Halloween – I Hate It

There are certain things in life that you know you should like, but you just don’t.  Some you can’t explain; like yogurt for instance.  There’s really no reason not to like yogurt.  It tastes pretty good.  It’s not bad for you.  It’s quick and easy to eat.  There are literally dozens of different flavor combinations (hell, they even have yogurt with candy pieces in it . . . actual M&M’s or Nestle Crunch pieces in the yogurt) and it’s cheap.  And yet I don’t like it.  Not sure why.  I know I just don’t like it.

Same thing with mini-vans.  There’s really no reason not to like them.  They are without doubt the most practical car on the road.  Pound for pound they have more storage space, more seating capacity and more luxury and entertainment options available than any other car on the road.  And yet I know I wouldn’t drive one, and the only reason I can come up with is that I don’t like the way they look.  Like a Yukon Denali or a Chevy Suburban is a fashion statement.  Like a Volvo station wagon is a fantastic looking automobile.  I know, I can’t explain it.

Now there are other things in life that again you should like, but don’t.  The difference this time around is you know exactly why you don’t like it.  There’s no mystery surrounding your disdain.

Like country music for example.  Most country songs are entertaining and feature a good beat, and yet I don’t like it.  It’s a bunch of people in cowboy hats singing about heartbreak.  Good Lord, stop.  The North won the war, so take off the 10-gallon cowboy hat and the snake-skin boots.  And I know my girlfriend dumped me for a good looking 22-year old who drives a Porsche, I just don’t need you singing about it. 

Or Thanksgiving.  On the surface what’s not to like?  You’re surrounded by family.  There’s plenty of good food to eat.  There are a number of NFL football games to watch.  There’s at least a day or two off from work or school, and there are great leftovers the next day.  And yet I hate Thanksgiving.  I truly despise Thanksgiving food (cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie, green bean casserole, squash and stuffing – I mean it, I’d rather be shot in the stomach than be forced to eat this shit), and regardless of whether we host Thanksgiving dinner or not, I somehow find myself cleaning stacks of pots and pans.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve loaded SOMEONE ELSE’S dishwasher at Thanksgiving. 

And of course my least favorite. . . Halloween.  Yes, this should be a spectacular holiday for both young and old.  Young kids love it as they get to dress up and trick or treat for candy, and many adults also get to dress up in the type of outfits that you typically see in sex catalogs.  Seriously, 364 days out of the year we’re lucky if our wives will dress up in high heels and garter belts, but on Halloween many women who never get out of sweats during the week leave the house looking like a street walker or a Playboy bunny or a naughty cheerleader or Wonder Woman (actually I have a fantastic story about that exact costume, but I’m not allowed to blog about it . . . let’s just say that I HAVE had sex with a super hero . . . no, not Batman, you putz).

But more times than not, Halloween winds up becoming a bigger problem than it’s worth.  Kids make last minute decisions and suddenly refuse to wear the costume that you bought them weeks before.  This is the same costume that they were excited to get, and couldn’t wait to put on.  Now with trick or treating starting in just 30 minutes they are refusing to go out unless they can be something else.  I still remember when we were getting my three-year-old son ready in his football player costume.  I was just putting on his shoulder pads when Darth Vader rang the bell.  Darth Vader complete with glowing red light saber and sound effects mask.  That was it.  No more football player, just a sobbing three-year-old.  And let me tell you, I speak with experience when I say there are NOT a lot of costumes available at Target 10 minutes before trick or treating.

And the actual trick or treating isn’t much easier, as you’re always worried about sending them out with a group of friends.  You wonder whether sending them out with 10 other pals is a smart move as typically nothing good comes when 10 11-year olds head out in search of candy.  That’s just a recipe for disaster, and yet there’s just no way your soon-to-be teenaged son or daughter wants you tagging along with them.  It’s just a matter of time before a major Halloween arrest is made that involves my kid.

Of course it’s an easier decision with my younger son, as there’s no way I’m going to let my eight year old go out alone with pals.  So I tag along as he and a friend or two hit the streets.  Unfortunately, this too usually ends badly, as it doesn’t take long before the younger boys are running wild.  Last year I took my eyes off them for a mere minute as I stopped to say hi to another dad walking with his kids, and before I knew it,  a seven-year-old had his pants down around his ankles peeing in the middle of someone’s yard.

That was the end of trick-or-treating last year, and with kids having even more time to trick or treat this year thanks to the holiday falling on a Sunday, I’m not real optimistic that things will be any different.

But we’ll see.

