2/27/08

I'm a Bad Father

Ok, I did it. I admit it. I dropped off my kids at a daycare for 5 hours so I could do nothing more than be lazy.

And I don't feel the least bit bad about it. There was some guilt at first but I rationalized it to myself like all good parents do. I told myself that it was important for my daughter to play with kids her own age while I went and saw a movie. I told myself that my 5 month old son needed to learn to be independent and have new experiences while I watched carnage.

That pretty much took care of all the guilt. I went and saw Rambo. There is a reason for this. Because no one in thier right mind, namely my wife, would go see this movie with me. As such, I went and saw it by myself and it was awesome.

Not the movie, the experience.

I ate a whole popcorn without anyone throwing up on me. I drank my entire coke and then used the cup as a spitton without getting any dirty looks from anyone (there were only 3 of us in there). I saw violence and gore without having to make a mad dash for some TV remote just incase my daughter was lurking around the corner. I saw boobs without any child screaming "Pablo!" in my ear. Fucking Fantastic!

It's not that I don't love my kids, sure I do. But with Hossmom gone for a month I am getting a little overwhelmed with Jack's Big Music Show and kissing every owie, including the dogs paw because my daugther was convinced that it stubbed its toe and insisted upon it.

I then went home and didn't pick up my kids. I rented a movie and watched the WHOLE thing from start to finish. No one stealing the remote while I wasn't looking and changing the channel to QVC Spanish. No one demanding Goldfish right now. No one deciding to not take a nap and instead screaming thier 5 month old head off until they are in just the right position to finally fall asleep only to have Little Hoss get up from her nap.

By far the greatest 82 dollar movie I have ever saw. (75 for the daycare and 7 for the movie.) I might do this weekly.

2/25/08

The Conclusion to Hoss Weekend

I have to outlast all the other fathers. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s to prove something to my daughter and son who can one day say “My Dad out drank and out partied your dad!” It appears that I may have really low expectations.

But maybe it’s more personal than that. Maybe I want to prove something to myself. Maybe I want to look myself in the mirror on day and remember that today I made a stand and proved that I could hang with guys who are younger than me and who don’t have kids. More possible though is that Hossmom has been gone for a week and a half and my sanity has finally taken the last lifeboat. Whatever the reason, I’m going to put my best foot forward and show them what Hoss is and what it means.

The first annual Hoss weekend was set up over 5 months ago. When we were all single we would do this with the only notice being “Hey, let’s get some beer.” But now a lot of us are married and 3 of us have kids. The others, well, I just hate the others. It’s jealousy but I’m ok with it.

The first rule of Hoss weekend is that you had to grow a mustache. It had to be dirty. It had to be a throw back to 1980’s cocaine habits. I also like to think that it was an omage to our own fathers as well who we all imagined could party like this when they were our age. But then I remind myself that my father had 3 kids at my age, 1 of them in highschool. So maybe the mustache is in honor of stupid decisions which is what exlempiflies Hoss weekend.

I met the guys on Sat for our group photo. Our goal was to look white trash and nothing says white trash better than group photos at you local Walmart. We all came in wearing tacky wide ties, short sleeved collared shirts and the stach. We walked in and it looked like we were there for a copy repair seminar. It was bad but in a great way.

None of us had really tried to grow a mustache before and the results were interesting. And being that we were guys we naturally started competing and then making fun of whoever was in our eye line at the time. I am pretty sure that I looked like Uncle Vernon from the Harry Potter Movies, only if he were bald. We had the one guy that could grow the monster stach and we decided that he was Fisherman Pete down from the docks. Uncle Bricksalesman was straight out of the SNL sketch of “Da Bears” All he needed was a micileanious sausage and a valve replacement to complete the ensemble. We had a Pilipino guy that looked Mexican when he grew his stach. We had Kip the computer salesman, complete with the blue polyester pants. None of it was pretty which meant we had to intentionally try to pick up chicks.

Everyone just walked around us but we took the pictures and t hey are awesome. I will post them when I get them.

Next for Hoss weekend we went to a Hooters type establishment. Lots of chicks, little skirts, big boobs and constant comparing of who had the nicest ass. For the past month I had talked nothing but Jack’s Big Music Show so I was grateful to go into debauchery a little.

I ordered a coke and immediately 5 guys started in on me. I have no idea why guys feel the need to force other guys to drink but we do. And sadly enough, I was ashamed that I hadn’t ordered a beer. I quickly changed my order to the tallest beer they had and considered also ordering straight butane shots to show how manly I was.

All I want to do is outlast the other dads. I know that I can’t hang with a lot of these guys anymore. I’m usually in bed by the time they are just getting warmed up. My world consists of diaper changes and hiding baby vomit stains on the walls. Thiers is one of quarters and reciting the alphabet backwards. But I am more experience so I know that I have to pace myself. I have two beers at lunch but load up on the bread, I’m good to go. I’m not so old that I don’t remember the tricks.

We go back to the house were we drink some more. I also take this opportunity to catch an hour of sleep. In my younger days I would never have done this and would have instead volunteered to do keg stands and hold on to the open ends of a car battery. But god gives you wisdom, use it.

I wake up and the Hippie Brother in Law shoes up completing the 3 fathers triad in the house. All I got to do is outlast the Hippie and Kip and I’m good to go.

We start the shots and I don’t turn them down, even taking the one that everyone thought was “to full”. I’ll show you what to full is, bow down to Uncle Vernon’s mustache!

The night wears on and Hippie Brother in Law is pounding them. He’s not so much drinking as he is just absorbing and I got to admire his recklessness. I remind myself that this is the guy that once through a garbage can at someone driving to fast down his street and his kids were in the yard. Now he is inhaling liquor like a Tijuana hooker. Our conversations have changed dramatically over the years. Once it was college tests and “this chick I knew.” Now it’s about prime real-estate, house sales, and investment banking. I smirk on the inside because not only can I talk about some of this but I can also change a poopie diaper in under 4 seconds. Let’s see them master that while negotiating the price of a home!

