Wedding Ritual Run Amok
I was going to start by asking, “Is it me,” but obviously whatever the subject, I am part of the problem. So, I’ll try a different tact.
I’ve noticed that weddings are becoming something of a trial by fire. The process is evolving into a complex and intricate dance that costs about the same as a lung transplant. The whole marriage ritual has turned into a series of requisite social obligations, most of which only serve to keep Target in the black.
There is a party and gift for every phase of the marriage tango beginning when the guy gets up enough nerve, usually with the help of liberal amounts of alcohol, to ask for the hand of his intended. He gives the bride her first gift, a ring that supposed to be of the same value as two months salary. Ouch.
This usually cleans out the groom-to-be’s bank account, so he can’t afford to back out later.
I must digress at this early point to voice my opinion on the fellow risking his manhood begging a woman to marry him. Since the final decision is the girl’s anyway and she’s already made her mind up by the end of the first date, the chick should pop the question. This would simplify everything and set the tone for the marriage, which she’ll be in charge of, too. There’s no reason to let the male think he’s ever going to be the master of anything, except the remote and his tools, maybe.
Next, come planning parties, shopping parties, and lingerie parties. Be aware that these are all for the female. It seems males don’t need to bring anything material to the marriage because the bride is already getting it and, naturally, it’s in the colors, shapes, and sizes she’s told her friends and family she wants.
As the happy day approaches there are bachelor and bachelorette parties for debauchery and liver damage. The bride spends some quality time with her friends and the bridegroom is supposed to sow the last of his wild oats. Of course, that is no longer the case for guys. Long gone are the days of strippers, substance abuse, and police raids. The male animal has become so domesticated that he and his friends just buy a case of beer, rent “Bachelor Party” with Tom Hanks, and call it a day.
At last, the wedding gift must be bought and hauled to whatever distance venue the bride has always wanted to be married in. It seems this site is several hours distant and rustic right down to the outhouses.
The free-for-all shop-a-thon that used to be necessary for the wedding gift has been streamlined and sterilized by the merchants of America. The bride-to-be has only to visit a few stores to complete her wish list. The gift giver can go to any of the establishments, browse through 16 search pages, look over the 50-page computer-generated list, and pick out the perfect present. The personal touch comes when the credit card hits the scanner.
Here is where you know the party/gift-giving custom has gotten out of hand. There is another separate party after the wedding and reception just to watch the bride open her presents. This gathering requires yet another location, more food and drink, and time no one who isn’t retired or obnoxiously wealthy can afford.
Still to come is the welcome back from the honeymoon gala, the housewarming party, and the “watch the parents cry hysterically when the bills arrive” bash.
Exhausted and penniless, friends and family can finally return to their mundane lives comforted by the knowledge that they’ve celebrated the crap out of the nuptials and there is nothing left to get excited about.
That is until someone gets the new bride pregnant.

The Pizza-Chili Diet
For those of you who read this space regularly, you know that my lovely wife just lost the equivalent of a Pygmy, weight-wise. If you read carefully, you noticed I said that I also lost weight, but not the way she did. I accidentally created a slim-down diet that knocked 15 pounds and a cuddly set of love handles off my body. I call it the “Pizza and Chili Diet.”
Let’s get the disclaimer out of the way, first. I’m pretty sure this diet will kill me. If you go on this diet, assume it will kill you, too. However, we’ll both die happy, content in the knowledge that we enjoyed every day like it was our last, and sure enough, eventually it will be.
The basis of my nutritional regimen is it is silly to leave a healthy and attractive corpse. Why would you want your heirs to bury a body with a decade or two of life left in it; a body with clear arteries, smooth skin, and a functioning liver? Staying healthy also requires discipline and sacrifice, which translates into no fun.
Why not have fun and abuse your vital organs by consuming every fat-laden, salt-soaked, brain cell-damaging substance you can and leave behind a mess that is only suitable for interment? I’m already looking so bad I have to be careful I don’t stay in one place too long because someone might start tossing dirt on me.
From this point of view my diet is ideal. Here are the particulars, which can probably be modified to suit your lifestyle, or not. I’ve done no research and no one actually reads that part of the weight loss plan anyway.
I start my weekdays with a small bowl of frosted shredded wheat. I would eat a larger serving, but I have to share it with a couple of dogs. Dogs are supposed to be lactose-intolerant, but I guess my mutts didn’t get the memo. I wash this down with liberal amounts of leaded black coffee.
I get my morning exercise from turning the pages of the newspaper and getting up 16 times to feed my four dogs, since they refuse to all be fed at the same time. Those pull-tab cans of dog food are a pretty good workout, too, and I get a little rise in my heart rate risking dismemberment with the lid during the opening process.
Around noon, I have my toasted six-grain bagel with cream cheese, lots of margarine, and a few slices of shaved ham. A dozen more cups of coffee requiring numerous trips to the john takes care of my afternoon workout.
