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

Sunday, January 31, 2010

I'm Dating Again!

That is right world.  My wife and I went out last night.  On a date.  By ourselves.  Where were the kids?

Who cares!

A good friend of ours offered to watch them so we made a break for it.  First time we've gone out by ourselves for more that an hour since before the P man was born.  We don't have a lot of people around we can trust with the kids.  I'm looking at you, most of our family.

We went and saw Avatar.  It.  Was.  Great.  Visually just . . . look, the script was horrible.  Garbage.  Horrible garbage.  But the movie was so beautiful that we just didn't care.  And I mean the script was really  bad.  Every white corporate bad guy vs. noble savage, evil coyboy vs. good indian cliche possible was stuffed into it.

I swear at one point one of the bad guys tossed a soda bottle out of his gun ship.  It twirled down down down through the air to land in a tangle of multi-colored jungle brush below.  Then you saw one of the Na'vi (native peoples) standing there while one tear rolled slowly down his face . . .  

And do you still call it "foreshadowing" when one of the actors actually yells out the word"foreshadowing!"?  Sure, why not?    It was so visually stunning.   I am now convinced that they could accurately render the experience of taking hallucinogens on screen.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

It's a little scary now,what they can make us see with a cheap pair of glasses and 200 + million dollars worth of CGI.   Go and see this in 3D if you can.  It's going to suck on DVD.

We had a ton of fun.  Ate a ton of overpriced movie junk food.  And didn't see our kids until 5:35 this morning.  Dating is so much fun.

I see you,

Homemaker Man

Saturday, January 30, 2010

Skinny Peanut 2/My Wife is The Baddest Mofo on Earth

Usually, (usually)  I let my wife handle this subject.  She's better at talking about it than I am.

My daughter is skinny and tiny.  We don't call her the peanut just because she's salty and and goes well with Fluff  Although both are true.  She's always been small.  And to make matters more difficult, she's always had a problem with food.

When she was born, she was on the small side but that was ok.  She lost some weight at first and that was ok too.  My wife breast fed and breast fed newborns tend to do that.

Then we met a lactation specialist.  They had them on the post-natal floor and the day we were supposed to go home, we thought, "why not?  Everyone else on the planet has seen your tits, what's one more person?"

All lactation specialists are hippies.  Some lactation specialists used to be nurses.  Others are just women who have a proclivity for babies and boobs only when they appear together in the same sq foot or so and only when one of them is capable of spraying milk.  I don't know if it matters to them whether it's the baby or the booby doing the spraying, but in our case it was the latter.

We did not get an ex-nurse.  We got a pale, tall, beef-jerky thin woman who we later found out was "having a bad day."

She came in.  My wife was upright in bed, feeding our daughter and looking beatific.  She greeted us quickly, and then said to my wife, who had been feeding our child for almost 3 days at this point, " oh no, you're doing it all wrong, she's not getting anything that way."

Then, as we started to panic, she took my wife's breast in one hand and our baby's head in the other and began trying again and again to force the now screaming newborn to take my crying wife's breast.  I don't know why I didn't put a stop to it.  I just felt out of my element, I guess.  Or out of control.  So damn lame.

After this didn't work, she yelled something about pumping and tube feeding, and formula being "perfectly ok, really."  Gave us a half-assed demo, and ran out of the door.  Leaving my entire little family traumatized and crying.

We had nurses and pediatricians come in and tell us everything was going to be alright.  They gave us a few extra hours at the hospital to pull our shit together.

We went home feigning confidence.

At home, it was a couple of hours before we some how managed to get 10 cc of milk down our little girl's throat.  She should've been having 30 per feeding.  Eventually, we called a wonderful nurse named Lily who had given us her number and told us to call if we needed help.  She asked us if we had any formula in the house.  We said no.  She asked us if anyone had given us a strategy to use if feeding went poorly. We said no.  She told us what to do over the phone.  I raced out to get some formula.  We did have the necessary equipment to feed her.

After that it was a month of trying.  Not including the hospital stay, there must've been at least a dozen people who saw and manipulated my wife's breasts as she continued to work for her chance to breast feed her baby.  I was not one of those people.

I was the person who was bottle feeding our little girl the breast milk that my wife had to pump instead of getting to feed it to her directly.  Not the ideal situation for avoiding post-partum depression.

My wife teaches at a vocational high school.  There is a nursing assistant vocation there.  One of the teachers used to be a Nicu nurse.  She was the one who was able in the end to help my wife and daughter connect.  We'll be grateful forever.  As I am grateful to my wife who fought longer and harder than 99%* of the rest of the world would have because she knew it was the best thing to do for her baby.  The Peanut breast fed quite successfully for one full year.

