Apocalyptic Dreams

Ever since I can remember, I've dreamed of of wandering off into the woods with only a knife and my wits and figuring out if I can survive.  Kind of like Robinson Crusoe, but on purpose.  And without an anthropomorphic volleyball.

But now that I've got a wife and kids, that dream of awesomeness has been kind of hampered by this whole...silly having a family thing.

But it does bring to life another aspect of that same Neanderthal-ian gene.  Take, for example, this report I recently read that the IEA put out which says that the world will end in a fiery blaze of hell, complete with skyscraper tsunamis, devastating hurricanes, paralyzing droughts and flash floods that mysteriously appear without any rain at all. 

Because of this report, I've been having nightmares about these sorts of things.  Terrible apocalyptic situations where neighbors turn against each other a la Busta Rhymes' Extinction Level Event Intro.  Just last night I had one about a horrible hurricane that leveled all of Philadelphia, leaving everyone in its wake dead, and those who were trying to get out on the terribly constructed roads got stuck and ended up killing each other for supplies.  Might make the mayor think about investing in some infrastructure, yeah?

So, with that, I've decided on a plan.  Well, it's not really a plan yet, but it's a plan to MAKE a plan.  I'm researching and making a list of proper things to fit in a bug out bag.  Item I'm most excited about getting in the mail?  The KA-BAR.  Item I'm least excited about?  The field medical stapler.

But I think there's a little bit of a difference in that purposeful jaunt into the woods to prove my own manhood to myself and these apocalyptic visions I've been having.  Obviously, there's the whole...everyone's dead sort of thing.  But there's also the possibility that in a real disaster event when people revert to animal-form and start hoarding resources and raiding each other for water, you're going to be forced to defend yourself and your family.

Now, I've never been in a fight.  Not a real one, I mean.  Of course, I've wrestled around with my buddies and my brother, but I've never been in a fight born out of anger and desperation.  And while I'm super excited about wielding a giant knife like Steven Seagal, I'm worried that I wouldn't be able to "take the necessary steps to protect my family".  I put that in quotes because I didn't want to say "kill someone".  I think I'm just excited about wielding a giant knife because I grew up on Steven Seagal, Arnold, and Jackie Chan.  But if the chips were down, I don't know that I could shoot someone in the face.

I asked my wife last night if she thought she could, thinking that coming from a different culture and being female might make a difference.  She told me that if she were faced with an intruder who was going to hurt her or Sammy, she'd shoot, no problem.

But then she said, "I wouldn't want to hit him in the face though, because that'd be a mess I wouldn't want to clean up.  I'd just fire wildly around him."

I imagine I'd be able to shoot someone in the leg or arm or something, but that's not a guarantee that you're going to stop someone who wants your last scraps of food from taking them.  While I'm writing this, I'm going back to that scene from American History X where Edward Norton curb-stomps that guy for breaking into his house.

Talk about anger and desperation

Walking off into the woods for a month with just a knife, I'd probably be able to survive off berries and the occasional squirrel (though I would HATE to clean and gut an animal).  But given an apocalyptic situation?  I guess I've gotta get used to the idea that I'm gonna have to cut a bitch.  But then there's the fear that what if I'm OK with it?  What if I blow off some guy's jaw and take his food, and then I'm just like, "sweet, who's next?"  And then I start this massive warlord scheme where I'm like Tony Montana or Eko from Lost killing people without even thinking twice.

See?  I worry about these things.  What about you?

This is Not an Exaggeration

Wife: We need to get you new shoes.

Me: What do you mean?  I have three pairs of shoes.  Walking shoes, sandals, and dress shoes.  Why do we need anymore shoes?  There are so many shoes by the door that we could go back in time and outfit the entire rebel army with footwear so fresh that we might be able to change the outcome of the Civil War! 

Wife: Your walking shoes have giant gaping holes in them, no one wears sandals in November, and your dress shoes are brown, and all your dressy clothes are black and those two colors don't go together.

Me: They're walking shoes.  The holes in them are for ventilation.  This is what allows my feet to breathe.  And you've never met people from beach or desert areas then.  They'll wear sandals in February.  And it's not like there's a law against black and brown being worn together.  I mean, I imagine black and brown bears are best friends, terrorizing the forest creatures together hand in hand!

