Our couch is 11 years old.  It’s a greenish color, or it used to be.  The cushions are crushed down a bit in the back but this is only natural after 6 years of kids jumping off it while ignoring my screams of not to.  We have had the seating cushions re stuffed once because the dog decided that there was something magical and yummy in them.  There wasn’t.

Our carpet is no longer a carpet but a lose collection of threads that the best sweatshops in East Asia could not put together.  Looking at it from above and it doesn’t resemble a carpet at all but an old sea map complete with a picture of a sea monster in the middle.  Or that’s our dog.  She’s fat and somewhat hideous and we love her.

I have lots of wood working tools.  I used to build stuff before we had kids and before I quit my job.  I have a planer and a joiner, very much needed in making benches and custom cabinets.  I have a special tool that squares mortise joints.  I have very sharp chisels.  They are all dusty as they no longer get much use.  Wood is expensive, oak is expensive, African zebra wood is expensive.

My car doesn’t have AC.   But it’s paid off.  I have vowed to drive it until it no longer can run.  It was top of the line when we bought it 11 years ago.  Turns out, suckers stick very well to leather and then leave little stains that the kids like to call “that time Dad got mad.”  And yet, we kept doing it, I kept giving them suckers.  I don’t understand myself.

My flipflops cost 2 bucks.  My shorts have paint stains on them.  My t-shirts have fraid collars.  I am currently sitting in a chair that should probably be classified as a torture device.

This is all according to the master plan, the wonderful, wonderful master plan.

4 years ago we lost the second half of our income.  This was intentional, as we wanted someone at home to raise the kids.  That someone was me.  We knew that we would have to make sacrifices, we welcomed them.  Our carefree 20′s were behind us and now it was time to pay for them.  Pay for them hard.  Prekids was carefree.  Bookstore once a month?  Yup, let’s do that and drop 200 bucks each time.  Library, what’s that?  I want new clothes, let’s go get new clothes.  Garage sales, let’s not do that, who does that?  Who wants to go to the resort in Mexico!

Then kids come along and things change.  The responsibility of life starts staring you in the face.  Things start making you think.  College funds, new cars for teenagers, weddings that a father will have to pay for for his daughter.  Those things, life things.

So Hossmom and I made a pact.  We would become conservative, we would get rid of all our debt, we would make sacrifices for our family and our children.  We would Dave Ramsey this bitch.  And that’s what we did.  And now things have changed.  There is light at the end of the tunnel.  I see something, it’s small, but it’s there.

It’s a small light that says that soon we can get a new couch.  It’s the light that says hey, new carpet can be done pretty soon.  A new car, yup, let’s start looking at new cars.  The sacrifices have worked, the climb out to responsibility has been worth it.  The kids are growing up well, they don’t seem to have been affected at all by our spendthrift ways.  They will never even remember second hand shoes or when I blew a gasket because they broke something yet again.  Life, suck it, take that!  Hossman wins!

Over the last year I have repaired my yard.  I have built my own screens for the house rather than having them custom built because our windows are a weird dimension.  I have painted half of the inside of the house with colors that we actually like and picked out.  Little by little, piece by piece, savings by savings, things are almost there, so almost there.  Debt free life, full of prosperity and new furniture.  There is nothing that can stop us!

Hossmom came downstairs.  ”Honey!”

“Yes babe?!”

“The dryer is broken.”

Motherfucker.  The 12 year old dryer.

Well played life, well played.

“Turn right here!” Hossmom screamed.  Wine glasses cracked in the distance.

“Get your finger out of my face!” I replied.

“Turn, turn, turn!”

“I can’t turn because it’s illegal, there’s a hill, and your finger is my face!”

And here it was, Hossmom and I in the cliche of all fights for married people.  It’s an old joke that you see on sitcoms.  The husband is driving, the wife is giving directions, the husband doesn’t want to listen, the wife doesn’t believe that she can be wrong.  This was on the Honeymooners once.