One note to all the people who tried to help but couldn't.  There really needs to be some sort of sensitivity training for the folks who are going to be dealing with this issue.  The number of times we talked to people who started the conversation with an indulgent eye roll heaven-ward and the statement, "Don't worry.  Even if she doesn't breast feed, it doesn't mean she's going to end up in the psychiatrist's office when she grows up."

No shit.  If she doesn't breast feed, I'm going to end up in the psychiatrist's office.   By the end of the fucking week.  You fucking pee hole.

Don't condescend, don't manage our worries, just be calm, be competent, and give us solutions or fuck off.  Is how we ended up feeling.

Today, almost every meal with the Peanut is a fight.  She is off the weight chart for her age group.  And that was ok.  As long as she was gaining, even slowly.  At her last weigh-in, she lost weight.

We went to see a nutritionist.  She gave us some guidelines and some tricks.  The ol' canola oil in the yogurt trick, for one.  She also gave us a number.  1200.  1200 calories a day.   I see that number in my brain.  It's giant and carved out of stone like Life of Brian.   Only the number is also outlined in buzzing red neon.


One more bite, Peanut.  C'mon, it's ice cream.  With secret deposits of canola oil.  And melted butter.  And cheese.  And lard.  And bacon.  Your favorite!

Jewish Motheringly (eat, eat, you're wasting away . . .),

Homemaker Man


As for the lactation consultant, we heard that after she left our room, she started crying.  She said something to someone like,"I don't know what happened, I never get this emotional, I'm having a bad day."

Awwww, are ya?  Please, let me be the first to offer a go fuck yourself.

I complained to everyone I could about her on our way out.  If I remembered her name, I'd post it here.  Grudges, I holds'em.

*99% is not an official statistic.


Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Late night quickie/State of The Union

Their were a lot of laugh out loud moments. Lieberman's mopey applause.  Any time Tim Geithner is on camera ever.  

But the funniest moment:  When Obama mentioned ending don't ask/don't tell and the Joint Chiefs got that "we all just simultaneously received an ice cube enema" look .  Awesome.  The Mount Rushmore of awkward reticence.  Six powerful military leaders sitting there looking like they had botox injected into their spines and refusing to make eye contact with the president.  Hilarious.  I wish just one of them would've jumped to his feet and started applauding and cheering with complete abandon until he realized he was all alone and sunk sheepishly back into his seat while self-consciously straightening his uniform.  

Wait. No.  This was better.

Oops.  Gotta go.  The Peanut woke up and started screaming for her dragon.  Considering I have no idea what she means, this should be fun.

Morning Talk Radio-Peanut Style

"Do you know what this story is called honey?"

No honey, I don't

" This story is called the Bunny and the Marble, daddy."

Ohh, ok honey.

"Do you want me to read it to you daddy?"

Yes I would.

"This story is called the Bunny and the Marble, daddy"

That sounds like a great story honey.

"Do you want me to read it to you?"


"This story is called the Bunny and the Marble daddy."

No way.


"Do you want me to read it to you?"

There is nothing I would like more, honey than to hear you read the bunny and the marble.

"Do you know what this story is called daddy?"

Is it the Bunny and the Marble?

"No daddy, it's the Bunny and the Marble."

Well isn't daddy developmentally disabled honey?

"Yeah daddy."


"This story is called the Bunny and the Marble daddy."

Daddy needs coffee honey.

The End.

Or is it?

P.S.  The book The Bunny and The Marble?  It does not exist outside of the Max and Ruby show.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Blogger Idol round 4: What's the deal with this category?

The Blogger Idol round 4 competition (that I'm not in) category this week is observational humor.  That would be the kind of humor best done by the likes of George Carlin in the 60's and 70's and Jerry Seinfeld in the 80's and beyond.  You can sometimes recognize it by it's catch phrases like:  "Did you ever notice?" and  "What the deal with . . .?"  
 In the spirit of observational humor type jokes, I've posted three shortish observations.  Here goes nothin':

#1:  Middle age.  Did you ever notice people call themselves middle-aged for a long time?  Into their 50's anyway.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news (not really) but Horse shit.  Figure it like this:  The average life expectancy in the US is at an all time high of 78.  76 for men and 80 for women. Half of 78 is . . . (getting calculator . . . hitting multiply by mistake, fuck . . .) is 39.    That means, using Newton's Laww of Give or Take, middle aged is really between say, 36 and 42.  After that it is a loooong, slow, unnatural, fight against evolution, Mother Nature, and God.  If you're disagreeing, think of it like this:  If you applied the same logic to middle school, in 8th grade you'd be getting your master's.
Addendum:  Those numbers are really for white people.  For black men especially, middle age starts around  . . . NOW.

