I am off from work and so I am doing what any guy does when he is off of work for any amount of time: I am growing a beard.
There is no real reason for this. It's not like I have always wanted a beard or constantly draw pencil mustache's on pictures of me. But every guy knows that the first thing that you do when you are on vacation is that you stop shaving. This sends a message to anyone that comes looking to bother you. It tells them look, I'm on vacation and I obviously don't care about even shaving anymore so what makes you think that I have time for you. I'm a people person, that's what makes me so great.
And it's not like I need that extra 5 minutes in the morning that I save by not shaving. Because that five minutes is dwarfed by the extra 10 minutes that I save by not showering in the morning anyore either. It's not like I am Mr. Stinky around the house its just that I have given up showering in the morning. And on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sats. Basically I am showering every other day. I feel this is more than enough to take care of any stink lines that may be coming off of me. But if it's not, I'm still pretty ok with that. I like myself the way I am I don't care what some fashion magazine says.
The beard is coming in very nicely which for me is a real treat. In the past when I have not shaved for 4 or 5 days I usually just look like some meth addict willing to give handjobs for 25 cents apiece. It would grow well around the ears, then a big hairless hole would appear on my face about the size of a quarter. The chin would then fill out the rest of the ensemble as I am constantly being taken into police line ups to be identified as the guy who robbed the local Gas and Liquer joint. I was never convicted and eventually decided that I should probably never grow a beard again if I valued my freedom.
But now that I am older and puberty has had a good 15 years to affect me, I'm giving the beard another shot and so far I am pleased with the results. After about a week and a 1/2 it's still there without any holes. I have to keep it shaved on my neck because if I don't I get Mount Everest sized pimples and it itches like I have the mange. I am cutting it along the jaw line which I think gives me an intellecutal look.
I have to be careful here and not take this to far. I am a pretty burley guy anyway so if I don't pay real attention we could be in for some trouble.
What I think is an intellectual beard could grow into a Montana hermit uni-bomber type thing. That's certaintly not the look that I am going for here as I am to lazy to mail anything and would eventually just end up blowing myself up.
But if I cut it to short then I would look like I am going for the Justin Timberlake "I work hard yet I'm cool" look and I don't want that either because I have no desire to date Britany Spears anymore. This disturbs me on many, many levels. She used to be hot, then she went to looking like hot trailer trash and now she is just trailer waiting for her baby's Daddy to come home from the market with her pack of smokes. I can't handle that.
I need a college professor type of thing going. One that says yes, I have knowledge but that knowledge would in no way prevent me from sleeping with coeds who want an A in my class. One that says that my ethics are preportionate to the size of your hooters. That's the look I'm going for.
Hossmom says it's a fine vacation beard which I know is her way of saying that as soon as we start having maritial relations again this thing is coming off.
Somehow I'm pretty sure that I have crossed a boundry tonight with that revelation. Am I getting to personal? Let's consult the beard--he says no. But seriously, every married guy knows that the woman cannot have sex for a while after birth. It's just plain and simple biology. She now finds me repulsive since I am the cause of putting her through so much pain and the fact that now she can't sleep. It's all tied to emotions and emotionally right now she blames the Admiral for doing this to her. Don't worry, she'll come around soon enough.
Not only does the beard give great advice but it also gives the impression that I am thinking really hard about topics. Topics such as Global Warming or the next presidential election. My wife and her family will ask such questions or bring up some other debate. At which point I will stroke my beard and look concerned. When my beard lets me know that they have stopped talking I will slowly stop stroking it and say "yes, that will require more thought and a committee fully devoted to investigating any solutions". Because that is what a college professor with a beard would say.
He would not say "I'm really just pretending to listen because I don't want anyone to give me any shit. And while I'm pretending, what I'm really thinking about is how to get my wife naked. Or if not naked, how about just some naked pictures?" I consulted the beard and we concluded that that would be an interesting solution to our current relations issues.
But Hossmom won't do it I think mainly because I have a blog now and she is afraid that should anything ever happen to us I would post them on the blog. Thanks Paris Hilton. Thanks for ruining that fantasy for me.
Of course, as I stroke my beard, I have another thought. How can I get naked pictures of Paris Hilton? That's when the beard decides that we should play Xbos instead because, really, there's not challange in that. It's not something that would take a college professor type beard long to discover. However, stomping all over the ego of a 15 year old while my beard and I taunt his mother, hmm, that will require more thought and a committe fully devoted to investigating any solutions.
9/30/07
9/25/07
The Birth
"Honey, I'm having contractions." Hossmom said.
4 minutes later she had to say it again because I was still asleep.
"What?!" I said. I want to point out that I actually responded this time.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I think so."
"What time is it?"
"3:30".
You have got to be freakin kidding me. Who goes into labor at 3:30 in the morning anymore? Seriously?!
"How far apart are they" I ask
"About 7 minutes" she says.
I think this is good. I can get at least another hour of sleep before I have to deal with this. I am not my best that early in the morning.
And to my shame, I actually do fall asleep for exactly 6 minutes. Thats when she says the contractions are getting closer. You know how you hear those stories about people who go into labor for 17 straight hours. Yup, that's not us. Hossmom goes from red light to wheels screaming in a few short hours and it looks like this is going to happen again. For Little Hoss, the whole birth took less than 3 hours.
It's not supposed to be this way. We have this planned out damit. We are a good week and a half away from our SCHEDULED birth! It is supposed to be on September 29th around noonish. That's what we talked to the doctor about and damit if that wasn't the plan. We are at 37 weeks and I need at least another week to get ready for Bubba Hoss. I have a garage to clean, a hospital bag to pack, a changing table to buy. I have tons of crap to do.
My wife and I plan out everything to the point that we over plan. We think of every angle and then come up with contingency plans incase the first plan goes to shit. I have 5 different routes to the hospital. We have alternate names picked out incase the sonagram was not correct. We have a medical kit that Doug Ross could perform a heart transplant with while high on crack. However, for some odd ball reason, we never, ever planned out a 3:00 AM birth. Didn't even cross my mind. I am as shocked as you are.
After my cat nap, I immediatly spring into action. Like my daughter when she gets excited, I stamped my feet and turned very fast in a very tight circle. This is so cliche it's killing me. You only see people going into labor in the middle of the night in movies. I expect Robin Williams to be the on call OB/GYN and Tom Arnold to video tape it. (For those that don't get that, the movie is 9 months. When you are pregnant, your wife will force you to watch it.)
But I recover and ask my wife if this is Braxton hicks, or to the uneducated, false labor. She says she is pretty sure it's not.
Ok, I have to recover here. First things first, we need information. I run to the computer and fire up the old blood hound search engine. I find my pre-approved pregnancy problem site. It says that we don't have to go to the hospital until the contractions are 5 minutes apart. I ask my wife how far apart her contractions are now.
"About 4 minutes" she says.
Shit, here we go. In less than 30 minutes we have dropped another 2 minutes in contraction time. Visions of my son being born in a Taxi cab by a guy named Otto spring into my head.
But no problem, we will just use our other plan but move it up a bit. Instead of getting to the hospital at 10 with our entire family following us, we'll just go now. I start packing Hossmom's hospital bag, which we should have done weeks ago. But seriously, we had several more weeks! I throw in a bathrob, slippers and toilet paper. I don't know why really. It's not like we plan on taking bathroom breaks on the way there by the bushes. We do that on Sundays. But in it went.
I head down stairs before Hossmom and start loading up the car. I get to the garage and open the door. For some reason it dawned on me that today is trash day. I have a lot of trash to take out. So I take out the trash. Hossmom comes to the car and sees me doing this. She questions where my priorities are at. I point out that I was able to accomplish this before she got downstairs.
That's when she asks me if I had gotton Little Hoss out of bed. Uh-oh. That's a big oops. I totally forgot about my daughter. I go back upstairs and get her up and to my complete and utter amazement she is in a great mood. Cool, this might be pretty fun after all. I have no idea what I am going to do with Little Hoss. In the original plan she was to be with her grandmother. I don't think that is happening now. And as I am taking Little Hoss with us I need to pack her a bag. I should be a major league pitcher because the accuracy I was throwing canned manderian oranges into that bag was nothing short of amazing. I didn't miss once. I had brought my A game, it's go time.
I get everyone loaded up and off we go. I decide that we are going to take pre-approved route #1. It's 4:00 am by this time, there's no traffic. A strange calm comes over me. I got this. This is no problem. I've actually done this before. However, this is a little disappointing to me because I have the only real excuse to speed and run red lights. We get stoped at one where there is absolutely no traffic. None what so ever, but there I sit with a wife in labor and a 20 month old in the backseat. My wife, who was also calm, asked me if I was dying to run it. I nodded yes. She then pointed out that I really wanted to get pulled over just so I could scream "my wife is in labor I need a police escort!" The cop would nod and then an entire presidential fleet would lead the way. As long as we are living the cliche, that's go all the way with it.
But I am good and we make it to the hospital. By this time, Hossmom is in some serious pain. We are still at 3 minutes apart, so maybe this could take a while.