The Hippie makes it until 10 and then passes out. One down. My greatness is expanding. I’m still drinking, I’m still standing, I am still Hoss.

Then the drinking games start. Everyone is somewhat shocked that I don’t know how to play and haven’t played anything like this in years. I remind them two things: Fathers of 2 year olds don’t get to play beer pong all that much and when I was in college we just FUCKING DRANK. We didn’t need any stupid games.

Then we discover that I suck at beer pong.

But I’m still drinking. The crowd gets more and more juvenile as the night goes on. There are mother insults being thrown without regard to whose mother is being insulted. Wife’s and girlfriends are demeaned while in the same breath unconditional love is offered. We no longer use the bathroom and just piss in the front yard. Being a guy is AWESOME.

Drinking game two has been going on for about an hour. I find that the drunker I get, the better that I play. Shots are still being passed around and I eye Kip to see how he is doing.

He is hurting, I can feel it. It looks like he’s got a little wobble to his legs. Are his knees buckling?

He excuses himself to go play Guitar Hero because we are all still kids and will revert back to that as soon as the significant other leaves.

I know the game is over. I know that I have won. I get nods of approval from the other guys still up, none of which probably got up before noon. I was up at 6:30 feeding my son when my daughter decided that she wanted to get up to.
Someone goes and checks on Kip and he is down and out. We have moved onto poker but I am throwing my money away without regard to the cards. I go all in at 3:40 in the morning. I’m spent but I hold my head high as I leave the room. I have to pick up my kids the next morning while the rest of these assholes spend the next weekend relaxing. But it’s my victory and I savor it.

I’m 33, bald and I am better than your Dad.

The Conclusion to Hoss Weekend

I have to outlast all the other fathers. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s to prove something to my daughter and son who can one day say “My Dad out drank and out partied your dad!” It appears that I may have really low expectations.

But maybe it’s more personal than that. Maybe I want to prove something to myself. Maybe I want to look myself in the mirror on day and remember that today I made a stand and proved that I could hang with guys who are younger than me and who don’t have kids. More possible though is that Hossmom has been gone for a week and a half and my sanity has finally taken the last lifeboat. Whatever the reason, I’m going to put my best foot forward and show them what Hoss is and what it means.

The first annual Hoss weekend was set up over 5 months ago. When we were all single we would do this with the only notice being “Hey, let’s get some beer.” But now a lot of us are married and 3 of us have kids. The others, well, I just hate the others. It’s jealousy but I’m ok with it.

The first rule of Hoss weekend is that you had to grow a mustache. It had to be dirty. It had to be a throw back to 1980’s cocaine habits. I also like to think that it was an omage to our own fathers as well who we all imagined could party like this when they were our age. But then I remind myself that my father had 3 kids at my age, 1 of them in highschool. So maybe the mustache is in honor of stupid decisions which is what exlempiflies Hoss weekend.

I met the guys on Sat for our group photo. Our goal was to look white trash and nothing says white trash better than group photos at you local Walmart. We all came in wearing tacky wide ties, short sleeved collared shirts and the stach. We walked in and it looked like we were there for a copy repair seminar. It was bad but in a great way.

None of us had really tried to grow a mustache before and the results were interesting. And being that we were guys we naturally started competing and then making fun of whoever was in our eye line at the time. I am pretty sure that I looked like Uncle Vernon from the Harry Potter Movies, only if he were bald. We had the one guy that could grow the monster stach and we decided that he was Fisherman Pete down from the docks. Uncle Bricksalesman was straight out of the SNL sketch of “Da Bears” All he needed was a micileanious sausage and a valve replacement to complete the ensemble. We had a Pilipino guy that looked Mexican when he grew his stach. We had Kip the computer salesman, complete with the blue polyester pants. None of it was pretty which meant we had to intentionally try to pick up chicks.

Everyone just walked around us but we took the pictures and t hey are awesome. I will post them when I get them.

Next for Hoss weekend we went to a Hooters type establishment. Lots of chicks, little skirts, big boobs and constant comparing of who had the nicest ass. For the past month I had talked nothing but Jack’s Big Music Show so I was grateful to go into debauchery a little.

I ordered a coke and immediately 5 guys started in on me. I have no idea why guys feel the need to force other guys to drink but we do. And sadly enough, I was ashamed that I hadn’t ordered a beer. I quickly changed my order to the tallest beer they had and considered also ordering straight butane shots to show how manly I was.

All I want to do is outlast the other dads. I know that I can’t hang with a lot of these guys anymore. I’m usually in bed by the time they are just getting warmed up. My world consists of diaper changes and hiding baby vomit stains on the walls. Thiers is one of quarters and reciting the alphabet backwards. But I am more experience so I know that I have to pace myself. I have two beers at lunch but load up on the bread, I’m good to go. I’m not so old that I don’t remember the tricks.

We go back to the house were we drink some more. I also take this opportunity to catch an hour of sleep. In my younger days I would never have done this and would have instead volunteered to do keg stands and hold on to the open ends of a car battery. But god gives you wisdom, use it.

I wake up and the Hippie Brother in Law shoes up completing the 3 fathers triad in the house. All I got to do is outlast the Hippie and Kip and I’m good to go.

We start the shots and I don’t turn them down, even taking the one that everyone thought was “to full”. I’ll show you what to full is, bow down to Uncle Vernon’s mustache!

The night wears on and Hippie Brother in Law is pounding them. He’s not so much drinking as he is just absorbing and I got to admire his recklessness. I remind myself that this is the guy that once through a garbage can at someone driving to fast down his street and his kids were in the yard. Now he is inhaling liquor like a Tijuana hooker. Our conversations have changed dramatically over the years. Once it was college tests and “this chick I knew.” Now it’s about prime real-estate, house sales, and investment banking. I smirk on the inside because not only can I talk about some of this but I can also change a poopie diaper in under 4 seconds. Let’s see them master that while negotiating the price of a home!

The Hippie makes it until 10 and then passes out. One down. My greatness is expanding. I’m still drinking, I’m still standing, I am still Hoss.

