Father Knows Best – 8

Paps: I’m not feeling well, Jemmy. I’m run down and nauseated.
Me: Maybe you’re pregnant!
Paps: My ovaries have been hurting lately…
Me: Ew…

One-upping his smart-ass kid since 1983.

Happy Father’s Day 2012

“You need to be nicer to your dad.”

I hear this all the time from people who don’t really know Paps. Primarily because a majority of my stories about him involve me yelling at him.

For example: yesterday, we got into an argument about classic rock. I’m talking about how I prefer the Stones to the Beatles and he asks if I like David Bowie:

Me: Oh yeah. Bowie’s cool.
Paps: You know his real name isn’t David Bowie, right?
Me: Yeah. It’s David Jones. He changed it because he didn’t want to be conflated with Davey Jones from The Monkees.
Paps: He named himself after the knife.
Me: Yeah. A Bowie knife. I know.
Paps: He did it to impress Mick Jagger. Jagger…dagger.
Me: No, he didn’t!
Paps: Yes, he did, Jemmy.
Me (physically biting off the words in anger): No, Paps. He. Didn’t.
Paps: Jemmy! I used to read music magazines in the 1970’s. I would know!
Me: Paps! I read music BOOKS NOW! I would know!

These are the stories people hear and as a result, they wind up wanting to buy Paps a pint and thinking I’m a jerk who needs to stop yelling at her father.

Fair play. I’m the one telling the stories. I have no problem painting myself as the mustache-twirling villain in these scenarios and honestly, they’re a lot more interesting and a lot less glurgey than the way I really feel about the guy.

However since it’s Father’s Day and I’m over a thousand miles away, I figure a little glurge wouldn’t be a bad idea.

I don’t look anything like this anymore. Like, 15% of me has a very genuine concern that this isn’t really me at all.

Paps is my hero and I am so damn proud to be my father’s daughter – dark-skinned, bullheaded, schmoozy and loud. I just hope I’ve inherited his other traits too. His loyalty, his generosity, his kindness and his selfless devotion to the people he loves. I have never met a man who does more for his family than Paps and I am so damn lucky to be his kid.

So, to my hero on Father’s Day – I hope you have a wonderful one and I really wish I was at home with you. This is the one day you get to be better than Superman, so live it up. Because tomorrow — Man of Steel’s back on top again.

I love you, Paps.

Your foul-mouthed, nakami oldest kid xx

Father Knows Best – 8

I’ve been arguing with Paps for the past week.

Most people argue politics or religion with their parents but Paps and I have pretty similar ideologies and those that aren’t aligned, we can discuss without too much rancor.

However, when it comes to superheroes — the gloves come off.

Paps hates Superman and holds the following opinion in regards to the Man of Steel:

He is an ass wipe. He holds an unfair advantage over people who cannot fly and do not have special powers. Any idiot can achieve what Superman does if they had the powers. And unlike Mr. I-Wear-My-Underpants-Over-My-Pants, I do not have an Achilles heel; you wave a Kryptonite in his face and he craps in his underwear.


So, that’s an opinion.

Anyway, that email lead to the following conversation:

Paps: If I had superpowers, I could beat him.
Me: No, sir. I assure you that you couldn’t.
Paps: Jemmy, if I had superpowers, I could!
Me: NO! You couldn’t! He is faster than a speeding bullet and can stop a locomotive in its tracks. What are you going to do? Heavy starch his costume to death?!
Paps: Don’t be ridiculous

(Sidebar: Right. Because in this scenario, I’m the ridiculous one)

Paps: Besides, I have a secret weapon.
Me: Oh God.
Paps: I’d carry Kryptonite in my pocket.
Me: And then, you’d die because Kryptonite is radioactive.
Paps: No, it’s not.
Me: Yes, it is.
Paps: I don’t think you’ve done your research.
Me: Oh my God. OH. MY. GOD. It is SO radioactive. How do you not know this?!

And then, he went into this overly-complicated explanation about how even if the Kryptonite is radioactive (IT IS), it would kill Superman way faster than cancer would kill Paps, thus making him the obvious victor in this highly unlikely scenario.

I mean, obviously Jemmy…


I become more and more like this man with every passing day.

