“Dada, why do we have to leave our house?”

Our condo is half-packed up and we’re officially in transition. I’d like to tell you we bought a new place. Hell, I’d settle for renting a place. But this move is a preemptive strike before we’re made to leave. That’s what happens when you buy a home at the absolute height of the market, said market completely collapses and you find yourself $100,000 upside-down. With an adjustable rate mortgage. Facing rising condo fees and unanticipated special assessments. Saddled with job loss and vastly reduced incomes. Not to mention the fact that MJ is temporarily out of work. Did I mention we’re being sued by our lovely condo association for good measure?

Despite the fact that we surrendered the house during bankruptcy, the bank doesn’t want it so they won’t foreclose. Which means the condo fees we can’t afford to pay just keep piling up. Which racks up late charges. Which racks up lawyer fees. But you can’t get blood from a stone, and I’m rockin’ it hardcore these days. They say investing in real estate is a sure thing. Well now I have a home on Cape Cod that I literally can’t even give back to the bank. How times change.

So now we become a burden to my parents, as I boomerang my pathetic ass back to my childhood home. This time with my family in tow. Don’t get me wrong, we’re beyond lucky to have family who don’t think twice about helping us and taking us in. But I feel like a failure for letting it come to this.

“Dada, I miss my kitties. Why can’t they live with us?”

Look, I hate cats. Hate them. But because my wife loves them, I’ve lived with two Maine coons for seven years. Even though we now have a grudging respect for one another, I have long looked forward to life without allergies and the general snottiness of the feline persuasion. And now I’m on the doorstep of such of life because my mom is extremely allergic to cats and we can’t take them with us.

But along comes a little boy who loves the cats. With no brother or sister to play with, he often turns his attention to his furry siblings. What I thought was merely cute play turned out to be a fairly deep bond. But asking my mom to forsake breathing in her own home is absolutely out of the question. I know she feels horrible, but there’s nothing anyone can do. The cats are going to live with my mother-in-law so they won’t be far. Only an hour away. But to a 3-year-old that trip might as well be to Antarctica.

“Dada, why do I have to go to a new school? I love my friends and I miss them.”

I’ve never had something incredibly sharp and jagged jammed straight into my heart. But I don’t have to be stabbed after that comment, because the look on his face and the sadness in his voice was more painful than any blade.

Will has flourished at his preschool over the last 12 months. He found stability, strength, independence and confidence there. And Will, a boy who once couldn’t play nicely around any other kids, now has a plethora of friends. Every single day he comes home and recites the litany of friends he played with, the games they enjoyed and how much fun he had. He’s comfortable there, he’s thriving there. And now I’m ripping him away from all that.

I’m left to wonder how one is judged as a man. Because if we’re talking provider, I’m failing miserably. I bought a house we could afford at the time, but now we can’t. And as a result, we’re literally losing the roof over our heads. Sure I work a lot and went out and found a job that pays more, but in the end it was a wash because MJ is out of work now through no fault of her own. She’s been fantastic at taking care of the house and I’m so proud of her for starting down a path that will take her back to school. But a real man provides at all costs and keeps things afloat. I really believe that. And by those standards, I’m way south of where I need to be.

But maybe a real man is someone who takes care of his family. Unfortunately, I’m failing there too.

I get up at 5:45 a.m. and leave for work at 6:30. It takes me anywhere from 2-3 hours to get to work. I work from 9 to 5. It’s at least another two hours to get home. It’s after 7 p.m. by the time I pull in to my parking space. That’s after dinner and exactly one hour before Will goes to bed. As any parent can tell you, that last hour before bed is not exactly a time for bonding. It’s filled with “brush your teeth” and “take a bath” and “make sure you go pee.” Yet I try to cram all my hugs, all my kisses and all my bonding into 60 minutes. The last 60 minutes of my son’s day, during which he is understandably tired, cranky and wants little to do with anyone. Nevermind a dad trying to relentlessly cuddle with him.

After he goes to bed I usually have to tend to the blog or one of my other writing projects I do on a part-time basis, so MJ goes to bed while I toil away on the computer. So much for being a good husband.

“Dada, can I have a brother or a sister?”

We both want to have another child so badly, but we don’t even have a home of our own. But more than that, MJ has to be off her current medication if we want to get pregnant. That means we literally have to choose between another baby and her mental well-being. Another child makes us complete but coming off the meds might send my wife over the edge. Meanwhile the meds keep my wife away from the edge, but the idea of not having another baby might send the wheels completely flying off the wagon.

