Nothing makes me more ill than the idea of some guy bragging to his friends that he was going to go on a date with “John McCain’s daughter.” (Unfortunately this has happened more times than I would like to count and each time I can sense it within the first 30 seconds of meeting them.) One extreme fan of my mother’s recently told me I could be “his Cindy.” And then asked me if I ever wore pearls because they probably would look as good on me as they do on my mother. No, I’m not kidding. Any guy that has a fetish for older women in pantsuits and large pearls obviously only finds my last name attractive about me.
But the real problem with men who voted for my dad is that I never know to what degree of a fan they are of his. Are they so extreme that they would date me no matter how much they may or may not like me just to meet my dad? Once I went out with a guy who said the food I had ordered was a “maverick choice” and proceeded to tell me, “Wow, straight talking must run in the family.” It’s like someone taking Lisa Marie Presley out on a date and singing “Hound Dog” in the middle of dinner.