The most appropriate time to eat a very stinky fried sandwich would be at dinner time, at your home, at your table. Perhaps with a nice house wine and some pork rhines.
However, an even better place to eat that stink fish sandwich is on a crowded airplane, sitting right next to me, while burping. Licking your lips and complaining that the stewardess didn't give you enough coke.
Two things: 1--If it is a 35 minute flight, like this was, just eat a damn candy bar for fucks sake. 2. It's considered bad manners not to have offered me any especially after I got to sit through your aromatic burps for 30 minutes. Seriously, throw a guy a fry.
But I would go unfazed and determined. This weekend, and the reason I was on a plane, was my fantasy football draft. See what I did there? I turned this blog into a funny weird person story perhaps with a humerus ending to a nerd sports story that has no ending what so ever. Just ask my wife. The jokes will be that bad all night people, dig in.
I am on my way to our fantasy football draft. This day is like Christmas to those millions of us who play this game. While you may be hoping for concert tickets stuffed in your stocking, all I want to see is the number 1 running back coupled with a two really good receivers. It's sports nerdom on a massive scale and I am flying 600 miles to attend.
This is the 19th year that I have played in this same league. 19 years, half of my life, doing one hobby. I think it's safe to say that at this point its more of an obsession than a hobby. And I do want to give a big thanks to my wife for making it possible for me to board a plane and go to the draft. And all though the odds are good that she may leave me before the end of this season she should know that I was able to grab a pretty good team thanks to her. I'll give her half of it in the divorce. (Not Adrian Peterson honey, he stays with me!)
I am dedicated to this league, thus the big trip. However, I wasn't the one who came from the farthest away. We had a guy fly in from Chicago and another guy drive in from Alabama. We have all been in this league together for many years and are dedicated. Those of us that traveled are perhaps the most dedicated. Those that had to call in by phone, wimps.
Except for the Hurricane guy. That dude is dedicated.
We had two people that couldn't make it this year. One was attending his child's birthday. But he was on the computer making his picks. And then there was the guy that was stuck in the middle of Hurricane Irene.
He was supposed to be on Skype at first. But then his power went out. Eventually he was crouched in a hallway with a flashlight, a draft cheat sheet and a speaker phone. I am the wimp.
Occasionally we would hear a big crash come over the phone followed by "I gotta go" and he would hangup quickly. We would pause the draft for a minute until he was able to swim to somewhere safer and call back.
And he had a contingency plan. He emailed our commissioner (yes, we actually have a ruling body) a document tittled "Draft Strategy" with the instructions of "Open if I am disconnected or dead" so that we could appoint someone to draft for him.
It is entirely possible that we take this way to seriously.
After he lost his shingles from his house and as he turned FEMA away, he was able to continue with the draft. I like to imagine that we offered him some comfort in his time of terror, friends gathered around to support him during this horrible storm. Friends that wouldn't hesitate to screw him over in a moment should the chance arise should he have the audacity to go after the player that I want.
Yup, way to seriously.
The 4 hour draft went well and we finished and the Hurricane guy was able to get most of what he wanted. He is hoping that some of the players also want to play on his fantasy roofing team as that is what he now needs.
Dedicated. Sure, we are all dedicated to this league and to this hobby. And it was this level of dedication that I was pondering when a large lady practically sat in my lap on the bus back to my car. I was taken a bit aback at first, after all how often to you get sat on? And how often does this happen when the entire FREAKING BUS IS EMPTY. Seriously people, what the hell?
I was able to count 26 open seats on the bus. It was easy to do because we were the only two people on the bus and she decided that the seat right next to mine was the place to be. I don't know why, perhaps it was a one woman flash mob that was set to take place on the bus and I just got in the way. I have no idea but for 15 minutes I was very uncomfortable and awkward. She may have had a Stank Sandwich but I can't be sure.
Screw the Hurricane guy, I'm easily the most dedicated of the bunch.
