My Summer Recap

Once again summer has come to an end.  Well, okay, summer still has three weeks left (I consider it to be over on Labor Day), and the daily temps will stay quite “summer like” for at least that long, but summer sports are over, fall sports are starting, and the kids all have their school schedules in hand and head back to class this week.  Summer is over.

Which means my family and I will sit around the dining room table the night before school starts to have our traditional “End of Summer” talk.  We do this every year, and it’s pretty much our way of recapping everything we did this past summer, mostly to remind the kids that they HAVE in fact had a VERY nice summer.  This is especially important to do as my kids, like I suspect many other kids on the final night before school starts again, are like Dead Men Walking.  So we talk about everything we did over the summer to remind them that it really was pretty kick-ass. 

We actually try to do the same thing during the weeknight family dinners we have with our “What Did You Do Today” talks to remind them that they actually did have great days (and to find out what they have been doing).  Often times those don’t work out as well as hoped, as my older son usually responds with “I did nothing today, and I learned nothing,” and my younger son always starts out with “I woke up, went to the bathroom and took a piss.”  My wife and I are actually debating whether to put an end to family dinners and simply let everyone eat in front of the TV. 

But the “End of Summer” talks are usually filled with lots of pleasant memories.  Of course only the boys recap their summers, as no one wants to hear how Mom directed a Satellite Media Tour or developed a press release or how Dad converted linear footage into square footage so that he could generate a price for mechanical insulation . . . . . well when I had a job that’s what I did . . . . so I thought I’d recap my summer right here for all of you.

Little League Baseball – Helped coach both my sons’ house league and travel league teams, including seven games in Cooperstown, NY, and in all probably coached close to 80 games.  I got into two arguments with coaches during the year and one of them was our own head coach, went to the wrong field twice, and have developed such an impressive farmer’s tan that I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed by it or post pictures of it on the Internet.  All I’ll say is that if you ever wondered what someone would look like after wearing golf-shirts, ankle socks and basketball shorts outside in the sun for four straight months, look no further.  I also have fallen in love with medicated body powder (after having been introduced to it through other coaches), and in fact credit it with saving my groin area from serious, life-threatening chafing.  Unfortunately I’ve become addicted to it and can’t stop using it.  I’m writing this blog while sitting in a small pool of body powder.  It’s wonderful.

Daily Walks with the Dog – Must have walked 100 miles this summer with the dog.  Of course he got fleas somewhere along the way, and it cost me over $200 for the vet to confirm this and to prescribe the proper medication, but we did go on a lot of walks.  I also lost him for a brief moment in the North Branch of the Chicago River, but I did find him downstream minutes later. 

Endured Two Different Power Outages – The first of which lasted three full days, and forever changed the way I operate my garbage disposal.  Since that power outage I now run the disposal even if there’s a piece of bread crust in there.  I will NEVER leave food in there again.  After three days of wet, rotting food sitting in the disposal . . . . well let me say that the smell coming out of there was as impressive as my farmer’s tan.

Tempted Fate on New York Interstate 90 – On our way home from our trip to Cooperstown, my son accidentally lost his new baseball hat out the window while we were driving 75 mph down I-90.  We had spent hours in downtown Cooperstown looking for this particular hat the day before.  So of course I pulled over and started running down the shoulder after the hat.  Though I was successful in retrieving the hat, I was buzzed a number of times by large trucks and very fast moving cars, most of which were honking their horns at me.  One guy flipped me off.  It didn’t hit me until later that I was running down New York Interstate 90 in a Ted Williams Boston Red Sox t-shirt.  There’s dumb, and then there’s that.

Didn’t Have Sex Outside – I swore that I would have sex with my wife outside during a massive summer rain storm.  And as luck would have it the summer of 2011 was one of the wettest in Chicago’s history, and yet I never made it out of the bedroom.  As my son would say “Epic Fail.” 

Lost a Variety of Electrical Gadgets – Due to one of the many severe storms this summer, some sort of a power surge hit the house, and as a result our home computer, the XBOX 360, the Wii and the dryer were all fried.  Gone.  Dead.  Now actually that’s not entirely true.  The home computer, the XBOX 360 and the Wii are a total loss, but the dryer still has one heat cycle that works.  Go figure.  Of course the heat cycle that still works is “Fluff Air Dry,” so it takes me about three hours to dry a load of wash, and don’t even ask how long it takes to dry beach towels.  Ridiculous.

Developed a Love for Camp – No, I didn’t go to camp.  In fact, I hated camp when I was younger.  But I will say that camp saved my sanity this summer.  My youngest son, who needs constant entertainment at all times, went to day camp for seven straight weeks and loved every minute of it.  It was worth every penny.  I have nightmares about what would have happened if he was home with me every day.  I wind up in jail in some of those nightmares, asylum for the insane in others.

So, adieu to summer.  It was a good one, and we’re all still speaking to each other, so I consider it a success.  Bring on the fall – get the kids out of the house and get the paddle season started!

A Manhood Intervention

When I was first laid off over a year ago, a flood of concerns swept over me, the first of which was of course, how were we going to pay bills?  Though my wife has a very good job, and has a nice income, no doubt two salaries are better than one.  Not long after that I was concerned with finding a new job.  Where would I find work?  Who would hire me?  What kind of a new transition would I have to go through once I did find a new job?  Months later, as I settled into my stay-at-home status, I worried about what I would do to stay busy?  How would I spend my time?  What would I accomplish?  How would the boys and I get along after spending so much time together?  What contributions to society would I make?  Alright. . . . you got me. . . . so I wasn’t exactly worried about my “contributions towards society.”  Whatever.  I could have been worried about that.  Some people are.  I’m sure of it. 

And though all of my concerns have not gone away, it is safe to say that I have comfortably shifted into my new role as a stay-at-home parent.  Sure, I joked awhile back in one of my blogs about losing a bit of my manliness, but for the most part I have simply accepted, and maybe even embraced this new chapter in my life.  I’m running the house like a well-oiled machine.  The boys are on schedule and making all their baseball commitments and camp dates.  We’re never out of food.  Laundry is done.  Dog is walked.  Cars are gassed.  Beds are made.  And so on.  Is it what I always dreamed of doing as a young kid growing up. . . no.  Far from it.  But again I’ve made the most of a tough situation, and I’m kicking ass in my new role.  All is good.  No worries or concerns.

