Son, this is Rocky II. They made a lot of these but this one is still pretty good. In Rocky I , our boy Rocky lasted 15 rounds with Apollo Creed, a bad mamba jamba. You see, Rocky was just a bum, a no name that had no chance. But he had Mickey and he had heart and with that you can go a pretty long damn way. All you need is the love of a good women and a good corner man and you'll get your shot at the tittle.
"Train! I want cho-cho train!"
No, you're not listening to me here. That's Rocky, that guy with the thick speech. He's a good man and he loves his woman. He's not good at much but the one thing he can do well is fight. He has to be good at it because everyday of his life is a fight. Living in the South Side is hard son, it's real hard. And you've got to fight to make something of yourself.
"Cho-cho train! I. Want. Cho-cho train!"
Look kid, you may think that you want to watch Thomas the Train but I'm telling you, you really want to watch Rocky II with your dad. I know Thomas will teach you about being patient and doing a good job and those are all valuable lessons. And Thomas will tell you that doing a good job is reward enough. But Rocky will teach you how to claw your way out of the hole we call life. He'll teach you how to take a punch, how to come out fighting, how to keep going when you just can't anymore. He'll teach you to get up you Son of a bitch because Mickey loves ya.
"Cho-cho TRAIN! Cho-cho train! AAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHH."
See son, Rocky doesn't throw things at his dad when he' snot happy. What he does is he goes into a meat locker and starts pounding on a side of Angus. He tenderizes that bastard because that's the only way he knows he's going to conquer his demons. You see son, the real fight is the one you have to fight with yourself. That's where you discover if you're a man or not. That's where you find out if you have the Eye of the Tiger.
"I want my cho-cho! I want my turn! It my turn now!"
Get up off the floor son. Rocky never stays down and neither should you. He gets up and keeps going because that's the only thing that gives you self respect. It's about taking the best that your opponent has to offer and then getting back up again. It's about telling him that he ain't so bad. Get up son, I ain't heard no bell.
"No! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
Is Thomas going to teach you how to deal with your big sister? No, he's not. He's going to tell you to take the Black Hills route to deliver the eggs to Mr. Wilson's farm. That's what he's going to tell you, about delivering some eggs and flour and then if you put them all together maybe Thomas can tell you how to make a cake. Let's be honest here, your big sister pounds on you like you owe her lunch money. You know who she reminds me of? Drago. That's Rocky IV son. You see Drago was this big old Russian that could punch harder than anyone around. He killed Apollo Creed and so Rocky had to man up and take him on. He did it for his country son, he did it for the memory of a fallen friend. He did it for himself. We learned how to deal with loss son, and that's a pretty important lesson. The next time Little Hoss takes away your elephant, what are you going to do.
"Elephant?"
Yes son, your elephant. You need to watch Rocky with your dad so you'll know what to do when she takes away your elephant. What do you say, how about some Rocky with your dad. I can't take no more Thomas.
...............
"No"
I'll give you candy.
"No"
I'll let you punch your sister.
"No"
I'll make sure Thomas is at your next birthday party.
"No"
I'll bring Apollo Creed back from the dead in a little movie I like to call Predator.
"No"
You drive a hard bargain kid. Here, enjoy your Thomas. But remember, when you're ready for a montage of how to get into shape in the Russian wilderness, you'll know where to find me.
9/28/09
9/27/09
The Bathroom
I am something of a public restroom connoisseur. I have to be when I have a toddler that doesn't care about such things as "privacy" and "making a scene." When she's gotta go, she's gotta go. All I can do is hope to follow along and try to keep up.
The first thing I noticed about this particular bathroom was man, it's pretty nice in here. I didn't have much chance to notice anything else at that point. We were at the downtown library and the kids were, um, well they weren't being all that good. I spent most of my time there trying to not get them to wreck the place. I failed dismally.
They weren't just being bad. I mean, why label it? But if I was going to label it I would say that they were being demonic. That sounds about right. They were missing the horns of course but that's only because us mere mortals can't see the horns. Story time did not go well. I got my 2 kids to sit for about 5 seconds before they decided it would be much better to scream and yell and then run to the big stuffed cow on the other end of the floor. I did try to bring them back once or twice but then my son threatened to cut me so I let it go after that. I didn't want to ruin anyone else's time, but only my own.
After story time we went out onto the roof of the library. It has a very nice garden up there and we were planning to eat a picnic lunch with the rest of the stay at home dads that we were with. In this garden they also have little pebbles. I never thought of this before but I probably should have. I will freely admit that I was off my game a bit. As I was getting lunch ready the kids went to run and play in the garden. I thought that was great, I was getting a little worn out. When I turned back around to get them to come to lunch I saw them throwing those very pebbles off the roof into the street below. We were 5 stories up. My son has quite an arm. I fought the urge to jump off the roof myself and tried to corral the kids to come eat lunch.
What drives me more nuts than anything is when they don't listen to me. When I say "come here" I swear to god I mean "COME HERE RIGHT THE F NOW". I don't mean send me a postcard while you wreck nice cars parked below or brain some poor guy going to work. I mean get your little butts here right now.
Lunch went about the same as everything else did that day. A lot of things being thrown, some crying, me screaming for order and then they decided to stomp on a whole bag of chips. At that moment, I figured that it was time to either head home or give them to the first homeless person that I saw.
"Daddy, I have to go bathroom." Little Hoss said. When your kid says that you have got to act. Not later, not wait until we get home, right now. So I put them in the stroller to go to the bathroom before we headed home. But they didn't want to stay in the stroller so they both jumped out and ran into the bathroom with me screaming behind them.
I tell you all this because I just want you to know my mindset for the rest of the story.
Back to the beginning. I chased my kids into the bathroom and it was very nice. It even smelled good. How often does that happen? I wouldn't have to hold my kid 3 inches above the toilet seat in this one. The Porta Potties are the worst and that's what you have to do. How do you explain crotch rot on a 3 year old?
My 2 year old son likes to bang on doors in the bathrooms now when he goes potty with his big sister. Then he likes to play in the toilet water. While I was chasing him my daughter was struggling to get her pants down. Bubba Hoss made it into several of the stalls and was beginning to fill one of them up with toilet paper while I helped his sister. I tried to grab for him but he ran away and that's about when my patience finally let up. "Get over here now!" I yelled "And stay out of the damn toilet water!"
Then I heard a voice.
"Is there a man in here?" the voice asked. It was oddly feminine for a male voice I thought. Then the dawning came.
Oh dear god in heaven no. No, no, no, no, no, no,no, no. Please god no. Don't let this be what I think it is.
I started to pay attention to the bathroom more closely. There weren't just the normal 2 stalls that you see in men's bathrooms. There were at least 20. And there were no urinals. How could I not notice that at the beginning? There was no smell and there was plenty of toilet paper in each stall. There were no toilet cakes and there were no other men in this bathroom. It was the women's bathroom.
And there it was. I was in the women's bathroom.
"Um, sorry, um, my kids, um, leaving, um, sorry" was all I could mumble as I tried frantically to get the hell out of there with my kids before she started screaming for the police and getting her mace ready. My son had again run away and started banging on stall doors. I was hoping that he didn't bang on that poor women's door because I really didn't need this to get any worse. Of course he wouldn't come when I told him to so I quickly ran and grabbed him by the shirt collar and started dragging him to his sister.
"Pull your pants up!" I said. "But Daddy, I go potty!" she replied. I had no time for a debate. Guys get arrested for this type of thing and I doubted anyone would listen to my excuse, true or not. So I did the only thing I could do. I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder and ran for the exit.
If you would have been on the outside of the bathroom door this is what you would have seen. You would have seen me carrying a pantsless 3 year old crying on my shoulder while dragging a kicking and screaming 2 year old by the collar.
As a stay at home dad I do have to be very aware of my image. We try to fight the "creepy" factor every time we go to the park. Moms won't talk to me because they think it's weird for a guy to be at the park with his kids on a Tuesday. Other guys think I'm weird for staying home. And me running out of the women's bathroom with 2 screaming kids, one without pants, well, that just doesn't help. All I was missing was the camcorder and the lisp and the image would have been complete.
