On Vacation

The Wife, Stinky, The Bean, and I will be on vacation (as most of my readers know, since you're the ones we're coming to see) for the next week or so. Which means I won't have anything new during that time.

I may get a chance to post about The Bean's questionable taste in music tomorrow before we leave, if she naps long enough.

And in the meantime, I posted the second chapter of my novel-in-progress, Swim, over on my other blog (http://neverfinish2.blogspot.com). I warn you now - it's rated R, but it's not dirty or anything like that. Check it out if you're so inclined.

"See" you all in a week.

Top Five #4 - Family Dinner

I apologize for the sporadic nature of the posts. But that's the price you pay when you're working on a novel (Chapter One up at neverfinish2.blogspot.com - Chapter Two coming soon!), a bunch of other projects, and you're Daddy Day Care and Errand Boy all rolled into one. Maybe I can even write about that, or the two moments that recently convinced me The Bean and I have settled into redneck / white trash-dom. But for now, on with the show...

Moment number four on the list of stupidest things I've done since meeting The Wife that she hasn't left me for isn't actually something stupid I did. Unless you count introducing her to my family as stupid. Which, if you know my family, you might (just kidding, Mom!). Seriously though, is there anyone among us who hasn't hung their head in shame and humiliation upon introducing someone you think might be THE ONE to your family?

Anyone?

Anyone?

I thought not.

Let's face it. If there's any one thing family is truly good for, it's embarrassing you in front of the one person you try to seem coolest to. You know how it goes. You spend those first few weeks trying not to do any of the multitude of gross, annoying, or repulsive things you do either by yourself or around people who actually... well... know you. You eat neatly. Never pick your teeth. Burping is right out of the question. Farting or other bodily noises? Heavens no. You don't dare even use the bathroom in your future spouse's apartment for fear of the potential shame. You bathe regularly, dress nice, comb your hair.

You know. All the things you don't do when you're single. Or married.

So, you spend all that time trying to appear to be something your not (cool. suave. clean.) And then comes the moment of truth. You introduce her to the family.

And all that hard work and weeks of not farting goes right out the window.

And, in my case, it wasn't just the obligatory stories about when I was young and stupid (or old and stupid, either). Or the pictures of me as a naked child. Or even the discussions of former girlfriends (the only time I was grateful for my fallow dating history.) No, in my case, my family had a secret weapon.

Grandma.

A little history about Grandma. When she first met my mother, the first words out of her mouth? "So what do your people do?" Blunt isn't the right word for my grandmother. And it isn't that she's rude. She just says whatever comes into her brain. (Not unlike a certain grandson). I warned The Wife of this before dinner.

"Grandma might say something..."

"Stupid?" offered the always helpful Wife.

"No," I said. "Something..."

"Rude? Offensive? Impolite?"

I nodded. "Yeah," I said. "One of those. All of those. But she won't mean anything by it, so don't take it personally."

The Wife nodded and seemed unconcerned. I, however, knew better.

In the early part of our relationship, The Wife's grandfather had grown ill with heart trouble. He was in the hospital for a while, but came through everything fine. The Wife, being exceptionally close to her grandfather, took the entire thing very hard. It was quite an emotional subject. One I suggested to the family we not bring up during dinner.

First words out of Grandma's mouth: "So, Lesley, what does your father do besides having heart attacks?"

Tacky. Borderline rude. Not even correct (it was her grandfather).

Totally Grandma.

She would follow that up with commentary on The Wife's hometown: Utica, NY

"Utica? Isn't that run by the mob?" After being told that, no, Utica isn't run by the mob, that's just an old rumor - "Oh. The mob wouldn't want it anyway. I heard it's all slums."

visualize me, banging my head on the table and you get the idea of how the night went.

Somehow, we survived. The Wife found grandma endlessly amusing and fun. Grandma loved The Wife. Probably more than she loved me (as is the case w / the rest of my family as well). And we would go on to have many more family dinners and many more chances for my family to embarrass me.

Which they have. And do.

Maybe I should let them write the blog.

Oh, the stories they could tell....

I'm An Idiot

     I’m an idiot.  

     To anyone who knows me, this is not news.

