Stay-At-Home Nerd: My New Favorite Sexy Magazine
a blogumn by Josh Pullin
Along with being a new dad I’m a new homeowner, and by home, I mean condo. The condo has three bedrooms, two baths, an open floor plan, underground parking, count them two patios and a gym room I haven’t used, although I will, I promise. I’m telling you this because this is an awful lot of space for just one man. You see owning property and having children are eerily similar, except for the fact that you can’t trade up with children. While my wife and I consider the condo to be a starter home, our son is permanent. I would love to say that my wife and I are enjoying our new condo and new son as she finishes out her maternity leave and for the most part we have, but recently, my wife took (is there a better word) our son to her mom’s house in Orange County for what looks to be a week. No, there is no problem in our relationship. The problem is in our condo.
The heavy Los Angeles rainfall of the past month has led to a moisture invasion of our property. Moisture causes mold and if left untreated, mold spreads and destroys homes, families, and fortunes. In an effort to nip this problem in the bud we contacted our HOA, our property management company, the contractor, the home warranty company, and ultimately the developer. We are of the opinion that a condo built six months ago should remain moisture and more importantly mold free. Fortunately, the developer feels the same way. This is why Filipe is on the job.
When I said I was home alone I meant I was home alone at night. During the day Filipe, who is all smiles and thank yous, spends a great deal of time pulling things apart and putting them back together. For instance, yesterday there was a gaping hole in my living room dry wall that enabled me to see directly into the nursery. Ordinarily such a view would be a blessing, allowing me to keep one eye on my napping son and another on the NFL Scouting Combine highlights running on daytime sport shouting shows. Since my son is with his mother and grandmother in the OC all it allowed me to notice was where they had ripped up the carpeting in the nursery to find where the moisture had stopped spreading. Oh, well. As much as I’ve enjoyed my time with Filipe and our conversations, which mostly consist of me saying, “What time will you be here tomorrow?” and him replying “How is 8 AM for you?” I miss my family.
Before I had a kid or even a wife, this kind of solitary free time would lead to some productive output or at the very least a bit of hell raising. But, a funny thing happened to me as soon as my son was born. I got old. You know how presidents go gray during their first term? Well, I wasn’t home two days before I noticed gray hair peppering my beard and scalp. I had a softball game at 8:45 PM on Tuesday and my first thought was, man that’s awfully late for a softball game. When it comes to sex or sleep, I choose sleep nine out of ten times. The last straw for me came when I purchased the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.
When it comes to the Swimsuit issue I am a purist. I’m not downloading an app, I don’t want to see video, and I’m not going online for extra pictures. I want beautiful women and exotic locales in the palm of my hand. I want a window into that world, not a lawn chair. I grew up on Elle Machpherson and Kathy Ireland. I came of age with Daniela Pestova, Tyra Banks and Heidi Klum. And, it was Brooklyn Decker who broke my heart when I discovered that she’s thirteen years my junior. There was a time when the single greatest thrill of my young life was digging the swimsuit issue out of it’s hiding place and peering at it under the safety of my bedroom covers. That time passed long ago.
When I look at today’s issue I don’t get it. I don’t care about behind the scene shots. I don’t want to know who the videographer is or how many people it takes to run a photo shoot. Can we stop with the body paint already? And enough of the non-models: the skiers and the Dancing with the Stars girls and the wives and girlfriends of soccer players. Soccer players? This is America. I don’t want to read Dan Patrick’s insightful interview of Lindsey Vonn. Even the M&M ad is bothering me. No, in the quiet of the night I did not take the 2010 SI Swimsuit Issue into the bedroom and peer at it under the covers while my wife and son were away. In fact, another magazine was delivered to me that very same day.
A magazine that is designed, intended, and marketed towards woman. A magazine that I’m not ashamed to admit I eagerly anticipate each and every month. A magazine with stunning photos and exotic recipes. Yes, in the quiet of the night, alone in my condo I shuffled to bed and opened the newest issue of Cooking Light.
I saw a recipe for a Mixed Citrus Green Salad and thought my wife would like that. Another page had the secret formula for Apricot-Ginger Bellinis, a family favorite. Finally, I settled my gaze on a Sour Cream Coffee Cake. Enough was enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I put the magazine down, turned off the light and went to sleep dreaming of healthy eating and the return of my family.