Nope. God thinks it's funny.
Her contractions shorten to 2 minutes apart. She is screaming for drugs. Natural childbirth is for hippies and midwives. I want no part of that.
Little Hoss is with me and having a great time. She has long hallways to run around and all kinds of ebola caring needles to stick her little hands into. But when she sees Hossmom in pain something changes in her. There are 3 nurses around my wife who by now is moaning/screaming/hating me. Little Hoss's brow creases. She looks at me as if to say "Do something you shithead, they are hurting mom."
When she sees my inaction, she cant' take anymore. She bolts from my lap and rushes to Hossmom, a look of vengence and justice on her face. She runs smack dab into the middle of a nurses butt and gooses her a little.
To be completely honest here, I am proud of this. Little Hoss knows that she is out numbered and her strategy of butt hitting is not really going to get it done but she charges forth anyway because Hossmom is in pain. That's why I love my little girl, she is pure Hoss, no doubt about it.
I quickly get up and go get her after I witness her version of Custer's last stand. She wiggles in my arms. Then she doesn something that she has never, ever done before.
She looked right at me, gave her best war cry, and then she slugged me.
Straight on in the face with a closed fist. She has poped other people before but never me, ever. I am taken aback by this but again, I understand. However, you cannot challege Hossdad's rule so I have to grab her arm and tell her no. She then kicks me in the groin with her troll foot. She's a dirty little fighter to. She gets that from my wife's family but I appreciate her resourcefulness. It is at this point that I decide to "Make the Call."
I grab my cell phone and call both mothers but I don't have any hope that either one will wake up and pick it up. I mean, it's freaking like 4:30 here. I get no answer but leave a message. I then call the only other person in town, Uncle Bricksalesman. He doesn't answer either. I call both Mom's again. Nothing.
Then my phone rings, it's Uncle Bricksalesman. I am actually surprised because, and I swear this is true, he once slept through a friends heart attack. He was in the room but he just didn't wake up.
I tell him "It's time."
"I figured" he says. "Why else would you call me?" "Well, I got a meeting in Mckinney at 9 but I should be up at the hospital after that." he says.
I want to say, Look you douche, I'm calling because I need you to come up here and watch my daughter so I can be at the birth of my son. But I don't because the truth is Uncle Bricksalesman is a good guy. I will give the man full credit. I tell him no problem because I didn't think anyone could actually get up here at the rate Hossmom is going.
We hang up the phone. But the phone rings again. It's Uncle Bricksalesman again. "Um, do you need me to come up and watch Little Hoss" he asks.
And there is the connection ladies and gentlemen. Give the big dancing bear a snoodle treat. I tell him that would be great if he could.
By this time Hossmom finally has her I.V drugs and is feeling fine. We re-enter the room and I let her know what is going on. The nurse comes in and says that she will be prepped for surgery at 6:30 and will give birth after that.
To this point, I feel that I have done my job remarkably well. People will tell you that a Dad's job is very important in the birthing process. Here's the truth: They are just trying to make you feel like you are doing something, which you are not. They don't really need you after you get them to the hospital.
You are the scary high school janitor that drives the bus. You load every body on and take them to thier destination all the while listening to your 1980's hair metel that the rest of the bus hates. You drop the kids off at the museum and then go back alone to your bus and pull out the porno mags that you had stashed under your seat. This is interupted when the teacher sends that one kid back that laughed during the femal reproductive presentation so you have to extingush your blunt and watch him until the rest of the class is ready to go back.
That is basically your job as a dad. Get them there and watch any left over kids. Honeslty, it's a pretty sweet gig. Except that from here on out you are ignored. No one really talks to you. No one asks for your permission or for your concerns. You are basically no better than the paper towel at the nurses station. But at least that gets to clean up messes and at this point, you are not even that useful.
As I am a control freak I feel that I have to make my presence known. I pull the nurse aside and in my best concerned father statement I say "Look, they mean the world to me, take good care of them."
She looks at me like she has heard this same speech a thousand times, which I am sure she has. She pats me on the back like I am 5 years old. She tells me to wait in the waiting room and they will come get me when they are ready, providing Uncle Bricksalesman gets there in time to watch my daughter.
So Little Hoss and I go to the waiting room where we enjoy the fine cusine of fruit loops, juice boxes and the occasional crayon in the pie hole. For some reason, this action centered me. I felt almost normal by just being with my daughter. I don't know how she does this but it's happened before. When I am with my wife or daughter I feel confident, calm and like superdad. I dig this. Ok, this will work. I will be the dad that is passing out cigars in the waiting room. I have no problem with that. But then Uncle Bricksalesman shows up. Seriously, the man is a rock. Dependable as the flowing tides and twice as handsome.
I head back to the prep room in my scrubs. Several nurses check out my ass, I can't blame them, I look fantastic in scrubs. I wait for what seems like years until one of the nurses comes in and tells me to follow her. Like a trained puppy I nip at her heels until we see Hossmom in the surgery. I get there about 2 mintues before they pull out Bubba Hoss. She looks wonderful and I thank God that she chose me over any of you other yahoos out there. I did make one mistake in there. I looked over the curtain to check out the action. Let's just say that this is not a good idea.
The rest you know. Bubba Hoss pops out, gives his victory yell and everything worked out fine.
I head back out to the waiting room to find Little Hoss with Uncle Bricksalesman and my mother. I call her name and she runs to me and gives me a big hug. She ignores everyone in the room as she jumps into my arms, like they aren't even there.
Being a dad kicks major ass and now I get to do it some more.
4 minutes later she had to say it again because I was still asleep.
"What?!" I said. I want to point out that I actually responded this time.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"I think so."
"What time is it?"
"3:30".
You have got to be freakin kidding me. Who goes into labor at 3:30 in the morning anymore? Seriously?!
"How far apart are they" I ask
"About 7 minutes" she says.
I think this is good. I can get at least another hour of sleep before I have to deal with this. I am not my best that early in the morning.
And to my shame, I actually do fall asleep for exactly 6 minutes. Thats when she says the contractions are getting closer. You know how you hear those stories about people who go into labor for 17 straight hours. Yup, that's not us. Hossmom goes from red light to wheels screaming in a few short hours and it looks like this is going to happen again. For Little Hoss, the whole birth took less than 3 hours.
It's not supposed to be this way. We have this planned out damit. We are a good week and a half away from our SCHEDULED birth! It is supposed to be on September 29th around noonish. That's what we talked to the doctor about and damit if that wasn't the plan. We are at 37 weeks and I need at least another week to get ready for Bubba Hoss. I have a garage to clean, a hospital bag to pack, a changing table to buy. I have tons of crap to do.
My wife and I plan out everything to the point that we over plan. We think of every angle and then come up with contingency plans incase the first plan goes to shit. I have 5 different routes to the hospital. We have alternate names picked out incase the sonagram was not correct. We have a medical kit that Doug Ross could perform a heart transplant with while high on crack. However, for some odd ball reason, we never, ever planned out a 3:00 AM birth. Didn't even cross my mind. I am as shocked as you are.
After my cat nap, I immediatly spring into action. Like my daughter when she gets excited, I stamped my feet and turned very fast in a very tight circle. This is so cliche it's killing me. You only see people going into labor in the middle of the night in movies. I expect Robin Williams to be the on call OB/GYN and Tom Arnold to video tape it. (For those that don't get that, the movie is 9 months. When you are pregnant, your wife will force you to watch it.)
But I recover and ask my wife if this is Braxton hicks, or to the uneducated, false labor. She says she is pretty sure it's not.
Ok, I have to recover here. First things first, we need information. I run to the computer and fire up the old blood hound search engine. I find my pre-approved pregnancy problem site. It says that we don't have to go to the hospital until the contractions are 5 minutes apart. I ask my wife how far apart her contractions are now.
"About 4 minutes" she says.
Shit, here we go. In less than 30 minutes we have dropped another 2 minutes in contraction time. Visions of my son being born in a Taxi cab by a guy named Otto spring into my head.
But no problem, we will just use our other plan but move it up a bit. Instead of getting to the hospital at 10 with our entire family following us, we'll just go now. I start packing Hossmom's hospital bag, which we should have done weeks ago. But seriously, we had several more weeks! I throw in a bathrob, slippers and toilet paper. I don't know why really. It's not like we plan on taking bathroom breaks on the way there by the bushes. We do that on Sundays. But in it went.
I head down stairs before Hossmom and start loading up the car. I get to the garage and open the door. For some reason it dawned on me that today is trash day. I have a lot of trash to take out. So I take out the trash. Hossmom comes to the car and sees me doing this. She questions where my priorities are at. I point out that I was able to accomplish this before she got downstairs.
That's when she asks me if I had gotton Little Hoss out of bed. Uh-oh. That's a big oops. I totally forgot about my daughter. I go back upstairs and get her up and to my complete and utter amazement she is in a great mood. Cool, this might be pretty fun after all. I have no idea what I am going to do with Little Hoss. In the original plan she was to be with her grandmother. I don't think that is happening now. And as I am taking Little Hoss with us I need to pack her a bag. I should be a major league pitcher because the accuracy I was throwing canned manderian oranges into that bag was nothing short of amazing. I didn't miss once. I had brought my A game, it's go time.
