Keeping up with the Joneses

As I lay in the grass, the hot sun beating down on me, I can hear the laughter of a 3-1/2 year old girl frolicking in her wading pool with her Momma. Cries of "Don't splash me, Claire!" are followed by little squeals of joy and then giggles. I ponder, "Does anybody even see me? Am I invisible or have I already died?" I wonder why no one has noticed that the thuds of a rubber mallet smacking against paver bricks have abruptly stopped. Surely they'll look over soon and notice me lying in the grass clutching my chest. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten the four plates of homemade buffalo chicken wings last night... or the two plates I had for breakfast this morning. Damn you, Costco, and your 80lb bags of frozen chicken wings! But I can't damn you. I just wish I knew how to quit you. You're like a bad drug, but not the "bad" kind that makes a person - ANY random person who is clearly NOT me - think he's peeing his pants for four straight hours at a Lollapolooza concert while simultaneously being convinced the lead singer of Ministry is the devil and wants to steal your soul. No, Costco, you're the kind of drug that gives a person the never-ending munchies. You make a man all giddy inside knowing he can eat three meals a day of buffalo wings for eight straight days without a care in the world of running out of chicken. Then again, maybe a 40+ year old guy with barely any blood flowing through his cholesterol stream shouldn't be doing hard labor in 90+ degree heat. But I don't get days "off" like most people for I am a stay-at-home dad, and my job is never done! Okay, okay... so maybe everyday is pretty much like a mini-vacation with Claire (minus the umbrella drinks and the 12-hour hangover Linda gets after drinking just two glasses of wine). But trust me - even vacations suck when a 3-1/2 year old throws a tantrum because you forgot to let her hold the garage door open for Bogey after he's been outside to pee...

To the south of me, I see my neighbor, Matt, on his deck barbecuing for family and guests. Why isn't he working in his yard? Shouldn't he be concerned about keeping up with the Stewarts? Is he not threatened by our awesomeness? Apparently not. More importantly, why not? I can tell by the way the smoke curls up from the grill that he's cooking a dry-rubbed pork. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. I'm curious if it's a store bought rub, or if it's one of Matt's own creations. I wonder if he sees me lying here in the grass suffering a heat stroke. I try to find the energy to call out, "Help me! I've fallen, and I can't get up!" But there's nothing there. Just a heaping mound of Stewie lying in the grass ready to take my last gasp of air. And that's when it hits me. Of course! The key to regaining my powers is only steps away. Why didn't I think of this before? It's so obvious! I pick myself up and slowly make my way into the house, my family oblivious to my absence. Once inside, I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge. A brilliant bright light washes over me, and I can hear that angelic "ahhhhh" music (you know what I mean, right?). I wonder if this is how Moses felt when he found the tablets of stone containing the 10 Commandments. There lying before me on the second shelf of the fridge is a Tupperware container full of leftover chicken wings. Or, as I like to put it, my equivalent to Popeye's spinach. I heat up a plate and sit down at the kitchen table ready to refuel. And through the closed patio door I can still hear the sound of a 3-1/2 year old girl frolicking in her wading pool with her Momma, and I'm reminded just how awesome my life truly is.