New Blogs Coming

First off, thanks for all the questions about the blog. Rest assured that the blog will be coming back in the new year. Turns out that in early December the whole family got hit with the bug, which of course means that I can't be sick, even when I am. There are no off days for this whole stay at home dad thing. Little Hoss then got the croup and would cough until she puked. I considered sacrificing chickens or using leaches but instead heeded my wife's advice and went to the doctor.
Then the holidays came, of course.

But all that is behind us now, including my birthday, my annual competition with Jesus for attention. Coming Monday all new blogs are coming and we will get back on a regular posting rhythm again, nice and smooth, easy going, almost like blogging yoga. Do the dog walk.

Happy Holidays to all and will see you on Monday.



The Hossman Family is currently suffering from the plague. I suspect that some flea has migrated on rats into our house, thus causing all of us to be afflicted with this foul disease. Or we all just have the flu but where is the drama in that? Either way, I'm burning all our sheets and calling in a priest. Please bear with us for the rest of the week until new posts are up.



Head on over to Daddyshome today and check out the post I just threw up there. I like this one, thoughtful yet destructive. It seems to describe my family pretty well.

And of course, take time to read some of the other guys that wrote for us. If not, my daughter will grab a hammer and find you. Your knee caps aren't easily repaired. Keep that in mind.

Click here for the newest post.


I Am Thankful.

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 I have a roof over my head, good food on the table and a dog that sounds great barking but is actually a massive wuss.

I am thankful that Lindsey Lohan is doing playboy. I am thankful that alcohol exists and so do hot idiot celebrities.

I am thankful that my children no longer eat dog food.

I am thankful sports exist and that the NBA is on a lockout because I hate professional basketball.

I am thankful that some weird old guy showed up my house and asked if he could pick up all the black walnuts from my backyard. I am also thankful that he didn't ask me to join in any weirdo reindeer games that he would be playing with those walnuts. Naked.

I am thankful that winter is here and everyone's yard looks like shit now because it's all dead. I am thankful that I don't talk to my neighbors more because that may not turn out to well given the state of my yard the last couple of summers. Which reminds me to be thankful when cities give out water restrictions so no one can water their yards so now it looks like mine. I win.

I am thankful that Hossmom has a job she loves and gets to travel to cities that she finds interesting instead of other cities, like Cleveland.

I am thankful that Cheetos's come in handy little lunch sizes so that I can easily steal them from my daughter without them really noticing anything is gone.

I am thankful that my fat dog eats all the food that the kids drop from the table with the exception of broccoli which I can't really blame them for.

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.

I am thankful of new tires because that it was all old men are thankful for because it shows that even though life has beaten us down, new tires are always cool.

I am thankful for leaked sex tapes and the ignorance and stupidity of the people that do them.

I am thankful for jilted ex boyfriends. No relation to the above mentioned thankful topic. Maybe a little.

I am thankful that there is such a thing as a DVR and that it records sporting events that can be watched after 10 pm.

I am thankful for juice because it's good.

I am thankful for cake because it's better than juice.

I am thankful that someone invented a catapult and we have taken such a destructive weapon of war to now make it throw watermelons.

I am thankful for potato guns to0 as one of the top most useless but awesome inventions.

I am thankful that my wife buys all my clothes for me and that one day my daughter will grow up and do the same thing.

I am thankful the dollar aisle at the store that sells plastic crap toys.

I am thankful for turkey and the sweet goodness that will soon be heaved upon my plate in a challenge to finish it all. I am thankful for gluttony.

I am thankful that I have finally started writing that book that I kept meaning to and I am thankful that the first chapter made my wife laugh.

I am thankful that Harry Potter exists even if it is only on paper.

But most of all, I am thankful that I have found someone who "gets me", who encourages me everyday and allows me to see her naked whenever I want.

That Awkward Moment

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.

Love is a beautiful thing, a great thing. And the physical expression of that thing on a Saturday morning is even greater. So you don't want to permanently scar the child by screaming holy hell get the hell out why don't you knock for Christ's sake! You want her to one day embrace all that she is but that may be impossible after she catches her parents in the act. So in that awkward second, you have to make some decisions.

She has to get out of the room, that part is a given. If she stays, you aren't going to be able to finish what you need to finish, which is of course expressing your love in a physical way to your wife. And your wife loves it. Oh, she will say that she doesn't really care for a Saturday morning quickie but we all know that she is lying. I have children to prove it, one of which has just opened the door without knocking.

Your next thought is to chastise yourself for not locking the door. What kind of dumb ass rookie mistake is that? That's what a new parent does, not a 5 year vet like me. I can only blame my wife as she decided to have her clothes off around me. I cannot be held responsible for my actions when I have breasts at eye level.

The next thought you have in that awkward moment when your child catches you having sex is wondering if your wife will let you continue after you have rectified this slight transgression. Maybe, maybe not. Nothing is quite as good a mood killer than a 5 year old staring at you while eating a poptart.

You wonder what you daughter must be thinking. Does she realize that what she is seeing is most definitely not play wrestling? And if she does think it's play wrestling, does she realize that daddy is winning? Or is it dawning on her that Mom and Dad are "making babies" and is this going to be enough to send her into therapy next year and for the rest of her life? You don't want her to start asking difficult questions either, such why is mom reading a magazine while you are wrestling and what's up with Dad's junk? What happens if she yells for her little brother to come up here and check this out. This could get worse, I could ruin multiple lives all in the span of a second. It's doubtful that my wife will ever let me touch her again.

"I'm out of milk." my daughter tells us and then takes another bit of her poptart. That's what she came up with in that second of walking in the door and catching us doing what parents do. She then turns around and leaves as my wife and I scramble for the sheets.

On her way out the door, my daughter informs us that it is "stinky" in our room.

It used to be stinky a lot more often before I had children.



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.

Little Hoss says that I should write about a sentence. I ask her why I should write about a sentence, what about that topic could I use to make it funny? Is there a particular angle I could take in writing about a sentence? Is there somehow a little sentence moral to be learned, a protagonist sentence that grows through out the plot? Is there a conclusion to the sentence or does it just run on forever like the movie Thor? Seriously, that movie sucked. I am very disappointed. She decided then that I shouldn't write about a sentence after all. She said that I should write about "Dada" and if I didn't write about that then I should write something "pissy" which brings up an interesting phrase that she heard me say to my wife. I believe that the exact phrase that I used, when talking to Hossmom this afternoon, was "Don't be pissy" and it appears that my daughter agrees with me.

