The Longest Blog Ever (Or My Friend's Goose Wears a Flight Suit)

So, my weekend is far from over, but it's been pretty badass thus far, and I'm afraid if I wait to tell you about it, I'll forget even more of the badass things that happened than I already have.

This was the only foreign affair I was interested in.

It started out a bit rocky. I already didn't feel very good Thursday night, so when Joel got home with our Taco Bell dinner (I know, it doesn't get much healthier than that), we ate, caught up on each other's day, and went to bed. We are all about sleep timers in our house, so we put on our DVR'd Daily Show with a thirty minute sleep timer. We fell asleep before John's guest was even introduced. However, when the DVR stopped, C-Span was on and Barack Obama was giving some speech. Apparently C-Span's volume is much louder than normal TV, and so I was awakened by our president shouting something about foreign affairs at me. Thank you, Mr. President, I'll be up all night now.


Since Barack woke me up, and I couldn't go back to sleep, I decided to read a little...until the storm blew through. The lightning was so bright and the thunder so loud that CD was absolutely losing his sh*t. Now, this dog, in normal circumstances, is completely deaf. But when there's a storm happening, he hears every little sound. And is none too happy. He proceeded to pace, whine, demand to be put in bed with us, demand to get down, claw my face, arms, chest, etc, and generally go nuts for the next hour and a half. At one point, he wanted me to spoon him and rub his belly nonstop until he fell asleep. When I stopped, he got mad at me and cheated on my snuggles with Joel.

This is a terrible picture of me, but please note CD pleading with me to make the scary sounds stop.

And this is my punishment for not doing as I was told.

Finally, the storm died down, and CD fell asleep and I did shortly after. Then I woke up at 6am the next morning with a fire inside me kicking and screaming to get out. (Yes, I realize this is too much info. Get over it or click that X in the top corner of your screen.) There was a burning in the pit of my stomach along with severe nausea and other more southerly pains. I kept trying to ignore it and hope it would go away, but I was afraid I'd die, and Joel would wake up to my dead body next to him and CD nawing on my face. Finally, I woke him to ask him to please help me because clearly, my stomach had gone bad and was trying to expel itself from my body. He made me some baking soda and water (dis-effing-gusting), and within minutes, I'd killed the alien trying to pop out of my belly button. Only to realize, Joel had grown a small tummy demon inside him during the night and was fearing he might die too. Awesome. We are claiming that we were definitely poisoned by Taco Bell. When they say "run for the border," they don't specify they mean your intestines will after you eat it. But because we were so excited about our plans, we drank nasty baking soda water and powered through.

Ready to go. Tummy demons battled.

Then, Joel, CD, and I were ready to hit the road. We were headed to south central Kentucky for me to do a little bit of work, then head to our friends' lake. (UPDATED: Joel also spent the entire time we were in the car cleaning peanut butter and chocolate off of everything while I drove. I apologized 6 million times for junking up his car, and he was so sweet about how it didn't really bother him while he was compulsively cleaning.) We had been invited by Jo, her doggie, Rico, and her husband, Goose. Her husband's name is actually Aaron, but I'm going to refer to him as Goose since he flies a helicopter (at least in my head) and saves lives all over the world (again, at least in my head) wearing this amazing flight suit that makes him look just like Tom Cruise in Top Gun. I know TC's character was named Maverick, but Goose is a better nickname and his character was cooler because, well, he wasn't crazyass Tom Cruise. They also invited Dee and Patrick, and their doggie Lee! 

And Aaron/Goose totally stood in this awkward pose all weekend

Once we got to the lake, the puppy party and hilarity ensued. See, Jo, Dee, and I are hilarious on our own, but when we get together, we feed off each other's funny and are completely unstoppable. I'd love to relay all the hilarious events, but frankly I didn't even remember we had a cut-throat Catchphrase tournament until Dee brought it up this morning. I do know this: we started drinking way too early and stopped way too late. We went on the boat and watched it rain for like the first and only time all summer. While it was raining, we hung out UNDERNEATH the boat. Yeah, you read it right, we were underneath it, and it was amazing. I don't know why but the water under there was a cool neon yellow color. I like to think it's because we were all peeing like crazy and must've stained the water.  