That is until the other day.  Both the boys were out at a friend’s house, and my wife and I were sitting around watching TV.  My wife looked at me and said, “Do you want to go upstairs and have sex?” 

Now I could have dedicated this entire blog to “dumb” questions my wife has asked me over the years.  Things like “Do you want to order pizza tonight?”  Or “Do my boobs look good in this shirt?”  Or “Would you like me to be on top?”  Or “Do you want to stay home alone while I take the kids to a movie?”  Or “Can I get you another Zebra Cake?” 

But instead this blog is going in another direction altogether because, without hesitation, and without regret, I answered her question with a quick, “No thanks.”

There it was.  I turned down sex for the first time ever.  Well actually that’s not true.  I had turned it down one other time about a year ago when I was convinced that turning the tables on my wife, and giving her a “taste of her own medicine” was exactly what was needed in order for me to get MORE sex.  Of course it didn’t work out quite the way I planned, and I went a good three weeks without sex before I finally had to APOLOGIZE for being a putz. 

But this time . . . no ulterior motive.  No attempt to teach her a lesson.  Just not in the mood for sex.

And I think that’s when I realized that I was dealing with a whole new concern here.  Forget the finances and the future search for a new job, and the long hours with the boys, etc.  There was something new here that probably had been brewing for some time, but had finally come out.

I have become a woman. 

I wasn’t checking to see if I still had a set of balls, I was checking to see if I had a vagina. 

I wasn’t getting comfortable with my stay-at-home status, and I wasn’t kicking ass with my new role in life . . . I had become a house wife. 

And the signs were all there. . . . I just didn’t pick up on them.

A few weeks ago I was picking up my wife’s dry cleaning at the cleaners and I noticed the hem on one of her dresses was torn.  I immediately notified them of the problem, and they offered to fix it.  Fine, right?  NO!!!  The fact that I know what a hem is, let alone when it needs to be fixed is ridiculous.  Six weeks ago I would have told you that a “hem” was short for a V8 Hemi engine.  Now it’s the lining on my wife’s dress. 

Not  too long ago I was at the grocery store buying fish for dinner, and I wound up having a five minute conversation with the guy behind the counter about the different types of salmon AND how to best prepare it on the grill (and by the way there are Norwegian, Copper River, Farm-raised,  and Atlantic, among others, and the best way to prepare it on the grill is to lightly season it, then place a small pat of butter under the fish, and grill them up in an aluminum foil tray . . . . and I am NOT kidding, I didn’t have to Google that, I just flat-out remember that . . . . OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!) .  At the time I didn’t think twice about any of this.  Hell, I honestly remember walking away thinking “What a nice, friendly guy that butcher was.”  COME ON!!!!!  First of all, I don’t buy fish.  I MIGHT buy fish STICKS, but not a piece of fish.  I buy burgers or steaks or maybe chops.  And I have ONE heat setting on my grill, and it’s HOT!!!  And seasoning is either barbeque sauce or ketchup. 

I’ve also started worrying about my weight.  I’ve always eaten whatever I wanted, except for an extreme diet I did to win a contest once.   And I noticed right after getting married 15 years ago, that it was easier to put on pounds, but I never really cared.  Now, I’m getting self-conscious that my belly is sticking out a little farther than I’d like – and wondering if it’s making me appear less attractive.

That confirms it.  I am a woman.  There are interventions for all kinds of situations, but I’m not sure this is one of them.  Can you have a “How To Get Your Manhood Back” Intervention?  I don’t drink much at all, so that’s probably not a good way to start.  I’ve always been a neat freak, so I can’t let the laundry and the house get messy.   I know football season is coming up.  Maybe Football Sundays (and Saturdays, Mondays, and Thursdays) will do the trick.  Or I could just start having sex.  But I’m not really in the mood. 

Oh my God.

Action/Reaction . . . And The Backyard Party

According to Newton, well and the Internet (I wouldn’t have known any of this without Google), every action is accompanied by a reaction of equal magnitude but opposite direction.  For instance, while swimming you push the water backwards – that’s the action – and the reaction is that the water pushes you forward.  Or a rocket pushes out exhaust as the action, and the reaction is that the exhaust pushes the rocket forward.

Surprisingly, I actually understand this.  Well, at least in the most basic terms.  But it’s those most basic of terms that I think we can apply to everyday life.  And if I have somehow understood this incorrectly, please don’t bring it to my attention.

What I mean by this is that I think our lives are all made up of various actions and reactions.  Some are quite small, like eat a large greasy meal, and it just might come back up on you.  Constantly flush Kleenex down the toilet, and then plug up the toilet and cause it to overflow is the equal but opposite reaction (and despite my repeated talks about this particular action/reaction, my boys still haven’t figured this one out). 

And then again some of those actions/reactions are larger, at least in the grand scheme of things. Buy an expensive sports car and have everyone not driving a car as nice as yours accuse you of having a small dick.  Find the love of your life and marry her and never have sex with anyone but her for the rest of your life.

See what I mean?  Life is simply a series of daily actions and equal but opposite reactions, and the better we manage those or navigate those, the better we get through life, or at the very least the happier we are with our lives. 

Take my wife’s 40^th birthday celebration.  Now here’s one event that broke down to a series of actions and reactions that started over two months ago, and just concluded last weekend.

Action:  I green light my wife’s party.

Reaction:  I got laid.  Now this may not be an equal, but opposite reaction, but I need a little leeway here.  Actually, it is opposite of my usual evening, so it’s an opposite reaction in a way.

As a side note, she was going to have this party whether I green lighted it or not.  Hell, she was going to have this party whether I was THERE or not, but by green lighting it with a smile on my face, and by pretending to be excited about it, I got laid.   Sometimes you can predict the reaction to your action – gentlemen, listen up here.   Maybe this could be some sort of a new law of motion – you know, I may be on to something.

