Your Shoes

Hi guys. It's Dad.

Look, I know we've all been under alot of stress lately. Hossmom is starting a new job. Little Hoss can't seem to resist cutting random crap with scissors. And Bubba Hoss, well son, no you can't play with my Iphone anymore because some how you made an account in Luxenburg.

Things will settle down, I promise. And I'm going to help you all, as much as I can.

For example, see that thing over there in the corner? Yes, the one I'm pointing at. Yes the one I have been pointing at for the last month. The one that looks like a basket. Yes, that's the one.

That's called a "shoe basket." I know, weird term. I'm not sure where it came from but I think it's Latin for "Put Your Damn Shoes Here." Or something close to that.

A shoe basket is used to put shoes in when you are no longer wearing them in the house. So let's say you come into the house from a long day at the office. You take your shoes off. Then you walk away. Wait, see, that's what we're missing. We're missing a step there. See, when you take your shoes off, THEN you put them in the shoe basket. See how that works.

I know, it can be confusing. So let me help you out by telling you where shoes do not go.

Shoes do not go into my lap when I'm sitting down. It's not a magical portal that ends in a shoe basket. Shoes do not go at my feet next to my chair. This is not the shoe chair. We are aiming for the shoe basket.

They do not go at the foot of the couch. They do not go in the middle of the hallway. They do not go, for some reason, in the vegitable drawer in the refridgerator.

High heels do not belong on the table, the counter or the bed. Race car shoes that light up do not need to get thrown at my head. And princess slippers defiently do not belong in the dog food bowl.

These things go in the shoooooeeeeee bbbbbaaassskkkkeeeett.

So let's talk about what doesn't belong in the shoe basket.

Purses do not belong in the shoe basket. Half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches do not belong in the shoe basket. Dog vomit does not belong in the shoe basket although I admit that it wasn't you guys who did that. Well, maybe not.

Now I'm sure I'm as big as a problem as anyone else. After all, I actually own just 1 pair of shoes. Well, 2 if you count my slippers. And I'm sure that they create as big of a mess as the three thousand pairs of shoes that I currently see that don't even remotely fit my feet.

If we can all just pull together I'm sure I won't have to kick anyone out of the house.

My Kingdom

I am standing on the back deck looking out at my domain. I inhale a deep breath. A breath that brings smells of contentment, victory and general asskickery. Yes, this is my domain. This is my kingdom.

I look down from my deck, which is on the second floor of my house, and see the snow that covers my kingdom. I see the trees, long dormant in winters cold, sway gently and watch the icicles fall from them. I see the hole in the tree where I know Jeff the Squirrel and his family slumber the season away. Yes, this is my kingdom and I enjoy looking at it. I am complete.

I look down at my children. My precious children who now play in the snow. Angelic. Good kids. Sweet kids. I look at my daughter, who is now laughing. Hearing her cheer fills up my soul.

I look at my son. My sweet, innocent boy. He's smiling. He's waving at me. I return the wave as I soak in his admiration of me.

Then he gets hit dead on in the face with a snowball.

This is my true kingdom. Getting smacked with in the face with a snowball is my world.

The laughter that I heard from my daughter was not one of joy. It was one of mischief and carnage. The smile on the face of my son was one of unknowing victim. This is the Hossman world, this is the Hossman Kingdom. Chaos and destruction on the scale that would make the crusades look like a weekend outing.

But it is my world and I must lord over it. From my balcony I tell the minions:

"Minions!" I bellow. "What is that scream that is disrupting my early morning peace!"

"Nothing" my daughter says. But the laughter has stopped and we both know why.

"Little boy! Son!" I say "What has caused you to cry out in distress in such a fine morn?"

"She hit me in the face!" He screams, tears running down his cheeks.

I know this. I saw it happen. But for some reason I ask the question. I want to give them a chance to explain as any benevolent leader would even though I know that what I am about to hear is a bunch of dung spewed from a donkey.