Also interestingly, the U.S. is 38th in the world in Life expectancy.  Behind Costa Rica, Chile, and Cuba.  We loves us some white bread.
And we're just ahead of Portugal at 39 and Slovenia at 40.  We're in the neighborhood of Slovenia.  What is the deal with that?

2.  Have you seen the Chrysler town and country ad (linked here because I couldn't find it on you tube.  Middle of the page.)?

The one in black and white where the whole world goes slow-motion and little children all stare, slack-jawed and drooling, as the new Town and Country mini van drives by.  Two things:  First, I'm pretty sure all those kids were slo-mo thinking was, "dooouuucchhee- baaaaag."  Second:  From the way it was shot it looks like the advertisers were big fans of old, scary, WW3 nuclear holocaust preparedness films.  The Chrysler town and country mini van:  Now with Mutant repellant!  Get under your desks kids, the Town and Country is gonna blow!

3.  I enjoy the tv show House.  But what is with the surgeon-he goes by the name Chase-on that show?  Apparently, his talent as a surgeon is unsurpassed.  I can conclude that because I've seen him do surgeries in at least 8 different specialties.  Vascular, Cardiac, brain, orthopedic.  Doesn't matter what ails you, you come on in and Chase will carve you up.  I think if I were having surgery, I'd pass on the jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none dude for the specialized surgeon, but that's just me.

Must have been quite the internship he went through.  By my calculations, which I arrived at through guessing, he would have to be at least 55 to have mastered all those specialties.  That'd make him like, middle-aged.

Friday, January 22, 2010

The Bakery

I took the kids for a lovely walk today.  The air was bracing and everywhere we looked there were glittering star bursts of sunshine on melting snow.  We went to the local bakery.  A small, busy establishment packed full of colorful pastries, varied and delicious enough to make a diabetic weep.

My baby boy the Pumpkin Man started fussing in his carriage.  I think the sight and smell of the cakes and pies and pizzas and cannoli assaulted his poor senses until he could no longer stand it.  I know how he feels.  His older sister, only 2 and 2/3 mind you, walked over to him and smiled and began to sing in a quiet lilting voice.  He met her gaze and grinned and became calm.

When I was finished with my purchases, I bent close to make sure they were secure and ready to head home.  This is what I heard my daughter sing:  "Big Pimpin', Spendin' Cheese . . . "


Wednesday, January 20, 2010

What's up Wednesday/ Peanut love

Reason 56473 I am feuding with Dora the Explorer:

(Repeat) Dora the Explorer "The Big Potato," (2003)  Benny the Bull accidentally turns himself into a big potato with a magic wand he found.  (Educational)

Aside from the fact that the writer of this episode was suffering from severe heat stroke when he wrote it, there's this:  "(Educational)"   "Yeah honey, that giant bull is now a tremendous potato.  That's science."


Lately we've been gently toying (toying, family readers)with the idea of adopting a baby.  I've been de-spermed, and my wife wants a third.  We floated the idea by the Peanut.

"Peanut honey, would you like a new baby?  Would you honey? Another baby like your brother?"

Her:  Yeah.  Three babies.

Us:  Three babies?  (Authors note:  No.)

Her: Yeah.

Me:  What color would they be?

Her:  Pink

Me:  Pink?  What are their names?

Her:  Baby Pink.

Me:  Baby Pink?

Her: Yeah.

Me: What would the other babies names be?

Her:  Baby Brown.

Me: Brown and what?

Her: Blue.

Me:  Have you ever seen Reservoir Dogs?

Her:  Yeah

That could be.  She has a huge Harvey Keitel poster in her room.

One more Peanut conversation.

Sometimes I'll have these conversations with her where although she is talking to me, I know she's not really paying attention.  She's playing a game and I better play along or else it's a shiv in the calf for daddy.  It's times like these I'll sneak shit past her just because I know my wife'll laugh.  This one was about the cartoon Max and Ruby.  Max and Ruby are 3 and 7 years old and there are never any parents in any episode.  Just an occasional appearance by a grandma carrying desert.  It makes watching weird:

Her:  (to me)  Honey. Honey.  You're Ruby.  You're Ruby, daddy. DADDY, you're Ruby.

