An Inauspicious Start

There are few things that I enjoy more than being left home alone.  In fact, I’m not entirely sure there is ANYTHING I like more than being left home alone.  Of course it’s probably a tossup between that and sex, but rest assured, it’s a close call.  Sex by no means runs away with it.  I may actually choose to be home alone over sex. 

But with no job, and with the boys home on summer break since early June there has been VERY LITTLE “home alone time” this summer.  In fact over the last couple of months I have been both an assistant little league coach as well as a summer league head coach which simply has further reduced my opportunities to have any home alone time.  What little time there has been to be home alone I’ve pretty much spent out on a baseball field with 11-year old boys. 

So when my wife informed me that she was taking the boys to Colorado for her grandmother’s funeral (the woman was 93-years old and died peacefully in her sleep – we should all be so lucky) I certainly didn’t object.  Hell I had all three of them packed within an hour of getting the call.  I was going to have four days and three nights all to myself. 

Suddenly all my worries and concerns were gone.  There was a spring to my step.  I found myself laughing more.  I gladly accommodated my younger son and answered some of his daily 9,000 questions.  I did not pester my wife for sex (well not in the last 48 hours at least – come on).  I allowed my older son to download a couple of songs on my iTunes account.  I was not an unemployed 39-year old with a stiff elbow and a receding hairline.  Oh no, I was a 27-year old CEO with a strong body and a full head of hair. 

Bring on the 96-hours of freedom.  Bring on the Zebra cakes.  Bring on the late nights and even later mornings.  Bring on the silly, pointless movies that my wife would never in a million years see in the theater.  Bring on the pizzas. 

I’ve got four days.

Go.

The dog and I turned the corner to start the walk back to the house and that’s when I noticed the older woman standing on the sidewalk looking at me.  She was by no means screaming or jumping up and down, but she was waving at me.  She was definitely trying to get my attention and I figured that she simply wanted me to reel in the dog (who was 20’ out in front of me – the dog doesn’t “do” heel – he just does “pull really hard”).  So I pulled the dog in, and continued to walk towards her.

But when I got to her she stopped me and told me that her husband was inside the house dying.  This was not what I wanted to hear for a number of different reasons not the least of which was I had decided to hold off on taking the Browns to the Super Bowl until after the walk and I was officially at the point where I needed the walk to end. 

However, I tied the dog to a tree and headed inside afraid of what I might find. 

Sure enough, there inside was a very sick looking dude in bed not moving.  So I grabbed her phone to dial 911 and it wasn’t working. 

I asked her if she had knocked on the neighbor’s door and she said that she had and that they were not home.  Since I was literally a couple hundred yards from my house I told her I’d be right back and took off to get my cell phone.  Flew in, got the cell phone and ran as fast as I could back.  I dialed 911, and within minutes the entire Northbrook fire department pulled up.  Unfortunately I was so winded from my two minute sprint that the paramedics initially thought that I was the one who needed help.  On a side note, this does not bode well for my three-day, 200-mile bike trip that starts this Saturday.  I apparently cannot run the length of two football fields without the paramedics being worried about me.  Not impressive.

I stuck around long enough to explain to the paramedics my whole role in this ordeal, and for the neighbors to get home and complain about the dog tied to their tree that was ruining their ground cover.  Despite having a fire truck, an ambulance and a police car in front of their house these people were much more concerned about my dog and their ground cover.  Lovely people.  What’s that old saying. . . . you can’t choose your neighbors?  Wow. 

Pretty much my day in a nutshell. 

However, I’m assuming you have a number of questions.  Let me see if I can help:

How is the guy?  I can’t say for sure, but he was sitting up in bed and alert when I left.  He had four different paramedics working on him.  I’d like to assume that he’s okay.

Why didn’t these people have a phone?   Well they did have a phone, but it wasn’t working, and obviously I have no idea why, but if I were to offer them advice it would be to get a cell phone as back-up or at the very least one of those “life alert” things that you see on TV.

Who were these neighbors of theirs?  No idea.  Just glad that they’re not mine. 

Will I offer to pay for whatever ground cover my dog destroyed?  Don’t be silly, as soon as it gets dark I’m going to go back over and drop a #2 on their precious ground cover.

Was I able to sit on my couch and watch TV in my empty house?  I knew you’d be concerned about that, and the answer is yes.  I was able to squeeze in a viewing of Tommy Boy (36^th viewing lifetime).

Could more strange things happen tomorrow?  Yes, but I’m not planning on leaving the house so that should help limit the potential.  The dog can go out in the backyard.

It Doesn’t All Change

From the get go kids are taught to aim high and to dream big, and I think as parents we have an obligation to encourage that, while also reeling in their expectations a bit.  I don’t mind it if my 11-year wants to play professional baseball when he grows up.  In fact I will encourage that goal, and will do what I can to help him achieve it.  Yet at the end of the day I know my son won’t be knocking balls out of Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium for a living, so I will continue to make sure that he tries other things and has other interests. 

My motto is “aim high but have realistic expectations.”

The car you drive is a perfect example of this motto.  Growing up all you want is a sports car.  You pour over the pages of Car & Driver magazine memorizing the 0-60 speeds of Ferraris and Porsches and Lamborghinis.  It’s not a question of whether you’re going to get one of these cars; it’s simply a question of what color you’re going to get.  But at some point your plans for that foreign-made sports car are ditched for a more realistic car like a four-door Honda Accord.  The Honda is a reliable car that gets good fuel economy and can get you from point A to point B with no hassles.  Hell you’re living the dream if you can get heated front seats and satellite radio.  You don’t need a twin turbo V-12; you need trunk space for a Costco run.

