I refuse… flat out refuse to blame Cathy, my loving wife, for
her crude assumption, lack of couth, class and respect toward a
dedicated husband who after close to one year has painstakingly
acquired all the finite skills necessary to be called a full-time
stay at home dad (Domestic Engineer). Instead, I
think I'll blame America. Oh wait, scratch that!
Society, I want to blame society. No wait, maybe it's culture
related? Which means it's probably more an extension of
specific family traditions observed on some sort of regular basis
and passed down from generation to generation. Blah,
that doesn't seem right either. Well, I'm set on blaming
somebody soooo…eeny-meeny-miney I blame Apolo Anton
You read it right! I'm blaming Apollo. I blame him
for his god-awful charisma, boyish good looks and alien mouth
complete with 50 blindingly white, perfectly symmetrical and
unusually hypnotic teeth. Damn you Ono, damn you for making
us care about speed skating! Look, it makes perfect sense.
For 2 weeks he was everywhere, wooing us with his
charm. Once the Olympics were over it was a no-brainer that
an evil backlash would occur. Those who were drawn deep into
those pearly whites must've had an unexpected withdrawal.
Yup, that's it, Cathy had some sort of post-traumatic Ono
withdrawal, and she took it out on me.
What can I say? I'm a man, with real honest and complex
feelings (motives). I spend my days
laundering, scrubbing, shopping, mopping, cooking and pushing
around Swiffers (Which are rumored to be made from some
sort of wizard/alien technology, mass produced by a secret
government agency consisting of Vampires and the cast of Saved
By The Bell… minus Mario Lopez). I do this so our house
maintains a healthy balance of "lived-in" and "Army
barracks." I do this for us, I sweat for us! I
sacrifice my dry cracked hands, so that the weekends can be spent
as a family (with my buddies at a bar). I'll be
honest, and feel free to ask around, but some might say that a man
of this caliber doesn't exist. I guess I'm sorta like the
Holy Grail, or Big Foot. I'm the mother-load of man, who
quite frankly, doesn't think that he's getting the respect he
Seriously, I work hard! Would
flowers (a 6-pack) be that bad of a
gesture? How about a quiet (wild) night
out? Dinner at La Creperie (The
Chili Hut), followed by a romantic comedy (movie
with Matt Damon and guns)? All I'm saying is that after a
full day of house work and kids, an acknowledgement of awesomeness
is essential. In fact, any combination of nice, gratitude,
appreciation, devilish innuendos or beer works. That's right,
all of these things say I love you (some more than others), but all
work. Which brings me to last Tuesday and Cathy's Ohno-less
She didn't have to say it. I mean, she was probably right
to say it; it's just that she should've said something else first,
anything, an icebreaker. Something like, "My, the floors look
nice," or "My, your biceps look huge today." Honestly, I
could think of a hundred pleasant ways to say hello. Now
don't take this out of context, I don't need to be praised every
day, but Tuesday was different. Tuesday I was on top of my
game. Chores were done, laundry folded, the house was clean
and I was feeling pretty good. That is until Cathy walked
through door and said, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what is that god
awful smell?" Startled, I turn around to find her pointing an
indignant finger at me choking out the sentence, "Did you just take
a bath in a tub of homeless feet and skunk meat?" I didn't
know what to say, I was at a loss of words really. What was
her problem, why was she mad and more importantly, what in the
world was she smelling? Looking over at my wife, who had
suddenly keeled over and was now beginning to dry-heave and drool
all over the dining room floor, it hit me. I wasn't happy
about it, but I understood- - I understood.
Imagine you're home alone, pushing through a box of wine and
watching reruns of The Ghost Whisperer on TBS. You've just
changed out of your professional clothes and into that
disgustingly-comfy, stained and tattered I'm not leaving the house
outfit that screams either "I'm homeless," "I'm crazy," or "I'm
homeless, because my imaginary dog Keith convinced me to sell my
sneezes in front of the post office." Everything's perfect,
'cause your happy, and you're happy 'cause you're relaxed and
because you're relaxed, you fart.
Don't be ashamed, or act like you've never put a
stinky in the couch, because you have. And yes, it's
understood that the first one will always be a dynamic toe-curler
with the slight undertones of boiled frog and molasses. But
after that, you're pretty much immune and unfazed by any other
smell or flatulent that may occur during that particular session.
On the other hand, this little theory does not apply to the
occasional passerby, unexpected guest or loved one who happens to
walk into your O-zone depleting, nose hair singeing,
ghost-of-dinners-past cloud of death. In fact, it's quite the
Every bit of pungent vapor you produce actually gets
stronger and more obtrusive to every other human on this planet.
And rests assure this holds true for ALL smells. For this
reason alone, walking into a situation like this can be a real
character builder. Honestly, this can be an emotionally
haunting experience between friends, or a hysterical chance
encounter by strangers. The key is figuring out how to
maintain a certain amount of empathy in this potentially delicate
situation. It would be rude to so quickly accuse someone of
violating the strict EPA regulations in regards to personal
/community pollution without all the facts. The assailant
could very well have a serious medical condition.
Now, back to Tuesday…
I watched in horror as Cathy alternated between an
uncontrollable spastic-gyration, the fetal position and demonic
accusations that included, but were not limited to, "Are you
burning a wet dog?" and "Did you mop the floors with hot milk and
tuna?" I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, none-the-less
I was insulted. She had no right to walk into this house and
start condemning me of foul play, she was being rude.
All I've done today is everything. Sure, I was
wearing my soft polyester track suit, and yes I was halfway through
my cardboard encased wine, and yes the girls and I were confined
alone in a house after an odd broccoli and bean lunch, so
what! I was sorry, truly sorry that she had to experience
that, but I mopped the floors and folded laundry! I deserve
some recognition. I deserve to be validated, but more
importantly I deserve to relax.
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