In and out of the doghouse

The Free Dictionary defines the phrase "in the doghouse" as an idiom meaning "in great disfavor or trouble."

Ah, yes. We've all been there.  Some of us more than others.  A lot of times we're not even sure how we got there. But this much is for certain:  Every man since the dawn of time who has ever purported to be in a relationship with a woman has found himself in the proverbial doghouse.

To wit, I don't think the following scenario is very far-fetched:

Adam: "Um, honey.  Uhh, I'm not sure how to tell you this."
Eve: "Spit it out, Adam."
Adam: "Cain shot Abel today."
Eve: "WHAT???  YOU were supposed to be watching them!"
Adam: "Yeah, um, I, uh, dozed off under the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and, uh.... I'll just get my staff and go sleep with the animals tonight."
Eve: "Yeah you will!"
Adam (mumbling): "I want my rib back."
Eve: "What was that?!"
Adam: "Nothing, dear."

Today as I was googling "how to get out of the doghouse" (What?  Today is National Get Out Of The Doghouse Day.) I came across this article.  It's the Top 7 Ways To Get Out Of The Doghouse, from AskMen.com.  So I thought I would go down the list, one by one, and share my thoughts on each.  You know, because I can't imagine that not being intellectually valuable.

7. Encourage A Conversation - I like that "courage" is the root word of encourage, because it takes a lot of courage for a man to do this.  Is courage the right word?  Bone's advice: Skip on to number six.

6. Make Her Laugh - Ah, yes, a Bone specialty.  If this one fails for me, I pretty much know I'm up Radiation Creek without a hazmat suit.  Bone's advice: This is probably OK for the small stuff, like running over her cat.  Accidentally, of course.  Not sure it works so well on the bigger stuff, like making out with her best friend.  (And FYI, that cat always hated me!) 

5. Buy Her Flowers - Clearly, AskMen.com, as well as most major holidays, is sponsored by Big Floral. Bone's advice: Flowers alone aren't going to cut it.  There will have to be a "talk" involved at some point.  You know it.  I know it.  Just try and have a ballgame going in the background on the TV when said talk occurs, and power through. 

4. Cook For Her - This, I can do.  You may even find you enjoy cooking.  In fact, many of the great chefs of our time are men:  Emeril.  Guy what's-his-name from the TGIFridays commercials.  Chef, from South Park.  Mel, from Mel's Diner on Alice.  I think my point is made.  Bone's advice:  Don't tell her what you're cooking.  That way when she asks, "What is this? Mutton?" you can just nod yes, even if it's not.

3. Listen To Her - I'm seriously beginning to wonder if AskMen actually asked any men at all for this article.  Because this sounds an awful lot like they only asked women.  Bone's advice:  See if you can just cook twice and skip this one. 

2. Leave - Oh no.  This doesn't work.  The idea, according to them, is to give her space.  It has been my experience that giving her too much space is often what got me into this situation in the first place.  Bone's advice:  Replace this one with "Pretend Nothing Is Wrong."  That's pretty much how I live my entire life anyway.  After a few days, you can even turn things around on her with a carefully placed, "Why have you been so grouchy lately?"  Women love that.

1. Say I'm Sorry - As I understand it, to put it in golf terms, this is like yelling "Fore!" after you hit a bad shot.  You raise your arm, say the magic word, and all is forgiven.  Now the article says to specify what exactly it is you're sorry about.  Well I don't know about you, but half the time, I don't have the slightest clue what I'm apologizing for anyway.  Bone's advice: Stick to two words: I'm Sorry.  Popular addendums like "I'm sorry your entire family is crazy" or "I'm sorry you can't stand for me to be happy even for one day" may seem like good ideas at first, but I have found they don't always translate so well.

There you have it.  Some of the very secrets that I have employed which have helped to keep me unmarried, lo, these many years.  May they produce even better results for you.

I can pretty much guarantee each will get you out of the doghouse, one way or the other -- either back into good graces, or perhaps more likely, out of the relationship altogether.

In closing, I would just say that I feel the doghouse has gotten a bad rap.   Therefore, I like to refer to it as the Canine Castle, or even better, hanging with Snoopy Dog. Whatever basement/garage/shed serves as your doghouse, spruce it up a bit, try and have a big screen TV out there.  Enjoy a day or two of space.

And for crying out loud, spring for some flowers, say I'm sorry, whatever you gotta do.  Because, let's be honest, no one else is gonna put up with you.