After 11 years married, together for 17 (I um, was slow to propose.), we find ourselves in downtown traffic on our way to have a fabulous time.  Then we got in the car.  Most of the ride was spent in greatness.  It was sweet as it is most of the time.  She was looking absolutely fabulous.  Pretty, sophisticated and funny as hell.  I actually had on a tie.  How often do I wear a tie?  I haven’t worked for 4 years now, it’s shocking how my entire wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts and a plethora of t-shirts.  But I did look good.

I did freak out my daughter a bit, who has only seen me in a tie once in her life.  When I came down she stopped in her tracks.  She wouldn’t let me move until she got her brother so that they could both look at me in my white shirt and tie.  It’s like I was a unicorn.

We were not really sure where to turn.  In the age of GPS you would think that this wouldn’t be an issue.  However, this particular weekend was also the “Rockfest” event hosted by our local radio show.  Bunch of rock bands and slacker teens that need jobs and haircuts flooded the streets with little regard to green lights and jay walking statutes.  With their skulled t-shirts and aura of pot smoke around them, they made this trip 10 times more difficult that it should have been.  We of course were not going to the rock concert, we were doing more adult things and I openly judged them.  I was also slightly amused at the sight of us getting out of our car and with our high heels and ties, mingling with the wayward youth.

I then reminded myself that I was once one of them too.  I wore black and combat boots.  Grunge was and is still very cool in my book.  I wanted to open my window and scream “This is where you are headed!” while pointing to my tie and throwing my mortgage paperwork at them.  Then I will tell them how expensive it is to feed 5 people a month and that leftover pizza does not count as a nutritious meal unless it’s given to you by a school district.  I am a look into their future which made me want to get out of my car even more.

What is shocking about this little escapade fight of ours is how quickly it escalated.  Rarely do we go this way and the little sniping remarks are not part of our marriage.  But we went from making fun of the dopey teens to screaming at each other in the time that it takes you to read this sentence.  It really was that quick.  Shocking really.

I didn’t know where I was going.  The crowds chocked off side streets, we had missed our turn and it was imperative to my wife that we turn around, right now, because if we didn’t we were going to be late to the wedding.

That’s right, we were on our way to a wedding.  Somehow this seemed even more appropriate to me.  Traveling to a wedding while having the cliche of all married fights.  The kids on the street, the bride in her gown, and a married couple fighting in the car over the directions.  It dawned on me that if the kids were seeing their future, I was seeing my entire past.

The fight died down about as quick as it had started, as soon as I took the next turn and proceeded to the church parking lot.  We both started laughing at the irony of it.  We went to the wedding, had some drinks, had a great time and headed home.  There is more of my future and I’m eager to see it with my wife.

Garage sales, the national past time of suburban America.  You want someone else’s junk?  Then go to garage sales.  Every man’s junk is another man’s treasure and for a single income household with children, there’s no better place to get tons of cheap clothes that they can effectively destroy all summer without you going into a seizures.  It’s the difference between letting the kids play in the mud while camping or wrapping them in a giant bubble so that their clothes stay clean.  You realize that your child will be made fun of, he will be picked on, kids will throw rocks at his bubble.  Girls will shun him and soon he will name his left foot “Wilson” and they will grow very close.  You are ok with this because that shirt that cost 15 bucks remained clean and untorn.  Or you can go to garage sales and live with the fact that that shirt cost 50 cents and if it gets ripped up in the Octogon of Life, you are ok with it.  He will get dates, women will adore your son, men will want to be your son and when he is the first man to walk on Mars, he will write your name in the barren red sands as his inspiration.

Your choice.  Name on Mars or a son that is still living with you when he’s 40.  Go to garage sales as a parent.

There’s always a sense of excitment when you go to garage sales becuase you really don’t know what you might find.  I’m not talking junk, although I do prefer to keep a nice supply of scrap metal and hat pins from Alaska around the garage.  You never know when you might need those things.  I am a firm believer that when the world fail,s hat pins will become the new currency.  As a father of two very ambitious children that love to break shit, I find garage sales the perfect way to replace the valuables that I have lost.