Yup, we did that.

Dee was awesomely brave and jumped right into the water with us. I broke my knee cap on the propeller of the boat, and Joel proceeded to tell everyone how much he worries about my well-being, because I'm constantly acting a fool. I almost drown while trying to tell a story, laughing really hard, and sliding off the life jacket I had made into a water seat. Jo and Goose wore their's like diapers, and that was quite incredible. Then Joel played guitar, and we all mumbled words we thought we knew, until we decided if we didn't eat, we'd have to have our stomachs pumped soon. Then we went back to the lake house, ate, hung out, laughed, played Catchphrase, made Joel play some more, and took a whole bunch of funny pictures that are all on Dee's camera. 

Unfortunately Joel and I had to hit the road pretty early this morning, because he's playing a gig at the Country Club tonight. But we agreed we were going to do this again very soon (maybe every weekend. Sorry, Jo, now you'll never get rid of us!). And we realized that since our SOs all get along swimmingly, we have to be super best good friends our whole lives and all grow old together...because we're six.

Me having breakfast on a typical day.

Other highlights: I burped in the car on the way home, and Joel rolled down the window to air me out. It pissed me off, because I told him I don't understand how he doesn't have the same love filter on his nose that I have on mine. Because I never have to air him out. (Note: he also doesn't eat a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, hashbrown, 10 chicken nuggets, a package of bbq sauce, a package of ranch dressing, and a large Diet Dr. Pepper for breakfast and then burp 58 times while trapped in a car with me, but we're not talking specifics here.) I said all of this to Joel and realized he doesn't think I'm half as funny as I think I am.

I am going to the Country Club tonight to see Joel's band play, and in our drunkenness, the girls and I decided they were going to come to Owensboro with their puppies and SOs and go to the party with me and crash at our house. In our soberness, I decided I shouldn't make Joel drive 3 hours home alone, Jo and Goose decided they shouldn't bail on their friends they'd already made plans with, and Dee and Patrick remembered they have one year old with his grandma that might need them. So it's just going to be me going as super-girlfriend/groupie. And apparently the CC has strictly prohibited the band members from bringing any more than one guest. (Side note: I'm sure this has nothing to do with the scenes me and Joel's other twelve guests made on New Year's Eve at the Country Club. That's a whole other hilarious story.) (Other side note: When it comes to me and my friends, there is no better incentive to go than being told it's strictly prohibited. But whatev.) So I'll have to let you know how much I bring the level of class down tonight at the Country Club. I'm starting by wearing the exact same thing I wore last week to the wedding reception we attended at the Country Club. And Joel is wearing his tie. Which still has beer on it from last week. What?

My Mexican friend, Pablo

Until then, I'll be procrastinating all the things I have to do, and then I'm meeting Kev, Em, and Pablo for drinks and apps (not like iphone apps, but like what cool waitresses call appetizers) at the Miller House. While I'm there, I'm going to tell Pablo how proud I am that he is finally embracing his heritage and opening a restaurant. 

His Mexican restaurant

You Live, You Learn

Yup, that's him

So I've had about 100 good ideas of things to write today's blog about in the last 48 hours, but I'm completely exhausted and the barometric pressure is getting me down. You see, I'm very affected (affect or effect? I'm too tired to care) by the barometric pressure, and it's been thinking about raining for the last two days. This means that the pressure is building so badly in my head that it feels like at any minute, my right eye is going to explode covering everything around me in eye gunk. Mmmm, but really, owwwww. So I'll just write about a few things I learned today.

1--I really do live with Father Time. I say this all the time in passing about Joel, but the man gets up at the crack of dawn. This morning, I think we made it to 6:48 until I gave in and finally got up with him. That's every morning this week before 7am. It makes for really long days.

THE LAKE!!!

