How To Save Your Marriage

No doubt about it, marriage is hard.  The divorce rate in America is somewhere between 40 and 50 percent.  So basically close to one out of every two marriages fails miserably.  That’s shocking considering that we’re talking about marriage here.  We’re not talking about the last-minute pick-up on your 12-inch Tuesday night softball team.  That never works out.  I once found a friend of a friend to fill in for my team and he took a ball RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES on his first attempt in right field.  After that all the opposing players were trying to hit the ball to the opposite field.  I had to bench the guy.  Another time I literally found a sub 10 minutes before the start of our game.  He was just there watching softball (which in retrospect should have been a major “red flag”), but seemed excited to play when I asked him.  After striking out in his first at bat he charged the pitcher and tried to start a brawl.  He was immediately thrown out of the game, and I finished the game with only eight guys. 

But unlike those emergency softball subs, marriage is not typically thrown together at the last minute.  It’s the final step in a long courtship between a man and a woman.  It’s the final acknowledgment that everything the two of you have been through together over the last who knows how long has worked.  All of the road trips to keep the relationship going have been worth it.  All of the compromises the both of you have made in an attempt to accommodate the other person have been justified.  And all of the late-night conversations about dreams and goals and future plans have been agreed on.  It’s the last “I Do.” 

And yet STILL close to half of all marriages FAIL!  If you let yourself stop to think about it for just a little bit of time it’s actually quite amazing (and when I say amazing I mean sad).  I mean either people are just AWFUL at picking out a spouse, or there’s something seriously wrong with the actual “institution” of marriage . . . and in an attempt to keep my marriage going I will plead the 5^th on this one, and will not answer my own question.

But no question there are certain things that test marriages, and it seems to me that many marriages simply fail those “tests” and crumble.  It’s the strong, successful marriages that stand up and “rise above” those tests.

Which brings me to the annual Married Mixed Platform Tennis tournament which was held just last weekend.  This is the husband/wife paddle tourney that jokes about partners needing to be married before the tournament starts AND more importantly, after the tournament ends.  It’s the organizer’s way of admitting that playing with your spouse is going to be somewhat stressful on your marriage, and yet it’s really no joking matter.  I have friends who REFUSE to play in this tournament fearing that an afternoon spent on the paddle court with their wives literally could end their marriage.  And I’ve expressed those concerns with my wife, and still she continues to sign us up for this thing.

If I were to offer anyone some free advice on how to keep your marriage together it would be this. . . . Don’t Do Shit You Know Will Cause Friction With Your Spouse.  It’s that simple.

If you know your spouse isn’t a fan of horror movies, don’t drag them to see ‘Saw 5.’  Go see that by yourself.  I call this “guy’s movie night.”  Now actually I too am not a big fan of horror movies, but I am a big fan of the silly, over-the-top action movies where aliens are threatening to wipe out entire civilizations.  My wife has no interest in seeing these, so I don’t ask her to go.  It’s just that simple.  She doesn’t have to “waste” two hours of her life, and I don’t have to explain to her that “someday aliens may come down from outer space to vaporize all of the West Coast.”  You just never know.  That shit could happen.  Really.

If your wife isn’t a big fan of Ultimate Fighting, don’t watch it while she’s in the room.  Or at the very least don’t watch it while she’s trying to fall asleep on a Wednesday night.  Or at least don’t pound your fists on the bed screaming at the fighter on the TV to “submit to the arm triangle choke hold.”  Or . . . well, there’s a lot that can go wrong here . . .  Spike TV is killing me.

If your wife does not like those “pro’s and con’s” lists, don’t walk around the house writing them for every little thing you do.  You don’t need one to figure out whether you should participate in next year’s Cowalunga bike ride . . . you fell off your bike last year . . . . while stopped at an intersection . . . because you couldn’t get your feet out of the pedals . . . trust me . . . you shouldn’t participate in the ride again.  And you don’t need one to figure out whether you should get another dog . . . last week your dog took off after a speeding Amtrak train . . . I think you have your hands full with the one dog you already have.  And you certainly shouldn’t generate one about whether your relationship is working.  That was just dumb, and foolish and hurtful . . . or at least I believe those are the words she used after she finally let me back into the bedroom (I no longer save things to my desktop named “Relationship Pro’s and Con’s” . . . it was a long time ago, and for what it’s worth the Pro’s FAR OUTWEIGHED the Con’s). 

And if you know your husband is not a big fan of “couples paddle” don’t sign him up to play in a competitive tournament where he may have to play nine or 10 SETS of paddle against a bunch of other couples, some of whom take it WAY TOO SERIOUSLY and are nasty-mean in their attempt to win a meaningless husband-wife paddle tourney.  BUT IF YOU DO sign him up, and he happens to fault his serve into the net on set point . . . FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT SAY TO HIM “Boy, that was a lousy serve.”  He KNOWS it was a lousy serve . . . . he just doesn’t want to hear that FROM YOU!!!!!!

But then again, what do I know?

I know that every year I say, “I hate this tournament.  I don’t ever want to play in it again.”  And yet every year, I end up playing.  You know maybe those are simply the kind of things you do to keep your marriage going.  I don’t know?  But I’ll tell you, if I get another crack at that “nasty-mean” couple next year I’m not going to fault away the 1^st set again.  Oh no, next time I’m going to get that serve in and make a fantastic winning volley, because the more I think about it the more I’m convinced that in order to save your marriage you need to ruin someone else’s.

