Archive for the ‘A Day in the life of Moby Homemaker’ Category

When Are Retakes?

February 26, 2010

It is crucial to note that Domestic Diety involves taking into account, not only your own appearance–but that of your childrens’.  I learned this lesson one day when my son brought his class pictures home from school.

Let me begin by saying, my kids are not the stinky ones!  They bathe nightly and their clothes are always clean.  For an 8 and 5-year-old, they are pretty hygienic.  But, sometimes during the morning rush; they are able to move off the premises looking a bit tattered.  You know, they may have some food on their faces that I forgot to clean off.  Or, maybe they weasel out without brushing their teeth in the morning.  And once in a awhile, they exit with unbrushed locks.

Well, my 2nd grade son, who we’ll call “Colton” hit the trifecta one morning about two weeks ago.  He hurriedly left for school on that Tuesday morning, with chocolate chip pancakes on his mouth, that same chocolate on his unbrushed teeth, and his hair in the vein of the great 80’s Australian comic, Yahoo Serious.  Normally, I wouldn’t have thought much of it.  I would’ve made note of the aesthetic deficiencies of my son and practiced vigilance the next morning….

Except, I didn’t know the day in question was “Picture Day”.  Oh, shit.  The nice thing was, at least at the time,  I would be unaware that I had let my son leave the house looking like Dr. Emmett Brown in goth makeup for the next couple of weeks.  Oh,  I also let Colton go to class that day in a black “KISS” t-shirt and ripped sweats.

I quickly was reminded of my lack of attention to my sons’ daily appearance 14 days later, when my wife ripped open the envelope that read “School Memories”. Upon perusal, she shrieked in my direction, “our son looks stoned!”.  I had to laugh, he really did.  For some reason, he gave this goofy shit eatin’ grin that I had ever seen on him before.  (Colton later described this dopey grin as his “special picture smile”???). The “special picture smile” allowed his chocolate stained teeth to really be accentuated.  His hair stood on end, like that of a Caucasian Don King.  And, the black chocolate chip smears on his pasty white face complemented his black concert t-shirt.  As a photographic composition, it was really quite exquisite!

My wife was disgusted that our 8-year-old was forever saved for posterity as a “hillrod stoner”.  And of course, she let the little ragamuffin’s handler (that would be me) have it.  She was right.  “I should never let our little angels out of the house looking so unattended.  They are a reflection of us!”, I told her.  My better half didn’t seem to care for my apology and warned me that there, “better be retakes!’.

Ah yes!  Retakes…the great cosmic “do over”!  I quickly found out from the school website that retakes would take place that next week.  Of course, I made sure that my son looked his best for this great chance at photographic redemption!

The new pictures came back a couple of weeks later.  Our oldest son, although still looking stoned to the bejesus (with his “special picture smile”), at least did not appear as if he had spent the night at an outdoor Molly Hatchett concert.

Always remember, a Domestic God must  be sure that his children-his little “reflections”, are to be attended to and meticulously groomed.  He must also, always, be cognizant of the calendar… because you better know when that goddamned “Picture Day” is.

An Impassioned Plea to the Moms of Lyndon Baines Johnson Grade School

February 23, 2010

Dear Mothers Who Pick Up Your Children at LBJ Grade School,

I am writing you this letter because of an ever-increasing epidemic that I, and others, can no longer turn a blind eye to.  This dilemma tends to be more of a seasonal issue; and with Spring just around the corner; I could not live with myself for one more warm Midwestern day without bringing my impassioned pleas to you.

There is no really gentle way to come out with my concern.  So, I will just say it: Ladies, you are not Britney fucking Spears–so quit trying to dress like her!  I pick up my son everyday from school and am nauseated by what you women try to pass off as “sexy”.  School pick up is not “sexy time”!  I would like to offer several quick ways to shield our and our childrens’ eyes from all this flesh. Perhaps the best way to accomplish this is to develop some kind of loose (you see that word???) set of guidelines for what is considered acceptable apparel when picking up your grade schoolers.

SHIRTS: Ladies, let’s start by wearing them.  A “shirt” is defined as, “a long- or short-sleeved garment for the upper part of the body”.  A piece of fabric wrapped around your breasts, with your nipple protruding does not fit this criteria. Tight ain’t alright.

