Saturday, December 3, 2011
I work the day shift on Saturdays and Sundays so that I can spend weekend nights hanging out with my wife. On my way to work today I stopped at Subway to get lunch. I don't usually get chips with my sandwich (and never a drink, no, never) but today I knew I needed something to eat in the car on the way to work, I was hungrier than a Biggest Loser Contestant on day 2.
So I got some Baked Lays because chips are shitty for you but Baked Lays are slightly less shitty. The bag proclaimed "New look, same great taste!!"
New look, same great taste, eh? This opened my floodgates of wonder. First of all, who cares what the package of the Baked Lays looks like at all? Who even eats Baked Lays? Oh yeah, dumb people, more specifically, dumb fat people. A dumb fat person says, 'Well I love chips but I think they're bad for me, but wait, Baked Lays! They must be healthy, right? Of course, now shut up brain, let's go watch NCIS: CSI: San Francity of Angels'
OK, next, new look, same great taste. (WARNING: Sarcasm ahead) Oh, phew, I saw the new look and was like new look!!?! They better not have messed with the taste, I love the stale taste of fake seasoning that I can't actually enjoy because I'm watching my calorie intake. Oh, good, it has the same great taste, my heart rate is slowing back to it's normal, high blood pressure addled state.
Anyway, Baked Lays if you want to advertise on my blog hit me up, I love the Sour Cream and Onion ones.
P.S. I say Biggest Loser Contestant on Day 2 because on Day 1 either they pigged out at the first temptation or you know they probably went wild at a Golden Corral or something before they checked into the ranch. It's like on Intervention when the addict goes balls out before getting on the plane for treatment. So Day 2 the BLs are like damn, I can only eat this Jennie O ground turkey or whatever? Where's Bob at with my weight control Oatmeal?
Saturday, November 19, 2011
I worked until midnight last night then I had a hard time falling asleep. My wife carried our son in at 5am and asked "How much sleep have you gotten? I'm tired, I need to sleep a little bit more before work." And instead of answering her question with a "Not much, (Expletive Removed)" I bit my tongue, got out of bed, and started caring for my son and proceeded to watch him for the rest of the day until my wife got home from work after 4pm.
Then I worked out for forty minutes, took a shower, and went to work for my 8 hour night shift.
It was Beer Friday at work, my supervisor handed me a Red Stripe and it was delicious but probably not a great choice for helping me stay spry for my shift.
It's almost 3am now, and I'm tired.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
My wife and I went on our big night out as I had hyped in Bar Fight! Part One. So what was the resolution to the driving sitch' you ask?
When I got home from work I talked to my wife. I said that I bet when she envisioned the night she probably saw herself getting ready in front of the mirror, doing her hair and makeup, getting dressed (in a "Real Bra" she said excitedly), with a glass of wine sitting on the bathroom counter as she did so. She said yeah, that sounded awesome. So I told her that she should definitely do that and I would drive us to the bar, then she would stop consuming alcohol and sober up so she could drive us home safely at the end of the night.
And we both decided that sounded great. The end, fairy tale ending.
However, a couple things.
First of all, hire your babysitter to come early. That way you and your significant other can both get ready without one of you having to juggle the baby, or once you get ready and you're waiting on your wife the baby doesn't barf on your nice jeans.
Also, I didn't want to spend a lot of money at the bar (mission NOT accomplished but whatever, I was making it rain on those bartenders), so I smuggled a mixed drink in my Nalgene into the car so I could drink it real fast before we went in. So we find a great parking space, I start crushing my drink, and a large group of cool looking young adults exit the building we're parked in front of. It turns out we had parked in front of an AA meeting. I'm so glad I was drinking out of a water bottle and not a tall boy.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
My wife and I aren't heavy, heavy drinkers, I mean, we drink alcohol less than your average 20-somethings, but before she got pregnant we would drink one, mayyyybe two nights on the weekend. On an average night we would have a mixed drink or two and several beers but we would just hang out, watch movies, play board games or Wii or whatever, you know, spend time together. We weren't bar hopping or going to da clubzz. Every once in a while we would hit a bar and get our freak dance on though.
