Wedding Planning Part VI

It’s probably time for me to update you all on all the Wedding News that’s fit to print. In horse racing parlance we have hit the three quarters pole, not quite the home stretch, and I haven’t yet gone to the whip, but at least I can see the finish line off in the distance.

Anyone who has gone through this wedding business will tell you that weeks go by, even entire months without a single bill. Then, all of a sudden like a freak tsunami wave, demands for payment arrive at a terrifying pace. The other day we got a call from our bank concerning a series of odd purchases that according to Wells Fargo were “unusually large and disturbingly frequent.” (Yeah, my sentiments exactly). And yes…we have a “wedding credit card.” I paid off the balance on the only credit card I have about a month ago and declared it so in an attempt to keep all this spending organized and in one place. Well, it’s “organized” and “in one place” alright, so much so that my bank feels concerned enough to issue a WTF warning!

Decisions are being made at a dizzying pace here at Nuptials City. In the past two weeks alone bridesmaid’s dresses were chosen, flower girl dresses purchased, center piece designs were finalized and the all-important meeting with the flower lady took place without incident. My living room is now packed ceiling to roof with the growing windfall of wedding shower proceeds, turning the entire right half of my house into some kind of Turkish Bazaar of love:Now, for the last three days and counting, my wife has been hunched over on the corner of our couch, sitting on her feet, (as is her strange habit), addressing 150 invitations…in calligraphy. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, as if she has nothing else better to do, Pam has decided that each invitation demands five minutes of ink-spewing artistry. I see her over there slaving away and I think of those horrible third world sweat shops:

Only, this pain is self-inflicted. Briefly she considered just slapping names and addresses on using regular pens and penmanship, and maybe knocking it all out in one afternoon assembly line style around the kitchen table. But that thought lasted about as long as my attention span at a soccer game. There was never any chance on earth that Pam wasn’t going to break out her Calligraphy pens for this project. It’s who she is and what she does. I got over it a long time ago. So, there she is like some medieval monk transcribing the Old Testament, all Memorial day weekend, while our daughter frolics at Virginia Beach with her best buds for a bachelorette beach weekend.

I’m only sorry I didn’t have six daughters.

Am I a Racist?

On March 24, 2012 in a blog entitled, “A Conversation About Trayvon Martin”, I wrote this:

 Why is it that nobody in their right mind would dare be caught walking around in any predominately black neighborhood in America after dark? If I am walking with my wife, from a restaurant to my car downtown after dark and I see a group of three black teenagers in baggy pants, hoodies, smoking cigarettes on the corner, is it racist of me to be scared? If I cross the street to avoid having to go near them, am I guilty of a hate crime? Actually, in my mind, if I saw three white teenagers similarly dressed on that same corner I would experience the same fear, however if the instinct for self-preservation means anything at all, it means that my fear isn't racist, but rational.

A couple of days ago, Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban said this:

"I mean, we're all prejudiced in one way or another. If I see a black kid in a hoodie and it's late at night, I'm walking to the other side of the street. And if on that side of the street, there's a guy that has tattoos all over his face -- white guy, bald head, tattoos everywhere -- I'm walking back to the other side of the street. And the list goes on of stereotypes that we all live up to and are fearful of. So in my businesses, I try not to be hypocritical. I know that I'm not perfect. I know that I live in a glass house, and it's not appropriate for me to throw stones."

Mr. Cuban has had the wrath of the racism industry brought down upon his head for his observations, becoming the latest NBA owner to be branded a racist.

So, does that make me a racist too? Before you answer, maybe you should take the time to read the following quote:

‘There is nothing more painful to me at this stage of my life than to walk down the street and hear footsteps and start thinking about robbery, then look around and see somebody white and feel relieved.”

What mouth-breathing bigot said such a thing?

Jesse Louis Jackson Sr.

Stress

In times of great stress, some people bite their nails; others suffer debilitating headaches, while still others have full-blown, call-the-guys-in-the-white coats nervous breakdowns. Then there are those of us who suffer with things that can’t be spoken about in polite company. I had one such episode this afternoon.

Noticing the impending storms in the forecast, I thought it might be a good idea to get the grass cut. The fact that it was 91 degrees and humid and I have been worried sick about my Dad for nearly two months never entered my mind. All I saw was tall grass and lots of green and orange spots on the radar.

About half way through the job I begin to feel a bit light headed. A more prudent person might have taken a break and gotten something to drink. An even more prudent person would have hired some slack-jawed kid from the neighborhood to cut the grass for him, but that wasn’t going to happen…because I’m too cheap and not at all prudent. So, I continued on and finished the job, feeling worse and worse by the minute. By the time I put the mower away, I was sweating like Donald Sterling at a Bojangles franchise in Watts.

I made my way up the stairs and about the time I got to the bedroom I felt the lights going out and luckily had the presence of mind to get on the floor before I fell. I lay there for a minute or so, and then managed to get myself onto the bed where I finally called out to Pam for assistance. She saved the day by applying cold washcloths to my face, the same stuff my Mom used to do whenever I got sick when I was a kid. Then she noticed it…the towel I was laying on. I don’t actually remember doing it, but apparently, when I rose from the floor, despite extreme discomfort, I had the presence of mind to walk into the bathroom, got a bath towel, and spread it out on the bed before collapsing onto it.

“I can’t believe you thought to put a towel down before lying on the bed!” she beamed. “I’ve trained you so well.”

“Are you kidding? Did you see how much they charged you last week to dry clean this comforter??”

See, I told you I was cheap.

I’m fine now, crisis avoided. I managed to feel well enough after dinner to go over to see Dad. I fed him some ice cream, gave him a shoulder rub and took him for a spin around the nursing home in his wheel chair.

He had no idea who I was.

A Confession

Despite the fact that I am currently in the midst of a four year no-ticket streak and am accident free for over ten years, I must confess that I have become a terrible driver.

I recently drove to Princeton, New Jersey and back. It was not pretty. Granted, that trip is about as horrible a drive as exists in America, and the traffic was off the charts, but in all candor, I drove like a maniac.

Here’s the thing…the older I have gotten, the more maniacal I have become behind the wheel. When traffic becomes worse and worse, I become more and more aggressive. Part of the problem is I’m used to driving a Cadillac CTS with a huge and powerful engine, so when I get in the old family Pacifica I try to drive it like a sports car. It’s kind of like running a sprint in army boots.

Pam and Kaitlin were unanimous in their negative opinions about my too aggressive style, not to mention my smart-mouthed sister in the car behind us trying to keep up. Thanks to walkie-talkies, I was plagued with two cars full of back seat drivers!

I’m not sure why, but whenever I’m on a long trip in the car, I become a crazy person. I start weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes for the pure hell of it and driving much too fast. It’s like I become obsessed with conquering the trip at all costs and woe be unto the poor slob who makes the mistake of putting his Prius in the passing lane doing the speed limit!

I have a feeling it has to do with stress. Maybe my aggressive driving is a release of some sort, or maybe I’m turning into my Grandfather, John Dixon, who was once pulled over at age 80 going 95 mph the wrong way down route 29 near Amherst, Virginia. So, maybe it’s in my DNA.

“You don’t understand Officer, it’s not my fault. It’s genetics!!”