A Teaser and a Friday Five

Rarely do I give any previews of what I am going to write from week to week but this one is a little bit different. Next week I start a series of one related story.

A while ago I and the other SAHD's were approached by a producer working for a network about the possibility about doing a reality show on the life of a stay at home dad. What I will be writing next week will be a three part series of that. I haven't posted it before now because I was asked not to by the producer. But now we are good to go. So come back on Monday and I'll tell the stories and how I embarrassed Hossmom on camera as well as the other stories about the entire experience.

And now, you're Friday Five.

5 Nicknames I would like to be known as when I make it to the big time and they eventually do an E true Hollywood story on me.

5: T-bone Hossman.

4. Hossman the Stache.

3. Little Hoss and the Fat Man

2. Mr. Mom, the asskicking bazooka toting 6th member of the A-team.

1. John McClain or Hans Grueber, either one works.


Kid Test

When people think about having kids, they mostly think about the nice and sweet things. Creating life with God-like power, a little one to grow up loving the same football team that you do, and someone to get you a glass of milk while you watch your stories. All valid reasons, to be sure. But they forget about the reality of the situation, the actual day-to-day that is parenting. As such, many prospective parents find that they are unworthy to be parents because they never considered the actuality of taking care of another life.

So I have devised a test because if nothing else I am a giver who takes pity on the less Hoss. If you can read the following scenario and feel you are up to what it describes, then maybe you are ready for children. If not, stick with a chia pet and a virtual family on Sims. One can die without guilt and the other can be turned off while you go watch a movie, preferably something rated R with a lot of nudity. I envy you, sir.

Child Test:

Let's say you are sick. Your throat hurts so bad that you wish you could suck on a fire extinguisher but you are afraid your wife will walk in and think you are some sort of sexual deviant, so you don't. You have a slight fever that you are trying to treat with a healthy dose of malice and Pop Tarts. You have no energy and when you sneeze you actually form snot bubbles. Every muscle aches and you wish that you could just hibernate until spring. You are a furry animal with ample chest hair so you are pretty sure you could pull this off.

But you can't because not only are you sick, but you have 2 kids that are also sick. One has a fever worse than you and the other one has a cough so rough that it sounds like she is speaking Klingon. By the way, it is my dream to one day teach Bubba Hoss to speak Klingon. Screw Spanish. And as they are both sick, there is only one place that they want to be, which is on you. But sick kids can't sit still and they like to spread out.

There's not enough of you to go around. So inevitably they begin playing king of the hill. The hill being your nuts which have been stomped into numbness. You are sick and can't find the energy to even yell at them. Where's the help? Oh, there's no help my friend. No one actively volunteers to help take care of sick kids. You have to trick them by telling people you have just installed a new stripper pole and would they like to see you on it. Then they get there and are all disappointed and judgmental because there is not a stripper pole, only a middle-aged fat guy with a B cup max and he has 2 two sick kids. Pretty soon people stop coming over altogether. That's why you have no help. You are a sexual deviant with no stripper pole. So it's time to suck it up.

Pretty soon you just resort to slapping wayward hands so that you get into a grade-school sissy fight with a 3 year old and her 2 year old brother. And you are losing. Of course it escalates to the point where you get a juice cup right between the eyes like some drunk William Tell with blurred vision who would blow a .81, many times the legal limit. You can't take it anymore, so you rearrange the kids.

What you come up with defies logic but raising kids is not about logic, it's about survival. The 3 year old - you lay her on the back of the chair with her head in the crook of your neck. It hurts and is not comfortable but she seems to like the change of scenery so you're good. The two year old now reigns supreme over Crushing Your Crotch Land. Things go well, for about 10 minutes. Then they find a way to fight again, meanwhile the nut stomping has switched to your bladder and you realize you have to pee. Badly.

You start to get up but somehow your pants leg has become snared in the buckle of your boot. You wear boots, preferably with steel toes, because you are a working man and a hard hat is required when raising Little Hoss. With your legs crossed, because you were trying to relax, you realize that you have somehow hobbled yourself like a lame horse. Yes, it's turned into an episode of the Twilight Zone but you would gladly welcome a gremlin to come and stop the pain. You try to free yourself because you really have to pee now. It seems to get more urgent when you can't move at all.

