Where The Hell Did My Dude-Mojo Go?

This past weekend the wife tossed the kids and all their accoutrements in the car and drove 18 hours to Greensboro, North Carolina to spend the week with our family. I just started a new job in March, so I haven’t earned enough vacation time to where I could take a week off to join in on the trip. So…I was left behind.

I was stoked to be thrown in a spot where I’d have a solid week alone. I’ll admit, when they first drove down the street, I was sad. My daughter had cranked out a cute little picture and my son telling me how much he’d miss me was still ringing in my ears.

I walked back in the house, put on some coffee, walked upstairs, peed, then started to put the seat down when I realized, “what the hell are you doing man?

I immediately threw the seat back up with authority and walked out of the bathroom a new man.

It was time to be a freakin’ dude again. Storming down the stairs with a mission I walked in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and quickly found myself sidetracked by all the dirty dishes. Immediately I started cleaning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the counters, and ten minutes later found myself wiping down all the cabinets with cleaner.

Who the hell had I become? I had an entire house to myself and all I could do was think about dropping toilet seats and having a clean kitchen.

Fortunately the World Cup, USA vs. Ghana game was coming on. But it didn’t get any better. By half time I was drinking white wine and standing on my front doorstep wondering what flowers I should buy for the new front flowerbed I had made.

Instance after instance I found myself doing non-dude stuff.

Finally, I’d had enough. So I went down to the basement, watched porn, then laced up my running shoes and went out for a run. Refreshed and ready to get my man-mojo back, I showered, didn’t shave, and left the deodorant right where it was sitting.

Twenty minutes later I was drinking red wine, eating brie and crackers and watching the news. Now I’d apparently turned 80.

That’s when I decided to just embrace who the hell I’ve become. So what if I plan on spending a couple hours in the garden. So what if I look in the mirror and criticize my body every time I get out of the shower. So what if a tiny tear appeared in my eye at the end of Toy Story 3.

I’m still going to fart, drink beer, watch a few baseball games, run, and check out women at the grocery store. Cause I AM a dude damn it.

I’m a dude with a wife and kids who have apparently spent many dark nights slowly pumping small amounts of estrogen in me while I sleep.

It's Fantasy Father's Day Time

So Sunday’s our big day dudes!! This is it…our time to shine. Our time to throw our chests out like we’re the hardest working hooker on the block.

It’s Father’s Day!!

For some reason I always get my hopes up for this holiday - like a kid before Christmas. I imagine it being an epic holiday and find myself getting more and more jazzed as the day approaches. Then…well, the reality of fatherhood slaps me in the face.

Here. Let me illustrate for you. Take a gander at my fantasy Father’s Day versus the real Father’s Day.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Wake up to a warm, naked wife with freshly brushed teeth kissing me while her hands wander about under the sheets.

Reality Father’s Day

Son with ass-breath standing inches from my face saying, “DADDY!!! Wake-up daddy! I’m hungry. Can I have breakfast pplllleeeassse!!!?”

Fantasy Father’s Day

Wake up from post-sex morning nap to find my wife handing me a warm cup of coffee and the Sunday Times. She says, “hey, I’m gonna take the kids to the grocery store, why don’t you go for a nice long run, take a shower, then I’ll give your feet and legs a good rub-down.”

Reality Father’s Day

Walk downstairs to a destroyed kitchen with cat puke on the floor. Step on one of my daughter’s Zhu Zhu Pets, find there’s no more cream in the refrigerator, and roll my eyes as I answer the boy’s same question six times in a row.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Walk downstairs after my foot-rub and my living room is filled with all the top dudes in my life, a keg, and golf on the big screen TV!

Reality Father’s Day

I don’t get a run in, the kids refuse to eat their breakfast and start breaking down when I click off their favorite TV channel.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Golf’s over and a party van rolls up in front to the house to pick up the dudes and me. Once inside we realize all the wives got baby-sitters and we’re all gonna rip Chi-Town up for the night!

Reality Father’s Day

The girl pee’s herself, the boy’s hamster has escaped, and the wife “really wants to take advantage of that sale at Kohl’s tonight.” I open the refrigerator to find only one beer and it’s a damn Milwaukee’s Best and we’re out of wine.

