Stay At Home Moms

People always ask me what I’d like to do.  It’s just one of those questions that you get asked a lot over the years.  Heck, I’m starting to ask my oldest son what he’d like to do when he gets older.  Parents ask.  Teachers ask.  Friends ask, and so on.  My oldest son came home with his 5^th grade yearbook recently and sure enough each kid in his 5^th grade class was asked that same question.  “What do you want to do when you grow up?”  Answers ranged from President of the United States to professional baseball player (the overwhelming #1 choice) to police officer to musician.  It’s fun to think about what you’d like to do or what you’d like to be when you grow up.  It’s sort of a sky’s the limit kind of question.  There’s no wrong answer. 

However, I think an even better question might be what DON’T you want to do when you grow up?  Or what DON’T you want to be when you grow up?  Now that would be interesting to see how kids answered that question.   I suspect there would be some great blog material there if a group of kids were asked that question.

Now, I have no idea how I would have answered that question had someone asked me years ago, but if someone were to ask me now what I DON’T want to be my answer would be quick and simple . . . A Mom.  I don’t want to be a Mom.  No way.  Way too hard.  And no, I’m not even taking child birth, breast feeding, and blow jobs into account.  Forget that stuff.  That’s the kind of stuff that as a man I simply CANNOT comprehend. 

But since I have pretty much spent the last two-plus months living the life of a stay-at-home mom, I feel that I can easily justify my answer.  And without hesitation my answer to the question of what I DON’T want to be is A MOM!

Lets just start at the top with the carpooling thing.  Now there’s nothing hard about carpooling.  I can drive from point A to point B as well as anyone.  But it’s the chaos inside the car that’s crippling.  Kids in a car are like Gremlins.  One is great.  No problem.  Two is okay.  There’s definitely the potential for problems, but two is still manageable.  Three is real trouble.  You gotta keep your head on a swivel with three.  With three there’s a chance that the interior of your car is destroyed.  And anything above three is a pure nightmare.  With four or more kids it’s nothing short of a miracle if you actually get all the kids to their destination without someone jumping out of the window.  I have seriously thought about pulling over and putting a couple of the kids in the trunk.  I hate carpooling.

Then there’s setting up playdates.  Playdates are a double-edged sword.  You need playdates in order to keep your kids from bouncing off the walls and driving you nuts, and yet all playdates really do is add more kids to the mix.  Ideally I’d send my kids to someone else’s house 100% of the time, but that’s not how playdates work.  You need to call people to see if their kid would like to come to your house, which of course opens a new can of worms . . . . the round of phone calls to a bunch of moms who I assume are thinking one of two things when some dude calls looking to set up a playdate with their kid:  #1 – Unemployed loser.  #2 – Child molester.  I hate setting up playdates.

Of course you’re also in charge of making sure everyone eats, and obviously there are more meals to be made if you have playdates over.  Now, I don’t know how to cook.  Literally no idea how to cook.  I never learned.  I never wanted to learn.  I still don’t want to learn.  I can’t cook.  So what?  But this becomes a problem when you have no less than two growing kids on your hands.  It’s an even bigger problem when no one wants to eat at the same time, and when one wants mac & cheese and one wants a bologna sandwich and when no one can agree on what to watch on TV while eating, and when you run out of ketchup on the day you serve chicken nuggets.  Things are further complicated when my wife sends me e-mails reminding me to make sure that everyone gets some fruit.  I almost cut my finger off trying to slice an apple.  Ridiculous.  I’m now looking into the contents of Sunny D to see if this can be substituted for fruit.  If so I’m good to go, but regardless, I hate making lunches.

And then there’s the whole entertainment director thing.  Am I running a cruise ship here?  I’ve filled my house with XBOX’s and Wii’s and iTouch’s and cable TV’s and sporting equipment and computers with Internet access so that I WOULDN’T HAVE TO play entertainment director, and yet  my kids are bored within minutes and looking for me to entertain them.  It’s amazing to me that if I actually schedule a few things my kids are up in arms about how I’m cutting into their summer break, but if I have nothing planned they are bored stiff.  And the things they want to do are amazing.  In the last week my oldest son has asked whether we could go deep sea fishing  and/or skiing in Colorado, and my youngest son has asked to visit his cousins in Florida.  They’ve also both asked for a new dog even though the one we have is just a year old and has more energy than any three dogs combined.  Their boredom is exhausting for me.  I hate being the entertainment director.

And it doesn’t get any easier – they have only been out of school for one week!  At this point I am going to become a serious advocate for year-round schooling.  That’s right, 12 months of school.  A few breaks around the holidays, but other than that lets keep our kids in school year round.  Well time to end this blog.  Someone is yelling at me that they’re hungry.  I can’t wait until school starts again in the fall!  68 days and counting.  Yeah that’s right, I’m already counting.

I Don’t Get Facebook

So for the second time in just three weeks I find myself trapped in my car with my wife and youngest son while we wait out a massive rain storm at a soccer game.  Three weeks ago we were in Libertyville when the storm sirens went off and we spent the better part of three hours sitting in our car while wave after wave of torrential rain fell, and today we were in Elgin when the same thing happened.  Fortunately the team went ahead and made an executive decision to bail on the game after just one hour, so the wait wasn’t nearly as bad.

But as I sat in my car today struggling with the sad realization that these hours in my life are gone for good, and I’ll never get them back, my wife was busy checking out her Facebook page on her Blackberry.  As I sat there wondering whether I should open my door and just pee right into the parking lot or make a run for the porta-potty, my wife was thoroughly entertaining  herself in the passenger seat reading all the recent posts on her Facebook page.

