The Home Stretch

It is Monday morning, the 18th of December in the year of our Lord, 2023 which means that we have entered the home stretch of the Christmas season. We officially no longer have plenty of time. In point of fact we are pretty sure that we will not get it all done. It won’t even be close. But that is always the conclusion at the beginning of crunch time. Then, my wife presses her nitro button, launching herself into overdrive, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. By the time the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve everything will be in place and buttoned up. But right now, this morning? There’s no stinking way its gonna all get done.

My job this week is to provide aid and comfort to the hardest working woman in America. If she needs someone to pick up something at some store, I’m her guy. When its time to clean the house and give Lucy her Christmas bath I’ll be all over it. It’s the least I can do since she has purchased 90% of the presents that will get opened on Christmas morning. Then there’s this…

This used to be our dining room table, but for the next 7 days it will serve as the present wrapping station, and most of that wrapping will be done by yours truly. I actually enjoy the work, although on particularly long sessions, it plays hell on my neck and back. A small price to pay to take this portion of the labor off of Pam’s plate. Of course, Pam sometimes decides to intervene in the process by adding ribbons and bows to selected packages because she simply cannot help herself. I don’t have any problem with it since they always look better when she does.

One more thing. In our house we have not fallen prey to the annoying curse of the Christmas Elf nonsense. But thats not to say that there isn’t some innocuous thing that keeps getting moved mysteriously and just won’t go away. There is this…



Several weeks ago Pam purchased this menacing piece of equipment which is designed to troubleshoot the yearly problem of burned out Christmas lights. I will not here detail the mechanics involved, although it should be said that we have found it ineffective. But for reasons that confound, Pam has refused to throw away the…packaging…

Not only will she not dispose of this packaging, she is constantly moving it from place to place around the house. For a while it lay in the middle of the present wrapping table. Then it reappeared on the counter in the kitchen where the barstools are. Then, this morning I found it snugly positioned on the hearth of the fireplace…

Now, if I were to ask her why she decided that the hearth of the fireplace was the perfect spot for this I am sure that she will have a perfectly illogical reason. But, I will not ask. This is simply above my pay grade. That information is on a need to know basis only and I clearly do not need to know.

So, good luck to you all as we enter the week that try men’s souls. I will hopefully see you on the other side.

The Roots of Road Rage…Cell Phones

Today is Saturday, nine days before Christmas, in Short Pump, Virginia. The three essential facts found in that sentence reveal an awful lot about what I can expect if I am unfortunate enough to have to leave my neighborhood for any reason today. Anyone from around here knows that what I am about to describe is the God awful truth. It may be the same in your town, I’m sure of it actually, because this is Christmas in America.

Since there are now only six shopping days left before the big day, panic has started to course through the veins of Short Pumpians. There is so much still left to do and time is short and getting shorter. Luckily for us, almost every store on our list is located within the tight square mile I have highlighted below:

Within the parameters of this red circle lies Dante’s 9th level of commercial hell. On the one hand, everything that anyone might need for human flourishing can be found within this slab of real estate. If not, it can be ordered then scheduled for pickup by a series of wide-eyed sales clerks that inhabit the thousand shops, stores and outlets found here. According to the 2020 United States census, there are 27,385 souls who live in Short Pump. However, over the next nine days there will be at any given time roughly twice that amount crammed, wedged and packed within this red circle, either in parking lots, stores or clogging every road, street and boulevard in town, all looking for that hard to find gift for cousin Billy that he will either lose or destroy by New Year’s Day.

In the map above, my home is the little blue dot at the bottom, safely out of harm’s way…but barely. Unfortunately, at some point over the next week or so I will have to leave the confines of my peaceful neighborhood and venture out into the abyss. When I do I will encounter a teaming mass of automobiles, bumper to bumper in all directions. I will spend what seems an eternity sitting still at stoplights, and every single time I do the following will happen.

