Good morning, you guys! Welcome to the second edition of Dear Miss Meddlesome. Buckle up. Let’s begin.
Hey, Miss Meddlesome, I am in labor with my first baby. Yay! Problem is, my husband keeps making dad jokes in the delivery room. Should this have already started? I thought he was supposed to grow a dad bod before the cheesy jokes started or at least wait until the delivery of the baby himself?
-Ain’t Nobody Got Time For That
Dear I Didn’t Grab No Shoes or Nothin’, Jesus!
You seem a little busy so I’ll keep this short. From what I can tell from my very minimal online research, my light skimming of headlines, and investing in articles written by people with no expertise whatsoever, I’ve come to the conclusion that Dad Jokes are the result of a serious medical condition known as “Daditis.” Symptoms of Daditis include mowing lawns in short shorts and dress socks, wondering out loud why everyone wants to go to McDonald’s when there’s lunch meat and individually wrapped slices of cheese in the fridge, wearing promotional t-shirts from Yahoo, recording five minute videos of squirrels eating bird seed from their bird feeders, driving $2 worth of gas to avoid a $2 ATM fee, keeping the thermostat at a balmy eighty degrees, and every time someone opens the back door screams, “We’re not paying to cool the outside!” These are just some of a myriad of symptoms that can manifest with Daditis. It’s a common misconception, though, that dads grow a dad bod before Daditis afflicts the part of the brain that keeps their foot out of their mouths. Although similar to Foot in Mouth Syndrome, it is not the same, and misdiagnoses have been a problem. Symptoms of Daditis can show up as soon as the mother’s second trimester, but is rare, and could be attributed to the father’s age.
This is all moot, though, if your husband is just naturally cheesy, which is what I suspect in your case. Tell him to “Cut! It! Out!” That’s a Full House reference. If you aren’t familiar with this reference, just ask your husband, he’ll be able to explain it and probably better than I ever could. #BobSagetisSurprisinglyDirtyForHavingHadSuchAPopularFamilyTelevisionShow
Some suggestions for gifts for Father’s Day:
- A cheese knife
That’s all I got.
Get the Epidural,
Miss Meddlesome
p.s. Contractions suck thumb tacks. Just had to put that out there. Camaraderie.
Note to my readers: She had her baby. He is SO cute!
Dear Miss Meddlesome: My sister is always flirting with my husband. I don’t know how far she’ll go to get his attention. What should I do?
Dear Sister Wife,
“It ain’t no fun if the homies can’t have none. ” ― Snoop Dogg
Seriously, though, ew. I’m sure you’ve heard talk of the importance of open communication with family. To that, I say, duck no. Go to your mom and dad and tell on her, throw in a foot stomp if you have to, ’cause your sister needs a time out. In a vat of mayonnaise. Because it’s gross. And she’ll smell disgusting for a minimum of three days, no matter how many times she showers. If mom and dad won’t lay down the law, though, I’ve an alternative.
Feed your husband sardines with raw onion every meal and right before your sister comes over for visits. Dress him like Bret Michaels on Rock of Love. Make him memorize, then regurgitate, in a monotonous tone, endless variations of blackjack card counts, the statistical evidence behind the practice, and the intimate details of every card counter that’s ever been banned by any casino, ever. When your sister tries to run from him, which she surely will, because he’ll smell like old fish and onion and rankle her like Screech bugs Lisa , encourage your husband to follow her around, carrying on the conversation. Even if she goes to the bathroom, have him stand in the hall and speak through the door.
Once she’s escaped, I mean, left, have him send a series of texts citing facts about the MIT Blackjack Team of 1980. Have him continue these updates until she blocks him.
Eventually she will lose interest and you’ll be left with a man who knows entirely too much about card counting and smells of sardines and raw onion, but he’ll be your man who knows entirely too much about card counting and smells of sardines and raw onion.
Good luck in Vegas. You might as well put that knowledge to use.
I also like to live dangerously,
Miss Meddlesome
Dear Ms Meddlesome,
I am an elementary music teacher (relevant to the problem). A new place opened up close to my house that does personal grooming, you know nails, pedi’s, waxing, etc. I decided to take the plunge and get a wax for summer. And I don’t mean my eyebrows. I was gonna get the full monty, if you know what I mean. So I go in and tell the lady at the counter what I want. I whisper it and hope God and my dead Grandma can’t hear it. She takes me back to the little waxing room. It has soft lighting, candles, etc. Very relaxing place to get your most private little hairs ripped from your body. She tells me to strip, put on the robe and how to get on the table on my hands and elbows. In a few minutes, there is a quiet knock and a “you ready miss?” When the waxer comes in, I keep facing the front, head down. After she has done her thing and I have bitten a hole in my lip, I turn around to lie and say “it wasn’t that bad”. And who is at the business end of my whoo-ha but the mom of one of my students. Neither one of us took it well. Now I have to face her again when school starts back because I have her son and daughter for the next several years. Should I quit my job, put a for sale sign in my yard, change faces with Nicolas Cage? Help!
