Hydraulics? Scarred…

The first real challenge to my ultimate goal as a father probably occurred around the time Weirdo was about 3 years old.

I don’t recall what I had been doing up to the point of “the incident” (most likely because I have tried to cram the memory into sarcophagus of denial before banishing it to the nether regions of my gray matter), but it is with HD-TV like clarity I recall the incident itself.

I entered the living room to find both my wife and child giggling profusely, the volume of which that would crescendo as I made my entrance.

“Go show Daddy,” my wife whispered to Weirdo, who immediately advanced upon me, like some Gymboree-clad toddler version of the Manchurian Candidate who had been slipped their activation phrase.

Up to this point I hadn’t really honed in on the Beyonce blaring in the background. It’s not uncommon in our household to put on some music and dance. I hearken with fondness back to my days as a child, hopping around with my sister and brother to those child-friendly ditties such as “You Dropped the Bomb On Me” by the Gap Band, or “Cocaine” by Eric Clapton. I’m sure somewhere in the Barney cannon he has covered those. But I digress.

So as Ms. Bootylicious is belting out her latest tune (which should have been my first clue) about a) letting her man caress her booty or b) not letting any man caress her booty (that’s pretty much the entire repertoire, folks), Weirdo stops, drops one hand to the floor and begins pumping out the hydraulics.

Horror.

Now, I’m going to pause a moment for those of you with daughters joining us on this leg of the journey who are blissfully ignorant of what the hydraulics are. Come gather ’round my fire while I spin ye a yarn. The hydraulics are a lovely dance move from my college days where a lass, perhaps spurred on by copious sampling of the local ale and no longer burdened by the restraints of dignity or self-respect, would be so persuaded as to bend over, place a hand on the dance floor, and begin pumping their posterior up and down to the beat. This would often be viewed as an invite by the fine gents at the ball to begin slapping the young lady’s bouncing rump or, when you really want to ratchet up the class, grind their genitals into it.

Back to my tale, as I stand there absolutely mortified, tears are streaming down my wife’s cheeks. Not the kind that should be, mind you. Not the kind that result from one’s inner examination of where you had failed so miserably as a parent. No, they were the tears of sheer joy at the shock and horror on my face.

I’d like to say the incident ended there, but alas there is an even more tragic epilogue to this story. That would be when I re-entered the room later to find Weirdo on the kitchen table, the look of uncontrollable anticipation reverberating throughout her. Upon seeing me, she immediately planted a palm on the kitchen table and resumed boisterously pumping her bottom up and down to the music.

Indescribably horrifying.

Why stop there? We’re one pair of clear heeled boots and a $13 Miller Lite away from a full and complete nervous breakdown by dad.

Ironic Observation of the Day

So, it’s spring and that means the farmers market is open in the ultra-trendy Kerrytown section of Ann Arbor. And seeing as how we are firmly entrenched in the recycle-green-organic glee club of cool in my household, we are of course there.

My favorite stand at the market is the one with unbathed, rumpled clothed, dread lock bedecked white dudes peddling soap.

Allow me to provide emphasis for those of you who are scanning for four-letter-word infused rants or derision for pop culture icons: My favorite stand at the market is the one with the unbathed, rumpled clothed dread lock bedecked white dudes peddling soap.

While my wife is haggling over the prices of flash-frozen, free range buffalo (or whatever), I thoroughly enjoy remaining within earshot of the hippies-peddling-soap stand just to hear the pinch-me-this-can’t-be-real retailer/client banter. You always get a 24-carat gem like this from someone, “So, tell me about your soap. Does it really work?”

The effing irony is killing me.

Question of the Day

So, I get that the allegations rendered by the Fashion Police include language and articles surrounding the legality of white pants prior to Memorial Day.

Perhaps I need counsel on retainer to help me with this, but does that mean white pants can make their debut over Memorial Day Weekend, or do the have to remain shrouded in the recesses of our repective closets until said day on remembrance?

Full disclosure, short of mocking the 80’s in full Sonny Crocket regalia, I would sooner be caught in a flowing white tafata gown than in white pants or (to be more precise) slacks. And I am certainly no stickler for rules, but I need clarification of this.

Reason being, I witnessed a brightly clad gent in lovely downtown Ann Arbor yesterday afternoon almost strutting in his white slacks, preening like the proverbial peacock.

One can envision this day or weekend boldly encircled on his calendar, a chain of pastel colored paper links dangling from a nearby hook, his bubbling anticipation perculating ever increasingly as he rips off on daily in the excrutiatingly slow slog toward the day he could produce this prized fashion possession, too long banned from the light of day in his cherry cedar armoire.

The genesis of my query is simple: do I mock him on prnciple of wearing white slacks, or can I stack on bonus riffs for defying the tennets set forth by the founding fashion fathers? A quandry indeed…

The joke was supposed to be on my wife…

I’ve pretty much always been a jackass. I can look at photos of myself from about age 5 where everyone is in their Easter finery looking classy, and then there’s the toe-headed twit in front emulating a way-too-happy mannequin.

Sarcasm comes quickly to me. So much in fact that at times I have trouble answering a question straight without making a smart-ass remark first. There’s also my good friend Cynicism, but before I go all ADD on this blog, let’s focus on the meat and potatoes of my personality faults.

I remember one day doing an impromptu, stream of consciousness writing exercise about what we want out of life. My last entry went something like this: “And I hope my kids are more sarcastic than me so that they can irritate my wife…and I can laugh.”

Mind you. I had not even met said wife at this time. I was a swingin’ (not quite literally but then again not exactly figuratively…more on that later) single 20-year-old college student living in the dorms. After a string of bad relationships (cheaters and psychos and bitches, oh my!), I had pretty much sworn off women. Finding myself in a very dark place emotionally, let’s just say prolonged courtship of the lasses was not on any syllabus that semester.

Long story short, I met my wife, got my personal “thing” straightened out, and eventually got married. Naturally when the conversation turned to offspring, beyond the primal urges as a man to extend my lineage, I remember being seized with a sudden pang of panic: What if I had a daughter? And what if she meets a guy like me?

Fast forward seven years from then and I find myself the father of not one but two beautiful little girls. The eldest, who we shall refer to as Weirdo, is a complete ass, and she knows exactly how to push my buttons. The youngest, a.k.a. Crazy, is well, I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. She’s too young to know precisely how to accelerate my hair loss, however. Thank God Weirdo is there to teach her the way. I believe “Karma” is the word we are looking for.

So, folks, that’s we are. One smart-ass father with a history of questionable morals with two wise-ass kids. My job? To be there for them. To teach them to avoid guys like me. And, as Chris Rock said, to keep them off the pole. If I do that, I will have done my job as a father.

Let the adventures begin. Won’t you join me on this journey?