smilies-scaryI’m pretty sure that witnessing your own dad’s naked exit from the shower is THE reason heebie jeebies were invented. I didn’t think, with the exception of inadvertently seeing what’s under my mother-in-law’s kaftan, that heebie-convulsions could possibly surpass the anti-orgasm shiver caused by the trauma of viewing paternal nakicity.

I was wrong. Like, sofa king wrong. Wrong to the wrongth power.

The other day my 77-year old dad asked me to help him set up his online dating profile. For some, it might be difficult to see the pure wrongness of this. I think of other septuagenarians, and I think it’s sweet, and pretty awesome that they’re putting themselves out there, in search of a little happiness. But for someone still getting over the fact that her mom is never coming home from the hospital—and it’s been over a year—the apparent emotional instability should be enough to tell you that this girl isn’t nearly ready for that shit.

It took me a while to begin to process that he might put himself out there again. And I’ve watched as he’s been so unbearably lonely. The logical part of my brain says this dating thing is good. So I’m trying to be supportive. But at the same time, does he really expect me to sit there as he’s filling out his build-a-babe profile? “How tall is your ideal woman?” “What color are her eyes?” “How far below her waist do you consider acceptable tit sag?” Ok, maybe that last one wasn’t on there. But seriously, I’m thinking it probably should be.Brady Bunch 3 They’ve missed something vital.

I was always pissed that my life wasn’t a 70’s sitcom. I was cursed with a head full of pubicesque hair, while all three of the fucking Brady girls got perfect, golden, shimmering-straight locks. And I’m pretty sure if something ever happened to Mrs. Brady, that Mr. Brady would enlist the help of Sam the Butcher, rather than Marcia, to help him get laid. Perhaps that’s a shitty analogy, considering Marcia wasn’t actually his real daughter. But you get the picture. Where’s MY fucking Sam the butcher when I need him?

aliceandsamYes, I know it shouldn’t bother me so much if my dad is cruising the online dating scene. It’s normal right? Although I’m worried that he’ll be taken advantage of. If there’s anything I know, it’s women. We’re a devious bunch. Especially when we start to feel the desperation of age.  He claims he’s way too smart to be taken advantage of, and that I shouldn’t worry. This from the guy who reads every chain and conspiracy theory email, like it’s been delivered from God himself. Nooooo, of course not. Why should I worry? Our long-lost Nigerian uncle has our backs.

I’m sure we’ll get through this. Somehow. But there’s just stuff that daughters are not supposed to know about their dads. Ever. Ever. Ever.

For example:

#1. no knowledge WHATSOEVER of anything pertaining to his jiggly parts
#2. no knowledge of his desired level of sexual availability of his perfect woman
#3. see numbers one and twonookie-oldstyle

Of course his happiness is the most important thing. However he is the most intolerant and difficult person. Ever. Trust me on this. Think if Fred Flintstone and Roseanne Barr did some sort of sci-fi morph mash-up thing. I’m certain any woman who tolerates him through more than a handful of dates will be either a saint, or a con. I vote for a saint. But I’m sure there will be the occasional con. I’ve got my eye out.

So know this, bitches looking to con my dad. There will be background checks. And drug testing. And if you fuck up, there will be seriously unflattering pictures of you in my blog. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

But here’s the most important thing. Is everyone listening? Because this is important.
If anyone gets laid, I do not, I repeat, do not fucking want to know about it.
*monumental heebie jeebies*
*puts fingers in ears and closes eyes*

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38 Long is the new 38C

I’ve always been one of those natural chicks… never really saw the need for a boob job. It just seemed odd to me, having someone stuff plastic chicken cutlets into my body… let’s face it… mostly for someone else’s enjoyment. I guess they’re all they’re cracked up to be, when it comes to self-esteem. But my self-esteem has always been pretty low, and no amount of stuffing was going to help that mess. So it seemed like a futile endeavor.

I spoke out equally against any and all cosmetic procedures. In retrospect, I wish there was a way to reach back into time and slap a generous amount of duct tape over my dumbass mouth. What an idiot. Of course I didn’t see the need… with my perfect, unlined skin and perky tits. What a moron.


Photo: National Geographic

This month I’m having one of those year-before-a-monumental birthdays. I’ll save you the guesswork… 49. I’ll be forty-fucking-nine years old. What. the. hell? How did that happen? I remember being in my 20’s like it was yesterday. Ok, that’s a total lie. But I was an idiot then… we’ve already discussed that. So there’s honestly no need to remember that decade. I remember my wedding… that’s all I need from my 20’s. Well, wait a sec. It would be nice to remember my 21st birthday. From what I understand, I had a great time. But that’s not a memory I’ve ever had, nor ever hope to regain. I’ll have to enjoy the epic tales, and leave it at that.

Now as I look in the mirror, I’m seeing an old person. Who IS that? And why the fuck are her tits down there?! I’m beginning to wrap my mind around the value of cosmetic surgery. I’m not saying I’ll rush out and get me a set of Dolly Partons. But hey, ladies, now I get it. For the moment, I’ll embrace this new me. Yes. A 38 Long is the new 38 C. Ya. I said embrace it, not like it. I’m not on crack, people. They’re not quite to National Geographic standards. But I may have to do something about this. And don’t even get me started on the gravity vs. my ass war. *goes to do some squats*

Perhaps I’ll start small with this whole me vs. aging thing. I can’t see a photo of myself lately without fixating on what my husband calls my forehead vagina. Ya, you’re right. It’s very bold of him, considering I have control of his food supply. *evil grin* He claims it gives me character. Ya. Well so do my saggyass tits. But I’ll bet he’d be all over the idea of me getting those back to their former glory. *pffft*

I’m thinking for my year-before-the-monumental-birthday, I’ll see about getting rid of one of my vaginas. I’ll keep the useful one. I see this as a win for my husband. Right? Then perhaps next year I’ll start thinking about a hoister for the girls. Again, another win for my husband. And since his birthday is the day before mine, I suppose I can call it his gift, and still request that sweet convertible for my birthday. I can totally see this logic working in my favor.

They say that 50 is the new 40. I guess that means 50 is now the age that things really start going to hell in a hand basket? Alright then, bitch. Game on. I’ve got one more year to be the new 39. And then the war begins. Fuck you, 25-year-old me. I get it now. I totally get it.


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