Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Driving Women Crazy

She cooks. He washes. Division of labor. That’s the deal. It works. No discussions, no excuses. Everybody’s happy. The marriage remains blissful. But that’s not how it started. It’s not how anything starts.

Now, men, this is not about us being God’s gift to women. So put away your childish ideas and egos and face the cold, hard facts…we drive women crazy! To validate the point, let’s visit our friend’s home...the bathroom, the bedroom and the kitchen.

Their trouble began on the honeymoon night. Things were going smoothly until he heard her scream from the bathroom. Seems he left the lid up. She fell in. He laughed. She fumed. His future flashes before his eyes. He has to decide…flush or extricate her from Mr. Kohler’s ceramic contraption. His decision haunts him.

She decides he needs training. She wastes no time informing him that things are going to change. He brings up his mother. “Do I look like your mother? Leave her out of this,” she says. “And by the way, remember the prenup we signed?” Money, or the loss of it, gets his attention. “Let’s start in the bathroom, where you humiliated me. Remember that night?” How could he forget.

“See the lid? Next time I find it up, you’ll be wearing it around your neck. And that dried tooth paste and hair in the sink? The sink’s not an incubator, clean it,” she says. He pouts, but follows instructions. A thought briefly crosses his mind, “Why don’t I train her?” Which reveals his IQ. Whoever heard of training a woman? It’s like washing a cat…you’ll only try that once.

She continues the bathroom training. “Listen, big boy, think of me as Mrs. Charles Manson the next time you pinch, slap or grab me while I’m doing my hair.” He sees the knife in her eyes. “Furthermore, see that towel lying on the floor? Picture a noose.” He does and gets the message. He sulks.

Grabbing his ear, she walks him into the bedroom. “Now hear this,” she says. “Before we go to sleep, the last things I want to hear about are problems or money. Or you’ll have less money and more problems.” She continues. “Now, about your snoring. You have two choices…the sofa or duct tape your mouth. You can’t sleep here.” He knows better than to argue with a woman whose hands are on her hips. He doesn’t.

Then she moves on to her dressing room. He remembers she often asks, “How do I look?” The truth isn’t necessarily what she wants to hear. She gives him a book of ‘golden adjectives,’ telling him to pick some flattering ones. He chooses ravishing, dazzling, radiant, stunning and gorgeous. She approves. He writes them on the palm of his left hand, after he erases super, nice, ok and not bad. He begins to catch on.

They move into the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator and says, “This bowl of soup has only one spoonful left. Why’d you put it back in? Eat it or wash it.” He shrinks and becomes insignificant. He thinks of calling his mother. “Another thing,” she says. “If I ever see you drink from the milk carton, you’ll be attending Martha Stewart’s Hygiene School.”

While I’m at it,” she says, “I’m gonna give you a tutorial in the ‘we’ concept.” Had his mother forgotten to teach him that? Seems she’d forgotten a lot of things, he concludes. He considers disowning her. “It’s simple,” she says. “Every time I say, ‘we’ need to do this or that, it means ‘you’. Get it?” He does, but curses under his breath.

She adds more. “You’d better write down every word I say. There will be a quiz.” He couldn’t remember that in the marriage vows.

She concludes the day’s regimen, telling him that she never wants to hear anything about his ego, bravado or libido. He feels emasculated. Has marriage come to this? He calls his father, asking for answers. His father says, “Son, you forfeited all your rights when you said ‘I do.’ Try praying.” Which might explain why his father spends a lot of time on his knees in the garden.

The training program is continuing after 25 years of marriage. He learns to simply say, “Yes, dear,” and to spend more time in the men’s grill.


Bud Hearn
November 18, 2010

Monday, November 15, 2010

The Empty Chair

There’s nothing like a South Georgia Thanksgiving.

Our family members came like migrants for the annual tradition. We looked like a motley crowd of emaciated refugees on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Not that Colquitt, Georgia is Mecca, though some have held the town to be the intellectual center of the South. It seems that everybody who’s smart leaves. Nevertheless, in terms of relevance, Colquitt might as well be on another planet. We discovered that when we moved away.

Some held that all residents of Colquitt were related. A rumor circulated that our family once held a family reunion, and the entire town showed up. I used to think that to be an over-exaggeration of the truth, but I’m not sure anymore. The familiar atavistic resemblances are hard to dismiss!

All roads led to my grandparent’s home. They began this tradition, primarily because they had the biggest table in town and liked to cook. It accommodated twenty-four. My grandmother pulled out the fine china, gleaming silverware and crystal for the occasion. Our plates were laden and conversation was constant. We had a year to catch up on.

Baptist deacons have God’s ear, so my grandfather, who always sat in ‘his place’ at the table’s head, blessed the meal, blessed it, and blessed it again. I once heard The Voice say, “Enough, I’ve heard you already...let’ em eat.”

