I consider myself to be an extremely happy person. I absolutely love everything about my life, except for the whole, "i'm not fantabulously wealthy yet" thing.
But it wasn't always like that. In fact, I was a pretty miserable piece of dingle-berry for the better part of my teenage years.
"Ah, ha ha, but isn't everyone, you self-congratulating moron?" you ask?
Perhaps, but I had victimization and self-pity down to a science.
"What a weird thing to compete with people over - how miserable you were as a teenager."
Ok, who's writing this post, you or me? Seriously, you can be such a dick sometimes, hypothetical alter-ego.
"Bitch, I'm Super-Id, I ain't no ego. [Flies Away]"
(edit: I took Psych 101 eight years ago and apparently forgot that it's super-ego, not super-id. note to self - google search things you're not sure about)
Right, so now that I got that out of my system, let's move along. Last night my wife was watching this wedding video some douche put up on Facebook of him giving this douchy speech to his bride about how trite-fully he could insert as many cliches into the same tired sentence. "You complete me, You're the captain of my vessel, I truly started living the moment I met you, I never really knew happiness until the day we saw each other, blah, blah, blah." Then, everyone in the wedding reception died by being bludgeoned to death with their rubber chicken while a troupe of 50 guys recited Hamlet in rounds.
Ok, no, not really, but that would have been more interesting than the stupid speech he was giving.
But my wife looked over at me and said, "You would never have made that speech because you don't think the same way about me as he does about his bride".
And if you knew my wife, which I'd be at first surprised and then suspicious and probably jealous if you said you did, you'd know that she was only half serious when she said that. Part of it was, "I want to talk about how ridiculous this guy and his wife are". And part of it was "I actually believe deep down that you don't really feel this way."
I understand that sometimes women need to be reassured about the love of their partners. Hell, I even like to be reassured sometimes. (Although my wife would tell you I constantly need attention and keeping me reassured is almost a full time job - but don't listen to her). But there was a time when I wrote this. (Actually, I wrote that four and a half months before I met my wife). I went through life so angry and generally sad at seriously nothing at all that I convinced myself I was bi-polar. It was like self-induced solitary confinement. In the end, I was just a hormonal kid who was able to buy beer because he looked old enough and flirted with the overweight beer-seller woman and who forced himself to suffer for two whole years because some girl decided she didn't like me. I mean, really, really suffered.
And then, it seemed like a light turned on - and when my wife entered at probably the most chaotic time, she balanced me out, gave me something to hope for, to look forward to, and to rely on. She loved me for everything I was, and everything that she knew I could be, no matter how many times she stormed out of my apartment and left voice mails on my phone simply saying "Fuck you" because I said something stupid (something I'm still guilty of, though she's toned down her language).
She taught me what it was like to be happy. I mean, really, truly, explosively happy. That kind of happy where you get the church giggles ALL THE TIME and no matter what you try to do, you just can't help yourself from bathing in your suppressed quivering glee that still somehow manages to escape through pressed lips and palms pressed over your mouth to the jealousy of everyone else in the surrounding pews.
She saved me. But she knows this. I just hope she doesn't feel jealous of that other douche for making a public speech about it. You know, because it's so much more private to post it on the internet.
Showing posts with label the wife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the wife. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
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".
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.
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.
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.
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".
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
I woke up not a zombie today
Ok, I know the last two posts have been rough to get through. Too analytical, not funny, and all around uninteresting. Mostly, this is because I'm in the middle of an incredibly interesting class that has been dry-humping my face. This has got me thinking about the class, and strategy, and greater implications of analysis on lots of other random boring crap blah, bla - oh my god, shut up - nobody cares.
But also, I'm not sure if you knew this, but we've got this kid, see. And he doesn't like to lie down or sit anymore. He discovered the wonders of standing. On top of this, he is busting out his second set of teeth, and contrary to the last two, these (or this, i'm not sure how many are coming out) is a bastard tooth. It's like those stupid tooth characters on those annoying kid commercials from the 80's telling you that you've gotta brush your teeth while wielding this massive toothbrush, and you just want to punch it in the face and say, "shut your goddamn mouth, tooth".