I asked my son what I should write about. His response was to hit the wall with a sword. Then he looked at me and told me he hit the wall with the sword. Then he started to laugh because hitting walls with swords is funny, it's comedy gold, it Bob Hope Hilarious. I then got down on my knees and looked him in the eye as this is the only way that I can get the boy to really pay attention to me other than holding a pop tart in front of his face. When I was about to ask him again what I should write about, to ask him to inspire me, he just hit me over the head with his sword and said "bong". Then he ran away. I don't know if I can make that into a story, not unless he ran away to save some damsel in distress, say our cat for example, who has been tied up and left on railroad tracks by our villain, in this case played by our big gay dog. He's German so he always does the villain roles. But I don't know what happened to our hero because Hossmom then made me go outside and clean up dog poop.

She decided this should be a family activity which again shows my insanely practical wife not understanding what "family fun" is really about. Me: Plan a trip to Disney World. Her: organize the freezer according to color of frozen food. While we were outside she was none to happy with our overall effort as a family at cleaning up dog poop. In fact, she became a little "pissy" and I let her know it as I had just assumed that none of the children were actually paying attention to what I was saying. They usually don't which is why I have to dangle pop tarts in front of their faces.

I did ask my very practical wife what I should write about today. She suggested that I write about my underpants. She says that I should write about how I have pirate underpants and that they would go good with my son's sword. Perhaps I can play the villain this time with my pirate underwear. She also says that I have "party" underwear and some with strips on them as well. I don't really know what kind of underwear I have because my wife buys it for me. I haven't bought my own underwear in 15 years. Such an easy thing to compromise on. She likes me to wear funny underwear which I can only assume means that it takes the focus off my funny penis. This is how our marriage has stayed so fresh through the years.

This has been one of those weekends where things were smooth, fun for the most part and relaxing. I even got to watch some football and do a bit of uninterrupted writing, writing about nothing. I would continue but right now I've got to let the cat out of the closet, which my son informs me is his pirate dungeon and I should probably have a talk with my daughter that she shouldn't ever tell her teacher that she's being "pissy." For these tasks, only my spongebob underpants will do the job.



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.

My boy is walking straight, kind of. It's more of a drunk walk really, the kind of walk you do when you come out of a bar at 4 in the morning and have convinced yourself that you are too drunk to drive. However, you are convinced that you can walk home the 10 miles no problem. All you have to do is go straight, or somewhat straight. Ah, college.

My boy is 4 yeas old now though and I'm pretty sure he hasn't been hitting the sauce so early in the morning unless the fruit juice has fermented, which is always a possibility. But while he is walking straight he is making a critical error in his technique. He is not looking straight. Currently he is distracted by the color of a bag of green beans in the freezer aisle. He does this often as the boy loves to get distracted. I fear what's going to happen when he goes to his first strip club.

These are the things that he has run into so far this morning at the grocery store: 1. A lady picking up grapes. 2. A guy wearing the same color of pants that I have on. 3. A wall. 4. Onions. 5. A bench. 6. My patience.

He fails to head the advice of all grandmothers everywhere. Look where you are going. He is also sitting to close to the TV and his palms will start getting hairy pretty soon. The boy likes to play with his junk. As his father, I really understand the TV and the junk thing. I like playing with my own, it's a life long thing. Grabbing your crotch for a guy gives a sense of security when times are tough. It's saying to yourself "My life has gone to shit but it's ok, my junk is still there." And he has to sit close to the TV because his sister gets kind of loud, all the time, even when she sleeps she wakes up and starts singing at the top of her lungs. I've seen it and considered an exorcism was in order until I realized that her mom does the exact same thing. One day they are go and bust into a harmony and I'm going to open a new club with my freak show of a family. The headliner will be the boy that walks into everything.

So I am faced with this dilemma, do I stop him and correct his path telling him for the 5 thousandth time today to watch where he is going or do I go with the father principal of letting him fail so that he learns his lesson?

It's a father dilemma that's been around forever. Let the boy take his licks and hopefully he'll learn something from it and actually watch where he is going. Or do I stop him and prevent a small injury to his face. Perhaps if I was a mom I could sympathize more with the small injury he's about to take. I would sing him songs while protecting him for the cruel world. But as Dad, I realize that the world is cruel and it's my job to teach him how to cope with that and sometimes that means letting him take one in the face. Plus, I'm getting pretty tired of telling him to watch where he is going. You don't even want to know what Halloween night was like. I do apologize to all my neighbors for all the smashed pumpkins. It was not a teenager prank, it was just my boy getting distracted by pretty things.

2 steps away a loud noise breaks his trance like stare at the green beans and he abruptly stops, moments away from taking it in the face. Another toddler has pulled some french fries out of the freezer and the mom is getting on him. My boy is saved and we continue on our way.

The mom is now is explaining to her son that we are not supposed to pull things out, which is probably how she got children in the first place. Her son isn't listening, welcome to my world, so she squats down to look at him in the eye. Nice move. What is even nicer is the little thong that pokes out the top of her very low cut pants. Very nice indeed. I don't question why people shop in such very low cut things at 9 am on a Tuesday, I'm just thankful for the opportunity to see it.

That's when I run into my son with the shopping basket, catching him right in the face. The kid goes down.

Fatherly lesson learned.


Happy Halloween

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.

Into the green basket goes his son's clothes, in the blue basket goes his daughter's clothes. He has no idea why he does this he only knows that this is the way he has always done it. Green for him, blue for her. His own clothes get folded neatly and placed at the foot of the bed. They are almost ready for him to put up. This is always how he does laundry. He doesn't know why, he just does. The bed must always be made before he does the laundry because if it's not then a sock will go missing in the comforter that his wife picked out. He secretly hates the comforter because it's not soft, it's a little abrasive. He won't tell his wife this though, he let's her believe in the little fantasy that she has created.