"Little Hoss, my angel, why? Why have you done this?" Now it's time to get into my royal lecture. I get no answer. I did not expect one.

"That was not very nice." I tell her. I am just gearing up. "How would you like it if someone hit you in the face with a snowball. By the way, that was a very nice and accurate throw."

"Yes sir." she says quietly, head down, hood on her jacket back.

"Would you like it if I told your brother right now to hit you in the face with a snowball? Would you like it if I did that? No, you wouldn't. Because that's not very nice is it?"

"No sir." She says again.

A snowball sails hard from her right. I see the person who threw it out of the corner of my eye. It smacks Little Hoss right in the ear hold, dead on. Within 1/2 of a second, she is screaming and crying. And now my sweet son is no longer crying. He is laughing.

As a leader, one must always remember to choose his words carefully. One must not present a hypothetical situation to a 3 year old boy who desperately wants vengeance on his sister. He may take this as permission to bean his older sister in the ear hole like Randy Johnson.

My life is full of parenting fails.

I sigh, no longer inhaling breaths of contentment. I walk down the stairs to both my children. This is going to require a hands on approach. Hugs and lectures.

On the way down, on the last step, I bend down to grab the dogs leash so that no one trips over it on the way up. I hear the hurtle of an airborne object before I feel it make a wet splash on my on the back of my head. I stand up and the wet snow goes down my jacket right before the second snowball hits me in the neck.

This is my world. This is my kingdom.

Don't Come Downstairs

"And for no reason what so ever, do not come down stairs! Stay in your bedrooms!"

That's a load of shit. Everyone in this house, including the dogs, knows that statement is one big steaming pile that carries no meaning at all. The statement "My dog is the smartest animal on the planet" has more validity than the one I just gave my kids.

We all know that this isn't going to happen. We all know that they won't stay in their rooms. I can hear them up there playing already. Little Hoss is laughing and I can only assume that it is because she is punching her little brother in the face. Last night I actually had to say this: Please do not make your little brother smell Barbie's booty. Seriously, that's what I had to say. I'm not even making that up, just telling you the way it happened. That's why this blog is so easy to write.

We put the kids down at 7:30 every night. You might assume that his is some sort of parental principle, that there is a reason why we put them to bed at that time. That's a load of shit too though. There is no real reason why we put them to bed at 7:30. 7:30, 8--the number is almost completely arbitrary. We asked our doctor when Little Hoss was born what time was good for bedtime. She said 7:30. We didn't even ask why. We just said ok and have been doing that for almost 5 years.

You hear that kids? There is no real reason for your bedtimes. We are just making crap up down here. When you are older and are reading this, you might get a little upset at our lack of reasoning. I don't care. Suck it up. You're adults now. Move out of my house.

I suppose if I had to give a reason it may be because that when the good TV shows come on that you can't watch. Not because it may "contain adult situations" but because if it's not stupid Dora the Explorer or Dinosaur Train, you won't shut up. So there you go, that reason is as good as any other.

But don't worry, the kids have their vengeance. They never, ever stay up stairs in their rooms for the first hour of bedtime anymore unless I slipped them some NyQuil with dinner. They always come down for something. Sometimes it's for a drink of water even though they just had one 10 minutes ago. Sometimes it's to go to the bathroom although there is a fully functioning bathroom directly across the hall from your rooms.

Last night with my son it was:

"Dad, I gotta tell you a secret."

"No, go to bed."

"But DAAAAAADDDDDDD, I have to tell you a secret. Boris told me to tell you!" Boris is the T-Rex from Dinosaur train. For such a ferocious creature, I find Boris to be a bit of a pussy.

"Fine son, what's your secret."

He scoots down on his butt the way that children do when they are coming down stairs in their feety pajamas. I remember doing this. I tried it as an adult. Not so cool when you are 36. Things have, um, "dropped" down there and I found it not to be a pleasant experience. Not pleasant experience at all.

My son climbs on my lap, gets real close to my ear and whispers "Dad, I love you."

