations. Also, begin trying desperately to get guitar in tune. 40 year old classical is temperamental in this regards in the best of environments, but in tropical heat and humidity that would induce projectile vomiting in Lucifer himself, it is a hopeless endeavor.

4:30 PM – Am summoned to the upstairs of the Manor house, and told to wait at the door to the dressing room. Inside I hear the rapid fire of camera shutters. This is one of the “money shots” of the day…Dad seeing daughter in wedding dress for first time. No pressure. No pressure at all.

4:31 PM – Open door slowly and behold as radiant and stunning a vision as I have ever seen. My only daughter looks like some kind of princess, enchanting and sublime, happier than I have ever seen her. It’s hard to be sad, impossible to cry. Why would I? This is what every father worth his salt wants for his little girl.

 

                                         ……to be continued….

A Bad Morning

 

I woke up at 5:15 after sneezing into the mask of my CPAP machine, the very definition of an inglorious beginning. Yes, I’m fairly certain that sneezing into the mask of your CPAP machine ranks right up there with wetting the bed on the Top Ten list of worst ways to start your day.

I haven’t written too much about my CPAP experiences since I got the thing over a year ago. That’s because there’s not much to tell. It works pretty well. I sleep much better than I have in years. It’s not nearly as cumbersome and uncomfortable as it looks…except when you wake up after sneezing into the stupid thing!

So now it’s 5:30 in the morning and I am wide awake. I went downstairs to make some coffee and noticed that my wife had bought me a brand new bag of Gevalia. I had been out of my regular stuff for two days and had been reduced to using some sort of fru-fru stuff from the freezer (Chocolate-glazed doughnut). Then I discovered that she had bought a bag of DECAF! Bless her heart. The poor woman has worked herself cross-eyed this past week to the point where she can be seen at 11 o’clock at night stumbling around Martin’s buying groceries. Well, decaf isn’t going to cut it, so I decide to go with the Keurig machine. My choices are as follows:

1.     Donut Shop Coconut Mocha

2.     Donut Shop Decaf

3.     Wild Mountain Blueberry

What has happened to America?? All I want is a cup of Joe and instead I am presented with items from a pastry menu. Coconut Mocha? What does that even mean? Will there be bits of coconut floating around in my cup? What genius thought of combining coconut with mocha in the first place? I love these kids you see today clutching stylish cups of Starbucks with their skinny little fingers. They just dropped $4 on a cup of over-brewed, bitter, acid water, when they could have gotten a real cup of coffee at 7/11 for a buck. Starbucks, the biggest, baddest capitalistic enterprise in America who’s most loyal customers are the type of people most likely to show up at an Occupy Wall Street rally. I’m trying to imagine George Patton marching into a chow tent during the Sicily campaign and ordering a “triple, venti, soy, no foam latte” but I just can’t. In fact, knowing George, if he heard a soldier place such an order he most likely would have slapped him.

Wow. It just occurred to me that the last paragraph sounds an awful lot like Steve Martin’s hotdog bun rant in Father of the Bride! I think the pressure is staring to get to me. I’ve got to hold it together for 72 hours. My most crucial mission today is to load up Pam’s car with all of the table decorations they have been slaving over all week and take them over to the “venue” so that our highly compensated table setters can begin their work. I just hope I don’t have a wreck or something…

State Trooper: Mrs. Dunnevant, I’m sorry to inform you that your husband has been involved in an accident.

Pam: Oh My God!!!

State Trooper: Don’t worry ma’am, your husband is fine.

Pam: BUT WHAT ABOUT THE TABLE RUNNERS!!!!!?????

My Worry List

Strange week.

I leave the house in the morning at my usual time, go to the office and do the usual things. Well, except for my first and last trip to the Social Security office to report my Father’s death and to return to them a check that was sent for the month of June, making me the only person there trying to return money. Suffice it to say that the place was standing room only inside the building and outside for half a block onto Cary Street. The wait time was estimated to be 2 hours. To the uninitiated, it would appear that the only people interested in Social Security at the Cary Street office were African American or Latino. Regardless, I decided that I would try the website instead, at which I was implored to call an 800 number to locate the office nearest me. Sigh…

Anyway, what has made this week so strange is the fact that for me it has been like any other week, while Pam, Kaitlin and everyone else staying at what has become my boarding house have been engulfed in a tsunami of calligraphy, fabric, poster board and the color "oasis" (which is translated "teal" for anyone who doesn't work at David's Bridal). I walk in the place to grab some lunch and they are all hunched over on the floor working away like Santa’s elves. This all makes me feel like a complete slug, since I have nothing to do. Yes, I pay for it all, but it takes me like two minutes to write the checks, then I wander around the house looking for something to do to make myself useful. I take out the trash. I empty the dishwasher. I cook meat on the grill when asked, but that’s about it.

