To My Wife On Our Anniversary

On this day, 13 years ago, I married my best friend.

We started out as high school sweethearts.

Then we went to separate colleges only to see each other about once a month or so.

Despite the fact I did everything in my power to look like a complete and total douchebag...

Example A "The Chops"

...we remained together, eventually moving in with each other after graduating college.

On April 18, 1998 I married the woman of my dreams.

Since then I’ve enjoyed the hell out of making two beautiful children which my gorgeous wife unfortunately had to spit out of her amazing body on two painful occasions.

Dear Kim:

I still get all tingly and stuff thinking of the first time I saw you as you cruised across the classroom in your tight white jeans.

I still get all tingly when I wake up before you, open my eyes, and see you in the early morning sunlight.

You’re so beautiful.

I’d kill to have even half the confidence you have.

I’d kill to do this all over again once it’s all said and done….with just a few tweaks and changes….

I can’t pass your pillow without burying my face in it.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve smelled your bathrobe.

Your laugh is infectious.

Your smile is gorgeous.

And your style as a mother is absolutely award-winning.

You rock the hell out of non-kid time

And when it’s complicated you’re sympathetically smart.

So, in short….I love you.

I love your smile.

I love your eyes.

I love your voice.

Holy hell do I love your smell.

I love watching you as a mother.

I love that I’ve been able to watch you grow into an amazing woman.

I love you Kim.

I couldn’t imagine my life without you as my best friend.

Love,

Justin



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!!

Where's the Old School Porn?!

Yesterday Playboy announced the upcoming June issue is going to have a 3D centerfold.

After hearing this, my initial reaction was to slam my laptop shut, grab a 1986 copy of a Sears catalogue and head to Capital Hill demanding all teenagers be restricted from any and all masturbatory material via high tech methods.

Holding open the coveted page featuring high-end granny-panty-clad models, I’d slam my fist shouting, “this, my fellow elected officials, is what we grew-up with. This…this was our introduction to the female body and is what caused the crack in my childhood bathroom door from my mother continually pounding on it while yelling ‘finish up in the shower now!!!! You’re wasting water!!’”

As a kid my older brother introduced me to Playboy. I saw him looking at a copy one day and immediately grabbed it from his hands shouting, “where did you get this, man?!”

“From granddad’s closet. He’s got hundreds!”

From that point on, trips to the grandparent’s condo the next state over became joyous occasions filled with much plotting and planning. I’d stand watch as my brother shoved a few issues down his pants. Once safely in the guest bedroom, he’d provide me with one issue while he kept three. We’d high-five and each go our own separate ways to begin indulging.

Now, teens have the world of sex right at their fingertips…literally.

All they need is an Interweb machine thingy connection and BAM!!! hardcore sex all day, all the time. Computer or cell phone…doesn’t matter…it’s all right there. Wanna watch others masturbate – they have Chatroulette. Wanna watch porn…Google can hook you up.

Have a cell phone and a horny loved one you wanna play with – just dial up some sexting!

Teens now-a-days can pop off a quick text or two to their honey letting them know how they wanna get freaky on the back of an elephant while Richard Pryor tells racist jokes and Justin Bieber destroys any and all love for music they may have once had.

Back in the day, we had to write that shit down on a sheet of paper, fold it up, risk passing it in class, hope some douche didn’t steal it on its journey to the lucky lady, and then pray after the girl reads it her parents don’t find it shoved under some stuffed animal in her bedroom.

Hell, kids these days have probably seen more girls in their high school naked than were seen in all the high schools in the late 80s.

And while thought of being 16 with a freshly opened Playboy complete with a 3D centerfold in front of my young eyes makes me jealously drool a little, I can’t guess most teens will see it as rookie porn.

There’s something to be said for the unknown, for the unseen, for the anticipation, and for the embarrassing pre-ejaculation (umm…not that ummm…not that that ever happened to me, yo!).

Now…well, I guess I’m just another aging guy looking down at the younger generation and shaking my head at the spoils they enjoy while also secretly enjoying them.