I'm on a different timetable from you 9 to 5ers. My Monday is your Wednesday - "What am I doing with my life?" My Tuesday is your Monday - "Right let's see what needs to be done?" My Wednesday is your Tuesday - "No not quite anything at all. I'm feeling nothing." My Thursday is your Friday - "Yeaaaaaaah". And my Friday is your Thursday - "God, long week so far". We are singing the same Craig David song, but differently.
On my re-mixed weekdays, I stop at eleven to have a gossip with myself about myself by the coffee machine. I have small punchy lunches so as not to waste time from not being at work. I don't do much filing, or have any conference calls. I try not to submit too many expenses claims. Round about three in the afternoon I do have a meeting with myself, but at the swimming pool. I sometimes fantasise about meetings with people I don't know. At five or six I contemplate the day I've just not had.
But today I am about to get back to doing a job application for a (real) job I (really) want, and think I could also do. I appreciate there is a big gap between thinking you can do something and being able/allowed to do it: Hitler, Cherie Blair and the British Winter Olympics Team come to mind re this capacity/desire/reality mismatch. But we shall see.
Filling out job application forms is a sanguine affair. It makes you - forces you - to think about why you left jobs, why you had them in the first place, why you want to work, what "particular qualities" you could bring to an office or department or team out there in the real world, who else is applying for the job and if they have the same lives as you, and how you could help other people to realise their own potential... oh, &^%&^. I'm turning into a life coach.
In my demands for what people should not put in their blogs, I guess introspection should have been on the list. But like I said, my Monday is your Wednesday. Bear with me. Tuesday could be a hoot.
Jul 31, 2006
Jul 28, 2006
All Apologies
Sorry not to have been in touch today (Friday). My wife took the day off work, and we hung out and went shopping etc. I did try and sneak in a post on househusbannot over breakfast, but it was dull. And having been so judgemental of the content of other people's blogs, I though just sending something out for the hell of it was..well not befitting of the high editorial and content standards you have come to expect of househusbandnot since its inception. Weak I know. Apologies.
Will be in touch next week with my thoughts on electronic job applications, news of a visit to Suffolk lobster-potting, and a report back on a meeting with an IT dude who is going to teach me how to reach even more of you with househusbandnot.
hhn x
Will be in touch next week with my thoughts on electronic job applications, news of a visit to Suffolk lobster-potting, and a report back on a meeting with an IT dude who is going to teach me how to reach even more of you with househusbandnot.
hhn x
Jul 27, 2006
Rules Of Engagement
So like I said last week, I was going to share some househusbandnot rules for when you meet famous people.
I'm not sure how useful these rules are going to be since you (me and you) are already at a massive disadvantage when meeting them (famous people) because:
a) famous people are only interested in other famous people
b) it is unlikely that you can say anything that the famous person has not heard before - "I loved you in....", "You were so right about world peace", "Your album made me cry", "Is Chris Martin really as much of a knobber as people make out", "Holby City made me stop sniffing glue" etc.
c) famous people seem to think it is entirely socially acceptable to walk away mid-sentence if you are not being - in their random book - 150% fascinating
I've had my moments with famous people, and most of these moments have left me feeling faintly annoyed with myself for behaving like such a *&^%. So I give you househusbandnot rules of engagement with the famous (and we are talking famous famous here, not just newsreaders and tennis players):
1) Do not admit how much you know about them. They will think you are a stalker.
2) Don't tell them about other famous people you have met. They will think you are a stalker.
3) Don't tell them if you are a stalker, at least not before you have got the photo and the hair sample.
4) Don't ask for an autograph, unless you collect autographs. (In which case, please leave this blog now. househusbandnot uses irony. You don't get irony.)
5) Don't try the I'm Not Phased By Fame approach. It doesn't work. I tried it once with a very famous rock star at a bar in London:
househusbandnot: "Hi"
v famous rock star: "Hello"
househusbandnot realising he is actually technically talking to famous rock star: "I'vegotallyouralbums thatsingleyoudidlastyearmademewriteapoem wowyouhavefivefingersoneachofyourhands canikeepthatcigarettebuttofyours whatsyourfavouritecolour iloveyou..." And you know what, I met him again a week later, and tried to turn our first meeting into a funny anecdote before slipping into a second tongue-tied star-struck rant. V un-super fly.
6) If they are American, tell them you are related to the Queen.
7) Be prepared for how staggeringly ill-informed and delusional famous people are - "The Queen of England. She lives in a balloon right?", "People live in Africa? You're shitting me", "Squid can talk", "My cousin invented photography", "My agent lives in a cheesecake", "Don't wear blue, It steals your soul" etc.
8) Leave before you start telling them about an idea you had for a film once.
Anyway, from now on I am going to do to them (famous people) what they do to me (me), which is look vaguely into the middle distance and hope I don't have to talk to them. And I will take the vicarious pleasure that Hello and Grazia and - more importantly - Pop Bitch give to me about their lives. I don't want the real thing. I'm happy with the distant half-truth.
I'm not sure how useful these rules are going to be since you (me and you) are already at a massive disadvantage when meeting them (famous people) because:
a) famous people are only interested in other famous people
b) it is unlikely that you can say anything that the famous person has not heard before - "I loved you in....", "You were so right about world peace", "Your album made me cry", "Is Chris Martin really as much of a knobber as people make out", "Holby City made me stop sniffing glue" etc.
c) famous people seem to think it is entirely socially acceptable to walk away mid-sentence if you are not being - in their random book - 150% fascinating
I've had my moments with famous people, and most of these moments have left me feeling faintly annoyed with myself for behaving like such a *&^%. So I give you househusbandnot rules of engagement with the famous (and we are talking famous famous here, not just newsreaders and tennis players):
1) Do not admit how much you know about them. They will think you are a stalker.
2) Don't tell them about other famous people you have met. They will think you are a stalker.
3) Don't tell them if you are a stalker, at least not before you have got the photo and the hair sample.
4) Don't ask for an autograph, unless you collect autographs. (In which case, please leave this blog now. househusbandnot uses irony. You don't get irony.)
5) Don't try the I'm Not Phased By Fame approach. It doesn't work. I tried it once with a very famous rock star at a bar in London:
househusbandnot: "Hi"
v famous rock star: "Hello"
househusbandnot realising he is actually technically talking to famous rock star: "I'vegotallyouralbums thatsingleyoudidlastyearmademewriteapoem wowyouhavefivefingersoneachofyourhands canikeepthatcigarettebuttofyours whatsyourfavouritecolour iloveyou..." And you know what, I met him again a week later, and tried to turn our first meeting into a funny anecdote before slipping into a second tongue-tied star-struck rant. V un-super fly.
6) If they are American, tell them you are related to the Queen.
7) Be prepared for how staggeringly ill-informed and delusional famous people are - "The Queen of England. She lives in a balloon right?", "People live in Africa? You're shitting me", "Squid can talk", "My cousin invented photography", "My agent lives in a cheesecake", "Don't wear blue, It steals your soul" etc.
8) Leave before you start telling them about an idea you had for a film once.
Anyway, from now on I am going to do to them (famous people) what they do to me (me), which is look vaguely into the middle distance and hope I don't have to talk to them. And I will take the vicarious pleasure that Hello and Grazia and - more importantly - Pop Bitch give to me about their lives. I don't want the real thing. I'm happy with the distant half-truth.
Jul 25, 2006
Househusbandnot In Gender Sensitive Shocker
I had a bit of a ranty email from a 'feminist' friend of mine last night about men blogging. The gist of her argument went something along the lines of: men are all evil and should not be allowed to blog, or go outside. Which got me to thinking about househusbandnot: a feminist issue?
When I sit down to write househusbandnot, I have no idea what gender the day's audience is going to be. I know my wife reads it, and blokeihaventseenforages is a regular reader, and I'm hoping the the Hawaiian Dude will come back some time. But as for the other 6,997 of you good people, I have no idea if you are men or women. So, I try not to be too blokey or girly. Not a mention of the cricket. No pictures of babies. Nothing on how big my hifi is, or cake recipes, or PS2 cheats, or why men/women are mad. In fact I like to think of househusbandnot as a groovy non-gender specific place, where we can leave our gametes by the door and hang out - genderless - together.
I may be completely wrong. househusbandnot could well be littered with dangerous stereotypifications, achingly politically incorrect role models, and horrifically gender-insensitive language. My testosterone-filled eyes might just be too blind to see it. But I like to think not.
I care about content of blogs but I'm not that bothered about the gender breakdown of bloggers now that we've established that househusbandnot is gender groovy. (I love self-validation.) I am actually most concerned about the American bias, having learned that of the 147 million Americans who are on line, 12 million have blogs. Statistically, that's 12 million of them against one househusbandnot. Seems pretty stacked to me, leaving househusbandnot to swim - or more likely sink without a trace - in this sea (nay, ocean)of US-orientated blogs about how much Kid Rock rocks, how Simon Cowell should be nicer to people on American Idol, and the constitutional right to have a Starbucks Caramel Frapuccino every four minutes. I don't see why househusbandnot should sit in a cyber-corner while Crunch from Idaho tells us that he's thinking maybe it was not such a great idea re-marrying his cousin before moving on to describe how to make a bitchin' poker table out of a dead raccoon and a car door. But it's a free world, as they keep telling us.