The spider's very existence mocks me. It drives me almost to the point of insanity with it's very being. The fact that it is living and drawing breath (do spider's breath?) is an affront to me. I have tried to kill this thing twice. Each time I think I have either run it off destroyed the very vileness that it is. But it comes back, it always comes back. There is only one answer. It is a zombie spider.
At first I didn't pay much attention to it which is probably how most of these horror stories start. "He seemed like such a quiet guy, we didn't really pay attention to him. We are shocked they found 30 bodies with missing limbs in his flower garden." Thus as it is with the spider.
He set up shop on the back porch with just a small web, really to small for the beast that he is. I thought perhaps he was just visiting some friends in the neighborhood, maybe a time share type thing. Sure, the web was a little close to the back door but if you gave him some space it shouldn't be a problem. At least for me. Hossmom is a different story.
We were cool for a little bit. I minded my business and didn't squish him. He minded his and didn't jump on my head and give me nightmare fuel for the rest of my life. Normally I am the one that takes the dogs out during the evening. I would walk outside, give the spider a nod, he would nod back, and we would get back to our business.
But shortly his web started growing and he got bolder. Pretty soon it covered almost the entire span of the side of the porch and I would swear he had gotten bigger. And then Hossmom decided that she was going to take the dogs out. When she screamed I knew that the spider and I would finally have to have some words.
I let the spider know that he has outgrown our place and his web was a bit large unless he was thinking about catching cats with it, which I wouldn't begrudge him of course. How big is he? Big enough that they should make a movie about him called Crockasaurous VS. Giant Spider. I told him that I would leave him be that evening but by morning he would have to vacate. I thought we had an understanding, man to spider. If it was up to me, ya know, I would have just left him alone. But since the wife had seen him I was forced to take action or be called a shell of a man by my woman and we couldn't really have that. I left it at that and went to bed because I also don't fight large brain eating spiders in the dark, it's not a good policy.
The next morning Mr. Spider was still there and his web had grown. Hossmom wouldn't even step outside. Sometimes though I do think that Hossmom prefers the in doors almost to an agoraphobic amount. It's just a spider, granted it's big enough to drive a car and suck your eyeballs out, but still just a spider. I let Mr. Spider know that I would give him the morning to clear out but after that I would have to take action. When I went back out there in the afternoon, he was gone. I took a very long broom and then knocked his web down. I thought that was the end of it.
The next morning the web was back bigger than before. The big fucker was right in the middle of it. The mocking had begun.
I imagined that he might be a bit pissed that I knocked down his home so again I waited until mid afternoon before knocking it down again. That night he had not come back and there was a bad storm. I felt for him but knew it was for the best.
Day 3 and he was back again. He built his web in the middle of the storm just to challenge me. I don't like being challenged. I like it even less by creatures that can lay babies in my ear. I should have squished him, I admit. But there is a small part of me that didn't want to get to close because large spiders, the size of 18 Wheelers, freak me out just a bit. This time I didn't waste time though. I knocked down his supports on his bed sheet of a web and watched him float away on the wind. I thought it was the best solution. I could claim that it had been an accident when his brothers and sister came crawling for my head. Then I would run like hell and abandon my family.
Day 4 and he was there again. Now he is just fucking with me and it's time to take this up a notch. I grabbed the mop because it was near. It's one of those stringy mops that get heavy when they are wet and my mop was very wet. I then did my best Babe Ruth and took the big swing. I could almost hear an audible "pop" when I made contact. Dead center. I may not have the body of an athlete anymore but I still got the eyes baby. I then squished the mop on the floor just in case he was in there but my bet is that I belted him halfway to Nebraska.
Day 5. He is back. Motherfucker.
I am not dealing with your normal every day spider. This guy can't be killed. He is the undead and he is pissed. If he could speak, I would totally sell out Hossmom and blame the whole thing on her. I would offer him one of the dogs as a peace offering. But there can be no peace between the undead spiders and humans. Only vengeance.
