On this Father's Day, I thought I'd share some wisdom that my father has been kind enough to impart on me over the years. Things like . . .

When fishing, choose your bait wisely. 
You're not going to catch stripers with a squid jig, that's for sure. If what you're hoping to attract is something slimy and tentacle-y and spits ink, then by all means, break out the colorful and wildly inappropriate jigs. Just kidding—you're not leaving the house dressed like that, young lady. Go get yourself a nice, sensible lure, preferably with a high neckline.

Do something you love, and don't apologize for it.
My dad is a farmer. He's been retired for years, but he's still a farmer. He loves animals, can identify every plant in New England by sight and/or taste, and by golly, you haven't lived until you've heard him describe the intricacies of artificially inseminating a cow. He never apologizes for any of this—he doesn't have to. The man knows his stuff. If you don't want to hear about frozen bull semen over dinner, eat somewhere else. It is because of him that I don't feel the need to apologize if I've taken twenty minutes to describe the intricacies of dependent clauses in sentence structure. Maybe you're bored, but I'm having the time of my life.

If you don't love it, quit—but have a backup plan.
I'll never forget the smile on my father's face when I told him I wanted to quit taking dance lessons. The idea that he'd never have to sit through a recital again, watching his daughter pirouette when everyone else was shuffle-ball-changing, didn't upset him at all. I told him I planned on taking art classes instead.
"Will there be recitals?" he asked. 
"No," I said, and Dad hugged me. "But you'll come to my art shows, right?"
Immediately, his face fell. Oh, well. Dad was never much of a hugger anyway.

Never stop learning.
One of the best things about my father is that he can do anything. I know people always say this about their dads, but in my father's case, it's totally true. Fix a car, skin a deer, build a solid investment portfolio, cook a gourmet meal using nothing but greens from the lawn and a random turtle, build a shed, repair a television using toothpicks, gum, and duct tape . . . my dad can do it. If he's never done it before, he'll learn how to do it. And then he'll teach his family. Turtle soup, anyone?

Never put your hand in a corn chopper.
Dad's all about making wise decisions. He was adamant that his daughters be safe when we lived on the farm, insisting that we stay away from blades, heavy machinery, and farm hands. My point: Dad is a big proponent of common sense. Don't stick your hand into a clogged chopper blade unless you *want* to be called Stumpy for the rest of your life.

There's no crying in baseball.
Was that Dad or Tom Hanks? Could've been Dad—he's not a big fan of tears—but I suspect it was Tom Hanks. Wait, I think what Dad said was "Listen to your mother." That certainly makes more sense.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! Thanks for making the term "farmer's daughter" something to be proud of.

Often when I’m hard at work, my mind will wander. “What shall I have for lunch?” I’ll sometimes think. Or, “Didn’t Mia Farrow say not that long ago that her son might be Frank Sinatra’s kid? Why haven’t I heard more about that?” I decided to investigate. (Also, I decided on Taco Bell.)

I found this picture online,  comparing Ronan Farrow to both Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen, the man who raised him. I don’t know. He does have Sinatra’s face, but Woody’s shirt collar. I think it could go either way here. Ronan himself was pretty funny about the whole situation, tweeting “Listen, we’re all *possibly* Frank Sinatra’s son.” This got me thinking: Could I be Frank Sinatra’s kid?

Let’s look at the evidence: First off, my mother not only has never met Frank Sinatra, she actively hates his guts. Honestly, Sinatra is her kryptonite. If you want to see my mother shoot actual green balls of smoking venom out of her eye sockets, just mention what a nice guy you thought Ol’ Blue Eyes was. She despises him. Plus, and maybe this should have been my first point, she loves my dad and would never risk her marriage for a fling. Finally, let’s turn to the photographic evidence.

This is me and my father. I have his hair color (before his went white, but don’t tell him that—he thinks he’s still a blonde), his eye color, his ridiculously overly-sensitive skin, his high cholesterol, his love for sour cream  . . . yup, there was no denying it: Dad was most definitely my biological father. 
But I do have one parent that I don’t resemble AT ALL. That’s right: my mother, with her Greek features and olive skin, looks nothing like me. Was it possible that Mom wasn’t really my biological mother?

I thought about this for a while over crunchy tacos. Mom  loves math and science, whereas I am a creative writing and arts-and-crafts kind of gal. Mom would never turn down the opportunity to visit the city—any city—whereas the thought of riding a subway makes me break out in hives (thanks again for that sensitive skin, Dad). Okay, maybe that could be explained away by the fact that she grew up in Hartford whereas I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. But then I looked down at my fast-food tray and realized that Mom never would’ve ordered crunchy tacos. She is a soft taco woman all the way. And that, my friends, is biology. I called Mom immediately.