     And I’m not just the standard idiot.  The “man” idiot.  You know the one.  The idiot who has an exchange like this with The Wife:

     TW (in bed, one morning, moments after awakening me by punching me hard in the arm):  Bastard.

     ME (rubbing said arm):  What did I do?

     TW (clearly distraught):  You cheated on me.  In my dream.  I came home and caught you in bed with some other girl and then you told me about all the other times you did it.  You were so mean.

     ME (knowing full well I didn’t really cheat on her.  And also fully aware that that fact so doesn’t matter):  Oh.  (pausing to carefully consider my next words)... (still pausing)… Was she hot?

     TW:  Who?

     ME:  The girl I cheated on you with.  Was she hot?

     I rest my idiot case.

     But you see, were that where my idiocy stopped, I would be fine.  If my idiocy ended with my simple inability to think before I speak or to speak without having to talk around the feet in my mouth, I wouldn’t be writing this.  No, I’d be sitting here, taking care of The Bean and Stinky and watching old ER reruns on TNT.  But, you see, my idiocy – to paraphrase Val Kilmer in Tombstone – apparently knows no bounds.

     Yesterday was the 2nd anniversary of the day Lesley became The Wife.

     You can probably already see where I’m going with this.

     I didn’t do the standard man-idiot thing.  I didn’t forget.  I got a card.  Hell, I got two (one sweet, one funny, as is our tradition).  I even sort of got a present.  I remembered her wanting us to take dancing lessons.  So I was looking into signing us up for some.  

     Of course, it turned out that, as is her way, The Wife couldn’t wait for her present and dragged it out of me.  And of course, as is the way, it turned out she only wanted the lessons before we got married so I would know how to dance at the reception.  Now?  Not so big on the dancing.  But she was duly appreciative of the thought and gave me no grief over then not actually having a gift.

     Me?  I was annoyed that my “thoughtful” present wasn’t as “thoughtful” as I thought.  Or as appreciated as I thought it would be.

     Idiot Move #1.

     So we decided to go out to dinner.  And that meant The Wife hunting for clothes to wear.  And finding little that fit or hadn’t been soiled by The Bean’s efforts to give her formula back to us after she’d already drank it.  Which led to a good half hour of The Wife cursing the clothes and her self for not being in shape and not having done enough laundry.

     And a half hour of me growing more and more frustrated with her six changes of outfit, constant barrage of “does this look good?”, and griping about things she can’t change now and hasn’t done much to change in the past.  Leading me to get testy and short and, basically, act like a man.

     “Do you want to just do take out?”

     Idiot Move #2.

     And, finally, on the way to the restaurant,  we discover that the lot is full – other than being valet parked, which is not possible because the car is a mess and we have standards we cannot let the teenage valet goobers see below – but The Wife knows of another lot.  And so we drive on, in search of it and The Wife, as is her custom, fails to mention I need to take a left until after we’ve already pulled into the right only lane.  Which, of course, prompts a few testy words from me.

     Not Idiot move #3.  Though, understandably, you might think so.

     No, you see Idiot Move #3 came during the car ride to pick up The Bean at the babysitter.  And on the ride home after that.  And while The Wife took The Bean upstairs for book and bed and I stayed downstairs because I thought (another mistake, right there) we both needed time to cool down.  And then again this morning, and even now, as I write this.

     See, Idiot Move #3 wasn’t anything I did.  It was what I forgot.  

     I’ve been putting together a Top Five list of the dumbest things I’ve done that The Wife hasn’t left me for.  Could there be a Top Five list for her as well?  Of course.  But that, to repeat myself, is so not the point.  The point is, I’ve done some unbelievably dumb things in my time.  Some unbelievably dumb.

     The dumbest is forgetting that she stays with me.  She puts up with me and my idiocy.  She puts up with me telling her that the drinks were free.  She puts up with me running from our apartment because of a bird.  She forgives me when I leave a frantic message on her voice mail that makes her think I’ve killed The Bean, even though I’m just dealing with a messy poop.  She forgives me when I make her forty-five minutes late to our wedding rehearsal.  She put up with the engagement trip from hell, the worst pick-up line ever, and even me losing my underwear in Wal-Greens. And, on a daily basis, she puts up with my moods and stresses and complaints (not always well, but she does put up with them).