While my fantasy Father’s Day would be bad-ass…I admit, I’d take the reality Father’s Day any day because without it, I wouldn’t have earned the right to stick my chest out in pride that day.

I’m just kidding…Give me the Fantasy Father’s Day!!! It’s just one day I’m asking for!!

Happy Father’s Day dudes!!!

I'm a Selfish Prick

The family and I took a stroll through downtown Chicago yesterday to snap a few photos of my boy’s Flat Stanely for his “what Flat Stanley and I did during Spring Break” homework project. As we’re walking around Millennium Park I notice a family with four kids come strolling by.

My normal response to seeing families with three or more children is to drop to my knees and give big props to the magnificent creature who thought-up the procedure to make a man’s testicles incapable of producing baby-batter ever again.

After completing this feat, I dusted off my knees and continued to watch in amazement to see how this family would deal with four young kids in a tourist-infested area. And what I saw was the wife, slowly, strategically backing away from the family and then disappearing into the crowd. It was absolutely magical.

I so badly wanted to call her out on it…but in a cool way—like offering her a beer to celebrate her efficiency. You know…while the wife and kids continue on and I promise to catch-up later.

The wife and I always wanted kids and knew we wanted them while we were still young so that when we got into our early 40s they would hopefully be moving on to college; or signing their multi-million dollar football deal; or marrying some incredibly rich dude who pays me to never work again so I can hang out, drink with him and make him laugh all day while my daughter makes us meals.

We were amazingly fortunate and able to crank out two little nippers pretty quick and thus the journey began.

I feel there are two majorities of people out there: those who LOVE children and were born to raise them, and those who love children, enjoy raising them, but subconsciously can’t freakin’ wait till they’re 18 years old.

It’s not really something you 100% know about yourself until you have a kid or two of your own. Then it hits you out of the blue and you realize which majority of people you fit into.

A couple months ago the wife and I were riding in the car, alone, when I reached over, grabbed her hand and said, “thank you for letting me pay that nice young doctor fellow to take a knife to my coin purse.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“I love our kids more than anything and you know that. But I can honestly say that I’m way too selfish to ever have more than two kids.”

I cringed because I’d just crossed that line of things you should never say out loud. We clearly already knew we were done after two, but we never revealed to each other why.

A reassuring smile of relief crept across her face as she held her hand up for a high-five and said, “me too!! Waaaayyy too selfish. I love my sleep, my blanket, and my quiet way too much. But I do love the kids…don’t get me wrong. I really really love them!”

“Oh yeah, no…that’s a given. We have stupid love for them…but still…can you imagine more of them?”

“NO…no…I can’t.”

We made love later that night. She made me wear a condom… “just in case.”

Hire My Dumb-Ass!

With there being just a slight gap between my last paycheck and the new job I’m about to take, the wifey and I have realized the slight forthcoming pinch to our finances. We’ll make it work, but it’s definitely raised question marks above my head about whether I should try to land a quick one-day or two-day job that could put some walking cash in my pocket till I’m employed again?

With the wifey’s approval to the idea, I sat down and quickly took inventory of the many skills I’ve gained naturally or through this extended break as a stay-at-home dad. Once I exhausted the list and eight beers along with it, I quickly hand crafted a classified ad I plan to run in this week’s paper. I figured throwing it up on my blog couldn’t hurt either.

So…if you’re in the need and a skill seems to fit…let a brother know and give me a call!

Help Wanted

• Young, strapping lad looking for small, non-handy-man jobs to be accomplished around the house.
• Able to provide light hammering of nails, painting, yard mowing and weed-eating.
• Incapable of anything requiring plumbing, electrical, picture hanging, wood cutting, leveling, or other type of manly-man focused household activities.
• Enjoys long walks along the beach and may occasionally look out of his peripherals to view the random bikini-clad lady.
• Eclectic skills abound, ranging from professional beer taster, Jager-bomb maker, running buddy, shower soap holder, sex slave, compliment giver, beer fetcher, break-dance freak of nature, twitcher, professional thumb wrestler, make your friends laugh at my lisp-er, stay up late laughing at other people’s expenses-er, put soft socks on me after a few too many beers and tell me to walk down these wooden stairs and watch me tumble-er, willing to see what can fit in the gap between my teeth while you watch-er, drinker and laugher.

