Little Moby Homemaker: Domestic God

When are Re-takes? ("Say Cheese-y")

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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It is crucial to note that Domestic Diety involves taking into account, not only your own appearance--but that of your children's.  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 "hillrodstoner".  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.

Domestic doG

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Every morning this Domestic God waits in the front of his family's  house for the school bus with his five-year old son, who we'll call "Little Rusty".  I love our home.  It's situated right across from a park--a good park.  You know, a big one with a baseball diamond, tennis courts, a great playground and just LOTS of green, green lawn.

Every morning without fail comes a woman, who we'll call "Ms. Hathaway" (mainly because that's who she looks like, Ms. Jane Hathaway from the "Beverly Hillbillies", who was played by Jane Culp), walking her little white poodle across our lawn.  Let me be clear--I don't hate dogs.  In fact, I like many of them.  I do however, not really care for those little pussy dogs, like the one's Paris Hilton or my Miss Hathaway has.  I will be even more clear--I absolutely LOATHE the pussy dog that pisses and craps on my yard (the yard directly across from the beautiful sprawling green park) every fucking morning!  At first, I wasn't sure if Miss Hathaway didn't know or simply didn't care that she daily used my lawn as her fruity canine's toilet.  On a recent morning--I found out.

Rusty and I sit together in our front room and watch through the window for his 7:15am bus Monday through Friday.  Once the weather gets a little warmer, the two of us open the front door, so Rusty can sit on the front stoop, as I sit inside to watch.  For one solid week, Rusty and I watched Miss Hathaway and that niddy little dog pull up in our yard, to then follow with a lifting of the back leg and a squat.  Of course, it was just the dog doing this.  Had Ms. Hathaway taken part in the pooping and pissing festivities, as well--I probably could've gotten swifter and more harsh punishment than I was to later inflict on her.  I know it's a little dog, but who the hell wants to see that as they're eating their morning Malt-o-Meal Frosted Mini -Spooners?

Little Rusty sat there every day and silently watched the show.  I mean, he is five--so poo and pee are right in his comedic wheel house.  But without the compliment of a fart, even he too, was growing leery of this daily evacuation ritual.  Not to mention, he was pretty regularly coming in the house with sneakers covered in doggie doo.  Yes, I picked up the dog crap--but who can ever really get it all???  I'm just one man!

Well, the other day I decided that I had had enough of Ms. Hathaway's daily desecration of my suburban landscape.  So, as that white little dog did her business I yelled out the front door, "Hey!  There's a whole park across the street"!  Once the dog finished, Ms. Jane Hathaway  picked it up, said to the dog (as if it speaks English, which everyone knows they don't) "Baby, that mean man is yelling at us".  Of course, she never apologized, never acknowledged an error on her part, or made eye any contact with me.  I was clearly the asshole here...???

The next Monday, Rusty assumed his position in front of the house.  Again, as always, came along Ms. Hathaway and her precious, ill-mannered "Baby".  Without flinching, the dog did what he does best--pissed and shit on my front lawn.  This really creased me.  As Ms. Hathaway and "Baby" walked away, I whispered into Rusty's ear and sent him to follow the two poo perpetrators.  As he caught up with them, Rusty did just as he was instructed.  In his little five-year old voice, he asked, "Ma'am where do you live?"  Ms. Hathaway, with a puzzled grin answered, "We live around the corner on Alpine Hills".

At this point, I came out from my front door and shouted to her, "Thanks, I'm going to bring my 'babies' over this evening to do their business on your front lawn!.  I'll be sure to load them up on lemonade and we're having Mexican tonight for dinner.  It should be a real spectacle!" Appalled by my revelation Ms. Hathaway picked up her "Baby" and scurried around the corner.

The next morning at 7:10am Rusty and I were pleased to see that little bitch doing her business across the street at the park--where her "Baby" dog was now doing her morning pissing and crapping.  In case that wasn't clear--I called Ms. Hathaway the "bitch".  Chalk one up for the Domestic God.

The Uppers & Downers of Domestic Deity

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


Perhaps Paris and Lindsay could learn about a domestic and legal alternative to blow?

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 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 problem, dude!

An even better 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

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

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"



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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 children's' 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.


Moby Homemaker

Parent- Lyndon Baines Johnson Grade School


Holy Balls! It's A Swimming Lesson

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Today, I share another essential bit of wisdom for all you Domestic Gods at home.  It is one which I was slapped in the face with (nearly more than just metaphorically) this afternoon.  Guys, if you take your kids to the gym (or the YMCA, in my case), ALWAYS utilize the "Family Locker Room".  I will explain how I came to this epiphany.

Trust me, I wasn't going to the Y to workout.  I hate that shit--and it shows!  Instead, I made the trip to take my two sons, who we'll call "Colton" (age 8) and "Little Rusty" (age 5), to their weekly swimming lessons.  Incidentally, I have not been in a public pool for nearly 20 years.  That's right, two decades!  I'm proud of this.  I don't avoid public pools because I can't swim or anything like that.  I avoid them because I view them as huge in-ground germ basins!  I know, I have issues.  And of course, my bizarre phobia doesn't stop me from throwing my spawn into the local version of "Swimming with the Bacterias".

Anyway, today I learned that I have another rare and peculiar phobia. This new one is that of Locker Rooms.

When we arrived at the Y for the boys' swim lessons, my sons indicated that we needed to drop their stuff in a locker, get their trunks on and shower off before the lessons were to commence.  Never being a big fan of the YMCA (the place or the song), and not knowing my way around--I asked where the Men's Locker Room was located.  Folks, I cannot over emphasize to you what a grave mistake I had unwittingly made.  My sons and I then turned the next corner to find a large wooden door with a black and white sign on it which read "Men's Locker Room".  I opened the door and ushered in my two young sons.

Holy Balls! I had led my boys into what looked like a scene from  "Old Guy Caligula".  There were dozens of really old dudes parading around naked as shit!  It was surreal-all this gray hair and old balls flopping around.  It was like a car wreck--fuck that--it was NOTHING like a car wreck!  I wanted nothing to do with this scene!  And, h-oh-lee shit, my little boys were witnessing this furry abomination along with me!  My Lord, the humanity! What had I done???

Poor Little Rusty was right at ball level.  I am sure he will never lose the image of one wet, naked sixty year old after another parading before his boyish eyes.  Young Colton saw more ancient ass than the seats at the local bingo hall.  What is it with these old fuckers?  I know it's a "locker room"--but Christ, can you please attempt to cover yourself in the main traffic areas?  Seriously, if there were beads, floats and disco music, I would have honestly believed that I had mistakenly attended the gay pride parade at Del Webb's Sun City.  It is perfectly acceptable, and encouraged, to take those towels off of your shoulders and wrap them around you!  I guess I am just too young to understand the true "freedom" of the men's locker room.  Perhaps in 25 years or so, I, too, will indulge in conversations with my senior counterparts naked after a hot shower, with one leg arched on a sink as I dry.  Seriously, this was the shit my poor little boys and I had walked into.

I whisked the boys away from "Pre-Historic Shrimp Nite At The Y", as I affectionately called it; and went to the front desk.  There I was advised that there was a "Family Locker Room" which required a special key.  It took a few minutes to go through the proper protocol; but shortly thereafter my sons and I were awarded keys to this special dressing area.  When we arrived, we found individual rooms for each family to use with maximum privacy.  There was not a set of creepy old gonads in sight.  Rusty and Colton, although possibly irreparably traumatized, got themselves together and made their way to another successful session of swimming lessons.

After the lessons' completion we got our stuff together in the Family Locker Room and headed out.  As we made our way to the front desk to drop off the keys; I hoped in my head that my boys were not forever scarred by my wrong Locker Room turn.  I rationalized that no real harm had been done-they'll simply forget about it.

As I held open the exit door for my sons and an older gentleman; Rusty pointed to the man and exclaimed, "That old man's nuts is silver!!!".  It's called a "Family Locker Room"Domestic Gods.  Use it.

The Beer Frame

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


During my ascent to Domestic Deity, I have learned a great number of things.  Perhaps the greatest of these is that I discovered how much I LOVE the bowling alley!  The bowling alley always has had a certain je ne sais quoi-filled with wonderful characters, and -ah.. the smell of booze and cigarettes.  Little did I know this same place would be such a great spot for a family "afternoon out". I always liked the bowling alley...but now, I am truly enamored with it.

Days can get long and even boring when it is just the kids and Dear Ole' Domestic God Dad.  I have often found that the kids will hound me looking for something "to do".  Of course cleaning up or their chores are quickly ruled out by my moppet roommates. My normal response to that rejection comes from the great baseball player and philosopher Yogi Berra, "You have a brother.  Go play with him."  Sometimes this just is not enough and we all have to get out of the house and have some fun.  Little did I know that have some "fun" could apply to me as well.

I had come across some free bowling game coupons recently and asked my sons if they would like to go bowling. Enthusiastically, they accepted my invitation.  Our local bowling alley is less than a mile away.  I had no idea just how lucky we were to have lanes this close to home.

Upon arrival, Colton, Little Rusty and I paid for our games and rented our shoes.  Rusty was in heaven "wearing someone else's shoes".  Colton was excited to learn that bumpers could be enabled to prevent the dreaded gutter balls.  And I was surprised and thrilled to learn that the alley had afternoon drink specials from the waitress who came down to greet us at our lane. Holy balls-kids happy, Domestic God elated!

My kids could be gifted athletes--hell if I know from bowling, though.  All I know is that they weren't fighting and I hadn't spent much dough on this "field trip".  The one thing that I definitely concluded is that not only is drinking condoned during bowling-it is encouraged.  Are you aware of the "Beer Frame"?  I wasn't  until the parameters were shown on the score board. Apparently, the "Beer Frame" occurs when 2+ bowlers are bowling, and all but one person get a strike in the same frame.  The person who didn't strike then buys beers for everyone that struck.

Let me tell you, with the bumpers up--Colton and I took Little Rusty in four frames.  Of course, Colton is only 8--so I had his beers-and we had 2 for 1 games, so I let Rusty off the hook and had the cheap "on special beer".  And is it just me, or does the bowling alley have especially large draft beers?  Needless to say, after our games, I needed to give the boys quarters for the video game arcade--because during the course of our family bowl "Moby Homemaker" had turned into "Dr. Inky"--actually, his evil cousin "Dr. Unk".

After the quarters had run out--the good Doctor was still on a house call with me.  So, I proposed the next part of our "family fun day"-a super fun "nature" walk home!  Little Rusty asked if he would be able to "Ninja Pee" on our "hike".  (He calls the practice of whipping out his ding dong and pissing wherever, "Ninja Peeing")  Dr. Unk told him, of course!  So Ninja Peeing commenced behind our local Taco Bell.  Like I said, we are extremely fortunate to have the bowling alley so close to home!

Domestic Diety has shown me that I can have fun adventures with the boys.  In fact, we try to have one at the bowling alley every so often.  And now, we 've added a new part to the field trip--an exciting ride in a real, live taxi!

Baseball has (not) been very, very good to me!

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Baseball season is in full swing again!  The Homemaker's are a baseball family.  We watch it on satellite, we follow our favorite teams religiously, despise our most hated teams intensely, attend big league games and , of course, our sons Colton (8) and Little Rusty (5) play little league.  This season, our oldest son (and his family) are truly blessed to be on a Chico Escuela Coach Pitch 7 & 8-year-old team with wonderful coaches, great teammates and nice set of team parents.   As I watched Colton's first game the other evening, my wife described this Domestic God's demeanor as nothing short of "orgasmic".

She was right--but I didn't soil my drawers because I was watching a group of  7 & 8-year-old boys (that's just sick), or because my son's team won their opener 30-0, nor was it because Colton showed great improvement at the plate and in the field.  Those things were great, but they were not the true reason for my exuberance.

