A little while ago I posted a blog that told the story of me fixing my daughter's child proof scissors. I ended that blog by saying that one day I would pay for such and act but it would be worth it because I am my daughter's hero.
Well, that loan was called in.
Honestly, I thought that she would trim the dog up a little bit or perhaps take a chunk of hair out of my wife illustriious locks. But the dog is just a dog, so I didn't worry about that one so much and my wife has tons and tons of hair so I doubted she would even notice.
What I didn't realize though, and what I should have immediatly realized, was that she would take a chunk out of her own hair. WTF?! Seroiusly, that is a rookie mistake. I got so caught up thinking she would do something to someone else, I completly ignored the one thing that happens so often to little children that it has actually become a cliche.
My Little Hoss cut off a huge portion of her hair on her left side.
I'll admit, becaue apparently I'm not that observant, I really didn't notice so much at first. My daughter has a lot of hair like her mother, and honestly I'm a guy, how often do we notice when a woman gets her hair cut.
But when I found the huge chunk on the floor while I was cleaning, I examed her more closely and found where it was supposed to go. At first, I thought that those few strands sticking up were just some gunk in her hair and it had got matted. No such thing as those few strands where all that was left and will be used as proof when Hossmom realizes she can do WAY better than me.
I hoped no one would notice. And to my credit, most of the guys didn't. However, every single woman that came into contact with my daughter not only noticed but acuatlly commented on it.
My wife of course knew as soon as she walked in as I knew she would. It did cross my mind to somehow glue the hair back on before she got home, perhaps throw some gum in there so that Hossmom would have to cut it out and therefore take the blame. But I'm lazy.
The next day Little Hoss had a doctor's appointment. The receptionist commented on it. 2 nurses commented on it and of course the doctor commented on it. I spent most of my morning explaining what happened and finally just started handing out the address to the blog because I was tired of telling the same story over and over again.
The check out lady at the grocery store commented on it. The lady at the movie store commented on it. I received a letter from my mother commenting on it.
Am I the only one that didn't notice right away??
So there you go, Karma strikes again.
2/24/09
2/23/09
Hossman VS. The Oscars
Hey, what you doing?
Watching the Oscars.
Ok. I'll watch with you.
You don't like the Oscars.
I like you.
Right.
Who's that.
Kate Winslet
Who's that.
She was in Titanic.
Great rack, got it. Who's that.
Penelope Cruz.
Ok. What did you do today.
I went to lunch with a girlfriend. Remember, you were with the kids.
Did you lez out?
What?!
Sorry, did you have an alternative lifestyle experience.
Ok, you are creeping me out and I'm trying to watch the Oscars.
I'm just saying, if you did, I would like to know.
Go away.
I gave Little Hoss a lot of candy today. I bet she's still up. Let's go get the kids up.
Quiet. Seriously, I'm trying to watch the Oscars.
Bubba Hoss bit the cat.
Ok, did you handle it.
Yup, I told him to cook it first so he doesn't get worms or any weird cat diseases.
Very funny now go away.
I'm going to poke you now.
Why?
I'm bored.
Well go be bored somewhere else. They are fixing to start and I want to finish the red carpet.
I love our carpet.
You are a freak.
I love lamp.
I'm about to divorce you.
I'd get the kids and the house. I'm a better person than you.
You'll get a fat lip is what you'll get.
Domestic violence to boot. I'm going to document this ya know.
And once the judge finds out you were ruining my Oscars he'll throw you in jail.
I've never been to jail because I'm a good person.
You are good at getting in my way.
Let's go back to the poking conversation.
I don't want to have any conversation with you.
Let's talk about the dresses then. Any ugly ones.
Yes, god yes. The one that Reece Witherspoon is wearing.
I like it. In fact I love it.
That's why you are not allowed to dress the kids.
I'm still bored. Let's thumb wrestle.
Seriously, go away.
I'll go away and stop bugging you if you thumb wrestle me and you win. Then I'll go away.
No. Go away and I'll forget that you are ruining Oscar night.
Let's go do it.
You are a wierdo and now you are a weirdo who's bugging me during my Oscar night.
You don't find me attractive. Why don't we talk or spend time together anymore.
Are you insane, we see eachother all the time.
We could see more of eachother.
Are you kidding me?! During the entire football season I tried to spend more time with you. I tried to get you to turn those stupid games off and talk with me. But no, you said you HAD to watch your games and that I was bugging you................
Exactly.
Butthole.
Watching the Oscars.
Ok. I'll watch with you.
You don't like the Oscars.
I like you.
Right.
Who's that.
Kate Winslet
Who's that.
She was in Titanic.
Great rack, got it. Who's that.
Penelope Cruz.
Ok. What did you do today.
I went to lunch with a girlfriend. Remember, you were with the kids.
Did you lez out?
What?!
Sorry, did you have an alternative lifestyle experience.
Ok, you are creeping me out and I'm trying to watch the Oscars.
I'm just saying, if you did, I would like to know.
Go away.
I gave Little Hoss a lot of candy today. I bet she's still up. Let's go get the kids up.
Quiet. Seriously, I'm trying to watch the Oscars.
Bubba Hoss bit the cat.
Ok, did you handle it.
Yup, I told him to cook it first so he doesn't get worms or any weird cat diseases.
Very funny now go away.
I'm going to poke you now.
Why?
I'm bored.
Well go be bored somewhere else. They are fixing to start and I want to finish the red carpet.
I love our carpet.
You are a freak.
I love lamp.
I'm about to divorce you.
I'd get the kids and the house. I'm a better person than you.
You'll get a fat lip is what you'll get.
Domestic violence to boot. I'm going to document this ya know.
And once the judge finds out you were ruining my Oscars he'll throw you in jail.
I've never been to jail because I'm a good person.
You are good at getting in my way.
Let's go back to the poking conversation.
I don't want to have any conversation with you.
Let's talk about the dresses then. Any ugly ones.
Yes, god yes. The one that Reece Witherspoon is wearing.
I like it. In fact I love it.
That's why you are not allowed to dress the kids.
I'm still bored. Let's thumb wrestle.
Seriously, go away.
I'll go away and stop bugging you if you thumb wrestle me and you win. Then I'll go away.
