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Entries from April 11, 2010 - April 17, 2010

Friday
Apr162010

To My Wife On Our Anniversary

Twelve,

Who’d have thought?

I still remember each laugh.

I still remember each tear…and why.

On the pier we laid, vulnerable, ignorant, surrounded by nature and the love we now raise our children in.

I knew then what I know now,

Your strength is envious.

Contagious.

Our lives are far from perfect.

Our beliefs stray from the norm.

Our love has been more than challenged.

You’re undying kindness and devotion,

Is humbling and heart-warming.

The mornings we laid dreaming of years from now,

In the place we’ll call home,

Returning back to nature,

Together,

The two of us.

The journey getting there will be ours, remarkable, painful, revealing…

You are my hero.

You are my best friend.

You are my children’s mother.

You are my wife.

You are…everything I wish I was…

Wednesday
Apr142010

Burn Bieber Burn!!! The Wife & I Discuss Justin Bieber

So yesterday I was minding my own business…trying to come up with a new “fantasy slam” for my Twitter bud @IeatMyKizSnack when all of a sudden I read a tweet from her saying she’s become a fan of Justin Bieber’s bullshit, musical foulness.

I’d laughed so many times at her anti-Bieber tweets -- her bashing of the young, innocent buck in his juvenile journey through stardom. And now, a mere 48 hours after one shit-stained performance on SNL and the lady I looked-up to as a refreshing rogue Twitter-gal had turned into a Bieber-lover. I was heartbroken.

I came home, slammed the door shut, threw my stuff on the ground like a spoiled teenage brat and said to the wife, “This Bieber shit’s gone too far!!”

Wife: “What the hell is a ‘Bieber’?”

Me:Justin Bieber!!! That two-bit hack of a human who’s this year’s poster-child for how incredibly horrific the music industry has become!”

Wife: “OK there geek music boy. Slow down, let me get you some beer and start over.”

Me: “No seriously, this prepubescent shit rolls up, makes some really horrific music on YouTube, wears his hat tilted to the left just so, and BAM! he’s got Simon Cowell wearing knee-pads and writing home to “mummy” about how he feels something “all tingly in me bits-n-pieces at night!”

Wife: “Wow…Oh shit, American Idol’s on right now. Hand me the remote!”

Me: “SEE!!! OK look, you know I love music more than anything, right?! Well…I mean, second to you…oh, and the kids…”

Wife: “Dear lord just finish…”

Me: “Just promise me you’ll never…NEVER play Justin Bieber or anything remotely shitty to our children without first running it by me? His lyrics are written for him, his ‘look’ is managed by an agent, his beats are produced by focus groups, and MTV probably owns 98% of everything he is. He represents everything that is wrong with music today!!”

Wife: “You really need to funnel your musical passion into something a bit more constructive!”

Me: “Just promise you’ll never play Justin Bieber or any other pop-bullshit to our children!”

Wife: “Your children may or may not have heard La Bouche the other day while I was taking them to school… I’m just sayin’!”

Me: “A piece of me just died.”

Wife: “I just want you to ‘Be My Lover.’”

Me: “I have to go see my therapist now. Just know that I’ll be talking about you.”

Wife: “OK honey. I’ll be asleep…so when you get home…have ‘Sweet Dreams!’”

Me: “Jackass…”

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Monday
Apr122010

Scared Shitless

So the boy won tickets to the Chicago Wolves hockey team game this past Saturday for raising the most money in his elementary school

for Jump Rope for Heart. We were stoked because we’d been wanting to take the kids to a hockey game for a while.

So Saturday comes and we’re on our way…the wife, daughter, boy and me. We grab a bite to eat, hit the arena, find our seats, and the kids are pumped! The wife hooks them up with a bag of cotton candy while I go and wrestle-us down a couple of beers.

Then, the lights drop down, the spot-lights roam around the ice, the announcer and his douchey announcer voice blast over the speakers and then…the fireworks begin.

During this extremely rookie introduction I look over and my daughter is literally shaking, crying and sitting in my wife’s lap trying her best to climb inside her coat pocket.

I look at the boy and he’s in a crouched position on his chair, wide-eyed, hands in his mouth, and it’s like I can watch the fear slowly grab him by the balls.

When it’s all done I turn trying to act all cool and I say, “that was awesome huh?!”

“Daddy, I have to poop.”

“What?! You…all right…let’s do this.”

So I take the boy to poop in the piss-covered public restroom--every dad’s worst nightmare. Standing in a men’s room, during a manly-man hockey game, leaned-up against a stall door, I try not to make eye-contact with the legions of dudes standing in line drinking beer, spitting, cussing, and waiting their turn at the urinal.

So I stand there, on my Blackberry, staring at the back of the stall door and listening to my boy squat a grumpy like a champ.

Ten minutes later we’re on our way back to our seats. Fifteen minutes later the Wolves score and what happens?! Yeah, fireworks go off. I immediately look at the boy and he’s in his crouching tiger position again. Literally five minutes later they score again…more fireworks. And the boy…all I smell is poop and see the look of fear on his face.

“Dude, you OK?”

“Daddy, my tummy hurts. Are there going to be anymore fireworks?”

“You dropped a third leg in the toilet less than a half-hour ago. You feeling OK chief?”

“I don’t like the fireworks daddy.”

At the end of the night, we drove home, boy crying his head off…”daddy, I was so excited when I won this prize because I knew you’d love to go see a live hockey game and I wanted to see it with you. I’m so sorry daddy!!” My heart broke for the little guy and I immediately felt the weight of the world on me.

I love this little bastard. He’s such a damn good kid. I won’t lie, the weight I bear from his idolization is unmerciful at times. It bites me in the ass when I least expect it and forces me to remember I’m his father and not his best friend. But I won’t lie, it’s every father’s dream.

So, for now, I just continually tell myself the same five words which the talented and skilled Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny made so famous, “just don’t fuck it up!”

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