How Well Do We Really Know Each Other?

It's been a while, now.

As of this juncture, I've been hurling my half-century-old carcass through the blogosphere for three years plus some change.

And throughout four hundred and fifty three posts, I've offered unsolicited insights into my worldview, submitting these thoughts while clenched in a perpetual kegel of misplaced paranoia.

Okay, that's a little much, but I do appreciate your patronage and care what you think.

So, as a small test of your loyalty, I've decided to play out a fictional scenario to see how well you've been listening. Since I've hung my wife and daughters out to dry more often than June Cleaver with a Clorox jug full of clothespins, I'm going to spin a yarn involving every member of our tribe, and you must decide which statements ring true and which qualify as slanderous ridiculousness.

If you can find at least one falsehood, I commend you and your vigilant readership. Let's begin.

I arrived home after a long, yet satisfying day spent brainstorming new baking recipes for the dispensary. My wife greeted me at the door, assisting me in peeling off my threadbare, yet favorite, Count Chocula hoodie and hung it neatly in the closet.

She pecked my cheek and carefully re-arranged my comb-over, finally stepping back and asking, "Hello, foxy guy. How was your day?"

"You know, it was really nice," I replied. "Nothing beats a nice modified Toll House cookie recipe for helping Americans deal with their chronic pain. For you see, dear, the good lord has chosen that I should be a healer."

"Yes, he did. I married the right guy, that's for sure." She straightened her apron, turned and cheerfully bellowed, "Girls. Your father's home! And dinner's ready!"

As I scooted my chair in to my customary position at the table's head, I glanced into the kitchen, where my bride readied the final touches on a promising repast. "And how about you?" I queried. "Still being hassled by those derelict kids at school."

She exhaled deeply. "It just keeps getting worse. Two of my fifth graders fell asleep today. After I woke them with the super soaker, which, by the way, was the most thoughtful of birthday gifts, I asked one of them why he had nodded off. He said he was up late playing video games because his single mother was working her second job cleaning office buildings and he didn't have anyone to put him to bed."

"What do you want to bet she's an illegal," I offered.

"Of course she is. And let me tell you, she won't be cleaning offices in this country much longer if I have my way." She set the casserole down on two of her famous hand-crocheted pot holders. The heavenly aroma of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup toyed with my senses. "And if they can afford an X-Box, they can afford a good immigration lawyer."

I placed my linen napkin across my lap. "Amen, sister."

"Hi, Dad." My seventeen-year-old daughter kissed my forehead and settled into the spot to my right. "Is it okay if I clean the basement after dinner? It's really been bothering me."

I playfully slapped her face with the back of my hand. "Oh, I suppose. Hey, by the way, did you notice that our Mitt Romney for President sign has been stolen from the front yard?"

"I did, Daddy." My twelve-year-old entered through the kitchen, sliding a frosty martini to my dinner plate's two o'clock. I couldn't help but marvel at what a great little wife that gal is going to be some day. "I'll bet the gay couple down the street swiped it. They're always causing trouble."

I gingerly sipped the sweet liquor—so soothing. "I'd bet dollars to donuts you're right, honey. You stay away from those people. Now go wash up. It looks like you've gotten a little gay on you. Heh, heh!"

"Oh, Daddy. Can I dish you up some tater tot casserole?"

"Absolutely. I've been thinking about this all day."

She scooped a heaping pile of the steamy hot dish onto my plate. "Hey, Dad, is it okay if I go to a rave on Saturday night? I'm not sure where it is or how I'm getting there or how I'm getting home."

"I suppose," I said sternly. "But you have to promise to leave a couple candy necklaces on the table for your mom and me, or no deal."

"Oh, Dad, you're so strict."

"Life is about rules, sweetie. And the sooner you realize that, the better."

At length, we ate quietly, but a look of concern betrayed my older daughter's face. Finally, she spoke.

"Dad, we've been learning a lot about evolution in my biology class. It really seems to make sense, but I know it's not true. What should I do?"

I thought carefully, since knee-jerk reactions only apply to the weaker sex. "I'll tell you what. I'm going to let you take my handgun to school tomorrow. If that biology teacher of yours wants to spout any more lies, you tell her that Smith and Wesson disagree and show her the business end of that thing. I guarantee she'll tell the class the world started when Reagan was elected. Ha!"

"Dad, you're so smart."

At the opposite end of the table, my wife's eyes welled up. "We are the luckiest ladies in the world, girls. God has truly blessed us with your father and his profound wisdom."

I drained my martini and stifled a belch. "Thank you, honey. She's right, girls."