Random Thoughts in the Middle of the Night

There are so many things that I simply don’t understand about the human body that I don’t even know where to begin.  Most of the things I don’t understand are biological, like the female body growing a baby inside it, and then giving birth to it after nine months.  That whole process is really nothing short of a miracle.  Actually I think the real miracle is that women choose to have more kids after giving birth to that first one.  Many years ago I over-indulged and ate close to three full slabs of baby-back ribs in one sitting.  Unfortunately the 30+ ribs revolted against me on the car ride home, and I didn’t make it.  To make matters worse, my wife, sister and brother-in-law were “along for the ride” (and I’m speaking both literally and figuratively here) and the whole thing ended in a big mess (I’m mostly speaking literally this time).  Anyway as a result you know what I’ve NEVER AGAIN DONE . . . . eaten more than one slab of ribs at a time.  And that was just barbeque ribs and a pair of underwear that may have been discarded on I-94.  Women spend nine months uncomfortably pregnant, and then vaginally give birth to an eight or nine pound baby . . . . AND THEY DO IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN!!!!  I don’t get it.

And then there are things that are less biological, and yet equally confusing.  Like the whole needing less sleep as you get older thing.  This really doesn’t make sense to me.    It seems to me that as you get older you WOULD NEED MORE SLEEP.  Why do I need more sleep during my youth?  A 13-year old is nothing but a ball of energy.  What do they need sleep for?  I’m 41 years old.  I need sleep.

However, I think some of this has to do with worrying more as you age.  After all what is a 13-year old really worried about?  At 41 . . . oh there’s plenty to worry about.  And when do people worry the most? When the lights go off, and you’re left with nothing but your thoughts.

I can’t tell you how many times my wife and I wake up in the morning, look at one another, and say “Gosh, I didn’t sleep well last night.”  It’s getting to the point where she and I only acknowledge the nights where we DID get a good night’s sleep.  If we don’t say anything in the morning we’re just to assume that the other person didn’t sleep well.

And while I certainly worry about the “normal” stuff . . . mortgage, car payments, work, kids, whether I’ve locked the door, whether my son remembered to do his homework (I don’t know why I worry about this one, but I do), did I leave the dog outside, if so do you think it’s okay for him to spend the night out there, what should I have for lunch tomorrow, did I leave the coffee maker on, does my coffee maker have an automatic shut-off,  and so on, it’s the OTHER STUFF that when combined with this stuff truly keeps me up at night.

It’s stuff like:

Wondering just how many miles I have on my running shoes, and whether or not I need to get a new pair.  And if I do need a new pair should I go with the Adidas Supernova Glide 4 (is there a cooler name?) or the Asics GT-2170 (is this the name of a shoe or a Cyborg?)?

And if a restaurant has pizza on the menu, don’t you think they should offer pepperoni as one of the toppings?  If they don’t that’s like having chicken nuggets on the menu, and not offering ketchup.

And I wonder if I’m good in bed?  I mean my wife tells me I am, but in all fairness what’s she really going to say?  After almost 17-years of marriage I worry that I have become the male equivalent of a Honda Accord.

And the thing is no one WANTS a Honda Accord.  At least no one ever says, “I have to have a Honda Accord.”  It’s not your first choice when choosing a new car.  Hell, it’s probably not your second choice of cars (I’ve owned a Honda Accord, and it wasn’t one of my top two choices).  Now, of course, after you get to know your Honda Accord most people start to like it.  It’s reliable.  It doesn’t have a lot of problems.  And it’s not too bad to look at.  Sure you’d rather have a nicer car, but in the end you’re content with your Honda Accord.  It will get you from point A to point B without trouble.

I’m worried that’s me in the bedroom.  I’ll get you from point A to point B without trouble, but it may not be all that exciting.  Reliable?  Sure.  Exhilarating?  Probably not.  You need a Maserati for that.

The Nesting Instinct is commonly characterized by a strong urge to clean and organize one’s home and is a trait typically displayed by pregnant women.  And since that “cleaning and organizing” description pretty much describes me to a tee, I’m wondering whether I’ve become a woman?  And if so, am I pregnant?

Do they have mouse-flavored cat food?  Could be a million dollar idea.

Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?  What’s on the inside of that plastic glue bottle, and how does glue then stick to plastic?

How do blind people know when they’re done wiping . . . I actually have thought about this one.

And why do you always turn down the volume on the radio when you’re looking for an address?

Okay, so I don’t really worry or think about a lot of those things, but I will admit to laying awake at night thinking about the most random things only to realize that the alarm is scheduled to go off in 90 minutes, and I haven’t slept one hour.

I have to start learning to question only the things that really matter.  And getting more sleep.  My wife already says that I act like a 13-year old.  Maybe if I start thinking like one I can start sleeping like one.

My Wife and I . . . Two Ships Passing in the Night

And just like that summer vacation has come to an end.  My boys headed back to school last week with only a small amount of bitching and moaning.  Another summer over.  Of course with the first day of fall still a full month away, and with temperatures still hovering around 88 degrees, it’s tough for anyone to feel nostalgic about the changing of the seasons.

But as we do every year on the first day of school, usually much to the chagrin of the boys, my wife and I gather them for pictures, and we wait with them by the bus stop and/or walk them to school.  Soon this warm and fuzzy feeling will be replaced with shouts of “The Bus Is Here, Move Your Ass, I’m Not Driving You To School Today!”  The start of a new school year is a lot like the start of the new baseball season.  Hopes run high.  Everyone is healthy.  And people are in good moods.  But about eight weeks later your best pitcher is on the DL, your top hitter has been suspended for taking Testosterone, your head coach is under fire by the media and your team is 10-games under .500.  Eight weeks from now I’ll be lucky if my kids can find their shoes and backpacks let alone get to school on time.

While my wife and I walked our 10-year old to his first day of school (his last year at the local elementary school) my wife looked at me and said “It’s so sad to see them go back to school.  I can’t believe they’re growing up so fast.  I think we may need another one.”

I gave her my standard response . . . “Yeah we can talk about that later.”  It’s not that I don’t listen to my wife.  Because I do.  I actually listen to her way more than she listens to me, but typically I need at least a few seconds to formulate an educated response to whatever it is that she’s just said to me.  Literally if she said “I think I’m going to start having sex with other men,” I’d still probably respond with “Yeah, we can talk about that later.”  The only thing knee-jerk responses have gotten me over the years is a 12-person dinner party at my house, cous cous as a side dish instead of tater tots, and two children.  To this day I honestly don’t remember agreeing to ANY of those things when my wife first discussed them with me.  So at this point I pretty much answer everything she says with a “Yeah, we can talk about that later.”

But the fact that she even made that comment just goes to show you how FAR APART she and I are on certain things.  I mean we are two ships passing in the night headed in opposite directions.  I know “Women are from Venus and Men are from Mars,” but COME ON!!!!  My wife sees our kids head off to school and her first thought was “My God we need another one.”  Upon seeing my two boys head off to school my first thought was “I have 174 days (yes, I LITERALLY COUNTED!!!!) of freedom.”  The last thing on my mind is “Boy, the house is too empty, what we need is another kid, no wait, better yet . . . a newborn.”

Jesus.

