Steely Dad

Dear Readers,

I feel it’s time to share the part of my childcare routine that is a huge inspiration for the Steely Dad blog. I anticipate this to be a regular subject blog so some background is necessary.

The source of my inspiration is what I’ve affectionately termed the “Den of Yentas.”

I know the members of “the Den” will take exception to the title but they are a fun-loving bunch who will accept it as a term of endearment. I will, as a condition of my arrangement with the yentas, refrain from naming names but will utilize pseudonyms to protect the guilty.

Allow me to elaborate.

The Den of Yentas is this group of moms who congregates to commiserate and complain and gossip in the “parent” room (the Den) at the drop-in center where I take my kids for “socialization.” The drop-in center resembles a preschool except I’m actually required to stay in the building. The fact that I can’t simply drop off the munchkins has caused some major disruptions with my mani/pedi schedule so I can’t wait until the kids are in an actual preschool when I can get some “me” time. Chello day spa!

As you might’ve guessed, I’m the only person in the Den who has a penis and I do my very best to make sure I leave with it still intact. This presents a far greater challenge than one might glean from first blush.

Imagine yourself, the only male, sitting with a large assemblage of stay-at-home moms (SAHMs) in what amounts to an underground concrete bunker that, according to local legend, is impervious to Soviet radar. The unique design of the Den makes for a wonderful interrogation room (and when I say “interrogation” I mean the variety rumored to be employed at Gitmo). The Den’s thick, cold, cinder block walls are also soundproof so cries for help go unanswered. Although there are two access doors to the Den, these mothers are insanely vigilant to ensure they remain shut at all times. Two burly moms act as Roman Centurions guarding the doors. Once inside, there is no escaping the Den.

Now imagine being locked inside the Den for vicious two-hour hen-pecking sessions with no team support and no quarter offered by the yentas. Providing anything from unsolicited advice to critical commentary on my parenting style, the yentas are not afraid to speak their united voice. I often emerge from the Den bloodied and battered. I know the eviscerations and castrations are only a matter of time. This is the crux of my experience inside the bowels of the Den.

I should mention that the Den is not without its creature comforts. There are soft sofas, delightful baked goods and other such niceties that make it have the appearance of a friendly place. This is the true genius of the yentas. The window dressing belies an evil that lurks within the Den. The yentas use this illusion, much like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, to make a newcomer feel accepted into their collective bosom by plying the unsuspecting visitor with sweets and fresh bagels only to lull the poor sap into a false sense of security. I know I fell for the trap. Initially, I actually felt welcomed to the Den. Rather than feel threatened, the yentas seemed accepting of my stay-at-home dad (SAHD) status. In fact, there was another dad who occasionally hung out in the Den but oddly enough he suddenly and inexplicably disappeared, not to be heard of or seen again. The story goes that he and his wife had another kid and are “juggling” schedules but I suspect he is buried under the concrete slab of the Den, his terminable fate probably the result of expressing a viewpoint contrary to the mob mentality of the yentas.

Since the true spirit of the yentas has been exposed I dare only enter the Den with great trepidation lest I be attacked. I don’t make eye contact and I speak only when spoken to and even then I do so with judicious brevity. The less I say the less opportunity I provide for a relentless verbal assault.

There you have the Den of Yentas. It is my hope to write regular postings regarding my experiences with the yentas, how they think, what they talk about and how they descend upon their prey. Consider it a veritable ethnography of these wily creatures. Should my blog abruptly cease, please be so kind as to x-ray the concrete floor of the Den. It’s just a hunch.

In these desperate economic times, I want to do what I can to make the journey a bit more palatable for the loyal Steely Dad fans out there. Thus, I am launching (with the enormous assistance of the missus) Steely Deals. These are deals that we hope you will find helpful. You can click on the STEELY DEALS link above (in the header) to take a look at the cool offers we’ve found (some of them gratis!). You’ll want to check back every day because I’ll be updating it as often as possible. Some of the offers are “for today only” so make sure you act fast. Also, let me know your thoughts on the Steely Deals, if you like it or if you think it’s a lame idea. I’m not receiving any affiliate income from these offers so please keep in mind that by listing them it does not imply an endorsement, tacit or otherwise.

