Category: Love

It’s a lifelong commitment of humbling and diligent servitude. There’s a vow of silence involved. There’s also a vow of poverty. There’s even a vow of celibacy. I just wish I could say that I’m referring to joining a monastery. Nope, instead of separate vows of silence, poverty and celibacy, most men just opt for simplicity and kill three birds with one stone by taking wedding vows instead.

The Vow of Silence: As her first act of business, your wife will waste little time in hacking away at the Bill of Rights. There’s no fighting this one, as the recent landmark Supreme Court decision (MR v. The Wife) established that husbands don’t have any Constitutional rights whatsoever. (On a related topic, hiring Andrew Dice Clay as my legal council was a huge mistake.) Anyway, don’t plan on bearing arms or peacefully assembling once you get married. And forget about Habeas Corpus. But most of all, you can kiss your freedom of speech goodbye.

The Vow of Silence takes many shapes. First, you will notice your vocabulary steadily shrinking. Sure, you’ll pick up a few new words like “spoon rest” and “table runner” as a married man. However, this won’t make up for the dramatic loss of personal pronouns you’ll experience. For instance, here’s a partial list of pronouns you will be forced to retranslate as a married man:

The word “I” is now “we.”
And “me” is now “us.”
Also, “my” becomes “our.”
And finally, what was “mine” is now “ours.”

I soon learned that it’s no longer “my” TV. It’s our TV. And that candy bar isn’t “mine.” It’s ours. Of course, there are some exceptions to this retranslation. For example, things can still be “my” fault. And it can still be “my” turn to take out the garbage. Sound confusing? Don’t worry, your wife will correct your speech accordingly until you get it right.

Unfortunately, this process doesn’t work both ways, mainly because I don’t want to stake claim to anything that’s hers. Those Matchbox 20 CD’s? Hers. The curling iron? Hers. The wine coolers in the fridge? Again, hers. So essentially, for those keeping score, what’s mine is ours and what’s hers is hers.

Finally, the Vow of Silence takes one other form. It’s called “the talk,” and it occurs prior to any social gathering where you might be in a position to open your mouth. Your wife understands the danger in letting you speak freely, and she takes it upon herself to use the car ride over to craft a set of talking points and general etiquette for the ensuing evening. During this briefing, she covers all the jokes and stories you’re not allowed to tell, what subjects you can’t bring up, and which opinions you’re not allowed to share. Sadly, it would have been easier for everyone involved if your wife could have just married a ventriloquist’s dummy instead.

But how do you know when you’re not sticking to the script?
1. Your wife is glaring angrily at you as you tell a story about a recent family reunion involving a backbend competition.
2. You’re actually enjoying yourself at a gathering of your wife’s coworkers.
3. You notice your wife instructing the bar staff to not serve you any more alcohol.
4. You just exchanged high fives with someone you met that night.
5. Your wife has gathered her coat and is pulling you towards the exit at 8:30.

And for the most unmistakable sign you didn’t follow the script, read on…

The Vow of Poverty: My wife’s lavish spending habits are well documented on this site, as is my curmudgeonry. I won’t rehash all of that here, I’ll just share the latest chapter…

Call them what you will: Solicitors, carpetbaggers, door-to-door salesmen, gypsies, grifters… The point is: My wife gainfully employs several dozen of them. This is a far cry from my days as a bachelor. Whereas I used to open the door only wide enough for my shotgun barrel to poke out, my wife vacuums the house in anticipation of their visits. This is my wife’s biggest weakness. Apparently, she figures that if someone is willing to go to the trouble to come all the way out to our house to try and sell us something, the least we can do is buy out their entire inventory.

Unfortunately, it’s not just professional salesmen. I started noticing that every Little League kid and Girl Scout in the neighborhood is riding around on a new bike or hovercraft or whatever incentive was offered for pushing 10,000 units of their particular fundraiser. Sure enough, the saltines and baked beans that had previously stocked my bomb shelter have now been replaced by thin mints.

Believe me, I would love to string razor wire around the perimeter of my house and post a giant neon sign over my doorway that reads “NO Solicitors!” Unfortunately, my wife countered that a sign like that might make them feel unwelcome. And therein lies the genesis of the Vow of Poverty.

So, are you selling something mail-order without a return policy? Come on in. No warranty either? That’s ok. And do you look kind of greasy and suspicious as well? As long as a portion of this sale is for a charity she’s never heard of, my wife is interested. Very interested. Put her down for a gross. Is cash Ok?

