A good time to be alive

It has been a long time between posts here in my favourite sanctuary of the written word, Confessions of a Blogophobe.

Much is transpiring in the Chubbs and Hot Wife household to make it difficult to get to these parts with any kind of regularity.

And by much, I mean the simple day-to-day grind of raising kids and working for a living.

But just in case some out in the blogosphere are still tuning in from time to time, let me let you in on the latest and greatest developments here on the homefront.

Hot Wife is pregnant.

Again.

NOT.

Just wanted to grab your attention.

Now that I've got it, let me first make it clear -- absolutely, unequivocally, crystal clear -- that no new additions are materializing in this here household.

No way. No how. Not a chance.

Life is good just the way it is, with three beautiful, healthy rugrats to keep us properly occupied.

This weekend, The Final Addition turns two.

Two.

Two years since our little baby boy came along to add some much-needed testosterone to a household in which I was outnumbered by a three-to-one margin.

The family felt incomplete when we decided to go for a third child, but not once since then have we had that feeling again.

We are a full family of five, and would have it no other way, despite Hot Wife's protestations to the contrary every time we encounter a newborn child.

Easy to say you'd go for another when you know for certain that the weapon of mass production is firing only blanks.

Were my junk still serving a reproductive purpose, it's doubtful that Hot Wife would be singing the same tune.

Elsewhere on the homefront, I have just re-engaged in the home gym after a much-deserved two-week hiatus at the conclusion of my latest exercising endeavour, Insanity Asylum.

That bit of exercise mayhem is appropriately named, for the 30-day engagement came exactly as advertised. It was so crazy it was crazazy.

So after two-weeks of intense over-indulgence, which included an outstanding dash to the Las Vegan desert, it was back to the grind for yours truly this evening.

And I paid the price.

For every Bud Light I drank beneath the Fremont Street lights in Sin City.

For every Captain and Coke I sipped as I stacked my chips at the blackjack table.

For every chip, and cookie, and desert, and hamburger and all-around junk that I stuffed down the 'ol pie-hole during my two-week reprieve from the rigours of working out.

It was all so worth it, every last gulp, every last bite, every last bit of excess and decadence, because I earned it after a hard go at the home gym throughout last winter and spring.

So now it is back to a little bit of balance.

Equilibrium.

At the very least enough exercise to see me lose the extra LB's I put on while vacationing, but also just enough to allow me to indulge in what I want throughout the rest of the summer.

It's that time of the season, where the temptations of Friday night dinners at The Matriarch's make it impossible to not enjoy whatever is on the table and in the fridge.

Where the quiet tranquility of a sunny Saturday evening make it practically necessary to open a bottle of red and relax under the fading evening light with Hot Wife at my side.

Where the lure of an afternoon BBQ with friends calls for an extra helping of extra fattening whip cream.

It just is that time of the year.

To soak it all in. To soak it all up.

And to realize and remember that now is a good time to be alive.