Then the drinking games start. Everyone is somewhat shocked that I don’t know how to play and haven’t played anything like this in years. I remind them two things: Fathers of 2 year olds don’t get to play beer pong all that much and when I was in college we just FUCKING DRANK. We didn’t need any stupid games.

Then we discover that I suck at beer pong.

But I’m still drinking. The crowd gets more and more juvenile as the night goes on. There are mother insults being thrown without regard to whose mother is being insulted. Wife’s and girlfriends are demeaned while in the same breath unconditional love is offered. We no longer use the bathroom and just piss in the front yard. Being a guy is AWESOME.

Drinking game two has been going on for about an hour. I find that the drunker I get, the better that I play. Shots are still being passed around and I eye Kip to see how he is doing.

He is hurting, I can feel it. It looks like he’s got a little wobble to his legs. Are his knees buckling?

He excuses himself to go play Guitar Hero because we are all still kids and will revert back to that as soon as the significant other leaves.

I know the game is over. I know that I have won. I get nods of approval from the other guys still up, none of which probably got up before noon. I was up at 6:30 feeding my son when my daughter decided that she wanted to get up to.
Someone goes and checks on Kip and he is down and out. We have moved onto poker but I am throwing my money away without regard to the cards. I go all in at 3:40 in the morning. I’m spent but I hold my head high as I leave the room. I have to pick up my kids the next morning while the rest of these assholes spend the next weekend relaxing. But it’s my victory and I savor it.

I’m 33, bald and I am better than your Dad.

2/21/08

Hoss Weekend.

I'll keep this one short because I am currently packing for the first annual Hoss Weekend. This is a get together of men and only men for what men do and by that I assume we will be drinking and comparing penis size while we secretly worship Oprah.

My mother in law is taking the kids for Sat so I can go out and do what I can't really write about here because I know that my daughter will one day read this. For the record baby, Daddy didn't really want to go to the strip club.

We will start the day by all cutting our facial hair to resemble 1980's porn mustaches. We will then take a group picture at a studio wearing the appropriate attaire that comes with those mustaches. I plan to look like a Tandy PC computer salesman that only does porn on the side until I finish night school.

It appears to me that these types of manly functions were simplier in college. We would just show up some random apartment and drink until no one was sober enough to talk to the police and act sober. Now it's a tad more complicated as child care has to be arranged, pets fed and backs waxed just incase skinny dipping comes up, which it might. All hail Oprah.

2/20/08

The Toddler Wars

Welcome to Wednesday Fight Night on the Hossman Channel. I’m your host Chester Stealawife and I’m be taking you through the action. Tonight’s contest hypes to be on of the biggest battles of the year with 2 year old Little Hoss making her toddler debut. But she’ll have to fight hard because she is going against Rock ‘em and Sock ‘em world Champion Father Hossman. Little Hoss weighs in at a little over 30 pounds and has a temper like a runaway locomotive. The champ appears slimed down himself from a tight training regiment of secondary puke flu and cornflakes. His will is legendary but I don’t know if his Rocky-esqe determination can stand up to Little Hoss’s screams of fury. Let’s head down for round one.

Round 1. Ding Ding.

Little Hoss comes out swinging fast and furious. She sees that Hossman appears staggered and confused as it looks like the champ is now projectile vomiting himself after catching the disease from Little Hoss. Little Hoss wastes no time in taking full advantage as she insists that she, and only she, dress herself. Let’s count them folks. One, two, three shirts! Little Hoss strikes a blow by putting on three shirts. But it doesn’t appear that the challenger is done yet. Yup, that’s right. She now has on a sweater and a DRESS on top of the those three shirts. The brief counter that Hossman used appeared ineffective to Little Hoss’s screeching. And what is this!? No Pants! Ladies and Gentlemen, we have no pants on Little Hoss as she runs away from Daddy. I think he just gave up. Round one certantily goes to the challenger.

Round 2. Ding Ding.

It looks like we have moved this epic battle to the car. Hossman appears to be trying to buckle Little Hoss in to the car seat but she is fighting him furiously. Ladies and Gentleman we are seeing that famous independent streak in Little Hoss at this moment as she is making her daddy stand out in the rain while she does this herself. But the champ won’t stand for it and buckles her in himself. It’s amazing to see the champ work in his prime as he holds her down with one hand while buckling her with the other one, but you should see her fight. Now the champ whips out a lollipop as a bribe. I just don’t know about that move folks, bribes tend to back fire. AND it does!! Little Hoss is now using the stick of the lollipop by jamming her little brother in the eye with it. She knows that Hossman is driving and there is not a damn thing he can do about it. Round two also goes to Little Hoss.

Round 3. Ding Ding.

The champ needs a big round here to stay in the fight. It looks like he is making his move. There’s a pacifier in his hand and he’s heading to the back yard. Little Hoss is hot on his heals though, what is his plan? God Lord I don’t believe it. Hossman just chunked the pacifier at least 3 houses over. It looks like Little Hoss didn’t mind the rule of no pacifiers during the day and Hossman just snapped. Certainly folks this is something that a mother wouldn’t do but Hossman points out that Hossmom is not here right now, suck it kid. Brutal but effective. Round 3 to Hossman.

Round 4. Ding Ding.

Each opponent is about to eat lunch and this could be a turning point in the match. Little Hoss wants a hot dog and Hossman is starting to make her one. But hold on folks! The smell of the hot dog has wafted into Hossman’s nostrils and he’s running for the sink! I don’t think he is going to make it! He barely does and proceeds to vomit. Good lord, it sounds like a raccoon stepping on a live wire. Have some dignity man! Little Hoss begins to scream. Wait, those aren’t screams?! She’s crying folks, she is crying because Daddy is throwing up and she has fallen for the oldest trick in the book. It looks like Hossman takes round 4 by getting the pity points from the concerned daughter. Diabolical.

Round 5. Ding Ding.

