Dodo Eggs

*Work is underway on my second child.  I’m sure you know about the nausea, aches, pains, and the forcible effects pregnancy has on a woman’s body but you may not be fully aware of the man’s responsibilities.

1. Destroy all scales in the house.  No one is to know what anyone weighs.

2. Sufficiently show remorse for not equally carrying the growing child.

3. Compulsively reinforce her self-image.

4.   Fully express your disgust regarding any girl who’s “just too skinny.”

*I must admit that the excitement over the arrival of our second child fails to compete with the enthusiasm we held for our first child.  The first time we discovered a new life had been created, phone calls were made immediately and the news related in eager tones. 

When Melissa told me we were expecting number two, I said, “Alright, is there anyone you want to call?”  

There’s no better example of this than the pregnancy test.  With our first child, the plastic stick hung out on our mantle for almost two months before being filed into some dusty drawer.  We may still have it.  I honestly have no idea.  In fact, it sounds a little gross by now.  The second test was simply thrown away.

*I was in the nursery closet the other day amazed by the literal bushels of infant and toddler clothes we have.  That’s not counting the millions of outfits we’ve sold at garage sales.  All the extra clothes we’ve kept are folded into carefully labeled boxes such as, “Three to four mouths – Winter” and, “Outgrew as we were putting it on.”

Stepping out of the closet, I noticed that we’ve no plans to update the nursery either. 

“Well,” I told Melissa.  “If the second one is also a boy, then I’m guessing his first phrase will probably be ‘hand-me-down.”

Melissa grinned.  “Don’t worry.  He or she may wind up with a second hand nursery and old clothes but we’ll whip up a fresh batch of love for him.  Kinda sweet, right?”   

“Little black books are a little cliché.  I’m sure most men understand that the number of women available to them at any given time is fairly limited.  Perhaps a little black matchbook would be more appropriate.

That doesn’t mean that there’s no use for those faux leather notebooks!  I have kept one for some time even now that I’m married.  The difference is what’s between the covers.  I keep a few notes on successful tactics in love’s game.

Let’s flip through the pages and see if there’s anything I can offer to my fellow males…”

Matt opens his jumbo black binder filled with loose-leaf pages.  Does and don’ts crowd each page all written in indelible ink.  He looks at a few sticky notes tacked into each side of the binder and nods with approval.

“Oh, yea.”  He mumbles to himself.  “That one worked like a charm.”

Matt coughs and remembers that DodoEggs.com is listening. “Ok, here are a few things that men can do…”

Romantip #1- Flowers are a must buy at least four times a year.  It’s like an oil change, if you can’t remember the last time you did it then you’re probably way past due.  But don’t just leave it at flowers!  You can crank it up another notch by tagging each one with a trait she has that you appreciate.

If you can’t think of any, I do have suggestions.  Is your wife beautiful, thrifty, intelligent, capable, stylish, funny, a great mother, or amorous?  If not, she will be after this.

Romantip #2- Women want to know exactly how you feel about them.  When you are filling out a card, DON’T tell her only how great you think she is.  It’s lame and ambiguous!  Add a little creative thinking by making a dynamic comparison.

Try a few of mine…

…a fine bottle of wine (others may be younger, but she becomes more valuable with age, more intoxicating, and more highly prized.)

…a lock and combination ( only she can open your soul with exacting precision and you were made completely for each other.)

…a fine tapestry  (women like the sound of the word tapestry anyway, or is it me?  Mention each memory together is like another colorful thread weaving a tapestry of each other’s life together.)

Romantip #3- Draw her a bubble bath THEN stick around with a large cup to pour water over her shoulders.  You’ll find warm water relaxes the body and conversation.  It’s not a day at the spa but she may appreciate your time and thoughtfulness more.

Matt closes his black binder.  “Ok, that’s enough.  I’m guessing you’ll have her boasting to the other ladies in no time with that.”

