if you met my father you would have told me that match.com would not be a success. i had no choice. my father was calling me e a lot. like 13 times per day a lot. he would tell me that this fig tree outside his suburban NJ home was protected with a fence. the fig tree was getting so big he needed to replace the fence. if he left it unfenced even for a few hours the birds would get to it.

or that he cannot sit in the house that he and my mom built from the bottom up 20 years ago. her lifelong dream. not his. we talk about his plan for the day. going to shop rite for fish. wegman’s for eggs and milk. walmart for the ripe and affordable pineapples and melons.

match.com was supposed to help my father. and me. so far it has taken way too much of my free time in the morning and my dad finding fault in the women who actually want to speak to him.

when i get really overwhelmed, i cry. i eat peanut butter M and M’s. they are so good. i drink too much wine. i unfortunately am an asshole to my husband. i am working on the last one.

the way i put all of my and love and compassion into my mother as i slept on the floor next to her hospice bed until her literal last breath, i know i have to put that some energy into saving my father from his regrets and loneliness. but i decided to help save him on a schedule. daily calls at 8 am, noon, and 5:30 pm. i think that’s only fair. to the both of us.

i am a first generation italian-american who grew up in southern new jersey. Life is amazingly beautiful and devastating. Sometimes in the same day.