Thanks Dad

I meant to hit publish on this the other day...technical difficulties. Not that it really matters - I'm thankful for Dad everyday.

"He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it." Clarence Budington Kelland

That quote always makes me think of my Dad.

My Dad wasn't much for sitting me down and telling me stuff. He didn't lecture, or scold, or huff. He still isn't, though I sometimes deserve a good talking-to. He's quiet, unassuming, and will move mountains to avoid conflict. My Dad is smart, funny, successful, responsible, hard-working, and lives his life with morals and ethics that most couldn't even hope to achieve.

If you're smart enough to pay attention, my dad sets a tremendous example for how to live a wonderful life. He teaches by example, which is why that quote is so fitting.

Dads are a great thing (mostly - I know a few who are not so great). They provide for and protect their family. Traditionally, it's the dad's role to make sure his kids have what they need. I didn't grow up in a traditional household; my Dad was my father and my mother. So he had to make sure I had what I needed - plus everything else.

I didn't truly appreciate all that my Dad had done for me until I became an adult. I'm not even really sure when it happened. I simply came to realize how much he had sacrificed, how much he had taught me, and how lucky I was to have him for a father.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for reading to me at night, even before I can remember, and for making me read words back to you. Thank you for letting me sleep with a night-light, and making sure I had a bed-time. Thank you for making sure I did my homework, but never doing it for me. Thank you for never letting me win at a board-game - even if we were playing Stratego and Othello when I was five.

Thanks for trying to teach me to play Poker - sorry that didn't take. Some things skip a generation. Thank you for teaching me the value of a dollar by giving me a budget to spend on school clothes. Thank you for also being very generous with that budget. Thank you, too, for all the bailouts and help over the years, when the whole "value of a dollar" thing has gotten a little fuzzy.

Thank you for teaching me how to work hard - and also how to work smart, so that eventually, I wouldn't have to work so hard. Thanks for teaching me how to drive - and then making me buy my own car. Thanks for coming to all those awful school concerts - and for listening to me practice flute at home, even if you did ask that I do it in my bedroom with the door shut.

Thanks for never snooping, but instead trusting that I would either make good decisions, or find good advice. Thanks for not laughing at me when I made mistakes, anyway, and for helping me out when I did. Thanks for being one of the first people on the planet to own a personal computer, and for teaching me how to use one before many of my friends could write their own name.

Thank you for dragging me to the cemetery to visit family memorials every year. Thank you for keeping in touch with our extended family, even after divorce. Thank you for teaching me the value of family, in its many forms.

Thank you for teaching me to love and respect, rather than to judge and hate. Thank you for teaching me that I'm not better than anyone, and if I think I am, that automatically makes me worse.

Thank you for everything that you did for me growing up, and for all that you continue to do for me now that I'm an "adult." I'm lucky to call you Dad - and even more honored to call you friend.

Back-up plan

When I was 13-15, the thing to do for me and my friends was go to the mall. We were the epitomy of "mall rats," walking around aimlessly for hours, with "no shopping agenda."

Most of the time, we bummed rides off our parents, but occasionally, we had to take the bus. Usually, I opted out of these trips because even back then, I was too much of a snob for public transportation (my friends were much better people than I).

One particular Saturday, I cancelled plans with my dad to go shopping for new school clothes (a high holy event for me), so that I could go to the mall with my friends. Then, they cancelled on me. Well - more like they went without me and called me from the mall to say they'd taken the bus.

Anyway...

I remember going to my dad and asking if his offer to shop was still good. He said no - I'd cancelled plans, and that was that. He didn't have anything else going on, and he wasn't upset - he was teaching me a lesson in how to treat people. I'd made him my back-up plan, and this was the consequence.

Ever since, I've conciously tried to avoid treating my friends (and especially my dad) like a back-up plan. I know I have slipped up, but I've never forgotten the lesson.

Kindness is not the same as weakness. My dad wasn't angry, and our relationship didn't change because of my one-time actions. But he kindly let me know that taking people for granted was not acceptable, and that a strong person will only put up with it so much.

We've all done it. Something new and exciting comes into our life, and we give it all of our energy and attention. Something else in our life has to go on the back-burner. Usually, it's a relationship that we feel is strong enough to survive a few tests, or will manage without any attention for a while.

But even the strongest relationship will eventually suffer if it's ignored long enough. It doesn't make anyone a bad friend or person; there's simply a limit to how long anyone can handle being treated like he just doesn't matter.

At some point, you have to say to yourself, I know my friend is kind enough to let this go on for a while. But is he weak enough to let it go on forever?

Nuns hate me

On one of the online dating profiles I have, the question is asked, "What is the most private thing you're willing to admit?"

My answer is, "Nuns hate me."

(In the context of an online dating site, it totally works. It gives people an opener. "Why do nuns hate you?" is a frequent question. Useful for me, too, because if they tack on an "lol" I know not to bother responding.)

Between a short stint at private school, religious education at a Roman Catholic church, and (for reasons having zero to do with religion) four years at a Catholic college, I was exposed to religion pretty consistently from the time I was five through my early twenties.

