Chaos

I am the Lord Of Chaos. Fear me. Or be entertained by me. Little kids are drawn to it like white guys to indie-pop. Some adults, too. It's made me fun and laid back and pretty non-judgmental.

I try hard to control it's effects. Mitigation is the watch word. I do pretty ok most times. I can make up for it with a lack of laziness, compassion and love for my family, and a coping mechanism I've developed. When things seem out of control and unmanageable to most, I calmly glide through the situation, blithely unaware that that thing over there is about to explode. And who knew you could bathe a baby in a crock pot set to low?

The negative side of my superpowers tends to manifest itself around times like now. The holidays. On the one hand, I am relatively unaffected by the stress that settles over most people's lives. I'm in good spirits, unworried about getting the shopping done, pretty sure that everything is going to work out. And it does, most times.

However, now the house is in a state that can best be described as I can't find the cat. For 2 days. I thought I heard her mewling under a pile of ornament boxes, but that was the Pumpkin Man.

So, I will be spending my time cleaning, organizing, tossing things out, and finding domesticated animals. How will you guys enter the New Year?

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Speaking of Chaos, I've got a post up at dadcentric concerning the big northeast snow storm.

Here's an excerpt:  snow

Give it a read, if you get the chance, won't you?

Post Christmas Post

I'm sitting here trying to decide which horrible basic cable movie I'm going to watch. It came down to Crocodile Dundee 2 and The Grudge 3. I settled on The Grudge 3 but my wife is in bed and the music is too scary, so you get a post. 

I did almost watch the Little Ceasar's Bowl on ESPN, but it turns out it's NOT an all little people re-enactment of the gladiatorial battles of Ancient Rome, so eff that.

Christmas was fun fun fun this year. Both kids were old enough to appreciate it. The Pumpkin man doesn't get the whole Santa thing, but about 2 days after his bday he was apparently suffering some serious withdrawal as he went into the play room, looked at the Christmas tree, threw back his head and bellowed "I WANT PRESEEENTS!"

So he enjoyed himself.

The Peanut is totally into the whole Santa scene. On Christmas eve she made sure I called him to tell him how nice she was being. I did. We talked. I was lucky to get through.

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For parents with both tv's and young kids, DVR's are the way to go to combat Christmas commerce and commercialism. I have completely convinced the kids that commercials are "yucky, stupid, and disgusting." They beg me to fast forward them.

Hence, when we asked the Peanut what she wanted Santa to bring her for Christmas, she replied, "A teddy bear."  That's it. That's all.

Love that kid.

I made homemade cookies for Santa this year. We put three of them out for him. He ate those and then proceeded to go into our kitchen and decimate half a platter of them. Fucker.

Ok. I just found All The Right Moves on the tv. Now I'm busy. Tom Cruise pre-Scientology (and Lea Thompson pre-whatever happened to Lea Thompson). He looks so sane. My spell check only recognizes Scientology if it's capitalized. Stupid brainwashed spell check.

Goodnight, happy holidays, and thank you thank you all for reading and commenting and whatnot.

That is my sentiment for the year.

Homemaker Man

P.S. Microwave Popcorn goes surprisingly well with a 6$ Trader Joe's Sauvignon Blanc. A little wine/food pairing tip for ya,

Danger: Pumpkin Man Approaching

The Pumpkin Man is trouble.

The Pumpkin man is a rolling, tumbling, rock slide of bruises and consequences.

The Pumpkin Man is a screaming, crying, pulsing head wound

The Pumpkin Man is a sentient avalanche, the Bulls when they Run, an imploding building.

The Pumpkin Man is the word "No" screeched into the Grand Canyon a thousand times.

The Pumpkin Man is an insidious whine that often implicates his sister in a crime she didn't commit.

The Pumpkin man is an armful of dark, rich, forest earth. The kind you can taste on the air.

The Pumpkin Man is a little stinky.

The Pumpkin Man is a drum beat you can feel in your gut.

The Pumpkin man is a bear cub with no knowledge of the winter.

The Pumpkin Man is a grinning Eric Carle sunrise.

The Pumpkin man is some of the hardest laughs I've ever had.

The Pumpkin Man loves the ladies. And it is so reciprocal.

The Pumpkin man has the charisma of joy.

The Pumpkin Man is a surprisingly strong hug from the universe that says "You are loved."

The Pumpkin Man is 2 years old today.

Happy Birthday, my loving, crazy, hilarious, sweet, intelligent, clumsy, moon headed boy. We love you.

Homemaker Man
Mrs Homemaker Man
The Peanut

Catcher In The Rye 2: The Movie

Here’s the pitch:

Holden gets out of the sanitarium, convinces everyone he’s fine, moves out to the country. But he’s not fine. He’s pissed off and he’s not gonna take it anymore. Meanwhile, we see a montage of him chopping wood and running in the snow and shooting guns and doing karate on tree trunks.

 

Finally, he’s ready. We know that because he shoots a bug on a leaf at 500 yards and karate chops a tree in half.

He goes back into the city to get his revenge on the pimp that punched him in the stomach and all the pimps and drug dealers and scum in the city are next. Think Rocky 4 meets Taxi driver meets Commando.

At some point we find out Stradlater is a successful CEO and humanitarian who just happens to be up to his handsome neck in organized crime.

Now the movie really takes off.

Holden’s going to put that phony bastard and his entire organization on ice.

Catch phrase scene:

Just as Holden’s about to blow away an unsuspecting mid-level scumbag he turns and puts something on his head. The scumbag--trying to buy time--asks, “What the fuck is that?” 

“This is a people shooting hat."  Holden replies. "I shoot people in this hat. Motherfucker. (Kaplow Kaplow. Zap. Ping.)”

That’s totally from the original book.  Except the “Mother Fucker” which I added. It’s more cinematic.

Watch for Catcher In The Rye 3: The Phonies’ Revenge in 2013 and Catcher In The Rye 4: The Phoebe Effect in 2015.

Any of the movie studio execs that regularly read this blog and want to option this idea, please email me. We’ll talk.

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Cute naked story alert:

Bath time. Undressing the kids. The Pman is facing the Peanut as I take off his diaper.

The Peanut pipes, "There's his penis! Penis penis bo-benis bananafan fo fenis me my mo menis, penis."

I am a lucky dad.

HM

99 luft balloons would be a massacre

Why are balloons always so tragic?  They always leave or die.

We got a couple free mylar balloons about 4 days ago. Usually, I have a strict no balloon policy. Balloons are like the West Bank of our household. It doesn't matter whose it is, there is going to be fighting.

And crying. And screaming and wailing and fit throwing and temper tantruming and one time I got shivved in the calf with a sharpened plastic chicken.

But we were Chanukah shopping and were feeling the holiday spirit and they were free so we altered our policy.

Tonight, a balloon died. As they always do.  The Peanut's mourning process was less than dignified.

