Homemaker Man New Year's Eve Pahtaayyy

"How does a Homemaker Man party on New Year's Eve," you all aren't wondering?  Check it:  Our new New Year's Eve tradition includes chasing two toddlers around the mall, and watching my wife  fall asleep while she watches MSNBC documentaries about internet inspired murders over love triangles that don't exist, Jim Jones and the Jonestown Massacre (I dvr'd this one for her), and coming up next, the Kidnapping of Patty Hearst.

We say fuck the Three Stooges marathon. If we're gonna watch and laugh at an evening of senseless televised violence, let's do it right.  Moe, Larry, the Koolaid!  Nyuck, nyuck.

The internet inspired murder is really the ridiculous one.  Two men involved with an 18 year old-girl who turns out to be a fifty year old woman.   Bwahahahahaha!   Like, isn't that what everyone expects on the internet by now?  It's just as likely that I am an eighteen year old girl playing out my fantasies of being a middle-aged male homemaker as it is that I am actually that person.   Who hasn't fantasize about that at one time or another?  Right?  You betcha.

For those who scoff,  I will have you know that I am remarkably similar to an eighteen-year old girl. We're both starting college  soon, and we both have boobs.   Practically twins.

For my resolutions:

I resolve to eh, screw new year's resolutions.  I love my wife and I love my kids and we managed to keep the new one alive and happy through his 1st birthday.  I'd say that makes 2009 a pretty kick ass year.  What more could you ask for?  An effective universal healthcare plan and a recommitment to education for every child, I guess, but after that what else could you ask for?  A peaceful resolution to the Afghan war of course. I'm not insensitive.  But AFTER that what else could you ask for?

A new t.v.  But that is it, I promise.

I mean there is season 2 of True Blood on blu-ray, but that is really like part of the t.v. request, so it doesn't really count.



To all of you who I've come to know at least a little, I wish for you a New Year in which your house and family is filled with as much love as mine.  I'm a lucky fucker.


Auld Lang Synedly,

Homemaker Man

UPDATE: At 11:08 my wife stirred, sat-up and said, "I'm awake!'  At 11:22 she was again asleep.  I was planning on waking her up as the ball was dropping in New York.  Then I realized that my choices were either Carson Daly or a stroked-out Dick Clark.  Patty Hearst it is.  Also, one of the local college stations is playing a mix of old-school hip-hop ("ring-ding dong, ring-a-ding-ding-ding dong. You can here'em ringin'.")  And some of the best of the new stuff.  It is getting all New Yearsy up in here.

My Sunday morning/Haiku sunday.

It's dark out still.  The kids slept for crap.  Though the Peanut is sleeping now.  So sweetly.  I want to pinch her.  I leave.  It's raining.  The wind, or something else, knocked the trash all over the place.  I stop to pick it up.  It's wet.  Sticky.

Start my walk to work.  I forgot my wallet.  Fuck.

Re-start my walk to work.  Raining.  Dark.

Arrive.  Unlock the doors.  Turn off the alarm.  Punch in.  Turn on the lights.

I go to set-up the Zamboni.  We eye each other warily.

"Whoa, easy girl.  Easy.  Sugar cube?  Would you like a sugar cube?  There now."  I stroke her gently.  "About last time ,  I uh, I just wanted to . . . what's that?  Just leave it alone?  You're probably right."

Check the compressor.  The giant refrigerator unit that keeps the ice frozen.  There are lots of lights and numbers.  None of them say Emergency or Runaway or Say Goodbye to Your Ass.  So I guess it's cool.

Put the nets on the ice. It's cold.  They're heavy.  Can't close the giant doors to the rink.  Ice under the rubber floor mat making it buckle.  Hold on.  Kick it.  Kick it!  Stomp it.  Swear at it.  Blame the night guy.  Kneel down and punch it.  Push it.  Swear at it.  KICKITKICKIT!  Fucking night guy.  Go get hot water hose.  Thaw ice.  Close doors.

Sit at desk.  Eat donut.  Drink coffee.

Sleepy, stuffy-nosed parents shuffle in after their kids.

It's cold.  I'm tired.  What do I have to do right now and what can I ignore until later?  I ignore everything.  Drink coffee.  My wife calls.  The Peanut slept until almost 7.  The Peanut is an asshole.

Not really.  The Peanut is perfect.  Like her brother.

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As my wife mentions in her great Christmas wrap-up post , the Santa hate ( I had to get a little rough with him  ) the Peanut exhibited on Christmas eve continued Christmas morning.  When my wife told her Santa had come, she said, "No Santa.  No.  This is daddy's pink house.  Not Santa's."

Take that Santa.  You bitch.  Whose house is this?  It's Daddy's house.  What-what?!

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The lobby empties
Parents trudge to cold bleachers
can I sneak a nap?

Merry Christmas and shit

It's one o'clock Christmas morning.  I still have a little cleaning to do.   My perfect wife  went off to bed about half an hour ago.  We trimmed the tree tonight.  It looks wicked pissah (for those who do not speak New England, that means nice.).  Then we finished wrapping and assembling the gifts for the kids.  Which is wild.  I actually sat up late at night putting presents together for my own kids.  So cool.  I'm also finishing a bottle of Pinot Grigio.  So tipsy. 

A little trivia:  Pinot Grigio is actually Italian for Pint of Grigio.  No shit.

Something I love about my wife:  She hates the movie A Christmas Story.  Everyone else in the western world loves it and she could give a fuck.  That's why my wife is cooler than yours.  Go suck a dick, Ralphie.


Both kids had fevers yesterday and part of today.  The Peanut was crabby.  When I put her to bed, she first refused to put out cookies for Santa and then when I tucked her in and started talking all the Santa and Christmas tomorrow morning shit, she was like, "No!  No sSnta.  No Christmas."

Looks like when that fat bastard gets here I'm going to have to turn his red clad ass away.  

"Ho ho ho, Merry Chri-

"Nope, sorry dude, we don't want any."

"But I have presents for Peanut and Pumpkin man."

"Listen man, we're all set.  No Christmas here.  Now fuck o- wait, what's that?'

"Th-

"I'll take that.  Now scram Kringle."

"But I have presents for the chil-

"Do I have to call the cops dude?  I said beat it.  "

I'll do what it takes to make my kids happy on Christmas.  Even if it means taking out a restraining order on Ol' St. Nick.

I just wanted to write something here tonight because really what I wanted to say is that I am really glad I started blogging and to thank anyone who has ever read a post.  I feel like I've made some friends, become part of a community, and read some really good stuff.  So thanks everybody.  I kinda love you guys.  And of course, Merry Christmas.  And shit.

Figgy puddingly,


Homemaker Man

Today I . . . Holiday editon

Got the christmas Tree.  Got the Christmas tree stand.  Got the tree in the stand and upright in under twenty minutes.  Unfolded the new plastic safety pen to put around the tree so the kids and pets won't climb it, pull it down, set it on fire, dance around the fire in celebration of the true pagan nature of the holiday, and finally choose the weakest among us to throw on the fire in the ultimate sacrifice to the god santa in order to make sure they get lots of good crap.  Immediately and irreparably snapped the new plastic safety pen into pieces because when stressed and celebrating Christmas, I have the strength of ten Jews.

Drove back to babies r' us, returned the gate ("What was the problem sir?  "Uh, it called me fat.") and brought home a smaller, sturdier more expensive metal one.  Got it set up quick, stepped back, and realized that once the tree finishes falling, it's going to look like we bought it a girdle.

Shrugged.

Finally finished cleaning out from under The P-Man's bday bash aftermath.

Also, earlier in the day, started transitioning the Peanut into big girl underwear.  Dragged both children out of the puddle of piss they had been playing in for at least 5 seconds due to said transition.  Bathed and dressed both children.  Fed the Pumpkin man a bottle while my wife undressed, re-cleaned and re-dressed the Peanut after having her second accident.  Celebrated mightily when 6 hours later she managed to make it to bed time without having another accident.  Broke down and bought Dora underwear to help the cause.  Admitted to myself I might get a small laugh if my daughter has an accident and craps on Dora.