He hums to himself without realizing that he is doing it. He doesn't know the tune, not yet. It's an old tune. Deep and old. He is folding the towels the way he likes to fold the towels. He folds it in thirds like he likes it rather than in half like his wife likes it. He does the laundry, he decides how things get folded. He hums.

He folds the dish towels. They have 100 of these because this is what he prefers. He doesn't like paper towels, the disposibility of the things. He likes permenance, he likes forever. He thinks he hears something downstairs, singing maybe? He's not sure. He picks up the dishtowels and heads downstairs. He steps on a Hot Wheels car in the hallway at the top of the stairs. He picked up the hallway before he folded the laundry and can't believe that he missed the car. It was obvious, right in the middle of the hallway. He doesn't pay that much attention to it because he thinks he hears the singing again. Soft, light, deep and old. He isn't sure.

"Ring around......" He makes out, or at least he thinks he does.

He goes downstairs to the living room and stops. He looks around. Something feels off, he's not sure. Laundry is always his last chore of the day. He starts his chores by cleaning the kitchen, the living room, playrooms before heading upstairs. He does the kids rooms then, the bathrooms and finally his bedroom. Then the laundry.

He looks at the living room. There are a few toys on the floor, almost pushed to the side. He thought he picked everything up. He hums a song without knowing it. A deep and old song. He picks up the toys and heads to the kitchen. There are 2 glasses in the sink, a blue one and a green one. He supposes he missed it when he loaded the dishwasher earlier in the day. He puts them away and puts the dish towels on the counter. He hears the singing again. It's not coming from downstairs after all, it's upstairs, in one of the rooms.

"Ring around the....." It's muffled but a bit more clear this time around. He wonders what toy has been left on.

He heads back upstairs to finish the laundry. At the top of the stairs he steps on a Hot Wheels car. This time he looks at it. It was in the middle of the hallway. He picks it up and puts it in his son's room. He is feeling like he has Deja Vu. His son's room is usually an easy clean as the toys don't get scattered as much and the bed is only a twin. It's easy to make a twin bed, quick and fast. The bed is not made. He suppose he forgot it. He makes the bed and hears the song.

He goes to his daughters room and the song stops. He makes her bed too as he guesses that he wasn't to keen on making beds today. He goes back to his room to put away the laundry. He hums a song.

There are no clothes in the green and blue baskets. They are on the bed, unfolded. His wifes shirts are on the floor. He picks up the shirts and puts them on the chair. He starts folding and putting clothes in the green and blue baskets. He folds the towels into thirds because that is the way he likes it. His wife likes it folded in half but if she did the laundry she could fold it the way she wanted to. He hums.

He takes the green basket to his sons room. He steps on a hot wheels car. This time he stares at it. It was in the middle of the hallway. He hears singing downstairs.

"Ring around the rosy......" He needs a drink. It's only 2 pm but what does he care, he has no where to be today. He drops the basket and heads downstairs trying to find the singing and to get him a nice whiskey.

The toy box in the living room is pushed over. All the toys are spilled out. Stuffed animals are behind the TV as well. There is an empty poptart wrapper on the couch. There is a blueberry stain next to it. The dishtowels are in the middle of the floor, all 100 of them. He picks them up and goes to the kitchen for his drink thinking that he is really off his game today and hasn't cleaned up very well. He hums and sings a little, a deep old song.

There are two green cups in the sink. They are sitting next to two blue cups. He stops, looking at them. He hears singing. Clearer now, closer.

"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of......"

He heads upstairs to find the toy singing. At the top of the stairs he steps on a hot wheels car. He carelessly throws it on his son's unmade bed. He goes to his room, that's where the singing is.

The green basket is pushed over to the side, the blue basket is again empty. The shirts are on the floor in the dirty clothes pile. He picks them up before he realizes that they stink like they need to be washed, like they were never washed in the first place. He puts them in the green basket so that he can wash them. His bed is not made, the abrasive comforter is pushed to the side, the sheet is barely hanging on. He hears singing.

"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posey." He runs downstairs, stepping on a hot wheels car.

In the living room the toys are thrown all over. The stuffed animals are in the dogs water bowl. Woody is hanging by his string from a chair. He goes to the kitchen and sees green cups next to blue cups in the sink. 3, 4, 5 of them. He hears the singing but he can't find it.

"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posy, ashes, ashes......." It's loud, it's clear. It's upstairs.

He leaves the kitchen and runs back upstairs to his daughter's room. He kicks a hot wheels car out of the way in the hallway. He goes into his daughters room. The bed is unmade. There is paper on the floor, paper that should be on the walls. There are markers on the floor, next to the wall that now has little colored pink faces screaming. He doesn't understand, he doesn't understand.

He runs back downstairs, he trips over a hot wheels car. He gets back on his feet and stops when he reaches the living room. Trashed, it's trashed. The toys are everywhere, there are crushed crackers in the carpet. There are purple juice stains next to the crackers. The dishtowels are soaking wet and thrown on his favorite chair. The kitchen has flies in it. The green and blue cups are over flowing the sink. He hears the singing, the whole house is singing.

"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posy, ashes, ashes, we....."

He leaves the kitchen, he leaves the living room, he runs back upstairs. He stops and stares at the hotwheels car in the middle of the hallway, he hears the singing. It's clear, it's loud.

He goes to his room. Clothes are thrown everywhere. The green and blue baskets have towels in them, towels folded in half. The bed is stripped and the covers are thrown to one side. He looks, unsure of what is happening, not understanding. He steps back and trips over a pile of his wife's shirts.

We leave the room of the man. Through the doorway we can see him sitting in filth. The only sound we hear is him singing a song, an old song, a deep song.

We all fall down........



Head on over to Daddyshome today and see my latest rant. Or just sit there and eat a bunch of Halloween like the fat slob you are. You realize that that candy is for the children right? Seriously, you are taking candy from children, what kind of person are you?

Stay away from the snickers, I call dibs.

Click here for Daddyshome.


The Parent/Teacher Conference, Part II

"Hello Mr and Mrs. Hossman" Says my daughters kindergarten teacher. "Thank you for coming."

"Always a pleasure ma'am" I say in my very charming southern accent.