Wife: Stop being ridiculous, we're getting you new shoes, and that's all there is to it!

Me:  I think you're manifesting this argument so that you can say you try and get me nice things all the time so you can use that against me when I tell you that YOU don't need anymore shoes. 

Wife:  What are you talking about?  We just bought me shoes, like, a week ago!

Me: Right, but you've now realized that we didn't get you ENOUGH shoes, and you're trying to be extra liberal with your shoe distribution and rationing in the hopes that I'LL be extra liberal with MY shoe distribution and rationing.

Wife: We should really get you to a hospital.

Me: Don't change the subject! I know how these things work!  It's like how I tell you to eat the last piece of meat when I KNOW you're full just so I can seem magnanimous, only to have you turn around and say, no, please have it, I couldn't eat anymore! It's a brilliant plan!

Wife: No one's accusing you of having brilliant plans.

Me: I know, and I'm frustrated about it!  Tell me I have brilliant plans!

Wife: Ok, you're brilliant.  Possibly the most brilliant man to walk the planet.  People should write songs about your brilliance.

Me:  Thank you, I know.  Now...what were we talking about?

Wife: (slyly) You had just suggested that we get takeout for dinner.

Me: Hmm, I don't remember that, but you see how brilliant my ideas are?  I'll order.

Ode to a One Sink Bathroom

How sweet that you bumped my elbow
in the mirror you caught my eye
you brush your teeth with such vigor
and tell me how to brush mine

So cute when you take off your makeup
with wipes that smell'o formaldehyde
your face near the faucet for an hour
my beautiful sweet darling bride

Seriously, what are you doing?
I have toothpaste in my mouth!
I'm definitely not going to swallow it,
and you suggest the toilet to spit it out?

You stand there taking your time
probably on purpose, but really, who knows?
but if you hog the sink any longer
like Luda, I'mna throw them bows.


now, at least forty five minutes later
I'm standing here left only to think
about how in our next house
you're getting your own goddamn sink.

Philly/Moscow Driving Habits

If you were to ask my wife, she will tell you she almost died this morning.

If you were to ask me, I'd tell you we had a normal morning commute through heavy Philly traffic.  I drove creatively and efficiently.

She'd say I drove recklessly and suicidally. 

Let's break this down and be reasonable here.  Let's forget the fact that in the decade that I've been driving, I've only had one speeding ticket.  Let's also forget that I've never been in an accident that was my fault.

The REAL meat of this discussion comes from her father's driving habits.  When I'm driving, she will hold on to the roof of the car, screaming, panting, pleading for her life, and generally trying to deliberately distract me from my excellent driving skills.  Then, of course, in the future when I DO get in an accident (because of her loud crow-like squawking, likely) she can then say, "See? I KNEW you were a bad driver".

Let this be a warning, wife.

When her father drives, my wife may as well be at the spa, getting a relaxing deep tissue massage by a large-breasted German woman named Helga, and listening to descriptions of delicious Bratwurst recipes.  This man learned how to drive in Russia, for God's sake.  This was back when cars didn't even have turn signals or brake lights, and aggressive driving was taught as a survival method in the Army.  And somehow, when he's weaving through traffic like an insane-o-pants, she's totally fine with it.

Apparently, she comes standard in Luxury Volkswagen models.  Dat auto.

When I was growing up and my dad was stationed at the naval base in Sicily, my parents lovingly joked that the lines painted on the roads of the Italian Autostrada were just painted on the roads just for show, and speed signs were more suggestions than anything else.  And yet, if you were to get into an accident, or cut the wrong person off, the only thing that would happen would be the Italian would get out of the car, wave his/her hands around a lot, and then get back in and drive away.  Then we would all go to the local pastry shop and laugh about it over a cannoli. 

But in Russia?  God help those trying to find your body after an accident in Moscow. Seriously, Google "Driving in Moscow" and watch some of the other crazy You Tube videos, or actually go on some of the sites like this one and this one and read how seriously the people suggest finding alternative methods of transportation.  Not because of the possibility of traffic jams, but rather for your own safety.  Apparently, most people there don't have legal licenses, they "paid for" their licenses, they didn't earn them. 

