2/22/10
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.
2/15/10
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.
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.
1/28/10
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.
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.
1/26/10
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.
******************
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.
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.
******************
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.
1/25/10
I'b Nob Slick
There are few endeavors in this world more pointless than lying to my wife. If someone said to me that we will have a man on Mars by March, I would give that a greater chance of success than me pulling one over on Hossmom. But yet, I continue to do it.
"You're sick." she tells me. "You can't go."
I'm! Not! Sick!--that's the lie I told and even as I said it the words came out all wrong. I'b! Nob! Slick! I'm from Naboo. But I am sick and I know it. But if I admit it, I can't go to the movie tonight with the dads and I really want to go to the movie. I've earned this so this virus can suck my balls.
I continue with the lie, I really have no choice. Why? I'll tell you why (and all my women readers be prepared to be vindicated). Because men are liars. Let's tell it like it is. Our entire life is spent lying to women. Did you break that? Nope, it was my brother. Did you sneak out last night? Absolutely not! From birth to marriage you lie to a woman in your life. It's ingrained. It's genetics. It's like the sun, it just is. I didn't cut my sisters hair, it was like that when I found it, I'm not the father--just a few of the obviously bullshit statements men have made in the last million years. It's not our fault, it's society's.
And as such, all women have a dedicated bullshit censor that goes into high gear when they're married. My wife has the deluxe model bullshit censor. It came with leather seats, a sun roof, and a high heeled shoe to throw at my head.
I protest all day that I'b nob slick, hoping that an enthusiastic defense will distract from the cold sweats that cover me in chills. I never believe for a minute that she's buying it but I continue to sell it. It doesn't matter though, I forge on anyway. That's why men are such great explorers. They go on even when they know that they are fucked. Will find that city of gold one day boys, just keep pushing forward.
The true downside of the SAHD life is that you only have that one income, which means you have to protect it. Hossmom has been busting her ass for the last several weeks and has missed almost every family dinner. And this week she's not going to be home until the kids are in bed and I've finished with Skinimax. I need this movie. I need to get out while I can.
I carry though my day as normal, hoping to prove I'b nob slick. Cleaning, laundry, playing with the kids. I take short naps in the bathroom hoping to regain some energy because the truth is I'm dying here. I cook a normal dinner, Asian stirfry. I would prefer my normal sick food, the glorious Fruity Pebbles, but to do so would admit defeat and be an obvious sign that I'm sick. Asian stirfry may possibly be the worst sick food ever. But I eat because I will not admit defeat.
I clean up after dinner, I take the dogs out, I put the kids to bed. Hossmom just shakes her head and let's me know I'm not fooling anyone. Can't turn back now though, I've gone to far.
Finally I get ready to leave for the movie. She again protests but again I lie. I'b nob slick, I'm going to watch a movie.
Which is another lie within a lie. It would have been more accurate to say that I'm going to sleep in a movie theater while a movie plays. But I'm running on principle now and when you don't have Fruity Pebbles, principles is all you got.
"You're sick." she tells me. "You can't go."
I'm! Not! Sick!--that's the lie I told and even as I said it the words came out all wrong. I'b! Nob! Slick! I'm from Naboo. But I am sick and I know it. But if I admit it, I can't go to the movie tonight with the dads and I really want to go to the movie. I've earned this so this virus can suck my balls.
I continue with the lie, I really have no choice. Why? I'll tell you why (and all my women readers be prepared to be vindicated). Because men are liars. Let's tell it like it is. Our entire life is spent lying to women. Did you break that? Nope, it was my brother. Did you sneak out last night? Absolutely not! From birth to marriage you lie to a woman in your life. It's ingrained. It's genetics. It's like the sun, it just is. I didn't cut my sisters hair, it was like that when I found it, I'm not the father--just a few of the obviously bullshit statements men have made in the last million years. It's not our fault, it's society's.
And as such, all women have a dedicated bullshit censor that goes into high gear when they're married. My wife has the deluxe model bullshit censor. It came with leather seats, a sun roof, and a high heeled shoe to throw at my head.
I protest all day that I'b nob slick, hoping that an enthusiastic defense will distract from the cold sweats that cover me in chills. I never believe for a minute that she's buying it but I continue to sell it. It doesn't matter though, I forge on anyway. That's why men are such great explorers. They go on even when they know that they are fucked. Will find that city of gold one day boys, just keep pushing forward.
The true downside of the SAHD life is that you only have that one income, which means you have to protect it. Hossmom has been busting her ass for the last several weeks and has missed almost every family dinner. And this week she's not going to be home until the kids are in bed and I've finished with Skinimax. I need this movie. I need to get out while I can.
