Theft

My sons room is jacked and I'm not sure what to make of this.  I am at a loss which is unusual for me.  There is no little awkward joke coming from me.  There is no smart quip that reflects the woes of society, nicely packaged in a one line zinger that I would say to the dog, my most trusted companion.  Except when he shits on the floor or eats the garbage.  Then I don't like him.  But most times, he's man's best friend and the eater of all things that fall on the floor, let us give thanks.

The dog and I are looking at my son's room.  I am speechless because I don't know what to say.  He is speechless because he is a fucking dog.  Regardless, we both just look at my son's room and decide what to make of this.  He farts.  He blames me.  The comedy breaks our silence.

"What the hell man??" I tell the dog who still decides its not the time to talk.

Being a father has shown me a lot of things in my time.  I have seen poop smeared on walls, I have seen crayons used on walls, I have seen gallons of snot used to create masterpieces on walls.  I have lost a lot of walls in my time as a father.  But this, this is a new one on me.

On my son's walls........

There is nothing.

But the horror doesn't end there. There is nothing on his floor either.  There is nothing on his bed, there is nothing here or there, there is nothing everywhere.

Now I know that it may seem like I have lost my mind or my sight.  You are probably thinking, Hossman, your son cleaned his room.  Great for him.  Go eat a hot dog and stop writing about stupid crappola.  

But if you read my blog, then you know such a thing is not possible.  Have we not mentioned the horror of the walls?

There are no posters on his walls.  I have no idea how he tore them down.  There are no books in his bookshelf.  There are no shelves in his book shelf.  There are no pillows on his bed.  There are no covers on his bed, there are no sheets on his bed.  There are toys on the floor, there are no toys in the toy box, there is no toy box.

I look at the dresser.  There is a lamp, a solitary lamp pushed all the way back to the wall.  But there is nothing else on top of the dresser.  There is no piggy bank, there is no school photo, there is no nail gun.  Not that there should be one up there but on occasion I do leave tools lying around where my children can get them and maim me while I sleep.  It's a game we play called "cripple dad".  I'm still winning but there have been some close matches.

I open the drawers.  There are no clothes in the drawers.  No pants, no shirts, no pjs.  In the top drawer though there is still some underwear but not as much as there should be.

In short, my son's room is bare.  It looks like someone just dumped a mattress in here and then took off on a union break.  All of his belongings are gone, everything, gone.

I have made enemies in my past, this I know.  I may have told a few people that they should take on as a tutor the local baboons so that they could learn some manners.  I may have inferred to some in my past that a tick on the ass of my trusted dog is a better companion.  Sure, I don't know when to temper it sometimes, but still, this goes to far.  My son's stuff has been jacked.

But of course I immediately go to my first suspicion, aliens.  I have killed more than my fair share of aliens.  I have round them up in the online gaming world and marched them into oblivion.  Aliens have no sense of honor though and they have decided that this is the only way to get back at me for the years of painful defeats I have put them through.

Then my son walks in and shatters that idea.  I do believe, Mr. Watson, that we have a lead.

"Where is your sister?" I ask him.  I know, my head shouldn't go there first, but c'mon, it's my daughter.  This is the type of thing she would do.

"At school"  he says.  Intriguing.  The plot gets thicker.

"Ok."  I say.  "Hey buddy......"

"Yea dad?"

"Where's all your stuff man?"

"Oh!" he says with a big smile on his face. 

"We hid it!" he tells me, still very excited.

"Who is we?" I ask.

"Daaaaaddddddddd"  he says.  "Me and my friends silly!"  he tells me like somehow I am now the idiot.  But it begins to make sense.  We had playgroup today.  He had his friends over.  They went to play in his room.  They were quiet, they were nice.  They came down and ate lunch.  They didn't say a word, they didn't act different at all.

He goes to his closet and tries to open the door, but he can't.  He's pushing on it with all his might and yet, it only opens about a foot and then stops.  He slips inside and vanishes.  I am intrigued and terrified at the same time.

I go over to the door and I push.  It doesn't budge, something is pushing back.  I get it open just enough to stick my head in.

And there it is.  All of his shit.  Everything in the world that he owns is right there, crammed inside a tiny little closet.  Every book, scrap of clothing, posters, toys, wall decorations, everything.  And on top of this huge pile of junk sits my son on his thrown of possession.

