Monday, October 31, 2011


Aaand my Halloween is now complete. Just scared the living SHIT out of about 20 middle school kids that all came to the door all at once. I opened the door with a big happy grin, and then suddenly lunged at them, shrieking, my best demonwitch scream straight from the bowels of hell. One little dude couldn't take it and bolted. Everyone else screamed and clutched each other in white-knuckled fear until they saw the giant bowl of candy and all was forgiven. *sigh* I ♥ scaring little kids. Oh, and I  Halloween.

Happy Halloween, everybody!

Saturday, October 29, 2011

The cleaner you are, the more a witch can smell you... Guess my boy is safe.

Okay, lady-with-a-giant-hairy-wart/mole-on-your-face. If you go shopping 2 days before Halloween, expect that children - namely, my son - will point at your wart and think you are dressed as a witch. A professionally dressed witch, but a warty evil witch nonetheless. ESPECIALLY if you get all screechy and offended because he pointed out your "beauty mark." Crazy ass.
As a side note, it probably doesn't help that he had recently finished watching "the Witches" based on the book by Roald Dahl, so he went completely MENTAL when I quietly assured him that you were, indeed, a witch. "DON'T LET HER GET ME, DAD!!! If she tries to give me candy, I will throw it at her! With a snake!"

Friday, October 21, 2011

I'm not like everyone else...

This morning I walked in on Boogie peeing while standing. She was proud of it. "Look Daddy! I can pee like a boy!" Never thought I would have to tell my girl child to put the toilet seat down AFTER she was done.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Speaking of why do you not shut up...

I look at Brie’s family, and I am insanely jealous. Her dad and her brother have this awesome bond. They go on fishing trips, go camping, and hang out. The kids grandparents have us over about every other week or so for dinner and games, and they love to watch the children for us whenever we need it. Brie’s mom loves to have us up, loves to keep in contact with her children, encourage them, help them achieve their goals and relishes her role as grandmother. Her husband is always hiking, biking, and exploring with his sons, and often invites the kids to come along. Holidays with Brie’s family are extraordinary. There is so much love it hurts.
I wish my family was like that. The family on my side does not play well together. There is always drama, always someone butthurt about something. They are perpetually stuck in the "victim" mentality. It’s something of a paradox with them, really. I am an outcast with my parents because I don’t follow their religious beliefs (in fact, I intentionally had myself forcibly evicted or “disfellowshipped” from the religion so I wouldn’t have to deal with their shit) and because I don’t assume the accepted role of breadwinner and king of my own domicile, but they come to me to solve their problems or whine about their drama. I get fucking sick of it. I have actually moved 3 different times to get away from them, but they keep goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch following me. So far, they haven’t come to P-town. Knock on wood. Throw salt over my shoulder. Pray to Bob. (My Bob is different than your B.O.B. My Bob controls the weather) Pray to the gods I DON’T believe in. Sacrifice a goat. Sacrifice a virgin. Whatever it takes, man. Just keep them away.
So, instead of family, I try to make friends. I have found that I can be a bit of an outsider because of my outspoken nature, but I’m usually able to counter that with my charisma and the fact that I adhere to a simple rule - “If you’re going to tell people the truth, make them laugh. Otherwise, they’ll kill you.” Some guy said that, and it’s the truth. My wife has often marveled at how much shit I can say to someone and they’ll stand there and crack up because I’m saying it with a smile or laughing myself. 
I am an outgoing, boisterous, generally happy man, so that would normally endear me to quite a few.
But I am also an at-home dad. From my observation of others in this unique circle, I don't quite fit the part. I’m too large, robust, worldly, and outspoken. A large portion of the at-home dads I’ve met here are short, scrawny fuckers and whiny as shit. All they want to do is bitch about how they feel emasculated, or how their wife or partner doesn’t appreciate and thank them for the sacrifices they make, there’s no glory in what they do, their work is never finished…blah blah blah. Beer night with them is a fucking crybaby I-wish-she-would-listen-to-me-like-you-guys-do-we're-here-for-you-brother-she-says-my-dicks-to-small-we-didn't-need-to-know-that-mine-too fest. Guess what, motherfuckers? The plight of ALL at-home parents are these internal/external struggles. And I can understand venting about it when it comes to a point, but EVERY FUCKING TIME WE MEET?! GAHHH!!! Talk about something else. Fuck, man.
The mom’s group I am a part of is actually quite a bit more to my liking. First off, I have always gotten along with women. B: the women are, for the most part, much more level headed than the dad’s group. Sure they have their cliques, but what group doesn’t? The only problem I have with this group is that they’re clear on the other side of the goddamn river, and it’s a fuckin’ pain in the ass to commute there and back with 3 kids. (Lookit me bein’ whiny. God, this whole post is a bit of a whine fest, isn’t it. Oh well - don’t expect much more of that from now on) Anyway, I am just not getting the social interaction I crave.
And I AM a social person. I need to communicate. So guess who is the recipient of my expenditure of pent up emotion in the form of affection (Ambush snogging and attempts to roughhouse or engage in foreplay), constant contact (read ass-grabbing), and endless babble as I relate to her even the most miniscule detail of my day, told in such a way as to make it exciting and extraordinary, when the reality of it all is, it's boring as shit. That’s right - dear ol’ wifey poo. All she wanted to do was come home to a nice, quiet, clean house, dinner ready, go for a walk, play with the kids, and then watch Firefly or Torchwood until we go to sleep, secure in knowing that I will always be there beside her. She gets most of that, all except the quiet bit. She is bombarded by a constant stream of chatter, and, eventually, she just has to tune it out. So, then, of course, I get offended because she isn't listening. Now I'm grumpy, she's upset, the kids are screaming, and it just goes downhill from there.
I just need an outlet. And I’ve found an online group that is perfect for that. You should check them out. MWDAS. DON’T tell ‘em I sent you, though, or you’ll never get in.

