My daddy. And that's what I call him, daddy.
We had our favorite songs, breakfast dates, and inside jokes. He fixed owies and boo-boos and held me in his arms while I cried. We had the kind of bond only a father and daughter can enjoy.
And yet he managed to just give me away like a sack of moldy potatoes.
Not one single tear.
In fact, I think I noticed a dreamy, far away gaze as we walked down the aisle. Picking out the new wall color for my old room, daddy? Mentally planning your man cave?
Ok, so I was kind of a drain on your resources for the past 27 years, but you know what, hot shot? You ain't so perfect either:
You are bald. You have no hair on your head.
And your car is old.
You say things like "the rears" instead of "arrears," and "disingenuous" when I really don't think you know what it means. Let's not forget your prayer to "feed the naked."
When you played Barbies with us you used your regular voice and not your Ken voice.
You made math homework harder than it already was.
You let us think you liked getting ties and socks three times a year. Every year.
Maggie. Need I say more? (Yes, I do. Maggie is the loud, conniving, crabby bassett hound my dad convinced us would be perfect for our family)
Give me a day to load a certain video onto Youtube and the world (aka my four loyal followers) can witness your singing abilities.
You think you gave me away? I was already gone...the Ken voice was the deal breaker.
PS. Are we still on for racquetball next Wednesday?