What to do when your family turns on you?

What happens when the entire family turns against you? In horror fashion that is.

When I mention this I’m referring to scare tactics. Halloween is right around the corner and we all
enjoy a good spook. That’s great. I’m on board for that. It’s one day a year. Lets all scare the piss out of each other. That’s awesome. Hooray.

I don’t believe this should be conducted on a daily basis as it seems to be in my home. It’s dangerous. I believe these violent actions may be illegal and has me three seconds away from cardiac arrest.

Christmas and Easter mornings are not the appropriate moments to scare your family members to death. That’s just my opinion. I shouldn’t have to wake up on Veterans Day and have my goddamn offspring and soulmate hide in sink base cabinets or behind radiators to eventually arise horrifically as they are dressed like that dude from “Jeepers Creepers” with a nine foot wing span sporting halitosis and a worn out leather trench coat resembling the appearance of a deceased “Allman Brother” as I routinely walk around to start my day. It’s just fucking wrong. I have ulcers and continuously piss blood as a result of these daily disturbing events I must endure.

For some strange reason my wife believes her step father is Steven King. She also had a confirmed love affair with the legendary Halloween serial killer Michael Myers. I got that shit on tape. I swear. It was either the real Mike Myers or Mike “The Situation” in a rubber mask. I’m supporting her affair with Myers. That dude is a legend. He walks slower than a leg amputee but somehow catches Usain Bolt to drive a pitchfork through him so if my wife wants to sleep with him I’m cool with that. That’s hot. If she so much has touched that greasy ass Jersey shore roasted pepper I’m filing for separation. Who has he killed???? Besides life??? Please….

Shit. Now I’m confused because this supposedly “Mikey Myers” banging my girl had TKA blasting in the background and a tongue ring. Hmmmmmmmm. OMG. She banged the “Situation”.. I was ok with Mike Myers. That dude’s a legend. Shit. My kids kinda look like the “Situation”… I’m fucked.

If my wife was given a choice to fornicate with Johnny Depp or Freddy Krueger this horny horror film hoe would jump on the dream diminishing burnt serial killer like kids at a Bronx hopscotch tournament.

I’m ok with all of this. It’s when she involves my children that I begin to become concerned. Leave the innocent youth out of it my love. This could damage the children’s future.

My kids are cute. They have rosy red cheeks. They contract strep throat three times per week. They excel at math. They have never had a cavity. Their hair styles haven’t changed since they were extracted from their Mommy’s womb. They are perfect.

Until they attempt to scare their father.

When most men finish the work day, they look forward to coming home to their family. They look to take their shoes off, put their feet up and relax.

Not me. When I come home from work I need to turn on my ghost detector devices, eat garlic and enter my home with three gallons of holy water and retain the protective services from that Corey Feldman character sporting the red bandana from “Lost Boys.”

I must walk into my loving & embracing home with a flame thrower strapped to my back, a grenade launcher as I drive a tank through the front entrance for self defense from these fucking animals. I thought we were family. It’s an adventure. My home is “Night of the living dead” as Michael Jackson serenades the room with “Thriller”. My wife dances around the house doing that dumb “Thriller” dance where the arms bounce side to side. It will make any human vomit on any given day.

Again, I seem to find this erotic death dance freaking sexy because I could find sexiness within a scientific dissection of a toad.

So I begin to bounce with her in unison. She regurgitates. Whatever. I entertain this disruption of life! I live for this shit. I swear I have a problem. I can find sex appeal in running tap water. So I proceed to try and touch her boobie during this offensive dance motion and my fingers are severed by a mouse trap carefully placed on her nipple.

Again I was set up. WTF!

My wife and her satanic children wait for me. They spend the whole day devising a plan to scare the bejesus out of me. And it works! Every single time.

On a normal day, I’ll enter my home and my wife will jump out of a frying pan to startle me. My sons will hide behind a door. Simple scare tactics. Nothing crazy. I adjust. I adapt.

Then they decided to take this shit to the next level. Unbeknown to me.

They went against all scare etiquette. They used physical contact. That’s a no no! Scare but never touch. That’s the rule.

I came home yesterday. I was tired. I wanted to relax. I sat on my couch. I cracked a beer and I laid my head back. All of a sudden a chicken finger greasy ass hand infested with middle school diseases grabbed my mouth and nostrils as he hooked my lip like a grouper and screamed “Boo.” I jumped up like a white man at a crack den and screamed like a newborn trying to locate her Mommas titty!

My wife and two boys laughed at me like I invented Rocky Dennis and gave birth to the creators of The Sharknado franchise. It was embarrassing. I have never been so humiliated.

This child of mine crossed the line and my stupid ass wife was in on it as she chuckled trying to hide her amusement. Humus infused belches and periodic gas extractions should have tipped me off. I wasn’t paying attention. She’s a slob. A hot slob but a fucking slob regardless. Not gonna lie. It was sexy.

Holidays are coming. These little fuckers will all have anticipated Christmas lists. I can’t wait. I will simply lay motionless with hospice by my side wiping the baby food from my cheek as a result of the previous nine months of torture I was subjected to. I will no longer have movement in my spine because my cute son with his cavity less teeth decided to wrap his motherly demonic inspired paws around my neck while I brought home Dominos for these malnutrition unappreciative little humps.

