Apparently I'm Mean

My wife tells me I have the reputation of being mean. That is, I say mean things. She can never actually recall a mean thing I've said when challenged, but is sure I do it all the time. My daughters feel the same way about me and also can't seem to recall specific mean things I've said. In reality, they think I'm mean because they fail to recognize a very significant and real difference between men and women. Men say what they're thinking, women beat around the bush, allude to things and make communication impossible even between themselves.

For instance, Daya and I are going to yet another family function when I ask her, "Is that what you're wearing?"

She responds, somewhat panicked, "What? Is it OK?"

I attempted to reply when interrupted by a now incensed Daya who asks, "Does it make me look fat? Thanks a lot. I don't go criticizing you every time you get dressed do I?" and storms off to the bedroom to change.

I just wanted to know if I could go dressed as I was in blue jeans, for God's sake. I mean I didn't ask "Are you gonna wear THAAAAT?!" Anyway, even if I did think the damned thing made her look fat, or even notice, I would have said .... well nothing. 'Cause that's a no win situation and I don't wanna be the mean one. And let's be honest folks. Clothes don't make you look fat. Cheesecake and four hours of TV a night do that.

So anyway, I've got this mean reputation and nothing to lose. So Daya returned, changed into her slimming clothes, strikes a pose and looks at me with one raised eyebrow, femaleese for "How does this look? And I dare you to not answer correctly" and holds the pose until I react.

So, I raise one of my eyebrows even higher than hers as if to say, "Oh my now THAT looks wonderful and SO SLIMMING!" but I don't actually say it as it would probably come out kind of sarcastic.

So anyway, we both smile and head for the car. As we pull out of the driveway, I look her up and down, to which she alarmingly asks, "What?!" I shrug and say, "Ahhh the other outfit looked better".

So Why Does Mom Have to take Your Last Name?

While camping in Maine with the family and my oldest daughter's best girlfriend Dhara, my 8 years old, asked me why mom had to take my last name? It was an EF Hutton moment as all eyes focused on me. My answer requires soem background.

The previous night, Daya and I lay in our little two man tent just across the camp site from the family sized tent that Erica, 24, friend Anna, 25, boyfriend Jeff, 25, Mina, 12 and Dhara slept in. We were woken about 2am by a loud crash outside that sounded like garbage being thrown about. I grabbed the flashlight, unzipped the tent port and took a look. directly across from me were two bright green eyes peering back at me from scattered garbage from a bag we forgot to secure. "What is it?", Daya whispered. I hesitated and whispered back. "I think it's Alice Cooper?" "What?" Daya responded and suggested that it might be a racoon. ""Way too big to be a racoon. Way too big to be Alice too", I whispered back. As we spoke the pair of bright eyes slowly receded slowly into the darkness and faded away. I turned the light off, waited a second and turned it back on. The glowing eyes had returned and stared back at me unflinching. Slowly they receded again. "Ok must be a racoon. Alice wouldn't have slunk away like that. Probably shout something like, 'Dude, the light I'm eating man!'" I sighed and said, "I gotta go run him off and pick up that garbage." "Not afraid of the racoon?", Daya asked a bit cncerned. "No, I'm afraid of Alice Cooper, not racoons", as I searched for my sandals. "Racoons got rabbis ya know. i'm gonna need someone to kep an eye out with the flashlight while I pick up ther garbage. I'm gonna be down at racoon level and this one's as big as Alice Cooper. I think I heard Jeff in the other tent should I get him", I quietly asked Daya. "You don't think I'm going out there do you?", Daya responded not so quietly and a tad incensed that I would suggest she go with me. "Yeah" was all I said and stepped out of the tent. I hesitated and stuck my head back into the tent. Doesn't Steven King live in maine?" "he's not scary", Daya reassured me continuing "he just writes about scary stuff." "Yeah,", I whispered back, "but he thinks of that stuff and he's somewhere nearby and..." "Raccoon!", Daya snapped at me pointing into the darkness. I mustered courage and hoped for a racoon. "Jeffery", I called to the other tent and asked for help. Anna mustered her best feminine voice and sang, "I'm so glad I'm a girrllll!", moching Jeff as he joined me to clean up.

The next morning, Dhara asked why girls take husband's names when they got married. I answered, " 'cause when you and mommy hears a noise in the middle of the night, who gets up and checks?" erica added, "And kills roaches", "and spiders!", Daya added. Anna pointed to the woods and added,"And Raccoons!". Erica looked at Anna and said "Sounds like a deal to me!" Anna replied, "Glad I'm a girl!" Dhara just said, "OOOhhhhhh!"
 

Wife's Broken Bra

I Swear I'll Divorce You!

“Look at this!” my wife demanded of me as we drove down our street, her hands at her side and chest raised towards me.

“Well Ok” was all I could muster.

“Look at this!” she demanded again as she pointed to her chest.

I was happy to comply. Daya’s expensive bra had a hole in it right over the left nipple, which protruded.

“Can you get the other one to do that too?” I half laughing asked a rather annoyed wife.

She was tearing through the center console of our minivan as I drove on.

“Maybe you could put a tissue or something in the bra to hide it” I offered as she happily exclaimed, “Here it is!” pulling a roll of packaging tape from the console.

I was lamenting the fact that I had run out of stories to post moments before Daya pulled the tape from the console. It was like the sound of Mozart’s oboe rising above a chorus of strings like a bird perched above a garden wall.

“You’re gonna tape your nipple?” I honestly asked.

“NO! I’m gonna tape the bra”, she said as she tore a small square piece of clear tape from the plastic applicator.

“It’s gonna hurt ya know”, I cautioned her.

“I’m not taping me, I’m taping the bra!” she snapped at me and worked her way into her bra with the piece of tape.

“I know but it’s got edges and’s gonna hurt after awhile”.

“Damned!” she shouted.

The tape had folded over and stuck to itself. She tried a second piece and told me to watch the road. It seemed to work as she smiled broadly pointing her chest at me for my approval.

“Kinda like the way it was”, I said.

“Shut up!” was expected and received.

“Still think a second hole over the right nipple was a better option” I murmured.

It was quiet for another moment when I said, “Ya can’t make this stuff up. I mean I was frustrated that I couldn’t think of anything to post and then you...”

“If you do, I swear I’ll divorce you”, Daya interrupted.

“But you taped your bra!”, I laughed.

“I swear the papers will be in the mail the moment I read the blog post!”, she slowly anunciated for me.

I'm taking my chances that a woman with a scotch taped bra won't leave me.