So, I’ve had all kinds of time to sit around worrying about the Father of the Bride toast. What do I say? Will I get choked up? Honestly, since I’ve never given a daughter away before, I have no idea what it will be like. Will I get sentimental, or will I get all protective and try to talk her out of it at the last minute?

Then there’s the Father/Daughter dance thing. I’m not much of a dancer, and to tell the truth, neither is Kaitlin. Somebody should take a video of the thing and market it on Facebook as “White People Dancing.” But at the same time, I don’t want to embarrass myself, or Kaitlin. Lucky for me, there will be champagne at the reception.

Of course, there’s the sitting thing to worry about. When I go to weddings, or any public event for that matter, I’m not very good at sitting for long periods of time, “long” here being defined as anything over 7 minutes. I’m more of a work the room kind of guy. Plus, when I’m at someone else’s wedding, I always leave before the cake eating part, much to Pam’s dismay. Well, I can’t leave this wedding. I’m there for the duration.

So, while Pam has worried about every single detail of the blessed event for the better part of 18 months now, I’m left to worry only about dancing and sitting. Doesn’t seem quite fair.

Dispatches From the Wedding Bunker

The week of wedding finally here. All personnel bunkered in family room at battle stations. Best Man and wife arrived three days ago. Now have three crazy women within theatre of operations. Yesterday, women spent 30 man hours designing, and printing out programs for event. Long and agonizing decision process concerning proper font resulted in major delay, causing men of house to retreat out unto deck. By 1900 hours, family room had taken on look of major natural disaster.

Meanwhile, in dining room, table runners hang over laundry hanging device awaiting stitching and ironing. By midday, room will resemble sweat shop in India. CO avoided major tactical error by failing on several occasions to suggest that wife “just chill out.” Instead, deployed tried and true hug and back pat in response to several spontaneous crying jags.

Best Man planning day of fun for male members of wedding party, including lunch at sports bar, and afternoon at driving range/batting cages followed by more sports bar festivities. Made command decision to not share itinerary with female members of household out of fear of major escalation of simmering hostility.

Commander of domestic operations constantly glancing at weather app for forecast for D-Day. Results mixed. Forecast varies between 87 and sunny and 92 and ungodly humid with chance of killer t-storms. Latter produces epic crying jag. Thinking of sending Best Man to Martin’s on wine run.

Given orders from bride/daughter to produce toast for reception totally lacking in sarcasm, pithiness or depression. “Must be upbeat!” was major theme of order. Additionally, request was made to practice father/daughter dance. Bride/daughter frustrated with non-compliance

Family finances taking continual heavy fire. Reinforcements in route. Relentless and excessive use of credit card continues to baffle representatives of bank, who call once a week and leave message on cell, “What the hell man??”

Despite much collateral damage and shortage of major provisions, morale remains high. Groom expected in 48 hours, son in 72.

Dad optimistic that coming battle can and will be won.


 

Independance Day

July 4^th. Independence Day. A few thoughts about my country.

It is worth mentioning that our present problems at the border concern people trying to get here, not leave. In nearly all of our history it has been so. We don’t consider building fences to keep people in, we consider fences to stem the tide of people desperately trying to come here, to America. With all of our flaws, and there are many, the people of the world have voted with their feet, and it’s here where they want to be.

It is easy right now to think of America as a nation in decline, and honestly, perhaps we are. We don’t build things like we used to. We don’t lead the world in productivity anymore, our education system is a national disgrace. And yet we are still the center of entrepreneurial energy. We still are one of the few places on this planet where the son of a sharecropper can grow into a man with a doctorate in theology, and produce four college educated children who beget children with Master’s degrees.

