Compromise

Before I do anything, let me say something to Carrie and anyone else out there who thinks Janice got the drop on me. No one is funnier than I am! I try to have a serious moment and everyone assumes that I’ve lost my edge. Well, be warned. One day, I won’t be around to make you laugh. You’ll have to stay up for Jay Leno, or, God forbid, Conan O’Brien. Then, you’ll be all bleary-eyed (yes, that’s a word) in the morning at work. Wouldn’t that suck? Now that I got that off my chest…

My wife has often commented that we don’t talk enough. At least, I think that’s what she’s saying. I’m not usually listening. Anyway, she says we don’t communicate. In a way, I guess she’s right. I try to talk about stuff I like—football, video games, soccer, David Beckam, and the like.

When I get on one of my topics, she doesn’t even feign interest. She just rolls her eyes at me. I criticize her and make her feel small for not liking the things I like, and I won’t talk to her for a few hours or days. It’s pretty standard marriage stuff really.

Well, I think (or, thought) I had found a common language: books. Everyone can read. We may not like the same books, but we can bite the bullet once in a while. So we don’t have a lot in common. It’s not the end of the world. We can find some common ground. Let’s read a bit, shall we? We can read the book. Then, we can talk about it. Hence, we have the communication that’s lacking, and it’s something that, at least marginally, interests me.

I came up with some ideas. I got her to buy a copy of She’s Come Undone, by Wally Lamb. I’ve never read it. I can’t imagine I ever would, but I was prepared to suck it up. She didn’t touch it. Then, I turned to The Da Vinci Code. I’ve read it. It was a good story. Who the hell hasn’t read the freaking Da Vinci Code? Well, my wife, for one. She tried and got through like ten pages.

I’m a bit confused about how to feel. The English teacher is enraged. The husband in me is frustrated. The video game player is happy that there’s one less thing for me to have to talk about and take time from my games.

So, ladies, I implore you, if you have to talk with your husbands, try to do something they like once in a while. Go fishing. Listen to the stories about their golf game. Dress up like a school girl and sing the lollipop song. Compromise: it’s the foundation of a successful marriage. If you do what your husband wants once in a while, he’ll be more likely to do what you want, or, at the very least, leave you the hell alone.

Chris

It's On!

Well, I so didn’t want to go there, but he did, it’s done, and now IT’S ON! You wanna talk inlaws? Where to begin.

They live in Roswell. Yes, you heard me, the land of aliens. Actually, they quite fit in down there I believe, and you will too by the time I’m done.

Really and truly, I know that his parents are still his parents no matter what, and it has forced me to find the good in them, which I work hard to do. My MIL visited at the end of July and she was hacking a lung up sick. Of course we would never tell her not to come, she is from 2000 (rough guesstimate, geography is not my strong suit) miles away, and has only met her granddaughter twice. None the less, Abigail and I spent the 2 weeks after her visit sick as dogs. Thanks so much MIL.

The best part is, I’m certain she got some satisfaction out of knowing I was sick. The woman hates me. And, I had to spend the days with her all. by.myself. Did you hear me, I said all by myself. How demented is that?

The positives? I’m really stretching here, but the woman was so sick that she took 2 naps a day on my couch. That means less time interacting. That is a positive. That also means my whole entire house was INFECTED. The place where I spend most of my nights was completely infested with.her.germs. Ick. The other positive was that we ate some good meals out that we didn’t have to pay for and she bought a months worth of diapers. All in all, I think we were fairly compensated for the visit.

Hubby says I’m crazy, the she doesn’t hate me, but I know better. It is the stereotypical MIL/DIL relationship. It is in a permanent state of strain or even flat out dislike. She does not like me. I took her baby away. (Insert rolling eyes here) Truth is, he was not ever going back, ever. Regardless of whether he met me, someone else, a gay monkey, or no one, he was not going back there. So, it is my firm stance that she needs to get over it.

The father in law, well, he at least likes me a little bit more. But let me tell you, I can recite the six stories in his repertoire by heart, including all variations. I feel fortunate that hubby doesn’t want to turn into his father, so he spends family gatherings playing croquet.

Janice

Spending the Day with Family

Up to the point where I got married my life was fairly boring, and I loved every second of it. I do have relatives—a few of them, anyway. Luckily, I’ve only ever met one uncle, at least since I was old enough to remember. My father’s family is a bunch of redneck hillbillies who brew and run moonshine, and my mother’s family is all dead, deadbeat, or just weird. It’s nice not to have any contact with them, and my parents never seemed to mind.