Your house is also another great example.  When you’re younger you assume you’ll have a big house complete with a backyard pool, a three-car garage, and cable TV in your bathroom.  But years later you’re absolutely thrilled with your three-bedroom two and one half bathroom house.  The backyard pool is a slip ‘n slide.  Your three-car garage is a one-car garage that holds everything BUT your car.  And your cable TV in your bathroom is your iPod and some portable speakers, which you sometimes turn on when you shower.  But this is fine because soon after you buy the house, you quickly realize just how hard and expensive it is to maintain it.  Another 1,500 square feet is the farthest thing from your mind.

Yet another example is doing a better job raising your kids than your parents did raising you.  When you were growing up you promised that when you had kids you would raise them “the right way.”  You swore that the mistakes your parents made raising you would not be duplicated, because in high school you were sure they did everything wrong.  And yet years later you realize that for the most part your parents did a half-way decent job of raising you, and even the mistakes they did make weren’t entirely their fault.  You were a difficult kid and frankly raising kids is just freaking hard.  There’s no instruction booklet on how to raise them.  No one has that sure-fire, can’t miss method. 

The list of examples goes on.  And I don’t know if you can ultimately chalk it up to lost innocence or adulthood.  Maybe both.  But at some point your expectations drop, and you go from aiming for the moon to settling for reality.  Like I said . . . “aim high but have realistic expectations.”

In fact thinking about it the only thing that doesn’t fit this motto is date night.  At least for guys, date night is AND ALWAYS WILL BE about getting some action at the end of it.  That’s why dudes go out on date night.  We aim high, but age has NOT lowered or changed our expectations.  When I was in my late teens and early 20’s date night was about going out and getting some action afterwards.  And almost 20 years later date night is about going out and getting some action afterwards. 

I can’t explain why our expectations regarding date night have not changed over the years.  All I know is that date night is a smashing success if it ends with sex, and it’s a freaking debacle if it ends with nothing more than a “Thanks, that was a nice night, honey” and a goodnight kiss. 

Sure the actual date night itself has changed since I was younger in that the old dinner at Chili’s followed by a movie has been replaced by cocktails at a friend’s followed by a nice dinner at a fun, yet quiet restaurant.  What I used to be able to do for $40 is now often times $140 (excluding babysitting).  But when all is said and done if the evening doesn’t end with some sex it’s a disaster, and expectations for date night NEVER waver. 

So sure my Ferrari is now my Honda.  My 5,500 square foot mansion is now my 2,200 square foot house with a one-car garage.  And my kids are as out of control as I was when I was there age.  Those youthful expectations have been shattered, and I’m okay with it.  But by God if my date night doesn’t end with sex, I will complain for a week.  That youthful expectation never goes away.

The Ravinia Night Dupe

I’ve been in sales for a long time.  Granted at the moment I’m sitting here without a sales job, but I’ve sold everything from 15-minute blocks of satellite space used for video news uplinks to cars to mechanical insulation.  I know sales.  Which is why I don’t mind being “sold.”  You’ve got a product to sell?  Well tell me about it, and make your pitch.  If it sounds good I might just buy.  I’ve had Comcast Cable for the last 10 years, but recently AT&T sent a salesman to my house to pitch me on their U-Verse cable package, and after listening to the dude’s pitch I signed up.  It’s great.  No complaints.  A number of years ago a guy was going door-to-door with some new carpet cleaning machine.  His whole pitch was “show me the toughest stain, and I’ll get it out.”  I said okay and showed him the stain on my son’s rug.  Years earlier my son had thrown up a combination of orange juice and children’s cherry flavored Motrin (really quite spectacular – didn’t tell us about it until the next morning – the pile of human waste just sat there for an entire night) and I told the guy “get that out and I’ll buy your product right here and now.”   Left him alone and went back downstairs.

This poor son of a bitch was in my son’s room for a good 30 minutes before finally coming out totally and completely deflated.  His machine didn’t make a dent on this stain.  And you know what he did . . . he packed his stuff up, thanked me for my time, and left.  He didn’t try to bull shit me or pitch me on some other product.  The dude gave it the old college try, and then left when he couldn’t get the job done. 

That’s sales.  Be honest.  Tell me what you have, and maybe I’ll buy.

Just don’t try to dupe me.  I don’t like feeling like I’ve been duped.  I think that’s why I dislike Ravinia so much.  Ravinia is billed as this wonderfully romantic “evening under the stars,” and yet it’s really an exercise in claustrophobia and frustration.

It’s supposed to be this great outdoor venue where you can lay down your blanket, set up your chairs and open up your picnic basket with your wine and cheese and get comfortable under the stars as live music (oftentimes classical) is played. 

What’s not to like?  You chat with good friends.  You snuggle up to your spouse.  You take down a few bottles of wine.  You eat some sandwiches.  Maybe you nod off for a few minutes during an intermission.  You let your worries and your troubles leave you.  It’s a shout out to easier times.     

And yet it’s not! 

What it is, is a hot, uncomfortable evening somewhat masked by friendly conversation and pleasant music.  It’s you, your 10×10 section of carved out lawn space, wine, cheese, and 20,000 strangers.  It’s nothing more than that.

The one or two parking lots fill up in a hurry, so typically you are forced to park blocks away which means the evening starts with a long walk carrying 50 pounds of gear.