No. Go away and I'll forget that you are ruining Oscar night.
Let's go do it.
You are a wierdo and now you are a weirdo who's bugging me during my Oscar night.
You don't find me attractive. Why don't we talk or spend time together anymore.
Are you insane, we see eachother all the time.
We could see more of eachother.
Are you kidding me?! During the entire football season I tried to spend more time with you. I tried to get you to turn those stupid games off and talk with me. But no, you said you HAD to watch your games and that I was bugging you................
Exactly.
Butthole.
2/17/09
A Hossman Family Auction
Thank you all for coming to today's auction. I am assuming that everyone has looked at the catalog and we are expecting some exciting bidding. As you can see from today's selections, the items up for bid are only slightly used and are no longer needed by the Hossman Estate. If everyone will just take your seats, we will be starting shortly.
Our first item up for bid is Patience. Everyone could use some more of this so why don't we go ahead and get started? I'm going to open the bidding up at 1----we have one, can we get two, two, two, can we get a two, there we go we have a two, how about a three, three, where is our three at? This is a top of the line Patience, surely we can get a three. And there it is a three to the little lady in the back row. Four, four, four? No four? Going once, going twice, SOLD for three seperate cell phones that have been dumped in the toilet and Hossman has no more patience. Congratulations to the little three year old in the back row.
Next up is Dignity. Who wouldn't like some slightly used Dignity. One of a kind folks, this is some top of the line Dignity. Let's open this one up at 3, three, three, I see a four, now we are at a four, how about a four and a half, four and half, there's a five! We got a five, five, five, can we get a six, six, there's the six back there. Can we go to a seven, seven? Going once for six, going twice for six, SOLD for six seperate occasions that Hossman has walked around somewhere "fancy" with baby vomit on his crotch. Good going to the little guy who called in by phone to place his bid.
Moving on. Our next item up for auction is Intelligence. Hossman has decided that this little gem is no longer needed in his household. It may not be worth as much so let's start it off with a 3. Can I get a three, three, three, can I get a three. No three? Ok, how about a two, two, two, two, there's a two, it's a pity two but we'll take it. Going once, Going twice, SOLD for two separate times that Hossman has actually washed a disposable diaper that got mixed in with the laundry. Good times.
What a lovely crowd we have here tonight. Remember, all the proceeds from tonight's auction do not in no way go to charity so let's keep the bidding going with our next item up for bid. Oh, this is very special. I'm a little choked up here by the Hossman generosity. Ok, here we go. The rest of Hossman's hair. This is top of the line hair that some would say would resemble a young Brad Pitt. Use it where you want it. Put it under your arms, get a little extra pubes, or just keep it in your hope chest. Can I getttttttttttttttttttttt a five, five, five, there's a five! Wow, we got a six then a seven, how about an eight, there's an eight, do I hear a nine? Can I get a nine? Going once, going twice , there's a ten from the internet bidder! Going once, going twice, SOLD for a Ten o'clock bed time for Hossman.
What a great night ladies and gentlemen. You should all feel very proud of yourselves. Our next to the last item up for auction tonight is Privacy, a lovely color of Privacy too. How about we start the bidding at 7. Do I have a seven, seven, seven, we have a seven, how about an eight, there's an eight, eight, can I get a nine? We have nine, nine, nine, there's a ten, ten, ten, can we go higher? There's an 11. Can we get.............there's a big bid by the odd couple by the aisle. We have a bid of Never, ever, ever. Going once, going twice, SOLD to the cute toddler couple for Never, ever, ever allowing Hossman to take a crap with the door shut anymore.
Our final item up for bid is Composure, a beautiful 1974 version of Composure that just might qualify as an antique. Can we get a 2, two, two, there's a two, looking for a three, where's a three, there's a three. Hoping for a four, four, four? No fours? Come on people, surely we can have a four? There's a four right there. Any more bids? There's one more, is that correct sir? Did you bid "lost"? There we go, we have a bid for lost. Going once, going twice, SOLD as Hossman has Lost his Composure completely.
Our first item up for bid is Patience. Everyone could use some more of this so why don't we go ahead and get started? I'm going to open the bidding up at 1----we have one, can we get two, two, two, can we get a two, there we go we have a two, how about a three, three, where is our three at? This is a top of the line Patience, surely we can get a three. And there it is a three to the little lady in the back row. Four, four, four? No four? Going once, going twice, SOLD for three seperate cell phones that have been dumped in the toilet and Hossman has no more patience. Congratulations to the little three year old in the back row.
Next up is Dignity. Who wouldn't like some slightly used Dignity. One of a kind folks, this is some top of the line Dignity. Let's open this one up at 3, three, three, I see a four, now we are at a four, how about a four and a half, four and half, there's a five! We got a five, five, five, can we get a six, six, there's the six back there. Can we go to a seven, seven? Going once for six, going twice for six, SOLD for six seperate occasions that Hossman has walked around somewhere "fancy" with baby vomit on his crotch. Good going to the little guy who called in by phone to place his bid.
Moving on. Our next item up for auction is Intelligence. Hossman has decided that this little gem is no longer needed in his household. It may not be worth as much so let's start it off with a 3. Can I get a three, three, three, can I get a three. No three? Ok, how about a two, two, two, two, there's a two, it's a pity two but we'll take it. Going once, Going twice, SOLD for two separate times that Hossman has actually washed a disposable diaper that got mixed in with the laundry. Good times.
What a lovely crowd we have here tonight. Remember, all the proceeds from tonight's auction do not in no way go to charity so let's keep the bidding going with our next item up for bid. Oh, this is very special. I'm a little choked up here by the Hossman generosity. Ok, here we go. The rest of Hossman's hair. This is top of the line hair that some would say would resemble a young Brad Pitt. Use it where you want it. Put it under your arms, get a little extra pubes, or just keep it in your hope chest. Can I getttttttttttttttttttttt a five, five, five, there's a five! Wow, we got a six then a seven, how about an eight, there's an eight, do I hear a nine? Can I get a nine? Going once, going twice , there's a ten from the internet bidder! Going once, going twice, SOLD for a Ten o'clock bed time for Hossman.
