Living The Hair Book…

Hair, hair, it’s everywhere! On the rug, and in the air…

OK, OK, maybe that’s not how the children’s book goes, but it’s how things are in my house! No matter how often we dust, vacuum, or nuclear bomb the house, there seem to be hairballs disguised as tumbleweeds rolling around on both carpeted and uncarpeted surface alike no more than 5 minutes later.

:::sigh:::

It’s tough, with 3 dogs and 2 cats! It’s even tougher that my business office is at home, because while the kids are at school (or wherever) and my husband is offsite at his office, I get completely distracted when I inevitably get tripped by one of those tumbleweeds when I’m on my way to the bathroom. Where the heck did THAT come from? I vacuumed at lunch time, for Pete’s sake! I can almost hear the theme of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.

My kids don’t understand my angst, and neither does my husband, for that matter. The three of them were obviously born with the invisible switch that filters their pet hair vision, so they could go days, even weeks without feeling the need to vacuum. The filter is so good that if there’s a huge hair tumbleweed on the couch next to them, they just say, “Hey, MOVE OVER, will you?”

My husband and I used to do all the vacuuming ourselves, until one day, my husband conveniently decided that vacuuming would be part of the girls’ every day chores (convenient, I say, because I think it was that day that I’d asked him to vacuum up the hairballs, because I quit). So now, pretty much every other day, when I get the rolling of the eyes over “Someone needs to vacuum,” (atop the ensuing argument between the two of them as to who has vacuumed the MOST, and who should do it) I have to threaten near death for someone to get the vacuum out of the closet. My response is usually something witty, like “Well, then, I think maybe tonight we’ll have spaghetti, and I’d just LOOK CLOSELY, if I were you!!!”

One of our dogs – a dalmatian lab mix – is the worst perpetrator of the animals. He LOVES to get his hair everywhere! We have wine-colored carpeting in the livingroom; his coat is that of the Dalmatian part of him, meaning mostly WHITE. Here’s the spiteful part… he waits – that’s right, WAITS – until the carpet has been vacuumed, and literally within 10 minutes of the effort, he runs out to the livingroom, rolls on his back, and just HAS to scratch it maniacally on the floor… leaving a pile of white hair in his wake.That’s just one of the many antics that I just KNOW our dogs and cats use to conspire against us, for fun. I could just hear the conversation now from Montana, the Alpha: “River… you stick with the livingroom thing, you just make yourself look so loveably goofy that they can’t yell at you. Jed, you just grunt and groan and roll around in the hallway, and pretend you JUST CAN’T GET THAT ITCH! Athena, well… you just lay there. Your hair just falls off no matter what you do. Even better, I GOT IT! River, clean Athena, and when you do that, pull out some tufts of hair and just spit them on the floor! YES!!! In the meantime, I’ll just lay around and look innocent. I get in enough trouble on the occasions when I get in the garbage…”

I read somewhere that you can send your pet’s shedded hair to get a blanket or coat made from it. If that’s the case, I could definitely make a profit, and open a store! Do you think Disney would have a problem if I branded the line of coats “Cruella de Ville”?

At the end of the day, I guess that’s just a part of having furry friends in your home. I also have a theory (and I’m sticking by it) that all that overexposure to pet hair keeps us from ever developing any kind of allergy to it! I  do have to admit that when I go to someone’s house who doesn’t have a furry friend, it always feels a little… barren. Could it be the tumbleweed decor is more homey? I don’t know… maybe just what I’m used to.

You’ll never miss that homey-ness in our house, that’s for sure! If you want to feel all comfy-cozy, feel free to come for a visit… just don’t wear black!

Where’s the Diamond in the Pile of Rubbish?

Here I sit, in my office, covered with its standard New Year’s winter coat of papers, files, boxes, and other general office junk strewn around. I literally had to climb into the room  and tiptoe into my chair while skillfully avoiding the paper cutter and various other items just to make it to the desktop and this computer without breaking something or impaling myself.

