First there was a Man. Then a Woman. Then in quick succession, two cats, a confused dog beast, and two kids. I stay at home with them. I'm the Man

Friday, July 30, 2010

Hurricane Homemaker Man


Today, I'm answering another question from the meme passed on by Sara Louise from Sara in Le Petit Village.  Nice person.  Good blogger.  Meme whose question must be answered in essay form.  

Today's question:  What was my worst decorating faux pas?

 I don’t think I’ve ever made a faux pas, as such.  I’m not that type of guy.  I “blow it,” or “fuck-up.” Or, “ruin everything.” A faux pas seems a little too subtle for me.  My mistakes make noise.

So, my biggest decorating fuck-up.  Well . . .

There is every bedroom I ever had into my mid-twenties. Just a big salad of dirty laundry and papers and shoes and and broken headphones and milk crates for the croutons and who knows what sick soup of fluids for the dressing.

There are also the half-dozen delicate glass oil lamps my wife was given over the first decade I knew her.  They stopped coming because I smashed every one of them.  In less than 24 hours.  One barely made it out of the box.  It turned to dust at my loving caress.  You could tell they were quality pieces because they disintegrated upon immediate contact with the floor.  I am the Lord of Chaos.

Then . . . it was Valentine’s day.  Pre-babies.  She went to work.  I banged in sick.  We had an office in those carefree days of enough room, and she said on more than one occasion she’d love if it were painted in a warm pumpkin tone. 

My plan was to paint it for her before she got home as a Valentine’s present. 

I went to Home Depot and agonized over the color choices. I don’t remember the names, but I remember I did choose one with pumpkin in the title.

I lied to myself a lot that day.  Kept telling myself it was pumpkin.  

It was macaroni and fucking cheese.  Not homemade either; the processed stuff.  Yellowy, orangey, shiny.

So, instead of a cozy, autumnal, pumpkin-spiced office to snuggle into when she got home, my wife was put on lock down inside a block of Velveeta.  Stouffer’s State Penitentiary. 

She lied and told me she loved it.  I bought it.  I had to.  She sat in that Krafty ol’ office for 2 years before we moved.   

And that is the story of the love of a good woman. 

Decoratively,

Homemaker Man




Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Great Pumpkin on Steroids/ catching up

We were looking at our recent vacation pics and there is a great one of the Pumpkin Man leaning in to kiss his baby cousin. Very sweet. He’s a sweet boy.

This picture is also notable because it highlights how large my son’s squash really is. His head was so much bigger than hers. You could fit a thousand of her heads inside his. If you put 60 of her heads into the P-Man’s head and it was transparent and you shook it, it would look like a snow globe.

 I’ve mentioned his parade-float sized bean before, but I assume most people think I’m being hyperbolic.

I now have scientific proof:

At his last doctor’s appointment, the growth rate of his head had slowed considerably.

Our doctor said, “ Oh good.”

“Good?” my wife asked.

“Well,” said the doctor, “if it had continued at the same rate, I would’ve been concerned.”

. . . Concerned?  The size of my son's keppe is concerning.

 The Pumpkin Man’s head is so big, it barely averts disaster.

The medical community has weighed in on my son's head with a resounding, "Holy shit, an eclipse!"

I would be remiss if I didn’t add that my son is also devastatingly handsome.
Really a beautiful little boy.

More scientific proof? Fine.

Hypothesis: My son is very handsome.

Fact: The P-Man is constantly lauded by the general public for his good looks.

Fact: Movie stars are very handsome

Fact: The correlation between male movie-stars and large-headedness is well documented.

Conclusion: My son is very handsome. That’s science.


Shopping futilely for hats,

Homemaker Man

P.S. I would also be remiss if Ididn't mention that he takes after his daddy.  It's just not as noticeable because of my massive chest and shoulders (gut).

P.P.S.  I've been an irresponsible blogger.  This I know.  Catching up after vacation and being pulled in a lot of directions a once and so forth.  I promise to do better.

Also, finally, I got an A in my Fundamentals of Algebra class .  4.00 GPA.  Take that, imaginary people who said I couldn't do it.




Sunday, July 25, 2010

Almost Alone

It's just me and the boy.  I had to come home from vacation to tend to the cats and fish (and Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry).  I left my wife and the Peanut in Maine and drove back to the broiling heat of the city last night with a snoozing Pumpkin Man for company.  The Peanut couldn't make-up her mind about whether she wanted to stay there or come with me.  The P-Man was much more decisive:

"You want to come home with daddy?"