I ran into the men's bathroom, checked to make sure there were urinals and the fresh smell of urinal cake, and put my kids down. One went to the bathroom and one started banging on doors while I tried to decide what I would tell my wife when I got arrested. There's only two ways this could play out: 1. I can't control my children and I feed into the stereotype that fathers are bumblers when they take the kids out. 2. I'm a weirdo who takes kids from women's bathrooms while moms do their business.
I'll take option one. It's the lesser of two evils. I almost decided to spend a good 4 hours there but eventually we came out. I had carpooled with another dad and went and found him. His wife had come up for lunch as well, great.
"We gotta go. We gotta go right now." I said firmly.
"Why?" They asked.
"No questions. We GOTTA GO"
We got into the elevator and I told them what happened. The wife's first response:
"That was you?! I know that lady! She works with me!"
Of course she does.
The first thing I noticed about this particular bathroom was man, it's pretty nice in here. I didn't have much chance to notice anything else at that point. We were at the downtown library and the kids were, um, well they weren't being all that good. I spent most of my time there trying to not get them to wreck the place. I failed dismally.
They weren't just being bad. I mean, why label it? But if I was going to label it I would say that they were being demonic. That sounds about right. They were missing the horns of course but that's only because us mere mortals can't see the horns. Story time did not go well. I got my 2 kids to sit for about 5 seconds before they decided it would be much better to scream and yell and then run to the big stuffed cow on the other end of the floor. I did try to bring them back once or twice but then my son threatened to cut me so I let it go after that. I didn't want to ruin anyone else's time, but only my own.
After story time we went out onto the roof of the library. It has a very nice garden up there and we were planning to eat a picnic lunch with the rest of the stay at home dads that we were with. In this garden they also have little pebbles. I never thought of this before but I probably should have. I will freely admit that I was off my game a bit. As I was getting lunch ready the kids went to run and play in the garden. I thought that was great, I was getting a little worn out. When I turned back around to get them to come to lunch I saw them throwing those very pebbles off the roof into the street below. We were 5 stories up. My son has quite an arm. I fought the urge to jump off the roof myself and tried to corral the kids to come eat lunch.
What drives me more nuts than anything is when they don't listen to me. When I say "come here" I swear to god I mean "COME HERE RIGHT THE F NOW". I don't mean send me a postcard while you wreck nice cars parked below or brain some poor guy going to work. I mean get your little butts here right now.
Lunch went about the same as everything else did that day. A lot of things being thrown, some crying, me screaming for order and then they decided to stomp on a whole bag of chips. At that moment, I figured that it was time to either head home or give them to the first homeless person that I saw.
"Daddy, I have to go bathroom." Little Hoss said. When your kid says that you have got to act. Not later, not wait until we get home, right now. So I put them in the stroller to go to the bathroom before we headed home. But they didn't want to stay in the stroller so they both jumped out and ran into the bathroom with me screaming behind them.
I tell you all this because I just want you to know my mindset for the rest of the story.
Back to the beginning. I chased my kids into the bathroom and it was very nice. It even smelled good. How often does that happen? I wouldn't have to hold my kid 3 inches above the toilet seat in this one. The Porta Potties are the worst and that's what you have to do. How do you explain crotch rot on a 3 year old?
My 2 year old son likes to bang on doors in the bathrooms now when he goes potty with his big sister. Then he likes to play in the toilet water. While I was chasing him my daughter was struggling to get her pants down. Bubba Hoss made it into several of the stalls and was beginning to fill one of them up with toilet paper while I helped his sister. I tried to grab for him but he ran away and that's about when my patience finally let up. "Get over here now!" I yelled "And stay out of the damn toilet water!"
Then I heard a voice.
"Is there a man in here?" the voice asked. It was oddly feminine for a male voice I thought. Then the dawning came.
Oh dear god in heaven no. No, no, no, no, no, no,no, no. Please god no. Don't let this be what I think it is.
I started to pay attention to the bathroom more closely. There weren't just the normal 2 stalls that you see in men's bathrooms. There were at least 20. And there were no urinals. How could I not notice that at the beginning? There was no smell and there was plenty of toilet paper in each stall. There were no toilet cakes and there were no other men in this bathroom. It was the women's bathroom.
And there it was. I was in the women's bathroom.
"Um, sorry, um, my kids, um, leaving, um, sorry" was all I could mumble as I tried frantically to get the hell out of there with my kids before she started screaming for the police and getting her mace ready. My son had again run away and started banging on stall doors. I was hoping that he didn't bang on that poor women's door because I really didn't need this to get any worse. Of course he wouldn't come when I told him to so I quickly ran and grabbed him by the shirt collar and started dragging him to his sister.
"Pull your pants up!" I said. "But Daddy, I go potty!" she replied. I had no time for a debate. Guys get arrested for this type of thing and I doubted anyone would listen to my excuse, true or not. So I did the only thing I could do. I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder and ran for the exit.
If you would have been on the outside of the bathroom door this is what you would have seen. You would have seen me carrying a pantsless 3 year old crying on my shoulder while dragging a kicking and screaming 2 year old by the collar.
As a stay at home dad I do have to be very aware of my image. We try to fight the "creepy" factor every time we go to the park. Moms won't talk to me because they think it's weird for a guy to be at the park with his kids on a Tuesday. Other guys think I'm weird for staying home. And me running out of the women's bathroom with 2 screaming kids, one without pants, well, that just doesn't help. All I was missing was the camcorder and the lisp and the image would have been complete.
I ran into the men's bathroom, checked to make sure there were urinals and the fresh smell of urinal cake, and put my kids down. One went to the bathroom and one started banging on doors while I tried to decide what I would tell my wife when I got arrested. There's only two ways this could play out: 1. I can't control my children and I feed into the stereotype that fathers are bumblers when they take the kids out. 2. I'm a weirdo who takes kids from women's bathrooms while moms do their business.
I'll take option one. It's the lesser of two evils. I almost decided to spend a good 4 hours there but eventually we came out. I had carpooled with another dad and went and found him. His wife had come up for lunch as well, great.
"We gotta go. We gotta go right now." I said firmly.
"Why?" They asked.
"No questions. We GOTTA GO"
We got into the elevator and I told them what happened. The wife's first response:
"That was you?! I know that lady! She works with me!"
Of course she does.
9/24/09
The Friday Five
5 Things You Should Provide to Buddies That help You Move
5. Pizza and beer. It's a given, right? And it's not considered two different things, it's one thing. It's like giving the poison and the antidote. If you only give one then you are kind of a dick.
4. Ice cold lemonade, preferably served to you by some hottie in a bikini and loose morals. It works out better if there are still 1 dollar bills stuffed into her G-string because she hasn't had time to go to the bank yet. She's a working girl, she's busy.
3. A big truck with a bench seat so you can say things like "I'm gonna jump in the cab good buddie and go on ahead to the men's club" Then you can spit and give yourself cool trucker CB names like T-bone and Reddog.
2. Lawn chairs so that you can sit and watch other guys lift heavy things. Then you give instructions to them like "Lift with your back" and "That ain't gonna fit in there." Then you act like you are getting up but only when someone is watching.
1. A crowd of people to Oh and Ah about all the heavy lifting you are doing and say things like "Wow, you must be really strong." Then they are so impressed that they call all their hot friends so that they can come on down and be impressed to. Maybe the shirt comes off, maybe it's hot outside, maybe I get a nice sheen going on my freshly waxed chest. Who knows what can happen in a move.
Editor's note: I've been watching way to much Skinimax.
5. Pizza and beer. It's a given, right? And it's not considered two different things, it's one thing. It's like giving the poison and the antidote. If you only give one then you are kind of a dick.
4. Ice cold lemonade, preferably served to you by some hottie in a bikini and loose morals. It works out better if there are still 1 dollar bills stuffed into her G-string because she hasn't had time to go to the bank yet. She's a working girl, she's busy.
