Batting Cage Fail

Every once in a while in my profession I am presented with a vexing case which doesn’t lend itself to easy remedies. I spend hours and hours pouring over the details, trying to pick the right strategy. Which risk do I want to remove? Which risk am I willing to tolerate? Whenever this happens I feel the need to do something sporty to distract my mind. Sometimes I’ll go for a run or walk 18 holes while carrying my clubs, anything that will wear me out because when I’m exhausted I stop thinking obsessively about everything.

So this afternoon I threw my golf clubs in the back of the car and drove over to Bogey’s Sports Park to hit a bucket of balls. It was nice. I hit the ball well and the weather couldn’t possibly have been any finer. As I was preparing to leave I looked up the hill and noticed the batting cages.

I have a history with batting cages. Years ago when I was just starting out in business and well and truly broke, I used to use my lunch hour over at the batting cages just south of Ashland on Number One Highway. Back then they had a 90 mph cage and I used to wear that cage out until I was dripping wet with sweat. Of course, now that I’m 65 my days of putting a 90 mph fastball in play are over. Besides, nobody has a 90 MPH cage anymore. Anyway, before thinking my decision through properly, there I was buying two tokens, walking up to the cages with a too skinny, too light aluminum bat and one of those one size fits all helmets. Upon arriving I noticed that only two of the cages were open…70 MPH and 80 MPH. Gulp.

I dropped the first token in the 70 MPH machine and prepared for the worst. To my astonishment, I only swung and missed once in 20 pitches, fouled off maybe 4 or 5 and laced the rest of them right up the middle. For a brief and unrealistic moment I let myself believe I was a kid again.

One more token. Twenty more pitches. I determined that the 80 MPH cage was my destiny. How much harder could 10 lousy miles per hour be? But this was when I realized that I was out of breath and sweating profusely. Yep. Still 65 and not fooling anyone! So I sat down at one of the picnic tables to gather myself. I noticed that both of my hands were red and raw looking after only 20 swings. Better loosen the grip on the bat, I thought. Then it was time to step in against Mister 80 MPH heater.

When I finished, my hands were stinging and cramped with pain. My shirt was soaked through and thankfully there was no one up there to witness my pathetic performance. I managed to foul tip maybe four or five. I did put exactly six balls in play—all ground balls toward the second base side. The rest of the pitches were giant whiffs. Pretty humiliating, but my strategy had worked—I was no longer thinking about my troubling case.

When I arrived back home I cleaned up, then opened my computer to check the closing numbers on Wall Street. Thats when I saw the picture. It had popped up on my Facebook wall, a memory from 8 years ago, back when I could have done much better in the cage…

It’s probably my favorite picture of her. We were in the Cayman Islands, getting ready to go out for dinner. I took the photograph of her on the staircase in the front of the hotel. I studied it carefully and it brought back memories of that wonderful week. She is elegant, graceful and approachable. Her smile isn’t forced or tired. She is charming and fun, the kind of women who would never embarrass you. Her beauty is natural, never overdone or showy. She is tender hearted and kind, always thinks the best of people sometimes to a fault. The best thing is…that girl belongs to me.

My difficult case will take care of itself. Later tonight when my back starts to tighten up and my hands start pulsing with pain, she will look at me, knowing that I brought it all on myself and roll her eyes. 

But, she loves me anyway.

My Seven Mile Walk Through Short Pump

I have been discouraged from running for the time being. Until I am able to get this heart business resolved it has been suggested that I limit my cardio to walking. So, that’s exactly what I have done for the past couple of months. However, me being me, I have turned it into an internal competition whereby I come up with made up challenges which I have to overcome, including but not limited to—ridiculously long walks and attempts to break personal best times per mile with each event. This is the sort of thing that drives Pam nuts, especially when I forget to bring my phone along and she has no idea where I am are when I’m coming back. Take yesterday for example.

It started off as a peaceful family stroll, Pam, Lucy and me walking along uncompetitively, waiting for Lucy’s morning bowel movement, which was a doozy that involved a PBM (poop bag malfunction), never a good thing. But we recovered nicely and continued on until Pam made the decision to head back to the house while I continued on. This was a baffling and exceedingly unpopular choice with Miss Lucy, who always looses her mind when anyone breaks up the pack. Pam was able to eventually wrangle her home while my real competitive walk finally was able to begin. Thanks to Lucy’s shenanigans my time for that first mile was an abysmal 18 minutes and 26 seconds! This simply would not do so I had to pick up the pace.

Previously in my walking adventures the longest walk I had managed was a 6 miler about a week ago. Naturally, I decided that today I would go for a personal best…seven miles. If I had run this idea by the beautiful and talented Mrs. Dunnevant she might have said something along the lines of, “Um, aren’t you working at Thrift this afternoon? Do you think it wise to walk seven miles on a day where you will walk at least four more miles in the store?” This would have been an excellent point—which I would have breezily dismissed. The truth is, it never entered my mind until she said that very thing when I finally arrived back home almost two hours later. A dramatic eye roll might have been included. I can’t remember since I was delirious.

