Merry Christmas

Happy Thanksgiving

Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll (Choose Two)

The wife and I went to a concert a couple of months ago.  It was the first show we had been to since mid-2009.  I put a Ziploc baggie of drugs in my sock, to sneak past security at the front door.  This is what I snuck in:

Ibuprofen and fucking No-Doze.  I'll take "Signs You're Getting Too Old" for $400, Alex.

The Ahwatukee Hillbillies

I wrote a song about my new next door neighbor.

The guy has been warned numerous times that he can't do major repairs on his car in the complex.  Last time he did, there was a huge gasoline spill.  The odor lingered for three days.

They just don't know how to be neighbors.  Slamming their front door at all times of the day.  Cigarette butts all over my front walkway.  Yelling at their kids in the entry way.  Speaking of the kids, I have yet to see a single toy.  They have four kids sharing one bedroom, between three mattresses.  And, I've never seen a sheet on any of the beds.  (Their blinds are open a lot.)

Earlier this week, he waited until five minutes after six, then put his car up on jacks and worked on it all night.  The complex's office closes at six.  Not only that, but he parked a beat up car that had no registration out in front of my apartment.

I'm not trying to be snooty.

It's just that it was neighbors like him that made us move from our last apartment complex.  At our old complex, our next door neighbor was an escort.  Literally.  An escort.  Three different times, her pimp kicked her door in and beat her up.  There was also a group home for mental patients that rented out a dozen units as halfway houses.  We had neighbors that had signs around their necks, telling people not to talk to them or look them in the eye.

We've worked our asses off to be in a neighborhood in a better part of town.  And, we want to stay here. The good news is that our complex's manager has served him with a ten day warning.  Another single complaint from a tenant in the next ten days, and he's getting evicted.  Oh, and they towed his car.

So, without further adieu, I present 'The Ahwatukee Hillbillies'  (Sung to 'The Beverly Hillbillies' theme)

Let me tell you all a story
'Bout a guy named Chuck
He's poor white trash
And he just don't give a fuck 

My life was great
Couldn't ask for much more
Till Chuck and his girl
Moved in next door

(Moved out of the trailer park)
(Six people in a two bedroom apartment) 

Now, Chuck and his kin
Been aggravating me
You could say my neighbors
Aren't acting neighborly 

My entry way's covered
With his cigarette butts
And, to be completely honest
Shit's drivin' me nuts 

(Absolutely livid)
(About to go apeshit on his ass) 

Out working on his car
In the middle of the night
Keeping us awake
And you know that isn't right 

Said if the manager
Doesn't get him out of there
I'm putting his ass
In intensive care 

(Hospitalize the motherfucker)
(Bludgeon him with a cricket bat)  

Code Words

Elle is getting too intelligent to have in the room, sometimes.

For the longest time, my wife and I were able to have a conversation.  And, if Elle asked what or who we were talking about, we'd say "Lady Gaga".  I can't believe how long that worked.  After a few months, we got to a point where we would use initials when talking about someone.  When that stopped working, we resorted to spelling certain words out.

Eventually, that didn't work anymore.  So, as a temporary solution, we had to spell things backwards.  Since Elle has started kindergarten, it seems that she has gotten exponentially brighter.  None of our old tricks work, anymore.  

On our way home tonight, J and I were discussing whether to stop for dinner somewhere, or grab drive thru.  

"So, what are your feelings on Inez, Henry, Opie and Peter?"

"Sorry?"

"You know, Ingrid, Henrietta, Oscar and Paco?"

"Oh, I fucking love Paco.  Wouldn't mind seeing him right now."

And that, my friends, is how we decided on having dinner at IHOP.

Cleaning Tips For The OCD Dad

If you've had a long day, and have chewed the skin off the tips of your thumbs out of anxiety, you might want to hold off on doing the dishes.

Just sayin'.

Believe me.

Not fun.

100 Views

SAHP has had a slow start so far.  Four posts.  And, the blog just hit it's hundredth view.  It might be a small milestone, but I'll take what I can get.  Thanks.

