(Not so) Short Post 3. the end.

My daughter, who is a tiny, red-haired, pixie of a little girl was impotent with rage yesterday.  She has a pretty good vocabulary so she is usually able to express why she's angry.  Donuts instead of supper, playground instead of nap, love instead of money.  The usual.

Yesterday, she was standing and "reading" the funnies and she decided she was done.  So she turned and threw the paper over her shoulder and danced toward her toys.  That is when the pumpkin man struck.  Springing in to action he scrabbled to the fallen funnies and began the ritual mauling.   She heard the paper wrinkle, turned, and attacked.  Flew at him like an enraged humming bird.

My wife said, "Hey _____ What's wrong?"

"He touched it , he touched it!'  She sobbed with rage.

"You were done with it, honey."  said my wife.

"Yeeeewwarrrgghhhh!"   She replied. She snatched the paper up off of the floor.  Her brother had dropped it because his sister's tortured screams were way cooler.  In his eyes, everything she does is way cooler.

She then began ripping and tearing and destroying the paper all while keeping up with the red skin and gritted teeth and frustrated growls.   I think if she could've been articulate at that moment we would've heard something like, "You want this paper? I've(rip rip)Got(Tear tear) Your Fucking(wrinkle, crinkle) Paper.(beep beep?) Right(ahooogah)HERE!

I knelt down and took her tiny little fists in my hands and asked her why she was doing this and told her to stop.  She didn't stop or answer and she continued to destroy the paper.  If she had known how head butts work I'd probably be homemaker-nose-mashed-up-into-his-brain-man now.

I feel for the pumpkin man.  That was just because he touched it and we didn't understand the level of defilement that his hands leave behind.  It was so weird because she usually tries pretty hard to at least tell us she's getting pissed at him playing with her toys before she attempts to take his head off with her shopping cart.

I just hope she never becomes that possessive of the cats.  Messy.


This post should guarantee my having fulfilled the posting requirements for NaBloPoMo.  I'm glad it's over.  I will probably take the day off with the possible exception of listing the 3 or 4 posts I liked the most this month.  As a little reward to myself.   Unless something really good happens.  I have to admit I'm kind of proud of myself.

And hi to new readers.  Thanks for reading and commenting and so forth.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  Like Bourbon.


Sincerely,

Homemaker Man

Short post 2. We have Swine

Well, my wife has it.  The Swine Flu.  She was diagnosed at the doctor's office a couple of hours ago.  Swine flu.  In my house.  I feel like out of the corner of my eye I keep seeing wispy, ethereal, pig heads zipping around the living room trailing vapor.

Swine flu?  I'm Jewish, I can't get Swine flu.  It's not kosher.  I refuse.  There is no way I am getting some treif flu.  I don't usually keep kosher, but I feel this is a good place to try.

My poor wife.  On the bright side, she's home all week.  Of course, it's with Swine flu . . .

Short Post 1

3 things:

My wife is still sick so we're going to the doctor's.  I'm going to have myself euthanized.

My daughter is filled with rage.

When you are 36 and fat and have just eaten, chasing your daughter around the house for a half hour stopping only to do multiple turn sock-enabled pirouettes (no spell check) on the kitchen floor can really knock a person out.

Sunday. A day of blech. And supposedly haiku

I am supposed to have a haiku today, but there was no zamboni today so I don't have one.  The rink is very peaceful in the morning.  Wait, here's one about my crappy pie.  True story:

The pie was too tart

I took it out of the fridge

to confront my shame

I really did.  I put it in the fridge in hopes that I could fix it somehow.  Then I took it out again so I could look at it and think about what I'd done.  I have pie shame.

No skating rink today because at least half my family is too sick to be left on their own.  Whoever invented the flu is an asshole.  Nice job, dick.  If I ever meet you, flu inventor guy, I am going to poke you in the eye really hard.

The Peanut started choking at dinner tonight because she was in the middle of her nightly dinner time "if I don't eat I'll look so skinny that people will think my parents are starving me which will result in a diet consisting only of donuts, pizza, and chicken mcnuggets," crying fit when she inhaled the food that was in her mouth.  That sucked.  It's not fair to her in a way because I am already exclusively on the donut, pizza, and chicken mcnugget diet but hey, do as I say, not as I do.

This is the best job I've ever had.  And the most challenging.

But the work doesn't feel the same as work in the wage slave world.  If working at least part time since I was eleven years old in many different jobs has taught me anything about the value of hard work and the American work ethic, it's that I don't believe in it.  I work hard to be a good primary care giver to my kids, but that's different.  That whole work hard at your job no matter the what the job thing is nuts.  Work smarter, not harder.

That's why I built an android.  Homemaker II.  He's made out of diet pepsi cans and gumption.  He does most of the cleaning and errand running and in return I let him take the vacuum cleaner out on dates.  They seem happy.

Two or three short posts tomorrow.  I started this ridiculous NabloPoMo a couple days late but there is no way I am going to fail now.  This was a horrible decision on my part.

Ok, good morrow ye goodwives and gentlemen.

Homemaker Man

Holiday Pics

Is there anything cuter on this planet than my kids?  Probably your kids, if you have any.  Otherwise, no.  Unless you are one of those people who treat their dogs like their children, in which case still no, and you're an asshole.  And if you have nieces or nephews who you think are as cute as my kids, well you need to start thinking about settling down and getting married, because those are not your kids and your attachment to them is a little creepy.

Of course all this is moot, because in these pics I can't actually show you their faces. So for all you know, they could be melty-faced freaks or horrible pig-snouted people like in that Twilight Zone episode.  Or maybe they have no faces at all to speak of.  Just smooth flesh and a couple of breathing holes.  I just gave myself the heebie-jeebies.

Ok.  Without further ado, T-Day Pics:

The peanut

The Pumpkin Man

This is open to interpretation.  It's either a little love between siblings on a holiday morning or a clear get your hand off my fucking toy message.  Either way, awwwwwwww.

Ok, there are just a fraction of our holiday pics.  This post is really going to suck over at NaBLoPoMo, because I am sure as hell not going to re-post these pics all over again over there.

Homemaker Man

Outbreak

My wife brought it home.  The most ominous 3 word phrase currently in circulation.  Flu.  Like.  Symptoms.  She teaches high school.  High school kids are disease carriers like deer ticks, or tsetse flies, or pig worms.  Or Capuchin monkeys.  And now it is in my home.

The Peanut has it.  Temp. of 101.5.  Called the doctor.  It used to be that with a temp like that the office would be like, "would you like to schedule an appointment?"  Now when I called they basically said if she doesn't get worse, keep that shit there.  I'm sure they're overwhelmed with paranoid helicopter parents and their safety padded children.  I imagine a bunch of little kids running around wearing neck braces they don't need and being yelled at for running.

