My dad is currently taking online classes so he can get his carry and conceal gun permit. Not going to lie… this makes me a little nervous.

“Your mother and I found out you’ve been blogging. We don’t know what that means, but we’d like you to stop.” That damn “What People Think I Do” spoof is the latest Internet meme making the rounds. I couldn’t find a decent one for “Blogger,” so I made this graphic in the hopes that my dad will understand, well, what it is that I do. He still has dreams of me reporting in Afghanistan or writing the Great American Novel. Sorry to disappoint, Pop.

WARNING: This will probably offend you. Just know that my dad means well and often doesn’t think before he speaks to his “rich, beautiful, young daughter.” (His words, not mine.) To be fair, I rarely think before I speak, either.

I went over to my dad’s house yesterday to eat fried tacos and watch Full Metal Jacket — that 1987 Stanley Kubrick war movie. TOM says this is the best representation of boot camp that he’s ever seen, meaning, boot camp in the 1960s. He says boot camp today is a lot different. He also says that his boot camp was even worse than the one in Full Metal Jacket (remember when this happened?)

My dad was kind enough to answer all my questions, like why the drill sergeants are so mean. His response makes perfect sense — that you come in as individuals, but you leave as one unit. They break you down so that everything you know and think is gone, and then they build you up as a whole so you can leave a strong fighting machine. TOM says that boot camp was one of the hardest things he’s ever had to endure, and he often draws on his experience there when getting through tough times.

While watching war movies, my dad gets pretty into them and often forgets that I am his daughter. He uses dirty language (far more than usual), and I guess he regresses back to the potty-mouthed man he was in 1969. Last night, when dinner was ready and the movie was paused, my dad yelled at me from the kitchen, “Come in here and get your dinner before I drag you in here by your f*ck hole and make you eat it!” Wide-eyed, mouth agape, I was stunned. My dad ran into the living room, “Oh my God, Tina, I am so sorry! I can’t believe I just said that to you! I just get into these movies…” He clearly felt bad. I was still in shock. Then we both started laughing. Yea, that’s my pop.

Dad: Hi, can I call you back? I’m in the bathroom!
Me: I can see that! Grooooss.
Dad: Well, I’m naked as hell! You can’t see anything, can you?
Me: No! Just your face. Gross.
Dad: Well, if my phone rings, I’m going to answer it! Can I call you back?
Me: Well… I just have one question.
Dad: Well, hurry. I’m on the shitter.
Me: Do you care if I write about what you said yesterday?
Dad: I don’t give a rat’s ass what you write about. If it doesn’t embarrass you, it doesn’t embarrass me. Well… don’t put anything on there that would make me look bad. Like, don’t say you caught me screwin’ a dog or anything. Not that something like that would happen. I don’t do dogs. But if you’re over here and you catch me sleepwalking, and I’m humping the fireplace, don’t write about that. Now do you want me to call you back?
Me: No, that won’t be necessary.

Dad: You sure do have pretty eyes, Tina.
Me: Thank you!
Dad: You do, just like your mother. You know you were born three months premature, right?
Me: Yes, Dad. I weighed 2 pounds, 3 ounces.
Dad: Right. Well, a few weeks after you were born, one of the doctors told us he thought you were a mongoloid.
Me: Oh my God, what’s that??
Dad: Like, that you had Down’s syndrome.
Me: Oh my God, really?!? You never told me that!
Dad: It’s true. Your eyes were very wide set. He didn’t say “mongoloid” — that’s my word. But he did say Down’s syndrome. We freaked the f*ck out.
Me: What happened?
Dad: We went to another doctor who looked at your hands and feet and said that the other doctor’s license should be pulled. You clearly didn’t have Down’s syndrome. But you do have Dumb syndrome.
Me: Thanks, Dad.

My 61-going-on-15 pop often treats me like I am 10 years old. He wants to help me with everything, give me unsolicited advice, speak for me when we’re out in public and all but crush my independence when we’re within 10 feet of each other. He only behaves this way because he has a heart of gold, and I am still his little girl. It drives me crazy, and I can sure as hell be a mouthy 30-year-old teenager when he gets in his “dad mode” — but the bottom line? I hope it never goes away. And after watching this beautiful “The Years Are Short” video, I think I understand. Whether you have kids, want kids, are blessed to have (or have had) wonderful parents, you should watch it. The message really hits home. (via Love Life)

Just because I am a writer, my dad seems to think I am this amazing walking Dictionary/Thesaurus combo. He will call me just to ask how to spell “unnecessary.” I don’t mind so much, though I am still trying to teach him about Google and how if you type in any word, it will generally spell it correctly for you. I think I am just going to have to file this along with the complexities of “copy and paste.”