A Free Blog – Thanks to the Kids – Part 2

So for the fourth time in just the last seven weeks the boys have no school.  This time the day off is due to some teacher institute day.  You know I looked at the school calendar and realized that there is not ONE SINGLE MONTH where the boys have five days of school for four straight weeks.  They have at least one weekday off from school per month.  In fact when you factor in Thanksgiving break, Christmas break and Spring break the kids have a total of 29 days off from school during the year.  They actually only go to school eight months a year.  When you think about it like that the only job we’re preparing them for later in life is major league baseball.  Professional baseball players work about eight months out of the year.  And since I’ve seen many of these young kids play baseball . . . . well I can say with a fair amount of certainty that we’re pretty much setting them up for failure.  They’re going to need a 12-month a year job.

But that’s not where I’m going with this blog.  I mention the day off from school only because as with most days off I had a house full of boys.  My two boys and three play dates.  I had five boys over for the entire day due to this ridiculous day off which means I spent the entire day playing entertainment director, umpire, and cook.  I was “all-time” QB for their football game, and was yelled at by a number of eight year olds every time one of my passes missed its target.  I was the umpire for their wiffle ball game, which unfortunately came to an abrupt end after one of the boys picked up home plate and threw it over the fence into the neighbor’s yard after he disagreed with one of my calls.  And I spent a fair amount of time in the kitchen making lunch which consisted of 53 chicken nuggets, half a bag of cheese popcorn, half-dozen cans of soda and five candy bars.   They wanted more, but they wiped me out.

But it was while I was in the kitchen making the second round of nuggets that I overheard this conversation between the boys:

“If you date a girl who has an older sister, do you think you get to date her too?”

“No, but I think you get to see her boobs.”

And that’s when I realized that it was time for a follow up to my blog “A Free Blog – Thanks to the Kids,” which I originally posted back in January.

April of ’06 –

My son calls my wife into his room after she’s just tucked him into bed.  It seems his top sheet is wedged at the bottom of the bed.  My wife comes in to ask what the problem is and he says “Mom, my covers are broken.”

September of ’07 –

While telling us about his day at dinner one night, my oldest son tells us that he got hit in the face with a soccer ball during a scrimmage at recess.  My wife asks him if he had to stop playing, and he says “Mom, we’re men, not babies.”

November of ’08 –

My son has the following conversation with my wife:

“Mom, Sally and her parents split up,” he says, very concerned.

“What do you mean?”

“Well Sally’s not living at home anymore.”

Of course, Sally had just gone to college.

May of ’09 –

While out playing soccer in the front yard, my son grabs his soccer ball and puts it back in the garage. He then informs me that he needs a new soccer ball.  I ask him if the one he has just needs air and he says “No, it’s just so old I can’t kick it anymore.”

January of ’10 –

My wife and her good friend, who now lives in Arizona, agree to meet in Vegas for a “girl’s weekend.”  Upon hearing this, my oldest son is very worried and doesn’t want her to go.  “Mom, don’t go to Vegas,” he says.  “You’ll gamble away the family fortune and we’ll be living on the street.”  I seconded the notion but she went anyway.

February of ’10 –

A fair amount of snow has fallen the night before, and we’re getting the boys ready for school when my son looks out the window at all the snow on the ground and says, “It’s a 4-wheel drive kind of day, and I’ve only got 2 feet.”

May of ’10 –

My younger son comes home from a baseball game and goes to change clothes in his room.  A few minutes later he emerges wearing shorts and a t-shirt.   However something doesn’t look quite right so my wife asks, “Are you still wearing your cup?”  He says “No mom, but it sure looks like I am.”

August of ’10 –

We’re in Sterling, Colorado for my wife’s grandmother’s funeral, and we’re out to dinner with aunts, uncles and cousins.  My son asks who’s paying for dinner, and we tell him that dinner is being paid for by great grandma.  He asks, “How?  Did we steal from her?”

And finally . . .

October of ’10 –

My son and I have this conversation:

“Dad did you know that when you look in the dark your pimples get big?  We learned that in science lab.”

“You mean your pupils?”

“Oh yeah, that too.”

You know on second thought maybe these days off from school are okay.

The Mix Tape

There’s a great scene in the 1983 movie National Lampoon’s Vacation in which Chevy Chase’s character, Clark Griswold, accidentally jumps a guard rail and runs his family’s station wagon off the road in the middle of the Arizona desert.  After the car comes to a stop everyone jumps out and Clark’s son Rusty comes over to his dad and says “Wow dad, we must have jumped that rail by like 50 yards.”  Clark responds with “That’s nothing to be proud of Russ.”  Moments later Rusty walks away and Clark, who by now is on top of the car surveying the landscape, smiles and proudly says to himself, “50 yards.”

Well my 15-year wedding anniversary is next Thursday and I’m sorta feeling a little bit like Clark Griswold.  When someone mentions it I’m quick to say “hey it’s nothing, no big deal,” but secretly I’m sitting here and smiling thinking “15 years, not bad.” 

