Writing somewhere else now. . .

Gonna give richzeroth.com its day in court.

Check there for the new stuff. Stay here for the old stuff.

Check. . . and stay! See?

Last cigarette

I take a hard seat on a wooden bench just outside the front door, a cup for the day's first customer in my right hand, an unlit cigarette in my left. I don't know what time it is exactly but it's evidently a minute or two past whenever most coffee shops open. While a quick glance at my watch could settle the matter, I can't muster the energy. A dozen blocks behind me is the hospital, my wife and our newborn baby. A dozen blocks in front is our two-year-old, at home, waiting with the sitter. I do nothing for about four seconds - just sit there - holding my coffee and my smoke with my mouth no doubt hanging open just enough, my eyelids the perfect amount of heavy, to paint the picture of a man going on no sleep. When my hard-earned four seconds of rest have passed I proceed to spring into action and light the cigarette in a deliberate, almost ceremonial fashion, one strange to anyone who may have been watching this, up until now, lethargic man from across the street. I take a drag and allow my back to find the bench behind me. . .

I am the father of two little girls. More than anything else that's what I am. In terms of what I do and how I do it, although I may not even be conscious of it while I do it, it's done largely for the little girls. Goals, aspirations, not to mention the inevitable twists and turns that are life, remain, but it's safe to say whatever can be dubbed my legacy is set with these little girls. And today that's a notion that's more fortunate than tragic.

So I am blessed. The last cigarette tastes good and for that I am blessed as well. She had to know. Coming home from work making sure the pack was shoved deep inside the coat pocket, always conscious of the smell on the nights I dared a kiss hello. She knew and she held her tongue - perhaps waiting for the perfect moment of accusation, or perhaps resigning to her husband's supposedly secret vice. Likely the former, but nevertheless I got to hand it to her. She held her tongue because I am a good father, a good husband. Because that's what we do. We hold our tongues. And today that's a notion more fortunate than tragic.

So I am lucky. And this last cigarette tastes fantastic and for that I am lucky as well. For what is a final smoke if not one of whole satisfaction - from suck to blow. Shit. I could have been hit by a car any one of a number of times, from the day long ago when I first dared crossing a street, to the walk from the hospital to this very bench where I've crossed twelve streets if I've crossed one. The cars have all spared me. Death has spared me and led me to this day, this day where I celebrate my little girls with this last cigarette.

I wipe tired tears from my face and stand up. I stretch my neck, my back, close my eyes to the sun and force myself to fight the sleep and open them again. A final look at the smoldering butt in my hand before I let it fall to the sidewalk and kill it with the bottom of my shoe. I debate leaving the rest of the pack on the bench where someone else can claim it but choose the finality that is the gesture of flipping $5 worth of nicotine into the trash can on the corner. As I resume my journey home to tell my daughter that she's a big sister my lungs compensate for the sudden jolt back into action and I can't help but notice that my breaths already feel bigger, cleaner. They puff my chest as I cross the street and I text my wife that I love her and that we are making it on our own.

Shaking babies

It's no surprise that the first several hours after a man's first child is born are a whirlwind of sorts. In retrospect, it's really nothing more than a lot of standing, worrying, not sleeping, and attempting to cherish; but at the time, there's this overarching trepidation that you should be doing more - that you should be able to assist with the breast feeding somehow, that there should be an intelligent question you have for the nurse, that you are currently fucking this up big time and you should know better not to be.

This feeling of utter inadequacy lasts until you get your new family out of the hospital and back to your place - away from the doctors and nurses who have witnessed the bumbling husband a thousand times to the stronghold you've spent months creating; with safety gates strategically placed in the doorways you felt would be both effective and convenient, with the crib you built using your brand new socket wrench.

Of course, before you get back to home base, you don't know this. The hours before wife and baby are discharged are fading fast and you still feel as helpless as the kid whose life depends on you. Luckily there's an instructional video or sorts they make all first time parents watch that has the unintended effect of assuring you things aren't as dire as they seem.