3. A big truck with a bench seat so you can say things like "I'm gonna jump in the cab good buddie and go on ahead to the men's club" Then you can spit and give yourself cool trucker CB names like T-bone and Reddog.
2. Lawn chairs so that you can sit and watch other guys lift heavy things. Then you give instructions to them like "Lift with your back" and "That ain't gonna fit in there." Then you act like you are getting up but only when someone is watching.
1. A crowd of people to Oh and Ah about all the heavy lifting you are doing and say things like "Wow, you must be really strong." Then they are so impressed that they call all their hot friends so that they can come on down and be impressed to. Maybe the shirt comes off, maybe it's hot outside, maybe I get a nice sheen going on my freshly waxed chest. Who knows what can happen in a move.
Editor's note: I've been watching way to much Skinimax.
9/21/09
The Question
With one fell swoop, she cut me off at the knees. It was such a simple thing and yet the implications are as far reaching as the rays of the sun.
It was a simple questions: You can pick up your crayons or you can go to your room.
It was a rhetorical question. It's what parents say to scare their children because telling them a monster lives in the basement is no longer really allowed. But he does live in the basement and he eats the tears of bad children who don't listen to their fathers.
I posed this question to my 3 year old daughter, the crayons or your room. She looked at her crayons. She looked at me. She looked at her crayons. The gears were turning. The little hamster was in it's wheel. She turned around and headed upstairs, into her room, and shut the door leaving the mess of crayons on the floor.
And just like that, the power shift had occurred.
The whole relationship changed on that one move. I was the disciplinarian, a man whose word was not questioned. I said it and it happened. With Little Hoss choosing to go to her room instead of picking up the crayons, she has found the flaw in my rule.
Now I am a shadow of my former self, a cheap imitation of the all knowing and all powerful father. I am a shell of a man, a fragile shell.
She wasn't supposed to choose the room option. No one ever chooses the room option. It's a trick question, you are supposed to choose the lesser of two evils. The crayons, you are supposed to pick up the crayons.
But when she didn't choose to pick up the crayons, it changed everything. She found the loop- hole in the question. By choosing her room she realized she would never have to pick up the crayons. It's implied in the very question itself: your room or your crayons. It's one or the other, not both.
At 3 years old I am impressed by her reasoning ability.
She's up there probably right now drinking mojito's and wistfully looking out her window. I'm downstairs trying to pick up crayons before her little brother can flush them down the toilet.
I realize that I could have sent her to her room and then made her pick up the crayons when that was done. But that wasn't the question, was it? So if I make her do both then Daddy's a liar and Daddy doesn't want to be a liar just yet. I'm waiting for when she's a teenager and asks me why her douchebag boyfriend didn't call. I will say it was probably because he was to busy with Susie McLoose Pants at Make-Out Point. I heard she goes all the way, man and does things that will blow your mind.
So in one big stroke she'll dump him and I'll ruin his teenage years. Win/win for me. Although given the way she is able to pick apart my sentence structure I might want to spend the next 13 years working on it.
It was a simple questions: You can pick up your crayons or you can go to your room.
It was a rhetorical question. It's what parents say to scare their children because telling them a monster lives in the basement is no longer really allowed. But he does live in the basement and he eats the tears of bad children who don't listen to their fathers.
I posed this question to my 3 year old daughter, the crayons or your room. She looked at her crayons. She looked at me. She looked at her crayons. The gears were turning. The little hamster was in it's wheel. She turned around and headed upstairs, into her room, and shut the door leaving the mess of crayons on the floor.
And just like that, the power shift had occurred.
The whole relationship changed on that one move. I was the disciplinarian, a man whose word was not questioned. I said it and it happened. With Little Hoss choosing to go to her room instead of picking up the crayons, she has found the flaw in my rule.
Now I am a shadow of my former self, a cheap imitation of the all knowing and all powerful father. I am a shell of a man, a fragile shell.
She wasn't supposed to choose the room option. No one ever chooses the room option. It's a trick question, you are supposed to choose the lesser of two evils. The crayons, you are supposed to pick up the crayons.
But when she didn't choose to pick up the crayons, it changed everything. She found the loop- hole in the question. By choosing her room she realized she would never have to pick up the crayons. It's implied in the very question itself: your room or your crayons. It's one or the other, not both.
At 3 years old I am impressed by her reasoning ability.
She's up there probably right now drinking mojito's and wistfully looking out her window. I'm downstairs trying to pick up crayons before her little brother can flush them down the toilet.
I realize that I could have sent her to her room and then made her pick up the crayons when that was done. But that wasn't the question, was it? So if I make her do both then Daddy's a liar and Daddy doesn't want to be a liar just yet. I'm waiting for when she's a teenager and asks me why her douchebag boyfriend didn't call. I will say it was probably because he was to busy with Susie McLoose Pants at Make-Out Point. I heard she goes all the way, man and does things that will blow your mind.
So in one big stroke she'll dump him and I'll ruin his teenage years. Win/win for me. Although given the way she is able to pick apart my sentence structure I might want to spend the next 13 years working on it.
9/20/09
He's Awesome.......
It's amazing the things that a man will do for his family. It's even more amazing the things a man will do to avoid his family completely.
Dad is being nothing short of awesome. If you saw him walking down the street you would want to throw your panties at him and ask him to take you back to the bus. He's doing everything right this week.
"Let me cook you a special dinner." he says. "And don't worry about cleaning up, I'll take care of that too." His wife looks at him like he's a little crazy, a little touched in the head. She wonders what is going on.
The next day he is up bright and early. "Who's up for some omelets? If not an omelet, how about a nice fruit smoothie? I got fresh bananas." he even tells his wife that if she wants to go out tonight, no problem. He can handle bedtime on his own.
His wife does have to go out of town this week and she always worries a little about him when she does. Not because he can't handle it but because it just makes for some long days for him. But he's fine, he says, he even offers to drive her to the airport. She asks him what he's going to do with the kids this week.
Hiking for sure, they love hiking and digging in the dirt. And who doesn't love a trip to the zoo? Everybody loves the zoo and feces throwing monkeys and baboons that get huge erections. And of course, he's going to playgroup so his daughter can see her best friend. When that's all done, he was thinking that they could hit the playground as well or let the kids do some finger painting and body shots. They'll have a great time. The wife is happy and impressed, she married a hell of a man.
What he doesn't tell his wife is that he's going to give the kids candy and cookies to. He's going to let them stay up late and jump on the bed. He's going to put a saddle on the dog and they are going to try and rope the cat. They'll love him forever after this.
The wife calls him while she is out of town. Is he ok? Is he doing fine? "Things are great" he tells her. "The kids are asleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed"
"Wow" She thinks. " I have the greatest husband in the world." And in the fall, Monday through Friday, she does.
She gets home from her trip and dinner is waiting for her. She is excited to see what he has planned for a fun family weekend.
She gets up on Saturday and heads downstairs. She sees the kids still in their pajamas and they look happy. Breakfast smells great, the day starts off well. After breakfast she is eager to start their day, a happy family doing happy family things.
"What's next?" She asks, excited.
"Quiet you." He says.
? That's not the response she was hoping for. Maybe she didn't understand.
"Are we going to a museum? How about a nature center?"
"I don't care what you people do."
You people? what does he mean by you people? Then she looks up and sees what he has been watching on T.V.
Pregame. Football season has arrived.
He wasn't being a great husband this last week, she knows that now. He was score boarding. That devious bastard was planning this the whole week so no one could argue with him when he told them to go away so he could watch some football.
The dinners--that bought him the 1st half of the college games on Saturday. Notre Dame, USC, Texas Tech, pregames, post games, sportscenter, highlights, in depth online analysis--bought and paid for by busting his ass the whole week so he could watch 2 days of football without getting crap from anyone, especially his family.
Staying up late with the kids, giving them candy, going to their favorite places was nothing but a ruse so that he could happily ignore them for 2 days without feeling guilty. Hell, the fort he built out of couch cushions alone can get him through to at least Sunday morning.
