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crabbydad - Why Don't YOU Shower and I'LL Show Her...

 

Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com "crabbydad" - 1 new article Why Don't YOU Shower and I'LL Show Her... More Recent Articles Search crabbydad Why Don't YOU Shower and I'LL Show Her... Now that Mr. Z's in middle school, recess is, as Heidi Klum says, "out" and gym-class-every-day is "in." The boy's not too thrilled with that concept, being an "inside kid" and all. But he's a trooper and he's rolling with it. And along with daily gym class comes the ol' post-gym-class NUDE SHOWER! I remember 'splainin' this to the boy before the year started and he was basically like, "Seriously?! I have to shower with a buncha dudes at the same time... with all our wieners showing and everything?!" But he seemed fairly cool with the idea, so I dropped the wiener-talk. Well, cut to last week, and Mr. Z tells me that when the gym teacher told them to "hit the showers," he and his friend Mr. J were the ONLY TWO DUDES WHO HIT SAID SHOWERS! And it's been that way ever since! I asked him about it and he said, "Everyone else makes some kind of excuse, like 'I don't want to get my hair wet,' or 'I already showered this morning,' but I was all sweaty and it would've been totally gross going to class like that." Hear hear, Mr. Z! Let's hear it for logic and a keen understanding of personal hygiene (read: 10-year-old-assfunk). The boy is fearless! I asked him if it was weird being one of the only kids to shower, and he said, "No... why?" EXACTLY! It's not weird to shower when you're all sweaty. What's fucking weird is running around for a half an hour, peeling off your drenched gym togs, and then sliding your slimy ass and all that pre-pubescent fromunda cheese back into your clean nappies. Let that heady brew stew for the rest of the day and you, my friend, have got yourself a recipe for a yeasty, smoldering case of rotting generals. I've spent all this time worrying about Mr. Z making the transition to middle school, what with him being a coupla years younger than everyone else in his class, but here he is chillaxin' and just being a total dude. (By the way, he used the word "chillaxin'" the other day and I almost snorked an entire turkey sandwich outta my left nostril, I laughed so hard.) Anywhich, there may still be some rough patches to come, this year, but I'm tellin' ya, the boy is just doing a stellar job in the going-with-the-flowage department. Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, when the fuck did showering after gym class become optional?! I remember Mr. Batista, at Shepherd Jr. High, standing there every goddamn day eyeballin' every single one of our pinkie-sized dorks, not checking off our names on his fucking clipboard until he deemed our micro marble pouches sufficiently spotless and sparkly. It was fucking creepy as hell and may be the reason that, today, I can only shower fully clothed. But leave it to my son the naturist to reclaim the shower area for the crabbyfamily! And to show him just how proud I am, tomorrow I shall bathe sockless! • Email to a friend • Related • More Recent Articles Spreadin' Those Nuts on a Daily Basis... I'll Just Shut up Now... < Insert bad pun title here > Nary a Poppins... Just Call Me Fred G. Sanford... and the "G" Stands for "Green!"

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crabbydad - Spreadin' Those Nuts on a Daily Basis...

 

Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com "crabbydad" - 1 new article Spreadin' Those Nuts on a Daily Basis... More Recent Articles Search crabbydad Spreadin' Those Nuts on a Daily Basis... Peaner-burr and jelly. That's what Mr. Z has eaten for lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY since he started going to school. Literally. He even eats it for lunch at home. That's peaner-burr and jelly in second grade, third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade and now sixth grade -- every fucking day. Don't get me wrong -- I love peaner-burr. Still slap together an occasional nutty/jelly-y treat myself, now and again. But when I was a wee crablette, I varied the fucker up a little. PB&J one day, a Carl Buddig turkey and mustard sammy the next. You remember Carl Buddig -- that sliced turquee brick that was so microtome-thinly-sliced that you could practically read a fucking book through it. Ah, Carl Buddig. I remember wrapping a couple slices of that shit around a baby dill gherkin and then wrapping that in a Kraft Single and choking the whole thing down as I knelt in front of the open cold cuts drawer in my parents' fridge. Sorry, I just ralphed up into the back of my nose for a second there. Anywhich, I'm having a fucking fucker of a time trying to break the boy out of the PB&J death-grip he's got on his lunches. The lad will not budge. Turkey sammy? Fuck no. Chicken salad? Nuh-uh. Tuna? Are you fucked?! I could be a real dick and stick a hard-boiled egg in his lunch, like my mom used to do to me, but I consider that a form of child abuse, so that's out. I'm seriously starting to worry that he's gonna get some sort of peaner-burr-related affliction. Like a peanut-butter goiter, or peanut-burrsitis. I'm beseeching you, dear reader -- gimme some suggestions! There's gotta be some sort of non-legume-and-jelled-fruit-based sandwich making material out there that he'll allow to pass into his peanut-burr-caked maw. What is it?! Oh, and as the boy stated to a waitress who asked him if he wanted bacon with his pancakes at a restaurant back in Park Ridge, IL when he was about four years old, "We don't eat mammals," so keep that in mind. Winner gets a free CD, if I ever get around to finishing that fucker. (And to win, he must not only eat the item suggested, but must also ask to have it worked into the lunch-option rotation... a rotation that, up until now, only involves a rotating peaner-burr and jelly sammich.) • Email to a friend • Related • More Recent Articles I'll Just Shut up Now... < Insert bad pun title here > Nary a Poppins... Just Call Me Fred G. Sanford... and the "G" Stands for "Green!" And on That Note...

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crabbydad - I'll Just Shut up Now...

 

Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com "crabbydad" - 1 new article I'll Just Shut up Now... More Recent Articles Search crabbydad I'll Just Shut up Now... What's the name of the phenomenon wherein you start telling your spouse about something that you think is "HEE-LARIOUS!," be it a joke (usually dirty/offensive) or a story about something that happened at work or whatever, and the minute you start to explain it, you realize that she/he is never going to find it even the least bit amusing and what the fuck were you thinking when you thought she'd actually find it funny, and as you continue down this never-ending bottomless free-fall of regret, you get more and more pissed at yourself for ever thinking this was a good idea and you end up feeling like a complete douche, most likely pissing off your spouse in the process, and you finally put yourself out of your own misery saying something like, "Eh... nevermind, it's too hard to explain and it's not really that funny, after all. Forget it." While this pretty much happens to me daily at the crabbshack, tonight it happened while I was attempting to describe what rickrolling was to the Old Lady. See, I had just seen this great rickroll version of McCain's speech and, like a fucking moron, I thought I could describe the video to the Old Lady, somehow convincing her that it was funny and, because I was the one describing it so hilariously, that I was hilarious, as well. Fail. It went something like this, "So, there was this hilarious version of the blue-screen portion of McCain's speech that someone totally rickrolled and they cut up a bunch of Obama's speeches and actually had HIM singing the lyrics and... okay, lemme backup... so, rickrolling is when someone tricks someone into following a link to a Rick Astley song/video... usually "Never Gonna Give You Up"... see, it's kinda like a phony phone-call but it always ends up with a Rick Astley song and... anyway, someone spliced together Obama doing the lyrics... but the real song was playing in the background and... and then McCain's just standing there with this confused look on his face and... and the crowd was... and see Obama's up there on the... and... he... uh... Eh... nevermind, it's too hard to explain and it's not really that funny, after all. Forget it." There's gotta be a word for that. I'm gonna call it an "anec-d'oh!" • Email to a friend • Related • More Recent Articles < Insert bad pun title here > Nary a Poppins... Just Call Me Fred G. Sanford... and the "G" Stands for "Green!" And on That Note... You Want A Slo-Poke or an All Day Sucker?

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crabbydad -

 

