1/19/09

The Price of Adult Coversation

The Hossman family is still pretty new to this town. Just like the hillbillies, we packed up everything, threw grandma on the top of the truck, and headed to new digs. We don't have a cement pond though, just piles and piles of dog crap that I am forced to pick up by myself because everyone else in the family thinks it's "too disgusting."

Hey, look, life is disgusting. Why the hell do I get all the gross jobs anyway? They are FAMILY dogs, not MY dogs alone. So grab a shovel, a quart of gasoline and let's go get some dog poop.

So as we are new we have had to replace everything that we left. This is the main reason why moving sucks such massive, massive donkey balls and I would highly recommend against it. You have to find new doctors who won't laugh at that little bump on your junk, you have to find new stores that won't judge you to harshly when your credit card is declined, and you have to find a new mechanic that won't totally ass rape you for a 5 dollar gasket, shitheads.

You also have to find new friends to go have dinner with kids about the same age as yours so they can entertain each other and can be totally ignored by grownups. This is called "parenting" for those not familiar with it. It's a trick between neglecting the children just enough that you still feel good about yourself but not enough that the police come.

This past weekend Hossmom and I tried out some new friends from my Dad's group for a weekend dinner. They have a son my daughter's age and a daughter my son's age. Everyone is going to get married and live in a big compound on day like Mormons, but without the weirdness. I prefer the term survivalists instead, that's still less weird than Mormons.

I apologize to all my Mormon readers, you are awesome. May you have many wives and never get busted.

Anyway, we packed up Gozar the Gozarian and her little brother into the car and headed off to a nice evening.

We get there and things seem to be going pretty well. The other Dad and me know each other from our group so we are chatted right along about which stain remover actually gets the stains out and the wives seem to be hitting it off pretty well also. This is always a good sign, it means that I may get to come out and play more often. I like getting out to play and it's even better when I don't have to come home when the streetlights come on.

Of course, in a strip club the street lights never come on.------sorry, just realized what a crap joke that was. In fact, I don't even know where I was going with that. It sounded funnier in my head. Let's get back to the story.

So things are going pretty well. We have dinner--homemade lasagna. It was awesome. My daughter is sitting at the little table with the other little boy. They have decided fuck it, they don't want to eat the lasagna that the dad had obviously spent time on. They want crackers instead. So we gave them crackers but just enough grapes to go with it that we could make a reasonable argument at a balanced meal.

My son was on his best behavior and did not pelt anyone in the head with any food. There was some screaming of course, but I assume that he was just showing off his war cry. That's my boy.

We move the party into the living room still enjoying the conversation. Although with kids you have to understand that any conversation that you are having has to be raised at least 20 decibels and can be interrupted at any time because someone has to show daddy that they can hop. Yes, yes honey, I see you hopping. Here, have a grape.

Pretty soon my daughter and his son go into the basement. This is his playroom and he was showing my daughter. The other dad said that his son plays down there all the time and everything is fine. At this point I should have pointed out that his son is not the total Destructor that my Little Hoss is but it slipped my mind. Fine, I was drinking, I'll admit it. But the kids did have grapes so I'm not all bad.

Over the next 45 minutes the kids stay down in the basement. The door is open and we can here them laughing and playing. I'm feeling pretty good about Little Hoss because she has been the angel I hope for all day. She has shared toys, said please and thank you and has not once farted out loud. I am father of the year.

And it was nice to have some adult conversation that did not revolve around the color of poop.

My wife and I have a general rule when going over to people's houses that we don't know that well. We don't talk about religion, sex or politics. Such as: "I love to bang Baptist politicians while getting a Cleveland steamer." That kind of conversation is more appropriate for the second couple date.

Shortly my little Mongo comes up from the basement and goes to her mother. "Momma" she says. "I need wash hands."

What a good little girl I think, knowing when she needs to wash her hands and asking for help in doing it.......................Wait, what the hell does she need to wash her hands for.

You would think that me, knowing my Genghis Khan of a daughter, would have caught on much quicker.

We all look at her hands and they are black. My first thought is Pen, she got a pen and has done horrible horrible things. I know my daughter, at least I thought I did.

Immediately every parent's spidey sense goes off and we decide that we need to go down to the basement to see what is going on. When we get there, well,.....it ain't good.

This is where I point out that everyone saw their son as well and his hands were black to. It's important that I bring that up.

It would appear that our new friends keep a very big potted plant in the basement. And being a plant, it needs dirt. And being the good plant people that they are, they have supplied this plant with a very rich black soil complete with fertilizer. Or at least they did until my daughter got a hold of it.

She took the dirt, one little tiny hand full at a time, and preceded to spread it all around their nice, clean basement like she was in Shawshank redemption. It is all over the place. It's on the couch, it's on the shelves, it's everywhere. Black soil, ground in, with little white specs of fertilizer. That's my mongo, right there.

"Wow" was about the only word any of use could manage to mumble. The level of destruction was quite well done. I mean it was just everywhere and I think that all of us just forgot to get mad. It was parental shock. Normally I would beat some ass when this occurred but I just never thought she would destroy someone else's house.

I asked the other dad if their son has ever done this before, ever played in the potted plant? "no" he replied. "He's down here all the time and this is the first time he has ever done this."

Fantastic.

You see, I explain it as the Bonnie and Clyde theory. Clyde was going along just fine until Bonnie came over and told him to rob banks. In this case, the plant had never been touched by unloving hands until my little Gozar the Gozarian choose her form of destruction and got a little boy to help her. She was the instigator, I have no doubt.

At this point, I'm not sure if we were asked to leave or we ran out on our own. Either way, the party was over. On the way out, as I was apologizing for my ape of a daughter, the other mom said something that rang true with me.

"Totally worth it."

This is another reason you need new parent friends. An hour of quiet at the cost of destruction is usually totally worth it.


6 comments:

  1. OMG! I would have killed my boys...after we got home! That must have been a pain to clean up! LOL, thank you for making my boys fighting for the last three days, to the tune of me screaming and pulling out my hair, seem mundane!

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  2. Let them fight, tell them that the winner gets an ice cream cone and the loser gets the Hole.

    I like to help other people parent because obviously I'm not doing anything on my end.

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  3. LOL, hey you can parent my kids all you want ;)

    Got any ideas for a 4 year old that cries if his brother touches him, even lightly, besides of course what we tell him, "be a man, rub some dirt in it."?? :D

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  4. It's called IPod therapy. Pop in your IPod, crank up some Kelly Clarkson, and you can't hear a damn thing.

    I used to do it when my daughter wouldn't sleep at 3:00 am. Worked like a charm.

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  5. I'm just glad you liked dinner.

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