Coming off her sickness and a nice day back at school, she threw a record breaking tantrum. Had to have been at least 45 minutes. A lot of it in her room.

I'm pretty sure she called me the c word.

I shouldn't keep letting her watch Train Spotting.

Due to the fabulous festivities of the evening, I am finishing the bottle of sauvignon blanc that I used on tonight's haddock. It's a vintage 2009 Robert Mondavi Private Selection. I believe it's named this because it tastes like Robert Mondavi's privates.

 That is of course conjecture on my part. His privates may very well taste better than this wine.

H to the M.

The 4 Horsemen of the Chanukahppocalypse: The Conclusion

When we last left our hero, he had his hands full. Of puke.

Will our hero's daughter ever have a normal human digestion process ever again?

Will our hero's son please stop climbing that right now? And don't spill water. Don't spill water!

Ahh fuck it. Spill water.

Will someone come and take the aforementioned son off of our hero's hands for just like, an hour or 2 weeks?

The Chanukah miracle lasted eight days and was declared a holiday.  It seems as though this stomach bug the Peanut has wants it's own holiday too.

Until today.

Today, it broke.

Judah Macabee himself came down from Mount Olympus and put the kibosh on the virus.

Tomorrow, she goes back to school.

Today, as I predicted, I wailed on both kids in a dreidel session. I spun gimel, after gimel, after gimel.
Raked in I don't know how many Cherrios.

It got so bad the Peanut started cheating. Instead of spinning the dreidel by its stem, she'd pick it up in her fist, fix it so the gimel was showing, and drop it on the floor.

Her first attempt to cheat at gambling. I'm very proud. My little grifter.

HM

The Four Horsemen of the Chanukahppocalypse

We're doing all the good Hanukkah customs. We've been lighting the menorah candles and dancing to Hava Nagila and giving presents and eating human flesh and hoarding gold and being the world's greatest entertainers. The usual.

In the midst of all this, we've been receiving our own nightly Chanukah present from the peanut in the form of multiple orifice spewage.

I caught some vomit in my hand last night. L'Chaim!

(In the Jewish tradition, that predicts much wealth and a happy marriage. Or a mass exodus. 6 of one . . .)

This morning we kept her home from school.

There I was, trapped like a Catholic in a bad marriage*. One sick 3 year-old girl.

Another toddler that has the basic speed and impulse control of a howler monkey. The business acumen, too.

No car.

I have to post 2 posts today, so this is to be continued . . .

HM

*Fun Fact: Jewish law gives a number of reasons why Jews can get divorced. Including when someone won't put out. Go figure.

Oh Chanukah Oh Chanukah . . . What's that smell?

So I mentioned something about 8 posts in 8 days. I'll get there. The start of our Chanukah has been a little meshuga. The Peanut has contracted an intestinal illness that has left the entire house in a stinky fog. A fetid fecal haze that clouds the nostrils and feeds the soul. Fecal Haze, all in my brain, as the song should never, ever go.


Tonight, you'll be getting my traditional Chanukah posting. It's my best traditional Chanukah post, if I do say so myself.
And we will be doing exactly as the post says we're doing. Except the Peanut. She's feeling better, but you don't give a sick toddler Thai food unless you're doing an experiment on fecal velocity. Or viscosity. 


Ok, Let's get all Jewish up in here, Chosen peoples:  A Chomemaker Chanukah
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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.

Education Is For Losers

Here's something interesting:* Arne Duncan, the Sec'y of Education, doesn't hold any degree higher than a bachelor's. In sociology.  It's true.

He's only got a bachelor's. In sociology.  Which means there are a lot of jobs for which he is not qualified.

Like sociologist.

Another one? Teacher. They have to get their master's*

I don't mean to demean his education. Lord knows he made it further through school that I did. A little. I'm just saying that you'd think the Sec'y of Education would have an advanced degree. Or at least a bachelor's in education.  

I don't mean to debase a bachelor's in sociology, either. It's just that a bachelor's in sociology is the educational equivalent of a bachelor's in sociology.  

I was going to list all the things you would not be able to do for a living with a bachelor's in soc. but I ran out of internet.

Instead here's a list of jobs you can do with that degree:

Social worker. I think.

Research assistant.

I googled "bachelor's in sociology jobs" and was told to "get an advanced degree."

Just to be fair, I know Duncan is not completely without experience in the education field. There are two instances:

 1.) When he was a young teenager he tutored underprivileged kids. 

2.) After college, he played pro-basketball in Australia.  

I guess that's technically one instance, although I'm sure he schooled some Aussie suckas on the basketball court, y'all.  Of course, half the time he would've been playing them "at home."  Which would've been home schooling. 

It's one of the great American beliefs that someone without a proper education can "make it." Dave Thomas and Wendy's, Bill Gates and Microsoft, me and Homemaking.  

But this is different. He's never taught. He was never a principal or headmaster. His time as the CEO (blech) of the Chicago public schools was not what you could call wildly successful.* And yet not only was he handpicked by the President, he's been called one of the most powerful Secretaries of Education in history.

Inventor, entertainer, entrepeneur, artist. These are jobs that don't necessarily require an advanced degree.

Person in charge of the education of everyone; some sort of education related degree would be nice. I'd take an associates in daycare, at this point. 

I'm posting because people don't seem to mind this, and I don't understand. No one would be cool with it if the Surgeon General had a degree in Film Studies. Though at least that person would be fun on trivia night.

In the end, what do I know? I'm just a guy with young kids who are just entering a public school system that does not seem healthy.

On the bright side, at least Duncan wasn't an art history major. He'd make a horrible Sec'y of Defense. 

*In the interest of full disclosure, my wife is a high school English teacher.

*They have to obtain it within a certain number of years from when they start teaching. Some states have relaxed that requirement due to teacher shortages.

*support materials, here, here , and here. And Arne's wikipedia page.

8 Days of Posting.

The first night of Chanukah was very successful.  Wholesome family fun. Presents, candles, singing dancing, latkes. I absolutely destroyed the kids with the dreidel. Won all of this year's candy and they took out advances on the next 4 Chanukahs.  Fools.

All very, very normal. Until we found Shalom Sesame. It's kind of like Russian heavy metal is to American Heavy metal. Almost, but then again, totally not. Also, it's educational. Here's a preview.

"Menorah Shmenorah, I want my Latke!"
"Latke Shmatke, I want my Menorah!"

HM

No Mo Movember

That's it it's all over. The days of wine and Mustaches are behind us. Thanks to all who participated or gave during Movember. My prostate thanks you.  You can still donate here or here, by the way.

So, how'd the Stache turn out? Pretty Jewey, actually:

As you can see, on my blog,we all come up Gimel (kind of like getting dealt a straight flush). 

Now how do I shave this thing off?

Happy early Chanukah!