Problem is I have no real anniversary plans, and no present for my wife.  We had originally planned to “go big” and head to Mexico for a week.  Unfortunately my unemployment status derailed that plan as well as basically all our other plans, so now with just 10 days before the big day I’m left scrambling to come up with something “cool” that doesn’t cost a lot of money.

So I’ve decided to go old school here, and make a mix tape.  Well okay not a real mix tape as cassette tapes went out BEFORE we were married, but a mix Ipod playlist (boy how times have changed).  Back in the day I was quite the mix tape connoisseur, and a lot of that had to do with my long distance relationship with my wife (who obviously at the time was my girlfriend).  There was no e-mail or text messages or instant chats, etc, and since I was just a lowly college student, and didn’t have a lot of money, I kept in touch with mix tapes.  They were my way of saying “I love you and I’m thinking of you.” 

In the four years we were apart I must have made dozens of mix tapes.  Some of the mix tapes had actual themes while others were just songs she and I liked, but regardless of theme or what not each and every song that made it onto a mix tape had meaning. 

For instance here’s an actual sample of a few of the songs that were on one of the tapes I made her (I still have a few of them):

U2 – Trip Through Your Wires . . . Yeah barbed wire.

Police – Everything She Does is Magic . . . Especially that one time in the back of her VW Rabbit Convertible.  I haven’t seen flexibility like that since.

Rolling Stones – Let’s Spend The Night Together . . . We did our senior year of high school, got caught, and I was subsequently banned from her house for an entire year.  Yeah.  365 days.

Harry Connick Jr. – It Had To Be You . . . Well you or that brunette in my college psychology class. 

U2 – Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For . . . Whoops.

Peter Gabriel – In Your Eyes . . . This song made everyone’s mix tape after the John Cusack movie “Say Anything.”  When he held up that boom box and played that song outside his girlfriend’s window.  Well it was basically the most romantic AND coolest thing ever.

R.E.M – It’s The End of The World  . . . Foreshadowing?

Anyway, you get the idea.  So without further ado, My 15-Year Anniversary Mix Tape:

The Clash – Train In Vain . . . Because all mix tapes should have at least one Clash song, and this is as close to a love song as you’re going to get from The Clash.  

Talking Heads – Once Upon a Lifetime . . . My generation’s theme song.  No mix tape I make will be without it. 

Green Day – Time Of Your Life . . . Because I hope she’s had the time of her life the last 15 years.  I know I have.

U2 – Elevation . . . I’m convinced this song is about sex.  “A mole digging in a hole, digging up my soul now, going down, excavation.”  Oh I got your “mole” right here baby!  How you doing?

Blues Brothers – Everybody Needs Somebody . . . And central A/C, cable TV and Zebra Cakes. 

The Replacements – Within Your Reach . . . It’s just a great song.

Tom Petty – Learning To Fly . . . Because I’m still trying to figure out this whole marriage thing.  Be patient.

Warren Zevon – Keep Me In Your Heart . . . You’re always in mine.

The Verve – Lucky Man . . . On most days.

Matchbox Twenty – Look How Far We’ve Come . . . Hell I didn’t think we’d make it five years.

The White Stripes – We’re Going To Be Friends . . . Yeah, best friends.

Ida Maria – I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked . . . This goes without saying.

Moldy Peaches – Anybody Else But You . . . Because I wouldn’t want to do this with anybody else but you.

Happy Anniversary, babe.  Well 10-days early.

The “Douche Bag Friend” Rule

The internet is an amazing tool, and while I am one of the least computer-savvy people around, rarely does a week go by where I’m not wondering out loud how we ever survived without computers and the internet.  I literally will sit in front of my computer and search the most random stuff I can think of and the internet ALWAYS finds what I’m looking for, or answers my questions, or points me in the right direction.  It’s amazing. 

However I think I may have stumped it the other day when I searched for the origins of the word “mulligan.”  Actually, that’s not entirely true.  As always the internet immediately directed me to a number of sites that dealt with the original meaning of the word “mulligan,” but it seems that no one really knows where the word came from.  Some think it derived from a Canadian golfer named David Mulligan who played in the 1920’s, and others seem to think the word came from Thomas Mulligan an Irish aristocrat who played golf back in the late 1700’s (and there are a few other ideas, too).  Though no one seems to know where the word really comes from everyone agrees on its meaning . . . . a mulligan is a do-over.   

And just like on the golf course when you tee it up again after hooking your first shot into the pond, when it comes to friendships you’re allowed one mulligan.  One do-over.  I call it my “douche bag rule,” and I believe in it as strongly as I believe in my “don’t marry the fluff girl rule.”  Think about that one for a second.

