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.