I knew something was wrong the moment she entered the room, a sullen and withdrawn look on her face.  “I don’t feel very well,” my wife declared.

The kids and I stared at her, then at each other, in silent shock.  She walked gingerly up the stairs to our bedroom, took some Nyquil, and was out of action for the next 24 hours.

And just like that, the delicate equilibrium that keeps our household in balance began to shift, and we felt the earth slowly tilt on its axis with every passing minute.  You can imagine our terror.

Before you judge, please understand how unusual this was for my family.  I’ve known my wife for more than 25 years, and I truly can’t recall the last time she was sick before this recent debacle.  In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her sneeze, bruise or bleed before, leaving open the distinct possibility that she’s not human but actually a cyborg sent from the future to yell at me for forgetting to empty the dishwasher.

But with this illness disproving the “Wifenator” theory, I searched for other ideas that could explain her incredible run of health.

And then, the truth hit me, like a value pack of Robitussin.

She has been sick before, and she will be again, many times.  But as a strong and productive woman, she declines to show it.  Whatever tends to ail her, my wife just shrugs it off, powers down a little extra Vitamin C, and goes about her business.  Without a complaint aired or a slowdown in her productivity, you’d never know that she wasn’t feeling well.

Unlike me.

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I haven’t posted anything lately (those Bar Mitzvah essays took a lot out of me), but I haven’t been completely away from my keyboard.

The mind-readers at Maine Camp Experience (who took one look at my writing and somehow knew that I had attended a Maine summer camp in my youth) asked if I would share some thoughts on my, uh,  Maine camp experience.  But instead of talking about my days as a skinny, freckled miscreant wearing shorts at least three sizes too small, I was inspired to share the tale of my daughter’s summers up north, and how they connected her to more than just new friends.

You can read the post by clicking here.  Hope you enjoy it!

Welcome back!!  The celebration is well under way, but if you’ve missed the service and the beginning of the party, read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Caught up?  Good.  Let’s keep eating.

THE PARTY, HOUR 3

60. The meal will begin.  A plate of salad will have already been placed on the table in front of you, and it will look…like salad.  You will eat it anyway, because it’s salad, even though you’ve just consumed four pounds of widely available chicken satay at the cocktail reception.
61. For some reason, despite the plethora of expensive food being thrown your way this evening, you will only be given one bread roll.  Leave your roll exposed for too long and it will be picked off by a carb-depleted member of your table.  Eat it quickly, or guard your bread like the Hope Diamond.
62. During the salad course, the father of the honored child will take to the stage to give a toast.  He will thank everyone for coming, “from near and far”, mentioning each individual state like a Congressional roll call.
63. He will also thank his lovely and beautiful wife for putting so much time and effort into such an incredible event.  Try to catch a glimpse in the background of the exhausted professional party planner getting intravenous fluids and shedding a quiet tear (or possibly seething).
64. The husband will also salute the amazing job his child did at that day’s ceremony.  Note that this speech was written at least 72 hours before the event, having no idea whether his child excelled or butchered the Torah portion.  Shake off the hypocrisy and clap politely at the stump speech.  He’s paying for your drinks.
65. He will then introduce a video montage, featuring 735 still images of his child with various friends, family members, and Disney World cast members.  The main goal of the video is to provide visual evidence that the family’s life together is much more enjoyable than yours.
66. This will be the most difficult and trying portion of your evening, as watching the average Mitzvah Montage is akin to watching paint dry, if the paint took family trips to Boca, Costa Rica, and Bubbie’s 95th birthday party at The Red Barn.
67. The length can also be trying.  This video will last approximately 12-25 minutes, but will end up taking at least an hour off of your projected lifespan.
68. Jewish law requires that “Time Of Your Life” by Green Day be featured somewhere within the montage.  And no, most parents are unaware that the real name of the song is “Good Riddance”, which is both hysterical and, since we’re being honest, possibly more appropriate.
69. Now that your legs have atrophied from lack of use during the endless montage, dancing will officially commence.  For the next 40 minutes, as the DJ begins to blast his set of electronic  music you’ve never heard of through speakers the size of SUVs, you will no longer be able to communicate with the person directly in front of you without screaming in their ear.
70. Somehow, the inability to communicate verbally will inspire all kids under 18 to put down their phones and acknowledge each other’s presence on the dance floor. The boys will dance with the motivators, while the girls will dance with each other.  One crazy aunt will dance wildly by herself, and later dominate the Bar Mitzvah video footage.
71. Hard core rap songs will play a prominent role, spun at slightly higher speeds and distortion to disguise the lyrics about drug consumption and sexual misconduct.  Surprisingly, the grandparents will try to join in the fun by singing along to the chorus of the one song they recognize, blissfully unaware of why the lead singer “can’t feel his face”.
72. Once your ears have melted and your larynx burns like wildfire from trying to hold down a conversation with a similarly deaf adult, the music will quiet down and the kids will retreat to their white couches for a fresh smoothie.  The main course will then be served to the adults, likely including a carefully-planned and orchestrated menu of classic dishes served elegantly on formal plates.
73. At least one person at your table will sneak into the kids section and make himself (or herself) a plate of chicken fingers and sliders.  These will become tradable commodities at your table, ultimately developing into a black market of finger foods as one curly fry sells for $45 to a hedge fund manager.