Speaking of nationality, I got a Russian-language advert up on the blog the other day. I am hoping this is for something nice like wooden dolls or caviar rather than machine guns or human organs.
Since my sister has royally failed to do anything on househusbandnot's sister blog housewifenot, I offered it to my feminist friend. But she said she was setting up her own blog and didn't need a man helping her to do it. Frostmatic lady.
[My friend responded to this post approx four minutes after I published it with a qualification: "I think you missed the point and I am not a ranty 'feminist', you twat. I am a feminist without the inverted commas, you prick. I meant more along the lines of how I find the male predisposition towards narcissism is one that is expressing itself in bogs...do a survey." Right.]
When I sit down to write househusbandnot, I have no idea what gender the day's audience is going to be. I know my wife reads it, and blokeihaventseenforages is a regular reader, and I'm hoping the the Hawaiian Dude will come back some time. But as for the other 6,997 of you good people, I have no idea if you are men or women. So, I try not to be too blokey or girly. Not a mention of the cricket. No pictures of babies. Nothing on how big my hifi is, or cake recipes, or PS2 cheats, or why men/women are mad. In fact I like to think of househusbandnot as a groovy non-gender specific place, where we can leave our gametes by the door and hang out - genderless - together.
I may be completely wrong. househusbandnot could well be littered with dangerous stereotypifications, achingly politically incorrect role models, and horrifically gender-insensitive language. My testosterone-filled eyes might just be too blind to see it. But I like to think not.
I care about content of blogs but I'm not that bothered about the gender breakdown of bloggers now that we've established that househusbandnot is gender groovy. (I love self-validation.) I am actually most concerned about the American bias, having learned that of the 147 million Americans who are on line, 12 million have blogs. Statistically, that's 12 million of them against one househusbandnot. Seems pretty stacked to me, leaving househusbandnot to swim - or more likely sink without a trace - in this sea (nay, ocean)of US-orientated blogs about how much Kid Rock rocks, how Simon Cowell should be nicer to people on American Idol, and the constitutional right to have a Starbucks Caramel Frapuccino every four minutes. I don't see why househusbandnot should sit in a cyber-corner while Crunch from Idaho tells us that he's thinking maybe it was not such a great idea re-marrying his cousin before moving on to describe how to make a bitchin' poker table out of a dead raccoon and a car door. But it's a free world, as they keep telling us.
Speaking of nationality, I got a Russian-language advert up on the blog the other day. I am hoping this is for something nice like wooden dolls or caviar rather than machine guns or human organs.
Since my sister has royally failed to do anything on househusbandnot's sister blog housewifenot, I offered it to my feminist friend. But she said she was setting up her own blog and didn't need a man helping her to do it. Frostmatic lady.
[My friend responded to this post approx four minutes after I published it with a qualification: "I think you missed the point and I am not a ranty 'feminist', you twat. I am a feminist without the inverted commas, you prick. I meant more along the lines of how I find the male predisposition towards narcissism is one that is expressing itself in bogs...do a survey." Right.]
Home Alone VII
I had the evening to myself last night. Which was good, but got bad. On the good side, I spent the beginning of the evening tootling around, listening to some music, eating peanuts, re-watching The Fifth Element (Am I the only person who got really excited that The Sixth Sense was going to a sequel?) and enjoying a glass or two of wine. (househusbandnot singing to self: "Check me out. Being normal. When my wife's out. Eating peanuts and drinking wine. Multi-pass.") But then I had another glass of wine and decided to do some decorating. ("Check me out. Still being normal. Normal people. They decora-aate.")
The evening went/spiralled into something like this:
7.30pm Hmmm. I think I'll paint one of the bedroom walls with that pot of Farrow And Ball Borrowed Light.
8.10pm Looks rubbish. Maybe the alcoves would look better in Pale Powder or Elephant's Breath. I'll try Pale Powder.
9.00pm No, that didn't work. Maybe I'll do the whole wall again in Borrowed Light.
10.00pm No, I was wrong. The alcoves looked better in Pale Powder.
11.00pm No. Maybe some Elephant's Breath. No focus. Focus. Just stick to the two colours.
12.00pm [and many many combinations of Pale Powder and Borrowed Light later] I wonder how many people have visited househusbandnot since I checked it 20 minutes ago. How come they never did make a sequel to The Fifth Element? Which wall did I just paint? I hate painting. How come Borrowed Light looks so like Pale Powder now? Borrowed Powder would be a good name for a heavy metal band. I'm lonely. Where is my wife? She would have stopped me from doing this. God, it looks a mess. Maybe if I hang a picture on the wall it won't look so bad.
Which I did, before collapsing on the sofa and hiding from the bedroom aka Jackson Pollock's studio for an hour. Thankfully my wife is back tonight.
The evening went/spiralled into something like this:
7.30pm Hmmm. I think I'll paint one of the bedroom walls with that pot of Farrow And Ball Borrowed Light.
8.10pm Looks rubbish. Maybe the alcoves would look better in Pale Powder or Elephant's Breath. I'll try Pale Powder.
9.00pm No, that didn't work. Maybe I'll do the whole wall again in Borrowed Light.
10.00pm No, I was wrong. The alcoves looked better in Pale Powder.
11.00pm No. Maybe some Elephant's Breath. No focus. Focus. Just stick to the two colours.
12.00pm [and many many combinations of Pale Powder and Borrowed Light later] I wonder how many people have visited househusbandnot since I checked it 20 minutes ago. How come they never did make a sequel to The Fifth Element? Which wall did I just paint? I hate painting. How come Borrowed Light looks so like Pale Powder now? Borrowed Powder would be a good name for a heavy metal band. I'm lonely. Where is my wife? She would have stopped me from doing this. God, it looks a mess. Maybe if I hang a picture on the wall it won't look so bad.
Which I did, before collapsing on the sofa and hiding from the bedroom aka Jackson Pollock's studio for an hour. Thankfully my wife is back tonight.
Jul 24, 2006
Fly The Friendly Skies
To date I have earned approx half a US dollar from advertising on househusbandnot. I have absolutely no idea how this revenue is calculated. Although it is amusing to see what products the ad people think househusbandnot readers may be interested in: home delivered meals, wedding dress cleaning, Bournemouth hen weekends, patio pet doors for less, and glass door coolers (No, me neither). There was one for commercial refrigeration too, which is how they store old adverts I guess.
Three of my best friends work in advertising. (In fact one of them also starred in an advert recently, dressed as a Buddhist monk to sell kitchen towels.) These three advertising executives - aka biggest blaggers I know - fly around the world asking people what they like and telling them what they should like. They spend a lot of money on research and focus groups and expensive socks. And then they head to the commercial refrigerator and pull out the one with the girl coming out of the sea in a bikini or the grannies dancing to rap music. They tell me this is because all the really new and creative ideas get binned by the client. I say, bring on the cute puppy and save everyone a lot of money. (The best advert I ever saw was a hand-written sign in a scruffy pub window in Stockwell. It read "Cheap Beer Here Now".)
Most advertising passes me by. I buy either what my mother used to buy or what my wife tells me to buy. I am sure a quick look in our kitchen cupboards or in our fridge would tell the advertising people something else, and that I am a BCD 1 with aspirations to being an AB 3 or something. But I don't think so. I am just a househusbandnot with an aspiration of getting through the day without sawing any of my limbs off.
In other news, we went to an ape rescue centre this weekend. I learned that gibbons sing at you if you venture into their territory, that Malagasy monkeys love nectar, that Lemur means ghost in Madagascar, and that chimps live in fission fusion communities. And we saw a group of Stump-tailed Macaques that had been rescued from testing labs. Some of them had lived for 25 years but never seen the sky before they arrived at the centre.
I guess I should be concluding with some arch comment about how much it costs to sponsor a monkey at the rescue centre compared to how much Nike or Marlboro spend on advertising in a week. But, unlike advertisers, I don't want to repeat stuff you already know. You know the deal.
(Hmmm, bit serious today. Must go to the shop and get a can of that limited edition *epsi max with a lemon and lime twist.)
Three of my best friends work in advertising. (In fact one of them also starred in an advert recently, dressed as a Buddhist monk to sell kitchen towels.) These three advertising executives - aka biggest blaggers I know - fly around the world asking people what they like and telling them what they should like. They spend a lot of money on research and focus groups and expensive socks. And then they head to the commercial refrigerator and pull out the one with the girl coming out of the sea in a bikini or the grannies dancing to rap music. They tell me this is because all the really new and creative ideas get binned by the client. I say, bring on the cute puppy and save everyone a lot of money. (The best advert I ever saw was a hand-written sign in a scruffy pub window in Stockwell. It read "Cheap Beer Here Now".)
