My father was here last week. It was a great visit up until he started talking about my friend with the "big boobs." Through the grace of God and all of my 12-step programs I was able to summon the courage to ask him to refrain from discussing sex in front of his only daughter. He asked me if I'm so intolerant that I need to "silence" people who say things that make me uncomfortable. I apologized for "silencing" him. Then I realized that I don't normally spend time with people who speak to me like I'm a fraternity brother.

My friend Janeane believes that we choose our families before we are born. I'm going to have to put that one on the back burner.

Janeane's spiritual advisor told her that she has a black ring around her neck and she needs to drink a glass of white light. With all of my issues, I'm sure I have nothing short of a black tire around my neck. Just for today, I'm willing to drink a punch bowl of white light if that's what it takes.

Janeane and I decided that we're friends because we're both obsessed with the color orange. For my 29th birthday, every gift I received was orange. It's the color of creativity. The other day we had dinner a restaurant that was painted completely orange. It's on Sunset Blvd. and it's called Cheebo, which sounds a lot like Cheetos. We told the owners that Cheetos are also orange, but not of a flavor that one would associate with fine dining. I don't think they quite got it. But the food was very good and organic and the orange environment created for a fine dining experience.

This weekend I had the opportunity to tell my father all of my feelings about his inappropriate (i.e., drunk and lewd) behavior in a therapist's office. Despite the fact that he dismissed most of what I said as "my perspective," failed to admit that he'd rather be dragged behind a semi than pay me a compliment, and despite the expletives that came out of my mouth when he told me that I was a "difficult child," it was a positive step on My Journey. Later we pretended the therapy session never happened and went back to the normal co-dependent, stressful relationship that we've always had (i.e., news, weather, sports, gossip about other family members).

The next day he, my little bro, and I threw a football around. One athletic ability I have is being able to catch a football (my throwing is not quite up to par).

"I'm pretty good at catching a football," I mentioned.

"Would you like some pointers?" he asked, as he skyrocketed the ball into the grass twenty feet in front of me. (He gives pointers on everything, especially things he knows nearly nothing about.)

"No," I said. "Would you like some pointers?"

After an hour of silence he asked me if I knew "that you're supposed to catch with your arms."

"Yes," I said, as I caught the ball.

"Nice catch," he said.

That was it. It doesn't get much better than this with this guy. I have no choice but to seek more effusive forms of love from outside the family system. Because to expect more than "nice catch" sends me on the road to anger and resentment (like, for instance, "you're good at catching a football.") Just for today, I can accept my father for who he is.

My co-worker Anne likes to practice a lesser-known form of birth control on me (unbeknowst to her) by explaining to me in gruesome detail the subtle nuances of being pregnant and giving birth. Not that there's anything subtle about giving birth, especially when described by Anne who likens it to something that those of us (without IBS) should do every day. When she was really pregnant (a few months ago) and looked like she was about to explode, I asked her if she was having twins. She repayed me for this faux pas, by coming to my office and describing the details of her pregnancy; the positions of her every vein, the pain of birth, and the long healing process - knowing full well that I have ambivalent feelings about having kids!

Whenever I think of getting pregnant I think about but Geena Davis giving birth to a half-human, half-fly creature in "The Fly." When I told my friend Courtney (who is about to give birth to her second child) that I had some fear about having kids, she looked at me seriously and said, "Be afraid, be very afraid." I know my friends love their kids, but with this kind of feedback, how is my ambivalence ever going to settle into a quiet knowing?! Sigh. Just for today, my ovaries remain unfertile (rather, make that my eggs).

Just for today, I can love my family on vacation. And when my mom tells me that "Everyone turns into their parents," I don't have to respond like a nuclear reactor and say, "God help me" like Mrs. Condescendo. Just because my mom wants me to be a miniature version of her, (except for the fact that I'm much bigger...she's teeny, tiny), doesn't mean that I don't have any choice in my life decisions. It's not that I don't think my mom is an amazing person, but I don't want to be a miniature of anybody, and I make different decisions, like, for instance, I haven't gotten married yet, and I get my hair professionally highlighted. And when she tells me that I don't know what I'm talking about, I don't have to threaten her by saying "I don't want kids, so you won't be a grandmother till my sister has them and you're about 100," (which is really just about the worst thing I can say to her).

