Dad's Wedding Diary 3

Last week my wife brought home a catering menu for my daughter's wedding reception.  Our goal was to parse the respective fare and decide which recipes we would be offering.  I suggested making tomato soup and cheese sandwiches, but my idea did not hit on receptive ears.

"There's some delicious stuff here," my wife said.  She also suggested that sitting next to each other on the couch while we made our selections was going to be some kind of romantic experience.  But I had long ago decided that love and wedding menus don't mix.  And besides, both kids were in the house listening in from their respective bedrooms, including the future bride.

"Ok," I said, "what are we looking at here?  They have anything out of a can?"

It's amazing how uptown these catering businesses have become.  I thought I was buying for the maharajah of Singapore.  The menu selections were nearly indecipherable and read something like:

Wild Olive Twists on Rye

a salty appetizer comprised of those big honkin' turkish olives on a fresh baked rye bread that costs about $200 a pound and smeared with a fresh humus paste that will have all the neighbors askin' 'what the hell is that stuff?'

Maroon Bacon Chestnuts

a classic appetizer that looks like crap but tastes pretty good, especially after we give this one a fancy name and empty a regular can of water chestnuts into a bowl, smear those suckers with olive oil and then wrap them in bacon

Some More Crap

these appetizers are composed of all the leftovers from the Harry-Legg wedding reception this past Saturday, but your guests won't know the difference

Chicken Hop-a-Long

we take the freshest chickens we can find, wring their necks just minutes before your wedding, and serve the whole bird on top of a wild rice pilaf and spicy mustard sauce  

Vegetable Medly of the Mingh Dynasty

you won't recognize a single vegetable in this dish but some of them are edible, especially the ones that look like dissected monkey toes but are actually quite fresh if you pick 'em while they're green and tender

Hearts of Tadpole Livers in Bernaise Sauce

this fresh amphibian fare comes straight out of hibernation to your plate and we boil 'em, cream 'em, and call it dinner+

Mavis's Muffins

call 'em anything you like but these flaky whole-wheat corn muffins are gonna blow your mind, especially since the corn came straight out of a Hoosier field laced with traces of Methamphetamin

Skyline Lemon-Lime Pie

in a restaurant you'd pay upwards of $59.75 for a slice of this, but we're practically giving it away since we took you to the cleaners on those Tadpole Livers

* add 85% gratituity if you plan to have more than 10 guests
+ does not actually include sauce, if you want that, we charge an extra $500 since we have to fly the sauce in from some small country in South America where children are exploited for labor purposes and women are generally regarded as property, unlike in America, where brides like your daughter are pampered and given carte-blanche permission to create weddings of the size and scope that we cater

NOTE:  If you are the father of the bride and are sitting on the couch with your wife reading over this menu selection, we heartily apologize and know that you would rather be rolling in the sheets instead of discussing tadpole livers, but hey, whataya gonna do?

Dad's Wedding Diary 2

Life is filled with horrifying situations:  nine-car pileups on the interstate; learning that your cat is a rickets carrier; being a father who is trying to help his daughter plan a wedding.  Of the former, the latter is perhaps the most un-winable. 

Soon after my daughter's engagement, my wife and daughter conspired against me and began planning the wedding of the century.  Phone calls were made.  Letters were written.  Bills began to arrive in the mail.

Many of these bills were from people with names like "Cateland's Catering" and "Big Bill's Wild West Wedding Hoedown".  I stepped in and volunteered to be a part of the process, my primary purpose and aim directed at finding the most bang for the buck.  After all, I've written books.

I also made assumptions.

I don't want you speaking at the wedding," my daughter told me.  "You'll weep like an infant."

How did she know?  I set my sights on a higher purpose.  "Let me sing then," I said.  "Ava Maria.  Sunrise, Sunset.  Love, Love Me Do.  I know them all.  I can also do a rendition of several popular hip-hop gangsta raps, including *&%#**in*)&!%**."