Can you pick out the asshole?  That's right - it's all of them.

Actually, now that I've worked this out, I'd probably feel a lot safer driving in the same car as someone who survived 50 or so years driving in Russia too.  Ok, in the end, I get why she's so much more comfortable with his driving, but come on, I'm like a basket-making corn-row hair-dressing snake.  That is to say, a master of weaving.

Ok, that was dumb.  But I'm still an awesome driver.  That being said, I know I'm going to get into an accident now. I'm going to end this post because I think I've tempted fate enough.

Some Bizarre Sickness

So, if you haven't noticed - I haven't published anything on the blog recently.  I'm just on the other end of crawling out of the pits of a sickness that were so deep I couldn't get my head out from the fog it was stuck in for a full 5 days.

Which is good because my wife is a superb take-care-of-sick-people person.  She treats me so amazingly, it's almost worth being sick and dragging it out.

But which is bad because I couldn't play with Sammy for a full five days.  Not even be within 5 feet of him.  And that was really bad, not only because my wife had to carry the full weight of taking care of him (though I got to sleep a LOT - which was terrific) but also because I turned around, and he was a full week older.  He's CRAWLING for god's sake.  (though the technical term for what he's doing would be closer to forward-motion dragging, we in the Borscht household are claiming a win)

And now, my wife is sick because I got her a homerun birthday present, and she was crazy enough to thank me with a kiss.  And I think some of my snot got in the way of the kiss.  And now she's sick.  Which is REALLY bad, because since she's still feeding Sammy with her breasts (despite having all the same words - this sounds much worse than breastfeeding, doesn't it?) she can't take any pills, which means the sickness is kicking her butt right now.

And yet, she's still busting her ass at work and going with me to class tonight.  I swear, I either married the most dedicated woman alive, or the most stubborn.  Likely both.

I'm back on the horse, people - more content tomorrow with a guest post, and then some good-ol' fashioned Borscht Blogging on Friday.

In the Meantime - check out this website I found while trying to figure out if Elijah Wood is Jewish (he's not).  It's incredibly fun.  By the way, also take a look at the TV show Wilfred on Hulu.  I definitely enjoy how bizarre it is.

A Balanced Approach to Kicking Sammy Out

This was me yesterday on my way to work:

Which is why I didn't post anything.


The reason?  Sammy is being a ridiculous person, and the wife is following suit. 

You see, we've had him sleeping in our room ever since the beginning of time.  Never in our bed, but always in his crib/bassinet.  But when we first started out, we could play the bagpipes, throw tambourines at each other, and play the penis game but with megaphones.  Whatever we did, Sammy wouldn't wake up.

But now, his highness needs absolute quiet in order to sleep soundly.  And you know what?  I DON'T MIND.  He's a baby, and that's what they do/need. 

But you know what I DO mind?  His sleeping in our bedroom.  Or let me be more clear: my wife's insistence on his sleeping in our bedroom.  And the fact that no matter how quiet I am, she still yells at me to be quieter.  So what follows is a plea to her - to get her to agree to move him into his own room, down the hall. 

Reason #1: The following is a list of things that make sounds in the bedroom with very little perturbation (yes, that's a word) and there's nothing to do about it:  The door hinges, the creaky floor, the creaky bed slats, the clanky curtain shades, the bathroom faucet, the toilet, the drawer sets, the closet, the clothes in the closet, your slippers, the computers as we're going to bed, the door to the bathroom, the alarm clock in the morning, the beeping of the bottle warmer.

Reason #2: When you shush me to be quiet, you actually are louder than anything I've done to provoke said shushing.

Reason #3: I almost guarantee that he'll sleep better in another room where I won't be constantly trying to fairy-flit around like giant 200+ pound tinkerbell/ballerina in boxer briefs. 

Reason #4: I almost guarantee that WE'LL sleep better not having to constantly shush each other. 