It’s been a great fight so far folks and it only looks like it is getting better. Hossman has tried to make his daughter happy by watching a full 8 hours of either the Backyardigans or Jack’s Big Music Show. I had no idea that man had that kind of stamina! But Little Hoss is not happy! What brutality folks, I don’t think I can watch! Little Hoss is requesting that both Jack and Pablo be on at the same time! What strategy! Hossman is trying to explain to Little Hoss about the laws of physics and matter occupying the same space at the same time but she will not listen. Look at that tantrum! Amazing, Amazing! The champ is down! The Champ is down! The bell rings and it just barely saved the champ as Little Hoss takes Round 5.

Round 6. Ding Ding.

It looks like this match just got wet folks. Little Hoss is demanding that she get to play in the sink. Hossman is telling her no because the last time she nearly fell off and broke her head. That sends Little Hoss into a tornado tantrum and now she is starting to throw everything she can. The champ dodges left and ducks a crayon. He feints right and, what is this?! What does he have in his hand?! Hossman has the sink sprayer and is proceeding to squirt his screaming daughter in the face. What a move. The ref must of totally missed it. But wait! Little Hoss is actually laughing at his attack, she thinks it’s a game. Amazing. Hossman is confused so it looks like he squirts the cat to because it’s a fucking pain in the ass too. I got to give round 6 to Hossman for diffusing that situation.

Round 7. Ding Ding.

The champ goes to what he knows best, dinner. It looks like they are having a very good meal there, is that rice? Both fighters are feeling each other out, trying to find out what move they are going to make. Little Hoss speaks first by asking for a bite of her Daddy’s dinner, it would appear to be some kind of meat. I don’t trust her here folks, not at all. Little Hoss takes the meat and…………..throws it at Daddy’s head! Can you believe that turn of events?! She just pelted him with his own dinner. What a fight this is turning out to be!

Round 8. Ding Ding.

Hossman needs a big final round but I don’t know if he can get it. He’s looking pretty whipped. But it looks like he did pretty good with bedtime and he’s almost out the door. The lights are off and it appears all but over for Little Hoss and her early bedtime. But Little Hoss makes one last move. She is calling over Daddy and he’s coming, that fool. “Daddy sit” she says while pointing to her bed. He does. I don’t know folks, I think he should be playing a more defensive game at this point. “Daddy Hug” she says and he does. Seriously, what is he doing? What’s this?! She has made her final move and it’s a huge blow. She is patting him on the back like she’s consoling him. “I Lov ew” she says and that’s it, it’s over. We could hear Hossman’s heart breaking from here. The champ is finished, the champ is finished! It’s over! It’s over! Tomorrow everyone will be wearing 5 shirts and no pants! It’s over!

2/17/08

Projectile Vomit Sunday

Am I really Superdad or have I just become a character that I write about on the blog? Do I really kick ass and embody everything that is Hoss or am I a muppet baby that grew up, got fat and bald? Could I really withstand the test of reality and be who I write about?

I suppose it’s time to find out because Hossmom has left me. With 2 kids. By myself.

Now that we all think that she is some mindless hoochie who would leave her 2 kids with her unqualified SAHD, let me explain. She left because she loves us. Of course, that’s what all abusers say. But don’t worry, I didn’t really fall down the stairs. It was a ladder.

No Hossmom has gone ahead like a pioneer and has moved to our new city. I will be following in about 30 days. Long story short: we are moving to another state. Hossmom started her new job. My job is to take care of the kids and sell this house and then follow her when she picks out our new house. She’s like Clara Barton. For the record, I don’t really know who that is but I know that she is a pioneering woman from the 1850’s although I think she might be the one that smashed up all the saloons with a hatchet. So yup, that’s kind of like my wife. I like ‘em strong willed.

But back to the story: me alone with the kids for 30 days. Right now I am on day three and have contacted an attorney for divorce papers and am willing to discuss alimony.

Let me paint the picture: a 2 year old and a 4 month old—24 hours a day all by myself. When we first made the decision I put on my charming optimistic smile and told her no problem. I told her it would be harder for her than it would for me. I mean sleeping in late and not getting up in the middle of the night will take a toll on a person.

Hossmom’s company is putting her up in a corporate apartment until we get a house and I move up there. Yes, you should interpret that as “swank pad.” It’s one of those affairs that has the blacktop dining table complete with table settings. There is no baby shit or vomit smell at all in the whole apartment. No one is going to pull her hair or barf on her—which we will get to in a moment.

Meanwhile, I am up to my elbows in 24 hour throw up cleanup. Even the dog puked today on the floor.

But I am writing this so Hossmom will read it on Monday and know exactly what her contribution to the family is.

Let’s start.

Friday was the worst day as a parent I have ever had. Not as a SAHD, but as a parent, ever. Little Hoss decided to go all apeshit all day about everything. And because she has Bubba Hoss fully in her grasp as a toadie, he decided to pitch in.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I snapped. I think every parent does. I once saw my Mom break every dish in our house for something my brother had done. As long as I don’t reach that point, I’m ok. But Friday I wasn’t far off. Let me give you an example:

Little Hoss is in her “independent” stage. This means that she only wants me to watch her do things and offer no help what so ever unless that help involves ice cream. It was pouring down rain. I was trying to get her into her car seat but she wanted to buckle herself in. This takes her about 10 minutes. Most times I am A ok with this. But in this situation I was tired and standing outside the car getting soaked like a Katrina victim. I’m sorry, to soon?

Anyway, I decided fuck it. I’m superdad and I’m making an executive decision. So I “attempted” to buckle her in. This caused a massive freak out. There were legs flailing, punches being thrown at my crotch and I am sure she said “Fuck you, you’re not my real dad.”

I reminded her that she looks EXACTLY like me and she should SHUT UP! That’s right. I yelled at my daughter to shut up. The superdad thing is not looking so well at this point. I then felt bad and proceeded to bribe her with a lollipop which she used to poke Bubba Hoss in the eye with. Ah, memories. I was a toadie myself and my older brother beat the shit out of me when he didn’t get his way. Bubba Hoss, it gets worse. Hang in there kiddo. And since I love you both I can’t intervene because my father never did. It will put hair on your chest.