Leon interrupted my lunch with, “Hey Matt, I’ve heard Samantha likes you.  Do you like her?”

“Really?”  This was exciting news.  My sophomore year had just begun and there was no better way to start than football practice and a fresh crush.  “How do you know?”

“What do you mean?  ‘How do I know?’  You’re probably the last to find out!”

“Samantha Opeheimer right?  You mean the red head from West River?”

A sarcastic smile zipped across Leon’s face.  “With sixty students at a boarding school, it’s reasonable that you would be confused.  Would it help if I found out her blood type and social security number?”

“Don’t bother yourself.  I know who your talking about.” 

Leon’s eyes widened a bit.  “So?  What are you going to do?”

At that time, I wasn’t sure.  What I eventually did was learn a lesson in natural beauty. 

A week later, Samantha came out for a Saturday breakfast without any make up.  The difference from her “done up” face startled me.  She looked fine with make-up but without the assistance of lip-gloss, mascara, eye shadow, foundation, blush, hair spray, shrink-wrap, and a fresh coat of wax…well…I was less impressed.

It was at that moment I discovered the three immutable laws of natural beauty.

From the above story, you can guess the first.  A girl must maintain at least 66% of her attractiveness regardless of how much makeup she is wearing or how her hair looks.  It’s best to know a girl’s cellar before investing too much in her.  When you wake up in the morning, it’s the cellar you’ll be greeted with not the penthouse.

Rule two is a shade more complicated.  Give your lady friend a long hard look.  (This might work better on a picture of her.  Prolonged staring has been linked to the metal disorders of paranoia and obsessive self-consciousness.)  If you put your hair cut on her, is there ANY chance that she could pass for a guy.  More importantly, does she remind you of a past pal?

I’m proud to boast that the choice I made has such a high cellar she’s practically on stilts.  Melissa doesn’t need a great deal of cosmetic help since it would only distract from her beautiful blue eyes, high cheek bones, and slender neck.

Oh, the third law?  A beautiful woman doesn’t have an Adam’s apple, but you knew that right?

What miraculous event brought you and your spouse together? Where did fate steer you toward the love of your life when the chances of it going the other way were much greater?  Love is a fragile creation when you consider everything that could have gone wrong. 
 
During the spring of 1994, I was preparing to move from my beloved Dakota Territory and follow my family to the South.  I requested information from nearly a dozen private colleges from East Texas to North Carolina.  Each time one responded, the pamphlets, brochures, and propaganda spilt across my kitchen table like a glass of milk.
 
Most schools leaped off my list with just a glance.  Some were strictly theological seminaries, some were historically black, and a couple printed, Are you made of money? as their letterhead.
 
One institutes’s materials finally caught my eye.  It was a Christian liberal arts college in Memphis that boasted a deluxe workout center with a pool.  I gave the inserted picture of the pool another scrutinizing look.  There were girls lounging around the pool in modest one-piece bathing suits!  Perfect!
 
As amazing as it may sound, I chose the establishment for my higher education because of a two inch by two inch picture of women in their brochure. 
 
I completed my application and threw it in a bulging manila envelope.  I was so confident that fate was directing me to the girls in the photo that I didn’t fill out another application.  Not once did I consider rejection or that something unforeseen could happen to the paperwork.
 
Fate toyed with catastrophe.  During my application’s trip through the Bismarck post office, it burst open.  The loose contents littered the floor and conveyor belts of the  post office’s busy sorting center. 
 
One postal worker spotted the mess and ran his eyes over the forms spying my name he uttered, “Hey, I know his guy.”
 
My uncle had come across the application and took the time to assemble the paperwork again.  He then resealed the envelope (or put it in a new one, how should I know) and sent the rescued submission on to Memphis.  Without his fortuitous placement, I may never have darkened the same classroom thresholds Melissa did.  History would have become irrevocably altered.