Reason #5: If WE sleep better, we'll be happier, and I'll be able to pour more effort into this blog, which will garner attention from large bigwigs, who will want to sign me up to write the next great American novel which will bring in gazillions of dollars which we will use to buy lots of really sweet nerf guns.

And, because I was always taught to weigh the counter arguments:

Counterargument #1: But he's too little!
     Reality: Psh, he's got adult sized poops.  That's the only metric I go by.

Counterargument #2: But the room isn't ready yet! There are no cute animal stickers on the wall!
     Reality: Amazon has 2-day shipping for a reason.  Problem solved.

Counterargument #3: But I'll miss him! 
     Reality: if, in the middle of the night, you miss him so terribly, I won't have any problem with you going down the hall to kiss him and hug him and rub his face with your face as much as you want.  No problem at all.

Counterargument #4: But what if he gets up 9 times a night like he is now?
     Reality: Ok, this is really the only legitimate argument.  I still maintain that he's getting up solely because he's we're making sounds in the room that are above 0.001 decibel.  Or because he's teething and grumpy.  We could do a trial period.  Three nights.  Two to get over sleeping in a new place, and one just for good luck. 

Counterargument #4b: Yeah?  and Who's going to get up to take care of him?
     Reality: If we do it over the weekend, and I'm allowed to take unlimited (or just one) naps during the daytime, I'll take the brunt of the workload.  Just to prove a point.  If I'm wrong, we'll bring him right back and wait until he's a year and I'll be completely silent about it.  And I'll work on levitation.

Please, people, send some support for the cause in the comments!  She reads all of them!

The Funnel Cake Saga...Part Two

After the amazing display of undying love and affection for me that my wife showed when the seagulls attacked (that could be a sweet TV show), I was mostly just happy to be alive.  So I didn't think about the fact that she almost sacrificed me to the seagulls for funnel cake.  So, we continued down the boardwalk - chuckling to ourselves and forever gifted with the seagull story to laugh at and tell our grandchildren.  Yes, we are so boring that this is a "tell your grandkids" story.  If by "boring" you mean "awesome".

We knew of another funnel cake place that was a little close to the hotel, and I promised her I'd pick her up one when we passed by.  Only this time, we'd get it to go and in a paper bag so we could take it home and inside to eat.  Just in case there were any seagulls that were vigilantly determined to prevent any Funnel Cake enjoyment.  

Finally, once the revelry about being alive ended, we noticed there was a massive, mean looking cloud looming overhead.  This must have been the cloud that god had in mind when he designed the "Ominous" class of clouds.  It was pitch black, and rolled across the sky in a low flying billowing haste.   You could tell it was just waiting for you to get just far enough away from any real cover to start taking a giant, watery dump on your head.  

So we picked up the pace.  And not just a little bit, we were legitimately speed walking, Malcolm in the Middle style. I had my hips swaying and everything.  I think I even broke a sweat, though in the summertime, I can pretty much do that whenever.  Yes, even eating.

I was the red one, because come on...blue?  Not a manly color.

I hatched a brilliant plan:  

I would go on ahead and channel my inner super-power-walker and order/pick up the funnel cake so that it would be ready by the time she came and met up with me.  She was pushing the stroller with Sammy in it (who was STILL having an awesome time and didn't know anything was up) so it was hard for her to go full speed.  

And everything was going to plan!  I got to the funnel cake distributor, slammed my fist on the table and eked out between deep pants of breath, "FUNNEL CAKE!"  And it was ready near instantaneously.  But then...we got a little off the boardwalk.  We were still about 3/4 of a mile away from our hotel, and the cloud must have known it.  He squeezed a little bit out just to mess with us.  Big. Effing. Drops.  But thankfully, it held off for about another five minutes.

Funnel cake in hand, we were speeding towards the hotel.  And we were about half a mile away.  We could see the hotel in the distance!!  And that's exactly when the cloud unleashed its full wrath on us.

The wife ducked into the awning of another hotel, just out of reach of the pounding rain.  I grabbed the funnel cake and like a badass, I told her to wait with Sammy and the stroller under the awning, and I'd come pick them up in the car.  The sky looked like it wasn't going to let up any time soon, and we didn't want to be hanging out on the boardwalk under an awning all night, and plus, I'm manly like that.  Takin' care of business.

