A year ago today I sat down and wrote about an experience I had at a grocery store and released it on a blog I called Life Between Naps. Since then I have written and placed many more of my experiences as a full-time, unemployed, stay-at-home dad here, there and everywhere else I could. To my surprise LBN got pretty popular, acquired many fans, was on the radio and slowly a following was born. Thanks to all my friends, family and loyal followers LBN has become the 97,546 most popular blog about parenting on the web. With a few more hits I'll pass the blog about The farting Cats of Myanmar... My dreams are finally coming true.
I still have high hopes that one day a celebrity other than Oprah, Ellen, Rachel Ray and to my utter amazement Tyra (all of whom have failed to respond to my stalking tactics with anything more than threatening letters, stupid lawyer talk and a one time shot of pepper spray) will endorse my writing invite me on their show and surprise me with a car, a house, a job or pay off my student loans. Alas,I might have to actually do this fame thing on my own. So as I get ready to unleash a second year of LBN on the world. I'll give you the original, unedited, updated and newly proofread version of the story that started it all. It's bigger, better and basically a stall tactic until I get my newest story finished. Thank you all for being fans.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Death and the City
I look at the T.V. I look at my wife. I look at the T.V; I look at my wife, uh-oh… Don’t do it, don’t do it, for the love of God please don’t -- and there it was. It started as a slight upward curl of the lips, followed by the opening of the mouth, a flash of teeth and finally a faint breathy chuckle. Even before she uttered a word my stomach was rebelling and my mouth was beginning to fill up with a mixture of acid, detest and Mongolian Chicken. I knew what was coming and I was horrified.
“Oh we’re going to see that.” She says looking over her shoulder just in time to see me cup a hand over my mouth and swallow my dinner… again!
I don’t even attempt to respond. I just continue to breath and pray that at some point during the next two weeks, the almighty hand of a sympathetic god will either temporarily blind me, or set fire to every movie theater within a 50 mile radius.
I’ll beg, I’ll lie and I will most definitely try to conjure up some self-inflicted injuries - - but it won’t work. According to “The Movie Rules,” I’m contractually obligated to accompany her to a movie of her choice, and there's nothing I can do about it.
So, barring a miracle, at approximately 9 pm on Friday, May 27th, I'll begin to slowly die. The process will begin as I begrudgingly walk into a Cineplex overflowing with teams of middle aged women all gussied to mimic their favorite character. They’ll be freakishly salivating in anticipation. The lights will dim. The cackling will dissipate to a low murmur and the estrogen cloud that has been slowly chocking the life out of me will begin to erupt. Finally, the moment will come. The intentions of the screen will reveal itself… A shot of Manhattan, the ping-pongy theme song and the words which snap my head back in disgust, painfully materializes right before my un-bleeding eyes (Gulp) - - Sex. And. The. City… 2! I cup a hand over my mouth and for the second time in 3 weeks I'll re-eat my dinner.
I had to know this day was coming. In fact, this day, this miserable miserable day has been 10 years in the making. Explain…. On our first date, Cathy and I spent 2 nauseating hours enduring the gigantic piece of crap entitled Meet Joe Black (her choice). This was followed by an attempt to show my artsy side when we sat down to watch the visual equivalent of a rock-salt enema, What Dreams May Come, starring my nemesis, Mork. On our third date we came up with a set of movie rules. It was a final attempt at reclaiming the dwindling respect we both had for each other’s taste in cinema. We still sorta liked each other, but another bad movie could’ve ended us, thus…
The Movie Rules
1. Person A picks the movie. If person B agrees, they go see the movie and the power to choose the next movie alternates. If Person B disagrees with the movie choice, move to step 2.
2. It is very likely (at least in my case) Person B veto’s the movie. If that is the case, Person A will create a list of 3 choices, from which Person B has the power to choose. The list will include the original pick at the 1 position followed by two other choices.
