Girls Weekend

My wife is leaving me today. No...it’s not what you’re thinking. She has organized a trip to go see Kaitlin down in South Carolina. She has recruited her mother and two sisters. The four of them haven’t gone anywhere overnight together in years. All of them have been driven half crazy by the isolation and monotony of COVID-life. So, my wife hatched a plot to travel down to see Kaitlin for three days and two nights of girl stuff, which I’m told will include such ghastly things as pedicures and the like, long lazy gab sessions where they will talk about whatever it is that women talk about when they are allowed to assemble without the annoyance of their husbands. Sounds dreadful to me, but she is thrilled to be able to spend some times with her girls. This will also be Kaitlin’s last hurrah of the summer, since next week her school year will be revving up.

Of course, any trip that involves two or more Dunnevant women must have a functioning snack table. Long time readers of this space have been treated to photographic evidence of the many snack tables of past vacations. They are a monument to high blood pressure, cholesterol and diabetes, and represent the complete and total abandonment of all self restraint, and without them we would all perish. So, despite the fact that this particular trip is only for three days and two nights, a snack table still has to be erected. To that end, Pam spent much of yesterday preparing an assortment of trail mixes and cookies. Because she is Pam, she didn’t forget me, or Bernadette and Isaac...

Since this is 2020, planning for this getaway had to include a whole host of safety protocols. (For the record, the word protocol has become my least favorite word in the English language). Pam has packed enough masks, hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes for all of Columbia. The hotel rooms she has booked have already been chosen and set aside for maximum safety and convenience. The next three days will be as COVID-proof as it is possible to be. 

Special prayers should be lifted up on my son-in-law’s behalf, as he must face being the only man in the house with five female members of the Dunnevant /White family. No prayers necessary for Jackson who will think he has died and gone to heaven as soon a Lolly walks thru the door!

As for me, Pam has left me a couple of idiot proof recipes for my consideration. I will miss her. More important, if there is a thunderstorm here while she is gone, Lucy will miss her even more!

Kamala Harris

Joe Biden announced yesterday that he has chosen Kamala Harris as his running mate, making her the first African American woman on a major party ticket, this despite the fact that neither her Mom or Dad were African American, but rather, Indian and Jamaican...so I’m throughly confused. But, add to all that the fact that her husband is a Jewish white guy, and Ms. Harris certainly checks off all the identity politics boxes. So, unless Donald Trump kicks Mike Pence to the curb in favor of Kanye West, the 2020 contest is set. A match for the ages.

I’m told that Kamala Harris’ religious upbringing was split between a Baptist church and a Hindu Temple...think: teetotaler who dreams of being reincarnated as a Confederate General. 

Look, I know that I should have an opinion about this, something erudite and thoughtful, appropriately serious for the momentous moment in which we find ourselves. But I just can’t come up with anything. At a time of such great peril, a time of pandemics, a time when our national finances are as underwater as the Titanic, a time of great racial strife and social unrest, we are running two old men for President, two profoundly compromised old men. Our choices don’t seem to fit the moment. But here we are.

Now, for the next three months I will be bombarded with endless greater of two evils arguments. I will be warned by some that if I don’t climb on the Trump Train, the Republic will be lost. Others will assure me that should we re-elect the sitting President, civil war will be the best case scenario. My facebook feed will soon be crawling with clever memes, grave warnings, over the top fact-free broadsides, and lots of fire-breathing ALL-CAPS screeds from the motivated partisans out there. Part of me envies them their motivation. Part of me wishes I could find a sliver of their confidence. Instead, I wake up every morning, read the news and hope that, like Bob Newhart*, I’ll suddenly wake up and realize that it’s all been a dream.

* For all of you Millennials, Google “Newhart Finale”

August Sucks

I have written more than once in this space about my distaste for the month of August, which, along with February, competes each year for the status of most hated month. February’s sins are obvious enough. It’s the dead of winter. But why should August be singled out for ridicule? It is, after all, a summer month, a time when many people vacation. It should be a time of lazy days and memories.

But, there’s this...

To my friends in Maine, these may be curious images indeed. Why are the windows of your house fogged over with moisture at 6:15 in the morning? Is it raining outside? It looks like the sun is shining. Correct. The sun is shining. In fact, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. No, no...this is August in Short Pump, that delightful time of year when the simple act of walking to the mailbox causes you to sweat off a pound. You will never hear anyone from Virginia begin a sentence with the phrase, “Remember that delightful August day when...” No, August is something to be endured, like gout or diarrhea. There are no holidays in August. What would be the point? 

The conditions under which I took the above photographs were as follows:

6:25 am

Temperature: 73

Relative humidity 97%

Wind: 1 mph

How on Earth can the humidity be 97% if it’s not raining? Excellent question, the answer to which no Southerner knows. All I know is it will be this way until the middle of September. My Mosquito Authority guy is coming today to treat the yard, possible the most pointless exercise of all time, since there isn’t enough money in all of Christendom to make me sit outside on my deck during the month of August. August nights around here are for inside sports...like walking around the house naked lifting prayers of praise and thanksgiving for the invention of Air Conditioning. Speaking of which, why isn’t this man on Mt. Rushmore??

Wills Carrier. Inventor of Air Conditioning.

Is This The Handsomest Man in China?

Li Haotong is a professional golfer from Communist China. At the beginning of the third round of the PGA tournament, he was in sole possession of the lead, a first for a player from his country. The philosophical contradictions of a communist playing the game of golf for insane amounts of money is just one more thing to chalk up to the Twilight Zone that is 2020.

Mr. Haotong, unlike most professional golfers, seems to have a personality, in that he has proclaimed himself the most handsome man in China. Apparently he has the claim etched on the back of his sand wedge. Here’s a picture of him. You be the judge.

