Chaz Bono and Other Bullshit that goes bump in the night.

So anyway, I am sitting here listening to country music. WTF you say? I too have issues admitting this. Oh sure, I will admit to listening to my Mary-Chapin Carpenter and my Rosanne Cash, but they aren't REAL country, you know what I mean? They are over-educated and left-wing, and such. But instead I am on itunes and am downloading some old favourites, which include Tim McGraw's "Red Ragtop". If all y'all don't know the song, oh boy, are all y'all missing out. It's the saddest fucking abortion story ever told. Go download it now. Yes, even from Frostwire. I don't care if Tim gets the dollar for the song - he's got enough. But please, get the song. It took balls for him to record it, especially since so much of contemporary country music deals with the Jesus-wholesome-pure set. Tim is different. He's one of those country performers I'd throw my panties at on stage if I was a woman, simply because he isn't scared of things like recording Red Ragtop. Sure, he does drivel with his wife, but even that shit is believable. And I have to admit that I know every word to "Something Like This." Sue me. "I had a BBQ stain on my white t-shirt, she was killing me in that mini-skirt...." Amen, brother. And Red Ragtop will make you weepy. Tim, you rock, buddy....

What else.... OH! Oprah is finally done. I haven't watched the final episodes yet - I still have about 18 to watch. I really don't think I care all that much. You see, I bought into Oprah years ago, and then I got disillusioned. As of now, whatever. We taped about the last 3 weeks just so see what she was doing. And while I haven't watched much of those episodes yet, we did watch the Chaz Bono episode.

Well, I am sorry, but "Chaz" is simply fucked up. Yes, I know, I am usually one who is open to everything, so maybe it's the country music talking, but the whole time I was saying out loud to Rachel that, in five years, Chaz is going to realize that he/she ISN'T any happier.

You see, they showed old clips from when "Chaz" was a child on the Sonny and Cher Show, dressed as a girl, and then they showed him/her as a 20-something singer, as a freshly out Lesbian. And THEN they interviewed old Chaz now, saying that after she came out, she was still so unhappy after the dust settled, and then she realized that she was really a man. So then she becomes one. However, it isn't that easy. They show him/her, with 1400 chins, shaving in the mirror, in a wife beater a la some Italian dude in Brooklyn, , and then they interview his/her girlfriend, who is a lipstick lesbian, who now I guess ISN'T a lesbian anymore, now that Chaz is a man. However, Chaz doesn't have a penis. I understand that he/she is a man now, but yet he doesn't have a cock. I don't get it either. And now I guess his woman is no longer a lesbian. But you can tell, after all of this shit, that Chaz will never be happy. It's one of those situations. Rachel and I both looked at each other and said "what will happen once he isn't happy as a man either?" Really, Chaz just has too much time on his/her hands and gets to grovel in his/her depression. I say suck it up, deal with whatever the fuck it is that makes you so miserable, and live your life. And get a job so you aren't obsessing about how shitty your life is. You weren't happy as a celeb child. You weren't happy as a lesbian. And all fingers are pointing to you not being happy as a man. And you have no penis. So how do you say you are a man?" It makes no sense. Can you pee at a urinal? No? Well then, honey, you are a WOMAN. DEAL WITH IT. Even Tim McGraw wouldn't know what the hell to say to you. I think it's all a crock. Yes I do believe that some of you do think you were born in the wrong body, but not Chaz. Fuck that shit. Chaz, you are just being depressed and indulgent. Suck it up, buttercup.

And that's all I have to say on that shit.

Peace out, friends.