The one lesson that was clear through all this education: Nuns, do in fact, hate me.

I remember once asking my dad why that might be. His theory was that nuns prefer that people (especially kids) just take everything at face-value. Kids should do as they're told, believe what they hear (from the church), and not question anything.

My problem, he said, was I questioned everything.

I wasn't belligerent (at least, I don't think I was). I just wanted to understand. I liked knowing the whys and the hows about all the whats people were teaching. The problem is, when it comes to faith and religion - wheres and whens are easy, but not so much the whys and hows.

I didn't just believe what they told me or do what they said. If it didn't sound right, I questioned why. If they said God said something was wrong, I wanted to know how they knew. If they pointed to what they believed was proof, I questioned whether or not it might mean something else.

It wasn't that I didn't want to learn, or have faith - I just didn't want to do it on their terms. That, apparently, did not make me endearing.

That's fine. After a brief hiatus from religion and church, I have found a Christian church (not Catholic) that shares a message of a faithful, forgiving God who gives strength and grace to those who ask. I have found a way to have faith and believe and learn without having to compromise who I am.

Which, I believe, is what God really wants - for us all to be the the unique masterpiece he created us to be, and not a carbon-copy of everyone else.

Whether nuns like it or not.

Kids and movies

Let me preface this by saying that, though I prefer them to be the variety I can hand back to parents at the end of the day, I really do like kids. Having none of my own allows me to be choosy, and I choose to spend time with the good ones. Sorry if that offends.

I was 3-years-old the first time my dad took me to a movie in a theater. Star Wars: A New Hope. Yes, the original release - let's not discuss how old that makes me.

I don't remember much, but my dad assures me I talked my way through the whole movie. The people around us were, apparently, not amused. My dad did not bring me back to a theater for a movie until after I was in school.

Proper etiquette was always a big deal. Arrive on time (early, even) to avoid disrupting others looking for a seat. Don't get up in the middle of the movie unless it's an emergency. If you're going to snack, do so quietly - no one wants to hear your wrapper crinkling or your soda slurping in the middle of the big scene. Don't talk sort of went without saying. Just because your feet can reach the seat in front of you doesn't mean they should touch.

Breaking these rules was never acceptable. I was told once, it was explained to me why, I never questioned. Had I pushed the limit, I suspect it would have been a few more years before I set foot in another movie theater.

(By the way, the rules are even stricter at a live performance; something I learned when I was 5-years-old and my mother took me to see Annie on Broadway).  

So the other day, I went to a movie in the afternoon. Parental Guidance is rated PG, so the local discount theater was showing it at 1:20 PM. Just because a movie is playing at that hour doesn't automatically mean it's OK for little kids - but apparently, many think that's the case. The theater was full of small children.

Personally, I didn't think the movie was OK for little kids. First, it was way too long. Second, some of the themes in the movie were too difficult for a small child to understand - which would add to the boredom. There wasn't any inappropriate language or scenes, but I'm not convinced that just because a kid can make it through a movie without needing therapy doesn't mean he should.

Most of these kids were, I'd guess, at least 8 years old. Some were a little older, there may have been one or two even a little younger. Definitely all school age. Yet, it wasn't long before I noticed these kids were not really that well-behaved. They talked - a lot. They kicked seats in front of them. They get out of their seats and ran around the theater. They made a lot of noise.

It made me wonder why their parents are not teaching them better - or why aren't they listening. I mean - they're all the age I was when I was taught not to behave this way. So what's the problem?

Then, I started to notice something else....

Adults getting up and climbing over people to leave the theater in the middle of the movie...the woman next to me eating candy from a cellophane wrapper and not even trying to do so quietly...the couple behind me having a conversation.

Apparently, in order to be a good kid, you need to start with a good example. This says a lot about the parents of my favorite kids.

Thanks again, Dad.

Not this year

When I was a kid, I loved to open the holiday cards family and friends would send to my father. I especially loved when the card included my name, either on the inside or even the outside. I've always loved mail.

I moved out of my father's home November 1995 - and couldn't wait to start my own holiday card list. I took all the names and addresses from his book, bought some cards, and got to work. Soon, cards started pouring in, addressed to me and X (we weren't Mr. & Mrs. at that point).

I was so proud of myself! To me, getting cards sent to my own address was a milestone. A rite of passage, of sorts.

Over the years, I have always looked forward to sending out cards. Selecting the perfect design (usually on clearance in previous year's post-holiday sale), making my list - and checking off the names in the send/received columns on my spreadsheet (yes, I have a spreadsheet).

One year, I even ordered personalized cards signed by me, X - and the dog and the cat.

The first Christmas I celebrated after X and I separated, I used the Christmas cards as a way of letting people know I was single. Not that I wrote one of those family letters or anything. I sent my cards out early that year, signing them just Sue - no longer Sue and X. (I mostly did this because I knew if I didn't, I'd get at least one card that was addressed to us both, and I knew that would be heartbreaking for me.)