"What the hell man!" I say.

"Fooled you!"  he says.  "We hid it!"  I need to tell him to stop hanging out with his sister, she's a bad influence.  My nice little boy has become a criminal mastermind.  What begins as just cleaning out a room now will soon turn into cleaning out a bank vault and hiding in caves.   He will spend his ill begotten earnings on ice cream and power rangers crap.  I don't mind the ice cream but the power rangers stuff sends shivers down my spine.  That's no way for a grown man to live.

I tell the other families at playgroup what happened, how their sons may have corrupted my sweet innocent evil genius boy.  However, I leave one out.  A sweet little girl, Papascrums kid.  She's nice and respectful and mostly shy.  The only innocent in this debauchery of the jacked up room.

"Oh no she was in on it to!" Mrs. Papascrum tells me.  This is her direct quote:  "Want to make sure she gets the street cred she deserves"

There it is.  There is Soze.  And poof, she's gone.  

Screaming

"God Dammit!  The road is closed!  God Dammit!" Hossmom yells at me but I don't tell her she's yelling at me because that would just make her yell at me more.  She is calling me on the phone from about 50 yards away.  She is in her car staring at the road closed sign that is pretty much right in front of our house.  It's late, probably around 10 or so.  But she can't pull into our driveway because, you guessed it, the road is closed.

As an experienced husband and father, I've done this before, I've handled this situation before.  So I do what you are supposed to do when in this situation.  I point out something to Hossmom that is just going to piss her off more.

"Of course the road is closed" I said.  "Didn't you see the signs for the last three days?"

Yup, this is pro shit I'm doing.  You shouldn't try this at home. 

She doesn't answer right away which is how I know that she is plotting my doom.  I should have just shut up but I couldn't help myself.  They are putting in speed humps in our neighborhood and for the last three days they have had signs up saying that the roads will be closed while they do it.  I just assumed that she would know that.

"Of course I've seen the signs" you dip shit she doesn't say but I can tell she's thinking it.  I'm in her head man.  "But they were supposed to be finished by the time I came back!"  She is yelling loudly again.  I consider for a moment discussing the drying rates for freshly poured concrete but to my ever loving credit I don't say anything.  It was a close call though.

"This is stupid!" she tells me.  After being with my wife for many years, I can tell her moods with just a short conversation.  Her current tone tells me that she is pissed off and willing to crack the first person she sees in half.  For the sake of the world and humanity, that must be me.  I cannot unleash this on the rest of you.  I take one for the team, you all owe me now.

"Stay put" I tell her.  My voice is calm, the same calm that a snake charmer would speak to a deadly cobra.  Hello Mr. Cobra, you don't want to bite me, I'm your friend, please don't chomp my eyeballs.  Unfortunately, snakes sometimes do chomp eyeballs. 

"I'll come out and get the car and take it the back way and you can just walk on home."  I thought this was a brilliant idea.  It's so close to our house that it is easy for me to do.   It would take less than a minute to walk out there, get the car, allow her to go inside and jump into her pajama pants, and then take the car the back way into the neighborhood.  She will be nice and cozy inside, I will be alone with my thoughts in a short car ride and away from any possible dishes being thrown.  I am awesome.

"I can't!" she tells me.  "I've already turned around."  She sounds even more mad and I'm not sure really why.  But it is not my place to question, only to avoid the wrath.  I tell her to take the back way home then and I'll get her something to eat. 

"I DON'T KNOW THE BACK WAY.!"

I'll admit, I'm at a loss here.  I ask her how is it possible that she doesn't know the back way into the neighborhood.  We've been here 4 years, this should be pretty simple.  This was apparently the wrong thing to say.  She screams at me that she only has to come in the normal way and that the back way is for redneck dip shits like me who need to shower 12 times a day to get the stupid off.  I made up that last part but I feel that you can get the gist of what she said. 

The next 15 minutes I spend telling her how to get into the neighborhood the back way.  She spends the next 15 minutes taking the wrong turns and asking me how I can pass myself off as a man.  Eventually she gets home.  When she gets in the door I quickly give her a hug.  I'm an experienced fighter and I know that there at times where the best thing to do is to get in close to avoid big haymakers. 

She plops down on the couch and once again we go into the stupidity of speed humps.  Why do we need so many?  Why does it take so long?  Why are they stupid?  Why does the local construction crew suck so much cock?  This goes on for about another 15 minutes. 

