My Wife Has Lost It

"Hey, we need to talk about this chore list..." I don't even get the rest of the sentence out.  Hossmom is in our bedroom, hair frazzled, static electricity sparks flying from the ends.  On the bed is every single piece of clothing that our toddler owns.   Everything.

"What?" my wife says.  But the way she says it is more like a challenge than a question.  It's the scene in Pulp Fiction where Jules asks the kid to say "What" one more time.  I'm afraid to even think the word. 

The winter clothes are in a pile by the pillows, at the top of the bed.  Shorts that my four-year-old hasn't worn in years are on the floor.  Old baby blankets, jeans, and clothes he doesn't fit into yet are thrown at the bottom of the bed.  And in the middle, enough pajamas to fully cloth an entire maternity ward. 

"Um, you're busy.  I can come back," I say and try to back away without attracting notice.  It doesn't work. 

"No.  Ask whatever you are going to ask.  We have stuff to do," Hossmom says as she struggles with a pair of PJ pants that were inside out.  When I put them away, I just throw them in the drawer.  My hands don't fit in the tiny legs and I stretch them out.  If the boy wants his PJs on the right way, he can do it himself.

"Ok," I say.  "Want to tell me what's going on?"
"I'm organizing Bacon Hoss' pajamas."
"Why?"
"Because it needs to be done."

Everyone gives my children pajamas for presents.  Aunts, Grandmas, occasionally a random old lady at the store.  So after three kids, we have a lot.  There is an entire drawer in his dresser dedicated just to PJ shirts, another one just for pants, and a third for the overflow.  There's a lot of pajamas. 

"So," I start again.  Don't sound threatening, it's important here not to sound threatening.  My wife is losing it.  "My chore list.  Yeah, just had a few questions.  That's all."

"Ok.  What about?" she says.

"Do I really need to organize the silverware drawer.  I mean, it kind of already does that." 
"Yes.  Make sure you don't put the small forks with the bigger ones."
"Right.  Got it.  And where the list says 'dust the tops of doors', I'm not sure I understand that one."
"Why?  Get a rag and dust the tops of the doors.  We never do it and I'm sure it needs it."

I want to argue here but I also want to keep breathing, so I just shut it.  I could point out that the constant friction between the top of a door and the door jamb is pretty much an automatic dusting.  I mean, right?  Is there really dust up there? 

"And clean behind the couch?" I ask, but only because I actually did that one last week.  I found a banana peel.  The kids and I had to have a talk.

"Yup, take another look." 

I know what's going on here but even for my wife, this seems excessive.  We have family coming in for the holidays.  My brother-in-law and his wife are flying up.  My little nephew is going to open some presents and then check door jambs for dust. 

Hossmom has gone goofy. 

"Sure.  I can take another look.  But this last one, I'm not sure I understand it," I say to my wife and hand her the list.  She snatches it from my hand, a pair of pajama pants falls off the bed and I quickly pick it up before she notices anything.

"Display cutting boards," she reads.
"I don't know what that means," I say.
"Exactly what it says.  Put the cutting boards out that they gave us so they can see them."
"But they are cutting boards."
"I know.  Put them out."
"I usually keep them in the cabinet when I'm not, you know, cutting things."
"Put. Them. Out."

There is a finality to her words.  Apparently, this is not open for discussion.  She throws the list back at me and I grab it in mid-air. 

"There, all done," Hossmom says.  On the bed are nicely matched pairs of pajamas.  Every pant has a matching top.  The ones that don't have been thrown in a box.  I don't want to ask what she is going to make me do with the box.

My son is four.  He gets his own pajamas at night.  And as a four-year-old, he has absolutely no fashion sense, none at all.  Bacon Hoss will grab a pair of truck pants, complete the ensemble with a winter jacket, and then we are ready for bed.  Usually, I let him do his thing.  Gotta let the little guy express himself.  I don't think my wife cares for the most part.  Not until family is coming into town.

"Are you afraid that your brother and his wife are going to check to see if our son's PJs match?" I ask.
"Maybe," she says.
"I don't think they are that weird."  Not as weird as my wife.  I don't say that though, if I do she will throw me into the box. 