I get everyone loaded up and off we go. I decide that we are going to take pre-approved route #1. It's 4:00 am by this time, there's no traffic. A strange calm comes over me. I got this. This is no problem. I've actually done this before. However, this is a little disappointing to me because I have the only real excuse to speed and run red lights. We get stoped at one where there is absolutely no traffic. None what so ever, but there I sit with a wife in labor and a 20 month old in the backseat. My wife, who was also calm, asked me if I was dying to run it. I nodded yes. She then pointed out that I really wanted to get pulled over just so I could scream "my wife is in labor I need a police escort!" The cop would nod and then an entire presidential fleet would lead the way. As long as we are living the cliche, that's go all the way with it.
But I am good and we make it to the hospital. By this time, Hossmom is in some serious pain. We are still at 3 minutes apart, so maybe this could take a while.
Nope. God thinks it's funny.
Her contractions shorten to 2 minutes apart. She is screaming for drugs. Natural childbirth is for hippies and midwives. I want no part of that.
Little Hoss is with me and having a great time. She has long hallways to run around and all kinds of ebola caring needles to stick her little hands into. But when she sees Hossmom in pain something changes in her. There are 3 nurses around my wife who by now is moaning/screaming/hating me. Little Hoss's brow creases. She looks at me as if to say "Do something you shithead, they are hurting mom."
When she sees my inaction, she cant' take anymore. She bolts from my lap and rushes to Hossmom, a look of vengence and justice on her face. She runs smack dab into the middle of a nurses butt and gooses her a little.
To be completely honest here, I am proud of this. Little Hoss knows that she is out numbered and her strategy of butt hitting is not really going to get it done but she charges forth anyway because Hossmom is in pain. That's why I love my little girl, she is pure Hoss, no doubt about it.
I quickly get up and go get her after I witness her version of Custer's last stand. She wiggles in my arms. Then she doesn something that she has never, ever done before.
She looked right at me, gave her best war cry, and then she slugged me.
Straight on in the face with a closed fist. She has poped other people before but never me, ever. I am taken aback by this but again, I understand. However, you cannot challege Hossdad's rule so I have to grab her arm and tell her no. She then kicks me in the groin with her troll foot. She's a dirty little fighter to. She gets that from my wife's family but I appreciate her resourcefulness. It is at this point that I decide to "Make the Call."
I grab my cell phone and call both mothers but I don't have any hope that either one will wake up and pick it up. I mean, it's freaking like 4:30 here. I get no answer but leave a message. I then call the only other person in town, Uncle Bricksalesman. He doesn't answer either. I call both Mom's again. Nothing.
Then my phone rings, it's Uncle Bricksalesman. I am actually surprised because, and I swear this is true, he once slept through a friends heart attack. He was in the room but he just didn't wake up.
I tell him "It's time."
"I figured" he says. "Why else would you call me?" "Well, I got a meeting in Mckinney at 9 but I should be up at the hospital after that." he says.
I want to say, Look you douche, I'm calling because I need you to come up here and watch my daughter so I can be at the birth of my son. But I don't because the truth is Uncle Bricksalesman is a good guy. I will give the man full credit. I tell him no problem because I didn't think anyone could actually get up here at the rate Hossmom is going.
We hang up the phone. But the phone rings again. It's Uncle Bricksalesman again. "Um, do you need me to come up and watch Little Hoss" he asks.
And there is the connection ladies and gentlemen. Give the big dancing bear a snoodle treat. I tell him that would be great if he could.
By this time Hossmom finally has her I.V drugs and is feeling fine. We re-enter the room and I let her know what is going on. The nurse comes in and says that she will be prepped for surgery at 6:30 and will give birth after that.
To this point, I feel that I have done my job remarkably well. People will tell you that a Dad's job is very important in the birthing process. Here's the truth: They are just trying to make you feel like you are doing something, which you are not. They don't really need you after you get them to the hospital.
You are the scary high school janitor that drives the bus. You load every body on and take them to thier destination all the while listening to your 1980's hair metel that the rest of the bus hates. You drop the kids off at the museum and then go back alone to your bus and pull out the porno mags that you had stashed under your seat. This is interupted when the teacher sends that one kid back that laughed during the femal reproductive presentation so you have to extingush your blunt and watch him until the rest of the class is ready to go back.
That is basically your job as a dad. Get them there and watch any left over kids. Honeslty, it's a pretty sweet gig. Except that from here on out you are ignored. No one really talks to you. No one asks for your permission or for your concerns. You are basically no better than the paper towel at the nurses station. But at least that gets to clean up messes and at this point, you are not even that useful.
As I am a control freak I feel that I have to make my presence known. I pull the nurse aside and in my best concerned father statement I say "Look, they mean the world to me, take good care of them."
She looks at me like she has heard this same speech a thousand times, which I am sure she has. She pats me on the back like I am 5 years old. She tells me to wait in the waiting room and they will come get me when they are ready, providing Uncle Bricksalesman gets there in time to watch my daughter.
So Little Hoss and I go to the waiting room where we enjoy the fine cusine of fruit loops, juice boxes and the occasional crayon in the pie hole. For some reason, this action centered me. I felt almost normal by just being with my daughter. I don't know how she does this but it's happened before. When I am with my wife or daughter I feel confident, calm and like superdad. I dig this. Ok, this will work. I will be the dad that is passing out cigars in the waiting room. I have no problem with that. But then Uncle Bricksalesman shows up. Seriously, the man is a rock. Dependable as the flowing tides and twice as handsome.
I head back to the prep room in my scrubs. Several nurses check out my ass, I can't blame them, I look fantastic in scrubs. I wait for what seems like years until one of the nurses comes in and tells me to follow her. Like a trained puppy I nip at her heels until we see Hossmom in the surgery. I get there about 2 mintues before they pull out Bubba Hoss. She looks wonderful and I thank God that she chose me over any of you other yahoos out there. I did make one mistake in there. I looked over the curtain to check out the action. Let's just say that this is not a good idea.
The rest you know. Bubba Hoss pops out, gives his victory yell and everything worked out fine.
I head back out to the waiting room to find Little Hoss with Uncle Bricksalesman and my mother. I call her name and she runs to me and gives me a big hug. She ignores everyone in the room as she jumps into my arms, like they aren't even there.
Being a dad kicks major ass and now I get to do it some more.
9/24/07
Language Arts
It has been said, by a few, that I may cuss to much.
It has been said, by a few more, that I should watch my language around the children.
Fucker.
I arrived at Team Beer Headquarters for our Men's Sunday League Softball game. I just want to point out that the name of our team is again: Beer. I want to make sure everyone knows that. That does not really sound like a family oriented name, does it?
What do you picture when you hear of a softball team by the name of Beer? Maybe a bunch of over the hill guys trying to fight off the she devil of old age. Maybe a bunch of has beens that smoke between innings or maybe a few fellers who tell lies that they could have made the show if only they hadn't stayed home to take care of Mamma.
That's pretty much right on. And I would imagine you would also think that a softball team by the name of Beer would cuss, but just on occasion. That occasion being just about every pitch.
And so it was when I played this last weekend. Things were going fine and we were making our ill advised comments about the church team we were playing. It was a high scoring game which we didn't win. But that is besides the point in today's blog.
We had one of our chubs heading around second. He was huffing a puffing like the last of the Mohicans was after his scalp. He rounded third, headed for home.
At this time, I chose to shout: "Run you fat bastard!"
I don't know why I shouted it, but I just assume that I was caught up in the moment of it all. Competition, sweat and the smell of a possible heart attack. Everything that makes Sunday Men's D League softball worth while.
Well our fat bastard runner did score and all was right with the world. Until Uncle Bricksalesman stepped away from the on deck circle and looked at me.
"Hossman, watch the language." He said in his stoic voice.
I looked around. Was there another Hossman on the field?
Well, yes there was. There were three to be exact. They all have the last name of Hoss and I am jealous. But Uncle Bricksalesman wasn't looking at any of them, only at me. I did a quick count to see what I could have possibly said. Fuck--nope, not that one. Asshole--I only use that one for the special occaions. Jiz Mopper--I think that is only a profession and not a swear word at all.
Bastard, that is what I said. But was that what brought this next language correction to me? I was confused. Seriously, Bastard is a bad enough word for Team BEER to have me chastised? I mean, come on. I heard other guys talking about having sex with goats earlier, so why me?
But my brother in law is not the only one to try and correct me on this problem. My mother in law loves to give unsolicted advice. I think that this makes her whole. She has commented several times how when I do write blogs I should watch the language. She states that she cannot check my blog at work because it is blocked because of the foul language. Hmmm. I don't know how to take this. So let's put some spin on it:
I am banned from many computers but I continue to write. That makes me a rebel and a revolutionary. I am fucking Thomas Jefferson in this motherfucker. Ladies, the line starts to the right.