Which is fine.  We did get the babies vaccinated last week.  That one shot should help.  Though of course you need two to really be sure.  So all that time in line worked out well

I'm worried about her.  The motrin is working to keep her temp under control so far.  She does not want me to take her temperature anymore.  She tried to convince me it was the Pumpkin Man's turn.  Which it may be soon enough.  Which is scary.  He's just a little guy.  

It's been rough on my wife, though she tries to shake it off.

As for me, I am still healthy.  I take precautions.  Hand washing, vitamins, etc.  I feel confident that i'll be able to avoi . . . what is that?  What . . . is that . . .no.  Oh my God, there is a rip in my Hazmat suit.  There is a rip in my hazmat suit!.  Well, I might as well have some tart pie and ice cream.  No sense worrying about cholesterol.

I am sooo tired of this posting every day crap.

Disease riddenly yours,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  I know I said there would be turkey hat picks.  tomorrow, I promise

Thanksgiving day Real Time with the Homemaker Man: UPDATED. AGAIN.

Snappy title.  Bill Mahr is a douche.  Although I used to watch his show back when I had the HBO.  I also come from a time where people call it "the HBO."

Thanksgiving day.  So far so good.  My wife is sick as hell, the Peanut pissed on her play mat, and the Pumpkin Man puked on the kitchen floor like a dog.  But who gives a shit.  I am high on sage fumes and gravy splatter.

Check list:

Gravy.  Done.

Stuffing.  Done.

Potatoes, sliced and soaking.

Squash.  Done

Sweet potatoes.  Not done.

Rolls.  Not done.

Turkey.  Coming to room temperature to go in the oven.

Apple pie.  I don't want to talk about that shit.

The pie is very intimidating.  I am going totally homemade with no help from the wife this year.  Last year's, which we made together, was decent but too sweet.  The pressure is on because she comes from a family of pie nazis.

Her Grandmother, who is now gone, used to make all the pies.  She would make a couple each of apple, wild blueberry, pumpkin, and lemon meringue.  As she got older, she got arthritis and the blueberry pie became too much for her, so she switched that one for chocolate cream.  They berated her for it.  She had "gone soft" and chocolate cream "isn't a real pie," they would scoff and sneer.

"Fuck you and your arthritis, grammy, and make with the BLUEBERRY PIES!!

No?

Watch your back, old lady."

I hyperbolize, but still . . .

Gotta go, put in the turkey.

Gobble gobble, mofoze

HM

UPDATE:  I just put the pie crust in the fridge to rest.  It's iffy folks, it's really iffy.  (in my head) I think it came out too crumbly, but maybe it didn't, but it could be, so I'll use a little more water . . . I think that's too much water.   But is it?  I don't know.  I don't know.  It won't come together in a ball.  Ooo, it's coming together.  Shit, no it isn't.  Fuck it, that's close enough I hope.  Into the fridge with you.  Now is a good time to open that fruity beer you have to drink because it's the only thing in the house.  Blech, peaches.


UPDATE 2:  The pie.  I blew it.  It's too tart.  Too.  Tart.  This may be the last you'll here from me.  The pie nazis are coming.  First, my pie and I will herded into ghettos.  Ghettos filled with other people who flew their pies too close to the sun.  Which is the number one reason for tart pie.  Sun exposure.
Phew.  I had to mix those metaphors just to get out of there before it got gruesome.

So the fucking pie came out too fucking tart.  I thought we had it.  My wife managed to get her poor, disease ridden body to function long enough to help me roll the crust and get it in the pie plate.  But no.  and now I have 3/4 of a sour pie to eat.

Otherwise, it was an awesome thanksgiving.  The peanut barely ate anything, so that was exactly the same as any other day.  the Pumpkin man loved thanksgiving dinner.   My wife and the peanut made turkey hats which were awesome!  Pics of those tomorrow.  We watched Home Alone,  a truly disturbing film.  Especially at the end because all they do is ruffle his hair and say whoopsy and then everyone is happy.  That kid should've been dead and will certainly be in therapy forever.  It disturbed the Peanut.  She just kept saying, "He gonna find his mommy and daddy?  He gonna find them.  He gonna find his mommy and daddy.  He is?"  Because that is the scariest thing she can imagine right now.     Thanks John Hughes and Chris Columbus.  One of whom is dead.  Sorry.

Ok.  Talk to you folks tomorrow.  This peach beer tastes like fermented peaches.  Ugh,


Happy Thanksgiving, bloggy friends.

Homemaker Man

A Homemaker Man Thanksgiving

I'm cooking this year.  Should be some good food.  I'll have you know I am possibly a slightly above average cook.

I've been cooking thanksgiving dinner off and on for about 13 years now, but the past few, this one included,  have been a bit different.

When I was in my early twenties, my grandparents retired to Canada(what?), and that was that for family holiday get togethers.  I would get invites from other people, but more often than not I would politely decline.  I loooved cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

Back then, Thanksgiving consisted of me, whatever other friends that were without plans that year, some beer, some weed, and my home cookin'.   Home cooking which did not include turkey.  I was raised by hippies, vegetarians, so we didn't do turkey.  What I did do was a delicious seafood casserole.  Shrimp, scallops. haddock, wine, etc.  Then all the traditional trimmings.

The food may not have come out as good as it does now( I don't remember), but who cared?  We were wrecked and there was always chocolate cream pie at the end.  Those Thanksgivings were so much fun that once or twice I stayed home alone and threw them just for myself.  Loved it.  A few people would eventually come by later in the day anyway.

The past few years, I've had my family to cook for.  There is no weed, and very little alcohol.   I have a whole turkey breast brining in the fridge right now.  No need for a whole turkey, it's just us this year.  Can't really afford to do the seafood casserole, and the babies probably wouldn't like it anyway.

I am so excited.  It's the Pumpkin Man's first Thanksgiving.  And the first one the Peanut will really be into.  I stayed up to get the turkey in the brine and clean up the dining room nice for the pictures.  And I still love to cook.  And maybe there will be a drop or two of wine or beer while I cook.  Just to wake up the palate and alert the ol' taste buds, dontcha ya know.  I hope to blog about the day as it goes or at least take notes and report at the end.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone from the "straight edge" families like mine, to the hippies and freaks like me.

I am thankful for my family, this house,  and nap time.

Yours,

Homemaker Man

Religious Identity: Update

I think a lot about what my children's cultural and/or religious identity is going to be.  It's sort of complicated for me because I don't have a lot of religious education.

I did go to hebrew school for a month when I was 7.   I was kicked out over a bacon incident.
They found it in my pocket.  Wrapped around a scallop.  I ate the evidence, but it was too late.

I did go to hebrew school for a month when I was 7.  Then my mother dumped the hebrew school teacher she had been dating.  He didn't teach at the school I attended, but when my mother broke something off, she meant it.