"I don't think so," I was told.  I had become a foreigner in my own home.  I didn't even have enough clout to weigh in on the cup cake icing selections my daughter was considering.  I was getting indigestion from worry.

By the time my wife and daughter decided the wedding and reception would be outdoors (in a barn) I was too far out of the loop to be of any use.  I was losing weight.  And the only plus was that I could cinch my belt a notch tighter.

And a few days ago my wife reminded me:  "It's time we take a look at the reception menu.  We've got to make our selections."

Menus were proffered.  The catering services all sounded top-notch and came with star-filled recommendations and testimonials like:

My wedding was floundering and had no direction. But once I called Maude's Menus, she rescued me from a mountain of worry and shame.  Thank you, Maude!  (Ms. J.R. Buttwing, Fancygap, Wyoming)

I was on the brink of a divorce, and I wasn't even married yet . . . and then we hired Caligula's Catering.  They created the perfect Goth wedding for me and my boyfriend, Silvester.  The monkey brains were delicious.  (Ms. Venus Flytrap, Tart, Wisconsin)

Try Misty's Menus, she won't let you down.  She'll also pop out of your cake for an extra $50.00.  (Mr. Bill Yumpert, retired Army chaplain)

My parents were such tightwads and wouldn't shove a dime for cake and ice cream.  I wanted to shove them!  But Rupert's Ribs and Ice Cream Wagon was the perfect solution to an otherwise hum-drum reception and every one of my friends gained weight.  Lots of it. I'm now happily married and eating Deal-a-Meal like everyone else.  (Ms. Elvira Hogshead, Ratchet, Michigan)

We had to plan this affair ourselves . . . and quickly . . . after Misty began showing and the doctors said she would be giving birth in four weeks or less.  That's when we called Ted at Gumdrop City.  He created the perfect pickle and ice cream reception in the hospital lobby.  All the doctors commented. (Mr. & Mrs. Gill Quickie, Paradise, Illinois).

It's tough to choose.

Dad's Wedding Diary 1

Last summer my daughter's boyfriend, Michael, asked me for my blessing.  "I'd like to ask Chelsey to marry me," he said.

We were standing in the front yard where, for the past two hours, I had been mowing three and a half acres of ankle-high grass with a push mower in blistering sun.  I wasn't wearing a shirt or socks . . . and if memory serves, I may not have been wearing shorts either. And from the looks of me, I'd forgotten to apply sun screen.  I was that stunned.

We sat down at the picnic table to talk.  I put my knees together.  "You have to understand," I began, "she's just a child.  A woman, yes.  But it seems like only yesterday when I watched her bulbous head pop out of the womb.  Not mine . . . but my wife's, I believe."

I had to gather my thoughts.  I had counseled hundreds of people over the years--crumbling marriages, stymied parents, men who had been run over by berserk lawnmowers--and yet I was at a loss for words.  "I guess since she's old enough to vote, she can make her own decision," I said eventually.  "Sure, I give you my blessing."

I did.  I do.  I like my future son-in-law.  He's a good egg.  Michael is a good man. 

But a father can't help but feel blind-sided by discussions about his daughter's impending wedding.  A father, after all, knows too much. He's been to the circus and he's seen the show.  He knows how messed up marriage can be, and how difficult it is, and that it would work a whole lot better if his wife would just take his advice once in a while.  He also wishes his wife would have been by his side for THE CONVERSATION.  She could have handed him a pair of shorts, or at least a moist towelette. 

But my wife was in New Orleans at the time of THE CONVERSATION and I had to dress myself later after a long, cold shower.  I was in a stupor.  And I may have wept.  This was a secret I had sworn to keep until my future son-in-law could pop the question.

I didn't tell a soul.  In fact, I forgot about it and only brought it up days later, when my wife and I were driving home from the Indianapolis airport.  "Guess what?" I said.

"Chelsey's getting married," my wife blurted.