Most advertising passes me by. I buy either what my mother used to buy or what my wife tells me to buy. I am sure a quick look in our kitchen cupboards or in our fridge would tell the advertising people something else, and that I am a BCD 1 with aspirations to being an AB 3 or something. But I don't think so. I am just a househusbandnot with an aspiration of getting through the day without sawing any of my limbs off.
In other news, we went to an ape rescue centre this weekend. I learned that gibbons sing at you if you venture into their territory, that Malagasy monkeys love nectar, that Lemur means ghost in Madagascar, and that chimps live in fission fusion communities. And we saw a group of Stump-tailed Macaques that had been rescued from testing labs. Some of them had lived for 25 years but never seen the sky before they arrived at the centre.
I guess I should be concluding with some arch comment about how much it costs to sponsor a monkey at the rescue centre compared to how much Nike or Marlboro spend on advertising in a week. But, unlike advertisers, I don't want to repeat stuff you already know. You know the deal.
(Hmmm, bit serious today. Must go to the shop and get a can of that limited edition *epsi max with a lemon and lime twist.)
Jul 20, 2006
Theme Me Baby One More Time
"househusbandnot", my wife said last night.
"Yes, darling", I said, aware that I was probably in trouble because she was using my proper name.
"What exactly is the theme to your blog?"
"Well..." I said, stalling for time. "It started about me hanging around the house while we had the kitchen and bathroom decorated. And then it got onto other stuff and...and when I get a job I guess..[long pause while househusbandnot considers his life flashing before him]...can I get you another glass of wine darling or perhaps some berries that have maintained their natural form?" I headed for the kitchen and a quick push of the Frostmatic Button (see Frostmatic Baby*) to collect my thoughts.
When I started househusbandnot, I thought I would get lots of feedback with ideas about what to write about. But this agenda has been somewhat skuppered by the few comments I have received here at househusbandnot being 150% nuts. Examples: 1) "In polite circles gloss paint is only considered acceptable in a child's bedroom and even then only if the child's exceptionally violent and prone to knifing the skirting boards" 2) "There is nothing more beautiful than a full gloss white door - satin wood." Thank you Mr and Mr Freaky. (Although the second one did reminded me of some graffiti I saw once which read 'I ADORE Felicity Kendall's legs'. It must be great to have such uncomplicated desires.)
I was going to have a musical theme. But as we enjoyed lunch at The Oxo Tower the other day, my mate Styx reminded me that "music is for listening to, not talking about", before draining his glass of brandy and taking a wander around the restaurant's roof terrace to citizen's arrest anyone who had not been to public school. I was also tempted to write about my wife. But I think she would rather I talked about her to her. Unlike me, she does not feel the need to share details of our lives with people who think it is normal to talk about kids stabbing walls or how much they get turned on by a painted door.
So I guess - and I'm telling my wife here too since I never did get back to her last night - there is as yet no clear theme to househusbandnot. Next week, for example, I am planning on writing about advertising, househusbandnot rules on how to behave when you meet famous people, my mate Chloe, and maybe something on self-help books or jealousy. (Random life coach to self: "Hmmm. He obviously needs coaching".) I am also working on an interview with a well-known sociologist about blogs, and a McDear Diary about our August holiday in Scotland. Sorry to be so vague and unthemed. Will think about it over the weekend.
* Frostmatic Baby got exactly half of the visits of the two preceding househusbandnot posts. I know it was a crap title, and I should have called it Ice Ice Baby. And I had a whole Ice Me Baby One More Time title going for a while too. But read it. The gag about the freezer section/courtroom artists is about as good as I think I'm going to get. (Originally, the whole post was going to be about a stoner standing in front of the open fridge for four minutes talking about what they were going to eat, and then the alarm going off and freaking them out. It was going to be called Four Minutes and Kiefer Sutherland was going to be in the movie.)
"Yes, darling", I said, aware that I was probably in trouble because she was using my proper name.
"What exactly is the theme to your blog?"
"Well..." I said, stalling for time. "It started about me hanging around the house while we had the kitchen and bathroom decorated. And then it got onto other stuff and...and when I get a job I guess..[long pause while househusbandnot considers his life flashing before him]...can I get you another glass of wine darling or perhaps some berries that have maintained their natural form?" I headed for the kitchen and a quick push of the Frostmatic Button (see Frostmatic Baby*) to collect my thoughts.
When I started househusbandnot, I thought I would get lots of feedback with ideas about what to write about. But this agenda has been somewhat skuppered by the few comments I have received here at househusbandnot being 150% nuts. Examples: 1) "In polite circles gloss paint is only considered acceptable in a child's bedroom and even then only if the child's exceptionally violent and prone to knifing the skirting boards" 2) "There is nothing more beautiful than a full gloss white door - satin wood." Thank you Mr and Mr Freaky. (Although the second one did reminded me of some graffiti I saw once which read 'I ADORE Felicity Kendall's legs'. It must be great to have such uncomplicated desires.)
I was going to have a musical theme. But as we enjoyed lunch at The Oxo Tower the other day, my mate Styx reminded me that "music is for listening to, not talking about", before draining his glass of brandy and taking a wander around the restaurant's roof terrace to citizen's arrest anyone who had not been to public school. I was also tempted to write about my wife. But I think she would rather I talked about her to her. Unlike me, she does not feel the need to share details of our lives with people who think it is normal to talk about kids stabbing walls or how much they get turned on by a painted door.
So I guess - and I'm telling my wife here too since I never did get back to her last night - there is as yet no clear theme to househusbandnot. Next week, for example, I am planning on writing about advertising, househusbandnot rules on how to behave when you meet famous people, my mate Chloe, and maybe something on self-help books or jealousy. (Random life coach to self: "Hmmm. He obviously needs coaching".) I am also working on an interview with a well-known sociologist about blogs, and a McDear Diary about our August holiday in Scotland. Sorry to be so vague and unthemed. Will think about it over the weekend.
* Frostmatic Baby got exactly half of the visits of the two preceding househusbandnot posts. I know it was a crap title, and I should have called it Ice Ice Baby. And I had a whole Ice Me Baby One More Time title going for a while too. But read it. The gag about the freezer section/courtroom artists is about as good as I think I'm going to get. (Originally, the whole post was going to be about a stoner standing in front of the open fridge for four minutes talking about what they were going to eat, and then the alarm going off and freaking them out. It was going to be called Four Minutes and Kiefer Sutherland was going to be in the movie.)
Jul 19, 2006
Frostmatic Baby
Having been so dismissive of other people's blogs yesterday in Sharks Versus Bees, I'm now feeling under some pressure to make househusbandnot superfly and interesting today.* Trouble is, all I want to talk about is our new fridge.
Our new refrigerator/freezer combination unit is... gorgeous - perfekt in form und funktion according to its makers. It is the size and colour of a small battleship, and very clever. It has a Frostmatic Button, a holiday mode, a variable inner door (they have them in Heaven too apparently), a FRESH Box, and a Freezer Fruit Box that you are supposed to put berries in so that they are "not squeezed,and maintain their natural form" (yeah, whatever).
This new fridge replaces what I used to think was rather a swish, compact, batchelor-style one, but which turns out my wife and friends thought was a sad piece of vaguely grey depressing junk. (househusbandnot: "My wife was dissing my fridge the other night" blokewhohasloadsofjobs: "Your fridge sucks man" househusbandnot: "Don't [james] blunt my buzz man" blokewhohasloadsofjobs: "Sorry man, but it looks like a large pencil sharpener". ) All that is behind me now with our gorgeous new monster. I can hang with the best. I can tell people about my fridge's rating plate and ask them if they have "reversed the door" without being beaten up.
I am also happy to report that modern fridges still has those line drawings of completely unrecognizable animals - other than the reindeer - on the freezer drawers. The artists who do these animal sketches must be trained at the same school as those guys who do the court drawings where it always looks like Mike Tyson is being cross-examined by Truman Capote while Cher dabs a tear from her eye in the witness stand.
My fridge? Our fridge? My wife was being a bit off about our new acquisition, and then confessed that she was feeling a lack of ownership because I had filled the new fridge. It seems this is a female equivalent of pissing in the garden, and I should have let her fill it. House-husbandry. It's a long haul with a (james) blunt plough.
This post was brought to you with the help of half a bottle of fridge-chilled **psi max lemon and lime twist, a truely mood-altering drink.
* Thanks to blokeihaventseenforages who pointed out that I had missed a 9 'twixt the 8 and 10 of things not to write about on blogs. I've put one in.
Our new refrigerator/freezer combination unit is... gorgeous - perfekt in form und funktion according to its makers. It is the size and colour of a small battleship, and very clever. It has a Frostmatic Button, a holiday mode, a variable inner door (they have them in Heaven too apparently), a FRESH Box, and a Freezer Fruit Box that you are supposed to put berries in so that they are "not squeezed,and maintain their natural form" (yeah, whatever).
