8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter

It was not easy to like someone around Mom. Most guys you liked Mom would pick apart like a vulture on a carcass.

Is he kidding with that hair?
Is that what the boys are wearing these days? It makes them all look so stupid.
I just don’t understand why you wouldn't do something about that (mole, chipped tooth, scar)... His parents must be weird.
He walks like he has a pole up his ass. Or a mess in his pants. He doesn’t, does he?
He dated that girl? Instead of you? She has terrible hair. And her legs are going to look like utility poles when she’s about 35. She’s got nothing on you. (Except she has The Guy, Mom, and I am watching TV all weekend with Dad and Joe…)

I could never tell if this had anything to do with my brother or not. It’s anyone’s guess. Mom would criticize anyone who was more loved and adored than her own. And truly convince herself it was justified. It is a miracle I saw the dance floor at any prom at all.

When Scott and I began dating, or would it be more accurate to say, “When Scott and I had our first in a series of 7 or 8 dates,” he began to drive me home from school every day. And from football games, and from band practice, and from anywhere else a crowd gathered. So he was probably a little less nervous finding my house in the dark and coming to the door than if he’d never wandered into my zip code before.

At least at first.

He comes in, greets my Dad with confidence and without appearing to take notice of the sleeping attire. Extends his manly hand to be unceremoniously crushed by Dad.

It was a routine grilling by all accounts. No more painful than any other I’ve blocked from my long term memory in an effort to preserve my sanity for the long haul, except until Dad asked where we were off to.

A party.

A party?! Whose party?

Drew McCarthy’s party.

Where does this kid live? Do you have his number? (The phone book comes out…I am willing myself to die.)

This kid’s parents home?

I suppose so, sir.

Oh God. We’re sirring.

I can assume you won't be drinking?

No sir, of course not. (But girlfriend will be!)

And the torture went on endlessly from there. All that was missing were the bright lights and brass knuckles.

I am not at all clear on how we managed to get out of the house alive, and even more baffled by the fact that I was still allowed to leave with Scott after we could no more produce the McCarthy’s address and telephone number than we could a golden egg. But just before I would have begun hyperventilating, we were sprung from captivity.

And still, that waterboarding-style introduction to Dad could only pale in comparison to the circus act that would be meeting Mom.