Facebook: Pick One.

Hard to Please

(Scroll down for “10 Simple Rules for Dating my Daughter”)

Womanspeak

You want = You want
We need = I want
It’s your decision = The correct decision should be obvious by now
Do what you want = You’ll pay for this later
We need to talk = I need to complain
Sure… go ahead = I don’t want you to.
I’m hungry = (a) Make me something to eat (b) Stop what you are doing, scrape together your last $5, and go drive across town and get me something to eat. I don’t care if what you are doing is important.
I’m not upset = Of course I’m upset, you moron.
You’re certainly attentive tonight. = Is sex all you ever think about?
I’m not emotional! And I’m not overreacting! = I’m on my period. (offensive!)
Be romantic, turn out the lights. = I have flabby thighs. (offensive!)
This kitchen is so inconvenient = I want a new house.
The car is empty = Go fill it up
The trash is full = Take it out
The dog is barking = Go outside in your underwear and see what is wrong
I heard a noise = I noticed you were almost asleep.
Do you love me? = I’m going to ask for something expensive.
How much do you love me? = I did something today you’re really not going to like.
I’ll be ready in a minute = Kick off your shoes and find a good game on T.V.
Is my butt fat? = Tell me I’m beautiful.
You have to learn to communicate. = Just agree with me.
Are you listening to me!? = Too late, you’re dead.
Please walk me home = Let’s go make out. (This assumption has gotten some guys into trouble…)
It’s all right, dear. = You’ll pay for this.
Yes = No
No = No
Maybe = No
I’m sorry. = You’ll be sorry.
Do you like this recipe? = It’s easy to fix, so you’d better get use to it.
I’m not yelling! = Yes I am yelling because I think this is important.
All we’re going to buy is a soap dish = It goes without saying that we’re stopping at the cosmetics department, the shoe department, I need to look at a few new pocket books, and OMG there’s a sale in lingerie, and wouldn’t these pink sheets look great in the bedroom and did you bring your checkbook?

In response to “What’s Wrong?”:

The same old thing. = Nothing.
Nothing. = Everything. (So true.)
Everything. = My PMS is acting up. (offensive)
Nothing, really… = It’s just that you’re such an _______.
I don’t want to talk about it. = Go away, I’m still building up steam.
What makes you think there is something wrong? = I’m going to kill you.

*****

Ten Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter

Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron 

Rule One: 

If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure 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 ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to 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: 

It is usually understood that 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 that 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 throat.  Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which features chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better. 

Rule Nine: 

Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe.  If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me. 

Rule Ten: 

Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy near Hanoi.  When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car – there is no need for you to come inside.  The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

On my birthdad

***This is a postcard story (aka. a story that fits on a postcard) I wrote for my Creative Writing class in university (’04-ish).

His contribution to my childhood

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

They are walking, tout les deux, through the market but a short drive from Hull. She has bused from her home in downtown Ottawa; he has borrowed his sister’s car for the evening to see her, and to remind her that he’s there. Remind her that he cares.

He lights up and offers her a cigarette. You are not my father. She accepts and assures him this is not typical behaviour, mother need not know. He acknowledges this much, and they find a corner table out front of the café. Reclining comfortably, he recreates her childhood; she shifts in her chair.

« Votre mère et moi presque ne nous sommes pas mariés de tout. »

You are not my father. She nods as though this was common knowledge, and scrutinizes the stain on the table. Is it spreading?

« Ha! Sa mère désapprouvait ainsi. »

She looks ashamed, and he hesitates. Suddenly the smells emanating from the kitchen’s back door are suffocating.

« Tu n’avais pas su? »

“It’s fine,” she says. You are not my father. “Sort of funny,” she adds unconvincingly.

« Tu sais que je t’aime. »

“Of course.”

« Tu ne me doutes pas, bien sur? » Leaning forward. Concerned.

“No, it’s fine. I love you too, Papa.”

Reassured, he settles back into the chair, and they both take another long drag.

“We must do this again sometime,” she says.