While we are on shirts, let me make mention of a couple of things.  First, kindly, wear a shirt that actually fits the upper part of your body.  If you are a size “Large”, trust me small and medium will not do you justice.  Here’s a helpful hint to make sure you are wearing the correct fitting garment. If your love handles or your beer gut are exposed–move up at least two sizes.

Also, please refrain from choosing to wear shirts with derogatory words or images on them when picking your grade school aged children.  I recently saw a woman brandishing a t-shirt that read “I’m The F***ing Princess” across her triple G chest.  Upon seeing said shirt; I can only ask, what the fuck is wrong with you, your hillrod highness????  Send my regards to the Lord of Billyness, the “F’ing Prince”.

Lastly, what man doesn’t love cleavage?  Answer, the one who is viewing it on a woman dressed three sizes too small while waiting to pick up his 8-year-old.  It’s after school pick up, not amateur night at the “Landing Strip”.

PANTS: Again, ladies let’s start with wearing them.  Pajamas DO NOT count. And, as discussed earlier, size matters.  Every pair of jeans has a measurement on them–live by it.  There are no such things as “skinny jeans”, especially if you’re a heifer.  Believe me, I know this from my own experience.  I stopped trying to wear the “stretch” jeans I wore to go see Rush in 1989 a long time ago….1990, I think.  Listen, there’s nothing wrong with carrying a couple extra lbs.  I’m down with Tyra.  Just don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re svelte–when you clizzearly ain’t, girlfriend.

Also, Daisy Dukes were designed for the build of “Daisy Duke”, not “Uncle Jesse”.  Stay away from short shorts if ANYTHING is hanging out of them.  A caveat to this, underwear is your friend.  I fear that “McGruff the CrimeDog” may be called to LBJ for all the illegal crack that is in front of the school yard. And ladies, at all cost please, please, please I implore you,…avoid any  pants that may produce a”Camel Toe” scenario.  If you don’t know what “Camel Toe” is-ask a trusted male friend.  All dudes notice it–even the third graders.

I hope you appreciate my friendly suggestions!  And, I understand, this is not a one way conversation.  I, and my male counterparts, will promise to always wear pants and a shirt when picking up our children from school.  Leave the slutty attire to those tramps at Warren G. Harding High, ladies.  You are Mothers. You are better than that…and, frankly older than that, too.

If you do not do this for me or yourselves; please do it for the children.

Sincerely,

Moby Homemaker

Parent- Lyndon Baines Johnson Grade School

Indecent Proposal

February 21, 2010

My wife is a teacher.  Recently, she asked if I would assist her in grading a “mountain” of worksheets.   How f’ing horrible does that sound?  Like any good Domestic God, of course, I am here to help!  But, this time, if this Domestic God were going to help his wife…it was going to cost her.

I played it coy and hmm’ed and haw’d about helping my better half.  Finally, she told me that she would, “do ANYTHING” I wanted if I were to help her with the dreaded grading.  “Anything?”, I asked.  “Aboslutely ANYTHING!”, she replied.  Taking into account her tone of desperation, I fired back. “I want you do that one thing for me that you rarely do anymore.  I know you hate this act–because I’ve heard you and your friends talking about your disdain for it….but I LOVE when you do it–you’re sooo good at it.  I want you to go up and supervise the kids’ baths”.

I wish I were over exaggerating the drama of this scenario, but I am not.  Bath time with my two sons sucks.  First off, our 5 year old, who we’ll call “Little Rusty” hates to get wet and demands he shower with his older brother, who we’ll call “Colton”. Of course, Colton absolutely despises sharing a shower with his little brother–and I don’t blame him.  First off, Colton likes to take extremely LONG, hot showers.  You know the one’s that use all the hot water.  He can’t do that with the other guy encroaching on his bathing territory.

Secondly, Rusty is one of those kids who is ALWAYS goofing around–always.  Once shower time starts, the silence is abruptly ended about a minute in.  This is when the first wet “smack” is heard and Rusty starts wailing.  Rusty likes to use shower time to jockey for position and pinch and poke his older brother to get the highly coverted space directly under the shower head.  Remember–this guy elbowed his way into his older brother’s shower–literally.  Oh, and he doesn’t even like to get wet!