So, I thought I would share with you all some of the many sites I saw on my walk. Lots of you don’t live in Short Pump so you might be wondering what kind of scenery I enjoyed. First of all, here was my route, totally unplanned, spontaneous and uninspired:

I should point out that I resisted both Italian temptations, although Ray’s Italian Ice was touch and go for a moment.

Over in the Shoppes at Wellesley I happened upon a new Thai place that I had never noticed before. The name alone demands that I give this place a try very soon.

Speaking of Wellesley, although I would never choose to live there, I must admit its a pleasant and beautiful place to walk.

Eventually my route took me past this monstrosity. Its on a new road that I seldom use so the place surprised me. Where did this place come from?? Its one of those Over 55 Luxury Communities, exactly the kind of place I wouldn’t move to if they gave me a million bucks. This one had the perfect pretentious name…Everleigh. How about Neverleigh??

When I finally got back home some of my favorite members of the Under 55 crowd had turned the street in front of my house into a horse barn where they had parked their horses, “Pickles”, “Buckles” and “Firefly”.

So, I finished the seven mile walk in a respectable time of one hour, fifty minutes and sixteen seconds. My heart behaved beautifully throughout. 

I suppose some of you are wondering how I did at my afternoon shift at the Thrift Store. I did quite well, working circles around Tom Allen, I might add, which is admittedly a low bar. However, if truth be told, this morning my body has registered several complaints about yesterday’s agenda in the form of sore muscles, creaky joints and uncooperative fine motor skills. But I intend on remedying the situation with 500 MG of Naproxen and this breakfast of champions:

What a Depressing Morning

I just had one of the most disturbing thirty minutes of my news consuming life this morning. Before I share it with you I must offer a caveat. What follows is not about ideology. It’s not just another tired right vs. left thing. No, this is more a fundamental analysis of the consequences of the choices we make in a democracy.

In rapid fire succession I watched a series of videos of prominent politicians doing routine things extremely poorly.

First up was our President. There was a video of him being walked across the White House lawn by what looked to be a General, who had a firm grip on the President’s arm. He had that stumbling hesitant gate and slack jawed facial expression so familiar to me from the last months of my Dad’s life. The leader of our country is in a diminished physical state and to listen to him speak there is ample evidence that his cognitive abilities have been reduced. To see him finish a speech then wander around aimlessly on the stage having no clue what direction he should go is a sad thing to watch.

Then it was our Vice-President’s turn, she of the incoherent, word-salad speeches punctuated with awkward and inappropriate laughter. The fact that someone so unimpressive and unserious is a heartbeat away from the Presidency of a man with a limited number of heartbeats remaining is troubling, to say the very least.

Then it was a story about a Congresswoman from Colorado, one Lauren Boebert. After running for Congress as a family-values darling, she had served her husband of twenty years divorce papers. In her defense, she wouldn't be the first politician of either party to file for divorce and certainly won’t be the last. But what was disturbing about this particular story was the personal histories involved. In their twenty years together, the two of them had a rap sheet a mile long! everything from indecent exposure and public intoxication to drunk driving and destruction of public property. While I am not a resident of Colorado, I suppose its none of my business who they choose to elect but…merciful fathers, what in the hell is going on with democracy in our country when literally anyone can get themselves elected?

Then, there was video from a Senator from Pennsylvania, John Fetterman, in what was apparently the first live performance of him doing his duty post-stroke, questioning a bunch of bankers from his position on the banking over-site committee. Honestly, I couldn’t make it through the four minute video. I felt extreme pity for the man, who spoke on maybe a fifth grade level…and that’s being generous. The man is a United States Senator.

Finally, there was this…

89 year old Senator Diane Feinstein is finally back in the Senate after a three month health related absence. In an interview for Slate magazine it was abundantly clear that the Senator doesn’t even think she has been away. “Oh no…I haven’t been away. I’ve been working.” When asked by the incredulous reporter if she meant to say that she had been working from home, the Senator doubled down…”No, I’ve been here. You either know or you don’t know.”

I happen to be a man who has a deep respect and love for the elderly. I believe that they deserve our best when it comes to their care and dignity during their declining years. But that does not include the reins of power. I think that it is past time for a Constitutional Amendment that places a maximum age for service as elected officials, including the Federal bench. We need to lower the working age and raise the vitality both physical and cognitive of our elected leaders.

As far as electing unaccomplished, credential-free candidates? That’s all on us.  

What’s Happening…current-ly?

I have an appointment this afternoon with an electrophysiologist. So, yeah, I’ve got that going for me. The appointment was set almost a month ago, so the details are a bit fuzzy at this point, something having to do with the heart and its electrical system. I’m nervous even though its only a consultation. The purpose of the consultation is to determine whether I am a candidate for a procedure that involves the use of catheters…so here’s hoping that I am not. 