The video is about ten minutes long and can be summed up as follows; DO NOT SHAKE YOUR BABY. It shows a variety of poorly performed reenactments of frustrated fathers ill-equipped to deal with crying newborns. With no other foreseeable course of action they feel compelled to shake their babies until they shut up, presumably via broken necks or irreparable brain damage. As alternatives to attempted murder the video offers numerous suggestions for dealing with impending rage, ranging from exercising to watching television. Perhaps it's because you're sleep deprived, but you'll find this video more hilarious than educational. Hilarious in the same way that a tense situation can be diffused with the perfect inappropriate comment. You may find yourself laughing out loud as all of the sudden the wide spectrum of daddy skills becomes evident and you know for the first time you're not going to totally suck at it. Because while you may very well be in over your head a bit with the breast pumps, blanket wrapping techniques, and the bottle temperature wrist test, at least you're not the guy in the video frantically doing push-ups in front of a blaring television why his newborn daughter screams nearby, in need of a diaper change.

At least not today.

The vial (video)

The vial

[Man hands over small wrapped box across candlelit dinner table]

MAN: Happy Valentines' Day.

WIFE: Why thank you, sweetheart!

M: Open it.

[Wife opens gift]

W: It's beautiful! What is it?

M: Why it's a necklace of course. Do you like it?

W: It's very pretty. What's this at the bottom though?

M: That's what makes it so special. It's a small vial.

W: A vial?

M: Yeah, there's a few tiny drops of my blood in there. You know, to symbolize how we're one, how we're with each other wherever we go. One heart. One blood. Something like that. I got the idea from Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie.

W: Uh huh. But it's not real blood, is it?

M: Of course it is. A little bit of bona fide B positive from your loving husband. Because I love you so much.

W: What did you do? Prick your finger or something?

M: Umm. . . No. . . That didn't occur to me at the time. I suppose that would've been a lot easier than the route I took. Anyway, what do you think? Try it on!

W: I don't know.

M: What? Don't be silly. Strap that bad boy on! Let's see how it looks!

W: Don't get me wrong. I think it's a beautiful sentiment. And I love you. But don't you think it's a tad bit, I don't know. . . unsanitary. . . wearing a vial of blood around my neck throughout the day? I mean, I teach kindergarten. There are health codes. Kids are inquisitive.

M: C'mon. It's not AIDS blood from some random guy off the street. It's the life force of your husband, the man you love, the man you've been doing a lot more unsanitary things with for over ten years.

W: [speechless]

M: I mean doinking. . . or sex. . . or whatever. I mean, my point is we've been screwing for a long time and all I'm saying is one might conceivably construe that the act of coitus itself is far more unsanitary than wearing a small, tightly sealed, vial of blood around one's neck.

W: (sarcastically) Oh! Great! So draping myself in blood is slightly less disgusting than sleeping with my husband. Sense you put in that way, can you help me with the clasp?

M: So you're not going to try it on?

W: No. I don't think I am. It's creepy.

M: (angry now) Well that's just great. I guess I'll just take them both back then. Hopefully I still have the receipt. I'll exchange them for the old V-day standbys; a fucking pair of slippers or a gift certificate for a god damned back massage. Pardon me for trying to spice things up.

W: What do you mean 'take them both back'?

M: I got a matching one, OK? I thought it would be cool if we both had cute little vial of blood necklaces. You know, the ultimate expression of unity or some shit.

W: But why would you wear your own blood around your neck?

M: I wouldn't. I mean, I'm not. You wear my blood and I wear yours.

W: Wait. Where did you get my blood?

[long awkward pause]

M: I don't see what that has to do with anything.

W: Oh my god. This isn't happening.

M: You know what? Forget it. I can see now this was a bad idea. I'll just put both the blood vials back in my pocket here and we'll pretend it never happened. Let's just get some dessert, finish our wine, and head home.