The Vow of Celibacy: Ah yes… I’d tell you more, but this topic directly falls under the by-laws of the Vow of Silence. Basically, the rule here is, break the Vow of Silence, and your wife gives you the Vow of Celibacy as well.

As a general rule, you don’t want to be in the business of one-upping Krusty… especially when it comes to traumatizing your in-laws . He just raises the bar impossibly high. Unfortunately, I may have inadvertently set a new standard last weekend at a family reunion barbeque…

We were visiting my wife’s side of the family on Orcas Island. With Krusty’s exploits fresh in my mind, I spent the weekend attempting to be the model son-in-law. Things had gone flawlessly until the night of the reunion. At the tail end of the evening, the girls took over the dance floor, and began a competition of backbends for the crowd of onlookers. (For those unfamiliar with a “backbend,” enjoy this picture …)

It takes the right mixture of flexibility and strength to properly execute a backbend, and my wife was having a difficult time reaching a standing position. I was drinking a beer on the side of the dance floor, and she asked me to assist her in getting up. Since both of her hands were being used to support herself, and one of my hands was holding a beer, it presented quite a challenge for my lone free hand.

Assessing the situation, I realized that I didn’t really have much to grab onto to help her stand up. I weighed my options. I could have clutched at the front of her pants and hoisted her right up. However, being in front of my in-laws, I didn’t think a move like that was appropriate for a family gathering. Instead, I opted to gently tug on the front of her shirt in hopes it would lift her forward. I think you see where this is going… On merely the slightest pull her little spaghetti-strapped shirt came right down. Both of her breasts popped out. On the dance floor. At a family reunion.

It gets worse. Since she was “standing” on her hands, she was unable to use them to properly cover herself up. And what little elastic support the shirt previously offered had now bunched up underneath her and created the “lift and separate” effect that women purchase designer bras for. As she was in the worst possible position for something of this nature to take place, she looked at me for assistance once more.

And of course, I was of no help. I stood there like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights (pun intended). But unfortunately, unlike the deer, I wasn’t about to be run over by a Buick. My fate would be standing there frozen, mouth agape, watching my in-laws’ reactions unfold. Each second of inaction left my wife more embarrassed, but I remained motionless, as I figured that using my hands to cover her breasts would not reduce the awkwardness of the situation.

Soon it was over, as my wife plopped to the ground and quickly shimmied her shirt back in place. Fortunately, since it was fairly dark outside, most relatives missed the peep show altogether. Luckily, my wife is able to laugh about the incident, but I still tried to make amends by showing everyone in attendance my bare chest as well.

One final bit of irony: My wife was forced to change into that flimsy shirt earlier in the evening after my dinner plate spilled onto the more robust shirt she originally wore to the reunion. I can honestly say: That shirt would have held up to a slight tug during a backbend.

Lastly, to Krusty’s in-laws: I sincerely apologize. I shudder to think what Krusty will do to top this…

Valentine’s Day, 11 am:

Well, it’s here again: The Valentine’s Day gun to my head. I decided to write a post today that is continually updated with increasing levels of desperation as I scramble to find a suitable gift for my wife. Please post suggestions, as I can honestly state that any idea will be given my full consideration.

I’m really hoping I can deliver a clutch performance when the pressure is on. I’m looking for some last minute heroics, a real buzzer beater here, instead of the epic choke that appears imminent.

Of course, if I spent a fraction of the time I will spend writing about how I can’t come up with a gift idea actually researching some gift ideas, none of this would matter in the first place.

And on that note, I’m going to wander over to the vending machines and Lost and Found box in our office to see if there are any suitable gifts to be had…

Valentine’s Day, 12:02 pm:

Well, the Lost and Found box was a big disappointment, although I did find some Star Wars action figures that I thought were stolen. My file cabinet felt naked without a recreation of the battle for the Moon of Endor sitting on top of it.

And the vending machines were equally lackluster. It was a long shot to begin with, but I thought that maybe if they had a peanut butter Twix I might be able to pass that off as an acceptable Valentine’s Day gift. No luck though, just regular Twix. We all know that won’t fly.

This probably goes without saying, but vending machines are generally not a good place to do your gift shopping. This is especially true of vending machines in men’s rooms. Trust me, despite claims to the contrary; a novelty condom will not drive her wild.