Me:  I'm Ruby?

Her:  Yeah.  And I'm Max.

Me:  Oh yeah?  Well in that case Max, you better get your ass upstairs and get cleaned up.  Grandma is coming over with one of her shitty cakes so we can pretend we're a real family.

My wife:  Laughing her ass off.

At this point the peanut is off and playing whatever episode she had on her mind.  These opportunities are becoming very rare as she gets older.  Sigh.

Finally, I buried this at the end of a long post because I hope most of you won't get this far.  I blew it with nursing school this semester.  I had financial aid issues and I suck at bureaucracy.  I tried very hard, for me.  At one point I brought the whole family to the financial aid office and had my wife assert her(very scary when she wants to be)self until we could talk to someone in charge of something.  But bureaucracy to me is like sky-diving or terrorism or a zombie attack is to other people.  Scary and overwhelming.  I'm not giving up.  I'm going in this week to make sure I can sign up for summer classes.  5 1/2 months should be enough time for me to get my shit together.

On the positive side, that development is going to give all of us so much more time together this winter and spring.  You're welcome.


Homemaker Man

Monday, January 18, 2010

Ok, This is the Fo' Realz Sh!!

Last night I posted a song parody for the blogger idol contest over on  I liked it but it was really more of a space saver.  I didn't start it til late last evening and etc.  I put it up because I felt obligated to get a post up before midnight for a contest in which I am not competing.  Issues, I gots'em.  This next one is what I meant to say.  It goes out to my baby son, The Pumpkin Man.  Sung to the tune of Big Pimpin' by Jay-Z.  The original lyrics and video are at the bottom.  It might help to give it a listen so you have the beat in your head.  

Big Pumpkin'

(intro)Uh, uh uh uh
It’s Big Pumpkin baby
It’s Big Pumpkin growin’ teeth
Feel me.. uh-huh uhh, uh-huh..
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah..

You know I, hug’ im, change ’im, love’ im, feed ’ im
But he’s still fuckin’ screamin’
Take ‘im out the chair, let ’im pull my hair
But he’s still fuckin’ teethin’
First time he fuss, I’m lookin’
Is it the, food I’m cookin’?
I’m a dad in every sense of the word, kid
Better hug and squeeze ’im

In the bjorn where I keep ’im
Til he kicks my nuts, feel the pain up in my guts Then his
Beep-beep is  pickin’ ‘im up
Let ’im play with the keys to the truck
Ok, so it’s a forrester what the fuck?
Meanwhile I wipe baby muck
Just because you got big head, I’m a play dead
So you can be spittin’ it up? 
Shit I…

Won’t stop tryin,
Y’all be cryin’
Is it diaper rash I’m spyin’?
You say yes, I say you’re lyin’
Me Desitin re-applyin’
I am his big pappy
I make him happy
I need more patience

Want a vacation
Takin’ donations
Don’t CRY-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.. check ‘im out now
Don’t CRY-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.. check ‘im out now

I’m beggin’ Big Pumpkin, quiet please
Check ‘im out now
Big pumpkin, stop screamin’ at me
I’m beggin’  big pumpkin please eat your string cheese
It’s just that Pumpkin Man, HM, and P-N-U-T. 

Yo, yo, yo, Big Pumpkin, quiet please
I’m beggin’, Big pumpkin stop screamin’ at me
I'm beggin', big pumpkin please eat your string cheese
It’s just that Pumpkin Man, HM, and P-N-U-T.

Big Pimpin' Original Lyrics By Jay-Z

(Intro)Uhh, uh uh uh
It's big pimpin baby..
It's big pimpin, spendin G's
Feel me.. uh-huh uhh, uh-huh..
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah..

You know I, thug 'em, fuck 'em, love 'em, leave 'em,
cause I don't fucking need 'em
Take 'em out the hood, keep 'em lookin' good
But I don't fuckin feed e'm
First time they fuss I'm breezin
Talkin bout, "What's the reasons?"
I'm a pimp in every sense of the word, bitch
Better trust and believe 'em

In the cut where I keep 'em
Til I need a nut, til I need to beat the guts Then it's, Beep beep and I'm pickin 'em up
Let em play with the dick in the truck
Many chicks wanna put Jigga fist in cuffs
Divorce him and split his bucks
Just because you got good head, I'm a break bread
so you can be livin it up?
Shit I…

Parts with nothin,
Y'all be frontin
Me give my heart to a woman?
Not for nothin, never happen
I'll be forever mackin
Heart cold and assassins,
I got no passion
I got no patience

And I hate waitin
Hoe get yo' ass in
And let's RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah
And let's RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah

We doin, big pimpin, we spendin cheese
Check em out now
Big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
We doin, big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B

Yo yo yo, big pimpin, spendin cheese
We doin, big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
We doin, big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B

P.S.  Think Beyonce' ever plays this song and then puts on Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It) and laughs and laughs?

