Cagle World

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

Recently, my wife and I joined some friends to attend our first “rock” concert since the COVID pandemic temporarily made fun illegal. It was great to be back in that electric atmosphere among a crowd of excited music lovers, about 90% of whom were younger than my lawn mower.

Ed Sheeran headlined the concert – with Khalid and Dylan opening. I was really excited about this lineup, mainly because with two opening acts, there would be plenty of restroom and refreshment breaks. Better yet, our friends gave us the tickets, and they also drove us to AT&T Stadium in Arlington, Texas, which meant that I could nap in the car.

I didn’t know much about Ed Sheeran prior to the concert, other than he sang a couple of popular romantic ballads and he had ginger hair that looked like he styled it with a package of fire crackers. My wife and I both worried that we might have trouble staying awake if all of his songs were slow and being performed after 8:00 PM. Oh, well. More napping!

A few hours before the gates opened, we decided to have a late lunch in downtown Arlington at Babe’s Chicken Dinner House, where the food is served family-style, most of it is fried, and everything is “all-you-can-eat.” (Did I mention the chance for napping?)

The atmosphere in Babe’s was cozy and dark, probably so we couldn’t see each other making total pigs of ourselves as the massive Lazy Susan on the table doubled as a rotating trough full of fluffy biscuits, greasy fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy and a few other vegetables that I don’t remember much.

Once we had traumatized our waistbands at Babe’s, we were off to the concert. We arrived early, which gave me a chance to scout out the food vending (including a jumbo hotdog I had my eye on) since the long walk to our seats was making me hungry again.

Probably because our tickets were free, they were high enough in the stadium to be right next to the Lord’s throne room, which was fine with me. Up there, we were among other adults who had the good sense to stay seated.

The first performer was a new rock artist named Dylan. She was young, incredibly energetic, and almost certainly had never eaten at Babe’s Chicken Dinner House. I thoroughly enjoyed her music, but she made me exhausted just watching her. When she was finished, I felt old – and hungry.

Next up was Khalid, whom I can only describe as “totally cool.” His voice was cool, his walk was cool and his songs were cool. I couldn’t really make out most of the lyrics, other than one song called “Young, Dumb & Broke.” Now, that’s a song I can relate to – parts of it, anyway. Khalid’s coolness made me feel really uncool–and still hungry.

Finally, it was time for Ed Sheeran. I was excited to discover that his performance included lots of fast, “rocking” music, and he delivered a terrific stage show. There were striking visuals, exploding fire and best of all, I finally got my hot dog.

We had a great time at the concert. Ed Sheeran and friends were extremely talented musicians, so much so that when the concert ended, I felt really untalented­, but at least I wasn’t hungry–until the ride home.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

As I have mentioned in previous columns, I look forward to bathing-suit shopping with my daughters almost as much as major dental surgery without anesthesia. But that’s exactly where I found myself recently when my youngest daughter informed me that we were a few days away from an upcoming high school end-of-year swim party, and if she didn’t get a new swimsuit, she might have to wear a modified Hefty bag (which didn’t sound all that bad to me).

Needless to say, I soon found myself in Target. Yes, this was before the Satanist clothing designer-Pride display debacle officially “hit the fan.” I do think I saw a Pride display out of the corner of my eye, but I could have seen President Joe Biden and Vladimir Putin mud wrestling – in the nude – and not been distracted. I was on a mission to find a modest bathing suit for my daughter – and then find the exit as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, I didn’t consider the fact that a dad doesn’t just take his daughters into a big box store like Target and purchase only one item. To complicate matters, I also brought my middle daughter, who is home from college for the summer, for moral support.

I spent the first part of this expedition leaning against a display of men’s briefs while my daughters argued in the dressing room about which swimsuits I would reject for revealing too much elbow. In fact, they were in there for so long that I could have crocheted them an appropriate 1800s-style bathing gown myself.

Instead, I began pondering the potential loss of another big box store since Bed Bath & Beyond recently filed for bankruptcy. I really enjoyed shopping at Bed Bath & Beyond. It was one of the few places where I could choose from a wide selection of toilet brushes, spatulas and Mother’s Day cards – sometimes all at once. Besides, the whole store smelled kind of like my wife’s shower soap, which I may or may not use when I get the urge to feel refreshed and moisturized.