I got nothing. Really, I don't. I am sitting here, after a loooong hard day of work around the yard, and I am exhausted and I am capping the day with a warm gin and soda and a bag of Old Dutch Salt and Vinegar chips. So, if the gin doesn't give me a headache, the fucking chips will wake me with extreme thirst in a few hours. You see, being outside all day, I was so thirsty I literally microwaved my cup of coffee this evening and gulped it down. Then, when I realized what I was doing, I said "whoa, someone needs a Big Gulp." Well, I didn't get the BG, and this long-waited for gin and soda isn't cold enough or strong enough nor lime-ey enough, so that sucks. But you know, that's alright. I keep thinking of the funeral yesterday, and, as I always do, I think too much and I think in too much detail, and it just gets in the way, but in the end, I think I know I should be so lucky to be drinking warm gin and eating salty chips. So, what I think I want to say is that in spite of it all, life is good. True, I may bitch. Yes, there are many things that could be better. Life has been completely out of fucking control lately. Work has been hectic in many ways, in which I just feel like I am barely staying one step ahead of everything. And at home? We have been on the run for weeks. With 6 people in the house, and 4 of them 10 and under, it is up to the adults to make things happen. Thus, laundry has been our hellish thing. Last week, we had like 5 baskets of laundry to put away. I put them away one night. Tonight? I think the count was 8 baskets, not including the load on the clothes line or the load in the dryer, nor the load in the washer. We spent the day outside, weeding the lawn and cleaning off the drive way and cleaning the garage and buying hundreds of dollars of flowers and planting most of them, etc. So, tonight, we began the clothes unloading, and it sucks. And we've fallen behind in the kids' piano lessons, and I somehow have assumed the duties of being the assistant soccer coach for child #3, even though I remember nothing about soccer. Dog #2 always seems to have petrified shit stuck in his fur, and child #1 is overtired in premenstrual extremes. Haley got voted off AI to boot. And my lawn is completely covered in dandelions and I am deathly afraid my backyard is going to be taken over by Creeping Charlie.

But just so that all y'all don't think I'm some bitching arsehole, let me say this: I am thankful for everything. I won't take anything for granted. This post is so boring, I wouldn't normally even publish it, but I am sooo close to post 500, so I want to get to it. This post is merely a means to an end. Suck it up buttercup - sometimes you have to read Laura Ingalls before you get to the hot and dirty Jackie Collins stuff.

Anyway, glad the full moon is over, and glad I am here to bore all y'all.

Peace out.

Hugs and Goodbye to

Well, it's certainly been an up week. That statement is laced in sarcasm, if you didn't pick it up from the stink lines saturating my every word. Seriously, it's just been a peach. A fucking peach, I say!

Oh, in a lot of ways it wasn't that bad, but it's culminated in death. Rachel's aunt Colleen passed away this week, after a long battle with the cancer. The funeral was today, and I wasn't going to go, since my inlaws are our primary babysitters, or my sister in law, and they were all of course going to the funeral. But then this morning I called my niece to see if she was free, expecting her to say no because it was my sister's 53rd birthday, as well as her 28th wedding anniversary. Anyway, to my surprise, my niece was free. So, I found some nicer looking shorts and went to the funeral - nobody will ever accuse me of overdressing for anything.

I was actually really freaked out about the funeral once I realized I was going, because you know how I wig out at them, and so I took a couple Ativan about an hour before (they didn't kick in until about half-way through the funeral, and so I've been literally nodding out since then), but anyway, I survived.

I guess what I am so traumatized over is how young "Colleen" was. Colleen was 55. FIFTY FUCKING FIVE. She got the cancer about 5 years ago and did all of this alternative treatment stuff in Mexico and such, but I about 2 or 3 months ago, I guess we realized that it wasn't going to work. However, she died on her own terms, at home. Anyway, I wasn't especially close to her - I can think of maybe a half dozen conversations we would have had throughout the years, but I always liked her. She was real. And nice. And not a bone of phoniness in her body, which is what I always try to detect in people. And she was cute as a button. And she was the catalyst that made me quite smoking, If she could give up her Medallion King Size so easily, so could I give up Craven M. 9 years this summer, Colleen. Thanks.

Anyway, I couldn't stop crying at the funeral, because I just kept thinking of her husband, who adored her more than anything, and how lonely he will be now. And she had 6 grandchildren who are now without their grandma. And as I said, I was shocked that she was so young. My sister turned 53 today. This whole aging thing sucks.

