What The Hell Happened?

I just don't understand women...

(You may need to read my last blog if you're not up to speed. Yes. That's my face.)

So we got home around 9:30pm last night. I grabbed a couple bottles beer and headed off to the bedroom to turn on ESPN and await my wife. Somewhere around 1am I must have dozed off. The next thing I know I hear a deafening roar and I'm being hit with what appeared to be a fist wrapped with a lace teddy. Where'd I go wrong?

Welcome Home Mrs. Bayou!

Oh what a night...

My wife will be returning from San Francisco this evening. I can't wait.

The dishwasher is full and the sink is too. Having run out of clean dishes, the kids and I have filled the kitchen trash can with fast-food bags and pizza boxes. It's so full I've had to tie down the lid to keep the dogs from getting into it. The poor dogs have run out of food, but it's okay because they ate the leftover pizza. The laundry situation is at a breaking point. If my wife wasn't coming home tonight, I'm sure we'd be sniffing through our dirties searching out the least offensive smells. So yes(!), we'll all have clean clothes tomorrow.

On Monday, I contacted my kids' teachers to let them know of my situation. They were all understanding. They've agreed to let my girls bring in their homework tomorrow. That'll give my wife tonight to help them finish it up. She's always saying things like "I have to help them with their homework every night because they just know how much I love doing it for them!"

As a bonus, I found out on Monday that two of my kids have arts and crafts projects due tomorrow (Friday). I told them not to lose the supplies list (I'm sure they didn't) and to give the lists to Mom at the airport. Her flight comes in at 8:32pm and the craft store closes at 9pm. That should be enough time for her to run in and get whatever supplies they need to do the class projects.

My wife has been calling me from San Francisco all week telling me how busy she's been, going from one seminar to the next. Even the meals are business related; Business Breakfast, Business Lunch, Business Dinner. The poor dear has been suffering at night as well. Her room is over the street and she says that all she hears all night is horns blaring and the doorman whistling for cabs. This morning (flight day!), she called to say that the hotel was out of hot water at 6am. She's been shivering all morning and she's exhausted from lack of sleep. She's looking forward to sleeping on the flight. I figure the best thing for her will be to get home and get back into her rhythm with the kids and the house.

So tonight I'll pick up some flowers at WalMart on the way to the airport, I'll give her a big kiss when I see her, and I'll hurry her home (after stopping at the craft store, of course). And when the homework is done, class projects all glued and painted, and the hum of laundry and dishwashing machines permeates the house, she'll come to bed (I remembered to dust off the cookie crumbs from last night) to find me waiting there with her final present of the night: a lace teddy I bought for her at the mall. This will be a night to remember.

Shhhhh... Daddy's Sleeping

I Need A Recharge

Mrs. Bayou has gone to San Francisco for the week. The only thing keeping me from going with her is the kids. Then again, if the youngest wasn't so young, I'd probably leave them all here alone and go to Tennessee. Alone.

In a previous blog, I commented on the problems I face with the people around me coming up with Great Ideas. In a nutshell, all their Great Ideas involve ME doing the task. Mrs. Bayou has caught on to my phraseology and gives me the stink-eye when handing out tasks where I reply "Yep. That's a Great Idea." (Yes, sometimes I talk in italics)

I thought I was making progress in this area. I've learned to quickly recognize Great Ideas, and I've been telling people around me "You've got to be kidding," and walking away quickly. "But Bill! Where are you going? It's a Great Idea!" (No, they never speak in italics, but my brain readily does the font change)

My time was freeing up right and left (time to sleep, mostly). Then Mrs. Bayou comes in with her announcement that not only is she freeing herself to go to San Francisco (she says she's going there on business, but I know it's to get away for a week), but she's got a freakin' Ghant chart of a schedule for me to accomplish while she's gone. Bam! One page broken down by dates and times is thrust upon me like a Turd Sundae with a glossy topping of "Your Family Comes First" Guilt-Trip drizzled all over it.

If I thought the dreaded phrase was "Bill, I have a great idea. Could you..." I was wrong. The devil is truly in the details. Buried within the instructions of moving children around to and from before-and-after-school activities, dance and music lessons, photography appointments, and airport taxi driving is a phrase which turns my stomach into a dyspepsia-themed amusement park: "You should just have enough time to..."

I shuddered when I wrote that. It's worth repeating: "You should just have enough time to..."

(And there's my lunch coming up the back of my throat. Ugh.)

