Dress Properly, Sir, or Get Thee to a Nunnery!

capri

Living in a house dominated by three women, I am subject to the vagaries of Real House Housewives of. . . , constant changes of clothes before departing into the night, and general delays on our way to anywhere of substance because someone “has to get ready.”

And yet, I am never asked for my opinion, since you might think I would be something of a Resident Clotheshorse Advisor here.

Alas, the standard guidance I provide all the here females is, “You don’t need to put makeup on because we’re going through the drive-thru at In-N-Out.”

Only the eleven year old listens (Daughter Number Two – DNT), of course.

Not really, as she’s not allowed to wear make-up yet (I think).

Oh, I am sometimes teased by both Son and Daughter because I wear my pants extraordinarily high, somewhere north of my navel.  But I really do it on purpose because I know it annoys the sh hell out of both of them.

However, unlike many Muggles who seem to become more entrenched in their ways as they get older, I find just the opposite is happening with me.  Especially when it concerns other people and things, politics, sports, and religion.

I couldn’t care less about most of that stuff, because at my age, I know it’s important to focus on those things that really count in this life:  Yard work and classic cars (I cannot afford).

Pretty much everything else is irrelevant, except for one aspect of our daily existence:  Men’s Clothing or, rather, Clothing Men Should Not Wear.

Okay, I get it.  My dresser is filled with shirts and pants, many of which are older than DNT herself.  But generally speaking, I adhere, some might say cling, to the vestiges of Nike Dry Fit and Adidas shorts that defined the “Sports -Me” back in the day before he was ejected by the “Zen-Me” of middle age.

Still, I have to draw the line somewhere, and today it turns out I have to draw two lines.

First, it is imperative for all men out there to acknowledge that wearing Uggs is a mortal sin committed against all of us Male Muggles.  I’ve commented on this phenomenon before, but apparently many gents have chosen to stick it in my eye ignore me.

So be it.  Just don’t come crying to me on Judgment Day when St. Peter condemns you to Hell because you were an egregious Fashion Idiot.  And anyway, it just looks stupid, dudes.

And second?  My God, I didn’t even realize what I was looking at until the guy walked out of the foo-foo coffee shop this morning.

Then something clicked, and I felt compelled to query my Spouse, who was sitting next to me.

“Did you see that?”

“What?  I’m drinking my coffee.”

“That guy.  That guy who just left.”

“What guy?  There’s guys all over the place here.”

“No.  The guy with the pants.  I didn’t notice it when I first saw him, but something struck me funny.”

“Like what?”

Then I made the connection.  I mentally waded through the image and reached the awful conclusion:  That man was wearing Lady Pants.

“Well, he was wearing those pants that stop just below the knees.  I think they’re called “capris.”

What I failed to mention was how frightening to me it was that I knew the name of these things.

“I’ve seen guys wear those before.  It’s not unusual,” she replied.

Perhaps in a Parallel Universe, I thought, but it was just damn weird in this one where we live.

So I dropped it.

But since we’re clearly on the road to Mass Hysteria — Dogs and Cats Sleeping Together — I have vowed to keep an eye out for this, uh, gentleman in the future and, perhaps, confront him.

Just what I’ll say to him, I have no idea, but still . . . .

In the meantime, if you have managed to read this post this far, I hereby ordain you as a Volunteer Deputy in the Southern California Fashion Police (VDSCFP).  Be on the look out for a caucasian man, approximately forty years old, wearing tan-colored capri shorts.

If you see him, do not directly confront.  Rather, thank God that you are not similarly idiotic and carry on with the balance of your day normally.

I almost forgot.  I’m pretty sure this guy will be wearing Uggs, as well.

- Dad

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Brownies from Hell

Sums up my type of cooking.

Sums up my type of cooking.

Brownies are supposed to be a combination of everything that is good and sacred in this world. Second to the Pope, the Brownie is revered across cultures as a spiritual leader. I’m not sure why my roommate and I were messing with perfection.

We attempted to make “healthy” brownies. Worst idea we have ever had.

First, we made two trips to the grocery store and then scoured the internet for a few hours to find a suitable recipe that met our qualifications. After an informal group interview, we narrowed down the recipes to the most delicious-sounding. And in the final interview round, the brownie recipe that ended up with the job was especially appetizing. He sounded great on paper. Unfortunately, he wasn’t right for the position and we had to terminate him after his first day for being repulsive.

After a suspiciously short time in the oven, the brownies came out and smelled delicious. We didn’t even wait until they had cooled, we just  shoved them down our indiscriminate gullets like hungry pelicans. Unfortunately, they were the worst things in the entire world. I started chewing and my face lit up with the enthusiasm only baked goods can inspire. Then, my face slowly dropped into a grimace as the sensory data from my tongue went to my brain where it proceeded to freak out from utter disgust and revulsion. Despite the initial horrible taste, I wanted to be an Equal Opportunity Brownie Employer and gave it another chance. If it is possible, it tasted even worse the second time. My roommate and I had built up so many expectations for brownie greatness and then this atrocity showed up instead. We just couldn’t take it.

We laughed to keep from crying. It was honestly one of the most disappointing things that have happened to me in recent times. Probably means I’m a spoiled, privileged brat… maybe. But it mostly means I suffered severe disappointment in the form of crushed brownie dreams.

I have a fever and the only prescription is brownies that taste like brownies and not like something that came out of the butt of a dog.

- Daughter

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