"Daddy."

"See the cats?"

"Kets"

"Xiu-Xiu and Cordie?"

"ZooZoo n' Cor-dee"

"Yes?"

"Es."

And that was that.

Awfully strange.  This is the first time my little family has been separated over-night since ever.  I guess the PMan and I could take some time go and have a boys' night out..  Watching sports, and punching each other in the face, and hunting, and punching the deer in the face, and drinking beer and serial killing.  You know, guy stuff.

Unfortunately, we don't really have time for most of that stuff, and I'm a bit of a girl.  Instead, we'll do our chores and get the hell out of here for a few more days.  It's smelly and hot and quiet and we both miss Mommy and the Peanut like crazy.

The full Homemaker Squad will be back on tuesday.  Then I'll tell you about Bath, ME and my worst decorating faux pas.  It involves macaroni and cheese.  And pumpkins.


Also, please vote, if you haven't already.  Cure Jm.  Currently ranked 12 with 6 days of voting to go.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

"Goin' To The Country,

gonna eat me a lot of peaches."

That, is a fine ol' diddy by the Presidents Of The United States Of America.

We are going to the country this weekend, bound for Sebago Lake, Maine.   I know, it's awesome.

I will be attempting the very difficult "blogging while on vacation without seeming rude" maneuver.

I was tagged in a meme, (when I say that in my head, I say it like Beaker from the Muppets "memememememe").  by the charming, witty, and ballsy Sara in Le Petite Village.  The meme is entitled "Inspired Questions" and asks about things like "your most interesting trip," or "your biggest decorating faux pas."  These things are right in my wheelhouse, obviously.    I'll be answering them one at a time probably.  Or not.

Today, lets do the most interesting trip one:


When I was 7, I went to  Catalina Island.  Off the coast of California.  The trip was about a 2 hour ferry ride.  I became violently sea sick right about the time the boat left the dock.  For about a ½ hr, I threw up like it was an Olympic event.  Then, blessedly,  passed out in a toilet stall.  It was like foreshadowing for my twenties.  

I came to on a padded bench, got up, went outside to the bow (boating term!) of the ship  We were almost to the island. It looks like Santa Barbara broke off and floated into the ocean.  Green hills and perfect pastel beach houses.  

I looked starboard (term 2!), and there soaring above the gunwale (holy shit!), was a school of flying fish. Had to be at least 9 silvery-black fish, flying over the ocean, keeping pace with the boat.

 I managed not to puke on them.  I found out later, I missed the dolphins while unconscious.  Fucking dolphins.

Then we got to the Island.   There is a gentle green peak in the middle.  For transportation they had these little electric jeeps you could rent and drive up the mountain road and in town they also had these open electric trolley cars that zipped along at a pretty good pace.  You had to wait til they stopped to get on.

One of my mom’s friends brought a date.  Mom was 25 at the time, her friends were around the same age.  This woman that "Dan" (tall kinda goofy, glasses, big adams apple,), brought with him had to have been at least 40.  She wore yellow polyester pants and a beige shirt and a floppy wide brimmed hat that matched the pants.  She was about 5'2 with straight, short, brown hair.  She carried a plain brown purse by by holding her right arm against herself and letting the handles slip down into the crook of that arm.  I mention her now because until now, I had been too busy puking to notice her.  

We rent a couple jeeps and drive up the winding mountain road to the peak.  It's very cool and a little scary to me.  We get back to town and make with the strolling and sight-seeing.  The date--we'll call her Helen--Helen is kind of bringing up the rear.  She starts talking.  We all turn around to listen.  

As she is talking, one of those electric trolleys is speeding toward us. As it comes even with the group, Helen thrusts her left arm through a window opening. She catches hold of a thin metal support bar and gets snatched off her feet and away she goes.  At 25-30 mph.   The trolley whipped her through the air like a middle-aged flag. 

 The whole time, while she had a trolley in the crook of her left arm, the crook of her right arm never let go of that purse.  And her right hand was mashed firmly on top of her hat.  After about 100 feet, she let go and crashed ass first on to the asphalt.  She finally lost the hat.  We ran up to her and Dan helped her up while she protested that she was fine fine really just fine.  To this day, I swear, she did it on purpose.   Then, we just went about the rest of our day. I don't remember anything else about that trip. And that is the most interesting trip I’ve ever taken.