Welcome to Terrordome.

Father Knows Best – 6


Me: I’m going trick or treating with the kids, so I dressed up like the Wicked Witch of the East.
Paps: Well, you certainly have the nose for it!
Me: …

Yeah, way to nurture your daughter’s self-esteem there, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to hit up Burqa Mart.

P.S. — Paps, who do you think I inherited my nose from? Nope. Not Mom. Yuk it up, dude. You’re the one who’ll be paying for my rhinoplasty.

Texting With Paps Or, Happy Father’s Day 2011!

Mom is pretty, I am…lumpy, for lack of a better term and Paps is duly unimpressed. Yay family!

Texting With Paps: The Father’s Day Edition

Some background really quick: I sent him a card in which I wrote this incredibly thoughtful, honest and touching statement about how he is my hero and that everything I do is in the hopes of being like him. He’s smart, so I want to be smart. He’s funny, so I want to be funny. He’s well-read, so I want to be well-read. Your basic King Louie — “Whoo whoo whoo. I wanna be just like you. I wanna walk like you, talk like you do.”

To cut the saccharine a little, I add some gentle-natured ribbing. Because if I didn’t, he’d immediately get suspicious and also because you can’t let Paps’ head get too big. He’s practically a Macy’s Parade balloon to begin with (what, dude? It’s true. Mom’s nodding, isn’t she? Yeah).

So, I added something along the lines of, “You’re as dark as a starless sky, as freshly-laid tar and over roasted espresso, so I spend a lot of time out in the sun.”

(Before you get your Hanes all wadded up, let me explain that Paps and I are the darkest members of our family and rib each other about it often. Why? Because you’ve gotta laugh to keep from crying. See, Indians come from a rich tradition of skin-color bias where bleaching creams are a million-dollar industry – outstripping sales of Coca-Cola and tea! Tea! What the fuck? –  and girls are told not to spend time outdoors because no man will want to marry them if they get too dark. I can’t even begin to explain just how much is wrong with this, so I’m stepping off my soapbox and getting back to the original point)

Sow what you reap, I guess because that lead to a battery of texts:

Paps: Thanks for the father’s day card, I am as dark as freshly laid tar? Like starless dark sky? Like a badly burned Oreo cookie? Like freshly mined coal? Dark is good. It often refers to being mysterious.
Jaime: Mysterious? In your case, I think you mean ‘criminal.’
Paps: OK. Don’t even talk to me.

Several minutes later

Paps: Why is it that your mom is finest, purest cream and I am full-bodied robust roasted Columbian?
Jaime: Because Mom is a wonderful celestial being filled with light…and you are a mud person. Like me.
Paps: Again, don’t even talk to me.

Half an hour later:

Paps: Why don’t you just say Swamp Thing? It would make me feel a lot better.
Jaime: Don’t be ridiculous. Swamp Thing was green, not peat-colored.

So, to Paps on this wholly-artificial holiday created to prop up sales of barbecue grills, golf balls and ugly-ass ties you wouldn’t even use to make a noose — Happy Father’s Day!

I’ve wanted to be just like you ever since I was a little kid. Hopefully, I’m making you proud. And if I’m not doing that – at least I’m making you laugh.

Your daughter (the mouthy dark one) loves you.

Father Knows Best Or, Texting With Paps

Paps just got a texting plan for his phone which means three things:

1. He’s finally taken that first bold step into the 21st century.
2. My random text message intake is going to increase by like, 471%
3. The blog has a new recurring topic.

I got one today which read: “As a kid, you loved Jefferson Starship. Why?”

I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Zuh?”

Why would Paps want to know this?
Why would anyone want to know this?
Does anyone really care about the musical taste of a six-year-old?

However, in the interest of clarification – let me state that I did not love Jefferson Starship.

I loved the movie Mannequin and the hit song from the soundtrack, Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now by Jefferson Starship.

If I remember correctly, Six-Year-Old Jaime had this rather fanciful notion of getting married to Andrew McCarthy in a department store display window and spending the rest of her days riding around with Hollywood in his sweet pink Caddy.

Man, Six-Year-Old Jaime was way ahead of her time. That sounds awesome.