Mark Redmond

So it didn't bother me too much when my daughter described me as chubby, "but solid" my wife chimed in. So I'm 5'8 1/2" (I swear I used to be 5'9", I must be shrinking, not a good sign), and I never worry about my weight until I top 200 lbs, which has only happened twice in my 41 years, I might added. So, back to the chubby comment. It didn't really bother me. Like most middle aged men, I realize that it is next to impossible to look sexy while driving a mini van. Plus, at 192 lbs, I am safely below my 200 lbs ceiling.

Then my other daughter dropped a bomb on me this weekend. At first, I didn't know what my wife and daughters where talking about until I asked for an explanation, and boy was that a mistake. I discovered that I have the misfortune of having moobs! No, that's not a typo. Moobs, otherwise know as MAN BOOBS! For the love of Pete (I never really figured out who Pete is, by the way), I have moobs. I don't care if I weigh 200 lbs or 100 lbs, am 18 or 85 years old, I don't want to be remembered as, "Oh, you remember him, he's the one with the man boobs". To hell with that. As soon as I get home tonight, that total gym is coming out of retirement. I intend to replace these moobs with muscle if it the last thing I do. Give me false teeth, a hairline that recedes to my collar, but please, save me from the curse of the moobs!

So it didn't bother me too much when my daughter described me as chubby, "but solid" my wife chimed in. So I'm 5'8 1/2" (I swear I used to be 5'9", I must be shrinking, not a good sign), and I never worry about my weight until I top 200 lbs, which has only happened twice in my 41 years, I might added. So, back to the chubby comment. It didn't really bother me. Like most middle aged men, I realize that it is next to impossible to look sexy while driving a mini van. Plus, at 192 lbs, I am safely below my 200 lbs ceiling.

Then my other daughter dropped a bomb on me this weekend. At first, I didn't know what my wife and daughters where talking about until I asked for an explanation, and boy was that a mistake. I discovered that I have the misfortune of having moobs! No, that's not a typo. Moobs, otherwise know as MAN BOOBS! For the love of Pete (I never really figured out who Pete is, by the way), I have moobs. I don't care if I weigh 200 lbs or 100 lbs, am 18 or 85 years old, I don't want to be remembered as, "Oh, you remember him, he's the one with the man boobs". To hell with that. As soon as I get home tonight, that total gym is coming out of retirement. I intend to replace these moobs with muscle if it the last thing I do. Give me false teeth, a hairline that recedes to my collar, but please, save me from the curse of the moobs!

At least that is how it has seemed in my house the past few months. Ever since I agreed to allow my eldest daughter to have her own dog, which makes two in our home, my life and my house have been increasingly chaotic, disheveled and just plain stressful.

My dog, Bandit, is a good natured, well behaved pal. My daughter's dog, Kweenie, is a LARGE puppy that have destroyed an $800 rug, a $300 chair, and yesterday began eating her way through our hardwood floor! When I arrived home and saw what she had done to the floor I lost it.

I love my daughter and, although I would prefer to get rid of her dog and go back to the way things were before with just my one dog in the house, I want to make it work for her. So last night I reconfigured our garage, creating a kennel area large enough for our two dogs to stay and play when we are at work and school. I don't think that they can do too much damage in the new setup but I could be wrong. They are their now. I will have to wait until I get home from work tonight to find out if it worked or if they chewed their way to freedom. Either way, I can't wait to reclaim my castle.