Once the girls came out and assured me that their swimsuit choices would be suitable for a Sunday night hymn sing at church, I tried to head to the checkout line – but they redirected me first to the pool toy section, then to the grocery section, and then to the toiletries and cosmetics.

Here is a list of our purchases (Mind you, we went in for one dad-approved bathing suit.):

• Two swimsuits (including one bikini that I told my youngest daughter I would be wearing before she does)
• Two jumbo inflatable pool floats (that someone will puncture within the week)
• A pack of strawberry lemonade green bubble tea (I’m still not exactly sure what that is.)
• Two enormous bags of gourmet popcorn with Himalayan salt (I didn’t think it tasted Himalayan at all.)
• A sparkly-purple ergonomic woman’s razor (I didn’t ask questions.)
• A large jar of birthday-cake shea sugar body scrub (Huh?)
• Some “blush fantasy” tinted lip balm (Whatever happened to Chapstick?)
• A giant container of Extra-Strength TUMS (for me)

Once I recovered from the shock over the total on my receipt, I resolved to be grateful for the time spent with my daughters. I also promised myself that the next time someone asks me for a new swimsuit, I’m heading to Walmart for some Hefty bags.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

Every year in late spring, parents of college students all over America travel to university campuses with stylish IKEA storage bags or (in our case) cardboard boxes that once held bulk orders of toilet paper and tortilla chips. When the parents arrive, they joyfully greet their academically-hungover children and start the arduous and sometimes pungent process of “un-dorming.”

My wife and I recently drove in our decrepit but cavernous 2013 SUV to move our middle daughter and her dirty laundry back home from college. Upon our arrival to campus, we were immediately confronted by sympathetic glances from other dads in sweat-soaked t-shirts and beleaguered moms whose expressions belied their incredulity at how their children could possibly have spent an entire academic year living like this.

When we entered our daughter’s dorm complex, apparently built sometime during the late Pleistocene era, I immediately began to feel itchy. My sensations didn’t improve on our elevator ride to her room as the belt made a screeching noise that sounded like it had recently been repaired with Scotch tape and Flex Seal (as seen on TV).

Once we started the cleaning and packing process, I noticed the following repeated conversations between us and our daughter:

Parents: “Where is (insert missing item purchased at beginning of academic year for dorm room)?”

Daughter: “I threw that away. It was gross.”

Parents: “What happened to (insert expensive and stained/damaged clothing/footwear item purchased at the beginning of academic year)?”

Daughter: “I’m not sure. It got wet somehow.”

We eventually stopped asking questions, and I decided to retreat to the bathroom our daughter shares with her suitemates. I could barely navigate my way to the toilet as the place looked like it had been ransacked by cross-dressing Russian mercenaries.

In fact, I almost stepped on what looked like two deceased flesh-toned jellyfish about the size of fruit bowls. When I emerged from the bathroom holding them up about chest-high, my daughter shrieked,

“Dad! Put those down! They’re not mine!”

Naturally, I then wore them as a hat.

Once we had everything packed up, I made a final sweep with the vacuum cleaner and noticed that it wasn’t sucking up the plethora of discarded contact lenses and goldfish cracker crumbs from the musty carpet. I immediately exhausted my mechanical expertise by checking the dust canister and removing enough hair to reconstruct a young woolly mammoth. (I’m still waiting for my medal.)

When the community assistant came in to examine the room for our final checkout, she noticed that a sliver of paint had been removed from the wall when my daughter had pulled off her adhesive LED lights. The CA then indicated that we would be charged a small fine for repairs­–despite my protests that the room already looked like the dilapidated barracks of a Victorian madhouse when my daughter first moved in.

Oh, well. At least we got our daughter back home for the summer – and I’m hoping I’ll stop itching before we have to move her back next fall.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

It’s that time of year again when dads of daughters all over the country are experiencing severe headaches, watery eyes, shortness of breath and even hives. No, these symptoms are not from seasonal allergies, but from a traumatic phenomenon known as “prom season.”

With two daughters in college and one in high school, I’ve been a chronic victim of prom season for several years now, and I’m left with the scars of several exorbitantly-priced sequined gowns that were worn exactly once.

My youngest daughter recently experienced her first “prom.” She attends a private Christian school where “prom” is called “banquet,” which is basically the same as a regular prom – only with Jesus, a dinner and parents.

