Category Archives: Wives

Winter Is Over! The Return of No Pants Fridays

 

The delightful and smokin' hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland
The delightful and smokin’ hot Jess and me at the Abbey Ruins in Cong, Ireland

It has been a long winter, a “Game of Thrones” kind of winter. A vile, nasty, brutal, enough to make me think about moving to Florida and you know how much I hate Florida (a lot, in case you didn’t), kind of winter. It has not, however, been all bad. At least when the weather is that bad, people tend to stay at home and hibernate, which means less company for my wife, the privacy loving and likes-people-but-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-it Jess and I. Not that we don’t like company, but when you live in the midst (literally) of a large and socially-inclined family, there is always somebody who just “drops by”. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. For years now, I’ve drawn it on Friday night. For the 1st few years that we lived on “the compound” everybody avoided our house on Friday nights for fear of walking in in the middle of our carnal exploits, a fear I intentionally fostered through off-color stories about what we got up to, and dropping hints about aberrant behavior and deviant proclivities. Unfortunately, as the years went by, my allusions to deviance seemed to lose their effectiveness, or maybe they just remembered that I’m not quite as wicked as I say (or maybe I just don’t have the energy that I used to).

I next tried just warning them off. I told them all that unless they were bleeding or on fire, to stay away. This may sound callous, but nothing screws up an evening of whisky, woman, and song (along with maybe a good game of strip cribbage) faster than being invaded by a horde of kids and grandkids. It really throws your groove off. It’s not that I don’t love my kids and grandkids, I do, but, (as most of you have probably noticed as you’ve gotten older) that old, romantic groove comes along a lot less frequently than it used to. At any rate, a straight-up warning was even less efficacious than hints and innuendo. People just kept dropping by on Friday nights.

Adding insult to injury was the fact that pretty much every time they did, Jess and I weren’t really up to anything more scandalous than eating pizza with too many jalapenos on it, and that’s just embarrassing. Not the jalapeno pizza part, the not doing anything scandalous part. The embarrassment of being caught repeatedly with my pants up, so to speak, was just more than I wanted to face. Not to mention that I really do feel that we should be engaging in the “Carnal Olympics”, as I like to think of it, in order to amuse ourselves, and not to horrify my progeny. It’s really just too much pressure for a man of my age, dignity (?), and blood pressure.

So, I have devised a new ploy, one that requires virtually no change on our part, and guarantees a horrific experience for any untimely visitors. I call it “No Pants Fridays”, kind of the home version of casual Fridays. I told my family that they were welcome to visit any time, but if they come by on a Friday evening, Jess and I will not be wearing any pants, and we aren’t putting any on if they show up. It works like a charm, especially since I told them that I have a pair of mesh bikini briefs that I save just for Friday nights (good luck getting that visual out of your mind). There is no pressure on Jess or I to get up to anything we don’t want to, seeing the voluptuous and alluring Jess walking around sans trousers certainly puts me in a good mood, and the knowledge that I’m sitting around in my drawers certainly keeps the visitors at bay. I have to say, it’s a very effective way of deterring visitors.The only down-side is that it doesn’t work during cold weather, especially since we don’t smoke in the house, and everyone knows that we’re not going to go all night without going outside for a smoke. Therefore, I’m doubly happy that warm weather is back.

This post is not intended to imply that we are anti-social or misanthropic in any way. We’re not. We genuinely enjoy company, and have no problem with people visiting, even unannounced, so feel free to just drop by. Just not on Friday after about 4:00. Unless you think I’m kidding.

Does This Blog Make Me Look Fat?

