Monday, December 15, 2008

Peg Bundy Lives!!!!!



We were invited to a lovely costume party in honor of a good friend's 60th birthday this past Friday night.

I hate costume parties. I suck at picking a costume. I never come up with anything creative and I always wait until the last minute, throw a sheet on my head and call it good. Not this time. I planned ahead and I went for it.

I went as Peg "White Trash Queen of the Century" Bundy. I can attest to why Peg walked the way she did. Those heels were killer - I could feel my pulse in my feet by the end of the night. They hurt so badly, I forgot about trying to keep my head up with five pounds of hair extensions clipped in my normally short hair.

But the party was fun and for your amusement, this is my very first photo posted to my Blog ever. Because yanking off a Peg deserves something.




Friday, December 12, 2008

The Ringlet Learns a Lesson on Slang. And Cats.

Oh the joys of middle school. New classes, new teachers, new friends, new experiences and delightful, completely inappropriate slang phrases. And the occasional curse word, designed to test the boundaries and see just how much slack I’m giving her these days. The Ringlet’s school is very large and incredibly diverse, so she tends to be exposed to every single possible walk of life. On this particular day, the Ringlet and I were texting back and forth, me at work and her home doing her homework. We were joking around, picking at each other – an afternoon ritual for us – and I fired off a zinger in her direction, to which she replied, and I’m quoting here: “Hey. M’Dog. I’ma gone bust a cat in yo ass.”

Cat.

Cat???

In my WHAT????

So rather than text back, I picked up the phone and called her said “You’re going to do WHAT?” She tentatively repeated “Um. I’m gonna bust a cat in your…..ass?”

Me: Do you have even the slightest idea of what you just said?

Her: Well yeah. I’m gonna bust you in the butt with a cat.

Me: Um…no. First off it’s not CAT. It’s CAP.

Her: Well THAT doesn’t make any sense.

Me: (thinking oh my God she’s never gonna get into a good college) Hon, that phrase means “I am going to take a gun and shoot you.”

Her: Oh GOD that’s BAD. I said THAT?

Me: Yupper.

Her: Oh no.

Me: Actually what you said was more like you were going to bust somebody in the ass with your cat, but as long as we’re talking about things that don’t make sense . . . .

Her: Oh I can’t SAY that anymore!!!

Me: Most definitely not.

Her: I LIKE cats.

Me: Wait…….

Her: No no no no, I get it. I guess I should come home and ask you what things means before I say ‘em out loud next time, right?

Me: Absolutely.

Dear Lord: Please do your best to see that she doesn’t come home and ask me what “MILF” means. Thank you. Amen.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Overachiever

**ring ring ring**

Me: Good morning. Litigation Department.

Confused Male Voice: Oh......I'm sorry.....I have the wrong number.

Me: Maybe not. Who were you attempting to reach?

Male Voice: I'm calling for Ringlet (insert her real name here)

Me: Really? Well I'm Ringlet's mother. What can I do for you??

Male Voice: I'm so-and-so from such-and-such organization. We're private headhunters engaged in the business of locating colleges that match up with the educational requirements of students based upon their chosen profession and field of study.

Me: You don't say?

Eager Male Voice: Yes and it is at no cost to the student. We were contacted on line by Ringlet regarding her interest in becoming a forensic scientist.

Me: Really?

Confident Male Voice: Yes ma'am. Can I please inquire whether the Ringlet is graduating from high school this year?

Me: Yes you may and no she is not.

Male Voice: Could you please tell me when she will be graduating so that I can better assess her scholastic opportunities.

Me: 2015

Completely Lost Male Voice: <>

Me: Hello?

Baffled Guy: She's..........11 years old?

Me: Yup.

Laughing Baffled Guy: Would you say she's a bit of an over-achiever?

Me: Yup. And I'm sorry that she has wasted your time.

Clearly Shaking His Head Baffled Guy: Not at all. Ya know, most kids her age are spending their time time messing around on sites where they don't belong, putting stuff they shouldn't on websites, and getting in trouble in chat rooms or porn sites and your 11 year old daughter is contacting college recruitment companies and giving them her mother's contact information.

Me: Apparently so.

Dude: Bravo.

Me: Maybe, but I'm still going to be chatting with her about giving out Mommy's phone number to people without talking to Mommy first. But thank you for your inquiry.