You see, I just kept thinking that even though I lost my mom and I am still so completely fucked up and dysfunctional about it, and how I still sometimes lock myself in the shitter to cry, I was almost 40 when she passed, and she was in her early 70s, and even when people say "she was so young!" I compare it to my nephews who lost their dad at 13 and 15, and, well... no comparison. I ultimately think "Man up, JT, you had a mom for almost 40 years, so be happy." And I am, even though I still have the wherewithal to realize I am not "healthy" yet. I still search for escape. and am not completely balanced. True, I do think that, this past year, I've sort of seen the light, but grieving isn't easy, especially for the person who gave you life.

And I think of Coleen's kids, who are in their late 20s and early 30s. It's not fair, especially when she did everything right. So I've been completely bothered by all of this. It's like it isn't happening. I really like this side of my wife's family, and Coleen was always one who was nice to me from the get-go. A couple of her relatives, who will remain nameless, were, forgive my language, cunts. Don't ask - I've blocked it out, almost.

And her own life was so full of tragedy. Her brother died in a car wreck on her wedding night, and it all went downhill from there. You know how when you lose a parent and suddenly you realize what all the others who have lost parents have felt all this time? Like you've joined some awful club? I wanted to say that to them, Coleen's kids, but I don't really know them well enough.

So let me say this. I promise to continue to love my wife and my family fiercely. You know how people go through the, to quote Rosanne Cash, "the 7 year ache?" Well, that isn't my experience. I have to declare here, and hope she doesn't read it, that I love my wife more now that I ever could have 21 years ago when we hooked up. Really, she's it for me. She's the one. I know I always state she could have done better, and ramble on about how jealous I am about one of her exes, the one who I hated so much, but you know, even though we are completely different in so many ways, we are quite frankly made for each other. I think we were made for each other in the same ways that Coleen and her husband were made for each other. And when that partnership gets broken up prematurely, well, the universe isn't fair. I was almost half-hoping for the Rapture tonight, just to put all of us out of our misery.

It's sort of been a shitty spring here. Coleen gets sicker and dies. My cat dies. I yell so much at my kids I become Ralph Cramden. Work is stressful and I feel like I can't keep up with anything, even simple stuff confuses me. At home I've been yelling at my kids, giving them guilt trips, and just being a dick. In terms of Rachel, who is really shaken up at her aunt's death, I've probably been curt and overtly matter-of-fact. But let me say this here: When Rachel is hurting, I am hurting. So bad so that I cry more than I should. And when someone says, like my wife said this morning to me that it's hard to believe in this stuff about "God having a plan", I do agree that it's true that someone dying at 55 is sinful and horrible and unjust, but yet there is always a tinge of miracle in how we met - in a math class. God obviously wanted us together. And there is no way I'd blaspheme about that. Rachel and I, no matter how different, fit into each other like an old sock and an old shoe.

So above it all, I also see the miracle. I am not an open book. I don't open up. I don't like to show feelings or weakness or emotion or anything. And the fact that I can be swept up in rachel's arms while I cry for what was lost and what will never be? I couldn't ask for a better gift. I am blessed and loved. So for those of you who are the praying type, please say a prayer for "Coleen" (God will know who you mean) and wish her an eternity of peace and pray for he family of Coleen, and help us stay connected to them.

Thanks for listening. Sorry there was no laughter here. Sometimes, words and wishes are all we need.