You see, as far as I’m concerned we’re all allowed one douche bag friend, but just one.  If you have more than one douche bag friend you actually risk the chance of becoming a douche bag YOURSELF.  It’s a slippery slope that you need to be careful of.  Just like on a golf course, you’re only allowed one mulligan, so you’ve got to manage that one “do-over” shot.  You don’t necessarily use it on the 2^nd hole just because you didn’t crush your tee shot down the middle of the fairway.  You may want to use that mulligan somewhere on the back nine.  The same strategy applies to the one douche bag friend rule.  And actually, I don’t think this applies to women.  I’ll have to think about that more, but for now, this is just a guy’s rule.

For instance if you’ve got a buddy who is notorious for asking you to help him move but then never reciprocates, you may just want to end that relationship now.  You can do without this guy.  Don’t waste your one douche bag friend on this clown.  You’re not going to get anything other than a sore back out of this relationship.  Move on.

Or if you have a buddy who just never seems to have any money on him when you go out it’s time to bail on that relationship.  Don’t use up your one douche bag friend on this goof.  He’s milking you dry.  Do you really need this friendship?  Come on.

And you may not want to waste the one douche bag friend exception on your pal who is always hitting on other people’s wives.  That’s just not cool, and eventually he’s going to get his ass kicked, and possibly yours too, so instead of claiming this guy as your one douche bag friend you may want to wish him luck on his quest to bed someone else’s wife, and run in the other direction.

Now on the flip-side, if you’ve got a friend who’s simply not particularly popular with others and is a bit of a jerk, BUT has box seats at Wrigley . . . . well he’s in the running for that one douche bag spot, and none of your other friends will blame you.

You’ve got to weigh the pros and the cons. 

At the end of the day we all have a douche bag friend.  It’s okay, and it’s accepted.  You just want to make sure that you don’t have more than one, and you want to make sure that the one you do have has SOME redeeming value otherwise you’re going to have trouble defending your decision to your other non-douche bag friends.

And this is why you NEVER make a little league baseball coach your one douche bag friend.  There’s simply no way to defend this decision as it’s just universally known that all serious little league baseball coaches are douche bags, and since they are all friends with each other, unless you want to be part of the fraternal order of douche bags, you’re basically better off being friends with a criminal.

So the moral of the story . . . . . don’t waste that mulligan and be careful who you choose as your one douche bag friend.  The End.

The “Plastics” Speech

So I attended my friend’s SON’S wedding this past weekend, and I was hit with two thoughts:

                #1 – I am definitely getting older

                #2 – But my friend is MUCH older than I am.

It was a lovely wedding.  The venue was great.  The bride was beautiful.  The groom was lucky.  The band was loud.  And the bar bill was going to be high. 

But the thing that really struck me was how young the majority of the guests were.  Sure there were plenty of older relatives on both sides, and of course both the groom’s parents as well as the bride’s parents had plenty of their own friends there, but no question there were a lot of 20-something guests. 

Now this, of course, is not surprising.  My wedding was the same way.  A wedding is about two young people tying the knot and celebrating the occasion with their young friends.  I’m certainly not suggesting that I was surprised by all the young people in attendance, but for the first time in my life I attended a wedding where I was part of the “older” crowd.  I was part of the “been there, done that” crowd.  The “seasoned veterans” crowd.  And of course this isn’t a bad crowd to be a part of, it’s just new for me.  Up until now I’ve always attended weddings as part of the young wedding party or at the very least as guests of the bride and/or groom.  I’ve never attended as a guest of the bride or groom’s PARENTS! 

But there I was at a table with a bunch of other married couples watching as these two young people started their lives together, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had an obligation to do nothing more than offer them a congratulatory hand shake, or something more useful than that?  After all, isn’t it our job as “elders” to educate the young?  Shouldn’t we offer them some helpful advice as they set out on what will ultimately be a very bumpy road together?  Maybe some insight from a veteran will help eliminate a few of those “bumps.”  I’m like the Mr. McGuire character from the movie The Graduate offering Benjamin some advice . . . . . “Benjamin, I want to say one word to you.  Just one word.  Are you listening?  Plastics.”

So here’s my “Plastics” speech to the young couple as they now begin Day #3 as a married couple . . .

To the Groom –

Get to know your washer and dryer.  You’re going to be using them a lot. 

Encourage your wife to sleep in lingerie.  It’s just a matter of time before she’s sleeping in flannel pants, baggy t-shirt, and a pair of socks.

Figure out what channel the Food Network is on.  You’re going to be watching it a lot.

Forget your dream of driving a Porsche.  Chances are your wife will be driving a nicer car than you . . . and she’s going to be driving a mini-van.

