All My Fault

What follows is a short and incomplete list of Things That Piss Me Off, in inverse order...

5. People who cut in line.

4. People who don’t silence their cell phones in church.

3. People who talk during movies.

2. People who get distracted by their cell phones while waiting at a red light.

1. Making a stupid bank error.

You will notice that the first four things on my list involve other people. The reason the bank error thing is number one on my list is because it’s all me. It’s all me making a boneheaded mistake, and there isn’t another living soul who I can blame it on. All me. Take this morning at 5:41 am, for example...

The 15th of the month is one of two bill-paying days on my calendar. I set aside an hour or so, usually in the morning to get it done. In the Dunnevant household, there are three checking accounts. One of them belongs to Pam ( who this never seems to happen to ). The second one is our joint checking account, out of which we move and have our being (JK!!!), and the third is my corporate account, out of which I pay all bills associated with my chosen profession. Since the majority of my income is deposited into our joint checking account,(since, for reasons that escape me, it can’t be paid to an entity, only an individual), bill paying always involve making a transfer of funds from one account not another. With the miracle of online banking, this is as easy as pushing a button on my laptop, and it works like a charm....except on those rare occasions when it doesn’t. The thing that makes this so painful is that when it doesn’t work...it is always my fault. Something happens. I get distracted. One minute, I am focused like a laser on the task at hand, humming along like a well oiled machine. Then, the phone rings, a client shows up unannounced, an irresistible opportunity for an office prank presents itself, somebody brings donuts, and before you know it, I have forgotten to press send on that $8762 transfer from the joint account to the corporate account, even though I am convinced that I have. The next morning I open my bank app and am notified that there is a negative balance of -$1032 in said account. This has resulted in a $35 overdraft fee. I will have to go by the bank and plead my pathetic case to Clarice, my irritating but patient banker, who will roll her eyes and grant me some sort of dispensation for my stupidity. She will say...Doug, why don’t you delay your bill paying date until the day after you do these transfers? That way if you forget to press send you’ll have time to catch it. We’ve gone over this before!

I blush and nod my head obediently...Yes, Clarice...that is an excellent suggestion. I will take that under advisement. I guess I got distracted...but I could have sworn I hit send.

Naw...you didn’t.

I then will thank her for her forebearance, and slink out of the bank feeling like I used to feel whenever Mrs. Winston made me stand with my nose pressed against the blackboard for throwing paper airplanes back in 4th grade. Rage and temporary self-loathing.

Beto’s Do-Over

Beto O’Rourke. I’m told he’s Kennedy-esk. He’s running for President and having a rough go of it. Still, everybody keeps saying he’s Kennedy-esk.

But, there he was yesterday, hat in hand, on The View, attempting a do-over. Beto regrets many things about the way he introduced himself to the Country. One of the things he regrets is this Vanity Fair cover. When Joy Behar, a celebrity with a 12 million dollar net worth asked Beto if he thought that perhaps the photo came across as elitist, he agreed. But when I look at Beto on the cover of Vanity Fair I don’t think Kennedy-esk. I think of Ronald Reagan...

Only, Reagan was smart enough not to put his dog in the shot. I’m thinking that Beto’s dog needs some love.

So, Beto regrets lots of things. He regrets being white. He’s very sorry about his privilege. He really wishes he wasn’t a wealthy man. He would have so much less to overcome as a candidate if he were say...poor, or Latino. Better yet...a poor Latino. Of course, the perfect storm would be if he were poor, Latino, disabled, and gay...but you have to play the cards you’re dealt. All of which brings me back to this Kennedy-esk business.

I’m here to tell you guys that there is nothing Kennedy-esk about Beto except maybe this look...

Aside from the striking physical similarities, there is nothing remotely Kennedy-esk about Beto. The Kennedy boys were all exceedingly proud of their upbringing. They worshiped the ground their old man walked on and were grateful as hell for their ginormous trust funds, since the financial security it provided allowed them to pursue public service. It would never have occurred to any of them to feel remorse for their whiteness or their privilege. Were they elitist? You bet they were. If they were eaten up with guilt about it, they had a funny way of showing it, inviting the press onto the grounds at Hyannis Port to showcase their privilege the way they did...