Occasionally, I get aerobic by mowing the lawn, washing a car, or reading in the library, but I try not to overdo. Moderation really is a good credo.
The evening meal is where I get to chow down of the stuff I truly adore eating. After work or as a regular meal I’ll have an entire three or four-meat frozen pizza, or chili and hotdogs, or any other entrée that is meant to feed a family. I can feel the burn as all that saturated fat, triglycerides, MSG, too much salt, and unidentified possible meat products hit my bloodstream.
The remainder of my evening is usually dedicated to sitting at my computer, answering e-mail and moving Yorkies around on our website.
Now, before you get too excited, I do burn a lot of calories when I’m out taking photos. I literally walk miles in all kinds of weather, either shivering like a cat in a violin factory in the winter or dripping flop sweat in summer. I do dozens of squats or pace for hours trying to get a shot of something other than the back of a subject’s head or someone scratching something they shouldn’t.
Also, as many of you also know, I’m a cheapskate and do most of the upkeep of my home. I don’t do it well, but I expend plenty of energy and calories cursing before, during, and after every project. It’s like a double workout and I can have a nice chili-cheese dog as a reward afterward.

On Being A Good Father
Even though Father’s Day was three days ago, I thought I’d share my vast experience in raising healthy, well-adjusted kids. Here is the list of guaranteed actions to turn little heathens into productive adults.
I have no idea.
Sorry, but like every other male who forgot to run when his wife said she was pregnant, I’m clueless. I managed to change diapers and I don’t think I lost more than one or two kids on the various outings I volunteered for, but nothing was ever successful more than once, if that.
Now, if you’d like a list of the things you shouldn’t do, I’m your man.
Never promise a kid, no matter how young, anything. They’ll never let you forget and will swear that every bad thing that happened to them was because you failed to keep a promise. These are the same kids that can’t remember you told them to clean their room, do their homework, or that supper is ready. They cannot even remember to take a shower, but miss a promise and they’re elephants.
Don’t let your kids have sleepovers. They should always go to someone else’s house. Once your young’uns and their friends sense blood in the water, your home will become their favorite hangout spot. You’re groceries won’t last long enough to need refrigeration, the water bill will bankrupt you, and you’ll find odd, unshaven males in your basement.
Refrain from asking your offspring to do any chores. This gives them something to rebel against and they’ll fight you tooth and toenail to get out of helping you around the house. Instead, forbid them to ever touch the lawnmower or to stick their hands in dishwater. If something is taboo, they’ll sneak behind your back and do it anyway.
Never help your progeny with their homework. This is a trap with many an ulterior motive. They’re either flattering you so you’ll write their essays, or their pleading sheer stupidity and want to drive you insane by forcing you to explain for the 88th time why they should do homework since it doesn’t teach them anything. (They’re right. Homework is a teacher’s revenge for having to put up with your kid for 7 hours without sedation.)
Never let your kids stay home during summer vacation. They should all be sent to military school or a third world country to make Nikes. A kid with three months to wile away is the definition of Russian Roulette. Sooner, or later, you’ll receive a call from the local police department to retrieve your felon. You’ll have to listen to the mayhem your child has caused and then try to resist your initial impulse to strangle said child in front of a prosecutor’s wet dream, police officers on duty.
Never, ever, clean your kid’s room. In addition to the obvious risk of major injury or death from putrid clothing or what was once an edible food item, you may find out things you do not want to know about the fruit of your loins. Unless you already suffer from traumatic stress disorder, hire a crime scene clean up company or your local hazmat unit. They are trained professionals and have the best chance of surviving a teenager’s room.
The final thing you should never do is to forget that no matter how badly you screw your own kids up, you’ll get to redeem yourself when grandchildren show up. This is your chance to not do what you did the first time around. You’ve already made every possible mistake and there is nowhere to go but up.
So, I hope you guys out there all enjoyed your Father’s Day. Remember, none of us old guys did it right, so there’s no reason to think you will. Just keeping plugging away. When you’re our age, you’ll understand, just being there was the greatest gift you could have given your children. That’s the one thing they’ll always be grateful for.

High School: Not the Best Time
I’ve been to a couple of commencement ceremonies this year and listened to the fond memories of good times and fast friends. I heard of hi-jinks, class clowns, and odd teachers.
As I recall high school I couldn’t wait to get out. Everything was good up until the last few months of my senior year. I had tasted a little bit of adulthood and I liked the ability to make my own decisions. That fact that most of those decisions were horribly wrong 99 percent of the time didn’t matter, I just needed to be heard.
I’m sure it wasn’t just my school and from what I’ve seen of the bulk of graduating seniors, they are bursting at the seams with joy at the prospect of never serving another detention, eating a school cafeteria it-resembles-food lunch, or being part of a bell controlled herd shuffling from room to room at regular intervals.
Though it’s taken these many years to force the memories of the nightmare of high school from my mind, I shall relate those that left the deepest scars.
