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One thing that’s very true about my family, before my generation, is that they’re super capable and amazing and it makes me feel such self loathing because my accomplishments compared to theirs' are fucking nothing after 28 years of life. My mom’s side of the family were agrarian types in the Dakotas and my dad’s side has a very rich cultural heritage. And both sides were really book smart and went through many higher levels of education. Which kind of pisses me off because I have very little patience for putting forth physical effort and I really don’t know all that much aside from a deep well of unimportant facts. And I’ve been finding that actually a lot of people know the things that I thought I was only aware of. Not helpful. Not special. Great, so I could earn a Masters in ‘Who Gives a Shit’ and then not apply it to anything. I’ve already done that with my Undergraduate degree..a BS no doubt. I’m noticing a trend when I look back at my blog: I’m upset about the series of choices I’ve made in my life – especially in my adult life. Given that I am an only child and my parents put all their energies into my development and happiness, I recognize that they did want me to be smart and work hard AND I should kick ass given all the nurturing and one-on-one time I was given. Maybe I did 'make it' or I am 'making it' in life with respect to my education or work life, but it doesn't really matter - I don't notice, because what I remember most as a child is my dad raising me to not be a pussy.
When I think of a manly, non-pussy traits, I should point out that I define it as the following:
1. manly traits like a beard and you talk brusquely and you walk different and can swear and touch your junk
2. do shit that makes you sweat. Like building shit. Or carrying heavy shit upstairs that you just built
3. you don’t feel the need to go get a band-aid if you cut yourself. Just put gorilla glue on your thumb and you’re good to go
4. no crying allowed, pussy!
5. take care of shit before having fun
6. you might not have to take a shower, but that’s cool because being dirty and filthy is part of being a man, dammit. and chicks dig it
Okay…phew. Apparently I feel that Lumberjacks are hot and manly. They are. Except for their carrot-fingered hands. WTF seriously?
My dad, Moo Momez, is real manly. And he doesn’t fuck around neither. It’s funny because he dresses somewhat effeminately, is super articulate and well spoken, makes sure to groom himself nicely, has nice things...in Generation Y am I here again? he would be considered a total metrosexual male. He likes incense. Gross. But he wasn’t ALWAYS like that…it’s gotten worse as he’s aged. Strangely enough, I always figured once you made it past a certain point in life, that was your cue to not give a shit anymore. ‘What, I’m 50? I don’t have to wipe my ass anymore. Fuck you!’ (I pray it’s like that when I get there. Half way half way.) But not my dad. He’s sort of a badass because he can balance the two pretty well. *CREEPY COMMENT* if my dad weren’t my dad, I would totally try and date him. Don’t tell my therapist. Save your money…she already knows. Since I couldn’t date him (I live in Minnesota…we’re just not that kind of people), I always thought I would try and model myself to be a vagina clad version of Moo.
But when you’re a kid you just want to play and do nothing, and rightfully so because all kids should enjoy their lives before the world saps their tiny bit of joy reserves with mounting bills, a mortgage, kids, arthritis, questionable oral sores, etc. So I sort of didn’t end up like him. But I look just like him. That’s good because my dad’s sort of handsome. Haha but my dad did a fantastic job of impressing his values of manliness on me.
Every Saturday we’d have to wake up at a reasonable time. Like for my whole life. There was absolutely no sleeping in. And it’s not hard to wonder why my dad would always fall asleep watching the Tigers in the afternoon…, but that’s his shit. Not mine. So…a ‘reasonable’ time is like 8:30, or earlier. I’ve never been huge on sleeping in, but that’s probably because he fucked it up for me at a young age. We usually had to get up and first clean the whole house. And it would really be me cleaning the ENTIRE house when I was 7. And if it looked damn good, I got a whole buck. Thanks, Dad. You also taught me to be really fucking cheap. We had a toilet in the basement of our house – with no other bathroom amenities – just a scary ass toilet (they’re all for asses) - that was like painful to go clean. I imagined that there were goblins / trolls / debt collectors down there and would psych myself out and would basically cast a spell with the toilet wand inside the bowl and haul ass back upstairs to the normal zone.
We had this enormous blanket. Seriously big enough to play that parachute popcorn game that they do in gym classes when the teacher forgot to write an agenda and need to keep a bunch of rug rats occupied for the next 50 minutes. The popcorn game was really fun, so it worked out for me. Exercise 4 real: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9uW04rXFORA enjoy them chicken nuggets, children. Anyway, we had this blanket and I would get so desperate to escape my dad’s cleaning clutches that I would roll myself up in a ball in the blanket on top of our couch or on a bed and laid still so it just looked like the blanket was all rolled up. Surprisingly it NEVER worked! That was the extent of my being creative given I led a sleep deprived childhood. zzz
After we (I) finished cleaning, we’d go to Ace Hardware, because everybody knows that men and their manly followers (Me Momez) spend time with tools and shit for building shit. We’d buy tubes and wires and plate covers. I would actually spend the whole time looking at arithmetic books and stickers and other novelties they sold to keep kids occupied when they were dragged along.
Then we’d hit Meijers and do our recycling and grocery shopping (I still have to fix that earlier blog. Sorry, two followers).
Anyway, you get the idea. This shit was boooooooring. And we did stuff like this every weekend 4 lyfe. But it prepared me for a number of instances that required me to find my manly center and not be a total pussy despite my pussy inclination to be a pussy. Some of the most memorable:
*totally fucking throwing up some fried rice that my dad made with baby shrimps. I was like ‘fuck it. They’re just little shrimps. I’m going to put this away!’ 30 minutes later I puked super hard, maybe coughed up a kidney, too, and then went back to playing FF3 like nothing happened.
*even to this day, my dad and I almost always spar and kick each others’ asses at family gatherings.
*we installed a screen door for my mom on mother’s day and when we tried to lift it, the corner landed on my knee and left a super deep scar. My dad actually said ‘don’t be a pussy and cry’. And I was 10. Nice.
*we would go on bike rides when I was little and I rode in a passenger seat on the back. Every time we’d reach our destination, my dad would crash the bike and lean it on the ground, me in it, and leave me there both laughing and whining to get out for at least a minimum of 5 minutes.
*at the age of 6 or 7 I was riding a boy’s bike, hit a split in the sidewalk and took out my vagina hard. I can still feel it. That’s gross.
*I got kicked in the vagina square with a toe and actually did cry (pussy). But for this to happen, it required two boys to hold me back and another to kick the coot. It’s cause I’m a badass with a very sore vagina.
*my dad made me hold a super thin dowel rod still while he made a cut with an un-mounted circular saw. My fingers were less than an inch from the blade.
*I made dinner for my boyfriend right after college and was trying to cut a bag of frozen pesto open and almost cut off the entire top half of my thumb. I was more concerned with having bled all over my jigsaw puzzle – thousand piecer of M&Ms (super tough) – rather than getting to urgent care.
*I was helping my parents paint their trim molding in college and stepped down square on the back of a hammer and had a hole the size of an inch right in my heel. All I said was ‘dammit’.***
***While my mom stood with her mouth open in horror, my dad gave me a slap on the back to reinforce the manly moment and overcoming the urge to be a wuss and said ‘See, I didn’t raise Maria to be a pussy.’ You sure didn’t, dad.
Told you!
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