Dog Poop . . And Other Things . . Not Anymore

If you own a dog you are going to be stuck picking up its crap.  That’s just fact.  There’s no way around it.  Just like if you have kids, you are going to be stuck explaining to your insurance rep how your rear bumper ended up embedded in the neighbor’s tree.  I call it the “Joy of Dog Ownership,” or the “Joy of Parenthood.”  The pluses far outweigh the negatives, but there’s nothing good about picking up dog crap or listening to your 16-year-old kid explain to you how that 30-year old Oak tree just jumped out at them at the last minute. 

But eventually the kids do figure out how to avoid large, stationary objects. . . . or at the very least they move out and they get their own auto insurance . . . but the dog never stops going to the bathroom.  You are stuck picking up dog crap from the time you bring that dog home until the time he passes away.  There’s no way around it.  It’s scary to think about how many plastic bags I’ve gone through in just the last 10 years.  Literally I’m thinking the number is somewhere in the thousands. 

Of course there’s not a lot of dog crap “removal” during the winter months.  As soon as that first snow comes I’m pretty much done picking up dog crap in the backyard.  It’s dark by 4:30 in the afternoon, it’s 25-degrees outside, and for much of the winter there’s at least six inches of snow on the ground.  No way am I going back there to pick up dog crap.  I just open the back door, and let him out.  He comes back moments later, and I know somewhere back there there’s a large turd waiting for me.  But it can wait . . . . until spring rolls around . . . . and then it’s go time.  Then it’s operation dog crap removal.

I trudge out there with boots on my feet and with gloves on my hand.  I arm myself with no less than a dozen plastic bags and one big grocery bag, and it’s when that grocery bag is full that I know my “spring clean-up” is done.  One year I filled the bag with 22 pounds of dog crap . . . . I weighed it . . . . I actually took the bag upstairs to my bathroom, got on the scale with it, and weighed it. . . . when the central heat kicked on 10 minutes later and carried the smell throughout the house my wife reminded me that I could have taken the bathroom scale “OUTSIDE” to weigh the bag as opposed to taking the bag “INSIDE.” 

But this year I just can’t bring myself to do it again.  Spring is upon us, the snow has melted and the “ugliness” that is my backyard is waiting for me.  And yet I just can’t do it.  So I have stooped to new lows, and I have actually called a service that will come over and for $50 remove “all” of the dog crap from my yard. 

I’m chalking this up to being 40, and being unwilling to do things that I simply didn’t hesitate to do in my “earlier years.”  And the more I think about it, the more things I come up with that I used to do without hesitation, and yet suddenly don’t sound that appealing.

Like . . . .

Porta-John’s – Okay obviously there was NEVER a time where a Porta-John was my FIRST option.  There simply is nothing pleasant about going #1 let alone dropping a deuce in a large plastic box that’s already overflowing with other people’s waste.  But then again I’ve certainly never hesitated to use one.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit the Porta-John while tailgating at a college football game or at a rock concert.  In fact I think you could literally make an argument that Porta-John’s are actually part of the overall college football Saturday, or Dave Matthews Band experience.  Heck I once used a Porta-John while at a triathlon . . . . . AND I WAS ONE OF THE COMPETITORS!!!!!  I just had to go during my 10k run.  Stopped, waited in line for a couple minutes, used the Porta-John, and missed my goal time by a good 16 minutes.  But now. . . I don’t think so.  I think I’d have to REALLY be desperate before using a Porta-John.  I think I’d have to search out other bathroom alternatives before succumbing to the Porta-John, and I can say with a fair amount of certainty that if I were to use a Porta-John again it would be for #1.  I think I’m officially done taking the browns to the super bowl in a Porta-John.  Not going to happen anymore.

The Taste of Chicago – The concept of the Taste of Chicago is really quite spectacular. . . . get some of the best restaurants in Chicago to make and sell their food in the middle of Grant Park.  Add some live music and some fireworks, and well, you have one kick-ass event.  And I’ve been a part of it a number of times.  I once worked in the AON Building which was right across the street from Grant Park, and my co-workers and I would go down and have lunch at the Taste of Chicago.  And I’ve gone on the weekends with my wife and kids.  The problem is I am no longer able to overlook the two things that plague the Taste of Chicago every year. . . . the fact that it’s wildly overcrowded, 90-degrees and humid.  I’m not sure when it hit me, but at some point I realized that could get all of this food without having to rub elbows with the masses in scorching heat.  What seemed like a good idea just a few years ago is now called “date night” at Lou Malnati’s or at Harry Caray’s.   

Road Trips – Few things “scream college days” more than a good old fashioned road trip.  And I was the king of road trips back in the day.  Not only was I “road-tripping” to and from Winona, Minnesota and South Bend, Indiana to see my girlfriend, but I drove from Madison, Wisconsin to Lawrence, Kansas to visit pals, and I even drove from Chicago to Mesa, Arizona to see the Cubs play spring training games.  In just four short years I put over 100,000 miles on my car.  I would road trip in the early morning hours, and I would road trip in the late evening hours.  It just didn’t matter.  But nowadays I don’t want to drive four miles if I can avoid it.  I can’t really explain it as quite honestly my kids are good travelers (sure they ask “when are we going to be there” a bit too much, and they have been known to throw a fit if their iTouch dies in mid-trip), and I have a nice car (it’s not like I’m traveling in some shit-box), but my wife says “road trip” and I say “call American Airlines and book the tickets.”

So am I just getting old or lazy?  Actually, I chalk it up to getting smarter in this case.  Unfortunately, it took me 15 years to find out that someone will pick up all of my post-winter poop instead of wasting an entire afternoon doing it myself.  And who likes Porta-johns?  That’s a no-brainer.  Taste of Chicago should have hit me earlier, but hey, I’m a slow learner.  And frankly, I only road tripped before I had kids…if I still lived by myself, I probably wouldn’t mind it. 