What a great night ladies and gentlemen. You should all feel very proud of yourselves. Our next to the last item up for auction tonight is Privacy, a lovely color of Privacy too. How about we start the bidding at 7. Do I have a seven, seven, seven, we have a seven, how about an eight, there's an eight, eight, can I get a nine? We have nine, nine, nine, there's a ten, ten, ten, can we go higher? There's an 11. Can we get.............there's a big bid by the odd couple by the aisle. We have a bid of Never, ever, ever. Going once, going twice, SOLD to the cute toddler couple for Never, ever, ever allowing Hossman to take a crap with the door shut anymore.
Our final item up for bid is Composure, a beautiful 1974 version of Composure that just might qualify as an antique. Can we get a 2, two, two, there's a two, looking for a three, where's a three, there's a three. Hoping for a four, four, four? No fours? Come on people, surely we can have a four? There's a four right there. Any more bids? There's one more, is that correct sir? Did you bid "lost"? There we go, we have a bid for lost. Going once, going twice, SOLD as Hossman has Lost his Composure completely.
2/11/09
Hidden
oh God, they are out there. I can hear them. I can hear their little fit pitter pattering on the hardwood floor. I can hear them snickering. I can hear them plotting. Oh God, they are out there.
Is that laughing? No, that's not laughing. Laughing brings to mind joyous occasions, friendships and families. No, that is not laughing. That's cackling like when the evil witch gives snow white the poison apple. Mirror, mirror on the wall who's that scheming in the hall?
There was no other place to go, no other place to slink away to. There was no other place that had a locked door, no other place that they couldn't find me. But I know that the safety of my reprieve is an illusion. They will find me, they always find me. I should be thankful that my downstairs bathroom has given me the 10 minutes that I have had. But they will find it, they always do.
Shhhhh! I can hear them coming. They can smell my fear, my desperation. They know that I am a broken man today. They know that today that they have snapped my will like the shell of a lobster that I am now to poor to afford because we decided to have children.
There was a time when I could go buy video games whenever I wanted. We ate out 4 to 5 nights a week. I could go to the bookstore and buy random magazines that I had no intention of reading, like Architecture Digest, that I would then leave out to impress the random visitors that would come to my home. I no longer have visitors, just guards.
Those days are gone and now I am reduced to hiding in my bathroom from my two children. Yes, they are adorable. Yes they are generally well behaved. And yes, they are very very mobile. They are mobile enough to chase down the cat and throw that cat into the extra large water bowl we keep out for the dogs. They are mobile enough to climb up onto the footstool and then launch themselves, feet first, right into my lap and my aching nutsack. They are mobile enough to chase me down when I try and run away, clipping my Achilles heel like that creepy kid in Pet Cemetery. I am an old man that can't outrun a 3 year old child.
Soon after mobility came vocalization. What was once sweet little first words soon became nonstop chants of "Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy." I respond with "yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear." It never stops, it never lessons in intensity and now she has a little partner to add to the chorus. "Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream)
"Yes DEAR!"
"Fat cat poop on floor. Boy playing in it." The random scream has been explained.
They are at the door now. The laughing has now softened, becoming giggles. They have me pinpointed. They have vectored in on my location, Eagle one has found the package.
I am sitting in the corner, behind the fake plant hoping that the sweet smell of plastic fern will mask my own stink of fear. If you have read my past blogs you understand why I have a fake plant and not a real one. We can't have real plants in this house. We can't have plants and markers. Plants and markers in my house is the 7th sign that the apocalypse has come and it can't be stopped.
I can't stop shivering. Because they are out there and now they are not making any sound. No sound at all. 3 years of parenting and the first rule that you learn is that complete silence is a shrill alarm that something bad is going to happen. It's something bad and it's starting to touch the doorknob, demanding attention.
"Daddy" I hear softly as the lock holds, straining against the last of my will power.
I am afraid to answer. I am afraid to go back out there. Take me out coach, put Jenkins in, I'm done. Casey has struck out, Mudville sucks, bring in the hookers.
Nails start to dig into the door. Not fast, not at first anyway, but slowly. Slowly enough to let me know that it is intentional. That somehow my 1 year old son who can't understand "stay out of the trash", has figured out the usefulness of psychological warfare and terror.
Now there is a rhythm. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. If at all possible I squeeze my 250 pound frame even further into the corner. It's funny for a moment. 250 pounds versus 45 pounds of twin toddler destruction and I know that I am going to lose. First my sanity and then whatever is left over from the soulless carcase that I will inhabit.
The door opens. God no, why is the door opening???? I locked the door, it should not be opening! The door didn't latch. When I shut it, it didn't latch. Haste makes waste.
The end, it cometh.
The hinges need to be oiled. What a funny thing to think when you are about to meet your doom. The hinges, the stupid, stupid hinges.
The door swings and I peer out into the dusk filled hallway. I see the shadows, I see my toddler destiny.
And neither is wearing any pants..............................................
Is that laughing? No, that's not laughing. Laughing brings to mind joyous occasions, friendships and families. No, that is not laughing. That's cackling like when the evil witch gives snow white the poison apple. Mirror, mirror on the wall who's that scheming in the hall?
There was no other place to go, no other place to slink away to. There was no other place that had a locked door, no other place that they couldn't find me. But I know that the safety of my reprieve is an illusion. They will find me, they always find me. I should be thankful that my downstairs bathroom has given me the 10 minutes that I have had. But they will find it, they always do.
Shhhhh! I can hear them coming. They can smell my fear, my desperation. They know that I am a broken man today. They know that today that they have snapped my will like the shell of a lobster that I am now to poor to afford because we decided to have children.
There was a time when I could go buy video games whenever I wanted. We ate out 4 to 5 nights a week. I could go to the bookstore and buy random magazines that I had no intention of reading, like Architecture Digest, that I would then leave out to impress the random visitors that would come to my home. I no longer have visitors, just guards.
Those days are gone and now I am reduced to hiding in my bathroom from my two children. Yes, they are adorable. Yes they are generally well behaved. And yes, they are very very mobile. They are mobile enough to chase down the cat and throw that cat into the extra large water bowl we keep out for the dogs. They are mobile enough to climb up onto the footstool and then launch themselves, feet first, right into my lap and my aching nutsack. They are mobile enough to chase me down when I try and run away, clipping my Achilles heel like that creepy kid in Pet Cemetery. I am an old man that can't outrun a 3 year old child.
