The Man-Cave

Man-Cave n. A dedicated area of one's mind or house, such as a basement, workshop, or garage, where a man can be alone.

Anyone think it is a coincidence that if you switch the words around you get Cave Man?

Inevitably, misunderstandings and miscommunication will occur in a relationship. Perhaps even more so in marriage, due to the closeness of the relationship and the never-ending list of stresses and duties that each party to a marriage faces on a daily basis. These obligations include the very important tasks of being a devoted and present parent, being a supportive spouse, being a dutiful son or daughter and sibling and performing adequately at work. But not to be forgotten are the mundane assignments as well, such as meal preparation, washing dishes, house cleaning, yard work, laundry, paying the bills, and balancing an often non-existent budget.

In my 6+ years of marriage, I have come to be very familiar with my greatest nemesis, the "man-cave". From what I can gather, the man-cave is an apparently peaceful place where a man can retreat to, somewhere in his head (or if lucky a garage or basement) where he blocks everything out, where he thinks and ponders and stews and sometimes pouts, and where no one can intrude. Being in the man cave can include lounging in the Lazy Boy Chair and watching mindless T.V., (perhaps the "History of Ice Cream, Pimp My Ride, or U-571 for the 800th time) or doing random outdoor projects like laying mulch, watering the flowers or "checking the grass growth" at 9:00 at night.

Man particularly likes to retreat to the man-cave following a crisis, or during great periods of anxiety, i.e., during a hurricane evacuation, or perhaps following an emotional breakdown by his wife, or for example, after a large discussion about "emotions and feelings and appreciating his wife more".

Dealing with life, marriage and the man-cave requires a GREAT deal of humor, as I have come to find. Below is a copy of a letter that was sent (mostly in jest but also to make a point) to the man in my house. It was quite successful in setting a time to sit down together and re-connect. And in almost every circumstance, once both people sit down and talk, without any distractions, all miscommunication seems to disappear and peace reigns once more, or at least until the dryer buzzes and the laundry needs to be switched out!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Hubby:

Please allow this email to serve as notice that your seasonal pass to the Man-Cave will expire at 5:15 today. Unfortunately, this means that the vacation that your head has been taking up your ass comes to an end. Feel free to take some photos and/or get some souvenirs before you come home from work today!

Please be aware that your wife’s patience will expire tonight, at 9:00 pm, if her husband fails to put down the remote, tune into his life and his marriage and make an obvious effort to communicate with her.

We appreciate your prompt attention to this matter.

Have a good day and best regards,

Management of The 569 Gelpi-Man Cave Time Share, LLC

Wake me up when September ends, please!

Who would have known that Green Day song would have such poignant meaning, again, 3 years later.

Gustav, Ike, trees down, in-laws in crisis, week long evacuation to Mobile, no power, some power, flickering power, and we now own a chain saw (very cool in Seamus' world).

The day we evacuated for Gustav I cried, a lot. It was Dejavu from Katrina, but with some twists.. a whole new set of "for insurance purposes" pictures to take of a different house. A whole new set of traveling and packing circumstances with 2 kids under 3-- last time I was pregnant for Seamus , and we had a beagle. (Wow, how much changes in 3 years!)

Please don't let my city wash away, God.
Don't forget the wedding pictures.
Throw out everything in the fridge and freezer.
Take enough clothes to last 2 months.
Don't forget the computer, and all the insurance policies.
Please, God, this is my home. The only place I have ever known that fits me. I don't want to be from somewhere else.

Please let the Natchez get to safety.
Please keep my Daddy strong and brave and give him hope. How much more can he take?
How much more can we take?
How much more can everyone here in fragile Post-K New Orleans take?

Driving off, again, with throngs of other weary New Orleanians, all with their most valued possessions, memories, and loved ones in the car. Pangs of fear in the very pit of my stomach as we are told "this is the mother of all storms", and thinking "if this is the mother, what the hell was Katrina?"

Please, God, let us come home. Please keep our city safe.

I would like to think that this is what did it. This message, displayed on our driveway, carefully colored with the assistance of Seamus and Kiernan, as we packed up to leave for Mobile. I felt so helpless and didn't know what else to do (and I was trying to keep them both entertained!)

GO AWAY GUSTAV! GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE AND GOD BLESS NOLA!

I am sure all the prayers helped as well. Non-believers would say it was just luck or weather patterns. But for me, that simple chalk message was enough, and it gave me hope as we drove away, having no idea what lay ahead, or what we would find when we returned.

It makes me smile now, and convinces me that September will end, both figuratively and literally, and New Orleans and her amazing, resilient folks will see a brighter day right around the corner.