Right about now the 3 year old decided to play Hulk Hogan off the top rope and rain vengeance down upon her 2 year old brother. The intended target moves with surprising cat-like speed and your 3 year old's aim is off anyway. So she does not land on him, but puts that knee directly into your bladder. It takes you a moment to come to terms with the fact that you just peed yourself a little bit.

Now your sick & hobbled and shocked to discover you need Depends at the age of 35. You have 2 fighting sick kids and busted balls. You freak out, throw everyone to the ground and rip your pants just to get free of the horror your life has become. Everyone is now on the floor screaming in between bouts of seal coughing while you limp to the bathroom in your soiled and ripped pants. These were your lucky pants too.

To prospective parents, take heed. If you think you can handle that, then you may in fact be ready for children. If that story horrifies you, then perhaps you should go on vacation where I hear no one stomps on your balls and there are bathrooms everywhere.


I'b Nob Slick

There are few endeavors in this world more pointless than lying to my wife. If someone said to me that we will have a man on Mars by March, I would give that a greater chance of success than me pulling one over on Hossmom. But yet, I continue to do it.

"You're sick." she tells me. "You can't go."

I'm! Not! Sick!--that's the lie I told and even as I said it the words came out all wrong. I'b! Nob! Slick! I'm from Naboo. But I am sick and I know it. But if I admit it, I can't go to the movie tonight with the dads and I really want to go to the movie. I've earned this so this virus can suck my balls.

I continue with the lie, I really have no choice. Why? I'll tell you why (and all my women readers be prepared to be vindicated). Because men are liars. Let's tell it like it is. Our entire life is spent lying to women. Did you break that? Nope, it was my brother. Did you sneak out last night? Absolutely not! From birth to marriage you lie to a woman in your life. It's ingrained. It's genetics. It's like the sun, it just is. I didn't cut my sisters hair, it was like that when I found it, I'm not the father--just a few of the obviously bullshit statements men have made in the last million years. It's not our fault, it's society's.

And as such, all women have a dedicated bullshit censor that goes into high gear when they're married. My wife has the deluxe model bullshit censor. It came with leather seats, a sun roof, and a high heeled shoe to throw at my head.

I protest all day that I'b nob slick, hoping that an enthusiastic defense will distract from the cold sweats that cover me in chills. I never believe for a minute that she's buying it but I continue to sell it. It doesn't matter though, I forge on anyway. That's why men are such great explorers. They go on even when they know that they are fucked. Will find that city of gold one day boys, just keep pushing forward.

The true downside of the SAHD life is that you only have that one income, which means you have to protect it. Hossmom has been busting her ass for the last several weeks and has missed almost every family dinner. And this week she's not going to be home until the kids are in bed and I've finished with Skinimax. I need this movie. I need to get out while I can.

I carry though my day as normal, hoping to prove I'b nob slick. Cleaning, laundry, playing with the kids. I take short naps in the bathroom hoping to regain some energy because the truth is I'm dying here. I cook a normal dinner, Asian stirfry. I would prefer my normal sick food, the glorious Fruity Pebbles, but to do so would admit defeat and be an obvious sign that I'm sick. Asian stirfry may possibly be the worst sick food ever. But I eat because I will not admit defeat.

I clean up after dinner, I take the dogs out, I put the kids to bed. Hossmom just shakes her head and let's me know I'm not fooling anyone. Can't turn back now though, I've gone to far.

Finally I get ready to leave for the movie. She again protests but again I lie. I'b nob slick, I'm going to watch a movie.

Which is another lie within a lie. It would have been more accurate to say that I'm going to sleep in a movie theater while a movie plays. But I'm running on principle now and when you don't have Fruity Pebbles, principles is all you got.


Little Hoss Snow Shoveling

I thought I would forgo the Friday five this week to give you my first video post, ever. I hope you enjoy Little Hoss attempting to shovel snow and Bubba Hoss trying to get in on the action.


The Dollhouse

On my tombstone, and it will be a magnificent one, will be written a very simple epitaph: Here lies Hossman. He kicked ass.

It will be a tourist attraction, a vacation spot for families trying to reconnect. And a Lemon Chill stand will be next to it. It will be the first Lemon Chill stand to earn a billion dollars. People will come just to picnic with what once was. Supermodels will erect a shrine of their bikinis and decorate it with tassels. Fathers will bring their sons and they will kneel. The son will say "Oh father, why have we come to this place." And the father will answer "Son, we are here for two reasons. First, maybe we can catch a glimpse of a supermodel in a bikini." And the son will nod in understanding. "But son, there is another reason." The father will tell the son a story.

