If you watch as much PBS as I do, which you probably shouldn’t, you may have heard that Fred Willard would be hosting a spinoff of Antiques Roadshow in the near future. Antiques Roadshow was that show about experts appraising estate furniture at convention centers around the country. Once an episode someone’s grandmother’s candle holder would turn out to have been carved from a unicorn’s horn and be worth six figures. Remember when your mom turned into a hoarder in 2002? That was because of Antiques Roadshow.
Fred Willard is really funny. He was great in Best of Show and A Mighty Wind, easily the funniest person in both films. His show is titled Market Warriors, and it doesn’t really matter how it’s different from Antiques Roadshow because you probably checked out when I said “PBS” and are skimming this article for bolded words and links. Tits! You’re welcome. Continue reading
I gave up posting for Lent. As penance, a fresh Dear Dear Prudence, to be shared by you and the almighty.
Every week Slate, an online magazine that’s a lot like if Harper’s was written by the editors of Entertainment Weekly, runs an advice column called Dear Prudence. Written by D.C.-based Emily Yoffe, the column is similar in format to Dear Abby (ask your librarian) and covers a range of topics such as manners, etiquette, familial relations, and of course how to deal with ill-conceived sexual decisions. At least one of that last one makes it into the column every week. Drink when you hit it. We here at Dear Dear Prudence like to take another crack at the questions she has been posed, so that the people who ask them may have the benefit of a second opinion.
This week (hah!) we hear from a woman whose husband’s only flaw is that he is a terrible father and probably impossible to live with, a guy who doesn’t want us to know he’s thinking about cheating on his wife, and a huge jerk. Sounds about right.
I hit the jackpot with my husband. He treats me like a queen, cleans the house, has a successful career that allows me to be a stay-at-home mom, encourages me to have evenings out with girlfriends, etc. We’ve been happily married for 10 years and have two wonderful children ages 5 and 7. My concern is that while I know he loves our children, he doesn’t enjoy them. He was raised by an obsessive-compulsive-type mother who still vacuums twice a day. He barks at the kids if there’s a sock lying around or a toy on the floor. He yells if he has to ask them twice to do anything. When he gets home, he wants to tell me about his day while I’m cooking dinner. The kids sometimes interrupt, which drives my husband crazy. They hate to be left alone with him because he’s “grumpy.” He thinks, wrongly, that they are naughtier than other children, and I feel defensive that he’s criticizing the way I’m raising them. My mother says he parents the way he was parented and he turned out great. I’m going away with some girlfriends, and he’s said that “things are going to change” and he’s going to “fix the kids.” I’m secretly afraid of him trying. Should I just accept that he’ll always be hard on them? The kids are the only thing we argue about.
—Dad Dilemma Continue reading
Remember when this was supposed to be a weekly feature? Me neither! We’re back with more D.D.P. after taking October and November off.
Every week Slate, an online magazine that’s a lot like if TMZ was written by the editors of The Economist, runs an advice column called Dear Prudence. Written by D.C.-based Emily Yoffe, the column is similar in format to Dear Abby (ask your parents) and covers a range of topics such as manners, etiquette, familial relations, and of course how to deal with ill-conceived sexual decisions. At least one of those makes it into the column a week. Drink when you hit it.
This week we deal with the medical mysteries of adoption, why women don’t understand pissing in sinks, strange manifestations of other-woman guilt, and women thinking too hard about friendship. Put a pink magnetic ribbon on your car and pretend to like missionary, it’s Ladies’ Night on Fantastic Manliness!
My father was adopted as a baby in the 1950s. About all I know is that his birth parents eventually married and that he has full brothers and sisters. He does not want to know anything about his biological family, and I respect that, I really do. However, my husband and I want to have children in the near future and I feel it is important to have a more complete family medical history, though it’s not that the presence of some horrible disease will likely sway our decision. (My niece does have a rare, genetic blood disorder which my mother points out could be from her side of the family.) I have asked my mother many times over the years how I can get this information, to no avail. I’ve thought about hiring someone to track down the biological family or having genetic testing done, but these things are simply too expensive. My mom supports my dad’s decision to know nothing and feels that it is not my business to ask such questions. My dad doesn’t have much adoptive family left and they would probably be insulted by such an inquiry. Should I talk to my dad about all this? If so, how can I explain that I support his decision not to have a relationship with his biological family and that I am purely interested in shedding some light on my own family medical history? Continue reading
I’ve watched a lot of Star Trek. Growing up I watched repeats of Star Trek: The Next Generation every weeknight at 7 on WTVZ Fox 33, along with new episodes every Thursday on WGNT 27, which at the time had no network affiliation. From there I worked my way backwards through the Original Series movies, while simultaneously seeing the Next Generation movies and being vaguely entertained, thrilled, bored, and ready for a new movie series. I also took in the entirety of Deep Space Nine and as much of Voyager as I could tolerate. I have enjoyed other series, but The Next Generation (or TNG, as the pros call it) was my first and favorite Star Trek. For some of the younger people, Voyager is their Star Trek, which is a shame because Voyager is mostly shit.
