I want my XMR

I bought Ann a satellite radio for her birthday last week. She had gotten me one a couple of years back, and I really like it a lot, use it all the time. So when she expressed interest in having one of her own, I jumped at the chance to get her one. In addition to making her happy, though, I'm also hoping that having one of her own will put into context two behaviors I've observed over the last two years in relation to mine. Namely:

1) She turns the radio off when we're still a half mile from wherever we're going. Don't ask me why, but invariably we'll be pulling up to the road that leads to our neighborhood -- not even IN our neighborhood yet -- and she'll hit the power button, then put the radio back in the glove compartment. This is problematic because, woman, Jon Bon Jovi has not finished telling me what kind of horse he rides... what are you doing? But it never fails. Is she worried the music will distract me from the final stages of a route I've driven every day for the last 3 years, and we'll wind up in Scranton? It defies comprehension.

2) She turns the radio off, period. Much like a normal car radio, the way the satellite radio works is that when you turn off the car, it automatically powers down. Then, even if you remove the unit from the cradle to store in your glove compartment and then plug it back in later, it will automatically turn back on when you start the car. Nice, right? Right. Except even on those rare occasions when Ann lets us get all the way to our destination before cutting the music off, she'll still hit the power button before I can turn the car off. Why? Why not just let the radio shut down when I turn off the car so it will automatically start back up next time? Yes, you may very well be thinking "It's two steps, you lazy bitch... suck it up." My counterpoint is, it's two completely unnecessary steps. Why bother turning the radio off at all? You don't turn your regular radio off before you get out of the car, do you? (Please note, that's a rhetorical question. If you do, you're a freak and I don't want to hear about it.) It just doesn't make sense.

So there you have it. We're just going to monitor the situation for a little while and see if Ann continues this inexplicable behavior with her own satellite radio. Check back in for regular updates.

In which I turn into a girl

No entry today, just pictures of random cuteness. Never fear, the usual trenchant, biting commentary on how they're messing up Spider-Man or whatever will resume next time.





Looking at this photo, you would think she's a well-behaved rabbit who loves having her picture taken. You would be dead wrong.




Laundry is soft, but not as soft as meeee!

Coveting thy neighbor's newly hot wife

Let me set the stage for you: Ann and I are chilling out in the living room... I'm studying for a quiz tomorrow, she's watching TV. The show she's watching is called What Not To Wear -- if you've never seen it, the premise is that a gay guy and a fashionista woman find some poor, misguided girl who dresses... well, like me, really, that is to say like a homeless person who went completely blind in 1987, and then they point out her fashion sins in minute detail in front of full length mirrors. Afterward they make up for completely dismantling her self esteem by giving her money to buy better clothes and throwing in a badly needed makeover. So, whatever... at the end of the show they always have the victim return home to a party thrown by her friends and family so they can gawk over how tragic she no longer is. Like I said, I'm studying, but I happen to look up and notice that in this episode, one of the people being interviewed, right after the woman's husband, is the pastor of the church she attends. He comments -- to be fair, in a nice rather than a creepy way -- that now they'll have no problem filling the pews every Sunday, thanks to how good she looks.

So my question is, do you think this man ever looks at the nine commandments and thinks, You know, it just feels like something's missing? Or is he good?

Important safety tip, Egon

If you and your extremely pregnant wife are out on a walk and she starts complaining about all her aches and asking why you made her take a walk in the first place, and you point out that your mother kept jogging throughout her entire pregnancy, up to and including the day she gave birth to you...

Well, let's just say that's very much The Wrong Answer, okay?

Was it ever?

There's this commercial that's been on lately, maybe you've seen it; I think it's for investment banking or guns, something like that. Anyway, this young guy stands in a darkened hospital room cradling a baby in his arms. From a nearby bed, his wife looks on adoringly, all "Hey, I know I just shoved a 7-pound person out my vagina, but I couldn't have done it without your moral support, honey." An expression of awe on his face, perhaps because the baby is actually sleeping for the first time in 37 hours, the dude looks at the camera and says something like, "You know that place where 'I can't be such a douchebag' meets 'It's not just about me anymore'? I'm there." Then we pan out from this tender scene and learn we should invest in mutual funds or whatever.

Normally I mock commercials like this, mock them with all my snarky little heart and soul. But as I opened my mouth to do just that, it suddenly dawned on me that, hey... in two to five weeks, this was me. Now I'm the guy who can't be such an ass anymore. That dude looked pretty young, a year ago he was probably just like me- kicking back on the couch, making fun of cheesy commercials. Now he's in one, and he totally couldn't care less.

So I guess I need to buy their life insurance or whatever it was. I hate bowing to popular demand, but apparently it's the only way to prove I love my soon-to-be-here daughter. Because, hey- it's not just about me anymore.

Who'll crack first?

Ann and I are currently embroiled in a Mexican standoff over who's going to clean the cage of Gizmo, our bunny. This is serious stuff, really. For those of you who've never had the pleasure of owning a rabbit, let me elaborate. In many way, they're pretty convenient pets. They never need to be walked or to go outside at all, really. The only noises they make are happy grunts, occasional sneezing fits (cutest thing ever), and apparently a high-pitched screaming noise when they're terrified or dying... we've been fortunate enough never to hear that last one. When they poop it's in little pellets that they usually eat the first time around (more than once Ann has said "Hey, wasn't there a poop over... oh, GROSS!"), and then the second time around are dried-up little things that look exactly like Cocoa Puffs (a ringing endorsement, I'm sure) and, if you're not squeamish, can just be picked up and flicked in the garbage or at your wife as the situation requires. Easy, right?

