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Posts from the ‘Wife’ Category

Last minute Donut Monday Dad Christmas gift ideas

Struggling to find a last minute Christmas gift that merits the awesomeness that Mr. Donut Monday delivers day in an day out? Never fear. I’ve compiled a list of ideas that meets such criteria

10. Someone to re-engineer my Comcast Home security system to no longer make an audible ping on the master console in our bedroom when the system detects a door being opened in our home. This crafty feature was intended to say “Alert –  Someone might be breaking into your home!!” but in reality its sole use to date has been for the sole benefit of Mrs. Donut Monday – “Alert – Mr Donut Monday is rolling in at 1:18am after a night boozing with friends who you don’t approve of!  Also he forgot to take out the trash”

9. A walk on role for Mad Men’s final season as Roger Sterling’s younger, better looking yet boozier brother who engage in hijinx with the secretary pool and bring in the biggest client to date for the ad firm, Scooter Tuna.

8. Someone to train my kids to no longer pee with the seat down and to flush when they go #2. I continually realize the importance of this wish being granted every time I sit on a wet toilet seat and look down.

7. A photoshopped picture me hoisting the Stanley cup over my head surrounded by the San Jose Sharks. I’ve been waiting 42 years for this moment. Time to take matters into my own hands

6. $10,000 cash to hire a team of analysts to determine how I found a way to miss my fantasy football playoffs this year with Peyton Manning, AJ Green, Marshawn Lynch and the Seattle Defense on my roster and form my draft war room for next years season.  If there is any money left over it can be used add metallic toilet seats to my home to instill electro shock therapy for any future peeing violations from the kiddos

5. A magical hockey stick that pulls me around the ice craftily with Sydney Crosby like prowess to unleash a slap shot that elevates my game above the wounded moose like skills I currently bring to the ice in my current state

4. A hired hit man to make my raccoon and gopher problems to go away quietly. Plus maybe one of my cats but don’t tell the wife.

3. A super sized bladder transplant with camel like prowess so I can actually make it through a sporting event, movie, or a full night of sleep without the need to go. This wish is sponsored by Flomax.

2. A hovercraft to take me to work daily and avoid the jackelopes who somehow found employment in this improved economy, thus wrecking my commute. Will also accept a transporter device

1. To be “freshly pressed” on WordPress yet again and inflate my already dangerously large ego.

Happy holidays

Leftover Wars – The Final Battle

It’s Donut Monday at  at 3pm and I’m on day 5 of staring at a single piece of bacon sitting in a clear plastic container in my fridge since it arrived late last week. It looks lonely and confused. It’s a class B felony to instill willful neglect on such a tasty morsel in the Donut Monday household with a minimum 1 day ban on chores during football and the option for me to eat aforementioned tasty morsel without repercussions. I could and should eat it right now like a ravenous hungry male lion king but I know this is a trap that has been carefully placed by the only other species that dare challenge his reign – the lioness aka Mrs Donut Monday who “claimed” to be full and brought this piece of bacon home from breakfast out last Thursday in the aforementioned to-go container. Not that this action is out of the ordinary for her.  I’ve seen her first hand drop kick any hovering waiter who dares to prematurely remove a plate and cross forearm windmill block an approaching fork from anyone else at the table she shares as long as there is a reasonable amount of food for later consumption. A single piece of bacon meets that threshold it seems but there’s much more at stake here. I could now see this  to go order was clearly a throw down test of wills between man and woman and the sweet elongated strip of meat goodness  that would ultimately decide the winner, and she had bet large money on the swine.

My track record up until that moment had not been strong. Since our initial courtship I have conservatively obliterated somewhere in the range of 30 meals that the wife had staked claim to for later consumption. I suspect this phenomenon occurs in most other relationships. It’s just one of the differences in the DNA between man vs woman that surfaces during long term co-habitation/aka marriage. A woman orders a meal based on a game-plan where crafty planning can stretch a doggie bag to make 3 additional meals over 7 days. A man takes a different approach and orders a meal based on 3 part rating system

If I order a meal and finish it will it be free and I’ll get my name on a plaque on a wall next to morbidly obese past customers?

If I don’t finish the meal will other men mock me in shame and will my wife start to wonder why I can’t get the job done?

If I don’t finish the meal and deny leftovers out of false bravado how much will  I hate myself when I stake claim on the leftovers my wife will leave unattended in the fridge later that evening?

