Cabin Fever

I think the stuffed animals are talking to me. They sit and stare, sit and stare, sit and stare while my mind crumbles. They mock me, they taunt me. In their stare I can hear their words almost as if they are screamed into my bleeding ears. "It's still cold outside." "You are trapped in the house, with us, forever." Their laughter pushes me further into cabin fever insanity.

On the outside, the place where I can't go anymore, snow is still on the ground. Not white and fluffy but the black of asphalt and crushed dreams. The whole of winter presses upon me as I count the icicles still hanging on the tree branches like little daggers. On the bad days I have considered tempting fate and walking underneath them with a Red Rider BB gun. But if I did that, who would the stuffed animals talk to?

The house has 4 walls and a ceiling in every room. Seems common sense but over the course of this very long winter I have counted them many times just to make sure. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. I have noticed cobwebs in the higher corners of the ceiling but have not even attempted to bring them down for then the corner would be bare and I would not have anything to stare at anymore.

The kids paint daily. It's the only thing that I have left. We have done every arts and craft activity known to man. Now their little portraits of family members seem to get worse and worse with all the practice. Once we painted in bright colors; blue, red, yellow. That was at the beginning of winter. Now all the paintings look like black and white photographs that mirror our moods. I know that I am cracking up. They have already cracked. Yesterday we had a dust mite race through the hallway. I lost.

I stare at the TV, not really knowing what is on. It doesn't matter, we've seen it all. By now I can quote every line of every Dora episode. I can sing every song in Jack's Big Music Show. I know that Steve, with his dog Blue, can do anything that they want to do. We have watched every movie. We have single handily kept Red Box in business. I have seen every kids movie/kids show that they have to offer. Now my mouth forms the words of each line of each show without my knowledge. This is the low point of our winter. I just want to go outside. I just want to go outside.

Why did I leave Texas? I can't remember anymore. I can't remember anything anymore. What's my wife's name? Does she have a name and is she really my wife? Am I the gimp? Texas is in the 50's and 60's by now. The tree's are starting to get leaves again, if they ever lost them in the first place. Somewhere, a longhorn is in a field on the Texas plains. I am in the house. I am always in the house.

We have made homemade cookies. We have made cakes. We have made donuts. We have even made a coconut cream pie from scratch. There is nothing left to make. Dinners are now boxes of cereal with little funny cartoon characters on them. They are joyous and part of this nutritious breakfast. They do not cheer me up. I want to shoot the rabbit and step on the little bird with the big beak. And so help me god if I find a leprechaun with all his marshmallow stars, I will rip that little smug smile off his face and ask him what he's so god damn chipper about.

The walls are decorated with all our artwork over the last 6 months in an attempt to bring light and joy into the house. It's either really bad caveman paintings or really good abstract art. The windows are covered with hand prints and little smudges of noses where we have looked out over the last 6 months wondering if it's going to get above freezing. It never does. We should clean the windows but what's the point if the sun never shines? It left us sometime in December and only makes the occasional cameo appearance. Fucking snob.

We spend most days in our underwear. We started out good with jeans and T-shirts. Sometimes a sweatshirt and some wool socks. But after awhile, we asked ourselves why? Who the hell cares? Who's going to see us. We devolved, slowly at first then full on. The day I realized that I was wearing only long underwear did I realize how far we had really fallen. I looked at myself and realized that I looked like some crazy prospector panning for gold and wished it was some delusion, that perhaps I had lost it and entered the sweet world of oblivion. But it wasn't a delusion. It was reality and I was in it up to my button hole in the back.

I read the book of Revaluations to cheer me up. Steven King seems like a happy trollop to me. I root against Harry Potter and am in love with Delores Umbridge. I disgust myself.

I hear the word "Daddy" said. Less now than when the winter started. "Daddy, Bubba Hoss hit me." "Daddy, the dog pooped on the floor." "Daddy, put down the bottle". Now we all just try to ignore each other until spring comes. To when we can go back out into the world and adventure. Parks, museums, civil war battlefields, zoos; each an adventure into the unknown. Will the kids finger smudge a priceless painting? Will I break a chair in an historic mansion? Who will get arrested first, Little Hoss or Me? The world's biggest ball of twine is out there and calling my name.

Those are the things that keep our hope alive. Those are the things that make us leave the hand and face smudges on the windows. Just a little bit longer. Just hold on a little while longer.

But it's a long winter. And it's still so cold outside. It's still so cold.