Once there was a man named Hossman and he had two minions. Delightful little things that constantly strove to earn his approval and to break everything that they touched. The older one, Little Hoss, was growing up quite quickly and destroying things far more advanced than her age. She was playful and sweet and had her father's heart. Near Christmas one year, as he was sipping his evening brandy, he noticed how much hid daughter loved her dolls. How much she played with them and invented games for them. Games like "A hanging from a doorknob" and "You go to time out." He would watch her in wonder as she played with her dolls. He wanted to do something for her, something special. He decided to get her a dollhouse.

He looked for dollhouses and was disappointed in what he found. Flimsy plastic things with flimsy princess stickers. Overpriced molded dreams that would quickly become nightmares once those plastic pieces shattered under his daughters destructive hands. A broken hearted daughter would wail at her wrecked dollhouse. He could not have this. He could not give something to his daughter knowing that one day it would consume her with grief. He knew there was only one thing he could do. He would build her a dollhouse, one that she could not break. Hossman kicks ass.

He told Hossmom what he planned to do. A simple idea quickly became complex as is Hossman's nature when he builds little projects. The size and shape grew. It would be made out of maple or oak, doors would be cut big enough for any Barbie or stuffed animal. Windows would be made with curtains hand stitched over them. It would be a palace, one to make other dollhouses look like little serf hamlets.

Hossmom had been through this type of thing before with her husband. She knew his grand schemes. She placed her hand on his arm and said "Hossman, she's only three. Let's scale it down a bit. Remember, we are on a budget" Reluctantly, he agreed.

He began work the next day and allowed Little Hoss help pick out the wood. They took it back to the garage and turned it into a family project. Little Hoss would carry the pieces to her father while Bubba Hoss kicked at a bug. Hossman would cut the pieces and hand them back to his daughter. She would then put them on the floor and jump on them. Hossman didn't know why but liked to think she was in the quality control department.

For days they worked at the project. They cut the dado for the floors, they made windows for the attic, and they glued their fingers together because that is what happens when you build any piece of furniture with a 3 year old and a 2 year old. They cut the doors, each of which took at least 4 hours to complete. They used 4 different kinds of sanders and 3 different kinds of sand paper. They labored, together, a father and his minions. But finally, after weeks of half ass working on it, they put it together.

It stood 4 feet tall. The joints fit together so that nothing would slip, it was like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. But as it was his daughter, Hossman reinforced every joint to the point that Armageddon itself would not be able to break this dollhouse.

But quality control was still needed. So Hossman put both his children on top of the dollhouse and told them to jump. And they did. Gladly. He inspected every piece and nothing moved. It was the rock of Gibraltar of dollhouses.

And one day it was gone. Little Hoss went to the garage and did not see her dollhouse. She asked her father where it was. He told her that Santa came and got it so he could finish it. She was excited. Hossman is a devious ass kicker.

But he knew he had the bigger job ahead of him. He had to decorate it like a dollhouse. So he took the children to the craft store and turned them loose. "Go minions" he cried like a angelic general. "Go get stickers." And they did. It was a frenzy. 20 different types of flowers, rhinestones, wooden figures. They threw stickers that puffed up in the shopping basket. they threw pink felt paper in the basket. They threw other baskets in the basket. They threw half the store in the basket. Hossman went to check out with visions of the greatness in his head. The clerk rang up the purchase.

Hossman bought 140 dollars worth of stickers. No shit. 140 bucks. That's not a typo.

It was at this point that Hossman realized that he had indeed gone overboard. He had enough stickers to wallpaper his own bedroom much less a dollhouse. So he turned to Hossmom for help. "Um" he muttered. "I messed up and need help." Hossmom was patient with him. She knew this was coming. He told her how much he spent on stickers. She laughed. She laughed hard. Who in god's name spends that much on stickers? But Hossmom took pity on him and went threw every sticker that he had brought home and picked out what was truly needed. She reminded him yet again that she is only 3 years old and to scale things down a bit. Then, like a true hero, she went and returned 120 bucks worth of stickers. And never said a thing about it. Other than to tell all her friends so that they could all laugh.

Hossman was able to get back on track. He began painting the dollhouse while rocking out to Guns and Roses. Every night for a week he went down to the basement and applied the paint to get it perfect. Then he brought it up for the final decorations. Hossmom was again glad to help but said that hand stitched curtains would be a waste, the child is only 3. This time Hossman listened to her. Because he was very, very tired of the dollhouse.