Next Action:  Send out invitations.

Reaction:  The ladies actually dress up, and they are pretty cute.

There were women at the party I didn’t recognize because I’ve never seen them in anything other than workout attire and ponytails.  Most of the men still looked like Schmucks, but having a party is a great way to see who is really much hotter than you originally thought.

Next Action:  Have 75 people in your backyard.

Reaction:  Lose all control of when people leave your house. 

Though there certainly are positives to hosting a party at your house as opposed to going to a party at someone else’s house (not the least of which is having the ability to sneak off to watch Deadliest Catch in 20-minute intervals . . . I watched all of last week’s episode alone in my bedroom while the party was going on . . . just fantastic), the main problem with hosting it is that short of pulling an Eddie Murphy from the movie Trading Places and screaming “EVERYONE GET THE FUCK OUT,” there’s no good way of getting people to leave.  You’re just stuck until they DECIDE TO LEAVE.  It’s rather amazing how quickly your good friends and neighbors turn into squatters. 

In fact, with that said, here are new laws of motion for three party guest scenarios.  Decide which one you want to be.

Party Guest Scenario 1

Action:  Come to my party, but refuse to leave even after I start making comments like “When are you leaving, and why are you still here?”

Reaction:  Don’t get invited to my next party.  Now I probably won’t have control over the guest list anyway, but I’m still going to try to make this reaction a reality.

Party Guest Scenario 2

Action:  Come to my party, and leave by 11:00 p.m.

Reaction:   Your name just jumped to the top of my next invite list.

Party Guest Scenario 3

Action:  Come to my party, leave by 11:00, but WITHOUT taking your spouse with you.

Reaction:  You should be shot.  You’re worse than the couple who stays late as eventually one of them comes to their senses and talks the other one into leaving.  However, when a couple becomes a Broken Arrow (that’s what I call them) they lose the ability to talk sense into the other person, as the sensible person is ALREADY HOME!!!

Finally, something must be said about the action of drinking copious amounts of alcohol.  And from an innocent bystander who didn’t have anything to drink.

Action:  Serve yourself bar with four types of beer, three types of wine, lots of vodka and rum, numerous mixers and pitchers of “John Daly’s”

Reactions:  A) My lawn near the bar has been trampled beyond repair.  And I just put in new sod.  I cried a bit the next day.

B)  Husbands and wives both start to look incredibly sexy to each other (and possibly other people as well, but we won’t go down that path).

Which leads me back to my earlier question.  Why didn’t all these people want to get the fuck out of my house before that sexiness turned to illness?

Ravinia – The Agony of Compromise

At the end of the day, marriage is all about compromise.  You must learn to get along and to co-exist with your spouse if you are to have a successful marriage, and in order to do that, you must be able to compromise.  And in fact, even if you are getting along with your spouse, and even if you are successful “co-existing” with your spouse, you STILL probably need to compromise in order to get some of the things you want.  And of course those things differ.

For instance, my wife is more than willing to compromise on certain things and certain issues in order to get me to go out and be social or in order to get me to green light a little shopping, while I am willing to compromise on certain things and certain issues in order to get more sex.  And sometimes we can work together to kill two birds with one stone. 

Take Ravinia for example.  Now, I hate Ravinia.  I’ve made no secret of that right here in this blog.  If I never go to Ravinia again I’ll be a happy man.  However my wife loves going.  She could probably go to Ravinia once a week.  She loves everything about it:   The socializing.  The music under the stars.  The picnic dinners and cocktails that she packs.  I, on the other hand, hate all of it.  However, I do love sex.  Unfortunately, as fate would have it, my wife doesn’t seem to love it as much as I do (seriously this is the cruelest part of my entire life), so a joint compromise occasionally needs to be worked out to satisfy both parties.

The compromise is simple . . . I go to Ravinia once a year (and I get to pick the show), and she has to have sex with me BEFORE we go (yeah, I’m not bright, but I’m not THAT dumb. . . . I get payment BEFORE I fight the masses for a 10’ x 10’ patch of grass where I set up shop for the next three hours, only to be trampled by a bunch of strangers looking for the rest rooms).

This year, one concert peaked my interest more than any other.  The B-52’s and the Go-Go’s were coming to Ravinia.  A blast from the past.  A way to relive my youth while fighting the malaria-spreading mosquitoes that were sure to swarm after the extremely wet spring we’ve had here in Chicago. 

So we got the tickets, invited a handful of other couples to join us (misery loves company), planned an elaborate picnic basket, and of course, per the compromise, a few hours before we left for the concert, we had sex. 

It wasn’t until we had fought the traffic just to enter the concert grounds, and then elbowed our way past hundreds, if not thousands of people just to reach our small plot of grass, that I started to wonder whether I was actually getting the short end of the stick here in regards to our joint compromise.  The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I had in fact been cheated.

Here is a transcript of the night’s texts:

Me – Music hasn’t even started.  I’m miserable and cold.  Fucking awful.  Though I did have sex four hours ago.  That’s the only thing that’s keeping me going.

My Friend – That’s old news.  How are you going to get thru the next four hours?

Me – Not sure, and now that you mention it four hours ago suddenly seems like an eternity.

My Friend – Still cold?

Me – I’ve lost feeling in the lower part of my body.

My Friend – Hang in there. 

Me – Okay B-52’s just started playing.  There are some seriously weird people here dancing.  I don’t know this song.  I’m 0-for-1 already.

Me – Three songs into it and I’m 0-for-3, and I think I just felt rain.

Me – Good news, that wasn’t rain.  The guy behind me just spilled his drink on me. 

Me – Okay I’m now 0-for-6.  I need Love Shack or Red Lobster.

Me – No wait, not Red Lobster.  Rock Lobster.  I think I ate at Red Lobster once.

Me – 0-for-7.  I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve confused the B-52’s with another group.  Hell this may not be the B-52’s.  The stage is like a mile away from where I am sitting.  Who knows who’s on stage?

Me – I can’t take the cold anymore.  I’ve literally lost feeling in my extremities.  Going to buy a Ravinia sweatshirt.

