... Oh Look, Rabbits! 5/16/13

Sometimes, sitting down in front of my computer to write about my experiences as a parent and husband is hard.  It’s like looking in a mirror, except that this mirror shows you what’s inside- it shows you who you really are.  Good and bad.

Today I’m going to talk about a bit of both.  

I don’t really have any idea where to start, so let’s just jump in and see where this goes.

Also, I hope this doesn’t come out as the deranged rant of a father at the end of his rope.  Which I suppose could have it’s own high levels of entertainment value, depending on what you’re looking for.   ;) 

My almost 14 year old son- aka The Spazmatician, Bilbo Douchebaggins- has always struggled in school, and I’ve worked really hard to try and help him... I don’t know... learn.

For years I’ve helped him with his schoolwork- teaching, rewarding, organizing, punishing, cajoling, begging, practically doing it for him, and recently, giving up.  Because nothing worked.

I’ve had meeting after meeting with all the teachers that he’s ever had.  One on one meetings, as well as big group sessions with the principal and all Bilbo’s teachers.  Not once did any of them say- 

“Hey, you might want to get him checked for ADD and ADHD and learning disabilities, I think he’s having a tough time.  And, you know, I’m a professional educator, and I see this shit a lot and he’s pretty jumpy and spacey and he’s showing a lot of easily discernible symptoms that could certainly point to a possible diagnosis of... you know, one of those ‘things’ I mentioned before... and at the very least, it’s a good reason to get him checked out.  Just thought I’d give you a heads up.  You know, so I wouldn’t be leaving you to try and figure it out on your own, with no fucking resources at your disposal, pulling your hair out in frustration and feeling directionless and totally despondent.”

Oooookay.  Sorry about that.  Didn’t think I’d start ranting this early on.  If you are an educator, please know that I’m a deranged father at the end of his rope, and I apologize if you were offended.  Fear not, for I shall sing your praises soon enough.  Because you rock.

I sat in those meetings and said each and every time, practically verbatim-

“Do you think he could have a learning disability?  Or something else?”

To which I never got any kind of response.  Ever.

                           cricket, cricket. cricket, cricket.

It was weird, and I always felt that there was something conspicuous in their silence.  Whoever was running the meeting, usually the principal, would at this point change the direction by whipping out Bilbo’s standardized test scores, and blathering about that for a while, until we were on to something else that usually put the onus on me and the boy.  Hmmm. 

But I trusted them to have my son’s best interests at heart, so I never pushed the issue, even with a long term, nagging suspicion that something was not right.  Well, it turns out, something actually was not right.

I made a terrible mistake not trusting my instincts, to the detriment of most of my son’s education to date.  And I feel ashamed that I wasn’t strong or smart enough to fight for  him sooner.  I was indecisive when I should have been obstinate.  And I put him through years of shit for fucking nothing.  Duncan, I’m so sorry.  I feel it may be one of my biggest regrets as a parent.

My boy has been diagnosed with ADHD and is going to be evaluated further for something called “auditory processing disorder”- I’m not so sure about the latter, but the ADHD diagnosis is rock solid.  Here’s how it came about.

At my daughter’s annual check up, the doctor asked after my son- he’s the family pediatrician- and we got to talking.

I told him about Bilbo’s struggles with school and his spaciness.  He then started asking me questions like this- 

“Does he ever seem jumpy and fidgety?”

“Does he have a hard time completing tasks like chores and homework?”

“Is he easily distracted?”

“Does he sometimes seem spaced out and zombie-like?”

“Is he overly social in class?”

“Does he get frustrated or annoyed standing in lines?”                    

I just sat there nodding my head saying yes to every bloody question he asked. 

“I think we should get him evaluated for ADHD, so I’m going to write a referral for you.  I know you haven’t had much luck with the psychology department, but they’ve got some really good, new people, ok*?”

*We’ve tried three times with our medical insurer, but Bilbo never really connected with any of the therapists. 

And the door was opened.  And questions were answered.  And relief arrived.

My kids’ doctor is exceptionally good at his job, as well as being a kick arse dude.  I mean, he was able to determine that Bilbo might have ADHD from a 5 minute conversation at which my son wasn’t even present!  Thank you, Dr.Puente*, you know who you are.

*That’s not really his name.  I call him that because he plays latin percussion.

Dr. P was right about the “really good, new people”.  The psychologist that he referred us to is fantastic.

She did the evaluation, gave the diagnosis of ADHD, and Bilbo and I go to very rewarding counseling sessions with her twice a month.  But with the diagnosis came.... 

The recommendation to put my son on medication- specifically adderall.  Aka amphetamine salts.  Aka speed.  Aka The Dope.  I was wicked bummed.

What parent wants to medicate their kid?  It’s a hardcore drug, for Christ’s sake!  A controlled substance that could get you arrested if found in your possession without a valid prescription.

