Ever crave a burger?

Men, this blog is addressed to you.

I’ve noticed, in the past few years, that many of my friends end up leaving relationships and breaking up their marriages around the holidays. I’m not sure what it is about the holidays that makes this so common, but I think it’s a good time to address it. The holiday season, Christmas, Kwanza, Hanukah, is a time to celebrate and reflect on all that we are blessed with in our lives. Many of us are lucky enough to have a wonderful woman in our life. And some of us are lucky enough to have a wonderful woman and some kids to boot. Still, our manly eyes betray our best interests, and they wander.

You know what it says in the bible- “if your eyes betray you, tis better to pluck the fuckers out than to sin.”

Or something like that.

But I’m not big on bible sayings. So, let’s try to break this down a bit.

You may be married to the most awesome woman of all time, but unless you have superman balls of steal, and kryptonite eyewear, then you look at other women. We all look at other women. That’s to be expected and either needs to be accepted, by our wives, or you need to be respectful enough not to do it in front of her. Looking doesn’t mean that you aren’t happy with your wives, you may very well be. But a man can never be 100% satisfied by one woman, no matter how fantastic and amazing she is. You may get 90% of what you need from your wife, but there’s still that 10% that you don’t get. Maybe, in your relationship, that 10% is wild monkey sex. Maybe it is stimulating mind-bending conversation. Maybe your bride isn’t a good cook. Maybe she has a nasally irritating voice. I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing about her, but just you; maybe your biology, your nature to “roam” and “spread your seed” has you thinking twice about your marriage. Regardless of what it is, you might find yourself walking down the street one day, you see some girl who has that other 10% that you’re not getting at home, and because you haven’t had that 10% in a very long time, it starts looking really good to you, and you want it. Most men are smart enough not to go for that temptation, and will leave that girl, and her lousy ten percent alone, but some men give in to the temptation and go for the 10%, thinking that it will make them happy. What happens is that these men end up leaving their wives, or their wife catches them cheating and leaves them. Now they’ve lost that 90% that they had with her. They’ve traded that 90% for 10% and though it may be exciting at first, after they get bored of that 10%, they are feeling like they made a big mistake.

To break this down in more simplistic terms, let’s compare a man and his wife to a rich man and his personal chef. Let’s say Gary is worth 40 kadrillion dollars. Wolfgang puck is his live at home personal chef. Wolfgang is also a very jealous man and doesn’t want Gary eating anyone else’s food. Gary eats gourmet five star meals every single day, three times a day. He has everything the stomach could desire… except one thing. Gary never gets any junk food. Everyday on his way to work, he drives past that McDonalds, and after a while, it starts looking really good to him. He’s eating gourmet food every night, but still he lusts for a fatty cheese burger. Eventually, Gary may wander into that McDonalds and get a quarter pounder with cheese, fries and a strawberry milkshake. Wolfgang Puck finds out, freaks out, and leaves Gary for Steve, the trajillionaire investment banker down the street. Gary, by not being able to control his cravings and lustful desires has traded in Wolfgang and all that gourmet food for some cheap ass two dollar cheeseburger.  Will he be happier? Gary might enjoy the burgers for a week or two, but eventually he will probably regret his decision to risk his relationship with Wolfgang on some cheap food?

Now, that analogy may be a bit ridiculous, but I’m sure you get what I’m saying.

Then again, some men (and women) just make bad decisions and marry the wrong person in the first place.

But that story is for another time.

As complex as we are, and all that we strive for, possessions, achievements travel, etc. The one thing that defines us and shapes our happiness is the connections that we make with other humans. To love and be loved is really the greatest human achievement we can make because it is the one thing that will truly make us happy.

If you are lucky enough in this life to have found the love of a great woman, who has given you babies, and takes care of them and you, then don’t be a douchebag and fuck it up.

Merry Christmas.

Please buy Matt’s debut novel, Broken.

BUY IT HERE!

Matt Nespoli, J. Matthew Nespoli and Matthew Nespoli are all copyright material for Naked Word Surfer © 2009-2010

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A friend of mine got his wife pregnant recently. I won’t give you his name, but I’ll tell you that his wife was already a difficult woman before the pregnancy. The pregnancy was making her even more difficult. Being that I went through this before him, he assumed I had all the answers, and called me every time his wife called him at work to yell at him for leaving his sneakers in the middle of the living room, or something equally trivial.

