Negotiating My Dignity

One thing I’ve learned in my almost three years of marriage is the art of compromise. That’s actually the politically correct and clichéd way of putting it. What I’ve actually learned is the skill of bartering, or man time negotiation.

Last weekend, my wife went with me to watch Rise of the Planet of the Apes. As most men are no doubt aware, this isn’t the type of thing that a woman does voluntarily. As a rule, girls don’t dig talking primates and battles. I think it should be a mandate that there is ALWAYS room for battles. Since she sacrificed much of what she stands for to see that movie, I would soon have to do the same. Today I paid the piper when I accompanied her to see The Help.

This is a story that involves societal women in the south and their treatment of their maids. The movie is based on a novel of the same name that every single girl over the age of seven owns. We walked into the sold out theater and I immediately saw the three other males in the audience. We stand out at events such as these. I made eye contact with each of them and we formed an unspoken bond as they too were there to pay their penance. I think I’d seen one of them earlier in the summer at Zookeeper. We were both making it up to our wives for making them go see Captain America. You do what you’ve got to do.

I really don’t like going to these movies with my wife because I feel so much pressure to act sensitive. I had to whip up some fake tears when the main character in the movie realized a woman who helped raise her passed away. I cannot stand having to fake cry at movies. I haven’t seen a Disney movie since 1986 when Feivel sang Somewhere Out There. Even as an eight year old I felt pressure and “fake” cried for three hours after we got home from the theater because of that Godforsaken song.

The fall months are approaching and they bring with them cooler temperatures, changing leaves, college football, and a new season of TLC. For those of you still single, TLC is a channel that wives love to watch because of their shows about fashion, any baking fad, and stupid southern people. I’m not proud of it, but I no longer view TLC as a bargaining chip. I have been sucked into this world of extreme couponing and hoarding. I got rid of all of my baseball cards and filled the plastic sheets with coupons. Kristen asked me the other night what we were going to fix for dinner. I told her I wasn’t sure but it would probably involve mustard. Why, you ask? I don’t like it and I don’t need it but I had a super saver coupon. We now have 27 bottles and we are going to use every one of them. Thanks Extreme Couponing.

If you have not done so already, please do yourself a favor and catch Toddlers and Tiaras. It is absolutely must see TV. Where else can you find overweight redneck women forcing their three-year-olds to get botox and weaves? I watch it so that I can learn about sass.

Please don’t get me wrong, boundaries do exist. I will sacrifice football before I ever watch one of the Housewives of… shows but that’s fine and dandy because I can usually just substitute it with Teen Mom.

So yes, three years of marriage has trained me well. I’ve accepted the fact that man cards do not exist within the context of holy matrimony. I’m also aware that like everything else in life, all things are negotiable.

So long as dignity is not involved.

His Body, His Choice

Marrying a veterinarian no doubt leads to many animal debacles. There is never a dearth of source material when you have a dog like Jeffrey. Jeffrey is our Pomeranian that refuses to weigh more than four pounds no matter how much we feed him. He is not the manliest of dogs but I remain comfortable around him since I grew up with several dogs that would rather ride shotgun in a purse or a basket in front of a bicycle than the back of a pickup truck.

A little personal animal history: as a toddler, we had two bigger dogs at the house. One night, in an early display of my infinite wisdom, I tried to grab a ball out of one of their mouths.

That did not end well.

I was pounced and mauled and left 1mm away from losing my left eye. That was the end of the big dogs for me. I graduated to a more sophisticated type of canine, that of the toy variety. I’ve grown up with two poodles, a lhasa ahpso, and now I’m breaking in my second Pomeranian. There have been other animals in the mix like birds, fish, and a hamster named George, but the dogs remain the sticks by which I am measured.

We should probably get back to Jeffrey though, because you do not keep Jeffrey waiting. That’s free advice if you ever come to my house. He is not the most masculine of dogs and I am not the most masculine of men when I’m around him. We had a repairman come to our house to replace the surface of our shower. Kristen wasn’t able to take Jeffrey with her to her clinic so I was stuck with him. I opened the front door with our little cotton ball of indomitable fury tucked neatly under my arm, a place where he stayed for five solid hours. I couldn’t just let him roam free because the repairman was using some fairly potent chemicals and sealants. What kind of parent would I be? Jeffrey was my right hand man for most of the day. Manly.