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Round 3 of the contest I'm not in: Parody IMPORTANT UPDATE

This is the 3rd week of the Blogger Idol humor contest over at  I am not a contestant in this contest, yet this is my 3rd straight entry (first two are here and here) .  I'm the Don Quixote of Bloggy-ville.   This week's theme is  parody.  I've gone with a song parody because apparently my sense of humor is on loan from the local morning zoo radio show.  I have parodied the song Time in A Bottle, by Jim Croce.  I offer no apologies for this to Mr. Croce, as I am quite sure he is a total pussy and that my wife could kick his ass.  He might also be dead.  

I chose this song because I heard it on a commercial this morning and it's been in my head all day.  I have kept it real to the Homemaker Man way of life.  Included at the bottom aret he original lyrics and the video if anyone needs to hear it first.   Ok then.

UPDATE:  While I like the way this one came out, I've got a better one coming tomorrow.  I can do that because I'm not in the contest.  Word.

Time In a Buh-Buh

If I could save time in a buh-buh
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is save every day
Til eternity passes away
And make my kids miss their two's

If I could make days last forever
Well, often they already do
When you start with two babes at 5 in the morn
By noon you are pretty much through

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Like a shower
And when the kids have gone to sleep
I look around and I’m knee deep
In laundry

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be chalk full
Of O’s and a waffle
That had fallen inside it in June

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I look around and see my wife
And hope that she will play my “fife”
Then; snoring

Original: Time in a Bottle – Jim Croce

If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that I'd like to do
Is to save every day
Till Eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you

If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
I'd save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come true
The box would be empty
Except for the memory
Of how they were answered by you

But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with

Friday, January 15, 2010

how do I love thee, homemaker man UPDATE

Today, we watched an animated poetry sort of intro show for children that we dvr'd a long time ago when we still had the hbo.

It had kids reading and talking about poems and then animated interpretations of poems that were narrated by celebrities.

Tracy Morgan reads
Sonnet 18 .    I Sing the Body Electric as interpreted by Mr. T.

I wish, kind of.

how do I love thee was my daughter's favorite.  it had bunnies.  The Max and Ruby influence.   It was a mom bunny reading
how do I love thee to her baby.  We talked about what it meant.  She got very upset when it was over,  After she pulled herself together, she said this to me:

"how do I love you
I love your breath, honey
I love you in the sun
I love you with all the birdies, honey (there were birds in the cartoon)"

I am completely overcome.

XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


I hear her in the play area.  She's repeating "how do I love you, how do I love you?  I love you so like sun,"  I smile.

She comes into the living room cradling a plastic purple car.  "This is Max," she tells me.  She then continues to whisper sweet ways of love into Max the car's non-existent ears.  Daddy balloon officially deflated.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Morning Quickie: Boo Yah! (that's what she said)

Two quick things:

Playlist for morning 2 of the 1/2 hr dance hr-

ABC_Jackson 5
Rock Lobster-B-52's.  Great dancing with the kids music
Blister in the sun-Violent Femmes
Vivrant Thing-Q-tip
Insane in The Membrane-Cypress Hill
Straight Outta Compton-NWA (what?)

I rummaged around in the itunes account and came up with this stuff.  The kids did not enjoy it as much as yesterday.  Which is to say, they didn't enjoy it.  We'll try again tomorrow.

Parts of a couple others.  Thanks for suggestions.  Keep them coming.

A couple more links/places for people looking to donate to Haitian relief:

You can text “HAITI” to 90999 to donate $10 to American Red Cross relief for Haiti, or visit Mercy Corps:

Text "Yele" to 501501 to donate $5 to Yele Haiti (Wyclef Jean's foundation), or visit Rachel Maddow's comprehensive list of charitable organizations working with the relief effort:

Or you can also visit the Suburban Correspondent's  site for some info.

Have a lovely day people.  


Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Homemaker Man 1/2 Hour Dance Hour in Full Effect

It's time to get this place moving people.  Everyone around here is lazy and slothful and fat.  And by everyone, I mean me and two of the cats.