The balls on them.

I tell my wife each and everyday as she kicks open the bathroom door as I’m taking a crap, STOP!!! I’m worth much more alive than I am dead.

Dumbass!

 

 

Family Sleepovers, Peaches in the Eye, No Boundaries!

Boundaries for writing a blog are limitless. They don’t exist. No rules. My way or the highway. I guess that’s why I immensely enjoy telling my tales.

For me personally, two stories are never the same. Each day, minute or any given second can spark a post and turn on the inspirational jet burners and boom, I am off. Once I start, I can’t stop. I kinda like it that way. I hold nothing back. I lay it on the line each and every post. I pour everything into what I write. Some may agree, disagree, be offended, laugh, cry, regurgitate, block me and I personally don’t give a shit. It’s my style. My way. It’s how I do it. I stay true. If anyone doesn’t enjoy what I write, go subscribe to a recipe blog and learn how to make fruit cake.

I try to consistently write a  post twice per week if possible. I won’t force it if it’s not there. Sometimes I swear I will not entertain writing on a particular day. It could simply be I just recently wrote a post or need to take a break. Regardless, it’s beyond my control. Once you are in the blogging game, it’s just not possible to contain life’s valuable moments of blog worthy material. My brain has been set in motion the day I decided to do this and the wheels are always turning. There are no timeouts. The power never goes out. 24/7. I obtain. Absorb. Retain. Portray. Present. Regret 😜!

Last week I posted a blog that happened to be one of my longer posts. I had diarrhea of the mouth. (Or index finger.) Today I said to myself, lose focus. Don’t pay attention to your surroundings. Tune out. Relax. Hahahahaha. The constant search for precious moments has gotten the best of me. Just not possible. Damn! If a field mouse drops a shit pellet on my kitchen floor it turns into a 1789 character blog post. I have been hooked, lined and sunk. Oh well. I embrace it. Enjoy it. It has become an addiction. A passion.

Then it happened. When you least expect it. That moment you realize you wrote a blog in your head within 37 seconds. Magic. Bloggers dream.

Let me set the scene.

As most of you know I come from a large family who excessively parties. My family never knows the appropriate time to end an event. Termination of festivities for my family usually must result in death. Yes death. If somebody doesn’t keel over and croak our parties refuse to end. We are still celebrating my Communion from 35 years ago. I receive bank savings bonds periodically. It’s amazing. People just aren’t dying so my family presses on. We are ambitious, what can I say! Normal parties end when there’s no more food or drink. People pass out. Not us. We will start cooking pasta at 2am and use our toilet bowls to make illegal booze in order to keep the party going. Family members who are foaming lasagna at the mouth passed out on micro suede couches 8 times the legal limit will miraculously rise up like Jesus on Easter morning because their favorite song has come on as they defy all ramifications of alcohol poisoning. Now we have 33 family members with a second wind drinking toilet water twerking to Biggy Smalls. A true sight to be seen.

Unfortunately, our offspring are following in our footsteps. Ambitious they are. They have this constant need to “sleepover.” I get it . I was young once. For the most part, we all go with the flow and let the youngsters enjoy family time with their cousins & friends. It’s cute.

My boys Jake & Hunter devised a plan to have their cousins Frankie & Nicky sleepover along with their friend Bella. I don’t give a rats ass. I tell my boys all the time, “don’t ask me.” I’m an automatic yes. I don’t care if a crackhead with 17 fingers and a severe case of halitosis spends the night, just leave me alone. It’s your mother you have to convince. For the most part my wife is cool. Lol. When I say cool I mean temperature wise. She’s about as cool as High School Detention. It’s that one or two times per month she comes home in a mood that makes Jeffrey Dahmer look like an alter boy.

If my boys and I sense these wicked vibes, we hide under end tables and seat cushions until the air clears. We ride it out. A container of garlic infused Humus and some crackers usually does the trick in calming her down. Never guaranteed. Sometimes we have to resort to plan B. $3000 in cash and a Michael Myers film. My boys and I will do whatever is necessary to get this beast under control. Trust me. She’s all smiles and happy on Facebook and shit. You drop a fucking crum on her couch when she’s in a bad mood you might as well light your ankle on fire and handcuff your nipple to battery acid. She’s vicious. Violent. Very sexy. Of course I find the sexiness in all of this. She’s waving a 16″ rusty bread knife at me and has a bag of Anthrax waiting to be disbursed all over my face and I’m over here trying to make babies with her. I’m dumb. I grabbed her boob once (maybe twice) trying to spark up a sensual moment during all of this and she cut my chin off with a meat cleaver. It was dangerous.

Today was good. Mostly because we just didn’t tell her the game plan. Element of surprise. We set a trap. She walked in and saw all the kids playing nicely together. If my wife said no to a sleepover at this point, she would be right up there with “Mommy Dearest” and the mother of “Honey Boo Boo.”

These three little ladies entered my home for a sleepover. Granted they were 2 hours late, the entrance was nothing short of epic and has ultimately inspired me to talk about it.