BUT. With this simplicity comes one chore that no one wants to handle, and that is cleaning the cage. Rabbits are pretty good about getting toilet trained to pee only in their cage, but let me tell you, bunny urine is rank, and all the litter and newspapers in the world won't disguise that stench for long. It's also a pain to clean the cage, and neither Ann nor I likes doing it, so inevitably it becomes a game of who can outlast who before one of us breaks down and cleans it. My advantage is that, as a man, I have a much higher tolerance for foul odors and general filth in my living area; Ann's is that I'm a big softie and she knows if she asks the right way, I'll probably sigh mightily and then do it. But at the current moment we've left the cage dirty and smelling for longer than usual, locked in an unspoken contest of wills to see who'll crack first. It doesn't hurt Gizmo any, but the two of us can now barely sit on the couch to watch a half-hour TV show without passing out from the visible fumes of rabbit pee pervading the family room. It's not a pretty scene. Tuesday and Wednesday I had grad school classes and returned home each night convinced that, during the three hours when she was sitting home alone with nothing to do, she would have taken care of it. Her position seems to be that, hey asshole, I'm 8 months pregnant -- you do it. The question is, how long can this epic battle of stubborness continue before we both die of asphyxiation? Only time will tell...

On a related note, I'm just now realizing that I haven't posted any pictures of Gizmo yet. This is inexcusable, because even I, with my heart of stone, cannot help but admit that she is possibly the cutest animal ever, or at least cracking the top five. However, be not deceived, because the beast uses this overwhelming cuteness to mask the fact that she is Pure Evil. It's true. Anytime you get up to walk anywhere, she'll scamper exactly underfoot, forcing you to either accidentally kick her and hate yourself forever or to wrench your body violently sideways. At first you think this is cute, like "Aw, she just wants to be close to me!", but gradually you come to realize that she is in fact hoping you will fall and break your neck so that she can eat your eyelids. Another of her favorite activities is gnawing at the mesh baby gate that keeps her confined to the family room and away from the freeeedom! of the kitchen. She will do this incessantly until you finally look up from American Gladiators (shut up, you watch it too) and bark "Gizmo!", at which point she will jump two feet in the air, bolt away from the gate, and then fix you with a look of feigned nonchalance, mixed with just a hint of wounded indignation, as if to say "What? I wasn't anywhere near that baby gate, in fact I don't think I've ever even seen it before. Say, whose teeth marks are those?" And while she's doing this she will inch closer and closer to the gate, watching you the entire time, until you finally get bored and go back to watching TV. And .003 seconds later, she will start chewing again. Repeat ad infinitum.


You wound me, sir, with your accusations.

So there she is, in all her fuzzy glory. Just don't let the adorable floppy ears fool you; if that rabbit ever got the chance, she'd kill you and everyone you cared about. Or at least poop in your lap.


EDIT: As an addendum, I won the standoff. Ann read this post and thought it was funny, so as a reward she cleaned the cage. Score! Stay tuned for future entries about cleaning the gutters and taking out the garbage.

Way #139 I can tell I'm getting old...

When I heard there was a new song getting a lot of airplay called "I Kissed A Girl," I immediately thought, "Huh... I wonder if it's a cover of that mid 90s song that caused all the controversy." Then I found out that no, it isn't. And that nobody else remembers there was a mid 90s song called "I Kissed A Girl."

Yeah. I'm old.

Lazy Saturday

After spending most of the day watching Michigan win (barely) and Penn State win (handily), the wife and I rode out the rest of the terrible weather by getting a pizza and idly flipping through channels. Eventually, God knows how, we landed on some show that seemed devoted to depicting the lives of hypothetical animals that might exist in the far future, after humans have all died off. The particular segment concerned these hamster-like creatures (descended from birds, though... pay attention, there will be a quiz later) that were trying to have their mating season, except they had to do it while these other bat-type things tried to swoop down and eat them. And it suddenly dawned on me that I was spending my Saturday night watching one kind of fictional animal hump while hoping it wouldn't get scarfed by another fictional animal.

I know people say that when you have a kid, all your free time just goes away; but honestly, what am I really giving up?

Like The Biggest Loser in reverse

Well, my wife is making me gain weight. And you may be rolling your eyes skyward and thinking, "Ah yes, the old 'I'm only fat because my wife made me do it' bit," but honestly, it's true. I didn't know this, but apparently there comes a point where the pregnant mind puts aside all prior rational notions of "I know I'm thin in real life and I'm only gaining this tiny, miniscule amount of weight because of the baby, I'm not actually getting fat" and reaches a breaking point. And when this point is reached, the pregnant person's spouse becomes the number one basis of comparison/resentment, particularly if he (not to flatter himself or anything) happens to be, if not Michael Phelps-ian, at least in reasonably good shape. This typically leads to a situation in which the pregnant party issues an ultimatum that if he doesn't stop going to the gym and drinking Coke Zero and losing that bleeping weight, he is going to be sorry, mister.

So now you know why I had to have four beers tonight. It's a tough life, but no sacrifice is too great for the mental wellbeing of a man's wife.