The Hossman Chronicles

Daddyshome

2012-02-13T21:24:00.000-08:00

Once again, like a visit from your favorite Aunt Flo, my monthly post is up over at Daddyshome. Hossmom and I did our taxes tonight, and this is what popped into my head. You shouldn't ever really want to see what is in someone elses head. But maybe you are bored at work, maybe you've mined all the gold out of youtube, or maybe you just haven't hit your daily quota of misspelled words and bad grammar. If that's the case, then this post is for you. Click HERE.

Enjoy!

Piles and Piles

2012-02-06T08:00:00.002-08:00

Poop. That is now my life. Once upon a time, I dealt alot in the area of poop. I was the poop master. I was skilled. Then the day came when everyone in the house was potty trained and I no longer had to handle the poop. The massive, massive amounts of poop. No more diapers, no more wiping, no more cleaning massive amounts of stains off our less than stain resistant carpet. It was a joyous day, a day that was declared a national holiday, all for me. You, Hossman, are no longer the king of poop. You are the king of underwear and all is good in your life.

It was a glorious poop free summer. The toilet finally got the attention it deserved and was happy. I was happy.

Then it got cold and winter came. With the winter, came new poop.

Two dogs are responsible. Two spoiled damn dogs that are nothing but big wussies. No, they cannot go poop outside anymore, it would hurt their sensibilities. It's to cold to take a dump in the yard. They still have to go poop though, so why not just crap all over the house? It's warm in the toy room and that is where their little idiot brains tell them to poop. But soon, they discover that pooping is also fun in Little Hoss's room. And when the joy runs out of that pooping, why not poop right next to the fucking door? This is a poop that sends a message to me. It says "I Could poop right outside that door. But I won't. Here, take my crap." Plop.

For the last week I have woken up to this every morning. Not just one little spot, but 3, 4, 5 piles of crap hidden around the house like some sort of poop scavenger hunt. All for me as no one in the house will touch it. Life if dirty people and sometimes you have to get dirty to deal with it. But Hossmom has to go to work and she can't be smelling like poop. Little Hoss has school and can't go to school smelling like poop. Bubba Hoss is in the phase of "let's throw everything" so I dare not even ask him to pitch in.

That's why every morning, around 7:30, you will find me on my hands and knees with a bottle of cleaner, some paper towels, and a very grumpy attitude. The dogs will be right next to me, wagging their tails and smiling, so help me god they are smiling.

While I'm doing this I will also field questions like "Are you making my lunch today? Where is my breakfast? Turn the TV on, cartoons!" I might snap. I'm just saying it might happen.

It doesn't matter if we take the dogs out right before bedtime. It doesn't matter if I take them out first thing in the morning. It doesn't matter if Jesus himself came down from on high and asked them to evacuate their stinky bowels in the backyard. They would still leave mountain sized piles of shit. And now, I am once again the king of poop. I am back in that dark place, a place where no sunshine beams in from clean windows. A place where there is only darkness and lemon scented cleaner that cannot even attempt to mask the toxic stank of my dog's ass.

A place where I am down on the floor with tears in my eyes and a dog trying to lick my face while I clean up the demon spawn that it left around 4am in the morning.

A word of caution though. We once had a cat. We no longer have a cat. Please keep that in mind the next time you want to leave the trots all over my hardwood floors.

Ta-Ta

2012-02-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

I want to make it clear at the start, I was not ignoring my wife. In fact, I was very much focused on her. I was paying attention, complete and utter attention. I was paying more attention than anyone has paid attention in the history of attention. That, my friends, is a lot of attention.

I just had no idea what she was saying.

It wasn't my fault though. I am a complete innocent here. I am a victim of my environment, a poor rube that apparently cannot fight off the basic instinct of men everywhere. If anything, it was entrapment and therefore the blame really lies with society, stupid society, that has conditioned me to be the way that I am. Shame on you, send me money and we'll call it even.

Dinner was going smooth and I like it when things go smooth. Tonight was an easy dinner night, Manwhiches. This is code for: I forgot to take out the chicken so you get crap dinner night. It was supposed to be a stuffed chicken breast with feta cheese and spinach resting in a basil/tomato sauce. Very good. However, it's hard to stuff a frozen chicken breast. Breast, breast, breast. See, I love it, which the post will shortly prove.

So it was a very nice dinner. Hossmom got home at the exact time that I was putting dinner on the table. The house was cleaned, the floors freshly vacuumed and everything had a hit of mint in the air from my cleaning. The kids were seated perfectly, not throwing anything at anyone. Not even the dogs were farting, growling, drooling or having any other fluid coming from their bodies that seem to leak disgusting at every moment possible. I was putting the rest of the warm food on the table and invited Hossmom to sit and enjoy her family. She takes off her top outer shirt to get more comfortable and sits down wearing a camisole (that's what she says she calls it.) She starts serving the kids their food as I sit down, with my lovely family.

Then I stop. I see them. I am looking at them. The sisters, the girls, column A and column B, leftie and right, starsky and hutch. Without Hossmom's top shirt on, there is a lot of cleavage at the table. The amount was, to say, abundant. And I found myself transported back to my teenage self. Boobs. Right there. Where? Over there man! Be cool, be cool. Don't stare. You are staring.

I couldn't help it. I was hypnotized, mesmerized, locked in gaze at the most beautiful thing ever put on this world. And this thought popped in my head, the greatest thought ever had by man. I get to see boobs everyday. Everyday, at some point, I get to see boobs. Seriously, how awesome is that. It's guaranteed that at some time during the day, I get to look. I have had this thought many times in my married life but every time it's like a new revelation. And I keep coming back to it, like the holy grail of married life. Boobs.

I know I will probably take some flack here about objectifying women. Go ahead. I don't care, say whatever you want. Grill me, insult me. Call me an immature little man who doesn't appreciate what I have. And my response? Boobs. I get to see boobs everyday. And I do very much appreciate my wife and tonight, I am appreciating a very specific part of her.

After a few minutes Hossmom notices that I have not responded to any of her questions nor have I made a sound. It's probably a safe bet to say that I probably haven't moved at all either. She looks over at me and says "Hoss!" Well, she doesn't call me Hoss. She calls me by my name, at least I think she does. Honestly I'm not sure, I just know that she is trying to snap me out of my trance. She is going to have to try harder as the girls had my complete attention.

"Up here honey!" she says and this does it. She asks me if I was even listening to her. I'm too old and too married to stutter about this anymore.

"Nope." I say.

"Really? You have no idea what I was talking about?"

It was about work, I'm pretty sure it was. Hossmom works in the digital advertising world and loves it. She loves to talk about it. She loves everything about it. And tonight, I can assume that she was talking about it.

"Um, where you talking about websites?" It's a good bet.

"Which one?"

"Um, don't know."

Hossmom is not dumb nor is she a young teenager. She knows a leering man when she sees one.

"Boobs.tits.com, right?" Hossmom says.

This is why I love my wife, she is way funnier than I am.

The Pancake Breakfast

2012-01-30T06:36:00.001-08:00

She............

She.................

She doesn't want me to sit with her. In her words, I should sit "over there." This is kid speak for "As far away from me as possible." This is what I hear.

This is what I also hear: You suck. I have seen pigs that slop in their own filth that are cleaner than you are. Your stink brings tears to my eyes. I can't believe you ever got laid in the first place, are you sure you are my father?

Little Hoss points indicating that she wants me to sit on the other side of the gym, far far away from her. She wants me and her brother to eat our pancakes in the gym version of Siberia. She is Stalin, and I have been exiled.

I didn't even want to come to the schools pancake breakfast. My wife wasn't able to go, an early meeting with a client. I had to rock this as a single parent, but sometimes that's what you do when your daughter begs and pleads for you to go. She wants you there. You ask her if you can meet her friends. She says yes, gets excited. She offers to do her chores. She offers you "money" that she has found on the floor. If only Daddy would go.

Of course I went. I didn't think I was in the habit of disappointing my daughter, not until I got there at least and I was told that the pleasure of my company was not required.

It started off smooth. I got to the door with the family, looking very good if I do say so myself. No one can pull of 4 year old clothes quite like me. I'm wearing some of my "important" clothes as my daughter calls them. I am trying to blend in with the rest of the working parents. Look, I'm wearing a collared shirt, I am important and well put together. However, all of my "important" clothes are my old work clothes. Seeing as I haven't had a job in 4 years, except for raising my kids, my wardrobe is slightly out of style I think.

But no matter, I was there and I was showered. It was 7:30 in the morning and I have arrived with my kids to eat pancakes that will benefit the school in yet another fundraiser that I have no idea where the money is going. Sometimes I wish the school would just ask for 200 bucks up front at the beginning of the school year and quit trying to get me to buy stacking cups or shoelaces 25 times a month. I would pay it just for the lack of hassle.

Getting our pancakes was no trouble. We were in line and Little Hoss was pointing out her friends. Cindy, Julie, and that other kid that always gets in trouble. I say hi to there parents and introduce myself, flex a little bit so they can see the show, and move on down the line. Everyone gets their plate and their pancakes and we go to find a seat.

I was a bit distracted because I was afraid that Bubba Hoss would take his pancakes and wing them at someones head. He likes to throw the food and I find myself constantly on the defensive when he has something shaped like a Frisbee. His accuracy is uncanny. We follow my daughter around the gym until she comes to a table.

She sits down and waves to a little boy that is sitting with his Dad, they look very peaceful and happy together. I go to sit with her when she says no. That's how she broke her fathers heart and when she reads this years later, as a young adult, I hope she comes and begs for my forgiveness for crushing the soul of an old man that just wanted to eat breakfast with his daughter.

She wants me no where near her and perhaps it's because of the little boy at the table. Maybe she "likes" him. She is about to turn 6, perhaps these things happen now. Maybe she "likes" boys and doesn't want dad to mess it up. And I would as soon as I got the hint that perhaps this boy "liked" my daughter back. I would crush his kindergarten spirit for trying to lead my daughter astray. I can't help it, it's what fathers do when they have daughters. I make no apologies.

As she indicates by her pointing finger, she wants me to sit absolutely no where near her. She wants me banished to the swamp land of principles and teachers. Not near the normal parents.

But I have dignity and I have class therefore I will not fall to my knees and cry. I will not make a scene. I will calmly turn my back and, with dignity, walk to just the next table over. I will not turn back, I will not turn back.

We sit and I turn back. Just to keep an eye on my daughter.

"Daddy." she says over the noise.

"Yes?" I say, a bit desperately.

"Will you cut my pancakes?"

That's right honey, little girls will always need Daddies.

Bubba Hoss throws a pancake at some kids head.

The Table

2012-01-27T05:23:00.000-08:00

It's sitting right there, a calmness in a sea of violence. A throng of people move in, out and around somehow missing the tranquility that is right in the middle, right at the eye of the storm. I must have that table, I have to have that table. There are no other tables.

I didn't want to come to this at first. I tried to decline, make polite excuses like my herpes is acting up. I would love to go to my daughter's school function, honestly I would, but it turns out that tonight is the night that I have my blood feud and so I must decline. Sincerely.

The school puts on functions from time to time. Come to our gym, give money for new shoelaces, book sale! To my credit, I do most of these. But the idea of going to a pretty small local restaurant and eating dinner really isn't doing it for me. The idea is simple: 10% of that nights earnings will go to the school. Sounds like a great deal. But here is what I knew also to be true: that it would be packed as a constipated pregnant lady. By the way, sorry for the crude joke but it was the only thing I could think of at the moment. It's a bit funny, for those ladies who have been 9 months pregnant and constipated, the term "packed" is appropriate.

Everyone from the school would come, grades K through 5. Their parents would come, their siblings would come, some would invite hobo's from the street. They would all sit down and eat their roast beast and bang on their flew-flewbers and blow on their tah-tinkers. Noise, noise, noise! I can relate to the Grinch.

However my daughter rejected my excuses, as she should have. I was being a pussy and she was calling me out on it. Suck it up Pops, it's for the school and the community. So we went the whole time my wife giving me a disapproving look for being against family fun and community.

When we arrived, I was right, it was packed. I sighed and then put some antlers on a dog. I didn't say "I told you so" but I should have, just for the satisfaction. It would have fit my current mood.

But looking through the window, I saw the table, the lone refuge amongst the chaos. Clean and seating four it was the most beautiful table I had ever seen. Magnificent, pristine, free. I knew in my heart, which was now growing, that there would be no stains on this table. There would be no hidden smudges of mustard on the chairs or ketchup grim on the edges. Looking at it, I could almost see the heavenly light that showed me the way while hiding it from all others.

Now I was excited and quickly rushed my family inside. They have seen that the spirit of school functions have finally touched me although they have no idea that it's in the form of a free table. We get to the counter and I tell Hossmom to just order. She asks me where I am going and I briefly hesitate to tell her about my mistress the table. So I yell "table!" through the crowd. She asks me what I want. "I don't care, something!" I say and I am off down the snow covered mountains that is the packed counter space.

At this point, the table is more important than the food. Besides, chances are one of my kids will chunk whatever I get on the floor while they refuse to sit still. I know the drill and I know what matters. Sitting down to dinner is much better than standing in a corner looking aimlessly over a packed dinning room. The awkwardness of such situations is brutal, like saying that somehow you don't belong in that particular dining room. It's the grown up equivalent of "seat taken" on the Forrest Gump bus.

I get to the table, it's still there. I was prepared to eject any 10 year that might be saving it for his own family but it wasn't necessary. I am not proud and I'm sure I will have to answer one day for these impure thoughts.

But no one is there, everyone bypasses it for some reason. I have no idea why, I don't care. So I do my table move, the one we all do. The move that says I desperately want this table but don't want to appear to want this space because that would make me a dick to push people out of the way. I look around, am I looking for someone? No, it's just part of the act. I check the four corners, why? No reason, just the routine. Then bam, I'm down and the table has been claimed. The only table in the entire place and it is mine. It's space is mine, it's very essence of it is mine. I feel like I need a smoke.

The family comes soon after with loads of food that it takes to feed my family. Perhaps 40% of this will be consumed as is also our habit. Buy high, trash high. Good old dad does his best to clear all the plates but there is only so much to come around.

"Dad, you found a table!" my family roars, basking in my victory. I share it with them although deep down I know that it belongs only to me. Everyone sits down and tears into food that they will soon all reject because they know that when they are "done" that ice cream will soon follow. I'm to tired from my efforts to argue this today. Today is about the table and me.

We will sit, we will talk and laugh. We will say hi to my daughters school friends and their Grinch fathers. We will clean up our space, wipe up any spills and leave the table for the next one that has the calling. We will walk out the door and I will look back into the window, saying goodbye as I watch the table floating calmly through the sea of chaos we are leaving behind.

The Car Salesman

2012-01-23T06:43:00.000-08:00

I don't feel bad for the Car Salesman, I don't feel bad at all. This was his choice and now he must stick with it. I didn't ask him to come with us on the test drive. I didn't ask for him to try and attempt mindless chatter while my wife and I discuss the pros and cons of this particular car. I didn't ask him to entertain the kids but he is soon learning that my kids will not be ignored, Dan.

The minivan we are currently test driving is our fourth of the day. Hossmom and I believe in good research before we make a final decision so we are driving everything. Also, Hossmom loves to test drive, taking it as a chance to live the life of someone else because there is no way I'm getting a car seat in the 350Z that she has her eye on. Although that Mustang looks doable, at least to me. How old do kids have to be before they can ride in the front seat?

Car Salesmen are a particular breed of men. They need to be able to tell you a perfect combination of truth and bullshit, often in the same breath. It can be nerve racking to deal with as a consumer. However, years ago, back when I was working, Hossmom made a suggestion for me. "Treat them like a perp" she told me. Suddenly, things clicked for me. I would treat the car salesman like he just beat up his grandma. This, it turns out, is the perfect approach to a car salesman.

I'll ask questions during the showroom talks that I know will get a bullshit response. What I'm really doing is testing his honesty, give me the good and the bad. Chances are, I already know the answer to what I am asking, I just want to see how you will respond. I used to do this to perpetrators all the time and then turn the answers back on them so that they could see the bullshit. Makes for some very uncomfortable situations. I once had a guy tell me that his crack, needle and cooking station was insulin for diabetes. I picked up his spoon that he cooked with and couldn't help but laughing. My partner and I gave him credit for being original.

So when I ask about reliability of the car, maintenance and what not, I probably have already discovered this on line. My personal favorites of the day:

1: Oh it's great, great. Best in the class (it was the worst). We own the minivan market.

I thought this was pretty good bullshit, especially when I pointed out two of his high end competitors that actually do better. He quickly changed his answer to mean "Of American made cars, I mean." Sure you do. Here's your spoon. Chances are I won't do business with this guy.

2. Our van ranks #1 with children. Yup, they love this minivan more than any other.

Really? There was a study that asked 6 year olds which minivan they liked best? Was it a focus group kind of thing? Did you put toys in there and little child sized questionnaires? Draw a smiley face if you like this van, a frowny face if you don't.

But again, I will give them both credit for the original.

This current guy though seems to be doing pretty well though in the bullshit department. I think it comes from knowing that he is selling one of the best and can rely on it's good reputation when answering questions. Sure, gas mileage could be better but it does compare well to competitors and the reliability question is easy for him. Things were going well for this guy until the test drive.

