I am thankful for my wife and my children. I am thankful that they are all healthy and happy and think that I rock.
I am thankful that for Dear Abby because every time I read it I am assured that there are way more weirdo people out there that have way more weirdo problems than I do.
It's that sweet awkward moment when your child barges in the bedroom door and catches you trying to mount your wife like the stallion that you are. Everyone freezes, no one moves. In that moment you are trying to decide how much of what your 5 year old daughter sees and how much she understands. In that moment you are trying to decide which course of action to take which can be very hard in this situation.
I have asked my family about what I should write about tonight. I thought maybe that I could get some ideas, maybe do a little brainstorming. I didn't have anything in particular in my head. Today was actually a good day in which no one got hurt, nothing was wrecked and I took a nap. I get my inspiration from my family but I am deciding that I am most inspired when I don't ask for their advice.
I'm debating if I'm going to stop him. I probably should but this falls into one of those "Fatherly moments". I cherish these because I get to be lazy while hiding behind a principle. I feel like a politician.
We see the man through the doorway to his bedroom. He is singing softly to himself. He is folding laundry, well most of it. He folds his clothes and the clothes of his children. He does not fold or hang up his wife's shirts because they confuse him. They are made of lace and thin fabric and for some reason they are made to never stay on the hanger. Ever. He ignores them and tosses them onto a chair next to the bed. There is a pile of his wife's shirts there already from earlier in the week.
"Hello Mr and Mrs. Hossman" Says my daughters kindergarten teacher. "Thank you for coming."
"Hello Mr and Mrs. Hossman" Says my daughters kindergarten teacher. "Thank you for coming."
It itches so very, very bad and there is nothing that I can do about it. It's driving me insane and I am powerless to stop it. I am powerless to stop it because society deems it in bad taste to itch it in public. And I can't hide the itch because my son has no idea what it means to be an ass wingman.
Dinner is almost ready but it's proving more difficult than initially anticipated. It was supposed to be a simple stuffed chicken breast with a tomato basil sauce. But it's turning out to be about as simple as doing my taxes. I'm not sure if I should add the basil in the stuffing or carry the one and add 2 dependents.
Dinner is taking most of my focus but not all. My mind somewhat wanders while I cook for the family. I do not hate cooking, I do not enjoy it. It is something that must be done and that is how the rest of my evening will be.
My daughter has a new badge that must be ironed onto her girl scouts uniform. This job will also fall to me as it turns out that Hossmom is about a crafty as a giraffe doing scrapbooking. I don’t know why she isn’t that crafty and what it is that eludes her about such things. She is more of a thinker than builder I suppose. She tried to iron on my daughter’s troop numbers at the beginning but gave up after 45 minutes of cussing and screaming. I took the numbers and went upstairs. I didn’t have the heart to tell Hossmom that the glue wouldn’t stick with the protective paper still on the back. I just tried to finish it quietly, which I did.
After that is done I’m thinking about mopping the floor. The minions are not what you would consider clean eaters. I think the concept would be totally foreign to them. It would be like trying to introduce calculus to them. Without a doubt, ½ a banana or strawberry ends up on the floor under their seats. The dogs won’t touch it because it doesn’t smell like meat or ass. Eventually, the minions feet will smush it into the hardwood when they get up from the dinner table. I’ll use my putty knife to scrape it up but after a few days of this only a good exorcism mopping will get the ghost food stain off the floor.
It’s also homework night and I have promised the kids that if they hunker down and do a good job they can have some cookies that I made today. I made them from scratch, a little trick I taught myself during the long winters of being a stay at home dad. When it’s to damn cold out you have to find stuff to do inside and making cookies from scratch fits the bill. We can also make homemade bread, cakes and once a coconut cream pie. The last one was a complete failure as the coconut cream topping invaded the territory of the filling. There were motions passed, U.N. interventions, and broken peace accords but the topping eventually went on a full out invasion. It was over in a matter of hours. It turned out to be more of a coconut cream soup which wasn’t half bad. I’m thinking of trademarking it.
After all that, it’s bedtime and stories. I’m currently reading Wizard of Oz to my daughter at night. My mom read it to me when I was her age. Although I don’t quite remember the story including so many beheadings. Once again a child hood myth is destroyed. The Wizard of Oz is a very violent book. Extremely violent and scary. I’m sleeping now with the closet light on.
It’s going to be a full evening and it was a full day. But right now I have to concentrate on finishing dinner and chopping this basil. Fresh basil is the best, brings out the true flavor of the dish. I cut my finger though because I’m a bit distracted. Behind me is the laptop and Netflix is running. I’m watching Battlestar Galactica, a series I never watched when it was “reimagined” in the 2000’s. I’m hooked and once again I feel that I must apologize to my wife for the level of nerdery going on. All I’m missing is a beats farm and a job selling paper at a midlevel paper supply company. Bears, beats, Battlestar Galactica.
It’s an interesting show, full of sex, intrigue and betrayal. I do believe that they call these “space operas.”
And that’s when it hits me. Holy crap I’ve become a 1950’s housewife.
What the hell am I doing? I’m cooking dinner thinking about my crafting that I have to do later. I’m going to read a book that doesn’t include robots or a murder mystery where the only guy that can solve it is a lone detective that refuses to let the dead rest. I’m actually stressing about how difficult it is going to be to mop and get the stains off the hardwood floor. I make cookies. I bake cakes. I make homemade bread.
