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.

Wifey & I Discuss Olympic Curling

I’ve been waiting for Curling to come on TV so I could let the kids see this glorified old-folks game of shuffleboard on ice. Secretly I also want to see the women wearing short skirts, squatting, and yelling passionately at each other…oh shit, did I say that out loud?

Anyway, so it comes on and I’m all, “sweet…kids come check this out.” The family gathers and we settle in to watch some Olympic goodness when all hell breaks loose:

Wifey: “Why are they brushing in front of that stone thingy?”

Me: “You know you’re the reason our daughter talks like Sarah Palin and ends all her words with “y.”

Wifey: “Is it some kind of static electricity thing that helps the stone?”

Me: “Who, Sarah Palin?”

Wifey: “Yes, moron…I’m asking you if Sarah Palin uses static electricity to move the stone thingy along the ice.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but how do you get static electricity on ice? And how would that help the stone move on ice? You think this is the Olympic version of the Hairy Gary game?”

Wifey: “I don’t know…I was just asking.”

Me: “It’s a brush that smoothes the ice out so the stone thingy goes further…SEE!!! Now you’ve got me talking like thaty withy the “y”eee.

Wifey: “And why are they yelling at each other?”

Me: “The Denmark women-folk are telling the American women-folk their douchebags, suck at this sport, and are going to dry hump their brothers. Curling is a big shit-talkers’ sport.” (the kids had left the room by this point out of sheer boredom.)

Wifey: “You seriously have so many issues it’s ridiculous. Why can’t we talk like a normal couple?”

Me: “Oh…I have issues. You’re the one that thinks those magical brooms they’re holding weld super static electric powers that allow the stone thingy to go where they want.”

Wifey: “You said “thingy” again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Wifey: “I could totally do this sport.”

Me: “Oh, I have no doubt. Hell, just last night you were crouched down in the kitchen while holding a broom, pointing and screaming, ‘really!!! I JUST swept and already there’s pieces of crackers, cat hair, and a grape on the floor!’”

Wifey: “I’ve got good aim, and it would be one hell of a leg workout.”

Me: “You know what else would be one hell of a leg workout?”

Wifey: “You walking up the stairs backwards so I can watch TV in peace?”

Me: “You wanna have sex don’t you?”

Wifey: “No…and will you promise me something? Promise me you didn’t get that breath from eating out of the cat box?”

Me: “Rawr…feeling feisty aren’t you? I’m gonna go brush my teeth, slip out of something comfortable and get ready for your sexiness to join me.”

Wifey: “You do that slugger. I’ll be right there…”

Me: “Don’t forget to put on that sexy thingy I like.”

Wifey: “You said ‘thingy’ again.”

Me: “SHIT!”

Can We Pleeeeease Have Sex?

My son’s obsession with the Wii has helped me realize I ask the wifey for sex WAY too much.

Every day I hear the car door slam quickly followed by the pitter patter of feet running and the high-pitched tones of children giggling and laughing. One of them usually slams themselves against the front door in the heat of victory over being the first to the house. A key rattles in the keyhole as the wifey yells “JUST A MINUTE GUYS!!! BACK-UP!!”

The front door opens unleashing a flurry of flying book-bags, coats, shoes, and a flustered wifey. The girl tears-ass upstairs to immediately change into her jammies. The boy? Like a bloodhound he drops to all fours with his wet slobbery nose just inches from the floor and begins sniffing for any scent that ultimately leads him to me.

Within seconds he’s spazzing-out on my lap saying, “daddy can we play Wii? Please? You said yesterday we could play Wii and we didn’t even get to play that long so I wanna play longer this time and will you play with me please daddy? Wii daddy? Daddy! Wii!”

Every day this happens. And I love spending time with the kid and playing Wii, but the incessant and persistent asking to play Wii drives me up the wall. First thing in the morning. First thing when he gets home. Before dinner. After dinner. In the grocery store. Picking him up from school. Wii Wii Wii fucking Wii!!!!!

Then, like a fresh splash of clean oil on a broken down 1950s engine, my brain starts to work and it hits me! “Holy shit! This must be how the wifey feels about me asking for sex constantly!!! Oh my baby jesus…I have got to STOP doing this to her or I’ll never have sex again!”

The more I think about it the more I start to shudder at the thought of how completely annoying and unattractive my “game” has been over the past….oh shit…over the past decade. In a panic I grabbed a sheet of paper, a pen, and dropped some Mr. Wizard knowledge into a chart to compare my son’s Wii obsession with must-mount-wifey-now obsession. Here’s a few examples of what my brain managed to contemplate.  

#1

The boy NEVER wants to play Wii alone. He’s emphatic that I join him every time and gets upset if I beg him to just play by himself for a bit.

I get upset and throw a temper-tantrum when the wifey’s answer to my sex request is, “why don’t you just go upstairs and take care of yourself?”

#2

When I play Wii with the boy, he has to sit right next to me with arms touching. So while I’m maneuvering Mario through his maze of snapping turtles and angry walking mushrooms, I get poked and prodded by the fidgety mini-me who’s wedged his body next to mine.

The wifey will be laying on the couch comfortably and peacefully and I’ll slowly climb my cumbersome 6’3” frame in between her and the back cushions causing the blanket to get all fucked-up, pushing her forward so she has to put an arm down to keep herself from falling off and I grab her ass while saying, “hey there little lady. Wanna fool around?”

