So, is everyone ready for Christmas? I'm certainly not. I haven't even started my shopping. Fortunately, I only going to get gifts for immediate family this year. That's all that -- and probably more than -- I can afford.
I am not one of those people that's good at shopping for others. I need specific gift wish list ideas. If I have pre-approved options to choose from, I then feel a little more comfortable venturing off the list for some secondary gift of my own choosing, because at least I know I have something the recipient will like.
I sort of miss the days when my daughter was younger. There were distinct phases that provided gift ideas. There was a Disney princesses phase, a Barbie phase and a Harry Potter phase. There were years when all I needed were sizes and I could even feel comfortable and confident selecting clothes.
Now my daughter is 16. When we go clothes shopping now, my contribution is providing transportation and one -- or more -- credit cards.
I do know the stores she likes, or think I do, but knowing the fickle nature of teen tastes, maybe that has changed too. So, I supposed I could go the gift card route. While I love the practicality of that, it seems a tad impersonal for the person I most enjoy buying for doing things for.
I am far worse at buying things for my parents and brothers. I could chock it up to being out of the house for so many years, but I never knew what to get them when I lived with all of them either. And my dad is the hardest to shop for of all.
But buying gifts for my daughter, which has been so much fun over the years, has gotten me past the dread of gift buying/giving. I can, and sometimes do, actually enjoy gift buying sometimes. Of course, I find many more things that I think would be fun to receive as gift than things I'm sure will be good gifts for those I love. And my parents and I are so bad about admitting the things we want as gifts. When one of us ask, "So, what you do want for Christmas, the inevitable answer is always, "Oh, nothing." Or that other old chestnut, "I don't need anything."
But the thing with gifts, and a truly great gift (especially for adults) is not getting something you need, but getting something you want. We tend to buy ourselves the things we really need. What we don't tend to do is buy things we would like to have, if we had a little extra money to splurge on a little something for ourselves. That's a good gift. Why can't my parents (or me for that matter) provide a few hints at things that they would like?
The bad thing is, now my daughter is getting more coy when asked what she would like for Christmas. She used to be pretty good about putting a wish list together (and then providing me with a copy, which is pretty key to the whole success of the list). Apparently she inherited the "nothing" response gene, and it's kicked in at adolescence.
Poor kid, she inherited the freakiest things from my family. Fortunately, the looks she gets from her mother's side of the family.
So, I still need to get my shopping started, but I'm fairly confident my days of waiting until Christmas Eve to even start are behind me -- I think. We'll know for sure in the next few days.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Monday, December 17, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Prom corsages, birthday candles and hazard lights
Something was definitely wrong. The sounds of crunching metal, squealing rubber and exploding plastic came from up ahead. The explicative uttered from the front seat was the next clue. Then there was a Dodge pickup sliding sideways into our lane of travel, complete with screeching tires and a wildly careening trailer behind it.
Oh crap, are we going to crash? Yes. No, maybe not. Oh, shit yes we are.
The distance between the sliding truck and our front bumper was closing fast. Then it was gone in a metal-bending jolt.
I immediately turned to my right to see if my daughter was injured.
"Are you OK? Are you hurt?"
"I'm OK."
All four of us in the car came out shaken and with a few muscle strains, but there was no blood or penetrating trauma. No broken bones, cuts or abrasions. Just frayed nerves.
In all there were four cars involved in the crash on a busy commercial street in southeast Portland. The car I was in was the furthest from the initial point of impact, but all four cars involved in the crash had to be towed from the scene. Remarkably, no one else suffered any obvious injuries either. But a trip home from Sunday lunch became much more of an adventure than any of us imagined it would be. We were winding down from a long week of family activities -- Mother's Day, a state golf tournament, a barbecue, a business trip, a high school prom, a surprise birthday party, time with extended family and a four-car crash that blocked three lanes of a four-lane city street.
It was quite a week and I can't quite do it justice here. The images still whirl in my mind in brief flashes. I'm having a difficult time finding the words to explain how the buzz of activity affected me. But I realized, that even after being involved in a car crash, even that difficult experience with my daughter was better than most other days spent alone without her.
I need to remind myself, when I have questions and doubts about whether I have made the right choices in my life the last few years that I am where I want to and need to be. Seeing my daughter experience milestones in life, being with her at times of celebration or stress, is worth some personal/professional disappointments. I can't be there every day, but I'm there a lot more days and spending time with her and the other people I love and who I know love me.
We aren't a traditional family. We don't fit a Norman Rockwell ideal. But we celebrate many of life's big and small moment's together. And when life comes crashing in, we are there to hold each other, hug each other and make sure we are all OK.
Oh crap, are we going to crash? Yes. No, maybe not. Oh, shit yes we are.
The distance between the sliding truck and our front bumper was closing fast. Then it was gone in a metal-bending jolt.
I immediately turned to my right to see if my daughter was injured.
"Are you OK? Are you hurt?"
"I'm OK."
All four of us in the car came out shaken and with a few muscle strains, but there was no blood or penetrating trauma. No broken bones, cuts or abrasions. Just frayed nerves.
In all there were four cars involved in the crash on a busy commercial street in southeast Portland. The car I was in was the furthest from the initial point of impact, but all four cars involved in the crash had to be towed from the scene. Remarkably, no one else suffered any obvious injuries either. But a trip home from Sunday lunch became much more of an adventure than any of us imagined it would be. We were winding down from a long week of family activities -- Mother's Day, a state golf tournament, a barbecue, a business trip, a high school prom, a surprise birthday party, time with extended family and a four-car crash that blocked three lanes of a four-lane city street.
It was quite a week and I can't quite do it justice here. The images still whirl in my mind in brief flashes. I'm having a difficult time finding the words to explain how the buzz of activity affected me. But I realized, that even after being involved in a car crash, even that difficult experience with my daughter was better than most other days spent alone without her.
I need to remind myself, when I have questions and doubts about whether I have made the right choices in my life the last few years that I am where I want to and need to be. Seeing my daughter experience milestones in life, being with her at times of celebration or stress, is worth some personal/professional disappointments. I can't be there every day, but I'm there a lot more days and spending time with her and the other people I love and who I know love me.
We aren't a traditional family. We don't fit a Norman Rockwell ideal. But we celebrate many of life's big and small moment's together. And when life comes crashing in, we are there to hold each other, hug each other and make sure we are all OK.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
It's the small things
I was fortunate to spend part of the weekend with my daughter. I suppose she will always be my little girl, but the last signs of that little girl are slipping away and she has become a young woman. I still don't know how to be the father of a girl let alone the father of a young woman.
But she makes me so proud. And little things give me joy about being part of her life. Earlier in the week when we got together she was telling some about her recent prom date and her dress. Admittedly those are things I don't fully appreciate. Oh, sure I can appreciate how a woman looks in a dress, but I don't really understand the pride a young woman takes in something like her first prom dress. But I could appreciate the pride she expressed and the smile on her face as she told me about her evening.
I was also quite proud to learn that she wore the silver bracelet I got for her for her 16th birthday and the fact that she borrowed a matching necklace from an aunt to wear with it for her first prom. The fact that she wore that bracelet on a special occasion for her made me feel like I was part of that special night, and a little bit of me was there with her.
As an absentee parent, I've come to appreciate, even celebrate, the little things, those little moments that make be feel like a parent or at least a special person in her life.
It doesn't pay to be picky. I take what I can get. There was another little moment over the weekend that I latched onto, even though it was a bit, um, odd, at least it seems that why when I try to comprehend how to explain it.
One of those celebrity gossip shows, perhaps "Entertainment Tonight" was starting on TV and their were talking about a story and showing a video in which actor David Hasselhoff was drunk and being filmed by his 16-year-old daughter. As poor timing would have it, I picked that moment of our little family Cinco de Mayo celebration to venture into the kitchen for a cerveza. My daughter was in the kitchen, near the refrigerator, and opened up the fridge, of her own initiative, to grab a malt beverage. She said, loudly and with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Here's your beer DAD!"
Her mother said, "Don't do it, don't you dare do it." And I said to my daughter, "Great, can you videotape me too when I get drunk."
We all had a good laugh out of it, but truth be told I was downright giddy, and not due to the beer. But it was the first time, albeit under strange circumstances, that my daughter ever called me dad to my face. Another man has that moniker. Although I have heard her refer to me indirectly, to her friends, as her "real" dad. But not Dad. Normally, if she refers to me in a formal sense it is by my first name.
So, perhaps its not that moment when a child, first learning to speak, says "Dada" or "Papa" or "Papi" or some such thing somewhere around age 1. Fifteen years late is far, far better than never, even if said in jest. I'll take it and hold out some small hope that maybe there will be more in the future.
I'll save the other awkward parental moment from the weekend for another post.
But she makes me so proud. And little things give me joy about being part of her life. Earlier in the week when we got together she was telling some about her recent prom date and her dress. Admittedly those are things I don't fully appreciate. Oh, sure I can appreciate how a woman looks in a dress, but I don't really understand the pride a young woman takes in something like her first prom dress. But I could appreciate the pride she expressed and the smile on her face as she told me about her evening.
I was also quite proud to learn that she wore the silver bracelet I got for her for her 16th birthday and the fact that she borrowed a matching necklace from an aunt to wear with it for her first prom. The fact that she wore that bracelet on a special occasion for her made me feel like I was part of that special night, and a little bit of me was there with her.
As an absentee parent, I've come to appreciate, even celebrate, the little things, those little moments that make be feel like a parent or at least a special person in her life.
It doesn't pay to be picky. I take what I can get. There was another little moment over the weekend that I latched onto, even though it was a bit, um, odd, at least it seems that why when I try to comprehend how to explain it.
One of those celebrity gossip shows, perhaps "Entertainment Tonight" was starting on TV and their were talking about a story and showing a video in which actor David Hasselhoff was drunk and being filmed by his 16-year-old daughter. As poor timing would have it, I picked that moment of our little family Cinco de Mayo celebration to venture into the kitchen for a cerveza. My daughter was in the kitchen, near the refrigerator, and opened up the fridge, of her own initiative, to grab a malt beverage. She said, loudly and with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Here's your beer DAD!"
Her mother said, "Don't do it, don't you dare do it." And I said to my daughter, "Great, can you videotape me too when I get drunk."
We all had a good laugh out of it, but truth be told I was downright giddy, and not due to the beer. But it was the first time, albeit under strange circumstances, that my daughter ever called me dad to my face. Another man has that moniker. Although I have heard her refer to me indirectly, to her friends, as her "real" dad. But not Dad. Normally, if she refers to me in a formal sense it is by my first name.
