The Farmer and I are on vacation. I would never want to leave you without something to read and therefore I'm offering you Stale Stories in my absense.
This is a story entitled "Don't Ask Me" which originally published on May 23, 2008.
It's interesting to watch as our children navigate the mine field of becoming an adult. They're not kids, they're not full-blown adults yet so I guess I'll categorize them as fledglings. Our daughter has been living away at college for four years, and our son lived for a couple years in his own condo. He's moved back home to complete nursing school. Their friends are all on similar tracks; a few are married but most are still living the single life.
My son's best friend is divorced with one little boy. He's a great dad, and I'm continually impressed with this generation of young men. They cook and they change diapers too! Where were they back when I was looking for someone with those talents? I guess I can take some credit because it was our generation of moms who created these domestic wonders.
Unfortunately my son's friend has had a recent streak of bad dating experiences. The last young woman very quickly revealed herself to be quite disturbed, and everyone (including her parents) has encouraged her to get some help. Unfortunately it has caused lots of drama in this young man's life. It's certainly drama that a young father doesn't need.
I was in the basement working on our never-ending basement remodel when I heard my son take a phone call upstairs. I could only hear snippets, but it was obvious the discussion was centered on yet another drama involving this girl.
I made the decision a long time ago to offer advice only when asked, and that has worked well for everyone involved. Shortly after hanging up the phone my son walks downstairs and asks, "Mom, are there any normal women out there?"
"Hmmm. How old?" I asked.
What the heck did age have to do with it, and why did I ask that question? I don't know.
"Well, you know, women...." he answered.
Pretend you're reading a movie script. I'm going to set the scene for you.
Disastrous-looking, half-finished basement. Main character, 60-year old woman, overweight, graying hair pulled up in a Pebbles Flintstone ponytail on top of her head. She's splattered head-to-toe with white primer paint. She's barefoot, braless and her iPod dock is blasting Metallica's rendition of "Whiskey in the Jar."
The director calls ACTION!
"Son, I'm probably not the one to ask."