wish it were 2pm

It's Memorial Day and everyone on the continent has the day off. Except for me. My work feels that even though full time staff is of no use to help with registers etc. that on "busy" holidays we must be here. Add to that I worked all night Thursday night and have no had a day off since last Monday. I should be able to take some time for having to work this weekend but because of school groups I really can't. I need to be here to give tours.

I am supposed the be able to leave today at 2pm. I am so ready for it to be that time. Please Universe, make the day go quickly.....

comfort clothes

I want to know why flannel pants and a ratty old t-shirt can't be sexy. Shouldn't a person be more attractive when they are comfortable and at ease? The silky little nothings can be fun for a romp but I am not relaxed when I wear them, or at least not as relaxed as I am in "comfort" clothes.

The same for your everyday clothes too. Sexy is the skirt with heels. Heels that kill your feet, and a skirt that requires care in every movement you make so you don't flash someone unintentionally (intentional flashing is an entirely different matter). I would much rather wear flat sandals and a loose flowy skirt or pants with a loose top and no bra. But that is not considered as "sexy" as the other.

I would like to propose a change in the social construct of reality and make it so that comfort dictates sexy. Anyone with me?

Job Opening

All in all I have been doing fairly well with the loss of my father. That may be an exaggeration. But anyway, what I mean is I haven’t had too many moments where I have thought of or needed him and then had to remind myself that he is gone. It has happened a couple of times, but not much. Last week however I was driving home from work and my car tried to overheat on me. I started to cycle through the Molly Memory Bank on what to do when the car has a problem. This is what I found:

Step 1: Stay Calm – Okay, did that.
Step 2: Call Dad – oh wait, can’t do that – oops, there goes step one.

There was no step 3. What was I supposed to do now? My brain started to scroll through the rolodex of people. My brother crossed my mind, he is a lot like my Dad, he would know what to do. But he would also give me crap about it. Then again so would my Dad. My boss, he would probably know what to do, he is a nice guy, he would understand that I needed help and had no-one else to call. (oh, in case you are wondering I didn’t call my husband simply because he was on a movie shoot and I didn’t want to disturb him, or make him worry). In the end I didn’t call anyone. I went to Sears Automotive, they were no help at all. They directed me to the place across the street. In the end I got some assistance and some advice and the next morning the car didn’t overheat on my way to work. My underlying problem in all of this was: What am I supposed to do when the person I need is my Dad and he is not there?

In the last several years it has not been often that I would call my Dad for advice or help. But when I needed him, he was more or less there. Even if he didn’t really know the answer I could still throw those questions at him that Dad’s are supposed to know. He would harass me gently for not knowing what to do and then give some advice that although was often not the perfectly correct answer it would help me get to the place to find the right one. Now I have blank spot on my list of people to call for certain kinds of problems. Should I post an ad on craigslist for someone new to fill that position? Should I randomly pick a friend or other family member? There are plenty of people in my life that are happy to help me when I need it, I am certainly not at a loss for good friends and awesome family.

I think the basic issue is: I don’t need someone to help me solve problems, I need my Dad.

I am alive

I am sure by now anyone who has cared to read my blog in the past has given up. But, if you are still with me, I thank you. My life has been crazy the last several months and I am starting to feel with it again. At least with it enough to consider vomiting my thoughts and feelings out into the interwebs for all to see. So, with that said I am going to bed and will try to start keeping this thing updated. The need for sleep overrides the need to blog.....sorry.

Love you all!!

bleh

My house is a mess. I am sitting here looking at the pile of stuff on the table and thinking how it would be good for me to clean it off. It might be a good idea now that February is coming to a close to put the Christmas decorations away. I know I would be more relaxed in my home if it were tidier. I know I would have more energy to work on fun house projects if I didn't have a list of not fun ones staring me in the face. But alas (love that word), I just don't wanna. I think I will go take a shower instead.