While I may be getting older, it’s not all bad.  I’m apparently getting smarter (and picking up less dog poop), too.

Getting Neutered

I’ve had a dog my whole life.  I’m pretty sure there’s been a dog living in my house since I was 10 years old.  There was Barney, the mixed breed dog, who was run over while my mother, sister and I were on spring break in Florida and my dad was left home to dog sit.  You see Barney had run away during game six of the 1980 Lakers-76ers NBA finals, and dad just wasn’t going to go looking for Barney until after the game.  Unfortunately it was “too little, too late”. . . . for both dad and Barney.  Barney never came home, and dad never escaped the moniker “dog killer.” 

There was Charlie, who replaced Barney and lived 13 good, long years.  That is until Thanksgiving of 1993 when my mom couldn’t find anyone to watch the aging Charlie while we went out of town, and decided to take the vet’s recommendation to “send Charlie to a better place.”  My sister and I still don’t speak of that particular Thanksgiving Holiday, while my mom has pretty much expunged the entire episode from memory.  In fact if you were to ask her about Charlie I think she’d tell you that he drifted peacefully off to sleep one night. . . . yeah, with the help of a VERY strong drug. 

Then there was Camden, who my wife came home with one night after she had gone out for milk.  Came home with a dog and no milk.  Camden was a spectacular family pet, who we just recently put down (I wrote about this last year. . . it’s still the ONLY blog I have not read since posting it . . . still too painful). 

And now of course there’s Rocky.  The mutt of all mutts.  The one dog that caused me to go out and get a million dollar “umbrella insurance policy” because after reading about this Alapaha Bulldog breed (which is what Rocky was SUPPOSED TO BE), I was convinced that he would eventually eat some small neighborhood kid.  Of course in the end he’s NOT a vicious Alapaha Bulldog.  In fact he’s not an Alapaha Bulldog at all.  He’s some strange mix of Chow, Shepherd, Boxer, Bulldog, Boston Terrier, and who the hell knows what else.  But he’s friendly and dumb and funny and sort of silly looking.  He’s a great dog.  Sure he chases after freight trains.  And growls at every dog on a leash.  And he makes a strange howling sound whenever he hears a siren.  And he did plunge into the North Branch of the Chicago River to chase after ducks, and then struggled to get out after the ducks flew off.  But he is without question my favorite dog of all time. 

Today I took him to the vet’s to have his balls removed.  It wasn’t by choice.  My wife made me do it.  She has been asking me for the last couple of months to make the appointment, and after I repeatedly refused because I didn’t want to be responsible for un-manning my buddy, she finally made one for me. 

So this morning I piled him into the car, and had a long talk with him.  I told him that all guys eventually lose their balls.  Sure he was LITERALLY losing his balls, but what’s the difference?  He’s getting his surgically removed, while I had mine removed 15 years ago in front of family and friends and a Catholic Priest. 

After a week of some pain medication and a few days in that ridiculously awful looking “lamp shade” collar, he’ll be good as new.  He’ll be running around chasing after squirrels or a Union Pacific freight train, jumping up on anyone and everyone who walks through our door (much to the chagrin of my wife who still wonders out loud how I could have spent the last year at home with the dog without training him to sit or stay down. . . . and of course that’s easy . . . I just didn’t train him), and sleeping on the couch whenever he needs an afternoon nap.

Me on the other hand . . . well a week of pain medication isn’t going to solve my problem.

Marriage is the ultimate neutering.  If you were “whipped” during your dating years, then you’re just flat-out “de-balled” once you get married.

Just this week I’ve spent time with my wife at Lowe’s picking out crown molding for our family room, which is looking nice by the way.  I’ve also looked at 101 colors of brown paint, from Piano Brown to Lincoln Cottage Brown to Irish Tea brown.  I’ve filled her car up with gas . . . after she got mad at me for not doing it the day before.  I have arranged carpooling to and from soccer practice. . . . with two other moms.  I canceled a “guy’s weekend” trip up to a buddy’s house in Wisconsin so that I could play in a paddle tournament . . . the Illinois Married Mixed tournament . . . the same tournament my wife and I played in last year when she yelled at me for “not playing hard enough.”  I’ve done loads and loads of laundry, picked up and dropped off the dry cleaning and picked up shoes that needed new heels.  And I even made dinner last night (it was the one dish I know how to make).

So I think when I go to pick up Rocky this afternoon, I will conclude my earlier conversation with him by reminding him that though I technically still have my balls attached, he’s probably more of a man than I am.

Playing The Percentages

They say the only two guarantees in life are death and taxes.  I disagree.  I can pretty much guarantee you that I’ll get every red light if I’m in a rush.  And I can pretty much guarantee you that I will put my serve into the net on set point in a paddle match.  And I can pretty much guarantee you that my kids will dislike whatever my wife is making for dinner.

However, even I will admit that my own personal “guarantees” are not as, well, guaranteed as “death and taxes” as I do occasionally get a green light, and I have been known to hit a serve in during a key point, and every so often my kids will agree to lasagna or grilled chicken. 

So maybe death and taxes really are the only two real guarantees in life, but I think I can attach percentages to other aspects of life and figure out how “guaranteed” certain things are.

For instance if my son is downstairs playing Call of Duty and my wife calls him up for homework I think I can say that there is a 95% chance that he’s going to lobby for at least 10 additional minutes to finish his game, and after those 10 minutes come and go I think there is a 90% chance that my wife will threaten to take the game away unless he turns it off and comes up stairs immediately.

I think there is a 98% chance that my younger son will try to get out of taking a shower, and that kid seriously smells.  Literally my eight-year old needs strong deodorant.  There’s something not right there.  We’ve actually talked to the doctor about it, who simply warned us that “it’s only going to get worse.”  I’m convinced we’re going to need industrial-sized fans to air out the kid’s room once he hits his teenage years.  And yet he’d rather smell than take a shower.