"Calm down honey."  I say.  "You don't want to wake the kids."  The worse thing you can do to an upset person is to tell them to calm down.  It never works and has the exact opposite affect.  No one ever calms down.  What they do is yell even louder and start imagining how gratifying it would be to put a ice pick in your head. 

"I know you are upset honey." I try again.  Idiot comes to mind.  "Please don't yell at me."

"I'M NOT YELLING AT YOU!" she yells.  I point out the irony of her saying this while she is yelling.  I hide her phone so she cannot call a divorce lawyer. 

My mind is racing here.  I'm wondering how we ended up in a fight, how I am somehow responsible for the road closure and how I can quickly diffuse the situation.  There is an answer here, I just have to find it.  And I do. 

I do because I am an experienced husband and like I've said before, I've done this.  I know the score, I know what's up and I know how to get out of it. 

Hossmom is pregnant.  This will be our third, and our final, minion.  If you've read my blog you will know that pregnant women are not the most agreeable to be around at times.  I'll catch shit for saying it but I know it to be true.  I'm not claiming any hardship on my part mind you, but it's a fact that is undeniable.  Hormones are raging, you have to pee every 2 hours, sometimes you pee yourself and your back never stops hurting.  I get it, I know it's tough.  And as a result, husbands everywhere get the brunt of the frustration that comes out of nowhere.  Hey, we are just the guys that happen to be around when they need to vent and let the crazy out and to take the full responsibility, it is our fault that they got knocked up in the first place. 

I know all of this but I seemed to have forgotten some of it.  I know about the mood swings, the irrational anger that comes out of nowhere.  I've done this before.  And I'll have to do it again. 

I immediately agree with everything she is saying.  Fuck the speed humps!  How dare they care about children's safety!  Those bastards are all probably union and sleeping half the time.  I bet that they make a ton of money making the speed humps.  You know that they use substandard materials and pocket the rest!  You know what, I'm going to call them and demand that they immediately open that road! 

That's how you do it.  Trust me on this, there is no other way. 

I have 6 more months of this.  I am going to have to console her when the dog looks sad even though he always looks sad.  I will have to get her tissues when the "sad" commercials come on.  I will have to fight the injustice of the world like speedhumps and stupid drivers.  And I will do all of this gladly, it is my role in all of us. 

I do this to keep all of you safe, and you all owe me.  Big time. 












"

I had a dream last night and because of this dream, I will be completely messed up for the rest of the day.  I might as well just go back to bed as there is nothing of worth that will be accomplished today.  It's over, I'm calling it.  The trainer is throwing in the towel and I'm pulling into the garage, my race is over.  See what I did there?  I mixed sports metaphors between boxing and NASCAR.  That's what's happening to me today.  So fuck it, I quit.  That's what stupid people do, they quit.  Well, they quit and enter their daughters into beauty pageants at age 3, give them something called Go-Go juice and then go on reality TV to brag about their awesome parenting.  That family is going to have some awesome pregnant teens working at McDonald's.  At least I'm not that bad.

Last night I dreamed that I was doing a series of job interviews.  This in itself shouldn't be that worrisome.  I used to be great at job interviews.  I was personable, charismatic and knowledgeable.  You wanted to hire me, the core of your bones vibrated with excitement after I was done.  I was witty and funny while maintaining professional standards.  When I was done, you thought "Man, I want that guy working here."  But in the dream last night, I was not that guy.  I was a fuck up.  I was stupid. 

I was interviewing, for some reason, in my wife's field of advertising.  I know completely nothing about advertising.  You would think that I would have picked up something from listening to my wife talk about it for so long.  But nope, I still know nothing about the inner workings of advertising other than the SAG salaries of the actors that are hired.  Oh, and if someone gets drunk at work.  I know about that stuff too because it's fun to gossip.  We should all do it more. 

In this dream, I desperately needed a job.  I can't remember why.  However, the first problem was that I was trying to interview while at the same time taking care of the kids, one of which was a baby.  The baby would cry, I would try to answer a question, my son would pee on the floor and my daughter wouldn't stop dancing on the interviewers desk.  I don't think the interview was going very well because I remember thinking "I wonder if he will notice the children?" 