#3

After playing Wii for a while with the boy I’ll make the announcement, “OK bud, five more minutes and then we’re done.” That’s always followed by a whiney, high-pitched, “awwwweee…come-on daddy! We just started playing. I don’t wanna stop in five minutes. Pleeeease?!”

The wifey and I will be in the middle of one of the most amazing sex sessions of humankind with birds chirping louder, rays of sun beaming brighter, and all is right in the universe when she’ll say, “we should go ahead and wrap this up.”

And I’m all, “Awwwweeee…come on honey!! But we just started! I don’t wanna stop, pleeeeease…just a little longer?”

After completing this exhaustive list I felt ashamed. I felt how a fly must feel after finishing therapy for obsessively flying around a cow’s ass for many years—empty and full of motivation to just apologize endlessly. And, I knew that’s just what I had to do.

So, I walked over to the wifey who had just stood up to go upstairs to bed and I threw my arms around her and hugged her passionately. And before I could utter the first sympathetic apology she said, “Fine! Let’s go upstairs and do it.”

('’)

Let's Get It On

So a kick-ass lady-friend of mine on Twitter, @nuckingfutsmama, and I were asked by the sexy, lovely, and talented @toywithme on Twitter, author of the blog “Toy With Me,” to do a collaborative post for her. I can only guess it’s because the last collaboration @nuckingfutsmama and I did, “The Bumpit, the Snuggie & a Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” was one of her most favorite things she ever read causing her to print it out for all her family and friends as holiday gifts, to wallpaper her house with it, and to paper mache the most perfect vibrator with.

“Toy With Me” is a blog geared primarily towards lady readers filled with hilarious, in-depth, thought-provoking, and just all around damn good writing about all aspects of sex. She has four regularly contributing writers and often accepts guest posts. I couldn’t recommend taking a gander through her phenomenal blog any stronger.

The super-mom @nuckingfutsmama is the mother of twins and wifey to a man who apparently loves dressing as a Russian on weekends and relaxes in the most ridiculous Christmas sweaters ever knitted together by little old ladies held captive by Santa. Check out her blog here and enjoy the ride of the hilarious insanity that makes her nuckingfuts.

On to the Collaboration

My partner in crime, Ms. @nuckingfutsmama and I have tossed together another lovely story entitled Let’s Get It On. I have written “The Husband” lines. She, of course, has written “The Wifey” lines. It’s nookie-night at the bustling family of four’s house and the journey of the two love birds coming together for the wondrous act of love making is captured, line-by-line, for your enjoyment in this kick-ass collaboration.

Hope you enjoy! Click here to read Let’s Get It On.

Wifey & I Discuss Our Daughter's Future Sex Life

The wifey and I have been watching the Showtime series Weeds like it’s crack. And during that time I’m watching teenage girls hooking up and can’t help but shudder at the thought of my precious little angel ever…OK, I just threw up in my mouth.

Anyway, during one such episode, I hit the pause button and said to the wifey:

Me: “Seriously…Macy can’t ever have sex.”

Wifey: “Here we go…”

Me: “No seriously…guys are assholes. She’s gonna get some douche that’s gonna totally hit on her and view her as a conquest and then bolt leaving her and us with a damn baby.”

Wifey: “Our daughter is not a mountain you idiot. She’s not something you ‘conquest’.”

Me: “You know what I mean. Like, take you for an instance. You were all new to the school…with your sexy tight white jeans… You came walking into class that first day and immediately I’m throwing on my hiking gear, phoning home to let mom know I’m headed out for a multi-month expedition and lining up my Sherpa’s.

Wifey: “You seriously liked those white jeans?”

Me: “Boy Scout’s Honor – I still have those jeans in a super secret hidden spot and touch them often.

Wifey: “Number one, you were never a Boy Scout and number two, you’re a sick bastard.”

Me: “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

Wifey: “Really? You’re gonna be THAT dad and deprive our daughter of a great teenage childhood all cause you think the entire male population thinks like you?”

Me: “Sweety…the entire male population thinks with their dicks!”

Wifey: “At what point does that change cause you’re 34 and I see no shore-line off in the distance!”

Me: “You’re feeling awfully frisky tonight…you wanna ‘go’ woman? You seriously want me to take off my shirt right now don’t you?”

Wifey: “Just don’t hold our daughter back from living her life and learning life experiences. We need to just make sure we remain involved, communicate, and teach her life lessons.”

Me: “Are you reciting an After School Special to me right now?”

Wifey: “Seriously…let her learn, experience and become a woman.”

Me: “Baby jesus I love when you talk like that. How can you be all calm and just sit there when I’ve just taken my shirt off for you?”

Wifey: “Oh baby, you look hot. Oh baby, I must have you now. Oh baby, oh baby.”

Me: “One day you’re gonna wish you were much nicer to me.”

Wifey: “So sum it up …what exactly do you want for Macy?”

Me: “I want every one of her dates to walk in the door and see me cleaning my gun. I want them to shake my hand, sit for at least 5 minutes with me, and give me the respect due to appreciate the fact you’re taking out an amazing piece of my soul and heart.”

Wifey: “That’s sweet honey, but pretty far-fetched. But you know what? I’m with you…cause she deserves the respect.”

Me: “Yeah she does. Let’s chest bump to that shit!”

Wifey: “Ummm…I gotta pee and will be right back for that chest bump…I promise!”

Me: “So awesome…I’ll be right here waiting baby! Miss you already!!!”