W: I'm not hungry.

M: Fine. I'll get the check. . . We're still on for sex tonight though, right?

Top 21 available domain names* / Sandra Dong

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The coin case / Lonnie Banderson

At my folks' place over the holidays I noticed a wooden case sitting on the bookshelf in the family room. It immediately caught my eye, partly due to its shiny mahogany finish and partly because the bookshelf's prior arrangement of Time Life materials, outdated encyclopedia set, and photo albums hadn't been altered in over 20 years. It was a display case, one for coins, with a glass top, and it didn't have much of anything in it. My mom, who has the habit of lingering no more than four feet from me whenever I come to visit, began to offer an explanation before I had a chance to ask for one.

"It's your father's. It's a display case for his state quarters."

"How come there are only three quarters in there?"

To this she sighed, then hesitated, as if debating whether or not to attempt to defend him.

"He ordered it a couple months ago. You get a new gold-plated state park quarter every week in the mail."

"OK."

"He decided after the first few quarters came that he couldn't afford it so he canceled the thing."

"But he already paid for the display case?"

"Yes. I suppose you had to pay for that upfront. He said he decided it wasn't worth it."

"So now you're going to keep this display case on the bookshelf with only three quarters in it?"

"Well. . ."

"Well what?"

"I told him that was ridiculous - that if he ordered it in the first place he should keep the thing going until he gets all the quarters. He said he didn't care - that it cost too much money and he never should have ordered it in the first place. He was done with it. . . So I called the number the other day and restarted the delivery or whatever. We should start getting the rest of the coins next week."

"So he canceled it and you re-ordered it?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell Dad that you did that?"

"Yes. Let's just say he's not very happy about it."

zeroth life lesson: There can be no better bitter reminder of one's own perpetual stinginess, indecisiveness, and wife's constant undermining than a full set of gold-plated state quarters permanently on display on one's bookshelf under glass in a gorgeous mahogany case.

A great new game I made up / Krystal Pepsy

Here's how you play!

1. Scroll through all the contacts in your phone and find people who you've either A: lost touch with or B: talk to very very infrequently.

2. Send each of these people a text message that appears as if it was meant for someone else and contains odd information that begs for further clarification (see examples below).

3. Await their reply. Nine times out of ten it will something along the lines of "Huh?" or "???".

4. Reply with something like, "Sorry, that text was meant for someone else" or "Sent to the wrong person. Kindly disregard."

5. Ignore all further inquiries regarding the nature or circumstances surrounding the message.

6. Relish in the fact that this old acquantience is now, no doubt, enamored with your mysterious doings and can't help but think you lead a life far more interesting than theirs.

Examples:

Case Study #1: Text sent to "Glen" (former roommate - no correspondence in the past 4 months)

Me: But once they hosed off the blood it looked like a legitimate skating rink.
Glen: What?
Me: Sorry. Must've hit a wrong button. Texted wrong person. Crazt smart phones. lol!

{ - }

Case Study #2: Text sent to "Kim" (girl I used to have a crush on - no correspondence in 3+ years)

Me: Sort of. Try flipping over and pumping from on top.

Kim: WTF?

Me: Whoops. That text wasn't meant for you.

Kim: I figured that. How have you been?

{ - }

Case Study #3: Text sent to "Ron" (guy I used to do stand-up comedy with - no correspondence in past 3 month)

Me: So I told her my last name was Davenport. She wrote me a check for 5 hundy before the eulogy was even over.

Ron: OK

Me: Sorry dude. That was sent to the wrong person.

Ron: Well I really enjoyed it!

{ - }

Case Study #4: Text sent to "Paul" (old friend from high school - no correspondence in 5+ years).

Me: I swear. She was a bonafide Eskimo. Wholly snatch and all.
Paul: Huh?
Me: Sorry. That was meant for someone else.
Paul: Who could that possibly have been meant for?
Me: Sorry. Doesn't concern you.
Paul: It concerns me now. Now I want to know about the Eskimo.