Even then, I embraced this tradition learned from my Nanny and my Dad. I used it as another rite of passage, moving from wife to single woman.

This year, though - I'm not feeling it. I dragged the cards out last month and stamped and placed return address labels on a bunch of envelopes. They're still in the box, waiting to be addressed. I'm not sure if it's because of all I went through earlier this year, or all I've got going on now. I just can't get motivated.

So, I'm taking the year off.

At first I felt guilty. I tried to force myself to find the time over the weekend. Well, the truth is, I had the time - but I had other things that needed doing, and the cards just weren't a priority.

I'm sort of wondering...is this another "rite of passage?" Is the fact that - after 17 years - I'm willing to miss out on the tradition a sign that my life is changing again?

{I'll tell you a secret - I hope so.}

I figure people know I care - and they certainly know I still celebrate Christmas. Skipping one year won't get me kicked off too many Christmas Card lists.

If it does? Fewer to worry about next year.

When to ask for help

At the beginning of the summer, I was going to buy a new lawnmower. I wanted something self-propelled, that would make quick and easy work of my lawn.

Source

The purchase wasn't in my budget, so I put it off, figuring I'd make do with the reel mower I already own. At that point, I had someone who said he'd be happy to help me get my gas mower started. That help would mean quicker and easier work, and me saving money. Score!  

But sometimes life forces you to pivot and change plans quickly. That help no longer available, I resorted to using the reel mower. See, no help with the gas mower also means there's no help to assemble or maintain a new mower. The idea of lugging the huge thing all over my yard, and having to figure out how to change the oil or fill it with gas wasn't appealing to me at all.

X has offered his help more than once. Thing is - it's not his house anymore. Even though we're friends, and I know he'd help anyway he can, I can't expect him to drop everything and come running anytime something needs fixin'. The only person who is responsible for the house at this point is me.

I totally believe that part of being successful and happy when you're single is knowing when to ask for help. No one can handle everything on her own, and if you try to live up to that standard, you'll fail miserably.

That doesn't mean you cop-out on yourself. There's probably plenty you can handle, that you maybe don't even realize. You should always be willing to try something new - and solo. If you succeed, the ego-boost is immeasurable.

But I already know I can't assemble a power tool that weighs a 100 pounds (or whatever), or change its oil, or fill it with gas. Or, more accurately - I probably could, but I'm not interested in trying to learn.

So, I did what any single gal should do when she's faced with a seemingly-daunting task. I asked myself, "What would Dad do?" A lot of daughters would probably find Dad in her backyard on Saturday, mowing the lawn himself.

Source

But I was raised by a single guy. He's not very domestic, and doesn't really do home maintenance. In fact, he lives in an apartment, and I bet it's been close to 40 years since he even had think about yard work.

But that doesn't mean that my Dad can't fix a problem (or inspire me to do the same).

So, on Wednesday, while I was safely tucked away in my air-conditioned office, moving papers and taking a nice long lunch, a lawn service came to my house. My lawn will be cared for each week, while I'm at work, and I'll be invoiced monthly. At the end of the summer, I will have paid about the same for this lawn service as I would have spent on that new lawn mower.

And it won't cost me my own time. 

Which proves a couple of things. First - being single is something anyone can manage. The trick is knowing what you can (and want to) handle yourself, who you can trust enough to ask for help, and when you just need to throw a little money at a problem and make it go away.

Second - it proves that no matter what, the one guy a single gal can always rely on is her Dad.

Powerful words

Did you hear this story about Gwyneth Paltrow tweeting the n-word?

She says she used the phrase because it's the lyric to a song. Fair enough - but I sorta think that still crosses a line.

Words are powerful. Sometimes, we give them too much power, and we need to try and negate that power. But that's a slow process, and it starts by teaching kids lessons - privately.

An international film star (Oscar-winning, at that) can't take to her very-public twitter account with a word that is possibly one of the most heated, racially-charged insults ever - and not expect to ruffle a few feathers.

After all - not all her followers know her friends said she could "take it back."

There are some things you just don't say.

Rocking chairs

"Worrying is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere." Glenn Turner

I have a to-do list. It's been growing and growing and growing for the last week. I love when I can cross things off - but I have to admit, watching it grow was getting a little overwhelming.

I'm normally not the person that gets stressed over too much to do, and not enough time to do it. I think it's because of my job. If I've learned one thing over the last eleven years, it's that worrying will do you no good, and everything will get done when it gets done.

So, I stressed a little; I complained to Cute~Ella a little (she's so good at listening); finally, I ate a little chocolate.

Then I remembered the time when I was a little girl, and I was sitting in the rocking chair in the living room in our old apartment. It was a huge - like a lazy boy on rockers. I liked to really get it going, and pretend I was on a ride at an amusement park.

One day, I had it going too good - and it flipped backwards, with me in the chair. Ow. Like my Dad said, "I told you to stop rocking like that!"

I reminded myself how much I hate rocking chairs because all they really do is cause trouble. They don't get you anywhere.

It's amazing how much easier it is to check things off the list when you stop rocking worrying.