There are a ton of parental advice columns out there. Blogs, magazines, TV shows, even the bum downtown wants to give you advice on how to be a parent. But there's a problem with that advice--it's intangible.
Look at it next time someone gives you parental advice. They say things like "You got to get out more often, get the kids active." or "Get a routine." It's good advice but in the end, it doesn't really deal with the day to day type things that parents have to do. Fine, I'll get a routine. But what does the routine entail? I'll get out, where should I go? What should we do?
One of the best pieces of parental advice that I got was that WD-40 gets crayon marks off the wall. WD-40, how awesome is that stuff? Good for lug nuts, good for child care. Surely the guy that invented that won some sort of Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. If not, I hereby award you Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. No speeches though, this is my soap box.
With that in mind, I'm going to offer some parental advice that you can actually use. Today. Tomorrow. Next year when you're in tears you will remember this advice from a stay at home dad who once himself won the Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. This is practical advice, advice to get you through the day. How do you parent like a Hoss? This is how:
Keep a wet/dry vac in between your dinning room and living room. Have you ever seen a 2 year old eat Cheerios? That shit gets everywhere. And then it combines with the milk, because lord knows that they got to have milk like a big boy, and it never stays in the bowl. Or on the table. Or even in the dining room. Without a doubt that ends up everywhere. And that's where the wet/dry vac comes into play. I leave mine plugged in all the time. I only take it out to the garage when company is coming over and my wife makes me. It will pick up anything. Little Hoss picked up the cat once with it once. Because I taught her how to use it. If she is going to chunk her peanut butter and jelly sand which then she can damn well go vacuum it up. 12.5 HP of Hoss parental awesomeness.
I also keep a beach towel safely tucked away under the kitchen sink. You never know when you are going to need a really big towel for a really big mess. One such as when your son takes the top of his juice cup off and throws it on your feet. Because that's funny to a 2 year old. It's fucking hilarious. I think a timeout is hilarious.
An air compressor, secretly stashed away in an upstairs closet, does wonders with dusting.
Kids getting to loud, maybe whining to much? Turn your music louder. Talk over Metallica? I think not.
A tool belt equipped with Windex, 409, a roll of paper towels and a couple of cans of WD-40 (of course) lets you clean the entire house without stopping. Just reach into the belt and grab the bleach. It's next to the screwdriver.
Maybe your kids have a little to much energy, driving you nuts? Toddler Mosh Pit.
Kids won't eat something? Put it on a stick. Meat on a stick. Who doesn't love meat on a stick? Meat on a stick with Ranch Dressing. Works every time.
Contrary to popular opinion, common sense and the users manual--a 3 year old can in fact use and operate a nail gun quite well. That's just general knowledge, something that you should probably know. I'm not saying I've done it. I'm just saying that I've seen it done while I was in the room and someone said "give it a try."
Never, ever ever hide your porn along side your kids favorite DVD's. You only make this mistake once. It will save you a conversation that I like to call "Transvestite Midget Tossing 4? Really Hossman?"
He who screams loudest wins. Always.
If enough cookies are on the line, a 3 year old and a 2 year old can find a way to work together to learn to fold a sheet properly. And put it away.
It is never a good idea to let your 3 year old drive the car when the cops are watching and the chief of police lives in your neighborhood.
Having trouble reaching that dish on the very top shelf? Your reach will be greatly increased if you put a 3 year old on your shoulders, tell her to stand, and without a doubt remind her that this is one of those things that she is not to tell mom about. It's a high wire act of cool.
Pouring some Pine-sol down the drain gives your house that freshly cleaned smell and will momentarily fool your wife when she gets home thus buying you precious minutes to enter your escape hatch and bug out before she discovers the dog vomit on the carpet that you didn't feel like cleaning up.
There you go, practical real world advice to get the job done. And remember, when life gives you lemons make lemonade and then add half of jug of vodka to it. That will get you through the day.
8/5/09
8/3/09
The Cute Little Girl, the Cute Little Boy, and the Resonably Handsome Man
This is a story about a cute little girl and a cute little boy in the backseat of a car. In the front seat of the car is a reasonably handsome middle aged man. He's not "oh god there's Brad Pitt" handsome but if you were desperate, you might throw your panties at him if he were on a stage.
They are traveling down a road. The windows are open because the cute little girl likes the wind when it blows in her face. She is giggling and then she is throwing gold fish at the reasonably handsome man driving the car. This makes her giggle just a little bit more. He's saying something but she is choosing to ignore him. She punches her little brother, this makes her giggle, too.
The reasonably handsome man in the front seat is starting to say some more things. Something about behaving, acting right,not throwing things and what she thinks is "Dear God in heaven, so help me....." but she can't make out the rest because everyone seems to be distracted by the pretty red and blue lights flashing behind them.