It matters not whether I am three cars back from the light or ten cars back. The car at the front of the line and generally the car right behind him will have one thing in common. Their heads will be tilted down, eyes locked on their cell phones, their little thumbs and fingers tapping out frantic messages. Accordingly, when the light finally turns green they will be clueless to this vitally important change in their reality. Since the guy right behind the first guy is equally engaged, both cars sit stone still while everyone else in the queue starts to get annoyed and restless. Under normal circumstances we drivers usually give the guy in front of a stoplight lane three seconds of grace. But, this is Christmas and we are fresh out of grace. As a mental and emotional experiment, close your eyes and imagine that you are in this line and you see that the light has changed from red to green. Now start counting off the seconds in your head. At what point would you become alarmed if there was no movement? For me its five seconds. At second six my horn is blowing like Mount Vesuvius. If you think this is unduly impatient, I challenge you to do the thought experiment I just described. Six seconds at a standstill waiting for some jackass to put his cell phone down and move feels like a freaking eternity.

Multiply this incident times a thousand and you will quickly understand why road rage is an actual thing. I like to call this traffic jam inducing phenomenon cell phone cellulite. The most astonishing thing about the traffic at Christmas in Short Pump is that it is still this bad despite the boom in internet shopping. We are constantly being told about the increasing percentage of business being conducted by people in the pajamas sitting on their sofas. And yet, the streets of Short Pump still look like rush hour in Manhattan. Maybe that can be explained thusly:

Pam: Ok honey, I just found that kumfinator thing on Patrick’s list at the Target near Yen Ching. It says it will be ready for pickup at 2:00 this afternoon. Can you go get it for me?

Me: Why didn’t you have it shipped here?

Pam: Are you kidding? That would have cost 6 bucks, silly.

Me: You do realize it will take me an hour to get over there and back in this traffic.

Pam: And your point is……?

So, I drive down Broad Street stopping at seven stop lights and watch seven different idiots texting on their cell phones after the lights change, which makes me increasingly furious and brings me to the very edge of road rage a mere two weeks before we all celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.

A New Christmas Tradition

It is generally true that when it comes to thinking up great ideas which enrich our family life, Pam comes up with way more than I do. Its not that I am worthless in this department, most spur of the moment getaway trips are my idea, “No, you are not cooking dinner tonight, we’re going out”—me. But when it comes to great ideas that make a huge impact on all six of us, its Pam. I’m mostly in finance.

So it was this Christmas season when Pam presented us with this:

This is an advent puzzle. This is the one she bought for the two of us. She sent a different advent puzzle to each of the kids. Each day of advent, we are to open the corresponding box and put that portion of the puzzle together. each day’s pieces come with that day’s number on the back of the piece. That way, when its done, the pieces can be placed back in the appropriate boxes and the process can be repeated next year. Only, there’s a wrinkle. Next year, we are all instructed to bring our puzzles home for Thanksgiving where we will swap them out so each of us will have a new puzzle to put together in 2024. Thus, this will be a great idea with a three year shelf life. Brilliant.

Here’s the thing about puzzles. I’m late to the puzzling game. On the Dunnevant family beach vacations puzzles have been a thing for two decades now. Mostly, I stand around drinking coffee watching Ron, Bill and Ryan putting them together. I’ve just never been all that in to puzzles. It requires far too much sitting. But a couple years ago Pam started bringing them to Maine and I’ve started to warm up to them. With this advent thing, it has been all me so far. Strange. It arrived late for one thing, so we had to play catch up. Honestly, Pam has been running around like a one-armed paper hanger for weeks now and hasn’t had the time. So, I opened the box and got to work. To my great surprise, I have been delighted with the project. Each day I open a new box. It takes me about 15-20 minutes to assemble each day’s pieces. While doing so I find that every single negative thought that might have been inside my head disappears under the weight of fresh concentration. It functions like a mental health break. Everything slows down for a bit. I get lost in the impossibly idyllic scene in front of me. Unlike most 1000 piece puzzles, this one seems far less daunting. It’s organized into bite sized morsels and you think, “I can do this.” In this way it is a metaphor for life, isn’t it?

Advent puzzles. Our new Christmas tradition.