I tried to walk Jeffrey once. I made sure to leave my man card on the kitchen counter next to the Wusthofs and top shelf tequila where I knew it would be safe and proceeded out the front door with my little rascal. Two things happened to me when I slipped the leash over the head of this little animal that is smaller than my shoe. I immediately clinched my butt and stuck my nose in the air. There might have even been prancing. This euphoria lasted for a second and a half because of a metamorphosis not seen since John Landis and Michael Jackson hooked up on Thriller. There stood before me on two legs a snarling maw of slobber and teeth. That dog does not like to wear a leash. This veritable werewolf made me forget he was less than six inches tall and I let out what can only be described as a very loud squeak. Walk finished. We made it to the mailbox.

I mention these things to illustrate that with the exception of his aversion to leashes, Jeffrey does not stand out as a pinnacle of masculinity. The most glaring of examples, thus far at least, happened two weeks ago. Our morning routine is fairly set. Kristen leaves the house while I’m still in the shower. I get out and pick up whatever the dogs have destroyed in the interim. This particular Friday, Jeffrey decided to throw me a curveball. I got out of the shower expecting the dogs to be dragging an old pair of socks or a t-shirt from the dirty clothes. If only that were the case.

As I opened the door and alighted from the bathroom shrouded in steam, I beheld Jeffrey in all his glory. He was lying down with paws perfectly crossed, head tilted ever so slightly, and tongue agape. With that pose, he could be in Westminster or on magazine covers were it not for the little silver package held between those perfectly crossed paws. For that package once held Yaz, the latest and greatest in contraception science. Two thoughts immediately flooded my mind. Number one, had my mother put him up to this as some stealthy way of securing a grandchild? Number two, was my already less than manly boy dog going to grow ninnies? OD, our big mutt, evidently thought so because he kept giving Jeffrey his best, “hey baby, wanna wrestle?” look.

A man should never have to witness his son, no matter the species, ingest birth control pills. Déjà vu because I made a sound that can only be described as a very loud squeak. I grabbed the package and lunged for my phone to call my wife. She wouldn’t stop laughing. I’m glad she was taking this so seriously. Not to worry, she tells me, he should be fine. Yeah, except for the fact that he just ate birth control and my other dog is looking at him lustfully. I had to trust her though because she is a doctor. We’ve kept an eye on Jeffrey for the last couple of weeks and he’s showing no adverse effects though he’s not allowed to talk to my mother anymore. You can’t be too careful.

House of Mouse

On October 18, my lovely betrothed and I will celebrate three years of marital bliss. I like to think that we chose to get married in October because the changing of the leaves each fall reminds us of our special day and the vows that we spoke. The reality of the situation is that we were really super psyched about our Caribbean honeymoon and October means no kids, fewer tourists, and cheap rates. Granted, we were catching the tail end of hurricane season but what’s the point of spending thousands of dollars if you’re not willing to take a little risk now and then.

We debated returning to the Caribbean for our three-year anniversary but fiscal responsibility got the best of us. The cost of plane tickets always seems to throw a wrench into travel plans. However, thanks in equal parts to geographical proximity and extreme parental neglect by the Nolands, our new destination became a fairly easy choice. Everyone I talk to seems appalled that I’ve never been to Disney World so hold onto your hats because the mouse drought will come to an end in October.

My wife and I are both excited about the trip to Orlando. Growing up, I received regular reports from friends who made the journey to Walt’s place and reconnoitered Space Mountain and Epcot. Now it’s my turn to let my imagination run wild. Even though I’m 32 years old, I don’t think I’ll be able to leave without donning a pair of mouse ears and riding Dumbo and the tea-cups. I will do my best to make it look only sad and pathetic rather than utterly creepy. Grown men and kiddie rides don’t normally mix but this is the happiest place on earth and I fully plan on getting my money’s worth.

I called my dad to tell him about our plans and the conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hey dad, Kristen and I are going on vacation in October, we’re headed to Disney World.”

Dad: “Why are you going there again?”

Me: “I’ve never been before dad.”

Dad: “You mean you didn’t go with us?”

Me: “No.”

Dad: “Oh. That must have been before you were born.”

Me: “Wow, okay cool.”

Dad: “Wait, we didn’t take you when we took your sister?”

Me: “No, I didn’t realize you ever took her.”

Dad: “Yep. That might have been the most fun I’ve ever had on a vacation and we even took your mother.”

Me: click.