Soon after mobility came vocalization. What was once sweet little first words soon became nonstop chants of "Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy." I respond with "yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear, yes dear." It never stops, it never lessons in intensity and now she has a little partner to add to the chorus. "Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream) Daddy (random scream)
"Yes DEAR!"
"Fat cat poop on floor. Boy playing in it." The random scream has been explained.
They are at the door now. The laughing has now softened, becoming giggles. They have me pinpointed. They have vectored in on my location, Eagle one has found the package.
I am sitting in the corner, behind the fake plant hoping that the sweet smell of plastic fern will mask my own stink of fear. If you have read my past blogs you understand why I have a fake plant and not a real one. We can't have real plants in this house. We can't have plants and markers. Plants and markers in my house is the 7th sign that the apocalypse has come and it can't be stopped.
I can't stop shivering. Because they are out there and now they are not making any sound. No sound at all. 3 years of parenting and the first rule that you learn is that complete silence is a shrill alarm that something bad is going to happen. It's something bad and it's starting to touch the doorknob, demanding attention.
"Daddy" I hear softly as the lock holds, straining against the last of my will power.
I am afraid to answer. I am afraid to go back out there. Take me out coach, put Jenkins in, I'm done. Casey has struck out, Mudville sucks, bring in the hookers.
Nails start to dig into the door. Not fast, not at first anyway, but slowly. Slowly enough to let me know that it is intentional. That somehow my 1 year old son who can't understand "stay out of the trash", has figured out the usefulness of psychological warfare and terror.
Now there is a rhythm. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. "Daddy", knob turn, scratch. If at all possible I squeeze my 250 pound frame even further into the corner. It's funny for a moment. 250 pounds versus 45 pounds of twin toddler destruction and I know that I am going to lose. First my sanity and then whatever is left over from the soulless carcase that I will inhabit.
The door opens. God no, why is the door opening???? I locked the door, it should not be opening! The door didn't latch. When I shut it, it didn't latch. Haste makes waste.
The end, it cometh.
The hinges need to be oiled. What a funny thing to think when you are about to meet your doom. The hinges, the stupid, stupid hinges.
The door swings and I peer out into the dusk filled hallway. I see the shadows, I see my toddler destiny.
And neither is wearing any pants..............................................
2/9/09
The Scissors and Me
My daughter thinks that I am the entire world. I can do no wrong, I can make no mistakes, and I can fix absolutely anything. She's 3 and right now, I am her god. I am worshiped and I am surprised that more don't follow the example of my Little Hoss. I don't require sacrifices, but an occasional virgin strapped to a tree wouldn't be so hard, now would it?? In fact, just tell me she's a virgin, I won't know. And for the record, I'm totally ok with fake boobs.
If you have read my blog, you know that my daughter is just a tad bit destructive. That is like saying a tornado is just a tad bit windy. It would only be fitting that she is the type of daughter that likes to tear apart everything since I am quite handy at fixing everything she destroys.
But what happens when I can't fix it? Her whole vision of me would be destroyed. Am I nothing but a false prophet? Normally, I would assume that this wouldn't happen until she is at least 15 and I had just explained to her that she was going to be a nun for the rest of her life. Then she can think that her dad is nothing but a mere mortal and not Zeus raining down thunderbolts.
Little Hoss has a pair of child's scissors that I let her run around the pool with on her way to sitting to close to the many of hours of TV I let her watch. She love's these things. I think it's because she realized that she could be doubly destructive with a knife rather than just hands. She has realized how to use tools to accomplish her tasks, now she is a monkey.
I'm not sure exactly how, but she broke them. It appeared that she snapped the pivot point between the two blades. My first reaction of course was, god damn it, really? However, I also thought, Christ, she's strong. Seriously, who breaks scissors?
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" she screamed.
"Fix it."
Crap.
"Fix it Daddy."
Crap, crap, crap, crap.
"Daddy, fix it." Tears are starting to pool in her eyes, her sweet little innocent eyes that believes that her father can do no wrong.
I know that I rant a lot. I know that I show my frustration with this whole parenting thing. I know that I should drink in private more often. But the truth of it is, my daughter owns me and I know it. Not only do I know it, I kinda love it.
I hate to see disappointment in my daughter's eyes and I will go to pretty big lengths to make sure that it's not there. Sure theirs discipline, but I always cave way to early. People may see me in public giving structure and rules, but as soon as we are in the car I make sure everyone has hugs and that she knows that Daddy is sorry he is such a pathetic bastard, how about some ice cream?
And when i looked at those scissors, her very most favorite thing in the world, I knew that I was sunk. Sure, I could go get buy some other scissors but she would know man, she would know and she would see me for the unemployed loser that I really am. She would know that they weren't fixed immediately and her idea of me would suffer way before it's supposed to. When it's supposed to I always imagined it's because of some guy name Chet and I had to repeatedly beat his little goth ass so as not to foul my daughter.
But the only Chet here is me and I can't fix her scissors.
"Please?" she says in that little 3 year old voice that makes me crack every single time. "Please Daddy?" With each moment I am hating the scissor manufacturer who put a plastic pivot point in child's scissors. I am thinking that I should take the remains of these scissors to the CEO's house and ask him why he wanted to disappoint my wonderful angel, you gigantic turd sandwich. Then I will punch him.
There should be something substantial in there. Don't they know that children destroy everything? It should be durable, it should be able to withstand any and all scissor related accidents. It should be easily replaced, it should be able to withstand a 300 pound emu jumping on top of it. It should be made of metal.
Yes, yes, that's it! It should be made of metal!!! I am not a disappointment to my daughter. I am the bringer of all that is good. I am the light, I am the way, I am the HOSS.
A bolt, a nut, and a lock washer. That's all that I need. I have more sizes of bolts and nuts than there are holes in the world. I always keep them handy because you never know what building Little Hoss is going to attempt to bring down.
Within seconds I find the right bolt, a very very small one and I have the nut to go with it. 1 minute flat and the scissors are fixed and I hand them back to my daughter.
"Thank you Daddy" she squeals and runs away to do countless more damage such as cutting my wife's hair while she is asleep.
