my pathetic blog

My Man Date

I went on a date last night. It was the first date that I’ve been on in quite some time, and I think it well.

I may even be seeing him again next week.

Yes, I said….him.

So, it wasn’t a real date. It was a man date among married guys. While it wasn’t romantic, it was certainly bromantic!

When my friend Tim suggested that he head out to a local pub known for their large selection of beer I thought it was a good idea. But as the day approached it started to feel more like an actual date. Although I haven’t been on a date date in twenty years, I started having those same feelings. I strategized my outfit and game planned my conversation. Then I sat anxiously by the window waiting for him to pick me up.

The actual date went swimmingly. We managed not to spend the whole time complaining about our wives. He explained to me the history of farmhouse brews, while I made him laugh and practiced blog ideas on him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

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My Secret Society

I belong to a secret Men’s Suffleboard League.

Just by disclosing the existence of this league I’m in opposition of the Rule No. 1: Do not talk about The Shuffleboard League.

It’s not really a secret club (yes, it is), but by creating the illusion that it’s a secret club lends each League Night some credibility. Without this clandestine nature it’s just another pathetic excuse for a bunch of married men to get out of their houses on a weeknight. Yeah, I said it…..a weeknight! Can you imagine?

(But seriously, if the host of The League finds out that I wrote this you may never see me again.)

More seriously, it is pathetic indeed. Ten to fifteen married men converge onto one single man’s bachelor pad every Thursday or so to throw some table shuffleboard and compete like teenage boys. We drink beer. We talk shop. And we attack each other with verbal abuse.

(We also do other very secret, important men stuff that moves and shakes our greater society, but you’d have to a member to know all that.)

Here’s the actual scene. A dozen wedded, suburban men surround a twenty-two-foot shuffleboard table in a room that was designed for actual dining. It’s a pretty rabid sight, all of us drinking and drooling over the competition. Did you ever see a picture of a dog-fighting ring with spectators surrounding the blood fest? Well, it’s nothing like that at all.

(It actually looks more like a country club without the bar peanuts on a golden tray. Well, actually….we have peanuts too. Shit, I think I said too much!)

Our host for League Night is a thirty-year-old bachelor who should have better things to do than invite a bunch of gassy, middle-aged men into his beautiful home. I suppose he invites us pathetic, receding losers to make himself feel better about his life. The ten married men in The League have a combined 33 children at home. No reason to ask us why we hang out here.

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Finding His Voice

My third child speaks his own language. It’s a cross between Mandarin and Spanglish.

This was somewhat amusing when he was eighteen months old. Now that he’s entering his fifth year, the humor is gone as we’re still having a hard time understanding his words, his spoken thoughts.

This, as a parent, breaks my heart. It breaks my heart when he desperately tries to tell me something. It breaks my heart when he stomps off with frustration. It breaks my heart when he rolls his eyes instead of opening his mouth.

Alex has been in Early Intervention Speech Therapy for two years and we’ve seen some amazing results. We sat by, worked his phonics and his patience, and have watched him grow. He still cannot say most consonants. But he can say, “Daddy, can you pick me up?” And how can I say no to that?

Alex has a long way to go as there are complete sentences, paragraphs and entire stories that come out of his mouth that I cannot comprehend. Any parent who has ever experienced slow speech development with a child understands the feelings that coincide. There are frustrations, fears, pain, and uncertainty.

Our Alex is the sweetest, little four-year-old boy you could find on the map. He has the looks of Paul McCartney and the heart of George Harrison. He’s gentle, intelligent and sweet. He has all the smarts in the world, just not the words to prove it. And most times he doesn’t need these words, because he has the kind of face that says it all.

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The Art of War and Marriage

It’s taken me way too long to figure this out, but my bride can fight a battle, and win a war…Especially against such a fragile opponent like myself.

My bride attacks my weak points, maneuvers my own will against me, lays tactical plans for my defeat and strategizes my demise with such a subtle approach. Sun Tzu would be proud because in the twelve years of our wedded bliss, my bride has re-written the book The Art of War.