Postscript #1: Years later, I still have that brochure.  When I look at it, I realize I still don’t have any idea who those girls are. 

Postscript #2:  Nineteen year olds have no judgment.  When I tried to quantify a teenagers judgement, the readout on the calcualtor kept displaying Err. 

Postscript #3:  I swam at that pool many times during my three and a half years at that school.  The only moderately attractive female I ever met was the lifeguard.  We dated a couple of times. 
 
Postscript #4: For the record, that’s one of three girls I dated in college.  It’s number that has frat guy’s heads spinning.  I’m not kidding; I would have had an easier time hunting dodos.

I’m sitting in the back of a church service with ten minutes left before high noon.  I had a crumpled bulletin in my hand covered in tally marks.  The child-like script above the marks read, “Men with bald spots.”  I started a new column, “Men with bad comb-overs” and Mrs. Teply took the pen away from me.  

“Look you, the service has nine minutes left.”  She whispered.  “Can’t you put on a better show for at least that long?”

I leaned into her ear.  “Baloney!  No self-respecting preacher finishes exactly on time.  Especially when he’s preaching on good Biblical teaching and how it relates to college football.  So I’ve really got another fifteen or twenty easy.”

She cleared her throat and looked ahead. 

With just a touch of theatrics, I did the same but I didn’t refocus on the sermon.  Sitting just ahead of us and to the right was Samuel and Patty Berlins.  Both had good posture but were sitting so close together the Oxford blue of Sam’s shirt bled straight into the baby blue strips on Patty’s blouse.  Sam’s arm was around her shoulders.

In a church service, this tight proximity to your spouse was the max affection package.  Any thing hotter and an usher may bump the back of your head with the corner of a new hymnal.   

After church, Sam approached me.  “Hey Matt, how ya doing?”

I unleashed one of the static one-liners I use when I really don’t have anything important to say.  “Well, let’s see, I haven’t walked into any walls yet today so I’m doing pretty good.  And you?”

He gave me a courtesy chuckle and we both pretended we had someplace to go.

As I watched Sam wander off to his next handshake, I was plagued by the question I really wanted to ask him.  “How do you walk through life holding the hand of someone so ugly?”  But I’ll never conjurer a smooth way to ask it.

Perhaps the more mature men among us have no difficulty accepting their wives for the person they are…but I don’t believe that for a second.  

I liken it to the car a man drives.  It’s blatant that men want and spend too much for nice cars.  Red-blooded males love to have their pals throwing compliments and strangers stopping to look as they drive up.  It’s a status symbol, a ranking.

Melissa and I were wandering about a hotel celebrating our anniversary.  We strolled past a bar on our way to the restaurant and I realized I had forgotten my wallet.  Melissa understandably didn’t want to go back so she stood outside the bar and waited.

When I returned she quickly took my arm.  “You wouldn’t believe what just happened to me.  I had two separate men come by and try to pick me up.”

“That’s wonderful news!”  I laughed then squeezed her shoulders.  “Why would I want to scoot around town with a woman no one else would want?”

So when a beat up car drives by the park and the crude teen-age boys praise Melissa’s features using all the latest vernacular, I give them a thumbs-up and a big smile. 

My mother-in-law was strong willed, opinionated, stubborn, and vastly concerned about the well being of her daughters.  These are features that are harmless if fenced by appropriate boundaries, but I was a young suitor still working to win the favor of his girlfriend’s family.  I was putty in the wrong hands.

The original plan was straight out of my textbook.  I wrote a note in bold letters asking, “Would you marry me?”  This was slipped into an envelope with a short cut in the upper corner near the stamp.  The opening was the same diameter as the ring. 

“Ok, Mrs. Morgan, here’s what I want to do.  I’m going to mail you the letter.  Please make sure Melissa doesn’t see it.  When I get there for supper that night, I’ll take the letter and slip the ring inside it.  Then you can tell Melissa that a letter has come for her.”