She's had a very exciting day and it looks like it just got better. The reasonably handsome man is slowing down the car and pulling over to the side. She thinks to herself to ask Momma what "shit" and "fuck" mean.
They stop on the side of the road, the reasonably handsome man, the cute little girl, and the cute little boy. Her window is still down. And then they sit there. They don't do nothing. They don't open the doors, they don't unbuckle the seatbelts, they are just sitting there. The reasonably handsome man has stopped talking but he seems to be trying to strangle the steering wheel. He's so silly.
She turns around and sees the thing with the red and blue lights come up behind them. It looks like it's a tricycle but it is missing it's training wheels. She wants one immediately and asks the reasonably handsome man if the one behind them is "mine". He says no. Oh well, maybe the man walking up to the car will share his.
He's a man in blue and he has a helmet on, the kind of helmet that the reasonably handsome man makes her wear when they go sledding down the stairs. He seems nice enough. "Maybe if I'm nice to he'll let me have his bike." she thinks to herself.
Her window is down so she waits for the man in blue to walk up to the reasonably handsome man, still sitting in the front of the car, still gripping the steering wheel.
"Hi!" She says.
"Hi" the cute little boy says to. He doesn't want to be left out, he wants the bike too.
"Me Little Hoss Daughter." she says introducing herself like the reasonably handsome man has taught her to do.
The man in blue says hi back to her and then continues talking to the reasonably handsome man.
She does not like to be ignored.
"I go play with Emily. Then, then, then, we go swimming and then, then, then, we play at plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyygrouuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnd." She says, putting emphasis on the last word. That should get his attention.
The man in blue is not looking at her. The reasonably handsome man is getting something from his butt. It's his wallet. She's not allowed to touch that anymore because this one time, when she was young, she threw it in the toilet.
"I want peanut butter jelly." She says.
"Me, too" says the cute little boy.
Nothing, the man in blue is still ignoring her. The reasonably handsome man is making a lot of hand gestures and may be crying, it's hard to see.
"I pooted! 'Cuse me!" And she giggles some more. Momma says she always has to say excuse me when she poots.
"Look, I have my blankie," she continues, hoping that her soft little blankie will distract the man in blue and he will talk to her now so that she can share his bike.
Nothing.
"Is it my turn?" she asks as the man in blue starts walking away from the car. Maybe it's not her turn. Momma says that everyone has to share, doesn't the man in blue know that?
She looks at the reasonably handsome man again. He's not doing anything now but he's definitely crying.
The man in blue comes back to the car and looks at her.
"Hi sweetie" he says.
"Hi. I'm 3."
"Yes, you are."
"Who's that next to you?" the man in blue asks.
"That's Bubba Hoss boy. He Little Hoss Daughter brother." she says. This is going quite well.
"No poop, just pee!" the cute little boy adds.
The man in blue starts talking to the reasonably handsome man again. It doesn't look like he is going to share.
"Sir," the man in blue says. "I tell you what. This is the last ticket in my book. And your kids are about as cute as I've seen and have been talking to me since I came up. So what I'm going to do is not give you the speeding ticket. I'm going to give you a seat belt fine because it's only 10 bucks and doesn't go on your record. I know you are wearing your seat belt, but this is easier. That ok with you?" he asks.
The reasonably handsome man shakes his head yes.
"Ok then. You have a nice day sir." the man in blue says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little girl says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little boy says.
The reasonably handsome man gets back on the road and the wind is in her hair again. The reasonaably handsome man reaches back and gives her another bag of goldfish crackers and tells her to throw all she wants. She giggles.
He then asks her if she knows what a pony is and would she like one.
*Author's note: completely 100% true. She actually got me out of a speeding ticket.
They are traveling down a road. The windows are open because the cute little girl likes the wind when it blows in her face. She is giggling and then she is throwing gold fish at the reasonably handsome man driving the car. This makes her giggle just a little bit more. He's saying something but she is choosing to ignore him. She punches her little brother, this makes her giggle, too.
The reasonably handsome man in the front seat is starting to say some more things. Something about behaving, acting right,not throwing things and what she thinks is "Dear God in heaven, so help me....." but she can't make out the rest because everyone seems to be distracted by the pretty red and blue lights flashing behind them.
She's had a very exciting day and it looks like it just got better. The reasonably handsome man is slowing down the car and pulling over to the side. She thinks to herself to ask Momma what "shit" and "fuck" mean.
They stop on the side of the road, the reasonably handsome man, the cute little girl, and the cute little boy. Her window is still down. And then they sit there. They don't do nothing. They don't open the doors, they don't unbuckle the seatbelts, they are just sitting there. The reasonably handsome man has stopped talking but he seems to be trying to strangle the steering wheel. He's so silly.