He did teach there.  His name was Jay.  I think.  Or Shlomo.  Either way, he was very short and hairy.

Lessee, other forms of religious education . . .

I've read through the bible a little.  Mostly the hot parts.

I've seen the Last Temptation of Christ, I think the Dali Lama is a cool guy, and I have read my fair share of "You're going to hell" pamphlets I was handed on the street.

I worked at a kosher deli for 4 plus years.  That is where I picked up a lot of, or at least started to take an interest in, my cultural heritage.  A nice potato knish will do that for a person.

I'll celebrate some ( I think there are like 4 million total) of the holidays to celebrate my heritage.  I'l say the prayers in hebrew, or fast, or eat some of the foods (not gefilte fish.  Great Cesear's Ghost, that shit is nasty).  I am hoping to provide my kids with an example and a cultural touchstone, but I'm not religious.

My wife grew up protestant, and has a deep and detailed religious education, but she doesn't subscribe to it.

It is important to us though, that our kids have a chance to make their own choices about that stuff.  How do we do that?  A whirlwind house of worship tour?   Maybe some sort of religious career day where clergy from all the major religions come and talk to our kids about why their God might be right for them.  Maybe they offer a 401k plan, good health insurance, casual Fridays, company car, whatever.

The point is, I plan to be very careful to not influence my kids in their choice of religions or in the way they express their spirituality.  At least not too much.  No scientology and no Jews for Jesus.  I mean, c'mon.   I was a Jew for jesus but then I left that group to join pacifists for gang violence.  That one didn't work out either, so I joined vegetarians for meat.  I've been happy ever since.


But other than the two mentioned above, I hope what I can do is expose my kids to as many different religions as possible, and be supportive of whatever they choose.  If any of you reading this happens to have a copy of Shinto for Dummies I could borrow, I would totally owe you one.


Contemplatively,

Homemaker Man


UPDATE:  My wife tells me that last Jews for Jesus joke was cheesy.  After reacting defensively ("I think you're reading it in the wrong tone.  You're cheesy!  I want a divorce.")  I have realized that she is right as usual.  Sorry about that.    I did write it at 11:45pm after a very busy day.  And the principle remains solid.

Today, and one more Vampire Story

Today I:

Cleaned out the fridge.  I think I found a mummy.  I threw it out.  

Packed food for the food drive.  Feel weird about this a little because a lot of it is canned food, most of which contains BPAs which may be harmful to one's health.  But, if we were hungry, I know we'd be glad to have them so . . . 

Lowered the Pumpkin Man's crib.  I never had to do that for the Peanut.  She just was never climb over the rail and crash to the floor material.  The P-Man however will be the one who someday breaks his neck because he thinks he can the leap from our roof to the house next door.  

Showered AND shaved.  A twofer.  My wife is very lucky.

Took the car to the mechanic to find the shop was not at the address google maps said it was.  Google maps is dead meat. I'm going to wait outside google maps' house and when it comes out, I am going type in two very far apart, very complicated addresses, request directions, and then when google maps is distracted, I will kick it in the balls.

Made the house look neat before my wife came home.  Doing that is a combination of laying blankets down over all the messes and then when my wife comes in the door, I immediately throw sand in her eyes.  Then, while she's screaming and clawing at her face I say, "honey, doesn't the house look great!"  What is she gonna say?  

Got the Peanut to pee in the potty.  Training is going fairly well.  we're taking it slow.  She runs around half-naked a lot at home, but she has stopped pissing in her toys.   Of course, as I was getting the Pumpkin man ready for bath (we all had baths today, actually) I had him stripped down and was holding him in one arm while making sure the peanut didn't shove a pen in her eye with the other.  That is when he saw his opportunity and took a shit on my arm.  Which I only vaguely noticed until I saw the arm.  

And finally, my wife reminded me that I forgot my best vampire story.  Not long after I cut off all my bangs, my mother bought a water bed.  It was the early 80's and she was a swingin' divorcee'.  At some point, i decided that vampires lived in the mattress.  What do you do when there are vampires in your mom's water bed mattress?   You kill them.   And you kill vampires how?  With a stake of course.  

It was up to me to kill those vampires.  No one else knew they were there.  I grabbed a pencil and stabbed that water bed nine times.  

I don't really remember my mother's reaction, and I don't really remember mine when she found out.  But I do remember the feel of that pencil plunging into that vinyl again and again and again.  For those of you who don't know, It is an extremely satisfying feeling to stab a water bed to death with a pencil.  

At some point before that, I had also taken a jar of vaseline and decided that the wood-like frame of the water bed needed to be smeared with most of it.  I think I was trying to protect the wood (woodonique).  

I spent a lot of time alone as a child.  

Alright, it's late (again).  Goodnight everyone.

Homemaker Man

Twilight, TV, Haiku Sunday

A student of my wife's lent her the DVD Twilight.  This movie. . .

I love vampires.  Ever since I was a little kid. Long before they became trendy.  And never in a get all gothed up and tell people I'm an "energy vampire ."  Those people actually exist.  They're called kids.  Zing.  Take that you sleeping peacefully, innocent fuckers.

Anyway, I've loved vampires since I was little.  When I was 8 years old, I cut off all-I mean all- my bangs in an attempt to give my self a widow's peak like Dracula.  That look with a dutch boy haircut and missing teeth is pretty sweet.  A few years later, I read Salem's Lot.  After the scene where the protagonist blesses a bunch of homemade crosses with the Lord's Prayer, I did the same thing.  Put them up all over the place.

I'm my generation's Van Helsing.

This movie though.  They don't go out in the sun because their skin sparkles?  It could at least smoke or crackle or smell like bacon or something.  I know, it's aimed toward teenage girls.  Still.  And honestly, the two main characters who are supposed to be in love forever?  Between the two of them, they have all the sexual tension of a pair of raisins.

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

In addition to all of the other things we need: New boots, renewed car insurance, front brakes, new tires, a shave (that last one mostly applies to me), we need a new TV.

Every time we watch Project Runway this season, there will come a moment when someone will say something like, "I love that color.  What an amazing blue."  And we'll say, "No shit?  That's blue?"

I do watch Project Runway.  You've got Heidi Klum-Seal's fabulous teutonic pronounciations.  "I weally like that dwess.  It's tewiffic." And, she's Heidi Klum.   The designers are insanely talented, and if I could pick my own dad, Tim Gunn in a heart beat.

The crazy thing is that we've seen practically every season, and I still have no idea what couture is.  I think it has something to do with hats.