3. Choice number 3 has to be either a documentary or animation.
4. If your partner chooses pick 2 or 3, you continue to make the movie list until movie 1 is chosen (Placement and choice are crucial in making the list, I don’t think Cathy picked a single movie from 2002-05).
5. In the unlikely event that the your number 1 movie turns out to be either visual diarrhea, produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, stars Brendan Fraser and is labeled as “Fun for the whole family,” stars Martin Lawrence and is labeled as “Laugh out loud funny,” or anything that involves interactions i.e. dancing, talking, or war between real actors and woodland creatures with CGI facial expressions, you are penalized a turn. And you have to see whatever your partner chooses. Period.
Now, back to the reason why I’ll be uncomfortably trapped in a theater watching the one movie that may very well cause me to plunge the nearest pair of Jimmy Choo’s into my eye sockets? A couple of months ago, I violated rule number 5. I accidentally or erroneously assumed that Kevin James could carry a movie based entirely on the fact that he’s fat and funny-ish, so I rented Paul Blart: Mall Cop. The joy and anger that Cathy possessed after the credits began to roll was overwhelming. It was as if she won the lottery, but had to split it with the population of Texas.
Anyway, she’d been holding on to this chip for quite some time; patiently waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect movie, the perfect revenge for accidentally stealing two measly hours away from her. Well, after watching me verp at the mere thought of enduring this awful, awful, awful, awful, awful movie... she makes her move and seals my fate. Alas, rules are rules, and fair rules they are, so I’ll go. I will hold her hand and I will go. Damn you Paul Blart, damn you to Hell.
Although I'm reluctant and disturbed about this whole fiasco, I'm not without knowledge of the subject. It's not much - - mostly just ghostly images and random clips, but it's knowledge none-the-less. This is what I know about SATC.
Okay, it’s about the Redhead, Horseface, Mannequin and Kristin Davis. They live in New York, buy shoes, have sex, cry, drink delicious Cosmos and occasionally fall backwards onto fluffy beds while kicking their feet in the air, (This is what Hollywood thinks women do when they’re asked out on a date/receive a gift /or just finished reading a hokey love letter by “the” boy. Notwithstanding, this scene is always crucial to the plot and can be played out in a myriad of ways depending on how the director wants to portray the amount of admiration the girl has for the boy. For example, if the girl ends up aggressively hugging a pillow, rolls over onto her belly, then screams into said pillow while pounding her fists into the fluffy bed, well, she really “likes” the boy. If she’s decked out in boxers and an over-sized T-shirt, you can almost guarantee that she’ll begin to jump on the bed while the smash hit “Walking on Sunshine” is played. This means she’s “in love.” If at any point during these proceedings you can hear the boy’s voice repeating the word “Hello?” from the phone jumpy thought she hung up, you can rest assure that these two things will happen: She realizes her “embarrassing” mistake and in a panic picks up the receiver and utters this line, “Uh yeah, okay.. sorry, (giggle) see you at eight.” This will manifest into itself into an awkward first date at the end of which he’ll end up screwing her best friend. You can Book it!).
Now, here’s what I know about SATC2 (based entirely on the preview). At one point Mannequin says, “Fabulous.” Somehow big hats and sunglasses are pivotal. That cave man with big eyebrows and Square Pegs will wear matching Tuxedos. More than once they will all walk side-by-side in slow motion (with no guns!), The Redhead cries, because of something stupid (like her pantsuit). Horseface Broderick will beyond all logic, find herself in a forbidden love triangle. Kristen Davis will look overwhelmed at all times. Oh yeah, they’ll also be in the desert wearing MC Hammer pants, turbans and riding camels. I wish I was making this up; this movie is going to kill me.
I love you all,
Jim
“Oh we’re going to see that.” She says looking over her shoulder just in time to see me cup a hand over my mouth and swallow my dinner… again!
I don’t even attempt to respond. I just continue to breath and pray that at some point during the next two weeks, the almighty hand of a sympathetic god will either temporarily blind me, or set fire to every movie theater within a 50 mile radius.