Why, you ask, is this such a mess?

Well, it’s a new year. Time to clean out the old, right? Bring in the new? I find that every year, right after New Year’s, I begin cleaning out everything with zeal… and if I don’t get it all done before going back to work, I tend to leave what I started until I can… find… some… time…. to… get… it… done. Right.

For example, last weekend, I decided that after living in this house for almost 12 years, that while we were putting away the holiday decorations, we needed to move the furniture in the livingroom around. Desperately. Because come on,  let’s face it — how many people do YOU know who have had their furniture in the same formation for 12 years? Good grief! How many people even live in a house for 12 years anymore besides my alien family and me?? Anyway, that task alone — because I’d set my mind to it — took AN ENTIRE DAY. One room (OK, I’ll give you the holiday decorations all around the house). We’re not talking mansion-sized here, folks, just a plain ol’ 17′x17′ room. But when we were done, the dogs didn’t feel comfortable walking in there for awhile, because they were scared. That was actually a very funny thing to watch… if only they could talk! One of my dogs went to every singular item in the room and stared at it in a startled manner, as if to say, “What the heck is THAT doing THERE?”

The effort, of course, bled into the dining room and kitchen areas. And overly ambitious, I started on my office after that.

I own and operate two very different businesses, I manage the household finances, and my two children often find it necessary to dump their weekly work in here in front of me to review, so paper abounds in my sacred office space.  Eventually I start feeling claustrophobic, because even for the two weeks a year (usually the 2nd and 3rd week) that I keep up on my filing, it’s just too much to get it all put away!

This year’s been a doozy. It seems like somehow, the papers in here  reproduced on their own. Can that happen, in today’s digital world? It must, because I can’t seem to get to the bottom of it.

But I will.

It will probably take me into next week, but I’m determined to get to it and REALLY get it done. Because it’s a new year… and I don’t know about you, but from my perspective, last year really needs to be filed away and/or thrown out! I could really use that vial of fairy dust I haven’t been able to find for the past couple of years. And my rose-colored glasses. Because once I do, I will don both and never look back over my shoulder.

It’s time for a good year. Really, a SPARKLING one!! Change it all around! Look at everything in a fresh way! Make it work for you! THAT’S my resolution.

Now that being said, it’s been awhile since I’ve moved anything around in the office, too….

Nature vs. Nurture – for the Zillionth Time!

I remember the big debates in my college Sociology class about the whole “Nature vs. Nurture” thing. Over the years, I debated it with friends, coworkers, neighbors – you name it! You can debate it all you want, but the absolutely best clinical trial you get is when you have your own kids. And now that my husband and I are 12 years into our clinical trial, I feel I have ample experience — not just with my own children, but with those around me with children — to make this statement:

CHILDREN TEND TO ACT THE WAY THEIR PARENTS EXPECT THEM TO, AND THEY TEND TO GRAVITATE TOWARDS WHAT THEY KNOW FROM THEIR OWN LIFE.

Groundbreaking? Earth shattering? Not really. But a vast majority of the population turns a blind eye to that simple statement, totally ignoring their own actions and persuasions as parents, and refusing to take ownership of what they themselves molded. Exasperated parents tend to just shrug their shoulders and write it off to SOMETHING genetic.

OK, so I’m going to insert a disclaimer here. I’m not saying that EVERYTHING is behavioral; I do believe that there are SOME things that are genetically hard-wired into a person. However, I think the number of items is really shockingly small compared to what people tend to attribute to it.

So here’s my beef, and here I’m going to shout it at the world:

1) GIRLS ARE NOT BORN NATURALLY BEING SUBMISSIVE AND LIKING PINK, PASTELS, AND DOLLS;
2) LIKEWISE, BOYS ARE NOT BORN NATURALLY BEING AGGRESSIVE, LIKING BLUE, BRIGHT COLORS, AND TRUCKS.

