My Life
Funny things happen to me and my family.
A Manly Color
The furthering adventures of 'Life with my Wife!"
My wife and I are downstairs early this morning preparing and hanging decorations around as we wait for our son (his birthday is today) to wake up and come downstairs.
"Here," she commands, as she tosses me a package, "blow these up!"
It's a bag of balloons. Not just any balloons, but black balloons. Perceiving that not a lot planning or money was spent on decorations, I said, "These balloons are black! Aren't these left over from your 50th birthday party a few years ago?"
Rather than admit she didn't go out and buy any special color balloons, she began to justify her color choice.
"Black is a 'manly' color. It's just the color it should be!" she instructed me.
After both of us blowing up several of them, I walked over and started to dig through a few bags that she had pulled from the gift paper and decoration cabinet.
"Hey!" I countered, "Here's a bunch of purple balloons," as I pulled them from the bag.
Her back was to me as she was buttering some toast. Not wanting to admit she didn't put the money or time to get any other color, she repeated, "Black is a 'MANLY' color!" "Purple is NOT a 'MANLY' color!"
As she turned to me with a stern demeanor, she finalized her argument by declaring with authority, "No MAN would choose "PURPLE!!!"
She stopped short, with mouth gaping open. I just so happen to be wearing a purple T-Shirt (Washington Huskies color).
Stuttering, she responded, "Purp….Purple…is…uh..a…purple is a MANLY color as well. It would be great to have you add some purple balloons to the black ones."
I love my wife! Strong in conviction, unbending in resolve!
Shortly, thereafter, my son walks in. His face rubs against a number of long straw-colored yarn pieces that my wife had hung in the doorway that leads into the kitchen (her idea of birthday decorations).
"Oh!" he exclaimed with a puzzled look on his face. He slowly said, "That's in-ter-est-ing…hanging yarn?!!"
Without missing a beat, my wife chimes in, "Yeah! Yarn is MANLY!"
I roll my eyes and remained silent.
Honey-Do List
Every married man has a "honey-do" list from his wife (I'm sure their mothers included this as part of their womanly training). I tried giving my wife a 'honey-do' list once. Note the word "once."
Her head spun around like a possessed doll and she snarled, "What is this that you're giving me." I quickly grabbed it back and replied, "Nothing, love muffin."
If you're like most men (and I am), not a lot of the honey-do list ever gets done.
You know what I mean, guys. You come home after a long day at the office, there's little time (or incentive) after dinner. You just want to kick back, grab a cool drink and relax a little. Weekends aren't much better. Time is consumed by really important stuff, e.g. watching the game, working on the car or one your projects, shooting at the gun range, etc.
As far as my honey's "honey-do" list, I've often thought, "Your arms and legs aren't broken." Honey-do should mean, 'Honey (i.e., wife), why don't you do it." "I mean, after all this push for women's lib and you come to me with this stuff!" Can I hear an 'AMEN' men?!!!
If only this type of thinking would work in the real world. The reality is that mothers also taught their daughters (part of their womanly training) the gift of how to inflict guilt upon the man and how to play the role of a martyr. (Can I hear an 'AMEN' men?!!)
You'll hear, "Well Debbie's husband does…." You interrupt her quickly putting your hands over your ears. You say, "STOP….I know Debbie's husband…he doesn't."
Then she resorts to phrases like, "You don't love me…" or "You never…." or "You ain't gettin' dinner or _______ (you fill in the blank) until you…."
The last phrase is usually the deal-breaker.
One can only deal with this kind of nagging for so long. To quote the great American, Clint Eastwood, "A man's got to know his limits."
So effective this day forward, I shall take off each Monday from work and devote it to finishing up much of my honey's honey-do list. If there's one thing I've learned:
"Happy Wife, Happy Life!"
Toilet Paper Rolls
My wife used to constantly complain that she was the only one who ever changed the roll. No matter how I would try to defend myself, she would always say, "Yeah…right…prove it." Of course that was hard to do.
So I set my mind to provide demonstrative evidence to support my claims. To prove her wrong, over a long period of time I saved up and hid over 20 cardboard tubes from the rolls every time I changed it. My intention was that the next time I heard, "I'm the only one that ever changes the rolls around here," was to grab my stash, throw it down before her, and smugly declare, "NO! you're wrong! Take a look at this!" Surely, that would "silence" her.
I waited with anticipation, and waited, and waited, and waited and waited. Several months pass and still no accusatory statements from my beloved. My hidden stash grew larger and larger and became harder to hide. To my dismay, she failed to repeat her charge.