Me – Just played Love Shack. 

Me – My wife just spent $51 on a Ravinia coat for me.  It is truly the ugliest coat in the world.  I think it’s the same coat the female security personal are wearing.

Me – Just played Rock Lobster. 

Me – I think someone just snapped a picture of me in this stupid coat.  I fear they’re going to post it on their Facebook page under the heading of “Weird dude at the B-52’s concert trying to impersonate a female security guard.”  It may make more sense to be cold.  I may have to take this coat off.

Me – The B-52’s are going all Grateful Dead on me.  They’ve been playing the same song for over 10 minutes.  I’m miserable.  Get me out of here.  I’ll pay you $100 if you come and get me right now.

Unfortunately, I realized that my friend had long ago lost interest in my situation and had stopped texting back hours earlier.  I was alone in my misery with no chance of rescue.

Finally, after a long wait, the Go-Go’s played for about 20 minutes, and the night was thankfully over. 

There were, however, a few saving graces:

• Some of the ladies took pity on me and actually brought food that I liked. 
• We had a great parking spot thanks to my mom’s parking pass.
• I did have sex.
• I don’t have to go to Ravinia again this year.   And maybe never again.

We’re Going To Sizzler

I try to avoid giving advice.  My take on advice is simple . . . . who am I to give advice?  Do I have opinions?  Sure.  Do I have suggestions?  Yeah.  But unless someone flat out asks me for advice I truly try not to give it.  I am an expert on nothing.  I hold no advanced degrees.  I have had no less than six jobs over the last 10 years and a retarded monkey could have done a few of them . . . . . and I got laid off from one of those.    And according to my father I am not good at anything, and have not an ounce of athletic talent whatsoever.  So again, who am I to give advice?

However, the other night my 9-year-old son’s Instructional League baseball team overcame a four-run deficit in the bottom of the sixth inning to pull off a 5-5 tie (no extra innings in the 9-year-old Instructional League . . . and thank God for that).

While our boys were celebrating I watched as the opposing coach pulled his entire team into the dugout and screamed at them.  Though I admit that I could not hear specifically what he was saying, I know he was yelling at them for not making a couple of routine plays (again they’re 9 years old. . . . I can assure you that there are NO “routine plays” at this age) and for not holding onto the lead.  A few of the boys were crying.

Now I know what you’re thinking . . . . I walked up, intervened and offered the coach some heartfelt advice on how to better conduct himself during his post-game speech.  Hell no.  Don’t be ridiculous.  The guy was verbally abusing a group of 9-year old boys, his face was turning red, and he was holding a metal baseball bat in his hand, there’s a time and a place for intervention and that wasn’t it.  But it did get me thinking . . . . is this simply yet another case of a guy who’s just overly passionate about youth sports, or was there something else going on? 

It turns out that the reason this guy was going so crazy after the game is because his son was the pitcher in that 6^th inning where our team mounted their comeback.  He was irate that his son had allowed our team to get some hits which in turn resulted in some missed plays in the field.

So instead of telling his son and his team that they had done a nice job to hold onto the tie (we actually had the bases loaded there at the end, and his son wound up striking out the final batter), he tore into them.  Instead of trying to find the positives (and at times I will admit it’s hard to find a lot of positives in 9-year-old house league baseball . . . . it really is quite painful), he focused on the negatives specifically because his son had not come in and performed like Mariano Rivera. 

And I chalk this up to nothing more than yet another dad who believes his kid is MUCH BETTER than he really is, and then because of that belief he holds his kid to a much higher standard, and expects him to perform at a level that he is simply not capable of performing at.  He is basically setting his kid up to fail more often than not.  The kid never gets to go to Sizzler.  If he’s 2-for-4 on the day with a run scored and an RBI, it’s not enough.  No Sizzler.  If he pitches three strong innings giving up just a couple runs, it’s not enough.  No Sizzler.  And even when he has that monster day and goes 4-for-4 with a game winning RBI it’s still not enough as that’s simply the standard that his father thinks he should be producing at all the time.  There’s still no Sizzler.

So, here’s my advice to all the mom’s and dad’s (yes there are plenty of mom’s out there who believe that their kids are way better than they really are) . . . . . be realistic with your kid’s athletics and take them to Sizzler every so often. 

Yes, the whole “Sizzler” thing stems from the 1992 Wesley Snipes, Woody Harrelson movie ‘White Men Can’t Jump,’ and no, I’ve never been to a real Sizzler restaurant and for all I know the entire Sizzler franchise may have gone out of business, but I still joke about “Going to Sizzler” whenever my kids have a good game.

Listen, be realistic here.  After all, you’ve probably been bouncing or throwing or kicking a ball with your kids since they were first sitting up in their cribs.  Though you may not be a professional baseball or basketball scout, you should have an idea of exactly how good your kid is by the time they’ve hit their house leagues.  Sure, kids develop athletically at different rates, and a kid who’s just mediocre at the age of 10 could wind up being a really good player four or five years later, but for the most part you pretty much should know whether or not you’ve got an athletic prodigy on your hands by the time he/she is 10 or 11 years old or whether you’ve got a nice house league player on your hands. 

And since it’s probably the latter and not the former, why don’t you treat them as such.  Forget the Division One scholarships.  And forget the seven figure signing bonuses.  It’s not going to happen.  And that’s okay, because chances are you too didn’t go to school on an athletic scholarship and you too didn’t sign a lucrative deal with a pro team.  Most people don’t.  So relax, and enjoy your kid’s sports for what they are. . . . an extracurricular hobby.

And for the love of God . . . . take ‘em to Sizzler every so often.  A pat on the back after a rather “routine” day at the plate or on the mound will go a long way in keeping them happy and motivated.

Last weekend my 12-year old son’s travel baseball team had a scrimmage game with another travel team.  This is my son’s first year playing travel ball, so he is a little nervous as he’s playing with a group of boys who have all been playing travel ball for three or four years now.  To make matters worse, and to guarantee that he would stick out even more, his travel uniform hasn’t come in yet, so he was wearing a borrowed uniform from a friend. 