Imagine my surprise to learn that my sister had already visited the magic kingdom. That harkens back to the time I got two pastel t-shirts from my parents for my 21^st birthday that made me look like I’d just returned from Jazzercize. My sister just barely beat me out with her 21^st birthday gift. She got a Camry. But I’m not bitter. *

Kristen and I will spend part of our week at Universal Studios. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter will most likely get the lion’s share of our time there. Not because there’s a great deal to see but because apparently there’s a two-hour line just to get into “Honeydukes” to get a butterbeer. I’m not even sure if there are rides at this place. That’s okay because my focus, apparently, will be on procuring an authentic wizarding wand and an overpriced cream soda. Shamelessly though, I’m okay with that.

Since we don’t have kids yet, we’re doing our best to travel as much as possible. From what I’ve always been told, the notion of not having a good time at Disney World is inconceivable. I’m excited to see if these icons that I’ve grown up hearing about and watching on TV meet or exceed my expectations. I certainly hope so because in our quest to save money and skip the Caribbean, we’ve discovered that this magical kingdom in Florida is fairly over priced but nonetheless, I remain excited.

Granted, I’ll probably not be screaming in the midway with Mickey and Minnie like other little kids of yore, or dancing with Cinderella in front of her castle. After all, I have my own Cinderella that I get to spend time with every day. Although sometimes, when Jeffrey goes poop on the floor, my Cinderella can be equal parts wicked stepmother and Cruella Deville. Fortunately for our animals, I’m able to step in and act like Princes Charming and Valiant.

One day, sometime after we return from our trip, I want to sit down with our nephews and compare notes. They went as kids and I went as an adult. I’m curious to see how we differ in our experiences. I wonder if there will be any differences at all. This is Disney after all. It makes no difference who you are.

Right?

* I’m actually not bitter at all. We were both spoiled rotten. Sometimes I have to take liberties though.

Fido Play-Doh

I've come to a point in my life where I believe I'm on the cusp of middle age. Inevitably, I start to reflect on time spent growing up. Friends and I sometimes get together and talk about how things were when we were kids and we always come to the conclusion that kids today are really missing out on some things. I'm not naive enough to think that my generation is the only one that does this. I think its just a part of growing up.

A whole new generation is hearing about Michael Jordan now that he's constantly contrasted with Lebron James. High school seniors were three years old when Jordan won his last NBA championship so for them, he only exists on highlight reels while we got to actually witness the greatest basketball player to ever play the game. Also, kids today don't have Saturday morning cartoons to watch like we did. I remember waking up at 6am on a Saturday morning to watch shows like the Gummy Bears, Slimer and the Real Ghostbusters, and the Smurfs. As I matured, I preferred the deeper messages offered by the sages of Saved By The Bell and California Dreams. Who can forget Jessie Spano's addiction to speed and her inspiring rendition of the Pointer Sister's "I'm So Excited"? Crack is whack Jessie. It leads to Showgirls.

Not only was my generation exposed to these half-hour gems of episodic bliss, but we also got to reap the joys of the action figure tie-ins. Oh the hours we would spend memorizing the combination of twists and turns it would take to transform a mack truck into Optimus Prime. Do you remember the imagination it took to pretend your parents weren't just cheap and that GO-BOTS really were as good as Transformers? GI-JOE, Thundercats, Voltron, M.A.S.K, Jem and the Holograms all had an impact on me one way or another. Kids today just don't have the same opportunities to watch cool tv shows and play with cool toys.

Oh sure, now that Transformers is a movie franchise, HASBRO released a new line of toys but these are low quality, plastic junk. The Transformers we played with were solid metal. It seems like the main shows that little kids watch today are of the Spongebob and Dora the Explorer variety. Are the toys from these shows robots that turn into something useful like a tape deck or realistic gun? I bet not but Dora sure has a nifty backpack. That screams fun.

My wife is floating the Edisto River tomorrow and she needed an innertube. So we did what every other red blooded American does when such a need arises and headed straight to Wal Mart. While she was checking out the pool section, I was hanging out with the toys. This was around 9pm so I needn't worry about looking creepy since most kids should be in bed. I flipped through stacks and stacks of new Transformer and GI JOE figures. While I think they're junk, I can still find the time to appreciate them. Heck, I still head straight for the toy isle every time I visit Walgreens. Sad but true.