Please note that if I:

• Wear no pants on Friday
• Am caught using your interweb machine thingy
• Watch your pay-per-view
• Destroy CDs in your music collection I believe is pure shit
• Drink all of your beer
• Cram a full day’s worth of work into the 35 minutes before you come home, then fake looking exhausted and saying, “wow…what…a…day. I am beat!!”
• Look you straight in the eyes and say, “yeah, it seriously looks good doesn’t it?!” when you ask, “did you even paint this fucking room today?”
• Twitter about all the insane stuff I find throughout your house (this includes TwitPics)
• Access your Facebook account
• And, hide random empty beer bottles, condoms and pictures of “spy horse” throughout your house

then I cannont be held responsible for said repercussions and damage.

Disclaimer

The party responsible for hiring WhyIsDaddyCrying must hold all responsibilities for said activities and damage and are forbidden from demeaning, beating, laughing-at, Twittering about, or calling his wife regarding any of these issues. You will NOT call the police. WhyIsDaddyCrying holds all copyright regarding anything stolen, TwitPic’d, written about, looked at, sat on, or beer-spilled on. If I look at you, you are considered copyrighted by WhyIsDaddyCrying. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not sold in foreign countries and may be harmful to your health. If you speak to, look at, lick, shake hands with, or brush-up against WhyIsDaddyCrying, please call your physician immediately and tell him/her your situation. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not harmful to children under the age of 18, but should be kept far far away if you’ve witnessed him ingest more than 2 bottles of wine and/or Jager. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not a laxative nor a diabetic cleanser.

Call Today If You Need Simple Jobs Done!

1-800-468-3825 or email whyisdaddycrying (at) gmail (dot) com



Back-Off Old Lady!

This past weekend I took the boy to the grocery store for some much needed staples and people watching. Along the journey I gathered my regular stock of the alcoholic suds and tossed them carefully in the buggy along with my other goods, not even realizing they would soon instigate rage within one innocent by-stander.

A few minutes later I’m putting groceries on the conveyor belt while a few moms are smiling at the boy’s eagerness to help. I then lift from under the buggy a case of beer and put it along with the rest of my grub. Being the kind, gentle being that I am, I then grab the line-break plastic thingy and placed it behind the case of beer to let the nice little old lady behind me know she could now begin putting her old-lady groceries on the belt.

As I smiled at her and give her a friendly nod, the devil himself ripped through her skin and said loudly, “how could you do THAT!?! Buying alcohol in front of such a young impressionable boy? SHAME on you!”

My initial reaction was to clench my ass, as not to shat myself, pull my son close to me for protection and roam the store with my eyes to make sure I wasn’t on some lame-ass hidden camera show. What seemed like hours passed between when she spat her verbal stupidness to when the rage from within me boiled to the point of explosion.

Pushing the boy behind me I say, “what do you THINK I’m going to do with it when I get home you psycho bitch?!”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that was not a well thought-out response. In fact, it was just wrong. But I was pissed. Who feels they are ever righteous enough to say something like that to someone? In my mind I’m thinking:

• Why didn’t she just shake her head in disapproval then go call her friend Marge to bitch about it?

• Didn’t she notice it was just beer? And cheap canned beer at that! It’s not like I was on a playground buying crack using my son’s piggy-bank for the loot.

• Why did she have to say it so loud? Oh…cause she needed to hear herself cause she’s probably hard of hearing…never mind. That one was legit.

I could have yelled at her for buying so much prune juice and raisins, pointing-out the fact that the sewer issues in this city are because of people like her!

Regardless, what gives her or anyone else the right? What I do in my own home is not for her or anyone to assume, conjecture, and act upon in a public arena. If she wants to go home and journal about it and use it to make herself feel better about her own dysfunctional family, fine!

We’d all be better people if we could keep our comments to ourselves and come down from that ivory tower long enough to….

Ahhh…who am I kidding, if that were the case, people watching at grocery stores, malls and airports wouldn’t be such an important part of my life and I’d be unhappier for it. Judging is human nature. It’s what makes us wake up in the morning and think, my life isn’t as shit as that guy’s life! So judge away kids…have fun with it, but just keep it to yourself. And, just know that no matter your age, race, or sex, if you take the risk of voicing what you’re judging me for, you’re gonna get it right the hell back!