"This doghouse here is mighty small / But it's better than no house at all / So ease it on over / Drag it on over / Move over old dog 'cause a new dog's movin' in..."

Blackberry cleanse

Day four...

I feel almost completely disconnected from society now.  Even more so than normal, I mean.  Friends I once had daily contact with, I haven't heard from in weeks.... or, days.  Last night, I managed to scrounge up some mushrooms for dinner.  (And fish and rice.)  Were they poisonous?  Who knows.  (OK, probably not, as I got them at the grocery store.)

Such is life with no cell phone.

My Blackberry bit the dust on Wednesday.  Died on the 4th of July, someone should make a movie.  Since then I have withdrawn further and further into an isolated, text-less, cell-phone-less existence.

When something you have relied on so heavily is taken away, you can't help but start to ponder things.  Things like, I never realized how texting has almost entirely replaced instant messaging in my life.  I used to have like 186 friends on AIM.  Now, there are five people signed into my Gchat.  And four of those are orange.

I still have a landline, but no one calls.  Or if they do, I don't know it, because they would be calling my Blackberry, which isn't working. And I can't call anyone, because years of reliance on cell phone directories have erased my memory of virtually all phone numbers except immediate family members.  And/or it's long distance.

I suppose I could email someone and ask them to call me.  But I'm not that desperate.  Yet.  Also, sometimes people act like they never got your email, even though it's clearly in your "sent mail" folder and there was never an issue with them getting any of your emails before when they complained because you're still Rickrolling them once a week, but as soon as you send one asking if they want to hang out, all of a sudden they're having Gmail issues!  I mean... I've heard.... that happens.... to other people.

Spending all this time alone, thinking about all the calls and texts I'm missing... it can, uh, make a man crazy.  How bad has it gotten?  Today I almost struck up a conversation with a telemarketer.  Almost.

What's next?  Speaking to someone face-to-face?  I shudder at the thought.

I'm sure some of you might be asking, "Bone, why in the world do you still have a landline?

What can I say?  I have trouble letting go.  Of course, I also have trouble committing, which is kind of a rare combination.  It's not easy being me, OK?

Still others of you may be wondering, "Bone, why don't you just get a new phone?"

Well, that would be the easy thing to do, wouldn't it?  It's just that I dread going to the phone store.  It's like we Blackberry customers have become anathema now.  When I bought mine, the guy was doing everything he could to talk me into another phone, any other phone.  And that was 18 months ago.  I can only imagine he and his good-time iPhone buddies laughing it up after I leave this time.

Also, it's been a welcome break for my Texter's Thumb.  *flexing thumbs*  I can really tell a difference already.

Besides, this has now mutated into some sort of masochistic exercise in self-deprivation.  You see, there comes a time in a man's life when he needs to strike out on his own, remove himself from society for a few days, and see if he can survive without all the modern-day amenities. 

So for the past four days, it's just been me and the bare necessities: my laptop and my TV. 

How long can a person live like this?

As my number of Gchat friends online has now dropped to three, I'm guessing not much longer.

"Open your eyes, you might see / If our lives were that simple, we'd live in the past / If the phone doesn't ring, it's me..."

Dipping a toe in the metrosexual pool

I suppose it all started about six weeks ago.  That's when I glanced down and noticed I had a big potato chip crumb caught in my chest hair.

As I nibbled on said crumb (What?  They were Munchos.  Plus, I shower. At least six days a week.) I began to ponder life.  More specifically, my life.  And most specifically, my chest.  Was it growing where I wanted it to grow, or was it out of control?  Did I need to make drastic chest changes?  Was this a sign from above,or simply a result of sloppy eating and rather poor posture?

Who can really say?  It's nebulous.

I'm fully aware it was only last year that I took a vow of shaving abstinence.  But seriously people, food was getting stuck.  And so, with the shirtless summer season upon us, I took the plunge into the metrosexual pool.

I trimmed my chest.   

Just a little!  It was like mowing the lawn down there.  Not even really a full mow, just evening it out a little.  More like hedge trimming.

OK, so maybe I only stuck my toe in the metrosexual pool.

Anyway, now that it's done, I gotta say I kinda like it.  Sure, a few more crumbs may end up on the floor, but I probably needed to vacuum anyway.  I find myself looking down my shirt at random times throughout the day, just checking it out. Which can be a little awkward when someone walks in at work.