But my brother in law has pointed out some a very important fact, the bastard. Little Hoss is getting to that age where she is starting to repeat things. She has already said shit. The bad parent award goes to the good looking gentlemen in the front row.
And I have 3 nieces and a nephew. All under the age of 4. Little Hoss will probably teach them all how to say shit and then it is my ass for sure.
Bubba Hoss is still only a week old and I know that he has heard me drop the F bomb around a million times. Manly at around 112:50 when I am trying to sleep and he decides No, screw you dad, it's play time. So he may not be saying any bad words yet, but I'm pretty sure he's thinking them.
And when I am with my family, and this is going to sound bad, I just forget the kids are around. As a family we easily slip back into our familiar roles: I am the Hoss, toughest around by far. Uncle Bricksalesman can't close the deal with any woman, ever. Uncle Hippie has odd ball ideas, like using methane biodigradible gase to run his car. Hossmom is the pop culture queen, often pointing out who is banging who in Hollywood. The mother in law wonders why we don't pay more omage and take her advice on the best carpet to buy.
It's easy, it's what we know. And here is the kicker: we all fucking cuss. It isn't just me. But being that I am Hoss, my voice does carry a little bit more. At least I think so because Hossmom is constantly reminding me that I should use my inside voice. So it is easy to blame me for spilling filth around the kids even though we all let the occasional shit squirt statement squeeze out from time to time. And I do suppose the kids look up to me more than their own parents. After all, I once played a couple of football games with a broken hand. That's tough. I'm kinda like Jesus, just not in a sacraligous way, thus sayeth Homer.
So begining today, I will drop the cussing in public. I will make my blog G rated and talk only about bunnies and sun flowers. At Team Beer games I will smile and say that's ok when someone jabs a spike into my shin. I will not use the words fuck, cunt, shit, ass or the brown eyed saint anymore. I swear it.
Uncle Bricksalesman is right, I do cuss to much.
Fucking bastard communist.
Come on man, it's BEER softball for fucks sake! Seriously, what am I supposed to say: Gee wiz Beaver, I sure hope you move your bulbous behind a little faster so that we can score against that swell church. And this blog, fucking come on! It's a blog about my life and when you are cleaning the shit of 2 kids, 2 cats, 2 dogs and whatever my own body plops out, how can I not say fuck!
But for my neices and nephews, I promise I will only say words like "ship" when I stub my toe.
It has been said, by a few more, that I should watch my language around the children.
Fucker.
I arrived at Team Beer Headquarters for our Men's Sunday League Softball game. I just want to point out that the name of our team is again: Beer. I want to make sure everyone knows that. That does not really sound like a family oriented name, does it?
What do you picture when you hear of a softball team by the name of Beer? Maybe a bunch of over the hill guys trying to fight off the she devil of old age. Maybe a bunch of has beens that smoke between innings or maybe a few fellers who tell lies that they could have made the show if only they hadn't stayed home to take care of Mamma.
That's pretty much right on. And I would imagine you would also think that a softball team by the name of Beer would cuss, but just on occasion. That occasion being just about every pitch.
And so it was when I played this last weekend. Things were going fine and we were making our ill advised comments about the church team we were playing. It was a high scoring game which we didn't win. But that is besides the point in today's blog.
We had one of our chubs heading around second. He was huffing a puffing like the last of the Mohicans was after his scalp. He rounded third, headed for home.
At this time, I chose to shout: "Run you fat bastard!"
I don't know why I shouted it, but I just assume that I was caught up in the moment of it all. Competition, sweat and the smell of a possible heart attack. Everything that makes Sunday Men's D League softball worth while.
Well our fat bastard runner did score and all was right with the world. Until Uncle Bricksalesman stepped away from the on deck circle and looked at me.
"Hossman, watch the language." He said in his stoic voice.
I looked around. Was there another Hossman on the field?
Well, yes there was. There were three to be exact. They all have the last name of Hoss and I am jealous. But Uncle Bricksalesman wasn't looking at any of them, only at me. I did a quick count to see what I could have possibly said. Fuck--nope, not that one. Asshole--I only use that one for the special occaions. Jiz Mopper--I think that is only a profession and not a swear word at all.
Bastard, that is what I said. But was that what brought this next language correction to me? I was confused. Seriously, Bastard is a bad enough word for Team BEER to have me chastised? I mean, come on. I heard other guys talking about having sex with goats earlier, so why me?
But my brother in law is not the only one to try and correct me on this problem. My mother in law loves to give unsolicted advice. I think that this makes her whole. She has commented several times how when I do write blogs I should watch the language. She states that she cannot check my blog at work because it is blocked because of the foul language. Hmmm. I don't know how to take this. So let's put some spin on it:
I am banned from many computers but I continue to write. That makes me a rebel and a revolutionary. I am fucking Thomas Jefferson in this motherfucker. Ladies, the line starts to the right.
But my brother in law has pointed out some a very important fact, the bastard. Little Hoss is getting to that age where she is starting to repeat things. She has already said shit. The bad parent award goes to the good looking gentlemen in the front row.
And I have 3 nieces and a nephew. All under the age of 4. Little Hoss will probably teach them all how to say shit and then it is my ass for sure.
Bubba Hoss is still only a week old and I know that he has heard me drop the F bomb around a million times. Manly at around 112:50 when I am trying to sleep and he decides No, screw you dad, it's play time. So he may not be saying any bad words yet, but I'm pretty sure he's thinking them.
And when I am with my family, and this is going to sound bad, I just forget the kids are around. As a family we easily slip back into our familiar roles: I am the Hoss, toughest around by far. Uncle Bricksalesman can't close the deal with any woman, ever. Uncle Hippie has odd ball ideas, like using methane biodigradible gase to run his car. Hossmom is the pop culture queen, often pointing out who is banging who in Hollywood. The mother in law wonders why we don't pay more omage and take her advice on the best carpet to buy.
It's easy, it's what we know. And here is the kicker: we all fucking cuss. It isn't just me. But being that I am Hoss, my voice does carry a little bit more. At least I think so because Hossmom is constantly reminding me that I should use my inside voice. So it is easy to blame me for spilling filth around the kids even though we all let the occasional shit squirt statement squeeze out from time to time. And I do suppose the kids look up to me more than their own parents. After all, I once played a couple of football games with a broken hand. That's tough. I'm kinda like Jesus, just not in a sacraligous way, thus sayeth Homer.
So begining today, I will drop the cussing in public. I will make my blog G rated and talk only about bunnies and sun flowers. At Team Beer games I will smile and say that's ok when someone jabs a spike into my shin. I will not use the words fuck, cunt, shit, ass or the brown eyed saint anymore. I swear it.
Uncle Bricksalesman is right, I do cuss to much.
Fucking bastard communist.
Come on man, it's BEER softball for fucks sake! Seriously, what am I supposed to say: Gee wiz Beaver, I sure hope you move your bulbous behind a little faster so that we can score against that swell church. And this blog, fucking come on! It's a blog about my life and when you are cleaning the shit of 2 kids, 2 cats, 2 dogs and whatever my own body plops out, how can I not say fuck!
But for my neices and nephews, I promise I will only say words like "ship" when I stub my toe.
9/23/07
Day One
15 or 20 minutes. That is all I really want:
11:00 Am--
Hossmom is ready to be discharged from the hospital with the new addition to our family and my blog. Bubba Hoss is 4 days old and is ready to go home. I am ready for him to come home. Hossmom is certaintly ready to come home. I have made around 300 trips to the car to pack all the stuff that we have from the hospital. Every time I come back to the room, Hossmom and her mother have found something else that needs to go. Crap. I am nothing but a pack mule. Cargo pants are a father's best friend. The wheel chair is late. Bubba Hoss is crying, it's time for his feeding. Hossmom is getting impatient. I bear the brunt of everyone.
12:10pm.
We have made it home. I drove 10 miles an hour. If you honked at me, blow me--I have a baby on board. It takes Hossmom 30 minutes to get inside the house because she can barely move from the C-section they gave her. Yes, quick birth but long recovery. My previous life is over, send care packages and silly string.
2:35 pm.
Bubba Hoss is feeding for the 12th time today. Breast feeding is not fun. He mauls my wife's boobs like Mad Max beyond Boobie Dome. It hurts her. I am constantly being pointed to things that I should be doing but before I can finish I am pointed to something else. My mother in law reminds me that I should clean the garage now and also paint the house.
3:32 pm.
I pick up Little Hoss from Day Care. Things went good, she didn't punch anyone or bite anyone. Her vengence is directed at all. She decides that no Papa, I do not want to ride in the car therefore I will scream for a the entire ride home. I stop in a parking lot and throw 64 crayons at her and a sports illistrated. Hopefully that will work. I am hoping that she can entertain herself for the entire 4 minute ride back to our house. I secretly make a vow to buy a DVD player for the car.
