Hear Me Roar

My brothers, help me. I…………………………….

Oh God, I don’t think I can write this.

I think that I am turning into a woman.

I imagine that all Stay At Home Dad’s go through this but I didn’t think it was going to happen to me. I didn’t realize that I was one Oprah episode away from menopause. I didn’t realize that I would soon be hearing these words coming out of my mouth “do we have any chocolate in the house?” I didn’t realize that one night I would be sitting in my kitchen preparing dinner and being upset because I didn’t have any breadcrumbs, enough so that tears almost came from my eyes.

It’s been a good 10 years since I last cried. Now you know my plight.

I realized soon after I had kids that my emotional state had become something of a wreck. Things seemed more personal to me now that I had two little minions doing my bidding. I wasn’t expecting this but it happened. I think I adjusted well. My manhood was still intact, I was still the rough and unpolished ass kicker that I always was—just a little more on the hysterical side.

What I didn’t realize was that it was the first step into feminizing me. And I don’t mean in a good chick prison way either.

The transformation was slow and easily unnoticed by those who knew me well. But inside, somewhere where this thing hides, it began to awaken and take control.

Soon, I was sorting laundry according to colors and “delicates.” I ask you brothers, what fucking guy does this?? Where is that big pile of laundry we just randomly throw into the wash? I’ll tell you where it was: It was right next to the colors, cottons and whites, and children’s delicates. I am so fucking ashamed. And dryer sheets! I use dryer sheets!

I suppose, looking back, the next step was easily made without big fanfare. I mean, once you get used to getting stains out of clothes, how hard is it to transfer that knowledge to getting stains out of couches? A little Shout here, a little scrubbing, and bingo—out the stain comes. What in God’s name is wrong with me. My full time job used to be making the stains, not realizing that a little baking soda can do wonders. I am an affront to Hints from Heloise, not her born again savior!

But brothers, it gets worse and I don’t know how to stop it.

I made bread. Not store bought, not with a mixer. I mean honest to god, from scratch, Aunt Tulip’s home made delight. And I used a recipe. Dear god, I’m so sorry.
It was called “American Sandwhich Bread” but it should have been called Hossman Grows a Vagina. I didn’t mean to and I didn’t know what it meant at the time. In my head I thought that I could use this opportunity to let Little Hoss have a little Arts and Crafts time. My only excuse here is that when we kneaded the dough (by hand!) is that I taught Little Hoss to go at it like Rocky on a Ribeye. We pounded it, grunted and even spit a couple of times. But as manly as I tried to make it, it still doesn’t change the fact that we made homemade bread. And it was good.

It gets worse my brothers. Much, much worse.

After we made bread I thought “Well, that wasn’t to hard. Let’s make a pie.” A FUCKING PIE! We made a homemade chocolate cream pie. We bought UNSWEATENED chocolate! I didn’t even get any beer when I did it, not even beer! Then we used a cheese grater to “shave” the chocolate so we could melt it. The man I used to be would have just grabbed the god damned belt sander. But no, I didn’t want the saw dust taste. What’s wrong with me! I love saw dust!

And the pie was good. It was good because I even made home made whip cream. Dear Jesus.

This week I found myself about to cook dinner again. I’m trying to eat healthy and since I am home and do the shopping (of course I do, sissy) I pick out what we are having for dinner. I was making chicken stuffed with goat cheese. Goat cheese, dear god somebody slap the sissy out of me! And that’s when I discovered that I didn’t have any breadcrumbs.

But there is always salvation. There is always hope. There is always redemption.

Fuck breadcrumbs. Fuck breadcrumbs and stains and delicates and nail polish remover getting crayons off walls. Fuck them all because it’s time that I am a man again and a man who acts and cooks like a man.

I don’t need breadcrumbs. I don’t need them because I got man antidote. I made dinner with my man antidote and didn’t tell anyone what the switch was that I made.

“Wow” they all said. “This is really good” my wife exclaimed. “I love the crust” said everyone. “What on earth is it, it’s so unusual.”

It’s Fritos. Yup, I made stuffed goat cheese chicken with Fritos.

It’s good to find out I’m still a man.

1 comment:

  1. Have faith - most great chefs are men (I'm ignoring the laundry, that really is skating on thin ice)