Why do you not shut up?!?!?

You know why I don't have a Twitter account? Because I already get inane updates every 15 seconds from my children.
"Daddy, when I said 'hi', you closed your mouth, so I thought you was not listening."
"Daddy, this is my tea cup."
"Daddy, this is my bear."
"Daddy, I'm playing with this alligator. It makes music."
"That's cool, love. Go play with it in the playroom, please. Daddy's trying to work."
30 seconds later...
"Daddy, I'm playing with this alligator. It makes music."
"Really? No fucking way. You mean the SAME alligator you were playing with half a minute ago when you gave me this very same status update, or is this a DIFFERENT goddamn alligator? Because if it IS different, I want to know where the hell you got it. Do we have a magical freaking xylophone alligator duplicator hidden somewhere in the playroom? Because I want to capitalize on that shit. Otherwise, GO FUCKING PLAY!!! GAHHH!!!"
She giggles mischievously with a just a hint of demonic influence and scampers away, secure in the knowledge that she is driving me batshit loco.

The worst part, for me, is that with the twins, I hear everything twice. Seriously. 
"Daddy, can I have your hammer to fix my baby?" 
"No, Boogie. Go play." 
A few SECONDS later - "Daddy, Boogie needs your hammer to fix her baby..." 
"GAHHHH! Go AWAY! You don't use a hammer for baby repair!"

Apart from feeding them constantly - with the feeble hope that having food in their mouths will prevent them from talking, or at the very least, muffle the sound - there are a few methods I use to distract my children from assaulting me with an incessant barrage of inane chatter.

I have a GINORMOUS table, and that table is sitting on my decent sized lawn, and I cover that table with about 10 yards of banner paper, and give the kids every marker, tub of paint, tube of glue, crayon, and snapcase of glitter that I can find and let them go to town. I then pull up a lawn chair, pour my sangria, and read. In a couple of hours, I hose them off or have them wash off in the pool, and, when the paint has dried on the paper, I wallpaper their fort with it. I do this once or twice a week.
Outside playtime is our favorite activity. We have a nice big beautiful yard, complete with trees and a clubhouse, and the kids spend hours out there letting themselves and their imaginations run wild.
As always, there is the "Super Ninja Turtle Monkey Princess Dance Time Power Hour" or "Dance Time" for short.
Also TV. TV is a good distraction. Wait, what's that? Experts say TV is BAD for kids? "Experts" can fuck off. I know when too much TV is too much. 
Reading time. My kids LOVE to read, so I encourage "reading time" at every opportunity.
And naps. I love that my kids still go down for 3 hour naps right in the middle of the day. And if they aren't napping, they are at least having some personal quiet time. Which means so am I. Yay!