I can feel the first twinge of sweat proliferating on my brow…

Valentine’s Day, 1:53 pm:

Finally, the first stroke of good luck: I’ve got dinner plans taken care of. It was hectic there for awhile. First, I was calling restaurants offering to tip well, bus my own table, provide my own candlelight, eat standing up, whatever it would take to secure a reservation… No dice.

Then I started dialing restaurants pretending to be a celebrity hoping it would cause a table to suddenly open up. So, I began calling restaurants delivering my dead-on impersonations of Mayor Quimby (from the Simpsons), Pee Wee Herman, Chewbacca, former president Bill Clinton, and Kermit the Frog. Not surprisingly, this plan backfired as well.

It wasn’t until a Chinese Restaurant fell for my “regional health inspector” routine that I landed a table… suckers. As long as my wife doesn’t mind me carrying a clipboard to dinner and excusing myself periodically to inspect the kitchen for health code violations, this has all the makings of a romantic evening…

Valentine’s Day, 2:46 pm:

Thanks for all the suggestions… Good work gentlemen.

Gabe suggested that I get my wife her own Xbox for Valentine’s Day. I’ve actually thought about this from time to time. Every so often though, she asks if she can play “MarioKart” on the Xbox. Obviously, she’s clearly not ready for an Xbox.

Solo, thanks for the advice. Although, I’ll need to find a “Hip-Hop to English” dictionary to translate it.

Booth, also provided some solid advice. Next year I’ll begin laying the groundwork weeks in advance to get out of finding a gift. I really should have set aside some of the gifts I purchased for her on Groundhog’s Day…

Valentine’s Day, 3:58 pm:

This is starting to shape up like an episode of “24.” Although I kind of doubt Jack Bauer would switch spots with me. Battling terrorists and stopping a nuclear apocalypse is nothing compared to scrambling to find a last minute gift on Valentine’s Day.

I’ll admit, things are getting desperate. I may even have to stoop to calling the International Star Registry. This is the last ditch effort for many pathetic men. For $39, this organization allows you to name a star after someone special and place it in the International Star Registry. Believe me, this is a horrible gift idea. First off, anytime a trip to the local observatory is required to actually see your present, you know you’ve given a pretty crappy gift. And when it comes to gifts, in general, if it’s not visible with the naked eye, it’s not worth giving.

Finally, it is said that there are as many stars in the universe as grains of sand on earth. Think about that. There’s literally a zillion stars out there. So, I’ve decided to take it one step further. I’m going to name a grain of sand after my wife as her Valentine’s Day gift. I’ve already picked it out too. It’s located in the backyard, near the mailbox. It’s kind of brownish in color… Happy Valentine’s Day Sweetheart!”

Well, I’m heading out to meet my wife for dinner. Good times. While I’ve spent the day writing this post, I’m sure she’s spent the day filing divorce papers. I’m sure she knows me well enough to know I always have a trick up my sleeve…

Valentine’s Day, 6:32 pm:

I hope you didn’t think I’d leave this post with a cliffhanger like that… I know you all need closure to this running diary.

The truth is, all along, I had planned to surprise my wife with tickets to the Gonzaga game on Thursday. Honestly, the list for tickets for these events surpasses organ donor waiting lists in length. In other words, surprising my wife with Gonzaga tickets was harder than surprising her with the Holy Grail.

So how did I pull off this fourth quarter magic? Aside from having a dominant “Elway” gene, I also have a friend with connections to the Gonzaga athletic department. A relentless campaign of groveling emails and phone calls over the last week to the aforementioned connection eventually ended with a pair of tickets that saved my marriage.

Valentine’s Day, 7:08 pm:

Well, it’s time for me to join my wife in the hot tub with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately, I won’t be updating you on the rest of the evening… (unless it ends up involving the Xbox, which is likely.)

So the little white stork is going to be visiting myself and my wife Becky in a few months. I must say that it is going to be an amazing ride and DA suggested I submit some pieces to share what I’m going through. Believe it or not I’ve already experienced one of the finer aspects of your wife having a baby… sympathy pains. I’ve felt nauseous, bloated, and have had tender breasts on more than one occasion. It’s not a pretty picture in any one’s book, but I’m not really going to discuss that today.

I’m going to talk about a subject that I thought I would never have any business writing about: discrimination. It seemed to me that one could never fully explore this topic if they hadn’t actively been discriminated against. Being white, male, and breathtakingly hot I just never had to encounter this phenomenon… until my first visit with my wife to the doctor’s office.

