The Clothes King

My daughter, a girl, wore a red onsie. She had on over this a pair of jeans that I had pulled up to high. Yup, my one year old in Micheal Jackson Highwaters. She had on miss matched socks and her shoes were to small. My wife walked in and started laughing so hard that I thought she would give birth to our second right there.

”What?” I said defensively.

“She looks like a nerd”.

I then looked at my daughter. Crap, she does look like a nerd. A dyslexic nerd at that. I have created a one year old southern nerd clone, complete with mullet. My daughter will fight with me on this for her entire childhood, I know it.

I should never, ever be allowed in a clothing store. Never.

I do not have a problem with over buying. I do not steal things for a rush and I do not try on bathing suits without underwear on.

I just cannot dress myself, or my child. I have no taste. I try, oh I try. The result is that we both look like we are homeless and looking for someone to give us a biscuit for our lunch. I can’t help it, I honeslty do try. When it’s just superdad and her, we might be wearing a Madonna type outfit or a burlap sack, it’s the luck of the draw.

I have not had to do my own shopping in roughly 12 years. That’s how long my wife has looked at my pathetic clothes dressing skills and taken pity on me. Before, it was all nut hugger jeans, a t-shirt and some boots. God help I don’t know why that Angel picked me in the first place.

But I like to be independent, I like to know that I can still take care of myself so there is the occasion that I have tried to buy my own clothes or dress myself without pre-approval. The result was that I wore a plaid, paisley short sleeved shirt to work that day. That was also the day that it was determined that I do an interview for the local news. I was excited, look ma, I’m on TV.

I felt very confident but didn’t realize I was a walking gay pride parade. I was giving my interview, sounding very professional and knowledgeable. It was TV primetime genius and I raced home to tell my wife.

I was excited. She was excited until she saw me and all my Pink Glory. There is also a chance that my zipper was undone as well, as is my habit. She didn’t say anything. She just stared, her mouth agape.

“I’m very proud of you but why didn’t you call me before you went to the interview.” She asked.

This is how she tries to be delicate with me and not rain on my Gay Pride parade. But why would I ask?! Pssshhh, I’m a very important man now, I’m on TV. I am a resource to those less fortunate, why would they care what I would wear?

She was right, people did care. I became known around the office as “Hollywood” Hossman with the Pink shirt. It appears that people don’t care about the message, they care what you wear on the pink carpet of celebrity.

Unfortunately, this episode has not made the impression with me as you have thought it would have and now I dress my daughter, apparently, like a toddler nerd, begging for a beating.

This is when I think that I may have been born in the wrong century. I’m all about what works, what we have and what we need. Color coordination? Not my style baby. When I dress my daughter and myself, this is what goes through my head.
1. Shirt—check
2. Pants—check
3. Sock one—check
4. Sock two—check

Done, good to go. Yes, the socks don’t always match but my daughter and I don’t seem to care. She is happy as a lark biting people, what does she need her socks to coordinate for? My wife no longer allows me to pick out the clothes for Little Hoss. She lays them out the night before, for both of us. We are not allowed to ask questions or doubt the decisions. Today we both look like we are sailing.

But I had to push it once more. I put in an order with my wife for a shirt to wear to court, blue please. She was busy and I was trying to help when I decided that once again I would venture to the store and do some damage. A shirt, how hard can that be.

I was in and out of the store in less than 5 minutes. That’s hossman shopping, guerilla style. We hide behind the potted plant, kidnap the one we want, smuggle it to the checkout, pay the bribe and we are off. We try nothing on.

I got home and gave the package to my wife, very proud of myself. She shook her head before even opening the shirt in the clear plastic.

“You can’t wear this to court” she said.

“Why not?!” I am offended. It’s a blue shirt, how could I mess this up.

“Try it on and you’ll see”.

So I did, cussing the whole time. It turns out it was a short sleeved shirt and made for Shamu. It hung down to my knees, and I’m not a little man. Crap crap crap.
My daughter looked up and actually started laughing at me. Ridicule from my one year old, great. That’s when I got a mirror and showed her that she was wearing. She said her first word then. “Crap, crap, crap.”