When I was a child, we walked into our relatives home peacefully. We kissed everybody. Walked out of the home and didn’t see the adults again until sundown or we were arrested.

Upon arrival they all congregated at the front door. Had a quick meeting through FaceTime. Plan was in motion.

Before I could say hello and conduct a proper greeting, they had $275.00 worth of Sushi and Alaskan King Crab set up for delivery.

Nicky, who is destined to be a super model, walks in first scratching her arm pit like she’s infested with fleas as she belched like “Booger” from Revenge of the Nerds. This little deceiving beauty “sharted” as she took each step towards me for that awkward embrace I was about to embark in. I was taken back but intrigued. I was impressed with her internal gas skills. I told her to wipe her ass asap.

Next was the gymnast turned DEA Frankie. This one walks in serving me a violation notice. Informs me I am in contempt of court. She proceeds to strong arm me. Explains I am in violation of the “Promise Act.” I guess the last time she slept over I must have made a “promise” to take her to Dunkin Donuts. I denied all allegations. Then she pulled out a tape recorder that clearly had damaging evidence against me. I cooperated.

Last was Bella. This young Red Headed Beauty moonwalks in. Violently stubs her toe. The top of her foot begins to experience stigmata like conditions. She apparently is injury prone and I begin to panic. I give her a napkin and an ice cube and explain this is the extent of my medical training. Where do we go from here?

They go outside. Im happy. A moment of peace. But then I panic again because these children have never walked on grass or inhaled life’s natural air. They may be allergic to life. I eventually got a grip and let nature take its course. I whole heartedly enjoyed the sounds of children attempting to communicate. It was a challenge for them but they did there best.

They somehow locate a peach tree. Thats great if you live in Georgia. We are in New York. The only thing that grows healthy around here is “swamp ass” and “air pollution.” Magically, it was a peach tree. And then it happened. A magical peach mysteriously fell off the peach tree that shouldn’t even be here in the first place and cracked poor Bella in her eye. What are the odds? It happened.

She walked in crying. I was besides myself.

A fucking peach!

 

Surviving the first day of school. Where do we go from here?

First day of school. What an emotional event this always seems to be. Different levels depending on the age of the children.

When my boys first went to pre-school I expressed a few fake tears so I could make my wife believe I gave a shit and maybe she would put out later that night. They even had a graduating ceremony as my kids were literally releasing diarrhea in their pants. They had those little head caps with tassels as my wife sobbed like they were going to fight a war in Iraq. It was nice.  Regardless, it had the both of us doing keg stands at 4pm in our kitchen followed by shots of Jameson as if we invented the four leaf clover!

It was classic. First they “graduated” then my wife pulled their pants down and shoveled 13 lbs of shit from their diapers and doused them in baby powder. House smelled like a latrine in the middle of August for months. But they were graduates!

As parents, we treat this day as a time to reflect. Absorb. Realize our babies are growing up each and every year right before our eyes. Thanks to social media, so does everybody else. It’s nice. Let’s please exclude our ugly asses from the pictures. Although I always enjoy seeing the children, there’s no need to see you. The baggy ass eyeballs with the coffee stained wife beater and a piece of French toast nestled perfectly in the corner of your cotton mouth lips we can all do without. Not attractive. Let’s stick to cute little scoliosis bound Billy with a 468 pound backpack strapped to his larynx. A herniated disc is inevitable. Thanks in advance.

My boys are entering the 7th grade. So naturally we as parents are not new to the “first day of school” jitters. Honestly, this shit is stressful but manageable. Every aspect from the bus stop to the cafeteria menu has us all discombobulated. Not so much myself. It’s more my wife. Truthfully, I thought my kids were freshman in college. I’m clueless.

My issue is this. When you are married to a Puerto Rican wife with “Resting bitch face syndrome” the school system better have their shit together. I don’t need a surprise like the standard school supply material list forgot an important item. That mistake could result in my shoulder blade being removed. I’d rather run my knee caps through a cheese grater than have my wife trample through the house in fury like she is auditioning for the “El Chapo” version of the Rockettes.

Never the less, the system fucked up again. It should be a simple material list. A few pencils. Some binders. A compass and a few erasers. We as parents comply with the list we are given. The kids come home and all of the sudden we are required to purchase Bose Headphones, Air Jordan’s, Light Bright & paint brushes signed by Bob Ross. WTF is that? Have you ever asked a woman who hasn’t smiled since Good Friday of 82′ to obtained these items after she worked all day? It’s not easy. You are better off carefully inserting your pecker into a wood chipper on Gate Night. Twice.

We do what we have to do. My wife eventually tosses the kids in the car and retrieves all items required by the school curriculum. She runs to the nearest staples and waits on a 3/4 mile line and texts me she wants coffee. She also makes me aware she is hungry. What the fuck do you want me to do babe? Whip up a quick BLT and brew a coffee and deliver it to Staples? Stop at a fucking DD’s on the way home. Get a coffee. Wolf down a slice of pizza and stop busting my balls. Jeez! The more I argue with her the worse it gets. I need to shut up and comply. It’s not worth the strike she will go on that will result in me pulling my pud like Hacksaw Jim Dugan at a 2 x 4 factory.