So, perhaps its not that moment when a child, first learning to speak, says "Dada" or "Papa" or "Papi" or some such thing somewhere around age 1. Fifteen years late is far, far better than never, even if said in jest. I'll take it and hold out some small hope that maybe there will be more in the future.
I'll save the other awkward parental moment from the weekend for another post.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Resurrection
At the risk of sounding completely manic, the weekend ended on a good note. I enjoyed spending time with my daughter and family, sharing good food and good company.
Good days can override a lot of not so good days. I have to remind myself that those days, though less frequent than I may like, are the days I am here for. Spending part of my daughter's birthday with her last week, spending holidays with her. Those are the days I came here for.
Good days can override a lot of not so good days. I have to remind myself that those days, though less frequent than I may like, are the days I am here for. Spending part of my daughter's birthday with her last week, spending holidays with her. Those are the days I came here for.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Guilt: The gift that keeps on giving
My daughter has a birthday coming up. I'm feeling guilty. I haven't seen her in several weeks I'll have to go out of town the weekend of her birthday party. Fortunately, I will get back in town in time to at least see her for a little bit on her birthday, but it won't be during the big group celebration.
I've often missed her birthday, but for many years I was able to spend the week before her birthday with her. Her birthday generally follows spring break. When I lived out of state, I would try to schedule at least one week of my vacation on her spring break.
Most years we would have some sort of birthday celebration as part of her vacation. It was one of the highlights of every year to spend spring break right with her before her birthday. It didn't make up for 49 or 50 weeks apart a year, but it was quality time. Our relationship was largely built on those intensive visits and ime together spent a week at a time, two or three times a year.
I few years ago our spring break routine was disrupted when I had to attend a wedding for my then-fiance's sister. At one point we had offered to take my daughter with us on the trip to an exotic beach locale, but she didn't really feel comfortable making such a big trip to be surrounded by strangers. So for the first time in many years I wasn't going to see my daughter for her spring vacation or birthday. The guilt was profound and I bought a pretty extravagant gift, diamond earrings, for her. Perhaps it was a bit much for a young girl just entering her teens, but it was at a period of my live where diamonds seemed to be a way to say I love you.
Now, I'm heading off to another wedding, this one for a dear friend, and am looking forward to seeing several other friends whom I haven't scene in almost two years. So, I'm pretty excited about all that. But I'm also feeling that profound guilt of again devoting my daughter's time to someone else to attend another wedding.
But there isn't likely to be an extravagant guilt gift this year. I just don't have the funds at this point in my life. And I feel guilty about that too.
There's plenty of guilt about the financial situation, which has also cut into visits with my daughter of late. My trips to see her, though she's an only easy drive away, have been limited. There just haven't been the funds to fill the gas tank, or pay for dinners out. My poor old rig is neglected too, and more than a thousand miles overdue for an oil change. But the vehicle is rapidly approaching the end of its useful life, and not nearly the source of guilt that the lost time with my daughter inflicts.
So, I need to figure out a special gift for her birthday. Not too expensive perhaps, but personal and unique. Not that I have a clue what that might be. What's the perfect gift to give your daughter to tell her you are sorry for all the lost years, birthdays and holidays?
I've often missed her birthday, but for many years I was able to spend the week before her birthday with her. Her birthday generally follows spring break. When I lived out of state, I would try to schedule at least one week of my vacation on her spring break.
Most years we would have some sort of birthday celebration as part of her vacation. It was one of the highlights of every year to spend spring break right with her before her birthday. It didn't make up for 49 or 50 weeks apart a year, but it was quality time. Our relationship was largely built on those intensive visits and ime together spent a week at a time, two or three times a year.
I few years ago our spring break routine was disrupted when I had to attend a wedding for my then-fiance's sister. At one point we had offered to take my daughter with us on the trip to an exotic beach locale, but she didn't really feel comfortable making such a big trip to be surrounded by strangers. So for the first time in many years I wasn't going to see my daughter for her spring vacation or birthday. The guilt was profound and I bought a pretty extravagant gift, diamond earrings, for her. Perhaps it was a bit much for a young girl just entering her teens, but it was at a period of my live where diamonds seemed to be a way to say I love you.
Now, I'm heading off to another wedding, this one for a dear friend, and am looking forward to seeing several other friends whom I haven't scene in almost two years. So, I'm pretty excited about all that. But I'm also feeling that profound guilt of again devoting my daughter's time to someone else to attend another wedding.
But there isn't likely to be an extravagant guilt gift this year. I just don't have the funds at this point in my life. And I feel guilty about that too.
There's plenty of guilt about the financial situation, which has also cut into visits with my daughter of late. My trips to see her, though she's an only easy drive away, have been limited. There just haven't been the funds to fill the gas tank, or pay for dinners out. My poor old rig is neglected too, and more than a thousand miles overdue for an oil change. But the vehicle is rapidly approaching the end of its useful life, and not nearly the source of guilt that the lost time with my daughter inflicts.
So, I need to figure out a special gift for her birthday. Not too expensive perhaps, but personal and unique. Not that I have a clue what that might be. What's the perfect gift to give your daughter to tell her you are sorry for all the lost years, birthdays and holidays?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
My brown-eyed girl
It was one of those perfect days that I wish I could wrap myself up in to keep me warm forever.
The sun was shining, making the Pacific Ocean sparkle like the rarest of gems. The outgoing tide revealed a bounty of treasure in the sand. Starfish, in vibrant hues of orange and purple, clung in clusters to the craggy rocks on the edge of the surf. And there, walking in the wet sand, was my daughter. Head down. Hair, in tight waves of curl, obscuring her face, periodically revealing a bright smile or a concentrated stare as she combed the sand for agates. Resting on her haunches. Delicate fingers reaching just beyond her feet for tiny rocks. Her black polished toenails looking like smooth sea pebbles resting atop her tan toes and white flip-flops.
There are signs there of the little girl, on the verge of turning 6, sitting in rapt attention watching the Lion King parade down Disneyland's Main Street. But now, at 15, it is easy to see the young woman she will become. The young woman that she has already become.
It was just about the perfect day, shared with family. Beachcombing. Playing games. Soaking up the sun on a day that had been forecast for rain. Watching a whale spouting and breeching the surface of the sea a short distance from the shoreline in front of from the large picture windows of a hillside retreat.
For years I lived a long distance from my daughter, getting caught up with her life in week-long vacations two or three times a year. I told myself that at least the time we spent was quality time. Morning til night in concentrated bursts, trying to make up for all those times I was not there. Seeing how much she had grown. Enjoying each new stage of her life and trying hard not to think about all the stages I had missed.
We drew closer and closer every visit. The "I love yous" and hugs and kisses were no longer forced and were only occasionally awkward. The became real, sincere, heartfelt and warm. Each visit just got better and better and we grew closer and closer. But as the teen years hit and took hold I started to feel that slipping away. She was carving her own personal time with her own friends out of this planned family time, as teenagers are wont to do. That's when I knew it was time -- past time -- to come home. And it was just about a year ago now that I was finally able to make that happen.
The visits have been more frequent over the last 12 months. More milestones shared. Junior high graduation. Meeting her friends. I met one boyfriend and just as I was getting accustomed to his name and his presence he was gone. Then there was a new school and new friends and another new boyfriend. Halloween and Christmas. Her birthday and other family birthdays. Family gatherings and celebrations. Helping an aunt move. Normal life stuff.
But those magic moments have been more fleeting. A second or a moment or a minute amid the rush. Looking back on my own childhood, I suppose my parents must have experience something similar and we lived under the same roof for 18 years. Life can't be all splender and bliss.
But when you aren't there for so many moments, large or small, you spend a lot of time wondering what you've missed and missing imagined wonders.
But that day, that Saturday two Saturdays ago, was one of the special days. Not because of any single big thing, but hours upon hours of little ones. And because of that brown-eyed girl with curls and a smile as warm as the May sun.
Technorati tags: Absentee father
Parenthood
Daughter
Oregon Coast
Beachcombing
The sun was shining, making the Pacific Ocean sparkle like the rarest of gems. The outgoing tide revealed a bounty of treasure in the sand. Starfish, in vibrant hues of orange and purple, clung in clusters to the craggy rocks on the edge of the surf. And there, walking in the wet sand, was my daughter. Head down. Hair, in tight waves of curl, obscuring her face, periodically revealing a bright smile or a concentrated stare as she combed the sand for agates. Resting on her haunches. Delicate fingers reaching just beyond her feet for tiny rocks. Her black polished toenails looking like smooth sea pebbles resting atop her tan toes and white flip-flops.
There are signs there of the little girl, on the verge of turning 6, sitting in rapt attention watching the Lion King parade down Disneyland's Main Street. But now, at 15, it is easy to see the young woman she will become. The young woman that she has already become.
It was just about the perfect day, shared with family. Beachcombing. Playing games. Soaking up the sun on a day that had been forecast for rain. Watching a whale spouting and breeching the surface of the sea a short distance from the shoreline in front of from the large picture windows of a hillside retreat.
For years I lived a long distance from my daughter, getting caught up with her life in week-long vacations two or three times a year. I told myself that at least the time we spent was quality time. Morning til night in concentrated bursts, trying to make up for all those times I was not there. Seeing how much she had grown. Enjoying each new stage of her life and trying hard not to think about all the stages I had missed.
We drew closer and closer every visit. The "I love yous" and hugs and kisses were no longer forced and were only occasionally awkward. The became real, sincere, heartfelt and warm. Each visit just got better and better and we grew closer and closer. But as the teen years hit and took hold I started to feel that slipping away. She was carving her own personal time with her own friends out of this planned family time, as teenagers are wont to do. That's when I knew it was time -- past time -- to come home. And it was just about a year ago now that I was finally able to make that happen.
The visits have been more frequent over the last 12 months. More milestones shared. Junior high graduation. Meeting her friends. I met one boyfriend and just as I was getting accustomed to his name and his presence he was gone. Then there was a new school and new friends and another new boyfriend. Halloween and Christmas. Her birthday and other family birthdays. Family gatherings and celebrations. Helping an aunt move. Normal life stuff.
But those magic moments have been more fleeting. A second or a moment or a minute amid the rush. Looking back on my own childhood, I suppose my parents must have experience something similar and we lived under the same roof for 18 years. Life can't be all splender and bliss.
