Dear Old Dad

Like it or not, you are largely responsible for making me who I am, and I want to thank you for so many things – from changing my diapers, to helping me buy my first car. (And subsequently telling me what to do when I called you from Toronto to tell you the engine was on fire).

Thank you for intimidating the hell out of the boyfriend I brought home who wore more lipstick than I did. You were right – he was a total weirdo.

Thank you for teaching me how to do cool stuff like clean a spark plug, bleed fluid brakes, and shoot skeet without taking someone’s head off.

Thank you for setting me straight when you found out I was telling my friends you drove a train for a living.

Thank you for making me help around the house, even though I hated it. And for insisting that if I didn’t vacuum into the corners, or rinse out the sink after dishes, the job wasn’t finished.

Thank you for taking me to the symphony and making me go to church.

Thank you for showing me that almost anything can be fixed with either duct tape, Crazy Glue or a soldering gun.

Thank you for not teaching me how to drive.

Thank you for not sending me to private Catholic girls’ school or the home for wayward youths – in spite of the many threats to do so. I probably deserved it.

Thanks for never giving me the short answer to my questions. And for teaching me latin phrases like “persona non grata”, which sometimes applied to my boyfriends, and sometimes to me.

Thank you for my weird sense of humour. And for not allowing me to take myself too seriously.

Thank you for teaching me that you can learn how to do almost anything by reading a book, including the many minor surgeries you performed with basic shop tools.

Thank you for introducing me to the proper use of “the eff word” after you accidentally scorched the kitchen cabinets with a propane welding torch.

And, of course, thank you for teaching me how to ride a bike.

Happy Fathers’ Day D.O.D.