My real reason for  unbridled glee was because my son was no longer a part of last year's team!  As a 7-year-old, Colton was placed on the most rag tag,  undisciplined, border line anti-social youth baseball team that I have ever seen.  This "team" that could not even muster up a name was kind of like the "Bad News Bears'--without an ounce of comedy, loveable characters or a happy ending.  And instead of a charming alcoholic coach like Mr. Buttermaker, it was I who was driven to drink by this group of sorry little fuckers!  Believe you me, I was left feeling alcoholic and not one bit charming.  In all my life of participating and being associated with youth sports, I have never seen a group of kids and parents like I did on my son's team last year.  I would now like to introduce you to some of the "stars" of this nameless team (who will now be referred to as the "Pukes" because their team color was green and it pretty much accurately captures the overall spirit of the team "leaders").

"Dallas"-Dallas was the coach's son. Not only did Dallas achieve the triple crown of  leading the league in  on the field tantrums, whining and bitching, he also led the team in swearing, spitting at other kids and rock throwing.  If there were a league for shithead kids, Dallas would be an all-star.  Hell, he would be a first ballot hall of famer.  And this was the coach's son!

"Britney"-Britney was the 7-year-old girl who was forced to play baseball by her parents.  I say that she was "forced" to play, because it was true.  She constantly screamed that she didn't want to play--and who can blame her? She had never played a game of t-ball or baseball in her life and now her a-hole parents were throwing her into hardball with kids (mostly boys, mind you) who had been playing  three of four years already.  That being said, every time she took the field it led to a new and tediously long journey in finding her position.  I will not even describe the scene of her at the plate.  And can you guess who was the first kid on the "Pukes" to be injured by a fast-moving hard ball?

"Shiloh"-Shiloh will have a nice career in excavation.  How do I know this?  Because all this little bastard did was dig holes and build sand mounds.  Whether on the field, in the dugout, in the on deck circle or just aimlessly wandering the complex during a game--this kid was digging.  He had a real kinship with the earth.  In fact, I saw him eat some while on sitting at third base during a game.  I only noticed because the hardest hit line drive I have ever seen an 8-year-old hit grazed the top of his head, taking off Shiloh's hat, mid sand dig/eat.

"Wilbur"-Wilbur actually had some athletic ability.  The world will probably never see it, though, because Wilbur's time was spent with feedings-every half inning.  The early innings started light-popcorn, then a little candy.  The 3rd & 4th usually moved into the main entrees, hot dogs, burgers and pizza.  The final inning usually involved a dessert-like some ice cream.  I have no idea how this kid could put down the latest scourge in youth baseball--the obligatory "after game treat".  All I can say id fuck that noise!  Anyway, this poor kid weighs 150lbs. and is only 4 foot tall.  Thank God, these games were only 5 innings and the "Pukes" usually had their games ended early because of the "slaughter rule"--or Wilbur could be a deuce, deuce and a half!

That's just a taste of the "Pukes" squad.  The bench looked like a scene from "Attica", the parents looked like extras from "Breaking Bad".  It was brutal to say the least.  And I know what you may be thinking right now, "Hey, Moby Homemaker, why don't you quit your bitching and coach that team yourself, if you're so goddamned smart?".  My answer to that is simple.  If I were to coach a team like the "Pukes", I may have been pushed to take out at least two of those stupid little shits, and this Domestic God doesn't need a double homicide on his rap sheet.  Thank you God that Colton had found his way on the "Blues" this season, who knows how many lives have been saved???

APB: Be on the lookout for the The Black (Mini-Van) Widow

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

This morning, this Domestic God was witness to the single most horrifying scene in the history of modern roadways.  At 9:30 am I saw a woman driving her mini-van while holding a chai tea in her right hand, a muffin top in her left hand, with a cell phone cradled on her right ear!  Not to mention, this woman had two screaming children strapped in the back seat and a petrified passenger by her side.

Before you go and blast me for writing a post about how awful women drivers are, and all that crap, I will stop you...because you are completely correct.  That's exactly what I'm going to write. And, I have no problem furthering an awful and archaic stereotype--because I am writing about my wife!  And that petrified passenger I told you about--that was me!

I am asking the police to stop this woman at once!!! Although Mrs. Homemaker shows an uncanny agility and an undeniable ability to multi-task behind the wheel of her grocery getter, she is scaring the fucking shit out of me!!!  I have always had a slight inkling that my wife is trying to kill me because I am heavily insured, and after this morning's drive my assumptions have proven true.  She may not actually be trying to have me offed in an auto "accident"--but she for damn sure is trying to scare me to death with her stunt like suburban driving escapades. There's the near collisions, the harrowing turns, the countless curbs, and just a general sense of reckless abandon that my wife passes off with an air of "obliviousness'' behind the wheel that may be real or manufactured.  It is now my educated guess that it is the latter.

Here's the evidence.  First, her van comes manufacturer's equipped with a dozen cup holders.  Yes--a fucking DOZEN!!!  Yet, the Mrs. refuses to use one and insists on holding her hot "foo foo" morning drink while navigating the steering wheel.  Secondly, my wife has me as a passenger.  I would be happy to hold her chocolate chip muffin top for her.  She claims some shit that I would eat the whole thing.  So she refuses to hand it over while behind the wheel.  I know she is full of it, because everyone in the baking world knows that I like the stump of the muffin much better.  The third piece of evidence: my better half owns a blue tooth--and refrains from using it!  I know that she owns one because I begged her mother to get her one for Christmas--because I feared some sort of phone related traffic incident.  The last article of evidence: Mrs. Homemaker has two perfectly good eyes--that she simply will not put on the road.  Good God Almighty, if my wife would just look forward when she drives, I may be able to save some embarrassment and underpants from all the shitting I do while in the passenger seat!

There it is.  That is the case.  My evidence is overwhelming, and I am quite sure any jury of my peers would find me credible and rule in my favor.  However until my wife actually does kill me through her driving--I have no case.  Perhaps an "attempted murder" conviction could be pursued, but I've seen Law & Order and I know that shit never really sticks until there's a body.  

So, this Domestic God will once again impassionately plea to the local authorities:  HELP ME!!!  My wife has a black van with the license plate number "HUB E KILLR".  If you see her whizzing through a coffee shop drive thru or meandering dangerously through a Bed Bath & Beyond, Target, Kohl's, or Wal-Mart parking lot--you must use all the force at your disposal to apprehend her!!!

I thank the local authorities and it is my wish that you are able to stop this societal menace before she can strike.  I hope to be back writing soon--but I am in fear for my life, because my family and I are heading out to the mall!!!  

Pray for me and my survival,

Little Moby Homemaker "Domestic God"

Motley Two

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Anyone who knows this Domestic God personally knows that I have an almost sick obsession with rock music-in particular, 80's heavy metal.  One of my all-time favorite bands, without a doubt, is the infamous L.A. quartet, Motley Crue.  I love the Crue!  I have all their cds (even the really shitty ones without Vince Neil and Tommy Lee), go to their concerts (I have the t-shirts to prove it) and have even read all their books (even Tommy Lee's feces put into print "autobiography").  Yes, the great Motley Crue, are best-selling authors!

The greatest of these literary works is their opus "The Dirt" which details the debauchery of Motley Crue in their heyday.  I have read this book several times.  It never gets old to me.  If you are into perverse sexual exploits, massive drug usage, music of marginal quality, legal tangles, more sexual depravity and massive drug usage (I know that I mentioned it already)--this is your book.  I haven't read "The Dirt" in a while, but I was quickly and unexpectedly reminded of its literary genius this morning when I went into my two sons' bedroom.

Last night, our 5-year-old, who we'll call "Little Rusty", woke us up by vomiting--or I should say, the horrible sound of vomiting.  The poor guy had a little stomach bug.  Of course, we got him out of bed and brought him to our room so we could tend to him and so he could spread the disease to his parents.

When morning broke, I went into to wake up Rusty's roommate and brother Colton.  When I opened the shades, the light revealed a bedroom that at the very least could be described as "utterly disgusting".  As I surveyed the area, I thought to myself, "Do I live with Motley fuckin' Crue???"

I say this because any Crue fan who has read "The Dirt" or seen their "Behind The Music" episode would know that a hotel room occupied by any combination of the members of Motley Crue always would be left, at the very least, with vomit on the floor and a minimum of one wet bed.  There it was right before me, Rusty's puke on the floor and apparently he had hit an exacta last evening because when I stripped his bed I was greeted with piss soaked sheets.

Obviously, my young sons aren't on complete par with Motley Crue, I mean there wear no syringes or Jack Daniels bottles in their quarters.  But, there were sharpened colored pencils and dozens of empty and half empty Sunny D and Capri Sun containers flung all over the place.  Dirty clothes were strewn from corner to corner, the tv was left on a fuzzy screen, there was a broken lamp, unintelligible graffiti on the walls and I even found a small bottle of hairspray under some of the rubble.  All this room needed was a passed out, naked hooker and some used condoms for this to qualify for Motley Crue hotel room status. Strike that, no one in the  Crue would never had worn condoms.  So, less the inebriated whore and illegal drugs--my sons' room was a real deal rock n' roll party aftermath scene!

Like those poor chamber maids of the 1980's who had to clean up after Vince Neil, Mick Mars, Tommy Lee and the great Nikki Sixx, I began the horrific task of cleaning up after my "motley two".  In reality, I was used to this.  I've felt like a roadie for my sons since they came on the scene.  I spend countless hours transporting them from place to place, keeping them fed , keeping them out of trouble and dragging tons of their shit around. This was just one more roadie task--picking up after them.

Once Rusty was nursed back to health, I sat down and explained to my sons that they have a responsibility to not live like complete drug addicted, platinum selling animals. Once that conversation was over I immediately marched them right down to the basement.  I placed Colton's guitar on him and sat Little Rusty behind his miniature drum kit.  We worked on the intro to "Dr. Feelgood" until they had it down.  If my sons are going to act like Motley Crue--they better play like them, too.  And, this Domestic God Roadie has given himself a promotion.  I am now Colton and Rusty's Domestic God Manager.

You need a f---ing army if you gonna take me to Toy Story 3!

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

This Domestic God was unceremoniously awoken today by his overly exuberant 8-year-old and 5-year-old.  This morning, Colton and Little Rusty were more rambunctious than usual, and they soon told me why.  The weeks of anticipation (and non-stop commercials) were over--apparently "Toy Story 3" was 3-D!!!

This was a huge summer deal for them.  For me, it meant little to nothing.  Truth be told--I have never, ever seen a Pixar movie.  Of course, I am aware of them, but I also take pride in admitting the fact that I have not once been witness to one of these faux cartoons.  I have never seen a Shrek, an Ice Age, a Madagascar, Cars ,or a Toy Story.  In my world, "Nemo" is the guy who delivers me my piping hot pizza from a nearby Italian restaurante.

There are those who have questioned my commitment to parenting by not attending these films with my sons.  To them, I say, "bullocks."  As my 8-year-old son shoved the show times in my face, I read that these movies cost $10 a ticket PLUS a $5 "3-D Experience" charge.  $15 bucks per kid to see some shit movie???  Fuck that.  I can more than sufficiently love and entertain my kids--without dropping $30 plus treats. I advised my sons to work on their mother--she's weak.

I then pulled the boys up into my bed and surfed the channel guide for some more poignant entertainment.  Thank heaven for cable!   I was able to show my children some classics for just about $2 a day!  Thanks to AMC, my sons and I were able to cheer on Ray Liotta as Henry Hill in a more kid friendly version of "Goodfellas."  Little Rusty now loves to ask me, "Am I a clown?  Do I amuse you? What's so flippin' funny about me?" Priceless.  And his older brother agrees, that Billy Batts deserved to be beaten to death...because he was "not very polite" to Tommy.  Of course, we all could agree that it is perfectly acceptble  and frankly the right thing to do, to pistol whip a guy who tries to assault your grilfriend.  Oh, I forgot, Colton loves to make Little Rusty do the "Spider Dance".

After the watered down Scorsese classic, we found that TBS was showing the Brian De Palma epic, "Scarface".  Now this one was bit long for the boys.  But TBS did a masterful job in making the bathroom chainsaw scene not only palatable for little ones--but they made it fun!  Little Rusty just loves to swagger around our house with a golf club in his arm saying, "Say hello to my little friend!" Colton has even been able to incorporate the term "mang" into most sentences.  After watching "Scarface", both boys agreed that they never want a sister.