Yes, at “banquet,” parents serve as a source of embarrassment and irritation to their children throughout the evening, whereas at regular prom, after an endless and torturous barrage of photographs in the back yard, parents are left behind praying and imagining the worst (that their children might behave like the parents once did).

My daughter’s first big step in the process of banquet was deciding whether even to attend – considering her sometimes extreme shyness. Luckily, her school administered some formal dancing lessons for the students to break the ice a bit and demonstrate to her that all members of the male species might not be blundering idiots, after all. (My wife has assured her that even though girls mature faster than boys, most boys eventually catch up – at around age 50, or so.)

The utilitarian preparations for banquet began several weeks before the actual event when my wife took my daughter and about a month’s salary shopping for a dress, matching shoes, cosmetics, jewelry and probably some other things I’m glad I don’t know about.

My role was to receive and thoughtfully respond to about 500 text messages with photos of my daughter in an array of gowns that all looked the same. Most of my responses read something like this:

“That one looks good. It’s red. How much is it?”

But that’s not all. A few days later, my wife somehow tricked me into running by Target for something called “petals.” She said they’d be near the bras, and they would look like “stickers.” I managed to find the “petals” and, surprisingly, get out of the store without being arrested. I’m still having nightmares about it.

Once we had the outfit (instead of the new propane grill I wanted), it was time to drop a couple of C-notes on a manicure and pedicure – since formal dresses aren’t usually accessorized with mittens and tube socks these days. When I took my daughter and her friend into the salon for the procedure, the host asked me if I’d like to have my nails done while I waited. I politely declined, explaining that I’d had mine done about 10 years ago – so I was still good.

I’m happy to say that the night of banquet was magical for all of us. My shy, beautiful baby daughter blossomed among her friends and classmates, and she danced with several gracious young men whom I didn’t even have to threaten beforehand. I guess prom season might not be as bad as I thought.

Why are my eyes still watering?

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

My car is currently in hospice. I’m trying to keep it comfortable and provide a reasonable amount of care, but I’ve accepted that it’s probably approaching the end of its life.

With the expenses of two daughters in college and one in the prom dresses-driver’s ed-manicures-cell phones-Starbucks throes of high school, we need to keep our geriatric family vehicle alive for as long as possible.

My car is paid-for, which means, of course, that it has been steadily disintegrating since the day of our final monthly installment. So my goals at this point are to keep it relatively hygienic, reasonably safe for human occupancy, and only moderately embarrassing for the neighbors.

The following are a few strategies you can use to maintain your own vehicle with compassion (and minimal expense) in its twilight years.

First, speaking of expense, prepare to pay for at least one major repair every couple of months (and continually ask your wife if the repairs exceed the cost of a new car payment). These repairs will probably not cause the check-engine light to shut off completely, but it may not burn a hole in your retina like it did before.

Just last month, my car required the replacement of two major parts – apparently in order to keep it from exploding. I’m not much of a “car person,” so I didn’t really understand the technician’s lingo, but I could have sworn he said I needed two new flux capacitors.

Next, maintain the exterior of the vehicle by purchasing a membership at one of those automatic car washes. Here, you can remain inside the car while a depressed teenager wielding a giant toilet brush sluggishly smears some dirty water on your windshield before sending you on a cheap amusement park ride through the thrilling tunnel of suds. Will your license plate fall off? Will you suddenly remember that your driver’s side window won’t roll all the way up unless you call down elaborate curses upon it? You never know what excitement awaits you, but at least you can be certain that it will start raining immediately upon your exit from the tunnel.

Now for the interior. If you still have a teenager living at home, be sure to search all nooks and crannies of the vehicle for food debris and clothing. If you smell something funny (funnier than usual, that is), lift the edge of the floor mats to retrieve fermented Gummi Bears and McFossilized french fries. (Resist the temptation to see if they’re still edible. They aren’t.)

For floorboard carpet stains, I’ve found that Shout stain remover is effective in eliminating evidence of Panda Express takeout spills. As an added bonus, it will leave your floorboards with the pleasing aroma of freshly-laundered underwear.

And speaking of underwear, reach as far under the seats as possible to discover random articles of long-lost, soiled athletic clothing – and the occasional sports bra.

