September 18, 2015

I’m the world’s pickiest eater.  It’s not even that I’m picky.  I’m have so many irrational food issues, I make Mikey, the Life Cereal Kid from the 70s seem like someone with an adventurous palette.

In the early years on my marriage, I took my wife out to dinner on evening.  When our meals arrived she saw me push the squash to the side of the plate so it wouldn’t touch my steak.  She told me it would mean the world to her if I would at least try a bite of the offensive vegetable.  I looked at her for a second without saying a word and summoned up the courage to eat a tiny bite of the squash.  When I tell you that the look of joy on her face far surpassed her expression when I proposed, I am in no way overstating things.  She shed actual tears.


(Just like Kim wept after Kanye ate some asparagus)

I think my wife thought that my eating the squash signified my willingness to begin trying new things.  It’s much more likely I was motivated to get some “action” and I was convinced eating this vile food was advanced foreplay.  I don’t even remember if actually got lucky that night.  I only distinctly recall brushing my teeth 18 times when we got home to get the taste of squash out of my mouth.  I may have even taken a therapeutic shower.


(I’m guessing this women is dealing with the emotional scars of having eaten green beans)

I have a simple psychotic diet, that consists of red meat, pasta, pizza and potatoes in most forms with the exception of mashed.  And even those simple foods can’t be varied to much.  A couple of years ago my wife made me a Sloppy Joe and I looked at her in horror.  Way too many strange ingredients that shouldn’t be combined along with a less than appealing name were all deal breakers for me to eat that.  When I refused the meal she threw her hands up and said, “I’m going to have a good hard laugh when you keel over with a stroke” and left the room.  I assume she was referring to my inability to try new things in general and not that particular meal in regard to the stroke.  Although it’s kind of entertaining to think of a doctor lecturing me on the risks of not eating enough Sloppy Joe’s.

My wife has already informed me that she does not want our sons to inherit my weird and incredibly unhealthy eating habits and I’m incredibly scared.  I think she expects me to eat the foods that frighten me the most to set a good example.  I’d be less scared to go off to fight in a War, than to have to eat a piece of salmon.


(Meet Charlie Company.  They keep us safe so they don’t have to eat shellfish.)

My wife, of course is right.  I want Arthur and Charles to to be healthier and far less strange than I am, when it comes to their diet.  I’ve heard a parent’s love for their kids is unconditional and I have decided that this just isn’t true.  I love my sons but when it comes to what’s going to be on my plate I have plenty of conditions.

I figure this can go two ways.  The first way, is to lie to them.  It’s been well documented in this blog that I’m a fan of lying.  It’s often the easiest way to get conveniently from Point A to Point B.  Why can’t I just tell the Boys that I have allergic reactions to good food.  I’ll even look at them longingly as they eat healthy meals and pretend to choke down a cheeseburger and fries.  I could pull that off as convincingly as Daniel Day Lewis taking on the role of Lincoln.


(The award for best performance by an actor pretending to be sad that he couldn’t eat onions and liver goes to Steve Hurley.  Accepting for Steve is Colin Firth)

I guarantee my wife won’t go for this plan.  She figures she’s got me trapped and once again, she’s right.  But if this is going to happen, I need some incentive.  If eating squash many years ago got me some bedroom hanky panky, then I think we’re going to have to establish a reward system or it just won’t work.  Here’s what I propose.

Healthy Food Reward System

Green Vegetables – I get the TV remote for the evening.  If Broccoli is involved I get to watch Sunday Football undisturbed.

Wheat Bread – Any sandwich ruined by wheat bread that I’m forced to eat means that the next time I do something I have to say “I’m sorry” about means that I don’t have to follow that up with an explanation of why I’m sorry.

Ham – Eating this allows me to give honest critiques of the the next art project given to me by one of the kids.

Fish – This is a biggie.  If I am forced to eat any meal that involved fish that isn’t tuna straight out of the can I think I deserve a Vegas Weekend with my friends.  I’ll need to blow off steam to help me deal with this traumatic experience.


(If I’m going to eat a piece of Cod then I’m going to party like a member of the Rat Pack)

This list is just a start.  There are many more foods I have hang ups with, and all of them come with a price that I think is more than fair.

And years from now when Arthur and Charles ask me if I love them, I’ll say, “Are you shitting me?  I ate fish for you!”

Least Favorite Child Results

September 16 – Least Favorite is Charles.  I may have to do some DNA testing to make sure that Charles is in fact my child.  I have a hard time believing that a human being sharing my genetic code prefers to wake up at 6am, ready to start the day.

September 17 – Least Favorite is Arthur.  Arthur is starting to roll over a lot without realizing where he is. He’s kind of an idiot.  He could be on the bed or the changing table.  Both are two or three feet of the ground and present potential landing issues that he isn’t considering.  This forces me to have to turn quickly several times when I’m changing his outfit or diaper with a cat like agility I’ve never possessed.  I’m realizing that these kids are a young man’s game, and I’m looking like Johnny Unitas in his last football season with the San Diego Chargers.

Total Days as Least Favorite Child

Charles – 46 Days

Arthur – 43 Days

Tied as Least Favorite – 1 Day

Days Since Neil Patrick Harris Received My Post and Hasn’t Responded – 65