He played well, and in fact made a number of very good plays at 2^nd base including one where he legitimately robbed a very good player of a sure extra base hit.  He went 0-for-3 at the plate, but hit the ball hard once (in fact getting robbed by the other team’s 2^nd baseman of a sure base hit). 

When we got into the car to head home I looked at him and said, “Hey that was a nice first game.  I thought you did a good job.  What do you say we go to Sizzler?”

Chase looked at me and said, “Thanks Dad, that was fun, I really liked playing 2^nd base, but can we go to Burger King instead?”

That’s my boy.

I Need More Beads

So there’s a new “Self Help” book out called ’40 Beads.’  It’s written by a married woman and it specifically focuses on improving your sex life with your spouse.  In just a matter of weeks its shot up the Best Seller’s List which simply confirms my theory that if I had the ability to help people, or if I had any good advice to share with people . . . about almost anything . . . I’d be a published author.  As it stands . . . I have a lightly read blog. 

Anyway this whole 40 Beads thing started when this woman decided to give her husband 40 straight days of sex for his 40^th birthday.  Now let me just stop right there and throw a “shout out” to this woman . . . . “IF IT DOESN’T WORK OUT WITH YOUR CURRENT HUSBAND PLEASE CALL ME!!!!”

I asked for an iPad for my 40^th birthday . . . . and I didn’t get it. 

This woman just offers up 40 straight days of sex. 

Are you kidding me?

This woman is my new hero. 

Of course not more than a couple days into her 40-day sex marathon she realized that this was going to be easier said than done.  So she came up with this plan to give her husband 40 beads, and whenever he wanted sex all he had to do was drop one of the beads into a bowl which she kept by her bed, and within 24-hours of him doing so she’d be ready to go.  As she says in her book “She’d be a sure thing.”

So it was basically 40 “Free Passes” for sex. 

Fine.  It’s not exactly the 40 straight days of sex, but its 40 guaranteed romps in the sack.  Not bad.  It definitely beats an iPad. . . . which again I DID NOT GET.  I can’t stress this enough . . . literally I still don’t own an iPad and my birthday was in early February.

So there’s the “jist” of the book.  But of course it got me thinking.  Why only 40 Beads?  Why not 50 Beads?  Or 60 Beads?  Is this woman telling her husband that he’s only guaranteed sex 40 times a year?  Sure when you’re holding 40 beads in your hand it probably seems like a whole lot of beads, but when you consider that there’s 365 days in a year suddenly those 40 beads don’t look so good.  I think she’s short changing this dude. 

Here’s the way I see it . . .

Our starting number is 365 days. 

Now subtract 84 days for her 12 menstrual cycles.  Listen I’m not even going to get into this.  I barely understand the male body let alone the female body.  I don’t care that some women have shorter cycles while others have longer cycles.  The fact that I just wrote that makes me uncomfortable.  Talk about an area where I CANNOT offer advice.  I’m simply going to account for one full week per month.  Now if you can work in a BJ while she’s on that cycle, well God Bless You.   

So now we’re down to 281 days.

Now subtract another 140 days which is half the remaining number.  And why am I deleting half of 281?  Really?  You need to ask?  Seriously?  Let me ask you a question fellas. . . . how many times have you said this exact line . . . “Well I’ve got a 50/50 shot at getting laid tonight.”  There you go.  Delete 140 days.  I’m simply doing this in an attempt to be realistic.  If someone out there has a better than 50% chance of getting laid whenever they ask for it, well chances are you’re not reading my blog . . . and by the way . . . fuck you. 

So now we’re down to 140 days.

Now subtract another 40 days.  This is what I call miscellaneous bullshit.  It’s the petty excuses that women use to get out of having weekday sex.  It’s the comments, or the roll of the eyes, or the shrug of the shoulders that keep us from getting sex on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.   It’s your “I’ve had a long day at work,” excuse.  Or “The kids drove me nuts today, and I’m in no mood” excuse.  It’s the “You just played paddle tonight while I stayed home with the kids,” comment.  Now I don’t care whether you play paddle or even if you have kids. . . . just subtract 40 days.  Your wife can EASILY come up with 40 excuses on why she doesn’t want to have sex with you on a weekday. 

Now we’re at 100.

Subtract 1 for her birthday.  It’s HER BIRTHDAY!!  Are you kidding?  Even I know not to ask for sex on HER BIRTHDAY!

We’re at 99.

Subtract 1 for Mother’s Day.  Again, don’t be silly.  I’m thrilled if my wife acknowledges my presence on Mother’s Day.  She usually reminds me that I should take the kids and “get lost” on Mother’s Day. 

98 days now.

Subtract 35 more for all the dumb shit things we say and do during the year.  This includes, but is not limited to the following:

• Getting out of the shower, shaking your tally-wacker and saying “You want a piece of this, don’t you?”  Surprisingly that is not a turn on for women.
• Getting caught plotting out your “date-night” schedule AROUND her menstrual cycle.  Again I don’t really understand this whole menstrual cycle thing, but I do know that I’d rather not “waste” a Saturday night out if I have no chance of getting laid.  That’s the Saturday night we sit home and order in pizza.  My plan there was a good one, but in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have put those big red “X’s” through the calendar.
•  Asking any of the following questions upon climbing into bed at night: 
• Do you want to lick my balls?
• Can I tea bag you?
• Can I stick my love rod in you?
• Can I stick my tongue in your ear?

Even if your wife is drunk she’ll never say “yes” to any of those things.  Seriously I know what I’m talking about.  Just trust me.

 Which brings us to 63.

I want 63 Beads.  Granted it’s not as catchy a title as 40 Beads, but it’s what’s fair.  She’s short-changed her husband by 23 Beads.

There’s 365 days in a year.  I don’t think we’re asking too much for wanting “guaranteed sex” 63 times.

After all, it still gives our wives 302 days to turn us down.  

You know actually a follow up to ’40 Beads’ could be ‘325 Ways to Say No.’

I could write it.  I’ve heard them all.

Good Intentions

In all areas of life, there are good intentions that sometimes just don’t get acted on or simply fail. 