Also, as long as I was, uh, in the neighborhood, I went ahead and trimmed my underarm hair, too.  I'm sorry, but it was a bird's nest under there.

Which brings me to my next point.  Or maybe my only point.  And that is, I get tired of all this maintenance.

Ear hair, nose hair, chest hair, underarm hair.  Now I'm sitting here looking at my toe hair.  I guess I'm gonna have to trim that, too. Where does it end?  What is it all for?  Women?

I've seen cavemen on TV.  They get women, and they're not shaving.  Granted, in most of the footage I've seen they hit the woman over the head with their club then drag her back to the cave.  I'm not sure if courts today would view that favorably, but surely there must be another way.

I was watching an old Police Story last night, and David Groh took off his shirt so they could put a wire on him.  It was like a bearskin rug under there.  Man, I would have rocked the seventies!  Chest hair, lava lamps, nobody looking at you funny when you're singing along falsetto to "Stayin' Alive."  I really wouldn't have to change that much.

OK, I've strayed off my topic a bit.  What was my topic again?  Oh, right, how hard it is being a man.

But alas, even as I gripe and wax defiant, I do so having already acquiesced to a degree.

I just hope my chest hair heroes -- the two Tom's, Selleck and Wopat -- aren't too disappointed.

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk / I'm a woman's man / No time to talk..."

The cemetery trees

It's nothing grandiose.  Sitting on the littlest of hills, surrounded by a chain-link fence, just far enough away from everything so that you can barely hear the cars from the nearest paved road.  A few trees watch over irregular rows of hewn stones, and the bones of those dearly departed.

I have come here at times alone -- to think, and to talk.  To my grandma (mamaw), or maybe just to the wind.  But I have not been here in a long while.  Too long.  Usually it is quiet.  I find a peacefulness here.  But not today.

Today is Decoration Day at the cemetery where most of my mom's family is buried.  It's a day for socializing.  I speak to relatives.  Most I know and recognize.  Some I remember after they introduce themselves.  A couple I pretend to know and wait until I can grab the arm of an aunt or uncle later to ask who that was.

"There's fewer of us every year."

My youngest aunt says this to me, perhaps verbalizing what others are only thinking.  I give a resigned nod.  Though I'm not certain about every year, I definitely notice it this year.  Of twenty-nine first cousins, I only count ten of us there, including me.  Five of my mom's seven living brothers and sisters are there.  This is often the only time of the year I see my one uncle and aunt.  They have a grandson that looks to be twelve or thirteen that I probably haven't seen since he was a baby. 

Don't get me wrong, there were still a lot of people there.  Just not as many as I remember.  The sparseness perhaps exacerbated by the presence of two giant barren trees in the midst of the cemetery.  For as long as I can remember, those two trees provided ample shade near most of my family's graves.  They played the songs of the wind.  But something has killed them since the last time I was here.  And as I stand there in the unrelenting sun, I realize like too much of life, I have only come to truly appreciate them in their absence.

One highlight of the day is my 86-year-old great uncle.  He is the last one living of his siblings, the last link to my mamaw's generation.  And he has no kids, so it has been left to my mother and a couple of her siblings to see after him.  On this day, my youngest uncle has gone by to get him and rolled him out to a shady spot.  There he sits in his wheelchair as people walk up and talk to him.

I get into a conversation with an uncle and a cousin about my great grandmother, who was half-Cherokee.  My uncle did some genealogy research a few years ago and tells us that during the Indian Removal my great-grandmother and her family identified themselves as "black Dutch," denying their ancestry in fear of being sent West.  These are the stories I love, and crave.

But it's a hotter-than-normal May morning, and with the lack of much shade, we are not long at the cemetery.  After maybe an hour, several of us head over to fave aunt's for a cookout and more family time.  My great uncle is there, too.  I watch him eating and I wish all his days were this good.  He was recently diagnosed with cancer and decided against treatment.

Later I see that he has just about dozed off.  One of the kids runs by and bumps his chair, jolting him awake.  He smiles at her and nods.  And in that instant -- the kind eyes, the almost sad smile -- I see my mamaw, so clearly it scares me.

Eventually, after everyone has eaten, another uncle sits down at the piano.  My mom and two of my aunts join him to sing, mostly old gospel hymns.  Like so much of the rest of this day, this is a family tradition.