So, on this 238^th anniversary of our independence, let’s remind ourselves what it was exactly that we declared independence from. I know full well that the revolution is a complicated story. There were a lot of moving parts and more sub-plots than an Agatha Christie novel. But basically, we fought a war because we were tired of someone thousands of miles away telling us what to do! If you think about it, nothing has changed in the deepest core of the American soul. We still resist and resent anyone telling us what to do, the further they are from us and our lives the greater the resentment. We might get agitated a little if the local school board member does something stupid, but when some bureaucrat from the Department of Education starts ordering us around…watch out!

Since our founding, we Americans have been identified with rugged individualism. In recent years we have lost some of it. In some circles, even the term is derided. We are told that it takes a village to do the things that our parents used to do mostly by themselves. It is insinuated that “individualism” is some sort of code word for anarchy. We are encouraged to look to government for solutions to our problems, and without a doubt, some things that we the people can’t do for ourselves, we need a robust and capable government. But those men who signed the Declaration of Independence and pledged their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor, couldn’t possibly have dreamed that the government they formed would end up so intertwined into the daily lives of its citizens.

Still, our forefathers knew when they signed their names that if the revolution failed, they would all be hanged as traitors, and they were all willing to die for the chance to live as free citizens of a Republic.

I think it was Ben Franklin who famously said, “Well, now you have your Republic. We will see if you can keep it.” For 238 years we have kept it, but each year it bears less and less resemblance to the nation that won its independence from Great Britain. I some ways that’s good. Slavery has been abolished, women have the right to vote, workers have more rights and protections than ever. But in other ways we have gone astray, in no other area more than the realm of personal privacy and individual liberty.

But on this 4th of July, I’ll take the United States of America over any place on Earth, warts and all.

My New Computer and Hobby Lobby

Pam and Kaitlin have been away this week setting up Kaitlin and Jon's new apartment in Columbia, South Carolina. That means that I have been alone in this house for three days now. I have taken advantage of all this solitude to take on several projects on my "To Do Before Wedding" list. The girls will be very proud of me.

I have also bought a new laptop, actually two new laptops, one for me and one for my assistant. Mine is still in the box, taunting me. Every time I walk past it I can hear it snicker its derision. It knows. The thing hasn't even been turned on yet and it knows that I'm an idiot about computers. Well, it's going to be singing a different tune when Pam gets home!

Currently, I am using an old Thinkpad that belongs to my daughter and hadn't been turned on in over a year before I borrowed it two days ago. It works fine except for the fact that it doesn't have a word processor and I can't get anything to print. I really should open that box and get the new one fired up, but that would require adult supervision, and she doesn't get home until tonight.

So, yesterday the interwebs were alive with the Hobby Lobby story. I will not render an opinion about the ruling, but I have to say that it has been a long time since I have read such moronic, unhinged drivel. My newsfeed on facebook looked like it had been taken over by a tribe of savage nitwits, including this gem:

"No company can call itself "Christian" who buys cut-rate windchimes made by cheep labor in China!"

This is simply stupidity on stilts. This is where the non-sequiter meets the straw man, they hook up and give birth to a fully formed imbecile. Let's examine this further, shall we?

The person who wrote this probably did so on a bright and shiny Apple laptop which didn't cost over 5 grand courtesy of that cheep labor in China thing. After she typed it in and posted in on Facebook, she probably took a long delicious sip of her Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, harvested by labor so cheep that it would make the Chinese seem like millionaires. After taking a shower, she slipped on that cute sun dress she found on sale at Macy's the other day for $39 courtesy of a sweat shop in India. Then she drove to the gas station to fill up her car with fuel derived from oil imported from that famously pro-women's rights mecca of Saudi Arabia. When she got to work and walked across the parking lot where it was already 90 degrees at 9 am, she was so releaved when she entered her building where the cool breezes of her climate controlled office awaited her, thanks to the coal that her power company burns to keep the air conditioners running, the same coal that I'm sure she will one day write a hit piece on for Mother Jones.

I could go on this way for days.

Listen, if you want to disagree with the Supreme Court ruling fine, do so on the merits, but don't try to cast aspirtions on the company that brought the suit, by questioning the genuineness of their religious convictions, especially when you don't have a clue of how easy your life is made by the very same free markets that you criticize.

