Closet Full of Skeletons

I can't help myself.  

I know I shouldn't.  It just draws me in.  He, just draws me in and I have to go to him.  No matter how my wife or family or anyone else feels about it.  It's wrong.  So wrong.  So dirty.  That's part of what I like.  I throw off my shame and run towards him.  His music at least.  I love Bobby Brown.  

Ever since New Edition.  Even more so when he went solo.  A lone wolf with a beautiful howl.  A howl with a message of music.

My father is a jazz musician.  He doesn't even know.  Never came out to him.  Parents are always the last to know.  

From the outside, you could never tell.  I've always been a bit of a music snob.  Especially when I was younger and I could shop for music or go out to see bands live.  Miles Davis, Beastie Boys, Smashing Pumpkins, Buddy Rich, Dizzy Gillespie, Guns n Roses, KRS-One, Tribe called Quest, The Breeders.  Even if what I was listening to wasn't the best, or most esoteric, or newest, it was always cool, or hip enough, or important musically.  Except for him.  Bobby Brown.   Misunderstood troubadour of the heart.

I think it's horrible what he did to Whitney, but when the hopeful adolescent love of Every Little Step I Take fills the room, I forget about the Bad Bobby, and I sing.  

The Poetry of one Robert Beresford Brown:

I can't sleep at night, I toss and turn

Listen for the telephone

And when I get your call, I'm all choked up

Can't believe you called my home

And as a matter of fact, it blows my mind

you would even talk to me

because a girl like you is a dream come true

A real life faaantaseee

Its like that, it's like that guurrrrl

Every little step I take, you will be there

Every little move I make, we'll be togetheerrr.

I just typed every one of those lyrics from memory.  If you google it you'll find I'm not far off.

My wife just handles it by sweeping it under the rug.  She pretends like I am the normal, healthy man I seem to be to everyone else.  I don't blame her.  Some perversions are best left in the dark, hiding in shadows.  Under a rock.  But now, I have chased the shadows away and let the light of day shine in.  I love Bobby Brown and I don't care who knows it.  I even like the theme from Ghost Busters 2.  On Our Own.  Aren't we all, Bobby?  Aren't we all?

Thank Christ this blog is anonymous.  

Let me close with his words.  Words of simplicity.  Words of truth.

And if you find the tenderoni that is right for you

Make it official

Give her your luuhhh-uh-uhve.

                                                    Courtesy of Jerk Magazine Blog

Shamelessly,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  This is a recycled post.  When I wrote it, there were very few people reading.  I figured, "How can one air one's dirty laundry if there is no one there to smell it?"  One can't.  So, take a big whiff everyone, of my soul laid bare.  Smells like crack and failure.  Oh, Bobby.  


P.P.S.  A video was requested.  View at your own risk.  Don't blame me if you become DiscomBobbylated.  Retch.  

I'm not paranoid, I'm a realist.

We play this game at play group.  The parachute game.  We take a well-worn (grubby) 

fluorescent, rainbow colored parachute and hold it in a circle.  It has handles. We sing and we whip the parachute about.  It billows out as it reaches its apex and is pulled back down.  Sucks in concave as it’s ripped up again.  Smiling, singing parents stand and hold its handles.  Pumping up and down to make it move.  Under it our children gather.  We  see them in quick flashes as the parachute is pulled up and quickly  down again.  (Flash)They sit on the gym floor, (Flash)or dance (Flash)or sing, (Flash)or run (flash)or . . . 

 It's the "or . . ."  that gets me.   A little part of me fears this game. 

  I can’t take the flashes.  The long seconds when I lose sight of the Peanut.  Who knows what could        happen under there?  It’s a complete free-for-all.  Every time the parachute comes down again over my angel's tousled, strawberry kissed hair, my mind's eye starts with the horror flicks. (Flash) Giant, enraged 4 year-olds (Flash) stomping and kicking, (Flash) hair pulling, (Flash) biting ( (Flash) bloodshed (Flash) Nazis, (Flash) Dick Cheney (Flash) trans fats (Flash) shivs fashioned from Barbie legs (Flash) toddlers removing dirty diapers.  It only takes a couple seconds of unsupervised play for Lord of The Flies: The Toddler Years to break out.   

 These things have yet to happen.  But they could.  Still, I let her run under there when the game starts.  Out of my sight.  Alone.  I'll do the same for the Pumpkin Man when he's ready, too.  

 Parenting.  Every thing is a goddamn metaphor.  

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

 Over-protectedly,

Homemaker Man

Because I should post more often . . .