I'll be what I wanna do

The word for today is “ignorance”.
So, anybody that knows me well knows these 4 things - I have been struck by lightning, I have that “Hulk” thing that happens, I am (not that it should fucking matter to YOU) a pansexual male in a monogamous heterosexual relationship with my lifemate Brie, and…oh yes - I cannot abide stupidity. The definition I use for stupidity has broadened over the years, to the point that I have become an outrageous cynic when it comes down to my perception of humanity. I want to change that, but holy fucking shit, man. It seems every time I start making headway, start seeing beauty in people the way I once did, some fucking troglodyte pops his thick ignorant head up and says something so intolerable that it brings my whole house of cards crashing down.
Case in point:
I was having a conversation with a friend of a friend. He is of the opinion that gay people check themselves in to counseling centers to be cured of their homosexuality, not because of the stigma surrounding being gay, or the stress and intense guilt they feel from their religion, family, and community telling them that it is wrong, but simply because they want to. He further went on to inform me that “no one discriminates against gays anymore. They are an accepted part of society for the most part.” When I pointed out to him that, in fact, in our town, in the last year alone, there had been several acts of violence targeting gays, he said something along the lines of “Well, statistically, it’s so much better for them now than it used to be, so there’s really not any reason for them to feel discriminated against anymore.”
…What. The. Fuck. Motherfucker.
This is it though, right? This right here is going to be my point -the rights of the individual. In order to respect his individuality, do I have to accept his ignorance as well? Because I don’t wanna. I want to get in his face (and would have, if not for the intervention of a number of friends and my wife, being that we were at a mutual friends house, and I am influenced by the Way of the Circle when it comes to domocilicus domesticus) get him in a motherfucking headlock, and scream in his ear:

That’s what I wanted to do. Because we, as a society, have abso-fucking-lutely no clue.
A perfect example - “gay marriage”. What is the purpose of distinguishing “gay” marriage from “traditional” marriage? Or any other type of marriage, for that matter? Nothing says “I love you” like a shotgun wedding. Right?! I’m being told that marrying someone for no other reason than you don’t want to conceive your fucking bastard spawn out of wedlock is a better reason to form a life union than, oh, I don’t know - LOVE? You fucking twatwaddle. That’s an AWESOME environment for a child to be raised in. One of self-perpetuating ignorance. Unless that child has the intelligence to see it for what it is and the strength to rise above it, here we go AGAIN. Doot doot doodle doodle doot doot doo doo… mother fucking circus of life.

Oh, we would like to think that we have come into an age of acceptance. We delude ourselves into thinking that prejudice is passing away, because we now use words like "acceptance" and "tolerance" on a regular basis. Like any one part of humanity need go to the other part for their approval. Fuck you, you egomaniacal bastards. As if my religious beliefs, or race, or gender, or orientation, or my sexuality has ANYTHING to do with you. “GAH! Don’t go near him! You might catch Gay!” Imbeciles.

Bigotry is the product of the ignorant wallowing in self-loathing and stupidity, too self-centered and focused on their own presumed superiority to understand that in the end, we are all human. Every last fucking one of us. All constructed of the same starshit, all on equal footing, in the face of that bitch Mother Nature, in the goddamn trenches, we are all of us stuck to this fucking rock, being tossed willy-nilly about the infinite chaotic motherfucking cosmos, subject to the crazy ass whims of the universe. And I haven’t met a person yet who has made it out alive. Of course, I haven’t met a person who has made it out dead, either. What I’m saying is, we are equal. We all know this. On the surface we know this. Deep down we know it. So why can’t we all just motherfucking GET ALONG?!
And I do want to respect others rights, sexuality, religion… but where do I draw the line? Do I respect the other person’s "right" to discriminate, or do I ”educate” them in the shallowness of their intellect?
It’s not really a “line”, though, this principle of respect. It’s more of an intangible…thing, an amorphous cloud, a bubble, a projection of the individual. The Respect-a-bubble!
Because I think, simply, it comes down to respect. Respect the rights of the individual to choose to be or do or say what they want, as long as those decisions don’t disrespect others' rights as individuals. Seems simple enough, right? *sigh* Guess I just have to keep up with my plan of world domination. Then ALL you cockmunches will HAVE to see it my way.

You'll shoot yer eye out, kid.

Ohhhh…I smelled a waft of Christmas this morning. It’s not even autumn yet. A little frosty nip in the air drifting through the open window, stimulating all my holiday-cheer-sensing nerve endings, awakening the seasonal nostalgia.
I love the holidays. No matter the reason for celebrating, for me it’s about the gathering. Friends, family, all together, celebrating autumn and staving off winter’s sharp bite with feasting and celebration.
Christmas to me is the most nostalgic. The sights and smells weave a frosted tapestry of snow-covered memories backlit by the rainbow radiance of a million twinkling multi-colored lights. The gifts, the cheer, the caroling, the warmth of a fire to hold off the chill. Ah, wonderful reminiscence...