All of the other salesman quickly bowed out of joining any of us for the test drive when we dug out the car seats and installed them for the test drive. They realized that they would have to climb between them to the third row seat and then holler from the back to be heard. Smart move. I thought that this is how this one would go.

We got the keys and loaded in, started the car and prepared to depart. The salesman, doing his job, popped the back and actually climbed over the third rear seat to get in. I wasn't sure to do at that point so I reminded him to buckle his seat belt because we don't move until everyone buckles their seat belt, family rule. And at this point, he pretty much is part of the family. He's like that weird distant relative that you wish you could ditch but can't because your aunt will tell your mother and then you are going to get into trouble. So you tell him not to eat his boogers and just be quiet.

This wasn't his mistake though. He thought he was going to answer questions for us, point out features. Mr. Car Salesman, meet my children. They will run interference for me for the next 15 minutes.

He points out the engine on the car, noting the liter's that it has. He is talking Greek to us. Hossmom and I are not engine people, we have no idea what this means, We'll discover it's power when I jump on the highway and floor it.

This is also the only piece of information that he will be able to tell us for the next 15 minutes.

Little Hoss starts immediately and is relentless.

"I like pink! We want a pink car!" God I love her so much sometimes.

He doesn't know what to say to this but it doesn't matter, he gets the first word out before she starts with her second statement.

"Where do colors come from? How do they make colors?"

The great nonsense question. There will be many more. He will say a factory where they blend different colors but then she will hit him with "How do they make factories" and it will just get better from there. And it does. He is inexperienced with kids. He should have just said "magic" and moved on.

Hossmom and I are comparing notes on how well the van corners when my son joins the conversation.

"Toilet Underpants!" he screams. He needs no introduction. His sister and him tell "jokes" and this is always his punchline. He doesn't even bother telling the lead up to it anymore, he just screams the punchline. I look at the guy in the conveniently located conversation mirror, a nice feature, and can tell that the guy has no idea what to do with this one. I start laughing and so does Hossmom. This is more enjoyable than the actual test drive.

The car salesman gets a look of confusion on his face and is trying to decide what to say. I could bail him out but I don't, because after all, he's a perp.

"Where's the movie? Turn on the movie!" Little Hoss says. Most of the vans we have driven today have had DVD players installed, this one doesn't and now he is paying the price with my daughter.

"Well, we have some that have the DVD player and it really isn't much more..............."

"Toilet Underpants!"

"expensive than this one. In fact we could....................."

"How do they make movies?"

"Um.............."

"Toilet!"

"Well............"

I'm almost crying at this point. I'm sure that this guy is going to be having nightmares about this one but I would bet dollars to donuts that he doesn't go on a test drive with children again.

This is the routine for the rest of the test drive while Hossmom and I sat in the front seat and compared notes on what we thought of the van. When we got back, I felt a little bit of pity for this guy. It was brutal but entertaining. I felt so bad that I actually opened the back hatch of the van so he could climb out again. I'm surprised he didn't run away screaming and I respected him for standing his ground. I noticed the sweat stains on his shirt even though it was 40 degrees outside. It would appear that my children did a proper job of grilling the perp.

The Dishwasher

2012-01-19T18:10:00.000-08:00

"I am not starting the dishwasher with only two dishes in it!" my wife declares as she comes into bed. She is very adamant about it, saying with the infliction that also seems to dictate that I am an idiot or perhaps just not that smart. Turning on the dishwasher with only 2 plates in it indeed! She is practically accusing me of purposefully destroying the environment just because I have my silly rules. This one of course being: Hossmom turns on the dishwasher before coming to bed because I never remember because I am being to badass.

She seems to forget about this rule often and most times I let is slide. Of course I could just turn on the dishwasher myself and we could be done with this little marital discord. But if I did that I would be turning on the dishwasher AND taking out the trash. How fair is that?? That trash just isn't going to take out itself. It's not going to grow little trash legs and walk itself to the curb. And because it is my family, we produce a metric ton of trash per day. Most of the refuse is broken pieces of my life that my daughter has gotten a hold of and decided to see how far she could bend it before it breaks. Turns out, pretty far. She is curious, I just keep telling myself that.

So in reality, I'm the only one who is strong enough to take out the trash. My years of obtaining massively manly muscles is now culminating into their true purpose, lifting trash.

After lifting this trash, I am physically and emotionally drained. So much so that there is no way I can actually find the strength to push the button to start the dishwasher. Asking me to do it is like asking a boxer who just went 12 rounds if they want to go run a couple of miles for a cool down. It's a matter of health that I not start the dishwasher.

And after I take out that trash, and I see another one of my possessions that has been "curiousized" by my Little Hoss, well, I just need some alone time. Just for a bit to say a quick goodbye to my favorite pen, my writing notebook, my wallet, my cellphone or my xbox controller. Although in all fairness, it was my son who destroyed my Xbox controller. he wanted to see if it could survive going into the dishwasher, I recognize the irony here. And for the record, no it did not. It turns out that plastic melts. Amazing. I think he is going to be a scientist one day.

The other morning I got up to get the kids ready for school and I was making them breakfast. I reached to get a couple of cups for the kids only to find that there was none in the cabinet. So I went to the dishwasher, which I had assumed were clean. They were not and not wanting to give my children the trots, I gave them the only clean glasses we had. Mommy and Daddy glasses as I refer to them. I try very hard not to do this and I think the reason should be obvious.

20 minutes after I gave Little Hoss the glass she promptly knocked it off the table with her backpack thus shattering another one of my belongings. I called a priest for last rites and slowly transferred it to the trashcan, my responsibility. As you can also imagine, I gave Hossmom a decent earful about turning on the dishwasher at night.

Which brings us full circle to my wife coming to bed and practically calling me a butthole for wanting the dishwasher turned on with only two plates inside it. She is smug and is looking down on me. I repent of all my harmful ways and agree that the dishwasher shouldn't be turned on with only two dishes inside. May the lord have mercy on my non-environmental soul.

I get up the next morning and head downstairs. I stop in the kitchen and look around. I open the dishwasher to confirm what I am seeing.

Yes, there are only two dishes in the dishwasher and it shouldn't have been turned on. I will concede that point of argument to my wife.

However, the 30 dishes on the counter probably would have made a full load. She took the time to rinse them off and stack them neatly next to the dishwasher. She did not think that she should have put them actually in the dishwasher.

Woman are spiteful. I am just not sure if the world is aware of that fact. I will go take out the trash now.

What I Hear

2012-01-17T07:49:00.000-08:00

They are both sitting in bed, little smiles on their faces. So innocent, nothing but good behavior. No dad, their little charming faces seem to be saying, we weren't doing anything. In fact, we were just about to go to bed. My son even puts his head on the pillow like with a sigh like the only reason that he is still awake is because I'm up here bothering him.

My children think I am an idiot.

My kids are not the quietest kids and they are not subtle. When they are in the house you know it's either them or there are a stampeding heard of water buffalo going through the living room. Sometimes I do wish that it was the water buffalo because it would be easier to clean up after.

For the past 45 minutes we have heard the jarring crashes from upstairs. My son came out of his room about 10 minutes after we put him down for the night. He doesn't seem to realize that sound travels so when he tells his sister, ever so sneaky, "Let's Play!", I hear that. I hear his sister's response to "Hell yeah!" Not in those exact words but the sentiment is the same.

I heard when they decided to taking leaps of fearless jumps off the bed. I heard when Barbie was having domestic issues with my son's dragon rider. I heard the house's floors grown when the toys were trampled under little tiny secretive feet. I heard the argument of who gets to tell the story now.

I heard it all like it was happening just in the next room, because you know, it was happening in the next room, right above my head. I believe that for a career path, I will steer my children away from "indiscreet undercover operative" and more toward a job that would play to their strengths, such as demolition derby contestant.

I should have busted them sooner but truth be told, I was enjoying what I was hearing. Sometimes you learn the most when they don't know you are listening. I got to hear the stories they were thinking up, I got to hear how they resolved their disputes without me around. I am very proud that this time no one got punched. It was fun, just sitting here listening to them and talking to Hossmom about it.

But eventually, bedtime does have to come, it does have to happen. However, since everyone is in a good mood, I decided that I wasn't going to come down on them to hard. I would let them hear me and that should put an end to this. We have school tomorrow and a sleepy kid is a cranky kid.

I walked up stairs, taking care to put a little extra oomph behind each step. As you can imagine, I'm not the most stealthy guy anyway as I'm sure Hossmom would be happy to tell you. I also slowed my steps down to give them time to set the scene for me. I still want to be entertained. I did everything but scream out "Fe Fi Fo Fum!"

I hear their little feet scamper by the time I'm on the third step. I hear blankets being ruffled by the 5th step. I hear toys being thrown off the bed by the last step. When I make it to the top, I hear nothing. I turn the corner to see them sweetly laying in bed together, small smiles on their faces. Not making a sound.

Nut Shot

2012-01-11T06:35:00.000-08:00

I was minding my own business on the couch. I was laying down, enjoying a little down time after a very active day. My eyes were closed because I just couldn't take the adventures of the Octonaughts anymore. Seriously, I am starting to despise that show. My son loves it so when I need some quiet, boom, I turn it on and recharge my batteries.

I was trying to work out the rest of the week in my head. Where I had to be, what I had to do, would Hossmom be coming home late from work and of course the zombie drill. This is where I debate which room in the house would be safest if the zombie hoard descends on us. A brilliant idea hit, the roof, that is where we must go. But I would have to have plenty of ammunition on the roof at all times. I have to put that in budget. Zombies don't climb. I've seen them swim but they are notoriously bad climbers.

This is what I was doing, with my eyes closed, possibly napping, when a 4 year old toddler flew off the top rope of the couch and landed with both knees straight on my crotch. I sensed something was wrong with the force midway through his jump and my slow reflexes didn't let me respond in time. I was lucky this time, he mostly got the top half and not the very vulnerable lower half. However, it was enough to make me jump up with an "oomph" and ask him very politely--"What the hell little man?"

I told this story to Hossmom. She didn't believe me. She says that I tell her that I get hit in the balls alot and that she never gets hit in that region. I explain to her the nature of ball gravity. An object in flight will always change trajectory and aim for balls if at all feasible. Hasn't she watched any soccer matches? Seriously, this is grade school stuff. She still didn't believe me. I said she would if she wasn't a woman. That brought on all kinds of "hear me roar, I am woman" stuff.

A few days pass. I have not been hit in the junk in that time so I'm getting a little jumpy from the impending doom that I know is coming.

I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner for the family. I time it so that dinner is on the table when Hossmom gets home. It's one of those things that I do that insures her that I am the best husband anywhere and that she will never do any better than me and if she did, he probably wouldn't' have an awesome zombie plan like I do. So her very survival depends on her staying married to me.

Little Hoss is home from school and was watching T.V. before she decided to head into the kitchen and tell her dad how awesome he is. She does this often because I have trained her to think that I am the most awesome person that ever existed. I am sure she will get out of this when she is a teenager so I'm soaking up as much of it as I can.

"Dada is awesome!" she says.

"Yes I am" I reply. Why deny the truth?

"Dada is stronger than anything!"

"Yup" In her world, I am stronger than anyone because I can pick up the trash. And in my defense, we produce a ton of trash here. I am practically superhero strong.

"Dada is stronger than all the monsters!"

"All the monsters!" I say. I reassure her that dad can indeed eat monsters and poop unicorns. It makes her world safe and happy.

"Nothing can hurt Dada!" she exclaims.

"Nothing baby! Well, except when I get hit in the junk."

You see my mistake there? My over confidence as I bask in my daughter's adulation? I planted the idea, I have doomed myself.

Without hesitation and without missing a beat, she bitch slaps my balls.

I'm not talking about a nice gentle tap, which can still be painful. I'm not talking poor aim, hitting maybe more to the top where at least my gut has an opportunity for protection.

I'm talking about how a pimp backhands his hookers if they are holding out of him. I'm talking about how a person backhands a tennis ball. Right on target to, lower right side. Square contact, perfect follow through, perfect target tracking. She smacked clean square in the right ball. Hard.

I double over immediately. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" is the only sound I make. I stumble over to the sink to get some support before I fall over, dropped by my 5 year old daughter.

"what...."

"why...."

"dear god...."

I can't even get a sentence out.

She starts cackling like the wicked witch of the west and runs away screaming "I got him! I got him!"

I can't help it, I start laughing to. I have to appreciate the set up. I have to admire the entire diabolical plan to get me over confident and distracted. To make me forget that these are my children and not some fairy princess on a white pony that sits with her feet on the floor and always eats their dinner. This is my Little Hoss. Well played young girl, well played.

Sometime later and after some good quality lunges Hossmom finally gets home.

"What did you guys do today" she asks.

"Yes, Little Hoss, tell mommy what we did today." I respond.

"I hit Daddy in the junk!" she says.

I present you with the prosecution's star witness.

Daddyshome

2012-01-09T06:33:00.000-08:00

I have a new post up over at Daddyshome. It's a bit of a pissy rant and probably something that I should stay away from. But who doesn't like a good old fashion rant on occasion?

Head on over and take a read while you continue to not do any work that you are supposed to be doing. Then check Facebook.

Fashion Police

2012-01-04T06:47:00.000-08:00

"Get your shirt on." I am calm. I am zen. I am the perfect father on the first day back to school.

She doesn't put her shirt on.

Little Hoss sits at the table, eating a bagel. She has decided that she wants to be a grown up and eat grown up things. She asked for coffee, cream no sugar. She demands to be treated as a "big kid" and will eat accordingly. I'm making pot roast tonight, money says she takes one look at it and decides she wants pop tarts instead. She makes no move to put her shirt on.

"Seriously, put your shirt on."

Nothing, no movement.

"Your bus will be here in 10 minutes and you have no shirt on. Get it on." I don't even know if she is aware of my presence. She has also decided today to treat me like I don't exist, that the talking she hears is only the fates debating how much she can screw around this morning.

"Move. Don't make me tell you again." This dad cliche is a sign that I am starting to get exasperated. It's a well known sign that is on several countries flags and have been written about by the great poets. Don't make me tell you again.

I tell her again to get her shirt on. In fact, I tell her two more times. 8 in the morning and I'm already losing it and am already entering the world of fatherly fails. I clap my hands really loud to get her attention.

Slowly she turns her head and finally looks at me. Is there disgust I see there or is it just annoyance? She has some grown up looks, that's for sure.

I speak slowly. "Move. Your. Butt. Put. Your. Shirt. On. NOW." The last word comes out stern, an octave or two lower than my normal voice. It's the second sign that dad means business and to disobey me at this point will cause you much strife. By which I mean of course there will be no consequences because I don't have time to punish her, do her hair, and get her out front for her bus. By the time she gets home today, she will have totately forgotten about this whole shirt thing thus punishing her for it then just makes me out to be a dick.

She finally puts down her bagel and grabs her shirt. This is a brand new shirt, one that she picked out herself yesterday.

"I don't want to wear this shirt. I don't like it."

At this point, I feel the first part of my sanity break away and tumble into the void of rational thought. Wow. I don't even know what to say here. She loved it yesterday, swore that this is the shirt she wanted and swore that she wanted to wear this one on her first day back to school.

"Are you kidding me? Go put your shirt on now. The bus is coming and we are going to miss it. Get dressed kid, now."

She leaves the table and I feel somewhat comforted that I didn't totally lose my shit. I remained mostly calm, got my minion to do what she was supposed to, and didn't kick any dogs in my frustrated. I chalk this up as a win.

She comes back down from her room with a different shirt on. It's a short sleeved shirt, a summer tank top. I chalk this up as a lose. Another piece of my sanity falls.

"?" I can't even get the question out.

"I want to wear this shirt." She says and heads back to her bagel.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no" now I'm just chanting, hoping that this will center myself and not drive me to the nuthouse. "It's a summer shirt. Go get the shirt your picked out, that your mom picked out, quit dicking around and go put on your shirt. The bus will be here in 5 minutes."

"I don't like that shirt."

"Go put your shirt on."

"I don't want to."

"Now"

"It's not pretty."

"It is pretty."

"No"

"Yes"

"No"

"Yes"

I am debating fashion with a 5 year old. I have lost and it's not even 8:30 yet. I realize at this point that I am parenting wrong. Never debate with a child. Listen, understand, then give marching orders. And my orders are clear, GO PUT YOUR GOD DAMN SHIRT ON NOW.

"Turn around and go upstairs. Get your shirt. Put it on. Come back downstairs. Put your jacket on. Go wait for the bus." Slow speech, deliberate and clear instructions. No room for interpretation. Do it. Now. Do it. Now.

She heads back up stairs while I'm telling her to hurry up, we've got about 2 minutes before the bus comes. This time she actually listens to me knowing that the next step after the deliberate instructions I will lose it completly and no one wants to see a grown man cry.

She comes back downstairs. She has the right shirt on. She is pouting but I don't care at this point, we are moving, we are in a forward direction. We don't have time for distractions. She puts her jacket on. I'm feeling good. I was at the brink, looking at the abyss on the other side. It's not a good place for me to go. I'm supposed to realize when I'm getting to that point and then back away. I'm not supposed to parent "emotionally", I'm supposed to be calm and consistent. I learned that at the Dad's convention that I go to every year.

"Ok, let's go." I step through the door to head outside.

"Dad." She says, grabbing her bagel and still waiting for her coffee.

"What?"

"I don't have my socks on."

