Athletic Daughter

The same daughter who told me she didn't want to play soccer as she was a "Mall & Makeup kind of girl" just conformed several years later that she still is. I asked how her day was after arriving home from school.  She responded, "OK I guess, We played this game and I had no idea what it was. But I hit a ball with this styrofoam stick and everyone started shouting yeah. So it was OK I guess". 

Multiplication

Dhara asked me to help her with her math homework. I took a quick look and declared, "Ah multiplication!" "What;s that?" Dhara asked. "Well it's like when you keep adding the same number a bunch of times. Instead of adding 2+2+2+2 you would just say 2X4 and get eight" I told her. Then I added a real world example, "Mom gained about 2 pounds for each year we've been married. We've been married 13 years now. So how many pounds has she gained in total?"

Dhara stared at me emotionless for a second and stated quite matter of factly, "Mom says you're a jerk".

"I know you don't like math, but don't change the subject baby. Now how many pounds in total has mom gained?"

"Mom had two babies" Dhara defended her mother again.

"OK now we're talking algebra baby. Focus on the multiplication first." I then led her through the logical steps towards the answer, "So 2 pounds per year times 13 years is ......."

"You'd still be a jerk" Dhara flatly finished the sentence.

"Fine ask your sister to help you" I scolded her.

"She thinks you're a ....."

"Go to your room", I interrupted her and continued, "and tell your sister she's punished too!"

Big Spoons and Health

My wife, Daya, and I were talking about how eating salty chips, something we had just done but rarely do, made the corners of our mouths sore. We speculated that it was the salt. Dhara, aged 8 sitting next to us said, "Yeah I get that too. I just stopped using really big spoons".

Wedding Planning

I'm heading on over to the teapot yesterday when my determined eight years old daughter stepped directly so suddenly into my path that I almost knocked her over. I looked down at her big brown eyes looking back at me. It wasn't the daughter I tucked into bed the night before. She was serious man. It was like staring into Caesar Chavez's face during a tense negotiation.

"Dad!", Dhara began.

"Yes daughter" was all I could muster.

"When I get married", she continued, "When I get married, way in the future, can I have a wedding in the Spring?"

"Sure", I smiled and assured her.

"On a Saturday?", she continued.

"I guess so." I said.

"And in a garden?", Dhara added.

"OK" I answered with a shrug.

"Good!" she said satisfied but still a tad serious and turned and left the room.

"What the hell?!" I said as I turned to my wife for an explanation and continued, "She's 8 and wants to plan her wedding? Hell, I was in the woods looking for the bat cave after school at that age."

"She's a girl, George" was my wife's only reply.

Homework

My 12 years old asked me how to multiply exponents.

I sighed and said that as soon as the get into the country they do that all by themselves. You pack 12 of 'em into a rusty old Chevy wagon, a late night run across the border and 20 years later they want the country to adopt Spanish or exponish or whatever as the nation's second language.

My daughter stared at me for a minute than added, "In math, when you have one number raised to the power of another, how do you multiply them?'.

"Ohhhh. Well I wouldn't dear. Can't see any reason to attempt it", I assured her.

"Cause it's math homework, Dad", she said, using a bit more annoyed tone than I would have dared to take with my father.

I took a look at the math problem on her assignment pad.

"Jesus that would be a big number no matter how ya did it! Why would you do something like that!" I rightly exclaimed.

My daughter gently stroked my arm, took the assignment pad from my hands and asked when her mother was getting home.

I think it's important to take an active interest in your child's education.