Has a Christmassy beer and a bowl of ice cream for supper.

Shrugged.


Wrote blog post.

Said good night.

Homemaker Man

This is Not Another Dora Screed/P-Man's Bday

On the Dora Christman Carol, when trying to teach swiper the fox the error of his thieving ways, they decided instead of ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future, they'd do time travel.  That's cool.  I love a good time travel machine.  However, instead of a time travel machine, they used Travel capes.  I don't know if this had to do with budgetary restraints not allowing for the purchase of a time machine, or the fact that the Dora animators couldn't draw a decent time machine to save their lives.


To enable the  time travel, they sing/chant:  "Shake, shake, shake
                                                                           Shake your travel cape!"

My 2 and a half year old daughter is still potty training.  She spends a lot of time diaperless and half-naked. Since the weather has turned cold, instead of half-nakedness, I merely unsnap the legs of her cozy, one piece, feety-less pjs, that way allowing for quick access at potty time while also providing a warm, skirt-like piece of apparel.

She happens to love to sing the above mentioned travel cape song.  When she is dressed like I described, the pj's skirt provides a great travel cape for shaking.

Except that she doesn't say "travel cape."  She lifts the pj's skirt, flashing her tiny vagina for the entire household, and proceeds to wiggle her hips and sing,"  Shake, shake, shake
                                                      shake your trouble cake!"

"What the f . . . No!  No trouble cake!"  is how I reacted.  "That is not a trouble cake!  You do not shake your trouble cake!  Ever!"  I said that all inside.  Lord knows I don't what to start giving her issues about her trouble cake.  She's going to have a hard enough time just growing up female.

Sigh.  I was thinking I wouldn't have to deal with the reality of her trouble cake for at least another 16 years.  Fucking Dora.

On the bright side, that is a pretty goddamn original euphemism for that particular piece of anatomy.

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It was the Pumpkin Man's 1st birthday today.  We had the party on Saturday and it was a great success.  He received plenty of good loot and his sister also made out well.  Everyone was afraid she would feel left out, so everyone bought her something, us included.

The fact that the party went well was a huge relief.  Our collective families, are, well . . . they are definitely beyond the pale.  But everyone was on best behavior and it was a lovely time.  Two small issues only:  1.  The kids' great uncle's present that he brought for the Peanut so she wouldn't feel left out?  A pez dispenser, and pez.   A pez dispenser.   For a toddler.  Is a choking gun.  It is a gun that shoots choking.  It has been removed for the time being.

2.  My father thought it was funny to show the kids that whipping their toys around the room is fun.  First time one of the kids gets injured, I'm going to go to his house and whip his toys at his head.  See how it feels to get blasted in the skull with a banjo.

Probably I won't do that, but I'll picture it vividly.

Also, we took the kids out in the snow today.  It was great fun and extra special because it was actually the P'man's 2nd time in the snow because there was a snow storm similar to this one the day he was born.  Bit of a full circle trip for us courtesy of mother nature.  So that was very cool.

Ok.  That is all.  Good luck in the snow to everyone who got snowed on.

Happy Birthday my Pumpkin Man.  I love you to pieces.

Dad.

My kids are photogenic like Asbestos is yummy.

We went to get the kids' christmas pictures done today.  When you have two very young children, getting the christmas pictures done translates to yelling and clapping like a moron and being completely ignored by your children even though you are making like an enthusiastic head trauma victim.  An enthusiastic head trauma victim with just enough power of speech left to say your child's name and one vague place in time and space:

"Peanut.  Over here.  Over HERE Peanut.  Ok, now Pumpkin man you too (clap clap) Pumpkin, yes!  Ok now wait Peanut look over here.  PEANUT!!!"  OVER HERE!!!"

And then when you get done and they are finally both looking you're way for an entire mili-second, you have the balls to chirp, " now smile honey.  Smile.  Like this, honey.  LIKE THIS."  And you show your teeth with what at that point is much less smile and much more desperate, sweaty grimace.  Which is of course the facial expression you get back.  If you're lucky.

And also all the screaming and jumping and histrionics take place about 4 inches from the left ear of the photographer.   Which must be pretty sweet if you're a photographer.  I'm sure you spent all that money on art school so that you could end up at Target getting frustrated dad spittle sprayed in your ear while you take pictures of kids that'd shiv you for a chocolate munchkin'.  Life's about choices.  And being the Target portrait photographer indicates you may have made some unfortunate ones.

On the positive tip, once the Pumpkin man was given a green Christmas ornament to play with, he smiled quite happily whilst dropping it and rolling it and chasing it all over the studio and out of the shot.  I knew getting him to sit still was going to be difficult though.  If we had not had a second child and instead bought ourselves a friendly, hungry, panda baby who hated having it's diaper changed, it'd be pretty close to the same thing.   Adorable but something that would really be better off living in the zoo or released to the wild.

The most convincing smile we got out of the Peanut in the end was a gruesome tableau right out of a zombie romantic comedy.  The kind of lipless, bloodless smile the female lead zombie gives before she tries to gnaw off her beloved's head.

We should've known that too, though.  The Peanut is beautiful, but you have to get candid pictures if you want her smiling.  Otherwise, you get the death stare.  I've seen grown men weep when getting that stare.   We ended up skipping the smile.

In summation, one of the better pictures we got was one where the Peanut is sitting in a little red chair with an expression on her face that reads, "We done yet?" while the Pumpkin sits on the floor beside her attempting to eat his Christmas ornament.

I'm hoping we can photoshop the ornament out and replace it with a piece of cake or a live ferret or a human head.  That would be a rocking Christmas pic.

I knew that christmas pictures with a small children could be difficult, on some level.  I watch tv.  But shit man.  Next time I'm bringing adult stand-ins.   The kids get 3 tries and if they blow it, you're on Armand and Stacy.


Yours,

Homemaker Man

Please don't heart me and Christmas Magic

So I've been seeing this a lot lately <3.  In blog posts or emails or what have you.  I learned that when you type that into facebook, it becomes a heart.  I do not have a facebook account, but the Peanut Man does, and mad chicks are always heart-ting him.

But it's not a heart when you type it other places.  When you type this: <3
in other places, it's a set of testicles.

I don't mean to be snarky.  I just don't want to feel like I'm getting tea-bagged every time I read your message.

So please, stop putting your e-balls on my e-face.

Thank you

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I have a new (to me) piece of Christmas trivia.  It seems that in Panama, children don't address their Christmas correspondence to Santa.  They address it to : Baby Jesus, c/o St. Peter.*

I like that they aim high.  Why write to Santa for a bike when you can write to the Baby Jesus for a set of wings or a bike that can read minds?

I don't like that it's c/o St. Peter.  Baby Jesus can't read his own fan mail?  He just let's his manager send out form letters.  "Dear your name here,
Thank you for the letter!
B-Jeez appreciates and loves each and everyone one of his fans.  After all, without his fans, does he even exist?  Many regards blah blah blah etc.  "  And then an obvious signature stamp.

And St. Peter. ?  He has to work the door, keep the lists, and answer the fan mail.  And probably do the taxes and fill out the insurance forms.  Poor St. Peter.   Eternity's bureaucrat.

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We're trying to have Chanukah and get ready for the P-man's b-day sunday and Christmas next week.  So I've been trying to stay organized.  With the two babies and everything else, I've been making todo lists.  Today, I crossed off laundry.  And then I just laughed and laughed.  Two babies.  Laundry is never done.

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We went to a local Zoo tonight.  Every year they put up a ton of Christmas lights and they have rides and Santa and live reindeer.  Which the Peanut got to pat.  Awesome.  I should have pictures eventually.
She would not pat Santa.

