My Dad

I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

When I was tiny I knew my dad could do anything.  He could add a room to our house.  He could draw anything I asked him to draw.  He could sing harmony.  He knew how to get a good deal when he bought a car.  He could sail a boat.  He could put up our tent, then we we were done with it, he could roll it up so small it would fit back into an impossibly small bag.  I don’t remember my dad ever spanking me, or even being mad at me.  I’m sure he must have gotten mad at me some time, but I don’t remember it.  

My dad didn’t travel with work too often, but once he had to go to Huntsville, Alabama for some training and he was gone for what seemed like a long time.  When he came home, he brought us gifts.  Mine was so priceless to me that I still have it.  He brought me arrowheads and even a tiny fossil he found on the ground.  I know this is now considered an illegal activity, but they are among my most prized possessions.  Most of the arrowheads were broken and he included a drawing he made of what they would have looked like before they broke.  They are drawn on a piece of hotel stationary.  I imagine my dad taking the time to hunt for these things and then sitting in his hotel room at night drawing that for me, and it takes my breath away.  How could I be so loved?

My dad loves my children.  He and my mom lived in New Hampshire for awhile and we would often visit with the kids.  One trip he drew an elaborate treasure map for my children, complete with a fancy compass rose, and drawings of trees and rivers.  He had drawn it on a piece of birch bark he had pealed from a tree.  We started out on our treasure hunt with map in hand.  The children followed each clue and when we finally got to the treasure site, the children dug under a rock and found silver dollars.  My dad had made the hike before we got there and buried treasure for them.  

Just this last week I went to visit my parents and my dad took me shooting.  I grew up with guns because my dad was in the FBI, but I had never shot one before.  To prepare he sat at the kitchen table with me and went over everything from what’s inside a bullet, to how the firing mechanism works, to how to aim.  He drew pictures.  When we got to the range he showed me how to load the gun, how to stand, and how to breathe to keep my hand steady.  He praised my efforts.

Now that I’m older I know my dad can do anything.  I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

Fashion Faux Pas

Friends don’t let friends wear ponchos.  More specifically, friends don’t let their guy friends wear ponchos.  Ever. Not even if they think they are Clint Eastwood.

I mention this rule because we all need fashion tips every now and then.  If you doubt me, spend the afternoon people-watching at Walmart and you’ll see what I mean.  

I was recently thumbing through a women’s magazine and saw that an actress had recommended jeggings as this year’s “fashion must have”.  She went so far as to say they would look good on everyone.  Is she out of her mind?  Clearly this woman doesn’t know anyone who weighs over 90 pounds.  

In our family we have a system to avoid fashion faux pas.  I watch out for my husband, my daughter watches out for me, and we both watch out for our daughter, although she doesn’t think she needs our help.  

My husband doesn’t wear shorts very often.  I bought him some and he put them on.  He then put on his black socks and dress shoes.  After allowing myself a giggle at his expense I gently suggested that he is way too young for that look.  

Just today we saw a man out working in his yard wearing red coveralls.  My husband  admired them.  I pointed out that the man looked like he was wearing a baggy union suit.  He still admired them.  I then pulled out the big guns and told him that coveralls are a deal breaker for me.  It’s me or the coveralls, and he should think long and hard because I’ll want the house, the car, the bank accounts and the grandchildren.  He can keep the cat.  He saw the light.

I routinely ask my daughter for fashion advice.   She helps me put outfits together.  She’s great with layering, accessories, and shoes.  On the other hand, I am basically a lazy dresser.  If left to my own devices I would wear jeans and a t-shirt every day.  She encourages necklaces, scarves, and shoes other than sneakers. She’s great when I can’t decide on gold or silver, flats or heels, cardigan or jacket.  

My daughter has great fashion sense, but she can’t judge distance.  She has actually insisted with a straight face that a skirt that barely covers her bum is only an inch above her knee.  I wish I were making this up.

Some fashion themes are best avoided altogether.  International apparel is almost always a mistake.  Berets, caftans, and lederhosen are hard to pull off.  The trick, I think, is to look up-to date, but never extreme.

I have a fear of creeping frump.  I’m afraid that one day I’ll wake up and want to wear a muumuu and orthopedic shoes. But equally as terrifying is the idea of being an old woman dressed up like a streetwalker.  I once saw a woman who had to be in her sixties wearing black leggings with a clingy surplice blouse tucked in, and a wide silver belt.  Please, someone, stop me.  I don’t mind the good, but I want to avoid the bad and the ugly.

Me and My Big Mouth

I always say too much.  Sometimes I also talk too much, but it’s an important distinction.   I try to reign it in, but I always seem to misplace the leash I should keep on my tongue.

Some situations bring it out.  When I’m heading into these situations, I actually say to myself, “Self, just keep your mouth shut.  You will only beat yourself up later if you say things you shouldn’t”.  Rarely do I take my own counsel.  

A few hypothetical examples.  Let’s say it’s several years ago and I’m taking a college class in pathology.  The teacher is discussing carbon monoxide poisoning.  He says you can always spot someone with carbon monoxide poisoning by their blue lips.  But wait.  I read about this in the chapter last night and CO victims aren’t blue, they are pink.  The professor is wrong.  But my classmates are taking notes.  Do I sit quietly and say nothing?  Do I wait until after class and then speak to him privately?  No.  I raise my hand (but don’t wait for him to actually acknowledge me) and say I’m a little confused because it clearly states on page 457 of the text that people who have died of carbon monoxide poisoning will look red, not blue.  I hate myself for doing it, but I just can’t stop myself.

My daughter’s orthodontist has this ridiculous finger scan device she has to use to clock in for her appointments.  If she is more than 5 minutes late she has to reschedule.  We get there on time, but alas, the staff is having their little staff meeting in the back and it runs over.  Do I sit quietly in the waiting room reading old magazines?  No, I drop them a line in their little suggestion box telling them that if they insist on my being on time I think they should do the same.  Of course, the orthodontist then calls me up on the phone to apologize and I feel like a bit of a schmuck.  Now they probably have a red flag on my daughter’s file.

This impulse is really strong in large groups where everyone is agreeing.  Say there is a group of women discussing the extensive solar system project their kids are required to do for elementary school.  They are getting a lot of enjoyment out of complaining about it.  They all feel each other’s pain.  The esprit de corps is strong.  I know it.  I know they don’t want to hear a dissenting voice.  But that little obnoxious imp inside me just can’t stand it.  I have to point out that they do not have to do the solar system project.  If it is causing that much angst they can sit this one out.  It won’t actually keep their kids out of college.  They look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Maybe I have.  Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut????

I need to learn that I don’t have to say everything I think.  But that’s the problem.  Sometimes I don’t know what I think until I hear what I say.