Today we instituted the Homemaker Man 1/2 hour Dance Hour.

 I put on Off The Wall and Shook It til It Broke.
All over the living room like a giant egg yoke.

Gross, y'all.

Picture if you will, a man moving with the comic abandon of Robin Williams in The Birdcage (Twyla, Twyla, Twyla . . .)  and the desperate, corn-fed, clumsiness of Elizabeth Berkely in Showgirls.  With better tits.

My children alternated between being swept up in the enthusiasm and abject disgust.  Didn't know a one year old had that in him, but he does.  I've also gotten a nice glimpse of my daughter's future teen, "OMG Dad, what is wrong with you?!" face.

Still, at times my cheerful flabby flailing (like a sea cow at a rave, maybe?  That image do anything for anyone?) managed to induce definite dance like movements.  When they didn't have their backs turned to me, pretending to read.

Nice try.  I KNOW you mutha fuckahs can't read.  I mean, the Peanut has a good number of sight words, but ThE Waste Land?  Yeah, right.  I can't read that shit and I'm at nearly a 12th grade reading level

All in all, I feel much better than I thought I would.  The endorphins are pumping, my energy level is up and my bod . . . oops.   My groin just fell out.

(long) Windedly,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  I don't own a lot of good dance music, so if any one has suggestions, I welcome them.   Stuff we (I) can sing along with at the same time would be much appreciated.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

This one gets a little hairy.

This is the entry for the second week of the Blog-off over at .  The one in which I am not a contestant but for which I continue to write entries .  This week's subject is a true childhood anecdote.  Good luck with this one.

It was me, my boy R and my other boy D.  Hanging out in my room.  Sleepover.  Mom's way downstairs, she's got no idea what the hell is going on.  We're 11ish or so.  Lying on my floor.

We're talking the deep shit.  The important shit.  The heavy, life shit.

"Dude," says D, "You got pubes?'

R:  "Yeah, I got pubes."

Me:  "Me too!"  Do you have pubes?"

D: "Yeah I got pubes.  Lots."

Me:  "No way."

R: (shrugs.  He's the cool one.)

D:  "Yes, I do.  All over."

Me:  "Really?"

D:  "Yup."

R:  "Me too."

Me:  (I'm getting uncertain now.) "Well, me too, I guess.  Yeah.  Lots of pubes."

R:  "You don't know?"

Me:  "I well, I mean I think I do.  I'm not sure."

R and D:  "What.  How can you not be sure?  Either they're there or not,  Stupid!"  And various other exclamations of disbelief and ridicule.

Me:  "Whatever.  You guys probably don't either."

D:  "Yeah I do.  Check it out."

As he says this, the bastard pulls his pants down to just below his pubic bone and WHAM, their they are.  A wispy but definitely present thatch of dark longish and curlies.  They're mocking me.

Me:  "Holy shit, they're long."

R:  "That's what they look like."  BAM.  Once again I am assaulted by a friend's approaching manliness.

Me:  "Shit.  I'm not sure."

Them: " Doitwediditletssee etc."

Me:  "Hold on!"

Them:  C'mon kiddon'tbeapussy, etc.

Me: I pry open the waistband of my pants and take a peek, then I go for it.  I display a pubic area of peach fuzz.

Them: Pause. Crane necks.  Look.   "Yeah you got'em dude, I see em, me too!"

Me:  "Pubes!" I flash my peachy boy huevos at the room.

Them:  Laughing hysterically

Me:  FLASH.  "Pubes!"  Cover.  "Mother Fucking Pubes!"  FLASH.

This becomes a running joke for the rest of the evening.  I have my machismo intact and I am cracking up my two best friends.  Life is good.


Epilogue:  I probably should leave this part out, but I'm not actually in the contest, so I figure I can go ahead and sabotage myself.  The night took a macabre turn when my mom knocked and entered to inform me that the cat had gotten out and WHAM.  Not pubes.  Car.  She then informed me that they (her boyfriend) had already buried the poor thing in the park down the street.  Which is so odd.  I cried.  My friends understood.  We shook it off and talked about girls we thought were hot (Lisa almost has boobs!) and then had a vicious pillow fight.  Such is the true nature of Male puberty.  Emerging sexuality, death, vague (or not so vague, in some kid's cases) homo-eroticism, and violence.  All in a night's work.

Homemaker Man

Friday, January 8, 2010

An Award? For me? You better believe it.