Serious Writing

My wife tells me I should consider becoming a serious writer. "Don't write anything humorous or light hearted?" I asked and continued "'Cause I like the lighter stuff." My wife responded that she knew I liked the lighter stuff meant I should become serious about being a writer. I thought for a second and asked her if that could include writing the lighter stuff but with a serious expression. It was at that point she called me an ass and walked away from me. I kept talking, somewhat put off by the attack, 'cause it's a small house and there wasn't anywhere in the house she could go and still not hear me. "Well, that was uncalled for" I said a bit hurt. And she was all, "How do you get through the day without dieing you idiot?" "Oh man" I was like and "are you like having a really bad period?" I added a bit of the CT valley girl up=tick at the end of the sentence, which really went over well. She just kinda glared at me and I thought I really need another cup of tea and like magic she threw one at me. "My God, I have powers!", I thought. "I really should be more serious about what I write. My thoughts have powers!" "You have the power to annoy!" Daya shouted at me as she tried vainly to find a room where she couldn't hear me. "My God I can project my thoughts into other people!" I added. "You said it out loud you moron!" my wife shouted from another room. I didn't respond. How could she, with a normal mind, understand what was happening to me. But she was right, timid and primitive as her brain was, I should be more serious about what I write. I considered events in my life and made a list of what to write:
1. If a Pit bull has ya by the throat, try not to struggle and fight. It only intimidates them. Try petting and talking nicely to it.
2. Toasting buttered bread is a really bad idea. First toast THEN butter the bread!
There's so much more, but I need to rest.

I'm like Mary!

We've already discussed this. My 8 years old, Dhara, came home from school with a note from her teacher stating that she, the teacher, wished my daughter would participate more in class. I wanted to rail on the teacher and say that inspiring the student would kind of fall into the teacher doing her job category. But I decided to play nice and replied, "I agree, but she hasn't been the same since the exorcism".

What we haven't discussed was that my 20 year old daughter, Emily, thought this was great and asked if she could go in for the parent teacher conference, which she was pretty sure would be requested. She would pretend to be Dhara's mom and when asked about the father who wrote the note would say, "There was no father", point to her self and continue, "I'm like Mary". Then she would look confused and say, "You know what that makes Dhara, huh?" with a wink. Then she'd look more confused and mutter to herself, "Kinda makes ya wonder why we needed the exorcism."

Sacrifices We Make for Our Children

My 8 years old brought home a corrected homework assignment from school yesterday that had a hand written note on it from the teacher simply stating, "I wish Dhara would participate more in class".

I could have gone all hippy over the note and had a long talk about participating with my daughter. I could have made excuses for her in a return note to the teacher. I could also have gone all Nazi-like in a return note that stated, clearly Dhara's work is just fine and perhaps the teacher should be concentrating more on the students and proper homework assignments.

But I didn't think any of these approaches was beneficial to my daughter. So, as per my usual mode of teacher to parent communication, I sent a return note that both appeased the teacher and generated a great deal of sympathy for my daughter. It at least got the instructor off her case.

I replied, "Yeah, she hasn't been the same since the exorcism."

I haven't heard back from the teacher, but I'm guessing Dhara is getting extra care, coming from a challenging situation at home or is being left alone out of outright fear. Either way, no more notes frm the teacher. Now that's good parenting!

Picture Day at School

Dhara, aged 8, walks into the kitchen this morning dressed in a sun dress and presented two pairs of shoes to me. Instinct is to say, "What?" But I'm like experienced man. It's picture day and she wants me to help her to decide which pair to wear.

Instinct says, "They don't photograph your feet dear, wear whatever is warmest or more comfortable." But I've been here many times before.

I tell her, "Both the white and gold look great with that outfit. But the gold sets off the gold in your brown eyes like a sunset on some distant exotic planet."

She smiles broadly as she turns with a slight dip and skips off to her bedroom to finish dressing. She returns several minutes later, completely content ......... wearing the white shoes.


  

Standoff

Emma, aged 20, was sitting with her back to me at the dining room table facing the french doors opposite her that led to a small backyard deck. She was quietly tapping away at her laptop when a rather large squirrel, or as Emma would later describe, a grizzly sized squirrel landed on the deck rail just feet away from the open door. Everything was mostly quiet except for a gasp from Emma as she instantly and simultaneously crouched down a bit and grasped the table top, it’s mere wood construction creaking under the strain of terror. The squirrel assumed a similar pose and tightly clutched his wooden perch as well. 

Very little was said, but from my vantage point, it was clear what was being thought:

Emma: “Oh my God he’s huge”, she thought quietly so as not to alarm the squirrel.

Squirrel: “Holy crap, it’s one of those big hairless ape-like things”

Emma: “It’s looking right at me! I think it’s gonna attack or something! They carry rabies, don't they?!”