There. I said it. That felt good.

I could write an entire dissertation on it, I think, with the experiences we’ve had over the past 12 years. But I won’t. However, I just want to show you some data, based on my experience with my 2 girls and their friends (both male and female):

1) I personally don’t like pink all that much (and I DEFINITELY don’t like ruffles and frilly things), and I definitely don’t buy into the girl-pink, boy-blue thing. Therefore, my girls weren’t dressed in pink and ruffles — and :::gasp::: I actually bought a lot of clothes for them in the boys department when they were younger, because that was the only place I could find the fun, rich, bright colors that ALL children deserve to wear (vs. all of the pastels in the girls’ section). I remember when they were babies; since ALL BABIES GENERALLY LOOK ASEXUAL (really, this shouldn’t be all that groundbreaking), and since my husband and I didn’t have the hangup that many parents have that it’s socially taboo to have a baby that DOESN’T look like its gender (per society’s standards), we never put garter belts on our daughters’ heads or insisted on inflicting the useless pain of pierced ears to PROVE that they were girls. They wore a wide range of bright, non-pink colors (except for the few pink pieces that friends and relatives INSISTED they get — because of them being GIRLS), and comfortable pants. We had plenty of people in public make the comment, “What a cute little boy! What’s his name?” and when I’d tell them and they’d realize it was a girl, they would looked shocked, like they’d made a monumental mistake and apologize profusely. My answer to that was usually along the lines of, “She really doesn’t care, and I’m sure she’s not offended in the least!”

2) My husband and I both hate the general idea of Barbie and that the ONLY toys girls should play with are dolls. Really? And that teaches them spacial relations and mechanics and how to compete in this overpopulated, dog-eat-dog world how? Yes, ALL children (that includes BOYS, too) need to nurture - whether it be a stuffed animal, a doll, or a sibling – but the key here is WELL-ROUNDED. One or two dolls, but also blocks, trucks/cars, science projects, sports, and puzzles. For EVERYONE. But that’s what my girls have had, and SURPRISE — though they’ve occasionally wanted a special doll (like American Girl, of which I fully approve, due to the “girls who overcame the obstacles of their society to be who they wanted to be” theme), they both have their personal preferences in playthings. For example, my younger daughter went through a phase when she just LOVED Matchbox cars, collected them, and made up scenarios with them. My older daughter LOVES myteries to solve, which includes stuff along the lines of CSI detective sets, and science kits. Besides that, they have books, games and games abound, outdoor/activity toys, puzzles, and many other activities. And funny — time and time again, when we have friends who have boys come over, they’re always surprised at how well they get along with the girls — because they actually speak the same language! It’s actually funny; even the girls who are expected to be quiet, demure, and to play with their dolls at home become different children when they’re at our house — because THEY CAN BE!

3) We also don’t believe that girls are naturally more submissive and less assertive than boys from birth. Contrary to what many believe, at birth, girls and boys have almost the same levels of testosterone, and there’s absolutely no significant difference until about 4-8 years old (depending on who you ask). So the “bouncing baby boy” theory is actually scientifically bunk. But we’ve seen it time and time again — someone who has both a toddler boy and a girl will reprimand their daughter for getting covered with mud,  making a mess, or being too aggressive; however, when the boy acts the same way, the parents say, “Stop!” then shrug apologetically and say, “Boys!” as if that’s an excuse. Then, not even knowing how they’re molding the behavior, they’ll go on to say how GENERALLY the girl is SO much easier, and how they’ve just “given up trying” to control the boy.

:::sigh:::

By the time pre-adolescence hits, it’s been well instilled, and I think that surge in testosterone coupled with the expectations of the parents exacerbates something that wouldn’t be quite as extreme if it weren’t programmed into the child at an early age.