However, maybe I shouldn’t be that surprised.  After all, the more I try to figure out my own wife, let alone women in general the more I’m convinced that men and women are just two entirely different species.  I mean just look at what turns us on.  For guy’s it’s porn.  Good, old fashioned Internet porn.  A guy and a girl going at it.  It’s a billion dollar a year industry for good reason . . . it works.  We don’t need a story line, we don’t need character development and we don’t need an exotic location or set.  All we need is an attractive looking woman . . . or two . . . hell sometimes three . . . and some sex.  Period.

Women . . . well apparently they need something that’s now being called “Mommy Porn.”  I mean seriously.  That’s like a guy cleaning around the house and calling it Daddy Maid.  Or a guy dieting and calling it Daddy Diet.  Or a guy cooking and calling it Daddy-Bake Oven (okay you get the idea . . . but I got 100 of these things).  And I don’t even understand how exactly this whole Mommy Porn thing works.  My wife’s reading this Fifty Shades of Grey and so I ask her the other night if it’s sexy.  She tells me the characters haven’t had sex yet.  And she was on like chapter nine!!  Now I have no idea how many chapters there are, but if people aren’t having sex in about the first four or five pages . . . it’s not porn.  Men can watch about three minutes of YouCum.com and be done for the day.  Women . . . they apparently need NINE CHAPTERS of what I can only assume is plot development before they’re ready for some sex.  Oh, and I picked up the book and read some of it, and in one scene the characters FINALLY DO have sex and immediately afterwards the guy jumps up and starts playing Bach on the piano while wearing nothing but pajama pants.  So in the end, what I can gather from all of this is that guys are turned on by hot chicks willing to bend their bodies into a variety of different positions, while women are turned on by . . . well . . . super gay men.

Finally, I’m outside a couple weeks ago when I overhear my female neighbor tell her female friend “I’ll pray for you” as the two part ways.  Now I don’t know if my neighbor’s friend asked her to pray for her, or if it was something my neighbor just threw out there on her own, but that’s how she ended their conversation.  “I’ll pray for you.”

Guys typically end conversations with other guys with any of the following lines:

• Go fuck yourself.
• Say hi to your wife and my kids for me.
• By the way douche bag, you owe me money.
• I can’t believe you drafted Tony Romo on your fantasy team, you’re an idiot, what were you thinking?

That’s just how we talk to one another.  While women are all supportive and friendly and even nurturing towards one another, guys are pretty much looking for any chance to bust some balls.  Now would I pray for a good friend?  Sure.  If a good friend told me he was just diagnosed with testicular cancer, and asked me to pray for him, of course I would.  I mean upon hearing the news I’d probably say something like “Well, you weren’t really using your balls for much anyway,” but LATER I would definitely pray for him.

Now I guess none of this is really surprising.  It’s certainly not like I just realized that men and women are different.  I’ve known that since I first started noticing women in like 6^th grade.  Maybe even 4^th.  But every so often my wife reminds me just how different we really are.  And that’s fine.  But I’m definitely not going to give in on another kid.  Unless I have already agreed to it, and I just don’t know it yet.  I’m pretty sure another dinner party is in my future, though.  Pray for me!

Advice for My 13-Year Old Son . . . Or Maybe Not

So I spent last week in Harbor Springs, Michigan with my family.  One last summer family outing before the boys head back to school this week.  It was great family time to close out the summer.  While we were there, there was a meteor shower.  We all went down to the beach after sunset and watched for meteors.  Sure enough, we saw a number of them shoot across the sky.  As we sat there in the dark scanning the sky, my oldest son asked me what a meteor was.  Without hesitation I responded with “It’s God farting.”  To my surprise my oldest son did not laugh (though my youngest son thought it was hysterical . . . though not quite as funny as when I slipped on a rock and fell into the lake earlier in the day . . . that was pure comic genius according to my younger son).

Instead my older son sat there in the dark with a bit of a disappointed look on his face.  Obviously he knew that the bright lights streaking across the sky were not produced from God’s rear end, but he didn’t know what caused them, and I think he really wanted me to tell him.  He was looking for a little bit of information, and I failed him.  Maybe my 13-year old son, who’s heading to the 8^th grade in a couple days, is slowly but surely outgrowing my silly humor.  Maybe it’s time to stop trying to convince him that I am a trained Jedi Knight, and telling him that meteor showers are God’s farts.  Maybe he needs me to be more of a father and less of a pal.  Maybe he just wants some good old fashioned advice as he slowly creeps towards manhood.

I guess I could do that.

It was just a matter of time before I needed to “man up” and show the kid the ropes.

Let’s see . . . . .

Blow Jobs Stop After Marriage – Don’t waste your time wondering about what happens to blow jobs once you’re married.  They’re going to stop.  Okay maybe not entirely, but the frequency in which you may have gotten used to PRIOR to getting married plummets once you’re ACTUALLY married.  It is what it is.  Don’t lose sleep worrying about it or thinking about it.  And don’t let your married pals make you feel bad by telling you that they’re getting regular blow jobs.  They’re not.  They’re lying to you.

Sitting there wondering why you’re not getting a lot of blow jobs is like sitting there wondering how the magician did that magic trick.  You know it’s not “really magic,” and yet you can’t figure it out.  You know the guy didn’t actually pull a rabbit out of his hat.  It’s got to be some kind of sleight of hand trick.  And you know the guy didn’t actually saw the woman in half.  It’s got to be some sort of smoke and mirrors illusion.  There’s probably a very easy and logical explanation to that trick, but for the life of you you can’t figure it out.  That’s sorta like blow jobs after marriage.  Stop wasting your time trying to solve the disappearing act.

Don’t Get Into Fights – Despite what your pals may tell you, and despite how Hollywood portrays it, there’s nothing cool about getting into a fist fight.  So try to avoid them.  However, if you find yourself in a situation that you simply cannot get out of without fighting . . . and honestly I don’t know what that situation would be . . . short of being in a prison shower stall surrounded by a gang of guys looking to do you serious harm, I don’t know why you’d have to “fight your way out of ANYTHING” . . .  I mean how dangerous can the lunch line be at the local junior high??  But if you’re dropping the gloves, swing hard and swing often.  In fact don’t stop swinging until the other guy goes down.  And if the other guy doesn’t go down after taking several of your best blows . . . you probably should run . . . and then don’t get into anymore fights . . . it may not be your thing.  AND SHOULD YOU GO DOWN . . . Good Lord stay down!!!  Don’t get up.  The guys who are missing their front teeth are the guys who don’t know when to stay down.

And on a separate note . . . and yet still on the subject of fighting . . . if you are dating a girl who likes it when you get into a fight . . . you’re with the wrong girl.  I think that kind of “dating advice” is right up there with the advice I’d give to girls (if I had a daughter) . . . if your boyfriend encourages you to sign up for wet t-shirt contests . . . you’re with the wrong dude.

Don’t Over-Pack – I don’t care where you’re going.  Hawaii, Alaska, or Paris.  If you are on vacation for seven days or less . . . note I said seven days or less . . . you HAVE TO be able to get by with nothing more than three shirts, three pairs of pants (or shorts), one swim suit, three pairs of underwear and three pairs of socks.  THAT’S IT!!!  You’re a guy.  ANYTHING MORE than three items of ANY article of clothing and you my friend have over-packed.  Frankly, you should be able to pack for a week-long vacation ANYWHERE using nothing more than a small duffel bag.  Now your wife may very well need two large suitcases for that same week-long trip, but your entire wardrobe should fit in an overhead compartment.