With the Holiday spirit,

Homemaker Man

*I can't speak to the accuracy of this.  I got it off the Christmas music channel on the tv.

The Zamboni is Dead/Haiku Sunday

If you want some background on Zambonies or my Zamboni driving prowess, go here .  It explains a lot.

 I killed the Zamboni today.  It's dead.  At my hands.  I was cleaning the ice and the Zamboni stopped picking up the snow so I was just dragging around a giant snow bank under the machine.  I noticed it because I am the observant type.  I pulled off the ice to fix the problem.  Fixing it means you turn it on and spray part of it down with hot water until it works again.    Sorry for the technological jargon.  Have I lost anyone?

As I'm doing that, I hear and smell something bad.  I look up and the Zamboni, it's bleeding.  it's bleeding badly.  Spraying red fluid from a severed artery.  All over the walls of the rink and the floor and the plexiglass windows.  Spraying out it's lifeblood.  Hydraulic fluid.  The hose burst.  It really looked like blood.  And then the red-stained clumps of wet snow . . . looked pulpy and bleeding and traumatized.  Like flesh.  The closest thing I can think of is if your kid really liked elephants so you got them an elephant cake for their birthday but when you cut into it it's red velvet cake and it just looks like you're cutting huge chunks out of that poor elephants flesh.   I cut huge chunks of flesh from the poor, poor Zamboni.

It was only a matter of time, I suppose.  It's not the first vehicle I've killed.  Won't be the last.

Zambonee Booooyyy
The pipes, the pipes are caaallling.

Stay gold, Zamboni Boy.  Stay gold.

Meanwhile, while I was dealing with loss and grief and funeral arrangements, I got a call from my wife that sounded like this.  Approximately:

"Hi honey.  What happened?  It's bleeding?  What's bleeding?  That's awesome.  What are you, uh, hold on, (kids waiing) Igottagobye*click*. "

I mean, I'm trying to mourn here, people, and I gotta hear that shit?  When I need my family most?  Dammit.

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Haiku Sunday

Doritos drift down
crunchy nacho triangles
Five second rule, right?

Coffee, hot and sweet
Indulge in a cruller, too
Do you take Visa?

Look in the mirror
Search my soul, what do I see?
Zamboni killer

A Chomemaker Man Chanukkah: Update

Tonight, on Chanukah eve, we celebrated with our Chanukah tradition.  We watched Fiddler on The Roof and ate Thai food.  That shit is straight from the Torah.  Chapter 11 page 436:

And G_D said, " Thai Food?  Sure, why not?"

Maybe that is not exactly what it says in the Torah.  I don't know.  As I've said before , I didn't get a whole lot of formal religious book learnin'.  I got my Judaism from the streets.  Back alley games of high stakes dreidel and red yarmulkes proudly displaying my gang colors.  I was a Bloodberg.

Love that movie, Fiddler On the Roof.  My family knows that if there is ever a community theatre within driving distance of our house auditioning for the part of Tevye, I'm there.  And I'm getting that part.  The theatre calls.

And for those who know the movie, you might wonder; did I get all misty-eyed at the part where Tevye denies his daughter Chava because she has decided to take up with a Polish gentile (Lord knows we've all been there.  The ol' Polish gentile trick.)?  Well, crying is for women and babies.  And I am a baby woman.

In closing, I am excited for Chanukah to start tomorrow.  I will light the candles and read the prayers from the Chanukah book I have which was written for 1st graders.  Then, the gambling will begin.  I am gonna spin that dreidel so good.  My wife and kids won't know what hit'em.  My pockets will be filled with chocolatey gelt by 4 pm tomorrow.  Don't cry, my little babies.  You come to spin the dreidel with me, biatches, you best come correct.

Challah!


Chomemaker Mensch

The gentile could be Russian.  I just know they went to Krakow.  That is all.

My daughter: Confused Patriot

I dvr'd the Celtics game last night.  So this morning I have it on in the background as we go about our day.
My daughter looks up and sees a close -up of this man:

Picture of Ray Allen courtesy of thenewschronicle.com

She asks, "Daddy, What's Barack Obama doing?"

Mmm hmm.  I answer, "Right now he's missing the open J and getting beat off the dribble."

At least she can say "Barack Obama ."

A couple new readers who posted comments.  I just wanted to thanks for reading and commenting.  I would thank each of you in the actual comments section, but I feel like that artificially inflates my comment numbers, and I'm lazy.

I will visit and read and comment on your blogs soon if I haven't already.


HM

I'd rather watch Two and a Half Men

So the Peanut has a new friend.  I don't like her.  Little Latina girl.  Goes by the name of Dora.  I think her last name is Explorer or something.  This girl hangs out with some weird friends man.   First, she's got this talking backpack.  Which, that's cool.  I've had conversations with some weirder shit than that in my day.   But the damn thing is just so inarticulate.

It starts every conversation By singing "backpack, BACKpack" over and over again and then it give a list of the things that it is supposed to be carrying and then, it eats it all.  It's like "Oh, Dora has a cellphone, and a scarf, and a flashlight,  and a bag of weed, and a copy of the Anarchist's Cookbook"  and then proceeds to eat all her shit.  It goes "nomnomnom, Delicioso!"  Which is creepy and inappropriate.  It's not cool when your anthropomorphized accessories eat all your things.   But she has no problem with this.

 I just hate this show.  Not only does she hang out with that backpack, she carries around a brain damaged map who introduces itself every show by singing:

I'm a map I'm a map
I'm a map I'm a map
I'M A MAP( which I can't help singing over and over again at home.  Take that, everyone who lives with me.)!


I think we got it the first four times there, sing-y.  And then it gives these directions like, " first, go through the Disconcerting Forest of Insecure Adults, over Latchkey Kid Hill , and through the gates of Castle Wolfenstein, and you're there!"  No rights, lefts, distances, street names.  Actually, it's still more accurate than google maps.

And her best friend is a monkey who bullies my kid to "say phone, SAY PHONE" or whatever.  The tone of voice indicating that the unspoken part of that is"bitch."

And the animation is awful.  I'm pretty sure the map draws most of it.

So it's here.  The Dora phase.  I didn't know how sucky it would be.  Her favorite one is an episode called "Starcatcher." The plot is: Dora chases a whiny, self-pitying star named Woo-Who all over the place because the show's writers get paid in glue fumes.

This dumb fuck star just mournfully repeats it's own name-woowhoWOOWHOO- and then gets itself kidnapped by a criminal fox(there's an original concept) and delivered to a prince with a shitty page-boy haircut and a creepy Joaquin Phoenix in Gladiator vibe.  Then they have a star catching contest and then I'm not sure what happens next except I think it has something to do with peyote buttons.

I am hating the tv right now.  It'll be much better when we get a bigger, newer one for Hanukkah(that's the only spelling the spell check recognizes.  The spell check is anti-semitic) or Christmas.

What was worse, this post or the actual cartoon?  Don't answer that.  Bastards.

Non-sequiturily,

Homemaker Man, Homemaker Man
Homemaker Man, Homemaker Man
HOMEMAKER MAN!

Haiku Sunday/That New Dad Smell

I saw my brother-in law today.  He and his are expecting their first baby in February.  And he is READY.  He has been ready since he was about 12 years old.  Always wanted a wife and family.  They've been to all the classes, read books and websites, talked about discipline, etc.  And he has been considering his own personal parenting style for 20+years.  He is calm and prepared and completely screwed.

I think that's how most of us go into it, the parenting gig.  There are difficulties no amount of studying or considering can prepare you for and a depth of emotion that you just don't experience until you get there.