So I asked her to let me read some of them, and after reading them I’ve come to realize that:

#1 – My wife is easily amused – which is probably why our marriage has worked so well.

#2 – I STILL don’t get the whole Facebook thing. 

Some of the things people post on a DAILY BASIS are ridiculous.  Here’s a list of some of the actual posts:

• Debbie just played Bubble Spinner and beat Jenny.
• Laurie is so excited for the DZ reunion tonight.
• Go Giants little league.  Beat the A’s.
• School’s almost over.
• Just planted flowers.
• Had good pasta last night.
• Mike needs a goat for his farm.
• Just reached level 3 in Mafia Wars.

What? 

Seriously? 

Really? 

Now I’m not knocking anyone who uses Facebook.  As this is my 61^st blog I’m obviously not about to knock someone for posting silly stories about themselves on the Internet for others to read.  Hell, I’ve gone from not wanting to start a blog to really enjoying it.  And I do see the benefits for a site like Facebook which allows friends and family members who don’t live close to one another to really keep in touch.  In that regard it’s pretty cool.

But the random comments are what I don’t understand.  Why post that you had “good pasta?”  Why post that you just got back from walking your dog?  Why post that you just “planted flowers?”  I don’t get it. 

BUT . . . . . I thought I’d try it, and since I don’t remember my password to my own Facebook page (literally couldn’t access my home page if you paid me) I thought I’d post those Facebook-like comments right here on my blog page, so here it goes:

• Just had two bagel sandwiches for breakfast.  You know I might choose bagel sandwiches over sex.
• Just dropped a massive deuce.  There go the bagel sandwiches.
• Watched the England-US World Cup game.  Saw David Beckham on the sidelines and it reminds me . . . his wife has huge tits.
• My wife climbed into bed naked last night.  No sex.
• My wife woke up this morning naked.  No sex.
• I’m wondering if I should stop sleeping naked as maybe that’s not helping my cause.
• Bought my older son one of those Razor motorcycles for Christmas.  The little crotch-rocket version that goes 17 mph.  My wife was not happy.  Convinced it was too dangerous.  Well he fell off of it yesterday.  While sitting on it in our driveway. 
• My youngest son believes he’s blazing fast.  I don’t have the heart to tell him that the only person he could actually beat in a foot race is me.
• My neighbor is trimming my bushes.  I wonder if he’ll mow my lawn too.
• I’m going to take a shower.
• I’m going to pee in the shower.

 Well, there you have it, my first Facebook-like comments. 

You know, I still don’t get it, so I think I’m just going to go back to my blog, where I can devote an entire blog to say… bagel sandwiches or taking a pee in the shower.

 Yeah, that I get.

Congrats to 5th Graders

I’m not an overly sappy kind of guy.  Or maybe it’s sentimental.  Yeah that’s it, I’m not an overly sentimental kind of guy.  Or maybe it’s emotional.  Okay yeah, I’m not an overly emotional kind of guy.  Basically I’m not real warm and fuzzy when it comes to “special occasions.”  If you’re looking for someone to join in on some over-the-top celebration I’m the wrong guy. 

It’s your birthday?  Great.  Happy birthday.  Save me a piece of cake.  It’s Christmas?  Wonderful.  Merry Christmas.  What did you get me?  You got a big promotion and raise at work?  Fantastic.  Dinner is on you.  You just got engaged?  Awesome.  Is your fiancé hot?  Does she have a sister? 

And on the flip-side, I’m not going to kick a man when he’s down.  I’m not going to make a big deal out of someone’s bad news.

You got fired?  That sucks.  We should fire-bomb your boss’s house.  Your wife is leaving you?  Not good.  I never liked the bitch anyway.  Your car just broke down?  I’m sorry.  Do you need a ride?  Oh you’re going to O’Hare?  Call a cab. 

I’m just not going to do too much celebrating of the good OR the bad.  Life runs its course and I think we’re just along for the ride.  Good things happen and that’s great.  Bad things happen and that’s too bad.  But you just keep grinding it out with little fanfare.  Hey that’s me. 

But on Monday my 11-year-old son graduates from the 5^th grade.  His six years of elementary school are over, and he’ll be heading to the junior high in the fall where he’ll spend three years before heading off to high school.

Now the school and the teachers and the PTO and the 5^th grade moms have already gone ABOVE AND BEYOND in celebrating this event.  There have been special lunches, variety shows and assemblies.  Full-color yearbooks have been handed out.  And each student was given a 30-minute DVD complete with live video of school functions dating back to their days as young kindergarteners and baby pictures of each of the kids set to a rocking soundtrack.  Literally, there were parts of this thing that Spielberg himself would have been impressed with.   

And I think there’s even one more function planned for Monday which is their official last day of school.  So NO ONE can make the argument that these graduating 5^th graders have been cheated out of anything.  The last few weeks have been plenty special.  So much so that I wasn’t  sure I was going to do anything other than pat my son on the back and say “way to go” (which I believe is exactly what my dad did when I graduated from elementary school).

But the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that this 5^th grade graduation is indeed a big deal.  My son and his classmates deserve a big “congrats.”   They made it through six years of school during their early childhood.  And while pretty much all of these kids have nice parents and enjoy good upbringings they have nonetheless persevered and stuck together and figured it all out from the time they were five until now.  That’s not easy. 

People make a big deal about turning 16, and yet you haven’t done anything.  Sure, you’re now legally able to drive, but all you’ve done is turned a year old.  Same with turning 21.  Everyone makes a big deal about it, and obviously the law states that you can now legally buy a beer, but again, you’ve just gotten a year older. 

