Marrying Me All Over Again

One of the stories my kids love to ask me about is how I met my wife.  Typically they ask me to tell them the story as we’re all sitting around the table having family dinner.  However they don’t request the story by asking “Hey dad how did you and mom meet,” but rather “Hey dad, how did YOU get mom?”  Now I know they’re trying to be funny, and frankly this is simply their way of “busting my chops” a bit.

But the fact is I over married, and my kids, especially my older son who’s 13 now and is starting to figure out that certain girls go for certain guys, while other guys have pretty much NO CHANCE, are at least somewhat puzzled as to how I got my wife to date me, and then marry me.

And while I too have wondered about my wife’s judgment (or lack thereof), the fact is we were 17 when we met and fell in love, and in all fairness I wasn’t half bad looking.  After all I was swimming about 4,000 yards a day and spent the summers working on my tan while life guarding at a local country club.  I was at least mildly charming, and usually could get people to laugh, so all in all I was not a complete buffoon.  Maybe only slightly buffoonish . . . and remember 17-year old girls sometimes dig guys who are somewhat buffoonish.  We are talking about 17-year old girls after all.  Say what you want, but at the end of the day 17-year old girls aren’t a whole lot smarter than 17-year old boys, and 17-year old boys are freaking morons.

So looking back on it sure, luck definitely played a part in getting my wife to agree to date me.  But what’s done is done.  I got her.  She’s with me.  Case closed.  But could I do it again if I had to?

There’s a new movie out called The Vow which is a story (and apparently based on a true life story) about a newly married couple who are in a car accident.  The wife is injured and goes into a coma.  When she awakens from her coma she cannot remember the last few years of her life which are the years she spent with her boyfriend/husband.  She knows who she is, and she remembers her parents and her childhood friends, etc, but what she does not remember is her husband.  No recollection at all.  That’s how the movie starts.  The rest of the movie is this guy’s quest to get his wife to fall in love with him all over again.

Anyway, it’s got me thinking whether I could get my wife to fall in love with me a second time.  Now obviously this is not an apples-to-apples comparison as the couple featured in this movie was just married, whereas I’ve been married for over 17 years and have two kids with my wife.  I’d like to think that even if my wife came out of a coma and didn’t remember me she’d at least remember the two people who she carried for nine months and then delivered vaginally not that long ago.  So let’s take the kids out of the equation.  No kids.  Just me and my wife.  And the goal is to get her to fall in love with me all over again.

Three words for you . . . No Fucking Way!

I honestly don’t think I could get anyone to fall in love with me at this stage of my life.  Are you kidding me?  No chance.

Let’s start with the obvious . . .

Appearance . . . As I said before, I wasn’t half bad looking in the day.  Now, not so much.  Frankly guys don’t age as well as women.  Other than George Clooney name one guy who’s better looking in his 40’s and 50’s than when he was in his 20’s and 30’s.  Anyone?  Yet women only get hotter as they get older.  Sure at some point we ALL start showing signs of older age, but a 40-year old woman is hot.  A 40-year old guy is . . . well . . . on average he’s 15 pounds overweight, has a receding hair line, complains of a sore lower back, and talks about having sex six times a week, but really only has the stamina to go twice a week.

Financial Security . . . The good news for us 40-year old guys is that women are forced to become less superficial, and thus they shift their focus from physical attractiveness to other qualities that a man can offer, like financial security.  Being able to help support your wife and your family is no doubt an important and probably “sexy” quality that women look for in a man.  Now I was making $5.25 an hour when my wife and I first met.  HOWEVER, I was 17 years old!!!  The world was my oyster.  My entire life was in front of me.  I was all potential.  Sky’s the limit.  Now . . . well I’m blogging from my dining room table at 2:45 in the afternoon on a Thursday, and I’m wearing a fleece pullover with the logo from the country club where I USED TO BE A MEMBER.  Honestly, do I need to say more?

Family . . . It’s always hard introducing your girlfriend to your family for the first time.  But the difference between introducing your 17-year old girlfriend to your parents as opposed to your 40-year old girlfriend is that by the time your girlfriend is 40 she’s been around long enough to recognize bat-shit crazy.  When my wife first met my family she chalked up their antics and their general “silliness” as funny and quirky.  She didn’t know any better.  Now . . . I think we’d have this exact conversation if I were to introduce my 40-year old wife to my parents for the first time . . . “You’re related to these people?  Seriously?  Take me home now.  No.  Wait.  I’ll call a cab.  Lose my number.  I’m calling the police if you try to contact me again.”

Maturity . . . You’re supposed to be immature when you’re 17.  Hell a certain amount of immaturity is probably considered cute and enduring.  But an immature 40 year old?  Really?  Immaturity in a 40-year old guy is like back hair. . . it’s annoying, unattractive, and you typically deal with it by pouring hot wax on it and tearing it from your body.

I’m screwed.

So I mention this idea to my wife the other day, and she says that she for sure would marry me all over again.  But the facts speak for themselves.  I’m at least gainfully employed so I’ll work on keeping that job (and blogging at 2:45 on a Thursday afternoon is probably NOT the best way to go about that).  And I’m definitely going to try to work out more so that I start aging in a more graceful way.  Just in case.  You never know.

My Wife’s Job Security

The very first performance review I had did not go as well as I had hoped.  At the time I was a 25-year old sales assistant for some video news uplink company, and I had a performance review after six months on the job.  I was called into our conference room where my boss proceeded to tell me that while my work was good, I was basically “one dimensional.” When she first called me “one dimensional” I remember thinking “is this good?”  Does this mean I’m singularly focused and dedicated to the task at hand?  However as she continued to talk I quickly realized that being “one dimensional” was NOT a good thing.

So at the end of the review she asked me if I had any questions and I asked the only obvious question that came to mind . . . “how do I become less one dimensional?”  And this is where it gets good.  This is where you’re going to assume that I’m joking or exaggerating, but you need to know that I’m NOT AT ALL joking or exaggerating . . . and she said, “You can’t, because I’m not willing to teach you.  Call it unfair, but I call it job security on my part.”  And with that I got an $1,800 raise, and the meeting was over.

I quit that job in the middle of my next performance review (literally got up and walked out DURING the actual review . . . left my boss sitting at the conference room table), but I’ve never forgotten her comment regarding “job security.”  Though it was incredibly selfish I can see where she was coming from.  You can’t go around telling people all your trade secrets, and you can’t go around telling people how to do everything or eventually you may be replaced by the very person who you’ve trained.  You’ve got to have SOME talents that only YOU can do.  Otherwise what exactly do YOU bring to the table?

Which leads me to my current debate . . . do I really need my wife??  Does she have any job security in this relationship, and if so, what is it??  It seems to me that overall she’s made some potentially fatal decisions on her part.