I came to the conclusion that the reason she wasn't complaining is because I had made a point to actually "change" the toilet rolls in order to gather them up to prove my point.
This exercise in futility proved her point, i.e. she didn't have to complain if someone else other than her WAS changing the rolls. I quietly and in private disposed of the evidence rolls.
Women use such devious methods to manipulate their husbands to do things for them. While thinking I was in control, it was actually her in control. Arrrgggggggggg!!!!
The Pen
In church, I sit on the aisle seat. Across the aisle, one row forward, sat a father (approx 6'6" in height) also in the aisle seat, with his two very young daughters seated next to him. Somewhere during the announcements, the children are instructed to get out of their seats and head to their respective Sunday School classes.
Dressed in their frilly pink dresses, and cuter than a button, both attract a lot of attention as they, with great effort, noisily climb (what must seem to them like Mt. Everest) over the long lanky legs of their father. The first girl reaches the aisle and runs towards the back as her younger sister (best described as a "knee-nibbler") struggles to negotiate the knee terrain.
After much effort, she proudly reaches the aisle and pauses to survey the number of people who are now looking at her, no doubt enjoying and celebrating her accomplishment and moment. Clasped in her right hand is a rather expensive silver pen.
The father extends his palm out and says, "Give it to me."
Somewhat confused by his request, she turns in a 360 degree motion as though in slow motion, both hands raised in the air, pen tightly held, looking for a clue from any onlooker as to discern what her father wants.
The father extends his palm a bit further, and once again (but more firmly, yet still gentle) says, "Give it to me."
Somewhere during the 2nd iteration of her turn, her face lights up, a big smile crosses her face, and in a moment of epiphany, she understands with clarity what her father is asking of her.
With her left-hand she grabs the pen from her right hand. And then without hesitation, winds up her right-hand, and in a full downward motion plants a loud, echoing, and no doubt painful 'high-5" hand slap onto the extended palm of her father.
With pen in hand, she rushes down the aisle to follow after her older sister. The father, hand still extended and throbbing, with a sheepish grin lifts his eyes to survey the number of witnesses who are now laughing uncontrollably. With head tilted down, and with determination, his imposing frame rises from the chair and he too heads down the aisle.
Moments later, like a proud hunter with his prey, he returns with the silver pen grasped tightly in his grip. Acknowledging the admiring spectators with a smile and gentle nod of his head to each, he sits down to enjoy the rest of the service.
We all smile.
The Prodigal Employee – Part 2
You would think that after publicly humiliating my employee last week for not showing up on time (she was sleeping), that would be extra incentive to show up on time this week, maybe even a bit earlier. But NOOOOO!!!
I get an excited call this morning around 9:15 to 9:20. "I'm still planning on coming to work!" she says.
"I can't find my keys to the car! Pray that I find them!"
I'm thinking to myself, "Pray that you still have a job."
I say,"hmmmmmmm….this seems to be developing into a habit…."
She cuts me off. "OK, see ya!" She hangs up. I get no respect.
She finally came and stayed a little longer to make up for lost time. I can hardly wait to see what next week's chapter in "The Prodigal Employee" will reveal.
The Prodigal Employee – Part 1
Generally, my faithful employee shows up on time. However, this morning was different. I call her at 9:30 am. "Where are you?" I ask.
"Huh? ummmm? Yawn….What time is it?"
"It's 9:30!"
"Oh! It's Thursday! I was sleeping….I forgot…."
"Really?" I responded. "I hadn't noticed."
"Do you still want me to come in?" she asks.
"No, of course not." I replied. "That's why I'm calling you. To encourage you to take it easy and continue sleeping!"
"I can be there in about 20 min…OK?"
"That would be nice."
"Oh, I might have to leave early today!" she says
I hang up.
Joining a Health Club
People ask me if I'm "in shape." Is that a rhetorical question? I mean,you're standing in front of someone with an Adonis-like body, and you ask a silly question like that?
Of course I'm in shape. My shape just happens to be "round."
Part of my overall plan this year is to get healthy and develop the 6-pack rippling muscles that lie just slightly hidden under my skin. So, to actualize this reality, I joined a local health club along with my son.
Last night we went down to the club for our first father/son workout. My fellow athletes at the club must have been impressed with us as we walked in. Heads turned as they smiled at us and exchanged hushed words with each other. No doubt, it had been a long time since they have seen such fine specimens of men.
I was on the treadmill for at least 10 minutes. By then I was getting winded and began to build a sweat. My son running on the machine next me suggested I might want to turn the machine "on." "Oh!" I said. No wonder I'm building up such a sweat.
