New Years Eve 2023

 Another glorious Sayulita New Year in the books. 

 

I know I have been simply awful at keeping HamannEggs updated. I promise to be slightly better next year. I’ll run through my iphone photos to give you a quick 2023 highlight:

 

Diana went to Phish in Mexico, and was the only in attendance not on drugs.

 

We went to Spain and Portugal and I stopped being a vegetarian immediately after trying a piece of Spanish ham.

 

Eli ruled his E-sports league. We spent all his college money in anticipation that he’ll get a full ride in Fortnight.

 

Luca dominated soccer, baseball, badminton, jai-alai, ostrich racing and toe wrestling.

 

Jerry humped 400 people, just short of his 2023 goals.

 

And now, it’s time for my yearly weepy messages.

 

Diana,

 

I love you, you amazing, wonderful, hilarious hot mom. You’ve managed to get cuter, funnier and more successful this year. You are an inspiration and I so proud of you. I can’t wait to chase you around the earth and give you kisses before you go to bed by 8:30pm.

 

Elijah,

 

I love you, you hilarious, shaving, deep voiced man. You seem to have life figured out before the age of 17. I relish every chance to watch movies after midnight and sneak away for an occasional father son French dinner. I can’t wait to see all the marvelous dings you’ll put in my car in 2024.

 

Luca,

 

I love you, my kindred spirit. You have such a love of life and its many competitions. You are so silly and hilarious and despite your efforts to conceal it, you are the kindest person on the planet. I can’t wait to watch football with you and forcibly hug you against your will.

 

Jerry,

 

I love you but please give the humping a rest.

Sayulita Roads

  

We made it through the mad dash of Wine Goddess crowds, seas of Amazon boxes and a particularly drunken Santa visit on Christmas Eve and made it to our yearly trip to Mexico.

 

After over a decade of trips, we acutely feel the old, beautiful town fight against the march of progress. 

 

Every year we stay at a different place, each more charming than the last. It takes me a few days to adjust to screenless windows and the remote chance a lizard will crawl into my shoe, but in no time, I become a native. Well, as much of a native as a blindingly white man in Birkenstock sandals can be.

 

One of the great delights I have is renting and piloting a golf cart around town. It’s the only way to descend the rutted and washed out dirt roads that lead to most rental houses. These decrepit and squeaky machines hold barely enough charge to accelerate to 5mph, which I think it by design. It keeps the streets safe from the army of Dads four tequila shots in.

 

My favorite part is giving Luca his yearly hand at the wheel. This morning, our neighbor Chris (the Murphy-Greens are now part of the tradition) and I took Luca out to the outskirts of town and I slid over. 

 

Luca approaches golf cart driving with equal parts exhilaration and terror. He shrieks when he hits the gas. He shrieks when he gets too close to an oncoming car. He shrieks when street dogs approach. I can’t tell if he loves it or hates it. I assume both.

 

Chris and I act like drunken teenagers in a stolen Mustang. “Faster! Faster! 20 points for hitting a cat!” We cackle and slap Luca on the back when he makes a mistake. 

 

Eventually, the stress gets to be too much and Luca will hand the reins back over to me. And I’ll set my sights on my second favorite part of the golf cart: Picking up European hitchhikers.

A Very Seinfeld Bears Game

 

Luca timed it perfectly. Right after our second (third) glass of wine.

 

“We should go to a Bears game.”

 

Before Diana and I could slur a “yes” the tickets were purchased. An epic showdown between The Monsters of the Midway and, well, I forgot.

 

Seemed simple enough. Meet at game. Enjoy game. Go home. And thus began a cavalcade of Seinfeld-esc proportions.

 

First up? We could not find each other. With the full might of Apple and Verizon at our disposal, we circled Soldier Field like prize fighters. “I’m under a sign that says ‘Bears!’”

 

Eventually, we made it to security. Sorry ma’am, your purse is too big to enter the stadium. Purse too big? That’s a new one. Diana handled it pretty well, with just a eensy bit of Karen-nig as we were directed across the museum campus to The Field Museum, who were much better equipped to handle the juggernaut handbag Diana was smuggling Toyotas in.

 

At this point, I went into full Rick-Mode. “Guys. This is PART OF THE EXPERIIENCE. This is fun. We’re EXPERIENCING the game. All these hiccups? It’s the EXPERIENCE.” No one wanted to walk by me.