For my brother in-law,  I have this wish:

When we had our first baby, I was ready.  I was scared shitless, but ready in terms of wanting a child, having taken classes, financially, and so forth.  But that depth of feeling when you hold them in your arms the first time . . . for me it was light and heat that seared away everything that had happened in my life up to that point.  All I was left with was love for my family and Perspective.  True, Hi-def, blue-ray, colors you could hear, music you could see, perspective.  I finally knew what was important.

I always thought I knew before.  The arrogance that is afforded the unwise.  Let me say here that those without children are not unwise, nor do they have false perspectives.  This is me I'm talking about.  Aaannnyhizzle . . .

I thought I knew what was really important, or I think a better way to put it is, I thought I really knew what important felt like.  I thought the passion that I had for certain things, the righteous indignation I allowed my self at times, the personal indulgences, were all things that felt really important.  But then that baby came and I lost my breath and felt bare before a cold wind.  When I bite into a York Peppermint Patty, I get the sensation of  . . . you know, like that.

And the personality changes I went through are the material for a whole different post.  Let's just say I went from "go along to get along, everything's groovy" to "if you touch my baby I'll kill youohmygod what's that on her face?!"

So that is what I wish for my brother in-law.  That all consuming feeling.  Except for the part where I completely lost my mind for a bit.  I wish for him that burning new perspective.    The chance to experience love and commitment to his family on a whole other level.  The chance to be able to look back on his life from a whole new place.  To feel like a new man.  Perspective.  I love you brother-in law.  Now buckle in bitch, you are fucked.

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Haiku Sunday

Zamboni driving, snow shoveling and hockey games today.  That can only mean one thing:  Japanese Poetry.


Frozen whispers fall.
Everything is new again
Except my shovel

Frigid morning sun
no warmth, only light on ice
I'm calling in sick

This last one goes out to a specific character at the rink.  True story:

Steel plate in your head?
And you wear shorts in winter?
Steel plate in your head.

Today I . . .

Vacuumed the house.  A couple of weeks ago I had to vacuum up a mostly full jar of oregano that the Peanut had spilled all over the kitchen.  Now between that and the dirt, every time I vacuum it smells like Joe Torre's armpit.

Washed the floors.  I can't wait until the kids are a little older and have stopped playing on the floors so much so that I can quit washing them.

Cleaned the bathroom.  I can't wait until the kids are a little older and have stopped going to the bathroom . . .

Played with my kids simultaneously.  That is we all played with each other and then they went off and played together like sister and brother.  She called his name and he went crawling happily after her.  It amazes me because I was an only child.  I immediately called my mother and when she answered I sobbed, "you blew it. I hate you!"  into the phone.  Then I hung up.

Not really.

Saw an ad for the WWE's TLC:  Tables, Ladders and Chairs.  For one night only it's all legal!

I'm pretty sure that those three objects are always legal.  Unless you're smashing someone in the head with them.  Then, always illegal.  And I wonder how they came up with Ladders.  That doesn't seem like the natural progression.  I could see a nice love seat or an ottoman.  An antique armoire would, perhaps be an appropriate thing with which to brain a large, sweaty man in this context.   Maybe a nice hope chest?

Watched my poor, tired, still recovering wife fall asleep on the couch by 8:30 tonight.  Poor thing.  Of course, I wrote obscene words all over her face and neck.  In invisible ink.  Oh man, wait until she stands near an open flame or gets purple juice or food coloring painted on her head, she is gonna be so pissed.

Got some exercise and ate pretty reasonably.  Will reward myself for my efforts tomorrow by eating an entire cake.  2 steps forward, one step back.    

Wrote a completely nonsensical blog entry.  Hey, fleebie on the micmac.  You jibble?  Kanky.

Now I'm going to go put some laundry in the drier, start the dishwasher, and kick it, sleepy time style.

Have great weekends.

Homemaker Man

Craft Time in The Garden of Good and Crappy

With my wife home swiney most of the week, we had some construction paper craft time.

Guess which one I worked on and which one my Wife and the Peanut did together:

Next:

Ok. Whose got a guess?  I'll tell you.  I did the car.  Surprising, I know.  Surprising because it is so much better than the flower garden

I mean, look at the thing again.  The proportions are completely unrealistic.  The sun is the same size as the flowers, which are the same size as the butterflies.  And that is one big-ass mutant ladybug.  And why is that caterpillar so happy?  I guess because he knows that one day he will turn into a giant sun-sized butterfly.

Meanwhile, that car project.  So mysterious.  So thought provoking.  Where is he going?  Where has he been?  What kind of car is that supposed to be?   Why does he appear to be driving at night under a moonless, starless, sky through a completely featureless landscape(wow. heavy.)?   Why are his arms black while his head is orange?  And why does it look like his toupee' is falling off?


I think the biggest question about the one I did is how the hell did I get out of first grade with that kind of hand-eye coordination?  And imagination and powers of observation.  I mean, not even a stop sign?  What the fuck?  The one my wife and daughter did is so very cute.  I did help with part of it.  I cut out the deformed, lumpy body for the caterpillar.

I was actually thinking of myself and our car when I made mine.  Of course, we drive a beige Subaru Forester and the car in the picture, as far as I can tell, is a blue, jacked-up Smart car sort of creation.

And no, I don't wear a toupee' for those who are wondering.  I rock a weave, thank you.

My wife goes back to work tomorrow.  No fever today.  The Peanut is feeling much better as well, though she does spike a mild fever in the morning still.  And the Pumpkin man and I both avoided it.

Very good news all-in-all, though we are going to miss her for sure.

Okey-dokey artichokey-s.  Gotta hit the hay.  The morning rush around here before taking my wife to work is pretty intense.

Healthily,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  I don't want to leave out the Pumpkin Man's crafting contributions.  Much of the paper was pre-chewed for us and everything was adhered with pure baby spittle.

(Not so) Short Post 3. the end.

My daughter, who is a tiny, red-haired, pixie of a little girl was impotent with rage yesterday.  She has a pretty good vocabulary so she is usually able to express why she's angry.  Donuts instead of supper, playground instead of nap, love instead of money.  The usual.

Yesterday, she was standing and "reading" the funnies and she decided she was done.  So she turned and threw the paper over her shoulder and danced toward her toys.  That is when the pumpkin man struck.  Springing in to action he scrabbled to the fallen funnies and began the ritual mauling.   She heard the paper wrinkle, turned, and attacked.  Flew at him like an enraged humming bird.

My wife said, "Hey _____ What's wrong?"

"He touched it , he touched it!'  She sobbed with rage.

"You were done with it, honey."  said my wife.

"Yeeeewwarrrgghhhh!"   She replied. She snatched the paper up off of the floor.  Her brother had dropped it because his sister's tortured screams were way cooler.  In his eyes, everything she does is way cooler.

She then began ripping and tearing and destroying the paper all while keeping up with the red skin and gritted teeth and frustrated growls.   I think if she could've been articulate at that moment we would've heard something like, "You want this paper? I've(rip rip)Got(Tear tear) Your Fucking(wrinkle, crinkle) Paper.(beep beep?) Right(ahooogah)HERE!

I knelt down and took her tiny little fists in my hands and asked her why she was doing this and told her to stop.  She didn't stop or answer and she continued to destroy the paper.  If she had known how head butts work I'd probably be homemaker-nose-mashed-up-into-his-brain-man now.

I feel for the pumpkin man.  That was just because he touched it and we didn't understand the level of defilement that his hands leave behind.  It was so weird because she usually tries pretty hard to at least tell us she's getting pissed at him playing with her toys before she attempts to take his head off with her shopping cart.

I just hope she never becomes that possessive of the cats.  Messy.


This post should guarantee my having fulfilled the posting requirements for NaBloPoMo.  I'm glad it's over.  I will probably take the day off with the possible exception of listing the 3 or 4 posts I liked the most this month.  As a little reward to myself.   Unless something really good happens.  I have to admit I'm kind of proud of myself.

And hi to new readers.  Thanks for reading and commenting and so forth.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  Like Bourbon.