Do Not Stand Alone For Pictures – Posing for pictures by yourself is absolutely not acceptable.  Ever.  I don’t care if Halley’s Comet just crash landed in your backyard and you want to post a picture of yourself standing next to the crater on your Facebook page.  You are NOT allowed to have your picture taken unless someone else is in that picture with you.  Posing for pictures with your kids, not a problem.  Posing for pictures with your wife, of course.  Hell posing for pictures with some of your buddies is okay, though it’s probably better if at least a few of you are making stupid looking faces or holding up the rabbit ears behind your short friend’s head.  Basically if you’re going to be in a photo with a bunch of dudes you’re better off if you all look like buffoons.  However you CANNOT pose for a picture by yourself.  You’re wife can, but you can’t.

And speaking of things your wife can do that YOU CANNOT . . .

Going Commando – When girls do it, it’s ultra sexy.  When guys do it, it’s ultra creepy.  Wear underwear.  Any kind of underwear you want.  But keep the beans and mash in place one way or another.

Dancing By Yourself – If you’re on the dance floor you better be within arms-reach of your wife.  Preferably slow dancing, but regardless of what song is playing, if you’re on the dance floor you better be standing next to your wife.  However, your wife can pretty much run onto the dance floor as soon as the band starts playing Bon Jovi and dance by herself and look smoking hot.  IN FACT your wife can have literally NO rhythm at all.  She can just run out there and pretty much jump up and down and still look awesome.  It’s like wearing a ball cap.  You can put on your favorite fitted Cubs Hat and chances are you’ll stand in front of a mirror for at least a few seconds wondering whether your head is misshaped.  Now your wife can grab that same hat, jam her ponytail through the backend opening and look smashing.  Like she was born to wear that hat.  You, you’re wondering whether one of your eyebrows is lower than your other one, and your wife looks like a super model.

Your Diminishing Sex Life – Ironically you’re actually going to get more sex BEFORE you get married.  This is confusing, it’s sad, and I can’t really explain it . . . come to think of it it’s a lot like Reality TV . . . but it’s true.  Sure the first couple months of marriage are fantastic, but it dies down pretty quickly after that, and then it goes into complete hiatus mode once you start having kids.  So long story short, enjoy those college years and those bachelor years while you can.  And make sure you’re marrying someone for the right reasons.  Don’t marry her because you can’t wait to spend Saturday night with her.  Marry her because you can’t wait to spend all day Sunday with her.

Okay maybe that’s not really good advice for my 13-year old son.  Maybe that’s better advice for like my 19-year old son.  Hell maybe that’s not really good advice at all.  But either way I’m going to be more prepared if/when my son needs some advice or wants a question answered.  And I’ll start by Googling Meteor Showers.  Because if they’re not God’s farts then I don’t really know what they hell they are.

We Should All Wear Signs

I took my 10-year old son to his annual checkup last week.  This is pretty much my least favorite thing to do as a parent.  In fact I only need one hand (and not all five fingers either) to accurately count how many doctor’s visits I’ve taken my two boys to over the last 13 years.  If I had to choose between changing a dirty diaper or taking my kid to the doctor, I’d pick the shit-filled diaper every time.  And if I had to choose between cleaning up vomit or taking my kid to the doctor, I’d pick the barf without hesitation.

Specifically, I hate going because both of my boys fear shots.  I mean they fear shots like I fear prison rape . . . . yes, I’ve watched way too much of MSNBC’s Lock-Up and HBO’s Oz . . . I can’t stop watching prison shows.

And it’s not the shot itself.  Sure no one likes getting stuck with a needle.  I don’t fault my kids for not liking a shot, but they get themselves so worked up BEFORE the actual shot enters the room that it basically makes the ENTIRE appointment a Mission Impossible-like challenge.  Now in all fairness, the doctor’s office needs to do a better job with its overall presentation of the shot.  Seriously, it is awful.  You’re about done with your visit.  You’ve been weighed.  You’ve been measured.  Your reflexes have been tested.  You’ve had a bright light flashed in your eyes.  You’ve had the doctor look down your throat and up your nose.  Hell, they’ve even grabbed your balls and asked you to cough.  You’re done.  You’re set.  Your clothes are back on.  Your shoes are laced up, and yet suddenly the door swings open and a nurse walks in carrying a small plastic tray with a single syringe on it.  She shows no emotion as she walks towards you.  She flashes no sign of regret as she rolls up your sleeve and dabs your arm with a cotton swab.  Her only advice . . . “Look Away.”

Good Lord.  It’s awful.  Sure the injection itself takes at best two seconds, but the pageantry leading up to it is as scary as . . . well . . . prison rape . . . okay, I need to stop watching prison shows.   But I think they’d be better off hiding the shot in a coat pocket, walking into the room, kicking the patient in the shin and then jabbing him with the syringe.  That literally may be a better option.

But since that’s not how they do it, and since you never know whether you’re scheduled to get a shot until that syringe is entering the room on that little plastic tray it’s all anticipation and dread.  In fact it’s the anticipation or the not knowing that makes it so awful.  My 10-year old was IN TEARS before the doctor had said “hello.”

However later, after we had left the doctor’s office WITHOUT getting a shot, I started thinking about anticipation, and I started to wonder whether we’d all be better off if we were in the know.  No more anticipation.  No more hype.  No more guessing.  Just give me the cold, hard truth.  I think we’d all be better off.  Maybe we should all just walk around wearing signs to let others know what is coming.

For instance I think my wife should come home each night with a sign around her neck that said “Babe, you’re not getting laid tonight.”  Or “Babe, tonight we’re going to do the Humpty Dumpty Dance.”  Let’s take the guess work out of it.  I know it would save me A LOT of frustration if I knew ahead of time whether I was having sex or not.  Instead, as it is, I continue to hold out hope each and every night that THIS is the night.  And as a result most of my nights are spent flying around the house barking out orders and getting things done just so that I can make it into my bedroom in time for A SHOT at sex.  I’m yelling out commands to the boys reminding them to shower and to brush their teeth.  I’m getting the dog out one last time.  I’m locking doors and turning off lights.  I’m trying to achieve the optimal temperature in my bedroom by fiddling with the thermostat a good 30 minutes before my wife actually enters the bedroom (I still haven’t figured out exactly what that “optimal sex temperature” is but I know my chances to get laid have been thwarted on more than one occasion by having the room too hot or too cold . . . . seriously the excuses this woman comes up with to NOT have sex with me are amazing and continue to grow) and of course I’m banging out push-ups in the bathroom .  What, am I the only one doing this?  Come on . . . . a quick 50 push-ups . . . . okay, maybe 40 . . . . fine, 25 . . . . can’t hurt my chances, right?  But more often than not this whole “night time routine” is nothing more than an exercise in futility.  Now if she’d just let me know ahead of time whether this was or was not “my lucky night,” I could relax a bit more.