Making it through six years of school and coming out confident, relatively well-adjusted and smiling, is an accomplishment worth celebrating.

These kids have grown up together.  During this time some of them have lost a parent or certainly a grandparent.  Some of them have seen their moms and dads split up.  They’ve had to wave goodbye to a few pals who moved away.  They’ve had to make the adjustment from the fun classroom atmosphere of 1^st and even 2^nd grade to the more structured academic atmosphere of 4^th and 5^th grade.

Now I’m certainly not suggesting that these six years of elementary school are going to be the toughest for our kids.  Far from it.  Frankly these last six years were probably some of the best our kids will ever have.  What’s not to like about being 9 or 10 or 11 years old?  Come on. 

But to just shrug this accomplishment off as being easy is probably not fair.  They have achieved a lot and have grown up a lot, and they’ve done it right in front of our faces.

The next step (junior high) will be even more difficult and even more challenging.  Some of their best pals will probably be nothing more than casual acquaintances by the time they graduate from junior high, and the opposite sex will frustrate them a lot more than any math assignment.  And high school after that, well that will be EVEN MORE challenging.

But first things first, lets enjoy this one.  Let’s help celebrate this accomplishment.

So to my son and all of his classmates . . . hell, to the entire 5^th grade class of 2010 . . . congratulations. 

We will not be throwing you a big party or sending out graduation announcements, and, frankly, you still have to clean your room and pick up all of the plastic guns littering the yard like any other day.  Maybe we’ll take you out for an ice cream.  But know that we’re proud of you.

Little League Dads

Back in March I wrote a blog about volunteering to be an assistant coach on my 11-year old son’s little league team.  At the time I wrote that my decision was a “win-win” as an assistant coach had no real responsibilities.  I essentially could play ball with the boys, talk to the dads, flirt with the moms, and take a fair amount of credit when the team won while shrugging off much of the blame when the team lost.  I was looking forward to a fun season and a good coach’s gift at the end of it.

Well as with most things in life, that plan didn’t go exactly as I had expected it to.

We wrapped up our regular season last night with a 6-1 defeat.  That loss left us with a final record of six wins and 10 losses.  We finished in 4^th place in a 5-team division.  We scored five or fewer runs in six games (actually if you stop to think about that for a second, that’s embarrassing).  We routinely walked the opposing teams worst hitters while our best hitters routinely struck out against the opposing team’s weakest pitchers.  We failed to execute the easy plays which resulted in runs scoring while we typically made the spectacular plays when no one was on base.  It’s been a long season and at this point the only coach’s gift I’m expecting is a big bag full of shit personally signed by each one of the parents.  And I’m not sure I’d blame them.

However while I wouldn’t blame any of the parents for questioning our line-ups or our pitching rotations or our batting orders, I’d challenge any of them to question our intent on putting the boys’ best interest ahead of anything else.  At the end of the day this is little league baseball, and this is supposed to be about the kids, and that’s exactly what the head coach and I have tried to instill in all the boys.

This was highlighted a few weeks ago during one of our games.  Long story short, the opposing team was at bat and they had a runner at 1^st base.  The next batter hit a routine ground ball to our 2^nd baseman who fielded it and flipped the ball to the 1^st baseman for the out.  The umpire called “out” and our 1^st baseman threw the ball back to the pitcher.  However the runner who was going from 1^st to 2^nd (and was clearly safe at 2^nd) for some reason thought that he was out and turned around and started walking back to the dugout.  Anyway our pitcher ran over and tagged him out.  Suddenly we appeared to have a double play (albeit a very unconventional double play).  Well there was a quick meeting between the umps and the coaches and our head coach insisted that the runner who should have been at 2^nd base go back.  No reason to punish him for misunderstanding the call our head coach argued.  “It is after all about the kids,” he said. 

And he’s right.    

Unfortunately that attitude is not commonplace.  Now I’m not bemoaning the fact that we’ve been cheated out of victories.  No opposing coach needs to cheat in order to beat us.  We can pretty much defeat ourselves without anyone helping us, but the more I get to know some of these other coaches and the more I talk to some of them about their own experiences in the league the more I’m realizing that many of these coaches are in it to win at all costs, and in fact many of them are cheating and screaming at 13-year-old umps to do it.

I can’t decide whether that’s because they simply are the most competitive individuals around or whether that’s because they didn’t achieve a lot of athletic success when they were kids and are now trying to rekindle  their youth or live vicariously through their own kids.  I just can’t tell, but I do have some advice for those coaches out there.

#1 – Relax.  If winning a little league game is really that important to you, get a life.  Seriously, get a life. 

#2 – Buy a cool sports car.  Yes you’re opening yourself up to snide comments about your dick size if you cruise around town in a bright red Porsche, but who cares?  Your car goes 0-60 in under four seconds.  Who gives a shit if your dick is small?  My dick is small and I drive a leased Acura.  I’d rather have a Porsche. 

#3 – Grow your hair out, assuming you can of course.  This is not an option for me.  I’m balding and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, but for those people who can relive those high school hair days, go ahead and do it.

#4 – Bang out some sit ups and get rid of that gut that you’ve been sporting for the last 12 years.  You know you want to look like you did in high school and college, so kick it in the ass you fat bastard.    

#5 – Talk to your son.  There’s a good chance he’d actually enjoy sports more if you WEREN’T involved.  Screaming at him or his pals when they boot a routine ground ball is not helping.  Acting like a raging lunatic on the bench is actually embarrassing him, and not setting a good example.  You’re a douche bag.  Congratulations.