Today is one of those days.  I am tired. The kids slept like two crank addicted tween girls with tickets to a Justin Bieber concert the next day.  I just found out the washer--which resides in my recently cleaned basement-- is broken.  I believe there is a clog in the water pump.  I am going to try and fix it.  This is like someone from the 1800's seeing a space shuttle for the first time and saying "I believe this is a flying machine.  I am going to try to fly it."  Disaster is imminent.  The only reason I know it's possible to fix is because this has happened (twice) before and the last time the repair man took pity on me.  He told me how to do it.  All you need is a socket set and a screw driver.  I think I have a screw driver.  I do not own a socket set.  It's going to be all Flowers for Algernon in my basement tonight.  The beginning and the end, not the middle.

 Also, I just spilled half of a gallon jug of olive oil on the kitchen floor. How do I clean that up?  I'll go rub it in with my socks until the wood looks polished.  Hold please . . . there.  The floor looks and smells delicious, and my feet feel really funky.

On the plus side, my daughter--who should be napping right now--is walking around in a pink and white long sleeve t-shirt, underwear, and pink winter snow boots and repeating loudly, "Natural History!  When you come to the 'Useum of Natural History (unintelligible rambling) . . . "

A quick and tasty side dish:  roasted cauliflower and corn with olive oil, thyme, a little garlic, lemon zest, and parm cheese.  yummy.

Finally, I lost a follower a couple of days ago.  I gained a new one, so the universe retains it's balance, but still, I was surprised.  I'm not sure what I did wrong, but whatever it was, I hope they were very offended.

Livin' the dream,

Homemaker Man

The Luck O' The Irish

I know this is a couple days late, but I don't have much else, and it's been rattling around in my otherwise empty keppe, and I've been busy with my fucking flooded basement,.  The entire contents of which are now sitting in my back yard, having been sorted into "toss" and "keep" piles.  So much shit.  Today, we waited all day for the junk man to come, but he never did come.  Sort of sounds like lyrics in a blues song.  Who knew junk men were unreliable?

This post is about luck.  Starting with my mildly shitty basement luck and continuing with "The Luck O' The Irish." With St Patrick's day passing ( I'm a full 1/6th Irish give or take.  An Irish Jew. Sure n'begorrah atah adonai. ), I saw that phrase a lot this week.  More than some of you, because I live in Boston, which as any of you who saw the Departed know, is not an American city but the one and only outpost of the Irish empire.

 "The Luck O' the Irish" is probably my favorite type of luck.  Even more than dumb luck or the luck of the Devil himself.  Because Irish luck is almost always horrible.  When I think Irish, I don't think, "lucky bastards."  I think of a different kind of luck.

I think of people blessed with a,  "Well, I know there's a famine goin on right now, but at least I still have one 'o me feet." kind of luck.  Or, Sure, I was badly beaten for my entire childhood, but with all the alcohol, I barely felt it."  Or, "Mom, dad, guess what?  I'm an altar boy!"  That kind of luck.

My 3/4 irish wife exhibited a good-natured bristling at that.  But like I told her, she's lucky.  Who ever even heard of Jewish luck?   "The Luck O' the Jew!"   The only time you hear mention of Jewish luck, it's in the context of "You think you've got it bad?  Your dead uncle Saul should BE so lucky. "  Hell, at least the Irish get to be christian.  Part of the in crowd.  

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The amazing things that happened this week to take our minds off of the basement:

The Peanut, who will be 3 this April, read a word for the first time.  Not a sight word, but actually sounded out a word and read it.  It was the word "fat."  She looked right at me afterwards.  Smart-ass.

She also drew her first stick figure.  Huge round head and round, empty eyes. Also the arms came out of the head and the legs out of the neck.  She said it was a self-portrait.  Girls start so young with the body issues now.


Have a nice weekend, everyone.

Homemaker Man

March effing Madness

This is what my March Madness bracket looks like right now.

Homemaker Man          VS                  My Fucking Flooded Basement

My Fucking Flooded Basement

            Champion

       

Brains!

I think a lot about what it will be like to be a father to two teenagers.  Mostly, I scheme.  I plan for the day when it's either break them, or be broken.  Them or us.  A deadly fight for survival.  I'm not psyched about the teen years.   Or at least, I wasn't.

As it turns out, the latest research about the teen brain tells us two important things.  One, their pre-frontal cortex, where the rational decision making center resides, is incomplete.  And while it's completing itself, it is woefully slow and confused.  Two, the limbic system, where things like fear and intense rage and crazy lust reside, is firing like a Ford Focus on rocket fuel.   Some child psychiatrists have said that technically, teens are mentally ill.

I hear you. "Tell us something we don't know."  Here's the thing though:  There is now scientific proof.  We've got them.  Irrefutable evidence of their insanity.  When we argue with them we no longer have to tell say things like, "because I'm your dad and I know better," or "because I said so."

Now we can go to the brain scan for back-up:

Me: "What?" Why can’t you do that?  Because you’re crazy.  It’s all right here in this mutha fuckin’ brain scan, son!"

Stop calling me “son,” I’m your daughter.