Or wouldn’t it be nice if your boss would let you know ahead of time whether or not you had a realistic shot at getting a raise BEFORE you actually walked into your performance review??  Wouldn’t it be fantastic if your boss wore a sign around his neck that said “You have a slim to none chance of getting a raise today, and slim just left the building.”  Or “Good news, I’m going to increase your salary today, so relax and get that nervous, constipated look off your face.”  Wouldn’t that be great?  I mean I’ve personally walked into a performance review thinking I was in line for a raise only to get laid off.  Talk about not knowing.  Enough.  No more.  Just let me know ahead of time.  Hell, I could have had my desk cleared out BEFORE the actual review meeting had I just known.  Instead I had to do the ultimate walk of shame back to my office, in front of all my coworkers, clean my desk out, turn in my office key, and then walk out the door.  Yeah that whole unfortunate event could have been avoided had my boss just given me a head’s up BEFORE HAND.

And think about how much embarrassment and agony and rejection we could save young teenage boys if young teenage girls just wore signs around their necks letting boys know whether or not they had any realistic shot at asking them out.  Now yes, I will admit that I think most teenage boys should have at least SOME idea of whether they’re aiming a bit high in regards to asking out certain girls, but remember we are talking about teenage boys.  They’re not real bright, so sometimes the math geek honestly thinks he’s got a shot at the head cheerleader.  He doesn’t, and he should know this, but despite having a 4.0 GPA, he’s still not real bright.  So he needs some help in order to avoid the embarrassing and sad reality that he’s never going to date the head cheerleader . . . at least not until he starts his own software company . . . at which time he probably just needs to wear a sign around his neck saying “I own my own software company” . . . but maybe that’s what a Ferrari is for . . . I don’t know?  But why not have that cheerleader wear a sign that said “Unless you’re the starting QB, don’t ask.”  Or “I’m trying to make the starting QB jealous, so I’ll go out with you once or twice.”  I’m just saying something like this could probably save teenage boys a lot of sleepless nights.

Even an “I’ve had a bad day” sign would be helpful for me to understand why a neighbor doesn’t want to chat.  Otherwise, I might think that I did something to offend them.  Which is also totally possible, by the way.  I could wear a “my dog doesn’t like most other dogs” sign when walking my dog to discourage other dog owners from bringing their friendly dogs over to us to sniff and play, only to have Rocky growl and attack.  Just think about the possibilities!

In the end I will admit that part of what makes life fun and interesting is the anticipation or the hype or the build-up.  So doing away with ALL anticipation is definitely not what I’m suggesting.  My mailman doesn’t need to walk around with a sign saying “Your new Playboy is not in today’s mail, just bills.”  That anticipation of the new Playboy is what keeps me going to the mailbox.  But maybe we could develop a sign-wearing system for other things.  Just like traffic signals for daily life.  I like that.  And my youngest could have avoided a total meltdown at the doctor’s office for no reason.

What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Many years ago I had a class assignment where I had to describe what I wanted to be when I grew up.  This was of course during those early years when my teacher was still telling me that I could be whatever I wanted to be.  I think Fred Savage called those the Wonder Years.  As I look back on them now I call them The Naïve Years.

Anyway, I specifically remember writing my report (which included a picture . . . and not a good one . . . Whipple men are not artists . . . actually we’re not artists, we’re not mathematicians, we can’t spell, we’re pretty slow, we worry a lot, and we drive like old ladies) and listing lawyer as my desired future occupation.  And in fact I had chosen lawyer because my father was a lawyer, and I wanted to go to work with him, and have an office right next to his (I remember my picture showed me and my dad at work together with offices right next to one another).

Now I was like 10 when I did this assignment so I honestly had no idea what a lawyer did.  All I knew is that my dad got up every day, shaved and showered, put on a coat and tie, grabbed the paper, and went to catch the train.  He got home about 10 hours later typically mumbling about how awful his day was, but frankly he mumbled about how awful a lot of things were back then . . . remember Whipple men worry, so he was constantly worried about something, and as a result was mumbling about how awful it was . . . you should have heard him mumble about how awful my hitting was in little league baseball.  Wow.

But it looked cool.  It looked important.  It looked like my old man was making a real contribution to society.  I mean how could he not be, right?  Anyone who gets up every morning, and shaves and showers and puts on a coat and tie, and rides a train and sits in an office for like 10 hours HAS GOT TO BE DOING SOMETHING WORTHWHILE.  Right?  Hell the guy smoked a pipe on Sunday’s as he sat in our den paying bills (and talk about hearing him mumble to himself).  Count me in. Sign me up.  I want to be like my dad.

And now fast forward about 30 years . . . .

I fear I have grown up to be even less of a man than I thought I would be.  I don’t go to an office.  I don’t wear a suit.  I don’t smoke a pipe.  I’ve never seen the philharmonic (and truthfully I don’t really know what the “philharmonic” is), and I don’t wear pajamas.  And worse yet . . . I think my 13-year old son is getting a firsthand look at this.

That’s the problem with summer break.  He’s here.  He’s with me.  All the time.  He sees what I do day in and day out.  Listen, my dad had plenty of issues.  I’ve taken a few shots at him in this blog . . . which I fear he has found via Google, but issues or not, what he did for a living, and the way he conducted himself around the house seemed cool, and seemed important, and seemed like it mattered.  When my dad walked around the house I remember thinking to myself “This guy has it going on.”  He knows his shit.

My 13-year old son had to rescue me three weeks ago when I got stuck in a wetsuit while trying it on in my bathroom.  Yeah.  That happened.  I ordered a wetsuit from some on-line triathlon store, and when it arrived I went to try it on.  Put on a Speedo, lubed up in Body Glide, put on the white linen gloves that came with the wetsuit (so that your nails don’t puncture the neoprene material), and worked the suit all the way up to my forearms before realizing that it wasn’t  going to go any higher.  This $220 wetsuit was going back.  Unfortunately in the process of getting it on I had worked up a pretty impressive sweat, and that sweat was now mixing with this Body Glide stuff, which I may have been a little overzealous with, to create a glue like substance.  All I can say is that I really did my best to get it off before finally calling for help.  When my 13-year old son found me I was on the floor of my bathroom wearing white gloves, a bright blue Speedo, and half of a wetsuit.  It took the two of us another five minutes to get the rest of it off.  When I was finally free the only thing my son said was “Maybe you should take a shower, Dad.”

I never helped my dad out of a wetsuit.  I watched him knot a tie a few times.  I watched him string a tennis racket once.  But I never came to his rescue.  What I would I rescue him from?  He was the dad!  And if it were just this one wetsuit incident I guess I’d chalk it up to an unfortunate, ugly incident, but I worry it’s all part of a much bigger problem here.

The last two movies I saw were The Avengers and Spiderman . . . and I took my son and a couple of his friends to both . . . and the four of us are already talking about going to the new Batman movie next week.  We’re texting back and forth about it.  My son and I talk trash about who’s got the high score on Angry Birds, and we sometimes debate on whether a life-size Star Wars Stormtrooper figure or Darth Vader figure would be cooler for the living room (you know, if we could only get one).

My dad took me to see the original Jaws, and when I came out of the theater shell-shocked he simply said, “Well you wanted to see it, there it is.”  And we didn’t argue about Stormtroopers or video games, we argued about whether Ted Williams was the greatest hitter of all times . . . actually we didn’t really argue that . . . Ted Williams is the greatest hitter of all times . . . I just mostly listened to my dad tell  me about it.