The crystalline tinkle of lights being strung, and that first nutmeggy soft sip of eggnog, with just a hint of rum, because grandma had to have her tipple.
The on-key, off-key drunken singing of all those classic winter/christmas songs…oh, Frank Sinatra, how we’ll miss you.
The ecstatic squeals of glee as the house erupts in a confetti blizzard of torn wrapping paper. I can only imagine what the kids will sound like when they get up to open THEIR presents…
That crunchy burny sweet feeling of peppermint stinging your sinuses while chomping on a candy cane that was recently perched on the rim of a giant steaming mug of hot cocoa topped with what was once a mountain of tiny marshmallow pillows, now a gooey mass of chocolatey deliciousness.
The warm, spicy humidity that permeates throughout, of cookies and cakes and pies and meats and root vegetables and gingerbread being baked or roasted or broiled or cooked in any of a thousand ways…
And decorating the tree.
That glorious piece of pine, fresh cut, smelling of piney pineness, set firmly into its stand, at its base a beautiful red and green plaid skirt on which all the presents sit piled high, shiny and ribbony in their perfectness.
Sigh. I cannot wait for Christmas to get here. 

We put the "dis" in "dysfunctional".

Doesn’t it just fucking torch your poopchute when you’re making that obligatory (funny how that word rhymes with “purgatory”) that obligatory yearly trip to visit the family or in-laws that you never see except for that one time a year, because, let’s be honest here, you fucking hate them and the only reasons you show up are 1- to let them know you are alive and not writing from a padded 6X9 cell, and, 2 - to show off how much better/worse/non-existent your kids are than theirs - even though yours aren't there, because mommy doesn't want the spawn hanging out with "those people", and you can't really blame her for that- and you show up and some jerkoff who is possibly the 4th or 5th idiot to have been all up in your stupid tramp ever-knocked-up sister has volunteered you as chef because “hey - din’t he usta flip burgers er sumtin’?” (nevermind your 13 years ass-breaking professional restaurant experience - you “usta" flip motherfucking BURGERS), and so now you find yourself sweating your balls off in the world’s hottest, smallest, most inconvenient fucking kitchen where the only power source is an extension cord attached to a tiny generator and all water has to be hand-pumped at a pump located half a mile away, and where every fucktard you are related to and their idiot mother - who also happens to be yours - fucking drunken conga line through it, making stupid shit demands like “Timmy doesn’t eat meat that used to have hair” or “Suzy only eats ORGANIC Twinkies” or “this beer tastes like piss” (you don’t even care to fucking tell him he’s drinking out of your piss bottle, because there’s no fucking toilet in this godforsaken hovel) and so now you’re fucking twitching like a spastic colon every time someone comes through the door, 2 seconds away from making it a Donner Party fiesta, so you chop/stab a fucking butchers knife into the floor in front of the door as an emergency doorstop - and the next assdick who tries to come through the door breaks his fucking nose slamming into it, giving you a brief glowing moment of happy - and turn back to the shitstorm of slop you are preparing, and, on tasting it, immediately sense there’s something missing, and you realize the missing ingredient is love, because you fucking HATE every last one of the smeg-dripping twat-waddles that you are cooking for and so you add a shit-ton of alcohol to everything, including yourself, and, miraculously, it fucking fixes the problem? Yeahhh…I’m so glad I don’t do THAT anymore.

Anybody want a peanut?

Has anyone ever assessed the practical application of children’s bedtime stories and nursery rhymes? That shit needs rewritten from a parents viewpoint. I guarantee you the outcome would be different.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty’s dad came out the house and was like
“What the fuck are you doing up there, boy? Get down before you fall and crack your head open!...see? Didn’t I tell you? Now your brains all leakin’ out and shit… I fuckin’ told you, but would you listen? Nooo…c’mere, let me take a look. Yep, cut your head pretty bad there…quiet down, you’re going to wake the neighbors.  Let’s go wash it up, see how bad it is. I’ll get you a popsicle. And from now on - STAY OFF THE GODDAMN WALL!!!”

On the subject of good parenting - Where was Snow White’s dad while all that shit with her stepmother was going on? Running his fucking kingdom. Well,sit up and take notice, you unobservant son of a bitch. That insane drama queen you call a second wife is TRYING TO EAT YOUR DAUGHTERS HEART. I’m Snow White’s dad, I’m like “That’s the seed of my fucking loins, bitch! You think you have to kill her because she looks better than you? When I'm through with you, you will be nothing but a snaggle-toothed whore! My HOUNDS will be fucking prettier than you. Crazy jealous-ass wench. Hey! Huntsman! All that shit she was gonna have you do to my daughter? Yeah. Do that to her. Right here. Right now. None of this running off into the woods shit. Fuck this bitch up.”