Once inside the park you fight (not literally, of course, yet I suspect people have come close to blows) over a small section of grass where you can set up your blanket and chairs.  And whether you set up right next to someone else, or whether you set up in a totally wide open space, by the time the music starts there will be people on top of you in every direction.  If this place comfortably holds 10,000, then I am convinced they have jammed 20,000 people in there.  Suffice it to say this is NOT the place to have a private, candid conversation with your spouse or with your best friend unless you want some complete stranger hearing your every word.  You are guaranteed to trip over people walking the five feet from your chair to your cooler. 

To make matters worse, it gets so noisy that oftentimes it is hard to hear the music that you came to hear in the first place.  Despite having a very good speaker system that runs throughout the park, it simply is impossible to hear the music at times.  I’m entirely convinced that I could jam 500 people into my small backyard, have them bring their own food and drink, and play them some music on my iPod and they would have just as good a time. 

However, I will say that in all fairness to the folks that run Ravinia, it’s not them who are duping us, it’s the wives who are duping their husbands into thinking that a night at Ravinia will be fun, romantic and exciting.  It’s like fondue restaurants, which are supposed to be some of the most romantic restaurants around.  Why?  Someone puts a pot of boiling oil and some uncooked meat on my dimly lit table, and I have to cook it myself.  What’s romantic about that?  And yet the ladies are telling us how great it is.

Stop with the bullshit, ladies.  I know we’re fairly dumb animals, but cut us some slack.

Hey, we don’t dupe you nearly as much.  Guys know baseball games and monster truck races are unromantic.  Now we like going, and it’s sometimes fun to have our wives join us, but we don’t try to sell a nine-inning ball game with a few beers and hotdogs as anything other than fun entertainment.  But women try to sell guys on these crowded outdoor music venues or these weird fondue restaurants as being wonderfully romantic. 

Enough already.  Stop.   Ladies, here’s your pitch the next time you want your husband to go to Ravinia or some out-of-the-way fondue place.

You say “Babe, I want to go to Ravinia.  I’m going to invite three or four other couples to join us.  I’m going to spend most of the day cooking and preparing food for this event, and I’ll need you to clean the kitchen when I’m done.  I’m not going to wear anything too sexy as it’s hot and humid outside and I don’t want to be uncomfortable.  I probably won’t even put makeup on.  We’re going to park a half mile away, and I’ll need you to carry the blanket, the two folding chairs and the cooler.  We’re probably going to be surrounded by 15 to 20 thousand people when we get there.  We won’t know any of them, but they’re going to be really loud and we probably won’t be able to hear the music.  You’re going to be eaten alive by mosquitoes, and you’ll have two choices when it comes to your full bladder:  hold it for a good three hours or get lost for close to 25 minutes walking to and from the bathroom.  The whole thing will be miserable, but I promise to have sex with you when we get home.”

There you have it.  Your sales pitch.  You’re welcome.  Now you can officially stop trying to dupe us – and I guarantee it will work.

The Manly Dow Average

I’m happy to report that I am by no means an expert on being unemployed.  After all, I’ve been unemployed for less than four months and though I’m not sure my unemployment status is on the verge of changing anytime soon, compared to some of the heartbreaking unemployment stories that you read about or hear about on the news, my current stint on the unemployment list pales in comparison.  Heck, I’ve decided to take the summer off, so I’m not even “pounding the pavement.”

However, I think it’s safe to say that as a guy it’s especially hard to be unemployed.  After all, even with more and more women in the work force, we are, at the end of the day, supposed to be the bread winners.  It’s how we grew up, and it’s certainly how our dads and grandfathers grew up.  It’s the “hunter/gatherer” mentality.  When that is taken away from us, we feel especially bad.  Though I like to joke around about being “a kept man” when my wife walks out of the house to head to work in the morning, I am often times left feeling bad that I am sitting home earning nothing.  There’s no way for me to begin joking about that.  It’s just hard.

So much so that I have spent many afternoons looking in the mirror wondering if my “Manly Dow Average” is dropping to the point where I need to actually pull out my balls just to check if they’re still attached.

You see, you can gauge how well the overall stock market is doing based on just a handful of stocks tracked by the Dow Jones, and I think you can gauge how manly a guy is based on just a handful of things.  I call it the Manly Dow Average.  It’s a 1-10 type of scale, with 1 being a girl, and 10 being Jack Nicholson (seriously is there a cooler dude than Jack?).  Anything seven or over and you’re good to go.  No worries.  A six is fine, but at five you need to worry.  Anything below a five and you probably should avoid getting into a fist fight with your wife as she’d probably drop you with one punch. 

Oh and by the way, you get two points just for being born with balls.  It’s like the SAT where you get 200 points just for signing your name correctly.

Here it goes:

Car – I drive a pretty nice car.  That’s worth 1 point.  Unfortunately it’s a leased car and I’ll have to turn it in next August, so that’s a deduction of a ½ point.  So I’m at 2.5 points.

Job – I’m unemployed.  That’s minus 1 point.  There’s just no way to sugar coat this.  So I’m at 1.5 points. 

Sense of humor – I think I’m pretty funny, which is to say that I think people enjoy laughing at me, but regardless I usually can get people to laugh.  That’s good.  That’s worth 1 point.  So I’m at 2.5 points.