I act and talk all tough until my wife actually arrives home. I hear that door unlock and I hide behind the couch cushion like Rocky Dennis at a beauty contest. It’s a scary experience. If I don’t have espresso beans shooting out of my ass when she gets home along with a dry aged steak and mashed potatoes she begins to toss Hepatitis C at me like Doc Gooden at a crack den.

In my opinion, the first day of school should be a joyous event. A time of happiness. A time for us parents to send our children off into another chapter of their educational adventure. Nope. The stress level of this iconic day is nothing short of the anticipation of having the Urologist stick his 8″ girth sausage finger up your uncomfortably cold lubed butthole. Then he hands you a coarse “Quicker Picker Upper” paper towel so you can wipe off the remaining finger juice from the anus. You pull your undies up and no matter how many times you wipe there is always that drop of lube that adheres to the bottom of your nuts and just lingers as you feel extremely violated. These doctors have some gig. Wedging their finger up dirty ass cracks all day. So yeah. The comparison to the first day of school has many similarities to that event.

I just wish everything didn’t have to be so stressful. Back in the day, my parents took me to Bradlees. If we were well behaved that week they would consider a trip to Caldors. We hung around the clearance rack at all times. The children of Ethiopia wouldn’t be caught dead in the shit we wore to school. We stole a few items naturally. Purchased a few pairs of white socks with the colored stripes. A bunch of pre-owned tighty whiteys. Three pocket tees made out of lead and a leather belt that gave us Aids! I was about as hip as piece of liverwurst.

Today it’s much different. My kids have Nike kicks. Seventeen different colors. A shirt signed by “The Rock” to get to school. They do a wardrobe change after lunch. They call Uber to get them home. Then a quick google session completes their homework assignments as we as parents must complete the daily grind to keep up with the children’s luxurious lifestyles. They have no idea.

When I came home from school in my day I wouldn’t dare ask my parents for answers to my daily homework load. Just like the parents of today, they just didn’t know the answers. When my kids ask me: “What’s 4 + 4?” and I respond “8” and they say “wrong.” I begin to question my very existence. They respond “it’s 4 + 8 – 9 -90 – 67 + 347 = 8.” Like I said Einstein, “8”. If you knew the answer why did you even ask me in the first place asshats. Now I find myself arguing with a pair of hungry twelve year old “know it alls” and a wife who can’t count to ten. Don’t get me wrong, my wife is very smart but when it comes to Math she’s about as current as a payphone. When it comes to all of them being fed they morph into a sexually deprived Emiril Lagase.  Bam!

If I went fishing for knowledge and advice from my Dad growing up,  there was only two questions I could possibly ask. #1. What type of cigarettes should I begin to smoke? #2. At what age do I need to start trimming up this unwanted body hair that is growing out of my elbow and on my ankle? He could answer those questions faster than a pimple faced boy on prom night. There was never a definitive answer. We figured it out. We dealt with it. We adapted. We survived.

This is why we are in trouble in the world today.

My thought is this. I believe our generation is damaged. Almost beyond repair. The only hope will maybe be the next generation. The youth of today need to educate themselves and survive this surge of technology that has virtually eliminated “real” communication. Maybe they can adapt and co-exist peacefully and find a permanent solution to the problems we are all subjected to. If what I see daily on various social media accounts is any indication of what the future holds for our young ones, there is no future.

It whole heartedly is a sad time for all of us.  Our country and the entire world is in disarray and the uncertainty of exactly what direction we are heading in as a nation, and in life, has many of us questioning our purpose, existence, the future and ones self worth. The division. The setbacks. The misleading media. The addiction to Social Media and it’s ever so powerful grip it has over all of us. Guilty as charged. Difference is this. I lived 35 years of my life before I jumped on the social media technological wave. I learned how to communicate. Deal with life. Our children will never know what it means to truly exist as we knew it. Can’t blame them. It is what it is and I will not be the parent who holds them back. They must all grow with the times. We must sit back and let the chips fall where they may. We are entitled to our beliefs, differences and opinions. Our fate has already been determined. God help us.

I hold my breath and pray for them. I always try and teach my sons the importance of morals, value for all life form and respect. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Period. One day I can only hope they can take a piece of those lessons and apply it towards their path in life. A simple guide. A road map through mountains of doubt and unforeseen terrain.

My breath has been held. Good luck!

 

 

The Bronx Zoo. These poor animals just want to go extinct!

The Bronx Zoo. An iconic landmark. A place to see all the animals of the world subjected to the air pollution of New York City. A place where the wildlife has the opportunity to enjoy the refreshing & thirst quenching water of the East River.

I would like to take this moment to rename this staple in our community “The Bronx Narcolepsy Zoo!” I swear to Christ every animal was sound asleep from the infamous lions to the house rat. Even the notorious gazelle who hops 87 mph was passed out on a fake plastic scenery rock. I wasn’t sure how to react. My children asked if the animals have all died and I responded “I think so.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love animals. I love nature. I have no problem paying my way for this once in a lifetime experience. But when the tigers are suffering from emphysema and the alligators have a severe case of gout, I’m a bit concerned.