The best part of not having relatives is not having to spend any time with them. As much as I love social situations (sarcasm), I do like my own personal alone time. I can do what I want. I can sit in my underwear and play video games while I fart and swear at the Playstation for cheating me. It works great.

Then, as usual, my wife drops the bomb…we have to one of her family outings. Joy! I have to don pants and drive—usually about fifteen hours—to some place where there probably isn’t enough to eat. On the trip, Janice usually badmouths somebody who’s going to be there, or, at the very least, she explains how they disappointed the family in some way or other.

I’ll admit that I’m not particularly social, but I don’t know a single husband or wife who is totally comfortable with his/her in-laws. And, I’m sure that Janice’s family discusses just how anti-social I am. At first, I tried to be, but I ended up looking foolish. I like to pop in periodically, say something funny, and run out again.

Besides, I have a terrible time coming up with new material. And, I’m sure I’ve mentioned just how horrified I am at becoming my father. Well, as it turns out, my father has a habit of telling the story over and over and over again. I’m used to it, but people who don’t know him get a little agitated. I’m very afraid that I’m going to start doing that. So, if I stay on the outskirts of the conversation, I’m not forced to be the center of attention at any point. Therefore, I never have to tell anything personal (and, therefore, never repeat anything personal) to anyone.

I end up staring at a television or, in the case of today’s outing, I end up playing croquet to avoid looking foolish. Thus, I look like a jerk. However, and I’m sure Oscar Wilde would agree with me, that it’s so much better to be a jerk than to be boring.

Chris

(Note: Oscar Wilde is one of my favorite authors, along with F. Scott Fitzgerald. And, as usual, Janice cannot bring herself to read The Picture of Dorian Gray. Typical…)

(Another Note: I have to say that this post may be a bit choppy. That's because the TV was just broadcasting America's Most Wanted, where they were just profiling a guy named Jihad Ramadan. I actually had to stop, laugh, and make fun of that. How unoriginal is that? I think I'm going to change my name to Easter Christmas. What do you think?)

Different

We all know there are differences between men and women, but tonight, in our house, those differences are more apparent than ever before. My husband is sitting on the couch, thoroughly enjoying this ummm, extremely odd and disturbing show. At this very moment, 2 people are doing an autopsy on a man who thinks he is still alive. At least that is what I think is going on, I can't be sure. The primary dialogue in this show is the "dead" man talking to himself about how to get these people to think they are alive.

I don't know about you, but I find this very disturbing. By no means am I a girly girl, I am pretty much a tomboy and don't get too squeamish, even when my daugther has poop running down her leg. I guess this isn't even making me squeamish. Just helping me realize exactly how strange my husband is.

Janice

Active Ignorance

Being an English teacher, I am familiar with the term “Active Reading.” Basically, it’s reading for information. You know, paying attention to what you read. Being a student of society, I am familiar with the term “Active Listening.” That’s where you pay attention to what people say, nod at them, repeat what they. It makes them feel special, and it makes them trust you.

Being a husband, I have developed my own technique for coping with marriage and making my wife feel special. I call it “Active Ignorance.” I want my wife to be the smartest, most capable member of the household. I want her to feel superior to me in every way. Therefore, I am ignorant of everything around me. (This may or may not include her.)

Hence, I have ignored her comments regarding my “refusal” to assist her in cleaning the child. Thus, I don’t make her feel as though she were degrading me. I don’t want her to feel guilty about making fun of me in front of others, even though it is a shameless act perpetrated by someone who has no regard for her spouse’s feelings.

Active ignorance is more than just playing dumb. It also involves not hearing things. I have developed an uncanny ability to ignore everything my wife says that I don’t want to hear. Some people call it “Selective Hearing,” but it is much more refined.

Active ignorance is the ability to screen what you want and don’t want to hear. Most husbands over the years have mastered this portion of active ignorance. And, when in doubt, most men with female companions just ignore everything.

There are tools to assist active ignorance. Video games, television, the computer, even books (God forbid) are exceptional ways to hear as little as possible. One develops a unique approach to active ignorance. Key words are great clues to items to which men should listen. If your significant other mentions any food words, words about electronics, or, if there are any references to other women, the man should listen. If one hears “family,” “shoes,” or anything regarding work. Tune right out.