So Sammy's been up almost all night for the past two nights crying and moaning and writing in agony. And not only is it exhausting to be up rocking him in your arms all night long (so my wife tells me - I have been bad about keeping my eyes open), but it really sucks to know he's in so much pain.
And standing? Sammy is now waking us up by poking his head over the rail of the crib and giving the baby equivalent of "HEY! I see you!! Why are you not paying attention to me!?!" So because he doesn't want to lie down anymore, this ALSO decreases the amount of sleep everyone gets because he's now permanently playing his own version of Jenga (or is it stack attack?), where he wobbles back and forth and your only job is to basically make sure he doesn't collapse down on the floor and bang his head off of the only sharp thing in the entire house (which is like a magnet for baby heads) and smash into a thousand pieces.
But I woke up this morning with a little extra excitement. Reason #1 - Either Sammy let us sleep through the night, or I didn't hear him crying at all. Reason #2 - it's an absolutely beautiful day outside. and Reason #3 - we've got less than 45 days until our absolutely awesome vacation that is going to be like Odysseus returning home, putting his feet up on the coffee table with a beer and having Penelope feed him profiteroles, or whatever it was that people ate back then wherever he was from.
I'm already dreaming about all the nothing I plan on doing. Just sitting in a balcony on the third largest ship in the world, watching the waves go by. I'll likely be drinking a beer too. With my wife bringing me profiteroles. And like Odysseus, I'll also be perpetually naked.
But also, I'm not sure if you knew this, but we've got this kid, see. And he doesn't like to lie down or sit anymore. He discovered the wonders of standing. On top of this, he is busting out his second set of teeth, and contrary to the last two, these (or this, i'm not sure how many are coming out) is a bastard tooth. It's like those stupid tooth characters on those annoying kid commercials from the 80's telling you that you've gotta brush your teeth while wielding this massive toothbrush, and you just want to punch it in the face and say, "shut your goddamn mouth, tooth".
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| I want to punch this guy in the periodontal membrane |
And standing? Sammy is now waking us up by poking his head over the rail of the crib and giving the baby equivalent of "HEY! I see you!! Why are you not paying attention to me!?!" So because he doesn't want to lie down anymore, this ALSO decreases the amount of sleep everyone gets because he's now permanently playing his own version of Jenga (or is it stack attack?), where he wobbles back and forth and your only job is to basically make sure he doesn't collapse down on the floor and bang his head off of the only sharp thing in the entire house (which is like a magnet for baby heads) and smash into a thousand pieces.
But I woke up this morning with a little extra excitement. Reason #1 - Either Sammy let us sleep through the night, or I didn't hear him crying at all. Reason #2 - it's an absolutely beautiful day outside. and Reason #3 - we've got less than 45 days until our absolutely awesome vacation that is going to be like Odysseus returning home, putting his feet up on the coffee table with a beer and having Penelope feed him profiteroles, or whatever it was that people ate back then wherever he was from.
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| "I intend to never wear clothes again!" |
I'm already dreaming about all the nothing I plan on doing. Just sitting in a balcony on the third largest ship in the world, watching the waves go by. I'll likely be drinking a beer too. With my wife bringing me profiteroles. And like Odysseus, I'll also be perpetually naked.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Of Advisers and Interviews
I have an interview this afternoon. It's nothing big, and I don't have my hopes very high about it, but it's my first real-person interview since college.
Sure, I've had other interviews since then, but they've mostly been those all-commission jobs where the company you work for has absolutely no incentive to keep you around and so they hire everyone who applies. If you drop out, oh well, some other poor sap will come and be their warm body to fill their "entrepreneurial role". In this setting the word "entrepreneurial" is just a euphemism for "hey, why don't you work your ass off setting yourself up, and we'll just take a slice of your pay?"