See this is not fair. You can't do this because then it makes it harder for me to bust you about being out of your bedroom. And where is Little Hoss during all this? She is at the top of the stairs hiding in the shadows like Senator Palpitine. She put her brother up to this. She knows that if he makes it down, it's only fair that she get to come down for a second as well. And if he gets in trouble then she has only sacrificed an idiot pawn. She is pulling the strings for the puppet.

As I'm writing this we are getting the first official visit from upstairs but at least it's a little bit different this time. Little Hoss is crying and rubbing her head. She is doing that slow kid walk to milk everything out of this that she can. She doesn't miss one angle, not one at all.

"What happened?" I say, still sitting in my chair. I have been through this enough that I know bullshit when I see it.

"My brother hit me on the head." she says and then she cries louder. She was almost fine until I asked her what was wrong. Now by the very fact that I asked her it has somehow made it worse. And by making it worse she knows that she can easily come downstairs and stay a fraction of a second longer.

"Fine. Come down here and I'll kiss it."

I suppose that the little man finally got tired of being the one always taking the orders and the risks. But now I have to call him down so that he knows that it's not ok to pop his sister in the head. Which means he gets to come downstairs to.

This game they are playing is getting very complicated. I could say "Don't come down here unless the house is on fire" but I dare not because the next thing you know, they will set the house on fire and will be happily scooting down the stairs in their feety pajamas. Laughing all the way.

DaddysHome Blog

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In the Middle Of the Night

It was dark outside when Hossmom jabbed me in the ribs with those bony elbows. I have no idea how she managed to get those elbows so pointy. I can only imagine that through millions of years of evolution they ave become sharper and pointer for the sole purpose of jabbing me in the freaking ribs at 4:30 in the morning. She has reached the evolutionary high point of her married species. She can probably get me to clean the gutters out now.

She sounded mad which was a bit shocking since I had been asleep for many hours and there is no way that I could have done anything that would have pissed her off. Unless I was saying the name of that sexy siren Julia Childs in my dream. Oh Julia, cook that meat.

Then I heard Little Hoss scream and start crying. It wasn't the kind of scream of cry that says "Help, being kidnapped! Please bring me a naked, furry fat man to my rescue!" No, it was the kind of scream that said "I was messing with my brother and he popped me back!" Which was a bit shocking as IT WAS 4:30 IN THE MORNING!

I can't remember exactly what Hossmom said but I did get the impression that she thought this was my fault.

So I get up and go into my daughters room. All the lights are on, toys are everywhere and both kids are wide awake. It looks like they have been awake for some time. And now they are fighting. Over a pillow. a stinking pillow. Bubba Hoss apparently thought if one pillow is nice, then two must be way better. But I'm not sure of his logic here because neither one of them were sleeping. Obviously.

He was spread eagle on top of both pillows. Laughing his little laugh while Little Hoss cried.

I may have lost it at this point. I may have been thinking for the love of god it's 4:30 and you yahoo's are up and fighting? Really, fighting this early in the morning? Farmer's aren't even up at this hour but you two are going at it like Andre the Giant and Hulk Hogan. This is not the WWF, this is sleep time!

I may have yelled at them. I may have used my very low "Dad is super pissed" voice. The one that means business. The one that says you either do what I say or everyone is getting banished to the basement. But I may have been more pissed than I normally would have at this situation as my ribs currently hurt thanks to that very bony and pointy elbow.

I'm sure I said some pretty classic dad stuff. Talked about respect and responsibility. I don't know. When Dad's get to this point it's pretty much talking in tongues, channeling every father every where that has had any kid that plays WWF at 4:30 in the morning.

I put the kids back in bed and turned off all the lights in my haste. Even the night light that keeps the bogey man way. Again, I wasn't thinking straight. When I left the bedroom both kids were crying. My work here was done.

This lasted about 2 minutes as Hossmom got up herself and went into the room. Then she came back after both kids had finished crying. She was not happy. In the darkness I could feel her glare on me. Let me tell you something, that glare is somehow magnified in the moonlight by a topless woman wearing polar bear pajama bottoms.