What is the ultimate goal of active ignorance? To be honest, I don’t really know. Nothing actually seems to change. I suppose, I am ultimately desensitizing myself to my wife’s hazing, while, at the same time, training her not to bother me with mundane issues like the grass needing mowing or the house being on fire.

Please ask if you would like further instruction on active ignorance. It requires very little practice and little more innate ability than a Y chromosome delivered at conception.

Chris

(Note: Pictured is the cover of the latest medium specifically designed to assist active ignorance.)

Holy Poop Batman

I've been trying to write about this for a few days, but it has taken this long to get out from under the pile of poop I had to clean up. You see, we went out with some friends last week (which in and of itself is a rare occurence, wonder why? ) They are childless as of yet, so eating at 7:00 pm did not strike them funny in the least. It worked out ok, except for one fatal mistake. We promised Abigail that she could have some lemonade at the bar. Yes friends, we brought our 2.5 year old to a pub, it was also a restaurant so please don't turn us in to DSS.

As luck would have it, this particular watering hole did not HAVE any lemonade. Answer me this, they had apple juice but not lemonade. Which one of those would you think is a more common mixer for adult beverages? In an effort to keep the peace for the 50 other patrons who were looking at us like crazy people for bringing our 2.5 year old to a bar, we got the kid some apple juice. Ok ok, not only did she have ONE cup of apple juice, but she begged for a second. She has probably only had about 3 other cups of apple juice in her lifetime, so clearly you can see where this is going.

We made it to the car, and we were about 15 minutes from home when said child got excessively fussy, she wanted me to touch her, so I reach back from the front seat only to be greeted something particularly squishy oozing down her leg. I yelled at my husband, oh cr*p the baby sh$t EVERYWHERE. She promptly fell asleep. So much for quietly and gently carrying her in the house and placing her in the crib without disturbing her slumber. I got covered in poop as I carried her in the house and promptly woke her up to get cleaned up. The best is yet to come.

My ever so kind and helpful husband conveniently decided he should go get the carseat out of the car so we can disassemble the damn thing to get the cover off so we can clean it. The carseat rant is a rant for another day. He RAN out the door and left ME ALONE BY MYSELF to try to wade my way out of the mess. I'm sure he thought I wouldn't realize his crafty ways. But, I have. It does not COUNT as help when all you are really doing is bailing on the most challening and disgusting part of the problem, avoiding any more spreadance of poop.

Nice try honey. The next one is all yours! And I'll be sure to fill her up with apple juice before I go to work for the night!
Janice

Typical Hypochondria

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but I’ve been in traction. My wife tends to get angry a bit when I don’t show the adequate amount of concern for all of her booboos. The funny thing is I think all women are like that. But, boy, you should hear how little sympathy I get when I stub my toe on something she or the baby left lying around.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but, one day some time ago, my wife and I turned into old people. Every time she hears of some new disease, she thinks she has it. Every other week, it’s Eastern Equine Encephalitis, SARS, or the Super Flu. Likewise, all I want to do is take naps and criticize people for their inadequacies.

I went to sleep, and we were fun-loving college kids, and I woke up, and we were my parents. The only logical conclusion I can reach is that having a child ages the average person forty-five years in about sixteen minutes. (Have I mentioned how petrified I am of becoming my father and how fast it’s happening? Serenity now!)

So, ladies, I’m begging you… Just because you have a cough, a small fever, or Patrick Duffy growing out of your leg, don’t go running to the doctor. Do what any self-respecting man would do. Rub some dirt on it and get back in the game. Then, when you have to have surgery or have a limb amputated, you can blame your husband. Isn’t that nice? You’ll have something else to blame on your partner. As it is, I’m guessing most of you blame Communism, war, and bad hair days on him. Right?

Chris

(Note: If anyone can catch any of the pop culture references in this blog, I’ll virtually pat you on the back. See if you can get more than my wife.)

(Another note: The picture is Nikita Kruschev.)

The End Is Nigh

I saw my life flash before my eyes when the little bump appeared on my wrist. I asked my husband, "What do you think it is? Do you think it is ok?" Yes he replied, you are fine, I don't even see it. My response was, of course, "YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT YOU CAN'T SEE THE BASEBALL SIZED LUMP ON MY WRIST?!?!" You MUST be kidding! Not two minutes later, I was sick to my stomach worried by the fact that this huge mass on my hand just appeared out of nowhere, didn't hurt, and moved when my fingers moved.