For starters she’s shown me how to cook.  To be more specific, she’s shown me how to cook BOTH turkey tacos and bagel sandwiches.  This was NOT a good call on her part for I can pretty much live off of turkey tacos and bagel sandwiches.  I mean I literally could eat NOTHING BUT turkey tacos and bagel sandwiches, and six months ago I couldn’t make either.  In fact six months ago the two things I liked most about my wife were her boobs and her bagel sandwiches (actually in that order) . . . now all she has is the boobs.  I’m a bagel sandwich master chief.  In fact I’d put my bagel sandwiches up against hers any day of the week.  We need to have a bagel sandwich Iron Chief Competition.  I think I could win.  And my turkey tacos are to die for.  Now add to that the fact that I can order a pizza just as well as she can, and can drive myself to Burger King anytime I want, and I’m wondering whether I really need her in the kitchen at all??  She keeps telling me that she wants a bigger, newer, nicer and better kitchen and at this point I’m thinking of turning the kitchen into a game room.  All I need is a burner and a microwave.  The rest of it is wasted space.

Then there’s the whole homework thing with the kids.  I don’t know how to do any of it.  My son’s 4^th grade math might as well be written in Mandarin Chinese, and don’t get me started on my 7^th grade son’s homework.  I’m dumbfounded by it.  This is CLEARLY my wife’s area of expertise.  But somewhere along the way a funny thing happened. . . my 7^th grader got smart.  And I don’t know how because I’m two-thirds to a retard which pretty much trumps my wife’s higher IQ, but the little guy is smart and gets good grades doing his own work.  So not only does he not need a lot of help with homework, but any time my younger son needs help I just send him to see his brother.  Some kids get an allowance for making their beds or for walking the dog or for taking out the trash . . . I pay my 7^th grader to help my 4^th grader with homework.  I don’t get involved.  In fact they’re both better off if I don’t get involved.  Now do they occasionally need some assistance?  Sure.  And no doubt that’s where my wife comes in.  However, we bought a house (a house that she chose I might add) in a neighborhood filled with teachers.  My next door neighbor is a teacher.  The husband and wife who live right across the street are teachers, and another one of our good friends who’s just two blocks away is a teacher.  If the kid really needs help I’ll send him next door or across the street.  I don’t need my wife for this.

And I know what you’re thinking . . . how are you going to get sex without the wife. . . don’t be ridiculous . . the porn industry is a billion dollar a year industry for a reason . . . because people like having sex WITHOUT the wife every so often.  Because every so often you want to have sex without the romance.  Because every so often you want to have sex without worrying about whether your wife is “in the mood.”  Yeah, enter porn.

So okay, she brings home the bacon.  And works a lot and travels for work to support the family and pay the bills.   I get it, and I’m VERY grateful for her work ethic and her willingness to continue to do this day in and day out without complaint.  But I’m more concerned about what she does for me.  And I’ll say this . . . I think she probably needs to become a porn star in bed because she’s becoming a little one-dimensional here.  Then again, and in all fairness, I’m AT BEST one-dimensional, so I suppose two one-dimensional people add up to at least two dimensions, right?  I guess we’ll work on the whole 3D thing later.

A 40-Year Old Body

Few people dreaded their 40^th birthday as much as I did.  I was concerned that 40 would make me sound old.  I was concerned that somehow I was going to go to bed as a youthful looking 39-year old, and wake up the next day looking like an aging 40-year old (truth be told. . . . I wasn’t that youthful looking to start with . . . but still I was really worried about suddenly looking much older).  And I was concerned that my kids would start seeing me as some old dude . . . again, truth be told they already considered me to be an old dude.  I feared my 40^th birthday.

However, despite all of these concerns, the one thing I didn’t worry about was having my body turn against me.  I never gave that a thought.  Now, I knew my metabolism had slowed down, and I knew it was much easier for me to gain fat than gain muscle, and I knew my hair was receding a bit, but that had nothing to do with turning 40 . . . hell that had a lot more to do with turning 30!!  So though turning 40 worried me for all sorts of different reasons, my body shutting down was not on the list of things to worry about.

However as I now close in on my 41^st birthday, and look back on the year that was, I realize that my year as a 40-year old was all about my on-going fight with my own body.

For 39 years I went without a broken bone.  Well that’s not entirely true as I did break my collarbone when I was six trying to prove that my Superman costume would make me fly (jumped down the stairs, and broke my collarbone).  But that’s it, and that was 34 years ago.  So for 34 years, pretty much injury free.  Until this year.  A stress fracture in my right foot.  Granted not a clean break, but a fracture nonetheless, and due to . . . overuse . . . which means my everyday walking around and playing a little paddle caused a fracture in my foot.  Literally my body now breaks from just walking the dog around the block.  I spent 45 minutes in an MRI machine, and was outfitted with a stiff walking boot.

Though no one is going to tell you that I have perfect teeth (should have worn that lower retainer more than I did way back when) for the most part I’ve had nothing but a few cavities, the last of which probably came back in junior high. Until December, when I had a root canal.  It got so bad in the weeks leading up to the procedure that I was having horrible migraine-like headaches.  The dentist who performed the procedure said all four of the roots were infected.  He had to drill me with four different shots of Novocain, including one in the roof of my mouth.  I was drooling for two days.

I’ve never been particularly flexible, but when I hit 40, what little flexibility I had disappeared.  I now walk around the house asking the boys to scratch my back to get at the places I can’t reach.  And if they’re not home I’ll rub up against the wall to reach those areas.  I’m like a house cat rubbing up against the walls.  Well, a house cat with no flexibility.

And then there’s Little Clay.  He has turned on me more than any other body part.  I hit 40, and my dick pretty much decided to defect from the rest of my body.  There’s been an annexation in my crotch region.  From about the age of 17-30, Little Clay was ready and willing to go WHENEVER I needed him.  We were a two-man team on the same search and destroy mission.  We were best friends.  As I made my way through my mid and late 30’s Little Clay and I agreed upon a mutual slow down.  Now that’s not to say that we weren’t ready when called upon, we just accepted the fact that we weren’t going to be called upon as much as the wife was coming up with new excuses at an astonishing rate as to why she didn’t want Little Clay, and because the damn lock on our bedroom door doesn’t work . . . which has twice led to a very embarrassing encounter with our kids (spend six-figures on a home addition/renovation and get a new bedroom door that doesn’t lock, where’s the justice in that??).

But as I hit 40 something happened, Little Clay decided he had enough of being The Wing Man.  He was tired of being Goose, and instead he wanted to be Maverick.  And that’s not okay.  Only one dude can fly the plane.  Someone has to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, and take orders.  But I hit 40, and Little Clay decided to pull the ejector seat.  He’s become a one-man army, and he’s on HIS OWN MISSION on HIS OWN TIME!

