Are parents really judged by how their children act? Are you personally judged by the intelligence of your offspring. That is what was going through my mind as my daughter starting picking her nose right in the middle of story time.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if we were in the back or if she was near me so that I could at least put a stop to it. But no, because fate likes to play games with me, she was at the very front of the group watching the teacher read a book. And she was standing. And she was laughing very loud. And I was a good 15 feet away from her.
It was right in the middle of the story so I was trying to make as little disturbance as I could so that I wouldn’t have 20 toddlers and their parents throwing arts and crafts supplies at my head. There is nothing worse than getting speared in the eye by a gluestick.
When she first entered the nasal area I politely, in a very quiet whisper said “Little Hoss! Little Hoss! Look over here! Get your finger out of your nose!” I felt a little like Steve Martin in Three Amigos yelling “WHIPPERWILL!”
She promptly ignored me and then started to twirl in a circle right when Harry the Ghost checked under his bed for monsters. There were no monsters of course under Harrys bed. However, to those immediately around me, I had just laid claim to the child in the front who was now proceeding to her second knuckle in her quest to determine exactly how far back her brain was situated in her head.
I heard several of the parents close to me begin to chuckle a little bit, almost the snide smirk you might hear as if they are thinking “He’s a parent of that nose picker!” And I know what they were thinking. Somewhere along the way someone had to teach this kid to pick her nose because obviously she was no rookie at it. And if someone had to teach her, well, it had to be good old dad who I’m sure they also believe farts at the dinner table while making crude gestures at Baywatch girls.
I can take most judgment thrown my way, especially by other parents. As a stay at home dad, you run into a lot of people that just don’t get what you do, why you do it or the fact that you are indeed no pedophile but just want to spend time with your kids. But I also realize that the way my kid is perceived as far as intelligence goes and manners is a direct reflection on my abilities as a stay at home dad. And not just me, but every stay at home dad everywhere. This was a direct assault on all of us and our way of life.
It was with this motivation in mind that I began frantically waving my arms trying to get my daughters attention each time her twirl brought me into her field of view. If you slowed down footage from my montage of waving arms and contorted faces you can very plainly see me spelling out with my gestures “For the Love of God quit picking your nose! People are watching!”
Of course having Bubba Hoss in my arms during this time probably messed up the delivery a little bit but at least he was having a good time and started to clap every time that I waved my arms. Good times, let’s play the game “shame” with father.
She finally stopped twirling about the time that Harry the Ghost was checking behind the shower curtain for monsters and then promptly began jumping up and down instead, further driving her finger up her nose. Honestly, half the damn finger was up there and I began to wonder if there was any stopping this destruction of her nasal cavity short of me throwing Bubba Hoss at her head and knocking her unconscious.
I also realized that I had lost my little game and it was time to change strategy to “Who’s kid is that?” Rather than calling attention to myself, I decided to shut it down and just let nature take its course. Eventually she would dig out whatever it was she was searching for and this would be over. Until then, I would sit quietly in the back of the class and begin counting the number of fibers in my shoe laces. After all, only a handful of people around me knew that it was my kid, there was no need to inform the rest of the class.
I know that it’s the coward’s way out, that I should have not only not ignored my daughter but proudly proclaim that the champion nose picker that was on display was my flesh and blood. But I also know that I have taken the brunt of a lot of things like this and I didn’t see the harm of letting this one fall completely on her shoulders for a change.
We have ruined movies, we have destroyed nice restaurant meals and I’m pretty sure that every person at the zoo hates us for ignoring all the “don’t feed the animals” signs. I’m sure that those squirrel like creatures are supposed to weigh a good 200 pounds and suffer from diabetes and congestive heart failure. What do you want us to do, she’s 2 and can’t read.
So this time, fuck it, pick away kiddo. If you are going to make a display, make it a good one. Good old dad is just going to sit back here and enjoy the show with the rest of the crowd.
When Harry the Ghost finally found the monster in the mirror Little Hoss finally extracted her finger and relief swept over me until I saw the huge mucus colored booger hanging off her finger.
“Dear god, please don’t eat it. Please don’t eat it. Please don’t eat it.” That was my mantra.
To my ever loving delight she looked at it, turned it around a few times and then wiped it on her jacket.
That’s right, I’m the proud father of a nose picker. But I’m not the father of a booger eater!
Victory is mine.
10/28/08
10/26/08
The Evolution of Hoss
I have spent a lot of the last six months trying to determine what kind of blog this is. Am I stay at home dad blogger, a blogger that just tries to be funny, or a blogger that secretly thinks that I am the only rational man in the world.
I have come to the conclusion that although this blog may be all of those things to a certain extent, what this blog has really turned out to be is a chronicle of how I am growing old. How my hipness is gone and how I have become completely out of touch with the world in general.
One moment I am a young hip guy feeling very comfortable with technology. I could work any program and I would judge those who couldn’t, often wondering how they survived on this planet by only knowing how to rub sticks together for fire. Any piece of technology I would embrace believing that at any moment someone would invent a robot named Hal and in no time we would have robot hookers flying in hover cars.
What becoming a father has really done is to age me, terribly. I no longer keep up with any new gadgets other than any advancements in diaper stink technology, I would be all over that.
Not only do I not own an Iphone, I don’t even want one. I just don’t see the point. I don’t have a need to browse the web enough to own one. I have an Ipod but sometimes I think only because my old walkman will no longer work. I don’t text all that much, I have no desire to learn HTML or Java which my wife tells me could be useful and I didn’t want a MySpace or face book page.