I recently received a letter from my cousin after the death of her husband. In it she lamented the dispersion of our family. Her mind was already on Thanksgiving. She wished we could all get together again like the old days. There’s great comfort in family connections.

Ah, the ‘old days’. Sadly, I thought, it’s impossible. Like many families, the old family table has disappeared. There’s no going back. It’s only there in memory now. Even if it were possible, too many chairs sit unoccupied. It just wouldn’t be the same.

Her note reminded me of past Thanksgivings. I dug through the photo archives and came up with our last two Thanksgiving ‘family photos.’ They’d qualify for the Southern Gothic museum. The years 1986 and 1988 now seem a century away. Bitter-sweet memories walked through my mind.

Unusual hairdos, strange clothes and even stranger teenagers stood out. The teenagers did their best ‘I’m-not-really-related-to-these-weirdoes’ look. They hated family photos. Maybe they even hated us. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on that. Teenagers invented the ‘I’m bored’ look. For that I give them credit. Ours wished they were somewhere else. Often we did, too. Which is probably why some species eat their young.

Smiles dominated the photos. The secret to a good family photo is to make it before they start drinking or eating. No family can survive more than a couple days of togetherness. Things fall apart quickly after the Thanksgiving meal. Saturday football games have saved many a family free-for-all.

We have mighty hunters in our family. Some got up at 0 dark thirty, loaded weapons best suited for elephants and attempted to ambush Bambi. They never succeeded. After dinner my grandfather would sneak out to the farm and count his prize cows. He always seemed relieved when he returned.

Sometimes I took a Thanksgiving morning run to work up an appetite. My brother would ride his bike along, keeping me company. I remember one morning on a country road. I had no sooner heard the shotgun blast when a load of birdshot whizzed past, inches away from my face. “Mistook you for a turkey,” the farmer shouted, holding an empty bottle. I didn’t stop to argue. I ran through the cemetery from then on.

We tend to think things will go on forever as they are. They won’t. Had we known this we might have embraced our family reunions more fervently. But we didn’t. The tyranny of the urgent got in the way…things like schools, jobs, bills and such as that.

Our old photos revealed only three empty chairs at the metaphorical table. Today there are seven. The old clan is dwindling, but a new one is emerging. A family photo today would reveal different faces under gray hair. Teenagers would be holding babies. There would be no empty chairs at the table. The tradition would have survived.

Thanksgiving is more than a meal and a time for family reunions. It’s an idea, a spirit. It continues to remind us of our bounty and our freedom. The old days are past, but the memories of our collective empty chairs continue to keep the tradition alive.

And this year I’m pretty sure the turkey and its entourage will continue show up and add their part to the festivities.


Bud Hearn
November 15, 2010

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Letter

The worthless pulp arrived yesterday. The mail. The assortment contained the usual crap that clutters mail boxes. But this rubbish does create jobs.

Jobs are important in this depression. In the Brunswick post office, the clerks perpetuate their jobs in a unique way. They have a dance, ‘the mailman shuffle.’ You’re familiar with this, right? It’s found in most government offices where civil service and tenure are assured. There’s a wonderful side effect of this ‘Dancing-with-the-Clerks’ charade…it slows time to a crawl. We get a short, well, ok, a long, break from a fast-track world.

I examined the day’s refuse. One envelop appeared unlike the slick, colored ones that find File 13. It had no return address and an American Flag stamp. Being patriotic, I pitched it on my desk. It laid with other litter, soon to be a reject. I often feel sorry for junk mail. It’s like picking over apples at Winn Dixie. Imagine being an apple, fondled, dumped back into the pile…a reject. Sometimes I’m a bleeding heart. But not often.

Many letters seek to separate us from money. We call these ‘bills.’ I had a friend once named Bill. He always tried to separate me from something. He succeeded in separating me from my high school sweetheart. She became the ‘Miss Betty Crocker of Alabama.’ Some separations are good! These bills profile our profligate ways, which Google circulates to every human on the planet.

Recently I received a letter from an old nemesis. He’s known by his initials, IRS. He works for a nefarious organization whose CEO is a computer. It makes all decisions. The computer needs money to survive. It shakes down everyone who has a number for a name. The only escape is death.

This particular letter, or summons, demanded the immediate payment of $31.25, or else. I’m familiar with ‘or else.’ It’s my wife’s expression of endearment. It referenced tax year 1942, the year of my birth. A shuffling sleuth discovered my parents didn’t declare me as living. Penalty and interest had accrued. Failure to pay would result in writs and seizure of everything, including children.

It went further. Fine print warned that failure to pay would result in criminal penalties, audits and lengthy jail time. I’m familiar with audits. Agents show up with badges, guns and greasy hair, wearing unwashed clothes. A peculiar odor follows them, reminiscent of a landfill.

I called the 800 number. A computer answered, saying, “Welcome to the IRS.” It announced that representatives were helping other ‘customers,’ and the wait time might exceed 24 hours, but not to hang up. The call may be recorded for training purposes and would be answered in the order received. In other words, take a number and pray! All the while background music played, “and another one bites the dust.”