And I think I can attach a percentage to how likely I am to get sex on any given night.  It’s actually becoming a science for me.  Friday night with two glasses of wine there’s a 60% chance I get laid.  Believe it or not, three glasses of wine on a Friday night actually lowers the percentage to about 45% as that third glass of wine simply knocks her out.  Remember it’s Friday night and she’s had a long day of work.  Don’t let the “Friday night thing” fool you.  She’s been at work for at least nine hours.  Friday night is NEVER any better than 60%. 

Now Saturday night is a different story.  Saturday starts at 60%.  The day could begin with the dog puking on the floor and her car running out of gas while she’s en route to an indoor soccer game, and I’ve still got a 60% chance of having sex later that night.  Saturday is my best chance period.  Date night with just me and a few glasses of wine and it goes to 75%.  Date night with a few other couples and a few glasses of wine and it goes to 85% (yes, my percentages go up as long as my wife doesn’t have to spend the entire evening talking to just me . . . six days a week I’ll avoid getting together with people like I avoid the bubonic plague, but Saturday night comes around and I’m inviting perfect strangers to come and join us for a cocktail).   

And the percentages sky rocket to an all-time high of about 95% if we’ve actually shipped our kids off to other houses for sleepovers.  If I can come home to an empty house after a Saturday night out with friends and wine. . . . 95%. . . . and it’s never better than 95%. . . . in fact if any guy tells you he’s got a better than 95% chance of getting laid. . . . he’s not only lying, but he’s actually got NO CHANCE of getting any action that night. 

Now a weekday night after my wife’s had a long day of work and comes home to cook dinner and help our boys with homework . . . 0% chance.  I would literally have a better chance of getting sex if I hit her in the face with a shovel.  So it’s during these week nights where I “push the envelope.”  I will say and do pretty much anything during the week knowing I had zero percent chance of getting lucky anyway.

Don’t believe me; well let me ask you this, have you ever said to your wife “Can I stick my sex monkey into your hot butter hole?”  Well, I have.  Do you know why?  Because there was as much chance of her saying yes to that absurd comment as there was of her saying yes to a hand written poem titled “The 101 reasons why I’d like to make love to my wife.”  ZERO PERCENT CHANCE. 

Now of course that particular comment backfired slightly when she turned around and told me not to talk to her for the rest of the day, but I made that comment on a Tuesday, so I have until Saturday to make it right. 

Trust me; I’ll be back to 60% come Saturday morning.

So on second thought maybe there’s death, taxes, and my wife’s complete disinterest in weekday sex as the only guarantees in life.

Vicarious Living

A few weeks ago the “Blizzard of 2011” wiped out one of my weekly paddle matches.  Now this isn’t that big of a deal except for the fact that it’s a pain in the ass to reschedule the match.

After a series of e-mails between me and our opponents we agreed on Monday, February 14^th.  I reserved the paddle court, and sent out the final “confirmation e-mail.”  Unfortunately, at the last minute, my partner e-mailed me to say that he could not play due to the fact that it was Valentine’s Day.  Our e-mail exchange went something like this:

My partner – “Clay, I’m sorry for the late notice, but I just realized that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and I have big plans and therefore cannot play.”

Me – “Are you kidding?  Is this a fucking joke?”

My 29-year-old partner went on to explain that he is currently dating not one, not two, but three different girls (one of whom he apparently met in a lingerie store . . . buying lingerie for one of the other girls) and he had separate plans with two of the ladies for Valentine’s Day.

So I sent an e-mail to our opponents that went something like this:

Me – “Hey I’m sorry, but unfortunately we’ve got to reschedule this thing again as my partner has big Valentine’s Day plans.”

My opponents – “Are you kidding?  Is this a fucking joke?”

So in the end my opponents and I agreed on a new date, and we also agreed that we were all going to live vicariously through my partner, and when the four of us finally did get together for this make-up match, we were going to get the details about his Valentine’s Day, as no doubt it was going to be VERY DIFFERENT from ours.  Ah, to be young again.

But that whole thing got me thinking about “living vicariously” through someone.  I think it happens a lot. 

I think the life my paddle partner is living right now is an easy one to vicariously live through.  After all, I can’t run around shagging three girls at the same time, but damnit I’d like to hear about.  

And I suspect we’ve all vicariously lived through a friend who got some great job that allowed them to travel to cool places or meet neat people. 

And I KNOW I’M RIGHT when I say that I think most dads live vicariously through their own sons.  We all hope that our boys will achieve the kind of success (mostly athletic success) that we never achieved.  I’m convinced that this vicarious living is the reason that youth sports are so out of control.  We all want our kids to sign the major league contracts that we were never offered.  Of course years from now, when our kids are not major league players, they’ll have kids of their own and will live vicariously through them.  This one is a vicious circle that never really ends.

But a few weeks ago my wife got a call from a recruiter with a job offer.  Now, it was a job that she had been interviewing for, and there had already been some “back and forth” regarding negotiations, but I just happened to be in the room when my wife took this call, and I suddenly found myself living vicariously through my wife as she negotiated with this recruiter. 

Now I love my wife, and I respect my wife, and I am her biggest fan and most loyal supporter, but I’m not sure it’s normal or healthy for me to be “living vicariously through her.”  But there I was, listening to her masterfully negotiate with this recruiter, and thinking to myself, “God, that’s freaking awesome.  I wish I could do that.”

