Daddy's Girl

For anyone who doesn't know this, I really love my dad, a lot. He's measured and sensible and very unusually kind; highly intelligent and clear-minded; calm and logical, fair, and resourceful; musical and creative; and many other excellent qualities. He's also always right about everything. I am not kidding! Who else do you know who can do that?

He's also rigorously organized and plans carefully for every contingency. It turns out those genes are recessive.

T minus two days to the move. There are four boxes packed - encyclopedias and some video games. Anna, who is apparently a genetic throwback, took care of the video games, neatly filling every square inch of space in the box. These four boxes are not the only boxes we have. Au contraire! (My dad speaks French.) We have another twenty or so, propped up against the wall. We do not, at this particular juncture in time, have any packing tape, which I think would be helpful in alleviating their current, flat condition.

I actually find I function best under very - very - tight deadlines. Adrenaline and caffeine are wonder fuels; doing things in a rational, timely fashion has never really worked for me. My dad really tried to bring me up properly. He tried teaching me to balance a budget, to plan meals, to develop good study habits, not to accumulate more cats than I can manage, to use good judgement, and not make completely idiotic decisions on a regular basis. And, rampaging success though I have not turned out to be at these things, he continues to act as if I were the most perfect daughter anyone could hope for.

Home is a little bit extra-stressful right now, which adds yet another layer of appreciation for the people in my life who don't think I just totally suck. So here's to my dad: I love you! Want to come down and visit a couple of weeks early so you can help me move?