Freshman year was the first time most of us discovered we made excellent targets of abuse by upper classmen. It is a ritual as old as time complete with objects bounced off the head, smaller individuals stuffed into lockers, books cleared from the desk, and the occasional atomic wedgie.
In my sophomore year fresh meat, or the new freshmen, got the hazing while we finally got to relax and begin settling into the gulag we’d call home for the next three years. This euphoria lasted one day when it become apparent that all our classes were rehashes of everything we’d already taken for the first nine. It was another round of English, math, science, and history. I went into a coma when I saw the electives list.
Juniors are the lost souls of high school and I was no exception. We have to kowtow to the seniors, helping them plan their senior prom and graduation day activities, while being ignored. As juniors, we had to take a battery of tests to see whether we were suited for neuro-surgery or to be in charge of the fryer at McDonalds. (I was the later.)
Finally, we had to learn all the mean things freshmen needed done to them so they’d feel a part of the controlled riot known as high school.
One thing I wonder about is the present day technique for knocking books out of someone’s arms since backpacks are de rigueur. I’m guessing the procedure is vastly more complex than in the 1970s, but still effective.
At last, after a sentence longer than Kenneth Lay will get for stealing the security of thousands of former Enron employees, we became seniors. This final year of mandatory schooling starts with fury and goes out with a whimper.
After wiling away the first few days using freshmen as basketballs the realization that this is it, we were about to get out forever hit. We went into hyper-socialization. Every conversation was treated like the last and the nine months just flew by.
The only things I remember vividly from my senior year is the principal asking me to show up on time for class in the morning just once before graduation, my car having the front tires removed in the parking lot, not really understanding calculus, but passing anyway, and paralyzing panic at having to get a job.
My point is the best time of life is right after high school. You’re an adult, if you’re the least bit smart you’re going to college, and you can, for the first time in your life do what you want. Whether you go on to further education or not, and you should, you can make all the mistakes your parents, teachers, counselors, Sunday School instructors, and Eminen warned you about. You have freedom and time.
Of course, you need to understand that your parents are also waiting for their freedom from raising a kid and having an annoying young adult sleeping all day, partying all night, and cleaning out their refrigerator. Parents generally have many fine qualities, but subtlety is not one of them. You’ll need to go to college, or get a real job and move out before they sell the house and move without telling you.
The new owners are bound to notice you.

The Difference Between Men and Women
There have been hundreds of articles and studies claiming to explain how the sexes are alike or from different planets. Some arguments have merit, but from my perspective the most obvious dissimilarity between women and men is the amount of maintenance we require.
This disparity begins the moment we pop out of the womb and only gets worse as we age. Give birth to a boy and he gets a blue cap, hand-me-down clothes and, more often than not, a circumcision so he doesn’t even have to have good personal hygiene.
Deliver a girl and she needs more accessories than a Barbie Doll with an American Express card, a closet-bursting wardrobe, and constant care and cooing from every female within 30 feet.
Our genetic code is part of that divergence, too. I’ve yet to meet a male that likes to shop for clothing. Thanks to our XY combo, we only hunt for food and a place to scratch ourselves.
Girls are born with that XX chromosome and that additional leg on the second symbol is the culprit for feminine innate shopping behavior. Girls start shopping in the playpen examining and comparing the toy their going to wing at your head.
When puberty hits, look out. In high school it took me about one minute to get ready for school. I just pulled on the clothes I’d worn the day before and piled on the floor by my bed. I’d smear a little Vitalis on my then thick mane and, if I remembered, I’d ran a brush across my teeth and I was ready.
My sisters were up for hours, primping, combing, and selecting outfits they hadn’t worn recently. (Girls don’t wear clothes; they have outfits) Apparently, there’s a law against being seen by one’s female contemporaries in the same outfit within a certain time frame, which males are not privy to and wouldn’t understand, anyway. My sisters would finish their preparations with teasing, curling, lining, and God-knows-what, just so they could walk to the school bus.
Things don’t changed much as we get older. My morning routine consists of brushing my teeth, a quick shower, and a shave. I change my shirts when the pits smell and my jeans when the grease spots are noticeable. Most days I even remember to zip my fly, but it’s not a priority.
Most of the women I know spend endless hours picking, poking, preening, powdering, and plastering. Women actually spend hours exchanging tips and critiquing one another. The sad part is we guys rarely notice, but then I’m pretty sure women actually do dress for other women. If they really dressed for men, they’d all look like those girls on the cover of Maxim.
This is the one, and probably the only, advantage we males have over women. We don’t really care how we look. Personally, I’m satisfied if I don’t frighten anyone. I figure time and misfortune have made me the man I am today, and the cause is hopeless. My sparse noggin, bizarre hair distribution, and gangly build make me look like a medical experiment gone horribly awry.
So, rather than expend time and energy on a fruitless endeavor, like most guys, I just stay within the limits of polite society. If the dogs don’t run and hide, I’m ready for the day.