 

Whoop! We made it into the stadium. Luca, who is a Hamann through and through, bought the cheapest tickets in the building. Which meant walking up. Up. Up. Up. Twisting and turning past the rich people and the slightly less rich people. 

 

At one point we ran into a wall. The sections went 305, 307, 309…and then, bam. A wall. We asked an usher how to get to our seats and they explained the easiest way was to hire a helicopter to transport us to the other side of the stadium. 

 

We finally made it to our seats just in time to watch The Veteran’s Day performance of “Proud Mary.” It was…patriotic? Question Mark?

 

The good news? The Bears won! We had some delicious hot dogs and pretzels and I had a Blue Moon beer to remind me I don’t like Blue Moon beer. 

 

In fact, we had such a great time we decided it was so much fun that we never had to go back to a Bears game ever again.

 

p.s. I don’t have any pictures from the night, so here is Jerry looking like an idiot.

THE HAIR

 The threats had been coming for months. 

 

“I’m going to cut my hair.”

 

Haha right. Elijah Steven Hamann would never cut his hair. It’s his identity. It’s his superpower. The most repeated comment I get on Eli-related Instagram posts is “Hair Goals.”

 

Whenever Eli had trouble in school, or struck out at baseball or had a cold, we’d smile and say, “At least he still has his hair.”

 

But the threats continued. Maybe it was puberty or a need to have an identity not attached to his mane. Or maybe he has a significant other? I don’t know your guess is as good as mine. The kid spends all his time locked in his room, which is exactly what a 16 year old should be doing.

 

Then, one fateful night, the door swung open and in walked a short hair-ed Eli. He did it. 

 

Diana threw herself on the ground like a grieving 80 year old Italian woman. Why? Why?????? Why you take my baby’s hair? My poor baby’s hair. It’s a-gone.

 

The only problem? It kind of looks great. You know that show “The Bear?” About the Chicago beef stand? The show that prompted women all over the world to say “yes chef” in bed? Yeah, he looks like that.

 

He has impenetrable handsomeness.

 

Our plan now is to tell him how good he looks with short hair in the hopes our old friend Reverse Psychology will kick in. 

 

And also turn our attention to getting Luca to cut his fingernails. 

Coffee Boy

 I was 14 when I got my first job. There was some loop hole in the Child Labor Laws that allowed me and my brother to get dumped into a 100 degree corn field for 8 hours a day. It was miserable, filled with scary corn spiders and even scarier day laborers.

 

Steve and I hated it so much we would concoct plans to injure ourselves, all of which would require us to have major surgery if they succeeded. My brother stabbed me in the back by acquiring a massive pollen allergy.

 

But I did get comic book spending money.

 

Cut to 75 years later. Elijah decided he wanted to get a summer job. After not being called back for several (Seriously, Trader Joe?) his pal Henry got him a gig at a local coffee shop.

 

Possibly the greatest job a sixteen year old could have. A bunch of high school and college aged kids floating in hormones and caffeine. There’s a mean, creepy boss. A dumb beautiful girl, countless customers just begging to get their vanilla latte spit into.

 

The only thing that could ruin it is your idiot father coming in.

 

Which is my great pleasure. I like to swoop in like Donald Trump at a Mar-a-lago wedding reception. All finger guns and smiles. Sometimes I’ll tap the shoulder of the person ahead of me and loudly proclaim, “That’s MY SON taking your order. Isn’t he handsome?”

 

I then turn my attention to the staff. “Hey. Eli’s dad here. I’m Eli’s dad. I believe there will be a family discount coming my way.” I’ll throw in a fist bump or two.

 

Eli’s friend Henry dives right in, because he knows it makes Eli crazy. “Mr. Rick! Eli’s being real grouchy today.”

 

And suddenly, he is very grouchy indeed. Oh the pleasure of seeing your son shoot you daggers with his eyes. His seething hatred feeds me.

Sometimes he’ll run around the counter and shove my coffee into my hands to get me out of there. Big mistake. This only allows me to grab him in a great big hug and proclaim, “I LOVE MY COFFEE BOY!”

 

I do love my coffee boy.

Conservative Meal

 I looked at all the Mid-Life Crisis choices and decided on cycling. I’m not financially secure enough to buy a sports car. An affair feels like a lot of work. Plus I love Diana. I have too much access to wine to start getting into bourbon.

 

So, I decided to become one of those paunchy guys in Lycra you see on the ride of the road. I bought a semi expensive thing with two wheels and am already scouting out my N+1 bike.