In love and war I have just one device. I scream. I throw. I show my anger, and look the fool. My bride’s approach, however, is a calculated scheme seemingly drawn from hundreds of years of altercation. Perhaps, there’s some Woman’s Combat Manual handed down from generation to generation given out the night before the wedding. Perhaps my bride started off as a Private First Class of Conflict and has since moved through the ranks to Sergeant Major of Marital Warfare.

My knowledge of my bride’s tactics are by witness alone, as she is too smart to disclose her actual strategy.  I can tell you what I’ve seen with my own two teary eyes. I can tell you her course of attack through my own defeat. I can tell you the procedures she has used to render me a beaten man. I can tell you, at least the ones that I have figured out. So here are just a few, though I am sure there are more.

THE WITHHOLD

No, I’m not talking about sex. A rookie bride would withhold sex. An experienced, veteran bride like mine is too smart to use that old, tired technique. Besides, after twelve years of marriage how would I know the difference between a sex withhold and a good old-fashioned marital dry spell?

The Withhold that I’m talking about has to do with the laundry. When my bride is mad at me she stops doing my laundry. The beauty of this tactic is I don’t realize the punishment until one week or so when I start getting closer and closer to the bottom of my underwear drawer. That’s about the time that I start to wonder, “She must’ve found out! About what, I do not know? But I’m in some serious trouble here.”

Sometimes this goes on for months at a time. And my bride has even figured out how to prolong my suspicion. On occasion, she’ll wash only the clothes that I do not wear. She will leave for me a stack of laundry to put away, but it’s all the backup clothing. Meanwhile my work shirts, my running clothes and my lucky pair of underwear are nowhere to be found forcing me to wear my outstretched drawers or perhaps even my bride’s period panties.

The slow laundry withhold keeps up the illusion that she’s actual doing my laundry. This way she gets to continue to be mad at me. And let’s face it, she’s loves being mad at me. If she didn’t love it so much then why would she be it so often? I’m sure it’s not me.

THE FLASH

This is a genius maneuver and I lose every time. I remember the first time my bride used The Flash against me. We were fighting a spirited battle that led us to the bedroom. As my bride threw a verbal assault at me she ripped off her shirt to change. She stood there naked from the waste up with her beautiful breasts mocking me. I stood there wondering if God knew when he made my hands just how perfectly that would fit my bride’s lovely lady lumps. Suddenly, I forgot what I was fighting about.  Suddenly, I wanted to apologize. Suddenly, I wanted to buy her flowers and write her a poem. And just as suddenly, my wife put her girls away and left me standing there impotently like a child.

The Flash is a brilliant move that leaves me speechless every time. The Flash also reveals itself in other forms….like if my wife changes into a thong in the middle of a fight and then leaves the house. You know the thong that she only wears on special occasions, like a wedding or when she goes out without me. If panties could talk that thong would laugh at me, “Look now Buddy, cause you ain’t going to see me in quite some time!”

THE SHAME

OK, so I once called my bride the one thing that you do not call your bride. I didn’t actual call her one, but I said she was acting like one. I thought this was a clear distinction that anyone could recognize as being different. My bride, however, believed the comparison itself was close enough to not talk to me for a week.

So what did she do? How did she plan her attack? One week of silence and then a subtle little sentence. “You know?” she said about our neighbors. “I asked Jill and she said that Jay would never call her that.” This, of course, was a lie, a bluff, a major mind fuck on her part, but I didn’t know. My bride didn’t actually air out our dirty laundry to the neighbors. But she did make me believe that she did. And I was the one who had to walk the neighborhood, show up at the little-league field, and pull up at school drop off  knowing that potentially every woman out there knew that I used that word. Oh, The Shame. What a lowdown, dirty maneuver!

THE THREAT

It’s been years since a woman actually killed a husband with arsenic, but as long as someone else is making my dinner The Threat will always be alive. As long as I sit down for dinner while my wife has a pan in her hand there’s always an opportunity for a conk on the head and one last meal.

I’m 99 percent sure that my bride will never actually take my life, but I’m 100 percent sure that I don’t like those odds.  There’s a reason why the TV show Snapped is in its 12^th Season. Snapped is a true crime chronicle about women who murder their men, and they don’t seem to be running out of material.  And this is not the kind of TV show that I’ve always wanted to be on.

