Never say the word "Gym"...

Having relinquished my title as "World's Best Husband" about 7:30 this morning for failing to make my wife's cup of coffee, I thus cannot claim to know everything one should do as a perfect husband.  (Actually, this is an upgrade - earlier this summer, when she woke at 5:00 for whatever insane reason, I routinely made her Sh*t List by 6 AM.)

However, I can tell you with all certainty what NOT to do.

Here is Exhibit 1A (of many):

The day after my summer chemistry class ended, I agreed to escort her to a craft show at the convention center in Rosemont, Illinois.  (I really must check from now on to see if she slips anything in my drinks...)

You'd think that being surrounded for - oh, about 6 hours - by literally thousands of women would be any guy's fantasy.  However, I saw so many schlump-y women wearing fanny packs, Mom jeans, and sweatshirts with cat pictures on them

.

.

.

(Um, sorry - I kind of blacked out remembering these images...where was I?

Oh, yeah)

While I patiently waited on the row of chairs specifically designated for beleaguered husbands to play on their Iphones, she went and made her first skirt.  Evidently, this skirt is made by having two elastic bands situated on the waist so the fabric flounces over - whatever.

When we returned home, she went to try it on.  Unfortunately, sewing the elastic bands together took the waist in by an inch or so, so she had quite an animated struggle pulling up the skirt.  

Manly Mistake #1 - Never watch your significant other try on clothes.

This can only end badly.  

For the uninitiated, it will go down in this exact four-step sequence, every time:

- she will say said item does not fit or does not look good

- she will ask your opinion (DO NOT ANSWER THIS! IT IS A TRAP!)

- she will blatantly disregard whatever you say (in case you get confused and say something anyway)

- she will mutter an expletive, say she has nothing to wear, and needs to go shopping (time to check your credit limit and kiss a Saturday goodbye...)

Even if, by some miracle the above four-step process does not occur, the accompanying bodily contortions, plumping, fluffing, and jiggling may cause sudden loss of desire or onset of nausea-like symptoms.

In my case, I even went so far as to offer an unsolicited opinion - I simply said, "Perhaps we need to start going back to the gym."

First, she gave me a lesson in female anatomy: "Dumbass - these are my HIPS, not my butt!"

Then she threw the instructors under the bus: "You idiot - they gave me the wrong instructions."

And she ended gracefully with: "You asshole."

Whereupon I mumbled something about having to go to the bathroom or unload the clothes washer and quickly left.

So, lessons learned:

- Never attend any event where the female-to-male ratio is over 95:5, unless it is sponsored by Hugh Hefner.

- When she asks your opinion on her clothes, feign a heart attack or squint and drop to your knees and say you just lost your contact lens.

And most importantly - Never, ever, say anything about anything unless directly spoken to.

I am the MVP (of what?)

In case you have been living under a rock for the past month or so, this may come as news to you: in the most over-blown, over-hyped event in recent memory (and with Balloon Boy and the inexplicable case of Bieber-Mania afflicting any girl under the age of 16, that's saying something...) - LeBron James took the money and ran to Miami to play with his best friends in the sandbox.

That's all right, it's not like I was saving up for season tickets for the Bulls anyway if he did come here.  For whatever reason, the NBA seems like it is the most out-of-touch and irrelevant sports league - not that any sport features 6-foot, skinny, Asian guys like me as their star athletes.  (Well, maybe the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest - but we saw how well that turned out this year...)

Got me to start thinking: in what Bizarro-World realms would I be considered a top free-agent?

And I'm not talking about my mundane traits like: folding and re-folding my t-shirts until they are perfectly in alignment (despite never having worked at the Gap), meticulously adding up the cost of each and every item we buy at the grocery store (you have no idea how the price of sour cream fluctuates each week), and re-arranging the cups and plates in the dishwasher to pack the most in.  (Geez, these borderline OCD examples are not very flattering, are they?  I must be the second long-lost brother of Adrian Monk...)