All About Me, Culture, Home Life, Politics & Culture, Wives

Well, ‘lil buckaroos, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Not for you, of course, this has nothing to do with you. This is all about me (sorry, my narcissism is showing). The good news is, I’m not losing my mind. I’ve discovered that I am NOT the victim of a vast and nameless conspiracy to make me think I’m fat (for more information on all the vast and nameless conspiracies that I AM a victim of, stay tuned for future posts!). For the longest time, I have suspected that someone (or something, DUH DUH DUHN) has been changing all the mirrors in my house, at church, and at school with fun-house mirrors, and warping all the windows on the front of my house.  To make things even worse, it looked like it wasn’t a one-time change, but an on-going process, increasing the illusion of fatness in tiny increments. I had also noticed that everytime anyone took a picture of me, they used a wide-angle lens, even for close-ups. It was annoying and, frankly, kind of hurtful. It was really starting to freak me out. Jess was no help. When I mentioned it to her, she gave me that look, you fellas know the one, the one that says, “I’ve married an idiot”. They give you that look so that they don’t have to say it. What she said was, “You’re an idiot.” Obviously, experience has taught her that I’m not all that good at picking up on non-verbal communications. As it turns out, she was right (of course), it was all a false alarm.

The bad news is, I’m fat. I’m just going to have to face it. It’s really aggravating. In some ways, I almost wish that someone was messing with me. For one thing, I’d have to be way more important than even I think I am to rate that kind of large-scale torment, not to mention effort and expense. But no, I’m just fat. A year and a half ago, I realized I was kind of reaching maximum density, so I went on a diet, and lost 40 pounds. I was looking good (well, better anyway), and really kind of proud of myself. People (doctors are people, right?) had been telling me for years that I needed to cut back on my food, exercise, lose weight, etc., you know, all the things they tell you, that they know good and well you’re not going to do, just so they can say, “I told you so.” Let’s face it, if I was capable of moderate behavior, I wouldn’t be in this shape to begin with. I finally took it to heart though, and got serious about taking care of myself. Guess what the reward for all that weight loss and effort was. That’s right, I HAD A FREAKIN’ HEART ATTACK! It wasn’t even the fat-and-out-of-shape kind of heart attack! The cardiologist told me I had the kind that even skinny, in-shape people have. It was the too-stressed-out-with-blood-pressure-that-could-inflate-a-tractor-trailer-tire kind of heart attack. Now I ask you, how’s that supposed to make me feel. I could have died, and after months of depriving myself of bread, grease, potatoes, pasta, snacks, cake, salt, and some of the other food groups, as well. To be perfectly honest, it kind of killed my motivation. I mean, what’s the point in stopping doing so many of the things you love, when you’re just going to die anyway, apparently just so that fate can thumb its nose at the medical community at your expense. So I backslid a little. I’m happy to say that I didn’t regain all the weight I’d lost, but I did gain some. It turned out that it wasn’t my mirrors that need recalibrated, it’s me.

I began to suspect the horrible truth as I was walking in to school one day. You know how, when you look at your feet when you’re walking, they disappear underneath you, and then come back when you take another step forward? It’s kind of a steady foot-no foot, foot, no-foot rhythm. This one day, I noticed that my rhythm was off. My foot was spending a lot more time invisible than visible, like foot, no-foot, no-foot, foot, no-foot, no-foot. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, since I’m a middle-aged white guy, I just take it for granted that I’m extremely rhythm impaired. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized something was wrong. I know I can’t dance, but I’m kind of an old hand at walking. So I tried an experiment. I stood still and looked down. You guessed it, no feet.

The next sign I noticed was that when I was in the shower, I was having to lean forward a lot more than I used to in order to see “the boys”. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m just standing there staring. It’s sort of like running into an old friend on the street. You know, You smile, say “Hi, how are you,” maybe a quick handshake, and then it’s, “Have a good day, good to see you,” and you get on with your day. It would be rude to just ignore him. You fellas know what I’m talking about (it’s ok, you can deny it. We both know the truth).

The clincher came at school the other day. I’d had to get a little dressed up for a thing after school. Nothing formal, just a nice shirt, dress pants, and good shoes instead of my standard t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Still, I thought I was looking pretty good. As I walked down the hall, a kid I was in a class with last semester came out of a classroom, so we went through the “how are ya” routine I already described. As we were about to go our separate ways, he asked why I was dressed like that. I told him, and he laughed and said he thought I was going to a costume party. “You look just like Peter Griffin,” he said, “You know, the hair, the white shirt, green pants.” Even worse, the whole time he’s telling me this, he’s making rolling gestures in front of his stomach. I was back in class before I realized who Peter Griffin is (for those as culturally unaware as me, he’s the main character on “Family Guy”). It was doubly painful to me because, not only is Peter Griffin fat, but I hate that show! It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d compared me to Homer Simpson, at least I like the show, but I’ve got too much hair. Damn these luxurious, flowing locks of mine! On the other hand, of course, there are fewer and fewer guys my age who still have this much hair, so I guess it could be worse.

Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I’m afraid I’m going to have to get serious about losing some more weight. It’s for purely aesthetic reasons of course, although it will be nice to be able to tie my shoes again without having to stop to breathe.

I’m Not Dead Yet! (and there was much rejoicing. yeah.)

All About Me, Home Life, Wives

Good news friends and neighbors! My wife, the reasonably understanding and slightly-less-than-normally forgiving Jess, has decided not to kill me. I know that you’ve all been worried sick about it. I can just picture you all, unable to eat, the sleepless nights, all life become suddenly meaningless because of your grief and concern for me. Well, rejoice, ‘lil Buckaroos, your suffering is at an end (actually, it’s probably just deferred, because what are the odds that I’ll never end up in that situation again?) Granted, I could have ended your suffering as early as Saturday afternoon, but I thought it best to wait a few days in case Jess suffered a relapse of her homicidal impulses. Plus, as I said at the end of my last post, it really was all your fault.

How, you may ask, did I avoid an unspeakable (and let’s face it, well-deserved) fate worse than death? Well, I started out by pouring on the old, infamous Moon Mullins charm. As when I first began my relentless pursuit of the luscious and delectable Jess over 20 years ago, that was a near-fatal mistake. Again, some people just never learn. Then I fell back on the same tactics that ultimately bagged her in the first place. I sucked up. I begged. I pleaded. Once I’d softened her up with my barrage of pitiable penitence, I brought out the big guns, the tremendulous trio of whiskey, hot oil massage and unequaled (at least as far as she knows) sexual prowess. I don’t like to brag (well ok, I do.), but she was still smiling Sunday morning, and not just because she was looking forward to Church. Not that my efforts are without a downside. My standard heavy-handed approach (if some is good, more is better!) has pretty much turned our entire bedroom into a giant Slip-and-Slide. It may be weeks before we can walk through it without cleats. However, I’ve always felt it is better to be enthusiastic than good, so “Mission Accomplished” I say. There is no domestic difficulty that can’t be overcome by whiskey, a sense of humor, and a 55 gallon drum of lube (If you think I’m kidding, check this out. You’re welcome! Don’t forget to read the reviews.)

Needless to say, I was pretty pleased with myself. I didn’t even have to resort to my last-ditch tactic of enticing her with my Bob and Doug Mackenzie album, which is a good thing, because that never worked the 1st time around either. I’ve never understood her resistance to the soothing tones of Bob and Doug’s Canadian accents and beer-based comedy. The woman obviously has a soul of stone, but that notwithstanding, being married to her is still the best thing by far that’s ever happened to me. I’m a lucky guy.

So, friends, fans, loyal readers, and those of you who stumbled upon this humble blog by accident, let your hearts be filled with rejoicing and gladness. I have survived to screw up another day.

A Solemn and Heartfelt Farewell To My Legion of Adoring Fans

All About Me, Home Life, Kids & Grandkids, Wives

I must say “Farewell” to you good people, for this morning, I committed the cardinal sin against my wife, the no longer long-suffering and understanding Jess. As a result, I have absolutely no confidence in my chances for surviving the day. I thought I’d take this opportunity to say goodbye while she is distracted by my granddaughter because, from the looks she’s been giving me for the last couple of hours, it will only take 1 more stupid mistake to push her completely over the edge. Those of you who know me will understand that the odds of my going even 2 or 3 hours without doing something stupid are virtually non-existent. Those of you who don’t know me will understand, after reading this. So, just in case she smothers me with a pillow in my sleep tonight, goodbye.