And now I have to decide whether or not to give this to my child?!  Great.  What a shitty decision to have to make.  So I did my due diligence.

I spoke to other parents, my dad (who’s a doctor), Mrs. H, Bilbo’s mum, and friends at great length.  I read as much as I could stomach on the internet, but I really listened to the people I know and trust.  And this time I listened to myself. 

I chose The Dope.

I couldn’t stand by and watch my son struggle anymore.  I couldn’t bear to watch him failing his classes, shredding his self-esteem in the process.  I couldn’t stand to watch him hurting anymore.  Enough is motherfucking enough.  Been there, done that. 

And you know what?  It was the right choice, at least for now.  I will never be happy being a “pusher”, but the change has been stunning.  Like a curtain has been pulled back to let in the sun.

Bilbo has been a lot more organized- writing in his class agenda perfectly, bringing all his work home, showing me he’s completed it, handing everything in on time and fully completed, not losing any work, completing all his chores in a timely fashion- and it’s been wonderful to watch his confidence begin to creep back in.  He needed this.  And so did I.  Praise Jebus!

We’re going to stick with The Dope for now, maybe when he’s older we can see what happens.  But it’s friggin’ working.  So, before any of you choose to “Tom Cruise” out on my decision to medicate my son, remember this:  You’re not me.  Ok?

I’d like to do a quick rant about the education system now, before we wrap things up. 

I feel seriously let down by the education system.  Each and every one of the educators that have passed through my son’s life failed him.  They let him down.  Many of them saw him every day for an entire school year, and couldn’t see that something was wrong, FFS!  They couldn’t see what Dr. Puente saw in 5 minutes of questions, and Dr. P only sees Bilbo for about an hour a year!  This is a joke, right?

But I don’t hold any of his teachers responsible.  No, I think that the teachers in this system are totally hamstrung.  They’re overworked and underpaid, when they should be   loaded with money and given every resource they need to do their jobs.  But they’re not.

Instead, schools continue to face brutal cutbacks in funding, so they have to look for places to “trim the fat” and keep costs down, at our children’s expense.  It boggles the mind.

Check this out.

I now know why I never got a response when I asked them about my son possibly having a learning disability. 

They couldn’t answer, because I didn’t ask correctly.  That makes perfect sense, right?

Apparently, I needed to follow a specific procedure with specific wording, which I didn’t know about until I contacted a local parent’s advocacy group and was told that I had to request a thing called an IEP- in writing- using a very specific set of words.

No one at Bilbo’s schools ever said anything about an IEP.  Why?

Because it costs money, and money is scarce.

So they left me to find my own way, like some kind of Educational Darwinism.  Well, I survived because I’m strong, and fuck you very much.  Thanks for the burn.

As soon as I put in the official request for an IEP, I was told that The Spazmatician was eligible for testing, and then they started spouting endless “legal responsibility” and “we will fulfill the requirements set out by the State” bollocks at me.  Once I had crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s, they jumped right on the Bilbo Bandwagon and became very helpful.  Arseholes.

So, my ire is really directed at the policy makers and administrators.  They’re the ones holding the purse strings, and if you have the money, then you have the power.  Scarface was right.

In summation- 

Teachers?  I salute you.  Your job is always hard and often thankless.  So, I thank you. 

Administrators?  Blow me, you heartless bastards..  You.  Can.  Fuck.  Right.  Off.

Bilbo?  We’ll make up for lost time, Honky.  I’m so sorry we didn’t arrive here sooner.  I won’t let you down again. 

Me?  I will trust my instincts from this day forward.  And woe be unto those who mess with my children, for Hell hath no fury like a father burned.  I will eat your soul*.

*My lawyers have asked me to point out that this is a figurative, and not literal statement.  Thank you.  I wanted to put “I will eat your face”. 

If this entry is resonating with any of you out there, trust your instincts.  Know that the system wants to give your child a great education, but it no longer has the re$ource$ to deliver this for everyone.  “No Child Left Behind” doesn’t exist- it’s up to us, the parents, to be advocates for our children.

Fight for your kids with everything you’ve got, and don’t stop fighting until you win. 

There is no other choice.

That’s it for now.

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Thanks for reading.  See you soon.

Huttsez

“... the unread voice of a generation.”

                                  - huttsez.com

p.s. Here's the rabbits

The Thermonuclear 3's 5/9/13

Dear Random People I Run Into When I’m Out With Madam Hussein,

I hate to break it to you, but 3 is actually not a “great age”.

It is, in fact, perhaps the worst age.

Have you really forgotten the insane freakouts for no apparent reason?  The whining?  Not listening?  General destruction and chaos?  For the love of God, do you not remember bedtime?!