"How did you know?"

"Felt it in my bones," she said.  "Mother's intuition."

What is it with these women?  And what the heck is intuition?

The only guiding force men have is guilt.  But since I'm not guilty of anything except loving my wife and daughter better than corn hash, I'm walking blind through life.  One of these days I'm going to screw up so I can find my center again.  I'll become a man.  I'll grow balls and will be able, at last, to say NO!   

Kid Stuff

The manopausal male often has older children.  And he can't wait for these children to move out so he can enjoy a second-honeymoon with his remarkably old wife.

Children are, of course, a blessing . . . but this is a very broad assumption and may not apply if, for example, a nearly nineteen-year-old son is consuming upwards of two hundred dollars a week in fresh fruits and vegetables or is considering applying to a liberal arts college that will cost his father a kidney and a spleen--which the father intends to sell on eBay. 

Manopausal fathers, of course, love their children, but this is only in the abstract, as in:  "Well, naturally I love them. My wife endured tremendous pain to birth them while I was watching ESPN Sportscenter, and I missed the second half of the Duke game, which is horrendous . . . but, yeah, my kids are super!"

The ageing father shows love toward his children in a variety of ways including, but not limited to:

Sacrificing the entirety of his pension to pay for college
Going without bread and water for seven weeks so his kids can eat surf'n turf
Demanding that his wife work longer hours
Dumping leftover alcoholic beverages into the gas tank to save on fuel costs
Selling a kidney on eBay
Selling his wife

Naturally, older children appreciate a father who makes all of these sacrifices, and they frequently brag about their father to their many friends--all of whom have pierced necks and various snake tattoos emblazoned on their midrifts.  Children know that their father is offering them a bright future through his many sacrifices, and they can't wait for him to die so they can reap the benefits of a small life insurance policy (through DAD Mutual) and open the lockbox at the bank.  They frequently write their father letters of concern, wanting to know how he is feeling presently, and if there is any new word from the doctor.

But the manopausal father wants to do more. He is always asking, "What else can I sell?"  He considers sperm, but his wife reminds him he is very low in that department due to decreased testosterone levels, and suggests he sell plasma or his left eyeball instead.  

In the end, there is nothing left to do but love.  And the decrepitly old male can do this in spades.  He still loves his wife and his family and looks forward to seeing them on the weekends when he has finished his 80 hour shift at work.  Some day he hopes to remember their names and birthdays.

He also enjoys receiving greeting cards himself.  And he hopes the sentiments expressed are accurate.

How to Make a Man Romantic

In keeping with our popular series of "how to" articles, let us here turn our attentions to the romantic male.  Or, as women are always asking, "How can I make my man more romantic?" we will here offer these three easy steps.

First, we suggest that your man shower.  This is an important step and could probably be accomplished first thing of a morning.  Many people bath at this time, though in other cultures bathing may be more popular in the evening hours or in a stagnant pool of tepid water, but we digress . . . .  In the bathing procedure, we also suggest soap, with tendencies toward the Irish Spring rainbow of aromas.  If you can't smell Ireland or red potatoes on your man, we suggest he repeat this first step.  Naturally, we feel that showering will make a man more inclined toward romance and, while he's in the water, he might also clip his toenails.  Leaving a sharpened pair of scissors on the drain covering might provide a hint.

The second step in making your man romantic involves food.  Or, as they say:  "The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach."  That's why we suggest surgery or a feeding tube if eating doesn't work.  Begin by preparing a delicious meal.  And by delicious we mean--not from a can.  If you must dump something into a bowl, for God's sake make it pasta.  Forget the vegetables.  Remember:  the better the food, the more romantic he will be.  However, we offer one warning here:  don't overfeed him. This tends to give him gas and makes him very sleepy, which is not a good thing if you are expecting romance later.  Your food portions should be small, but tasty.  The meal should be small enough that afterwards he should be asking questions like, "You call this a dinner?" or "Really . . . when are we gonna eat?"  Well, but you catch our drift here, right?