 

My hobby requires me to spend hours crisscrossing the suburban trails to justify my purchases. Sometimes with other Mid-Life Crisis sufferers.

 

A few weeks ago I was on one such ride with a pal. We were maintaining a lovely glacial pace when I looked down and realized my phone was missing. It had obviously been thrown while I was getting rad on a small rise in the dirt.

 

After a halfhearted search, I decided it was gone forever and rode to the nearest Verizon. The very nice lady told me I would have to not only pay off my lost phone, but the new phone would also cost four billion dollars. I paused on the transaction and rode home to gameplan how to ride the purchase from the family. I’d gotten pretty good at hiding Lycra purchases, but this one would require a little more effort.

 

I was met at the door by Luca, who said, “Dad I found your phone and contacted the lady who has it and all we have to do is go to Des Plaines.” I stared at him like a Neanderthal who saw his first Bic lighter. 

 

Luca came with me because the lady who found it was a little nervous about being murdered by strangers. I figured an unwashed, disheveled teen would alleviate any fear.

 

The handoff went without a hitch. We didn’t murder her. She had found my phone while on horseback, so we got to meet her nice horse who did that thing where it kind of bit me put in a nice way.

 

On the way home, I told Luca he could have anything he wanted for dinner. Whatever gross fried thing he wanted was his reward.

 

He got a little look on his face and said, “What if we got Chik-Fil-A?”

 

Ooh. Tough one. As liberal cry babies, we are required to hate Chik-Fil-A. Because of the…things they do. You know. Their stuff that goes against our…um…beliefs? I don’t know. All I know is Diana won’t let us go there. Luca and Elijah have never set foot in a Chik. 

 

“Hmm. Ok. Let’s keep this between us, shall we?” Luca nodded in solemn agreement. This would be a secret we would take to the grave, or publish in a blog no one reads. 

 

Luckily, Des Plaines is overrun with fast food joints and we found a Chik almost immediately. Luca got the basics: a sandwich, a fry and a shake. I got nothing because of my Lutheran guilt. Plus, I look really paunchy in Lycra. 

 

I let my distaste of their politics be known through my courteous and polite attitude. Take that, Chik.

 

Luca devoured his meal and did not burst into flames or get pulled over by Nancy Pelosi. 

 

When we got home, we buried the wrappers in the bottom of our garbage bin. Diana was none the wiser.

 

Hi Diana!

THE BEATING

 

I took a little break from writing the blog. Partly because there seemed to be a lack of poop and pee stories with Luca and Elijah. Plus the subject of teenage bathroom activity is…dis…gust…ing. 

More importantly, the boys have a social life. They’ve taken a little heat from their pals about the blog archive and I feel like there are enough things to be embarrassed by as a 13-year-old without your dad adding to the pain.

But then, in an amazing turn of events, but boys came to me asking to re-boot. They missed reading about themselves. 

So we're back, baby!

When I was a kid, my dad used to whump us in ping pong, Or “Table Tennis” if you are a rich kid. I would occasionally burst into tears at a loss. Dad would sigh and say, “You don’t want me to lose on purpose, do you?” I genuinely did. But he never threw a game. 

Beating your small children in sports is the only way to feel like a real man.

Last Saturday,Diana was in Michigan to soak up the lingering rays of sun. That left Eli, Luca and I to hide in our corners of the house and peer into the flickering light of our personal devices. 

Whataminute. I only have two years left with both boys together. What if we actually hung out? Actually did something together?

I suggested we have a Nintendo sports tournament. Surprisingly they agreed. It may have been the sad puppy dog look on my face. Plus bribes.

After a dinner of beer and burgers we grabbed our little controller things and engaged in a battle of digital tennis and bowling and badminton.

I have no idea what happened since the last time I played Nintnedo, but I got SMOKED. Like, not even funny. Simply destroyed. There was a time when I could hang with them, even beat them. In fact, I boasted to Grandma Connie earlier in the day that I would be the victor. 

At times, I felt like I was trying to punch a giant, arms swinging wildly while they gently held me at arm’s length. I think they were suppressing yawns.

I ended up sitting on the couch, pouting and drinking an expensive bottle of wine Diana was saving for a special occasion. 

But then I realized the boys were laughing and cheering and having a blast. It was a special occasion deserving of an expensive bottle. It was one of our last, wonderful, hilarious times we’d have before everyone leaves for college.

Worthy of a reboot of the blog.