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*

Couldja hook a girl up with a vote today? You can click to vote once a day. There’s nothing else to do once you’ve clicked the banner. You’re done! Thanks a million.

If you like what you just read please click to send a quick vote for me on Top Mommy Blogs- The best mommy blog directory featuring top mom bloggers

It’s all for Mom

My mom sure could rock the shutter shades.

She was a rock star. Thumbs up, mom. I love you.

My mom taught me that a positive attitude is the surest way to success. And laughter and humor carry you through adversity. The past year I’ve been challenged to live by these two things. It hasn’t been easy. May 19th will be the one-year anniversary of my mom’s passing. There’s not a day that I don’t miss her, and desperately want to talk to her. Every time I write something, I imagine my mom, covering her mouth and laughing, with her “I can’t believe I’m laughing at something so inappropriate” look on her face. I write because I know it would have made my mom laugh. It helps me feel a little closer to her. She was the

I love you mom.

So for today, it’s a tribute to my mom. Sorry this is a more solemn post. I promise I’ll be out of my funk next time, and back to my inappropriate self. But since I know you came for a laugh, I hate to think I’ve disappointed you. So here are some boobs to tide you over. ( • )( • )

Happy Mother’s Day, to my friends. And to mom… if you’re listening.

Survival Italian

I’m checking out a catalog of old folks’ classes at the community center, thinking my dad might like to get out of the house. Maybe learn a bit about jazz history, or take a creative writing class. And for those of you who know my dad, stop laughing. Ya, for sure, the history of NASCAR, or the art MacGyvering are both probably more on target. However, they don’t offer those. Yet. Perhaps he might like to teach a class….. helllloooooo, senior center, are you listening?


There’s always one lady who doesn’t fall asleep.

A few of the class offerings are actually pretty amusing. “Yoga for the rest of us” is a good one. I can totally see it. A dimly lit room with the heady bouquet of potpourri and Ben Gay, with an oaky fart-scented finish, complete with tinkly music and the calming tone of the instructor’s voice. Most participants walk in and throw their mats down, look around and say, “Ah, fuck it. I’m going take a nap.” And for the rest of the group, half way through the class, downward dog melts into side-slung pill bug. And the sound of snoring is so overwhelming, the instructor and the one lady who’s still awake pack up and cut out to Starbucks, before the rest of them know what’s happening. Ya, I really don’t see my dad fitting anywhere into that scenario. Well, perhaps the napping group.

Then there’s “Laugh and Learn – You’re Retired.” I imagine a bunch of old dudes sitting around telling inappropriate jokes, laughing at all of us non-retired dickweeds who still have to pull a paycheck. I think they take that class before going across the hall for “Longevity Stick Exercises.” I swear to God, people, that’s a real class. Remind me to audit that one when I’m old enough. Because the name alone is all the description I need. Maybe they should combine that with the video making class. Then they’d really have something. But I refuse to imagine my dad taking any part in that.

We’ve also got the old folks’ standards you’d expect: bridge, poetry, drawing, and “Critic’s Choice – The Movies.” Old people are fucking naturals at that critics thing. Why do they need a class in it? I have to imagine there’s no teacher. Only a moderator, who is fast on her feet and good at ducking flying objects. At any rate, I don’t see my dad signing on for any of those. Too many old people there. He doesn’t like old people.

They offer German 1, Spanish 1, French 1. But the Italian class is called, “Survival Italian.” This is actually hilarious, and quite accurate, given my Italian travel experiences.  You get to learn phrases like:

“Grab my ass again, and I’ll kick your balls up into your throat,” along with my favorite,

“Give me back my wallet, you skanky tramp.”

And, “It’s behind that fake-ass arm you’ve got around that doll, that’s supposed to look like a baby.”

Also, “Get your eyes off my fanny pack. I’m not stupid enough to put valuables in there,”

and, “I’m sorry sir, my euros smell like ass sweat. They’ve been in my money belt”

Or the old favorite, “I heard you have a hooker in your government,”

along with the two optional follow-up phases, “You sick bastards,” or “Whoa, cool.”

I think I need to take that class. But for my dad, who is overtly critical and highly vocal, if not dangerously so, travel to any foreign country isn’t really a good idea. This should probably include New York, most of L.A., and anywhere that a large population of heavily tattooed or pierced folks tend to congregate. So… I don’t see foreign languages really working out for him.

There’s got to be something in the catalog to interest my dad. It’s hard to say. The guy stockpiles toilet paper like a squirrel hoards nuts for the winter. Maybe “Realistic Disaster Preparation” is right for him.  After all, what’s more realistic than a fear of running out of toilet paper right before the zombie apocalypse? Yup, I’m thinking that could be the class. I’ll have to run it by him.

I wonder if they teach you how to say, “Excuse me. Can you pass some TP under the door? My stall seems to be out,” in Survival Italian.

Please share. Don’t forget a link back. Link backs are blogger crack.