She turns around and sees the thing with the red and blue lights come up behind them. It looks like it's a tricycle but it is missing it's training wheels. She wants one immediately and asks the reasonably handsome man if the one behind them is "mine". He says no. Oh well, maybe the man walking up to the car will share his.
He's a man in blue and he has a helmet on, the kind of helmet that the reasonably handsome man makes her wear when they go sledding down the stairs. He seems nice enough. "Maybe if I'm nice to he'll let me have his bike." she thinks to herself.
Her window is down so she waits for the man in blue to walk up to the reasonably handsome man, still sitting in the front of the car, still gripping the steering wheel.
"Hi!" She says.
"Hi" the cute little boy says to. He doesn't want to be left out, he wants the bike too.
"Me Little Hoss Daughter." she says introducing herself like the reasonably handsome man has taught her to do.
The man in blue says hi back to her and then continues talking to the reasonably handsome man.
She does not like to be ignored.
"I go play with Emily. Then, then, then, we go swimming and then, then, then, we play at plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyygrouuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnd." She says, putting emphasis on the last word. That should get his attention.
The man in blue is not looking at her. The reasonably handsome man is getting something from his butt. It's his wallet. She's not allowed to touch that anymore because this one time, when she was young, she threw it in the toilet.
"I want peanut butter jelly." She says.
"Me, too" says the cute little boy.
Nothing, the man in blue is still ignoring her. The reasonably handsome man is making a lot of hand gestures and may be crying, it's hard to see.
"I pooted! 'Cuse me!" And she giggles some more. Momma says she always has to say excuse me when she poots.
"Look, I have my blankie," she continues, hoping that her soft little blankie will distract the man in blue and he will talk to her now so that she can share his bike.
Nothing.
"Is it my turn?" she asks as the man in blue starts walking away from the car. Maybe it's not her turn. Momma says that everyone has to share, doesn't the man in blue know that?
She looks at the reasonably handsome man again. He's not doing anything now but he's definitely crying.
The man in blue comes back to the car and looks at her.
"Hi sweetie" he says.
"Hi. I'm 3."
"Yes, you are."
"Who's that next to you?" the man in blue asks.
"That's Bubba Hoss boy. He Little Hoss Daughter brother." she says. This is going quite well.
"No poop, just pee!" the cute little boy adds.
The man in blue starts talking to the reasonably handsome man again. It doesn't look like he is going to share.
"Sir," the man in blue says. "I tell you what. This is the last ticket in my book. And your kids are about as cute as I've seen and have been talking to me since I came up. So what I'm going to do is not give you the speeding ticket. I'm going to give you a seat belt fine because it's only 10 bucks and doesn't go on your record. I know you are wearing your seat belt, but this is easier. That ok with you?" he asks.
The reasonably handsome man shakes his head yes.
"Ok then. You have a nice day sir." the man in blue says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little girl says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little boy says.
The reasonably handsome man gets back on the road and the wind is in her hair again. The reasonaably handsome man reaches back and gives her another bag of goldfish crackers and tells her to throw all she wants. She giggles.
He then asks her if she knows what a pony is and would she like one.
*Author's note: completely 100% true. She actually got me out of a speeding ticket.
8/2/09
Playgroup Conversations
As a stay at home dad I often get asked, especially by wives, what the hell do you guys talk about. I get it all the time. My sister, my wife, just about every mother I know asks that question. It seems that many can't imagine what 15 guys talk about when we get together when we are surrounded by future presidents and award winning cancer curing scientists. Well, they aren't that yet but we all have high expectations. My kid in particular. I've her slotted for Ruler Over All. I am hoping that she will let me live in a sweet villa beside the ocean. And I get free steak. That would be awesome.
Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinely been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.
But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at an all male playgroup when it's just us and the kids?
That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.
Potty training.
That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.
Finding the right preschool.
That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.
Diaper rash.
That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.
The difficulties of breast feeding.
That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.
How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.
Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.
Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.
That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.
Aprons.
That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.
The best way to put in a carseat.
There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.
Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinely been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.
But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at an all male playgroup when it's just us and the kids?
That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.
Potty training.
That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.
Finding the right preschool.
That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.
Diaper rash.
That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.
The difficulties of breast feeding.
That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.
How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.
Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.
Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.
That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.
Aprons.
That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.
The best way to put in a carseat.
There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.
8/1/09
Wow
Where did I put the kids clothes. I just had them? Seriously, where did they go?
There they are, draped over the empty bottle of wine that Hossmom and I polished off last night.
You stay classy San Diego.
There they are, draped over the empty bottle of wine that Hossmom and I polished off last night.
You stay classy San Diego.
7/30/09
The Friday Five
5 things that YOU Should Do Today.
5. Slap a hooker on the ass, see what happens. Life is all about the adventure and sometimes that adventure means running away from a pimp. It'll be a good story to tell when your drunk.
