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When the lady of the house is sick


Carrie, my fiancé, is sick.  I don’t mean sick like a girl named Ali I once dated in college.  That was an interesting experience, because she was a binge kleptomaniac. I found that out one day when we were exploring the beautiful country roads surrounding Western Carolina University.  She suddenly screeched, “Stop!  Stop the car!”

I hit the breaks so hard they actually hit back.

To my surprise, she bolted out of the car and dashed across the lawn next to us.  Before I had time to wonder what she was up to, my girlfriend grabbed an old wagon containing several potted plants and sprinted back to where I waited, staring dumbfounded.

When she got back in the car, she breathlessly told me to punch it.  I was rather reluctant to do that because the VW I drove at the time wasn’t very fond of sudden movements.  I think it suffered from some kind of stress induced seizures because the poor thing made all kinds of wheezy, pistony, ratchety noises whenever I needed it to speed up.

And that was before I pressed down on the accelerator.


To get the thing moving I usually had to put a paper bag over its exhaust and tell it to breathe slowly.  As Ali screamed about getting the hell out of there, I was trying to reassure my car that everything was going to be okay, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t.

A big, bearded guy with a florid face and a countenance that indicated he ate college students for fun stepped out on the porch.  I could tell he was angry by the way he carried his shotgun.


That was when I put the paper bag over my own mouth and started breathing slowly.  I was about ready to carry my girlfriend and my car to get out of there when it dawned on me that the combined weight of the two of them was going to be too much to carry.  Instead, I wised up and realized that the smarter course of action was to carry the VW and leave Ali to fend for herself.  I was sure the things she stole were enough to weigh her down so that my VW and I could make it beyond buckshot range.

Luckily, my car was the only one that had in real sense.  It turns out that it was feeling its oats that day, because with a wheeze, a cough, and a backfire, we were off at a dangerously reckless twenty-five miles per hour.

Sadly, the whole thing was too much for the poor thing, though.  When we made it back to campus, it refused to budge once I got it parked.  My car must have suffered what passes for a vehicular psychotic break after that.  I know because the VW thought it was an athlete instead of an automobile.  That was the only thing I could think because my mechanic told me it had thrown a rod.


Last night I woke up to my fiancé hacking, wheezing, and backfiring.  In a waking moment of sleep induced confusion I thought I was in my old VW once more.  As soon as I was fully awake, I realized that Carrie sounded worse.  I took her to the doctor’s office where she was diagnosed with bronchitis and a sinus infection.  I would say that’s kind of like adding insult to injury, only it’s a lot worse.  When you throw a sinus infection on top of bronchitis, every time you cough, you feel like your head’s going to explode.

For a while there I was afraid Carrie was going to throw a rod, but what she did was actually worse.  She made me take care of the kids.

And those damn things have to be washed and fed!


When I tried sharing one of my hard apple ciders with the four-year-old, Carrie nearly threw a hissy fit.  How was supposed to know hard cider was no acceptable substitute for applesauce?  Jesus Christ.  And when the eight-year-old got ahold of axel grease in the garage, let me tell you, oven degreaser DOES NOT work well on preadolescents.  That shit works best when you can heat it up in the oven, and if I’d have tried putting the eight-year-old in there I’ve got a feeling I never would have heard the end of it.

I did learn one important lesson.  If one day you run out of clothes washing detergent, never, EVER substitute it with a cup of dishwashing soap.

There were enough bubbles in the hallway to throw a women’s bikini wrestling contest.  Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

What did happen was that Carrie caught the girls using the hallway floor as a slip-n-slide while I watched and laughed.  When I told her to look on the bright side, that she didn’t have to worry about mopping, my lovely, sweet angel kicked the girls and me out of the house.  I’m still looking for the water hose.  Maybe if I knock the suds off of the kids she’ll let me back in.


Look guys, seriously . . . if your wife, girlfriend, or fiance is sick, make sure you take some time to clean the house and take care of the kids if she has any.  Most likely she doesn’t ask a lot of you in that department.  Relationships honestly are about give and take, and I know of too many girls who have men in their lives that don’t do anything when they are sick.  The moral of all of this is that people make relationships harder than they need to be.  When I dated Ali (yes, she was a real person), she didn’t have enough sense to realize that compulsively stealing other people’s things could be a serious impediment to a relationship.  When I was married the first time around, I didn’t do enough to help my ex-wife.  So not only did I screw her over by cheating on her, I made her life needlessly difficult by not stepping up to the plate and giving her a hand when she was down.

Again, we make things too hard sometimes.

And Carrie, as soon as I’m done with my blog, I promise I’ll do the dishes and clean the kitchen counters.  The laundry is already in the washer.

I love you sweetie

Starting a new fitness routine

This month I decided the money I was spending on Cheetos could be better spent in more productive areas.  I like to eat so a lot of my money went to Frito-Lay.

A friend of mine told me he could help me invest my money.  He never seemed to leave his parents’ basement, and whenever I came over and he said he was “working,” the work always seemed to be done with a laptop in his boxers and a t-shirt.


Turns out it didn’t work out so well.  I found that out at a drive-through the other day after my friend’s ponzi scheme fell apart and he had to get a real job.  Taco Bell doesn’t pay what he claimed his “Nigerian business model” earned him, so now he has less money than I do.  I hear that with all the people mad at him, he might soon be trading his Taco Bell job for one in a country where they still make burritos but don’t have an extradition treaty with the US.