So all in all, bad day. Then Saturday came and it was somewhat better. Sorry, that’s just a lie that parents tell themselves so they don’t give their kids up for adoption. That day ended with every one of my kids waking up at 2:30am and screaming for no other reason to keep me on my toes. At this point, I am really missing Hossmom.

Then the next day came, which shall forever be referred to as Projectile Vomit Sunday. Little Hoss got sick and began to puke. Everywhere. I swear to all that is holy I have no idea how that much fluid can be inside a 30 pound person. The distance and the height that she was able to obtain was very impressive. The smell was a cross between Asian Stir Fry and dried turd. Very nice.

At this point, I’m not going to lie, I was about to cash it in. I don’t do sick very well. Hossmom does sick and to be honest, this was the first time Little Hoss had the projectile vomit. When I’m sick I just pretend I’m not while Hossmom puts my head in her lap. It’s great. I deny I’m sick and still get the 4 star treatment. However, I don’t care for the sick very well. As a kid if I was sick my dad would make us mix concrete or stack bricks and it would appear I take after him.

But I was trying my best and trying to be superdad. So help me god I was.

Then disaster. Little Hoss was on my lap with her head on my shoulder. She burped, farted, then let the biggest vomit I have ever seen come flying out. It hit my shoulder, head, neck, ear and started leaking down my back.

Then Little Hoss started to cry and my spirit cracked. This is gross but you’ll understand if you have kids. She was crying so hard that my heart just split in two. So I didn’t move. I held my little girl and rubbed her back until it was all out. She didn’t get any on her but I looked like a reject from a B horror film. But my little angel was crying and needed superdad and that’s when I found him, sitting in a pile of puke running down the crack of his ass. However, we need a new couch now honey.

Yup, I’m superdad. No doubt about it.

Although, I’m not super Uncle. That title belongs to Uncle Bricksalesman. Because, um, it was his favorite sweatshirt I was wearing when the puking occurred. I’m sure he’ll be ok with it.

2/13/08

The Takedown

Age is a merciless bitch. Even more so when you consider yourself a recent college grad until you realize your 10 year COLLEGE anniversary is right around the corner.

I was in the shower yesterday having a fine time by myself. Hossmom had the kids so I had no one banging on the bathroom door or peeing in the shower other than myself.

I decided that it was high time to wash the troll feet. Think about it, how much time do you spend on your feet? So I thought I would give them a good scrubing with shampoo because my troll feet also happen to be hairy feet. Honestly, it’s not a pretty sight.

To do it right I decided that I needed to sit on the side of the tub. This was the crucial flaw in my plan.

My Mr. Universe type body was all lubed up with good old Irish Spring. I should have realized t his before I decided to sit down. But in hindsight, I suppose it wouldn’t have made much difference because I never got the chance to actually sit down.

I was on the way down and when I thought I was about to make contact with the side of the tub but I felt no relief of the cool fiberglass on my ass end. Well, that’s not entirely correct. I think I actually got one ass cheek somewhat grazing it as I flew straight down.

One thing about a tub and a 250 pound man who is suds up. When you take a slip like an 80 year old without her lifeline, the tub becomes more of a waterslide.

I raced straight down one curved side. I do believe the appropriate cuss words came out of my mouth but I’m not really sure as I am obviously cleaning up my language. So instead of a “Shit” I might have uttered “Spitfire” which is something my own Grandmother used to say, making this current episode even more embarrassing.

A man of my size, it is also not easy to stop my whale like momentum. My ass quickly shot up the other side like I was attempting an Olie but there was no lip to catch onto as I attempted to turn it into a grind. By the way, I have no idea what those terms really mean but I figure my younger readers might enjoy them. As I am showing here I am one banana peel from breaking a hip and am not current on what lingo the kids are using these days.

I did a quick spin which must look really cool to God who I’m sure was laughing his ass off at this point. Our bathtub is slanted down which is not really what I needed because it just added speed to my demolition derby. I tried to brace myself with my feet only to discover I was not wearing my sneakers in the tub which I swear this is the last time I make that mistake.

My exceptionally wide feet could find no grip which is more bad news for me. Because at this point they shoot up in the air and my ass slides out from underneath me. I ended up in what probably looks to be a birthing position and this thought briefly went through my head as I completed Mr. Toads wild ride down the water slide of broken hips and dislocated shoulders.

I stick my legs out to once again try and stop my slide and this seems to be the last bad decision I will have the opportunity to make. My feet go crashing into the faucet. My big toe actually lands inside that faucet but at least now I have stopped.

I look down at the troll feet and see that blood is running between my toes. I had no idea that the faucets in bathrooms could be that sharp and I am a little pissed that no one has warned me of it. It’s then that I realize that I am exactly the type of jackass that forced the Blow Dryer people to put the warning on their products telling people “Don’t use in Shower.”

I sit there for a minute before it even dawns on me that I have fallen the tub. I have made so many jokes about this exact situation that I am sure that this is Karma kicking my ass. My first alone bathroom time in a good 3 weeks and I sit there wondering how expensive it will be to put in handrails in our new house.

I also make a mental note to remind my daughter, who’s 2, that it is extremely dangerous to leave her father alone in the bathtub for even a minute and even there is only 2 inches of water.

Hear Me Roar

My brothers, help me. I…………………………….

Oh God, I don’t think I can write this.

I think that I am turning into a woman.

I imagine that all Stay At Home Dad’s go through this but I didn’t think it was going to happen to me. I didn’t realize that I was one Oprah episode away from menopause. I didn’t realize that I would soon be hearing these words coming out of my mouth “do we have any chocolate in the house?” I didn’t realize that one night I would be sitting in my kitchen preparing dinner and being upset because I didn’t have any breadcrumbs, enough so that tears almost came from my eyes.

It’s been a good 10 years since I last cried. Now you know my plight.

I realized soon after I had kids that my emotional state had become something of a wreck. Things seemed more personal to me now that I had two little minions doing my bidding. I wasn’t expecting this but it happened. I think I adjusted well. My manhood was still intact, I was still the rough and unpolished ass kicker that I always was—just a little more on the hysterical side.

