Taking Advice

So a good friend invited me to play platform tennis with him and two other guys this past Sunday.  His actual e-mail said something about “playing after church and before the Bears game.”  He had me at “before the Bears game.”  I certainly wasn’t going to accept an invite to play paddle during the Bears game.  As for the “after church” thing . . . well I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to church on a Sunday morning.  Literally I’m talking years ago.  In fact we go so infrequently that when my youngest son was recently asked by one of his friend’s moms whether he goes to church, he responded, “No we’re Jewish.”  I think he figured that since we never ever go to church we must be Jewish . . . . my son’s been baptized in the Catholic Church.  He did go to a pre-school at the Lutheran Church around the corner, and when we drove by on a Sunday morning, he asked what all these people were doing at his school.

Anyway I arrive at the Sunday morning paddle match and I’m greeted by my good friend and two guys I don’t know (I vaguely knew one of them, and was just meeting the other guy for the first time).  But that’s fine.  I get partnered up with the guy I don’t know at all, and we take on my buddy and his partner.  As for skill level . . . we are all pretty much on par with one another . . . . which is to say that we are all good players, but none of us will be touring the country as professional paddle players anytime soon. 

Three points into the match and my partner starts dispensing the advice:

“Hey you need to stand closer to the net.” 

“You need to go cross court with that overhead.”

“You need to go down the line with that drive.”

“You have to shift to your right when I’m making the volley.”

“You have to be more aggressive with your shot selection.”

Literally at one point he stopped play, and had me come up to the net with him to show me where he wanted to stand when I was making a volley.

It was unbelievable.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or tell this guy off.

But I took it all in stride, and kept allowing him to give me advice.  After all advice is one of those things that everyone likes to give, and yet few people like to receive.  It’s actually the opposite of oral sex.  However I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, at least once, when it comes to giving advice.  My feeling is “who am I to turn down someone’s free advice?”  I sure as shit don’t have all the answers, and if someone else thinks they do, well bring on the advice.  I’m all ears.  Sure most advice is no more reliable than someone’s own experience, but again, maybe they’ve experienced something I haven’t.  Maybe, just maybe, their advice will help me figure something out, or will prevent me from making the same mistakes they’ve made. 

Years ago my dad advised me never to marry a Catholic, and if I did, at least not one who went to the University of Notre Dame.  He worked with some die-hards who cried at the sound of the fight song.   I did not take his advice, and married a Catholic who graduated from Notre Dame.  So far so good.  15 years and counting, though some of the language that comes out of her mouth when she’s watching her Irish play football on Saturday is a little . . . well un-Catholic. 

My wife once advised me not to spend a lot of money on a road bike.  I did not take her advice and spent thousands (yes THOUSANDS) on a titanium framed road bike.  I road that bike for two years.  Fell off of it once and mostly watched as dust collected on it.  I wound up selling it a few years later for LESS THAN half of what I had originally purchased it for.  To this day it is still something my wife likes to bring up when she’s trying to illustrate the point that I’m fairly stupid. I should have listened to her advice.

Speaking of bike riding, my wife advised me to stop participating in the three-day bike ride that my two pals and I have been doing for almost 10 years now.  I did not listen, went on the bike ride, and came down with a horrible case of food poisoning that required her to drive up to Whitewater, Wisconsin to pick me up.  Actually, this too is something she uses when she’s trying to prove that I’m stupid.  Frankly she’s making a fairly compelling argument.  Again, I probably should have taken her advice.        

My next door neighbor talked me into having my oldest son try out for travel baseball.  I originally was not going to have my son try out as the whole travel baseball program is a little “crooked,” but my neighbor advised me that this may be the year for some change. So I was supportive of his trying out.  Of course he did not make it, and though his disappointment was short-lived, it took me about two weeks to “talk my wife down.”  She gets very wound up over unfair situations, especially when they involve her children.  Little league baseball is STILL something we simply do not discuss in my house now.  I’m sorry I took his advice.

And as for my paddle partner this past Sunday  . . . well I gave him a chance.  I let him advise me during points, after points and in between points. . . . until he fired his umpteenth forehand drive into the bottom of the net, and said “Well, had that shot gone over it would have been dangerous.”

Yeah.  Right.  You’re done.  Stop talking. 

Maybe in the end, advice is simply no different than opinions.

And you know what they say about opinions, don’t you?

Home Alone . . . At Last

And then there was just one.  After a two week Christmas break, my kids have gone back to school, and my wife, who took close to two full weeks off, has gone back to work.  The house is again empty.  Just me and the dog.  All is right with the world again.  Though I am always sad to see my favorite holiday come to an end, and though it certainly was nice to have my wife and kids enjoy an extended break, I will admit that the chaos that seems to come from having everyone home at the same time is a bit daunting.

Now that the dust has cleared, I have decided a few things:

#1 – I am better with an empty house than I am with a full house. 

