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Why is Daddy Crying?

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Entries in beer (17)


I'm Having Visions!

I got a glimpse of what life could possibly be like with kids who actually do things around the house.

I was making hamburgers for the family to shove down their throats when I thought, “I should totally ask the boy if he wants to learn how to grill.”

Seeing as every dude is born with the small molecule called “if it involves a flame and eatable flesh count me in,” I figured the boy would answer with a resounding “yes!”

“YES!!” he yelled! I was right.

As I stood there watching him flip the burgers, astonished that he’d managed to not combust into a screaming pile of flames, a small beam of hope crept through my body causing a smile to appear across my face.

Visions of me coming home from work to find the daughter folding her clean laundry as the boy puts the finishing touches on my filet mignon replaced outdated visions taking up space in my head. Visions of strippers saying “no silly, you don’t need to pay us, these dances are on the house,” left my brain to make room for my expanding perfect children scenario.

My smile got larger as I imagined sitting on my lawn chair drinking an ice cold beer as the boy mowed the lawn while the daughter watered the plants.

Next thing I knew my children were suddenly wearing delightfully clean and proper clothes. The boy in his blue trousers and sporty ironed shirt was asking, “Father? Would you like another beer?”

My overly helpful daughter clad in a stunning full-length sundress bursts from the door announcing, “no need, I have already fetched one for him. Here you are father!!”

And that’s when I notice my perfectly prim helpful children were speaking with English accents.

Blood was flowing through my body like a young teenager sneaking a peek at his mother’s friend’s cleavage.

I had convinced myself in a matter of 1.5 minutes that by simply supervising my son’s first attempt at grilling hamburgers I was altering time and setting into motion the very events that would turn my children…PERFECT!

I was a freakin’ genius and I had to tell someone immediately!!

Grabbing my beer I flew open the back door, found my loving wife, and quickly explained the awesomeness that was the perfect children formula I just created.

Her response?

“So where is your perfect son right now Mr. Genius?”

“OH SHIT! The grill!!” I screamed running to the backyard hoping I didn’t see my vision of brilliance literally going up in flames.

I didn’t.

Instead I found the boy catching fire flies while our delicious dinner transformed into hard, black, round weapons of mass destruction.

“Grayson?! What happened to dinner dude?”

The boy stopped, thought for a second, then said, “But you like to cook daddy.”

It was at that moment that I finally realized that I’m a total idiot and that I will forever be stuck serving my precious little children.

But, at least I still had my stripper vision.



What Us Dudes Do When Left Alone

So the wife and kids have been in North Carolina since Saturday and they’re going to be there for the next three weeks visiting family, going to the beach, hitting parties, and just living the good life.

Me? I’m left behind with the damn cat, the stupid dog, and my jobby job.

Us dudes crave alone time…as do the ladies I’m sure. I’ve been dreaming about this family vacation that I’m not a part of for months now.

But when it finally comes to fruition, well, it’s not all it’s cracked-up to be.

I mean getting all the time you want in the bathroom AND being able to keep the door open? Pretty damn sweet.

Getting pictures sent from the wife of the kids having an amazing time at the beach. Sucks.

Having the ice cream man drive down your street without getting barraged by children screaming “daddy I want ice cream please please please please please!!!?!!!” is like Christmas early.

Climbing into an empty bed…sucks.

Taking a picture of yourself at midnight brushing your teeth? A whole batch of dumb instigated by boredom.

Walking by the kids’ rooms and seeing their empty beds day after day after day? Sucks.

Doing a cartwheel in the hallway naked just to see if you’re physically capable of doing it and hitting your head on the wall? Awesome!

Not having sex for three weeks? Hold on…I’m tearing-up again…I’ll be right back.

Sliding into your room naked in front of a mirror and only wearing socks while singing at the top of your lungs? Scary but awesome.

Cleaning the entire kitchen and living room and not being able to brag about how you “helped around the house?” Sucks

Yelling at the half gallon of milk in the fridge because it’s taking up too much beer storage space? Things are going downhill at this point but still awesome.

Getting amazing news that you’ve gotten a new job and can’t celebrate because you’re family’s gone for three weeks? Sucks

So as you can see it’s a win/lose situation. But in the end I’m so happy the family gets to experience those great summer vacations.

I just hope with this new job, next summer I’ll be with them.



The Age of Not Listening

It’s starting to happen.

The boy is getting the taste of the tragic disease which doctors call the “I’M NOT LISTENING” syndrome. What does it stand for?

The horrific I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is an acronym for “I May Not Open These Listening Instruments So Try Elling Nomeone Ielse Noure Guff!” (screw you!!! I tried to come up with an explanation for the acronym but damn all those n’s and ending with a g!!! Think you can do better?  Leave it in the comments!!!)

Anyway, the I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is basically where a kid, usually a teenager, completely, totally and blatantly ignores and defies your commands whilst in a public arena.

As with most kids these days, the syndrome seems to be hitting kids at a younger age. And…well, our boy has been infected.

It first starts out with him ignoring your first request while looking at the other adults for approval remarks that tell him "yes…yes I am being a bad-ass."

All it takes is one misread gesture and it all goes downhill from there.

You want examples don’t you?

Example #1

Standing with a group of neighbors enjoying the afternoon, a few beers and riveting conversation when all of a sudden the boy decides it would be genius to show the world his razor like precision of a soccer ball kick in our direction.

Me: “Grayson! Please don’t kick the ball in our…”

*The ball goes flying and I stop it mere inches from destroying the face of a neighbor.

Me: “Seriously Grayson!!! Really!!?! Come on, you know better.”

*As he launches ball #2 towards the group nailing the wife in the butt.

