IRISHMAN FOR HIRE

I just found out that one of my favorite television shows has been cancelled. I knew it had to happen one day but I am still dismayed. The show has given me many hours of great entertainment and in retrospect, it even created one troubling period in my life where I learned an invaluable lesson.

Five years ago, a friend of mine got me hooked on the show Numb3ers. When he first told me about the series, I thought the plot seemed pretty laughable but I promised to watch a couple of episodes. The premise of the show is simple; an FBI agent named Don has a brother named Charlie who is a math genius. Charlie is a consultant to the FBI and through mathematical theorems, he helps Don solve cases.

It sounded pretty far-fetched to me at first but after watching a few episodes, I was captivated. Charlie’s premise was that arbitrary activity is part of a larger, more complex design. By adding variables to an equation, the cases can be cracked by deciphering the underlying pattern of behavior. As I became more engrossed in Numb3ers, I started creating my own mathematical theorems to see if the random aspects on my life were actually random.

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As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I finally joined Facebook. Many of my friends had been asking me to join for months but for one reason or another, I hadn’t. Once I finally signed up and set up my account, I encouraged Stephanie to join as well. This past weekend as I clicked over to her Facebook page to leave a message on her wall, I noticed that she had posted a new status comment which simply read, “Remembering what we did on weekends before we had kids!”

As I quickly tried to think of a witty comment to leave on her page, I started to think about the weekends we had spent together before we had children. It was a simpler time because our weekends were less structured and much more spontaneous. We woke up when we wanted to, we lounged around all day whenever we felt like it, and most importantly we didn’t need to pack up toys, snacks and various knickknacks that made us look like the most common tourist in our own hometown. We were free to do whatever we wanted to do whenever we wanted to do it!

Thirteen years ago, when Stephanie and I had first moved to Massachusetts, we woke up one Saturday morning and decided to run a few errands. After a couple of routine stops, we decided to go to the store and do our weekly grocery shopping. As I drove by the Stop & Shop parking lot and saw that it was full of cars, I passed by the entrance to the store and jumped on the highway.

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This past Saturday morning, I woke up with a severe migraine. I don’t know if I slept wrong, if I was suffering from residual stress at work, if it was a side effect of my latest bought of writer’s block or if I was going through severe caffeine withdrawal; all I knew is that I woke up and my head hurt.

I rolled over and Stephanie wasn’t in bed. She must have slipped out of the room when the children woke up and headed downstairs for her morning cup of coffee. I could hear the children arguing over the television remote in the guest room and with my mind draped in a state of morning fog; I made the mistake of uttering something to let the world know I had awaken.

Joshua came running into my room to tell me about his latest feat with his new Pokemon game for his Nintendo DS. He was only one level away from being a Pokemon Ranger and he was so proud of himself. I, on the other hand, was one decibel level from feeling my head explode and I wished that I could’ve crawled back under the covers and gone back to sleep.

Stephanie came into our room and told me that it was freezing outside and that I might want to reconsider raking the leaves. The leaves; I had completely forgotten about the leaves! A migraine, fatigue, a severe cold front and leaves all over the yard; my vacation was starting out with a bang! I rolled over, covered my head with my pillow and tried to hide from everyone and everything, but my migraine wasn’t letting me go back to sleep.

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Last month, Stephanie and I took the kids to North Carolina for a long weekend. After a long summer, we were all on the mend emotionally and physically, so it was critical for us to take the children away for a weekend of fun and frivolity. So Stephanie and I decided that our anniversary gift to each other was a family trip back to Raleigh, North Carolina to have dinner once again at the Melting Pot restaurant.

As we planned our trip, the hotel we wanted to stay at was close to full and had very few non-smoking rooms left. As we perused other hotels in the area, I went back to the original hotel and realized that for an extra four dollars per person, per day that we could upgrade our reservations to the executive level. The cost was irrelevant at the time because it was still a better deal than all of the other hotels we had been considering.

When we arrived at our hotel on Columbus Day weekend, we realized that there was a conference being held in our hotel. As it turns out, the conference was the reason we had to elevate our reservations to the executive level and I am glad that Stephanie and I chose this option.

Our floor had an executive lounge that came with many amenities that ultimately lowered the cost of our stay and gave us another place to unwind besides our hotel room. The executive lounge hosted a free breakfast each morning, free snacks and soft drinks all day long and an evening “cocktail reception.” For me, the large screen television and the couch were a great benefit. After the children went to bed, I was able to leave the room and watch television elsewhere so I didn’t keep the kids up all night. And, as luck would have it, I was in the executive lounge when I inevitably met the “Mississippi Girls.”

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I was at a birthday party for my nephews over the weekend and I overheard a conversation at the table behind me that piqued my interest. Four women were sharing stories about their husbands and the antics that take place in their daily lives. As I sat there chuckling at the humorous war stories being shared, one of the women asked the age old question, “Do men ever grow up?!”

This question has been plaguing women for years. I have heard the question posed at family functions, church, work, at the mall and I have to admit, my wife has even asked me if I ever plan on growing up. I have never answered her because I was sure the question was rhetorical but after hearing the question for the millionth time in my life, I feel like I have to answer the question once and for all.

“Do men grow up?”

“No, we don’t! Or at least not in the way women would hope.”

The truth is simple; by the standards our wives use to judge us, men don’t grow up. I can imagine guys everywhere trying to convince the woman in their life that I am wrong; that I don’t know what I am talking about, and that I can speak for myself but I don’t speak for men all over the world.

