Daddy's Cooking

Get this.  A recent survey of women across America revealed that 60% of married women admit (or believe) that their husbands are the superior chefs, and that most women don't like cooking at all.  60%?  60%!

Holy Guacamole, Batman! 

Actually, this does not surprise me.  The manopausal male is often relegated to the kitchen to sift through an assortment of boxes, cans, and vials and containers.  It may often be the case that the manopausal dude also does the bulk of the marketing (shopping) and that the wife finds herself in the traditional male role of complaining about dinner, asking questions like, "What is this supposed to be?" or "You call this a dinner?"

Yes . . . two cans and a box does make a dinner.  Or, if the woman prefers, it could be two boxes and a can.  Her choice.  But no complaints.

I like me when I'm cooking.  People tend to leave me alone with I'm playing with fire and handling sharp instruments.  And children tend not to bitch during the mixing and stirring.  It's after the cooking when a dad can get into trouble.  Especially if the evening slop has a chartreuse hue or if the top layer must be scraped off the evening fare to get at "the good stuff" down below.  Sometimes "the good stuff" is found only in the middle--like a Hasty Pudding--and the top and bottom layers are tossed outside as fertilizer.

But dad knows he's in trouble when his cooking kills moles.  They float to the top of the lawn like dead fish, flop on the grass for an evening, and then expire by morning.  Dad sort of blushes, realizing that his family consumed the same fare that eradicated the mole population in his, and the neighbor's, yards.  But it's a two-fer.

I can see why women don't want to cook.  They've been doing it for centuries and, after a while, they naturally want to branch out and try their nimble hands at chucking driveway gravel, or trimming their freshly polished fingernails with the business end of a chainsaw.  We will soon be meeting more women who wear eye patches and say, "Arrrrr, you scurvy dog, let me see you wax this deck until it shines or you'll be walkin' the plank before sunset!"

I hope I never see the day, but it's coming.  Tattoos come first, then body piercings, and then eye patches.

I'm keeping a close eye on my wife, believe me.  And I'm trying to improve in the kitchen.   

Sports Dad

The ageing father (especially if he has a high school son) becomes acutely aware of his physical deficiencies and weaknesses.  There was a day (yes, there was!) when this man could palm a basketball, fly through the air, and stuff the ball through the rim.  (I didn't say I could dunk . . . just that I could stuff it.)

But since this man's son has once again taken to the Rugby pitch and continually wants to practice his Rugby tackling on the old man, I remind him that he could, literally, break me apart with a single full-body tackle. I could shatter like glass, and my wife might never find my head, which could roll under a shrub somewhere and not be missed for days.  This is my greatest fear in life.

Now, as an old dad, I cheer my son from the sidelines.  I don't coach any more.  And at last week's Rugby meet, my role was relegated to bringing cheese slices to the concession tent (I'm not joking).  These young parents (who seem to have birthed their children when they were sixteen themselves!) take one look at me and say, "Let him bring cheese."  I feel like telling them that I also know how to cut the cheese, but I don't know that they would appreciate my brand of humor.  But I cut it anyway when they are talking about their sons' great achievements and how they coached their boys from pups to manhood and how these same boys--most of whom cannot even spell "Rugby"--are destined for greatness in insurance sales or hotel management. 

I don't admit that my son is average and that, sometimes when we are sitting alone together at night, we laugh at the same fart jokes.  Rather, I say something like, "My son just got accepted to Harvard and Yale, but he's going to have to turn down these scholarships to attend Vincennes University, a junior college, which has, by the way, more than eighty acres of pristine lawn and a banana-skinning major."

I'm an old dad who is far too realistic for his own good.  I have always told my kids what they don't want to hear (real stuff, real life, real dad opinions) and have left the rest for them to figure out, along with a healthy-dose of grace and support to pursue their own goals and dreams. 

As for sports, I keep telling my son that my playing days are over.  Now, I only play with his mother, and that only sporadically if my back holds out.  I tell him that he should keep his sense of humor, as he will need laughter to make the harsh realities of life palatable.

"Look what laughter as done for me," I tell him.  "I can still laugh at myself after all these years.  And I used to be just like you!"

He doesn't believe me, of course.  And there's no way on God's green earth that he would ever believe that, someday, he'll grow up to have my arthritic shoulders.

Kids.

The Final Four

I'll soon be off the NCAA Men's BB Bandwagon, but for now, let's have another round.









The Final Four

You've watched your share of basketball.
You've wasted time and more.
And suddenly you realize
It's now the Final Four.

Your teams are gone, you feel depressed,
And watching is a snore,
And so you turn the TV off
To clean the Final Four.

The Final Four are:  Nacho Chips
(You have a resorvoir);
And you bought way too many dips
And crumbs now dust your floor.