His assumption was wrong. Yes, I went through this before him, and yes, in my history men have come to me for my unique understanding and point of view on our feminine counterpart, but no, I do not understand pregnant women now any better than I did before living with one. In fact, I probably understand less. I would go so far as to say that unless your name is Jesus Christ or Nostradamus, then you have about as much chance as rationalizing your pregnant wife’s behavior as I have of being adopted by Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

Basically, what I’m saying is that pregnant women are completely unpredictable. I did learn a few consistencies that help, and I will pass those along, but I will do it with the disclaimer that it’s very possible that I’ve evaluated all these things completely wrong.

The first change I noticed about my bride, even before the random acts of violence and anger, was that she’d become part beagle. My bride could smell a BBQ two zip codes away. I once challenged her on this sense of smell, and like Toucan Sam, we followed her nose all the way to the BBQ, which was over a mile away.

Then her sexual behavior changed. I’d heard all the horror stories about how once your bride gets pregnant that your sex life is over. I was relived to discover that not only was this not true, but that my bride became like a sixteen year old boy. She couldn’t get enough. If I wasn’t making love to her, she was doing it to herself.  It was awesome!

Until it wasn’t.

She was abnormally horny for about two months, and then, frigid. Talk about leading a guy on… I thought I was in for nine months of living with a porn star.

Then, the nausea. This came at about week seven. It happened while she was in Puerto Rico and I was in Costa Rica. My Christmas present to her was to send her, with friends, to Puerto Rico. We found out after Christmas that she was pregnant. She decided to go anyway, as she had been feeling fine up to that point. I went to Costa Rica at the same time, because, well, why not?

The trip was not the get-a-way that either of us had envisioned. I spent at least 45% of my waking time in Costa Rica, consoling my nauseated wife. “Matt, I want to come home. I’m puking every five minutes.”

Her going home early would mean that I’d have to go home early to be a good husband and take care of her. “Just hang in there baby. This is probably the last time you’ll get to do something like this for a few years, so try to make the best of it.”

Then, the anger. This is probably the worst part of living with a pregnant woman. They get freaking angry, and half the time it’s hard to even understand why. I already told you about the pork chop incident, and I promise you that this incident was not isolated.

At least twice a week, I’d be on the couch watching a Clippers game, minding my own business, when either a shoe, or a piece of trash would go whizzing by my head, close enough for me to feel its wind.

“You’re so lazy, Matt! I don’t ask for anything around here! All I want is for you to take out the damned trash once a day so that I don’t have to smell day old rotting freaking food!” she’d scream. “I don’t understand how I ended up with such a lazy slug! You disgust me so much!”

The first time she freaked on me like this, I took it personally and fought back. That ended with me sleeping on the couch for two days, and her not speaking to me for four. After that, I learned to accept that she was not herself, and she didn’t mean the things she said. “The only thing you’re good for is sex, and you’re not even that great at that!” she’d yell. Or, “Can you take a damned shower? I can smell you from the other room.  You’re such a pig!”

Now, let me note that my bride is probably the sweetest woman to ever live. Her friends will attest to this. I’ve never heard her say a single bad word about anyone, even myself. So, this bizarro behavior completely blew my mind.

One time, I tried the line, “Baby, you don’t mean that. It’s just your hormones talking.”

If I learned one thing during the pregnancy it’s that you never, ever, no matter what, utter those words. I won’t repeat what she yelled at me after this, but let’s just say that I wasn’t allowed to sleep at home for about three nights.

I’m horny. Always. And I love women. All of them. And my bride is my best friend. When I see a hottie, I tell her, point, and we talk about the girl’s breasts and buttocks.

Once she was pregnant, this was no longer a good idea. The first time I did it, she started crying on and off, for two days, “You don’t love me because I’m fat,” she’d cry. Then, her tears would turn to vicious anger, “Why don’t you get the hell out of here, and go be with that slut with the little butt from the beach! You’re such a sex-addict.”