Once I come in to referee my naked children’s shower wrestling match, (By the way, there was a time that “naked shower wrestling matches” were something I would pay top dollar to see–at a place near the airport with DDD blonde combattants.  This exhibition is not nearly as entertaining or titilating.), there comes a short “cease fire”.  Only to be interrupted with a scream now from the older of the two, Colton.  Without fail, as I lay in my bedroom, the following words will inevitably come booming from the bathroom next door.  I am paraprashing; “Rusty opened up his butt cheeks!” OR “Rusty is playing with his dingle!”  That’s right folks, I have one of THOSE kids–the one into good ol’ fashioned hillbilly family exhibitionism!

That’s usually the signal that shower time is over.  This leads to a furious battle over which boy gets out of the shower first.  I have no idea what the stakes of this competition are–but judging from the fierceness of the particpants, the stakes must be incredibly high!  This struggle will end with one or more particpants slipping and falling.  I don’t know about you, but I didn’t think you’d get bruises or cuts from showering until you reached at least your 80’s???

Once the wounds are tended to, drying occurs as both boys continually bitch about being cold.  Of course, why dry one’s self–when you could bitch about it instead?  Toothbrushing, ah- another landmark matchup.  When my kids brush their teeth it seems that the object is not dental hygeine and maintenance.  It seems to be who can get more toothpaste (used and un-used) and water (used and unused) everywhere BUT into the sink.  My kids are damn good at this one.  They’ll take on any comers.

Finally, bath time ends with the obligatory dressing.  Of course, the pajamas laid out for the two boys is never quite up to par. They are either not warm enough, too warm, or they are not the one’s with Sponge Bob on them which are in the wash because Rusty  pissed on them last night.

That, in a nutshell is bathing my spawn.

My wife must really wanted my help to grade those papers.  She accepted my indecent proposal.  As she took the little mongrels up the stairs and as the imminent smacks and screams echoed from the wonderful acoustics of our bathroom, I laid back on the couch and loosened by belt….  With a funky 70’s bass heavy porno groove playing in my head, I started to grade those shitty f’ing papers.

Mmmmm…the sweet ecstasy of Domestic Deity.  Oh yeah….

The Uppers and Downers of Domestic Deity

February 19, 2010

Sometimes, even this Domestic God needs a “pick me up”.  The daily grind of dealing with kids, cooking and cleaning and laundry can get the best of anyone.  The rigors of day-to- day domestic life can beat you down and make you feel low.  Since I don’t have the time or money for a crystal meth addiction (although, I could use the extraordinary weight loss… ); I had to find a better way to get a “buzz” and find some fuel. Boy-oh boy, did I find it…

Ladies and gentlemen, I have found the greatest natural substitute for “trucker speed” this side of the pharmacist’s counter–it’s B-12.  I don’t know what the hell is in this “vitamin”…but it’s good.  For all I know this crap could be destroying my liver and make my hair fall out, but I don’t give a shit.  I mean, I NEED this stuff.  Hey, the FDA allows Walgreen’s to sell it.  So, it must be safe. Right???

All I know is, every Monday morning when I am dragging ass, I can pop one of these B-12 suckers in my mouth and then getting the kids up, getting them breakfast, and getting them off to school is a breeze.  I even then have energy to do the dishes, do the laundry, clean the bathrooms and look for jobs.  This stuff is an f’ing miracle!

And the best part…when you feel that you might be coming down and tiring out around midday–pop another one of these bad boys!  You’ll be riding the “domestic dragon” within minutes!  Picking up kids, snacktime and dinner….no problem, dude!

An even better part…no need to call your dealer and meet him in a Denny’s parking lot when you run out.  No more “jonesing”. It’s so easy to score, man.  Just head to Wal-Mart, CVS or basically anywhere.  They all “deal” this shit!!!  Every store I know is” holding”.

Mick Jagger sang about “Mother’s Little Helper” in the 60’s.  Well, B-12 is the “Domestic God‘s Best-est Pal” now.

And when you can’t sleep from B-12’s amazing high, say ‘hello” and cool out with B-12’s Ambien-esque, smelly cousin, Valerian Root.  Yeah, baby….

To quote Ronnie “Z-Man”  Barzell in the 1970 cult classic film  “Beyond The Valley of the Dolls“:This is my happening…and it freaks me out!” –MH:DG

Long subtraction…what the f#ck?

