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