I tried to rationalize that all men are sex addicts.

Never try to rationalize anything with a pregnant woman. Just repeat after me, “I’m a jerk. I’m sorry. I love you. How can I make this better?”

That is the only thing that works. And even then you’ll only have about a 25% success rate.

The truth is that I am a lazy jerk off who often forgets to take out the trash, make the bed, clean my car, pick up my shoes, etc. My bride is a freaking champion for putting up with me. She’s given up in the dishwashing and laundry department as I have screwed those activities up so badly that I am actually forbidden from doing them. So, it’s a miracle that my bride doesn’t have these kinds of outbursts on a daily basis, and I’m grateful for that. However, during the pregnancy…wow.

Next, I noticed that her memory, which was typically about 100% better than mine, had gone to shit. I’d always relied on my bride to remember important things such as doctor’s appointments, birthdays, and the names of my in-laws, but once her memory failed, we were walking around like a couple of Alzheimer’s victims. It got embarrassing. Typically, before a party, my bride would remind me of the names of everyone that was going to be there, so that I wouldn’t look like a jerk when we got there. With her new dementia onset, not only was I left out to dry, but she started forgetting things as simple her sisters boyfriends names. At one gathering, my forgetful bride had forgotten to put on panties. She realized this in the car, but then she forgot it by the time we got to the party. She was seated in a relaxed position on the couch, looking at a magazine with some girls, when I noticed the abnormal number of men crammed onto the couch from across her.

My bride’s ho-ho was out, and they were taking total advantage. I knew that if I told her that she’d probably cry from embarrassment or lash out at me, somehow making it my fault, so I didn’t.  I just walked over and put my hand on her thigh, which of course made her tense up and close her legs.

“Show’s over,” I mouthed to the pervs seated across from us.

There’s other symptoms that come along with pregnancy as well.  There’s the back pain, muscle cramps, inability to sleep, inability to wake, swollen feet and ankles, bad breath from reflux, gas, spider veins, swollen painful breasts (my favorite symptom until I wasn’t allowed to touch them anymore), constant hunger that is unquenchable because everything tastes crappy, stretch marks, fatigue, vaginal discharge, headaches, water retention, etc, etc.

So, men, I’ll tell you the same thing I told my friend. When you’re girl gets pregnant it changes everything.  It completely changes who she is. She will literally become a different person. Do your best to understand and accept this and do not, under any circumstances, fight back. Ever! Your life will change as well. If you are a social fun guy who can’t sit still and doesn’t care much about living in a tidy home, you will learn. Hopefully, you will be as lucky as I was and your wife will break you in to your new life slowly.

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Today my child pooped on my bride.

I laughed.  I couldn’t help it.

This blog, in part, is going to serve as a guide to new young fathers.  You can all  read about our adventures in parenting and learn from our success and failures.

So please take a lesson from this blog:

If your son poops on your bride, do not laugh.

She was changing his dirty diaper, but he hadn’t finished evacuating.  As she was wiping his bottom, poop sprayed out (it was airborne for at least three inches.  Serious poop power).  It got all over her hand. I stood over her and broke into laughter.

Then he peed on her.

And I laughed some more.

Tonight I will be on the couch.

It’s not that my wife has lost her sense of humor through this parenthood thing.  I mean she, as much as anyone, likes a good poop joke.  No, she hasn’t lost her sense of humor. What she has lost is her mind.

You see, I’m not a woman, nor will I ever fully understand them, but I do love them and have for a very long time.  In my years of loving women, I’ve learned about hormones. Hormones are serious business.  They are fodder for late night TV comics, but this doesn’t make the reality of their wrath any less true.  We, as men, experience the wrath of their hormones when they are having their period, after sex, when they are hungry, and when we pee on the toilet seat.

However, none of that even comes close to approximating what hormones do to a woman’s body after she gives birth.

We are talking some serious Frankenstein shit here.

Some days I come home from work and the bride is crying for no apparent reason.  Two days ago, I came home to find her in tears. I asked why. I had left my shoes on the floor in the nursery (which is also my closet) instead of, well, frankly, I have no idea.  They were where I keep them.