My Dad

My earliest memories of my Dad are from pre-school. I was either three or four and he would visit the school in his police car teaching all of us about how candy and medicine can look a lot like each other and we should never ever eat anything without knowing for sure its okay. I was always so proud of him in his uniform. With his busy police schedule he was often gone at night til after I was in bed and I loved getting to see him at school. One time he wasn't able to make it because of police stuff, he was able to come for the afternoon group though. I was babysat in the afternoons in the house just up the drive from the church where the pre-school was. When he drove in Jerem Feltman (boy who I was babysat with) and I peeked around the corner of the house. Of course my dad saw me as as all the afternoon pre-school kids were around the police car he got on the radio loudspeaker. "Molly M------, get down here!" I was thrilled of course and ran down to see him. Most of my early memories are like this, quick snips. He was busy, I was young. I also remember when I broke my arm while my mom was in Hawaii and he took me to get the cast put on. He and my brother and sister teased me that I had this funny new purse and why would I keep my arm in it. I thought my dad was a hero and the smartest guy in the planet. He was fun too. He drove for a field trip to the airport when I was in first grade and I remember him singing with us in the car. When I was in third grade he started working on the North Slope, being away for two weeks and then home for two weeks. Even though I missed him he was always there for concerts, plays, dance recitals and important holidays. I made him a card one year that said, "I love you little, I love you big, I love you like a big fat pig" My sister and I still joke about that card. I loved my dad, and I know he loved me. As I got older it was harder. He wasn't there all the time. We had two sets of rules at home, one set when dad was home, one set when he was at work. It was also like I had two dad's. My sober "good" dad when he was at work and all conversations happened on the phone. And the alcoholic frustrating dad who spent all his time at the Moose Lodge.

That’s something I could never understand. How could he not drink on the slope for 2 weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Yet when he was home he couldn’t stop drinking.

I always knew. It was right there in front of me, but I never acknowledged it. One time in high school my dad was picking me up after I had stayed late to work in the photography lab. I was excited about the work I had done and wanted to show him. The moment he got out of the car I could see how much he had been drinking and I knew my classmates would see it too. I was embarrassed, and it forced me to admit that my dad was indeed an alcoholic.

Since graduating from high school and moving out of state I have been largely out of touch with him. He came for my wedding, walked me down the aisle. But we didn’t talk much. Calling him on the phone was difficult, if the timing wasn’t right he would be too intoxicated for the conversation to make any sense.

I called him to tell him he was going to have another grandchild and he cried. He was so happy. He loved his grandson long before he was even born. And once Miles was born my dad would call, and sometimes was sober when he did, and ask about him and called him Inches, “because he wasn’t big enough to be Miles yet”.

When Miles was 8 months old I took him to Alaska to meet his grandfather. It was also a good bye in a sense. My dad had been drinking way too much and eating way too little. He was in the hospital, under nourished and very sick. By the time I got up there I didn’t know what to expect, but I wasn’t sure if I would ever see him again so I made sure to take Miles with me. He was home by then, skinny but doing ok. He wasn’t drinking much, but he was still drinking and of course smoking like a chimney. I basically told him that I really wanted him to get to see Miles grow up and that in order to do so he would have to stop smoking and drinking. I wanted him to be able to teach Miles how to hunt, and to take him fishing. I also knew that would never happen. But I hoped.

That was June of 2006.

Since then my dad and I have talked perhaps 5 times. He remembered my birthday. He would call very rarely and see how Miles was doing. It was like talking to a stranger every time. Since I had seen him he was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease which was very controllable if he would remember his medication. If he didn’t remember he would pass out. Hitting his head, knocking out his teeth, bleeding everywhere. He was still drinking, occasionally making an attempt to go to rehab, but never did.

He called me in early January, left a message. He wanted to make sure we weren’t floating away in the heavy rains we had been having down here. He sounded drunk in the message and I never called him back.

On January 21st I had gone shopping with a couple of my coworkers. On the way back to the museum my phone rang and it was my brother. I had just seen him, he and his wife had visited, so even though he never calls me I didn’t think it was too strange.

“Dad’s gone” is all he said. He was crying.

“gone?” – me

“He’s dead” my brother says, sounding nearly hysterical

I don’t know really what was said after that. I came back to work, organized a couple of things and went home. Headed to Alaska the next day. That’s another story.

Since then I have cried, been angry, kinda bitchy really. I have run the whole gamut of emotions. I don’t regret the last 2 ½ years where my dad and I really didn’t talk much. I had to have it that way. There were too many times I was disappointed by him not being there. If I accepted the fact that he wasn’t then I couldn’t be hurt. What I didn’t really realize was how much I hoped deep down inside that he could change and I would have a dad again. I see it now with how often I see or hear things and think how he would have enjoyed them. Mitch and I visited Depoe Bay over on the coast the other weekend and I realized how every time I visited I would think about how much my Dad would have loved it there, with the harbor and all. I always thought that someday he might come back to Oregon and I could take him there. But he never did.

I loved my dad, I always will. I imagine some day I might figure out how to deal with these emotions I have been having. How do you ever accept the death of a parent, especially when they were only 66 and shouldn’t have died yet?

Wish I had a picture

While at a friends house tonight Miles was playing on the floor in the kitchen. I grabbed him between my two feet in an attempt to slide him across the floor. He says to me,

"hey, I'm not an egg!!"

(like penguins, get it?)

So funny and cute (and intelligent I must say)