My body operates on its own biological clock, and after 38 years of observation I can predict with absolute certainty how I will feel and behave at given points of the day. I know, for example, that I’m a morning person and that my eyes will open at about 5:30 a.m. (give or take a few minutes based on whether or not I’m having a dream about Norah O’Donnell and an industrial-sized tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter).

Similarly, I know that my brain shuts down at about 5:30 p.m. and if you see me at any moment thereafter, you’ll see a listless, six-foot-three human frame lying on its back, a remote control in one hand and a scrotum in the other. If I could strip away the standards of socially acceptable behavior, parental responsibility, spousal commitments and basic human decency, there’s no doubt in my mind that the image I described above is me in my purest form. I’m a caveman in a Quiksilver shirt.

When I engage this most authentic version of myself, it’s best not to disturb me. I get grouchy. I wish not to be reminded of my responsibilities – although that never seems to stop my wife from stomping into my cave, asking me to unhand my man parts, and requesting compliance with this obligation or that. The caveman’s arch nemesis is an organized woman. No wonder we used to drag them around by their hair.

“Honey,” she said last night, “don’t forget tonight is Open House at The Champ’s school.”

I snarled. It’s one thing to be disturbed or interrupted by some low-grade household chore, but it’s quite another to be summarily yanked out of the cave and tasked to wear some stupid fake smile just to go to some stupid event at a stupid school. Despite my boisterous protestations, I bucked up and accompanied my family to school – but I brought my shitty attitude along for the ride.

Bless my son’s heart; he was downright giddy about having us there. He re-introduced us to his teacher and showed us his desk (which I knew couldn’t possibly have been his because all of his books and pencils were neatly arranged and organized). Then the real fun began. On each student’s desk was a brief checklist of locations around the classroom. The students were to guide their parents on a tour of each listed spot, then put a checkmark next to it to indicate they’d done as they were told.

I didn’t want to be there and I for the first time in his life I encouraged my son to be an underachiever. I told him to check off all of the locations and give me the form to sign so we could get out of there. He thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.

My attitude worsened.

“This my first book report,” he said, pointing to a piece of blue construction paper to which he had pasted little squares covered in unwieldy seven-year-old penmanship and crayon drawings of people with no necks. He’d written, “My favrit part of the book is win he tide the string to the gote.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “Your spelling sucks, dude.”*

He looked at me with a blank stare. So did Hot Wife.

Our next stop was the math desk, where my son produced a few loose pages of addition and subtraction problems he’d solved. He was proud of his work, and especially of the big red star and happy face on the top of the pages – a clear signal of his teacher’s approval.

“Big deal,” I said. “If you really want to impress me, balance our checkbook.”*

Blank stares again, but this time Hot Wife’s glare was accompanied by her mouthing of the words, “What are you doing? Shut the fuck up.”

The third stop on our checklist was the small vegetable garden right outside the door of my son’s classroom. He marched us past a short row of tomato plants and finally stopped and said, “This is the one. This is my plant.”

A little colored flag in the ground seemed to believe it was standing guard in front of a snap pea plant, but that had to be the dumbest flag of all time. All I saw was a lifeless brown tangle of dried-up vines and leaves.

“Are you serious with this?” I said. “It’s dead.”*

“It’s not dead,” he exclaimed. “It just doesn’t have any pea pods on it right now.”

“Right. Because it’s dead.”

Hot Wife had heard about enough of my taunting the poor boy.

“You know what?” she said sternly. “Why don’t you go wait in the car while we finish up here?”

“OK,” I said.

When I got to the minivan, I found the baseball game on the radio. I closed my eyes, reclined in the passenger seat and, in true caveman style, became reacquainted with my testicles.

It just goes to show you – you can remove the caveman from the cave, but you can’t take the…cave out of the…man. Or something like that.

*Professional joker. Closed course. Do not attempt. No seven-year-old's feelings were hurt during the making of this blog entry.

Comments

HisHineAss is exactly the same, sigh

OMG, seriously? Tell me there is some dramatic license taken in the writing of this entry ...

Thank goodness you have the disclaimer at the end. I was about to curse you a blue streak! Naughty man.

I can not believe you just divulged that to everyone. Cavemen also like to hunt so I'll expect that you will hunt and kill something for dinner tonight. You can eat it raw if I can't get a fire started with two sticks.

That was HILARIOUS!!! I laughed the entire way through and I'm a Mom... my god, my Mom button must be broken. “Oh my god,” I said. “Your spelling sucks, dude.” Bawhahahahaha!!!! I think it's brilliant.

Wait until you get to the high school years. Ten mind numbing minutes in each different classroom followed by massive amounts of parents in the hallways trying to find the next classroom they need in ten minutes or less. The screaming in your head starts when 2 or more sets of parents stop to have a reunion in the middle of the hall thus creating a traffic jam.