Finally . . . and this third step is vital and it's all on YOU ladies . . . a man needs someone to romance.  If, for example, you say something after dinner like, "I'm tired and I want to go to bed" or "I think I'm coming down with the Hong Kong flu and I'm gonna blow chunks" or "Don't touch me or I'll dent your Adam's apple" . . . he might get the wrong impression.  There's a good chance he might want to watch Dragnet reruns instead.  We suggest you prepare a few craftily-worded openings so he won't be embarrassed by his awkward advances.  The showered and well-fed male should pick up on these innuendos and make some kind of movement.  Watch out for his hands, though, but if he turns off the TV you're probably in business. Watch for these signs!

Naturally, we here at the Institute for Male Progression are happy when we can help women understand their men.  That's why you come here for answers instead of reading Dr. Ruth or watching Dr. Phil.  We live to serve.

Happy hunting.       

The Perfect Man

All women are looking for the perfect man.  And that man happens to be Gilligan.

Think about it.

Gilligan is the kind of guy women can love.  He's a bumbling idiot, but has his redeeming side in that he's everyone's "little buddy".  He's a friendly sort, always eager to help, but he's certainly not a threat.  Any woman can do it better than Gilligan, and when he does mess up--which is inevitable--a woman can forgive him.  A woman simply says, "Well, what do you expect from a man like him?"

Gilligan is non-threatening in other ways, too.  He's on an island with beautiful chicks but can't do anything about it.  He prefers his radio, and Mrs. Howell has already married money.  (She is, of course, the only intelligent woman on the island and knows that Mr. Howell will soon kick the bucket, leaving her millions, and by golly she'll be getting off the island then!)

Gilligan is every woman's man in that he can be easily manipulated.  What a dreamboat.  He's a walking bucket of neuroses, psychoses, and easily-navigatable testosterone.  Anything a woman wants, he's willing to give it a whirl.  What woman wouldn't want a man who is so easily swayed?

Naturally, great marriages are built on the Gilligan Principle.  Whole books could be written on it.  I know I've got a closet full of notes!

The only drawback, of course, is that most marriages last longer than a three-hour tour.  And most women bring along a far larger wardrobe for the ride.

Understanding the Male Brain

Women frequently want to know how a man's brain works . . . and we here at the Institute for Male Progression thank you for seeking an answer here.  Let us explain.

The male brain is, as you know, completely different from a woman's gray matter.  A man's brain is actually a shade of purple, sort of a fuchsia, and the man frequently removes his brain and places it into a cup of water beside his bed at night.  Perhaps you've seen this phenomenon in horror movies.  Women frequently refer to this when they ask, "Have you lost your mind?" or "Are you our of your mind?"  Well . . . sometimes the man has, indeed, lost it.  A woman must always check.  And don't forget to look in the trunk of the car.  Some men lose their minds over engines, or the feel of sleek Corinthian leather bucket seats, or even Lucas Oil products.  Another popular place for a man to lose his mind is at work . . . and a woman can always check with Gilbert in Accounts Receivable to see if his mind is fixated on Silvia or that chic who cleans the urinals.  If his mind is elsewhere you may not be able to reach him before it's too late.

A man's brain, however, is easy to comprehend.  All he wants is food.  So feed him.  Donuts work well.  So do steaks and chops smeared with barbecue sauce.  A well-fed man is a happy man, and after a good meal his brain is so hopped up on endomorphines and potassium you'll actually be able to have a coherent conversation about shoes, or your hairstyle, or even your feelings.  This sensation, however, will only last a few minutes, so don't press it.  And never say that you need cuddling.  This cannot be accomplished unless you are lying side-to-side on the sofa watching reruns of The Rat Patrol.  Then, and only then, could a woman ever expect to spoon.  This phenomenon is known in some circles as "love".