It all started in the waiting room. Becky and I are sitting in our chairs, quite excited about the whole situation. There is the possibility that we’ll hear the heartbeat and it’s just great to be experiencing this. Then I start to look around the room and I notice it happens to be full of pregnant women. Being in an OB/GYN’s office I don’t think of this as shocking, but it becomes apparent that a lot of the women are staring at me oddly and kind of giving me the stink eye. My first instinct is to check my fly, but it’s zipped, and slowly it begins to dawn on me that they’re mad at me. I instantly chalk this up to territorial reasons. Why should a man be in an OB/GYN’s office? Then I’m thinking, maybe they’re mad at me because I’m not pregnant and they are. I instantly want to shout out that my breasts are tender too, but common sense sets in.

Soon a nurse comes out and calls Becky’s name. We both get up and walk toward her. She is nicely holding the door open for us, Becky walks through, and then the nurse steps in front of me and lets go of the door, practically slamming it in my face. A wave of panic runs through my body as I begin to wonder if I’m actually allowed to go back with her. I mean, are the back halls of an OB/GYN’s office akin to the women’s bathroom? Should I only go in for emergency purposes? I ignore these fears, open the door and run to catch up with them.

The entire appointment lasts roughly 30 minutes, and not surprisingly I’m ignored through the entire session. The nurse never looks at me, and my questions go largely ignored. The message is clear: I’m a man, and can’t possibly understand anything about this process. Of course this is true, but do you have to act like I’m not in the room?

I implore with the medical professionals and pregnant women out there don’t discriminate against us men. Sure we got you in this predicament in the first place. It’s true we get to sit back while you’re body goes through a virtual funhouse of hormonal and physical changes. And maybe, like, half the time after we get you pregnant we leave you to raise the kid by yourself, or spend every waking moment away from the baby while we go drinking at the bar. So what if we only have to sit and hold your hand while a bowling ball size object has to pass through your… Hey, wait a minute! What the hell am I saying? Men do have it easy!

Ladies, discriminate all you want.

Well, I’ve been back from my wedding and honeymoon for a month now, and I must say, it’s not good to be back. After a week of non-stop, euphoric fun, I somehow managed to forget how lackluster regular life is in comparison. Sadly, the only rays I’m soaking up now are in the form of radiation from my computer monitor.

First, is there a better location to decompress than Mexico? It’s one of the few places on earth where you can walk around in a Hawaiian shirt completely unbuttoned and yet still feel overdressed. The reason? Loosely translated, the word “Mexico” is derived from “Mex,” meaning “blistering” and “ico,” meaning “inferno,” and that pretty much sums up the everyday experience. True to form, as the country’s tourism slogan promises, “If you love saunas, you’ll love Mexico!!”

For this reason, it bothered me that Jeannette brought a jean jacket on our honeymoon. Why do women do this? I still can’t understand this one. My god, if there were ever a place you wouldn’t need a jean jacket; it would be Cancun in July. Thankfully, it didn’t end there, because once I criticized this packing decision, Jeannette now had to actually wear it, just to prove to me that she was justified in bringing it. So, there we were on a late-night dinner cruise, she pulls out the jacket and remarks, “See, I knew it would cool down at night.” For starters, she was correct. At this point, it had cooled down to a mere 102 degrees. For the rest of the night, she put forth the illusion that the jean jacket was all that was keeping her from freezing to death.

Our second day there, we took a guided tour of Chichén Itzá, the ruins of an ancient Mayan city in the dense Yucatan jungle. As you may know, Mexico is far less protective of her national treasures than the United States. This is evidenced by the fact that they basically have turned these ancient ruins into an Indiana Jones Fantasy Camp. Tourists are free to climb directly on the ruins, and are generally encouraged to not bother with being respectful of their religious or cultural significance. I must say, this “laid back” approach to preserving sacred landmarks is truly refreshing.

Of course, this method has its drawbacks. While the Mexican authorities are pretty lax on the security of the ruins, they are even more indifferent when it comes to the safety of the tourists climbing on these ruins (not as refreshing.) For instance, while nobody will stop you from scaling the giant pyramid, they also won’t lift a finger to build a rail to prevent you from falling off the edge once you get to the top.