"As this is your daughters first parent teacher conference, let's get straight to it." she says while she opens a very big folder.

What follows is a transcript, as near as I can remember, of what was said. It may not be 100% accurate.

"Let's get right down to it Mr. Hossman, although I must admit that I am a bit surprised that you even call yourself a man. You look more like a toad to me. The nerve of some people always surprises me. Please, if you wouldn't mind, try not to stink to much during our conference as I am trying to get through alot of these today and there is only so much failure that I can stand to sniff.

Now to your daughter, I do find her pleasant to be around. She gets along well with the other children and seems to listen well. For the most part she completes her her assignments on time and does a good job. However, she does fidget a lot. It's very tough for her not to fidget with things while she should be focusing on the task at hand. Mr. Hossman, are you even listening to me? Please put down the paperclips and focus. Seriously. And your are stinking again, go home and take a shower.

As for reading, your daughter does show some advancement in this category compared to the other children but I do not attribute this to you at all. It's obvious that Mrs. Hossman is the better part of the group here and the sooner she strikes out solo the better your family will be. Your daughter tells me that you and her are reading the Wizard of Oz together which surprises me greatly, I didn't think a Neanderthal like you could read big words. I am aware of your spelling and grammar difficulties. Let me ask you Mr. Hossman, are your reading a picture book of the Wizard of Oz? Do you like pictures? Stop fidgeting and answer me, damn you. Now the main issue I have is of course some of your daughter's spelling. It has become apparent that you have taught your daughter how to spell "butt." While I am sure this is humorous to you and I am sure you were just trying to make reading and spelling fun, this is in no way appropriate. In fact, if you would come a little closer my principle has asked me to slap you very hard to knock some sense into you. I also want to point out that she spells it "but" and not the appropriate "butt" for what she means. Great job genius. You're stinking again. You reek.

As for math, your daughter does actually appear gifted in this area and is ahead of the curve. I can only assume it's because she counts the number of ways you fail everyday. It looks like you are up to 29 failures a day which I must admit, is a record when it comes to parenting. You got your wife drunk to marry you, didn't you? I will slap you again Mr. Hossman if you don't put down those paperclips. I have discussed this case with the appropriate government officials and the World Record people and we will shortly have you shot and put in the record books as the most ineffectual parent ever. We can only hope that Hossmom can gather her wits about her after your happy demise and do better on the next go around.

Finally, let's move onto your daughters motor capabilities. As you can see here on your child's report card, yes we have report cards in kindergarten, I have put the number "2" next to some of the fine motor control skills. 2 means that she is developing. Now I am required by law to tell you that this is normal and expected and not everyone can be a 3 but I think we both know that's not the case. Your daughter should be a three and its only because she has an ape for a father that she is not. Look at how many 2's I had to write there. Soak it in bucko. Cuts simple figures smoothly, 2. Copies basic shapes, 2. Prints legibly, 2. Perhaps if you spent more time trying to teach your daughter how to write and not spell things like "poo" she would actually have a shot in this world. Also, let's look at "practices self control", that's also a 2. I wonder where she gets that from, hmmmm. It's a rhetorical question jackass. Just look in the mirror. Christ you're stupid.

What I find most shocking is that your daughter sometimes lacks self confidence. I do not find this shocking in the lest as it is obvious you never encourage her to do anything. Often she will say "I can't" when asked to spell a word she is unfamiliar with. Is this what you practice at home, give up before you even try? Or does she get this when she says to you "Daddy, I can't open your Bourbon." See, I wrote it right there on your daughter's paper, "lacks self confidence." That's a permanent record. Permanent means forever. You understand that don't you? Would it help if I got you a donut?

The true bright spot to your daughter's education at the moment is that she hasn't missed a single day of school, nor has she been late. I can only assume that this is because she can't stand to be around you for much of the day. Here's your free coupon to a second rate restaurant. It's more than you deserve but I suppose even failures do something right every once in a while. Congratulations, you have the ability to open the front door to the bus. Now please get out of my sight so I can develop a strategy on how to crush your spirit."

And that is what was said to the best of my recollection at my daughter's first parent/teacher conference.

The Parent/Teacher Conference. Part I

"Hello Mr and Mrs. Hossman" Says my daughters kindergarten teacher. "Thank you for coming."

"Always a pleasure ma'am" I say in my very charming southern accent.

"As this is your daughters first parent teacher conference, let's get straight to it." she says while she opens a very big folder.

What follows is a transcript, as near as I can remember, of what was said. It may not be 100% accurate.

"Mr. Hossman, it is obvious that your daughter gets her strikingly good looks from you. No disrespect to your wife of course, she's very pretty. But you, dear god, I feel almost with child just looking at you. So if you will do me the favor of not looking at me for long periods of time so that I am stunned by all that you are, we can move along a lot faster.

Let's discuss your child, Little Hoss. First off, you should know that she is the absolute best pupil I have ever had the honor to teach. She makes me a better person just by being in the same room. She is so nice that she makes Evil turn a pink rosy color and create rainbows. She listens so well that I often find that she is completed with an assignment before I am even done explaining it. She not only gets along well with the other children but they have raised her up as some sort of deity that they worship. I must admit, while shocking at first, I myself often pray to her greatness. In short, she is the best person ever born and I can only assume it's because of your superior sperm that has made her so. On behalf of the entire world and our elementary school, we sincerely thank you.

But good looks will only get you so far in this world as we are all aware. Well, probably not you Mr. Hossman. Please, don't look at me so sexingly.

Let's discuss how your child is doing in reading. According to our very strict tests that we give 5 year olds it is very clear by this point in your daughters life that she is reading at a college level. She understands words that I myself do not. She can not only create sentences with proper grammar, but construct entire fantasy worlds with deep involved plots, much like this blog. When I asked her to discuss "Run Spot Run" to me she delved into a deep psychoanalysis of a living creature that feels like it must run away all the time while never dealing with the problems it has. A fractured creature that shows deep emotional scaring. Thanks to the efforts of your daughter we have now seen this book as an elaborate work of sado-masochistic sexuality that we no longer encourage our students to read. We have had the author committed to an insane asylum for his obvious devious plans for our children. I'll be honest, I thought it was just about a dog that liked to run and we used it because the word "run" is easy to read. I stand corrected and I have begged your daughter's forgiveness. She has seen it in her wisdom to let me continue to teach the other students.

