It's A Brand New Year!

Well…I’m back after a two-week hiatus.

The fam and I took a little trip to North Carolina to recharge, enjoy some family and friends during the holidays, and to ditch the kids for multi-night excursions of gallivanting, drinking, thumb-wrestling, and graffiti by moon-light.

I thought about boring you with a play-by-play of our 12.5-hour trip from Chicago to North Carolina with a young nipper in the back who decided to grace us with the puke bug three hours into the trip.

But, I’m just not talented enough to pull off a puke story that doesn’t involve Bobcat Goldthwait, a tiger, a cage-match with two moles, and the Sanford and Son intro song as background music.

So, instead… I’m going to do what we all must do this time every year and toss out a snippet from the much longer version of…

My New Year’s Resolutions

I only ran just over 500 miles last year. The lowest mileage I’ve had since Brett Farve first realized he could pic text the contents of his jockstrap to sideline hotties. This year…I WILL break 1,000 miles by December 31.

I’m going to finally stop giving a fuck what other people think!! I mean…if…if it’s cool with you? If not, I could always postpone it another year or so, or something like that. I don’t know. Hey, I just found $5 on the ground. Want it?!!

When I finally shave my beard I will keep a handlebar mustache for longer than two hours!

To finally get my half-sleeve tattoo finished…without going bankrupt.

I will not sleep, eat, or read to my children until I make it to the Presidential debate, earn the right to hold a mic, and ask the question: “Mr. President. You have made it clear in previous campaigns for your current position that you are opposed to the war in Iraq. You worked hard to repeal the “don’t ask don’t tell” military policy, and are working closely with other UN constituents to keep North Korea at bay despite Sarah Palin’s belief they are our ally. So I ask you…will you vehemently support the growing Pants Optional Friday movement?!!”

To go to bed each night having my kids tell me they love me…unsolicited.

This year I will support the grape farmers! I will go above and beyond the call of duty to make sure grape farmers far and wide who just so happen to provide the wine industry its much needed ingredient are given their due during hard times!

To tell my wife one more time than necessary every day that I love her.

That’s the short short version. The longer version is anonymously hand written on a paper that’s been mailed to an unsuspecting gentleman in Arizona I’ve never met.

It’s my annual ritual, it works for me and I’m pretty sure once the guy finishes reading them he’s going to pour a stiff drink and thank his maker he’s not me.

Happy New Year world! Make this one count.



And Now the News, 7-Year-Old Style

The wifey and I make the comment all the time, “the biggest issues in the kids’ lives seem so trivial.”

We think back to our childhood and immediately remember how we believed our lives would end if we didn’t get those blue bicycle wheels. Or those red Converse. Or if Sandy didn’t check that “yes” box on the note I passed to her.

The result of this pondering? What if my kids had a 24-hour, live CNN-style news channel.

I’m assuming it would go a lot like this:

Music: Da da da da, duuuuuuu da da da……

“And now, your anchor, Grayson:”

Grayson: Good evening and welcome to, My Life Is Freakin’ Hard!

Topping tonight is elementary school news. Today, Timothy threw up in front of Sarah. Sarah immediately threw up on Jamal and Fred stepped in it three minutes later.

Art class is canceled this week and we’ll be spending that time reading books with Ms. Woodsworth who smells like daddy when he comes home from the bar.

At lunch, Bobby traded Shay chips for her fruit bar, but sources say Kyle saw Bobby lick some of the chips before the trade was complete.

Our gym teacher Mr. Tobockle didn’t flush the toilet after making a number 2 today, and apparently half the gym class saw it. Mr. Tobockle offered no comment regarding the incident.

This just in, Macy is in her lunch room with a live report. Let’s go to Macy.

Macy what’s the situation there.

Macy: Well Grayson it’s nothing shy of absolute horror. Susie just tried to open her juice box and it exploded all over her. While teachers were trying to calm her, Walker got up and fed our classroom turtle a Twix. Brandon has asked to go to the bathroom a record 13 times and we’ve only been in pre-school 86 minutes so far today. Grayson…we’re all hoping it doesn’t get any worse than this.

Back to you.

Grayson: Horrible…just horrible.

In home news, I peed myself just a tiny bit earlier this morning because daddy was pooping while I was jumping up and down outside the bathroom door begging daddy to please let me pee. I later changed into Spiderman underwear.

An outbreak of parents asking children to do unheard things such as cleaning their messes, making their beds, and brushing their teeth has taken over the mid-west. Officials suggest that children whine excessively, throw things, and make life unnecessarily hard for their parents until the outbreak subsides.

After the break, an exclusive interview with Jed, the seven-year-old boy in my class who eats his own boogers and never whips after he poops.

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.

The Puke Plague

Sick, sick and more sick.

And I suck when I’m sick and in dealing with the sick. Which has made the past few days random snippets of hell.

After a week watching my son strategically wipe gallons of green and yellow goo from his nose all over our furniture, carpet, and clothes, we took him to the doctor only to find he has bronchitis. Two days later I woke up around 4 a.m. feeling like that douchebag on the Internetweb Machine Thingy who takes a flaming shot and catches his mouth and throat on fire.

I’m the biggest baby on the planet when I get sick—shocker, I know. I have these long, green boot-socks that I put on and I walk through the house silently letting everyone know I’m officially ill and to please back-the-fuck off. And then I disappear to the bedroom for a day.

This past Saturday the wifey and I had the most magical of nights planned. A friend of ours (@momomatics) and us got a joint baby sitter. Kids were sleeping over at their house. I bought 439 candles to light throughout the bedroom. I paid a 36 piece string band to play in our bedroom. Shit, I even emailed Al Green to see if he’d show up to add some extra mojo to the ole love palace. Game was on!!!

We dropped the kids off and the four adults hit the town hard. Beers and shots were flowing, tons of laughing in the air, I was busy razzing the waiter, and I occasionally I’d write little love notes on napkins and slide them over the wifey’s way.

We roll into a 9:30 p.m. showing of Shutter Island and settled in. Exactly one hour later I go pee and I’m standing there as the phone vibrates (cause yeah…I listen to the pre-movie stupid dancing phone douche that tells me to put my phone on vibrate). I look down and it says I’m getting a call from @momomatics.

So I answer, “What woman?!!!”

And I hear, “ummm…this is the babysitter and your son is throwing up.”

And I’m all, “Are you sure? Like, did he just choke on something by accident and he’s better now? Or maybe he’s just pranking you. You should go check and call me back in a few hours.”

She says, “No…no I’m pretty sure he’s sick. There’s a lot of it. And, please tell Ms. (@momomatics) that her toilet is clogged and won’t flush.”

Yeah…that’s how my super sexy, kick-ass, romantic night came to a screeching halt. Half-a-movie, kid puking, and visions of a puke-clogged toilet.

By 11:15 p.m. we had both kids back at our house, son face-first in the toilet, and me, selfishly in a corner holding one of the 439 candles crying and asking “why baby Jesus…why??!!!”

And now…as of last night…the wifey is now getting a microscopic view of the toilet as she “talks to Ralph on the big white phone,” and the boy has started round two of the pukes.

Please let the daughter and I be the last people standing! If not…let it hit me so hard that I drop at least ten pounds…the last ten I need to lose before increasing my running pace by 20 seconds a mile.