This past weekend I embarked on the never-boring experiment of spending time with my father. We ate Greek food at a nice restaurant at which I avoided the subject of his younger-than-me girlfriend (as an exercise in restraint, I'll just call her a Gold-Digging Whore) and we both learned about our waitress' evolving views towards her on-again/off-again boyfriend. I've never sat in a restaurant with my father and not become privy to the life story of the waitress (never a waiter). Say what you will about him, the guy's got game. At 66, it's a little unusual. And creepy, too.

Who would I be with another father? I probably wouldn't know how hard up so many women are for male attention had I not grown up watching him chat up every lonely woman, in or out of the service industry. I never wanted to be that girl/chick/lady...the one opening up like a stop-motion hydrangea (lilac?) at the mere nod of attention from a man happy to have that power. But, I suppose, in all fairness, that woman's reaction came from some poverty of familial male love, maybe one that made my life look like Richie Rich of father-daughter relationships.

One could argue, and some have, that it's better to have the presence of a father who objectifies women, than no father at all. And, in truth, sometimes I actually think that I got more father-time than a lot of my friends with straight-up normal, geeky, dads. Due to a divorce arrangement that left me in his care, I spent quality time hanging out at poker tables and digesting maraschino cherries. Sure, I think he loves me, and is proud of me. But there are issues with trust and men that I might not resolve in this lifetime. And if I were a waitress, my father would probably request another section. I couldn't muster a fake smile if my life depended on it, and my diarrhea-of-the-mouth syndrome has been known to generate a babbling brook of feminist diatribe that some guys find less than geisha-like. Needless to say, my waitressing career never took off.

Just for today, I love my dad.