My mom is the person that brought me forth into the world and now she's my friend. She has no earth shattering power over me and my self-esteem...so long as I have boundaries.

Just for today, I can enjoy my mom on vacation.

Last night, out of nowhere, I was overcome with the desire to call my mom and burst into tears and say, "I'm scared!" And before I knew what was happening, I was crying on the phone to my mom like I a five-year-old.

"What's wrong?! What happened?! Did something happen?!" she asked.

"No, everything is fine," I said. "Why?" I asked, totally forgetting that I had just behaved like a trauma victim. I must be missing some part of my brain that makes moments in life seem continuous. As far as I knew, I was suddenly fine.

"Are you safe?!" she asked.

"Yes, I'm safe, Mom," I told her. "I just was suddenly overwhelmed by my life."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what's going to happen."

"Well, nobody does."

"I know. So, how are you?"

"I'm making dinner. So, are you sure you're safe?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I just suddenly got scared about what's going to happen to me in my life. Sorry to bother you."

It's really embarrassing when I act out of a regressed state. Just for today, it's OK to be embarrassed when I act out of my own fear and anxiety.

My mom likes to say that everyone turns into their parents. This (to me) translates into, "It really annoys me that you're not my clone." I used to apologize for being myself and, well, different from her, but I now accept that I am just sometimes annoying to her.

If I had to break it down to one thing, our relationship suffers from a fundamentally different approach to the inherent pain and sadness of living. My mom belongs to the school of thought that pain, not only should, but, can be avoided with steely optimism and the triumphant resolve to "just be happy." Whenever I was sad growing up she would say, "Just don't feel that way." Rejection, alcoholism, and floundering self-esteem were no match for this simple recipe. In some ways it made sense, and sometimes it actually worked...for her. She could, like my volleyball coach used to say, "shake it off." Maybe it's because she's a Sagitarius and I'm a Pisces, or maybe because while she was able to divorce my father, I had no choice but to keep downing the Shirley Temples and browsing the juke box at every bar, or maybe I'm just different...

Still, sometimes it's nice to think that maybe it's that easy.

Just for today, I'll try to "just be happy."

I celebrated Father's Day by eating Costco hot dogs with my friend and discussing why we weren't calling our fathers or sending cards. I guess if I didn't feel so much pressure from this Hallmark nation to make my life look like a Mervyn's commercial, I could have sent him a card pointing out his assets.

Dear Dad,

Therapy was a disaster.
But at least you went.
Happy Father's Day.

But Hallmark doesn't have a section for relationship grey areas...yet. I see a whole line: "Break-up sex" cards, "I love you, but I need my space" cards, and "Go with God, because I'm done" (which isn't so gray)...

It's becoming clear that I'm no longer fit for polite society.

Just for today, I experience holidays in my own way.

While home visiting my mom, I told her that I would help her de-clutter the room with all of my books, papers, and clothes from my childhood (i.e., my "crap"). Because my mom believes that she can avoid death by saving every object that the winds of time place in her home, I had the opportunity to dig through dense vestiges of my past.

And I found...

1) a giant lock of the hair I saved from when I was 22 and had my hair chopped off as a solution to post-college-end-of-adolescence-crisis (which never actually ended, but I just learned to embrace as my special gift...). Let me just say that locks of hair are creepy and should never be saved by anyone except wig makers.

2) a 45 of Duran Duran's "New Moon on Monday" and other records (I thought Brian Setzer was so hot ) that I'm going to price on e-bay.

3) a dot matrix picture of me and my two friends from the 8th grade that we PAID MONEY to have made.

4) a notebook filled with the attendance record of the high school yearbook staff written during the time in which I helmed the yearbook as EDITOR-IN-CHIEF (in case there was any doubt as to when my control issues began). Please note: the only word that can adequately describe the frequency of pictures of me in my 12th grade yearbook is "shameless."

...and much, much more "crap" that can't possibly be interesting to anyone but my madre. Let's just say, I threw out as she would allow and am now leaving her responsible for the rest (including the creepy hair).

Just for today, I can help my mom de-clutter.

When I said good-bye to my family my teen-aged sister and my mother were in a gridlock argument. They sort of remind me of the 405 S. at 5:45 on a Friday afternoon or the Hoover damn for all the energy flows between them.