"Help me put all this away and take the box to the garage," she says, ignoring my quip. 
"Can't.  I've got to go hang cutting boards on our wall somewhere."
"Ok," she says like this is the most normal conversation to have.  She grabs an armful of PJs, making sure that they are neatly organized as she grabs them.

"When you're done," she says, "can you give the cat a bath?"

It is going to be a very long Christmas.

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Happy holidays everyone.  That's it for this year and I'll see everyone in 2018.  Assuming, of course, if I survive bathing the cat. 

7 Ways To Avoid Hanging Up Women's Shirts

I put my wife’s shirt on the hanger, say a quick prayer, and then watch it slide off onto the floor.  You would think that after being an at-home-dad the last nine years that I would have figured this out.  I have done enough laundry over that time to fully clean all the sails for an armada of 1642 Spanish galleons.  Nope, women’s shirts still confuse me.  

No shirt made for any woman will ever stay on a hanger unless there is some sort of magic involved.  Apparently, I’m a muggle.  The necks are too large and they are made out of some sort of fabric that doesn’t exist in this realm.  The shirts even give you false hope.  There are these little strappy things hidden in a lot of them so that they can be attached to a hanger.  I refuse to do this because it’s obvious that the hanger industry has conspired with the magical shirt industry.  Just so I’m clear, I have to actually pay attention to the hangers I’m buying?  It’s a hanger.  It hangs.  I think not Mr. Big Hanger Conglomerate.  

Instead of learning to do the impossible, I have spent the last nine years coming up with ways to avoid hanging up any and all women’s shirts.  Oh, and taking care of children.  Mostly, the shirt thing though.

I present to you, all my comrades in laundry (not in the Russian comrade way, go U.S.A.), my tips and tricks for avoiding hanging up women’s shirts.  

1.  Go get your trusty nail gun.  I believe that I can safely assume that we at least have the very basic model?  I should hope so, we are not savages, are we?  Take the nail gun, the shirt, and the hanger to your wife’s closet.  Place the shirt over the hanger and press both against the wall.  Fire your nail gun up, watch your fingers, and pop 25 two penny nails through the shirt and hanger.  Technically, the hanger is now hanging on the shirt.  Close enough.  

2.  Stop doing laundry.  Learn to be Elsa, let it go.  Sing the song if you want to while you cower under the mounds and mounds of dirty women’s shirts.  It’s ok, you will look appropriately crazy singing while you sled down a hill full of silky shirts and their bullshit straps.  

3.  “This shirt will hang up fine,” your wife will say.  It’s a trap!  Don’t buy it.  Take a close look at that shirt she is hanging up.  Why, it’s not a woman’s shirt at all, no sir.  It’s one of your collared shirts that she has appropriated.  She will wear it to make you lose your mind because none of us can resist the look of our wife in one of our button downs, can we?  Don’t fall for it.  That’s a man’s shirt and thus is very easily hung up.  Call out your wife.  Not publicly though, that’s a mistake.  We all want to continue to stay married.  Go back to your bedroom and your landfill of women’s shirts.    

4.  Fire.  Man created fire!  It’s our greatest invention.  Fire has brought us from caves to living in high-rise condos while we sip on tea brewed over a fire.  Well, some people.  I’m assuming that people that can afford high-rise condo’s in any American city can also afford a maid to do their laundry for them.  Screw those people, right?  For us suburban Neanderthals though, we still got to deal with this unholy of holies.  Fire’s original purpose was not to ward off the dangers of the dark.  Hell, no.  It was to burn Mrs. Grog’s stupid sundress fur that she picked up on vacation.  Mr. Grog couldn’t handle it and since nail guns weren’t invented yet, he used fire to sacrifice all women’s shirt to whatever devil invented them.  So let’s all pay attention to Grog, may his memory live on, and just burn the fracking shirts.  

5.  Go find a fitted sheet, preferably one with lots of stains on it.  No reason for the stains, I’m just assuming that all of us could use new sheets.    Now take that sheet to the University of Laundry located somewhere on the East Coast.  Spend 50K and three years learning how to fold the sheet.  Come back to your house and show your wife how easy it is to fold a fitted sheet.  Then try and hang up one of your wife’s shirts.  You still won’t be able to do it, even with all your fancy learning.  This gives you the basic argument that women’s shirts are not meant to be hung up at all.  Case closed.  Throw the shirt in the linen closet and hang up the fitted sheet, which somehow stays on the hanger.  

