This is an office rant. I usually don’t write about what I do or anyone in my office. The main reason is that I don’t want to get fired. But I also realize that the reality is that most of the people that work in my office do not read my blog, so screw it as this is bugging the bejuses out of me. I won’t really break “don’t write about work policy” here, but there are few things that are general to office environments that have been bugging the crap out of me. After a long holiday break, I think that I have to get this out or otherwise I’m going to walk out right now.
So right to it, first and foremost, let’s talk about email. That’s the one that grips my hatred button just about the most. It’s not that people writing me is that bad as I much prefer this rather than a phone call. It’s not that you may get a little wordy in an email, we all know that they should be short and sweet. What it is—its you that put the read receipt on each email that you send. This my friend, is an ass whip.
Ok, fine, if it’s something important, say like you are letting me know that the British are Coming, go ahead and put a read receipt on it. I can understand that. I know that it will help you out while simultaneity screwing me over. I think that it is a fantabulous idea. When the British get here and have us both up against the wall, you can very confidently pull out your read receipt and let them know that you told me they were coming and therefore you are a patriot. I get shot, you get a bushel of corn and everything is good.
But when you are emailing me, say about look how cute the funny dog email that is forwarded to everyone, please don’t put a read receipt on that. It’s a massive pain in the ass because when you do this, and I read it, another screen pops up that asks if I agree to the read receipt. My general policy is no but out of habit I usually just click OK on any dialog box that comes up on my computer. That’s how the porn got there, I swear.
So it’s really second nature for me to click OK and thus you get your much coveted read receipt. I hope that this makes you feel happy and fulfilled that now I know how great that joke was or how I should forward your email if I am a good patriot and pray for all the homeless or how I should watch out for a new rape scam. But I’m a dude so I don’t really have to worry about the rape scam which seems to have missed your thought process but now that you have your read receipt I know that it seems like I’m getting gang banged every night by the Beverly Hillbillies. The Deliverance guys are in fact, right now, hiding underneath my SUV waiting for me to drop the keys so they can tell me how pretty my mouth is , boy.
I know that it makes you feel good to see how many people read your emails. Hey, I can relate to that. I obsess about many people read my blog and I track it. I know that with every read receipt you get back inflates your ego just that much more and you live a little bit better. I know that you have a special email folder where you put all of them in the disguise of “covering yourself” when what you are really doing is touching your screen like a picture of your lost lover over each receipt. “Oh, I remember when I sent that one about the little doggy on the skateboard, hmmmmmm, sigh.”
And please don’t assume that because you do have my read receipt that it means that you must completely drop everything and come down and talk to me about it because you know I read whatever you sent. That completely destroys the whole purpose of the email. If I wanted to talk to you about it, then I’m guessing I would come find you or at the very least send you an email back. Look, I hate to break it to you, but we are not BFF and I can’t see us every being BF4-ever. Not going to happen. Can’t do it. I want to sit in my office, do some of my work and go home. I want to be good at what I do, I want to have a little pride in this. But every time I have to click a read receipt, a little part of me dies and you become a murderer.
I’m going to let you in on a little secret now. It’s my OCD that’s acting up on this one. I have to have certain things a certain way. When I get a bunch of emails in the morning I click all of them very quickly. Why? Because I don’t like having them in bold reminding me that I am inadequate and haven’t gotten around to it yet. It reminds me of procrastination, which I have but do not like to be reminded of. So I quickly click all of them and any read receipts that pop up just so I won’t have that staring me in the face. It does not mean that I have actually read it. I have actually ignored it which you would think would be a hint to you to stop sending me some of this shit.
I know that you give a girlish giggle every time you see one on your screen. I know your heart races and you get close to a faint. I know that it is the highlight of your day rather than focusing on why your kids don’t love you anymore. Hey, that would bring any of us down.
What do you think we think when we see that read receipt pop up? Let me tell you, it ain’t good. You have no idea of the inner workings of a mind.
We think you are trying to screw us over. This is going to make us more defensive. We might have been a nice guy before, maybe just talking to you about your screw-up. Not anymore because now we have officially been notified that you know we are reading your email which we also know is nothing more than a vain attempt to cover you own ass. So here’s the kicker, I’m going to call you on it, attach a read receipt, and basically ask why you are such a fuck-up. Please don’t get upset, it’s just what I have to do when you whip out your read receipt at our next manager’s meeting. I have to have the trump card and smack you back down. It’s not personal, you’re just a bitch.
But I can’t really say any of this at work. If I worked with a bunch of guys, it would be no problem. I would say “Johnny, why you being such a bitch.” And he would say “Gee Hossman, why are you being such a bitch.” And then I would say “Let’s go get a beer at Hooters and call it a day”. And he would say “I love you man, marry my sister.” That’s it, it would all work out.
But I work in an office that is roughly 95% women. I don’t want to be sexist here and I don’t think I am because I have heard many women repeat this. Women tend to hold grudges and many can be overly sensitive to my overbearing ways. Then they get vindictive and have no problem plotting your doom with read receipts. And can we defend ourselves?
Hell no. We can’t because of those two magical words: Sexual Harassment. That’s it, once that is uttered, I’m over, my career is shot. I might as well go pick out my favorite broom handle for the next janitor job I get because it’s the only one place that would hire me. I’m not calling you a bitch for any sexual connotation, it’s just because at times you can be a bitch.
I’m not saying that sexual harassment doesn’t occur, I know it does. Believe it or not, I’ve been on the receiving end of it when a 50 year old Philopino woman couldn’t stop herself from smacking my ass every time I walked by when I was 17. Granted, if she was hot and 21, we might have done business. But she wasn’t and I did feel uncomfortable. But would anyone believe me? Nope.
Because I didn’t have the read receipt to prove it.
Let's examine some prime examples of possible bad parenting from Hossdad and see where they rate and maybe we can get an answer to some of those questions upstairs.
When my daughter was about 8 months old she was all over the place. She had learned how to crawl but forgot to take the classes that explained injury and fear. My daughter had no fear. None what so ever. If you put her up on the chair and she wanted down, she would just pitch herself forward and land like an arrow shot from a bow, which would mean with a massive thud and crying. If she could curse, I am sure it would be at me.
I was sitting at home with her afterwork. She was in rare form that day and completely decided that she should give me a heart attack. It was premediated, I tell you, she's an evil genius. Everything was going fine until I did the one thing that you hear every bad parent say: "I just looked away for a minute". And I did.
I was up and put something in the kitchen. Little Hoss was in the living room. I couldn't have taken more than two steps into the kitchen and looked away for a grand total of 4 seconds.
When I returned my gaze to her, I noticed that she was on the third stair leading up to the bedroom. She is a little Houdini, a magical being, a David Blane. I have no idea how she got around the baby barrier and massive toy box that blocks the stairs. I was shocked. Here is my kid, the one that I am in charge of since Hossmom is still at work, and she is trapsing up the stairs like it is her own personal work out video.
I flipped and called out "no". I'm not sure if this was the type of no that you hear your boss say when you ask for a raise or the type of no that is said in slow motion in the movies when the vial of humankind killing evil bacteria is about to hit the floor.
But it got her attention and she turned her head and at that precise moment, lost her balence and came tumbling down the stairs. I have never moved so fast in my life, I was Chester Cheato and she was my orange corn chip. And down the stairs she went, thud, thud, thud. Her fall was broken when she crashed into the toy chest but don't think the word "subdural hemotma" didn't come to my mind. She began screaming her head off and I scooped her up and starting checking over her like I was looking for a sharpnel wound.
She was ok, but am I more of a bad parent because I let her get up the stairs or because I scared her into falling? You make the call.
Fast forward a couple of months and my daughter is moving right along with her development. Which means that we are full fledged into the temper tantrums. I have no idea where she gets this anger from, but to make myself feel better and be less culpable, let's say Hossmom.
She tends to throw these tantrums when she doesn't get her way, which is most of the time considering that she wants to climb stairs without Hossdad support. When she goes away to college, I'm going to kill myself because she wont' listen to me. My biggest fear is that she hooks up with a tatoo covered, college drop out, hippie, pot smoking punk and becomes pregnant after he convinces her that Hey man, don't conform to societies rules, be a communist. That's when I will die, right there. It will be in the year 2026.
She is gearing up for that fight by now practicing often on her tantrums. Look, I've read the books and I've talked to other parents. I know what I am supposed to do during a tantrum. It's either ignore it or a time out. A time out sounded harsh at first since she is only 15 months old but I have discovered that she very much knows what she is doing and in this case, likes to see how quickly I can stroke out.
This particular day she was having a good 20 minute tantrum. It was never ending. I was ignorning her like a good parent but she was hitting that special octive that only little girls can hit when they want to take a monster truck to that last working nerve. I couldn't even go into my happy place because it was besiged with a wail that would be good for any B horror movie being made.
She was getting right on it. Following me around and never, ever stopping screaming. I have no idea such a small thing can carry so much wind.
I was drinking a bottle of water and decided that I pretty much had enough of this. No, you can't climb the stairs until you are 18, are you happy. Nope, more yells.
So I looked down at her, very calmly as she lay on the floor kicking her legs and arms. And I thought to myself, "Self, we need to break t his screaming thing right now.". It was the old Barney Fife, KNIP IT IN THE BUD. At least, t hat was the thought anyway. And yes, I am concerned that I am taking my parenting advice from Don Knotts.