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

Haiku

Class warfare on ice.
Wealthy kids don't advertise
Poor? Chico's Bail Bonds 


Matthauingly,

Homemaker Man

Reaching Randomness Level Orange

First things first.  I just saw an infomercial for Romancing the 70's.  A collection of the 70's greatest love songs.  Which is like a collection of the 70's greatest clothes.  Yes, I'm up too late.  But the "host" of the "show" waxed poetic about how we all remember the seventies and how it was the decade of romance.  I was a just a little boy in the 70's.  But, I'm pretty sure that decade was less about romance and more about fucking with impunity.  And cocaine.  And Martin Scorsese.  And cocaine.  And throwing off the restraints of the peace, love, and happiness hippy values of the 60's so as to begin the transformation into the Me generation.  And cocaine .

That infomercial was followed by an Extenze infomercial which began with a blond woman stuffed into a short, tight, NASCAR style uniform and a guy who could best be described as "old guy in the club," telling her how if he, "wasn't married . . . oh wait, I'm not. (Lecherous laugh)"

The blond responded,  (indulgent chuckle)"someone's been taking their Extenze."

I then gouged out my eyes with a plastic bubble wand.  I managed to block out the sound of the tv by inserting my penis into my ear canal, which I could accomplish because I've been taking Extenze.  Thanks Extenze! (Ding!)

Great fake product though.  I love the thought of the millions of guys who have purchased that shit.  They take it for maybe two days before they start standing naked in front of the mirror, sucking in their stomachs and stretching out their poor schmeckles as long as they can and thinking, "Holy shit, it's working.  Look at that thing!  I am tremendous!  I'm gonna call myself the 'the Anaconda!'"

And if anyone is wondering "what about the wives who say it's working too?"  Well, woman have been faking orgasms forever, so really, what's 2 more inches?

On the very fun side, we took the babies to the Y for open swim tonight.  They both really loved it.  It was a lot of fun.  The Pumpkin Man does has to work on his cpr skills.  It took him 14 minutes to revive me. Thankfully, the brain damage is virtually unnoticeable. It's a miracleeble.

Unfortunately, I got a look in myself in the Y family changing room mirror.  I am a chunky bitch.  Gotta get in shape before school starts.  Pretty screwed up to be going to school for health care while suffering a heart attack every time I fart too loud.

Ok, that is all I've got.   Sorry to leave you with the word fart.  It's not my fault.  I have to post every day or I am a bad person who can't keep their commitments.  Nablopomo gives horrible guilt trips.

Ridiculously,

Homemaker Man

H1N1: O the humanity.

note the small print.  Mexican Swine Flu.  Take that, minutemen .

I took the kids to get shots today.  Drove 45 minutes.   Wife teaches high school.  Teenagers are filthy.

We got there first.  7:30a.m.  Clinic opened at 9.  Hard core.  Sat in the car in a space right in front of the entrance.  Fed the kids some breakfast.  Let them crawl around the front seat.  The Pumpkin Man took the car for a quick joy ride.  Everything is going smoothly.  Guy pulls up in front of us.  Things are still cool.

The rain starts coming down hard.  A woman with 2 kids a few years older than mine walks up and positions herself in front of the entrance.  So now I'm 2nd.  That's alright.  Close enough.  I drag the kids and the stroller out of the car and line up behind her.

We stand there for about 20 minutes.  The adults trading uncomfortable smiles in between my attempts to engage her kids.  "What's your name?  You're a big boy.  Your sister is very tall."  And other inane adult-to-child small talk cliches.  That's going to be the title of my next book.   My first one was called, "Yep, they sure don't make'em like that anymore."  And Other Things Old People Like to Hear."

Speaking of old people . . . . . .

So we're standing in line when a woman comes to open the door, which leads first to an eye doctor's office.  "Are you all waiting for eye appointments?"  She asks hopefully.  Because the mad early morning eye doctor rush totally happens all the time.  More trampling deaths there than at rock concerts or on Black Friday.  No one can see each other.

We tell her no, we're here for shots.  She tells us, "oh, you need to go up and around to the back.  That's where they're lining up."

Shit.

We get back there, and it could be worse.  Ahead of us there is a healthcare worker, a woman with one child, and in front a few old people.   We commence to waiting.  As the line fills up in back of us, a couple more old people slither through the throng and plant themselves in front.  At some point. one of them produces a small blond girl.  Then three more old people appear and join the group(old people are NOT on the priority list for vaccinations, by the way).   So now you've got 7 old people with one confused looking "granddaughter" between them.  Really?  3 and 1/2 sets of grandparent?  I'm pretty sure she was stolen.   Old people are devious.

They come to open the door for us.  They ask, "Is everyone here for appointments . . . ?"

We get inside and do some more waiting.  The Pumpkin Man falls asleep and doesn't wake up until there is a needle plunging into his leg.  Sorry buddy.

In the end, it really wasn't too bad.  There was a little jostling behind us in line and The Pumpkin man melted down on the way home from exhaustion.  But overall, I am feeling very grateful to my kids for being so well behaved today.  The Peanut even got an extra Max and Ruby.  It was the one where Ruby sells all of Max's shit so she can buy more crack .  Really cute.

Vaccinations are good.

Homemaker Man

Test Taken

So I took my college placement test today and I got the results virtually instantly.  The tests are done on the computer and then they are graded immediately by a thousand tiny, ultra-competent teachers with one tattered answer key between them.  Or they are graded by the computer.  I'm not very big on the techie stuff.

Before going to the test today I looked at some sample questions and took a practice test for the math.  All while my 2.5 (that's a decimal!) year old yelled, "daddy, look at this, look at this daddy.  Daddy, LOOK at THIS."

Great, sunglasses.  You're a genius.  Now let daddy get back to relearning long division.

Ok, short division.

Multiplication tables.  Shut up.

The practice test was useful because for the answers I got wrong it provided links to info that would help.  Links like www.mass.edu/the answer is 7, asshole.  The fucking answer is 7.  .com.

When you take the actual test, it's interesting because the questions get harder or easier based on whether or not you got the previous one correct.  So, on the algebra section for example, I would see a question (multiple choice) like:

                                                                                     2x-3x(y-2xy)
                                                                                     -----------------
                                                                                              1/3x                        

And then the next one would say:

                                                                     2+2=x.   If x is the value 4.

 So, yeah.  I aced it.


Actually, I did much better than I thought I would.  I got into the second highest beginning math class, fundamentals of algebra.  Not glamorous, but at least I don't have to pay for a non-credit course.  Also, fairly surprising because about half way or so through the Algebra portion I just said fuck it and started guessing.  The magic of standardized testing.

And in English, I actually tested out of all but the highest class, which I was told I can attempt to test out of if I am willing to pay for the test.  It's like gambling, but I'll probably end up giving it a shot.  I love English and writing, but please.  I think the quality of this blog speaks for itself.  I think if my blog could talk it would probably say something like "please, somebody help me, he's a fucking lunatic.  And he likes puns.  Please.  He can't even type.  help me. "  


So now I can spend my time reading Nursing blogs and getting completely freaked out.  I am not that competent.  