I look at her feet. No socks. No shoes. Just hippie feet that can't step out in the 30 degree cold weather.

This is where I believe I had my first ever stroke.

Hossmom's Steak and Marketing Jokes

2012-01-01T19:35:00.000-08:00

Hossmom comes home from another wine and dine of a client. Steak place, always a steak place because when you are trying to build a relationship in business nothing says I love you like a big piece of meat. Hossmom had a steak because at home we don't have steak much, like ever. And when we do, it's on sale and usually we have fend off the minions who crave the sweet taste of meat. They are my children. However, I do not share my steak, I never share my steak, touch my steak and prepare to battle. If you lose a finger, that's pretty much your fault. This is probably why I am never invited to these client wine and dine events. That and I don't work for Hossmom's company and have nothing to do with advertising. I have offered to take her clients to a strip club though if that is ever required. We all do our part for the family.

Hossmom says the steak was good and the conversation was interesting. She goes on for about 10 minutes about the salad though and how she imagined that at such a high end place that the salad would be better. And the wine was ok and at 15 bucks a glass she thought that she would enjoy it more. But the breadsticks were good. "What about the steak I ask her, any good?" She looks at me, trying to gauge my reaction. She is hesitant to say anything because she knows that my dinner probably consisted of mac and cheese and maybe an extra piece of bologna. It's what the kids want when she is gone and we do dinner without her. I don't do a big extravaganza meals when she's not here. What's the point I ask you? Sure I could make a delicious feta stuffed chicken breast smothered in a tomato basil sauce. Will the kids eat it? Nope, but they will still chow down on the dog food from time to time because they are that high class.

Hossmom breaks down, she can't contain herself. The steak was awesome. Each tender piece that entered her mouth was like a kiss from the gods. The juices that ran clear dabbled on her chin while she made cheesy marketing jokes. For the record, I have listened to these marketing jokes for 15 years. They are not funny, outside the marketing world. Sorry, I just don't think they are funny. I'm sure that jokes about focus groups and product demographics are a god damn riot at the marketing departments world wide, but outside of that, please, all of you, stop.

As Hossmom talks about the steak it's almost like she quivers and I'm pretty sure that if our state allowed a meat/human marriage, she would jump all over it. She finishes telling me how good the steak is, almost out of breath. She is a bit flushed and her fingers linger over her mouth. Sadly she looks at me, like remembering some past love and is disappointed that she settled for me, a non steak. She informs me that she couldn't bring any home. Apparently it's considered bad form in the business world to ask for a dogie bag at an expensive steak restaurant. Telling marketing jokes is apparently fine though.

She touches my hand as she reads my expression, she is sad for me, she is trying to be compassionate. It's almost like I told her my grandmother died and she is trying to console me. She leans to give me a kiss.

She has misread my expression, my body language.

It's not sadness in my eyes that she sees, it is not jealousy.

It is pity. Deep pity for Hossmom, you ignorant bastard.

For tonight, while Hossmom is gone yet again showing clients a good time, and not in a illegal prostitution way as that sounds, I did something special.

I introduced the kids to Star Wars.

Han Solo, Luke Sky Walker, the Princess chick in a gold bikini. I showed the kids everything. We made a tent on the floor. We gladly ate our mac and cheese, garnished with parsley to add that gourmet feel, under our tent. And then we started the story that happened a long, long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

While she was listening to marketing jokes and assuring future clients that their concerns where her concerns, the kids and I were rocking the popcorn while we screamed when Darth Vader made his entrance. Everything about this was awesome. I got to explain what the force was and what a force choke was. I explained what a Wookie was and we all practiced the Wookie yell. We got our light sabers and did epic battles, leaping from the couch to the chair. Making laser sounds that always seemed to ricochet off the intended target and hit a wall instead.

I showed them the bloopers and in depth stuff like when the storm trooper bangs his head walking into the room for R2D2 and C3PO. And yes, we love the robots. We loved everything about the robots. We loved the blue, we loved the gold, we loved the silliness. There were no marketing jokes told here, the force does not allow marketing jokes to be told in this world.

And my version of steak? The best steak you have ever tasted? The steak that makes other steaks look like pieces of bile left on the floor by the cats, who are on the dark side of the force by the way. I had to explain that to the kids.

My steak was the moment when Darth Vader tells Luke that he is Luke's father.

I watched my kids during the scene. They were riveted, they were not moving. They hugged their blankies and sat 2 inches from the screen. And boom, Vader is Luke's father.

Littls Hoss's jaw dropped. She didn't say anything. She whipped her head quickly around and looked at me. She wasn't sure she heard that right, how can Vader be Luke's father? That's not right? Is it?

Bubba Hoss's face crinkled as he tried to process the information. "Father? Like my father?" he seemed to think. Surely not!

If you have never been at that moment when this bombshell is revealed to people who don't know it's coming, especially little kids, it's as amazing as it was the first time you heard it. I highly recommend it, it goes good with a Cartier 1945, a little known winery in the south of France. And mac and cheese.

Once the initial shock was over the questions came in a flood that Noah wouldn't know how to navigate. How is that possible? Is he lying? he must be lying since he is the bad guy and the bad guys always lie. Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy.

This ranks up there as one of my greatest experiences of fatherhood. It took them a full hour to calm down and then jack back up again when they met the Ewoks for the first time. We didn't finish the third movie that night, they fell asleep. It was a big day for their tiny minds to grasp.

That was my steak, that was my moment. And Hossmom missed it as happens when one person has to work alot.

No Hossmom, it's not sadness you see, it's pity. Pity that your marketing jokes and subpar 20 dollar salad can never compare to Star Wars. Please don't worry about me, I'm right where I want to be, in a blanket tent with mac and cheese and Star Wars.

We went upstairs to go to bed and Hossmom stopped to check in on the kids, who woke up a bit. Hossmom said goodnight to Little Hoss and started to walk away.

"Wait, mom!" Little Hoss said as Hossmom was at the door.

"Yes dear?" Hossmom replied.

"These are not the droids you are looking for" she said as she waved a hand slowly in front of her face. She smiled and put her head back down on her pillow.

The force is strong with this one.

New Blogs Coming

2011-12-31T18:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Hoss

sick

2011-12-07T05:43:00.000-08:00

The Hossman Family is currently suffering from the plague. I suspect that some flea's 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.

Daddyshome

2011-11-28T07:21:00.001-08:00

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.

2011-11-20T08:36:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-20T07:35:00.000-08:00

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.

Topics

2011-11-06T18:16:00.000-08:00

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.

Distracted

2011-11-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-30T18:35:00.000-07:00

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........

Daddyshome

2011-10-28T06:34:00.001-07:00

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

2011-10-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-10-23T10:40:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-10-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-13T19:23:00.000-07:00

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.

12:31.

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.

12:31.

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

2011-10-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Maybe.

An Open Letter

2011-10-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Sincerely,

Hossman

The Fart Game

2011-09-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

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.

Alone

2011-09-25T19:27:00.001-07:00

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.

Redbook.

2011-09-25T18:52:00.000-07:00

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:

REDBOOK STAY AT HOME DADS

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.

2011-09-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Daddyshome

2011-09-11T18:00:00.000-07:00

I've got a post up over at Daddyshome again that has been up for a couple of days. I like this one, I think it's funny. Therefore, most of you will probably hate it. Which is fine, leave comments detailing exactly what you hate about it, why it makes your innards squirm and conclude with what other topics I could write about that would make you more happy, like unicorns chasing rainbows or a how to manual on proper spelling and grammar.

But if you do happen to like it, then we are all good and we can all just hate me and not the stuff that I write. Let's face it, you could do better than me. Not the guy in the corner with the kid though, I'm the best you are going to get.

Happy reading and other new posts are due up on Wednesday and Friday of this week as we've had some adventures.

What now?

2011-09-06T09:19:00.000-07:00

What now. I'm sitting here alone, in my underwear, looking at the wall. Nothing is being destroyed. There are no screams of pain or joy. There is no glory being earned, no victory that is saught. I think I may eat a can of potted meat.

I dropped Bubba Hoss off at preschool a little bit ago. He was ready to go, asked to go, didn't even look at me when I dropped him off. I had to remind him that perhaps Dad would appreciate a god damn hug. Perhaps a high five if it's isn't to much to ask.

Then I left and came home. Little Hoss got on the bus and here I am, staring at the wall wondering what the hell comes next now.

I havent' had 4 hours to myself in a very long time. There is always someone pushing or pulling me, trying to pants me in the grocery store isle or throwing wads of food at my head. I am used to running around looking for potential danger zones while jumping over the claymore mines that my kids have left for me. I battle constant demands for more juice while cursing my backpack that smells like poo.

But now, the house is quiet. No screams, no injuries, no adventures.

I should be happy, right? I should look at this as a major milestone in my stay at home dad life. I vowed to get the kids into school and I am halfway there. Bubba Hoss goes to preschool twice a week for 4 hours a day. And during that time I'm supposed to do something although at the moment I can't really figure out what it is, thus the underwear and the wall.

I could look at porn, always a popular past time for a man in a house alone. But oddly, I don't much feel like it. I thought about doing some yardwork but without someone trying to start the lawnmower when my hand is underneath it, it sort has lost it's fun. I thought that some household projects would be great but who would put the glitter on it? I suck at glitter. It's wierd, I hate glitter and now I find myself missing it. Maybe I'll find a backyard pool that is empty and cover it in glitter and call over Ke$ha.

But that's no good, I don't have enough glitter for everyone and then it would just be awakward. I played some video games for a while but it lost it's challenge with no one walking in front of the screen and screaming "Dad, shoot him in the face!" I tried to get the dogs to do it but all they wanted to do was sniff my crotch. I appreciate the effort boys but I'm just not into it today.

So what I'm left with is eating some potted meat in my underwear. Sounds pretty manly, something that I could only do if I was alone. If my children where here they would want to eat it all by themselves and I wouldn't get any. If Hossmom was here she would be making gagging sounds while trying to talk to the divorce lawyer.

By myself though, it's a perfect activity to pass the time while I try to motivate myself to actually do something productive.

Like go to the grocery store, I do need to do that. It will be easy, no one pulling crap down from the shelves or begging me for candy.

And I do need a lot more potted meat, winter is coming and it might be a long one.

Birthday Cards

2011-09-05T07:36:00.000-07:00

The kids were taking there sweet time trying to pick out a birthday card for Hossmom. There were a thousand choices and when you can't read, you really only have pictures to go on. And when you don't listen to dad at all, you can pick from any section that you want to.

They demanded that they get a card for Hossmom under the "Sorry for your loss" section. While I appreciate their humor I prefer to not make Hossmom cry on her birthday even though it does have a nice picture of a dolphin on the front. We love dolphins.

Letting the kids pick out her present was pretty much the same way. I had to turn them down on the wart remover, the superbowl that never spills, and The Magic Mop. Although we we were near the "As seen on TV" section so at least that was something. Hossmom is a sucker for infomercials. If she was rich, she would just sit and home and order things from infomercials. I have no idea why. She'll try to justify it by saying it's practical because everyone needs a pair of pajama jeans. Our house would be filled with such little genius products such as the Glove Light and the Swing Gym. But act quick, supplies are running low.

Eventually I was able to convince the kids to get her a nail file set. Boring, practical and it comes in pink. This will appease my wife and my daughter. A perfect gift to give Hossmom from the children.

However, we were not having the same kind of luck with the cards. I was eventually able to convince the kids that mom wasn't getting married, not turning 50 and had not just graduated. We went with a nice pinata card that had a picture of a donkey on it. I count it as a victory because it was actually from the birthday section. I grabbed the card that I was going to get her and we went to check out.

I do not like chit chat in the grocery store. I don't want to talk to the cashier while she is ringing up my toilet paper. I feel like I have to explain things to her. Everybody poops and I'm no different.

I try to pick the most depressed person there, the one that hates their job. You can almost guarantee that there will be no chit chat and you might actually get a free apple is they don't feel like looking up the code for it. Today was different though because we were in a hurry so I picked the open lane run by a very bubbly teen. All smiles and optimism and I didn't have the heart to tell her that with today's job market, she'll be doing this same job when she graduates college. Although if I would have said that I could have gotten the depressed cashier that I'm looking for.

Our items come rolling through and the chit chat starts. She comments on how lovely my kids are and I think she is joking because they are currently tearing apart the candy isle at the register. Then they decided that it's time to pull off my pants. As I fend them off with my feet, I grab my wallet, the cashier comments on how well behaved they are as well. This person obviously blind, now I feel bad.

The cashier continues to chat away when she picks up the birthday cards. No big deal, let's just get this done. Then she makes the comment of how she likes to read the cards that people buy. This makes me perk up and stop trying to get my kids from pulling out all the plastic bags.

I do not want her to read the cards, this would be bad. The kids cards would be fine and the cashier does chuckle. Then she gets to my card.

At this point, I would like to point out that I am married and have had sex several times. It's allowed by law for me to have sex. In fact, at this point in my marriage, it's encouraged I have sex for my physical as well as my mental well being. Sex is a part of marriage, it's a good thing. Stop judging me.

The punch line of the card that I got Hossmom said "Do you want to be hammered or nailed?"

The cashier reads the card and doesn't laugh. She is also not making eye contact with me either. I'm not a big fan of awkward silences. I feel like I need to explain that there is a possibility of birthday sex and to a married man, that's a pretty big deal. It's the good stuff. When you have two kids and two dogs, the option of alone time doesn't come up very often and when it does you have to weigh it against the much needed sleep that you will miss because the kids will always, always want to get up at 6:30 on a Saturday. But birthday sex is awesome and I was just trying to make a little joke that would make her laugh, my wife not the underage teen.

I just stare at my feet. Little Hoss now wants the cashier to give her the card so she can give it to mommy. Now it's just more awkward.

I wish she would just move on. Luckily she does. She picks up the cucumber that I bought to add to our dinner salad tonight.

Today's Blog Brought To You By the Letter V

2011-09-01T07:11:00.000-07:00

I am a 36 year old man and I have homework. Serious homework. Not some personal hobby thing that I am interested in, like building a bike that also doubles as a water craft. That would be cool and I would make a million dollars. With that million dollars I would pay off the teacher to do this homework for me. No, this homework is actually for a grade not soulless money that gives nothing back to the community. Except jobs. That's important. But this is more important because this may determine if my daughter goes to Harvard or not, in which case I will start working on that bike thing quickly as I will currently cannot afford Harvard.

I have to find a common household item that starts with the letter V.

The first person that throws out the term "vacuum cleaner" in the comments section, I'm going to punch you. I'm not kidding, right in the face. That was the first thing that I though to of too but it's not going to work.

My daughter has been assigned to be the letter expert in the letter V. I'm assuming because her name contains about 20 of them, the way I spell it. I also can't spell, as most of my readers will bear witness to in the grammar court of the internet. I just mispelled grammar. Spell check rocks and it's a pity I don't use it often to help me with my disability.

The rules of the homework are that she has to bring something to her kindergarten class that starts with the letter V that can fit in a ziplock bag. This bag will be stapled to the letter wall for all the kids, and eventually the parents, to judge her and me.

So go ahead, give it a shot. Give me some household items (that I would actually own) that start with the letter V that would fit in a sandwich bag and is appropriate for a 5 year old class.

I considered taking apart the vacuum cleaner and stuffing as much of it as I could into a bag but I don't think the kids would like it. However, I'm pretty sure my daughter would enjoy destroying something with me. It's our family past time.

I consulted the dictionary after thinking about this for about an hour. Not much luck there. I don't have any vagabonds, can't package velocity and victory is something you never package and giveaway. It's something you earn with blood and sweat and hours of internet searching for a household item that starts with the letter V.

I wish Sesame Street was here right now and if not them, perhaps the electric company and thier psychedelically ways. Maybe this is something I can only find if I'm high.

A verse is to cerebral for 5 year olds but I did consider cutting out a verse of Poe. It's creepy and educational but I'm sure the nightmarish horror of doing that might scar them forever. Not good. Vein, I have those although there may be a rule about blood and projects that I'm not aware of.

A vase would be perfect except does any body who reads this really think I own a miniature vase and that they would trust my daughter to get it to school without destroying it and her future? I could use a picture of my brother in law and entitle it "virgin" but that probably wouldn't work either, I think he may have had sex at one point. Vasectomy is out as well because in this house, we don't even speak of it although I may consider giving my left nut to find something suitable.

I thought of vitimins which may work but I think bringing pills to school may get my daughter into trouble and me under investigation, with starts with an I and ends in a long prison sentence.

I realize that I am thinking about this all wrong. I'm dad, let's play to my strengths. I considered grabbing my tools and ripping apart my radio for the volume button. But then I realized that I should go to my garage, my haven, the place I know best. I got stuff in there.

A voltage meter came to mind first. That's an A+ homework grade if I ever saw one. Unusual, sure. I have one which is better. But would the kids get it and could my daughter explain it, which is what she has to do. Then I found my vice grip pliers. Most people call them pliers but they are also known as vice grips. I could have given her my vice but it weighs about 20 pounds and I'm worried about what she would do with it when people owe her money. But the vice grips may be the answer here. I have 50 of those things, and some can fit in a baggie.

