Daddy’s girl
December 3, 2006 | 12:00am
Every girl has a different relationship with her father. There are the Lindsay Lohans who have major daddy complexes arising from the fact that their dads are more messed up than they are. Then there are those who think that Daddy is everything, like Ivanka Trump who seems to think that her dad can do no wrong, even as he commented on her breast size on national TV and hinted that he would totally hit on her if she were not his daughter. Then there are the Jessica Simpsons whose lives are completely controlled by their darling daddies. Their marriages, friendships, careers and ultimately even their hairstyles are under the aegis of daddy dearest. And yes, Jessica’s dad also creepily commented to national gossip rags about his daughter’s tits.
Even if all the examples that I have given are those cushioned by the plush and privileged celebrity set, we the normal paycheck-to-paycheck living populace can relate to having bizarre relationships with the most omnipresent male figure in our lives. I mean, even if you do have an absentee father, he still has the power to influence your relationship with men for the rest of your life. Perfect fathers tend to lead others to idealize men unrealistically. I also realize that this is a trick dads do so they won’t lose their little girls in the event that they have to get married and live with someone else. The poor husband, no matter how much he tries, will always come in second.
My dad is very different from other dads. Readers of this vapid column will know by now that my dad is a bulletproof martini drinker with a rather unconventional but altogether chic fashion sense. My friends adore him, because for him there are no other stories than off-colored ones. He never apologizes for who he is, and in so many ways he has made me feel that it’s okay to be a weirdo. Normal fathers would cringe at what I write on a weekly basis. Although it’s not exactly a beacon of pride when I recount the last drunken debacle I had involving directions, strangers and credit cards, he always says that I should not be shy about being a tad bit different. In other words "special," not in the precious sense, but more in the retarded sense.
I’m a lucky girl to have him as a dad. Here are some funny reasons why I love him:
He’s got bling.
Most women say they inherit or are influenced by the style of their mothers. Although I think I inherited from my mom my stubborn and unbreakable spirit, I completely know I got the fashion bug from my dad. My mother is a practical person; she shops couture, yes, but she also patiently scours the racks at – gulp – Loehmann’s for surprisingly beautiful stuff. My dad would rather slit his wrists and douse them in Calvin Klein perfume than go to a discount shop. He even gets mad at my mom when she asks for doggie bags in Michelin-starred restaurants, saying it makes them look like tourists.
My gay friends and I spend hours in his closet, which actually is a house on its own. He had 3,000 shoes as of last count, almost seven or eight years ago. He is the man that excess built. He was the first to discover Earnest Sewn jeans, has an all-crystal bar built by the House of Versace, and wears the latest Puma sneaks only once before chucking them into oblivion. He collects cars as if they were matchbox cars, carelessly trading my mother’s sensible sedans for sports cars none of us can even ride in. (We are a handicapped family with no sense of direction and no driving skills.)
My mom says it’s because of his parsimonious childhood and strict upbringing that my dad is not even having an over-the-hill crisis but has completely transformed into a child with lots of toys.
So he can’t complain about my monthly bills; I totally got that spending streak from him. My mother is still amazed at the rate I can burn a pile of money creatively by buying useless things. When I defend myself that it’s in the genes (or rather in the jeans), she wisely points out that my dad has money and, sadly, I don’t. Nothing like a mother to humble you.
He’s outrageous.
Once a beautiful socialite, one I consider the most striking and gorgeous ever, went up to say hi to him and my mom. My mother instantly smothered her with compliments saying she looked amazing and impeccable.
My dad, without being asked, loudly announced: "You’re looking fat!" The room fell silent. Fat in this room was worse than being broke. She was stunned, not exactly offended, because she was beautiful, and it was the kind of beauty that needed no defense or explanation. Still, my mom tried to explain that he was kidding, and he continued saying it like a Teddy Ruxpin short-circuiting after it was dropped in a tub of water. The lady simply said, "Oh, you are such a nut, Albertito." In a weird way, no one gets offended by him even if he is being as offensive as Borat. I totally wanna learn his trick.
He’s curiously protective.
Despite my father’s European outlook on life, he is still very protective. When I was in high school, he caught me paying for pizza for a guy I liked. He banished the Guido from his house and for a year sermoned me on why I should never pay for any man. Any man, he repeated, like I may have missed something in his diatribe.
