Every now and then, our matriarch sits on the front steps, staring into space holding a butterfly knife and a half-empty bottle of Old Crow bourbon. I mean that metaphorically, even though it accurately characterizes her mental well being. “I need a frickin’ [she doesn’t curse anymore] day off! I’m going to get a massage, see a movie and go to the mall … to…like shop or something. I don’t know, I just have to get out of here,” she said. Continue…
Marriage and My Wife
I’m frustrated that I don’t understand whether I honestly enjoy the ABC show, The Bachelorette, or detest it so much that I watch out of spite. I know that last night, I texted my wife, “BACHELORETTE TONIGHT! :)” from downstairs — capitals, exclamation marks, emoticons and all — like a thirteen year-old girl, giddy to tell her friends that she woke up to find a litter of kittens in her sock drawer. “KITTIES IN MY SOCK DRAWER! :-)” So, apparently, I like the show. Continue…
Contrary to most couples’ experiences, having kids has alleviated many of my wife’s frustrations about me. My clamminess, sensitivity to heat and near endless need for sleep were viewed by Lindsay as annoying complaints that could be cured easily by wearing shorts and sandals. But now that we have two small boys, each of whom break into a cold sweat and need a nap whenever it’s over 85 degrees, she admits (and is even pleasantly surprised) that she didn’t marry a wimp. Continue…
In the midst of one of her “I’m going to fix everything right now!” moments, my wife taped a hand-written list to the wall displaying the five television channels Silas can watch in the morning.
You can see it was made in frustration. Any patiently considered, modern channel guide would have been created on a computer and printed-out, not scrawled by an angry fist. She was so fed up that the bottom isn’t even adhered to the wall, causing the paper to flap-about when struck by a gust from the air conditioner. Continue…
Sometimes I entertain my kids by taking them to Best Buy. When they’re busy climbing inside refrigerators, I have a few moments to stare blankly at TVs while waving my hand through the blade-less Dyson fan hoping to open a Stargate. I’m there to survive, not to be awesome.
That’s why I was surprised when a 20-something Rihanna-esque employee looked at me coyly and said, “I like your style.” I only managed to squeak out a timid, “Thanks,” before briskly walking away as if the high school quarterback had told me he liked my Hello Kitty lunchbox. Continue…