During the interview, I was then asked to take a written exam about advertising.  This used to be something else I was completely awesome at.  I don't have test panic, I don't cram 10 minutes before one.  I once rolled into a calculus exam 30 minutes late, was the first one to finish, got a B and glory followed.  This one was not like that one.  How messed up to you have to be pining for the good old days of taking a Calculus final? 

The first question on the written exam was to define the word "arable."  I have no idea what this word means.  I don't even think that it is a word.  I asked Hossmom about it as she is a word nerd and she replied that it is a word as in "You had a arable dream last night!  Would you like to buy some flowers Governor" she said in her best cockney accent.  She was not helping.  But in the dream I was sure it was a word, a word that I didn't know and couldn't think about because at the current moment my daughter had gotten a hold of sharpie markers and was writing on the walls.  And what was she writing?  Arable.  And yet, I couldn't define it.  I was going to get the job. 

The next question was "What should the first 75% of the clients advertising budget be spent on."  Of course, I don't know the answer.  Why would I, I've never worked a day in the advertising world.  My answer did not go off well as I replied with "Boob jobs"  I laughed and for some reason my son laughed.  The guy doing to interview did not laugh.  Fuck all.  Nothing is worse than when a joke doesn't go well.  There is awkward silence as everyone realizes what a numb nuts you are.  A social incompetent who would do better tending to animals, probably cats, so that you won't make people feel weird in the real world. 

I was given an hour to finish the test but I couldn't finish it because I couldn't get past the first two questions.  So I ran, with kids in tow.  I called my wife and told her to tell her people that I'm sorry I'm so stupid and to tell them that I accidentally stabbed myself with a pen while trying to use it as a fork. 

And when I woke up, that's the way I felt.  I even asked Hossmom why she wanted me to work in advertising.  Now we can analyze the dream.  It's obvious that I have daddy issues.  I'm not really sure of course, as I am stupid apparently, but everything comes back to that so I'll go with it.  Could it also be that I haven't been employed for 4 years and my son starts kindergarten next year?  Will I choke on interviews?  Is it the knowledge that when I eventually go back to work I will have to once again start at the bottom of the rung rather than the level that I earned before leaving the working world?  I managed people, I made important decisions, I controlled a budget.  I was a fixer, I was the guy you called on when things were about to get public and nasty.  And I was good at it, I was not a stupid imbecile trying to define a word that doesn't exist.  Is that guy gone forever, has he been destroyed by dirty diapers and piss stains?  I'm worried that he might be.  Has Spongebob Squarepants taken away all the intelligence I used to have?

I have never taken the stay at home dad thing lightly.  I have always treated this like a job.  I wake up in the morning with the family, I cook breakfast, lunch and dinners.  I go to events, I'm involved in the national organization, I try to help others that are struggling with it.  But this is not something that translates well into the working world.

Unless of course the Webster's Dictionary cares to hire me.  After all, I did come up with a new word, Arable.

Sex?

I have a to do list.  This is most commonly known as the "honey do list".  This is a sweet way of saying this is the shit my wife wishes that I would get accomplished each day.  She's a ball breaker and the pay is for crap. 

Normally though, I do not allow Hossmom to write on the to do list.  I have a good reason for this.  It's because, god love her, she has no idea what's important to get done around the house first and her mind often results in tangents.  I like linear thinking, straight forward directions with clear goals.  Hossmom is more of the "take out the garbage and also, while you are at it, go ahead and solve world peace.  Thanks honey!"  As you can see, that  makes no sense.  It works better if on one day I take out the garbage, then clean the garage.  See, I'm out there already, it just makes sense.  The solving world peace thing is a complicated issue that is going to take at least a whole other day and therefore, is not related.  So I won't do it and I won't allow it to go onto the list that I already made.  It's my sneaky way of preventing her from ever putting anything on the list and therefore allowing me more time to nap and play video games while the kids run around naked flinging peanut butter at each other.  I am an awesome parent. 

There is another reason why I don't allow Hossmom to write on my list.  I can't read her writing.  When she's in a hurry she writes in some sort of bubble code that only her and mermaids can read.  Most times I have no idea what it says.  It works much better if she leaves her Mayan Pictograph writing off my list and just tell me what she would like done.  This allows me to pretend that I heard her and therefore, once again ignore it.  I have a very complicated system. 