The Cubs have put together a team they thought could win it all for the last 100+ years.  Good intentions.  Hasn’t quite panned out.  Although there’s always this year.

I meant to send my wife flowers on the first day of her new job, but a week went by, and then it was too late.  No action, but good intentions.

My wife keeps telling me she’s going to buy me new underwear.  I am fairly picky about my tighty whities, and my wife can only find them at Marshall’s, and she’s never at Marshall’s.  So, I continue to wear underwear with holes in them . . . . some of them are getting pretty ratty looking.   Again, she means well, but can’t pull the trigger.

Parenting is much the same way.  We all say things and make decisions that we think are in the best interests of our children.  Unfortunately some of those good intentions are either too difficult to implement or fall way down on the priority list.

From the get go my wife and I agreed that we would not allow our boys to have toy guns in the house.  Now if their friends had toy guns, and our boys were at that house then obviously they could play with the guns, but we were not going to have toy guns in our house.  That lasted until our first son could walk.  Yeah I would venture to say that we made it about a year (give or take) before he was walking around the house with a Nerf gun.  Soon after that he had a battery powered Nerf gun, and not long after that he had a fully-automatic Nerf gun.  We now own every Nerf gun product made, and we’ve actually invited other boys over to our house to have all out wars.  In fact, I usually get involved in those battles, and have on more than one occasion been scolded by my wife for screaming things like “Die you Commie Pig!”  We’ve recently graduated to airsoft guns, and my boys and I research and buy guns based on their FPS Power (Feet Per Second . . . how fast they shoot).  Let’s put it this way, if World War III breaks out you probably want to come to my house, as I can offer you protection.

It was also our intention to have our boys read for 20 minutes a night.  Whether the book was required reading for a particular class or whether it was just for fun, we wanted them to read 20 minutes a night.  That’s happened once. . . . in like the last five years.  I’m not entirely sure my nine-year-old son actually knows how to read.  It’s gotten so bad that he will negotiate with us when it comes time for his 20 minutes of reading. 

“Jack it’s time to read.”

“No, but I’ll take a shower.”

Or “Jack it’s time to read.”

“No, but I’ll walk the dog.”

Or “Jack it’s time to read.”

“No, but I’ll empty the dish washer.”

I think if we keep this up he’ll eventually start negotiating with things that I actually want.

“Jack it’s time to read.”

“No, but I’ll change the oil in your car.”

It’s awful, and rarely do we get 20 minutes of reading from both the boys.

Getting the boys to bed early is yet another example of good intentions gone bad.  Pretty  much from day one we had planned to get the boys to bed early (at least during the week) so that they would be fresh the next day.  We started with an 8:00 PM bedtime.  That didn’t work.  They were wide awake 30 minutes later wandering the house looking for something to do.  I once heard a noise coming from the living room a good hour after I had put the boys to bed.  I went downstairs to investigate, only to find my oldest on the couch watching a movie and eating a bowl of Chex Mix.  He told me to keep it down as the “good part” was about to happen.  At this point it’s pure anarchy, and if we can get them to bed before we’re in bed, I consider it a major accomplishment.

Same with sleepovers.  They both LOVE having sleepovers with pals.  And it’s gotten out of hand.  I’ve actually started saying things like: “If your last name is not Whipple, you cannot sleep in this house tonight,” and like three different kids will get up and walk out of my house.   Unfortunately for our intentions, having our kids sleep at other houses is like a free night – I mean who turns down an offer to get rid of a kid for a night?  But after we realized that both of our children were having trouble getting up for school on Monday, we knew we needed to act.

So we decided that they could have one sleepover per weekend – no back-to-backs.   Good compromise.  The first weekend we put this rule to the test, Jack had an impromptu sleepover at a friend’s house on Friday night, and had already planned an overnight for Saturday because we had dinner plans.  So, instead of doing the right thing and upholding the rule, we decided to let Jack have the second sleepover. 

Oh well.  Good intentions, but my wife and I don’t see each other enough, especially during the baseball and soccer seasons, so we weren’t going to let a little thing like the back-to-back sleepover rule wreck our night out.  It’s a priority thing.

So my new philosophy is that all I need are good intentions – all is excused if things don’t actually pan out.  Although, if a certain someone doesn’t take some shopping action soon, I’m going to run out of underwear.   Maybe I should have bought those flowers after all.

We Should Have Had Another Baby

I don’t like to fight with my wife, and in fact, like most men I know, I will go to great lengths to avoid a fight (which typically means I’ll apologize for stuff that I didn’t really do just to avoid the verbal confrontation).  However, I do admit that I enjoy saying things that get a rise out of her.  If she’s not feeling well and lying on the couch, I’ll say something like, “So I assume this means you’re not making me breakfast?”  Or if she’s running late in the morning I’ll say, “So morning sex is out?”  Or if she’s in the kitchen making dinner I’ll say, “I think it’s safe to assume that I’ll be calling Domino’s if that doesn’t taste better than it looks.” 

Yeah, I “push the envelope” with a few of my comments, and it’s worth noting that my neighbor has told me that she considers my wife a “saint” for being married to me, but I’m really not trying to start a fight with my comments.  It’s just my way of poking fun.  A roll of the eyes, a sigh under her breath, a quick retort of “whatever,” is all I’m looking for.  And frankly the easiest way to illicit that kind of reaction from my wife is to remind her that “we should have had another baby.”  Whether we’re with someone with a baby, see a baby on TV or whether she’s looking through some catalog with baby clothes, nothing gets her all worked up more than my “we should have had another baby” comment.  It’s pretty much a sure thing.  Even though I’ve NEVER given ANY thought to having a third child, I do like to remind my wife that “we should have had another baby.”

But for the first time ever, I actually started to wonder whether my wife and I should have had a third child, after my 12-year-old son essentially spent the entire weekend with friends.  And it wasn’t just the fact that he was spending a lot of time with friends, as he’s always enjoyed his pals, but rather it was how he was acting.

Like most 12-year-old boys, my son is a goofball.  He says and does some really silly things (in fact “silly” is an understatement), but quite honestly I’ve always enjoyed that.  It’s a reminder that he is, after all, still a goofy kid.  He’s still “my little man.” And of course, I can identify with 12-year-old humor.