4. Go watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and then come tell me if that's not the wierdest shit you have ever in your life seen. I swear to god that black guy who is the host looks like he's on a heroin high the whole show, all he's missing is the rave. Without a doubt, this show creeps me out.
3. Eat some watermelon. It's summer man, live a little.
2. Don't talk any more policitcs, just for today. Anne Coulter, Rush, Jeannine Garafalo, Nancy--you know they are all full of shit. You know it for gods sake, why do you bother to argue who's more full of shit. They all are and you are completely 100% aware of it. Say it with me: Every politician, pundit, hardcore douche is full of shit, regardless of what they believe in. And either which way, whoever is in charge, you are about to get fucked. So let's just give out hugs not drugs, just for today.
1. Compliment someone's shoes. Who doesn't want to know that they are wearing nice shoes? Well, I don't, not really. But it would really make my wife's day if someone said that they liked her shoes.
5. Slap a hooker on the ass, see what happens. Life is all about the adventure and sometimes that adventure means running away from a pimp. It'll be a good story to tell when your drunk.
4. Go watch an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and then come tell me if that's not the wierdest shit you have ever in your life seen. I swear to god that black guy who is the host looks like he's on a heroin high the whole show, all he's missing is the rave. Without a doubt, this show creeps me out.
3. Eat some watermelon. It's summer man, live a little.
2. Don't talk any more policitcs, just for today. Anne Coulter, Rush, Jeannine Garafalo, Nancy--you know they are all full of shit. You know it for gods sake, why do you bother to argue who's more full of shit. They all are and you are completely 100% aware of it. Say it with me: Every politician, pundit, hardcore douche is full of shit, regardless of what they believe in. And either which way, whoever is in charge, you are about to get fucked. So let's just give out hugs not drugs, just for today.
1. Compliment someone's shoes. Who doesn't want to know that they are wearing nice shoes? Well, I don't, not really. But it would really make my wife's day if someone said that they liked her shoes.
7/28/09
A Love Story
This is a love story, but not a conventional one. It's a forbidden one, isn't that the way it always is with a love story?
It's one where all the outside forces are stacked against it, some trying to sabotage it. That's the way it has to be, that's the way it always has to be. This one is no different.
But I must persevere, must I not? Should I turn my back and walk away now, what kind of love story would that make this? It would not make it a love story, it would make it a cowards story and those are reserved for the French.
But I could not walk away. Any man reading this will understand. We will face constant scorn, the looks, the faces people make sometimes when they think you are not looking. They will ridicule.
And I would take the ridicule, over and over again. I would take it gladly, with a happy heart and fulfilled soul. Even when it comes from Hossmom, my dear wife.
"I hate it" she said. I knew she did not like the situation and I knew that deep down on some personal level it may have even hurt her, embarrassed her. But I couldn't stop my love, who could? The heart wants what the heart wants.
"End it." she demanded. I couldn't. What's worse, I couldn't even bring myself to lie that I would. My love was that deeply rooted.
"Go out in the garage, take it with you, and end it." she again demanded.
I sat there, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to defend my emotions. But that's just the thing, isn't it? You don't have to defend your emotions, they are what they are and no clear reasoning can overcome them. You never fully hear the criticism or the good advice, it all just turns into a blur, like they are talking to someone else.
"How could you?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "How could you."
How could I not?
She picked it up, but only with the tips of her fingers as she appeared to afraid to fully hold it, like that would somehow make it a competition. A showdown on who was worth more, who could sway me more, who I loved more.
"How can you even wear this?" she asked. "Seriously, look at this thing."
I did look at it. I have looked at it everyday for the last 2 years and each time I do, happiness finds me once again.
"The mesh on the back makes you look like a hillbilly trucker."
I don't care what it makes me look like, it's how it makes me feel. But I couldn't bring myself to speak, so I just sat there, numb.
"The sweat rings are awful, how can you even put this on your head?"
When you yearn, I mean truly yearn like you have a hole in your soul, it's easy. And when you have no hair and you find a good, no perfect, hat, well at that point it's easy.
A bald head, that's what it comes down to. It's not the look of bald that gets me so much. It's not even the constant jokes from full haired people because I know that one day they will have cancer and get chemo and then be as bald as me and I will laugh at them and their cancer.
It's the sunburn that is the bald mans worst enemy. To sunburn on the top of your head, where you will always have at least one hair colony left, hurts like shit. And when it peels, it's still painful, and disgusting, and you can never get all of it anyway.
So you take precautions. You buy sunblock SPF 3000. Guaranteed not to let one ultraviolet ray in, even is you are standing on the surface of the sun itself. It makes your head all greasy and shiny. People think it's funny to come and rub your shiny head, make jokes about it. People you don't know. People that you have never seen before. "wow, the glare on that noggin is killing me, let me get my sunglasses on." They post pictures of you on the internet with little things written next to your head, like "chrome dome" and "Captain blinding."