Our long day of kid friendly entertainment alternatives to Pixar ended when A&E showed back to back episodes of "The Sopranos".  God bless A&E for making the necessary changes that allowed my 8-year-old and 5-year-old to learn that you never buckle on giving a higher percentage to New York, and you simply don't give up your cousin to a prick like Phil Leotardo.  In fact, Colton pointed out that "Phil" was a "jerk" in "Goodfellas" and deserves to "get his" at the hands of Tony and his buddies.  Colton is going to love the finale!!!  I'm also touched that by being able to watch "The Sopranos" on A&E, my sons learned some valuable social lessons.  Pixar has never taught anyone that although you kill someone early in an episode--gangster or not, you can still find a loving, shirtless relationship with a butch fry cook later in the same episode.  And how else would my sons learn that "gentleman's clubs" like the "Bada Bing" are legitimate businesses that allow single mothers an opportunity to earn money and be productive members of society, despite the incredible challenges they face--without A&E???

So, I again, applaud cable networks for providing me the chance to view these classics with my small children.  Sure, Burger King will never have a "Donnie Brasco" toy in their kid's meal, but will Tom Hanks and that old dude from "Home Improvement" be able to really teach my kids life lessons--that they will actually use???  Cable has afforded this Domestic God a platform to show his sons that there is far more to life than computerized animation.  And what the hell, when they re-release "Reservoir Dogs" in 3-D, I'm sure that I'll drop the $30 for the "3-D Experience" and take the kids.

Double Down...All In!

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


Originally, this Domestic God had planned to pen a piece on one of the truly wonderful and extraordinary by products of the Recession--the $1 Fast Food Menu.  Believe you me, I am an expert at this subject and I have logged  in literally hundreds of hours of "research" on the subject.  But on a recent warm spring day, we as a nation were forever changed in a profound way.  We were forevermore shaken to our collective quick eating core when KFC unveiled their newest fast food chicken experiment, the "Double Down".

For the very few of you (I believe you're referred to as "healthy people") who are still unaware of the Double Down, I will give you a brief overview.  KFC describes the Double Down as, "A one-of-a-kind sandwich featuring two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets (Original Recipe® or Grilled), two pieces of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese and Colonel's Sauce".  Please note--there is NO bun.  This makes the "sandwich" particularly horrifying visually.  But, hey, who am I to argue with the marketing genius of KFC (remember "grilled chicken" and "famous bowls"??)?  Nutritionally, the Double Down weighs in at 540 calories, 32 grams of fat and -- hang on -- 1,380 milligrams of sodium.  This thing looked at worst, like a monstrosity.

Of course, I saw the Double Down as a"challenge" that needed to be tackled!  After consulting my primary care physician and once I was able to shed the fear and disgust (which lasted somewhere in the ballpark of 15-20 minutes) of the Double Down, I decided that I was physically and mentally prepared to battle this fast food monster.  By far, I had not felt this level of anticipation and nervousness in trying a new fast food delicacy since as a child I first ordered the "McDLT "in the late 1980's.  You know the brilliant "The hot stays hot (hot, hot) and the cool stays cool (cool, cool)" burger failure by McDonald's.

I plotted out my trip, finding the cleanest, most out-of-the-way KFC I could.  I did this because frankly, I felt "dirty" ordering the Double Down.  As I ordered the overpriced poultry Frankenstein, I felt that this is the kind of feeling dudes must have when they pick up street walkers.  My neck was on a swivel, hoping that I wouldn't be detected. There was a quick cash exchange and just a general feeling that I was doing something that: a) my wife wouldn't approve and b) was just plain wrong.  Once I ushered the DD into my vehicle, I quickly sped away, heading for home to inspect, ingest, and ultimately inform about the virtues of the Great all-White chicken breast Whale of a sandwich.

Once home, I sat down with the sandwich.  I unwrapped it from its sleeve--yes, a sleeve.  It comes in a big french fry holder--adorably vile.  Like I said, the thing is visually horrific.  It wasn't as big as I thought it would be--but that didn't make it any less menacing.  It gave the appearance of the "Pizza The Hut" character from the film Space Balls.  I mean, I really believed that this thing could potentially start breathing and then conversing with me, if I didn't start munching on it quickly!

So, the dining commenced.  Truthfully, the sandwich held together pretty well, for having a "bun" of greasy chicken. Of course, I chose the Original Recipe® option, because what the fuck? I had already committed to eat the Double Down.  Why not go all the way with my gluttony?  The flavors weren't bad.  I mean, there's fried chicken, pepper jack cheese, special sauce and bacon--even KFC can't really screw up that taste.  That's pretty yummy stuff.

In a matter of 6-7 minutes the Double Down was consumed.  I sat at my table left with a sense of emptiness (well, not physical emptiness--I was full!) and underwhelm-ment that I had not felt since, maybe, the final "Sopranos' episode. The Double Down wasn't bad, and it wasn't great.  It was nothing , really, --except a quicker path to Lipitor for me.  I don't feel that I ever need to try the sandwich again.  In fact, I feel that this Domestic God may have dominated and tamed the beast...until it was time to use the bathroom, but I digress.

I truly hold the belief that KFC introduced the Double Down to get cheap publicity--and they have achieved my suspicion.  They put out a disgusting, yet slightly edible concoction that would be fodder for endless pop culture discussion and debate.  To me, the KFC Double Down is a publicity stunt, nothing more or less.  Until a fast food chain comes out with something truly remarkable, and my blood pressure levels out, this Domestic God won't stop believin' that there will  someday be a sandwich that will truly shock and awe us all.

Father's (Day) Knows Best

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


Having just completed another round of successful Mother's Day activities and celebration, this Domestic God has made the determination that Father's Day kicks the shit out of Mother's Day!  Of course, for obvious reasons, I prefer Father's Day--but beyond the mere fact that I, myself, am a father and reap the benefits of said day--I  am also not on the hook for presents, meals, get togethers, etc. for that most special of Hallmark holidays.

The bottom line, whether Moms bring it upon themselves or not, Mother's Day is a total bitch for Mommys.  Case in point--my wife and our children's loving Mother, Mrs. Homemaker.  In the days leading up to the actual Mother's Day itself, like many others in her position, I watched my wife frantically making various arrangements.  She was picking up gifts for her loved ones, picking up groceries for various food preparations, and scheduling the several meals that had to occur to properly celebrate the wonder of Motherhood.  It looked absolutely horrifying to me.  Of course, I helped--a little.

See, I am a firm believer that a Dad's job on Mother's Day is to be sure that the cards, presents and all other accoutrements are properly readied.  I am also responsible for the preparation and clean up of all meals that day.  In this Domestic God's humble opinion, Mother's Day should then be her's--to be served, relax and do whatever the hell she wants.

But, noooo!!!  For Moms, Mother's Day is constant adulation and face time with family members (nearly to the point of annoyance).  For example, my wife shared a lovely lunch with her mother. a beautiful dinner with her step mother...not to mention a tasty breakfast and incessant bombardment of "love' from our two sons.  It went on for hours and hours and hours... As they day wore on, I could see my wife becoming increasingly exhausted and soon her demeanor bordered on a total transformation to complete bitchdom.  Who can blame her?  The motherly duties of her Mother's Day were enough to make anyone (Mother or otherwise) mental!

Compare that day of honor to Father's Day.  Father's Day, simply stated, is the day I get to do whatever the fuck I want--with whomever I want.  There's no get togethers, no presents and no unnecessary meals. There's no pageantry whatsoever. Usually, my Father and I slip just out-of-town for a nice day of quiet golf.  It's quite lovely.  We have a couple of beers, a light lunch and 5-7 hours away from the bustle and chaos of our loving families.  That is a gift!!!  It is a true honor!!!

When my Dad and I return home from our golf game, there might be a few cards from the kids, a couple small gifts and a nice dinner--usually on the grill.  I have no trouble cooking for my family on Father's Day--because I had some wonderful time away!!!

Mothers, let me give you some friendly advice.  If I were in your boat, I would start asking for my family to get me something like  a "spa day" as a Mother's Day gift.  A day away from your family for a few hours in which you can relax, reflect, recharge and not become a worn out dragon woman on your most special of days!!!  As a husband/father, I (and many others) will endorse and happily embrace this idea.  It will keep us men out of those horrible flower shops, keep us from running from place to place with you on your "special" day and keep our wives from totally bitching out!!!  It sure sounds like a win-win, doesn't it, Ladies?

That's the best advice I have for all you Mothers out there.  Because unless you are all ready to make the Chaz Bono commitment, you're stuck with Mother's Day--as it stands.  This Domestic God believes that you should  take a lead from Father's Day and truly enjoy your day--in peaceful and stress free solitude!!! Because if things keep going the way they are, I may petition Hallmark to change the name from "Mother's Day" to "Holy Shit, Our Mother Has Turned Into A Total Bitch, Day".

Caught in Bed With.....Bath & Beyond

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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I hate to share this kind  of personal information and gossip through cyberspace like this, but I  think my wife is having an affair, and I know who she is having it with-- Bed Bath & Beyond.

I started noticing that when it got kind of crazy around here, (you know kids screaming, fighting whining, etc.), my better half would inevitably ask something like, "Do we need new bath soap?" or she would start mumbling that our bed's duvet was "worn out".  Of course, we are invariably out of everything consumable, and pretty much anything else we have is broken, about to be broken or worn out.  So, my wife's muses were usually looked on by me as just simple day-to-day home and family "upkeep".

This changed one Saturday mid-morning.  I was napping--yes, an actual miracle occurred right in our very home.  And this wasn't one of those bullshit miracles like when the Virgin Mary is found in a Frito chip, or David Blaine reads a stripper's mind on a tv special--I'm talking real deal Divine Intervention/Hand of God stuff--I got a mid-morning nap!  But, I digress...

My wife awoke me from my rarest of rare slumbers to let me know she "had to run a couple errands".  She indicated that she would be leaving our two young sons with me while she made this excursion.  Once I came to, I realized that she had been to the grocery store last evening. I thought everything had been covered.  I chased her down the stairs and asked what her destinations were going to be.  She didn't answer me.  I hate when people don't f'n answer me...I mean, I really hate it. So now my questioning turned into  progressively louder and more annoying badgering.

As she put on her winter coat, my spouse turned to me and said, "There is supposed to be a HUGE winter storm tonight and I am getting supplies."  "Supplies???", I asked.  "We've got enough food for a week, I got gas for the snow blower, we've got water, necessary medications, a couple of DVD's from the library and a case and a half of beer-what the hell could we possibly need?"  She answered as serious as I have ever seen her, "We need a new dishwashing wand because the old one is 'gooky' and a new scented candle, so I am heading to Bed Bath & Beyond".

I politely asked Mrs. Homemaker..."Are you fucking kidding me???  Those are the emergency supplies that our family will so desperately need when we are trapped in our abode for maybe 3-4 full hours after a ten inch snowfall??"

Noting the overwhelming absurdity of her explanation, and quickly catching on to the fact that I was on to her ruse, she laughed and came clean.

She told me, "Sometimes I just like to go out, get away from you guys and walk the aisles of my favorite stores.  It relaxes me and gives me time to clear my head."

Wow, how melancholy and sweet did my bride sound?  I kind of understood her.  I guess, it sounded somewhat logical--weird, but logical. Except, if this Domestic God did what, "relaxed me and cleared my head" in the aisles of BB&B--I would surely be arrested.

My wife carried on her "tryst" and went to Bed Bath and Beyond.  I went back upstairs and instead of falling back into my miracle coma, I began a secret and torrid liason of my own...with SoapNet's "Breakfast In Bed".

A Vengeful and Pissy Domestic God

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


This morning, this Domestic God was unceremoniously awoken from his Sunday slumber.  And it wasn't for the usual crap, like going to church...uggh.  No, my Sunday began with my extremely angry wife crowing about something she had found on the absolute bane of our societal existence, Facebook.