Movember Musings and Tryptophan Dreams

Did everyone who celebrates out there have a good ThanksGiving? Good.  Ours went well. I cooked a 13 pound bird for two adults and two toddlers. It's about the spectacle, really.

This will probably be our 2nd to last Movember update.  As a reminder, Movember is November Mustaches against prostate cancer, you can donate here at the DadCentric team page, or at my very own Movember page.  Thank you.  

I really like the Movement the Mustache has shown over the past couple of days.  It seems to respond to it's environment quite readily.  Perhaps it's becoming sentient? We can only hope.

Without further jibber-jabber, Thanksgiving Stache:

Mustache, you've outdone yourself this time. Pumpkin Pie. Festive and stylish. And let me tell you, sitting here right under my nose, it smells delicious.  I mean, really good.

I wonder if . . . no, I shouldn't. But if I can just get my tongue . . . mMmm, Err, oh yeah that's Mmmph, (smack) so good (smack).

Oops. I think I shouldn't have done that.

Yep. It's Pumpkin Hitler. Of course, if his mustache had been anywhere near that delicious, I think we can all agree things would've gone much, much differently.

And yes, those are pie crumbs on my cheek. Sometimes, it pays to have a paper plate for a face.

Have a good weekend folks.  

Homemaker Man

Open House

The Peanut's school had Open House this week.  Our family's first. How did it go?  Let me put it this way:

They are studying the five senses this week in class.  Hearing, touch, taste, smell, and spidey.   

The teacher, who is very good, had a little spray canister of scent that she sprayed in to the air. Then she asked the kids what they though it was.  "Candy," said Sophia. "Cake," said Gabe, "Apples," said Mia.

The teacher asked, "Peanut what about you, what do you think?" 

"Pie," the Peanut said softly.

"Did you say pie?" asked the teacher.  The Peanut nodded her head yes.  The teacher smiled and said, "Yes, that's right, it's pie.  Pumpkin pie."

She actually got that shit right.  That is MY daughter.  I'd like to tell you here and now that I did not stand up and start screaming, "Yeah, you like that Sophia? What about you, Gabe, ya little bitch? Taste it Mia, yeah eat it up! That is the flavor of being intellectually bested! It tastes soooo good."

I'd like to tell you that I didn't do that, but I can't.  I've been banned from Open House forever.  

It was worth it.  

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Movember Update

Time for another Movember update.  Movember is a movement where men grow mustache's to raise awareness for Prostate Cancer.

The Holiday season is upon us. Donate now at either my page the DadCentric team page so that prostates everywhere can have a merry holiday of their choice. 

To help you open up your purse strings--and your heart strings (Slap! manipulation high five)--here is the latest incarnation of my glorious lip fur.

That's right.  It's Disco Stache! Shield your eyes and shake your booties against it's majestic glare.

I woke up this morning with glitter all over my pillow. I think there are fairies living in it. 

Homemaker Man

P.S. Got a new post up over at DadCentric as well. On the subject of playdates and why I can't get one.  It's high school all over again.  

Seeee Yoouuu . . . in Moveehhmmmberrr

So here we are, Day 17, more than half way through Movember and I've updated but once.  I'm sorry. Not the most effective way to fight prostate cancer, I know. I had to wait until this grew in a little before I posted more pics.  I do have some pride.

Especially since I contacted the AMI--that's the American Mustache Institute--about admission into their whiskery ranks.  I'm still waiting to hear (fingers crossed!) but I think with my mustache's latest developments, I'm a shoe in.  Plus, on the entrance exam where they ask "Why do you love your mustache?" I answered, "because it fights cancer."

With a little luck, I think I may even be in the running for The Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American Of the Year.  Though between you, me, and the mustache wax, that award should be named after Sam Elliot. I mean, really now.

And I know the name a few of you are thinking. Fuck Rollie Fingers.  Sounds like an arch pedophile.

Ok. The afore mentioned mustache developments. I know you're curious out there.  Without further folderol, The Stache':

That's right. I've grown the Chewie.

Here's a better look:

Yes Chewie, you had a question?

Totally baddass, I know. I didn't think I had it in me.  This is post a good trim, too.  When I first woke up this morning, the thing was way intimidating:

Killer Stache'

So there you go folks.  I gotta think this level of mustache is worth at least a small donation at either the DadCentric team Movember page, my own page, or just at the Movember website in general.

Chewbacca Stache' vs. Prostate Cancer.  Cancer doesn't have a chance.

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In other news, my wife has been working awfully long days lately (for those of you who think teacher's hours are easy, you are wicked wrong.).  Sometimes she checks this space to see what's up at home.
Honey, we love you and we miss you like crazy.  We can't wait until you get home. We've all misplaced our pants.

Love,

Us

HM


P.S here's a pic to get your pulse raising, my darling:

Sun kissed Stache'

Bleffluvia/Movember update.

Hey everyone.  Sorry I've been a cruddy blogger.  We've been busy.  To sum up:


About a month and a half ago, we're in the car, my daughter starts this:

"Hey daddy, do we poop in our pants?"

"No! (I am sporting a firmly lecturial, anti-pants pooping tone. And demeanor.  Mostly.)  We do NOT poop in our pants."

"Daddy, do we poop on the floor?

"Peanut, NO we . . . wait a second?  Are you laughing?"

And she was.  She was cracking up.  We went on to talk about whether or not one defecates on the cat(sometimes), the dog, the car, and her brother (not when he's awake.).  We just laughed and laughed.

To my memory, these are some kindergarten level jokes.

Of course this comes up again and again intermittently.  She starts joking about chocolate poop and eating chocolate poop cookies and pooping chocolate (which would be the best/most tragic thing ever if she could really do that).  I role with all of it until she starts threatening to poop on her mother and me. I tell her she can't be joking like that. Nobody poops on my woman with the exception of both children when they were infants.  I've got to draw a line somewhere.  A line in the poop.  Unfortunately, it's a dotted line.

Cut to this weekend.

She's in the bathroom. I go in to help her finish up.

She gleefully informs me that there is "poop and pee, all mixed up in there.  It's all mixed up."

I'm tired.  I forget myself.  I tell her, "I know.  That's what you're having for dinner."

I'm not proud.  At least, I'm not until she replies:

 "I'm gonna put frosting on it!"

With frosting-a-cake hand motions.

She one-upped me.  The student becomes the teacher.  I am fit to burst.  With pride, I mean.

I ran downstairs and related the incident to my wife.  She laughed out loud.

Tell me people with older kids, am I wrong in thinking this is some 1st-2nd grade level poop humor?  She's like the Joan Rivers of Pre-school.  "Can we talk?  About poop?"

I know I should not be proud of this, but I am.  My chest is puffed way out.  With pride, I mean.
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On to our Movember update.  For those of you who are not aware, Movember is a movement in which those of us who can grow moustaches do so in hopes of raising money for prostate cancer research(You donate at my Movember page or at the DadCentric Team Page or just go to the website.).