I’ll beg, I’ll lie and I will most definitely try to conjure up some self-inflicted injuries - - but it won’t work. According to “The Movie Rules,” I’m contractually obligated to accompany her to a movie of her choice, and there's nothing I can do about it.
So, barring a miracle, at approximately 9 pm on Friday, May 27th, I'll begin to slowly die. The process will begin as I begrudgingly walk into a Cineplex overflowing with teams of middle aged women all gussied to mimic their favorite character. They’ll be freakishly salivating in anticipation. The lights will dim. The cackling will dissipate to a low murmur and the estrogen cloud that has been slowly chocking the life out of me will begin to erupt. Finally, the moment will come. The intentions of the screen will reveal itself… A shot of Manhattan, the ping-pongy theme song and the words which snap my head back in disgust, painfully materializes right before my un-bleeding eyes (Gulp) - - Sex. And. The. City… 2! I cup a hand over my mouth and for the second time in 3 weeks I'll re-eat my dinner.
I had to know this day was coming. In fact, this day, this miserable miserable day has been 10 years in the making. Explain…. On our first date, Cathy and I spent 2 nauseating hours enduring the gigantic piece of crap entitled Meet Joe Black (her choice). This was followed by an attempt to show my artsy side when we sat down to watch the visual equivalent of a rock-salt enema, What Dreams May Come, starring my nemesis, Mork. On our third date we came up with a set of movie rules. It was a final attempt at reclaiming the dwindling respect we both had for each other’s taste in cinema. We still sorta liked each other, but another bad movie could’ve ended us, thus…
The Movie Rules
1. Person A picks the movie. If person B agrees, they go see the movie and the power to choose the next movie alternates. If Person B disagrees with the movie choice, move to step 2.
2. It is very likely (at least in my case) Person B veto’s the movie. If that is the case, Person A will create a list of 3 choices, from which Person B has the power to choose. The list will include the original pick at the 1 position followed by two other choices.
3. Choice number 3 has to be either a documentary or animation.
4. If your partner chooses pick 2 or 3, you continue to make the movie list until movie 1 is chosen (Placement and choice are crucial in making the list, I don’t think Cathy picked a single movie from 2002-05).
5. In the unlikely event that the your number 1 movie turns out to be either visual diarrhea, produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, stars Brendan Fraser and is labeled as “Fun for the whole family,” stars Martin Lawrence and is labeled as “Laugh out loud funny,” or anything that involves interactions i.e. dancing, talking, or war between real actors and woodland creatures with CGI facial expressions, you are penalized a turn. And you have to see whatever your partner chooses. Period.
Now, back to the reason why I’ll be uncomfortably trapped in a theater watching the one movie that may very well cause me to plunge the nearest pair of Jimmy Choo’s into my eye sockets? A couple of months ago, I violated rule number 5. I accidentally or erroneously assumed that Kevin James could carry a movie based entirely on the fact that he’s fat and funny-ish, so I rented Paul Blart: Mall Cop. The joy and anger that Cathy possessed after the credits began to roll was overwhelming. It was as if she won the lottery, but had to split it with the population of Texas.
Anyway, she’d been holding on to this chip for quite some time; patiently waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect movie, the perfect revenge for accidentally stealing two measly hours away from her. Well, after watching me verp at the mere thought of enduring this awful, awful, awful, awful, awful movie... she makes her move and seals my fate. Alas, rules are rules, and fair rules they are, so I’ll go. I will hold her hand and I will go. Damn you Paul Blart, damn you to Hell.
Although I'm reluctant and disturbed about this whole fiasco, I'm not without knowledge of the subject. It's not much - - mostly just ghostly images and random clips, but it's knowledge none-the-less. This is what I know about SATC.