This new fridge replaces what I used to think was rather a swish, compact, batchelor-style one, but which turns out my wife and friends thought was a sad piece of vaguely grey depressing junk. (househusbandnot: "My wife was dissing my fridge the other night" blokewhohasloadsofjobs: "Your fridge sucks man" househusbandnot: "Don't [james] blunt my buzz man" blokewhohasloadsofjobs: "Sorry man, but it looks like a large pencil sharpener". ) All that is behind me now with our gorgeous new monster. I can hang with the best. I can tell people about my fridge's rating plate and ask them if they have "reversed the door" without being beaten up.
I am also happy to report that modern fridges still has those line drawings of completely unrecognizable animals - other than the reindeer - on the freezer drawers. The artists who do these animal sketches must be trained at the same school as those guys who do the court drawings where it always looks like Mike Tyson is being cross-examined by Truman Capote while Cher dabs a tear from her eye in the witness stand.
My fridge? Our fridge? My wife was being a bit off about our new acquisition, and then confessed that she was feeling a lack of ownership because I had filled the new fridge. It seems this is a female equivalent of pissing in the garden, and I should have let her fill it. House-husbandry. It's a long haul with a (james) blunt plough.
This post was brought to you with the help of half a bottle of fridge-chilled **psi max lemon and lime twist, a truely mood-altering drink.
* Thanks to blokeihaventseenforages who pointed out that I had missed a 9 'twixt the 8 and 10 of things not to write about on blogs. I've put one in.
Sharks Versus Bees
The other day I asked a newspaper columnist how he decided what to write about every week. "I just try not to write about my children too much", he said. Which I thought was the right way round - knowing what not to write about.
But my on-going review of blogs around the world - aka the competition - suggests to me that we are not suitably engaged in this reductive process, and just filling up the web with rubbish about how we are too hungover to write our blog today, how cute our pets look in baby clothes, plaintive descriptions of holidays with people who have obviously (and sensibly) since left us, our favourite Radiohead songs, how to get around restraining orders, and how rattle-snake worshipping is the only real way forward.
Some househusbandnot suggestions about what not to write about on blogs:
1) People telling you anything from beyond the grave
2) Puff/Piff Daddy/Diddy
3) How wasted/stoned/fried you got last night
4) Your girlfriend leaving you (unless you are also prepared to talk about how often she asked you to stop accessing the don'tuwishyourgirlfriendwasawhorelikeme website before she finally left)
5) Your cd collection (unless you are one of John Peel's children)
6) How in 1993 Dan Brown/J K Rowling was taking lots of notes at the next table in Starbucks when you were explaining the plot of your unwritten novel to your girlfriend just before she dumped you
7) Bush/Blair/Brown or Bono in the same sentence
8) Your children going to the loo
9) A poem you have written
10)How you are statistically more likely to get killed by a bumble bee than a Great White Shark (I rest my case)
11)Who you think should stay in Big Brother/Celebrity Love Island/I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here/I'm Deeply Unfamous But I Look Good With My Kit Off
12) Your still unwritten novel
13) How to kill a dog
14) Vegetarian feasts ( A true oxymoron, up there with 'fun run')
or
15) Tom Cruise being normal
A final observation - from my wife - on blog content. After a tense half hour of trying to get ready for work on what was reported to be about to be the hottest day in London since 1603 or something, applying her makeup in the bathroom mirror which is lying on the floor in the bedroom, being disturbed by the decorator turning up an hour early, watching me idly cracking open a frosty diet coke in anticipation of my 'commute' down the hall to have a chat with the decorator about gloss versus satin-wood paint, and before exiting to get broiled on public transport, my wife responded to my query about what I should write about on househusbandnot today with "How about what a w***er you are?"
But my on-going review of blogs around the world - aka the competition - suggests to me that we are not suitably engaged in this reductive process, and just filling up the web with rubbish about how we are too hungover to write our blog today, how cute our pets look in baby clothes, plaintive descriptions of holidays with people who have obviously (and sensibly) since left us, our favourite Radiohead songs, how to get around restraining orders, and how rattle-snake worshipping is the only real way forward.
Some househusbandnot suggestions about what not to write about on blogs:
1) People telling you anything from beyond the grave
2) Puff/Piff Daddy/Diddy
3) How wasted/stoned/fried you got last night
4) Your girlfriend leaving you (unless you are also prepared to talk about how often she asked you to stop accessing the don'tuwishyourgirlfriendwasawhorelikeme website before she finally left)
5) Your cd collection (unless you are one of John Peel's children)
6) How in 1993 Dan Brown/J K Rowling was taking lots of notes at the next table in Starbucks when you were explaining the plot of your unwritten novel to your girlfriend just before she dumped you
7) Bush/Blair/Brown or Bono in the same sentence
8) Your children going to the loo
9) A poem you have written
10)How you are statistically more likely to get killed by a bumble bee than a Great White Shark (I rest my case)
11)Who you think should stay in Big Brother/Celebrity Love Island/I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here/I'm Deeply Unfamous But I Look Good With My Kit Off
12) Your still unwritten novel
13) How to kill a dog
14) Vegetarian feasts ( A true oxymoron, up there with 'fun run')
or
15) Tom Cruise being normal
A final observation - from my wife - on blog content. After a tense half hour of trying to get ready for work on what was reported to be about to be the hottest day in London since 1603 or something, applying her makeup in the bathroom mirror which is lying on the floor in the bedroom, being disturbed by the decorator turning up an hour early, watching me idly cracking open a frosty diet coke in anticipation of my 'commute' down the hall to have a chat with the decorator about gloss versus satin-wood paint, and before exiting to get broiled on public transport, my wife responded to my query about what I should write about on househusbandnot today with "How about what a w***er you are?"
Jul 18, 2006
My People
Hey check it out. househusbandnot has had 150 visitors since I started it last week.
I know that these visits have been mostly:
i) my wife checking up to make sure I haven't told you before her that I have burned the flat down
ii) soon to be disappointed Styx fans (See Lunch With Styx)
iii) Martin Amis because I once won a competition writing an article like him
iv) that dude from Hawaii (See Amateur Hour)
v) and security checks because I have mentioned arson
But hey, 150 visits. My people.
And each visit has been an average of 17 minutes and 29 seconds long. Again, I know this is my wife staying on line to pump up the average, and Martin Amis not really being able to give househusbandnot his full attention because he is pretending to listen to Will Self on the phone complaining about the subs at The Evening Standard changing crepuscular to pancake-like. (Amis, bored, drags on roll-up : "I know Will. It happened to me with pathetic rapacity at The Literary Review".) But 17 minutes and 29 seconds. My sticky people.
This average time of visits have been a bit skewed by a whole bunch of people who stayed on househusbandnot for 00.00 seconds. How do you do that? In my book 00.00 seconds is not a visit. It is a non-visit. I couldn't put on my CV that I ran communications for Google last year, and on being asked for more detail say "Oh that was just for 00.00 seconds, but it happened. Honest". I don't get it. It makes everything wrong. (Although I guess I can say I slept with that girl from Hollyoaks now - "Yeah, it was great man. We did it for like 00.00 seconds three times in one evening.") Even just the physical process of pressing Enter and then Exit takes at least two seconds in the average keyboard/average human finger set up. Who are you, you super-speedy octopus-limbed not interested in my blog freaks?
In other stats, Tuesdays have been the busiest days at househusbandnot. I'm thinking this is because all three members of the Styx Fan Club have time to join us because they get the afternoon off on Tuesdays from their jobs as sound engineers on Winnie The Pooh: The Extravaganza On Ice. And because Tuesdays are ****-numbingly dull.
I guess I should not be divulging my stats so early in the game, and that I may be compromising any future sponsorship deals with manufacturers of househusbandnot-friendly products. But any more of you Tuesday people with seventeen and a half minutes to spare. Come on in.
(I did actually have a drink with a friend - baldbutgettingawaywithitdude - last night who explained to me about the 00.00 second visits, so please don't feel the need to write and explain it to me. Any thoughts on househusbandnot-friendly products welcome though. I couldn't think of any...other than flowers for my wife to make up for the Hollyoaks thing.)
I know that these visits have been mostly:
i) my wife checking up to make sure I haven't told you before her that I have burned the flat down
ii) soon to be disappointed Styx fans (See Lunch With Styx)
iii) Martin Amis because I once won a competition writing an article like him
iv) that dude from Hawaii (See Amateur Hour)
v) and security checks because I have mentioned arson
But hey, 150 visits. My people.
And each visit has been an average of 17 minutes and 29 seconds long. Again, I know this is my wife staying on line to pump up the average, and Martin Amis not really being able to give househusbandnot his full attention because he is pretending to listen to Will Self on the phone complaining about the subs at The Evening Standard changing crepuscular to pancake-like. (Amis, bored, drags on roll-up : "I know Will. It happened to me with pathetic rapacity at The Literary Review".) But 17 minutes and 29 seconds. My sticky people.