Then those of us who have blogs post pics of our pelt-y progress.  Thusly:

As you can see, it's not going well.  It screams "pubescent lack of authority."  Or maybe "French-Canadian douche-bag."  Or Wendy's asst. manager.  And despite this horrific look, I still seem to have that dumb fuck grin plastered on my goofy mug.

I will keep trying though,  Because it is for a great cause.

 I do have an idea for next year.  I've been doing a little research.  Allow me to direct you to this article from BBC News.  It suggests that a highly effective method of preventing prostate cancer is frequent ejaculation.  It goes on to say that the primary method recommended is masturbation due to the risk of STD's.

This is not a risk with which I need concern myself.  I'm married.  And she's monogamous.  With me.  I'm pretty sure. But still, either way it's pretty much a win win.,

So, prostate having people, coming in 20ll to a private moment near you:

Jackuary!

Who's with me?

Please, no pics.

Movember: Mustaches Against Cancer

I know.  From the title, you're like, "Why bother?  Cancer will kick a mustache's ass."  And most times, you'd be correct.  But not this month.  This month the mustache has a chance to be a hero.  For this . . is Movember.

Movember is a Movement.  A Movement to raise awareness of--and money for--men's health. Specifically for the prevention of Prostate Cancer.

Grow a 'Stache and raise some cash.

Prostate cancer does not get the same press that breast cancer receives. This may well be because most people can see breasts, and many people enjoy the sight.  Not so true with a prostate.  Though, a healthy prostate is a beautiful thing.  And now we're full circle.

 Whatever the case, the original MoBros decided to try and do something about the lack of prostate press.  Via mustaches.

(This is not to set up a competition between prostate and breast cancer, mind you.   I'm a pretty big fan of both . . . all? . . . of the aforementioned organs. For varying reasons. And I think we all agree that cancer of the anything is not good.)

Participation in Movember requires that I shave clean and then grow a mustache for the month while posting public photos of the process.  I'd love to participate.  The guys over at DadCentric are already all over it.

So, without further ado, clean shaven me:

I know, I still have some stubble showing.  I apologize, I have a heavy beard.  It's the best I could do.

Please, check back for updated pics.  I will grow a mustache of some sort, I'm almost positive.  And please, DONATE at either my page or any of the participating DadCentrician's pages or just go to the website and donate directly.  However you do it, my shiny new mustache will thank you.  As will my shiny ol' prostate.

One last thing.  For those women who can't grow a mustache--and you know who you are--you can participate either by donating (duh) or by becoming a Mo Sister.  So there you go.

One more last thing.  The money raised will benefit the Prostate Cancer Foundation and LIVESTRONG.  So there you go again.

HM

Creepy Halloween Post. I promise.

The following is something I whipped up in my cauldron for the All-Hallows Eve celebration.  A  few creepy, crawly, Halloween verses to get things off to s spooky start, ya pagan bastards:

Waiting

He’s a creepy, crabby, craggy old man

Got rings on his fingers, a tattoo on his hand.

He’s got spiders astride him, in his hair, on his clothes

Which are dingy and dirty, threadbare old robes.

He eats all he eats with his mouth open wide,

Unspeakable rottenness churning inside.

The sludge tumbles out in great glops from his maw

And the stink would leave dung beetles choking in awe.

His teeth are worn down, greasy, gray nubs

And his plump lips they squirm, like swollen pink grubs.

The voice, when it speaks, speaks in gurgles and creaks

It screeches and bubbles and the words seem to leak.

His eyes are corrupted, milky and white.

Still, this glutinous gaze cuts through the night.

The sights that he sees are the best and the worst.

He scoffs at your fortune, savors your hurt.

He’s come here for you; he’s been here forever.

As old as the stars, as rash as the weather.

Immutable, inconceivable, impossible, ordained,

Welcome him now like the wind welcomes rain.

P. S. The title is not solid.  I'm open to suggestions.  

It Is NOT time for that

During drop-off and pick-up for the Peanut the past week, there has been a particular subject that I've been able to pick out from the usual parental chit-chat ("He hates getting dressed . . . She bullies her brother . . . Me? Amyl nitrate, usually . . .").  

Disney.   

Who's siblings have been, who's going next, how many times, when's the best time of year, etc.

The past week a little boy from the Peanut's class--who we'll refer to as "Jack" because that's his first name--has been absent.  He's been at Disney World.  He's three years old and it's his first trip to the Enchanted Multinational Corporation.  His 6 year old sister made the Disney hat trick this time.

He came back to school today and we found out two things: He talked a lot about going back to school, and he seemed overwhelmed.

Color me surprised.  

It just seems, mmm, not savvy, to take a kid that young to Disney World and expect him to have a really good time.   

Also, to me it smacks a little of indoctrination.  Get'em started young so when they're eleven they can rat me out to the Disney Secret Police when they catch me laughing at Bugs Bunny.  

In the interest of full disclosure I have two admissions:  1.) I myself did go to Disney Land when I was seven.  We were living in santa Monica. The guy my mother was dating at the time, a Hebrew school teacher brimming with mustache and lustrous Jew-Fro, took us for the day.  I can't say exactly what I was thinking during the day, but it wasn't exclusively "wheeeee!  I'm at Disney!"  

There was also a good helping of, "Hey. You trying to bang my mommy there, Rabbi?"  Or words to that effect.

2.) I am dreading the day when it will be our turn to do the Diz.  I hope to hold it off as long as I can.  The only Disney related movie we've partially watched here is Finding Nemo. And that's only because the Peanut loves fish and Finding Nemo kicks ass. 

Otherwise the whole Princess motif really bugs me and The Peanut already thinks of herself in those terms, to some degree.

I think the best way for the kids to do Disney is to wait until they're in college.  Then they get their two best friends (three best if the third one is the one who has a car), a big bag of weed, gather up their Xmas/ leftover loan money, and drive.

I know we're most likely going to have to do the Diz eventually. And the Peanut does love her rides.  And I can't say that I don't sing a heartfelt version of "Part Of Your World" from The Little Mermaid.  

I'd just like to hold off long enough that, when the trip is over, and we're home safe and sound, and we've checked for listening devices, I can turn to the kids and say, "Ok, just so we're clear, any princess worth her salt can fight her own battles, Bugs Bunny is so much funnier it's not even a contest, Donald duck is a douche' bag, and here's the thing about gigantic media companies." 

Then again, maybe I'm just being an asshole.  Which is always a possibility.

The Festival of Blight

The Fall Festival at the Peanut’s school was this past Saturday. “Games, Prizes, Pumpkin Decorating, Face Painting, donuts and cider!” read the 10$ family ticket we had to purchase in advance.

First off, I had to get all dressed up to go to this thing.  By “dressed up,” I mean “wear pants.” It felt so good to take off that monkey suit when I got home.  I’m the guy who’ll run out to his car in his boxer shorts if it’s dark enough outside. 