Okay, it’s about the Redhead, Horseface, Mannequin and Kristin Davis. They live in New York, buy shoes, have sex, cry, drink delicious Cosmos and occasionally fall backwards onto fluffy beds while kicking their feet in the air, (This is what Hollywood thinks women do when they’re asked out on a date/receive a gift /or just finished reading a hokey love letter by “the” boy. Notwithstanding, this scene is always crucial to the plot and can be played out in a myriad of ways depending on how the director wants to portray the amount of admiration the girl has for the boy. For example, if the girl ends up aggressively hugging a pillow, rolls over onto her belly, then screams into said pillow while pounding her fists into the fluffy bed, well, she really “likes” the boy. If she’s decked out in boxers and an over-sized T-shirt, you can almost guarantee that she’ll begin to jump on the bed while the smash hit “Walking on Sunshine” is played. This means she’s “in love.” If at any point during these proceedings you can hear the boy’s voice repeating the word “Hello?” from the phone jumpy thought she hung up, you can rest assure that these two things will happen: She realizes her “embarrassing” mistake and in a panic picks up the receiver and utters this line, “Uh yeah, okay.. sorry, (giggle) see you at eight.” This will manifest into itself into an awkward first date at the end of which he’ll end up screwing her best friend. You can Book it!).
Now, here’s what I know about SATC2 (based entirely on the preview). At one point Mannequin says, “Fabulous.” Somehow big hats and sunglasses are pivotal. That cave man with big eyebrows and Square Pegs will wear matching Tuxedos. More than once they will all walk side-by-side in slow motion (with no guns!), The Redhead cries, because of something stupid (like her pantsuit). Horseface Broderick will beyond all logic, find herself in a forbidden love triangle. Kristen Davis will look overwhelmed at all times. Oh yeah, they’ll also be in the desert wearing MC Hammer pants, turbans and riding camels. I wish I was making this up; this movie is going to kill me.
I love you all,
Jim
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Shape of Dough
Well it’s officially that time of the year when the flowers bloom, the grass greens, the birds sing and I put together a feeble attempt to get into “banana hammock” shape. That’s right folks; summer is just around the corner, which means beaches, gardening and oddly choreographed shirtless flexing when I take out the trash or retrieve the mail. Its hard body time! No more hot dog breakfasts and a little less powder sugar lunches. This time I’m gonna make a change, a change that will stick, stick like a honey bun - -Crap, I want a honey bun. This is gonna be harder than I thought.
Let’s start with the facts: I’m not obese! I never get overheated enough to wear shorts the moment it gets over 40 degrees. I don’t sweat when I talk, or look at cake (okay, the cake part is a lie; I actually perspire whenever I’m in the presence of pastries and I’ve been known to black out at the mere mention of the word glaze), but I’m not in any sort of medical danger. I’ve also hesitated to use the moniker “over-weight,” that’s too subjective, instead I’ve took a real liking to “doughy.” That’s right I consider myself a bit doughy, mostly because all great things start with dough components and it gives me a delicious factor that is hard to resist.
Last year I lost 20lbs with a piece of “functional art” that we have in our living room, (The art in question is actually a very expensive stationary bike my wife purchased 4 summers ago). Even though we were both gung-ho about the possibilities it possessed, I knew it would only see a week’s worth of rigorous activity before it became an increasingly irritable obstruction to my T.V. viewing - - much like Robin Williams. Seriously, how this obnoxiously incoherent babbler continues to make his way around Hollywood is baffling. I once watched him answer the very valid question, “So why did you decide to make Old Dogs?” with “Ahh, Boo-ba Wha-wha. Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh Week-week,” and of course this was said with a Cockney accent while dry-humping John Travolta’s arm. I digress…
Anyway, I dusted off this sad piece of machinery and I rode. We were making real progress and for 2 months I was finally starting to see a return on our investment until…. I once again realized the sheer bliss of 2 hour naps and beer. Suddenly… Bam! My ridin’ days were over. It wasn’t long before 172lbs became 173...174… 177...182...186...190...until I peaked last month at 193 pounds! The God’s had spoken and it was time to put “Operation See My Feet” into action, all I needed was a sure-fire way to shed the foam around the bones. Now, I don’t know if it was the six-pack, bag of jellybeans, or my willingness to surf 541 channels until I pass out, but somewhere around 3am on a channel usually reserved for shuttle landings and celebrity endorsed acne medications, it appeared… P90X!