Hossmom covered the attic in pink rhinestones. Hossman got stick on linoleum and made the flooring. They made a fishy room in the middle so if Barbie wanted something exotic, she could go there. They covered another room in blue rhinestones so Barbie could chill out in style. They made an animal room with a red floor because 3 year olds and Barbie love animals. But the room that was in Hossman's head, the one he wouldn't compromise on, was the Princess ballroom.

The floor had two red roses set in white like Princess Bell's. The walls he covered with silver glittering music stickers. And on the back wall, the one where Little Hoss would see, he placed Sleeping Beauty surrounded by more roses, flanked further still by blue hearts. To look upon it is to make one cry. The dollhouse was finished.

Christmas came and he gave the dollhouse to his daughter. She was very excited and told her daddy that she loved Santa so much because he finished her dollhouse. Hossman told her he would tell Santa that. Within an hour every stuffed animal that she owned had moved into the dollhouse like squatters. Little Hoss was happy. Hossman was happy because this is one dollhouse she would never be able to break. No matter what she did to it, it would still stand. It will remain long after he is gone.

This is the story that the father told his son. The son did not say a word as his father told him this story. The son felt closer to his father, closer to him than he has ever felt. And he will understand what his father was trying to teach him.

Hossman kicks ass.

And then they would go in search of the supermodels.


Because I love Her

Why? Why, why, why, why, why? About what? I have no idea because I'm tired of answering the question. But that won't stop Little Hoss from asking it. She'll ignore my silence as easily as I will ignore her question. the fact that she is getting no answer does not seem to phase her at all. She'll just keep on asking until I answer or my ears bleed, whichever one entertains her more at the time.

It's about everything. Everything in the known universe. It really doesn't matter what.

Me: We have to get in the car, honey.
Her: But why?
Me: We have to go to the store.
Her: But why?
Me: To get food, honey.
Her: But how?
Me: By getting in the car.
Her: But why?
Me: To get food.
Her: But why?

As you can see from the example, it turns into a never ending cycle of two questions, why and how. I suppose I should be grateful of her inquisitive mind and I was for about 2 months or so. But I looked closer and I noticed something. Her asking how or why had become a reflex. Like breathing. Breath in, why? Breath out, How? She didn't care about the answer and she won't ever stop. Ever.

But I am an awesome dad and as such I find a learning opportunity in everything. And it's all based on a very simple fact: Good parenting is all a string of well told lies that brainwash your children to think exactly like you do. Don't believe me? then you give me one good and valid reason why we can't have peanut butter and jelly with cookies for breakfast? Aha! Of course we can, in reality it makes no difference! My point is proven.

So this is what I did at the next series of questions.

Me: It's cold, honey.
Her: But why?
It's because of the Philadelphia Eagles honey.

But why?
Well honey, they hate Cowboy fans and wish us nothing but the worst. They hate winners honey but they hate Cowboy winners most of all. And that's why we can't go outside as it is -7. Sure, I want to go sledding too but the Eagles fans just won't let us.

But How?
It's there hate honey. It springs from their Arctic hearts and sweeps down here and that's how come it's so cold.

But why?
Well honey, they made a pact with the Redskins and a few other teams. Their all called the NFC East honey. And together their hatred of us Cowboy fans just gets worse and worse. It's been going on for a very long time honey, since before you were born.

Buty Why?
Because we're winners honey. Things are bigger and better in Texas and they resent that. But that's not all honey, there's more.

But Why?
It's the big 12 too baby. You see, your dad went to Texas Tech and they hate them to. I know, it's hard to hear, but we are persecuted at every corner. And it gets worse baby. Come closer to daddy. I should hug you when I tell you this. They got Mike Leach fired too baby. Don't cry, it's going to be ok. The great Pirate Messiah is gone.

But How?
Wild accusations about player mistreatment baby. It was all trumped up as an excuse that UT and A&M got started because they got made we kept beating them like a rented mule. Like getting locked in an electrical closet qualifies as mistreatment in Texas Football. He's lucky he didn't have to find the nearest switch tree for a come to Jesus meeting. Oh yes, trust me, those really exist in Texas. It's the whole big 12 and the NFC east baby. In fact, they are to be blamed for everything you want to do but can't. They are the reason it's -balls freezing outside.