The receiver was quiet for a second.  “Um, then what?”

“She’ll open it and the ring will fall out!  She’ll think I was stupid enough to mail the ring!”  I was flush with my own genius.  “So, what do you think?”

This time the receiver was quiet for two seconds.  “I don’t think that’s what Melissa would want.  Why don’t you do something more traditional?”

The plan was simplified and made stale.  Melissa and I drove to the church campus where we first kissed and I proposed there under the watchful eyes of the church security van.  Then we drove to our favorite restaurant for a romantic Italian meal that went nicely with our palpable excitement.

“You know, I had a totally different plan for asking you to marry me.”  I related my half brained idea then finished with, “But your mother thankfully talked me out of it.”

I related my plan and Melissa’s face contorted a bit.  “Well, I would have liked what you came up with, after all that’s you.”

We continued our meal.  Right before the desert, Melissa leaned toward me and said,”From here on out, let’s not have my mother co-sign on everyone of our most precious memories.”

Welcome to the first post in Cupid’s Cavities.  If you didn’t read the caption associated with the category it says, “A collection of love focused stories and ideas sweet enough to give Cupid tooth decay.”

What really makes these posts different from Dodo Eggs and the other categories is the truth.  Well, there’s at least a healthy dose of it.  You’ll find these posts a thirst-quenching change from everything else on Dodo Eggs.  Or maybe you won’t.

Let’s begin with a couple bits of advice for marital bliss from Mama Teply…

“Move at least 2 hours from me.” – It’s not that she doesn’t like me…I think.  It’s her opinion that only two people should have their hands in a marriage’s delicate clockwork.  

“Never call me and complain about your wife.”- Mama Teply doesn’t wash my dirty laundry anymore (of any sort).  This principle extends to anyone.  It’s horrible form and a tacky habit to complain to anyone about you spouse.  It’s one of the first signs of serious malady.

Since this introductory post was a little short, I’ve added a few bonus quotes from Mama Teply.

“You are as useless as tits on a boar hog.” – Are you so lazy you can’t keep a hobby?   

No one knows why men have tits.  I liken them to hood ornaments on a car.  One thing is for certain, mean big brothers have been trying to twist them off for years and they’re still there.

“Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk is sure good.” – The context of this quote would lead one to believe there was a positive result to whatever difficulty one was experiencing.  This was rarely the case when my mother used it. 

“That’s Neater than a Sceeter’s Peter.”- When “Congradualtions!” or “That’s really great!” just doesn’t seem quite right. 

Gas prices, deficit spending, terrorists, and a bulging waistline have you a bit depressed?

Here’s a shade of joy to color your dreary outlook.  Mr. And Mrs. Teply are pleased to announce a successful confluence.  Only a few troublesome weeks and one very excruciating event now separate us from the joy of sleepless nights, dirty diapers, and skin softer than a cherub’s butt.  (Yes, I know how it happened.  Spare the humor.)

Saul James is still around.  He’s bigger, stronger, better looking, more humorous, and more intelligent than his father.  Down our quiet dead end street, there are three other little boys all within a year and a half of Saul.  The trouble little boys can get into grows exponentially with each additional member to the group.  I’m looking forward to it.

Most people I have shared the news with profess to some hazy foreknowledge.  These pseudo-prophets then conjure a girl in my future.  That’s not going to happen and my reasoning is simple.

Growing up, Papa Teply would wander around the basement of our home “a la natural.”  This didn’t bother my mother, of course, but it did send my brother and I cringing a bit.  We overcame our nausea and life progressed.  

I would never admit to picking up any of my father’s bad habits.  In fact, the idea of pronouncing my dominion in such a barbaric way is truly stomach turning.  But if I did decide to make such a display in my personal habitat, well, a girl would make that impossible.  That’s reason enough for the fates to grant another son.

God willing, we will be welcoming Luke Allen (the beautiful Olivia Kay) in nine months.