My better half, the lovely Mrs. Homemaker, is a decorated  and respected middle school teacher.  She is really good at her job and takes it far more seriously than I think she should!  She is one of those teachers you see in those feel good stories on the local evening news.  You know, the pieces about the unparalleled dedication to the students and the school, and all that kind of crap.

This being known, one could only imagine what her reaction might be when she found a  Facebook page dedicated to "How To Disrupt Mrs. Homemaker's Class" (clever title, huh?).  The page was started by current students and some recently passed ones.  In truth, I found the concept pretty damn funny; but as The Mrs. read the posts on it to me, the tone became more vicious, slanderous and just factually untrue.  There was even stuff about me and my kids on there--I don't even know these tweeny little bastards!

Once it became apparent that this Facebook page was more than a simple joke and it became an assault on her abilities, reputation and professionalism; my wife took all the proper steps.  She contacted her school administrators, she contacted Facebook and she contacted our pit bull attorney.  Although she may be a bit hurt by the lies and mean spirit of some of the posts-Mrs. Homemaker is a true, consummate professional.

However, Little Moby Homemaker is not.  So, I will now take this time and forum to respond to the postings of these stupid, little teenage fuckers--as only Moby Homemaker can.

To Shannon Hamilten (8th grade, 2nd hour), who so eloquently wrote, "Mrs. Homemaker was asleep and didn't see a knife fight going on right in front of her desk":

Shannon, I've seen your school and the kids who attend it. You're a group of wiry, little, farm town, wannabe gangstas.  You guys have all the swagger and street cred of Justin fucking Beiber. My wife, at 5'3", towers over most of you little punks, and I know for a fact she could kick your little asses. (I've seen her slap a ho down in college).  I highly doubt there was a knife battle within your school. Get your facts straight.  And, here is an accurate fact;  your mother is bat shit crazy drunk.  Oh, and don't think that the whole school staff doesn't know that you routinely go to third base with Mikey Farmer and  Whitey Greer on the bus home.

William Bardy (7th Grade , 4th hour) who used his writing skills to pen, "I skip Mrs. Homemaker's class ALL the time and she doesn't have a clue that we are partying!".

Hey Billy, you're in seventh fucking grade.  If you were actually able to "skip class" (without the benefit of a car, no less) and were able to "party", I don't think it could go much further than smoking Parliaments and exchanging handys with your pals.  Incidentally, your dad showed up to parent teacher conferences clearly in the midst of a four-day meth binge and he tried to grab my wife's ass.  Trust me, if I see that tweaker daddy of yours at the Alligator Bar--I will jam my Sketcher sneaker (that no man my age should ever be wearing) up his scrawny rear.

Bertha Smith (8th Grade, 6th hour) penned this piece of brilliance, "Mrs. Homemaker sucks and is a shitty teacher, she is uncompetent."

Bertha, you got a fat girl's name and in my professional opinion, you are projecting your anger at your mother  for naming you "Bertha" on to your teacher. I realize it must be difficult since you can't really project on your daddy because he's in jail for armed robbery. (I learned that shizz on Dr. Drew--pretty good, huh?) You need to drop the hate, honey.  Also, you may want to ask your mom why she is referred to as "Ms. 4th Input" around town.  I'm a pretty sick bastard and have no idea what a "4th input" could be???  Perhaps, she will be able to "competently teach" you some things that you will undoubtedly need to know in the profession you are truly destined for.  In case you didn't understand all of that--I called your mommy and you a "whore" and a "whore in waiting", respectively.

Finally, Toby Reynelds (8th Grade, 7th hour) said;  "Mrs. Homemaker reaks and I don't care about her shitty kids that she tells stories about".

Although you are half right Toby, our kids can be pretty shitty; I know for a fact that my bride showers DAILY.  Something else you may not be aware of, young Toby--the only reason you have any friends is because your mom is a hot mess of a wino coke whore who conveniently "forgets" to wear panties when she wears mini skirts.  Toby, you are universally viewed as an annoying prick by your peers, but your mother is a real fan favorite on the net and on your classmates' cell phones!  And here's a little insult to injury, you sawed off little puke;  Bobby Beers told the whole class you pissed the bed at his birthday sleepover and that you got a boner looking at a gay porno magazine on the class trip to Capital City.  I think you're really going to love high school, Toby!

I could go on and on, but my wife's lawyer has instructed me to cease and desist this posting right now. So, I will comply with his directions.  I do, however, look forward to suing each of these teenage a-holes' parents.  And, I cannot express to you how much personal enjoyment I will take in recouping their hillrod trampolines, their backwoods ATVs and  their dial-up ready laptops as compensatory and punitive damages.

To those of you who feel that I may have taken this "cyber joke" too far and crossed a line--blow me, this Domestic God is a vengeful and pissy God.  These little shits' actions awoke me on a Sunday morning--I need my beauty rest!

Finally, to my spectacular wife (who for some reason, forgives these little mutants--and their parents), keep on keepin' on.  And see--I told you, other peoples' kids really do suck.

Whoa!!  That felt good--better than meditation OR working out!!!!  In case I missed anything, or you know anything else about these juvenile cyber delinquents;  you can e-mail me

In case you need to reach my lawyer he can be reached at:

Editor's Note:
**Mrs. Homemaker DOES NOT approve of this posting as it is embellished for a "Hollywood" effect.**

Hockey Night with the Homemakers

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

Since the role of Domestic Deity was thrust upon me, money has gotten, let's face it--a bit tight.  As anyone knows when you're pinching the pennies, the first luxury that takes a hit is "entertainment".  The Homemaker household is no different.  The premium cable is gone (Lord, I miss Skinamax) and trips to movies and dinners out have been severely curbed.

So you can only imagine the excitement my family felt when I came across a free family pack of tickets to our local minor league hockey team's game last evening!  That's right--The Mrs., Colton , Little Rusty, and Moby H. were going to enjoy a big night out on Hockey Town!

Let me begin by saying that we are not a "hockey family".  I speak for my brood when I explain that we have nothing against the sport.  In fact, I would argue that hockey players are perhaps the most gifted athletes on the face of the earth.  I believe hockey never really caught on with us because of the simple fact, that the sport doesn't translate well to television.  I have always enjoyed the game live--but have struggled following it on the tube.  Maybe if they made the puck the size of a basketball and it the players slowed the fuck down, I could enjoy it more as a tv viewer? 

Like I stated earlier, I have always enjoyed attending hockey games, and everyone at our house was delighted at the prospect of taking in a live game.  My wife and I loaded up our two sons and headed to the arena.  And guess what???  It was "Youth Hockey Stick Night"!!!  On paper, this sounds great. The first 2500 kids would receive a free souvenir hockey stick.  It seemed like a wonderful promotion until they got one of these instruments of pain in the hot little hands of my 5 year-old son, Little Rusty.  Have you ever heard the horror stories about the infamous "Bat Day" at Yankee Stadium?  The stories of mass beatings in the stands by angry mobs and their souvenir bats?  Imagine the same scenario on a much smaller AHL scale.

It became evident during the pre-game warmups, that these fucking sticks were going to be a huge problem.  Whether it was one little bastard after another accidentally smacking you in the shins as they moved through the arena, or Little Rusty's constant cross checking of his older brother in their seats, I immediately determined two things from the Youth Hockey Stick Night phenomenon.  First, people have no control of their kids in large publicly gatherings involving weaponry.  (I am included in this observation--at least at this juncture).  And secondly, I was going to need a $6 ice cold beer--quickly.

Once the game began, the juvenile crowd's hockey stick shenanigans decreased--but did not totally disappear.  This kind of sucked because it prevented my wife and I from being able to really take full advantage of the personal motivation aspect of this hockey game.  We were starting to feel thin at this place!  No offense, but attendees of the local hockey game had more rolls than a Swedish bakery and more chins than a Chinese phone book.  If our kids weren't beating the living shit out of each other, I think the Mrs. and I could have really felt good about our physiques!

To make a long story short--we made it into the second intermission before my better half and I pulled our "power play".  We wrangled Colton and Rusty out of the arena and headed home.  Outside of the stick beatings, they had a great time.  Our sons saw world class athletes, they ate crappy food and the two noted that their Mom and Dad were not that fat.  It was a successful and rather inexpensive night out with the family!

This Domestic God & company are crossing their collective fingers that they can score some complimentary tickets to next month's "School Bus Demolition Derby" at the local speedway....

F#cking Facebook

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Since being thrust into my role as a Domestic God and because of this subsequent stupid blog, I have literally been forced to deal in the ridiculous world of Facebook.  Simply stated, I fucking hate Facebook.  Facebook is the single gayest entity that the internet has delivered us--even gayer than gay porno sites--in my humble opinion.  I have the argument with family and friends--"Facebook is a great way to network".  "Facebook is a great way to keep in touch with family and loved ones".  "Facebook is a great way to reconnect with old friends".  These may be valid points to some degree, but let's be really honest here.  Facebook is really a great way to find out where the after work party is.  Facebook is a great way to brag to your family and friends that you loathe about how great you think your life is.  And the single greatest use of Facebook is to "reconnect" with old girlfriends and boyfriends.  And, I'm now in the middle of this mess!

All arguments and points aside, I am now able to quantitatively define why Facebook sucks and should be vanquished.  There is no argument or retort by its proponents that can defend THE  social network of social networks on this one.  This afternoon at 12:23pm I went to check on the Moby Homemaker "Fan" Page.  It was set up by Mrs. Homemaker, so I usually go through her account to get there.  For all of you who claim that this is a veiled way to "spy" on my wife's FB're fucking -A right!

As I accessed the Mrs.'s page I saw it.  Right before my eyes was the single encapsulated reason that I can't fucking stand Facebook and the reason that it should be destroyed (I would prefer some sort of dramatic, galactic, Death Star-like explosion like in Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope--but that's just me.)  For at 12:23pm today Becky Buckman updated her status to the following (please note that this is an unabridged, unedited recount of Becky Buckman's status posting):

"Buck is grilling me a t-bone after giving me multiple orgasms".

There it is--the specific reason that Facebook needs to end.  First, I don't want to know anything about this woman's "sex" life.  You put it out there Becky--so now I'm gonna give it back.  I guess I lied, I do care about other peoples' sex lives--like Pam Anderson and Paris Hilton--women goodly, slutty and hot enough to film their most intimate moments and sell them.  You ain't in that league, honey.  And by the way, it's not bragging to post on your Facebook status that you are a "Proud Grandma to be"--when you're 35 fucking years old!

You're husband (who is cleverly named Buck Buckman--are you fucking serious???) is grilling a fatty T-Bone steak for your midday feeding???  Christ, I love a good t-bone as much as any other red-blooded man--but for lunch--on a weekday???  Who the fuck are these people???

And give me a break, "multiple orgasms"???  Rub it in a bit, why don't you.  I'm married--the only person giving me multiple orgasms by noon, unfortunately is me.   Somehow, I doubt the validity of this claim--but Becky, something truly profound must've happened to what I can only percieve as a trainwreck of your womanly loins that you felt it necessary to tell your 249 internet friends.  I mean seriously, fact or not, even your bestest of friends called your nasty ass out when commenting on this travesty of virtual literary rhetoric.

I highly doubt that this Domestic God has the power to bring Facebook and my personal cyber Lord Vader, Becky Buckman, to their proverbial knees.  But until I have the opportunity to pull the plug on it a la Gary Coleman's ex-wife, you can visit my fucking Facebook Fan Page at:

I really could use new Fans....

(Special thanks to Ma Jagger for her inspiration and mutual detestment and disgust of the status update in question.)

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


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 F 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 "" 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 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 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,  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 " 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.

My Morning in the 7th Ring of Hell

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


Occasionally, even this Domestic God finds himself in an odious position.  I'm not talking about  the norm- like dishes, or laundry or feeding the kids.  No, I am talking about something far more horrifying.  I am talking about a trip to Chuck E. Cheese.

My two sons love, love, love, television.  And, admittedly,  I will sometimes turn over the babysitting duties to the most trust worthy babysitter I know--our big screen tv.  The vortex of Nick or Cartoon Network seems to put a hypnotic spell on my two boys.  Truthfully, I could not care less, as long as they are quiet and not beating the living shit out of each other.  So, it's all good.  But there is a nasty by-product from this television viewing--commercials.