This average time of visits have been a bit skewed by a whole bunch of people who stayed on househusbandnot for 00.00 seconds. How do you do that? In my book 00.00 seconds is not a visit. It is a non-visit. I couldn't put on my CV that I ran communications for Google last year, and on being asked for more detail say "Oh that was just for 00.00 seconds, but it happened. Honest". I don't get it. It makes everything wrong. (Although I guess I can say I slept with that girl from Hollyoaks now - "Yeah, it was great man. We did it for like 00.00 seconds three times in one evening.") Even just the physical process of pressing Enter and then Exit takes at least two seconds in the average keyboard/average human finger set up. Who are you, you super-speedy octopus-limbed not interested in my blog freaks?
In other stats, Tuesdays have been the busiest days at househusbandnot. I'm thinking this is because all three members of the Styx Fan Club have time to join us because they get the afternoon off on Tuesdays from their jobs as sound engineers on Winnie The Pooh: The Extravaganza On Ice. And because Tuesdays are ****-numbingly dull.
I guess I should not be divulging my stats so early in the game, and that I may be compromising any future sponsorship deals with manufacturers of househusbandnot-friendly products. But any more of you Tuesday people with seventeen and a half minutes to spare. Come on in.
(I did actually have a drink with a friend - baldbutgettingawaywithitdude - last night who explained to me about the 00.00 second visits, so please don't feel the need to write and explain it to me. Any thoughts on househusbandnot-friendly products welcome though. I couldn't think of any...other than flowers for my wife to make up for the Hollyoaks thing.)
Jul 16, 2006
The Real Deal
So the weekend with a real house husband was cool. In the interests of research, I stole Real Deal's TO DO list and read it on the loo while he was retuning his kittens' remotes for their cat flap.This is not a euphemism. He was retuning his kittens' remotes for their cat flaps.
Real Deal's To DO list is something else. It was double-sided and colour-coded and has things on it like 'drill four more holes in loo door for gas ventilation before 2008', 'standardise dimmer switches', 'rehang en suite door', 'move mother', and 'torch front drive'. My To DO list has things like 'try to take shirt back to M&S' and 'get right light bulbs this time'. It was pitifully obvious I was out of my league, although I was intrigued by his 'torch front drive'. This guy is so organised he plans his random acts of arson.
(Speaking of random acts, I was talking the other night with some friends about which country we would bomb if we had to. After the naming of the usual suspects and Wales, someone said it had to be The Netherlands just because they are so reasonable and liberal and would be really really shocked that anyone would want to bomb them - "But we have the most functional democracy in Europe", "But my mother, she is a lesbian", "But my dog, he is allowed to vote in local elections", "But my skunk weed, it is endorsed by our Queen Mother" etc.)
Anyway, Real Deal House Husband is a nice guy and he patiently explained to me how my designs for a kitchen table would not work unless the table was only going to be used for very light origami. And we went to his PC and he showed me his designs for a Santa's sledge he is knocking up for the local charity shop's Christmas drive. I thought we were getting somewhere until I noticed he had filed the link on his PC to househusbandnot under a folder called Stupid Stuff.
Back at home on Sunday evening, we watched a tv show last night called Tribe which has some ex-soldier who looks like Tim Roth going to hang out with small tribes in Africa and learning their ancient unspoiled ways. It is all v cool and interesting, although I am guessing that the programme's producers have to buy the participating tribes top of the range 4x4s or something to help them recover from the ignominy of letting whitey hang out with them for a week. ("He jumps like a girl" - this from an eight year old boy watching our hero join in on a pre-slaughtering of bullock jump up.) There was way too much drinking of ox blood for Sunday supper time viewing (it put me right off my prosciutto), but everyone seemed entertained and happy with the short time spent together. [Exit Tribe Chief and mates in new 4x4 to nearest lap dancing club with decent all you can eat buffet.]
I don't know how much more Real Deal House Husband could have put up with me with my like a girl table designs and lack of understanding about his ways. But like real anthropologists, I am sure he will be studying for any long-term changes, and also google-earthing me every so often just to make sure I don't try and make the table.
Real Deal's To DO list is something else. It was double-sided and colour-coded and has things on it like 'drill four more holes in loo door for gas ventilation before 2008', 'standardise dimmer switches', 'rehang en suite door', 'move mother', and 'torch front drive'. My To DO list has things like 'try to take shirt back to M&S' and 'get right light bulbs this time'. It was pitifully obvious I was out of my league, although I was intrigued by his 'torch front drive'. This guy is so organised he plans his random acts of arson.
(Speaking of random acts, I was talking the other night with some friends about which country we would bomb if we had to. After the naming of the usual suspects and Wales, someone said it had to be The Netherlands just because they are so reasonable and liberal and would be really really shocked that anyone would want to bomb them - "But we have the most functional democracy in Europe", "But my mother, she is a lesbian", "But my dog, he is allowed to vote in local elections", "But my skunk weed, it is endorsed by our Queen Mother" etc.)
Anyway, Real Deal House Husband is a nice guy and he patiently explained to me how my designs for a kitchen table would not work unless the table was only going to be used for very light origami. And we went to his PC and he showed me his designs for a Santa's sledge he is knocking up for the local charity shop's Christmas drive. I thought we were getting somewhere until I noticed he had filed the link on his PC to househusbandnot under a folder called Stupid Stuff.
Back at home on Sunday evening, we watched a tv show last night called Tribe which has some ex-soldier who looks like Tim Roth going to hang out with small tribes in Africa and learning their ancient unspoiled ways. It is all v cool and interesting, although I am guessing that the programme's producers have to buy the participating tribes top of the range 4x4s or something to help them recover from the ignominy of letting whitey hang out with them for a week. ("He jumps like a girl" - this from an eight year old boy watching our hero join in on a pre-slaughtering of bullock jump up.) There was way too much drinking of ox blood for Sunday supper time viewing (it put me right off my prosciutto), but everyone seemed entertained and happy with the short time spent together. [Exit Tribe Chief and mates in new 4x4 to nearest lap dancing club with decent all you can eat buffet.]
I don't know how much more Real Deal House Husband could have put up with me with my like a girl table designs and lack of understanding about his ways. But like real anthropologists, I am sure he will be studying for any long-term changes, and also google-earthing me every so often just to make sure I don't try and make the table.
Jul 13, 2006
Amateur Hour
As we hurtle towards the second week of househusbandnot's existence, I've spent some time checking on traffic and stuff. How many people have visited househusbandnot. How many page views compared to visits - a differentiation I have to concentrate really really hard on to understand each and every time I think about it and then goldfish-like I just forget it before I have to think about it again. What time people visit. How long they stay. Whether or not they might be the CIA. And you can also check by location too. Someone has checked in from Hawaii. (If you are still there dude, John Lewis is a department store in London.)
But no comments to any of the househusbandnot posts, except for one on the first day about a technical problem I had. But I am thinking this is a good thing because I would not want the sort of people who comment on blogs - "Your wife looks really ugly man", "I've checked back on the JavaScript and it still doesn't work", "What's so wrong with the *&*^ing death-penalty. It *&^ing works here", "I'm over 18 I promis", "Well if you had ever taken the time to actually come to Canada you would see what an interesting country it actually is", "Trampo durissimo dude", "I think Men Without Hats worked much better as a live act", "Are you the man who has been hiding in my cupboard since summer of 1973" etc. - to be reading mine and getting any ideas about me being Jesus or something.
I am also quite excited that I managed to load a photo onto one of the posts too. I am going to limit the illustrations though. I see no point in writing about something and then having a dull photo of the same thing next to it. It kind of kills the writing and or kills the photo before anyone has checked either of them out. Actually, developing a theme, someone should produce a newspaper that just has photos and no words...oh yeah The Evening Standard. (Hawaiian dude, it's an evening newspaper here. Speaking of Hawaii, on the very first visit I made to my future in laws, they were showing us their holiday videos of their recent trip to Hawaii, and I glanced at the tv screen and saw what I thought was my future father in law bending over in a very revealing coarse leather mini skirt. It turned out to be a local craftsman making a pot. That's me all out of Hawaii anecdotes.)
I tried to contact househusband in Australia who I mentioned in Waiting Times. But could not get through to him. I thought we could become friends. Maybe he got divorced. Anyway I don't care about him anymore because we are going to spend the weekend with a real house husband and his wife. I am going to study this magnificent creature's habits, and watch his movements, and try and figure out where he lost the not and managed to become the real deal. He's way ahead of me already, partly because he is bald but more because he can do stuff like put walls up and plaster ceilings. But he is addicted to chocolate, so I am going to feed him chocolate buttons until he tells me things.
There is a quiet thoughtful man here today doing the tiling in the kitchen and bathroom. He told me that the minute he had kids he just tiled the whole of the inside of his house to save on the housecleaning. His kids must feel right at home when he takes them to see the penguin enclosure at London Zoo. (It's a zoo dude, in London.)