February 17, 2010

In your time as a Domestic God, you will meet challenges daily.  Most I have conquered.  But, as I learned, you can not rest on your laurels.  You need to be on your toes.  A Domestic God needs to be sharp and ready at all times.

My second grade son, (who we’ll call “Colton”), came home with a homework packet yesterday.  He and I have a nice arrangement. He brings the homework packet home Monday after school and completes the assignment.  That leaves him with the rest of the week to play Wii, eat snacks and beat the shit out of his brother.  Such behavior has made him an excellent student, while also giving the appearance of superior parenting on my part.

Colton is a very bright kid.  He usually brings me his completed homework with little to no errors.  It is extremely easy to “check” his work.  In fact, sometimes I check his work during “Happy Hour” over a cold one.

Yesterday afternoon Colton came home with his packet.  I was ready to check the work, per usual.  He explained to me that he was not done and that he “needed my help”.  My help?  Okay.  He told me that he was having some trouble with math.  Second grade math…no problem, I figured.

To seem scholarly and wise, I pulled out my reading glasses and perused the “troubling” math problems.  Again, this was second grade stuff–should be a breeze, perhaps even fun.  What I encountered shook me to my foundation.  I had come face to face with second grade long hand subtraction!  What the fuck???  God and my parents know I am a smart enough guy–who really hates school.  Math is one of the primary reasons for this despisal.

I was that jackhole kid who asked the teacher, “…when will I use this when I am older?”.  Ironically, my wife is a long time teacher.  Apparently, the teaching community hates those jackhole little mother fuckers.

Well, my smart ass question was answered.  I would need to know long hand math because someday a child, who looks just like me, will need me to teach it to him–kind of like a really boring “Quantum Leap” or “Terminator”.

The questions sat in front of me and I didn’t have a goddamned clue what to do-except grab a calculator.  I stared blankly for a minute with a sense that my eldest son would finally find out what a dumb ass his old man really is.  That isn’t supposed to happen for at least another decade.  With my reputation and dignity on the line, Colton then asked something about “crossing out and carrying a one”.

Yes! Crossing out and bringing over a one!  It slowly came to me.  With that, I told Colton that I needed to use the toilet.  I told him that I would read the questions over while I did my business.  Before I visited my office I slyly grabbed the calculator.  I was now in our half bath doing some long math questions and checking my work with a calculator.  Actually, I am lying, I used the calculator on my cell phone–making my rouse even more cumbersome.

Anyway, I came out from the bathroom with a somewhat firm knowledge of Colton’s math problems.  I showed him how to do long hand subtraction and he finished up his homework packet.  Everything was correct.  The Domestic God had done his job. I furthered the intellectual growth of my offspring.  I conquered the  challenge in front of me. And, more importantly, Colton continued, for the time being, to believe that his Dad was still the smartest guy in the world…or at least the second smartest person in our house.

And thank God, I could get back to Happy Hour.

The Juice Fairy

February 15, 2010

Hello, Juice Fairy!  You have become a great ally and friend to this Domestic God.  How are your pals, the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny doing?  Your pals are pretty damn lucky….they get a LOT of time off.  But, you Juice Fairy, you are always on call.

Not a day goes by when my wife or kids drinks down some tasty lemonade or fruit punch.  And not a day goes by when they don’t leave an empty pitcher in the fridge.  Their confidence in you is obviously strong.  For each morning you replenish these pitchers with their favorite refreshements.  It is without fail.  You, Juice Fairy,  are the David Copperfield of mythical, kitchen pixies.  You make what is not there actually appear-out of thin air.

But why do you do it, J.F.???  Why do you come to our humble abode and selflessly fill our empty containers full of your sugary nectars?  Is it because you are such a wonderful sprite?  Or is it because of pity?  Possibly, because you cannot bear to see those empty juice pitchers shivering alone in the damp, cold fridge?

My guess is that you do it because your nyphish ears do not wish to hear the whining and complaining by my thirsting roommates when their beloved juices are not prepared at their beckoning???   For it is they who refuse to fill those candied vessels!  Yet,  your service is unwavering.  Juice Fairy,  your ability to forgive the shortcomings of others is truly awe inspiring.

Juice Fairy, I cannot begin to show you my true gratitude!  Thank you for daily providing my family with the “flavor juice mix with other natural flavors” drinks they crave.

