The Unrequiteds

I am the father of three daughters (and one son, but that’s another blog-- or seven). The oldest is married, and she’s been through it. The youngest is 13 and she’s just getting started. The middle one is a high school senior, and in the prime time for collecting young men. I refer here to the young men who like her but who, for various reasons, she does not quite like back so much. We could call them the UO’s, the Unrequited Ones.

I have some sympathy for them, partly because I was one myself for a good part of my youth. I did have a few steady girlfriends, but in between them I spent a lot of time mooning over some girl or other who just didn’t moon me back. (OK, bad choice of words, but you get the idea.). So I’ve been there. I know that sometimes it’s easier to love someone from a distance, especially because then you don’t have to deal with the everyday reality of her not loving you in return. Sometimes it appeals to your angst-y teenage sensibilities to watch from afar and just enjoy the stomachache. (Be careful! You might be prompted to write some very, very bad poetry.) Sometimes you even convince yourself that “its bigger than both of us,” and that eventually, things will come around your way. This is a very seductive way of thinking, but trust me, it’s also very dangerous. You sometimes see the object of your adoration in a somewhat idealized way.



But, as I said, I’m sympathetic. My daughters, who are always kind, bless them, are nevertheless not so sympathetic. They talk of wearing “The Sign.” This is a sign they believe is written on their foreheads that says, “If you are pathetic, I’d make a great girlfriend!” They do NOT like The Sign. I think they blame me for it, somehow. Or maybe just my gender. I’d have to plead guilty to the last one. But I digress. My youngest is now afraid of that time when The Sign will appear on her forehead. The middle one recently told me she wants to replace The Sign with one that reads (or screams, or uses flashing neon and possibly spotlights, clowns, and dancing bears to convey the message) “Hey, I’ve GOT a boyfriend. DON’T EVEN START!” The oldest, safely and happily married, just watches from the sideline, shakes her head in sympathy, and occasionally gives me a hard stare. In later years, when they get together, they will tell stories that begin, “You think you’ve had strange boys fall in love with you? Let me tell you about. . . .” It’s already started with the two older ones (so far, the oldest one is ahead in points).

I’d like to help, I really would. I’ve wanted to take these young men aside and say, “Son, I know how you feel. It isn’t easy, but trust me – this dog don’t hunt.” But I know it wouldn’t really do much good. I’m an old man now, and so they know I don’t understand love. Besides, I’ve had conversations with one particular UO who, believing God was on his side, was determined to keep plugging away until Right Won Out. I think this happened right up to the night of the wedding reception, I’m not sure. And of course, cold Reason knows nothing of the affairs of the heart. And I’ve got the folder full of bad poetry to prove it.

So, if any of my daughters’ UO’s happen to read this, I’m sorry. But don’t stalk them. Trust me when I say you’re wasting your time. And, as I have done a few times, take some comfort in the words of Three Dog Night: “Rearrange, boy. Make yourself strong. You’re not the first or last who’s lost everything.” Take a few deep breaths. Find a hobby. Go out with the boys and shoot some hoops or spit or scratch or something. And as a founding member of the Unrequited Ones Club, rest assured that things do usually get better. Very often, everything eventually works out, and sometimes you get married to a beautiful woman, and have three beautiful daughters (and a son).

One more small piece of advice: under no circumstances allow those children to find that very, very bad poetry you’ve been writing. I’d just burn it now, if I were you.

Spode

I think P. G. Wodehouse has provided me with a wonderful way to describe how I feel about living in Utah County, a place dominated by Republicans, Libertarians, and Constitutionalists, and also a few people not nearly so liberal.

Understand, it's not that I've necessarily identified myself with the Left-of-Centers, either. I don't really think of myself as a liberal. But that being said, I have to also say I'm tired of the arrogant, self-important, know-it all conservatives that run Utah, or at least try to. I would throw every one of the bums out, if I could and if I thought there weren't three more lined up behind each one of them just as bad.

OK, done with that rant. And now for my wonderful quote. If you are not familiar with P. G. Wodehouse, well, you're missing out. In the Jeeves and Wooster books, there is a character named Roderick Spode, loosely fashioned after Sir Oswald Mosely, the leader of the British Union of Fascists. Spode's followers wear black shorts instead of black shirts, and his political policies are laid out thusly:

Our policies are: one, the right, nay the duty of every freeborn Englishman to grow his own potatoes; two, an immediate ban on the import of foreign root vegetables into the United Kingdom; and three, the compulsory scientific measurement of all adult male knees! Nothing stands between us, and our victory, except defeat! Tomorrow is a new day, the future lies ahead!

Roderick Spode, the Earl of Sidcup

Spode spends a lot of his time blustering, and threatening, and throwing his weight around, not unlike the Utah Legislature. At one point in the novel The Code of the Woosters, our hero Bertie Wooster has the temporary upper hand over Spode, and gives the following little speech:

"The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Heil, Spode!" and you imagine it is the Voice of the People. That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is: 'Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your puff see such a perfect perisher?'