Ted Lasso for President

If you have never watched the television show Ted Lasso, you should. Sure, its a show centered around a sport that I couldn’t possibly care less about, and yeah it is often unnecessarily profane, using the f-word as every conceivable part of speech in the English language. But the lead character is as pure of heart as anyone played on television since Sheriff Andy Taylor patrolled the streets of Mayberry. In a world that seems to worship the morally bankrupt, Coach Lasso walks into the room spreading the gospel of kindness and it feels like a miracle.

A friend of mine sent me what follows and it made my morning. I remember every one of these lines from the show and everyone of them are the unvarnished truth. You’re welcome.

Things I learned from Ted Lasso:

1. "Be curious, not judgmental"

2. "Doing the right thing is never the wrong thing."

3. "I have a really tricky time hearing folks that don’t believe in themselves."

4. “Change Isn’t About Trying To Be Perfect. Perfection Sucks. Perfect Is Boring.”

5. "You know what the happiest animal on Earth is? It's a goldfish. It has a 10-second memory. Be a goldfish."

6. "For me, success is not about the wins and losses. It's about helping these young fellas be the best versions of themselves on and off the field."

7. "I think that if you care about someone and you got a little love in your heart, there ain't nothing you can't get through together."

8. “I think that you might be so sure that you’re one in a million that sometimes you forget that out there, you’re just one of 11.” 

9. "Taking on a challenge is a lot like riding a horse, isn't it? If you're comfortable while you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong."

10. "I promise you there is something worse out there than being sad, and that's being alone and being sad. Ain't no one in this room alone."

It’s Complicated

I made the mistake of reading an essay this morning by Andrew Sullivan where I discovered that I am Exhibit A of something called the Oppressor Class. Mr. Sullivan was trying to explain the thought process behind the tortured answers given by those three Ivy League presidents to that Congressional Committee this week. Some idiot Congresswoman asked this pretty straight forward question, “Does calling for the genocide of Jews constitute bullying and harassment?” On these campuses its hard to imagine a crime more grave that bullying and harassment. The three women all sounded like lawyered up corporate PR directors with answers that when boiled down to their basics amounted to, “It’s complicated.” The actual answer was “It is a context-dependent decision, Congresswoman.”

So, Mr. Sullivan explained that this sort of squishy thinking comes to us from an invasive belief inside academia that every single interaction in all of recorded history comes down to only two realities. You are either an oppressor or you are oppressed. Essentially, even genocide can be contextualized if the ones calling for it are part of the oppressed class. And since the Palestinians are the oppressed and the Jews are the oppressors, then…its complicated.

Instead of delving into the whole Jews v Palestinian thing, I was challenged by Mr. Sullivan to examine my identity as an oppressor. The reason I am Exhibit A is because I check every single box. My mere existence practically screams oppressor, I’m told. First, I’m white, with European ancestry. Second, I’m a guy. Third, I’m heterosexual. Within the canon of critical theory this is basically the unholy Trinity of Oppressorness. So, because of this accident of birth everything I have managed to accomplish, while not completely illegitimate, at the very least needs to come with a giant asterisk. It is thought an impossibility that I have arrived at my current station in life without having somewhere along the line oppressed someone.

I have done a bit of soul searching on this point. I can’t recall any specific examples of me oppressing anyone. I would think that with my status as oppressor I would feel a bit more like a bad ass. Maybe not being aware of my oppressor role, I didn’t take better advantage. But then I learned, with Mr. Sullivan’s help that often oppressors are in fact oblivious to their oppressive behaviors. Its more like an innate part of our DNA and therefore, like breathing, it is an involuntary action, baked in to our character. So, if our laws catch up with this new theory, it will be super easy to convict oppressors of their crimes since no actual evidence will be required. But, like the Ivy League Presidents tried to explain, it really is quite complicated. 

