He hates it when I refer to him as my ‘Old Man’

"Is this your grandpa?" I've heard it my entire life. Every time someone would meet my dad, their assumptions that he was my grandfather were imminent. And every time I have to explain to them, "No. This is my father. I was just a REALLY big mistake."

I hope that didn't come off wrong. I mean, I'm not bitter about being told I was an accident. These things happen right? The stack of contributing factors to my neuroses does not in any way include this fact. Also, my parents have explained to me several times how much they like me now. I find the reassurance to be comforting enough…plus, without me who would the older siblings have to resent? MY LIFE HAS PURPOSE!

Some of those grandfatherly assumptions are probably based on the wildly thick, white hair that my dad had amassed by the time I started grade school. Truth be told, I can't really even remember a time when my dad still had the dark brown pigment in his locks.

But I digress, weird...I know.

Now, I know what you're thinking: 'How big of a mistake were you?' Well, that and 'When is she going to stop blathering on?' And…here it is. My dad turned a whopping 80 years old today. 80. As in, born in 1920. Think of it like this: 1920 was well before the invention of the glorious television and during the dark age of prohibition. Rough ya'll, I can't even imagine. Not that any of this mattered to him, he being a damn foreigner and all. I just find it quite remarkable that when my dad says they grew up without a television, he's TOTALLY telling the truth.

Funny story. A few weeks ago, none of us could get a hold of Dad. Several of us had called and left messages…but received no returned calls. My Dad also tries to organize the troop for a Sunday morning family breakfast every once in a while, but it had been months since we last got together. Naturally, this led me to believe that he was dead or injured, lying in a ditch and out of range for cell phone service. I then spent an entire dark, snowy, Saturday evening looking for my father. I first snuck into his gated building and then got convinced someone to let me into his locked building. Once inside the hallway I spent 30 minutes calling his cell phone and listening outside his door to see if I could hear the ring.

I know this sounds more sad and depressing than funny…but bear with me.

Five phone call attempts later, I still had nothing. I was going insane, which is a really big deal because I'm already INSANE. I don't know why in the hell I didn't think of this sooner because the answer was clear, he would be at work. What? Doesn't your 80-year old father work 18 hour shifts, 7 days a week? I guess my dad is just super predictable then. So, I left the snowy housing complex to make my way toward the equally snowy industrial area. Sure enough, there was Dad's car parked right outside…so I waited.

A half-hour later he came hobbling out of the building. He wasn't hurt or anything, that's just the way he walks…did I mention HE'S OLD? I ran up to him practically still in tears and started babbling on about how I had been looking for him all night, in the snow, worried sick and why the hell aren't you answering your phone and seriously Dad, you're going to kill me. And do you know what he said to me?

"Hi Becca! Do you want to go to breakfast tomorrow?"

It turns out that he went out and bought himself a new BlackBerry. A pretty new phone that he didn't know how to answer nor dial. Why would a guy with no email address do such a thing? I believe it's called 'expert salesmanship'.

So I guess it's a REALLY good thing that I was born after all. If I wasn't here, who would take the time to make fun of my dad on his birthday?

Happy Birthday Dad.