During one of the songs, I start to feel overcome with emotion.  Maybe it's thinking about my aunts and uncles getting older, or maybe it's just the culmination of the entire day.  Whatever it is, it hits me out of nowhere.  I hurry to the bathroom so no one will see, close the door, and I sob.  For thirty seconds.  Then I'm OK again.

I get a moment away from the others to speak to one of my older cousins.  I tell him I wonder what will happen to Decoration Day once our parents' generation is gone.  He says it will be up to us.  I know "us" may only mean a few of us.  But I feel better knowing it matters to him.

Tradition, family, the future -- I ponder these things often the next several days.  And I decide I should see about planting a new tree.

"On the other side / Do you ever see me cry / Do you know how much I miss you / Wish I could have said goodbye..."

Christmas comes anew

There are several "Christmases" throughout the year enjoyed by the avid college football fan.  Dates, games, and events we all look forward to with near-deranged anticipation.

There's National Signing Day.  There's New Year's Day -- though it has lost a bit of its sacredness in the past several years with the proliferation of the number of bowl games.  And there's the national championship game, if your team is fortunate enough to be in it.  

Then there's the day when the preseason college football magazines hit newsstands.  *rubbing hands together*  (Do they even still have newsstands?  It just flowed so much better than "the day they hit the Kroger shelves," which is where I bought my two.) 

That day was Friday.  The first of June.  At once, I had weekend plans. 

As I hurried out of my friendly hometown grocery store, it was all I could do to keep from giggling.  (There's no way to make that sentence sound manly, is there?)  Anxious to get home and unwrap my new treasures -- the shiny, glossy covers; that "new magazine" smell; and of course, the information!

Four hundred forty-eight pages in all.  Schedules, rosters, rankings, statistics, analysis, predictions.  Because how would I survive without knowing how many returning starters Boise State has (it's nine, if you're curious) or who was rated the 8th best offensive guard in the nation?  You're right, I wouldn't.

I'm giddy as a schoolgirl backstage at a Justin Bieber concert.  And just as vulnerable, by the way.

Hopefully, this will be enough to get me through until the next "Christmas" -- the first Saturday of the college football season, which is exactly 90 days away.

It has been said that football is religion in the South.  I suppose that could be debated.  However, I can testify that our lower-case messiah was once greeted with a not-so-holy kiss.

Mainly, I just try and enjoy each of these special days as they happen.  Because as we all know, Christmas only comes a few times a year.

"So I'm moving to New York / 'Cause I've got issues with my sleep / Looks like Christmas came early / Christmas came early for me..."

Let them eat cake!

As I was preparing to exfoliate the unnecessary details from my weekend and prepare a tasty little blog casserole for you, it struck me that I attend a high number of toddler birthday parties.  You know, for a man. With no kids.

Anyway, first things first.  Saturday morning, I managed to complete a 10-kilometer run.  Which I now prefer to refer to as ten thousand meters.  It just sounds farther.  (Ooo, one million centimeters!  Even better.)  I've also been singing the "I would walk five hundred miles" song, substituting "have run" for "would walk", "ten thousand" for "five hundred," and "meters" for "miles."  A couple more changes and it'll be completely unrecognizable.

I finished in 51:58, which isn't my best.  But it also isn't my worst, and as is always my #1 goal in these races, I didn't die.  (#2 is getting my name in the local paper.  What?  I need attention.  I come by it honest.)

There was no trophy this year, as I am 39 and at the upper end of my age group.  But next year, when I reach that age-which-shall-not-be-spoken, I'll be the young whippersnapper in my classification.  This year, I was racing against guys with names like Corey, Trey, and Dustin.  But, next year, I'll be going against guys named Dean, Barry, and Stanley -- guys who have lived, guys who have more than likely had at least one prostate exam.  And the way I figure, I'll be like the just-turned-50-year-old who goes out on the Senior PGA Tour for the first time.  I'll be dominating the dojo.  So to speak.

After a nap so short it's an insult to even call it a nap, it was off to Nashville.  Yes, my spring social season is in full swing, and Saturday was my friends' daughter's first birthday party.  As I stated earlier, I've attended quite a few of these, so I know the drill -- cake, presents, seven thousand pictures, and copious amounts of hand sanitizer.

As a matter of fact, I've become such a pro at these things, I could probably hire myself out to attend them.  Actually, now that I think about it -- strange, childless man at a toddler's birthday party -- maybe that's not such a great idea.