This Woman's Work

Greetings All. I am whispering this post. You know how the last post was in response to Rocky's PMS rant against husbands? Well, irony is alive and well here in my house, so much so that Alanis could sing about it and get the trope right for once. We are in the midst of the 48 hours of rage too, apparently. I am always thrown off-gaurd by it. You see, back in the day, 20 years ago, when Rachel was on the pill, PMS only would occur every 3 or 4 months, and it would only occur for like 1/2 a day. I would call it PMS Sunday, and it usually involved crying about something not usually cry-material, and then the next morning, the crimson tide would arrive and all would be well with the world. Then, we started having babies, and we'd go a good 18 months without a period, due to breast feeding, and there really wasn't any PMS involved when things would finally commence. Since we had babies like Catholic Mormons, we'd be knocked up before too long. However, since we've decided to stop having babies and she's finally done nursing, Aunt Flo has come back regularly, and she's taking prisoners. This past 6 months or so has really been an eye opener. My wife really gets caught up in the swing of things. Not at a Chunks level yet, but it shows promise. I've been able to make the connection better than Oprah ever did, and we have a good laugh when Aunt Flo comes and I say "see, THAT'S why everything was so awful."

And weirdly enough, tonight, Flo-rida is trying to ride her ass. It began after work. She came home and there was this semi-traumatic incident at the sitter's today that I don't want to even get into right now, but it was one of those things that has shaken both of us in terms of what could have happened. I'll get into it later, but let's just say that it sort of freaked the fuck out of us. So there was that. But my darling wife kept lamenting "I feel so fat. I feel so fat. Did I gain everything back?" You see, remember when I said I lost 40 plus lbs? Well, she lost about 13 lbs, which is about equivalent to my 40, when you compare her body and mind. She hasn't gained any weight, so then I said it was probably her period coming, as I think we had this conversation before. And when I did the math, yes, it probably was due to arrive soon. So I said that is why she probably felt bloated and heavy and such. Then she got on the ipad. She read Rocky's post. And she laughed more than I thought she should. She howled though the thing. I knew that it wasn't a good sign that she was relating to so much.

And then she got crabby.

After supper, she wanted something sweet. She never does. Clue number one, Shaggy. So we went to Dairy Queen. Then we came home and the house was sorta messy from the kids. And all hell broke loose. There was yelling and freaking out, and finally she fell asleep. From the pattern I've noticed, we have a good day or two before Flo comes to visit. My back and front pelvic area are killing me today. Ain't NO FUCKING WAY am I going to suggest a frigging THING. If need be, I'll have to take care business - but I ain't asking for anything.

In the midst of this, I end up talking to my sister tonight, the one who lives across the street. I call her tonight after we come home from our ice cream excursion, because we pull into the drive way and our garage is open. I am all "wtf"? because we think we have left the dogs in the garage, but we get home and the garage is open and the dogs are in the back yard. So we are still puzzled. But I call my sister to see if she was in the garage - the garage has a PIN code to get in. Anyway, my sister has been having severe insomnia, to the point where she's lucky if she gets 3 to 4 hours in a night. She finally went to the doctor, our friend in common, and got pills. The first ones didn't work and she got new ones, and they havent yet either. She's so overtired that she's crying all the time. Anyway, she said that you know its bad when you are driving on the highway and see a dead porcupine and you start crying. I laughed out loud at that. And then she said "I saw a spot on the road...." And let me tell you here, my cat got run over 2 weeks ago. I wrote a post about it but didn't finish it to publish yet. But she got run over 17 days ago. And I don't want to talk about it right now, as you long time readers know she was my first baby. Maybe tomorrow I will talk about it. But anyway, my sister says tonight "i saw this spot on the road.... sniff... and... I thought it was where she was run over..." and she frigging WEEPS. And then she says all of this the doc thinks is related to menopause and he is doing a physical and hormone tests on her. And I think "you mean there is another decade of hormone shit to come? Fuck me up the ass with a chainsaw."

But before you think I am smug and think I am perfect, I know that I act out in the same ways. I can be horrible. I can be crabby and mean and a true dick. And it bugs me that I can't just say "I must be getting my period." So, when I know that hormones are involved, it's even more blameless. But yes, it's funny that after the last post, I am tip-toeing around. Let's hope for a speedy visit from Flo. Ladies, I am sincerely sorry you have to go through all of this hormonal stuff. And guys who are living with women who are going through hormonal stuff this weekend? Do her a favour and knock one off in the shower and cut the poor woman a break this weekend. And do the dishes and buy her a chocolate bar. And be thankful that we don't have to go through all of that, because we are pussies, and if we had to bleed each month, we'd all be on permanent disability and nothing would ever get accomplished.