I carry though my day as normal, hoping to prove I'b nob slick. Cleaning, laundry, playing with the kids. I take short naps in the bathroom hoping to regain some energy because the truth is I'm dying here. I cook a normal dinner, Asian stirfry. I would prefer my normal sick food, the glorious Fruity Pebbles, but to do so would admit defeat and be an obvious sign that I'm sick. Asian stirfry may possibly be the worst sick food ever. But I eat because I will not admit defeat.
I clean up after dinner, I take the dogs out, I put the kids to bed. Hossmom just shakes her head and let's me know I'm not fooling anyone. Can't turn back now though, I've gone to far.
Finally I get ready to leave for the movie. She again protests but again I lie. I'b nob slick, I'm going to watch a movie.
Which is another lie within a lie. It would have been more accurate to say that I'm going to sleep in a movie theater while a movie plays. But I'm running on principle now and when you don't have Fruity Pebbles, principles is all you got.
1/12/10
Little Hoss Snow Shoveling
I thought I would forgo the Friday five this week to give you my first video post, ever. I hope you enjoy Little Hoss attempting to shovel snow and Bubba Hoss trying to get in on the action.
y
y
The Dollhouse
On my tombstone, and it will be a magnificent one, will be written a very simple epitaph: Here lies Hossman. He kicked ass.
It will be a tourist attraction, a vacation spot for families trying to reconnect. And a Lemon Chill stand will be next to it. It will be the first Lemon Chill stand to earn a billion dollars. People will come just to picnic with what once was. Supermodels will erect a shrine of their bikinis and decorate it with tassels. Fathers will bring their sons and they will kneel. The son will say "Oh father, why have we come to this place." And the father will answer "Son, we are here for two reasons. First, maybe we can catch a glimpse of a supermodel in a bikini." And the son will nod in understanding. "But son, there is another reason." The father will tell the son a story.
Once there was a man named Hossman and he had two minions. Delightful little things that constantly strove to earn his approval and to break everything that they touched. The older one, Little Hoss, was growing up quite quickly and destroying things far more advanced than her age. She was playful and sweet and had her father's heart. Near Christmas one year, as he was sipping his evening brandy, he noticed how much hid daughter loved her dolls. How much she played with them and invented games for them. Games like "A hanging from a doorknob" and "You go to time out." He would watch her in wonder as she played with her dolls. He wanted to do something for her, something special. He decided to get her a dollhouse.
He looked for dollhouses and was disappointed in what he found. Flimsy plastic things with flimsy princess stickers. Overpriced molded dreams that would quickly become nightmares once those plastic pieces shattered under his daughters destructive hands. A broken hearted daughter would wail at her wrecked dollhouse. He could not have this. He could not give something to his daughter knowing that one day it would consume her with grief. He knew there was only one thing he could do. He would build her a dollhouse, one that she could not break. Hossman kicks ass.
He told Hossmom what he planned to do. A simple idea quickly became complex as is Hossman's nature when he builds little projects. The size and shape grew. It would be made out of maple or oak, doors would be cut big enough for any Barbie or stuffed animal. Windows would be made with curtains hand stitched over them. It would be a palace, one to make other dollhouses look like little serf hamlets.
Hossmom had been through this type of thing before with her husband. She knew his grand schemes. She placed her hand on his arm and said "Hossman, she's only three. Let's scale it down a bit. Remember, we are on a budget" Reluctantly, he agreed.
He began work the next day and allowed Little Hoss help pick out the wood. They took it back to the garage and turned it into a family project. Little Hoss would carry the pieces to her father while Bubba Hoss kicked at a bug. Hossman would cut the pieces and hand them back to his daughter. She would then put them on the floor and jump on them. Hossman didn't know why but liked to think she was in the quality control department.
For days they worked at the project. They cut the dado for the floors, they made windows for the attic, and they glued their fingers together because that is what happens when you build any piece of furniture with a 3 year old and a 2 year old. They cut the doors, each of which took at least 4 hours to complete. They used 4 different kinds of sanders and 3 different kinds of sand paper. They labored, together, a father and his minions. But finally, after weeks of half ass working on it, they put it together.
It stood 4 feet tall. The joints fit together so that nothing would slip, it was like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. But as it was his daughter, Hossman reinforced every joint to the point that Armageddon itself would not be able to break this dollhouse.
But quality control was still needed. So Hossman put both his children on top of the dollhouse and told them to jump. And they did. Gladly. He inspected every piece and nothing moved. It was the rock of Gibraltar of dollhouses.
And one day it was gone. Little Hoss went to the garage and did not see her dollhouse. She asked her father where it was. He told her that Santa came and got it so he could finish it. She was excited. Hossman is a devious ass kicker.