6.  Ignore the problem, just like your budget issues.  Eventually, all the shirts will magically be hung up on their own.  Be careful though because when this happens, for some reason your wife may start to complain to you about something.  The word “shirt” will get thrown around a lot.  Play dumb.  “Shorts?  Sure, the shorts are in the drawer.”  Continue to ignore the problem of the shirts until you get that weird twitch in your eye from unresolved shirt issues.    

7.    Start a religion, not a cult because that’s creepy, and register it.  Your main tenet will be “NO WOMEN’S SHIRTS ON HANGERS.”  Make signs and then have your apostles go door to door handing out pamphlets.    Change the very culture that we find ourselves in.  Hopefully, praise to the no-shirts, the world will come to realize that women’s shirts must never be put up on hangers.  On December 25^th, we can all give each other bottles of bourbon or wine, dealer’s choice, and talk about the old days of women’s shirts and hangers.  

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Enjoy the read?  Good, then do a fella a solid and hit that little Facebook share button down below.  Yup, they are brand new. Let's test a few of them out and see if we can give an early Christmas present to Hossman.  He's a nice guy, I swear it. Unless you are between him and a peanut butter cookie, then all bets are off. 

Destroying My Son

"Do you want to learn or do you want to continue to get your butt kicked," My 10-year-old son says.  Those words are just full of a condescending attitude, that bullshit dripping from each and every syllable.

"I want to learn," I say as he tries to grab the game controller away from me.  I jerk my hand away, taking advantage of my two extra feet of height to thwart him.  It's my only attempt to keep the power shift from happening even though I'm pretty sure that has already occurred.

"Behind you, Dad!  Behind you!"  He says.  It still sounds condescending.  Like he is stating the most obvious answer in the world.   He's acting like I'm a flat-earther and he's Bill Nye.  Jesus Christ, I can feel his eyes roll when I get light sabered in the back.

"Dad.  You have to check behind you."
"I was checking behind me," I say.
"No you weren't, that's why your character got chopped in half."
"Yoda didn't get chopped in half.  He's just resting his eyes a bit."

My boy slugs me in the shoulder as I hit the respawn button on the Xbox.  We are playing his new game in the living room.  My daughter sits on the couch, checked out to the world with her headphones in.  She treats her phone like a personal assistant but I'm pretty sure she isn't as crass with it as my frustrated son is with me.

The toddler is banging on stuff and chunking it off the top of the stairs.  Yeah, that's where we are at with him at the moment.  Every stuffed animal gets a free flying lesson from the top of the stairs.  He has the dog with him.  I should talk to the boy pretty soon just to make sure we know that living things don't get the death push from up there.

This leaves me and my middle son playing Star Wars Battlefront II.  I'll admit, the game is pretty cool.  The graphics awaken my own ten-year-old self, gets me excited.  Yoda, Vadar, Luke:  all the characters that you can play.  Do or Do Not is no longer a movie tagline, it's real life and I'm getting my ass handed to me by someone that thinks that fart contests are cool.

Well, they are cool but that's another story.

"Here, let me show you," Bubba Hoss says again.  This time I just push him away.  I'm going to destroy him this time.  I'm going to Yoda these nuts all over his character, make him truly question his existence.  I'll get Han to make out with Leia and make kissy noises until he can't take it anymore.  My goal here is to put him into therapy for the rest of his life, the best kind of fatherly vengeance.

The next match lasts less than a minute.  He force choked me.  He did it while laughing.

"I told you, look behind you," he says.

I'm going to smack him.

I go to the garage and grab one of the folding lawn chairs and put it in front of the T.V., the universal sign that Dad is getting serious.  I was playing games before he was even thought about.  First person shooters?  I was there at their beginning.  Standing is wearing me out, my knees start to hurt and I was too far away from the screen to see properly.  I do some thumb stretching exercises and crack my knuckles just to get into his head.  You hear that, boy?  Knuckles are cracking, I'm going to destroy you.