Feeling good about myself and expecting a congratulations letter from Harvard, I got my son dressed to go play in the yard. Vice grips would be fine and I would take an hour tonight to explain what they are to my daughter as she only knows them as "those pinchy things that daddy uses as a hammer on occasion". I put on his pants, he likes to go pantsless like his mom, and put his shoes on. He was fighting a little bit because he likes to do the Velcro straps himself. But I was trying to explain to him that I had to fix the Velcro because the Velcro had some stuff in it and there it wouldn't Velcro very well. I also told him during this lecture, as I am prone to do, that Velcro was invented by a guy on a hike. Velcro was patented in 1955 after a guy observed burrs on his dog after a day out. Velcro has since become a billion dollar industry and today holds kids shoes on everywhere. Yup, Velcro may be one of the most useful household items anywhere......................................

Bingo.

It is now time to start working on that bike.

The Fantasy Hurricane Trip

2011-08-28T18:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Spider

2011-08-21T17:59:00.001-07:00

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.

The Perfect Day

2011-08-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Bullshit

2011-08-16T18:24:00.000-07:00

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 End Of An Era.

2011-08-14T20:59:00.000-07:00

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.

The Auction

2011-08-07T18:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Parental Wisdom

2011-08-07T18:27:00.001-07:00

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.

Make It Loud

2011-08-03T05:18:00.001-07:00

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.

DaddysHome Blog

2011-08-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

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.

In Memoriam

2011-07-31T16:42:00.000-07:00

Thank you for coming on this sorrowful day my brothers and sisters. Today we gather to pay respects to all of my shit that the minions have destroyed. Over the last year we have lost much, suffered many transgressions my brothers. We have seen some of our most valued members of my stuff take the next step to the great beyond that is the garbage dump, can I get an Amen.

Life is difficult, full of calamities and challenges. Sometimes we best those challenges, overcome those calamities by use of the all mighty duck tape. Yet sometimes those challenges resist even the power of our sacred tape as they have been smashed beyond all repair, even for the all powerful Hossman, fixer of the wrecked.

This is our time to remember those that have passed beyond. We will remember what they meant to us and what they mean to us now. We remember how we used to spend many hours playing with our Xbox video game controller. We remember vanquishing the zombie hoard, preventing an alien invasion, and tea bagging crap head teenagers. But we also remember the day when one of the minions threw it into dishwasher and then turned it on. When the dry cycle was completed, so was our controller. Goodbye dear friend, we will always remember you.

We will remember our living room carpet. We can never forget it because even though the soul has left it, the stains perpetrated by the minions never will. It is but a husk of what it once was. Cover in juice and urine, it has passed beyond any help that modern science can hope to give it. A vortex has formed near the hallway that sucks up all the hope of all that walk across it. It is not longer a collection of stains, but one giant stain that may gain consciousness and call itself skynet. Beware the great deceiver for he lives there.

We say goodbye to the brand new race track set that the children received for Christmas. We remember the great family fun we all had on Christmas morning, the laughing and the joy shared by all. We also remember when someone decided to take the scissors to the control units. For what reason, no one knows and may never know. But we do remember the carnage we found exactly one month later when we walked in on two children, one pair of scissors and the lost patience of a father.

We have lost cell phones, tv remotes, DVD players. We see the collateral damage of "Let's Hit Each Other With a Stick" by the marks on the walls, the wails in the air. We see stickers left on car windows and left to bake in the afternoon sun. They will never be removed, they will be a constant reminder. It never ends, it never goes away, it will always be with us.

And our newest causalities, my sunglasses. Lost while at the pool. The victim of a very fat toddler foot deciding to use my face as a launching point for a very large jump. The liftoff was flawed and the bridge on the glasses snapped under the strain of the foot. It might have helped if I was informed my face would be used in such a manner, but that is not our way. Our way is to never pay more than 10 bucks for a pair of sunglasses so we don't want to cut our wrists when they are broken which is only a matter of time.

We also say good bye to the replacement pair of sunglasses that I keep in reserve for just such an occasion. Within 1 week of loosing the first pair, the second pair followed suit as it did not appear to wish to survive without it's brethren. This time it was a toddler foot to the temple. You never know where or when the toddler foot will strike, you only know that it will.

We gather today to comfort eachother, but mostly me because I can't own anything without it getting ripped to pieces. Steel cages will not prevent the destruction. They are like acts nature. Sometimes all you can do is remember what they were and be thankful for the time that you had with them. Hold hands brothers and sisters, bow your heads. A moment of silence please. Ignore the crashing you hear, it's only my cell phone.

A Foot In The Ear

2011-07-22T07:24:00.000-07:00

Today we will explore the question of why a foot in my ear does not feel good. A complex question that will truly expand one's mind and make you rich and powerful or at least let you get a good night's sleep.

First off, we all know that jamming a foot in the ear at 6:30 in the morning will in fact wake me up, thus this part of the equation does prove valid. However, I still submit that it does not feel good to be jabbed in the ear by a big toe digging deep. You have to ask yourself by doing this action, what will my mood be when I do wake up. Will I be peaches and cream, ready for hugs or will I start mindlessly tossing young children out of the bed. Most likely I will choose option number 2 which will result in crying and and then no one feels good thus proving part 1 of why a foot in the ear hole does not feel good.

Next, let us consider the smell of the before mentioned foot. As a toddler's foot, it spends it's days in sweaty sandals in 100 degree weather. It walks around in dirt and occasionally comes into contact with dog feces. There is also a very high probability of spit or dog slobber on the foot. When this foot marinates over night, the resulting smell can be described as a class 4 toxin. Or to put it in child vernacular you can understand, they're stinky and the fumes burn my nostrils. I offer this as further evidence that a foot in my ear not only does not feel good but it also doesn't smell good either.

Finally, let us take into account the delicate nature of the ears in general and look at the result of it being constantly smashed by toenails that need a good trimming. Repeated injury to the ear region by un-cut toenails can result in what is known by the boxing term as "cauliflower ears". This has the unpleasant result of making me look like Chunk from the Goonies and I do not enjoy Baby Ruth candy bars.

I believe that I have successfully described why a foot in the ear does not feel good. So in conclusion, please knock it off, I'll be up in a minute.

Tomorrow we will examined the possibility that getting smacked in the face by a Barbi doll feels worse than a foot in the ear.

The Eye Test

2011-07-20T06:52:00.000-07:00

The optometrist asks me to read the bottom line. I'll admit, it's a bit fuzzy and I may in fact need glasses. It's almost like being drunk without drinking, which sucks massive balls. What fun is that? I may need glasses but I'm going to give it the old college try and pretend that I'm still young and vibrant and young and vibrant people don't need glasses. I may have to start listening to Beiber. However, I may need glasses.

I'm pretty sure the bottom line starts with a L, then a V or perhaps a Y, I'm not sure. Of course the next one is an O or possibly a C. If you ask me, this may be a trick test. However, the last one I know for sure. The last one is a lizard.

That one I can defiantly see, it's defiantly a lizard. And it's moving too. This is a very challenging eye test and I'm sure that it's a conspiracy to make me old. I do feel that I am doing quite well though. I may have missed the Y or V conundrum, but that's a lizard. I can feel it in my bones, a lizard flying through the air. To prove how good my eyesight is I can also tell you that it's a green lizard and his name is Mr. Bangle.

The optometrist takes a step back and looks at me like I'm having a stroke. I just point to my kids, who have decided that the best place to play with Mr. Bangle is in front of the eye chart. They make life very entertaining.

You never get a break from parenting, ever, ever, ever. And that means that sometimes you have to take your kids to your eye appointments. You just make the best of the situation although in this case I feel that they have improved upon the situation as I wasn't doing so well Mr. Bangle came into the picture.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened. I've had to do things like this quite often as my kids are to young to be given jello shots dropped off at the local rave. When we sold our last house, I negotiated the price and signed the contract while drawing a princess. ON a side note, contracts signed in pink crayon are not valid.

Because of the annoyed look from the doctor, I ask my kids to please sit quietly which is like asking a 5 ton whale to do magic. Sounds great in theory but the laws of the universe do not allow it. They do try as I have asked as the doctor asks me to again read the next line up.

This one I can see more clearly. There is a V, an O, a possible F, an S (hopefully), and Buzz Lightyear that is going to infinity and beyond. He has to go rescue Mr. Bangle.

Two Teens At The Pool

2011-07-18T06:57:00.000-07:00

The girl is probably about 16 although my ability to tell ages sucks. She came to the pool with what I assume is her boyfriend, a young lad that seems very proud of his truck. He did his mandatory "I'm awesome" jump into the pool to impress his girlfriend. She's young enough that it did impress her.

For the last 10 minutes they played little flirting games before settling down on the bench that is built into the pool. It's big enough for two young people and their games. Since setting up residence there they have been edging closer and closer to each other.

I was 16 once and I know whats about to go on under water. He'll move closer, she'll giggle, he'll make his move and they both will laugh at how clever they are.

Or I'm just a total crotchety old man now that no longer trusts young people. It happens when you become a parent. In their heads, I'm sure the song Hungry Eyes is playing, or whatever other Dirty Dancing equivalent exists for teenagers now a days.

I like my public neighborhood pools like I like my movies--G rated and no adult situations. I could do something about this, such as firing a tranq in Mr. Hands over there. I'm sure father's every where would appreciate my attempts to up hold virtues. However, I have no intention of doing anything myself.

I don't have to because I have minions and my minions are well trained. They love doing cannon balls from the top rope.

By the time the girl looks up from the enchanting eyes of Mr. Hands, it's already to late. Little Hoss has already filed her flight plan with Control Tower Dad and has received clearance for take off. By the time the two teens realize what's going on, Little Hoss is already airborn and is starting her re-entry.

She lands with a huge splash about a foot away from them and has succeeded in quenching the lustful duo. She pops her head up, spits water at them, and says "Hi!" It's all about first impressions.

The teens look around for the parent of the now annoying child. Hi, I'm right over here kiddos. The guy reading the book and I have no intention of calling off my minion. This is state sanctioned and I even wave at my daughter. Yes, Dad knows exactly what's going on.

Little Hoss decides that they are all now best friends and sits between them on the bench. She tells them that sh is 5 years old and is going to school soon. She also tells them that she can do spins in the water. She spends the next five minutes doing the spins and demanding that they watch her and comment on her water acrobatics.

I know that I am coming off like the dad from Foot Loose here. But I also know that if you are old enough to catch that movie reference that you probably have children yourself now and fully support my inaction. Look, I'll even ease up a bit. I tell you what, I will be ok with all manner of dancing at my pool as long as there isn't any fucking going on. See, I'm reasonable. More so than my daughter who is now showing them how she can touch the bottom of the pool. Your attention is required.

The teens are playing along and being nice but after 15 minutes of this they have moved away from her to the really deep end of the pool. They think that they can resume their touching/flirting/statutory activities. But yet, I have done a remarkable good job of teaching Little Hoss to swim and the deep water has no fear for her. She can do even better spins in the deep water! Would they like to see? I'm a dick but a remarkably well prepared one.

Little Hoss is getting tired now and I think that the teens know it. But no worries, I just put Bubba Hoss in his swim jacket and handed him his dual action water guns. We call him "Dead Justice" and I've told him that there are some varmints in his pool. With his swim jacket on, he won't get tired for hours.

Hugs.

2011-07-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

Can I have a hug--there has never been a more manipulative statement than that. On the surface, the statement seems harmless enough. It's an expression of a desire for human contact, a bonding experience showing love and craving comfort. But it is also a great way to get little butts out of bed and denying me any chance of peace and quiet that I have been craving.

5 days Hossmom has been laid up. 5 days of single parenting and 5 days of dispensing meds every 4 hours. 5 days of running to the doctors appointments, pharmacies, water parks, grocery stores. 5 days of managing 2 active and opinionated toddlers and taking care of a sick wife. 5 days with no breaks. And at nighttime, my refuge from the ass whippery has been invaded.

It starts simply enough. Daddy, can I come down and give you a hug? How can I say no to this? What kind of monster am I? How can I be so cruel. So I say yes and Bubba Hoss comes down, taking his sweet damn time sliding down on his butt. Of course he is not alone. His puppet master comes right after him. She sent him down as her ignorant foot soldier just in case there was any blow back from getting out of bed and coming downstairs at 10:00 at night.

I give them both a hug and remind them not to be loud and wake mom up, I don't need that at the moment. I just want to watch my crap sci-fi and vegetate for a while.

Little Hoss now uses this opportunity to ask if she and her darling little brother can get a toy to sleep with. After all, they are already down here, might as well make it a multipurpose productive meeting. They both soon find a toy, the same toy in fact. A tugging match begins, some screaming and finally pushing. I separate them and tell them to go to their opposite corners until the bell rings.

Dad, can we have another hug?

Fuck. Sure, why not. I should have said no. They use the family hug as an excuse just to get close enough to each other so that they can start pounding on each other again. I pick them both up by the back of their PJ's. One of them actually spit at me but I'm not sure who. I am a fool.

I lose it and I'm not proud. No more hugs, for anyone, ever. I have had enough of this trickery, it is done. I practically toss them back up stairs from the ground floor. I make it very clear that no one is going to get out of bed from here on out. Should anyone choose to test that, I am prepared to go off in such a way that it will make the Apocalypse look like Sunday brunch. I tell them I'm going to boobie trap the stairs like the Vietcong. I explain to them what punji sticks.

But I give them each a hug and tell them that I love them because I can't help myself. There is something about a 3 year old child looking at you that makes you crack no matter what the demand.

I head back downstairs and sit. I turn the TV back on and start my show. It doesn't matter what show, any show. I just want to sit, just for a little bit.

I get a text message from mom, who is now awake upstairs. The phone is the modern day small ringing bell. It goes off when she needs me.

She wants me to come up and give her a hug.

And since I am coming up anyway for the hug, can she have another pain pill and the rest of her medicine. Can I make her something to eat as she is hungry and feel free to take the time to cook something, she hasn't eaten all day.

Drugs, not hugs. It's my new motto.

Ear Infection

2011-07-10T20:49:00.000-07:00

People, we are going down like the Titanic. Our iceberg is an ear infection, a brutal affliction that reminds us mortals not to go swimming, ever. Children get ear infections all the time, no problem. Go to the doctor, get some drops and whammo everything is back to normal in a couple of days.

However, it is not the children that have the ear infection. It is the mighty Hossmom that has been struck with this plague since Friday and it has gotten worse. As it has deteriorated, so has my patience with the children.

I'm terrible at this, I admit it. I'm awful at taking care of sick people and I try so hard. But I never seem to know what to do. For the past three days I have been running the whole family to the doctor and back for drops, pills and voodoo spells. But no weed, this is not a medical marijuana state and this is a drug free family. Please just ignore that very large bottle of Vicodin on the dresser.

Trying to take care of a very sick wife and two high strung kids, it turns out, is a fucking beating. Someone is always crying, all the time, all day. It's midnight and the only reason no one is crying now is because Hossmom is finally sleeping (thanks Vicodin!), and I may have slipped some Bourbon into the kids dinner time milk. It is the first time for the last three days that I have gotten a bit of peace to myself. I may start drinking. That's a stellar idea, lets do that.

After the doctors visits I have been having to go pick up different medications in order to give Hossmom some relief. Who knew that an ear infection on an adult could be so rough? The whole right side of her head is pink and inflamed and I know it's got to hurt like a bastard. However, Hossmom doesn't do pain real well. She always said that she could do big pain well and pointed to the fact that she gave birth to two kids and was tough.

What I don't tell her is that when she did give birth, she cursed me and punched me in the crotch. And afterwards, there was a lot of crying. Like there is now and I have no idea how to handle crying.

It's my Achilles heel in the awesomeness of Hossman. I just stand there like a dear in headlights, not knowing what to do or what to say. There wasn't much crying in my house growing up. We came from the school of "suck it up" because my father was in a wheelchair most of my life. How can you cry when you can still walk? Dries up those tears pretty fast.

When Hossmom isn't crying because of the pain, Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss are playing their new game that they have called "Punch Me In The Face." They stand on opposite sides of the room and each put a fist out. Then they run at each other. Whoever gets punched in the face loses. It's 3 to 2, in favor of Little Hoss. The game ends with someone usually crying. I swear I didn't teach them this.

For 2 and 1/2 days though I thought that I handled this well. I really did. I got everyone what they needed and I cleaned the shit out of the house. This is also the weekend that I had planned on doing big projects, things like cleaning crayon off the wall and removing sticky hand prints from the TV screen. It went well. I would be forcing the kids to clean then Hossmom would need me. I would go upstairs and put drops in her ear, which hurt her so that she started crying. I would stand in the middle of the floor for about 5 minutes until I heard crying from downstairs. I would then leave Hossmom while I went to see the latest scores of Punch Me In The Face.

That would break any man. But I held my own until tonight. It was bath time. The kids were getting undressed and screaming. I was screaming at them to be quiet. My daughter reminded me that Kylan says to calm down. Then Hossmom comes out of the room crying because she needs something. She is topless to so that distracts me, as it would any full blooded hetero man. I put Hossmom back to bed while giving her pain pills while continuing to scream at the kids to get undressed for bath time.

I finally get Hossmom back to bed and this time I'm rubbing her back because that seems more appropriate than standing there and looking at my feet.

I hear the door open. I hear laughter. I hear the door close. Of course, why not?

I run downstairs to see my two kids, buck naked, running around outside. But on the plus side, they did follow directions and get undressed. I think that was my breaking point.