Nice Dude: No problem. Have her call me in about 5 or 6 years.

Me: Will do.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

The Ringlet Throws!!!! She Scores!!!! The Crowd Goes Wild!!!

Finding myself exceedingly bored and discovering Mr. Ringie down for the count with a migraine thanks to an overindulgence in Chinese food the night before, Ringlet and I decided to trek down the road a bit to the annual renaissance festival. It had been some years since I had been there and Ringlet had never been there as a grown up kid, so, since she was bored as well, and in light of the prospect of scoring some cool stuff at the vendor's tents, off we went.We wandered around looking at things, checking out some of the shows, snagging and horking down steak on a stake and eventually came upon a relatively bawdy dunk tank. I believe the word "wench" was used in the description somewhere. There was a pretty fair sized crowd watching the fun and gathered around the throwing area was the usual group of young men of varying ages ranging from about 17 to 24, all of whom were paying their dollar and winging softball sized leather sandbags at the target for all they were worth. Seldom, if ever, did they hit anything other than wall and dirt, but they didn't quit. Ringlet watched for a minute or two and then turned to me and requested a dollar. Not being the kind of mom to discourage her from trying anything within the confines of the law and within my ability to remain sane, I forked over the dollar and leaned against a tree to watch her calmly take her place in line behind all these big guys.

She's a pretty tall kid for her age and not a small or petite child by anybody's standards, but standing there amid all those young men in her karate t-shirt, baggy shorts and John Force Racing cap, she looked positively tiny. But she stood there, blond hair cascading down her back from under her cap, calmly clutching her dollar and waiting her turn. Eventually, as the young men gave up and one by one peeled off to the side, she moved up to the front of the line, reached up and waved her dollar in the face of the guy running the game who didn't even see her there, and got her three leather bean bags. All the young men had faded back to congregate off to the left of my tree and were smirking at the sight of a little girl trying to dunk the wench when they had all so miserably failed. Ringlet tossed the first bag in her hand a few times, getting a feel for the thing, peered over her shoulder to grin at me, turned, took a step back and launched that sucker in a wicked-hard over hand (nobody will ever accuse her of throwing like a girl) and BAM....down went the wench. The game-guy whirled around at the sound, spun back around, stared at her for a brief moment, leaned down to say something to the Ringlet and then stood up, placed both hands on the counter and bellowed at the now silent group of men: “YOU. Yes YOU, you so-called men there. Didja SEE that? Did you? That was a ten.year.old.girl. Ten. A girl. Each of you stand up here and turn in your man cards." One of the young men had enough presence of mind to yell back "yeah, a ten year old girl.........with a fricken CANNON for an arm!" She was so flustered and pleased that as the crowd howled in amusement and approval, she missed the next two shots. But she was so tickled and I laughed the rest of the day.

Now and then through the course of the afternoon, we'd pass by those young men and, invariably, one of them would strike a boxing pose and say "Hey, look out. If she can throw, she can probably punch too."

"Probably punch"

Right. I guess maybe I’d failed to tell them that little girl not only has an arm like a cannon, but that she also kicks like a mule, and has a brown belt.

My bad.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

I am the Goddess of Guitar Hero

As we all well know, there is nothing more predictable in this world than the outcome of a match between Michael Phelps and anybody else in the pool, the Redskins and just about any other team you can name, or a video game challenge between a 13 year old boy and a middle aged mother. Or so you would think.

Ringlet ended up not attending an annual karate banquet because of the weather forecast in the Outer Banks, the destination of her and her father the following day. They were leaving for vacation several days before me, affording me about 4 days of peace and quiet and complete and total possession of the remote control before I too left to join them. She ended up not attending the banquet because they decided to leave early to beat the tropical storm that was about to make an appearance in the Carolinas and there isn’t a lot in this world more frightening than driving a 40 foot long moving billboard over the Oregon Inlet bridge in high wind. So they left early, as in that very afternoon.

That left me with the predicament of entertaining her 13 year old friend who was to be attending the banquet with us. We had 4 hours to kill between the time he got to the house and the time we were to arrive at the banquet so he headed downstairs to check out the gaming options. He and the Ringlet had been playing Guitar Hero up until the time she had to leave and he had been soundly and easily thrashing her on every single song. He came trotting back upstairs to make the suggestion, very innocently, that maybe we could kill some time playing Guitar Hero.