Sincerely,

Homemaker Man

Short post 2. We have Swine

Well, my wife has it.  The Swine Flu.  She was diagnosed at the doctor's office a couple of hours ago.  Swine flu.  In my house.  I feel like out of the corner of my eye I keep seeing wispy, ethereal, pig heads zipping around the living room trailing vapor.

Swine flu?  I'm Jewish, I can't get Swine flu.  It's not kosher.  I refuse.  There is no way I am getting some treif flu.  I don't usually keep kosher, but I feel this is a good place to try.

My poor wife.  On the bright side, she's home all week.  Of course, it's with Swine flu . . .

Short Post 1

3 things:

My wife is still sick so we're going to the doctor's.  I'm going to have myself euthanized.

My daughter is filled with rage.

When you are 36 and fat and have just eaten, chasing your daughter around the house for a half hour stopping only to do multiple turn sock-enabled pirouettes (no spell check) on the kitchen floor can really knock a person out.

Sunday. A day of blech. And supposedly haiku

I am supposed to have a haiku today, but there was no zamboni today so I don't have one.  The rink is very peaceful in the morning.  Wait, here's one about my crappy pie.  True story:

The pie was too tart

I took it out of the fridge

to confront my shame

I really did.  I put it in the fridge in hopes that I could fix it somehow.  Then I took it out again so I could look at it and think about what I'd done.  I have pie shame.

No skating rink today because at least half my family is too sick to be left on their own.  Whoever invented the flu is an asshole.  Nice job, dick.  If I ever meet you, flu inventor guy, I am going to poke you in the eye really hard.

The Peanut started choking at dinner tonight because she was in the middle of her nightly dinner time "if I don't eat I'll look so skinny that people will think my parents are starving me which will result in a diet consisting only of donuts, pizza, and chicken mcnuggets," crying fit when she inhaled the food that was in her mouth.  That sucked.  It's not fair to her in a way because I am already exclusively on the donut, pizza, and chicken mcnugget diet but hey, do as I say, not as I do.

This is the best job I've ever had.  And the most challenging.

But the work doesn't feel the same as work in the wage slave world.  If working at least part time since I was eleven years old in many different jobs has taught me anything about the value of hard work and the American work ethic, it's that I don't believe in it.  I work hard to be a good primary care giver to my kids, but that's different.  That whole work hard at your job no matter the what the job thing is nuts.  Work smarter, not harder.

That's why I built an android.  Homemaker II.  He's made out of diet pepsi cans and gumption.  He does most of the cleaning and errand running and in return I let him take the vacuum cleaner out on dates.  They seem happy.

Two or three short posts tomorrow.  I started this ridiculous NabloPoMo a couple days late but there is no way I am going to fail now.  This was a horrible decision on my part.

Ok, good morrow ye goodwives and gentlemen.

Homemaker Man

Holiday Pics

Is there anything cuter on this planet than my kids?  Probably your kids, if you have any.  Otherwise, no.  Unless you are one of those people who treat their dogs like their children, in which case still no, and you're an asshole.  And if you have nieces or nephews who you think are as cute as my kids, well you need to start thinking about settling down and getting married, because those are not your kids and your attachment to them is a little creepy.

Of course all this is moot, because in these pics I can't actually show you their faces. So for all you know, they could be melty-faced freaks or horrible pig-snouted people like in that Twilight Zone episode.  Or maybe they have no faces at all to speak of.  Just smooth flesh and a couple of breathing holes.  I just gave myself the heebie-jeebies.

Ok.  Without further ado, T-Day Pics:

The peanut

The Pumpkin Man

This is open to interpretation.  It's either a little love between siblings on a holiday morning or a clear get your hand off my fucking toy message.  Either way, awwwwwwww.

Ok, there are just a fraction of our holiday pics.  This post is really going to suck over at NaBLoPoMo, because I am sure as hell not going to re-post these pics all over again over there.

Homemaker Man

Outbreak

My wife brought it home.  The most ominous 3 word phrase currently in circulation.  Flu.  Like.  Symptoms.  She teaches high school.  High school kids are disease carriers like deer ticks, or tsetse flies, or pig worms.  Or Capuchin monkeys.  And now it is in my home.

The Peanut has it.  Temp. of 101.5.  Called the doctor.  It used to be that with a temp like that the office would be like, "would you like to schedule an appointment?"  Now when I called they basically said if she doesn't get worse, keep that shit there.  I'm sure they're overwhelmed with paranoid helicopter parents and their safety padded children.  I imagine a bunch of little kids running around wearing neck braces they don't need and being yelled at for running.

Which is fine.  We did get the babies vaccinated last week.  That one shot should help.  Though of course you need two to really be sure.  So all that time in line worked out well

I'm worried about her.  The motrin is working to keep her temp under control so far.  She does not want me to take her temperature anymore.  She tried to convince me it was the Pumpkin Man's turn.  Which it may be soon enough.  Which is scary.  He's just a little guy.  

It's been rough on my wife, though she tries to shake it off.

As for me, I am still healthy.  I take precautions.  Hand washing, vitamins, etc.  I feel confident that i'll be able to avoi . . . what is that?  What . . . is that . . .no.  Oh my God, there is a rip in my Hazmat suit.  There is a rip in my hazmat suit!.  Well, I might as well have some tart pie and ice cream.  No sense worrying about cholesterol.

I am sooo tired of this posting every day crap.

Disease riddenly yours,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  I know I said there would be turkey hat picks.  tomorrow, I promise

Thanksgiving day Real Time with the Homemaker Man: UPDATED. AGAIN.

Snappy title.  Bill Mahr is a douche.  Although I used to watch his show back when I had the HBO.  I also come from a time where people call it "the HBO."

Thanksgiving day.  So far so good.  My wife is sick as hell, the Peanut pissed on her play mat, and the Pumpkin Man puked on the kitchen floor like a dog.  But who gives a shit.  I am high on sage fumes and gravy splatter.

Check list:

Gravy.  Done.

Stuffing.  Done.

Potatoes, sliced and soaking.

Squash.  Done

Sweet potatoes.  Not done.

Rolls.  Not done.

Turkey.  Coming to room temperature to go in the oven.

Apple pie.  I don't want to talk about that shit.

The pie is very intimidating.  I am going totally homemade with no help from the wife this year.  Last year's, which we made together, was decent but too sweet.  The pressure is on because she comes from a family of pie nazis.

Her Grandmother, who is now gone, used to make all the pies.  She would make a couple each of apple, wild blueberry, pumpkin, and lemon meringue.  As she got older, she got arthritis and the blueberry pie became too much for her, so she switched that one for chocolate cream.  They berated her for it.  She had "gone soft" and chocolate cream "isn't a real pie," they would scoff and sneer.

"Fuck you and your arthritis, grammy, and make with the BLUEBERRY PIES!!

No?

Watch your back, old lady."

I hyperbolize, but still . . .

Gotta go, put in the turkey.

Gobble gobble, mofoze

HM

UPDATE:  I just put the pie crust in the fridge to rest.  It's iffy folks, it's really iffy.  (in my head) I think it came out too crumbly, but maybe it didn't, but it could be, so I'll use a little more water . . . I think that's too much water.   But is it?  I don't know.  I don't know.  It won't come together in a ball.  Ooo, it's coming together.  Shit, no it isn't.  Fuck it, that's close enough I hope.  Into the fridge with you.  Now is a good time to open that fruity beer you have to drink because it's the only thing in the house.  Blech, peaches.


UPDATE 2:  The pie.  I blew it.  It's too tart.  Too.  Tart.  This may be the last you'll here from me.  The pie nazis are coming.  First, my pie and I will herded into ghettos.  Ghettos filled with other people who flew their pies too close to the sun.  Which is the number one reason for tart pie.  Sun exposure.
Phew.  I had to mix those metaphors just to get out of there before it got gruesome.

