namely, fit for a dog

Posts Tagged ‘The Wife

i have problems

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I like to eat food.

I mean I REALLY like to eat food.  But not all food.  For instance, theWife joined a veggie co-op last year and every other Thursday she comes home with this:


Which doesn’t excite me all that much.  You see my body has a daily vegetable quota.  Once I reach the quota the next bite of vegetable usually makes me all gaggy and such.

No.  This is more like what I prefer theWife bring home from the co-op:

Junk Food

Oh sweet mercy.

[Sidebar: Dug I know you are seeing those Cosmic Brownies and think you have found your culprit.  I’m innocent.  Boo’ing is an impossible task for me…I consume the treats long before they make it to the door.]

Problem #1

Over the years I have developed a Pavlovian response to junk food.

It all started as a child.

Growing up we had The Third Drawer (my friends coined the phrase). The Third Drawer was the third drawer down on the left side of the stove in our kitchen and Mom kept it fully stocked with junk food…much to my (and my friends) liking.  In all my youth, I can never remember a time when the third drawer wasn’t brimming with artery clogging, waistline expanding yumminess.

Over the years, my fondness for treats has evolved into an addiction.  Literally.

Case in point, we ate dinner with Mark and Rachel a couple weeks back.  Rachel being famous for her skills whipped up a wicked cake of lemony deliciousness and combined it with chocolate pools of heaven.  Being the great hostess she is, she sent us home with a sizeable portion of what was left of the cake.  I ate two slices at dinner and then most of what she sent home.  Looking back I think I ate half of that cake.  HALF.  By myself.

Herein lies one of my problems.  I can’t say no when offered junk food.  I can’t stop myself from finding and consuming junk food.  I know where every junk food stash is at the office.  I can never stop with just one.  I usually will eat junk food until I am sick.  I even eat when it doesn’t sound good.  I can’t stop myself.

Admittedly, my “habit” is a running punchline at the office.  That’s not good right?

Problem #2

I am getting older.

I was blessed with good genes.  My parents are thin.  I grew up thin – so thin, in fact, my friends would  ask me to pull up my shirt and suck in to show the rib cage in all it’s glory.  They used to call me Alien.  Nice, huh?

These days when I pull up the shirt and suck in…it looks the same as when I don’t suck in.  Bulbous.

Age and junk food began to collide around 2001.  That was the year we bought 19 boxes of girl scout cookies from a nice lady at work.  One month later I was complaining to theWife that all of the girl scout cookies were gone.  She said of all 19 BOXES she had only eaten one sleeve of thin mints.  Houston, we had a problem.

So what I am about to type is not based in vanity, more to illustrate the point.

When I met theWife in college, I was spending 4-5 days a week out climbing the crags around St. George, consequently I was in pretty good shape.  The first time theWife saw me with my shirt off her comment was “look at your body.”

Today? She calls me Shrek.

I think she has a fair argument for bait and switch.

Problem #3

Further, emphasizing the problem are the guys in the neighborhood.  All great guys to be sure, but all also are incredibly fit and much faster than me on a bike.

Sam is the Wunderkind.  It appears Mark has affixed anvils where his calves should be.  Rick looks like he just came off the Pro Tour.  Erik is almost always shirtless in 60 degrees.  JDub and I started in about the same place a year ago and now I can’t catch him up a climb.  Even Dug – the elder statesman – in an off year, is no slouch on the bike.

Eating junk food like I do makes it nigh impossible to match pedal strokes with these dudes.

Problem #4

With all the riding I did this year in prep for Leadville and LOTOJA I actually lost weight…20lbs.  That’s great right?  Correction, that WAS great.  Only, one month after LOTOJA I have put 10 lbs back on.  ONE MONTH.

What’s worse is I look like I have added 30 lbs.

Last weekend I put on the jersey and shorts to go out and ride some dirt for a few hours and this is what I saw in the mirror:

Fat Guy in a Kit

I’ve got rolls and ripples popping up all over the place.

That’s it.  I resolve to not gain weight this winter.