So, although Beto is no Kennedy, maybe he can retool his flagging campaign somehow by doing this apology tour. I suppose next up will be Oprah...

If he can manage some tears his numbers will bump up to double digits overnight.

There Goes The Neighborhood

I have walked through this door for over 21 years now. Just had it painted for the second or third time...I can’t remember. We’re the only people to ever live here. When we first moved in, the street out front hadn’t been paved yet. The place is almost paid for. Time flies.

I’ve watched a thousand sunrises through the Palladian window upstairs. Sure hope the Anderson’s don’t think I’ve been stalking them...

We’ve hosted many large family gatherings around these tables, with dogs walking beneath them, pestering everyone for a treat.

I have slaved like a beast to keep my lawn looking like this...

The inside of the house has always been Pam’s domain. The decor, the paint, the flair and warmth...all her.

And although most of the time we would rather be on a lake in Maine, this is the place we can’t wait to come home to.

Our neighborhood has changed a lot over the years. As our house has gotten older, our neighbors have gotten younger. There are kids everywhere, dogs too. While I may not be able to tell you the first name of everyone who lives on our culdesac, I’m on a first name basis with every dog in the subdivision. I think that means I’m a terrible neighbor. 

This particular corner of Short Pump is a melting pot. It didn’t feel that way as much when we first moved in, but now the place is much more diverse. There are Asian families, Russian families, African-Americans and Indians. Although, the changing ethnic balance in America at large has been associated with tension and acrimony, for me it’s been kinda fun. The fun comes with the kids. When I see all of them at play in the streets when I come home from work on warm summer days, I wonder why older people are so anxious to move to upscale retirement communities. Why would anyone want to surround themselves with a bunch of old farts? I would much rather live in a community which features an occasional appearance of a pickup truck full of princesses...

This is not to say that life in a suburban neighborhood is all moonlight and magnolias. The downside of unleashed pups is the appearance of dog poop in your yard. Having a peaceful dinner, alfresco, on a beautiful evening more often than not gets ruined by someone deciding to cut their grass across the way. And those beautiful kids? They can get quite noisy at times. Pam and I recently had dinner with some friends who had just built a house out in Goochland on five acres of farmland. As we sat on their back deck admiring the gorgeous view we couldn’t believe how...quiet it was...beautiful, beguiling quiet. But, if they get a hankering for ice cream at 10 o’clock at night, it’s a twenty minute drive. Life is about trade offs, I suppose.

At some point we may decide to downsize. Thats a big thing now, I hear. We might need a place with a first floor master bedroom, I’m told. Pam may get to the place where she wants the land, the wide open spaces and the quiet more than she wants a full service grocery store three minutes from her front door. Once I get grandkids of my own, I might not be so accommodating of other people’s kids. But for now...this is the place...

Two Great Monkey Jokes

Yesterday I posted a hilarious (to me, at least) video of this crazy attack monkey. A friend of mine, who knows hilarious videos when he sees one, sent it to me. As soon as I managed to stop laughing, I shared it with the world on Facebook. Funny thing is, until my buddy sent me that video, I hadn’t given monkeys a second thought in a very long time. Good thing, though...since it has sparked a memory of two of my all time favorite jokes, one a pun, the other a monkey walks into a bar joke. First, the pun:

Why did the monkey stop playing poker in the jungle?

He couldn’t find an honest game...too many...cheetahs.

A monkey walks into a bar, sits at a table and orders a martini. The bartender can’t believe it...a monkey in his bar!? But, he decides to play along, so he makes the martini and carefully sets it down in front of the monkey. The monkey takes the drink and gracefully begins sipping it like a pro. Then he hands the bartender a fresh twenty dollar bill. The bartender is astounded. He goes back to the register and watches the monkey sipping his martini like he’s been doing it all of his life! Then, the bartender decides to try something to see if the monkey notices...he walks back over to the monkey’s table and hands him one dollar in change. The monkey makes no response, just sits there sipping that martini. After a few minutes, the bartender just can’t stand it anymore...You know, he says, we don’t get too many monkeys in here.

The monkey looks up at him and says...Well, at nineteen dollars a drink, I’m not surprised.