Anyway, even a seasoned pro like myself was a bit taken aback by one hiccup that did occur.  This happened when the mom scolded one of the "kids" for trying to eat one of the cupcakes:  "No!  Not yet!  Can't you wait five more minutes?  I have to get a picture of the table first! "

Yes, because that's what the party is all about -- pictures of decorations.  And good heavens, we'd already been there for nearly two hours.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep some of these kids entertained for that long?  I know I wasn't there five minutes before I was playing on my phone.

I think I have to side with the kid on this one.  And did she really have to yell?  That kinda hurt my feelings.  I mean... his feelings.

Thankfully, the rest of the party went fairly smoothly.  Well, except for the grill catching ablaze.  But perhaps that will be another ingredient, in another blog casserole.  You know, if you didn't catch it on the local news.

And in case you're wondering, that poor, downtrodden, reprobate kid did finally get his cupcake, as well as an extra Capri-Sun for his trouble. (Actually, he punched a hole clear through the back of his first one.  I could never do those things right!)

"But I would walk five hundred miles / And I would walk five hundred more / Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door..."

Announcing "Automatic Email Deletion Notification"

My friend, Axl, works for the government -- well, government contractor.  I'm not exactly sure what he does all day, other than perpetuating a stereotype perhaps.  I mean, I know he wears many hats, but that's literal, not figurative.

Anyhow, the way I figure it, he must work really hard and get really far ahead as he often seems to have an abundance of free time.  Many days, this results in him sending out a seemingly endless stream of emails -- sports articles, YouTube clips, and other links -- which most of the time I am too busy to read.

I'm generally fine with it, but there was one particular day last week where I was inundated with work and he was shooting off emails like fireworks on the 4th with the Boston Pops playing in the background.

So, hoping to put an end to his emails for the day, I composed this little gem:

The email you sent to bone@gmail.com has been deleted.  It was not read.  It was not opened.  It was deleted before opening.  

If you feel you have received this message in error, rest assured you have not.  Please do not resend.

Automatic Email Deletion Notification is a new service offered by Google exclusively for Gmail members.

Sincerely,

The Google team

Now, clearly I was just being a smart-aleck, never once imagining he would think it was real.  I figured, if nothing else, the "rest assured you have not" would give it away.

But then...

Later that evening I get call from him.  He asks, "Did you get an email from me today with blah-blah-blah in the subject line?"

"Hmmm," I pretend to ponder.  "No, I don't think so," I fib.

At that point, he proceeds to tell me about the email he got from Google and how at first he thought it was a joke, but then when I never said anything, he figured it must be legit.  He completely bought it!  And he's in IT!

So if you should see an email like this floating around, advertising Gmail's new automatic Email Deletion Notification service, it's most likely a farce.  And you can say, "I know the guy who started that!"

Who knows, maybe I'll end up on Snopes one day.  It's not Wikipedia or Guinness Book, but it's something.  It's cyber immortality.

Oh by the way, I never told Axl any different.  Was that wrong?

"If you ever get annoyed / Look at me, I'm self-employed / I love to work at nothing all day..."

They called him Adam Yauch

I flipped on the TV last Friday evening.  The volume was down, but when I saw his picture, I knew.  MCA -- Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys -- had died.  At 47. 

A week later and I still seem to be doubled over from the proverbial punch to the stomach.  I don't know why it's affecting me so much, just that it is. 

I remember watching the video message where he announced he'd been diagnosed with cancer.  But then you don't hear anything for awhile, and it's easy to think, "Oh, he's young, he'll beat it."

Until a couple years later you see his picture on TV, and you realize he didn't.  He couldn't.  And there is only shock.  And sadness.  Deep, deep sadness.

For the better part of the past week, I've tried to come up with some way to put all these feelings into words, and mostly failed.  I just want to put on all my Beastie Boys songs, download the ones I don't already have, and listen to them for hours and hours until it somehow gets better.

I did recall that I'd written a post about the Beastie Boys a few years ago, so I looked it up.  (It's here if you want to go back and read it.)  My initial thought was that it doesn't really work as a tribute. 

Then again, maybe it does.

It recalls a time when we were younger, and it felt as if there would always be an abundance of days.  We knew life would end, but back then it was hardly a passing thought as that seemed almost incomprehensibly far away.

So much farther away than it seems today. 

"I wanna say a little somethin' that's long overdue / The disrespectin' women has go to be through /  To all the mothers and the sisters and the wives and friends / I want to offer my love and respect to the end..."