Be flexible, and yet don’t completely cave.  Be willing to try some of her recipes, but don’t say “yes” all the time or you’ll be eating some weird fish with cous cous instead of steak and potatoes.

To the Bride –

24 hours ago oral sex went both ways.  That shouldn’t change now that you’re married.

Your husband likes his basketball shorts and his baggy t-shirts.  He’s going to bet on football games and he’s going to lose a lot more than he wins.  He’s going to yell at the TV on Sunday.  He’s not going to grow up a lot.  He’s a moron.  Cut him some slack.  He loves you.

No, you don’t have to like his mother.  You just have to pretend during the holidays.

Let him hold his fantasy football draft at your house every so often.  Eventually you’re going to want to host a book club group or a Bunco group or a dinner party at your house and you’re going to want that extra ammunition in your back pocket.

To Both of You –

Enjoy your naked Sundays while you can.  Soon those will end and travel soccer Sundays will start.

Create a list of 25 things that you want.  Now throw that list away.

Create a list of 25 things you need.  Cross off the bottom 10, and shoot for the top 15.  Good luck.

Try not to think about the fact that this is the ONLY person you’ll EVER have sex with for the rest of your life.  Nothing good comes from thinking about that. 

Work hard on your career, but not too hard.  Eventually you’ll realize that it wasn’t a career that you wanted, but just a paycheck so you can do the things you really love.

 As tough as marriage can be, kids are harder.

Yes, your in-laws are a pain in the ass.  But so are your parents.

Celebrate your wedding anniversaries.  50% of all marriages end in divorce.  Pat yourself on the back every time you make it another year.  You’re doing something right.

Take some vacations.  Eventually “the vacation fund” becomes the “college fund” or the “house fund” or the “new furnace fund” or the “retirement fund.”  Enjoy the warm beach and the surf while you can.

There it is.  Now, I don’t expect the newlyweds (or anyone else, for that matter) to actually listen to me.  If someone had reached out to me with this advice when I got married, I would have smiled and nodded and probably made fun of them later.  So they’ll have to find these things out on their own, just like the rest of us.  It may take 15 years for them to realize I’m right, but I am.  Everyone needs a Mr. McGuire, but very few of us actually have one and take the advice.  Plastics.  He was so right.

Memberships

I keep preaching to my kids that they need to get involved with things.  Join teams.  Sign up for clubs.  Enroll in after school programs.  Whatever.  I don’t care as long as they become a member of something and don’t spend every minute of the day in front of the TV or video game.  I really think that that’s important.  In my opinion becoming a part of something is a significant part of life.

I was a member of the high school swim team, and though I spent four years in a green Speedo reeking of chlorine, I still had a great time, and gained many good friends, some of whom are still good friends today. 

I was also a member of the high school water polo team, and though I spent a whole lot of time in that same green Speedo wearing a silly looking cap on my head, once again I had a great time, learned some valuable lessons about teamwork and got to throw a number of underwater elbows at my opponents.

In college I was a member of both an intramural 12” softball team as well as an intramural floor hockey team.  Our softball team competed for the intramural championship my junior year.  As a member of these two teams I learned . . . . well, okay it’s intramural softball and floor hockey . . . come on . . . who am I kidding . . . I had a great time playing, met a number of good guys, and got to fight the “freshman 15” a little bit by running around . . . but other than that not a whole lot came out of those two things.  On a side note, you get a guy bragging about his floor hockey or 12” softball skills and you’ve got a douche bag.  Seriously, you’re better off bragging about your bowling game.  Really.

Anyway, my point is regardless of age I think being a member of something is an invaluable part of life and I’m trying to instill this in my kids.  However, the types of memberships change as you get older, and frankly the memberships available to kids are much better than the memberships available to adults.

For instance my younger son is a member of the local travel soccer program.  He gets professional coaching and training, he gets to wear cool uniforms, and he gets to travel around the area playing against other teams.    I’m a member of Costco.  I’ve actually paid someone to allow me to buy things at their store.  What a scam.  I get a membership card with a small black and white picture of me on the back.  I get to buy things at a discounted price in a massive warehouse like space.  And I get to compete against other discount shoppers for the last family-sized box of Pop Tarts.    

My older son is a member of the Spanish Club.  He gets to make tasty Spanish cuisine and he gets to go on field trips, not to mention the fact that he’s probably getting a head start on learning an important second language.  I’m a member of Netflix.  I get a handful of movies sent to me each month.  I watch them.  I send them back.  And they send me more movies to watch.  As a bonus they sent me a disc that allowed me to turn my Wii game system into a movie jukebox.  Hundreds of movies at my fingertips.  It disabled the Wii system.  No more Mario Kart.  No more Wii Sports Resort.  That was the end of the Netflix on the Wii.