Hope Thrift...a Volunteer’s Story

My church runs a thrift store called, unimaginatively...Hope Thrift. It is a sprawling place filled with everything from soup to nuts. It is run by a handful of full time employees, and an army of volunteers. As fate would have it, Pam and I ended up in a small group with Renee Norton, the top dog at the place. Naturally, Renee roped us into joining the ranks of volunteers. 

My first day of work was the first time in my life I had ever entered a thrift store. I have generally made it a habit to avoid such places. They give off the same, creepy vibe as yard sales, and you guys know how I feel about that miserable franchise! But, Renee was not to be denied, so off I went that first day nearly a year ago. As a first timer, I was shuffled to the back room, which I was told was the nerve center of the entire enterprise. In fact, it was actually the most chaotic part of the experience, the place where a nonstop procession of people would appear at the back door, eager to drop off all of their reject possessions in exchange for an orange receipt for their taxes. Once they did, it was my job to sort through it and determine what was fit to sell and what would get thrown in the giant dumpster out back. To my great surprise, I found that there was something...fun...about it. For one thing, the group of veteran Hope Thrifters I was working with were all great fun. There seemed to be a cheerful camaraderie among them, and their patience with me was appreciated. By the second or third shift, I was promoted to books, which meant...organizing the gargantuan mountain of mostly worthless and unreadable paperbacks, encyclopedias published before I was born, and coffee table books with provocative titles like...The 100 Deadliest Snakes of the Brazilian Rain Forest. (Why in the name of all that is holy would anyone get rid of that?)

But soon, my reputation for having no particular skill set for retail, combined with my tendency towards doing physical chores quickly got me promoted to the coveted position of DMLA...dumb manual labor associate. I now am free to roam around the floor looking for things to lift, clean, straighten up, etc. I still get book duty, and I must say that the selection of books on display has vastly improved since my insistence that we stick to works published in the last half century. Oh...one more thing...the single greatest part of the Hope Thrift gig is dumpster duty. Thats when Renee or Brenda or Jennifer, (one of the incredible women in charge) asks me to roll the reject cart out to the dumpster and throw everything in. I can’t tell you how much fun it is...especially when the dumpster is empty. The sound of breaking glass, the sight of hideous knickknackery busting into a hundred pieces at the bottom of a filthy metal dumpster is quite a thrill!!

My wife, on the other hand, has a much more responsible and respected position at Hope Thrift. She is...a cashier. There are many reasons for this...her cheerful smile, perky demeanor, pretty face and gift with numbers. She also works much more often than I do, especially once her school year if over. I only work the second Saturday afternoon of each month. The team of Pam and Lynn Hewette are quite the pair behind the register. One blond, one brunette, two perky smiles...stacking Benjamins all day long!

So, tomorrow is my day to work. Can’t wait, actually. It’s a wonderful place to serve. Many of the people who come there are in desperate need of things that most of us take for granted. To see them find incredible deals on essential items is a great feeling. To have a chance to share the love of Christ with them is a bonus. If you’re reading this and have never been to Hope Thrift, tomorrow after 1 o’clock would be a great time to visit. I’ll be available to help you load your treasures into your car. If you happen to be a member at Hope and have never volunteered at the store...get off your backside and sign up already, you slug! (This is probably why I never get asked to be a cashier like that silver-tongued Tom Allen)

The Month of May

 May is my favorite month. It’s the month of new beginnings, that month that punctuates my life with reminders of the best things that have ever happened to me. In order, they are...

May 11...my daughter Kaitlin’s birthday.

May 19...my wedding anniversary

May 25...my son Patrick’s birthday

In more recent years, the end of May also brings to a close the busy season of my work. I have intentionally front loaded my calendar with appointments and reviews with clients, so that I can free up the summer months for Maine and other pursuits. This would have been impossible not that very long ago, but after 36 years on the job, perseverance has rewarded me a measure of freedom. God bless America!

However, the three great milestones of my life mentioned above are far more important than my job. They are what give meaning to my work. Those three dates on the calendar are the ones highlighted bright green in my planner.

