70 years of sex, joints and love! Happy Birthday Dad!

It is said that men marry their mothers and women marry their fathers. If I married Sandro, this sentence would definitely mean something. And not just because I love Sandro and my father Bruno with all my heart.

The two have a lot in common. They drink with passion beyond their thirst. They celebrate every party as if it were their last. They make politically semi-correct statements. Her favorite piece of clothing is the donation pants, her favorite plant is the grass. They see life as one chili.

OK. Bruno doesn’t smoke weed anymore. But when he talks about the time he smoked weed, he seems chillingly stoned. And happy. The 1970s were, he says, the hottest. Free love, naked bodies, eternally long summers, a Woodstock feeling everywhere.

Before he met my mother, he was sure he knew what love was. He was constantly in love. Casually in love, he mentions it and laughs. Today Barbara, tomorrow Deborah, the day after tomorrow Rosi, from Friday to Sunday Annemarie. They were all beauties. One funnier, the other more beautiful.

Rosi stayed. Rosi is my God. And at the same time my mother’s best friend. The romance with my father was short-lived. One that makes us laugh at every festival.

One of them is coming up this weekend. Bruno turns 70 on Sunday. We will of course celebrate that. Of course, he’ll be drunk long before then. Of course, all seniors dance on tables. And of course I dance on the tables with all those old hippies. At least before they drank me under them.

Before that happens and I just babble about “Scandal in the Restricted Area”, I would like to take the opportunity to say a few words to Bruno.

Dear dad

When I think of you, I think of your huge smile. I don’t know anyone with as much mouth as you, except me. When I smile, people say I’m you. I don’t know if that’s officially a compliment. For me it is one. A special one. The prettiest.

It’s that XL smile I see when I think of my youth. You and me on the football field. You and I post. Including the ‘banned’ Berliners. You and I on holiday. A thousand hours in the sea. You threw me in the water a thousand times, we played for a thousand hours.

Then I got older. And zero pointer. You got older too. And only a little wiser. Happy. You threw yourself into puberty with me with the greatest of ease. You were there when I thought the whole world sucked. You were there when I hung over the toilet bowl, vomiting after way too much Pesca Frizz. And you were there when I had absolutely no idea whether I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher, a veterinarian or a pop star.

Later I discovered the world of men. And loved her. In the short term you loved Annemarie, Debobah, Barbara, Annegret and Rosi – Haha, Rosi. Me Sven, Thomas, Patrick, David, Max, you name it. I have told you about almost all of them and you have taken almost all of them into your great heart, except the really blatant idiots, and you have let them go when I did the same.

Then Sandro came. And with Sandro a lot of chaos, volatility, lightness, non-commitment, heartbreak, uncertainty, jealousy. For a long time I denied that he could officially be the right person to be by my side. You already knew that after the first meeting, but you didn’t say anything about it.

You knew I would notice it myself. Until then you were, as always, just there, with an open ear and always good tips. This is what defines you among 10,000 other things. You are not giving well-intentioned advice. Your tips are good. She “abused”.

Bruno, you are the best thing that could have happened to Mom and me. Thank you for painting my childhood colorfully. Thanks for the laughs, even when it’s officially not funny anymore. Thank you for loving us unconditionally, even when we do things you don’t like.

You know, daddy, I love life. Love me. I like the challenge, the ease, the freedom. Love not to be afraid. I love that I don’t care what Kreti and Pleti think of me. I love that I can freely say what I feel. That I feel. And celebrate feelings.

There are so many of you in there.

You, dear daddy, are wonderful. You are funny, generous, loud, cheerful, annoying, passionate, self-deprecating, light, loud, loving, confident, tolerant, enthusiastic. But above all, you are free.

You make the world my best place. Thank you for being my eternal safe haven. Please live to be at least 100 years old. And please let’s smoke a joint together. Secretly in the retirement home on the sitting area.

Now enough words. Let’s celebrate your 70th right away. I’ll get the champagne, you get the Jägi. Mama the vomit bucket.

Happy Birthday, Super Dad!

I love you
Emily*

* If anyone other than you says “Emi” I get angry!

PS: Haha! Over there. A catchy tune. Here you go, you’re welcome!