For the first time ever he seems to be ready, when I’m not.  He’s ready at two in the afternoon when I’m walking the dog around the block.  And he’s ready when I’m sitting in my favorite breakfast spot reading the sports page and eating a bagel.  And he was ready two weeks ago when I came to my son’s elementary school to pick him up from the nurse who had called me to tell me my son was running a fever.  I had to sit in the school parking lot for 10 minutes just to get him under control.

And then there’s the times when I actually NEED HIM to be ready . . . and he’s not!!  Just a few weeks ago my wife gave me the sign that she was ready (which is her asking, “do you want to have sex?”- we’ve agreed to dummy-proof this as I’ve missed way too many less obvious signs over the years), and Little Clay was NOT in the mood.  I had to take him into the bathroom to have a little man-to-man with him.  “Damnit you’re better than this.  Don’t do this to me.  Man up here you son-of-a-bitch!  Don’t make me take that blue pill again.  That’s for old people.  The last time I took that I almost had to drive myself to the hospital because you wouldn’t go down.  Now come on!  She’s naked in there.  And she’s awake!  This won’t last.  Hell, she could be asleep already.  Come on!  You ever want to see porn again you better rise to the occasion.”

He did, but not for long.

I finally understand the commercials about being ready…but I’m not ready for that yet.  So I’ve decided that my 40-year-old body just needs to be handled differently.  I need to make sure I have good supportive shoes (according to Dr. Russo, who by the way is really cute); I need to brush and floss more and go to my six-month dental appointments; I probably need to stretch before playing paddle or any physical activity and maybe get a massage every so often; I know I need to eat more fruit and vegetables (but I probably won’t); and finally, I need to take advantage of the times Little Clay is ready.  Hopefully, my wife is home. Oh yeah, and fix the lock on the bedroom door.

Christmas . . . Upon Further Review

Okay now that the dust has cleared, and the presents have been unwrapped, and the first round of returns have been made, and the inevitable “talk” of being grateful for those things that we DID get as opposed to being upset over those things that we DID NOT get has been had, maybe it’s time to reflect on all things Christmas.  In fact more to the point, maybe it’s time to take a closer look at the Christmas holiday and ask ourselves whether it’s actually worth it.

Now I recognize that I’m bordering on being hypocritical or at the very least contradictory, as I have gone on record (including my last blog not more than a couple weeks ago) as saying Christmas is not only my favorite holiday, but the best holiday of the year.  But is it really?

Unfortunately, the thing I love most about Christmas is also the thing I despise most about it, and that is Christmas is not just December 25^th, but rather the ENTIRE MONTH of December.  Now that’s not all bad.  On the positive side I love the fact that we put our outdoor lights up in early December, and we “let ‘em burn” until early January.  And I love decorating the tree on one of those first December weekends.  And though I admit some of those holiday radio stations get a little annoying with their 24/7 of Christmas music programming, I do love all the Christmas songs that play throughout the month.  And I truly enjoy the buildup and the anticipation the kids feel as they count down the days until Christmas morning.  That’s all the good stuff.  That’s the stuff that I look forward to every year.

But on the flip-side we are left with outdoor lights that need to be taken down sometime in early January when the average temperature is hovering around 20.  And we are left with a dying tree in our living room which typically is considered a serious fire hazard by January 1st.  And we are left with a small debt after buying all the XBOX games and Lego sets and R/C cars.  Now I’m okay with all of that as I simply chalk that up to “the price you have to pay for a good time,” but it’s the other stuff that goes on during the month that may very well tip the scales against Christmas.

The Holiday Parties – They pretty much go for the entire month of December.  Whether it’s a friendly get-together, a larger themed Christmas party, or some stuffy office holiday party, if you’re not booked every weekend of December, you’re probably not particularly well liked.  And though my wife’s take on these holiday parties are “the more the merrier,” I couldn’t disagree more.  After the first holiday party I’ve pretty much seen everyone I want to see, and after the second holiday party I’ve pretty much told all the funny stories I have, and have heard all the funny stories other people have.  If I’m at a 3^rd holiday party, it is a safe bet that I’ve had sex within the last two hours, I’m there to eat your food, and I’ll probably drop a deuce in your master bathroom.

All the “Christmas-Like” things you plan on doing, but never do – Like drinking eggnog, or going to see the Zoo Lights or going downtown to see all the Macy’s Christmas windows, or having “family movie night” and watching It’s a Wonderful Life or a Christmas Story.  Every year I talk about these things as they all seem very “Christmas-like” to me.  Warm and fuzzy family stuff.  And yet we never do it.  The last time I had a glass of eggnog was when the neighbor a couple doors down brought me a glass of his homemade eggnog while I was taking out my garbage.  It was spectacular, and I spilled it while trying to jack-ass my recycling bin to the curb.  That was three years ago.  And we never make it down for Zoo Lights.  And the last time I saw the Macy’s windows it was called Marshall Field’s.  And to this day I’ve STILL NOT SEEN It’s a Wonderful Life or Christmas Story.  These are all things that sound good, and that I plan on doing, and yet never do (which means Christmas is scarily similar to my sex life . . .   I plan on having more sex . . . . it sounds good . . . and yet I never do).

The Presents – It’s not buying the presents that becomes a big hassle, but rather all the wrapping and the hiding them in places where the kids won’t find them that becomes a big pain in the ass.  They know we’re buying gifts, and they know it’s more fun to be surprised on Christmas morning, and yet kids will be kids, and they just can’t help themselves when it comes to trying to find the gifts.  I’m running out of places to hide them.  Frankly it’s getting the point where I’m not so sure I should hide them anymore.  Why bother?  Hell it’s probably tougher on them if I were to come home with a bundle of unwrapped gifts, put them under the tree for all the world to see, and say “Go ahead and look at them all you want, just don’t touch them until Christmas morning.”  Now THAT’S real torture.  It seems to me that this is pretty much exactly what my wife does with her boobs.  They’re there every day staring right back at me.  Just saying, “how you doing, big boy?”  And yet I don’t get to touch them.  Why shouldn’t the kids know my pain?

Listen, Christmas is a month-long holiday, and while I could make an argument that a holiday as grand as Christmas deserves a full month of celebration, it’s also the reason that most people feel hung-over after the Christmas holiday.  It’s a month that ends with the start of school and the start of work for most people, and we all tend to go overboard so we’re stressed and worried through most of it.  Every other holiday, whether it’s 4^th of July, Halloween or Thanksgiving is literally just one day.  Love it or hate it, it’s over in 24 hours.

So, is it worth the hype? On December 29, in the post-holiday hangover phase, I say maybe we tone it down a little next year…But I know that on December 1 next year I’ll be back on the Christmas bandwagon.