Signed me,
Bald, Breezy and Embarrassed
Dear Steve Carell in 40-Year-Old-Virgin,
Welp. This is probably the worst position you could have put yourself in. Tee hee. Let’s address the fact you didn’t immediately say, “You saw mine, now I get to see yours.” This is unfortunate and would have alleviated a lot of future issues, but what’s done is done.
First thing you need to do is call this woman in for a lengthy chat. Face to face. I feel like I need to clarify that. Sit her down in your classroom, remember to get close to her, uncomfortably close. This will make you both face your discomfort with one another head on. Ask her the following…
How did you get into waxing?
Is this something you’ve always wanted to do? You know, wax people’s stuffy stuff?
Do you ever get wax stuck on your fingers? How do you get that stuff off?
Now, throw in a random compliment…
Little Billy is doing really well in my class. He’s only peed his pants twice this year. Quite the improvement from last year.
Then back to the interrogation…
Would your family like to come over for dinner? I make a nice shaved ham. As do you, I must say. (Another compliment.) #NailedIt
In doing this, you’ll prune away all future awkwardness.
I think I’ve sufficiently sheared this down.
Miyagi out,
Miss Meddlesome
p.s. When all else fails, remember “hell hath no fury like a woman shorn.”
Dear Miss Meddlesome,
I recently found out my boyfriend of 6 years has an online dating profile. What do I do? We share everything. Money, car, house, nothing is just mine. I’m a little scared and a lot of pissed.
Dear Craigslist For Sale: Torture Devices,
Roll your sleeves up, ’cause it’s on like Donkey Kong. Channel your inner Sandra Bullock, baby, we’re going for the blindside.
Create a profile on this dating site for slimeballs. Make it, like, someone he would never turn down ever, right? Since Dim-Wit is a douche, it probably needs to be someone who wouldn’t know the difference between a veterinarian and a vegetarian. You know, someone who asks questions like, “Is this chicken that I have, or is this fish?” Then, acting as this knock-off handbag, approach Dim-Wit online. Get him to agree to meet you at a certain time, at a certain place. When he confirms, and you know he will, because, as we know, he’s a dillweed, send out invites for every single one of his family members saying it’s a surprise party for him. This is where it gets tricky. If it’s close to his birthday, then you have your out. If it isn’t, make something up, like “Hey, I’m proposing to Dim-Wit and I want you all to be there, but it’s a surprise! Shh!” Then, when he shows up, expecting to meet Made Up Hot Pants, you bring him in to meet all his family! Have a microphone handy, letting everyone know what you found out and why he’s there with everyone, hand the microphone over to him and let him do some explaining.
As in every delicious revenge recipe, though, there must be some prep.
It’s common knowledge that online attorneys can be trusted implicitly and according to Ditch, Hymn, Quick, & Hyde, you cannot legally remove yourself from a lease without the leasing partner and the landlord approving. This is a problem. You know, because we don’t want him to see this one coming. Because, again, he’s a dillweed. It’s okay, though, because I found a loophole. Though you are legally and financially responsible for your half of the lease, usually, there’s nothing that says you aren’t able to find a subtenant.
Step one. Find a subtenant so nauseating, he puts Edgar from Men in Black to shame. “Sugar. Water.” This alleviates you from all financial obligations in a roundabout way and provides you with the utter relief that Dim-Wit will have to suffer living with a disgusting stranger. In your ad, mention men with foot fetishes are welcome.
Step two. Pick a day for the showdown.
Step three. On said day, empty your bank account, save for one penny. #Mwuahahaha
Step four. Sell your car. To a friend. For a $1. Leave a copy of the bill of sale and fifty cents behind in an envelope. Have Edgar deliver it when he moves in, if you want.
Step five. Hire movers. Hot movers. Have them take all the furniture, every piece of food, every belonging in the whole damn house. All of it. Even the dust.
Step six. Go live yourself one beautiful, gosh damn life. Without Dim-Wit.
Have a personal problem you really need help with? Miss Meddlesome will try her hardest to ruin your life with spectacularly bad advice. Submit here! It’s 100% anonymous!
Disclaimer: Under no circumstances should you actually follow this crap advice. If you do, you’re an idiot.
When Miss Meddlesome isn’t meddling, she’s writing as Fisher Amelie…
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