Underemployed neighborhood dad, congenial, thorough, available for sweaty yard work while your earner husband (I.E., boring, stressed out, un-handy, limp-dicked) travels to Manhattan for work. So take advantage of this local dad, who has a green thumb on his rough, manly hands and then some. He is good with flowers, has gentle touch with petals, and can make your orchid bloom like it was an 8’X10’ Georgia O’Keefe. But can wrestle with vines and ivy, too, plus, when it comes to fruit, was a prize-winning squash grower before molting exurb self for cool hip version of his persona, which he groomed and crafted here, in the Land of the Gowanus.
Also, has strong back capable of repetitive heavy lifting, to clear out, for example, the unfinished, underutilized, and absolutely aching basement space of your BIG HOUSE. Can manhandle old dressers, half-filled paint cans, rusting bicycles, all the way up those rough and creakingcreakingcreaking basement steps. If you like, you can of course partake in the surely sweaty, straining labor of getting that woeful, mournful, and absolutely aching neglected basement space back into LIVING shape.
Also, this dad is not above so-called “womanly” chores such as turning sheets, or running a bath. In fact, has preternatural ability to make water just hot enough to make you go hmmm but not so hot as to scald or hurt, a nuance your creepy and weird earner husband cannot grasp. (That narcissistic hair-puller.) Can also clean a bathroom like nobody’s business; will get down on hands and knees and work on that grout until it absolutely glistens. That grout will, in fact, glisten so bright that cosmonauts will be able to see it from the steamed-up portholes of the International Space Station.
EVEN MORE TALENTS!: Can also cook you a hot meal and store rest in freezer in serving-sized portions, so during this hectic and hot summer when you will surely have your hands full with hectic and hot and sweaty CHORES, you can, whenever you should desire, simply stick your hand in the icy freezer and get your fill. Your earner husband will be unwittingly and unknowingly impressed by your hot, inspired cooking of fresh and lush meals and, especially!, your suddenly innovative use of those boring old ingredients.
So, for help around the house, for sweaty yard or dirty basement work, for a fresh take on those tired, old recipes, for grout shining so bright the NAKED EYE can see it from outermotherfuckingspace, email:
unitparental at hotmail dot com
Reasonable rates. Discreet.
The Unit Guarantee: You will recommend him to all of your fellow mom friends.
Father's Day means a trip to the Brooklyn Shrine of St. Barbaralletta: Patron St. of Brooklyn Dads. Typical offerings include sheep's balls pounded flat and set ablaze at the fabled statuette's feet.
I won't do anything as cliche as tear this bogus holiday a NEW ONE... Because it's such an easy target, isn't it? This day, vulgarized by the evil empire (Hallmark), on which we pat ourselves on the back for doing what simple decency expects of us. It's so American. Look at me! Look at me! Buy me a new tie!
Still, I must say, when the Life Force Sucker came home from preschool and presented me with a card and a multitude of sweet-mouth kisses, my heart did melt. What sweetness--mouth kisses from my Mini-Me. Mwamwamwamwa!
So, you are wondering, what did Mrs. Unit Parental do or get for me? Did I get mimosas in bed? Was I awarded that elusive bit of conjugal affection all fathers call "The Golden Ticket?" No, I got something better...
Yesterday morning, upon awaking, I was greeted, as usual, by the Life Force Sucker's patented armpit tickles. And then Mrs. Unit gave me my present, wrapped and boxed.
I rubbed my hands together? What could it be! 24 karat golf tees (I don't play!), the new iphone (there's a recession on!)... Oh what! Oh what!
I tore apart the Diego gift wrapper (all we had, apparently) and pried open the lid of the box.
Inside I found a black t-shirt. Okay, I said to myself. A t-shirt. (Boxers would have been better, I started thinking; my collection of Old Navy knickers is in various states of disintegration.) I held up the t-shirt, expecting some cheeky and hipsterish Brooklyn design: like a cherry tree growing out of the burnt out carcass of a 1976 Chevy Nova on blocks... But instead, I saw on this t-shirt the words "self" and "absorbed" printed on the front in blocky white lettering, separated by the cruelest of hyphens...
Good God, dear readers! What a Father's Day morning I had. First, molested in my sensitive armpits by my little sadist. And then shown a most unflattering reflection of myself in what was, unfortunately, NOT a funhouse mirror, not a FAT mirror, but rather, I was shown a reflection of myself in the mirror called love. Because what is love, my dear readers, if not honesty.
Was she right? Was I "SELF-ABSORBED?" I am sorry to say I, the Unit, have been! Guilty! Meaculpa! I am a blogger after all, and therefore, by definition an exhibitionist who wants you to watch as he/she picks at his/her profound navel!
I'll spare you the details of my self-absorption, save to say that it was getting to big-yellow-contractor-sponge proportions.
THE GIST: So, to my dear Mrs. Unit Parental, my Life Force GIVER, the better half in this lopsided three-legged race we're in, I.E., our typical American marriage, I thank you for this gift of bone-crushing honesty. And to the Life Force Sucker, I appreciate the handmade card, even if your teacher wrote all the accurately spelled words inside it--I know you feel love for me in your small, fast-beating heart. And, oh, I appreciate the little mouth kisses! And even the bruising 5:30AM armpit tickles! Extra high-fructose corn syrup for you this week, in whatever highly concentrated and processed form you like!
So, to all, a belated Happy Father's Day! And if you are not one of my international readers, if you are not one of my San Francisco followers, if you are, say, one of my fellow Ditmas Park residents, then you might see me along Cortelyou Road this week in my brand new DUNCE SHIRT...