About those magical woods, too - if you’re walking through the woods, and some animal - ANY animal - starts talking to you, be it duck, rabbit, wolf or a motherfucking toad, you do one of two things - stop eating those particular fucking mushrooms and run like fuck to the nearest ranger station/ poison control center, or, if you feel confident in your sanity - because, lets’s face it, at this point, I would seriously be doubting myself - you find a way to trap that shit. That’s money in the bank right there. “Step right up! Be the first to see a real live talking toad! What’s that? He say’s if you’ll kiss him he’ll turn into a prince? Taking bids on who wants to kiss a frog to see if he’ll actually turn into a prince!” Money in the bank.

What about the viewpoint of the victims in the story? Why are all the princesses such simpering prisses? Oh, I’m just going to lay here and wait for my prince to come… fuck that noise. Get your fat ass off the bed, put down the cheetos, and go find yourself, ya daffy broad. Trapped in a tower? Light that shit on fire! Seduce the fucking guard! Noose him and use his flailing body as a counterweight when you slide down the rope to freedom! Do SOMETHING, rather than just lie there and wait for "fate" to happen. Fuck fate in it's fucking ass. Fate is the scapegoat of the ignorant. Get your ass out of Dodge. And, when they least expect it, come back with a vengeance. Take a lesson from the Count of Monte Christo, and fuck their shit UP!
You want to cast a spell on me? Here’s a spell for your ass - a fucking mortar and masonry enema. So every time you take a dump, you literally shit a brick, and you will motherfucking remember WHO you locked in a goddamn tower.
You want to turn me into a swan, or some other puppet to be your plaything? ABRACADABRA twat-whistle! My man Merlin is about to go CRAZY up in this shit. He will transform you into a goddamn CHUPACABRA, bitch! You’ll never forget the person that turns you into a- get this - literal translation - “goatsucker.” Right?! What the fuck does that mean?! I don’t have a clue, but whatever it is, you’re IT! Then we will turn you over to distinguished men of science (read: mad fucking scientists who don't really give a good goddamn about ethics) who will immediately vivisect you in a most excruciating manner, by special request, going through the rectum first. Moral - If you want to use others as your playthings, you may one day find yourself with someone else's hand lodged deep in your ass.
You want to send me out into the woods to get lost and eaten by wild animals because I’m “too much responsibilty”, so now I and my sister have to suffer? Ha HA! I get the last laugh, because we will survive this shit, and then we will come for you in broad daylight, because by this point we don't give a flying fuck who sees us, and we will bind and gag your ass, and suspend you from a helicopter or hang glider or fucking pterodactyl, and when reach our destination, you are going to know EXACTLY where you are. “WELCOME TO THE PIRANHA INFESTED WATERS OF THE AMAZON, MOTHERFUCKER! DID YOU KNOW THEY CAN SMELL BLOOD FROM OVER A MILE AWAY? TO BAD YOU'RE  ALL CUT TO SHIT FROM BEING DRAGGED THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH ON YOUR WAY HERE, RIGHT?!?!” And then we will lower you, slowly, into the teeming river. Moral - accepting responsibility is a bitch, but not accepting responsibility will fuck you up worse than you could ever imagine.
Update that shit, motherfuckers. 

Stupid is as stupid does...