Here are the latest updates for dadgregator@gmail.com "crabbydad" - 1 new article < Insert bad pun title here > More Recent Articles Search crabbydad < Insert bad pun title here > I've had nathan to say lately, really, hence the no typee. First, the spawnage have started school this week, so it's been a major pigfuck 'round these parts. Now that Mr. Z is in middle school (holy fuckstain?!) and Miss O is still at the elementary school, drop-offs and pickups have been impossible to figure out without a goddamn slide-rule and laser-guided miter box. And, while Mr. Z seems to be transitioning into 6th grade like a fucking champ, the stress it's causing me has been practically unbearable -- I'm tossing and turning every night, and having nightmares about showing up in class naked, with shampoo in my hair and completely unprepared for my algebra test. And I have this sinking feeling that, when I'm not looking, the Old Lady's gonna give me a swirlie and/or wedgie. The other reason I haven't been typing is that I can't tear myself away from the fucking political blogs, of late. I'm having major electile dysfuckshit. I basically just sit here and do the bookmark rounds (one, two, three, four, five, six... and then seven just for good measure), and then I bury my head in my hands and think, "If this trigger-happy Methuselah and his fascist evangelical moose-killing-running-mate win this fucker, how quickly will I be able to move the crabbyfamily to Canda and, more importantly, do they have Trader Joe's in Toronto?" Maybe I'll get lucky and fall into some sort of short-term coma or something. Then, if things work out in November, I'll snap out of it, but if Wrinkles McCranky pulls it outta his dusty John McAnus, well, they can just pull the ol' plug. Sounds like a plan. I'll start huffing paint thinner tomorrow. In the meantime, I've gotta hit the sack so I can start my naked-shampoo algebra dream. Nighty-night! • Email to a friend • Related • More Recent Articles Nary a Poppins... Just Call Me Fred G. Sanford... and the "G" Stands for "Green!" And on That Note... You Want A Slo-Poke or an All Day Sucker? We All Remember Our First Yankovic...

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What the fuck is Yoga, and Who Took My 40oz?

The title of this could be: "Parenting Through a Breakup" or "Overcoming Addictions as a Young Parent and Treading Water in the Aftermath" or "Having Kids, A Girlfriend, and a Baby Mama All at the Same Time" or "Holistic Therapy & Utilizing All the Resources of Your Community, Even if Part of You Hates Doing It" or "What the Fuck is Yoga and Who Took My Forty?"

Silence is a fence around wisdom. ~German Proverb

Nowadays most men lead lives of noisy desperation. ~James Thurber

Now all my teachers are dead except silence. ~W.S. Merwin

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

What page was I on? Why haven't I written on Pirate Papa for a year and a half? What happened that distracted me from my ongoing project of self-documen-realization-tation? Perhaps there really are times to live, and times to write about living, as those wise-ones sometimes deign to tell us.

So... where to begin, for those of you who do not know the details of our sordid little web of worries, wants and wily individuals wreaking havoc with each others lives here on the Northleft Coast? Do you want/need to know the details? Do I want you to know the details? No, not really. So I'll summarize to spare us all the brunt, blunt edge of truth: the details are a lot of pain and suffering, some very unhealthy violence, a dash of rejoicing, a few periods of intense personal growth, some fucking and some fucking over of good people on all sides of some painful issues, some healing, too much drinking, not enough writing, good food (always good food), tears, blood, sweat and ink.

There you have it.

Fast forward to now. I have a beautiful, doting Hannah who lives with me. I get my ladies half the time and have for the past nine months. Week on with me, week off with their mama… Someone said a few weeks ago: "You must be grieving." And I realized… I am grieving. I'm grieving and learning how to recover and balance and thinking about my posture, liver, kidneys, spleen, blood flow. "Am I standing up straight enough?" I think. "Am I clenching my butt enough for this to be better for my back than slouching?" I think. "You are standing up straight enough and this is good." My back thinks back at me. I walk taller now. I breath a little deeper in order to do so and that feels good. Sometimes I forget. I'm getting acupuncture and learning about my own body and my body feels good too and this makes me smile.

Like most other periods of my life, this past year and a half is blurred now, already, by whatever blurs our memories of things, faces, events. Evidently I have a surplus of that mysterious substance floating around in my brain, and not much else. I look at pictures and see myself smiling and my girls growing and I let the sounds and smells of what I do remember flood over me as often as I can. I try to live each day at a time and as a step towards something greater that I am trying to build and fashion from this clay of mortality I embody. I try to focus on whatever is in front of me. Nothing more. Nothing less. I give it my attention as best I can. I try not to dwell on broken hearts or fights or fanciful flights or past happenings of any kind, unless they directly pertain to what is at hand and then I try to embrace them, forgive them, gift them wings and let them fly away from my heart and disperse their bad energies back to whatever depths or heights from which they may have sprung.