Good night, Juice Fairy.   God speed.

(Repeat in front of your mirror nightly).

boobs.com

February 12, 2010

One of the most important duties of the Domestic God is to protect your children.  The protection of our children is of paramount importance, especially in this day and age.  Unfortunately, not many days go by without a news story about and Amber Alert or some horrifying abduction in Florida.  I don’t know what the fuck goes on down there–but there are some sick puppies in the sunshine state.  (Of course, my wife and I annually take our kids down there to vacation….oh well.) It is not such unthinkable acts that I wish to discuss.  I want to look at the importance of protecting our kids from the dangers of cyber pornography.

Unfortunately, this Domestic God knows far too much about cyber sex.  No, not that I am an expert in the boundless world of computer erotica, uh…What I mean to say is, that I had to learn the hard way how pervasive internet pornography can be and how it provided my 8 year-old son and I with an extraordinary non-beer “teachable moment”!

There are no two parents who are more responsible when it comes to our computers and our children.  The computer is always kept in an area which we are close to.  That being said; we usually let our oldest son go on various educational sites and gaming sites from his favorite Nick and Disney shows.

You can only imagine the reaction of my wife when she went on the computer that we keep in the kitchen to find the address “www.boobs.com” logged  countless times in her address bar.  She did what any good mother would do in the same situation-she yelled at her husband for looking at smut on the family computer!  I told her the truth; that I would do nothing of the sort.  Of course, I know boobs.com is a pay site–I don’t have money for that. And, there are plenty of good FREE trashy sites! But, I digress…

Once my innocence was established ; my wife then began going through the list of “smutspects”- buddies, uncles, grandpas, contractors, lesbian aunts.  No one had access to the computer for enough time to go to boobs.com for this many visits.  That left but one more possible perpetrator.  No, it couldn’t be our little angel Colton?

After the shock was over, my wife and I decided that we needed to confront our 8 year-old son about what was on the computer. We sat Colton down and asked him point-blank if he was looking at naked people on the computer.  As if on cue, our son burst into tears and screamed “Yes, yes, yes!  I’m so sorry!”  Our emotions quickly went from dumbfoundedness to laughter.  There was something really funny about this.  My wife kept it together, so Colton knew this was a serious matter.He obviously felt bad about it, and he knew it was wrong.  I, however, could not control my laughter.  I went to the next room.

Once, composed, I then asked our oldest son how he came across the site?  Did a friend tell him about it?  Did he see it somewhere else?  He explained that he was on one of his favorite educational games sites, bookworm.com.  We know that one and keep it in his bookmarks for easy access.  He said he did something to accidentally log it off. So, he tried to put it back in.  He unknowingly put “boobs.com in”–and “naked ladies popped up”.  Again he wept uncontrollably.  Between the slobbering and sobbing, my wife then asked, Why did you go back?  Did you like those pictures?”  In a loud groan Colton exclaimed, “Yessss!”.

Although my son had done wrong; I shit you not, a part of me could not have been any more proud of my boy at that moment.  Proof–he likes chicks…naked ones!  I was always a bit speculative because he sang along to the original Broadway recording of “Hairspray” nearly everyday with his mother when they were in the car.

No need to wonder anymore; my son is a red-blooded American man-child!  From that point on, Colton was no longer allowed to type in addresses without his parents.  In fact, he rarely asks to go on the computer anymore. He learned that smut sites were not for children and that he needed to be on guard for them.  I learned that my son was a jugs man in waiting.  It was a truly “teachable moment” for both of us.  This Domestic God and his oldest son will be meeting for a Red Stripe at Hooters in September 2022.

Mac and Cheese

February 11, 2010

In your ascension from mere “At-Home Dad” to  Domestic God, you will find that much of your time will be spent feeding your kids. Let me begin by saying; I hate to feed my kids.  I always have.  Don’t get me wrong, I want them nourished and satisfied–I just can’t stand having anything to do with it.  Kids (at least my kids) cannot possibly eat any slower….and the mess, my Lord the mess!!!  Oh, the humanity…

Well, in achieving Domestic Deity, you will have to learn to deal with it.  Our five-year old, who we’ll call “Little Rusty”, eats non- stop when at home.  I shit you not, this kid eats no less than 3 pancakes, 3 apples, 2 bowls of Trix, several bowls of Cheez-Its and Ritz Peanut Butter Bits, 2 PB&Js,  a small bag of Doritos, 2 cups of peaches, an ice cream dessert , a half-gallon of lemonade and then comes dinner….he clocks in at a prodigious 42 pounds!!!