Ken Griffey Jr.  just officially announced his retirement today.  Griffey Jr. was my favorite ball player.  He was a guy who I followed from the time he came up as a young outfielder with the Seattle Mariners in 1989.  He was just awesome.  He was a gold glove outfielder.  He was an all-star.  He hit for average. He hit for power.  He stole bases, he did it all.  And he did it all with a smile on his face.  You just got the feeling that he truly enjoyed the game.  Sure he was paid millions and millions of dollars, but so was Barry Bonds who was putting up huge numbers at the same time Griffey Jr. was and you never got the feeling that Bonds enjoyed baseball like Griffey.

I once saw an interview with Griffey Jr. and he spoke about the way his dad brought him up.  Now granted Griffey Jr.’s dad was Ken Griffey Sr. who was part of the Big Red Machine in Cincinnati in the mid to late 70’s, so there’s clearly some pedigree there that most “normal” people don’t have, but still Griffey Jr. talked about his dad putting no pressure on him, and letting him choose his own path.  In fact at one point Griffey Jr. was going to choose basketball over baseball and his dad was totally fine with that. 

I think more of these psycho little league dads need to remember this.  It seems to me that they had their shot at athletic stardom, and now it’s their son’s turn to make a go of it.  Most of these kids put enough pressure on themselves that they don’t need the added pressure from their yahoo dads.

And frankly, they are actually embarrassing themselves, little league baseball, their sons and wives.  Time to grow up, and put your kids first – and this is coming from me, a very immature adult.

Important Dates

There are plenty of things that I am just not good at.  Acting my age is definitely at the top of this list.  Refraining from making inappropriate comments to my wife would also be on this list.  And anything that has to do with math would make this list.  

But one thing I am good at is keeping track of important dates.  I don’t need a Franklin Covey Planner to do this, and I don’t need some electronic calendar or iPhone  app.  I just know dates.  Or at least I know the dates that are important to me.  I know my wife’s birthday.  I know my kids’ birthdays.  I know my wedding anniversary.  I know that my wife and I had sex for the very first time on Casmir Pulaski Day in 1989 (without question my favorite Polish holiday).  And I know the first time I knowingly missed a college exam was on October 30^th during my freshman year so that I could leave early to drive to Madison, WI to visit friends and spend Halloween there (and if you’ve never done a Halloween on State Street in Madison, WI – trust me, miss the test). 

Like I said, I’m pretty good with dates which is why I was so surprised  the other day when I actually told my boys that their mother’s birthday was this Thursday the 27^th instead of this Saturday the 29^th which is when her birthday REALLY IS.  This just doesn’t happen to me.  Now I like to joke with my wife that our wedding anniversary is October 20^th when I know that it’s actually the 21^st.  And I like to joke with her that her birthday is on the 30^th of May instead of the 29^th.  Ha, ha, it’s all a fun little game I play (well fun for me . . . remember I’ve already admitted to having trouble acting my age). 

But when my boys asked me the other day I legitimately told them that “mom was celebrating another birthday on Thursday the 27^th.”  NOPE!  It’s Saturday and she’ll be turning 39.  I fear my stay-at-home status is screwing up my days and weeks and months.  Hell the other day my dad asked me when the boys were out of school and I told him in about a month.  My dad asked why they were going to be in school until late June.  Shit.  I guess I didn’t realize it was late May.  The boys get out of school in like seven days.  Maybe I do need that calendar to keep track of things after all.

Well no big deal.  I simply have more time to get my wife a gift.

So what to get her?

Since this is the calm before the storm (it’s the meaningless 39^th birthday before the big FOUR-OH) I’m going to go small.  No sense in breaking the bank when I think she wants a big shindig to celebrate her 40^th next May.  And since we’re hoping to go away together somewhere this fall to celebrate our 15^th wedding anniversary I’m truly going to take it easy on the birthday gifts this year.  She’ll understand.  We’ve already agreed upon it.  But I still need to get her something.

I could always go with the trusty stand-by; a three pack of thong underwear from Neiman’s and a home-made gift certificate for “A Lot of Clay Loving.”  By the way, no joke, I actually got her THIS EXACT GIFT a few years ago for Valentine’s Day and it’s the sole reason that NEITHER of us celebrate this particular holiday anymore.

I could get her a real gift certificate for a massage, but I feel like that’s admitting that she’s in need of a massage because she’s married to me.  I refuse to admit that or even think that so therefore she’s not getting a massage.  Her marriage to me is pure bliss. 

I could get her a really cool and sexy Blackhawks t-shirt.  You know there are 101 different t-shirts out on the market now that the Hawks have made it to the Stanley Cup finals, and a few of these t-shirts are “women specific” shirts that are pretty tight and sexy.  And since my favorite shirt of ALL TIMES is her 1982 AC/DC concert t-shirt, well I may just need to get her another shirt like this.  A quick side note, seriously this AC/DC t-shirt which I found in some t-shirt store a few years ago (I didn’t actually go to the 1982 concert – I was 11 in ’82) is just awesome.  She only wears it occasionally around the house, but it’s the single greatest article of clothing that she owns.  I find myself singing Shook Me All Night Long every time she has it on (well it was either that or the much less popular AC/DC song Let Me Put My Love Into You, but that just seems wildly inappropriate, even for me, and again I WANT her to wear this shirt). 

I could always arrange some “girl’s day out” type of thing and let her go off with her girlfriends for a long afternoon, but that would leave me with the kids all day and that’s just not going to happen.  I wonder if I could arrange a “girl’s day out WITH THE KIDS?”  Hmm.  You know if I could actually put something like this together and make it work, I may be able to sell this service to other guys.  Hell I could make millions if I could find a way for a guy to give his wife a gift of an afternoon out with her girlfriends AND the kids.  Literally what dude wouldn’t buy this service?  Get rid of the wife AND the kids AND get credit for giving her a birthday gift.  Are you kidding?  I’m a multi-millionaire if I could make this work.  This is right up there with my other million dollar idea. . . a Viagra pill for women that also makes them want to clean the house.  I know, it’s impossible, but seriously, think about that for a minute.  It’s actually a billion dollar idea. 

