We hung out, completely at ease with each other. Before we even got to dinner, she asked me to the movies this weekend.
We had dinner at Outback Steak House, followed by shopping for music and DVDs.
I cracked her up with a story about going on Fly Safari in the basement of Farr’s Sporting Goods when I was high school. (I was a crack shot with a rubber band, stalking the Wild Late Summer Housefly through the aisles of the Camping Goods Department.) She regaled me with war stories from behind the counter at McDonald’s.
We shared a hot fudge sundae for dessert.
When I took her home, she hugged me, unabashedly.
Lord, I know she’s got to grow up, but is it too much to ask that this year, the year she’s seventeen, drag its feet? Just a little?
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...because it IS all about me.
Wisdom
"The way to know any writer is not to meet him in person, but to read what he writes."
-- Richard Bach
"What are we but our stories?"
-- James Patterson
-- Richard Bach
"What are we but our stories?"
-- James Patterson
Screenwriting
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Put Another Blog On The Fire
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- Meg Fowler (WAY better writer than I am)
3 comments:
Try the year she's eighteen...that one will need to go excrutiatingly slow.
I gotcher back on this one, Yoda. My oldest will be eighteen in five months.
That's an awesome story. I love to hear about a dad that loves his daughter so much.
I'll go to Outback with you anytime, but we have to get the Bloomin' Onion AND the Chocolate Cake!!!
I know it is scary but trust me 18 and 19 are better than 17.
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