http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uneIieUrgI

I arrived home on Friday at 9 to find my father assuming an awkward pose on our living room couch.
Generally, when someone in our family sits on our couch, it's a sign that things are Not Good.
The couch is used less for sitting and more for clothes hanger. It is covered with accessories, pillows, and - of course - clothes.
The two times my parents sat on the couch, one was to tell me my mother had lost my ipod when she had taken it without my permission, and the second time was 15 minutes later when i yelled at my mother for losing said ipod and got grounded.
So it was fairly strange to find my father sitting on the couch.
Stranger still was that he had abandoned his Ghetto Garb.
"Paula," he patted the couch space next to him, "Come have a sit."
"Daddy-o, don't you mean a sit-down-o?" I joked, quoting him directly from last week.
Father didn't laugh.
"I want to talk with you .. about boys."
OHHHHHHH HELL NO.
"Specifically .... are you assocating with them?"
"Well," I chose my words carefully, "I go to school with them and sometimes I see them ...
"DO YOU KISS THEM. ARE YOU DOING THINGS WITH THEM. PAULA, HOW MUCH ARE YOU TELLING ME?" Father was shrieking. And not the way he shrieks when he plays bingo, or the way he shrieks when he is watching soccer. No, he was shrieking like when he got my texting bill. That sort of high pitched, animal, OHMYGOD I NEED THIS PURSE kind of shriek.
"Dad! Where is this coming from?"
"HAVE YOU EVER BEEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL? OR DRUGS? ARE YOU A VIRGIN?"
"Dad!"
"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing the bald spot I hadn't seen in over a month due to it constantly being under a customized hat, "It's just I saw this video of this girl - named Victoria? Paula, she's had sex over 300 TIMES! She has it in the staircase, in the mall, IN HER MOMMA'S BED. Paula, have you ever had SEX IN OUR BED? You know you can't be having sex in our bed, because WE DON'T HAVE SEX IN OUR BED."
"WOAH. TOO MUCH INFORMATION. Did you say you watched Victoria? If my baby loses its pacifier -"
"It's okay, cause I got 3 MO," Father cut me off.
"I WILL DO WHATEVA IT TAKES TO HAVE A BABY," we both intoned.
"I'm going to dress my baby in all brand names," Daddy said, thrusting out a hip.
"And if I can't afford it, I guess i'm gonna steal it."
"If my baby gets cold and needs a blanket, it's okay, cause I have it!" Dad said excitedly.
This was the father I knew and loved.
"Wow, Paula," said Father, "I really am happy that you're not that attractive."
This was the father I hated and despised.
"I mean," Father corrected himself, "I really am happy you're not doing these sorts of things, and even more happy that you don't have a boyfriend."
Um. That makes one of us.

Ay gevalt.