At first any self inflicted food ownership violations were met with playful banter with minimal repercussions.  But as the violations stacked up over time and she realized no leftover was truly ever safe,  pity gave way to frustration, anger and ultimately threats of sewing my mouth shut. I quickly realized the negative reaction upon confessing to my sin was a direct correlation depending on the anticipation of the illegally consumed leftover multiplied by the complexity of replacement. I call it the Highly Anticipated Nourishment Detriment Syndrome or the HANDSoff effect.

For instance eating the last 2 slices of pie from our local pizza joint only scored a manageable 4 on the “You Suck” scale as I could quickly make amends within a quick call and 20 min drive to make a pick up. On the other end of the spectrum, consuming the remainder of a shrimp burrito recently hauled back all the way from her favorite burrito joint in her college hometown 100 miles away scores a solid 9 with a ten minute sustained stare-down like a man who was just caught clubbing a baby seal.

Back to the single piece of bacon in the present moment which has been tormenting me the last 5 days. I decided early on to to fight the good fight and represent manhood full on knowing that I’m a seasoned pro that is going to own the bacon situation and not let it own him. I document my journey along the way.

Thursday Day 1 – I check to see what the expiration date on cooked bacon under the notion that the threat of food poisoning will mitigate my primal urge to consume. No data exists. Studies show no bacon has lasted longer than 30 minutes before ultimate consumption in 150 years of studies in controlled environments.

Friday Day 2 – Bacon themed nightmares begin. I bolt up out of bed that night in a cold sweat when my wife won’t stop the car to pilfer free Premium Center Cut product from a jackknifed Oscar Meyer delivery truck on the side of the road.

Saturday Day 3 – During my daily refrigerated pork surveillance, the 9 year old asks if he can eat this last piece of bacon in the fridge and for a moment I contemplate letting him just to see what happens. I imagine poison darts shooting out to cut him down mid bite or a trap door opening up beneath him and I think better of it. I let the boy live atleast till Sunday and re-evaluate my options.

Sunday Day 4 – 37 minutes. Turns out that’s how long you can stare blankly into an open fridge before you permanently screw up the cooling system.

Monday Day 5 – I gather the family in the kitchen and announce there is no Santa Claus just a moment before I eat the singular piece of bacon in one bite. I figure better to embrace the role of scoundrel and control my destiny. On the plus side it’s one level higher than that of an accused baby seal clubber.

I am a weak yet fulfilled man

TV Time Out – So That’s What HD Looks Like!

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Oh yeah check out that bad boy the 32 inch Proscan. RCA’s “in your face” answer to Sony’s Trinitron and Pioneer’s Elite series harnessing the best of TV technology circa 1998. That was back in the day when you had to call in atleast 2 buddies to help carry a beast like this when moving and if you dropped this TV on your foot you were definitely going to the emergency room. Not like the featherweight slim LED TV’s of today that my 9 year old could move himself. I took a picture of this relic from a rather odd angle with bad lighting because I literally can’t move it any further by myself.  In short, a man’s man TV. Or some would say a cheap man’s TV. And the reason I know so much about the Proscan TV is because this monster has until about a week ago, been the primary TV viewing home experience for me and my family the past 15 years. RCA may have gone out of business but not in my house.

Truth be told I didn’t even care about replacing the TV the first 8-10 years. TV technology at the time was good enough for me and 50 inch plasma TV’s back then would set you back a good $3-4K. Why get a SmartTV when I had hundreds of physical DVD’s that I could ignore and store in my house taking up precious room while collecting dust? The real shunning began about 3 years ago. Buddies dropping by for a Sunday afternoon watching football slowly dwindled. One friend walked in to my house one Sunday afternoon to watch the 49ers, took one look at the TV and walked out immediately without saying a word. Since then I send him (just him) a Super Bowl party invitation every year with a picture of the TV on the front of the card telling him to RSVP ahead to guarantee I could make room for him. Last year I had my Comcast cable boxes updated and asked the installation technician how much to upgrade to an HD signal. He just looked at me and said “Why?” When the Comcast guy shuns you and gives you the virtual “L” pasted across the forehead you know you’ve hit bottom.

So 2 weeks ago I drove down to the local Best Buy with a stack of gift cards accumulated from 10’s of thousands of dollars in DVD purchase rebates on my credit card and headed over the TV section. The discussion with a very nice sales lady went something like this.

Sales lady – “Can I help you sir?”

Me – “Yes I’d like to buy a new TV”

Sales lady – “Is there a particular set of features you’re looking for in a new TV?”