Hoss Weekend

Sir Edmund Hillary did not climb Mt. Everest "because it was there". No, that is a common misconception. He climbed it because he needed time away with some dudes. Maybe he had some kids back home, ages 2 and 4, that kept stomping on his balls. Maybe he couldn't take anymore Project Runway and long conversations with his wife about their financial future. . Maybe he thought that if he climbed up to where the air was thin, he could understand the plot of LOST. I don't really know. But I do know is that he went to some dudes and said "Let's play dress up and do something manly." So they did.

It is in that vain that I ventured to the 3rd annual Hoss weekend that was being held 10 hours away. And I was able to talk Papa Scrum into coming with me. He makes one hell of a car companion. Good on the conversation and low on the bodily functions.

But there is a theme for man weekend. It's not just show up and talk about sports and women. That would be boring and very not funny and it turns out we are a very funny bunch. Previous themes of Hoss Weekend have included the Dirty Stach and the Handlebar Stach (click here for last years post). What else is there to do? The Amish. That's right, Amish. Because if you have never wanted to wear an Amish beard, then you are just letting life pass you by and I pity you.

For three long months I grew my beard out. Day in and day out, it grew. I charted my success by my wife's comments. First it was "that's cute." Which lead to "you are getting poofy." Evolving to "there's a dead squirrel hanging around your face." And finally ended up "I can see actual dirt in your beard. Don't touch me." It was time to shave into the Amish.

14 of us showed up near a lake in small town Texas. It was a 10 hour trip for Papa Scrum and I. There may have been some heavy petting involved, it was a long car trip. But we made it.

We were a diverse bunch. In fact, we were the melting pot of America. We had a Philippine guy, a gay dude, and a short man. If I ever do get a TV show, that's going to be the name of it. Short Gay Philly. Fantastic. Now it was made very clear that we all had to grow beard to prove our manhood and then cut them into the Amish theme. However, some men, and I won't name names, can't grow a beard if you dipped them in human growth hormone. So they had to wear fake beards. We take our funny very seriously.

I'm sure by now you are assuming the worst when thinking of 14 guys alone by the lake. I'm sure that you are thinking we would talk about women and fart alot. Those parts are true. But we are more than just that. We also talked about sports. And although I cannot recount all the conversations that we had, I will tell you that the terms "winking butthole" and "I like white cock" were thrown in there.

But the big event of Hoss Weekend is the group picture. That's right, we actually go out in public. Otherwise, whats the point of all the dress up. We take a group photo at Walmart because you know, where else can you be a little WT? For some reason, we feel that making a public spectacle of ourselves is in order for a complete man weekend experience.

So Papa Scrum and I put on our Amish garb and the rest of the group ventured out into public. Papa Scrum I think went fancy Amish while I was sporting what I call country Awesome Amish. Red Suspenders complete with a straw hat that I let Little Hoss bedazzle. I don't know of any law that says that the Amish can't be fabulous, Johnny Weir style.

It's interesting the looks we get when we get out. The fake beards, the bedazzled hats and the suspenders tend to draw a lot of looks. But we took the group photo and believe me, it's awesome. Some people tend to give us a good 15 feet radius, never trying to make eye contact. Some people just flat out stare, and some actually talked to us. A couple actually believed we were real Amish and asked us what a barn raising actually was (we confessed that we weren't devout Amish, only weekenders.)

Following the picture we go out to eat at a restaurant because our weekend isn't really complete unless we either freak out a waitress or terrorize some poor family out for Saturday brunch.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, we drink. A lot. This is also the part of the year that we realize that we are getting older and older and perhaps cannot hang as well as when we were 21. Sure, we still may be awesome at Beer Pong and a little group game called Flip Cup, but it turns out the "bounce back" factor is greatly reduced once you are married and have children. We lost 2 members who claimed "stomach virus" and we let that slide until we could make fun of them out of ear shot. Pretty soon we are sure that Man Weekend will turn into Man Brunch followed by a three day nap.

The weekend ended with a healthy dose of Advil and water as Papa Scrum and I got back into our car for the return trip home. 10 hours hung over is not as fun as you would think it would be in car.

I got home to my loving wife and our two children. It appears that while I was away, my kitchen was rearranged, my daughter got a makeover, and I was looking at a new 400 dollar bed redecoration that I'm pretty sure we never talked about. I went to my calendar and marked the last weekend of February for 2011. Maybe we should do this twice a year.

Glory

This is an Olympic house. If you walk through that front door, you need to know that. You need to know that everything shuts down for the glory of America. You need to know that we will not be having elaborate dinners. We will be having grill cheese and patriotism. You need to know that communication is restricted to what medals the Americans have a chance at winning. Do not expect any chores to get done unless that chore involves a thing called a Downhill and someone named Vonn is supposed to meet me there.

