Most of my weekends are spent catering to the boys and whatever they happen to have going on. This past weekend was all about me. Well, not all about, but mostly about. Quick recap.
Friday Night: A buddy of mine called at the last minute saying he was heading into town for a few drinks. We met at Sullivan's Tap, which probably wasn't the best idea since every bar in that area was packed with people waiting to head to the Celtics game. If you've never been, Sully's Tap is a long narrow bar that is nearly impossible to navigate through. Luckily, they have $3.75 beers there, which is cheap for Boston. So we hung out there for a bit, the game crew left and we had nearly half the bar to ourselves. That was until we went to order another round and were told we needed to move down to get drinks. Apparently the bartender we had been ordering from shuts down when it gets slow. Normally this would be fine, but he was standing there doing nothing. Propped up on the back shelf with his feet on the bar.
Collectively we shrugged, said 'fuck this' and went to The Sports Bar which, despite the completely unoriginal name, completely rocks. There are no walls in this place, just television sets EVERYWHERE! Celtics game on some, Pistons game on others, Winter X Games on still others, and the Australian Open on others. It was sports nirvana. Plus I stole a glass that had the Celtics logo on it. Good times.
One of the recurring themes from the night was our Scottish friend, Matt, potentially becoming a new citizen of the United States. We kept quizzing him on certain things he would need to know. Things like 'The Top 100 Movies' and 'Best Boston Teams Ever' and the hottest female tennis player of all time. I think we have him fully ready for his exam. We also went over the top 100 Scottish films of all time and, as far as I could tell, 'Braveheart' occupied spots 1-99. I asked if he thought it strange that Mel Gibson - who was born in Australia and raised in New York city - was playing the role of one of the biggest icons in Scotland and he replied 'We choose not to think about that too much'. Alrighty then.
Saturday: Seven year old had to go through something called 'Penance' in preparation for his First Communion. If I ever needed proof that the Catholic Church was completely fucked, this would be it. Basically six and seven year old children are required to memorize a prayer that claims they love God above everyone else (I added an addendum that it does not super cede his father) then confess their sins. That's right. My seven year old needed to confess his sins to a priest who probably had more in the 15 minutes before the mass than my boy has had his entire life. Just a bizarre requirement.
My son kept asking me what he should say to the priest during his 'confession' and I just said, 'Tell him you lied to your parents'. He seemed ok with this, but when he came back from actual confession I asked what he said and he replied 'I told him I lied and that I didn't share my toys with my brother'. 'But,' I said, 'you do share with your brother.' 'I know, but I needed to say something'.
Perfect. Make impressionable young children find it necessary to make shit up in order to meet an appropriate 'sin quota'. Not only is the entire ceremony a complete joke and waste of time, but now my son is LYING TO A PRIEST about sins he didn't commit. What kind of twisted logic is this?
By the way, the priest invited adults to come up and confess, as well. My wife nudges me and says, 'Go ahead. I'm sure you have some sins to confess'. I answered, 'We don't have that kind of time.'
Saturday Night: That's right. I went out twice in two nights. We scheduled a baby sitter and hit the town with my buddy, his wife, and another couple. We spent some time at their place watching a honeymoon video (of Aruba, not that kind!). Strange thing about married couples, they seem to think everyone else is interested in their happiness. We're not! Just because you're still in the 'swoon' phase of marriage doesn't mean we want to be submerged in it. To my friend's credit, he kept things short and sweet, telling his new wife 'They don't want to watch this!' He was correct. Although one funny moment was them deciding to film themselves in their hotel room after they had a bit too much to drink. My buddy decided they needed more ice, went running out into the hallway and smacked straight into a wall. Preserved for all time.
We wound up at a place called 'The Emerald Rose' in Billerica (I think). Nice place with plenty of room and good beer prices. Strange thing about people that live in more rural areas. They have a completely different definition of 'It's just down the street'. In this case 'down the street' meant driving for 15 minutes. Down the street for us city folks means it's a five minute walk.
Anyway, we were drinking and laughing and having a good old time when my friend decided to share this little tidbit with me: 'Hey, every Monday is Blow Job Monday for us!'. I turned to wifey and said 'Now THAT is a great idea'. She just rolled her eyes like she always does and mumble something about my dreams.
Somehow this led to an inexplicable and unnecessary description of how often my friend shaves his balls. This, in turn, led to his wife confessing that she had never seen hairy balls. I asked how this could be so and she said 'I don't know! I just haven't seen hairy balls!'. I can only assume that every guy she's been with shaves, is hairless, or she's a pedophile. (On the ride home, my wife figured she hadn't been with many guys before she got married, which made me wonder what that said about my own wife). My friend then proceeded to talk about how he takes a comb and shaves his sack 'every other day'. I wanted to ask what else he uses that comb for, but declined as things were quickly getting out of hand.
Look, I like to keep things neat down there, too, but every other day? Isn't that a bit extreme or anal retentive? A little trim is needed, but there is a fine line between being neat and obsessive compulsive. The other guy there - Andy - agreed with me; keep it neat, but let's not get carried away. I should note that the friend who shaves his ball sack every other day was photographed getting a pedicure, has monthly facials and massages and could - quite possibly - be bisexual.
I finally managed to end this topic by pleading 'I'm not sure what to change the subject to, but can we please stop talking about his balls?' I should note that our conversation was in a public place and loud enough that several women in a booth near us were giving us strange looks. That made it all the funnier whenever we said 'balls'.
Sunday: Recovery day. Nothing makes me feel all of my 40 years than two straight nights out drinking. Not as young as I used to be.
Monday: Nothing gets a week off on the right foot than taking an extra day for yourself. Not that I would know. My youngest woke up in a panic because he couldn't open his eyes. That's right, a lovely case of conjunctivitis had glued his lids together. For those without kids, this means getting a prescription gel, applying it to his eyes three times a day (while he writhes and fights with you) and washing every pillow case and blanket that might have touched him. It also means him missing school until it clears up and washing my hands every time I touched something he might have touched. Considering it's winter and the air is cold and dry, the skin on my knuckles could burst open and spray blood across the room every time I make a fist.
As I told my buddy after he told me about his Blow Job Mondays: 'Wait until you have kids, man. Everything changes.'
Today's distraction: Some cool 'Just the right second' photos for your viewing pleasure. The whale and dolphin shot must be one of a kind.