Things I Miss When the Mother-In-Law Visits

For the past week my wife’s mother’s been hanging out at the abode helping referee the kids during their never-ending spring break.

She hopped off the plane direct from North Carolina last week and has since managed to keep our kitchen clean, our clothes folded, and our kids corralled.

Am I about to complain even for a second? Hell no.

But despite the love she’s shown, you can’t help but look forward to getting life back to the way it was, right? I mean, let’s contemplate the top few things I miss when my saint of a mother-in-law is in the hizouse:

• Enjoying a rare 15 min. of semi-interrupted time on the only toilet in the house without having to deal with my insecurities and psychotic thoughts surrounding someone else knowing that I pooped.It’s true, I have serious issues surrounding pooping in public and other’s knowing that I’ve just pooped. But that’s another story for another time.

• Knowing my (men’s underwear + panties = ) manties have not been touched by anyone but myself or the wife.

I’m not gonna lie. I love coming home after work and seeing piles of neatly folded laundry relaxing on top of my made bed.

But what gets me a bit freaked is when I see my manties folded neatly in a perfect square to be kindly put away for safe keeping. I mean, she’s touching where all my dangly bits touch!!

• Yelling at my dog without her saying, “awe, he’s just a puppy.”

My common response is, “you pet him he’s yours Ms. Mother-In-Law person!!”

• OK damn it…I masturbate. There, I said it. Can I do it when the mother-in-law is in the house? Yes! But it’s gotta be strategic, stealthy, and no mistakes can happen. And sometimes that’s just damn exhausting. But I do it anyway… I mean no I don’t!!

• There’s nothing better than walking downstairs completely nude at 5 a.m., fixing a cup of coffee, and just chilling for 30 minutes in the buff before pounding out some miles on the road with a run.

Can I do that with the slightly older Mrs. Wife in the abode? No….it’s just too damn risky. For her sake that is….

• I’m a habitual toucher of the wife. I’m the guy that can’t help myself but to lovingly tap the wife’s buttocks when she walks by or on rare occasions, cop a feel in her upper regions. And, like most women, it usually results in a “can’t I just walk by you without you groping me?” comment.

To which I usually respond, “I’m just celebrating your gorgeous body sweety!”

It’s just not the same when her mother’s watching. You’d think it would be better…but it’s just not.

I could go on…but I’ll save you.

And since my mother-in-law is known to randomly surf my blog, I’ll just end it with:

I love you Nanna!!



I Get Drunk For A Friend

I got an email from a long-time high school red-headed sexy lady friend of mine early last week asking if I’d like to get drunk so she can blog about it.

I immediately ran to the store, bought amazing bottles of wine, drank them, passed out, and woke up with a killer headache and my son poking me in the eye saying “wake up daddy! Why are you sleeping on the toilet again?”

After 27 glasses of water I regained my senses and wrote my friend Page back, “YES!!! But where and why?”

See, my friend Page* has this awesome blog called The Mommy Quack. It’s good good stuff, READ IT

*Sidebar: I’m a huge redhead fan. My son’s a redhead and Page is a long-time friend and the poster child of why redheads rock – sexy, funny, brilliant, and just damn good people.  

Back to the story.

Recently Page fell in love with the delicious margarita pre-mixed Skinny Girl. Peppering her hilarious writing abilities with a batch of the insanity of mommyhood and a side of alcoholic relief, she launched a new blog HERE.

That’s when I received the email asking if I’d be the first male guinea pig to try the stuff.

My thinking? It’s alcohol…so ummm….yes!!!!

My second thinking? I should definitely involve the wife.

We make immediately make the purchase, bring it home and begin the consummation. I know it’s not the right word damn it!!!

The wife and I sit on the couch and we take a big sip.

Clicking and clapping our pallets like we’re professional connoisseurs we look at each other and say, “this shit ain’t half bad!”

And that’s when the glasses get filled to the top. The TV gets changed to the 90s station and I run upstairs to throw some deodorant on cause it’s starting to look like a little something-something might happen thanks to the magic of Skinny Girl.

One Hour Later: “Skinny Girl” is now being called “Skinnaaa Guuurl” and the wife is icing her hip from falling down the stairs after going to pee.

90 Minutes Later: The wife and I are sitting on the couch talking serious shit about how the “Skinnaaa Guuuurl” on the label needs to stop flaunting her ass in front of all the hard-working moms and find some damn couth.

Two Hours Later: The wife says: “I think two. It would take me two swings to your head with this empty bottle before it breaks.”

Two Hours and One Minute Later: The empty Skinny Girl bottle is carefully hidden from my wife ever finding it again.

Two Hours and Ten Minutes Later: The wife and I are playing spin the bottle and for some damn reason I keep losing.