4:10pm
I start trying to watch a football game. I have no idea which one. I am asked why there is football on Fridays by every female in my house except my daughter. I explain because God loves me. I have the game recording. It will take me a full 2 days to actually watch the game. I know t his going in but still give the futile effort. The two dogs decide to get into a wrestling match in the living room. My boxer is 60 pounds of pure muscle and bumps into a lot of things, like my daughter. She screams. Bubba Hoss is freaked out by the noise and screams. He clamps down harder on my wife, she screams. I go to my wife and accidently step on her foot, crushing it with my troll feet, she starts to cry. I look at my dog and decide that he will be getting nutured pretty soon. I have a vet appointment tomorrow so we are going to talk about that.
5:52 pm:
Dinner time, hopefully. I have eaten what ever has been within arms reach. A little Debbie, a nutty bar, maybe some peanuts found on the kitchen floor. I can't remember anymore. Little Hoss just hands me things and I put them in my mouth. I am sure we have both eaten dog food. Bubba Hoss doing well, only hates me when I change him. Hossmom is on the chair, unmoving and wondering why god why she wasn't given anything stronger than Vicodin. The Mother In Law tells me I need to clean the garage. My own mother is here now and agrees. I consider faking my own death.
7:21 pm
My mother is putting Little Hoss to bed. By this time I just don't care anymore. I have given over my house to both mothers. I have told them that whatever they want to do to the house, screw it, here's my credit card. Starting to get really tired now. They ask me when I'm going to clean the garage.
11:00pm:
Everyone is in bed. Bubba Hoss has woken up for the 11 o'clock crazies. He's fussy and pissed. I imagine that he too is upset that we still haven't gotten the chance to watch our football game. Hossmom is trying to breastfeed but he is having none of it. This makes her feel bad because every woman every where tells you that you MUST breastfeed if you love your baby. What they don't tell you is that it hurts. Hossmom bites back a curse that might have been coming my way when I ask if she is hurting.
2:35am:
2319! 2319! That is code for when a child poops and the diaper cannot contain it's awesome power. But there is no one to answer the call. Hossmom can't move and the mother in law is asleep downstairs. There is no one else but me. I am changing Bubba Hoss on the changing table. I dreaming of peace and quiet. I am dreaming of a world where people don't point. I am dreaming of a world where I can watch football and take naps. This world no longer exsists for me. I snap awake and look down at Bubba Hoss. I fell asleep standing up. But I notice t hat his diaper is changed and I silently congratulate myself for still being able to change a AM diaper while sleep walking. I am a parenting God. Then I look down at my hand and see that I was proping myself up on the crapped diaper. It is all over me. I have drool coming out my mouth from the sleep changing. I imagine that this must be the last of my soul. We are up for an hour.
5:29 am
Bubba Hoss is up yet again. He is going for a new world record of how many times he can make me say "fuck" in a 24 hour period. He might be getting close to the record. Hossmom has to go to the bathroom. Her stitches hurt so bad that she has to stop halfway and cry. Bubba Hoss is crying to. I am the only one not crying, not hungry, and I am the only one mobile. I repeat my mantra that I learned when Little Hoss was this way: It's not about fair or right or wrong, it's about taking care of my family. Said over and over, it calms me and makes me hate less. Hossmom is almost to the bathroom and I am silently cheering for her. Bubba Hoss is screaming right at me. That's when I decide that my family needs some god damn sleep and right the god damn now. I grab a pre-made bottle of formula and put it in his pie hole. He is happy. If any medical professional even remotely attempts to give me the breast feeding speech again I am going to kick them in the junk. I hate them all so much because my wife equats her ability as a mother with her ability to breastfeed. I blame Cosmo and Hippies.
8:00am
Everyones up. Mother in law is cooking breakfast. Little Hoss is up and wants her daddy. Hossmom is trying to come downstairs and has to use me as a blind man's dog. Little Hoss wants to hold hands. As a family, we are going downstairs one step at a time. Everyone is moving at a different speed and I'm being put through the rack. We finally make it down without me punting the dog because he chose this time to nap on the last god damn step. We eat breakfast and I am reminded that I need to clean the garage and take the dog to the vet. I have no idea why we made this appointment but for some reason this is important to Hossmom. I never win these arguements so I don't try anymore. I watch another 19 minutes of football while spilling milk on the floor. I missed my mouth. I don't care.
10:00 am.
I am in my bathroom, hoping to finally find my 20 minutes of quiet. Little Hoss follows me in the bathroom and throws a fit when I try to shut the door. Fuck it, I invite her in but first I make her go grab me a random book. I am reading "Is your Mama a Llama" while I do my business. Little Hoss is now bored but wants to wash her hands. We taught her this, but her timing is a little off. She screams. She is now throwing tantrums. I want to kill Barney. Why? I have no idea but it seemed right that he should bare my wrath. There is a funky smell in the bathroom that's not me. I look around and notice that our cranky cat has crapped on the floor, in the dirty clothes, on the bathmat. She does this when she is not happy. She's not happy because we didn't get the OK to bring a new kid home. I decide that if the house is on fire and I can only save 7 of us out of 8, well, I know who number 8 is going to be. Shitheel.
11:00am
I am taking the fat belly Newt to the Vet. I have no idea why this was so important but it was. Little Hoss again went nuts when I left, she wants superdad because she is a little overwhelmed at the moment. I get to the vets office. The lady behind the counter says that they are running behind but if I could just sit patiently they should be with me in about 20 minutes. I almost cry. I am so grateful to this woman that I am sure she is an angel. Yes, I will gladly wait 20 extra minutes in your nice and quiet waiting room. In fact, why don't you just go ahead and make it an even 30. I close my eyes as I tie the fat belly Newt to my leg. I sleep and I dream of another important vets appointment.
11:00 Am--
Hossmom is ready to be discharged from the hospital with the new addition to our family and my blog. Bubba Hoss is 4 days old and is ready to go home. I am ready for him to come home. Hossmom is certaintly ready to come home. I have made around 300 trips to the car to pack all the stuff that we have from the hospital. Every time I come back to the room, Hossmom and her mother have found something else that needs to go. Crap. I am nothing but a pack mule. Cargo pants are a father's best friend. The wheel chair is late. Bubba Hoss is crying, it's time for his feeding. Hossmom is getting impatient. I bear the brunt of everyone.
12:10pm.
We have made it home. I drove 10 miles an hour. If you honked at me, blow me--I have a baby on board. It takes Hossmom 30 minutes to get inside the house because she can barely move from the C-section they gave her. Yes, quick birth but long recovery. My previous life is over, send care packages and silly string.
2:35 pm.
Bubba Hoss is feeding for the 12th time today. Breast feeding is not fun. He mauls my wife's boobs like Mad Max beyond Boobie Dome. It hurts her. I am constantly being pointed to things that I should be doing but before I can finish I am pointed to something else. My mother in law reminds me that I should clean the garage now and also paint the house.
3:32 pm.
I pick up Little Hoss from Day Care. Things went good, she didn't punch anyone or bite anyone. Her vengence is directed at all. She decides that no Papa, I do not want to ride in the car therefore I will scream for a the entire ride home. I stop in a parking lot and throw 64 crayons at her and a sports illistrated. Hopefully that will work. I am hoping that she can entertain herself for the entire 4 minute ride back to our house. I secretly make a vow to buy a DVD player for the car.
4:10pm
I start trying to watch a football game. I have no idea which one. I am asked why there is football on Fridays by every female in my house except my daughter. I explain because God loves me. I have the game recording. It will take me a full 2 days to actually watch the game. I know t his going in but still give the futile effort. The two dogs decide to get into a wrestling match in the living room. My boxer is 60 pounds of pure muscle and bumps into a lot of things, like my daughter. She screams. Bubba Hoss is freaked out by the noise and screams. He clamps down harder on my wife, she screams. I go to my wife and accidently step on her foot, crushing it with my troll feet, she starts to cry. I look at my dog and decide that he will be getting nutured pretty soon. I have a vet appointment tomorrow so we are going to talk about that.
5:52 pm:
Dinner time, hopefully. I have eaten what ever has been within arms reach. A little Debbie, a nutty bar, maybe some peanuts found on the kitchen floor. I can't remember anymore. Little Hoss just hands me things and I put them in my mouth. I am sure we have both eaten dog food. Bubba Hoss doing well, only hates me when I change him. Hossmom is on the chair, unmoving and wondering why god why she wasn't given anything stronger than Vicodin. The Mother In Law tells me I need to clean the garage. My own mother is here now and agrees. I consider faking my own death.
7:21 pm
My mother is putting Little Hoss to bed. By this time I just don't care anymore. I have given over my house to both mothers. I have told them that whatever they want to do to the house, screw it, here's my credit card. Starting to get really tired now. They ask me when I'm going to clean the garage.
11:00pm:
Everyone is in bed. Bubba Hoss has woken up for the 11 o'clock crazies. He's fussy and pissed. I imagine that he too is upset that we still haven't gotten the chance to watch our football game. Hossmom is trying to breastfeed but he is having none of it. This makes her feel bad because every woman every where tells you that you MUST breastfeed if you love your baby. What they don't tell you is that it hurts. Hossmom bites back a curse that might have been coming my way when I ask if she is hurting.