Well upon further review I’m not sure any of these ideas work, so I may just go with some flowers and a nice card and I’ll be sure to give them to her on the 29^th, and not the 27^th.

The Wing Man

Tom Cruise and the movie Top Gun made the term “wing man” famous, but long before that movie was released, guys have known the importance of a good wing man.  In fact guys pretty much know three things from birth; you never kick another man in the balls unless your life is being threatened, if guys had boobs they’d spend hours every day just staring at them in the mirror, and having a good wing man is essential to getting through life. 

Early on your wing man is your best pal.  He’s your buddy.  He’s the guy who’s going to give you the keys to his car when your car is in the shop.  He’s the guy who tells you if you have a booger hanging out of your nose.  He’s the guy who takes the ugly girl and lets you have the hot girl.  He’s the guy who orders a large pizza just because he knows you too are hungry.  He’s the guy who has your back in a bar fight.  He’s the guy who plans the Vegas trips. 

Later on though, your wing man becomes your wife, and though her wing man responsibilities are very different than your buddy’s responsibilities, she is nonetheless just as important in the wing man position.  She makes sure not to schedule too many family events during playoff hockey games.  She reminds you to use your Rogaine.  She makes sure your stock of double stuffed Oreos is never depleted.  She reminds you to trim you nose and ear hair.  She makes sure you don’t leave the house wearing acid washed jeans from 1987 (I thought those looked good on me).  And she makes sure that you have someone to talk to in case you find yourself in a room with a bunch of strangers.

You sometimes take your wing man for granted, but it’s when your wing man is M.I.A. that you realize just how important he/she is.

Which brings me to last night.  My mother had invited my wife and I to join her and her husband at an event at the Chicago Cultural Center to hear the Chicago A Cappella group sing.  Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and trust me, I agree.  This is the ultimate “fish out of water” story.  I get it.  Frankly I try to avoid ANYTHING that has the word “cultural” in it.  But there was an ulterior motive here.  My mom had also invited one of her friends and her husband to join us, and this gentlemen is a very successful businessman who has lots of contacts and might be helpful in my ongoing job search.  Hey, it was worth a shot.  A little networking never hurt anyone. 

So I showered, shaved and put on a sport coat and a pair of slacks (I actually dress up well) and headed to my mom’s place where we were going to drive down together.  My wife was going to be coming down separately as she has been out of town all week in California and was going to be coming straight from the airport.

 It was once I got to my mom’s house that things started heading south.

Turns out that we were actually carpooling down with another couple my mom had invited, so we all piled into an SUV and headed downtown in rush hour traffic with three adults in the back seat (including myself) and discussed ballet recitals and the difficulties of getting older.

I think we were somewhere on Lake Shore Drive when I got the text message from my wife saying “Just got in, dead tired, not feeling well, just heading home.”

I’m flying solo.  No wing man tonight.  Not good.

We get to the Chicago Cultural Center and make our way upstairs.  The place is amazing.  The old Chicago library.  Very cool. 

Two things hit me as I make my way to our table; number one I maybe the youngest person there, number two I maybe the only person there without a date. 

The show starts and the group is singing songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein.  Never heard of them, though I once purchased a talking clock radio from Hammacher Schlemmer.  Probably not the same thing.

We’re right in the middle of the action.  We’re sitting at table #3.  My mom must be a major supporter of the fine arts.  Table #3.  Me, my mom, Phill, and their friends Jerry and Sue.  Three empty chairs.  No wing man and NO networking dude.  He and his wife are a no shows!!!  I’m at the Chicago Cultural Center watching the Chicago A Cappella perform “Some Enchanted Evening” without my wife and without the ulterior motive.  Wow.

Good news though there is a silent auction going on, and during the intermission I made my way around to look at some of the items.  Who knows maybe there would be something worth bidding on.  Lets see, there’s a package for opera lovers, there’s a package for symphony lovers, there’s a package to the Botanic Gardens, there’s a deluxe Rodgers and Hammerstein basket (seriously, who the fuck are these guys?), there’s a complete set of live concert recordings from the Chicago A Capella group, there’s an overnight stay at Hotel Sax Chicago (which I almost bid on since I thought it was Hotel Sex Chicago – seriously I did a double-take when I first walked by this item), there’s a Pashmina scarf and there’s two tickets to the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus.  Yeah, it’s official, I’m lost.

To make matters worse there is also a hockey stick autographed by the entire Chicago Blackhawks team that my mother has decided is a “can’t pass up item,” so she has camped out in front of the stick (which just happens to be in the corner of the room) in an attempt to make sure that she gets the stick, and frankly to discourage others from bidding on it.  So unfortunately I’m not even able to socialize with my own mother.

However, good news, the guy who I was here to meet has finally showed up.  Stuck in traffic I guess.  No problem.  I spent much of the next hour talking to him, and he could not have been a better guy.  Huge Boston Red Sox fan, so we talked baseball.  Super nice guy.  Of course he owns and operates a small private equity firm which buys medical companies so unless I have a medical company that’s for sale he’s NOT going to be helpful in my job search.  But really nice guy.  Tells me I should take my family to see Fenway Park.  Got it.  Good advice.

