La Crap

We have a little over a week and a half before the new baby comes and I am about ready to get this over with. Seriously, I’m done with my wife being pregnant. I just don’t think I can take it anymore. I a weak man, I make no excuses for this. But before you judge me, hear my story and you’ll understand.

I can take it when my wife has cravings. Most of the time anyway. I do not mind going out in the middle of the night to get her peanut butter ice cream. I do not mind scouring every single grocery store in the urban sprawl that we call home for a piece of Key Lime pie. I don’t even mind her picking food off my plate although should anyone else try this you are going to lose a hand. This is a threat and a promise, keep your grubby hands off my plate. If you want a bite of steak, fucking order it.

That’s my steak. It’s not community steak. It’s not “Let’s all Share” steak. It’s Hossman’s steak. Eat your damn salad. I mainly refer this to my wife’s family because they are really nothing more than vultures when it comes to food. “I just want to try it” they’ll say. And as soon as you turn your back, bam, half your meal is gone from that small little bite. For anyone else, this small little bite would encompass a whole meal. So seriously, back off Uncle Bricksalesman and Hippe Brother in Law. It’s my steak, no, bad family, bad. When they are around, I have to order 2 of everything just to ensure I get my own meal.

Even my daughter has started doing this. It may be time to break out the belt. Turn your back even just a little and she is sucking down half of your hamburger. I blame all of Hossmom’s genes for this transgression. I have to eat in secret in the attic when they are all around.

But with pregnant Hossmom around, she gets mostly what she wants and when she wants it. She is growing minion number two, we need him to be strong and healthy. So when she wants to go to a particular restaurant, I’m usually ok with it. Up to a point.

Friday night at the Hossman Family compound is go out night. We pack up the spud and head to whatever restaurant Hossmom feels like. Last Friday, she decided that she wanted to go to the restaurant La Madeline.

Fuck.

Like I said, I’m ok with most of this. But not this place. This is hands down my least favorite place in the world to eat at. Now that I think of it, Hossmom’s family makes me eat there as well when we are with them. It’s a conspiracy.

This Friday night, I was feeling like a steak. A big old piece of meat that I could just fall in love with. I don’t know why I’m built like this. Scratch that, yes I do. I’m built like this because I am a man and a man has needs. Those needs do not include anything with the word quiche in it. I want nothing that was teased with wine, just give me the fucking bottle would ya? The only thing that I want slow cooked is a roast, not a squash. And if you are going to give me chips with the meal, make them real chips not the sun dried shit. Those taste like ass, we all know it. Quit trying to be hip and cool with your sun dried tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. In fact, let’s just get ride of all the sun dried stuff to begin with. If it’s sun dried, it should be known as beef jerky, nothing else.

But what can you do? Pregnant wife wants La Madeline so that’s where we head. I’ll choke it down and put a smile on my face because my wife is hurting enough already so she doesn’t need to here me bitch about anything. Just keep repeating the mantra: Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming.

We arrive at said restaurant with Little Hoss and we get in line to order. Immediately I realize that the whole place is covered in wicker. Wicker is my eternal arch enemy. It interferes with my mojo and the aura I am trying to project. Wicker was made for small, petite Frenchman who like to smell wine for 45 minutes before taking a taste and spitting it out.

I absolutely refuse to have anything wicker in my house. I eventually destroy it. Because wicker cannot take the heavy responsibility of Hossman. My wife likes to say that I “flop” on all our furniture. She is absolutely right, I flop worse than a beached whale. But you know what? It’s my fucking house and I should be able to flop until my flopping heart is content. And if said furniture cannot take the punishment, then it doesn’t belong in my house. Only tough things belong in my house. Except my dog, he is a massive wuss. I think he is a female impersonator, but I love him anyway.

Because a real man loves his dog and hates his wicker. My wife continues to attempt to bring wicker in the house and I continue to break it. Little Hoss has joined in as well because, guess what, she’s a flopper too. Eventually, together we will destroy everything wicker. Long live planet Hossman.

So La Madeline has sun dried food and wicker. Let us continue.

I look at the menu. I am looking for something that has the word steak in it. Maybe a derivative of the word steak. A steak like substance, anything. There is no steak at La Madeline. Not even a something that is cut in the shape of a steak. The closet thing that I could find to abate my meat craving was a turkey sandwich. Fine, sure, a turkey sandwich it is, because that’s almost like steak.

My wife orders and Little Hoss and I go find our seats. La Madeline is not kid friendly either. This never used to bother me until I had a daughter. Now I judge all those places that don’t have at least something for my daughter. Come on man, my daughter kicks much ass how could you not want her here? I look around and I see a lot of hip people having quiet conversations, reading books and holding hands across the table. There is soft music playing.

Yup, we are about to ruin this atmosphere.

I’m sorry, but I am that guy. I can’t help it, Little Hoss can get loud and throwy at times. She’s 20 months old, what else is she supposed to be? Most of the time she is great in restaurants except when she is supposed to be extra good. That’s when she goes all ape shit. But I’m not feeling to bad because I’m guessing they don’t have a changing table in the men’s bathroom either. Which is were they kept one of only 2 high chairs, next to bathroom. Little Hoss, get me some vengeance.

So let’s recap: sun dried everything, wicker, no changing table, no steak and lover’s looking forloined. This is so not my scene.

Dinner went pretty much like I thought it would. Little Hoss hated the quiche that we bought her thus ejecting it to the floor with a wet plop, my turkey sandwich tasted about as good as the sun dried chips that came with it and we received constant looks from the more refined diners judging my parenting style.

But Hossmom got her chicken ceaser salad which makes this story end on a good note. My daughter and I had to have meat snacks when we got back home.

And I swear to all that is holy if the doctor wants us to “wait” until after our due date I’m going to take his arm and pin it behind his back until he crys uncle and gets me a steak and a baby.