Dad is old. He's in his late thirties. He's pretty easy going, I guess, or he is at least trying to give that impression. He's struggling to keep it all together: Granny, work, Mom always away. Luckily, I don't give him any problems.
He's not the best cook. I think that kids who are left home alone eat better. You might hear, "Izzy, come on down: that burning smell and acrid smoke mean your eggs are ready." This means that I cook.
Dad works from home. It's something softwary... some kind of webbly thing.
He eats very badly, but claims to have "the best cholesterol scores of anyone on our street except for Mrs. Banjit at number 12."
He's nice enough and no more embarrassing than anyone else's dad. He's doing his best to stave off early-onset male pattern baldness. I think I'll buy him a hat.
Mom is an eco-journalist, and she's always traveling.
You may have read some of her pieces. I have them all in a scrapbook. "My Year in Provence. In a Yurt." "Room with a View of the Sewage Facility." One about skin cancers and the ozone layer, "Little Missed Sunshine." There's also "Singin' in the Acid Rain," "Saving Private Rhinos," and "Some Don't Like it Hot." She's also been in Japan researching an article about green innovations in dentistry, "An Inconvenient Tooth."
Mom was born in El Salvador, but left around 1980 just after the coup, before the worst days of the civil war.
We keep in touch with Mom regularly by phone, text, email, and by reading her blog. I get a lot of what Dex says are Big Ideas from reading her pieces. (I don't think he likes my Big Ideas that much. They usually spell trouble for him.)