It's not just a list of Great Ideas, its a list of Great Ideas that can only be accomplished if I rush from point to point like a pinball. The intersections around the city are no longer photo-controlled traffic-lights, but blinking bumpers on a map-themed game table. Sirens and horns have replaced bells and whistles; blaring out at me as I strive to accomplish the list of Great Ideas. Pre-recorded phrases pipe through the speakers of my life announcing "Dad! We're gonna be late!" "You've missed our turn!" "I can't find my shoes" and "Do you know how fast you were going, Mr. Bayou?"

I carry the Ghant chart with me at all times. I've studied it in an attempt to divine it's secrets, but every time I glance at it I see something new. If I get pulled over by the police, I'm going to show it to the officer. "Look!" I'll say, "She left me a 'To Do' list!" However, with the way things are going lately, it'll be a male cop, unable to quickly decipher my task list of Great Ideas, and he'll start clawing his eyes out. Somehow that'll be my fault, but I'll at least I'll skip the ticket and be quickly on my way to the next item on the list.

It's GO Time!

I want to wrestle too!

I've been on this exercise kick ever since my doctor told me I have a "fatty liver." Apparently, when I die, my wife can make a nice liver pate and serve it at my funeral. "Mmmm... Who knew Bill was such a good man?"

I'm down 15-20 pounds by taking the stairs and working out as much as 5 times a week. I strongly recommend the Muscle & Strength web site (LINK HERE). I've been using free weights, 3 days a week, since July. Which brings me to Sunday afternoon.

I'm sitting on the sofa watching nothing in particular on TV and listening to the rain fall. My wife comes over and sits on my lap and snuggles up. After a minute or two of this, I decide to see if the weight training has been working, so I pick her up in my arms, carry her to the bedroom, and gently lay her down on the bed. This weight training thing is paying off! I snuggle into bed next to my wife...

AND MY SIX-YEAR-OLD JUMPS INTO THE BED!

"Whoo-hoo! I want to wrestle too!" she cries out.

"So does your father," my wife adds smiling.

The next thing I know the three of us are playing "Pin the Daddy" and I end up with my head hanging off the bed. Stupid One and Supid Two, my two standard poodles show up and Stupid One begins giving my face a tongue bath. My wife is shrieking with laughter and disgust at this development and my daughter is laughing with glee.

"Not the afternoon I was thinking of," I told my wife.

"The afternoon you were thinking of is the reason we have these kids," she reminds me.

Oh well. At least I have my health.

What's it to you?

Set Attitude to "Sass"

What is it with my kids? I know it's not unique, but they've developed a knack for turning everything into an argument.

I remember standing up to my Dad, once. Once. It was the first time I ever heard my conscience screaming. Normally, my conscience is there offering good advice. Once upon a time, it was in there covering its ass.

My father found me just out back and called me to the door. "Son, why haven't you taken out the trash?" Or cut the grass, or cleaned my room. I don't know what he was complaining about. All I know is, my conscience was taking a coffee break. My mouth was on its own.

Why didn't I do my chores? I have no clue. Maybe I was too busy coming up with another reason to get suspended from school. Maybe I was in the middle of planning my next pyrotechnical exhibition. Whatever the reason, I was 15 and decided that my father wasn't the boss of me. He wasn't a bad father. Quite the opposite. He was a great father. I, however, had the temerity to assert my independence from chores. I don't know what I said, but I'm sure it was along the lines of "Do it yourself."

It was a proud moment, but that was all it was. I was standing there in the doorway gaining an extra inch by standing on the door sill. I was engaged in a foolish bit of sass and my conscience was off buying an order of beignets to go with its cafe au lait.

In an instant, my father's fist lashed out and embedded itself in the wall next to the door. I turned to my left and there it was. Well, there it wasn't. All I saw was a big hairy Irish wrist and drywall.

The coffee break was over. My conscience was back at work and wondering just what the mouth had gone and done in its absence. No longer the gentle adviser, my conscience began screaming "SHUT UP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! SHUT UP NOW!" My mouth was in full agreement.

And now I have the kids I was. They're all full of themselves and I'm checking the walls with a stud-finder. When discussing things with teenagers, you never want to break your fist for lack of knowing where the walls studs are located.

How's that work again?

Shoot!

I just received one of those personality tests in my email. It advised me to keep an open mind by using the old standard "Minds are like parachutes. They only work when they are open." The personality test took many things for granted and got everything wrong. So much for opening my mind. Now I want to try slapping the side of my head to see if I can get out all the crap that fell into my mind when it was open.

I don't think that parachutes only work when they open. They certainly have a function when they're open, but they also have a function when they're closed. Try exiting a plane with an open parachute. No. Not really. It'll kill you. Your reserve 'chute will kill you too if you open it when your primary is functioning perfectly.

I'm all for opening your mind to new things. However, once you realize what someone is trying to put in there, you may want to quickly close it up.

I need to go attenuate my tin-foil hat.