Couldn't have said it better myself, Bertie. You're my new hero.

Well, That's Yer Trouble, Right There

Question: How many times can a man's basement flood because of a broken hose bib?




Answer: Shut up. I don't want to talk about it.

Sweet Talkin' Guy

A wise man knows how to please a woman. And Dex has caught on really quickly. Some young suitors might waste time on flowers or perfume, writing poetry or serenading their young lady as she stood on her balcony. (OK we don't have a balcony, but big deal. Why won't you people ever give me a break?)

Not Dex. He knows. This is what he brought Em the other day when he came to visit:



No, not the quarter; stay focused here, people. The one-foot-long rusty hunk of solid metal from an old fire hydrant. He probably dodged traffic to get it. Em was delighted. Eventually, it will end up on her bedroom wall. Which will eventually fall over, but that's another story.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Sometimes I'm amazed at the degree to which my children respond to my generation's culture and music. My youngest playing CCR or Clapton on the guitar. My son enjoying the Beatles. My daughter responding to Beluchi's Samurai. It's kind of fun.


But then they go and spoil it all by doing something stupid (sorry, Frank) like staring at me blankly when I make a perfectly reasonable cultural reference. Take last night for example. My wife was walking down the stairs and asked me, "Do you have a hammer?" I had to say "No, but if I had a hammer. . . . ," and at this point I looked at my two daughters. Expectantly. Invitingly. They stared back at me.

"I'd hammer in the morning," I said. Nothing.

"I'd hammer in the evening," I went on. Silence. They looked at me as if I had broccoli growing out of my ears.

"All over this land!" I finished.

"Oh!" my daughter said, "it's a song!" It was clear that she didn't actually know the song. She had never really heard it, or anything. But she finally figured out that I must be saying the words to one of "my songs."

"Ohhhh!" the other daughter said, also catching on. "You are so weird, Dad."

But I will get even with them. Someday, I will be a grandpa. I'll be a grandpa with some money. Not a lot, you understand. Just enough to bribe my grandchildren. I will have them come over to my house a lot. Every day, if possible.

"Aw, c'mon, Grandpa, can't we play with the Wiiiiiiiii yet?" (That will be the name of the 4th generation Wii I will have bought to lure the little rascals over to my house.)

"Not until you've learned today's song," I'll say. "All right, let's try it one more time: Jeremiah was a bullfrog. . . . "

Plant a Radish, Get a . . . . Well, I Don't Know.

Well, I suppose every parent occasionally has to wonder What Happened? The bottom line is, we just don’t know. In the end, we just do the best we can, and hope that things turn out. But right now, I’m not so sure. Of course, there are two sides to every issue: from the front, it looks as though it must be something she picked up from her friends. From the back side, it may be our fault. It’s just hard to tell.

The point is, Erynn has started displaying a certain behavior around the house. In order to avoid embarrassing anyone, I’m not going to say what it is here. No. I won’t even drop any hints, not if you threatened to torture me or set my pants on fire. But let’s just say it reveals a certain disregard for accepted social moires.



It used to be relatively infrequent, maybe once every blue moon. But now it seems to be happening more and more often. I know some of you are thinking it's just a result of being spoiled, that as parents we bent over backwards for her. Maybe you're thinking, it shows a crack in our family armor. But I don't think so.

Well, there's nothing for it but to move on and hope it gets better. No use mooning about, crying over spilt milk. It's time to move on. Be optimistic. Keep the sunny side up. Wish us luck.

Parent Trap

For many adults, the words "Parent Trap" might summon up images of Lindsay Lohan when she was still reasonably human,


or maybe even Haley Mills, if you're old like me.


This is a cute and innocent image associated with "Parent Trap." But I want to introduce you to a version of parent trap more like the "non-vintage" Lindsay. Not quite so innocent.



This is the version of the parent trap set for the Divine Ms B and me by our loving daughter Em at the bottom of the stairs.


It can work in any of several ways. Perhaps the unsuspecting parent will try to leap over the pile of clothes, bump their head of the door jamb and knock themselves senseless. Or, in trying to avoid that route, they might step on the pile of clothes, which would immediately slip out from under them and BAM! there they are on the stairs, with, in the best case scenario, a couple of broken vertebrae.


You get the idea. I suppose it's even possible that the plan is to just discourage us from going down the stairs at all, thereby cutting us off from the pantry and weakening us, over time, from lack of food. I'm not sure. But I just wanted to document this publicly so when Em shows up in court to gain control of my assets, pushing me in wheelchair as I drool and stare blankly ahead, there will be a trail of evidence to help uncover the truth.

Follow the clothes, people. Follow the clothes.