OMG you haven't crossed the bad attitude and boredom threshhold until you've cut your teeth on my daughter's Lutheran school musicals (twice a year--enough already!) My husband has always gotten out of it by claiming he has to chase our restless boy around on the playground. But our son is 5 now and I think he's old enough to sit quietly in the pew and deface the hymn books. No reason I should suffer alone.

I ssssooooo want to play The Champ in Scrabble -- I would totally kick his ass.

;-)

I'm not a morning person and I still feel that way a lot of the time. Probably because I have a morning life...

Ha ha ha ha ha! You realize every time you write about interacting with the young'ns, I'm taking notes. And when Mrs. B and I eventually get there, I'm totally gonna blame you when she challenges my "style" ;-)

See I used to be ALL ABOUT the Open House attending until my kids' school started having them FOUR TIMES A YEAR.

Also probably before I had FOUR kids.

I normally can't get away with holding my junk in front of the TV until after the wife goes to bed.

So I'm guessing it's off to the fortress of Celibacy for YOU!

OMG, you just wrote down almost every thought I ever had when visiting my kids' classrooms. My favorite line was one of Jr's: Popcorn is midey tasty. I'm just glad The Captain doesn't make all of his stick figures anatomically correct. THAT would be hard to explain. Also: Jr sleeps with his balls in his hand. Should I be worried?

Back to school nights? Yikes! Maybe it's not too soon to consider home schooling...

That was freakin' awesome. You just summarized every nasty comment that has flitted through my skull on those Open House nights.

I, too, am glad for the disclaimer at the end of your post, I was worried you'd scarred The Champ for life, and I wouldn't have blamed Hot Wife for touching up your vasectomy scar with a butter knife.

Hot Wife is a saint. A. SAINT.

If that had been me, you and your testicles would sleep in different locations now.

I wonder if there is some scientific truism that the surface area of a man's palm precisely matches the surface area of his scrotum?

As a teacher, I resemble those comments! :p Yes, the spelling sucks. Yes, the glue dripped and the penmanship isn't all it's cracked up to be. However, that's the best the kid could do, so we celebrate it! Boring, but beautiful!

How long were you reacquainted with your testicles before Hot Wife kicked them into touch? Inquiring minds.....:-D

Dear God. I'm married to your clone. I feel your pain Hot Wife. I feel your pain.

Isn't it great that you can release your inner caveman in your writing?
Of course, you'd be a eunuch if you tried it in real life.

Ha!!

That was funny and I laughed out loud-

But then I looked over at my caveman sitting on the couch holding his testicles and now I'm sort of pissed off at him.... way to go.

;)

Norah O'Donnell? Really?!

Mmmmm...Norah O'Donnell.

Oh lord! I helped out in my son's class this morning. I was about to die, because EVERY kid had to ask 90 questions and then do the task and then ask 90 more questions. The 15 minute project took a total of 75 minutes.

OK! Just HUSH and do it and quit your yapping!

but really, they are cute and thoughtful and fun. Love 'em.

Not yet a parent, but can only imagine the conversations that will go on once The Husband and I procreate:

Me: "That is fantastic kiddo!!"

The Husband: "Does something blow up? No? I'll be in the car."

Yeah, I'm a sucker. Mouth hanging open wide enough to snag more than one fish hook.

Open house at school is somewhat akin to playing hide and seek with a three year old - they stand in the centre of an empty room and then you have to act like you can't find them. Is it any wonder that parents drink?

LMAO!!!!!!! Not "my scrotum", but "A scrotum!" LMAO!!!!! Like, I went to the store and bought two scrotums today! LMAO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thanks for the laugh. I'm pretty sure it wasn't really THAT funny, but whatever. I need coffee.

It was very funny but i just have to say. your a dick. and i mean that in the nicest of ways.

You so completely nailed the Open House experience. That was hysterical! Just know that the pain you feel in releasing your scrotum in order to appear publicly almost equals me having to put on a bra and something other than sweatpants.

yes, this post completely reminds me of my boyfriend, especially the scrotum part. And I would have sent you to the car, too. Maybe even to bed without dessert. :)

Oh man, I was about to rip you a new one until I got to the end! Very funny, one question. WHY do men feel the need to hold their balls while watching TV?

WOW!!! Glad that you are not a school teacher!!!!

Very Funny...Glad it's not true, cause I was feelin' real sorry for the Champ having an asshole caveman as his Dad, you know?

Brilliant. Utterly brilliant. Nothing less exciting than an evening catching up on your kid's paper-cutting and gluing aptitude. "Great, Jimmy. Why don't you cut out an approving smile and paste it on my extremely bored face."

To quote Lester Burnham in American Beauty - "I think you just became my personal hero!"