But when you aren't there for so many moments, large or small, you spend a lot of time wondering what you've missed and missing imagined wonders.
But that day, that Saturday two Saturdays ago, was one of the special days. Not because of any single big thing, but hours upon hours of little ones. And because of that brown-eyed girl with curls and a smile as warm as the May sun.
Technorati tags: Absentee father
Parenthood
Daughter
Oregon Coast
Beachcombing
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Can I sleep while you drive?
I should be sleeping right now.
It's been a busy weekend and I'm exhausted. I should be in bed. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in so long, I'm losing track. The reason I haven't been sleeping is, well, I'm not sure, other than I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And the reason I'm not sleeping now is that I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and a load of clothes in the drier.
I don't know where to begin, so I'll begin with how the day has ended. A short while ago I sat on the couch, watching the end of "Grey's Anatomy" with tears streaming down my face. I'm tempted to say I'm not sure why I was crying, but that's a lie. There were a couple of story lines on the show dealing with parenthood and they got to me. In one a mother, dying of cancer, struggles with what to tell or not tell her daughter about her illness and about life. Those little things that parents so want to tell their children. Those nuggets of wisdom that sound so profound in the head but seem to sound so flat when spoken out loud.
That story line got to me because, well, my daughter turned 15 today and I have spent her lifetime trying to figure out what to say to her about so many things, to impart love and wisdom, and fall so flat when we are side by side or face to face.
The other story line is about a man who is the father of Dr. Grey, the title character on the show. The man so wants to reach out to his daughter, but doesn't know how. He left the family when she was young and doesn't know how to rekindle a long dormant relationship.
Fortunately, my daughter and I don't have a dormant relationship. It is certainly much less than I want it to be and is perhaps more than she wants as a teenage girl wanting to fit in and be cool with her friends.
I spend part of Saturday evening with my daughter and her family at a birthday party for her. I relish any time with her, like a dog begging for scraps. I find myself watching her, staring at her, trying to absorb the essence of who and what she is as a young woman. When I left there was a sense of emptiness. It's a feeling I've come to know well over the years, but never get used to. The visits are shorter now in duration but more frequent than they used to be. So that emptiness, the goodbye vacuum, is a much more frequent part of my life. And yet, not frequent enough. And I feel guilty for feeling sad after visits with her. I should be happy that I'm part of her life, right? That her family includes me in activities. That when I say I love her she responds in kind, the words not even stumbling in her throat or tripping over her teeth. Those are all good things, right?
It's been a weekend of nostalgia, remembrance and regret, lots of driving and little snatches of time with family and old friends.
Today, I woke up early, after getting home late after my daughter's birthday party, losing an hour's sleep to the time change, and drove nearly 4 hours to attend another gathering for a friend who is about ready to ship off to a war zone. Along the way, I called to wish another friend a happy birthday and learned from the ticker on CNN that a storm was bearing down on my lady friend Brat's hometown, again.
No matter where I was this weekend, I felt out of place. Like I was watching it all as if it was a performance on stage, somehow separate from it all and numb. Not because I felt nothing but because I felt too much and the nerve endings and synapses could no longer process the sensations.
And then, after talking to Brat online after her latest adventure and sitting quietly on the couch, listening to the drier tumble I watch a fictionalized account of other people's lives and the emotion overflowed, spilling out the corners of my eyes, streaming over my cheeks and pouring onto my shirt, like the waterfalls I passed today while driving through the Columbia River Gorge. Some picture postcard that would make.
It was a good day. A good weekend. It was too much and not enough. So many epiphanies on the road, listening to classic rock and seeing one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Seeing and talking to so many people I love and care about and worry about and miss in such a short span of time.
I shouldn't go so long without talking to family, friends and people who are important to me. I shouldn't go so many days without decent sleep. I shouldn't go so many days without writing here. I shouldn't drive 500 miles in a day. I shouldn't listen to so much old music on a trip home.
I really should be sleeping right now.
Parenthood
Insomnia
Family
Friends
Road trip
It's been a busy weekend and I'm exhausted. I should be in bed. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in so long, I'm losing track. The reason I haven't been sleeping is, well, I'm not sure, other than I've had a lot of stuff on my mind. And the reason I'm not sleeping now is that I still have a lot of stuff on my mind, and a load of clothes in the drier.
I don't know where to begin, so I'll begin with how the day has ended. A short while ago I sat on the couch, watching the end of "Grey's Anatomy" with tears streaming down my face. I'm tempted to say I'm not sure why I was crying, but that's a lie. There were a couple of story lines on the show dealing with parenthood and they got to me. In one a mother, dying of cancer, struggles with what to tell or not tell her daughter about her illness and about life. Those little things that parents so want to tell their children. Those nuggets of wisdom that sound so profound in the head but seem to sound so flat when spoken out loud.
That story line got to me because, well, my daughter turned 15 today and I have spent her lifetime trying to figure out what to say to her about so many things, to impart love and wisdom, and fall so flat when we are side by side or face to face.
The other story line is about a man who is the father of Dr. Grey, the title character on the show. The man so wants to reach out to his daughter, but doesn't know how. He left the family when she was young and doesn't know how to rekindle a long dormant relationship.
Fortunately, my daughter and I don't have a dormant relationship. It is certainly much less than I want it to be and is perhaps more than she wants as a teenage girl wanting to fit in and be cool with her friends.
I spend part of Saturday evening with my daughter and her family at a birthday party for her. I relish any time with her, like a dog begging for scraps. I find myself watching her, staring at her, trying to absorb the essence of who and what she is as a young woman. When I left there was a sense of emptiness. It's a feeling I've come to know well over the years, but never get used to. The visits are shorter now in duration but more frequent than they used to be. So that emptiness, the goodbye vacuum, is a much more frequent part of my life. And yet, not frequent enough. And I feel guilty for feeling sad after visits with her. I should be happy that I'm part of her life, right? That her family includes me in activities. That when I say I love her she responds in kind, the words not even stumbling in her throat or tripping over her teeth. Those are all good things, right?
It's been a weekend of nostalgia, remembrance and regret, lots of driving and little snatches of time with family and old friends.
Today, I woke up early, after getting home late after my daughter's birthday party, losing an hour's sleep to the time change, and drove nearly 4 hours to attend another gathering for a friend who is about ready to ship off to a war zone. Along the way, I called to wish another friend a happy birthday and learned from the ticker on CNN that a storm was bearing down on my lady friend Brat's hometown, again.
No matter where I was this weekend, I felt out of place. Like I was watching it all as if it was a performance on stage, somehow separate from it all and numb. Not because I felt nothing but because I felt too much and the nerve endings and synapses could no longer process the sensations.
And then, after talking to Brat online after her latest adventure and sitting quietly on the couch, listening to the drier tumble I watch a fictionalized account of other people's lives and the emotion overflowed, spilling out the corners of my eyes, streaming over my cheeks and pouring onto my shirt, like the waterfalls I passed today while driving through the Columbia River Gorge. Some picture postcard that would make.
It was a good day. A good weekend. It was too much and not enough. So many epiphanies on the road, listening to classic rock and seeing one of the most beautiful corners of the world. Seeing and talking to so many people I love and care about and worry about and miss in such a short span of time.
I shouldn't go so long without talking to family, friends and people who are important to me. I shouldn't go so many days without decent sleep. I shouldn't go so many days without writing here. I shouldn't drive 500 miles in a day. I shouldn't listen to so much old music on a trip home.
I really should be sleeping right now.
Parenthood
Insomnia
Family
Friends
Road trip
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Throwing cold water on wet T-shirts
Yesterday morning the "Today" show was teasing a story about the things young women in college and high school are doing on their spring vacations. I had to leave for work, so I didn't get to see the whole segment, but they were talking about things like spring breakers having multiple sex partners, drinking and drug use.
My reaction to the segment, or what I saw of it anyway, caught me by surprise.
Ordinarily, I would expect myself to want to see such a segment for the titillation factor. As an unmarried man, I've been known to want to see the sights and sounds of girls going wild and wondering why I never made a classic spring break trip myself back in my college days to see if women really do the kinds of things you hear about on those late-night infomercials.
But that wasn't my reaction to the segment at all. My reaction was: How the hell do I prevent my daughter from ever taking one of those spring break trips?
I realize that my daughter, who will soon be turning 15, will do some things that I might not be able to prevent her from doing, some of the very things I myself did in high school and college. I would certainly not make anyone's list of wildest youths, but I certainly did some thing in my teens and early 20s that I don't relish my daughter trying: drinking, smoking, sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll. OK, so she can do the rock 'n' roll, as long as the lyrics are clean. Why is it on most of the filthiest songs, most of the lyrics are unintelligible to anyone over the age of 25, but the singers enunciate quite clearly when they say "fuck" and other terms of profanity?
But I digress.
I guess I just want to protect my not-so-little girl, but realize as an absentee parent that I can't be there nearly enough to help her make good choice or deflect the pain that may come her way from such youthful experimentation. And the reality is that I won't be the first call she makes if she finds herself in trouble. Odds are slim I'll even be able to be there to hold her when she gets her heart broken, or suffers some other indignity or indiscretion, to be able to hold her and tell her that things will be OK and that love her, no matter what.
Of course I wouldn't mind having someone do that for me right now either. Now that I've realized that my primal motivation has shifted from fantasizing about seeing a wet T-shirt contest to living in terror that my daughter would ever be at, or in, one.
Parenthood
Spring Break
Aging
My reaction to the segment, or what I saw of it anyway, caught me by surprise.
Ordinarily, I would expect myself to want to see such a segment for the titillation factor. As an unmarried man, I've been known to want to see the sights and sounds of girls going wild and wondering why I never made a classic spring break trip myself back in my college days to see if women really do the kinds of things you hear about on those late-night infomercials.
But that wasn't my reaction to the segment at all. My reaction was: How the hell do I prevent my daughter from ever taking one of those spring break trips?
I realize that my daughter, who will soon be turning 15, will do some things that I might not be able to prevent her from doing, some of the very things I myself did in high school and college. I would certainly not make anyone's list of wildest youths, but I certainly did some thing in my teens and early 20s that I don't relish my daughter trying: drinking, smoking, sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll. OK, so she can do the rock 'n' roll, as long as the lyrics are clean. Why is it on most of the filthiest songs, most of the lyrics are unintelligible to anyone over the age of 25, but the singers enunciate quite clearly when they say "fuck" and other terms of profanity?
But I digress.
