This caused him to smirk and recount how he hit what he described as a young, chubby girl, referring to her as "sweetheart." Apparently Sweetheart didn't understand my father's command of "Left!" which he claims is ski lingo for "I'm passing on your left at a very high speed. I see you. Don't move."

Sweetheart either panicked or misunderstood and skied left into my father's path. Their skis became intertwined, and my father landed unscathed with a giant thud. Sweetheart wasn't so lucky, as my father had fallen on top of her. To add insult to injury, Sweetheart was down her front teeth, half-conscious and covered with snow. My father pointed out that he was thoughtful to stay with Sweetheart until the ski patrol sped over. He added that they had seen everything and exonerated him from blame, saying that she had had fair warning. When I asked if he knew what happened to Sweetheart, he said, "Not my problem."

So far, the closest I've come to a relationship is a short fling with a quirky comedy writer who hid a flask in his sock and hung purple plastic grapes from his ceiling, referring to it as "the grotto," and another with a man I met on Jdate whom I called my "virtual boyfriend." On text message, he'd wax romantic sending me electronic prose that read, "Hello, my gorgeous." In person he laughed like Beavis and Butthead and shared with me his past conquests, among them an overweight girl who, in his words, "I did when I was wasted."

So whom am I going to bring home to my father? Not his problem.