Today I have a wonderful woman who loves us and lends her beautiful hands to our labors of love with joy and cunning and vitality and a smile. We have a large garden overflowing with vegetables. The ladies are walking and talking with amazing multi-syllabic words and rambling sentence-thoughts and a very advanced vocabulary for their boisterous, exuberant age of four. We care for a lovely Great-Dane Bull Mastiff mix named Deezle who weighs more than I do and gets spoiled like I want to be, but that's okay. The books continue to pile up, as they have a tendency of doing in my family. My job progresses as I grind my nose to oblivion on a stone. But I like my job. Sometimes I really don't like parts of my job but I do them anyway. I sell underground books to perfectly normal weirdoes all day long. We travel a little and go to book fairs, barter fairs, anarchist gatherings. I shop at bookshops, thrift stores, yard sales, a few auctions. Every few months some combination of us goes to Walla Walla to give the girls some Grandpa time and for me to get another load of antiquarian and interesting books to drag back over and on which to work for the next two months. We watch movies and put vintage paperbacks in bags and smoke into the night. Hannah helps guide me back into myself through every day.

I went a bit crazy for a spell back there and hurt myself a lot before I could pull out. Drinking too much on too little sleep for too long. Being single for all of six months and now missing it from time to time, in some stupid sentimental way. But not liking myself when I was single either. Too self-destructive, and thusly, too destructive of others selves as well, some of those closest to me. Slept around, flirted with poly-amory, drank myself into oblivion whenever I didn't have my kids, tried to keep my journals and my wits about me and my businesses growing and my friends happy. Nothing worked. Wasn't trying to keep myself happy. And I definitely didn't feel like the 'real man' I wanted to be. Hannah found me like that, in the bars, pretending to be happy and social and healthy. She didn't try to 'change me' or 'fix me' or whatever, thank god, that's such a turn-off. She just stood beside me until I didn't feel like doing it all anymore, at least on the reckless level I was before or, as my father so delicately put it: "burning the candle at both ends." Ouch. What was that about the truth? About saying these things that stab us outloud. About release. To heal myself I had to hole up inside, cut ties to everyone and everything I could. Now I slowly have to rebuild those damaged bonds (doomed stocks?), as time goes by. What an investment friendship is.

Now I have to deal with the wreckage and aftermath and conflicts of interest and vendettas sprung from my selfishness and emotional immaturity. Now I have to reckon with the results of my own actions. And I have to learn how to do all this without tearing myself apart with guilt and self-pity. I wish I hadn't had to do it the way that I did, the way that I am. I wish I had found a better way, a way to communicate my ideas and feelings to my friends as I pulled away, to explain my self and my necessary, temporary, painful absence from their lives but not their hearts. Instead I just donned the tough-guy mask and plodded forward stubbornly. I didn't share myself. I didn't share what was in my head, what was in my heart. Those bonds take so much longer to build back up after they've been broken. So that now I have to write about it, so that others can hear and perhaps avoid some slightly similar situation in a healthy, nonviolent, creative way.

We really are the only ones who can fix ourselves. Other people can aid us, give us gentle guidance, instill us with new methods or ideas. Around me people burn bridges that were so beautiful and leave each other in the ashes. Around me people abuse their bodies and minds and push themselves into a stupor closing in on death. Around me, flames burn bright and fast and threaten to extinguish themselves or each other. As communities we must learn to band together to fend off these flames from engulfing the fragile camps we have set into this wilderness of stimulus. Through a wicked cocktail of drugs, media, and privilege we have effectively stunted our own emotional growth and development. We must learn how to voice and share and thereby re-channel our collective anger and regret and fear and hate and worry into a cohesive, constructive force to be aimed at the heart of these issues: health care, poverty, anger-management, family planning and sex education, male bonding, patriarchy, alternative resources and support networks for young parents, other options to state-mandated assistance, a fundamental revamping of our educational system and a focusing-in on systemic problems contributing to our fractured society and sense of place. Need I go on? I share myself with you and ask for nothing in return save that you listen and let my words move through you.

skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04060344690179547080noreply@blogger.com

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Source: http://piratepapa.blogspot.com/2008/09/what-fuck-is-yoga-and-who-took-my-40oz.html
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