However, there are times when she gets the list without my knowledge and writes her gibberish down.  I will then spend the entire morning trying to decipher what it means before finally just doing a random chore and hope that it was the one she wanted done.  Though "cleaning gutters" sometimes gets done before "boss coming to dinner" which allows for many hilarious blogs to be written when I fuck it up. 

And that's what I'm doing right now, I'm looking at my list and her alien cryptography that she left on it.  It's throwing me for a loop which is good because that matches her writing.  I think, and I'm really not sure, but I think I can make out an S.  It could be an 8 though.  And I'm thinking that there is an E right after the S, it's that or some weird bridge doodle because she does that to.  Finally, it ends with an X.  Maybe an X.  Possibly but that just could be wishful thinking on my part. 

I could be mistaken, but it appears that my wife might, maybe, have put sex on my to do list. 

There are many complications to this and with my wife, there is always a deeper meaning that totally passes me by.  Is she sending me a message?  Do I.......do I get to have some sex soon?  Or is it only after I finish my other chores on the to do list?  Is it even sex that she had written down for me?  It could be "soup" just as easily.  There is another word in front of it and I'm not really sure what it says.  It looks just like scribbles to me.  Is it more of the message?

Is she saying we need to have more sex?  Have we gotten to the point in our marriage where we have to schedule such a thing?  Well, we are parents to two kids.  This week I have 2 soccer practices, one of which I coach, 2 soccer games at complete different times, a girl scout meeting, a build a bear meeting, play group and our normal Friday adventures.  I have a lot of shit going on.  If you have kids, you know that it's not necessarily unheard of to schedule sexy times.  Passion?  Passion is when the house is clean and the only one smacking me around is a good looking lady with a broom.  Sometimes I think I should write porn. 

"John went into the room.  All the bills were paid and he still had money left over for his hobby.  The kids put themselves to bed but only after insisting on cleaning their rooms.  His flip flops made the flip flop sound as he walked to the couch.  His flops were covered in duck tape and he was happy that it was holding and he didn't have to buy another pair.  She was on the couch, sleeping.  Before she went to sleep though she gave him the remote and demanded that he watch all of the football game so that he could tell her about it when she woke up early tomorrow.  John had never been so turned on in his entire life."

Good stuff.

However, not knowing the first word of what she put on the to do list has got me a little worried, especially since now my hopes are starting to get up (ha!).  It could say "No sex for you ever unless you clean the gutters and get dinner ready for my boss who is coming over early today.  Entertain him for 4 hours until I get home at which point I will be to tired and you will get NO SEX". 

That could be it. 

She put two other things on my list but honestly, I haven't paid them much attention in the 4 hours I have been looking at it.  It would appear, and I don't speak bubble, to say that I need to mail Zippos to Peter.  Hmmm, that's interesting.  We have no Zippos and I know no Peter.  I promise you I'm not making that part up, the pun that time was unintentional.  Or is this more code though??  If so, it kind of sucks (ha again) because I would expect her to be more creative than "Peter". 

The next one below that says "Call a;dlkfjads;jiuothertheworhowejfr;qwejfrl;asdjkf  @ adoifasdhfgpohft"  Your guess is as good as mine on that one.  Am I supposed to call Peter to ask if it's ok to have sex?  Is Peter cool with this?  Does he have to sign off on it? 

Well fuck Peter.  I don't care what he thinks.  I'm just going to do what I think is best and interpret it the best I can.  What I'm going to do is to mail Zippos to some random Peter guy in the phone book, then I'm going to call him to let him know that they have been mailed, and if I do those things there is a possibility I can have some Prom Sex(?).  Sometimes, you've just got to take a shot in the dark and hope that it all works out, regardless if Peter gets his Zippos. 

Nothing

Our day is a blank page and we have not filled it, it remains as white as the moment it arrived with the sunrise.  There is nothing on the schedule, there are no activities planned, there is not a place to be or a thing to do.  Nothing.  That is what we are doing today.  Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkk.  I'm bored. 

School starts tomorrow for the Hossman Family.  We have seized the summer, we have conquered it, made it quiver as we rode through it.  We have seen the country, we have taken the road less traveled, we have explored.  From the first of June until this week, we were nonstop.  We seized the day and throttled it.  Now we sit here, my two children and I, and we have nothing. 

"Daddy!" they scream in unison.  "What adventure are we doing today?!" they ask. 

