Top 10 Things Dads Do Better Than Moms

Over at Babble.com, an article was recently written entitled Top 10 Things Mothers Do Better Than Fathers. It's caused a lot of consternation in the world of parent blogging. Probably because the writer illustrates in great detail about how few parenting abilities a father (himself) has when compared with a mother (his wife). In the spirit of community, generosity, support, and solidarity with our fellow dad bloggers, we here at Musings From The Big Pink have written our own list of the Top 10 Things Dads Do Better Than Moms. We believe this will definitely clear up any confusion about or animosity towards the original post as well as imbuing with confidence those dads who feel as inept in their parenting roles as the writer of the original post seems to feel. 

1. Playing catch

Everyone knows that it's a dad's job to play catch with their kids. Or their sons, at any rate. Moms just don't have the genetic catching ability. Everyone knows women's hands are made mostly of silk and fragile crystal. That's why they're so much better at soft things like diaper changing.  Don't throw a ball to your mom. You'll just break her hands. 

2. Punching

Dads are just better at punching. They just are. They punch more things more often for a larger variety of reasons than moms ever do. Also, see #1 re: Mom hands.

3. Disciplining the children

Everyone knows, moms can't discipline their children. Their voices are all high pitched and soft and all they want to do is snuggle. Also, it's a little known fact that moms are not biologically able to say things like, "go to your room, " or "you're grounded." Their lips and tongues actually can't form those phrases. It's science. That's why they're always saying "Wait til your father gets home." Which brings me to number 5.

5. Working. At a job. For like, money.

Dads work. They bring home the bacon so the moms can fry it up in a pan. Dads are just better suited to the demands of the work-a-day world than are the fragile, lazy moms. Don't get me wrong, raising kids is hard work. Just not as hard as actually working.  

6. Dispensing wisdom. 

Dads are natural founts of wisdom. With all the years they've spent working and punching things, they've learned a thing or two about life. A mom can tell you how to wash your ears, but when it comes to understanding human nature, forget it. They've got their heads in the clouds.

7. Math

This one is pretty much self-explanatory. One plus one equals man, baby. It's in the Bible, I'm pretty sure. Plus (a math term) with all the remembering recipes and  shopping for the house, moms just don't have the brain space left over for dealing with numbers. 

8. Science

Moms are way too squeamish for science. Science includes things like fluids and gravity and so forth. Try explaining those things to someone who changes diapers all day. 

9. Driving

Moms are notoriously bad drivers. That's why the only driving they do is to and from school, play dates, and extra-curricular activities with the kids, to go shopping, and to pick dads up from the train when they get home from work. 

10. Fixing things

Moms never fix things. It's just not natural for them. For one thing, there is the problem with their hands. Also, the math involved. Finally, anyone who spends their day kissing booboos, snuggling, cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, and shopping would not have the first idea about how to use tools. Dads automatically know how to use tools from the time their first offspring is born. Or even before that, really. I'd say most men who become dads have known how to use their own tools at least since puberty. It's a Dad skill, plain and simple. 

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 This is not a complete list. There are many many other areas in life at which dads excel over their female counterparts. Lifting things, fantasy football, serial killing . . . the list is endless. We offer up this handful of Dad only skills and abilities in order to boost the self-esteem of those dads out there who so often feel like the lesser parent. Let the healing begin. 

Source

Brain Farts.

These are the things that need doing:

1. I'm dropping a night a week at work. The cash will be missed, but the house constantly teeters on the edge of chaos, The Pman can't read, I do laundry on a "who needs underwear first?" basis, I'm not writing enough, I get sick now (strep throat and a cold at the same time last week. It was totes awesome.), the dog has taken to peeing in the house sometimes,  I get maybe 5 hours of sleep a night because my sleep schedule is screwed, and I tried to pour food for the cats the other night from a box of Triscuits.

2. We've got to pick a school for the Peanut to attend next year. We've toured most of the elementary schools in the city, interviewed principals and guidance councilors, gone through their trash at night when the schools are closed, and we've narrowed it to two choices. The lucky winner will receive a rose upon the evening of our decision. Mostly, it's about feel. My wife asked all the good "I'm a professional educator" questions, I've got an email to write to another principal, and then we'll know. Overall, we've been generally impressed with the quality of the schools. Lots of music and art, new Macs, and special lamination services for those families who are inflicted with paper plate heads.