The call was simple.  The recruiter told her that the job was hers and listed the salary and told her of the benefits as well as her new title.  My wife, without hesitation, asked for a bigger salary, more vacation time, and a laundry list of benefits.  The recruiter told her she’d have to get back to her.  Within 10 minutes (I’m not exaggerating), the recruiter called back, offered her everything she wanted, and asked if she could start in a week.

Unbelievable.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Oh, I’ve been in negotiations before, but they’ve gone much differently.

One of my first jobs was working for a small broadcast public relations firm, and one of my weekly duties was watering the office plants.  Now I hated this one aspect of my job (frankly I hated a number of things about that job, but this watering of the plants was top of the list), so at my yearly review I asked to be relieved of those duties.  They said no.  In fact what they actually said was “If you don’t like watering the plants we’ll find someone else who will.”  So basically it was me or the plants, and they chose the office ficus tree over me.  And by the way . . . on a side note. . . . I’m not entirely sure what’s more pathetic. . . the fact that that’s a TRUE STORY, or the fact that I just blogged about it.

Now, I’ve certainly had more important negotiations than that.  Not long after leaving that company, I was working for a marketing firm downtown and things were going well.  I was helping to run a couple of the agency’s major accounts, and was slowly but surely moving up the corporate ladder.  Well, my wife was pregnant with our first child and was overdue.  So knowing that we were heading into the hospital that weekend to give birth, I let my boss know that I would probably be out a few days the coming week so that I could be home with my wife and new born.  My boss’s response was, “Nope.”  So I said that I didn’t need the whole week off, but would definitely like Monday and Tuesday off.  Unfortunately the negotiation ended when he said, “If you like your job, you’ll be here on Monday.” 

And I’ve had the salary negotiations before, but they didn’t go quite as smoothly as my wife’s salary negotiations.  You see, I was working for another ad agency and was once again doing well, and running some fairly large accounts.  Well, my annual review came up, and I went in with a plan to ask for a raise of 7% (bigger than the “cost of living raise” that my boss typically gave).  The negotiation went something like this:

Me – “I think due to my increased account activity and growing knowledge of the industry, I deserve a 7% raise.”

My boss – “Clay, unfortunately we’ve got to let you go, but don’t hesitate to list me as a reference should you need one.”

So there are two things to learn from today’s blog.  1) I will never be an agent or any job requiring negotiating skills.  2) I should probably keep my vicarious living to a minimum.

Foot In Mouth Disease

My grandfather passed away when I was 16.  Days later, as we were getting ready for the funeral, my dad came to me and said, “Listen, you say a lot of stupid shit, we’re going to my father’s funeral today, keep your mouth shut.”  I did, and frankly my dad was right, I said a lot of stupid shit back then.  Now one could argue that ALL 16 year old kids (especially boys) say a lot of “stupid shit,” but I probably said more than most.  At the end of the day that’s what I did, and that’s what I still do today . . . I say stupid things.  Most of it is simply to get others around me to laugh (either at me or with me), but sometimes that stupid stuff just rolls out of my mouth without me even thinking about it. 

My favorite target is my 12-year old son’s friends.  I hold no punches when his pals come over.  I actually refer to one of them as “dummy” and I’m pretty sure that that kid is the smartest kid in the 6^th grade class. . . . well, let’s put it this way . . . . that kid is a lot smarter than I am, and yet I just call him “dummy.”  I can’t help myself.  Stupid shit just rolls out of my mouth.

So it should come as no surprise that I occasionally get myself into trouble with my wife for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.  Now don’t get me wrong, I actually credit open lines of communication between my wife and I as being one of the key ingredients to our very successful 15-year marriage.  My wife and I talk all the time and we pretty much talk about everything.  But without fail, I seem to trip over my own tongue at least once or twice a week, and that average has been on the rise since my wife and I have been spending more time together.

Just the other day I was sitting at the dining room table reading my paper.  My wife was in the kitchen doing something, and I just blurted out “Is there a reason I’m not eating?”  She wasn’t impressed.  I went to McDonald’s for breakfast.

I walked into our family room and found her on the couch watching one of her cooking shows.  I took one look at the dish the person was cooking and said “I’d rather shit in my own hand than have you cook that.”  My wife told me to pull my pants down and do it. 

We were at my eight-year-olds teacher conference the other day, and after the teacher showed my wife and me a work sheet that my son had done all wrong, I said to the teacher, “So is he really retarded or just sort of retarded?”  Pure silence followed.  So I said, “I’m sorry, I meant mentally challenged.”  My wife didn’t talk to me on the car ride home.

But though I continue to get myself in trouble with those types of stupid comments, it pales in comparison to the trouble I occasionally get myself into when I say stupid shit about my wife’s weight or anything related to it.  Now as a guy I know that a woman’s weight is an OFF LIMITS subject.  I think it’s probably safe to say that if you’re born with a set of testicles you know that a Ferrari is cool, boobs are spectacular, and a woman’s weight is never to be mentioned.  And yet. . . . .

My wife and I are getting ready to go out, and my wife comes out of her closet with a new shirt on.  It looks nice on her, but I say “Is that what everyone’s calling a muffin top?”  Nope, no sex that night.

My wife is dieting.  Nothing extreme, but just trying to eat a little healthier.  She’s already lost five pounds.  She looks great.  So I say “You definitely should stay on that diet for awhile longer.”  Nope, no sex that night either.

And again, my wife and I are getting ready to go out, and again she walks out of her closet all dressed up and I say “Is that what you’re planning to wear out tonight?  Do I get veto power?”  And you guessed it, no sex that night either, and she didn’t even change her outfit.