Once you’ve cleared the vehicle’s interior of most biohazards, ask your teenager to please keep her feet off of the glove box trim, center console, passenger window, etc. In fact, ask her if she could please find a way to occupy a seat without actually touching anything.

I’m sure that when the day comes to say goodbye to my car, I’ll experience some wistful sadness. After all, our three daughters grew up riding in it and forcing me to listen to bad music. Maybe I can make it run for a few more years to keep those precious memories alive in the soft glow of the check engine light.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

What’s Wrong with Daddy? by Jase Graves

Having two of my semi-grown daughters in college simultaneously has truly been an adventurous journey for our family – the kind where you enjoy amazing new experiences, but your expensive designer luggage gets stolen and you have to request an extra air-sickness bag.

For the first few months of their college lives, our daughters called us regularly to discuss their activities and to tell us how much they missed us (or at least our pets). Now, on the rare occasions when they call/text, we know it means one of two things: 1) they need more money or 2) something is wrong (and they probably need more money to fix it).

Our most recent crisis-text involved our “happy-go-lucky-and-blow-$300-on-another-pair-of-limited-edition-Nikes” middle daughter. At around 1:00 AM on a Friday night, my wife received an urgent text from an unknown number informing us that it was our daughter using a friend’s phone because she had lost her phone (again) and, therefore, could no longer function as a viable human being.

We replied to the text by informing her that our Life360 parental-stalking app showed her phone to be at a restaurant where her mother and I can’t afford to eat. (We didn’t ask why she was awake and out in the middle of the night because we naturally assumed she was attending a nocturnal Bible study.)

After not receiving any communication for next several hours and frantically imagining that she had been abducted by Russian Nike traffickers, we were relieved by a late-morning call from our daughter, who provided a rather vague and suspicious explanation of how she had found her phone and could now resume life as an actual person. (I’m pretty sure she also asked for more money.)

Other than a couple of the most expensive flat tires in the history of flat tires, a sophomore-college-student-proof pickle jar lid and a gymnastics accident in which she basically dislocated her entire body, our eldest and most expensive daughter has managed fairly well.

One of her more memorable requests for help was last semester when she called to inform us that she and her roommates had tried out her brand-new, state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, high-end, gourmet air fryer, and it started smoking. I replied that she should tell the air fryer that smoking is addictive and bad for its health. (She didn’t laugh.)

She said they eventually discovered that the source of the smoke was a freshly-baked cardboard packaging insert they had failed to remove from within the device before trying to use it. (I think I broke a rib laughing.)

She then asked if we thought the air fryer would be ok. I replied that if it quit smoking immediately, it could probably avoid heart disease and cancer. (I’m pretty sure she hung up at that point.)

Seriously, though, I realize that raising children to be independent adults should be one of a parent’s primary goals, but it’s still nice to be needed from time to time while they are on their college journey, even if it just involves a stubborn pickle jar lid – and more money.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected]

When my three semi-grown daughters were young (and since I work in the lucrative world of public education), we’d spend our spring break holidays riding bikes to the park, making dad-sized pillow forts in the living room, and raiding the gift shop at the zoo.

Now that two of the girls are in college and one is in high school, those days (and our gift-shop cash) are long gone.

This year, I spent most of my spring break competing with my youngest daughter to see who could sleep in the latest without developing bed sores. She usually won (barely), mostly because of the shame I would feel if I still had bed head when my wife came home from work.

My middle daughter also spent a good amount of her spring break in bed, only instead of just sleeping, she allowed the Chinese government to spy on her college laundry pile while she binged on TikTok videos to procrastinate from reading “an entire book” for her cruel and unusual college history class.

I only saw my eldest and most expensive daughter in passing as she spent her spring break going out to have her eyebrows waxed or to purchase “healthy” groceries that are missing the ingredients that make food edible – since, apparently, everything in our pantry is poisonous.

If I wasn’t in REM sleep dreaming of the good old days when my kids still spoke to me without mentioning a credit card, I was nursing my lower back, which currently feels like it’s identifying as a tackling dummy for the Dallas Cowboys defensive line. My doctor has encouraged me to relieve my pre-geriatric lumbar aches by performing several stretches that require me to get on the floor and contort my body into positions that frighten our pets.

