Man In The Moon

In case I hadn’t mentioned this before, I happen to be the father of three very beautiful girls. They can’t help it. They take after their mother. Unfortunately, it isn’t the kind of beauty that goes unnoticed by others–especially once they’ve become teenagers. This means that I’ve occasionally had to step in and handle certain “situations.”

I know that my regular readers will by now have formed a certain mental picture of me as a calm, easy-going kind of guy. I’m sure that they think that I would handle such a situation with the dignity, aplomb, and self-control befitting my fatherly role and the wisdom of my years. (Did you just snort?) However, that isn’t quite the way it went.

The very first time this happened with my oldest daughter was years ago when we were sitting at a restaurant eating. (Okay, it was a McDonalds.) She suddenly felt the need to run over to the store next door and buy something. She was strangely indeterminate about the specifics of what it was she needed so suddenly and desperately. However, it had to be right now.

It’s rather insulting, actually, that she believed that I had no clue as to what was going on right outside the gigantic plate-glass window that we were sitting next to. I didn’t even need reading glasses back then, and yet she somehow believed that I hadn’t noticed a certain boy who had just arrived and entered the same store, a certain boy who had already expressed an interest in her.

We’ll call him Lunch. That is, of course, not his real name, but I digress.

I gave my daughter permission to run over to the store as I sat there eating fries and playing the clueless idiot she apparently believed me to be. I even gave her a couple minutes head-start to make the connection I knew she was after. Then I followed. I found them there talking near the front of the store as I stepped out and made my appearance.

I can’t really describe the emotions that overcame me at that particular moment at the thought of my daughter being old enough to attract male attention (such as it was.) I just remember glaring at him and watching amazed as he suddenly started backing away, stumbling over things, and mumbling about having something else to do. Exit one boy.

I remember also that my daughter was rather upset with me. She went on and on at length about how mortified she was and…some other stuff. I don’t remember the rest. I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy reveling in this new experience.

What a rush. It was like discovering that I had a latent super power that I’d never known about before. I was Glare Man!

Faster than a speeding teenager.
More powerful than a kick in the rear.
Able to cross entire rooms in a single glance.

Look, there in the corner!
It’s a bad dude.
It’s an angry dad.
It’s Glare Man!!!!

I’m afraid that I’m not someone who should ever have been entrusted with such a power. It’s so overwhelming and addictive. I quickly lost control of myself. Once I discovered that it worked over distance–first a room, then an entire parking lot–there was no stopping me.

It started out with just the boys who were interested in my daughter. Then it spread to any boy that was unlucky enough to be looking her way. Then it just went completely overboard. My only real fear now is that I’ll cross glares with another father out there one day and we’ll both scare the crap out of each other.

I’ve abused my powers. I’m so ashamed. I need help. Really, I do.

I would stay and tell you more, but there’s a UPS guy heading up the driveway. I’m waiting for my daughter to answer the door before I jump out and get him. My goal is to knock this one right off the deck in one glance. Wish me luck.

Lesson Learned:

Boys will come. Boys will fly. But a father’s glare will never die.

Participate & Share:

If you enjoy the content here, then please subscribe to my feed or subscribe by email if you prefer. It would also be great if you could leave a comment and even Stumble this article if you really like it. By the way, you can also get paid to blog here just like I do.

I have, in the course of writing this blog, mentioned a couple of things that I had realized after the fact were probably not the smartest things to have said to my wife. It seems that I always have to learn these things the hard way. Isn’t hindsight wonderful?

Along those lines, I have to add the following video that was brought to my attention by Insanity Kim. I had never heard of Tim Hawkins before, but now I’m a fan. Watch this and you’ll know why:

Please feel free to comment and add your own additions to that list.

Lesson Learned:

Think first, speak later.

Participate & Share:

If you enjoy the content here, then please subscribe to my feed or subscribe by email if you prefer. It would also be great if you could leave a comment and even Stumble this article if you really like it. By the way, you can also get paid to blog here just like I do.

If you’re reading this, then my message has managed to get out.  Please, I need your help.  I don’t have much time.  Listen carefully, I’m an American citizen and my libido is being held against my will.  I know you scoff at this, but you have to understand the seriousness of the matter.

I can hardly believe that it all started just yesterday.  It seems like such a long time ago now.  Let me relate the events to you as quickly as I can:

It began normally enough, having just arrived home from a family get-together.  I was standing in the kitchen when I began to notice a change in my wife’s behavior.  I had the distinctive feeling of a cold, icy stare drilling into the back of my head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked without turning.

Dead silence.  I turned to face the onslaught that I sensed was coming.  There she was…giving me “that look”…the really bad one.

“What’s wrong?” I repeated.

“You know what’s wrong.”

I didn’t, but that’s how it all began.  If only I’d known then what was coming, maybe things would have turned out differently.  I don’t know.  Maybe I would have had a chance.

Interjection

I want to know why we grant criminals more rights than we’re willing to give ourselves.  Why do criminals get a Miranda Warning that married men are not allowed.  I want it added to the marriage ceremony right after the “richer, poorer, sickness, health” bit and before the “death do us part” bit.  I want to see a decorated police officer step out, grab the groom by the collar, look him straight in the eye, and say the following:

You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you…not in a court of law, mind you, but wherever she deems it necessary to bring it up and however long she wants to talk about it. You will wish to God Himself that you had the right to have an attorney present during questioning, but you won’t, buddy!  You’re on your own.  You have no further recourse after this day.  Do you understand these rights?  Are you still stupid enough to go through with this?

This should be followed by a great deal of slapping, but it isn’t. This doesn’t happen. Heck no.  We’re just pushed out there like lambs to the slaughter.

Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch…

It took me a while to get to the heart of what was going on with my wife.  It apparently had to do with a certain cousin of hers that had been at this family gathering

“Pearl???  You have a cousin named Pearl??  Who has a name like Pearl anymore?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about?  I saw you staring at her.”

“I stared at someone named Pearl?  C’mon, I didn’t have that much to drink.”

“Yes, you stared at her.  Remember, the one with the red sweater.”

“Oh, wait, you mean the one that looked like she fell in a peroxide vat?”

“Don’t even try to act like you were looking at her hair.  I saw you.  You were ogling her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.  I wasn’t ogling her.  I was laughing at her.  Did you see her chest?”  (Remind me to add this to my list of things to never say to my wife.)

“So you admit it?!?  I can’t believe you!”

“C’mon, I wasn’t looking at her chest like that.  That girl has so much silicone that she could be classified as a flotation device.  I was laughing at her.”

“Forget it.  I don’t know why I even try to talk to you.”

“You call this talking?”  (Definitely another addition to the list.)

“Just leave me alone.”

“But I thought you wanted to forget it?”

“I do.”

“Then why are you taking your pillow and the blanket to the couch?”

“Because I want to lay down and watch TV?”

“But it’s 12:30 at night.  Can’t we just go to bed?”

“You can do anything you want.  You’ve already proven that!”

“Proven what?  I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Well, now you have time to think about it, don’t you?”

And there it was.  My night was shot.  Now I’m sitting here in my bedroom turned prison cell.  Where are the rules of evidence?  What about due process?  How does one person become accuser, prosecutor, judge, jury, and executioner?  Where are my rights? Where’s Perry Mason when you need him?  What about the constitution?  Someone call my congressman.

Why do convicted prisoners get to file numerous appeals against airtight cases while married men get absolutely no appeal whatsoever?  Where did we go wrong as a society?  Someone, somewhere, please do something.  Please help me.  Please.  I’m begging you. No, don’t leave me here!  HELP!!!  Please.

Lesson Learned:

In the immortal words of that great thinker of our time, Benny Hill, “Put a ring upon her finger and a rope around your neck.”

Participate & Share:

If you enjoy the content here, then please subscribe to my feed or subscribe by email if you prefer. It would also be great if you could leave a comment and even Stumble this article if you really like it. By the way, you can also get paid to blog here just like I do.

So I’m walking through my living room when my wife comes up to me and says, “We need to talk.” Now I ask you, has anything good ever followed those words? Is there any reason at all that I should expect to hear something that I will really want to hear?

Those words are never followed by a sincere apology or an offer to do more things for you.  This isn’t where someone admits to neglecting you and tries to change that.  Everyone knows that the first reaction to those words is a quick self-examination.

What the heck did I do wrong–this time?

As I steal myself to the coming tirade, I think that it’s important to point out the wrongfulness of those words. No one who says “We need to talk.” actually wants to talk. They want to rant.

Let me offer an alternative. It’s called the truth. Try it sometime. It’s an amazing thing. Next time, instead of saying, “We need to talk.” say this instead:

I need to rant…at length…without interruption…or disagreement. In fact, no matter what you think of what I’m about to say or how ridiculous I get, I expect you to agree and apologize…repeatedly. Frankly, it’s the only thing that’s going to keep me from resorting to violence. So, here goes–

You see, absolute truth in advertising.  It reminds me of that old joke about why women always have the last word in any argument–because everything that follows her last word is a new argument.  (That’s not funny.  Quit laughing.)

Now, as I make my way yet again into the breech, dear friend, I ask that you think of me often and remember me fondly. I go forth where every married man has been before–into the trenches. Lift a beer for me, and pray I don’t cave.

Lesson Learned:

I don’t know. She hasn’t told me yet.

Participate & Share:

If you enjoy the content here, then please subscribe to my feed or subscribe by email if you prefer. It would also be great if you could leave a comment and even Stumble this article if you really like it. By the way, you can also get paid to blog here just like I do.

Now that thehabe has thrown down the gauntlet , impugning my poetic skills, I feel it necessary to defend my honor. (It’s a guy thing.) Her little, houti touti Sunny Poem for a Winter’s Day is nothing compared to my real life poetic expressions.

The idea that I can’t be sensitive, caring, poetic, and artistic just flies in the face of all the evidence here to the contrary. Can’t you tell from my previous posts that I’m a sensitive, caring guy?

Oh, c’mon, do you have any idea how many chick flicks I’ve had to sit through in my house? I hold back 90% of the snide comments that come into my head. I cover my mouth while laughing at the climactic sad scenes. I mean, shoot, I’ve had to sit through movies with Delta Burke in a leading role. What more do you want from me?

Therefore, it is with utmost dignity, that I present the following poem that I wrote for my kids several years ago. It’s especially fitting this time of year.

(Hey, where’s my drumroll? There was supposed to be a drumroll.)

The Terrible Illness

I went to see the doctor
With aches and pains galore.
The doctor checked me over,
And then he checked me more.

He looked into my eyeball.
He looked into my ear.
He looked way deep down in my throat,
And then he checked my rear.

He listened to my heartbeat.
He listened to my lungs.
He listened to my belly
And told me not to hum.

He took a batch of blood out.
He told to get up.
He sent me to the bathroom
To fill a little cup.

He said he knew what I had.
He said he was no fool.
He said I had a math test,
And now get back to school.

HAH!!! Take that, thehabe.

Lesson Learned:

Sensitivity is in the eye of the beholder.

Participate & Share:

If you enjoy the content here, then please subscribe to my feed or subscribe by email if you prefer. It would also be great if you could leave a comment and even Stumble this article if you really like it. By the way, you can also get paid to blog here just like I do.