She had been screaming so long that I'm sure she had forgotten what she wanted in the first place since she has the attention span of mud at the current moment.
So I squirted her in the face with my bottle water. And not a little, but a pretty good shot.
She immediately stopped crying and looked at me. What did I say? I said what my father would have said to me: "Knock it off". And then I walked away. She got up and then went to play with a toy, the incident completely forgotten.
So does the fact that I squirted my daughter with a water bottle, much like I would the cat that scratches my favorite chair, make me a bad parent? It's funny, as soon as I begin to tell every parent I know this story, they all immediately jump to the end and then confide that they to, have done this.
There are times when Hossdad just needs a break. It's not to often but for the love of god sometimes I just crave some peace and quite. That seems to be the number one wish of most fathers. What do we want more: a new set of golf clubs or one day of quiet? I would take the quiet everytime.
That's not to say that I don't love my family and enjoy being with them, I do. It's just sometimes it would be really nice to zone out for an hour without having to worry about who needs what. With a pregnant wife in month 5 and a 15 month old child, the demands on Hossdad are getting pretty high up there.
This past weekend I saw my opportunity and I took it. I'm not proud of this but it was so worth it. Hossmom was on the couch and Little Hoss was playing in the living room. I was cleaning the kitchen and doing laundry which never seems to ever get done. What saddens me is that I am the worst clothes putter away you have ever seen. I will take a clean load upstairs and put it in a basket only to forget about it later. This would not appear to be a big deal.
However, when I go upstairs hours later I forget that it is clean and then proceed to through my dirty laundry on top of it thinking I am being a great Dad because I am putting my undies in the basket thus saving me from any wrath. At the end of the week, I can't tell what's clean and what's dirty so I have to wash it all over again. This has happened several times.
So this weekend I vowed to not do this and put away all the laundry. But I used this to my advantage. I told my wife that I was going upstairs to put away clothes while she watched the kiddo. What did I really do? I disappeared for an hour.
I kinda put away the clothes, by which I mean I just stuffed them as quickly as I could in random drawers. Technically, this is putting them away just randomly and not folded. It took about 5 minutes. I actually worked up an sweat. I work out while I clean, I'm all about healthy living.
The remaining 55 minutes I played a video game under the guise of doing housework while my wife and daughter were downstairs. I heard at least 3 tantrums during this time period. I didn't lift a finger. I didn't get up. I didn't even call downstairs to see if there was anything that I could do. Instead, I fought off the evil hordes in my new Xbox game. And I loved every minute of it. The kiddo was going crazy. I know this because when she gets really mad she changes octives on her screams. I could hear my wife getting frustrated but I didn't move. It was glorious.
So does this make me a bad parent or are we going to vote more for a bad husband. I don't see how I come out smelling like roses on either one.
Do the whole of these actions make me a crap parent? I submit to you, no, they do not. They make me a normal parent which is a shot to the ego of Superdad. Every parent does these things on occasion, even if they won't fess up to them.
It's like that survey people talk about that says 80% of guys masterbate and 20% of guys lie about it. Absolutely.
I just realized that I compared parenthood to masterbation. I think that may make me a bad parent.
The team that they are playing today is again from the church. Of course, with all the church teams there is a good 80% chance that they are always playing someone from the church but this one is special. This is the White church team that had a hand in their undoing last season. We’ll have to see if they can ignore the ghost of Christmas past and put a beat down on Jesus.
We can see the teams warming up and they look as out of shape as ever. Johnny, what’s your take?
Well Roscoe, as their name implies, they have a rigorous off season regiment of beer drinking to get out of shape for softball and it looks like we are seeing the payoff here. Their strict dedication to no exercise and fast food seems to have developed some might fine guts. I doubt there is one player on that team under 200 pounds. With only one exception, they are also all over 30. Ya know, seeing these athletes out there in the shape they are in just makes you wonder what kind of dedication it must take to perform at this level. It’s an amazing sight Roscoe.
Even right now I can see several players smoking as they are throwing the old leather around and in fact, yup, I can see it here, there are several that are not even to bother to warm up at all. Wow, that’s pure athleticism right there Roscoe.
Well I agree Johnny, it’s not everyday that we get to see a group of athletes so primed to pull hamstrings.
We are ready to start the game so everyone buckle up with your favorite piece of fried food and let’s get rolling.
Team Beer looks pretty good in this first inning Johnny. It’s got to be a little tough because once again they are plagued by injuries and one no show. I see on my crib sheet that both the first baseman and their pitcher seem to be out with leg injuries.
Yup Roscoe, that’s a tough blow for Team Beer as their outfielder is now forced to pitch and their manager is forced to play first. He’s great at the paperwork so lets see how he can do in the field.
There’s a shot to short, it’s fielded clean, the throw……….and an amazing catch by the first basement manager. Wow, it’s good to see some nice softball from the grandpa crowd.
There’s going to be a lot of work here because the pitching still seems to be giving them fits and the walks are starting to pile up.
Hossman walks up to bat, he’s known as Party Ball on the team and he looks it. Give us some human interest on this guy Johnny.
Well Roscoe, Hossman is having a little bit of a rough afternoon as he is currently without his lucky bat. He is a superstitious one that doesn’t believe in washing his socks after a win and he must have his lucky white lightning bat. He doesn’t have it and my guess is that someone is going to get fired after this game.
Excellent work Johnny, let’s get back to the action. Here’s the pitch—and it’s a slow ground ball to short. He scoops it and the play is made to retire the side. One man left on, the score is Church 2, Beer 4. We’ll take a short break and get right back to the action.
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Welcome back everyone. Team Beer is back in the field and not having a very good time of it. The errors are raining men around here and there have been some good ones. There have been several easy fly balls that have hit gloves and been dropped and then some wild throws. Johnny, tell them what they should have learned from Daddy.
Roscoe, every male in America knows that you are to use two hands. That’s what Daddy always said, use two hands. When you change a tire, use two hands. When you dig a hole, use two hands. And when you catch a fly ball, use two hands.
Right you are Johnny. Team Beer is back up to bat and here comes Party Ball Hossman up once again. We see that he has found his lucky bat white lightning and I hope that to many heads didn’t roll for that one. Here’s the pitch and it’s a deep shot to center, the center fielder is running under it, it looks like an easy play………He drops it! He Drops it. Hossman cruises into first and the lucky bat strikes again.
Team Beer is finally getting some offense here, trailing by a couple runs. The next batter gets a double and Hossman is able to score. It looks like Uncle Bricksalesman is sitting on first, waiting to come around. Here’s the pitch…..and the catcher drops it.
Uncle Bricksalesman is heading to second. The x-lineman is huffing and puffing like a mac truck and he is SAFE! That’s the first stolen base of the year by a man who seems to have a problem with wind drag. That’s gotta hurt.
A couple more hits and Team Beer has now tied the game.
Welcome to the top of the 7th inning. The score is 7 to 7 in the 7th. Johnny, I’m a little worried about this. 7 is Gods number and it looks to be straight across the board. Can Team Beer pull this off.
Roscoe, they say it every year, God loves Team Beer. I know that they are playing the church but come on, even God loves to take a shooter every once in a while.
There is one out, a man stands ready at third and first. There’s the hit, a sharp chopper to short. He fields it clean. The man on third is going. Short touches second for out number one and rifles to first.
The first baseman drops it! The first baseman drops it! Man o man, that’s going to sting because that was a perfect strike. The first baseman manager has had such a good game but an error lets the go ahead run in. Johnny, I just don’t think that Team Beer can come back from that one.
Blow me Roscoe, have some faith.
Team Beer is up to bat with their last 3 outs of the game. It’s 8 to 7 and they have a man on first and second. We have seen it all Johnny, the swinging bunt, missed balls but can we see some God loving.
There’s a man on first and second and Hossman is up. He’s gone 1 for 3 today Johnnie, let’s see if the lucky bat has some juice left.
And it does, there’s a single into center and the tying run comes home! I would sleep with him Johnny, god help me, I would.
Roscoe, I’m saving myself for that special someone named Uncle Bricksalesman.
The next batter gets on by an intentional walk and there is Uncle Bricksalesman skipping to the plate like a 3 year old girl. The bases are loaded, what do you think is going to happen here Johnny?
Well Roscoe, Uncle Bricksalesman is king of the swinging bunt but they need something just a little bit deeper today. A sacrifice fly could win this game.
Right you are Johnny. Here’s the pitch…..and it’s a fly ball to center. The fielder charges, the man on third waits to tag. O god Johnny I can feel the tension in my spine.
Get your hand off my thigh Roscoe.
The catch is made, the runner comes home, here’s the throw………….NOT IN TIME! NOT IN TIME! BEER WINS! BEER WINS!
Uncle Bricksalesman is clutch once again and Team Beer gets the win proving once and for all, God Loves Team Beer!
I can hear them chanting. I can hear them counting and signing the alphabet. I can hear them ask me if I am up and ready to play at 2 in the morning, in the darkness they torment me. I can hear the dark tones and slow melodies echo off the high ceiling downstairs. They are there, waiting and chanting, hoping soon that my wife will ask for her 2 am glass of water. I can hear their distorted voices from low batteries which doesn’t prevent them from letting me know that it’s 2 minutes ‘till Night Night and am I up and ready to play. Am I up and ready to play, am I up and ready to play.