The voice in my head was reminding me that my daughter could have a severed limb and my husband would say, oh she's fine, she just has a cold. With that, I became convinced that if he thought I was fine, I was surely going to die immediately of the c word (no, not THAT c word you dirty bird).

That was 2 weeks ago. I'm still here, so is my friend, the baseball on my wrist. I guess I will make use of our health insurance and call the doctor so they can have me come in just to tell me that I need to wait a couple of weeks and see what happens. Oh and by the way, give us your copay NOW! Maybe I'll save the gas money and just send them the cash.

The Big Night Out

With the fifth wedding anniversary quickly approaching, it seemed only appropriate that the Missus and I head out for a night on the town. Naturally, as I’m sure many of you other parents can appreciate and you not-so parents can envy, we are slightly hindered by the larger-every-day thing that seems to be there every time we turn around.

Remember that Reese Witherspoon movie, Sweet Home Alabama? Don’t feel badly if you don’t. I don’t either, really. But, I remember one line. She says to an old friend, “You have a baby…in a bar.”

(Note: Don’t let my wife lie to you. I really don’t like chick flicks. I have never seen Sweet Home Alabama, nor do I know anything about it, aside from that line and that it starred Reese Witherspoon, I think.)

You can imagine the white trash comments that would come along with taking a baby out drinking some night. We don’t do that. In fact, we don’t ever go out at all anymore, ever. So, it was quite change for us to leave the child with my sister-in-law and go out for a night on the town—a night that started with 5pm dinner reservations and ended when we walked through our door at around 8:30.

The difficult part about all this is that we had a lot of time to talk, and I think we both quickly realized that we’re a little rusty. Janice really hasn’t had a drink in months. So, the one mojito she did have put her into a tailspin. I should have taken her home that moment and taken advantage of her, but I was hungry.

After an egregiously expensive dinner, we went to Target and bought pillows. What fun, huh? The best part was trying to convince her to buy a plasma TV. (Talk about taking advantage.) I think, if I could have gotten one more mojito in her, it would have happened.

Along the way, we talked and wondered about why we have no friends. But, after rereading this, I can clearly see the reason. Hanging out with us is about as exciting as driving Miss Daisy. (I know, but apparently, the little man in my head that comes up with all of my good comparisons is on vacation.)

Well, I hope you enjoyed our boring. Don’t get too lost in this entry, or you may never find your way out. I’m going to need months of therapy to get over writing it myself.

Chris

5 Items

Let me begin by saying that I’ve done this five things thing before. But, like most successful marriages. Ours is one of repetition and routine.

5 Items in my fridge:
1. Porn. It’s a good place to hide it because my wife never looks there.
2. Beer. It’s always the bad beer. If it were the good stuff it wouldn’t be there anymore.
3. I think it’s a cat in a plastic bowl now. I can’t actually identify it anymore.
4. Money. Also hidden from my wife.
5. My self-esteem. And, every time she yells at me, I eat a little to replace what I lost.

5 Items in my closet:
1. Porn. This is the decoy porn. She knows that stash is there.
2. Giant bucket of change. This is probably the scariest thing in my closet because it’s something my dad would do. I am afraid of becoming my father.
3. Clothes that don’t fit. Refer to the #5 thing in the refrigerator.
4. Stuff that needs dry cleaning. I figure if I can’t wear it, why clean it?
5. Something random. It’s the place where stuff goes when we have company, so, really, God knows.

5 Items in my car:
1. Mountain Dew bottles. It really give the car a nice urine-colored glow.
2. Golf clubs. I don’t know why I have them. It’s like hitting the ground with a snow shovel. Nothing happens when I hit the ball, but I do it anyway.
3. The radio. The only true friend I have in the world anymore. It’s pretty much where I get all of my information and about 98% of the things I blog about.
4. My DVD set of the first season of the OC. Hey, you never know when I’ll need to barter with a teenaged homosexual.
5. Kiefer Sutherland. I use him when I need to yell at people. I’m just too calm.

5 Items in my purse (yes, yes, I know, but I can come up with something):
1. First off, it’s not really a purse. It’s more of a backpack.
2. And, so what if I do carry a purse. What’s it to you?
3. You want a piece of me?
4. Why don’t we take this outside?
5. Just don’t hit me in the face. I’m too pretty.