Out Redneck Me

2011-07-07T19:25:00.000-07:00

Your family cannot out Redneck my family. I do not put this as a challenge, but just state a fact. We can't seem to help it, it just seems to come out of us. And when it does, say around July 4th, you would be hard pressed to out-do us.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself that your family would run circles around me and mine. You are deluding yourself, and I say this with a bit of pride mixed with a bit of embarrassment. Just a touch though, because even I stop and watch what we are doing and think, Jesus Christ on a rubber crutch; that's hick.

But if you feel you want to step up to the plate, by all means, add some comments so you can see how you stack up. You better bring your A game though, because if you can't top starting a grass fire in a dry field during the Fourth of July, you should really just take your ball and go home.

That's right, my brother started a smallish fire in a dry field as we were preparing to watch fireworks. He apparently thought it would be a great festive idea to light a sparkler in knee high dry grass. And when the sparks from the sparkler (that's how it gets it's name) caught the grass on fire, he did what any normal man would do. He screamed like a girl and dropped the entire sparkler in the grass. It did what it naturally does; it caught the grass on fire. I know, this isn't too redneck. But this part is: my brother ran away screaming that it was too hot on his foot. This allowed my wife, who we have made honorary redneck, to jump in and take action. She quickly sprinted, with beer in hand, and stomped out the flames. With her flip flops. Without spilling her beer. Of course she didn't use her freshly opened beer to douse the flames. That would not be redneck. Protecting the beer in spite of a possible environmental disaster, that's a tad redneck.

It gets better.

We did all this in Arkansas. Cue banjo music now please.

You are thinking you can out do the ignorant use of fireworks, right? Son, my story is just starting.

To borrow a phrase from Jeff Foxworthy: You know that you are a redneck when the people eating at the Waffle House are pointing and making fun of you. This is what they were doing as the Waffle House was across the street from our grass fire. But it wasn't the grass fire that they were laughing about. It was the fact that we had miscounted, as rednecks do, the number of lawn chairs we would need to watch the fireworks. We didn't have enough. Rednecks are inventive though and the Duct Tape Company should personally thank each and everyone of us for promoting their particular brand of tape.

Instead on sitting on the scorched ground, my brother in law and I decided we had a much better idea.

We had a van with us. We realized early on that the seats in the van could become unattached and pulled out. Normally, this is for people who wish to pack more things into a van. For the redneck though, this counts as lawn furniture. So as my brother in law and I wrestled the big seat out the back, which was damn heavy, the Waffle House people started pointing and laughing. I even caught a few cell phones pop out and start to take pictures. I wanted to ask them why they were so high and mighty since they were eating waffles for dinner. But I didn't because I was to comfortable in the van seat. The seat belts also came in handy in case the van seat tipped over, which was small issue.

So here's your picture: van seat in the middle of a scorched field with a family drinking lots of beer waiting for fireworks being made fun of by the Waffle House people.

Who wants more?

Later in the evening, before the fireworks, we realized that we had brought tons of beer but not juice and what not for the kids. That's called good parenting. So my brother in law, who is Mexican and has a Mexican Redneck name, decided that the gas station/repair shop across the street was a good place to go get some supplies. He got the supplies and then proceeded to try and cross the very busy street to get back to us. From my very comfortable van seat in the scorched field, I watched Mexican Frogger as he dodged in and out of traffic carrying some water and what appeared to be an off brand of grape soda. Rednecks don't pay good money for the real soda, Shasta works fine for our children. All he needed was a sack of oranges and the picture would have been complete. He was in the left hand turn lane for a good 10 minutes. And I do want to point out that since he is Mexican, my family can now claim the tittle of International Redneck family. Suck on that. When he got back, I was surprised to find that he didn't have some sort of jerky in his back pocket.

Stay with me here. Van in the scorched field watching Mexican Frogger carrying warm generic grape soda, Waffle House people laughing.

You could make a case here that your family is more redneck than mine, but you would still come up short because I haven't even mentioned my extended family yet. There isn't enough room on the Internet to truly do them justice. But just some tidbits for you: I have a cousin with two first names, I have a cousin that once ate dog food for a snack, I have a cousin whose sweet southern drawl for some reason makes you crave pecan pie. I grew up thinking that swimming in a drainage ditch after a good rain was a privilege and I have used outhouses that were considered fancy if they had toilet paper in them and not bits of magazine articles. I have family that can talk pistons and hunting with enough conviction that they make Ted Nugent look like a left-wing pussy. The ship my family came over on was called the Good Ship Betsy. That's a ship that probably likes a healthy dose of Nascar. Hell, even the Hossman nickname comes from my ability to hold on to an old live car battery longer than my friends. For some reason, we considered this a sport.

It's who we are and no matter where we all live, it's who we will always be. We may hide it at times, but eventually it will come out on the Fourth of July every year where part of that family is sitting in a van chair in a scorched field with kids drinking generic grape soda.

You are thinking that perhaps you can compete with this level of Redneck and perhaps your family can.

Until you see my three year old nephew grab an open beer from the top of the cooler and take a huge chug.

The Tent

2011-06-26T18:42:00.000-07:00

Rain. There is always rain. Relentless and unforgiving it crashes down on us, on my tent, on my soul. It does not matter when I go camping, the rain goes to. It talks to god and says "God, I think I need to go camping. Hossman is also going camping this weekend and even though he didn't invite me, I think he still expects me to come. It's a thing we have going on." And God says ok because he thinks it's funny. Hell, part of me thinks it's funny to. I would be a great God.

Whenever I go camping, and it has nothing with the time of year that I go camping, the rain comes with us. And my 1984 tent wasn't cutting it. It leaked. Bad. Like bad enough for me to wonder if we even were sleeping in a tent.

I don't go camping often. Actually, before last year, never. However, the kids finally reached an age where I thought that they would enjoy camping. So I got our old 1984 tent from my mom and we went camping. It rained. The tent leaked. We woke up in the middle of a lake that was inside the tent. I thought that the Apocalypse had come. It wouldn't have surprised me if the Loch Ness monster poked his little head up and asked for snasauges.

I put the experience behind us because the kids apparently love camping. And it turns out that so do I. I find them better behaved at camp than I do at home. I have since decided that I will raise my children outside.

We went again and again it rained. I was hoping that the first leaking experience was a fluke. I'm a half glass full type of guy which on occasion makes me an idiot. The tent leaked again. I sat there all night with the Chinese water torture smacking against my forehead.

One more time we went last summer and it did not rain. However, the dew was heavy enough to actually soak through the tent and it's leaking seams so that by 5 am the dripping and puddles easily formed. Nice one God, that one took some creativity. Way to keep me guessing.

Then Hossmom and my mother in law chipped in and bought me a brand new state of the art bad ass tent. For the first time this year, we tested it out.

It sleeps 8, a huge interior that resembles a Gothic cathedral. I can stand up and defy the rain with a shaking and pride in my heart. It's got wrap around windows that let the sunlight in but keeps the riff raff out. The top is also meshed so on rainless nights, nights that I'm not familiar with, I could look at the stars. It has a rain fly, the joy of my joys, a rain fly. This is an additional piece of tent material that goes over the top and keeps the rain out. Sleepless nights being belted by rain pellets were a thing of my past. It even has an electrical port providing even more luxury than my house.

We set up camp. We cooked smores and told ghost stories about evil banks that foreclose on the wrong houses to scare the adults, Papa Scrum and TV's Mike that went with us. Bank of America could be coming and they could be coming for you! We roasted meat on the fire pit and drank beer. We swatted bugs and discovered that ticks sometimes actually fall from tree's giving yet another reason why Hossmom never, ever camps with us.

Then we went to bed and the rains came, as expected. If your part of the country is having a drought, pay my site fee and gas and I will gladly camp in your neck of the woods.

The winds howled and I laughed in it's face. The tent wall blew sideways but we stood firm in the ultra badass tent. The rain pelted the top and I stood. I ripped off my shirt, clawed at my chest and cursed the rain. "I am beyond your reach!" I bellowed, shaking my fist and then laughing hysterically. The rain came harder and harder, the lightning illuminated the sky and my triumphant shadow stood as the solitary backdrop to my victory! The thunder shook the very ground but the tent stood and I with it.

I saw a drop of water come through the top of the tent and land on my sleeping bag. It came almost in slow motion, the splash rippling through my pride.

The new tent leaks.

Fuck.

The Slumber Party

2011-06-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

They are down there and they are playing and laughing. They are down there doing super cool slumber party stuff. They are down there watching Tangled and playing hopscotch. They are down there without me. Because I'm not allowed. By my daughters words.

It's a girl's only slumber party.

Hossmom is with them. I'm up in the room sucking on stupid sun flower seeds. I call bullshit.

Girls only? Girls only? A pox on girl's only. What kind of crap is that? Little Hoss is having a friend over for a slumber party, another girl from our Dad's group. It's only thier second slumber party ever and they have both been excited for days.

I know this is normal, don't get me wrong. It's just that I didn't think it would happen for some time, it kind of like this snuck up on me. And I'm a little bit peeved that I have been excluded. There I said it. I want to go to a girl's slumber party because it sounds like they are having super awesome fun time. I picked my toenails.

This all makes me sound creepy, I realize that. I should not want to go to a little girl's slumber party. But it is at my house. I say it is bad etiquitte to have a party at someone's house and not invite them. I bet they are making smores somehow.

I'm not used to be excluded like this in my daughter's life. This is a new one on me. Let's face it, between Hossmom and I, I am the fun one. Her nickname is Practical Mom. My nick name is super awesome space dog. You tell me which one sounds more fun. Hossmom likes to orginize the pantry and pack luggage 5 days before going on a trip.

If I was down there we would have made the stairs into a water slide. And there would have been prizes for the best wreck. We would have streamers and balloons. I would be growly tickle monster and we would play hide and seek and the winner would get a football helmet full of icecream.

But I am not invited.

They want to have girl time to do girlie things. I can do girlie things. Hell, I'm a man in a woman's world, I can girl it up with the best of them. Painting toenails? I'm freaking Picaso at painting little girl's toenails. But I can do it with my paint gun in my garage from 20 feet away. Beat that.

Tea party with princesses. No problem. I own tea party princess time. My fake tea is like the freaking golden necture from the gods. Sure, I may look a bit strange in a princess dress and it may cause for some awarkward questions later in life, but beauty is on the inside and I reek of beauty on the inisde.

Now everyone is quiet. They are probably telling stories, scary stories with happy rainbow stupid endings. I tell the best stories. I write a blog, my stories are awesome. I have 65 followers and a bunch of those people aren't even related to me. My stories rock.

Check this out: Once upon a time a virus entered the world and turned everyone into zombies. It was horrible, brains were being eaten everywhere. Blood, guts and gore was the new normal for the survivors. But suddenly, from behind a rainbow, Dad came with his 300 horsepower chainsaw and chopped all the zombies heads off. Then he made tea. It was great. The end.

See, my stories rock. But no one wants to hear them because this is a girls only slumber party. Hossmom got to attend and she isn't even sending me text messages updating me on the fun.

I know that this is healthy and I am very happy that Hossmom is getting to spend some girl time with her daughter. I know that this is what little girls like to do. I know that there is bonding going on down there right now and that it makes us a stronger family. I get all that. But it would have been nice to have been asked. That's all I'm saying. I am super awesome space dog and super awesome space dog likes to be invited to parties that are at his house. Were people are having fun. Without me.

Fine then. They can have thier fun. I'm going to somehow fashion a giant sling shot out of Hossmom's bra's and launch barbies out my window at the neighbors who seem to be having a pool party. To which I have also not been invited to.

I need a beer.

The Trip Home

2011-06-19T20:19:00.001-07:00

By now, you have a pretty good idea of how the Hossman family vacation to Disney World turned out. Awesome is as awesome does. Truthfully, it was probably one of the best times we have spent together as a family And I say this even after my mother in law told me that she couldn't find her pants and to not turn around. She told me this after I turned around.

But it was, it was damn near perfect and I am very happy that we all seemed to have a good time and got along. That we were able to make memories that I'm sure will be cherished forever.

This is what I was telling myself when they canceled our flight in Milwaukee for our return trip home.

Why Milwaukee? Because apparently the airlines think that Milwaukee is in the direct path to Kansas City. I was no geography major in college so I can only take their word for it but that may have been a mistake as I know them to be awful, awful liars.

We were supposed to leave at 4:00 from Milwaukee and land in our beautiful home in time for dinner. Those plans don't seem to be working out, the only plans that didn't work out on this whole trip.

The airline tells us that they apologize for the delay and that another plane will be arriving shortly which in airline speak means a very long time. But they promise that we will not be charged a transfer fee since we cannot take our original plane so I decide to look on the bright side of things. Besides, if we had taken off on our original plane they probably would have charged a crashing and death fee and I'm about fee'd out when it comes to the airlines.

The new flight is supposed to be here in an hour. That was an hour and a half ago.

The kids are restless, they just want to get home and they are hungry. I bought them some Cheeto's for dinner as that is pretty much all we could get in the terminal. We can't leave because apparently our flight will be here "at any minute" so now I also got them some peanuts.

Finally, our flight arrives, 4 hours late. But at least it is here. We are supposed to board in the A group. This is short hand airline speak for "You are not as important as A group of other people ahead of you."

Somehow there are select people that get to board the plane first. Normally, I wouldn't care about this. Because if there aren't 3 seats together in a plane I will gladly hand my child off to one of the assholes that just had to board before children and let them deal with the fact that I forgot the colors in the hotel. I'm assuming I can get 3 seats together.

It's also slow going for this group of special select important travelers. Somehow, in the 4 hours that we have been stranded, some dillhole is having a problem with his lack of a boarding pass but he swears he is one of the important ones so a boarding pass has to be reprinted. 4 hours dude. You had 4 hours to figure this out and now is the time you decide that it was important. I have visions of me walking up and booting him in the balls but I am assuming this is against airline policy unless you pay for it first. I'm out of patience and money. I do make a note to sit Bubba Hoss and his horrendous cheeto's gas right next to him. It should be a pleasant 2 hour flight.

Finally we all get on and we do get seats together. The kids fall asleep on the plane which actually worked out well because there wasn't much I could do about them asking me for dinner and a peanut butter and jelly sand which.

We land and I go and get our bags in the three ring circus that is the baggage claim. I don't understand why everyone has to stand right at the front of the little conveyor belt and touch every bag that comes out like it belongs to them. Look, the little pink Hello Kitty suitcase isn't yours Mr. 25 year old but thanks for checking it first. Your bag is the one next, the large black one that smells like weed.

We get our bags, crowd onto a bus and head to economy parking, the far away land where unicorns and gremlins still exist.

We find our car. The car will not unlock when I push the button. I think I have a pretty good idea why but I don't want to tell the family yet. I get into the car and try to start it. It won't start. It's 10:30 at night, the kids are tired and cranky, Hossmom's hair is all out of whack, and the car won't start.

I'll admit it. I lost it a little bit. But at least I tried to do it in private.

I go around to the back of the car. I may have screamed a few cuss words. The big dogs may have come out to play. The words that should only be used in a bar in Thailand. And I punched the car. I don't know why but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

"Daddy!" my little girl shouts behind me. "We do not punch the car and we do not say shit!" she admonishes me.

"Baby" I say. "Sometimes we do."

The Princess Lunch

2011-06-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

My shoulder muscles are no longer working. The ache is the only reminder that I still have shoulder muscles. The burning makes me want to scream and lash out, destroy, seek vengence. My right arm is starting to go numb and it's spreading to the left side as well. I am either having a heart attack or I have a little tired girl perched up on top of my shoulders. The finger in the eyeball I recieve confirms that it is not a heart attack.

I can't stop, must keep moving forward. There is no pain. There is no pain. One foot in front of the other. I am zen, I am the unstopable. There is no pain. There is only the special Princess Lunch to get to. I will get to it. I will get my daughter to it.

Keep moving, no distractions. I see Mickey Mouse posing for pictures on the left. I do not pause to watch. A girl wearing heals and a very low cut shirt crosses my path. I barely glance. She probably wants my phone number and my underwear size. But unless it has a princess dress on and a tiara, I got no time for her. But I do think "Who the hell wears heals to Disneyworld?"

Hossmom is somewhere behind me, at least I think she is. I'm not sure. She has my son, hopefully. Maybe. Probably. And my mother in law is with them. Maybe. Probably not. It does not matter. I must trust her to corral the camp stragglers while Little Hoss and I proceed to the Princess Lunch in Epcot.

There are defining moments in life. This is one of those times. The Princess Lunch at Disney World was planned months in advance. It will have 8 princesses there. They will all say hi to my daughter. She will go crazy. It will be one of her dreams, to meet the princesses that we have read so many stories about. It will define her childhood. It will define me if I can get her there on time so she doesn't miss it.

We miscalculated a bit. We decided to ride one more ride at Animal Kingdom. It may have been a mistake. We left that park later than we had planned, and now we may not make the lunch. But that's the loser attitude, the defeatist that dwells within us all. But I am not all. I am Hoss. I will get her there on time. I have 3 minutes.

There was no time to mess with a stroller when we finally got off the bus for Epcot. There was also no time for pleasantries. My daughter was tired and her pace slowed. I did what a father was supposed to do. I hoisted her up on my shoulders. Come little one, I will be your steed.

She kicked me in the face and we were off. I shouted directions at the rest of our troops and then I took off.

