Based On Height

Oh lord, I'm exhausted. Having visitors is a lot of work. Having my parents here is a test of self. it's like a vision quest. Except we eat and drink a lot, we're never alone, and any hallucinations are created as a way of escaping the reality of the moment. OK, so it's nothing like a vision quest. But it's intense.
But I don't want to give the wrong idea. I freaking love them. I'm thrilled to have 2 of the most amusing people I know as parents. It works out quite well. However, they're constantly saying things that leave me speechless. I'd like to consider myself fairly sharp, but I usually can't think of a single response to about 85% of the things they say. Like a few years ago when my dad asked me in all seriousness if I'd like to get involved with Riverdance.
Nothing.
So a lot of our time together ends up being deep breaths and pained stares at the ceiling on my part, as I try to figure out what's a joke and what they're genuinely interested in knowing.
On our drive down to Monterey I had to stop to use the bathroom. When I met them back at the car my mom had a look of disgust on her face. "Did you pee all over the floor in there?"
Now honestly--how am I supposed to respond to this? My mother is incredibly intelligent. I would hope the combination of her reasoning skills and common sense would rule out the need to even THINK such a question. But here we were. After a slow inhale and no smile on her end, I answered. "No, mom. I didn't." And this was followed by a barrage of comments from my father for the rest of the day, including, "You know what would be a rewarding career Jess? Exploring the ocean floor!"
I am without speech.
But they finally let me pay for a meal last night which was a moment of personal pride because they literally never allow it. But of course, as I was handing the waitress the check, my dad had to go and ruin it.
"So Jess, do you typically pay?"
"Pay for what?"
"Well, on dates. Do you pick up the bill? Because you're so tall?"
I looked at him, and to my mom, and repeated this, feeling my lungs fill to a painful capacity, until deb decided to chime in.
"Your dad's just concerned that if it's based on height, being gay could get very expensive for you."
I was positive they were kidding. And totally impressed with the comic genius behind the buddy-delivery of the joke. And yet, there was a genuine curiosity in their eyes that scared me. My dad is from the old school, 'chivalry is a man's job' line of thought, so I always thought his biggest problem with me being gay was that he wouldn't want me or a girl to have to get the car if it was raining outside after a movie. And from across the table, I could see my father felt helpless, thinking his daughter was being swindled by these petit, appetizer and dessert ordering women who would stick her with the bill because she'd worn heels that night, clearly indicating she would have to pay.
I imagined when he finally came around to the idea, my dad would start suggesting I see certain women based solely on their height--having nothing to do with their sexuality or the possibility of even knowing them. "You know who's tall Jess? Geena Davis." "Well, I've heard that about her, dad."
And I could tell there were a series of height-related questions they were dying to ask, and this killed me. I wasn't sure where they would start, but I was almost positive they would end with a big spoon/little spoon inquiry. I hated to think my parents could envision me as a spoon. I hated to think that's how they viewed me now, at this moment, as we spoke. Their daughter, the big spoon, buying the short women of America all their meals.