Time for New Threads

Ask anyone I know and they’ll tell you—I desperately need new clothes.

Hell, my good friend @momomatics did a three-part series about a sweater I wore every day for almost four months when I was unemployed.

My favorite National Geographic shirt has a hole in each armpit.

The shirt I wore when my seven-year-old was born and still wear now has a bleach spot on the front.

The grey version of that shirt has white elbows from being so worn out.

And the crotch of my only pair of jeans blew out after giving me a good few years of love.

The rest of my wardrobe…a few dress clothes and tons of running shirts which smell like death.

My new job is a bit relaxed. Most days I’ll be able to wear jeans and a dress shirt or polo. So, I had to go shopping.

Shopping for clothes is like asking me to change the neighbor-kid’s diaper while watching Caillou, listening to Oprah, and eating asparagus all at the same time. I loathe shopping.

From the second I hit the front door I feel like everyone’s watching me. Like all the professional shoppers are eyeing my every move and scoring me on a approach to the pants rack, my ability to properly sift through the clearance rack, or understand that stoned washed jeans went out-of-style two decades ago.

My spontaneous decision making shows through when I’m clothes shopping. I’ll see a pair of jeans and quickly go try them on. Then I’ll see another pair of jeans and go try those on. Then another…and another. Within 15 minutes I’m sweating and just walking around the store half nude trying shit on at the racks.

I have a hard time with the jeans being sold these days. (Holy shit I sounded old just then.) They’re cut so damn low. So I keep hiking them up and my “package” gets all bunched up to one side to the point where I look like I’m some kind of pervert douchebag thrusting his junk out to the public.

And of course the wifey took off as soon as we walked in the door so I’m making really bad, spontaneous fashion decisions on my own.

After 20 minutes at Khols I’d picked out two pairs of jeans, some new boxer briefs, and a belt. Thirty minutes later I found the wifey and we bolted to Old Navy – the Mecca of teenage low-budget hipster wanna-be’s. All I wanted was to buy a variety of colored polos. Five minutes later I’m standing in line and the wifey comes walking up staring at my wadded-up pile of un-purchased shirts like I was holding a nude picture of Rosie O’Donnell.

“Seriously? Black, brown, and navy blue? Could you pick any more drab, darker colors?,” she asks as a half-dozen people around me look at my selections, then at me.

“I wear black…you know everything I wear is freakin’ black or dark. It matches that cloud over my head,” I said. Then reluctantly put the brown back and grabbed a dark red.

When I got home later I put the jeans on for the wifey and got a “oh….oh no. Oh I don’t like those at all. Wow. Well…I guess they’re OK, I’m just not used to seeing you wear something that’s in style I guess.”

I love her honesty…I just wish I could have heard it when I was standing half nude at the jeans rack in the middle of Kohls while receiving 2’s and 3’s out of a possible high score of 10 in the category “knowing when you shouldn’t be making these types of decisions on your own or without a female at your side.”



First Day Jitters

Yesterday I got the call I’ve waited four months to get. The one that contains the phrase “I have your job offer letter and we’d like you to start work tomorrow.”

I was in the middle of a huge park on a dirt path next to a waterfall when I got the word. I did a cartwheel, tripped on a root, and almost knocked my first-born into the raging river waters. It’s been a long journey—one that I’ve been so very eager to see end.

Then it hit me. She said “you start tomorrow.”

My mind sucked through the back of my head back to a time when I was just a kid getting ready for my first day of fifth grade. Still a bit sunburned from a long summer of bike riding, mowing grass, getting my ass beat by my brother, and trying to peek in on the girl living next door.

I flew home and kicked the door open in a panic. First things first – what the hell am I going to wear on my first day? I haven’t worn business clothes in months.

I remember as a kid going through my drawers and finding the coolest pair of Jams I could find. Digging through my wadded-up t-shirts I found the most bad-ass Ocean Pacific shirt and laid them on top of my red high-top Converse.

Twenty-three years later I’m laying out my suit, ironing my shirt, dusting off my dress shoes, and making sure I don’t forget to wear my lucky underwear.

Eating that night was always hard because I wouldn’t be able to shut my mind off. Will anyone remember me? Who’s class will I be in? Oh shit I hope I don’t get Ms. Jenkins, her breath smells like my dog’s ass. Then before long, I’d end up face first in the toilet vomiting up my first-day-of-school jitters.