Some days I come home and she just starts yelling at me for no apparent reason.  “You didn’t take the trash out!”, “There’s beard clippings in the sink!”, “Why are you always on the computer?”, “Why are you so late?”, etc, etc.

Some days I come home and she just lathers me in love.  “I love you so much, Matthew.  Nobody could have a more perfect husband.”  It’s these days that she uses to keep me off-guard and confused.  She tells me something like that, and I believe her.  Then, 24 hours later, when she’s demoting me to a night on the couch I can’t figure out what the fuck happened.

Am I not the same perfect husband that I was 24 hours ago?

It’s not that my bride is crazy.

She isn’t.

At least no more than any other woman (all women are, at a bare minimum, 51% crazy.  This is a statistical fact that I have formed through years of researching the female mind and sexuality). Nor is she spiteful or depressed.  What she is, is hormonally wiped out.  Having a baby just destroys a woman’s hormones.  They are filled up with all kinds of hormones to do all kinds of things for a little infant that needs them, and these hormones have little to no regard for the husband.

Dudes. Listen up. Hormones don’t give a rat’s ass about you.

As uttered so brilliantly by Seth Rogan in Knocked Up, “I fucking hate you, hormones!”

So true, Seth.  So true.

To be fair, I probably deserve my couch time tonight.  Our baby was screaming bloody murder all night last night.  Constipated up to his neck.  I got tired of hearing about it, so I went and read up about it on the net. There was a suggestion to slip a little prune juice in the baby’s milk.  I brought this up to the bride, and she shot it down.  Two hours later, at 4 am, on my feeding turn, I took matters into my own hands and gave him a half ounce of prune juice in his milk.

He freaking loved it.

And 2 hours later, the problem was solved.

New problem – he’s had projectile diarrhea since that moment.

The bride doesn’t know this, nor does she read these blogs, nor will I tell her, but the truth is that I probably do deserve the couch tonight.

But not for laughing about her getting pooped on. That crap is just too funny!

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The following little story happened a year and a half ago, less than a year into our marriage. I wrote it as it happened. Enjoy…

Tonight, Rea was coming home from work late. She’d had a bad day so, I decided to surprise her with a little romance – bubble bath with candles, music and reading material, and a painting of flowers that I’d just done. While she relaxed in the tub, I would be in the kitchen preparing a grilled lobster feast! Grilling the lobster was key, as per the recipe I’d gotten online.

Problem. We don’t have a grill. I didn’t realize this until I’d already chopped all the veggies, and Rea was in the bath waiting to come out for the feast.

I improvised and made a makeshift grill on our balcony…a contained fire of sorts. I went back into the kitchen to work on my veggies, and then into the bathroom to check on my bride. She was calling for me.

“Matt, this bathtub isn’t comfortable! It’s dirty! The bubbles feel gross!” On and on.

I went in, got her out of the tub, put her in a robe, moved the candles and the music to the bedroom, and told her that I was working on something, and, as soon as I had it under control, I would be back in to give her a massage.

In the bedroom she says, “Whatever you’re working on smells like it’s burning.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said, heart palpitating. I smelled it too.

I left the room casually and then ran out to the balcony.

Which was on fire!

Sixty seconds of a hard fought battle, a lot of water, sand and blankets, and I saved our balcony. Sure there’s a little damage, but I got it all taken care of before Rea came out of the bedroom so she wouldn’t find out (she doesn’t read my blogs). We were planning to move out in two weeks, so I hoped we could get out of there before she noticed the fire damage.

My strategy – have her work until after dark every night until we moved and get a nice big potted plant to put right in the middle of the balcony.
 
The funniest part? This is the second time I’ve caught a balcony on fire!
 
Hah!

Actually, THIS is the funniest part. To get the bride in the “sexy mood” (a mood I live in), I decided to take to my culinary efforts in the buff. It’s dark out, so nobody can see me on the balcony (I think). Fighting the four foot flames caught the attention of the entire neighborhood including the gang bangers that congregate in our Redondo Beach parking lot every night after dark. They all watched and saw all of my manhood. As the bride and I ate some delivery (the lobster was obviously a little overcooked) people were pointing up towards us, laughing and making comments. The bride was oblivious (the peaceful state of mind she lives in) and hasn’t caught on yet. But she will.