My bride often makes me fajitas for dinner, which usually gives me a temporary rash. Sometimes I turn red for a few seconds. Other nights my cheeks swell up for minutes. She says that I must be allergic to something in the mix, but she continues to make me fajitas. I just think she’s testing different doses on me.

It always gives me cause for concern when I come home from work to find a plate of food made up just for me. As I stare down at The Threat I think to myself, “Oh great! Fried Chicken breaded with crushed glass again,” or “Wow, mahi-mahi with an arsenic and ricin puree.” So I sit down, I pray, I take a mental inventory of what I may have done and then I eat it. I’ve lost the battles. I’ve lost the war. So what else do I have left?  But one last supper.

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Like My Pathetic Blog, damn it! Just click that Facebook thumb already.

I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, I know exactly what caused all those pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog….. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

Three Wolves, Two Schmo’s, One Man’s Diarrhea

Let me tell you about the power of those damn shirts. A pair of hoodlums in my neighborhood Shuffleboard League call themselves the 3 Wolves and they wear these shirts as team uniforms.

Understand me when I tell you that these two guys are just a couple of average schmo’s. These are the kind of guys that allow grocery doors to be slammed in their faces by ugly women. But once they put those damn shirts on something changes. Once, they disrobe and unveil those wolves they become worldly, classy, inspiring, and the most interesting guys in the room. Don’t tell anybody, but when they wear those shirts I kind of wish I was one of them.

This week my shuffleboard team had the misfortune of playing the 3 Wolves in our Shuffleboard League. I’ve been dreading this day all season. Last weekend I passed out in my car in Northeast Philly on the way to work just thinking about it. This was followed by four straight days of stomach cramps, throwing up and the kind of chronic diarrhea you should only get after visiting a Mexican whorehouse.

Secondly, those 3 Wolves ruined my sex life. Apparently these shirts attract women. But for me, I’ve had the reverse effect as I was in opposition to the shirts. Just being scheduled against these 3 Wolves my wife hasn’t let me near her. Granted, I am a middle-aged, middle-manager with a vasectomy in my recent past and offer my wife little reason for love-making, but once she found out that I was playing the 3 Wolves she hasn’t wanted anything to do with me….Then again, it may also have been the diarrhea.

Finally, to game night. I was feeling pretty confident milling around the shuffleboard table leading up to the game riding out a three-game winning streak. But once those two schmo’s ripped off their Old Navy sweatshirts those 3 Wolves came out howling and my team’s chances were gone like a shart while skinny dipping in the ocean. Each time I threw a puck I felt fearful of my life to score. Each time my partner slid his pucks they sailed off the end as if being directed by some other mysterious force in the room.

The whole game was a blur, the whole night in fact. I know we lost. I know we got crushed. I know I haven’t felt the touch of a woman in quite some time. But when I woke up this morning with my life still in tact after going up against those 3 Wolves, I feel like I escaped a wrath much, much greater than a measly shuffleboard defeat.

Take Your Father to Work Day

The beauty about children is that they’re just not smart enough to see that work sucks. The Buzzkills have been bugging me for years about “Take Your Child to Work Day” and I finally gave in this week.

I can’t explain my previous resistance. Perhaps I didn’t want to add more work to my workday. Perhaps I didn’t want to share my family with my work space. Perhaps I didn’t want to spread the sadness of my work life with my children.

Make no mistake about it….work sucks.  Even if you can find some good in your job it’s still work. I’d rather be home eating shit than at work eating cheesecake any day of the week.

I am the Store Manager of a very large bookstore that will remain nameless (use your noodle) outside of Philadelphia.  My job involves the soup, the nuts, and the kitchen sink. I am in charge of people and plumbing, inventory and income, facilities maintenance and financial management.

My job is work, but my kids just think I get to play with Lego and read books all day. My seven-year son explained this oblivion recently when he voiced the following, “Dad, when I retire from baseball I want to manage a bookstore.” It was time for the Buzzkills to get a pinch of reality. So I agreed to bring two of the foursome to work with me Thursday for a few hours.