The Holiday Test . . . Christmas vs. The Other 2

It should come as no surprise to anyone who reads my blog regularly (and there are a few of you out there) that Christmas is without question my favorite holiday.  Actually, my small, but loyal following should know that I love Christmas, but don’t care much for Halloween and Thanksgiving.  However, this year I promised to give both Halloween and Thanksgiving a fair shake.  It wasn’t so much a New Year’s Resolution, but rather a personal promise I made to myself.  Then again, I guess that’s really all a New Year’s Resolution is, but I don’t make those.  Well actually I do, but I don’t follow through on those.  Every year I promise to lose weight, and then I don’t.  And I promise to have more sex, and then I don’t.  In all fairness that particular New Year’s Resolution requires my wife to have a similar kind of resolution, and she never does.  But this was the year that I was going to give “The Big Three” a fair shake.  So I came up with some categories that could be used for all three, and then an easy point system on a scale of 1-10.  At the end of the day I should be able to add things up, and figure out which holiday was the best . . . . though frankly this was all about who was playing for second.

First Category . . . The Real Meaning Behind the Holiday:

Halloween – Right off the bat Halloween is in trouble.  This isn’t a real holiday.  We’re not celebrating ANYTHING!  From what I can tell it’s some sort of an old Pagan holiday in which they celebrated the dead.  Halloween gets a 2.

Thanksgiving – A day of thanks started by the Pilgrims who feasted for three days to “thank God” for their safe passage to the new world.  I guess this is better than a Pagan ritual honoring the dead, but in my book, not by much.  Thanksgiving gets a 4.

Christmas – It’s only the birth of Christ celebrated by billions of people around the world.  Seriously, do we really need to discuss this further?  Anyone want to lobby for the Pagan holiday?  Anyone?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  Christmas gets a 10.

Second Category . . . What does the holiday actually mean to the “everyday person:”

Halloween – It’s a day for kids to dress up in costume and trick-or-treat.  Okay, this is sorta cool.  Certainly kids love it, and as a parent I enjoy seeing all the kids in their costumes.  It is also the one day of the year you have a shot at your wife willingly dressing like a hooker.  Though Halloween afternoon is for the kids, Halloween night is for the adults, and the outfits many of the ladies wear out are OVER THE TOP!  Actually I am convinced that more marriages would be saved if wives would dress up at home for their husbands the way they dress up on Halloween night.  It’s spectacular and it’s only on October 31^st.  Halloween gets a solid 7.

Thanksgiving – It’s turkey dinner with the family.  The only thing that makes this day AT ALL tolerable is the NFL.  In fact I am convinced that football has overtaken baseball and basketball as the most popular pro sport in North America because they have single-handedly made Thanksgiving somewhat fun.  Without the NFL I have turkey, my mom, and my sister’s kids (ALL of whom I love, but the combination of all three is at times trying).  Thanksgiving gets a 4 (and it would be a 2 without football).

Christmas – It’s a fat, jolly guy with a beard breaking into our house and leaving us presents.  What’s not to like . . . well I mean other than the whole home invasion thing.  Okay so there’s no Santa.  Fine.  It’s actually an expensive holiday that I wind up paying for well into January, but it’s an entire month’s worth of build up for the kids, many of whom still believe in the fat, jolly guy (and that’s priceless), and pretty much the single greatest “family morning” of the year.  Nothing beats Christmas morning when the kids come down to see all the gifts under the tree.  We don’t take a lot of home movies, but we have videotaped EVERY Christmas morning since our kids were born because Christmas morning is AWESOME!!  However, I recognize that not everyone celebrates this holiday, so that is a problem.  So as a result of this holiday not being all-inclusive I’m giving Christmas a 7 (but it would be a 10 if everyone celebrated it).

Third Category . . . The Holiday Food:

Halloween – Candy.  This holiday is built around candy.  He who collects the most candy wins.  What’s not to like?  It’s genius.  Candy.  Maybe some caramel apples.  Maybe some of those popcorn ball things.  Who knows?  But it’s all about sugar.  Halloween gets a 10.

Thanksgiving – Turkey.  Stuffing.  Cranberry sauce.  Sweet potatoes.  Pumpkin pie.  AWFUL!!  First of all, why do people get so giddy over turkey??  It’s not a special meal.  I have turkey year round.  I have turkey tacos almost once a week.  I have turkey sandwiches for lunch all the time.  And you know what I get when I go to Jimmy John’s. . . . the #4 . . . . turkey sandwich with cheese.  It’s turkey.  Who cares?  Big deal.  And don’t tell me it’s “not the same thing.”  IT’S TURKEY!!  It’s all coming from the same, dumb, ugly, flightless bird.  People should be more excited about the stuffing and cranberry sauce as that stuff is definitely more seasonable.  Thanksgiving gets a 4 at best.

Christmas – I don’t know, ham maybe?  Frankly Christmas is a hodge-podge of food.  I guess ham is a traditional Christmas dish, but who knows?  All I’ll say is I think there’s at least a little more flexibility with Christmas dinner than with Thanksgiving which HAS TO BE turkey and stuffing.  At the end of the day it’s still not going to beat full-sized Reese Peanut Butter Cups.  Christmas gets a 5.

Fourth and Final Category . . . Holiday Decorations:

Halloween – Fog machines.  Orange and green lights outside your house.  Carved pumpkins.  And make-shift grave yards on your front lawn.  Pretty much anything that may scare the hell out of some unsuspecting 10-year old.  Now, I could do without the squirrels going to town on my pumpkins days after I put them out, and any of you who have had to cart a rotting pumpkin from your front porch to your garbage knows just how gross that can be, but overall the decorations for Halloween are pretty cool.  Halloween gets a 7.

Thanksgiving – Nothing.  Literally not a damn thing.  You pull out your finest china flatware and sterling silver utensils . . . all of which has to be hand-washed later . . . and maybe you use cloth napkins . . . which should not go in the dryer . . . trust me I speak from experience on that one. . . and that’s about it.  Thanksgiving gets a 1.

Christmas – I don’t know where to start.  How about a seven-foot Fraser Fur with ornaments in my living room (though I’ve had the dog twice pee on the tree).  How about wreaths.  Garland.  Santa and Frosty the Snowman pillows and figurines and coffee mugs.  How about 1,000 LED lights outside my house telling the world that I love this holiday.  I could go on, and I won’t even get into the Christmas cards that everyone sends out and all the Christmas music that everyone listens to (no one sends out Thanksgiving cards or listens to Thanksgiving music).  Christmas gets a 10.

So in the end Halloween finished with a respectable 26.

Thanksgiving finished dead last with a pitiful 13.

And not surprisingly Christmas finished with 32.

Frankly it was closer than I thought.  I guess candy and wives dressing like hookers is inching closer to Santa and the birth of Jesus.  All that being said, I think next year we take a family trip during Thanksgiving and avoid it altogether.  And I’ve decided to stop hating Halloween – it’s not so bad.  But I’m still all about Christmas.  Bring it on!

If I Die Young

I’m happy to report that I’ve never truly had my “life flash before my eyes,” nor have I ever felt regret over the things that I never accomplished in life, and may not get the chance to do.