Check it, my first award.  I received it from Brittany over at Unexpected Surprises.  She gave it to me because of all the blogs she reads I am her, "favorite male blogger. " Pretty heady words.  I did some research.  It seems I am the "only male blogger," Brittany reads.  You know what I say to that?   I got an award!  Thank you to Brittany.  Who, by the way, is a talented artist and who also happens to be doing a give away of her art on her blog right now.

The rules are I have to list ten things-in no particular order- that make me happy and then pick a few bloggers to award.

My wife  and kids being the obvious choices, and a little ass kissy, lets see if I can go a different direction.

1.  Doritos.  They also make me sad because I've never found a bag that doesn't run out.

2.  Watching my 70 lb dog freeze up and refuse to move because my 9 1/2 lb siamese is yelling at her.

3.  Michael Jackson's Off The Wall.  I know who he is and everything, but that album is fucking great, and that's that.  Also, he's dead now, so it's all good.

4.  Our new TV.  In comparison the old one was like watching stuff through a grimy 4 inch think 40 year old submarine porthole.  The new one is like watching stuff through heaven.

5.  Making my wife laugh so hard soda shoots out her nose.  That doesn't count.

6.    In # 2 I lied about my cat's weight.  She's more like 10 or 11 lbs.   I'm sorry. Please forgive me.

7.  Forgiveness

8.  O Magazine

9.  My Wife

10.  My kids

Shit.  I tried but the fact is I just keep thinking of things like the first time my kids actually played together or the fact that The Peanut ends 60% of her sentences with the word "honey." Like she's a 50 year-old, tough-as-nails exterior'd diner waitress with a giant beehive and a heart of gold.  Or that despite the fact that the Pumpkin man cries at the drop of a hat sometimes-he's kind of a bitch, really-he never stops throwing himself about wildly, searching for his next thrill, and always leading with his giant head.

Or when I pick up my wife from work and I get a kiss and a great story about her day.   What can I say, I'm a sucker.

Thanks again to Brittany.  And when I say this is my first award, I mean it.  I'm up for a Tony.  Best performance of a Chorus Line's "Dance: Ten; Looks: Three," by a dude alone in his car.  I nail that shit.

If you don't know the song, just watch until about the 25-30 second mark or so. You'll get the idea.

I will now hand out this award to 4 people.  These are mostly people who have small blogs and who are either family or friends.  So's not to hurt anyone's feelings out there.

Tumbleweed at Lap Noodles .  She is my wife and she is brilliant and everyone should read her stuff.

TekieTek at The Salt Shaker .   This is my cousin and one of my family's favorite people in the world.

Viv at A Proud Mom To Many .  Viv is just the best.  And if you want to read stories about a lovely family where CRAZY shit goes down sometimes, read Viv.  Crazy.  Shit.

Candice at Life According to Candice .  Candice is hilarious and has a lot of followers and probably gets a ton of these awards and probably hates them. But she was one of the first people to comment regularly and make me feel like someone liked what I wrote.  So fuck her, she gets one.

Flushed with a sense of accomplishment,

Homemaker Man

P.S.  The cat might be closer to 12 lbs.  Again, I am sorry.

Update:  P.P.S.  I know there are rules about how people are supposed to pass these things on to other people.  I don't feel comfortable with that so for those that take the button for their blog, do it however you want to do it.  Making the happy list is fun, though.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Blogger Idolize Myself for the Hell of it.

Over at the widely read , there is a blog-off  going on. The participants are calling it Blogger Idol.  Starting this week, he has picked 10 deserving bloggers to take part in a weekly competition where they all have to write a post about a given subject.  This week's is a current events satirical article.  It sounds like fun, but I wasn't invited.  Probably because he doesn't know I exist and I'm more of an affable dad blogger than an actual humor blogger.  Anyway, I like this sort of thing, so I wrote an unofficial entry for this weeks current events satire contest.  It starts right below this sentence.   Hope you enjoy.

Healthcare reform.  Without a doubt, we need it .  The president claims that reforming health care alone could go a long way to healing our economy.  And as a moral nation, it behooves us to take care of our own.  But the cost . . . prohibitive.  Why?  One reason:  Old people .  Old people cost a ton of money to take care of.  Because they are old.  What do we do about it?  Well we can't go all Logan's Run on people.  Murder is wrong and I'm over thirty.  We could try shipping them out of the country, but old people travel for shit and I'm pretty sure some of them would spoil before getting to their destination.

Don't fret though.   I have a plan.  We can reform healthcare and eliminate one of the main complaints of old people-the cost of prescription drugs- in one fell swoop.