I feel like I just watched a train wreck or something. I'm hoping the humor asterisk applies to the whole post, and not just the "death" quote. Of course, the last time I made a comment about "parents should embrace and enjoy their kids", I got tarred and feathered on this blog. So I'll just stay quiet! (As a single dad who only sees his kids half time, an Open House seems a decent way to steal a few more moments with my kids. But that's just me.)

Now, if this was a school post about latte-drinking four-square players, I'd have something to say.

Thank you for clearly explaing my husband to me.

OOOHHHHH! You would be SO cut off!

When I was in the Navy, I used to get by quite well on 4 hours of sleep when underway. But now I'm asleep by 9PM.

A submarine is a lot like a cave...

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Man, I wish I could pull something like this especially during a ball game. *Sigh*

Sounds like Grumpy McGrumperton may have low blood sugar. At least that's the excuse Bossy has been using for over 38 years.

Yes! I don't want to live in a world where I can't lay around and fidget with my... I mean, rest a hand in my pants. And I are you suggesting that this is what I'll have to expect in a few years once my three year old and my newborn are finally in school? Does anybody know the pay rate for home school teachers?

Thanks for the laugh! I think everyone has had those moments when you would rather be anywhere but at a school's open house being dragged about by your.. hand. Yeah, hand..

ummmmmmmmmmm that was all a bit awkward to read. I know we have all thought those things in our head but to say them? youch. How sad.

I just wanna know how you're able to go caveman so early in the evening (5:30p.m.). That's just when CareerMom comes dragging home with the kids and when I'm expected to rouse myself from my personal time and take over while she unloads the car and changes clothes.

But see, you should have done what I did the other night when my bad attitude threatened to ruin a fun afternoon out, I stopped the car about 100ft from the house, said, "You know what, you guys just go" and I walked back home!

Course, CareerMom couldn't help herself from throwing a, "Oh THAT'S Mature" at me, but I was too far gone to care!

At least you know you're not alone.

You have just shattered into a thousand tiny pieces the dream of my current boytoy ever outgrowing the need to have his hand constantly on his package. I figured since I've usually dated older men and this one happens to be younger that it's an age thing. Guess not. Although I guess it's a relief that he's not alone? He is simply....cave man?

I'll be damned if I'm going to get dragged around by my hair.

I am the female you - sans the scrotum part (at least not visible anyway)

How guilty do you think I feel?

And, like you, I have no edit button when it comes to Open House night - and I am on the PTA board. I have to pretend to 'qvell' at my kids' lousy pictures, lame reports, and slightly dented papier mache hot air balloons. And, as mom - I have to wait the requisite amount of time (which is hard to figure out) before I get to toss it all before they figure it out.

PS- All sarcasm aside - I love my girls and adore everything they make, have made, will make and hope to make....(snarky smile)

www.swirlgirlspearls.blogspot.com

I am the female you - sans the scrotum part (at least not visible anyway)

How guilty do you think I feel?

And, like you, I have no edit button when it comes to Open House night - and I am on the PTA board. I have to pretend to 'qvell' at my kids' lousy pictures, lame reports, and slightly dented papier mache hot air balloons. And, as mom - I have to wait the requisite amount of time (which is hard to figure out) before I get to toss it all before they figure it out.

PS- All sarcasm aside - I love my girls and adore everything they make, have made, will make and hope to make....(snarky smile)

www.swirlgirlspearls.blogspot.com

I used to be a teacher. My first year, my school scheduled "Dad's Night." All of the dad's dutifully attended and made paper puppets with their chillens. One of the dads, wearing a worn and gritty smile, told me that his wife had made him come, even though Game 5 of the World Series was on, as we sit, plastic scissors and glue sticks in hamd.

I'm not so much of a sports fan, but I was unequivocably HORRIFIED that one of the bitches from the Non-Sporting group had made such a inexcusable demand on fathers. I'm not kidding. So from that point on I made it my personal mission to make any kind of evening school event something that was worth the while.

By the last year I was there, for Open House (AFTER the World Series had concluded in its entirity) we had dinner, some of which was cooked by the kids. We showed home movies the kids had made. We constructed room-spanning 3D rain forests out of paint and paper and showed off their kids' superior five-year-old knowledge of conservation. For Christmas, we lip-synched Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree and line-danced to Nuttin' for Christmas. We showed slides of kids growing, learning and being happy ... and of their parents at school doing the same. People cried. And again, we shared food. We set out to design a rockin' celebration for everyone, not to show off how good we thought we were at teaching, or to guilt trip you into taking an interest in something that is clearly not interesting.

I'm not a teacher anymore, but for all of you who have had to suffer through a painful lackluster musical production on a hard folding chair, or eek out a "WOW" at something so not wow-ful, or anything along those dreadful lines, I apoligize. Sincerely.

You are seriously twisted and after reading several of your posts I think I am in love with your blog.Haha I bet you thought I was going to say I was in love with you.Well maybe just a little .