Maybe I’m kidding about all of that, but I did have a friend once who had a Fonzi scheme.  Every Halloween he dressed up like Henry Winkler and got so drunk on hard cider that he thought I was Chachi.  Those were what he called the “happy days” before Alcoholics Anonymous and a bitter divorce brought him back to reality.  Now his life is about as exciting as Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham’s.


What I really did with my money did not involve a Nigerian business scheme.  You can’t make something from nothing.  Well, not unless you’re a super dense point of quantum singularity, and I’d never want to be one of those.  For one, they’re not only infinitely dense, but they’re also infinitely hot.  I weigh enough already to know that density stopped equating to fun after I reached 40 pounds over my ideal weight.  Then it was all about comfort eating.

Stupid Cheetos.

cheeto cheetah

Weight also becomes problematic once you pass age 35.  Especially after a few broken bones have gone arthritic.  The only time I’ve heard of physical super density helping someone was when a criminal was once shot by the police numerous times and survived because his body fat prevented the bullets from hitting any organs.  He was only slightly lighter than a beluga whale.  He’s now in prison and beluga whales live in places I’d never want to live.  I don’t like to get too hot, but it’s way too cold in the parts of the ocean where belugas live, and everyone knows sweaters stop making you warm and start making you miserable once they’re soaked.

That’s why I’ll never invest in a beluga sweater fashion line.

I’d never want to be a point of singularity for another reason.  Once one goes off, clean-up is a nightmare.  The last time that happened was 13.82 billion years ago and that’s when the universe was created.

Both the Spitzer and Hubble telescopes have revealed just how dusty the universe is.  And gassy.  There is an enormous line of gas reaching all the way from the Magellanic Clouds to our galaxy.  When NASA estimated the amount of gas in the Magellanic stream, scientists said it was only slightly less than the amount of gas put out by my father during taco nights when I was a boy.


That’s only counting three galaxies.  When singularities go off they’re a lot like octomom, but worse.  The big bang gave birth to lots of galaxies.

Like maybe 10 or 12 or something like that.

Seriously, I honestly do like to eat, and have perhaps put away more then I ought to have from time to time.  Now I need to lose a good 80 pounds.  There might actually be a Nigerian scheme for that, but I’m pretty sure it might involve a tapeworm or some other tropical parasite.


I don’t like tapeworms.  They may help you lose weight.  But that’s not all.  They look a lot like something from a Ridley Scott movie.  His movies can sometimes be disturbing, but at least the aliens in them are all made of latex.  I don’t know what a tapeworm is made of, but I assume that 9 out of 10 special affects artists don’t recommend using them on any movie set ever made.  Not because they’re not made of latex—which they aren’t—but because they are a lot like real-life Ridley Scott aliens.  And while I’ve never heard of one jumping out of someone’s chest, I’ve seen a picture of one hanging out of some dude’s nose.

I think he was probably Nigerian.  Or maybe that’s Nevadan.  I get the two confused sometimes.  Nevada is way out west, and if you travel west long enough you might end up in Nigeria provided you take a few southerly detours.

As I was saying though, I decided to do something useful with my money and hired a personal trainer.  She’s really awesome.  I think she must have been an S & M madam in another life because ever since I met her there hasn’t been a part of my body that hasn’t hurt.  When I first met her she told me she enjoyed helping people get fit, and every damn time I lift my arms I throw one, so she’s hit the mark with me.

Her name is Alissa.  I think the name’s actually an ancient Persian word for agony.

Other people at the Wilmington Athletic Center told me she was tough, but I didn’t believe them until I arrived at the gym and passed two guys crying as they left the building.  When I asked the lady at the front desk what was going on, she told me they were the two clients Alissa worked with before my appointment.  I said they must have been really out of shape.  That’s when the receptionist told me they actually worked at the nearby marine base.

In special forces.

I knew I was in trouble when I mentioned it to Alissa and she called the guys pansies.

We’ve started in the water first.  I thought we were going to go to the pool, but Alissa grabbed her kayak at took me out to the Cape Fear.  She climbed in her boat and told me to start swimming.  I thought this was unorthodox.  But unorthodox people are often the most effective at what they do.  My Uncle Ben discovered a new way to perform finger amputations.  He still doesn’t talk about what happened at the saw mill, but the doctors were really impressed.

Once we got downriver a bit I heard splashing along the side of the bank.  When I asked her what they came from, she said, “Oh, that’s probably just the alligators.”

I exclaimed, “What the hell do you have me swimming in a river with alligators for?”

She said, “Incentive.”


I have to admit it worked, though.

When we first talked I told Alissa I didn’t think I’d be able to swim 20 yards and she got 800 meters out of me in record time.

Next week she told me we’ll start with some easy weight lifting.  As I got in my car I think I heard her tell me to meet her at the rock quarry Monday morning.  And to bring chains.

Oh Geez.

Honestly, Alissa really is worth the money I’m spending.  Getting in shape isn’t for sissies, but having a trainer makes the job 10 times easier.  I’d recommend her to anyone.  Just remember that when you hear the alligators slithering into the water, Alissa’s a pro, and it all comes from a place of love.  Besides, I should look on the bright side.

It could involve tapeworms.

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