They tell me if I am happy and if I know it to clap my hands. They tell me that they know a dog named Bingo. They tell me that there is a star that twinkles, twinkles, always god damned twinkling. They have sharp edges and their bright colors are mysteriously not twinkling in the middle of the night. I can hear them and they wait.
I put my feet over the side of the bed, cautious, listening. It is quiet. The air does not move. It is stale with my fear, thick with my apprehension.
My feet make contact with the carpet. I can feel them, out there, waiting.
I am struck down on my first step. In the confusion I can tell that it is a cow hoof chewed to bits by my dog. The edges are serrated like a knife as it digs deep into the crevices of my toes. I double over trying not to put to much pressure on that foot and thus increase my injury, hoping that I am not cut to the bone and no major arties are slashed. My hand comes down blindly in the lightless night, clawing for support but finding none. My head makes contact with the bed rail and the screams begin.
“Mother fucker! Do you have to leave these damn binkies everywhere! Every God Damn Time!” I scream but no one can hear my screams. My wife doesn’t move, Little Hoss does not utter a peep. I am alone, utterly alone. I press on.
I am struck again less than two steps away from the door. A bone this time. A bone from what I can only assume is the previous superdad that came before me. It is a glancing blow but enough of one to remind me that these things are out there, unseen and unmoving but deadly. I say a prayer for the unknown superdad, good luck my friend.
I come to the top of the stairs. I can only tell this because my hand is gripping the top of the rail like it is my magical teddy bear from when I was a kid. My bear would ward off all monsters and evil beings while I lay shivering beneath my covers. I have given the bear to my daughter but now I want it back. Please let me have it back.
Each step is a step that I don’t want to take. I bend the knee and begin my descent, I can feel the air getting cooler, swirling around my eyes that can see nothing. 5 steps down my injured foot hits something soft, furry and menacing. I hear a hiss and a claw rips into my ankle. My knee buckles, my forward momentum is carrying me over. I grab the railing with my fingertips, dear god let me hang on, just let me hang on.
I can hear the cat running out the dog door. He likes to sleep on the steps sometimes, waiting in ambush for my 2 am pregnant wife water trip. My knee might be dislocated, I may need stitches. The cat used to be my friend, my cuddle buddy but the night has changed him. He is crazed. He is insane. My breath has left me and I am wheezing for some courage. I must keep going.
I make it to the bottom of the stairs and the sigh of my relief is quickly replaced with a loud BANG! as I crash into the play table. My pinkie toenail is obiliterated and is the first true sacrifice to this weekly ritual. The warmness that I feel leaking between my toes is my blood, I don’t have to look to confirm it. I am off balance for the third time in less than 20 feet and I kick the wicker toy box that seems to always move on it’s own. The other foot now throbs as well.
That’s when I hear the music. The music that plays 3 times slower than it is supposed to but has a hypnotic melody to it. And the words, as if whispered by the undead.
Do your ears hang low do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot can you tie them in a bow.
The ritual kicking has awakened Mr. Doggy and his siren’s song. My mind is going cloudy, the blackness in front of my eyes is being replaced by the gray cloud of crapola what am I doing up and I hate all dog toys and baby toys past midnight.
Lightning briefly illuminates the living room floor, the rain has begun and so must I begin my journey across the living room floor. With each flash I see dark shadows and amorphous shapes. There are no distinctions, no boundaries and no hope. I know the thunder will mask my cries for mercy.
Oscar the Octopus, Mr. Frog, Princess Barbie, Fun time sing along Piano—I know that they are all waiting in that waste land, waiting to trip me, waiting for me to fall into their pit.
I take my first step and I can hear, very softly, a synthesized voice counting in Spanish. It feels like a countdown to my doom. Uno, dos, tres, quarto—each marking a step further into the abyss.
Fun time sing along Piano strikes first, catching onto my robe and tearing it from my body. I twist, letting my arms fall out of the arm holes but my balance is not what it was ten years ago. I am not prepared for this journey.
My heel comes crashing down on what I assume is the stomach of Mr. Frog, who gleefully tunes “That’s the red star, That’s the orange triangle!”. It mocks me as I fall, crashing into the abyss, crashing into hopelessness.
I can feel little stuffed paws all over me. Mr. Octopus begins to tie himself around my ankles. I try to struggle up but the ground is soft. I am stuck on the Princess Barbie toddler couch and I have no grip. My feet kick wildly, curses erupt from my lips “Can’t we just pick up our damn toys once!” I exclaim but no one is there to hear me.
My hand falls on something hard and plastic. I hear the Hickory, Dickory Dock song, but slower, almost unrecognizable. I know immediately that this the Lion Rattle that plays music whenever it is touched. It was a revenge gift by my mother in law, knowing full well that my daughter would love it and never, ever, ever stop shaking it. The sound bores into my ears.
I am not being driven insane. That would imply a journey, but there is no journey to my madness. It just is. Before I was sane, now I am not, the transition was instantanious. I pick up the rattle and fling it in desperation. I hear it shatter the wall. I escape but with throbbing stubbed toes. I am in the kitchen when I smell the stench of decay. My foot lands on something soft and slimy. I don’t go down but I gently slide on this pile of grotesque like an ice skater on the hard wood floors. I can feel pebbles of broken dog food and know immediately that it is dog puke from the fat dog stuffing it’s face. If you could see my face, you would see a face with an “Aw shit Kahn!” coming out of it. I am naked. I am alone. I am cut and bruised. I am covered in dog puke.
I reach the fridge and get the water. I look back at the way I came and know that I cannot go back that way. I will not make it. I can not continue. I will sleep in my car tonight and be happy that there are no dog bones, baby toys or excrement waiting for me there.
But I can still hear them. I can still hear the jazz beat by Mr. Piano, I can finally see the twinkle of Mr. Frog’s Orange Triangle on his chest. And I can feel their presence. To all those that follow in my footsteps as superdad, know this: You will be given 3000 toys for your new child. For your own sake, pick them up after she has strewn them about like land mines. And keep bottled water upstairs.
It had been a pretty bad day already. It was not meant to be. It was meant to be one of those family days that you are to remember for the rest of your life. It was supposed to be one of those days that was to be talked about at my eulogy to describe what a great superdad I was and what a great family we were.
It started off early in the morning, around 7:00. That’s when Little Hoss is accustomed to getting up. She has no real concept of the “weekend” or of “sleeping in”. It was Saturday and for the love of god I just wanted to sleep past 8. I had made the mistake of playing Xbox until after Midnight and was very tired.
Little Hoss wailed causing both the dogs to run away to a quieter part of the house. Rat bastard cowards, that is what my dogs are. This is an open invitation for anyone to rob my house because although my dogs sound great when they bark, they are pansies. My bigger dog, a boxer, has actually taken my daughters Princes Barbie foam chair to lay on. How appropriate. But he is sweet with my family and that is what really matters.
I laid there, waiting for my wife to get up. This is the possum strategy. I am the king of this strategy. Fake sleep and wait for your partner to finally give in, thinking that I am in la la land and therefore I can’t get in trouble for being lazy. When Little Hoss was feeding at night, I did this all the time.
This goes on for a good 15 minutes until it reaches the point that I think we might be shooting for child neglect. I can’t take it anymore and wonder if my wife is ok since she hasn’t gotten up yet. I sit up in bed and look at the clock, 7:05 on a Sat. Then I see my wife’s eyes open. I have been out possumed. I get into her a little, asking her why she didn’t get up if she heard the baby crying. That’s when she lets me know that I was muttering about how I wanted to sleep and that she knew I was awake. I have no defense, it’s time to get up.
But that’s really ok because we have big plans today and superdad has a Day O Fun planed. We are first going to meet my brother and my niece at a soccer game. Although my daughter is to young to play with 3 year olds and soccer, she will nonetheless attempt to steal the ball and possibly knee cap some other kids. She is not really the shy type in groups and totally functions on the ID at the current moment. If she wants it, she wants it know. But that’s a whole other blog.
We get dressed and eat breakfast and head on out. I get on the freeway and look for my exit. I have never been here before so I am not sure I know where I am going. Little Hoss is helping with directions by yelling some more to let me know that I better get there and get there fast. I keep promising her that she will have a great day if she will just cooperate just a little. I am normally able to tune out the random screaming and letting her throw her little tantrums. But today, well, she has taken that last nerve and is currently stomping the hell out of it like a soccer hooligan.
To my ever manly embarrassment, I am lost. I have passed the exit, which apparently doesn’t exist and I must remember to write an email to Google Maps and tell them to suck my balls. I have gone to what I find out later a good 30 miles passed where I need to be. Superdad is not being very super today. Little Hoss is continue to yell and it’s getting close to 10:00 which is time for a morning nap.
We have been on the road for an hour by the time we get home. No soccer, no playing with other kids, no seeing the cousin. I am an utter failure and my daughter knows it.
I let my wife know what happened as I put Little Hoss down. I go and sit in my bed and play a game, the sweet stress release that is XBOX. But Little Hoss doesn’t want to go down now. This is a extreme condition that parents called over tired. The child is apparently to tired and to crabby to go to bed. I think that she just wants to punish me. Eventually she quiets down and sleeps.