In the end I can’t sacrifice my wife’s health. The thought of not having a second child makes me physically ache inside, but the thought of losing MJ makes me want to dig a hole and never come out. Either way you cut it, it’s not a choice I’m very fond of at the moment.

And somewhere in the middle of this tempest of misery and heartache I’m stuck in traffic either on my way to or from work. I can’t move. All I see are brake lights. I’m hemmed in while my son grows up without his beloved pets, without his friends and with a father he sees for an hour a day. I’m pretty sure some divorced dads get more time than that. The roof over his head isn’t even one I’ve provided. If I’m not providing enough financially and I’m not providing enough emotionally and I can’t give him the things he wants and needs…well, then what exactly am I doing?

“Dada, I miss you. Can you please work from home today and cuddle me?”

Sorry bud, I can’t. But I miss you too kid. I miss your mom too. I’m missing it all. And both you and mom deserve better.

She makes some truly wonderful dishes—call them “signature meals” if you will—that I love. Her go-to dinners include a scrumptious chicken portabella mushroom casserole, mean stuffed calzones and homemade mac & cheese that truly epitomizes what comfort food is all about.

But despite her repertoire of culinary masterpieces, I don’t know what my favorite meal is. And that’s because she hasn’t made it yet.

When I see MJ poking around the fridge and the cabinets before dinnertime, one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed and puffed out, I get excited. She wanders from the pantry to the fridge, and back to the pantry. Then she pulls something out of the freezer. Bottles of something or other clank as ingredients are gathered. A smorgasbord of food, spices and flavorings sits on the counter in perceived pandemonium. And then she says the words I’ve been waiting for:

“This is probably gonna suck and taste terrible because I’ve never done it before, but I’m going to try something new.”

It’s never sucked. It’s never tasted terrible. I have no idea how she does it, but every single time she’s uttered that sentence, MJ has managed to throw together a host of seemingly unrelated food items and turned it into a meal fit for a king. Or in my case, a filthy peasant.

So what does this have to do with the price of asparagus?

Life is once again tossing a few curve balls our way. Because of several factors I won’t get into here, we might not be in our condo for too much longer. I don’t know where we’ll go. I’m not sure what we’ll do for work if we have to leave. Our future is in total flux and the uncertainty can be flat-out daunting at times.

But oddly enough, I’m not that worried.

We have family and friends who would take us in if it came to that. We’re both qualified, hard-working people who have experience and education needed to get jobs. And I’m a big believer that opportunity presents itself at opportune times.

Portions of our lives are scattered all to hell right now. But I know what looks like a mess is really all the necessary ingredients to happiness. We just need to round them all up, sprinkle in a little luck and bake to perfection. Then the unrecognizable mess we’re currently in will turn into something truly great.

I know it will probably suck at first and be a little terrifying for awhile because we’ve never done it before, but we’re going to try something new.

And it’s going to work.

But the ad I want to hit on is this one from Target:

Basically, I want to take a flame thrower to this bitch.

First of all, we’re in a recession. Times are tough everywhere, and because of that it’s more important than ever that couples talk about their finances and make joint decisions that take into account their family’s best financial interests. Yet in this commercial, the wife buys herself a big screen TV without consulting her husband. Then, when he rightfully takes offense and gently tries to remind her that spending should be kept to a minimum, she gives him all kinds of attitude.

But then, just to push her bitchiness over the top, she says, “Maybe Santa doesn’t need any help doing Santa’s job.”

This is where the ad goes from being shitty television, to a shitty commentary on the readily accepted roles played by men and women. First of all, the guy was just trying to stick to their previously established plan of spending less during difficult times. Sounds pretty reasonable right? But then she goes out and submarines him by spending hundreds (possibly thousands) on a new TV. Then, when he sticks up for himself, she basically tells him gift-giving and how they spend money is none of his damn business.

Or, in other words, it’s a woman’s job and he should just shut the hell up and not question her infinite wisdom.

I know women such as this one, and they make me want to tear what’s left of my hair completely out. It’s funny, because a lot of women I know complain their husbands aren’t involved enough. Yet this guy is just trying to save a few bucks, but she gets angry even though she’s the one who deviated from the plan. She should be happy he’s taking an interest in his family’s well-being.

But what really gets me is the double standard.

Think for one minute about what would happen if the roles in this TV commercial were reversed. What if a man was telling a woman to mind her own business because men don’t need any help deciding how the family’s money is spent? Because maybe men don’t need any help leading the family and making all the decisions. That’d go over as well as a fart in church and you know it.