What I didn’t realize was that it was the first step into feminizing me. And I don’t mean in a good chick prison way either.

The transformation was slow and easily unnoticed by those who knew me well. But inside, somewhere where this thing hides, it began to awaken and take control.

Soon, I was sorting laundry according to colors and “delicates.” I ask you brothers, what fucking guy does this?? Where is that big pile of laundry we just randomly throw into the wash? I’ll tell you where it was: It was right next to the colors, cottons and whites, and children’s delicates. I am so fucking ashamed. And dryer sheets! I use dryer sheets!

I suppose, looking back, the next step was easily made without big fanfare. I mean, once you get used to getting stains out of clothes, how hard is it to transfer that knowledge to getting stains out of couches? A little Shout here, a little scrubbing, and bingo—out the stain comes. What in God’s name is wrong with me. My full time job used to be making the stains, not realizing that a little baking soda can do wonders. I am an affront to Hints from Heloise, not her born again savior!

But brothers, it gets worse and I don’t know how to stop it.

I made bread. Not store bought, not with a mixer. I mean honest to god, from scratch, Aunt Tulip’s home made delight. And I used a recipe. Dear god, I’m so sorry.
It was called “American Sandwhich Bread” but it should have been called Hossman Grows a Vagina. I didn’t mean to and I didn’t know what it meant at the time. In my head I thought that I could use this opportunity to let Little Hoss have a little Arts and Crafts time. My only excuse here is that when we kneaded the dough (by hand!) is that I taught Little Hoss to go at it like Rocky on a Ribeye. We pounded it, grunted and even spit a couple of times. But as manly as I tried to make it, it still doesn’t change the fact that we made homemade bread. And it was good.

It gets worse my brothers. Much, much worse.

After we made bread I thought “Well, that wasn’t to hard. Let’s make a pie.” A FUCKING PIE! We made a homemade chocolate cream pie. We bought UNSWEATENED chocolate! I didn’t even get any beer when I did it, not even beer! Then we used a cheese grater to “shave” the chocolate so we could melt it. The man I used to be would have just grabbed the god damned belt sander. But no, I didn’t want the saw dust taste. What’s wrong with me! I love saw dust!

And the pie was good. It was good because I even made home made whip cream. Dear Jesus.

This week I found myself about to cook dinner again. I’m trying to eat healthy and since I am home and do the shopping (of course I do, sissy) I pick out what we are having for dinner. I was making chicken stuffed with goat cheese. Goat cheese, dear god somebody slap the sissy out of me! And that’s when I discovered that I didn’t have any breadcrumbs.

But there is always salvation. There is always hope. There is always redemption.

Fuck breadcrumbs. Fuck breadcrumbs and stains and delicates and nail polish remover getting crayons off walls. Fuck them all because it’s time that I am a man again and a man who acts and cooks like a man.

I don’t need breadcrumbs. I don’t need them because I got man antidote. I made dinner with my man antidote and didn’t tell anyone what the switch was that I made.

“Wow” they all said. “This is really good” my wife exclaimed. “I love the crust” said everyone. “What on earth is it, it’s so unusual.”

It’s Fritos. Yup, I made stuffed goat cheese chicken with Fritos.

It’s good to find out I’m still a man.

2/10/08

Piss

“Daddy”

“Yes Honey.”

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”

“What?!”

“I Piss.”

“Um, what sweetheart?”

“I Piss.” Little Hoss points at her crotch.

“You mean Pants? Something’s wrong with your pants?” I say. Please god let it be the pants.

“No! Daddy, I piss.”

“Pantaloons? Like Pirates wear? You want to wear pirate pants?”

“No! Daddy, I Piss! Piss! Piss! Piss! Piss!” Now she has begun jabbing herself in the crotch.

I read somewhere that your child is a reflection of you. They pick up everything that you do and repeat it. I should have really paid more attention when I read that because there is only one person in this house that uses that word and I don’t think Hossmom will believe it when I tell her she learned it from her.

Hossmom is out right now, time for some damage control.

“No Honey. We don’t use that word anymore. It’s a naughty word. You say Potty.”

“Piss”

“Potty honey. Or how about number one?”

“Number one piss.”

Moan.

“Ok, how about Pee-Pee?”

“Piss, Piss, Piss!”

“Little Hoss! No piss! Say Bathroom or Potty or Piddle. No Piss!”

“Yes Piss.”

“No Piss!”

“Yes Piss!”

“Pants!”

“Piss!”

“Pajamas!”

“Piss!”

“Pie!”

“Piss!”

“Puppy!”

“Puppy piss?”

I’m so screwed when Hossmom gets home.

2/7/08

I Like Strippers

I like strippers.

There it is, right out there in the open. Let’s forget for a moment that I am married. And let’s forget that I have a daughter who ever became a stripper would force me to glue my testicals to the nearest run away train as punishment for my bad parenting. Let’s just focus on the very simple fact that strippers are just bingo in my book.

I don’t know if it’s because I don’t have anything to write about tonight or the fact that my numbers hit an iceberg. But it doesn’t really matter because I like strippers. They make every thing just gravy.

It may be because my wife and I watched a show tonight that had a stripper in it. That could be it and we had a little discussion. No high profile political discussions in the Hossman’s house, it was all about strippers. But, um, bang up job by all the candidates. What’s your stance on strippers.

But back to the point, strippers are great. I don’t know when they are more great: when you are 18 and are suckered in by the game and think that they really like you or when you are older and know that the only reason they are talking to you is because you are paying them. When you are 18 you are just so happy to be seeing a real pair of boobies and you get it in your head that hey, she really likes me, I’m cool. Then you go home alone and peel it to “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”

But when you are in your 30’s you realize that you don’t have to try at all, they are still going to flash you their tits, so kudos to you. You learn that it’s even better than when you were 18 because now you don’t have to say shit, not talking what so ever. I don’t care what your name is, we all know that you are going to lie to me and tell me its Candy. And I don’t care where you are from or what your ambitions are. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be in a strip club in the first place. When you are 30, it’s freeing. All the pressure is off and you can just sit back and enjoy the knockers. They aren’t free but you certainly understand you are paying for a service: jerk material for when the wife is too tired. I get an on demand movie in my head and she gets to save money for college. It’s win, win.