The festival . . .

We leave the house and it is a brilliant fall day.  The white bright sunshine and biting autumn breeze have conspired to clean all the corners of the world.  Chasing out grime and shadows alike.  Leaving good spirits in their wake. 

Then we got to the festival.

They held it in the school’s quad.  Quad is being used loosely here.  Very loosely.  As in parking lot.

They had a choose-your-own pumpkin area.  There were 4 dozen or so small pumpkins resting on some sparsely scattered hay made dirty by the combination of the pumpkins, asphalt, and toddler hands. 

There was a table with popcorn, about 5 dozen plain donuts, and 4 gallons of “cider.” As the label put it:

 “Rudy’s! Apple cider drink.  There were apples near it!”

Eh, the cider was real-ish.  The popcorn was fake. 

We picked our pumpkins, grabbed a donut and a cup of cider-aide, and went inside for the face-painting, pumpkin decorating, and games. 

The classroom they set aside for this was decorated in the style of the neo-minimalist Apathetic movement. 

My daughter wanted a lion face from the face-painter. The face-painter was a fourth grader who couldn’t attempt to give my daughter a lion face because she had been instructed to not use too much face paint on any one person. 

She painted a crude butterfly on my daughter’s cheek and an even cruder elephant on the Pumpkin man.  Looked like a mouse with a hard-on. 

The games consisted of a raffle for a gift basket that was probably put together at a a Family Dollar ( Contents: a fall-themed, vinyl tablecloth, Ritzo’s peanut butter kupz, and creamed candy corn)  and a bean bag toss through a cardboard jack-o-lantern.  In that game, everyone won: a tiny container of playdoh and an amorphous silly-bandz. I think The Peanut won a Shmoo.

The decorating table for the pumpkins consisted of: 1) stickers and 2) markers that I’m positive were not washable and I suspect were toxic.  I’m not totally sure about the latter as I only ate one. 

That might be enough to make a lesser man ill, but I’m a fat drink of water. 

Just to show I’m not the only one griping, here are some quotes from other festival goers”

 “A sad little fall festival.”

--My Wife

“

“Two bit tinhorn bullshit.”

--Me

So . . . people are got their pre-schoolers up and out of the house by 9 on a Saturday in 46 degree weather with wind gusting at 40 mph to stand around in a parking lot near some dirty hay. 

It wouldn’t have taken much to make it a fun festival.  The high school has a pretty good art department (I know.  In this day and age.  That’s my city though.  A quilt of a scant few sunny bright ideas surrounded by dull brown dumbness.). Why not have a couple of art students come down and help each class make decorations? 

Or one to do the face-painting, at least?

Maybe for the Winter Carnival they’ll whip snowballs at the kids while we dig madly in an attempt to find 6 special prizes (individual strands of tinsel maybe?  Coal?) hidden in the snow.

Maybe I'll volunteer to make decorations.  I do have mad construction paper skillz . . .

Hasta Maine-ana

I went to the lake to say goodbye.

The autumn breeze cleaned my lungs.  Dragged playful fingers over the lake’s surface, rippling the water.

The sun had begun the decent that would soon hide it behind the foothills along the Sebago.  It painted a gold streak from one side to the other.  It hurt my eyes to look, but I had to. 

A single sailboat rode across the sunbeam, the illumination making its white sail translucent. 

The fall foliage was exploding fireworks in the background

I mean, are you shitting me?  You cannot make this stuff up.

Beautiful. Ridiculous.  Nature is so cliché.  

Thank goodness.

We went to Maine to visit the amazing, hilarious, and beloved Aunties.  They always exceed the hype we lay on the kids leading up to the trip.  They rock.  

We also went to the Fryeburg Fair.  There were cows and rides and fair foods and all manner of fair-y goodness.  There were fat people engaging in unseemly acts of self-indulgence.  I sadly shook my head at them but they couldn't see it behind the two story double-scoop waffle cone and roof shingle sized slice of sicilian pizza I was eating.  Poor fools.

While there the Peanut made two requests.   After visiting the steers: "I wish I could have a cow like that."

After riding a kiddie ride that consisted of little metallic cars:  " I wish I had a car like that."

That's when I told her to get a job.

Had a great time.  Glad to be home.  

HM

Jew . . . ish 2: Moses Never Sleeps/

For those interested, read part one here:

Now comes the other side of the coin.

In the midst of this religious uncertainty, as I am striving discover a side of myself that was, up until now, explored in large part through the ingestion of latkes (so crispy) and the freedom to make Jew jokes while condemning virtual strangers as anti-Semites, I also became godfather to my niece. 

I had to go from Judaism to Christianity faster than Mel Gibson’s agent. (Jew jibe and Anti-Semite slam all in one.  Thank you)

I was a little unsure of how that was going to turn out too.

We got to the temple church.

The pastor greeted us upon entering. He was youngish and White and southern and silver-haired and friendly like a politician.

The church was more of a chapel/office/classroom/religious compound (nervous chuckle). The building had an up-to-date elementary school vibe. The chaple was blond wood beams and pews, polished wood cross, big windows letting in lots of natural light, colorful cloth banners, almost like quilts (Jesus Quilts. Patent Pending). There were large flat screen tv’s showing the words to the prayers and hymns.  It was all very Fellowship of the Sun.

The service mostly went off without a hitch.  It was done lovingly and no vampires were exploded.  My favorite part was when the Peanut Man got swept up in one of the hymns. “Paaays Jeeezis!”  He bellowed as the rapture overtook him.  Dude loves to sing.

 So far, the best part of being the godfather is that, with the exception of the parents, I get to take the baby from anyone whenever I want. God says they have to give her up.  I march over to whoever is holding her, “Give me the child.”  I command.  If they refuse, I up the anti. 

“The Power Of Christ compels you!”  I roar as my eyes glow, alight with my new godfather superpowers.  You can do that.  It’s totally in the bible. Or maybe the Constitution.

Either way, people are usually startled enough that it works.

He second best part is that I do a more than passable Brando imitation.  Most annoying godfather ever.

It’s pretty cool.

*From part one:  We got a call from the president of the temple.  She told us that she hated hearing we couldn’t come because of money and that there was a misunderstanding because the family service was supposed to be free anyway. 

She invited us to a Tot Shabbat (yes) service. For Sukkot.  Sukkot is the harvest holiday and it’s pretty kid friendly.  Tot Shabbat was . . .ok.  The person who usually ran it wasn’t there, so we’ll have to give them a second chance.  Everyone was pretty nice and we got to go outside and hangout in the Sukkah.  The Sukkah is a temporary hut that we are supposed to build and then we’re traditionally supposed to eat all our meals in it for the whole week of Sukkot.  Jews know how to party.  

Jew . . .ish

We’re looking for a religion.  There, I said it now.  It’s out there.