Sure there was that one time about 10 years ago when my brakes pretty much gave out on my crappy Pontiac while I was driving about 60 on the highway.  All of a sudden the car in front of me jammed on the brakes.  Of course I too immediately jumped on my brakes, but my car did not stop.  Instead I hurtled towards the rear bumper of the car in front of me.  I wound up jerking the car onto the shoulder where I came to a complete stop a full two car lengths ahead of the car that was originally in front of me.  It was a scary situation, and had the shoulder not been available to me I would have clearly impaled my car onto his.  As I was pushing the brake pedal to the floor with both feet all I could think about was not having had sex for two weeks.  I was going to die, and I was pissed that it had been two full weeks since I last had sex.  That’s the thought that flashed before my eyes.

And yeah, there was that time I thought I had gotten trapped in the YMCA steam shower with three naked men.  Turns out the door was just stuck, but seriously there was a real feeling of regret on my end.  Granted it was mostly regret that THIS was how I would be found . . . dead with three hairy naked dudes in a small steam shower at the local YMCA . . . . seriously that’s not good . . . but other than that, not a whole lot of regret and not too many instances of my life flashing before my eyes.

Until recently that is.  The headaches started about a month ago.  At first they weren’t too bad, and I chalked them up to stress.  Some extra strength migraine medicine seemed to help, so I didn’t think much of it.  But then the headaches got worse, and the migraine medicine wasn’t helping anymore.  Then the neck pains started.  Then I started realizing that I was uncontrollably grinding my teeth, and as a result my jaw hurt.  I couldn’t stop.  I actually went out and purchased a football mouth guard.  I’d sit around chewing on it like it was some chew toy.  I wound up chewing a hole right through it.  Everything from my neck up hurt.

My worst fears had finally been realized. . . . my life style had finally caught up to me.  The pizza, and the bacon cheeseburges, and the zebra cakes, and the bagel sandwiches had finally done me in.  I was dying.  So I did what any logical person would do . . . I diagnosed myself with an inoperable brain tumor.  I gave myself six months to live (which really is very disappointing since my “Death Clock” had me dying on November 21, 2044 . . . boy they were off by A LOT).  But no time to wallow in self-pity . . . well no more than usual at least. . . . seriously my hairline is receding, I’m 2-5 on the paddle season, and my wife’s recent raise was as much as my ENTIRE yearly salary . . . trust me there’s some self pity going on even without this brain tumor.

But first up was making sure I had a “support group” of good friends who would look in on my wife and kids from time to time to make sure that they would be okay.  I’ve got a fair amount of life insurance so financially I think my wife is fine (hell I’m worth A LOT MORE dead than alive), but I needed to make sure that after her friends stopped bringing over dinners, and after the sympathy cards stopped coming that she would have a small, but dedicated group of friends checking in on her.  And not female friends.  I know my wife has plenty of those, and no doubt they’d all step up to help her, but I needed some guys checking in to make sure that the “manly stuff” was taken care of.  I need someone making sure the disposal is still working, and that the gutters are cleaned, and that the electrical wiring is up to code . . . okay actually none of those things are good examples, as I don’t do any of that stuff now.  I’m not even sure I know where my fuse box is located.  Haven’t seen it in years.  Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did see it.  But seriously, I need someone throwing balls to my kids so that they can work on their bat speed, and I need someone taking over my fantasy football team.  And I need someone playing Madden 2012 with the boys.  The important stuff.  I need that taken care of when I’m gone.

So I narrowed it down to four good pals (there were originally five, but one of my good buddies is currently growing opium and distilling his own whiskey in his backyard, so I dropped him from the list), and then sent an email to one of them telling him of my plan and of his impending responsibilities.  After a handful of emails from him with the subject line “You’re a Moron,” I got him to agree to this plan.

Next, I needed to figure out how long I wanted my wife to wait before she hooked up with another man.  After seeing the Tom Hanks’ movie Castaway, we agreed that if I were ever lost (in a plane crash, boating accident, Columbian Drug Cartel kidnapping, WHATEVER) she needed to wait a full five years before she could officially sleep with another man.  Hey, it took Hanks four years to get off that island, and he could sail.  I once lost an R/C boat on a lake after I drove it out of range. I had to jump in and swim after it . . . trust me, I need an extra year.  But I wasn’t sure how long she needed to wait after I had died?  Five years seems too long.  She knows I’m dead.  There’s no search and rescue here.  And yet I need some serious mourning.  Two years.  She can start dating in 18 months, but she needs to wait two full years before sleeping with someone.  If I had to wait six months to sleep with her after we started dating, then SO DOES THE NEXT GUY!

And finally, I needed a second opinion.  Maybe it’s not a brain tumor.  Maybe I jumped to a conclusion without thinking of another realistic possibility.  Brain tumor is worst case scenario.  Best case scenario is something like . . . . let’s see. . . . head hurts, mouth is sore, cold liquids sting my teeth, lower neck is tender, last went to the dentist in ’09 . . . I’m going with root canal.  Why not?  After all my body is a finely tuned machine.  It’s a precise instrument.  A weapon.  I know it like I know the back of my hand.  I can tell you when I’m getting sick a week before the first symptoms show up.  Don’t let the receding hair line, and the ever-expanding gut, and the freakishly short arms, and the pathetic flexibility throw you off.  I’m a freaking spider monkey on crack.

Sure enough, after a quick visit to the dentist, I need a root canal.  The dentist assures me that once I’ve gotten it taken care of I’ll “feel a lot better.”  Most people are devastated to hear they need a root canal.  I was ecstatic.  The woman at the front desk looked at me like I was crazy.  But hey, a root canal is a lot better than brain tumor.

Fantastic.  Now I just need to get my right foot checked out.  Because I’ve either got a stress fracture or foot cancer.  My life’s still not flashing before my eyes . . . but it was close there for a second.

Life Lessons for My Son . . . Or Maybe Not

When my wife and I started having kids we agreed on a few ground rules.  We agreed that I would handle all vomit clean-up duties, thanks to my complete lack of smell (not sure what happened there, literally I can’t smell shit . . . no joke . . . can’t smell shit).  We also agreed that we would accept any free offers of babysitting.  If a friend or a grandparent or a sibling wanted to babysit because they simply needed “to see the little guy,” we’d gladly accept.  I don’t care if it was for three hours in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, we would hand the kid over.  My in-laws even took the baby to Mississippi and Minnesota without us.  The more free time we could get with one another, the better.  We agreed that my wife was not allowed to dress them in “prissy boy” outfits.  No sailor suits.  No knickers.  No suspenders.  Just dress the kid “normal.”  And we agreed that when the time came, my wife would handle all homework duties.  After all, she was the brains of the operation, and I was the guy who somehow managed to graduate from high school without completing the necessary two years of a foreign language.  Yeah, still not sure how they missed that, but I got out of there with just one year of foreign language.  To this day I still brag about it . . . so you
see what I mean about HER being the brains of the operation.