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The phone rang abruptly as I was driving home from work.  Even over my car’s crappy bluetooth connection that makes most voices sound like they emanate deep from the ocean’s floor, I could tell my wife sounded anxious.

“I can’t just sit here and watch him suffer,” she said.  “It’s just not right.  We need to do something, now.  Any ideas?”

I paused, carefully considering the difficult decision placed before me.  It was surely the first time I had ever thought about the possibilities for such a drastic but merciful act.  What did I know of such things?  I struggled to answer, so I decided to consult the experts.

“Why don’t you google “fish euthanasia”?”

—

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The first time my wife asked me to get a tattoo, I nearly crashed our Toyota Highlander Hybrid into the lane median.

There’s been no second time, mostly because I’ve avoided conversing with her altogether.

Allow me to add some brief context.  I am a 47 year-old father of two, with a size-able home mortgage and a growing gut that is having some trouble staying above the underwear line.  Beyond listening to the occasional AC/DC track, my tastes tend to run toward the mundane and ordinary.  I am, by all reasonable definition, no bad-ass.  I wear slippers with little tassels on them when the house gets chilly, and I sometimes add jicama in my salad to give it a little jolt.  Trust me, I’m about the last person you’d expect to sport a tattoo.

And yet there it was, a call to arms.  The woman I married 20+ years ago, who has as clear an understanding of who I am as anyone on this or any planet, wants me to put permanent paint into my skin for show.

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Oh man, it’s been ages since I’ve posted.  No excuses, just life getting in the way and lacking the discipline to sit down and get it done.  Remember the title of this blog, and pay heed.  But I’ve been working on a new piece that is kind of a sequel to one I wrote years ago for the Westport News, so as a tease (and a public prod to get me going on the new one), I thought I’d re-post the original.  Anyone with young ones at dance school should find some familiarity here.  More to come (maybe).

For those of you who have been kind enough to read my column each month, you are familiar with my tone. I’m trying to give humorous voice to many of the foibles of our lives as modern men, as professionals, as commuters, as husbands, and as fathers. Some of the issues may seem serious (and some of you may have worried about the sanctity of my marriage’s privacy), but I’d rather look at our lives with a lighter focus.

But now I’m going to play with fire. I’m taking on an institution so revered, so beloved, so entrenched in so many lives that the sheer thought of writing this column has me fearing for my safety. I will be accused of blasphemy. I will be ostracized. Mothers will scream “How dare you!” as they shield their kids’ eyes and pass quickly by me in the aisles of Whole Foods. Alas, the hordes may never forgive me, but I must forge on in the name of my, uh, art.

This month, I’m writing about The Nutcracker.

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Despite the complicated nature of his everyday life, the decision that lay before him at this very moment was direct and simple:  to snip or not to snip.  The fact that the cut in question related to the ever-important ducts that lay within his genitals is what made this black-and-white decision a bit more, uh, sensitive.

Vasectomy.  The word just hung there limply in their conversations like an ugly jacket, something to be avoided unless the weather turned and all other options in the closet were somehow unavailable.  And yet here it was, this vasectomy, on the table and being considered as a real sartorial possibility.  More than that…it was turning into less of an option and more of a mandate.

Her argument was direct and logical.  They had two healthy kids who provided more than enough sturm and drang to beat the thought of more children out of them.  So for years, she had poisoned her body with all kinds of chemicals in the name of birth control.  She had taken on the responsibility of consuming the small round tablet that allowed her body to become a harmless but welcoming playground, where the risks of their activities were easily ignored (and much more fun than the standard slides and swings).  But the years of scoffing at the laws of Mother Goddess and her retched storks had begun to take their toll.  His wife didn’t like the changes that her body was being forced to endure in the service of their carnal thrills.  Inevitably, there was a price to pay for this kind of avoidance, and she was sick of picking up the bill.  It was time to go dutch on their sexual behavior, and he had built a gigantic debt over the years that only drastic measures could begin to overcome.

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