Fast forward through the boring stuff, and once we finally got settled into the room, the coveted funnel cake was cold and soaking wet, and we threw out the entire thing without having a bite.

If my wife were a 3 year old boy, this would have been what she looked like

Now, there's no question in my mind: someone's looking over us.  And his/her sole interest is making sure my wife doesn't get funnel cake.

The Funnel Cake Saga...Part One

My wife has many, many wonderful qualities.  What follows is not a discussion of one of them.  I would like to tell you a story about what happened during our trip to the beach.  And yes, there are lots of adorably cute pictures of Sammy in a diaper and an awesome safari hat with his feet stuck into the sand.  But the story is much more important.

This is like Porn to my wife

My wife has a terrible obsession with funnel cake.  So when we went to the beach, she had been preparing me for a couple weeks about how it was my responsibility as a husband to go into the wilderness and hunt and kill for her a cake of the funnel variety and bring it back to the cave so as to provide for my family.  I informed her that it was not the Mesozoic, and, in fact, that since she makes more money than me (it's a temporary issue, I'm sure) - she was quite capable of purchasing her own stupid cake.  Then, I peacefully agreed to get her a funnel cake, but only after a gentle jab in the ribs from my better half.

We were walking down the boardwalk, and figured we had about two hours before Sammy needed to sleep, so we could walk down the boardwalk for an hour and turn around, which would work out perfectly.  She knew of a funnel cake place exactly an hour out, so that would be our turnaround place.  (aside: how does one "know of a funnel cake place"?  don't they just appear out of the ether?  It's not like they're in the yellowbook or anything).

We had a magnificent walk, enjoying the sights, and laughing pleasantly watching Sammy interact with the bright new surroundings.

When we got to the funnel cake place, I got a table in the outdoor food court area.  The wife came over with the funnel cake, and sat across from me, obviously unsettled.  I asked what the issue was.  Her reply: Seagulls.  There must have been fifty of them all hanging out around this outdoor seating area.

"Braiiiiins!  But in a pinch, funnel cake will suffice"

"Seagulls?"  I replied, "Psh, they're weak!  There is no way those things will come over here.  And even if they do, I'll swat it with my fists of fury."

So.....The rest of the story pretty much writes itself.

She got freaked, and we got up to start walking to a less seagull-y area (she still hasn't had a piece of funnel cake yet).  I've got the funnel cake in my hands, when she says to me, "Honey dearest, please break a piece of the funnel cake off and hand it to me", to which I replied, "sure, my lovely sweet peach!"

And all of a sudden...BAM!  A seagull lands right on my head as I'm passing the piece to the wife.  Another one blind-sides me and knocks the funnel cake out of my hand.  The cake is lying helpless on the boardwalk (right-side up, thankfully), and my dear, loving, wife says to me, "What are you doing?!? Pick it up!!  It's funnel cake, for god's sake!" Thanks, love.  I'm beginning to see the list of priorities form in my wife's head.  #1: Sammy  #2: Funnel Cake  #3 Herself: and #238: My 26 year streak of no seagull bites.

At this point, there are four seagulls swarmed around the cake, and I've gotta live up to my "gonna smack'em" mantra I so stupidly asserted earlier in the evening.  I crack a couple across the beak with my sneakers and dive in for the cake.

When I've finally secured the funnel cake in hand, she says to me "Come on! to the hotel!!!"  And we dash off towards our hotel room where we're sure we won't be eaten alive by seagulls.  The seagulls follow us.  When they continue divebombing us, she then says, "What are you doing??  Walk with us, but far behind us!  but whatever you do, SAVE THE FUNNEL CAKE!"

My dear, dear wife.  I owe so much to you.  Namely, the seagull hickeys I've got now all over my body.

I didn't listen to my wife for the first time in a long while, and I sacrificed the funnel cake.  May it rest in peace.  Though likely it was ripped apart by a huge flock of seagulls and then subsequently passed through all of their digestive systems and launched back on the poor boardwalk goers.  That's what they get, I guess, for not helping us defend against seagull attack.

