The Dangerfield Effect

Rodney Dangerfield was a comic genius. From his amazing standup to his memorable character in Caddyshack, the guy could make you laugh.

 

Over the years of enjoying his "I can't get no respect" routine, I never really empathized with Rodney. I thought it was all fun and games. I laughed until I cried and enjoyed all his hilarious, bug-eyed jokes. Until today.

 

Today, after 14 years of marriage, fatherhood and pet ownership, I finally get it. 'Cause I get no respect.

 

There I was, home on my lunch hour, preparing one of my favorite Velveeta sandwhiches when I turned away from the kitchen counter for just a moment. And my dog jumped up and began to knaw on the Velveeta block. No respect for my food. If I had tried the reverse- grabbing my dog's food when she was about to eat- I'd be missing a finger or two.

 

I should have seen this a long time ago. When I got married, my wife refused to say that she would honor or obey me. I was too young, in love and ready to get it on to mind. I let it slide and said the rest of the vows with her. Over time, I saw just why she couldn't promise to honor (respect) me. Because she enjoyed berating me too much. Like as we walked out of department stores and she would argue with me in the parking lot for all to hear. When I would complain, she would snap back "You don't know those people- why do you care?!"

 

It didn't get better when we had our first child. I got peed and pooped on. Several times. And when my oldest was mobile, she couldn't respect daddy's privacy in the bathroom.

 

"Daddy! What are you doing in there?"

 

"Daddy's pooping- go away."

 

Both my children still pester me when I'm in the bathroom. And when I'm trying to sleep. When I'm trying to mow the yard, or watch movies in my basement. Sure, sure, some call it love, but I am starting to think they don't respect my space. Like when they jump on me like I'm a climbing wall and drive little knees into my groin. Nor do my kids respect my stuff. All the broken memorabilia adorning my movie room, all the candy wrappers, spilled food and half-emptied drinks they leave littered around like the after-effects of a frat party prove that.

 

And don't get me started on the back-sassing.

 

Clearly, my dog doesn't respect me. A two year-old border collie-hybrid, she follows me around everywhere I go as well. She slobbers on me like I'm a popsicle. Chews on my arm, pulls on my pant legs and most recently decided to, for the first time ever, chew on my slippers. The slippers that protect my feet from all the Barbie shoes and jewelry beads my kids leave laying out in their dastardly plan to puncture my feet.

 

But going after my cheese? Well, clearly, that is a huge sign of disrespect. I thought I was the Alpha Male of the house, and that all my girls feared and respected me. Turns out I'm far closer to the Rodney Dangerfield of the house.

 

I think from now on, I'm going to call this the Dangerfield Effect. When my kids walk in and change the channel on the TV I'm watching. So they can watch the latest episode of Spongebob or Big Time Rush. Or when I'm playing Xbox with my other dad friends and the kids decide to walk in front of the TV. That's the Dangerfield Effect. A complete lack of respect.

 

Oh, the Dangerfield Effect is rampant in my home. It's responsible for my tools disapearing out of my tool bag. It is clearly behind the consumption of the snacks I buy just for me (and yes, I get the kids their own snacks). It's behind the lamentations I hear when Tuesday rolls around and I declare that it is finally Daddy's night to pick what we're eating, and yes, we are having pasta. Again.

 

The Dangerfield Effect isn't confined to any one geographic location. It's mobile. Like when my wife declares she doesn't like the music I'm listening to in the car and just changes it. To countyr music (which I hate). Or when the kids decide to kick the back of my seat as I drive along. Or best of all, when I excuse myself from the table at a restaurant and my littlest asks loudly "Are you going to go potty, daddy?"

 

No respect.

 

I finally get it, and I have to say to the dearly departed Rodney Dangerfield- I feel ya, man. I feel ya.