Tag Archives: marriage

Daddy Issues

21 Nov

I’m a giver. I choose to help wherever I can. That’s just the kind of person I am. That’s why jumped into action when I heard how dire the situation is for the endangered species of the world. Did you know there are just a few thousand Hairy-Nose Wombats left in the wild? And don’t get me started on the Mediterranean Monk Seal! These poor defenseless animals are just doing their thing, fertilizing the Earth with poo, and stupid humans are killing them for their sexual/magical/safari-décor powers. I refuse to allow this rape of Mother Earth to continue. That’s why I decided to take charge and get involved in conservation. – So, I knocked-up my wife.

What? I can’t make a new Hairy-Nose Wombat, at least I can make a human. C’mon, my heart was in the right place. Maybe I can teach this kid some awesome anti-poacher skills and it will be win-win.

Yep, it’s official, I’m going to be a daddy. It’s my first child and I’m more excited than a pyromaniac at a Kindling Convention. — But, conversely, I’m also more terrified than a pair of stark white undies at an Irritable Bowel Syndrome Convention. (Woo, analogies!)

If Full House, Family Matters and Growing Pains are to be believed, then raising a kid is no walk in the park. Except for that part in the Full House opening credits where they walk in the park. That seemed pretty easy, even Uncle Jesse had a smile on his face.

Hey! Remember that episode when Michelle was a baby and instead of saying “ice cream” she kept saying “house cream”?! That was pretty funny. I hope my kid can’t say “ice”…

But I digress.

People say being a parent is the greatest job you’ll ever have. I’m thrilled about it, but I’m also a little concerned. I have enough trouble remembering to put the butter back in the fridge, how am I going to raise an upstanding human being who respects people in every walk of life, gives back to the community, puts the butter back in the fridge… and also appreciates the satirical brilliance of Weird Al Yankovic?

Also, what’s the etiquette on hilarious interactions with the baby? For instance, is it bad taste to manipulate a day-old infant’s mouth so it looks like they’re rapping Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot? Can you dress a helpless child in an outfit that makes them look like a miniature Colonel Sanders, just because it’s funny? What about blaming farts on a baby, is that so wrong?

I guess I’ve got a lot of thinking to do between now and five and a half months from now when the fruit of my loins bursts from my wife’s nether regions. Probably first on my list of thoughts should be coming up with a better way to describe the impending birth. My guess is, my wife won’t appreciate the word “burst” being used in any form whatsoever.

Cripes, this baby-thing is a lot of work.

Getting Down and Dirty – July 2011, IN Michiana Magazine

24 Jun

All it took was a brief attempt at gardening for me to learn I wasn’t born with a green thumb. Truth be told, I wasn’t born with any thumbs. Luckily my dad is very crafty and outfitted me with these babies, made from particle board and wood glue. They need some resculpting after intense Nintendo sessions, but they’re stellar alternatives.

I’ve seen documentaries that reveal how preservative-laden our produce is, but I’ve been eating it anyway, hoping all those chemicals might alter my cells and turn me into a cool super hero or something. But since I still can’t fly and the only “super power” I’ve acquired is the ability to develop a rapid heartbeat in a single bound, I decided to grow my own veggies.

My wife and I went to the store to get everything we needed for our garden box. I was pretty excited until we made our first purchase: dirt.

Let me give you a moment to process the concept of “buying dirt.”

My wife explained to me, this wasn’t “just dirt”, it was “special dirt” that makes things grow. I argued our current “backyard dirt” was doing a bang-up job raising a bumper crop of dandelions, but she wasn’t amused.

The next stop was the seed stand. I was grabbing everything in sight (all while childishly giggling at the “Burpee” brand name) until my wife derailed my Fun Train with some Gardening 101.

“No, we can’t grow those, they need shade.”

“We don’t have the space for watermelons.”

“We’re not growing an apple tree in the middle of the garden!”

I couldn’t understand why all the most fun stuff to eat was the biggest pain in the butt to grow. I thought all you had to do was slap some seeds in the ground, keep the dog from doing his business on the green beans, and BOOM – it’s Salad Shooter time. How hard can it be? Our store-bought potatoes are growing vines out the wazoo, and they’re sitting in a dark kitchen cabinet next to the Cheerios.