2--My job gets awesomer every day. I have been visiting my counselors to plan the year at each of my schools, and the counselors I work with rock.

3--Tomorrow and Saturday are going to be amazing. After work tomorrow, Joel and I are headed to my friend Jo, and her husband's lake--yes, they own it, at least in my head. Destiny and Patrick are coming, and it is going to be on like Donkey Kong. We're even taking our sweet puppy. I can't freaking wait.

Actual photo of my fridge

3--I am a food hoarder. I ran to the grocery for a few staples for the lake and for the house. $250 later, I can't close the refrigerator. Oops.

4--I've still got it. I went to the liquor store to get an oh-so-classy box of wine for the lake, and the two maybe 20 year old boys working there were falling all over themselves to help me carry my wine box (I think I got it). And they were going on and on about how there was no way I was almost 30 when they saw my ID. I told them it was a fake. They even walked me to my car. Scary? No. Badass? Yes.

5--It really does pay to do the laundry. To be specific, it pays $240. In cash. The dryer offered it up as I was pulling Joel's clothes out. Thank you, Mr. Dryer. Maybe I'll go buy more wine.

Thanks for putting up with my half-ass post, and if my eye does explode, I'll be sure to take pictures and write a post on the left half of the screen for you.

What's a Casi, Anyway?

Recently, many people have been telling me how they read my blog (insert a million tiny clapping hands and a jump/squeal from me), but they've also been telling me that they can literally hear my voice saying these words. (Interestingly, so can Joel...as I sit in front of the computer...and type them...and say each one aloud...as he watches the news...and shushes me.) Seriously, too many people to count (if you can't count to like, three) have told me they hear my voice in these words. And I think, when they say this, "well, this is me. All me. Right here on the interweb. I am who I am." Which brings up the question: Who is Casi Clark, anyway?

So I made a list of things that are pretty uniquely Casi and, without further ado, here they are:

I look innocent enough. But what I'm drinking there? It's Awesome Juice.

1--First of all, my name is Casi. Pronounced CAH-see. Not Casey, not Cathy, not Cass-I. Plain and simple. And it's spelled with a mere four letters. Try and get that part right. (It took Joel four months to get it right, but he might get pissed for me telling that story, so I will later when he's not reading over my shoulder.)

2--I'm late. Always. Casi time runs anywhere from 5 - 15 minutes later than real time. When I'm scheduling work stuff, I always write it in my calendar fifteen minutes earlier than it is. I set my clocks 15 minutes ahead. My family tells me things start 15 minutes before their actual start time. None of this helps. I'll still stroll in late with some lie about what happened.

3--I have a man voice. I've come to terms with it in my old age, but it used to really bother me. It's probably deeper than your SO's voice (if your SO is a dude) and maybe even your dad's (I know he's a dude). When my friends get really sick, they say they sound like me. When I get really sick, I am mistaken for a man in drive-thru speakers and over the phone. When I was in the first grade, Ms. Rinaldi, my teacher, yelled across the room at me that I have a deep voice that carried, and, thus, I had to be quieter than the other kids. Had she said that to 29 year old Casi, I would have told her she just hears me better because what I am saying is funnier than what anyone else is saying anyway.

Me? Oh, I'm hilarious

4--I fancy myself to be quite the comedian. When I am in a group of people--especially my peeps--it is my number one goal, above all else--to make people laugh. I will exaggerate the truth, say inappropriate things, and flat out lie to make people laugh. And if I do, my mission is accomplished.

5--I cuss a lot when I'm doing it. I cuss mostly out of anger or comedic effect, but saying butt, shoot, crap, meanie, and freaking is not nearly as funny as their adult counterparts. I love throwing in a well-placed cuss word and watching the crowd fall apart in laughter. (Unless this is only in my mind, and I'm the modern day, chick equivalent of Andrew Dice Clay, and people just laugh awkwardly hoping I'll stop talking. But in my mind--which is what counts anyway--I am f*cking hilarious.)