Punk Is Not Dead

The Other F Word

When I found out that my wife was pregnant, I was scared shitless.  I had always wanted to be a father.  But, at the same time, I had always wanted to NOT be a father.

My childhood sucked.  My dad abandoned us kids early on in my life.  He never walked out, but he was never there.  I saw him every night.  Sitting in a chair in the living room.  Wearing only a pair of shorts.  Asleep, and snoring so loudly, that we often had to turn the volume on the television all the way up.

When it came to making a living, the man worked his ass off.  He had an amazing work ethic.  I can't remember a single time that he took a sick day from work.  He was a machine.

He would come home from work, and leave all initiative and motivation at his job.  The only time he talked to us was usually when we were getting whipped with his belt.  My mom was my mother and my father.  My dad was a sperm donor that kept showing up for dinner.

I have two good memories of my father.  They are both when I was four.  Looking back, my life would have been much better, had he "gone out for cigarettes" when I was little, and never came back.  I often think about how different my life would have been had he left.

When Elle was on the way, I was terrified that I would become my father.  I had always promised myself that I would never be like him.  My goal in life was to be the opposite of what my father was to me.  So far, I'd like to think that I'm doing pretty well.

As Father's Day rolls around, I can't help but think of Everclear's 'Father of Mine'.  I usually try to avoid listening to it, because it reminds me of my dad.  In a lot of ways, the song is a spot on account of my life.


If you haven't had a chance to see it, I highly recommend watching a documentary called 'The Other F Word'.  It profiles a number of musicians, mostly from various punk bands, about the challenges of fatherhood.  Many of these guys were raised in homes without a father.  Those who did have dads at home, had a rocky relationship with them, at best.  Some of the artists interviewed ran away from home at an age of 12 or 13.  They had no positive role model or example of how to be a dad.  It was a matter of figuring it out as you go along.  And, somehow, they made it work.

YouTube has a copy of the movie.  It has hardcoded Spanish subtitles.  But, after a while, you practically forget they're there.  You might want to grab some tissues before watching it.  I cried through the whole movie.

It's a good reminder that you are not your father.  I am not distant.  Or emotionally unavailable.  Or an alcoholic.  Or abusive.  I am not going to be a series of bad memories in my kid's life.  My daughter will not look back and think of me like I think of my dad.  Ever.

Cleaning Tips For The Stay-At-Home Dad

For many new dads, a little one can be very trying on one's gag reflex.  As your little boy or girl gets older, rest assured that your stomach will eventually get stronger as well.  Until then, the sight or scent of any bodily fluid in the home could easily turn one pool of vomit into two.

Nothing smells (or looks) worse than cat puke.  Depending on it's location in the house, you have no way of knowing if it came from the kid or the cat.  Is that a puddle of puke or shit?  That can't all be hair, could it?

Here are the steps for a stress free (and gag free) cat vomit cleanup:

1. Stay as far away from the cat puke as possible.  Don't look at it.  Don't get close enough to smell it.
2. Quarantine the cat to the room said cat puke is located.
3. Take the dog for a walk.
4. Give your child a mid-morning snack.  Unless, of course, the cat vomited in the kitchen.  In that case, it's sundaes and playland at McDonald's.
5. Check email.
6. Watch third 'Doc McStuffins' episode of the day.
7. Don't forget to feed any fish/hamster/turtles in the house.
8. Put on underwear for the day.
9. Take shower.
10. Put on pair of dry underwear.
11. Stare blankly at the television screen with your son or daughter, through mini-marathon of 'Yo Gabba Gabba'.  

At the end of step 11, return to the room where the cat had vomited.  There should be no sign of the original mess.  If puke is still on the floor, lock cat back in room for an additional two hours, then check again.

Fuck You, Rapunzel

These are the opening lyrics to 'When Will My Life Begin?', which is sung at the beginning of the movie 'Tangled':

"7 AM, the usual morning lineup:
Start on the chores and sweep 'til the floor's all clean
Polish and wax, do laundry, and mop and shine up
Sweep again, and by then it's like 7:15."

Fuck that shit.  Sweep, polish and wax, laundry, mop, then sweep again?  "By then" it's like a week from Tuesday.