And now she looks at me. The questions have stopped. This is the way it's done. It's called good parenting an dis the reason why my entire family is a Cowboy fan. Aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters. All of them. You don't want to see our facebook pages on gameday.

My wife hates this and rolls her eyes. She went to University of Texas, so she would. But you know what, it takes work to brainwash fandom into children and she makes no effort. She talks about the bond of trust between parent and child. Honesty is the key.

It's obvious no one loved her enough to lie to her.


Dad Blogs

This week we will be forgoing the usual Friday Five because I have another post up on dad-blogs. It's called "A Texan In The Snow" which should give you a laugh. Check it out and while you are there check out the other writers that are up and running. Some good stuff. While you do that I will go back to planning on how I can defeat snow and make it my bitch. So far, it doesn't look good.


Remodel My Ass

The walls were being ripped apart. Sheetrock and hardboard crashed upon the floor like shrapnel. There was a cast iron tub in the corner, terrified, because it knew at the end of the day, a sledgehammer would be brought to bear. Dust and possible asbestos floated through the air as the sunlight highlighted little specks of glory. It was a bathroom remodel, and it was glorious.

"Come" They called to me. "Come, my friend, join us."

I offered to bring Little Hoss as I could not imagine what she could love more than going at walls with a hammer with permission. They declined. Cowards.

But I went. I went because Papa Scrum and Father Hitman asked me to. I could not say no. In fact, I never say no. Go ahead, ask me for some money.

So I went. I went under the impression that I would be demolishing a bathroom, gutting walls, ripping out tile, tearing out memories that the family no longer cherished. I bet they had sex in here. A hammer, a sledge, even a baseball bat: give me any of them and I would wreck havoc while quoting Shakespeare. With every swing I would take out frustrations. I would relieve stress. I would be doing man's work. And I would spit, because that is what you do when you do man's work.

I showed up and went inside the house. I got to the bathroom and stood in the doorway. The wind blew around my cape, because I wear capes, and the sun highlighted my brow. I was Jesus like. Give me my weapon sir.

Papa Hitman gave me a shovel and a broom. Papa Scrum called me Chumley.

They both pointed to the big trashcan in the middle of the room. Then they pointed at me.

What the hell man.

I was not asked to demolish. I was not asked to swing my mighty python like arms bringing about the destruction of an uppity wall. I was not asked to glisten like an Adonis. No, I was asked to be the janitor. It's because I'm Irish, isn't it?

And what is with the name Chumley. Why am I Chumley. Who is this Chumley guy and does he resemble me? Is he good with women. Maybe I want to meet Chumley. Does Chumley have a hump on his back and carry around a spiral notebook containing possible names for his adopted cabbage patch kids. Does Lennie shoot him in the head while he is petting bunnies at the end of the book? (Ha, name that reference!)

I was told that the bathroom was to small for all three of us to be in it at one time. It could be dangerous, against OSHA regs. It's a hard hat area. The excuses went on and on and it all came down to this undeniable fact: I was meant to scoop shit off the floor and put it into a trash can. I feel like a kid that was shown a bike but given just a spoke.

So I would watch them tear down walls and pull out nails. I watched mini sledgehammers come and go. They would bang, bang, bang. The debris would fall, fall, fall. They would leave so that I would have room to sweep, sweep, sweep. This is what I did. All day. I cleaned one bathroom over and over again. If there is a hell, this would be it.

I would clean and they would go have a coke. Papa Hitman and Papa Scrum would discuss the next moves. I bet they made out a little bit. I would be grabbing chunks of plaster and inhaling horsehair insulation. They didn't even give me a mask. I was the menial labor, no health benefits included. I wasn't even asked my opinion, not even about the cleaning part. Sure, suggestions on how I could be more efficient were everywhere, but did not one of them ask me what I thought of the health care bill and what it might mean to the remodeling of this bathroom? No.

The work went on like this for the whole day. Sure, occasionally I was allowed to pull a nail, a little bit of the scrap I was thrown. They tore up the floor and found the subfloring needed replacing. So they tore that up to. I cleaned it up once they threw it at me.

But this also offered me a chance. A chance to do something worthwhile, something productive, something that actually meant something. We needed a new subfloor. That would mean that a piece of plywood would have to be cut, holes would have to be made for pipes, this could be the most important job of the entire remodel. Without a floor, you have nothing.