"Hoss! You do not punish the kids by putting them in fear! You turned off the night light!"

I mumbled, my only defense against the glare. I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming of large cuts of meat that have been aged just perfectly. Somehow now though, I was the one getting the lecture about respect and responsibility.

There is only one way to avoid any of this in the future. No, it's not preventing the kids from crawling into each others bed. It's not getting up and getting my senses about me in the morning before I take any action.

From now on, I'm wearing rib pads to protect me from bony elbows in the middle of the night.

Teaching Counting.

--Your daughter does really well with her numbers Mr. Hossman. She's way ahead of the class. She can even write most of them.--

I sat back basking in the glow of the preschool teachers praise of my child. Yes, that's my daughter, smart as hell. Genius level although I admit that I may be biased. But the teacher is right, my daughter knows her numbers and I'll take the praise. I know that it's because I am a SAHD, that I have quit the rat race to teach her greatness. To mold her and insure that when she accepts her award for being most awesome person alive that she thanks me, most awesome dad ever.

Then the teacher asks me how I did it. How do I manage to teach my daughter material before they get to it in class. How have I taught her to count so well?

Zombies.

That's right, zombies.

Go ahead and judge me, I don't care. And when the hungry hoard shows up to your unprepared house, feel free to judge me while they are having your brains with some fava beans.

Here's the difference. You'll hear "Dad, there's an unknown number of zombies at the front door and some more coming through the window. How many? I don't know, I can only count to 5. So more than 5." By that time, it's already to late for you.

On my side it will be much different. "Whiskey Tango, this is Bravo Turkey. We got 8 bogey's coming down the tunnel. I repeat, that's 8. 8, looks like a snowman without a hat. Coming down the tunnel. Also be advised that there is another 12 hanging out in the backyard chasing Jeff the Squirrel. Confirm Whiskey Tango, that's a 1 and 2 put together in the backyard chasing Jeff. 1 and 2 together make 12. Bravo Turkey out."

Boom, that's how it's done boys and girls.

I understand that my methods are unorthodox, maybe perhaps even radical. I think that I'm just ahead of the curve and you chumps haven't caught up yet. But you better hurry, the dead won't stay dead forever.

However, they aren't the only threat that we have to face in the future, if all the movies and video games are correct, and I believe that they are. So we vary our teaching method from time to time. Sometimes we count aliens, slimy looking things that sometimes swim very fast and like to stand out in the open. For some reason, they don't hide very well. And cyborgs, always got to worry about cyborgs. Skynet is just around the corner.

But sometimes it's Barbies.

Little Hoss insists that the Barbies are princess warriors sent to help us. Good, we could always use the reinforcements to make up for those of you that don't count Zombies. Now if we can get Strawberrry Shortcake to get off her butt, we're in business.

Spinning

The boy is just spinning. Spinning, spinning, spinning. Around and around he's going. Pretty soon, I'd lay money down that he's going to puke. I'm waiting for it. My only request is that he not puke on the walls. Crayon is hard enough to get off the wall, it doesn't need to be mixed with pop-tart paste.

It's clean up time around the Hossman house. We have to do this from time to time to avoid making an appearance on the show "Hoarders." After we are done, I have no idea how it got so messy, that we don't even own enough crap to make it as messy as it was. Then I go to the bathroom. When I come back out I understand exactly how it got so messy. I have kids. That's why it's so messy. And that's how long it takes, 3 minutes to go from clean to Dear God call the AMC producers, we've got a hoarder. I think my children have the ability to pull broken toys from a secret 12th dimension. Their only purpose is to spread broken toy parts on the floor for me to step on and get lock jaw.

3 hours to clean, 3 minutes to mess up. There's a part of me that impressed by their determination and teamwork.

So I've given my orders to the minions. Clean up time. Get cracking.