Two Hours and Thirty Minutes Later: The wife walks into the room with the cell phone cupped in her hands and says, “OK…I have the Skinny Girl local sales rep on the phone. Do we want two cases a week or ten? Oh!!! And I agreed to get a Skinnaaaa Guuuurrrll car decal on both the car hoods!!”

Two Hours and Thirty-Six Minutes Later: I’m in the car on the way to the store to buy more Skinny Girl to sooth the wife from the disappointment of an 18-wheeler showing up at our front door with the Skinny Girl.

Three Hours Later: The wife and I are on our way to the tattoo shop to get “Skinny Gurl for Life” tattooed on our forheads.

Five Hours Later: The wife and I fall asleep in a pile of hot marital unsexiness with blood dripping from our new awesome tattoos.

Eleven Hours Later: Our son walks into our room and kicks me awake saying “daddy? Why do you have “Sk…..skinn……skinny guuuuurl tattooed on your forehead?”

And why does mommy have an earring through her nose?”

Skinny Girl. It’s a parental lifestyle that we’ll forever be hooked on.

Keep up the awesome Page!!

The Eye-Closed Talking Doctor

I’ve been complaining for the past three weeks about the plague that’s over-taken our lovely square-shaped abode.

The boy kicked things off with a stellar four-day 103-temperature caused by a lovely viral infection.

I quickly followed by becoming victim #2.

I’ll save you the details and leave you with the knowledge that my wife is a freakin’ saint for having to deal with sick me.

Then…the girl caught it.

Envision Gary Coleman stuck in quicksand, wearing a straight jacket, while saying the ABCs backwards and trying his hardest to take steroids away from Hulk Hogan. That’s what my daughter’s immune system is like trying to fight any sickness.

For five days she’s been dealing with a fever, pink eye in both eyes, and yesterday morning…puking.

So, yesterday afternoon we decided enough’s enough and that’s when we took her to the doctor.

I’m a bit of a germ freak…for the main reason that I don’t want to get sick. So walking into a pediatrician’s office is like asking me to lick just one ball from a Chuck-E-Cheese ball pit.

My visits usually start with me walking in holding all the door handles so my already sick daughter doesn’t – stupid, I know.

I walk up to the counter and immediately locate and use the hand sanitizer thingy.

I then sign in and get another squirt after putting the pen down.

This is followed by me having to pick the pen back up to sign my co-pay receipt which is quickly followed by another sanitizing squirt.

I’m exhausted just writing this.

We make it back to the waiting room and that’s when the doctor rolls in.

Completely ignoring me he walks up to my daughter and asks her what’s been wrong. Knowing damn well my six-year-old shy-as-hell daughter wasn’t going to give him the blow-by-blow of her illness I chimed in.

He looks her over, does some kid-friendly stuff to get her to cooperate, then gets on the computer to log-in the diagnosis while we wait.

That’s when it happens.

The man turns to me, looks me in the eyes for a split second, closes his eyes and proceeds to explain to me his diagnosis of my daughter’s current condition without opening his eyes again.

I’m sitting there all “is this guy for real? Is this a joke? Should I wave my hand in front of his eyes to see if maybe he’s just got lazy eyelids? Should I look at my daughter and ask her if she’s watching this freaky shit go down too? Should I kindly reach out and thump him in the forehead? Is he broken?”

I was overwhelmed with what was happening right before my eyes!

He was an eye-closing talker.

People who close their eyes for extended periods of time while talking to you scare the shit out of me.

As do:

• The person that looks ever-so-slightly above your head and to the left as they’re talking to you. It freaks me the hell out! Do they see dead people behind me?
• The cold limp handshake giver. That will seriously get you throat-punched.
• The mumbler. Nothing more needs to be said.
• The crowder. I need my space damn it. Respect it.  Just because we’re sharing words doesn’t mean I want you to see, smell and almost taste what you had for lunch.
• The pontificator. The guy who talks to you with his hands behind his back the entire time. Why? It’s not even comfortable…not since you were in the third grade!
• And of course the antithesis of the eye-closing talker…the starer. Every conversation to this person is a staring contest. When you look away just so you can freakin’ blink again you expect this person so scream “I WIN!!”

Finally, the eye-closed talking doctor opened his eyes scaring the ever loving shit out of me because I was leaning so far forward trying to figure him out.

Fumbling around gathering my daughter and my things I thanked him and left in a huge rush, even forgoing the hand sanitizing as I leave ritual.

Walking to the car in the parking lot I got the wife on the phone.

Wife: “So, what’s wrong with her?”

Me: “The doctor closes his eyes when he speaks, honey.”

Wife: “What ?”

Me: “Yeah…I got the doctor who keeps his eyes closed the ENTIRE time he’s talking to you. Do you realize how insanely freaky that is to me? Have you seen this guy?”

Wife: “Wow…really? Seriously? Can you not just tell me what is wrong with our daughter?”

Me: “Oh shit.”

