The bar cannot get any lower.

For years, the bar was always pretty low but it was never so low it couldn’t go lower.

Until now.

The only way the bar could get any lower is if someone took the bar, raised it briefly so a trench could be dug, and then placed the bar into said trench and covered it with dirt.

That, my friends, would truly be a low bar.

I don’t even know when the bar got lowered in the first place. One day the bar was in it’s usual low, but not as low as it is now position, and then last Sunday it was at it’s now all time high of a low.

It’s a hell of a low, is what I’m saying.

The bar I’m talking about is the one my wife and our 23-year-old daughter Emma lowered for me last Sunday. The bar is their measuring device of my ability to do things which explains why it’s always been pretty low.

I’m not a complete moron and there are many things that I can do well. Unfortunately, the things I can do well mean nothing to my wife and Emma.

For example, I can name, off the top of my head, the starting lineups for the 1964 and 1967 St. Louis Cardinals’ World Series teams.

Does that impress my wife and Emma?

What do you think?

I can also quote many, many lines from the classic movie “Fletch” – something I think, after all these years, is pretty impressive.

My wife and Emma?

Not so much.

Last Sunday, we made plans to go to Kansas City to take in the Van Gogh  immersive experience at Starlight Theater.

By the way, if you haven’t been to the Van Gogh immersive experience do yourself a favor and go. It’s neat is what it is.

Emma was home with us for the first part of the weekend so the plan was for my wife and Emma to ride in Emma’s car to her apartment in Kansas City while I drove my car. Because the Kansas City Chiefs were playing at noon on that Sunday, I left for Kansas City shortly after 9 a.m. so I could get to Emma’s apartment in time to watch the game while my wife and Emma opted to leave several hours later.

Before I got to Emma’s apartment, I stopped at a grocery store to pick up beer and some snacks for the game. Of course, as it turns out, the Chiefs’ game was perhaps the worst  game I’ve ever seen.

And I’ve been a Chiefs fan since 1967 so I know a little something about bad games.

The game was so bad that by halftime I had already given up on the Chiefs’ chances. So, knowing that my wife and Emma would soon be arriving I opted to drown my football sorrows in a beer and some constructive activity.

I figured my wife and Emma might be hungry when they arrived so I took out the cheeses and salami I picked up at the grocery store from the refrigerator. Then, I sliced up the cheeses and put them on a board I found in a cabinet in the kitchen. Then I rolled up several pieces on salami on the board, covered it with plastic and put it in the refrigerator. Then, before I shut the refrigerator door, I grabbed a beer, sat down and watched the Chiefs suck some more.

About 30 minutes later, my wife and Emma showed up and once they got unloaded I mentioned the board of food in the refrigerator.

This is what happened next.

Wife: Thank you. (Opens the refrigerator). OH EMMA COME LOOK AT WHAT YOUR DAD DID!

Me: I didn’t do anything. I swear. I was just trying to be nice.

Emma: (Speaking to me) YOU DID THIS?

Me: Yes. What’s wrong.

Emma: IT’S SO CUTE.

Wife: IT IS. YOU DID A GOOD JOB, MIKE.

Emma: I CAN’T BELIVE IT. YOU ROLLED THE SALAMI. (Speaking to my wife) HE’S SO CUTE WHEN HE TRIES.

Me: I’m sitting right here you know.

The thing is, I didn’t try. I just threw some cheese and salmi on a board.

Here, let me show you. Here is a picture of the food board my wife took because she was so impressed with it.

I didn’t even lay out the fancy crackers I  bought at the grocery store on the board.

It was a complete lack of trying, is what it was.

See, once again my wife and Emma assumed I was trying to make a charcuterie board – something they both think is all the rage right now. But I wasn’t. I was just trying to slap some snacks on a board so they would have something to eat.

That’s all.

So one of two things happened last Sunday. Either I have severely underestimated the quality of the cheese and salami board I threw together.

Or, much more likely, my wife and Emma have severely lowered the bar when it comes to their expectations of me.

The thing is it’s not like I’m a chimp in the kitchen.

I do 90 percent of the cooking at our house. Always have.

By the way, when I first told my wife I was going to mention I did 90 percent of the cooking at our house she thought for a second and said “Why don’t you say 80 percent.”

To which I replied, “How about 85 percent.”

“Make it 82 percent,” my wife said.

“OK,” I said.

But then, as you can see, I went with the original and correct 90 percent.

That’s what happens when you lower my bar.