I attended an auction at a chic country club. I arrived early to help the organizers set up and I was surprised to find the bar full of young, well dressed (if you can call expensive plaid shorts well dressed), golf playing, thousands of dollars a year for dues paying men sitting around drinking and yukking it up. I wanted to say, "Hey...where do you guys work that you can spend half of a Tuesday golfing at this expensive club?" (I also wanted to hand all of them my real estate business card, because these guys look like the type who might need a good divorce attorney and Realtor in their Rolodex's at all times.)
I started setting up tables, but I just couldn't control my irritation at these guys. Everything about them rubbed me the wrong way. Their stupid plaid shorts, their expensive drinks and the yukking. God, the yukking. I've never heard laughter that was so phony and so forced. It sounded like a combination of sea lions and parrots barking at each other.
Who are these guys? I wondered. I've never seen anything like them. Most dads I know are either jocky or goofy. Most dads I know only take off work this early if it's a family emergency or their child is in a performance at school. And then I realized. I know who they are.
They're the husbands of the overachieving moms. They're the Douchey Dads. Their time spent at the "cluuubbbb" (you gotta stretch it out when you read it) enables and/or forces the OAMs to create memories, because the Douchey Dad is missing everything, but his golf game is ah-May-zing! The OAM needs a scrapbook for each month so she can show Douchey Dad what she and the kids do all day while he's bringing home the bacon and frying it up on golf course.
Their status as Douchey Dads was confirmed to me a few minutes later when one DD stepped out of the bar to take a call. He didn't want to disrupt his cronies, so instead he stepped right into the middle of the room where we were working. Yeah, don't mind us. Keep acting like you own the joint and we just work here, dick.
"Hello?" he answered with a deep, professional voice that said I'm a businessman doing important work, not sitting in the bar at the cluuubbbb in the middle of the day. Immediately his voice changed and went straight to an accent I've never had the pleasure of hearing before. I will call it the "ritzy suburban golf club voice." It's like the Dolce moms' voices only just slightly deeper, but with just as much affectation. This voice makes the Dolce moms' voices sound human. This voice made me want to scream at him: "No one actually sounds like that, you dumbass."
Instead of screaming, I went silent, though so I could listen to his whole conversation and share it with you now:
"Heyyyy, Champ! How are you, Buddy? Uh huh. Uh huh. Mmm hmm," he droned on and checked his fingernails (Truly! Like a bad movie!). "Wait," he looked up from his manicure. Something had caught his attention and now he was listening closely. I thought maybe Champ/Buddy was hurt and calling for help. "What did you just say? You did? You lost a tooth? At school? How did that happen? The nurse just pulled it out? Wow. With her fingers or something? That's unbelievable. Which one? A bottom one? Wow, Champ. You must feel incredible! Hey, Buddy? Let me talk to mom, OK?"
He was completely in my way at this point, so I asked him to move. He sidestepped six inches. Obviously Tooth-a-geddon was far more important than what I was trying to do. Thanks, asshat. Now I don't feel so bad that I'm going to document your idiotic conversation for the ages.
"Hey, Baby. (Champ and Baby. I wonder what his name is? Stud?) First tooth, huh? How are you doing? (I'm a wreck, Stud. You know I'm going to need Botox. Once your kids start losing teeth, that forehead wrinkle firms up and becomes permanent. Bitsy told me and I totally believe her.) So the tooth fairy comes tonight, huh? Are you ready? (Of course I'm ready, Stud. I'm a good mother.) I mean, do you have everything for what you wanted to do? (I don't leave anything to chance. I've been ready for this night since he turned 3.) Right. Right. No, no, no. Of course you're ready. Do you have time? (There's never enough time, Stud. I'll need at least 3 hours just to work on lighting so I can get great photos and set the mood. I'll need to make the tooth fairy punch and choose between his 6 tooth fairy pillows I've bought over the years. I'll need to change his sheets, because right now he has tacky ones on there and I want the ones that complements his bedspread. Of course, some things like the fairy dust will have to wait until he's asleep. It's going to be a long night and I could use a little help.) Oh, OK. Well, I could come and get him and take him out for dinner while you get your tooth fairy business done. I could be done here in a couple hours. OK, I'll see you then. Oh wait, hey Baby....?"
He touched some of our auction items and pretended to look closely at a gift card for an all you can eat buffet that he's probably never set foot in. He was having some kind of internal struggle I could tell. He wanted to ask something, but now he was afraid. "How does it look? Honestly. We have that photo shoot with my family this weekend. Does he look OK?"
It struck me. No wonder this DD spends so much time at the cluuubbbb bar in the middle of the day. He was raised by an OAM and a Douchey Dad and now he's just repeating that vicious cycle. He's afraid to tell his OAM wife the fear he has of telling his own OAM that his kid might ruin her perfect family photo - actually, I think these types of people call them "portraits." It was (almost) unbearable to watch (and eavesdrop on), but I managed. "Right. Right. No, you're right. I'm sure it's adorable. But...I should probably call my mother...and, y'know...warn her."
Stop the cycle! There should be a telethon for these people!
Here is the response post from the Hubs. Douchey Dads revisited.
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