I swear to Christ, there is a commercial instructing impressionable children to demand their parents take them to Chuck E. Cheese about every 7-9 minutes.  You know, "it's the place where a kid can be a kid".  F-that--my parents found a place where I could "be a kid"... at the park down the street.  Anyway, these marketing demons at Chuck E. Cheese have all the tact of the Hitler Youth Movement. But,  I digress.....

After months of incessant badgering by my two young sons, I was  finally beaten into submission.  I was going to accompany them to Chuck E.'s.  God bless my wife, she found some coupons--so that took some of the financial sting out of this perilous excursion.  I was determined to find a way to spend the least amount of time at the "House of Rat" as possible.  

Did you know this f'ing place opens at 9:30 am?  9:30!!!  Are there really people whose children are insistent that they get to this Cheese's joint for breakfast?  Well, as I learned on a cold Sunday morning (Sunday, the day of our Lord); yes-these children exist.  My wife and I figured that this may actually be the best time to go.  The plan was to get in and get out in 90 minutes, or less.

Upon arrival, so help me God, I found myself in the Seventh Ring of Hell.  Although, it was not quite the way Dante had described it.  It sounded like a Vegas casino floor, but without the potential for any type of winning.  The lights and sounds were like kiddy heroin to my boys.  Before they could get their coats off they were in front of the token machine, begging for a fix of those sweet , sweet, bronze game tokens.  Of course, the tokens only come in lots of like 10,000.  And each game took but one single token.  What the hell happened to those car driving games that took like 8 tokens in days of video game yore?  With each of my sons armed with a token bucket (yes C.E.C. hands each patron an bucket) they hit the game room floor.

I guess that we were lucky to be there on a Sunday morning.  With the place only occupied by a couple of other families--the chance of perverts roaming the joint seemed minimal.  We watched as the boys poured through their 10,000 tokens in what seemed to be literally minutes. Of course, they begged for more-and got some.  Once they blitzkrieged through that round of tokens, I noticed that there was a section of free "games"--you know ball pits, slides, merry go rounds, etc.  I encouraged my kids to take advantage of Chuck E.'s generosity.  Bad idea-once I saw them on the tunnel slide, it occurred to me that I had actually just led my children into  Chuck E.'s "Wonderful World of H1N1".  I quickly wrangled the pair to a table, under the premise that they would be fed by mmmm... tasty Chuck E. Cheese pizza but NOT before they were sent to the bathroom to wash their germ infested mitts.

I love pizza almost as much as beer and sex.  I would forgo the latter two forever to ensure that I never have to eat Chuck E. Rat's "pizza" again.  Holy piss, is that stuff crap!  Every other pizza joint in the world should file suit against C.E.C. for calling that garbage "pizza" and ruining their good names.  I think that even Domino's would win that case.

Anyhow, we forged ahead and the boys had their "pizza brunch".  But, not before the entertainment began.  How could we forget the wonderful Chuck E. Cheese animatronics revue?  Our family was treated to a multimedia song presentation about how Chuck E. Kids should "live green"!  Are you kidding me?  There was so much electricity pumping through this place, that it would have made Al Gore piss his panties.  And hey, Chuck E. Cheese folks--you have a 6 foot rat roaming your restaurant. I found this performance just a bit hypocritical.

Luckily, the boys knew their mother and father had had enough.  Without a fight, they took their multitude of skee ball tickets and  bought dozens of cheap foreign made  gag gifts before exiting the hallowed ground of Cheese.  They had a successful visit to the only place where "a kid can be a kid".  I was elated to be heading back to the place where a "Domestic God can be a Domestic God"-home.

Toilet Paper Roll Call

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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This Domestic God lives in a modest two-story home in the Mid West.  Our home has two bathrooms. I'll explain why I shared that information with you in a moment.  I live with two wonderful and intelligent sons, ages (5) and (8) and my wife.  I love my wife so very much.  She is a wonderful spouse, friend, mother and teacher.  She is cute and creative.  She has an unbelievable work ethic.  She donates her time to various charities and she is extremely smart.  In fact, Mrs. Homemaker even has a Masters Degree.  But even with all her skills, heart, talents and education, apparently she was never taught how to replace an empty toilet paper roll.

This morning as I sat on my kingly "throne", by no fault of my own, I was set into sheer panic as when it came time to get the toilet paper for it's truly intended use--there was none.  There is nothing worse on this planet than being caught in this position.  I awkwardly and frantically looked through the upstairs bathroom for an extra roll, but to no avail.  I had to shuffle down a flight of stairs with my pants at my knees, in what can only be described as the "worst possible moment in human existence", to our downstairs bathroom to get at a fresh new roll of much-needed T.P.  Unfortunately, this is an all too common occurrence for me.  And this morning, I decided to examine this problem of colossal proportion in our home.

My 5-year-old, Little Rusty will get a pass.  He is still just a mere pup.  His dexterity probably hasn't developed to achieve success in the toilet roll changing process field yet.  Our 8-year-old, Colton, has been taught how to replace the rolls--but still seems uninterested.  Seemingly, our children get a pass, but there is no real excuse for their Mother.  Like I said, she is highly educated, coordinated and capable.  Could it be that my three roommates have bathroom powers far beyond that of a mere Domestic God like me?

Are they somehow able to pre-determine if they can do their "business" with exactly the amount of toilet paper available? Or, are they so dedicated to their practice of T.P non-replacement, that they have somehow figured out how to make due (not "doo doo") with whatever amount of paper if afforded them in any given situation?

Of course, these are just theories.  I have no real idea of my wife's and sons' motives and supernatural capabilities.  But this I do know, over my last year as a Domestic God, I estimate that I have replaced no less than 156 rolls of toilet paper single-handedly.  I could not care less if anyone in our house "squeezes the Charmin" long as they just f'ing replace it, please!!!

Lost In The Supermarket

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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On their seminal album London Calling, The Clash sang "I'm all lost in the supermarket.  I can no longer shop happily."  That was from their cleverly titled song, "Lost In The Supermarket".  Today, this Domestic God felt first hand what these punks, The Clash were crowing about....but admist my personal emotional trauma, all I also found a little Nirvana...

On her day off, my wife thought it might be a good idea for me to accompany her to the grocery store.  Although, I openly brag about my domestic prowess; I must admit, I have been able to somehow avoid having to do the family's weekly grocery grab.  How have I been able to avoid this chore of chores?  I don't really know, honestly.  I have a feeling that my spouse understands my massive impatience and intolerance of others (especially that of the aged and children) and she fears that I could end up on the evening news if I were to left with the weekly responsiblity of this gargantuan task.  All that, and I'm sure that she believes I would bring home the wrong fucking potato chips.

Anyway, this morning, I was basically shanghaied into going to the local Food King against my will.  My Lord, do I hate these places of mass commerce.  I am a red-blooded, hard-core  Capitalist--but only when I'm the only one who's in the damn store. Waiting in lines and being stuck behind slow people will, I am pretty sure, be the two things that will kill me.  I am a pretty laid back guy, but these scenarios cause my blood pressure to go off the fucking rails.  But, my lovely little bride thought it would be a good idea if I maybe try out the shopping with her and "get the hang of it".

I won't bore you with the shopping list.  The stuff we had to get is pretty basic, from what I can gander--except that is all so damned specific...(non fat) yogurt, (Malt-O-Meal) frosted mini wheats, Kraft (SPIRALS) mac and cheese, and of course--(off brand) toilet paper.  This leads me to the real story here.

My wife asked me to go across the aisle to pick up the ALL BEEF hotdogs that my oldest son will only eat.  Apparently, my son suffers from the only known condition of being allergic to all hot dogs which are not of the most expensive 100% beef quality.  Whatever... I told my wife I would go get the wieners.  Once I got there I was thrown for a complete loop.  There were no less than twenty (that's 2-0) types of frankfurters to choose from.  Are you shitting me?  Growing up there were both kinds- Oscar Meyer and Not Oscar Meyer.  I stood over my cart dumfounded.  It took me several minutes to decipher all the vital red-hot information to make the best informed decision I could as to which hot dogs my son would be eating this week.  Finally, I picked the package that seemed to best fit my son's dietary needs.

During all this confusion, something terrible had happened.  My wife had walked ahead to another part of the store to get the next items on my family's "foody wish list".  Just like the Clash song, I was all alone, lost in the supermarket--and as a grown man, I am not embarrassed to tell you, I was totally piss my pants scared!  I felt like that little kid that gets separated from the class trip group at the amusement park.  I was petrified.  I was surrounded by the a mob of blue hairs, super rushed soccer moms and screaming kids who were not even mine!

What was I to do?  My better half was nowhere in sight.  What did my parents teach me to do if I ever got lost in a place like this?  That's right, go to the nearest adult authority figure!  Luckily, I was within steps of the Butcher Shop.  With the lure of safety from this shopping mob and the hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of sausages and meats, I wheeled my cart next to the Butcher.

I felt this would be a suitable and safe place to wait and eventually reunite with my spouse.  As I stood next to the Butcher's counter I learned something profound.  It was like a bolt out of the blue... Being a Butcher is the best fucking job on the planet!  This guy said no more than four words to each customer ("Whatcha need?" and "You're Welcome!"); and everybody LOVED him.  Why?  Because he gave all of these folks the wondrous meat they so deeply yearned.  He filled his clients' insatiable craving for animal flesh.  I watched the interaction between Butcher and customer for several minutes, realizing just how truly lucky this man in the white apron was.  He passed his time doling out his meat to his adoring public.

My romanticism of the Butcher Shop was quickly disrupted when my wife found me and dragged me to the next destination on our grocery tour from hell.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity in the check out line, bought a scratch off lottery tickets like a couple of hillbillies and took our bounty (and loser lottery cards) out to our car.  My wife exclaimed, "Now that wasn't so bad, was it". I guess she was right. Although, I was grocery shopping in a sea of the geriatric living dead and screaming ankle biters--this Domestic God found a little piece of heaven.  I was all lost in the supermarket, but I came across a paradise where aboundless love was spread by a man slinging his meat.

In loving memory of "Sam the Butcher" from The Brady Bunch (1922-2008).

Parolee Party

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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My blatant distaste and hatred of others, particularly for those of the hillrod persuasion, was reaffirmed last night/this morning at the  Shorewood Shores Resort in Lake Wazupemonte, WI.  See, I was up there doing some job interviewing that involved an overnight stay.  Yes, this Domestic God may actually someday find a way out of his personal hell at home to the fruitful bounty of the working world!  But, as anyone knows (and Marilyn Manson sang), it's a long, hard road out of hell.  Apparently, that trip passes directly through the Sherwood Shores Resort.

During the 1950's and 60's Shorewood Shores was the preeminent summer resort getaway for the Chicago and Milwaukee elite.  Think "Dirty Dancing', just with lots of beer and cheese.  Unfortunately, for various reason, the years have not been good to the Shores and the resort has lost much of its luster.  So now, the Shorewood Shores has been relegated to the preeminent resort spot to house galas for the recently paroled.

After a nightmare check-in at the front desk, which involved my reservations being lost and a difficulty for the staff to "find an open room" (in a place that couldn't have been 25% full), I dropped my belongings off at my room and made my way to the nearest local neighborhood restaurant/bar.  Mind you, I called this "on site" establishment  a "local neighborhood" one because it took only about 12 f'ing minutes to walk there from my room!

I immediately knew I was in for a hellacious go of it when I found it that it was "Karaoke Nite" at "Loopey's By Da Lake Bar & Grill".  But, I had no other nearby dining choice, so I ordered a $40 8 oz strip steak, an $8 local brew and a $5 appetizer.  Of course, being in Wisconsin I would be remiss if I didn't order the official state appetizer--cheese curds!  Damn, I love fried cheese! While I dined on my overpriced lakeside meal, I was forced to watch in horror as a large group of rowdy hillrods, dressed in their very finest wife beaters and visible tattoos, commandeer Loopey's karaoke stage to belt out hillbilly meth head anthems by Nickelback and Evanescence.  One rough-looking dude after rough-looking bitch left it all on that stage cranking out shitty tunes and shrieking "shout out" respect to their boy, Coy--who apparently "just got sprung!".

