My Wife's Only Flaw

This blog is for men only. Women just won't understand. If you happen to be a woman and are offended by this notion that there are some things in this world that are beyond your comprehension, I apologize in advance.

Some of you who read this blog faithfully might be quietly annoyed by the unalloyed praise that I am constantly heaping on my wife. The truth is, she is an amazing woman, so it comes easy. But, today, I am here to let you know that she is not perfect. There's this one thing she does that drives me crazy. I never complain about it because. . .well, why?  But, as a man, and I think I'm not alone in this matter, this time of year it's especially egregious. By now, I'm sure that all of you are fascinated as to what the beautiful and sainted Pam could possibly have done to cause me to write a critical blog post. Ok. . . here's the problem:

Several times a year my wife heads off to a truly vile establishment called Bath and Body Works and comes home with a bag full of this stuff. . .gentle foaming hand soap. I mean, she loves this stuff. Apparently this is a seasonal purchase, since every three months I get tortured by a new set of scented  hand soap. Pump the handle and get lost in the fragrant allure of "sunny mandarin, autumn leaves and blonde woods." (What the devil is blond woods??) Whatever it is, these three fragrances combine to produce something called Golden Autumn Day. Not to be outdone, I could choose a second fragrance, Marshmallow Pumpkin Latte featuring the frolicking combination of "creamy pumpkin, toasted marshmallow and warm praline. Thank goodness, since there is truly nothing worse than cold praline!

Ok, listen. I enjoy pleasant smells as much as the next guy, but when I'm washing the filth of the day off my hands, I don't want to smell anything.  When I was a kid, I would go into the downstairs bathroom to wash up. That's where there was a bar of Lava which felt like washing your hands with sand paper and smelled like. . .absolutely nothing. It didn't come in a container with a pump. It just laid there in the soap dish waiting for your dirty hands to pick it up. This new age hand washing pump top soap is just trying too hard. Take this stuff, for example:

Fall Lakeside Breeze exhorts me to "Pack a picnic. Grab a sweater. Get ready for gorgeous leaves and crisp fall air. YOUR AUTUMN ADVENTURE STARTS NOW." I'm not making this up, its right here on the back of the bottle. Look, I just picked up an entire week's worth of Lucy's bowel movements, I'm about to eat dinner, and I am taking no chances. All I want to do is clean any poop residue off of my hands. I'm not looking for an autumn adventure, even though this particular soap treats me to the heavenly fusion of blue sage, basil and sandalwood! I just want to wash my hands without smelling like I just spent an hour in a French whore house.

So, there you have it, my wife's only flaw, obnoxiously scented hand soap. I suppose I'll survive.

Foiled by a Weiner?

James Comey, the director of the FBI, has managed something quite remarkable in this day and age. He has become the most hated man in America, at a time when Donald Trump is his competition. The  amazing part of it all is that he has become hated precisely by the people who just three months ago were fitting him for a halo. You see, when you essentially clear Hillary Clinton of mishandling classified communications in a way that would have had any other State Department employee in prison, you instantly become a paragon of judicial virtue. . . to Democrats. But, when you stumble upon thousands of her emails on the home computer of her top aide's husband's laptop while investigating him for being a pervert, then reopen the investigation because of the new emails, you transform yourself into a monster intent on interfering in an election for the benefit of your enemy. Hell hath no fury like a Democratic woman scorned.

But, the Republicans are no better. When Comey announced his decision to exonerate Mrs. Clinton in July, the howls and insults were thick and heated. Comey was a "Hack" and part of a conspiracy to protect Hillary. The FBI he runs had become a laughing stock, proof of the far-reaching tentacles of Clinton Inc. corruption. Some even suggested that Comey was part of a determined strategy to rig the election for Hillary, he was probably even on the Clinton Foundation payroll! Now, many of those same voices are now praising him for his commitment to justice and the rule of law, and lauding him for his bravery in the face of the deadly Clinton machine.

So, it would seem that one's reputation in Washington these days depends very much on who's ox is being gored.

For me, I'm not sure what to think of this. It isn't known exactly what is in these new emails. Could be about Yoga and wedding plans for all I know. But there is one delicious irony, inescapable to anyone paying attention for the last 30 years. This guy!!

If Hillary Clinton's quest for the White House ends up being torpedoed by this guy, it won't be the first time her ambitions have been foiled by a Weiner!!

The Gift of Saturday

By all accounts, today should be gorgeous out, sunny and pleasant with a high temperature of 76. While that is a little hot for late October, I will fight the urge to slink into the fetal position and wet my pants worrying about global warming. Instead, I have a full day planned. My sainted wife will be in Williamsburg with her Mom and sisters shopping and lunching most of the day, leaving me alone with Lucy and a to-do list of my own making. It's going to be great!