3. The yard is all savannah height grass and dog poop. I will rent a flame thrower.

4. The Avengers.

5. We've got a ballet recital to attend in a few weeks and I look like a bad sausage when I'm in my leotard. My wife and I just sent away for P90. Not P90X. We're not ready for something that high up in the alphabet yet. I think we got P90 O. For Owie.

I've been trying to run a few miles 3 times a week after work, but I work on my feet all day. In a bakery. So after carb loading and working standing up all day, my fat ass is pretty much like "Uh no. We won't have any of that."

6. We're buying camping equipment. We've already booked a couple camp sights. I was not a big fan of camping as a kid, but I figured I should give a try. It's a pretty cheap way to get the kids out of the city for the summer and my wife promised me I'd get a chance to do it in a tent. Or she will promise me once she reads this. Or maybe she won't. Either way, I'm committed.

Alright. That's it. Peace out.

HM

"Cool as a Cucumber in a Bowl of Hot Sauce"

Just a brief non-maudlin (I hope) reflection on the passing of MCA, and by extension, the Beastie Boys:

He started out as the scariest one (scary being a relative term when you're talking about 3 self-parodying white Jewish boys) with whom to party; assuming you had fought for and won the necessary right to do so. Leather jacket, squinty eyes, and a grown man's five o'clock shadow. Like the dangerous kid in your class who was supposed to be a year ahead and actually knew where to get weed.

And then as they got older, he became a proponent of buddhism. He became reflective of and concerned with the actions his lyrics could cause. He grew up first and he took us with him. He was still a blast to hang out with, but he also talked about responsibility, non-violence, and love for your fellow man. The coolest dad on the block was also the wisest.

Here's the simple thing about the Beastie's music. They were fun and they made everyone feel cool. Which is a straight paradox, making everyone feel cool. It's such a warm thing for an artist to do. Skater, baller, or suburban couch potato, we were all Brooklyn bound wise asses when we listened to the Beastie Boys.

It's the joy in their music that makes it so infectious. It's music that's joyous, funny, clever, thoughtful, cool, gleefully self-effacing, and just always comes through with fucking funky beats man. And it could make you feel that way too. Especially if you were whiling away your early teens as the only Jewish boy in a town of 2500 people.  Of course, I was the closest thing to a Beastie Boy most of those people had ever met, so there's that.

So . . . thank you Adam Yauch. And Rest in Mutha Fuckin' Peace.

Memenschanz

I've been meme'd. I have to answer eleven questions. Eleven! That is like, way more than ten. And unacceptable. Here we go:

1. Ginger or MaryAnn? Who would choose either of those played out ho's? For me, it's Lovey, all the way, baby. Lets do it on a pile of useless wealth, Mrs.-make-me-Howell! Aaahhwooooooh!
2. What would you use to dilute water? Hubris 
3. What mnemonic would you use to help you remember how to spell “mnemonic”?My nana eats mostly old nose inhalers, chief. 
4. What is your theme song? The Bare Necessities. Or Mm Bau Bau. Chicka chicka. 
5. Cake or pie, and what kind? Ahh, the eternal struggle. Not to be taken lightly. I believe I appreciate good pie more, becauser it's very rare. And delicious. Mediocre to bad pie abounds and I cannot stomach it. I am much more likely to eat mediocre cake. I am doing so right now. So, cake. Chocolate with white frosting. Classic.
6. What’s the worst movie you ever saw in its entirety? Hot Shots part Deux. So high when we saw it that when my friends and I cam upon a mall security guard, I actually beseeched them--via stage whisper--to "be cool, be cool." And it took us three separate tries to buy tickets without laughing. Then we bought tickets and didn't laugh again for two hours.  Lot of choices for this one, though. I could make a list. 
7. What celebrity would you NOT mind your significant other having a one-nighter with? Author, supermodel, ex-famous novelist groupie, and Top Chef host Padma Lakshmi. A delightful combination of brains and humminah humminah. And she's our agreed upon acceptable celebrity crush. Also, maybe Ron Swanson. 
8. Six of one or half a dozen of the other? Depends on the standards of measurement. In Europe it'd be six of one. Here, half a dozen.  In Canada, it'd be a baker's dozen, those socialist bastards.
9. What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk? Horde it. 
10. Vampires or zombies – which would you try to kill first? Vampires if my daughter ever tries to marry one. Otherwise, still vampires. 
11. Who are three people who’ve never been in my kitchen? Any and all of the Jonas Brothers in any form.