2:35am:
2319! 2319! That is code for when a child poops and the diaper cannot contain it's awesome power. But there is no one to answer the call. Hossmom can't move and the mother in law is asleep downstairs. There is no one else but me. I am changing Bubba Hoss on the changing table. I dreaming of peace and quiet. I am dreaming of a world where people don't point. I am dreaming of a world where I can watch football and take naps. This world no longer exsists for me. I snap awake and look down at Bubba Hoss. I fell asleep standing up. But I notice t hat his diaper is changed and I silently congratulate myself for still being able to change a AM diaper while sleep walking. I am a parenting God. Then I look down at my hand and see that I was proping myself up on the crapped diaper. It is all over me. I have drool coming out my mouth from the sleep changing. I imagine that this must be the last of my soul. We are up for an hour.
5:29 am
Bubba Hoss is up yet again. He is going for a new world record of how many times he can make me say "fuck" in a 24 hour period. He might be getting close to the record. Hossmom has to go to the bathroom. Her stitches hurt so bad that she has to stop halfway and cry. Bubba Hoss is crying to. I am the only one not crying, not hungry, and I am the only one mobile. I repeat my mantra that I learned when Little Hoss was this way: It's not about fair or right or wrong, it's about taking care of my family. Said over and over, it calms me and makes me hate less. Hossmom is almost to the bathroom and I am silently cheering for her. Bubba Hoss is screaming right at me. That's when I decide that my family needs some god damn sleep and right the god damn now. I grab a pre-made bottle of formula and put it in his pie hole. He is happy. If any medical professional even remotely attempts to give me the breast feeding speech again I am going to kick them in the junk. I hate them all so much because my wife equats her ability as a mother with her ability to breastfeed. I blame Cosmo and Hippies.
8:00am
Everyones up. Mother in law is cooking breakfast. Little Hoss is up and wants her daddy. Hossmom is trying to come downstairs and has to use me as a blind man's dog. Little Hoss wants to hold hands. As a family, we are going downstairs one step at a time. Everyone is moving at a different speed and I'm being put through the rack. We finally make it down without me punting the dog because he chose this time to nap on the last god damn step. We eat breakfast and I am reminded that I need to clean the garage and take the dog to the vet. I have no idea why we made this appointment but for some reason this is important to Hossmom. I never win these arguements so I don't try anymore. I watch another 19 minutes of football while spilling milk on the floor. I missed my mouth. I don't care.
10:00 am.
I am in my bathroom, hoping to finally find my 20 minutes of quiet. Little Hoss follows me in the bathroom and throws a fit when I try to shut the door. Fuck it, I invite her in but first I make her go grab me a random book. I am reading "Is your Mama a Llama" while I do my business. Little Hoss is now bored but wants to wash her hands. We taught her this, but her timing is a little off. She screams. She is now throwing tantrums. I want to kill Barney. Why? I have no idea but it seemed right that he should bare my wrath. There is a funky smell in the bathroom that's not me. I look around and notice that our cranky cat has crapped on the floor, in the dirty clothes, on the bathmat. She does this when she is not happy. She's not happy because we didn't get the OK to bring a new kid home. I decide that if the house is on fire and I can only save 7 of us out of 8, well, I know who number 8 is going to be. Shitheel.
11:00am
I am taking the fat belly Newt to the Vet. I have no idea why this was so important but it was. Little Hoss again went nuts when I left, she wants superdad because she is a little overwhelmed at the moment. I get to the vets office. The lady behind the counter says that they are running behind but if I could just sit patiently they should be with me in about 20 minutes. I almost cry. I am so grateful to this woman that I am sure she is an angel. Yes, I will gladly wait 20 extra minutes in your nice and quiet waiting room. In fact, why don't you just go ahead and make it an even 30. I close my eyes as I tie the fat belly Newt to my leg. I sleep and I dream of another important vets appointment.
9/19/07
Our Little Secret
I've got a secret to tell.
Shh, stop talking. Who's talking. Wait, that's me. Shh, stop talking.
Ok, yeah, seriously, lean in here. C'mon. Get real close. I can't stay on here for very long. A little closer. Rest your cleavege on your desk, that's how close you need to be because I can't say this again. Shh. C'mon, hurry up.
We'll have to use our indoor voice so no one hears. Be quiet. If you laugh, make it a muffled snort of some kind you big snuflelufigus. Shhhhhh! We don't want them to hear you!
Ok, good, yeah that's it. Ok, here we go. First, I want you to look behind you. Go ahead, do it. Ok--did you see anyone there? No? Good. Look to your left and to your right. Is anyone there? Ok, ok. That's good.Wait, is someone coming?
Quick, minimize this screen page. Hurry the hell up, they are almost here. Seriously man, I'm gonna punch you if we get caught. It's gonna hurt, I promise. Because if this gets out, then we are both screwed. Minimize! I'll wait for you.
Welcome back. I am trusting you that no one else saw this. Ok, here we go. Look behind you again.
Here's my question: Did you see anyone pregnant behind you? Look again. Did you see anyone you THINK might be pregnant behind you. Did you see anyone that maybe evenly REMOTELY can be pregnant behind you. If you did, turn this blog off and never visit again. Don't take us down with you. That's not cool, not cool man.
Ok, for those that are still with us, here is my secret.
Pregnant women are not nice. In fact, they are pretty damn mean.
Seriously.
I am writing this blog on August 31. If I am posting this it means that Hossmom has gone into labor and is in the hospital at the moment. That means that the date of this blog is late September.
I can't publish this when I'm writing this for a very simple reason.Pregnant women are not nice.
Let me explain. Pregnant women are fine during the first 7 months. They are excited. They are somewhat nervous. They are still all into the whole pregnancy thing. But come month number 8, well, in short--they hate you.
And by "you", I mean everyone of you that is not pregnant. And by that I mean every lousy shit eating husband out there. I mean every jackass that is not married but thinks someday he MIGHT have a kid. I mean every male on the face of the planet that is even thinking of having sex with a female in the next 10 years. I mean every sperm of every man ever born.
Pregnant women hate you. And me.I know. I'm living the dream right now. I have proof, but we'll have to make this quick, I have to delete this blog in 5 days. That's when she will probably get out of the hospital and start reading this again.
When you are outside around people, everything is nice and rosy. She smiles, she glows. People come up to her and make nice little comments, maybe touch her belly a little. That's what the world sees. That is the image that pregnant women project.
But next time you do this take a look around. Find the guy that got her pregnant. He will be that sad looking sack that stands behind her, just out of arms reach. See that look in his eyes? That is the look of a defeated man. He is broken.
All he knows is that, somehow, he is what is wrong with the world, on an emotional level of course. He knows this because that is what his pregnant wife told him when you weren't around. There are lots of talks about this. Emtionally this, emotionally that. He doesn't understand it. He has no idea what "emotionally" means. He just knows that he's not doing it, what ever "it" is.
Look closly at him. Now reach to touch the pregnant women's belly. You see that? He flinched. He was not sure what was going to happen when you reached out but he is pretty sure that the resulting vengence is going to be directed at him.
As soon as you turn your back, she will smile. Look closely, she is clinching her teeth. She will urgently whisper to broken husband "why did you let that stranger touch me?" she will say?He will have no idea how to respond to this. He didn't know that this would be a problem because he knows for a fact that when she wasn't pregnant, she touched other bellies all the time. He's seen it.
But it won't matter because he won't say anything. He has since learned that the best way to get past any and all wrath is to shut his pie hole. There is not an arguement in the world that he will win, and they both know it.
Because pregnant women are crazy. There it is. I alone have the courage to say this. I may not be alive tomorrow. Please take care of my family.
They are emotional wrecks. Hormones are playing tricks on them like a bad hit of acid. But the kicker is, there is no good tripping, only the spiraling downfall as gallons of nut job hormones are passed through her system. And it last for 10 months.
He flinches like a POW as she raises her hand. All she wants is her purse but he is so freaked out that even a butterfly landing sends him into a panic attack.
You may be thinking that I'm talking about Hossmom here. Well, not really. I am speaking about every pregnant woman I have ever known.
My hippie sister in law--fucking scary. I nicknamed her The Dreamkiller at the end of her pregnancy. But not to her face, I was terrified.
"So Hossman, where are you going on vacation."
"I was thinking about going to the beach."
"You're fat, why would you want to go to the beach?"
Ouch.
My other sister in law, she's hispanic--I'm pretty sure she cussed me out in spanish. I thank god every day that I couldn't understand a word she said. But that look she gave me, I was pretty sure she wanted to cut me. My brother said that it would be best if he didn't translate.
This is the natural progression of things. They have to carry around your lug for a long time. Thier back hurts constantly, they can't move, they have to get out of bed 10 times a night to pee. They look over at you and see you sleeping peacefully, dreaming of winning the superbowl or dating a supermodel.
They are self concious, they have gained weight, pooping has become a side show and every person with a medical degree is sticking something in thier hooch.
So I understand it when we get our ass handed to us. It doesn't make it any easier at times, but I understand why. But you can't say any of this. Just try it slick and see the wrath that is unleashed upon you.
But today, for the sake of all my brothers, I say--I feel your pain man.
Come, give me a hug, I am ready to support you emotionally.
