I cannot believe that I have the nerve to call myself a Daddy’s Girl. I’ve always been quite proud of being a full-fledged Daddy’s Girl (and yes…I firmly believe the phrase requires capitalization). Slightly spoiled, able to say “Daddy” with just the right intonation to know that someone’s heart was melting through his eardrums because even though his oldest daughter had moments where she was a total piece of shit…I was still near and dear to his heart.

And yesterday, on my Daddy’s birthday, the day where I should have told you about this cool cat who used a train whistle as a boat whistle because he liked the sound and who still rocks his solid white Converse All Star high tops fondly known as “limousine shoes” and who quite possibly had children just because he thought it would be cool to mess with their heads. But instead I subjected you to pointless drivel consisting of email snippets and veiled hostility. Again. Do you hate this blog sometimes? I do. Sometimes I bore myself to much it makes my teeth hurt.

But enough of that. Let’s talk about this kick ass guy.

Proud Daddy with his new painting

See him all proud of his Christmas present? He’s a keeper.

And look! Here he is with his girls. Again with the proud and the smile. If memory serves correctly that would be drunk Daddy with his drunk girls. Yeah…fun times.

Daddy and his girls

He has this weird thing with obnoxious neon colors. Loves them. The uglier the better. Especially when it comes to swimwear. So when I sent him this wretched piece of swimwear I knew he would be smiling from ear to ear as he read the card that said “it’s been a while since you properly lit up a beach.”

U-G-L-Y, You ain't got no alibi!

And then I smile a little more when I think about how over the next 6 months I’m going to get random little envelopes full of the crinkly paper I filled the box with just for shits and giggles. Because he HATES that stuff. But he’ll keep finding it. Under the couch, in the jaws of one of the cats, in the dogs tail, on the bottom of his shoe, in his car…its like that plastic Easter grass that you find in your shower drain in the middle of November and just scratch your head and move on because DAMN. And every time he finds a piece he’ll put it in an envelope and send it to me. I DIG that about him.

I love that when Patrick went to him and asked if he could marry me Daddy looked him in the eye and said “Are you sure? Because she’s a handful. And she always will be. But she’s worth it.”

I love that he ends every phone conversation with “I’ll hang up and listen” because he doesn’t understand why callers on talk radio shows always say that.

I love that he will watch “A Christmas Story” over and over on TNT through the holidays but he refuses to call it anything other than “Red Ryder” and will swear that to this day he’s never seen the entire movie from beginning to end in one sitting.

I love that, even though he is one of the smartest men I’ve ever met, he refuses to learn to use a cordless phone and before you ever start talking to him you hear “do I need to press any buttons?”

I love that even when I was at my parents house just a few months ago and the heel to one of my favorite boots was a little loose he noticed it and fixed it one night after I’d gone to sleep.

I love that his favorite thing to do in the evening is have his family sitting around the kitchen table drinking wine, having some cookies, and playing a “game of skill or chance” which usually translates to dominoes or cards and involves him shamelessly cheating.

I love that he spent months building a platform for his model trains to go around our Christmas tree and even when his daughters were in high school he would get lost for hours playing with his electric trains.

I love that when he wears pajama pants he’ll tuck his shirt into them even though it looks just ridiculous.

I love that he still calls the wine cooler Patrick and I got him “The Goat” because when he was getting all curious about the giant box with his name on it I told him I had boxed a goat so he would wouldn’t have to mow the grass anymore.

So happy birthday Daddy-o. You old fart.