51.
I got a 51 on my math test.
"Dad," I tell my father, "I got a 51."
"That's not good," he says into his cell phone, "Not okay with me, home skillet."
"Are you talking to me, or ... ?" I trail off.
"Gots to gos. The spawn is talking to me," he laughs, "Yeah, the one with the acne."
"Who was that?"
"Yeah, the acne's gotten worse. She looks more like a prebuscent teen every day - "
"DAD."
"Yeah, but she's 15. Oh man, she's getting angry. Angry spawn."
"DAD."
"Gotta go. I'm out. This spawn throws things."
"WHO WAS THAT?" I ask angrily.
"The bacon to my egg. The yo to my homie. The peanut to my butter. The - "
"Mom?"
"Nah. My secretary. What's this I hear about a 31?"
"51," I cringe, "on my math test."
"Word? Am I supposed to, like, care? Or not?" he turns to the computer, where he's making himself a pair of kicks.
"Well," I explain, "This is the part where you tell me to try harder."
"Try harder."
"And study more."
"Study more."
"Dad, I'm getting the drift you don't care."
"Of course I care! Blue or yellow?"
"Dad! This is serious! This is trig!"
"WORD UP? TRIG?" his whole face brightens up, "CONGRATS, PAULA. YO MAD GOOD JOB. I GOT A 32 ON MY FIRST TRIG TEST."
"Dad, I think you don't qualify as a good example ... "
"I PAID SOME NERD TO TAKE IT FOR ME. BUT HE BACKED OUT. So I finished the test in 10 minutes and went to fool around with your mother in an empty -"
"DAD. OH MY GOD. Too much information. Can you help me?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. 4 more dollars?" He looks for his monogrammed 50 cent wallet.
"No, Dad. Like, help me. With the math."
His whole face looks crushed. "But .. I was making myself a pair of kicks .. "
He grabs the test from my hands and his eyes glaze over.
"Are you sure you can't pay off someone? Or something? Or .. God, Paula. Just looking at all this math makes me sick."
"Listen, father. I am starting to doubt that degree you have framed in the bathroom. You seem to have paid your way out of EVERYTHING."
"Well yeah. I mean, after you get kicked out of college, you have to start trying."
"KICKED OUT OF COLLEGE?"
"Yeah," he looks away sheepishly, "Your mother said never to mention that to you guys."
"Our mother also said she loves you. Obviously the woman can't be held responsible for her actions. Tell me more."
"Well, it was just a small accident..."
"How small?"
"Well, it was college. I had a bit too much beer .. and next thing you know, I was hitting send on a 7 page email to my teacher outlining how much I hated her."
"7 PAGES?"
"Yeah," my dad said proudly, "I've never put so much effort into a paper in my life."
"Dad. You kind of fail."
"Well, that's not why I got kicked out."
"It's ... Not?"
"Well .." he scratched his neck, "This might have been my third offense."
"THIRD?"
"I got caught fooling around with your mother. Twice. And came to class drunk. Thrice."
I am speechless.
"DON'T TELL YOUR MOTHER ANY OF THIS."
How can I? Speechless.
He chuckled, "Yep. Good memories."
My father was a juvenile deliquent.
"Damn," Dad says, getting back to reality, "Your mother is going to flip when she sees that 51."
"This is true," I say, edging out of the room, "But I'll soften her up with your college stories first."
"YOU SPAWN!"

Russia is corrupt.

Late at night last Tuesday I was working on a drafting assignment, spending endless minutes matching parallel lines, knocking back cranberry juice, and causing holes in the paper due to too many erasures. After 40 painstaking minutes, I help up my masterpiece - one 6 by 6 paralellogram with an intrusion.
"There has got to be an easier way," I thought to myself.
"Oh, hey, what's happening?" said my hip dad, walking into the room with a baseball cap on backwards and his cell phone on speaker.
"Dad...I thought we were past this stage in your midlfe crisis," I spoke rudely, flicking his cap off his head.
"Hey, yo that was customized! Yes is that ..an intrusion?" he peered over my shoulder at my beautiful diagram.
"GET OUT. YOU SPEAK DRAFTING?" I squealed.
"It looks awful," he continued, "And your lines are all messed up. And you can see the erasures everywhere."
"Don't hate, appreciate," I told my dad, knocking back another glass of cranberry juice.
"Man," he continued, ignoring me, "When I was your age I totally hated that class. Waste of time. I paid this stupid nerd to do it for me."
"Really?" I asked, surprised at my dad's badass-ness.
"Word," he nodded, "And then we got caught. But I paid off the teacher to keep it on the down low."
"REALLY?" I asked, even more surprised at his bad-ass-ness.
"Uh-huh," he nodded, " And I paid off some other nerd to sit in the class for me. My teacher was half blind and wasn't suspicious of the fact that he had 4 girls in his class named Vladimir and 5 boys in the class named Anastasia. We all looked the same to him. Russia was corrupt, of course. This was following Stalin's death ..."
"Oh, nice," I nod, losing interest.
"Yeah," he continued fondly, "I used to cut that class and fool around with your mother in one of the empty classrooms."
"EW," I felt barf rise up in my throat, "I had always hung on to the possible glimmer of hope that I was a test tube baby. Or that," I looked Daddy the Gangsta up and down from his Nikes to his backwards baseball hat, "You were not my father."
"Oh, I'm your father all right. Just check out your nose. And you were definitely made of lots of love, and lots of - "
"DAD. STOP NOW,"
"Anyway, if I was you, I'd just pay an asian to do that for me," he nodded and my intrusion, "They are really good at that stuff."
"DAD. I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE ENCOURAGING THIS."
"Whattttt? I'll give you the money for it."
"Dad - wait, really?"
"Word UP. 5 rubles in American cash would be like -- here, here's 4 bucks."
"SWEET."
"What are you guys up to?" My mom says, coming into the room.
"Just telling Paula about drafting."
"Oh, with that senile guy? Remember we used to cut it and go to that classroom? Oh man, remember that move you had?" My mom remembers wistfully.
"YEAH!" says my ancient father.
They look at each other like they are reborn. Gag me.
"Right well," I look at my ancient parents and envision them having once loved each other. ew?
"I'm going to .. go pay an Asian."
"That's what I did!" my mother happily announces.
"Me, too," my dad smiles at her.
Ew. My parents are ... getting it on.
And over drafting?

