Megan Stielstra's Blog

So last week my dad calls from Alaska and says, "I'm going to come visit you!" and I said, "Great!" because not only do I love my dad ('cause you know, he's my dad) but we're also great buddies. I like hanging out with him and we haven't had a lot of time over the years (re: Alaska). "Great," he says, "I'll be there next weekened," and I say, "What time is the flight?" so I can pick him up, right? And he says, "Actually, I've been feeling like a nice drive."

A nice drive for me is an hour and a half to Benton Harbor for a Saturday. Forty-five minutes in traffic to the Montrose dog beach. A half hour in serious traffic to Cafe 28 in Irving Park. For my dad, it's ten days across Canada, down into the U.S., hang out with your daughter for a couple days and then deer hunt in Michigan for a month with a new puppy (he just bought a puppy. Who's in Michigan, waiting to be picked up. He'll train her on the road. I said, "Damn, Dad, that's hardcore," 'cause we barely made it through training Mojo with a house and a bed and a crate and doggie treats and a dog park but my dad's like, "We'll go bird hunting," as if that's the answer to everything) and then down to Kentucky for a couple weeks and then a Northwest diagonal back towards Alaska. "Marilyn (my super-awesome stepmother) says I have to be home by Thanksgiving," he says, and I look at my briefcase, and laptop, and watch and high heels and mascara and manilla folders and books and bills and think, "I can't wait to grow up."