My dad read big, impressive looking books.  He read the book Hawaii.  It was huge.  It was a hard cover.  It sat prominently on the book shelves in his den.  I don’t own a book shelf, and I’m currently reading the Hunger Games, and I’m seriously debating on whether I should finish it since the movie just came out.

Now neither my father nor I can fix anything around the house, we’re pretty much useless there (actually add that to the things Whipple men can’t do), but when my dad spoke he sounded impressive, my vocabulary mainly consists of words like cool, awesome, actually and frankly (yes I’ve started using the word “frankly” as I think it sounds more impressive. . . it’s not), and I write blogs mainly about my on-going quest to get my wife to have sex with me.

Seriously, at this point I’m just thrilled I wasn’t around to fight in World War II as we’d all be speaking German right now.  Well, I’m only 41, so I might still find my calling.  My wife loves to tell me that Julia Child didn’t even learn to cook until her late 30’s.  I don’t like to cook, but I can see how that might inspire someone to start something new.  Anything.

And as far as a career role model, I guess it’s a good thing that my sons see their mom getting dressed and going downtown for work every day. While no one can figure out what she does, they do like visiting her office because there are lots of cute girls and cool views of the lake and the city.   That may be enough to inspire them.

I’m Calling Off the Hunt for Sex

In any family structure, or in any family unit, the mom and the dad play a different, and yet equally important role.  Without the other, the family unit simply does not function as well as it does when both mom and dad are “gelling.”  Call it the ying and the yang of the family unit.

For instance, the man is responsible for investigating any strange sounds in the middle of the night.  In fact this has twice led to me running around the main floor of my house buck-naked wielding a baseball bat.  Hey, I sleep naked, and I’m not about to take the time to lace up my sweatpants and adjust my hoodie if I honestly think someone could be breaking into my house.  Come on.  Frankly I’m hopeful that the sight of my beans and mash dangling like a pair of dice from the rearview mirror . . . okay small dice . . . but just as fuzzy . . . . would be enough to frighten any would-be robber away without having to swing the Louisville Slugger.

And guys are also responsible for bringing a little levity to most family conversations.  For instance if my wife is grilling my older son about school work and grades I typically chime in with a “hey dude, as long as the chicks dig you, you’ll be fine . . . why do you think I went to school . . . look at your mom . . . yeah . . . she’s with me, and I can’t add.”  Or if my wife is reminding my younger son about the importance of teamwork I crack off a “little man, I’ve seen your team play . . . they’re awful . . . there’s no ‘I’ in team, but there is in Kick Ass . . . so let’s go.”  It’s just what guys do.  That’s our role within the family unit.

Women, on the other hand, are responsible for making sure the family gets to events/parties/activities on time, or at the very least on the right day.  My wife is notorious for being late, and as a result our family is often times late to functions, but she at least gets us to things on the day of the actual event.  I’d get our family to a Saturday party on Tuesday.  And of course the woman is responsible for rebuffing much of the man’s “levity” to ensure that kids know what’s really going on, and what really needs to be done.  And this usually can be accomplished by simply reminding the kids that “Your father is a moron and barely has an 8^th grade education, so go ahead and laugh at his silly comments, but you’re better off listening to me when it comes to things like school work and eating your vegetables.”

In the end, kids are smarter than you think, and most of them realize that dad’s funny, but mom’s smart.  And that’s what makes the family unit work.  It’s the best of both worlds.  After all, you can’t have two fun parents. . . . otherwise it’s a carnival, and that just doesn’t work.

But outside the family unit, within the actual one-on-one relationship between a man and a woman, there are still defined roles that each person plays.  And unlike the responsibilities that both the man and woman have within their family unit, the
responsibilities they have within their own relationship are much simpler.  Well, simpler in the sense that they are basically both responsible for one thing, and one thing only.  The man is responsible for reminding his wife that “it’s been awhile since they’ve had sex,” and the woman is responsible for telling her husband that “it actually hasn’t been that long, and bugging me about it won’t help matters.”

That’s it.  That’s all the man and woman have to do within their own relationship.  The man has to go . . . well . . . . hunting for sex, and the woman has to . . . . well . . . . shoot the hunter down.  Now every so often the woman has to green light a little “activity” just to keep the hunter interested , though the hunter NEVER loses interest . . . . EVER . . . . he may become frustrated, he may become ornery, he may THREATEN to lose interest , though this is a total joke and actually should NOT be used as an actual threat towards the woman.  Remember, she could call your bluff.  He may even begin to “accidentally” bump into you as you’re bending over to take something out of the oven . . . . I’m just saying it could happen . . . . but he’ll NEVER LOSE INTEREST because it is definitely the man’s job to keep hunting for sex.  It is NOT the woman’s job.

But recently a funny thing has happened to me, I’ve stopped hunting for sex.  I’ve stopped bugging my wife for it.  Now I still want it.  By no means have I lost my sex drive.  Far from it.  I’m as horny as ever.  And I’m absolutely 100% attracted to my wife (she’s still smoking hot at 40).  But I’ve stopped the on-going quest for sex.  I know it will happen at some point.  We’re not done having sex, but I’m just done reminding her that it’s been awhile since we last “did it.”  And this isn’t one of my ploys to get her more interested in me.  Oh, I’ve tried those before.  Tried the whole show complete disinterest in sex to see if I could get her more interested in it, and it failed miserably.  Hell, I was basically on my knees begging the court for mercy three weeks later.  This is something altogether different.

Maybe I’m just ready to concede that most men and women are different.  Most men want sex all the time while most women want to wait for a special occasion . . . . like the Summer Olympics or when the Cubs win the World Series.  This used to be a real problem for me.  But maybe now it’s not.

Or maybe this is a larger step in my on-going goal to grow up (which I’m still struggling with).  Maybe it’s time to admit that I no longer have what it takes to stay in the big leagues.  Maybe it’s time to accept the Triple-A assignment.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it may be true.  Maybe it’s time to stop hanging out with Derek Jeter and swapping high-fives with Alex Rodriguez.  Maybe it’s time to grab a seat on the bus next to the clown mascot as we head to a game somewhere in Ohio.

I don’t know?  Honestly I’m trying to figure it all out.  I’m not sure what’s going on, nor am I sure why I’m blogging about this (as no doubt my mother is going to have some choice, and probably uncomfortable comments about this one), but I am definitely switching gears here.  I’ve gone from asking my wife for a Flying Camel, A Dirty Sanchez and a ball rub under the table the next time we’re at Friday’s, to not really caring whether we have sex or not this coming weekend.

Huh?

Maybe I’ve realized that there’s more to a marriage than sex.  Nah…I think I have just decided that I’m not going to let it control me.  I’m going to say shit to my kids about their baseball ability without worrying if it will cost me sex.  I’m going to tell my wife that I don’t want her parents’ bedroom set even though I know she wants it.  I’m going to put the kibosh on scheduling “fun” social events at our house over the holiday weekend.  Now I know that agreeing to those events will get me laid, but I’ve decided that I don’t care.

Go Clay!  Now, this “stand” I’m taking is definitely freeing, and making me feel manly.  However, I have to say that it isn’t doing much for me in the sex department.  And eventually that is going to take precedence.  Maybe tomorrow, in fact.  Although we have two baseball games and a soccer game, so we’ll be exhausted by the end of the day anyway.  Low percentage opportunity.  Maybe the next day?  I may have to green light that Memorial Day BBQ at our house afterall.

