“What are you going to do with your bachelor weekend?” my wife asked.
“Have you seen the Miller Lite ad that’s been popping up during every other timeout during NBA games?”
“Of course I haven’t.”
“Of course you haven’t. There’s dreamy music, hazy filters, shifting camera angles. There’s this narrator that sounds like, well, the narrator in a beer commercial. Or maybe a commencement speaker. It’s all this seize moment, enjoy the now bullshit and people are laughing and bowling and grilling and playing softball.
“But there’s this one dude who’s in his apartment with his dog. He’s laying on his couch and his head is tipped off the edge and his feet are on the wall and he doesn’t look like he’s got a single damn thing to do but lay on that couch with his feet on the wall and drink a beer. That’s my dude. That’s what I’m doing this weekend.”
“Oh,” she said. “Are you going to drink better beer?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
The Specially-Employed Dads Club numbers two: me and my neighbor, Jake. We’ve both been pinched into the world of freelance gigs (though he’s been smart enough to go back to school). Because we have what could (generously) be termed flexible schedules, we usually pick the kids up from school, smooth out afternoon tantrums, try to keep them doing something more than just watching television, try to from running into the street, or playing with knives. We try to keep them alive until our wives get home from work. Of course, sometimes we let the kids watch whatever hell they want while we sit around and drink. On Fridays, usually.