I’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. 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?
Yes, 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.
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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