All those heartfelt conversations

Thank you for all the wonderful comments. My father is amazed that people around the globe have wished him a happy birthday. He thinks I'm making you guys up. You're like my imaginary friend Cindy. She used to do mean things to my brother and color on closet walls and melt those fat crayons in my sister's Easy Bake Oven. That chick was a pill. Issues, you know.

But no, I tell him. These people are real. Just ask Denise or David. I think they read the blog sometimes. They'll tell you.

So what if he feels like that time I insisted he ask Cindy if she'd like a red popsicle or an orange one, the thing is that he says Thank You.  Too bad for him he never figured out that Cindy liked the purple best.

S our phone call went well. Better than expected. We talked about the birds that are visiting his feeders these days. I do identification for him because, you know, looking it up in a bird book just isn't as much fun as our semi-lucid conversations.

"I've got this bird, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a finch?"
"Is it reddish? Brown stripey? Could be a female. Yellow?"
"I'd know a Goldfinch, I think."
"Right. Right. What color is it?"
"It likes thistle."
"Pointy beak?"
"It goes upside down."
"Oh! It's a nuthatch!"
"Whadjoo call me?"
"Pointy beak? Sharp?"
"Yes. It walks up and down the pole."
"Nuthatch. It's a nuthatch. What color is it?"
"Which one?"
"Nevermind. Any bluejays?"
"A few."
"That's nice."

We talked about the weather. They still have snow. We don't.

I even hollered at my mother. 

(That means said hello and a bunch of other stuff, but there wasn't really any shouting.)

And the subject of my very short commute didn't come up at all.

It's almost as if they'd read the blog. But of course that would be silly.

If my mom read this blog, I wouldn't be typing this.

I'd be tweeting frantically for someone to come bust me out of my room where I've been grounded.

At the end of the call, I told Dad about you guys and he made that funny noise he makes when he thinks I'm kidding around with him. And I was like No, really! They say happy birthday. And then he asked me to thank you and he whispered something to Mom that sounded like golf ball.

Seriously, thank you for the birthday wishes and all the comments - funny, warm, kind, interesting, intelligent. Thank you for coming around here so I can stand on my head and show you my panties.  Except that's not really me. That's Cindy.

It's Wednesday, right? What have you done with your week besides make an oldish man happy?