To save her the headaches of my incessant whining, I wisely let my wife take over the garden. She’s currently growing tomatoes, squash and other boring vegetables that aren’t 600 pound pumpkins, as I requested. I suppose it’s neat to enjoy a meal you cultivated with your bare hands, but I’m just too lazy. It’s like ordering a really good stir fry at a restaurant… then waiting three months for dinner.

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Top 10 Tuesday: Kate & William’s Wacky Wedding

26 Apr

Ever punched a Reverend? Me neither. But, I considered it on the day of my wedding. Not that he did anything wrong, I was just so nervous, I had to do something! Who knew eternal love would be so stressful?!

Your wedding day is expected to be this epic moment. You’re supposed to stare into your soulmate’s eyes and say, “You are the one for me!”

And then, try not to puke, laugh… or puke.

Don’t get me wrong, my wedding day was amazing. I loved it and I love my wife. But I won’t tell you it wasn’t stressful. Because it was. So, I can’t imagine what it would be like if millions of people were interested in my nuptials.

That’s the situation for Kate Middleton and Prince William. They have no choice but to reveal every detail about their ceremony to the public. And since these are celebrities, it’s no surprise that the wedding has its share of peculiarities.

So, without further ado, let’s take a closer look at the stranger parts of what will be the wedding of the century.

Top 10 Instances of Royal Wedding Weirdness

10. It’s no secret that Elton John is scheduled to perform at the wedding. What you don’t know is, he’s already picked his outfit.

9. What is the priciest expense for Kate and Will’s wedding? The taxidermy bill for the chandelier made out of Winston Churchill. That’s a lot of stuffing.

8. Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair will take the night off from his cashier job at “British Aldi” to dance for quarters outside the reception hall.

7. Instead of having Kate and William read their own vows, Prince Charles insisted on “celebrity-read vows,” performed by Charles’ favorite funnyman, Don Rickles.

6. Wondering whether this will be another boring wedding? Four words: Mr. Bean is invited. (He really is!)

5. With Princess Diana gone, the mother-son dance is out. So, Kate decided she won’t do the Father-Daughter dance either. Instead, to brighten guest morale, this kitten will be placed at the center of the dance floor while the deejay plays “Butterfly Kisses”. 

4. David Beckham and Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham are already attending the wedding. So, rebellious Prince Harry plans to bring lesser-known “Fatty Spice” to the wedding as his date, just to tick off his uppity brother.

3. For the entire wedding day, Queen Elizabeth is ONLY allowed to speak in Robin Williams’ hilarious “Mrs. Doubtfire” voice.

2. Prince William is sensitive about his hair loss, so he’s wearing a weave for the ceremony and a “merkin” for the wedding night. (If you don’t know what a merkin is, look it up. I’m not telling!)

 1. Before the wedding, a robotic decoy of Kate will be deployed to throw off the news media. Sadly, it’s not a very good robotic decoy.

 

Enjoy making fun of Kate? Here’s some more nonsense….

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Two-Ring Circus – IN Michiana Magazine, May 2011

18 Apr

Not long from now my wife and I will celebrate five years of marriage. Lucky for me it’s not the diamond or gold anniversary, it’s just the wood anniversary. So, I’m getting her a two-by-four. It’s going to be a magical surprise when she unwraps it during my themed anniversary dinner of twigs doused with Log Cabin Syrup.

Despite these wonderful years we’ve spent together, you’d never know we were husband and wife if you spent an evening on the town with us. For one reason, we’d never show up. You see, we’re married, which means we don’t “go out” anymore. Unless by “go out” you mean “eat Chinese food and watch Netflix.” But the prevailing reason we don’t look like a wedded couple is because our wedding rings are often missing in action.

No, we’re not planning a quickie divorce in Mexico. I definitely still think my wife is the bee’s knees. (Even though I’m not sure I know what that means. I hope it’s a compliment.)

My wife takes her ring off to protect it during showers, dish washing, etc. The problem is, she often forgets to put it back on. This can make for a very self-conscious dinner party when seconds before we walk in the door to meet friends we haven’t seen in awhile, she tells me, “Whoops, I forgot my ring.” I’m always convinced everyone is staring at her naked finger, shaking their heads and wondering which one of us will “win” in the divorce and get our dog, Maddux.