Basically I am better as long as I have some sort of a routine going, and it’s tough to keep up any type of routine with kids running around.  Trying to keep up with the never-ending play dates and sleepovers and car pooling responsibilities, and who’s coming here, and who’s going where is just not my forte.  We must have hosted a couple dozen different kids at one time or another during the two week break.  We had NINE total sleepovers.  Five at our house and four at someone else’s house.  We had one airsoft war, and two Nerf wars.  We shot, blew up, or stabbed well over 200 people in Call of Duty, and we got into a very heated argument during a soccer game on XBOX Kinect.  It was exhausting, and there was no rhyme or reason as to how our daily schedule would go.  One minute the kids were here, and the next minute they were gone.  Or one minute they were here and the next minute three of their pals would show up.  Literally I couldn’t keep track of it.

Now on the flip-side, few people can run an empty house as well as I can.  And that’s not a joke.  I can get the boys up and dressed and fed and off to school like nobody’s business.  Lunches made, backpacks packed up, etc.  Fish are fed, dog is let out, wife is given her standard three wake up calls to get her moving, and on most days I’ll even get her car turned on so that it’s warmed up before she gets in it.  No problem.  Once the house is empty I get beds made, dishes done, laundry folded, dog walked, e-mails replied to, and so on.  I’m a machine when I’m left alone.  It’s one of the few benefits of being out of work – I run a pretty good house.  Of course I made the mistake of explaining this to my dad a few months ago after he inquired to how I was spending my days, and his response was “Jesus, you sound like a bitch, don’t tell me that story again.”   However, despite his opinions, I’m still happy and comfortable with my routine.

#2 – Christmas is not the time for creativity. 

Or more to the point, Christmas gifts are not the time for creativity.  People write Christmas lists for a reason.  Kids sit on Santa’s lap at the mall for a reason.  They want to spread the word about what exactly and specifically they want for Christmas.  Stockings are for creativity.  You want to get some cute, little gift that you THINK someone will like. . . get it and put it in their stocking.  But the big, wrapped presents under the tree. . . you should not be creative with them. 

You know what my older son wanted for Christmas . . . XBOX Live and an airsoft gun.  You know what we got him . . . XBOX Live and an airsoft gun.  You know what my younger son wanted for Christmas . . . a fish tank and Lionel Messi soccer jersey.  You know what we got him . . . a fish tank and a Lionel Messi soccer jersey.  Know what my wife wanted for Christmas . . . an iPad and an electric wine opener.  You know what I got her . . . an iPad and an electric wine opener.  You know what I wanted for Christmas. . . an iTouch and my wife dressed as Naughty Mrs. Claus.  You know what I got for Christmas. . . . Apple TV and a book.

Now my wife tells me that this Apple TV thing will be great, and will allow me to watch everything I’ve already downloaded to my iPod on my living room TV.  However, you know what I have downloaded on my iPod (in addition to music)?   Four entire seasons of Sponge Bob, an iCarly Christmas Special, a full-length Scooby Doo movie and three episodes of Star Wars Clone Wars.  You see the problem?

So, now that I have the house back to myself, I will continue to make sure it runs like it’s on wheels.  And, then I’m going to ask for an iTouch for my birthday (although I have to say that I like my wife’s iPad an awful lot – thankfully she leaves it at home most days – I think I maybe able to get porn on it).

I Survived

So my 11-year old son and I were driving together recently and we passed by some big, smelly industrial plant.  The plant’s two smoke stacks were spewing out God knows what, but there was a serious amount of stuff billowing out into the air.  My son looked at it and said, “Hey dad look, cloud makers.”

Now I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he was at least partially kidding as he’s in the sixth grade and should know that clouds do not come from industrial smoke stacks, but no question there was at the very least some innocence behind his comment.

Just a few days later my eight-year old son was watching TV when a commercial for the human society came on.  It was one of those commercials that tugs at your heart strings by showing pictures of sad looking dogs that have been abused and mistreated.  After the commercial was over my son said “Those were cute dogs, I liked that commercial.”  Once again there was a fair amount of innocence there. 

But those two comments by my sons left me to wonder whether that was youthful innocence talking, or sheltered existence?  It seems to me it maybe a little bit of both, which is fine (especially the innocence part), but maybe it’s time to ease up on the sheltering.

After all they are getting older, and maybe it’s time to be more honest with them and worry less about their feelings and their “fragile egos.”  My dad didn’t worry about my “fragile ego” when I was growing up.  When it came time to get me ready for baseball, he went out and bought a dozen hardballs and spent the afternoon throwing them at me.  I survived.  Of course I never played organized baseball again, but I’m fine.

When I expressed an interest in playing platform tennis he told me I wasn’t old enough (I was about 10).  When I persisted he brought me out onto the paddle court, had me stand at the net, and fired forehand drives at me.  When I failed to volley them back he told me to get off the court.  I survived.  Of course it took me 15 years before I got back on the court, but I’m fine.