But the Day O Fun is just about to get good. We have a birthday swim party today at 1:00. My daughter has never been a pool yet and so I figured we would have some good father/daughter time with me teaching her about water and showing her how to pee in the pool and then slowly walk away.
But Little Hoss is not ready to get up when I get her up. She still wants to nap and this pisses her off even more. She has this look that she gives me when she is not happy with me. I swear to god if she just added a sigh when she gives the look, it would be the spitting image of my wife’s look when I throw away a pair of her old shoes.
We eat a little lunch and pack up the family roadster and we are back on the road. Again, I am not sure where I am going but feel pretty confident this time. We are all decked out in our swimsuits, cute hats and the dad approved jam swimming trunks. We are going to have a great time, dammit, now everyone in the farking car and shut up and enjoy the great time that you are having!
We get to the pool which took us about 40 minutes and lug our massive amount of pool crap. If it was just me, I wouldn’t even bring a towel. I air dry baby, let the honeys get a look.
We go to the front desk and tell them that we are here for the birthday party. The very nice lady, with very little judgment, informs us that there are no parties today. Um, excuse me, you want to check your schedule again? It should say Hossman family Day O Fun. Nope, no dice. My wife looks at me and then we head back to the car. I grab the invitation and then realize that it says Sunday on it, not Sat. This is my fault. This one of my friends and I told my wife Sat. Now I get the look from both my screaming daughter and my disappointed wife.
We debate going into the pool anyway but Little Hoss needs some more sleep and food and pregnant Hossmom looks a little beaten down. Hossdad/superdad looks like he needs a stiff shot of the corn whiskey.
So back home we go and we eat lunch. My daughter is sufficiently pissed off enough at this point that she is hurling several pieces of bologna at my head. I can’t blame her, I deserve this.
We all take a nap, things appear to settle down and we get up for some dinner. We are sitting on the floor, enjoying our failed day when the knock comes.
It’s loud and sounds with authority. My wife yells at the dogs and I pick Little Hoss up, who was busy playing with the phone. I know, I shouldn’t do this, but it’s the complete parent give up where it makes her happy so screw it, dial China for all I care, it’s worth the 100 bucks.
My wife opens the door, a little apprehensive. There is a policeman at our front door and I can see the squad car lights flashing behind him. We are a bit shocked at first until he speaks. He lets us know that someone just called 911 from our house. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t my wife.
I look at Little Hoss in my arms, still holding the phone. I take the phone from her and look at the number. The number is about 20 digits long by this time, but it’s the first 3 that are the ones that count: 911.
Little Hoss has turned me in. That rat fink has squealed on her old man. She has called the fiveo. She is a stoolie and I am the fugitive. I know that it wasn’t the Day O Fun I promised but this is a bit extreme, don’t you think?
Lucky for us the cop is very understanding once we explain what happened and that the yelling was only at the dogs, not our daughter. He starts laughing which is a good sign. I’m not laughing because I have a traitor in my arms. But she has made her point, the Day O Fun shall always continue and I better learn how to improvise before I get sent up to San Quentin.
At the end of it, I give my daughter some ice cream which she loves. I find my freedom is worth more to me if I keep her happy.
He staggered, looked a little dazed. But he didn’t go down and I knew that I was going to be in a little trouble here. That was my best shot, I got nothing else.
This would have been in the summer before my last year of high school. I was a football player and this was my complete life. I wouldn’t consider myself the standard jock or a nerd or even the massively cool ladies man that I have become since then. I didn’t go to parties, dances or to the old quarry. Not that we had one but in all the movies that I see about this time period always has a group of boys going down to the old quarry. I didn’t drink, I didn’t do drugs and didn’t cause trouble.
It was not that I had a high moral objection to any of this. It was because everything I did involved football during that time period of my life. I had friends and was friendly with everyone. Hell, my two best friends didn’t even play football. But I was a straight arrow because I wanted to so bad play at Texas Stadium in the State Football Playoffs.
So I worked out. All the time. When I wasn’t working out, I was playing video games. If I wasn’t doing either of those, then I was sleeping. That was my life that summer. I was working at a pizza place which was the ultimate job as a 17 year old. All the free pizza you want, good tips from the ladies who liked the cut of my jib and plenty of free time.
My brother and I had gone up to the local stadium with two other friends to run stairs. This was part of my conditioning that my coach had given me and so I did it. I never questioned my coach because he was one of those that would have no problem pummeling you should you talk back. The town people seemed to have no problem with this. Neither do I.
We had just completed running our sets around midnight and we were walking back to the parking lot. That’s when my brother noticed that I was wearing his shoes. This was the catalyst for the punch of my life.
My brother and I had always fought. Not the sissy wrestling stuff but the full on fist fights that only good southern boys know how to do. There was no “don’t hit the face” rules or any crap like that. We fought dirty. Hair pulling, biting or maybe an eye gouge. It was all good to go. No ball shots though, that’s just a matter of respect.
My brother sees that I am wearing his shoes and this sets him off. He was 19 and I was 17. He had always had a temper and out of all the people in the world, I am about the only one that really knows how to set it off. I know him better than he knows himself and would often get him going just because I could. It’s a toadie’s only true power and make no mistake about it, I was toadie numero uno.
Immediately as he starts to yell at me I know where this is going. I know that there is going to be a fight. I know that I am about to get punched. But at the time, I wasn’t exactly a small kid anymore. I knew I knew how to fight and had a good 40 pounds on my brother. I knew that first he would push me, I would push him, we would bump chests a few times refusing to back down and then he would punch me. I was ready for it this time.
He came up and pushed me and that is when I unleashed the greatest haymaker of my entire life. It was Ali-esk. It was the phantom shot that sent down Joe Frazier. It was the Tyson uppercut that shatters dreams and brains. It was a thing of beauty.
It landed flush with the left side of his jaw. It was one of those great punches where you can actually hear the smack and see the imprint of knuckles. His head snapped back giving him a severe case of crapola. He staggered. I thought I might have seen a knee buckle, maybe even a little dip in his stance. But he didn’t go down. The rat bastard didn’t drop. This punch would have taken out Hulk Hogan, even when he gets that patented second wind. But my brother took my best shot and stood there. This is not good.
I may have been stronger than my brother but he was faster. He was on me like a 35 year old single woman looking for a husband, I couldn’t keep him off me.
He immediately landed 4 or 5 punches to my face and the fight was full on. I returned my blows. They were good, but not as good as my first one. I was a little off balanced and was fighting more defensive.
My brother tackled me in the parking lot and down we went. This is his move. This is what he always does. He tackles me and gets on top and the pummeling begins. But I wouldn’t let him pin my arms this time. I was kicking and throwing punches of my own. I would have bitten him if given the chance, I have no shame in admitting this. For every one of my punches that landed 4 of his would land first. My had more power but he had more frequency.
At about this time, with my brother on top of me and me kicking like it’s the final leg of the swim trials, our two friends jump in. They are screaming “you’re brothers! You’re brothers!” We know this, that is why we are fighting. In their fever to pull us off each other they take a couple shots themselves. I don’t feel bad about this because that is the consequence of loving me, you might get punched. They put themselves in the middle and acted admirably. They kept pulling and pulling. Eventually they got us off each other and we all went to our cars to drive home.
I was stoked because of “The Punch” as it has since become known. I had a black eye that got that nice blood in the pupil look. I had a cut on my forehead and my hand hurt a little but overall I didn’t look too bad. Even though I had ended up on my back, yet again, I had landed The Punch.
Normally when my brother and I fight we make up within 10 minutes. It’s the way it has always been. We have fought so many times like this that you would be amazed to hear that we were always best friends, with unquestioned loyalty. This time though my brother didn’t talk to me for 3 days and that was scary.
My Mom was still up when we got home and saw my brother. His jaw was swollen to the size of a prostate tumor. She thought I had broken it and there was a part of me that was a little proud of this. I was in one of my over confidence/cocky stages and I admit that this was my thought. It wasn’t broken but it looked pretty damn good if I do say so myself.
My Mom was very pissed. Not only had brothers beaten the crap out of each other but we did it when we had a wedding to go to in 3 days. My brother was in the wedding. It was my cousins.
I slept on the couch rather than in our shared room for those three days. We went to the wedding but my brother drove his own car while I drove with my parents. My cousin sees us both with black eyes and can’t believe the story she is hearing. How the hell could we do this before her wedding? Didn’t we know that there would be pictures?? My brother and I were to be in the pictures.
And so we took the pictures, forever immortalizing The Punch. You can see our matching black eyes in them. Everyone knew what happened but I don’t think anyone could appreciate this. Believe it or not, the fight brought us closer than before which is weird because we were so tight before it. At the end of the wedding my brother came over and we both did the aw shucks dance and that was it. No more hard feelings.
This fight goes down as the best match up between us in the history of our fistfights. There have been some good ones, including the one where my brother threw a screwdriver at me and it stuck in the wall by my neck instead or when I broke a hand mirror over his head. You may think that it is odd that we have done this and are still best friends but then you just don’t understand brothers or guys. There are no grudges, there are no hurt feelings but just a little bit of pride that we could take our beatings.