But as I sit here with my hand hurting from an old football injury in the past century, don’t you know, I was thrust into the world of Face book but not because I really wanted one.
An old employee sent me an invite to visit her face book page so that I could see what she was up to and write her a letter of recommendation. She is 26. That’s only 7 years younger than me but the difference is startling, even to me.
So I called my wife over, who is up to date on all this new fangled stuff, and created my own page. Now I am terrified. I am terrified like an old gold prospector hermit living in the hills, only coming down to talk with people when I need to trade skins and get some fire water.
As soon as I built it, I was pretty sure I regretted it. All of a sudden, my isolation and anonymity seemed to disappear. Within a couple of days I was getting friend requests from half my high school class. And I will be completely honest with you, I had no idea who the freaking hell these people were. I got friend requests from people that I haven’t heard from in a good 20 years.
It started to freak me out. Why do these people want to talk to me? I miss being the digital hermit, just a little. I want to go back to my shack and write letters to no one in particular but I think it’s to late for that.
And I totally don’t get any of this. Reading my wife’s site and others, I just don’t get it. I see a bunch of posts such as “I need to remember next time to mix peppers with my enchiladas………..” There was a ton of stuff like that. Not to harp on people’s writing skills or lives, but dude, that’s pretty boring stuff. “Johnny is tired of studying…..” etc, etc, etc. Um, ok. Then stop studying, It’s not that hard.
I began to sound like my dad, which also shows my age a little. Put down the computer and go out and get some fresh air. Then get a haircut and a job.
My wife had to explain the concept of “Twittering” to me. I still don’t fucking get it. You mean people just randomly write stuff like this all day on their pages and people read this? Why is my blog not kicking the shit out of everything else published, I have no idea. I tell a story here. I have hero, he does stuff, stuff happens. I’m a god damn internet Charles Dickens compared to what I have read. I usually have a plot that ends with me learning some kind of lesson. Seriously, why am I not getting paid for this.
And what was my thought when Hossmom explained “Twittering” to me.
Twitter = Twit.
I’ll be honest, that’s what popped in my head.
How can I be only 33 and so out of touch with all this and so blissfully out of touch? Because I have turned into my dad. I watch a good hour of CNN every morning while I get the kids ready for our day. I watch Hardball for Christ sake. If I am in the car, it’s either sports radio or some political talk radio. I actually know who most of the people in the President’s cabinet are. I scare myself, but not as much as Facebook scares me.
The final deathblow that makes me want to return to my cave and career of hide tanning was that Hossmom saw that my old girlfriend was on Facebook and that we could all be “friends.”
No fucking way. If you have read my blog, you will know that I think that my old flame is as close to pure evil as is possible on our plane of existence and it concerns me that the administrators will let Evil move around their domain so easily without being checked. Come on, let’s at least have some holy water sprinkled and garlic strung around our keyboards. Constant viligence people, constant viligence.
What if she see’s my name and sends me a message? I have already started buying plywood to bolt over the windows, but I don’t that would be enough to keep the gang banging champion of 1995 out. I know that it’s a silly belief but one that I am having problems overcoming.
The Facebook page remains and perhaps one day I will understand it more. For the time being, it remains blank of twittering, whatever the hell that is, and I will continue to wait for the robots and hover cars, at which point I will emerge from my bomb shelter to determine if the world has improved at all.
I have come to the conclusion that although this blog may be all of those things to a certain extent, what this blog has really turned out to be is a chronicle of how I am growing old. How my hipness is gone and how I have become completely out of touch with the world in general.
One moment I am a young hip guy feeling very comfortable with technology. I could work any program and I would judge those who couldn’t, often wondering how they survived on this planet by only knowing how to rub sticks together for fire. Any piece of technology I would embrace believing that at any moment someone would invent a robot named Hal and in no time we would have robot hookers flying in hover cars.
What becoming a father has really done is to age me, terribly. I no longer keep up with any new gadgets other than any advancements in diaper stink technology, I would be all over that.
Not only do I not own an Iphone, I don’t even want one. I just don’t see the point. I don’t have a need to browse the web enough to own one. I have an Ipod but sometimes I think only because my old walkman will no longer work. I don’t text all that much, I have no desire to learn HTML or Java which my wife tells me could be useful and I didn’t want a MySpace or face book page.
But as I sit here with my hand hurting from an old football injury in the past century, don’t you know, I was thrust into the world of Face book but not because I really wanted one.
An old employee sent me an invite to visit her face book page so that I could see what she was up to and write her a letter of recommendation. She is 26. That’s only 7 years younger than me but the difference is startling, even to me.
So I called my wife over, who is up to date on all this new fangled stuff, and created my own page. Now I am terrified. I am terrified like an old gold prospector hermit living in the hills, only coming down to talk with people when I need to trade skins and get some fire water.
As soon as I built it, I was pretty sure I regretted it. All of a sudden, my isolation and anonymity seemed to disappear. Within a couple of days I was getting friend requests from half my high school class. And I will be completely honest with you, I had no idea who the freaking hell these people were. I got friend requests from people that I haven’t heard from in a good 20 years.
It started to freak me out. Why do these people want to talk to me? I miss being the digital hermit, just a little. I want to go back to my shack and write letters to no one in particular but I think it’s to late for that.