Labeled as a 90 day fitness routine that was guaranteed to transform your body into that of a Greek God/Goddess, there was no way I could fail. They were doing jumping-jacks. I can do jumping-jacks. Therefore, after 90 days, I should look like Hugh Jackman, or at the very least Gwen Stefani. And as if this wasn’t the greatest news ever, I found out a friend actually has the program! I was destined to do this. So I made the call.
Me: Can I borrow P90X?
Her: (Laughing)
Me: Is it hard?
Her: Yes.
Me: Really?
Her: Uh yeah.
Me: “Hard” for you because you’re a girl and you can’t do jumping-jacks? *She’s a Crime Fighting Machine on the Southside of Chicago
Her: (Click)
Day 1 (Core body something-or-other workout DVD)
I’m 3 minutes into the warm-up and I’m very concerned about the amount of fluid that is literally running out of my body. After a 10 minute pause, a cookie and a mouthful of Altoids to restart my heart, I finish the warm-up and head into the 40 minute “workout.” 15 minutes later….I puked and took a nap on the floor. Day 1= Failure. This would be a trend.
Here is a list of “highlights” after a month of Operation Minimize Me….
• I now frequently use the phrase “Are you (insert expletive here) kidding me?”
• I blew my O-ring!
• Working out to a mix tape featuring more than one Olivia Newton John songs dramatically decreases testosterone levels.
• Yoga is for the boneless.
• I can’t imagine a time or a place when I’ll be thinking, “Man, ‘Downward Facing Dog’ was really helpful.
• I cry when I stretch.
• Last week I bent over and it sounded like I dropped a sock full of nickels
• When I walk it now sounds like someone is punching a baloney sandwich, a wet baloney sandwich.
• The DVD entitled “Ab-RipperX” could also be called “How to crap your pants in 3 sit-up or less”
• In a real life situation I hope I never have to kick backwards.
• Pull-ups + Gravity + Age = Reality Check
And finally… after 4 weeks and 3 days of trimming the fat, I found myself nearing a state of hyperventilation, waiting to be called into the doctor’s office. The reason for this “emergency” visit was the very glamorous and super enjoyable “I’ve just got kicked in the balls” feeling that has resided in my underwear for the past 3 days. It was an unholy mixture of pain and nostalgia (Oh the playground days of unprotected kick-ball). After the doctor eliminated cancer, hernia and some other culprit I found on WebMD, she assured me that it was probably a muscle strain of sorts and that I needed to, "Relax, cool the workouts and fill up on Motrin." Elated to find out that my ball wasn’t trying to divorce my body, I stepped out of the office and into bakery where I proceeded to polish off half a dozen freshly baked cookies and a chocolate croissant. It’s gonna be a scary summer.
To be continued…
Let’s start with the facts: I’m not obese! I never get overheated enough to wear shorts the moment it gets over 40 degrees. I don’t sweat when I talk, or look at cake (okay, the cake part is a lie; I actually perspire whenever I’m in the presence of pastries and I’ve been known to black out at the mere mention of the word glaze), but I’m not in any sort of medical danger. I’ve also hesitated to use the moniker “over-weight,” that’s too subjective, instead I’ve took a real liking to “doughy.” That’s right I consider myself a bit doughy, mostly because all great things start with dough components and it gives me a delicious factor that is hard to resist.