But he knew he had the bigger job ahead of him. He had to decorate it like a dollhouse. So he took the children to the craft store and turned them loose. "Go minions" he cried like a angelic general. "Go get stickers." And they did. It was a frenzy. 20 different types of flowers, rhinestones, wooden figures. They threw stickers that puffed up in the shopping basket. they threw pink felt paper in the basket. They threw other baskets in the basket. They threw half the store in the basket. Hossman went to check out with visions of the greatness in his head. The clerk rang up the purchase.
Hossman bought 140 dollars worth of stickers. No shit. 140 bucks. That's not a typo.
It was at this point that Hossman realized that he had indeed gone overboard. He had enough stickers to wallpaper his own bedroom much less a dollhouse. So he turned to Hossmom for help. "Um" he muttered. "I messed up and need help." Hossmom was patient with him. She knew this was coming. He told her how much he spent on stickers. She laughed. She laughed hard. Who in god's name spends that much on stickers? But Hossmom took pity on him and went threw every sticker that he had brought home and picked out what was truly needed. She reminded him yet again that she is only 3 years old and to scale things down a bit. Then, like a true hero, she went and returned 120 bucks worth of stickers. And never said a thing about it. Other than to tell all her friends so that they could all laugh.
Hossman was able to get back on track. He began painting the dollhouse while rocking out to Guns and Roses. Every night for a week he went down to the basement and applied the paint to get it perfect. Then he brought it up for the final decorations. Hossmom was again glad to help but said that hand stitched curtains would be a waste, the child is only 3. This time Hossman listened to her. Because he was very, very tired of the dollhouse.
Hossmom covered the attic in pink rhinestones. Hossman got stick on linoleum and made the flooring. They made a fishy room in the middle so if Barbie wanted something exotic, she could go there. They covered another room in blue rhinestones so Barbie could chill out in style. They made an animal room with a red floor because 3 year olds and Barbie love animals. But the room that was in Hossman's head, the one he wouldn't compromise on, was the Princess ballroom.
The floor had two red roses set in white like Princess Bell's. The walls he covered with silver glittering music stickers. And on the back wall, the one where Little Hoss would see, he placed Sleeping Beauty surrounded by more roses, flanked further still by blue hearts. To look upon it is to make one cry. The dollhouse was finished.
Christmas came and he gave the dollhouse to his daughter. She was very excited and told her daddy that she loved Santa so much because he finished her dollhouse. Hossman told her he would tell Santa that. Within an hour every stuffed animal that she owned had moved into the dollhouse like squatters. Little Hoss was happy. Hossman was happy because this is one dollhouse she would never be able to break. No matter what she did to it, it would still stand. It will remain long after he is gone.
This is the story that the father told his son. The son did not say a word as his father told him this story. The son felt closer to his father, closer to him than he has ever felt. And he will understand what his father was trying to teach him.
Hossman kicks ass.
And then they would go in search of the supermodels.
It will be a tourist attraction, a vacation spot for families trying to reconnect. And a Lemon Chill stand will be next to it. It will be the first Lemon Chill stand to earn a billion dollars. People will come just to picnic with what once was. Supermodels will erect a shrine of their bikinis and decorate it with tassels. Fathers will bring their sons and they will kneel. The son will say "Oh father, why have we come to this place." And the father will answer "Son, we are here for two reasons. First, maybe we can catch a glimpse of a supermodel in a bikini." And the son will nod in understanding. "But son, there is another reason." The father will tell the son a story.
Once there was a man named Hossman and he had two minions. Delightful little things that constantly strove to earn his approval and to break everything that they touched. The older one, Little Hoss, was growing up quite quickly and destroying things far more advanced than her age. She was playful and sweet and had her father's heart. Near Christmas one year, as he was sipping his evening brandy, he noticed how much hid daughter loved her dolls. How much she played with them and invented games for them. Games like "A hanging from a doorknob" and "You go to time out." He would watch her in wonder as she played with her dolls. He wanted to do something for her, something special. He decided to get her a dollhouse.
He looked for dollhouses and was disappointed in what he found. Flimsy plastic things with flimsy princess stickers. Overpriced molded dreams that would quickly become nightmares once those plastic pieces shattered under his daughters destructive hands. A broken hearted daughter would wail at her wrecked dollhouse. He could not have this. He could not give something to his daughter knowing that one day it would consume her with grief. He knew there was only one thing he could do. He would build her a dollhouse, one that she could not break. Hossman kicks ass.