Undoubtedly, the most heartfelt moment of this entertainment debacle occurred when Coy's mother asked her recently paroled son to join her on the stage for a stirring and barely coherent rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man".  Following the duet, Coy's mother, who was visibly moved to tears by the on stage classic rock reunion, was able to top even that moment by doing several shots of Jack Daniel's with her convict son before an adoring crowd of what looked to me as real life gypsies, tramps & theives...and meth heads.

This was quite a scene, and I was made to lay witness to it as I ever so quickly gobbled up my over priced dinner.  Noticing that this was not what I would consider a group of "happy drunks", I got the hell out of Loopey's and headed back to my quarters---quarters that eerily resembled something out of "The Shining".  After a couple of hours, I finally dozed off to sleep, only to be awoken by a pounding on my hotel room door.  Normally, I would have never responded, but I heard what sounded like several giggling women outside.  Was this the Penthouse Forum fantasy that I had read about as a teenage boy incarnate??!!

I opened the door to find three of the trashiest meth addicted tramps I have ever laid eyes on.  If this were indeed the Penthouse fantasy--I wanted out!  Luckily, the  rough and tumble broads quickly got it through their drug addled brains that they were at the wrong destination.  They headed up a nearby flight of stairs, of course never once offering any sort of apology for waking my old, tired bones up.

About two minutes later, I realized what the confusion was.  These dumb bitches meant to go to the room located directly above mine for an apparent Parolee After Party.  From the sounds of it, a Parolee After Party was just what I thought that it might be... a bunch of people crammed into a small hotel room cussing and screaming, some sing alongs, a couple of fights and what I consider an air of "general carrying on".

However, the pinnacle of this display occurred at approximately 3:45am.  This is the moment when I heard some douche bag hillbilly deluxe fuckhead lean over the upstairs balcony and begin the loudest human wretching I have ever heard!  His projectile vomiting spew onto my concrete patio below at an alarming and near inhuman rate.  Ahh, the soothing sound of prick puke violently hitting the hard pavement  is quite a noise to sleep to!  I see some big money in the relaxation cd market...

That was the final fucking straw.  I knew that I could not confront these nasty mother fuckers on my own.  Frankly, they'd have killed me!  And judging from my check-in experience, I knew the people at the Front Desk would be of absolutely NO assistance.  So, I felt as if I had no choice but to do the most evil thing possible that I could to the cast of "Hee Haw: Meth Edition" above me.  I called Mr. Johnny Law.  That's right, the cops!  At about 4:15am the authorities stampeded in like stormtroopers and escorted several of the ne'er-do-well party guests off of the  Shorewood Shores premises-in cuffs!  My sincere prayer is that the "Parolee of the Hour" and his crew will not be eligible for another celebration for at least 2-3 years.  This morning, Coy learned his lesson the hard way--you don't fuck with this Domestic God's slumber!

If only I were interviewing for a prison guard or parole officer job this morning...

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Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Recently, my 5-year-old, Little Rusty was laid up sick for nearly a week.  He spent most of his time curled up on our family room couch in front of MY television.  The little guy was so pathetically ill that I felt compelled to relinquish my main source of entertainment to my sickly son.  In lieu of baseball, "Breaking Bad", Fox News hotties and cable movies, this Domestic God turned over his tv to hours upon hours of non-stop "Sponge Bob Square Pants",  "Fanboy & Chum Chum", and "I-Carly" for the benefit of my ailing offspring.

After about the fifth day of this monumental display of charity on my part--I could take no more.  It was Saturday night and I needed some non "TV-G" rated programming!  As the evening approached, Rusty got tuckered out and eventually fell asleep.  Finally--my chance had presented itself!!!  I finagled the remote control from Little Rusty's slumbering body and quickly rifled through the digital tv menu.  I noticed that the 21st century's first Rated R equivalent to the 1980's "Bachelor Party", "The Hangover", was premiering on HBO.  By the way, it shall be noted that my wife an I are currently too fucking poor to afford such a satellite provider luxury as HBO, but apparently enough bitching about one's bill to Dish Network will get you 3 free months of the low quality premium cable channel.

Anyway, I quickly got into the relatively predictable, low brow humor of "The Hangover".  For those of you who haven't seen the film, it's chuck full of cuss words, depravity and male private parts set in front of the backdrop of Vegas, baby. It is right up the alley of any male between the ages of 15 and infinity.  That being noted, after an hour into the film, you can imagine how startled and appalled I was when I became aware that Little Rusty was front of Todd Phillips' R Rated/TV-MA (LVNSC) opus.

When I noticed Little Rusty was coherent, I quickly turned the channel to a baseball game--a far more appropriate program for my 5-year-old. After about 5 seconds, Little Rusty turned his head to me an said, "Can you turn it back, please".  "Turn what back", I responded. "What was that funny show we were watching?", his feeble voice asked.  "WE weren't watching anything.", I reminded him.

I thought I had coyly played off the fact that my 5-year-old and I had been viewing a filthy Rated R film--together.  After a half inning of watching the ball game, I got up to visit my "office".  For those of you playing at home--that is not so secret code for my toilet.  While I was "doing my business" (I am guessing you can understand what that is code for, so I will not bore and/or disgust you with its double meaning), apparently Little Rusty grew tired of the baseball game and retrieved the remote control.  Coincidentally, the little bastard must be smart enough to know how to use the "Recall" button on the  ever so complicated Remote Controller.  When pressed, the "Recall" button will automatically take the viewer to the previously viewed channel.  It's a great little bit of technology and convenience...except when in the control of a 5-year-old boy craving "Under 17, requires accompanying parent or adult guardian" entertainment.

And, of course, just like the relatively predictable, low brow movie that I was viewing, this was the moment my wife (who also happens to be Rusty's mother) came in the house from a trip to the grocery store.  As luck would have it, my "business" was cut short when I heard the Mrs. scream, "You're letting our son watch 'The Hangover"!!!???".  I scurried out and reminded her that, at least it was on our FREE  3 months of HBO, and that I was sure Rusty hadn't seen much.  After all, his bout with the flu left him knocked cold for a of hours.  It was then my turn to hit the "Recall" button and return to the baseball game--the baseball game that I assured my wife my 5-year-old son and I had been enjoying since he awoke.

Angered and perplexed by the channel change, Rusty told his mother and I that he would prefer to watch the "Funny movie with the baby, the tiger, the police car and the funny man with tattoos on his face singing 'The Air Is Tonight'!".  Needless to say, I spent the rest of my evening watching an "I-Carly" marathon with my ailed youngest son.  "I-Carly" was certainly no "Hangover".  Hmmm, this Domestic God wonders when she'll be legal--legal to see Rated R movies?

Mental Dental

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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This Domestic God does a lot of bitching about the crappy jobs that have been unwantedly thrown into my lap.  Today, I believe that I found the truly worst one of all!  I am writing this as a tired, beaten and psychologically scarred Dad.  My 5-year-old son "Little Rusty" and I have just returned from a trip to the Dentist.

Apparently, last year, Rusty would not open his mouth for the family dentist.  This is shocking to me; because normally we can't  shut this little guy up.  Anyway, after his uncooperative display at our family's dentist, Rusty was referred to a dentist who "specializes in children".  I don't know much, but I was able to read between the lines on this one.  Rusty was heading to the dentist for "the freaked out kids".  Luckily for me, I was out of work and at home to take my youngest son to his first visit to Dr. Teith.

I had made sure to set the first appointment of the day.  I felt this would be the best chance for me and my son to get out as quickly as possible.  Well, to my delight they had booked two other "patients" at 8:00am as well.  So, right from the moment we walked in, we were waiting.  When the Hobbit voiced receptionist got to me, she made me fill out the appropriate forms, as well as countless thoroughly unnecessary ones.  Fathers are treated as extra slow adults there.  Obviously, this dentist shit is a Mommy's game.  I was perplexed when the forms asked for e-mail addresses, cell phone numbers, text addresses, snail mail addresses and voicemail numbers.  I should've sensed then--that people who came here never wanted to come back!

After waiting much longer than we should have for being the "first" appointment of the day, they took Little Rusty back to see Dr. Teith.  Parents are not allowed to accompany their children to the back--and I soon found out why.  As I watched Toni Braxton on the "Today Show" with the other disgruntled parents, a noise came from the back of the office.  It started out like the sound of a cat fight (a real one--not two hot scantily clad chicks, like you see on Skinemax), it then morphed into the horrible screams one might hear in the film "Hostel".  Soon, it became apparent that one of the kids in the back wasn't down with the proceedings and freaked the fuck out!!!  The little freaker then jumped out of the chair and started a post toddler insurrection!

I'm sure Dr. Teith and his staff are used to this, but I was kinda thrown for a loop when a hygenist burst out and grabbed a 17-year-old mother and the 17 year old's mother to exclaim, "Hogan's outta control--we need your help to sedate him!"  Sedate him???  Holy shit!

After about five minutes things seemed to cool out and the teenage mother and her mother (who wasn't much older than me) returned.  I overheard them saying that  Hogan had been administered nitris oxide "so they could x-ray him".  Wow, all this for a little ol' routine x-ray???  I was the one who was in need of the nitris f'ing oxide.  The shrieking from this minor but boisterous "kiddie riot" had left my nerves dulled and fragile.

As I watched the complimentary one channel tv and saw a commercial showing the dentist's office with "the happy kids", all I could do is dream of being on a golf course or even in line at the DMV.  Either place sounded more pleasurable than this house of horrors.  Shortly thereafter, I was called to retrieve Little Rusty and talk to Dr. Teith.  As I made my way to the back I saw Hogan, you remember him--the one boy dental revolutionist.  And so help me God, he was tied down to a table a la Hannibal Lector in "The Silence of the Lambs".  It was shocking and scary--yet fucking hysterical!!!

Dr. Teith told me that Little Rusty had done wonderfully after the chaos had subsided and that he had no cavities.  He gave me Rusty's paperwork and I took them to check out.  The Hobbit receptionist asked when I would like to schedule Little Rusty's next visit.  I told her that I would get back to her, because when that "next time" comes, I'm going to make sure that I either 1) have a job or 2) take Rusty to the dentist I saw on tv...the one with "the happy kids".

E.R. rrrggghhh!!!

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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By far, the worst aspect of parenting (besides the fact that you can never do anything you want anymore and your life is no longer your own for 18-26 years, per the new health legislation) is dealing with sick children.  Seeing your kids sick is just the worst. It's heartbreaking, scary and fucking annoying all wrapped up in one giant shit bag.  Today, this Domestic God felt all those emotions in addition to two others--one's I don't normally feel, overwhelming humility and sheer gratefulness.  Don't worry--if you think this will be all sap--you're wrong.  I was fucking annoyed most of the time...

This morning my wife left to accompany her 8th grade class on a trip to our state capital, Springfield, IL.  Wow, what a great fucking payoff for 8 years of adolescent intimidation and humiliation disguised as education!  Anyway, this trip just happened to begin on Day 3 of a hostage seige perpetrated by our youngest son, 5-year-old Little Rusty.  I call it a hostage situation because while this little guy battled the flu, I was metaphorically chained to the confines of our home.  The frequency of this kid's puking made it impossible for us to leave the house for more that 10 minutes, literally.  The eve before my wife's departure with 80 kids I don't know, or frankly care about, Rusty seemed to show some improvement in his condition.

My wife snuck out of the house early this morning, which was the plan she had explained to me.  I awoke to get the kids off to school.  This included getting Rusty back on the bus and into his routine.  I knew it was going to be bad when he vomited all over me as I took him out of the shower.  Clearly, this guy was still in the throes of the stomach flu.  I took him to his room, prepared his Gatorade and water and later brought him a banana.  I had spoken to the doctor earlier in the week and was made aware of the proper "diet for the exploding".