Alright, so, I’ve read over mine and my wife’s five things, and I’ve realized how little I take seriously. On the other hand, what do I care? This is silly. I’m going to find some bad beer and watch the OC in my car.

Chris

(Note: Ha! I found a picture of a cat in a bowl. Betcha didn't think I could. Amazing what you can find on Google.)

Free At Last!

I'll keep this brief. Tonight is my first night of peace, quiet, TV, and ice cream. I will be busy. We'll be back in business tomorrow though.
Honestly, as excited as I pretend to be, I'm sure I'll be whining at 3 am when I cannot sleep because he isn't in bed next to me. Awwwwww. Love.

5 Items

Well I'm exhausted tonight, so this is as good as it gets. Hope you learn something about me!

5 Items in my fridge:
1. Cheese for the baby, we would have no peace in our house without cheese, but we also wouldn’t have little rabbit pellet poop. Hmmmm.
2. A lime. Why does this matter, you ask? It symbolizes the mojito I NEED by the end of each day but am too damn tired to make for myself never mind drink.
3. Some age old leftovers. Cleaning isn’t my strong suit. ‘nuff said.
4. Coke (as in coca cola) for my husband of course. I don’t like to listen to the whining when the coke supply runs out. I keep trying to convince him to switch to diet. Anyone have any tips?
5. Pretend food. What in the…?!?! Well, you see, my daughter is slightly OCD. And one of her favorite past times is putting her play food in our REAL refrigerator to cool it off. It is one of those behaviors that is better left unchallenged in an effort to obtain the peace discussed previously.

5 Items in my closet:
1. My husbands clothes. The number of hanging clothes he owns far outnumbers the amount of hanging clothes I own. We are seriously at like ¾ to ¼ right now. Must be time to shop.
2. A pile of ebay stuff, that one of these days I will get around to listing for the very first time. Any takers before I bother putting it on ebay?!
3. Empty photo albums and scrapbooks. Yikes I better get on that before she is married off
.4. Blankets that are just waiting for the cold days of winter to come out of hiding. Yuck.
5. Shoes. Need I say more?!

5 Items in my car:
1. Crushed gold fish/raisins/crackers
2. I could probably round up an old sippy cup or two. Gross!
3. Some stuff that is supposed to be used to clean the car, but is probably moldy by now.
4. A car seat of course. More commonly called a driving seat around here. My kid hated her car seat until we told her that all of us have a special driving seat yadda yadda. You know the drill.
5. Sometimes I wonder if there is a dirty diaper lurking in there somewhere, but alas it has not been located.

5 Items in my purse:
1. Honest truth is that I really don’t carry a purse. I carry a diaper bag, and a little wallet with my stuff in it.
2. My phone so I can call my husband and ask him where my keys are since I lose them all the time because I don’t carry a purse.
3. The almighty yet evil with a capital E credit cards.
4. Diapers/wipes/crackers/sippy cups/ emergency bribery candy
5. Sadly I can’t think of much else. Noticeably lacking from my purse are pictures of my kid ( I know, isn’t that terrible? No mean comments please!) And greenbacks.

In the Name of Science

Because I love my wife and child, I have been whoring myself (I mean donating my time) to science. Thus, I have engaged in a “sleep study.” What this basically means is that they tell me when to sleep, when to wake, and when and where to do my business.

Possibly, the most interesting part of the whole thing is that I get to wear some sort of activity monitor. I’m not quite sure what it does. I suppose it monitors my activity, since that’s what it’s called. (Duh!) But, how? The only logical answer I can come up with is that I’m bugged. Some guy in some cave somewhere is listening to everything I do.

I wonder what he’s hearing, and what he thinks. So, let’s say he hears something like, “Oh, yeah, baby, just like that!” What would most people think? Fortunately for me, what is actually happening is something like my wife scooping ice cream into a bowl while I’m watching. When, he hears me grunting and moaning, my little friend might think I’m injured, but it’s probably just me filling the porcelain receptacle with the items necessary to take it to a sewage treatment plant.

I always have to ask myself, what does this have to do with anything? My answer, as usual, is “not much.” I guess it speaks to the differences between men and women. I can’t really bemoan my lack of sleep time. It’s still more than I get when I’m working. All I usually do is make a mess anyway, which my wife just has to clean up. Moreover, I get to play video games without the requisite nagging.