My desk chair broke – although broke does not do justice to the pile of carnage that it became.  For a while there, the kids very much enjoyed things that spun around.  They also enjoyed hammers.  I’ll let you guess what happened to the chair.

I was recently able to replace that chair with a brand new used garage sale chair, it comes complete with pre-formed butt grooves.  It takes a man many years to make those butt groves that makes office chairs oh so special.  5 bucks is what it cost me and if it breaks because two beautiful young children decide to take the old power drill for test, I won’t be to upset.  At this point you are probably asking me why my children are playing with power tools without proper supervision.  I think I have made this clear in this blog over the years, I am a terrible parent.  I shouldn’t have kids, I should have plants.  But my plants would probably mutate and grab the nail gun.

We are about to go into T-ball this year.  I am very excited, I grew up playing baseball and there is a part of me that can imagine both of my children on Mars playing a nice pick up game vs the stinking Russians that we had to bring along on their voyage.  They will destroy them of course and that is when my name will be written into the Martian sand.  But baseball gear is expensive.  Balls, gloves, bats, chewing tobacco, all these things cost a lot of money for children that may not use it after one year.

When I saw the box of baseballs for a buck, I was all over it.  She said that I could take as many as I wanted for a dollar.  I stopped at about 20 because I was starting to feel bad.  I figured 20 was a good amount as well because I’m guessing that once the kids throw them through neighbors windows, we aren’t going to want to retrieve them.  I was also able to find 2 T-ball baseball bats.  They are both in great shape and seem to be a very nice weight for both my children to crack skulls with when they are giving their Al Capone type motivational speech.

However, one thing that I haven’t been able to find yet at a garage sale is a cup.  I’m talking about a junk protector, not a sippy cup.  This may sound gross and it probably is but still, it’s needed.  No for t-ball of course, but for the garage sale-ing activity itself.

I was talking to one of the dads that went with me, Papa Scrum who is the garage sale guru.  We were having a nice chat about the importance of dirt in farming.  A very special topic that is near and dear to his heart.  He maintains that you must have dirt to farm.  I maintain that I farm at the grocery store with a debit card.  However, I will admit that his new wave dirt farming techniques provide a plethora of great fresh vegetables every summer. He is no longer growing corn though because of the raccoons seem to like to jump his fence and eat all of it.  I have offered to let Knuckles and Lefty spend the night in the garden with their brand new baseball bats.  He is considering it.

As the conversation was continuing my son walked up with a brand new trucker hat that some lovely older lady gave him.  He saw I was distracted and realized that this is a weakness.  Being my son, he pounced on the opportunity.

He swiftly and quite correctly punched me in the balls.

I went double over after a whoosh of air went out of my lungs.  I started laughing as well because let’s be honest, if it was anyone but me, this would be funny as hell.  A 4 year old bringing a grown man to his knees, there is part of me that is proud of this.  Papa Scrum sat their for a minute, not quite sure what happened.

“Did he just punch you in the nuts?”

“Yup.”

Perhaps I will find a junk protector at the next garage sale.  Although perhaps we will steer clear of the houses that have tools for sale, just in case.

The pan is sitting on the back of the stove.  It has been there for almost two days.  It just sits there, being a pan and yet, being so much more.  It’s a metaphor for marriage.  3 pieces of bacon was cooked in it, delicious bacon.  Bacon that I can only rarely have.  Although the smell the first 5 hours was heaven, old bacon grease tends to stink.  It needs to be cleaned, but who will do it?

My wife could do it.  That is what should happen here.  She should do it because I don’t want to do it.  That’s as good reason as any.  She won’t do it of course.  She won’t do it because she wants me do it and that’s as good a reason as mine.  So the pan sits there, waiting for one of us to crack.  Who has the better will power?  Who will win this battle?