Hmmm...let me stew on this for a while, and I'll get back to you...

In the immortal words of Sammy Sosa - "I Apologi"

As much as this pains me - and it pains me greatly - I guess I owe you all an apology.

In the past, I have made snide remarks, ribald jokes, and even horrible anthropomorphic insults about you.  I even love the website that promotes the elimination of "those who think that their excuses for wearing them are viable".

Yes, I am talking about you, Crocs Nation.

However, I bought my first pair this week and I now have to say, "Where have these Crocs been all my life?"

(I will admit I only even considered them since they were on mega-sale - the Crocs.com Outlet always has deals up to 50%-75% off and free shipping, sometimes...)

They are the most comfortable shoes I have, fashion be damned.  I made my first test run in public to SuperTarget on Sunday, and not only did no one make fun of me - there were entire families that wore them.
So, now it's open season - I'm wearing them to school, weddings, and future trips around the world (maybe I'll stock up before I leave and pass them out to the indigenous tribal people as a sign of American goodwill).

Now, I am saving up to buy even more Crocs (goodbye, Apple Ipad and Bentley convertible) - they have ones that are faux-fur lined (for when you want to wear thin plastic shoes with holes in the dead of Chicago winter), ones that look like Chuck Taylor sneakers (not really, but...), and ones made with non-plastic materials (like leather, suede - who knew?).

The old saying goes something like 'before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes' - although I have not made a full mile yet, you'll never hear another disparaging word from me, fellow Croc-o-philes.

But, you Uggs people - you're still fair game.

Toodeloo to the Taste

Well, we decided yesterday not to continue our yearly tradition (no, not that one - get your mind out of the gutter...) - we're going to skip the Taste of Chicago.  I am surprised, frankly, that we have gone as long as we have.  Actually, we have mostly only gone when there was a band we liked - Midnight Oil, They Might Be Giants (sometimes, you gotta take one for the team).  I don't remember much about the concerts, though, except baking in the sun and being a couple of miles away from the stage.


I suppose it's like going to Wrigley Field for a game - it's wicked expensive, you have to constantly maneuver through huge crowds of drunk people, and you know how it's inevitably going to end - either with a Cubs' loss or stumbling around feeling sick after one piece of Chocolate Chip Cheesecake too many.


And despite the wide variety of exciting food from around world, we end up getting the same, rather mundane, things every year.  No oxtail or grilled Anjou pear salad for me - it's always Lou Malnati's, Robinson's Ribs, and Eli's Cheesecake for me.  (Although, I understand they have funnel cakes and churros this year.  I'm a huge fan of fried dough in any form...)


By comparison, we went and bought a whole Lou Malnati's pizza and baked it at our (air-conditioned) home - it only cost $10.50, which is less than just the round-trip Metra fare for the two of us.  


There are actually a few 'must-do' things to do in Chicago that probably sound better than they really are.
We used to go to the L.A.T.E. Ride (the all-night bike ride along the Lakefront), but having my wife almost get wrecked onto Lake Shore Drive, and going to sleep now when the sun sets - this is an event best left for the kids and those people with rear-view mirrors on their bike helmets.
Never been to Lollapalooza - there are a number of neat indie bands, but if I can't stand being in the heat for a few hours at the Taste, after being outside for three days straight, I would melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.


Maybe I'm just becoming a fuddy-duddy..."it's too expensive and inconvenient to go downtown", "we get back much later than my bedtime", "nothing good ever happens after 9 PM"...


Ah, well - just give me my Netflix and a couple of pints of Ben and Jerry's and I'm good for the rest of the weekend.

Attention, USB Thieves! (You know who you are!)

To whoever stole my USB drive on Sunday:

(Or, perhaps more accurately, whoever picked up the USB drive I accidentally dropped somewhere, sometime between, oh, 9 AM and midnight on Sunday):

I'd really like it back.

