I heard the muffled growl from the other room and looked to the sky in prayer. I blew on the imaginary dice and threw them against the velvet bumper inside my head, hoping it was only gas.
As you can see, my run was over. No dry fire on this one. I crapped out. Literally.
On the upside, this outfit had a zipper that ran from neck to foot, which was helpful, because it contained the ‘bulk’ of the spill.
On the downside, I’m no stranger to picking dog crap out of the treads of my running shoes, and we were headed down a very similar road.
I faced a decision.
Spend a few hours picking blowout from the zipper-teeth of this outfit, giving it an overnight bleach marinade OR quietly put this garment out of it’s misery and sit down for a cold beverage. After zero minutes of deliberation, I bagged and tagged this beauty and sent her on her way to the landfill.
Rest in Peace outfit, we’ll miss having you around.
Read More Post a comment (5)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)You’ve gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette, right?
Over the last 9½ months, Charlie’s little turkey legs have been getting adequate rest, taking their vitamins…slowly gaining the strength to support his mammoth frame.
Last week, with Ava napping and Chuck Norris occupied with toys in the living room, I decided to fix myself a sandwich. I didn’t even get mayo on the second slice of bread when I heard the toy shopping cart coming towards me from the other room.
After catching this little gem, I put the sammie on hold and threw on my ‘Coach’ hat.
Read More Post a comment (2)This past weekend, I found myself making the trek from DC to Atlanta for my twin niece & nephews 5th birthday, as well as a baby shower for my youngest sister-in-law. Me, Jen, Ava, Charlie, Cooper (the dog) and my brother-in-law, Max, were all-in (the same car) for 1,270 miles, two La Quinta Suites, eight gas stations, a Cracker Barrel, Waffle House and Chick Fil-A.
Saturday was a lot of fun. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Brad & Brooke set up a carnival in their backyard for the kids birthdays, complete with a primo bounce house, clown-mouth bean bags, dart games, sno-kones and balloons.
The city of Atlanta chipped in and brought some ball-sweltering heat, registering in the mid-90′s, illuminating the stage for the debut of my sweat glands. I didn’t include any pictures, because all my iphone wanted to do was give me a heat warning and honestly, it was almost too hot to press that imaginary camera button.
Sunday was the ‘chicks only’ baby shower, which left me and the boy to fend for ourselves. I didn’t complain (much), as we haven’t had a lot of time to bond as dudes. I hooked up with Brad and my nephews and we took the sausage party to the movies.
Charlie is the greatest because he doesn’t have any opinions and can’t talk yet. It didn’t matter if I was jamming to Alice in Chains or Carrie Underwood. He just chilled in the backseat, refusing to give a shit. He’s physically unable to judge me. Sweet deal!
Turns out we weren’t the only geniuses on the block that decided to beat the heat with a cold pop and a movie. CHAOS. Kids with Thor hammers and Hulk hands tore through the lobby, slowing down our move to the self-serving germ kiosk to buy tickets. I got there at 10:50 and the 11:40 was already sold out, so we decided to check out the mall and wait for the 1pm.
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)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)