And now that we’ve got a son in the 7^th grade and another one in the 4^th grade, our decision is looking more and more spot on.  I can honestly say that I could NOT pass the 7^th grade.  Hell, I could barely pass the 4^th grade.  My kids bring home school work on an everyday basis that might as well be written in Mandarin.  I have no idea what they’re doing.

However, every once in awhile they come home with an English assignment that I can take on.  It may be a paper to write or a book report to complete, and that’s when I can at least offer up my services.

So when my oldest son came home with an assignment to write a paper offering some life lessons, I jumped at the chance to help.  Granted he didn’t ask me for help, but I’m going to offer anyway.  Are you kidding me?  A paper about life lessons.  No real wrong or right answers.  Just your opinions on what lessons or advice you’d give to someone . . . good lord . . . move over and let magic flow . . . .

Here’s what I’m going to tell him:

• Monogamy is hard.  Frankly they probably should have found a better word as “monogamy” sounds a lot like “monotony,” but that all being said, monogamy is not easy, but it’s worth it.  Don’t forget that, and work hard at it.
• You’re going to get to the point where you know you need to lose 10 pounds, but you won’t.  Hell, you won’t lose two pounds let alone 10 pounds, but you’ll walk around knowing you need to lose 10 pounds, and pretty soon it’s 20 and you have no idea how you got so fat.
•  You’re also going to get to the point where you know you’re under-sexed.  You know you need more sex, hell just a little more sex would do, but you won’t get more.  You just know you need more.
•  Some day you’re going to stop wanting to be Albert Pujols or Derek Jeter or Josh Hamilton and instead you’re going to want to be Theo Epstein or Josh Byrnes or Andrew Friedman.  That’s right, there will come a time when you stop fantasizing about hitting the game winning home run, and start fantasizing about being the short, well-dressed, fairly unathletic President of Baseball Operations instead.
•  And this will be right around the time when you stop fantasizing about 20-year-old girls in short skirts, and instead start fantasizing about 40-year-old moms in jogging shorts and a sweatshirt.  I know, you don’t think it’s going to happen, but it will.
•  If you want to avoid crashing your computer or infecting your email account, you may want to avoid visiting websites with the name “Naughty” in it.  This includes, but is not limited to Naughty School Teachers.  Naughty Nurses.  Naughty House Wives.  Naughty Girl Scout Leaders (I know, I know, just awful).  Naughty America (I know, very general, and not very specific, and yet NOT good).  Naughty Athletes (the “breast stroke” and the “dismount” mean something TOTALLY different to these athletes), and of course Naughty Students (and no, I’m not talking about my son Jack and his friend Grant).
•  You also may want to avoid opening any email from someone telling you that a long-lost relative has left you a boat-load of money.  Don’t respond, just erase it.  If you’ve actually got a “long-lost relative” they’ve been long-lost for a reason . . . they don’t want to have any contact with you let alone leave you a boat-load of money.  My own father doesn’t want to give me any money, let alone some long-lost uncle twice removed on my mother’s side.
•  And while we’re on the subject of computers and the Internet, when you need new gym shoes just go to Dick’s Sporting Goods.  Don’t make the mistake of going to dicks.com.  It’s NOT a sporting goods website.  It’s actually EXACTLY what you think it is, and IT AIN’T PRETTY!!!
• The reason a Ferrari looks so damn cool is because it costs more than a house.  On the flip side, the reason a Nissan Versa looks so crappy is because it costs slightly less than a pack of gum.  Just like Elle MacPherson is smoking hot, and you’re never going to have sex with her.  Whereas you could probably pick up the chick in the McDonald’s drive-through window . . . . driving a Nissan   Versa.
•  And finally, The Kinks front man, Ray Davies, wrote the hit song The Hard Way after a teacher kept him after class once and told him that if he didn’t shape up and apply himself he’d have to go through life learning things “The Hard Way.”  Davies dropped out of school a few years later to start the band.  The Kinks went on to have 17 top 20 hits, five top 10 records, and they were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2005.  It’s estimated that the band made more than $40 million dollars over their career.  I, too, once had a teacher tell me that if I didn’t apply myself I’d have a tough time later in life.  Unlike Davies, I stayed in school, and here I sit with a migraine.  Well, I wasn’t a talented musician, nor did I have a baby out of wedlock with Chrissie Hynde.  What’s the life lesson there you ask . . . sometimes you just have to follow your dreams and sometimes you have to learn things the hard way.

You know, on second thought maybe I won’t offer to help him with this assignment.  He probably can do this one without me.  I don’t want him to get kicked out of 7^th grade.

But being a Rock Star when you grow up . . . that’s really good advice.

The 16-Year Wedding Anniversary

My wife complains that I’m not particularly romantic.  Actually she’s never used those exact words, but she does like to remind me that I don’t send her flowers anymore (I used to do this much more often).  Of course I jumped on that immediately and downloaded the song ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore’ onto the iPod (the Barbara Streisand/Neil Diamond version . . . you’d be surprised how many versions of this song there are) but she was not amused.

At the end of the day she’s probably right, some of the romance that we used to have is gone.  It’s not that I love her any less, but I think it’s just part of life, and that is to say that “LIFE” seems to get in the way of your relationship.

It’s like the whole date night thing.  Before we had kids my wife and I wouldn’t even schedule anything, we’d just go out.  Drinks.  Dinner.  A movie. Sometimes drinks, dinner AND a movie.  Whatever.  Basically, we’d just go out and play the whole night by ear.  We didn’t care whether we got home at 9:00 PM or 2:30 AM.  If the plan was to see a movie, and yet for whatever reason we didn’t catch the movie, who cares, we’d just go see it the next day or the next weekend.  We seldom had a “date night agenda.”  Maybe we’d see a movie, and maybe we wouldn’t. Maybe we’d meet up with friends, and maybe we wouldn’t.  It didn’t matter because you knew you could do whatever it was that you missed out on the very next day.  Worst case scenario you’d do it the following weekend.

Of course date night, like a lot of things, changed as soon as we had kids.  And I’m not talking about the little baby stage where you were too damn tired to even go out in the
first place.  Where catching up on some much-needed sleep was your idea of a good Saturday night, or where you’d rush through dinner just to get back home because you weren’t sure the babysitter could handle the baby if he woke up and needed to eat (you know because feeding a baby is rocket science, and my wife and I were the only two people who could get this done . . . our first child ate anything and everything. . . he
literally would have eaten a spoonful of dirt had you fed it to him . . . and yet on more than one occasion I know my wife and I rushed back from some date night just to get home in time to feed him).

And I’m also not talking about the transition from using a “real babysitter” to using your 12-year old son who may or may not lock his little brother in a closet just for shits and giggles.  For at the end of the day kids themselves don’t ruin date nights, it’s all the stuff that the kids do that ruins date night.  Baseball and soccer games.  Ski trips.
Sleepovers.  Stomach flu.  Colds.  And so on.

