Everything could be terrible. I wouldn't know.

My family has a weird way of dealing with crises on various levels. Correction: My parents have a weird way of dealing with crises on various levels. My siblings seem to do just fine with this sort of stuff. Allow me to explain. Example #1: 

A text I received from my father at 4:30AM on Thanksgiving morning: IMG_2635

This was something that could not wait until the normal hours of the morning. No. I needed to be woken up from my deep pre-thanksgiving slumber for CHAIRS. This type of emergency is not something you fuck around with and wait to alert someone about. Chairs are very important. Middle-of-the-night important.

This brings me to Example #2:

A phone call I received from my father about a week after Thanksgiving around 8:30 in the evening:

A quick note, my father has a very thick and sort of angry sounding Swedish accent, so when you read his part, try and imagine that in your head. 

Me: Hello?

strange pause followed by loud crowd noises in the background

Me: Hello?

Dad: Hello?

Me: Dad?

Dad: Are you there? I can barely hear you!

Me: I think that might be because of wherever you are. Where are you?

Dad: I'm out!

Me: Oh, sure.

Dad: How are you?

Me: Fine... you?

Dad: I'm good. So listen, I'm calling because I need to talk to you about something, but before I tell you, you need to know that everything is fine and that you don't need to worry, so don't freak out, okay?

Me: That's a terrible way to keep someone calm.

Dad: Your mom is in the emergency room and she's been there for about four days, okay?



Me: What happened?

Dad: Well, last week when we were still in New York, we were walking around and having a nice time and then Mom got really dizzy all of sudden and almost passed out... So then we came back to Ohio -

Me: -You traveled? 

Dad: Let me finish! We came back to Ohio and she still didn't feel good, so I took her to the hospital and it turns out she had some scar tissue in a vein and it was causing a blockage, blah blah blah, but everything is fine and she's okay, okay?

Me: Um... okay?

Dad: And we didn't tell you guys because we didn't want you to worry because everything is okay.

Me: Yes, but everything was not okay four days ago...

Dad: I know! That's why we didn't tell you until just now.

Me: But what if everything wasn't going to be okay? How long would you have waited to tell me? What if things were really bad and then you just kept waiting to tell me if or when everything was okay? This seems like a terrible system.


Me: I know, but -

Dad: - Don't worry about it. There's something else I need to talk to you about.

Me: Oh God, what now? Is the dog okay? Are you okay?!?

Dad: There's a book that I want you to look into getting for me.

Me: ...oh, sure.


So everything really is okay. I talked to my mom, who found this entire story to be incredibly amusing, and apparently she just needs to take aspirin every day or something and that solves all her problems? I don't really know, but I've been assured that everything is okay and I am not to freak out, although now I know I can't trust my parents, which I told them over and over again after this whole debacle concluded. They think that's just adorable.


In other news, my giveaway ends in just four days, so you should get on that, because you deserve a free shirt.


Also, new Page Break episodes. Go check those out.

Because Dad Is Here.

My dad surprised me and came to visit last night, so today I am hanging out with him and making sure he doesn't scamper off and assassinate someone, as I'm sure that that's the real reason he's come to town... Anyway, because he's here, I don't exactly have time to sit down and write a real blog post, so I'm going to re-post the one where I introduced him in the first place, seeing as how many of you are new and this post is over a year old. I felt it was time for you all to reacquaint yourselves with the glory that is my father. The frightening, frightening glory... Anyway, without further ado, I bring you....

My Dad the Mafia Man

It's finally time... Meet my dad:


For multiple reasons, my friends and I are convinced that he is the head of the Swedish Mafia (yes, it totally could exist...). I know that when you think of mafia, you usually think of Russians, Italians, or Irishmen, but we live in Ohio's Suburbia... Swedish only makes sense. Of course, one would think that it would make more sense if we lived in Minnesota if we were leading the Swedish Mafia, but I was two when we moved to Ohio and had absolutely no say in that decision, so STOP ARGUING WITH ME.

Anyway, here is the list of reasons why we're convinced that my dad works for the totally real Swedish Mafia:

  • Whenever we ask my dad what he does for a living, this is his response:


  • For a really long time, he drove a black Chrysler 300...chrysler300


  • ...Until recently, when he decided that this would transport bodies more efficiently:lincolntruck


  • He goes to the "grocery store" like... 17 times a day. There's no reason to do that other than as a cover-up, people.
  • He travels A LOT and often without warning. Seriously, conversations with my mother will sometimes go like this:  Me: Where's Dad? Mom: Um... I don't know.... I think he's in Jersey... Or maybe Atlanta. Me: What? Didn't he just get home from Denmark? Mom: Yeah...
  • Whenever things seem like they'll never come together, my dad always says "Hey, don't worry. I'll take care of it." And when we ask "BUT HOW??" he just holds up his hand to silence us. Then he disappears for a few hours, and comes back with the solution. We seriously don't know what happens. Obviously, he's making some sort of a deal with some other guy to get things straightened out. I don't know who's fingers these outings cost him, but I have to find that guy and hug him... or at least give him a really nice hook.
  • He's taken to wearing a matching track suit around the house.
  • All deals with my dad are made over a drink. If it's a serious deal, he'll walk you through the proper procedures of how to seal the deal by taking a shot of Swedish alcohol with one hand while your other hand rests behind your back to keep you from reaching your weapon.
  • Oh, and let's not forget the booming Swedish accent...
  • ...or the 6'6" height and build.

When asking my dad if I could write about him in this way, this was the conversation we had via text:

Me: May I please write a blog post about you being in the mafia? ;) I'll be clear about the fact that it's "not true" so that you don't get targeted. :)

Dad: What mafia?

Me: Exactly ;)

Dad: :)