The problem is this. The most exciting moment of the whole day was watching a rabid ordinary chipmunk jump on my boys leg as we all tried to determined if he was Alvin, Theodore or Simon. Believe it or not, these little rodents started singing Frankie Valli tunes for loose change! People started to clap as I started to vomit. I mean come on. There’s a 300 pound lion snoring 100 yards away from us. A spotted hyena was coma toast and all we cared about was a singing wild chipmunk. God for bid a duck passed by. The only wildlife awake during this excursion was the non captive bastards we see everyday. Squirrels and birds were plentiful and awake. Elephants and Zebras were passed out like NYC crackheads on New Years Eve. Even the Zoo parking attendant was sound asleep.

The only moment I felt any life in the establishment was when we entered the Land of Gorillas. Let me tell you something. This shit was life altering. These silver back bastards are a 1/2 of chromosome away from being human and if anybody thinks God created us, go spend 4 minutes in a captive Gorilla enclosure at the zoo. Somehow, someway, we humans received that one extra intelligent link. That is the difference maker. Watching these animals interact within their environment along with their mannerisms was a true sight to see. I was so intrigued. Baffled. Confused. Mind boggled. And then it happened. A true sign of human behavior. A similarity that had me second guessing who was the more intelligent species.

A mother Silverback ape. Sitting propped up carelessly against a rock as her four children played irresponsibly and she didn’t give a shit. A minute into the encounter the mama ape pounded her belly and regurgitated in her mouth. She then ate her throw up proudly. Scratched her breast. Licked her palm of all nipple juice. Picked her nose. Ate it. Moved on. Yes it’s disgusting but don’t tell me none of you mothers out there have never done that? Yeah I know. I’m sure it was done privately but this poor ape lives in the Bronx Zoo! Can’t hide that shit. She was open and honest and didn’t give a fuck! I respected that. Except when she stuck her finger in her asshole and licked it. I didn’t respect that. At all. That was disgusting.

Most animals at the Zoo accepted their fate. The lions said “fuck it.” Let our balls hang out in NY and get fed hunks of beef from Arthur Ave? Sign me up. The sea lions swam gracefully through the pool with no threats of great white sharks. In all fairness they risk death by pollution but they will take that chance. It was those Mongolian horses that had a bone to pick with their captive environment. They are basically extinct but these last 7 unlucky beautiful creatures got stuck in the Bronx. All they want to do is smoke Chinese cigarettes, play Pai Gow and take a Tai Kwon Doe class. But no. They run around the Bronx like A Chinese Sea Biscuit.

We closed the day out on a nice peaceful ride on the Monorail. Well
not so peaceful. The road rage on the rides line was aggressive. The fella Vinny behind us began to scream “move up the line you stupid motherf:;()$:(“…Let’s go. My family was nervous but I told them to relax. I will eventually make a fool out of him.

Then there was the Monorail conductor. The pilot. The captain. The leader. I’ll tell you this. You only get this job if you are selected by Earth. You are a chosen one. You need to lose your hair by the age of four and know everything about everything there is to know about cow dung. They are nice people until you break a rule and stand up. Then they yell at you like Mommy Dearest at a wire hanger convention. It’s bad.

Obey the rules.

 

 

My last three lovers quarrels and Lionel Richie is one of them!

Had a fight with the wife. Actually had a few discrepancies. She was mad I didn’t take her to the Lionel Richie concert tonight at MSG that she just heard about 6 hours ago. Like I have a Lionel Richie concert tracker App installed on my phone. As if I wake up everyday wondering where Lionel Richie will be serenading us next. WTF! Last I remember, Lionel was molesting some blind chic on MTV.

Below is the last three lovers quarrels I have participated in. On a positive note, if this is what couples always fought about, we would all be ok.

# 1 Lionel Richie Fight:

A) I thought Lionel Richie was dead.

B) I’m not gonna try and scalp last minute “Lionel Richie” tickets. God for bid I didn’t succeed. I would be damaged for life.

C) What would I wear to a Lionel Richie concert? I donated all my “turtle necks” years ago. How do I react as an audience member when “Dancing on the Ceiling” comes on? Suicide would be my first option. What does one do? Hopefully that song would never be performed and I could simply just bump and grind my wife to “Easy like Sunday morning”. Who the hell knows!

D) Are the Commodores gonna be there? If so I will consider this.

E) “Hello” A classic. Only song I would actually want to hear.

F) Asked my wife to look up another Lionel Richie concert coming to town in the near future. She replied “Really, he will never play again”

G) Duh! My point exactly!

My wife sat pouting on a chair all night as I asked “Alexa” to play all the greatest hits of Mr Richie.

#2 Where’s my Pizza?

I slaved in the kitchen all day yesterday to make everybody’s favorite dish, eggplant parmesan. My wife went to work today. I figured she would bring a slab of eggplant to satisfy her hunger. We went to a friends house. I ordered some Dominos pizza for the children. My boys and their friends wolfed down every slice like Hannibal Lecter at a liver transplant convention. It was truly a sight to see.

