Getting By In the Great Recession, Vol I: The Houseboy, the Gourmand, and the Loa

In case any of you haven't heard, that whole "I'm gonna open a wine shop and kick the local liquor industry's ass six ways from Sunday" thing didn't work out so well. Sometime when I'm feeling less bouncy and happy, I'll tell you all about it. The miniaturized version is, we ran out of cash, and the fucking sorry-ass banks wouldn't give us a penny, so we had to close (after we'd been arrested, sued, humiliated, and forced to file for bankruptcy). I'd already been fired from my previous job when I started Top Shelf, so I couldn't go back to Chuck's even if I wanted to. Starting in June, I joined the ranks of millions of my fellow Americans and started hunting for a job. 

Yeah, about that. It turns out that when your last job description is "owner and CEO", and you're 35, people tend to assume that you're going to be the kind of arrogant shit-stirrer who asks for things like raises and vacation time.  You don't get a lot of call-backs.

And when I say "not a lot", I mean "none". 

I couldn't even get hired at AFNI this call center that's well-known for hiring literally anyone, even if the applicant is functionally illiterate, pregnant with pygmy marmosets, and missing their entire head. They actually sent me a rejection email. It was a real kick in the dick, for the one second of white-hot rage I experienced before relief set in at realizing that I wouldn't have to work there. 

I had submitted over thirty job applications by this time. After a week or so recuperating from a grand mal cat bite and its attendant tetanus shot, I got diagnosed with degenerative disc disease (yet ANOTHER topic for a future post) and decided that maybe I should just back off the old job-search protocol for a while. It was sometime during this period that I realized I already had a job, albeit an unpaid one: 

I am a full-time stay-at-home-dad. (I prefer the term "houseboy", but when you say that in response to the question "So what do you do?" from one of your spouse's co-workers, it tends to breed unfortunate rumors.) 

If it wasn't for the fact that we're now poor as fucking church mice, this job would be ideal. I not only have time to write, I actually am writing. (Shocking, I know; you probably thought I cribbed all this stuff off the Blogess.) I had a flexible schedule at my last three jobs, so it's been my job for years now to pick up the Strapping Son from school, and run errands, and pick up incidental groceries for dinner. I like keeping the house tidy--well, as tidy as is possible with a seven-year-old kid, three cats, and a dire (or "diarrhea") wolf all making messes at the same time. 

The elusive dire wolf in repose. Note stain to his left. He made that using only his ass. 

When it comes to food, not much has really changed there either, except that now I pack lunch for Mary before she goes to work, and I do all of the meal-planning. I've always done the vast majority of the cooking, and usually I really enjoy it. With that said--if you don't have kids, you can't possibly appreciate just how much suicide-inducing frustration fun it is to find new and inventive ways to get nutrients other than "starch", "fat", and "processed bushmeat paste in the form of patties and/or nuggets" down their vile little cake-holes. The Strapping Son, despite his age and my best efforts, still eats ONLY the following: 

Fruit (bananas, Granny Smith apples, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, and grapes. This is the only reason his guts still work, as you will see from the rest of the list.)

Maruchan Ramen (beef flavor. Only.)

Kraft Mac and Cheese (spiral or original)

Velveeta Shells and Cheese (known as"jack and cheese", to distinguish it from regular ol' mac & cheese) 

Meat (literally anything except fish, as long as it hasn't got sauce or other adulterants on it)

Spaghetti Bolognese (he eats the spaghetti--no other shapes need apply--and the meat from the sauce, with lots of Parmesan on top. Vegetables are plucked from the painstakingly homemade sauce and surreptitiously given to the dog.)

Pizza (pepperoni, no exceptions)

Mashed Potatoes (instant ONLY, since according to the Strapping Son, homemade mashed potatoes "have beans in them". This is a reference to the little bits of unmashed potato that occur in even the most carefully whipped homemade batch. Instant potatoes are called "taters no beans". See what I mean about HOW MUCH FUCKING FUN this is?) 

Rice with butter (white rice and Brummel and Brown, actually)

American-style chicken and slippery dumplings (only Cracker Barrel's, and the homemade ones Mary constructs for my chicken soup; again, no vegetables are harmed by the Strapping Son in the consumption of this meal, even though our version contains onions, carrots, celery and parsley.) 

Grilled cheese sandwiches (he does consume whole-wheat bread, thank Ceres)

Eggo Nutri-grain blueberry waffles (with real maple syrup or NOTHIN'. He may be picky, but he's still my son. We don't fuck around with no "pancake syrup".) 

Scrambled eggs (when made in the French style, whipped together with milk or cream and cooked only until they're just done. Like I said, he's my kid.)

Biscuits (homemade, frozen, Cracker Barrel's, KFC's, whatever, bring 'em on.)

Various junk foods and/or sweets that all kids eat (ice cream, Goldfish crackers, and anything from a fast-food restaurant so long as it is PLAIN PLAIN my God PLAIN, but with Imperial ass-tonnes of ketchup.) 

You will note that the VAST majority of these foods contain no dietary fiber of any kind, and that they are either white in color, made from white flour, or both. (And they're ALL washed down with milk.) We call the Strapping Son's list of acceptable foods "Papa Damballa's White Foods Buffet"-- according to his devotees, the Vodou loa known as Papa Damballa is much pleased by offerings of white foods such as rice, eggs, sugar, white bread, etc. (How do we know these things? My sister has lived in Haiti for almost thirty years, and we all get presents with vodou Vévés on them at Christmas.) Unfortunately, it seems all too likely that this devotion to the White Foods has caused the presence of Papa Damballa--or worse, some far more malign spirit-- to descend upon my son. I only discovered this when certain untoward and flesh-creeping occurrences began to plague this house...(Oh, come on, how the hell was I supposed to know he'd been possessed? Have you ever seen a seven-year-old on a sugar high?! How could I tell the difference?) 


Tune in tomorrow for a tale of turgid tumescence and twisted terlet terror!