Do not call and expect a conversation. Do not write a letter expecting it to be opened. Do not send an urgent reply email. You will be ignored. And you will be shamed.

"Why haven't you blogged" I am asked. I judge you. I judge all of you. "Why haven't you watched curling" I reply. I did. Alot. Because I watch everything Olympics. I am an American. You live off my dedication, be thankful for it. I don't know what that last line means but I know that I like it because I was talking about the Olympics and I like everything about the Olympics. Even curling, especially curling. But it's not a sport? What? Debate it some other time. The fact remains that that burly Wisconsin man is an Olympic athlete and even though I'm sure he can out keg stand me, he still deserves my devotion.

USA vs. China. USA vs. Austria. USA vs Russia. USA vs. the World.

This house is filled with those chants. I have taught my two minions. Hossmom leaves the house every morning to chants of USA, USA, USA. Our 150 hour Tivo is filled with all the great moments, all the great races, all the great Olympics. "Get away from our rock, Russia" Little Hoss screams as the curling team takes on the Red Devil. "Go! Go! Go!" Bubba Hoss will yell at the bobsled team. At ages 2 and 4 they don't really understand what they are watching, but this is just minion training for the future. Let me ask you, do you understand the Nordic combined either? Ski jumping and a cross country race makes no sense to combine into one competition. But that does not matter. What matters is that America has a competitor in that race, so we will watch it. And when we watch it we will watch it like its the god damn moon landing.

Little Hoss got to stay up late for the opening ceremonies. We take this very seriously. We would have missed LOST if required. We have a dual turner Tivo so thank god that didn't happen, but that is the kind of sacrifice we are prepared to make as good Americans. We made an American Olympic cake. And even though it turned out like some swamp thing monstrosity, it did not matter because the colors were spot on: Red White and Blue.

So for two weeks, the minions and I watched and cheered. We were there when Miller showed up as a more mature skier and redeemed himself. We were there when Korea couldn't take the pressure and handed Ono a record setting medal. We were there 3 hours after the beginning of the 15K cross country ski. We were there when America put aside all it's differences and cheered in something called Ice Dancing.

And we were there when the losses came as well. This is a competition and that means that we have to take the good as well as the bad. When the Men's and Women's Hockey team lost to our brother's to the north, we wept. When our curling teams continued to lay a big goose egg, we still gave them our voice and a pat on the back. Win or lose, we love them all and are loyal to the end.

And our loyalty was rewarded with 37 medals this winter, far in the lead of all other countries proving that once again that if we eat our Wheaties in the morning we will shit immortality by dinner time. Sure, we didn't get the most gold but the CIA is working on that and we expect a better showing in 4 years.

Meanwhile, we wait patiently for another 2 years for the summer Olympics. We need to kick some Asian ass in Badminton. Impossible you say? Inevitable I reply.

The Olympics

Like every good American, I am taking this week off like I did last week. Because it's the Olympics and I am an Olympic nut. Turns out staying up to 1 am every night makes it very difficult to write for the next day. But I will be back next week with many stories involving midgets and dwarfs.

Blogversary

This one is for me. I rarely write them, but this one is all for Hossman. Because today is my blogversary blog so I don't have to please anyone but myself. And I like pleasing myself. Today I'm going to write about writing and the blog. It shouldn't be funny so you might want to skip this one and head off to something a little more funny. I'm sure you can find a clip of an old man getting hit in the crotch or perhaps a kitty cat playing a paino. If not, head on over to Hulu and watch an old Simpsons episode, that's what I would do.

I started the blog 3 years ago on a whim. I sent off an email about a terriable day that I had at work. Yes, I actually had a job at one time. Turns out that that little email made the rounds and I got a lot of laughs. People seem to like it when I fuck up and bad things happen to me. I'm afriad what will happen if I have a heart attack while cheering at the Olympics. Anyway, Hossmom liked the little rant I sent out so much that she encouraged me to write a blog and here we are, 3 years later. The very first post on this blog by the way, is still the property of Hossmom. It marks one of the only handful of times that she has actually written on here. She doesn't even leave comments which I do find odd considering that she is very funny and a lot of the stories about her and her children.

The biggest question that I have gotten over the years is why do I write. Honeslty, I don't really know. I've asked myself numerous times what I expect from this blog, where is it going. I don't know, I have no clue. There are times where I wrote my little funny ha-ha's because I couldn't get the image out of my head. Other times I wrote because I knew Hossmom would have a boring day at work and this would cheer her up. Sometimes I thought that perhaps I could turn this into something else, perhaps a book or a TV Show (ha!). But I wasn't really all that passionate about it but I kept writing anyway, because that I liked to do. Which provides the answer, I write because I liked to.

