I came home yesterday to all hell breaking loose at the house.

Son: “But mommy I really really want one!”

Wife: “I know you do Grayson. We will probably get you one, so relax.”

Daughter: “Well if Grayson gets an animal I want a cat and I’ll keep it in my room and it’ll be all mine.”

Wife: “You can’t keep a cat in your little room all the time Macy.”

Daughter: “But MOOOMMMYYYY, Grayson gets to keep a hamster in his room, why can’t I keep a cat in mine?”

That’s when it all clicked in my head what was happening.

Me: “Whoa whoa whoa!! No one’s getting any animals. We have a cat and that’s plenty!!”

And then the water works started, followed by high pitched whining flavored with hardcore disappointment.

My son’s best buddy at school has a hamster. So naturally my son HAS to have one. And somehow, when I was away from the house for more than five minutes yesterday, my wife’s ability to slam any thoughts that another furry beast might enter this home permanently became weak. Our kids were breaking her quickly.

Me: “Grayson, what is it you want to get?”

Son: “Oh…daddy, it’s a teddy bear hamster. It’s really furry and really cute and it has long fuzzy hair all over it and I want it so badly daddy. I will take such good care of it and will name it Ted.”

Daughter: “And if Grayson gets a hamster mommy said I could buy two new Zhu Zhu pets!”

This is the point where I look at the wife with a “what in the holy hell are you thinking woman” look on my face.

Wife: “Don’t look at me like that. I pretty much promised Grayson he could have one.”

Me: “But we already have cat shit to clean up. We have a fish in the boy’s room that refuses to die. And now we’re gonna have a small animal that needs it’s wood shred thingies changed, food, water and the boy’s gonna let it get lose at least once and the cat will try to eat it and I’m already freakin’ exhausted….”

Wife: “Pipe-down childhood ruiner and quit over exaggerating. I had two as a kid and loved it. Let the boy have this.”

Me: “Whatever… I’m gonna need you to sign this document nullifying any and all involvement I might have in handling, touching, cleaning, observing, chasing, smelling, acknowledging, petting, and  any other word ending in “ing” that might involve Bob crossing paths with my daily life.”

Wife: “His name’s Ted idiot-boy. Get it right.”



I’ve been waiting for Curling to come on TV so I could let the kids see this glorified old-folks game of shuffleboard on ice. Secretly I also want to see the women wearing short skirts, squatting, and yelling passionately at each other…oh shit, did I say that out loud?

Anyway, so it comes on and I’m all, “sweet…kids come check this out.” The family gathers and we settle in to watch some Olympic goodness when all hell breaks loose:

Wifey: “Why are they brushing in front of that stone thingy?”

Me: “You know you’re the reason our daughter talks like Sarah Palin and ends all her words with “y.”

Wifey: “Is it some kind of static electricity thing that helps the stone?”

Me: “Who, Sarah Palin?”

Wifey: “Yes, moron…I’m asking you if Sarah Palin uses static electricity to move the stone thingy along the ice.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but how do you get static electricity on ice? And how would that help the stone move on ice? You think this is the Olympic version of the Hairy Gary game?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I was just asking.”

Me: “It’s a brush that smoothes the ice out so the stone thingy goes further…SEE!!! Now you’ve got me talking like thaty withy the “y”eee.

Wifey: “And why are they yelling at each other?”

Me: “The Denmark women-folk are telling the American women-folk their douchebags, suck at this sport, and are going to dry hump their brothers. Curling is a big shit-talkers’ sport.” (the kids had left the room by this point out of sheer boredom.)

Wifey: “You seriously have so many issues it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we talk like a normal couple?”

Me: “Oh…I have issues. You’re the one that thinks those magical brooms they’re holding weld super static electric powers that allow the stone thingy to go where they want.”

Wifey: “You said “thingy” again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Wifey: “I could totally do this sport.”

Me: “Oh, I have no doubt. Hell, just last night you were crouched down in the kitchen while holding a broom, pointing and screaming, ‘really!!! I JUST swept and already there’s pieces of crackers, cat hair, and a grape on the floor!’”

Wifey: “I’ve got good aim, and it would be one hell of a leg workout.”

Me: “You know what else would be one hell of a leg workout?”

Wifey: “You walking up the stairs backwards so I can watch TV in peace?”

Me: “You wanna have sex don’t you?”

Wifey: “No…and will you promise me something? Promise me you didn’t get that breath from eating out of the cat box?”

Me: “Rawr…feeling feisty aren’t you? I’m gonna go brush my teeth, slip out of something comfortable and get ready for your sexiness to join me.”

Wifey: “You do that slugger. I’ll be right there…”

Me: “Don’t forget to put on that sexy thingy I like.”

Wifey: “You said ‘thingy’ again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Thanks to everyone who read my ramblings since I started this madness in August. Thanks to everyone who took time to knock out a comment. And…well, just thanks!

My New Year’s Resolutions

1) Get a job.

2) Stop calling the cat “jagoff,” “furry turd monster,” “sack-o-shit,” and “piece of shit” because it’s just got to be hurting his self-esteem.

3) Run a total of 1,000 miles by the end of the year.

4) Promote Pants Optional Friday until it becomes a global phenomenon or until the wifey starts participating—whichever comes first.

5) Find whatever the hell’s living in my garage and murder it.

6) Write the first three chapters of my book and start pounding down publishers’ doors.

7) Perfect my Moon Walk and be the first person to ever Moon Walk every sidewalk in the Village I live in.