My brother and I talk about this fight often and relieve each punch. I think that he is a little bit proud that his little brother landed the haymaker in the first place. My wife can never understand this and thinks that the whole thing was foolish. I try to equate it to the social manipulation that women pull to make other’s think that your friend is a whore, but it does no good.
But the punch will always be one of my best memories of growing up. I may be having a son this time and when he is ready, I will tell him this story. We will be in the back room, away from my wife’s ears and we will speak in hushed tones. My brother will be there and we will re-enact it for them like it was the Death Star battle. And in the end, we will all be a closer family because of it.
There are a total of 7 members of the Hossman Family and we are each on a different social ladder rung. Your position in the family is based on tenure, the amount that you contribute to the family and intelligence.
When Little Hoss was invited to the Hossman Family training camp she was a rookie. She was on the last rung. She didn’t contribute any money to the family. Currently, she is debt to me, Godfather Hossman. She was not a good earner. She had no tenure and well, all she did was poop all day. That’s not big on the intelligence quotient.
So when she came, she was a little below the cats, but not much because they basically irritate the crap out of me. My fat cat never leaves the closet. Its not some kind of non violent protest because she is very violent. She has on numerous occasions attempted to have my wife bumped off and have her position in the Hossman Family elevated. When she is angry, she lays a turd on the bathroom floor leaving me to wonder what the hell is she mad about. My other cat has actually cost me money. I spent around 1000 bucks last year because of a pulled Achilles tendon. Who ever heard of this in a stinking cat? He is a degenerate gambler and it’s my money. But he does keep the house free of live rodents. Not the dead ones, he likes to leave those as presents or warnings, depending on who finds them.
On the whole, the cats are pretty stupid but they are members of this family and we love them. They don’t contribute but they do have tenure as the first pets we got 7 years ago. So they occupy the second lowest rung, just above my daughter.
That was until yesterday until I noticed some things about my daughter.
She began a temper tantrum which is a more recent development. I didn’t know she had it in her. It’s tough at first to determine what is a tantrum and yelling because she is mad versus the random crying she did when she was a baby. Sometimes I think she would wail just to make me come running.
But yesterday she got upset because I wouldn’t let her go into the living room without me. She is in climbing monkey phase and requires constant supervision before she goes into a triple sow cow off the couch. So I put the gate up and she got pissed. I looked straight at her and in my best Dad voice I said “Little Hoss, that’s enough”. I didn’t yell but my voice changed. I didn’t know I had that voice in me and I actually stopped what I was doing because I thought that my father was behind me telling me to knock it off.
She immediately stopped yelling and looked right at me. Her lips went into an “O” like she thought I did something wrong and couldn’t wait until Hossmom got home so she could tell on me. I then told her to get up and give her father a hug. And she did.
Ladies and Gentlemen, we have signs of understanding. This is a clue to intelligence. She got up came over and gave me a hug and a kiss. I was honest to god flabbergasted.
This was the first “Dad” thing that I had ever said to her and she got it. I started going through my head about all the sayings my parents said to me. I got the “Boys! Front and Center” thing all the time. I can’t wait to use this one. It means that you are in massive trouble and they can’t even take the time to recall your names because you are majorly busted.
I started doing a rundown as I watched my daughter, is she ready to move up a notch in the family? She might make a good capo because now she has turned into a pretty decent earner. She was in a TV commercial when she was younger, that brought something in. She found a checkbook under the couch, that’s free money. And then last night she found a nickel and gave it to me. So far, the cats have given me throw up and a dead bird this year so Little Hoss is certainly bringing more into the family.
Let’s look at the intelligence. She can say three words. Mom, Dad and Go. She almost has Hi down. The big problem with this though is that when I ask her to say Dad she says Go instead. I don’t know why except that maybe that is always what I have done when she yells for me. I go. I go get dinner. I go get that blanket she dropped behind the couch. I go get her the Jesus Whackem stick that she loves to pound the floor with. So I am no longer Dad but Go. Ok, we need to work on that. I thought I heard my fat cat say once that she will claw my eyes out while I sleep but when I looked over at her all she was doing was sharpening her shank on the bathroom floor like little inmate 53214.
But there are other things. Like now she knows exactly what book she wants you to read to her and how she wants it done. Yesterday she went and got a pop up book and then came and actually sat in my lap and laid down until I opened the book. Everyone can obviously see the heart strings are pulled here and I read that book with the most enthusiasm ever. Each character had different voice, there were sound effects and a complete ensemble of hand puppets. The cats are illiterate hicks.
But the biggest sign was last night. I told Little Hoss that it was time for bed and she ran for the stairs, starting climbing up them like a Sherpa and went straight into her room. She then went and got a book and went to where we do her PJs at night. She raised up her arms to undress and then tried to put her own pants on. This was huge. She has always gone to bed really well and like clockwork but this was different. She KNEW that what I had said and knew what it meant. She knew that we had to get undressed and that we would read a book. The cats have never done this and make it a point to constantly to ignore anything I have ever said. I could tell them that there was a injured bird on the porch begging to be played with and they will act like I insulted them.
Little Hoss has moved up in the family and the cats have been moved down. She doesn’t have much tenure yet but her other qualities have vaulted her ahead. But after watching all this I have to ask myself, is she above the dogs yet?? The dogs know when it is bedtime, know when it is dinnertime, knock it off when I say to knock it of. They are not good earners though and that counts for something. However, they do know how to use the dog door and this befuddles my daughter. She wants to go through it but can’t seem to figure out how to get that last leg over. And they have more tenure, 5 years.
So this is how the Hossman Family structure is laid out: Cats, Little Hoss, Dogs (barely), Hossmom and finally Hossdad. Yes, I am the lead because I make the rules and I have the will to rule.
But I don’t think my daughter is currently happy with this situation and her ambition is showing. We were in bed playing when like a little freaking ninja she jammed her thumbnail into my nose. She had a long little cocaine thumbnail and it imbedded itself right into the cartilage. My little angel gave me my first bloody nose in 10 years. I bleed like a stuck pig.
This was no accident, this was a botched hit, maybe a warning that she will be moving up the family hierarchy very soon and that it would be best if I just got out of her way. I was shocked but at the same time respected her for her gumption. Who takes on the boss!?
I have never seen her use this move before and I am forced to question who taught her. That’s when I saw my cat staring at me from the closet, gently being petted by my daughter. I think that it may be time to get rid of the cat.
Then I tried to go home yesterday and my whole plan went to shit. It went to shit because the Texas Rangers suck and try to bring the whole town down with them.
Everyday I go home to pick up my daughter. It is imperative that I make it home on time. Because if I don’t, I get a lecture from my babysitter. I hate these lectures. It makes me look like an ass. I have gotten lectures on how I dress my daughter, what I feed her and when she popped another kid, you better believe that was a lecture. And the worst lecture is being late to pick her up. Look, I know that I need to be on time but there are some things out of my control.
I work across the street from the ballpark and there was an afternoon game yesterday. I didn’t see it on my schedule and totally forgot. Normally, I keep track and leave early to beat the traffic. I got into my car and got onto the exit for my freeway. There was going to be trouble because I was way farther back than I usually am.
This is so not good. And when traffic is like this let us then please introduce Mr. Jackass. He comes in many forms and each form pisses me off like no other. Look, we are all trying to get somewhere so how about a little cooperation.
He first showed up by driving on the shoulder of the road to pass everyone. I have to pick up my daughter and you don’t see me doing this. I’m going to get a lecture and at least I have the piece of mind not to be this guy. If you are this guy, suck my balls. Because what happens is that you pull out onto the shoulder, go 10 cars ahead until you realize that there is a broken down car in the lane and you have to merge again.
Don’t get all pissy with us because we won’t let you back in. You have chosen poorly Indiana, suck it. But this never happens because then he starts honking and the window starts to roll down. I can see this all and all I want to do is gun my SUV up the back of your crappy little Olds. It would be so worth it, just once to do this.
So we inch on by each getting cussed out as we are practically molesting the bumper infront of us. He eventually gets back in, goes around the stranded car, and then once again jumps on the shoulder. I hope he wrecks. I hope he wrecks and breaks his leg. I hope he wrecks, breaks his leg, and is uninsured. Seem harsh? I don’t care.
Traffic is going no faster and I am trying to figure out what I am going to tell the babysitter. Should I go with the classic I got abducted by the Mexican cartel or should I stick to the truth.
As I am mulling this over in Post-Baseball hell when I see something that honestly I don’t know how to feel about. I saw a guy climbing out the back window of his buddies pick-up truck. This window can’t be more than 12 by 12 and I have no idea how Houdini pulled this off, but he did. I have no doubt he was either drunk or high on peyote. I’m guessing the first because the next thing he does once he is in the back of the pickup is open 2 coolers full of beer. He pops open a lawn chair in pure redneck fashion and begins to drink while we are all driving.
This is the kind of shit that gives Texas a bad name. Drunk guy drinking beer in the back of a pickup on the highway. Just give him a mumu and a tornado and the cliché is complete. But he looks to be a kind man because he then begins to throw some beer into open windows of passing drivers. He had to give away about 15 beers this way.
This is where I am torn because that is often neighborly of him. We are all hating this so at least he is trying to make it more enjoyable. We are going about 10 miles an hour and people are getting drunk right there in traffic. Do I really want Drunkie McCrash Test driving right in front of me? I don’t even have time to answer this question because with each second this guys aim for car windows is getting worse. It’s when the beer smashes on my bumper that I decide that I hate him. His beer is probably tainted by urine. But he doesn’t stop and soon some cars are pulling onto the shoulder to bypass this guy. Peckerhead.