If you have forgotten any of these things, I would like to invite you to spend a day with Obersturmführer Deströddler, my three year old daughter- or any three year old, of either gender, anywhere in the world.  It just doesn’t matter.

As the famous parenting blogger from the 1920’s Gertrude Whine said: “A three year old, is a three year old, is a three year old”.

You’ll see.

Sorry to burst your bubble, it’s just that if I have to listen to any more of this bollocks at the supermarket, my bloody head may explode.

If you have any concerns about this letter, please feel free to write me back at this address- 

huttsez@don’tmakemelosemyshitlikemy3yearold.com

I’m a very open minded person, so any and all responses will be welcomed.  I promise.  Honest. 

Sincerely, 

Huttsez

People talk about the terrible 2’s as being... well terrible, which is funny to me because they really aren’t that bad at all.  Quite the contrary, the 2’s are way more tender and terrific than terrible.

Two year olds are easier to entertain and distract, they’re not as mobile and coordinated, and they usually still nap.  Piece o’ cake.  Well, relatively speaking.

A three year old is faster and more unpredictable- both emotionally and physically- and if you drop your guard, or make the wrong decision, or the sun sets in the west, a three year old is going to irrationally lose their shit all over you. 

As I write this, the three year old boy who lives next door is, in fact, utterly losing his shit, all over the place.

It’s like I’m in tune with the cosmos, and it’s feeding me material as I write.  Thanks for the instant validation, universe!

"Duuuude, it's me, The Cosmos. 3 yr olds can harsh your mellow, so chill."

Let’s break it down-

The scene opens as Huttsez sits down in the Stone Hill Gazebo to write.  It’s a lovely, sunny, Nor-Cal spring Saturday.  The neighborhood is full of the sounds of people working in gardens, and children playing, and birds singing.  The sweet waft of suburban ennui is in the air.

Huttsez writes for a while, languidly sipping his tea, enjoy a bit of solo time before getting to work in the garden.  He is at peace.  Until...

The neighbor’s young children- 3 and 5- crash out into their garden yammering about water balloons.  The Mum gets them set up.

The Mum- Ok, guys, you can put your balloons on this nozzle and fill them up.

3 Yr. Old Boy- {at the top of his lungs}  ME FIRST!  ME FIRST!  ME FIRST!

The Mum-  You went first last time, Honey, so we’re gonna let your sister go first this time. 

5 Yr. Old Girl-  Yay!  Can I have a pink one, Mommy?

The Mum-  Sure, Sweetie. 

3 Yr. Old Boy- {let’s out a blood curdling, ear splitting scream}  NOOOOOOO!  NONONONONONONONOOOOOOOOO!

The Mum-  {scrambling}  Hold on Honey, I’ll have yours in just a second, take a breath! Look!  Mommy’s done with your sister’s balloon!  What color would you like?

3 Yr. Old Boy-  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

{The sound of a quick scuffle and an exploding water balloon.} 

5 Yr. Old Girl-  {instantly crying}  Mommy!  He hit the balloon out of my hand and got me all wet!

3 Yr. Old Boy-  {screaming}  ME FIRST NOT HER!  ME FIRST NOT HER! {and then completely loses his shit}

The Mum-  Ok, everyone inside, let’s get your father.  {she herds them into the house}

{Fifteen minutes pass.  The Dad appears solo with the daughter, and they play water balloons for a little bit.}

The Dad-  Here you go, a nice pink water balloon!

5 Yr. Old Girl-  Yay!  Thank you, Daddy!

{They do a few more, then The Dad says-}

The Dad-  Alright Sweetie, I’m going to get your brother so he can do some balloons too.

5 Yr. Old Girl-  {happy}  Ok Daddy! 

{The Dad goes in, and quickly returns.} 

The Dad-  Ok!  Who wants to do water balloons?

3 Yr. Old Boy-  IDOIDOIDOIDOIDOIDOIDOIDO!

The Dad-  Alright!  Who wants to go first?*

*See how he did that?  Genius!

3 Yr. Old Boy-  MEFIRSTMEFIRSTMEFIRSTMEFIRST!

The Dad-  Ok, Buddy! Come on over here and you can help Daddy do it!

3 Yr. Old Boy-  {Very happy}  Ok, Daddy!  {sounds of water}{Very whiny}  It’s too cold!  Make it warmer!

The Dad-  {confused}  The water’s too cold?  But.... I can’t make it warmer, Pal, it’s the hose and it only has cold water. 

3 Yr. Old Boy-  No, Daddy!  Make it warmer right NOW!  {the sound of stomping feet accompanies this last line}

The Dad-  That’s not good behavior, Damien*.  I’m going to count to three and and if you keep making bad choices, I’m going to put you in timeout.  Ok?  One......

*Not actually his name.