So the fucking pie came out too fucking tart.  I thought we had it.  My wife managed to get her poor, disease ridden body to function long enough to help me roll the crust and get it in the pie plate.  But no.  and now I have 3/4 of a sour pie to eat.

Otherwise, it was an awesome thanksgiving.  The peanut barely ate anything, so that was exactly the same as any other day.  the Pumpkin man loved thanksgiving dinner.   My wife and the peanut made turkey hats which were awesome!  Pics of those tomorrow.  We watched Home Alone,  a truly disturbing film.  Especially at the end because all they do is ruffle his hair and say whoopsy and then everyone is happy.  That kid should've been dead and will certainly be in therapy forever.  It disturbed the Peanut.  She just kept saying, "He gonna find his mommy and daddy?  He gonna find them.  He gonna find his mommy and daddy.  He is?"  Because that is the scariest thing she can imagine right now.     Thanks John Hughes and Chris Columbus.  One of whom is dead.  Sorry.

Ok.  Talk to you folks tomorrow.  This peach beer tastes like fermented peaches.  Ugh,


Happy Thanksgiving, bloggy friends.

Homemaker Man

A Homemaker Man Thanksgiving

I'm cooking this year.  Should be some good food.  I'll have you know I am possibly a slightly above average cook.

I've been cooking thanksgiving dinner off and on for about 13 years now, but the past few, this one included,  have been a bit different.

When I was in my early twenties, my grandparents retired to Canada(what?), and that was that for family holiday get togethers.  I would get invites from other people, but more often than not I would politely decline.  I loooved cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

Back then, Thanksgiving consisted of me, whatever other friends that were without plans that year, some beer, some weed, and my home cookin'.   Home cooking which did not include turkey.  I was raised by hippies, vegetarians, so we didn't do turkey.  What I did do was a delicious seafood casserole.  Shrimp, scallops. haddock, wine, etc.  Then all the traditional trimmings.

The food may not have come out as good as it does now( I don't remember), but who cared?  We were wrecked and there was always chocolate cream pie at the end.  Those Thanksgivings were so much fun that once or twice I stayed home alone and threw them just for myself.  Loved it.  A few people would eventually come by later in the day anyway.

The past few years, I've had my family to cook for.  There is no weed, and very little alcohol.   I have a whole turkey breast brining in the fridge right now.  No need for a whole turkey, it's just us this year.  Can't really afford to do the seafood casserole, and the babies probably wouldn't like it anyway.

I am so excited.  It's the Pumpkin Man's first Thanksgiving.  And the first one the Peanut will really be into.  I stayed up to get the turkey in the brine and clean up the dining room nice for the pictures.  And I still love to cook.  And maybe there will be a drop or two of wine or beer while I cook.  Just to wake up the palate and alert the ol' taste buds, dontcha ya know.  I hope to blog about the day as it goes or at least take notes and report at the end.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone from the "straight edge" families like mine, to the hippies and freaks like me.

I am thankful for my family, this house,  and nap time.

Yours,

Homemaker Man

Religious Identity: Update

I think a lot about what my children's cultural and/or religious identity is going to be.  It's sort of complicated for me because I don't have a lot of religious education.

I did go to hebrew school for a month when I was 7.   I was kicked out over a bacon incident.
They found it in my pocket.  Wrapped around a scallop.  I ate the evidence, but it was too late.

I did go to hebrew school for a month when I was 7.  Then my mother dumped the hebrew school teacher she had been dating.  He didn't teach at the school I attended, but when my mother broke something off, she meant it.

He did teach there.  His name was Jay.  I think.  Or Shlomo.  Either way, he was very short and hairy.

Lessee, other forms of religious education . . .

I've read through the bible a little.  Mostly the hot parts.

I've seen the Last Temptation of Christ, I think the Dali Lama is a cool guy, and I have read my fair share of "You're going to hell" pamphlets I was handed on the street.

I worked at a kosher deli for 4 plus years.  That is where I picked up a lot of, or at least started to take an interest in, my cultural heritage.  A nice potato knish will do that for a person.

I'll celebrate some ( I think there are like 4 million total) of the holidays to celebrate my heritage.  I'l say the prayers in hebrew, or fast, or eat some of the foods (not gefilte fish.  Great Cesear's Ghost, that shit is nasty).  I am hoping to provide my kids with an example and a cultural touchstone, but I'm not religious.

My wife grew up protestant, and has a deep and detailed religious education, but she doesn't subscribe to it.

It is important to us though, that our kids have a chance to make their own choices about that stuff.  How do we do that?  A whirlwind house of worship tour?   Maybe some sort of religious career day where clergy from all the major religions come and talk to our kids about why their God might be right for them.  Maybe they offer a 401k plan, good health insurance, casual Fridays, company car, whatever.

The point is, I plan to be very careful to not influence my kids in their choice of religions or in the way they express their spirituality.  At least not too much.  No scientology and no Jews for Jesus.  I mean, c'mon.   I was a Jew for jesus but then I left that group to join pacifists for gang violence.  That one didn't work out either, so I joined vegetarians for meat.  I've been happy ever since.


But other than the two mentioned above, I hope what I can do is expose my kids to as many different religions as possible, and be supportive of whatever they choose.  If any of you reading this happens to have a copy of Shinto for Dummies I could borrow, I would totally owe you one.


Contemplatively,

Homemaker Man


UPDATE:  My wife tells me that last Jews for Jesus joke was cheesy.  After reacting defensively ("I think you're reading it in the wrong tone.  You're cheesy!  I want a divorce.")  I have realized that she is right as usual.  Sorry about that.    I did write it at 11:45pm after a very busy day.  And the principle remains solid.

Today, and one more Vampire Story

Today I:

Cleaned out the fridge.  I think I found a mummy.  I threw it out.  

Packed food for the food drive.  Feel weird about this a little because a lot of it is canned food, most of which contains BPAs which may be harmful to one's health.  But, if we were hungry, I know we'd be glad to have them so . . . 

Lowered the Pumpkin Man's crib.  I never had to do that for the Peanut.  She just was never climb over the rail and crash to the floor material.  The P-Man however will be the one who someday breaks his neck because he thinks he can the leap from our roof to the house next door.  

Showered AND shaved.  A twofer.  My wife is very lucky.

Took the car to the mechanic to find the shop was not at the address google maps said it was.  Google maps is dead meat. I'm going to wait outside google maps' house and when it comes out, I am going type in two very far apart, very complicated addresses, request directions, and then when google maps is distracted, I will kick it in the balls.

Made the house look neat before my wife came home.  Doing that is a combination of laying blankets down over all the messes and then when my wife comes in the door, I immediately throw sand in her eyes.  Then, while she's screaming and clawing at her face I say, "honey, doesn't the house look great!"  What is she gonna say?  

Got the Peanut to pee in the potty.  Training is going fairly well.  we're taking it slow.  She runs around half-naked a lot at home, but she has stopped pissing in her toys.   Of course, as I was getting the Pumpkin man ready for bath (we all had baths today, actually) I had him stripped down and was holding him in one arm while making sure the peanut didn't shove a pen in her eye with the other.  That is when he saw his opportunity and took a shit on my arm.  Which I only vaguely noticed until I saw the arm.  

And finally, my wife reminded me that I forgot my best vampire story.  Not long after I cut off all my bangs, my mother bought a water bed.  It was the early 80's and she was a swingin' divorcee'.  At some point, i decided that vampires lived in the mattress.  What do you do when there are vampires in your mom's water bed mattress?   You kill them.   And you kill vampires how?  With a stake of course.  

It was up to me to kill those vampires.  No one else knew they were there.  I grabbed a pencil and stabbed that water bed nine times.  

I don't really remember my mother's reaction, and I don't really remember mine when she found out.  But I do remember the feel of that pencil plunging into that vinyl again and again and again.  For those of you who don't know, It is an extremely satisfying feeling to stab a water bed to death with a pencil.  