Problem #5

So I started with some ab workouts.  It was hot that morning, so I had my shirt off.  I was laying on my back crunching and twisting when I heard it.

It sounded like a fart.  Funny, didn’t smell like one. Come to think of it…didn’t come from the traditional location either.  Slightly perplexed I continued with my routine.

When it happened again I was horrified. I had pinpointed the source.  It was a back flab fart.

What on the great green earth is a back flab fart you ask?

Well my friends, a back flab fart occurs when you eat too damn much junk food, don’t exercise enough, take off your shirt and do ab workouts on a yoga mat.  Combining blub rolls and sweat on a non-absorbant surface traps pockets of air that rupture as you roll about…thus creating the back flab fart.

To quote Kramer:

Look away, I’m hideous.

Written by eber

October 30, 2009 at 6:40 am

he STILL likes the bad guys

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Remember back here, when we learned how great it was to share the experience that is The Trilogy with my oldest son?

And remember how it all took a turn for the worse..suddenly theFirst Born became enamored with all characters dark and villainous.

Trust me. Back when I thought it was a good idea to expose a 4 year old to Star Wars, I did indeed go through the “goodly parent” checklist before pushing play.

Q: Am I just going to plunk the kid down in front of the tube so I can get something else done?

A: Heck no – I am going to plunk both the kid AND the dad down in front of the tube…the tube can baby sit BOTH of us.  [check]

Q: Will this be an activity that educates or is it just a mindless waste of time?

A: Are you kidding?  It’s STAR WARS!  Think how much smarter Einstein would have been had he lived long enough to be enlightened by the great theatrical masterpiece that is The Trilogy.  [check]

Q: What’s the MPAA rating?

A: PG – and we are talking 1977 PG so that is like the uber G rating in today’s terms.  [check]

Okay, goodly parent checklist complete.

[6 months later]

As we walked over to pick up theFirst Born from Sunday School, his teacher was waiting at the door.  Red faced.  Tears streaming down her cheeks.  Laughing uncontrollably.

Uh oh.

Apparently the lesson was on prayer.  When she asked for examples of what we can pray for theFirst Born responded:

“Heavenly Father, HELP ME, HELP ME.  Please Heavenly Father help me put my head back on.”


Back when I was going through the checklist, how was I supposed to remember everything on the “goodly parent” checklist AND the part in Star Wars when Luke sabers Vader’s head off while training in the Degoba System?

It wasn’t even the REAL vader…it was more like a dream.

theWife isn’t buying it.  Now SHE goes over the checklist with me before I put any Father/Son plans in action.

Like I said, Sundays BEFORE kids was MUCH different.

Written by eber

May 10, 2009 at 12:00 am

funny how fings change

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Ahh…Sunday, blessed Sunday.

Sure the whole day-of-rest thing is great and all, but for theWife and I Sundays used to be all about the  Starland Vocal Band.  Okay not really the band, but the song.  Okay not really the song, but the lyrics.  Okay not really the lyrics, but the putting of the lyrics into practice.  That’s right…Afternoon Delight.

So theWife and I had a pretty sweet thing going.  Every Sunday.  Like clockwork.  Skyrockets in flight.

Then it all happened so quickly.  Check that…IT didn’t happen so quickly, but “it” happened so quickly.

You know, “it” being the moment we heard “the Noise”.  At the MOST inopportune time theWife says “did you hear THAT?”

In fact, I DID hear “that”.  Suddenly our  expressions and…[ahem] postures were much different than they were just moments before.

Looking around…we saw nothing.  Maybe just the house creaking.  Right, that’s what it was…shifting foundation.

“Wait…did you leave the door open?”


“If not you, then WHO?”

Turns out…it wasn’t the house settling.

Do you remember the Independent George episode on Seinfeld?  You getting my drift?  WORLD’S COLLIDING!

Our Afternoon Delight world had collided with No More Napping world.

So I walk into theFirst Born’s bedroom, where he is sitting on his bed.  His face white as a sheet.  Unable to look me in the eyes.

“Hey buddy! Whatcha doin?”


“How was your nap?”