Maybe if I can find a mellow specialty to work in, I'll be ok.  Maybe a Nurse Shark.  Wait a sec, let me get my Wiki on . . .

So they weigh about 330 lbs, are shallow-water, bottom dwellers, like to eat crab and shrimp, have few interactions with humans and are not perceived as a threat.  I  think I found my calling.

Last thing.  A shout out to Viv at A Proud Mom To Many.  She just put up her 200th post.   I just bloggy met her a few weeks ago, but she is a bright, kind, overworked, brave, bloggy buddy.  Congrats Viv.

Tomorrow's big adventure?  Waiting in line for H1N1 shots.  It's going to be like waiting in line for the world's worst 6 Flags ride.  "Hey kids, hold on, we're almost there.  Aaallllmost.  We made it!!  Now roll up your sleeves, suckers.

Matriculatingly yours,

Homemaker Man

1st Test Time

Just barely got accepted to school and already my first test is here.  College Placement Test.  The one they use to figure out at what level you should start your schooling.  I'm hoping for 6th grade.  I was wicked smart in 6th grade.

I'm thinking I might be able to test out of English 101 and 102.  Not that I wouldn't enjoy them, I just don't want to pay for them.  I'm also trying to decide if I should take a dive on the math portion so that I end up in remedial math or if I should try as hard as I can so that I end up in remedial math.  I guess I will just do my best and see what happens.

Be careful.  Don't let that statement's profundity overwhelm you.

I'm nervous.  I'm not sure why.  This is not really a test you can fail.  It's not like if I do badly they'll be like, "Mr.  Homemaker Man, we have the results of your College Placement Test.  According to these numbers, we'll be placing you in the University of You Have Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me.  It's in Guantanamo Bay.  Pack your shit,  porridge head."

Although, it would be kind of cool if they did do that.  To someone else sitting next to me so I could see it happen.  They would never do that to me.  I flunked out of U of YHGTBFKM years ago.

Ok, gotta get to bed at a reasonable time tonight so I can be fresh for tomorrow.  Whoever reads this, send me good vibes.

Thanks and good night.

Homemaker Man

P.S.  Before I forget  . . . yesterday I wrote that whole long post about losing my keys and I spelled losing wrong.  Twice(it's since been fixed).  And I'm hoping to test out of English 101-02.  Right.  Anyway sorry about that everyone.  No excuse for it, I'm just a big looser.

Keys

We had a play date today.  With a nice little 3 year-old boy and his stay-at-home dad.  It was our first play date with these folks, who are very nice and who also happen to be fairly new to the U.S. by way of India. As such we wanted to be prompt, polite and fun.  Make them feel comfortable and avoid being the Ugly Americans.

We had agreed on a time.  High Noon, playground, swings.  "No, slide first, THEN swings.  No, swings first." The Peanut was in charge of the scheduling.  We were at least a half hour late.  As for polite, the Peanut refused to say hi to anyone until I threatened to leave for home.  As for fun, it took me about 6 minutes to get involved in a debate about whether the current administration's policies for jump starting the economy are Communist.  Go U.S.A.  Land of the douche, home of the bag.  I suck

Where the wheels first came off was when we were trying to leave the house.  I couldn't find my keys.  They were just gone.  This is a big deal.

It used to happen to me all the time, losing my kets.  I thought I had a handle on it . . .

Losing my keys is a process.  I start like everyone else.

 "Shit," I thought mildly, "Where are my keys?"  I looked on the table, the bookcase, the kitchen table, my pockets.  No dice.  Looked on the counter, the changing table, baby bag, on the chair.  Nothing.  Now, I start to get nervous.  "Fuck," I mutter, "What did I do with my keys?"  This part happens every time.  Now I have to look in the crazy places.  Because for me, "what did I do with my keys?" is a question with infinite answers.

I check the door knob.  No.  My pockets again.  No.  My coat pocket.  No.  Under the couch, on the ground outside, in a basket of laundry.  No, no, no.  They could be anywhere.  Literally anywhere.  I once left my keys in a snowbank.

"Fuck!"  I growl, where are my fucking keys?  I check the refrigerator, the inside of the stove, pants I haven't worn in three days, my sock drawer, my wife's sock drawer, the fucking trash.  No, no, no, NO.

Sometimes, I put them in places I think I will remember because they are odd and I am oh so clever.  "I know, I'll seal these up in a white envelope, put a stamp on it, write phone bill on the front, and put them in the pile of outgoing bills.  I'll know what I mean."

I check the box of envelopes, my coat pocket again, my pants pocket.  Again.  I check the peanut's pants, the Pumpkin Man's chair,  the dog's bed. NONONONONO!  I'm swearing freely now.  I stop to whine to my daughter, "Honey, where are daddy's keys?  Have you seen them sweetie?"  She regards me soberly and continues to gnaw on her chocolate munchkin' .  "Sweeeetie, daddy's keys, have you seen them?"  Silence.

I check inside the car ( left unlocked) , the litter box, the kitchen cabinets, inside a jar of peanut butter, the top of the washer which is in the basement which I hadn't been in that day, the inside of the washer and the dryer.  In a box of still packed christmas ornaments.  No.  Inside the dog's bunghole?  Well, that's just stupid . . . and no.

Back upstairs, I ask my daughter one more time.  Again, she regards me stonily.  I sink to the floor on elbows and knees, thinking maybe they got kicked under the rug, fell between the floorboards, I'll find a wormhole . . . ?

Nothing.

I am so close to admitting defeat when from the kitchen I hear it.  That unmistakable key sound.  Jingle jingle.  I scrabble in, sweaty, disheveled,  un-tucked.  Mentally I mean.  Not my shirt. My shirt had come flying off 15 minutes before that when I suddenly realized the keys could be stuck in my belly button or lodged under a love handle.  No.  So I crawl madly into the kitchen and there is the Peanut, picking my keys up off the floor.   "Great job Peanut!"  I exclaim, joyously.  "Where did you find them?"

"In the box," she says, like I'm a moron.  There is a small, toy/activity box in the kitchen that she uses when I'm in there cooking.  Someone had put the keys in there.  Could've been either one of us.  It was probably her though.  I never put those things away in a sensible place.

The play date actually went pretty well in the end.   We'll hang out again and everyone left smiling.

Does anyone know where I can take organization lessons?


Homemaker Man


This is a recycled post.  The Peanut is feeling a little under the weather today.  Oh and, P.S.  We uh, we never did have a second play date with that SAHD and his nice little boy.  Sigh.

Religion, Sex, and Sleeplessness

I'm trying to write something here but a new Lopez Tonight just came on and talk about distracting.  His show has similar energy to Arsenio Hall's old show, only better!  Where has that Arsenio gone, anyway?  I thought he'd shine forever.