     Would another woman have left me for those things (or the others I can’t write about)?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Would another woman be able to laugh about them, tease me about them, let me write about them on the internet and have no shame that she’s married to an idiot?  Would another woman understand my fear of The Bean’s standing poop or my constant paranoia about every bump she takes.  Would another woman not write me off I find a red hair in my goatee and wonder (out loud) if I’m bleeding under the skin?

     The answer isn’t the point.  The point is, I don’t have to ask.

     Two years ago yesterday, I told The Wife that I couldn’t promise her that I wouldn’t annoy her.  That I wouldn’t bother her, irritate her, or make her want to throw a shoe at my head.  I couldn’t even promise her I wouldn’t do any of it that day.  And I still can’t promise any of that (as everything I’ve written here proves).  But I can promise her I’ll do my best not to forget anymore and to try and remember that one of the parts of loving someone – maybe the biggest – is forgetting the bad and remembering the good.

     The thing she does so very well every time I open my mouth.

     And, to paraphrase me, Honey, I know it’s not free drinks, but I hope that’ll do.

Top Five #5 - The Drinks

     At the end of this month, The Wife and I will celebrate two blissful years of marriage.  

     OK, maybe blissful is too strong.  But hey, she hasn’t left me yet, so I’m sticking with blissful.

     In honor of that blessed occasion (and since it was such a hit on my other blog), I’m now going to present a Top Five list.  On the other blog, it was the Top Five Stupidest Things Students Have Ever Done.  We’ll be exploring a similar theme here.

     The Top Five Dumbest Things I’ve Ever Done Since Meeting The Wife.

     And I know what you’re thinking.  Why would he write about such things?  Why would he tell the whole world (or at least the five or so people who read this) about how stupid he’s occasionally (or more than occasionally) been?  Why would I do that?  Three reasons:

1. It’s Funny (even I can admit that)


2. So everyone will know what a saint The Wife is (because she’s still with me, even after bearing first person witness to my idiocy)


3. Now, when I write about something dumb she does, she’ll have no room to complain (and believe me, she could fill out a Top Five all on her own).

And with that being said… I present to you Top Five #5:  The Drinks

     The Wife and I met at a mall.  We both worked there – she managing her cozy little watch kiosk, me assistant managing the toy store.  We got together because one of her employees and one of mine decided to fix us up (which is a story in and of itself and will be presented later in the Top Five).  Our first date was a trip to the TGIFriday’s in the mall for a drink.

     We – and by ‘we’ I mean me and the other toy store employees – were well known at Friday’s.  We spent far too much of our time and far, far too much of our paychecks there.  And so, we had gotten quite friendly with the bartenders, including Amy, the young lass working that night.  This friendliness resulted in free non-alcoholic beverages whenever we came in.  And since The Wife and I both had to drive, we ordered a few rounds of soda (or pop as its called here in the Midwest).  Coke for me, Diet for her.

     We sat at that bar and talked and talked and talked.  We were both amazingly comfortable with each other.  So comfortable, in fact, that we closed the place.  Just before it was time to go, The Wife went to the restroom.  Amy came by to collect our glasses.  She shook her head when I asked how much.

     “Don’t worry about it,” she said.  

     Still, I dropped a ten spot on the bar as a tip (see how generous I am?).  As I pushed in my stool, The Wife returned from the bathroom.  She reached for her purse to pay for her share of the libations.

     “Don’t worry about it,” I said.  

     The Wife smiled at me, clearly impressed that I was gentlemanly enough to pay her tab (especially since she’d downed four Diets to my one Coke).  

     A lesser (or brighter) man, might have let it go.  A lesser (or smarter) man might have seized that as the opportunity to ask The Wife for her number or perhaps for another date – get her while she was impressed.  A lesser (or less idiotic) man might have let the little white lie (a lie of omission, really) go unchecked.

     Me?  I am not a lesser (or brighter, smarter, or less idiotic) man.  

     “It was nothing,” I said.  “Really.  The drinks were free.”

     I could tell you that I told her that only so she wouldn’t find out the truth later and think I was a liar.  I could tell you that I told her that because my parents raised me to believe honesty is the best policy.  Or I could tell you that I told her that because that is how a true gentleman behaves.

     But let’s face it.  If any of those were true?  