Even before Mrs. L. Huber got pregnant, when we were sure we were going to start trying, she stopped drinking altogether. We stopped eating fast food, stuff like that, just living healthier. She hadn't had any alcohol for maybe two or three months before she even got pregnant. Then she didn't have a taste, not even a drop for her whole pregnancy. She didn't have a single beer until her birthday a month after our son was born.
Huge sacrifice right? Definitely.
Our son is now five months old and he has been sleeping through the night for a couple months now so she and I have some drinks on my night off each week, she never goes too crazy with it. Neither do I since it's my only night to catch up on sleep.
But, this weekend we are going to a bar for my friend's birthday. We're getting a babysitter, which as you all know is an expensive endeavor, not to mention the drinks at the bar (not that we're hurting for dough but we're trying to save for a house and college and all that shit).
The conflict came when she asked about who was driving to and from the bar. She wanted to have a drink or two before and I, sober, would drive us to the bar. Then I would drink to my heart's (and gullet's) content and she would maybe have one beer then sober up and drive us home.
My problem with this is that she's a lightweight (in fact she was voted Mrs. Two Beer Queer in her sorority, which don't even get me started about that, that sentence pisses me off for so many reasons), I don't want her driving me home after drinking anything at all. And, I want to pre-game mah damn self, get a little buzz going before we get to the bar so I don't have to make it rain and buy the bar and some other rap lingo. And I feel like, I watch my son all day then work the night shift, Saturday I work during the day so I can hang at night, don't I get a night to let loose?
Plusss it's going to be one of my friend groups, so it's my event, my "turn" to get my lean on. (But actually maybe that's a point for her, I know I would need some liquor to hang out with some of her friends).
Then she comes back with, well I didn't drink for a whole year while I was getting my body ready then carrying a human life. And I say good point, but I feel like I'm paying on that tab by being the primary caregiver plus working forty hours a week. Plus, I stayed sober for the Halloween party we went to recently so I could drive us home.
I think that in conclusion, as a married couple, we shouldn't be keeping score of who drove where or who did what chore, we should want to do things for each other because we love each other. And that's why she should love me enough to be my designated driver Saturday night when I'm getting crunked up.
But seriously, it gets tricky when you start comparing apples to oranges and asking for retribution.
That reminds me, I've been tabulating all the money my son owes me so he can pay me back in installments, maybe I should drop that now.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Yep, sex got you where you are today, pregnant, bloated, crazy (I mean 'hormonal). You're not thinking about letting your man get up in them guts, you're thinking about decorating the nursery, your clothes no longer fitting, and oh yeah, pushing a baby out of your vagina hole in a few short months. Right now you might as well have an blinking neon 'exit only' sign pointed downtown.
And we respect that, seriously, we do. Here's the thing, as a man, our chemistry hasn't changed, we don't have a human life growing inside of us, and we're still horny.
How do we rectify this situation?
One word: Anal. JUST KIDDING!! I'm joking, man, I almost lost you, I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.
Restrain from making those sorts of jokes, you might get your dick cut off.
And guys, this next part is for you, and I am by no means an expert, but I am looking back at "our" pregnancy in hindsight:
Men, I'm sorry to say but you're going to have to put in some extra work, it'll be worth it though. You have to make sure your lady is comfortable physically, emotionally, body image, all of that good stuff. For a couple months my wife would only let me touch her while she was in the bath, which is a cool scenario anyway. Light some candles, turn on the Blackstreet Pandora station, you're good to go.
You can also get her lingerie.
Ladies, if your man gets you lingerie you have to wear it! Even if it's a bumble bee Halloween costume or a silver American Apparel body suit (but guys, don't do that, get her something simple with maybe a sheer belly cover that emphasizes her humongous boobzz).