First, I will spend two or three hours in the yard getting up leaves, cutting grass, removing a week's worth of Lucy's bowel movements, etc. Then I'll rustle up some lunch. Odds are high that the leftover container of creamy Cajun sausage pasta will do the job quite nicely. At some point after lunch, this girl...

will require an extended session of frisbee catching and retrieval. Afterwards, she and I will both settle in for a brief afternoon nap. Upon completion of this siesta, I will clean the bathrooms and vacuum the house, and maybe throw in a little dusting for good measure. Then maybe a late afternoon perambulation with Miss Lucy while we await Pam's return. We will both hope that she will be pleased with our efforts.

At no point in this day will the television be tuned onto a news channel. It will be on college football most of the day as background and then, baseball tonight. This Saturday is simply too nice, too full of potential to be mucking around in the sewer of politics. I'll just have to leave Trump and Clinton to themselves for the day. Same goes for tomorrow, the Lord's day. Come Monday morning, they will still be with us. I'll check back in then.

You should do the same.

The Sleeze Wars

As the 2016 campaign winds down, each day has featured a new Wikileaks revelation. Our media cover these revelations with great hesitation, practically gagging themselves on the questions, always asked to some campaign spokesman. . . never Hillary herself, thusly:

Media Hack: So, in this latest email, some might conclude that Mrs. Clinton might have been involved in what might be described by some of her critics as illegal activity. Do you agree?

Campaign Hack: I refuse to dignify that question with an answer since these emails were clearly leaked by the Russians in an appalling attempt to influence our election.

Media Hack: I totally agree and thank you for your forthright response. But, setting aside for a moment the origin of this leak, what about the actual content of these emails? Are they, in fact, real, and if so, what about the fact that Mrs. Clinton seems to have been involved in collusion with the DNC to subvert the Sanders campaign?

Campaign Hack: But...it was the Russians!

Media Hack: Excellent point.

On the other end of the media spectrum, the INFOWARS nuts report each word of these emails as proof that Hillary is the Anti-Christ:

Headline: New email provides iron clad proof that Killery has actual remains of aborted babies delivered to her dinner table every Wednesday night. Pictures to follow!!

There are 12 days remaining in our national race to the bottom. That's 12 more document dumps, 12 more opportunities left for character assassination. Although, in fairness, one has to have actual character before it can be assassinated, and between these two, there isn't much left. But, it will be fast and furious over the next few days. Wikileaks will reveal even more skulduggery. Clinton's team no doubt has a couple more bimbo-bombshells in the pipeline.

It's gonna be great!!

Sigh. . .

Pick Your Poison

When I was in elementary school, I used to sit in the back of Mrs. Winston's class and stare at the big clock on the wall behind her desk. It never seemed to move. It was as if it would get stuck in place whenever I looked at it, only moving when I got distracted with something or someone else. That's exactly how I feel about this election. Will it ever end? So, I write blogs about something else, anything else, to make the time go by faster. But, the more I think about it I realize what a ridiculous strategy this is. My Dad used to warn me not to "wish your life away." He was right. Why am I in such a ball-crushing hurry for this thing to be over with? Whatever happens, I'm going to be bitterly disappointed and most likely fall into despair at the prospect of four more years with a dope in the White House. So, why hurry things along? I need to savor each moment we have left where a relatively decent person is in the Oval Office. How's that for a commentary on our politics in 2016. . . I just paid Barack Obama a compliment. What's this world coming to?

So at this hour, depending on which echo chamber you live in, either Hillary Clinton is about to win a historic landslide victory in the electoral college and even the popular vote and wipe out down ticket Republicans as well, possibly winning back the House and Senate. . . Or, Donald Trump is on the verge of sending a shock wave through the political establishment by being swept into office by a wave of pissed off citizens, many of them first time voters, and an even greater number of them who have been lying to pollsters for months. As Michael Moore has said, it will be the biggest f##k you to the establishment in American political history. If this were to happen, it would also plunge a dagger into the heart of what is left of the American media. Hillary was clearly "their" candidate, and many voters will take great pleasure in sticking it to the Anderson Cooper's and Andrea Mitchell's of the world.