When citizens of the U.S. turn 55, they get all their prescription narcotics for free.  Percs, medical marijuana, Oxycontin.  Hell for people over 55, I say we legalize everything and let them have at it.  Who can tell the difference when grandpa is napping because he's tired or when he's on the nod from a balloon of heroin anyway?  Six of one, half dozen of the other.

You're now thinking, "that seems wonderfully compassionate, but how does it save us any money?"  Great question.  The answer:  This is the only health care that old people receive.  No surgery, pt, wellness visits, respirators, oxygen tanks, insulin, dentures, in-home nurses, or any other form of medical coddling for the senior set.  Just drugs.  And lots of'em.  Arthritis kicking up?  Just ride that dilaudid drip.  Grammy won't even notice that broken hip if she's high on morphine.  Alzheimer's disease?  Say hello to Mr. LSD.  What's the dif?  Grandkids don't visit?  Ecstasy.

Imagine, as our older people (there will be no more OLD people) start dying off, they'll die happily and peacefully.  Or strung out on crystal meth.  Whatever they prefer.  Hell, this even solves the problem of term limits in congress.  We all admire Robert Byrd's pluck, but considering that his last 37 votes on the floor of the senate have all been against women's suffrage*, I think we can agree that it's time for him to go.  Hopefully via a bottle of absinthe.

I'd even be willing to throw in the installation of free rechargeable Rascal stations all over the country.  That way they can easily cart their stoned old asses around from one fix to the next without the indignity of having to ask a younger person for a ride.

This is a flawless plan, America.  We will save trillions of dollars  and our senior citizens . . . well, what senior citizens?  We will save trillions of dollars and anyone still alive after 55 will be patently hilarious.

And for the record, I can personally speak to the effectiveness of the plan.  I was on a very similar one throughout most of my twenties.

This won't be easy.  I'm pretty sure that the AARP (who else'll read those shitty magazines) and Wilford Brimley will fight this plan fake-tooth and nail.  And lord knows, old people love to vote.  So the rest of us have to stand strong.  Old people are our nation's most valuable resource. So how can we, in good conscience, continue to let them get so old?  Besides, it's against nature.  And good taste.

America, together we can reform healthcare.  Together, we can heal the economy.  Together we can end women's suffrage.  Whatever that means. Together, Americans can achieve greatness.  Except for you, pops.

Author's note:  The age for this plan used to be 50, but I now feel that's cutting it a little close.

Footnote:  Senator Robert Byrd's record on women is only somewhat lousy.  He really hates black people.  And  gay people.   .  Women are usually just a bonus.  Just wanted to mention that. In the interest of fairness.  Although, hating black people definitely includes hating black women.  So never mind.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Maybe the last haiku Sunday and a new gimmick or two

I am leaving my post as the Zamboni Killer.  School is starting soon and I need my sundays for homework and family time or some shit like that.  Either this week or next will be my last.  I will attempt to ride off into the sunset on my trusty Zamboni, but that will entail me committing a combination of between 4 and 27 misdemeanors and felonies.  Should be fun.

I will be starting a new feature called Scary Sushi Sundays.  This will be where I buy and consume sushi from places that seem like frightening ideas where sushi is concerned.  This will probably be twice a month tops rather than weekly.  For the sake of my health.  My plan is to go until I encounter explosive diarrhea.

My wife  is in on this too, against her will.  She at least has to take a bite.  I am being reasonable about it.  Like, if I happen to pick up some fatty tuna from a gas station in Tulsa, she gets a pass.  Otherwise, it's like the marriage vows say,  til death do us part.  Or explosive diarrhea.

So far I have tried the local supermarket:  Surprisingly delicious and cheap.  A local corner market/butcher shop.  These were very bad.  And cheap.  I tried the california roll because the only other choice was spicy salmon and that shit looked crusty.

The rice was sticky sweet, reminiscent of rice pudding, and the ingredients inside were huge chunks of avocado and carrot and imitation crab meat.  Instead of the usual sushi technician, an expert craftsmen with a sharp knife, it looked like they just had WWE superstar Triple H rend the ingredients with his bare hands.  Which is also what they tasted like.  Sweaty wrestler hands.

But no tummy trouble.

Tonight, I tried mall sushi.  Red Snapper and Tuna.  Nothing to report.  Fairly decent.  Sorry for the let down.  I promise some stomach cramps in the near future.


I found out something about myself.  I enjoy O magazine, but not the show.  How can that be?  I'm confused.

Wind bludgeons, snow, drifts.
Folks trudge, face down, heavy legged.
lets play some hockey.

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