"Again," I say.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"Start it, smart ass."

He does but it seems he is reluctant to hit the button.  He doesn't want to be seen as picking on me, pilling on the garbage he's throwing my way.

The game starts.  He's the Galactic Empire, Vader.  He always wants to be Vader.  It's happened so much that I've had a sit-down talk with him.  Don't be evil, it's really a simple lesson but one that I feel doesn't get talked about enough.  He ignored me.  The Dark Side has claimed my boy.  My duty is clear now, I must destroy him.

"Bacon Hoss, get down here," I yell at my four-year-old who has stopped throwing things over the stairs.  His little feet come pounding down, jumping off the last two steps instead of walking down them.  We don't do normal in this family.  He skips to my side.

"Yeah, Dad?" Bacon asks.
"Sit tight."

I can see Bubba Hoss stalking me.  He's trying to outflank me, get behind me yet again.  I can pretty much hear him salivating at his next force choke.  Or maybe he'll try to throw me off a ledge this time.  He is totally focused on my destruction.

But here's the thing.  He's 10.  That's it.  Still a kid.  He hasn't learned to think tactically yet.  It's all button smashing and charging ahead without a plan.  Bubba Hoss is counting on his superior eyesight and faster reflexes.  However, he has not yet read Sun Tzu's Art of War.  He has failed and doesn't know it yet.   Know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.  In short, Bubba Hoss has forgotten the face of his father.   He has forgotten who I am.

I know that he is trying to get around me, to come at me from behind because I'm watching his screen.  I let him come in closer.  He's actually snickering.  He's trying to be quiet about it and failing.  I let him come.

So close.  He's so close.  One little force choke button away from defeating dear old dad once again.

I grab his controller, my reflexes still fast enough for the occasional surprise.  Tactics.  Games are all about tactics and strategy.  Bubba Hoss has forgotten this.  He thinks the game is contained, only what happens on the screen determines the outcome.

"Hey!" He starts to scream but I don't listen.  This was my plan.  I give the controller to the toddler.
"Go!" I tell him.  "Go!"
The toddler takes off while I use my free hand to hold Bubba Hoss back.
"Top of the stairs, boy!  Top of the stairs!"

Bubba Hoss tries to break free of my grip.  He cannot.  I've got him.  I use my legs to lock him in front of me.

"Uh-oh.  Looks like Vader is having some troubles," I say.  The character on the screen is turning in circles so fast that it's just a blur.  My four-year-old is doing some button smashing of his own.  But not on my half of the screen.  On my half, Yoda very calmly walks towards Vader.

"You might want to turn away, boy.  This isn't going to be pretty," I tell him.
"You cheated!"
"There isn't cheating in war, son.  It's just the way it is."
"It's still cheating!"
"I'm teaching.  Do you want to learn or get your butt kicked?"

I have never said something so satisfying in all my life.
My vengeance is not quick.

Should I Allow My Wife To Work...

Today, I let Dear Wifey go to work!  I know, it's a big thing letting Dear Wifey go into the big downtown without me.  But she was just so cute getting ready this morning, how could I not just sit and smile?

Dear Wifey got dressed and then even managed to start the car, all by herself!  I was so proud of her when she rolled down her window and told me that she would need to put air in her tires.  I asked her if she knew where the gas station was but she left without hearing me.  I hope that Dear Wifey knows what to do:)

Dear Wifey got there safely, but not without some trouble on the way.  She ran into traffic!  Oh, Dear Wifey, don't I know how bad that sucks.  Traffic is so hard, right?  As a man, I totally relate to driving in traffic while going to work.  It's such a big change for her, leaving the house without the kids to actually enter the world without me by her side.  How will she manage without me there???

Dear Wifey texted me throughout the day.  She said that she had lots of meetings.  Meetings!  With MEN!  MEN!  Oh, she's in trouble now, isn't she?  I told her to just keep her head down and to remember to add numbers or get someone coffee.  Numbers are hard because they aren't cleaning or cooking.  She was just so precious when she tried to explain to me about ad campaigns.