We’ve severely minimized TV exposure to our girls, and the relatively few to which they’ve been exposed have generally been picked because of their positive reflection of girls. I remember when my younger daughter went through a funk about a year ago. She LOVES comic books — that was all we could get her to read for awhile — and she’d noticed that the superhero movies that came out were all about BOY superhero. So at some point, she decided she wanted to be a boy. So when I asked her why, she told me, “Because all of the superheros are boys!” Shortly after that, we got her a subscription to Wonder Woman, Spidergirl, and one of the X-Men (since it’s a good mix). That appeased her, but she’s right — look at our blockbuster movies: Batman, Superman, Iron Man… the list goes on. Typically, if there’s a woman superhero, she’s just part of the group.

We also prohibited a lot of the “classics” from our household  — Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White — because we wanted to teach our daughters that they should take a problem into their own hands and fix it best they can through their own means, not helplessly wait for some “Prince Charming” to come along and “save” them. They’ve actually been growing up during a good period — there have been some good children’s movies that have come out in the past decade that actually show females in a strong light — so we’ve had a decent variety in place of the other, more old-fashioned ones.

So, what’s the purpose of this rant? I just think that after 12 years, it’s really old. My husband and I have refused to bring up our girls in the “girl stereotype” — my crusade as a parent is to bring them up independent, strong, and of their own means, without needing any man to “take care” of them. As a family, the 4 of us have taken Tae Kwon Do together for the past 4 years, and we’ve all just gotten our 2nd degree black belt. At the ages of (almost) 10 and 12, they are self confident, vivacious, exuberant, strong, and comfortable with themselves. And I know we have the hurdles of adolescence ahead of us, but we hope we’ve gotten a good head start for them to make good decisions, of their own will, without any old gender stereotypes refraining them from being the best they can be.

 

Why Those Folks Who Try Out for American Idol Don’t Get It

Tonight, I came the closest I’ve ever come to killing myself. Unfortunately, at the moment of deepest disdain, I couldn’t get my hands on any ice picks that I could shove into my eye and then further into my brain.

What would cause such angst, you ask? Sometimes, the simplest thing can set the most optimistic person over the edge. It’s just like for those of you who may have read the classic (one of my favorite books), Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (by Doug Adams) — I never could imagine what Adams meant or at what he was driving in his book via the description of the alien race, the Vogons, who could put someone through the most unimaginable torture and drive them to suicide by merely reciting poetry.

Tonight, I understand the metaphor. It was when my husband and I were FORCED to sit through the entire 2.5 hours of my younger daughter’s elementary school “talent” show. I use quotes there, because I definitely question the English definition of the word after tonight.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if 21 out of the 35 “acts” weren’t vocals — if you want to call them that. Bad karaoke is what I would call them. One time — and only one time — when my husband and I were first dating, my husband, in a drunken state, got up on that bar stage and sang “The Immigrant Song” (yes, by Led Zeppelin) with a bunch of his Navy buddies, thinking I would a) be impressed by his courage/idiocy, or b) take such pity on him and think he was so terrible, that I’d think he was cute. I went with a little bit of both. But see, here’s the point — getting up on that stage, my one-day-to-be-husband KNEW he couldn’t sing. He didn’t even try to hide it. But it was all in good fun, and he didn’t even pretend he thought he could sing. And that drunken night, years ago, he was about par with 95% of those 21 acts that got up there and really thought they were good tonight.

I recall my daughter (the one in the show, and one of the few acts that were NOT singing) telling us about tryouts. Tryouts? Really? You mean, there were some who DIDN’T make it into the show? Afterwards, upon prodding my daughter about that, she told me that the “tryouts” were just to make sure there was a legitimate “act.” I guess I question what the music teacher (the one who put this abomination on) thought was legitimate.

So, in struggling to keep myself from running out of that auditorium (well, actually, it’s what they call the “all-purpose room” these days — forget about a separate auditorium, gymasium, and lunchroom!) screaming and pulling my hair out, I pondered why, oh why, these kids would think they were THAT good. I’m serious; you had some kids in 2 or even 3 acts mixed up with a combination of 1 or 2 other kids, “singing” song after song.