Traffic finally picks up and now we are going over 20. We have bypassed school zone speed so we should start seeing some results. I have 15 minutes to get to my daughter’s and I’m a good 30 minutes away without traffic. Then we stop. Again. Shit Shit Shit.
Someone had a car wreck. But I wouldn’t even classify this as a wreck. Some is pulled over with another car in front of them and they are checking bumpers out. Everyone now has to rubberneck like it is the once in a lifetime free porn channel. Comeon, there is no reason to stop here, let’s at least hit 50. I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIME!
Ok, we finally make it past it and we are off and running. It looks like it is going to be ok. I might only be 10 minutes late which is enough to say a very quick “Sorry” then get the hell out of dodge. I will mutter something about traffic and then flash the pearly whites hoping that this will melt her Ms. Frow exterior.
No luck because when I make my exit, finally, I get stopped at the light. The light is green. No one is moving. I can’t figure this out. When I see what it is, that is when I decide that today’s whole blog will be dedicated to this piece of shit.
The second car in line wasn’t paying attention. What the m-fing hell is this all about. I see this all the god damned time and it drives me up a wall. It is worse than the Lotto players, the movie line can’t deciders. Mr. Short attention span beats them all for jackass of the year award.
There should be no reason at a light where only two cars get through because you are to god damn busy checking your fingernails. If you were doing open heart surgery, we could talk. If you are to involved in your Hanson sing along you should have your license revoked.
And yes, it was a woman. I don’t mean to imply that this only a woman problem because I have seen this in both Mr. And Mrs. Incarnations. But this time it was a woman. So I miss the light.
And I miss the next one because guess who is the second car in the pack dancing to the tunes of I Have No Consideration. She must have decided that all the horns honking were only the beat to her Ricky Martin Samba Love Feast. From the very bottom of my heart and with all the feeling I can portray—I hate you.
By this time, I’m a good 30 minutes late picking up my daughter. I called during one of my many, many stops and got nothing but the disappointed sigh.
I finally show up, a good hour and a half drive later and try to grab my daughter while spewing apologies.
She will have none of it. I’m getting the lecture and all I can think of is how I hate Ranger Baseball because of this. If they were winning, maybe I could forgive. But you cannot expect me to now that I’m getting an earful on how to be a responsible parent and how if I kept a baseball schedule next to my desk, I could plan better. My whole parenting style is being called into question and I have no defense. The cute/charming smile is not working. The sad dog eyes are not working. The baby crying because she is hungry is not working. I am actually praying that she bits some kid to take the pressure off me. But that would only result in another lecture.
It’s time for me to zone out, to mentally remove myself from this situation. And what’s the first thing I think of? Baseball statistics. I disgust myself.
I forget what I had done to make my mom go crazy but I know that I had annoyed her one to many times and that she had finally snapped. All Moms do this, it is a right of passage for any kid. But the thing is, atleast in my family, my mom just didn’t have the heart to give licks. She was an amateur in this department. My father had been whipping me since before I could remember so I am something of a coniseur on proper whipping technique, both as the giver and the receiver.
But moms just don’t have the heart for this type of thing. She wasn’t into it and her technique was extremely flawed. For starters, she was using a wooden spoon made out of some lightweight crapo wood. This has no momentum and I was wearing jeans. It just couldn’t deliver the required pop that say a belt or good tree branch could.
Her swinging motion was also way off. She was more swatting than coming straight down on me so that most of the time she missed and was really just fanning my butt. When she did make contact, because of the way she was swinging, she would hit the side of my hip, next to my belt buckle and jeans inseam. This is a mistake because there is a lot more padding there and I couldn’t even feel the licks. Look, ask my Dad, you have to come straight down on the licks, make solid contact, then rev back up for anther one. It’s like practicing tennis. My mom sucks at Tennis too.
Then there was the craziness and screaming during the licks. Look, a kid has no idea what you are saying when he is getting licks. So by you talking he is trying to focus on your words and take his instruction while not focusing on the licks which makes it easier to ignore the licks. We have all heard this mindless drivel draval from our Moms and it is a constant source of amusement later on in life when you can joke about it.
So here we were, my mom trying to give me licks without realizing that my father had pretty much made me immune to this half assed approach. I felt like giving her pointers on how to do it right. No Ma, snap the wrist and knock off the talking. Let’s get a real showing her.
Eventually, the spoon broke which is what always happens in this type of story and my mom stopped. I turned around and had to hold everything back to not laugh. I had to remember that I was in trouble and to get out of it, I tried to muster up some tears. But I just couldn’t do it and I think I might have smiled. But I said I was sorry and that was that. If it had been my dad and he saw that I had smiled, he would have gotten a bigger switch from the switch tree.
Moms just don’t have the heart for this kind of thing and never seem to follow protocol. Look, it’s simple, you explain what you did wrong. Tell me to bend over, give me a quick three, I cry and say I’m sorry and that’s it. She confused me by messing up the routine that my father and I had spent many, many years getting together on.
But that is Moms for you and that’s why you love them. As crazy as we drive them, they just can’t help but take it a little easier on you than your father.
Here are a few gaurentees for you that makes Moms, well, Moms.
When you are 24 and want to move back home for that “short time”, it’s your mom that is going to let you come on back while preventing your Dad from charging you rent. Oh, he wants to and without moms influence, he would. So your mom is a money saver in the long run.
When you are put in jail because you did something stupid in college, you can always count on mom to bail you out. Dad would have no problem letting you spend the night in the pokey but mom can’t help but worry about her baby in that cell when all “those” people, never once admitting that you might be one of “those” people.
And when you finally go to trial, I don’t care if they have DNA evidence, she will always believe that you are innocent and getting the short end of the stick. She will be convienced that everyone is actually biased against you because you are so smart and handsome and she will then proceed to tell the DA to go fuck himself.
When you want to buy that new car and you are young and have no credit. Who do you think is going to cosign that loan with you? It ain’t gonna be dad because he will just remind you that he had to walk everywhere at your age and lived in a storage shed behind a KFC. Nope, Mom will pony up and get you that car because her baby can’t walk that far on the streets.
When you do go away to college, who do you think is going to take you to Walmart for that spending purge to get your dorm room ready. Sure, you don’t really need any window treatments or enough snack cakes to feed the army, but she will gladly spend the 300 bucks to give you those things. Without your Mom, you would be living like a caveman.
And who is going to buy you that new couch for your first apartment? Mom.
And when you are sick, I don’t care how old you are, who do you really want around? That’s right, mom. No one makes soup better than your mom. No one gives back rubs like your mom. And it doesn’t matter if you are 5 and have the flu or 22 and drunk, no one cleans up puke more judgement free than Mom.
When you are a kid and you are in so much trouble that your parents have to leave the room to talk about your punishment, who do you really think is fighting for you in there? Who is making the exceptions for you? Who do you think is really having second thoughts about going harsh? Mom. And your dad will only listen to Mom. You are still her darling baby boy and without her in there being your defense attorney, terms like “for life” would certainly apply to you.
So yeah, mom does all the things we know about like cooking, cleaning and making sure you don’t look like a hobo when you are 10. She will sympathize when you have a massive zit on prom night and holds no judgement against you if you want to call your Barbie an action figure. She’s your mom and she has no choice but to love you and give you the benefit of the doubt for the rest of your life.
Sure, she can drive us absolutely bonkers like no one else can. She can show up at your sister’s high school tennis match and yank her out infront of her friends and you have massive embarrasement. But what are you going to do?
It’s never the licks with Mom that really scares you. It’s the complete break from reality when she starts flinging dishes everywhere. She’s crying and screaming about how she is unappreciated she is and each syllable is punctuated by the shattering of that fine china. But take a closer look when this happens—most times she even has the presence of mind to break the dishes in the sink because she knows that she will have to pick them up anyway.
So the next time you are driving your mom crazy, and maybe you are doing it on purpose, let her take a few swats at you with the wooden spoon. Sure she sucks at this kind of thing, but help her along a little. Pull a nose hair and muster up some tears, make her feel good about herself.
Because one day when you are away at college and you need to explain how you just bounced 600 bucks worth of checks because you are a complete idiot—who do you think is going to cover that? Dad who lived in a shed at your age or Mom who can’t bear the thought of you going without your Little Debbies?
I love you Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.
We had been at the car dealership for a good 4 hours and my resolve was weakening. I was hungry and I had to poop. The car salesman had been back and forth between us and “his boss” to see if the deal could be made. I now know that this was a load of shit but the god lord loves the ignorant.
“We can give you 500 for your trade in” he says.
“600!” I yell without thinking about it.
I had made many tactical errors that day and this was just the nail in the coffin. For some reason I wanted the salesman to like me wherever we went, thinking that this would make him give me a better deal. However, this is about money and dealers are like the Mafia with money and I am not a big titted blond. I was sunk before I even started. I even tried to convince one guy that “we were good Ford people” and have never, ever lived that down with my wife.
“Done” he says without any hesitation. This is really my first clue that maybe I had spoken to fast, but I couldn’t take the uncomfortable silence. The awkwardness that follows a finished sentence was to unbearable for me at the time. It is not my nature to sit and stare, I am a man of action and action is what I demand.