Quotes from the Little League Dugout

About three years ago my wife really got into the whole Facebook thing.  At the time I had no idea what Facebook was, but after listening to her go on and on about it, I agreed to let her start a Facebook page for me.  I did it for two days.  Two days.  The other day I logged in for the first time in three years and found that I had 62 friend requests.  62 people have “friended me” in three years.  My neighbor’s 15-year old daughter has been on Facebook for a little over a year now and has 349 friends.  I have 62 people wanting to be friends with me.  If I’ve said it once then I’ve said it 1,000 times . . . . just when you think you’re at rock bottom . . . . you can find a way to sink lower.

But that’s not the point of this blog.  That’s not where I’m going.  My point is social media and I just don’t mesh.  It’s not me.  Yes I’m blogging and people are reading it, and that’s fun, but I’m not doing it on a daily basis, and I’m not looking for a lot of interaction (frankly none whatsoever), and I certainly don’t want to know what people had for dinner last night, nor do I want to look at their vacation photos from Florida (unless of course someone’s sending me pictures of their wife in a bikini . . . but I’d like those to come straight to my personal email . . . I’m just saying . . . you know in case any of you are wondering where to send me pictures of your wife . . . in a bikini . . . whatever).

Now my wife is bugging me to start a Twitter account, and I don’t know why.  I understand Twitter less than I understand Facebook.  Instead of getting Facebook posts from people saying “I had fantastic spaghetti last night for dinner,” I’d now get Tweets from people saying “Cool Porsche pulled up next to me at a stop light.”  Really?  Seriously?  Why?

But my wife reminded me that my writing hero, Justin Halpern, the author of my favorite book ‘Shit My Dad Says’ started the whole thing by sending out daily Tweets with quotes from his old man.  Slowly but surely more and more people followed his tweets, and suddenly he’s got a bestselling book and a TV show on CBS (which unfortunately never lived up to the book and was canceled after one season).

But what material do I have?  Remember Halpern had 30+ years of spectacular quotes from his dad.

What do I have?

And then it hit me.

I have a half dozen years in a little league dugout.  And while it can be unbelievably frustrating at times, and occasionally I feel like a babysitter, the kids say some funny stuff.

Here are some of my favorites from my teams, and a few others that have been shared with me.  Names have been changed to ensure that people can’t recognize their children.

1. An inning ends and the boys all come running into the dugout.  One particular boy comes running in with a huge smile on his face.  He says, “Coach did you see my throw?”

“Yes, Joe, I did.”

“That was dead on, right?”

“It was, but you threw the ball to the center fielder.”

“Right, but it was a bullet.”

“Joe, you’re playing short stop and you just threw the ball to the center fielder!”

“Right.  Great throw, huh coach?”

“Go sit down, Joe.”

2. In another game we were up by just two runs heading to the final inning.  Before I sent my pitcher out to the mound I gave him the following pep talk:

“Mike, we need just three outs here, and we win the game.  We’ve got a good defense behind you, just let them hit it.  Just throw strikes.  I don’t need you to be a hero, I just need you to protect our lead.”

“Don’t worry coach, I’m wearing a cup.”

I can’t make this stuff up.  It was almost as good as the time I asked my youngest son if he had taken off his cup after a game…He said yes, “but it doesn’t look like I did!”

3. One of my players was off to a good start with a couple of hits in his first two at bats.  “Coach I’ve got a single and a double      today.  I just need a triple and a homerun for the Cyclone.”

I didn’t even correct him.  They are all 100 percent positive they are right about everything, and it wasn’t worth the argument.

4. After striking out for the second time in as many at bats, one of my players walked back into the dugout, and said “Coach, do you realize how good I’d be at this game if there were no strike outs?”

Similarly, a kid playing my oldest son’s team the other day (a team that was up 9-1 in the second inning and ended up losing in a slaughter) left the game saying, “If there were only two innings in baseball, we’d be undefeated.”  Darn rules.

The beauty of kids is they’ll hold nothing back, and will say just about anything much to the chagrin of their parents.

5. “Hey Coach, did you go to college?”

“Yes, I did.  Why do you ask?”

“Because my dad says you make stupid coaching decisions.”

I wanted to respond in two ways.  1 – “Tell your dad he’s welcome to my coaching job.”  And 2 – “Yes, because my team makes stupid mistakes.” I took the high road and said neither.

6. After a particularly ugly game in which a number of mental errors were made, I sat the team down and gave them a talk about playing smart.  “Guys you need to use your heads out there.”

“Coach, I can’t help it.”

“John, why not?”

“Because when I was younger I was hit in the head with a baseball bat, so this is why I am the way I am.”

It really explained a lot.  I no longer expect much from John.  I just give directions to the rest of the team and then ask John how his day is going.

7. A player crushed a ball deep into the outfield and started flying around the bases.  As he headed towards 3^rd base, our 3^rd base coach gave him the “Hold Up” sign, and yet the kid hit third, and continued on towards home.  Of course he was thrown out by a good 20 feet.  The catcher was just standing there waiting for him.  When the kid came back into the dugout I asked him, “What happened?  Didn’t you see the stop sign at 3^rd base?”

“I did, coach.”

“Well, why didn’t you stop?”

“Chicks dig the long ball, Coach.”

I had no response.  Again.  I wanted to point out that there weren’t any chicks watching the game, but I respected the answer.

8. Before the first regular season game we pass out uniforms, and typically the lowest number goes to the shortest player, and the tallest player gets the highest number.  It’s pretty easy.  So as the coach was handing them out, he tries to give a jersey to one of our players who takes one look at it, and  immediately says, “I can’t have that number, Coach.”

“Matthew, it’s just a number, take it.”

“Coach, I need to be #3 or my mom won’t know who I am.”

His mother actually confirmed his story.  I’m all in favor of helping parents identify their children.  When they are all about the same size with similar haircuts and identical uniforms, it can be really difficult.  It’s even hard for me to figure out who all the kids are in the dugout.  I buy my youngest child bright yellow or orange cleats so that we can find him on the soccer field.

Alright, so maybe I don’t have 30+ years of great quotes by my father to Tweet, and in fact maybe I don’t even have enough funny little league baseball quotes to fill up a daily Tweet, but I’m working on it.  Those kids just keep ‘em coming.

Lingerie Bag is Testing my Manliness

So we had some friends over for dinner last week.  During dinner my friend starts telling me about his upcoming Vegas trip.  He’s heading out to Sin City with three buddies for a four day gambling bender.  Pretty much plans to gamble from the time he gets off the plane, until the time he heads home.  Sleep maybe four hours a day, grab a quick bite to eat at some fast food restaurant in between poker games, and MAYBE, hit a strip club late at night.  My buddy just lights up while talking about his Vegas trips.

And they sound just awful to me.  I mean, I’d really like to be excited about his trips, but I can’t.  A dudes’ trip to Vegas with little sleep, lots of gambling and not much else, sounds horrible.  Now I like Vegas.  Been there three times, and had a blast each time.  But I like going to Vegas with my wife.  Sure I like to gamble a bit, but I also like to take in a show or walk the strip (great people watching out there) or dine at one of the nicer restaurants.  Hell, the main reason I like being in Vegas with my wife is because I honestly think Vegas is one of those weird places where strange things really do happen.  I think there’s definitely something in the water in Vegas that makes “normal” people a little “bat-shit crazy.”  I think you could take your mild-mannered “nice-girl” wife to Vegas and suddenly she’s pulling you behind a dumpster at the Red Lobster for a quickie.  For the record, that has not happened to me.