When I brought my first girlfriend over to the house he sat her down and said, “What the hell are you doing with this asshole?”  I survived, and she and I dated for two years before she dumped me like a bag of rocks.  Of course, he asked the exact same question of my next girlfriend and I wound up marrying her.  So again, I survived.

When he dropped me off at college my freshman year, he shook my hand before departing and said, “Don’t come home without calling first.”  I survived.  I just didn’t go home a lot.

And when he gave me the “bird’s and bee’s” talk he said, “Whatever you do, don’t get a girl pregnant.  Of course I don’t know who would have sex with you, but assuming you can find someone to have sex with, don’t get them pregnant.”  Okay.  I survived. 

So maybe it’s time I stop sheltering or coddling the boys.  Maybe the next time they ask to do something or they ask me for an opinion on something I just lay it all out for them.

“Hey dad, what did you think of my little league game?” 

“Listen, it was awful.  You were awful, but don’t worry about it, you’re all awful.  It’s 11-year old little league baseball.  I’ve yet to see an inning where an error isn’t made or where someone doesn’t strike out or someone doesn’t throw a wild pitch.”  It’s little league.  It’s awful.”

“Hey dad, I’m going to dance assembly this weekend.” 

“Why?  I’ve seen you dance, and it’s embarrassing.  If I were you I wouldn’t go.” 

“Dad, I don’t like what we’re having for dinner tonight.”

“Me neither, but you have to eat it because you don’t have a car and your own money.  Have fun, I’m heading to McDonald’s.”

“Dad, what do you think about my grades?”

“Well you’re not a complete moron, but based on these grades you’re not particularly bright.”

I don’t know.  Maybe that’s not the answer.  Maybe just a little tough-love from time to time will suffice so they don’t turn out to be wimps.  Then again, I survived.  On the other hand, sheltering my kids from the cold, cruel world until they are better equipped to deal with it isn’t such a bad thing . . .

Paint-Balling

People who know me will tell you that I don’t like to socialize.  I can do without the parties, and I can do without the events, and I can do without the concerts, and so on.  For the most part I view socializing the way I view water-boarding.  No thanks.  My couch, my flat-screen TV and a good pizza is pretty much my idea of a perfect night.  In fact, to take this one step further, I would have no problem being stranded on a deserted island AS LONG as I could have pizza, zebra cakes, central A/C and cable television.  Give me those things and I pretty much have no need for human interaction. 

However, with all that said, I will green light just about anything, as long as it’s further down the road.  And in fact, the further out the date of the actual event, the likelihood of me green-lighting something totally and completely ridiculous is even higher.  For instance, you tell me you’ve got a costume party in a month, sure, sounds okay, I’ll be there.  You tell me you’ve got a bunch of couples going to Wine Country in six months, absolutely, sounds great, I’m there.  You tell me that in a year we’re going to jump out of an airplane without parachutes, awesome, sounds spectacular, sign me up right now.

Of course, as the event itself draws nearer, the more I regret my original decision to agree to go, and as the days tick down to hours the more my mood turns from good to downright awful.  Just ask my wife what kind of a mood I’m in hours before a big holiday party or hours before a wedding or hours before some couples get together.  She’s threatened divorce a number of times.  In fact, no one can ruin their chances of getting sex later on in the evening better than me. 

So when the e-mail went out three weeks ago about dads and sons going paint-balling two days after Christmas, I did not respond immediately.  Three weeks was not a lot of time.  Had the e-mail gone out in August about a December 27^th paint ball event with fathers and sons, I would have been the very first person to respond and probably would have offered to rent a van to drive everyone down there.  But three weeks?  Just not sure.

But slowly but surely other dads started responding and of course their kids started talking about it, and of course my son found out about it.  So I was stuck.  I had to respond.  I had to green light this God-Awful sounding event.  Me and about a dozen or so area dads and a couple dozen 11 and 12 year old boys paint-balling in Joliet, Illinois on December 27^th in 20-degree weather.  Seriously, on second thought, how bad could water-boarding really be?

The day arrived, and I got the boy and I layered up in as many clothes as I could get us into (this was as much about warmth as it was about protection . . . have you ever gotten shot by a paint ball traveling at about 300 feet per second . . . . a frozen paint ball traveling at about 300 feet per second . . . . . yeah me neither, but it can’t feel good). 

Caravanned the 60+ miles with the other dads, and wound up at some massive field in the middle of nowhere.  The whole thing reminded me of the movie The Road, about post-apocalyptic America with its burned out-looking cityscapes, and abandoned cars and lonely forests.  I’m pretty sure awful things happen at places like this when paying customers aren’t around.  Scary. 