That's when the boy started to spin. That was 10 minutes ago. I don't even think he knows I'm here, watching him. Occasionally he'll stop and pick up a toy. I am happy. But he only picks up the toy so that he can hurl it while he spins. It becomes a deadly projectile and the dogs push each other to the front to take any shrapnel for the resulting toss.

Around and around he goes, avoiding responsiblity. I'm afraid this is going to be an issue when he turns 16 and tells me his teachers don't understand him. My initial reaction will be to smack the back of his head. I must avoid my initial reaction although it is sooooooo tempting. I grew up with smacks on the back of the head. It's how my father and I communicated. Often. Very often. I have a callus there.

I have had problems with my son when it comes to clean up time. He tends to get easily distracted as most 3 year olds do. Today it is spinning. Tomorrow it might mean throwing crap off the top of the stairs although I do submit to his logic on that one--it's pretty cool. But not the spinning, I don't get the spinning.

I can't see the fun factor in it. It is beyond the grasp of my mature adult mind to comprehend. All I know is that when I say "clean-up" he tends to ignore me. He does that alot. If he was older, I would swear he was a stoner. He's just a laid back kid, doesn't often give me trouble. Sure, he can be whiny at times but that's about it. He doesn't break stuff, that's his sisters department. She has a monopoly on wrecking shit. He's done his fair share, but no where near the Genghis Khan like carnage she has laid down.

Nope, his M.O. is to just walk around aimlessly looking for bright lights and race cars. He's like a moth.

Now he fell down. Almost cracked his head against the wall. I'm waiting for this figuring it will teach him a good lesson. Spinning makes you puke and crack your skull. Listen to dad, pick up your toys. He gets back up and continues to spin.

I'm starting to get upset. Partly because I want to get the clean up thing done. I'm tired and I still need to cook a subpar dinner.

He continues to spin. I'm mad now. Fine, you want to spin. Ok, great. I tell you what. Let's all spin. Let's just all say screw it and live in filth and spin our troubles away. Get your sister, let's make her spin to. We'll spin the dogs, we'll spin the cat we'll even spin Hossmom when she gets home and we have to explain why there are mashed potatoes on the floor from lunch. Great. I don't care anymore. I'm spinning.

And spinning, and spinning and spinning. This isn't so bad. Not bad at all. The whorling of shapes going around is pretty cool. I'm getting a little dizzy here but it's a good kind of dizzy. I hear him laughing and now I"m laughing to.

What were we supposed to be doing? Cleaning? No, I don't think that's right. Spinning! Yes, we were supposed to be spinning! Wow, this is great. I wonder how fast I can go before I puke. No worries, the dogs will eat it. I just ate left over steak, they'll love it. It's getting hard to keep my balance now, I'm wobbling. I feel something strike my leg, I think it's my son.

We go down together. Neither one of us crack our skulls. We are both laughing.

You know what would be cool? If we got a toy while we were spinning and then chunked that little bastard! I bet that would be awesome!

Flex and Spend

It's been tough around the Hossman household. I'm sure you can imagine as our one and only income in this house is slowly coming to an end.

There's stress, there's worry and soon (I've just been informed) there will be no more Netflix. And no more cable. And no more phone calls to Jamaican psychics who have yet to give me the correct lotto numbers. But they tell me that only the true believers can get the true vision of the future and it is my fault that 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 have not hit yet.

We have also cut out going out to have any fun at all. This is a must as we are trying to pump up the savings as much as possible. This has made for a rough holidays.

We have been spending alot of time at home.

We are trying to keep our spirits up though and continue to be productive in a non-financial way.

My Lady Gaga "Bad Romance" routine is almost done. Little Hoss is in charge of costumes. Bubba Hoss has got lights and set design.

We have exactly 5 fan blades on the ceiling fan in the living room. They are very dirty.

We had a great time laughing at my only response from the 25 resumes that I sent out once we found out that Hossmom was being laid off. It came on my birthday. It was our only piece of mail. Hi universe, I'm Hoss. Please feel free to rub it in a bit.