She had to go get lunch and do some networking.  Wow, networking for Dear Wifey.  She's a fish out of water, isn't she?  It is so hard talking to other people about work stuff that I was really worried about her.  She even sent me a picture of her with other people eating at a fancy restaurant.  I had to remind her not to talk about menstruation in front of work colleagues.  But you know wives, she probably did it anyway.  LOL.

Dear Wifey called me, all upset in the afternoon.  She said that she was trying to read a spreadsheet and that it was really big.  I asked her what was wrong with that.  She said it was just so many numbers and fancy business words. "Don't worry," I told Dear Wifey, "When you get home I will explain monies to you."  That seemed to make her feel better.

At the end of the day, Dear Wifey had to come back home.  But before she could make it here, she had to talk to a mechanic about the air in her tires.  I guess she couldn't figure out how to fix that after all.  Ha Ha.

I let her back into the house and asked her how her day was.  Dear Wifey said it was hard and that there were a lot of people doing business things.  I patted her on the back and then allowed her to go back to her kitchen.  Dear Wifey survived and didn't kill anyone!  Lulz and whatever the fuck else.


_____________________

We should all be good and pissed off about that condescending garbage written up top.  If you are not, then you are part of the fucking problem.

I see articles like this all the time except from the other side.  Dear Husband is left alone with the kids, to say, make breakfast.  And holy shit, he makes a disaster of it.  But it's ok, he's ONLY A DAD.  What the actual Jesus Fuck?  That's the message:  Dad doesn't know what he is doing so let's all celebrate it.  Go to any big parenting site and I guarantee you will find at least one story like this. 

The last one of these I read was a dad who only had to get his kids ready for school.  They weren't even toddlers.  They were goddamn teenagers.  How fucking hard is that?  And what was the last line of the article?  "He survived.  LOL." 

There's a name for this.  It's called the buffoon dad.  It's the Homer Simpson syndrome.  An inept father who can't be bothered to actually parent his kids.  And we fucking celebrate this.  But you know, buffoons aren't funny if there isn't any redemption.  It's just sad. I read these and pity everyone involved. 

Stop giving us father's credit for stupid shit.  None of us deserves any special recognition for making breakfast, taking the kids anywhere, or buying a gallon of milk.  I mean for fuck's sake, is our bar for success so god damn low?  And when these articles are written, when that message gets out there, it demeans us all.  So fucking stop it.  Does everyone see now, when the story is flipped, how pathetic that shit is? 

Where are the awesome fatherhood stories?  The ones that show dad's doing something truly remarkable?  I mean, Christ people, these dads are everywhere and should be celebrated.  I know a guy that runs two boy scout troops, the pack, two soccer teams, works full time and countless other activities.  Including making fucking breakfast for his kids without a fucking word.  He does it because he's Dad.  Let's celebrate that guy.  That's right, Micah, let's celebrate you.  That's the guy that we should all recognize as an awesome father. 

But those stories don't really exist.  They are hidden behind every post where a father can't even manage to get to the kids to school by 9 am.  Let's continue to go down this rabbit hole.  Why aren't we celebrating the moms that bust their ass to bring in the income?  Those women are the role models and we should sing their praises.  My own wife has provided for us for nine god damn years.  That's who we should be tipping our hats to.  The parents that bust ass 24/7.

Look, I know what I write and I know the comedic value of a character being placed in a situation that he isn't familiar with.  Fine, go with it.  But as a father if you aren't familiar with cleaning the house or changing a diaper, there is something wrong with you.  And we shouldn't cheer it on.  We should give some real god damn stories that at least show you what it looks like to actually fucking try.  Yes, show the failures, but also show that Hulk Hogan moment.  The whole world is going to shit, your back is up against a wall and the audiecne thinks you aren't going to make it.  Then bam, you figure it out, do things your way and save the day.  That's a redemption story and it's the one that we should all be writing.  Not the sad sack of shit that thinks he deserves credit for learning how to carpool. 

Because here is the truth, and it's been said a million times now but let's say it again:  Dads Don't Babysit.  We parent.  Even when we fail, we fail as a parent.  Celebrate the comeback story, not the clueless turd that never bothers to learn from his mistakes.  At the very least, our measure of success shouldn't be if all the kids are all alive at the end of the story.  We are better than that, let's show it.