     I wouldn’t be writing this list, now would I?

     Somehow, The Wife got past that little social blunder (and the fact that I never did ask for her number or a second date).  And somehow, she saw through the other four mental miscues on this list and saw the wonderfulness that is me.  However that happened, this incident give me one thing…

     Whenever she tries to tell me she didn’t realize what a babbling baboon of  a boob I am until it was too late, I can always remind her…

     Honey… the drinks were free.

It's All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

     In honor (belated) of Father’s Day, I was going to write something about the true joys of fatherhood.  I was going to recount the day The Wife and I discovered The Bean was coming.  I was going to relate the tale of our trip to the Psychic Fair the day before and how, after being told it would be at least another year before a baby joined our family, we both agreed that was probably for the best.  

     We’re just learning to be responsible, we said.  We’re managing our money better, we have a house, we’re starting to take care of simple things like laundry and dishes before they get to be big, smelly messes.  We’ve only been married a year.  Let’s have some more time for ourselves.  

     The next day, one little word on a pee covered EPT stick changed everything.

     Just about 14 months later, we’re both overjoyed that it did.

     And that was what I was going to write about.  All the little things The Bean does to make it all worthwhile.  

     Instead, let me tell you how I almost blinded my daughter.

     Today is day one of week three of Daddy Day Care.  And, in an effort to get The Wife to work in a more timely manner, I was feeding The Bean her rice cereal.  And we were having a grand time.  She loves reaching for the spoon and pulling it to her mouth.  We love to watch her smile up at us with cereal smushed all around her mouth, dripping down on to her bib or her high-chair tray (which she then proceeds to try and lick clean).  And so Daddy was doing the old classic – Airplane Coming in for a Landing!.  And as the plane swooped down out of the sky, on a direct course for Landing Strip Tongue One, the landing strip suddenly moved.  It lurched forward (in pursuit of some of that yummy cereal on the tray).  The pilot didn’t have time to change course and so Flight Cereal 101 crashed down.

     Right into The Bean’s left eye.

     To her credit, The Bean didn’t cry.  She just looked up at me, with rice cereal dripping off her eyelashes.   She didn’t start to cry until Daddy tried to clean her up with her bib, spreading more rice cereal goop all over cheeks.  Finally, The Wife (aka Mommy) stepped in and saved the day.  Three minutes of Mommy magic later, The Bean was clean, eager to guzzle down her bottle, and read to burp up half of said bottle all over Daddy’s shorts.  All was right with the world again.

     So the next time Father’s Day rolls around, I won’t remember that last year I didn’t think I was ready for the responsibility of a child.  I won’t remember that I thought of myself as an overgrown child who couldn’t possibly raise another human being without doing severe damage.

     I’ll remember how lucky I am to have The Wife.  

     So at least there’s someone around to fix it when I screw up.

     Maybe we should just have two Mother’s Days.

Things I Learned Today

     I have a friend named Pete.  We were buddies in high school and eventually shared an apartment while he was in Grad School and I was finishing my BA.  While we lived together, he had a serious girlfriend who became a fiancée, which gave me a ringside seat to their relationship and the planning of their wedding.

     At that time I was an independent man (read: single, desperate, and unable to get a date with anyone who wasn’t underage or clinically insane).  As I watched Pete’s relationship move along, I found myself spending most of my time mocking the hell out of him.  Every time Pete made a concession about the wedding, I made the sound of a whip cracking.  Every time he went home to spend the weekend with her instead of “bach-ing” it up with me, I teased him mercilessly.  

     “Yes, dear,”  I would cry in my most sing-songy, girly voice.  “Right away, dear.  Anything you want, dear.”

     Pete took it all in stride.  He just grinned at me.

     Whenever we would get the chance to “bach-it-up”, which for us meant cheap beer and three or four games at the local bowling alley, I always asked him if he’d gotten permission to go out.  “Wouldn’t want the Missus getting upset,” I’d say.  And he would just grin and shake his head.  And, as invariably happened when I was exposed to cheap beer, bowling balls, and sweaty shoes, I declared that things would be different once I got a girl, he would just look at me.

     “Really?” he would ask.  “How?”

     “Well,” I would respond (usually as I was throwing a near-gutter ball that took out one pin, two if I was lucky), “for one thing, my woman will know who’s in charge.”