I guess I just want to protect my not-so-little girl, but realize as an absentee parent that I can't be there nearly enough to help her make good choice or deflect the pain that may come her way from such youthful experimentation. And the reality is that I won't be the first call she makes if she finds herself in trouble. Odds are slim I'll even be able to be there to hold her when she gets her heart broken, or suffers some other indignity or indiscretion, to be able to hold her and tell her that things will be OK and that love her, no matter what.
Of course I wouldn't mind having someone do that for me right now either. Now that I've realized that my primal motivation has shifted from fantasizing about seeing a wet T-shirt contest to living in terror that my daughter would ever be at, or in, one.
Parenthood
Spring Break
Aging
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
What matters
I was chatting online with my friend Gene the other night. He asked me a question, which I haven't been able to get out of my head. He asked, and I won't say this is a direct quote, but he asked me: When are you going to write something that will matter to your daughter in 30 years?
Gene is a dear friend, one whom I respect and admire in no small part because of his ability to cut through the bullshit and say what's on his mind. His candor is refreshing and I've often smiled at the things he has said to others in conversation. I love seeing him call others on their bullshit.
I didn't, however, relish the experience too much myself.
Oh, Gene is right of course. I've stretched out inconsequential posts about the weather and electronic toys well beyond the point where anyone should give half a damn about anything posted here. Lord knows I haven't cared much myself, as perhaps has become evident by the infrequent posts.
I haven't been reading many blogs lately either, but in the last couple of days I've tripped over a couple of posts that left me saying to myself, "Wow, why didn't I do that (or at least something like it)?"
Gene has a couple of posts on his site comparing homophobia and misogyny, which seems like a worthy topic to explore in some depth. Why is our culture so willing -- eager even -- to put women and homosexuals down? Why is that the easy joke at the cocktail party to poke fun at the feminine or effeminate?
3T has a recent serious of posts on her site that also left me slack-jawed. She had a four-part post, to which her husband has added a postscript, detailing a difficult time in their relationship. It was full of raw emotion and poetic descriptions of the pain people who love each other can inflict on each other and the forgiveness and hope that seems to only follow for a rare few. Many people would flee that kind of anguish rather than using it as an obstacle to overcome together.
Pretty courageous stuff.
And I'm ashamed that I've spent so much of the last few months trying to hide in the public light of the World Wide Web. Instead of trying to use this space to some purpose, I leave it here untended while I sob quietly into a can of cheap beer over my own failures as a romantic partner and as a parent and whatever else the whine de jour may be.
So when will I write something that will matter to my daughter in 30 years? Well, I certainly never started this blog with the intention of my daughter reading it now or ever and that hasn't changed.. But the truth is I've spent nearly 15 years trying to figure out how to say or write something for my daughter that would help her understand why I had missed so much of her childhood.
How to you explain unconditional love to a young woman, your child, who was responsible for teaching you what it meant in the first place? This she did by the simple miracle of coming into this world and being there to be loved.
And the simple fact is I'm just not there enough to tell her or to show her.
Blogging
Relationship
Parenthood
Love
Gene is a dear friend, one whom I respect and admire in no small part because of his ability to cut through the bullshit and say what's on his mind. His candor is refreshing and I've often smiled at the things he has said to others in conversation. I love seeing him call others on their bullshit.
I didn't, however, relish the experience too much myself.
Oh, Gene is right of course. I've stretched out inconsequential posts about the weather and electronic toys well beyond the point where anyone should give half a damn about anything posted here. Lord knows I haven't cared much myself, as perhaps has become evident by the infrequent posts.
I haven't been reading many blogs lately either, but in the last couple of days I've tripped over a couple of posts that left me saying to myself, "Wow, why didn't I do that (or at least something like it)?"
Gene has a couple of posts on his site comparing homophobia and misogyny, which seems like a worthy topic to explore in some depth. Why is our culture so willing -- eager even -- to put women and homosexuals down? Why is that the easy joke at the cocktail party to poke fun at the feminine or effeminate?
3T has a recent serious of posts on her site that also left me slack-jawed. She had a four-part post, to which her husband has added a postscript, detailing a difficult time in their relationship. It was full of raw emotion and poetic descriptions of the pain people who love each other can inflict on each other and the forgiveness and hope that seems to only follow for a rare few. Many people would flee that kind of anguish rather than using it as an obstacle to overcome together.
Pretty courageous stuff.
And I'm ashamed that I've spent so much of the last few months trying to hide in the public light of the World Wide Web. Instead of trying to use this space to some purpose, I leave it here untended while I sob quietly into a can of cheap beer over my own failures as a romantic partner and as a parent and whatever else the whine de jour may be.
So when will I write something that will matter to my daughter in 30 years? Well, I certainly never started this blog with the intention of my daughter reading it now or ever and that hasn't changed.. But the truth is I've spent nearly 15 years trying to figure out how to say or write something for my daughter that would help her understand why I had missed so much of her childhood.
How to you explain unconditional love to a young woman, your child, who was responsible for teaching you what it meant in the first place? This she did by the simple miracle of coming into this world and being there to be loved.
And the simple fact is I'm just not there enough to tell her or to show her.
Blogging
Relationship
Parenthood
Love
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Follow up to parenting by MSN Messenger
My daughter changed her quote.
I don't know if it was my influence or not, but today, when she logged on when I was online, her MSN Messenger quote had been changed. It was still a line from a lyric, or appears to be based on my online research, but it's not the Tenacious D song about a threesome with a reference to fucking to '70s music.
The new line appears to be out of a song called "Such Great Heights". My guess is my daughter is familiar with the cover version by Iron & Wine off the "Garden State" movie soundtrack, not the original by Postal Service. I'm not sure I could tell you which is which, although I have seen "Garden State" and actually bought the DVD of that movie that is now somewhere in my daughter's house.
Anyway, she changed the quote. And when we chatted online today I didn't mention the quote at all and made no reference to our conversation last night. And she talked, or typed, back. We had a nice little chat. And when I said I loved her she said she loved me too. So, maybe I'm not the highest ranking member of the shit list after all.
Parenthood
MSN Messenger
I don't know if it was my influence or not, but today, when she logged on when I was online, her MSN Messenger quote had been changed. It was still a line from a lyric, or appears to be based on my online research, but it's not the Tenacious D song about a threesome with a reference to fucking to '70s music.
The new line appears to be out of a song called "Such Great Heights". My guess is my daughter is familiar with the cover version by Iron & Wine off the "Garden State" movie soundtrack, not the original by Postal Service. I'm not sure I could tell you which is which, although I have seen "Garden State" and actually bought the DVD of that movie that is now somewhere in my daughter's house.
Anyway, she changed the quote. And when we chatted online today I didn't mention the quote at all and made no reference to our conversation last night. And she talked, or typed, back. We had a nice little chat. And when I said I loved her she said she loved me too. So, maybe I'm not the highest ranking member of the shit list after all.
Parenthood
MSN Messenger
Parenting by MSN Messenger
I spent the day with my daughter and her family on Saturday. Well, I should say part of the day. The part of the day we spent at my daughter's mom's house, my daughter spend in her room. Not exactly the picture of family togetherness.
It's getting harder and harder to have much quality time, even though I'm now living closer and getting to spend more frequent time with her.
I got copies of her new school pictures, which is great. Unfortunately, picture day was about a week before she got her braces off. And she's had her hair highlighted, so she already looks different than her freshman year photo.
It was a nice day. The family took me out to lunch and made me dinner for my birthday, which was nice. And I got to see my new niece for a little while and her big sister, so that was nice too, even though I missed my older niece's soccer game. So I'm going to try to go up and see her last game of the season next week.
The rest of the day we spent just doing ordinary family stuff. I help my daughter's mom and her partner build the computer desk we bought back in the spring and which has been sitting in its box for months.
When I got back home a little while ago I logged on to find my daughter, where she was when I left, online and sitting at the computer. MSN Messenger allows you to add a personal quote to your screen name. My daughter changes hers quite often. She had a new one tonight. It reads:
"Put on a cool '70s groove, a funky groove to fuck to."
My daughter is 14.
I was not amused. So I asked her about it.
Apparently she was amused, because she answered me back with an "lol".
She informed me the quote was from a Tenacious D song. I, being tragically unhip, do not have any Tenacious D in my musical library.
I told her I didn't think it was funny and I think it may give guys some bad ideas.
There was no response.
I told her I just wanted to let her know I made it home (not that she was losing any sleep about it). "And please consider changing the quote."
No response.
So I said I loved her and I would talk to later.
Still no response.
So I said goodbye and waited.
Still no response.
So I logged off.
I keep in contact with some friends and family by IM programs. But it feels pretty damn inadequate to try to be a parent over MSN Messenger.
Oh, and in case your curious, the Tenacious D song is apparently called "Double Team", and yea it's pretty much about what the title would lead you to think.
Look, I'm far from a prude. But I am scared shitless about my daughter trying to be "cool" and ending up doing something she's not ready for with a boy, or boys. Lord knows, I will probably never be ready for her to have an active sex life, but 14 is much too young. And not that listening to songs about sex means she's doing any such thing. Lord knows at 14 I was probably saying things and listening to things that would have shocked my parents. But I just don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be a parent of a teenage daugher. I don't know if it's appropriate to try to act like a parent when I have been not much more than a sperm donor and a periodic visitor for her entire short life.
But I didn't move back here just to share sunny days at the park with her. I came back to be here for her, in good times and bad. Does that mean I'm merely a silent observer and walking ATM machine?
I don't know.
It's getting harder and harder to have much quality time, even though I'm now living closer and getting to spend more frequent time with her.
I got copies of her new school pictures, which is great. Unfortunately, picture day was about a week before she got her braces off. And she's had her hair highlighted, so she already looks different than her freshman year photo.
It was a nice day. The family took me out to lunch and made me dinner for my birthday, which was nice. And I got to see my new niece for a little while and her big sister, so that was nice too, even though I missed my older niece's soccer game. So I'm going to try to go up and see her last game of the season next week.
The rest of the day we spent just doing ordinary family stuff. I help my daughter's mom and her partner build the computer desk we bought back in the spring and which has been sitting in its box for months.
When I got back home a little while ago I logged on to find my daughter, where she was when I left, online and sitting at the computer. MSN Messenger allows you to add a personal quote to your screen name. My daughter changes hers quite often. She had a new one tonight. It reads:
"Put on a cool '70s groove, a funky groove to fuck to."
My daughter is 14.
I was not amused. So I asked her about it.
Apparently she was amused, because she answered me back with an "lol".