Damien-  {at the top of his lungs}  MAKE IT WARMER RIGHT NOOOOOOOOOOWW! {and then completely loses his shit.  Again}

The Dad-  Ok, everyone inside, let’s get your Mother.  {he wrestles them in to the house}

Curtain

On top of all that, the kid never even got to do a water balloon, FFS!  Poor, lovely, little, horrible bugger. 

And his poor parents, too, yeesh. 

I know how they feel, because living with The Destroddler is like driving a dodgy truck full of nitroglycerin on a bumpy mountain road.  The slightest pothole could cause the whole thing to explode in an instant.  Just like that.

"

When I do manage to navigate that road skillfully, my daughter is lovely and sweet.  Her dance recitals are magic.  She makes everyone smile, and is an angel.

However, I can’t remember a day, in recent times, when she didn’t lose her shit on me or her mum.  Some big, some not so. 

Three years olds are basically small, feral beings, railing against all the rules that are being forced on them.  That’s why I think there is such a high proportion of “shit losing” at this age.  It’s their last hurrah before giving in to the more compliant pastures of the 4 year old.

I worry, however, that such a pasture may not exist for my darling Obersturmführer Deströddler.  We shall see.

They’re like rebels.  Little Sandinistas fighting against the Parental Junta- their attacks are quick and deadly, leaving parents drained and stunned, before they melt back into the jungle, and disappear.  Shiver.

As if on cue, I can here a little kid completely losing it somewhere in the neighborhood (probably the 3 yr. old from down the street).  I’m not talking out of my arse, you know, it really may be the crappest age.

I’m also not a big complaining meanie who hates children.  I love my kids unconditionally- even when they suck.

So, Call the 2’s “terrible” if you must.

Because they’re nothing compared to “The Thermonuclear 3’s”.

That’s it for now.

I will lose my shit on you if you don’t go and “like” Huttsez on facebook

FOLLOWMEFOLLOWMEFOLLOWMEFOLLOWME! @huttsez

Thanks for reading.  See you soon.

Huttsez

“... the unread voice of a generation.”

                                  - huttsez.com

The Story Behind My Rad Tattoo 5/3/13

If you read my last blog post, you’ll know that I’ve modified the “Three Strikes And You’re In!” approach to maintaining intimacy in a relationship when you have kids- not an easy thing to do, right?  You can check it out here.

Everyone up to speed?  Good.

There’s been an unexpected bonus in the being-extra-manly department.  And I have reaped it’s rewards.

A few months ago, I got my first proper tattoo, and I think it’s totally badass.

I have two other rubbish tattoos that I got as a very young man- ones that I didn’t design myself, just picked them off the wall at a dodgy tattoo parlor on Portobello Road.  Twat.

But I’m glad I did, because the slight regret that I feel for getting those early tats, made me realize that if you are going to permanently inject ink into your skin, then it should be something deeply meaningful.  And it should be something that no one else has- you should custom design your own tattoos. 

I’ve wanted proper tattoos for a long time, but there was never anything that meant enough to me- I’d set the bar pretty high.  And then my son was born.  And later I met Mrs. H.  And then my daughter was born.  Decision made.

There is nothing more meaningful and important to me than my family.  They are my reason for being.  So, I’m going to ink representations of my them into my skin forever.  I don’t think I need to explain why.

I’ve started with the lovely Mrs. Huttsez.

1. Because the tattoo design was cool and funny.
2. Because I know how to butter the bread.

Before I go any further with the story of my new tat, I’d like to say a few quick words.

I never actually proposed to Mrs. H.  In fact, I didn’t see the point of getting married, it just wasn’t important to me.

It was, however, very important to the future Mrs. Huttsez, and because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, I figured “Why not?”.

The “proposal” went something like this-

Mrs. H-  It’s really important to me that we get married.  And we want to have kids, so I think we should get married. 

Me-  There’s no point.  It’s all a load of bollocks, a piece of paper.  And for the record, when we started dating, you asked me if I wanted more kids.  Do you remember what I said, Sweetie? 

Mrs. H-  Yes, I do.  You laughed and said “Fuck, no!”.

Me-  Right.  And now I’ve agreed to have more kids, because I love you and want us to be happy.  But, I really don’t see the point of getting married.

Mrs. H-  {sighs}  Ok, if we get married, people will give us wedding gifts.  You can get a Dyson, some good cookware- you like Le Creuset, right?*- and some good knives.  Straight up.

*Oooh, she’s good!

Me-  Really?  A proper Dyson? 

Mrs. H-  {reeling me in}  Top of the line. 

Me-  All Clad and Shuns?

Mrs.H-  Whatever you want.  And it’s going to be a great party*!

*See how she did that?

Me-  Well, it seems a little mercenary and I’m not so sure that this is a good foundation to start building a marriage on.... but I do like a good party.  Can we have Guinness?

