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)The other night my wife took a picture of my son’s buns to send to her sisters. Don’t ask me, I try to stay under the radar and not ask too many questions, I guess this is what sisters do.
Anyway, here’s the picture.
AVA: ‘DADA. DADA. DADA.’
ME: ‘YES, Ava, what is it?’
AVA: ‘Charlie got sick in your hair.’
Really? Is that what I needed right now?
Run and get some paper towels for Daddy. And a t-shirt for chrissakes, I’m on the internet.
It’s the end of the year and my wife is kicking into high gear, squeezing in all of our doctor appointments before the end of the year. Says I pick at my skin and never wear sunscreen so I have some questionable freckles on my back. She calls it ‘something we have to do’ as responsible adults. I call it a ‘shitty nightmare’.
Today was the dermatologist. We went together before she went to work, so one of us could watch the kids while the other one got a body scan. What’s a body scan? That’s when they say ‘strip down to your underwear, and put this paper dress on. The doctor will be in whenever she decides you’re at the absolute breaking point of wrestling with your kids, while wearing a gown, under artificial light’.
Careful readers noticed the word ‘she’. Yep, you got it. My wife booked the FEMALE DOCTOR.
Every. Dudes. Nightmare.
By the time she finished with her scan, Ava and Charlie had struggled enough to tear my evening dress in three places. I turned the kids over to Jen and assessed the damage.
There was no point in privacy or protecting my innocence. I stood up and ripped it off in frustration. Ava was throwing a screaming fit as our female doctor came back into the room with a female receptionist, so that Ava might go with her to the waiting room for a lollipop. But she didn’t want to go. So it was a giant stand-off.
So there we were. My wife, the screaming kids, a lady doctor and cute receptionist.
And there I was. 35 years old, a slight holiday belly, wearing black underwear and white tube socks with a wristwatch.
That’s how my morning started. What about you guys?
Read More Post a comment (3)My wife says that everyone has stopped reading my blog because they’re sick of hearing about our road trip across the country where nothing happened.
FINE.
This will be the final chapter in the ‘reverse Griswold’ saga. Here are the Cliff’s Notes.
We left Texas and briefly drove through Oklahoma.
As road weariness, saggy eyebags and a dead-leg set in, I opened the moon-roof to put my hair in the wind, a little Hunter Thompson, Fear and Loathing style. Instead of acid and filter-tipped cigarettes, the hallucinogenic properties of the Diet Cokes and beef jerky had me listening to this cloud. It was luring me into the next state.
Welcome to New Mexico. I had only been through this state once on my way to Los Angeles via train, back in 1997. I don’t remember much, thanks to Bloody Mary and her dumb friend Heineken, the only two drinks Amtrak would serve.
Something told me that we were about to be enchanted. I wasn’t certain whether or not it was the landscape behind the welcome sign, or the Aquafina bottle half-filled with piss at it’s base, but we were in for a real treat.
The storm that came through the Grand Canyon was on our ass like Jerry Sandusky. Sorry, probably too soon on that one. I continued to dork out, using my doppler app, further diminishing my sex appeal, as my wife stared vacantly out the passenger window. Somewhere on the 89 South, we saw a gorge off the port side and some Navajo Indians (they were wearing Nike sneakers?) selling handmade jewelry. Considering that my wife was approaching Dolly Parton status of engorgement, and Charlie was screaming like his balls were on fire, we decided to pull over.
These weathered entrepreneurs were obviously tuned into the ferocity of the approaching storm and were in the process of packing up their turquoise to avoid getting knocked down by a lightning strike. Me? I used this opportunity to take a picture of the Audi and our Thule, where we keep Aunt Edna. I have no obligation to them, but maybe they’ll see this, start following me on twitter and pump some ad dollars into this bad boy.
After seeing a Flintstone-themed motel bar (Griswolds: Part 3) on the 64 North, I wasn’t sure how a giant hole in the earth was ever going to compare.
Since my wife and I are 62 years old, retired and live in an RV, we each have our own National Parks Passport books. For those who haven’t taken their nature appreciation to the next level, at every National Park you visit, you can stop by the visitor center and pick up a coordinating sticker with the park you’re visiting. This book is a great conversation starter and usually ends up being the big hit of the night.
On the approach to the center at the South Rim (gross) entrance, we were pelted with driving rain, lightning and gusty winds. Jen and I rode in silence, listening to my wipers go back and forth. We both knew what the next step was. The stickers. We stopped the car and had a Mexican stand-off from drivers seat to passengers seat.
If she ran in for the stickers, I would technically be in charge, if either one of the kids started to cry or needed emergency attention. If I went in, I would certainly get drenched, possibly hit by debris or smote with lightning, BUT, I wouldn’t be responsible for our kids. Simple.
I ran down the path from my car like a jerk, no umbrella or jacket, sideswiping tourists, trying to find cover.
Not only did I get our stickers, but I scored a limited edition anniversary stamp, the ultimate environmental panty-dropper.
As we moved into the park, we stopped off at the village, specifically the souvenir shop. With redneck blood running through our veins, we tried on Daniel Boone hats and bought a pocketknife with my name branded into it. We paid for our junk and ordered hoagies on the way out, thinking that we might be able to pull over and have a nice picnic lunch on the rim.