But she is happy and once again everything in her world is good because yes, Daddy can fix it.
I think two things as she runs to her destiny of destruction. First, I know that in the long run I'm going to pay for fixing her scissors. She is going to do something that is going to drive me up a wall, like shaving the dog. But that's ok, right now she still loves me and thinks that her dad can beat up your dad.
Second: Chet, you're screwed pal. You can never live up to me.
If you have read my blog, you know that my daughter is just a tad bit destructive. That is like saying a tornado is just a tad bit windy. It would only be fitting that she is the type of daughter that likes to tear apart everything since I am quite handy at fixing everything she destroys.
But what happens when I can't fix it? Her whole vision of me would be destroyed. Am I nothing but a false prophet? Normally, I would assume that this wouldn't happen until she is at least 15 and I had just explained to her that she was going to be a nun for the rest of her life. Then she can think that her dad is nothing but a mere mortal and not Zeus raining down thunderbolts.
Little Hoss has a pair of child's scissors that I let her run around the pool with on her way to sitting to close to the many of hours of TV I let her watch. She love's these things. I think it's because she realized that she could be doubly destructive with a knife rather than just hands. She has realized how to use tools to accomplish her tasks, now she is a monkey.
I'm not sure exactly how, but she broke them. It appeared that she snapped the pivot point between the two blades. My first reaction of course was, god damn it, really? However, I also thought, Christ, she's strong. Seriously, who breaks scissors?
"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" she screamed.
"Fix it."
Crap.
"Fix it Daddy."
Crap, crap, crap, crap.
"Daddy, fix it." Tears are starting to pool in her eyes, her sweet little innocent eyes that believes that her father can do no wrong.
I know that I rant a lot. I know that I show my frustration with this whole parenting thing. I know that I should drink in private more often. But the truth of it is, my daughter owns me and I know it. Not only do I know it, I kinda love it.
I hate to see disappointment in my daughter's eyes and I will go to pretty big lengths to make sure that it's not there. Sure theirs discipline, but I always cave way to early. People may see me in public giving structure and rules, but as soon as we are in the car I make sure everyone has hugs and that she knows that Daddy is sorry he is such a pathetic bastard, how about some ice cream?
And when i looked at those scissors, her very most favorite thing in the world, I knew that I was sunk. Sure, I could go get buy some other scissors but she would know man, she would know and she would see me for the unemployed loser that I really am. She would know that they weren't fixed immediately and her idea of me would suffer way before it's supposed to. When it's supposed to I always imagined it's because of some guy name Chet and I had to repeatedly beat his little goth ass so as not to foul my daughter.
But the only Chet here is me and I can't fix her scissors.
"Please?" she says in that little 3 year old voice that makes me crack every single time. "Please Daddy?" With each moment I am hating the scissor manufacturer who put a plastic pivot point in child's scissors. I am thinking that I should take the remains of these scissors to the CEO's house and ask him why he wanted to disappoint my wonderful angel, you gigantic turd sandwich. Then I will punch him.
There should be something substantial in there. Don't they know that children destroy everything? It should be durable, it should be able to withstand any and all scissor related accidents. It should be easily replaced, it should be able to withstand a 300 pound emu jumping on top of it. It should be made of metal.
Yes, yes, that's it! It should be made of metal!!! I am not a disappointment to my daughter. I am the bringer of all that is good. I am the light, I am the way, I am the HOSS.
A bolt, a nut, and a lock washer. That's all that I need. I have more sizes of bolts and nuts than there are holes in the world. I always keep them handy because you never know what building Little Hoss is going to attempt to bring down.
Within seconds I find the right bolt, a very very small one and I have the nut to go with it. 1 minute flat and the scissors are fixed and I hand them back to my daughter.
"Thank you Daddy" she squeals and runs away to do countless more damage such as cutting my wife's hair while she is asleep.
But she is happy and once again everything in her world is good because yes, Daddy can fix it.
I think two things as she runs to her destiny of destruction. First, I know that in the long run I'm going to pay for fixing her scissors. She is going to do something that is going to drive me up a wall, like shaving the dog. But that's ok, right now she still loves me and thinks that her dad can beat up your dad.
Second: Chet, you're screwed pal. You can never live up to me.
2/2/09
Good Old Dad
When my son decided that he wanted to be born into this world at 3:30am, it was good old dad that calmly packed everyone into the car and got everyone to the hospital.
When he was finally born and had to go to the NICU, it was good old dad that went with him every step of the way, letting every medical personal know that if something happened to my son I would be putting some foot up some asses.
When he got home to his new room, yup, again it was good old dad, the old man himself, that made sure it was painted manly colors for him.
As time went on, it was always good old dad that continued to come through. I quit my job so I could raise him right, make sure he said his yes ma'ams and no sirs.
When he would wake up at 3:00AM every morning for the first 4 months of his life to get a nice bottle or warm milk, who do you think did that? Every night, without missing a beat, it was dad. And during those long night hours, who introduced him to the greatness of Star Trek? It sure wasn't mom, she hates it. No, it was dad that told him for the first time what the prime directive was and what it meant.
Every shot he has had to get, I was the one that took him and held him. He had to have a skin biopsy at one point and again it was dad that was with him. But Dad was there, he was tough for you, he didn't let you go. And when he needed something to bite down on, who do you think offered him the leather belt? That's something that mom's just don't know how to do.
Hossmom had to go for a month to start the new job and again it was good old dad that stayed behind to make sure the family was going to be ok. And during that 30 days that we had with just us, it was dad that introduced him to the awesomeness of Popsicles in the bathtub. Hossmom is to practical for that. Dad obviously isn't. My immaturity combined with my total lack of impulse control means that I am awesome to anyone under the age of 10.
Time went on but Dad stayed here, always ready to show you the world, teach you how to handle it, and give you a big high five when you whipped a little ass.
He's a year old now and I'm still here by his side. Sometimes I think a little to much, but it's ok, I love my boy.
There are days when honest to god he won't let go of my pants leg. Hey, I understand that. Dad knows what its like to be shy and Dad has always got your back. I'm the best wingman you are ever going to have.
And when his sister was pounding on him a little to much, taking advantage of his little stature, who do you think helped him out. He would have never gotten that little plastic baseball bat if it wasn't for me. Hell no Hossmom wouldn't have gone for that much less taught him how to swing it. From the hips boy, from the hips.