At some point before that, I had also taken a jar of vaseline and decided that the wood-like frame of the water bed needed to be smeared with most of it.  I think I was trying to protect the wood (woodonique).  

I spent a lot of time alone as a child.  

Alright, it's late (again).  Goodnight everyone.

Homemaker Man

Twilight, TV, Haiku Sunday

A student of my wife's lent her the DVD Twilight.  This movie. . .

I love vampires.  Ever since I was a little kid. Long before they became trendy.  And never in a get all gothed up and tell people I'm an "energy vampire ."  Those people actually exist.  They're called kids.  Zing.  Take that you sleeping peacefully, innocent fuckers.

Anyway, I've loved vampires since I was little.  When I was 8 years old, I cut off all-I mean all- my bangs in an attempt to give my self a widow's peak like Dracula.  That look with a dutch boy haircut and missing teeth is pretty sweet.  A few years later, I read Salem's Lot.  After the scene where the protagonist blesses a bunch of homemade crosses with the Lord's Prayer, I did the same thing.  Put them up all over the place.

I'm my generation's Van Helsing.

This movie though.  They don't go out in the sun because their skin sparkles?  It could at least smoke or crackle or smell like bacon or something.  I know, it's aimed toward teenage girls.  Still.  And honestly, the two main characters who are supposed to be in love forever?  Between the two of them, they have all the sexual tension of a pair of raisins.

-----------------

In addition to all of the other things we need: New boots, renewed car insurance, front brakes, new tires, a shave (that last one mostly applies to me), we need a new TV.

Every time we watch Project Runway this season, there will come a moment when someone will say something like, "I love that color.  What an amazing blue."  And we'll say, "No shit?  That's blue?"

I do watch Project Runway.  You've got Heidi Klum-Seal's fabulous teutonic pronounciations.  "I weally like that dwess.  It's tewiffic." And, she's Heidi Klum.   The designers are insanely talented, and if I could pick my own dad, Tim Gunn in a heart beat.

The crazy thing is that we've seen practically every season, and I still have no idea what couture is.  I think it has something to do with hats.

----------------

Haiku

Class warfare on ice.
Wealthy kids don't advertise
Poor? Chico's Bail Bonds 


Matthauingly,

Homemaker Man

Reaching Randomness Level Orange

First things first.  I just saw an infomercial for Romancing the 70's.  A collection of the 70's greatest love songs.  Which is like a collection of the 70's greatest clothes.  Yes, I'm up too late.  But the "host" of the "show" waxed poetic about how we all remember the seventies and how it was the decade of romance.  I was a just a little boy in the 70's.  But, I'm pretty sure that decade was less about romance and more about fucking with impunity.  And cocaine.  And Martin Scorsese.  And cocaine.  And throwing off the restraints of the peace, love, and happiness hippy values of the 60's so as to begin the transformation into the Me generation.  And cocaine .

That infomercial was followed by an Extenze infomercial which began with a blond woman stuffed into a short, tight, NASCAR style uniform and a guy who could best be described as "old guy in the club," telling her how if he, "wasn't married . . . oh wait, I'm not. (Lecherous laugh)"

The blond responded,  (indulgent chuckle)"someone's been taking their Extenze."

I then gouged out my eyes with a plastic bubble wand.  I managed to block out the sound of the tv by inserting my penis into my ear canal, which I could accomplish because I've been taking Extenze.  Thanks Extenze! (Ding!)

Great fake product though.  I love the thought of the millions of guys who have purchased that shit.  They take it for maybe two days before they start standing naked in front of the mirror, sucking in their stomachs and stretching out their poor schmeckles as long as they can and thinking, "Holy shit, it's working.  Look at that thing!  I am tremendous!  I'm gonna call myself the 'the Anaconda!'"

And if anyone is wondering "what about the wives who say it's working too?"  Well, woman have been faking orgasms forever, so really, what's 2 more inches?

On the very fun side, we took the babies to the Y for open swim tonight.  They both really loved it.  It was a lot of fun.  The Pumpkin Man does has to work on his cpr skills.  It took him 14 minutes to revive me. Thankfully, the brain damage is virtually unnoticeable. It's a miracleeble.

Unfortunately, I got a look in myself in the Y family changing room mirror.  I am a chunky bitch.  Gotta get in shape before school starts.  Pretty screwed up to be going to school for health care while suffering a heart attack every time I fart too loud.

Ok, that is all I've got.   Sorry to leave you with the word fart.  It's not my fault.  I have to post every day or I am a bad person who can't keep their commitments.  Nablopomo gives horrible guilt trips.

Ridiculously,

Homemaker Man

H1N1: O the humanity.

note the small print.  Mexican Swine Flu.  Take that, minutemen .

I took the kids to get shots today.  Drove 45 minutes.   Wife teaches high school.  Teenagers are filthy.

We got there first.  7:30a.m.  Clinic opened at 9.  Hard core.  Sat in the car in a space right in front of the entrance.  Fed the kids some breakfast.  Let them crawl around the front seat.  The Pumpkin Man took the car for a quick joy ride.  Everything is going smoothly.  Guy pulls up in front of us.  Things are still cool.

The rain starts coming down hard.  A woman with 2 kids a few years older than mine walks up and positions herself in front of the entrance.  So now I'm 2nd.  That's alright.  Close enough.  I drag the kids and the stroller out of the car and line up behind her.

We stand there for about 20 minutes.  The adults trading uncomfortable smiles in between my attempts to engage her kids.  "What's your name?  You're a big boy.  Your sister is very tall."  And other inane adult-to-child small talk cliches.  That's going to be the title of my next book.   My first one was called, "Yep, they sure don't make'em like that anymore."  And Other Things Old People Like to Hear."

Speaking of old people . . . . . .

So we're standing in line when a woman comes to open the door, which leads first to an eye doctor's office.  "Are you all waiting for eye appointments?"  She asks hopefully.  Because the mad early morning eye doctor rush totally happens all the time.  More trampling deaths there than at rock concerts or on Black Friday.  No one can see each other.

We tell her no, we're here for shots.  She tells us, "oh, you need to go up and around to the back.  That's where they're lining up."

Shit.

We get back there, and it could be worse.  Ahead of us there is a healthcare worker, a woman with one child, and in front a few old people.   We commence to waiting.  As the line fills up in back of us, a couple more old people slither through the throng and plant themselves in front.  At some point. one of them produces a small blond girl.  Then three more old people appear and join the group(old people are NOT on the priority list for vaccinations, by the way).   So now you've got 7 old people with one confused looking "granddaughter" between them.  Really?  3 and 1/2 sets of grandparent?  I'm pretty sure she was stolen.   Old people are devious.

They come to open the door for us.  They ask, "Is everyone here for appointments . . . ?"

We get inside and do some more waiting.  The Pumpkin Man falls asleep and doesn't wake up until there is a needle plunging into his leg.  Sorry buddy.

In the end, it really wasn't too bad.  There was a little jostling behind us in line and The Pumpkin man melted down on the way home from exhaustion.  But overall, I am feeling very grateful to my kids for being so well behaved today.  The Peanut even got an extra Max and Ruby.  It was the one where Ruby sells all of Max's shit so she can buy more crack .  Really cute.

Vaccinations are good.

Homemaker Man

Test Taken

So I took my college placement test today and I got the results virtually instantly.  The tests are done on the computer and then they are graded immediately by a thousand tiny, ultra-competent teachers with one tattered answer key between them.  Or they are graded by the computer.  I'm not very big on the techie stuff.

Before going to the test today I looked at some sample questions and took a practice test for the math.  All while my 2.5 (that's a decimal!) year old yelled, "daddy, look at this, look at this daddy.  Daddy, LOOK at THIS."

Great, sunglasses.  You're a genius.  Now let daddy get back to relearning long division.

