When I was in high school I used to be
terrified of my girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting to place my
hands on his daughter's chest. He would open the door and immediately affect ma
good-naturedly murderous expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt like
it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.
Now, years later, it is my turn to be the
dad. Remembering how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates, I do my
best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse. My motto: Wilt them in the living room
and they'll stay wilted all night.
"So," I'll call out jovially.
"I see you have your nose pierced. Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely
want to APPEAR stupid?"
As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I
have carved into two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.
Rule One: If you pull into
my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure as heck not
picking anything up.
Rule Two: You do not touch
my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything
below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will
remove them.
Rule Three: I am aware
that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely
that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but
you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded
about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your
underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In
order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date
with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in
place around your waist.
Rule Four: I'm sure you've
been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of
some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I
WILL kill you.
Rule Five: In order for us
to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the
day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of
when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from
you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six: I have no doubt
you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with
me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my
little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If
you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.
Rule Seven: As you stand
in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do
not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My
daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the
Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful,
like changing the oil in my car?
Rule Eight: The following
places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds,
sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents,
policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is
dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough
to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than
overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her Adam's apple. Movies with a
strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are
okay. Hockey games are okay.
My daughter claims it embarrasses her to
come downstairs and find me attempting to get her date to recite these eight simple rules
from memory. I'd be embarrassed too--there are only eight of them, for crying out loud!
And, for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these guys that I'd have these rules
tattooed on his arm if he couldn't remember them. (I checked into it and the cost is
prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing the rules on his arm with a ball
point might be inadequate--ink washes off--and that my wood burning set was probably a
better alternative.
One time, when my wife caught me having one
of my daughter's would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out of the car,
and go up to knock on the front door (he had violated rule number one, so I figured he
needed to run through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I was being so hard on
the boy. "Don't you remember being that age?" she challenged.
Of course I remember. Why do you think I
came up with the eight simple rules?