We both actually cooked this dinner.  The bacon was for a pasta salad thing we made.  It was good but of course it was good, it had bacon in it.  We both ate the dinner.  Afterward, we actually both cleaned up the mess.  Except for the greasy pan, which has to be washed by hand.  I would just throw it in the dishwasher but Hossmom says we can’t do that as it rubs off the Teflon and will kill us.  Probably true but Hossmom also reads a lot of WebMd and probably shouldn’t.  Next week we won’t be able to talk on our cellphones for fear of tooth cancer.

Neither one of us touched the pan though.  It became that awkward elephant in the room.  It was there, plan as day, looking at both of us.  But neither one of us would make eye contact with it as to do so would be to acknowledge it’s existence.  Once that is done, you have to face it and ask your wife to wash it or wash it yourself.  I don’t want to ask my wife to wash it because she’ll say no and ask me to wash it.  Then I’ll say no and she’ll withhold sex until I wash it.  I’ll make it 20 minutes before I crack.

She knows it is there as well but she doesn’t want to ask me to wash it either.  She wants me to come to the realization that I somehow know that she wants me to wash it.   She wants me to magically read her mind and know what she wants.  It’s the way women work and just because you are married for a while doesn’t mean that this ever changes.

The pan doesn’t get washed that night.

The next morning we get up and eat breakfast, a good breakfast.  I clean the kitchen but leave the pan.  I even wipe around the pan but I don’t touch it because that would mean that I would have to wash it.  The rules of this game evolve on the spot and apparently if you touch it, you wash it.

We have lunch.  Hossmom cleans up. I watch her out of the side of my eye.  It’s as if the area around the pan is quarantined.  She doesn’t go near it.  She cleans out the microwave just above the pan and yet, the pan is invisible to her.  It could bite her and she wouldn’t acknowledge it because somehow this has turned into a competition.

He who cleans the pan loses.

Next morning I clean.  Next lunch, she cleans.  The pan remains unclean.

Hossmom goes to work, a shrewd move.  I make her lunch for her in the morning, a turkey lettuce wrap that she enjoys.  I pack her yogurt in as well.  She gives me a kiss goodbye.  Everything appears normal on the surface but underneath, it is a game of wills.  I know her game.

My day goes as planned.  The kids run around and break my stuff.  I shake my head and repair it.  I am running out of ducktape.  I make them lunch and they don’t eat it.  They tell me that they are hungry 10 minutes later.  I shake my head.

I clean the house.  I start to make dinner.  I am distracted because the kids are now fighting.  I am giving them a lecture while I clean off the stove.  I tell them to knock off the tattle tale routine that they are getting into because I don’t care who said the word wrong.  Work it out for yourself.  I grab the pan and put it in the sink and turn on the hot water.

I stop.  Dear God what I have I just done.

I have lost.  That is what I have done.  I have given this marital game away, the power shift is almost physical, I can almost feel it flow from me to her.  Crap.  I have to wash the pan now.  I can’t leave it in the sink with warm water running over it for 2 more days although I consider it.  Hossmom will come home and see the pan washed.  She’ll kiss me on the head and say “Thanks for washing the pan honey” but it will be laced with sarcasm and smugness.

But I’m not finished with this game yet, not quite yet.  I have an ace in the hole.  There is a basket of laundry upstairs.  It has been there since this morning, since Hossmom left for work.  It’s not folded, who is going to fold it?  It’s on the bed, just sitting there.  Who is going to crack first?  Not me, nope, not me at all.

It’s on her side of the bed.  Your move Hossmom.

Take a strong look at the picture.  That puckish looking thing was my lunch.  I find that the mystery of it to be part of it’s allure, enhancing the taste of it from just plain sawdust to special magic sawdust.  Yes, I ate that.  It is not a stock photo, it’s one I took myself when I went to eat lunch with my daughter at her school.