Wardrobe – It’s not good.  Sure I can “clean up” with the best of them, and I own a couple of nice suits and a few stylish button downs, but I prefer basketball shorts and t-shirts, and my newest thing is a pair of Abercrombie & Fitch camouflage shorts which I pretty much refuse to take off.  I rarely leave the house without my wife making a disparaging comment about my clothes, and she has actually stated that she will not be seen with me in the camo shorts.  However, since I’m a guy, I’m allowed to look like a goof at least part of the time, so it’s a wash.  No points added or deducted.  Still at 2.5 points.

Looks – Losing my hair, which is moving to my back, and my six-pack from high school is long gone, but I did get a hot chick to marry me.  That’s worth 1 point.  I’m up to 3.5 points.

Knowledge of Sports – This seems pointless and silly, but actually you HAVE TO know enough to answer any routine sports question your girlfriend or wife may ask.  If she wants to know what a false start in football is, you HAVE TO know the answer.   If she wants to know what an inside the park homerun is, you HAVE TO know the answer.  Now if she wants to know how many yards Joe Namath passed for in Super Bowl III you not only DON’T have to answer that question, you can tell her to pound sand.  I get 1 point here.  I’m up to 4.5 points.

Peeing – Okay I pee sitting down.  Hey, I just do.  Unless there’s an actual urinal, I prefer to sit down and pee.  That’s minus ½ point.    

Cooking – I can’t cook worth a damn.  That’s plus ½ point.  Yes, it’s worth noting that if a guy is a great cook it is also worth a ½ point as most women would find that very sexy.  However if you can’t cook at all it’s still worth a ½ point.  Guys aren’t supposed to know how to cook.  That’s cool.  The only way to get a deduction here is if you’re an okay cook because that means your wife will actually defer some of the weekly cooking chores to you.  Not cool.  You’re either Wolfgang Puck or you can sit on the couch and wait to be called to the dinner table.  Either way you get a ½ point.

Underwear – I like tighty-whities.  That’s minus ½ point.  Boxers or boxer briefs are much more manly, and therefore worth ½ point, but I just can’t do it. Bikini briefs, especially ones with colors and designs are minus 2 points.  There’s just no excuse.

Pornography – I do like porn.  That’s a ½ point.  Yes I’m sure I’d be hard pressed to find too many guys who don’t like porn, but they’re out there, and that’s a serious deduction.  You show me a dude who doesn’t like porn, and I’ll show you a questionable guy.  Come on, what’s not to like?  I’d watch my mailman have sex if I could. 

Pets – I like dogs, not cats.  That’s worth a ½ point.  Cats (and miniature dogs, for that matter) are minus ½ point.

Living a sexual fantasy – I once got a blow job while eating pizza and watching ESPN’s Sportscenter.  That’s a true story.  That’s worth 1 1/2 points.  It’s pretty much the Triple Crown.

So where does that leave me . . . 6.5 points.  I’m still a dude, but you see what I mean about not having a job?  I’d be a solid 7.5 if I just had a job.

Halfway Through Summer

I like things that have a beginning, middle and an end.  I don’t know if it’s because I like the structure or whether it’s because I like the inevitable certainty, but it’s even how I write.  I like having a nice beginning that gets you into the story.  I like having a good middle section where you can really see what’s going on, and then I like having a nice ending that ties it all together. 

I think my need for this type of structure is one of the reasons I like living in the Midwest where we have seasonal changes.  Sure, the winters are too long and the summers are too short, and usually we’re left wondering what happened to spring and fall, but at least our seasons have beginnings and endings.

And, of course, I have come up with my own system of figuring out when they start, when we’re in the middle of a season and when they end. 

For instance, I know fall starts when the paddle season starts.  I know winter is coming to an end when the paddle season ends.  I know when we return from spring break that spring is officially underway here in the Midwest (yeah it literally takes that long for spring to arrive – we’re talking early to mid April).  And I know that Halloween will be the last of any fall weather we’ll have, and that winter is coming fast (the weather in October can be downright lovely, but after that it’s all downhill, and it’s downhill in a hurry).   

Identifying the middle of the season is harder, but I don’t need the local news to tell me that the days are slowly but surely getting shorter, or that the July humidity is high to know that we’re halfway through summer.  I know because the half dozen pairs of swim goggles that I had purchased back in May are now gone.  Despite putting our last name on the goggles in permanent marker, and keeping them all in one central location, they are all gone.  The only pair of goggles I have in my house is a pink pair of Hello Kitty goggles that I’ve NEVER SEEN BEFORE. 

I know we’re halfway through summer because the grass that I had worked so hard to keep green is now starting to turn brown, and frankly I don’t care.  Back in April and May and even June I worked like a dog to keep my grass green.  I seeded bare patches.  I fertilized.  And I developed an every-other-day watering routine.  There was Ireland, and then there was my back yard.  It really looked that good.  Now it’s turning a light brown and I just don’t care.  We’re halfway through summer.

We have officially stopped trying to have family dinner.  With baseball games almost every night and kids needing to be everywhere at once, we have finally succumbed and don’t even try to plan it.  My wife has an extended holiday from making dinner.  Go Roma, Yard House, The Landmark and Little Louie’s, as well as the occasional pizza or mac n cheese have become our staples.

I’m officially bored with baseball, and I’m already reading all the articles in the paper about the Bears.  Bring on football.  Granted some of my disinterest in baseball has to do with the fact that YET AGAIN the Cubs suck, but still, this is right around the time where I start wondering who’s playing on the offensive line and whose returning punts. 