There is only one option.
We have to move.
I am not perfect, that is clear. I have many flaws, one of which is thinking that I'm not perfect when in fact I am. It's a lack of self confidence I suppose based on the fact that I can never find T-shirts that fit my huge biceps.
And I am very bald. Hello humility, meet Hossman. Can I have my hair back?
But today I have to be perfect because it is her first day of school. I have to bring it like Kristen Dunst did in the aptly tittled film classic "Bring It On" when she faced off against the sassy south central cheerleaders. You ain't ready for this jelly.
Today of all days I have to be perfect because she needs me to be. She needs to look at dad and see that confidence and draw her own confidence from it. She is a little scared and she looks to dad for his perfect bravery.
I hunted down all her school supplies weeks ago like a big game hunter in the Serengeti. If finding "no drip glue" is a lion, then I shot that bastard in the head after traveling to 3 different watering holes known as department stores. The pencils, the water buffalo of the school supply world, were easily corralled at Walmart along with many other prey. I got them all. Perfect.
I sat on the floor the night before school and labeled every stinking stitch of clothing that she had. My mini sweat shop even labeled individual crayons, as requested by our teacher Mrs. Awesome. She wanted each crayon labeled. Boom, done, every single one. I didn't even ask why, I just did it. Because I support my school, my teacher and my perfectly labeled crayons. Perfect.
The PTA. I joined it. I "family" joined it. I'm not even sure what it means. The individual membership is 5 bucks. The family membership is 25. I have no idea what the difference is considering I'm the only one that will be going to the meetings. I'm a perfect sucker. I joined 2 PTA committees. They needed someone to put up and break down book shelves for the book fair. I'm your man. No baking for me, screw cookie sales. I'm the guy with the hammer making perfect bookshelves.
I bought a perfect school shirt for double the price I could have gotten it for at Macy's. Support the team! I'm on it, I'm supporter numero uno. I handed my perfect check to the perfect con artist gladly taking my money.
Little Hoss is bringing her lunch to school and so I planned out her next 10 lunches all at once and made some of it the night before. Her first day will go smooth because I have planned this. I even gave her money to buy food to if she wanted to so she wouldn't feel left out. Overboard? Perhaps. Perfect? Absolutely.
This day will mark her introduction to school. A lot is riding on this. If she loves school and it's stress free at the beginning, in other words--perfect, then she will be valedictorian and go on to Harvard and allow me to live in her mansion. So I have to be perfect today.
I got her bus number from the school. I am prepared.
The bus didn't show. At the perfectly appointed time as my perfect family waited in the drive way the bus didn't come. A bus did come screaming by but didn't stop. It turned up the street. I couldn't see the bus number but I don't think it was ours.
5 more minutes pass and my perfect schedule and preparation is going to perfect shit. 10 minutes go by, no bus.
15 minutes later a bus does come from the other direction and it is the bus that passed us. I jump into perfect action and wave my arms. I am either a lunatic or a concerned father and to my surprise, he stopped. I explained that my bus hadn't shown up yet and told him the bus number.
The bus driver then informed me that he believes that my bus has been reassigned and that he was taking over that route. At least he thought he was taking over some of it. Ok, he wasn't sure. But he assured me he would get her to school. My perfect daughter boarded the bus.
2 minutes after he left the right bus actually turned the corner like it was being driven by Sandra Bullock.
And then it blew right past my perfect house, my perfect family, my perfect plan for the first day of school.
I may have just sent my 5 year old daughter to high school.
A little while ago an article came out in Time Heathland titled "Stay At Home Dad's More Likely To Divorce." This article was based on a study done by a professor in sociology at Ohio State University. You can imagine that this caught my attention and the boys over at Daddyshome.
After reading the article and also the study on which it was based, it is clear that the headline is complete and total bullshit with connections made where none exist or where studied.