Nothing I tell them, absolutely nothing.

They are confused and I don't blame them. 

I am sure that nothing sounds pretty great to many of you out there.  That you would love to do nothing, to sit at home and contemplate nothing, to have nothing as your greatest goal and achievement. 

Try it for a week.  It blows.  Nothing is not fun, it is not exciting and pretty soon nothing rots your brain.  I have been there, I have taken that train ride.  Eventually, nothing turns your mind into nothing. 

We saw a big ball of twine and gave a back country boy a hug.  We saw a missile silo.  We have gone camping, swam in lakes and seen a dead body.  We have wandered through museums, we have gone fishing, we have danced with worms.  We have held guns, we have yelled in nature, we have drawn pictures.  We have seen the sun come up and light the clouds with pink splashes, we have seen the sun come down and mark still waters with yellow tint.  We have done all of this in the short summer that we had.  Now, now it's time for school and the day before school is rest, preparation, contemplation.  And nothing.  A whole lot of nothing. 

It turns out that I don't do nothing well.  And neither do my children, which doesn't surprise me.  In the absence of the challenge of a giant water slide to conquer or a sun burn to make, nothing does not seem to entertain my children.  And on days like this, when nothing is the only thing on the family calendar that hangs on the fridge, I am reminded of why we don't do nothing very often.  Because my kids, and probably most kids, decide nothing is not very fun.  So they take nothing, stare it down, and turn it into something.

And that something usually involves destruction or me getting kneecapped.  Something is always better than nothing.  Nothing means sitting in a chair all day or when that tires us out, laying on the floor with the dogs.  Nothing means that there is a place out there that isn't being appreciated or a drywall that isn't getting holes in it.  And that, my friends, we just can't have.  That is what my children's philosophy is.  If nothing is the challenge, they will rise to it and decide to make it something and that something usually comes with me having to fix it with tools and money. 

Halfway into our nothing day I am called upstairs, the kids left me on the chair to go create something from nothing.  I decided that I need to walk before my legs cramp up from sitting to long.  And it's been too quite, a sure sign that nothing is getting the shit beat out of it.  I walk into my son's room.  He and his sister are in giggles, they are almost crying with laughter.  I do a quick inventory of the room.  Everything seems to be in place.  I don't see anything broken, smashed or on fire.  I count our animals: 1 skinny dog, 1 fat dog, 1 cat, and the memory of another cat from long ago.  Check, we seem to be fine.  But I am mistaken.  Because I have allowed nothing to cloud my mind, weaken my reasoning, and forget who my children are. 

They point to the ceiling.  I look up. 

It appears that we are no longer doing nothing.  Today we are doing something. 

Bucket Pee

"I peed in a bucket!" my son screamed.  He was very excited.  He then decided to pick up the bucket to show my wife and I.  Except it wasn't a bucket, it was an empty flower pot because I always have great expectations when I buy the flower pots but they never seem to remain filled with dirt and flowers.  Perhaps because my son likes to pee in them all of a sudden. 

"Mom, Dad," he said very calmly.  "This is my pee bucket."  His junk was still out of his pants.  Pretty soon I sure someone in this family is going to be arrested for exposure.  Now he was showing us his pee bucket.  But as a flower pot, as you all know, have holes in the bottom.  Good times.  Good times. 

My wife shot me a look and it wasn't the "aw, look at how cute that is" look that she sometimes gives me when the kids do something unexpected.  It was the look that told me that somehow I was to blame for all of this.

"This isn't my fault!" I said as pee dribbled out of the pee bucket.  The look had immediately put me on the defensive. 

"Who else is going to teach him to pee in a bucket!" She said.  "This is totally your fault, this is something you would do!"

Granted, this does sound like something I would teach my kid, but this time, he's using only his imagination and getting no help from me. 

I've taught my son to pee on trees, flowers, car tires, inside bottles, on Cheerios and we have begun snow peeing as well.  It's an art form and you can only master after years of practice and eventually with the help of beer. 

But I've never taught him to pee in a bucket.  It's never even crossed my mind although in hindsight, it probably should have. 

"This wasn't me!  I didn't teach him this!" 