This flashback is the reason I will never again shop at Wal-Mart. Apart from the soul-sucking. It happened a while ago, but the shadow of the stupid still looms dark over all things "Wally World". 
I wanted a foam floor mat for the babies to play on. I went to Wal-Mart on the recommendation of our former daycare provider, who had purchased just such a mat there. 
Now, This Wal-Mart is a monolith. It is roughly the size of the Coliseum, with probably as much blood spilt to keep it in operation. It is an affront to god. If there is a god. If there is, whoever they are, they are very affronted. I would say on-the-verge-of-smiting affronted. Hell, god may very well have done some smiting. Probably on aisle six, but nobody knows, because no one has found the end of aisle six. It's that big. And the employees, down to the stockboy and up to management, are all stupid. Every last one of them. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. Read on. 
I go back to the children-y section of the mall of satan, which I think is a good place to start looking if you are trying to find kids playmats. I encounter a young female employee, and ask - "Do you know where I can find foam playmats? You know, like the ones they have in daycare? The alphabet on them and stuff?" 
"Oh, we don't carry those." 
"You're sure." 
"Because my daycare provider picked hers up here." "Wellll…we might, but I haven't seen any." 
"So you don't know." 
"I haven't seen any." 
"Please tell me you are the ONE PERSON on this planet who has seen everything in this store, and so, because you have seen everything, you know, for a fact that there are NO playmats. Anywhere. In this store." 
"You don't have to be rude." Thank you, Ann Landers. 
" I want to speak to your supervisor, your manager, the person in charge of you." Gotta cover my bases. She's slippery. She calls her supervisor, who could be her twin. "What are you looking for?" 
"Foam playmats. Letters on them. For the FLOOR." 
"Well, we used to carry them, but we don't anymore." I notice she doesn't have a name badge that identifies her position. On a whim, I ask - "Are you a supervisor?" Scowl. 
"Well, no, but I have seniority because I've been here longer." 
"Is that what seniority means? So when did Walmart go union?" 
I get another scowl. 
 "Look. I asked to speak to a supervisor. Can I PLEASE speak with your supervisor!" 
Stony silence. She just stands there and stares at me. 
"You're not going to go get your supervisor, are you." 
"I'll get him!" she snaps. 
She calls her supervisor, and storms off. A few minutes later, a very harried, bald little man approaches. "What can I help you find?" 
"Are you a supervisor?" 
"I am." 
"You're sure? Because the last person I talked to seemed to have a problem understanding that." 
"I'm looking for foam mats for my baby to play on." 
"For the floor?" 
Uh-hem. "Preferably." 
"Well, we had some in stock, but then we quit carrying those, and then we got a new brand…" And he launches into the colorful, albeit brief, history of the local WalMart. "Back in aught 6…" I half expected him to ring a bell and ask to keep the line moving. But, he looked happy reminiscing, so I let him finish. "…And so we expanded into fresh produce, hoping to take over, I mean, grow in that market as well." Snaps back to focus. "I'm sorry. Mats. Right. Nope, we don't carry those." 
"Thanks anyway. Thanks for the apology too." I'll take what I can get. With a crabby look, he scuttled away. It didn't look like I was going to find those mats here, so I finished picking up a few things (can't beat a five pack of deodorant for ten bucks, right?) and went to checkout.  On my way, I noticed a Subway at the front of the store, thought "Mmm…sammmich…" and headed over to pick one up. But as I made a beeline for sammmich, something caught my eye. And, as I turned to look at it, I realized exactly HOW stupid these people were. There, in the front of the store, in a GIANT FUCKING DISPLAY THE SIZE OF FUCKING VESUVIUS, ADVERTISED BY A FUCKING SIGN THAT MIGHT AS WELL HAVE SAID "HOLLYWOOD", WERE THE FUCKING PLAYMATS. FUUUUUCK! 
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?!" I screeched at the representative standing closest to me. She jumped back, looking around wildly, probably expecting a tyrannosaurus or a giant cockroach to come barreling down on her. "What?!? What?!?" 
"That! Right there! That display. What is that?" 
"That's what it says on the sign! But are you sure? Because I've had three – you know what? Not your problem. Can you get me the supervisor from back in the children's toy section please?" She calls him up. As he walks up, he sees me standing there, and rolls his eyes. I guarantee you, that was last time he EVER did that. I plucked his eyeballs out. Not really. "WHAT. THE HELL. IS THAT?!?!" I shouted in my most commanding baritone, pointing over his shoulder. I watched a stain slowly spread across the front of his pants. He looked, and immediately turned a brilliant crimson, amplified by his bald little head. "Those look like playmats, sir." 
"And what, sir?" Suddenly he has become a polite amnesiac. 
"And why, for the love of all that is holy, did you not know that they were here?" 
"I don't know what you mean…" 
It's like I'm in an alternate reality, where everything is stupid and nothing makes sense because it's stupid. 
"Are you fucking kidding? I swear to god… Fuck you! I'm going to Target." I went up front, picked up my sammmich, and walked out. Still don't have the mats, though.

YOU'RE out of order!