We’re doing it so the kids have a religious identity.  And a cultural one.  And, when they reach teen hood, something to rebel against other than their parents.  Sic’em on God. 

We’re looking for a religion, and we’ve decided to look in the direction of Judaism. I think we have to face toward New York.

I’m Jewish.  Via genetics/ Jewish law.  My mother is Jewish so I’m Jewish.   My wife grew up Methodist and went to Catholic High School and then minored in religious studies.  Studied her way right out of a faith.  Now though, she’s rethinking things.  She may be ready to accept Jesus Christ into her heart as a nice Jewish boy.  Who wouldn’t?

God and I don’t hang out either, as a rule.  Different social circles.  I don’t believe in him, he doesn’t believe in me, and we’re comfortable with that.

I’d like to note here, I’m not a strident, angry atheist.  I’ve made peace with my lack of faith.  I don’t want to demean religion. There is nothing worse than a proselytizing atheist.

 “You must not believe or nothing will happen to you!”   Settle down, heathen. 

And, I’m open to the possibility of faith.  It could happen.   I’m not open in a  “so I went to a psychic and she told me I recently underwent an important change and I was like OMG you’re totally right, I just got these pants!” way.  But I’m open.

Like if Moses suddenly showed up on a tortilla, I might believe.  Probably not though, since he didn’t even eat Mexican food.  “Oy, with the spicy,” he used to say.

I joke because the Jews have always been funny.  That’s why God chose us.

I’m also pretty uncomfortable with the subject.  I have never before had to really face up to my lack of religious training or knowledge about my own culture. My formal religious training consists of one month of Hebrew school when I was 7.  My mother was dating the teacher.

 Most of what I know about Judaism, I learned on the streets. Late night games of spin the dreidel in the back of all night delis with tough looking boys named Schlomo and even tougher girls named Sylvia. 

I’m finding some aspects of the Jewish faith fascinating.  Yom Kippur is our day of atonement.  We fast and pray and ask for forgiveness for the year.  The neat thing is, while you’re asking for forgiveness and promising to try harder in the coming year, you’re supposed to be asking the same thing of God.  Imagine that. 

“So . . . sorry about the sloth, drinking, and internet porn this year there God.  I’ll do better, I promise.  But while we’re at it, let’s talk about what you need to work on. Specifically: Everything else bad in the entire universe.  Those who live in glass houses . . .” God’s way into solar energy.  Of course.

(Open dialogue with God.  And so begat the Jewish Lawyer Paradigm.)

It’s a big leap, especially for my wife.  Converting to Judaism means months of classes and rituals and examinations. 

If we’re going to do this we need to do it right.  Shop around.  Take a few temples for a spin.

That part has been a little bumpy.

For Rosh Hashanah, we were invited to a temple about ten minutes away. It was the Pumpkin man’s first time in a yarmulke and he looked handsome.  I wore the traditional Schettleverth.  What’s a Schettleverth?  About 2 dollars.  Zing (to my knowledge, there is no such thing).

We went to temple.  This particular temple, not our scene.  The temple was 2/3 full—tops-- on one of the holiest of holy days in all Jewdom.  And that 2/3 consisted mostly of people who remember the feeling of wet sand against the bottoms of their feet from when they crossed the Red Sea.  Much more Jackie Mason than John Stewart. 

My daughter hated temple.  Hated it.  Why?  No yarmulke for her. As she put it, she couldn’t “wear a fancy hat like daddy and the Pumpkin man.”

She went on to say that she “hated going into temple naked.”

Who can blame her?

The Pumpkin man spent the entire time we were there yelling “Wha’ Dat?  Who’dat?  Wha’dat sound?”  Like a Cajun fire alarm. 

Then Yom Kippur came.  I fasted.  I reflected.  We did not go to temple.  We looked for one.  Found a website for one nearby that promised a short family service for families with young kids. 

Seats had to be reserved because it’s the high holidays and popular temples get banged out pretty quick for these shows.  The seats cost 95$ per for the adults.*  So, we didn’t go.  If we’re gonna spend 95$ for tickets, it better be because a terrific revival of West Side Story is in town. 

That’s a temple with which we’re familiar.

To Be Continued . . . 

HM

This post brought to you by fatherhood friday at dad-blogs.com

Katy Perry, Muppet F*cker: Update

First she made Elmo a man,  next up, Telly's finally gonna find that Golden Triangle.

For those parents who haven't heard, Ms. Perry, Pop Star and all around annoying tartlet, got tossed off of Sesame Street.  Apparently, parents protested that the outfit she chose to wear showed "too much cleavage." As if.

Ms. Perry is cute; I enjoyed her song I Kissed a Girl (and I liked it) and her turn as the bitchiest guest judge ever on American Idol last year.  And she's married to a a comedian named Russell Brand who is very funny if you can get past the language barrier.  However, if you're going to ban the woman from Sesame Street, let's do it over something that matters.  Like the awful song she sang for the bit.  Or her acting.  Or the derivative, ear-molesting, catchiness of her latest hits in general.  Or her personality.

(Watched ten minutes of Katy Perry Unplugged, with interview segments.  Did not realize the Unplugged was referencing her self-awareness.  Yikes.  I'd say she's egocentric, but her ego was so big I couldn't find the center.)

I rank pretty high on the prude scale.  Way above the parents from Little Miss Perfect, but below the Taliban.  What she wore was not a big deal.  In terms of being harmful for kids.

In fashion terms, oh lordy.  Looked like a Vegas cocktail waitress who just got married by mistake*.

And if the child watching Katy Perry on Sesame Street is old enough to give a shit about her cleavage, than maybe the problem is they shouldn't be watching so much Sesame Street.

This post brought to you by Fatherhood Friday at dad-blogs.com



*My best Michael Kors.

After thinking about this and talking with My Wife and reading other's takes, I have to say her outfit is a little too much.  Or not enough.  Little ones are impressionable( my kids think I can talk to the animals, my gut is a muscle, and Maker's Mark is daddy's "super juice.")  and the images of woman as sex object are already legion.

And the gasping desperation with which she entreats Elmo, to "play with me," probably struck wood in umpteen self-referential British comics around the globe.  Not appropriate.

That's it.

HM

My Son, Lady Killer. Creepy, creepy, lady killer

We have this Dora doll.  It's almost 3 ft tall.  The Pumpkin Man is in love with it.

It was cute at first.  He'd carry it around everywhere.  He'd sing, "Dora, Dora, Dora!"  When he dropped her, he'd bellow, "Oh No!"  All quite adorable.

Until the make-out sessions began.

Instead of talking and singing to her, he sinks to the floor, hands buried in her polyester filled head, and kisses her.  Passionately.  Noisily.  Right on the mouth

*Smack.*  *Smack*  *Smack*  *Smack*  "Oh Dorah!"  He breathily exclaims.

He won't let his big sister near her.