But I just can’t get excited?

Come to think of it, before we left for spring break, another buddy of mine recommended that we charter a fishing boat while we were there.  Now that’s something we were already talking about as my oldest son has really gotten into fishing.  But after listening to my buddy talk about one of his recent fishing charters, it was a no-brainer.  So sure enough we got in touch with a local charter captain, and booked the afternoon.  My oldest son loved it.  My younger son got a kick out of it.  Hell, even my wife enjoyed it.  But I was less than thrilled with the whole thing.  I felt sea-sick soon after we pushed off from the dock, and I was somewhat horrified by the treatment of the poor shrimp that we used for bait.  At one point one of them jumped out of the live-well and flopped around the deck of the boat.  I had my 9-year old son pick it up and throw it into the ocean where I’d like to think he’s still swimming as of today.

This was not at all as exciting as my buddy seemed to make it sound.

But maybe there’s something more to this story.

At my son’s baseball game a few weeks ago, one of the 10-year-old boys pulled out a bag of sunflower seeds and started passing them around, all the boys grabbed a handful of seeds and jammed them in their mouths.  And one by one they started spitting out the shells and eating the seeds.  No problem.  That is until the bag was handed to me.  Without hesitation I grabbed a handful of seeds and stuffed them into my mouth . . . only to realize that I had forgotten how to eat sunflower seeds.  Literally forgot how to do it.  Even though ‘spittin’ seeds is as much a part of baseball as an actual mitt, I had forgotten how to do it.  Worse yet, I had forgotten how to do it in front of a dozen 10-year-old boys who watched in both horror and amazement as “Coach Clay” alternated between spitting several seeds (still in their shells) out and spitting the actual sunflower seed out (yes I had somehow opened the shell only to spit the seed out instead of the shell).  It was awful, and after sending the boys onto the field I spit the entire mouthful of seeds into the garbage can.

Hmm . . . .

Guy’s trip to Vegas, no.

Deep-sea fishing trip, no.

Able to eat sunflower seeds while at the ballpark, no.

What is wrong here?

So the other day my wife comes home from shopping and shows me all the free stuff she’s gotten as a result of her purchases.  By the way, next to shopping the thing that makes my wife the happiest is getting free stuff from all her purchases.  My two favorite words are blow and job.  My wife’s two favorite words are free and complimentary.  I can’t tell you how excited she gets while showing me her “FREE” bottle of wine or her “FREE” chip & dip tray.  Of course what my wife doesn’t seem to understand is that NOTHING in life is free . . . there’s a reason she’s come home with two free bottles of Pinot Grigio, and that’s because she’s just spent $320 on wine at the local wine store.  My wife is wicked smart, but she’s failing to grasp the whole “free and complimentary” concept.

ANYWAY . . . in addition to her free three-pack of her favorite underwear and a free make-up remover she pulls out some mesh lingerie wash bag with a zippered top.  She explains that you put your lingerie in it, and then throw the entire thing in the washing machine and your “delicates” come out in one piece.  She hands it to me and says “Here, now you can wash my bras without ruining them.”  And I’m like “Fucking-A!  Great!”

And I’m NOT being sarcastic.

I’m all juiced about this.  I’m fired up.  Finally I can stop putting her stupid bras inside pillow cases and cinching them closed with rubber bands (yeah I came up with that on my own . . . not bad, huh?).

So I head straight downstairs, and get a load of wash going.  Put a couple of her bras in this bag thing, zip it closed, and throw it in the wash.  I’m giddy.  It’s a new toy.

AND THEN IT HITS ME. . . .

Maybe it’s time for another manhood check.  Maybe it’s time to see if the old ball sac is still attached.  Because there’s NO EXCUSE for what just went down.  I mean the last time I questioned my own manhood I was at rock bottom.  I was out of work and planning my day around the European soccer games on TV.

But I’ve done a full 180 since then.  Well okay maybe more like a 110.  I’m gainfully employed.  I’m working out again.  I’m shaving somewhat regularly, and I’m wearing fewer hoodies . . . honestly that was a major step in the right direction . . . I hate to admit it. . . . but it’s true.

Listen, I know men are built to eat, shit, fuck, fight and die, and I embrace that. Hell, I cherish that, but there are just some “manly” things that I don’t like to do.  Not just fishing, sunflower seeds and Las Vegas.  I don’t drink much at all, as I’m not crazy about the taste.  I don’t really gamble.  I used to bet on football games until not one, but two bookies ran off with my money.  I don’t like golf.  After years of playing sporadically with constant frustration and occasional heat stroke, I put away the clubs.  I haven’t gotten into a fight since my oldest was six and, unbeknownst to me, he was right behind me when I verbally abused a softball ump and unleashed a torrent of unbelievable language. Not my best moment.  Life has slowly curbed some of my more manly traits.

So I’m going to chalk it up to experience, not lack of manliness.  Except for the lingerie bag.  I just can’t explain that.

Spring Break . . . This Too Shall Pass

There is a particular saying which I tend to remind myself of whenever the shit is hitting the fan.  Or whenever I’m in a bad situation.  Whether I’m sitting in the dentist’s chair about to have a root canal procedure or whether I’m in my boss’s office getting reamed, or whether I’m on an airplane cruising at 30 thousand feet and we hit a patch of nasty turbulence.  If I’m in a bad spot I simply like to remind myself that “This Too Shall Pass.”

Sure it’s nothing more than a silly saying, and at the end of the day it certainly doesn’t end whatever misery I’m going through at that particularly time, but for whatever reason I am able to calm myself down, even just slightly, by reminding myself that “This Too Shall Pass.”  I guess it’s simply my way of taking a deep breath and relaxing the nerves for a couple seconds.

But it does work, and because it seems to work I don’t take it lightly.  I don’t overuse it.  It’s almost like I don’t want to waste the power of the saying.  I don’t walk around telling myself that “This Too Shall Pass” when I can’t find the TV remote control, or when I realize that there’s a fresh box of Zebra Cakes, but no milk.  And I don’t yell out “This Too Shall Pass” when I put multiple serves into the net during a paddle match (though I have been known to yell something altogether different when that happens).  It’s a special saying which I save for specific occasions . . . . though I will admit to muttering “This Too Shall Pass” while watching one of my son’s Instructional League baseball games a few years ago . . . . but that was only after our shortstop fielded a ground ball and turned around and threw the ball to our center fielder . . . to this day no one has actually been able to explain that play to me . . . and I’ve never seen it duplicated.

But last week when I reminded myself that “This Too Shall Pass” while my family and I vacationed in sunny Florida, I began to wonder whether I was using this saying haphazardly or whether I was dealing with a situation that in fact justified the use.

Now I have made no secret of the fact that I’m somewhat puzzled over the whole spring break thing.  I’ve written about it at least a couple times here in this blog.  It seems to me that we all bolt out of town for spring break only to get to our destination and long to be home again.  We have taken all of our baggage (and I mean that literally and figuratively) and simply changed the scenery.  Kids still fight with one another.  Couples still argue.  No one is able to agree on a “family movie” to watch.  No one is eating their vegetables with dinner.  No one puts the toilet seat down . . . which you of course don’t realize until you sit down in a dark bathroom at 2:00 AM . . . at which time you realize that not only did the last person not put the toilet seat down, but they also CHOSE NOT TO FLUSH.  And no one likes going to bed on time.  It’s all of your normal, every-day problems, but you’re simply dealing with them out of state.