Shh, stop talking. Who's talking. Wait, that's me. Shh, stop talking.
Ok, yeah, seriously, lean in here. C'mon. Get real close. I can't stay on here for very long. A little closer. Rest your cleavege on your desk, that's how close you need to be because I can't say this again. Shh. C'mon, hurry up.
We'll have to use our indoor voice so no one hears. Be quiet. If you laugh, make it a muffled snort of some kind you big snuflelufigus. Shhhhhh! We don't want them to hear you!
Ok, good, yeah that's it. Ok, here we go. First, I want you to look behind you. Go ahead, do it. Ok--did you see anyone there? No? Good. Look to your left and to your right. Is anyone there? Ok, ok. That's good.Wait, is someone coming?
Quick, minimize this screen page. Hurry the hell up, they are almost here. Seriously man, I'm gonna punch you if we get caught. It's gonna hurt, I promise. Because if this gets out, then we are both screwed. Minimize! I'll wait for you.
Welcome back. I am trusting you that no one else saw this. Ok, here we go. Look behind you again.
Here's my question: Did you see anyone pregnant behind you? Look again. Did you see anyone you THINK might be pregnant behind you. Did you see anyone that maybe evenly REMOTELY can be pregnant behind you. If you did, turn this blog off and never visit again. Don't take us down with you. That's not cool, not cool man.
Ok, for those that are still with us, here is my secret.
Pregnant women are not nice. In fact, they are pretty damn mean.
Seriously.
I am writing this blog on August 31. If I am posting this it means that Hossmom has gone into labor and is in the hospital at the moment. That means that the date of this blog is late September.
I can't publish this when I'm writing this for a very simple reason.Pregnant women are not nice.
Let me explain. Pregnant women are fine during the first 7 months. They are excited. They are somewhat nervous. They are still all into the whole pregnancy thing. But come month number 8, well, in short--they hate you.
And by "you", I mean everyone of you that is not pregnant. And by that I mean every lousy shit eating husband out there. I mean every jackass that is not married but thinks someday he MIGHT have a kid. I mean every male on the face of the planet that is even thinking of having sex with a female in the next 10 years. I mean every sperm of every man ever born.
Pregnant women hate you. And me.I know. I'm living the dream right now. I have proof, but we'll have to make this quick, I have to delete this blog in 5 days. That's when she will probably get out of the hospital and start reading this again.
When you are outside around people, everything is nice and rosy. She smiles, she glows. People come up to her and make nice little comments, maybe touch her belly a little. That's what the world sees. That is the image that pregnant women project.
But next time you do this take a look around. Find the guy that got her pregnant. He will be that sad looking sack that stands behind her, just out of arms reach. See that look in his eyes? That is the look of a defeated man. He is broken.
All he knows is that, somehow, he is what is wrong with the world, on an emotional level of course. He knows this because that is what his pregnant wife told him when you weren't around. There are lots of talks about this. Emtionally this, emotionally that. He doesn't understand it. He has no idea what "emotionally" means. He just knows that he's not doing it, what ever "it" is.
Look closly at him. Now reach to touch the pregnant women's belly. You see that? He flinched. He was not sure what was going to happen when you reached out but he is pretty sure that the resulting vengence is going to be directed at him.
As soon as you turn your back, she will smile. Look closely, she is clinching her teeth. She will urgently whisper to broken husband "why did you let that stranger touch me?" she will say?He will have no idea how to respond to this. He didn't know that this would be a problem because he knows for a fact that when she wasn't pregnant, she touched other bellies all the time. He's seen it.
But it won't matter because he won't say anything. He has since learned that the best way to get past any and all wrath is to shut his pie hole. There is not an arguement in the world that he will win, and they both know it.
Because pregnant women are crazy. There it is. I alone have the courage to say this. I may not be alive tomorrow. Please take care of my family.
They are emotional wrecks. Hormones are playing tricks on them like a bad hit of acid. But the kicker is, there is no good tripping, only the spiraling downfall as gallons of nut job hormones are passed through her system. And it last for 10 months.
He flinches like a POW as she raises her hand. All she wants is her purse but he is so freaked out that even a butterfly landing sends him into a panic attack.
You may be thinking that I'm talking about Hossmom here. Well, not really. I am speaking about every pregnant woman I have ever known.
My hippie sister in law--fucking scary. I nicknamed her The Dreamkiller at the end of her pregnancy. But not to her face, I was terrified.
"So Hossman, where are you going on vacation."
"I was thinking about going to the beach."
"You're fat, why would you want to go to the beach?"
Ouch.
My other sister in law, she's hispanic--I'm pretty sure she cussed me out in spanish. I thank god every day that I couldn't understand a word she said. But that look she gave me, I was pretty sure she wanted to cut me. My brother said that it would be best if he didn't translate.
This is the natural progression of things. They have to carry around your lug for a long time. Thier back hurts constantly, they can't move, they have to get out of bed 10 times a night to pee. They look over at you and see you sleeping peacefully, dreaming of winning the superbowl or dating a supermodel.
They are self concious, they have gained weight, pooping has become a side show and every person with a medical degree is sticking something in thier hooch.
So I understand it when we get our ass handed to us. It doesn't make it any easier at times, but I understand why. But you can't say any of this. Just try it slick and see the wrath that is unleashed upon you.
But today, for the sake of all my brothers, I say--I feel your pain man.
Come, give me a hug, I am ready to support you emotionally.
It's time
Some of you may be wondering why the hell I haven't posted in a while. I mean, after all, what are you supposed to do at work, read someone else's blog?! Seriously, don't be that guy, no one likes that guy.
But to work on my communication skills, which my family feels is not my strong suit, I offer you this today.
My son was born yesterday morning. Yup, just a tad bit early. He came in at 7.5 pounds. We got recruiters calling us from all over the place wondering just where he is going to commit to in 18 years.
So with that said, that is where I will be at over the next couple of days, at the hospital with my family and enjoying my son. But don't worry, I planned for this date, even though it is 3 weeks sooner than I expected.
As I am a sneaky bastard, I have several unpublished blogs that I wrote just for this occasion. I will post one of them tonight so that tomorrow morning you will have something to do.
And yes, my son does indeed kick major ass.
But to work on my communication skills, which my family feels is not my strong suit, I offer you this today.
My son was born yesterday morning. Yup, just a tad bit early. He came in at 7.5 pounds. We got recruiters calling us from all over the place wondering just where he is going to commit to in 18 years.
So with that said, that is where I will be at over the next couple of days, at the hospital with my family and enjoying my son. But don't worry, I planned for this date, even though it is 3 weeks sooner than I expected.
As I am a sneaky bastard, I have several unpublished blogs that I wrote just for this occasion. I will post one of them tonight so that tomorrow morning you will have something to do.
And yes, my son does indeed kick major ass.
9/17/07
La Crap
We have a little over a week and a half before the new baby comes and I am about ready to get this over with. Seriously, I’m done with my wife being pregnant. I just don’t think I can take it anymore. I a weak man, I make no excuses for this. But before you judge me, hear my story and you’ll understand.
I can take it when my wife has cravings. Most of the time anyway. I do not mind going out in the middle of the night to get her peanut butter ice cream. I do not mind scouring every single grocery store in the urban sprawl that we call home for a piece of Key Lime pie. I don’t even mind her picking food off my plate although should anyone else try this you are going to lose a hand. This is a threat and a promise, keep your grubby hands off my plate. If you want a bite of steak, fucking order it.
That’s my steak. It’s not community steak. It’s not “Let’s all Share” steak. It’s Hossman’s steak. Eat your damn salad. I mainly refer this to my wife’s family because they are really nothing more than vultures when it comes to food. “I just want to try it” they’ll say. And as soon as you turn your back, bam, half your meal is gone from that small little bite. For anyone else, this small little bite would encompass a whole meal. So seriously, back off Uncle Bricksalesman and Hippe Brother in Law. It’s my steak, no, bad family, bad. When they are around, I have to order 2 of everything just to ensure I get my own meal.
Even my daughter has started doing this. It may be time to break out the belt. Turn your back even just a little and she is sucking down half of your hamburger. I blame all of Hossmom’s genes for this transgression. I have to eat in secret in the attic when they are all around.
But with pregnant Hossmom around, she gets mostly what she wants and when she wants it. She is growing minion number two, we need him to be strong and healthy. So when she wants to go to a particular restaurant, I’m usually ok with it. Up to a point.
Friday night at the Hossman Family compound is go out night. We pack up the spud and head to whatever restaurant Hossmom feels like. Last Friday, she decided that she wanted to go to the restaurant La Madeline.
Fuck.
Like I said, I’m ok with most of this. But not this place. This is hands down my least favorite place in the world to eat at. Now that I think of it, Hossmom’s family makes me eat there as well when we are with them. It’s a conspiracy.