Maybe it’s because Rock of Love II is back on that I’m talking about strippers tonight. That show has nothing but strippers. But sadly, without the strobe light and smell of desperation filtered in cigarette smoke, they just don’t look that hot.

I like my strippers clouded by a fog machine and a cocaine haze gleaming over her eyes. I want it just dark enough that I see the goods but not the cancerous mole that she just got removed. We had a bachelor part for a friend one night, I can’t mention who because we promised no strippers, so we went to a strip club.

There was a stripper there with only one hand. Seriously, only one hand. After about 4 beers a buddy and I bet if we got a lap dance for the Bachelor, would he notice that she only had one hand. I said he would, my buddy said no way.

He ended up getting 2 lap dances from us then paid one for himself. We asked him if he noticed anything unusual about the stripper. He said no and thought she was great. I had to fork over another 20 bucks because of the bet at which point my buddy got his own lap dance. That’s the kind of atmosphere that I need my strippers.

You may think that Hossmom will get upset by this blog, but honestly she doesn’t care. First, she knows that I have the game of a walrus and second: I haven’t been to a strip club in 5 years. I actually took my wife with me once in Vegas with some friends. She asked me if I wanted a lap dance.

“Of course not!” I said. “That’s just throwing away money.” Bold. Face. Lie.

Hell yes that’s what I said. What are you supposed to say when you wife asks you if you want a lap dance. “Yes, that would be great right next to me not getting any for the next 100 years.” And to my relief the strip club was one of those with a “No touching” policy. My wife asked what the big deal was and I said I didn’t know, crazy guys. I’m not that creepy. But yes, yes I am that creepy. Thank god for bad strip clubs who don’t allow the “ride for 5”.

There was only one time I wasn’t to thrilled to be at a strip club, my own bachelor party. Somehow, as part of the celebration, my brother got 9 strippers together at the club. They then put me in the stocks, you know, that old west thing where you neck and hands are in a piece of wood.

Then the 9 strippers preceded to whip the shit out of my ass with a leather whip. I couldn’t even see boobs but it would appear that everyone else was having a great time. They then ripped off my underwear. I was plastered but I could still feel it. They were taking out all there daddy frustrations on me.

I climbed into bed with my soon to be wife the next day, wincing. She took one look at my butt and gasped. It would appear that the whipping had left me with some pretty severe brusing—enough so that there was an outline of my wallet on my ass.

She asked me what happened. I told her I was jumped by a bunch of college students and aspiring actresses.

2/5/08

I am Batman

Let’s just get this straight from the start: I don’t enjoy beating dogs. Really, I don’t.

Today is the second day that our house is on the market. I’m feeling a little lucky so far because I have potential buyers that were coming by this morning. I want to make them cookies and opium so that they will buy this house and I can move. Maybe just a few poppy seeds so that they are not to critical on my paint jobs.

But when people want to come to see the house this does pose somewhat of a problem. The unwritten rule is that no one should be in the house. This means that I pack up a toddler, an infant and 2 dogs. Our dogs aren’t exactly small, which should also be pointed out at the beginning of this blog. It’s kind of a hassle and there is a part of me that wonders if the buyers came in and saw me naked on the couch, in all my glory, would the house sell any faster? Perhaps young Skywalker, perhaps.

Today we had buyers that were coming by early, 9:00am. Anyone with kids knows that this is early because you don’t move fast. Add 20 minutes to any activity or deadline and that’s about how fast we move. But I had brought my A game and was on top of it.

I get everyone to the door and start to make for the car. I figure we’ll drive around for an hour challenging young punks in mustangs to drag races at stop lights. I know that I intimidate them with my 2 dogs, toddler and infant.

I open the back of our SUV and begin trying to load the Fat Belly Newt in it. Our other dog is a Boxer and I admit, drop dead gorgeous. He is the kind of handsome dog that you expect to see in front a dead Rhino on safari with Teddy Roosevelt. If the realtor would let him stay, no doubt this house would sell.

The Fat Belly Newt though is more like his ugly step sister. She’s a mutt of some type. I think that she is a mix between a Beagle and Crisco. She has a little pea head and a fat gut. Her spots take away from her busted ear that doesn’t stand up but kind of hangs limp like a half raised flag, which is at half mast for her youth.

We found the Newt at a lake abandoned and we are suckers. We took her in and she has been Hoss ever since. The thing about Newt though is that she is street. She wants to fight way more than the boxer and she can whip a little ass. The Boxer, who is 60 lbs, looks great, sounds great, but is a sissy. He might be gay. Newt is butch, no doubt. She’s 50 pounds of prison love.

I got the Fat Belly Newt up in the back of the car when another neighborhood dog came out of no where. It looked like a Golden Retriever but maybe only 7 or 8 months old. The dog came straight up to me and started licking my leg.

Then things got nasty.

The Fat Belly Newt, who fights dirty as hell, pounced from the back of the car. It happened so fast that I thought she lost ten pounds just from the speed of the leap. The other dog had no idea she was coming but looked up just in time to see a wind blown gut raining down on her. It’s quickness was the only thing that saved it from being smushed.

Then my boxer got into it. He doesn’t fight a whole lot with other dogs but when Newt calls the shots, he’s in. I had one by a harness and I was reaching for the other one. I was getting twisted around and my daughter was starting to walk out to see what was going on. She’s dragging my son’s car seat behind her. She likes to help.

There’s fur flying everywhere. There are snarls, barks and I think a midget getting tossed and Newt pulled a shank but that may be only the Opiates talking. I’m yelling at everyone. “Little Hoss, back in the house!” “Newt, in the car!” “Newt, in the car!” And because I am Dad, no one is listening.