Exhausted tonight.  The Peanut had 3 unprovoked wake-ups last night.  Let me put that another way.  I woke up from a sound sleep three times last night because my daughter needed her blankets fixed and a single sip of water.  If she wakes up tonight, she get the hose.

I'm a shit talker. If she wake up tonight she gets the same thing she always get.  A grumpy daddy who will shuffle in to her room and give her whatever she wants as long as she stops crying about it.


Ok, this next thing is sort of about religion and sort of about sex.  At least it's about sex before I was married (true for a couple of brief periods during, too), and religion as I think most people see it.

While not religious, I believe in the power of religion to do good and the right of everyone to practice-or not-whatever religion they choose.  It's a strong belief of mine.  So if I am approached on the street by someone passing out religious literature, I stop.  And if they ask me what I believe and why or who is my personal lord and savior, I tell them this:

To me, God is like vagina.
I never see it, but I'm pretty sure it exists,
and it controls everything I do.

Goodnight

Something more interesting tomorrow, I hope.


Homemaker Man

Haiku Sunday and Why Go Back To School

People ask me, "Why go back to school, Homemaker Man?  You seem to have it all."
"Is that sarcasm?" I reply defensively.
"Whoa, settle down."  They say
"Whatever," I retort.

Then I continue with a rambling and serpentine explanation even though my initial reaction has long ago brought the conversation to an abrupt end.

I am obscenely lucky.  I have a beautiful, brilliant family and the world's best career.

My house is 120 years old.  There is a lot of shit wrong with it that I just can't fix.  While I have improved a little with that sort of stuff over the years, well . . . If you were to start talking to me while I was fixing something, you would find your tone of voice quickly deteriorating in to a condescending "Wow, there must be something wrong with this guy," tone:

"Oh, what are you fixing?  You're using a hammer?  Well, that's not what I asked, but that's true.  What are you a hammering there?  A wire.  I see.  What?  Yes, you are doing a good job hammering.  Yes, a very good job.  You are very strong.  Yes you are.  I just, are you sure tha . . . Hey!  We don't eat the nails, big guy.  No we don't."

All that would be ok though, if the city we live in weren't so, mmm, let me try to sum it up in a haiku:


Describing my town
How to do it succinctly
Scally caps abound


It is a blue collar, working-class city founded by hard-working Irish and Italian immigrants looking for a better life whose offspring now despise the fact that the town demographic is being so violently and irrevocably changed by the influx of hard-working Brazilian and Hispanic immigrants looking for a better life.

The people here don't like change and they are difficult to reason with because they generally don't trust things like fact or science or reason.

As a quick aside:  It seems that I have become the Town Jew.  Which is pretty cool.  Being the town Jew is a time-honored tradition.   You know, every so often I stay out really late and get way to Jewish and I cause a disturbance and then end up having to sleep it off in the town Jew Tank at the local jail.  Every town has one.

Anyway, being the town Jew really doesn't bother me.  Besides, there is apparently a Jewish veteran's group in town.  I'm looking forward to meeting that guy.

It's the xenophobic, racist nature of the city's long-time residents coupled with their desperate clinging to dead ideas that are slowly suffocating the city that makes us want to move.  If you want a really good analogy, check out my wife's blog .  She actually knows how to think and write and stuff like that.

So, the possibility of selling and moving is one reason why I'm going back to school.  Also, I need to have a viable skill in case for some reason my wife could no longer work.  It's nice at lunch time, but remembering to cut the crusts off the sandwiches just will not pay the bills.

Finally (this has turned out to be a long-assed post), my wife grew up going to Sebago Lake in Maine every summer of her life, and it is a a huge part of who she is.  I'd like to be able to afford a little place for us up there someday  Someplace warm and sunny, on a lake close by Sebago.  Doesn't have to be right on Sebago itself.  Maybe with a fireplace so we can go up on school vacations.  A place that as the kids get a little older, they never ever find out about.  You know, someplace quiet.


2 more hockey rink haikus because I worked there (very early) this morning and I have them and three is an odd number:

Kids arrive early
Tousled hair, eager faces
Parents, not so much

Rain spits fitfully
on empty, oil-slicked streets
And one lone asshole



Verbosely yours,

Homemaker Man

Back to School, Homemaker Style

I am going back to school.

I got my letter today.  I was officially Accepted.  To Community College.  I know.  I'm impressed, too.  To get in, you actually have to technically be alive.

Which I am.  Barely.

Eventually, I am going to get a nursing degree.  They have a two-year R.N. program which I will complete in a mere 4 1/2 to 5 years.  I am that good.

I've got some prerequisites to fulfill and I'm going to go part time.  When the kids are attending school full time, I will be ready to nurse.  I mean work.  I'm actually ready to nurse right now.  The Pumpkin Man is greedy.

I have been in-and-out-and-back in-and-back out of college before, but despite my 1.7 years worth of credits spread over 4 years time, I'm still nervous.  Go figure.

I've never been a big school guy.  Some classes I enjoy so I excel.  Others, I don't like, or I find them boring, or stupid, or I don't like the teacher, or there is too much homework, or I'm not good at math, or the other kids are mean, or I HATE ALGEBRA AND I JUST CAN'T DO IT MOM, ALRIGHT?!  Jeez.

Sorry.  Flashback.  Excuse me.

I'm not good at math though, and the field is full of it.

But, there were some minor complications (gestational diabetes) during my wife's pregnancies and when the Peanut was born, there were some early breast feeding issues, and then the Peanut has the being skinny problem along with a urinary reflux issue.  So, we've talked to a lot of nurses and I found them inspiring.

The dedication, compassion, humor, and intelligence with which they do their jobs made me want to do it too.  Not to mention that I will look fabulous in a white skirt or blue scrubs.  Both colors are very complimentary for my skin tone.  And I'm not afraid of blood.  And I should do well with the patients because I prefer the majority of my relationships to be intense and really really short.

And if I'm lucky, I will snag myself a rich doctor and he will support me, my wife, and our kids in the manor to which we will have quickly become accustomed to for the rest of our lives.

I start in the spring.  I wonder how many 36 year old men will be in the nursing classes.  Probably at least 8.


Wish me luck,

Homemaker Man

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.

It won't work (with apologies)

Big day today.  The Peanut used her Potty.  It was a battle.

 I took her diaper off at 9 am and told her if she needed to go, she could go on the potty.  She tried once around 9:15.  She told me she was going poop, sat down for a bit, and then informed me that, "It won't work."  I don't know if it was her colon or her sphincter that was on the fritz.  Regardless, we came up empty.

From then on, every time she felt the urge, she would ask for a diaper.  If you can ask for a diaper when you need to take a crap, then you can probably use the potty, was how I felt.  I mean in most cases, obviously.

