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.”

Hey Honey, While You're Up...

“Hey honey…can you get me some water while you’re up, and some chips, and the artichoke dip, and a napkin and my phone?”

When the movie “Up” first came out I thought I was confident I was going watch a documentary of three different fathers, sitting in the dark to hide their identity, voices muffled from any recognition, talking about how they’re wives were obsessed with sandbagging various needs until their spouse’s ass left the couch…

What am I talking about?

Our first child was born in 2002. During that pregnancy my wife learned an incredible lesson she has yet to let go of:

“If I sit here long enough, eventually that big-eared, gap-toothed bastard will arise from his place on the couch creating the perfect opportunity for me to request items that are sure to meet my every need.”

That skill-set is firmly embedded into her psyche and has become a finely tuned art. It’s actually poetry in motion when it happens…either that or I’m so damn stupid that even seven years later it still hasn’t sunk in that when I stand up, I better grab a note pad, pen, and use my stuck-up waiter voice to say, “mmmm…will that be all Madame or shall you require anything else this evening?”

The other day I was watching “Weeds” with the wifey (our new obsession). We’d been there for literally over an hour. I finally stood up to go pee and I the wife dropped an Atom bomb of requests:

“Honey, can you take this plate and throw it in the sink, get me more wine, and I’m pretty sure there’s another brownie in there. Oh, and can you hand me the computer and another blanket? Love you!!!”

I felt like a prize fighter who couldn’t even lift his hands to block punches anymore and was just taking left and right hooks to the head. Bloodied, tired, and put in my place, I just said, “can I at least go pee first?”

“Oh sure…definitely. But wash your hands afterwards.”

“Yes dear.”

I admit it, I fight back on occasion. I’ll bitch and whine and throw mini temper-tantrums…I swing my limp arms around and say, “I don’t wanna.” It works for the kids.

A couple years ago the wifey decided it was too hard to get me to do stuff for her so she migrated over to asking the boy. Being that little kids are the most selfish little bastards on the planet, she gave up quick realizing that was one battle she wasn’t ever going to win. And like an idiot I stood there watching the whole thing go down. It was like watching molten lava slowly slide towards you. The whole time you think all the things in its path are going to stop the flow, but they don’t…no, they just get burned to shit as the lava keeps on flowing right towards you.

Now that last analogy may seem like I’m comparing my lovely and talented wifey to a flow of death-dealing burning lava…yeah, I guess I kinda am…but it’s the kind of lava you grow to love and want to snuggle with on a regular basis.

I’ve gotten used to it for the most part. I mean, it still stings a bit, but at the end of the day, you and I both know I justify being an in-house butler by slowly sliding another coin in the nookie-jar.

It’s amazing how many of those coins it takes before the jar gets filled…