And sometimes that sunblock is white and it mixes with your sweat and your hair to make a paste, like you just used speedstick on your head and it's all chalky. Then the jokes get worse, people calling you armpit head, things like that. You die a little bit inside, every time.
So you stay indoors, avoiding the sun and any bright lights. You are afraid to go to places that may have angled mirrors, like Blockbuster because all that does is highlight your skull which is only useful really to Predator as he collects them and you are sure he would like to collect yours.
But your one weapon, the one truly offensive thing you have, is your hat. And if it is a great hat, then it is love. A love deeper than anything full head of hair people will ever understand. You will never get rid of that hat. You will be buried in that hat and when you meet your maker and he asks you if you want a full head of hair or your hat, you'll always choose your hat because your hair are a bunch of untrustworthy pussies that ditched you as soon as you turned 20. Your hat is there for you forever.
I found this hat several years ago and have loved it ever since. As cliche as it sounds, it was love at first sight. One size fits all, one size to cradle my heart. It was the perfect fit. Not to tight that it makes my ears squeeze out, not to lose that a good breeze blows it away. It does have a mesh back, like a truckers hat, but I love it because I also get sweaty head and it ventilates. The front of the hat is canvas and is likewise perfect. With the emblem of my college on it, it rests at the perfect height, the perfect angle. It's not to tall to make me look like Lincoln and not to close to my head that I look like a douchbag gap commercial. It is more comfortable than a mother's bosom, more reliable than the stars, more protecting of all the armies in all the world.
I wear this hat to mow the yard in, to go to the zoo in, to hike in. As a result, the sweat rings are pretty bad because as I have made clear, I tend to sweat like a Llama in the desert. I wear it in the pool, one of the most dangerous places for a bald man. The chlorine has started to bleach some of the dye out of it. I have worn it while wearing nothing but my boxer shorts watching TV, which has given it a definite kind of stink.
And I can't let go of it. It's the best hat I have ever owned. I will not let go of it.
I have washed it, I have put it in the dishwasher, but eventually it ends up back in the same condition that it's in. Because that is who it is, who it always was from the first time I saw it on the rack, and who it will always be. And I will always love it like that.
It's molded at the perfect angles, after so many years on my head. It slips on easily, coming down just far enough over the eyes to protect my steely gaze in the heat of battle that is pulling the weeds out of my yard.
So I will not throw this hat away, tossed aside like some gilted sorority girl on ruffies. No, I will cherish this hat until.......... No, not until. I will just cherish it, forever, and forever, and forever, and forever + 1.
It's one where all the outside forces are stacked against it, some trying to sabotage it. That's the way it has to be, that's the way it always has to be. This one is no different.
But I must persevere, must I not? Should I turn my back and walk away now, what kind of love story would that make this? It would not make it a love story, it would make it a cowards story and those are reserved for the French.
But I could not walk away. Any man reading this will understand. We will face constant scorn, the looks, the faces people make sometimes when they think you are not looking. They will ridicule.
And I would take the ridicule, over and over again. I would take it gladly, with a happy heart and fulfilled soul. Even when it comes from Hossmom, my dear wife.
"I hate it" she said. I knew she did not like the situation and I knew that deep down on some personal level it may have even hurt her, embarrassed her. But I couldn't stop my love, who could? The heart wants what the heart wants.
"End it." she demanded. I couldn't. What's worse, I couldn't even bring myself to lie that I would. My love was that deeply rooted.
"Go out in the garage, take it with you, and end it." she again demanded.
I sat there, not knowing what to say, not knowing how to defend my emotions. But that's just the thing, isn't it? You don't have to defend your emotions, they are what they are and no clear reasoning can overcome them. You never fully hear the criticism or the good advice, it all just turns into a blur, like they are talking to someone else.
"How could you?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "How could you."
How could I not?
She picked it up, but only with the tips of her fingers as she appeared to afraid to fully hold it, like that would somehow make it a competition. A showdown on who was worth more, who could sway me more, who I loved more.
"How can you even wear this?" she asked. "Seriously, look at this thing."
I did look at it. I have looked at it everyday for the last 2 years and each time I do, happiness finds me once again.
"The mesh on the back makes you look like a hillbilly trucker."
I don't care what it makes me look like, it's how it makes me feel. But I couldn't bring myself to speak, so I just sat there, numb.
"The sweat rings are awful, how can you even put this on your head?"
When you yearn, I mean truly yearn like you have a hole in your soul, it's easy. And when you have no hair and you find a good, no perfect, hat, well at that point it's easy.