Most of the deal was worked out between the car salesman and I. The devil spawn hardly actually talked to my wife. I know that this is because she is a woman. But there is a part of me that enjoyed playing the macho car buyer. Here is even a bigger secret. I know exactly jack squat about cars. I know nothing. If you asked me what kind of car that was on the highway, I would simply state that it was a truck or a car, maybe a Minivan. That’s all I got. My wife on the other hand would know the make, model, year and engine type.
She is also the one in the business world and has way more negotiation abilities than I do. I have never worked in the corporate world and my negotiation usually comes in the form of dictatorship with perps.
So the deal was made and I had known that we had been taken for a ride. I was 24 at the time and my wife’s car was on it’s last legs. We NEEDED a car or she wouldn’t be able to go to work and since we were so young, we really didn’t have a whole lot of credit. This car saleman, the evil that he is, knew this and spotted us as marks as soon as we walked into the dealership.
A couple of years later my truck was about to go and again we had to do this dance. But we picked a different dealer than before because he was a jackass. We were more wordly then. I was 27 by that time and had seen things.
It started off much the same. We arrived at the dealer and settled in for a long day. We picked the car out and the negotiations started.
I was getting hammered from the start. I was another babe in the woods. God have mercy on my soul.
But my wife is crafty. I would never want her as an enemy because I know that behind the scenes she would screw me over and I wouldn’t even know about it. It kind of turns me on when she gets like that, I have no idea why. She stopped the conversation and then took me outside.
“Hossman” she said, “Treat him like a perp”.
This changed my complete thinking about the situation. My mindset went from Dear God please like me to you piece of shit wife beater. I am actually quite good when I get into those types of situations. I can stare down an abuser with the best of them. It’s weird because normally I do not like confrontation but when I get in that situation, I can handle myself. My wife had given the right advice. That is why she is a war time consigliore.
I walk back in and the dealer knows that something has changed. He can feel the hossness radiating off me. I an Krull the Conqueror, beware.
“This is what we are going to pay, that’s it. You need to find a way to get down to that.” I demand.
He hems and haws and then says he has to check with his boss. Yeah, you do that bub.
He comes back and sits down. A sigh escapes his lips. I have seen this play before, I have read the program, I know what is coming next. He says that he got his boss down a little but this is what they have. In my line of work I know what he is doing. He is deflecting so that he doesn’t play the bad guy. He blames his boss when we all know that he is the wife beater. He wants me to believe that “his hands are tied”. This is crap, I’m getting my confession boyo.
Then I see his weakness. The one thing that could turn the situation in my favor. Behind him, and a perfect vantage point for me, is a big screen TV in the dealership. On this TV is a sporting event that I was actually interested in. Nothing can zone a man out like a random sporting event on TV. I had spent years ignoring my wife’s pleas to mow the yard while watching baseball, football even a horse race once. Like every man, I can zone out so that the only thing I hear is how far that putt will be.
“No” I reply. And I say nothing else. I let him sit. I let him break the silence. I’m not saying another thing because by this time I am watching Tiger Woods putt. I am in meditation.
A good five minutes pass and then he comes back. He says that he has talked to his boss again and they can come down to where I want it. I say that is good because I will not jeopardize my families future for a car I could get somewhere else. I have no real reason to say this other than to make him feel like shit. The price is already set, I’m just taking a setup shot for my next play.
“Now I say, I have a trade in as well, let’s talk about that.” That’s the combo punch that sends him down. We get a good deal on the car and I’m ready to slap the perp around a little more, thanks to the good friend that is TV.
I recently had to buy another new car as our first car that we got took on was getting 10 years old. I get into my perp questioning position again. This time out, I don’t even show up at the dealership. I just call. I tell them what I want, how much it needs to cost and what they are going to give me on the trade in. I tell them that when they find the car I want for that price, let me know. He starts to hem and haw a little bit and that’s when I through in that my price should also include tax, title and license.
I walk in a week later and pay EXACTLY what I said I was going to pay.
I want to be a Stone Cutter.
I want just one god damn sundae without peanuts when I order no fucking peanuts.
I want a spaceship with a teleporter.
I want the jackass that parked to close to me so that I couldn’t get into my own car to have 4 flat tires every time he drives.
Concentrate people! Think hard and the good vibes that you are giving off, there is no way to fail!
I want a slingshot that can shoot me off to work so I don’t have to deal with traffic.
I want someone else to be committed to getting these things for me.
I want for everyone to be ok with my laziness.
I want the Pillsbury dough boy to get cooked in the oven because I always wandered what that would be like.
You are a hard worker, You should be able to get these things if you put your mind to it.
I want an exotic animal farm.
I want someone to pick out all the black jelly beans out of the pack because they blow.
I want the men working on my house to show up on time, do their job, and not take a dump in my closet.
I want to have my hair back, my sweet, glorious Brad Pitt hair.
With the Hossman Self Help guide you can achieve so much more than the Jones’s!
I want to make a hole in one in golf and have everyone believe me without any witnesses.
I want Star Trek to be new and exciting with brand new episodes but the same old cast.
I want gas to cost under a buck, electricity to be affordable and Microsoft to work.
I want Calvin and Hobbes to come back, please come back.
At only 99.95, the Hossman DVD is your key to getting everything that is in your hearts desire!
I want to watch just one episode of Star Trek without being fucking told to change the channel.
I want my daughter to get her acceptance letter from Hogwarts.
I want for everyone to believe that I actually took the time to read the bible.
I want to dance on rooftops with Mary Poppins.
With this hour long Self Help Hossman DVD, you can finally put your old negative ways behind you and put your faith in the Hoss.
I want everyone to give hip one liners like they do in the movies.
I want you to get away from her, you bitch.
I want to be ignored, Dan.
I want to be Luke’s father.
I want everyone to know what movies those quotes came from.
Hurry now, supplies are limited. The first 100 customers get a free T-Shirt with the Hossman Principles printed on them.
I want Little Hoss to be able to dunk.
I want to bring sexy back.
I want to know what love is and I want you to show me.
I want to have a hobbit living in my backyard.
Ok everyone, please step back a little. No need to crowd the podium, there is enough to go around.
I want a magic wand that actually works.
I want every boring commercial on TV to be forever banned.
I want to rob Peter to pay Paul.
I want my sports teams to never, ever choke in the playoffs.
Seriously, get back! I swear to god I’ll bring out my lion whip. Security! Security!
I want to know what Colombian Marching Powder is.
I want a cool Magnum PI mustache and not the porn mustache that I usually grow.
I want Saturday Night Live to actually be funny again.
I want for the next guy that cuts me off to become sterile.
Let go of my shirt! Hey lady, those are my pants! This is not good for the Hossman Self-help! Work the program!
I want porn to actually be tasteful, well directed and with good acting.
I want to write a mystic self help book like the “secret” and get suckers to buy it.
I want my blog to be worshiped like the Ten Commandments.
I want evangelicals to practice what they preach.
Who’s got my underwear! Give it back right the hell now! Get your finger out of there!
I want anything associated with baby’s to stop being such a freaking ripoff.
I want my computer to stop crashing so I don’t have to write this same sentence for the 4th fucking time.
I want my IT guy to be clean and hygienic.
I want buy golf clubs when I screw up with my wife instead of flowers.
Safety word! Safety WORD! I am not liking this! I am a married man!
I want no more family drama, ever.
I want dinner plates that are self cleaning.
I want my fat dog to go on weight watchers.
I want my mamma.
Check or money order accepted.
Welcome to another random blog brought to you by Wikipedia.
I have many fantasies in my life. Yes, I to have the Princess Leah fantasy. But these are a different kind. I have a rock star fantasy, an astronaut fantasy, a drug cartel fantasy and even a Hermit in Montana fantasy for when I don’t want to be bothered anymore. I swear to god that I will do that last one.
This most recent surge of Wikipedia research came from a few books that I had been reading. I like the true crime stuff every once in a while but you need to take a break so that you don’t go insane with creepyness. I read a book about Pablo Escobar and also about Ciduadad Juarez and some of their drug cartels. This led me to search on drug cartels, where they are at, who’s killing who, have they been caught, etc etc. Add to this that I am also reading a couple of Mafia books, and there you go, I have twisted my soul.
So just incase I’m being watched: I have added drug cartels to my wiki searches of serial killers, Iran, Hiroshima and dictators. I expect all of you to vouch for me when the Patriot Act gives me a right cross to the kidneys.
But back to my random topic today. I have learned that Cartels have some insane abilities. For example, Pablo Escobar built his own prison where he was to be housed. That was the deal. As you can imagine, this “prison” was really a large mansion, complete with telephones in his “cell”. The “guards” were all his men. I am shocked and amazed that he escaped from this place. We are talking a high security facility here!
And every cop is on the payroll. It’s disgusting how many cops are in the back pockets of the Juarez Cartels. If you know anything about it, there have been over 400 murders of females in that Mexican City in the last 10 years. Anyone want to take a guess who is doing it? If you said the police, then take a couple of key bumps for yourself.
But my fantasy doesn’t include this dark side of the Drug Cartels. Honestly, when I read about all of this it disgusts me all the corruption on all sides. I mean, can’t we just get a little honesty here? And I defentalty don’t want to kill anyone or cause any damage. I want to be the glorious benefactor.