While searching for the ultimate inner tube, Kristen found something I had to behold. She dragged me two isles away and to feast my eyes upon this. Yes, it is a game called Doggie Doo and the object is to feed the dog and watch him go doo doo. I almost cried. If ever there was a game in line with my sense of humor and maturity level, this was it. Doggie Doo is a complete rip off of the Play-Doh Fun Factory Set but if you're going to rip off a classic, this is the way to do it. Scatalogical canines are fun no matter what the context. Because of this find, I've had to rethink my entire view of kids today. I no longer feel sorry for them, I envy them. I got to play with the HE-MAN slime pit and kids today get to play with turds. Sure, they don't have Zach Morris or AC Slater. They don't understand that "knowing is half the battle" or the gravitas of the "power of grayskull". But just like any kid in the history of time, they understand feces.

And that is good.

Not Again

Kristen and I decided to go out for some dinner recently because we were both too tired to cook. As we walked toward the front door of a local chain steakhouse, I noticed a couple leaving and they looked aggravated. I chocked it up to bad service. I waited tables for three years and yes, even I had an off night from time to time. Sometimes, customers leave unsatisfied. Once we made it through the front door though, I knew it wasn't bad service that sent that couple packing. Oh gosh no. I'd recognize that shrill shrieking and wild wailing anywhere. We'd done it again. We'd picked a new restaurant and randomly shown up on Kids Night.

Kids Night is the glimmer in the eye of an obvious sadist. This sick person decided it would be a good idea to let kids eat free while simultaneously running amok and ruining dining experiences of the childless. Moms and dads develop some sort of force field that prevents any sort of common sense and disciplinary action when it comes to their kids. Parents don't need to force them to behave. What's the fun in that? They came to relax and and talk to their friends who also brought their little heathens along. Don't worry about your little runts as they double fist steak knives and threaten other patrons of the restaurant with their beady little toddler eyes. I know your game you little monster. You want to make sure my wife and I, in no way shape or form, enjoy our dinner. Mission accomplished. I appreciate the dinosaur you drew on my napkin with your complimentary crayon while your oblivious mother talks about her facial at the country club earlier that morning. I don't feel like I'm overreacting.

We are at the age that many of our friends are having kids and some of them get very irritated if we complain about maniacal misbehaving miscreants in restaurants or stores or elsewhere. Many have become quite self righteous. We're constantly told that we'd understand and not be upset if it were our kids, that we just don't "get it." Um, I'm telling you right now that if my kid ever jumps up on the table and takes a tinkle, not only will I be upset, I'll have the common decency to be mortified and would most likely never show my face at the establishment again. Of course I'd talk to the manager and let him know that my child obviously gets this specific behavior from his mother. I'd also probably give the little guy a mental fist bump for having the stones to pull off such a stunt in a public place

According to MY mother, I only ever had one outburst at a restaurant, and it was the cutest thing ever. During the dinner rush at a local restaurant, my mom was ignoring me as she talked with a friend who'd joined us. For reasons unknown, I stood up on the booth, took a hard look around the place, developed a sly grin on my face, and tooted. All conversation in the diner ceased and everyone looked towards me amazed while my mom stared at me horrified. Horrified because the toot would not stop, and it was what my friends and I like to refer to as a helicopter poot or a machine gun poot. You probably get the idea.

I'm not averse to kids. My wife and I have talked about the possibility of having our own in the near future. However, going to these Kids Night sure do serve as an indirect contraceptive. If the survival of the human race depended on us after we just got back from a Kids Night, well, better to burn out than fade away, you know what I mean?

HANDS HANDS HANDS

Since high school, I've told people that one of my ambitions is to write a humor column in the vain of Dave Barry. I feel like we have somewhat similar writing styles albeit, mine is likely a bit more crass. For years, he wrote a column for the Miami Herald that was syndicated nationally. For that, I am indeed a bit jealous. However, because of his ties to the city of Miami, Mr. Barry has something else that I might never have the opportunity to behold. The chance to run into one of the Police Women of Broward County.

Because I'm married (to a woman that believes cultural diversity is important), my television spends a lot of time tuned to TLC. I'm well versed in families of multiples, little people, cupcakes, hoarders, people who eat toilet paper as a hobby (I'm not joking), overweight redneck ladies who live vicariously through their daughters by forcing them into beauty pageants, the Duggars, and girl police officers. Police Women of Broward County follows four female officers as they travel in and around Miami, Florida fighting crime. Two of these women in particular stand out.