The story's not over, but that's enough for one post.  Until tomorrow!

Cleaning Requests from the Wife

As much as I hate to admit it, I am not a clean person.  Or, rather, I am fairly clean, but not as clean as my wife would want me to be.  I can tolerate a bit of mess, such as our shoes lined up slightly non-symmetrically, whereas she wants our treatment of shoes to mirror what this dude's got going on.

 

Not wanting to catch tongue-ringworm, I am satisfied being slightly more messy than she would like.  But to be honest, I used to be a lot more organized.  

Take, for example, my method of pants storage while in college.  It was an amazingly devised system of complicated temporary pants placement that incorporated strategically located venues of pants removal - all of which were outside the bedroom and within ten feet of the door to the outside.  It was through this procedure that I could find the exact pair of pants that I needed, pick them out of their respective pile from the floor, and I was on my way.  It was like a highly pants-specific version of that "take a penny, leave a penny" policy.

My wife couldn't understand it and over-simplified it.  She just said (and still says to this day) that I would simply drop my pants upon entering the apartment, leaving a path of filth in my wake.

Psh, women.  They know nothing of complicated, scientifically-derived procedures.  

Anyway, she's now reached the pinnacle of the apex of the most ridiculous possible request: vacuuming under the bed.  In case she's not aware, people can't SEE under the bed.  And in my book, the dedication is to the inventor of the motto "out of sight, it's effing clean!"  I don't need to see under there to know that there's nothing of any interest below my sleeping bum.  Sparkling and clean down there, I tell you.

Next thing you know, she'll be asking me to do something insane like, cleaning out the refrigerator, or something.  Which is dumb, because EVERYONE knows that bacteria can't grow in the cold, so no reason to ever clean a fridge.

Investigation into my Wife's Sanity

So Sammy's been going through a little bit of a growth spurt.  How do I know this?  Because a week ago, he was all cute and playing on his play mat giggling and laughing as if the world had no limit to its happiness and hugging us with a determined look of complete love and adulation, and this week, he has declared war on us by attempting to shatter eardrums with his yelling, peeing on everyone, holding his poop until the exact moment he's got his diaper off, needing constant food, and generally hating everything.

So either he's magically leaped into his teenage years, his old and senile years, or he's going through a growth spurt. 

This means that just about every night, he needs to wake up, and scream at us Gordon Ramsay style to make sure we're moving fast enough with the whole "Get Milk or Die Trying" shtick.  Last night, we both got about 4 hours total of sleep.

But this morning, my wife, who was suspiciously cheery eyed and bright and much more beautiful than usual (though not necessarily a statement that she doesn't look good normally, just a statement that on this specific day, she was particularly stunning...I'm not sure how to get out of that one), looked over at me while she was getting ready for work, and she asked, "What's wrong?"

I turned towards her, picked my knuckles up off the floor, wiped the drool off of my face, and made a herculean attempt to seem less like the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse and said, "What?  Are you insane?  Or merely not human?  What have you done with my wife?  Did you manage to travel back in time a few hours just so you could sleep a bit more?"  (please remind me to look into this)  I'm pretty sure, though I can't be certain, that I went on like this for a good hour or two.

The peppering of questions slightly annoyed her, and she lost her entirely unnatural early-morning sense of humor.  "Seriously, what's wrong with you?  What would make you feel better?"

Ahh, of all the the potential options, even after four hours of sleep, I could answer this question perfectly.  I could literally answer it in my sleep, because I wouldn't NEED to answer the question then.  And the amazing thing about this is that my wife didn't know the answer to her question already. 

Problem: Lack of Sleep.  Solution: ?  let's see, um...hamburgers?  uh...drinking pickle juice?

Which leads me to ask the question...what's wrong with HER?  I have deduced the following possibilities:

• SHE is the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse, and I should stock up on shotguns and their corresponding ammunition
• She has been replaced by a Pod Wife, a la Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and I'll go outside one day to find her real body zipped up in a pea pod.  
• She has converted to Surrealism, and she will randomly change both emotions and appearances with no apparent purpose, pattern, or goal.
• She is ALSO sleep deprived, though this is probably the least likely scenario, due to her increased attractiveness this morning.  Everyone knows sleep deprivation and attractiveness are inversely related.  Just like happiness and how many spiders there are on your face.