I'm sorry Mr. Hossman, I must take a break. I find myself short of breath while in your presence.

Let's move onto math. I'll be blunt, your child is a genius. Einstein looks like a infant compared to her. I have never seen a child count so easily to 29. In fact, we just asked her to count to 20 but she quickly became bored with our simple minded tests. So she counted to 29 while simultaneously coming up for the theory of a unified universe in quantum mechanics. I'll admit, I still don't understand it to much at this point but it appears that I do not exist. Her logic is so sound that I immediately went home and told all my credit card companies that I am not a person, only the belief of a person and it would be great if they just went ahead and erased all my debts. Your daughter also called on my behalf and the credit card was so convinced that she was right that they vowed to lower all interest rates to -23% so that they actually pay people each month a minimum monthly payment. It truly is amazing and world peace should come quickly as soon as she addresses the U.N.

Of course, no child is perfect and please forgive me for saying so. However, Little Hoss has a few areas that she needs to work on. She is so awesome that it is really hurting the self esteem of the other children. They realize that they can never live up to her greatness and as a result, they are starting to spontaneously combust in your daughters light. This is a problem because when the automatic sprinkler's go off they cause all the markers to run and it distorts all the A++++ that your daughter gets. I just want her to know that there not are enough +'s in the world to show her how great she is but how can she when they continually get washed away.

Other than that, it would appear that your daughter is well adjusted and the principal has asked me to take a DNA sample from you so that a race of super children can be cloned.

Thank you for coming down today and if you will excuse me, I can no longer bask in your presence as you are obviously a great father, the father of fathers, the most awesomeness dad who has ever lived. Please see yourself out."

And that is what was said to the best of my recollection, at my daughter's first parent/teacher conference.


Ass Wingman

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.

Look, let's throw all of our cards out on the table here. Let's quit beating around the bush. Everyone gets ass itches. Everyone. Don't sit there all high and mighty and pretend that you do not. And when get them, we itch them. Usually discreetly, usually with as much class as we can muster and usually we itch them very quickly so as not to embarrass ourselves beyond redemption.

I have one at the grocery store and this is the problem. There is not discreet way to get at this and it is driving me insane. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. If I was with Hossmom, she would play the part of my wingman. We would head down a seldom used isle, such as auto supplies. She would check both ways and if the coast was clear, she would give me the thumbs up. She then would then walk directly behind me covering my approach and eventually relief. I would do the same for her. She is the perfect ass wingman.

Once you have been together for 15 years, there aren't many secrets left. When you have been in the delivery room and seen what goes on there, an ass itch is considered polite conversation. When you have had to have serious discussions about hemorrhoids and constipation, an ass itch conversation is pretty easy to get to. Welcome to marriage boys, glad you are here.

My son though is a horrible ass wingman. He's terrible and I'm a bit disappointed in both him and me. I am disappointed in him because I thought he would always have his old man's back. I thought he would stick up for me when I needed it. And I am disappointed in me because apparently I have never taught him the importance of being an ass wingman. Now I'm stuck and I'm actually starting to sweat because I can't get at this thing.

I have tried everything. I have done lunges down the aisle. I have done jumping jacks. I have tried to do squats. It's not working, it just made the itch worse and there appears to be nothing that I can do about it. My son isn't helping matters as he is constantly drawing attention to us. "Dad, why are you doing that!?" He screams. "Dad, I want candy!" louder each time he sees stupid candy. They have candy in every aisle, everywhere, throughout the grocery store. In the auto aisle they have gummy candy shaped like wrenches. Dude, give a guy a break.

This is not helping matters. He should be walking behind me like a secret service agent checking his ear piece and looking out for potential threats. He should not be trying to drag all the pasta down on the shelves.

I can't take it anymore, this has to end. There are no more exercises that I can do to create friction and I can't take it, I'm a weak man. We go down an aisle to do recon. I tried to send my son off as the advanced scouting party but he decided that instead he wanted to jack with the cereal boxes. It can't be helped. I'm about to go in, do what has to be done.

I hear a scream behind me. My son wasn't paying attention, this is not unusual. While he was looking at all the pretty colors on the boxes he ran into the back of the cart, whacking his head hard enough to give himself a concussion. He goes down.

The alarm he sends out goes through out the store. A family rounds the corner, a nice little set of twins in a race car cart. Abort mission. I am beginning to think that my son is a secret ass itch agent trying to thwart my attempts.

There is no helping it now, I go pick up my son and comfort him. I will not leave the twins and their mother with an image in their head that they can't get rid of.

We walk out of the aisle and toward the front. They have benches in the front of the store. Benches with nice sharp corners. Plan B is in full effect.


My Stories

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.

12:31 on a Sunday Afternoon

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.

At 12:31.

On a Sunday afternoon.


Time Control

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.

Americans are a prideful people, it's in our very nature. It is an earned pride based on the accomplishments of our predecessors but it is pride none the less. It is this pride that blinds us and prevents us from admitting our mistakes, our failures. It is this pride that shields common sense from us, that hides hard truths and bathes easy outs in nice little 30 second soundbites.

We take pride in our ability to cope, to overcome any obstacle. We take pride in knowing that we are the best and if we are not, it's only because we haven't tried yet. We take pride in our system of government, our architecture and our technology. And it is the technology that will be our downfall. Skynet is not coming, he is already here.

My daughter asked me to fast forward the scoobie doo she was watching. Daphnie is still hot and I would still do many things to her. I told her I couldn't. She looked at me with a puzzled expression, her eyebrows crinkled like I was speaking something very un-American. She may think I am now a communist sympathizer. I can't is not in the American Dictionary.

I told her I couldn't fast forward through the commercials because it was "live" TV. She looked at me like I was speaking Martian, which I can but wasn't at this point. I tried to explain it to her but honestly, how does one go about that?

This generation of youth have been raised on TiVo or DVR's. This has given us, the parents who are failing, the power to control time itself, to warp it to our demands. This is what we have taught our children. There is no "live" there are only events that we control with a hand held device.