Sweat pours off me, stinging my eyes and soaking my shirt. In the back of my mind, I know I look good. A father suffering for his little daughter? Nothing is more attractive. I am walking sex, I am testosterone personified.

2 minutes to go and I am pointed north. I know that I am headed in the right direction because I have studied this course for a month. I anticipated that this may happen. I was right. North. Towards Sweden. Towards my daughters dream.

I may have developed a blister. It does not matter. No pain matters. My daughter's thumbs go into my ears. It is her game. I have no time for games. I can only hear my breath, ragged, sucking air into my lungs. I feel my heartbeat in each inhale that I do. It beats strong in my chest, covered by hair and determination. I will get us there.

1 minute until the lunch starts. I have no time to get to my wallet and pull out my reservation number. If I am questioned or stopped, I plan to throw Little Hoss through a window. She will crouch, giving a victory cry as she crashes through the stained glass. She will land on her feet and roll with the impact. She will jump up in a fighting stance. I know that she will do this because she is my daughter.

I see the top of the restaurant come into my line of sight. There are people blocking my path. But I am Hoss, my path is never blocked by the lesser people, the little ones that serve only to delay me but not thwart me. I walk in front of someone's picture. I apologize but do not stop. I know that the picture will turn out better with me in it anyway. I hip check a family in red shirts, there must be 15 of them. I note that their shirts mention a family reunion. I tell them that I am long lost uncle Hoss and do not stop for autographs.

I break through the crowd. I see the restaurant.

I see the line outside the restaurant. It is atleast 25 minutes long. 30 different princesses, ages 2 to 15 stare at my lumbering form as I finally stop. They all have thier hair done, tiara's in place, glitter on their faces.

And they all have reservations.

It appears that 12:30 was more of an approximate time. Would have been good to know.

My wife, son and mother in law come up behind me. Little Hoss jumps off my shoulders which are now raw from the friction. I hand her to Hossmom who has the Belle Princess Dress that my daughter is to wear. I shake their hand and let them know that I may be a bit late as I should really go back and make a few apologies to other families on vacation.

I walk away. Victory is mine, my goal has been accomplished.

I need to rest my shoulder's. Their dream come true ability will be needed later tonight. There is a parade later that night and I have a gut feeling that I will have use of their might once again.

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-14T22:18:00.001-07:00

I'm watching my boy sleep. It's late at night, all the family is asleep. Before I go to bed I check on each of them. I don't know why other than it's something that I feel compelled to do. He's sleeping with a truck tonight. It's curled up near his chin. It doesn't look comfortable but perhaps to a 3 year old boy having your favorite toy anywhere near you is comfortable. I'm not sleeping tonight, getting to be a bit of a routine I think sometimes. Fatherhood changes a man, his sleeping patterns is just one of them.

Father's day is about appreciation for the guy that takes out the trash and kills bugs. You get a Spiderman Father's day card because let's face it, those are still cool. And in my house, you get a cake that was decorated by the children which means tons and tons of glitter. Always with the glitter. The family shows how much they love you and how much you mean to them.

But for fathers, Father's day it means something different. This is what I have come to understand now that I am a dad myself. For the family, it's about love.

For dad though, it's about hope.

You hope that he will catch the flyball because you spent so many hours showing him how. You hope he gets the good grade because you made him do his homework. You hope that one day he will tie his own shoe and run up to you with pride in his eyes. You hope that he beats you in chess one day, just like you did to your dad, and you can look down at him with pride in your eyes.

You hope that one day he will know why you have to be hard sometimes and you hope that he knows why you had to be soft sometimes. You hope that he will understand that the things that father's sometimes have to do are not pleasant and not easy. You hope that you have the strength to protect him but know enough to realize that sometimes you must let him fall. You hope that when he does fall that you can teach him how to stand up, admire his bruise, and keep going.

You hope that you have the courage to let him make his own mistakes, little by little, as much as it may kill us inside to watch it. You hope that through life's trails and difficulties, he knows that you are the rock in his world, the guy always in his corner and the one always rooting for him.

You hope that you will be half the man your own father may have been. You hope that you can be the icon that your own father was to you. You hope that your own son can look at you and be in awe just because you are dad. You hope and you hope and you hope.

Hope, it is the driving force of fatherhood.

You hope that he does't grow up hating you. You hope that you challenged him just enough to give him the confidence he will need but didn't push him so hard that that confidence is shattered to early. You hope that he takes the straight path and you hope that you have taught him how. And if not, you hope that you can show him the way back. You hope that you have shown him how a man acts, behaves and lives up to his responsibilities. You hope that you have given him all the tools he will need to face the world and all it's dangers and possibilities.

You hope to god that you don't mess this up because you have discovered that being a father is the hardest but yet the most important thing you will ever do with your life. You hope that one day he can look back on his childhood and realize how important he is to you. You hope that he knows that you love him.

You hope that you don't disappoint him. So much time is spent with sons trying not to disappoint their fathers. I have found that on the other side of that equation is a father trying just as hard not to disappoint his son. You hope that one day he will know that himself.

You hope that you were there when it mattered and that you were there when it didn't. You hope that one day you can look at him and realize that you did something right, even if you can't figure out exactly what that was. You hope that one day he will look at you and know that you did something right, even though he doesn't know what it was.

And you hope that you will get more sleep, that you won't always be standing in his room watching him sleep with his favorite truck. But not for a while on that one. No. For now, you hope that this lasts a little bit longer. Just a touch longer.

Happy Father's Day son.

Lost At Disney World

2011-06-12T19:36:00.000-07:00

I'm watching the GPS beacon that has jumped up on my phone with great interest. It represents a person, my mother in law in this case. It's bouncing around the Disney World map like a pinball. If I didn't know better, It would appear that my mother in law has taken up wrestling and is currently going off the top rope in a no holds bared cage match. But what the little dancing beacon really shows is that that my mother in law has no idea where she is, where she is supposed to be or where she is going. I thought this might happen on this vacation and so, I low jacked her phone.

The family vacation to Disney world, the greatest adventure that the Hossman family has yet undertaken. With crys of Victory (a chant that the kids and I do) we headed off to our adventure. After the first day there, my wife let me know that this was not a competition. And I let her know that if it was, we would be winning. Until we lost the mother in law. Now we may be losing a tad bit, something the kids and I are not used to.

Technically, she was never really lost. She was just not with us at the moment. Somehow she misheard my wife's request to meet us for dinner at Tomorrow Land. What she heard instead was "Wander around like your grandson until Hossman comes and gets you." I'm assuming that she saw some bright lights or a debate going on that distracted her.So now I am tracking my most worthy prey, my mother in law.

Travelling with family on an adventure is something that is a bit new to the kids and I. When we adventure, we get our game faces on and bust ass. We move quickly, make snap decisions and throw plenty of elbows on our way to victory. Traveling with my wife and my mother in law, the pace is considerably slowed. It's not so much the fault of my wife and my mother in law, they are not used to kick ass adventures. Their lives are filled with spreadsheets and morning meetings where coffee is provided. The only thing that we provide are scabs and ass kickery.

I realize that I need to change our approach when traveling with them but it is proving difficult. I always have a hard time dealing with things that I do not understand. For example, I do not understand how it takes an hour in the morning to get going when Disney World is out there provoking us. The kids and I would sit on the stairs in front of the hotel while my mother in law and wife do some sort of Wicca ritual in front of the mirror.

I don't get it. Grab a water bottle, throw some snacks and a change of underwear in a backpack, make a small goat sacrifice and boom, get out the door. I have learned to do this over a three year period of adventuring with the children. I have learned that a bored toddler is a destructive toddler and a destructive toddler likes to punch me in the nose. I am tired of bleeding.

My wife remains back in Tomorrow Land while I go and fetch my mother in law. With each step I take I try and figure out what is going on. She is able to turn on her own phone and find where we are at as well. But asking why is like trying to reason with a giraffe. It might be fun at first but it gets to the point where everything is just out of your reach. The GPS beacon isn't all that accurate mind you, but it does give you some simple facts that you can use to find a person. For example, it would show that the rest of the family is in Tomorrow Land and not in, say, Australia.

The beacon representing my mother in law has now left the middle of Disney World and has gone through the castle itself and is now in Fantasy Land. Not bad but it is still further away. She's a wily one, I'll give her that.

Finally she calls me.

"Stop moving" I tell her.

"I haven't moved an inch!" she says.

I am inclined to disagree as I have watched the beacon move around like a snake being chased by a mongoose. But I have no desire to get into an argument about the finer points of this witchcraft called technology.

"Just stay right where you are, I am coming to get you. Don't move!"

To help with my frustration, I punch Goofy in the nose. He understands when I scream "Family issues!" at him. He then throws Pluto my way to help me distress in this moment. The cast members at Disney truly are great.

I find my mother in law turning in circles and looking at the sky. I make sure she hasn't injured herself and promise her ice cream if she will just follow me. We hold hands to keep her on track and I point out the bright lights as we pass them.

We eventually make it back to Tomorrow Land where my wife is waiting. She has a bloody nose. Perhaps now they will both learn.

Inner Peace

2011-05-31T20:51:00.000-07:00

I am Zen. I am finding my inner peace. I am will personified. Breath in. Breath out. Wax on. Wax off. Calmness. Calmness. Control of emotions. Become the Vulcan.

"DAD!!!"

Calmness. Find the calm in the storm. Find the eye of the hurricane. Live there, become it's god.

A plastic volcano hits me in the head.

Breath deeper. Much deeper. Pass out if I have to, must breath deeper.

We will be at Disney in less than a week. In a few short days we will be in the land of magic. And at that time, I am quitting dipping. That's right, that's when it's going to happen. At Disney World, where dreams come true. Now I have had people tell me that this would be a really bad time to quit. That the stress of traveling will not go well with my nerves. I almost agree, almost.

Disney is tobacco free. There is no dipping allowed on Space Mountain which is probably a really good idea. I also don't think that Mickey would appreciate getting a hocker on his shoe. It may ruin the illusion that they are trying to create. We will be staying in a resort with no car. So unless I bring it with me, I will have no access to chewing tobacco. This is as close to tobacco rehab that I could get and this is what I need. Think the movie Trainspotting except I doubt I'll be diving in any crap covered toilets.

But I know that it will tough, that my temper might come out and I might be an ass. However, I have planned for this. In fact, I have planned for a lot of our Disney Trip. The Hossman family has entered Disney World Boot Camp. A series of tasks to prepare the family for the awesomeness that is Disney. Every night the family has gone on walks with the kids. We all have new shoes and they are now broken in. The length has gotten longer each week. We are getting the kids used to it.

I have also taken the kids hiking and to the Zoo alot this year, without the stroller. Not only to see how they would do but to see how I would do with them in a crowded event. Hossmom and I have had conversations about how to communicate better and what we need in a stressful environment. She needs to yell and I need to punch somebody so it should work out well.

But more than anything, I need to control my ups and downs. When the craving starts, and it will, I need to zen myself like a mother fucking buddhist monk. I have a few rules that I have passed on to the family.

If I ever start to become less than the awesome dad that I normally am, become a prick so to speak, then my wife has a special card. It says "You're a prick" and it means that I have to stop talking and go take a time out until I get myself under control. It was my idea because I know how I'm going to be. She is not allowed to use it after we get back from Disney World. This is good for only 1 week.

Second rule, no one gets in trouble by Dad unless it's life threatening. I just don't trust myself to give an adequate punishment for infractions. I don't want to cancel the whole trip because my daughter didn't finish her breakfast. But I know how I am when it comes to the cravings and I think taking myself out of the punishment will be a good idea.

To do all this, I need to find my control though and this has been my job the last several weeks. I have gone longer and longer each day without it. I have embraced the cravings, expected them and take their challenge. So I breath deep, close my eyes and think of the Dumbo ride and how I would like to punch it so bad that it falls to pieces in front of every child and they start to cry and cry and I just laugh and laugh and the ride explodes and the fire consumes all of fantasy land and the horror oh the horror and I'm in the middle of the horror because some kid hit me in the head with a plastic volcano instead of sitting down to dinner like he was supposed to.........................

Inner peace. Find the inner peace. Deep breaths. Become Zen, become the calm. Gently pick up the plastic and place it back in the toy box and do not throw it at the dog because the dog just happened to be walking by and farted right when you were breathing in.

Calmness. Tranquility. Peace.

Max Protection

2011-05-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

When you need expertise on your engine, you got to a mechanic. When you want to know how to decipher HTML, you go to a nerd. When you want sexy pole maneuvers, you go to a stripper. The point is, when you need advice you go to the experts.

But for my problem where do I go for advice? That's a tough one. You see, I get hit in the balls alot. A ton. I get hit enough in the junk that I'm starting to feel like Drago's speed bag. It turns out, my kids are ball hitting ninjas. For the love of god my son can't figure out how the pants go up his legs but he is remarkably adept at popping my junk without a moments hesitation. He's a young William Tell.

There is only one expert that I need and only one place to get it.

The Hossman family is going to Disney World. The place where the ball defenders live.

All those lovable "cast" members that are inside the costumes. Those are the guys that I need to talk to. Who gets hit more in the balls more than those guys? Thousands of kids, all about 3 feet tall, running full tilt toward Mickey's junk. Yes, I know, Mickey is a cartoon and doesn't have junk. But the poor sap that is inside the costume does and that is the guy that I need to talk to.

We decided to take the trip several months ago and since then situation room type planning has been going on, complete with a public disinformation campaign. I have been openly talking to my family of park schedules, what to pack, parade routes. All decoys to the real mission. When they are all asleep, I go to the secret room under the stairs. I light a candle and pull out the diagrams. I have marked where every character is likely to be at at any given time of the day. I have worked the math and gotten percentages on which characters probably have gotten hit in the balls the most. Not Pluto, no one likes Pluto that much. He's a dog, everyones got a dog. He's low on the "I must talk to" scale. Mickey, of course, is high as he probably gets hit in the wang about 20,000 times a day.

There will be others in between that scale. Goofy is kind of low. He's a tall one and a bit to much like Pluto but he has his followers so I'm sure he gets a few heads in the crotch per day. Donald might also be low because his little duck like Buddha belly probably protects him pretty well. However, Chip and Dale must get hit in the junk so much that it has obviously changed their voices. They are lovable, cuddly woodland creatures, I want to hit them in the nuts myself for some reason.

When we get there I am going to seek these professionals out and I am going to discover their secrets. I am going to throw princess costumes and pirate crap at my children to distract them. I'm going to show my wife the way to prince charming and his shower schedule. I'm going to give my mother in law a box of wine.

And when I have disposed of my collateral damage, I am going to very calmly go up to one of the characters and learn their maneuvers. I want the good stuff, not the stuff that every dad already knows. Don't tell me to turn my hips at the last minute of put a leg up. I want to know the inner circle secret. Do they do a karate chop to the neck so fast that no one sees it or remembers it? Do they have some sort of high pitched whistle that only screaming children can hear that distorts their vision and thus throws off their aim? And if so, how do I get one of those? I want to know it all because my balls can't take it anymore. They even get me when I sleep. They climb in bed with us now at about 3:00am. They tell me to scoot over. When I do, they snuggle in just right until they have a leg spasm and whamo, right in the peas and carrots. And when I grunt, they have the audacity to tell me that they love me. It doesn't feel like I'm loved.

And hopefully, if this carefully laid out plan works, then Disney truly will be the place where dreams do come true.

A Clip Show

2011-05-19T21:54:00.000-07:00

"This is where it all starts - we are now one of "those people". Here we will discuss, with little to no shame, the goings-on of our family - near and far. Family fights, friendly drama, poo and kids."

That was the very first thing written on this blog, way back in 2007. Holy crap that was a long time ago. It wasn't even written by me, it was written by Hossmom. She wanted me to start writing and so she created the blog, gave me the password and told me to go and get it done. 4 years later and 638 posts later, I think I have.

Now she wants me to write a book and I think it's about time. I find that my life is easier if I listen to my wife, less dishes thrown at my head that way. So over the next 6 months, I'll be writing some things or re-working some older stories. I'll submit them and we'll see what happens.

But where to start is the real question. I am told that I need a literary agent. So first off, if anyone can confirm this or knows a literary agent, that would be awesome. Second, I am told that I need to ship off a writing sample and I also need matarial for a book. It's in here, somewhere in 638 posts, are things that should show my writing style and humor. At least I hope there is.

So here is what we are going to do and everyone is going to help because going through 638 posts is a massive pain in the ass. In the comments section, please let me know what your favorite post was. Don't worry if you don't know the name of it, I'll go back and find it and post the link for everyone else to read as well. Thus, I have basically turned this into a clip show which is fine for now as I have only been cranking out 1 post a week for 3 weeks.

I'll get you started. Here are Hossman's Favorites, complete with a little author commentary. If you've missed some of these, perhaps this will give you some good reading while you are at work. Don't expect to much from 2008, I pretty much sucked that whole year.

Enjoy and tell me your favorite posts!

The Flat Tire: The one that started it all. This was actually an email letter that I sent out to about 20 people because I was so pissed off. I wrote it pantsless in my office after one of the worst working days of my life. It's the third post to actually go up but when Hossmom read it, that's when she asked me to blog.

The OB/GYN: I remember hitting the vaginal sonogram with my arm. I almost threw up a little bit when the goop got on me.

Trekkie Support Club: This always makes every favorite list that I do. I think it's because I find it very funny, a lot of people do not, but it's the first post that I thought was truly original and different.