Last year I lost 20lbs with a piece of “functional art” that we have in our living room, (The art in question is actually a very expensive stationary bike my wife purchased 4 summers ago). Even though we were both gung-ho about the possibilities it possessed, I knew it would only see a week’s worth of rigorous activity before it became an increasingly irritable obstruction to my T.V. viewing - - much like Robin Williams. Seriously, how this obnoxiously incoherent babbler continues to make his way around Hollywood is baffling. I once watched him answer the very valid question, “So why did you decide to make Old Dogs?” with “Ahh, Boo-ba Wha-wha. Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh, Hum-A-Duh Week-week,” and of course this was said with a Cockney accent while dry-humping John Travolta’s arm. I digress…
Anyway, I dusted off this sad piece of machinery and I rode. We were making real progress and for 2 months I was finally starting to see a return on our investment until…. I once again realized the sheer bliss of 2 hour naps and beer. Suddenly… Bam! My ridin’ days were over. It wasn’t long before 172lbs became 173...174… 177...182...186...190...until I peaked last month at 193 pounds! The God’s had spoken and it was time to put “Operation See My Feet” into action, all I needed was a sure-fire way to shed the foam around the bones. Now, I don’t know if it was the six-pack, bag of jellybeans, or my willingness to surf 541 channels until I pass out, but somewhere around 3am on a channel usually reserved for shuttle landings and celebrity endorsed acne medications, it appeared… P90X!
Labeled as a 90 day fitness routine that was guaranteed to transform your body into that of a Greek God/Goddess, there was no way I could fail. They were doing jumping-jacks. I can do jumping-jacks. Therefore, after 90 days, I should look like Hugh Jackman, or at the very least Gwen Stefani. And as if this wasn’t the greatest news ever, I found out a friend actually has the program! I was destined to do this. So I made the call.
Me: Can I borrow P90X?
Her: (Laughing)
Me: Is it hard?
Her: Yes.
Me: Really?
Her: Uh yeah.
Me: “Hard” for you because you’re a girl and you can’t do jumping-jacks? *She’s a Crime Fighting Machine on the Southside of Chicago
Her: (Click)
Day 1 (Core body something-or-other workout DVD)
I’m 3 minutes into the warm-up and I’m very concerned about the amount of fluid that is literally running out of my body. After a 10 minute pause, a cookie and a mouthful of Altoids to restart my heart, I finish the warm-up and head into the 40 minute “workout.” 15 minutes later….I puked and took a nap on the floor. Day 1= Failure. This would be a trend.
Here is a list of “highlights” after a month of Operation Minimize Me….
• I now frequently use the phrase “Are you (insert expletive here) kidding me?”
• I blew my O-ring!
• Working out to a mix tape featuring more than one Olivia Newton John songs dramatically decreases testosterone levels.
• Yoga is for the boneless.
• I can’t imagine a time or a place when I’ll be thinking, “Man, ‘Downward Facing Dog’ was really helpful.
• I cry when I stretch.
• Last week I bent over and it sounded like I dropped a sock full of nickels
• When I walk it now sounds like someone is punching a baloney sandwich, a wet baloney sandwich.
• The DVD entitled “Ab-RipperX” could also be called “How to crap your pants in 3 sit-up or less”
• In a real life situation I hope I never have to kick backwards.
• Pull-ups + Gravity + Age = Reality Check
And finally… after 4 weeks and 3 days of trimming the fat, I found myself nearing a state of hyperventilation, waiting to be called into the doctor’s office. The reason for this “emergency” visit was the very glamorous and super enjoyable “I’ve just got kicked in the balls” feeling that has resided in my underwear for the past 3 days. It was an unholy mixture of pain and nostalgia (Oh the playground days of unprotected kick-ball). After the doctor eliminated cancer, hernia and some other culprit I found on WebMD, she assured me that it was probably a muscle strain of sorts and that I needed to, "Relax, cool the workouts and fill up on Motrin." Elated to find out that my ball wasn’t trying to divorce my body, I stepped out of the office and into bakery where I proceeded to polish off half a dozen freshly baked cookies and a chocolate croissant. It’s gonna be a scary summer.
To be continued…
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