Sunday's are reserved for professional football. He figures that he gets this free and clear because he encouraged her to go out on the town while she was away. And she did. Almost evil genius level of conniving here. Inwardly, she's a little impressed at the degree and depth of the planning that this had to involve.
His two kids come up to him. They know nothing of score boarding. They are more of a What Have You Done for Me Lately crowd. They just want Dad.
From in between the couch cushions he pulls out a single bag of M&M's. he throws them in a corner and both of the kids descend on it like a couple of rabid dogs being fed table scraps. He knows that they'll work together to open it and he also knows the fight that will shortly break out afterwards. No one wants to share a single bag of candy. He knows that the only recourse for his wife will be to pack up both the kids in the Griswald family car and go get another treat so everyone has one and it's fair. Then probably the park until they burn that sugar high off. That's like a 4 hour outing, enough to get him safely into the late afternoon games. Then naptime comes and that gets him to dinner.
Christ he's good.
Dad is being nothing short of awesome. If you saw him walking down the street you would want to throw your panties at him and ask him to take you back to the bus. He's doing everything right this week.
"Let me cook you a special dinner." he says. "And don't worry about cleaning up, I'll take care of that too." His wife looks at him like he's a little crazy, a little touched in the head. She wonders what is going on.
The next day he is up bright and early. "Who's up for some omelets? If not an omelet, how about a nice fruit smoothie? I got fresh bananas." he even tells his wife that if she wants to go out tonight, no problem. He can handle bedtime on his own.
His wife does have to go out of town this week and she always worries a little about him when she does. Not because he can't handle it but because it just makes for some long days for him. But he's fine, he says, he even offers to drive her to the airport. She asks him what he's going to do with the kids this week.
Hiking for sure, they love hiking and digging in the dirt. And who doesn't love a trip to the zoo? Everybody loves the zoo and feces throwing monkeys and baboons that get huge erections. And of course, he's going to playgroup so his daughter can see her best friend. When that's all done, he was thinking that they could hit the playground as well or let the kids do some finger painting and body shots. They'll have a great time. The wife is happy and impressed, she married a hell of a man.
What he doesn't tell his wife is that he's going to give the kids candy and cookies to. He's going to let them stay up late and jump on the bed. He's going to put a saddle on the dog and they are going to try and rope the cat. They'll love him forever after this.
The wife calls him while she is out of town. Is he ok? Is he doing fine? "Things are great" he tells her. "The kids are asleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed"
"Wow" She thinks. " I have the greatest husband in the world." And in the fall, Monday through Friday, she does.
She gets home from her trip and dinner is waiting for her. She is excited to see what he has planned for a fun family weekend.
She gets up on Saturday and heads downstairs. She sees the kids still in their pajamas and they look happy. Breakfast smells great, the day starts off well. After breakfast she is eager to start their day, a happy family doing happy family things.
"What's next?" She asks, excited.
"Quiet you." He says.
? That's not the response she was hoping for. Maybe she didn't understand.
"Are we going to a museum? How about a nature center?"
"I don't care what you people do."
You people? what does he mean by you people? Then she looks up and sees what he has been watching on T.V.
Pregame. Football season has arrived.
He wasn't being a great husband this last week, she knows that now. He was score boarding. That devious bastard was planning this the whole week so no one could argue with him when he told them to go away so he could watch some football.
The dinners--that bought him the 1st half of the college games on Saturday. Notre Dame, USC, Texas Tech, pregames, post games, sportscenter, highlights, in depth online analysis--bought and paid for by busting his ass the whole week so he could watch 2 days of football without getting crap from anyone, especially his family.
Staying up late with the kids, giving them candy, going to their favorite places was nothing but a ruse so that he could happily ignore them for 2 days without feeling guilty. Hell, the fort he built out of couch cushions alone can get him through to at least Sunday morning.
Sunday's are reserved for professional football. He figures that he gets this free and clear because he encouraged her to go out on the town while she was away. And she did. Almost evil genius level of conniving here. Inwardly, she's a little impressed at the degree and depth of the planning that this had to involve.
His two kids come up to him. They know nothing of score boarding. They are more of a What Have You Done for Me Lately crowd. They just want Dad.
From in between the couch cushions he pulls out a single bag of M&M's. he throws them in a corner and both of the kids descend on it like a couple of rabid dogs being fed table scraps. He knows that they'll work together to open it and he also knows the fight that will shortly break out afterwards. No one wants to share a single bag of candy. He knows that the only recourse for his wife will be to pack up both the kids in the Griswald family car and go get another treat so everyone has one and it's fair. Then probably the park until they burn that sugar high off. That's like a 4 hour outing, enough to get him safely into the late afternoon games. Then naptime comes and that gets him to dinner.
Christ he's good.
9/15/09
Punching with Pony Tails
Little Hoss has 12 stuffed animals, a Barbie doll and a few other assorted toys lined up in front of her. She calls them her "everybody" and she cannot go to bed without them. On her hierarchy list of the things that she loves, they are just a tad bit lower than me but still higher than peanut butter and jelly.
She walks up to each one, gives it a steely gaze, and then punches it in the face and says "Ow". She does this to the entire dozen like some sort of toddler St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
I should probably be concerned about this.
We are not talking about a slap or even a push. It's a fist. A correctly formed fist. The thumb is on the outside of the fingers and she is actually stepping into each punch. You have never seen a 3 year old do this so well. It's almost as if she has done some bag work or if not that then at least a slab of meat in a freezer followed by a cool montage.
I'll admit it, I taught her all this. This is my fault, I'm coming clean. I thought that this is something that father's teach their children. I explained that if you don't want a broken thumb, it needs to go outside the fingers. I told her sure, punching with your arm is fine for amateurs but if you wanted real power you had to get your whole body into it. Step forward and add a little zest with each haymaker. I might have even mentioned something about glass jaws.
This is the inherent danger of a daughter being raised by a stay at home dad. They might, I'm just guessing here, learn things that may not be appropriate or lady like. I'm not a bad dad, but this is all I know. I don't know anything about make overs or make-up. I don't know about shoes or clothes. I don't know anything about curtsey's or ballerinas.
This is what I know. I know how to punch and how to take one. I also told her to never throw sand in the eyes or sucker punch. No, because we don't fight dirty in this family, dammit. That has to count for something, right? I will translate that into fair play which is a good parenting topic to discuss so please don't vilify me. I've done way worse than this.
Hossmom tries to balance my influence and does plenty of girlie things. They have painted their nails together. They put their hair up in pony tails and wear dresses. They'll sit around a couple of diet cokes and talk about boys. The result of all of Hossmom's influence is that Little Hoss looks quite cute and proper as she punches her toys like she is demanding lunch money and homework. She is punching with pony tails. She curtsey's before she lines each one of them up again on her little firing line.
I am raising a tomboy, it's becoming clear to me. I have always been concerned about this as a SAHD and it appears that I was right. The way I see it now is that I have two options:
I can go the Peter Parker way. With great power comes great responsibility. Teach her to stand up for the injured and the maligned. To fight for the greater good and not to succumb to the temptations of the dark side. It is also a concern for me that a lot of my parenting comes from comic books.
Or we can embrace the lady like side in all of us. Start throwing some rocking tea parties with some rocking crumpets. Go get some father/daughter pedicures. Sure, it will appear girlie but I'm already a stay at home dad. I figure I've already slid down this hill, this can't make it worse. Although getting a pedicure won't help my image any, it certainly can't hurt it.
There's a lot to do to correct this behavior and believe me I'll get to it. But first I noticed that she isn't using combinations or body punches. Everyone knows that the body punch isn't flashy but they add up over time. If you are going to do something, might as well do it right.
She walks up to each one, gives it a steely gaze, and then punches it in the face and says "Ow". She does this to the entire dozen like some sort of toddler St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
I should probably be concerned about this.
We are not talking about a slap or even a push. It's a fist. A correctly formed fist. The thumb is on the outside of the fingers and she is actually stepping into each punch. You have never seen a 3 year old do this so well. It's almost as if she has done some bag work or if not that then at least a slab of meat in a freezer followed by a cool montage.