Me: "It’s a figure of speech, son!"

The ultimate weapon.  The teen brain scan.  "Why do you have to be home by 9?  Because your brain scan says so.  Why can’t you go to a co-ed sleep over?  Because you’re legally insane. You’re old enough to make your own decisions?  Well that’s funny, because you’re brain scan here says you’ve got the decision making ability of an angry bear.  What do we do with angry bears?  Tranq’em, tag'em and track their movements 24/7.  Hey it’s not my decision, it’s your limbic system and your pre-frontal cortex.  Check out the brain scan, son!"

Here and Here are links to support my claims.  If you didn't know this stuff already, read them.  It causes a real "aha!" moment

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

Reaching out and trying to help,

Homemaker Man

Scary Sushi Sunday

A long while back I started running  what was supposed to be a recurring sunday item called Scary Sushi Sunday .  So as to replace Zamboni/Haiku Sunday.  I planned to eat sushi from less than reputable establishments and then report on it's effects.  It's not that I've been chicken, it's just that I hadn't come across an establishment worthy of the day.  Until now.

I present to you Scary Sushi Sunday: Sea Lion Sushi.

Sea Lion Sushi is in a mall.  A sad mall.   A mall dotted with empty kiosks.  This mall's flagship store is a Kohl's and it's nicest restaurant is the Old Country Buffet.  I've never eaten at an Old Country Buffet, but I did take a walk around inside this one.   Everything looked congealed.  Even the salad.   If they served sushi, I'd be writing this to you from my deathbed.  Although it is possible that any deadly bacteria would be killed by the gravy.

Sea Lion sushi was about 3 storefronts up and 5 over from Old Country.  As we passed, I gasped, " I have to try it."  My wife said only, "I know."   Then she walked away, head held high.  Brave woman.

I went in.  The place was empty.  Even of employees.  Good sign.  While I waited, I noticed that what in most places what was known as a tekka-avo maki roll--tuna and avocado--had been renamed the "Tunacado!"  Great sign.   This was the place.

The "sushi chef" came bustling out from behind a curtain after a couple minutes.  I'm sure she was butchering a fresh haul of yellowtail or something.  She came out and took my order.  Just some basic tuna maki rolls.  $2.99 for 6.  Mmm, what a bargain.  She asked if I wanted wasabi and ginger.  "No. I'd like the raw fish purchased at an empty sushi joint in a failing mall to go in my mouth condiment free, please."  I said yes.   I got them to-go and took my little styrofoam container and chopsticks out to one of the empty kiosks.

The rolls were prepared with all the deftness of a person who wasn't very deft.  I've seen bums rolled for change with more finesse than this maki.  They were lumpy, vaguely cone shaped, and a few were splitting open.  The tuna was a jeweled pink color much lighter than the usual deep red one expects.  I dug in with gusto.  They were gone quickly.   There was a slight stickiness and a sweet/tang flavor to the fish that I don't always find in my sushi.  It was slight enough that I may have imagined it.  Or not.

I joined my wife in Marshall's.  Not long after,  I started to feel a little warm, a slight gurgle to my belly, and a little lightheaded.  Honestly, it felt like I had just eaten a handful of shrooms and in about 10 minutes I was going to be tripping balls.  If memory serves.

As I announced these symptoms to my wife, I was met with pursed lips and shakes of her head.

"I don't want to hear it.  No, I don't." she said.

"I think I'm getting woozy," I said.

"Really . . .? NO.  I don't want to hear it."

"I feel hot."

"I can't believe you. You better not be sick because I am not driving you to the hospital."

You have to drive me to the hospital.  It's in the vows.  Sickness and health.

"Yeah, well, they don't say anything about stupid."

"You'll take me . . ."


In the end, it was disappointing.  I did fine.  Even had some supper later in the evening.  Not a hint of stomach cramps or extra-disgusting bodily fluids, I am sorry to say.

But for a minute there, it was:  SCARY SUSHI SUNDAY.  




Your intrepid sushi reporter,




Homemaker Man

This conversation is being recorded . . .

I'm being watched.  Every move is being documented, analyzed, parsed for later use.  Nothing goes unnoticed.  Very little goes un-repeated.  Today as my wife and daughter were coming downstairs from a bath, my daughter looked at my wife and said, mildly, "Jesus Christ and Holy Shit."  When asked why she said that, she replied "I'm supposed to say that."

Which is such bullshit.  I'm supposed to say that.  She is supposed to not hear it.  She is supposed to be ignoring me when I'm saying dumb things and paying rapt attention, crayon and pad in hand when I'm laying down wisdom.  Why couldn't she have repeated this gem I laid down: "Can you believe we thought we knew about being parents?   We were just kids then."

