Dear Crabby,
My rich dad divorced my mom to marry a gold digger. I’ve never met his gold digger, nor made any attempt to. I don’t send the gold digger birthday or holiday greetings, and have gone to great lengths to make my dad understand that I disapprove of his gold digger. Now I’m worried that he’s going to cut me out of his will, and I won’t get a dime. I’m thinking of inviting him to leave the gold digger and her kids behind for a few weeks (or months) and visit me to renew our financial – I mean familial - bonds. Think this will help?
— “Dad, where’s my car?”
Dear “Greedy’s Family Reunion”,
For a sound financial future, I recommend automatic payroll deductions into your 401K, and allocating them between a half dozen mutual funds. And in the unlikely event that dad would abandon his family to visit you for a few weeks, I seriously doubt you could maintain the fiction that you actually care for him, for more than an hour or so. And not to add insult to injury, your biological mom and the taxman are in line ahead of you for large shares the estate, irrespective of what his new wife receives. Stop waiting (or praying) for your dad to die, and channel your free time into developing a moral compass.
- Crabby, who hopes someday to be unexpectedly remembered in some kind old gentleman’s will, like Lily Prescott (Donna Reed) was in “How the West was Won”
Dear Crabby,
I caught my husband of 5 years stroking off to a porn video, but he doesn’t know. Now I worry that when we make love he’s secretly imagining some bimbo from “Busty Asian Cheerleaders #29”. When he asks what's wrong, I don't know what to tell him. Is this something that I just have to learn to live with?
— “The Porn Ultimatum”
Dear “Hairy Potter and the odor of the Kleenex”,
Unfortunately, it’s impossible to be busty enough, Asian enough, or cheerleader-ly enough to fulfill every man’s fantasy. And if you ever could, then next week you’d find he rented “Latin Student Nurses #16”. Before you judge him too harshly, remember all those bodice ripping novels with a Fabio look-alike on the cover. He’s costumed like a pirate, an Arab prince, or a native american with long flowing hair, his shirt unbuttoned, his bulging muscular chest rippling invitingly, his lips parted, a glint of naughtiness in his eyes to confirm you can have – but never tame – him . .. . oh, oh, oh . . . Ahem, where was I? Yes, you have every right to be surprised and a little bit hurt that your husband would fantasize about another woman. But I guarantee he’s not thinking of her all the time, or even most of the time, when you make love. When I start to hear about men leaving their wives and running off with a porn DVD, I’ll take this sort of thing more seriously. In the meantime, get a grip.
— Crabby, who believes the beginning of “A History of Violence” where Viggo Mortensen is seduced by his cheerleader costumed wife, happens far more than people are willing to admit.
Dear Crabby,
I’m from Africa, and people ask me things like “Do you live in trees?” and “Do you have houses?” What is the proper way of dealing with ignorance?
— “Dumb and Dumber – when Harry met Kofi Annan”
Dear “Along came folly”,
Fight fire with fire, I always say. (But why not with water? I’ve never figured that out, actually). My suggestion is to laugh cheerfully upon encountering such questions, and reply: “Oh I get that all the time. And before I came to America, I thought everybody here either lived like the Beverly Hillbillies, or killed 20 people a day like in “NYPD Blue” . . . Hollywood sure does get it wrong, doesn’t it?”
— Crabby, who hopes to visit Egypt some day and be abducted into a royal harem where a handsome, Fabio-like sheikh can’t get enough of me. Oh, wait, that stereotype is a leftover from the sex fantasy letter just above. Sorry – my bad.
Dear Crabby,
I met a great guy at a party, and we really hit it off. There was a lot of one-on-one interaction, joking, and flirtation between us. My friends felt the attraction was mutual, too. But he never asked for my number or called me. Is it okay to call him first?
— “30 going on 13”
Dear “Legally Bland”,
What planet are you from again? The one where women still wear hoop skirts and drop a handkerchief to break the ice? Seriously, although the shyness gene is recessive, about half the guys have it. If you don’t call him, nothing will happen. This was covered in “7th grade girls sleepover”, but you apparently have slept through it. When you finally connect with him, don’t forget your cheerleader outfit, but make sure you don’t come across as a gold digger.
— Crabby, who suggests the safest approach is a text message, along the lines of “Cant blev U nvr clld. Wats up w tht?”, in case you have the shyness gene, too.