Will report back early next week on how it went with the Real Deal and the chocolate trick.
But no comments to any of the househusbandnot posts, except for one on the first day about a technical problem I had. But I am thinking this is a good thing because I would not want the sort of people who comment on blogs - "Your wife looks really ugly man", "I've checked back on the JavaScript and it still doesn't work", "What's so wrong with the *&*^ing death-penalty. It *&^ing works here", "I'm over 18 I promis", "Well if you had ever taken the time to actually come to Canada you would see what an interesting country it actually is", "Trampo durissimo dude", "I think Men Without Hats worked much better as a live act", "Are you the man who has been hiding in my cupboard since summer of 1973" etc. - to be reading mine and getting any ideas about me being Jesus or something.
I am also quite excited that I managed to load a photo onto one of the posts too. I am going to limit the illustrations though. I see no point in writing about something and then having a dull photo of the same thing next to it. It kind of kills the writing and or kills the photo before anyone has checked either of them out. Actually, developing a theme, someone should produce a newspaper that just has photos and no words...oh yeah The Evening Standard. (Hawaiian dude, it's an evening newspaper here. Speaking of Hawaii, on the very first visit I made to my future in laws, they were showing us their holiday videos of their recent trip to Hawaii, and I glanced at the tv screen and saw what I thought was my future father in law bending over in a very revealing coarse leather mini skirt. It turned out to be a local craftsman making a pot. That's me all out of Hawaii anecdotes.)
I tried to contact househusband in Australia who I mentioned in Waiting Times. But could not get through to him. I thought we could become friends. Maybe he got divorced. Anyway I don't care about him anymore because we are going to spend the weekend with a real house husband and his wife. I am going to study this magnificent creature's habits, and watch his movements, and try and figure out where he lost the not and managed to become the real deal. He's way ahead of me already, partly because he is bald but more because he can do stuff like put walls up and plaster ceilings. But he is addicted to chocolate, so I am going to feed him chocolate buttons until he tells me things.
There is a quiet thoughtful man here today doing the tiling in the kitchen and bathroom. He told me that the minute he had kids he just tiled the whole of the inside of his house to save on the housecleaning. His kids must feel right at home when he takes them to see the penguin enclosure at London Zoo. (It's a zoo dude, in London.)
Will report back early next week on how it went with the Real Deal and the chocolate trick.
Jul 12, 2006
Lunch With Styx
Yesterday, I went out for lunch with my mate Styx. Styx is not a househusbandnot, more workedoncebutdon'treallyhavetoanymoredad. We went to The Oxo Tower which has a a random Spanish theme at the moment. (They have hired a load of Spanish waiters and waitresses to give the theme some verisimilitude beyond the merguez salads. It works.) We got a great table on the terrace looking down onto the Thames and across the river onto St Paul's Cathedral and the city, although the London skyline is littered with cranes at the moment. Maybe it's always like that.
At the next table, a British man and woman were trying to entertain two Russian clients/colleagues. The British bloke had obviously read and re-read his powerpoint presentation about keeping talking when you are with clients, or maybe he was just trying to be polite. After various non-starters, not least of all because the two Russians didn't speak much English, he found a groove with a soliloquy about religion in London. He talked about London as if it was a patchwork of religious communities "with Muslims in the East, Jews in North, and Catholics in the bits in between". I had my back to them, but I could feel the Russians thinking that they needed to get out of there fast and fire whoever didn't get them those Wimbledon tickets last week.
It was rubbish. The British bloke knew that, but he was just trying to do his job, and be friendly. And it was really obvious that Styx and I were listening in, enjoying his discomfort as he encouraged the Russians to try some strawberries and muddled through a story about not getting milk with his tea on a trip to Israel. I felt bad, and hope he got what he wanted from the meeting.
Unhindered by any business etiquette or agenda, Styx and I drank more wine and burbled on about everything and nothing. Styx has been checking my blog. He says I should quit with the music references, and also stop being too suckey about my wife. He responded to my 10 initial rules about househusbanding (see Wish You Were Here?) by saying I should: get Sky Plus so I don't have to ever watch Trisha again; try and get off with the dry cleaner; ask my wife what she wants me to be at social events; and take control of conversations with taxi drivers.
Later on we were joined by our mutual friend Vin aka blokewhohasloadsofjobs. We talked about what we tell taxi drivers we do, whether or not Vin is an artist or a professor or both, Mrs Vin's new vocation, whether or not my wife thinks Styx is a bad influence on me, times we have thought we were going to die (Styx claims he saved me from drowning in a hot tub in California once), and cold food versus hot food. Not being the bloke at the table with the Russians, there was no agenda, no deal, no need, no problem in translation. I could have sat there for hours.
(Sorry to anyone who though this was going to be about the band, well not really.)
At the next table, a British man and woman were trying to entertain two Russian clients/colleagues. The British bloke had obviously read and re-read his powerpoint presentation about keeping talking when you are with clients, or maybe he was just trying to be polite. After various non-starters, not least of all because the two Russians didn't speak much English, he found a groove with a soliloquy about religion in London. He talked about London as if it was a patchwork of religious communities "with Muslims in the East, Jews in North, and Catholics in the bits in between". I had my back to them, but I could feel the Russians thinking that they needed to get out of there fast and fire whoever didn't get them those Wimbledon tickets last week.
It was rubbish. The British bloke knew that, but he was just trying to do his job, and be friendly. And it was really obvious that Styx and I were listening in, enjoying his discomfort as he encouraged the Russians to try some strawberries and muddled through a story about not getting milk with his tea on a trip to Israel. I felt bad, and hope he got what he wanted from the meeting.
Unhindered by any business etiquette or agenda, Styx and I drank more wine and burbled on about everything and nothing. Styx has been checking my blog. He says I should quit with the music references, and also stop being too suckey about my wife. He responded to my 10 initial rules about househusbanding (see Wish You Were Here?) by saying I should: get Sky Plus so I don't have to ever watch Trisha again; try and get off with the dry cleaner; ask my wife what she wants me to be at social events; and take control of conversations with taxi drivers.
Later on we were joined by our mutual friend Vin aka blokewhohasloadsofjobs. We talked about what we tell taxi drivers we do, whether or not Vin is an artist or a professor or both, Mrs Vin's new vocation, whether or not my wife thinks Styx is a bad influence on me, times we have thought we were going to die (Styx claims he saved me from drowning in a hot tub in California once), and cold food versus hot food. Not being the bloke at the table with the Russians, there was no agenda, no deal, no need, no problem in translation. I could have sat there for hours.
(Sorry to anyone who though this was going to be about the band, well not really.)
Jul 11, 2006
Friday's Child
So like I was saying, I went to a headhunter/job agency last Friday. I got there on time, in a suit and eager...to be eager. After hanging around in reception for quarter of an hour, some kid in an I Love Rome t-shirt came out to see me. I assumed he was going to take me to his dad's office. But in a squeaky voice he assured me I was there to see him.
Mr T-shirt took me to a cramped meeting room in a basement. It was hot and stuffy in there, so he put a fan on and angled it so that it was just blowing on him. For the next hour and a half, with an occasional glance at my CV and a quick hand through his wind-swept hair, we focused on him him him him.
He told me about his mother and then his first visit to Asia. He segued into his theory about water being the cause of the next world war, how to affect long-lasting change in UK Government policy, and an old teacher of his who is an - as yet unrecognized - expert in one of the things I do. Then we had his opinions about when women should have children, and (I wish I was making this up) his ideas about how to get rid of AIDS in Africa. Then we did Westminster again: my further theories by T-shirt boy aged 13. Occasionally he scribbled wrongly spelt notes on my CV, which I noticed - with some irrational anger - he had printed off on his organisation's headed paper.
I was civil (my wife does not believe me). I stole a minute in the conversation when he paused to breath and told him that I can do stuff like write and read and not turn up to work stoned. He said "that's really interesting" for which read "that reminds me of another cracking story about me".
After a whole load more stories and anecdotes, he wrote down three very different daily rates for what he thought I should be paid, circled all of them for emphasis, and told me it was a "pooey" time to be looking for work. He gave me the names of two other agencies I should contact. I took the names, feeling like the man who has just been dismissed by the last lawyer in town who might have saved him from death row.
I left that basement meeting room feeling hollow. In my dazed state I managed to get lost in a city I have lived in for 29 years. I eventually made it to my gym and had a long cleansing swim. Master Pooey says he will be in touch in a week or so. I assume he's had his summer break already. It would go some - very very small - way to justifying his t-shirt.
This is all in direct contrast to a really good meeting I had a few weeks ago with another agency where a nice woman made me feel that I might just exist in the real world rather than just in my rattling househusbandnot vacuum. She ignored the self-pity and mild fabrications, and just got on with talking about what I should be doing in the future and how she was going to help me to do it. Us stateless individuals - house husbands,Martians, blonde women, people who work in John Lewis - need all the validation we can get. Master Pooey has undone some of this good work, but I am sure he felt our meeting went well.