Now, I think I’ve figured out a way to beat the system. I’ll just strap the watch thing to a cat and let them do the moving for me. And, don’t think this is a problem because our cats actually do more moving in this house than I do. Go figure.

Chris

In The Name Of Science

Have I mentioned how much I love my husband? Despite his faults (since he reads this, I won’t get into it) he really does take one for the team. When there is only one brownie left, he gladly volunteers to finish it off (Not the ice cream though, he knows better). He spends a lot of time with his in-laws, but the reality is they are far more normal than his family, so I think he only PRETENDS to not want to. Until recently, my hubby would get up with the baby in the morning on rare occasions or if I begged, pleaded, and oh never mind, all of you women know what it takes. However, a new day has dawned.

In the name of science (more money than science but does it really matter?) my husband HAS to go to bed at 11pm and get up between 7.5 and 8.5 hours later. This started last Wednesday, and as far as I am concerned it can continue on until further notice. You see, in an effort to counteract the teacher lack of money, I calmly suggested that he sign himself up for a sleep study I saw advertised. What I told him is “only 3 nights away from home, and a decent amount of pocket money to pay the August bills”. What I was thinking is, three nights of watching what I want on TV, not having to share my ice cream, the whole bed to myself, not really needing to cook, and one less person to clean up after. When can you take him? And you can feel free to keep him as long as you would like.

I made out in this deal, big time. During the “at home” portion of the study, which he is doing right now, he will HAVE to get up with the baby, because the timing will be impeccable. Despite what he says, it is NOT because I am a mean wife who won’t let him sleep in. It is merely because he is obligated for the sake of science which coincidentally corresponds with our daughters sleeping needs. I could not have planned a better study myself!

Thanks honey!

Janice

Question Of The Day

Did Yankee Doodle name the feather, hat, town, or his pony Macaroni?

First of all, who even wastes time thinking of such questions? I suppose that really isn't the point though.

The point is I don't know the answer. I am a very literal, science minded person. Completely the opposite of my husband. His literary interests frustrate me to no end because he claims to KNOW exactly what the author meant by whatever it is that he wrote. Explain to me how my husband, as wonderful and intelligent as he is, can KNOW exactly what Mr. Yankee Doodle was thinking when he called it macaroni? Yet, somehow, my husband does not know exactly what I mean when I ask him to put the dishes in the dishwasher or do a load of laundry. Go figure.

I'm certain he will pull some answer out of his butt that indicates he knows EXACTLY what Yankee Doodle Dandy called macaroni. But I digress. I stand by the fact that until my husband understands what I mean when I ask him to put the toys away, take out the trash, or any of 1000 other household chores, we can never know about Yankee Doodle Dandy. And more importantly, it does not matter!

Janice

Did Yankee Doodle name the feather, hat, town, his pony Macaroni?

Seeing as how I’m an English teacher (yeah, I know), I have to look at this from the perspective of a scholar of the language. Can there be anything worse than unclear pronoun references? I guess, in a perfect world, you’d go to the store, and say, “I want one of them things.” Without question, the clerk would walk away and come back with exactly what you wanted. In our world of silly language, he’d come back with a box of condoms and an RC cola. (You westerners still have those, don’t you?)

To me, pronouns are one of the major issues in relationships. There should be some sort of punishment for using them when you’re married. Like, if you call your wife “you,” you should be shot in the thigh. You can only say, “Hi, wife” or “Hi, husband.” That way, there’s no confusion. And, we can get rid of all those silly terms of endearment. Pronouns and adverbs are terrible. All you young writers out there, remember that. (How many of each did I use in just this post? Go count). And remember, don’t ever listen to my wife. She uses lots of pronouns.

Chris

The Family Outing

You ever wonder why the United Nations is largely ineffective? Take North Korea for example… The U.N. passed a “resolution” in which they told Kim Jong Il to stop testing nuclear (or is it nucelar?) weapons. And, what did that freak do? He fired a missile into the water. (I guess it’s more impressive than anything I can do.)

Doing anything with your family is much like being part of the U.N. Remember the days when it was just you and your wife/husband? Weren’t those great? You stayed up all night talking. You had sex in the middle of the day. You went out for ice cream when you felt like it and drove an extra ten miles just so you could “be together.” Now, you’re in bed with the sun. The middle of the day is reserved for Dora the Explorer. And, ice cream trips, while frequent, involve a quorum vote and a banging gavel.

