BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I make no apologies. I’m an overprotective dad. I mean, just look at what I write for a living. Because of the research I do in order to write those books, I know crap that you should be freakin’ ecstatic that you don’t know. I’m dead serious. Some of the sh*t I’ve learned about sociopaths wakes me up in the middle of the night, drenched in a cold sweat and reaching for the Glock in the nightstand.

THAT’S why I’m an overprotective dad…

Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not a bit silly too. After all, it’s a moral imperative. Dads are supposed to embarrass their kids. It’s an inalienable right. It’s handed out to you the minute you become a father. Trust me. It’s in the paperwork. No kidding.

And so it came to pass that coldness crept into our city as winter descended upon us. And with said cold came bundling up when walking the child to school – what with being an overprotective dad and all, not to mention that I’m wheels down and about to do a three point on that half-century mark, so the doc wants me to exercise. I sit on my ass all day, slinging words, so my fingers are getting all the workout.

But I digress…

Like I said, so it came to pass, and with it passing came the following conversation:

“Do I look sufficiently weird?” I asked.

E K looked me up and down. “Oh yeah…”

“O-SPRING!” I yelled. “Time To GO!”

(thumpita, thumpita, thumpita… came the child down the stairs.)

Around the corner the O-spring came, then screeched to halt, staring at me. Then she moaned, “Daaahhhh-ahhhhhhhhddddddd!”

“What?” I asked.

“You’re wearing THAT to walk me to school?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Daaahhhh-ahhhhhhhhddddddd!” she moaned again, rolling her eyes in the process.

“What? Do I embarrass you?”

“Well, yeah…” she replied.

“Good,” I told her, suddenly channeling Macaulay Culkin from the movie Uncle Buck, in a paraphrased sense, of course: “I’m a dad. It’s my job.”

And so off we went. I trailed along behind at a short distance… Until we got close to the school, of course. Then I closed the gap. I had to make sure all of her friends knew I was her dad…

ANATOMY OF AN EMBARRASSING DAD

TO READ CAPTIONS CLICK PHOTO AND ENLARGE – MAY TAKE A MOMENT TO LOAD

TO READ CAPTIONS CLICK PHOTO AND ENLARGE - MAY TAKE A MOMENT TO LOAD

More to come…

Murv

Dads, as a general rule, should keep their observations to themselves, especially in the context of the mother, daughter, dad triangle.

Trust me, it’s easy to get lost in there. Easier than the Bermuda Triangle.

Such a sweeping statement, as usual, begs the question, “Why?”

The answer, simply enough, is “Y.”

You see, dads aren’t properly equipped in the genetics department. It’s that pesky optional vowel that is causing all of the trouble, apparently. Probably a throwback to some sort of Welsh ancestry, but who really knows. If there’s a Y, you’re pretty much out of the loop. Case in point…

We were sitting in the living room the other night – that being E K, the O-spring, and Moi – just vegetating and staring at the idiot box. We were probably looking at Castle, or some such. I don’t really remember, which is probably another Y affliction. But on with the example… The show broke for a commercial or two or ten, and on came an umpteen second spot for a department store chain and their gihugic, must-attend, low-Low-LOW price sale on all manner of latest and greatest fashionable women’s shoes. Of course, in order to illustrate how wonderful the selection, they proceeded to show umpty-jillion different shoes in the span of 10 seconds.

Now… I have nothing against women’s shoes. They aren’t something for which I go shopping – unless the redhead tells me to – but by the same token I don’t think there should be a ban on them or anything. Fact is, the redhead herself happens to have some pretty hot shoes. By themselves, not really so special, but when she’s wearing them… well, there’s a total package thing happening that… Well… We we won’t go there…

Back to the commercial. You see, as they prattled on about all of the different styles available, they proceeded to show all manner of boots. However, the thing about several of them was that they had no toes. Granted, it was partly because nobody was wearing them, but my point here is that there was no toe to the shoe. As in, whoever happened to wear them would have their wee little piggies exposed. Now, to me, given that these were boots – a type of shoe that is designed to protect not only your foot, but your ankle, and depending upon the type, your calf as well – it seemed a bit odd that one would go through all that trouble and leave the toes exposed.

I stated as much. Aloud. In the same room with E K and the O-spring.

“What kind of sense does that make?” I asked.

“I like them,” E K replied.

“Really?” I said. I’m sure there was a bit of incredulity in my voice, because the redhead complains quite a bit about her feet getting cold. Then I asked, “Why?”

With a dramatic sigh the O-spring took it upon herself to answer for all of shoe loving womankind: “You’re not a girl. You just don’t get shoes.”

Apparently it really is all about that Y. I guess the X’s have it…

More to come…

Murv