Wife: “What? Where’s Macy? Did you leave her in there?”

Me: “No, I have her right here but I was so busy obsessing about the eye-closed talking doctor that I didn’t hear anything he said.”

I quickly concluded that since I didn’t walk out with any prescriptions it must be a viral infection. Genius…I know.

I also concluded that not only do I hope to never come in contact with freaky eye-closed talking doctor again…but I’m definitely going to be him for this Halloween.



Thanks Super Moon

So, this past weekend we got a big ole fat taste of Super Moon.

This wonderful phenomenon only comes around every 18 years according to the Interwebs.

Let me just say I’m a huge believer in that full moons screw with people’s minds. Anything capable of controlling the ebb and flow of massive bodies of oceans is one badass mother and surely able to toss our little watery brains off kilter.  

And it’s not just that Super Moon is a one-night phenomenon – no! It’s a slow build-up and release.

Prove it?

You got it! Here are some concrete examples:

1) This past Saturday I woke with a somewhat typical “morning man issue.” I got up, managed to use the facilities, got back in bed and slept for another hour. When I woke…my morning man issue was still “standing strong.”

For the next four hours my little buddy stood proudly making even a heavy-duty prescription of Viagra jealous of me. Only two things have the capability of doing that to me….Jennifer Aniston, or Super Moon.

2) I got a zit…ON MY KNEE!

Who in the holy hell gets a zit on their knee?

I immediately called Guinness World Record s and was all, “yeah, that’s right, on my knee. A zit, on my knee. Whitehead, red around the sides…I’d take a picture, but that would require me to move and I’m scared to bend my knee cause it might make it pop!”

Apparently they don’t keep track of odd zit locations on people’s bodies. Picky bastards.

3) Rebecca Black is sweeping the world with stardom. This talentless 13-year-old girl whos mommy paid $2,000 to have a professional video made of her daughter’s horrific celebration of a Friday has dominated the internet AND is climbing the top 25 music downloads on iTunes.

Only Super Moon has the ability to sway that many people into making such a horrific choice in music.

4) Super Moon saved Charlie Sheen!

Think about it…he’s rumored to be getting his old job back, Fox is supposedly offering him something, his wife dropped the restraining order, he broke a world record for selling out his one-man show tour…

Charlie Sheen’s luck didn’t start turning around until Super Moon rolled up!

I could probably go on for hours, but I’ll spare you.

The point is, 18 years from now when Super Moon starts making its badass journey to a nighttime sky near you, remember what it’s capable of.

Respect Super Moon.

My Loud-Ass Son

What’s a normal morning like in our humble little abode?

Our family slumbers peacefully as dreams of bunnies, cotton candy, and Jennifer Aniston fill the air.

My eight-year-old son slowly raises his head, steadies his eyes and surveys the room to see if there’s even the slightest smidge of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

He then climbs backwards down the ladder from his loft.

Half way down he stops, places feet side by side, then leaps landing firmly on the ground as if this swan-like move would set-off sparkles, lights, and song birds filling the air with joyous sounds celebrating Grayson’s entry into a new day.

Instead, I leap five feet in the air screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” as the windows still rattle.

Just then the boy walks by our room naked except for his little tighty-whities on his way to the bathroom.

I lay back down trying to calm myself as I listen to his pee randomly hit the floor, then the toilet water, then the floor, then the toilet water. I try to figure out what he’s spelling.  

Just as I begin to find a happy place, WAM!!!!  The sound of the toilet seat and lid slamming onto the porcelain of the bowl has me clawing at the sheets.

My wife…sleeps through every second of this.

As he walks by I firmly whisper, “Grayson!! Stop being so loud. Your sister doesn’t go into school till 11 a.m.!! We want her to sleep AND you’re gonna wake up the dog!!”

“Fiiiiiinnnnuh daddy!” he says in a louder than normal tone reeking of “what the hell’s your problem old man?”

I look at the clock and see he’s up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. I reach over and just as I start to turn the alarm off I hear, RUFF….RUFF…..RUFF!!!

Followed by my son screaming at the top of his lungs, “DADDY???!!! I CAN’T FIND A MATCHING SOCK!!!”

The wife picks her head off the pillow reaching for her phone to see what time it is just as a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I slowly rise and throw on some clothes. As I walk out of my room I run smack into the daughter who’s carrying her blanky and headed towards the stairs.

“Morning daddy! Can I have cereal? I’m hungry?,” she says in her precious little princess voice a mere four-and-a-half hours before she needs to be at school.

“DADDY?!!,” screams the boy who’s standing literally seven feet away, “did you find a sock? And I don’t want cereal…can you make waffles?”

“I don’t want waffles!!!,” screams the darling six-year-old girl as the dog is now clawing at his cage while yipping and barking to join in the hellish ordeal taking place at 6:30 a.m.

And from there it continues.

All because of my loud-ass son.