Saturday, June 25, 2011

Possible Dad

by Guest Blogger, Joe Alimony (Jean Roberta in a fake moustache)

(Spoken in a gravelly bass voice):

Happy Saturday, readers. Jean Roberta was unable to find a guest blogger for today because she couldn’t get into her university inbox where she could find the email addresses of several male writers. She doesn’t even know why she’s been reaching a blank screen for several days. You know how women are. So I agreed to help her out.

Fatherhood, she said. Just talk about fatherhood.

Man, I need a beer. I’ll be right back.

I’ll be careful. I’ll just set this beer can far enough away from the keyboard. If this post ends suddenly, you’ll know what happened.

Jesus, cats are as bad as kids. A man can’t get any peace, even at his own computer.
Okay, well, you know it costs a lot to raise a kid, right? Then if you’ll not real careful, a few more come along and then any freedom you had before just disappears. Why is it fair for fathers to get stuck paying for everything when most guys can’t be absolutely sure their kids are theirs?

Call me a male chauvinist pig if you like, but you can’t argue with the facts of nature. The only way a guy can be really sure his DNA is in the smelly little red-faced bundle of noise his wife or girlfriend brings home from the hospital is by doing blood tests on everyone involved. And if you say you want a blood test just to be sure, you get accused of being a jealous ass. Yeah, right.

The truth is that without that test, you just can’t be sure. That’s why guys in some cultures lock up their women. I’m not saying it’s right, but you have to admit it makes sense.

Now you want to know if I have kids. I helped raise some, if that’s what you’re asking. Hell, yes. But did I father them? Your guess is as good as mine. The two oldest look a lot like me, but the youngest boy has dark hair and eyebrows. Everyone in my family has blue eyes and blond or light-brown hair. My wife has a smorgasbord in her family tree, if you know what I mean, but could that explain why she popped out a kid that looks nothing like me? I just don’t know.

My wife was working outside the home when she got pregnant. But I’m not supposed to say anything. Even now that we’re divorced.

Now here's the other thing: women's attitude to sex is the most complicated on the planet. Other female mammals are straightforward: they go into heat, they go crazy, they attract every dog in the neighborhood (assuming it's a bitch dog), they get pregnant. No one asks who the dad is and no one cares (except profesional breeders, but that's another can of worms).

But human females have moods, right? Sometimes she's crazy for it, sometimes she doesn't want you to touch her. Like, she doesn't want your stinky male breath in her face.

The fact is, no matter how much you might love the woman in your life, you don't know what she really wants or what she does when she's not in the same room with you. And you're supposed to be a really understanding guy and still have total control over everything that happens to you, to her, to your kids. It's crazy-making.

Was there ever a time when fathers were respected? Women complain that men have always had too much power. That’s a laugh and a half. We’ve always been expected to lay down the rules that women and children ignore, that’s what it is. We’re the ones who get lied to: No, dad, I didn’t put that dent in the fender and could I have some money? Oh honey, I had to work late today, and do you have a few extra bucks? No, I didn’t notice that we’re overdrawn. I need this, I need that.

Dammit, I love my kids. If they’re mine. I still love my ex-wife in a way. There’s something about her that still gets to me. We just couldn’t live together.

My one-bedroom apartment is my mancave where I lick my wounds. I can’t afford to hire some gay interior designer, so it’s a no-frills kind of place.

Hey, if you want to come over, I have a few more beers in the fridge.


  1. Dear Joe,

    Thanks for joining us here at the Grip. You make a lot of good points, and I think your confusion about what women want is fairly widespread.

    Actually, your post would have fit right in last week when we were talking about sympathy for the devil.

    I will admit I don't really want your man-breath in my face, but I do feel some of your pain.

  2. I think I must be a pig.

    I just found myself nodding and going "yeah, yeah" at several moments in the blog. It might mean that I'm a pig, or that the female author understands a lot of the legitimate gripes and paranoia men have about women.



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