Finally, a man's brain is best understood--not as a series of nerves or a giant computerized processing center--but as a pile of mush.  Picture mashed potatoes in a bowl.  These taters are, of course, under great pressure inside the cranium and this can lead to many different forms of dimentia and dilerium.  Some of these psychotic disorters commonly found in the male include:  financial insecurities, feelings of hopelessness, penis envy, and an insatiable desire to watch Dr. Phil.  

The woman can, of course, learn how to cope with the male brain--and she frequently does.  This is called marriage.  

Some women have tried it and, from what we read in our files and see on TV, it has been known to work if the woman is well-adjusted and earns a six-figure salary.  We look forward to hearing from you. 

A Pre-Valentine Poem

The manopause male does have one thing going for him:  his wife is old and forgetful and doesn't expect anything on Valentine's day.  In fact, she reminds him that she won't be home from work until very late on Valentine's evening and that, by then, the last thing she wants to do is go back out into the elements to eat at a crowded restaurant.

The manopause male appreciates this kind of spontaneous romance . . . even if she wasn't suggesting an evening at home together.  She was just suggesting, well . . . "I'm tired and don't want you to touch me or I'll break your cheeks!  Just toss a can of soup onto the stove and let's call it a night."

I can dig it.  I can also stir it.  And those chunks of carrot are delicious.

However, the manopause male does write an original Valentine's day poem every year (or two or three in addition to his hundreds of other romance/love offerings which he writes throughout the year).  So, he will at least offer one poem here for all of the sweethearts out there who will be enjoying a non-canned dinner.  Pre-valentine.

Here's a poem the manopause male wrote a few months back.  Not a bad choice of words.  Certainly worthy of remembering:

 

The Gift

I make you a gift of this irretrievable day

Beneath the sun’s stare, a blink of cloud,

The evening’s bed pulled back like a shroud.

And what is more, I shall not presume to say

A word since words may consequently fall

Headlong into meaning or mean nothing at all.

The Superannuated Man

The Superannuated Man is deemed superfluous:
He thinks he's supercalafradulistic,
His boss sees super-rust.

The Superannuated Man, once supercilious,
Is not so super anymore.
He's past his supercrust.

He's likely to be married to a wife who's super-butt
Is margins larger than his pay
Since he's lost his super-strut. 

Some might regard this Super-man as having super needs
But basically he's super-sized
What his pension supersedes.

Although he thinks superlative in his superficiality
He's no more superjacent to
His supernumeraries.

And with each supercessioned year he grieves his super-plan
Which marks the superlative decline
Of the Superannuated Man. 

When Dad Ain't Super Anymore

There was a day when Dad
Could play the game and score
But now that Dad can't even punt
He ain't super anymore.

His kids admired his prowess
And the way he ran the floor
But now that Dad can't throw the ball
He ain't super anymore.

And years ago Dad wooed his wife
And had romance rapport
But now his game is on TV
And all he is, is sore.

Sometimes we catch Dad dreaming
That he'll have a fine encore
But Dad can't run, and he can't jump,
And his love techniques are poor.

Dad watches others win the prize
Though he dreams of grid-iron war,
But if somebody tackled him
He'd break in pieces . . . four.

He hasn't got a chance in hell
To play like he did before,
Now all he eats is nacho chips
And he's gassy to the core.

Though young men dream of glory
And his wife wants sex some more
Dad hasn't got the chutzpa
To play there anymore.

All Dad can do is open beer
And scratch his open drawer.
No, Dad can't play no football.
He ain't super anymore.

Never Kick a Man When He's Down

Men have feelings.  This may come as a shock to many women.  Especially women who know men or who happen to be married to one.

Men, of course, don't express their feelings with the same depth that women do.  We rarely weep openly, for example . . . but we may cry for long periods of time in private, especially in the mornings when we glance at ourselves in the mirror.  Men also don't express their feelings in the same way . . . that is, verbally.  We tend to communicate through grunts, eye-brow raises, and obscene hand gestures.  Sometimes we pick our noses to express boredom.