She informed me the quote was from a Tenacious D song. I, being tragically unhip, do not have any Tenacious D in my musical library.
I told her I didn't think it was funny and I think it may give guys some bad ideas.
There was no response.
I told her I just wanted to let her know I made it home (not that she was losing any sleep about it). "And please consider changing the quote."
No response.
So I said I loved her and I would talk to later.
Still no response.
So I said goodbye and waited.
Still no response.
So I logged off.
I keep in contact with some friends and family by IM programs. But it feels pretty damn inadequate to try to be a parent over MSN Messenger.
Oh, and in case your curious, the Tenacious D song is apparently called "Double Team", and yea it's pretty much about what the title would lead you to think.
Look, I'm far from a prude. But I am scared shitless about my daughter trying to be "cool" and ending up doing something she's not ready for with a boy, or boys. Lord knows, I will probably never be ready for her to have an active sex life, but 14 is much too young. And not that listening to songs about sex means she's doing any such thing. Lord knows at 14 I was probably saying things and listening to things that would have shocked my parents. But I just don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be a parent of a teenage daugher. I don't know if it's appropriate to try to act like a parent when I have been not much more than a sperm donor and a periodic visitor for her entire short life.
But I didn't move back here just to share sunny days at the park with her. I came back to be here for her, in good times and bad. Does that mean I'm merely a silent observer and walking ATM machine?
I don't know.
So, all you parents out there, what should I have done? And what should I do?
Parenthood
MSN Messenger
Family
Monday, October 10, 2005
The things you miss
It's amazing how little things show you how many big things you miss.
The first time I started seeing my daughter as a young woman rather than a little girl was when I saw a photograph her grandmother sent to me after my daughter's young nephew was born a couple of years ago. He was just a few days after my daughter's 12th birthday. It hadn't been too terribly long since I had seen my daughter, but the young woman I saw holding her newborn nephew wasn't the girl I had seen just before Christmas.
Staring back from the photograph was a young woman in braces.
Last night I had dinner with my daughter, her mom and her mom's partner. And the first thing I noticed when we met outside the restaurant were that my daughter's braces were gone.
In just a few short weeks since I had seen her, her appearance had changed again. I asked her over dinner when she got the braces off.
"It was like a month ago," she said, like it was already old news and not worthy of mentioning anymore.
A month ago? Has it been a month since I've seen my daughter? I live 50 miles away for Christ sake. I moved here so I would be here for stuff, see her more often. Has it really been that long since I've seen her?
I was trying to do the math in my head. It wasn't quite a month since I'd seen her, but pretty close. Between my weekend schedule and theirs we just hadn't been together in a few weeks. We've chatted online, but no face-to-face time.
A lot of the dinner conversation focused on my daughter's school, which her mother is not a fan of. She is back in a public school this year after two years in a private school. Her mom wants to send her to a private high school now, at least beginning next year, if not at midyear. I'm certainly supportive of the idea of sending her to a private high school, but the money certainly gives me pause. The one they are looking at costs $8,000 a year, or $800 a month spread out over 10 months, plus books and other miscellaneous expenses. I pay less than $800 a month for rent, electricity and cable.
Not that you can really put a price tag on your child's education or safety, and not that I would have to pay the entire bill, but that's still a big chunk of cash. I might have to get rid of cable, Internet, cell phone and hope my 10-year-old truck will hold out a few more years and need no major repairs.
That and it would be nice if my daughter and her family actually came to see where I live sometime before I have to downsize my apartment. So much for dreams of buying a house.
Well, unless that lottery win comes through. No one won Saturday, so Wednesday's drawing will be an insane $240 million or something like that.
That would certainly help cover private school costs. Can't pay for missing milestones like braces going on or coming off, seeing your daughter go off to her first high school homecoming dance (which she did Saturday night).
Little things add up. And big things pile on.
Parenthood
The first time I started seeing my daughter as a young woman rather than a little girl was when I saw a photograph her grandmother sent to me after my daughter's young nephew was born a couple of years ago. He was just a few days after my daughter's 12th birthday. It hadn't been too terribly long since I had seen my daughter, but the young woman I saw holding her newborn nephew wasn't the girl I had seen just before Christmas.
Staring back from the photograph was a young woman in braces.
Last night I had dinner with my daughter, her mom and her mom's partner. And the first thing I noticed when we met outside the restaurant were that my daughter's braces were gone.
In just a few short weeks since I had seen her, her appearance had changed again. I asked her over dinner when she got the braces off.
"It was like a month ago," she said, like it was already old news and not worthy of mentioning anymore.
A month ago? Has it been a month since I've seen my daughter? I live 50 miles away for Christ sake. I moved here so I would be here for stuff, see her more often. Has it really been that long since I've seen her?
I was trying to do the math in my head. It wasn't quite a month since I'd seen her, but pretty close. Between my weekend schedule and theirs we just hadn't been together in a few weeks. We've chatted online, but no face-to-face time.
A lot of the dinner conversation focused on my daughter's school, which her mother is not a fan of. She is back in a public school this year after two years in a private school. Her mom wants to send her to a private high school now, at least beginning next year, if not at midyear. I'm certainly supportive of the idea of sending her to a private high school, but the money certainly gives me pause. The one they are looking at costs $8,000 a year, or $800 a month spread out over 10 months, plus books and other miscellaneous expenses. I pay less than $800 a month for rent, electricity and cable.
Not that you can really put a price tag on your child's education or safety, and not that I would have to pay the entire bill, but that's still a big chunk of cash. I might have to get rid of cable, Internet, cell phone and hope my 10-year-old truck will hold out a few more years and need no major repairs.
That and it would be nice if my daughter and her family actually came to see where I live sometime before I have to downsize my apartment. So much for dreams of buying a house.
Well, unless that lottery win comes through. No one won Saturday, so Wednesday's drawing will be an insane $240 million or something like that.
That would certainly help cover private school costs. Can't pay for missing milestones like braces going on or coming off, seeing your daughter go off to her first high school homecoming dance (which she did Saturday night).
Little things add up. And big things pile on.
Parenthood
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
The right to remain seated
I attended my daughter's eighth-grade graduation this evening with several members of her family. I was very proud. My little girl will start high school in the fall. Pretty amazing.
At one point in the program they asked the parents of several of the students who are the last in particular families to graduate from this private school, or those who were the parents of only children. My daughter was one of those mentioned. I didn't stand up though. It didn't feel right for me to do so. Not that she would have seen from where she was sitting. And maybe none of the rest of the family would have thought anything about it, but they also didn't suggest I stand either. I just didn't feel like I'd quite earned that honor of recognition. It may be one of those moments that nags at me for years to come, but I just sat there, feeling a bit out of place, like I was in limbo or in another dimension of parenthood that isn't quite recognized here in this plane of reality.
I'm just glad I was able to be there for her and support her on her special day. Afterward we went out for a celebratory family dinner.
On the moving front, I finally got clearance on the criminal background check for the apartment complex I applied to live in earlier this week. I guess my criminal past is acceptable enough for them to take my money every month. So, Thursday I will go give them a check and pick up my key and start the arduous process of getting my stuff back out of storage and into my new place. Hopefully, by the end of the weekend I will be settled enough to at least pretend I have a life again. Whether I will have Internet access or cable TV remains to be seen. And who can live without those necessities in the modern world?
Milestones
Parenthood
Moving
At one point in the program they asked the parents of several of the students who are the last in particular families to graduate from this private school, or those who were the parents of only children. My daughter was one of those mentioned. I didn't stand up though. It didn't feel right for me to do so. Not that she would have seen from where she was sitting. And maybe none of the rest of the family would have thought anything about it, but they also didn't suggest I stand either. I just didn't feel like I'd quite earned that honor of recognition. It may be one of those moments that nags at me for years to come, but I just sat there, feeling a bit out of place, like I was in limbo or in another dimension of parenthood that isn't quite recognized here in this plane of reality.
I'm just glad I was able to be there for her and support her on her special day. Afterward we went out for a celebratory family dinner.
On the moving front, I finally got clearance on the criminal background check for the apartment complex I applied to live in earlier this week. I guess my criminal past is acceptable enough for them to take my money every month. So, Thursday I will go give them a check and pick up my key and start the arduous process of getting my stuff back out of storage and into my new place. Hopefully, by the end of the weekend I will be settled enough to at least pretend I have a life again. Whether I will have Internet access or cable TV remains to be seen. And who can live without those necessities in the modern world?
Milestones
Parenthood
Moving
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Good Friday? Says who?
I guess I never paid enough attention in Sunday school when I was a kid. Why would Christians refer to the day their messiah was executed as Good Friday? That just doesn't seem to make much sense.
This Friday I shall dub Odd Friday. It was just an odd day. My daughter and I went to the video store to return some DVDs rented a couple of days ago when one of her friends spent the night. On the way back to my daughter's house, we got into a very odd conversation. At least it seemed odd for me, as an absentee father, to be having this chat with my not yet 14 year-old female daughter.
First let me preface this by saying this was a follow-up to a something that happened the night before. My daughter was chatting online and her mother watched in to the room where the computer was. The word blowjob was on the screen, and her mother, appropriately I thought, put an end to her chat session and may prohibit her from chatting for some as yet undefined period of time. Now, this word was in the message sent to my daughter, not in the message she sent out. But still, it is a bit inflammatory to see a word like that on a young teenage girl's IM message.
So, Friday my daughter brought up how her mom was "pissed" at her and didn't want to push her luck by asking to hang out with a guy friend on Friday. So I asked, "You understand why your mother was so pissed don't you?" To which daughter replied, in a typically defensive teen manner: "I didn't do anything wrong."
OK, I was a master at the I didn't do anything wrong, so I didn't let the conversation end there. Secondly, that was not an answer to my question. But the stunner to me was, in the ongoing conversation the word blowjob came out of my daughter's mouth, not once, but twice.
Perhaps this was so unsettling to me because I never talked about blowjobs with either of my parents, an I lived with them full time until I went to college. That word never came up in conversation in our home. It was a typical Midwest family upbringing (or what I imagine as such, and I am certain that other people experienced the same thing). We never talked about sex. We never had "the talk." I somehow managed to lose my virginity, and get a woman pregnant by the time I was 26 due to the instruction imparted in locker rooms, school buses, adult magazines and some one-on-one lab experimentation that started in college under the apprenticeship of some more experienced female instructors.
