Improv is the key to survival.
When my parents were still together, my dad brought my little brother to the library one sunny afternoon. While he was browsing Grisham novels, a librarian came up to him.
“Excuse me sir, but is that your child?” she asked, pointing to my bro squatting in the middle of the children’s section.
“Yes, that’s my son.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but your son just yelled out a terrible word.”
“Okay, what word?”
“The S-word. S-h-i-t.”
“Oh no. Oh God, I’m so sorry. See, his mother and I recently got a divorce and she started seeing this new man who’s bad news and it worries me everyday what goes on in that house.”
“(Gasp) Oh sir, please, say no more. I completely understand. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
We learned every foul word we know from my father.
“Well-done” is a delicacy.
My parents divorced when I was ten years old. This meant that my father had to suddenly become “the cook” on his time. The only problem was that the only thing he ever cooked was breakfast consisting of artery-clogging cheese eggs, blackened sausage patties, over-crisp bacon and buttered toast (we can excuse said behavior – he was born and raised in Mississippi). And occasionally he’d grill steak/burgers/brats until you weren’t sure if what you were eating was still meat. But dammit, it tasted good. And to this day I always get my meat “well-done.” If it bleeds, how the hell am I supposed to know if it’s gonna decide to up and walk off my plate? Exactly. I don’t like to take chances.
Cooking is overrated; take-out is God’s gift to mankind.
Sure you might save a few pennies in the end, but who the fuck wants to spend a bunch of time prepping something that might not even taste all that good just to have to clean it up afterwards and then eat leftovers for the next five days? Not me. Growing up, it was either pizza, Chinese or KFC/McDonald’s/insert fast food here. And we can’t forget about the buffets; buffets were where it was at, yo. Everyone was happy, everyone could eat whatevaaaah they wanted, and there was ALWAYS the option of dessert. Of course if someone wants to cook me something wonderful and gourmet, I’m beyond happy to taste test. But for now, I’ll stick to grocery shopping for sriracha to make sure all my take-out is happy take-out. Cheers.
Money is never a big deal.
My dad didn’t drive a BMW, he didn’t wear a rolex, and he probably couldn’t tell you the difference between a $3 wine and a $400 bottle. But he did know how to have a good time. We weren’t rolling in riches at any point in my life but no matter what our bank account status was, even if he knew he had the mortgage and the car payment and insurance coming up in the next week, he always made spending time with us a priority. We went to the movies, we got ice cream, we took trips to ChuckECheese (and probably contracted multiple strands of diseases in the process)…all while being completely unaware that money was ever an issue. And when I got old enough to understand just how much “fun” things cost and started fretting about it, he sat me down and said, “Megan, it’s fine. We’ll be fine. It’s just money.” Sure we probably weren’t the most fiscally responsible family on the block, but it taught me to realize there are more important things in life than saving up for a cabin or owning three cars. I’d rather be living paycheck to paycheck and be the happiest fucker on the planet than have a million bucks in the bank with the biggest issue being that I don’t know what color my brand new boat should be. That’s not happiness. No siree.
“Fuck” is a beautiful word.
You can be a Christian and say “fuck.” You can be smart and frequently use the word “fuck.” And you can be a respected human being and love the term “fuck.” I have a bachelor’s degree and am completely financially independent. And guess what? Fuck is my favorite word. Eat your heart out.
If you can’t find humor in life, good luck. She’s gonna give you hell.
There’s absolutely no point in dwelling on stupid shit. Don’t sweat the small stuff. In five years, you’re going to laugh about it. So I suggest you start laughing now – that way by the time that five year mark hits, you’re pissing yourself it’ll be so hilarious. And take it from an expert pants-wetter…you can always find a washing machine
- Never Give Your Kid A Cold Shower: Advice From The Worst Dad On Earth (deadspin.com)
- I fucking hate cooking (fromrigstoriches.wordpress.com)