I wish to say that I in no way blame her. She has been the best of wives, loving, patient, and kind up to now, and God knows, it can’t have been easy for her. I also want to say that my mistake was a mistake of omission, not intention. Perhaps I should explain. We’re having a special event at church next weekend, and I volunteered her (strike 1) to contact people about it. Jess, while a charming and personable woman, is possibly the only person on earth who hates talking on the phone more than I do. However, she soldiered on uncomplaining, making calls, and leaving messages when necessary. Then we realized that there were several people who’s numbers had changed, or were not in our church directory, which is several years out of date. We (I) then decided that the best way to contact them would be through the Facebook (DUN DUN DUNNNNN. strike 2.) This morning I thought I’d help her out, since she never uses the Facebook. I went through the Friends list, and set up the messaging thing so that all she’d have to do was type in her message and send it. I got her going on it, and then went to take care of some personal business. Mere seconds after I’d set down to business, I heard her yell for me. Then my granddaughter took up the call. Now, those of you who know me will know that I was in no position (literally) to jump up and run immediately to her assistance, but as soon as I heard her yell, I realized that she had hit “enter” at the end of her first line (strike 3). As soon as I could, I went to see what was wrong and discovered that I was right, she had hit “enter”, and sent the message “Hi Guys” to 27 people. She was not happy. I explained to her what happened, that hitting “enter” sends the message, and then apologized for forgetting to tell her that beforehand. Then I told her to just go ahead and type her message and hit “enter”. Now, what I heard her say was, “I’ve already typed it, but was afraid to touch anything because I didn’t want to screw it up again.” Trying to be helpful, I said, “Oh, Okay,” and hit “enter” (strike 4). You would have thought I’d hit the nuclear launch button in the White House. She just exploded. Apparently what she had said was, “I’ve already started typing it…,” a small, but key difference. It took me a while to figure out just what I’d done, since I couldn’t really understand anything she was saying as she stormed out of the den and through the house, roaring. The effect was added to when my granddaughter chimed in on her side, since I can rarely understand anything that kid says anyway. However, when Jess is upset, having Little Sharon around is like having our own tiny, incomprehensible Greek chorus. It’s kind of funny, but only adds to the confusion.

Eventually, she calmed down enough to speak coherently, and explained that, thanks to me, now she looked stupid to those 27 people, and that she didn’t appreciate it at all. Unfortunately, lulled by her normal good nature, I thought she was kidding, and laughed (strike 5). Big mistake, perhaps my biggest of the day. It set her off on an entirely new tirade, as incomprehensible as the previous one. After she had calmed down (again), I told her not to worry about it, that it happened to me all the time. This did not serve to make her feel any better. She pointed out to me (again) that she didn’t appreciate being made to look stupid, that’s what she’s got me around for. I mounted a counter-attack, based on her inference that I’m supposed to look stupid so that she doesn’t have to, but my heart wasn’t really in it, due to the unassailable logic of her position. I am obviously much better at stupid than she is, so I didn’t push it. She, of course, was not amused by my pretended ire (strike 6).

I told her not to worry about it, that I’d take care of it when I got home from class, and she agreed vehemently that that would be best. When I got home however, she, being the dutiful and persistent woman that she is, had done it herself. Schmuck that I am, I noticed a mistake in the times she had listed, and, after I had corrected it, told her about it (strike 7. Some people just never learn), reigniting the flame of her displeasure (it burns rarely, but when it does, it burns hot). At this point, it was not looking good for the home team, so I decided to go ahead and say goodbye to you good people, in case I never have a another chance, so again, Goodbye. Of course, when I started to write this, I had told her that I was going to work on a paper for school. She came in to ask me about something, and saw what I was really doing. Again, she was not amused. I tried to assuage her anger by telling her that, as far as anyone knows, I’m the idiot, since the Facebook message is in my name and nowhere did she identify herself. I really thought that would do it, right up to the point where she pointed out that they would only think that until I posted this (strike 8). So now I’m doomed, hoist by my own petard, because of my loyalty and obligation to your entertainment and edification. Mom always said I was my own worst enemy, and she was right, at least up to now. I hope you’re happy. If you don’t see me again, think kindly of me for, after all, this is really all your fault.

 

Death By Grippo’s – There are definitely worse was to go!