{ - }

Case Study #5: Text sent to "Mary" (sister of friend - last correspondence unknown)

Me: Two dolphin calves, a barrel full of carp, and a female manatee. They didn't even check my bag. Where should I keep them?

Mary: ???

Me: Whoopsie. That text wasn't meant for you. Do me a favor and kindly keep this under your hat.

{ - }

Case Study #6: Text sent to "Beth" (friend from college who I heard just had a baby - no correspondence in 2+ years)

Me: So with no other obvious options we hid the body in the garage. We call her Carol to this day.

Beth: Huh?

Me: Whoopsie. That was supposed to do to someone else. Congrats on the new addition!!

{ - }

Case Study #7: Text sent to "Tim" (cousin I haven't spoken to since last Christmas)

Me: It couldn't have been me. I haven't been to that particular massage parlor in weeks. It was probably Doug. He has a mask of me.

Tim: Is this Rich? Who is Doug? Mask of you? WTF?

Me: Sorry man. Sent that to the wrong person. See you soon. Say hi to your mom and dad.

{ - }

Case Study #8: Text sent to "Bob" (guy I used to work with 5 years ago)

Me: And that's why we call him Date Rape Charlie.

Bob: Huh?

Me: Sorry Bob. Texting error. Please disregard. Hope all is well!

{ - }

Case Study #9: Text sent to "Joe" (high school buddy haven't talked to in several years)

Me: I didn't have the heart to tell me the peanuts had been jizzed on.

Joe: Whoa. I'm confused dude.

Me: Sorry. That was meant for someone else. Kindly disregard.

Joe: Wait a second. I need an explanation. Holiday party? Sugar coated cocktail peanuts? Or did you really jizz in a nut bowl?

Me: Let's just say it was a long night : )

{ - }

Case Study #10: Text sent to "Ben" (former college roommate - no correspondence really ever - not sure why I even have his number)

Me: Call me asap. She's still breathing and she won't stop mumbling your fucking name.

Ben: [no response]
Me: Hold that thought. She's breathing but she has no recollection of the Knicks game. Please advise.

Ben: [no response]

Me: Whoops. Wrong number. Disregard.

Ben: Rich? Rich Zeroth?

Self-sabotage, the ally of obstacle / Merle Tangerine

Gather round gentlemen. . . Take a knee.

I don’t need to tell you who is waiting out there. Their reputation is no secret. You’ve no doubt read about them in the papers and heard the whispers in the hallways in between classes. They’re the best in the state - bar-fucking-none. Their quarterback is on pace to break every passing record this side of the Rio Grande. Their defense is good enough to line up on Sunday afternoons. And as much as I’d like to tell you different, it’s all true.

But here’s the thing, gentlemen. Fact is, we are blessed tonight. Blessed to be presented with such a challenge on this glorious Friday night. Getting ready for school today you might have been worried that you were running a bit late, that you might not have time for a wholesome breakfast, that you hadn’t studied enough for your sixth period social studies exam, or that you didn’t get invited to Sally SweetPanties after-game party.

[some muffled laughter]

It is funny. It’s god damned comical is what it is! Why? Because that’s stupid shit to worry about. Life is hard, ladies, let no one tell you different, but anyone tempted to nod their head in approval better lock their necks and fix their eyes on me because you don’t know what hard is. But you’re about to.

No use keeping it a secret any longer. I had a nice long talk with the officials tonight and arrangements have been made to spot our opponents with a two touchdown lead. That’s right. When we step onto that field in a few minutes we’ll be down 14 – 0 without so much as taking a single snap. Now I don’t want that to get you down. That there is a motivational tactic to get this team in the mindset to line up and achieve despite the odds. I can see by the look on your faces that while a little confused, you are up to that challenge. And that makes me proud.