And then I will feel her Filipino wrath.

Help!

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Before I got married, all my buddies said the same thing, “Matt, you need to start learning to say ‘yes honey’ and ‘I’m sorry honey’.” I laughed. I told them all that I would never be like that- that I’m my own man- that I’m the boss of me.

Well, I tried that philosophy, for about a year. When my lovely bride would get mad at me and start nagging about something petty, I would firmly hold my ground and fight the battle with courage.

This usually resulted in three days of silent treatment from the bride.

You may not think that three days of the silent treatment is much, but when you compound this with doors slamming, permanent pout face, and no power over the remote control, then it adds up to be too much too bare.

I thought that after a few months that the bride would learn that I wasn’t going to become the yes man that her friend’s husbands had become.

But the bride had more resolve and endurance than did I.

And I now sit when I pee.

One of the regular problem areas in our life has been urinary habits.

I’m a man, and like most men, I have a penis. A penis in hand is a scaled down version of a fireman’s hose. Like a fireman fighting a fire, we are not always 100% in control of the hose and its spray. Occasionally some gets on the rim, and sometimes, in the middle of the night, when I get an emergency call, I’m in a rush to get the job finished, my eyes are not fully open, and my concentration is not so great. Thus, my accuracy is impaired, and occasionally a drop or two will come to rest around the base of the toilet.

Somehow, Rea finds every single one of these drops and treats them in a manner that would make you think we’ve just sustained a nuclear attack and my liquid droplets are contaminated nuclear waste. Like I were a puppy, and she the master, she will grab me, take me to the bathroom, show me the mess (which is often so microscopic that I am unable to see it); then she will clean it with a tissue and the show me the evidence of contamination.

Then comes the ten minute lecture.

BAD DOG!

After- I apologize and promise it won’t happen again.

And then I have a cola

And then it happens again.

Recently, I changed strategies.

I sit when I pee.

100% accuracy.

And I swear to God that this has done more for our marriage than did my surprise 10 day cruise, the trip to Jamaica, my anniversary surprise, and her shiny new bike, all combined and multiplied by one thousand.

So, my advice to newly married men, become like me and the thousands of others who have joined our legions, and learn these two phrases, “I’m sorry honey” and “Yes honey.” And of course, more importantly than that, SIT WHEN YOU PEE

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A few nights ago, we were on the couch, snuggling, when Matthew junior started to lose his shit. He was kicking and punching like a little mad man trying to break out of his padded cell. Rea put my hand on her stomach and I could feel like little guy trying to break down the walls. It was one of the coolest things I’ve ever experienced.

The doctor said he weighs nine ounces right now, that’s less than half a pound, but I’m telling you, this kid hits like a heavyweight, like Mike Tyson in a drug-fueled rage, about two seconds before he bites off your ear. I’m seriously worried that he may take out one of the bride’s kidneys before all is said and done.

Anyway, it was amazing, but it also got me to thinking…

I’m claustrophobic. I have no idea why. I’ve never been trapped anywhere. Many people have this same fear. I wonder if it comes from being in the womb. I mean, can you imagine being all locked up in a dark wet room, with your legs folded over your head (the position he was in during the ultrasound), and your own genitalia being shoved into your face? You’d be angry too. You’d be kicking and punching and trying to break out of that little prison too… Or maybe you wouldn’t, but I know I’d be freaking. I get claustrophobic on a subway- I’d rather be water boarded than trapped in a womb.

At what point do babies begin to have conscious thoughts?

Just wondering.

Anyway- moving on…

Yesterday was one of the greatest days ever… However, just three days before that was one of the worst… I can share it only now, because it took that long for the wife to actually come back to reason. The fire that was burning within her is now just a mere smolder (though this blog may be the spark that re-ignites it), so I feel safe in sharing this… I consider it an act of public service to any young husbands considering getting into baby-making. I will share my stories, so that you can learn, and prepare, because nobody did that for me.

We’re in bed. I’m reading. Deep reading. I’m reading a historical book about Jesus, heavy shit that requires concentration. Every two seconds Rea interrupts to talk about something that had been bothering her. And that’s fine; I encourage open lines of communication.