Both of my kids are members of their house league baseball teams.  They get to play baseball with their pals, and they get the opportunity to try out for the travel teams.  I’m a member of the YMCA.  I get to pay $50 dollars a month to be reminded that I am grossly out of shape, not as well hung as the other guys in the showers, and incapable of figuring out how to operate the personal TV screens on the treadmills.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run on those things while watching the Food Network instead of ESPN.  Not to mention the fact that it brings me extreme guilt when I see the membership fee hit the checking account every month and I’m reminded that once again I haven’t even been there in the last 4 weeks.

The only membership that I have that’s worth a damn is my porn site membership, and even that’s not without problems.  Last week I was having trouble gaining access to the site, and had to contact their “tech support people” who told me to reset my computer and erase all the histories and cookies, which I did.  No problem.  All seemed logical to me.  Of course that in turn erased all my wife’s book-marked sites and saved passwords and what not, so she’s now REALLY threatening to cancel that membership.

So, in the end I still believe being a member of something is an important part of life, and I’ll continue to encourage the boys to get involved, but as for me personally it has definitely become more of a love/hate relationship.  Maybe I just need to find some better things to join.  I’ll work on that.

The Pink Flamingo Excuse

There are excuses for just about anything and everything.  There are excuses you use for getting out of stuff, and there are excuses you use for getting the green light to do stuff.  Kids are notorious for firing off excuses as to why they should or should not have to do something.  Some of the excuses my kids have come up with are great.  My oldest once told me it was too hot to go outside after I asked him to take in the garbage cans.  Keep in mind the garbage cans were just at the end of our driveway.  It was a 15-yard walk.  He said it was too hot.  My youngest once said that he was unable to eat his corn on the cob because his teeth hurt.  Speaking of my youngest, he once rejected my request to take a shower because he didn’t want to get wet.  And one night, after literally eating none of his dinner, my oldest asked for a Snickers bar for dessert.  When I reminded him that he had not eaten any of his dinner he told me that it was in my best interest to give him a candy bar as at least it was better than having him go to bed hungry.  I gave him the candy bar.  Of course it was pure bull shit, but frankly I respected the fact that he came up with a fairly logical sounding excuse.  The kid is destined to sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door . . . . but he’s going to sell a lot of vacuum cleaners.

While the kids seem to come up with the funniest excuses they are not alone in making excuses.  Adults are just as bad.  My favorite, and no doubt one of the most commonly used excuses is the “I’ve gotta take clients golfing today.  It’s for business.”  Yeah sure it is.  And I’m watching porn to gather research on a book I’m writing.  Come on. 

There are no shortages of adult excuses, and I’m willing to bet that most guys have attempted a lame-excuse in an effort to get their girlfriend or wife in bed.  I once told my wife that if she wanted to skip her regular workout on the treadmill sex burns calories.  She ran on the treadmill that day.

But it seems to me that there is a more universal topic that causes both men and women alike to come up with an excuse, and that is drinking.  For some reason drinking has become the new guilty pleasure that everyone feels the need to defend with an excuse.

“I’ve had a hard day at the office.”  Or “The kids are driving me nuts.”  Or “It’s Friday.”  Or “It’s after 5:00 PM.”  Or “I’ve just spent the day with my in-laws.”  Or “It’s Girl’s Night Out.”  Or “It’s Guy’s Night Out.”  And so on.  Hell the Surgeon General has green lighted the use of “It’s Healthy for my Heart” excuse (at least for red wine . . . . that one doesn’t work as well for Jager Bombs).  Even my favorite fall and winter activity, platform tennis, is basically one big excuse for guys to drink during the week. 

And I’m okay with all of this.  Actually I’m not entirely sure why anyone who’s legally old enough to drink needs an excuse, but hey, if it makes you feel better, go right ahead.  But the one excuse I’m not ready to accept is the Pink Flamingo excuse.  Yeah you know what I’m talking about . . . . the stupid, plastic lawn ornament that people put outside their house signaling an impromptu block-party that of course centers around people drinking.           

Yes, the idea is nice – drop by and meet your neighbors and encourage a sense of community in your home town.  But what actually happens is that neighbors stop by, say hi and leave, while your friends stay and drink for hours as their children roam the streets.    

So no more excuses.  Let’s just say what we mean.  Fellas, just admit that you are playing golf with the same three guys you’ve been playing with every week for years and none of them are going to give you any business.   Chase, just say I’m too lazy to get the garbage cans.  And pink flamingo houses – just get a big, neon Budweiser sign and post a note on your lawn that says “let’s drink in my driveway this week.”