Me – “Yes I’m looking for a 50 inch TV that has new features developed since 1998”

Sales lady – “You have a TV from 1998?”

Me – “Yes. Please don’t shun me”

Sales lady – “No worries. Are you going to give it to a museum or something”

Me – “I would but I can’t physically move it out of my house. We are going to stack the kids toys all around it until they move out for college which is about when I’ll be ready to upgrade my TV again”

When I finished picking out the TV from the Best Buy Labor Day Sucker sale the nice sales lady said they would bring the Slim LED TV around front to load into my car. In my customary fashion I waited for 3 large men to come by to load the TV but the sales lady brought out the TV herself and loaded it in the car, with one hand, while texting her friends.

Installing the new TV in my living room was relatively pain free save for lifting the old TV off the stand and moving it 2 feet which is where it still sits at this moment. When i turned on the new TV for the first time an impressive graphic display of HD awesomeness appeared before my eyes and that was just the TV set up wizard. Even the set up prompts were impressive and intuitive. “I have detected Comcast Cable as your primary provider” (yep)…”I have detected your home wifi and connecting now” (impressive)…”I have determined your top 10 favorite shows after analyzing your DVR saved programs and past viewing habits. Would you like me to recommend shows to you automatically?” (tears rolling down my face) Once the set up was complete the TV crescendo built up while the TV automatically downloaded a software update. In the background set up music I swore I heard the words “Looooooosseeeerrrr” whisper into my ear.

The next morning was like summer Christmas in casa Donut Monday. The kids reiterated their love for their father and the wife said rent something “frisky” on the Netflix app later tonight, in HD. My Comcast guy looks me in the eye again.

Until my next TV revolution circa 2028

The Father’s Day All Dads Really Want

Father’s day is like Christmas morning for dudes over 35. It’s the one holiday I really look forward to now that I’m a dad, a husband and a worker bee (I mean consultant) And it’s placed at the perfect time of year, just before the wife and I run the gauntlet on a summer when the kids are home 23 hours a day during school break and just after 17 other occasions that are not centered around me. That Hallmark driven marathon starts with Valentine’s day which is a mere 2 days after my birthday (barely enough time to sober up) with a checkpoint at Mother’s day, 12 eight year old kid birthday parties and finally a sprint to the finish line with the wedding anniversary. Speaking of which I’m married to the most shizawesome wife in the world. She knows that while many of my crew of fellow dads get stuck going to expensive Father’s day brunches with the extended family or play dates with other families at the park I get the day off to do whatever I want with no contingencies or lectures after the fact. It doesn’t even have to be legal though she asks to keep it to misdemeanor level offenses

Each year she will ask me what I want to do for Father’s Day and I walk her through the most epic day ever. This would be the Mount Everest of Father’s Days and if I’m only able to achieve a fraction of this it would be a great day still. Let me walk you through it.

The morning starts with a true opportunity to sleep in rather than the daily ritual of a 5 year old projecting at 50 decibels “MORNING DADDY!” 3 centimeters from my eardrum at the side of my bed at 6:30am. The wife has pre-briefed the children the night before that they get 20 minutes of TV cartoon time for each pound of bacon they cook up to prepare for Daddy’s day and an extra 30 minutes if they hear the lock engaged on Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom door in the morning. That’s how I want to be woken up to on Father’s Day morning…the smell of bacon being cooked illegally by minors who earn 5 dollars a week and the bedroom door being locked by my wife.

Once the all clear sign has been given the wife and kids gather to formally present daddy with their father’s day presents. Mommy goes first with a trio of gifts. The first is a tribute to introducing more danger into my life. Up until now the most traumatic experience is whether or not I pull a hammy sprinting out to the curb every Wednesday at 6am to catch the garbage truck after forgetting to put the trash out the night before. So she rewards with me a  guest star appearance as a lowly deck hand who gets promoted to skipper after all the other deck hands are swept to sea on Deadliest Catch.  A spinoff series is being discussed. The second gift is absolute forgiveness for not reminding me that this is the 12 time I’ve forgotten to take out the trash in the last 13 weeks. The third gift is washing the seasick induced puke off my shirt after my guest appearance as a deck hand/turned skipper on Deadliest Catch goes horribly wrong and the spinoff series talks go south.