My car gets washed less right around this time of year.  At the beginning of summer I wash my car weekly.  After an entire winter of snow and slush and road salt all I want is a nice, clean car.  I don’t stop for gas once in early summer without also going through the car wash.  But now who cares?  It’s a hassle at this point.  My car’s been cleaned.  I know it looks nice when it’s clean, but fuck it.  Hopefully it will rain soon and wash some of the tree sap off of it.

I stop hassling my wife about scheduling date nights.  Usually I’m all for our regular Saturday night date night, and if we miss a couple weeks in a row I’ll start to bug her about it.  But this is the time of year where my wife wants to dine outside at some outdoor café or she wants to get lawn seats at some outdoor music festival or she wants to head downtown to walk Michigan Avenue.  No thanks.  If I wanted to be eaten by mosquitoes or eat dinner while dripping sweat I could just stay home and eat in my own backyard.  I start pushing again for date night around mid September.  Between now and then I have Domino’s pizza on speed dial and over 50 movie channels.

It’s not that I want summer to end, or that I’m getting tired of it.  I don’t wish for the cold weather to arrive – although it would be nice for the kids to go back to school soon – but I refuse to buy more goggles or a match for the one lone black croc, and the tree sap and the yard have defeated me.  I’m just going to relax more and enjoy the second half of the season.

The 4th of July

A recent poll found that 14% of U.S. teenagers thought that the 4^th of July was the day America declared its independence from France, while 5% thought we broke away from Canada.  Now this is simply great fodder for a long-winded blog on the sad state of the youth of America (and would help support my argument on sending kids to school year round – though in all fairness it’s worth remembering that my real purpose there was/is to simply get kids out of the house 12 months a year), but instead I thought I’d write a blog on the 4^th of July holiday.

From what I can tell the 4^th of July is a lot like Christmas in that most people love the holiday, and yet they really don’t care what the actual holiday stands for.  Most of us aren’t really concerned that Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Christ.  They love it because they get to decorate their yards and their houses with Santa and Snowman figures, and they get to open presents Christmas morning, and so on.  Just like no one really cares that the 4^th of July is a celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, they love it because it’s an opportunity to hang out with friends, and to overindulge on food, and to start drinking before 5 p.m., and so on.

And I’m okay with all of that.  I certainly don’t sit around my house Christmas morning reminding my kids just how lucky we are that Christ our savior was born on this day.  I remind them that they’re lucky I got the last GI Joe with the Kung Fu grip at Toys R Us, or I thank my lucky stars that my wife liked her gift, as my chances of acting out my “Naughty Mrs. Claus” fantasy once the kids go down at night are now looking better.  Same is true of the 4^th; I don’t sit around talking to my kids about the Revolutionary War or the hardships this country went through just to break away from England.  Please.  The only thing I remind my boys on July 4^th is that I get half the candy they collect at the parade, and if they get sick eating too much “sweet stuff” they should throw up in the neighbor’s bushes as opposed to ours.

But from what I can tell, the 4^th is a strange holiday in that most people want to do a whole lot of nothing.  They basically want to hang out with friends, grill some food, mix up some cocktails, and do nothing.  It’s a celebration of doing nothing.  Even the kids are discounted.  The 4^th of July is pretty much the one day a year where as a kid you probably know you’ve got the green light to go anywhere or do just about anything.  Your kid wakes up on the 4^th and says “Hey Dad I’m going to Joe’s house,” and you say “fine.”  You don’t even ask if Joe’s parents are home.  You just send your kid out the door.  Or maybe you walk to the annual parade together, but once there your kid sees a couple pals and wants to go hang out with them. . . “okay, sounds good.”  Hell, by 3:00 PM I’d argue that most people have no idea where their children are.  Which is fine, but it does seem strange that on no other day of the year is such latitude granted to kids. 

And speaking of that “annual parade,” you can pretty much count on three things regarding the traditional 4^th of July parade:

#1 – It will be 90 degrees and humid.

#2 – It will not start on time.

#3 – It will feature bands from other towns, other communities and other states.

And that always confuses me.  Why are these bands traveling to other towns, communities and states?  What are their own home towns doing for bands?  Do these other towns need to import bands from other areas just so that they have live music at their 4^th of July parade?  What type of motto do these bands have . . . . “Have snare drum, will travel?”  That part of the parade is very confusing to me.   

But no question my favorite part of the 4^th of July holiday is the fireworks show.  And what’s not to enjoy about a good fireworks show?  It’s a legal show featuring dangerous and potentially deadly explosives.  I love it!  However and maybe it’s simply because the skies are now dark, and the sounds of meat grilling on the barbeques have been replaced by loud bangs that echo through the night, but it’s usually right around this time that people are hit with three things:

#1 – They are officially suffering from heat stroke.

#2 – They are officially going to regret eating all that onion dip.

#3 – They have officially LOST THEIR EIGHT YEAR OLD KID!

That’s right, what seemed like nothing more than a tradition six hours ago, now seems like something DCFS should get involved with.

Right around 9:00 PM people begin to realize that their children are missing and they really have no good idea where they might be.  The people they thought were watching their kids are now sitting 10-feet away from them to watch the fireworks show with no kids in sight.  Text messages start to go out, and husbands and wives begin pointing fingers over who had the kids last and who gave them permission to go where.  Again, six hours ago you didn’t care whether they were going to ride bikes at the local park, or head to the public pool for a swim.  You were just thrilled to get rid of them, and yet right around the time the skies are about to light up with bright colors you begin to panic.  We found our child walking down the street to watch the fireworks with another family who hadn’t even been at our celebration. 

