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Most girls, as they age, turn into their mothers. They become nurturers of all things in need of motherly care. Not that dads don’t do the same thing to an extent; it just manifests itself in less obvious ways. For instance, when we were younger, did our dads attend field trips and dance recitals and host our slumber parties? Most likely. Did they enjoy those things the way our moms did? Doubtful. I remember my dad chaperoned a field trip I went on in elementary school. Looking back on it, I have absolutely zero idea how the hell my mom convinced him to go, and I probably don’t want to know. As my dad snuck off to catch a quick cig break, a boy in my class fell in the coy pond. While most mothers would have responded to this incident with, “oh, my goodness, poor boy,” my dad had the “what an idiot” look on his face as he caught back up with the group. He likely felt little sympathy for the chaffing that kid experienced the remainder of the day, whereas my mother probably would have pulled some sort of relief ointment out of her fanny pack. I can provide you a Tide stick on a moment’s notice, but that’s because I’m messy and they’re necessary for me, not because I’m motherly. My mother is a saint, and I quit trying to replicate her saintliness long ago because I hate failure, which was inevitable in that department. My dad is an upstanding gentleman, and as I age, I find myself more and more like him.
A Lack Of Tolerance For The Youth Of America
That was a blanket header, I’m aware. Save your comments about your teenage cousin who’s a national merit scholar, has a gazillion community service hours, and cures world hunger on the weekends. You know the kids I’m talking about–the ones our dads think are punk-ass kids, or say, “Man, I wish I could just slap that hat around on his head until it faces the right direction.” When I was younger, sporting my Von Dutch hat and holey jeans (because I was the coolest, obviously) I didn’t quite understand. These days, when I go to the mall solely to cash in my Victoria’s Secret free panty coupon and then get the hell out, I get stuck behind a group of punk-ass high school kids every time. They yell and grope one another in front of me on their way to the movies, and I have this urge to seriously kick them in the shins and yell at them to wake the eff up, then steal their hidden booze for my own personal consumption.
A Refined Alcohol Palette
Some of this comes from just being able to afford better shit; however, each time I make a Jack and Diet Coke, the color gets lighter and lighter, as I require less and less Coke and more and more Jack. I always took pride in making my dad a drink as he came through the door in the evenings. I also learned the appropriate pour amount from him. You just ask, on a scale of one to five, how bad his day was. The number provided is how many fingers you hold up to the side of the glass; pour to that level. For some reason, our household tends to hold steady at a solid three to four, no matter how great everyone’s day was. When I was a kid and would accidently take a swig of the “naughty Coke” instead of my regular one, I would spit it out and question how anyone could tolerate such ill-tasting liquids. Maybe it’s because it was the easiest thing to siphon out of the liquor cabinet in high school, but my feelings toward whiskey obviously changed, as I head home to a four-finger drink.
I’ve always been a Ralph Lauren fan. It’s classic. However, my love of anything with a polo man and/or golf course logo on it is at an all-time high these days. For one, almost anything sold in a pro-shop is business casual appropriate. Also, loafers. Loafers are back, people. I couldn’t be more happy to support this movement, as I kick my Cole Haans up on my desk, dad-style.
Whether you act more like your mom or more like your dad, either is fine, given they’re both respectable individuals, of course. I’ve been told all my life that I’m my father’s child. It shows more and more every day, and I couldn’t be more fine with that. Now, excuse me while I go win Daughter of the Year for my Father’s Day gift, which has the same amount of thought put into it as my mom puts into Christmas every year. Hell, maybe I’m just a good combination of both.