I can even get in trouble when I don’t say a word.  I didn’t like one of her long summer dresses, so I hid it in the laundry room.  As I do the laundry, I figured she wouldn’t ever find it.  Unfortunately, after she had spent some time looking for the dress and I claimed not to know anything about it, she found it months later, stashed in a ball in the laundry room.   That wasn’t such a good night either.

So, from experience, I can give you all some good advice…just try to think before you speak, and if you are planning to say ANYTHING about your wife’s weight, outfit or shape, be prepared to have a long evening without sex.

Conventional Wisdom . . . And The Big FOUR-OH

I am 14,610 days old today.  The big FOUR-OH.  I’m 40.  The day that I have been dreading for some time is finally here.  It’s not right around the corner.  It’s upon me.  It’s here right now.  Today is my 40^th birthday.  And how do I feel?  Well, frankly no different than I felt yesterday.  And not much different than I felt when I turned 39.  Or even 38 for that matter.  It’s really just another day.  It’s a Thursday.  And yet I already miss being “30-something.”  I can’t believe I’m 40.

Now I know most of my blog readers have already celebrated their 40^th birthdays, so I’m sure most of them are wondering why I’m making such a big deal about it.

Well, let me give you a quick back story here . . . . Years ago my sister and I played house together using Star Wars figures . . . hey, Star Wars was HUGE back then (this is late 70’s) . . . and my sister was my only sibling, so if I wanted someone to play Star Wars figures with me, it was her or bust.  Anyway, Darth Vader and Princess Leia were the mom and dad.  Luke Skywalker and Han Solo were older kids, and the Jawas and the Ewoks were the little kids . . . and yes, the annual family Christmas Card was a freaking house of horrors. . . I get it.  But guess how old Darth Vader and Princess Leia were . . . you guessed it. . . they were 40.  And why 40?  Because that’s the age my sister and I thought was “old.” 

I’m now that age.  I’m now the same age we bestowed on Darth Vader and Princess Leia 30+ years ago.

Furthermore, like so many people, I had set personal goals for myself, and as of today I have failed to reach pretty much all of those goals.  Okay, my marriage and my kids have been spectacular.  A smashing success.  However, my professional or career goals have been a dismal failure.  Just awful.  My goals to get back in shape . . . well, they’re a step above my career goals in regards to success rate.  And my financial goals, well I had to borrow $40 from my eight year old last week to pay for pizza . . . which is to say that I stole $40 out of his piggy bank, which officially makes me a 40-year-old deadbeat.

So you see where I’m going here, right?  You see why I’m so depressed over turning 40?  I needed more time to be 30-something so that I could accomplish more by the time 40 came around.   

You know, conventional wisdom suggests that “All Good Things Must Come To An End.”

We all know this is true.  And yet there are a few things in life that we hope will defy conventional wisdom and last forever . . . . like my 30’s.

For instance, we know that boobs eventually sag, and yet we hold out hope that they will remain perky and firm even as they begin to head South.

We know that honeymoon or newlywed sex will slow down to AT BEST once a week sex, and yet we remain hopeful that “the good times” will continue forever even after the “headache excuses” start.

We know a great run at the Vegas Blackjack table will end at some point, and yet we continue to place bets in hopes that our good fortunes will continue even after we’ve made repeated trips to the cash station machine.

We know the hair on top of our heads will begin to migrate to our backs at some point, and yet we hope that this fate will somehow skip over us even after we’ve started doing the “comb-over” and having our backs professionally waxed.

We know our kids will eventually get a driver’s license, spend less time with us (or want nothing to do with us) and leave home, but we secretly hope that they’ll just stay young and keep riding their bikes around the neighborhood, begging for ice cream from the godforsaken truck and continue thinking that we are the greatest parents ever.

We know vacations have to come to an end, and yet we hope that they’ll last forever even after we’ve packed up and boarded the plane home.

We know a great date night has to come to an end, and yet we hold out hope that the night will go on forever even after we’ve returned home.

And we know we’re all getting older, and yet we hold out hope for some type of fountain of youth even after we’ve celebrated our 40^th birthdays.

You know, it seems to me that maybe conventional wisdom suggests that we’re all just in denial of reality.  I know I am.

Rough Week

When I was first laid off I received a ton of sympathy from friends and family members.  People genuinely felt bad for me, and there were a number of people who offered to help “in any way they could.”  If there was any positive that came out of me losing my job it was that I realized I had a number of very good friends and a very understanding and loving family. 

However, time does seem to change things, and as my stint as an unemployed guy dragged on, sympathy turned to envy.  Now that’s not to say that anyone WANTS to be unemployed, it’s actually not a lot of fun, but certainly hanging around the house in sweats, running a few errands, sending silly e-mails to pals and occasionally posting a blog sounds a whole lot more fun than getting up and jumping into the rat-race 50 weeks a year.  I think it’s a classic case of “the grass is greener on the other side.”  Suddenly a few of my friends started looking at my lot in life as being not too bad.  Send the wife out to work, send the kids to school, and hang out.  What’s not to like, right?

Let’s put it this way, when I’m with my friends on a Sunday night and they start bemoaning the fact that they have to get up and go to work on Monday morning, I don’t say anything.  I know silence is my best chance of avoiding a left hook to the head.

The problem of course is that when the shit is hitting the fan at home, I have no escape.  My home is my office (even if I’m just using that “office” to send silly e-mails and post mildly amusing blogs).  I don’t think I’m the only guy who has considered his office a “safe haven.”  I think most guys have actually looked forward to going to work to get away from the chaos that is erupting from home.  However that is not an option with me.

