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Why My Parents Deserve 5 Stars On Google

I have the best parents. Two cute country bumpkins chillin in the middle a cornfield in Illinois — they are the most tolerant, accepting people I know.

Having me as a child — notttt to mention a sex-hungry teenager who thought curfews were loose suggestions — must have been, well, a challenge.

Example:

Whenever I’d tell my mom I was going to do something dangerous wild — aka, travel Europe at 20 years-old with a bowl jerry-rigged out of foil — and, her response?

“Ok… well… call us when you’re there. :)”

I could literally tell my mom I wanted to eject diarrhea in the middle of Times Square with an unshaved asshole and film it to the world, and her response:

“That’s nice honey… just call us when you’re done so we know. And make sure you have a good breakfast first.”

I liken my mom to a cupcake with human features. She’s so sweet and cute, you can’t not love her. Ever seen the movie What About Bob? Remember the doctor’s wife with the high voice? That’s basically my mom.

However…

Beneath that candy veneer, she’s a tenacious, unfuckwithable, sly-ass fox. This woman is NOT dumb.

Like —

My boyfriend in high school and I would be in my bedroom having sex — per usual standard operating procedure — and she’d knock on the door:

“Jennifer?”

Me: “YES WHAT. YES.” Fuck. fuck.  

Mom: “Oh! Well umm… I just wanted to see if you guys wanted any pot roast?”

Me, with a dick in my hand: “NO MOM THANKS WE’RE GOOD.”

Mom: “Ok… just let me know. Wasn’t sure if you guys ate dinner yet?”

Dick now in my mouth: “Umm… we’re okay. Not hungry.”

Mom: “Oh ok. Well if you’re SURE?!?!?!?!!?”

Dick, now, cast aside like an abject dog: “Sure. ok.”

Mom: “Oh great!!! I have lots of pot roast! And I also made chicken and rice too. And if you’re really hungry, I made those peanut butter cookies you like.”

Dick now a deflated balloon. “K yeah, we’ll be down in 5 minutes.”

Vagina = dry.

Mom: “Oh, OF COURSE! I’LL FIX THEM PLATES UP RIGHT NOW.”

That CIA-agent-of-a mom knew EXACTLY what us little hooligans were up to upstairs. Pot roast, yeahok.

My dad is a lawyer.

“Oh, that’s nice… what kind of law does he practice?”

He never discussed his work. Something about client confidentiality blahblah #whocares

When you’re a lawyer, you fall into one of two categories:

a) Hot sexy man in a suit saving the world and he knows it. Debonaire.  

b) Stoic gargoyle who frightens your soul with a mere glance.

My dad was option b.

My friends (and I) were always scared shitless of my dad. Something about his general look made us feel like we were inherently wrong, to the core. Example:

He’d arrive home from work in his dark tweed coat, at night, by slowlyyy entering the house. The kind of entrance you’d make if you’d spent the entire day blueprinting how precisely to murder your boss. My pals and I’d be watching TRL with Carson Daly on MTV, and we’d slowlyyy look over at him enter, like: uh oh.

Like an iron giant, he’d step by step toward the living room where us dumbass degenerates sat. The air felt thick with disapproval… and why?

Well…  

My dad: ate lima beans in college to survive so he could get a decent job supporting a family.

Us: pepperoni pizza hot pockets because: lazy.

My dad: buys his jeans at Wal-mart because: cheap, practical, and who cares.

Us: Abercrombie & Fitch, because we wanted to fuck the chiseled models basking in the photos on the store walls.

My dad: never eats out at restaurants because: just eat wonder bread, American cheese + ham at home for only 2 cents a sandwich. Fools!

Us: Wonder bread is gay. Let’s go to the mall!

Generational. Gaps.

My parents seem to be stuck in 1955. It’s like the world evolved forward — you know, into drugs, debauchery, technology, and racial diversity — but they remained on A Christmas Story’s set.

That can happen when you live in a corn-fucking-field. And that’s why largely being removed from media kept them sweet and innocent. And I got to explore my life with 0% judgement from them — they never learned that from the world.