Gettin' Our Spontaneity-On

So the wifey and I had “that talk” again. Yeah…that one. The one where I’m all:

“We need some spontaneity in our sex life…”

And she’s all, “sponta-kiss my ass idiot-boy.”

“come on…don’t be like that…I’m just saying, sometimes I feel like kids are ruling our lives these days and we never get a..”

“Hold on..JUST HOLD ON!!.......what Grayson?” long pause….then “yes, I fed your fish just before you came up stairs…now go to bed!!” she then looks at me, “I’m sorry… you were rambling about some kind of ‘aneity’ or something…”

“Hey, we’re both dealing with this….and it sucks at times, but if we don’t…”

“Jesus..hold on…yes Macy?!!!” the wifey yells as she throws yet another layer of blankets over her… “Yes…you can read one more book, then GO TO BED!!!!” she then contorts her face into a well-crafted smart-ass face and says, “I’m sorry…you were trying to make me feel bad for not being a hardcore porno slut, wearing nighties, thongs, and knee-highs to help you get your rocks off…..please continue…”

“I…I uhhh…baby you look really nice tonight and I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate what you do for this family,” I say as I’m turning the channel from the MLB playoffs to Oxygen. “I can’t even remember the last time I went to bed without smelling your shirt and missing you like crazy.”

“Say the word ‘spontaneity’ again and I’ll fucking cut you….”

"Whoa!!!...let's not get crazy here, OK?...I just.."

"Did you really just call me crazy? Seriously...as I lay here on the couch, trying to relax for the first fucking time tonight....did you really...just...call..me...crazy? Cause if you did, I just want to be clear and understand correctly that you thought long and hard before selecting that word. I want to be sure, that in your tiny little brain, hidden deep within the beer, the Jennifer Anistons, the baseball, the football, the masturbating....that that's what you really thought was the smartest thing to say to me?"

"I uhhh.....yesterday we.....on Friday I was uhh.....Honey!!! I'd like to volunteer to make the kids' lunches and bathe them and put them to bed for an entire week....just for you!!!"

I sat there for what seemed like at least 30 minutes..but it was only 15 seconds before she said..."Oooohhh....I spontaneously just remembered we're out of peanut butter for the kids' lunches!!!"

It was raining that night when I had to run to the grocery store...and I have to give it to her...it was pretty spontaneous......

A Day as a 7-Year-Old

I always wonder what it would be like to live my day to day life like I was 7. Wouldn’t it be just badass?

I’d climb on the train with my SpongeBob backpack and lucky pencil, wide-eyed and ready for the day. I’d sit in my train seat looking around and bouncing in my seat.

“I’m on a train!! Everybody look at me I'm on a crazy fast train!” I’d yell randomly.

“Excuse me sir – I need to see your ticket,’ the conductor would say.

“Umm…my daddy has it,” I’d say while still bouncing in my seat and looking out the window.

“Sir, it’s 7 in the morning and I don’t get paid worth a shit. Just show me the ticket.”

“Oooohhh..you said a naughty word. I’m gonna tell!!”

“You know what…you’re an asshole.” He’d say as he walked away.

“Oooohhh oooohhh you did it again,” I’d say as I raised my hand hoping the teacher would call on me.

__________________

Getting into work I’d settle in by trying to figure out the computer for a while. After failing miserably at that I’d go raid the office supplies for pencils, pens, markers, and paper.

“Hey..uh…you’re…you’re drawing a picture of you and a cat,” my boss would say after walking in my office and seeing me laying on my stomach on the floor drawing.

“Yeah, and his name’s Jasper and I’m standing next to him, and he’s my favorite, and I’m going to write my name and his name on it, and I’m going to give it to him.”

“Seriously…what’s going on?”

“Nothing, we’re just standing together in the picture. Why? Should I draw me petting him?”

“No, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you laying on the floor coloring instead of working?”

“Oooohhhh you said a bad word! I’m gonna tell?”

“Are you serious? You’re gonna…you’re gonna tell? Who are you gonna tell? Get off the floor and get back to work…..Jesus…who the hell lays on the floor and colors at work? What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Well…I’m kinda upset. I just walked in and found my employee laying on the ground coloring. Is everything OK or do we need to have a talk?”

“I don’t know, do we need to have a talk?”

“I’m asking you that.”

“Knock knock”

“….what?”
“Knock knock silly.”

“Did you just call me ‘silly?’”

“Come on…knock knock.”

“Holy shit…fine!! Who’s there?”

“Easter”

“You’re making my head hurt. I can’t believe I’m…”

“EASTER!!!”

“Fuck..Easter Who?”

“The Easter Bunny!” I’d yell as I rolled in the floor laughing at my awesomeness.

“I swear to God I’m about to kick the shit out of you.”

“Why would you kick me…that’s just mean.”

“Get the hell out of my office…NOW!!!!”

Standing up and grabbing my picture I drew for Jasper, I’d say, “FINE!! I hate you!!” and I go stomping out….