Last night to celebrate all the work that has been done in the kitchen, I set up itunes on my laptop on one of the new kitchen work tops and hit shuffle. I had no idea I owned quite so many acres of Kruder and Dorfmeister.
Mr T-shirt took me to a cramped meeting room in a basement. It was hot and stuffy in there, so he put a fan on and angled it so that it was just blowing on him. For the next hour and a half, with an occasional glance at my CV and a quick hand through his wind-swept hair, we focused on him him him him.
He told me about his mother and then his first visit to Asia. He segued into his theory about water being the cause of the next world war, how to affect long-lasting change in UK Government policy, and an old teacher of his who is an - as yet unrecognized - expert in one of the things I do. Then we had his opinions about when women should have children, and (I wish I was making this up) his ideas about how to get rid of AIDS in Africa. Then we did Westminster again: my further theories by T-shirt boy aged 13. Occasionally he scribbled wrongly spelt notes on my CV, which I noticed - with some irrational anger - he had printed off on his organisation's headed paper.
I was civil (my wife does not believe me). I stole a minute in the conversation when he paused to breath and told him that I can do stuff like write and read and not turn up to work stoned. He said "that's really interesting" for which read "that reminds me of another cracking story about me".
After a whole load more stories and anecdotes, he wrote down three very different daily rates for what he thought I should be paid, circled all of them for emphasis, and told me it was a "pooey" time to be looking for work. He gave me the names of two other agencies I should contact. I took the names, feeling like the man who has just been dismissed by the last lawyer in town who might have saved him from death row.
I left that basement meeting room feeling hollow. In my dazed state I managed to get lost in a city I have lived in for 29 years. I eventually made it to my gym and had a long cleansing swim. Master Pooey says he will be in touch in a week or so. I assume he's had his summer break already. It would go some - very very small - way to justifying his t-shirt.
This is all in direct contrast to a really good meeting I had a few weeks ago with another agency where a nice woman made me feel that I might just exist in the real world rather than just in my rattling househusbandnot vacuum. She ignored the self-pity and mild fabrications, and just got on with talking about what I should be doing in the future and how she was going to help me to do it. Us stateless individuals - house husbands,Martians, blonde women, people who work in John Lewis - need all the validation we can get. Master Pooey has undone some of this good work, but I am sure he felt our meeting went well.
Last night to celebrate all the work that has been done in the kitchen, I set up itunes on my laptop on one of the new kitchen work tops and hit shuffle. I had no idea I owned quite so many acres of Kruder and Dorfmeister.
Jul 10, 2006
Comedy Foods
Someone was asking about my reference to comedy lunches. (see Wish You Were Here?)
Well they would - for me - include:
1) Anything oak smoked
2) Greek food of any description
3) Sausages (obviously)
4) Crab sticks/prawn cocktail crisps/quavers/red onions/hummus/miso soup/Edam/bean sprouts/pumpkins - stuff that just doesn't taste like anything else in any way at all
5) Egg mayonnaise sandwiches
6) Corned beef - laugh, I nearly fell down the apple and pears mate
7) Tomatoes aka The Devil's Food. When eaten while watching daytime television you do actually just get sucked straight to hell from where you are sitting, via Trisha's studio for a quick grilling about your gambling/drink/drug/sex/glue/uniform/texting/lost father/found mother problem.
8) Gherkins
9) 'Picnic sized' anything
10) Anything that requires - or anticipates - any sort of drizzling
I like all the above (except tomatoes). They just put you into too stupid a mood to do anything other than sit on the sofa and twiddle your toes and/or play air keyboards to the first three Magazine albums.
Other men turned up this morning to do the kitchen. The sitting room is now filled with everything from the kitchen. It looks like an early, very bad, Cornelia Parker installation. Am not sure whether or not I should stay here, or go out and let them get on with it. I like to admit to the house husband stuff on my own terms, and I don't know these guys...yet. They are here for 10 days. [Note to self: don't try and become their friends.]
And the bedroom ceiling guy Steve is due back this morning too. Sensibly, my wife left the building early. She forced me to be in a good mood before she left, which is one of the many many reasons I asked her to marry me. Most other women would have gone to stay in a hotel round about the time I started referring to the ceiling guy by his first name.
Incidentally, went to see a headhunter/job agency on Friday. More on that later.
Well they would - for me - include:
1) Anything oak smoked
2) Greek food of any description
3) Sausages (obviously)
4) Crab sticks/prawn cocktail crisps/quavers/red onions/hummus/miso soup/Edam/bean sprouts/pumpkins - stuff that just doesn't taste like anything else in any way at all
5) Egg mayonnaise sandwiches
6) Corned beef - laugh, I nearly fell down the apple and pears mate
7) Tomatoes aka The Devil's Food. When eaten while watching daytime television you do actually just get sucked straight to hell from where you are sitting, via Trisha's studio for a quick grilling about your gambling/drink/drug/sex/glue/uniform/texting/lost father/found mother problem.
8) Gherkins
9) 'Picnic sized' anything
10) Anything that requires - or anticipates - any sort of drizzling
I like all the above (except tomatoes). They just put you into too stupid a mood to do anything other than sit on the sofa and twiddle your toes and/or play air keyboards to the first three Magazine albums.
Other men turned up this morning to do the kitchen. The sitting room is now filled with everything from the kitchen. It looks like an early, very bad, Cornelia Parker installation. Am not sure whether or not I should stay here, or go out and let them get on with it. I like to admit to the house husband stuff on my own terms, and I don't know these guys...yet. They are here for 10 days. [Note to self: don't try and become their friends.]
And the bedroom ceiling guy Steve is due back this morning too. Sensibly, my wife left the building early. She forced me to be in a good mood before she left, which is one of the many many reasons I asked her to marry me. Most other women would have gone to stay in a hotel round about the time I started referring to the ceiling guy by his first name.
Incidentally, went to see a headhunter/job agency on Friday. More on that later.
Children Of The Revolution
Yesterday at lunch my sister and our hostess were talking about another friend of theirs who has decided to give up her powerful job to spend more time with her kids. Less powerful husband is freaking out because he is going to have to step up to the mark with his career and stop lounging around at home with the kids. My sister and our hostess described other depressing examples of couples they knew where things are falling apart: because he can't get a job to match his last salary; she can't figure out why he is incapable of getting out of bed; where he resents his in-laws paying the school fees; where she and he are competing against each other every inch of the way.
All eyes turned to the writer of househusbandnot who would no doubt have something pithy to contribute to this discussion.
"Well my wife and I try and communicate how we feel about...things," I said weakly.
I felt lost. I needed my wife there to help me out by describing some of the clever and modern conversations we have had about me being at home at the moment. But she was in Brighton on a hen weekend, and I couldn't think of anything else to say. And I was feeling under double pressure since the husband of the house where we were having lunch - the sort of manly man who could disarm a bear with a spoon - had been asking what a blog was, and on having them described to him as a diary on the net had said "How boring". Our hostess saved me by telling a funny story about a recent 'night out with the girls' which concluded with her texting "Run?" to her only other ally at the increasingly tense and bitchy gathering. Which they did.
My wife returned home on Sunday evening from the hen weekend. More tales about girls being girls, and boys - at the nightclub they went to - trying to be boys. The lunchtime discussions and some of the stuff about hen nights made me quite sad about the state of men and women, and our continued misunderstandings and misgivings. Today I am feeling that househusbandnot is not serious enough and it is effectively contributing to the still-deep chasm between men and women, and how we think about each other and socialise and work or don't work and worry, but don't tell each other. Mind you, I have only had like half a visitor to the blog since I started it last week, so I should not be so self-important..or boring.
And as a good friend was reminded when she found it written on a placard in her dad's office recently: I Don't Want To Be In Your Revolution If I Can't Dance.
In other news, the guy who is doing the bedroom ceiling just called. He has car trouble and can't make it today. And music-wise am recovering from a Tragically Hip gig on Saturday evening. Karaoke for Canadians.
All eyes turned to the writer of househusbandnot who would no doubt have something pithy to contribute to this discussion.
"Well my wife and I try and communicate how we feel about...things," I said weakly.
I felt lost. I needed my wife there to help me out by describing some of the clever and modern conversations we have had about me being at home at the moment. But she was in Brighton on a hen weekend, and I couldn't think of anything else to say. And I was feeling under double pressure since the husband of the house where we were having lunch - the sort of manly man who could disarm a bear with a spoon - had been asking what a blog was, and on having them described to him as a diary on the net had said "How boring". Our hostess saved me by telling a funny story about a recent 'night out with the girls' which concluded with her texting "Run?" to her only other ally at the increasingly tense and bitchy gathering. Which they did.