Mrs. H-  Of course.

Me-  Ok, let’s do it! 

Hmmmm.  Not exactly romance central, right?

It’s our 5th anniversary this week, and I’m so glad that the missus muscled me into this marriage.  And I regret never giving her a proper proposal.  But maybe I can make up for that.  It’s gonna get pretty schmaltzy up in here, just wanna give you a heads up.

The first time I laid eyes on Mrs. H., I found myself walking immediately across the room, drawn to her like a magnet was pulling me.  Babe-ola.

When we started talking, I was even more interested.  Brain-ola. 

Mrs. H has a very unique first name, so I asked her-

“Where is your name from, you know, like it’s ethnicity or ancestry or whatever?”*

*They call me Mr. Smooth

“It’s alien spelled backwards." 

Twang! went my heart strings, and I swear that I just fell in love with her right then and there.  I know, I know.  It’s a bit “finger down throat” but... it’s just true.  Deal with it.

We hung out all night at this party and had an absolutely fantastic time together, said goodnight, and went our separate ways.  It was a memorable, and meaningful night.

Ok, you with me so far? Got the “alien backwards” thing”?  Good, here’s my sweet ink, yo-

                                               

This is my proposal.  This is how I’ve decided to show my wife that I want her in my life forever.  To show her that I love her, because I so deeply do.  To show her that she is a permanent part of who I am, and that she makes me a better man.

“Umm, Dude?  If your tattoo is like some kind of symbol of undying love, then how come it has a big, naked, yet very sweet ass?”   That’s a good question.

Because Mrs. H has a great arse.  Ok? 

“Umm, ok Dude.  But why did it have to be naked?  Isn’t that a little tasteless?”  Both good questions.  I’m excited to answer them for you.

First question-  Yes, it did have to be naked.  Turns out, I happen to enjoy looking at it.  Helps bring the missus and I closer together, by constantly reminding me of her wonderful derrière.  And because I’m a piggy.

Second question-  No, it isn’t tasteless, but thank you for your question.  I hope that I answered it to your satisfaction.  I’d like to ask a quick question myself, if that’s alright.  Would you mind fucking off?

My lovely wife was deeply moved- after her initial shock of the huge naked arse wore off- and told me that she loved it, that no one had ever made a gesture like that, and- most importantly- she thinks it’s manly and sexy.  Boo-yah! 

And there’s the unexpected bonus I mentioned earlier, which happened to tie in nicely with my “more manwork, less housework” philosophy.

I would like to add that I will still continue to do a good share of the housework, and Bilbo is picking up some of my slack so that I’m not leaving the missus to deal with it all on her own.  Surfing.  Crucial.

I’d like to give a quick blurb about the parlor where I got my ink*.

*OMG!  I’m so cool now!

I did a lot of research about where the best tattoo parlors in the SF Bay Area were, and the one that kept popping up was Spider Murphy’s.

It was a great experience.  The artist who did my tat is Heather Bailey- here’s a link to her book.  Check out the electric hot dog- that’s the one that made me choose her as my artist.  She brilliantly interpreted my idea and was a total pro.

One thing I’d like to mention.

While I was getting my tattoo, the receptionist- who had just answered the phone-  asked the artists-

“Hey you guys?  Do we use vegan ink?”

There was groaning, and a few muttered “fucking hippies”, when the head artist, a big bear of a man, growled and then roared- 

“Yeah we do.  Tell ‘em we grind up vegans, and put ‘em in the ink!”

Everyone in the shop, myself included, let out a hearty cheer.  

“D’you get that?”  said the receptionist into the phone.  “Ok.  Bye.”  I felt like I was in the bad boys club, it was awesome.

I’m wicked excited to get all my other tattoos- I’ll probably start work on the next one this summer.

Quick last moment of love/ obvious brown nosing-

Mrs. H, Happy Anniversary, you are the woman of my dreams.  Thanks for having a sweet arse.

That’s it for now.

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Thanks for reading.  See you soon.

Huttsez

“... the unread voice of a generation.”

                                         - huttsez.com

I'm A Man, Baby! 4/30/13

Ok, here’s the deal.

Turns out I’ve been talking a load of bollocks, and there’s been a major shift in my philosophy.  More on that in a bit. 

                                         

Those of you who have read my blog for the last year or so, may be aware of my ‘Three Strikes And Your In’ approach to getting the p... let me try and keep this clean, like Cosmo...  my approach to “making things sizzle between the sheets”. 

I'll try and keep it clean and classy like Cosmo..

My whole theory was based on the idea of lessening the emotional and physical load of a new mother (my wife) by doing more housework, and being involved and present in the parenting process at all times.  It’s what good Modern Dads do, right? 