You also have to clean the fridge
And empty out the drawer,
That guacamole is no good:
It's rotten to the core.

And finally you fluff the cushions
Where you've watched the score,
And underneath the place you've sat
Are Pringles, rinds, and more.

You clean this mess (and eat a few)
And realize you're poor
For having bought so many snacks
To watch the Final Four.

Yes, strange and curious are fans
Who play their game indoor,
And live a little through TV,
Then clean the Final Four.

The Basketball Blues

Here's one for all the losers who are already out of the running in their office NCAA basketball pool.  Perhaps you've got the basketball blues.






The Basketball Blues

I was on Cloud Nine
Flying high, feelin' fine,
When out of nowhere Cinderella sprang!
They dissed my pool:
This tiny school
Where kids speak in a southern twang!

I never knew
That Weirdo U.
Was even in the class Division One,
But here they sit
On top of it
When I was sure they would be One-And-Done.

They've got a coach
Who spits and smokes
And only earns a smidgen of the pay
That my coach earns
And his interns
Where bigger schools give all their cash away.

I've got the blues
Down to my shoes
And feel my Nike logo melting fast.
My favorite team
Is now a dream
When I was sure this year that they would last.

CHORUS:
I've got the Basketball Blues,
Yes, the Basketball blues . . .
Don't know about you
But I'm feelin' blue
Cause I got the Basketball Blues.

Honey Don't Hurt Me, Please

Despite the appearance of our rough exteriors, men are actually quite vulnerable.  Our insides are mush.  Don't hurt us.  Perhaps I can express it better in verse.



Honey Don't Hurt Me, Please

Most days I look like Samson,
Or work like Hercules,
But I'm weak as a kitten,
So honey, don't hurt me, please!

I've got a weaker libido
Than I did when I was tone,
But now you have the power
And I, no testosterone.

I carried you over the threshold
Back when my back was taught,
But I'm carrying more of your weight now
Than I really think I ought.

My mind was once computer
And I was Socrates
But now if I forget your name
Honey, don't hurt me, please.

And yes I can remember
When I could jump and dunk
But if I tried to do it now
My butt would go kerplunk.

And yes, I wanted children
And I love them heartily,
But now I dream them leaving
So I can care for me.

The years are not so kind
To men and chimpanzees,
Just toss me beer and peanuts,
And honey don't hurt me, please.

That's Why They Play the Game

In the spirit of the NCAA BB Tournament, here's another ditty to think about.











That's Why They Play the Game

If wins were determined by brackets
Or rankings or ratings or bands
They would not need to play the game,
And there wouldn't be people called fans.

There wouldn't be games called "upsets"
And only the top-ranked would win.
But that's the reason they play the game:
To determine who's "out" and who's "in".

Some people may curse and grumble
If their school loses the game
Believing that if they are losers
The referees are to blame.

And others are shell-shocked and weary
If their team gets whipped in the storm,
And they conjure conspiracy theories
To explain why they didn't perform.

But regardless of the brackets or
The team's rating or fame,
Some winner's lose, and losers win,
And that's why they play the game.

A Woman's World

A new book by Liza Mundy, The Richer Sex, reveals that over 40% of women in America now earn more than their husbands, and that by 2030 that number is expected to top 50%, primarily because far more women are college-educated than men, and among graduate programs, women now comprise 60% of the student body.  In short, more men are becoming less-educated while women are becoming more highly-trained, wealthier, and more empowered.

I've known this for a long time, however.

I've been in one of those marriages where, whenever my wife has worked full time, she has always been the principal breadwinner.  Naturally, being a pastor, this is not difficult to do, but since the advent of my wife's return to school for a second undergraduate degree, a subsequent master's, and now a post-master's certification program, my wife has nearly doubled my college education in number of years (and I have a 3-year master's from Duke!).  She's not only more intelligent than I am (by far) but she's also more educated and up-to-date in her training.

I am a dinosaur . . . and the only thing I have to offer in this new woman's world is my ability to cut wood and haul gravel.  And if it weren't for my wife's advanced age, I think she could best me in these laborious activities also.  I rise early and work late . . . but most days she rises earlier and works later than I do!

My world is filled with women.  I work primarily with women.  My household is comprised of 50% estrogen . . . and if I count my eighteen-year-old son as half-a-man, I'm in the minority inside my own walls.  I've had a fair number of women bosses or supervisors over the years, and from what I read, by the time I die, more than half of the funeral directors in America will be female also.  Women will very likely dig my grave and dance on it.

It's a woman's world . . . though some might argue.  And if it's not a woman's world yet, it soon will be.

That's not all bad, I guess.  Men have had their crack at running the world for thousands of years.  Maybe it's time we placed the women in charge and let them fill potholes. 