My ManCard: My first post to actually get passed around on the net. I still think it's one of my better ones.

Our Little Secret: Written a month before it was actually posted. It was always meant to be deleted but after Hossmom read it, she laughed so I knew it was going to say up. As a blogger they always tell you to be honest. This is the most honest I've ever been.

At My Mother In Laws: You have no idea how much shit I got for posting this. But holy crap I thought it was funny and I still do. Seriously, I just read it and almost came to tears again. I'm sure that I'll get in trouble for it again, sooo..........

My apology: the apology blog I wrote for the original posting of At My Mother In Laws.

The Stay At Home Dad: I wrote this in my office 20 minutes after I quit my job to be a stay at home dad. It's pretty cool being able to go back to the exact moment that your life changed and still have it so fresh. I remember writing this thing and my hands were shaking. 3 years later and I"m still here and still loving what I do. I think this one will make the book.

The Price of Adult Conversation: Surely you must expect that my children would be all over a "best of" list. If you like stories of Little Hoss and her destruction, this one is for you.

Rocky II VS. Thomas the Train: A man and his son. My son is still a train freak but I'm thinking that he will eventually watch Rocky II with me one day.

Made for TV: The first day of filming for the reality show that never was. But the experience was still great and fun and it's something I don't want to forget.

Safety: I just read this and it still makes me laugh. Don't read it if you don't want that song stuck in your head. It's still one of my favorite though.

Jeff The Squirrel: If there is anything that I have written that describes Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss better, I don't know what it is. The day this happened I was so proud of my kids and impressed by their fearlessness.

Why do Cows Walk: When a little girl spends all day with her father, this is what you get.

The Defeat of Hossman: One of the more recent posts of mine but I still think it's some of my best writing. It's odd to me to back and read an early post and compare it to now.

The Manifesto against Peanut Butter: Another recent post but if you missed it, give it a read. I thought it was great. The story that is, not what actually happened. That was pretty terrible.

The Sparkle Screens: For the record, the glitter is still there.

The Complaint Form: I wrote this right after Hossmom and I got into a fight. She wasn't impressed the first time she read it but it made me feel better.

The Battle Royal: I'll admit, I have forgotten what this one is even about. But it's on my list so here it is.

The Little Boy and His trains: Out of 638 posts, this is my favorite. This is the best writing that I have ever done. I wrote the whole thing in less than 10 minutes. I can remember everything about this post. The words and the story just flowed.

I hope everyone enjoys reading and if you have a favorite, post it so I can go find it and decide what to add and what to subtract. And a special thanks to everyone who has encouraged me over the last 4 years to keep going!!

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning

2011-05-14T09:00:00.001-07:00

Around and around he goes. He's spinning faster and faster. Perhaps he will fall down. Perhaps he will throw up. Most likely he will do both. He has no care in the world, no responsibility to anyone, only to the spinning. He could stop but that would let the spinning down and he cannot do that. So he continues on, ignoring everything and everyone. He can hear the wind going past his ears. He can hear the scrapping of his feet on the gravel. He is one with the universe, the spinning universe, and he hears all.

Except for his father screaming his head off for the 14 millionth time telling him it's time for him to knock off the god damn spinning and get his butt in gear. This, apparently, he cannot hear.

As he spins he can hear ants marching toward the gold fish crackers that are slinging from his pockets. He can hear the flowers growing, their buds ripening and opening up to the sun, which he can also hear as it heats the world. He can hear the birds in the sky navigating their great migration.

He cannot hear his father start cussing to himself about how his own boy tends to ignore him like some sort of insignificant gnat.

He has transcended self. He has gone past space and time. He see's the future, the cities that will come, the cities that will go. He see's the past, the wonders that cease to be and the wonders that never were. He is spinning, spinning, spinning. As he spins, he see's all.

But not his father who has begun to stomp toward him, still cussing and muttering to himself, and who's hands are now punctuating the air as he slowly goes crazy. His father is not spinning.

The little boy spins faster and faster and the feelings now start to come. He feels the rotation of the earth and is in sync with it. He feels a little sick but not the same way as other people. He feels sick because he feels the pain of the world. He is everyone. But he also feels the joy of everyone in the world and it almost overwhelms him. He stumbles but the spinning corrects him, holds him tight, and encourages him to go on.

He cannot feel the crackers that his father is now throwing at his head as he is spinning in a futile attempt to get his attention. He cannot feel his father's frustration as he looks around for a water hose to douse him, hoping that the shock of cold water will bring him back to reality.

He spins but begins to decrease his speed. He comes back to himself, he leaves the metaphyscial world behind. The blurs start to slow and become shapes. The wind decreases in his ears and other sounds start to become coherent. His trance is ended. He looks up.

He see's his red faced father in front of him, almost in tears, and apparently in mid lecture. He doesn't know how it started but he hears how it finishes: "If you stop to spin every 10 feet you are going to be left behind! For Christ's sake boy, let's get moving!"

Yes, moving. His father is right, as usual. It's time to start moving again. But not here, this spot has lost it's magic, the vortex is gone. He walks behind his father for another 10 feet.

He stops again.

He spins.

Trapped

2011-05-08T20:51:00.001-07:00

Fellas, I'm in a little bit of trouble here. I won't lie to you, it doesn't look good. I don't think good old Hossman is going to make it out of this one. I'm a bit stuck and I don't see anyway out of it. I'm praying but I don't think anyone is listening. After this I'm going to have to move and change my name to Lady Underwall. I will make tea cozies and serve guests crumpets.

That's the only solution because there is no way I'm going to be able to walk out of this bathroom unshamed. They say that when a hopeless situation rises that sometimes you the world goes into slow motion. That everything around you becomes almost a dream and is fuzzy. I do not find this to be the case, not at all. As I sat in the bathroom I could hear everything, clear as a bell. The laughing, the joking, the very food being eaten. Everything was crystal clear as well as the outcome of it: I was screwed.

We had accepted the invitation for lunch gladly. We didn't have any family in town and it was a holiday. Friends invited us over to spend the afternoon with them. The kids would play, we would eat and talk. It was to be a great afternoon. However, it did not appear that I planed for it very well.

That morning was Easter and with Easter comes Easter eggs. As it so happens, the kids love finding Easter eggs. They love counting them, they love coloring them and hells yes do they love peeling the shells off of them. They just don't like eating them. So as not to waste what was given, I of course began eating them. It appears that some of them may have been hidden for far to long. And now I find myself in a bathroom paying the price for celebrating with my children.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the bathroom wasn't directly off the kitchen. If you open the door, you can actually see who's cooking what and have a conversation with them. If it was just Dad's around, I may have tested this theory. But as it so happens, there's only me and another Dad here. And our wives. His wife I know and have talked to but we have not crossed that threshold in our relationship where I can openly tell her "Hey, I got a turtle head here. I'll be back in a minute."

But this couldn't be avoided, thanks to the bounty of Easter eggs that my kids found. And because of them, I was doing things in that bathroom that could be described as an abomination. I don't want to get to graphic here, but it wasn't pleasant, even for me. And because the bathroom was so close to the kitchen, I was a bit freaked that everyone could actually hear what I was doing in the bathroom.

I did all the normal tricks. I turned on the faucets to mime like I was just taking 20 minutes to wash my hands. I turned on the fan and thanked the gods that it was loud. I tried to turn up the radio on my phone so that even that sound could mask the delivery that was coming from me. But it was so close to the kitchen, it was so close to the dining room, I was sure that everything came through like it was in HD. And I'm also sure the three courtesy flushes was a pretty big tip off.

I don't like pooping in other people's houses. I don't like pooping around women. I don't like pooping around other women's houses on Easter Sunday. Sometimes though that choice isn't up to you and that's how I find myself totally and utterly screwed.

I know that I can't stay in here forever. Eventually I've got to come out. If I don't then my wife will knock on the door and ask me if everything is ok. I'll lie but she'll see through the lie and then ask me if I want Immodiam AD or perhaps a nice hemoroid cream because at this point, that would only add to the utter embarassement. Then she'll explain to our hosts that her hubby has a little "tummy problem" and it may be a while before he comes out. They may want to get a priest to cleanse the bathroom with holy water after I am done, teehee. Suicide is looking like a pretty good option.

But I'll come out eventually, the coward's way out is no way out for me. And when I come out, what will follow me out will make children cry and maidens join the nunnery. I'll bow my head, eyes downcast as I do my walk of shame. They'll hear me apology through the echo of my footsteps as I make a beeline to the door, never to be seen again.

My feet start dancing as I begin to ponder my situation. I tap out songs that I know, perhaps those will help me. I read the back of the soap bottle, perhaps some insight will be gained by reading instructions of how to wash your hands. I open cabinets within reach. I count the tiles on the floor and see if they make any interesting patterns.

What I need is a distraction, something big. I have my phone on me and consider texting my wife: Have a bad poo. Set house on fire. Will explain later.

But I know she won't, she'll only come to the bathroom door and I'll get the speech. I also consider calling the police department and seeing if they can give me the number of their Hazmat team. Surely this would qualify as a toxic site.

I hear my friend's wife start cleaning dishes in the sink. I'm sweating and panicking. Hopeless. All is hopeless.

But then I hear footsteps. Running footsteps. I hear raised voices, confusion. Then quiet. Everything and everyone is quiet.

I take a deep breath, a pained one, and prepare myself to leave the bathroom. I turn out the light, open the door and walk out to face my shame and ridicule.

There is no one there. There is no one in sight. There is not a sound coming. I have been left alone, free to leave the dragons hold without so much as a glance. And it stinks to. A different stink than the foul smelling cloud coming from behind me. It's not me that stinks, but it is somehow familiar. I have smelled it before. I know what this is. I know where this comes from.

The minions! I have forgotten totally about the minions! Trained exclusively by me for the last 3 years. Day in and day out of constant lectures of how the Lord Dad is your only concern in this world. Do thy bidding and thy will be rewarded! The minions have given me my much needed distraction!

I walk around the house and head upstairs. There I find the minions, my wife, and our gracious hosts. Everyone is laughing but holding their noses as well. My son is laughing, my wife looks like she is about to gag as she takes his pants off. My daughter is running around going Yuck

My son has crapped his pants. God almighty, he has laid the greatest distraction a father in need could ever want. It's makes me smell like lavender on a spring morn. And he's laughing, cackling as Hossmom attempts to take the underwear to the upstairs bathroom. No one even notices that I am there. The minions, god bless the minions.

And that is how my son earned his trip to Disney world.

The Greatest Mother's Day Gift Ever.

2011-05-07T20:46:00.000-07:00

This year I plan to give my mother the greatest gift ever. And I mean ever.

I have finally figured it out. I have come upon the truth of the perfect mothers day gift. It's not an easy truth but it's the truth none the less.

What do mom's want for Mother's Day? Do they want home made ashtrays even though they gave up smoking 35 years ago? Do they want yet another knick knack? Do they want breakfast in bed? Well, somewhat.

Here's the truth and this is what they want.

Mom was right.

All the time. About everything. Scientists searching for the single unifying theory need to look no farther than Mom. She was right. Our universe begins and ends with her. She is our reason for being. She is the reason why we are here and she is the one we will ask for on the way out. And that mom guilt that she lays on you? It's because you have failed to realize the awe inspiring ass kickery that she is. We were wrong, all the time, about everything.

And we have never apologized for it. Ever. Not really. You have given lip service. You may have said the words but there is no way you could have meant it because you have no idea how deeply wrong we all were.

So here is the greatest Mother's Day gift a man can give to all the mothers in his life.

I'm sorry mom. You were right. I was wrong. I'm sorry.

That's all mom wants. Acknowledgement, an apology and perhaps a little ownership about what you didnt' listen to her about.

So here it goes. The completion of my mother's day gift.

This may be tough.

I am sorry that I am the reason that we can't have nice things.

I'm sorry we broke grandma's picture, wedding china, dishes, the fence, the car, the roof (you may not know about that one yet), the bookshelves (multiple ones), the T.V., the VCR--you know, there's really to much to list. So I'm sorry for all of it.

I'm sorry I got a tattoo.

I'm sorry I didn't realize that it was for my own good.

I'm sorry that you broke the wooden spoon spanking me. And I'm sorry I laughed when you did it.

You were right, she wasn't good enough for me.

I'm sorry that you had to break so many dishes in the sink over the years while screaming at my brother and I. I will replace them.

I'm sorry I broke curfew and didn't call you forcing you to track me down and embarrass me in front of my friends. I deserved it.

I'm sorry I faked being sick on some school days so that I could stay home and play video games. And no matter how great my fake vomit looked, it was still wrong.

I will always buy the cow rather than get the milk for free and I'm sorry that this was the most awkward conversation that we ever had when I told you I was moving in with my girlfriend. But at least I married her. I am now sorry that I am making excuses for not listening to you.

I am sorry that I rented "Single White Female" for us to watch when I was younger. I didn't know that there was a sex scene in it and I'm sorry it was the most awkward moment between us. My bad.

I'm sorry I didn't eat my vegetables.

I'm sorry I wore tight jeans in highschool.

I'm sorry I didn't think Sears was a cool place to shop.

I'm sorry that I spray painted my initials all over the house.

I'm sorry I didn't finish the yard work that one time.

I'm sorry that I busted you and dad "wrestling".

I'm sorry I didn't knock first.

I'm sorry that I put many holes in the wall. I was a teenager and stupid. I will admit it.

I'm sorry that I hid even more holes in the wall with posters and you didn't realize it until I moved out and went to college.

I'm sorry that I threw green goo on the ceiling to see if it would stick. It did.

I'm sorry that I punched my brother in the face and made you cry.

I'm not sorry that he cried but I am sorry that I'm not sorry about it.

I'm sorry that I took the car without permission.

I'm sorry that I didn't fill it up.

I'm sorry I took your gas credit card and used it to buy porn instead of gas.

I'm sorry that I just admitted that to my mother.

I'm sorry I demanded dressing myself and picking out my own clothes. A really bad idea.

I'm sorry I don't call more often.

I'm sorry that I didn't realize you were always right.

I'm sorry I stole all your quarters.

I'm sorry that I stole a lot of your dollar bills.

I'm sorry we threw a house party at our house when you went on that short getaway over the summer.

I'm sorry we broke the table.

I'm sorry we broke the window.

I am very sorry about all the carpet stains.

I'm sorry I made you insane. I'm very sure you were a cool chick before you had children.

I'm sorry that my music was to loud and I was to close.

I'm sorry that I sat to close to the T.V.

I'm sorry every time I didn't tell you where I was and you thought I was dead.

I'm sorry that at times I thought the baby sitter was mean. You were right, she wasn't a bitch and I needed to eat those lima beans to make me a big strong man.

I'm sorry that you spent a years salary to feed me when I was in high school.

In fact, I'm sorry that I was ever a teenager in the first place.

But most of all, more than anything, I'm sorry that I can't be there this morning to give you breakfast in bed and tell you how much I love you. You are unique and I owe you so much. You're always my mom, no matter how far away I may be.

Love ya mom.

The Garage Sale

2011-05-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

The lady is looking at the quarter, studying it like it's the lost treasure of the parking meters. She's intent on it, turning the quarter over and over in her hand. She holds it up to the sun to get a better look at it. She holds it close to her face. She holds it far away from her face. It would appear that she does not know if she is far sighted or near sighted.

She does this for 5 awkward minutes while my hand is out waiting for her to pay me the 50 cents she owes me for the shirt she is about to buy. I'm just sitting there waiting for the quarter while I run the Hossman garage sale. Me, the kids and the lady who is emotionally attached to this quarter. For a minute there, I thought she was going to bite it to check for gold.

The is the second year that we've done a garage sale. When you have children, it turns out that you have so much crap that you absolutely must get rid of it somehow. This is our somehow. We are selling as much as the kids clothes as we could part with. For me, that means everything. For Hossmom, that means maybe 50% as she started crying when she was labeling the baby clothes. And for the children, this means nothing should be sold as suddenly they want everything that I have pulled up from the basement. I put a onsie on my daughters head to show that there is no way that it would fit. She said it did and happily ran upstairs. So we all compromised. They all went away while I got the garage sale ready.

And now I'm waiting for my quarter to pay for the shirt. Normally, I love meeting new people. I like the different stories that each person represents. But I'll be honest, hard core garage sale people freak me out a bit. Eventually she decides that there is something special about the quarter and she can't give that one to me. She reaches into her fanny pack and pulls out about 20 more. This, of course, pisses me off just a little bit more. If she had so many quarters, why not just grab another one if she didn't want to part with the one in her hand. It's like I'm asking for her first born after she couldn't guess my name.

I get my quarter and she moves on, taking with her a shirt and a cat carrier. We have two cat carriers but only have the need for one of them. My wife, um, sent the other cat to "live on a farm".

The next customers show up. In a u-haul truck. 18 feet long.

I don't understand these people. I don't any of these people. At all. I know that they are going to be disappointed with my wares. It's obvious that I don't have any big ticket items, only kid related things. But it has been worn by "THE HOSSMAN FAMILY!" so I'm hoping there will be some keepsake value to some of them. The u-haul people do a quick walk through and head on out, making sure to stop at our free box. This contains broken or old toys that I give away free to kids. I thought it was a nice touch. They did to because they do spend five minutes going through it before leaving.