We were at the park awhile back, butt-ass early in the morning, and I noticed Roman had put his shoes on the wrong feet. 
I said "Robot, switch your shoes. They're on the wrong feet." 
This raper person standing there interjected - "You mean alternate. They're on the alternate foot." 
 "No, I mean wrong foot. As in “the incorrect foot for the shoe to be on”." 
 "Or other foot. You could say "other foot"." 
"Really?... Let me ask you something. Are his shoes on the correct foot?" 
"They're just on his ALTERNATE foot." 
"Let me rephrase. Are they on the foot they were designed to most comfortably fit?" 
"Well, not necessarily..." 
"So no then." 
"I just don't think that telling a child something is "right" or "wrong" is good for the child. I think "other option" or "alternate" is much more...enlightened." 
"Okaaaay... so, along with telling me how to raise my child, challenging my intellect, and correcting me, you have decided to classify me as "not enlightened". Why do you think I am un-enlightened?" 
It's at this point that I smile. I think I revealed too much incisor, though, because she appeared to think I was going to eat her. 
Sweating profusely but remaining very calm, she answered - "It's not that you are unenlightened. It's just that a more enlightened approach would be to use a less negative alternative..." 
"Do you know the definition of the word wrong?"....All the while, I'm thinking "Who the FUCK is this person? Comes out of nowhere, has no clue who I am, and starts giving me parenting advice?What the motherfucking FUCK?!" 
"I understand how people interpret the word to their children." 
Breathe, man. Breathe. "Okay. So you are inferring a general interpretation on my definition of the word "wrong", and in so doing are asking me to define an incorrect action by some other term that meets YOUR approval?! Well, what the hell! Let's start renaming everything! Let's see. How about, I'm a dump truck, my son here is Screaming Rainbow, and you're a rapist? Because, if we get to choose whatever definition we like for words, that's where I'm gonna go!" 
"That's not it at all." 
"You can't just ignore the literal definition of a word, and cast assumptions on somebody you don't even know, because it doesn't fit your pattern. Well, you can, it's just not gonna get you very far. Seriously. Websters defines the word "wrong" as being mistaken or incorrect AS WELL AS the immoral or unjust act. Your use of ultra-conservative christian ideology by using the biblical definition of the word "wrong" is somewhat...unenlightened..." 
"I am NOT conservative OR christian!" 
"No, you're right - You're ENLIGHTENED." 
It's at this point I turn and help Robot put his shoes on the RIGHT feet (he has two of them, you know) and walk away. 
As much as I love to...debate, I really wasn't trying to argue with the lady, or belittle her, or befuddle her. I just think society has taken the PC thing way to far. Robot is not going to be emotionally scarred if I tell him his shoes are on the wrong feet. Words are words for a reason. 
I was recently at a meeting of individuals who are all interested in intentional communities, and there was this child there that was running wild throughout the event, being disruptive, invading peoples personal space, screaming her fool head off, and demanding attention and things from everyone, resulting in no one getting much out of the meeting. When I asked the mother to control her child, she refused because "Children should be allowed to do what they want." I said "what about adults?" To which she replied "As long as it doesn't hurt anyone else." So I sat down next to her, and started making the most annoying, nasal, ululating sound I could manage, getting gradually louder, until she got up in a huff, grabbed her child, and left. It may have been immature, but my point was clear - everyone has boundaries.
Childhood, to me, is for having fun, learning, and growing. Part of that is learning about those boundaries. Not everywhere, but take traffic for example. I am NOT going to let my child get run over by a truck to learn that it hurts to play in traffic. I am going to yell at him to get his ass away from the curb. If that makes me a negative enforcer, then so be it. This negative enforcer’s child is ALIVE. Understand - I do NOT practice, nor do I condone, ANY form of corporal punishment (or whatever the fuck they are calling it these days), psychological "discipline", or any other act of moral degradation used to control another person. It is, to use a word, wrong. But yelling to get their attention? In a heartbeat. I'll yell like a motherfucker. Besides, I like to yell. It's fun. And there's another thing. While I was at the same get together, I was informed that my children were not "mine", because it implied ownership. "Hrk-!?!?" That's me, choking off a scream of rage. My child is mine, and your child is yours. Anyone saying otherwise is a lazy son-of-a-bitch who refuses to accept responsibility for their own actions. We provide for them, we care for them, we educate them, we protect them. They are ours. My heart bursts with my love for my babies. My children are not mine because I OWN them - my children are mine because I love them. I will do anything to make my babies happy, and that includes giving direction and setting boundaries so that they may have more fulfilling lives. Anyone that calls that negative can politely fuck off.