 And then it hit me, like a light bulb.

Part of why I disagree wholeheartedly with our socialistic “no child left behind” thing today in the U.S. is that I think in a big part it causes our children to lack the drive to get ahead in the world. Remember the idea of capitalism? That the idea that the person who works the hardest and has the best outcome deserves to have the most and get the most recognition for it? In case you’ve forgotten, it was one of the ideas on which this country was founded. And it’s one of the reasons that the U.S. became a world leader. And now, we’re faltering on a global scale… isn’t it a bit too coincidental that it’s when we now have a generation of kids who aren’t allowed to show any differentiated points of view, in case of offending SOMEONE? Or, when they play T-Ball, baseball, softball, or whatever, ”no one loses, everyone’s a winner”? Or, better yet, growing up with an elementary school grading system that is structured (at least in our state) to just show a child is “at grade level” (with 85% or more of the rest of the children), instead of how well they actually stack up to other kids? Then, they wonder why the children get so stressed about the “End of Grade Exams” — when they actually have to be GRADED on their work.

I remember in middle school, when we had a talent show, that we DID have to try out, and we DID have to have some iota of talent to be in it. And then, someone actually WON. Which means…. gasp…. that someone LOST. And then, during the rest of my performing arts years — dancing, acting, cheerleading, and the like — trying out for something actually meant you competed to win, which meant that some people DIDN’T MAKE IT. I didn’t even make it sometimes, and I had quite a bit of training. And you know what? If I really wanted to do it, that made me try again. And try harder. Usually, it would make me dig in my heels and cause me to become better at whatever “it” was. Or, I would move on to something else, knowing I tried my best and it wasn’t good enough to compete.

That’s reality. That’s life.

Today, everyone’s afraid of telling someone they’re not good enough, or that they’re just not good at something. There are all of these school-aged sports where “nobody loses.” And there are talent shows where nobody wins, with music teachers telling children whose singing should be limited to the ears of the immediate family — or even just the bathroom walls — that they’re worthy of standing up on stage in front of the whole school and parents and singing into a microphone, with the illusion that they are worthy of doing so.

When I was growing up, we took lessons. Music lessons, dance lessons, and yes, voice lessons, if you wanted to get onto stage. Yes, there was a lot of natural talent in the mix, but raw talent almost never made it without SOME training. Would I have ever tried to break a cinderblock with my bare hands if I’d never taken extensive martial arts training? I think not. Would someone who’s never trained in diving try a triple flip, jackknife, or anything of the sort? Probably not. And my parents would never have let me just join a diving competition without it. And when I tried that jackknife and floundered badly, my parents would at least say something like, “… but you swim really well!”

Today, things are different. All this lack of competition, lack of training, lack of honesty, and lack of WINNING and LOSING is what feeds into the mediocrity we see more and more. And we marvel at the poor souls who, never having LOST at little, local talent competitions (though never having won, either), take a huge jump from their protected, everyone-is-the-same hometown disillusionment to the REAL WORLD and try out for American Idol, only to be crushed and confused when the judges give them the boot.

When watching those painful shows of personal disillusionment, I never understand if and how those people actually think that they’re even close to worthy of trying out for a national TV show like American Idol. It had to all be an act — no one could actually be THAT clueless about themselves, right? And so many.

But now, I understand.

And since I couldn’t find any sharp objects with which I could end my misery while enduring this masquerade of a “talent” show tonight, my wandering mind finally put together that long-pondered mystery of those terrible American Idol tryouts with these evil, group-think practices that promote mediocrity and sameness.

I get it. Simon Cowell, where are you when we need you???

Get Out of the Fridge!

 

It’s the time of year that, for some reason, we suddenly remember the things for which we’re thankful. In general (except for Scrooge), many of us are a little softer, a little friendlier, a little more “mushy” (and I’m talking emotionally, not physically!  ).