Now I can sit here and rail away at this douchebagery but I'm promised myself not to. Mainly because I'm sure alot of "mother fuckers" would be droped and after all, this is a family blog. Besides, how many people can I tell to fuck off in one year? I might be reaching my quota.
However, the president of Daddyshome, Al Watts, has written a response to this article on behalf of all SAHD's and I think it's pretty damn good. It's a reasoned response that doesn't use one cuss word. None at all.
Head over to Daddyshome today and take a read. Leave a comment, maybe even cuss a little. But atleast get the full story before deciding that being a stay at home dad is the worst thing to happen to society since Mcdonald's hot coffee.
The team is breaking up, our run is at it's end. It was a good streak. We conquered many, vanquished all who opposed us and now we walk away. We walk away knowing that for the past three years, we have kicked mucho ass.
Little Hoss is starting kindergarten and we cannot follow. She has to rock this one solo. I know she's ready for it, but am I?
Three years and no schedules. We did what we wanted, when we wanted. Museum on a Monday morning? Done. When will be back? Sometime. Hey, who wants to go camping on a Thursday. We do. In fact, while we are there, we may decide to stay an extra day or two because we can.
We had freedom and in that freedom we built a bond. A bond that a man must build with his minions. She learned important things like going to the grocery store on a Monday morning means no waiting in lines. The best time to use a nail gun is Monday through Friday but we have to stop by 3 in case Hossmom decides to come home early.
But that has to stop now because now we have a schedule. Her higher education is calling and it's a call that she must answer without us. I don't think I would do very well in a kindergarten class, I would eat all the snacks. She has to leave the house early in the morning to catch the bus in her brand new barbie back pack. She is going to wave at me as she climbs the steps. I might even get a kiss blown to me. And then she'll be gone and I'll be here.
Maybe I'll go to a musuem although I'm not sure how people handle going to musuems without worrying about crayon being put on a priceless painting. That doesn't sound all that challenging. What's the point? If I don't have to explain where that hand print came from on the Monet, I just don't know what I'll do there.
I'm not forgetting about my son. Sure, he's going to keep me busy. I suppose if he can fit me into his preschool schedule a couple days of the week and if I have a pop tart ready. He's a good kid, always ready to hang out with dad. And we will. But the team won't be the same. Our big arm got called up to the show.
Hossmom is suggesting that I start some projects around the house. Perhaps I will and then add the glitter to it myself just for nostalgic purposes. Maybe I'll give my son the drill and turn my back on him for a little bit just to mix things up. But he's a good boy and loves drills. He would probably just finish the project for me without adding any extra holes.
Little Hoss is saying that she is a little bit scared to go to kindergarten. I haven't told her that I am to.
He's talking so fast that it's hard to understand him. There is no way to slow him down. If you did, then he wouldn't be doing his job. However, if I listen closely, I can get the gist of what he is saying.
He is saying that you can have this slightly used set of racist salt shakers for a small bid of 10 bucks, that's all, only 10 bucks, do I hear 10 bucks, No? How about 5 bucks, 5 bucks for this set of classic example of Americana. 5 bucks will get you the Aunt Jemima salt and pepper shaker that may in 2011 be considered offensive. 5, 5, only 5, yours for 5. We got 5!
And the auction is on. But you have to listen carefully because what he really means is that you can have a chance, only a chance, of owning some American History. That chance rests on the possibility that no one else wants to give him more money for the very thing that you may have put 5 bucks on. Pretty soon, some dilhole down the way buys into this ponzi scheme and promises the auctioneer 10 bucks for the thing that he was about to give you for 5.
Now the auctioneer is looking back at you asking if you want to go in for 15. He stares at you and challenges you. He is saying that you are a pussy and how can you just stand there and be insulted by this other person who is now moving in on your action. He calls you out in front of everyone else so you got to go in for 15 and now you are 10 bucks more into what you didn't want in the first place but you can't back down now, what would your neighbors think? They would think you are a sucker because one of them just bid 20 and now they are going to steal your thunder.