With dinner, I have to ask the question: is it considered child abuse to feed a small child macaroni and cheese for two weeks straight?  It is all that Little Rusty seems to eat at dinner- Kraft spirals and cheese.  I thought that I would be able to save a few bucks by adding some elbow macaroni.  Bad idea.  This guy tells me that the “other macaronies” taste funny.  “Taste funny???  They’re fucking pasta!”, I WANTED to say to him.  Instead, I gingerly explained to him that all pastas are pretty much the same goddamned thing!!!-even if their shapes are different.  But who was I fooling….  He told me that I was wrong and he would not eat ANY of this mac & cheese because the dueling pastas had mixed.

So, I prepared another batch of mac and cheese…of course, following all of Rusty’s strict specifications.  I watched him play and sometimes actually eat the meal for the next 10-15 minutes.  It finally occurred to me–this little bastard weighs just 42 pounds because NONE of his food actually gets in his fucking mouth!  My God, piles of orange spirals and wet peaches were strewn around Rusty’s seat.  I have to imagine this what the aftermath of a nuclear detonation may look like.  I frankly don’t even understand the physics of it.  How the hell did this meal get from his little fork to upwards of 12 feet away from his seat?

Well, at least, he’s happy and temporarily satisfied.  As I get the vacuum cleaner and mop for the second time today to clean this meal’s version of the Manson murder crime scene; this Domestic God again ponders: is it child abuse to feed my child macaroni and cheese for two straight weeks?  And if not, is it acceptable  to serve it in a trough in the backyard?

An Open Letter To Al Gore

February 8, 2010

Dear Vice President Gore,

You are the champion of Mother Earth and all things green.  In our domestic endeavors, Domestic Gods should, too, be good stewards of the environment.  Because you teach that it is our responsibility to live “green” on NBC sitcoms, I am writing you this letter.

Mr. Gore, I fear I may need to make a citizen’s arrest.  My family’s carbon footprint is that of Sasquatchian proportions. Let me explain.  My wife and two sons are wonderful people-great Americans.  But, they are highly negligent when it comes to your Mother.  Of course when I say “Your Mother” , I am referring to Mother Earth, not the late Mrs. Gore from Tennessee.

My 8-year-old son Colton takes half an hour showers daily.  Once he gets under the water-I simply cannot get him out.  It is as if he slips into a catatonic state.  Our 5-year-old son, Little Rusty, uses the toilet approximately every 12 minutes.  He has more flushes in a day than poker legend Phil Helmuth.  Then, once we convince him to wash his hands, he more often than not leaves the faucet running.  I cannot lie,  but on a recent out-of-town trip our family came home to find the bathroom faucet had been left on for two days.   I already feel bad enough about this water abuse, that I cannot bring myself to tell you about the alarming quantity of toilet paper that is consumed weekly in our home. Our toilets are more clogged than Elvis’ arteries. Let’s just say that Roto Rooter is on my speed dial.

Then there is our garbage situation.  Our average weekly garbage production matches that of a small third world country.  We have but four people living in our modest home, yet we somehow manage to fill a half a dozen garbage cans up each week.  If you know, or can create, some way to subsidize us for our amazing garbage production, it would be a great help–because we are good at it!  Also, I hate to confess this to you, but we don’t recycle.  Please forgive us.  It is not that we are against recycling, but my oldest son neglected to bring the recycle bin back from the curb and it was run over by a truck, rendering it useless. (Question: the mangled recycle bin is plastic.  Should I recycle it?)

Lastly, I need to tell you about the chronic electrical abuses perpetrated by my roommates.  I don’t know if there is a clinical name for their condition.  Perhaps you know?  My wife and kids suffer from an insidious disorder that precludes them from ever turning off a light, television or anything with a switch.  There are times that 4 tvs, 12 lights and 4 fans  left on-while no one is home.  I am certain that we will never be robbed–because it appears that we never leave.