Take last week for example.  My wife is home (I’ve mentioned her temporary . . . well let’s hope it’s temporary . . . unemployment status) and sick.  As in can’t get out of bed sick.  As in I need to drive her to the doctor’s office so that he can prescribe drugs kind of sick.  And by the way, I hate the doctor’s office.  The doctor’s office is where healthy people go to get sick.  I feel the need to scrub down with boiling hot water and industrial strength cleaning products after sitting in the doctor’s waiting room.  I would literally go into a public restroom and lick the toilet before reaching for a magazine at the doctor’s office. 

Anyway my wife is home sick all last week.  I made her at least a dozen cups of tea, two bowls of chicken noodle soup (okay I bought the chicken noodle soup), ran to the grocery store once to buy different boxes of Kleenex (after she complained that we didn’t have the lotion-based tissue), and drew her two baths.

Then came my youngest son’s flu.  I knew he was sick when he broke out with a 101 fever and couldn’t get out of bed.  He required Gatorade, popsicles, constant charging of his iTouch, and twice-a-day medicine . . . . which he only threw up once.  Between trips to and from the kitchen for he and my wife I must have run up and down our stairs 220 times.  I actually have stopped working out.  What’s the point?  I’m basically on a nonstop stair master.

Before that came the Blizzard of 2011 which dumped 20.2 inches of snow in Chicago, and kept both children home from school for two days.  I shoveled four times.  Built one gigantic snow fort.  Lost the dog in a four foot high snow drift which he tried to clear by jumping over it . . . . and yes, it’s official, he is in fact the world’s stupidest dog . . . . and built three fires in the fire place for my wife who was able to leave the bedroom for the couch.

Then came my oldest son’s stomach flu.  I knew he was sick when he went to bed early complaining of stomach cramps.  More to the point, I knew he was sick when I was lying in bed next to him rubbing his back and he turned and threw up all over me.  Literally covered me from head to toe in vomit.  Human waste all over me.

My wife, who by now was feeling somewhat better, came running only to have to stop before actually entering my son’s room for fear of throwing up herself, as she started gagging and coughing.  You see, my wife’s kryptonite is vomit.  My kryptonite is technology.  I think most men would agree that babies are their kryptonite.  And I think I’m safe in saying that most women would agree that oral sex is their kryptonite.  But my wife just can’t be ANYWHERE NEAR vomit.  Which means I had to clean off my son, myself, his bed and his carpeting, all of which were covered in a six-piece chicken McNugget happy meal.  And on a side note, McDonald’s takes a lot of heat for not making their McNuggets with “100% white meat chicken,” and I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I can say with a fair amount of certainty that they make their French fries with real potatoes.  I can also say with a fair amount of certainty that small, regurgitated pieces of potatoes are NOT easy to get out of carpeting.

There was nothing good about being home last week…and it’s not getting any better.  Both boys were home from school once again today, although my youngest has apparently recovered enough to drive everyone in the house crazy.  I may have to go out and get a job after this is over.  I just don’t know if I can take being home anymore.

A Glimpse at Early Retirement

Growing up I wanted to be a professional baseball player.  I mean, what’s not to like?  Your season is during the spring and summer months.  For the most part you do a lot of standing around, and when you do have to sprint it’s usually for 90 feet.  On top of that, no one is trying to hit you or tackle you, and when you have to dive for a ball you land on soft grass as opposed to a hardwood floor or a frozen field.   Hell, you don’t really have to be that good.  If you’re successful just 25 percent of the time, you’ve got a guaranteed job, and if you’re successful 30 percent of the time, you’re considered to be one of the “great ones.”  I’m actually convinced that mediocrity is widely accepted in both professional baseball as well as meteorology (are weathermen ever right???).

As I got older, and my dreams of playing professional baseball went out the door (it seems that being successful just 25 percent of the time is harder than I thought), I focused on another type of “dream,” one that involved my wife and I working closely with one another. 

After all, my wife is my best friend, and she is smart and a hard worker.  You could do a lot worse when looking for a co-worker.  Unfortunately, our careers led us in different directions, and working with her simply didn’t materialize.  To make matters worse, our careers, as they so often do, kept us away from one another for much of the week.  I’d see my wife for 20 or 30 minutes in the morning before heading out, and I’d see her for a couple hours at night once we had both gotten home.  Certainly not the kind of “quality time” I had dreamed about when planning out my goal of working closely with her.

So the next dream or goal became retiring as early as possible so that my wife and I could enjoy some of that quality time that we had simply missed out on by not being able to work together.  Now this dream seemed like a million years away, but sometimes a million years can be a lot shorter than you think. 

A couple months ago my wife’s company reorganized, and she agreed that there was no need for marketing in the new organization. That meant she would either be getting laid off or take a new job within the company sometime early in 2011.  Upon getting the news my wife began looking into other opportunities, and in fact has already received a couple different offers, so in the end this may actually work out very well for her/us.  Though, if you listen to my mom talk about this situation it seems like the end of the world . . . “Well that’s just awful.  What are you two going to do?  You’ll be broke.  How are you going to put food on the table?  Are you going to sell the house?  Who’s going to buy your house in this market?  Do I have to clear out my basement so that you guys can live with me?”  She means well, and she really is a fantastic mother, but I’m fairly convinced she doesn’t listen to a word I say.

Anyway, slowly but surely, as her job and her responsibilities have dwindled, my wife has been spending more and more time at home.  It was just a day or two a week back in November and that turned into lots of vacation during December, and lately, even though she still technically has a job until the end of January, she’s been working from home at least three days a week. . . . with very little to do.

She calls it a “preview of retirement,” and I’m calling it “A FREAKING NIGHTMARE!!!!!!!”

My wife is ALWAYS HOME.  She’s set up her laptop on the dining room table across from my laptop and it’s like dueling banjos.  She’s banging away on her laptop, and I’m banging away on my laptop.  Every once in awhile she looks up, smiles, and asks me what I’m doing. 