He told Hossmom what he planned to do. A simple idea quickly became complex as is Hossman's nature when he builds little projects. The size and shape grew. It would be made out of maple or oak, doors would be cut big enough for any Barbie or stuffed animal. Windows would be made with curtains hand stitched over them. It would be a palace, one to make other dollhouses look like little serf hamlets.
Hossmom had been through this type of thing before with her husband. She knew his grand schemes. She placed her hand on his arm and said "Hossman, she's only three. Let's scale it down a bit. Remember, we are on a budget" Reluctantly, he agreed.
He began work the next day and allowed Little Hoss help pick out the wood. They took it back to the garage and turned it into a family project. Little Hoss would carry the pieces to her father while Bubba Hoss kicked at a bug. Hossman would cut the pieces and hand them back to his daughter. She would then put them on the floor and jump on them. Hossman didn't know why but liked to think she was in the quality control department.
For days they worked at the project. They cut the dado for the floors, they made windows for the attic, and they glued their fingers together because that is what happens when you build any piece of furniture with a 3 year old and a 2 year old. They cut the doors, each of which took at least 4 hours to complete. They used 4 different kinds of sanders and 3 different kinds of sand paper. They labored, together, a father and his minions. But finally, after weeks of half ass working on it, they put it together.
It stood 4 feet tall. The joints fit together so that nothing would slip, it was like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. But as it was his daughter, Hossman reinforced every joint to the point that Armageddon itself would not be able to break this dollhouse.
But quality control was still needed. So Hossman put both his children on top of the dollhouse and told them to jump. And they did. Gladly. He inspected every piece and nothing moved. It was the rock of Gibraltar of dollhouses.
And one day it was gone. Little Hoss went to the garage and did not see her dollhouse. She asked her father where it was. He told her that Santa came and got it so he could finish it. She was excited. Hossman is a devious ass kicker.
But he knew he had the bigger job ahead of him. He had to decorate it like a dollhouse. So he took the children to the craft store and turned them loose. "Go minions" he cried like a angelic general. "Go get stickers." And they did. It was a frenzy. 20 different types of flowers, rhinestones, wooden figures. They threw stickers that puffed up in the shopping basket. they threw pink felt paper in the basket. They threw other baskets in the basket. They threw half the store in the basket. Hossman went to check out with visions of the greatness in his head. The clerk rang up the purchase.
Hossman bought 140 dollars worth of stickers. No shit. 140 bucks. That's not a typo.
It was at this point that Hossman realized that he had indeed gone overboard. He had enough stickers to wallpaper his own bedroom much less a dollhouse. So he turned to Hossmom for help. "Um" he muttered. "I messed up and need help." Hossmom was patient with him. She knew this was coming. He told her how much he spent on stickers. She laughed. She laughed hard. Who in god's name spends that much on stickers? But Hossmom took pity on him and went threw every sticker that he had brought home and picked out what was truly needed. She reminded him yet again that she is only 3 years old and to scale things down a bit. Then, like a true hero, she went and returned 120 bucks worth of stickers. And never said a thing about it. Other than to tell all her friends so that they could all laugh.
Hossman was able to get back on track. He began painting the dollhouse while rocking out to Guns and Roses. Every night for a week he went down to the basement and applied the paint to get it perfect. Then he brought it up for the final decorations. Hossmom was again glad to help but said that hand stitched curtains would be a waste, the child is only 3. This time Hossman listened to her. Because he was very, very tired of the dollhouse.
Hossmom covered the attic in pink rhinestones. Hossman got stick on linoleum and made the flooring. They made a fishy room in the middle so if Barbie wanted something exotic, she could go there. They covered another room in blue rhinestones so Barbie could chill out in style. They made an animal room with a red floor because 3 year olds and Barbie love animals. But the room that was in Hossman's head, the one he wouldn't compromise on, was the Princess ballroom.
The floor had two red roses set in white like Princess Bell's. The walls he covered with silver glittering music stickers. And on the back wall, the one where Little Hoss would see, he placed Sleeping Beauty surrounded by more roses, flanked further still by blue hearts. To look upon it is to make one cry. The dollhouse was finished.
Christmas came and he gave the dollhouse to his daughter. She was very excited and told her daddy that she loved Santa so much because he finished her dollhouse. Hossman told her he would tell Santa that. Within an hour every stuffed animal that she owned had moved into the dollhouse like squatters. Little Hoss was happy. Hossman was happy because this is one dollhouse she would never be able to break. No matter what she did to it, it would still stand. It will remain long after he is gone.
This is the story that the father told his son. The son did not say a word as his father told him this story. The son felt closer to his father, closer to him than he has ever felt. And he will understand what his father was trying to teach him.
Hossman kicks ass.
And then they would go in search of the supermodels.
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