Me ignoring your voicemail

6--I will not listen to your voicemails. Ever. If you call, I'll call you back, but don't say, "did you get my message?" The answer is always no. There are people in my family, who, when I call back will say, "well, listen to my voicemail, that's why I left it." At which point, I say okay, hang up, and glance down at the hundreds of voicemails I'll never listen to. And still don't. So don't leave them.

7--I'm kind of a bad driver. When I'm driving, I'm too busy doing important things like talking to whoever's with me, painting my nails, eating, changing clothes, putting on an imaginary concert, watching dumb people on the street, and finalizing my plans to conquer the world. I can't be bothered with frivolous things like watching, reacting, breaking, or not speeding.

8--I have the messiest car in the world. I live in my car now more than ever so it has only gotten worse. I told Destiny today that I am not allowing myself to have peanut butter or chocolate in my car anymore, because every visible (and invisible because I have some high-tech sh*t in my car) surface is covered in chocolate and melted peanut butter. There is never any telling what you will find in my junk yard of a car either. My boss got into my car one day and found a beer can and a pair of little boys' underwear in my floorboard. I'm sorry, you gotta enter at your own risk, man.

Maybe the best picture of me ever taken.
And by me, I mean my cans.

9--I shorten everyone's name and/or give them a nickname. Back when my peeps and I were all going to Ninki and eating hibachi all the time, one of the little (pretend) Japanese servers said, "I know you, you make every name little," or something to that effect. So people know me by the way I give nicknames. Important people. Clearly. Typically I will shorten your name first. Like calling Destiny Dee. Then I will make it long again. Now I call her Dee Dirty Dancer. It's how I roll.

A happily fed Cas

10--I can be the meanest, grumpiest, angriest person in the world if you do not feed me properly. My blood sugar drops and all hell breaks loose. When we were in Costa Rica, I threatened to break up with Joel if he didn't feed me soon. Then when he offered me a slice of bread, I turned and stormed away. I ignored him and berated him until he took me to a resort that served a seven course meal. I don't understand it either. Someone recently called it feeling hangry. And, boy, do I get hangry. We have about a three hour window between meals, and if that meal is not right in front of me when I'm ready, I turn over tables and knock down little kids. I can't help it. It's just who I am.

You Mess with My Brotha, You Mess with Me

So, recently I wrote all about growing up with two older brothers and hanging out with them and getting squirted in my crazy crack eye with chlorinated water. Well apparently it's National Brother's Week. I had never heard of this, but I'd also never heard of Boss's Day. So I guess I'll write about them again. But my excuse is this weird Facebook Holiday. I don't want y'all to start thinking I have some crazy obsession with my brothers and that I keep a shrine for them in my closet with old baby teeth and stuffed animals. (Confession: I am a little obsessed with my brothers, but Mom made me give their baby teeth back years ago.)

The other night, Chris sent me this ecard:

And it's exactly right and got me to thinking about how I have this huge double standard over who can talk sh*t about my brothers. I know that they are the older siblings, and they get all the fun of picking on me, but I am completely and utterly protective over them.

These are my peeps. Don't #*@$ with them.

So, I'm naturally pretty protective of the people I love. If I hear someone has said something mean to one of my close friends, in an effort to make that friend feel better, I will chronicle everything that is and ever has been wrong with that person (bad fashion and/or poor life choices will usually top the list). I once almost beat up some hick at Windy Hollow Raceway for getting snippy with my mom. If I hear about someone taking advantage of Joel in some way, I get ten times more pissed off about it than he would ever get. I love my peeps, and if you cross them, you cross me. Period.

But with my brothers, this gets taken to a whole new level. No one better ever talk sh*t about my brothers. Ever. The few times in my life when I have feared that I may actually punch someone have been when someone has crossed one of the boys. I know that they can take care of themselves, but I much rather "take care" of someone who messes with them.

How I feel when you cross my bros.

Here's the one exception: me. I get to say whatever I want whenever I want about my brothers. It is my job to tell them when they're being assfaces, and no one else's. AND, many an unsuspecting friend has run into what happens when you even agree with my sh*t-talking.