“Mom? If that’s your real name,” I muttered. “Do you actually have any proof that I’m your daughter? Or is it possible that you did, in fact, adopt me, and I’m really the long-lost Princess Anastasia?”

“What?” Mom said. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

I tried to question her further, but she was losing her temper, and fast. I never lose my temper that quickly. She was just making my case for me.

Mom is also the no-nonsense sort (whereas I am the high-nonsense sort, you see) and she immediately produced what she considered photographic evidence: a picture of her, quite pregnant, in the month and year of my birth.

Wow, I thought. I’d had no idea Photoshop was even around in the 1970s, but Mom had done a great job of making it look like she’d been nine months pregnant right before I was born.

“That’s all well and good, but how do you explain your aversion to crunchy tacos? Dad doesn’t like them either, so clearly, the only explanation is that I am a Russian princess,” I insisted.

“How about because I don’t like it when the taco shell breaks and dumps its contents in my lap?” she asked. She said a few other things, but I didn’t catch much beyond “nuttier than a pecan log.”

Mom can deny it all she wants. I know the truth. See? Just look at us:

Except for the fact that I have her forehead, nose, face, smile, and neck, we look nothing alike.  Plus, you can't see it here, but I also have her body shape, hips, hands, and feet. And I guess it's a little odd that we went out to buy new frames for our glasses at separate times, and picked out the exact same frames. (I am not making that up. We have also gone on separate shoe-shopping excursions and bought the exact same sandals. Twice.)

The good news is, it turns out my parents really are my biological parents. I am not a long-lost Russian princess, which is also good news, because that would've made me 113 years old. The bad news? I’m pretty sure Mom is thinking about disowning me now.

Many thanks to my mother, who let me use that nine-months-pregnant picture of her without even questioning what I’d be writing about this week or using the picture for. THAT’s a mother’s love, folks.

I’m a bona fide farmer’s daughter (coincidentally, so is my sister). Because of this, most of my life, I’ve had to tolerate jokes about how trampy those of my ilk are. Did I say “tolerate”? Perhaps “kick every guy right in the apple bag* as soon as the words ‘because she couldn’t keep her calves together’** crosses his lips” is a little more accurate. On top of this, I also have the additional fun trait of being a blonde. Liken me to a golden retriever*** one more time, pal, and your apple bag’s getting pummeled. Once I hit high school, every jerk who’d ever heard a dirty limerick suddenly thought it was okay to crack filthy, stupid jokes at my expense. Honestly, I can’t believe I wasn’t expelled more. And let me tell you, it doesn’t matter how many turtlenecks and chastity belts you wear to school or how many Future Farmers of America achievement awards you win, there will always be some idiot who thinks farmer’s daughter jokes must have some truth to them. I kicked a lot of apple bags in high school.

Here’s what I don’t get: what farmer’s daughter joke out there do you think I haven’t heard yet? Guess what: I’ve got a whole filing cabinet full of ’em. Anecdotes about roosters wearing condoms, traveling salesmen whose cars inevitably break down right near the farmer’s house . . . I’ve heard them all. None of them are particularly clever or funny (except, ironically, the ones I’ve heard from other farmers’ daughters, like the 4-H one). Sometimes, the jokes are combined for maximum offensiveness (“Why did the blonde buy a brown cow?”****) However, I did learn that some of these jokes could be used to my advantage. Here’s how I used to deflect dates:

Jerko High School Boy: Didja hear the one about the farmer’s daughter?
Me: Yup.
Jerko: Uh . . . what? Wait. The one about the guy who goes to pick up the farmer’s daughter and he says “I’m Joe, I want to take you to a show?”
Me: And the third guy’s named Chuck and the farmer shoots him? Yup. ‘Herd’ that one.
Jerko: My name’s Chuck. Want to go out?
Me: Well, Chuck, I am the farmer’s daughter. I can only go out with you if you agree to take me to the moo-vies.
Jerko: Huh. I see what you did there. Clever.
Me: And I have to be home early.
Jerko: Why, when’s your curfew?
Me: When the cows come home.
Jerko: And I suppose your father is going to greet me at the door with his shotgun.
Me: I don’t think so.
Jerko:  Well, that’s a relief.
Me: He won’t greet you at the door. He’ll be outside. In ca-moo-flauge. It’ll be a ‘steak’ out.
Jerko: You know, I think I’m not available after all.
Me: Really? You don’t even want to walk me to the calf-eteria for lunch?
Jerko: No.
Me: But I didn’t even get to kick you in the apple bag! Well, this was an udder disappointment.

You get the point. Much like Lou Diamond Phillips is sick and tired of hearing “do ‘La Bamba!’”***** every time he walks down the street, so too have I had enough of your dumb witticisms. You are not going to make any joke, slur, insult, or witty pun that I haven’t heard before. I have many, many other qualities that are actually true that you can ridicule.
Quite frankly, I’m sick of the Holsteinking thing.
____________________________________________________
*This is a euphemism.
**Why did the farmer’s daughter get kicked out of 4-H?
***What do you call an intelligent blonde?
****Chocolate milk.
*****For those under thirty, please substitute the following: “Much like Bill Fagerbakke is tired of hearing ‘do Patrick Star!’”