But there was some goodness to come out of all this. We got to answer a very important question. How many bandaids should a normal person have in the house? We came up with the answer of 20. 8 Dora brand band aids, 8 Cars brand band aids, and 4 Spiderman because Dad hurts himself to.

We got to do this because when Hossmom loses her job in Feb, we also lose our health flex account. That is money that we don't get back and goes back to the company. That's about 600 bucks that the company that laid off my wife would get. That's our money that we put in there every year because let's be honest, injuries happen in this house (1 kidney stone, 2 dislocated elbows, 1 severe case of heartburn just to name a few) That's not going to work. Nope, not at all.

Shopping spree time.

The flex account can only be spent on health related things. We had a list of what was acceptable. A very long and big list. We went apeshit. On my birthday.

20 boxes of bandaids. 2 chemical heating pads. Enough ace bandages to rewrap King Tut. You have no idea how fun this was.

3 very large economy size containers of Hydrogen Peroxide. There are a lot of cuts and scrapes in this house. A new fancy thermometer that takes your temperature and then picks up the phone and calls your mom for you. A buttload of alcohol wipes for when the money runs out and the toilet wine isn't ready yet.

Enough guaze pads to re-carpet the entire downstairs. So much cloth tape that we have begun braiding it into rope. We are playing Tarzan from one of the 5 fan blades in the living room. Me Jane.

A splint because you know, I'm the father of Little Hoss. It's going to happen, sooner or later. We all know it.

Ointment, all kinds of ointment. Athlete's foot, ringworm, skin rashes, jock itch. If they make an ointment for it, I'm pretty sure that I now own several tubes of it. I have a working theory that if I combine all the ointments in one big vat and let it harden and then make a sculpture and get a grant. I'll call it "Blue Star Awesome." I'll be famous.

Go ahead, name a medical supply that they sell at the pharmacy. We got it.

Well, not condoms. Those aren't covered and I think it's a little to late to help me now.

It was a fun day but one that we had to cut short. Hossmom got a phone call.

Hossmom got a new job. That day. She gets a raise. And a bonus. She still gets her severance to.

What do I get? I get the most awesome first aid kit you've ever seen. It's time to take this Lady Gaga routine up a notch baby.

Teaching

Eat your vegetables.

Stand up straight.

When you shake hands, use a firm grip. Do not go limp wristed. Show power and authority in your handshake.

These are just a few of the things that a father is supposed to teach his children. There are many more that are unique to only what a father can teach. His experience, his knowledge passing on to his minions.

When going for it on 4th down, use a hard count.

A high fastball inside is called "chin music" and is sometimes necessary when the batter is crowding the plate.

Hockey is a northern sport, we don't much care about that. It's to cold to play.

A man must take his responsibility seriously. He must accept the burden with broad and strong shoulders. He must continue to insure that his children have the tools to not only cope with life's obstacles, but to crush them into oblivion.

He tells them to keep your hands at 10 and 2. Don't jam on the gas and pop the clutch.

Look a man in the eye every time and he'll respect you.

For God's sake, never ever shave sideways.

A father must take every opportunity presented to him to teach his children. Do not let these golden moments fly by. Seize them and use them to build great individuals that will one day do great things.

Around the tree and through the hole, that's how it's done.

Be kind to animals, be kind to people, one day you'll need both.

Drink your milk and tell Mamma you love her.

It doesn't matter how the lessons get communicated as long as they are taught. He may say classics such as "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" Or he may go back to the old father reliables:

This will build character or This will put hair on your chest--each is easily substituted for the other.

Back when I was a kid...........--another good one that shows how awesome you are and how tough you were. They will want to emulate your example, even if you never did walk 3 miles in the snow. It doesn't matter, because they think you did.

I'll turn this car around right now!--no you won't but they don't know that.

And one day, if you're lucky, you'll get to see them utilize the very lessons you've taught them.

Today Little Hoss got undressed for her bath time. Before she jumped in she ran over to my leg and bent over. She scooted back putting her naked ass on my leg.