She has been asking for me to have lunch with her for a while.  I’ve done this before and so again I packed up and went to lunch with Little Hoss and her little table of 5 year old cohorts.  Little Hoss likes to show me off, just because I’m Dad.  I’m her dad and therefore I am special.  I have raised her right and I’m sure that her vision of me will ruin many relationships that she will have in the future.  I am also ok with this because if they don’t measure up to me then they can go suck a toe.  I’m also trying to cut down on my cussing here and there, thus the “suck a toe” comment.  I would prefer to say they can go suck a dick, especially the mythical Chester and his stupid garage rock band, but I’m trying to be a better person.  I will kill Chester though, if he ever shows up with his high school drop out friends and children from 4 different women.

I do enjoy going to lunch with Little Hoss.  Not the food itself mind you, but just the experience.  After 4 years of being surrounded by children, I find that I can very easily hold their attention with wild tales of my awesomeness and knowledge.  This is probably why Little Hoss wants to show me off.  I tell the 10 assorted children epic tales of me battling dragons in order to get the special unicorn.  I tell them that I once met Darth Vadar and he said he was sorry for trying to hurt Luke.  I tell them that this one time, when I was going to the moon, I had to fight off aliens in order to save the very same unicorn that I got from the dragon.  It’s not a very good unicorn, always finding itself in trouble.

I picked today to eat with my daughter because today was pizza day.  I used to love pizza day when I was in school.  School pizza was just awesome and I planned on indulging in a past favorite of mine.  The limp nonexistent crust, the can like taste of the sauce, the government quality of the cheese, I was looking forward to it.  My son was in his preschool class that he goes to twice a week and where I am also a legend.  Little Hoss leads me through the lunch line, she’s buying today.

She grabs me a tray and I get the pizza which looks a bit different than I remember, but no worries.  I am also informed by my daughter and the lunch lady that I also have to choose a vegetable, it’s school rules.  I was aiming for the green beans but the lunch lady insisted on the hockey puck.  She was quite pushy about it and I can only imagine that they have 5000 of these things in the back on a truck and are trying to off load them quickly.  There is no way a kid is eating this thing so 100 bucks says that every parent that is having lunch at the school today gets this thing.  I take it as my daughter gets the green beans and I’m a bit jealous.

We sit and I start talking to her friends.  She is having a good time laughing with them as I tell them my stories.  The pizza turns out to truly suck and is not even close to what I used to have.  I’m a bit disappointed.  Another childhood memory is destroyed.  Lunch is almost over and the hockey puck remains on my plate, I don’t want to eat this thing.  I’m not even sure what it is.  Then the kids tell me that the school rules is that I’ve got to finish everything on my plate.  They are looking at me, at the puck, at me again.  I get the feeling that this is the equivalent to eating worms on the playground.  I have to be a role model, I get that.  My actions will determine the actions of my children well past just tomorrow.  I am adventurous.  I am brave.  I don’t want to eat the puck.

But I have to.  I cut into it and take a bite.  Hmm, maybe not a worm, but defiantly something that a worm has spent some quality time in.  The texture puts me off for a minute, it’s like a burlap sack, and it takes me a while to identify the taste.  Finally it hits me, it’s a sweet potato hockey puck.  It’s got a very rough exterior that has baked a hard outer crust.  I didn’t know it was even possible to make a thing like this but apparently  the laws of physics do not exist in the lunch room.

The kids look at me and I declare that my worm dirt is delicious and try to entice the kids to go back to the lunch line and have a second helping of warm orange sweet potato hockey puke.  They believe my unicorn lies but this one they see right through.  However, I choke it down to set the example and resist every urge in my body and purge myself of this lunch like some supermodel that just ate a cupcake.

Next up is recess where I have been informed I will be the “monster” and chase them.  I can do monster.  And after that, I plan on teaching the kids how to do the Star Trek Vulcan greeting.  By the end of it I will have the kids telling their teachers Live Long and Prosper.

And stay away from orange hockey pucks.

The board wants to put out a fundraising matching challenge, but we need your help.