We got a quick tutorial about safety, which is to say that we were reminded not to take off our safety goggles at any time, and that if we fell into the river we had gone too far and were now out of bounds, and then we were off.  We were split into two teams and taken to some abandoned car lot.  One team went one way and another team went the other way.  The referee yelled go, and literally five seconds later I was shot in the right arm.  I had no idea where the shot came from, and I had not yet fired off one shot of my own.  I was done.  I walked to the “safety area” and watched the rest of the war from there.

This sucks.  I can’t believe I green- lighted this.  I’m getting rid of e-mail, and I’m canceling my phone service as soon as I get home.  I want to be the least accessible person around.  When do we go home? 

Second war started (in the same abandoned car lot area), and once again I hid behind some burned out Honda.  My goal was simple. . . . survive long enough for someone else to get shot first.  I watched the action unfold in front of me.  Kids running North and South and East and West.  Some were working in teams to flank others.  Some were acting as snipers as they picked people off one at a time.  It was a real battle scene.  I could hear a few paint balls whiz past my head.  I was simply trying to stay as low as I possibly could. 

But then I saw him.  Dressed in his camouflaged white sweatshirt and wearing the green arm band signifying his enemy status.  He was just 20 feet from me, and shooting at one of my teammates who was pinned down behind some boulder.  My adrenaline started pumping and something came over me.  I aimed my gun and started firing, and I don’t know if it was my first shot or my 15^th shot that got him, but by God I nailed that 11-year-old boy square in the chest.  Of course as I ran out to celebrate my first kill I was shot in the head by his 11-year-old pal who I believe was working in tandem with him, but it didn’t matter, I was hooked.

Bring on the next war!!!

I spent the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon (eight wars in all) shooting as many 11-year-old boys as I could.  I think I got five or six in all, while getting shot 22 times.  It was a blast.  I loved it.  I can’t wait to go back.

I’m pretty sure I was the person who liked it the most, including the kids, and as my wife will tell you, I usually complain the most before events where I have the best time.  Although someone did shoot me in the ass after I had already surrendered.  I’m guessing friendly fire from another dad, but who knows.  I have a large welt on my right butt cheek, but that can’t stop me.  The war must go on, just like the show must go on.  Like my youngest son’s recent Winter Sing concert, where some poor kid puked all over the girls in front of him and they kept singing.  Tough 2^nd graders.  I want them on my next paint ball team.

And speaking of that, I’ve already tried to convince my son to have his birthday party there in January.  Who’s in?

Oh The Irony

Irony is a funny thing.  If you actually look up the real definition of irony, it’s actually very different from what most people think it means.  In fact, from what I can tell, most language scholars can’t agree on what situations are and are not “ironic,” and yet most of us use the word to describe various situations on an almost daily basis without ever questioning whether we’re using it correctly.  Alanis Morissette sang an entire song about ironic situations (not surprisingly called “Ironic”) and in that song she sang about a person winning the lottery and then dying the next day, and someone having 10,000 spoons but only needing a knife, and so on.  The song is quite catchy, but based on the actual definition of the word “irony” I don’t think getting a free ride after you’ve already paid is ironic.  It’s bad timing, and it’s a real freaking bummer, but it’s not ironic.

Personally I think it’s ironic that we start dying as soon as we’re born.  Then again, maybe that’s just sad. 

I think it’s ironic that Chicago Cubs fans desperately want the team to win the World Series, and yet most of these fans love the team because the Cubs have gone 100+ years WITHOUT winning the World Series.  Then again, maybe the Cubs just have stupid fans.  Me included.

And I think it’s ironic that as parents we all want our kids to grow up, and yet what we really want is for them to stay young forever.  Then again, maybe that’s just a parent being emotional.

See what I mean?  I’m not sure I understand “irony” any better than Alanis Morissette.  But here’s something that I’m pretty sure is “ironic” . . . . most guys want their wives to dress up in sexy lingerie and little costumes, and most guys want a couple of fun “sex toys” in the bedroom, and yet the two stores that scare guys the most are the lingerie store and the adult “sex store.”  That’s ironic, right?  It has to be.  It’s gotta be ironic that what we want the most we can’t have because we’re scared to get it. 

I bring this up now not because I want to give an English lesson here (frankly I’d be the last person to give anyone an English lesson), but because I had to visit one of those sex stores recently.  My wife and I had been invited to a “Naughty Christmas Party” where each couple had to bring some sort of a naughty gift and at the end of the night each couple left the party with someone else’s gift.  The whole party is a lot of fun, and the naughty theme simply makes it different.  Hey, it’s the only party where you can walk in with bondage tape, and leave with edible underwear.

But before getting to the party I had to go and get the actual gift.  So I drove to the nearest sex store which was a good 10 miles away.  And speaking of that . . . I think it goes without saying that if you live in a community that has a sex store on the corner . . . you may want to move. 