Then she farted.

She laughed and ran away.

My work here is done.

I Am Magic

I like to think that I am a dad that can pretty much do anything. And if I can't, it's important that the kids think I can do anything. Dad is big and strong, dad is the fixer of all, the lifter of heavy, the kisser of hurts. I have carefully cultivated this image of myself in my children's eyes. With any luck they will never realize that dad is a mortal. Dad is the God Zeus who thunders down lighting bolts to those that should defy him. Failure to eat your hotdog will cause earthquakes and hitting of little brothers in the face with flashlights will light the very fires of Hades!

For the most part, this has worked. Although I am beginning to think it has worked to well.

I have convinced my children that I am magic. Not as in, hey look at this quarter I pulled out of your ear. That's rookie dad. But as in, Hey, look, Dad made it stop raining for a second. This little trick is accomplished by telling your children that you can make it stop raining right as you get near a bridge. As soon as you get underneath the bridge, snap your fingers. Bam, no rain on the car anymore. Snap them again before you get to the other side and the illusion is complete, welcome to God status. It's nice here, we get grapes and milk.

I can open and close the garage door with just a snap of my fingers too (with the opener carefully concealed in my pocket.) I have "taught" my daughter this trick as well and told them it works so long as they believe in fairies and think happy thoughts.

They believe that I can control everything with a snap of my fingers. The TV comes on, movies start, radio's turn on. And this is where I find my current problem.

"Dad! We want snow! Make it snow!"

The magic snapping father is having problems with this one.

"We want to ride our sled!"

I'm trying to explain the concept of global weather patterns and the affect that El Nino has been known to have. I don't think they have not heard a word I've said. They just want the magic snapping fingers. They start to chant.

"Snow! Snow! Snow!"

I taught them to chant as well. It was cool when the chant was "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" It's like walking around with your own little glee club. Feeling blue? Get your kids to chant your name like you've just scored the winning touchdown, that cheers you right up. But it shortly became a way for them to get what they want when I just want everyone in the house to put a sock in it.

The chant and the snapping fingers can't make it snow. I know this. You know this. They would never believe this is the case. We had a little bit of snow this year but it was to warm for anything to stick. They barely got to even play in it. Pretty soon it was just wet mush that made the yard muddy. I think this only wet their appetites though for winter play. And I've got nothing. Nothing at all. So I do the only thing that I can think of.

I remind them that perhaps they fought a little to much today. Was everyone nice? Did everyone finish their lunch? I don't think so. Daddy thinks that I saw some hotdogs and carrots left on some plates. Hmm, that's not being very good is it?

I know it's a bastard move. But what's more important, teaching them to listen to their father and having them believe I am magical OR having them know that dad is nothing but an out of work fraud?

I answer that question myself as I ask Bubba Hoss and Little Hoss to snap their fingers so that we can open the garage door.

Ranting Music

I have been droning on now for 10 minutes about the pointlessness of the BCS bowl games I am going to be watching soon. It doesn't really matter which one, I hate the whole system. I'm really working myself into a lather, foam is practically coming out of my mouth. I am punctuating the air with my arm gestures. I almost knocked over my soda and what is left of my chips is now on the ground being eaten by the dogs. In a minute or two here, I'm about to start stomping my feet. Who doesn't love New Years? Well, me. Not anymore. Not since the BCS started jacking things up and "giving me quality matchups" that are total and utter bullshit.

But this isn't a blog about the BCS or even so much football. What makes this special is that Hossmom is in the same room with me. In fact, she is the one I'm ranting to like I'm desperately trying to convince her of my side of the argument. The BCS games haven't even started yet. I think I'm watching the Taint Bowl or some such thing at the moment. But I saw the schedule for what was in store for me later this evening, and I'm not happy about it. I'm not happy at all about it and I'm telling Hossmom that I am not happy about it.

Hossmom is not a football fan at all. She has been forced to learn the game because I watch football but I think that she hates it only second to someone kidnapping her child. Or fish, Hossmom really hates fish.