Ben: Mrs. Ringie, do you wanna try to play Guitar Hero with me for a while?

Me: Sure. Let’s go.

Ben: Do you know HOW to play Guitar Hero, ‘cause if you don’t, I can show you.

Me: I’ve played. I think I can muddle my way through. It’s like playing piano, right?

Ben: (smiling) A little. Come on, I’ll take it easy on you at first.

Me: Dandy

And down the stairs we went.

He let me pick my guitar first. Such a gentleman. Such a nice boy. Such a sucker.

I held the guitar upsidedown for a while. He corrected me. I held it properly. He set up the game and he selected his playing level as “hard”. So I chose hard as well.

Ben: You might want to start on the easy setting at first. This can be pretty tough.

Me: Oh it’s all in good fun. I don’t care. We’re just having fun. It’s just a game. I don’t care if I lose. We're not actually playing for money or anything. Hey, do you wanna play for money?

Ben: I don't think that would be fair.

Me: Damn.

Ben: Oooooookay. You choose the song.

Me: SWEET! What are the songs……..keep going……..scroll down some more………THERE. That one. That Disturbed song, “Stricken.”

Ben: Are you sure?

Me: I LOVE that song.

Ben: OK, but it’s hard and I haven’t even made it through on hard yet.

Me: Let that sucker fly. Let’s go.

I strapped on, set my hands and he grinned the grin of the lamb being guided to the slaughter, provided, of course, that lambs can actually smile, and smacked the song and settled back to kick the old lady’s ass.

I suppose I should have given him a few details before we started. Details like Guitar Hero has become my chosen form of relaxation and meditation over the past year. That when I’m stressed or upset, I go downstairs when everything is calm and play Guitar Hero, sometimes for hours. That at this point, I’ve gotten through a few songs on the Expert setting. That "Stricken" is the song I work on the hardest, sometimes playing it dozens of times in a row. That I regularly and routinely kick Ringlet’s tail and glory in it because it is the absolute only video game I can really play well. That if I’m concentrating on something, I can go for nearly 90 seconds without blinking. That I’ve played keyboards since I was 4, type about 150 words a minute and have this really freaky ability to look at something and have the correct signals in my fingers before the conscious thinking part of my brain really ever registers it. I forgot to tell him all this.

Oooops.

My bad.

I completely kicked his cocky, 13 year old, video playing, brown belt ass. TOTALLY.

The song ended. He looked at his stats, grinned and looked over at mine and the grin sort of just melted from his face.

Ben: You’ve played this before.

Me: (imagine perfectly innocent blank expression). A few times. Yeah.

Ben: Mrs. Ringie, you LIED to me!!!!!

Me: I most certainly did not lie. YOU didn’t ask the right question. You asked if I had played. You didn't ask if I was any good. Face it. Age and treachery will overcome youth and enthusiasm every single time.

Ben: But…….but……..

Me: You lose. Pick a song. Loser buys the first soda later. I hope you brought some money.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

You want my evaluation? HERE's my evaluation.

Self Evaluation for the Ages in honor of my buddy and she knows exactly who she is.


Employee Name: As if you didn’t know

Appraisal Date: Should have been a year ago you dumbass

Period Covered: When I started to: Probably when Hell freezes over

Position: Your Job

Rate Range: As much as I can squeeze out of your penny pinching ass

Current Rate: Not nearly enough

Department: Any one I want

Dear Employee:

You have asked us to finally give you the salary increase we promised you when we hired you, never realizing you'd actually expect us to follow through with that promise. We will be unable to grant your request without your input regarding your job performance. Therefore, kindly carefully read the following categories and give us the benefit of your thoughts with regard to your job performance in each category. We will then carefully examine your responses and, in all likelihood, continue to screw you royally with regard to said imaginary salary increase.


Category: Interacts with others in an effective and appropriate manner; develops relationships (inside and outside the Company) that enhance understanding, communication

Employee Comments: Employee believes in the old adage of “do unto others before they wise up and stop giving you decent openings.” Employee is adept at the use of simple, if somewhat abrupt, language that clearly demonstrates her meaning, centers the majority of her communications around well chosen four letter, one syllable words that even the morons selected to supervise her daily activities are able to understand. Employee has mastered the art of communication through easy to remember hand signals.