It allowed Mrs. H more time to rest from the rigors of breastfeeding and sleep deprivation- rest that I hoped would leave her with enough energy for a shag.

Let’s face it, a crucial element in any successful relationship is the ability to stay intimately connected.  If that intimacy suffers, then so will the relationship.  Fact.

It fostered a sense of togetherness and cooperation, and showed the missus that I was all about the nesting process, which could lead to warm and fuzzy feelings of wanting to nest the shit out of each other.

And you know what?  It worked.  Which was great. 

Guess what happened next.  It stopped working.  Which was not great. 

I’m not a big fan of sex becoming infrequent- I know, it’s a strange thing to hear coming from a man- and I tend to get a tad grumpy when the pickins are thin.

As I haven’t done a survey of married guys who don’t get enough pu...  umm hold on... As I haven’t done a survey of married guys whose wives aren’t using “101 tips to heat things up in the bedroom”, I don’t know if any other men experience these same feelings of grumpiness.  Probably not.  I’m probably the only man, ever, who’s felt this way.  God, what is wrong with me?!

So my philosophy/approach/system worked while our daughter was a newborn to about 3 years old, and we were able to reach our quota* fairly consistently.  Not a bad run, ifImaysaysomyself.

*My quota.  I’m a piggy.

But it stopped working, and I couldn’t figure out why.  Neither of us could, really.

We didn’t feel like we were growing too far apart, but we both realized that we were treading on a dangerous path.  Something needed to change- we just couldn’t figure out what that something was.

So, onward this progressed for the next 3-4 months.  Still liking and loving each other, and talking the whole time.  But no grand idea popped up- we just couldn’t get out of this rut.  Instead of just rutting.  Fnaar fnaar.    Sigh.

So we (I) waited.

But I didn’t have to wait long because of The Epiphany.  Ok, here we go.  New philosophy time.

I got wicked busy a few months back, and found my self working on 6 consecutive weekends because of the workload and deadlines.  Not what anyone is looking for, but it’s good to make hay while the sun is shining.

One of my jobs was building some high-end child safety gates.  As the weather was nice, I set up shop outside the kitchen window in our backyard, and got to work on a pile of oak- milling, cutting, sanding, and assembling.  Here’s the moment that ultimately changed my philosophy, and shot Mrs. H and I out of our rut like a bullet.

I was hand sanding all the cut pieces of the gates with a fine grit sandpaper, making the already smooth wood even more silky, preparing it lovingly for final assembly.

They were pretty impressive pieces of sturdy oak 1x2- about 46” if you really wanna know.  Definitely bigger than your average child safety gate material.  At least that’s what I’ve been told.

I was using long, steady strokes, always staying with the grain.  Back and forth, covering the whole length of the wood with each pass of my hard sanding block, sometimes focusing extra attention at the very end of my piece by rubbing back and forth a little quicker and harder, and then back to the longer passes again.  I mean, hey, if you want to deliver a superior product, you better learn how to pay attention to the details.

I was working up a bit of a sweat- manly work tends to do that, especially when it’s done right- so I stopped my rhythmic labor for a moment to mop my brow.  As I lifted my tan and vein-coiled arm to my forehead, I glanced up and noticed that Mrs Huttsez was at the kitchen sink, looking at me out the window.  I could tell right away that the lady of the house wasn’t only interested in the wood I was using to build with, if you catch my drift.

Sorry.

I’ll stop now.

And then the clouds parted/veil lifted/heavenly trumpets sounded, and I suddenly realized what I’d been doing wrong, and what I had to do to make it right.

When Mrs. H and I made eye contact in that moment, I could tell she was giving me a sort of “mmmmmyummy” look- she liked what she saw and was letting me know.  And what she saw was her man, working hard at a manly task with sweat on his brow, muscles glistening in the sun.  Or something like that. 

All steamy-romance-novel-joking aside, it really was a startling realization.

Mrs. H, biologically a woman, was reacting to the sight of her mate- me, biologically a man- doing something... well manly.  Which is fairly synonymous with ‘masculine’, right?  Ok.

So, the feminine member of our pairing was reacting- dare I say biologically?- to the sight of her spouse performing a masculine task.  Shazam!

When humans were still living in caves and looking like this-  Can I get your digits?-females picked the strongest male they could find.  They looked for a good hunter and fighter, one who could protect the family from harm, and provide mammoth and other hairy shit for them to eat.

Would a female pick the guy who did nothing but tidy up around the cave and cook the mammoth?  The guy who wipes the little cavekids’ arses?

Or would she go for the guy who killed the mammoth, then killed all the bad guys who wanted to kidnap and rape her, all the while being able to give her a proper “Daryll Hannah” every night?

Not exactly a tough choice.  Especially when it’s a choice made on a biological level, based upon a strong instinct to survive. 