In general, this is how auctions work, but not all the nuances can be seen here as I discovered since Papa Scrum did me the favor of taking me to an Estate Auction in a small town. I have learned that there are several types of auctions. High end art auctions where people sip on mimosas and then estate auctions where we all gather to pillage the last belongings of a poor departed sole who may have owned some really cool tools and farm equipment. As you can imagine, I was very excited to go. When people get rid of things that they have had for 50 years, it's a walk down the American Dream. And you can usually get it on the cheap. I also wanted to go, because let's be honest, this is blog gold.
Auction's are a microcosm of the have's vs. the have nots. In this case, the haves have overall's and the have nots have no teeth. But there is something that I learned at doing my first auction. A guy in overall's probably knows a shit more about tools than I do and that' s not the guy that you want to be going against. He's probably frugal and he surely understands what that specialty tool is that you have had your eye on, thus ruining your chance of getting that special wood working clamp on the cheap. Dick. Seriously, I waited for that thing all day on the thought that it's so unique and random, no one would really want it besides me. Mr. Overall's schooled me and I bow before him. They know what everything is when it comes to tools and I am only a rank amateur.
But I'm a quick learner. For example, I have picked up the auctioneer's lexicon and verbiage. I now know what it means when you buy things on choice. I know what 4 times the money means. And I have learned that an Alabama reach around is when one of those overall boys leans in real close and grabs your ass while pretending to look at something over your shoulder. No worries, I have a pretty mouth.
Now I want to point out that these people are good people, people of the earth type people. Honest as a hard day's work and who just enjoy the same thing I do--getting cheap quality tools because someone died, hopefully in their sleep. I promised Papa Scrum that I wouldn't be hard on them when I wrote about it later. Besides, it appears that meth has already been hard enough on some of the toothless ones. Sorry Papa Scrum, but you gotta admit that that joke pretty much writes itself.
The last item I wanted was a simple garden hose. There were two that would soon be coming up. I figured a buck or two at the most. After all, they are just ordinary garden hoses, not special in the least. There is no hidden value in them, none at all. They aren't unique and they are not rare. Since it was at the end of the auction and many people had already gone home, I figured no problem. Once again though I show my ignorance of the overall people.
People who wear overall's probably grow alot of stuff. That requires water. To transport water you need a hose.
The hose came up, I slapped a buck down daring anyone to defy me.
10 people decided I was a noob and did just that. Within 4 seconds the stupid 30 feet of garden hose was out of my suggested retail price range. There was part of me that wanted to say screw it and just throw my checkbook out there. Name your price sir, I will match it. But before I could make the dramatic gesture and silence the masses, the auction was over. The winner was a 70 year old man smoking a cigar. He smiled and took his stupid hose. I wouldn't be surprised to see him stroking a cat.
It turns out that I don't like losing auctions. I don't know why. It's a weird thing.
Next up on the auction block is my pride. I don't think I'm going to bid on this one. Better to just let the cigar smoking overall man take it with my hose.
A box of Fruity Pebbles, one of my favorite cereals by the way, that is dumped on the floor will take up a 2 foot square space. The very same box that is poured directly into a high powered fan in the living room will cover the entire living room. According to recent field research by my son and daughter, it would appear that smaller cut up bits of an already small caliber cereal fly smoother through the air and achieve an almost perfect aerodynamic state.
These are the things I know because I am a parent.
A toddler's knee, launched from a height of 4 feet, traveling at 32 feet per second, will achieve a velocity that allows the before mentioned knee to crush the balls of a sleeping father. The resulting scream sounds much like a bear getting rapped by a moose.
Knowledge can be learned from books or experience. Application and evaluation of that knowledge is called wisdom. Knowing a shit ton of useless parental facts is called parental wisdom.