 I finally recognized one of the songs – something about washing a man out of my hair, and after a few more songs, the night ends, and we head home (with the hockey stick of course – no way my mom was losing that – and a Cubs rooftop game, so that’s not too bad.)

So I finally went home to see my wing man.  I told her that if she was going to keep her job of wing man, she was going to need to ensure that I never went to another benefit without her.

Anticipation

They say that “anticipation is half the fun.”  Well not for me.  For me anticipation is more like 95% of the fun.  I’m all about the anticipation.  I love it.  I truly love the build-up of an event so much so that I typically enjoy the anticipation or the build-up more than the event itself. 

Take the holidays for example.  I love all the anticipation that pretty much is the first 24 days of December.  I love decorating the house.  I love hanging the ornaments on the tree.  I like shopping for some of the presents.  I like getting the kids all fired up for Santa’s arrival (pretty sure my older son knows the truth, but the younger one still very much believes), and I like going to bed Christmas Eve night knowing there’s excitement throughout the house.  There’s no better anticipation or build-up than Christmas.

Unfortunately Christmas Day never lives up to all the hype.  Sure the first 30 minutes or so are fun as the kids fly downstairs to tear open their new gifts, but after there’s nothing but disappointment or frustration.  Someone’s always complaining that they didn’t get exactly what they wanted, or someone needs help putting something together or someone needs that elusive 9-volt battery to operate his new R/C car (I have D-batteries, C-batteries, AAA-batteries, AA-batteries, but no 9-volt battery and since NOTHING takes 9-volt batteries anymore there’s not  even an opportunity to take it out of something else – seriously what uses 9-volt batteries nowadays – well other than the toy I buy my son for Christmas).  It’s just one big hassle and it’s simply not as good as the anticipation.

Movies are the same way.  I love the previews.  I feel cheated if the movie I’m seeing only has two or three previews.  I need at least five or six previews, and I’m always on the edge of my seat while watching them.  And they all look great.  Even the previews of movies that I’m clearly not going to see (like a horror movie preview) look good.  And yet when I wind up seeing some of the movies that I had seen previewed months earlier I’m often times disappointed.  The previews looked much better than the actual full-length movie turned out to be. 

Frankly sex is the same way.  The anticipation of sex is phenomenal.  Few people can get as worked up over the anticipation of sex as I can.  If I know I’ve got a special “date night” planned with my wife where there’s a better than average chance that the evening will end up with sex, I’ll start thinking about it on Monday.  On Tuesday I’m starting to tell my wife how excited I am.  On Wednesday I’m starting to ask her what she has in mind.  By Thursday I’m telling her what I have in mind (which is never exactly what she has in mind . . . I’m just waiting for her and I to say “reverse cowgirl” at the same time . . . you know like that old SNL skit where the two people kept saying the same thing at the same time . . . “reverse cowgirl, jinx, buy me a Coke”).  By Friday I’m having trouble focusing on anything but sex.  The only question on my mind come Friday is whether the things I’m planning on doing to my wife are illegal in 37 states?  The anticipation is spectacular.  The build-up is awesome.

Then Saturday night rolls around and something always seems to get in the way.  My wife drinks too much.  My wife doesn’t drink enough.  We have an argument and I wind up sleeping on the couch.  The kids are still up when we get home, and by the time we get them down my wife is no longer in the mood.  Or we actually have sex and I hit a blooper instead of a home run and trip as I’m rounding first base (hey my first real sports analogy . . . 55 blogs and my first witty sports analogy).

I could probably go on, but just trust me when I say that I am a bigger fan of the anticipation or build-up than the actual event itself.

That is until I realized that little league baseball was different.  Little league was the exact opposite of everything else.  I hate the anticipation or build-up of a little league game, and yet I love the game itself (well usually . . . I could do without those painful games where we walk in six or seven runs). 

There is no anticipation of a little league game.  Frankly seeing it on the calendar is simply another reminder that I have to be somewhere at a particular time dressed in a variety of layers since the temperatures in Chicago during this time of year range between 80 and 48.  I have to deal with a bunch of 10 and 11 year old boys who would rather spit sun flower seeds while using foul language to poke fun at one another instead of listening to anything I have to say.  The build-up surrounding a little league game is zero.  It doesn’t exist.  I don’t “dread it,” but I’d be lying if I said I was looking forward to it.

However once the game itself starts I am as fired up as any parent there.  I am into it.  I am vocal (still not sure anyone is listening to me, but by God I am vocal).  A wave of emotions hit me that go from extreme highs to extreme lows.  I’m as thrilled for someone else’s son when they do well as I am for my own son when he does well, and I feel as horrible as any parent there when someone has a bad game.  I literally have had my Saturday afternoon’s ruined from a bad little league game (and trust me, we’ve had our fair share of bad little league games).  But I love it.  The anticipation is crap.  The actual event itself is fantastic.

So there you go.  Upon further review I guess I’d rather THINK about having sex, and instead play little league baseball.

No wait, that’s not what I meant. 

Is it? 

Shit.

The Honey-Do List

I’m not sure when I first heard someone use the term “honey-do list,” but actually I think it was my old boss who was joking about some long, detailed to-do list that his wife had given him.  He was bemoaning the fact that he had 101 things to do over the weekend, and he wasn’t looking forward to any of them.  I think he called it a honey-do list and I honestly think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone use that term.

Now I’ve heard it a bunch of times and each time it’s some dude complaining about some long to-do list that his wife has given him.  And who can blame him?  The last thing I want to do on my weekends is run around checking off a bunch of to-do list items that my wife has given me.  Are you kidding?  I sometimes feel like my weekend doesn’t start until about 3:30 on Sunday afternoon.  It’s at this time that all the baseball and soccer games are done, and all the honey-do list items are checked off.  It’s exhausting. 