Of course I wasn’t getting enough pus... um, ok... Of course I wasn’t getting enough “romping in the rumpus room” because I was consistently performing tasks that are traditionally done by women.  Specifically housework- cleaning, laundry, etc.- which is classically perceived as “women’s work”.  

Before you get your knickers in a twist and accuse me of being a sexist, think about this-

How many of you have hired, or know someone who has hired, a crew of cleaning men to come and hoover the floors, tidy up, and then fold your knickers and other laundry? 

Right.

The sight of me on my hands and knees, cleaning the bloody toilet isn’t going to make the missus want to drop her kex for a quickie, it’s going to make her think-

“Glad I’m not doing that!  I think I’ll go and watch that HBO vampire show with the sexy men and loads of shagging.”

"Sorry, I can't clean the toilet. I'll be too busy making love to you."

In order to test my theory, I’ve been performing more manly tasks around Casa Huttsez- our yard is currently undergoing a transformation. 

I’ve been toiling in the garden- taming the wild blackberries, and trimming trees, working and sweating to make it better for the family.  It’s some profoundly manly shit, and Mrs. H seems to be responding positively to the new direction of my philosophy.  It would seem I’m on to something, as it were.                       Sorry.

I still do a big share of the housework, and the missus doesn’t feel like I’m leaving her with too much, but I’m really focusing more on the work that involves muscles and brawn and manly skills.  I’m a man, and I shall act accordingly, by being wicked manly as much as possible, as often as possible.  Because chicks dig it.

Let’s do a quick wrap up of my new direction with nice broad brushstrokes-

Less housework, more manwork.

Housework= Less sex

Manwork= More sex

And done.

I’ve decided to rewrite my book, as this new direction basically disproves my theory- even though it worked in the short term.  I’m not going to turn it into some 300 page monstrosity, like I was advised to do by a publisher I met when I was writing the first one.

No, this book will be nice and short, easy for a man to read, and will have pictures.  We men are simple beasts- more often than not, sex and sports are enough to keep us happy and sedate.

We don’t have a lot of time for other things, so if a book is to grab our interest, it had better be short and help us get laid.

I’ve got a few working titles bouncing around-

The Masculinist Manifesto

Don’t Forget To Be A MAN, Dammit!

A Manly Man’s Guide To Manly Parenting

Dads:  modern? or MANLY!

Turn Your Honey-Do’s Into “Honey!  Oooh!”

and of course

Three Strikes And You’re In!

A Modern Father’s Guide To Getting Laid

Should be fun.

That’s it for now.

I’m a man, baby!  Like Huttsez on facebook

I’m only on twitter because chicks dig it.  Follow me @huttsez

Thanks for reading.  See you soon.

Huttsez

“...the unread voice of a generation.”

                                 - huttsez.com

Things I Overheard At Ballet Class 4/23/13

Hey, you wanna know what cracks me up?  PC parents.  They are just hilarious.  In case you’re new to my blog, I’ve written about them before here.  Sooo funny.

Well, lucky you, I have more PC hijinks to talk about today. 

I recently did a covert recon into the black, pumping heart of Northern Californian PC parenting- the waiting room of a toddler’s ballet class in Central Marin County.  I have looked into the eyes of The Beast and despaired.

But before we get into that, let’s just take a moment to say “hello” again.

Hello!  I know it’s been a while since my last post, and I’m not a very good blogger. LOL!Sorry about that, life got crazy.  LMFAO!  Whudayagonnado? IMAD*!  :D

*I’m a douchebag.

My 3 year old daughter- aka The Destroddler, Obersturmführer Deströddler, Madam Hussein- looooooves ballet.  A.  Lot.

She’s been going to a class once a week for a little while now, and has taken to it with a wonderful combination of pure joy and intensely serious focus.  I mean, she “stretches” before each class at home, because her ballet teacher said it’s really important.  Here’s a few pictures of her pre-class “stretching” routine.  I had just asked her a question, but she was annoyed that I was interrupting- “No Dad, I’m stretching.”  Obersturmführer Bällerinä is not to be toyed with.

Toddler stretchingObersturmführer Bällerinä is not amused.Another excellent stretching technique.

She’s been giving us little dance recitals, as well, that are somewhere between Swan Lake, Martha Graham, Grateful Dead Hippie Boxing*, and performance art.  It’s one of my favorite things she does- we throw flowers at her feet when she finishes a dance, and say “Brava!” and shit like that.  Definitely in the “being a parent makes me smile” category.

*A jerking, arhythmic, caucasian hippie form of movement often combined with “Morning Dew into Drums and Space, back into Morning Dew”. 

So, the other day I got to take my daughter to her ballet class for the first time, and I was wicked excited to see her “in her element”, as it were.  I hadn’t really given the experience any thought apart from that.  But where there are young ballerinas, there will  also be their parents.

