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Why daddy is a doofus.

Yesterday Clara and I went to the park. I was unshaven (almost no time for personal hygiene in our nonstop weekend schedule), unshowered (ditto), baseball cap pulled down over my messy hair, clothes slightly splattered with food from one of Clara’s meals earlier in the day, shoes still stained with mud from a visit to the pumpkin farm last month. And then, in the bathroom, C. wiped her wet hands on my pants, so I got to emerge from the bathroom with a big wet spot right on my crotch. My humiliation is complete–I am now totally uncool. If the teenaged Clara ever asks me, a few years from now, when I became such a dork, I will point to this day.

1 Comment

  1. I.

    Well, I don’t know when you became such a dork, but, um, let’s just say that I’ve known you now for about fifteen years and, well, I’m a total dork, so . . .

    You may be as dorky as you’ve always been, but now you’re just significantly less sanitary.

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