I tried to further explain this to my daughter. I tried to explain to her that the show she was watching was on TV right now and didn't come on some time in the past. I told her that I couldn't fast forward anything because nothing was recorded. This show was happening in real time. "I can't" I explained. "I no longer have the ability to control time." She continued to look at me like I was wearing the colors of a hammer and sickle.

It was obvious that she wasn't understanding. She knows about death, babies and how to chop the heads off little bunnies (previous blog, I'm not a monster.) But she doesn't understand the concept of TiVo or "live" television. I tried to explain to her that before about 10 years ago, this is the way we all watched TV. And that we only had 3 channels and something called a special "UHF" dial that had to be plugged into an "antenna" and tinfoil. I stopped talking at this moment because I realized that I started to sound like a very old man who was about to talk about how he walked to school three miles in the snow each day. I did, but there was no snow. It was acid rain and meteorites.

She still didn't understand what I was talking about and decided to ignore the subject completely. She wouldn't listen to commie speak.

"It's ok Dad, I just want to watch Dora."

"I can't" I said again. At this time she picked up the phone to call in a child abuse complaint.

Our DVR died, the hard drive crashed. 150 hours of prerecorded TV disappeared with it. All of her shows that she loved to watch, gone. All those movies that we had recorded, gone. Toy Story 1, 2 and 3, gone. Dora, Diego, Scoobie, Bubble Guppies vanished like they never even existed.

She has never learned of a time when things were not "on demand". She does not know that things can't be controlled with a push of the button. She does not realize that Dad doesn't really have the power to make cartoons appear as if from no where. Whatever she wanted, it was there in seconds. No commercials, no credits, no sad ASPCA infomercials that guilts her into sending 100 dollars a month. This is foreign to her, this is a world that she does not know.

She back handed me and demanded to know who I was working for. She wanted to know who got to me and how. Nervous spittle flew from my lip as I tried to explain that it was the technology that had failed us, not we that failed it! She wouldn't have any of it. Dora was out there somewhere and I was not letting her watch it. In short, Dad's a dick.

This is our problem America. We control time with impunity. We control matter like it's our plaything. This is what we have taught our children. TV is never "live". TV is never on a schedule. It is what we want, when we want it. But when technology fails and the lie is brought to the surface..................

Maybe one day it's us that gets deleted from the hard drive when we can't find Dora.



An Open Letter

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.

Dear Pschyo nutjob:

Hi, my name is Hossman and I'm the jagoff in front of you. I know that you probably don't like me but that's ok, you're a twat so that makes up for it. First let me tell you some things that you should probably know about traveling on this little road near my house.

First off, the speed limit is 40 but I understand that people go over that. In fact, right now we are going 45 and I feel pretty good about that. I'm guessing you don't as you are about two inches from my bumper. I don't know, maybe you are in a hurry or just really attracted to my bumper. It's a nice bumper. Chicks dig scars, or so I'm told.

Anyway, back to the speed limit on this road. It's a very bad idea to much faster than 5 miles over the limit here. The reason being is that the chief of police lives right off this road and for some odd reason there are always a crap ton of police officers pulling cars over here. I think that they can wrap up their entire monthly quota just by spending one afternoon here. Now I realize that I do drive like a grandma and don't really speed anyway, but at least this time I have a reason. That reason now being that I cannot afford a 150 dollar ticket near my house. Hossmom would shit a brick. But you must be made of money because you obviously want to go faster than I am going at the moment.

That's ok, I don't mind. Go right ahead and pass me. It's a two lane road so knock yourself out. Seriously, go ahead and pass me. Any day now. I'm waiting.

Ok, so you don't want to pass me yet and I'm not really sure why. Maybe you aren't in such a hurry anyway. Perhaps you are just not paying attention because of the cell phone conversation that you are on is very good. Maybe you are talking to Mike Rowe. He's a good guy, I like Mike Rowe. Maybe you are trying to convince him to do a dirty job, like tailgating random strangers. If you are talking to Mike Rowe, give me his number so that Hossmom can talk to him. She loves that guy.

But since you don't want to pass me, would you mind backing the fuck up? Just a tad? It's not really for me, it's more for you. My car is 10 years old. It has some dents and scratches already. In fact, should you whack me it would probably improve the look of the vehicle. After all, this is the car that Little Hoss rides in and I'm pretty sure you can't do anything that she hasn't already done. However, your little car might get screwed up should I say, ya know, slam on the brakes to avoid a squirrel or something. I'm just saying.

It doesn't look like any of this is working and I'm in a bit of a mood today. Maybe I'm a bit sensitive since I have recently been rear ended. I don't enjoy it. Even if that was my line from a porno set, I still wouldn't enjoy it. So seriously, back up.

You have probably noticed that now I'm actually trying to piss you off. I'm going the speed limit now. I slowed down and I did this on purpose. I'm trying to give you a real reason to pass me but it doesn't seem to be working. Are you stalking me? Are you and old girlfriend? Did Little Hoss hire you and promise to pay you in Barbie Dolls? You are the worst stalker ever. So let's slow down a little more.

There we go, now I have your attention. Fantastic. Please back up a bit and I promise I will speed a tad again. No? Alright, no problem. I'm in no hurry, I can do this all day.

Wait, maybe I will speed up a bit, but not to much. I will speed up just enough so that I pull even with the car right next to me. He's going 45 too. Now even if you want to pass, you can't. I have made eye contact with my new best friend and we have both decided that we hate you. Yes, we hate you, very much. We have decided that you are the balrog of the road and we are Gandolf. You know what happens next, right? Do you want me to say it? Fine, but just for you: YOU SHALL NOT PASS. This is what we call a Mexican Roadblock. Enjoy. I hope this makes you feel better.

But it doesn't appear to because now I see you beating on your steering wheel. Honestly, I don't really know what you want of me. I promise that I'll buy you a cake on your birthday, will that make you back off? Probably not.

How about I call you on your phone while you are driving as that appears to be what you like best. I tell you what, I call you while you are driving and while I'm driving and then we can both side swipe the local elementary school bus that is right infront of me now. That would be great, we can bond over the carnage.