However that was the before picture.  That was when I had a full-time job.  That was when I was working from 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM Monday through Friday.  Giving me a honey-do list Saturday morning was often times the start of World War III.  Now I’ve got nothing but time.  Now I’m totally open to the honey –do list and in fact I look forward to taking care of the items on the list as I know it will free up our weekends so that my wife and I can actually spend some time together or so that I can attend both my older son’s baseball game and my younger son’s soccer game.  Hell bring on the honey-do list.  It’s my job, and I’ll kick it in the ass.

Of course as with all things there are certain parts of your job that you enjoy, and certain parts that you don’t enjoy.  My daily honey-do list is no different.  Go to the hardware store and pick up new light bulb for dining room chandelier.  No problem.  Go to the grocery store and get gallon of milk and loaf of bread.  Got it.  And maybe I’ll pick up a box of Zebra Cakes just for good measure.  Done.  Go to car care center and get oil changed.  Fine.  All I have to do there is drive my car in and watch a bunch of dudes change my oil.  Good to go.  Go to kid’s dentist office and have school dental form filled out.  Well sorta a hassle, but fine.  The dental hygienist is quite a looker.  “How you doing baby?”  Call cable guy and schedule an appointment for them to come and fix Internet connection.  No problem.  Maybe he’ll hook me up with the Playboy channel for free.

Knocking that kind of stuff off the honey-do list is not a problem and it’s beneficial to having a better “family weekend.”  I’m all over it.  Bring it on. 

Unfortunately some of the other honey-do items aren’t as much fun.

Take clothes to dry cleaners.  With the exception of an occasional button-down shirt none of my clothes need to go to the dry cleaners, so right off the bat I’m feeling slightly awkward as I’m walking in with a pile of women’s clothing.  And after that it’s all just a little confusing to me.  Shirts aren’t shirts at the dry cleaners, they’re blouses.  And pants aren’t pants, they’re slacks.  And they ask me about starch which I thought was a food product.  I don’t know what they’re talking about half the time.  I want to say to the guy behind the counter, “Listen little man, shut the fuck up.  You want to play 20 questions with me, fine, I’ve got a few questions for you about your magical washing techniques.  No water huh?  Bull shit?  And what kind of soap are you using if you’re not using any water?  And why the need to unbutton EVERY FREAKING BUTTON on a shirt when you give it back to me?  When I’m in a rush and have to button those small buttons underneath the collar I’m going to be cursing your name, you son of a bitch!  So shut up!  You’re charging me a small fortune to magically wash my wife’s clothes.  You ask me about an inseam one more time and I’m going to leap over this counter and crap in your mouth!” 

Well, that’s what I’d like to say.

And then there are the children’s doctor appointments.  Now obviously these appointments are only once or twice a year, but they’re always something my wife handles.  Kids’ doctor appointments are not honey-do list items.  Until now that is.  I guess it’s not a big deal, and I don’t mind occasionally meeting the doctor and asking a few questions, but when it’s time for my son to get a shot I’m not sure who’s going to pass out first, him or me?  When the nurse asked me to come around the other side of my son and hold his hand, I said “no.”  And when my younger son loudly said “Hey dad, the doctor has her hand on my ball sack” during the part of the examination where the doctor was checking out, well his ball sack, I knew that this was a one-time honey-do list item.  Never again.

And don’t get me started on the “personal items.”  Over the last six weeks I’ve picked up tampons, maxi-pads (did you know that there are AT LEAST a half-dozen different sizes of maxi-pads . . . you know how many different size condoms there are . . . like two . . . regular and extra large . . . . maxi-pads . . . no less than six sizes), some body wash thing that sells for $50 and can only be purchased at Neiman Marcus (I’m still using the  economy size shampoo I got for $6 at Costco . . . I use it to wash my entire body) and lip balm that also can only be purchased at Neiman’s (when my wife asked for lip balm I went out to Walgreen’s and purchased a four-pack of Chapstick for $2.99 . . . nope . . . wrong).

Well, I’m looking forward to being gainfully employed again for a lot of reasons, and the ability to hand off some of the honey-do list back to my wife is at the top of my list.

The Sales Pitch

I’m not sure what did it.  I can’t say for certain what the final straw was, but my wife has finally told me to stop blogging about sex and porn.  I sent her a draft of a blog the other day that I wanted her to proof, but instead of proofing it she pulled the plug on it.

Now maybe I wrote about my fondness for porn one too many times, or maybe I over-stepped my boundaries when I talked about video tapping us having sex (she did erase that by the way).  Or maybe it wasn’t anything I said, but rather something my mother said?  No doubt a few of her comments are bordering on disturbing (“a dick is just a dick” or a woman’s private parts are a “va jay jay” – I need my sister to start policing my mom again).

But whatever it was, after 53 blogs which have been read by more than 2,500 people (I’m still amazed by this) I am officially going cold turkey.  No more blogs about sex and no more blogs about porn.  I’m done.  Turning over a new leaf.  From here on out I’m going to stick to what’s going on in my life and what funny observations I have and what silly antidotes I come up with.    

 Here it goes. . . . . . . . .

Crickets.

The wind gently blows outside.

More crickets.

A dog howls in the distance.

A squirrel scurries up a tree.

Crickets.

Shit.  This is not going to be easy.

Okay, here’s what I did today:

In an attempt to find a job I agreed to have a friend of a friend come over to “pitch me” on becoming a sales person for this new energy drink (think Red Bull, but not Red Bull).  It was a long shot from the get go, but I figured why not?  I’ll give this person an hour of my time.  Come on over.