I kept listening, kept answering her questions, and when I thought it was over, I’d go back to reading. Thirty seconds later, there would be more…

“Babe, I’m reading, could we talk about this some other time,” I said. I thought I said it in a sensitive tone.

She didn’t think so.

I will spare you all the gruesome details, but she went from mild irritation of my comment, to anger. I tried to apologize and her anger escalated to hysteria. She put her fingers in her ears and yelled “Stop talking, your voice makes me sick!”

I kept apologizing.

Louder now- “Stop talking! I’m seriously gonna puke from the sound of your voice!”

Now, I’m starting to panic. It’s two in the morning, the window is open, she’s yelling at the top of her lungs, and our new neighbor, Pete Carroll (yes, that one), has just moved in. I’m hoping to become Pete’s new best friend, but if my lunatic wife wakes him at two a.m., that’s not likely to happen.

“Babe, stop yelling.”

“I’m so gonna puke! Your voice makes me sick! I’m so sick of your voice!!!!”

I get up out of bed, leave the bedroom, and assume my position on the couch, shutting the bedroom door behind me.

“Good!” she yells.

I read a little of my book and then resign to sleep.

4 a.m.:

I’m in a special place. I’m half naked with Angelina Jolie; she’s all naked, as we make out by the fireplace, beneath the mantle that sports my Heisman trophy.

“Matt, come back to bed,” Rea says, waking me.

“What?” I say, in a stupor of half sleep.

“Come back to bed.”

“No,” I say, without thinking it through. Never do that with a pregnant woman. Always think before you speak.

She marches off. I lay back down. It’s over.

… or so I thought…

“Come back to bed! Come back to bed! COME BACK TO BED!!! COME BACK TO BED!!!!!!!!” She yells it over and over and over, each time louder than the last.

I lay there, listening to this, for close to a minute. I have no idea what to do, but I’m scared that we may be evicted in the morning. Finally, I go into the bedroom. At first, I try to reason with her, but it’s not working, so then, I go to plan B. I say something mean; that I know will hurt her feelings, because I know it will make her stop yelling. Yes, this is mean, and yes, it makes me an asshole, but I seriously didn’t know what to do.

And no, I’m not going to tell you what I said, because it doesn’t matter. This is my blog and the point of this blog is to point out that pregnant women are insane. I’m sure her side of the story is different, but she’s not blogging about it, so you’re stuck with my version.

Anyway, I returned to the couch, flustered and unable to sleep. Rea lie in bed, all night, probably crying, and then punching things, then crying again, a slave to her volatile hormones and emotions, and me just trying to stay out of the way.

Of course we made up the next day, and then the day after that we found out about our boy, and we got to feel him going to town on Rea’s internal organs. That was amazing and all is good and well in the land of the littlest Nespoli.

However, I’m sure that the bride’s unpredictable and unmanageable hormones will strike yet again, and if they do, I’m just wondering: If I shoot her with a tranquilizer, will it hurt Matthew, Jr?

I LOVE YOU REA- YOU’RE DOING A HELL-UV-A JOB CHAMP… AND YES, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT BEING PREGNANT IS LIKE. I EMPATHIZE.

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Rea and I have been watching these lamaz videos to prepare for parenthood. They tell you that a few weeks before the baby comes that the woman experiences a burst of energy, and that this is a good sign that the baby is coming.

My bride had been lying around, napping, and watching the bachelorette for about the last three months, so I really couldn’t see any burst of energy coming.

Well, I was wrong.

Sometime last week this so-called “burst of energy”, came on, in full force. My bride went from zero to Alice from the Brady Bunch in no time flat. She sanitized the house from head to toe, re-arranged furniture, and had a laundry list of work for me to do when I got home from work each night. I work 12 hour days during the week, and when I come home I’m pretty tired. They don’t tell you in the video that this “burst of energy” is also a burst of bossing around your husband.

I’m not exactly sure how this whole parenting thing is going to work out, but from the way things have unfolded in the past month I’m beginning to get a sneaky suspicion that I’m becoming a second rate citizen in my own home.

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