“So, what’s the deal when we get to the class?  What do we do?”  I asked Mrs. Huttsez that morning.  Like many men, it’s important for me to be informed of the expected procedure for things.  I know.

“Well, you go into the waiting room next to the studio and wait for the teacher to call them in, while the kids all stare at each other.  Then the parents wait while the class goes on, but you can watch through the door.  Make sure you see the ‘gallop’.”  Mrs. Huttsez is lovely and helpful.

So, a freshly stretched Madam Hussein and myself sashayed into the waiting room, and I immediately felt over dressed.  In jeans.

There were 6 or 7 cute little girls in cute little girl tutus, with their corresponding yoga panted mothers.  Everyone in the room was either in a tutu or yoga pants.  Except me.  More on that later. 

Out came the teacher, in went the girls, and the talking began.  I soon realized that this wasn’t going to be any regular, human interaction.  Instead it was going to be a master class of PC parenting one ups-manship (sp?).

I whipped out my phone and immediately started writing down what was going on around me.  The first topic was gardening-

“Well, we started our garden and the first thing we planted was kale.  The kids love it!”,  announced the one in the yoga pants.  I couldn’t tell if it was the gardening or the kale that the kids loved.  Probably the gardening- no sane child likes kale.  But I appreciated how she left it open to interpretation, insinuating that her kids were so perfect, they ate kale for fun.  Ha.

“We started ours with two rows of kale and two rows of chard.  Our kids love it, too!”, countered one of the other lycra clad PC mums.  Again, with the kids-loving-kale shtick, oy!

“I was sooo bummed because our house is too hot for kale, so we had our contractor put in a greenhouse.  We grow kale year round, and juice it every morning with apples and strawberries.  It’s super nutritious, and the kids love it!”.  Shazam! Mrs. ÜberMum entered the fray swinging haymakers that seemed like they were connecting, judging by the forlorn looks of the other not-as-perfect PC mums.

By the way, Mrs. ÜberMum delivered this arse whooping whilst stretching.  That’s right.  She was fucking stretching right there in the waiting room. More on that later, too.

Round two kicked off when the one in the yoga pants said-

“So, we don’t have TV anymore, and it’s great!”  she chirped, “We spend so much more quality family time, you know?”  I looked around for Mrs. ÜberMum, feeling sure that she’d have something to add, but she was strangely absent.  Not to worry, there was plenty more sanctimonious spandex to go around.

“Us too!  Isn’t it the best?”  agreed/ gnashed most of the other women.  One of them was conspicuously silent.

“Do you guys still have TV?”,  the one in yoga pants asked the quiet parent, without even a hint of arseholish, superior, PC gloating.  

“Well, we have a TV for Netflix so we can stream movies- we don’t have cable, of course- but that’s it.”  She obviously hadn’t got the memo that “we only have Netflix” was no longer acceptable.  It would have been great if they’d all leapt on her, and made her wear a scarlet “TV” sign on her chest.

“Anyway, I only use it for two kid’s shows on the weekend and for Mad Men.”  Poor, beleaguered Hester Prynne was trying to fight her way off the ropes.  She was saved by the bell when Mrs. ÜberMum jogged back into the waiting room- flushed and breathing heavily- and started stretching right away. 

“Where were you?”, asked Hester, eager to move the attention away from her blasphemous use of television.

“Oh, I just went on a hill run, but I forgot my phone and I couldn’t time my intervals, so I pushed extra hard.”

“Wow, you went on a run just now?!”  asked one of the non-running-during-ballet-class people.

“Oh yeah,” smugged Mrs. ÜberMum, “if I don’t get at least two hours of cardio a day, I just don’t feel right.  So, I take every chance I get.”  Wow.  Just.  Wow.

There was obviously no topping that shit, and Mrs. ÜberMum was silently crowned PC Parent Numero Uno.  I felt it happen.

The conversation petered out after that, with only a few more choice comments.  “We do a lot of backpacking.” and “We’re sending the kids to ‘ECO Day Camp’ this summer!  They’re soooo excited!” were my favorites.  Who are these people?

It was pretty stunning to observe members of the PC Parenting Brigade in their natural habitat.  I feel lucky that I made it out in one piece.

I have looked into the eyes of The Beast, and The Beast is a bit of a tool, really.

I did get to see Obersturmführer Bällerinä doing the gallop, and it didn’t disappoint.  She is magic. 

That’s it for now.

I think I’ll wear a pair my wife’s yoga pants to the next class and then post pictures on facebook.  “Like” Huttsez on facebook if you don’t want to miss this!

If enough people follow me on twitter, I will actually do it. Why not?  Right this way.

Thanks for reading.  See you soon.

Huttsez

... the unread voice of a generation.”

                                 - huttsez.com