There was also the time in college where I ate a handful of mushrooms and then 2 hours later found my self smearing a banana all over my own face to see how it felt, but I don’t think that’s what you meant.

Meme-ingly,

Homemaker Man

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Teaching D the Homemaker Way


One of the kids' beloved Aunties is a kindergarten teacher.  She taught a unit on the letter D.  She wrote a book—Dexter--and they did illustrations and made up characters and all kinds of stuff.  They did a whole unit, multiple days, on the letter D. 

That knocked me out.  Sure, in high school you have to read novels and poetry and learn about metaphor and . . . other things in writing (pencils?), but you lose that focus on the details. Which starts with D.

In kindergarten, they fully explore D.  They look at D from every angle.  Inside and out.  They crawl into D’s skin and walk around in D’s shoes.  They really find out what makes D tick.

Thinking about that made me think of this:


A gruff, old-school, newsroom editor-type in front of a bunch of kids:

Editor: (forcefully) I want you to give me the dirt on D, you hear?  What does D do in his spare time?   Does D drink?  If so, is it Dos Equis or Drambuie or what?  I want to know every D detail.

You, whaddya got?

Little Boy: (reading from note pad) D is married to a nice girl named Deloris, but he steps out daily for dalliances with other dames. 

Editor: D is for dog, eh?  Good work, Daniels. (turns)What about you?

Little boy 2: (Nervously shuffles papers) D is for Dinosaur.

Editor:  D is for Dinosaur?  No shit?  Wow.  Does it come after C, too, by any chance?  Jesus Christ!  How about this? D is for Dunce because you gave me Diddly! 

Listen.  I want to know everything about D.  Where he eats.  Where he sleeps.  I want you up D’s derriere with a goddamn flashlight!  Does D have dingleberries?  I wanna know!

(Laughter)

Alright alright.  Desist.

(Leans forward, hands on desk)

D is out there. Right now.  Doing things.  Dollars to donuts D is dishing out dead presidents and deciding dogma for the Department of Defense as we speak.

C’mon you douche-bags, get out there and get me D!


Deliriously,

Homemaker Man


Update:

I almost forgot:

Vote!





Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I'm sorry to the Fat Puerto Rican Ladies

I was at home yesterday.  And we were getting ready to go out to the children's museum-my favorite part is the mummified children from around the world- and I was excited. So. I started kicking balls all over the playroom.  And yelling.  Because I'm "fun dad."  Balls of different colors, but all of them filled with air, and large enough and soft enough to not do any real damage to anything they might strike (i.e. a toddler in the keppe, which is pretty funny); or so I thought.

I really got some good leg (World Cup terminology meaning "I kicked it") into this one large red ball.  It rocketed in to the air.  I was impressed with the undiminished power of my middle-aged quadriceps.  Until, it smashed into the Fat Puerto Rican Ladies.  There were Fat Puerto Rican Lady shards everywhere.

The Puerto Rican Ladies are--were, goddammit--a lovely piece of folk art given to my wife many years ago.  It was (was!  Arrrghh,) a wind chime made up of little, colorfully attired fat brown ladies, purchased in Puerto Rico.  They were adorable.  They used to hang from a hook between the tops of two adjacent playroom windows.  We've had them for a very long time.  They've survived multiple moves, hyper dogs, crazy parties, and two toddlers.

But they couldn't survive me.  Like I said, I was excited.    Which in my world means running into the playroom and bellowing "Hey guys!  Fun dad is here!  Let's trash some of Mommy's shit!"

And the kids, they never say no, the bastards.  Totally culpable.  Someone needs to be the voice of reason here.

Anyway, it was a massacre.  Fat Puerto Rican Lady pieces everywhere.  There was even one large chunk of Fat Puerto Rican Lady lightly embedded into the soft wood of the window pane (I haven't told   my wife about that yet.  I don't think she would've found it entertaining at that time.).  I dug her out and disposed of her.  And the rest of her happy, lovely, beloved, Fat Puerto Rican Lady friends.

I will probably never forgive myself for this one.  At least not until I break something else important.

