Found: happy place.
Theme song: M.C. Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This.”
“I love you,” I told my 3-year-old, grabbed her face, then smooched both cheeks Italian style.
She giggled, leapt into my chest, squeezed with all four limbs and whispered, “I love you more."
“Awww,” friends with teenagers say, before taking whacks at my toddler bliss with adolescent horror stories – texting, not talking, My Space, video game hangovers, shrink-wrapped clothes, body piercing.
“You’ll come home from work one day, your little angel will bat her eyes at daddy, empty your wallet and total your car while trolling for boyfriends,” they cackle.
“Buh … buh … buh .. buh-oyfriends?”
Thus began the nightmares:
She brings the leech home. He’s all smoke and mirrors: clean cut, dripping with body spray, the personality of a rice cake. Too obtuse to read my vibe, he stays for dinner: steak and potatoes. He wants it well done.
“Your college major?” I ask at the dinner table.
“Journalism,dad,” my princess answers for him. “He’s a writer … just like you. He’s brilliant.”
Brilliant? It’s a word she has never used to describe my writing – the writing that filled her belly, put a roof over her head, paid for her manicures, her designer handbags and her evil iPhone. Brilliant strikes a nerve.
Boy Wonder smiles, nods and, in raptures, shoves another $0.30 of charred meat down his esophogus. The urge to wipe the ‘this-could-be-the-beginning-of-something-beautiful’ look from his face is palpable.
“Delicious,” he says.
“Delicious” breaks my “brilliant” trance. Delicious? That’s the best Little Lord Hemmingway could muster after swallowing half my cow? Not succulent, epicurean, nectarous, titillating? I’m thinking journalism is a line – a vile plan to infiltrate the family.
Under the guise of a bathroom break, I excuse myself, slap water on my face and do some deep breathing exercises – returning to the kitchen in time to hear my daughter say, “Go ahead. Take it. Dad doesn’t need that.”
Are my eyes deceiving me? Is that leech actually removing the chocolate cake from my plate? My chocolate cake?
“Try that again and you’ll pull back a bloody stump,” I snap, picking up a steak knife and waiving it.
While I clear the table, he snatches my remote, sits on the couch waaaaaay too close to my daughter, surfs the channels and finds Paris Hilton. I suffer the offense by biting my lip.
“Come here, dad. Tell us what you think of the first chapter of his novel,” she says during the commercial.
“A novel? Really?” I’m almost impressed.
Within 3 sentences, I’m sucking air, digesting scenes inspired by the movie “Saw,” no longer underwhelmed. There, sitting not 10 feet from me, in my own living room, picking burnt meat from his teeth, ogling my daughter (I swear, if she uses the word “fate” and his name in the same sentence one more time, I’ll lock her up in the nunnery until death do us part) is the seed of Dracula, Edgar Allen Poe’s protégé: my future son-in-law.
That’s when I awake, baseball bat in hand, drenched in sweat.
I cope by Googling ‘cryogenically freezing toddlers’ every month or so – hoping science will throw me a bone. It’s my only hope: Thawing out the kids on my days off, sending them to the freezer instead of bed – delaying adolescence as long as possible. Maybe Dr. Frankenstein could make it happen … and take out Little Hemmingway while he’s at it.
The REAL Story:
- A Little Music with that Column?
CLICK HERE
- Hammertime!
I am NOT a big rap music fan, but Hammer's 'Can't Touch This' brings out the bad dancer in me. My friend Shawn Hammes ... a.k.a. "Hammertime" pays the price. When his name pops up on caller ID, I answer, "Hey, Can't Touch This. Whazzup?"
- The Maddie Python Hug
No lie. All 4 limbs. Big, heart-piercing squeeze. Then she finishes me off with her blue eyes. No one has to tell me: I am one lucky daddy.
- The "Saw" - "Bloody Stump" References
Every "Saw" reference reminds me of one of my all-time favorite characters (and best friends) - the unforgettable Chad Reisenauer of "Honey, I painted the bedroom walls black" lore. "Bloody stump" comes compliments of classmate Wendy Crocker Bailey.
- What's with Dracula?
I picked up a $2 copy of Bram Stoker's masterpiece at a second-hand store in Fraser, Colorado. I thought I'd read a couple chapters for kicks. Surprisingly, I find myself wildly captivated.
email: ifguyscouldtalk@hotmail.com
On the 12th day of Christmas, OPEC gave to me cheap gasoline. The $1.69-a-gallon carrot is being dangled, saying, “It’s safe for you SUVs to come out now and claim your lost summer vacation.” But with a fledgling economy, takers will, no doubt, pinch pennies … which brings us to soapbox Issue No. 10: visiting childhood homes of celebrities. 