All’s well that ends well…but we did have a chat with our youngest about leaving the party without us and without any idea of where he was going.  We’re just lucky we live in a neighborhood where other families will look out for your children.

So, for now, we try to recover from the heat stroke, go on a diet and pay closer attention to where our children are.

Career Opportunities

One of the first things I did when I got laid off was to set up a lunch date with my brother-in-law.  He’s one of these guys who seems to know everyone and is “well connected” in all sorts of different social and business circles.  He was genuinely concerned for me, and promised to do whatever he could to help.  We talked for a good hour and in the end he gave me this one piece of advice . . . don’t discount any opportunity.  Look into anything and everything that comes my way.  It was good advice.

Unfortunately with the economy still struggling, and businesses slow to hire, the opportunities have been few and far between.  It’s not like I’ve been reviewing two or three new opportunities per day.  However, the crappy economy has not stopped my family from finding and sending me potential job leads.  I’ve gotten ideas sent to me from my mom, my wife, my father-in-law and even my step father in recent weeks.  And per my brother-in-law’s advice, I’ve given each of them a fair shake.  Here are the opportunities that I’ve recently considered:

My wife sent me the link to The New Yorker and told me that they were looking for writers.  That’s right, The New Yorker.  The same New Yorker that was started in 1925 as a sophisticated humor magazine and has since morphed into a forum for serious journalism and fiction.  J.D. Salinger, Ernest Hemingway and John Updike, just to name a few, have all had stories featured in The New Yorker.  I write a silly blog about my love of porn and Zebra Cakes and my never-ending quest for a blow job that approximately 30 people read.  Not sure I’m New Yorker material.  But I appreciate the fact that my wife remains one of my biggest fans.  Albeit one of my most unrealistic fans.

My father-in-law sent me a job just this morning for The Chicago Children’s Museum who is looking for Workshop Leaders to run their summer-time children’s programs.  It looked somewhat interesting so I read through it.  Among the qualifications needed for this position are a bachelor’s degree in special education, elementary education or early childhood development.  I have none of those things.  An understanding of Illinois state learning procedures.  I honestly have no idea what any of that means.  Experience leading or facilitating large groups of students.  I did recently lead a group of 12 baseball players to an 8-12 record in house league baseball.  Does that count?  Ease and experience in working with children from a diversity of ethnic, cultural and geographic backgrounds.  Again, does that little league baseball thing count?  Well it doesn’t look like this job is a perfect fit, but it does help me prove my theory . . . . that after 20 years my father-in-law still doesn’t know who I am.

My step father offered to facilitate an interview with a company that pays people to re-stock ATM machines.  Really only two qualifications necessary, you have to have a car, and you have to be able to drive around with a lot of cash.  I meet both those qualifications, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and save everyone (including the FBI) the trouble and take my name out of consideration for this potential position.  It seems to me that giving a dude who’s recently been unemployed and has his own car and a valid passport a massive wad of cash is a recipe for disaster.  Seriously am I the only one who sees this?  Please tell me that this is a bad idea. 

And my mother has sent me two opportunities in just the last couple weeks that were somewhat interesting.  The first, a lead given to her by the woman who does her nails, was for the Transportation Security Administration (the TSA).  Apparently they’re hiring and according to my mom’s nail person you can move up quickly and they offer great benefits.  Really?  Me working for the transportation security administration?  On a much broader scale would you really want ME working in ANY type of security position?  I have just four words for you, full cavity body searches.  You really want to put me in charge of determining who needs to “step out of line and come with me?”  Come on.  This makes as much sense as putting me in a car with a huge amount of cash.    

And the other job my mom sent me was a six-month gig working at a local Best Buy selling the new Sony PS3 game system that is debuting this fall.  The pay is an hourly wage, and I’d have to work weekends as well as quite a bit during the Christmas holiday, but there is a month of training involved which I assume means lots of time spent playing the new PS3.  So I applied for that one immediately.  I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

Undeniable Truths

So my wife and I went to yet another 40-year old birthday party last weekend.  These parties are starting to become a regular occurrence which is amazing to me considering that I’m not even planning on acknowledging my 40^th birthday let alone allowing my wife to throw me a party.  And yet as I stood around watching this 40-something group of people having the time of their lives two things hit me:

#1 – Women at 40 are pretty fucking hot.  Guys at 40 are NOT.

#2 – Maybe this “turning 40 thing” could simply be another one of those “undeniable truths of life.”

You see I have long had my own list of “undeniable truths of life” and though the list has not changed for some time, maybe it’s time to add the “turning 40 thing” to this list. 

Here’s my current list:

#1 – The Chicago Cubs are the worst team of all time in professional sports.  Yes, they are also my favorite, but they’re still without question the worst of all time.  I have 101 reasons why you can’t really argue this.

#2 – There is no such thing as “make up sex.”  It doesn’t exist.  You know what happens when a guy gets in trouble with his wife . . . he sleeps on the couch.  Or he apologizes profusely even if he’s not wrong.  Or if the shit is really hitting the fan he goes out and buys his wife flowers.  You know what he doesn’t do . . . he doesn’t have wild, passionate sex two hours after the big blow up.  Nope.  I’ve had some pretty good fights with my wife and not once have I had sex soon afterwards.  In fact, I typically don’t have sex for A WEEK after we’ve had a big fight.   

#3 – You buy your wife diamond earrings and you get a blow job.  It’s as simple as that. 