Category: Teamwork/Cooperation - Works well with team members to accomplish the goals of the department. Works well with management to achieve Company goals. Flexible in accepting new or additional assignments.

Employee Comments: Team members have learned to by God do as they’re told and that’s really all that matters. Management is nothing more than toady mouthpieces and are best avoided. Employee’s flexibility has absolutely nothing to do with work assignments, but is impressive nonetheless.

Category: Dependability - Follows through on job responsibilities with thoroughness and accuracy. Reliable and consistent.

Employee Comments: Employee follow through on all threats, whether or not carrying out those threats is her responsibility. Employee can be counted on to accurately state her position (see “interpersonal skills”) in a clear and concise manner and is reliable and consistent in this endeavor.

Category: Time Management - Plans and manages own work to accomplish critical tasks on time. Adapts to changing conditions and situation.

Employee Comments: Employee must manage and plan her work with precision and accuracy as it seems that there is no clear criteria as to when assignments that should be the responsibility of others will suddenly show up on her desk with little or no warning. She adapts to these ever-changing conditions well and has learned how to use lighter fluid and a Zippo proficiently so as to negate the constant calls to the fire department to extinguish flaming heaps of paperwork.

Category: Problem Solving/Decision Making - Determines and obtains the information needed to solve a problem; draws appropriate conclusions. Weighs alternatives and selects the best solution; make decisions on a timely basis.

Employee Comments: Well of freaking COURSE. What are you? Blind? Stupid? Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re management. Never mind.

Category: Supervision - Ensures that subordinate positions are filled with qualified personnel. Monitors subordinate performance and resolves problems. Works toward increasing subordinates skills and competencies.

Employee Comments: Employee has performed admirably in this category when faced with a choice of a three armed monkey and the valedictorian of the short bus brigade as office support. The monkey eats too much, but sacrifices must be made and the monkey’s skills are much improved and potty training is on course.

Category: Management - Supports and enforces Company policies and objectives; sets example through personal conduct and performance.

Employee Comments: Employee is the epitome of class, self-control and professionalism. Really. No, I’m serious. And any other employees who claim additional prowess in the field of creative swearing due to Employee’s example are fucking liars.

Category: Expense Management - Works to establish appropriate reporting and control mechanisms; operates efficiently at lowest cost; stays within established targets.

Employee Comments: Employee doesn’t spend a damned dime and probably should. Employee requests that a fully stocked bar and a Spot Bot be incorporated into the annual budget for 2008/2009. See “Supervision”.

Category: Goal Setting - Sets objectives consistent with Company and department goals and follows action plans to achieve them.

Employee Comments: Employee consistently establishes and achieves lofty goals, be they her goals or those of the company and, really, aren’t they all the same anyway? Employee follows action plans to achieve these goals and, to date, has avoided perpetrating any colossal acts of fuckery that would otherwise derail said plans or get her ass sued off.

Category: Overall Evaluation

Employee Comments: Give the bitch a big fat raise already. Christ. What is it gonna TAKE?

Career Development Plans

Comments: Do it now. Retroactive to like a year ago or something. Just get off your over-fed, over-paid corporate keister and give the woman some money.

Additional Employee Comments: If you need me to discuss this evaluation, I’ll be packing up my office.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Friday Morning Life Lessons

1. When they told you in school that certain metals are excellent conductors of heat, I hope they remembered to tell you that silver should be at the top of the list. Therefore, when blow drying your now neck skimming hair, take OFF your sterling silver necklace unless you want a chain link burn mark.

2. Beware of women in mini-vans, talking on their cell phones while driving too quickly through the drop off zone of summer camp because they WILL then slam on the brakes and pull a u-turn in front of you AND the oncoming car in the middle of the next intersection.

3. Crossing your eyes repeatedly might not cause them to some day “stick that way”, but picking at scabs will create a freakin’ scar.

4. Write down the brand name of the shoes you love beyond reason BEFORE you’ve worn them out and can no longer read the stupid name that is only written where you’ve completely rubbed it off with your heel over the past two years.

5. If falling asleep with your really wide cuffed watch caused a rash once, it will cause a rash the second time you do it as well.

6. Blasting Seether out the windows of a Cadillac will scare old people on the sidewalk who were probably expecting to hear Perry Como.