Which I think is true.  You do feel suddenly more grown-up after having kids.  Also, I "borrowed" that insight from last night's episode of the Office.  An insight my daughter failed to write down because she was already in bed when I re-interpreted it.  All cozy and innocent.  I know better.  During daylight hours she's a tiny, chocolate-milk mustachiod, Bob Woodward . . .

 We went to play group again today and when my wife sat down with her, she told her everything.  Spilled all of it.  "I went down the slide headfirst, the bouncy castle is too big and the kids are too rough (info withheld from me even though I asked because it seems I lack the necessary security clearance), I liked playing on the mats, I did a summersault." Everything.  

I cannot carry on this way.  How am I supposed to live?  How am I supposed to get away with taking multiple cat naps, going online way to much, or rewinding and re-watching the newest Jenny Craig commercials starring a scintillating Valerie Bertinelli.  The little girl is a rat.  And she sees everything.  She hears.  Everything.  Big Brother is my little daughter.  I now know how it felt to be a parent during the Cultural Revolution.  

My wife joked, "You better not have an affair.  She'll tell me."  I better not have an affair?  I better not neglect to vacuum under the couch or eat anymore secret cake.  There are many things I do which would be better if I didn't.  I better not not watch Tarantino movies anymore with my finger on the mute button so I can try and kill the swears.  I better stop making her take out the trash.  I'd better stop dressing one in the other's clothes so I can tell people we had two girls.  

Wait, what? 

She even rats on herself.  As I was bustling about the kitchen the other day, I heard the Pumpkin man start crying.  I turned around and he was on his ass.  I asked the Peanut, "What happened?'  

"I pushed him,"  she replied.

Just like that.  A confession.  With out coercion.  Actually, I like that.  I like that a lot.  

I guess I'll just have to get used to it.  The New World Order.

Surveilled-ly,


Homemaker Man

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

Tuesday Play Group: Stylin'

Play group at the Y today.  Twice a week whether we like it or not.  Play group also means it's both shower and shave day for me.  The twofer is rare.

Gotta get cleaned up for play group though.  Nothing crazy.  There were no hair gels.  Or hair combs.   I try to clean up just enough so it doesn't look like I own a still.

I do own one.  I keep it in the yard.  I like to make my own moonshine;  I don't like to share it with everyone.  Or anyone.  I'm drunk on ethanol right now.  

But I did clean up nice.  Shower, shave, deodorant.  Slid on a fresh pair of sweat pants.  Pockets and crotch intact. 

One has to look somewhat presentable at playgroup.  You never want to hear “Those little ones are beautiful. Whose are they?”

“You see that guy right there?  No, the one that looks like a mug shot?  That’s him.  Nice guy!”

So, I drank some Listerine and donned a clean, dark, hooded sweatshirt and and some big sunglasses and off we went.

It's mostly moms.  A few dads.

There is the mom who wears a different, brightly-colored, sparkly, matching, sweat suit every time.  Have yet to see a repeat.

The exhausted, "I have two young boys close in age, so that is why I'm wearing a Snuggy and my hair is done up with a twist tie so fuck you," mom.  I like her.  Then there is too much make-up for play group mom, oddly old mom, enthusiastic grandma, hippy mom etc.  Nice eclectic group.

The dads are me, big bald dad who won't let his three year old son play with dolls, another guy who might be a stay-at-home dad, and hip hop korean dad, who I haven't seen in some time.  Him, I miss.  

Then there is a new dad.  Sweat pants and sweatshirt, baseball cap, glasses.  I'd put his age at a fit mid-forties. I'm not sure what to think about him.  He spends a lot of time off throwing a football against the cloth gym divider or shooting hoops at an empty basket.  I first noticed him because his kid, a four-year old boy, often ended up hanging around me, talking to me or clinging to my shoulders when I sat.

This behavior is not that unusual.  There is a natural sense of chaos that emanates from me.  It is beyond my control and it is very attractive to little kids.  So I often have a small group of 3-4 year old boys attempting to wrestle me to the ground.

This kid just feels a little different because often, it feels like he is more in search of a pat on the head or a hug and less in search of a suplex.  I give those out free of charge.   I'll suplex you right now, lady.

At first, I figured that his dad was just new to the whole nurturing dad thing.  He was probably a little uncomfortable with PDA's and being the one in charge of looking after his boy.  Pretty normal.

Then today, while his son hung around with me or by himself, I looked over and the dad was sitting against the far wall, laughing and texting.  Didn't look up for some time.  I got annoyed.

Maybe I shouldn't be.  Certainly, it's none of my business.  Anyway, to finish this post up as it was supposed to be a fun one and instead has suddenly become way to long and faintly maudlin: would anyone out there do or say something?  If not now, later?  And what would you say?

Thanks guys,

Homemaker Man


P.S.  So as not to worry my wife, I wore a clean pair of jeans today.  No crotch to speak of, but they were freshly laundered.