And what’s with her creepy, passive-aggressive smile at the end? She looks like an inmate at the asylum who mixed up her medication and is on the verge of going on a 6-state killing spree.

I think my main point here is that some multi-national advertising agency needs to come to their senses and hire me to write these commercials. Sure each product would be pitched by either fighting mascots or monkeys dressed in people’s clothes, but at least we wouldn’t have to watch this crap.

The condo association is coming after us for not being able to pay the special assessment. They’ve issued another special assessment for maintenance due in January. Our credit card that we use for emergencies was canceled WHILE we were fixing up my car. Two days later, the same car may need even more expensive repairs. We keep trying to refinance our mortgage and we keep getting rejected. Soon we’ll be paying more bills than we have income.

I feel like I’m stuck in debt quicksand while creditors with sharp, pointy sticks jab at me as I sink.

Yesterday, as I tried to work from home because I couldn’t drive my car, I was feeling mighty sorry for myself and enjoying a pity party for one. Until Will came to the rescue.

We live near a military base. They used to be home to a bunch of F-15 jets (the same ones that first responded to NYC after Sept. 11) but even though they’re gone now, we still get a bunch of Jayhawks and Coast Guard planes flying around. Yesterday we heard one that was particularly loud and it startled Will. He frantically ran over to me, near tears, and I picked him up and held him and told him everything was OK.

Then he looked at me, pointed up to the sky, and said “Dada. Airplane.”

Shortly thereafter I had a similar moment when I tried to give him some pineapple for breakfast. He pushed it away with a disgusted look on his face and said “Nooo.” So I asked him what he wanted and he starts pointing toward the fridge. I told him he had to tell me what he wants, not point. He made some unintelligible noise which left us no closer to eating breakfast. Finally I asked him one more time what he wanted, and in a voice clear as day he said:

“Cheewios.”

For a brief moment, I managed to grab one of those pointy sticks I’m being poked with and I used it to fight my way out of the quicksand. And I felt like I could fight back and make it work, which is a feeling I haven’t had lately. When you’re both working full-time jobs, taking as much OT as possible and cutting costs wherever you can, it’s pretty discouraging to get slapped with new bills and additional obstacles at every turn. You feel beat down and you contemplate just waving the white flag in the hope that they’ll leave you the hell alone. You truly do start to lose hope.

Until you’re saved by Cheerios and airplanes. Of all things.

Good news everyone, the economy is officially on the rebound.

No, I’m not an economist. Hell, I’m not even sure what an economist actually does. Nor am I basing this on my extensive studies of the stock market. I think I own a few shares of A.T. Cross pens that my great-grandfather bought me 30 years ago, so my portfolio isn’t too extensive. So I know what you’re thinking: how does someone who knows nothing about economic trends or the stock market know for sure that the economy is on the upswing?

The answer is in my pants.

When I was living on my own and dating MJ, I had lots of extra cash. Every weekend I’d take out a few hundred dollars and I’d party with my friends in Boston. We’d go barhopping, hit up a Red Sox game, order some pizza, etc. When Sunday rolled around, I’d head back to MJ’s place to beg her to do my laundry spend some time with her.

At that point I’d be very hungover and forgetful. You know how it is after a night of drinking when you swear you had a few extra bucks left over from the night before, yet the cash is mysteriously gone. It’s like the Beer Elves robbed you. This seemed to happen to me all the time. I was positive I didn’t spend all my money, yet by the time MJ did my laundry I couldn’t find any of it.

Little did I know MJ was playing a sick game of Finders Keepers.

Turns out, MJ wasn’t doing my laundry just out of the kindness of her heart. Instead, she’d put my clothes in the wash and then keep all the laundered money. She was hauling in $10s and $20s and banking the money for future expenses without telling me, because she knew I’d just spend it like a moron if she gave it back to me.

She finally admitted this to me when the economy soured. I asked her one day about a year ago how she always managed to make ends meet with these hidden reservoirs of money that always seemed to turn up. That’s when she came clean and lamented the fact that I never had any more money hanging around in my pockets. And she was right. For the past couple of years my pockets have been downright barren. There just haven’t been an extra dollars to spare. If there was a dollar sitting around it was spent. And since I couldn’t just take out hundreds of dollars at a time “just in case,” there was never any change.

But yesterday there was a bright spot on the horizon. MJ was doing laundry and she let out a surprised little chirp. There, in my pants pocket, was two dollars! I know it’s not much, but with loose money making a comeback in my pants pocket I’m ready to declare an official economic rebound.

So fear not good readers, your financial hardships are over. My pants would never lie!