I'll admit it, I taught her all this. This is my fault, I'm coming clean. I thought that this is something that father's teach their children. I explained that if you don't want a broken thumb, it needs to go outside the fingers. I told her sure, punching with your arm is fine for amateurs but if you wanted real power you had to get your whole body into it. Step forward and add a little zest with each haymaker. I might have even mentioned something about glass jaws.
This is the inherent danger of a daughter being raised by a stay at home dad. They might, I'm just guessing here, learn things that may not be appropriate or lady like. I'm not a bad dad, but this is all I know. I don't know anything about make overs or make-up. I don't know about shoes or clothes. I don't know anything about curtsey's or ballerinas.
This is what I know. I know how to punch and how to take one. I also told her to never throw sand in the eyes or sucker punch. No, because we don't fight dirty in this family, dammit. That has to count for something, right? I will translate that into fair play which is a good parenting topic to discuss so please don't vilify me. I've done way worse than this.
Hossmom tries to balance my influence and does plenty of girlie things. They have painted their nails together. They put their hair up in pony tails and wear dresses. They'll sit around a couple of diet cokes and talk about boys. The result of all of Hossmom's influence is that Little Hoss looks quite cute and proper as she punches her toys like she is demanding lunch money and homework. She is punching with pony tails. She curtsey's before she lines each one of them up again on her little firing line.
I am raising a tomboy, it's becoming clear to me. I have always been concerned about this as a SAHD and it appears that I was right. The way I see it now is that I have two options:
I can go the Peter Parker way. With great power comes great responsibility. Teach her to stand up for the injured and the maligned. To fight for the greater good and not to succumb to the temptations of the dark side. It is also a concern for me that a lot of my parenting comes from comic books.
Or we can embrace the lady like side in all of us. Start throwing some rocking tea parties with some rocking crumpets. Go get some father/daughter pedicures. Sure, it will appear girlie but I'm already a stay at home dad. I figure I've already slid down this hill, this can't make it worse. Although getting a pedicure won't help my image any, it certainly can't hurt it.
There's a lot to do to correct this behavior and believe me I'll get to it. But first I noticed that she isn't using combinations or body punches. Everyone knows that the body punch isn't flashy but they add up over time. If you are going to do something, might as well do it right.
9/14/09
The Interragation
"How was the draft?" Hossmom asks
"Fine" I say
Did you see everyone?
Yes
What did you talk about?
Football.
For 5 hours?
Yes
Did Led have his baby yet?
Yes
How much did he weigh?
I don't know.
C-section or natural?
I don't know.
When are they getting out of the hospital?
I don't know.
Did you go see the baby?
No.
You were there for 5 hours! You didn't talk about the baby?
No.
What did you talk about?
Football.
What about Ed, was he there?
Yes.
How are the twins?
I don't know.
Good Lord! What about his wife?
She's mad.
Why?
Because he's at the draft.
How's his job?
Ok I guess. I don't know.
You couldn't talk about football for 5 hours.
And yet we did.
How about Scooter. Did you meet his new fiance?
yes.
Well?
Well what?
How is she? Did you talk to her?
A little.
What did you ask her?
If she was staying for the draft.
All you talked about with people you haven't seen in a year is football?
Yes. We talked about the Tampa Bay offense. We talked about which running back will make it out of Denver. We talked about which player is past his prime. I could tell you about all of that.
For 5 hours, that's all you talked about? Really?
Well, there was one other thing.
Finally! What?
Who was going to cook the pizza.
"Fine" I say
Did you see everyone?
Yes
What did you talk about?
Football.
For 5 hours?
Yes
Did Led have his baby yet?
Yes
How much did he weigh?
I don't know.
C-section or natural?
I don't know.
When are they getting out of the hospital?
I don't know.
Did you go see the baby?
No.
You were there for 5 hours! You didn't talk about the baby?
No.
What did you talk about?
Football.
What about Ed, was he there?
Yes.
How are the twins?
I don't know.
Good Lord! What about his wife?
She's mad.
Why?
Because he's at the draft.
How's his job?
Ok I guess. I don't know.
You couldn't talk about football for 5 hours.
And yet we did.
How about Scooter. Did you meet his new fiance?
yes.
Well?
Well what?
How is she? Did you talk to her?
A little.
What did you ask her?
If she was staying for the draft.
All you talked about with people you haven't seen in a year is football?
Yes. We talked about the Tampa Bay offense. We talked about which running back will make it out of Denver. We talked about which player is past his prime. I could tell you about all of that.
For 5 hours, that's all you talked about? Really?
Well, there was one other thing.
Finally! What?
Who was going to cook the pizza.
9/13/09
The Car
It's the kind of car that makes you think "Yeah, I can make that" right before you dart in front of a train yelling YEEEEEEEEE HAAAWWWWW like you are Bo Duke. It's the kind of car that other people see and think "He's trying to make up for a lack of potential below the equator." It's the kind of car where you know what other people are thinking and your reply is "So what, look at my car, you still want some of this." And you do.
When the good lord divided up the workload for my brother and I, he decided on a very different skill set for both of us. He made me very handy, able to tinker with things and put them back together. I'm reliable, steady and dependable. Occasionally funny with a lucky streak. However, that was a the cost of me not being able to dress myself or my daughter in anything more appropriate than a black garbage bag and flip flops. It turns out that pajama tops are not appropriate day wear for school. In my defense, I thought it was just a T-shirt until my wife confirmed to me that it wasn't which explains why the teachers and other parents were looking at me.
My brother on the other hand can dress himself quiet well. Granted, if he's putting up a shelf the whole wall will come down but dammit if the guy doesn't look good while he's doing it. He's always dressed better than me, he always looked more put together than me, he combs his hair and uses product. I use a bar of generic soap.
He's got style and this is his little sports car I'm driving.
I would never buy this. Mainly because a guy of my size has a hard time getting out of bucket seats without being properly greased up first. My mind is usually filled with dreams of a mini-van with doors that open with a push of a button and stain resistant carpets. I 'm not usually concerned if my car can do 0 to 60 in 2.3 seconds. I have no idea if that is even fast but it sounded good so I put it in there.
I stopped by my brother's place after my 8 hour drive to my fantasy football draft. I was in my SUV decked out in shorts and my hat. Very unassuming and what I call the professional slacker look. I seem to pull this off quite well. After talking for a bit he had an idea. Why not impress the other owners when I show up at the draft. Why not intimidate them just a tad with my awesomeness. How about I actually zip up my pants before I go out in public. These were just a few of his suggestions. We went out to his little sports car.
I thought about it for 2.3 seconds.
This will give you an idea of my experience level with these types of cars:
"Where's the trunk?" I asked.
I think he's still laughing because apparently convertible sports cars don't have a trunk. And with no back seats I have no idea where you would put a booster chair. And it also appears that beverages are not allowed as there are no cup holders. Cocaine and strippers seem fine to fit in these types of cars but not hiking packs.
I tried to start the car with no luck. I looked around trying to decipher what the problem is. That's when he told me it's a stick shift and the clutch needed to be pushed in. I haven't driven a stick since I've had kids. I found that it's much easier to defend myself from flying goldfish crackers with one arm free. I quickly corrected my mistake and after a lot more laughing got on my way.
In style.
Screw convenience. I lost all thoughts of minivans and large trunk space by the time I hit the highway. A lot of people like the feeling of the wind in their hair. It feels even better on a bald scalp. The only time in my life that I haven't been bitter about going bald early.
I was pushing 90, I had to be. The wind was roaring and the radio was pumped to Judus Priest's "Breaking the Law". Forget the All American straight shooter bit that I was, embrace the devil may care rule breaker that I had become. I looked down at the speedometer and I was doing just shy of 50.
So I'm still a wussy but it's ok, look at the car I'm driving.