He tests every guy in my life, making them buy gentlemen’s magazines for him at brightly lit 7-Eleven stores in the middle of the day, seeing if they have enough good sense to bring a bottle of Blue Label to any formal family dinner, and when he finally sort of likes him, he will gift the unlucky guy with the latest gentleman’s magazine. It is a bizarre rite of passage; however, every serious boyfriend I’ve ever had knows that winning my father’s affection is more important than winning mine.
Even if all the examples that I have given are those cushioned by the plush and privileged celebrity set, we the normal paycheck-to-paycheck living populace can relate to having bizarre relationships with the most omnipresent male figure in our lives. I mean, even if you do have an absentee father, he still has the power to influence your relationship with men for the rest of your life. Perfect fathers tend to lead others to idealize men unrealistically. I also realize that this is a trick dads do so they won’t lose their little girls in the event that they have to get married and live with someone else. The poor husband, no matter how much he tries, will always come in second.
My dad is very different from other dads. Readers of this vapid column will know by now that my dad is a bulletproof martini drinker with a rather unconventional but altogether chic fashion sense. My friends adore him, because for him there are no other stories than off-colored ones. He never apologizes for who he is, and in so many ways he has made me feel that it’s okay to be a weirdo. Normal fathers would cringe at what I write on a weekly basis. Although it’s not exactly a beacon of pride when I recount the last drunken debacle I had involving directions, strangers and credit cards, he always says that I should not be shy about being a tad bit different. In other words "special," not in the precious sense, but more in the retarded sense.
I’m a lucky girl to have him as a dad. Here are some funny reasons why I love him:
He’s got bling.
Most women say they inherit or are influenced by the style of their mothers. Although I think I inherited from my mom my stubborn and unbreakable spirit, I completely know I got the fashion bug from my dad. My mother is a practical person; she shops couture, yes, but she also patiently scours the racks at – gulp – Loehmann’s for surprisingly beautiful stuff. My dad would rather slit his wrists and douse them in Calvin Klein perfume than go to a discount shop. He even gets mad at my mom when she asks for doggie bags in Michelin-starred restaurants, saying it makes them look like tourists.
My gay friends and I spend hours in his closet, which actually is a house on its own. He had 3,000 shoes as of last count, almost seven or eight years ago. He is the man that excess built. He was the first to discover Earnest Sewn jeans, has an all-crystal bar built by the House of Versace, and wears the latest Puma sneaks only once before chucking them into oblivion. He collects cars as if they were matchbox cars, carelessly trading my mother’s sensible sedans for sports cars none of us can even ride in. (We are a handicapped family with no sense of direction and no driving skills.)
My mom says it’s because of his parsimonious childhood and strict upbringing that my dad is not even having an over-the-hill crisis but has completely transformed into a child with lots of toys.
So he can’t complain about my monthly bills; I totally got that spending streak from him. My mother is still amazed at the rate I can burn a pile of money creatively by buying useless things. When I defend myself that it’s in the genes (or rather in the jeans), she wisely points out that my dad has money and, sadly, I don’t. Nothing like a mother to humble you.
He’s outrageous.
Once a beautiful socialite, one I consider the most striking and gorgeous ever, went up to say hi to him and my mom. My mother instantly smothered her with compliments saying she looked amazing and impeccable.
My dad, without being asked, loudly announced: "You’re looking fat!" The room fell silent. Fat in this room was worse than being broke. She was stunned, not exactly offended, because she was beautiful, and it was the kind of beauty that needed no defense or explanation. Still, my mom tried to explain that he was kidding, and he continued saying it like a Teddy Ruxpin short-circuiting after it was dropped in a tub of water. The lady simply said, "Oh, you are such a nut, Albertito." In a weird way, no one gets offended by him even if he is being as offensive as Borat. I totally wanna learn his trick.
He’s curiously protective.
Despite my father’s European outlook on life, he is still very protective. When I was in high school, he caught me paying for pizza for a guy I liked. He banished the Guido from his house and for a year sermoned me on why I should never pay for any man. Any man, he repeated, like I may have missed something in his diatribe.
He tests every guy in my life, making them buy gentlemen’s magazines for him at brightly lit 7-Eleven stores in the middle of the day, seeing if they have enough good sense to bring a bottle of Blue Label to any formal family dinner, and when he finally sort of likes him, he will gift the unlucky guy with the latest gentleman’s magazine. It is a bizarre rite of passage; however, every serious boyfriend I’ve ever had knows that winning my father’s affection is more important than winning mine.
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