A bald head, that's what it comes down to. It's not the look of bald that gets me so much. It's not even the constant jokes from full haired people because I know that one day they will have cancer and get chemo and then be as bald as me and I will laugh at them and their cancer.
It's the sunburn that is the bald mans worst enemy. To sunburn on the top of your head, where you will always have at least one hair colony left, hurts like shit. And when it peels, it's still painful, and disgusting, and you can never get all of it anyway.
So you take precautions. You buy sunblock SPF 3000. Guaranteed not to let one ultraviolet ray in, even is you are standing on the surface of the sun itself. It makes your head all greasy and shiny. People think it's funny to come and rub your shiny head, make jokes about it. People you don't know. People that you have never seen before. "wow, the glare on that noggin is killing me, let me get my sunglasses on." They post pictures of you on the internet with little things written next to your head, like "chrome dome" and "Captain blinding."
And sometimes that sunblock is white and it mixes with your sweat and your hair to make a paste, like you just used speedstick on your head and it's all chalky. Then the jokes get worse, people calling you armpit head, things like that. You die a little bit inside, every time.
So you stay indoors, avoiding the sun and any bright lights. You are afraid to go to places that may have angled mirrors, like Blockbuster because all that does is highlight your skull which is only useful really to Predator as he collects them and you are sure he would like to collect yours.
But your one weapon, the one truly offensive thing you have, is your hat. And if it is a great hat, then it is love. A love deeper than anything full head of hair people will ever understand. You will never get rid of that hat. You will be buried in that hat and when you meet your maker and he asks you if you want a full head of hair or your hat, you'll always choose your hat because your hair are a bunch of untrustworthy pussies that ditched you as soon as you turned 20. Your hat is there for you forever.
I found this hat several years ago and have loved it ever since. As cliche as it sounds, it was love at first sight. One size fits all, one size to cradle my heart. It was the perfect fit. Not to tight that it makes my ears squeeze out, not to lose that a good breeze blows it away. It does have a mesh back, like a truckers hat, but I love it because I also get sweaty head and it ventilates. The front of the hat is canvas and is likewise perfect. With the emblem of my college on it, it rests at the perfect height, the perfect angle. It's not to tall to make me look like Lincoln and not to close to my head that I look like a douchbag gap commercial. It is more comfortable than a mother's bosom, more reliable than the stars, more protecting of all the armies in all the world.
I wear this hat to mow the yard in, to go to the zoo in, to hike in. As a result, the sweat rings are pretty bad because as I have made clear, I tend to sweat like a Llama in the desert. I wear it in the pool, one of the most dangerous places for a bald man. The chlorine has started to bleach some of the dye out of it. I have worn it while wearing nothing but my boxer shorts watching TV, which has given it a definite kind of stink.
And I can't let go of it. It's the best hat I have ever owned. I will not let go of it.
I have washed it, I have put it in the dishwasher, but eventually it ends up back in the same condition that it's in. Because that is who it is, who it always was from the first time I saw it on the rack, and who it will always be. And I will always love it like that.
It's molded at the perfect angles, after so many years on my head. It slips on easily, coming down just far enough over the eyes to protect my steely gaze in the heat of battle that is pulling the weeds out of my yard.
So I will not throw this hat away, tossed aside like some gilted sorority girl on ruffies. No, I will cherish this hat until.......... No, not until. I will just cherish it, forever, and forever, and forever, and forever + 1.
7/26/09
Move Along
Oh, Christ they are getting big. I don't mean in a sentimental way such as "wow, they grow up so fast, whatever happened to the time." No, I mean in "Son of a bitch they are heavy, my back is starting to hurt."
I thought Little Hoss would make it further than she did. I thought she could do the whole hike. 1.5 miles of natures awesomeness with dad. Look at the trees, look at the bushes, look at the deer. It was going to be cool. Superdad that doesn't shy away from a challenge, take his kids anywhere, kick so much ass as a SAHD that all would look upon us with awe.
She made it about a quarter of a mile.
Now she is sitting on top of my shoulders, all 40 pounds of her. It doesn't sound like a lot and most of the time it isn't. It's after 1/2 a mile that it feels like a lot. I should have joined the army just so I could learn to properly "hump it" across the trial. But I didn't so now I'm learning way past my prime.
Bubba Hoss is being pretty good though, all 21 pounds of him. He's talking to himself, occasionally mentioning that there is a tree over there. He's on my back in a backpack made for small children. It also turns out that this thing isn't as comfortable after a half mile either. And he keeps kicking me in the spine. Knock it off man, that's starting to leave marks.
60 pounds of kid destruction, that's what I have on my back. Christ, when did they get so huge?