I digress in my rant about the BCS bowl lineup to begin to question a play call in my current game: Team Edward Vs. Team Jacob. I know I just made that up but I ask you, does it really matter anymore? That's what I told Hossmom but I knew she wouldn't laugh at my joke. Instead, her reply was:

"Hit me baby one more time!"

She sings it with enthusiasm. I continue my rant, this time directed at a nation that doesn't consider cheerleading a sport that should be governed and funded. Don't get me wrong, I don't want my daughter shaking it for the fans. Nope, I would prefer that she wouldn't do that. But I don't begrudge them that as I recognize that it takes true athletic talent to turn a flip in the air and then still land on your toes with a smile on your face. Maybe if my daughter became a cheerleader my whole cheerleader fantasy would end up in the shitter.

Hossmom's response to this particular parental sports related rant:

"Don't cry for me Argintina! The truth is, I never left you."

You may think this is odd, but I am actually digging this.

Hossmom got a new Ipod for Christmas and she is very busy downloading songs that in the mid 90's we got for free. I miss you Napster. She is knee deep in show tunes and Mickey Mouse Club has beens. But I'm good with this because Hossmom has agreed to stay and watch football with me as long as she doesn't have to pay attention or talk to me. But she is present for the rants that this time of year has a habit of making me do. And even though she has her earbuds in, this makes me feel somewhat normal because if you rant to yourself, by yourself, then the next stop is doing it on the busy corner by the gas station. Perhaps with a sign and a tin foil helmet. I'm gearing up for the TCU vs. Wisconsin game, one of the few games that I am looking forward to. I begin to rant about the desperate need for a college football playoff.

"All single ladies! All the single ladies!"

She has started to dance right about the time I get to the Boise State segment of my argument. My feelings aren't hurt. I know that she has no interest in this. But I enjoy having her there with me. She's comfy to lay on. I enjoy boobs, gods pillows for the middle aged married man. Although the hip slap she just executed got me in the face a little bit. I'm hoping that TCU blows out Wisconsin just so the argument of a playoff system will be validated and give me more ammo to rant with later.

"No more I love yous!"

I have to hit her computer here a little bit. I can't stand post Eurythmics Annie Lennox. Some reason drives me up a wall. How can you go from a cool gender bending chick who sang Sweet Dreams to singing love ballads? Didn't she do Lillithfair? I bet she did. I begin to rant about this now. There's a commercial on before my next game, the one that has me really steamed. Think of this as my pregame. Connecticut vs. Oklahoma.

"Of the cross I bear that you gave to me! You, you, you oughta know!"

She's got the fist pump thing going on now. I can dig this, I can get into this. Hossmom likes to get into what I call the "Bitch" song sometimes. It empowers her to fight against the machine. She likes to pretend that she has been wronged by men in general as she sits with her stay at home husband that sacrificed his career to stay home with the children so she could be a business executive. I try not to point out the irony in all this as the "bitch" song gets her slap happy and if there's a drink nearby it has an outside chance of being thrown in my face. But it also makes her frisky and I'll take that every time. But right now I'm deep into the rant of how an unranked team can possibly be in a "championship bowl series" game. It's a joke, it's a travesty. I know why they are there, I know that there are automatic qualifier conferences. I just think it's shit to give us a game where one team is ranked #7 and one is not ranked at all. I tell Hossmom that looking up vasectomy videos on Youtube would be more entertaining and less painful that watching this spoon fed "instant classic."

"Master of the house, quick to catch your eye, never wants a passerby to pass him by"

Yup, we are in full on Broadway at the moment.

This is ridiculous. Oklahoma is having a cake walk. The good thing about owning an Ipod is that they are portable. And I have just discovered, as I am technologically challenged, that they play the radio now. This is fantastic because the tin foil hat that I have just crafted should let her pick really good reception as I go down to the corner of my local 7-11. Hossmom does a complete little twirl and the rock hand in the air as I grab my sign.