My Friends Think He's a FILF

My father called at 7:55 tonight. When I answered the phone, he wanted to know what I was doing, what I was up to. He wanted to know if I was excited.

"It's premiere night!" he said.

Oh, as if I didn't know. While I might love summer for its sun and beaches and weather that allows me to wear sandals, I love fall even more. Fall, of course, means tastes like pumpkin and apple and cinnamon--which are some of my favorites--and it also means changing leaves and weather that allows me to wear thigh-high boots. It also means the start of the fall television season, and I, as I think has been extensively proven, love television. I especially love reality television that revolves around singing and dancing. Which means tonight is right up my alley.

Tonight Dancing with the Stars starts. And I'm not the only person in my family who loves Dancing with the Stars. My father loves Dancing with the Stars, too. He and I have similar reasons for loving the show: we have massive crushes on the professional dancers or the stars. For me, this season is going to be about the following things: loving Mark Ballas, loving Derek Hough, loving Rocco DiSpirito, and loving Lance Bass--the last one in a way that I know well. After all, I can love a gay man like no one else.

My father? He loves Karina. He loves Edyta. He loves Cheryl. He loves to send me vaguely perverted text messages about them when they--spangled and half-nude--appear on the screen.

I'd like to be her friend, my father texts me at 8:10 tonight, just after Cheryl has swished around the stage, flinging her hips around as easily as she flings her choppy bob.

Gross, I text back.

What's wrong with that? my father wants to know.

Gross, I type.

My father could be watching Monday Night Football like many of America's men, but he's not. He's watching the foxtrot and the cha-cha and he's trading catty text messages with his daughter about the fallen celebrities who are gluing on smiles and padding their bras and stuffing their spandex pants and making brilliant asses of themselves on television.

This might very well be part of my father's appeal. This might very well be why Katy just sent me a card the other day, a card that announced she thinks my father is a FILF.

Gross, I wrote back. You're just gross.