The Pearl Jam and U2 I usually have on while I write has been replaced by her music.  She’s monopolizing the TV with Food Network, Cooking Channel and HGTV.  Literally I caught the last 10 minutes of one of these shows and watched someone making Spinach Gnocchi Balls.  My wife assumed that I was interested in the show since I was paying attention (which I wasn’t, I was just horrified that someone had their own show on TV featuring them cooking Gnocchi Balls while I remain unemployed), and she now calls for me every time Barefoot Contessa is on. 

She has no interest in taking walks with me as it’s too cold outside, but she doesn’t hesitate to visit me while I’m dropping a deuce.  Just recently she came into the bathroom while I was sitting on the toilet to let me know that I had to pick up my oldest son from school at 4:45 PM.  It was 10:30 in the morning when she came in to tell me this.

And as for the afternoon sex, or the morning “quickie” that I’ve longed fantasized about . . . no.  I can count on one hand (and I don’t need all five fingers either) how many times we’ve had sex in the middle of the day since she’s been home.  She’s copied my stay-at-home look of sweat pants and fleece, so frankly I don’t think either one of us has the urge to start anything.

So I’ve decided that not being able to retire early probably isn’t a bad thing.  I’m frankly not sure what we would do, other than the fact that my wife is actually cooking more.  I just hope that she doesn’t make those gnocchi balls.  I’ll be ordering Domino’s later that night.

Research . . Someone Has To Do It

My neighbor and I have an ongoing debate over whether being out in the cold hinders your chances of fighting the common cold, or whether it simply plays no part whatsoever.  She’s convinced that once you’re sick, you’re sick, and being outside isn’t going to play any part in how fast you recover, while I contend that once you’re sick you should be inside and not out in the cold. 

Now frankly I don’t really give a shit, and actually as long as my neighbor continues to occasionally bring over brownies and cakes and cookies (this woman has mad skills in the kitchen) I’m more than willing to concede on this one, but just for shits and giggles (basically because I have the free time) I thought I’d do some Internet research on the subject.

And sure enough there were 101 different “studies” on this exact subject.  Some that confirmed her belief, and some that confirmed mine.  But what was more amazing is how many other “studies” I came across while searching out this one.  I’m talking about HUNDREDS UPON HUNDREDS (hell thousands upon thousands) of “medical studies” on everything from the effectiveness of weight loss drugs to the viability of shark cartilage as a cancer drug.  Amazing.   

But upon closer review, what was even more amazing is how many “dumb-ass” (please note, that’s not a medical term) studies were out there.  I mean studies that made no sense whatsoever.  As in I couldn’t figure out why an actual study had been conducted in the first place.  Forget the final results of the study, I couldn’t figure out why someone had wasted their time looking into this subject, and I sure as shit couldn’t figure out why someone had paid for this study to be done.  After all, I’m assuming NO ONE is doing ANY OF THIS for free.  Someone out there is paying for this research, and someone is cashing a check to do the research.

Don’t believe me . . .

I found a study claiming that children who drank caffeine slept less than children who did not drink caffeine. 

I found another study that says that people who exercise regularly are in better shape than those people who sit on the couch.    

There was another study that claims that the majority of women do not like to be told they’re fat. 

I read a study that concluded that people who cannot afford their own cars are more likely to take public transportation. 

There was a study that said that people, even “optimistic people,” were disappointed by getting fired. 

And I found a study that claims that tired people make more mistakes than people who are well rested. 

I’m not making this stuff up.  Literally it’s all out there. 

But it got me thinking . . . . if there really is all this medical “research” going on out there, and if there really are people who are paying for this “research,” well maybe there’s a way for me to cash in on it?

Now I’m certainly not the guy to look into the viability of shark cartilage as a cancer drug (that’s definitely not my area of expertise), but there are other “areas” where I do have some “expertise,” and I would be happy to share my conclusions with people . . . . for the right price, of course.

For instance, I am willing to look into whether or not a guy prefers to receive or give oral sex.  In fact, since I’ve already done a little bit of research on this one, I’m willing to reduce my fee . . . hey I’m doing this in the name of science.  While I’m at it I may “study” whether women prefer to give oral sex while watching Leno or say the Food Network.  It’s a BOGO.  It’s a two-for-one.  Someone get the American Medical Journal on the horn.

I’m going to look into the old adage that “there’s no such thing as a bad pizza.”  I’ll conduct countless research by eating a variety of different pizzas.  Now I assure you that I’ll study both deep dish and thin crust, and I’ll even look into plain cheese pizza versus say a pepperoni pizza.  No stones will be left unturned.  I will pour everything I have into this one.

I’m also willing to study which sports are best in person, and which are best on TV.  Now this one might take me a full year as I feel the need to catch football, baseball, hockey and basketball games in person as well as on TV, and since the pro sports seasons pretty much span an entire year, well this study won’t be wrapped up anytime soon, but by God I’m going to do it. 

I’m going to study the effectiveness of wine versus hard alcohol and which one gets your wife drunk and in the mood best.  Sure most people would assume hard alcohol, but this study is deeper than just which one gets your wife drunk faster.  Hell that’s easy. . . give her some Vodka and she’s down within 30 minutes, but this study is about which one gets her IN THE MOOD BEST.

And I’m going to study which cream filled dessert is best with ice cold milk.  Is it the Zebra Cake?  The Ho-Ho?  The Ding Dong?  The Twinkie?  I don’t know, but I will definitely find out.

So, should I start sending proposals to snack food, liquor, pizza and other companies to determine their interest?  Or maybe I’ll just volunteer my time and get to work.  No financial support necessary.  I’ll start with the first one.