Women - you amaze me.

xo

Have a great weekend.

Peace.

The Truth about Cats and Dogs and non-Practicing lesbians.

Dear Would-Be non-Practicing Lesbians,

Greetings. I understand that some of you are tempted, late at night, while listening to the voices in your head natter on, whilst trying to drown out your husband's snoring, to picture yourself grabbing half of everything and running off with your BFF to some remote island, where Suzanne Whang will narrate you and your realtor finding just the perfect house for you two to live. It would be a house by the beach, with a little garden, or at least a plot to grow some herbs, and where you would stroll each day down to the market to get food and then you'd stop for a quick dip in the ocean and settle in with your book on the beach, as your lap dog snoozes on a towel. Things would be efficient. Things would be serene. Nobody would be asking you where anything is, or what time it is, or where the keys are, or if you can notice the ketchup stain on the shirt, or if you wanted a quickie. It would be just what you think you wanted. FINALLY, you would say, I am free. FREE AT LAST. FREE. AT. LAAAAST.

But would this be really what you want? It's only right that you should play the way you feel it, but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness. Read on:

This whole post is in response to this:

www.heartinhand.wordpress.com#!/entry/3067

My dearest friend Rocky posted this in a good pre-menstrual, tongue in cheek manner one night, and it made me LOL. However, it also made me think about just how different men and women are. I never thought I would ever say that. You see, I am an "enlightened" student of the 1990s. I always took pride in just how "evolved" I am. Since I was a kid, I always formed my closest friendships with women, and by the time I hit university, I was a 90's era prof's dream. I was one of the first men to take Women's Studies at my university, and pretty much all of my undergraduate, and a lot of my graduate studies at university were solely focused on gender. Let me tell you, every fucking paper I wrote was about feminism or "the other" or the oppressed/colored/gay/disabled.... you name it, I was your sensitive expert. It got to the point that when I finally conceded to the idea of marriage, I came with my own rules. Under no means was Rachel to change her name. And then, at the actual wedding, I put this huge resistance up against cutting the cake, as I had heard that it was symbolic of breaking the hymen. No, I am making none of this up. I was a real pill.

But somewhere in between then and now, real life got in the way. And, I have to say, that the older I get, the more I realize that I can't make any fucking sense of women. Whereas 25 years ago, I took pride in "getting" the core emotional make up of women, now? Fuck if I can understand what the hell makes you people tick. Seriously, I don't. And fuck me Dorothy, all of this sensitive male bullshit? Well, that shit just doesn't fly in real life. I keep freaking myself out when I admit any of this. But anyway. Let me respond to each of the bullets in Rocky's post:

-- First off: Men are dumb. Well, yes, we ARE dumb, in a "women judging men" sort of way. Of course we don't know what the hell is going on outside of our little bubble. All y'all ensure that this is so. I know you have my passport/wallet/room key/car keys/blood type in your big old-lady purse. However, this is because you INSIST that you carry this stuff, because once, 23 years ago, my wallet went missing for 15 minutes. THAT will never be let go. No, I won't mention the time that you lost your pay cheque 20 years ago, but that time my wallet was in the couch cushions? Well, I will pay for that forevermore. And it's not like we DON'T want you to have all of this stuff. it makes you feel good to take care of it, and we trust you, so knock yourself out. But it's 60/40 of necessity and humouring you. You figure out which percentage goes where. OH! And if you didn't have the 400 gallon purse, you'd be mortified to see us with a fucking fanny pack, so what the hell DO you want?

-- Inept "good" husbands. No matter how involved we try to be, we can never trump the mother and the form. To say it ghetto, Bitch, you representing. We may stumble over the birth dates of our kids and such, but it doesn't mean we are hands-off dads. Rather, all y'all take control of all of that stuff. When we do work on those things, we get the funny laugh an the condescending pat on the back: "You gave THOSE three things as clues for the show and tell thing?! Haha, no, that's... fine.. hahaha... no really... Jesus". So automatically, we are told that we are idiots.