7. Don’t underestimate how much shredded paper it takes to fill up file cabinet and desk drawers.

8. Check the status of the toilet paper supply in a bathroom stall before you sit down.

9. Fathers who answer their daughter’s question “Can we go to HobbyTown USA” with “No, we’re not going to HobbyTown USA because you don’t need anything and we just got back from vacation.” while in your presence, seldom give the same answer to that same question when you’re not there.

It’s been a long morning.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

SPIDER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG SPIDER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When I got to the beach, my friend, who was already there because the wench is retired and I hate her for that, was practically performing the pee pee dance in her desire to tell me what had happened to her the day before. She knows completely about my …… “issues” with spiders and to be perfectly honest, she isn’t far from my level of phobia herself.

I’ll refer to her as J as opposed to “that ridiculously short woman friend of mine.” Because she IS short – we’re talking barely over 5 feet tall short. As I tell this story, remember also that this woman, whose legs are all of maybe 2 feet long, drives a Jeep Liberty. She has to get a running start to jump into the thing.

She was preparing to leave the campground and do a little shopping since she also has skin the color of a marshmallow and avoids the sun like a white hot plague, and had just opened the door to the Jeep and hopped in, started it up and got ready to back out. She said she couldn’t explain it but somehow she just knew something had jumped on her. She couldn’t feel it. She heard it. Always a bad sign.

She froze, looked down and perched on the crotch of her pants was one of those big, hairy, boxy, horrifying wolf spider things. She said it was absolutely enormous. She stopped breathing, thanked God for leather seats, slowly reached over to open the car door, slowly slid from the driver’s seat and then launched herself out of the car while whacking at her crotch to get the evil beast off. She stood there with her head down, trying not to pass out when she noticed something.

The car was moving. With no one in it.

In her panic, she forgot she’d already put the car in reverse. She reached for the door (like THAT was gonna stop it) and hopped on one foot, trying to get her other foot on the brake. She did, but because she's so damned short and car was moving, she couldn’t get any pressure on the brake. About 6 inches before the Jeep rolled into the front of their motor home, she managed to wrench herself into the car and slam both feet down on the brake and throw it into park.

She swears to God that she’d have managed to stop the car sooner if not for the fact that, even in the face of ramming their new Jeep into the front of their rather amazing motor home, she was still looking around for that damned spider.

I fully appreciate the conflicting priorities. And you will fully appreciate the fact that I didn't go anywhere with her in that spider warren for the entire time I was with them. I would have preferred to be strapped to the luggage rack than suddenly find myself forced to decide between riding with a spider on my shoulder and throwing myself from a moving vehicle.

I'm figuring I'd bounce.

Friday, April 18, 2008

They Called Him Whitey

They dubbed him "Whitey" during the years when nobody cared about such racial distinctions or made any incorrect associations. They called him Whitey because by the time he actually grew some hair on his little bald head, it was pure white blond and stayed that way for a very long time.

He was one of 9 children born to people who could ill afford to raise 2, and he made his living by working and succeeding on the dairy farm on which his parents had floundered and nearly run into the ground for the early part of his life. He grew up under the cloud of alcoholism and abuse and spent many a night in the hay mow, secreted there in the dead of the evening by his older sister in order to protect him from a drunken father's rampages. He grew up under that cloud and while he eventually succumbed to the booze, he never laid a hand on his own children in anger. How do I know?

I know because he was my dad. I tell this story in his honor because he died two days ago, in terrible health, but quickly, suddenly and with little or no fanfare. He just went and in doing so, gave me my final birthday present of three days off, with pay, during three of the most beautiful days we've had so far this year. Thank you Dad.

I tell this story to make it real. I tell it so that I can wrap my head around the fact that a man I alternatively loved, hated, resented, missed terribly, even while he lived, a man I never really understood. is actually gone from my life - not just for a week or a month or several - but really and for all time gone. It's hard. I've spent so much time away from him, I don't really know how to spend time away and understand that this time it's an infinite separation. I think I miss him. I think I'll miss him a little more every single day.

I think that as time goes by, I'll remember more the man he used to be than I will the man he became. I'll remember the man I loved beyond measure and not the man who drove me out of my mind on a regular basis. I'll start to forget the life time of hurt and disappointment and I'll more and more remember the man who contributed enormously to who I am today. Like it or not, in more ways than I can say, I'm my father's daughter. And I'll remember that.