I was conflicted as to what aspects of my job to display to the kids. Should I some them the shine? Or should I show them the shit? Did I want them to be proud of me or embarrassed for me? Or maybe a bit of both.

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Trafficking My Emotion

Take a look at the picture above. Can’t you feel  your chest tighten. Can’t you just feel your heart beat faster. Can’t you just feel yourself getting older and closer to death.  Ahhh, let the road rage sink in.

I sit in my car perched  atop the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge over the Delaware River separating my New Jersey home and Pennsylvania place of employment.  I have forty-five minutes of travel behind me with just five miles to go. But I will be there in no time soon. There is a very large, red tugboat killing me slowly as it wades toward the bridge opening. A very small piece of me is hoping that the Captain of the ship loses control, hits the bridge and ends this whole damn commute for me in an instant.

“No, honey,” I call home.  “I do not believe I am making it on time.”

Bumper to bumper traffic separates my home and my work. Seventy-two possible red lights. Two railroad crossings. One bridge opening.  Cars  weaving out of the left lane to avoid still traffic, and out of the right lane to avoid bus stops. These are the sights and sounds of my work commute.

(I love my family.)

My work commute is one extra one hour of work after a long day of eating shit. It’s nice to have that me-time to chew, swallow and digest the day’s smelly events before walking into my house. But by the time I return home after this violent commute I feel like I need another hour of rest. When I return home I’m in a comatose state. But don’t let my dead eyes fool you. I could explode any moment.

I often ask for some alone time from my family when I get home. Rarely do I get it. I guess they all just missed me that much, but if one more person asks me one more question in the first one minute of my home’s arrival everyone is about to see “Bad Daddy.” I need a proper runway to diffuse. Like an airplane that safely landed after a fire in its engine . Give it space. It just might explode if you don’t.

Much like a recovering alcoholic who is instructed to avoid any major emotional and life-changing decisions in the early months during his recovery, a working father should not be asked to make any similar decisions in his first hour home from work. This is why I avoid the mail pile and eye contact with my family. This is why I head straight upstairs and change my clothes. Nothing like a new pair of underwear to start the day completely over.

A working man should be allowed a moment to disrobe from his uniform, albeit a UPS outfit or his suit-and-tie clown costume. A working man should be given some time  before he is presented with a choice of what credit card bill to pay this month, or what color siding to dress the house with, or what event to attend as a family next Sunday.

Upon my arrival yesterday my wife presented me with two invitations to two different First Communion parties on the same day. Yeah I know, a decision like this is small potatoes and my inability to function like a normal human being is my own cross to bear. But as I stared at those little sophisticated, formal invitations I felt like I was back in my work commute staring at another traffic jam. 

Did we invite these kids to our son’s First Communion party? Can we go to both  parties? Do we have to buy them both presents? Do we have the money for such wealth of kindness? Of course we do, we’re a family of six and will likely ruin their homes. What if we just drop off our child? And why does this decision have to be made after an hour drive after leaving a work meeting in my bosses office?  Screw it.I can’t take the rituals of Christianity. We’re taking up Atheism!

These were my thoughts. I know this glimpse into my head is frightening. (Imagine living there all the time.)  However, I’ve gotten better.  Instead of speaking these thoughts I just slowly walked back out the front door like a defeated man. Not to make a decision is to make a decision.  

I grabbed the water hose and proceeded to water my front lawn by hand. I slowly hit each blade of grass as I waved the hose back and forth.  Yes we have a water sprinkler, but it’s these kinds of mindless exercises that I need to unwind. Like washing the car, sorting the Tupperware drawer or lighting a large  marijuana bong.  (<—-Something I haven’t done in fifteen years, but damn it don’t tempt me).

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Like My Pathetic Blog, damn it! Just click that Facebook thumb already.

I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, I know exactly what caused all those pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog….. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

I didn’t know one single person at the Boston Marathon today, but I am a runner and I can assure you that every single person at that event had one thing in common. The runners, the organizers, the volunteers and the fans are all people of great will and of healthy heart who believe in the strength of the human condition. It’s a sad day that the weakness of one (or some) could slow that down. But the human race will run on…and they will be back. This I Believe. #4:09.43