It's hot. It's Africa hot. It's the kind of hot that you remember when you are 80 years old and eating tapioca pudding. "Remember how hot it was when I took the kids hiking in the woods? Hottest summer in a decade, a yup. Where's my pudding and that hot nurse?"
I'm sweating like a fat kid peeling an orange. It's dripping down on me in torrents. If I had sweet abs they would be glistening and the ladies would be coming out of the forest to watch me walk by. But I don't. What I have instead is a hairy belly. Little known fact about hairy belly's. They absorb sweat like the super shammy. Soaks it all up like bread in a bowl of milk of your spent cereal. Makes it steamy so now it's hotter than it should be. Don't think the irony of this is lost on me. God decided to take away all my hair on my head leaving me like a cueball but awarded me with an abundance of chest and belly hair. Thanks man, that worked out well. The platypus was stupid by the way. What do you think about that? Oh great, look at all that back hair. Maybe I'll just shut up now.
Yes dear, I see the butterfly. Yes dear, I see the rocks. Yes dear, I see the bugs. The bugs won't hurt you. Yes honey, I know that Bubba Hoss is just right there but let's please stop trying to turn around to see him. And no more spitting while you are sitting up there until we have a chance to work on your aim.
I'm so thirsty. I thought I had brought enough water and was prepared but I failed to take in kid law. It's a very simple law of nature. It says that you are never prepared and they will break whatever you have anyway. I made the mistake of giving Little Hoss the water while she was riding me like a pack mule. Sure, she took her slug, even tried to give her brother some. Then she very gleefully dumped the rest down my neck and back. It felt good at first and I wasn't to upset. Now I'm upset.
The water mingled with my back sweat and made a nice little beeline to my ass. Now I have crack sweat and I'm pretty sure everyone can see it. Not that I have to worry about that though, we haven't run into many people out here. If we had, I would offer to pay their college tuition if they just carried one of these dead weights.
What have they been eating? Have I been feeding them bits of steel and bricks? That is the only explanation that I have as to why they weigh more than Andre the Giant. Maybe Hossmom has been feeding them lead weights. Doesn't she know the dangers of lead poisoning? She's probably pissed off at me and this is her passive aggressive way of paying me back.
It's moments like these that you like these that you like to blame everyone else except yourself. It's a survival technique. For example, I am currently damning to hell anyone and everyone that thinks nature is a good thing and promote it. They can all suck it as they rot in hell. I bet they are all vegans that hate humanity, and me in particular. Get kids out of the house, they say. Get them outside with nature, they say. Screw them. Dora the Explorer has probably done more good for kids than the entire rain forest.
Get your fingers out of my ears, guys. And stop with the freaking kicking. The next one that kicks me is going to hear the story of Hansel and Gretel without the good parenting ending, you got it? This hike would be a lot easier if you guys stop playing my head like a drum.
I would love to take a break. The kids, however, like to keep moving. They meltdown every time I try to put one of them down. It's my own fault. I have raised them to move, to keep going, to adventure. We go out just about every day. Another one of my Dad is Cool things that I am currently rethinking. It's normally fun for me. We do stuff that they like but stuff that I like to. We visit graveyards, civil war battlefields, art museums, donkey shows. I know that one day I'll end up back in a cubicle working next to Smelly McTalkLoud and I want to take full advantage of staying at home with them. Now they won't stop until we've had a full adventure. Damn me, why am I so awesome?
So we go, do all the fun stuff that is only really fun when you have kids as an excuse. When was the last time you went down a water slide screaming WEEEEEEE! Little note on that--water slides are made for children, not 250 pound hairy bellied men. You can feel every bump on the way down and I may have sprained my neck.
I didn't pack any aspirin or icy hot. Something to keep in mind when I decide not to go hiking again with the children. I didn't think a three hour romp through the woods would require me to bring things like bengay or an occupational therapist.
They were getting a little hungry so I gave them a little baggie of gold fish crackers to eat. Yet another bad idea on the hike of hell. Turns out that when crushed gold fish, head sweat, and water are mixed together it makes a nice little crumbly paste. I bet you could make a pie crust like this. It wouldn't taste very good but I bet you could do it.
Oh thank god, there's the car. We are almost there guys, just hang on, we're almost there. For the last time, stop kicking me before I dump everyone in the stream.
Let's do it again.
I thought Little Hoss would make it further than she did. I thought she could do the whole hike. 1.5 miles of natures awesomeness with dad. Look at the trees, look at the bushes, look at the deer. It was going to be cool. Superdad that doesn't shy away from a challenge, take his kids anywhere, kick so much ass as a SAHD that all would look upon us with awe.
She made it about a quarter of a mile.
Now she is sitting on top of my shoulders, all 40 pounds of her. It doesn't sound like a lot and most of the time it isn't. It's after 1/2 a mile that it feels like a lot. I should have joined the army just so I could learn to properly "hump it" across the trial. But I didn't so now I'm learning way past my prime.