Scissors can easily be manipulated by a 5 year old fingers to cut duck tape. This duck tape can then be applied to the dog in order to "fix his nipples." Upon removal, that dog will not be very happy but at least his nipples will be "fixed".
Two kids, through mimicry, can easily walk around the house screaming "Oh Jesus H. Christ" every time one of them drops a crayon or sees a mess. This has the effect of pointing out parental short commings in a very clear picture causing a certain father to think, Oh Jesus H. Christ, I hope that they don't say that in front of their mother.
I am a the human Wikipedia when it comes to this stuff. This is only the tip of the iceberg of the level of crap that I know.
Mom's panties do not fit on a cat. I didn't think they would but it's good to see the children formulating and testing hypothesis. They do fit on our heads though. That might come in handy one day.
In a head on collision between a toy fire truck and a toy helicopter, the only victim is the 3 year old boy that had his finger between the two reckless big rig operators. Popsicles is the appropriate treatment that can even remotely fix the injuries sustained.
Clementine drove her ducklings to the water, every morning at 9. Until her foot hit upon a splinter and she fell into the foaming brine. We missed her until we kissed her little sister and we forgot about Clementine.
I am Jane Goodall and I am living with a bunch of primates. I have taken very careful notes on behaviors and actions of the tribe that I am studying. I may write a paper when I am done and then not publish it because no one wants to know the things that I know.
Removing the lid from a toy box will double that toy box's cargo capacity thus giving the illusion of clean and organized. However, any wind gusts will distribute the delicately constructed "clean" and thus render your room once again unclean.
Goo rhymes with Poo and Gooey Poo is something that you want no part of.
Seriously, I could do this all day. If only there was someway to use this knowledge to help people. Or make a lot of money. Or make a lot of money to buy Fruity Pebbles and then dump them in a lot of fans. That would be cool.
She says "Turn it down."
I say: suck it, no way.
Well, I don't say that. I don't have a death wish I would prefer not to get a dirty sponge thrown at my face. For a woman that doesn't believe in violence, Hossmom likes to throw a lot of stuff at me.
But I think, no way in fucking hell am I turning it down. Suck my balls, it ain't happening. In fact I'm going to turn it up so I can't hear her at all. I still can make out what she is saying by the hand gestures and the sponge is raising higher in the air, but tough shit, I'm checking out.
I don't want to hear anything. I know that Hossmom is now telling me that I am going to go deaf if I continue to listen to that heathen heavy metal. We can only hope.
I'm done with listening today. I am done listening to constant complaints of everyone. I don't care who hit who. I really don't. My last response to this repeated complaint was "Are you bleeding? If not, go away." Not a great parenting moment but it is something that my own father would have said to me.
I'm done with listening to the dogs bark at every leaf that falls in the backyard or anytime a doorbell rings on the TV. I'm done with listening to my boxer lay down vicious fart bombs right when I'm about to sit down for lunch with two kids. That hit eachother. That then tell me about it. In a gas cloud of ass.
I'm done with listening to questions about what I'm doing, where I'm going and how did that big zit get on my forehead. It got there so that my whole family would ask me how it got there. Over and over again.
I'm only listening to offensive teenage aganst music from a time when I asked the questions and I made the noise. I'm checking out of the adult world to a place where you snap your figers, snap your neck and then the sandman comes. I'm listening to ear damaging screams, face melting guitar riffs and drum beats composed in hell.
So go ahead, hit eachother, threaten to fling sponges. Calgon took me away to the place of deafening music.
But I can still feel. I can feel my son smacking my face trying to get my attetion. I can feel my daughter launch into my crotch from the top ropes. And I can feel a sponge hit me in the back of the head because my music, apprently, isn't loud enough.
I know, it's Tuesday and I usually don't do anything on Tuesday. But today is special because you are awesome. Somewhat awesome. You would be more awesome if you brushed those potato chips off your belly and actually did some work.
But who needs work?
Head over to Daddyshome where I have a new post up. Enjoy.