And I totally don’t get any of this. Reading my wife’s site and others, I just don’t get it. I see a bunch of posts such as “I need to remember next time to mix peppers with my enchiladas………..” There was a ton of stuff like that. Not to harp on people’s writing skills or lives, but dude, that’s pretty boring stuff. “Johnny is tired of studying…..” etc, etc, etc. Um, ok. Then stop studying, It’s not that hard.
I began to sound like my dad, which also shows my age a little. Put down the computer and go out and get some fresh air. Then get a haircut and a job.
My wife had to explain the concept of “Twittering” to me. I still don’t fucking get it. You mean people just randomly write stuff like this all day on their pages and people read this? Why is my blog not kicking the shit out of everything else published, I have no idea. I tell a story here. I have hero, he does stuff, stuff happens. I’m a god damn internet Charles Dickens compared to what I have read. I usually have a plot that ends with me learning some kind of lesson. Seriously, why am I not getting paid for this.
And what was my thought when Hossmom explained “Twittering” to me.
Twitter = Twit.
I’ll be honest, that’s what popped in my head.
How can I be only 33 and so out of touch with all this and so blissfully out of touch? Because I have turned into my dad. I watch a good hour of CNN every morning while I get the kids ready for our day. I watch Hardball for Christ sake. If I am in the car, it’s either sports radio or some political talk radio. I actually know who most of the people in the President’s cabinet are. I scare myself, but not as much as Facebook scares me.
The final deathblow that makes me want to return to my cave and career of hide tanning was that Hossmom saw that my old girlfriend was on Facebook and that we could all be “friends.”
No fucking way. If you have read my blog, you will know that I think that my old flame is as close to pure evil as is possible on our plane of existence and it concerns me that the administrators will let Evil move around their domain so easily without being checked. Come on, let’s at least have some holy water sprinkled and garlic strung around our keyboards. Constant viligence people, constant viligence.
What if she see’s my name and sends me a message? I have already started buying plywood to bolt over the windows, but I don’t that would be enough to keep the gang banging champion of 1995 out. I know that it’s a silly belief but one that I am having problems overcoming.
The Facebook page remains and perhaps one day I will understand it more. For the time being, it remains blank of twittering, whatever the hell that is, and I will continue to wait for the robots and hover cars, at which point I will emerge from my bomb shelter to determine if the world has improved at all.
10/15/08
To Leer or Not to Leer
I work out at the gym three days a week, but not for the reason you think. I go because it’s the only place I can take a shower where someone isn’t throwing open the curtain and saying “Look, Daddy’s junk!”
Junk is obviously what my daughter calls a penis. Family members think that I should have not taught her that term and instead just called it a penis. Hey, I’m sorry, I just can’t get past my 2 year old daughter saying “Penis”. It creeps me out. At least this way, she will always stay away from a guys junk because it’s dirty and nasty and holding hands gets you pregnant. I have done my job as a father.
Of course I get the health benefits of working out—better heart, losing weight, and that’s all great. But it doesn’t beat the fact that I get to take a 15 minute solo shower with absolutely no one screaming in the background because Blue’s Clues needs to be restarted. I am starting to hate that fucking dog.
I am under strict orders not to do any power lifting by my doctor. Apparently he thinks that my bulk is just fine and I should probably lose some of said bulk for the health of puny guys everywhere. So I go on the elliptical machine and do the cardio workouts. If you have never seen a 250 pound man working the dire straights of balance and rhythm, it’s the 8th wonder of the world.
I set my machine up right in front of TV number 6 because this is the news channel that I watch while huffing it to the tunes of Metallica, AC/DC and the awesomeness of Faith No More. To my left is TV number 5 which carries SportCenter and to my left is TV number 7 which carries yet another news station. Not on any of the 3000 TV’s in the entire gym is Blues Clues or Backyardigans.
And it was on this machine that I found myself with a lady came right up and started to use the machine to my immediate left. I found this odd because there were plenty of machines and I felt a bit crowded. Isn’t there some sort of gym etiquette that states that you should give me my space because you creep me out? I stink, I’m sweating and I’m sure there are a few grunted cusswords coming from my mouth that you don’t want to hear as my calf tightens up. I am a mullet and a Winger T-Shirt away from being that guy, please stay away.
At about this same time, ESPN started doing their weekend football review which naturally captured my attention. So I turned my head and began to watch. After about a minute, the lady on my left looked over at me. I could see her from the corner of my eye. No big deal, I am eye candy. I continued to watch the football.
Another 30 seconds, she looked over again. After another 20, another look. She did this about 4 times as I continued to workout and watch Sportscenter. It got so I started to wonder if I had boogers snorting out of me.
Then she stopped in the middle of her workout, after only about 5 minutes, almost huffed, and walked away to my right. She went about 6 machines down.
Did she think I was checking her out? Is she under the impression that I was watching her boobs bounce and was contemplating using her in a future fantasy? In short, does she think I am infact the mullet wearing Winger T-shirt guy?
I gotta tell you, I’m a little offended. First off, she wasn’t hot. She was alright but nothing that would make me take up and notice. Second, the strip aerobics class is right across from where I work out and when my eyes do wander, that’s where they usually end up, right at the hip thrust, foot slide portion. It’s nice.
So what I’m saying basically is that yes, I have leered at the gym before. I have leered and leered hard. If she would have caught me actually leering then I suppose I would have been ok. But she didn’t. It’s like I was a criminal that was wrongfully convicted of the wrong crime when I have done plenty of other crimes.