Alright now for the fun part. Those who will be tagged. But first, the rules:

1. You must post the rules.
2. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in the post, and then create 11 new questions to ask the people you've tagged.
3. Tag 11 bloggers, however, you can break the rules and tag fewer people if you want. Make sure you hyperlink their names/blogs.
4. Let them know you've tagged them!
5. Have fun!

Next, the questions:

1. Have you ever stolen anything in your life(don't answer this if it's a felony still under the stature of limitations. Disclaimed)?
2. Can you read my mind?
3. Coopon or Q-pon (there is a correct answer here)?
4. Medium rare or vegetarian?
5. How many angels fit on the head of a pin? 
6. What's the frequency, Kenneth?
7. What does it have in it's pockets?
8. If you were ever sent to prison, and you couldn't get your hands on a spoon or a toothbrush, out of what would you fashion your shiv?
9. If you could 100% ensure your children have one specific quality when they grow up, what would it be?
10. In order to save the world, you have to do seven minutes in heaven in a broom closet with either Vladimir Putin, Newt Gingrich, or the corpse of Elizabeth Taylor. Who do you choose?
11. What is your desert island ice cream brand and flavor?

Bloggers tagged.

The More the Messier

And I'll Raise you 5

think.stew
Sarah in Le Petit Village
Luke, I am your father
Knucklehead
The Salt Shaker
Wrestling With Retirement



Good luck and have fun, everybody.

The Art of Negotiation or "Hey, I'm Jewish too."

It happened at work.

He came to the fresh bread area, along with his sidekick. We recognized each other immediately. He was older than me. Grey and mostly bald. He nodded at the sale bread (a kind of mild sourdough boule. Price: $2.00) and asked, "How is it?"

"It's good." I replied.

Then he started to make a series of slight head nods, shrugs, eyebrow raises, and hand movements which among my tribe translates roughly as, " So, whadderwe gonna do here, huh? Can we do something here? Hm, huh, whaddya think? What can you do for me."

I responded in kind. My delicate dance of body english replying, "I don't know? We'll see. Let's talk."

His sidekick chuckled.

He motioned with the brown bagged loaf of bread he was already holding in his left hand. It was a fresh loaf of olive bread. Good choice. "I love this bread," he said,  "but it costs six bucks."

I indicated the sale breads and said, "Well, you can buy this one, get a jar of olives for 3 bucks, jam the olives into the loaf of bread (I making short, quick jabbing motions with my thumb as I talk, so as to indicate how one should jam olives) and save yourself a dollar."

"I'll take it," he replied.

And that's how we do it in the old country.

Qf course, it wasn't about the price or my moronic idea. It was about the love of the chase. The thrill of the sarcasm blowing through your hair and the attitude pounding through your veins. That's what people misunderstand about the Jews.  We're not cheap, we just like to argue.

Justice is subjective

Is there balance in the Universe? Well . . .

We went out to dinner the other night. A big deal around here. My new job affords us an occasional luxury, the kids had their first swim class of the recent session, and I had cleverly set our refrigerator's thermometer to "Mold." So it was in the cards.

We had seen a glowing review for this new nearby fusion joint on our favorite local tv news magazine, and my wife suggested we try it. The place is located in Chelsea, MA which is the sort of place that would be so charming and urbane and convenient and vibrant if not for all the fires and rapes. But in the daylight it's safe and the new restaurant is part of a valiant attempt at revival being made by the city. We support that kind of shit. 

We arrived and had to climb a set of blond wooden stairs to get to the smallish dining room. The dining room was outfitted in dark, armless, cushioned chairs, tables of black wood, and other touches that implored, "We're just as stylish as Boston. Please Believe me!"

We were the only ones there as we were early for your typical dinner service because we have two small kids. For us "midnight" means "10:30."

The woman who turned out to be both our server and the hostess greeted us with a shocked look. Her face quickly followed that up with annoyance, anger, disappointment, and finally reluctant acceptance. The Five Stages of Grief for assholes. Clearly, this was not a family friendly establishment. They obviously have aspirations of catapulting themselves into the "hip eatery" category of restaurant. Which will happen never.  But, as I stated, we were the only ones there, we were hungry, and our Family Motto is, "Go fuck yourself." We sat. She waited on us. 

