Dave's Basement

Five chicks. I could have spent the night with five chicks. But let’s face it, my ability to handle five women, in the cool way, petered out about the time I quit wearing tight-rolled jeans. And anyway, this night was not about being with five gals in a cool way. Two of them were eight years old, two were six, and one looked to be 29 (you’re welcome, dear). Both of my daughters were having friends over to spend the night, and the wife was looking forward to doing makeovers and performing “shows” with these four little bundles of energy and estrogen.

Now to be honest, I’m not the manliest guy you’ll ever meet. To prove my point (as if that’s necessary), I’m wearing a pink gingham shirt while I write this. And yes, I know what “gingham” means. But it was on sale at J. Crew. Originally 69 bucks and I got it for $17! Besides, I hear pink is in for guys now, right? . . . Well anyway, I’ve been around long enough to know that given enough time, energy + estrogen = emotion; and I feared that the laughter, tears, singing, fighting and whatever else happens when girls get together would be too much for me. I also knew I didn’t want to get pulled into a tense game of telephone, or end up with my bra in the freezer. So I hung with the gaggle for just a little bit, jumped with the younger four on the trampoline, and then motored off to my good friend Dave’s house, fueled by over-priced gasoline and unspent testosterone.

You know the old joke about how when boys are born they fight like crazy to get out of a woman’s nether regions, and then spend the rest of their lives fighting to get back in? Well, it’s true; in more ways than one. Often it’s purely about making naughty-time; but occasionally it’s metaphorical, it’s about finding a womb-like retreat where you can hide from reality awhile. For me, Dave’s basement is just that kind of refuge. It supplies all the comfort and security of a real womb, with much less stickiness. Plus, it has TV! I go over there once every couple of months and we sit on his insanely comfortable couch, crack hilarious jokes, and watch something funny (this particular night it was episodes 7-12 of Flight of the Conchords ; and Brian even came over to watch with us, cool!). Dave also has a seemingly endless supply of Miller Lite (always cans, very manly), and a conveniently placed bathroom, mere steps from the couch. The only thing better would be a tap right above your head and a catheter. I don’t hunt, I don’t play organized sports, and I don’t work on cars. But Dave’s basement is a safe harbor of guy-time that provides a needed break from a home-life full of flowers and feminine hygiene products.

Of course, you can’t be in uterine forever. And soon enough, I headed out and went back home to find all five ladies sacked-out. The house was a war zone. Carnage strewn about the living room told a tale of makeovers, musical numbers, and munchies. As I got into bed I thought, “I’m glad they’ve had fun, and I’m thrilled that I missed it.” Thanks, Dave!