Anyway, I don't know if I accomplished anything in the conversation with my daughter. I was trying to tell her that she needs to be able to talk to her mother about stuff like that. I am pretty sure my point was entirely missed because of the defensive wall daughter threw up. And I was doing what I could to not walk away from a touch conversation if for no other reason than to show that I don't just come to town to take her shopping. Being involved means more than being a credit card. But all I probably accomplished was pissing her off. When I left the house that afternoon, I ended up saying goodbye to her through a closed bedroom door. There was no response from the other side. Her mother's words of wisdom to me when that happened was "She's 13."
Yes, she is.
So, I left Portland and headed east several hours to the place where my parents, brothers and grandmother live. To the house where I grew up. In the land of tumbleweeds, farm fields and country living, otherwise known as dial-up Internet computing hell. The oddities continued there. OK, so I have been in the state for several days and am just now getting to my parents' house, but there was no big reception waiting for me. No small one either for that matter, even though I had called and gave them 3 hours notice that I was on the road and on my way.
When I got here, the only person around was my mom. She didn't even get out of her chair when I walked in. Dad, who is fighting a cold and is still recuperating from knee surgery was in bed, as was my grandmother. And who wouldn't be in bed at 5:30 in the afternoon. Grandmother finally came out about 8, and then went back to bed about a half hour later. Dad emerged briefly at one point in his underwear (not an attractive sight) and then went back to bed. He reemerged about 9:30 or so, for less than an hour. Both brothers showed up, one obviously tipsy but trying not to let it show, and he passed out early. And the other brother, the one who I rarely see when I'm home anyway, headed back to town.
The funny thing is, I don't expect much from my family. We are not good conversationalists together (unless you count verbal disagreements) and we aren't touchy-feely emotional with one another either. I've been trying to learn to cast off that upbringing, that part of my nature forced in that family furnace for all of my daughter's life. I find I have to make an effort to tell her I love her. I have to work at conversation with her. And fortunately, her family is very expressive. They are huggy people. I was once very uncomfortable with that, but I've grown to appreciate it and even like it. I also was fortunate to have a relationship not too long ago with a woman who was also very outgoing like that, and I worked diligently at expressing my emotions with hugs and words in that relationship, which has helped with my daughter. All those years of work, however, have done little if anything for the relations with my own family. I don't doubt that we love each other, but we do not express. And sometimes, in spite of the love, we don't like each other very much.
So, it was definitely an Odd Friday. I'll spend much of Saturday here in rural Oregon, with my family, then return to Portland to spend the last remaining hours of my time in the state with my daughter before returning to California on Sunday.
As is often the case, it has been a rather bittersweet visit. Perhaps this whole bachelor living thing isn't so bad after all.
Family
Parenthood
Travel
Religion
This Friday I shall dub Odd Friday. It was just an odd day. My daughter and I went to the video store to return some DVDs rented a couple of days ago when one of her friends spent the night. On the way back to my daughter's house, we got into a very odd conversation. At least it seemed odd for me, as an absentee father, to be having this chat with my not yet 14 year-old female daughter.
First let me preface this by saying this was a follow-up to a something that happened the night before. My daughter was chatting online and her mother watched in to the room where the computer was. The word blowjob was on the screen, and her mother, appropriately I thought, put an end to her chat session and may prohibit her from chatting for some as yet undefined period of time. Now, this word was in the message sent to my daughter, not in the message she sent out. But still, it is a bit inflammatory to see a word like that on a young teenage girl's IM message.
So, Friday my daughter brought up how her mom was "pissed" at her and didn't want to push her luck by asking to hang out with a guy friend on Friday. So I asked, "You understand why your mother was so pissed don't you?" To which daughter replied, in a typically defensive teen manner: "I didn't do anything wrong."
OK, I was a master at the I didn't do anything wrong, so I didn't let the conversation end there. Secondly, that was not an answer to my question. But the stunner to me was, in the ongoing conversation the word blowjob came out of my daughter's mouth, not once, but twice.
Perhaps this was so unsettling to me because I never talked about blowjobs with either of my parents, an I lived with them full time until I went to college. That word never came up in conversation in our home. It was a typical Midwest family upbringing (or what I imagine as such, and I am certain that other people experienced the same thing). We never talked about sex. We never had "the talk." I somehow managed to lose my virginity, and get a woman pregnant by the time I was 26 due to the instruction imparted in locker rooms, school buses, adult magazines and some one-on-one lab experimentation that started in college under the apprenticeship of some more experienced female instructors.
Anyway, I don't know if I accomplished anything in the conversation with my daughter. I was trying to tell her that she needs to be able to talk to her mother about stuff like that. I am pretty sure my point was entirely missed because of the defensive wall daughter threw up. And I was doing what I could to not walk away from a touch conversation if for no other reason than to show that I don't just come to town to take her shopping. Being involved means more than being a credit card. But all I probably accomplished was pissing her off. When I left the house that afternoon, I ended up saying goodbye to her through a closed bedroom door. There was no response from the other side. Her mother's words of wisdom to me when that happened was "She's 13."
Yes, she is.
So, I left Portland and headed east several hours to the place where my parents, brothers and grandmother live. To the house where I grew up. In the land of tumbleweeds, farm fields and country living, otherwise known as dial-up Internet computing hell. The oddities continued there. OK, so I have been in the state for several days and am just now getting to my parents' house, but there was no big reception waiting for me. No small one either for that matter, even though I had called and gave them 3 hours notice that I was on the road and on my way.
When I got here, the only person around was my mom. She didn't even get out of her chair when I walked in. Dad, who is fighting a cold and is still recuperating from knee surgery was in bed, as was my grandmother. And who wouldn't be in bed at 5:30 in the afternoon. Grandmother finally came out about 8, and then went back to bed about a half hour later. Dad emerged briefly at one point in his underwear (not an attractive sight) and then went back to bed. He reemerged about 9:30 or so, for less than an hour. Both brothers showed up, one obviously tipsy but trying not to let it show, and he passed out early. And the other brother, the one who I rarely see when I'm home anyway, headed back to town.
The funny thing is, I don't expect much from my family. We are not good conversationalists together (unless you count verbal disagreements) and we aren't touchy-feely emotional with one another either. I've been trying to learn to cast off that upbringing, that part of my nature forced in that family furnace for all of my daughter's life. I find I have to make an effort to tell her I love her. I have to work at conversation with her. And fortunately, her family is very expressive. They are huggy people. I was once very uncomfortable with that, but I've grown to appreciate it and even like it. I also was fortunate to have a relationship not too long ago with a woman who was also very outgoing like that, and I worked diligently at expressing my emotions with hugs and words in that relationship, which has helped with my daughter. All those years of work, however, have done little if anything for the relations with my own family. I don't doubt that we love each other, but we do not express. And sometimes, in spite of the love, we don't like each other very much.
So, it was definitely an Odd Friday. I'll spend much of Saturday here in rural Oregon, with my family, then return to Portland to spend the last remaining hours of my time in the state with my daughter before returning to California on Sunday.
As is often the case, it has been a rather bittersweet visit. Perhaps this whole bachelor living thing isn't so bad after all.
Family
Parenthood
Travel
Religion
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Back from the Emerald City
We're back in Portland after a little more than two days in Seattle. I swear we walked all over downtown Seattle, and if that wasn't enough, we also hiked all over Westfield Shoppingtown Southcenter in Tukwila and then all through Ikea in Renton. I've never been to an Ikea store before. My feet, and my credit card, are killing me.
I bought two things for myself, a new pair of sneakers and one of those LiveStrong/Lance Armstrong cancer support bracelets. Most of the money went to supplement my daughter's wardrobe. It's all stuff she needed, and I was certainly happy and proud to do it. But the best part for me was getting to spend so much time with her. I can't believe she will be 14 here in a couple of weeks. So many special, small moments. I loved it. But the highlight may have been when I learned that she had been telling her friends that her "biological father" was coming to visit. That seems so huge to me, I'm not sure if I can explain why satisfactorily.
I have always been around throughout my daughter's life. I saw her the first time in the hospital the day she was born. But we have never lived under the same roof. Her family has know the whole story from the beginning, as has mine. But she has always known another man as dad. She has only known that I am her biological father for about 4 years now. I've met several of her friends over the years, but I had never know what she had told them about who I am when I came to visit. So, I was thrilled that she now tells, at least her close friends, what relationship we have. That's a big step. But I guess in her life, I'm just another wrinkle. Perhaps it is no harder to explain me than the relationship between her mother and her partner. I'm just one of the many colors of this rainbow family.
I guess Dorothy was right. Visiting the Emerald City is a wonderful experience, but their is no place like home. And home is where the heart -- and the family -- is, no matter how unconventional the family may be. I wouldn't trade my family for the world.
One other note on the day, and it is certainly not the least of things because it has certainly been at the top of my mind today, and that is that a very dear friend went into the hospital this morning for some surgery. I have not yet heard how that has gone, and I suppose I will not rest easy until I do. Sometimes it really sucks to be so far away from those who are important to us. It is an ironic feeling to have that realization now when I am with my daughter, who I ordinarily am so far away from. My thoughts and prayers are with you D.
And so goes life along the Yellow Brick Road.
Family
Travel
Friends
I bought two things for myself, a new pair of sneakers and one of those LiveStrong/Lance Armstrong cancer support bracelets. Most of the money went to supplement my daughter's wardrobe. It's all stuff she needed, and I was certainly happy and proud to do it. But the best part for me was getting to spend so much time with her. I can't believe she will be 14 here in a couple of weeks. So many special, small moments. I loved it. But the highlight may have been when I learned that she had been telling her friends that her "biological father" was coming to visit. That seems so huge to me, I'm not sure if I can explain why satisfactorily.
I have always been around throughout my daughter's life. I saw her the first time in the hospital the day she was born. But we have never lived under the same roof. Her family has know the whole story from the beginning, as has mine. But she has always known another man as dad. She has only known that I am her biological father for about 4 years now. I've met several of her friends over the years, but I had never know what she had told them about who I am when I came to visit. So, I was thrilled that she now tells, at least her close friends, what relationship we have. That's a big step. But I guess in her life, I'm just another wrinkle. Perhaps it is no harder to explain me than the relationship between her mother and her partner. I'm just one of the many colors of this rainbow family.
I guess Dorothy was right. Visiting the Emerald City is a wonderful experience, but their is no place like home. And home is where the heart -- and the family -- is, no matter how unconventional the family may be. I wouldn't trade my family for the world.