I'll remember the man who spent an entire week at the beach pissing my mother off by bellowing out "look! Horten Turds!" at every opportunity after taking us to see the wild horses.

I'll remember the man who bet my uncles a pile of cash that I, at the age of about 10, could not only shoot one of his rifles and not let the recoil kick me on my ass, but that I could hit the target as well and then splitting the money with me.

I'll remember the guy who used to wake me up at 5:00 a.m., tell me dig worms, wait for him, and then blow of the remainder of the morning milking to walk me down into the meadow and teach me how to fish.

I'll remember the first time I let fly with "Son of a BITCH" in front of him and he laughed until he nearly fell into the creek, which is what caused my sudden and risky outburst in the first place.

I'll remember that he always used to sing "Pretty Baby" and only knew the first line or two and he never ONCE started that damned song right. But he could sing and he passed that on to me, along with these fucking shoulders of mine. God knows I didn't get his 5'5" stature.

I'll remember him trying to teach me to drive a stick shift in a 1960 International Scout and me performing so terrifyingly that my sister bailed, the dog bailed, but he held on and never flinched as he screamed at me to "FIND THE GOD DAMNED BRAKE BEFORE YOU RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE CREEK!" Again with the creek.

I'll remember that he didn't come to many of my events, but one of the times he did, I was running in the invitational portion of the USA Olympic Trials against my nemesis, a tall, inner city chick who had beaten me soundly every time I faced her. I'll remember my country father, red neck and all, purposely placing himself in the bleachers among HER crowd, and then standing on his seat, raising his fists and screaming "That's MY daughter" over and over when I finally beat that bitch for the first time ever.

I'll remember him riding me around on the fender of his tractor that entire day before the race, talking me down from the ledge, telling me I could do it and quit being a pussy. Well, maybe he didn't use that exact phrase, but you know what I mean.

I'll remember the man who never liked a single boy I dated because "he's worthless", "he's ugly enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon" or because "he looks like he left his ass in his other pants."

I'll remember the story of him wanting to buy me a train set for my 4th birthday and there not being any money for train sets and how he kept going back to the farm store day after day until it finally went on sale on Christmas Eve and how he snapped it up with the last of the money in his pocket and had it set up and ready to go for me when I woke up Christmas morning. I've seen the pictures. It rocked.

I'll remember him as the man who tried to feed me, at the age of about 8 months, the most ginormous turkey leg you ever saw in your life. It was as big as my whole head. I've seen the pictures. By the time I graduated from high school, so had everybody else in my class. Bastard.

I'll remember the man who took me to buy my very first car with my very own money telling me "never let them see how much you like the car" and then, upon seeing the car I treasured, and in the presence of the salesman, whistling low and saying "Now that's a pretty son of a bitch". Nice work, Dad.

I'll remember the man who confronted me on the morning of my very first hangover, apparently having been told by my furious mother to "get in there and talk to your daughter", who strolled into the living room, took one look at my haggard face and green complexion, smirked and commented "hot pipes?" and then turned on his heel, only to return seconds later with two ice cold Cokes, a bag of chips and wordlessly sat with me and watched baseball until I was able to get up and move. It was one of the first and most memorable "been there, done that, how did the toilet treat you" moments.

I'll remember the man who liked to wait until my sister and I had carefully decorated the entire Christmas tree and were in the process of hanging the tinsel strand by strand and would then burst into the room with his own box of tinsel and begin throwing it onto the tree in great handfulls, chorteling all the while because he KNEW he was pissing us off.

I'll also remember the man who treated every gift of an ugly tie, Old Spice or soap-on-a rope like the first one he ever saw.

I'll remember the look on his face the day he bought me my horse. I'll remember the look on his face the day we finally sold that stubborn, ornery creature.

I'll remember the day he finally let me hang out in the barn during a visit by the artificial breeder, looking at me and asking if I was sure I was ready for this, and then grinning at me after I nearly screamed and saying "I told you so." Bastard.

I'll remember the man that forgave me anything and everything.
I'll remember a man that often didn't think to think of others, but did the very best he could.
I'll remember the hardest working man I ever knew.
I'll remember a man that used to tell people that as long as I was alive, he would never die.

But he did.

And now it's up to me to return that one last gift to him and remember him as he would want to be remembered.

I loved you Daddy. I still love you. I'll always love you and I really really miss you.