I know everything about my son. His favorite movie is Bee movie. His favorite food is chips. His favorite past time is climbing up on me like I'm Mt. St. Helen's and then jumping off without a care because he knows that Dad will always catch him, every time.
I bought him his first toy. I took him to his first outing. His first time to the zoo was with me.
He won't go to bed unless I am the one that puts him down. He won't eat unless I am nearby. When he is upset, he grabs for me and only me.
He said his first word a couple of days ago.
He said "Mama."
Sigh. I suppose that's the way it should be, I love her a lot too.
When he was finally born and had to go to the NICU, it was good old dad that went with him every step of the way, letting every medical personal know that if something happened to my son I would be putting some foot up some asses.
When he got home to his new room, yup, again it was good old dad, the old man himself, that made sure it was painted manly colors for him.
As time went on, it was always good old dad that continued to come through. I quit my job so I could raise him right, make sure he said his yes ma'ams and no sirs.
When he would wake up at 3:00AM every morning for the first 4 months of his life to get a nice bottle or warm milk, who do you think did that? Every night, without missing a beat, it was dad. And during those long night hours, who introduced him to the greatness of Star Trek? It sure wasn't mom, she hates it. No, it was dad that told him for the first time what the prime directive was and what it meant.
Every shot he has had to get, I was the one that took him and held him. He had to have a skin biopsy at one point and again it was dad that was with him. But Dad was there, he was tough for you, he didn't let you go. And when he needed something to bite down on, who do you think offered him the leather belt? That's something that mom's just don't know how to do.
Hossmom had to go for a month to start the new job and again it was good old dad that stayed behind to make sure the family was going to be ok. And during that 30 days that we had with just us, it was dad that introduced him to the awesomeness of Popsicles in the bathtub. Hossmom is to practical for that. Dad obviously isn't. My immaturity combined with my total lack of impulse control means that I am awesome to anyone under the age of 10.
Time went on but Dad stayed here, always ready to show you the world, teach you how to handle it, and give you a big high five when you whipped a little ass.
He's a year old now and I'm still here by his side. Sometimes I think a little to much, but it's ok, I love my boy.
There are days when honest to god he won't let go of my pants leg. Hey, I understand that. Dad knows what its like to be shy and Dad has always got your back. I'm the best wingman you are ever going to have.
And when his sister was pounding on him a little to much, taking advantage of his little stature, who do you think helped him out. He would have never gotten that little plastic baseball bat if it wasn't for me. Hell no Hossmom wouldn't have gone for that much less taught him how to swing it. From the hips boy, from the hips.
I know everything about my son. His favorite movie is Bee movie. His favorite food is chips. His favorite past time is climbing up on me like I'm Mt. St. Helen's and then jumping off without a care because he knows that Dad will always catch him, every time.
I bought him his first toy. I took him to his first outing. His first time to the zoo was with me.
He won't go to bed unless I am the one that puts him down. He won't eat unless I am nearby. When he is upset, he grabs for me and only me.
He said his first word a couple of days ago.
He said "Mama."
Sigh. I suppose that's the way it should be, I love her a lot too.
2/1/09
All the Cards on the Table.
I know that I shouldn't be writing this. I know that I should put down the laptop, go get the crayolas and stick to the simple life of sunsets and clouds. Enough with the words because sometimes they get you into trouble. Like this particular blog.
I told a friend what I was going to write about and he said "Dude, keep my name out of it." I didn't expect any support on this one. A man walks a lonely road when he goes up against the powers that be. That limb that you climb out on gets thinner and thinner until pretty soon you are the only fat ass out there when it snaps. Well, so be it. I'll leave other members unnamed at this point in time but I expect you to sing my praises in the future.
A couple of days ago a couple of the guys got together to go see a movie. We asked our wives. Some made deals and some made promises. Some groveled and some underwent the "look of death" before getting permission to go out. So we saw the movie. After the movie, we decided a beer would go really well with the popcorn that we consumed. So like good husbands we all called our wives and again cleared it with upper management. We were a go for a beer, just one. 30 minutes only, we all swore.
As expected, I arrived home later than what I told my wife. Small argument ensued where I tried to state my case, bringing up cell phone records to prove my points and showing that indeed I did call often. The word "worried" was thrown out which is hard to argue with. Such as you mean so much to me I was worried that something bad happened to you. How do you argue with that? Yes, you are so noble and I am a shitheal.
It then hit me. Yes, women are crazy. That most of us mean already knew. But they are also subtle. They read between the lines, even when there is nothing but blank white space between those lines. However, and remember I'm not trying to speak for any buddies here (they got busted to), they seem never to read between the lines when it comes to guys going out and what we tell them.
So to clear the air, let's make this all perfectly clear. No more surprises, no more guessing games, no more worry for the wife because I can't argue with the worry and it frankly just sucks giving in so early.
First off, and this is for all wives: I don't like asking for permission. I'm not 5 years old asking to go for a sleepover, I just want to go have a beer. This is true for most guys. Now, I know that there will be women reading this that say "I'm not that bad, he never has to ask for permission!"
I call bullshit. I call complete and total bullshit. I call so much bullshit that there are not enough shovels in the world to properly dispose of the bullshit.
Every guy asks for permission, you just may not realize it. When he first tells you about what he is planning to do, he is asking for permission without ever using those words because it makes us feel like we are back to 10 years old asking if we can please oh please have 10 bucks to play laser tag. He is reading your body language. If you give off bad vibes, he immediately takes is all back and tells you that HE DOESN'T really want to go, no big deal. Of course it's total and utter crap. Hell yes he wants to go but he doesn't want to deal with the massive amount of guilt that you are about to lay on his doorstep.
Now there are some women reading this that again will say they are not like that. Maybe so, but your husband also knows that you are filing this away to be used in a future argument. Oh yes, we can smell your smugness from here. It will come up sometime, somewhere, where you will bring up how cool a wife you are, unlike those other wives, so you should appreciate her more and not be too judgmental about that brief thing she had with the pool boy. After all, she let you go out with your buddies.