The argument had something to do with my sister's claim that she never was taught how to ride a bike. My mother suggested that perhaps the child she rode around on bikes with outside the house was some other little girl. I offered that maybe it was my sister's "evil" twin. My step-father took it one step further (and it's obvious really...I was just feeling in a kind mood) by offering that maybe it was the "good" twin. When I hugged my sister good-bye she whispered in my ear loud enough for everyone to hear...

"Help me..."

When I hugged my mother good-bye she didn't bother to whisper.

"Help me..."

I helped everyone by getting in my car and driving away, all while contemplating yet another beautiful illustration of the forces that created my intense co-dependency.

Still, when I got to LA I felt sad to be so far away from my family, craziness and all.

Just for today, I can love my family.

It all started on the day I was born and met my parents. They were the first cult leaders.

On that day, without speaking a word, (but through the vibrations emanating from their bodies) they said to me, "you are now our child and, therefore, a member of our cult. You must do as we say and believe as we believe or we will withold the love you so desperately need (not to mention food, shelter, etc.)."

However, the foil was that my parnets got divorced, and the sect divided (sort of like what happend in England with the Protestants and Catholics). Since I couldn't decide which cult I belonged to, I struggled to belong to both, whatever it took in order to bask in their love of my compliance.

There are many cults that exist in this world. The Hare Krishnas are just one. And here are a few that I've noted:

1) The Gap
2) "Friends" (the television show)
3) Vintage People
4) Trust Fund Cool Cynical People (too poor to join)
5) Insecure People
6) Target
7) The cult of college girls who drank too much in and puked (one semester only)
8) "Recovering" people (member since 1997...considering separation).
9) People Who Pay Taxes

Just for today, I can live my life free from cults.

If I eat anymore I'm going to explode like the fat man in Monty Python's Meaning of Life. And, despite overeating with turkey on Thanksgiving AND with Chinese food (which was very delicious and I do feel blessed and abundant to have so much delicious food) TODAY, and despite telling my mom that I probably won't be hungry again until 2006...she still just walked in and asked me if I wanted some "bean salad." As if bean salad is exempt from food. And when I said, no, she made me an offer to the tune of a turkey sandwich. Now, it's very nice that my mother has an instinct to feed me, but it's getting to the point where I can't enter into the house without duct tape on my mouth.

Just for today, I'M NOT HUNGRY, MOM (but I still love you)!

I can't be within a five mile radius of my mother and not find myself in the possession of a pot of freshly cooked beans....or any large quantity of food for that matter. In fact, I think I gained five pounds just by picking her up at the airport. She is notorious for asking me and my sister if we're hungry while simultaneously piling mountains of rice, beans, chicken, enchiladas, (INSERT MEXICAN DISH OF YOUR CHOICE) onto our plate as if the survival of the planet depended on it. She spent a good portion of today cooking pots of chicken and rice and (guess?) beans for me to have for the next three years. Like a good daughter I consumed her cooking for lunch and dinner (and will tomorrow be having it for breakfast tomorrow). There is no confusion about the meaning of food to this woman; for my mother, food IS love.

Consequently, when my mother's around I feel some added permission to eat to my heart's desire. "She keeps feeding me!" I say as I plough into the box of See's candy's that accompany's birthdays and holidays like a Hallmark card. My grandmother was a dipper at See's candy for many years (like Lucy) and so, with my mother's support I have deemed the consumation of these delectables as a sacred act of love and loyalty to my grandmother and far above my crass addiction to sugar and chocolate.

It seems that as I get older, the Compulsive Feeding of Others gene has emerged. In recent years, like my mother, I tend to show those I love how I feel about them by shoving food down their esophaguses. And if it weren't for my mom I might have to do with mac n' cheese, instead of enchiladas, guacamole, and frijoles.

Just for today, I love my mom.

My father missed our therapy appointment, so we ended up going straight to the Italian food. In retrospect, though, it might have been a good idea to just invite her along. She could have enjoyed the linguini pescatore and intense garlic and olive oil dip AND diffuse the even more intense awkward silence that ensued over the flan. While I love garlic, it's just not a substitute for a good therapist (unless we're talking about REALLY LARGE quantities, the kind that detoxifies your blood)...Anyway, we were able to sidle out of the rough spots by talking about the weather and how I realized during the rain storms that one thing I really like about Los Angeles is the sun (imagine that).