In honor of Father's Day, I thought I'd share the reasons why my own Dad is the greatest father that ever lived. If you don't believe me, I will send him over to your house to beat you up. (Don't worry. Once he shows up at your front door, he'll probably talk your ear off, charm the heck out of you, and  then trap and skin all the fishercats in your yard.)

My earliest memory of Dad is of him lifting my sister and I up to touch the ceiling. This was amazing, of course, because not only was he the world's strongest man to lift us up that high, but he also helped me verify what I had suspected for a long time: that was a tiny stain, not a very patient spider, on the ceiling. Even back then, he was teaching me things. (I hadn't really believed Kim when she told me it was a spider to begin with. Really, I didn't. I did NOT! Moooooommm!)

It was Dad who helped me find my first car. I wanted a little MG. My father was a man of few words. "Hell, no!" he said. Then he found me a Ford Granada the size of a bus. It was this car (and the pepper spray Mom made me carry) that likely saved my life when my brakes failed in the downtown Bronx when I was 21. Dad was right. It was better to mow down bystanders with my hulking metal tank than to have a little sporty car that would have crumpled like a Kleenex as soon as I tapped that first pedestrian. (As I told the courts, repeatedly, my brakes failed. It's not like I could have avoided running over those thirty-six people foolish enough to be walking on 123rd Street at noon.)

As I get older, I still find myself relying on Dad. Recently, I took my car to a mechanic to get an estimate, because it was making a funny noise. The guy quoted me $2400 to fix it. Then I brought it to Dad, who happens to be a master mechanic. (I didn't bring it to him first because he's awfully busy and I didn't want to take advantage of him for the 3000th time in my life.) Dad fixed it for a total of $88 in parts. That's right. My Dad is the coolest dad ever!

Besides being able to rebuild engines and install brakes before breakfast, Dad can also split a cord of wood, shoot coyotes, and evaluate his stock portfolio, all while sitting at the kitchen table. I have seen him help a cow give birth, reel in a tuna from the shore, and catch a snapping turtle the size of a manhole without breaking a sweat. He can whip up dinner for  four from just a moldy head of cabbage and a deer's bladder. (It won't be a particularly tasty dinner with those ingredients, but my point is, nobody will ever starve with Dad around.) Most importantly, I have seen the women on Mom's side of the family start going gray at 19, and I have Dad's coloring. This one gift alone from Dad has kept Lady Clairol away for almost 40 years now.

I love you, Dad. Thanks for teaching me how to cast a line and to understand the NYSE and NASDAQ  and for your blond hair. And for teaching me, at four years old, that even when the world looks like a scary place full of spiders, you'll be there to show me  everything is okay.

Happy Father's Day!

244.

I nearly slapped my doctor when she told me my cholesterol was 244. Luckily for her, the fat in my blood slowed my killer reflexes, and all I managed was a limp wave. She thought I was trying to be friendly.
  
I honestly don’t understand how this has happened. I try very hard to eat healthy things. Why, just take a look at my meal plan during a typical day:

Breakfast: Oatmeal topped with bacon.
Lunch: Salad topped with ranch dressing, cheese, and bacon.
Dinner: Grilled tilapia wrapped in bacon, with a side of cheese smothered in sour cream.
 
See? Oatmeal, salad, fish … these are all healthy foods!

Since clearly my high cholesterol couldn’t possibly have been caused by something I ate, I decided it must be the result of genetics. I called my parents to yell at them for hardening my arteries.

My mother was sympathetic, until I noticed the way the conversation was heading. Wait a minute—was she actually bragging about her HDL levels? Show off! Although she did have a point—with numbers like that (I have to admit, she impressed me) it became abundantly clear that my father was the culprit.
 
“Hi, Dad. I’ve got a teeny, tiny bone to pick with you,” I seethed when he came to the phone.
 
My father admitted that my cholesterol woes were probably a direct result of being his child. He gave me some good advice, mostly on how to beat the cholesterol screening the next time I had to have one. It was kind of hard to hear him, though.

“Wait a minute! Dad, you’re eating potato chips right now!”

“No, I’m not,” he mumbled through a mouth full of potato chips.

“Yes you are! Those are Cape Cod chips, too. I can tell by the sound of their crunch!”

Dad was busted, so he gave the phone back to Mom. She assured me that there are a couple of light cheeses out on the market that tasted better than, say, boiled socks or dinosaur dung, but not much. I hung up the phone, heart sinking. I had to face the truth: my love affair with cheese was over.
 