This Friday night, I was feeling like a steak. A big old piece of meat that I could just fall in love with. I don’t know why I’m built like this. Scratch that, yes I do. I’m built like this because I am a man and a man has needs. Those needs do not include anything with the word quiche in it. I want nothing that was teased with wine, just give me the fucking bottle would ya? The only thing that I want slow cooked is a roast, not a squash. And if you are going to give me chips with the meal, make them real chips not the sun dried shit. Those taste like ass, we all know it. Quit trying to be hip and cool with your sun dried tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. In fact, let’s just get ride of all the sun dried stuff to begin with. If it’s sun dried, it should be known as beef jerky, nothing else.
But what can you do? Pregnant wife wants La Madeline so that’s where we head. I’ll choke it down and put a smile on my face because my wife is hurting enough already so she doesn’t need to here me bitch about anything. Just keep repeating the mantra: Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming.
We arrive at said restaurant with Little Hoss and we get in line to order. Immediately I realize that the whole place is covered in wicker. Wicker is my eternal arch enemy. It interferes with my mojo and the aura I am trying to project. Wicker was made for small, petite Frenchman who like to smell wine for 45 minutes before taking a taste and spitting it out.
I absolutely refuse to have anything wicker in my house. I eventually destroy it. Because wicker cannot take the heavy responsibility of Hossman. My wife likes to say that I “flop” on all our furniture. She is absolutely right, I flop worse than a beached whale. But you know what? It’s my fucking house and I should be able to flop until my flopping heart is content. And if said furniture cannot take the punishment, then it doesn’t belong in my house. Only tough things belong in my house. Except my dog, he is a massive wuss. I think he is a female impersonator, but I love him anyway.
Because a real man loves his dog and hates his wicker. My wife continues to attempt to bring wicker in the house and I continue to break it. Little Hoss has joined in as well because, guess what, she’s a flopper too. Eventually, together we will destroy everything wicker. Long live planet Hossman.
So La Madeline has sun dried food and wicker. Let us continue.
I look at the menu. I am looking for something that has the word steak in it. Maybe a derivative of the word steak. A steak like substance, anything. There is no steak at La Madeline. Not even a something that is cut in the shape of a steak. The closet thing that I could find to abate my meat craving was a turkey sandwich. Fine, sure, a turkey sandwich it is, because that’s almost like steak.
My wife orders and Little Hoss and I go find our seats. La Madeline is not kid friendly either. This never used to bother me until I had a daughter. Now I judge all those places that don’t have at least something for my daughter. Come on man, my daughter kicks much ass how could you not want her here? I look around and I see a lot of hip people having quiet conversations, reading books and holding hands across the table. There is soft music playing.
Yup, we are about to ruin this atmosphere.
I’m sorry, but I am that guy. I can’t help it, Little Hoss can get loud and throwy at times. She’s 20 months old, what else is she supposed to be? Most of the time she is great in restaurants except when she is supposed to be extra good. That’s when she goes all ape shit. But I’m not feeling to bad because I’m guessing they don’t have a changing table in the men’s bathroom either. Which is were they kept one of only 2 high chairs, next to bathroom. Little Hoss, get me some vengeance.
So let’s recap: sun dried everything, wicker, no changing table, no steak and lover’s looking forloined. This is so not my scene.
Dinner went pretty much like I thought it would. Little Hoss hated the quiche that we bought her thus ejecting it to the floor with a wet plop, my turkey sandwich tasted about as good as the sun dried chips that came with it and we received constant looks from the more refined diners judging my parenting style.
But Hossmom got her chicken ceaser salad which makes this story end on a good note. My daughter and I had to have meat snacks when we got back home.
And I swear to all that is holy if the doctor wants us to “wait” until after our due date I’m going to take his arm and pin it behind his back until he crys uncle and gets me a steak and a baby.
I can take it when my wife has cravings. Most of the time anyway. I do not mind going out in the middle of the night to get her peanut butter ice cream. I do not mind scouring every single grocery store in the urban sprawl that we call home for a piece of Key Lime pie. I don’t even mind her picking food off my plate although should anyone else try this you are going to lose a hand. This is a threat and a promise, keep your grubby hands off my plate. If you want a bite of steak, fucking order it.
That’s my steak. It’s not community steak. It’s not “Let’s all Share” steak. It’s Hossman’s steak. Eat your damn salad. I mainly refer this to my wife’s family because they are really nothing more than vultures when it comes to food. “I just want to try it” they’ll say. And as soon as you turn your back, bam, half your meal is gone from that small little bite. For anyone else, this small little bite would encompass a whole meal. So seriously, back off Uncle Bricksalesman and Hippe Brother in Law. It’s my steak, no, bad family, bad. When they are around, I have to order 2 of everything just to ensure I get my own meal.
Even my daughter has started doing this. It may be time to break out the belt. Turn your back even just a little and she is sucking down half of your hamburger. I blame all of Hossmom’s genes for this transgression. I have to eat in secret in the attic when they are all around.
But with pregnant Hossmom around, she gets mostly what she wants and when she wants it. She is growing minion number two, we need him to be strong and healthy. So when she wants to go to a particular restaurant, I’m usually ok with it. Up to a point.
Friday night at the Hossman Family compound is go out night. We pack up the spud and head to whatever restaurant Hossmom feels like. Last Friday, she decided that she wanted to go to the restaurant La Madeline.
Fuck.
Like I said, I’m ok with most of this. But not this place. This is hands down my least favorite place in the world to eat at. Now that I think of it, Hossmom’s family makes me eat there as well when we are with them. It’s a conspiracy.
This Friday night, I was feeling like a steak. A big old piece of meat that I could just fall in love with. I don’t know why I’m built like this. Scratch that, yes I do. I’m built like this because I am a man and a man has needs. Those needs do not include anything with the word quiche in it. I want nothing that was teased with wine, just give me the fucking bottle would ya? The only thing that I want slow cooked is a roast, not a squash. And if you are going to give me chips with the meal, make them real chips not the sun dried shit. Those taste like ass, we all know it. Quit trying to be hip and cool with your sun dried tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. In fact, let’s just get ride of all the sun dried stuff to begin with. If it’s sun dried, it should be known as beef jerky, nothing else.
But what can you do? Pregnant wife wants La Madeline so that’s where we head. I’ll choke it down and put a smile on my face because my wife is hurting enough already so she doesn’t need to here me bitch about anything. Just keep repeating the mantra: Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming, Our Minion is coming.
We arrive at said restaurant with Little Hoss and we get in line to order. Immediately I realize that the whole place is covered in wicker. Wicker is my eternal arch enemy. It interferes with my mojo and the aura I am trying to project. Wicker was made for small, petite Frenchman who like to smell wine for 45 minutes before taking a taste and spitting it out.
I absolutely refuse to have anything wicker in my house. I eventually destroy it. Because wicker cannot take the heavy responsibility of Hossman. My wife likes to say that I “flop” on all our furniture. She is absolutely right, I flop worse than a beached whale. But you know what? It’s my fucking house and I should be able to flop until my flopping heart is content. And if said furniture cannot take the punishment, then it doesn’t belong in my house. Only tough things belong in my house. Except my dog, he is a massive wuss. I think he is a female impersonator, but I love him anyway.
Because a real man loves his dog and hates his wicker. My wife continues to attempt to bring wicker in the house and I continue to break it. Little Hoss has joined in as well because, guess what, she’s a flopper too. Eventually, together we will destroy everything wicker. Long live planet Hossman.
So La Madeline has sun dried food and wicker. Let us continue.
I look at the menu. I am looking for something that has the word steak in it. Maybe a derivative of the word steak. A steak like substance, anything. There is no steak at La Madeline. Not even a something that is cut in the shape of a steak. The closet thing that I could find to abate my meat craving was a turkey sandwich. Fine, sure, a turkey sandwich it is, because that’s almost like steak.
My wife orders and Little Hoss and I go find our seats. La Madeline is not kid friendly either. This never used to bother me until I had a daughter. Now I judge all those places that don’t have at least something for my daughter. Come on man, my daughter kicks much ass how could you not want her here? I look around and I see a lot of hip people having quiet conversations, reading books and holding hands across the table. There is soft music playing.
Yup, we are about to ruin this atmosphere.
I’m sorry, but I am that guy. I can’t help it, Little Hoss can get loud and throwy at times. She’s 20 months old, what else is she supposed to be? Most of the time she is great in restaurants except when she is supposed to be extra good. That’s when she goes all ape shit. But I’m not feeling to bad because I’m guessing they don’t have a changing table in the men’s bathroom either. Which is were they kept one of only 2 high chairs, next to bathroom. Little Hoss, get me some vengeance.
So let’s recap: sun dried everything, wicker, no changing table, no steak and lover’s looking forloined. This is so not my scene.
Dinner went pretty much like I thought it would. Little Hoss hated the quiche that we bought her thus ejecting it to the floor with a wet plop, my turkey sandwich tasted about as good as the sun dried chips that came with it and we received constant looks from the more refined diners judging my parenting style.
But Hossmom got her chicken ceaser salad which makes this story end on a good note. My daughter and I had to have meat snacks when we got back home.
And I swear to all that is holy if the doctor wants us to “wait” until after our due date I’m going to take his arm and pin it behind his back until he crys uncle and gets me a steak and a baby.
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