All About Me, Home Life, Wives

I think I may have poisoned myself. My guts are wrecked, and it’s not safe for me to be more than a short run to the bathroom (and if you’ve ever seen me run, you know how short a distance that is). My poor wife, the lovely and talented Jess, is suffering as well. She’s not poisoned, just suffering from being in proximity to me. Jess is normally very sympathetic and caring about the state of my health (much more so than I am), but after being subjected to the miasma of fetid air that’s been following me for the last 3 or 4 days, vented not only from the usual suspects, but seemingly from my very pores as well, she doesn’t seem much inclined to feel one bit sorry for me, or even concerned really, which seems a bit unfair, considering that it’s really all her fault. For Christmas, she got me a box of Grippo’s. She wrapped it up and put it under the tree. On Christmas Eve, we went to church, and when we got home, Harry (her dog) had dug it out, gnawed through the wrapping paper and the box, and eaten virtually the entire contents. It was a very disappointing Christmas for me. I blame Jess because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. At any rate, I found myself obsessing about the lost Grippo’s ever since, and since I had to drive right by Marsh grocery store (the only place in town that carries Grippo’s, for some inexplicable reason) to pick up my granddaughter, I caved in and picked up a box.

The fact that they are the only chips I’ve ever seen that are sold in a box says something about Grippo’s BBQ potato chips. Of course, they are available in the traditional bag, but those are only for the weak at heart, the dabblers in exhilarating flavor. For the true aficionado, there is no substitute for the box. When I was in the Air Force, I was frequently deployed to Kuwait, Turkey, and sundry other uncivilized places. My mother got in the habit of sending me a box of Grippo’s as a care package. I made the mistake early on of inviting some of my friends to try them, as none of them had ever heard of these delightful deep-fried and seasoned-to-perfection crunchy slices of heaven. Their first hesitant bites quickly turned into a piranha-like feeding frenzy, and, in a matter of minutes, left me once again, Grippo-less. After that, I learned to have Mom send me two boxes, one to share and one to hoard.

The superiority of the boxed Grippo’s as opposed to the bagged, is two-fold. For the most part, it is merely a matter of quantity. The boxed chips do seem to have somewhat more seasoning on them, but not significantly. It is the sheer increase in quantity that attracts the novice to the box. The true Grippo’s freak is drawn to the box for an entirely different reason. At the bottom of every box lies, like buried treasure, the true appeal of the box. It is the fine mixture of crushed chips and raw Grippo’s seasoning powder that has settled to the bottom, like gold at the bottom of a river. It is delicious and highly addictive. I call it the Grippo Crack. There are few gustatory joys equal to that of dipping a wet finger into that delicious, delectable sandy-red powder, and then licking that finger clean (Your own, of course, using someone else’s would just be gross).

Therein lies the peril of the Grippo’s overdose from which I’m currently suffering. Although I actually eat less at a single sitting than I used to (this box took me 4 days to eat. It used to only take 2.), now that I’ve gotten older and apparently frailer (digestively anyway), I apparently just can’t handle them. The chips themselves did sufficient damage, but on day 4, I got stuck into the Grippo Crack. It is impossible to summon the willpower necessary to stop at a mere 2-3 finger dips. It would be like trying to eat 1/2 of a fun-size (and by the way, who came up with that stupid name? A true fun-size candy bar would weigh at least a pound.) Hershey bar. It can’t be done, or at least can’t be done without an overwhelming sense of your own inadequacy and despair. No, once you’re on the Grippo Crack, you’re on it ’til the sweet, tangy end. It’s an immoral imperative. The only real downside, other than the physical effects of eating 1/2 a pound of crushed chips and seasoning, is that it doesn’t last. Sooner or later, you run out, and, as soon as your guts recover, start planning to get your next fix.

I blame Jess for my current state of ill health because, if she had shown the proper regard for Harry’s voracity, I would have had to share the box with holiday company. Since she was so careless, I had this one all to myself. Sometimes I think she’s trying to kill me.

Fortunately, we’re leaving soon to visit my brother in Florida. It would just be rude not to take him a couple of boxes, since he can’t get them down there. You know how I hates to be rude. Jess is gonna kill me.

By the way, if you haven’t experienced the ambrosiac flavor and majestic burn of the Grippo’s BBQ potato chip, you owe it to yourself to try them. You can thank me later. Check them out at www.grippos.com.