Just a Little Obsessed

I want to say a few words about my wife.

As a mother, she worked literally up until the last minute before we went to the hospital.  She cleaned up her inbox, tied off a few loose ends, shut down her computer, and delivered Sammy literally less than 24 hours later.  Somehow, she can handle his bouts of crying in the middle of the night with tenderness and love, rather than my approach, which usually entails trying to verbally chastise the five month old.  Amazingly, her approach tends to work better.

As a wife, with all of the stress that we've both been under, what with the seven thousand things we both have going on (breaking news flash: our second babysitter is also now leaving to go back to the old country), she still has the patience to be able to allow me to be neurotic and anxious, hysterical and abrasive. Yet, she still manages to find it in her to love me. Even when I implode from all the stress and run outside screaming in my black and yellow striped underwear (she calls them my bumblebee underwear) in the middle of the night.  This is not a hypothetical situation.

And as a professional woman, she's the only person I think I've ever known to be able to leave for maternity leave, broker the deal of the century where she could work from home indefinitely, and simultaneously eke out a massive promotion.  All while managing to breastfeed and change the diapers of our screaming son, and dealing with a husband that has the stress tolerance of balsa wood.  And it is because of that promotion that this era has ended - as of this past Monday, she went back to work.  In her own office with a door that closes, and real people working under her and everything.  Hopefully, she can get all of her "telling people what to do" out of her system at work from now on.

She's my girl - and I'm just a little bit obsessed with her.

Also, she's really hot

The Best Forever

My wife is putting Sammy to bed - it's her night tonight.  I stand in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and half-listening to the story she's reading.  I turn around, and move to watch from the entryway of the bathroom.

She sits sideways on a tiny black stool with one elbow resting on top of the crib.  She is reading one of her favorite childhood stories to him animatedly. Her book is turned towards him so he can peer into the book and wonder what the pictures are.  He concentrates.  For the first time all day, he is awake and motionless, trying to figure out the connection between Mama's voice and this flimsy square colorful thing she is holding in front of his face.

Her voice vividly impersonates the characters.  She makes sound effects the amplify the story, and whenever she does, Sammy will flash the faintest smile of comprehension.  He loves her so dearly.

And in this moment before bedtime, there is so much ecstasy oozing out of everyone in the room - Sammy ecstatic to be spending time with Mama, my wife ecstatic to be interacting with her son for one of the first times ever, and me...

I'm ecstatic watching the two of them feed off each others' happiness. I'm ecstatic that we've been blessed with such a beautiful son.  That we've been able to stick together since the beginning of our relationship - six and a half years of some of the most difficult but amazing times in both of our lives.  I'm ecstatic that my wife agreed to marry me, and that we'll celebrate it tomorrow.

Though we've only been married two years, it feels like we've known each other forever.  The best forever one could hope for.

AAOADHD

I can't study anymore.  I think I've got acquired-adult-onset ADHD.  That is, AAOADHD.  I just pronounced that out loud and audibly giggled.  At work.  Yes, folks - it's sealed.  I'm a victim of AAOADHD.

Take last night, for example.  My wife and I have papers due on Friday, and my wife had thoughtfully scheduled a couple hours where my in-laws would take the little guy so we could write our papers. 

She finished in LITERALLY FIFTEEN MINUTES.  Please allow me to reiterate that.  She wrote three pages single spaced about the inter-workings of a Canadian firm's ENTIRE IT department in less time than it takes to play one round of Pictionary.  I went to make a cup of coffee and she had finished it before it started along its journey to percolation. Fifteen effing minutes.

She then picked up the paper, put her feet up, and began reading the paper.  Just to be a punk.  Look, wife, no one reads the paper anymore.  You're not fooling anyone.  You purchased this newspaper with the explicit purpose of rubbing in my face the fact that you are studious. I think I'll buy you a monocle and a train ticket for your birthday.  So you can be all studious and judgy somewhere else.  While...seeing things...with only one eye.  Whatever, psh.