Anyway, as I alluded to earlier, the main attraction at Chichén Itzá is the pyramid. Rising from the center of the ruins, it is a giant structure with steps, ramps and tunnels ascending almost 10 stories. Surprisingly, Mexico has resisted the urge to convert it into a giant skateboarding park. After scaling the pyramid, and suffering multiple heat strokes in the process, we desperately needed a way to cool off. Unfortunately, the Mayans had lacked the foresight to build waterslides or Splash Mountain into their city. Completing our descent, we found a shady trail that we hoped would lead to a nice place to lie down and die.

Instead, we found a beacon of thirst-quenching salvation in the form of a refreshment stand. Money was no object, as I was fully prepared to rollover my 401k into Popsicles at this point. I walked up to the refreshment stand and was amazed at what I saw. Popsicles for a buck. Gatorade for a dollar fifty. How could this be? We’re in the middle of nowhere… You can’t even get a Popsicle at 7-11 for a buck, much less in the Yucatan Jungle. I was anticipating movie theater prices for some ice-cold beverages, yet I found an oasis of refreshment bargains. Honestly, that was far more impressive than the actual ruins.

On our various Mexican excursions, the tour guides would attempt to familiarize us with the indigenous wildlife. Multiple times, we were warned about the dangerous “Jawas” living in the nearby jungle. While I’m no zoologist, I do happen to possess a glaringly nerdy expertise of the various alien races from the Star Wars movies. Of course, even the most benign Star Wars geek knows that “Jawas” are the race of sand-people scavengers found on the planet Tatooine. But since the tour guides never made mention of Tusken Raiders, Womp Rats or Banthas I had my suspicions that perhaps there might be some kind of misunderstanding taking place here. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth day that we finally encountered a tour guide that could enunciate the word “jaguars” properly enough for me to realize I no longer needed to fear having my droids and power converters stolen in the night.

Spending time in Mexico gave me countless opportunities to show off my command of the Spanish language to my new bride. Of course, Jeannette had no idea that most of my time in Spanish class was spent watching Solo draw obscene pictures on Mrs. Bugni’s dry erase boards. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop me from going out of my way to choose selective, often unnecessary times to integrate the handful of Spanish words I knew into everyday conversation.

Me: “So, I can put my zapatoes and camisetta in the locker while I snorkel?”
Tour guide: “Yes, shoes, shirts… personal belongings… whatever.”
Me: “Ok, and the boat leaves a las tres y media?”
Tour guide (rolls eyes): “Yes sir, the boat leaves at 3:30.”
Me: “Excellent. Muy buen. Gracias.”
Tour guide: “De nada.”
Me: “Huh?”

Of course, it wasn’t just speaking the language, I also had to interpret it. Thankfully, Jeannette didn’t know the difference between what was actually said, and whatever nonsensical translation I arrived at. Sometimes we’d catch sitcoms or the local news in Spanish. Truthfully, I’d understand about two words in the entire telecast, yet I’d immediately turn to Jeannette to fabricate a perfect translation. (“That’s ‘El Nino.’ Spanish for, ‘The Nino.”)

Some artists work with clay, some use canvas. I prefer to use my epidermis. For those familiar with my work, you know that I have elevated the act of getting violently sunburned to an art form. For instance, here’s a recent example…

About a year ago, July 2oo3, I had burned my forehead so badly that my skin actually took a liquid form. My skin literally oozed off my forehead as a greasy yellow pus. Naturally, all of this occurred when I was meeting some of Jeannette’s extended family for the first time. The following conversation actually took place…

Jeannette’s Aunt Tammy: “Is that egg yolk on your forehead?”
Me: “No, actually it’s dried pus. Much more disgusting.”

So, it should come as no surprise that I managed to produce yet another masterpiece while on our honeymoon. Being married, you’d think that I’d have help applying suntan lotion, but Jeannette failed to realize that I have the sun-sensitivity of an albino. She came prepared with only SPF 15, which might have been sufficient if we were honeymooning on the dark side of the moon. Anyway, the results speak for themselves…

True artists generally don’t reveal their secrets, but in this case I’ll make an exception. This particular work of art was created using a lifejacket during an all day snorkeling trip. Normally to get these rich maroon hues of burnt flesh, it would take several hours in the sun. But thankfully, since Mexico is essentially one gigantic tanning booth, results like this can be had in a mere 45 minutes. Speaking as a sunburn-artist, there is no better place to honeymoon…