(Sitting at dinner with random friend.)


Me: So (brother) is being a real assface lately.

Friend: Right...

Me: (looks up slowly from huge plate of cheese fries) Did you just agree that my brother is an assface?? I. Will. CUT. You.



(On the phone with random friend.)


Me: I just don't understand how (brother) can do a douchebag thing like that.

Friend: Yeah, well, I remember that one time he did that other douchebag-y thing.

Me: Yeah. Well, no one asked you.

(hangs up phone in a rage)


You see, it's a complete double standard, but it's not something I'm ever going to change or lighten up on. I get to say what I think about my brothers, and no one is allowed to say a single negative word or even agree with me. If you find yourself getting caught in one of these situations, it's best to just avert your eyes and wait for me to finish, then quickly change the subject. I cannot be held accountable for my actions when protecting my bros.

They are mean to me. I will punch you if you're mean to them.

It's not like I sit around all the time talking trash about my bubbies anyway, but on the rare chance that I need to, I'm going to. And the thing is: I've earned the right to talk a little sh*t about them. I have been there when one was lying in a hospital bed letting the worst farts I've ever smelled in my life and told him it wasn't that bad. I have been there when one of them was in his twenties and on the verge of crying when he had to get blood drawn because he'd never had it done before. I used to loan my hard-earned babysitting cash to one of them to be used for what I can only assume were bake sale brownies. (One can never know for sure.) I have driven six hours to buy groceries for one of them. I have stood next to one of them when he committed his life to his soulmate. I have rushed one of them to the ER when I found him wandering pale-faced and zombie-like through the Healthpark parking lot. I have held one of their hands while he was looking at his brand new baby boy in an incubator. And I have held a knowing hand on one of their backs when he has felt his whole world fall apart. And I've been happy to do it.

So, these boys are my boys, and they always will be. If I have to throw a punch, defend their actions, or tell you how wrong you are when you agree that they're assfaces, I will. Forever. So don't cross them, mother effers, or you will have ME to deal with. Happy National Freaking Brothers' Week.

Also...

What about this guy??

I've been at my desk for less than an hour. He's commandeered my spot. And his lying in his fave position.

Take a closer look. Tongue hanging out. Sheer bliss.

Much Too Old to Rock'n'Roll

Joel and I had quite the eventful weekend.

Friday night, we were invited to dinner with our very good friends from Lexington, Carrie and Byron, and Carrie's parents. It started out innocent enough. Dinner, a few drinks, and an invitation to visit with other friends at Gambrinuuuuuuuuuus (okay, this is a very upscale bar in Owensboro, which is actually called Gambrinus (gam-BREE-naus), but I once knew someone who pronounced it gam-bree-NEEEEWWWWWWZZZZZ. Most people who've lived in Lexington call it gam-bree-nOOOs. It is, however, Gambrinus). Joel and I decided to go to G's and have ONE drink.

Us with Carrie and Byron at Christmas

Let me rewind. Joel and I agreed to have dinner with our friends, and he arrived home about ten minutes before I did. I walk in. Shopping bags in hand. Admit I have a problem. He picks out his favorite items that I've purchased him (a pair of dressy jeans and a white Paper, Denim, and Cloth shirt). I change into my brand new NY&Co black cigarette pants and black and camel sheer striped top.  Before we walk out the door, Joel jokingly puts a pair of flip flops onto his stocking feet. I laugh. We leave. In the car, I realize it wasn't a joke. He has worn his flip flops and socks to Nikos, a nice restaurant, with our friends. Awesome. I love him, and I accept him for who he is, so I giggle and go on. (Spoiler alert: he wears them for the REST OF THE NIGHT.)