But since I get to offer a defense, this is America, let me give you this to ponder. If you wear a G-String leotard, then you want to be stared at. You don’t wear that for comfort and you don’t wear that because it’s good workout clothes. You wear that because you have a rocking ass.
So I am a little offended to be judged for something that I haven’t done, at least not this time. And let me remind you that you came up to me to workout, not the other way around. I was just watching sportscenter, seriously man, just a little sportscenter.
I finished my workout and in her mind, stalked away like a stalking stalker. I took my awesome shower, shaved and went to get the kids from the gym daycare. Look lady, I have kids, I’m not a bad guy.
But before I go I got to make a pitstop by the strip aerobics class.
Junk is obviously what my daughter calls a penis. Family members think that I should have not taught her that term and instead just called it a penis. Hey, I’m sorry, I just can’t get past my 2 year old daughter saying “Penis”. It creeps me out. At least this way, she will always stay away from a guys junk because it’s dirty and nasty and holding hands gets you pregnant. I have done my job as a father.
Of course I get the health benefits of working out—better heart, losing weight, and that’s all great. But it doesn’t beat the fact that I get to take a 15 minute solo shower with absolutely no one screaming in the background because Blue’s Clues needs to be restarted. I am starting to hate that fucking dog.
I am under strict orders not to do any power lifting by my doctor. Apparently he thinks that my bulk is just fine and I should probably lose some of said bulk for the health of puny guys everywhere. So I go on the elliptical machine and do the cardio workouts. If you have never seen a 250 pound man working the dire straights of balance and rhythm, it’s the 8th wonder of the world.
I set my machine up right in front of TV number 6 because this is the news channel that I watch while huffing it to the tunes of Metallica, AC/DC and the awesomeness of Faith No More. To my left is TV number 5 which carries SportCenter and to my left is TV number 7 which carries yet another news station. Not on any of the 3000 TV’s in the entire gym is Blues Clues or Backyardigans.
And it was on this machine that I found myself with a lady came right up and started to use the machine to my immediate left. I found this odd because there were plenty of machines and I felt a bit crowded. Isn’t there some sort of gym etiquette that states that you should give me my space because you creep me out? I stink, I’m sweating and I’m sure there are a few grunted cusswords coming from my mouth that you don’t want to hear as my calf tightens up. I am a mullet and a Winger T-Shirt away from being that guy, please stay away.
At about this same time, ESPN started doing their weekend football review which naturally captured my attention. So I turned my head and began to watch. After about a minute, the lady on my left looked over at me. I could see her from the corner of my eye. No big deal, I am eye candy. I continued to watch the football.
Another 30 seconds, she looked over again. After another 20, another look. She did this about 4 times as I continued to workout and watch Sportscenter. It got so I started to wonder if I had boogers snorting out of me.
Then she stopped in the middle of her workout, after only about 5 minutes, almost huffed, and walked away to my right. She went about 6 machines down.
Did she think I was checking her out? Is she under the impression that I was watching her boobs bounce and was contemplating using her in a future fantasy? In short, does she think I am infact the mullet wearing Winger T-shirt guy?
I gotta tell you, I’m a little offended. First off, she wasn’t hot. She was alright but nothing that would make me take up and notice. Second, the strip aerobics class is right across from where I work out and when my eyes do wander, that’s where they usually end up, right at the hip thrust, foot slide portion. It’s nice.
So what I’m saying basically is that yes, I have leered at the gym before. I have leered and leered hard. If she would have caught me actually leering then I suppose I would have been ok. But she didn’t. It’s like I was a criminal that was wrongfully convicted of the wrong crime when I have done plenty of other crimes.
But since I get to offer a defense, this is America, let me give you this to ponder. If you wear a G-String leotard, then you want to be stared at. You don’t wear that for comfort and you don’t wear that because it’s good workout clothes. You wear that because you have a rocking ass.
So I am a little offended to be judged for something that I haven’t done, at least not this time. And let me remind you that you came up to me to workout, not the other way around. I was just watching sportscenter, seriously man, just a little sportscenter.
I finished my workout and in her mind, stalked away like a stalking stalker. I took my awesome shower, shaved and went to get the kids from the gym daycare. Look lady, I have kids, I’m not a bad guy.
But before I go I got to make a pitstop by the strip aerobics class.
10/13/08
Explain this to me
I'm posting this as a serious question, because I have no fucking idea.
Gas prices are based on a large part on oil prices. Today, gas in my area is around 2.83. Oil prices are about 81 bucks as of today. Ok, keep all that in mind.
Here is my question. When oil prices were at thier high (147), gas was around 4.00 bucks a gallon. So it would only make sense that if the oil price dropped by half, then shouldn't gas be a little more than 2 bucks right now? I mean, fucking seriously, am I missing something here.
If I did my math right, and there is an excellent chance that I didn't, oil prices have dropped about 44 % but gas prices have dropped only 29%. How the fuck is that?
That just doesn't make sense to me, not at all. I'm telling you, gas should be around 2 bucks and I'm pretty pissed off about that because we are all being taken for a big fucking ride. I told my wife this when gas was 4 bucks a gallon. I said there is no way we will ever go back to a 1.20 for a gallon of gas.
Why should they? We'll all just be so happy that we are not paying 4 bucks anymore that 2.83 will look like a god damn T-bone steak and we'll never question it.
