Amy Poehler’s “Ask Amy” advice series is never not amazing and this week’s segment on how to deal with your parents is no different. Even though “Ask Amy” is for teenaged girls, Poehler’s super-smart advice works for daughters of any age … including those of us in the “why aren’t you married and giving me grandchildren?” years. She seems like an awesome human being and an awesome mom. I can’t be the only one who wants her to adopt me, right? [YouTube]
I grew up in the ‘80s on a tree-lined neighborhood that skirted the edge of New Haven, Connecticut. Nobody really traveled down my short street unless they lived there or were visiting, and my family was friendly with all of our neighbors. With a backyard that was mostly brambling bushes and trees, I spent the majority of my childhood playing right out in front of my house, alternating between frolicking in the garden (much to my mother’s chagrin) or biking up and down the sidewalks with friends. A good portion of that outside time was spent with friends, by myself, or with my younger brother in tow, but mostly unsupervised by adults. Sure, my mom stuck her head out every now and again, and a neighbor was never far off. But the majority of my outside play was independent and unstructured. Keep reading »
Growing up, I was never given any restrictions regarding whether or not I could wear makeup, or how much makeup I was allowed to wear. My parents, who are admittedly pretty laissez faire by most standards, are also the type to choose their battles, and what I put on my face was just not one of them. I expressed interest in products from a hilariously young age — home videos show me at five talking extensively about my mother’s fancy body wash like a regular Suri Cruise — and for all but a few grease-filled tweenage years, I’ve been beauty-crazed ever since. That’s why I find it so difficult to fathom why mothers, particularly those under the relentless and unforgiving eye of the media spotlight, receive so much flack for letting their young daughters wear a little bit of makeup. Keep reading »
Most dads–even the weird ones–have one thing in common: their taste in music. After being lectured about the underrated glory of certain bands and seeing them go crazy with their steering wheel drum solos while driving us to soccer practice, we feel we have a pretty good sense of the “Dad Music” genre, and we thought it was time to document it. Check out our Dad Music Field Guide, after the jump! Keep reading »
Whenever Father’s Day rolls around I’m reminded, once again, that I don’t have a “typical” dad. He doesn’t own a tie. He’s never worked in an office. As far as I know he’s never touched a golf club (except maybe to use it as a weapon?). My dad, in a nutshell, is weird. He spent his career taking care of research monkeys. He spent his spare time turning our house into a fortress and collecting skulls. With the exception of guinea pigs, he likes animals way more than he likes people (that’s him in the picture, holding a water moccasin he caught in a Florida swamp). And guess what? He’s the best dad I could ever ask for. Here’s why… Keep reading »
It took months of begging, pleading, bribing, and promises to convince my parents to get me my first guinea pig. We lived on a 38-acre farm with dogs, cats, and chickens, but I yearned for a pet of my very own, a pet who would entertain me and understand me, a pet who would impress my friends and make me popular at school. A guinea pig seemed like the obvious choice. When my mom finally drove my brother and I to the pet store a couple towns over, I chose a white-haired girl and named her Snowflake. My brother chose a black-haired boy. He named him Blackie.
When we got home, we carefully placed our pets in their new cage and they started squeaking excitedly. Suddenly my dad appeared in the doorway, eyes locked on the two fur balls. “Look, Dad!” we said. “This is Snowflake, and this is…”
“Guinea pigs,” he muttered. “I hate guinea pigs.” And then, like a bad omen in a horror movie, he disappeared.
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