I Hope My Daughter Marries…
SWF seeks an out-of-shape, weekend-binge-drinking man-child who still goes to KISS concerts and cannot kick his comic book habit even though he’s well into his 40s. Must be choked by the umbilical cord of a domineering mother and live in a state of perpetual Catholic guilt that flares up when he misses Mass on Sunday or lingers too long on at a nasty corner of the World Wide Web. Lasting three minutes in the sack mandatory; five minutes a plus.
Good God. My elder daughter, who’s 12, is just beginning to show an interest in boys, and since it’s every man’s dream to have his little princess marry a guy just like her father, I’m trying to craft a personal ad to attract the ideal candidate.
Though my daughter’s dating debut is 10 years down the line (at least), I find that I have a problem: I am horrified by the man I envision her with. Because, in reality, who the heck would date me? Then again, the kid could do worse…
I often wonder what kind of guys are going to come-a-calling to our house. While I’m not sure I’d really want a mirror image of myself on the doorstep, I’d like to think that my involvement in my daughters’ creation and formation will create a loving women who will be able to differentiate between the nice guys and the jerks.
Like most fathers, I have a recurring nightmare that my daughter’s prom date will pick her up in a late-model convertible with a Confederate flag painted on the hood, the wind having its way with his raging bleached-blond mullet as he rounds the corner of our cul-de-sac. He’ll ring the bell, offer me a SKOAL pack from a tin that makes a permanent round impression in the back pocket of his powdered blue tuxedo, and reassure me of his love for my child by hiking up his pant leg and showing me a tattoo of my kid’s name on his calf.
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