Ok, short division.

Multiplication tables.  Shut up.

The practice test was useful because for the answers I got wrong it provided links to info that would help.  Links like www.mass.edu/the answer is 7, asshole.  The fucking answer is 7.  .com.

When you take the actual test, it's interesting because the questions get harder or easier based on whether or not you got the previous one correct.  So, on the algebra section for example, I would see a question (multiple choice) like:

                                                                                     2x-3x(y-2xy)
                                                                                     -----------------
                                                                                              1/3x                        

And then the next one would say:

                                                                     2+2=x.   If x is the value 4.

 So, yeah.  I aced it.


Actually, I did much better than I thought I would.  I got into the second highest beginning math class, fundamentals of algebra.  Not glamorous, but at least I don't have to pay for a non-credit course.  Also, fairly surprising because about half way or so through the Algebra portion I just said fuck it and started guessing.  The magic of standardized testing.

And in English, I actually tested out of all but the highest class, which I was told I can attempt to test out of if I am willing to pay for the test.  It's like gambling, but I'll probably end up giving it a shot.  I love English and writing, but please.  I think the quality of this blog speaks for itself.  I think if my blog could talk it would probably say something like "please, somebody help me, he's a fucking lunatic.  And he likes puns.  Please.  He can't even type.  help me. "  


So now I can spend my time reading Nursing blogs and getting completely freaked out.  I am not that competent.  

Maybe if I can find a mellow specialty to work in, I'll be ok.  Maybe a Nurse Shark.  Wait a sec, let me get my Wiki on . . .

So they weigh about 330 lbs, are shallow-water, bottom dwellers, like to eat crab and shrimp, have few interactions with humans and are not perceived as a threat.  I  think I found my calling.

Last thing.  A shout out to Viv at A Proud Mom To Many.  She just put up her 200th post.   I just bloggy met her a few weeks ago, but she is a bright, kind, overworked, brave, bloggy buddy.  Congrats Viv.

Tomorrow's big adventure?  Waiting in line for H1N1 shots.  It's going to be like waiting in line for the world's worst 6 Flags ride.  "Hey kids, hold on, we're almost there.  Aaallllmost.  We made it!!  Now roll up your sleeves, suckers.

Matriculatingly yours,

Homemaker Man

1st Test Time

Just barely got accepted to school and already my first test is here.  College Placement Test.  The one they use to figure out at what level you should start your schooling.  I'm hoping for 6th grade.  I was wicked smart in 6th grade.

I'm thinking I might be able to test out of English 101 and 102.  Not that I wouldn't enjoy them, I just don't want to pay for them.  I'm also trying to decide if I should take a dive on the math portion so that I end up in remedial math or if I should try as hard as I can so that I end up in remedial math.  I guess I will just do my best and see what happens.

Be careful.  Don't let that statement's profundity overwhelm you.

I'm nervous.  I'm not sure why.  This is not really a test you can fail.  It's not like if I do badly they'll be like, "Mr.  Homemaker Man, we have the results of your College Placement Test.  According to these numbers, we'll be placing you in the University of You Have Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me.  It's in Guantanamo Bay.  Pack your shit,  porridge head."

Although, it would be kind of cool if they did do that.  To someone else sitting next to me so I could see it happen.  They would never do that to me.  I flunked out of U of YHGTBFKM years ago.

Ok, gotta get to bed at a reasonable time tonight so I can be fresh for tomorrow.  Whoever reads this, send me good vibes.

Thanks and good night.

Homemaker Man

P.S.  Before I forget  . . . yesterday I wrote that whole long post about losing my keys and I spelled losing wrong.  Twice(it's since been fixed).  And I'm hoping to test out of English 101-02.  Right.  Anyway sorry about that everyone.  No excuse for it, I'm just a big looser.

Keys

We had a play date today.  With a nice little 3 year-old boy and his stay-at-home dad.  It was our first play date with these folks, who are very nice and who also happen to be fairly new to the U.S. by way of India. As such we wanted to be prompt, polite and fun.  Make them feel comfortable and avoid being the Ugly Americans.

We had agreed on a time.  High Noon, playground, swings.  "No, slide first, THEN swings.  No, swings first." The Peanut was in charge of the scheduling.  We were at least a half hour late.  As for polite, the Peanut refused to say hi to anyone until I threatened to leave for home.  As for fun, it took me about 6 minutes to get involved in a debate about whether the current administration's policies for jump starting the economy are Communist.  Go U.S.A.  Land of the douche, home of the bag.  I suck

Where the wheels first came off was when we were trying to leave the house.  I couldn't find my keys.  They were just gone.  This is a big deal.

It used to happen to me all the time, losing my kets.  I thought I had a handle on it . . .

Losing my keys is a process.  I start like everyone else.

 "Shit," I thought mildly, "Where are my keys?"  I looked on the table, the bookcase, the kitchen table, my pockets.  No dice.  Looked on the counter, the changing table, baby bag, on the chair.  Nothing.  Now, I start to get nervous.  "Fuck," I mutter, "What did I do with my keys?"  This part happens every time.  Now I have to look in the crazy places.  Because for me, "what did I do with my keys?" is a question with infinite answers.

I check the door knob.  No.  My pockets again.  No.  My coat pocket.  No.  Under the couch, on the ground outside, in a basket of laundry.  No, no, no.  They could be anywhere.  Literally anywhere.  I once left my keys in a snowbank.

"Fuck!"  I growl, where are my fucking keys?  I check the refrigerator, the inside of the stove, pants I haven't worn in three days, my sock drawer, my wife's sock drawer, the fucking trash.  No, no, no, NO.

Sometimes, I put them in places I think I will remember because they are odd and I am oh so clever.  "I know, I'll seal these up in a white envelope, put a stamp on it, write phone bill on the front, and put them in the pile of outgoing bills.  I'll know what I mean."

I check the box of envelopes, my coat pocket again, my pants pocket.  Again.  I check the peanut's pants, the Pumpkin Man's chair,  the dog's bed. NONONONONO!  I'm swearing freely now.  I stop to whine to my daughter, "Honey, where are daddy's keys?  Have you seen them sweetie?"  She regards me soberly and continues to gnaw on her chocolate munchkin' .  "Sweeeetie, daddy's keys, have you seen them?"  Silence.

I check inside the car ( left unlocked) , the litter box, the kitchen cabinets, inside a jar of peanut butter, the top of the washer which is in the basement which I hadn't been in that day, the inside of the washer and the dryer.  In a box of still packed christmas ornaments.  No.  Inside the dog's bunghole?  Well, that's just stupid . . . and no.

Back upstairs, I ask my daughter one more time.  Again, she regards me stonily.  I sink to the floor on elbows and knees, thinking maybe they got kicked under the rug, fell between the floorboards, I'll find a wormhole . . . ?

Nothing.

I am so close to admitting defeat when from the kitchen I hear it.  That unmistakable key sound.  Jingle jingle.  I scrabble in, sweaty, disheveled,  un-tucked.  Mentally I mean.  Not my shirt. My shirt had come flying off 15 minutes before that when I suddenly realized the keys could be stuck in my belly button or lodged under a love handle.  No.  So I crawl madly into the kitchen and there is the Peanut, picking my keys up off the floor.   "Great job Peanut!"  I exclaim, joyously.  "Where did you find them?"

"In the box," she says, like I'm a moron.  There is a small, toy/activity box in the kitchen that she uses when I'm in there cooking.  Someone had put the keys in there.  Could've been either one of us.  It was probably her though.  I never put those things away in a sensible place.

The play date actually went pretty well in the end.   We'll hang out again and everyone left smiling.

Does anyone know where I can take organization lessons?


Homemaker Man


This is a recycled post.  The Peanut is feeling a little under the weather today.  Oh and, P.S.  We uh, we never did have a second play date with that SAHD and his nice little boy.  Sigh.