Anyway the sex store really is an adult candy store.  I would say that there’s pretty much nothing there that I wouldn’t buy and try at least once, and yet I was embarrassed about being in there, and couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  Again, ironic, right??  I grabbed the first $25 item I could find and made a bee-line for the cashier.  And that is when the real problems started.

You see, your average sex store is simply not that crowded.  At least not on a Thursday at 11:00 AM.  It’s pretty much you and the two 26-year old sales girls dressed in black and sporting a variety of piercings.

I gave my item to the young lady behind the counter who immediately opened it up, and popped in a couple of double-A batteries to show me that the product did indeed work.  Then this:

“As you can see sir, this particular item doesn’t produce a lot of vibration.  Are you sure you want this, or can I show you something else that may work better?”

Dear God.  Seriously?  Is it possible that I’ve actually chosen the shittiest vibrator in the entire store?  A hand-held vibrator that doesn’t produce strong vibrations even with two double-A batteries in it?  There have got to be 500 different vibrators in the place, and I just grabbed the one that probably should be recalled.  Just my luck.

“Well you see, my wife and I are going to a naughty Christmas party and I’m just trying to get a silly gift in the $25 range.”

“Perfect,” the woman behind the counter says.  “Let me show you a number of other items in this same price range that would work better.”

I can feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

Over the next six minutes, that felt more like two hours, the store employee showed me a variety of different products including a “Clone-A-Willy” kit (yes, it’s exactly what you think it is), a “Rockin Rabbit” (I believe there are over 200 different items in this store with the word “Rabbit” in it), a “Bullfighting Pump” (NO, it’s NOT what you think it is), and some product that she assures me will “tickle your prostate” (I’m 50% sure I even know where my prostate is, but I’m 100% sure I don’t want it “tickled”).

In the end, I went with a non-vibrating product altogether.

I got home and told my wife that she was going to have to buy the grab bag gift for this party next year, as I was never stepping foot in a sex store again.  I have never been more uncomfortable, and I never want to discuss vibrating sex toys with a stranger again.  That’s when I started thinking about the fact that I did, in fact, want to buy things from the store and at the same time was refusing to go back there.  As Alanis Morissette would say, “Isn’t it ironic?”  Oh well, I guess there’s always online shopping.

The 12 Days of Christmas

Today is December 13^th which means there are exactly 12 days until Christmas.

So without further ado . . . . . A one, two, a one, two, three, four . . .

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me . . . .

 A Blow Job in a Pear Tree.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Two Lady Loves and blow job in a pear tree.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Three French Ticklers, two lady loves, and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Four Call Girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Five Hall Passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Six Girls a Laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Seven Skinny Dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Eight Maids a Stripping, seven skinny dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Nine Toms a Peeping, eight maids a stripping, seven skinny dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Ten Pole Dances, nine toms a peeping, eight maids a stripping, seven skinny dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Eleven Naughty Skypings, 10 pole dances, nine toms a peeping, eight maids a stripping, seven skinny dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . . .

Twelve Girls a Humming, 11 naughty skypings, 10 pole dances, nine toms a peeping, eight maids a stripping, seven skinny dippings, six girls a laying, five hall passes, four call girls, three French ticklers, two lady loves and a blow job in a pear tree.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The Christmas List

As a kid I loved writing my annual Christmas List.  There was something magical about it.  And yes, please note I just used the word “magical.”  I don’t believe “magical” is an adjective that guys should use.  Awesome.  Fantastic.  Spectacular.  Those are all fine.  But “magical,” not so much.  Though there was that anniversary trip to Mexico with my wife.  Hot afternoon.  One too many Pina coladas.  9^th floor balcony overlooking the Pacific Ocean.  Swim suits on the floor of the room.  Yeah, magical. 

Anyway, I loved writing the list.  It was a combined thrill of the “sky’s the limit” possibilities where you could ask for anything and everything and the fact that the list was being fulfilled by some jolly old man who rode around in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. 

The thrill did not diminish even after I learned that my parents were the ones fulfilling my lists as opposed to that jolly old man in the red suit.  In fact I had even more fun writing my lists after learning the real truth behind Christmas.  For instance one year I wrote my entire Christmas List as a series of subliminal messages.  Another year I wrote one gigantic poem with the names of the items I wanted worked into the poem.   I also tended to ask for things like a Ferrari, because you never knew what could happen…

My sister thought I was weird, my father was not amused (the man hated Christmas, pretty much still does to this day), but my mother always seemed to find great humor in it despite the fact that this was well before personal computers and automatic grammar and spell checks .  The humor was there, but the writing itself must have been a nightmare.  Actually this blog would be a nightmare if it weren’t for grammar and spell checks (I still have the spelling ability of a 5^th grader – and that’s probably not being fair to most 5^th graders).