I'm thankful for women.  And I've written several essays of late about the wonderful, remarkable, incredible power of women.  All from a man's perspective of course.

I'll keep writing about women . . . but I'm sure of this:  women will tell me if I don't know what I'm talking about.  Women are constantly correcting me.  

But they will have to forgive me if I'm a moron.  I am, after all, just a man.   

NCAA Basketball Brackets

There comes a day when a manopause male realizes he is no longer an athlete (if, in fact, he ever was one to begin with) but must live vicariously through the exploits of the young.  This happens each year during the NCAA basketball tournament, when men of all ages fall under the delusion that they can make a difference to their teams and that, if they only cheer more loudly or buy more beer they will somehow influence the outcome of a game being played on a court eight hundred miles away.  Toward that end, I offer this bit of wisdom to every man who is attempting to clean up in his office bracket pool.


The Bracket Buster

Every man dreams of being a star,
Of hearing cheers long and loud
Sweeping him out of a sleazy bar
And into a court side crowd.

But then he suddenly comes to his senses
And takes a long look at his gut
And realizes his bifocal lenses
Have betrayed the size of his butt.

He never was a player or
An athlete in younger years
Who could take a bow for his encore
Or hold back the victor's tears.

All that he has are the brackets now:
He's clipped them from the paper.
And he fills them in, believing somehow,
That he's a basketball player.

He analyzes like a coach
Dissects the talent pool
And feels his intellect encroach
Upon his chosen school.

He dips a fiver in the kitty
Sure of victory
And screams a bit like Walter Mitty
At the referee.

But as the tournament ensues
His teams don't pass the muster
And so he gets the Bracket-blues
From just one Bracket-buster.

His teams don't last--they never do--
And he becomes depressed
Believing one will still break through
And find their manifest.

But as his brackets go to hell
And Cinderellas win
He wonders how some chose so well
And how they filled 'em in.

And by the time the Final Four
Rolls round he soon forgets
Those favored teams he rooted for
And tears them into bits.

And at the last when one is crowned
And others shed a tear
He hopes he will once more rebound
To play again next year. 

Inside the Men's Room

Men are always wanting to know: What's inside the women's restroom, and why do women visit this room in clusters, and why do they stay so long?  I used to ask these questions until my wife admitted that most women's restrooms have large screen TVs tuned to the Oxygen Network as well a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica and The Collected Works of Edith Wharton.  Now the women's restroom is no longer a mystery to me, and it all makes perfect sense. I no longer check the time when my wife excuses herself at the restaurant and tells me she will "be right back."  I just order another steak and flirt with the waitresses.

But naturally, women want to know what goes on inside a men's restroom, too.  Men, of course, have signed a pact never to reveal the secrets of this space, but I'm breaking the taboo in this blog.  My voice must be heard.  And women have a right to know.

Here's the truth.

First, picture a small confined space about the size of a British phone booth and then imagine this space being shared by twelve men (two of them over 450 pounds).  This imagine should form the centerpiece of your vision. 

Now, given that confined munchkinland, imagine the floor of a Waffle House restaurant built in the 1950s and several pieces of stained-and-broken porcelain that have been salvaged from a junkyard by a guy named Greaser.  This is where we do our business--and most of the doors on the various stalls don't lock--meaning that we have to have protracted conversations with each other about the menu, or sports or the latest chic flick.  We do this sitting down.  Some men sing songs as they go about their work.  "Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho" is a popular tune, as is "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" or "I've Got the World on a String."  Some men exchange business cards and wash their hands afterwards.

These experiences can be found in most of the upper-crust men's rooms in swanky hotels and five-star restaurants.  The best ones also have a condom-dispensing machine where one can make evening plans and, for an extra fifty cents, also pick up a pack of Juicy Fruit or a handful of Gummy Bears.  Most of these machines also double as ATMs and a fellow can usually run into a guy named Chuck or Walter making change from a fifty.

It is important to note, also, that men's rooms rarely have paper towels.  There is a paper towel dispenser, but it is usually filled with slips of paper containing women's phone numbers and/or phone numbers etched into the side with an Exacto knife or a felt-tipped marker. Some of these numbers lead to actual women, but most lead to jail.

Women should also picture the men's restroom as a utilitarian space.  Men don't usually bring makeup or soft drinks along with them, though some have been spotted adjusting their toupees or trying to rub catsup out of their apricot-colored ascots while sipping a Manhattan.  Others might pop pills.  But most men don't linger.