I throw some kicks and I don’t know who I hit but I connect with someone. It doesn’t stop anyone. I reach down and pick up the Fat Belly Newt who is still snipping away and toss her in the back and shut the door. The Boxer takes this opportunity to show his Alpha Dog self and body checks the pup. I swear to god that dog flew 10 feet.

Before my boxer can go for the finish I pick him up by his handsome slender waist and open the window to the car so that the Newt can’t get out. I shove him through while I’m continually yelling at anyone who chooses to ignore me.

It marvels me sometimes my own strength when I can toss a 60 pound dog like a sack of flour. I realize that I may be Superhuman, perhaps Superman. Although Batman is more like it as I carry a utility belt with me, known as the “Diaper Bag.” This is not like your ordinary diaper bag, it’s a superhero’s diaper bag. I know few moms that keep pliers, a screwdriver and a knife in there bag. Yes, I’m Batman. I like that. It’s better than “Stay at home dad”. I am the Batman of at home parenting and this is my most recent comic.

And because I am Batman that means I have to help the little guy, like the puppy who is obviously lost. I get him calmed down and put him on one of my leashes that I take out from my utility belt.

This story has a happy ending. The dogs name was Vince and he had a number on his collar. I tie him up to the fence, load my kids and call the owner who happens to be in his car looking for good old Vince. My buyers are supposed to show up any minute now to see the house but I’ve got a higher cause here, so we wait for Vince’s owner who shows up pretty quick.

There is blood on Vince but I explain to the owner that it belongs to my 60 pound boxer who along with his stunning good looks and broad chest, has inherited a weak chin that bleeds when he so much as sneezes.

And like that, the Fat Belly Newt, the Boxer, the Toddler and the Infant are gone, like we never existed. We are shrouded in mystery and no one but Vince knows that a good deed was done.

Please buy my house, this sucks.

2/3/08

I've Got Some Prime Swamp Land to Sell.

We are selling our house. I figure that this is God’s way of counter acting my awesomeness. It sucks major donkey balls. Don’t ever do it. Take that shack that you are living in and go ahead and be prepared to die there because you don’t want to do this.

My wife and I have anything, it’s great timing.

We were married one month after 9/11 happened. For our honeymoon we went to Jamica. Just let that sink in for a moment as you realize what it was like then. Imigine how all air transport changed and we caught it at the beginning. What was supposed to be a one stop flight was quickly changed to 4 stops and a jeep ride of death. They lost our luggage to. But we did start our marriage off right as we learned a new role playing game for couples called “Security Threat.” Nothing like being mistaken for the Taliban. No Mr. Airport Screener, that is not a bomb, just my man boob, do you feel any lumps?

So naturally we decided to sell our house right when the market tanks. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

One of the things that I hate most about selling our house is that it seems to give everyone you k now free rein to come on in and tell you how much you house sucks. They point out every little imperfection like it’s a glaring zit on the head of a Ms. America. They are not shy about it either. “Your house could use some paint” they say. Or “You might want to dispose of that barrel of body parts you have in the closet.”

Seriously, it’s hard to hear. It’s like you are being criticized for everything that is wrong with you. Except they are not talking about your patch of ass hair that sneaks out of the top of your jeans, they are talking about how dirty your vents are and how in god’s name can you not clean them.

What really gets me though is that I know most everyone of these people that have taken it upon themselves to point their nose down at my house and I have been to there hosues as well. You want to talk about dirty vents? How about we talk about that clump of something that remains in your bedroom that no one can figure out if it was an animal or just a left over sandwhich that has gone tribal. Or before you knock on the amount of trash I have in my garage let’s not over look the fact that you have 3, count em, 3 garbage cans in your kitchen that you refuse to change every time I visit.

Hurts, don’t it.

It’s like being called on a diet show and being told you are fat by 3 humongous fat people. Except at the end of the day here I don’t get to go and binge on Rocky Road. Maybe I should start though?

But you can’t take any of this personally because you have asked these people their opinion because you desperetly want to sell you house in a bad market.

So the last 2 weeks has been me busting my ass trying to get the house ready to “show”. This real estate term means that you clear out all of your shit from your house, put it in storage, and then make your house look like a single Asian man lives there alone. But in our case our Asian man appears to have a diaper fetish as we still have 2 nurseries. He’s a freak but I hope he sells the house.

We interviewed 4 different real estate agents and we picked the one that we were most comfortable with. It’s like walking down the street and being able to choose who you want to be mugged by . No, no, I don’t want the Herion Junkie mugging me today, I would like the alcoholic schitzophrenic if it’s ok with everyone. That’s pretty much what it’s like.

They take 6% away from you which means you basically have to sell the house for 10 grand or more than what you paid for it just to get your money back. All of your profit and investment is quickly eaten up and shat away. Of course we could do Sell by Owner but honestly we don’t have the time as we have to move in 60 days so I need to house to sell by then.

We did pick our guy because he seemed to be the one who was most assertive and aggressive. My wife liked this because it meant that I got more work to do.

I have a “power wall” in my bedroom which is dark purple. The rest of the walls are brown. This wall was the reason that my 2 kids were conceived. It pumped up my sperm count, it gave them a ralling cry, it was their coat of arms. The power wall was majestic and I have always loved it. The first thing the agent said was to paint that wall. Then he said paint the bathroom. Then the other bathroom. And since you are painting, paint the front of your house.

I have consumed more paint in the last 2 weeks than all the lead factories in China. But I painted them and did every single other chore that was laid out for me.

I even put my “power chair” in storage so it would make the living room look like we have more room because our Asian man loves the Feng Shui and open space. This chair was a huge, dark brown leather behometh where I could sit and ponder all the family decisions. What were we going to have for dinner and who should the Family Hossman declare Jihad on next?

So the chair had to go, along with most of our other possessions. The house actually looks good, great in fact and I have no doubt that I can sell this puppy in 1 week. Hell, the house sells itself, look at that bright kitchen (freshly painted!)

But the market still worries us because basically it makes it harder for people to get loans. And by people I mean young couples that would be willing to let me take them for a ride on my death trap.