Of course times change, and I no longer write a Christmas List.  However I have encouraged my boys to write lists as I think it’s a nice tradition and it encourages them to spend a few minutes writing on the computer.   Besides it actually does help to have a list to figure out what exactly they want.  I’ve had them save their lists on my laptop under their own names, and I gave them a good week to get them done.  Well the other day I opened them up to see what we had.

My eight year-old’s list was a series of incomplete sentences and misspelled words.  It was totally void of capital letters and punctuation, but it was not short of content.  Included in the list were a fish tank, an iPad, Xbox “Kinect Sports Bundle,” signed Pele jersey (which he had seen at a sports paraphernalia store a few weeks back), new bike, Wii and Xbox video games, and Nerf gun.  Rough guess . . . . my eight year-old had a $3,000 Christmas list with the cheapest gift being about $50.  Now, I know he’s just eight, and frankly he’s a “goofy” eight year old, but you would think that he’d be able to figure out that the “old man is not working” by the fact that I’m ALWAYS home, RARELY clean shaven, and ALMOST always in sweat pants.  But I guess not.  Hey, sky’s the limit, right?  He also still believes in Santa, so I guess who cares if Dad has a job? 

And as for my 11-year-old son’s list, well, this was quite impressive.  I opened it and it was made up almost entirely of Internet links.  Some of the links led me to a home page where I had to navigate my way to the specific product he wanted (though he was always sure to include the name of the product as well as the SKU # – he left nothing to chance) while other links led me to the check-out page where he had already placed the item that he wanted.  One particular link required a password which he made sure to include in his original Christmas List (“ChaseRules” was the password). 

Amazing.       

Christmas lists have come a long way I guess.  Now let’s get back to the “magical” part.  Maybe I should start writing my own list again…one only my wife (unless someone wants to join her) can fulfill and it won’t cost anything, because we already have all of the necessary stuff, if you know what I mean.

1.  With fur coat and stilettos
2. With Champagne
3. With whipped cream
4. With Fruit by the Foot (really amazing what you can do with this stuff)

It’s all I want for Christmas.  And it’s a good thing it’s free because we’ll be broke after we get all the kids’ stuff anyway.   See how fiscally responsible I am?

Get Out of My House!

They say the two things that usually are at fault for breaking up a marriage are money problems and intimacy problems.  And I understand both.  Like a lot of couples my wife and I have struggled at times with our finances, and no doubt it’s rough.  Few things can make life more difficult than bad finances, or more to the point, a lack of finances.  And as for intimacy, well this too is a no-brainer.  I’m not at all surprised that couples argue and fight and disagree over intimacy.  I think it’s safe to say that I’m not the only guy out there that feels like he should be getting a lot more sex, and I’m pretty sure my wife is not the only woman feeling like she’s being harassed on a daily basis by an over-sexed husband. 

But if my wife and I were ever to officially throw in the towel on our marriage, I can say with a fair amount of certainty that neither finances nor intimacy will be the culprit.  No, if my wife and I split it will be over her love of socializing.  The woman loves to socialize.  Point my wife in the direction of some social gathering and she’ll be there.  From a Pink Flamingo to a Girl’s Night Out to a Bunco Group to a Book Group to a Tea Party my wife will be there and she’ll truly enjoy herself.    

Her need for socializing has gotten so bad that she literally can’t sit home alone.  If I’m off with the boys somewhere or if I’m playing paddle one afternoon she’ll walk next door to hang out at the neighbor’s house.  She would rather surround herself with people than spend 90 minutes alone.

As for me . . . total opposite.  180-degree difference.  Solitude is my best friend.  Seclusion is my middle name.  Isolation is what I strive for.  If I’ve said it once than I’ve said it 1,000 times, unless you’re the Domino’s Pizza man or an extremely well endowed woman, I don’t want you knocking on my door.  Now that’s not to say that I don’t like friends, because I do, and I do enjoy getting together with people, but not nearly as often as my wife.

But what’s ultimately going to doom our union of love (I actually just laughed while writing that) is her love of socializing with people in our house. . . . otherwise known as “entertaining.”  My wife loves to throw a good party.  Dinner party.  Holiday party.  Backyard party.  Oscar’s party (yeah she’s thrown two of those – literally people got dressed up and came over to fill out their ballots for the Oscar’s show on TV), and so on. 

I barely want my wife and kids in my house let alone other people.  It’s awful.  If you’re not helping to pay the mortgage, then I don’t want you in my house.  That’s pretty much my feeling.  But my wife has an “open door policy” with pretty much anyone.  She takes the “Welcome Mat” literally. 

Now, I can handle the occasional visit by a friend or two, especially if they’ve come over to watch some of the Bears game on Sunday afternoon.  And I can handle my kids’ friends coming over (though at times I feel like I’m running an orphanage there’s so many kids running around), but it’s the dinner parties that I simply cannot do.  Those things never end.  People come for dinner, and they just stay.  I can’t get rid of them. 