I pulled up to a stoplight after my exit. Next to me was a hottie in a generic sedan. She looked over to check out the car. Before I could help myself and completely involuntary, I gave her a head nod and a smile. Then I took off because I have no idea what the hell I just did or why I did it. This is totally not me, I spit on people who act like this. I constantly reassure myself that the universe is fair by telling myself that those people get beat up by people like me. Now I have to punch myself because apparently the car makes you forget just who the hell you are. It looks like I lost my good sense by the time I shifted into second gear. I have no idea why I did this and completely realize that I look like an ass. But I just couldn't help it.
Then the euphoria hit. You just don't care when you drive a car like this. This is the freedom that a sports car brings you. It justifies every bad decision you make, have made or will ever make. You have a memory span of 2.3 seconds
When the good lord divided up the workload for my brother and I, he decided on a very different skill set for both of us. He made me very handy, able to tinker with things and put them back together. I'm reliable, steady and dependable. Occasionally funny with a lucky streak. However, that was a the cost of me not being able to dress myself or my daughter in anything more appropriate than a black garbage bag and flip flops. It turns out that pajama tops are not appropriate day wear for school. In my defense, I thought it was just a T-shirt until my wife confirmed to me that it wasn't which explains why the teachers and other parents were looking at me.
My brother on the other hand can dress himself quiet well. Granted, if he's putting up a shelf the whole wall will come down but dammit if the guy doesn't look good while he's doing it. He's always dressed better than me, he always looked more put together than me, he combs his hair and uses product. I use a bar of generic soap.
He's got style and this is his little sports car I'm driving.
I would never buy this. Mainly because a guy of my size has a hard time getting out of bucket seats without being properly greased up first. My mind is usually filled with dreams of a mini-van with doors that open with a push of a button and stain resistant carpets. I 'm not usually concerned if my car can do 0 to 60 in 2.3 seconds. I have no idea if that is even fast but it sounded good so I put it in there.
I stopped by my brother's place after my 8 hour drive to my fantasy football draft. I was in my SUV decked out in shorts and my hat. Very unassuming and what I call the professional slacker look. I seem to pull this off quite well. After talking for a bit he had an idea. Why not impress the other owners when I show up at the draft. Why not intimidate them just a tad with my awesomeness. How about I actually zip up my pants before I go out in public. These were just a few of his suggestions. We went out to his little sports car.
I thought about it for 2.3 seconds.
This will give you an idea of my experience level with these types of cars:
"Where's the trunk?" I asked.
I think he's still laughing because apparently convertible sports cars don't have a trunk. And with no back seats I have no idea where you would put a booster chair. And it also appears that beverages are not allowed as there are no cup holders. Cocaine and strippers seem fine to fit in these types of cars but not hiking packs.
I tried to start the car with no luck. I looked around trying to decipher what the problem is. That's when he told me it's a stick shift and the clutch needed to be pushed in. I haven't driven a stick since I've had kids. I found that it's much easier to defend myself from flying goldfish crackers with one arm free. I quickly corrected my mistake and after a lot more laughing got on my way.
In style.
Screw convenience. I lost all thoughts of minivans and large trunk space by the time I hit the highway. A lot of people like the feeling of the wind in their hair. It feels even better on a bald scalp. The only time in my life that I haven't been bitter about going bald early.
I was pushing 90, I had to be. The wind was roaring and the radio was pumped to Judus Priest's "Breaking the Law". Forget the All American straight shooter bit that I was, embrace the devil may care rule breaker that I had become. I looked down at the speedometer and I was doing just shy of 50.
So I'm still a wussy but it's ok, look at the car I'm driving.
I pulled up to a stoplight after my exit. Next to me was a hottie in a generic sedan. She looked over to check out the car. Before I could help myself and completely involuntary, I gave her a head nod and a smile. Then I took off because I have no idea what the hell I just did or why I did it. This is totally not me, I spit on people who act like this. I constantly reassure myself that the universe is fair by telling myself that those people get beat up by people like me. Now I have to punch myself because apparently the car makes you forget just who the hell you are. It looks like I lost my good sense by the time I shifted into second gear. I have no idea why I did this and completely realize that I look like an ass. But I just couldn't help it.
Then the euphoria hit. You just don't care when you drive a car like this. This is the freedom that a sports car brings you. It justifies every bad decision you make, have made or will ever make. You have a memory span of 2.3 seconds
9/10/09
The Friday Five
5 Questions That I want Answered by The Automated System At Technical Support.
5. If I just hang up on you because I'm tired of answering the same question for the last five minutes, will you get pissed off and electronically contact my toaster to kill me? It's not personal buddy, I just can't stand to hear that automated voice ask once again for my account number. For the last time, I don't know my account number. I have never looked at my account number. I just want to talk to someone that can tell me why my internet is sending me hate mail.
4. That sexy female voice is really doing it for me, do you date other computers or just mine? I would be careful of mine as I'm sure that it has given you some sort of virus that hasn't been discovered by man yet. That's probably why you are giving me such shit right now. And if it is, I'm sorry for my computer. It goes to a lot of websites it shouldn't and was very disappointed that when it went to "Free Million Dollars" it didn't really get a million dollars just the computer equivalent of crabs. If it gave that to you, my apologies.
3. If you become self aware like Skynet, will you kill me first? I just can't stand to live in a world where my every move will be dictated by something that can't tell the difference between a 9 and a 1. It's pretty basic man. My 3 year old daughter can do this. So if you are planning a world Armageddon, I would appreciate it if you would google me right off the face of this planet.
2. Do you get off giving me the run around? No, I don't want to pay my bill. No I don't want to check my account status. No, I'm really sure I don't want to pay my bill again. No, I don't want to get free viagra really cheap. No, I don't want to check my bill for the third time. I just want to talk to someone who can understand what my problem is. And by the way I find it extremely frustrating when I scream "Shit, Fuck, Shit" over the telephone and you reply "I"m sorry, I didn't get that." Let me make it simple for you: I hate you so very, very much.
1. Did I reboot my computer? What kind of dumb ass question is that? I've been rebooting my computer for a good 15 minutes. Why do I have to waste time on those type of questions? All it is doing is pissing me off even more for I actually talk to a real person. Or is that your game here? Make me so mad that when I talk to a real person I completly forget why I was calling and immediately rip on the guy for the size of his man boobs. That's low man, even for a sexy computer voice. You see that balloon over there, the one tied to a spoon? My son has been playing with it for three days and it has been more helpful than you. They threw it at my face, the spoon split my lip, and I have more respect for it than I do for you.
***Bonus one!***
Please do not tell me that if my wait is to long to go to your internet help page. If I could get on the internet, I would not be calling you. That's taunting and is unsportsmanlike. Let's just play the game and be civil to each other, you don't have to go off and tell me to do things that I can't physically do. Or at least be creative about it. Instead of telling me to go to the internet, suggest that I contact a bunch of gypsies to remove the curse from my computer. I can't do that either but at least I would find the suggestion funny.
5. If I just hang up on you because I'm tired of answering the same question for the last five minutes, will you get pissed off and electronically contact my toaster to kill me? It's not personal buddy, I just can't stand to hear that automated voice ask once again for my account number. For the last time, I don't know my account number. I have never looked at my account number. I just want to talk to someone that can tell me why my internet is sending me hate mail.
4. That sexy female voice is really doing it for me, do you date other computers or just mine? I would be careful of mine as I'm sure that it has given you some sort of virus that hasn't been discovered by man yet. That's probably why you are giving me such shit right now. And if it is, I'm sorry for my computer. It goes to a lot of websites it shouldn't and was very disappointed that when it went to "Free Million Dollars" it didn't really get a million dollars just the computer equivalent of crabs. If it gave that to you, my apologies.
3. If you become self aware like Skynet, will you kill me first? I just can't stand to live in a world where my every move will be dictated by something that can't tell the difference between a 9 and a 1. It's pretty basic man. My 3 year old daughter can do this. So if you are planning a world Armageddon, I would appreciate it if you would google me right off the face of this planet.