My wife walks in demanding a slice of Dominos pizza as if she’s “Vlad the Impaler.” She drilled me for a fucking hour about how I didn’t have the respect, honor and audacity to save her a slice. “It’s $5.99 you hump!!! I’ll order you a fucking pie if you want!” I defensively mumbled under my scared shitless breath. She said “forget it asshole.” I said “Ok.” So that was that. Pizza would have gave her the shits anyway.

#3 I’m tired! Let’s go!

This woman could fall asleep at a coffee bean factory. She passed out at our wedding during the Venetian hour. I was trying to drink another beer and buy some time as my wife was drooling on our friends cashmere couch. She made it clear. She was ready to go. So I played a Lionel Ritchie song to close out the night and shoved a pacifier in her mouth and carried her out to the car. When she gets tired, watch out. That “resting bitch face syndrome” turns into the “Walking Dead” version of “Bert and Ernie.” Its bad. I complied.

We all have our fights. Most of the time in our relationships, it’s petty shit. Lionel Richie and Dominos??? Hahaha. When she starts breaking my balls about lack of performance in the sack and paying the bills, then I’ll start to sweat a bit. Until then, I will keep on “Dancing on the Ceiling.”

Until the next quarrel!

 

 

 

 

Parental Guidance. Are parents at war with social media?

 

Parental Guidance. Are we at war with social media?

Does any other parent out there sometimes feel like they are raising R2D2?

I do. At times I try and get my boys attention and all I see is the two of them posing for the camera phone only to morph themselves into panting dogs. They constantly distort their photographic appearance to make them appear as if they are becoming a chicken pox infected eggplant. Weird! Why is everything “lit”, “100” and that stupid fire emoji? These kids today are regressing. They communicate through hieroglyphics (it honestly took me 17 tries to spell that word correctly.) I browse through my kids social media news feeds and all I see is images. No words. Are they creating a new language? What is going on here? What do we do? I’m so lost. When I see all this I believe I’m playing a game of Pictionary.

Parenting in the world today is no walk in the park. Parents must be sharp.  Adapt. Become chameleon like. We must try to understand technology and it’s rapid progression. We also must try and interject some of our upbringing and beliefs. We need to create a stable platform to raise a decent human being without offending anybody. And by the way. Please stop being offended. Offensiveness is overrated and I’m tired of reading about a woman who read a Betty Crocker cook book and became offended because it didn’t have enough chocolate morsels in the recipe for a brownie. Take your God given right to be offended and shove it up your ass. If shit bothers you, exclude yourself and walk away. Life is way to short to sweat the small crap. I get offended when the old lady at the Supermarket puts 16 items on the conveyor belt on the 15 and under express checkout line but I keep my mouth shut. I move on. But honestly, that’s fucking aggravating! Count your items lady.

I strongly believe raising children in today’s society is the most difficult it has ever been. The current generation of parents have the task of blending the old techniques of how we were raised with the ever so evolving poison of social media and all of life’s technology plagued advancements. The devil on so many levels. It has become the way of life. Can’t change it. Can’t stop it. We must embrace it!

I believe pre-technology / social media parenting was a cut and dry method. If you misbehaved you were placed over a splinter ridden piano bench and absorbed the lash of your fathers fake leather belt. The wrath of your mothers “wooden spoon.” There was no fear of child abuse reports. Kids did not press charges against parents because their cornflakes were soggy. When you made a childish mistake, you paid the price and you never did it again. All parties hugged it out and kissed on Christmas morning.

I believe the future of parenting will be enforced by robotic nannies and google advice columns. (Which I think is a current practice for some parents.) I get it. Raising children is hard. It’s not for everybody. Some find out the hard way.

I never personally judge other parents on how they discipline and raise their children. Neither should anybody else. All families and situations are different. It’s like a snowflake. No two are ever the same. I have my thoughts on what I think is the correct way. That’s what I instill in my boys. If I see a parent in Shoprite beating their child with a frozen pack of Bubba’s Burgers I just sit back and say “That kid must have done something to deserve that.”  I can’t stand when judgemental people whisper under their bad breath, “Look at that woman,  she shouldn’t be a parent.” Or “Get control of your kid.” Shut up. Just shut the hell up. Until you have the pleasure of dealing with these little unappreciative shits on a daily basis, again shut up. Let us parents raise our miserable kids peacefully while you lonely pricks search Starbucks for an Angle Saxon fella named Kyle with frosted bangs and a hoop earring from Spencer’s decked out in a cashmere orange cardigan who will magically sweep you off your judgemental feet!

Bottom line. Mind your business. Unless a child is in obvious physical danger, (excluding a Bubba Burger beating) let the parents do their thing and move along.  Nature will take its course.

When children are born they don’t come with a set of instructions. There is no App. We learn as we go. Trial and error.

Today we face a greater enemy. Social media. A road block in parenting!

We attempt to raise the next generation to the best of our ability and deal with the influential, mind warping, socially pressured world of social media that has completely consumed our children and way of life. It has managed to take over most of the older generation as well. I think that’s fine as our upbringing is done. We are who we are. Social media shouldn’t determine “Us.” Well for some it just might. Sucks for you I guess.