When it comes to boys, sometimes my wife thinks we are all the same.  That if one has done something, then another boy has done something.  And if I didn't teach him to pee in a bucket, then it is my DNA that is to blame for him peeing in a bucket and then picking it up to bring it to us, dripping and all.  It's all of manhood she blames and I'm the one that gets the brunt of the accusations.  I take the punishment for all men, you all owe me.  My wife blames me, you, everyone with a penis.  Why on earth would anyone want to pee in a bucket? 

Well, to be honest, it is kind of fun.  I'm not sure why but I can understand it from the prospective of a 4 year old boy.  Filling a bucket up, pouring the bucket out, putting stuff in the bucket, peeing on the stuff in the bucket.  I can totally get that and I know that the ladies out there are getting grossed out.  But the guys, they know that for some reason, it's cool to pee on stuff.  It's primordial, like marking your territory.  It just feels right.  I don't know why, but I get it.  And because I get it and because my son did it, I am to blame.  It's not me honey, it's all of mankind.  100 bucks says that if Neil Armstrong could have peed on a moon rock without damaging his junk, he would have done it.  And I guarantee there is a NASA engineer out there somewhere that has worked on this national problem. 

"Go dump that out!" my wife says. 

"Good job boy!" I say right after her.  Then I get the look again.  I couldn't help it.  He peed in a bucket, he had good aim.  In my book, that's a win. 

My wife walks away while shaking her head, disgusted by all things boy.  I go back to reading my book on the porch.  Life is good. 

Five minutes later, I hear my daughter.......

"Dad, Bubba Hoss peed in a bucket!" she screams, excited. 

Yup, she gets it.

The Resturant

"Dude" I told my traveling companion.  "If there is a bar fight in this place, I don't think I could hang.  I"m just letting you know."  He laughed at my funny joke, my god damn funny joke.  Always making a joke, have to be screwing around when I should have been reconsidering why we were choosing to it here with our children. 

This was a local establishment.  This is kind of a rule with me when we go adventuring to places we have never been before.  Eat come place local, eat some place that you can experience the town in.  Eat at a joint where the regulars go, stay away from the chain restaurants.  It's the flavor of the town I'm looking for, it's soul.  And you only get that if you eat local. 

In a little place like Cawker City, KS, there isn't much to choose from.  There was a Mexican joint down the street however when I want Mexican food, the middle of Kansas is not where I would go.  I'm sure it's a fine place with great food, but I didn't want to take any chances to ruin my ball of twine adventure.  Let's keep Montezuma revenge down by the border.  Good food, bad bathroom time.

Our other choice was this place which was remarkable for the amount of tin that it used.  It wasn't a large venue by any means, about the size of a small house, complete with a screen door.  I wonder if they are baking cookies inside?  There was a patio area as well, blocked by some sort of fencing, I assumed tin.  The placed looked like it would be right at home at the edge of a trailer park, serving the finest 4 dollar malt liqueur.  We wanted local, we got local.  We walked in, 2 stay at home dads and our 4 children. 

We passed through the screen door, making sure to slam it on our way in to bring as much attention to ourselves as possible.  There was a bar area, perhaps the whole restaurant was a bar area, I'm not sure.  The lighting wasn't great and it's hard to tell whats what in neon red lights.  There appeared to be 6 gentlemen at the bar, fine upstanding citizens.  We refer to these as "locals". 

Like a sitcom, they all swiveled on their bar stools.  They looked at us.  They didn't say anything.  We didn't say anything.  Even the kids didn't say anything.  Everyone stared.  Silence. 

This was awkward. 

Not a sound was made, by us or them because after 30 seconds of long silence it always becomes an us or them situation. 

My eyes darted from face to face, trying to find out if perhaps one of these locals was the owner.  Perhaps they could show us to our table because in a place like this, "wait to be seated" is the norm.  I looked behind the bar for maybe a bartender but instead saw a opaque looking mirror covered up by brands of beer that sat in front. 

The silence continued.  Was there a waitress?  I couldn't find a waitress.  I was looking for a waitress, desperately.  Surely she could restore some proper order here or at least provide some impartial refereeing as I got my ass thrown through the opaque mirror.  Of course, I didn't see any waitress.  I assumed her body was probably stuffed in one of the trunks in the parking lot, with the bartender as well. 