Then it’s time for the kids to present their gifts to me from youngest to snottiest. The first gift is a solemn oath to from this time forward to flush the toilet after taking a number 2, (an oath that will be broken a mere 20 minutes later) , the 2nd to grant me preemptive forgiveness for blowing they college 529 college money on a weekend bender in Vegas and the third for my oldest boy to commit to learning to drive by age 9 so I can have 24/7 DD access at all times. None of this is legally binding in the court of child rearing but I appreciate the effort and hustle.

Upon completion of the gift giving process and proper consumption of  mass quantities of illegally baked bacon I get dressed and walk outside to see Emma Stone washing my new Tesla Model S hybrid in a bikini. I immediately upgrade her to my caddy where she will carry my bag on a round of golf at Pebble beach with 3 of my heroes: Wayne Gretzky who brings a upgrade to my mad E level hockey skills, the dude who plays Don Draper on Mad Men who shows me how to be productive at work after 12 Scotch drinks accompanied by a power booze nap and a persistent scowl and my Dad who is the only man I know who can pull off a pink shirt and white trousers. Yes I said it. Trousers. It’s father’s day. I get to say whatever I want.

After golf I’m helicoptered into the final table on the World Series of Poker where I put on a clinic to capture my first of many WSOP bracelets, train with the Navy Seal equivalent of Canada (the Beaver Battalion) for an upcoming raid to get rid of the province of Saskatchewan (we’re just tired of having to spell Saskatchewan) and asked to write an op-ed piece in the New York Times on how donut consumption will ultimately save the world. Amen to that brother.

The Loneliest Toilet On Earth

I’m all for innovation. The team that invented wrinkle free dress shirts, thus ensuring I never have to touch an iron in my life again is impressive. The man who invented the Umbrella hat should be knighted. And yet no one has figured out how to create a diaper that can properly contain the volume of pee produced from a 4 year old at night. I ask WHY? Having two aggressively hydrated boys and what is clearly an insufficient two bathrooms in my house, my wife and I find ourselves out gunned when it comes to containing the multiple pee perpetrators in our household. Until then our status remains at Code Yellow

Pee Perpetrator #1

This is the only known existing photo of our primary pee perpetrator, the 4 year old. The boy rarely stands still, likely too excited stalking out the next area to mark his territory. This ninja trained pee out warrior has mastered the art to refuse all liquids until the last 30 minutes before bed, at which point he consumes at a rate better than that of our best beer anchor man in my college fraternity days despite our efforts to limit his intake. This technique has increased his overall bladder storage capacity, thus increasing the damage he can do later that night. Night diapers never have a chance. Rather than being contrite, he’s actually proud of his achievements, typically entering our room at 3am with a big shit eating grin like he just broke the new pee out Olympic record. Averaging 1-2 “breaches” a week, we’ve also set a new record on how fast we can change the sheets in the dark…correction how fast “I” can change the sheets in the dark.

He’s also not one to be defined as solely a night pee out master. Freestyling with his finest Spiderman underoos during the day, his decision making process when the need to pee has reached Defcon 5 is made on a case by case basis.  Yes conceptually he could stop the Wi hockey game and go potty in the toilet after doing the pee dance for a solid 5 minutes straight but there is only 30 seconds left in the period, he’s up by a goal and the toilet is a mere 10 feet away so better to defer this decision for now as higher stakes are on the line. Envision the Wi victory dance moments later, hands held up with a big wet crotch and proud of it. That’s my boy

Pee perpetrator #2

This is our 8 year old and its impressive how he has mastered his craft. We’ve shielded his identity in order to avoid psychotherapy years from now when he realizes his Dad brazenly called him out in a desperate attempt to get his blog visitor count up. Diaper free for a few years now he rarely pees the bed but rather takes a more unorthodox approach of sleep walking and peeing in random locations which includes the closet, his clothes hamper and on one occasion his grandma who made the critical error of sleeping in his room once one night while visiting. Just once. My personal favorite is when he actually makes it to the bathroom during a sleep walking incident but forgets to actually lift the toilet lid. Forget the horse whisperer. My wife is the pee whisperer. She senses when he’s roaming the house in the middle of the night, dashes out of bed and brings him back from the brink of making our house his own personal urinal.