Social media has the power to influence our youth. Trigger suicide in some heartbreaking situations. It’s powerful and it’s real. It becomes a challenge within parental guidance and direction we as parents work so hard to achieve for our young ones.

I guess in the end we can only hope and pray our children and future generations will prosper & flourish from the fruits of our labor.

Do your best parents. Buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. It’s not getting any easier.

Teach your children love, respect and to always be humble and kind like the great Tim McGraw says. Hopefully that will guide us all through this shit show called life.

Remember, our children are a reflection of their parents. What they do and how they treat others is a direct line to how they are raised and what they are taught. Who they will become.

Teach them well. Teach them right. “I believe the children are the future, let them lead the way”

-Whitney Houston

 

 

Childbirth!! Thank God I’m not a woman!

Child birth. Fascinating. The gift of life. The most beautiful experience on Earth.

Yet there are so many different forms and deliveries of these little miracles throughout the years. So much time. So many changes. So much we just don’t know. All we do know is somehow someway we survived and evolved.

I have a hard time wrapping by brain around childbirth before doctors. Before hospitals and ultra sounds. Before Tri-mesters and Babies R Us!

In today’s world there are so many procedures and precautions. So many tests. Concerns. Which is fine. If we have the technology and resources today for a safe birth of a child, I’m all for it. I’m naturally curious of childbirth before these advancements within our human race.

I’m going back a few years but what transpired when a woman gave birth before doctors and hospitals? They couldn’t send a text message to their husband stating they think their water broke and it’s time! They didn’t have gender revealing parties! The men were out hunting and gathering while the women sat around in a cave and gave birth to children. They dealt with it and figured it out. Cut their own cords. Dealt with pain. No Vicodin. Life went on. Damn that must have been some scene.

Today is much different. My wife gave birth to our twin boys in 2005. There were some complications. Babies were breached. They had to schedule a C-section delivery. What a walk in the park this is compared to natural childbirth. I think!

We set our date. We glided into the hospital at 6am the day of delivery. They put my wife in a wheelchair and strolled her into the maternity ward as we passed 347 labor induced women prancing the hallways looking like they haven’t taken a shit in a month. They were cursing, vomiting, sweating, threatening to kill their husbands and many other situations I can’t mention in this blog because we like to keep it clean around here. 😜

They separated me from my pregnant wife like I had the plague. They rinsed me off. Threw a shower cap on me. Dressed me in a blue smock. Shoved a sour tuna sandwich down my throat. Installed foot booties on me. Forced me to fill out a questionnaire form and instructed me to sit tight and don’t move. I felt like I was in prison for sexually assaulting a squirrel. It was terrible.

They injected 17 ounces of morphine into a woman who catches a buzz from a sip of White Zinfandel.

It was now safe for me to enter.

First thing I saw as I approached was her smiling. Naturally I thought there was complications as a result of her excitement. Turns out all was going according to plan. So I thought. The image of my wife happy, the Hasidic love making sheet that separated my vision of reality, the soothing words of the doctors along with the fact I simply could not see through the oversized old lady shower cap I was wearing gave me a sense of comfort. Things were going to be Ok.

Then the Doctors words echoed “Hey Dad? Do you want to meet your son?” Fuck!!! This meant I had to cross the safety of the sheet and participate. I accepted the challenge. I tip toed towards the action. I turned the corner. I threw the fuck up!!!! Twice. All I saw was a child suspended in the air attached to a bloody slinky. My wife’s heart, pancreas and left nipple were carefully placed on a silver dinner plate and I panicked. I needed to check my wife for assurance she was ok as her liver was pulsating on the floor. She looked at me and gave me the biggest smile and said “I love you babe.” I replied “what the fuck is going on here?”

Keep in mind there’s another little bastard in there. Next thing you know I see two babies suspended in mid air with telephone wires attached to my wife’s stomach and intestines everywhere. It was bad.

We survived. We all made it out alive.
Childbirth has come a long way.

Please tell me about any of your child birth experiences!

Taking a vacation? Here is your “pre vacation stress check list”

Preparing for a family vacation may be one of life’s most challenging obstacles for us parents.

It’s not so much the beginning stages and planning of the trip. It’s the few stressful days leading up to the departure that really get my nuts in a bunch.

I speak of this as I just broke out of a family huddle at 11pm Eastern time on my couch that has left me $1000 poorer, my wife not talking to me and my kids disowning me.

Booking our vacation initially was quite easy. If you happen to be like me you borrow your sister and brother -in-laws Visa mileage credit card. Proceed to book a $5000 vacation to Mexico on a random Tuesday after a night of slamming Tequila Sunrises off your partners dirty belly button. You both have absolutely no idea how in the hell you will pay for this trip. Your only saving grace is the credit cards 30 day payment policy. As stressed out irresponsible parents you collectively throw your balls and tits on the line and hope for the best. Only way it should be!

It always seems to work out. Most of the time.

What just transpired in my household has ultimately left me speechless. Well. Not really. That would be impossible.

It was 10:45 pm and my wife and I along with two curious children gathered around our living room sofas and coffee table for a vacation meeting. I felt trapped and began to sweat uncontrollably. I was embracing for the “pre stress vacation check list” that was about to be dropped on me like Rocky Dennis at childbirth.