As the day went on, Rusty kept hurling and his fever kept rising.  He was lethargic as all hell, and it really started to worry me.  It is not uncommon for me to refer to him as "Bub" (short for Beelzebub) or the "Tasmanian Devil" because of his never-ending troublemaking energy.  This kid I was looking at could barely move.  The lack of chaos aside, I was scared.  My wife and I had texted throughout the day regarding his condition,  Finally, The Mrs. called me and explained that Rusty's doctor advised us to get him to the ER--he was  dehydrated and needed medical attention.

Holy fuck!  This is exactly NOT what I am conditioned and/or equipped for.  The boys' Mother always accompanied the boys in medical situations.  I'm good for the natural disasters, the financial collapses, the plane going down--little shit like that.  But, the ER???  Hella to the no!!!  Of course, I bitched at my wife and was a total dick about this crisis.  Needless to say, I was reminded by my better half  that I was, in fact a dick, and that this was, in fact, an emergency.  I got Rusty together and literally carried his wet towel like body to the nearest ER.

Christ Almighty--this was not the place for a snide dickhead like me.  I loathe waiting in line--and the ER is the ultimate in the test of patience.  First off, I had no idea that every geriatric in the area would be showing up at 4:00pm on a Wednesday.  Was there some kind of food poisoning outbreak at the Early Bird today?  And those who weren't the walking undead, were the morbidly obese.  Seriously, I was worried that Little Rusty and my combined weights wouldn't qualify for care in this ER's weight division.

All kidding aside, this place was a fucking zoo.  Rusty and I were given a chair and told that "it would be awhile".  Over the next three hours, my barely coherent son and I were front and center to a grown man barfing relentlessly at my feet (which I hated to break the news to him--I wasn't impressed.  I had seen that already several times today), cops bringing in a shooting victim, a really fat woman who "had something stuck in her", and a woman being told that her son "might not make it" after an auto accident.  Good times.

After nearly 3 1/2 hours, Rusty quietly demanded water--and the staff obliged him.  Once Rusty was admitted, they were wonderful to us.  The ER staff got him more water and ice chips and a warm blankey.  Rusty was scared shitless (an emotion this dude rarely shows, even to his parents) and they calmed him by bringing coloring books, crayons and loads of stickers.  After awhile Little Rusty was actually digging the joint and soon had all the nurses wrapped around his tiny finger.  His condition and demeanor were quick and dramtic in their improvement.  He was taking in fluids and keeping them down!

By the time the doctor arrived, the nurses were fawning over my charismatic 5-year-old.  Seriously, my wife and I are convinced that Rusty has all the makings of a rock star--or cult leader.  The doctor explained to Little Rusty that he had dodged a bullet and barely avoided an IV treatment by getting some much-needed fluids in him between his flirting with the different nurses and on-call staff members.  I fully expected Julianna Margulies and Maura Tierney to pop in and be dazzled and charmed by the miraculous recovery of my little boy!

The doctor prescribed my son some medication to help him out in the short-term.  I was just ecstatic to be done with this hellacious ordeal.  As we prepared to get the hell out of the purgatory on earth that is the ER, I saw the mother that had been told her son was in a serious auto accident earlier.  From the number of family and friends that had gathered and the song and prayer that was coming from their area--I knew it was not good.  As annoyed and scared my son had made me, my experience today was nothing compared to what this poor woman was dealing with.  She would've been thrilled to deal with the crap I did today.

Seriously, at one point I considered this one of the shittiest days of my life--until I saw what these people were dealing with in the very same ER as Little Rusty and me.  As we made our way out, I took my son's hand and never felt such a feeling of humbleness and a gratefulness for being blessed with a healthy little boy.  I don't know what happened with that woman and her son, but they are in my thoughts and prayers.  I pray that she gets the chance to be scared and annoyed by her son again...

Please destroy after reading.  It cannot get out to the rest of the world that Little Moby Homemaker has a heart...

A Few of My UnFAVORite Things...

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"


I'm too lazy to open a real dictionary, defines the word  favor as a -noun: "something done or granted out of goodwill, rather than from justice or for remuneration; a kind act".  As an amateur wordsmith, this Domestic God disputes that universally accepted definition of the word "favor"--at least in the my home.

I agree with certain aspects of the generally agreed definition.  In the Homemaker household, a  favor does in fact involve "a kind or charitable act, granted out of goodwill", except it also involves "being put out of your way by a minimum of one story--up to 34 miles by your wife".

I'm a charitable Domestic God.  I sponsor one of Sally Struthers' "kids" .  From watching those commercials, I guess Laurie Metcalf now has custody of all these poor, malnourished children.  By the way, what is the deal with these broads?? Are they contractually obligated by these charities to look like complete horse shit??  Between Sally Struthers and Laurie Metcalf, you got at least 80 miles of bad road!  Anyway, I'm extremely charitable, especially when I can do so from the comfort of my warm and cozy bed.

Enter, my wife.  I will give you three examples of the "favors" which took place between me and my wife today.  Remember how comfy I was lying bed watching Laurie Metcalf?  As my wife was getting ready for school she awoke me to ask, "Where are my corduroy pants?".  "Downstairs in the dryer", I replied.  "I'm running late, can you do me a favor and grab them for me?" she asked.  Favor #1.  I traveled down two flights of stairs-each way-to retrieve my wife's pants.

About 10 minutes later, Favor request #2 came in.  As I mentioned earlier, my wife was running late to get to work.  I am back in the warmth and comfort of my slumber sanctuary and around the corner pokes my darling spouse's head. "I left my makeup bag in my car.  Can you do me a quick  favor?"  This second favor required me to quickly put clothes on, as I'm sure the neighbors didn't want their first sight in the morning to be  my gelatinous, untanned, boxer clad only body.  This favor had me moving 2 flights of stairs-each way-again.  I also had to walk 25 feet in the cold morning dew-each way.

Finally, The Mrs. got off to school.  Ahhh, the boys and I had about  20 minutes to "sleep in" before we had to get going.  Once I had the boys in gear and at school, I was ready for some "Me" time--you know, some breakfast, some Howard Stern Show, some aimless pursuit of  gainful employment, some pseudo porno Fox News.  As I settled in for this all important period of my day, the phone rang.  I saw the caller id.  It was from my wife's school--that's never good.

Favor #3 of this morning was "taking a road trip"--on my spouse's behalf.  My wife explained to me that she left her laptop at home and needed me to "run" it up to her at her school.  This favor "run" was 16.86 miles-each way.

This Domestic God is really not in favor of our household's definition of "favor".  In fact, I believe that I am getting screwed big time on the deal!  As I read more on I saw this additional definition of the word "favor", "usually, favors, sexual intimacy, esp. as permitted by a woman".  I guess that I will have to start asking for more of those favors! 

Hell, those "favors" don't require one to travel at least one floor to 16.86 miles-each way...and I won't have to be an amateur wordsmith.

You've Got A (Sh#tty) Friend

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

As anyone who has children knows, children are a blessing from God.  However, in the opinion of this Domestic God, sometimes our kids' friends are not.  Don't get me wrong, my children have some wonderful friends that Mrs. Homemaker and I truly adore.  This piece is NOT about them.

No, this is a verbal tirade on those "little shit" friends my kids have.  Every child has that dickhead pal that his or her parents cannot stand.  Sometimes, as parents, we can be utterly baffled that our "little angels" could have chosen such little fuckin' bastards as friends.  Yet, other times, we, the parents bring this situation upon our children and ourselves--because the little shit is the devil spawn of our friends. This is just such a scenario.

Among the immeasurable number of things I inherited from my father, the presumption that other peoples' kids suck has been (for better or worse) a part of my core belief system.  Of course, this way of thought is simply not true--and I am working through my own personal issue.  But, our friends' son "Eddie" has tested my "recovery".

Last week, my wife received a phone call from one of her friends.  Her friend explained to The Mrs. that she was in a bind and really needed someone to watch their 8-year-old son Eddie for the day while she was out-of-town tending to emergency "family business".  She went on to explain that Eddie  just "loved" to play with our two sons and asked if he could hang out at our house for the day.

Of course, (without consulting me--the person who would be home with the kids all day) my wonderful spouse lent a helping hand and told her friend that we would be "more than happy" to take care of Eddie for the day.

Fast forward to the next day.  My wife headed out for work.  Shortly after, Eddie was at our door.  The morning started quiet enough.  Eddie and my two sons played in the basement as I munched on a bag of Hostess Little Chocolate Donuts while watching "The View" a floor above.  All seemed right with the world.

That is, until Eddie poked his head around the corner.  He was not with my sons.  I asked him what was up?  He indicated that he was hungry.  I told him that I had some fresh fruit and juice prepared for them. (How fucking responsible is that shit??).  Eddie responded by telling me that he didn't care for fruit and wanted my donuts.  MY DONUTS??!!   I gingerly explained to this ill-mannered little puke that the donuts were mine--ALL MINE, and that I would be happy to get him some fruit.  With that, Eddie turned around and I heard him mumble, "you're a jerk".  Of course, this set the tone for what would be Edie's last visit to MY home.

My wife had procured free passes to the local "Putt N' Stuff" for me to entertain the kids with.  So, after we had lunch--a professional PB&J lunch catered by me, that by the way Eddie said "sucked"--I took my two sons and this fucking prick out for some kiddy fun.  Things went pretty well until Eddie wanted a "treat".  I told Eddie that I would be happy to get each of the boys a candy bar--a cheap $1 candy bar.  Eddie felt that he needed a sundae--the $5.50 sundae.  I told Eddie that next time he should bring some money and get one himself--he was begrudgingly going to get that candy bar.  With this information, Eddie flipped me "The Bird".  That's right--this little fucker gave me the finger!

It's moments like this that I am sure God gave us brains and the ability to reason.  So help me Lord, my initial thought was to knock this pint-sized ass clown right out!  Then reasoning kicked in--you know, I'd surely be arrested, publicly humiliated and universally loved by anyone who knows this little fuck (except his parents) if I went through with such a truthfully appropriate reaction.  Luckily, I was wearing a Collared Shirt that repelled this negative sentiment.  And shortly after the boys devoured their candy bars (yeah, that's right Eddie), we headed back to our house for a little more play.

Praise God, Allah, Jehovah, Muhammad and whomever else--it was 4:00, time for me to take Eddie home!!!  I called to the basement and let the boys know that we had to return Eddie home.  Shortly thereafter, my two sons came up.  They let me know that Eddie was not planning on joining them.  Apparently, this little bastard wanted to stay!  So, I went downstairs to roust Eddie up and out of our home.  Once face to face with me, Eddie let me know in no uncertain terms that he "wasn't leaving and there was nothing that could do about it".

Apparently, Eddie was unaware of the hereditary condition that renders me unable to give one shit about the feelings of other peoples' bratty ass kids.  I looked in this 8-year-old, Hillrod-in-Waiting, prick's face and said, "Good--if you live here, I'll be able to kick your ass at will and ram my sucky PB&Js and fruit down your cake hole!".  Needless to say, Eddie quickly got in check and we headed to his house.

Luckily for Eddie and, moreover, myself ,we learned that the "family business" that was occurring that day involved an out-of-town transfer for his dad.  Eddie and his family will be leaving our community in the next month.  So, I have no qualms about writing this eye-opening and inflammatory review of my time providing child care for our soon to be ex-friends' incubus.  This Domestic God is lucky that his wonderful kids have good friends--and that this little shit one will be two states away.  Because if Eddie weren't leaving town--I was going to apply my kids for the "Young Mercedes Rollin' Killas" street gang.  I think I would rather my boys hang with them...

Consider Yourself.....One of the Family

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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During my tenure as a Domestic God, I have more or less taken over the dinner reigns at our house.  Usually, it's not such a bad proposition.  And actually, I have found some pretty tasty, really easy meals that seem to dazzle my better half.  As for our sons, "Colton"(age 8) and "Little Rusty" (age 5), it's been a bit more challenging.

