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.