I read to much, my mind tends to envision the worst case scenarios from the stories I've read.  But being who I am, Hossman, I also envision that in those worse case scenario's I am the hero.  Soon I would get rushed by the six gents on the bar stools and I would give a war cry while tearing off my shirt.  My daughter (she's Hoss to ya know) would grab a beer bottle and smash it's end on a table and use the jagged pieces to pierce eyes out while I body slammed one of them.  My son would look at the neon lights, so pretty the neon lights, so pretty. 

We were out numbered.  We were (obviously) from out of town.  No one knew we were here.  There didn't appear to be any authority figure present.  My best bet was to take the first blow and let our other Dad run away with the kids.  I doubt he's much of a fighter anyway.  In the silence, I started to think of ways to stall thus giving him time to move towards the door. 

"Hi!" I said in my best Texas drawl and a volume that was 3 times to loud.  Be friendly, be gregarious.  Be the guy that shows no fear.  Don't wet your pants in front of your children.  I even waved, an exaggerated wave like I was just introduced on Wheel of Fortune and was trying to get Vana's attention.  Let's see what they make of that, I thought. 

One of the men got up from the far end of the bar.  He began shuffling towards us.  I checked his hands for perhaps a switch blade or a length of rope that he would surely tie me up with so that he could put the ball gag in without interference.  I thought back to my joke I made outside and wished I would have just kept my mouth shut. 

He came close, way into my personal space.  Inches from me I could see his nostrils flair like he was taking in my aroma.  I was uncomfortable with him that close but couldn't back down, that would invite the others and I'm sure at least one of them had a ball gag and a set of handcuffs stashed somewhere on their person.  I braced myself as he leaned in closer, inch by inch. 

And then he gave me a hug.  This shit just got Deliverance weird. 

I am not normally a hugger and when I am I make it a point not to hug random gentlemen that I meet in a sweaty dive bar in the middle of Kansas.  I admit, at this point, I had no idea what to make of the situation.  No more jokes came from me because I thought surely the joke is on me.  While I was giving him the half shoulder hug you would give a distant relative he was giving me the big bear hug you would give your dear old ma, god rest her soul. 

"Hi folks!"  he said.  "Sit anywhere you like!"  As the choices were limited to 2 tables, the bar or outside where my screams could be heard, I chose the bigger of the two tables. 

"Let me get you folks something to drink!"  His volume was louder than mine and yet, he seemed to pull it off way better than I did.  "How about some Sprite for the kids!  You guys want a glass with that Sprite?"

"Sure" I told him once the realization set in that I wasn't going to be tied up and called Piggy. 

But that seemed to break the ice for everyone in Cawker City, Kansas.  There was no more silence.  There were questions.  Where were we from, where were we going, does anyone know you are here and can we have your cell phones.  In fact, things got down right friendly, like they had known us their entire lives.  They offered me a beer.  One of the patrons ( I assume) came in from the patio and went behind the bar.  She got herself her own beer and then headed back out again.  I quickly realized that this was how this place operated.  This was the local flavor that I was looking for, without the ass raping of course. 

Soon we had Dixie cups (no ice) set in front of us.  The cups were pretty dirty so I cleaned them with my shirt so as not to offend.  I don't think this is the type of place that you send stuff back strictly because you would probably just get something equal to what you sent back.  But that's the way we like it, that's the way we adventure.  And this is why you always go to someplace local.  The character of the joint shows the character of the town.  Apparently, Cawker City is a hugging type of small town America and it's a damn fine place with a damn fine local restaurant. 

Soon a waitress did appear out of no where and didn't seem to be locked in someones trunk after all.  We placed our order and I will admit, we had the best home fries I have ever eaten.  Anywhere.  Home made, hand cut, delicious.  The cost of our meal for 6 people was less than 40 bucks and a couple of dirty dixie cups, well worth it. 

I found out all about the big ball of twine and they pointed the way to me as we talked for the next hour.  I got some town history, a little gossip and several life stories.  This is what adventuring is all about.  As we got ready to leave, I got a series of high fives, handshakes and one more hug for the road because everyone needs a road hug. 

We of course saw the big ball of twine that night.  We made it home just fine the next morning.  My traveling companion relayed the story to his wife.  She remarked that we probably through them off their game a bit, to gay dads walking into a small joint in Kansas.  Gay dads? 

By god, I bet she is right.  I bet they thought we were gay.  And what do they do with gay dads on an outing in Cawker City Kansas.  Why, they give them a hug of course.