I like looking back over the years and seeing where my family was at, what occured and how my children have got increasingly more destructive as time has gone on. Little Hoss is 4 now and Bubba Hoss is 2 and it's fun to see the growth of our family with them. I like reading about my massive parental fuck ups (margirita milk glass) and our victories (I can't think of any at the moment, how odd). I like seeing people in my life as charactures of themselves. From Uncle Bricksalesman (one of my all time favorites) to new additions like Papa Scrum (I think that name is funny as hell). So I guess I write because I like to.

Which does't mean I haven't considered killing the blog. Pulling an old yellar and taking it behind the shed to meet the internet God. When my son was born I took a several months off and lost almost all my followers. I didn't think I would start it back up. But one day a story popped in my head and it wouldn't leave until I wrote it down. Since then I think I have done some of my very best writing. It's fun to look back and see how the writing has improved, at least I think it has. My spelling still sucks despite promises from no less than 5 people to be my "editor" It's tough to keep up folks and they soon burn out.

I like looking back at some things that I have never published. Yup, they are out there. I have got pages and pages of stuff that never made it on here because I thought it sucked or Hossmom promised me certain favors if I never publish a blog. It appears that I can be bought. I do not like censorship and figure that this is my blog so I can write whatever I want. But even I think that sometimes I've gone to far. They are out there, perhaps I'll publish one this week.

I like the heros in the blog (me) and I like the antagonists just as much (sometimes Hossmom, sometimes her Mother). I like the complexity of some (Little Hoss, sometimes good, sometimes the devil.) I like the random and the abstract at other times (star trek blog, Dr. Suess ripoff), the blogs that truly make me laugh that have no point what so ever other than to make fun of myself.

And I like my cult members,the majority of people that I have never met and probably never will. I like reading thier blogs when I have time or when Bubba Hoss is not flinging a sippy cup right into Little Hoss's forehead. He really did that by the way. I think the days of my laid back dude are over.

Sometimes I think the stories are over, that I've got nothing left to say. But then I look at my family for 10 minutes and they just keep coming. It gets to the point that some stories will stay in my head for days and demand to be written. Other times they fade away. I find it odd that it all comes down to the mood I'm in. If I "feel it" then it turns out to be a great blog. If I don't, it turns out to be shit. That sounds so "artsy" I want puke but it's the truth. I can't write unless the story speaks to me and that sounds gay as hell. What you get when I force it is some horriable piece of trash.

Hossmom deserves most of the credit for this blog, she is the one that is always pushing me. She critiques each blog, tells me what she likes and what she doesn't. When I haven't written in a while she start seeing if something is wrong with me or encourage me to give it another try. She warns me not to lose my "edge" but not to go so far over that it turns out to be a crazy guy rant. She is the one that redisigned the blog as well and keeps encouraging me to take it to the next level, what ever that may be. So thank you Hossmom, you still rock after 15 years.

And thank you to everyone who keeps coming back to read this. Hossmom says that it's unusual that I have such a dedicated list of followers and I suppose it right. Maybe I would have given up if you havent' kept coming back. It's weird but when I don't write for a week (like last week) I start to feel guilty. Am I really going to leave you high and dry during the work week while you fill out your TPS reports? Don't you deserve a laugh? Last week I meant to leave the TV show stuff up for a while to give everyone a chance to read it but by Friday I was feeling pretty guilty about not adding anything new.

So I'll keep on writing as long as you keep reading. Some will be funny (my cat is evil) and some will still suck. I've got ideas in my head, some new and some old but they will all eventually make it on here. And hidden in my little posts will still be small little jokes that I think are funny but probably only me. And just for old time's sake, I don't think I will spell chekc this blog at all. Call me nostalgic. Happy Blogversary!

Pattern Power Umizoomie.

A Teaser and a Friday Five

Rarely do I give any previews of what I am going to write from week to week but this one is a little bit different. Next week I start a series of one related story.

A while ago I and the other SAHD's were approached by a producer working for a network about the possibility about doing a reality show on the life of a stay at home dad. What I will be writing next week will be a three part series of that. I haven't posted it before now because I was asked not to by the producer. But now we are good to go. So come back on Monday and I'll tell the stories and how I embarrassed Hossmom on camera as well as the other stories about the entire experience.

And now, you're Friday Five.

