I haven't done a single thing on my summer to-do list yet, despite being invited to fly a kite and despite driving through the (full! no room at the inn! pack your bags and move to Cali, sucker!) parking lot of the library. No French phrases have been learned, and no letters have been written to my amazing, lovely grandmother. As far as someone is concerned, my summer has been a heaping pile of failure.

But oh man, that someone would be so, so wrong. I have witnessed some of the most beautiful sunsets just by looking out my bedroom window. I have sat on the front porch and read Pride and Prejudice with the hummingbirds.

I have come inside to find freshly made brownies being brought to my room. I have welcomed back one of my favorite friends after his year-long stay in Scotland. I find myself the lucky recipient of some of the best gifts of all time.

Tomorrow night, I will carry on the tradition of Friday Night Date Night with my mom, complete with Panera, Gilmore Girls, and way too much ice cream. On Sunday, I will sit on the grass and listen to Pink Martini. On Thursday, I will meet some of my favorite twenty-something bloggers for a fantastic weekend in Chicago. On Monday, I will collapse into my brand new bed and take a nap with my favorite cat.

I don't know about you, but I hope this summer never ends.

It seems that I will never get the hang of folding fitted sheets, conversing cordially about politics, or avoiding alliteration. However, I have impeccable handwriting, can play piano upside down and right-side up, and will always love you.

My dad is cooler than your dad for a multitude of reasons, but one of them is that he is comprised of a mostly unending supply of thoughtfulness and generosity and patience. My mom and I are still doing our Friday date nights, which sticks my dad in charge of watching the super! hyper! puppy! at the end of a long week.

But every Friday, he stops down at just the right moment, after we've finished our Panera dinners, finished our ice cream, and laughed and cried our way through three episodes of Gilmore Girls. As he hunches over the water cooler to fill his glass, he asks us if he can get us anything hot to drink.

"Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?"

My mom bends her hands to indicate a T or C, depending on her mood, and I fumble to find a way to make an H with one hand and a C with the other. Inevitably failing, I shout out, "Hot chocolate, please!"

And every week, my dad makes my mom's drink first because he loves her the mostest. Then he gets out the gourmet hot chocolate from the pantry — the gourmet hot chocolate he bought specifically for me because he loves me a lot — and he heats up the milk and makes hot chocolate "the fancy way." He offers me a sip to test the temperature and the level of chocolatosity. After everything is right, he goes the extra mile and adds whipped cream and chocolate syrup to the top, just to make it special.

Thanks, Daddy. I love you, too.

Watching the setting sun tonight, I found myself getting mad at Crayola for daring to try to capture the brilliance of nature in colored wax sticks. I have no idea why I was so outraged by this. I can only say that last week tried to suck out my soul, and this week doesn't seem to be off to a better start. On the bright side, thinking about Crayola crayons reminded me of coloring books, which got me thinking about all the carefree fun I want to have this summer. And it's really, really hard to stay mad while thinking about flying kites and looking at something so gorgeous.

Long story short: I almost stabbed you, but I decided to give you a hug instead.

On Thursday, I saw a man who was riding a bicycle. He had a parrot riding on his shoulder. My friend rolled down the car window and told the man how much she liked his bird. "Thank you," he replied in Heath Ledger's voice with Heath Ledger's accent. Parrot Man is probably the coolest person we've ever met.