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Author’s Note: My Mother-in-law, Kathy passed away this week. This story was written three years ago and has not been shared until today; I would like to dedicate it in honor of Kathy. We miss you Kathy and as you loved to celebrate Holidays, it was a warm Fourth of July morning three years ago when I realized I had so much to thank you for!! Two of those reasons are mentioned in this article. Thank you Kathy for your love, your patience and guidance but most importantly, your friendship; especially your enthusiastic support for all of my stories. I loved sharing them with you. We all love you Mom and you will live in our hearts forever.

THE FOURTH OF JULY

I woke up to the sound of my youngest child, Chloe, fussing in her basinet. She was hungry and as I rolled over in bed, I saw Stephanie sleeping peacefully. The night before (the Third of July celebration in our town) had been a long night! We had fun with our friends during our annual barbecue, we saw an incredible fireworks display over our front yard, followed by more fun into the late evening and a little cleaning up afterward until we finally fell asleep long after midnight.

So five o’clock in the morning came earlier than usual and our six-week old daughter was hungry. I quietly snuck out of bed, picked up Chloe, carried her downstairs, started to heat up her bottle and changed her diaper. As I was waiting for the bottle to warm up, I looked out the window and saw that it was turning into an absolutely glorious morning. The sun was coming up on a quiet Fourth of July, the air was warm, and you could hear the birds beginning to bring in the new day with their songs of serenity.

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It has already started; the weather has gotten hot and the requests to go to the beach are starting to become a daily request. My wife, Stephanie, just got the beach sticker for the car and the children can’t wait to run and jump in the sand every single day of the summer vacation. And once again, I have renewed my annual quest to find one woman in the world that does not like the beach; just to prove a balance in the universe actually exists.

My search has taken me through many informal observations to find “the one!” I have spent years sifting through personal ads in the newspaper trying to prove that somewhere in the world there was a woman who couldn’t stand the beach. Her existence is crucial because it would be a sign that there may be a way for guys to escape the standard relationship trap of having to go through the sandy torture of the beach just to make a potential mate happy. But, alas, time and time again, in every personal ad I read, all I could find was the standard quote that stated without a doubt the simple fact that, “I (the woman) like romantic walks on the beach…” Yuck! Sickening! Gross!

What is romantic about walking on the beach? Sand gets on everything; on your feet, in your socks, in your shoes, and if we imagine for a moment where the “romantic walks” might lead to romantically, one could end up with sand in some very embarrassing and unpleasant places.

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Last night I sat down to write out the injury report for our annual Snow Bowl Co-Ed Touch Football game on Super Bowl Sunday and as I finished the list, I realized that nobody on the report had a “knee injury” this year. It’s an interesting little footnote on the past seven years of our lives but one that will probably live on for many years to come.

It all really hit me about fifteen months ago when Stephanie and I were entertaining friends at our house. Will and I were shooting the breeze on the couch when I overheard his wife, Kristin, say to Stephanie, “Oh my God, I almost forgot, guess who has a ‘knee injury?’”

“Who?” Stephanie responded excitedly.

“Joanna. Actually, she had a ‘knee injury’.”

“That’s so awesome, I’m so happy for her. And Danielle won’t be playing in the Snow Bowl game this year either because she has a ‘knee injury’ as well.”

“That’s great.”

And from there, the conversation about “knee injuries” continued while I sat back and smirked. It was odd for me to hear them talking about “knee injuries” as commonly as most people would discuss the weather or the daily news. It was a weird conversation for them to have but as they continued, I just settled back into the couch and patted myself on the back.

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“Honey, where did we put the snow scrapers?” I yelled up the stairs as I was rummaging through our garage trying to find them.

“I don’t know. I think mine is in my car still.”

“You think it is in your car or it is in your car?”

“I think it is in my car.”

“Yeah, right” I said under my breath as I trudged out to Stephanie’s car. Even though I knew there wasn’t a snow scraper within five hundred feet of her Saturn, I looked in every nook and cranny of her vehicle and I didn’t find what I was looking for.

So I went back into the house and frustratingly stated, “There isn’t a snow scraper anywhere in your car! Any other ideas?”

“Well, then I have no idea where it is!”

“How is it possible that two, rationale, responsible adults can lose their snow scrapers every single year?!”

“I don’t know,” she said angrily in her ‘this conversation better be over if you know what is good for you’ voice. As I realized my cue from the intonation of her voice, I did what I was supposed to do in these situations; get the heck out of the house! Whenever my wife gave me “the look”, “the voice” or “the sigh,” I instinctively knew that I had better make myself scarce for a little while or else! It was like some prehistoric ritual that got stuck in our genetic code and has been handed down from generation to generation throughout history.

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It was a hot day and I was glad that I had decided to go out to the beach, soak up the sun and do some “sightseeing.” I felt bad about ditching the guys for a day at the beach so I could check out some of the “local scenery” because we came to Hawaii on a golf trip so we could play two rounds of golf each day, every day for seven straight days. As good as this idea sounded in theory, realistically, once we got to Hawaii, how could I have possibly passed up on going to the beach for a day? I couldn’t! The sand was pristine, the water was crystal clear and the views were amazing and this is from a guy who doesn’t even like the beach.

I knew that once my wife found out about my day at the beach that I would be in some serious hot water for a while but until you have been to Hawaii and you have seen all of the skimpy bathing suits, you could never understand how worthwhile this day at the beach was for me. It was like a Mecca of toned and tanned bodies. I picked the best spot on the beach to set up my chair and relax. Off to my right was a group of women who kept rubbing sun tan lotion all over each other. They had been rubbing each other with the lotion constantly and although it seemed to me like they should have covered every part of their bodies by now, I wasn’t complaining. Maybe they really wanted to protect themselves against the harmful UV rays of the sun, who was I to judge them? It was this specific type of “sightseeing” that made skipping out on a day of golf with the guys absolutely worth it.

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