I would love to stay and continue to chat but this is my turn. I hope that as you swerve to miss my break lights that you lose control and crash into a tree.



The Fart Game

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."

First, you grab a stuffed toy, preferably something that has a butt on it. A snake stuffed toy can still play but it's not as good as say a very large stuffed bear. My son is using a Mickey Mouse toy while my daughter choose to go with the Minnie Mouse Princess. I'm guessing that these toys make them more mobile and it has been discovered that mobility is very crucial to this game.

Next, each contestant goes and hides. Eventually both contestants will figure out that everyone is hiding and no one is looking. Thus, each contestant will decide to stop hiding and go and look for the other player. What eventually happens is that they both come around the corner at the exact same time at full speed. A collision takes place which isn't as bad as it may sound because both players have their designated farting toy in front of them.

Each player screams and falls down. Now it's time to score.

Each player scrambles up on their feet as fast as they can. The plant to feet and then lunge at their opponent with the stuffed animal, butt first. Once the stuffed animal makes contact with their opponent, make a farting sound with your mouth, the juicier the better. The person that comes closest with the face wins the game.

Reset the match and play again. And again. And again. Play until your father can't take it anymore.

I'm guessing that they picked this game up in the public school system. Somehow that sounds right. Obviously school security isn't doing their job right.

Hossmom isn't home which probably explains pretty much why this is still continuing. She's been working a lot and going on trips. Dad thought this was funny at first but there comes a time when any game, no matter how awesome, gets old.

I call both of my minions to me. I have to be a Dad now, I have to do what Dad's are supposed to do. I use my Dad voice, the one that says I'm serious and that they need to listen.

I tell the kids to come Front and Center. They obey, heads low. I ask them to hand me their stuffed animals. They still aren't making eye contact with me. Perfect.

I grab the stuffed animals and turn them butt first. I jam them into both kids' faces at the same time and make the juiciest fart sound you ever heard. They try to run, but run to where? I had them backed up to a corner, there is no retreat possible. Don't mess with Dad, he has been playing the fart game since he was a boy!

They drop and try to crawl away but Dad is still nimble and remembers his fart training, the years of his youth spent around other boys that loved nothing more than to make fart noises on each other. My children didn't invent this game, they are just it's most recent players. By the time I got to college, I was unbeatable. The old man still has skills.

I drop the toys after they have been scored on countless times by my unending attack. I run away laughing while their little minds try to process what has happened. Eventually, when they are done laughing, they grab their toys and come after me. I'm as elusive as they are determined.

We do this for the next hour of our day.

But I force everyone to stop because it's time to get dinner ready and eat. Hossmom will be home around 9 tonight so we are eating solo. Which is good because we are having chili for dinner. It's time to take this bitch up a notch.



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.

On my right is Little Hoss. Her face is crammed up and her lips are pursed like she is about to give someone a kiss. She looks very much like Hossmom when she does this. On occasion Little Hoss will moan and smack me in the face with an elbow. This too is very much like Hossmom. I have gotten bloody noses from both of them.

On the other side is Bubba Hoss. I don't need to look at him to know where he is at, I can feel him. He has no concept of personal space when it comes to bed. He likes to dig in like a tick right in your side so for most of the night I'm worried that I will smush him. I go about 250. He goes about 30 pounds. It's a losing situation for him but he doesn't care. All he wants to do is dig into dad's armpit and he's in sandman land heaven.

I can't sleep and yet I can't get up. I'm trying to force myself to sleep but it doesn't work. All that happens is that I can hear everything better than I did could before. I hear the dog pass gas, Little Hoss's elbow swooshing through the air and Bubba Hoss's contented breathing.

Hossmom is out of town. We are back to doing that again, a side effect of a high powered executive career and a stay at home dad. She has meetings with important people who are going to try and sale you important things. She'll be back in 3 days, 3 very long days. And for some reason, I can't sleep when she isn't in the house. I don't get it, not at all. It appears that the Hoss may be a bit needy.

This is supposed to be good times for us, the boss is gone. There are no fancy complicated dinners to make. I can shelve the Tomato/Basil/spinach stuffed chicken and instead serve peanut butter and jelly with a side of BBQ chips. I can stay up as late as I want without getting nagged about coming to bed. I can play video games and look up porn. This is supposed to be a freetime, the closest that I will get unencumbered alien destruction without a voice coming from upstairs saying "Turn that thing off and come to bed!"

But it never works out that way. I go to bed earlier when she's not here because I find that I am bored. There is no one to talk to about the events of the day, no one to share my victories with. It's a empty success when you teach your son to flex in the mirror but there is no one to show it to at the end of the day.

And I can't sleep, I can never sleep. When she's here I go to bed like a champ. It never takes me longer than 10 minutes to conk out when she's here. Now I sit in bed and listen to the kids breathing and the dog farting. The mind wanders when you are this alone and it's not a good thing.

Are the kids breathing too shallow? They must have lung cancer from watching to much Phineas and Ferb. Bubba Hoss hasn't kicked me in the spleen in a while, is he ok? Is he still breathing at all? I better poke him. I do and he wakes up. Oddly, the kids never get much sleep either when Hossmom is gone. I have no idea why.

This is where your mind goes when you are by yourself for long periods. You imagine the most horrible things and assume that they are true.

The dog lets go with another class 5 gas bomb. It's nothing but a silent whish of air. But it smells different, sweeter than the first 30 or so he has let go. Obviously he his feline lupus. This is going to be really hard to explain to the kids in the morning.


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.

Some things happened while I was away that I wanted to put on here.

Earlier this year I and some other Stay At Home Dads gave an interview to Redbook magazine. This is not the first interview I have given but is probably the biggest outlet. I was pleased to do it and I was pleased that I got the first quote in the article. When my wife read my quote she looked at me and said "That really sounds like something you would say", thus giving my quote authenticity of a Hossman blog. Honestly, I was just talking to the reporter while hiding in the bathroom away from my kids. When I do give interviews, I do find that the only way to hear anyone is to pretend that I'm pooping so my kids don't constantly try and take the phone away and tell the caller about the wonders of Playdoh. It comes in many colors!