Pre-vacation stress list as follows:

1. Confirmed reservation. My wife insists I must call the Resort in Mexico at 11pm the night before arrival to confirm our hotel reservation even after we have received 329 email confirmations in six languages. I asked “what if they say we don’t have a reservation?” She replied “shut the fuck up.” So I dialed the number to confirm only to be put on hold. I patiently waited and listened to a terrible rendition of La Bamba for 86 minutes. The helpful customer service representative who appeared to have been a bottle and a half of tequila deep returns to the phone line walking me through the confirmation process like he’s the best man giving a speech at an El Chapo wedding. I honestly still have no idea if our reservation is confirmed. All I heard was a Mexican man choking on lettuce for 6 minutes.

2. Luggage weight. My wife is so concerned the luggage will weigh more than the allowed amount of 50lbs she placed the luggage on the treadmill trying to shed a few pounds. She walked around the house with this weight testing device measuring and weighing tooth brushes and bars of soap. She has officially lost her mind.

3. Clean house. My wife must have the entire house cleaned before we leave. I explained it’s ok to relax and clean when we get home. Not her. She set up scaffolding to clean the tops of window treatments and ceiling fans. She’s running around the house with 3 different types of vacuums sucking up every type of dust mite to ever be discovered. I walked into the bathroom and her legs were hanging out of the toilet bowl as Pandora radio belted out “I want your sex” by George Michael so I turned around gracefully and went about my business. I returned after she completed her hard work and dropped a “Red Lobster” inspired deuce. I honestly felt horrible. It was either the clean toilet or the micro- suede couch.

4. Man scape. My wife just realized we didn’t man scape me properly in order to take the trip. Now that the bathrooms are cleaned we must now figure out the best option to remove this unwanted fur in order to avoid embarrassment at the Resort. So we run down to the local CVS and purchase 3 gallons of Nair. We then tie me up to a tree and hire Edward Scissor Hands to trim me up. Does it matter? Like I give a frogs fat ass if somebody witnesses a few hair follicles on my shoulder blade in Mexico? The answer is yes. I must look my best for the Mexican cook wandering around the pool with cubic zirconia teeth and a tattoo of Richie Valence on his cheek passing out sun ridden mad cow disease double cheeseburgers. It’s all about image.

5. Pill dispensers. You would think my family travels as a group of four individuals requiring Hospice care at all times. At first glance it appears our immune systems couldn’t defend against a piece of liverwurst. We consume more daily medication than Michael Jackson at a Neverland reunion. I never realized this until tonight. Combined family daily pill intake just north of 37. Should I be concerned?

6. Medical safety. My wife panics and must pack every pill, cream, patch, gauze, tape and any other medical remedy in case any of us trip and scrape our knee caps on the poolside concrete. My wife’s vacation survival kit could most likely save soldiers at war. Ironically, my kids resemble burnt shriveled hot dogs after the first day of vacation as a result of sun poisoning but if they stub their toe, my wife has them covered.

7. Money concerns and excursions. I must be honest. I just dropped $5000 I did not have and my wife wants to know how much cash I’m bringing to an All Inclusive Resort. Seriously? I’m showing up to the airport with enough money to buy a gum ball and a bottle of tequila. I’ll figure the rest out. I hear her mumble under her breath “I hope you bring enough money so we as a family can ride a Mexican Flipper.” I tried to explain to her the Dolphins in Mexico are not like the graceful animals we encounter at Sea World. She believes we will all hop in the water with a friendly Mexican dolphin and it will kiss and wave to us, drive us around the water so we can take cute photos to post on Instagram & Facebook.

I don’t agree. I believe we will
jump into the water with no life jackets as 27 sleep deprived “Montezuma
Revenge” infected dolphins will bite down on our cankles and induce rabies upon us as our mouths begin to foam just in time for our new Instagram profile pic.

8. Let’s make memories.  I get it. I’m on board with this one. It’s important to document these moments. I also need a constant reminder of WTF I actually spent this money on. Problem is this. My wife and I have different interpretations of memories. For instance, my wife will make every attempt to snap a memorable photo of our family eating a cheeseburger. A timeless action family portrait of us all walking on sweltering hot stamped concrete. It’s nice. My interpretation of a vacation memory is slightly different. I believe an iconic vacation moment consists of my wife and I climbing up to the hotels clay Spanish tile roof as our kids sleep below and we toss rocks at the Mexican planes flying above running out of fuel. Then we make triplets on that same roof and come home to tell our friends we gave birth to Mexican children. We then try to negotiate our children’s heritage for free college tuition. Now that’s a memory. My wife wants to buy a poncho and some jumping beans and she believes that’s a memory. Please.

I have many more but I’m tired. I would love to hear all of your “pre vacation stress” rituals and requirements.

It’s vacation. It should be relaxing. Stress free. I get it though. You are leaving the comfort of your own environment so it’s only natural to sometimes stress and worry.

It’s all worth it once we all get to our destination and get a drink in our hand.

Feet up. Relax. It will be over before we know it!