My wife returned home on Sunday evening from the hen weekend. More tales about girls being girls, and boys - at the nightclub they went to - trying to be boys. The lunchtime discussions and some of the stuff about hen nights made me quite sad about the state of men and women, and our continued misunderstandings and misgivings. Today I am feeling that househusbandnot is not serious enough and it is effectively contributing to the still-deep chasm between men and women, and how we think about each other and socialise and work or don't work and worry, but don't tell each other. Mind you, I have only had like half a visitor to the blog since I started it last week, so I should not be so self-important..or boring.
And as a good friend was reminded when she found it written on a placard in her dad's office recently: I Don't Want To Be In Your Revolution If I Can't Dance.
In other news, the guy who is doing the bedroom ceiling just called. He has car trouble and can't make it today. And music-wise am recovering from a Tragically Hip gig on Saturday evening. Karaoke for Canadians.
Jul 6, 2006
Wish You Were Here?
I've been wondering about how many real house husbands there are out there/here. The trouble is the validation. Most men who sit at home doing nil do not think they are house husbands.
Which is one of the fundamental flaws in the whole house husband gig. We think we are being one thing - artistic, interior decorator, interesting, just no taking part in the rat-race thing man etc. - while our wives/partners think we are being something else - destroyer of things around the house, late in picking up their dry cleaning, enjoying hanging around with our other feckless mates during the day time etc. So we all end up frustrated at what we are trying to be and what other people think we should be trying to be, and because the dry cleaning hasn't been picked up.
And despite the centuries of rules of behaviour for housewives, there are no decent rules for the house husband. So, based on recent experiences, a few initial rules for us (legions?) of house husbands:
1) Get genuinely interested in reward schemes in supermarkets
2) Stop worrying that the dry cleaners thinks you are wet because you drop off your wife's dry cleaning
3) Stop hating the dry cleaner
4) Stop trying to break inanimate objects around the house
5) Stop lying to taxi drivers about looking forward to the weekend
6) Stop grilling your wife on the way to social engagements about what you are pretending to be this week
7) Listen to your wife when she is complaining about work
8) Don't ever ever watch daytime TV. It steals your soul
9) Stop making yourself comedy lunches
10) Shave sometimes
Can't wait for the weekend...
( Incidentally, I listened to Beck while I was writing this. I was really upset when I found out he was a Scientologist.)
Which is one of the fundamental flaws in the whole house husband gig. We think we are being one thing - artistic, interior decorator, interesting, just no taking part in the rat-race thing man etc. - while our wives/partners think we are being something else - destroyer of things around the house, late in picking up their dry cleaning, enjoying hanging around with our other feckless mates during the day time etc. So we all end up frustrated at what we are trying to be and what other people think we should be trying to be, and because the dry cleaning hasn't been picked up.
And despite the centuries of rules of behaviour for housewives, there are no decent rules for the house husband. So, based on recent experiences, a few initial rules for us (legions?) of house husbands:
1) Get genuinely interested in reward schemes in supermarkets
2) Stop worrying that the dry cleaners thinks you are wet because you drop off your wife's dry cleaning
3) Stop hating the dry cleaner
4) Stop trying to break inanimate objects around the house
5) Stop lying to taxi drivers about looking forward to the weekend
6) Stop grilling your wife on the way to social engagements about what you are pretending to be this week
7) Listen to your wife when she is complaining about work
8) Don't ever ever watch daytime TV. It steals your soul
9) Stop making yourself comedy lunches
10) Shave sometimes
Can't wait for the weekend...
( Incidentally, I listened to Beck while I was writing this. I was really upset when I found out he was a Scientologist.)
Waiting Times
You do a lot of waiting as a house husband. This morning I am waiting for the guys to come back and do some more work on the bedroom ceiling. Then I am going to wait for them to do the work, and - I guess - wait for them to tell me when they are coming back again. (I am not dissing them. They are nice guys, and for Brits they work staggeringly fast too.)
Since yesterday, my sister has convinced me to set up a housewifenot blog for her. So I am also waiting to see if she writes anything on it. My wife thought I had done it for her, which caused some brief mild confusion. Have also managed to convince my wife not to tell her mother about this blog. I love my mother in law, but I am not sure I want her to read about how I am failing to be a house husband. And she is computered up too. She googled me the night her daughter/my future wife told her about our first date.
I googled 'house husband'. There is some bloke writing his house husband diaries in Australia - "Fighter of Evil, Maker of Lunches, & Infringer of Copyrights". His stuff is mostly about his kids. And there are serious academic articles discussing whether or not the house husband is a myth or a reality. And discussion groups: "He runs the house and has visibly increased in confidence since he took over!"; "He enjoys it most days!". Far too many exclamation marks if you ask me. No search results for househusbandnot, yet.
I am now worried because the ceiling guys are late. I am sitting here like a mother waiting for her daughter to come back from her first disco, imagining terrible things that are stopping them from getting here. But you can't do anything when you are waiting for someone, other than wonder when they are going to get here. As soon as I start some house husbanding, they will get here. And I can't put any music on in case they arrive and don't like it. And I can't get changed because we keep all our clothes in a walk in wardrobe which has the front door buzzer right next to it. And it freaks me out if it goes off when I am in the wardrobe. And I can't make a sandwich because I will have to offer them one if they get here before I have finished it. It's like hell here today.
Incidentally, when I post these things there is an automatic time display for when I posted them. But whoever or whatever generates these time displays is about nine hours behind me here in London. So I am writing this at just before 10 am. Just thought you should know in case you thought I had really lost it, and was waiting for the ceiling guys at midnight. (Timing issue now sorted thanks to kind person who told me how to do it.)
Since yesterday, my sister has convinced me to set up a housewifenot blog for her. So I am also waiting to see if she writes anything on it. My wife thought I had done it for her, which caused some brief mild confusion. Have also managed to convince my wife not to tell her mother about this blog. I love my mother in law, but I am not sure I want her to read about how I am failing to be a house husband. And she is computered up too. She googled me the night her daughter/my future wife told her about our first date.
I googled 'house husband'. There is some bloke writing his house husband diaries in Australia - "Fighter of Evil, Maker of Lunches, & Infringer of Copyrights". His stuff is mostly about his kids. And there are serious academic articles discussing whether or not the house husband is a myth or a reality. And discussion groups: "He runs the house and has visibly increased in confidence since he took over!"; "He enjoys it most days!". Far too many exclamation marks if you ask me. No search results for househusbandnot, yet.
I am now worried because the ceiling guys are late. I am sitting here like a mother waiting for her daughter to come back from her first disco, imagining terrible things that are stopping them from getting here. But you can't do anything when you are waiting for someone, other than wonder when they are going to get here. As soon as I start some house husbanding, they will get here. And I can't put any music on in case they arrive and don't like it. And I can't get changed because we keep all our clothes in a walk in wardrobe which has the front door buzzer right next to it. And it freaks me out if it goes off when I am in the wardrobe. And I can't make a sandwich because I will have to offer them one if they get here before I have finished it. It's like hell here today.
Incidentally, when I post these things there is an automatic time display for when I posted them. But whoever or whatever generates these time displays is about nine hours behind me here in London. So I am writing this at just before 10 am. Just thought you should know in case you thought I had really lost it, and was waiting for the ceiling guys at midnight. (Timing issue now sorted thanks to kind person who told me how to do it.)
Jul 5, 2006
Not Sure
Not sure when the best time to write about being a fake house husband is: before or after going to the supermarket? ; waiting for the plumber? ; while the plumber is here trying to explain to me what is wrong with our boiler? ( I know women do not get these lectures. Why do I have to pretend to care about how a boiler works?) ; before or after dark?; just after my wife has gone to work and abandoned me to the chaos that will be another day working hard at being a good and honest house husband?
I don't know, but we shall see. Right now, I am recovering from men who arrived at our flat this morning to repair some damp on the ceiling in our bedroom. As my wife left for work, the two affable men arrived, inspected the two red toe nails on my right foot that my wife painted last night because she was bored of the football, decided I wasn't gay because I had a wife and talked about the football, and set to their manly task of understanding how to stop the bedroom ceiling fall in on our heads. (I was pretty sure it would happen when I was having a sneaky afternoon nap.)
Today also saw me trying to buy a new fridge (out of stock), register with a job agency specialising in what I do (spoke to boy at agency whose voice had not broken), and measure up for some new blinds in the sitting room (really really complicated - the company we are using has a powerpoint presentation on how to engage in this task) . The last of these is urgent. I had a dream last night that one of our neighbours over the road was floating outside our sitting room demanding that we put some curtains up to to hide us from her and visa versa.
And listened to Elliot Smith while I was doing all this, which was probably a bad idea. He is too introspective. The house husband needs uplifting, energising with reggae or big band music, or Pink Floyd played at the wrong speed - oh, yeah Scissor Sisters.
We are decorating. Otherwise I would not have anything to complain about in trying to live my life - between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm - as ideal house husband to gorgeous, loving and supportive wife, right?
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