 _______________

Aahhh what a life it’d be. The shear ignorance to the rules, regulations, discipline, responsibilities, and awkwardness of day-to-day life. I wouldn’t mind a week of that.

I Need You Maury Povich!!!

Yesterday I was changing out of my work clothes in my room, when the boy came in and said, “daddy…I looove math.” I immediately got tears in my eyes, fell to my knees, and started sobbing. I knew right then and there….he couldn’t be my child.

I mean...just look at us both side by side!!

I rest my case.

So, I collected myself, rose to my feet…gave him a huge hug and said, “I’m proud of you. Keep it up…not everyone rocks like you do at math.” Then I walked passed him to find that hussy wife of mine.

She was on the computer in the basement…or should I say, her love communicator machine….when I found her. I said, “woman, we need to talk.”

She looked annoyed and said, “please stop calling me woman…and broad…that’s just so..”

“Look, this is more important right now. Tell me who the real dad is damn it,” I interrupted.

She shook her head and went back to what she was doing. “I’m serious!!!,” I yelled.

“What the hell are you talking about now?!”

“Grayson just said he likes math,” I belted out.

“You’re an idiot,” she said.

“You know, for years people have asked me, ‘where does your son’s red hair come from,’ and I’ve always joked saying, ‘the mailman I guess.’ And now he comes to me saying he loves math when I still think 2 + 2 = 3. What gives? Who’s the boy’s pop?”

“You seriously need help,” she said while giving me a dramatic pause, death look, followed by a “you’ve got 3 second to disappear before I fucking cut you” look.

I ran upstairs, kicked the cat out of my way, grabbed a beer, opened it and threw the bottle cap at our framed wedding invitation, snagged the laptop and immediately typed into Google, “Maury Show.” I was determined to get answers and if anyone could knock out a paternity test, Maury Povich could.

As I started plowing through the Maury website, desperately trying to figure out how to send that daytime TV god an email, Grayson came walking by and sat down to watch TV. I glanced up at him, then back at the screen…then back at him. He had those kick-ass freckles all over his cheeks and nose. It reminded me of when kids at school made fun of my freckles and would try to draw on me like they were connecting the dots. I smiled and chuckled cause the little bastard just couldn’t sit still…kinda like me. Then he did his little thing he does with his hands, something I spent half my childhood doing.

He could feel I was looking at him, so he looked at me and that’s when I saw those massive ears…the ones I clearly genetically burdened him with. That’s when it clicked…..my wife didn’t bang the mailman. She didn’t wanna keep me from ever duplicating any part of my idiotic self and hit the sperm bank. This little punk was mine…all mine!

I threw the computer off my lap, stood up and hugged the little guy. “I love you man,” I said.

As I put him down, the daughter came walking through with a stick doing some weird throwing motion. I said, “whatcha doin’ baby?”

“I’m playing lacrosse daddy..I love lacrosse!,” she said.

I immediately fell to my knees, started shaking….and crying….then got up and stormed back down stairs….

Sex & The Snuggie

I got a glimpse last night into what my winter will be like. Let me rephrase that…what my sex life will be like this winter.

My wife is sick right now. I fell badly for her because she’s clearly not feeling well. She tries to help around the house, but all I see through my insane, fucked-up way of thinking is her spreading germs all over the house.

Last night I’m hanging out, just finished putting the little bastards to sleep, when it happens. The wifey descends from upstairs and flops down on the other end of the couch wearing the big, blue, stupid, frock looking, Snuggie. Yeah the real Snuggie.

Now…she knows I hate the Snuggie. She knows the first time I saw an ad for the Snuggie I picked up the TV and threw it out the front window. She knows that the very site of the Snuggie makes me want to take a flamethrower to it. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me. But what am I going to do? She’s sick, and achy, and clearly wanted to get warm.

Then I suddenly became paralyzed with a sudden formula:

Comfort + Warmth = Snuggie cock-blocking all winter long.

She’s never going to take this thing off again. It will forever be the oversized sheath covering wifey and keeping us from the wonderful world of whoopie-making. It will become one with her. Once the children are tucked nicely in bed, she will shroud this magnificent piece of marketing bullshit around her body making her impenetrable to any and all efforts me and my little fella make towards sexual bliss.

I know, I know..you’re thinking, “well climb in there with her you idiot.” No..for a few reasons...

1) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

2) Wifey is clausterphobic and would be miserable with her and me in the Snuggie

3) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

And there’s no such thing as a crotchless Snuggie. There’s no Velcro strap that can be removed and placed back once the deed is done. There’s no flaps up top like women’s breast-feeding bra flaps.

My anger for the Snuggie has now reached new dimensions.

You’re on notice Snuggie. I will fuck you up. You will die. I will watch you burn, Twitter about it, TwitPic the whole thing, blog about it, then burry your ass in the alley where I can drive over your remains every day. You’re dead to me and I’m coming for you…….