But out of the interviews that I have given, and the articles I have read on the stay at home dad life, this is one of the better ones. It's actually a positive story that doesn't paint us as lazy bums or assume that we are out of work because we have to be.

The article basically profiles several stay at home dad groups. I am a member of KCDADS. They give each group a nickname, such as the diplomats or the communicators. The Austin Dads are the Laid back Dudes. But I am most proud of the KCDADS name.

We are the Adventurers. That seems to fit. In the article it briefly mentions that we took the kids to psychiatric musuem and that it didn't so work out so well. Those who follow this blog probably remember reading about that and if not I will find it later and post it in the comments section. Another trip that didn't work out so well was when the minions and I basically desecrated a Mormon Holy place. When the Mormons ask you to leave then you know that you haven't been on your best behavior.

Anyway, the article is in this month's issue of Redbook which my wife says that I'll gladly sign. She seems to get a bigger kick out of this than I do. But if you don't want to blow 4 bucks to read more about Hossman then here is the link to the online article:

Now because you follow this blog I'm going to give you a quote that didn't make the magazine because after I said it, I asked that it not be used because it perhaps went to far.

Redbook fact checker: "Did you make the quote about the episotomy?"
Hossman: "Yup, that was me. I know what they are and if you get a good doctor he might actually throw in a daddy stitch for you."
Redbook fact checker: "A daddy stitch?"
Hossman: "um, please forget I said that."

Coming up in the Hossman multi media tour will be a radio interview that I also gave a while back that is supposed to air in October. Finally, just throwing this out there, I was asked to do another TV show. It does not appear that this one will work out either as I have now decided that I am not "TV Pretty". I'll just stick to print media from now on.

Have a great week and more funny stories will be coming on Wednesday and Friday. Hopefully. If the kids break something which gives you pretty good odds. Just wait five minutes, it'll happen.


The Surcharge of Parenthood.

Parents are normal people that somehow made the decision to have children. None thought about it through then because if any of us really did then there is a good chance that there would be a lot less children in the world. Yes they are fun to be around sometimes and no one can quite kick you in the balls like the person that wears a size 3 shoe. It just seems to fit, just right, like it was made for it. Which is fitting since in all actuality that is their origin to begin with. However if anyone actually thought parenthood through or knew what was truly involved before becoming parents, then most would balk at the opportunity to create minions.

I kid of course, just a small joke. Of course parents aren't normal people because normal people wouldn't decide to add a surcharge on everything they do or own for the rest of their lives or at least until the kid turns 18, although even then I am still betting there is still continued warranty upgrades that we'll have to make. I have a feeling that I will have to continue throwing money to my children well into their 40s. Remind me to call my mom when I wake up tomorrow morning though. Nothing related to this post, honest.

I'm talking about the self imposed tax that comes with having children that each parent eagerly submits anytime they want something, want to do something, or even thinks about something. Right now my daughter got out of bed and grabbed my wallet. She took out my credit card and said something about a down payment for a cement mixer to be here in the morning. I'm not really sure but it doesn't matter because I didn't even stop her, I just want her to occupy herself long enough so I can write something funny.

Let's say that a parent wants to go out on Date Night. It's a very popular concept and is highly recommended by all the marriage counselors that do not have children. If they have children, they would never recommend this. Here is why. Dinner for a couple that are trying to live moderately, as we all try to do since most of our money goes to our children and for silly things like food, is probably about 50 bucks. You can go to outback and get yourself a nice steak and maybe a single beer for this amount. Next you will probably want to see a movie, something rated R because that way you can at least judge the assholes that bring a baby to Death Sexpit 5. It never fails that someone will do this and you can now say that you are a better parent than someone else because you left your children at home, or somewhere else that is not with you like an alley or the police station.

The movie is going to cost you another 20 bucks and that's without popcorn which is fine because that is why you went to dinner first. Hopefully, neither you and your wife will want popcorn because popcorn and steak really doesn't go together. Or does it, hmmmmm.

Anyway, already you are up to 70 bucks for a decently cheap and well budgeted date night. But here is the kicker.

Because you have children, add 30 bucks to that total, if you are lucky. Sometimes it's more.

Why 30 bucks? Because that is the price you pay just because you had children. That is the self imposed tax that you place on yourself to punish yourself for no longer living the carefree life that a disposable income brings. This is the way society works and there is even a person that takes that special tax. It's called a babysitter and it is required when you want to do something that doesn't involve children.

At least it's convenient though. They usually come straight to your house and watch your TV, eat your food, and drink your liqueur. Occasionally, they might invite alot more tax collectors over to further make fun of you. Sometimes they invite boyfriends over as well and they do things that you and your wife can't do anymore because you ate to big a dinner at Outback and your tummy is full.

This is the surcharge of being a parent and it's what you do in order to remind yourself that at one time you could just go see a movie and eat a reasonable dinner without paying anyone anything. And later, you could probably have some sex because there was no need to stuff your piehole on steak because you never get to eat steak anymore because someone always demands peanut butter and jelly or likes to give your steak to the dog when you are not looking.

As a parent, you will try to get around this surcharge but it never works, not really. Say you choose a babysitter that is 25 years old. She is going to cost you at least 12 bucks an hour. A movie lasts 2 hours, get a dinner in for an hour and you are already above your 30 dollar limit. So you decide to go younger, perhaps a teenager. That's better but also perhaps a little less trustworthy. So now you are selling out your piece of mind just to be able to afford a piece of cake after your dinner. But it is cake and cake is worth a lot now a days.

You can go the preteen route and hope to the heavens that while they are not texting that they are watching your children but in actuality they are texting their drug dealers to come over quick as she's got a rave later that night. With this trade off comes quality drugs for your babysitter and constant guilt and fear for the parent.

Of course you could always leave them with your own parent but don't you see how this works? That means that your own parent is going to think you are a lousy parent and therefore give you less money for things like date night. Oh, they say they want to spend time with the grand kids but that's only because they want to sucker you into taking labor instead of cold hard cash, which they still owe you at the age of 36, which you will still owe your child at the age of 65. It's a ponzi scheme really and all gladly accept it as part of parenting.

And we won't even warn our own children of this because we are hoping that one day, far far down the line, we can all just afford to have a good steak and a night out from the nursing home.