The idea is that if the membership can match the amount the board members donate the board will do “something” at the convention.

But what should the board do?  What would you pay to see?  Dramatic readings from Mr Mom.  Have the board server lunch at the convention in bowties.

So what are your ideas?  There are 9 board members and hundreds of members so if you come up with a good one you may just see the board do it at the convention.

In high school, I had bad ankles.  It seemed that every time I took a misstep I would sprain one of the ankles.  It would hurt, then swell for a couple of days and then finally heal.

But it was ok, because I  had awesome hair.  It was truly great hair, with almost a little spike going down the middle.  I even had to brush it, a task that I didn’t spend much time on because I was young and had great hair and bad ankles.  My girlfriend would run her fingers through it, men would want to.  I sometimes considered growing it long to shock society and with my awesome young rebelliousness.

Then I started losing my hair, very young.  Each day just a little would leave me and circle down the drain or where ever lost hair goes, probably to the island of lost toys where they make wreaths out of it.  Soon, I started to notice that I was losing my hair, that my hairline was slowly creeping backward in the greatest retreat of life.  I thought that perhaps it was falling and sticking to my chest, which was becoming much more hairy.  I had very little chest hair in high school.  By the time I left college, the hair on my head was about gone and the hair on my chest was a forest.

But it was ok that I was losing my hair because I had strength, great strength, almost Hulk-like. I had played football in high school and lifted a lot of weights in college.  I had grown into my body, a hairy chested man with large forearms.  I used to lift heavy stuff just to try and impress Hossmom.  I moved her 6 different times when we were younger just so I could lift up the big chair.  I just wouldn’t lift it, I would lift it over my head like it was a paperweight.  I would carry it up 3 flights of stairs while my future wife looked on.  Then I would put it down and if I caught her looking again, I would lift it up again.  However, life happens and I stopped lifting weights, I stopped lifting heavy things.  We got married and thought about having kids.  We moved again and I assured Hossmom that I could move a lot of it myself, who needs movers when you are as strong as me?  Then I tried to lift a very awkward entertainment center and put it in the basement of our house.  Strong me would have just hoisted the bitch up and carried it down.  However, somehow I lost my strength.  I could get it about halfway before the trembles would start.  I couldn’t complete the maneuver.  I set it down and noticed that my back started to hurt as well.  I had to slide it on carpet to move it.  I was a bit humiliated but still told Hossmom that I had lifted it with no problems.  Except for the awesome pain in my back.

But it was ok because even though my young strenght had left me, like my good ankles and hair, I still had great knees.  This was a big deal to me because I had seen a lot of friends always complain about thier knees and some even had to have surgery.  With all my sports, my knees made it through great.  Torn ACL?  You can’t tear steel cable,s baby.  My knees were good, they were great, they carried me with purpose from one place to the next, annoucing authortiy each step.  I played a softball game and did well, I think I even wrote about it.  I hadn’t played in a while but no worries, I was good.  The next morning, I couldn’t walk.  My knees hurt.  They were swollen.  I had to actually ice them for 3 days.  I had never done this before in my life.  Hurting knees suck ass.

But it was ok because my eyesight was great, the last bastion of my youth.  Bald, no young strength, bad knees and glass ankles.  My eyesight was always a little pride and joy.  Everyone was talking about getting surgery, so happy they didn’t have to wear glasses.  I couldn’t relate to them and I was happy about that.  I don’t want some wierd laser cutting my eyeballs.  It sounded more like torture.  My eyesight was great, eagle like.  One night driving home Hossmom asked me why I was squinting.  Was I?  Apparently I was and  I noticed that things at night were harder to see clearly, words on signs were more blurry than a young man should see them.  I went to the doctor next week and he confirmed to me that I was no longer 18 and needed glasses.