So in my fantasy, I change it to just straight up Cartel. I won’t be peddeling any Columbian Marching Powder. I’ve never been a drug user myself, I’m a good boy that actually paid attention to the PSA’s about what drugs do to you. That commercial with the egg and frying pan—totally got to me. Gave me nightmares for weeks.
And I know that I would be caught. I would suck major ass as a Columbian Drug Boss. I would be the guy that would be pulled over going 100 in a 25 with blow all over my windshield because I forgot to zip up the bag. And I would let anyone search me. I’m to scared to ever say no.
And I couldn’t order a hit. I could order a sundae with extra chocolate. I could order a new social security card for my daughter. But I couldn’t order a hit. I would be to forgiving. Can’t we give that drug mule another chance? He won’t narc on me, we are friends. I’m sure he will do 25 years while I’m on my yaucht snorting anthills of coke.
And I couldn’t handle coke or any other drug for that matter. I would quickly turn into that junkie in that movie that offers blow jobs for some crack. I can’t even stop dipping, how the hell can I stop the white lion fantastic train ride?
So let’s go ahead and delete the word “drug” from the cartel and hereby establish the Hossman Family Cartel. We are going to need a compound of some sort as well. Not that I will let anyone live there besides me. Being part of the Cartel means that I won’t trust you, so you can’t come over and play with me.
Most Cartel bosses also have a hoard of chicks somewhere. This is another thing I could do without at the moment. Hossmom has plenty of loving to give so I won’t being needing anymore help there. She has given me two kids and is thus fertile. This is very important in the Cartel world so I will know who will take over. She has given me my heir so she stays in with second wife ready to take her place incase any of my enemies get to her.
I will demand at the compound an Olympic sized pool as well as Giraffes. I have no idea why Giraffes other than that seems to be what every massively crazy rich guy has.
And I would be that crazy rich guy. I would walk around my compound asking each staff member “did you hear that?”, then run away screaming. I would have to get some crazy hair as well as all rich crazy guys have hair. If I was rich I could afford a hair transplant and be I would be rich enough that no one would laugh, atleast not to my face.
But no guns will be allowed at the Hossman Compound. It’s not guns that kill people, it’s you that kills people. I have no doubt that if I ever owned a gun I would accidently shoot myself while trying to do the cool western gun flip into my holster. I couldn’t help myself. You couldn’t have guns either. The truth of it is that I don’t believe in the conceal and carry laws we have, and I live in Texas. Sure Billy the Kid, I know that in your head you are in a bank when robbers come in and you pull your piece, offer a witty line, then blow them away.
Here’s the reality of what really happens. You are in a bank robbery and you have just wet your pants. Normally, you would hit the dirt and hand over your watch and condoms in your wallet. But since you now have a gun, you feel like you have to do something. So you pull it out but instead of actually aiming you close your eyes and just start shooting. Your Billy the Kid moment ends with you dropping the gun and screaming like a girl. In the meantime, I have two gun shot wounds from your random shooting. It’s not that I don’t trust myself with guns, it’s that I don’t trust you. So no guns on the Compound.
Ok, so in the check list I have gone over the money, the compound, the chicks, no drugs and no guns allowed. Ok, that’s it. That’s the Cartel Fantasy.
One more thing—I would need to refer to all the people in my “pocket” so I would sound cool. Like I would say, “Don’t worry about it, Wylie TX is in my pocket”. Yup, that would rock.
For a quick recap: my wife doesn’t want to know the sex of our new baby. This has driven me up a God Damn wall.
I wrote a blog on this earlier, I pouted, got pissed and basically acted like a two year old child. I decided on a passive resistance strategy to try and get my way. Today is the day to see if this has paid off.
This is week 17 into our new pregnancy. So far, no problem whatsoever. I even sometimes forget my wife is pregnant at all. She is not puking and hasn’t begun to show yet, so not much has changed in the Hossman Family life.
But being this far into the pregnancy means you finally get the good sonogram. This is the one that everyone waits for. This is where not only do they check the sex, they make sure that the new kiddo has everything it should have.
This day is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time. I am terrified before this thing that there will be something wrong. As a general rule, parents do not normally talk openly about this for the fear of the jinx factor. If by some superstition belief, if I talk about the possibility of my new child having webbed toes and a frog tongue, that this will somehow come true. Silly yes but we can’t help but all think it. Now if the kid came out and was able to fly, that we should talk about.
I am in the waiting room a little early this time around. This place is not quite as creepy guy feeling as the normal OB/GYN office because a lot of Dad’s come to this place. It’s a happy time where we can all believe that our future child will become that astronaut and not the homeless bum that we all fear. Optimism runs high here.
We are shown back to the room and get our first question: Did we bring a videotape.
No. No we did not.
My wife and I are probably some of the worst at this. At documenting memories and being crafty. I hear of other women scrapbooking, of framing and making special collages. We are so not these people. We want to be these people, but we are not. The only memories my child is going to have is the stain on the carpet from where she dumped spaghetti from her highchair. We will gather around it every once in a while as she grows and point out how cute it was. Then we’ll talk about how the dog came to eat it but got distracted by the cat and instead peed on it. Aw, memories. The last time we did this we had to borrow a videotape from the doctor. But I ask you, how many people use videotapes anymore? What about DVD’s. Come on medical science, let’s get a little advanced here!
So we live with this shame as we go in to the office. My wife gets down on the knee high table and “disrobes”. That term has always creeped me out a little. It sounds like what prisoners are told before they are stripped searched. I’m sure that this is what my wife feels like it is, so maybe the term is appropriate.
The next question is the biggie: Do we want to know the sex of the baby?
This is the money question and the one I have been working on my wife for 2 straight months. I have asked her this question daily. I have hoped to wear her down by now. Every night before we go to bed I ask it. Sometimes when she says no I let it go and just resume the plan. Sometimes I pout and sometimes I argue. It’s a multi fascinated strategy that is meant to wear down my wife’s resolve.
I have even recruited the nurses, who usually love me. I joke around with them, am very appreciative because no one makes your life easier than a nurse, trust me and have offered bribes. Several of them like my wife’s purse, which is some designer brand that I can’t remember. I have promised this purse to whichever nurse can convince my wife to get the sex of the baby. I am not above bending the rules, Hippa can suck it. But I can’t find out without my wife. We are a family and this is something a family does together. Hossman Principle #1—never go against the family Frado.
I immediately answer “YES!” as my last ditch effort to change her mind. It’s like when they pass a bill in the Senate and some jackass adds a 4 million dollar onion museum grant in there at the last minute. No one will notice.
I am awaiting the filibuster when she looks at me and says yes to. I am overjoyed but I can’t help but think that she had always wanted this and has spent the last two months jerking my chain. But screw it, what do I care. If she got some entertainment out of it, so be it. I get to find the sex of my baby.
I am honestly open to either one. I know that is what parents are expected to say, again to not jinx the whole thing. But the first time around I wanted a son. Not that I don’t love my daughter, but I was 99% sure that I would be to rough on a daughter and wouldn’t be able to treat her as sweetly as she deserves. So the son would have been the guinea pig. As it turns out, my daughter has whipped me into shape and now I am nothing but a big softie when it comes to her.
The doc starts routing around with the magic wand that is the sonogram. He is going fast. The advice I give to all other parents is this: do not be intimidated by the doctor. You are paying for this shit so make him stop and smell the roses whenever the hell you feel like it. If he complains, tell him he’s fired and bring in someone else.
I make him count each individual finger and toe and make sure he points out each one to me. He normally does this, but we did it Sesame street style. One little finger, hahaha, Two little fingers, hahaha, and so on until I was sure that I could see and count each individual digit.
I had a check list in my head of the things that I wanted to see. It may sound morbid, but damit if we weren’t going to check all these things like it was preschool counting class. 2 kidneys, 1 heart, a brain, spinal cord, liver, 2 lungs, spleen, big intestine, small intestine, everything.
My kiddo has everything and we checked every single one. I know he wanted to just fly through this and then give the customary “it’s fine” response. Listen bub, I will give the “it’s fine” response when I know that it’s fine.
I give him the thumbs up when everything is “fine”.
Now for the big lookie lou. Penis or Vagina. The General or the Tweeter. Let’s have a look.
He scrolls down and starts shoving on my wife’s stomach. He is trying to get a different angle and it is taking some time. I find myself rooting for him. I want to make him a little sign that says “Doctor #1” and then cheer from the nosebleeds. I want to promise him a new contract, hookers and blow if he can get this done.
So then he gets the money shot. He moves it around a little more. I can’t see shit, TELL ME!
And we are having…………………………………………………….
We don’t know. For the love of God we don’t know. It turns out that my future child had the umbilical cord between his legs and it wouldn’t move. The doc couldn’t see if we were a football or a Barbie. SHIT SHIT SHIT. I have been thwarted from on high. 2 months of work down the tubes because now my wife is thinking that since we don’t already know, we might as well wait it out.
So maybe I won’t know who’s behind the curtain until the big day afterall. In the meantime, I’m buying an equal number of baseball gloves and ballerina outfits. But since my wife did say yes, I owe a nurse a 400 dollar purse. Donations welcome.