One other note on the day, and it is certainly not the least of things because it has certainly been at the top of my mind today, and that is that a very dear friend went into the hospital this morning for some surgery. I have not yet heard how that has gone, and I suppose I will not rest easy until I do. Sometimes it really sucks to be so far away from those who are important to us. It is an ironic feeling to have that realization now when I am with my daughter, who I ordinarily am so far away from. My thoughts and prayers are with you D.
And so goes life along the Yellow Brick Road.
Family
Travel
Friends
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Living in a safer world and a teenager high on Red Bull
In the post 9/11 world, airline passengers practically have to disrobe to get on a commercial airplane anymore. The latest things the federal watchers have banned from possessing in the cabin of an airliner is cigarette lighters. And all sharp objects, like a fingernail file, are expressly forbidden.
So consequently I was surprise and amused several hours ago when flying on an Alaska Airlines MD-80 from Palm Springs to Portland when I saw this little gem in the lavatory of the aircraft. They had a little slot in there marked specifically for the purpose of disposing razor blades.
Maybe it for those panicked folks who realized they had inadvertently gone past the TSA checkpoint with a "weapon" and go into the in-flight john to quell their panic attack. Maybe the slot is an attempt at last-minute amnesty for people who mistakenly violate federal safety procedures.
Or perhaps it is intended for perspective hijackers who get cold feet prior to attempting to take over the plane.
Nervous hijacker: If only there was a way I could back out of this fiendish plan to hijack this plane. But I've gone to all this trouble to smuggle an old-fashion double sided razor blade on board. Which was no small trick. I mean I have to find a pickle just the right size and firmness so when I inserted the blade in there the sharp edges didn't stick out. And then there was the added stress and discomfort of inserting the pickle shank up my rectum. It's not easy to walk with a pickle up the pooper! And then, there was the whole removal process in the can. But, I don't want to hurt these nice people. If only I could get rid of my weapon somehow... Oh, look, a sharps disposal slot for blades. Now, isn't that handy.
So, I went back to my seat in the nearly empty plane and had a little quiet chuckle about the razor disposal slot. But by the time the plane touched down at PDX I was wishing I had a razor blade. I'd rather slit my wrists than go through another landing like that.
Portland, which has shipped all of its rain and storm weather south to Palm Springs most of the winter, was in the midst of a squall. The wind was obviously kicking up pretty good, because that MD-80 was tossed around like a vibrator during multiple orgasms. We were bucking and bouncing and slipping and banging all the way through the final approach.
The passengers seemed to handle it pretty well, but you know the turbulence is bad when you are sitting in the back of the plane and you can see the front of the cabin bouncing and gyrating around.
After we reached the terminal, when everyone was in the rush to hurry up and wait in the aisle, I asked one of the flight attendants one of those stupid "Here's your sign" sort of questions.
Me: So, is it windy here?
Blonde flight attendant: Yea, there's quite a storm out there. It's been like that all day.
Me: I thought that landing seemed a little rougher than normal.
Flight attendant: Yea, it thought I was going to get sick there for a minute.
It does not bode well when your flight attendant admits queasiness on landing.
But, obviously, my fellow passengers and I made it, safe and sound, and fortunately no one left their lunch on the cabin upholstery. Although, I was seriously questioning the wisdom of the two beers I had at the airport bar in Palm Springs. The 11 o'clock news was reporting wind gusts on the nearby Oregon Coast ranging from 50-plus to nearly 80 mph. I think they were all aimed at our plane. But we got here, and life goes on.
After getting to Portland and picking up a rental car, I met up with my daughter's mom, and we went together to pick up our daughter from a party she was attending with some of her friends from school. Apparently that party was designed to end at 10 p.m., because as we got there, a parade of cars started pulling up at the same house. They were sure a punctual bunch of parents, I'll give them that.
Apparently the drink of choice at this party was the energy drink Red Bull. My daughter admitted to having two of them. And a Coke. Apparently caffeine getter her motor revving and she gets quite chatty. I've been told I can be the same way when I've had a few beers. I don't, however, thing those two things are related, nor do I think there is an inherited connection. And I choose not to believe the Red Bull was a chaser for something else. Anyway, the last visit when I was here, I felt light an inquisitor trying to get her to say anything in a complete sentence. Tonight she was rambling on about her boyfriend, and her friends hooking up with each other, and freak dancing at Catholic school dances, and, on and on. And yes, I had to have her define freak dancing, and GOD I hope I never witness her doing such a thing.
I'm not sure which is worse, having a teenage daughter who doesn't talk, or one that tells you about all the drama of 8th grade in a metropolitan city. I guess it is cool that she felt comfortable enough to say those things to me and fill me in on her life, but it was verging on too much information for my aging ticker.
I'm leaning toward the silence is golden thing at the moment.
Flying
Vacation
Teenagers
Parenthood
So consequently I was surprise and amused several hours ago when flying on an Alaska Airlines MD-80 from Palm Springs to Portland when I saw this little gem in the lavatory of the aircraft. They had a little slot in there marked specifically for the purpose of disposing razor blades.
Maybe it for those panicked folks who realized they had inadvertently gone past the TSA checkpoint with a "weapon" and go into the in-flight john to quell their panic attack. Maybe the slot is an attempt at last-minute amnesty for people who mistakenly violate federal safety procedures.
Or perhaps it is intended for perspective hijackers who get cold feet prior to attempting to take over the plane.
Nervous hijacker: If only there was a way I could back out of this fiendish plan to hijack this plane. But I've gone to all this trouble to smuggle an old-fashion double sided razor blade on board. Which was no small trick. I mean I have to find a pickle just the right size and firmness so when I inserted the blade in there the sharp edges didn't stick out. And then there was the added stress and discomfort of inserting the pickle shank up my rectum. It's not easy to walk with a pickle up the pooper! And then, there was the whole removal process in the can. But, I don't want to hurt these nice people. If only I could get rid of my weapon somehow... Oh, look, a sharps disposal slot for blades. Now, isn't that handy.
So, I went back to my seat in the nearly empty plane and had a little quiet chuckle about the razor disposal slot. But by the time the plane touched down at PDX I was wishing I had a razor blade. I'd rather slit my wrists than go through another landing like that.
Portland, which has shipped all of its rain and storm weather south to Palm Springs most of the winter, was in the midst of a squall. The wind was obviously kicking up pretty good, because that MD-80 was tossed around like a vibrator during multiple orgasms. We were bucking and bouncing and slipping and banging all the way through the final approach.
The passengers seemed to handle it pretty well, but you know the turbulence is bad when you are sitting in the back of the plane and you can see the front of the cabin bouncing and gyrating around.
After we reached the terminal, when everyone was in the rush to hurry up and wait in the aisle, I asked one of the flight attendants one of those stupid "Here's your sign" sort of questions.
Me: So, is it windy here?
Blonde flight attendant: Yea, there's quite a storm out there. It's been like that all day.
Me: I thought that landing seemed a little rougher than normal.
Flight attendant: Yea, it thought I was going to get sick there for a minute.
It does not bode well when your flight attendant admits queasiness on landing.
But, obviously, my fellow passengers and I made it, safe and sound, and fortunately no one left their lunch on the cabin upholstery. Although, I was seriously questioning the wisdom of the two beers I had at the airport bar in Palm Springs. The 11 o'clock news was reporting wind gusts on the nearby Oregon Coast ranging from 50-plus to nearly 80 mph. I think they were all aimed at our plane. But we got here, and life goes on.
After getting to Portland and picking up a rental car, I met up with my daughter's mom, and we went together to pick up our daughter from a party she was attending with some of her friends from school. Apparently that party was designed to end at 10 p.m., because as we got there, a parade of cars started pulling up at the same house. They were sure a punctual bunch of parents, I'll give them that.
Apparently the drink of choice at this party was the energy drink Red Bull. My daughter admitted to having two of them. And a Coke. Apparently caffeine getter her motor revving and she gets quite chatty. I've been told I can be the same way when I've had a few beers. I don't, however, thing those two things are related, nor do I think there is an inherited connection. And I choose not to believe the Red Bull was a chaser for something else. Anyway, the last visit when I was here, I felt light an inquisitor trying to get her to say anything in a complete sentence. Tonight she was rambling on about her boyfriend, and her friends hooking up with each other, and freak dancing at Catholic school dances, and, on and on. And yes, I had to have her define freak dancing, and GOD I hope I never witness her doing such a thing.
I'm not sure which is worse, having a teenage daughter who doesn't talk, or one that tells you about all the drama of 8th grade in a metropolitan city. I guess it is cool that she felt comfortable enough to say those things to me and fill me in on her life, but it was verging on too much information for my aging ticker.
I'm leaning toward the silence is golden thing at the moment.
Flying
Vacation
Teenagers
Parenthood
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Go to your room
I was in Oregon over the weekend. It was a quick trip, but I got to see my daughter while I was there.
Well, sort of.
Mostly I got to see the outside of her closed bedroom door.
She has definitely become a teenager. And I'm not too fond of it.
Oh, I understand. I spent 1978 through the summer of 1984 either in my bedroom, or anywhere my motorcycle -- or later a car -- would take me that was were my parents or brothers weren't. I had a lock on my door, austensibly to keep my younger brothers out. But it offered a little valuable warning if a parent was at the door so I could stash the Robin Williams tape (of which mom would never have approved) or the Playboy and Penthouse magazines I liberated from the dump down by the creek (over which mom would have had a heart attack).
God forbid my daughter has a porn stash. I definitely would have a heart attack, especially if it's better than mine.
I just wanted to spend a little quality time, ya know? Damn it, I came all the way from California to see her! Spend time with her! I hadn't seen her since December. I may not see her again until March.
She was not touched or impressed.
Just when kids start to get interesting and you can actually have a conversation with them, they quit talking. Well, not really. They talk to seemingly everyone else -- on the phone, online -- but not to a parental unit WHO TRAVELED ALL THE WAY FROM CALIFORNIA!
I think I owe my parents an apology. And no one should have a porn stash until they are at least 18.
Check that. My daughter will be 18 in just over 4 years.
Let's make that 21. And let's hope I'm in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's by then. And if she ever bring up cock rings, regardless of her age, I will have a stroke.
Lord have mercy.
I think I'm going to go to my room now.
Parenthood
Well, sort of.
Mostly I got to see the outside of her closed bedroom door.
She has definitely become a teenager. And I'm not too fond of it.