Next my hip hot ladies show up. The two of them are wearing heals to my garage sale. Suddenly I feel under dressed in my shorts and flip flops. But I flex all the same. Might as well give the ladies a show. They head over to the little girl dresses.

"What about this one?" one asks the other.

"Ew, no. No way." the other says.

I don't know how to take this. I know that my taste in clothes for my daughter has been suspect, but this still seems rather insulting. I'm assuming that they do not notice that I'm right next to the dresses, which is odd as my awesomeness is hard to miss. I flex even harder, throwing some grunts in there as well.

"This one?"

"No"

"This one?"

"Never."

Ouch man. Seriously, I'm right here. And so's my daughter. We are the two people juggeling chainsaws so you'll notice that we are here. We are going to set them on fire next. The hip hot ladies leave without buying anything. The only thing that they take with them is my pride and apparently it was cheap.

The next hip hot ladies that show up are much better. They ooo and aaaa over the baby clothes. They say how cute they are. They love them. They buy an arm load and I give them 3 things for free. Maybe it's because they were hot. Maybe it was because they flattered me by saying my daughter's old clothes were cute. Maybe it's because if they asked if I worked out. Either way, I thought they were nice and I like to reward nice people.

A family shows up next. They have two kids with them, both younger than my kids. This is my go to audience, these are the people that I want. They need summer clothes. But what I really want to do is to get rid of some of these toys that we have accumulated over the years. I have a plan. The parents see the free box and send the kids over there while they look through the clothes. But what they don't realize is that the free box is right next to all the other toys that I want to sale. My hope is that the kids will start with the free box and then move on to the toys I"m trying to sale. Then throw a fit when they can't take it home. Mom and dad will offer a free toy but that toy is crap and the kids know it. Thus, they will crack so as not to cause a scene as I will be judging from my lawn chair of power.

It works as scripted and we unload a Caterpillar riding toy and a truck. I am 10 bucks more awesome.

This goes on for two days. Sometimes it's busy, sometimes it's slow. One time I took a nap in my chair. The kids took half the stuff back inside. In the end, it was a decent sale. I made some green which I will put to very good use. We got rid of some clutter. And the hill people got to come down from their lairs and enjoy the sunshine for a little bit.

Daddyshome Blog

2011-04-27T21:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't write a post yesterday and I'm sure many of you are so disappointed that you considered sending me hate mail and considered kidnapping me and breaking my ankles with a sledge hammer. Please don't do that. I have glass ankles and they would shatter.

But this was by design. I have a new post up at Daddyshome today. Head on over and take a gander and what crap I'm spewing lately for the stay at home dad community.

Actually, I don't think this one is crap, I kind of like it. Which means that when I meet some of you in real life you will make it a point to tell me that it "wasn't your best work."

Fantastic.

Ok, click here to get to the site and I hope you enjoy it enough not to break my ankles.

Shane, The White Trash Easter Bunny

2011-04-24T18:07:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, where does the Easter Bunny come from?" My daughter asked me and my wife.

Hmmm, another parenting quandary. She has gotten very inquisitive lately. What is death, where do babies come from, and now where does the Easter Bunny come from. I have done my best to answer these questions without cutting the heads off any more bunnies (see earlier post, I'm not a monster.) But how to answer this one. After all, this is a big one. Here we have to weigh the knowledge of the spiritual and religious. Do I tell her some people's belief in the resurrection and then contrast that with the fertility of the Mother Earth religions? Stigmata vs. Fertility? The question leads into a whole other series of questions that she'll ask and I will discuss with her. In fact, we should probably go sit down for this one, grab alot of resource books and get to it.

"He comes from the dryer honey." My wife says.

"Really?" Little Hoss replies.

"Yup" Hossmom confirms.

I look at my wife. I look like a donkey trying to understand algebra.

"What?" I gently ask.

"The dryer. Santa Claus comes down the chimney and the Easter Bunny comes from the dryer." Hossmom explains. "It's what my mom told us while we were growing up."

Ok, now it makes sense.

But just so I'm straight, so we don't confuse our lies here about Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny lives in our dryer like it's his own personal double wide? And once a year he takes a break from his meth lab bathtub and delivers eggs and candy to good little boys and girls. I just want to be clear. I just to make sure that Shane, the white trash Easter Bunny, jumps his little tramp stamped white butt out of the dryer to do this one good deed.

And the rest of the year, our bunny Shane, just lives in our dryer watching the weather channel for the next tornado? That would explain several things like why our socks go missing and the addition of plastic pink flamingo's on top of the washer.

There's also a broken down yard chair up there, one of the old weird fabric ones, that has a half busted seat. Next to it is an empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and there have been a large quantity of Pal Mall cigarette butts jammed in the lint filter.

So yeah, that all makes sense. It would also explain some of the weird noises that I hear in the middle of the night. Honestly, I thought we might be haunted or something. I was starting to become concerned and was looking at buying holy water in bulk. But I don't need to worry now, now I know what is going on. It's just Shane and his beotch having it out again. She burnt his grilled cheese and ya know, he's got to take care of business. So he puts on his little Easter Bunny wife beater shirt and goes at her. But his women ain't no cupcake. She's a tough little cuss and so she grabs the frying pan. Pretty soon, Shane is missing one of his front teeth and the cops are knocking on my door.

It's good to know that I have house guests as well, I'll have to adjust my shopping. Usually I just buy stuff for 2 adults and 2 kids. But this changes everything. After all, what's Shane going to eat, laundry detergent? So tomorrow I'll make sure I grab a case of Mountain Dew and some Cheetohs. Maybe I'll pick up the weekly Auto Trader guide to and pass it off to him so he can see if they printed his ad right for a 1972 El Camino that he's trying to unload. It's missing some tires and the front seat has cigarette burns in them but he's hoping it will fetch enough so that he can buy that Astroturf for the front of the dryer that he's had his eye on.

One day my daughter will ask about the Tooth Fairy and where he comes from. I'm thinking that we'll call him Earl and he lives in the toilet.

Failure to Communicate

2011-04-22T05:46:00.001-07:00

I believe that there is a communication problem in my household. I'm not sure really where I'm going wrong but I know it's just not clicking. For example, I told my son "Please clean up your toys." He took that to mean "Please fuck around for a bit."

Realizing that I had not made my message clear, I again tried. "Please pick up your toys that are in your room." I thought that was pretty clear but apparently I'm an idiot that doesn't know how to get his point across. He thought I said, and now that I think back it's understandable, "Throw your toys over the stairs and aim for the dog while you do it."

Again a fail on my part. "Please pick up your toys on the stairs and in your room. Put them in your toy chest." He heard "Sit in the middle of your toys and play with your junk."

Now my eye was starting to twitch and I was having to take deep breaths so I wouldn't lose it. I'm as still as a statue just trying to compose myself. I'm chanting to find my happy place. "Please pick up those toys. Right now. Put them here, in this basket."

He thought I said "Go to your sisters room and hit her in the face with a plastic sword."

So obviously, I'm doing something wrong here. I'm not actually sure what it is but the message is not getting across. I think I need to hire a PR team so that I can craft my statements and put them out in a way that a 3 year old boy and a 5 year old girl will understand it. I'm at the point where I will drop 10K on a PR guy just to get some toys picked up.

It's more than just this isolated incident, that's why I know that I have communication problem.

At dinner last night, I told my son "Please be careful and don't spill your milk." He spilled his milk almost immediatly. Chanting begins.

I cleaned up the milk and told him again. Thinking that I was very clear that I didn't want anymore milk being spilled, I thought that everyone at the table understood that message.

His sister then spilled her milk. In the exact same place as her brother. I mean exactly, same fucking pattern and everything.

More chanting. More deep breaths. "Please, for the love of God, do not spill any more milk. Be careful when you are reaching for it."

They didn't hear this. What they heard was "Punch your brother, make him cry. Then everyone spill your milk again while you are fighting." Clearly, the fault is mine.

I need to bring in someone else. Maybe I need to bring in the cruel warden from Cool Hand Luke. I wonder if that guy is dead yet. But he is clear about getting his message out. "What we have here, is a failure to communicate. Some men, you just can't reach, so you get what we got here last week. Which is the way he wants it, well, he gets it!" I bet he does free lance jobs. Maybe the trick is to tell the kids to get that dirt out of my hole?

There is some sort of secret code in my words that I'm not picking up on. Maybe I'm speaking pig latin. For the last 4 months, I have been studying this and have come up with a few things.

"Get in the car" means "Run into the street."

"Let's take a bath" means "Hide in my closet."

"Take the dogs outside" means "Ride the dogs like you are Lone Ranger and Tonto."

I've got charts spread out on my walls trying to decifer what I'm saying. I look like the guy from The Beautiful Mind. I've got thumb tacks with little bits of yarn strung to eachother. I'm not seeing the pattern, but it's there.

Even right now, as I write this, I tell my daughter "Take your basketball goal into the toy room." She hears "Push it into your brother and knock him over."

Me: Go to time out.

Her: Hit your brother again.

Me: NOW!

Her: Do ballet.

Me: For the LOVE OF GOD GO TO TIME OUT NOW!

Her brother hears: Punch your sister as she is walking to the corner.

Me: NO MORE HITTING!

Him: Hit her again.

Me: EVERYONE GO TO TIME OUT SO I CAN WRITE A BLOG AND BE FUNNY!

Them: Throw balls at eachothers head. Hard

And that's when I get it. That's when I crack the code, right now, as I write this.

Everything said everywhere means "Drive your father fucking insane."

That's your Rosetta Stone, make use of it. Then go hit your sister.

The HOA: You Asked For It.

2011-04-19T20:40:00.000-07:00

I feel that I have to offer a preemptive apology tonight to our Home Owner's Association. Yes, it does appear that some giant alien weed has infested my yard. It's brutal and has a high level of intelligence and seems to be immune from me cussing at it to get out of my front yard. But that's not the reason tonight of why I'm giving a preemptive apology to the Home Owner's Association. Just so they know though, the weed thing is being handled by the government. I can't remember the names of the gentlemen who showed up, but they assure me that what I saw was just the light reflecting off Venus.

What I need to apologize for is the Armageddon that I'm sure my wife is about to bring at our annual HOA meeting. She is a bit pissed. Well, that's like calling Niagara falls a small bump in the barrel ride. But either way, I wish the HOA board members the best of luck and I'm sorry if she makes you cry.

I have known Hossmom for a really long time and let me give you guys some advice. When she gets like this it is better to hire a contractor to build you a fallout shelter, get about a year's worth of food in there, and then just hunker down until the nuclear winter is over.

But the HOA really brought this on themselves. It's like complaining that you stepped in cow shit when you walk through the pasture. It's best just not even cross over the barbed wire and just let the cows do what they do. But they didn't.

The HOA here isn't really that good. Well, they are pretty awful really. There is no communication, no effort to really do alot. But they do enjoy taking our 400 bucks a year through the home owners fees. But that's not what has got her so riled up. The HOA decided to sell all the common property around our neighborhood. This is a problem as one of those areas backs up to our backyard and we play in it a crap ton. It's a common area that about 10 houses share. We found out almost by accident that they wanted to sell it to. It would appear they were just trying to do it quick. When Hossmom called the President of our HOA he told her that the land had no real value. She was quick to point out that it had value to the people that lived around it. She may have called someone a douchebag. The reason for the sell was that the HOA didn't want to pay to have it mowed anymore.

This lead to Hossmom into a whole other area, that was just the beginning. Before she left the house she wanted a complete audit done of the books and had about two pages of "talking points" that she was going to rip off.

My advice: run. She's hard enough to handle when she is doing a little normal debate. But when she has had 3 months to do research she is pretty much unbeatable. She left with a copy of the bylaws. Who the hell reads the bylaws of the HOA? So yup, you guys might be a little fucked.

As I have been in your hopeless position many, many times, I am going to offer you some advice that my children and I feel works really well when she gets like this.

Look at your feet alot when she is tearing into you. For the love of God do not make direct eye contact. She's like a silverback, she'll take it as a challenge and all of a sudden you will get the verbal charge. So just look at the shoelaces.

Don't stand up. Bad move. It's a move of aggression. She'll take it as an opportunity to put you on stage and further humiliate you in front of a lot of people. My advice is to go the other route. Find a table and just crawl under it. The storm has got to pass sometime.

If Elvis is in fact alive and lives in our neighborhood, you might want to ask him to come to the meeting to serve as a distraction. If we don't have Elvis here, get the circus to detour through the neighborhood. Perhaps a lion tamer to battle my giant weed. My point is that a distraction is truly your only hope. I give Little Hoss 10 bucks anytime she flings food at the wall when I'm getting my ass chewed. It's our standing arrangement.

Don't answer any direct question that she puts to you. She doesn't want you to answer it. She already knows the answer. She's just trying to make you look like an ass. Try the tried and true "mumble" answer that my kids give. And of course, keep looking at your feet.

Maybe those will work, maybe those won't. It's hard to tell with Hossmom when she gets like this. With me, she's pissed for about 2 days so at least you guys know what's coming. And if at all possible, just keep my name out of it. I've got the weed to deal with.

_____________________________________________________

Editor's note: Hossmom returned. I have discovered that I have been nominated for some HOA committees. Great job guys, dragging me into this. Awesome really. Now she can just yell at me again. Well played. Didn't see that one coming at all.

Man's First Discovery

2011-04-17T19:25:00.000-07:00

Man is a discoverer by nature. It is what he does. It is what defines him as a man. Man discovered fire. Man discovered the wheel. Man discovered that 11 herbs and spices applied to chicken and then deep fried in lard tastes damn, damn good.

But every man has to start somewhere. He has to make that first discovery that sets his self on the path for future discoveries. Was E=MC2 Einsteins first discovery? Was Columbus' voyage across the great unknown to what would one day called America his first exploration? Did Armstrong walk on the moon first, or did he perhaps go somewhere else to light the fire of discovery?

The irony is that, even though all these men came from different eras of time, each has the same discovery in common. The discovery of something so vastly important that it shines the light on what else can be in the world. It is the reason men explore, the reason for our inquisitive natures.

To describe what that first discovery is requires a greater mind than my own. One that is still full of wander and hope and not one that is as cluttered as mine is by wondering why there is going to and NFL lockout that will totally fuck up my fantasy football season, the league that I have played in for 18 straight fucking years that millionaires are now going to shit all over. So I will turn you over to my son, a man in the making, who himself is making that very first discovery that will bring new understanding to him. I will translate of course as I'm assuming that none of you speak minion.

Let us begin:

Dad! Dad! Guess what!

I found something, something cool! You are not going to believe this. This is better than ice cream wrapped in a Popsicle. I know, don't tell mom about those, but you've got to check this out!

So I was going potty today, like you taught me and things were going pretty well. I wasn't peeing on my pants or nothing. I was just sitting here on my special potty and enjoying some Team Umizoomie, that robot is amazing by the way, and I was peeing, right. So anyway, I get up and look down. And do you know what I saw?

I saw my penis! Where did this thing come from man, look at it! I know that I've always had one but I've never much paid attention to it. Boy was that a mistake.

Because when I saw my penis, for some reason unknown to me, I thought to myself: Self, why don't we give that a yank.

And I did.

Holy crap.

That thing is freaking awesome man! Why I ignored it so much before, I have no idea. I mean, I've always stuck my hands down there and stuff when I'm cold or tired, but I've never really yanked on that thing.

A.W.E.S.O.M.E!

This thing is great, how come you didn't tell me about it before? So I'm standing there with my pants down, Jake and the Neverland Pirates are on now, and I was holding my junk in my hands. For some reason, I felt oddly relaxed. Well of course I wanted to see where this would go. So instead of pulling my pants up, I just dropped on the floor, butt and all! That's the ticket!

So I sat there for a little bit and things were going pretty good. I was feeling very zen, know what I mean. And I thought to myself again: Why not roll around for a little bit. So I did!

I'm rolling around, holding my junk and I don't even care what's on T.V. anymore. I'm just rolling around with my pants down and smashing my penis up. It was super cool man. I could have done that for ever. But then the dog came over and licked my butt. I didn't like that so had to go to the couch.

You would think that by now I would have pulled my pants up. But guess what?! I didn't! I just went ahead and took them straight off man! I know! How crazy is that!

So the pants are off and the dog has run away and I'm holding my junk. You still with me Dad? I'm doing this for like a good 15 minutes. Mickey is on or some such crap like that but I just don't seem to care anymore. It was a bit weird. This penis thing is pretty great but it kind of makes me stupid if I pay to much attention to it. Weird huh?

Anyway, I'm still holding my junk and now I feel like a sandwich. But I can't make a sandwich because I'm busy slapping around the old one eyed willie, no what I mean? I got stuck there for a little bit. I wanted a sandwich and some chips and something called "beer" and I don't even know what that is. But I couldn't get up. So I sat there some more. For a while more actually. I seem to have lost time.

Pretty soon I'm starting to go blind and I notice that I have to go pee again. So I get up to go pee because man would you be upset if I took a leak on the couch. The last time I thought you were going to have a stroke. So I get up to go pee and sit down again.

But get this, I sit down and this thing is staring me right in the face! WTF man! Did I break my penis Dad? It starts to freak me out, I don't know what to do. I'm just staring at this thing and it's staring right back at me. This goes on for like, 10 minutes man! I was about to cry.

But then everything just went back to normal and I could pee again. I don't know what that was all about. It was scary and it was cool at the same time.

Now let's talk about that sandwich.