#4 – No matter what you tell your kids, they want to do something different.  Don’t believe me?  Just tell them that the family is going out for dinner.  They’ll want to stay in.  Tell them that everyone is staying home for dinner and they’ll want to go out.  It never fails.  Most of our family arguments are about the kids never wanting to do what we originally set out to do.

#5 – Hire a professional photographer and spend $350 to have a great Christmas card picture taken, and SOMEONE will look HORRIBLE in just about every picture.  I’ve got dozens of pictures to prove this.  I have one picture where my oldest son is flipping off the photographer.  Really.  Just smiling while subtly holding up his middle finger.  If I had had any say in this I truly would have used that as our Christmas card picture.  We had a couple copies made and I gave one to my mom.

#6 – If you are out at a restaurant with the family, the kids will have to go to the bathroom as soon as the food arrives.  Now this used to be an actual problem when the kids were younger and unable to go to the bathroom on their own.  Now it’s more of an annoyance as at least the boys are old enough to go to the bathroom by themselves, but I have had to go and find them a couple times after their food started getting cold.  I once found my younger son trapped in a stale that wouldn’t open.  When I walked into the bathroom he was crawling out from under the door.  Sufficed to say BOTH of our meals got cold as we spent a good 10 minutes scrubbing his upper body in the sink.

#7 – If you have to drive the babysitter home at night, your wife will always be dead asleep when you return.  Doesn’t matter whether the babysitter lives two blocks away or 2 miles away.  And it doesn’t matter whether your wife was in the mood prior to you leaving to drive the sitter home.  She’ll be dead asleep by the time you return.  It’s gotten so bad that I don’t hire any sitter that isn’t able to drive themselves to and from my house.  If my choices are an axe murder with a Toyota or a responsible 14-year old, I’ll choose the dude with the Toyota every time.

#8 – Tell your wife you like the way she looks and there’s a good chance she’ll come home with a new hairstyle or some type of new look just days later.  Years ago I spent a particularly nice weekend visiting my wife in college, and prior to leaving to drive back to my school I told her how pretty she looked.  Came back three weeks later for another visit and she was sporting a FULL 1980’s perm.  I still remember walking into her dorm, seeing her down the hall and literally almost turning around to walk out.  The fact that I had enough courage to walk towards her saved our relationship.  I’m married to her today because I walked toward her and her ridiculous hair instead of running in the other direction.

And now I have #9 . . . we’re all going to turn 40, and many of us already have.  The alternative isn’t so great either.  It’s undeniable.  I’m just not sure I can walk toward it.  I may run in the other direction.

License to have boys

Keanu Reeves’ character delivered a great line in the 1989 movie Parenthood.  His character said “You need a license to drive a car, and you need a license to buy a dog, and you need a license to catch a fish, but they’ll let any asshole be a dad.”

Now, granted, Reeves’ character was making a reference to his crappy upbringing by a suspect dad, but that line nonetheless resonated with me the other day as I was frantically looking for someone to help me set up my son’s new fishing pole.  In fact the quote from the movie and my own inability to attach a plastic bobber and a simple fishing hook got me thinking . . . . maybe there should be some test for guys looking to become dads.  A sort of “man-test” if you will, that would determine whether or not a guy could have a son.  A series of questions that if you scored too low would disqualify you from having a son.  It would still allow you to have a girl, as let’s be honest; the women are raising the daughters.  The dads are just there to make sure that their daughters don’t miss curfew and to scare away anyone riding a motorcycle or sporting a tattoo. 

Here are just a few questions that should be on this list along with my answers:

#1 – Are you capable of handling simple “self-assembly required” toys/items?  I can’t assemble a thing.  I have a hard time getting most toys out of the packaging.  In fact. . . a couple years ago my son needed the seat on his bike raised.  So I grabbed my tools and went to work.  20 minutes later I had taken off the rear wheel and disassembled the brakes.  When I finally took it into the bike shop the bike mechanic had NO IDEA how I had managed to do what I had done.  The bike spent four days in the shop before finally being returned to us.  I’m 0-for-1. 

#2 – Can you teach your kid how to throw a curve ball?  Actually yes.  Granted not a great or fast moving curve ball, but I legitimately can throw a curve, and my oldest really wants to learn.  THAT WAS A TRICK QUESTION!!  It never occurred to me that there was anything wrong with having an 11-year old throw curve balls until I saw too many horror stories on Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel.  It seems that “Little League of America” FORBIDS anyone under 13 from throwing curve balls as it is potentially dangerous for young, developing elbows. I’m 0-for-2.   

#3 – Do you have the patience to answer never-ending questions?  No, but this is not fair as my youngest son literally can ask thousands of pointless, meaningless questions per day.  I challenge anyone to keep up with my son’s line of questioning.  I think I actually should get the benefit of the doubt here, and yet I know the I.O.U. for $10,000 that my son still has from when I challenged him to not speak a single word for 30 minutes is going to look bad.  However, I’m still going 1-for-3.

#4 – Can you still do 3^rd grade math?  No.  And it bothers me, but no.  Two years ago when my son was in 3^rd grade my wife was out of town on business.  My son came home with what appeared to be a complicated math assignment that called for him to plot out a graph.  He and I worked on it for an hour.  I read and re-read the chapter in his math book dealing with this subject, and I had lined paper and rulers and pencils out.  In the end we plotted the end-all-be-all of graphs.  A true mathematical masterpiece.  I was ready to teach the subject.  That is until he brought home a D on the assignment.  Seems we did it totally ass-backwards.  I’m 1-for-4, but I should get extra credit for marrying someone who knows how to do 3^rd grade math.