First is Andrea. She MIGHT be five feet tall but I doubt it. She takes down drug dealers and she's very angry when she does it. Watching her jump out of her blacked out SUV with her gun drawn yelling "HANDS, HANDS, HANDS" freaks me out and reminds me of how my sister use to treat me. In fact, I think my sister and Andrea are a lot alike. This police lady won't hesitate to rough up a perp just like my sister wouldn't hesitate to smack me around. Unfortunately I'm not kidding. I tried to play responsible older brother one time when my parents were out of town and she got a speeding ticket. I told her how she shouldn't speed. I don't know why that was so unexpected but she certainly didn't appreciate it. Basically, she landed a round house punch to my jaw and I fell down. I'm not proud of that but if I laid a hand on her in retaliation, my dad would kick me out of the house and disown me. Double standards are dumb. I think my sister and the short police lady would get along.

The other officer that stands out is Julie. She works in sex crimes. She's an older woman with what can only be described as Texas hair straight from a bottle. The hair is big, blond, and comes with plenty of attitude and bad language. The things that come out of her mouth when she's propositioning potential "Johns" really frighten me and are completely foreign to me, and I went to college. Watching how nonchalantly she walks up to men and casually asks them to do scary things to her is really kind of disturbing yet I can't stop watching.

Police Women on TLC follows ladies around several other counties in the country but none of them have quite the dynamic, or vulgarity, of those crazy Miami ladies. So Dave Barry, when you read this, make sure you tell Andrea and Julie that I said hey. Maybe one day we can all meet for a drink. I'll keep my hands where Andrea can see them but I'd prefer it if Julie doesn't really talk to me.

Paws of Fury

I took Friday off from work. I had some fairly substantial dental work done and just didn't have it in me to go into the office. So instead, I left the dentist chair, drove home and settled back into bed to revel in my valium induced fog (prescribed by the dentist of course). I awoke to raindrops slamming onto the concrete of my driveway below my bedroom window. I also awoke to four pounds of furry fury staring me in the face. This bestial alarm clock has a name and that name is Jeffrey. The little dude was ramming his paw into my eye like a piston in order to let me know he had to go outside.

I need you to understand how monumental this moment is for me. We've had Jeffrey since August. We got him once our last little pomeranian Pee Wee passed (RESPECT). Jeffrey has what we refer to as a little bit of a self control problem. He pees and poos on rugs, carpets, tile, brick, wood, fabric, sheets, comforters, pillows, discarded underwear, OD, and my stomach one unfortunate night when I was in a deep slumber. Basically if it's inside, he'll go to the bathroom on it. When you take him outside, he goes and sits in the grass and stares at you until you open the door again so he can run inside and go doo doo. I've tried to wait the little bastard out. I waited an hour and a half once but he wins every time. He's like that deer in the staring contest with Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet on SNL (look it up).

All that to say that I was stoked when he woke me up acting like he wanted to go outside. I stumble down the stairs with him under my arm. I wish I could explain to you how manly I look walking around with a four pound pomeranian tucked under my arm. We get to the backyard and I drop him and prepare to behold the maturation of Jeffrey before my eyes. However this glorious moment is ruined...by two kids running and playing by the little pond outside my little four foot picket fence. Jeffrey forgets about his responsibilities and starts running toward the fence. Since this is a picket fence and Jeffrey is the size of a rat, he runs full speed through a space between two of the boards and takes off barking at the kids.

One of these little guys sees Jeffrey and freaks. The dog looks like a little pygmy lion and if I were six years old, I'd probably freak out too. He takes off running away from Jeffrey which just infuses the dog with more of a purpose and he starts barking louder and running faster. I hop the fence running after Jeffrey and yelling at the kid to stop. Now if you're one of my neighbors (most of which are parents) looking out of your window, all you see is a small child scared to death running away from an angry grown up who is chasing after him and yelling at him to stop. Jeffrey is so small and close to the ground that he's more or less invisible. Not a good situation for me. Anyway, the kid finally relented and I caught up to them. I hip checked Jeffrey into another neighbor's fence and kind of put him in a choke hold because he's a wily devil and I can't let him get away. I look at the kid and tell him I'm sorry and then drag Jeffrey kicking and screaming (tucked under my armpit with his tongue hanging out all cute and stuff) back to my house praying to God that Chris Hansen isn't waiting in my kitchen with a TV crew.

I had enough of pomeranians and tee tee so I needed to do something manly. I went and saw THOR which was awesome. It made me want to work out and get a sweet hammer. I'll let you know if either happens.