Mismatched, dirty socks, no less

So, back to the subject at hand. A mere 20 minutes into dinner, Joel is pointing out his dinner preference on my menu and spills his (very dark) beer all down his brand new white t-shirt. Good thing it was only $7. We proceed to have dinner, and at one point, giggle over the japanese look Joel is rocking. (To make certain that Joel is not the only silly one in our household, I get all the way to dinner and realize I have left the tags on my new pants and, once in the bathroom, realize everyone in the restaurant is getting the privilege to see not only what size I wear, but also that I paid a mere $12 for the $50 pants. I consider it showing off my bargaining skills.)

So, after dinner, we agree to go to G's and have A drink with our friends Jason, Megan, and a new friend, Matt. One drink turns into two turns into "we should go to the Yellow Rose."

Leaving with a newfound energy, I run into a preg friend of mine and sexually assault her preg belly. (Won't be able to look her in the eye for a while.) Then we head on to Hick Heaven. Now, let me explain the Yellow Rose. This is a bar in Owensboro that is the exact opposite of the very upscale, beautifully decorated, very classy Gambrinus. This bar is downright country. Dark, smokey, serving nothing but hard liquor and cheap beer, this bar is very "friends in low places" style.

When we get there, we discover a sa-weet moped outside and proceed to take turns taking pictures on it. The owner (a tubby fellow in wire-rim glasses, a tie, Duckheads, and a few two many PBRs) comes out to protect his prized possession and instantly falls in love with me. He pays no mind to the fact that I am clearly spoken for. (At one point, Joel and I went to our respective restrooms. I came out before Joel. Mr. Moto spots me, makes a B-line toward me, gets thisclose to me, sees Joel, turns and runs.) (To be fair, despite the Mr. Miyagi look, Joel got hit on WAY more than I did.) We proceeded to line dance, drink a few too many beers, and breathe more smoke than a 15 year old Joe Camel. At one point, I had to ask a man in a cowboy hat to buy a beer for my SO because the sweet little bartenders would not serve anyone with breasts.

Slow dancing at the Yella Rose

Joel tried to stand up on the moped. I screamed.

Maybe I need one just like it. Blue duct tape and all.

After the YR, we went to the farm to show our friends around. While Megan and I had some catch-up time (I worked at KWC with Meg and LOVE her), the boys began to play guitar and sing. I took that as my cue to sing with them and quickly joined. At 1:34am, Joel and I got dropped off at our house, discussed how we can't remember the last time we were up that late, and passed out fell into a deep slumber.

ONLY TO WAKE UP AT 5AM THE NEXT DAY. Feeling ruff. I drove to McDonald's to get us a hangover cure--two Egg McMuffin Meals with Diet Coke, and we go back to sleep. For almost the rest of the day. Saturday night, we had a wedding to go to, so we literally laid in bed trying to feel normal again all day.

Trying to look super fun en route to the wedding

Saturday night, we attended my friends', Reed and Lindsey's, beautiful wedding and attempted to have some fun at their reception through our yawns and inability to drink alcohol without gagging.

Today, I laid in bed willing myself to get up and complete any of my responsibilities. Finally, we got up and cleaned and made some veggie juice to perk ourselves back up. We went to the farm at one point to take a brisk walk but almost died of heat exhaustion. So we came home, and I continued to clean and get ready for a busy week of work. At one point, I looked at Joel and said, "remember when we didn't need two whole days to recover from one night of fun???"

And this was the funniest thing that happened today

And I got hit in the face with dog toenail. I was clipping CD's nails when one hit me in the eye so hard I thought maybe it had blinded me. I'm, however, not writing this blog with one eye so I guess I'm okay, but in my mind, I have a huge swollen black eye. Joel swears he can see nothing wrong with it. We watched Phonebooth, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. Joel made an amazing egg scramble for breakfast, burritos for lunch, and then helped me make fried chickpeas for dinner. Now he's watching a special on Black Sabbath, and I'm entertaining myself with The Farting Preacher and work (yes, that's entertaining). This is the life we were meant to live. Not one that includes mopeds, too many drinks, or bar-hopping. All-in-all, the lesson learned this weekend is that we are MUCH too old to rock'n'roll.

A Love Letter to My Daddy

In honor of my dad's 55th birthday today: a thank you letter.