And I guess that’s fine.  At the end of the day, I will admit, that warm temperatures and a sunny beach does seem to cure a lot of ills.  I am certainly not walking about the beaches of Florida muttering to myself “This Too Shall Pass” just because my yahoo kids are fighting over who gets the better sand castle tools.

But people are funny when it comes to spring break.  In their desperation to get out of town, they will agree to stay with relatives and in-laws and friends even if that means living FOR A WEEK in fairly cramped quarters while putting all of your family issues on public display.  It’s funny, most people can’t really afford to go away on spring break, and yet they do anyway because all you need is some fairly inexpensive round-trip airline tickets, and a friend who lives in Arizona or a brother who lives in California or a father-in-law who lives in Florida and you’ve got yourself a spring break.

My family is no different.  For the fourth year in a row we spent our spring break down in Fort Meyers, Florida at my father-in-law’s place.

Now let me just say that I really like my father-in-law.  And I’m not saying that because he reads my blog.  He doesn’t.  Dear God I don’t want him to.  And if for some reason he’s Googled me and found the blog (I could see my father-in-law doing a quarterly Google Search on me just to make sure I wasn’t wanted in some state) I sincerely hope he hasn’t read some of my past blogs.  And if he has and one of them was “Operation Boyfriend Girlfriend” he should take a far amount of comfort in the fact that my quest to have sex with his daughter multiple times in one day was an EPIC failure.

That all being said, as much as I like my father-in-law, living with him for eight full days is tough.  More to the point, living with him, my wife AND my two kids for eight days is . . . well . . . I think it was after day five . . . which was my third day on the air mattress originally intended for my 13-year old . . . he of course couldn’t sleep on the air mattress, so he got my spot next to my wife in the queen sized bed . . . when I first told myself that “This Too Shall Pass.”

And I feel bad about it.  Maybe that’s the difference this time.  When I’m in the doctor’s office as he searches for my prostate I’m supposed to be saying “This Too Shall Pass.”  But when I’m enjoying my father-in-law’s generous hospitality at his beautiful condo in gorgeous Southern Florida I probably shouldn’t be saying “This Too Shall Pass.”

That’s awful.  And yet . . . . kids fighting over the XBOX, the wife telling me she’s not having sex with me while her father’s in the next room (for some reason this never seemed to bother her in high school, and yet after 17-years of marriage it’s a problem), my father-in-law eating my double stuffed Oreo’s (I know it was him . . . I think he did it on purpose . . . maybe he’s reading my blog after all), kids arguing over who gets what swim goggles, and only one TV . . . and suddenly I find myself saying “This Too Shall Pass” despite what has otherwise been a wonderful week in Florida.

So maybe the answer is that “This Too Shall Pass” is simply too strong for something like spring break which has plenty of good to outweigh the bad.  Maybe I simply need to come up with another key saying that can be used for occasions like spring break.  Something like “It Could Be Worse.”  Or “At Least The Doctor Doesn’t Have a Finger in My Ass.”  Or “Thank God That Kid who Played Shortstop Isn’t My Son.”  I don’t know?  Maybe sometimes I just gotta remind myself that I’m pretty freaking lucky, and that if spring break with my family at my father-in-law’s place has a few hiccups . . . well then life is pretty good, and I hope it doesn’t pass by too quickly.

Love, Kids & Sex . . . Pick 2

In my late 20’s and early 30’s I worked at a downtown advertising agency on the account service side of the business.  Like a lot of advertising agencies the pace was pretty hectic, and when the client said “jump” you pretty much asked “how high.”  And while our number one goal was trying to meet every single client demand, at the end of the day you pretty much had to tell the client “You can have it Good, you can have it Fast, and you can have it Cheap . . . now pick two . . . because you can’t have all three.”

Now obviously we never said that specifically to the client, who of course ALWAYS wanted ALL three, but when push came to shove you knew you weren’t going to be able to deliver all three.  And if you think about it, it makes sense.  You can have it good and fast, but it’s not going to be cheap.  Or you can have it cheap and fast, but then it’s not going to be good.  And I guess you can even have it good and cheap, but it may not be that fast.  It’s a silly saying that I have to imagine is muttered in the hallways and conference rooms of all sorts of different client service like businesses, but again, it’s fairly accurate.

So the other day when I nuzzled up to my wife and whispered a few “sweet nothings” in her ear (and by the way that’s code for the other day I smacked my wife on the ass and said “let’s go have sex”) only to get shot down due to the fact that my kids were playing video games in the basement it hit me . . . . You can have Love, you can have Kids, and you can have Sex . . . now pick two . . . because you can’t have all three.

Think about it.  You can have love and kids, but you can’t have sex.  I think this is the option that most couples settle into after they have kids.  The love and kids phase starts when your wife gives birth and probably doesn’t end until you’re empty-nesters some 20+ years later.  This is the phase when you’re a happily married couple raising kids on some nice, tree-lined street somewhere.  There’s either a mini-van or an SUV in the driveway.  Weekends are spent on the sidelines of some soccer field or baseball diamond or ice rink watching the kids play.  You and your wife shoot for date night once a week, but really only go out together twice a month, and usually you talk about the kids.  You maybe have sex once a week.  You talk about having it more, and in fact both of you are in agreement that more sex would be good, but it’s just talk.  Soon after the “more sex talk” you’re synching your Blackberry to the updated soccer carpool schedule.  But damnit, you’re in love, and you have kids.

Now you could opt for sex and love, but now you don’t have any kids.  Typically we call this “being 20-something,” but that’s not always true.  There are plenty of people who simply choose not to have kids.  Regardless of age, if you’ve gone this route then you’re in love and having sex like you’re the last two people on earth, and the future of mankind is depending on you.  Sure there’s no one to carry on your family name, and you’re missing out on all the wonderful things that come with parenthood, but you love your spouse and . . . oh yeah . . . by the way . . . you just had sex 30 minutes ago . . . and probably will do it again later that night.

Or you could go with sex and kids, but then I think you’re probably in some sort of an arranged marriage.  Seriously if you have kids and you’re still having a ton of sex WITH YOUR SPOUSE (yeah it doesn’t count if you’ve got some sort of “friends with benefits” arrangement on the side) then I’m willing to bet that you’re in a marriage that was set up by your parents and in-laws years ago.  You have no idea what your spouse’s middle name is, you’re not entirely sure whether or not they went to college and when you get drunk you sometimes blurt out “Who are you again?”  So sure, your kids are happy, and you’re “doing it” more than Charlie Sheen says “Winning,” but you literally draw a blank when someone asks you, “So how did you two meet?”

I guess in the end, like the song, “2-out-of-3 ain’t bad.”  Hey, that advertising agency that I worked at serviced a lot of happy clients using that method.  Maybe in life, 2-out-of-3 ain’t so bad either.   Unfortunately, like another song, my favorite two are “I want it fast and hard.”   So I guess I want it all, all the time.  I’ll keep trying.