The Trouble With Daughters...

Today is an important day in Veronica History – my daughter is Veronica.  She’s twenty-one and a full-time student at George Mason University in Northern Virginia.  I’m sure if/when she ever reads this, she’ll probably take out some kind of no-contact order that prohibits me from ever mentioning her again in this blog or anywhere else, but I just can’t help it.  I just realized that she just passed the one year mark with her current boyfriend.  Big deal, you say?  Read on, you’ll see why this is cause for celebration.  


When I met him last year, it was a different sort of experience.  She called to say that she was going to stop by and was bringing her friend, (we'll call him) J.  I fortified myself with a largish glass of Gentleman Jack and waited.  Veronica came through the door wearing a blazer with slacks and dress shoes on rather than the usual yoga pants, hoodie, and sandals.  I’m pondering who this young woman standing in my kitchen might be and where she hid my daughter’s body when I finally notice the “friend” standing behind her.  The guy seemed to be a decent sort of person with kind of a nerdy and studious look. Actually, he looks like Steven Page, former front man of the band Barenaked Ladies. Talk about a complete departure from what she usually went for! The guy was polite, conversational, had a great sense of humor and appeared very bright (again, completely different from the usual Neanderthals she seemed to hang with). No tattoos that I could see.  He was wearing a diamond stud in each ear, but hey, I'll take it. Hair was neatly cut and combed. He was nicely dressed.

 
Just in case you’re wondering why this was so stunning to me, you would have had to witness the various degrees of bums, idiots, and effete snobs that she had known to that point.  Let’s examine them, shall we?


There was her "Thug" phase - K: guy was scary looking.  Seriously.  He could have been a rejected member of a thrash metal band.  If a thrash metal band won’t have you, it’s a clue.  Had tattooed sleeves up both arms and legs.  I never heard more than a grunt from him. He lived in an apartment above the office of a self-storage site and managed the place. Only redeeming value was his ability to repair my daughter’s car for a 12-pack of beer.

 
There was her "Oh Ricky You're So Fine" phase - D: This was without a doubt the prettiest man I've ever seen.  I'm not kidding...this was a movie star quality looks kind of guy...and just as vacuous.  Dude couldn't keep a job and wasn't all that interested in working in the first place. He figured (I think) that he would get by on his good looks and smile. After his parents moved from Northern Virginia back to the family farm in SW Missouri, he soon moved back there to live with them (keep in mind that he was 24 at the time). Never had a job there as far as I know. Veronica flew there twice to spend some time on the place. Only redeeming value there is that Veronica finally got wise and dumped his lazy ass.

 
There was the "Rico Suave" phase - R: Not a bad looking guy. Very responsible. Worked at a restaurant full time. I was always a little suspicious of him because would never tell me his last name. Maybe he was afraid I would start digging around in his past (and I would have). Only redeeming value was that he was very fond of my Rib Ranch-style coleslaw.

 
There was the "Johnny B. Goode" phase - L: I'll say this for Luis...dude could play guitar like he was ringing a bell. I had him pegged to become a gigging musician - had the long hair and the attitude. Boy, was I surprised when I found out he had cut his hair and was in a pre-med program at GMU. Go figure...

 
There may have been one or two others, but you get the general idea.  Trust me when I tell you that no one will ever nominate me for father of the year.  But, NO father wants to see his daughter head out the door with any of the aforementioned types.  I recall a time in the late seventies when my sister fixed me up with a friend of hers while I was home on leave from the Navy.  I showed up at this girl’s house wearing pants so tight that I don’t know how I was able to walk and one of those silk disco shirts that was unbuttoned down to mid-abdomen.  Her father was sitting in his “Archie Bunker” chair and really giving me the stink eye.  And, now I know why.

 
So, for the fathers out there whose daughters are still playing the field, just remember my mantra for all occasions and repeat it three times (silently, lest they think you’ve lost your mind)…

”It’s gonna be great.  It’s gonna turn out better than I think.”