For example, Although I am white, suppose I was also homosexual? White men are classic oppressors, but homosexuals have always been and remain oppressed. Which is dominant? Suppose I was a lesbian, but also white? Which one carries more weight? How about Asians? Most Ivy League schools have gone to great lengths to rig their admission systems to discriminate against this high achieving demographic. Are they considered oppressed or oppressors? Are they considered white or people of color? The most obvious member of the oppressed class I imagine would be a black, disabled women who is lesbian. However, there are other oppressed classes out there as well. The overweight who are everywhere being fat shamed. Physically unattractive people who are marginalized by our beauty-crazed culture. People who are either too old or too young and therefore oppressed by ageism.

Even though the list of oppressed classes can be daunting to keep up with, the number one oppressor class remains straightforward…whiteness. Getting back to the Hamas-Israel conflict for a minute, what makes the Jewish people the oppressors according to Andrew Sullivan isn’t their Jewishness but rather their whiteness. Since Hamas and the Palestinian people they represent are considered people of color, any behavior that springs from their oppression is justifiable, which helps explain the university president’s tortured responses.

But at this point I should bring up Andrew Sullivan’s status as a white homosexual man. Surely he is conflicted on the subject. He is very much against the entire construct of D.E.I. (diversity, equity and inclusion) which he considers an anti-democracy, anti-liberal racket designed by a bunch of tenured radical Marxists. He considers the university president’s performance this week a rare opportunity for the public to peek behind the curtain of what passes for enlightenment at the most prestigious institutions of higher learning in America. As for me, I’m just trying to banish any oppressor tendencies from my conscious and unconscious mind. But, since I’m 65 it’s probably too late.

I have learned at least one lesson today. Don’t read essays with titles like, The Day the Empress’ Clothes Fell Off.

Book Progress

So, I had an hour long conversation with my editor the other day. He seems like a decent guy, smart and reasonable. He suggested a couple changes he would like to see in the book. When he explained his reasons they made sense to me so I’ve been busy doing the rewrite. On the surface the changes seemed simple enough. He wanted me to introduce one of the characters earlier in the story. Then he wanted me to do a better job of providing additional background which might explain a portion of the plot that he found out of character. Both, reasonable requests. He gave me two weeks to make these changes.

Here’s the hard part. When its been ten years since you wrote something, then you re-enter the thing and start making changes, you feel like a time-traveler mucking around with their lives, screwing with them! I know that sounds ridiculous. These are make believe people in a make believe story. Still, for me the story was complete, its arc completed. Now I’m nosing around like some revisionist historian. Plus, its not as easy as it sounds—introduce this character earlier in the story. Ok, but if I do that, I have to make allowances for that character’s existence in a number of places throughout the story where before he wasn’t around. Its the ripple effect chaos that gets unleashed if you think about time travel too much.

Although making these changes has not at all been easy, I have had a surprising amount of fun doing it. Its hard to describe but its almost like bringing something back to life. I wasn’t sure how I would respond to the criticisms of an editor. It would seem natural to be defensive. It is, after all, my work. But the truth of the matter is that although I’ve managed to write four novels without an editor’s help, all of those efforts were for my own edification. I wrote them because I enjoyed it. I didn’t write them from the standpoint of what a reader might think. But as soon as the possibility of publication presented itself a bit of panic rose in me. Holy crap! Suppose this story is filled with errors and logical inconsistencies? Now suddenly people like editors and proof readers feel like saviors to me. So, if my guy thinks the dog in my story needs to enter the narrative much earlier then who am I to question him? He’s the pro. Not me!

I’ll keep you guys posted on the progress of this thing as we go. 

No Blockages!!

Well, it took them long enough, but I finally got the call to inform me that I have no blockages. I have been released to resume normal activities including all exercise routines from before. This is very good news. The removal of the possibility of blockages has done wonders for my overall sense of well being. So much so that I told Pam that I am ready to reclaim my status as the Stud of Aprilbud. Although I sent her this sentiment via text message I could almost feel the eye roll.

Of course, there is a chance I may once again feel some discomfort, tightness, and heartburn-like symptoms while exercising, and if so I may still have to have an exploratory catheterization at some point. But for now this is wonderful news. 

I feel better already!