I call complete bullshit on this. And don't give me the excuse that gas is still high because this is what they have already paid for it. Tough shit because we all know that if oil prices go up tomorrow, within hours the gas at the pumps will go up as well. So if you are telling me that you already paid for this gas, then by that logic, that price should be locked in until you buy your next tanker of fuel. Until then, tough shit, quit trying to screw over the regular guy.
But it doesn't work that way. They are quick to raise the price and slow to lower it. And we get screwed. I know that this isn't my normal blog, but this has been grating on me for a while.
This is really what gets me. Gas is a commodity that we cannot do without. It's like electricity or natural gas for heating our homes. We cannot do without these things. We cannot decide, hey, fuck it, I'm not going to drive anymore. Sure, we could bike it but have you ever tried to ride a bike 30 miles on the freeway? Good luck. Public transportatoin is non exsistant in the suburbs as well.
And don't give me that free market right to choose bullshit. All the gas stations are always within a cent of eachother so there is no real choice here. That's why it's bullshit.
I know I'm ranting but bum fucking christ, how is this ok. I'm really asking here.
Gas prices are based on a large part on oil prices. Today, gas in my area is around 2.83. Oil prices are about 81 bucks as of today. Ok, keep all that in mind.
Here is my question. When oil prices were at thier high (147), gas was around 4.00 bucks a gallon. So it would only make sense that if the oil price dropped by half, then shouldn't gas be a little more than 2 bucks right now? I mean, fucking seriously, am I missing something here.
If I did my math right, and there is an excellent chance that I didn't, oil prices have dropped about 44 % but gas prices have dropped only 29%. How the fuck is that?
That just doesn't make sense to me, not at all. I'm telling you, gas should be around 2 bucks and I'm pretty pissed off about that because we are all being taken for a big fucking ride. I told my wife this when gas was 4 bucks a gallon. I said there is no way we will ever go back to a 1.20 for a gallon of gas.
Why should they? We'll all just be so happy that we are not paying 4 bucks anymore that 2.83 will look like a god damn T-bone steak and we'll never question it.
I call complete bullshit on this. And don't give me the excuse that gas is still high because this is what they have already paid for it. Tough shit because we all know that if oil prices go up tomorrow, within hours the gas at the pumps will go up as well. So if you are telling me that you already paid for this gas, then by that logic, that price should be locked in until you buy your next tanker of fuel. Until then, tough shit, quit trying to screw over the regular guy.
But it doesn't work that way. They are quick to raise the price and slow to lower it. And we get screwed. I know that this isn't my normal blog, but this has been grating on me for a while.
This is really what gets me. Gas is a commodity that we cannot do without. It's like electricity or natural gas for heating our homes. We cannot do without these things. We cannot decide, hey, fuck it, I'm not going to drive anymore. Sure, we could bike it but have you ever tried to ride a bike 30 miles on the freeway? Good luck. Public transportatoin is non exsistant in the suburbs as well.
And don't give me that free market right to choose bullshit. All the gas stations are always within a cent of eachother so there is no real choice here. That's why it's bullshit.
I know I'm ranting but bum fucking christ, how is this ok. I'm really asking here.
10/8/08
Judge Me, I don't care.
See that baby bottle on the counter. That has been there for two days. For two straight days I have stared at it until I have come to believe that it is more than just a bottle, it is an idol that I worship. An idol that is cemented to the countertop by old baby formula which is stronger than industrial glue. It will take a chisel, a hammer and several shirtless hours of glistening muscle to undo it. I could do it. I could ravage the idol and restore domestic bliss to my household. And yet, I won’t do it for reasons unknown, even to me.
That 409 bottle on top of the fridge might help, but then again, probably not. Mainly because there is only the slightest amount of actual cleaner left in there. The rest of the bottle is actually filled with water. That way if some unforeseen guest decides to check on my 409 stockpile, they will be fooled into thinking that I do clean on a regular basis. There is only enough 409 in that bottle to give you the fragrance of clean summer days but not to actually do anything. It takes real work to be this deceiving.
Little Hoss is sitting in front of the TV for the last hour with no underwear on. I had enough of changing 2 sets of diapers so we had a boot camp style potty training, complete with pushups and running up hills for conditioning. 4 days of PT and she finally got the hint. You go potty in the potty and you get candy. By the 4th day, she started giving me candy every time I took a leak. It worked, my awesomeness prevails. However, I did not realize that the true challenge would come after she was done. For some reason, she doesn’t like to wear her underwear a good 60% of the day. I’m tired and have given up the fight. Therefore, we watch Blue’s Clues naked. We call it Naked Blue Time. I admit, it can be quite fun until someone comes to the door.
My son’s shirt has a mixture of snot, formula and dog slobber on it. It has ceased to be a shirt and instead has turned into a grand work of Abstract art. As an artist, he seems very protective of his creative time and refuses to allow me to take the shirt off until he completes the tree by the lake, at least that is what he tells me in the looks of death he gives me every time I try to remove the shirt. It’s a happy tree though, a very happy tree.
For my working readers, let me explain this week to you in a way that you can comprehend. Let’s say that you are at work and your boss gives you a project. That project involves something in the nature of teaching deaf skunks to tap dance. Of course you don’t want to do the project so you just kind of sit back on it, waiting to be inspired. Then, right when you feel inspired, your cube mate comes over and takes a shit on the floor and you are no longer inspired. In fact, you want to do nothing anymore but sit in your chair contemplate why Tetris is so awesome.