That has me imagining this:

Cut to 20 years in the future:

Knock at the door.  I open it.  It's my son with a woman of what appears to be latin descent.

The P-Man:  "Mom, Dad . . . I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Dora."

Dora:  Hi, it's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Homemaker.

We exchange pleasantries.  Move to sit in the living room.

Pman:  I'll go get us some drinks.  (exits)

Dora: (Whispering)  My real name is Louise!

Us:  What?

Pman:  (from kitchen)  Dora honey, what are you saying out there?

Dora: (To Pman) Uh, Backpack, Backpack! ( to us) Help me!

End scene.

In case you're curious how a man who held the record for detentions in his 5th grade is handling his daughter's first foray into the culture of school, you can find out today over at DadCentric.

Have good days you guys,

HM

A Hundred

I've finally made it.  The Elysian Fields of small bloggerdom.  100 followers.  10X10.

I'm a third of the way to being able to nobly defend Sparta.  Airbrush me some abs. And some pecs.  And shoulder muscles.  And biceps.  And 200 more stalwart followers.  And a fancy accent.  Then let me at those Persian hordes.

I could do a five-part "greatest" show on VH1.

I got 99 problems but followers ain't one.

A hundred.  It's the largest number the P-Nut knows.   1st day of school:

"There are alot alot of kids in my class, daddy?"

"Oh yeah?  How many?

"20."

Hey, she's not an idiot.

My 100th follower's name is Catherine and she's a senior in college.  She's got a blog and also she has excellent taste in reading materials.

Of course, as the 100th follower, Catherine should--and will-- receive a prize.  She will be getting Carl Kasell's voice on her home answering machine.  And 47 individual cigarettes she can use to trade for favors at her "college."  Congrats, Catherine!

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

When my wife was showering this morning, I happened to open the basement door and hear the sound of water pouring on to the floor.  My first thought was, "Ooooh, waterfall."
Turns out we had a big ol' clog right near where our pipes leave the house to hook up with the main line.  It cost us $215 to find and fix this problem.

The culprit.  Wipes.  Hold on judgy-judgers.  They were flushable wipes.  Did not disintegrate one iota. Now that I have a hundred followers, I've got to be careful not to publicly besmirch any one company.  Let me just say, the brand name rhymed with Bottenelle.

After a little googling we came to find out that those things never work.

And corporate America was always so straight forward with us before.

A little self-pimping:  New DadCentric post is up.  What happens when the rain forest meets Chili's?

And if you feel like reading some really good writing, this is the main page.  Just scroll around and start reading anywhere.

That is all, my friendly-friends.

HM

Holy Moley, She got the Devil in'er!

The Peanut tells us this about her day in school last Friday:

"I have friends (yay!) and they drew on my face and I drew on their faces so the teacher had to wash my face and then I didn't want the other kids near me so I blew all their faces (The Peanut loves the story the 3 little pigs.  Her favorite character is the Big Bad Wolf. She often pretends to be him.  No porcine mason for her.  She likes to be the bad guy.  She's pretty cool) and then they cried and fell down."

"You made them cry?"  we asked.

"Yes."  She replied.

My wife facebooked her teacher.

She had to wash the P-Nut's face because of a messy sneeze.

The rest of the story was a complete fabrication.

Part of me is very proud of her obvious powers of imagination and storytelling ability.

 Part of me is scared shitless.

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

In other news, I've been included in DadofDivas Dads in The Limelight series.  I don't why.  I'm # 57.
Anyway, he is an excellent dadblogger and community builder so if you've got nothing better to do, head on over and check him out.

Manifesto-ish

I registered for class last week.  I matriculate at the local community college.  Retention rate: 56%.  Graduation rate: 13%.  

It's a dream factory.  

As I was standing in line to register Friday, the last day of registration because the only things that scare me more than bureaucracy are rats and aggressive birds (I'd tazer a goose in a second).  

Side Note:  I also had to wade through the P-Nut’s paper work to get her started in school. We’re both starting school.  Like twins.  Except my Dora backpack is huge.  And filled with booze.  No bottles or cans.  Just backpack; booze. 

It’s sloshy.

The paper work was crazy. Emergency contact cards had to be filled out in triplicate.  

I am assuming this guarantees her triple the safety.  I feel much better.

So, I was in line waiting to register myself.  As I was standing in line there at the local CC, I thought, "If I were a con-man, I'd hang out at community colleges. You know most of the people here have likely made some pretty bad choices.”

It's about second chances.

Or third.  Give or take. 

I'm studying to be a nurse.

I'm studying to be a nurse for a lot of reasons:  

I was inspired to do it during my wife's first pregnancy.  There were some complications during the pregnancy and for the first month afterward, and the nurses were the ones who were there for us. 

It’s an honorable position filled by people who are by and large known for their intelligence, compassion, and toughness.  

I want to help.

Scrubs look so comfy.  

I'm not squeamish.

I’ve always been good at making people feel better. 

I want to have useful skills when the apocalypse comes. 

I want it to mean something when I bolt into the other room and scream "stat!"

I love band-aids. 

I have three of them on me right now. 

I’m doing it for my wife.  She’s the “employed one,” if you want to use that terminology.  She’s a high school teacher.  A great one.   But it’s hard to remain great at that job year after year if you don’t have the option of walking away. 

I'm doing it for my kids.  I want to set an example.  

Growing up, I was surrounded by musicians and comedians and various other potheads.  Some were successful in their vocations to one degree or another, but not so much as people.  

I want to be both for my kids.  A successful person and a successful pothead.  

I want them to know that Daddy kicks-ass.  Compassionately.

I want them to see that at any moment, they can change the course of their lives.  I want them to grow up and realize they’re in charge of their own destinies.  I mean, after they leave home.  As long as they’re here, mommy and I are squarely at the controls of the destiny starship.  And their destiny is a time-out if they don’t pull it together soon

 I want them to know I don’t want to hear any whining about homework because have you seen this chemistry crap I’m doing?

I want them to call me “Nurse Daddy.” 

I want them to know they can’t fool me with a fake illness when they get older.

Also, the math I'm taking now will come in handy when they start bringing home more complicated homework.  Imagine trying to help with an Algebra problem when you haven't seen one in thirty plus years.

So, I will improve at dealing with the bureaucracy.   And I will get great grades.  And I will be a fine nurse.  And I will rub it in their adorable little grills every time they complain about almost anything.  

It’s good to have a plan.

(Not really a pothead.  Anymore.  Weed free pee since 2003.  Or 05.  I couldn’t resist the rhyme.)

One Big Fat First Day

Today was the P-nut's first day of pre-school.  She did great.  There were no tears.  From her.  My wife and I did slightly worse.  But not until we got to the car.

It doesn't help that after we sent her in, my brain decided I needed to listen to a loop of "Welcome To The Jungle" for the next 45 minutes.  Especially the "you're gonna diiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEe,"  part.