Now put your helmets on. Do it! Now stand up! Get loose. I said get loose!! Jump up and down, punch a fucking locker, do whatever it is you fucking do to get ready. You feel ready? You feel ready for the challenge that waits outside those doors? I can’t hear you!

[YEAH!!]

That’s what I thought.

Now take those helmets off because you’re not going to need them. Lock ‘em back up in your lockers because tonight’s not about lining up and putting your helmet on one of another color, it’s about the look on your opponents faces when you smack your bare skull against one covered in painted protective polycarbonate. Now off with your shoulder pads. YOU HEARD ME, TAKE ‘EM OFF!! Lock them up with your helmets. Now turn to your right. Look at your teammate. Turn to the left. Look at your teammate. Does he look like he’s ready to play football? I’ll safe you your breath. No, he does not. That team waiting for us on the other side of the field? They are ready to play football tonight. They got their helmets and their shoulder pads and their going to go about their business the same they did last week against Prior Lake and the same they did the week before against Lincoln. And I’m willing to bet they are going to go about their business the exact same fucking way next week against whoever the fuck they happen to play. Week after week after week of preparation and safety precautions and proper stretching so that the challenge placed before them that evening can be bested to the best of their ability. And really, what does that say about them? That they are focused, formidable, successful? BULLSHIT? No one knows what they, least of which themselves, because they have yet to take a good long hard look in the mirror and punch themselves in the face.

Jerseys off. That’s right. Tops and bottoms. Shoes too. I want you standing there in your jocks and socks.

Ha! Now we are getting somewhere! You assholes don’t look ready to play a football game. Do you feel ready?

[some ‘not really’s mixed a few half-hearted ‘yeah’s]

Of course you don’t! That’s the point. I changed my mind, go back and get your helmets. There you go. No, not on your head. Strap your helmet onto your foot. Right or left, whichever feels more awkward. I don’t know, chin strap around the ankle I guess. Figure it out. That’s more like it. Kinda hard to get around, isn’t it. Beautiful. Now we got ourselves a bonafide challenge on our hands. Now, when we take that field, we’ve unevened the playing field to the degree that any minor shred of success can be hoisted high and bragged about till kingdom come while at the same time any shortfall of our ultimate goal will not only be expected, but pitied to a level that might just get you all laid tonight.

[Assistant coach walks in carrying an extra large duffel bag, drops it at Coach’s feet]

[Coach unzips it. It’s full of volleyballs]

I want each of you to take one. Hold on to it. Get used to the feel of it because we’ll be holding on to these the entirety of the game. These volleyballs represent everything we stand for tonight. They are our way of saying ‘fuck you’ to the idea of putting our best foot forward. They are the blindfold to the seeing eye dog. They are the water pistol to the soldier on the front line. They are what make people feel sorry for us. They are our way of taking control of the idea of ‘expectations’. They are what make us special. These volleyballs are life. Now I understand that it’s hard to get into a three-point stance with a volleyball in your hand and a helmet strapped to your foot. I understand it’s damn near impossible to throw or catch a football in one hand with a volleyball in the other. We’ll likely get called for several penalties. Many, if not all, of you will get injured tonight. But each drop of blood spilled, each broken bone endured while still clutching your volleyball will be a testament to the added obstacles we’ve knowingly put in place to make success all the more sweet.

Now if I send you out their tonight naked as the day your momma first laid eyes on you carrying a bunch of volleyballs I WILL lose my job. Make no mistake. I’ll never coach again. But that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make just to get the chance to see you boys do your damndest against a superior opponent using inadequate, not to mention, incorrect equipment, in all your glory. Because while there’s something to be said about a man prepared to face a seemingly insurmountable challenge, I swear to you there will be fucking books written about the men who go out of their way to make themselves woefully unprepared but go out to face that same challenge regardless.

The ally of obstacle is self-sabotage, gentlemen. And the key to success is obliterating all preconceived expectations to such a degree that it can only be defined in your own heart. Do that, and you might actually be able to say to yourself that you won in some way. At least there's really no way people can categorically say you lost.