Hey a friend comes over to watch the Bears game and typically they go home when the game is over (and if they don’t I’m not against turning off the TV altogether and going upstairs – people usually pick up on that hint rather quickly).  And my kids’ play dates all end at some point.  Parents usually are very good about picking kids up after three or four hours, and if they don’t I will return their kid AND MY KID to their house for an even longer play date. 

But dinner parties. . . . seriously when do those end?  One would think after dinner is over, but that’s not the case.   After dessert?  Nope.   After a final cocktail (you know, because I like giving people more liquor right before they head out)?  Nope.  After I’ve cleared all the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped down the kitchen counters?  You would think (and yes I’ve done this thinking that even a BLIND PERSON would pick up on this) and yet, nope.  After I’ve farted loudly in the dining room (yeah, did that too, but in all fairness I really thought it was going to be silent – really quite embarrassing – however you WOULD THINK that this would send people running)?  No.

Of course to make matters worse my wife picks up on none of these less than subtle hints.  She’s having the time of her life with our guests and literally would have them stay until the early morning hours.  She is in no hurry to get them to leave, so it’s me against everyone.

I’m sure other people (mostly men) feel the same way.  A few couples gather at another house for dinner and I can see the man start to yawn or twitch after we’ve probably overstayed our welcome.  But all the women are chatting away happily, and since we all want sex, we don’t want to be the first to break up the party.  No one wants to drag a mad, tipsy wife home because that is a surefire way to lose out on sex and start a fight about being antisocial.  So we stay.

Is it really going to break up my marriage?  No.  Is writing this blog going to encourage her to leave social engagements earlier or encourage our guests to leave earlier?  No.  But I do feel better about expressing myself in case any of you out there reading this come to my house for any reason at all.   You’ll know to leave when I start the dishes.  Mission accomplished!

Anticipating The Holiday Music

There have got to be 1,001 different “adages” or “old wives’ tales” floating around out there, and though I’ve probably heard almost all of them at one time or another I certainly don’t subscribe or believe in each and every one of them.  But no doubt some of them make more sense than others, and some of them are downright scary in how accurate or how true they really are. 

For instance, yes, I believe “when it rains it usually pours.”  I think life just has a way of kicking you while you’re down.  And no, I don’t think you can “judge a book by its cover,” and I do think most people believe that the “grass is greener on the other side,” and of course I truly believe that “good guys finish last” (and this really is why I need to start drinking.  I gotta develop some type of an edge, this “good guy” thing I have going isn’t working out for me.  I’m pretty much getting the snot kicked out of me as a good guy – New Year’s Resolution . . . become an asshole). 

But there is one adage that I simply don’t believe in at all, and that is the one about “anticipation being better than the actual event.”  That’s simply ridiculous.  Anything worth anticipating is worth doing RIGHT NOW!!!  Just skip the anticipation altogether, and get on with it.

Don’t believe me. . . .

Sex – I would much rather have sex than get excited anticipating having sex.  Sure I get excited thinking about having sex, but the anticipation pales in comparison to actually having sex.  Listen, forget the anticipation and just show me the goods.

Christmas Morning – I want my presents.  Just jump me forward to 8:00 AM on Christmas morning and forget all the Christmas Eve crap.  Yes I love the holiday season, and I do enjoy the build up, but at the end of the day enough already, I want the shit under the tree.  The advent calendar helps because I at least get chocolate every day until the actual day.

Vacations – I’d much rather be on a beach than anticipating the trip itself.  Sure, counting down the days until you leave for vacation is fun, but I’d rather just fast-forward and get to my sunny destination than deal with the count down.

Days Off of Work – Same thing as with vacations, just give me the day off already.  It’s fun to think about getting a day off, but it’s much more fun being off of work than anticipating it.

But as with most things, there are always exceptions to every rule, and in regards to anticipation the ONE THING I actually enjoy anticipating is holiday Christmas Music.  I have a set rule in my house, no Christmas music until THE DAY AFTER Thanksgiving, and no Christmas music after New Year’s Day.  So basically you’re looking at about a 35 day period where we can listen to Christmas music, and though the actual 35 days where we play the music almost nonstop is wonderful, the anticipation leading up to the first playing of Jingle Bells is almost as much fun. 

However there are forces that are working against my enjoyment of the anticipation.

For example, many of the retail stores have been playing holiday music since the first of November.  I had to cut my trip to Best Buy short after I heard Frosty the Snowman over the sound system, and literally I had to run out of the Do It Best Hardware store last week after a number of musical lawn ornaments started playing “Let It Snow” upon walking into the store. 

