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Entries in wifey (2)


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.


No, You Call the Babysitter

So the wifey’s college roommate visited this past weekend. And we decided to get a babysitter so we could enjoy some kid-free time. A mere four days from the impending visit I realized, holy shit, we don’t have a sitter and I’m going to end up being left in the lurch as these two ladies hit the town leaving me behind.

Kicking into baby-sitter ninja action I decided to take matters into my own hands and have a conversation with the wifey:

Me: “Hey…so we should definitely get a sitter for Saturday night.”

Wifey: “Go for it slugger.”

Me: “But you got the Mecca of babysitter lists months ago. Can’t you just call one or two and make it happen?”

Wifey: “I lost it.”

Me: “You what? Are you serious woman? You lost that shit? That’s like someone giving me the unlock code for constant, unlimited free porn and then losing it…it just doesn’t happen!!!”

Wifey: “Call me ‘woman’ one more time. Seriously…say it…call me ‘woman’!”

Me: “Look, your college roommate’s gonna be here in …shit, what day is it?”

Wifey: “You really need a job! Seriously…you need to get out of the house, look at the sun, enjoy the day…you’re losing your mind in the basement!”

Me: “All right…let’s focus. We need a sitter. Who are we gonna call?”

Wifey: “ ‘We?’ No, you…you are gonna make that happen while I’m at work.”

Me: “Awe come on…that’s fucked. Guys don’t call to ask for babysitters. Seriously…there are rules against that shit.”

Wifey: “Rules…really? And who the hell came up with these rules? You’re just as capable as me to call and ask for a sitter.”

Me: “I know but seriously…what if her dad answers? I’ll be all, ‘hey man…is Tiffany there?’ And he’ll be all, ‘Who the hell is this? You sound like you’re 40 years old. Who the hell is this?’”

Wifey: “How in the hell can he tell if you’re 40 by the sound of your voice?”

Me: “Are you kidding…cause I’m all experienced in life and shit. Listen to me. I totally sound like I’m 40 and involved in 40-year-old life stuff…seriously listen…the stocks rose eight percent today as the Dow didn’t quite respond as well as investors had hoped and…”

Wifey: “Whoa!!! Wait…you’re calling our potential babysitter with stock options? Seriously you dork…seriously!!?”

Me: “I’m just saying that I know stuff! And I know that if I call the sitter her dad, her boyfriend, or her brother will answer the phone and they’ll be pissed and I’ll probably get killed when all I wanted to do was freakin’ drink beers with you and the college roommate away from the kids.”

Wifey: “Wow. You seriously need help. Look, bottom line is, I’m going out with Stacy whether you get a babysitter or you ARE the babysitter. So, ball’s in your court Mr. Man. Make it happen or don’t.”

Me: “You’re gonna regret it when I get killed and you have to raise these kids by yourself.”

Wifey: “It’ll be rough but I’m pretty sure we’ll pull through.”

Me: “Shit! Fine…I’ll call. Hand me the phone WOMAN.”