Pee perpetrator #3

This is Daisy our cat the most ruthless pee perpetrator of all. Her identity also protected because she is now in the cat witness protection program eluding the hitmen my wife has hired to eliminate her for good. Cats we found have mastered the art of carrying a grudge. After having our first child she was regulated to 2nd fiddle status and never truly forgave the wife or I, thus when her evil campaign of urinal redemption started. At first her acts were more like firing warning shots over our bow indicating she meant business. She would pee in random places without discrimination but when child #2 arrived she realized she needed to refine her game and make it personal. The wife was isolated as a key target to take out when she started peeing on her shoes in the closet. Apparently Daisy has an eye for fashion as she only went after the high end DKNY’s and the Mojo Moxy’s.  The $8.99 Ked slip ons purchased at Target on sale were surprisingly left alone. In a tactical move apparently taught to her by feline special forces, she next went after the primary shoe source, the shoe closet which is locate in our garage. After a merciless bombing campaign the shoe closet eventually collapsed when the weight bearing side walls were completely saturated with cat pee. I have to say I was most  impressed when she took the final nuclear option of peeing down the heater vent in our bedroom. It’s a real treat having hot cat pee smell emulating throughout the house on a hot August day.

Side note –  This is the industrial clothes washer we purchased. It’s been running 24 hours a day since about August 2010. I love this washer. This washer keeps our marriage intact.

Redemption will be mine in about 40 years assuming they don’t invent a way to contain pee outs from an 80 year old man who lost control of his bladder. I’m not holding my breath

Finding my Inner Don Draper

I find this email in my inbox from my wife the other day….

Ladies,
Does the man in your life need a bit of polishing up? We have the answer for you! Our stylists have been inspired by the cool styles of Mad Men and have created great looks for the modern guy. This month Barberia is offering a Mad Men Makeover package at an exclusive price. It includes everything your man needs to go from dud to stud in one appointment!
And once he is looking great, enter him into our Make Over Contest for a chance to be named Hottest Makeover & win one of three great prizes (and bragging rights, of course).
 
INCLUDES
+ cleanse & cut + high shine color enhancer (or gray coverage) + b.e.n.n. + facial hair design + styling product

$145  now only $80 (save almost 50%)

At first I’m perplexed.   Makeover? I keep the haircuts high and tight. No beer belly. I even own a v neck black shirt. I’m the after picture! Then it hits me..my achilles heel.   The gray hair. I’m a walking advertisement for Just for Men..the before picture. Ironically after sporting gray hair for over 20 years now I’ve   finally felt like I’ve grown into the look. Gray hair at 20 – freak of nature. Gray hair at 41 – distinguished. Apparently my wife is not yet ready to be married to distinguished. She wants a Mad Man.

After further contemplation I’m impressed by her subtle move. Lure me into a trance by affiliating a call to action with one of my favorite TV shows. Embrace my inner Don Draper, the antagonist hero of a 1960’s man as portrayed on Mad Men. But why stop at hair coloring? This is more than that. She is telling me to live a Don Draper life. A Don Draper takes it for granted that he will have a solid coif of jet black hair which would not dare stray out of place until the day he dies. That is wasted energy. He’s more concerned at the moment   that the bottle of bourbon in his corner office is over half empty and it’s only Tuesday afternoon and his secretary just turned 25. Time for a younger   secretary. He’s also annoyed that it’s 11am and he has not put anyone at the office in their place or rallied the team that indeed we’re going to win that new advertising account we are pitching. Because in a Don Draper life you always win the new advertising account you are pitching.

Instantly I take a broader assessment of my life. Don Draper does not do school drop off or pick up with the kids and if you tried to put a crossing guard vest on him Don Draper would punch you right in the face. Don Draper loves his kids but he’s never changed a diaper in his life or dealt with a “pee out”. His kids know  you don’t wake up a Don Draper when he’s sleeping unless the house is burning down but a house would know better than to do that. Don Draper laughs at triathletes. His 3 sports are boozing, skirt chasing and glaring. He’d light up a cigarette, take a long pull and blow the smoke in your face when you tell him you’re heading to Yoga class. Namaste that!

Don Draper does not sit down with his wife with the calendar and plan his weekly guys night out to make sure it does not conflict with her schedule. Every night is guys night out until he says otherwise. Don Draper does not have a Facebook account. He has a little black book and he “Friends” about 3 new ladies a month on average. Don Draper does not write a blog. He dictates his musings into an 8 track tape and has his new 20 year old secretary transcribe it for him.

Inspired I seek out my wife and thank her for inspiring me to take a new lease on my life and life the Mad Man life she so wants me to embrace.

She throws a box of “Just For Men” into my lap and says get over yourself already. And think about what you want to make for dinner. It’s girls night out.

Here’s how the hair in a box experiment turned out. Don Draper does not approve