That’s basically the best way I can explain this week to you. Everything was fine a while ago. The house was clean, the kids were clean, I was showered, it was all good. The only problem we had was that Bubba Hoss had a little diaper rash. So I let him run around without a diaper for about 3 minutes.
It would have been longer but then he took a big huge shit on the floor and thus we had to put a diaper on. You think that I would have been smarter than this. Hell, I think I would have been smarter than this. But I put it to you, this was a conspiracy to break my will and it has worked.
I got a phone call and like an idiot I answered it. I should have ignored it, I know, but I didn’t. I was on the phone for less than 3 seconds when my daughter came up to me and said “Daddy, poo poo on floor.” Surely she is mistaken. After all, she is only 2 and has trouble with the English language. She still calls lawnmowers vacuum cleaners.
I walked over and yup, bubba hoss had taken a crap on the floor and was playing with it. In his little fists of fury he had two clay like turds and was laughing as he squeezed them and they came squirting out of his little fingers. He planed this. He waited until I was distracted and then laid a deuce on the floor, and played in it, and smeared it around. Just to see me break. Just to see my will snap like a twig under the foot of a rhino.
I abruptly ended my conversation on the phone by telling the person the truth, my son has laid a cow pie and my attentions were needed elsewhere.
The bathtub is upstairs and the thought of caring him through the house dripping poop did not appeal to me, so we made it to the sink instead. I will admit, I considered dunking him in the toilet but after further consideration I decided that Hossmom would kill me. Not that the sink was much better, that is where a lot of food goes.
For the next 30 minutes I attempted to try and get poop out of places that poop is not supposed to be. Underneath finger nails, in-between toes, everywhere. And I’ll admit it, I washed my kid with Dawn dishwashing soap. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have Dove handy at the moment as we normally don’t take baths by the sink.
I installed the garbage disposal myself and I think you may be happy to know that it does a fantastic job on poop as well as leftovers. A good half gallon of bleach and I declared my sink sanitary as soon as the little person comes and declares This Sink is Clean.
And then for the next 2 hours I tried to get crap stains out of the carpet. Nothing works by the way. It still has a slight green tint to it in several places. I’m sure it smells but the chemicals that I have used and devastated any scent receptors that I may have had. While I was doing this Little Hoss was in the background laughing manically, like she just put a bomb on a bus that couldn’t drop below 55, constantly saying “Daddy being silly!” Yes honey, I’m as silly as a mad hater at a sewage tea party.
And so, for the last several days, I have decided that I am a broken man. I have actually uttered the phrase “rub some dirt on it” at least 3 times today and meant it. I have no doubt that I will get back on my game. But until then we will worship the bottle on the counter and call it Steve.
That 409 bottle on top of the fridge might help, but then again, probably not. Mainly because there is only the slightest amount of actual cleaner left in there. The rest of the bottle is actually filled with water. That way if some unforeseen guest decides to check on my 409 stockpile, they will be fooled into thinking that I do clean on a regular basis. There is only enough 409 in that bottle to give you the fragrance of clean summer days but not to actually do anything. It takes real work to be this deceiving.
Little Hoss is sitting in front of the TV for the last hour with no underwear on. I had enough of changing 2 sets of diapers so we had a boot camp style potty training, complete with pushups and running up hills for conditioning. 4 days of PT and she finally got the hint. You go potty in the potty and you get candy. By the 4th day, she started giving me candy every time I took a leak. It worked, my awesomeness prevails. However, I did not realize that the true challenge would come after she was done. For some reason, she doesn’t like to wear her underwear a good 60% of the day. I’m tired and have given up the fight. Therefore, we watch Blue’s Clues naked. We call it Naked Blue Time. I admit, it can be quite fun until someone comes to the door.
My son’s shirt has a mixture of snot, formula and dog slobber on it. It has ceased to be a shirt and instead has turned into a grand work of Abstract art. As an artist, he seems very protective of his creative time and refuses to allow me to take the shirt off until he completes the tree by the lake, at least that is what he tells me in the looks of death he gives me every time I try to remove the shirt. It’s a happy tree though, a very happy tree.
For my working readers, let me explain this week to you in a way that you can comprehend. Let’s say that you are at work and your boss gives you a project. That project involves something in the nature of teaching deaf skunks to tap dance. Of course you don’t want to do the project so you just kind of sit back on it, waiting to be inspired. Then, right when you feel inspired, your cube mate comes over and takes a shit on the floor and you are no longer inspired. In fact, you want to do nothing anymore but sit in your chair contemplate why Tetris is so awesome.
That’s basically the best way I can explain this week to you. Everything was fine a while ago. The house was clean, the kids were clean, I was showered, it was all good. The only problem we had was that Bubba Hoss had a little diaper rash. So I let him run around without a diaper for about 3 minutes.
It would have been longer but then he took a big huge shit on the floor and thus we had to put a diaper on. You think that I would have been smarter than this. Hell, I think I would have been smarter than this. But I put it to you, this was a conspiracy to break my will and it has worked.
I got a phone call and like an idiot I answered it. I should have ignored it, I know, but I didn’t. I was on the phone for less than 3 seconds when my daughter came up to me and said “Daddy, poo poo on floor.” Surely she is mistaken. After all, she is only 2 and has trouble with the English language. She still calls lawnmowers vacuum cleaners.