I told her to try and use the potty, she would get upset, I would coax her with toys and M&M's.  Like some weird, low-budget E.T. remake. We did this 5 times in an hour and forty-five minutes.

I even demonstrated for her.  Twice.  There is nothing that says dignity like sitting on the john with your daughter facing you while you demonstrate the sights and sounds of taking a crap.  "uhhnnn, pooping" I grunted majestically, with a slight shimmy for dramatic effect.  "It won't work," she replied pessimistically.

When it finally did work, she had asked for a diaper again, I said try the potty, she got really mad so I left her alone about it.  4 seconds later she came bustling by like she was on her way to a stockholder's meeting, murmuring "gotta go poopoo and peepee, poopoo, and peepee."

She sat down and went 5 seconds later.  Just needed to unclench and let gravity step in.

When it was over, I scooped he up and congratulated her soundly.  She gasped, " I did it," like she had just performed 8 hours of surgery or disposed of a dead body.  I gave her many rewards.

Of course, she pissed on the floor twice after that but hell, so did I.

I asked her about it as I was putting her to bed tonight.  Just so I could reiterate how great it was.  I said, "What'd you do today?  You go poopoo?"  She said, "I go poopoo in the potty."  I said, "Yes you did, sweetie!."

Then, softly, she said, "Daddy?"  I said, "What, honey?"  She said, "uhhnnn, poopin'!"  Then she did a little shimmy and laughed right in my face.


Apologetically yours for writing about potty time,

Homemaker Man

Addicted

So, I am drinking a little Gordon's Gin and diet Pepsi tonight, folks.  Don't look at me aghast (aghastly? with aghastness?).  I included a wedge of lime.  With the Red Wine party  the other night and this, that makes a total of two drinking occasions in the last 6 months or so.  I blame it on this blogging every day crap.

Now, this may somewhat alarm my wife.  I know it doesn't sound like much, but we both come from sets of parents who think Iggy Pop and Keith Richards are total pussies.   They would handle Amy Winehouse's troubles by giving her a case of beer and some 'ludes so she could go some where and mellow out.  And if anyone still knows where to get 'ludes, its our parents.

I am not worried about becoming an alcoholic because I have worked hard to become squeaky clean and respectable and a true practitioner of moderation.  If it comes to it, I'll cut and paste wikipedia articles on the various species of edible tubers in the Northeast United states and the tribes that were originally responsible for cultivating them.  Which I think is a wikipedia category I just made up.  Sounds boring, though.

We went to breakfast at IHOP this morning. You know, for the veterans.  The closest IHOP is in Revere, MA, which is a city famous for it's polluted beaches, mullets, and Costco sized strip club.

So. going to this IHOP was very good for my body image.

I have avoided the pitfalls of drug and alcohol addiction, but i'll mainline a nice piece of cake.  Just today, there was a last piece of cake in the fridge and I asked my wife if she wanted to split it.  She said, "no, on the last piece the frosting was starting to taste kind of funny.  You didn't notice that?"

And I had.  It definitely tasted kind of refrigeratory.  But who am I to allow some frosting that tastes faintly of celery, onions, and beef stew to keep me from preventing the wasting of good food in this economy?  Yeah, I ate it.  It was delicious.  Like dessert and dinner in one cake.

But at this IHOP, folks were looking like they would've eaten the cake, washed it down with the past date milk, and then wiped their mouths with a dirty baby wipe.  I felt positively svelte.

On the kid front, the Peanut ate very well.  After beseeching us because she needed a waffle, she proceeded to eat half of a huge belgian one with syrup.  And The Pumpkin man ate before we left, so he just chewed on small chunks of pancake while coming up with inappropriate definitions for IHOP.  "Inconceivably Horrible Old Penises, daddy!  Daddy, I Hate Old Popes, daddy!  India Has Over Population daddy!


That last part may not have happened.


Tiredly,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  Happy Veteran's day and I hope that I can wish those that are fighting now the same thing next year.  Come home soon.

HM

This Sucks

The pressure of blogging every day is getting to me.  I tried everything to come up with something.  Every literary technique I know.  I drank myself into a stupor.  I did many lines of coke except that it was ibuprofen and I didn't snort it.  I sequestered myself in a cabin in snowy mountains for 6 weeks.  I participated in a government LSD and Psilocybin trial and subsequently traveled around the country in a colorful bus full of hippie freaks doing every hallucinogenic drug there is and fighting against conformity and convention.  At least until 2pm because that is when the Peanut absolutely has to be down for nap.   I drank Absinthe.  I lied in my memoirs.  I even tried typing.  Nothing.

Here is the only thing that came to me:

One of my favorite things about my wife is something she does not like.  I love it when I hear her snoring.  That sound means that she is in a deep and restful and contented sleep.  She doesn't always sleep that well.  So when I hear that sound, it signifies that in my world, everything at that moment is good.

Also, she is great in the ol'sackaroo.

Good night everyone, talk to you tomorrow,

Homemaker Man

Handicapped Bathrooms and some other random stuff

The Handicapped Bathroom was a very important place back when I was in a cubicle pretending to work.


My feelings on it below:


O, handicapped bathroom, how I do love thee.  Spacious, private oasis in the cubicle desert. Sanctuary.


Picture this:

Enter.   Stretch your legs, rest your eyes, take a deep, cleansing breath, and don't forget your book. There isn't even a handicapped person on this floor. It's your's for as long as you can keep it. Fully equipped with a safety bar on which you can hang your newspaper or behind which you can store your book as you prepare for a break that doesn't count.  Wedge a roll of tp on top of it and take a nap.  The Handicapped Bathroom never judges.

And, lo and behold, your own personal sink, tilted and extra wide for easy washing.  Do your eyes play tricks or is that large, angled mirror especially flattering?  Stop. Check yourself out and make sure. You have the time. And the space. And the privacy. Bathe your self with paper towels and lotion soap. Clean stains, check for blemishes. Work out.  Stare at your hairy belly. No one can see and no one will bother you.

Handicapped bathroom, you are my Secret Garden. My path to Narnia. My Dutch attic where I hide from the management Nazis. I love you, handicapped bathroom, and I know I always will.


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


An exchange I heard between a mother and son at playgroup :

"Ok, now spell Above."

"A-B--VE."

"What?"

"V-E."

"You forgot a letter."

" . . . . M." 


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


For those that have never seen the cartoon Max and Ruby:


It's a show about an older sister, probably around 7 or 8 and her toddler brother.  The older sister is unrelentingly bossy toward her baby brother, most likely due to the fact that she has been left to raise him almost completely on her own as the only adult presence on the show is the grandmother.  She shows up about once every two weeks and takes no notice of the weird police state under which the baby brother is living, or the fact that there are no parents around.  It also has an intensely annoying and repetitive theme song.  Click to hear.   The lyrics basically go:


Max and Rubeee


Ruby and Max!