Either way, I'm screwed. I've about decided to go full Don Quixote and pull the lever for Evan McMullin, since my earlier semi-endorsement of Gary Johnson blew up in my face. "Who did you vote for Pop?"...."Never mind, kid. Want some ice cream?" If Hillary Clinton wins, my heart will be broken by the fact that someone so completely corrupt will have had her filthy, money-grubbing,  duplicitous life rewarded and validated by becoming President. If Donald Trump wins, I will spend the next four years perpetually nauseated every time I see his orange face on television. His election will forever disabuse me of my formerly confident opinion of American exceptionalism. His election will permanently exile me from political life, shift my entire world view away from the national to the local. . .what can I do to make life better around here? So, that may be the slimmest of silver linings, but at least it's something.

How To Explain Your Vote

Two more weeks and this 5 alarm dumpster fire of an election will be over. But, how to vote? Reading through the commentary on this decision is an exercise in rationalization. It's like nobody is proud of their candidate, so every vote comes with a caveat, a disclaimer meant to explain the unexplainable. Trump is a narcissist, but. . . Clinton is corrupt, but. . .

So, as a public service, I have gathered the better a**-covering qualifiers I've run across below. Pick whichever one feels best.

I'm for Trump because of the Supreme Court.
I'm for Clinton because of the Supreme Court.
I'm for Clinton because it's about time we had a woman President.
I'm for Jill Stein because it's about time we had a woman President.
I'm for Clinton because Trump is unhinged and dangerous.
I'm for Trump because Clinton is a murderer and a liar.
I'm for Gary Johnson because I'm tired of having to sneak around to buy pot.
I'm for Evan McMullin because he puts principle over party.
I'm for Gary Johnson because he puts "let's party" over principle.
I'm for Clinton because she wants to tax the rich.
I'm for Trump because I want to be rich.
I'm for Jill Stein because it makes me seem environmentally conscious.
I'm for Clinton because it's about time we had a lesbian President.
I'm for Trump because it's about time serial adulterers caught a break.
I'm for Evan McMullin because 75 years without a bald President is enough.
I'm for Trump because he will lower my taxes.
I'm for Clinton because she will raise your taxes.
I'm for Trump because I don't want Bill Clinton back in the west wing.
I'm for Trump because Huma is an Islamic spy.
I'm for Trump because Melania is smokin' hot.
I'm for Trump because he will build a wall.
I'm for Clinton because it's her turn.
I'm not for either of these morons.

My People

The Dixon family reunion at Green Hill in Buckingham County is in the books. It was a delightful day, sunny and breezy with random memories whipped up in the wind all around us. There were probably 80 people there, 70 of whom I didn't really know. But it was like an episode from the twilight zone where in a room full of strangers, everyone looked familiar. Someone would pass by you and there would be a flash of recognition, that nose, those eyes, that facial expression, so closely held, so dear. 

". . . you must be Bubby's girl."

" Yep! You look like Betty's son."

My Uncle John, the war hero was my Mom's big brother. His family lived in Gladstone, Virginia in the big house by the railroad tracks. We would visit when I was a boy. He had four kids, my cousins. There was Bootsie, the oldest, Bubby who would go on to be a war hero himself, then Peggy and Joanne, the youngest who was my age. Yesterday, those three sisters were in charge of things. They had organized and planned the event. I watched them as they talked, saw them interact with everyone, felt the love of family and the pride they have in being a Dixon. I have it too. 

There was a table with pictures, all pressed behind plastic, some with short descriptions. . .  Alice Horsely Dixon 1910. . . John Henry Dixon in New Orleans. The pictures were mostly black and white and faded, over exposed here, bleached out there. But each of them sent out a message. . . We were here. Here's the proof.

Then I saw this picture of my mother. Bootsie suggested that it was either her high school graduation photo or maybe a picture taken for her wedding announcement for the newspaper. . . either way, she would have been. . .16. It took my breath away. Was my mother ever 16? But, there she was in 

glorious, faded black and white. I saw my son in her eyes. Her hair was my daughter's hair. I looked closer and saw myself staring back. I saw my sisters in her smile. That nose, the dead giveaway of my ancestors, the playfulness and great expectation in her face was stunning. She had her entire life ahead of her, about to marry the man of her dreams. And now, four years after her death, the grateful family she left behind stands on the spot where she grew up, with tears forming, fascinated by the transformative power of a photograph.

It's funny. When she was alive, this was the type of event I would have come up with any excuse not to attend. But now that she is gone, something inside of me was longing for it. The older I get the more aware I have become of my mortality. These people are my people. They share with me a common ancestry. Their blood is my blood. 

We wandered the grounds, visited the cemetery up on the hill overlooking the ghost of the old homeplace. There lie my grandparents. A few feet from them lie my great grandparents. It is an odd feeling, walking through a cemetery, something that is equal parts pride and sadness.

But on this day, it was mostly pride.