Meanwhile, as this appointment has gotten closer and closer I have used attempts at humor as my go-to coping mechanism. Specifically, what would be the perfect name for an electrophysiologist? So far I’ve come up with Buzz, Sparky, and Voltimore. As far as catchy descriptions for the business? How about, “map it and zap it” or “the way to a man’s heart is through his groin”. 

Attempts at very bad humor would have been a better description.

Lucy’s Birthday Present

So, a couple days ago was Lucy’s 9th birthday. It seems impossible that she’s that old. Especially when she still has the temperament of a puppy…a quite befuddled and perplexed puppy. To mark the occasion Pam came home from the grocery store with one of those bones that looks like a cow femur…

This thing still has ligaments attached and everything, and I must admit that if I were a dog I would be all over this thing like a fat kid on a box of donuts. Lucy’s initial reaction reminded us of just how strange she is. She picked the bone up and carried it around through practically every room in the house while whimpering and whining. Don’t as me why, its just something she does when we buy her something like this. Its like she feels the need to give it a tour of the house before she starts chewing. Anyway, for the past few nights she has been gnawing on this bone like nobody’s business. We first spread out a large towel on top of the rug so she doesn’t make a mess. But it isn’t long before she has shoved it towards the end of the towel. This is due to the bizarre fact that Lucy refuses to touch the bone with her paws for reasons that will never be revealed to mere humans. When this happens, she looks over at Pam and me with this huge dorky smile on her face, wagging her tail a hundred miles and hour. Clearly, she expects one of us to walk over and place the bone back in the center of the rug for her. Of course, we oblige. If we don’t she will entertain us with incessant barking. Yes, Miss Lucy is a hot mess.

So this morning, I headed upstairs after my morning routine like I always do. Once in our bedroom I first made the bed, a common occurrence. Then I jumped in the shower. By the time I finished my shower and walked back into the bedroom, Lucy had done this…

Yes, Lucy decided that her boney-bone needed a special place to hide. What better place than shoved only partially hidden amongst the pillows of our bed? I should point out that this is Pam’s side of the bed.

We gave up long ago trying to figure out what color the sky is in the world where Lucy lives. But, oh do we love that girl. 

Mouseketeers

I must confess that there are times when I can be a little…extra, and not in a good way. Take yesterday for example.

When I arrived at the office I noticed that we had finally caught the mouse we had set traps out for near the Keurig machine. I could very easily have picked up the trap and walked it out to the dumpster around the corner with no fanfare. I actually considered that option for maybe two minutes, but then I realized what a goldmine I had stumbled upon. At that point I went to work.

First, I went on a tour of the office, making special stops at the desks of Lindsey and Brenda to make sure they were aware of the catch. To say that they were not happy with this news would be to engage in a massive understatement. Several curse words and physical threats were hurled my way. Talk about shooting the messenger??!!

The next step was to take a couple mouse selfies…

Then it was time to put our high dollar digital printer to work. The resulting 8x10 portraits made for the perfect surprise gifts for the ladies at various locations around the office throughout the rest of the day.

Out of an abundance of caution I have decided to take a personal day…

Naming The Trip

As of this morning at 10:00 am, our 2023 Maine itinerary has been finalized. We already had secured the six week summer leg months ago, but this morning closed the deal on the three week Fall adventure. Here’s the plan…

We will arrive on gorgeous Quantabacook Lake on the 30th of June where we will spend two weeks at the lovely Summer Dreams:

Then, on the morning of 14th of July I will paddle all of our boats and gear south along the shoreline to our single favorite Maine cabin of all time, the unprecedented, never to be duplicated, Loon Landing:

Four weeks later we will be forced to pack everything up and head back to Short Pump, where I will be expected to work for a mere six weeks before we do it all over again. We will arrive at a new cabin (for us) called Vacationland:

We will be staying at this beauty for three weeks, from September 23rd until October 14th. This place is on a body of water we last stayed on in 2016 called Hobbs Pond.

So, there you have it. In case you’re keeping score at home that would be 9 weeks in Maine for the Dunnevant’s in 2023. Just in case you’re thinking that this seems a bit excessive, you are probably right. The only good thing I have to say about the amount of money this obsession is costing me, it is still cheaper than buying a place, and until the ridiculously inflated real estate valuations up here come back to earth, this will be an every year thing. At the end of the day, its only money. What good is money if it can’t be used to purchase joy? 

The only job left now is naming the trip. Pam has taken to naming each of these jaunts to Maine. In 2020 she named our fall trip the Loon Landing Leaf Peepers. In 2021 it was the Quantabacook Quintuple, while 2022 turned out to be known as Six Loon Summer. Her excuse is that she needs a name for the shared picture albums that she creates to hold the thousand photographs we take. I’ve come up with all kinds of suggestions over the years but she rejects them all…Catching Fish and Bouncing Checks, Recklessly Spending the Kid’s Inheritance, and my personal favorite…Pretending That Lucy is a Grandchild.