Star Trek exists in a rich universe, one that is much more fleshed-out than that of its often-unfairly-compared “rival” Star Wars. The Star Wars mainline canon consists of six movies. Star Trek has three seasons and six movies of Original Series, seven seasons and four movies of TNG, seven seasons of Deep Space Nine, seven worthless hackneyed seasons of Voyager, four inconsistent seasons of Enterprise, and the 2009 reboot movie. That’s a lot of characters, alien races explored in relative detail, and situations to be dealt with by the protagonists. This detailed picture of the galaxy means that you can, as an adult, find yourself musing on the practicalities of the Star Trek fictional universe in pretty concrete terms. During some downtime this past weekend, I had a sudden revelation about the era of Star Trek that begins with The Next Generation:
There is no longer any need for a shipboard Medical Officer. The only reason to have one is for her to be attractive to the Captain and ensure his sexual needs are met. Continue reading
This week the world of college football was rocked by the revelation that beloved Penn State Defensive Coordinator Jerry Sandusky was a serial child rapist. I, personally, was amazed that a team in the Big Ten could actually find a new way to suck – even moreso when it turned out to be a team other than Ohio State. Sandusky was caught in
red-penised red-handed by a Graduate Assistant in 2002 who went on to join Head Coach Joe Paterno’s coaching staff. The Assistant reported the incident to Paterno, who then informed the school’s Athletic Director that Sandusky is a…uh…let’s say “4chan user” when it comes to sex. Paterno then went about his business quasi-coaching a football team that needed a new head coach 20 years ago, never to think of it again.
Alright, well in retrospect I guess this looks pretty bad
There are two 7-11 stores within walking distance of my office. The closer one is the good 7-11. They are a perennial Hot Food Award winner (it’s a thing) and, unlike many, the staff is always pretty cheerful and efficient. If I haven’t brought lunch to work I’ll usually go in there and get a wrap, an apple if they’re fresh, and some sort of zero-cal flavored water. I know it’s not good for me, but the only thing you can drink that isn’t bad for you in some way is water and even that can be used wrong. Let me drink something that tastes vaguely like dragonfruit and green tea with my lunch, I’m not hurting anyone.
The other day my friend and I had to go to The Other 7-11. The Other 7-11 is right next to a bus depot, has a homeless guy in front of it more often than not, has never to my knowledge won the Hot Food Award, and has a staff that (understandably) doesn’t really care about people skills. I don’t care for The Other 7-11, but I was hungry and there we were. When I went to pick out my drink I noticed an odd-looking bottle in the vitamin water fridge. It was called V-Blast and had a cap that looked like one on a “sport” bottle that squirts out the top. I like things that squirt and I have a hard time passing up a drink whose name is a double entendre, so I bought it. I’m serious about that double entendre thing – if there was a hot chocolate brand called Cleveland Steamer I’d drink a box of it every day during the cold season. Continue reading
It’s been 11 days, you know what that means – another round of Dear Dear Prudence!
Every week Slate, an online magazine that’s a lot like if Gawker was written by the editors of The New Yorker, runs an advice column called Dear Prudence. Written by D.C.-based Emily Yoffe, the column is similar in format to Dear Abby (ask your parents) and covers a range of topics such as manners, etiquette, familial relations, and of course how to deal with the weird sexual kinks of our loved ones. At least one of those makes it into the column a week. Drink when you hit it.
This week Prudence counsels a mother whose child may have a rare genetic disorder passed on from her mother-in-law…and we throw out her perfectly good advice for my horrible rambling tangents Sweet sassy molassy let’s get on with it! Continue reading