This girl was born on May 11th. She made me a parent for the first time. She is irreplaceable, impossible to duplicate. It’s as if she grabbed every good and decent trait from both of her parents and never let go of them. Somehow, she was able to pass on our baser qualities, with the possible exception of her father’s ultra-competitiveness and her mother’s perfectionist streak. She is impossibly bright, a supremely gifted teacher, a loyal and devoted friend, and knows how to pick a husband. If I had fewer fingers, I could count her failings on one hand. At the moment I can only think of a couple...her inability to promptly reply to my texts, and her lack of appropriate enthusiasm for baseball.

This boy was born on May 25th. He was and is the son I had always wanted. Every time I get into a debate with him about politics, it occurs to me that he is, indeed, my boy. When he makes a better case than I do, I’m so proud of him I can hardly stand it. He has the sensitive, discerning heart of an artist, a natural musical gift that cannot be taught, and a blistering, sarcastic wit...my one lasting contribution to his DNA. His mother would probably say that his only fault is the fact that the lenses of his glasses are always filthy. I would probably add that he is also a world class mess, although his lovely wife is slowly breaking him of that affliction. 

Look at these two kids. Good Lord, how did anyone allow these babies to get married 35 years ago? I look like the guy who realizes that he just pulled off the greatest heist in history. Pam looks angelic, blissfully unaware of what she has gotten herself in to. Poor thing. Neither of us knew what we were doing. We had no clue how hard it would be, understood nothing of what being an adult meant. But, we were in love, my friend...and that was enough. The fact that we still are is the single greatest blessing of our lives. So, we will celebrate 35 years. Of course, the celebration will have to wait until some time in June because thats what our life is like these days!

May is the greatest month.

TRUMP 2020 Slogans...

By my count it has been over six weeks since I have had anything to say about politics here at The Tempest. The last time was when I wrote about the Jussie Smollett affair back in March. It’s not that there hasn’t been lots of political news out there, its just that I haven’t been able to rouse myself to offer an opinion. For one thing, other things have been more interesting to me lately, but honestly after the last two years or so...politics has just worn me out. I think this is probably true for most people. No matter your opinion about Trump, or whether you are Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal...its been an exhausting time. Every day brings a fresh story that in normal times would have gotten a three inch, screaming, above the fold headline. But now, you stumble upon it on page 16 right across from the soybean prices in section C. Look at me...using newspaper metaphors. How quaint!

I have come to believe that there is an evil genius quality to Donald Trump. One way to overcome bad news is to change the subject, and nobody in the history of the White House has done a better job of changing the subject. He has a knack of flooding the zone with one outrageous Tweet after another so furiously that before you can even respond to one provocation, he has raced on to the next one, leaving his detractors in the dust of their outrage. There has been nothing like it in my lifetime. The pure volume of his comments is staggering. And if you don’t like something he says, hang on for a few hours and he’s likely to contradict himself by the end of the day. I have come to think that its all...intentional. It’s hard to hit a moving target, harder still to hit one that moves as erratically as one of those lottery ping pong balls.

Another thing about Trump that I have come to understand is that among his supporters, nothing he says or does seems to bother them. Their support for him is as unwavering as the tides...

Trump Stabs Visiting Diplomat With White House Letter Opener...

Approval Rating Holds at 50%...highest support found among evangelicals

So, one consequence of his unique style is that guys like me, who used to spend half of our time staring at the latest headline, mouth ajar, thinking, What the hell??...now just shrug our shoulders and mumble, Meh, it must be Tuesday. Donald Trump has managed to turn    the vice of unstable narcissism into a virtue. “Eccentric” and “volatile” are no longer character flaws in a President. A good friend of mine who is a big Trump supporter told me that he enjoys it when Trump “tells fibs” because it shows that he knows how to keep his enemies guessing. You just never know what the man is gonna say or do, my friend says, meaning it as high praise. This is usually followed with...He doesn’t take any s**t from anybody, also intended as a compliment. When unpredictability, telling “fibs”, and refusing to take s**t from people are desirable traits, then its hard to imagine Trump doing anything which might cost him my friend’s support. Multiply my friend by 45 million, and you have the most solid base of support in the history of American politics.

Maybe the man gets impeached. Maybe he gets re-elected. Hard to tell...you just never know what the man is gonna say or do. Come to think of it, that might be the perfect slogan for his re-election campaign...TRUMP 2020...No Clue What He Might Say or Do. Or maybe this...TRUMP 2020...Like My First Term?...Hold My Diet Coke.