I walked over and yup, bubba hoss had taken a crap on the floor and was playing with it. In his little fists of fury he had two clay like turds and was laughing as he squeezed them and they came squirting out of his little fingers. He planed this. He waited until I was distracted and then laid a deuce on the floor, and played in it, and smeared it around. Just to see me break. Just to see my will snap like a twig under the foot of a rhino.
I abruptly ended my conversation on the phone by telling the person the truth, my son has laid a cow pie and my attentions were needed elsewhere.
The bathtub is upstairs and the thought of caring him through the house dripping poop did not appeal to me, so we made it to the sink instead. I will admit, I considered dunking him in the toilet but after further consideration I decided that Hossmom would kill me. Not that the sink was much better, that is where a lot of food goes.
For the next 30 minutes I attempted to try and get poop out of places that poop is not supposed to be. Underneath finger nails, in-between toes, everywhere. And I’ll admit it, I washed my kid with Dawn dishwashing soap. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have Dove handy at the moment as we normally don’t take baths by the sink.
I installed the garbage disposal myself and I think you may be happy to know that it does a fantastic job on poop as well as leftovers. A good half gallon of bleach and I declared my sink sanitary as soon as the little person comes and declares This Sink is Clean.
And then for the next 2 hours I tried to get crap stains out of the carpet. Nothing works by the way. It still has a slight green tint to it in several places. I’m sure it smells but the chemicals that I have used and devastated any scent receptors that I may have had. While I was doing this Little Hoss was in the background laughing manically, like she just put a bomb on a bus that couldn’t drop below 55, constantly saying “Daddy being silly!” Yes honey, I’m as silly as a mad hater at a sewage tea party.
And so, for the last several days, I have decided that I am a broken man. I have actually uttered the phrase “rub some dirt on it” at least 3 times today and meant it. I have no doubt that I will get back on my game. But until then we will worship the bottle on the counter and call it Steve.
During the Debates
This was our basic reaction after the debate was done. Seriously, talking points do not equal a debate.
My Friend
Is anyone else tired of hearing the term "My Friend" from McCain? It sounds like he is trying to sell me a time share.
Listen, my friend, this is a deal of a life time. My friend, wouldn't you and your family like to vacation here, my friend, and own it for 2 weeks? My friend, you cannot pass up this opportunity! My friend, supplies are limited and this won't be available for long. Listen, my friend, I've got a lot hot offers on this little hot property, my friend.
Seriously man, it's starting to really bug me.
Listen, my friend, this is a deal of a life time. My friend, wouldn't you and your family like to vacation here, my friend, and own it for 2 weeks? My friend, you cannot pass up this opportunity! My friend, supplies are limited and this won't be available for long. Listen, my friend, I've got a lot hot offers on this little hot property, my friend.
Seriously man, it's starting to really bug me.
10/6/08
The Diner Party
Please, come and Join our Dinner PartyHossmom came home the other day and let me know that she was going to be late this week because she had to wine and dine a client. They were going to have steak.
I gotta tell ya, I got a little jealous.
Being a stay at home dad, you do miss out on some stuff and up until now I haven’t felt any the worse for it. I don’t miss all the politics that you had to deal with. I don’t miss the cliques or the power struggles that you had to side step and I don’t miss a lot of the morons that promoted their equally unqualified friends. I don’t miss any of that.
But I do miss free food.
No, let me be more clear. I miss the free food that someone else cooks for you. I miss the free food that someone else cleans up after you. I miss the free food that does not go sailing passed my head courtesy of a 2 year old because lord fucking forbid if she eats a broccoli that I may or may not have hidden in her mac and cheese. I miss the free food where you get to actually eat the whole meal instead of getting up halfway to take someone to the potty only to turn your back to find a lost size 3 shoe and get sprayed with toilet water. And as you dance around with equal parts disgust and amazement that someone that young can move so fast, all of a sudden you are tapping your foot and making a gay move in the guy in the next stall.
I miss those things.
I try to be positive about it when this happens. I have my own “dinner meeting” with Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss. We get out the fancy chicken nuggets, the ones shaped like dinosaurs, and grape juice 2008, a great year. We discuss the events of the day, such as if Blue, from Blues Clues, is taking a big hit in the current market downturn as he seems to be heavily leveraged into securities at the moment. Afterwards we retire to the den and have cocktails of juice and perhaps an after dinner cookie.
Then Little Hoss hits her little brother and all hell breaks lose. That’s my dinner party.
And yeah, sometimes it gets to be a little crappy when Hossmom goes out into the real world and hobknobs with the bigshots while I’m home deciding if it counts as bath time if we had to use a lot of wet wipes that day.
So Hossmom went out and I had one request, just one. I thought it was a fair request. And don’t get me wrong, I love what I do but sometimes you do miss being able to go out to a restaurant and not have to worry about if the kids are going sing “Clementine” at the top of their lungs for the enjoyment of the other patrons.
So what was my request? Bring me home a steak. Bring me home a nice, big juicy steak. Medium cooked with a slight touch of garlic on it. Surely during the dinner, as she is feeding the highpriced clients bottles of wine, she can slip in an order for an extra steak. Why not?
Hossmom came home, the kids where in bed and I was eagerly waiting for my steak. But Hossmom didn’t have anything in her hand when she came home. Maybe she left it in the car?
Nope. No steak. Nothing.
When I inquired she stated that they decided to go for Italian instead. I ask you, how often do you have to go out to get tired of steak?
No worries, we have plenty of dinosaur Chicken Nuggets.
