The main thing you need to know is this: When I wash my hands, I like to dry them off on my face.
It’s a holdover from bachelorhood – you don’t need hand towels that way. And also, how dirty can my face be? It’s not like I need to worry about germs – anything I pick up was already on my face. Also, I can kind of make my hair stand up that way, walk around all crazy-eyed. People don’t ask you to do much, that way.
My wife didn’t notice that I liked to dry my hands on my face until it was too late. We only knew each other for five and a half weeks before eloping thirteen or fourteen years ago. What we did was, we consumated our relationship, and then we threw some crap in a pickup truck and left town.
Later on when she noticed in the middle of a kitchen conversation that I was drying my hands on my face, she said, “That’s the sort of thing you want to mention a little more upfront.”
Too late for her, but maybe she’s right. Maybe the rest of you ought to know about it, so there you go.
Also, I talk to my pets. A lot.
Sometimes I sing songs to my cat, about my cat. Sometimes I develop a different theme song for each dog. When I’m trying to go through the kitchen and one of my dogs is in my way, smiling at me, I pat her on the neck and say, “Excuse me, sweetheart.”
After a while, it creeps people out. If it creeps you out, you might want to call before stopping by. Some of my dogs have little outfits and drink out of martini glasses. You judge me all you want.
My superpower is bullshitting you – that’s something you should definitely know. The very last thing you want to do if you suspect me of something is let me speak to you about it. Really, you shouldn’t even make eye contact. Sometimes I can convince cops that they are chickens, get them waddling around pecking at the grass.
If there is an imaginable scenario in which I am innocent, my nervous system will get my mouth to spit out a plausible description of it, even if you drive a railroad spike into my brain.
Again, like a chicken, this time the kind with its head cut off, running around the barnyard – I could probably keep bullshitting you for thirty or forty seconds after I was clinically dead.
Similarly I have two great weaknesses – sales guys and casinos. If you see me in a casino or on a car lot, and my wife isn’t there, you should hit me over the head with something and drag me out of there by my foot. I turn into a cartoon character in casinos, and all sales guys have to do is nod their heads at me while they are talking. I start nodding, too.
Really, I’ve never bought a car. One time I went in to look at cars – a good twelve years ago – and these guys had me sitting in an office talking about leasing a brand new something or other, and I called Marilyn up and said, “Say, I think I’m going to do exactly what this room full of sales guys here says to do. What do you think?”
She said, “It’s a trap. Run.”
And I did, too. A couple of them practically chased me, like the liquid metal Terminator as I screeched out of the parking lot. I do not talk to sales guys anymore. I literally stay away until the very end when it’s time to sign stuff.
I do Old Guy stuff you should know about – I wear plaid shorts and black socks and white tennis shoes and my haircut costs eight bucks. And I do Stereotypical Dad stuff you should know about, like stomping around turning lights off and freaking out about how many bottles of crap are in the shower.
And some not very stereotypical Dad stuff – like for instance when I’m driving around with my girls and we pass a cop I start going, “Okay, nice and easy girls, big smiles. Everything’s cool, we’re just driving along. Just be cool and everything will stay cool. They got nothing on us, nothing at all.”
I’m also a blogger – obviously I don’t need to tell you that, but it’s something I tell strangers right off the bat, so they can get busy giving me the silly puppy dog look or handing me a sandwich or kicking me in the nuts, whichever of the three they prefer.
And I’m the sort of fellow who likes to go running and then won’t shut up about it for the rest of the day. “Yeeeeppp. Went running today.” Shut up, Tom.
And I like tofu and granola and pork ribs and bacon – all in one sitting if I can get it. A complicated man, yes indeed.
I like to make up answers to perfectly reasonable and important questions, just because I’ve ascertained that you don’t know the answers either. And I like to refer to my daughters’ friends by completely random names, never the same one twice.
I can’t smell, I have a sexually depraved cat (and I’m cool with it), there are various things wrong with my face and there’s a pellet embedded in my left butt cheek which is either a leftover microchip from my childhood alien abductions, or a BB from where my brother used to hunt me down like a dog and shoot me in the ass.
Also, my feet are like monkey hands. I could make you a salad while I’m wearing a straitjacket. And my daughters’ former preschool teacher proofreads my blog posts for me, and I always get something wrong.
Now it’s your turn. Confess.