5 Nicknames I would like to be known as when I make it to the big time and they eventually do an E true Hollywood story on me.

5: T-bone Hossman.

4. Hossman the Stache.

3. Little Hoss and the Fat Man

2. Mr. Mom, the asskicking bazooka toting 6th member of the A-team.

1. John McClain or Hans Grueber, either one works.

Kid Test

When people think about having kids, they mostly think about the nice and sweet things. Creating life with God-like power, a little one to grow up loving the same football team that you do, and someone to get you a glass of milk while you watch your stories. All valid reasons, to be sure. But they forget about the reality of the situation, the actual day-to-day that is parenting. As such, many prospective parents find that they are unworthy to be parents because they never considered the actuality of taking care of another life.

So I have devised a test because if nothing else I am a giver who takes pity on the less Hoss. If you can read the following scenario and feel you are up to what it describes, then maybe you are ready for children. If not, stick with a chia pet and a virtual family on Sims. One can die without guilt and the other can be turned off while you go watch a movie, preferably something rated R with a lot of nudity. I envy you, sir.

Child Test:

Let's say you are sick. Your throat hurts so bad that you wish you could suck on a fire extinguisher but you are afraid your wife will walk in and think you are some sort of sexual deviant, so you don't. You have a slight fever that you are trying to treat with a healthy dose of malice and Pop Tarts. You have no energy and when you sneeze you actually form snot bubbles. Every muscle aches and you wish that you could just hibernate until spring. You are a furry animal with ample chest hair so you are pretty sure you could pull this off.

But you can't because not only are you sick, but you have 2 kids that are also sick. One has a fever worse than you and the other one has a cough so rough that it sounds like she is speaking Klingon. By the way, it is my dream to one day teach Bubba Hoss to speak Klingon. Screw Spanish. And as they are both sick, there is only one place that they want to be, which is on you. But sick kids can't sit still and they like to spread out.

There's not enough of you to go around. So inevitably they begin playing king of the hill. The hill being your nuts which have been stomped into numbness. You are sick and can't find the energy to even yell at them. Where's the help? Oh, there's no help my friend. No one actively volunteers to help take care of sick kids. You have to trick them by telling people you have just installed a new stripper pole and would they like to see you on it. Then they get there and are all disappointed and judgmental because there is not a stripper pole, only a middle-aged fat guy with a B cup max and he has 2 two sick kids. Pretty soon people stop coming over altogether. That's why you have no help. You are a sexual deviant with no stripper pole. So it's time to suck it up.

Pretty soon you just resort to slapping wayward hands so that you get into a grade-school sissy fight with a 3 year old and her 2 year old brother. And you are losing. Of course it escalates to the point where you get a juice cup right between the eyes like some drunk William Tell with blurred vision who would blow a .81, many times the legal limit. You can't take it anymore, so you rearrange the kids.

What you come up with defies logic but raising kids is not about logic, it's about survival. The 3 year old - you lay her on the back of the chair with her head in the crook of your neck. It hurts and is not comfortable but she seems to like the change of scenery so you're good. The two year old now reigns supreme over Crushing Your Crotch Land. Things go well, for about 10 minutes. Then they find a way to fight again, meanwhile the nut stomping has switched to your bladder and you realize you have to pee. Badly.

You start to get up but somehow your pants leg has become snared in the buckle of your boot. You wear boots, preferably with steel toes, because you are a working man and a hard hat is required when raising Little Hoss. With your legs crossed, because you were trying to relax, you realize that you have somehow hobbled yourself like a lame horse. Yes, it's turned into an episode of the Twilight Zone but you would gladly welcome a gremlin to come and stop the pain. You try to free yourself because you really have to pee now. It seems to get more urgent when you can't move at all.

Right about now the 3 year old decided to play Hulk Hogan off the top rope and rain vengeance down upon her 2 year old brother. The intended target moves with surprising cat-like speed and your 3 year old's aim is off anyway. So she does not land on him, but puts that knee directly into your bladder. It takes you a moment to come to terms with the fact that you just peed yourself a little bit.

Now your sick & hobbled and shocked to discover you need Depends at the age of 35. You have 2 fighting sick kids and busted balls. You freak out, throw everyone to the ground and rip your pants just to get free of the horror your life has become. Everyone is now on the floor screaming in between bouts of seal coughing while you limp to the bathroom in your soiled and ripped pants. These were your lucky pants too.
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To prospective parents, take heed. If you think you can handle that, then you may in fact be ready for children. If that story horrifies you, then perhaps you should go on vacation where I hear no one stomps on your balls and there are bathrooms everywhere.