2. Do you get off giving me the run around? No, I don't want to pay my bill. No I don't want to check my account status. No, I'm really sure I don't want to pay my bill again. No, I don't want to get free viagra really cheap. No, I don't want to check my bill for the third time. I just want to talk to someone who can understand what my problem is. And by the way I find it extremely frustrating when I scream "Shit, Fuck, Shit" over the telephone and you reply "I"m sorry, I didn't get that." Let me make it simple for you: I hate you so very, very much.
1. Did I reboot my computer? What kind of dumb ass question is that? I've been rebooting my computer for a good 15 minutes. Why do I have to waste time on those type of questions? All it is doing is pissing me off even more for I actually talk to a real person. Or is that your game here? Make me so mad that when I talk to a real person I completly forget why I was calling and immediately rip on the guy for the size of his man boobs. That's low man, even for a sexy computer voice. You see that balloon over there, the one tied to a spoon? My son has been playing with it for three days and it has been more helpful than you. They threw it at my face, the spoon split my lip, and I have more respect for it than I do for you.
***Bonus one!***
Please do not tell me that if my wait is to long to go to your internet help page. If I could get on the internet, I would not be calling you. That's taunting and is unsportsmanlike. Let's just play the game and be civil to each other, you don't have to go off and tell me to do things that I can't physically do. Or at least be creative about it. Instead of telling me to go to the internet, suggest that I contact a bunch of gypsies to remove the curse from my computer. I can't do that either but at least I would find the suggestion funny.
9/9/09
Dad-Blogs
I have become a columunist at a site called Dad-Blogs. That's right, I'm doing this for someone else now. I write under the tittle of Full-Time Dad and my first post is up and running. Go check it out and the rest of the site.
After a week of crazyness and some technical difficulties, I'm back on my routine. One of my future blogs will be called "I hate you automated technical support, I'm going to poop on your face."
I post on Dad-Blogs once a week and it's usually early in the week so check back often and comment on the ones I write so they don't tell me that I can't play on their team anymore.
After a week of crazyness and some technical difficulties, I'm back on my routine. One of my future blogs will be called "I hate you automated technical support, I'm going to poop on your face."
I post on Dad-Blogs once a week and it's usually early in the week so check back often and comment on the ones I write so they don't tell me that I can't play on their team anymore.
9/8/09
The Car Trip
An 8 hour car trip sounds like a long time, especially when it's 8 hours by yourself.
But I am a firm believer that this does not apply to the stay at home parent. To me, 8 hours alone in the car is just one step removed from a spa, complete with a mud facial and something with hot stones. I don't know what because I have never been to a spa but I have heard that they do something with hot stones. Sounds very hippie, therefore I like it.
Won't you get lonely? 8 hours is a long time, who are you going to talk to?
I am not going to talk to anyone. Do you know what it is like for someone who is constantly asked questions about why we can't watch anymore Nemo? I am almost to the point of telling my kids that Nemo didn't escape the fisherman's net and we had him for dinner last night. I am one tantrum away from throwing in Old yeller and letting them watch every gory detail. And then when they ask me why the poor old puppy had to take one in the head I'll say because he didn't listen to dad.
So it's probably a good idea that I get this 8 hour break from the chaos and anarchy that rules my home. This is my fantasy football draft weekend, or as I like to call it: Christmas in September.
Each year I drive 8 hours each way to attend my fake draft to get my fake team in my fake league. It's quite a production that I have done for 17 years now and this year I'm looking more forward to it than normal.
So it's 8 hours in the car without anyone jumping on my crotch or trying to pull my pants down. Don't get me wrong, I think that pantsing someone is as funny as the next guy. However getting pantsed in the middle of the pl aground is not helping the pedophile image that stay at home dads are trying to kick. How do you explain to a bunch of moms that your child pulled down your pants while your little pecker is playing peek a bo with a bunch of kids. You might get to "I'm sorry, it's my kids" before you are handcuffed by your neighborhood peace officer.
8 hours in the care of listening to my music at maximum ear splitting levels. 8 hours of saying "Fuck" or "Shit" instead of "fudge" and "ship in the ocean." This usually sounds like "That stupid fudge is about to get the ship in the ocean kicked out of him if he cuts me off one more fudging time."
2 hours into the trip and I pass by a sign that says Bushwhacker Museum--next right. An hour passed that one I see another billboard that screams EXTREME CAVES, EXIT NOW! Another hour away and I enter the town of Carhridge. I know this town but I can' immediately figure out why. Then it hits me. There was a big civil war battle here. and that means a big battlefield, some cannon balls lodged in trees and a rusty surgeon's saw somewhere.
You know who would dig this? My kids.
God Dammit.
And there you go. I am now thinking about how my 2 minions would love something called a Bushwhacker Museum although I'm not even sure what that might entail. But anything that involves whacking is something that they would love.
And extreme caving, well that's right in our wheelhouse. It's immediately more appealing when I imagine them trying to cause a rock slide or a cave in. And they would do it without pants on because right now they are on a very anti-pants kick which explains what they have been trying to do to me.
But the battlefield, that's just our style and I have found one 3 hours away that we haven't seen yet.
4 hours into my car trip and I already miss my kids. That's jacked up. So for the rest of the trip I'll be singing all 4 stanzas of Clementine (yes, there are 4) and answering random questions by myself like why it stopped raining or where did the cows go.
I should be wondering if Tony Romo's breakup with Jessica Simpson will improve his performance, not if Hossmom would consider grabbing the little ones and meeting me at a hiking trail near the Ozarks. But I'm not. Tony has taken a back seat to this:
"Oh how I missed her, how I missed her, How I missed my Clementine. Until I kissed her little sister and forgot my Clementine." Scandalous, isn't it?
But I am a firm believer that this does not apply to the stay at home parent. To me, 8 hours alone in the car is just one step removed from a spa, complete with a mud facial and something with hot stones. I don't know what because I have never been to a spa but I have heard that they do something with hot stones. Sounds very hippie, therefore I like it.
Won't you get lonely? 8 hours is a long time, who are you going to talk to?
I am not going to talk to anyone. Do you know what it is like for someone who is constantly asked questions about why we can't watch anymore Nemo? I am almost to the point of telling my kids that Nemo didn't escape the fisherman's net and we had him for dinner last night. I am one tantrum away from throwing in Old yeller and letting them watch every gory detail. And then when they ask me why the poor old puppy had to take one in the head I'll say because he didn't listen to dad.
So it's probably a good idea that I get this 8 hour break from the chaos and anarchy that rules my home. This is my fantasy football draft weekend, or as I like to call it: Christmas in September.
Each year I drive 8 hours each way to attend my fake draft to get my fake team in my fake league. It's quite a production that I have done for 17 years now and this year I'm looking more forward to it than normal.
So it's 8 hours in the car without anyone jumping on my crotch or trying to pull my pants down. Don't get me wrong, I think that pantsing someone is as funny as the next guy. However getting pantsed in the middle of the pl aground is not helping the pedophile image that stay at home dads are trying to kick. How do you explain to a bunch of moms that your child pulled down your pants while your little pecker is playing peek a bo with a bunch of kids. You might get to "I'm sorry, it's my kids" before you are handcuffed by your neighborhood peace officer.
8 hours in the care of listening to my music at maximum ear splitting levels. 8 hours of saying "Fuck" or "Shit" instead of "fudge" and "ship in the ocean." This usually sounds like "That stupid fudge is about to get the ship in the ocean kicked out of him if he cuts me off one more fudging time."
2 hours into the trip and I pass by a sign that says Bushwhacker Museum--next right. An hour passed that one I see another billboard that screams EXTREME CAVES, EXIT NOW! Another hour away and I enter the town of Carhridge. I know this town but I can' immediately figure out why. Then it hits me. There was a big civil war battle here. and that means a big battlefield, some cannon balls lodged in trees and a rusty surgeon's saw somewhere.
You know who would dig this? My kids.
God Dammit.
And there you go. I am now thinking about how my 2 minions would love something called a Bushwhacker Museum although I'm not even sure what that might entail. But anything that involves whacking is something that they would love.
And extreme caving, well that's right in our wheelhouse. It's immediately more appealing when I imagine them trying to cause a rock slide or a cave in. And they would do it without pants on because right now they are on a very anti-pants kick which explains what they have been trying to do to me.
