Oooh...and one more thing!

Two days have gone by…and we’re already at the “oooh…and one more thing!” phase as the wifey walks out the front door to her jobby job. Oh how evil the flip-side of the coin is. There’s a part of me that thinks that after dropping an “oooh…and one more thing!” list on me, the wifey jumps in the car, cranks the radio, and bee bops her fine ass to work knowing I’m at home throwing stuff animals at my son’s imaginary friends, punching pillows, kicking cushions, and wasting valuable time that could be spent taking care of the “simple activities we’d talked about this morning.”

Wifey: “Hey, so are you picking up the kids today from school?”

Me: “Uh..yeah, I can…but I’m supposed to be making calls, and working on getting a job right?”

Wifey: “Yes dear, but I just thought you….oh, just forget it, I’ll do it.”

Me: “No…I want to do it, I just don’t want it to become this….”

Wifey: “Oooh …and one more thing, could you clean the cat litter box? I just walked down in the basement and it smells like your dirty underwear down there.”

Me: “My dirty underwear is down there…”

Wifey: “Oooh….and one more thing, please don’t spend any money, we really need to be careful.”

Me: “We needed milk…and you said, ‘oooh…and one more thing, could you get some hummus’ remember….!’”

Wifey: “Yeah… I remember, but do you really need all that beer!?”

Me: “Yes!!! Yes I do!!! Do you really need all that..”

Wifey: “Oooh…..and one more thing …can you please just wash one load of laundry…?”

She was a stay-at-home-mom for almost a year. I feel like such an ass cause I can count on my hands, and five of my friends’ hands, how many times I dropped the “oohhh” bomb on her before bolting out the door with the confident feeling that when I got home, the children would be dressed in their dinner clothes, smiling, pulling chairs out for me, asking me how my day was while dinner was wafting through the air, and birds were grasping my top coat and hat to be put away.

And now the shoe is on….yes…the wifey’s foot. And, she doesn’t mean it maliciously. At least I don’t think. I like to think she has no clue that she’s pulling the payback page right out of the book and shoving it up my ass. I like to think she’s giving me payback, without even knowing it! But, that would just be my ignorance showing again.  

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…….

Wanna See My Underwear?!

Work, walk a half mile, catch the train, 22-min. ride, walk .7 miles and I'm home. In the fridge there's a beer. Above the fridge there's wine. In-between both of those is a wife and two kids, one of which shouts:

"wanna see my underwear?"

Yeah....marinate on that for a minute world. Every man's dream is to walk in his front door to hear those words from his beautiful wife? Of course in that dream the words are also followed by a variety of other terrific adjectives, verbs, action words, etc....

But on this particular day....it was my 6-year-old son saying that lovely phrase.

My mind kicks into overdrive as I think:

• should I say no to teach him not to ask grown-ups if they want to see his skibbies?
• should I say "wha?" and keep walking quickly towards the mecca of alcohol?
• should I say "sure dude" and uncomfortably hope he's not about to show me some type of unbelievable stain, growth, or whatever...

I chose the latter. And he immediately dropped trow as I clenched and waited. And what did he show - boxer briefs.

"Just like you wear daddy!!!"

The little bastard was so happy to show me that he was wearing the same underwear as me. My heart shattered, I truly felt touched, and I gave the kid a hug.

It's the obscure, subtle things in life that pop out when you least expect it and make you feel like shit for yelling at the kid for not eating his breakfast, or potentially breaking his sister's arm. I felt like a role model for a split second. I imagined my fat-ass on the cover of GQ being oogled by dudes thinking "I'd get so much ass if I looked like that." But alas...it was because I wear the unique and privileged hat of father and in the mornings, put on undies that don't ride up, hold my boys just right, and to my son......look like rock star underwear.