This is how most financial adviser companies operate. (I say most because there are some legitimate ones out there). Another word about financial advisers: please, please, please, never ever use them. You can learn enough over the weekend to make what they do completely obsolete, and they take a huge chunk of your money (your RETIREMENT money) to offer you products that are handed down to them by their parent company. This chunk can be anywhere from 0.5% to 2%, and when you start to get a crap-load of money in your account, 0.5% to 2% is a LOT of your hard-earned retirement dough. In addition, Most financial advisers are paid to sell you generic crap that their parent company is getting on discount, and they're getting a significant commission to peddle to unsuspecting people who think investing is too complicated. It's pretty much the definition of conflict of interest.
Moving on, my wife was prepping me this morning on our way to work. A significant portion of her job recently has been interviewing candidates, and so she's become pretty adept at asking interviewing questions.
So she started hammering me with these ridiculous questions to "prep" me for the interview. "Tell me about yourself". "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?". "Tell me about a time when you handled yourself under stress". "What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"
And every time I started talking, she corrected me, saying "Don't say that, you'll sound like a total douchebag idiot with tiny deer poop pebbles fermenting in your skull from which the methane produced by the feces is slowly condensing and forming thoughts for you". Thank you, my love - you're so kind.
Who came up with these insane questions to ask? There's no way these questions can really form a good impression of a candidate that will perform well in an analytical role. Most people who are good at math/science/analysis are terrible social people. Why can't the interview process be more like a test, where they sit you down with a long list of math, science, and finance problems increasing difficulty and let the best score win? Maybe some geography thrown in there just for good measure. Because damn, I like geography.
I expressed this to my wife, who said, "See? you should have stuck through with your engineering major if you didn't want to talk to people and instead answer math/science problems all day".
Thanks again, my love - I really love it when you answer one of my problems with telling me about all my other problems.
Sure, I've had other interviews since then, but they've mostly been those all-commission jobs where the company you work for has absolutely no incentive to keep you around and so they hire everyone who applies. If you drop out, oh well, some other poor sap will come and be their warm body to fill their "entrepreneurial role". In this setting the word "entrepreneurial" is just a euphemism for "hey, why don't you work your ass off setting yourself up, and we'll just take a slice of your pay?"
This is how most financial adviser companies operate. (I say most because there are some legitimate ones out there). Another word about financial advisers: please, please, please, never ever use them. You can learn enough over the weekend to make what they do completely obsolete, and they take a huge chunk of your money (your RETIREMENT money) to offer you products that are handed down to them by their parent company. This chunk can be anywhere from 0.5% to 2%, and when you start to get a crap-load of money in your account, 0.5% to 2% is a LOT of your hard-earned retirement dough. In addition, Most financial advisers are paid to sell you generic crap that their parent company is getting on discount, and they're getting a significant commission to peddle to unsuspecting people who think investing is too complicated. It's pretty much the definition of conflict of interest.
Moving on, my wife was prepping me this morning on our way to work. A significant portion of her job recently has been interviewing candidates, and so she's become pretty adept at asking interviewing questions.
So she started hammering me with these ridiculous questions to "prep" me for the interview. "Tell me about yourself". "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?". "Tell me about a time when you handled yourself under stress". "What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"
And every time I started talking, she corrected me, saying "Don't say that, you'll sound like a total douchebag idiot with tiny deer poop pebbles fermenting in your skull from which the methane produced by the feces is slowly condensing and forming thoughts for you". Thank you, my love - you're so kind.
Who came up with these insane questions to ask? There's no way these questions can really form a good impression of a candidate that will perform well in an analytical role. Most people who are good at math/science/analysis are terrible social people. Why can't the interview process be more like a test, where they sit you down with a long list of math, science, and finance problems increasing difficulty and let the best score win? Maybe some geography thrown in there just for good measure. Because damn, I like geography.
I expressed this to my wife, who said, "See? you should have stuck through with your engineering major if you didn't want to talk to people and instead answer math/science problems all day".
Thanks again, my love - I really love it when you answer one of my problems with telling me about all my other problems.
Friday, August 12, 2011
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.
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| 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.
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 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.
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| 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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
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.
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.
"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!
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| This is like Porn to my wife |
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.
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| "Braiiiiins! But in a pinch, funnel cake will suffice" |
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!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
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:
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.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Just a Little Obsessed
I want to say a few words about my wife.
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.
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.
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.
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| Also, she's really hot |
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