To Grieve Or Not To Grieve

I think there probably should be some sort of a “grieving scale” that stipulates just how long someone can grieve based on what that person is grieving over.  For instance, if someone loses a loved one, that person can grieve for X amount of days.  And if someone loses a pet, that person can grieve for X amount of days.  And if someone breaks up with a boyfriend or girlfriend, again that person can grieve for X amount of days.  I know everyone grieves in their own way, and that’s perfectly fine, but I think the length at which one can grieve needs to be better regulated. 

I think if your dog dies you should not be grieving six months later.  A dead dog is good for two weeks of grieving.  On the other hand you’re allowed to grieve a dead goldfish for as long as it takes for him to be flushed down the toilet.  A dead ferret . . . you’re not allowed to grieve at all.  It’s a ferret.  You shouldn’t have owned the thing in the first place.  You’re a moron.  You can grieve the fact that you’re stupid.  Buy a dog next time.  You’re lucky the ferret didn’t gnaw off one of your fingers.  Or maybe he did?  I would say that a lost appendage is worth a month of grieving.  Good luck tying your shoes.  And as for the end of some romantic relationship, well that’s worth at least two months unless the bitch slept with your best friend in which case you shouldn’t lose a wink of sleep over it.  Go bang her best friend.  And if she’s not available just go out and bang someone else.  Trust me, you’ll feel better.  No need to grieve.

But you see where I’m going with this?  Basically I’m trying to help people avoid saying the wrong thing to someone while that person is grieving.  If you knew that someone had recently lost a loved one, you would be careful not to say anything that may upset that person until his/her allotted grieving period had ended.  My plan is all about helping others keep from sticking their own foot in their mouth.  Avoid kicking others while they’re down. 

And this plan came to me just recently as I think everyone around me has decided that my allotted grieving time over losing my job has officially ended.  It seems to me that my friends and family members have decided that it’s been long enough, and it’s time to take off the kid-gloves when dealing with me.

The first blow came from my next door neighbor when she came over the other day dressed in what I thought was a very casual outfit for school (she is a teacher).  I simply asked her whether she was going to school, and she fired back “Yeah, five days a week Clay, it’s called a job, I have one.”  Alrighty then.

The next shot came from a good pal who I had not seen recently.  I ran into him at my son’s soccer game this past weekend.  I went up to him and tried to give him a hard time about being a “no show” all summer, and he responded with “Well I’ve been busy at work; what exactly have you been doing?”  Wow.

And the FINAL shot came from my own 11-year old son who was quite slow to wake up this morning for school.  When he finally came downstairs for breakfast I asked him why he was so tired considering that he had gotten to bed plenty early the night before, and he said “Unlike you dad I have a lot going on.”  Holy Shit!!!  The hammer has been dropped.

Long story short this grieving scale that I’m proposing would need to be carefully put together.  No doubt you’d want to look at all sorts of incidents worth grieving over, and figure out how long one should grieve.  The only thing I’m willing to go on the record with is this . . . if you’re a parent and you lose a child you’re allowed to grieve for the rest of your life.  No question about it.  And apparently if you lose your job, and you live in my house, with my family, and my neighbors, and my friends, you’re allowed to grieve for five months.  After that prepared to be shit on.

Not So Funny

Change is inevitable.   

It’s inevitable that your wife’s sex drive will change, and not in a good way.

It’s inevitable that your looks will change, and again not in a good way.

And it’s inevitable that your complexion will change from baby smooth to bumpy (especially once you get to high school).

It’s also inevitable that your kids’ sense of humor will change from silly and cute to uncomfortably bad, and I think it’s just hit me that my kids have officially made that change.

When they’re young they think the simplest things are funny.  They think it’s hilarious when they knock over some wooden blocks or when they bang some pots and pans together.  These little things can amuse a child for hours when they’re young. 

As they get older they start to laugh at things other people do.  An older sibling tripping is down-right hilarious.  Or someone stepping in a deep puddle will illicit huge laughs.

From there it graduates to your typical potty-humor which usually means bodily sounds.  Nothing can crack up an eight year old boy like the sounds of someone burping or farting.  That’s simply as good as it gets.

And all of that is fine.  I get it.  I too enjoy a good fart sound, and no one likes someone falling off a bike as much as I do.  I still think America’s Funniest Home Video’s (which could be renamed – Other People’s Misery) is one of the best shows on TV. 

But from there the humor takes a different turn as the kids start to develop their own sense of humor in an attempt to get people to laugh with them and not just at them.  Maybe they’re becoming more proactive as opposed to reactive, but at some point they try their hand at comedy, and it just misses badly.  And of course I’m not talking about a bad knock-knock joke, but something a whole lot more uncomfortably wrong than that. 

Take for instance my 11-year old son pulling his shirt above his head so that just his eyes show and proclaiming that he’s a Muslim.  Not okay.  For a second there, sorta clever, but definitely not okay.