Next, whatever time he tells you he is going to be home, add at least 2 hours to that before you start to worry. You see, guys are not real good planners. When you ask us what time we are going to be home, we honestly have no idea. So we just throw out any random number that we don't think you'll get mad at. We can't say "I don't know" because you'll get pissed. Honestly, it could be in an hour or it could be the next morning. I swear to god, we just don't know. Sure, they were just planning on seeing a movie. 2 hours, max. But then, a possible beer gets thrown in. And hell yes we would like a beer rather than sitting at home watching the latest installment of Tru Beauty.
Now when he calls you to tell you about said beer, take the 2 hours later and add at least another hour but more realistically probably about 3. We never mean for this to happen but one beer turns into another and sure as shit you cannot walk away from a debate about the greatest athlete of all time (Micheal Jordan my ass.) But keep in mind, when this all started out we didn't plan on getting shitfaced.
And don't remind him "not to drink to much." We know this and we never plan on this. However, if the truth be told, we are always planning on this. What we are looking for in those 2 hours in the bar is a designated driver to get us safely home to your wrath. No reason taking out somebody else rather than just myself. If we can't find one, we'll knock it off at 2 beers. However, if someone volunteers, it could be around 10. Like I said, we don't plan very well. If you want to know if your man is planning on getting tanked before he goes out, just look at his behavior. If he is all giddy like it's Christmas eve, yup, he's going to get so drunk that it will make his college binges seem like practice.
Now when he does come home, let's hope he had some good friends. Good friends are the ones that will walk him to the door and make sure he gets inside ok. Bad friends are the ones that will just throw him in the front yard and ring the doorbell and run like hell. Because let's be honest, that's just funny and every bad friend knows it. No worries though, because like most wives you hate his bad friends anyway and have been trying for years to get him not to associate with those people. Every husband has a friend that the wife just hates, for one reason or another.
For me, my wife says I get to cussy around that guy and has no idea why I hang around with him. The arguement of lifelong bond, childhood compadrae, and he gave me a kidney makes no difference.
But lets say that he makes it home and tries ever so lightly to crawl into bed. If you are awake, we ask that you pretend to be asleep because nothing is as horrible to find a wife laying awake in the darkness brewing about how much she is going to kick our ass. Just fake it, like some other things you fake, and we can deal with it in the morning.
Now if you do wake up, you should never ask him the time. Because he will lie his little monkey balls off to you. He will assume that you went to bed an hour after your normal bed time, say 11:00pm. He will figure it took you 30 minutes to fall asleep. So he will tell you it's only 11:45 honey, no big deal, sorry I'm late, you just went to bed. It's really closer to 3:45 and late cannot even begin to describe the time that he is coming home. The best ones will actually go jack with your clock just in case you want to check it. I'm not a proud man, but yes, I've done that. Look, only 11:45. Yup, now I have to go shower so I can leave for work in 30 minutes.
Be prepared for your man to stink. If it's not the smoke and the beer then it's the stink of lies and it cannot be washed off with your child's wetwipe in the time it takes to get from the bottom of the stairs to the top of the stairs. It cannot be covered up with cheap restroom cologne. A shower will only serve to wash it deeper into the skin and our lying stinking souls.
And let's be clear about one other thing. We have no delisions that you are buying any of the shit that we are feeding you. From start to finish, we know that we are busted. We know that you know and we are only trying to deflect any shitstorm that is coming our way. We both know it so let's just all argee on it. I will not tell you that no one, in the entire group of 4 guys that I went out with, didn't have a cell phone if you promise to keep my reaming short and sweet. I will not bring up things that other guys did so that I look better by comparison.
"Hey, I'm not such a bad guy, the other dude drove home drunk and crashed into a bus of old people. Is that what you want, for me to kill old people? Ya know, that's just really cruel, I don't really understand how you can be so cruel. How do you live with yourself?"
But don't try to reverse the situation. Don't say something like "what would you do if I went out and had drinks with the girls and came home drunk? Huh, how would you feel if I came home 3 hours late?"
Well, I would feel fantastic and hope that some late night drunk loving would be coming my way. That arguement won't work on us. Oh, we'll say something like "Well yes honey, I would be worried." But that's not what we are thinking. We are thinking shit, go have a blast. It was fun as hell for me. And while you were gone I was playing 5 hours of nonstop video games without getting any shit at all. In fact, I demand you go out with your girlfriends and get toasted."
We won't say that because we know that it would just piss you off even more to know that we don't worry as much as you do. But don't fret, it will all work out in the end because alot of us have daughters and one day they will go on a date with Chester the douchebag and miss curfew at which point we will be in a living hell. Karma, we are aware that it exists.
Finally, if you can find it in your heart of hearts, just give us a pass. If you want to show us how cool you are, just let it go. Be that cool chick that you claim to be and just let me go to ever loving sleep so I can wake up to worshiping you once again.
Now if everyone will excuse me, I have to make the couch.
I told a friend what I was going to write about and he said "Dude, keep my name out of it." I didn't expect any support on this one. A man walks a lonely road when he goes up against the powers that be. That limb that you climb out on gets thinner and thinner until pretty soon you are the only fat ass out there when it snaps. Well, so be it. I'll leave other members unnamed at this point in time but I expect you to sing my praises in the future.
A couple of days ago a couple of the guys got together to go see a movie. We asked our wives. Some made deals and some made promises. Some groveled and some underwent the "look of death" before getting permission to go out. So we saw the movie. After the movie, we decided a beer would go really well with the popcorn that we consumed. So like good husbands we all called our wives and again cleared it with upper management. We were a go for a beer, just one. 30 minutes only, we all swore.
As expected, I arrived home later than what I told my wife. Small argument ensued where I tried to state my case, bringing up cell phone records to prove my points and showing that indeed I did call often. The word "worried" was thrown out which is hard to argue with. Such as you mean so much to me I was worried that something bad happened to you. How do you argue with that? Yes, you are so noble and I am a shitheal.
It then hit me. Yes, women are crazy. That most of us mean already knew. But they are also subtle. They read between the lines, even when there is nothing but blank white space between those lines. However, and remember I'm not trying to speak for any buddies here (they got busted to), they seem never to read between the lines when it comes to guys going out and what we tell them.