I am now airing out my coat of its garlic stench and bravely holding back the tears even though nobody is around (my boyfriend is coming over after his rehearsal for his play...damn theater people). Perhaps in the future I should hold back on the garlic and go heavier on the tears.

Just for today, visiting with my father brings up emotional issues.

I just attended my sister's graduation from high school where I did the requisite crying at the first chords of Pomp and Circumstance. The day before my mom picked me up at the airport and shocked me with a head of white hair (she stopped dying it). That night, my best friend from high school and her husband had me over for dinner in their sparkling state-of-the-art renovated kitchen where my friend tossed a salad in one of her eight fabulous salad bowls (having a wedding pays off) and patted her burgeoning belly.

One thing's for sure. Sister's Graduation + Mom's Gray Hair + Friend's Baby = Things Have Changed.

Most changefully, My S.O. (significant other) and I have decided to (drumroll....) move in together....we'll see when exactly this decision manifests into reality.

The point is THINGS HAVE CHANGED. Strangely, I've been feeling nostalgic for the era of my life that seems to be coming to a close. I'll call it the Sex and the City Era, or the My Own Fabulous Apartment Era, or the old cliche "my twenties...(and early 30's)." Let's just say that there was this space of time between college and the place I am in now which is oddly enough at the doorstep of making a commitment to love, family, and house (I'm humbled by how boring my goals sound). This time can be anywhere from 6 months to an eternity. But I think a good solid ten years of being single and solo out there in the great wild of an urban center is a healthy growing experience. It was also, for me, the motivation that ultimately led me to want to make the kinds of ties and community that make people's lives meaningful.

I'm grateful for those years and yet I'm ready to move on with a vengeance.

Just for today, I feel like a graduate.

My mom is visiting me (again) because her God-son graduated from UCLA this weekend. However, I secretly think she just likes coming to Los Angeles because it's more exciting than Northern California (oh, I know, you like to THINK that you're so superior and more evolved up there...but that's what makes you BORING...). One thing that makes Los Angeles exciting to my madre is the chance occurence to spot movie stars. As I have written before, for some reason we always see Alec Baldwin when she's here. I am now convinced that my mother is having a not-so-secret-affair with Mr. Baldwin.

I took my mom to a party last night and she spent the whole time talking to a young professor. One more mojito and she would have passed him her number. Then I took her to a 12-step meeting and she spent 20 minutes talking to my friend Mike about his "hatred" towards his mother. And she keeps telling my boyfriend about how I liked to take my clothes off and run around naked in the back yard when I was two (what can I say? I was in touch with my inner-hippy at a very young age).

I love that my mom's a free spirit, she just keeps getting freerer with old age.

Just for today, I can visit with my madre.

I just put my sister on a plane and drove home through a waterfall of tears. I probably won't see her again until she has completed a semester of college in New York and has been transformed into Cool New York College Student. I have this fear that sometime in the next few years she's going to take a long look at me and for the first time in her young life think, "she's not nearly as cool as I thought she was when I was six...boy, what was I thinking?!" And that's when she's going to know that the big sister she grew up worshipping and trying to dress like is really a big geek who reads self-help books cuz she really needs them. In reality, she probably realized this long ago.

Just for today, I love my little sister.

My father came in today to help me paint my apartment (three walls will be porcelain and one will be sage). Our relationship has changed dramatically in the last few years, to the point where it's starting to feel like a not-so-small miracle. I haven't always felt exactly safe to share my true self with this man who I have sometimes feared and sometimes loathed, but thanks to the magic of therapy and I don't know what, this relationship seems to be turning into a healthy and loving one. I don't know if I have changed, or he has changed, or maybe both. What has brought this on could be credited to tragedy and loss, or a commitment to personal improvement on both our parts. I don't really know. For years, nothing I did changed anything, and then suddenly everyone and everything started to change on their own.

I'm not sure how life works, but I am starting to believe that for each and every day, absolutely anything is possible.

Just for today, I am humbled by the mystery of life.

Whenever my mom senses any doubt in me she launches into a story about the time she went to parent-teacher conference night when I was in the 9th grade and my high school Spanish teacher told her that I was "special." I can't help but wonder how many parents he must have thrown that line at, and if they are still repeating that infamous word to their thirty-something-year-old children. Truthfully, I'm not sure I want to be "special." There's a reason why it's a euphemism for children with disabilities. He probably felt extremely sorry for me and thought it was a kinder thing to say than, "She laughs way too hard for my jokes. You should have her evaluated."