Me: “Grayson!!! Do you hear the words that are coming out of my mouth, son!!?!”

The Boy: “Can I have the balls back? I want to kick them again?”

Me: “You must be insane!!!”

The Boy: “What? It’s just soccer.”

Me: “I told you twice to not kick them at us and you didn’t listen and kicked them anyway.”

*Two minutes later ball #3 slams into my back causing me to drop my beer. I turn with “that look” and the boy takes off in a sprint that would make Hussein Bolt look like a chump.

Example #2

 Me: “Grayson, go brush your teeth.”

*The boy plays with the dog.

Me: “Grayson…seriously man! Go brush your teeth for bed!”

*The boy glances at dinner guests in the next room sipping their wine, then continues to play with the dog.

Me: “You know I know where you sleep right? You know that there’s no way you could possibly stay awake longer than me EVER! Right!!?!”

*The boy talks over me calling for the dog to do a trick.

Me: “You know you’ve told me the girl you think is cute in your class and I could rat you out with one simple little Facebook posting right?”

The Boy: “Love you dad! Goodnight! I’m off to go brush my teeth!”

And that’s my new weapon against the syndrome. “Humiliation.”

I didn’t just spend eight years of my life wiping his butt, picking his boogers, and cleaning his puke just to raise a delightful well-rounded boy.

No, I did it so I could have a life-time of memories which could be used against him at the right moment to get what I want!! In this case…it’s to get him to do what I say the first time.

So stand back Grayson, daddy’s going to win this public war.

Go ahead, ignore me when I ask if you to brush your teeth or go put your shoes on. I just might have a picture of you reading a book while sitting on the baby shitter in the playroom.

Bring it on buddy!!



Alcohol Filled Grenades

Remember those days when you used to be able to pour a beer or glass of wine or both, and leave them sitting on the counter or coffee table and they would be there when you got back?

Since the infestation of children in our lives, alcoholic beverages have been like grenades throughout the house.

You place them down and walking away is like pulling the pin. You have just seconds before it’s knocked over, shattered, kicked, or used because, “my horsey wanted some water.”

And literally making matters worse…my damn cat is obsessed with knocking over full glasses of liquid.

I have a mental list of areas throughout the house that are not only out of the reach of the kids, but tight enough that my fat-ass cat has no chance in cat-hell to get anywhere near it.

Those spots are almost as precious as those along the wooden steps in our house that don’t creak in the early morning when the children are on the brink of cock-blocking a solid hour of silence, coffee, and the newspaper.

The trouble is always remembering if I’d finished that beer or placed it in one of my sacred kid-free places.

If it’s a particular late night with friends I’ll spend a good half-hour on a scavenger hunt searching for half-full beers or overflowing glasses of wine. Somewhere in the middle I’d ultimately get completely turned around checking and re-checking spots.

Eventually, our guests will find me in the fetal position, sucking my thumb, crying and carving messages into the wall with my jagged thumbnail.

But I guess everything in the house suffers the same possible destruction.

When I was dating the wifey in high school I was notorious for breaking lamps, vases and chairs in her mom’s house. Clumsy, no self control and stupidity were the main culprits.

So who am I to judge the nippers for being who they are and just flat out flailing around the house in the midst of a giggle-filled tickle rages and taking down beers, wine and lamps in their wake?

Maybe I should just attach flashing beacons to my beers. That way I’d always know where I left them.

Either that or I’d spend way too much time having seizures.


All I Can Do Is Cut Grass

It’s true…I’m anything but a man’s man.

Actually let’s clarify that a bit. I’m not metrosexual by any stretch. In fact, I’ve had the same wardrobe for probably two decades now and when I smell Axe body spray it makes me want to throw bricks at the dude’s head.

No, I just mean that I can’t do a single handy-man thing to save my life.

I could sit and talk soccer, biking, running, and beer with the best of them. But anything beyond that…I’m struggling.


A few years ago I rip my shirt off one Saturday morning, beat the hell out of my chest, and claim “today I will change out the garbage disposal.”

I grab a couple wrenches, place myself in precarious positions, and smile occasionally at the wife who’s standing there just shaking her head. Ten minutes later, I’m holding two pipes together as best I can to keep water from flooding our entire house while my wife frantically calls a plumber who says, “you know it’s a Saturday and I’m gonna charge you triple over time to come out there?”

For one damn hour I held those pipes together before paying some dude $150 to turn a shut-off valve that was less than 30 yards from where I laid. We then paid him another $300 to fix what I clearly fucked up.


The worst is when I take my car in to be worked on. Inevitably I’m asked, “what make, model, and year is your car?”

I’m always “…uhh…it’s a….ummm…”

Then I immediately act like I’m getting a phone call on my cell phone and I’m all, “oh..hold on, I’ve got a call” which I fake while I walk outside and fumble through the glove box to find anything that will tell me what in the hell I’m driving.


When my wife moved in with me back in 1997 (holy shit I’m old) she brought with her a phenomenal collection of really “cute” tools. They are all sized to fit perfectly in your tiny purse so that no one could ever know you were wielding a Phillips head or flat nosed. (I had to Google those to know what I was talking about.)

I’ve bought some tools over the years, but the cutesy, very very tiny screw drivers still dominate the tool collection. And yes, there’s been many a time when friends have come to my rescue to help with a job and said, “throw me a Phillips head” and I embarrassingly drop my head in shame as I hand them this tiny, itsy bitsy tool that could only help if your model trains broke down in your basement.

So in short…if you need serious work done on your house, car….or well shit, anything…don’t call me.

But if you want someone to stand idly by drinking beer, making you laugh, and referring to shitting as “going boom boom” – well then I’m your guy!!

Oh, and I can cut the living hell out of some grass.