But then, a lot of us also have panic attacks, lose sleep because of holiday-induced anxieties, whether it be shopping budgets (or lack of), or most often…. FAMILY VISITS.

Now, I have my share of crazy holidays with the family memories. But I’m going to pick over them, like leftovers, one at a time, because as time goes by, they stop putting a knot in my stomach when I think about them, and instead become replaced by the ability to laugh and… maybe to be a little  :::gasp:::  nostalgic. Because it’s all a part of who I am.

My father is the basis of many of those hated it/loved it type of memories. He was such a bizarre, off the wall person, and we never fully figured him out. He was very strong-willed, obstinate man, but sometimes had good intentions. In my early adult years (that would be B.C.), it was all I could do to go visit him after he left his condo in New York and bought a house in West Virginia. Usually, my sister and I would coordinate and go together, so we had some comfort and company (and we could commiserate). Later, after marriage and kids, we STILL often tried to coordinate, and we’d go with our families together, so we could all suffer as a family, I guess! There are many memories there, but right now, today, what stands out in my mind (and Lord knows, I’m actually SMILING about it) is my youngest daughter’s first Thanksgiving…that would be in 1998.

My husband, 2 children, and I met my sister, her husband, and 4 children there, from Wednesday through Saturday of Thanksgiving week. The funny part was, though I know my father loved our children, so many people suddenly around him made him both happy and cranky at the same time (especially my kids, who were a toddler and a baby at the time). But, though he said he wanted to have us there, WE were all responsible for making the dinner. So, we did — we made the huge turkey and all the trimmings, all the while Dad complaining that it was going to be too late (for what, I don’t know), we’d better not burn anything, yadda, yadda, yadda. All the while tending to the children as needed. My sister’s kids were a bit older (15, 13, 10, and 9, if I remember correctly), and played outside for awhile, throwing a ball around. And the dinner was uneventful… a nice, big family dinner, amidst the thousands of penguin statues all over the house (but that’s another story, for another day.. though I will touch on it in here).

But after is when the fun began.

Every time my father would make a turkey, he’d make turkey soup afterwards, from the remainders on the turkey frame. And it was AWESOME. I mean, it would put chicken soup to shame! So that evening, Dad made the soup, and we just smelled that pure heaven all evening, our mouths watering at the prospect of lunch the next day. So, the next day, we cooked up the soup with some egg noodles and actually had some moments of true appreciation of our Dad. Until he came in and yelled at us — actually yelled at us, meaning mainly my sister, our husbands, and me — because we ate HIS TURKEY SOUP. It wasn’t like we had eaten the whole thing, though 9 people WILL make a dent in pot, you know!

This stemmed from his belief that everyone should only have one meal a day. He did this, from almost as long as I could remember. He would just drink coffee in the morning, and SOMETIMES (with company) have some breakfast with that sludge, but early evening, he’d RACK UP on eating to make up for the rest of the day.

And from that side note, he didn’t even THINK of us eating the soup, because he was taking us out to eat for dinner that evening, so WHY would we need anything else? Uh, HELLO, 6 kids present, here? And we were going to starve them all day?? Plus, I don’t know about you, but my sister and I (as well as our betrothed) did usually eat breakfast/lunch, as do most people. But I think my father forgot about that. And all we heard, for the remainder of the time we were there, was how we ate most of his soup.

:::sigh:::   It was good, though, and worth feeling like a little, reprimanded kid! 

And then, the big “dinner out.” This is worth mentioning here, because it was (and still is) quite a joke with my sister and me. Our father was the KING of all-you-can-eat buffets. Figure it out — it sort of fit with his eating habits, and when he did sit down to eat, he could EAT. Now, this was a small town in West Virginia, which was definitely not what you’d call a melting pot, by any means (for anyone in WV, I don’t mean any offense, just stating some fact here). Yet, he would continue to surprise us because he’d manage to find a Chinese food buffet (which, no matter where I’ve been, have usually not been that good). Seriously. In Little Town, WV, there were several. Go figure.