Squirrel: “It’s looking right at me. Jesus, Don’t they like eat squirrels?”

Emma: “If I move slowly, maybe I can slam the door closed before it comes in for me.”

Squirrel: “Her legs are like 30 times as long as mine. No way I can turn and run. If I can just make the roof line. But the roof is towards the ape thing!”

Back in the unimagined real world, Emma, makes a slow move toward the door.

Emma:  “Oh God it came toward me. It’ so mean looking!” and freezes.

Squirrel: “Oh God, it moved toward me as I moved. What the hell!”

Emma: “I think I can make it if I dash to the door.”

Squirrel: “OK it looks somewhat intelligent. I’ll just use the international sign of friendship to mollify it and move on. Here we go.” 

back in real world,the squirrel raises its bushy tail straight and high, slightly twitching it.

Emma: “Oh my GOD! It’s threatening me, it’s gonna attack” 

Emma takes a cautious step forward.

Squirrel: “Oh my God! Oh My God! It moves towards me every time I move. I gotta make that roof. OK a moment’s courage and I’m on the roof!”

Again and again, careful slow advances from each until when in range, each made a dash for their respective targets. Emma slammed and locked the door, 'cause apparently she fears squirrels can unlock doors from the outside.  The squirrel leaped to the roof and scrambled over as if princess would claw her way up the roof with those nails. 

Door successfully slammed, rabies free Emma went back to her laptop. The squirrel went his way, all his nuts intact. Meanwhile, I crawled up behind Emma and grabbed her ankle under the chair while screeching like a wounded squirrel. 

We live in Connecticut. You get your entertainment when and where you can.

Later that night, Emma recants the story of the rabid grizzly-sized squirrel that nearly killed her as the squirrel, no doubt, at the squirrel club, breathlessly detailed how he, surrounded by seven huge hairless ape-like things was nearly eaten had it not been for his quick wits and olympian speed.

If I Won the Lottery!

My wife asked me what I'd do if I won the lottery. Well, if I won the lottery, I says to her, the first thing I'd do is call a wig shop to see if they have those colonial era powdered wigs 'cause I always wanted to wear one of them, but I was afraid of how people would treat me. But if I had a few million bucks, I think I could pretty much get away with anything. So, I'd also go to the local gym and hire me about eight female body builders, the kind with ripped abs and fake boobs, to carry me to work on one of those carriages people carried back in the day wearing tiny little gold lame bikinis... the girls would be wearing the bikinis, not me. I thin k wig is enough flare. And then I'd have 'em surround me as we walked around the place two or three times so everyone could see me in my wig and with the babes and then into the bosses office where I'd quit. But I'd do it in French and end with some rude nasally noises like french people do and then leave. And I'd have a navy blue tux with tails on too. And I'd probably also have a mediaeval band accompany me that would throw off their peasant clothes when we got outside and turn into a high tech Bollywood band. And everyone would go "WOW! Who knew the flute payer was a hot Indian actress man!" But I wouldn't kiss her, 'cause look at the crap that Richard Gear had to go through after kissing that Indian gal that day. So I'd probably bring along some non-Indian babes too with the band. You know for kissing.

Then on the way home I'd hit the Mercedes dealer and Soooo get the under-coating and extended warranty and sports package and Bose sound system. And in the back, seat stretched out on a couple of the laps of the body builder, while one peeled me a grape and another drove the car, I'd wonder, "Now that Michael Jackson is dead, what ever happened to John Merritt's remains?"

Then that night I'd throw a huge party and invite all the right people and some lawyers too. But when the lawyers got there, I'd have the bouncer, probably more of those hot body builder babes, stop them and tell them they're so not on the list and you're gonna have to leave sir or madam and make a huge scene. And I would so laugh and have people raise me unto their shoulders like I actually did something and I'd hit the disco ball, that I bought right after the powdered wig, with a bat and it would break like a pineada and iphones would rain down on everyone with one year free unlimited service including text and web. And they would text everybody from their new phones to tell 'em what a rad party they're at and how cool I am.

So then I asked Daya what she'd do. But she just sat there reading her book like she didn't hear me and it was real quiet for awhile and then we went to bed.

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.