But last weekend he not only spent a lot of time out of the house, when I did see him he seemed different.  And I can’t exactly pinpoint it.  I think it was a combination of him not being around for much of the weekend, coupled with the fact that he seemed to be trying to act less silly.  Now I know he’s starting to get into the girls, and I know there is one particular 12-year-old girl he likes (and spent a lot of time with her over the weekend), and no doubt he’s trying to “be cool” for her.  But literally it’s like he went to bed one kid, and woke up another kid. 

Now I’ve been somewhat prepared for this.  I’m not totally unrealistic here.  I knew that at some point my son was going to choose to spend less time with me, and I knew that it was just a matter of time before my son considered me to be the “boring and embarrassing guy.”  And while I would like to remind him that I wasn’t always this boring, but got this way from paying his bills, cleaning his clothes and listening to him talk about how “cool” he thinks he is, I’m still not sure I’m ready for all this to happen just yet.

I guess I was targeting high school as the time when all of this change would occur.  Unfortunately, I’m not sure my son is on the same page.

I was out to dinner with my dad the other night and I was talking to him about this very subject, and I said, “Boy dad, I think we’re losing Chase.”  He thought about my comment for a couple seconds and then said, “Clay, I never thought your mother and I were losing you and your sister as the two of you got older.  I just recognized that things were changing, and I made sure to enjoy that part of your life with the two of you.”

I thought about it for a second and realized that maybe my dad is right.  Change is inevitable, so why fight it?  Or why get all depressed over it?  Maybe this is one of those things where you sort of “go with the flow” and enjoy it?  There’s going to be lots of great new stuff my son Chase starts to experience over these next few years and instead of bemoaning the fact that he’s no longer my “little man,” maybe I should start enjoying the fact that he’s actually becoming a “little man.”

Besides. . . . did my freaking father just give me some heart-felt advice?  What?  Come again?  Were he and I having some sort of a break-through over cheeseburgers?  Are the planets out of alignment?  Am I on the verge of experiencing a whole new relationship with BOTH my son and my father?  What’s going on?

“Then again, Clay,” my father concluded, “I never liked you and your sister much when you were younger anyway, so I was really looking forward to when you two got older.”

Nope.  Back to normal.  The planets are aligned once again.    But I will take his advice and try to enjoy the new experiences Chase will have as he gets older.  Or maybe we’ll just have to have another kid to replace him.

Hollywood vs. Reality

So my wife and I are watching “Modern Family” on TV the other night and during this particular episode Clare and Phil (the goofy and at times mismatched husband/wife duo) sorta break into their elderly neighbor’s house and find him slumped over in a chair apparently dead.  Of course he’s not dead, and after a little poking and prodding he springs to life and chaos ensues.  As with most things on that show (which I just love) it was a very funny scene. 

Anyway as we were watching that scene unfold I turned to my wife and said “You know we don’t do that kind of stuff,” to which she replied, “good.”

Now of course I understand where she’s coming from.  I don’t really want to break into my neighbor’s house, and I certainly don’t want to find anyone who appears to be dead, but once again Hollywood is up to its old tricks and is making everyday life look a lot more fun than it really is.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Hollywood and the movies and TV shows it gives me.  Few people like their couch and their flat screen TV as much as I do, and few people can sit around watching the same movie over and over the way I can.  But slowly but surely I’m coming to the sad realization that nothing Hollywood does is in any way, shape or form relatable to everyday life.

First it was the Hollywood violence.  Now I’m not talking about the spectacularly violent scenes in movies like “Rambo” or “The Terminator” or any of the Steven Seagal movies that I used to watch (by the way ever notice how Steven Seagal never loses a fight. . . ever. . . . in any of his movies. . . . even Rambo got the snot beat out of him every so often . . . hell the Terminator was ultimately destroyed and he was a cyborg from the future. . . . but not Seagal. . . . never lost a fight once. . . . spectacular).  No I’m talking about the more realistic shows like “Earthly Possessions” which was a made for cable movie starring Susan Sarandon and Stephen Dorff.  Not a particularly good movie, but it was on HBO back in the late ‘90’s and I’m pretty sure I was watching it in hopes of getting a good cable TV sex scene.  But in this show Sarandon’s character is being harassed by a big dude at a bar.  In walks Dorff’s character who drops the guy with one punch.  Awesome.  Well that’s the Hollywood version.

In real life I was involved in a bar fight back in college.  I was actually coming to the aid of a friend who was getting beat up by a guy.  Before I could get to my friend the bar’s bouncer grabbed me and literally threw me across a table and onto the floor where I laid in a puddle of spilled beer until another bouncer escorted me out. 

Next it was the glamorization of sex in Hollywood films.  Sex in movies looks great.  It’s hot.  It’s raw.  It’s passionate.  It’s “Body Heat.”  Its “9 ½ Weeks.”  It’s “Basic Instinct.”  That’s the Hollywood version.  However it’s not real.  Real life people just don’t have wild love making sessions in the middle of the afternoon where they push everything off the dining room table and then ravage each other’s bodies in a variety of positions.  Please.  If I were to push my wife’s dishes off the dining room table she’d scream at me for breaking her plates, and would probably try to plunge a butter knife into my chest.

And yeah, I’ve had sex in the bathtub.  Hell I’ve even lined the tub with candles and had a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice nearby.  Oh it was fun, but you know what happens when you’re done having sex in the bathtub. . . . stuff starts floating around.  Yeah, THAT STUFF.  They leave that part out in Hollywood.  All they show you is the passionate sex with water over-flowing the edges of the tub, and then the two people soaking in a warm post-sex embrace.  No one in their right mind is “soaking” afterwards.  You get the hell out and head straight to the shower.

And now I’m noticing more and more that everyday life or everyday relationships between husband and wife are a whole lot more fun on TV or in the movies. 

