“Dude! I have this cookbook!” I said. “It’s awesome. Seriously, dude, have you tried the smothered chicken yet?”
“No man, not yet, but I’m going to this weekend” the other dad said.
This conversation, about a god damn cookbook, went on for about an hour. When it was done and I was sitting alone, I realized that I may have a problem. It slowly just came to me, very slowly apparently as it has taken me almost a year to realize it.
Dear Jesus, I have a mangina. Sweet holy mother of god, I have a mangina.
Shock was what I experienced. Like the shock you get when you think you are about to get a blowjob and instead the girl you’re making out with starts sticking fingers where they don’t belong. Not that you don’t appreciate the effort but, um, I don’t think I’m into that. Especially on my roommates couch. And his mom was coming over tomorrow. And would probably sit on that couch.
For the record, I was the roommate and my mom did in fact sit on that couch. When the confession was made, I was shocked just like I am now when I realize that I may have a mangina.
What’s happened? Where did it go wrong. I have been doing this stay at home dad thing for almost a year now. I was going to do it my way. It was going to manly all the way. We were not going to make any excuses or any apologies. We were going to go balls to the wall, no holds bard, full on man child raising.
For the most part we have. But somewhere along the way, I’m guessing probably between changing diapers in restaurants and pushing the stroller to the doll aisle, my balls must have completely dropped off and morphed into a mangina.
It was slow at first, things that you wouldn’t really think about. The family needed to eat, Dad was at home, so Dad starting cooking dinner. Shortly, I got tired of spaghetti night, we needed something a little more nutritious. What about chicken? That sounds good,mmmm, yeah chicken with a little rice. What about a sauce, I bet a good slightly tangy sauce, maybe with a little lemon and garlic. Fantastic.
Next thing you know, I have 4 different cook books, a garlic press and several recipes of things that I cannot even remotely pronounce. Steak Au Pouvre. Yup, I can cook it and I mispronounce it ever single time.
It just snowballed from there until the snow ball that was gently tossed down Mt. Kilimanjaro has gathered enough mangina power to turn itself into a full fledged hot flash.
I find myself watching QVC from time to time.
I go shopping and yes, it indeed makes me feel better to buy something pretty for myself—like a new video game.
I actually thought about writing Hints from Heloise to find out what gets smudges off the wall without ruining the paint.
I have a sewing kit. I am going to patch my blue jeans and some socks.
I bake cookies.
When I take a shower at home, I do not throw my towel on the floor.
I can’t sleep at night if the kitchen is dirty.
Jenn? Anglina? Jenn? Anglina? Oh, the heartbreak.
Today I actually put conditioner in my hair, for possibly the first time in my life, and I don’t even have that much hair.
Not all clothes go into the dryer. Some have to be hung up. And there is, to my surprise, a setting for “cold” and “hot” on the washing machine and this indeed makes a difference.
I spit on a napkin to clean my daughter’s face.
But alas, this is not the worst of the mangina, the loss of my manhood. It gets much, much worse.
I sit down to take a piss. And I don’t even call it taking a piss anymore. Instead, we all go “potty.” A word that is as distasteful to me as cockguzzeling twat mongler may be to others. In short, it is close to a swear word as it can be without putting fuck before or behind it.
I have no choice, I have to sit down to take a leak. For some reason my kids love to follow me into the bathroom. If the door is ever closed a full on Attica riot ensues and the door is busted down. And as such, standing up to take a leak poses problems to one year old children that want to reach out and touch it. It affects my aim somewhat to be holding off one kid with one leg while grabbing the other kid with my only free hand and avoid what is known in the business as “splatter”.
So I sit to pee-pee, and my mangina is complete. Then we will all read the latest copy of US Weekly. Brittany is so crazy. And Brad, you stupid pottyfuck.