It's my own little status symbol - my "Precious" - I guess.  I can't afford the new Iphone, or the American Express Black Card, but if you want a bootleg copy of the upcoming "Harold & Kumar" movie or the latest Miley Cyrus album, I'm your man.  I mean, I had to wait a real long time in line at Staples to get that Black Friday doorbuster item.

It's not a question of security or privacy, really - I'm not worried that you now have any useful information. Even if it was on there, my checking account number could probably finance your getaway trip only as far as Elgin, and I have a credit score that wouldn't even get you a Dominick's Fresh Values card.  And, once you get a load of my resume, after you stop laughing, you'll wonder exactly what I did to ever earn a paycheck for the past twenty or so years.  ("Wow - up until the point that he entered high school, he seemed to have so much promise.")

I suppose it is my curse that I have to bear - the same thing happens whenever I try to buy anything fancy.  I can't tell you how many times I have bought the high-tech, ergonomic Dr. Grip pens for $8.99 each and then promptly lost them in less than a week.  So I always end up using the same free Bic pen I got from my bank three name changes ago.  Same thing with those nice Pyrex lunch containers, thermal coffee mugs, and headphones for my Ipod: gone, long gone, and gone by the end of the day.  It has gotten so bad that I now buy absurd quantities of the cheap varieties and simply pre-position them everywhere I think I will ever need them.
Actually, I think there is kind of a retro, coolness factor to being cheap - not just anyone can drink their coffee from the Dixie cups with the jokes printed on them.

But, I digress.  If you want to make a swap, I'll be glad to give you my Swiss Army knife and one of those cool, anti-updraft umbrellas - you've got a couple of days to contact me before I lose those, too.

Thank you for your consideration.

(On second thought, we did do our laundry on Sunday - my USB drive is probably keeping company in clothes washer purgatory with that beige, right hiking sock and a couple of my wife's scrunchies.)

Go and read something else worthwhile (err...Welcome to My Blog)

I'll have you know, there is a lot of pressure associated with producing the very first entry on a blog.  I should know a little something about this topic - this is like my fourth attempt at establishing an on-going blog (emphasis on the word 'on-going').

So, to set the tone for all of the upcoming pearls of wisdom and wit, do I: write something pithy and topical about the BP oil spill, write something upbeat and entertaining about the Cubs or Blago, or simply author an accounting of my personal life?

No - I choose to cheerily go on my way and ignore the pictures of the poor birds and the poor BP retirees in the UK, no - those lovable losers/Illinois politics have pretty been much unmitigated disasters during my entire lifetime, and no - I don't even want to read about what random oddity or perceived slight passes for a crisis in my mundane day-to-day existence.

Instead, for my first act, I will just bail here and direct your attention to what a real blog should look like:
underherthumb.blogspot.com (*)

This is written by a charming and excellent writer named Jackie, who used to write an insightful personal finance blog for The Daily Herald.  Now she has turned her rapier wit to: her fast-track career in the banking industry, the Wedding of the Century (well, the non-British, non-royalty one), and the joys and splendid triumphs of being pregnant.  (Okay, I'm kidding about that last one - if I had to undergo even a fraction of the mental and physical strain that Jackie describes, I would be so insufferable, my wife would roll me away like a giant Japanese Violet Beauregarde, never to be seen again.)

It really is a quite fantastic and self-deprecating look at the various aspects of modern life, and how to manage to figure it out and not get screwed by it all.  (Yeah - that is the dust-jacket quote I will pick for her best-selling book, if she ever decides to publish it.)  'The Sopranos', corn mazes, and being falsely accused (allegedly) of license plate frame foul play - it is amazing the detail and humor she can bring to such disparate topics.

If you get a chance, do check it out.  And once I have finished reading up myself on how this is supposed to be done, I might just write another post of my own.

* - I've looked up the phrase 'under her thumb' to see what exactly it is referring to, and I came up with this example: "Paul won’t do anything without asking his wife first.  She has really got him under her thumb."  So, from this rather instructive title, we already kind of get an inkling about the dynamics in the writer's relationship.
Told you she was good, right?