Then of course there was the strange incident the other day when my younger son started walking around the house with a clenched fist running it up and down his body telling us he was doing the “fist rub.”  He thought that it was hysterical for some reason.  The fist rub.  Not good.

Or there’s my older son’s impression of a flaming gay man that he got from the TV show Family Guy.  He loves to do that one when we’re in public.  Really loves to do it if we’re at a restaurant and the waiter just happens to be slightly feminine.  Oh, my son does a killer impression.  Of course my son is ELEVEN, so that’s not so cool.

And there’s my favorite. . . . their impression of a male flasher.  This typically takes place after showers, but the “mooning” AND “sunning” of both their mother and I has been on the rise of late. 

I guess in the end it’s okay as I also see this change in sense of humor with other people’s kids as well, so I’m not as worried that it’s just my kids who have a less-than-funny and completely inappropriate sense of humor.  It’s just part of life, and as I said before, it’s just an inevitable change.  Especially with boys.  It’s just another “storm” we’ll have to weather.  And while my wife and I will continue to try to instill some level of appropriateness, I actually hope that the boys don’t lose the self confidence and spontaneity that their sense of humor shows. . . . I just hope it doesn’t get them OR me beaten up.

No Mas

As I have stated here in this blog repeatedly, I am fighting the “age thing” with everything I’ve got.  From refusing to acknowledge my upcoming 40^th, to refusing to take off my baggy Abercrombie & Fitch camouflage shorts, to refusing to get an adult-like haircut (the last one was so bad that my wife actually had to cut it again when she got home just to even it out), I am hell-bent against acknowledging the fact that I am in fact getting older.

Until now, that is.  I have found my match.  I have reached my breaking point where even I must admit enough is enough, and that age has caught up to me.  No mas.     

I can’t say for sure when exactly I knew that I was done, but I believe it was somewhere outside of Delafield, Wisconsin.  I slowly chugged up yet another big hill frantically looking for an even lower gear to use and started wondering whether the feeling in my testicles would ever return when it officially hit me . . . I’m simply too old for this shit. 

I was just 30 miles away from finishing my 10^th straight Cowalunga 3-day bike-tour in support of the American Lung Association, and I knew that there would not be an 11^th year. 

Now it’s not like I’ve lost interest in bike riding, I haven’t.  And it’s not like biking is a “young man’s sport,” it’s not.  It’s just that biking certainly isn’t getting any easier as I get older, and because of family responsibilities and kid activities, training for a 200-mile, 3-day ride is more difficult than ever.  I simply don’t have sufficient time to train for such a ride, and waking up at 6 a.m. on Sundays to train simply won’t cut it.  Ten years ago it wouldn’t have mattered, I could pretty much jump on the bike without any training and ride 200 miles without thinking about it.  I do that now and I have trouble standing upright the next day. 

But it’s not just the actual ride itself, it’s all the “other stuff” that you deal with during the three days that eight or nine or ten years ago seemed sorta fun, but now just seems to be an irritant.

For instance the accommodations are less than spectacular.  Cabins in a camp ground on Day #1 and a dorm room at the University of Whitewater on Day #2.  Now 10 years ago the dorms were sort of fun.  A chance to rekindle those college days while goofing around with the nice people sleeping in the room next to you.  Fast forward 10 years later and the dorms are a hot, cramped reminder that you’re a long way from home, and the “nice people” sleeping in the room next to you are now those jerks who keep slamming their door every time they come and go.

The heat and humidity and head winds that you rode through 10 years ago made you feel like a professional cyclist competing in some Tour de France-like road race.  Now that same heat and humidity and head winds make you feel ill and woefully out of shape.  The smile I used to wear as I grinded out mile after mile has been replaced by curse words that I utter at anyone foolish enough to ride by and say “hey, looking good.” 

And the Clif Bars and Gatorade and bags of pretzels that they have at the various rest stops are no longer considered a tasty treat, but a reminder that Clif Bars are not tasty, but actually a disgusting granola bar wanna-be that looks like a piece of shit.  Seriously, go buy a Clif Bar and tell me what you think it looks like.  Buy the Chocolate Chip Cookie one.  Go ahead.

Despite all of that, deciding not to go is still a hard decision for me to make.  This silly ride has become a part of my summer, and the time I get to spend with my two pals who have ridden with me for all 10 rides is a lot of fun.  But in the last 10 years I’ve ridden close to 2,000 miles.  I’ve had about a half dozen flat tires.  About a half dozen bee stings.  I’ve fallen off my bike twice and even dealt with a bad case of food poisoning. 

I know this will come as a disappointment to my high school pals who look forward to the trip, but we need to come up with a different activity.  I’ve had enough.  Besides, I think it’s time I get the feeling back in my balls.  Hoping that happens soon…