- My pregnant wife has not taken her crazy hormonal levels out on me. Yet.
- My pregnant wife and unborn child are in good health.
- The 20 stupidest GI Joe vehicles ever.
- I am living the pants-free dream again and no longer working in Design Purgatory.
- My lower back is no longer destroyed.
- Learning about this before the wife dragged me to see Twilight tonight (yes, the crowd was rife with loser-tastic Emo kids. And for the love of God, Edward, just turn Bella into a vampire).
- Rachel Ray and Ann Coulter with be silenced through the month of December.
- Fetal Bites: America’s number one fetus cookie cutter. Upon purchase I foresee Scottish Shortbread fetus cookies in my future.
- A giant pregnant anaconda is slain. Seeing all those dead anaconda babies strewn about gave me a Temple of Doom vibe as opposed to a JLo/Ice Cube vibe.
- A preview of Steven Colbert’s “Another Christmas Song.” Colbert has a decent voice and I am guessing the album will kitschy and mildly entertaining ranking somewhere between Mr. Hankey’s Christmas Classics and The Star Wars Christmas Album (the latter of which I owned on vinyl in my youth).
Last Monday my boss and I had a Come-To-Jesus chat regarding my complete lack of enthusiasm for my current position. While I informed him my lack of passion did not hinder me from going through the motions (just ask my ex-girlfriend She Who Will Not Be Named), I did acknowledge that I was completely burnt out. Many factors led to my burnout; frequent late paychecks, a complete lack of any tangible project process (i.e. massive undertakings were given one line explanations like “Client Center back-end development: 36 hours”), lack of established deadlines and milestones (other than early 2008 or late 2008), non-payment of contractors/vendors and a general malaise regarding client/vendor relationships. I was issued an ultimatum to decide by that Friday whether or not I wanted to stay with the company. When Friday rolled around, I quit, packed up all my shit and went over to DJ’s house to get drunk and play poker (in a rare Ex-Data Slaughterhouse Employees Game victory, I took home $60). After a tumultuous career path over the past three years, I am finally growing some balls and committing full-time to Broz Design. I have already nabbed two and a half retainer clients (the other half happening once I get off my ass and draw up a contract) that will pay me more all while working less and living the pants-free dream. My pregnant wife is thankfully awesome and supportive of my pursuits and deserves a new Lexus once I start rolling in the dough. It is either that or we will be selling our unborn child on the Mexican black market to make ends meet. Wish me luck either way.
Update: Cafe Press has their panties in a twist over my Obama Jesus illustration and has temporarily taken the store items down while we haggle over their content usage policy via email.
As of post time and last night’s presidential debate, I am still undecided on who to cast my vote for come November. My opinion of McCain has changed little over the past few months (still an old war dog) and while I like the idea of Obama (the man, not the Messiah), his rabid, cult-ish following makes me not want to vote for him. Case and point: while out knocking back a million beers a few Fridays ago with Johnny Ballgame, an intoxicated young woman approached us at the bar and asked for matches to light her cigarette(s). I handed her a pack from the bar ashtray and idle banter soon segued into “Who are you guys voting for?” which segued into her Barack Obama recruitment routine. She informed us shortly thereafter she had been canvasing the area neighborhood on a grassroots campaign to recruit Independent voters to vote Obama. Annoyed at the fact she broke cardinal drinking rule #2 (no politics) and ruined the excellent buzz I had going, I decided to push her buttons. What followed was an eloquent verbal tirade on my part extolling the virtues of one Ralph Nader and concluding with, “I think that is who Jesus would vote for if he were alive today.” The young woman blinked, took a drag of her fifth cigarette, pointed her finger at me and quipped, “Fuck Jesus! What did he ever do for this world?! Vote Obama!” and then stormed off. This cute story inspired me to create the Obama Jesus campaign. Do my unborn child a favor and buy as much Obama Jesus gear as humanely possible. Daddy needs to buy some Pampers.
As my seed festers in my wife’s baby maker, I have been laying awake at nights and pondering life’s important questions. Will I turn into the cold, unforgiving man my father was growing up when my unborn child arrives? Will I be able to afford diapers and a college fund? Will the wife and I stay happily married with the added stress of a newborn baby? Could DJ and I get away with beating Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt to death? I keep coming back to one nagging query; do I hate my job or do I hate my career? While I acknowledge I do not have the worst professional life by a long shot (I could be languishing in data sales, for example), I cannot say that I am satisfied with where I am currently at career-wise (nor, for that matter, have I ever been satisfied). I love what I do but I am finally acknowledging that I am running on creative fumes. A new job may be the answer. A full-time stab at freelance may be the answer. Writing the book I told myself I would write a long time ago may be the answer. In short; I am dealing with a lot of shit. Confucius once said “By three methods we may learn wisdom: first, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” F’in A, Confucius. F’in A.
The first trimester has been a breeze for me thus far. The wife on the other hand, has been experiencing severe exhaustion, hormonal mood swings, headaches, that hungover morning feeling minus the enjoyment of a night consuming numerous gin and tonics and ravenous hunger. Non-pregnant wife has always been a small eater, happily subsisting for weeks on nothing but ice chips and lettuce. Pregnant wife on the other hand, can put away the grub. Thus far her predominant pregnancy craving has been tacos. We actually rolled to Taco Bell late one night because “Momma had a hankerin'” (the wife last made a Run For The Border during her junior year of college a decade ago). Last week after our first doctor’s appointment, we spent over $30 dollars at Little Anitas on just tacos. I pride myself on my taco consumption and plan on matching the pregnant wife’s totals anytime she sends me to an area taco stand during the wee hours of the morning. This is a sacrifice I am willing to make on behalf of my unborn child. I think this is the definition of unconditional love.
About a month and half ago, the wife decided to get off birth control to, “See what happens?” Three weeks later, the wife excitedly woke me up by waving a positive pregnancy test in my face. My immediate response was, “Did you just pee on that?” I spent the rest of the day like I think most men do upon finding out their woman is with child; praising my sperm and a youth spent rubbering up and then planning all the chores my child will perform once it is potty-trained. For the past few weeks I have been running the gamut of emotions; happiness, excitement and the crippling fear that I will soon be responsible for another human life. Later today we have our first doctor’s appointment where a man twice my age will familiarize himself with my wife’s lady parts while I watch helplessly. Operation Baby Thunder and nine months of a personal designated driver has officially begun!
- “You should buy two packs. You are smoking for two now.”
- “Is your husband gaining sympathy weight just to keep up?”
- “Did you ever see that old Twilight Zone where the giant bug crawled into a crib and laid eggs in a baby’s head?”
- “Joaquin Phoenix is proof positive that you can still be successful with a birth defect.”
- “Look at you! You are ready to explode!”
Some people like shooting the smack. Others cannot put down the booze. This woman is addicted to babies. After fifteen children, she plans on trying for more. Her uterus has seen more action than Vietnam during the Tet Offensive. Quoth Monica, “Her cervix is probably down to her ankles by now.”