So to clear the air, let's make this all perfectly clear. No more surprises, no more guessing games, no more worry for the wife because I can't argue with the worry and it frankly just sucks giving in so early.
First off, and this is for all wives: I don't like asking for permission. I'm not 5 years old asking to go for a sleepover, I just want to go have a beer. This is true for most guys. Now, I know that there will be women reading this that say "I'm not that bad, he never has to ask for permission!"
I call bullshit. I call complete and total bullshit. I call so much bullshit that there are not enough shovels in the world to properly dispose of the bullshit.
Every guy asks for permission, you just may not realize it. When he first tells you about what he is planning to do, he is asking for permission without ever using those words because it makes us feel like we are back to 10 years old asking if we can please oh please have 10 bucks to play laser tag. He is reading your body language. If you give off bad vibes, he immediately takes is all back and tells you that HE DOESN'T really want to go, no big deal. Of course it's total and utter crap. Hell yes he wants to go but he doesn't want to deal with the massive amount of guilt that you are about to lay on his doorstep.
Now there are some women reading this that again will say they are not like that. Maybe so, but your husband also knows that you are filing this away to be used in a future argument. Oh yes, we can smell your smugness from here. It will come up sometime, somewhere, where you will bring up how cool a wife you are, unlike those other wives, so you should appreciate her more and not be too judgmental about that brief thing she had with the pool boy. After all, she let you go out with your buddies.
Next, whatever time he tells you he is going to be home, add at least 2 hours to that before you start to worry. You see, guys are not real good planners. When you ask us what time we are going to be home, we honestly have no idea. So we just throw out any random number that we don't think you'll get mad at. We can't say "I don't know" because you'll get pissed. Honestly, it could be in an hour or it could be the next morning. I swear to god, we just don't know. Sure, they were just planning on seeing a movie. 2 hours, max. But then, a possible beer gets thrown in. And hell yes we would like a beer rather than sitting at home watching the latest installment of Tru Beauty.
Now when he calls you to tell you about said beer, take the 2 hours later and add at least another hour but more realistically probably about 3. We never mean for this to happen but one beer turns into another and sure as shit you cannot walk away from a debate about the greatest athlete of all time (Micheal Jordan my ass.) But keep in mind, when this all started out we didn't plan on getting shitfaced.
And don't remind him "not to drink to much." We know this and we never plan on this. However, if the truth be told, we are always planning on this. What we are looking for in those 2 hours in the bar is a designated driver to get us safely home to your wrath. No reason taking out somebody else rather than just myself. If we can't find one, we'll knock it off at 2 beers. However, if someone volunteers, it could be around 10. Like I said, we don't plan very well. If you want to know if your man is planning on getting tanked before he goes out, just look at his behavior. If he is all giddy like it's Christmas eve, yup, he's going to get so drunk that it will make his college binges seem like practice.
Now when he does come home, let's hope he had some good friends. Good friends are the ones that will walk him to the door and make sure he gets inside ok. Bad friends are the ones that will just throw him in the front yard and ring the doorbell and run like hell. Because let's be honest, that's just funny and every bad friend knows it. No worries though, because like most wives you hate his bad friends anyway and have been trying for years to get him not to associate with those people. Every husband has a friend that the wife just hates, for one reason or another.
For me, my wife says I get to cussy around that guy and has no idea why I hang around with him. The arguement of lifelong bond, childhood compadrae, and he gave me a kidney makes no difference.
But lets say that he makes it home and tries ever so lightly to crawl into bed. If you are awake, we ask that you pretend to be asleep because nothing is as horrible to find a wife laying awake in the darkness brewing about how much she is going to kick our ass. Just fake it, like some other things you fake, and we can deal with it in the morning.
Now if you do wake up, you should never ask him the time. Because he will lie his little monkey balls off to you. He will assume that you went to bed an hour after your normal bed time, say 11:00pm. He will figure it took you 30 minutes to fall asleep. So he will tell you it's only 11:45 honey, no big deal, sorry I'm late, you just went to bed. It's really closer to 3:45 and late cannot even begin to describe the time that he is coming home. The best ones will actually go jack with your clock just in case you want to check it. I'm not a proud man, but yes, I've done that. Look, only 11:45. Yup, now I have to go shower so I can leave for work in 30 minutes.
Be prepared for your man to stink. If it's not the smoke and the beer then it's the stink of lies and it cannot be washed off with your child's wetwipe in the time it takes to get from the bottom of the stairs to the top of the stairs. It cannot be covered up with cheap restroom cologne. A shower will only serve to wash it deeper into the skin and our lying stinking souls.
And let's be clear about one other thing. We have no delisions that you are buying any of the shit that we are feeding you. From start to finish, we know that we are busted. We know that you know and we are only trying to deflect any shitstorm that is coming our way. We both know it so let's just all argee on it. I will not tell you that no one, in the entire group of 4 guys that I went out with, didn't have a cell phone if you promise to keep my reaming short and sweet. I will not bring up things that other guys did so that I look better by comparison.
"Hey, I'm not such a bad guy, the other dude drove home drunk and crashed into a bus of old people. Is that what you want, for me to kill old people? Ya know, that's just really cruel, I don't really understand how you can be so cruel. How do you live with yourself?"
But don't try to reverse the situation. Don't say something like "what would you do if I went out and had drinks with the girls and came home drunk? Huh, how would you feel if I came home 3 hours late?"
Well, I would feel fantastic and hope that some late night drunk loving would be coming my way. That arguement won't work on us. Oh, we'll say something like "Well yes honey, I would be worried." But that's not what we are thinking. We are thinking shit, go have a blast. It was fun as hell for me. And while you were gone I was playing 5 hours of nonstop video games without getting any shit at all. In fact, I demand you go out with your girlfriends and get toasted."
We won't say that because we know that it would just piss you off even more to know that we don't worry as much as you do. But don't fret, it will all work out in the end because alot of us have daughters and one day they will go on a date with Chester the douchebag and miss curfew at which point we will be in a living hell. Karma, we are aware that it exists.
Finally, if you can find it in your heart of hearts, just give us a pass. If you want to show us how cool you are, just let it go. Be that cool chick that you claim to be and just let me go to ever loving sleep so I can wake up to worshiping you once again.
Now if everyone will excuse me, I have to make the couch.
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