Bubba Hoss is being pretty good though, all 21 pounds of him. He's talking to himself, occasionally mentioning that there is a tree over there. He's on my back in a backpack made for small children. It also turns out that this thing isn't as comfortable after a half mile either. And he keeps kicking me in the spine. Knock it off man, that's starting to leave marks.
60 pounds of kid destruction, that's what I have on my back. Christ, when did they get so huge?
It's hot. It's Africa hot. It's the kind of hot that you remember when you are 80 years old and eating tapioca pudding. "Remember how hot it was when I took the kids hiking in the woods? Hottest summer in a decade, a yup. Where's my pudding and that hot nurse?"
I'm sweating like a fat kid peeling an orange. It's dripping down on me in torrents. If I had sweet abs they would be glistening and the ladies would be coming out of the forest to watch me walk by. But I don't. What I have instead is a hairy belly. Little known fact about hairy belly's. They absorb sweat like the super shammy. Soaks it all up like bread in a bowl of milk of your spent cereal. Makes it steamy so now it's hotter than it should be. Don't think the irony of this is lost on me. God decided to take away all my hair on my head leaving me like a cueball but awarded me with an abundance of chest and belly hair. Thanks man, that worked out well. The platypus was stupid by the way. What do you think about that? Oh great, look at all that back hair. Maybe I'll just shut up now.
Yes dear, I see the butterfly. Yes dear, I see the rocks. Yes dear, I see the bugs. The bugs won't hurt you. Yes honey, I know that Bubba Hoss is just right there but let's please stop trying to turn around to see him. And no more spitting while you are sitting up there until we have a chance to work on your aim.
I'm so thirsty. I thought I had brought enough water and was prepared but I failed to take in kid law. It's a very simple law of nature. It says that you are never prepared and they will break whatever you have anyway. I made the mistake of giving Little Hoss the water while she was riding me like a pack mule. Sure, she took her slug, even tried to give her brother some. Then she very gleefully dumped the rest down my neck and back. It felt good at first and I wasn't to upset. Now I'm upset.
The water mingled with my back sweat and made a nice little beeline to my ass. Now I have crack sweat and I'm pretty sure everyone can see it. Not that I have to worry about that though, we haven't run into many people out here. If we had, I would offer to pay their college tuition if they just carried one of these dead weights.
What have they been eating? Have I been feeding them bits of steel and bricks? That is the only explanation that I have as to why they weigh more than Andre the Giant. Maybe Hossmom has been feeding them lead weights. Doesn't she know the dangers of lead poisoning? She's probably pissed off at me and this is her passive aggressive way of paying me back.
It's moments like these that you like these that you like to blame everyone else except yourself. It's a survival technique. For example, I am currently damning to hell anyone and everyone that thinks nature is a good thing and promote it. They can all suck it as they rot in hell. I bet they are all vegans that hate humanity, and me in particular. Get kids out of the house, they say. Get them outside with nature, they say. Screw them. Dora the Explorer has probably done more good for kids than the entire rain forest.
Get your fingers out of my ears, guys. And stop with the freaking kicking. The next one that kicks me is going to hear the story of Hansel and Gretel without the good parenting ending, you got it? This hike would be a lot easier if you guys stop playing my head like a drum.
I would love to take a break. The kids, however, like to keep moving. They meltdown every time I try to put one of them down. It's my own fault. I have raised them to move, to keep going, to adventure. We go out just about every day. Another one of my Dad is Cool things that I am currently rethinking. It's normally fun for me. We do stuff that they like but stuff that I like to. We visit graveyards, civil war battlefields, art museums, donkey shows. I know that one day I'll end up back in a cubicle working next to Smelly McTalkLoud and I want to take full advantage of staying at home with them. Now they won't stop until we've had a full adventure. Damn me, why am I so awesome?
So we go, do all the fun stuff that is only really fun when you have kids as an excuse. When was the last time you went down a water slide screaming WEEEEEEE! Little note on that--water slides are made for children, not 250 pound hairy bellied men. You can feel every bump on the way down and I may have sprained my neck.
I didn't pack any aspirin or icy hot. Something to keep in mind when I decide not to go hiking again with the children. I didn't think a three hour romp through the woods would require me to bring things like bengay or an occupational therapist.
They were getting a little hungry so I gave them a little baggie of gold fish crackers to eat. Yet another bad idea on the hike of hell. Turns out that when crushed gold fish, head sweat, and water are mixed together it makes a nice little crumbly paste. I bet you could make a pie crust like this. It wouldn't taste very good but I bet you could do it.
Oh thank god, there's the car. We are almost there guys, just hang on, we're almost there. For the last time, stop kicking me before I dump everyone in the stream.
Let's do it again.
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