Whether it’s older movies like the John Hughes hit “She’s Having a Baby” where the husband and wife characters break into an impromptu paint fight while painting their babies’ room, or more recent movies like the romantic comedy “Fever Pitch” where Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore’s characters enjoy themselves at a number of Red Sox games, or whether it’s the bumbling husband and wife duo on TV’s “Modern Family” getting themselves involved in all sorts of hilarious hijinks, that’s the Hollywood version.

In real life I don’t paint rooms with my wife.  I’d rather be molested by a large German Sheppard than paint, so I sit on the couch while my wife paints.  And then weeks later we call a professional painter to come and fix the room that my wife originally painted (we had two walls two different shades of beige . . my mom still walks in and asks whether the walls are different colors. . . it’s not a good subject to bring up while my wife’s around).

And in real life a day at the ballpark is not casual and easy and carefree.  It’s a gigantic pain in the ass.  The kids are bored by the time the 4^th inning rolls around, and they fight that boredom by eating one of everything at the park, so despite the fact that I am NOT bored, and would like to watch the game, I spend most of the game flagging down vendors, or running back and forth to the various food courts.  And of course the fans seated around us aren’t warm and friendly like they are in the movies, but instead they’re loud, belligerent drunks who have twice spilled beer on one of my kids.

Furthermore, my wife and I don’t have conversations that end with silly punch lines or thoughtful conclusions.  No that’s the Hollywood version.  In real life my wife and I argue about running out of cherry flavored pop tarts, and about whether I forgot to fill her car up with gas, or whether she charged yet another pair of heels on our credit card.

But I’ve realized that maybe Hollywood marriages fail because life isn’t like Hollywood.  And while my life isn’t a movie, it’s real, and it works.  And while some days I crave adventure, I don’t want to bungee jump or hop on the next plane to Timbuktu.  After all, look what happened to Steve Carell and Tina Fey in “Date Night.”  While I might think that I need more adventure, I keep trying to convince my wife that we shouldn’t go downtown for dinner – you never know what could happen.

The End of Spring Break

I think it hit me as I was in the pool with my son Jack having a contest to see who could spit pool water farther.  It had been a fantastic day up to that point.  We had all rolled out of bed late.  My wife and I had taken a long walk while the boys stayed back and played video games (we don’t travel without the XBOX . . . that would basically be like traveling without your photo ID. . . why bother?).  After a nice breakfast we all put on our suits and headed to the pool (which is just walking distance from my father-in-law’s place).  While my wife worked on her tan, I horsed around with the boys in the pool.  What’s not to like?  The perfect spring break day.  I was in a great mood, and looking forward to a relaxing night and then more of the same the following day.  I had nothing but this silly pool spitting water challenge standing between me and a warm towel and a pleasant walk home. 

Jack spit his pool water first and then I spit second.  It was close.  But I was purposely keeping it close.  No sense in crushing the kid in the first round.  Jack’s second pool water spit didn’t go much further than his first one, but once again I kept it close.  Then in the third round I decided to end it once and for all, so after Jack’s turn I sucked in as much pool water as I could possibly hold in my mouth and then unleashed a stream of water that must have gone 10-feet.  Really quite impressive.  There was nothing Jack could do.  He was defeated and he knew it.  I flashed a confident smile his way and swam to the side of the pool.  As he and I basked in the sun while toweling off, Jack turned to me and said “Dad do you pee in the pool?”  I looked at him and said, “Of course not, Jack, that’s gross.”  “Well I do,” Jack said very matter-of-factly, “And I just peed in the pool twice.”

And with that I realized two things:  #1 – Jack was the TRUE winner of our pool water spitting contest, and #2 – Spring break could be the one thing in life that goes from extreme highs to crushing lows in a matter of just seven days. 

Think about it for a second . . . spring break starts with a lot of excitement and a little anxiety.  In fact, it actually starts with a fair amount of build-up and anticipation.  Heck, I know some people who start planning and talking about spring break a full six to eight months ahead of time.  The week prior to spring break is like the week prior to Christmas for a young kid.  It’s possibly the slowest week of the year.  It just can’t end quick enough.  All you can do is sit there patiently waiting for spring break to officially start.  And of course once it does start it’s pure bliss.  You get to your destination, and you’ve got nothing but choices in front of you.  Maybe you go to the pool or maybe you go to the beach or maybe you take a long walk, or maybe you go out for dinner, whatever.  It’s all good.  Whatever you don’t do today you can just do tomorrow.  There’s no need for a calendar or a schedule.  You barely know what day of the week it is.  It’s spring break after all. . . . there’s no wrong answer.

And yet as things progress some of those “casual decisions” are becoming sticking points in your daily conversations with your spouse and your kids, and some of those “care free” attitudes are causing problems.  Suddenly you’re saying things like “Well, if we don’t get to the beach tomorrow we may not make it there at all.”  Or you’re telling the kids to choose between mini golf and a movie, because you simply don’t have time for both.  And as you start to think about the repacking efforts you’re complaining about all the unnecessary things you originally packed, and how you “will never pack like this again.”  Sure it’s still mostly smiles, but if you were to peel back a few layers you’d see a small fire ready to rage.

Which brings me to the end of spring break.  You and your spouse are barely talking to one another.  You’re questioning whether there’s going to be any kind of a spring break the following year, and at this point you’d like to know why the family has been using SPF 50 sunscreen this whole time as you’re convinced no one looks tanned.  You’re trying to eat all the food that you purchased when you first got there as for some reason you just can’t fathom throwing out a half-loaf of bread, and you’re incensed that you have to do this many loads of laundry just to get all the beach towels clean.  I say it every year as spring break comes to a close, “Just Get Me The Fuck Out of Here.”

Hell even the plane ride home feels different.  The plane ride there is “perfect.”  The plane could literally barrel-roll and you’d tell people it was a “great flight.”  But on the way home if the plane hits a patch of turbulence you’re holding on for dear life and frantically searching for the air sickness bag.  You can’t get on solid ground fast enough.

I don’t know.  Maybe I’m being silly.  At the end of the day I admit that I’m already looking forward to next year’s spring break, so maybe I’m totally wrong here.  But I’ll tell you what; I can GUARANTEE YOU that I won’t accept Jack’s challenge to spit pool water next year.  Nope.