I discovered the reason

It's true, I've discovered the reason that there is no such thing as the harem of men, the man-harem ... the "man-em" if you will.

And I'm quite disappointed about it.

See, last Thursday, I volunteered to give rides to see Bill's band play at the Battle of the Bands. Four of our friends took me up on my offer — four guy friends.

When I realized that I was going to be carting aroud a bunch of men, I decided that this could be a fun thing for me and maybe it would enhance my reputation as ... well, I'm not certain what I have a reputation for other than being a dork and I don't think that hauling men would help that ... but I digress.

So now it's almost show time Thursday night and I'm off to fetch my man-em.

I quickly learned the flaws associated with keeping a man-em:

1. These men were not at all interested in making my situation easier.

So what it I pulled up in front of the wrong house and honked my horn to summon one of my man-em hither? Do I really deserve criticism and ridicule?

I don't think so.

Also, I'm not a very good driver. I'm not bad, I'm just randomly clueless, but not really to the point of being dangerous ... OK not that dangerous. It seems to me that the man-em should be ever respectful and not comment on the wonders of how I get to work every morning.

2. These men didn't really care about my comfort or with being chivalrous in any way.

Upon arriving at the club, they dutifully waiting while we had our picture taken.

Here it is ... no, wait, I don't have it, as it was taken on one of my man-em's camera and he hasn't seen fit to send it to me.

Once in the club, they scattered to the bar like cockroaches away from light and shoes.

Then they sat at the table and drank their beers.

Not one of them even asked if I was interested in having a drink. Not one. I had to get my own water, fer Pete's sake.

3. They didn't listen to my suggestions but instead chose to do what they wanted.

As the band started, I informed them that they needed to be on the dance floor to provide support for the band.

They never got off their barstools.

Then after the show, one stayed at the club, one got a ride with someone else and only two remained to keep me company for the drive home.

So my first experience with the man-em was not all that I had cracked it up to be, but I was undaunted. I was sure that accumulating a man-em would score me higher on the coolness scale, so I perservered.

Saturday was my next foray into the world of the man-em. I gathered some men to accompany Mar and myself for a day of sitting on the newly opened patio of a local brew pub.

It got off to a better start as one of them actually offered to drive. So far so good.

The day progressed nicely.
And we all had a good time.

I even thought that I had found the right mix of men as one of them is the proud dad of the little guy pictured here with Mar:
He took Mar with him when baby was ready for a nap and Mar was ready to get out of the sun.

And that's not all, he agreed to return my kid to me and drive us home after.

Now we're talking.

But the rest of the day did not proceed so swimmingly.

See, the longer we stayed at the brewery, the more they drank. The more they drank, the louder they got, the more unruly the got.

Finally, it was time to take the kiddos home, have some dinner and get the sitter (sup, Tracee-Trace) situated so we could continue our night out.

And now, we're back to the Number 3 reason why man-ems don't work. They never listened to me unless I was talking about girl-on-girl action. Then their attention would wander.

There was lots of finagling of who was gonna drive whose car where and ultimately, where we were gonna go.

I had to take matters firmly in my own hand and whine a whole bunch to get them into my car on the way to the party that I wanted to attend.

Then the shotgun rider brought his own selection of CDs and insisted that we listen to REO Speedwagon at volume 11 the whole way there while they sang at the top of their lungs.

We had to stop at a liquor store as two of them had beer and weren't going to share with the third and on and on.

At one point, I literally had to scream, "Keep your hands to yourself!" as one in the backseat was pestering the shotgunner — several times.

It was quite an experience. Of course, there were some positive points. At random times, one or more would pay a nice compliment and I was delighted by the way that they tried to be cool around Kelley Pants, who they have nicknamed, oh-so-originally, KP.

They've even formed an unorganized and unofficial KP fan club.

Here's a picture from that night of KP and I:
Yeah, I look like I'm having a good time ... and really it was fun.

But it was on the way home when I had a car full of drunk man-em that I realized that trying to travel with a group of guys is like simultaneously herding cats and babysitting cranky toddlers:

I started out thinking that I was the one for the job. I had the skills and the determination, but their often-alcohol-fueled endurance will always get the better of me.

Lesson learned. But I hope my experiences will serve as a warning to those girls out there who think they can be the ones to tame the man-em.