(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