-- I can't comment on the dishes thing, as I usually do the cooking and dishes. However, the other stuff that I DON'T do on a regular basis can, I suppose, get the same reaction. Yes, when we do something once in 15 years, fucking well right we want praise. Yes, I know you always do it, but maybe we'd do it more if you would say "hell, thanks baby, for scrubbing that pot." Hells bells.

-- No, the person you marry at 20 isn't the same person you would marry @ 40. HOWEVER. Let me say this for my fellow penis brothers. We love you more at 40 than we ever could have at 20. At 20, we were still really into ourselves. We are always a work in progress. And while I realize that there are many rat-bastard men who trade their wives in for newer, whore models, those of us who get it are crazier in love with you than ever. Relationships ebb and flow, and there are many times when you probably think WTF?!? But we fall crazier in love with you in our 40s (those who don't ditch you for some gross 25 year old bitch with a daddy complex - it happens, yes, but not to us good ones). Yes, while you are sitting there thinking "you washed the dishes and you want praise, asshole?", and you are wondering who this dude is you married 20 years ago, who is now 50 lbs heavier, and now has hair on his back, knuckles, and toes, and who looks a little puffy and balder or greyer, and who has gotten wrinkles around his eyes, and who seems to sweat all night long, well..... we are the same guy you married, but who DOESN'T think the same things about you. No, rather, we think you are the shit. While you may have your insecure moments about yourself, we AREN'T thinking any of that. Those dudes who do think that have left you before they went to hell, and are humping those daddy issue girls - those won't end well, so that's good revenge. Anyway, we aren't even remotely thinking anything about your weight, age, wrinkles, etc. We are thinking "GodDAMN! I've got me a fox, and I wish I wasn't so old looking/fat/wrinkled/hairy, because she could do so much better." You see, we are consumed with "she coulda done better." And it's true. You could have. You think you couldn't, but you could have. We know. We're men. We're piggish. We know what other men are thinking instinctively. This is why we like to parade you around, to show you off like a prized pig at the fair. it's the same old story - "take a good look guys, it's just you and your hand tonight, because I'm taking HER home. Sucks to be you, wanker!" What you see in the mirror isn't what we see. You see non-existent wrinkles and flab and lop-sided boobs and God knows what, but what we see is a fine fox. One that we want to get to know carnally.

-- Which brings us to the "let's squeeze one in before your aunt visits/you fall off the roof/whatever menstruation metaphor you use." This is where we really differ: sex. I will say that yes, I understand that I have no idea what it's like to be a woman and to go on a hormonal roller coaster each month, and thus suggestions of sex while pre-menstrual or during ovulation are obviously bad ideas on our part that we just don't grasp. And yes, I know that the huge shit I took that time that I couldn't quit talking about by no means has NO relation to what it feels like to give birth, and that time I had cramps from too many bran muffins doesn't really cover menstrual cramps either. But you see, the big difference between us is that since sex feels great, we always want to do it. who doesn't want to feel great? Who needs cocaine? So for us, we can have a cold, be very overtired and moody, be borderline pukey, have an absessed tooth, and an ingrown toe-nail that the cat just dragged her claw over, and if you flashed us certain body parts, we'd be all "YES, at least THIS will make me feel better for a bit." Really, it's only severe food poisoning that will stop us from performing. Otherwise, why WOULDN'T you want to do something that makes you feel good when you aren't feeling well at the moment? So when all y'all aren't in the mood because you are ovulating or getting your period, or you are tired/stressed/hungry/thirsty/want to watch Oprah/need to re-grout the sink, well, we DON'T GET IT! Hell, even IF, for some odd reason we weren't in the mood, we'd throw you a bang just because. And we are ready and willing for anything. You want us do dress in a captain's outfit and go down on you while speaking like Herve Villecheze as Tattoo? Fine. We'll show you da plane. Just ask, and we are up for it. Well, no, I say that now, but really, if you ask for that, we'll be all "oh yeah, that's great, I'm cool you get your freak on my thinking of midgets. who wouldn't?" And then we'd lie awake at night thinking "she fucking loves little people!" and would then talk about them forever and drive you crazy and throw that up in a fight at some point and then drink a bunch of wine and cry about how jealous we feel of little people because we just can't measure up. But the fact is, we'd try to pretend we were a midget just to rock your fucking world. Basically, we'd do you in a boat, we'd do you on a float... we'd do you with peas porridge in your pot nine days old, if you like nursery rhyme analogies. And yes, even if you literally had 9 day old peas porridge in your pot, we'd probably think it was really dirty and hot. Because we have no fucking sense when sex is involved.

