I wasn't going to update because my mood hasn't changed for the better since my last update, but I thought I'd try something a little different and capture things I am grateful for in life.

I'm grateful for my parents, and in particular for my Dad. My Dad is my buddy.

For as long as I can remember, and even before I can remember, it's been me and my Dad. My Mom and my brother always got along, and then there was me and my Dad.

My Dad has a blown-up black and white shot, it must be 26x 20", of him in a pair of low-slung patchwork bermuda shorts, no shirt on tanned skinny torso, aviator Ray-bans on and a cigarette in his mouth, smiling and pushing my stoller down an empty tree-lined street. You can't see me, just the front of my stroller and him staring into the camera, I guess that one of his friends was walking backward down the street and shooting a roll of film.

My Dad just exudes cool. My brother, in high school, was secretly convinced that our Dad was Jim Morrison living out his life incognito. A couple weeks ago we were out dinner and someone made a comment and my Dad threw out, "Why not? I'm Jim Morrison, after all" and threw back his glass of merlot.

Pretty much everyone thinks my Dad is the coolest. My friends and my brother's friends, bring it up all the time. If my Dad is anywhere in the proximity of any of our peeps, chances are they'll be crowded around him and he'll be holding court. I've seen my straight guy friends meet him and instantly have male crushes. They crowd around him and compete for his attention. It's wild. He's just The Man.

One of the biggest compliments of my life was a couple of years ago, when my parents and I went for brunch at a soul food place up in Harlem. We dropped my Mom and aunt off at the restaurant and I stayed with my Dad to park the car. He didn't want me to come, but I insisted, because, frankly, my Dad's now a distinguished looking, white-haired man and he was driving a white Lexus around Harlem and parking it on the street. And maybe I'm just a blonde white girl, but I believe I have some street cred, and if you know otherwise, please don't shatter my dream.

My Dad doesn't lock his car, his office or our houses. His belief is that if anyone robs us, they must need it more than we do. And that's exactly what he'll tell you if you ask him about it.

As we walked down the deserted street, filled with boarded up crackhouses, we started to cross the busy intersection and I was wearing some crazy shades and suddenly my Dad looked at me and he put his arm around me and he said, "Hey, you know what, Partygirl? You..are... Coooooooollll." I laughed and said, "What?!" And he said, "I dig those glasses. You look so cool."

That's quite a compliment coming from Jim Morrison.

My Dad is a renaissance (sp?) man. He not only eats quiche, he makes it. He also makes rosotto, although it drives him a bit mad.

He's an artist. And I think his work is brilliant. When we were younger, he used to paint all the time. He used to win lots of ribbons in local art contests, and I remember our mom getting us dressed and leading us through the contest exhibits to see his pieces, on easels with ribbons on them. As we grew, he stopped painting, but last year, he did something that shocked all of us, and bought new paints.

I remember watching him mix paints. He always used the powder stuff. I wonder where he painted, because I was never invited to watch. I don't think I would have been very helpful. I remember being fascinated with the way that the powders came to life and made primary colors and how he mixed them to make more and more and more colors. I couldn't figure out why my crayons never made so many colors.

He also played the piano, beautifully. I've never thought to ask him how he learned. He grew up poor, on the wrong side of the tracks, as they say. He must have learned as an adult? I'll have to ask.

I used to sing and he was my accompaniment. I know I've told this story before so I'll skip it.

My Dad always gave me the extravagant gifts, while my Mom gave the practical. I know she must have been in on it but I think that she must have stepped aside to let him have the spotlight. That's a lot like my Mom. So is being practical.

My Father gave me my first set of pearls after my first big failure. I think I may have been crying because I was runner-up n a competition and he gave them to me anyway and told me they were proud of me getting that far.

When I graduated college, my Father gave me a set of diamond earrings that I know they couldn't afford. I think even my mother was surprised and my brother let out a low whistle. My Dad said, "You've done it all but there's just one more thing every young lady needs to go out into the world..." and with that he handed me a gray jewelry box and I opened it up and I couldn't believe my eyes. I still can't believe it. I hide them but some days I open that gray box just to look inside and see this gift the is so much more than precious stones, it's unconditional love involving personal sacrifice. It's over the top and it's my Dad.

Tonight I saw a commercial for that box set of "Classic Jazz" on TV. The one with the "Lady from Ipanema" on it. In the last year, my Dad and I must have seen that commercial three times and every time my yelled to me, "Partygirl! Quick! Write that number down! I've got to get that CD!" and I scrambled to take down the information. Everytime, I would remind him for days after, "Dad, don't forget about that CD you want. Here's the number." And he would say, "Oh! I love that music! It's the best music in the world! I have to get that CD!" but inevitably he would forget and we would see the commercial again he would again yell "Oh! Partygirl! Take down that number - I have to get that CD!"

Tonight, I was depressed, watching TV alone and sure enough, that damn commercial came on. I laughed outloud. And would you believe that I started diving around for a pen to write that damn number down again?! I must have it memorized by now!

I was laughing so hard that I had to call and tell him. He answered.

"Partygirl!" he said. "How's it goin'?"

"Good, Dad. I was just calling because I saw that commercial for 'Classic Jazz' and I thought of you. Just wanted to let you know I wrote the number down."

He started laughing, "I was just telling your mother that IhavetogetthatCD," he barely got out before yelling in the background to my mother (who shares a name with me), "Party! Partygirl saw the same commercial!"

And I could hear her laugh in the background as she moved to pick up another phone. My Dad continued, "Hey! Are you watching the same thing we're watching? That 'As good as...'"

"Yeah, Dad. 'As Good As it Gets.' You've seen it before."

"Oh, isn't that funny! You're watching the same thing." Again, yelling to my Mom, "Party! She's watching the same show up there in New York."

"Hey. I have to get that CD, I just love that music."

"Yeah, I know, you made me write down that number 3 times."

"Well, I have the website now. Your mother took down the website so I can get it."

"Hello!!!" Now my mother is on the line. For some reason, she still hasn't figured out that don't have to yell on the phone. And if you think that's good, you should hear her on the answering machine.

"Okay, kiddo. Your Mother wants to speak with you so I'm hanging up."

"Okay, Dad. Talk to you later."

"Later."

So that's what I'm grateful for: My Dad. Jim Morrison. The Coolest Man on Earth.

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