And I have to watch my stories. Sweet merciful Jesus I’m watching my stories while I cook. This is nothing more than a Soap Opera. All I need is for Ricky Martin to make a guest appearance and I’ll gasp at the sexual trifecta that will soon become apparent. I’ll call my friends and discuss it with them while holding the phone with my shoulder so I can tie my apron better.
But this is what my family needs so then this is what my family will get. This makes things run smooth, then so be it. They are happy and I am to. Tonight when my wife gets home to a nice dinner with a good table setting, I’ll pour her a brandy and perhaps even service her later on should the kids give us some alone time and actually stay in their rooms.
However I make you this promise. Tonight the Tinman is a robot, the Scarecrow is an alien hell bent on eating brains and Dorothy has a score to settle with the Wicked Witch of the West. Dorothy has a score to settle. She’s a loner and only she can speak for the countless victims of the Witch. Toto will be played by the part of Edward James Olmos.
The little boy walks in and stops. He has many choices of where to play but this one seems to be the best. He does not know why, he only knows that the center in the living room calls him, beckons him fourth to play Hot Wheels. It must be here. It can be no where else.
He could play in his room but the emptiness, it bothers him. He could play in the bathtub with it’s smooth surfaces that makes for great racetracks but the echo is unnerving. He could play on the roof but the ladder is too heavy for him. So he plays in the center of the living room, directly in front of the TV. It is 12:31 on a Sunday afternoon.
She could brush her dolls hair anywhere at anytime. She could do this activity at night when she is in her room trying to sleep but the tediousness of the task might actually make her fall asleep and we can’t have that. She could brush Barbie’s hair in the morning for breakfast but somehow that doesn’t seem right, there is something off about it that she can’t quite put her finger on it.
She could take Dad’s keys, drive down to the lake, talk to the geese while she brushes her dolls hair. She knows where he keeps the keys, the old man would never notice. She is only 5 but she’s been to the racetrack and she’s pretty sure she can figure it out. But she can’t, her feet remain rooted to the spot, her eyes fixated and almost glazed as she brushes her dolls hair in the middle of the living room at 12:31 on a Sunday afternoon.
Mom grabs her phone, it is her lifeline. She is never off the clock, she is always thinking. Strategy, brand awareness, smart ass facebook comments. They swirl around her head. Should she change the scope of work that she is composing to include a more comprehensive digital campaign? Should she make a little witty comment on facebook about the futility of trying to keep a clean house and raise kids? She can do it all, she has the phone and the phone is mobile.
Mom walks with it, takes it with her everywhere. Always connected, no matter where she is at. But somehow she ends up in the middle of the living room. She does not know how she got there and it doesn’t really matter because it’s not something she can tweet. She is vaguely aware that there is a little boy playing cars at her feet. He crashes them, loudly. She tweets about it. A little girl is right behind her singing a soft song while brushing her dolls hair. This reminds her to make a change to the marketing strategy to include parents of small children. Disposable income, that is what she is after and parents are suckers for little girls. She is feeling quite proud of herself at 12:31 on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of the living room.
Dad is in his chair. He has given up and he knows why. There is nothing he can do, no action that he can take. There is a sickness in his family. He knows that it came from his wife, that she brought this to their children. Perhaps he should have thought about this before he got married. Money issues, religious differences, all pale compared to this. She did this when they were dating.
He tries to sit back in his chair. His beer and nachos are ready to go but they have lost their flavor. The ritual seems pointless now and he wanders why he continues to even try. Every week he believes that it will work this time, that a cure has been found and every week reality smacks him in the face.
On a Sunday afternoon.
Without fail, without exception, this always happens. Regardless of how many rooms are in the house. Regardless of what they have to do. Regardless of any obstacles he has put in their way. They arrive. They arrive like migrating ducks, like salmon swimming to the spawning point.
On A Sunday afternoon.
Every member of his family decides that they must stand directly infront of the TV during football season and do things that they could do literally anywhere else. Always. Without fail.
His nachos go cold, his beer less refreshing. They will ask why he stays up late on Sunday nights watching TiVo. They are oblivious.
On a Sunday afternoon.
America has a problem. It is a problem brought on only by ourselves, we have no one to blame but the instant gratification man that stares back at you from the mirror. It's your fault, it's my fault, it is the fault of our very culture.
This is an open letter to the lady tailgating me earlier this today. I would have liked to have said this in person but I understand that you were to busy trying to hit children on the sidewalks to really have to much time to deal with me.
The kids are playing a new game, although they still have a special place in their heart for the game Punch Me In The Face. This new game is way more cerebral. It's called "Fart On Me."
It's 12:03PM. It's dark in my bedroom. It's quiet except for the occasional fart let out by the dog which smells like a mixture of rotten eggs and mud. I'm wide awake and it's not because of the dogs dirty butthole. He licks his junk enough, you would think he would find a way to clean out the other end.
I'm back from my week long vacation from writing. It was a good week. In my head, I traveled to Vegas and threw down some money on the hard 8's and then smacked a waitress in the ass. In reality, I stayed home and basically played video games while telling the world around me that I was very busy doing very important parenting things. But I submit that destroying the locust horde coming out of the ground is very important to the future of humanity.