I kissed my hunk of Gouda goodbye, and carved the block of cheddar in to the shape of a heart before throwing it out. I’ll admit, it was an emotional breakup. I chewed on a slab of raw bacon to soothe my broken soul. That helped a little.
 
I’m determined to control this thing without medication. I’ve decided to shed a few pounds, so I’m starting the Atkins diet tomorrow. I can’t wait to see my doctor’s face at my next cholesterol screening!

Warning: You may want to consider not allowing young children to read this post.  Just sayin'.

I found out this week that my husband’s family never believed in Santa Claus growing up. That Jason and his siblings never experienced the magic of believing in an elderly man who broke in to your home in the middle of the night, ate all your cookies and drank all your milk, then left to case out the neighbors’ houses, saddens me. I have many happy memories of my sister and I being huddled together in the pre-dawn hours, wondering if this was the year Santa was going to slit a few throats during his midnight cookie raid. I can’t believe anyone would deprive their children of that!

We didn’t have a fireplace in our house, so I would often wonder how Santa was going to get in. What we did have was a furnace flue, which, if you followed it from the outside in (logically, the way Santa would be traveling) ended in a rather blistering wood stove. It was a mystery to me how Santa would be able to crawl out of that wood stove fast enough to avoid being roasted alive. Mom said it was magic. Dad would just give a hearty “ho-ho-ho, let’s see the fat boy get out of this mess!” and stoke the fire. These are the types of quality holiday scenes that have been with me my whole life, and Jason didn’t have any of that.  It breaks my heart to think of all he missed out on.

And I would be remiss not to mention Santa's eight reindeer, which in our house, calculated out to about 1200 pounds of meat. In the days leading up to Christmas, Dad would turn in to Bubba Blue from Forrest Gump, listing off all of the fantastic recipes he would prepare if he could just get a clean shot on Christmas Eve. Reindeer gumbo, reindeer marsala, reindeer stroganoff, reindeer stew...Dad was a natural chef. This resulted in years of therapy for my sister and I that Jason never had the joy of experiencing, poor kid.

I was one  of those kids who professed to believe in Santa long after my peers did. Sure, I was beaten up at recess quite a bit, and nobody wanted to sit with me at lunch time in high school. But the prospect of not believing was just too scary. By that point, I'd watched such holiday classics as You’d Better Watch Out (1980) and Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984). Clearly, Santa was not someone to mess with, and if it meant that I was pelted with fruitcakes in the hallways every Christmas just because I refused to admit Santa wasn’t real, well, it was worth it. Fruitcake washes out pretty easily. Blood and entrails, not so much. This kind of peer interaction is exactly the kind of thing Jason and his siblings missed out on by not having a healthy fear of Santa in the first place.

Some parents like to scare their kids straight at the holidays by teaching them about Krampus, a vicious satyr who beats wicked children and eats them for dinner if they’ve been particularly naughty. I say, who needs Krampus when you’ve got Santa, master of breaking and entering, immune to the police, and capable of particularly brutal violence should a child stop believing? Sit the kids down for a screening of Santa’s Slay (2005) and you’ll never have yuletide behavioral problems again. Jason, Joy, and Bret missed out on all of that. I feel sorry for them, really.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

In honor of Father’s Day, I thought I’d write about my Dad, or as I like to call him (never to his face) Poppa Bear.

My father has taught me many lessons in life, including the importance of not dating anyone who works on your father’s farm because your Dad has heard them talk and they’re all pigs.  He also taught me things like how I’m not going to leave the house in a skirt that barely covers my butt, and how I am never going to take that tone with him again.

In all seriousness, my father is a pretty awesome guy.  He’s kind-hearted; he can start up conversations with complete strangers; and he can build houses, fix cars, trap wildlife, and shoot deer like nobody’s business.  The amazing thing is that he seems to be completely unaware that the rest of us regard him as something like Superman.

Dad has taught me how to tie a hook, cast a line, and filet a fish, so I will never starve.  (An odd side effect of this skill – I was never without a date, either.)  He has taught me about expense ratios, mutual funds, and Morningstar ratings, so I can understand what to do with my 401(k) and my IRA.  (An odd side effect of this skill – again, never at a loss for a date. However, the quality of guy that was asking me out improved.)  He showed me how to change a car battery, car tire, and how to re-mount the rear view mirror – all things every woman should know.  And he taught me how to prepare venison so that it’s so tender, it melts in your mouth (not that we’re big venison eaters at our house, but it’s a handy talent to have).

Most importantly, Dad has taught me how to handle myself in any social situation, how to talk to strangers and leave as friends, how to be patient with people who love to talk on and on, and how to be kind to people who are unsure of themselves.  He is better at all of these things than I am, but thankfully, I’m still learning from him.

He also taught me that it’s never a good idea to walk barefoot through warm cow manure.  That’s just not sanitary, people.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!