Dad: I bet you’re really good at Scrabble.
Me: Not really.
Dad: But you’re really good at spelling!
Me: Yea, but I don’t know all the words in the Dictionary.
Dad: But you’d know all the words in a Little Dictionary.

Perhaps, Dad. Perhaps.

Dad: So, did I tell you I really like my new iPad?
Me: Yes. I’m glad you like it.
Dad: Oh! I didn’t tell you. I was looking at YouTube the other day. And I found animal sex!
Me: Why were you looking up animal sex?!
Dad: I wasn’t looking it up! You know how when you watch a video, it suggests more similar videos for you to watch? Well, I kept clicking and watching a bunch of stuff until eventually I found these dirty videos!
Me: Gross.
Dad: Seriously! I was looking up a video about Willie Nelson presenting Kris Kristofferson a ‘Veteran of the Year’ award. You know Willie Nelson, right?
Me: Of course.
Dad: Back in The Day, I used to have a friend who’d sell Willie dope* whenever he came through the area. Do you know Kris Kristofferson?
Me: No.

Dad gives me a dumb look like I am the biggest idiot on the planet.

Dad: He’s a famous songwriter. He wrote Janis Joplin’s ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ Do you know Janis Joplin?
Me: Duh. Go on.
Dad: Well, anyway, I kept watching videos that looked interesting, and I don’t know how I got there, but somehow I went from Willie Nelson to Janis Joplin to dogs f*ckin’ women. You know how a dog will sniff your crotch? Or hump your leg? Well, this dog was down south on this woman, just having his way with her! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that.
Me: Gross! Why’d you watch that?
Dad: Tina! I didn’t do it on purpose. But you know if you saw a video right there in your face of a woman and a horse goin’ at it, you would click to see what it’s all about. It’s just human nature.

No, it’s not. It’s just human nature for TOM.

Note: My dad would like to clarify that he doesn’t actively seek out beastiality and/or Internet porn. He accidentally stumbled upon this while perusing YouTube videos. But naturally, when he was presented with the dirty content, he clicked it.

*By dope, my father doesn’t mean “hard drugs.” He is referring to marijuana, which Willie has openly used.

Just found one of my Pro & Con lists I made before moving from New York to Kansas City. Upon filling out this particular one, I had already made the Decision To Move and had six weeks until it was time to drive my U-Haul out of dirty Jersey. But whenever I got struck with various bouts of anxiety, I would make one of these dumb lists. I did this one in a hurry; it probably wasn’t all that accurate. But it’s amusing, nonetheless. Five months later, I can honestly say that I am happy with my decision.

My dad came over tonight for Chipotle and a friendly game of Rummy. When we play Rummy, we play for a dime a point. When one of us hits 500 points, the game ends. Tonight I won $12.50.

Towards the end of the night, I asked my dad if he wanted to help me fold clothes. I hate laundry. Hate it. I thought I would enjoy it now that I don’t have to lug it five blocks to the laundromat, but nope. Being the helpful guy that he is, of course he assisted me with this horrid chore. Immediately, I realized this was a mistake. I quickly gathered all of my undergarments and stuffed them in their respective drawers. My dad felt the need to inspect every item very closely. The white bleach spots on my 2003 Sigma Chi Assault Ball T-shirt. The perma-stains on the bottom of my workout socks. My lone pair of black panty hose that I failed to grab. Ooooh, fuuuuudge. As he turned the feet inside out, he tangled them around his neck and began to strike various poses like he was about to go into battle with the Karate Kid. “Please give me my tights back,” I begged. “Please.” And then he saw that little bit of extra fabric that all pairs of tights and panty hose have in the, um, groin area.

Dad: What the f*ck is this little area?
Me: I don’t know! All tights have it. Just give them back to me.
Dad: Why do girls’ panties have that bit of extra fabric there? Guys don’t have that in their tighty whities!
Me: I don’t know why!
Dad: What, is it to help the stench? To stop leakage? Did the panty-hose makers just have extra rags lying around and they thought they’d slap them in the crotch?
Me: Dad. Give me back my tights.

Before leaving my apartment, my dad used the restroom. Upon his return, of course he just had to comment on my lady products.

Dad: That’s some top-shelf deodorant you have in there!
Me: …
Dad: That Chanel Number 5? It smells real good on my pits!
Me: DAD! You can go home now.