Finally, women should not be distressed if a husband doesn't return from the men's room.  Not to worry. He's likely engaged in a pick-up game of urinal darts or he might be in the kitchen making small talk with the chef.  Under no circumstances should you assume he's met another woman or is hanging out around the women's restroom hoping to secure the latest copy of Oprah magazine.  And if your husband is older, or if his prostate is flaring, don't forget that he might need to be in the men's room for hours.  Give him a little time and some leeway and he will likely meet you in the parking lot after he's picked up a toothpick and an after-dinner mint.

And don't worry.  I'm sure he's washed his hands. 

New Age

According to the new life-expectancy statistics, everyone is living longer and healthier these days.  Forty is now the new thirty, fifty is the new forty, sixty is the new fifty, and seventy is . . . well seventy is just seventy.  Having taken a number of "real age" quizzes in the past two years, I know I'm getting younger every year.  Next year I plan to start shaving and my goal is puberty.

I'm not sure what to make of these "new ages" however.  According to a recent quiz (which revealed that I was more "fit" than most men in their thirties), I must take umbrage by the fact that I have pain in my knees and arthritis in my shoulders.  I am also squarely in the "graying of America" and there are some days when my "real" age rears its ugly head in the form of AARP offers and unexpected calls from insurance agents who are trying to sell me nursing home insurance.  

The fact is, age is relative . . . but it is relative in the same way that a year is a year and a month is a month.  Time counts for something.  And so does experience.

I like to remind my wife every week that I am an "experienced male" and that my expertise is boosted by a widening array of drugs that are designed to give me energy and pain relief.  These over-the-counter drugs are great, and each is heightened by caffeine, the drug of choice for oldies like me.

One of these days I'm going to take a quiz that will reveal my true age.  The quiz will demonstrate that, within hours, I should be dead (give or take a few minutes).  I only hope that I will be able to complete the quiz before I keel.  That's how I'd like to go . . . to keel.  

Next week, I'm taking a quiz that will reveal how I should go.  And if I don't like the outcome . . . I may not go at all.     

Dad's Wedding Diary 4

One day a father awakens to discover that his daughter's wedding is a mere four months away.  He wonders how this happened and what, if anything, he can do about it.

Manopausal fathers don't have many options.  They cannot run away from the problem, as their knees are nothing more than a jumble of cartilage and bone chips, and they can't even reason their way through the mess, as their brains have become mushier than a bowl full of day-old corn flakes fermenting in whole milk.  All they can do is cope with the problem, much like they are forced to cope with Richard Simmons.  The problem looms, but they can't change the channel.

The manopausal father knows only one way forward . . . and that is to love, and to love deeply.  That's why his checkbook is available and why, at any given moment, four checks are missing.  Love is the reason he sells his plasma at $50 a quart and love is the reason he sticks with the old wife, because she has greater earning potential.  Love is the reason he has pre-planned his funeral and informed the undertaker to remove his spleen prior to embalming so it can be sold on eBay.  And love is the reason he has instructed his wife to bury him in the backyard next to the septic tank.  Cemetery plots cost money and cardboard boxes are free in liquor store dumpsters.

Periodically, the manopausal father also takes inventory of his own marriage, and begins to reminisce with his wife, especially as the wedding date looms. He reminds his honeybun that, when he married her, he was a virgin himself, and that ought to count for something.  He could have done the nasty with a dozen other girls (heck, make that three dozen!), but he chose her, and reminds his wife that, the last time they did the mambo was probably the night the bride-to-be was conceived, and that was eons ago around the time that fire was invented.  He tries to make light of this, or writes a poem to create a mood, but his wife is all business and wants to talk about the table cloths at the reception or the color of the candles.  "What if someone spills a jar of mustard?" she wonders. He feels like spilling his brains.

The manopausal father tries to kiss his wife during the wedding-planning blitzes and create romantic one-liners like, "Can you believe our little girl is getting married?" or "Where did the years go?" or "Do you think you can still fit your big butt into your wedding dress?"  He is so old he no longer has a sense of propriety or going too far or stepping over the line.  He just blurts the first thing that pops into his head and apologizes for it later while he is eating a bowl of Shredded Wheat. He knows his wife will forgive him because she loves him and because she has no other prospects for love, especially if he were dead and had not yet cleaned out his sock drawer or the hair traps in the master bathroom sink.  He knows much of his DNA will live on inside the pipes and that, whenever she gets lonely, his wife can always scape a bit of his hide from the seat cushion of his office chair, where he once sat and wrote blogs and stories and whole books for years on end.

In the end, the manopausal father is happy for his daughter.  He loves her.  He wants the best for her.  He hopes she will be as happy in her marriage as her mother is . . . as her mother is married to such a great man, a remarkable father, who cannot be replaced.  He invites his daughter to talk to her mother about these things . . . and ask, "Is Dad really that special?" or "Why can't Dad cook something other than chili?"

(He's not special, of course.)  But who's going to tell?