 I’ve never been to China. Maybe he is that nation’s handsomest man. I’m the last guy in the world you would want judging a male beauty contest, and handsome is most definitely in the eye of the beholder and all that, not to mention the fact that different cultures have different standards of what makes a human being handsome. But I’m thinking that he looks like a simple doofus, nothing more. Wait...I found a more flattering picture...

Nope...doofus.

Of course, who am I to judge?

Unfortunately for Li, the white hot glare of the spotlight took its toll on his golf game in yesterday’s third round when he lost his lead by shooting a 73, winding up in a tie for 13th place. But, at least he has his good looks to fall back on.

Worst Dad Jokes of the Week

Friday can only mean one thing. That’s right, it’s time for the very worst Dad Jokes of the week, compiled here for your reading discomfort:

Why did the mexican push his wife off a cliff?

Because he wanted...tequila 

What do you call a painter who loves running through the grass?

Jackson Frolic.

Where does virgin wool come from?

Ugly sheep.

How many ADHD kids does it take to change a light bulb?

Let’s go ride bikes!

How do we know that Matt Damon is a religious man?

Because he’s always...Bourne again.

I think I know why people get so angry when you call them “average”.

It’s a...mean...thing to do.

I told my wife, “Don’t get upset if people call you “fat”

...”you’re bigger than that.

A Day of Dread

Men of a certain age will totally understand this post. Younger guys either won’t or will smugly roll their eyes. But, today is a day that I dread every year...my annual medical exam.

It used to be that I never had an annual physical. I only went to the doctor when I was violently ill or leaking bodily fluids. Now I’ve become a regular, not just with my family doctor, but a host of specialists. I have a couple colonoscopies under my belt at this point, and one prostate exam, I think, so I got that going for me. Today is the annual physical, that appointment that my wife started insisting on after my heart thing 18 years ago and the mini-stroke misunderstanding of a few years back. Each year it’s the same. I set the appointment far in advance, forget to write it down in my appointment book, then get that frightening phone call a week out reminding me of the appointment I made six months ago. The friendly nurse reminds me to show up thirty minutes early, (not gonna happen—I have no intention of taking five minutes to fill out a form, then waiting in a room full of terminal germ machines for 25 minutes for my appointment), and that I can have nothing except black coffee and water eight hours before my arrival. Pam always gives me a helpful list of things I need to ask the doctor. It’s a good thing too, since without her list I would just sit there holding my breath waiting for it to all be over.

My doctor is great. Very personable. He occasionally even glances up from his laptop to make eye contact. Some of his helpful comments are:

Doctor: Wouldn’t hurt you to lose a couple pounds.

Me: Yeah...

Doctor: Does it hurt when I do this?

Me: Yeah. Stop doing that.

At some point he sends me down the hall to have blood taken out of my arm by a perky group of nurses in a small room where all of them are going on and on about something that happened last night at Bojangles like I’m not even in the room...

Nurse: Anyways, this cow starts yelling at the cashier—make a fist for me, honey—and I had just about had enough so I yell at her, “Yo, b**ch, shut the f**k up ‘for I come over there and mess you up”—-little pin prick now—I’m telling you, she was craaazy!

Then I am instructed to donate a urine sample into a handy little cup thing. Be sure your aim is true!! When I hand the specimen back to the nurse it always gives me the creeps for some reason.

Of course, no annual physical would be complete without the obligatory anal exam, which is a whole other level of awkwardness. Doc pulls on his gloves with an authoritarian snap, then begins his probing all the while trying to make conversation:

Doctor: So, how about this weather, huh? Hot enough for ya? Cough for me now. How’s the family?

The basic problem with the annual physical is the fear that this year will be the year when he finds something...

Doctor: Everything seems to be totally fine...wait, Hello...what have we here???

So today I will do my duty. I will faithfully ask all sixteen questions on Pam’s list...number 14–Why is he so_______? Hopefully, I will leave his office with renewed vigor, energized by his positive view of my overall condition, pending return of all blood work results.

Of course, every woman over the age of 40 is reading this thinking...what a baby! You want awkwardness? Try a mammogram and a gynecologist appointment every year buddy boy!!

Child of God

My friend has been battling cancer for a year now. Our text-correspondence began in earnest in August of 2019. It’s been a year of pain, agony, joy and miracles. It has also been 12 months of truly terrible jokes. This morning’s exchange was pretty typical...

She’s been through just about every set back you can imagine. Every single side effect you can possibly imagine from chemo has been faced and endured, if not overcome. This month will be a particularly difficult one for her. There are tons of tests and another surgery, plus more chemo. If it were me, I would probably have given up by now. But, Pam is a rock star of fortitude and faith. She just battles, grinds, does what needs to be done. 

Yes. She has had a few bad days, where she gets down on herself. Every once in a while she gives in to self pity. But it’s rare. When she is in one of those moods, she has been able to count on me to talk trash to her, give her hell for the bad attitude, etc... What she doesn’t know is that I always feel bad for being mean to her. Even though she always thanks me for my “straight talk” and assures me that it helped, I always feel rotten for doing it. I compensate with extra horrible jokes.

The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never gone through having a friend with cancer. Half the time I don’t know what to say. What I do know is that any difficulty or awkwardness that I might experience can’t be compared to the truckload of difficulty that has been dumped on her. There’s another thing I know...she is going to beat cancer. In many ways, she already has. But she will beat it for good one day, and that day is getting closer and closer.

Here’s a picture of her on her birthday a couple of years ago pre-cancer...

Here’s one of her from a couple of weeks back after a year of fighting...

Cool hat. Same smile, and as she would say, “Same child of God.”