"You drive, I'll pay," he said.

"Okay."

"No, really, you drive."

"Okay. No problem."

Sidebar: Like I would ever get in "Sweet Pea" (a '70s Chevy Chevette w/a hole in the floor board so you can watch the highway whiz beneath your feet) - I have an acute aversion to dying young. I'm a little funny that way.

"You know how I hate to drive. It makes me crazy, I hate to drive."

"I know, dad."

"I hate to drive."

"Well, dad, that's good because I hate to pay!"

And all was settled. That's how our monthly dates to play poker started two years ago. I drive, dad pays. Works for me!

Soon after, however, "monthly" trips to the hills turned into every two or three weeks. My mother has learned to patiently listen to every "bad beat" story a minimum of twenty times. When we have dinner, there's at least thirty minutes of us discussing trash hands and bluffs. We reminisce about the jerk that stormed off cursing because a woman took him out only to hear, "That's my girl!" bellowed from the sidelines. And, we laugh at my embarrassment at dad's youthful need to blatantly gawk at one particular blond cocktail waitress' legs. Yes, my mother's a saint.

Up in Central City, my dad is known as "daddy" or the guy in the fedora and a favorite at the final table (my dad's really good), and I've been pegged "the princess" because when I say something ... anything ... dad whips out his wallet.

We never stop being daddy's girl - I'm 45.

Just thinking about being a daddy's girl makes me smile with that warm, special feeling only daddy's girls can understand. The feeling that gives me a sense of security because I know he's the hero I'll need every once in a while. He's the one who spoils my daughter ("Grandpa's girl") like he's her own personal MasterCard for anything special she wants. He's the one who supports my writing, rolls his eyes at my rants while still listening attentively and tells me when I'm being ridiculous.

He's the one I have a blunt honesty rule with. He tells me I'm being silly, over sensitive, absolutely right and anything else you can think of. I tell him he's being silly, over sensitive, absolutely right and anything else you can think of. I've threatened to not stop the car when I drop him off at home, and he's threatened to strangle me a time or two.

Daddy will always be the cigar smoke'n, chick-flick hating, guy's guy who insists on walking behind me as protector and holding the door because that's what a gentleman does for his wife and daughters.

Daddy will always be the one who calls me on my birthday and sings his signature song in my voicemail followed by a tirade about never getting a real human being to actually answer a phone.

Daddy will always be the one who made me cry when, on the airplane to Italy, I found cash and a note to buy myself something pretty slipped into my money belt.

Daddy will always be the BBQ king, the lawn authority, and the rose expert who planted a creamy peach colored rose bush just for me because it was my favorite.

Daddy will always be the one who remembers my gas mileage stinks and puts a bottle of something in my tank before we go to the casino. He checks my oil and mumbles, laced with curses no less, about how women never check the oil, and then he slips me a $20 for gas with a wink.

And, Daddy will always be the one who says, "That's what Daddy's are for."