My wife and I are extremely fortunate that our oldest son, Colton is a great eater--and will try and enjoy about any dish put before him.  The kid eats tomatoes like apples and has been an Asian cuisine connoisseur since he was 15 months old.  "Little Rusty" is the exact opposite.  He is fickle as all shit and barely eats.  The best pop culture comparison I have to him is "Randy" from "A Christmas Story".  You remember "Randy" don't you, "Every household has a kid that won't eat....meat loaf, meat loaf, double beat loaf, I hate meat loaf!"  Our Rusty is rail thin and with his diet should remain as such for his whole life.

This dining dichotomy poses problems at just about every single meal.  Of course, McDonald's doesn't apply to this almost daily situation--those two are in 100% agreement that Happy Meals rule.  Anyway, almost invariably I end up begrudgingly making an extra meal.  I realize that this is the wrong thing to do as a parent and my own Mother would call me a complete pussy for bending to the ridiculous demands of my spawn--but frankly, I worry that Rusty would never eat and end up on late night cable with Sally Struthers offering him up for "sponsorship".

Lately, this Domestic God has become less benevolent and more of a dictator in his dinner rule.  The boys were going to eat what my wife and I were having and/or there would be but a single choice for the two of them.  This has not been the resounding success that I had hoped for.  In fact, it has created a very hostile and growingly toxic dinner atmosphere amongst my sons an I.  Now, instead of one always bitching--I am being tag teamed.  Often, in tandem, they don't prefer the presented option.

Over the past few days this battle between myself and my pint sized adversaries has heated up.  There's been a lot more whining, yelling, crying, bitching and general pissy attitudes--displayed by both sides.  At a point, I was worn down and decided that I had had enough.  But instead of bending, and whipping up their beloved mac & cheese spirals, I decided to go medieval on their little asses.

That's right--GRUEL has been a mainstay in the slums of Britain since the middle ages.  I mean, gruel successfully fed multitudes of dirty faced, fingerless gloved orphans right through the 19th century in England.  Why wouldn't gruel be good enough for my 21st century ingrate little runts???

My supposition was that gruel would be extremely easy to prepare.  Thanks to the internet, I learned this was a correct assumption.  There are far more "Gruel related" web sites than I ever could imagine.  And it seems, much like there southern U.S. cousins, the "grits"--gruel has become a mainstay with the creepy medieval re-enactors.  Except they like to add various meats, spices, fruits and vegetables to it--like grits.

That's fine and dandy, but I was going old school "Oliver Twist" gruel on my spawn--Oat meal Gruel...mmmm!!! Simplicity is the name of the game with this shite (notice the Old World British cursing??).  I was thrilled to see that we had all the ingredients-some oatmeal, salt, sugar, water and milk.  Boil the water, add the ingredients, strain them, add a bit of milk and stir.  What a delicacy!!!

I called the boys to the dinner table for their dinner.  Colton was truly unimpressed by the gruel and expressed a willingness to work with me on achieving a better dinner time attitude. (Translated--he wouldn't act like a dick if he didn't get the meal of his choice.) Of course, Little Rusty actually liked this puke! He lapped the shite up like he were on his way to the death chamber.  This Domestic God has to travel to Medieval England to find something Rusty actually liked to eat!  I can't win.  Now I have to make gruel "special" for this kid once a week!  

By the way, you'll know Little Rusty when you see him...he's the 5 year-old who looks like Oliver Twist, but has a demeanor more closely resembling the Artful Dodger.

Foxy News

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

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Before anyone thinks this is some sort of ideological rant--don't worry, it's not.  Those who know this Domestic God personally, know what my political leanings are--and they have absolutely nothing to do with what I am about to say. For in my time as a Domestic God, I have learned something dramatic when it comes to the way our news is delivered. No matter what side of the political spectrum you are on, we can all agree on one thing: the chicks on Fox News are soo fucking hot!!!!

Love him or hate him, Rupert Murdoch has successfully assembled the finest group of stunning blonde, mini skirt clad, perfectly cleavaged female news readers the news world has ever seen.  I have told my better half that I am quite certain that Mr. Murdoch has created some sort of laboratory/factory to produce  (and maintain) this unbelievable stable of gorgeous media specimens.  No offense to the local news women out there, but these Fox News chicks (which I have been told is a somewhat demeaning description of these beautiful women of Fox News--so from here on out I'll simply refer to them as "Foxies") come across as far more intelligent and physically stunning than the average 5 O'Clock Action News gal.

I also would like to thank the Foxies for providing me with a free alternative to cyber pornography during these lean times of being laid off.  I say, break in with those News Alerts, honeys!!!  Bring on the tornados, mass floodings, Ambert Alerts, high-speed chases, serial killers, political bickering and earthquakes!!!  Holy balls, I think I'm getting a chubby just thinking about it.  Foxies, you make bad news look so good!!!

I hate to admit it, but last week, I think I became aroused as the lovely and talented Martha MacCallum reported the details of a plane crash. It occurred off the coast of some country (not really sure which one) and there was a horrible body count (not sure how many perished).  But what I do vividly remember is the plunging neck line of Ms.MacCallum's blouse and the dangerously high black mini skirt she was wearing with a really hot pair of black leather boots as she sat cross-legged in the Fox America's News Room.

I'm really not a cyber stalker, but I have to report that Ms. MacCallum is 42 years old.  Kudos to Mr. Murdoch's "Foxies Factory" for keeping this news anchor in such stellar shape.  She gives the 30-year-olds in the news biz a run for their money!!!  But that's all I know about Martha MacCallum--her age.  I swear--I have no idea where she lives or grew up, or how many kids she has, or what her degree is in, what her hobbies are, what her favorite color is, or what her favorite adult beverage is...I have no clue.

I would also like to send my heart (and groin) felt gratitude out to the following Foxies for making the Health Care Reform Debate so sensual and visually tantalizing to me over the last year. I send my many thank you's to the aforementioned Martha MacCallum, Shannon Bream, Jamie Colby, Megyn Kelley, Alisyn Camerota, Courtney Friel, Juliet Huddy, Marianne Silber, Kimberly Guilfoyle and, lest we forget, Ainsley Earhart???  This could be the time when some cyber sicko may post revealing tv snap frames of these lovely women for internet consumption.  No, not I said, I'm no "cyber perv".  (But, if you must know how to reach such disgusting sites so you can chastise theses sickos, please feel free to e-mail me).

Like I said, my regular viewing of Fox News has no ideological basis.  The only question of ideology when it comes to Fox News, in my opinion is: do you prefer ridiculously hot chicks reading you your news or not?  And to prove that my media consumption is based solely on a hot chick ideology--I invite you to tune into CNN's "American Morning" hosted by Kiran Chetry--the hottest news babe at sunrise.

Dish Washing: My Domestic Jumble

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

dishwasher full 3.jpg

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 fucking "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.

goD Collar

Moby Homemaker

I am an out of work "At Home Dad" who has risen from the ashes like an overweight, over worked, under paid phoenix to become a "Domestic God"

shirt collar--plain.jpg

The earliest days of my tenure as a Domestic God were clearly the bleakest and lowest emotionally.  Over a single phone call I had gone from a prosperous captain of industry managing a territory, bearing great responsibility, enjoying the perks of corporate travel and making really good money directly to Loserville.  I was in the dumps--big time.  It was the kind of dumps that beer, porn and unlimited golf couldn't cure.  But one day, while picking up my 8-year-old son, who we'll call "Colton", it all changed for me. By pure accident, I learned how the most minute effort in choosing my apparel for the day had opened me up to a freedom I had never known before.

Before I explain this ground breaking revelation to you, let me share a couple of things.  First off, I am a prick.  I admit it.  I mean, I'm not outwardly rude, mean or insensitive to people--but deep down I really hate just about everyone.  And no, it's not the hatred of the KKK or the Nazis' -it's more of a general annoyance of everyone who isn't me.  Obviously, the ones I love are the ones that I am most annoyed by--because of proximity.  That doesn't mean that a normal passer-by or the random asshole driver can't make me fucking nuts, though.  Don't worry, years of drinking and mild amateur therapy have aided in the tempering of my prickness.

Secondly, I could not write this piece without professing my undying allegiance to the vintage concert t-shirt.  Those who know me well are aware of my sick and obsessive fascination with rock concerts and more importantly, rock concert t-shirts.  I have hundreds of them...seriously hundreds.  After college  my mother determined that I could have paid for two semesters at the grossly overpriced Jesuit institution I "attended" college at with all the money I spent on concert tickets and t-shirts.  Although I rarely wear them these days, I simply could not exist without my t-shirts from every Ted Nugent, Alice Cooper, Rolling Stones, Van Halen, The Who, Rush and Cheap Trick tours since the mid 1980's.  I love you each of you, concert tees--you complete me...and the pit stains prove it.

With that being said, I will now reveal to you a wonderful little nugget that has set me free mentally and really spiritually, as well.  On a warm afternoon I went to pick up my son Colton from school.  It was a beautifully warm late spring day.  So, of course I had the car windows down blaring some classic rock.  With spring fever in full bloom, Colton ran to my car that was positioned in front of his school.  He opened the door and buckled himself in the backseat.  Little did I know, in a matter of moments my life would forever change.

As I pulled my car out to proceed into traffic, I missed a red truck in my vehicle's blind spot.  I had nearly been hit by an oncoming junkyard truck.  It was all my fault.  I knew it--and take 100% responsiblity for the driving error.  I pulled my car back and the red truck pulled right up next to mine.  Please note that I had my windows all open--and my 8-year-old in tow.  The red junkyard truck got next to me and an unshaven hillrod with a mesh trucker hat, cigarette hanging from his dirty moustached mouth and a worn slightly ripped red t-shirt leaned over and yelled, "You're a Goddamned Stupid Mother Fucker.  You almost hit me, Asshole!"

Remember what I told you before--I am a prick.  Normally, I would've engaged in verbal sparring with this dickhead and/or asked if he would like to get physical (by this I do not mean the Olivia Newton-John kind..that song's gay --right??).  But not this time.  No way.  I just took it.  I smiled and even offered a conciliatory apology and then politely asked that this man better control his language in a school zone.  All this, to a douchebag, hillbilly assclown who didn't deserve it.

Why did I do this?  What happened to Moby "The Prick"?  I know, you probably think it was because I felt that I needed to set an example to my young son.  Well you are wrong, my kids have routinely seen my flash the only gang sign I know (aka "The Bird") to bad drivers and they are fully aware of what Daddy's "bad words" are.  No, I relented from this jerk off and turned the proverbial "other cheek" because I was wearing a COLLARED SHIRT.

In my mind, I feared that I was no better than this buttplug.  Hell, he had a real paying job--even it if it were at a junkyard.  We were both losers with piss poor attitudes.  But it occurred to me that I was different from this dreg of society.  I had the self-worth and decency to choose to wear a Polo shirt that had a collar on it.  It was the one thing (aside from my zip code) that separated me from society's lowest of the low-lifes.

Little did this grizzled hillrod know that his insults could not affect me.  His filthy sentiments bounced off me as if I were wearing a "Insult Proof Vest".  I had discovered "Hillbilly Teflon"!  And the best part of all, the collared shirt allowed me to unreasonably judge this fuck and make ridiculous (or maybe not so ridiculous) assumptions about this guy's life.  For example, my supposition is that this taint stick left the scene of our "altercation", picked up a twelver of Meister Brau, then kicked his old dog, went to the dirt track, spent his whole $40/week paycheck on nachos and funnel cakes and topped the evening off by fucking his cousin...again.  My Lord, I felt WONDERFUL!!!  My collared shirt had lifted me from the dumps and set me free!!

From that day forward this Domestic God has chosen to always wear a collared shirt in public.  I love my concert t- shirts--but they don't give me the extra prickness I need to keep my mouth shut and unfairly judge these detestable wastes of human existence.  

So if you cut someone off in traffic, hit into somebody on the golf course, act rude at a fast food joint or just are a general piece of shit to your fellow-man--and you're not wearing a collared shirt--you may have thought that you won that battle.  But, just know that the guy that you wronged--the one who was wearing the collared shirt and  politely waves you off as he quietly goes on his way-- it is he who has ultimately won the Meister Brau drinking cousin fucker.

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