I quickly volunteered to cut the subfloor. They gave me the measurements and I cherished them like I would a newborn. I went out to make the cut. I painstakingly transferred the marks. I measured again to make sure there would be no mistake. This would be perfect. I made the first cut, going slow, making sure that every corner received care and attention. I would love this floor like a tranny hooker (new year's resolution!) loves a good wig.

Papa Scrum came out to watch me continue to make the cuts. In a moment of concentration, and therefore weakness, he took the saw out of my hand. He then made the ugliest cut you have ever seen. It was the Quasimodo of cuts. It was jagged, somewhat circular, and a blight on the canvas that had become my master piece subfloor.

"You are never going to see it man, it doesn't have to be exact."

Sure it doesn't. Only in my heart, it was already there. I went back to my broom which would never be grasped from my hand. I picked up my shovel which I could never thrust away. And I looked at my garbage can, which may be the best I could ever get.

After 11 hours we were done with the demolition, the best part of a remodel. The guys went out to take a break and chat before going home. I leaned my broom against the wall. On a wall stud, up top where a board crossed, I signed my name. So that whoever remodeled 50 years in the future knew that once there was a Hoss that helped, even if just a little, the last time it was done. A single tear ran down my check.

I turned out the lights and I walked away.

I Resolve

A new year. A new beginning. Out with the old, in with the awesome.

I resolve that this year I shall convince the cat that I am not evil, that in fact she is evil. To prove it, I will show the cat her own reflection in the mirror and then watch her go to hell. Be gone, vile thing.

I resolve that I will not get divorced from my wife. But if I do, I resolve that I will get alimony, the kids, the car, the house, continued boom boom favors and a daily lollipop which will be mailed to me from her lawyer. She gets the cat.

I resolve that I will not have a heart attack while watching any sporting event. Unless said event involves one of my teams and some sort of championship. In which point, I resolve to give myself CPR.

I resolve that in 10 minutes I will drink some hot chocolate.

I resolve that never again will I allow a blog to be censured and pulled from publication prior to it actually having been read. And I further resolve to ignore anyone from telling me "You can't say that!" and then publish it anyway.

I resolve to discover why the dog is so fat and yet never seems to eat. I also resolve to finally discover why the dog also sits underneath my children every time they have dinner.

I resolve to build myself an honest to God catapult that will hurl garbage at my enemies. Which happen to be the teenagers in the neighborhood that I am sure are talking about me. Get a job, hippie!

I resolve to become a grizzled old-timer this year. I feel that I am on track.

I resolve to grow exactly one more hair on top of my head. Just one, no need to go full boar just yet.

I resolve to meet Brad Pitt and become BFF with him and his wife. And then have a key party.

I resolve to celebrate my blog birthday this year by getting beer, getting pumped up the drink it, tell everyone how much I am going to party my ass off, and then go to bed by 9 without touching any of it.

I resolve to get beamed up by Scotty.

I resolve to not blame the dog.

I resolve to not blame the kids.

I resolve not to blame society.

I resolve to blame the man.

I resolve that I will get 50 new blog followers by the end of this year. And I resolve that my current followers should help me do it. I resolve to give them a piece of cheese for every new member they bring me.

I resolve not to make any fake promises anymore.

I resolve to not eat as much pig, the sweet succulent miracle animal that gives us so very very much but does not happen to be good for cholestrol. It's the mans fault.

I resolve to build a car that looks like it came straight out of the Mad Max movies and then see if Little Hoss can get her driver's license. I resolve to take more chances this year.

I resolve not to get lower back pain like some freaking old man.

I resolve not to argue with a 4 year old child about anything. Why? Because I fucking said so.

I resolve to jump for joy at least once a day.

I resolve to listen to at least one bad joke a day such as: Why did the turtle cross the road. To get to the shell station.

I resolve to not make fun of Hossmom right after she tells me a joke. Seriously, why she does this right while I'm in the middle of a blog, I have no idea.

I resolve to take that back.

I resolve to say I'm sorry and how funny my wife is everyday.

I resolve to be more like Chuck Norris where my chief export is pain.

I resolve to ignore "You can't publish that about my mother!"

I resolve to cuss more often.

I resolve to use the term "Tranny Hooker" once in the next two weeks.

I resolve to forget all of this the moment I write it. I resolve to fall asleep in this chair. I resolve to eventually remember to post it on a Monday instead of a Tuesday and thus screwing up everyone's week. I resolve never to say I'm sorry.

I now have a cup of hot chocolate. One down.