That's Not a Hobo, Damn It!

There's lots of hobo talk in my house.  My kids have been obsessed for years with hobos, hobo culture, hobo art, hobo eating supplies, hobo bath's, etc.  You probably are too.

Best hobo ever

 The first time they heard the word was probably out of my father.  My dad goes through periods where, for reasons we've never been able to pin down, he refuses to shave, cut his hair or bathe like a normal person.  This will go on for up to a year.  Then, one day, he suddenly appears shiny and freshly groomed. But meanwhile, he takes what he calls "hobo baths."  He basically dunks his head in the sink.  Any sink. Kitchen, bathroom, utility room.  My children were fascinated by this and kept demanding to "take a hobo bath like Pappy." I'd like to take a moment to thank my father for those special moments.

I love you, Dad.

 When my son was 7, he went to play at his friend Joey's house.  Later, when he came home, he asked me to explain something Joey's mom had screamed at the two boys while they were beating the crap out of each other.  Apparently, she took one look at them punching and kicking each other and yelled,"Cut it out! You look like two hobos fighting over a can of beans!"  This immediately captured my son's imagination.  That's how I found my self explaining to him about hobos, beans, campfires and hobo fights.  My daughter, who idolizes her big brother and has a keen eye for trends, was soon on board with her brother's plan to eat like a hobo. 

My dad, ever helpful, told them they could get "hobo knives" at Walmart.  Which they did.

Mr. Pickles is uninterested in hobo utensils

They insisted on eating with them, yelling things like, " We're hobos! Eatin' beans!"  (They weren't, in fact, eating beans.  Because they hate beans.  They substituted cereal or spaghetti or chicken or ice cream.)  While out playing with friends, my son found an empty soup can, brought it home and demanded that all of his meals be served out of it.  I threw it away; he's still mad at me about that one.  I have to be very careful never to mention cans to him or it degenerates into a fight.

Me: "Henry, honey, pass mommy that can of pineapple and I'll give you some with your lunch."

Henry: "Oh, so it's OK for THIS can to be in the house.  My hobo can was awesome and I cleaned it and everything and you still threw it away!  And I was RECYCLING, Mom!"

Me: "Oh my God, you are not eating out of a can you found in the woods! Ever! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Henry: "You let Anne do what ever she wants!  All I wanted was to eat out of my hobo can! You never let me do anything!"

Eighteen months ago, we moved from the sterile, homogenized splendor of the deep suburbs, to an inner ring suburb of Cleveland.   And there's hobo's everywhere.  My friend Mary, who lives down the street from me, has a hobo that rearranges her trash every week in the middle of the night.  She keeps trying to find the perfect configuration so he doesn't feel the need to correct her trash pile.  No luck yet. 

There's usually some hobos at the park, walking around yelling at no one in particular or spreading the contents of their shopping carts out on a picnic table and either screaming at it or talking sweetly to it.  My kids, upon seeing this, stood staring with their mouths agape whispering, "Whoa! Cool!"  I took them aside and explained in no uncertain terms that they were not to stare at the hobos.  "Don't you ever look a hobo or a carny worker in the eyes! Just let the hobo play with his trash and you two go play on the slide!"

A couple of weeks later, we were walking through the park to go throw rocks at the lake, when my son grabbed my arm and said frantically, "Mommy! Don't look! That hobo is talking to her trash!"
I looked around, "What hobo?"  He whispered, "There! On the picnic table! She's talking to her trash! Don't stare, Mommy! Don't look her in the eye!"  I turned and looked at the picnic table.

"That's not a hobo, damn it!!!"

Sitting at the picnic table, probably on her lunch hour, was a well dressed, middle aged woman with a grande Starbucks in front of her, talking on her Bluetooth.

"Are you sure, Mommy?  Cause she is totally talking to her trash."

My son's interest culminated this year in his choosing to dress up for Halloween as a hobo with a shotgun.  He was inspired by the straight to DVD movie, starring Rutger Hauer, as a vengeful hobo cleaning up the streets.

I've never been so proud

Which brings me to this gem I found on Pinterest.

for the hobo in your life

 This lovely hobo kit, which they are billing as a "homeless gift bag" is being extolled as the "it" item to have if a hobo throws himself at your car and shoves a cardboard sign in your face.  The idea is that, instead of pointedly looking the other way (that would be me), or giving them money to buy booze, you instead ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW and give them this lovely Ziplock baggie.  It's been filled with personal grooming supplies and applesauce.  There is no way these women have ever been at a stop light and had an angry, screaming hobo block their car and wave a sign reading, usually, "Need $$$ God Bless!"  They must be a group of desperate housewives who saw a hobo once, and think that the homeless problem would go away if only the hobos had access to deodorant, toothpaste and fruit.  And there is no way they live in Cleveland.  Our hobo's would most likely pee on your car, scream at the gift bag and then throw it at your windshield. 

~dana