In the fifteen minutes that it took her to write her paper, I was catching up on twitter.  I can't read it, or even participate effectively at work, because I'm using a phone from the 1870's, and the touch screen is prohibitively stupid.  When she told me she was done, I was lost in thought - thinking about how awesome it was that Eratosthenes used stadia to calculate the circumference of the Earth.  Seriously, look up the story.  It's fascinating.

But when she told me, I was so shocked and devastated that I literally fell onto the floor and crawled around writhing dramatically.  And I'm using "literally" correctly here.

And just this morning, while I've been trying to write one goddamn post for today, I've actually written three.  One that was a stream of consciousness in the style of James Joyce's Ulysses.  But then I googled Ulysses, and started reading about its critical reception, and then I got into Irish literature and Oscar Wilde, and then Gay Pride, and Old Navy, and before I knew it, I had only three or four sentences written and I was bored with the idea of a stream of consciousness.

Then I wrote one of those six word stories but was supremely unhappy with it.  Especially when I took into account that I spent nearly 45 minutes thinking of six...stupid...words. 

And then, in frustration, I decided I was diseased.  With AAOADHD. 

I just said it aloud again.  And laughed.

Someone please help.

Decline of the state of "Man" - Part Two

So yesterday, I started down a dangerous road - trying to figure out a man's gender role when it came to raising a baby and how to treat his wife.

But delving into relationship gender roles isn't exactly the kind of thing that you can tackle in only one blog post - and plus - there's a good amount of suspense involved when you break things out into multiple blog posts, which (at least theoretically) helps to drive blog traffic. ---makes *cha-ching* sound and does one fist pump trucker style---

But let's get back on topic.  I think a fairly good representation of this phenomenon of the decline of "man" is the emergence and relative acceptance as normal of the "Man Cave".

In preparation for this post, I Googled "Man Cave".  This was the only action of preparation, so don't expect a bibliography or anything.  But I wanted to see if there were already sites out there that were discussing how negative a man cave could be for a relationship, or delving into why, exactly, men need to have Man Caves.

I got nothing.  I searched for a full-on five or ten minutes, so it was definitely an exhaustive search.  If you can find something, please let me know, because I'd like to know I'm not the only one of the species, male or otherwise, that thinks these things are damaging to relationships.  However, There were hundreds of sites describing how to properly set up your own man cave, asking for people to send in pictures of their man caves, places to shop for items you can stuff in your man cave, and Spanish Man Caves (wtf?). 

I've now written "man cave" so much that it's starting to sound less like a place for dudes to hang out and more of a gross and hairy body part. 

Look, I know people need their space every once in a while.  I need to have some quiet the same way that my wife needs to have someone to blabber to.  (just kidding, babe - I love talking to you).  But I'm at work all day.  I drive home and listen to the radio.  I have so much time away from her that I can't imagine coming home and saying to her, "Hey look - I know we just saw each other for the first time today...but I've got some...uh...business to take care of in my Man Cave.  Later!"  Sounds like you're gonna need some...friction reducer.

I've got people at my work who are "happily" married, but end up sleeping in separate bedrooms because the other person snores, or they roll around too much, or a whole host of other reasons.  So, let me get this straight.  You're at work all day, you come home into your man cave, and you sleep in separate bedrooms?  Why get married in the first place?

Didn't you marry your spouse so you could be with her forever after?  Doesn't she make you crazy with happiness every time you look at her?  Don't you love her personality so much that it's like a drug you need to get as much as you can every moment of the day?

Look, no one's saying that you shouldn't spend time with your dude-friends.  Watch sports, drink beers, talk about whether or not a PanzerFaust could take out an incoming meteor, or if an Airplane on a treadmill would move. You know, things the ladies aren't interested in.  But you didn't marry your buds.  The establishment of a physical place to purposefully exclude your woman-love is not only unfair, it's reminiscent of prepubescent clubs for boys who haven't figured out that girls are awesome yet.

from here

Disclaimer: Like the last post, I'd love to hear arguments.  Every relationship works differently, and every person needs a different amount of space.  But what I've outlined above is essentially just my own personal thoughts on the importance of being a close partner to your spouse.