These so-called therapeutic stretches have embarrassing names like the “child’s pose,” the “cat-cow” and the “pelvic tilt.” I’m starting to think that having me do these stretches is just a ruse by the doctor to provide entertainment for my family–and to keep me from being able to get up off of the carpet and go bother him again.

But don’t get me wrong. I did have some fun and adventure on my break.

Along with making several trips to Walmart for more toxic foodstuffs, I spent some quality “me” time inhaling microscopic fibers while vacuuming the masses of delinquent lint partying behind our dryer.

I also had the rare opportunity to re-install a toilet-paper holder that an overly-exuberant (and unnamed) potty patron managed to rip out of the sheetrock in my daughters’ bathroom. (While I was on the floor, I did a few pelvic tilts.)

Seriously, though, I know there is no sense in whining about the travails of the present or longing for the spring breaks of old. Instead, I’m determined to savor the time I can still spend with my daughters – even if it mostly involves picking up their dirty laundry, asking them how much it would cost to have my eyebrows waxed or telling them I love them as they walk out the door.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Along with identifying as “Swifties,” ignoring the reported Chinese threat of bad dancing posed by TikTok, and pretending that plant-based meat is actually edible, many young people in America are engaging in another fascinating trend – not driving.

According to recent surveys, around 20% fewer teens of driving age are getting their driver’s licenses as compared to the glorious 1980s. Much to the relief of my insurance premiums, our youngest daughter, who recently turned 16, is one of these vehicular agnostics.

Speaking of the 1980s, the nanosecond I turned 16, I raced like a scalded ape (wearing embarrassingly snug Ocean Pacific shorts) to the local DPS office for my license. I then warted my dad until he took me to a used car lot to pick up the coolest vehicle ever to leak antifreeze into the front passenger floorboard – a sleek, black 1985 Oldsmobile Calais. Yes, I literally drove it until it bled to death.

My two older daughters were also enthusiastic to begin testing our credit limits as soon as they were eligible to drive. We bought both of them very nice pre-owned Nissans, which have become grave threats to street curbs and parking blocks throughout the State of Texas. They also have developed acute phobias of car washes, and they only clean their vehicles when I threaten to curtail their Starbucks privileges.

In my effort to afford my daughters the responsibility of soiling their own vehicles, I continue to drive what could once have been described as a 2013 Ford Expedition. Having apparently reached its self-destruct date, it has now become little more than a chronic loiterer in auto service departments – held together with road tar and melted gummi bears. Instead of striking fear into my heart, the warm glow of the check-engine light is almost comforting – because I know that at least something on the vehicle still works properly.

When I first took my reluctant youngest daughter out to see what it was like to sit behind the wheel, I did my best to create a non-threatening experience for her. I chose an empty Baptist church parking lot for our practice session, praying that the Lord would bless our time together and that there wouldn’t be an impromptu covered-dish supper that day.

I actually thought the practice went pretty smoothly. There was very little screaming or crying – and my daughter remained fairly composed, as well. Our good old Expedition even behaved throughout the ordeal – saving the major engine failure for the drive home.

But, for whatever reason, the experience made her even more uneasy about learning to drive. (I think she was traumatized about having to survive for more than twenty minutes without watching a YouTube video.)

A few days later, she came to me and sweetly said, “Dad, I’m just not ready to drive, yet.”

And that’s fine with me. Kids seem to grow up too fast these days, anyway, and I’m more than happy to let her hang on to childhood for a little bit longer.

I’m confident that we’ll be watching her pull out of the driveway and hit the curb soon enough. Until then, she can ride around with me in the Expedition – watching for the check-engine light, listening to Taylor Swift and spilling a few more gummi bears.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

In many of my writings, I’ve discussed my “three teenage daughters.” It was a neat, concise way of referring to the people who made me what I am today – deeply in debt.

Seriously, though, they made me a dad and added a new level of purpose, joy and relentless anxiety to my life. Well, my eldest and most expensive daughter recently nullified that succinct phrasing by turning 20. (The anxiety hasn’t let up.)

For the past 19 years, we’ve observed each of her birthdays by throwing elaborately-themed celebrations with designer cakes (usually featuring “horsies”), multiple trips to the local party store and (sometimes) frantic do-it-yourself plumbing in the aftermath of a slumber party.

One of her more memorable parties was a birthday fiesta when she was a toddler. We had maracas, mariachi music, Tex-Mex food and Tex-Mex food. (I’m pretty sure I was just trying to re-create my favorite restaurant at home.)