#5 – Can you pitch a tent?  No.  In fact I own a really nice tent that I purchased four years ago and it’s still in the box in my garage.  I’m not the outdoorsy type, and my Dad never took me camping, so I just don’t know how to do it.  Every so often my boys see the box and ask me to set the tent up in the backyard so that they can have a camp out.  I can’t do it.  I instead sell them on the idea of having a camp out in sleeping bags in our basement.  I’ve gone so far as to letting them make s’mores outside over the fire pit, and then bringing the s’mores downstairs to eat while they lie in their sleeping bags.  If you think about it, it’s really quite pathetic.  I’m 1-for-5.

 I may have to forfeit my sons.

The Three Phases of Marriage

I will go to great lengths to get out of doing certain things.  No I’m not talking about a visit to the doctor’s office.  If I don’t want to go to the doctor, I just won’t schedule a visit.  Actually being in charge of scheduling your own doctor visits is one of the great things about being an adult.  Well, that and being able to eat Oreo’s for breakfast and Zebra Cakes for dinner without anyone saying anything about it. 

I go out of my way to avoid social gatherings and running “girly errands” with the wife.  If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it 1,000 times, if you’re my friend you WON’T invite me to your wedding.  And if you do, chances are I’m going to try to get out of going.  Same with shopping with my wife for a new throw rug.  Don’t be ridiculous.  I’d rather she just kick me in the balls and tell me to stay home. 

So when my wife asked me to pull over to buy fresh strawberries just north of Port Washington, Wisconsin this past Sunday, I knew I had to act fast in order to get out of this “girly errand.”

First thing that came to mind was the fact that it was Father’s Day.  I could play the Father’s Day card and probably get out of pulling over for strawberries.  However my plan was to use the Father’s Day card later at night for something a little more important than fresh berries at some road-side fruit stand. 

Next, I thought about using the old “hey, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you” excuse.  As in literally drive right by the exit at 65 miles per hour.  “Oh, did you want to pull over?  Boy I’m sorry.  I must not have heard you.”  Unfortunately that wouldn’t have worked as there were signs for “fresh berries” at more than a dozen exits.  It seems to me that Wisconsin has cheese, fireworks, porn and fresh berries at just about every exit.  It’s really an amazing state.

So finally I did what I do best. . . I just came up with shit . . . and I told her that pulling over for fresh berries at some quaint, little road-side berry farm was not something you do in Phase 2 of your marriage, and we were in fact in Phase 2.  I went on to say that pulling over for fresh berries was more of a Phase 3 thing.

She called my bluff, and I had to explain.  This is what I told her.

It seems to me that marriage can be broken up into three Phases.

Phase 1 is the early part of your marriage.  You both are digging one another.  You’re most likely moving in together and doing naked Sundays (God, I miss naked Sundays).  You take in concerts with friends at small clubs and dive bars.  You bar hop because that’s what you do when you’re young.  You plan your future together.  You occasionally do naked Saturdays IN ADDITION to naked Sundays because, well you can, damnit.  When you start having kids the grandparents all offer to babysit because grandparents love babies.  You buy your first house and you have sex in the laundry room because your last laundry room was in the basement of your apartment building and even you wouldn’t have sex down there.  You hold hands a lot and there’s plenty of PDA.  You’re still boyfriend and girlfriend in Phase 1.   

Then you move into Phase 2 and things get a little tougher.  Of course you’re still very much in love in Phase 2, but the honeymoon is officially over, and you’re no longer boyfriend and girlfriend, but more like co-workers.  You’re working together to get through the grind.  There’s no more naked Sundays because Sunday mornings are now travel soccer games and house league baseball games and “family breakfasts.”  You still take in concerts with friends, but now you’re seeing U2 at the United Center in a friend’s corporate box.  Or you’re on the lawn at some outdoor venue sipping wine while listening to Sheryl Crow.  You bar hop because you’re trying to rekindle your youth.  The grandparents aren’t quite as willing to watch the grandkids as they’re not cute babies anymore, but rambunctious 10-year olds who like Family Guy and You Tube.  You buy your second house in Phase 2, and you can’t really afford it, but you buy it anyway because this is the house that you talked about buying during Phase 1.  You just planned on having more money by this time.  You don’t even think about having sex in the any room other than your bedroom.  After all why would you have sex in the laundry room?  Could be hard on your knees or your lower back, both of which hurt a lot more now than they did when you were in Phase 1.  You don’t hold hands anymore as your hands are busy clutching your Blackberry or iPhone.  There’s no more PDA.  You tell yourself that that’s the kind of stuff you did in high school.

But then right when it looks like you can’t take it anymore, you move into Phase 3.  Phase 3 is all about rekindling your love for one another.  The kids are older and starting to make it on their own.  You remind them to call before just popping in as suddenly naked Sundays are an option again.  You still go to concerts but you occasionally complain about the noise being too loud.  You become grandparents in this phase, and you love watching the babies.  You hold hands a lot.  You buy a winter house in Florida and invite the kids to come visit during spring break.  You talk about having sex on the beach but you never do.  At the end of the day, there are certain things that you just never do no matter what Phase you’re in.  And you pull over for fresh berries at quaint, little road-side berry farms in the middle of Wisconsin. 

The three phases of marriage. 

Of course my wife didn’t buy any of this, but we did get some wonderfully fresh strawberries on Sunday.  I of course, won’t eat them.  But everyone who tried them said they were great.