I’m sure at some point tonight I’ll be “talking to Ralph on the big white phone.”

Then comes the sleeping. Setting the alarm clock. Then checking it once, twice, three times.

And not being able to sleep because you fear oversleeping. So you cuddle the alarm clock to make sure you don’t miss a single beep when it finally decides to go off. And it seems you’re waking up every 15 minutes to look at it.

Then the day arrives. You’re dressed and ready to go in record time. Back in the day I would have combed my hair 30 times and checked out my “look” from all angles. I’d make sure I knew exactly how to carry my book-bag so my cool factor would be at the optimum level. Double checked make sure my mom gave me my new Transformers lunch box instead of the Garfield one I carried last year when I was a baby.

Now, I just worry about whether my zipper’s open, that I have my wallet, and that I don’t say “fuck” on the first day.

Tomorrow I start a new job. Tomorrow I get a fresh start. This journey of nearly four months of unemployment has taught me so very much about myself, my friends, family, and the hell many people in this country are dealing with on a daily basis.

I’m very fortunate in so many ways.

I Fantasize About You....

So a few months ago I started “following” on Twitter this ballsy, cunning, and very funny lady named @IEatMyKidzSnack. She’s kind of like a mix between a sleeping lioness, a unicorn spewing Skittles, and that chick from college who did nothing but take bong hits and spew phenomenal one-liners that had you pissing your pants in laughter.

Her Tweets are hilarious but if you choose to talk directly to her, you better buckle-up and get ready. She’ll tell it like it is, wrapping up her 140-character response with one of her many endearing patented adjectives like “lover” or “assjacket.”

Anyway, enough about her (oh, she has a blog too. Go check her Electrical Box.)

One dark and dreary day I got a tweet from her that read:

“I fantasize you do ‘jazz hands’ after you orgasm.”

Anyone who knows me understands that when you drop a bomb on me like that…I’m gonna obsess over retaliation. So I thought…and thought…and then dropped on her:

“I fantasize about you Googling something and it returning 100,000 ‘go fuck yourself’ results.”

From that point on a vicious “I fantasize about” match has ensued.

So I throw it to you World…read the top 20 “fantasies” below, and then comment and let us know who you think is dominating the battle. (pppssssttt….. over here…come here… Hey, if you pick me I’ll give you a giraffe and my kids for the summer. Just sayin’!)

And now…..the top 20 “Fantasies” between @ieatmykidzsnack and @whyisdaddycryin:

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you getting wet every time Pinocchio tells a lie.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize asking you to play rock, paper, scissors and you bringing me crack, rolling papers and lesbians. You are sick.” 

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you getting a colonic and 7 gerbils, 2cats and Gary Coleman come out.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize your wife telling you she wants Stove Top Stuffing & you waiting in the kitchen with your pants down all day.” 

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you running a prosperous business smuggling families of Mexicans across the border in your vagina.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize going on the Amazing Race with you and trading your passport for weed.” 

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about swapping your bong water out with cat urine.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize that you keep Snausages in your boxer briefs so dogs lick your crotch.” 

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize that you make Susan Boyle look like Jennifer Aniston standing next to you.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you drunkenly pissing in your Neti Pot and forgetting before you use it to clear your sinuses.”

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about Octomom and Justin Bieber getting restraining orders against you?”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you taking too many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop and it falling asleep.”

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you running down a flower-covered hill like Laura Ingalls only with 3 bears & a giraffe chasing after you.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you going for acupuncture but end up getting gender reassignment surgery.”

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you calling Sarah Palin's daughter regularly for life advice.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you going to Chuck E. Cheese and getting shanked with a spork by a 3 year old.”

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about you going in to the dentist & them reading your chart wrong & stapling your vagina shut permanently.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you going on Fear Factor & having 3 minutes to eat a bull’s testicles & time running out with one bite left.”

WhyIsDaddyCrying: “I fantasize about your therapist giving you up for Lent.”

IEatMyKidzSnack: “I fantasize you needing a taint episiotomy.”

OK world…judge us.

My Little Rat Bastards

We can’t have nice things and we all might as well be naked.

Anyone with kids knows this fact. Nothing is sacred anymore.

Peeing at the toilet—you might as well be peeing at half court during the NCAA tournament.

Furniture—globs of dried snot, food, and baby jesus knows what else all over it. Yeah, you want to come visit me now don’t you?

Car—it looks like a muddy soccer game took place while a Crayola factory exploded inside my Nissan.