I love my mom and appreciate her support.

Just for today, I'm "special" to my mom.

My father has undergone a dramatic change in the last few years. I try not to question it, lest I jinx it, but it has resulted in new behaviors, many wonderful, some a little strange. At any given moment he might break into his Samba dance moves, or wax poetic about Dionyses (I am not making this up). However, this afternoon when I walked to his SUV and saw a bumper sticker that says, "WELL BEHAVED WOMEN SELDOM MAKE HISTORY," stuck onto his (MY FATHER'S!) car, I thought he'd had gone completely insane.

"Your aunt gave that to me for Christmas," he casually said.

My aunt giving him a feminist bumper sticker sounds about right. My father PUTTING IT ON HIS CAR, is about as predictable as catching Dick Cheney whimpering at a screening of "Brokeback Mountain."

Just for today, I have yet more evidence that anything in life is possible.

I know it's been a while since I've updated. I guess it's been hard to blog since I got back from my trip up North for my brother's graduation from high school (I'm old) and realized that my father's friends are actually reading this...guess that puts the kabosh on writing about salsa sex scandal 07 (just kidding...?).

Anyway, highlights of the trip (I know you'd rather read about my trip than salsa sex scandal...) include the giant full roasted pig my father bought for the catered graduation party to ostensibly "feed the guests"...do we really live in an age where we want to know what it is we eat? Let alone have it stare at us all afternoon?! I think he was really just acting upon his unconscious perverse desire to horrify...forget about the vegetarians (not that any came, or stayed once they saw that adorable slaughtered pig head...). Anyway, I managed to sneak some pig meat into my suitcase and onto the plane. Not that there's a law against bringing meat on a plane (yet), but as my father's friend pointed out, it could read as a body part on one of those x-ray machines...(so the perverse desire to horrify runs in the family).

Other highlights include the wine, cheese, and salami (it was a very pork-filled trip) lunch with my oldest friend of 25 years. While we were at the deli buying the food, we ran into another girl/woman (she's, like, old now...what is up wit dat?!) who I used to play JV basketball with. She always got kicked out of all our games for swearing at the refs. Which I would have admired had she not then left me (team captain), stranded with only three other players (all skinny freshman) to get slaughtered time and time again in a humiliating defeat. To this day, the feeling of abandonment is still with me. Lucky for her I have a soft spot for Jewish girls who date black guys and lack any cliquish vibe, and so it was still good to see her. After lunch, I fell into a wine/cheese/salami coma/nap before taking my mother salsa dancing, which required more wine. She enjoyed the lesson, but I have to say the LA dancers are far superior.

I realized that I've relayed the events in the wrong order, but memory is non-linear.

Just for today, I had a good trip home.

My father drove down from Northern California for a short visit on Wednesday. He took me out for dinner at a high-end French restaurant that probably cost more than what I spend on eating out in a month (I've never seen Wild Boar on a menu, let alone eaten it...). Dinner with my dad was great and made me realize both how much he has grown (which is weird to say about your father), and I've gotten used to drinking cheap wine (you can really tell once you start drinking the good stuff).

In the past few years, my father has undertaken the task of intense self-reflection and personal growth, and now says and does things that make me think, "Who is this person?" It's like an Invasion of the New Age Body Snatchers...

I have always thought my father was a very intelligent, creative, and well-read man, but never felt particularly heard or "seen" (therapy word) and, finally, just resigned myself to the fact that emotionally availability in a male of his generation was just too much to ask. I felt like the Lisa Simpson of my family. The voice of reason in a cacophony of self-interest. Not that it was a healthy way to be, as is evident now that I'm 36, I'm single, childless, and happiest when in close proximity to salsa, coffee, and Forever 21 (not necessarily in that order).

I guess what I have seen is that for better or worse, people do change. And when it's for the better all you can do is be grateful.

Just for today, I can spend time with Dad of the Year.

"How is the special?" I asked the waitress at the organic Thai restaurant.

"Oh, no...no like."

"Ok...then maybe you might want to consider erasing it off the chalk board....how are the peanut noodles?"

"Too sweet."