Bob had bitch-tits

I had a neat experience shopping recently that reminded me how awesome it is to live here. It was a simple thing, really. A super nice lady approached me and said - "Your kids are SO happy. You are doing an AWESOME job of being a dad." Very effective in making me all teary and choked up. The bitch. I'm a man. I'm not supposed to - oh, right. I'm me. It's okay then. It was super sweet of her, is what I was getting at. Not quite the experience I had where I used to live. 
 Before I get going on that, I think something needs to be understood. I wasn't forced into being an at-home dad. I chose it. I quit a lucrative stable job to be who and where I am. And I love it. That isn't to say I don't have trouble, problems, bad days, or a significant amount of emotional conflict within. That's all just standard parental fare. It comes with the territory. You have 2 five-year olds, a diaperless 2-year old, and a box of art supplies, something is bound to end up on the wall. 
Now. What gets me are the people who have something to say about what I do. They cover the ENTIRE spectrum of “shit that’s none of your business but you feel obligated to give your opinion on anyway.” Granted, most of it is good stuff. If you see “God, that’s just so much responsibility. I don’t see how you do it. It’s hard enough when you’re a MOM…” as good. Seriously. It’s not like I fucking fly and shoot lasers out my ass. “Duhn duhn duh DUHHHHH!!! MEGADAD taxi's his kids to school on his back. Comes complete with 5-point safety harnesses. In an emergency, his ass can be used as a flotation device.
Wait! Is that a fire? Megadad will put it out with his mutant fire-hose appendage! (Okay. That sounded dirtier than it was supposed to.) All this and more, whilst reducing his carbon footprint and completing his taxes! ” 
 Bullshit. I don’t do anything different than what any other at-home parents do, moms or dads. Well, I mean, I might do it differently, but the principle's the same. Get up, suckle at the life-saving teat full of the sweet nectar of life that is my giant blue enamel coffee mug. Hope to hell the kids don’t wake up while preparing breakfast and lunch for my honey. They do anyway, so feed kids. See wifey-wife off to work. Feed kids again. Entertain kids by telling them nightmarish stories of my twisted childhood so they appreciate how good they really have it. Feed kids. Clothe kids. Chase kids out of bathroom for the 14th gazillion time. Feed kids. Shop for kids. Separate kids from fighting over the ONE toy they all HAVE to have, despite the fucking truckload of toys in the immediate vicinity. Feed kids. Teach kids the lesson of “Why to say no to crack and other nefarious drugs” by taking them down to Hobo Row and letting them watch homeless guys street fight for a dime bag. Feed kids. Put kids down for nap. You know - the usual. But still, people feel a need to voice themselves, loudly, in my general direction, as to my "predicament". The opinions I LOVE to hear are the contradicting ones. And realize - they are generally not directed to me. They are usually either said as an aside or in an indirect manner, as if it's not going to offend me. Here are some actual quotes I have heard from the free thinking openly expressive people of the city in which I used to live : 
“Only a lazy man let’s his wife go to work while he stays home and plays with the kids. Taking care of the kids is the woman’s job.” 
Sooo - when I do it, it’s just playing, but the moment a woman steps in, it’s a job. Okay. Ignoramacunt. 

“It’s the man's duty to be the breadwinner. Any father whose wife HASN'T died and he is staying home with the kids needs to man up and get a job.” 
Riiight. Who the fuck are you again? Why are you talking? Imma junk-punch someone in a minute. 

“Men don’t have the nurturing instinct a mother does. It’s not natural. That’s why women have breasts. So they can hold their child close. Men can’t comfort like a mother. It’s not in their programming.” 
GaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAIAI! Judooo CHOP! Bitch, I’ve GOT tits. And I’m about to slap the shit out of you with them. I’ve got tits from the 70 lbs I put on after the twins birth because they slept in shifts and so I didn't sleep but maybe 2 or 3 hours every few days and because of the sleep dep and delirium I went NOWHERE because I didn’t trust myself driving and so I lay in the recliner at home with at least one child on my chest at any given time because that was the only place they would sleep. On me. How’s that for nurturing, ya loony?! 
My all time favorite, though?  “God gave you a charge to be the head of your household, and if you stay home with the children and they see your wife being the provider, your headship will be "upshured"(I'm pretty sure she meant usurped, but I let it slide. After all, she is my mother). Your kids will all be confused about who is in charge, and they won’t be able to school right, and they will grow up to be losers and drug addicts.” GAHHHHHHHHH! Fucking FUCK! This, from the woman with 2 kids in rehab, 1 in and out of prison, and only 2 of the 8 total have made anything of themselves. And 1 of those is an at-home dad. You know who I’m a big fan of right about now? Your Old Testament God. That motherfucker did some RIGHTEOUS smiting. Which, if he wants to uphold his record, will do me this one favor, right,  here, right now… No? Nothing? Oh well.  
Really, though, I don’t want to be recognized as a “mold-breaker” or a “rebel” or “that dad everyone talks about because he hangs out with all those women so there has to be something going on there” - wait. Yes I do. So keep it up, all you old biddies, with your ultra-old timey mentalities. You provide me with the fodder to pad my blog.