“Customers?” it said. More like ‘prisoners,’ or according to my notice, ‘criminals.’ It added the cheery words, “Thank you for being a loyal customer.” I remembered Ayn Rand’s prophecy in, “Atlas Shrugged.” It read,

“We are fast approaching the stage of the ultimate inversion, the stage where the government is free to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may act only by permission, which is the stage of the darkest periods in human history, the stage of rule by brute force.”

After three days of waiting for the next customer rep, I gave up. A Taxpayer Advocate finally solved the problem. Computer glitch, she said. Best to pay the computer and it’ll go away, she advised. I asked how I would know if the computer were satisfied. She said if men in black don’t show up, you’re safe.

Back to my letter. It had a cellophane window. Inside it read, “Time is running out, Bud Hearn. Act by 11/12/10.” I opened it in haste. The New Yorker magazine offered a special savings for renewed subscriptions. I rejected it, did the next best thing…renewed my Rolling Stone magazine. At least I can keep up with Lady Gaga. If my time’s running out, I want to be reading something worthwhile.

Which is more than you’ve been doing if reading this absurdity. But in a flash of reality, friends, if time is running out…I surely hope it’s not today! Let the good times roll.

Bud Hearn
November 11, 2010

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Trashed Again

She trashed me again today. These things happen. She says I have it coming. Says she’s tired of looking at my face, decides to do something about it. This is how I end up in the trash can.

American trash cans everywhere now overflow with garbage from Washington, DC. They reek with the stench of politicians ejected from comfy confines and sent home to reality. They deserve it, too. Maybe they can find plausible excuses for their repudiations. I search for reasons for my own rejection. The answer’s easy…I’m outliving my usefulness and wearing out my welcome in the house.

I’ll hand it to my wife. She has an eye and a nose for things exceeding their expiration dates. She protects our household from all contagions. Do you know how long it takes to grocery shop with a woman like this? Forever! The store loudspeaker announces “Last Call” before she leaves. Once is enough for me.

Everything is subject to her scrutiny. The butcher and fish monger endure endless interrogations about product age and origin. They see her and hide. And labels? My God, she reads every one. She searches for artificial ingredients and any lethal substances slick food purveyors slip into the food-chain. She knows chemical formulas and the truth behind arcane advertising. She should work for the FDA.

The refrigerator is her prime target. She sniffs everything that looks or feels like it’s past prime. She inspects every item for its life cycle. She’s ruthless, discarding all things suspect. She’s convinced it’s the leading cause of aberrant child behavior and Alzheimer’s. My useful life is expiring. The trash can is all that’s left.

I once made a sandwich with ‘questionable’ cheese. It looked harmless, just a few green spots which I tore off. I laid it atop some multicolored ham which wouldn’t pass her sniff test. The bread’s edges were green. She jerked the sandwich from my hand and flung it into the trash. See what I mean? Ruthless!

I know this and appreciate her concern for family safety. But she’s going too far now. I’m a model father, excellent husband and responsible provider. But her memory is suspect. She says in no uncertain terms I’m no longer necessary. Says I’m an embarrassment because of my age. I beg and plead for leniency. I list my attributes, achievements, the countless compromises and defend my reasons to remain in the house, not the least of which includes emptying the dishwasher. It falls with a thud on deaf ears.

I plead more…our history, our children, the economy, the weather, golf and everything in between. Her answer’s the same…I’m trashing you. What will people say when they visit and find I’m not in my regular place? I ask. Tough, she says. I’ll search my archives and find someone else to fill the spot. Don’t feel badly about it, she says. It’s just life. You can’t help it. Age happens.

My former youthful looks are a poor bargaining chip. It’s yesterday’s currency and buys nothing. Who’s not older? I ask. Is this any reason to trash me? She calls the children for a backup consensus. It doesn’t go well for me. She hangs up, says they agree. It’s the trash can for me. I try harder. Move me to an upstairs bedroom, or the loft, I say. I’ll remain out of sight. No, she says. We’re in agreement. You’re being trashed.

What if I have a facial re-do, botox or something cosmetic? I ask. Answer’s still No. You’ll like your new home, she says. She assures me I’ll have many friends who are also being trashed. Especially a lot of divorced men and dead-beat politicians. I’m not consoled.

How long do I have? I ask. A minute, she says. I’m puzzled by it all. I wait like a condemned man. She walks to the trash can. I sweat. Trash to trash, she says. She takes my picture and savagely rips it to shreds. Tiny bits like colored confetti fall carelessly in a slow spiral from her hand into the trash can. They take up residence with coffee grounds, soured milk, apple cores and other rotting debris. “Goodbye” is her eulogy.

I may someday recover from this harsh trashing. But men, heed this warning…think twice before you frame a CVS passport picture of yourself and put it by her side of the bed.

Bud Hearn
November 4, 2010