Some of you/one of you asked to see a photo of my father, and I realize I have done a huge disservice not featuring him more during this jaunt to beautiful downtown Tel Aviv. It's truly not just me being brave here; my dad is also being rather courageous. After all, it is he, The Waspiest Man In The Promised Land who gives back slaps rather than real hugs, it is this man who takes my skivvies to the laundry. It is this man, my dad, who held my hair while I first puked and then when there was nothing else just retched over and over and over into that bucket that smelled of dead spit and sick. And it is he who takes me on my daily walks like a dog, only pretending he didn't know me that one time I had to go pee so bad.
So here we are. Mr. Indiana Jones/Peter Beard/Clint Eastwood with a side of Cool Hand Luke and the girl with the impossibly small head.
If you want to know more about my dad--and let's face it, he's pretty fucking cool--read these old posts he wrote on my blog way back when. He's a writer, too. Read them and you'll see that it's a miracle I'm here, really, but I wouldn't have my dad any other way.
First maybe this one.
Then this one to balance it out.
Word to your father,
p.s. Ooof. I didn't even realize that there is a long comment from my mom on one of my dad's posts. Her voice from nowhere; I wasn't expecting that. I was/am a lucky daughter. Now excuse me while I go cry fat tears of everything.