Testosterone Overload

Butterfly, as I write this, is happily ensconced in a Four Star Hotel in Paris. I am living vicariously, imagining what she is doing all the day long. Soaking in the view from the Eiffel Tower? Buying exquisite perfumes along the Champs-Elysees? Enjoying croissants and cappuccino at an outdoor café? Flirting with the good-looking French men?……NO! No and No. I won’t go there in my mind.

I miss my daughter terribly! And apparently so do the cats, who spent the better part of the day curled up on her bed. I am outnumbered by the men-folk in the family, 3 to 1. They are not interested in seeing my fresh manicure, or shopping at Nordstrom’s, or what’s the story with the Cruise’s daughter, Suri? Instead, they talk about All Things Boring. And Things That I Know Not Of. Such as sports. And Nascar. And more sports. And when we went out for deep dish pizza tonight, nobody was interested in my plans to redecorate the Master Bathroom. And they all refused to give me advise for what earrings I should wear with my Easter outfit. Instead, Rock Star processed what part of the country he plans on living in when he wins a Grammy some day. And Little Squirt made inane comments, such as, “Dad, do you know you have hair in your nose? You should take it out.”

There’s too much testosterone floating around in the household at present. We need more estrogen. Maybe I can call some of Butterfly’s girlfriends, and see if they’ll hang out for a few days. Perhaps they’ll agree to mess up her bedroom, play her music very loudly, and use up all the gas in our car. Then it’ll feel like my daughter is here, and I won’t miss her so very much.