When I was younger, Mother’s Day was only about MY Mom.
Me and my brothers would team up with Dad, who would take us to the store and turn us loose with five bucks a piece. Before we got smart enough to pool our money together and get her a decent $15 gift, we used to split up and meet back at the cash register with a damage-discount candle, fanny pack and a spatula. We knocked out a homemade card and hoped Dad pulled through with some flowers and a piece of jewelry, which he always did. We rode his coattails, signing our names to the ‘polished’ Hallmark sentiment.
But it was never about the gifts, however, we didn’t learn that until much later…
Read More Post a comment (6)Once upon a time (this past summer), we took a weekender to Asheville, North Carolina. We decided that the quickest route to get there was to go 150 miles out of our way to visit the Cabbage Patch Kid headquarters in Cleveland, GA.
We didn’t stop at the enormous Bass Pro Shops, the one with the lure testing tank, where die-hards like my dad enjoy casting different weapons from their arsenal and watching their ‘action’ underwater. We also drove right by the receding waters of Lake Lanier, where this summer, they were uncovering old guns, beer cans, stolen cars and sunken Christmas trees tied to cinder blocks.
Just before Cleveland, miles of dense forest thinned out to reveal one of those quaint little Bavarian holiday villages. Like every other jackass on the road, we pulled off to window shop for hand-whiddled Christmas ornaments in the dead of July.
We stumbled upon the Hansel & Gretel candy shop which boasted this 4-pound diabetes football. We gawked and shoved each other out of the way like obnoxious teenagers with our iphones, trying to be first to upload this monstrosity to Facebook. They also had chocolate covered Fritos and my personal favorite, the great wall of jellybeans.
CHARLIE: Dude, I had a rough one last night.
AVA: C’mere girl, I’ll hold your hair.
A few months ago, I met up with some friend’s wives at a wine bar for a ‘stitch n’ bitch’, where we relaxed over cured meats and booze while our spouses stayed with the kids. I was a visitor to something they called ‘work drinks’.
We talked about Ryan Reynold’s abs, which restaurants had changing tables and why that dumb hooker got the final rose. Of all the information that I collected that night, one thing in particular resonated with me.
As we went around the table, I was teeing up to lay down some bitching and griping.
Read More Post a comment (6)Sometimes my wife will wear yoga pants to bed for like a month and I’m like, ‘What’s the deal dude? Are you out of razors or hiding something?’
Ava has it figured out.
Read More Post a comment (3)Ava has recently learned how to open and close doors. She’s even catching onto the locking system.
Every time I hear a door slam shut, I have to chase it down like Chris Hansen’s camera crew moving in on a pedophile. I’ve told Ava that I don’t want any closed doors in our house, I want to know exactly what’s going on at every minute. This will hopefully carry on through the teenage years, so I don’t have to kick the door in on a study date wielding a Louisville Slugger.
Last week, I heard one slam. I was trying to iron one of my wife’s linen crochet sweater things that was supposed to be ‘dried flat’ and not ‘slung over a railing’. I figured I had a few seconds to finish up and this was the result.
Bondage Elmo, courtesy of our dog’s collar and Ava’s creativity.
And I must’ve been too slow on this occasion, caught in the bathroom mid-wipe. Taking the luxury of properly cleaning my ass led to this.
Ava poised to blow up her Rody, old-school cartoon style. The TNT plunger was primed and ready. She didn’t want to ruin her outfit, so I had to finish the dirty work.
No matter how old she is, I’ll never be comfortable with what goes on behind closed doors.
Read More Post a comment (3)I was going through some pictures today, trying to figure out what I missed reporting on in the past year and found this windshield wiper.
I guess I took this picture towards the end of Jen’s second pregnancy, as the doctor pulled out a condom that looked like a wind sock and I passed out.
I had clearly acknowledged that this was going to be an internal exam.
I guess I’m just lucky I didn’t bang my head off the mustard bottle filled with lube and lose an eye.
I didn’t feel the need to get Jen anything for Valentine’s Day this year, because, quite honestly, what else could I get her that had a ‘deeper’ meaning?