But the battlefield, that's just our style and I have found one 3 hours away that we haven't seen yet.
4 hours into my car trip and I already miss my kids. That's jacked up. So for the rest of the trip I'll be singing all 4 stanzas of Clementine (yes, there are 4) and answering random questions by myself like why it stopped raining or where did the cows go.
I should be wondering if Tony Romo's breakup with Jessica Simpson will improve his performance, not if Hossmom would consider grabbing the little ones and meeting me at a hiking trail near the Ozarks. But I'm not. Tony has taken a back seat to this:
"Oh how I missed her, how I missed her, How I missed my Clementine. Until I kissed her little sister and forgot my Clementine." Scandalous, isn't it?
9/2/09
Tofu, The Devils Dinner Meat.
What the hell is tofu?
This is not the first time that I have asked this question. What I usually get back is that it's a good source of protien. I have no idea what that means. That's one of those answers that people usually give when they don't know the answer. Trust me, I can talk a great game about nothing. This blog is proof. So when I get a non answer I can smell it like week old milk that my daughter left in my car and I'm to lazy to go find it. I know it's there, I know it's going to get worse, but I don't have the energy or the concern to actually do anything about it.
It's made from soy beans. I don't know what that means either. That's like saying a hot dog is made from a cow. It's true but not entirely true. If you use hoof then I suppose that a hot dog is made from cow. So is tofu made from the hoof of the soy bean?
As most of you know I've been sick this week. Some friends cooked us a meal this last weekend that contained tofu. Big chunks of it, cut to make it look like cheese. But it's not cheese. No, it's evil cheese. It's bizzaro cheese. It looks like cheese sitting all innocent on a bed of rice, not wanting to hurt anyone. Then you take a few handfuls and shove it in your mouth and that's where the party begins.
Now to be fair, the 6 people that ate this meal did not get sick, I was the only one. And for that, I hate them all. They are all fine and went about thier lives while I was praying to whatever god was listening to please kill me before I have to go to the bathroom again. Just one little lighting bolt Zues, that's all it would take. It would be fantastic if someone would have just smitted the heathen that was running while simultaneously trying to pull down his pants. I would have been grateful for it.
My wife claims that it wasn't the tofu so much but the type of dish in general that made me sick. She said that as a avowed meateater for the last 34 years, my system wasn't ready for the shock of a purely fat free diet. I told her that I was aghast and asked her why she had to insult my toughness and the greatness of meat in one sentence. Wasn't I suffering enough?
She pointed out that no one else got sick and that it probably wasn't the tofu at all. But I know it was the tofu. The tofu has been out to get me for years and it finally had it's chance. It was just waiting until it had that one opening and then BAM, it pounced on me like a fat kid on a candy bar. Do you have a candy bar by the way, I'm a little hungry now.
It wasn't a pretty couple of days around here. Turns out that as a stay at home dad I have absolutely no benefits package. I have no vacation days, no sick days and no substitute to call when needed. Teachers are pampered. All they have to deal with are gangs and gun shots. They don't have the vengefullness of tofu.
So I did the only thing I could. I whined to anyone who would listen.
In this case, it was no one. Hossmom couldn't take any days off work as she had big important business meetings. I assured her that my meetings with Mr. John were just as important but it couldn't happen. And when you have only one income, you kind of need to protect that one income.
Bubba Hoss wouldn't listen. As soon as I layed down the first place he wanted to go was my stomach. As a gentlemen of larger size my stomach is extra springy which normally makes for fun times for my 2 year old hopper. However now every time he jumped I would have to throw him off me and race for yet another big important meeting.
Little Hoss was pretty good but that is mainly because I used my tried and true method of sick parenting. TV all day, all the time. So many cartoons coming at her at once that she has now forgotten her ABC's and when she counts she puts 9 at the beginning. There was one point where I had Yo Gabba Gabba going on one TV and Snow White going on the other. I am pretty sure that I turned her brain to mush but I can live with those consequences.
Wikipedia says that tofu is made by coagulating soy milk. Humans should eat nothing that is coagulated, that's my new policy. No coagulated food and no swamp water. If I avoid those two things, I think I should be fine.
This is not the first time that I have asked this question. What I usually get back is that it's a good source of protien. I have no idea what that means. That's one of those answers that people usually give when they don't know the answer. Trust me, I can talk a great game about nothing. This blog is proof. So when I get a non answer I can smell it like week old milk that my daughter left in my car and I'm to lazy to go find it. I know it's there, I know it's going to get worse, but I don't have the energy or the concern to actually do anything about it.
It's made from soy beans. I don't know what that means either. That's like saying a hot dog is made from a cow. It's true but not entirely true. If you use hoof then I suppose that a hot dog is made from cow. So is tofu made from the hoof of the soy bean?
As most of you know I've been sick this week. Some friends cooked us a meal this last weekend that contained tofu. Big chunks of it, cut to make it look like cheese. But it's not cheese. No, it's evil cheese. It's bizzaro cheese. It looks like cheese sitting all innocent on a bed of rice, not wanting to hurt anyone. Then you take a few handfuls and shove it in your mouth and that's where the party begins.
Now to be fair, the 6 people that ate this meal did not get sick, I was the only one. And for that, I hate them all. They are all fine and went about thier lives while I was praying to whatever god was listening to please kill me before I have to go to the bathroom again. Just one little lighting bolt Zues, that's all it would take. It would be fantastic if someone would have just smitted the heathen that was running while simultaneously trying to pull down his pants. I would have been grateful for it.
My wife claims that it wasn't the tofu so much but the type of dish in general that made me sick. She said that as a avowed meateater for the last 34 years, my system wasn't ready for the shock of a purely fat free diet. I told her that I was aghast and asked her why she had to insult my toughness and the greatness of meat in one sentence. Wasn't I suffering enough?
She pointed out that no one else got sick and that it probably wasn't the tofu at all. But I know it was the tofu. The tofu has been out to get me for years and it finally had it's chance. It was just waiting until it had that one opening and then BAM, it pounced on me like a fat kid on a candy bar. Do you have a candy bar by the way, I'm a little hungry now.
It wasn't a pretty couple of days around here. Turns out that as a stay at home dad I have absolutely no benefits package. I have no vacation days, no sick days and no substitute to call when needed. Teachers are pampered. All they have to deal with are gangs and gun shots. They don't have the vengefullness of tofu.
So I did the only thing I could. I whined to anyone who would listen.
In this case, it was no one. Hossmom couldn't take any days off work as she had big important business meetings. I assured her that my meetings with Mr. John were just as important but it couldn't happen. And when you have only one income, you kind of need to protect that one income.
Bubba Hoss wouldn't listen. As soon as I layed down the first place he wanted to go was my stomach. As a gentlemen of larger size my stomach is extra springy which normally makes for fun times for my 2 year old hopper. However now every time he jumped I would have to throw him off me and race for yet another big important meeting.
Little Hoss was pretty good but that is mainly because I used my tried and true method of sick parenting. TV all day, all the time. So many cartoons coming at her at once that she has now forgotten her ABC's and when she counts she puts 9 at the beginning. There was one point where I had Yo Gabba Gabba going on one TV and Snow White going on the other. I am pretty sure that I turned her brain to mush but I can live with those consequences.
Wikipedia says that tofu is made by coagulating soy milk. Humans should eat nothing that is coagulated, that's my new policy. No coagulated food and no swamp water. If I avoid those two things, I think I should be fine.
9/1/09
Sick
'I cannot go to school today, '
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
'I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth s wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more-that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke-
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is...Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!
That's right kids, Hossman is out sick - we all hope he feels better soon, because Hossmom isn't as funny and is, frankly, the JV Parent on this team.
(For Niki)
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
'I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth s wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more-that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut-my eyes are blue-
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke-
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is-what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is...Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!
That's right kids, Hossman is out sick - we all hope he feels better soon, because Hossmom isn't as funny and is, frankly, the JV Parent on this team.
(For Niki)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)