Hey Jeff

I'm developing a text message relationship with my father. It's new, and I think he's still trying to get the hang of it. It's not that he doesn't know how to text message; he's plenty adept at talking to people and making his voice heard. It's quite cute though, he signs the bottom of each text message "Dad," as if each little vignette is a mini letter, or as if I didn't know it was him sending me the message. I know it's you, Dad! And this is me, your daughter, saying, "I heard you the first time."

I don't think he knows about my blog, so he's not reading this. If he is by chance reading this (highly unlikely, but whatevs, I have to cover my bases), hi Dad--fancy seeing you here! Did you catch how I mentioned you in my last post? I know, wild right?! I totally fell asleep drooling on the couch a-la-Jeff Waldman, except I wasn't watching the Phillies, I wasn't swearing at Kobe, and I wasn't in the middle of my nightly re-reading of this month's issue of Classic Trains. Oh, and I wasn't snoring either (thankfully I didn't inherit your air-puff exhale technique, so I'm still marriageable).

Although, I did inherit your legs. They serve me well, help me with sports, etc. But every time I eat a batch of cookies, I feel like I'm throwing out a big middle finger to your thighs. Thanks a LOT, Dad. But don't take it personally.