 I’ve also had to be very careful with what radio stations I listen to in the car.  Sure, certain stations have been Christmas music 24/7 since October, which I find sick and wrong.  No one should be listening to 93.9 until the day after Thanksgiving.  If no one listens, then advertisers won’t spend money, and those stations will go back to a less absurd schedule.  But that’s another story.  At least those stations are easy to avoid, it’s the regular stations that are throwing me a curve ball.  Hell some punk-rock station played a Blink-182 Christmas song last week.  It followed the Sex Pistols’ Anarchy in the U.K.  Literally.  One minute I’ve got the Pistols singing about being “The Anti-Christ” and the next minute I’ve got Blink-182 singing about Christmas.  I almost swerved off the road trying to change the channel on the radio.    

I’ll be sick of listening to the same songs over and over by mid-December (except for Peanuts Christmas – who could get sick of that?), but I can’t help myself.  I’m going to listen until January 1…and then enjoy the anticipation of waiting again until the day after Thanksgiving.  Who’s with me?

The “Free Pass”

Negotiations are simply a part of everyday life.  If you think about it you probably negotiate something every single day.  Now, some of those negotiations are serious and important.  You negotiate the price of your house or the price of your car or you negotiate a lucrative deal with a client.  Other types of negotiations are less serious and less important, but probably happen more often.  You negotiate with your wife on what movie to see on Saturday night (though actually that’s more of a concession than a negotiation . . . . I’ve seen The Notebook and The Devil Wears Prada, my wife has yet to see Good Fellas and Reservoir Dogs), or you negotiate with your kids on how much candy they can have.  Unless of course your kids are skinny little bastards like mine, in which case you green light most of their candy needs.  Seriously, I’m trying to pump my youngest with calories because you can see every rib and muscle in his body.  I’ll pretty much give him a Hershey Bar whenever he wants it.

So I guess it should come as no surprise that my sex life also involves negotiation.  Now, that’s not to say that I’m negotiating every part of my sex life, but rather the frequency.  How often I get sex has become a major negotiation for me and my wife, and I suspect I’m not alone here.  While there are the exceptions to every rule, most guys I know are constantly trying to figure out how to get more sex from their wives.  Yes, I know there are some wives who actually tire out their husbands in their pursuit of a good time, but I have to say they are definitely in the minority.  I personally have tried pretty much every trick in the book, and other than diamonds (that actually works amazingly well), nothing works.  So I’ve begun negotiating, and in fact I’ve opened it up for public debate.  Well sorta.

Last weekend my wife and I were out with two other couples, when I thought I’d begin the negotiating right there at the table.  The idea. . . . . the “free pass” – sex any time, day or night, and our wives couldn’t say no.  The men thought this was a great idea, and of course the three ladies were less than thrilled with the plan.  So we started negotiations, after all, no good plan passes without some sort of negotiating process.

First part of the negotiations was the number of “free passes” the guys would get.  We started with two a month and we were quickly shot down.  So we revised that plan and came up with 12, and we agreed that we could only use one pass per month, so it really was a once-a-month kind of thing.  We also agreed that the passes would not carry over, so if you for some reason forgot to use one you could not use two the next month.  This particular part of the negotiation was easy to agree to as none of the guys really worried about forgetting to use their monthly pass.  That’s like forgetting to breathe or forgetting to eat that extra glazed donut or forgetting to scratch your balls or forgetting to moon your wife while she sits in front of her home computer on a video conference call.  Okay, that last one maybe uniquely mine, but my point is guys just don’t forget that kind of stuff.  We weren’t worried about the “carry-over” thing; we’ll remember to use the monthly free pass.   So we seemed set at 12.  One a month.

So far so good.  The guys were rolling, and the women were in agreement, albeit begrudgingly.

Next up was whether the women could have veto power over the free pass.  The women basically wanted the right to veto a free pass if we tried to use the free pass when they simply were not in the mood.  Now, they assured  us that if a veto was used, we would still be allowed to use that free pass later on in the month, but they were missing the whole point of the free pass. . . we wanted the free pass because our sex lives  have become a VETO SESSION.  If I could get sex whenever I wanted it, I wouldn’t need this stupid free pass thing.  Hell, if my wife green-lighted HALF of the sex I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.  So no freaking veto power.  No.  The women agreed, but seemed less than sympathetic to our cries of “less sex” since getting married. 

We’re two-thirds there.

Final part of the negotiation centered around whether the free pass could be used any time of day, or whether it had to be used before midnight on any given day?  This one seemed like a no-brainer.  It’s a free pass. . . . we should be able to cash it in at any time.  The women disagreed, arguing that there were certain times of the day they simply had ZERO INTEREST in having sex . . . mainly dead of night.  They had no interest of being woken up in the middle of the night to have sex.  None at all.  Period.  End of story.  In fact, they threatened us with less sex if we even considered it.  They were digging in here, and weren’t going to budge.  Sleep ruled all, and there was no negotiating around this. 

So I too refused to waver and said if I can’t use this thing anytime I want, then I don’t want it.  So guess what. . . end of negotiation.  I lost.  No such thing as a free pass in my house.  I’ll have to keep negotiating.