And you know, it's not like it's so much fucking fun to be always consumed with sex. The older you get, the more you actually NEED to do it, or at least that's the case for me. I remember back during my teen years, I once gave up carnal pleasures for Lent. Yes, for Lent. I know, 25 years later, it sounds almost sacrilegious, but when you are a teenager who wants to sacrifice something you love for Jesus, it's actually quite touching. Anyway, I remember those 40 days as really, really, frustrating, but physically? Not the end of the word.

Fast forward a bunch of years. The older I become, the older I realize that my prostate is touchy. If a week goes by without youngblood getting to the freaky party (It's a Teena Marie song title, God rest her soul), my fucking back is sore and my pelvis is achey and I just want to get the damn thing over so I can feel better. So really, it's just something that has to happen. I always get the "oh fuck off with the sore back" look when I mention it, but at this point of my life, I just want to keep the pipes flowing. So, to summarize - we don't objectify you - if we ever did, it was back in the early days. Now? We still want to feel good, but we want you to, too. So tell us what you want, and we'll give it to you. And forgive us for thinking with our penises. But you'll never understand why we are so obsessed with ours, and we'll never get why you don't want to do it 24/7. Hells bells, if I could theoretically go at it over and over, Lord knows I'd be calling in sick once a week. Why you aren't, I don't rightly know...

And finally, we are caught in between expectations of who we should be. As men, we are in a world of mixed messages. Those of us of a certain age have tried to fight back against the stereotypical male behaviour and thus we may send mixed messages or come across as doormats. We don't want to be Fred Flintstone or James Dobson or whoever - you know, the domineering man who rules the roost. We all had friends who had fathers like this. Bring me my drink and paper and cook me my supper and look sexy and take care of the kids because it's women's work. So since we don't know boundaries, we overcompensate for this behaviour that we don't condone but nevertheless feel guilty by association and thus try to please. This seems to piss women off. We perhaps come across as weak or afraid of conflict. But really, we want to keep the peace to keep you happy. Because when you are happy, we are happy. So if you make pork chops every week, and we hate pork chops, we won't tell you. It's not to be condescending, but rather a sign of respect and love. If you want to get your freak on only one certain way, well, hell, we'll act out that play just for you, because a happy you is a happy hubby. If you want to name the baby Eunice? Hell, we'll pretend she's a perfect Eunice. You know what I mean? We aren't being pussies. We are showing respect. Yes, you probably say it's easier to say, gee, I am Jewish, so the pork chop isn't really a good idea, but really... we aren't SCARED of you - we are just so damn in love with you that really, eating a pig isn't so horrible. So why over analyze and make a big deal of this stuff? You think too much.

Anyway, to summarize - we are so different in how we look at things and how we process things. But we still need each other, more than we can say. Rocky ended a subsequent post with "One" by U2, a song I love. However, I think this song defines what the hell I am saying - you say this... and this...and this.... and for us guys? All we want is you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqEUnvR1mWo

Sorry, you'll have to copy and paste - this friggin MAC doesn't seem to post links.

Enjoy. Truer words have never been spoken.

Seacrest out.