Mr Gore, this Domestic God feels he has failed you and failed Mother Earth.  I try to be responsible with water use, garbage and recycling and electricity use, but I feel that the people I live with are out to undermine my agenda.  These people are  a slippery and their resolve seems strong.  I fear that I, alone, may not be able to make this citizen’s arrest.  Could you please send Ed Begley Jr. and the Green Police to my home to help take my wife and children into custody?  I will miss them while they are away in your Green Internment Camp–but I believe this is the only way we can break them of their anti-environmental actions. Please have mercy on their souls.

I look forward to hearing from you.  Tell Ed Begley to knock three times before the bust.

Environmentally Yours,

Moby Homemaker: Domestic God

P.S.  Congratulations on your movie!  I understand that it’s very good.  I apologize that I haven’t seen it.  The fact is; I’m not really into documentaries or Melissa Etheridge.  Perhaps on the dvd you could incorporate Steven Seagall (with ponytail, please), some sort of huge robotic spiders, some explosions, naked chicks and a couple of Megadeth songs.  I would then love to give a quick review of it on my “A/V Corner”.

Dish washing: my domestic “jumble”

February 6, 2010

There is no doubt, no matter how much we may hate it, that during your rise to Domestic Godliness you will do the dishes. Much like the laundry and the mail, dirty dishes NEVER stop.  As I write this entry, I am staring at a pile of pots and pans, bowls and plates, Tupperware and cups, and silverware–a profusion of knives, forks and spoons.

I noticed early on in my spell as Domestic God, that there is a cross-section of people who simply don’t give a shit about dirty dishes.  Apparently, three of these types of thinkers live in my very home.  I’m not going to mention any names, but I an NOT one of them.  In days of yore these people may be considered “slobs”, but thanks to tv shows like “Clean House”, we now call these types of people “messy” and in need of our help.  By the way, have you seen this “Clean House” show???   It’s on some channel called Style Network.  Not to get too off topic, but, the premise of the show is that Deputy Raineesha Williams from “Reno 911” finds the messiest homes in America.  Instead of ridiculing these people and using the power of a low rated cable outlet to ostracize them from society, Deputy Williams brings in cleaning crews to dig out the “messy” house from filth, sell off useless junk in a yard sale, and redesign the home.  If “Trading Spaces” and “Hoarders” had hot monkey love and produced a bastard child–“Clean House” would be it.

This show is unreal.  Finally, proof positive, that our society now rewards people for being completely irresponsible assholes.  Maybe I’m just jealous, maybe I want Deputy Jones and her crew of minions to help save me!  Wait, a Domestic God would never let his castle to turn into such a horrifying mess!  But, a little help would be nice.  Perhaps a “roadie” could periodically come around and pick up plates from the family room, or the piled up bowls in the basement or the sippy cup in my goddamned bed!  Or, here’s a better idea–maybe the people who left them there could rinse and wash those dishes themselves!!! That idea has proven too difficult in our home, so I have taken the dirty dish reigns.  We wouldn’t want a “messy house” now would we?

Domestic Deity sometimes calls for making “lemonade out of lemons”.  That is a such a ninny cliché, but it is true.  So, what I have done is transformed  a loathsome task like doing the dishes into a game; like a puzzle or the “jumble” you see in the back of the newspaper.   What I do is, I take the pile of dirty dishes, open the dishwasher and attempt to get as many dishes in the washer as possible.  I am sure that this practice is not approved by the good folks at Maytag; but screw ’em, they have never seen the sheer  daily dish volume  that I do.

My dish washing ” jumble” game is a combination of speed, endurance and puzzle solving.  My record: 248 pieces in one load. Our dishwasher is a modest one–so I defy anyone to beat it.  This record feat didn’t come easy.  I suffered a lacerated finger and a sore back. But, I pressed through. I was in the zone.  I could see three and four moves ahead-crockpot on the top shelf, glasses below, Tupperware wedged in between. Everything just fit.  And after the wash cycle was complete; every piece was cleaned-no rewashing necessary. I contacted Guinness about the world record.  They told me there was no such record and that they were not interested.  I’ll give them a pass-their beer is really tasty.

As in life, Domestic Deity sometimes requires you to do things you don’t always like.  Doing the dishes is one of those things.  I say embrace it.  Make it your own.  Have some fun with the mundane.  In the end, it could be worse… it actually beats watching an episode of “Clean House” with your wife.