Oh, I understand. I spent 1978 through the summer of 1984 either in my bedroom, or anywhere my motorcycle -- or later a car -- would take me that was were my parents or brothers weren't. I had a lock on my door, austensibly to keep my younger brothers out. But it offered a little valuable warning if a parent was at the door so I could stash the Robin Williams tape (of which mom would never have approved) or the Playboy and Penthouse magazines I liberated from the dump down by the creek (over which mom would have had a heart attack).
God forbid my daughter has a porn stash. I definitely would have a heart attack, especially if it's better than mine.
I just wanted to spend a little quality time, ya know? Damn it, I came all the way from California to see her! Spend time with her! I hadn't seen her since December. I may not see her again until March.
She was not touched or impressed.
Just when kids start to get interesting and you can actually have a conversation with them, they quit talking. Well, not really. They talk to seemingly everyone else -- on the phone, online -- but not to a parental unit WHO TRAVELED ALL THE WAY FROM CALIFORNIA!
I think I owe my parents an apology. And no one should have a porn stash until they are at least 18.
Check that. My daughter will be 18 in just over 4 years.
Let's make that 21. And let's hope I'm in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's by then. And if she ever bring up cock rings, regardless of her age, I will have a stroke.
Lord have mercy.
I think I'm going to go to my room now.
Parenthood
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Those can't be real (and this can't be happening)
I think my dad's a tit man.
It took me nearly 40 years to discover this, but I'm pretty sure he goes for the big breasts.
I'm basing this on the fact that he brought up breasts and breast implants twice during a two-day visit to his house over the holidays.
The first "incident" was when we were talking about a woman who graduated from my high school a few years before I did. He told me that there was a rumor (and isn't there always a rumor going around in a small town) that this woman was seen by a schoolmate of hers working at a strip club and that she'd had some "work done."
He went on and on about how this woman, who is the mother of 2 or 3 teenage boys (I think), had "big ol' fake tits" and was dancing for dollars.
I didn't know how to react. Just how do you have a conversation with your father about fake tits? I'm sure some guys do, but I never had those conversations -- or any conversations -- related to anything sexual with either of my parents when I was growing up.
We never had "the talk." I hear some parents do have "the talk" with their kids, but you wouldn't know it from my household. Not that that prevented me from learning about sex. Thank God for Playboy magazine for showing me were the parts and pieces were, and for Penthouse Forum for describing various ways to insert Tab D in to Slot P.
And along the way, a few girlfriends in college expanded on the book learnin' to give me some lab experience as well. Because sex education was not home schoolin' in my family.
I learned enough to get a girlfriend pregnant when I was 25, but not enough to prevent the pregnancy (and not that I regret my daughter for a second, except for now she's a teenager and I know there will soon be boys wanting to book some lab time with her, which absolutely freaks me out). I still remember my mom's words when I broke the news to her that she was going to be a grandmother.
"Shame on you!" she said.
Shame on you? That's it? It was all I could do to keep from busting out laughing, except for the fact that I was stunned beyond belief by her reaction and freaked out about the whole daddy thing.
So, needless to say, I don't have the skills to talk about S-E-X with mom or pop. So, I tried my best to get out of the your-schoolmate-is-a-stripper-with-rubber-titties conversation. Of course, as fate would have it, I saw the alleged stripper the next day at a public function. And I probably don't have to tell you what kept running through my head every time I saw her.
Yep.
I wonder if those are real.
But if that weren't bad enough, the night of my dad's boob-job narrative, the subject came up again.
Dad and I were the last people still awake in the house. I'm a night owl by nature, so that was fine, but I couldn't have gone to sleep if I had wanted to since we were in the living room, which was doubling as my bedroom during the visit. Finally about 2 a.m. or so, dad decides to call it a night, and offers to give me instruction on how to work the remote control for the TV.
My parents have a satellite dish operated by a remote control of some ancient and mysterious technology that is now obsolete. So the remote control apparently can't be replaced. Or so my dad said. It has something to do with using sound waves instead of infrared. I don't know. And of course, the remote is about 15 years old, or more, and has a few buttons missing. So you can only flip through the channels one way. And of course, you have to point the remote at select objects at precise angles or the damn thing doesn't work at all. I half expected him to tell me I had to stand on my head and stick out my tongue just right to make the little sucker work. And changing the dish to point to a different satellite is apparently so complicated that I just shouldn't even go there.
So dad demonstrates.
Apparently because I'm a journalist, he asks me if I want to watch CNN.
No. I'm on vacation. I don't want to watch CNN. And how many more times can I watch the video of the tsunami and its devastation that all broadcast outlets were running? Too depressing.
Next.
So, dad keeps flipping. Along the way, he tells me that I can't watch the Playboy channel because they don't pay for that channel. But he says there are other stations. Then he stops on Showtime or Cinemax. And a movie is just starting. And what should come on the screen by a shot of a blonde woman, topless with double-D (or bigger) breasts. And she's just standing there.
"Those aren't real," dad says. "You can tell because they are too round. Real ones aren't that round."
Thanks dad.
Then he goes on to tell me about some trip he took to a strip club with my cousin somewhere in Northern California. Of course, that's the same cousin who took me to a strip club for the first time, but that was information I didn't plan to share with my dad.
But maybe my cousin had.
Blabbermouth.
Is that why dad kept bringing up tits, strippers and such? I don't know, but I did know I didn't want to have that conversation with my dad.
Isn't that what blogs are for?
So, dad leaves the TV on the T&A channel and shuffles off to bed.
I changed the channel.
Not that I didn't want to see some T&A. But my grandmother was sleeping in the next room for heaven sake! That's all I need is for my 90-year-old grandma to come tottering out in the middle of the night while I'm, um, uh, watching THAT on TV.
I've already heard the "Shame on you" speech once. Don't need that again. And I didn't need to try to figure out how to work the remote to get the soft core porn off the screen while my granny is standing there slack jawed at o-dark-thirty.
I saved my vacation T&A gawking for the strip clubs, thank you very much.
And no, dad wasn't invited.
It took me nearly 40 years to discover this, but I'm pretty sure he goes for the big breasts.
I'm basing this on the fact that he brought up breasts and breast implants twice during a two-day visit to his house over the holidays.
The first "incident" was when we were talking about a woman who graduated from my high school a few years before I did. He told me that there was a rumor (and isn't there always a rumor going around in a small town) that this woman was seen by a schoolmate of hers working at a strip club and that she'd had some "work done."
He went on and on about how this woman, who is the mother of 2 or 3 teenage boys (I think), had "big ol' fake tits" and was dancing for dollars.
I didn't know how to react. Just how do you have a conversation with your father about fake tits? I'm sure some guys do, but I never had those conversations -- or any conversations -- related to anything sexual with either of my parents when I was growing up.
We never had "the talk." I hear some parents do have "the talk" with their kids, but you wouldn't know it from my household. Not that that prevented me from learning about sex. Thank God for Playboy magazine for showing me were the parts and pieces were, and for Penthouse Forum for describing various ways to insert Tab D in to Slot P.
And along the way, a few girlfriends in college expanded on the book learnin' to give me some lab experience as well. Because sex education was not home schoolin' in my family.
I learned enough to get a girlfriend pregnant when I was 25, but not enough to prevent the pregnancy (and not that I regret my daughter for a second, except for now she's a teenager and I know there will soon be boys wanting to book some lab time with her, which absolutely freaks me out). I still remember my mom's words when I broke the news to her that she was going to be a grandmother.
"Shame on you!" she said.
Shame on you? That's it? It was all I could do to keep from busting out laughing, except for the fact that I was stunned beyond belief by her reaction and freaked out about the whole daddy thing.
So, needless to say, I don't have the skills to talk about S-E-X with mom or pop. So, I tried my best to get out of the your-schoolmate-is-a-stripper-with-rubber-titties conversation. Of course, as fate would have it, I saw the alleged stripper the next day at a public function. And I probably don't have to tell you what kept running through my head every time I saw her.
Yep.
I wonder if those are real.
But if that weren't bad enough, the night of my dad's boob-job narrative, the subject came up again.
Dad and I were the last people still awake in the house. I'm a night owl by nature, so that was fine, but I couldn't have gone to sleep if I had wanted to since we were in the living room, which was doubling as my bedroom during the visit. Finally about 2 a.m. or so, dad decides to call it a night, and offers to give me instruction on how to work the remote control for the TV.
My parents have a satellite dish operated by a remote control of some ancient and mysterious technology that is now obsolete. So the remote control apparently can't be replaced. Or so my dad said. It has something to do with using sound waves instead of infrared. I don't know. And of course, the remote is about 15 years old, or more, and has a few buttons missing. So you can only flip through the channels one way. And of course, you have to point the remote at select objects at precise angles or the damn thing doesn't work at all. I half expected him to tell me I had to stand on my head and stick out my tongue just right to make the little sucker work. And changing the dish to point to a different satellite is apparently so complicated that I just shouldn't even go there.
So dad demonstrates.
Apparently because I'm a journalist, he asks me if I want to watch CNN.
No. I'm on vacation. I don't want to watch CNN. And how many more times can I watch the video of the tsunami and its devastation that all broadcast outlets were running? Too depressing.
Next.
So, dad keeps flipping. Along the way, he tells me that I can't watch the Playboy channel because they don't pay for that channel. But he says there are other stations. Then he stops on Showtime or Cinemax. And a movie is just starting. And what should come on the screen by a shot of a blonde woman, topless with double-D (or bigger) breasts. And she's just standing there.
"Those aren't real," dad says. "You can tell because they are too round. Real ones aren't that round."
Thanks dad.
Then he goes on to tell me about some trip he took to a strip club with my cousin somewhere in Northern California. Of course, that's the same cousin who took me to a strip club for the first time, but that was information I didn't plan to share with my dad.
But maybe my cousin had.
Blabbermouth.
Is that why dad kept bringing up tits, strippers and such? I don't know, but I did know I didn't want to have that conversation with my dad.
Isn't that what blogs are for?
So, dad leaves the TV on the T&A channel and shuffles off to bed.
I changed the channel.
Not that I didn't want to see some T&A. But my grandmother was sleeping in the next room for heaven sake! That's all I need is for my 90-year-old grandma to come tottering out in the middle of the night while I'm, um, uh, watching THAT on TV.
I've already heard the "Shame on you" speech once. Don't need that again. And I didn't need to try to figure out how to work the remote to get the soft core porn off the screen while my granny is standing there slack jawed at o-dark-thirty.
I saved my vacation T&A gawking for the strip clubs, thank you very much.
And no, dad wasn't invited.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)