Sadly, I’m not much better. I remove my ring often too because, even after nearly five years, I can’t get used to the way it feels. Don’t overanalyze that and start suspecting I’ve got a woman on the side. The only thing I hide from my wife is that five pound bag of M&Ms in my sock drawer. They’re mine, all mine!

I’m just not a jewelry guy. I never bought a class ring, earrings were entirely beyond my level of coolness, and I’m not a fan of necklaces. Except for that brief stint in the late 1990s when I wore a gold-plated chain with a medallion that read: “Captain Awesome”. But c’mon, that’s pretty sweet, right?

I suppose we could be like my parents and have wedding rings so deeply embedded into our fingers that heavy machinery couldn’t remove them. But I don’t like the thought of having something permanently attached to my body, unless it’s a vital appendage. That is, except for my full back tattoo that says “Maddux’s Daddy”. You gotta represent.

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I Need a Clean Break – IN Michiana Magazine, April 2011

24 Mar

Spring is nearly on our doorstep, and that means one thing in Michiana… probably seven more weeks of snow and an April cyclone of freezing rain. Oh, fudge.

With the new season also comes a communitywide purge of epic proportions, as we all say ‘so long’ to our five month dust collections. You probably know it as “Spring Cleaning Day”. Or, as I like to call it, “Nooooooo!”

The premise seems to make sense. Why wouldn’t you want to clear away all the funk that has accumulated in the funkiest places of your house? (For example, the floor behind the toilet. There’s enough funk there to record a James Brown album.)

But don’t let Spring Cleaning Day fool you. This tricky beast is downright dangerous. It will turn husband against wife, brother against sister and goldfish against guinea pig. And one of these days, someone is going to be killed… Pow! A Swiffer right between the eyes. He was so young, so full of life.

Spring Cleaning Day always starts innocently enough, with a family pep rally. ‘We can do it’ cheers are exchanged, accusations of eye rolls are debated and empty promises of ice cream are doled out. But a slim 15 minutes later, it’s utter chaos. Scouring pads and Soft Scrub spin into a Tasmanian Devil-style cleaning spree of doom.

Then the blame spiral begins:

“It’s the previous owner’s fault! If he’d ever cleaned this closet, it wouldn’t smell like feet!”

“It’s the stupid house’s fault! These walls are too high to dust!”

 “It’s the dumb dog’s fault! If he were bald these floors wouldn’t look like they haven’t been swept since The Cold War!”

“It’s The Cold War’s fault! The lousy former Soviet Union never used a coaster!”

Think you’re out of the woods once the screaming subsides and everyone’s neck veins return to their proper places? Think again.

Amidst the dusting and mopping, a pile begins to form in a corner. To the dimwitted “man of the house”, this mound of old McDonald’s Happy Meal toys and hand-scrawled VHS recordings of Doogie Houser, M.D. are obviously meant to be bagged-up and trucked to the local Goodwill. But he should have known better than to think for himself.

As he reaches for them the alpha female snarls viciously, flashing her incisors like a rabid coyote-badger hybrid (the most dangerous of all imaginary hybrids). Confused and cowering, the male backs off and watches as the pile continues to grow with even more useless junk.

Why can’t he touch it? What could this garbage possibly be? The devastating answer comes when the teetering pile reaches critical mass and the house belches forth a sea of Tupperware lids and holey lampshades onto the front lawn, complete with price tags.

Dear God, no. It’s a garage sale.

Wives are always planning a garage sale. To them, this justifies keeping a warehouse of old crutches and half-burned Christmas candles in the basement. As for husbands, they’d rather cram everything into the shed and pray for spontaneous combustion. But there’s no use in putting up a fight, because any argument can be stopped dead in its tracks with two simple words: ten cents.

Husband: “Who the heck is going to buy a four-watt bulb from our old refrigerator?”

Wife: “Just put ten cents on it. Someone will take it.”

Husband: “We’re selling our wedding reception centerpieces? They’re 15 years old!”

Wife: “It’s only ten cents.”

Husband: “Fine, but I’m putting our marriage license up for sale too.”

Wife: “Ten cennn.. hey!”