Dear Daddy--

Thank you for being wrapped around my finger from the very beginning.

Thank you for learning to braid, just so you could braid my hair when I got out of the bath each night.

Thank you for being the first man I ever loved.

Thank you for telling me to listen to my mother.

Thank you for spanking the boys when they were mean to me.

Thank you for letting me lay in your lap when we were watching that horribly scary episode of the Hogan Family with the zombies.

Thank you for letting me sit in your lap long after I was too big to.

Thank you for giving me your pillow when I'd crawl in bed with you and Mom as little girl.

Thank you for giving me that pillow years later. (I still have it, and nothing feels better than sleeping on that pillow.)

Thank you for going swimming with us in the summers.

Thank you for taking us to Vastwood, even though you hated going.

Thank you for teaching me that can't is not in my vocabulary. That has rung through my head many times during successful moments in my life.

Thank you for always having gums when we asked.

Thank you for being the cool dad who 'got it,' when no one else's daddies did.

Thank you for coming home to us each night. I can remember the excitement I felt when I'd see your truck start backing into the driveway.

Thank you for giving me a love of haunted houses, bologna, and cake soup.

Thanks for all those hot ham and cheeses and cinnamon rolls.

Thank you for almost always giving me money to go to dinner with my friends. Sorry for never bringing you the change.

Thank you for that time we were walking through Kroger and your shoes were purposefully untied. I was mortified, and you told me to quit worrying about what other people thought.

Thank you for teaching me to drive.

Thank you for giving me drinks of your coke and bites of your food, even though it made you so mad that I just wouldn't get my own.

Thank you for making me learn every artist to every 70's and 80's song 93.9 played.

Thank you for letting me hide my face in your shoulder during that wax museum tour that was terrifying.

Thank you for buying me that $350 prom dress. It really was beautiful.

Thank you for all the speeding tickets you paid for. Even when you didn't know that's what the money was for.

Thank you for not yelling when you talk. (And yes, I cracked myself up with that one.)

Thank you for not only telling me but always making me feel beautiful.

Thank you for moving me in and out of almost every place I've ever lived.

Thank you for that time you yelled at me to go back to Lexington before dark.

Thank you for that time you drove two and half hours to stand with me while they pulled my car out of a ditch...after dark.

Thank you for telling me to get my ass back to school that night.

Thank you for that summer where it felt like just you and me against the world. No matter how bad things were, we could look forward to our dinners together and late night movies we'd watch on my laptop since we didn't yet have a DVD player.

Thank you for being silly and making me laugh.

Thank you for reading me "Twas the night before Christmas" every Christmas eve for 29 years.

Thank you for not smacking me when I correct your grammar or your mispronounciation of words likes chimney (chimley), Pittsburg (Picksburg), hogwash (hock wash), bathing suit (babin'  suit), and wash rag (warsh rag).

Thank you for forgiving me.

Thank you for accepting my forgiveness.

Thank you for the daddy you are to Robert, Ryan, and river. They have no idea how blessed they are to have your guidance.

Thank you for calling us at 3am on Christmas morning the way your dad did to you.

Thank you for making it hard for every man I've ever dated to live up to the example you've set.

Thank you for always being you, even when it pisses everybody off.

Thank you for responding "Otay" to my texts. That makes me smile every time.

Thank you for yelling at me to call you instead of text. Sometimes it is better just to hear each other's voice.

Thank you for having reasons that are valid to you.

Thank you for being a really great gift-giver.

Thank you for not being too proud.

Thank you for someday walking me down the aisle.

Thank you for the amazing Pappaw you'll be to my kids someday.

Thank you for someday telling my grown children to listen to their mother.

Thank you for always being there when I have needed you.

Thank you for giving me not two, but five brothers. Some day when I need someone, and you can't be there, one of them will be.

Thank you for being endlessly supportive of me.

Thank you for showing me what unconditional love is.

Thank you for being the absolute best daddy a little girl could ever ask for.

I love you,

Your Forever Daddy's Girl