The highlight of the party (other than the Tex-Mex food) was a piñata that was apparently constructed with bullet-proof armor. After I fumbled around with a box cutter, my dad pulled out what he called a “real knife” for some piñata modifications to keep the kids from ruining their rotator cuffs. (I was able to grab most of the Snickers bars.)

We hosted another “little girl” party at a local horse stable where the kids rode ponies, and I spent most of my time trying to keep everyone from eating hay and ruining their footwear.

Our greatest success might have been when my daughter turned 18 and we managed to pull off a surprise party that included her high school friends – whom we had to invite in secret by creepily messaging them on Instagram. Oh, the horror!

She actually loved the party, and my consolation for the expense was that it was held at Fuzzy’s Taco Shop. Our daughter seemed truly appreciative and impressed by our efforts – for a minute or two.

Since she’s now off at college, we thought we might avoid a birthday party this year, but we caved when she texted us to request “another cool cake,” followed by a manipulative heart emoji. Our first mistake was allowing her to handle ordering the cake, which cost roughly the same as my latest round of dental work.

The “cool cake” quickly morphed into a birthday picnic brunch at a lakeside park (near a coffee shop–of course) with some of her college friends. The cake was accompanied by an extravagant fruit tray and a large arrangement of “the Lord’s” Chick-n-Minis from Chick-fil-A. She even invited me and my wife to attend­–as long as we kept our distance and pretended to be groundskeepers.

When the party was over and I had finished pulling weeds, she gave us a big hug and thanked us for making her feel special, which made the whole thing worth it.

Since I no longer have three teenage daughters, I guess I’ll start calling them my “three mostly-grown daughters” or my “three semi-adult daughters.” And maybe they’ll forgive me if I slip once in a while and call them my three little girls.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

On a recent family vacation to New York City over the holidays, I brought home exactly one souvenir (I ate the others). While we were freezing our philtrums at the Bryant Park Winter Village Holiday Market in Midtown Manhattan, I was teen-pressured by my three daughters into purchasing a “manly beaded bracelet.” (I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.)

I bought the bracelet from a shop called Raw Spirit NYC, and my misgivings didn’t end with the name of the establishment. The beads in the piece were made from black tourmaline, and the seller assured me that it would dispel toxic emotions and cleanse my energy field.

Although I’ve been wearing the bracelet daily, my daughters would probably disagree that my toxic emotions have been dispelled, especially when I have to pay their hair stylists. And my wife would definitely disagree with the claims about my cleansed energy field, especially after I’ve eaten anything spicy.

I don’t typically wear a lot of jewelry, probably as a result of my upbringing. Men in my dad’s generation weren’t known for accessorizing, so when I was in my lavishly-mulletted teen years and announced my intentions to have my ear pierced, I don’t remember exactly what he said, but I think it had something to do with removing my ears entirely. After all, it was the 1980’s, and just about the only males with pierced ears at the time were on MTV–and most of them wore eyeliner.

I solved the earring dilemma by compromising with an imitation gold and silver ear cuff set that I purchased at Claire’s (yes, Claire’s). I sported the ear cuffs only when I was away from home and was trying to convince any teenage girl in my general vicinity that I looked vaguely like a member of Duran Duran – at a distance, if she squinted and used her imagination.

Other than a succession of gold-ish herringbone chains that turned my adolescent neck green, and a tarnished, gold-plated nugget ring that I abandoned with an ex-girlfriend who probably still gets it out at parties for a huge laugh, my next memorable experience with jewelry came when my daughters were little girls.

Our daughters grew up during the Rainbow Loom craze and created hundreds of brightly-colored bracelets made of overpriced, miniature rubber bands that I’m still finding lodged in the carpet. Because this was back when the girls were still willing to admit that we’re related, they often presented me with the bracelets as gifts. (My favorites were fuchsia and chartreuse.) I still put them on from time to time when I need a good cry.

Looking back, I now realize that encouraging me to buy the bracelet in New York was just my daughters’ way of implicating me in the smackdown they were administering to my credit cards. Nevertheless, it reminds me of them, so I wear it proudly. Besides, it does look kind of cool, especially when I pair it with an ear cuff.

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Copyright 2023 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].