Who’s your daddy? Not me, that’s for sure

Despite much masculine posturing to the contrary, the male ego is a delicate, fragile thing. Mine is, anyway. Like most guys, I usually pretend I’m above the opinions of others, that my self-confidence is an unassailable rock upon which the tides of opinion beat ceaselessly without creating the merest hint of erosion.

That’s baloney, of course; everybody wants to be liked. My guess is even Saddam Hussein’s feelings were hurt when people made fun of his moustache (which they did, a lot, though probably not while he was in the room).

But guys being guys, we do our best to bandage over our emotional ouchies, shrug off the baggage, and get on with life while doing our best to emulate Sylvester Stallone in any Rambo movie. Usually, I’m as good at this ego shell game as any man, however, last Thursday I got blindsided, but good.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor was holding her annual yard sale, an event on a par with any major New York fashion show in terms of complexity, presentation and prep time. The only things keeping MTV from covering Mrs. T’s sales are the lack of a margarita fountain and a lip synch performance by Hannah Montana.

At any rate, her yard sales are legendary and people come from near and far to haggle over the junk she puts out there every year.

But to the point (yes, there is one, though I’m already having a hard time remembering what it was—male ego, that’s it): I was sitting on the front porch putting the finishing touches on last week’s column while Mrs. Taylor tended shop beneath a large beach umbrella, making change, answering questions, chatting with the neighbors. From the porch, I could see folks in the front yard, but through the screen, they couldn’t see me.

An attractive young lady in a brown sweater approached Mrs. T’s “checkout” table with a few books, a puzzle and an “almost new” carton of Lincoln Logs. While Mrs. Taylor was tallying up her purchases, the woman said, “Does Mike Taylor live here?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. T.

“I thought so,” she said. “I saw him mowing the yard a few weeks ago. I love the Guinness Brothers.” (The Guinness Brothers is the name of the little bar band I play in on the weekends. Not the best band in the world, but we don’t charge that much, so it all balances out.) “They’re really good,” the woman added.

Mrs. Taylor made a non-committal grunt. She knew I was eavesdropping from the porch and figured my already inflated ego could do without additional excitement.

“My husband and I go see them every chance we get,” the woman continued. “They’re our favorite band. We both read his column in the newspaper, too. He’s so funny.”

“Umm-hmm,” Mrs. T said. She later told me that, even from out in the front yard, she could hear skull bones shifting under the rapid expansion of my head. I have to admit I was feeling pretty pleased with myself at that moment.

Then it all came crashing down.

“Well, anyway,” the woman said, as she tucked her purchases into a canvas bag. “Tell your father we’re big fans.”

Father.

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor didn’t bother to correct her. She just sat there under the beach umbrella wearing a Mona Lisa smile, listening to the sound of my head deflating.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com/ or http://www.mlive.com/. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.