Wasn’t this enough? Having your lungs punctured from the inside out? I guess I could’ve added some girth, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day and I’m no engineer of cervical tools.
I drove home in silence, cringing at any phallic roadside objects, bit the lid off a cold one and sat in the dark watching a TV that wasn’t even on.
Phone home, expectant fathers. PHONE HOME.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all the ladies in my life.
Ten years ago this would’ve been a longer list because I was a sex machine, but these days I’ve narrowed it down a bit.
Starting with my Mom: You gave me life. You loved and supported me through the good times….
And the bad…
…and will always be my best friend.
And my wife. I’m not a religious person, but I’m blessed to have found you. You are fiercely independent and opinionated, stubborn and sometimes I want to smush a pie in your face. However, you are the love of my life, you are a devoted and spectacular mom. You’re beautiful and I don’t mind the engorged breasts. Successful, smart and sexy. The three S’s.
AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GUY AT THE AIRPORT:
‘You’ve got your hands full there, eh buddy?’, exclaimed yet another older dude in work slacks and loafers, traveling with only a laptop bag. I nodded with a forced smile and said, ‘So true dude, so true.’
What I really wanted to do was throttle him to the floor by the shirt and say ‘fuck you old man, just because your tour is over, doesn’t mean you have a free ticket (or does it?) to bust my balls at the baggage carousel.’
Can’t you see what I’m dealing with here? Four checked suitcases, two carry-ons, two personal items, a dog in a duffle bag, a Bjorn, two strollers, a toddler, an infant and a cooler of leaking breastmilk. Do I look like I wanna get chatty?
You had no idea that I was about to try and hang onto a 2-year old who would be stepping on my balls for 6 hours with some woman behind me that didn’t speak English, telling me in hand signals and charades that I wasn’t allowed to recline my seat because it bothered her.
‘Got your hands full there, buddy?’, he asks…
Unless you wanna huck one of these suitcases through the terminal for me, take your tablet and go sit down and shut up in 1st class, with your cranberry juice and Wall Street Journal.
I’ll see you when zone 6 is called. I’ll be the guy fighting and banging my way through your section with the armada of duffle bags and kids, apologizing every three steps, as I move towards the back of the plane.
Look. I’m not bitter. About him or my situation. I’m truly not.
This numb-nut was just the EXACT opposite of what I needed at that particular moment. Had he been some dude walking up to offer me a Smart Cart or hook me up with a Xanax or Benadryl for my entourage, we wouldn’t even be wasting our time reading this right now. Because I would’ve never written it!
Thanks for flying the friendly skies.
EDITOR’S NOTE: If you have the luxury, buy your kid a seat and let the DVD player do the rest.
Read More Post a comment (5)Ava now has 14 of her 20 baby teeth in.
It seems like these last few have been really tough for her. I think the pain of the incisors and K-9′s coming through are driving her bananas.
I found this cutie under the sofa during naptime. At first, I thought the dog did it, gave him a ‘WTF is this?’ and he looked back at me like ‘hey brother, for once, this was not me’.
When Ava woke up, I interviewed her on the status of this sucker. She told me it was ‘broken’ and wanted a new one. I went to the ‘bag of suckers’, pulled one out and tossed it to her from a safe distance…I wasn’t looking to lose any fingers.
It was shrapnel within thirty seconds.
I chummed the water (kitchen floor) with an assortment of suckers to keep her at bay while I tried to figure out my next move. I stood defenseless in the corner of the kitchen, thinking maybe today was my day to leave this world, or at the very least, if I survived….I’d be forced to face this expensive phase in my daughter’s life.
What happens if I can’t keep pace? If I can’t afford the suckers? Do I need to turn her loose on some Elm trees?
Maybe I could train her to gnaw a few totem poles in the backyard?
And if I ran out of foliage? Toyota Tercels?
I’m not sure where to turn. Should I just put her in the crib and throw aluminum cans at her until my wife gets home?
EDITOR’S NOTE: I found out later from my wife that I was giving her pacifiers rated for infants without teeth. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle.
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