There was something wrong that Sunday morning as my family and I sat in church. I just didn’t know what.
The something wrong wasn’t because I sweat like a coal shoveler every time I step into a church-I’ve finally come to terms with that. I sweat because of all the candles, or the stain glass magnifying the pre-kickoff sunlight, or knowing the Host is really high in carbs. Yeah, it has nothing to do with all that “thou shalt not” stuff I keep forgetting about until it’s too late. Read the rest of this article »

The cell phone rang in my front pocket as my family and I walked across the clean but car-littered floor.

I thought about not answering it. I hate talking on the telephone in front of people who suddenly look like they want to hurt me.

“What’s so important,” I wonder when I see someone else talking on their cell phone in public, “that you have to tell Joshy Pooh-Pooh you love him when you’re in line at the grocery store buying laxatives?” The cell phone has helped drag courtesy, privacy, and not kicking someone’s ass to a standstill. Read the rest of this article »

One of the basic tenets of today’s feel-good, nobody’s-at-fault child-rearing method is follow-through.

If a child isn’t supposed to watch television until he finishes his vegetables, don’t turn on the TV. If a child doesn’t do a chore, don’t give him money for ice cream. And if you threaten to throw a toy out of a moving car, throw the toy out of a moving car.

The problem is, none of the people who write touchy-feely books on parenting expect anyone to, 1) threaten, or 2) throw anything anywhere-ever. Read the rest of this article »

A relationship, no matter how caring, loving, or impossible to back out of, is war. Well, at least to guys. To women, relationships are all princesses, unicorns, and pushing dazed heroes off a cliff.Relationships aren’t war to women, because war means there’s some doubt of the outcome. There is no doubt with women-they win.

But war, as we know, is the only way guys think about anything. Football is war. Deciding what movie to see is war. Read the rest of this article »

I called my wife before I left work. I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it was out of courtesy. Maybe it’s a habit my mom beat into my head when I was a kid. Or maybe I’m just not that bright.I think it’s the last one.

“I’m going to the store on my way home,” I told her.

That was simple enough, right? In the Western world, a guy saying “I’m going to the store” usually means “I’m out of beer.” Everyone knows that. Well, everyone but women. Read the rest of this article »

Vacation. A word so sweet your triglycerides rose to the level of Jabba the Hutt’s just by reading it. So, please, go to the emergency room-now.Yeah, vacation is sweet, and I had five days of it. Five no-shavin’, no-workin’, no-thinkin’ days of lethargy and naps. I sat on the couch that Monday morning, a cup of coffee in my hand, when my lazy vacation turned into one of those vacations you see in movies where everyone’s ankles are chained together and they’re busting rocks in front of a guy holding a shotgun.

“Bye, honey,” my wife said as she did a strafing run through the living room on her way to work, pulling the front door shut behind her so quickly I barely heard the words that would doom my vacation much like “I’ll have to raise taxes” doomed Walter Mondale’s 1984 presidential campaign … by the way, he lost. “Have a great day. There’s a list on the kitchen table. I love you.” Read the rest of this article »

Everyone stared as I pushed my shopping cart through the store … ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. You know, foreign automakers should start building shopping carts if only to force the American cart industry into upgrading that one bad wheel.

But it wasn’t the thumpy wheel or that I was trying not to be seen that made people stare like they recognized me from some Internet police database. People were watching because, despite all the beef jerky, beer, and drill bits bouncing around the basket, they knew I was really at the store to buy feminine napkins. Read the rest of this article »

The smell was horrendous … and I grew up on a farm.

My wife’s friend stuck her head through the crack she made peeling open our bathroom door and whispered, “Psst, psst, psst, psst,” like she had a secret.

She didn’t.

This wasn’t a secret to anyone in the house and maybe, just maybe, to people the next block over. She’d stopped up our toilet—again. Read the rest of this article »