But… I Don’t Lick Butts, Lady

Reason #147 why I don’t want to give up my (718) Brooklyn phone number: Getting a call from a very angry New Yorker who yelled for five minutes something to the effect of, “YOU THINK YOU CAN SHOVE YOUR TONGUE UP MY ASS AND THAT’S OKAY?! YOUR TONGUE IS SHOVED UP MY ASS SO FAR! YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY! YOUR TONGUE IS UP MY ASS, AND I WON’T ACCEPT IT! YOU APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!” I mentally went through the things I did this weekend, trying to figure out if I offended anyone on the East Coast or licked any asses. She wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise or stop yelling for long enough to even notice that I was trying to speak (“I think maybe you have the wrong number,” “Who is this?” “But… what did I do?” “Don’t speak to me that way, Lady!”) She eventually hung up. So I called her back — no stranger goes off on me and gets away with it. (I get this confrontational quality from TOM.) She quickly apologized and confessed that she thought she was calling her daughter.

Nice to know my dad and I aren’t the only ones who have messy conversations. Photo via Tribe.

Men Are Roosters, Women Are Hens

I flew in from a New York business trip last night, and being Mother’s Day and all, my dad and I decided to grab a bite on the way back from the airport.

TOM wanted breakfast for dinner, so we went to the Corner Cafe. It’s the kind of cafe that doesn’t have an accented é, and the male and female restrooms are named after various fowl. This posed a problem for me, because the bathrooms were marked “Roosters” and “Hens.” I didn’t know which bird I was, so I went in the “Roosters” door. I instantly realized my mistake. Upon my return to our table, TOM quickly informed me that I am indeed a “Hen.” Oops.

My Dad’s Anti-Wrinkle Advice

Earlier today, TOM and I were having a discussion via FaceTime.

Dad: Your hair looks nice.
Me: Thank you. I hate my forehead wrinkles.
Dad: Well, you could hang a 3-pound weight from your upper lip.
Me: Why? My lip isn’t connected to my forehead.
Dad: Everyone knows that if you stretch your lip out, it will also stretch your forehead. You can start with a 3-pounder, and work up to 10 pounds.
Me: That won’t help.
Dad: Do you see any wrinkles on my forehead?
Me: No.
Dad: That’s because I walked around with a 10-pound dumbbell attached to my lip for years.

He Has Risen! And TOM Is Concerned About The Weather

My dad called this morning while I was on my way to pick him up for an Easter egg hunt.* I often can’t help but get annoyed when he calls for asinine reasons, considering The Ol’ Man is twice my age and generally sometimes occasionally smarter than me.

Dad: What’s the weather like outside?
Me: Why don’t you walk outside and see?
Dad: Because I don’t have any clothes on.
Me: Why not?
Dad: Because I just got out of the shower!
Me: Well, why didn’t you check beforehand?! Or look on your iPad? I don’t know! I’m wearing a dress! And boots! And I brought a sweater! Why do you…

This is when TOM hung up on me. I recognize that it would have been much easier to simply answer his question. But dealing with my pop is never easy, and discussing the weather makes me panic. In New York, I would often find myself stranded without an umbrella, freezing without a jacket or sweltering in jeans in 90-degree weather. I do not know how to answer the weather question. If I can hardly prepare myself for Mother Nature’s surprises, how can I prepare someone like TOM?

*It was a children’s Easter egg hung with a friend’s family. Not to be confused with an adult hunt consisting of a lingerie-optional dress code, fancy lattes, Jameson and candy-colored balls filled with cash.

Clorox, Chocolate Chip Cookies & Grizzly Bear Sex

When it comes to my father, I will believe anything he says. Anything. Remember those boxes of mini chocolate chip cookies from McDonald’s? I loved them with all my heart and soul. When I was 5, TOM told me a kid up the street ate so many of those cookies that he turned into one. A cookie. I imagined a walking cookie with eyes and arms. This terrified me. For the next six months, I would not touch a cookie of any kind. Especially the McDonald’s ones.

Today at lunch, my dad and I somehow got on the subject of hunting. He said he could never shoot a deer. He then said he wrestled a bear once.

Me: You’re lying.
Dad: I am not.
Me: I just saw you smile!
Dad: Yea… because it was one of the proudest moments of my life!
Me: Really?
Dad: Yes! An 8-foot-tall grizzly bear. I won. It was a big ol’ bloodfest.
Me: OK, now you’re lying.
Dad: I also had sex with a bear once.
Me: DAD!
Dad: Yea, that mama bear sure did hate it.
Me: DAD! Can you please not go there, just once? I’m trying to eat.
Dad: OK. I’m sorry.

Sigh. Thirty minutes later…

My Dad Will Always Be a Tiger

Dad: What are you doing tonight?
Me: Going to watch the KU game.
Dad: Do you care about that game? Mizzou didn’t do very well.
Me: I intend to root for Kentucky. I’m wearing my Mizzou shirt.
Dad: Good girl! You stay loyal to MU. They have $100,000 of our money.

Despite going in-state for Journalism School, college didn’t come cheap. Tuition wasn’t too bad — I lucked out there. But ridiculously high ADPi sorority dues (every party had a special T-shirt), the overpriced Clinique products in the bookstore (purchased with my Student ID), the drunken orders of Pokey Stix, tips for the generous bartenders at George’s and the 150+ parking tickets (LITERALLY) upped the cost by thousands. Don’t get me wrong, I had a few scholarships, much of which were lost after a failed College Algebra class first semester. I also worked through school — everything from waiting tables to retail to a two-day stint at the dining hall. But my dad foot the bill for most of it. He even covered my student loans up until 2008, at which point he decided that I was making enough money to pay for them myself. My loans were a Christmas gift that year. Thanks, TOM!

My Dad Hates Cityville (This Is A Good Thing)

For the past year, my dad has been begging me to give him a Facebook tutorial. I think it’s finally time. A conversation from earlier today:

Dad: Tina, what is this Cityville?
Me: It’s a Facebook game.
Dad: Well, Angie* keeps inviting me to play. I don’t want to play.
Me: You can block the invites.
Dad: But I don’t want to not be her friend! What if I offend her?!
Me: Dad, she won’t even know.
Dad: I don’t understand Facebook! I don’t want to play on somebody’s farm. Is it like The Sims? Remember when your cousin Cara was little and she was really into those Sims characters? I thought that was silly. Cityville is like that, right?
Me: I don’t know. I don’t play Cityville.
Dad: Well, I want Angie to stop sending me these things, but I don’t want to upset her. Does she send you Cityville invites?
Me: No. But I’m not friends with Angie.
Dad: I’m going to have her friend request you, so you can get them, too!
Me: No! I don’t want to be Angie’s friend! I’ll help you block the application. I will come over tomorrow and tell you how to use Facebook.
Dad: Thank you. Just make sure Angie doesn’t find out we’re doing this because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
Me: Don’t worry, Dad.

*Names have been changed to protect those who use lame Facebook applications.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Happy birthday to m’lady and own personal angel, Marla Smithers. ♥ A conversation with my dad about this lovely event:

He says I’m smart. He also likes to sign off every text with “TOM” (aka The Ol’ Man). I assume this is in case I forget who texted me.

Not a Threat

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.

What Is A Blog?

“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.