“I saw you and mommy doin funny fings.”

[chirp, chirp]

I had no words.

What do you SAY?  What could you POSSIBLY say?  He was THREE YEARS OLD.

Well, needless to say we have had to find other reasons to like Sunday afternoons.

Chutes & Ladders anyone?

Written by eber

April 9, 2009 at 12:32 pm

no go in playroom!

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When I was a kid we had a black poodle named Sasha (I hadn’t seen Point Break yet so naming her the Zeph was not yet on the radar).   She never told me as much, but I gathered that Sasha lived a somewhat difficult life.  She had survived being run over by a car (I think more than once), had terrible cataracts in her eyes, was completely blind (I am not certain, but I surmise the blindness may have been caused by doing battle with one of those cars), and she lived with me (I’ll get back to this point later).

I really loved that dog. I remember the day Mom met me and Dad in the driveway to tell us that Sasha had died while we were at baseball practice.  I cried. Then went in the backyard where Mom had stashed Sasha in a garbage bag and set her next to the dumpster (nice touch Mom).  I pulled Sasha out of the bag and gave her a kiss on the head (in hindsight that seems a little awkward and umm…icky).  Since that day I have always felt a twinge of guilt about some of the “tricks” I used to play on Sasha.

What kind of “tricks” you might wonder? 

Well, given that Sasha was blind, she made her way about the house rather gingerly. I was always amazed at how well she knew the layout of the house and could navigate between rooms.  That is unless someone messed with her sense of direction by calling her name and then setting random things between said someone and her.  Watching an aging blind poodle find her way around obstacles by gently bumping into them was pure comic entertainment to a 5 year old.  To a 35 year old…I feel guilt.  But not so much guilt as regret.  And not so much regret because of what I did, but because of the dreaded BLACK POODLE VOODOO curse I have been under for 30 years now.  It is real…and lasting, oh boy is it lasting (I’ll get to this point later too).

Not long after I discovered the joys of messing with Sasha, I started sleep walking and talking.  The first sign of the Black Poodle Voodoo came the night The Sister (I only have one) heard thumping, bumping and banging coming from my room in the middle of the night. 

Thump, bump, BANG.  Thump, bump, BANG.   

The Sister is 11 years older than me and kind of motherly which is why she came in to see what all the commotion was about.  Turns out…it was the Black Poodle Voodoo.   The Sister found me in an unconscious state of repeatedly walking into the closet doors…falling back from the collision…then walking into the doors again.  Thump, bump, BANG.  Over and over. In my mind’s eye I can see Sasha skulking there in a dark corner, the poodle version of Baron Samedi, with my voodoo doll likeness in paw walking me repeatedly into those closet doors – while muttering under her biscuit breath “so you like to mess with blind dogs, huh? Bwahahaha!” 

Side note: Speaking of Baron Samedi and James Bond, after seeing Live and Let Die was anyone really comfortable drinking 7 UP in the 70’s and 80’s?  I always worried that after drinking it I would pass out, then wake up bound to a pole  in some Haitian jungle with crazy people all gyrating around me.  Frightening.

As I was saying….Black Poodle Voodoo.  What happened next is evidence that doggy voodoo is very enduring.  Another late night and The Sister hears footsteps and a door open in the hallway.  Curious and probably a bit concerned, she opens her door to see me standing in the dark…in front of the hallway linen closet…door open…PEEING. On the linens.  Totally asleep.

[30 years later] 

Last weekend I notice a note on the kitchen counter.  On it The Wife has cryptically written “NO GO IN PLAYROOM!”


As I relate the story, in my mind’s eye I can see Sasha again up in doggy heaven (or some voodoo doggy afterlife that looks a lot like a Haitian jungle), with my 2 year-old son’s voodoo doll likeness in her paw.  Directing him to go up into the playroom.  Take off his diaper.  Then POO on the floor.  But wait, there’s more…for good measure have him STEP IN IT and then TRACK IT around the room. Little brown footprints…all over the place. 

Seriously…no go in playroom.

Written by eber

January 29, 2009 at 8:00 pm