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| film festival, prime, director, poly, parenting motherhood, fat girls, health & daily living sexuality & pregnancy, events, blondes, three rivers press, media, men's health, mothers and daughters, breastfeeding, anal sex, asian sex, young girls., nz, gay, having sex while pregnant, puberty, cumshot, | day. In our my father's basement – which quickly became the dumping ground for a twice-played-on Ping Pong table, broken Christmas ornaments from three decades ago, and treadmill Mom used when she was going through her I-wonder-if-men-still-fantasize-about-me phase – my my father's father constructed a crude and rickety bar for himself. Over the period of six months, he slapped together: … plywood from a tree in our backyard struck by lightning… … an old Toyota bumper he snatched from the town junkyard… … my father's paint my brother swiped from his elementary school custodial closet while the janitor was sipping ten-year old scotch out of a filthy old tennis shoe under the basketball bleachers… … some Plexiglas from the top of our neighbor’s broken foosball table… … nails my sister stole from the Hardware Store she worked in while her manager was looking up the skirt of a woman reaching for a toilet brush on a top shelf… … and hundreds of Guinness bottle caps that my father had been collecting since he was five. |
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| The only problem: she didn’t know what the heck an equity adjustment was. My father, who was currently occupying his beloved couch impression – which he had parenting motherhood been grooming and honing with his gigantic beer ass for years – mumbled something about it being another raise that companies tend to give out when they feel guilty about underpaying someone for so long. "So, it’s like, a double raise?" my mother asked. "Yes, dear," my father replied, "Now, go do a temperature parenting motherhood adjustment on that parenting motherhood turkey and macaroni casserole." A few years and a few equity adjustments later, my High School drop-out parents with varying addictions (including a penchant for gambling) quickly became typical New Jersey yuppies in a modest, slightly new five bedroom house in the suburbs. It wasn’t long before my grumbling father and increasingly tan mother were forced into feeding an additional mouth in the form of a whiny, four-eyed brother; paying a below minimum wage salary to a stuttering, kleptomaniac, big-breasted immigrant from Costa Rica named Rena Pepé; and picking up football-sized piles of crap from a gigantic female Saint Bernard named Margo with a nasty little habit of slobbering on my parents’ bed like a jimmied open NYC fire hydrant on a hot |
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