Megan and Jessica last brought you Alternative Mother's Day Cards.

My Dad, the vegetarian cyclist who looks good in coral

It’s okay that broiling mammals isn’t your specialty, the grill not your domain

That you wave your hand in front of your nose at the roar of a diesel engine

That your fastball is a travesty

That your favorite shirt is the

…

Take the plunge.

This post is brought to you by A Man. My dad only gets me into the car by promising a trip to Barnes and Noble. I might be 9, but I’m well versed in the art of manipulation and guilt tripping, and as the non-custodial parent my dad is particularly susceptible. All in all, it’s probably a good thing that my tastes run cheap, although he sighs when he sees I’m clutching a copy of the first volume…

"Why are they calling her fat? Did they just call her fat? That's ridiculous. Is this supposed to be a joke? She's rail-thin." "She's gaunt. This doesn't make any sense." On Anne Hathaway: "I like her, but there was no reason to give her that Oscar." [My mother: "She was wonderful. She sang that song so expressively."] "She ruined that song." "There's no coffee in any of those coffee cups. Look, you can tell by the way…

Renew early! You never want to miss an issue.

Kate McKean last wrote for The Toast about the malls of her childhood. When I was about eight or nine, I spent a lot of time in our finished basement playing Super Mario Bros. My father had a fancy stereo system that I was scared to touch, but I did know how to do one thing: turn on the 7" reel-to-reel tape player and start the five Beatles albums he'd recorded on the big…

Sometimes I don’t know what’s true, and what I’ve made up to fill in the gaps. What I picked up from movies or books or TV and used to create a history. What I’m lying about. What the truth is. I know this: Six months after I was born my parents divorced. They had been married for ten years. I was the fourth and last child they had together. They had both been married before;…

Email your itinerary.

Saturday night. I'm hanging out with my parents at a bland suburban bar. They are in Omaha for the night, having temporarily fled their small town due to its chronic microbrew shortage. I have joined them partly because I have nothing else to do, and partly because I truly enjoy their company. Also, they buy me beer. I could tell when I arrived that my dad was spoiling for an argument. He and Teresa, my…

INT. NIGHT. A BEDROOM.

An alarm clock by the bed reads 4:00 AM. A sweating DAD bolts upright in bed, gasping.

DAD: I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH BOOKS ABOUT WINSTON CHURCHILL.

He glances at his bookshelves.

DAD: Wait. Yes I do.

He sinks back down gratefully.

I was out for a walk last night and took the greatest picture of my young life.

This month's dad is holding a baby lamb. Or a goat, I'm being told; I don't know, I'm not an animal husbandrist.

Deadwood saved my relationship with my dad. Then he died. Like so many of us in the “shows featuring Timothy Olyphant as an angry person with hats and really low-riding jeans” demographic, I love Deadwood. I love its harsh and beautiful language, its complicated female characters, its gut-punching violence, and its Olyphant. Launched in 2004, it features not only T.O. at his sexiest, but the inimitable John Hawkes, Ian McShane, and Robin Weigert. It’s…

I’m starting to believe that my boyfriend’s father is the New England mascot for the worst of white male privilege. Naturally, such privilege is bedazzled with the nicotine-flavored, boisterous rumblings of unflinching homophobia and an admiration of Reagan-era conservatism. It’s a badge of paternal lordship, sharpened by the nervous-titters of his obedient family members, people who adhere to specific stage blocking not like trained actors, but well-worn chess pieces. My boyfriend’s father knows that I…

Merry Christmas from the hardworking team at Dad Magazine.