My wife and I still go on date nights, we just don’t go on nearly as many as we used to, and more often than not we find that our date nights are cut short in some way, shape or form.  Rarely do we “do” both dinner and a movie.  And we almost NEVER do drinks, dinner and a movie.  Long date nights have definitely become a thing of the past.

So I decided I was going to put a little romance back into our relationship, and turn our 16-year wedding anniversary into one, big, long date night.  Nothing over-the-top special (I wasn’t going to whisk her away to Paris for the night), but something that
would rekindle our “glory” days before we were worried about making an 8:00 AM
soccer game in Elgin on Sunday morning.

First things first, I did a little research into the significance of celebrating your 16-year wedding anniversary.  What’s the traditional gift?  What type of flower do you give?  Is there anything extra special about this year?  I did a fair amount of Internet research, and realized that wedding anniversaries are a lot like birthdays . . . there are certain ones you get excited for, and celebrate, and there are other ones where you just basically pat yourself on the back and keep grinding away.  The 16-year wedding anniversary is sorta like turning 23 . . . no one cares.

According to multiple websites that are dedicated to wedding anniversaries the traditional gift for your 16-year anniversary is NOTHING.  The modern gift is silver hollowware (like I know what that is, though I did find some for sale on eBay), and the
traditional flower is . . . again nothing.

The next order of business was finding someone to take my kids for the night so that my wife and I did not have to rush back from whatever exciting activities that we were doing.  I was able to find friends willing to take the boys, though I did have to call in my mom at the last minute to stay with my oldest son who unfortunately developed a cold just days before our anniversary.  I think it goes without saying that kids can develop colds and flus in a matter of hours if they have a test the next day or if their mom and dad want to go out for the night.

After that I started looking for restaurants in the downtown area.  Though I’m not a big fan of traveling downtown (the big city scares me), I know it’s where she’d want to go, so the big city it was.  So I went to Yelp.com and started searching good restaurants.  The top five restaurants that came up were Alinea, Chicago Pizza Tours, Les Nomades, Next and Girl & The Goat.  So basically I had:

#1 – A restaurant whose name I can’t pronounce.

#2 – The CLEAR front runner, but probably not something that will earn me the kind of brownie points I’m looking for.

#3 – Another name which I can’t pronounce.

#4 – Next . . . . . right, Next.

#5 – And something that sounds an awful lot like a bad porn movie I saw awhile back.

Unfortunately this whole 16-year anniversary thing was proving to be more difficult than I had anticipated, and maybe 15 years ago I would have kept banging away until I got it absolutely perfect.  But the fact of the matter is life just gets in the way, and sometimes you don’t have enough time to get it all done, or get it all done the way you had hoped.  So I did what any “normal” person would do, and sent my wife the following email:

Babe,

I wanted to do something really special and fun for our 16-year wedding anniversary, but I’ve failed miserably.  I’ve been unable to set up a single thing, so I need you to put this together.  I’m open to pretty much anything, but just in case you, too, are struggling to come up with ideas, here’s what I DO NOT want to do for our anniversary:

• Sky Dive
• Bungee Jump
• Sing Karaoke
• Have Sex With a Man
• Have Sex With a Farm Animal
• Couples Massage
• Wine Tasting
• Ride a Roller Coaster
• Deer Hunt from a Tree Stand
• Watch Movies Pre 1985 (other than Jaws or Star Wars)
• Pedicure/Manicure
• Couples Paddle
• Shopping for Home Decorations
• Spend Time in a Car With Our Youngest Son and His Friends

Love, me.

P.S.  I’ve managed to invite my mom to spend the night at our house on our anniversary, so we may want to think about spending the night elsewhere.

My wife, of course, can plan events in her sleep, and it took her all of five minutes to make hotel, dinner and brunch reservations.  Champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries were waiting for us in the room.

I, of course, forgot the flowers.

549 Days as a Kept Man are Over

Well it’s official, my days as a kept man are over.  That’s right, after 549 days as being unemployed, I am heading back to work.  My highly illegal non-compete is finally over, and I am gainfully employed yet again.  I have found someone to give me both a job and a weekly paycheck.  I know, trust me, I’m as surprised by this as you are.  But I went back to work this past Monday, and frankly, it was a little bittersweet.  After all, what started as doom and gloom over 18 months ago blossomed into a very unique opportunity.  Not too many people in their late 30’s and early 40’s get a chance to take a step back from the rat race and do the things that make them happy. 

I got to spend a ton of time with my boys.  I helped coach both of their house league and travel league baseball teams.  I spent a lot of time writing.  In the last 18 months I’ve written and posted over 80 blogs, and have started no less than six different books (and three of those books have made it past page 10).  And I ran hundreds of errands during this time, and though I certainly don’t love running to the dry cleaners or to the pharmacy or to the grocery store, the result of me running those errands during the week was more quality time with my wife during the weekends, so that was great.

Now, not all of this will end, as my new job allows me to work much of the time at home, so I’m sure you’ll still see me at the dry cleaners on some Wednesday afternoon, and you’ll still see me in the dugout for baseball games, but no doubt I’ll have less time to do some of that stuff.  And that’s okay, because after 549 days without a job, it’s time to start earning some money again. 

But before I get too wrapped up in the new job, I did want to send out a few “Thank You’s” to a handful of people who have helped make the last 18 months possible. 

My Wife – Thank you for supporting the family for the last 18 months.  You are an amazing woman, and without you, we’d be living in a tent somewhere.  And thanks for not once coming home to have sex with me on some random weekday afternoon.  You showed me that nothing good happens on a Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon when you’re at home.  That was probably an important lesson for me to learn.

To my dog Rocky – Thank you for keeping me on a schedule with our daily walks.  I’m a big believer in routines, and you definitely kept us on a set routine.  Of course I could have done without you peeing all over the bed . . . . while I was in it. . . . I said I wasn’t feeling good, I just needed some extra rest . . . . but maybe I’d still be in bed without you.

To my Mom – Thank you for reminding me EVERY TIME we saw one another, spoke with one another or emailed one another that I was in fact unemployed and not making any money.  Some might consider this CONSTANT reminder to be bordering on harassment or at the very least, brutal honesty, but I know it’s simply your way of reminding me that you love me.  Thanks.

To Best Buy – Thank you for posting an ad looking for a part-time sales person to sell Play Station 3 game systems.  I have read hundreds of help-wanted ads, and NEVER have I come across a job description that better suits me.  And thank you Best Buy for NOT hiring me for this job.  You have reminded me that no matter how low you are . . . . you can always sink lower.

And a final thanks to my oldest son, who upon hearing that I had gotten a job said, “Really, you got a job?  Someone hired you?  Well, I guess that means Christmas is going to be good this year.”  So thanks Chase, I appreciate your ability to boost my ego, as well as keep the bigger picture in mind.