So, he took us to a Chinese food buffet in the only mall for miles for dinner. The food was pretty fair (as expected); however, they obviously used MSG on their food, because about a half hour later, I came down with a screaming migraine.

The plans for the group were to go to a nearby park after dinner to go through a drive-through Christmas light display that the town set up every year. It was the first night. However, with my head feeling like someone took a sledgehammer to me, and the knowledge that I was sure I would throw up at any minute (not conducive to car-bound activities), I asked to be excused to go back to the house, so I didn’t bring everyone down from the Christmas light extravaganza. After a lot of huffing and puffing from my Dad, I was excused and went back to the house to hurl. And because of the all-consuming pain of a migraine like that, today I can’t even remember if my husband came back with me or not. I’ll have to ask him.

After 2 rounds of bathroom hell, to my surprise, everyone came back. The people who’d set up the lights obviously hadn’t checked them in the dark, because they turned on the lights, and voila — there was a light out somewhere, or a short, amongst the thousands and thousands, so they had to close down the attraction. So much for my Dad’s huffing and puffing because I was going to miss it!

Fast forward, the next morning. Dad was taking us out to breakfast, making a big deal about taking us to this breakfast spot (also, please note here — my father was a very, very cheap man! He’d been known to drive 10 or 15 extra miles to a store to save 2 or 3 cents on toilet paper; so for him to openly take us out was a big deal in itself, and he let us know it!). But he was telling us that this was a really nice spot, and he went on and on. And on. And lo and behold, when we arrived, we realized he was taking us to a grocery store that had a little counter in the bakery. A grocery store, I’m not kidding. But my sister and I, used to these antics, just laughed, shrugged, and said, “Whatever.” However, my 15-year-old nephew, who was in those terrible teenage years, was mortified. “We’re going to breakfast in a GROCERY STORE??” To which I replied, “You know what? One day, I promise you, you will look back at this and LAUGH at it. Really. Once you get to adulthood, you realize it’s better to laugh at this… it’s what makes family!” And my sister agreed. He looked at us suspiciously.  ”Oh, come on,” I said, “Isn’t it a LITTLE bit funny that we’re going to breakfast at the grocery store?” He still didn’t see the humor.

A little later, while we were eating our breakfast at the little tables set up in the store, with the beautiful view of locals buying their produce, my sister asked that same nephew, “Hey, why did you end up on the floor upstairs this morning…” (where the guest rooms were in our Dad’s house) “… instead of on the couch, where you were last night?”

His response, after a hesitation: “I couldn’t sleep down there. The penguins freaked me out – they were CREEPY, and they were all staring at me!” Which, of course, made us all laugh (except my Dad, who didn’t hear — he was, at this time, mostly deaf and refused to use his hearing aids on most days, so if we didn’t yell it, he didn’t hear). As I said, the penguins are another story. But to put it simple, the man had an obsession with them, and it was a little freaky… though it made for easy gift giving for holidays!

At the end of the visit, as we were all leaving, I (as always) felt a little relieved, but a little sad. You know, when you leave a family gathering such at that, how you know someone drives you absolutely bonkers when you’re with them, but you’re a little sad when you leave them? That’s how it always was with my Dad. He was such a strange, strange, person, and very, very quirky. But I guess I always wished that we could connect a little more, and regardless of how crazy I know we all made him, I could see a little twinkle of sadness, as well, as we climbed into our cars and took off again.

Dad passed away in 2002. I think it’s during Thanksgiving that I think I miss him most, because I’ll never forget that year — just 3.5 years before he died of cancer — and it was just so classic Dad. And as quirky, annoying, obnoxious, and outright bizarre that he was, I loved him.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dad. And thanks for the memories – you’re with us always.