I apologize to all my readers for not posting in a few days. To be honest, I have actually injured myself. How? Alligator wresting? Sky diving? Saving an innocent bystander from being run over by a city bus? No. Not exactly. I injured myself, this is embarrassing, working on my blog. I’m not kidding. I’ve been working on the design, marketing and content of my blog, on average, between eight to 10 hours a day! My right arm feels like there is an electric eel inside it and my wrist as though fire ants have taken up residence within its tiny tendons. Note to those who read my previous blog: No, contrary to what you might be hypothesizing, I did not sustain this particular injury from my telemarketing phone sex escapade (although I readily admit that would make for a much more interesting story). Fact is, I used the non-dominant appendage (it provides a clumsy sense of the unfamiliar), in this case, my left hand. But good try!

In any case, here at Steely Dad, it is my sincerest hope to not only entertain and offend but to provide a service of a much more utilitarian nature. To this end, today I am providing what I hope to be the first of many public service tools that my readers will find useful.

As a dad of two and a husband of one, I know how difficult it can be to try and get away with your guy friends. In order to bridge communication between the two parties of a relationship, I have included in this post a useful device. It is a permission slip for a night out with the boys. I felt it apropos with the imminence of the Super Bowl. I wish I could take credit for the creation of this document that will prove as vital to your marital, boyfriend, betrothed or whatever-the-case-might-be relationship as the Constitution is to our great nation but doing so would be disingenuous. I will gladly provide credit where credit is due for this ingenious document but I came upon it through sheer serendipity. Should the author of it recognize it as their own work, feel free to contact me and I will provide adequate accolades. Not to fret, my loyal lady readers, a version of the permission slip for you will be forthcoming in tomorrow’s posting. In any case, here it is for the boys. Feel free to print it out and forward to all your friends. I purposely left it as a Word doc so you may edit as needed. Enjoy!

Download Boys Night Out Permission Slip

This is difficult to admit but I must get it off my chest. I had phone sex with a telemarketer. I’m sure some of you will respond with a resounding, “awesome!” while others will retort, “you sicko!” Those of you who approve might switch sides once I provide one minor additional detail. How do I put this? This particular call wasn’t with a live person but with one of those automated messages. Yea, I’m that desperate.

“Hey Steely Dad, aren’t you married?” you might inquire. I sure am and happily so. But things have been a bit stressful around my house lately because the missus has been quite ill (in and out of the hospital) and this is the type of health issue that quenches each and every drop of libido – even in a porn star. Either that or my wife feels compelled to resort to extreme tactics in order to excuse herself from wifely duties.

My “call” girl’s name was Rachel and she was informing me of an exciting new offer to lower my credit card interest rates. Now to be sure I’ve had numerous calls of a similar nature but Rachel hooked me with the fact that I was someone special: apparently I was uniquely selected for this special offer based on my creditworthiness and she wanted to reward me. At first I wondered if she said this to all the guys but Rachel’s genuine tone assured me she was not some floozie. In any case, I don’t know if it was her velvety, throaty voice or the promise of financial freedom but she had an air about her that was part Suze Orman, part Tera Patrick. Damn it was hot!

I guess the spontaneity was also arousing. That, coupled with the fact that the family was occupied, provided the perfect opportunity for me to treat my body like an inflatable fun jump. Not one of those wimpy inflatable jumps one gets at Toys R Us; I’m talking about one of those industrial-sized monsters that require a score of high-powered fans and can withstand a rocket attack.

There was no time for foreplay, no scented candles, no red wine. This was down and dirty quickie phone sex. I didn’t know if Rachel’s spiel would last 30 seconds or 3 minutes. It was a completely selfish act of coitus on my part because I needed only to satisfy myself. Rachel was on her own. Mistress Rachel, as I liked to call her, started innocently enough with talk about lowering my interest rates. Her cadence was sublime, her voice mellifluous. She then segued into a special offer on balance transfers. Oh dear Lord, balance transfers! Was she kidding? This was more than one man could handle. When Rachel began rattling off rates along with grace periods, I could no longer maintain any semblance of composure.

Her voice inflection became even more seductive as she rattled off the small print warning me that the offer was limited in nature and something about the rate jumping to 35% and an annual fee of $250 but who the hell knows? The point-of-no-return was upon me and, suffice it to say, she was still talking as I hung up the phone with a proud thud. Did I feel remorse for my indiscretion? Perhaps for a fleeting moment there was an inkling of guilt but that feeling was subdued by the stark reality that I had conquered this illusive woman. I had left Rachel desiring more, a long-term affair was more likely her modus operandi. But, alas, she could not have me for I am a taken man beyond reproach. I am, after all, Steely Dad.