10/5/08
Joe Six Pack
Hi.
I’m Joe Six Pack and there has been a lot of talk about me this current election cycle. I mean seriously, there just appears to be a lot of attention coming my way. Trying to relate to me, trying to speak my lingo, trying to set me up some Hockey Mom Hooch.
Hey, I appreciate it. I really do. But in all fairness I really got to let you guys know that you should, you know, probably quit wasting your money. I know, it sounds weird. But your money would be better spent trying to actually fix shit and not trying to set up a lunch date with me in my trailer.
You see, Joe Six Pack don’t vote. I’ll say I’ll vote. I’ll even argue politics. But there is no way in hell that Joe Six Pack votes. Because on Nov 3rd, as is my custom, I will soon be trying to be Joe 12 Pack and if the cards stack up right, by the end of the night I will be Joe Keg-Stand.
Look, I know that you are trying to spend a lot of time trying to relate to me and my kind but you should really knock it off. All those “You Betcha”s and “Boy Howdy’s” just make you look stupid. Sure, I talk to my family that way but I don’t talk to my boss that way. When I’m out giving a speech to a lot of people I don’t add a drawl because I don’t want to sound stupid. Let’s face it, you are running for the highest office in the land not to be a Manager’s of Popyes. Unless you have the U.S.A. start serving taters with our foreign policy, seriously, knock it off.
And while I’m at it, I’ve got to insert a dude rule here for you. You can’t invent your own nickname then use your own nickname, ok there Castanza. If you want to be called the T-Bone Maverick, that’s fine but let other people do it. You come off a little desperate when you continuously refer to yourself that way. Unless you are P. Diddy, don’t do it.
I know that the message you are trying to come across with is that “Anyone Can Be President.” That may be so but let’s face it, not Anyone Should Be president. No fucking way. I myself am grossly unqualified to be president. If that should happen I guarantee that a slip and slide would be set up on the south lawn within a day and Secretary of state would be Larry Flint. When we decide to quit the war I’ll have my Hockey Mom wife contact the phone tree to let everyone know not to show up tomorrow. That’s my administration.
My point is, you should be exceptional in order to attain that office. I’ll make it easy for you. If you are the guy that goes to a casino and never leaves the BlackJack table, you should not be president. Our president should be the guy that goes straight to the high stakes poker room and then walks out an hour later with the owner of the casino comping him free hookers. That’s our man. We gotta have someone that can see and play all the angles.
I’m not saying that I’m a bad guy. I’m not even saying I’m a dumb guy. I’m just saying that there has to be people out there smarter and better than me to run this country. Let me focus on specializing my barbecue sauce and you guys focus on making sure my beer stays under 2 bucks a bottle. If you can do that, then we should be just fine. You Betcha.
I’m Joe Six Pack and there has been a lot of talk about me this current election cycle. I mean seriously, there just appears to be a lot of attention coming my way. Trying to relate to me, trying to speak my lingo, trying to set me up some Hockey Mom Hooch.
Hey, I appreciate it. I really do. But in all fairness I really got to let you guys know that you should, you know, probably quit wasting your money. I know, it sounds weird. But your money would be better spent trying to actually fix shit and not trying to set up a lunch date with me in my trailer.
You see, Joe Six Pack don’t vote. I’ll say I’ll vote. I’ll even argue politics. But there is no way in hell that Joe Six Pack votes. Because on Nov 3rd, as is my custom, I will soon be trying to be Joe 12 Pack and if the cards stack up right, by the end of the night I will be Joe Keg-Stand.
Look, I know that you are trying to spend a lot of time trying to relate to me and my kind but you should really knock it off. All those “You Betcha”s and “Boy Howdy’s” just make you look stupid. Sure, I talk to my family that way but I don’t talk to my boss that way. When I’m out giving a speech to a lot of people I don’t add a drawl because I don’t want to sound stupid. Let’s face it, you are running for the highest office in the land not to be a Manager’s of Popyes. Unless you have the U.S.A. start serving taters with our foreign policy, seriously, knock it off.
And while I’m at it, I’ve got to insert a dude rule here for you. You can’t invent your own nickname then use your own nickname, ok there Castanza. If you want to be called the T-Bone Maverick, that’s fine but let other people do it. You come off a little desperate when you continuously refer to yourself that way. Unless you are P. Diddy, don’t do it.
I know that the message you are trying to come across with is that “Anyone Can Be President.” That may be so but let’s face it, not Anyone Should Be president. No fucking way. I myself am grossly unqualified to be president. If that should happen I guarantee that a slip and slide would be set up on the south lawn within a day and Secretary of state would be Larry Flint. When we decide to quit the war I’ll have my Hockey Mom wife contact the phone tree to let everyone know not to show up tomorrow. That’s my administration.
My point is, you should be exceptional in order to attain that office. I’ll make it easy for you. If you are the guy that goes to a casino and never leaves the BlackJack table, you should not be president. Our president should be the guy that goes straight to the high stakes poker room and then walks out an hour later with the owner of the casino comping him free hookers. That’s our man. We gotta have someone that can see and play all the angles.
I’m not saying that I’m a bad guy. I’m not even saying I’m a dumb guy. I’m just saying that there has to be people out there smarter and better than me to run this country. Let me focus on specializing my barbecue sauce and you guys focus on making sure my beer stays under 2 bucks a bottle. If you can do that, then we should be just fine. You Betcha.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)