He was 30 minutes late.  No worries.  It happens. 

I offered him something to drink.  He asked me if I had a beer.  It’s 10:55 AM.  This guy has balls big enough to fit in a dump truck.    

He was dressed in a hooded sweatshirt.  Love hooded sweatshirts.  I own six of them.  Wouldn’t wear one to a sales pitch, but hey I once wore a Snoopy tie to a job interview. 

The power point presentation starts.  Lots of slides of big, huge Mr. Universe looking dudes who apparently take this stuff.  Wow.  What the hell is in this can?

Some slide of a giant pyramid.  The guy is admitting that this is a pyramid system, but assures me that ALL of corporate America is in fact one giant pyramid.  I don’t know if he’s right, but this guy’s honesty is both refreshing and suicidal. 

He’s done with his beer.

I’m out of beer.  Note to self, put beer on grocery list . . . you know in case I’m involved in another in-home sales pitch next week.

More slides of some confusing compensation structure.  It looks like you can make A LOT of money selling this stuff.  Fantastic, I need a lot of money.  Where has this guy been all my life?

Wait, the dog just threw up on the floor.  Dear lord he’s trying to eat it while I clean it up.  I’m dry heaving during a sales pitch.  That’s a new one for me.  I once spilled my coffee all over a client’s floor while giving a sales pitch, but I’ve never dry heaved.  It doesn’t appear to be fazing this dude though.  He’s now chugging one of the energy drink samples.  Maybe I should offer him Jagermeister.  He could turn it into a jager-bomb.  Then again he’s already had my one beer so the only thing I can offer him to chase it with is 2% milk or a Lipton Ice Tea.  Forget it.

Okay a few more slides on compensation and then the Piece de Resistance . . . . drum roll please . . . . if I sign up 20,000 people I get . . . . a Lamborghini.  That’s right a LAMBORGHINI!!!!

The guy seems really excited about it.  He’s going on and on how this is “real” and how the company “will reward their top people with Lamborghini’s.” 

 Hey listen I’m sold.  I want the opportunity to make “big money,” I really want the car, and I dig anyone who shows  up at my house to sell me something dressed in a hooded sweatshirt,  but if I buy one case of this stuff my wife is going to kill me.

And I’m already trying to figure out  how I’m going to get the green light to start blogging about sex again, so I’ve got to mind my “P’s” and “Q’s” for the time being. 

No sale today.

High School Never Ends

So I’m out last night with four other couples doing a “pub crawl.”  And as the guys and I were about to throw back our first “grape bomb” (grape vodka and red bull – actually not bad especially if the red bull is chilled – but I still say red bull has the same consistency and taste as robitussin) we made a toast and “clinked glasses.”  The toast was “here’s to getting laid tonight.”  In fact we took down three more grape bombs and made toasts before all, and three of the four toasts were to “getting laid” (if memory serves the 4^th toasts was to tits, but I’m not totally sure – it was our 4^th grape bomb after all – at that point I probably would have toasted hairy balls and been fine with it).  I think it was at that point where I realized that my fears of never “living the high school life” again were in fact silly. 

Back in October I attended my 20-year high school reunion and I was in a funk for about a week afterwards because I felt like the high school life that I had truly enjoyed was over and never to return.  I actually wrote a blog about it.

But I realize that high school has never really ended.  It’s just gotten “fancier” or more expensive. 

Popularity was obviously a big deal in high school and I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t worried about being invited to the “cool party.”  Well that’s still true today.  You know when someone is having a party and at the very least you hope to get an invite to that party.  Actually I contend that in a way Christmas cards have become the litmus test for popularity.  From about the 26^th of November until about the 26^th of December the mail has never been more important.  You check it with gusto daily, and you keep a detailed list (even if it’s just a mental list) of who’s sent you cards and who hasn’t, and if you wind up getting left off of someone’s Christmas card list (especially someone who you’ve sent a card to) it’s such a slap in the face that you’re not sure if you should call these people to see if they have your correct address or whether you should wage a full scale war against them.  So in high school it was friendship bracelets made out of colorful string.  Now it’s expensive professionally photographed Christmas cards.  It’s still one big popularity contest.

Gossip was certainly big in high school and most people I knew tried hard to keep their names out of the gossip while also doing their best to get the “hottest” gossip.  It seems to me that the only thing that’s changed now is the severity of the gossip.  Back in the day it was “hey, did you hear that John got in trouble for throwing a party while his parents were out of town,” now it’s “hey did you hear John got fired for embezzling from his company and sleeping with the receptionist?”  Same shit, just different day.

Even the silly notes that we all passed around in high school have pretty much stayed the same.  Instead of passing hand-written notes around we pass things around via e-mail and text messages.  What you think all those yahoos who are texting while driving are texting important clients?  Come on, they’re writing notes to their pals about getting together later or asking their girlfriend what they’re wearing to so and so’s wedding.  The only difference is thanks to spell check everyone’s notes are easier to read.    

And then there’s the significant other.  Important dates such as anniversaries and birthdays are still important and aren’t to be missed.  The only difference is that instead of buying your girlfriend a nice sweater from the Gap you now need to buy your wife diamond earrings.  Instead of a mixed tape she wants a Lexus.

You still argue, and there are plenty of nights that go south, but instead of dropping her off at home and being done for the night you now both head home together and have to see one another first thing in the morning.

And the sex. . . well it’s still hit or miss.  You’re still at best 50/50 on any given night.  The only difference is that instead of having your plans to have sex thwarted by her father they’re thwarted by your kids or by her stress at work.  

It’s high school all over again.  Well it’s high school with a $500 “pub crawl” bill.