There is absolutely nothing I love more than talking about intercourse and vaginas with my father.
When I switched to public high school, he sat me down to tell me that if I ever took my bra off I’d get pregnant, and that speaking to boys was an invitation for rape or marriage.
Since my brain is wired for anarchy, unapologetic canoodling and braless shenanigans became my go-to weekend activity.
Like those stupid signs that say No Defecating in the Elevator or Don’t Feed the Animals. I read them, then I am all, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH ALL THE POOP AND LEAN POCKETS NOW!?
I remember when he picked me up from a party after Homecoming one year in our wood-panel sided station wagon. I would have been completely embarrassed had Ryan not gotten his older brother buy us beer.
Are you drunk?
No. Yes. Wait, I mean, I only had five beers.
But, that is only, like, one and a half in dog beers.
Brittany, I need you to be honest with me…
I love your mustache, totally keep it.
No, are you sexually active?
Active? No mostly I just lay there.
Obviously, I was kidding, I was a virgin, but conversations with my dad consist of me pushing his buttons and him operating in a constant state of fear, with an arsenal of workable exit phrases.
The second he senses that a conversation is veering toward my period, sex or anything beyond a basic School House Rocks song about female anatomy, he excuses himself.
Guess what?! We’re pregnant, again!
I know, I just pushed one out, and Andy had to go shoving one right back up in there, crazy, right?
Sorry, I think my car is on fire.
(It totally wasn’t.)
So, are you feeling better, since your whole…situation?
The ovarian cysts? Yeah, I am getting there. I just hope it doesn’t happen every time I ovulate, the cramps and breast tenderness is sucky enough, ya know?
I have to go I have diarrhea.
(So, that was plausible, we had just eaten Chinese food, but still.)
Lately, he has, in an obscure, round about way, been asking me about pregnancy.
He does this when he wants some information about stuff that he maybe can’t find on google or youtube’d episodes of Countdown with Keith Olbermann.
To be fair, he was in a coma for the birth of his last child, so he isn’t familiar with the process, not to mention, things have changed since 1983.
The hospitals stopped using ether (sad trombone) and nobody puts Styx on their labor room mixtapes anymore.
Which probably explains why kids today are such assholes.
Thank you very much, Mr. Roboto.
He wasn’t at the hospital for the delivery of any of my children. He just waited anxiously for the day I came home with them, so he could greet them at the door and pretend the stork from Dumbo brought them.
Having a baby is expensive these days, how do kids do it?
It’s totally expensive, but we have amazing insurance, so we are very lucky.
Do you remember exactly how much it cost?
Hmmmm no, just that it can be in the tens of thousands, especially once the NICU comes into play.
That is crazy.
I mean, having a baby is like buying a Ford Focus. Only physically yanking it’s slimy body from your vagina hole comes standard. Everything else is extra. If you poop, you might as well just opt for the moonroof.
*Deep sigh* I gotta go, I just saw a ghost that looked like Frank Zappa.
(Ok, this one better be true, that guy was a bad ass.)