Go wildcats!

Belated / Grover Difps

Oct. 7th (my birthday):
Hooray for me! What a lucky man I am. A wonderful family who loves me dearly. A roof over my head. A fridge full of food. A damn good dog. What's this? Cards from both my beautiful wife and breath-taking daughter? Not just your run-of-the-mill Hallmark bullshit either. These are handwritten! From the heart. My two-year-old daughter even tried to sign her name. Love that. Gotta catch myself lest I cry here. This is going to be a great birthday.

Oct. 8th (birthday +1):
Odd that I didn't get a gift from my wife yet. I mean the card was nice and all but what husband doesn't get a gift from his wife on his birthday? Things we kind of hectic yesterday. I guess she's just waiting for the right time. That perfect moment. Tomorrow is Saturday. We got nothing going on. I'm sure I'll get my present tomorrow. No need to get worked up.

Oct. 9th (birthday +2):
I know. She must've ordered something online - waited until the last minute. Happens to the best of us. Not to say that springing for express/overnight shipping in order to get it here by my birthday wouldn't have made sense. . . but I guess she decided to save some dough and go with ground. Tough but fair.

Oct. 10th (birthday +3):
No mail today. I'm sure it will arrive tomorrow. Or maybe she plans on taking me shopping today so I can pick out something myself? Yeah, that's it. I'm not the easiest to to shop for after all. I'm sure we'll go this afternoon.

Oct. 11th (birthday +4):
What the fuck? What's the grace period for getting a birthday gift from your spouse? It's been 4 days. You'd think she would have at least said something by now. "Sorry hon, didn't get a chance to get you anything yet but I've got something great picked out in my head. Just need to pick it up after work tomorrow." How hard is that?

Oct. 12th (birthday +5):

Not getting a gift on our anniversary was one thing. We had an agreement. Only cards. No need to splurge on gifts so soon after fitting the bill for the back yard landscaping. But this is my fricking birthday, woman. No way she interpreted the one-time-anniversary-no-gift policy as extending to all future holidays/special occasions. That was made perfectly clear.

Oct. 13th (birthday +6):

I remember her asking what I wanted and I said 'I have everything I could possibly need'. Who takes that literally? All dad's say that. It's part of our code. We say we don't want anything and then we get surprised with something. A crappy tool, a tie, a new dress shirt, at least something. Maybe I was supposed to fill out a list like a fucking 8-year-old. Unbelievable.

Oct. 13th (birthday +7):
I need to concede myself to the fact that she has simply forgot. She's got a lot on her plate. She's a pregnant kindergarten teacher with a 2-year-old that attaches herself to her leg the moment she walks in the door. If getting her husband a birthday gift somehow slipped through the cracks in between being a lunch monitor and reading bedtime stories then so be it.

Oct. 14th (birthday +8):
I take it back. This is ridiculous. I should drop a hint or something. Mention how a coworker bought me a new stapler or some shit. That way she'll at least have to address it. At this point I don't even want a birthday present. I just want her to acknowledge that she chose not to buy me one.

Oct. 15th (birthday +9):

Got a package today. . . from my in-laws. New socks. And a card. Well if my wife needed a hint then this is it. Her parents have officially outperformed her in terms of birthday gift offerings. And they won with a pair of socks. If this doesn't jolt her into action, nothing will.

Oct. 16th (birthday +10):

Maybe she's waiting for me to say something. Like it's some weird pregnant woman hormonal thing. She's feeling vulnerable and protective of her immediate surroundings and she needs me to take the initiative, be the leader, blaze all the trails. I will say "Honey, in regards to my birthday and lack of gift thus far due to your fragile state; I will be requiring a box set of 'The Wire' as well as a new messenger bag. We will now sit side by side and order these items on amazon using your credit card." That's just crazy enough to work.