Here’s how it works…

1. Someone suggests ice cream. It’s usually my wife because she’s addicted. It’s a New England thing. The baby is getting off to a young start. So, I never win this one.

2. I’ve usually got a big game going. Probably, I’m Michigan and on the verge of upsetting Penn State. But, like a good small nation, I’ll stop what I’m doing and do what France wants. (Maybe I need a nuclear weapon. Then, she’ll listen.)

3. We’ll drive to a place that is far away; not to spend more time together, but just to annoy me.

4. We’ll engage in said activity—the eating of the cream that is iced. I’ll have something small. Although, when it comes to ice cream, there’s no such thing as small north of New York.

4a. In the mean time, the baby manages to get ice cream all over everything including me, and, because of her addiction, my wife licks up every drop. Yeah, it grosses me out, too. The baby actually ends up eating very little, and due to the size of the ice cream, I’m out like ten bucks, so she can have about four adult-sized bites.

5. We drive home. I’m covered with ice cream, and on the verge of vomiting. My wife is complaining about having to clean the baby’s clothes (Then, why did you get her chocolate ice cream? Answer that question for me!)

In the end, nothing has changed. Tomorrow will be a repeat performance. What is truly amazing about the whole experience is that I can complain about it all the time, and it’s like I’m not even here.

So, I’ll leave it for you to decide. Am I the U.N. and my wife and child North Korea and Iran? Or, am I some poor little nobody country like Canada with nothing but Celine Dion to export?

I’m done. Once my wife reads this, I will be severely beaten. Good luck in your future ice cream trips. Remember me.

Chris

Ice Cream

I had my greatest (and only) epiphany of the day today while doing my business. It’s hot as, well, I don’t even know HOW hot it is outside. The three of us are sick (thanks to the mother in law who visited last week) and damn it my throat hurts. That could only mean one thing. ICE CREAM.

If you are from New England, particularly Massachusetts, you can appreciate how ice cream is the #1 food group. Since my husband has only laid down his roots here over the past 10 years, he isn’t quite there yet. (He also marvels at how quickly me and my parents and sibling can devour an ice cream in seconds) I knew I would have to devise a plan to get him to agree to this, as he would much rather stay in where it is cool. But, this is ICE CREAM people, ICE.CREAM. So I didn’t exactly lie, but came up with a reason he could not deny. The baby.

Ok, my girl, while she does not look one lick like me, clearly has some of my genes. The kid loves ice cream as much as I do, if not more at the ripe old age of 2.5. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and I wanted to get something in her. So, I used the ice cream excuse. It worked. It sooo worked and before I knew it, we were off to get ice cream. Go me.

Here is the downside, since my kid had nothing else substantial in her stomach today, I’m certain I’ll be changing damn dirty diapers all day tomorrow, if not sooner. Yipeeee. If I play my cards right, I can coerce the hubby into getting up with her in the morning, and bearing the brunt of the poopy stew. Am I really that lucky?

Stay Cool!
Janice

Practice Makes Perfect

My wife is an odd one to be sure. On the other hand, I’m so normal, people think I’m crazy. My favorite place in our entire house is the bathroom. I walk out of the bathroom and say stuff like, “Wow! That was a good one!” or “That was like chocolate milk.”

We started thinking about the bathroom and what we thought about in the bathroom. To be honest, I don’t think about much other than actually using the bathroom. My wife says, she thinks about all kinds of stuff, but I don’t remember because I wasn’t really paying attention. When I was a kid, I used to call it “Concentrating.” That description still applies today. On the pooper, I’m a focus kind of guy.

My hour or so in the bathroom every night gives me ample time to think about how things are going. Usually, I take a break about half-way through. Maybe have some Gatorade or B-12 shot. I’ll do game film for a while on Sunday afternoons. After a statistical breakdown of my performance, it’s back to the practice porcelain for another round.

What does this have to do with anything? Not much, really. My goal is to show my wife, and any other woman who will listen (which rules out my wife and all the rest of you) that we men are just plain simple. Have you ever wondered what a guy’s thinking? Well stop wondering. I’m going to tell my wife and all the other ladies out there. Are you married? Got a boyfriend? Are the female half of a lesbian relationship? Ignore my wife like I do and listen to what I have to say.

Chris

(The photo comes courtesy of our friends at Jokaroo. It's a good one.)