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. Update: 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.

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?)
Violet-Hole

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:https://donate.mercycorps.org/donation.htm?DonorIntent=Haiti+Earthquake



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:http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/34834553/ns/msnbc_tv-rachel_maddow_show



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


Have a lovely day people.  


HM

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.

This one gets a little hairy.

This is the entry for the second week of the Blog-off over at knucklehead.com .  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.


THE END







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

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.

Blogger Idolize Myself for the Hell of it.

Over at the widely read knuckleheadhumor.com , 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.

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.

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I found out something about myself.  I enjoy O magazine, but not the show.  How can that be?  I'm confused.
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Wind bludgeons, snow, drifts.
Folks trudge, face down, heavy legged.
lets play some hockey.