Nothing’s off limits with these damn kids.

The daughter’s just a messy beast.

She’s broken long-standing records of being able to completely trash a room at mach speed. Sunday morning the wifey was busy defending herself from my quest for morning sex while we continued to hear the pitter-patter of the daughter’s feet back and forth between her room and downstairs.

When I finally surrendered and decided to go make coffee I walked down stairs only to find a massive doll house, two baby doll cribs, five Zhu Zhu pets and two dozen stuffed animals being read-to by my daughter, and what looked like the biggest cat-fight between a gaggle of Barbies strewn all over the couch. Oh, and she apparently had “breakfast cooking for us” on the toy stove, refrigerator, and sink that was set up in the middle of the room. All toys she gathered from her room and the basement into our living room.

The boy is a damn disgusting, snot-filled tornado.

When he has a cold he refuses to breathe through his mouth so all you hear snot being shuffled around in his nose as bubbles randomly escape. He loves to crawl on the floor of public places; go under tables at dinner; touch nasty, dirty things laying on the ground; and every one of his shirts and coats have crusted sleeves from constantly rubbing them along his nose.

And unfortunately he inherited the profound skill of being able to just flat-out break shit. When I was dating the wifey in high school, I broke lamps, chairs, tables, dishes and so much else at her mother’s house.

The finest example of my son’s skill I can provide are these three lovely trophies sampled from the boy’s trophy collection.

This baseball trophy used to sport one kick-ass bat that actually made t-ball look like the manliest sport ever invented.

I loved this bobble-head soccer trophy...it didn't even survive the car ride home before his head sprung out of joint making him look like Rain Man trophy.

This Pele-looking bad ass flying through the air to score the deciding game-winning goal lost his foot a while back. We have it in a baggy sitting next to the trophy in the boy's room.

But I wouldn’t have them any other way. Despite seeing the girl licking the window on the train heading into the city… Despite the boy picking up a lonely discarded M&M along the street and eating it… Despite the fact every time you tickle my daughter she sounds like a Whoopee cushion going off… Despite the fact my boy won’t let me see him naked, but every time I pee he’s right there staring… I wouldn’t change a damn thing about them.

They’re disgusting, dirty, hilarious and beautiful. They’re my rat bastard kids.

Gimmie Back My Sweater Woman!!!

Hi, my name is WhyIsDaddyCrying and I’m addicted to wearing the same green-striped sweater every day. It’s been six days since I wore my sweater.

How am I able to make such a comment? Because my former really good family friend @momomatics (now a person I know and might give an occasional glance to) stole my damn sweater last weekend. Here’s a quick back story.

For the past three months since I became unemployed I’ve slowly become a piece of shit. Reasons to shower first thing in the morning become few and far between. The desire to slide a razor along your face to keep that “clean-cut look” dies completely. And, the wearing the same outfit every day seems to become the only comforting regularity you can latch to.

My green sweater became my security blanky.

One day the wifey said, “honey, you seriously need to wash that thing.” So I did, and found myself naked and camped out in front of the washer and dryer rocking back and forth for two hours till all was said and done.

A few weeks later our friends started to notice. “Hey man, ummmm….how many of those sweaters do you have?” And my head snapped immediately towards them in disgust. How could I ever betray my sweater with a second, or third sweater. I’m faithful damn it!

I mean…it was there with me at the top of the Sears Tower.

During family moments like decorating the Christmas Tree!

Volunteering at my kid’s class and playing games!

Then I woke up last weekend after hosting a family get-together with @momomatics family and it was gone. GONE!!!!

After I finally got over the shakes and sweats, it became all too clear…an intervention had begun. My three-month stint of time with my sweater had come to a forceful end.

And to make matters even worse I discovered it wasn’t an intervention…worse—it’s aversion therapy! @momomatics is chronicling this “aversion therapy” on her blog. She’s not only taken my sweater, but she’s making it experience all of my worst nightmares. Chucky-Cheese….the fucking BUTCHER!!!!

While I continue to wallow, drink too much, and cry….go check out the crux of my pain at @momomatics blog.

Part 1 of the Sweater Chronicles: The Abduction – Also Called – The Night We Made WhyIsDaddyCrying Cry

Part 2 of the Sweater Chronicles: Aversion Therapy

She claims part 3 is coming any day…hopefully my sweater is coming home soon after. Although after that sweaty meat-holding bastard wore it….