Electrolicious

While I may have inherited my mother’s mouth and personality, I’m distinctly a daddy’s girl. Both my parents are whip-smart, emotionally articulate, and hyper-verbal — but my mother’s breed of intelligence leans towards the mathematical and medical, while my father’s leans (like mine) towards the socio-cultural and media smarts. It is in this way that our brains click and whir like little wrinkled grey tissue-twins.

My father and I can sit and watch TBN and pick it apart for hours. We twitter over technology and the social ramifications of its effects on language. We bullshit about the latest pop cultural news and argue over whether David Sedaris is a nasally whiner or a comedic genius.

My father read to me for years when I was growing up, and I credit him with making my vocabulary bloom at a ridiculously early age. I didn’t notice at the time, but he must have cracked up when his seven-year-old daughter, inconsolable over a canceled slumber party, looked at him through teary eyes and said, “Daddy, I’m just SO MELANCHOLY.”

He was also my harshest writing critic when I was in high school, always driving me to the point of teeth clenching frustration, picking apart my bing-bang-bongo essays and pushing me to make stronger arguments. Ooh, I hated, hated, HATED it, but he’s made up for it by being my biggest fan and writing cheerleader in my adult life, which is why my book is dedicated to him.

I also inherited my father’s neuroses, including an at times inflexible adherence to “the plan” and total discombobulation when things spontaneously deviate from what is anticipated. But, what about the plan!, we’ll moan. WE HAD A PLAN! I like to think my father and I are both getting better at rolling with the punches these days. We learn in tandem.

I also look like my father. This is a good thing since he’s aged like a superstar and I can’t count how many times friends in their late-30s have commented on his jawline and silver fox good looks. I can only hope that I get silver foxy when I’m his age, and have all the ladies half my age lusting after my jaw line. Fingers crossed!

Despite all our similarities, there are differences. I did not inherit my father’s skill with poetry. Drat. I’m also not nearly as academically smart, and I’ve got a long way to go to catch up on his other arenas of smartness. Once I drove myself to tears thinking about how by the time I caught up with my dad’s smarts and could really hold my own in conversation, he might not be around to talk with any more. That said, he’s such a healthy feller that it’s not inconceivable to think that we’ll be deconstructing holographic evangelical television when I’m 60 and he’s in his early 90s.

Since today is my father’s 64th birthday, that means I’ve got approximately 30 years to catch up. I better get started.

I love you, dad!