And, without getting too graphic, feel free to use a vibrating companion, plenty of lube, and if she doesn't want too much going on in her baby factory maybe C on her T's.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
I'll admit it, I'm a man with body issues. I'm tall and "thin" but I by no means have a perfect body. I don't have a muscular chest and my stomach has a pouch and you can see like two of my abs but the rest have fat over them, blah, blah, blah. I mean, I look alright, but I'm no Channing Tatum.
My wife however, perfect body (her personality is cool too, whatever, that's not what I'm talking about right now) and she's had a perfect body her whole life. She was one of those assholes running around with a six pack when she was like seven. I hated (OK, to be honest, still kinda hate) those kids when I was a pale, chubby douche.
And when she got pregnant and started to show of course she looked so cute AND her boobs got huge, so she still looked awesome!
Then, after our son was born, I finally got my revenge.
I had been working out throughout her pregnancy as I'm known to do. And since my drankin' patna was pregnant I had scaled back on the weekend binges (not fully of course, I still gotz to get mah drink on) so I was pretty fit relatively speaking for me.
But she was not happy with her war torn physique. She had gone through over twenty hours of labor which had ended in a necessary cesarean section and her recovery time was going to be longer than a vaginal birth, plus you need some recovery time after giving any sort of birth ya know what I mean?
What I'm saying is she was not back in the gym the next day after a baby was surgically removed from her gullet. In fact, she's not much for the gym anyway, she was naturally fit and did cheerleading and all that her whole life so she's never had to work out to stay sexy. As Fergie would say, she wasn't 'all up in the gym working on her fitness' on a regular basis.
She finally felt self conscious about her body. Yes! Now she knows how I feel every day. And she hated it and it made her feel bad... good. Well, not good, but now we can relate about that struggle, so something positive has come from it.
But alas the final joke is on me. Our son is now about to be five months old and Mrs. L. Huber is back in her pre-pregnancy jeans. Damn it. She's looking fine and all she had to do was keep eating exactly anything she wanted as always (and bust her ass working as a teacher, but whatever).
Eh, but at least I get to have sex with that body, I uh, I mean her and her wonderful personality traits and everything else I love about her.
Whew, good save, wait, why am I typing this? And this? And this?
Monday, October 31, 2011
Whenever you hear about a woman giving birth you hear about how long it took, the time of birth, the weight of the baby, etc, etc, but there is one key piece of info that's always left out and I think it's weird because to me it's probably the most important detail.
Did she shit?
Did she push a doodoo out? Did they have to clean up a turtle head before your son's head could come out?
At least let me know the fart count. I need it for the baby book. I'm going to scratch out that 'first word' bullshit.
Because they say it's common, which is what they say when something is super embarrassing and probably not that common, like whiskey dick or having red hair and a lot of freckles.
But that's one stat that doesn't really make the record books you know? And I have a couple theories as to why not.
The first is that the couples sign a blood oath like I Know What You Did Last Summer, they smear the feces on a wooden board and throw it in the ocean, then when the guy gets drunk and tells his dumb buddies she starts stalking them with a fish hook.
But more realistically, I think there's a secret organization, whether it be government run or private sector I don't know, but I'm sure there are Men in Black type guys that come in, throw the sheets into that soiled linens receptacle, and neuralize the room right before the doctor catches the baby, the Men in Brown, instead of suits and sunglasses they wear hazmat gear and welder's helmets to avoid unwanted spatter. Then they shine the bright light and say congratulations and you hear a pop and think they're from the insurance company or something.
I'm gonna be up front though. My wife didn't poo. If she did I would tell you, I promise. Sure the labor was tough, she was straining but she managed to keep it clean, everything went great. She ripped a couple mean ones but that's your average Tuesday.
Wait, I mean, I don't think she did, now that I'm specifically trying to remember it's a little bit cloudy though. I must have been caught up in all the emotion of my first born. We even got a nice picture taken by a younger African American gentleman and his older white partner from the insurance company...
I don't know why they were wearing those coveralls.
Another thing, I think this practice is now antiquated, but I believe the doctor used to tell the women to give themselves an enema before coming to the hospital... An enema? Are they preparing for the most magical day of their life and bringing a child into the world or getting ready for a gangbang? Come on, doc.