Later, after we found something on the menu the "waitress" could swallow (literally), another woman brought us our dishes, but forgot the appetizer.

"Ask her if she knows the woman who took our order." said my father.

"She's probably the old aunt that they had to employ, but don't normally bring around the patrons."

I gave my father his Father's Day gift (a travel barbecue kit). The strange thing was that the wrapping that I had chosen matched his outfit perfectly. I had gone to the paper store and, after much deliberation, had bought a red gift bag, and some camouflage patterned tissue paper (very masculine). When my father arrived, he was wearing a red sweatshirt and a camouflage patterned hat.

I'm psychic. Or, I really know my father. He seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole matching thing, so I didn't get a picture.

Just for today, I can celebrate an early father's day with my dad.

The other day I had to talk a friend off the ledge over her fears that she can't get pregnant without spending a certified per-owned Honda Civic on in vitro fertilization. It's only in western countries that people believe you can't have children after 40 without the aid of very expensive medical treatments. My mother had my sister at 43 and my step-mother her son at 43. So, it makes sense that I always figured I could wait until the last minute...which is no surprise seeing as that's how I function in the rest of my life.

Sure, I don't have the husband or the house...but who needs all that baggage? I'm the one with the important equipment.

However, talking about having children when you're not even trying is sort of like judging Pau for missing a free throw. I'm not under that pressure. Still, I can't say that my friends who are struggling to get pregnant are of the relaxed variety. I have yet to meet a really laid-back person who can't get pregnant. Babies aren't television programming, and don't like to appear on demand. Conversely, they seem to thrive off the most inconvenient circumstances.

It kind of makes sense. Who wants to show up at a party where everyone is forced to be there? Baby-making sex sounds about as fun as my last trip to the gyno (see below). I say take a few weeks off of your high-paying stressful jobs, go to Mexico, find a really great bartender, tip him well, and let nature takes it's course. I'm not condoning the use of alcohol as a fertility rite, I just know that I wouldn't be here without it.

Just for today, I'm remembering to have children.

Are you wanting children but afraid that if you wait any longer you'll end up having parent/teacher conferences in the geriatric ward? Do you wonder if conventional notions of families are keeping you from the joys of child-rearing? Do you ever ask yourself, "Why am I spending all my time and money on couples counseling, when my true biological purpose is to procreate?!" Well, rest assured you're not alone...

Educated, (usually) self-supporting, creative, yogafied woman in her late 30's seeks financially stable, responsible male from strong gene pool, with stellar recommendations and an overall high degree of shit-together-ness. Must commit to parenting and child rearing till end of life. However, desire for long-term relationship is NOT required. Take parenting into the new milenium with this new model for procreation!

However, you must be ready for this life-changing responsibility! No active drug users, smokers, or people with furtive secrets need apply. Social drinking is OK.

Please note: ability to "connect" with me is required! I have to like you, otherwise...why would I want to have your baby? What constitutes a "connection?" Shared sense of humor, values, interests and sexual attraction. Well, then, if that's the case, you ask, why don't we just date? Because time is of the essence! I've got to get the show on the road! I don't have years to "work out a relationship." If something happens down the line, sure, I'm open to "falling in love." But please understand, the No. 1 goal is to produce 1 healthy child and get him/her through college. Understand?

But don't take it the wrong way...it's not that I won't "like" you...I'm just very goal oriented...

Potential applicants can meet me for coffee at Peete's.

Just for today, I am open to meeting the father of my unborn child.

I had a really great time at my brother's commissioning ceremony. I felt so important pinning the [insert official word here]. I want to say "bars" but I could be wrong. Either way, I'm proud.

It was a great time with my family, too. However, I ran over a nail on the way there and got a flat tire. A simple project of finding a place to fix my tire, turned into hours of miscommunication and driving up and down the same street. And this is after my aunt and I identified a tire shop via my Blackberry and her iPhone. Several phone calls, one dead phone battery, and many miles later two cars miraculously managed to arrive at the same tire shop. I think it's fair to say that my space-headedness is no aberrant gene.

I almost couldn't pay for my tire repair because guess whose card got eaten by the ATM machine? Fortunately, some businesses still take checks. I often wonder how I managed to survive for 39 years without daily supervision.

Functionality issues aside (for the entire clan) it was a great day.

Just for today, I can celebrate with my family.

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.