     “You?”  Pete asked.
     
     “You got it,” I would say (usually as I missed the last remaining eight pins).  “And she will know that I am MAN,” (said with an appropriate flexing of my ‘guns’), “and that my word is gospel.  I will rule my house with an iron fist!”

     Pete would chuckle at that.  The chuckle of a man who knew – it would never be my house.

     “And,” I would finish, usually as I settled into my chair after failing to break 60 for the third straight game, “there will be no ‘yes, Dear’ in my house unless it comes from her mouth.”

     “Whatever you say, Chief,”  Pete would laugh.  “Whatever you say.”

     He doubted me.  He doubted that I could follow through on my plans.  He doubted that, in the face of finally finding a woman crazy enough to put up with me, who could also understand what I was saying around the foot I so frequently stuck in my mouth, I would be able to hold to my convictions.

     Today, as I wrap up my first week of being Daddy-Day-Care for The Bean (so named because she resembled a lima bean in her sonogram photos), I found myself in an unusual situation.  I was filling my dishwasher with baby bottles.  And calling The Wife for instructions on which medicines to give when, which of the baby clothes needed to be washed, and how long to let The Bean nap for.  And in between phone conversations, I was dancing around my kitchen, using a spatula as a microphone, and singing chorus after chorus of Captain Feathersword, Ahoy (from The Wiggles) to a giggling Bean.  

     And I realized some things:

• The Wife does know who’s in charge – the crying, burping, pooping, never sleeping drool machine and the four legged, barking, socks and underwear eating shedding machine.

• The Wife does know I am MAN.  As evidenced by this exchange (repeated a dozen times over during the course of any given week over a dozen different things):

“Honey, can you take out the trash?” (which she is, of course, standing next to)
“You’re closer.  Why don’t you do it?” (man logic)
“Because you’re the boy.”  (female logic – winning logic)

• And there is no ‘yes, dear’ in my house.  Partly because, as Pete predicted – it’s not my house.  Oh sure, my name may be on the mortgage and the checks that pay the bills.  But one look around – at the piles of baby clothes, toys, and five different colors of Binkies, at the chewed up socks and stuffed bunnies, and the various bags of make up and forty some odd pairs of shoes – makes it crystal clear whose house this really is.  And besides… it’s ‘yes, honey’ around here.

     And you know what?  

     I blame Pete.  

     He could’ve warned me.

Welcome!

     It was a dark and stormy night.  Stinky and The Bean huddled together under the covers of mommy and daddy’s bed, waiting for the thunder to pass.

     Unfortunately, daddy had eaten burritos for dinner.  Which meant the “thunder” wasn’t passing anytime soon.

     OK, so the dog and the kid really don’t hide under my blankets (the kid being almost six months old doesn’t hide anywhere, though the dog does pretty much live in our bed).   But that’s hardly the point, right?  Why waste a perfectly good opening line, a veritable classic like “dark and stormy night”?  And if you can mix in a little fart humor, well that’s just about my idea of heaven..

     Right behind watching The Bean (my daughter) figure out how to pet Stinky (my other daughter, the furry one) for the first time.

     Insert readers’ simultaneous “awwww” here

     If you had told me a year ago, smack in the middle of The Wife’s pregnancy, that I’d be sitting here typing in gooey, sappy, daddy-ese about my two kids, I’d have told you that you were nuts.  Insane.  That’s just not what I do.  I don’t write sappy.  I don’t write goopy.  I write angst and (melo)drama.  I write about screwed up people with screwed up lives and screwed up relationships.  

     Not the way The Bean’s giggling while she’s covered in poop and pee can turn even her frazzled, frustrated, and notoriously cranky and cynical daddy into a giggling, goofy, dad.

     But now, here I am, writing about that exact thing.  And all the other things that pop into my head now that I’m a daddy and a husband (and a teacher, writer, and – even at my age – son).  They’re not always pretty (see: “covered in poop”).  And they may not always make me look good (after all, I’m still me, which means a better than average chance I’ll come off like an idiot – dead meat from the neck up as my father says – more often than not).

     But hey, I wouldn’t waste that good opening.  Why waste good material?

     And so, on we go.

     ME