Max and Rubeee


Ruby and etc.


Now I, thinking I'm clever and wanting to impress my wife, started singing:


Max in Juveee


Ruby smokes crack!




That second line is the one that started coming out of my daughter's mouth this evening.


When I tried to correct her by singing the original line, she insisted that, "No. No!  Ruby smokes crack."


Why am I such an asshole?  




Chagrined again ,


Homemaker Man

Name Resent and hockey haiku sunday

We tried really hard to name our kids.  And not tried hard in a we never quite mastered the power of speech and can only communicate in grunts and guttural moans sort of way either.

I mean there were lists and disagreements and research sessions.

We wanted something uncommon but not dopey (See: Apple Coldplay).  We checked the baby name lists and avoided anything in the top 100.

When we-my wife really-came up with our daughter's name, everyone loved it.  It is lovely, and when we picked it, it was 143rd most popular name in the U.S.

Now it's top 15.

Fine.  That's the way you want it, America?  Check out what we name our son.  With him, we really went for it.  His nickname was like 500th on the list and his full first name barely made the top 1000.

Our families hated it.  My brother-in-law called him "the baby" for a month and a half.  I coincidentally called him "Uncle Douche" for the same period of time.  In my head.  He is really a lovely man.

When I told my father our daughter's name he gushed over how beautiful it was.

When I told him our son's name, he did this:

Him:  What's his name?

Me: ________

Him: (Pause

         Pause

         Pause)

I'll tell your grandfather.

My wife and I were pleased.

Now, we know of at least 5 people whose kids have the same nickname and 2 with the exact same name and both names have climbed several hundred spots in the rankings the past year.

Goddammit America.

Stop stealing our names.

It happens to us with pet names too and it is frustrating.

I am considering having a third kid and naming it Shitfuck.  Cute little baby Shitfuck.   Just to see how popular the name would get.  3 months later there would be reports about Surri Cruise's new brother Shitfuck Cruise and you would hear parents saying "Hey, Shitfuck got an A.  Way to go, Shitfuck!"  You would have classes in school where there would be 2 of them and the teacher would have to be like, "Ok, you're Shitfuck one and you're Shitfuck two.  Hey Shitfuck 2 I had your older sister in my class.  She sure was a good student student.  What was her name again?  Ah yes, how is ol'Nancy doing?  (Gotcha.)

We would call him S.F. for short, probably.

Following is a list of names I believe we could popularize if we gave them to our children.  Please feel free to add your own:

Sub-prime Mortgage

The number 69

Bernie Madoff

Stimpy

Nazi (for a girl)

Zaphod Beeblebrox

Roman Polanski

Princess Laid'er

Joe Socialism

Pol Pot

Borat

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

And finally, Hockey Haiku:


Persimmon hued leaves
outside plexi-glass doors
Inside, winter blooms.

Strutting and preening
strident voices, plumage displayed
Hockey dads are vain

I slump at the desk
the clock says ten thirty-one
Now?  Ten thirty-two.

Have a good week, bloggy friends.

And as always, I remain faithfully,


Shitfuck.

I love that my kids are interested in these things

Pizza.  Both of them are big fans.  My 10 month old'll take your hand off at the waist if you try to take it away from him.

the Great Escape.  My favorite WWII movie.  Had it on the other day and the Peanut was watching.  Steve McQueen is cool at any age,

Bob Dylan. Some Live footage from the Newport folk festival the of the 2 years before and the year he went electric.  She really liked it.  I was overcome..

Latin Jazz.  They just both seem to love that conga.

Beatles songs.  They make the best lullabyes.

Reading.  The Peanut has some sight words and often declares that she'll "read it myself," and the Pumpkin Man finds books delicious.

Playing the drums.  This one has bitten me on the ass a little bit.  But they both like it.

Basketball.  Although the first time either of them tries to drive to the basket I will swat that weak shit.

Cooking.  The peanut makes multiple batches of cookies and sausages (two of her favorites) every day.

Talking.  They are both very verbal.  And while the Pumpkin man is pre-verbal, I always get an accurate translation of his squawks and mono-syllables from his sister.

Him:  AAAHHHH Muhmuhdah . . . dah HA!

Her:  "What's baby ____ sayin'?

Me:  I don't know honey, what's baby ____ saying?

Her:  "He sayin' I love  ____ she's my sister."

Of course he is darlin'.


Homemaker Hombre'

All This and He cooks?

So, I made a beef stew tonight. I know, I know. "How does he do it?" you ask. Well, with beef, mostly. And some potatoes and carrots and whatnot. Duh. It was pretty tasty I guess.  I didn't eat any.

Also, to make it you need beef stock and Red Wine. And once that bottle of wine is open, what're you going to do? Don't want to waste it. Bottle of Dry Chianti. What if I just take swigs from it all evening first so that it doesn't go to waste and second because I have no clue what I am are going to write tonight? Jesus, that sounds like a good idea. Speaking of which, excuse me . . . ahhh.

 I had to go into the kitchen to take a drink. I leave the bottle corked on the kitchen counter so that way I'm not just sitting here swigging from a bottle of wine. I actually have to get up, go in the kitchen, think "what was I going to do again? Oh yeah." And then I take a big swig from a bottle of wine.

Do to many, many, many requests (one) from my many, many, many fans (?) I will post pics of my beautiful babies. Feast your eyes:

That's the Peanut.

That is the Pumkpin Man.

That is the little boy who stocked my daughter throughout the entire Halloween party we attended.  Because he "loves lions" his mother claimed.  Whatever.  I kept an eye on him.

Sorry, that is the best I can do. I promised my family anonymity.

In other news, the Peanut (my 2 and 2/3 yeqar old girl) was kind of a bitch tonight where mommy was concerned. She was napping when Mommy came home and after she woke up she would have very little to do with her for a lot of the night. I'm not sure what to do about that. It hurts my wife. And at dinner she was really difficult about trying the beef stew. MY beef stew that I slaved over with my own two hands and which came out tasting really good,  I assume. I don't know for sure. But still, the meat was obviously tender and it was her chance to get some O' dat Red wine into her, even if the alcohol had been boiled off Which reminds me, please hold  . . .  Ok. Tthe red wine is now gone. We are all out of the chianti. Thank you for understanding.

Ok, I should post this now so I can sneak it in before midnight. Kind of a crappy post but eh, coherency is for pussies.


Peace!

HM


UPDATE:  Apparently, the wine was in full effect when I typed this.  Either that or the boy in the picture with my daughter was more dangerous than I first realized.  It seems he wasn't just obsessed with her, he actually wanted to make her into soup (gasp!).    It's spelled stalked, not stocked, and I am, as always, a total nimrod.