The Apocalypse is coming.

And yes, I have valid proof of this fact.
Why?
Because my father, Alexander, has begun to talk in gangsta.
Yes, you read the above line correctly.
My 50 year old Russian father has begun incorporating words like, "word up", "homeslice", and my personal favorite, "biznatch," into his daily vocabulary.
Yesterday I was greeted with, "Home skillet, how was schoolz? Coolz?"
Although you can imagine my horror at the above statement, and the fact that it was followed with a peace out sign, my bigger problem was what my dad was wearing.
Specifically, a black mesh tank and a backwards baseball hat.
Black. Mesh. Tank.
Backwards. Baseball. Hat.
A normal child would run screaming from the sight of her mid-life-crisis-because-there's-no-other-explanation-for-it-father.
But I smiled courageously and asked him in a very kind tone i generally reserve for the mentally misguided, or for crying 3 year olds, "What on earth, dad, are you wearing? And saying?"
"You likesz it? My homie gee bought it for me."
"Dad, there is less material in the tank than in a sports bra."
"Don't be hatin' cause you ain't me!"
Oh. My. God.
"Dad," I ventured slowly, "I never though I'd say this, but I'd rather you be having an affair with a 20 year old secratary than forcing me to experience this."
"Yo, whatchyoo talkin' about?" the wrinkled man asked, "I thinksz -"
His train of thought was interrupted when his cell phone rang.
"Yo," he answered, nodding his head at me.
"Oh, okay" he returned to his normal voice, "Yeah, I have those papers."
He leaned down to pick something up from his briefcase, and that's when i saw the ghastliest sight of them all.
Things you never, ever want your father to wear all at once:
3) A mesh shirt
2) A backwards baseball hat.
And topping the list, at number 1?
1) SHORTS PULLED DOWN TO REVEAL BOXERS.
wait, what's that?
SHORTS PULLED DOWN. TO REVEAL BOXERS.
This was the last straw.
"This is the last straw," I told my father.
"What happened in this hizzhouse?" he asked.
"YOU CANNOT WEAR A MESH SHIRT, TALK GANGSTA, WEAR A BACKWARDS BASEBALL HAT, AND CERTAINLY CANNOT FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD EVER PULL YOUR SHORTS DOWN TO REVEAL YOUR BOXERS."
"Chillax," my buddhist father spoke, "It's all cool, yo."
"IT IS NOT COOL. GO TO YOUR BEDROOM AND CHANGE INTO REAL CLOTHES OR I'LL TELL MOM ABOUT THE TIME YOU FED US NOTHING BUT COOKIES FOR THE WEEK SHE WAS ON VACATION, AND ESTHER GOT SICK AND HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL, AND YOU MADE US SWEAR THAT WE COULD NEVER TELL MOM ABOUT THE TIME YOU FED US NOTHING BUT COOKIES FOR THE WEEK SHE WAS ON VACATION AND ESTHER GOT SICK AND HAD TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL."
"HEY," he returned to normal dad, " WE HAD A DEAL."
"That deal was off, my mentally deranged father," I rationally told him, "WHEN THE MESH SHIRT CAME ON."
"Aw, c'mon, Paula. Don't ruin all the fun," he whined.
"WHAT FUN? ALL I SEE IS A METHOD DEVISED TO TORTURE THE INNER CORE OF MY SOUL."
"Can i please keep the - "
"No."
"What about the -"
"No."
"Not even the -"
"ESPECIALLY NOT."
As he walked back into his bedroom, my 10 year old sister came out of her room wearing one of my bras, stuffed to the brim with tissue, and hot pink lipstick and a shirt three sizes too small. She opened the door to the street and started walking out.
"WHERE. ARE. YOU. GOING?"
"OUT! DON'T WAIT UP!"
I grabbed her by the collar.
"Go change back into your own clothes. And wipe off the clown makeup."
"But Paula! What about the -"
"No."
"Not even the -"
"No."
"But I look so cute in the - "
"NO."
Sometimes it's hard, being the only sane person in the family.