A man is most vulnerable to his feelings when he is depressed.  This is the one time when women should take advantage of a man's fragile state of mind and ask for more help around the kitchen.  He is likely to give it.  When a man is depressed he is far more likely to discuss his fragile emotional state with a woman and also to watch re-runs--maybe even entire seasons--of Sex and the City.  He may be open to talking about how he feels.  But don't be surprised if he says, "Feel?  How do you think I'm feeling?  You wanna know how I'm feeling?  I'll tell you how I'm feeling!"

When a man is feeling down he is twice as likely as, say, a man on a golf course or a fellow cutting off three fingers with a chain saw, to discuss sex or finances or his favorite Yankee candle scent with a woman.  A woman might ask, "How are you feeling today?"

And a Niagara of emotion might come spilling out.  Women should be aware that, at this point, a man might blame his mother, or his boss, or even the poodle trimmer.  He might cry buckets.  He may also ask for a grilled cheese.  For God's sake, make him one!

Vulnerable men are the most fun to live with.  A man who is open and emotional and tender as a newborn will be far more likely to play Skip-Bo or Settlers of Cataan.  A man who is high on life has a life . . . he's not interested in talking about his feelings or sitting on the couch next to a wife. He'll be out there enjoying life and driving with the top down, even if he doesn't own a convertible. 

But a man who is depressed can't go anywhere.  He has no prospects.  There's not another woman who would have him.  He believes this.  He's come to this realization after much psychotherapy and intensive shock treatments.  That's why he's sticking with the woman he married.  There's no one else out there for him, and even if there were, she would be living in Hong Kong and he knows that purchasing an airline ticket would be a bitch.

For these reasons and more, women should keep their men heavily sedated with a barrage of bad news.  If he's feeling down, ladies . . . you're on top of the world.

All a man asks is, when he's down, don't kick him too hard.  And please don't kick him in the soft parts with a pointed-toe shoe.  He's got enough to worry about with his prostate. 

Framed

If older men do have a vanity, it may involve eyewear.  We don't want to come off looking like Clark Kent (or Elton John) nor do we pine for the eyewear worn by our grandmothers during a game of pinochle.  We want good solid frames, but we don't want glasses that give the appearance that we are wearing glasses.  In short, a vanity.

Time was I didn't need help seeing close-up objects.  As long as I could see what I was kissing, for example, I'd have a go at my wife.  Then my near-sightedness gave way to near-blindness and I discovered that I had been smooching a pillow for years.  This may explain my wife's feelings of distance and isolation, and why most of my wife's feedback was muffled.  That, and I can still taste the chicken feathers.

But I've made concessions.  I've now purchased several three-packs of Wal-Mart reading glasses, and as I write this blog I'm staring down at a pile of these cheaters--a preponderance of crumpled plastic that serves at-the-ready whenever I read a book or newspaper.

I can't imagine being blind, however.  How horrible it would be if I were unable to behold my wife's beauty, or my kids, or to gaze upon the pots of swill I cook up most evenings.  If I couldn't see, I wouldn't know how long to stir the mini-raviolis.  I'd have to write this blog by braille.  

Soon I will be blind as a bat.  I'll be like Stevie Wonder, calling up Becky every day to say, "I just called to say, 'I Love You' . . . and I mean it from the bottom of my heart."

There's not a pair of reading glasses out there that can save me from future embarrassment.  Just last week I was sitting in a college dormitory cafeteria, reading a book, glasses pressed down over my nose, and a beautiful young lady walked up to me and asked, "Is that a good book?"

I didn't know what to say.  I didn't remember I was reading a book, couldn't recall the title, and before I could get my glasses off and regain my bearings, she was gone.

I'm having the same problems at home with my wife.  I miss her a lot.  And every time I look up I'm staring at a pillow.