I really should open that box. Uh-oh, not only does it say that it was "made in China" but the cardboard box was even made in China by an outfit called, "Chong Qing Yong Tai Paper Co. Ltd." Do I feel guilty? No, because yesterday I paid less for two laptops than I paid for the one I bought 4 years ago. The money I saved I am now free to donate to one of the ten million non-profits out there committed to the destruction of free markets!

The Immigration Problem

Immigration is one of those topics that confound me to the point of frustration. When I see the photos and videos of those people streaming across the southern border I am at once infuriated and saddened. I'm infuriated because my country has totally lost control if it's border, and I'm saddened to think of how horrible life must be for a mother to let her children head north in hopes for a better life. And yet, I notice that there s no similar stream of humanity pouring across our northern border. I also notice that Mexico's southern border has no similar traffic in or out. So, what to think?

History stubbornly reminds us that any country that loses control of it's border is not long for this world. One of the basic functions of a State is to control the comings and goings of people entering and leaving it's territory. If I want to take Pam to Paris for a vacation, I must first obtain a passport from my government. Similarly, if Pierre and his wife want to explore the vast treasures of beautiful down town Short Pump, they must obtain the same passport from their government. If Pierre falls in love with Short Pump and decides to move here full time, he must obtain a Visa and a green card for the privilege of holding gainful employment. It's a soul crushing process that takes forever, but, it's the law.

What's going on down in Texas and New Mexico and Arizona is something else entirely. There, thousands upon thousands of unaccompanied minors are streaming across on false rumors of "amnesty", rumors that even the administration has admitted were the results of it's "confusing" policy with regards to immigration. The only thing confusing about it is that this administration doesn't seem to think that opening the floodgates on our southern border is such a bad thing. Obama has long been identified with the "open borders" crowd, but if you're going to get all Kumbaya on immigration, you've got to have the facilities and money to deal with the results. We have neither. So, the pictures of thousands of kids being held in make shift detention centers,(and being fed, clothed, showered, etc..), invokes two distinct reactions among Americans. On the one hand, militia types have sent out the call to head south and do the job that the government won't, and on the other hand, Nancy Pelosi shows up and suddenly finds her evangelism voice, letting us all know what a wonderful opportunity this is to take care of God's children.

The cynic in me can't shake the idea that the only reason Democrats like Pelosi hold such views is a purely political one. The spectre of hundreds of thousands of new immigrants, mostly poor, and all in desperate need of the bounties of the American welfare machine, is enough to make every Democratic precinct captain in America salivate. Face it, these unfortunate folks are like a ready made source of new Democrat voters, a natural constituency.

However, cynicism aside, there is something to Pelosi's words. Those children down there are God's children. And as such, the rhetoric of this issue disturbs me. When I hear the term "illegal alien" thrown around, I recoil. Yes, they are here illegally. But, alien? No, they aren't from another planet. That term makes people think of them as less than human, and far more dangerous than they are. I'm no speech police and I certainly can't be accused of being politically correct, and I'm not even sure what the correct term is. I just know that "illegal aliens" isn't it.

So, what would I do if I were in charge, I mean, besides declare bacon the official meat of America? Well, first thing I would do is faithfully execute the laws of the United States. After all, it was in my oath of office and all, and there are laws on the books that make this sort of mass influx of people illegal. Secure the border! Then I would try to figure a way to make the immigration process less burdensome. My niece's husband  who is from Scotland but who wisely moved here when he fell head over heals in love with Becky, spent a fortune and an eternity navigating the byzantine labyrinth that is the current broken system. We can do better. Then, I would try to figure out a way to deal with the 10-15 million people who are already here illegally. We can't round them all up and ship them back to wherever they came from. They aren't cattle! And, can you imagine our government, who can't find two years worth of lousy e-mails from Lois Lerner, finding 15 million people? Please.

What's happening on our border is at once an outrage and a humanitarian disaster. But, less you think that the solution is simply to accept them with open arms, you know, give me your huddled masses yearning to be free, ask yourself this question. Are you ready to have twenty or so extremely poor, ill-educated, non-English speaking neighbors move into your little slice of America? If not, then where would you suggest they be sent to live, and what gives you the right to do so?

Yes, it's a humanitarian outrage alright.