Add that to the two donuts I demolished for breakfast, and I'd say I'm coping quite well, really.

My wife had to go back to work today too.  So now it's just the Pumpkin Man and me staring at each other and going, "Whaddya wanna do?"

"I don't know.  Whaddya you wanna do?"

We'll figure it out in short order.

The final first that occurred today is, I posted my first piece at DadCentric as an official Dadcentrician.  I am proud and humbled.  They are a group of really good writers but even better than that, they're a group of really good dads.

I think.  I've never actually met any of them in person. This is the internet.

Anyway, if any of you who are still reading have a chance, please go and check it out and tell me what you think unless you hate it.

Thanks all,

Homemaker Man

Who wants to purchase some lungs?

Well,  all's well that ends well I guess.

Here's what happened today:

Everyone's sick.  The P-man had it first, and then my wife, and now the Peanut and me.  Although, the recuperative powers of youth have her jete'-ing through the play room and doing back-walkovers off the couch in just two days.  I'm powerless to stop her.  My sinuses finally started to unclog today but I've got a cough that feels like I'm being kicked in the lungs by Jet Li while they're filled with sand.  

But. I shook that shit off today because today was parent orientation day at the P-Nut's pre-school.  I showered and everything.  

It was pretty exciting.  There had to be at least a hundred parents stuffed into a small cafeteria in a school that had no A.C.  I believe the temperature reached a high of fuck you and the horse you rode in on degrees.  Celsius.  

But, I shook that shit off.  I grabbed a brown public school paper towel and folded it and mopped my brow and every time I coughed I held it tightly yet discreetly to my lips like I have the Consumption. 

Other people who suffered the Consumption:  Cat Stevens (no shit), W.C. Fields, Thomas Wolfe, D.H. Lawrence, Igor Stravinsky, Moliere, Voltaire (it rhymes!) and Jose Pancetti.  I have no idea who that last person is.  Or half those people.  But they were on a list of famous people who had the consumption, so it's some pretty heavy company I keep, is what I'm saying.  

It really was great.  The teacher has it together.  She has some solid teaching ideas that variate from the common curriculum and the classroom was cute and organized and she's stealing my fucking baby.  

But, I shook that shit off.  I paid close attention to the entire cafeteria presentation.  I noted that the principal seems competent but sufficiently weak enough for My Wife to push around if it comes to that.  

In the teacher's classroom, I listened attentively and filled out all the forms as neatly as I could.  This is difficult for me because I have the handwriting of a hyperactive serial killer riding on a mechanical bull.  

Then I came home and the house was a mess.  I took out the trash and got lunch together.  Which meant heating up some calzone purchased at the local bakery.  Then I collapsed and while my wife organized the kids' art work, I rolled around in my big chair and coughed and read and cat-napped and coughed and blew my nose and helped modestly by throwing away some trash.  I'd had it for the day.

But.  I shook that shit off.  I changed all the beds and got the laundry in the washer and said to the kids, "Why don't we blow this shit hole and head for the fucking beach, ya cockknockers?"  Or words to that effect.

And everyone was pretty happy.

Epilogue (Because this post feels longer than a Miley Cirus concert):

I got home and my cough got real bad.  Pounding my chest, headache inducing, bad.  

I could not shake it off without help.  I figured I'd take some Nyquil and take my carcass to bed. 

Then, I shook that shit off.   I figured, why take Nyquil?  Why not cut out the middle man and have a couple fingers of good ol' Makers Mark, straight-up? So I did.  And let me tell you, it works rather well.  

The End

P.S.  Congrats to Always Home and Uncool and the rest of the Cure JM team for winning the most serious Pepsi Challenge ever.

HM

Who's the hot chick? Your 8 year old daughter.

I've mentioned that the Peanut starts school next week.  I'm coping.  That thought startles the breath out of me only a few times a day now.

Besides, things won't get really hairy until 2nd or 3rd grade.  Because that's when puberty makes it's leering entrance.  Like I said, hairy.

A new study published in the journal Pediatrics has been making the rounds recently.  It says that 10 % of white girls and 23% of black girls are showing signs of puberty as young as seven years old.  And then I stopped reading because I had clawed out my own eyes with a back scratcher.

Seven year-old girl boobs, people.

The study goes on to suggest (My wife read it out loud over my eyeless thrashing and wailing) that obesity may play a large part in the early onset of puberty.   Exposure to environmental chemicals has been considered but no large scale studies of said chemicals have been done in the U.S.

One thing that the numbers do strongly suggest; thought there are increases at different class levels, there is definitely a socio-economic relationship.

Poor, fat, menstruating 3rd graders.  Fantastic.

Puberty.  It's elementary.  Elementary school.

Picture this: A teenage boy hits on your daughter.  You have to grab him by the collar and say, "whoa dude.  She's nine."

If anyone needs me, I'll be out back rubbing my brain in the dirt.

Links to articles in the L.A. Times, N.Y. Times, and msnbc as well as a discussion fron Cornell University about the known effects of hormones and chemicals used in meat and milk.

The Ny Times article rejects outright the possibility of factors other than obesity while the msnbc article discusses it.  The L.A. times article is the long but I think it's the best of the three.   I'm not positive because half-way through I stopped to choke myself into unconsciousness.  

This is not cool.  

Additional links:

3 pieces from Pediatrics.  One.  Two.  Three. The second one is nice because it discusses some of the other articles out there.  There are a lot of them.  

Your bearer of bad news,

Homemaker Man


This post brought to you by Fatherhood Friday at dad-blogs.com 


Update

Vote today and for the next 5 days. They're in 2nd place. Need to stay there or climb to third to win 250,000 in grant money to cure jm.

Meme Girls

I got this award from Cheryl over at Deckside Thoughts.  She's possibly a nice woman who spends most of her time careening around the internet leaving behind haikus and pictures and alphabet related musings.  And drinking a lot.  I can't verify that last one with any facts or evidence but, sufficeth to say,  it's probably true.  I just read it somewhere.

So I've gotta write seven things about me that I haven't written before.

1.  Despite what some people may think, I'm against dolphin on human sexual assault.
2.  I really used to like Mel Gibson movies.
3.  I think I would've liked being an opera singer.  If only I hadn't thrown out my voice singing Soundgarden tunes while I had a cold.
4.  I've never been able to really hold my liquor, but for a long time, that didn't stop me.
5.  I Love Top Chef and Top Chef masters.  I think I would've liked being a chef if only I hadn't thrown out my palate eating doritos with tobasco sauce while I had a cold.
6.  I'm positive Big was Tom Hanks' best work.  And also Bachelor Party.
7.  I love poetry.  I think I would've liked being a poet if only I hadn't thrown out my talent trying for 80 minutes to come up with dirty rhymes for the Name Game other than Chuck.  While I had a cold.

I'm passing this along to Paul Blanchard at Dog in The Water Pipe because it may make him squeamish.

That is all.

HM