Oct. 17th (birthday +11):

Yeah I can't say that. She'd tear me a new one. This is some bullshit is what this is. I bust my ass everyday at some bullshit job just so I can pay for some bullshit mortgage for a piece of shit apartment not to mention fucking tuition to some bullshit preschool just so my kid can play with blocks all day and I don't even get a god damned birthday present!?!?! Bullshit!!!

Oct. 18th (birthday +12):

What am I, 12? Flipping out over a birthday present? Take a deep breath. It's not that big of a deal. I've had 30 odd some birthdays and I'll have 30 odd some more. A couple weeks from now I won't even remember this. Relax. So I didn't get a birthday present. Big deal. Life goes on.

Oct. 19th (birthday +13):
I will buy myself something. Something great. Something absurd. I will go all out. We'll see how she likes that.
"Are those. . . cowboy boots?"
"Thanks for noticing. That they are. And you know what? They were expensive. Best ones I could find. I think they have real gold on the tips. And you know what else? I'm not even sure I like them. I've always wanted to see if I could pull off being a guy who wears cowboy boots around and I just decided today to fuck it all and buy a pair. Because that's how I roll baby. I see something I think I might want and I fucking buy it! No, I won't be able to wear them to work."

Oct. 20th (birthday +14):

I'm going about this all wrong. The key here is communication. I'm married to this woman. She's my life partner. Through thick and thin. I should simply sit her down and tell her how I feel, like a loving husband should. Tell her that I realize it's just a stupid birthday gift but that it actually means a lot to me. Tell her that not getting a present really hurt my feelings. I'm an adult for cripes sake. A grown man. Time to start acting like one. There's no reason this misunderstanding can't be settled with a civil conversation.

Oct. 21th (birthday +15):
You know what? Her birthday is next month. How exactly am I supposed to handle that? At some point I have to ask her what she wants for her birthday? That's a hard question to ask without sounding condescending given the current circumstances.

Oct. 22th (birthday +16):
Fuck that. I won't even ask her what she wants for her birthday. I just won't buy her anything. Two can play this game. Let's see how she likes counting the days before her "big" day when she'll get her present then finding herself counting the days after her "big" day as they pass without getting a gad damned thing. Check that - I'll buy her a card.

Oct. 23th (birthday +17):
Hold on. Instead of getting her nothing I'll buy her a whole shit load of birthday gifts! Ha!! Spa passes, flowers, new shoes, mani pedi gift cards, a fucking iPad, you name it. That'll show her. You buy me nothing. I buy you EVERYTHING! It'll make her feel like shit. Now who's on top, sister? I AM A GENIUS!!

Oct. 24th (birthday +18):
In the meantime I can totally keep this whole situation in my back pocket. Pull it out next time she asks me to do anything I don't want to. "You know what? I don't think I'll be attending the kindergarten fall craft festival. I think I'll stay here and watch football. We can CONSIDER IT MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!" "You know what? I think I'll be eating all the leftover Chinese food myself. CONSIDER IT MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT!" Yeah, that's the ticket.

Oct. 25th (birthday +19):
Wow. If there was even a shred a doubt before. . . I mean, it's official. It's been like 3 weeks. My wife did not buy me a birthday present. That is reality. Yet it doesn't seem real. Maybe if I say it out loud. . .
"My wife did not buy me a birthday present."
Wonder if that guy heard me. Weird thing to say out loud to yourself. Yet it had to be done. So I can accept it. And then hopefully move on. Sort of feel like I've entered a new era here where bitter disappointment is the norm. A whole new realm. No turning back now. Bridges have been burned. Lines have been crossed. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Oct. 26th (birthday +20):

What's this? Oh, thanks babe! You shouldn't have. No, no, I like it I like it. My old messenger bag was all beat up so this one is perfect! Yes, I like the color too. That's very sweet of you. I love it! It's just the kind that I wanted! You know you didn't have to get me anything though.
I love you too.