The food was good. The prices were very good compared to across the river in Boston. I'm not sure it's deserving of the title fusion as the food was all either Vietnamese or Thai and very little of it was both. That's like fusing Greek and Italian food or Beyonce' with a cyborg set to "achieve Fame."  Not much of a leap.

The service continued to be straight bitchy. Clipped sentences, no "thank yous" or "you're welcomes," and a look on her face like we'd pooped in the Pad Thai. But we persevered and managed to enjoy our food. And the kids, as they usually do when we eat out, behaved better than average. They love to eat out and seem to respect it as a privilege. 

Through this, she continued to pour on the "get the fuck out of my stylish new restaurant you unhip cunts" charm.  But still we persevered. We were hell bent on showing this woman that we were not only good enough to eat in her establishment, we were better than her. Where she grimaced, we smiled. Where she was rude, we offered polite pleases and thank yous. Where she was visibly pissed, we were visibly enjoying ourselves. 

As we finished, she never warmed up. With out a word, she brought us a check.  She never once blinked or warmed or anything else remotely associated with the service industry or humanity in general. I was internally planning our next visit when the Pman declared himself done, got up from his chair, and went over to sit with his mommy. They sat for a moment and my wife told the Pman it was time for a potty break. She came back to the table and said quietly, "he's soaked." He had had an accident. "No biggee," I replied. "At least he tried to make it to the potty first."

"No," she said, "he was soaked when he climbed into my lap." 

I looked over at his chair, and there, on the dark fabric, was an even darker wet spot. Oh yes. 

After all of this though, I was determined that this sad, confused (the restaurant will never be the chic, hip eatery she envisions. It'll always be just "a nice place in Chelsea.") woman would see that we were the better people. That we were the takers of the high road, the purveyors of decency, a family of true class and sophistication and depth. 

So I looked at my wife and I mouthed, "Let's get the fuck out of here." 

And we did.

Next time, I'm pretty sure we'll order take out.

HM

Vegetarianism makes a Cameo

The Peanut is a vegetarian now. There was an episode of Man/Woman Wild ( it's a husband wife wilderness survival team which at it's most difficult, is a pretty apt metaphor for marriage)  on and she saw the man catch a chicken, grab it by the head, and break its neck to kill it and that was it, instant vegetarian. Which is fine. 


I was raised vegetarian. had a chicken nugget when I was 12 and that was it until I was about 28. Then I decided I couldn't go through my whole life without trying bacon. 


My parents were less than concientious about my diet too, so vegetarian often equaled grilled cheese and tomato, chips, and Suzy Qs. Which is not a bad way to grow up I guess. Possessed of a body sculpted by Drake's Cakes and Hostess and a mind made facile by infusions of melted cheese. Which should be in the bio on Kevin James' wikipedia page.

So the Peanut decides she is going to carry on my family tradition. Teary-eyed, stiff upper-lip trembling, she informed she would no longer eat any animals. I made fried haddock that night. It's her favorite. Dirty trick by me, I know.  When I asked her if she was going to eat it she replied, face scrunched, bottom lip puffed in a pout, "only if its really, really delicious."  And that's how we teach prioritizing. 


She lasted about one more day or so as a vegetarian before she stopped talking about it. The Pumpkin man could be tougher. He cried when I told him what happens to the lobsters at the supermarket. You know, how from an early aged they receive poor education, bad nutrition, little supervision, and have almost no chance of achieving the American Dream they are constantly assured is within their reach. Wait, no, that's poor kids. Lobsters just get boiled alive. Which is also pretty crappy. Crappy enough to make the Pumpkin Man cry, at least. Sensitive boy. Which I love love love, as long as he doesn't start listening to the Cure. This is a Robert Smith free zone. 


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On another subject, I know I've been a horrible' (the apostrophe makes it French. Or maybe Spanish. Or Esperanto?) blogger. My new Job at Foods That Are not Broken is kicking my ass. Trying to find that groove between working and barely keeping the house from spinning off into a vortex of chaos. Almost there. Job is ok. Providing hope in terms of paying down debt and getting a Pop up Camper. We'll be just like Travels With Charley except non-fictional. And with kids. And not probably dying. And not Steinbeck And our dog's name is Ruby. But otherwise, Just like it. 


Love


HM