And to all of the men who were jealous of my situation for the last 18 months, I’m back in your shoes.  The daily grind.  The dog-eat-dog world.  The hamster cage.  But hey, I can relate to your world again.  And at least when you ask me about my day I can talk about something other than carpools. 

And for my 10 loyal readers, don’t worry – I won’t forget about you. Clay’s Day will continue.  I figure working just gives me some new content.  And believe me, the world of mechanical insulation provides a lot more interesting content than you would think.  Just you wait.

My Advice Column

My wife continues to hound me to write a book.  Awhile ago she was hounding me to write a blog, and now that I’ve done that she’s hounding me to turn the blog into some sort of a book.  I love my wife.  She’s my biggest fan and biggest cheerleader.  Frankly her confidence that the book would be a success is not only inspiring, but amazing.  After all she just finished a book about Ernest Hemingway and she tells me that Hemingway’s work was rejected repeatedly (for like three straight years) until someone finally published one of his short stories.  And yet she continues to encourage me to write this book.  My wife really is amazing.  Well either that or she needs a serious reality check.  Unfortunately I’m pretty sure it’s the latter of the two, which is why I haven’t really started on this book.

Actually the bigger issue with writing this book is the topic.  My plan is to write a book about my year as an unemployed, stay-at-home dad who turns 40 (it’s a book about misery), but I’m not so sure anyone other than my mother would read it.  What I need to write is an advice book.  Some sort of a self-help book kind of thing.  Every day I watch Matt Lauer on the Today Show interview some new writer who’s written an advice or self-help book.  Someone writes a book about raising kids, and suddenly they’re a published author and on the Today Show.  Someone writes a book about improving your self esteem and suddenly they’re published and talking to Matt Lauer.  Hell not long ago I saw someone being interviewed on the Today Show after he published a book telling people to stop being stupid.  While I love his overall message I’m not sure the guy should have gotten national coverage for it.

Of course I’d write this self-help book if I just had some good advice to give.  But as I’ve said in my blogs before, “who the hell am I to give advice?”  I’m just a regular guy.  An average Joe married with children.  A putz.  No different than anyone else.

Wait a minute:

When you find your wife standing topless in front of the bathroom mirror complaining that her boobs have gotten too big, and some of her shirts aren’t fitting right, here’s what you should NOT do:

#1 – Don’t say “well now they’re proportional to the rest of you.”   

#2 – Don’t say “what are you complaining about?  Do you realize how excited I’d be if I woke up tomorrow and my dick was suddenly bigger?”  Though your intentions here are good, it’s not at all helping.

#3 – Don’t say “you’re right, they’re huge, can I play with them?” 

Then again, if you do want to offer some encouraging words, try something like this:

#1 – “Babe I’m sorry you’re unhappy with your looks, but I think you’re gorgeous.”  Surprisingly this won’t help much as she’ll accuse you of simply wanting to play with her boobs (yes, it’s scary how well they know us), but at least this type of comment won’t get you into trouble.

#2 – Or you could go all out and say something like this “hey if it will make you feel better why don’t you go out and buy a few new tops.”  Sure you’re now out a quick $500, but hopefully your wife is feeling better, and will let you see her boobs again later that night.

No matter what sport your son or daughter plays, let them play for other coaches.  Though I am all for volunteering your time to help coach your kid’s baseball or soccer or football team, it is important for your kids to have other coaches.  Each coach, good or bad, has SOMETHING to offer. 

#1 – Maybe it’s simply a little life lesson. 

#2 – Or maybe it’s a new tip or trick on how to turn a double play or how to create separation from a defender. 

#3 – Maybe it’s a different philosophy on how to play the game. 

#4 – If nothing else your kids will learn how to handle themselves differently when their dad isn’t in the dugout or on the sidelines, and trust me they all need to learn that. 

Hotel sex is fantastic.  I’m convinced hotel beds just make people horny.  I don’t know why?  Maybe it’s because lots of people have had sex in that bed before you, and many will have sex in that bed after you.  Maybe it’s just because a hotel room is not your house.  You can relax, unwind and if you choose, become someone else.  I think it’s why so many people like getting away with their spouse even if it’s just for a couple nights.  A few nights in a hotel room will do wonders for your marriage.  But guys need to be realistic when it comes to just how much sex they’re really going to get while away with their wives.  Because unrealistic expectations can ruin what should have been a fantastic getaway vacation.  I call it my hotel sex rule of thumb.   

#1 – Figure out how many times you’d like to have sex while staying in the hotel with your wife, and multiply that number by two.  Now of course you should be somewhat realistic here, but for instance if you’re shooting for three times, tell your wife as the two of you are making the hotel reservations that you want to have sex six times.  Obviously there’s no chance in hell you’re going to get laid six times, but you’ve probably got a legitimate shot at getting it three times.  Heck if you’re gone for an entire week, tell her you want to have sex eight times.  You’ll probably get it four times, and that’s one hell of a vacation, my friend.

#2 – Regardless of how long you’re going for and regardless of whether you’re staying at the Holliday Inn or the Ritz Carlton, DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell her you want to have sex 10 or more times.  Double digit sex requests are stupid and detrimental to the entire vacation.  Unless your wife is a porn star she does not want to hear the number 10 before or after the word “sex.”  EVER!  Even if you’re really shooting for five times, you still cannot use the number 10.  So cap it at eight, and then shoot for four times, with the outside chance of playing “extra innings” during your last night in the hotel.

Though I am still convinced that my wife’s book group is nothing more than a “girls night out” or a “wine club,” (she argues that it’s the same thing as my fantasy football draft . . . yet half the girls who come to these book groups don’t even read the book . . . you know what happens if a guy shows up to his fantasy football draft unprepared. . . he basically gets beaten. . . both literally and figuratively), I green light them, and I urge all other guys to do the same.  You see two things happen at these “book group” outings:

#1 – The ladies drink a lot of wine. 

#2 – They gossip and talk about each other’s husbands

The end result is my wife usually comes home from these things at least a little tipsy and feeling good knowing that her husband is not the only one who forgot to pick up the kids from soccer practice, or who plugged up the toilet at 2:00 AM . . . and then didn’t bother to plunge it until the next morning . . . yeah it smelled pretty bad. . . and who put an aluminum container into the microwave.  Usually book group nights end well for me, so fellas I suggest you nod and smile when your wife tells you she’s going to book group.

Well maybe this book thing will work out after all.  There’s at least one good chapter right there.  Of course I have nothing else, but maybe I’ll call it a short story.  After all that’s how Hemingway got started, right?  And oh yeah, going back to that whole thing about finding your wife topless complaining about her boobs. . . . the other thing you probably shouldn’t do is walk directly into the bathroom and grab them.  But hey, what do I know.