To my wife, I'm sorry I broke the Puerto Rican ladies.  I loved them too.  I hope you can forgive me and in forgiving me I hope you can find it in your heart to hold the children at least a little bit responsible.

Remorsefully,

Homemaker Man


P.S.  Don't forget to vote today!

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Oooh, Push My Button. Make Me Giggle'nSquirm

Is that as unappealing as I think it is?  Possibly so unappealing that it's actually appealing?  Like Hot Pockets?

You know you don't want to so bad that you kind of want to.  So go ahead.  Click it.



Click the button and vote for grant money to cure Juvenile Myositis.  You don't know what Juvenile Myositis is?  Then click that button and start getting educated, ya maroon.  You'll have to sign up, but it's a quick sign-up process and it's totally spam-free.

Then, you can go around all day feeling holier-than-thou and lording it over people and saying things like, "I'm busy helping to cure JM.  You don't know what JM is?  Wow, I feel sorry for you."

Because really, the only thing almost as good as helping kids in need is making other people feel like crap for not doing so.  Click the button, gain your privilege.  One full day of unassailable self-righteousness.  From me to you.  It's really, really fun.  I've been acting out everywhere today. My neighbor just threw a tire iron at me.

I ran (far) away and yelled, "hey, instead of throwing a tire iron at me, why don't you throw one at JM by pushing my button?"  He's calling the police.

So go ahead.  Push it.  Do this nice family plus thousands of others a solid today.  Do it.  Please.  For your own good.  You don't want me coming over to your house and shaking my head and saying things like "I guess the rarest gem of all is a gem called Compassion."  Or, "I understand, you're  busy tweeting about your sandwich."

Neither of us need that.  You don't need the annoyance, and I don't need the injuries.

So go ahead, click the button.  Make me giggle.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Judge, Jury, Homemaker

I’ve become the bad guy.  Bad cop.  The Muscle.  The Fist.  The disciplinarian. He Who Must Not Be Named.   You’re my kid and you screw up, you’ll see me Walking Tall, I’ll arrive with a Sudden Impact, and I’ll lay down the law like I’m Legally Blond.  I’m hard is what I’m saying.  It’s a complete surprise to me.

This is how I found out:  I went inside to do . . .something--probably I was either in the bathroom or “finding” something--while my wife and daughter were filling up the new kiddie pool.  Sweet pool, by the way.  Big, flexible, sturdy plastic, and it came with a slide that also functions as a non-pool slide.  Perfect place to sip your Cristal. 

In the midst of the pool filling party, there was an incident that led to whining.  My wife told my daughter that if she was going to be whiny, there’d be no going in the pool.  When she started again, my wife said, "Uh-oh, daddy’s coming soon, if he hears you, you’re not going to be able to go in the pool."

She replied, “Don’t worry, he won’t come out, he’s cookin’ dinner.”

What? 

My flabbergasted ears heard:

“Morning noon and night, daddy is either cooking dinner or breaking balls and don’t worry because right now, he’s doing the former.” 

I was both aghast (because I’m a middle aged women from the 1800’s) and resigned.  Somewhere inside, I knew.  Maybe it’s because I’m the parent at home, so I have to make the rules.  Or maybe it’s because every time my rules are questioned I scream, “I Am The Law!” and stomp out of the room.

In my youth, I was a good time.  Easy going, go along to get along ol’ Bachelor Man.  Often altered by one substance or another.  An always pleasant, regularly buzzed person.  And now, I’m the Strongman.  The Boss.  Super Fuzz.  Keyser Soze.  The hammered has become The Hammer. 

When my wife first got pregnant, every one said to her, “oh, you know you’re gonna have to be the disciplinarian.  He’s sweet, but you know, useless.  In the nicest way.”

Such was my reputation. 

Parenting can change a person.

My wife is tickled.  She's a high school teacher, so she spends most of her day cracking skulls and calling parents.  It's good for her to come home and be the nice one.

Me, I'll continue to do the job.  Take out the trash.  With extreme prejudice.

And you, right there.  You, with the cookies.  No eating at the computer.  No, now . . . crying will not help you.


Yours,

Drill Sergeant Homemaker Man

Monday, July 5, 2010

Tiny Monday Quicky

Ode to personal freedom-Toddler Edition

Fee Fie Fo Fum
I've got boogies on My Thumb
(eww)
Fee Fie Fo Fick
Shut-up, it's my nose to pick!

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