But it was ok.  Bald, bad knees, no strength, glass ankles and glasses.  But at least I didn’t have any hair in my ears, the sure sign that you are old and crazy.  No hair in these ears, I can still claim that I am young.  Sure, I think teens should get haircuts and jobs.  I think speed limits and curfews are great ideas.  I think that politics can be very interesting.  I think today’s music lacks any heart and meaning, give me the classics of grunge.  But no hair in the ears thus allowing me to claim that I am still young and hip.

I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror.  Something was there that wasn’t there before, just sticking out of my ear.

Fuck.

Every time I shake hands with someone, I want them to kneel before Zod.  I have no idea why but that is what I am always secretly hoping for.  Man or woman, it makes no difference.  I just want someone to randomly do the scene from Superman II.

I want tampons and maxi pads to come in very nice discreet packages like when you get a dirty mag in the mail.  Is this so hard to ask for?  They should be in a special “guys in a relationship” aisle and not be out in public so that women can look at us in disgust when we are forced to buy them for our significant other.  In fact, they should be in an aisle that is closed off by a beaded curtain and where eye contact is not allowed.  And there should never be a price check on these, let’s just call it 10 bucks be good.

I want to pat myself on the back every time I see a kid in public smack-talk his mother or father because I can’t even imagine my kids doing this.  I saw a kid call his mom stupid the other day, and not in a joking let’s play way but in a mean “you are dumb” kind of way.  The mother just asked him if they should go home.  I can’t even conceive of my kids doing this.  They would barely get the “stu…” out before hell rained down.  I have no idea what I have done right in the parenting arena, but I’ve done something and for that, I pat myself on the back.

I want Doritos’s flavored Taco shells to go away.  Very far away.  I puked in my mouth writing this sentence.

I want to do the 6 minute ab workout.

There is a black cat that comes to my back door every night around midnight.  It howls and howls and howls.  The dogs seem to be able to ignore it and I’m not to happy with them.  It would appear that my cat has got himself a little tail in the outside world.  However, I want my cat to understand that you don’t bring the needy ones home.  This is what you get.  Never give them your real address, just tell them that you are “in the area.”

I have 14 stains on my living room carpet.  I know, I’ve counted them.  I want to understand the physics behind how they keep multiplying without my knowledge.  Do they separate like single cell organisms or is this more of a horror story plot where they magically appear every morning until my walls start bleeding  and my house tells me to get out?  And for the record, if this happens, I will get out with no questions asked.  On a side note, always make sure the T.V. is off at night.

When guys are together without women around, we make dick jokes.  I have no idea why we do this and I have no idea why they are so funny.  However, I want my wife to laugh at them when I tell them to her later. When she asks me what I did with the guys at the ballgame, I want her to laugh when I tell her that I told my buddy that his Johnson is like a shriveled twizzler instead of her just rolling her eyes and reading her People magazine.  We need to communicate, honey.

Just because the sun is up in the morning, this does not necessarily mean that sleep time is over and it’s time to get up.  I want my children to understand this on Saturday at 6:30 in the morning.

I want band aids to fix my hurts like they fix my kids’ hurts.  That would be awesome but unfortunately doesn’t seem to work on a 30 something old man.  With my kids though, it dries those tears straight up where as I tend to just keep on bleeding.

I want bigfoot to be real and to be my best friend so that we can go camping together and scare people.  Then steal their coolers.  That would be awesome.

I want home repairs to be simple and cost less than 10 bucks instead of me looking at my broken ice maker for 3 hours wondering if I sacrificed a chicken if it would start working again.  After another 3 hours of looking up possible repairs of it on the Internet, I want it to work after I spend the final 3 hours of my day trying to fix it.

I want red meat to be healthy food again.

I want pie to come in sizes 1 piece, 2 pieces, whole pie, or I.V. pie.  I love pie.

In college I once failed a class called “The Care and Management of Companion Animals”  I want to know how I did that because let’s face it, that took some serious work there.

I want teeth to get better with age, not worse.

I want an easy post that I can do for Mondays so I can just jot down a few things and then go to bed.

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