8) Video myself burning the wifey’s Snuggie and YouTube the shit outta that thing.

9) Love the wifey and kids twice as hard as I loved them in 2009.

10) Continue our 7-year streak of not getting caught having sex by the kids.

11) Start a support group for people traumatized by being caught masturbating by their mother when they were a teenager.

12) Teach the boy that when he flicks a bugger they don’t just vanish in thin air—they land and turn into little hard, sharp landmines that eventually cut daddy’s foot open days later.

13) Continue to be honest, open, and consistent on whatever this blog thingy is that I’m doing here—cause in some screwed-up way it’s awfully damn therapeutic.

14) Finally take the picture of Robert Degen down from the wall in the living room and acknowledge that my idol really has passed on.

15) Invest myself more in my life than I ever have and stop acting like I’m waiting for something.

Everything is a freakin’ competition with the boy these days. EVERYTHING!!

Going to the car. Daughter gets elbowed from behind and face-plants as the boy flies by to be the first to a door that is still locked and holds not a single trophy for him on the other side.

Walking down stairs….it’s like watching a murder scene in slow motion as he plows by me, throws his sister against the banister and jumps the last five steps so he can crash himself to the floor and claim victory as carnage and blood drip down the stairs in his wake.

Taking a shower. Within two minutes of walking out of the bathroom, I’ll hear the water cut-off and “daddy I’m finished!!!” echoes through the house till it finds my vulnerable eardrums a mere three seconds before ultimate relaxation comes over me. I vow to tape record this so when he’s a teenager and spends a half hour masturbating washing in the shower, I can prove that he has the ability to take one quickly.

Drinking his milk. The daughter doesn’t even like milk…so who the fuck is he racing? He’ll choke it down…white shit spewing from his nose, eyes watering like hell, slam the cup on the table and announce, “finished!!” while still breathing hard and sporting one kick-ass milk mustache. And for what?!

Playing Wii. I’m gonna just throw the damn thing away. I’m determined not to let him win all the time so that he learns to be a respectful loser, but damn….it’s like getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. It’s painful and makes me cry, fall to my knees and want my mommy to hold me.

I’m competitive, but nothing like this. Is it the red hair? Is it his balls? That’s what it’s gotta be…those tiny little marbles of his are probably working overtime growing, expanding…. It’s like Donald Trump moved into my kids sac, started building skyscrapers everywhere, and decided to run for mayor, start his own TV show, take over the circulatory system, and overthrow his brain chemistry all in one foul swoop.

And the daughter totally provokes it. We’ll be on our way out the door to go somewhere and the boy will be off chasing something shiny in a corner. Then the daughter gets that evil grin and says, “Grrraaaayyyssooonnn….. I’m gonna be first to the caaaaarrrrr.”

And his head will poke up from behind the couch, and immediately he springs to his feet, vaults the ottoman, ducks and slides under my waiting arm to stop him, slams his sister against the front step railing, falls on concrete but turns it into a tumble, and slams into the car door, flipping around claiming victory! And behind him is a pissed dad, a mother picking up a bleeding, crying daughter, and a cat slowly slipping out of the house through the wide-open door while everyone’s distracted.

I just hope someday his competitiveness can be brought under control, harnessed, and used to make mommy and daddy rich beyond their wildest dreams. Until then…..I’ll I guess I’ll just write about it.

Two days have gone by…and we’re already at the “oooh…and one more thing!” phase as the wifey walks out the front door to her jobby job. Oh how evil the flip-side of the coin is. There’s a part of me that thinks that after dropping an “oooh…and one more thing!” list on me, the wifey jumps in the car, cranks the radio, and bee bops her fine ass to work knowing I’m at home throwing stuff animals at my son’s imaginary friends, punching pillows, kicking cushions, and wasting valuable time that could be spent taking care of the “simple activities we’d talked about this morning.”

Wifey: “Hey, so are you picking up the kids today from school?”

Me: “Uh..yeah, I can…but I’m supposed to be making calls, and working on getting a job right?”

Wifey: “Yes dear, but I just thought you….oh, just forget it, I’ll do it.”

Me: “No…I want to do it, I just don’t want it to become this….”

Wifey: “Oooh …and one more thing, could you clean the cat litter box? I just walked down in the basement and it smells like your dirty underwear down there.”

Me: “My dirty underwear is down there…”

Wifey: “Oooh….and one more thing, please don’t spend any money, we really need to be careful.”

Me: “We needed milk…and you said, ‘oooh…and one more thing, could you get some hummus’ remember….!’”

Wifey: “Yeah… I remember, but do you really need all that beer!?”

Me: “Yes!!! Yes I do!!! Do you really need all that..”

Wifey: “Oooh…..and one more thing …can you please just wash one load of laundry…?”

She was a stay-at-home-mom for almost a year. I feel like such an ass cause I can count on my hands, and five of my friends’ hands, how many times I dropped the “oohhh” bomb on her before bolting out the door with the confident feeling that when I got home, the children would be dressed in their dinner clothes, smiling, pulling chairs out for me, asking me how my day was while dinner was wafting through the air, and birds were grasping my top coat and hat to be put away.

And now the shoe is on….yes…the wifey’s foot. And, she doesn’t mean it maliciously. At least I don’t think. I like to think she has no clue that she’s pulling the payback page right out of the book and shoving it up my ass. I like to think she’s giving me payback, without even knowing it! But, that would just be my ignorance showing again.