I next tackled the stationary bike. I looked at the chart that displays the recommended heart rate based on age. "Hmmm…," I said as I looked for my age. "There it is!" as I looked to the extreme right of the chart. Under my age it stated, "Get out the paddles, you're going to need them soon!" I figured they must have misspelled 'peddles."
Next, I tried the weight pull which required me, while seated, to pull a heavy weight to my upper chest. "Piece of cake!" I thought as my head turned and surveyed the other athletes, no doubt watching me and impressed with my every move by now.
"Wow! That's heavy!" I said to my son. "Maybe I should take a little weight off to make it easier."
He looked at the machine weight and responded, "Dad, it doesn't go any lower than 10-lbs."
"Never mind, I can do it!" Just to impress him more, I said, "Add another 40 lbs."
After 3 reps of 10, I "felt the burn!" I mean I was sweating and feeling uncomfortably hot.
Exhausted and looking for a way to get out of this metal jungle and still maintain my pride, I turned to my son and said, "OK son, I think you've challenged yourself tonight. You don't want to overdo it. Whadda-you say we call it a night?"
Thankfully, he agreed. Obviously, our muscles surging and pumping left quite an impression as we strutted out of the club.
This morning, my left am is in so much "PAIN!!!!" I can't even stretch it out straight. This exercise program may be the death of me yet.
The Stove
OK…here's the story. I turn on the front burner. My wife says, "Don't use that burner. It only goes directly to hot." So I turn it off and turn on the back burner. Then she says, "Don't use that burner either. It doesn't work. It must have something to do with you not seating the 2-burner module properly when you removed it yesterday to clean under it." So I turn off that burner.
I pull out the 2-burner module and flip over the module to check the bottom. Why? That is a question I have asked myself several times since the event, considering there's nothing on the bottom of the module. Now this is where the story gets interesting.
The full weight of the module, burner side down, came to rest on the inside of my tender, yet supple, upper arm. Problem was (remember what my wife said about the front burner?) the burner was still extremely hot. I didn't think it had time to heat up since I turned it off so quickly. Apparently, I was wrong.
The front burner seared into my flesh like a hot branding iron leaving 7 distinct impressions of the coils of the burner. The first thought that came into my mind was, "Golly Gee. That's awfully hot!"
I screamed like a little girl and dropped the module onto the stove and ran to the sink to put cold water onto the burns. My wife, hearing my cries, came running from the living room. "What happened?" her concerned voice asked.
"I burned myself on the stove!" as I sniffled and showed her my blistering 2nd degree burn wounds. Her mouth fell open in amazement and, as any caring woman of heart-felt sensitivity would convey in an emergency situation, said "Boy, that was a stupid thing to do!" "Why would you do that?"
I thought to myself, "Why didn't I think to ask myself that question?"
I went to the doctor this morning. "Why are you here?" he asked.
"I burned myself," hoping for some needed sympathy as I pulled up my sleeve and revealed the extensive damage. Instead of sympathy, he chuckled and paused for just a moment, as if he had just received an epiphany, "say that looks like the coils of a stove burner!" "Is that a 'GE' logo in the middle of the burns?"
"Ha-ha…don't give up on your day job, Doc."
Needless to say, with the potential of long-term scarring, I'm thinking people might see the scars on my arms and confuse me with being a gangbanger. What sup, dog?!
A Night on the Town
My wife and I went to Ivar's Seafood and Chowder House for dinner tonight. We asked for it "to go." The manager, a middle-aged man who looked very tired from working all day, was putting our clam chowder into the bag.
"Silverware?" he asked with blank stare.
"You mean 'plastic-ware?" I queried.
Once again with a blank stare, he asked more firmly and a little louder, "Silverware??!"
I responded, "Uhhhhh….ummmmm…sure."
He reached over to his "silverware" tray and grabbed a plastic spoon and fork and placed them into the bag.
I politely thanked him, took the bag, and left anticipating a night of 'fine-dining."
Cereal
I walked into the kitchen early this morning for a quick bowl of cereal before I darted off to meet someone. As I was about to grab a bowl from the upper cabinet, my eye caught what appeared (and was) to be a crack in our granite counter top by the sink.
Since the counter top was less than a year old and had been expensive to install, I was pretty upset. My mind was totally focused on the crack as I poured my cereal into the "bowl."
My focus was interrupted as cereal began to pour out all over the counter. Instead of a bowl, I had grabbed a small plastic drinking cup with a diameter of about 3". Sometimes 'auto-pilot' in the morning is not always the best choice. 🙂