At least we can all agree that Spring Cleaning Day is torture for both men and women. So, let’s just get through this. If you’re a frustrated husband, make sure she’s not looking when you sneak her old “Boys II Men” cassette tape into the Goodwill bag. If you’re an exasperated wife, tell your husband you’ll take his video games away if he doesn’t stop using Windex only, on everything from toilets to countertops.

The most important thing is, we make sure the kids are working their tails off. Most of this mess is their fault anyway.

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And God said: “Let there be paper shredders.”

18 Jan

Who knew paper shredders could be so empowering? After just a few minutes of grinding gears and a whiff or two of eviscerated paper fumes (which probably cause Mesothelioma or Rickets or something), I feel more powerful than Lex Luthor. I could erase your entire puny existence with nothing more than a few dozen gnashing metal incisors! Bow before me, peons!

Pardon me. I had a Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll and it’s gone right to my head. Good thing it wasn’t another one of my Hostess Suzy Q benders or you’d have to talk me down from the roof of my neighbor’s sun room. That’s where I hide my official Suzy Q Bender Tackle Box. It’s basically just a box of Suzy Q’s in a briefcase and a Hall and Oates greatest hits CD.

But I digress.

Whilst cleaning out a closet this weekend I came across a garbage bag full of very official-looking papers with a lot of numbers on them. I knew immediately they were my wife’s papers, mostly because I’m not the type to save important papers. I’m more the type to save old Entertainment Weekly magazines with Homer Simpson on the cover.

Needless to say, her job is paying the bills. My job falls somewhere between replacing the toilet paper roll semi-monthly and making funny faces at the dog. It’s a thing we have.

Considering the minimal about of weight I pull in the bill-paying department I couldn’t really argue when she plopped those same papers down in front of me, in the form of check stubs, insurance benefit receipts and the like from the past 10 years, along with a paper shredder, and gave me a look that said, “Shred now or forever hold your peace.”

I wasn’t too keen on this whole “shredding your past life away” fad. Sure it prevents identity theft, but crooks have families too. Do you want to be the one that tells John Q. Larceny’s daughter that The Tooth Fairy couldn’t afford a quarter for her molar because your family decided to shred everything with a social security number on it?

But I digress.

I began to shred. Not in a cool Tony Hawk skateboard-shredding kind of way, more in a “Dungeons and Dragons and Red Bull is my idea of an awesome Friday!”-shredding kind of way. But it wasn’t long before my pouty façade began to brighten. As I glanced at my wife’s paperwork being destroyed before my eyes I noticed a reoccurring theme. Every check stub, every car insurance statement… had her maiden name. With every piece of paper I destroyed, I was effectively obliterating all evidence that she ever existed before our wedding day. I had complete control over her past.

The realization surged through my fingers. My eyes widened as power took root in my soul. I was immediately drunk on my own perceived supremacy. I rose with dramatic bravado and bellowed to the dog, “I. Am. Omnipotent!”

I can only assume it’s how God feels, when he’s shredding papers.

With each check stub I visualized her entire family dissolving into the ether, ala Back to the Future. Limb by limb, those who still claimed her original last name disappeared as Marty McFly looked on, helplessly. As far as the paperwork in our household was concerned, my wife was a 31-year-old anomaly, for she was “born” in 2006, on the day of our wedded bliss.

It’s not that I wanted her family to disappear. My in-laws are awesome. But when a higher power hands you a paper shredder with the power to erase lives, you can’t help but question a career in super villainy.

Sadly, my intoxicated power trip didn’t last. We must have been dumpster diving when we picked up the paper shredder, because it only chewed up documents for two minutes at a time before the “overheat light “ came on and I had to wait 10 minutes to continue shredding. You’d be surprised how much urgency for life erasures you lose when you’re hunched over a two foot plastic bin, waiting for a red overheat light to turn green.

It’s probably better this way. I would have never made it as a super villain anyway. As I said, I really like my in-laws. I also think my own mother is top notch. I have a feeling “the pros”, like The Joker and Doctor Octopus, don’t spend too much time in Hallmark searching for the perfect Mother’s Day card, let alone two Mother’s Day cards. I think my super villain street cred would have taken a hit if they caught me tearing up over one of those sappy, flowery cards with tissue paper inside.

But I digress.

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