You Are the Man

Had dinner with my dad tonight, and I caught a little glimpse of the man I used to know. I'd like to think that even when he doesn't remember the person he used to be, I will.

You are the man who went swimming with your friends in high school and watched as your clothes were stolen by hooligans (I’m assuming that’s what you called assholes in the 1940’s). Later, when that fact was included in the town newspaper, you saved it in your box of keepsakes. You are the man who saved embarrassing newspaper clippings about yourself.

You are the man who, when mistaken for Joe DiMaggio on a commercial airline flight, said nothing to correct the stewardess. You are the man who let an airplane full of people think you were cheating on Marilyn Monroe with my mother.

You are the man who, when playing restaurant with your daughters, ignored the plastic peas and pork chops, and ordered a Manhattan instead.

You are the man who once convinced the staff of a Holiday Inn to take your daughter’s puke-covered teddy bear and clean it up. You then convinced the same staff to sew the bear back together when it came undone in the wash. You are the man who saved the life of Snuggles.

You are the man who once ate a chocolate-covered grasshopper with your business associates when visiting New York City, and you are the man who still refuses to eat at any restaurant that features a buffet.

You are the man who took me to celebrity-studded theatrical performances, five-star restaurants, and once drove around Washington, DC for three hours to ensure I was able to spend the night in a hotel with a pool. You are the man who first introduced me to duck a l’orange and filet mignon. And you are the only man who loved the movie Dumb and Dumber as much as I do.

You are the man who, upon learning I was going to marry a man you’d never met, who drove a motorcycle, pierced his own ear, wore his hair longer than mine, and doubled as the lead singer and the drummer in a rock band — continued to say nothing. You are the man who ignored the fact that my mother’s head began to spin off her body in front of you, and you are the man who stood up, headed for the nearest bar, and bought your future son-in-law a drink. You are the man who accepted my husband just as you did me — unconditionally.

You are the man who still watches Saturday Night Live, even though you often don’t know who the host is, and never like the musical guest.

You are the man who can stay out later than me, get up earlier than me, and accomplish more than me in between.

And that is the man I will always remember.

Inside Beauty.

Will someone else break the news to my favorite aunt that I am not, as she has labeled me all these years, "beautiful inside and out"? I always had a feeling, but now I know it is officially true. I know, because today a really cute inside-parts doctor told me in no uncertain terms that my kidneys aren't pretty. Which is really a drag, since they were on my short list of things I don't hate about myself. Size of feet, number of arms, formation of kidneys. Now the list is even shorter.

Once a boy tells you you're not pretty inside, you change a little. I'm not going to turn to prostitution or anything, but I sure won't be wearing a kidney-exposing outfit anytime soon. I just know people are going to sense it when they pass me in stores.

"Mommy! Mommy! What's wrong with that lady?" (Pointing.)

(Mother slaps rude pointing child's hand for being rude and pointing.)

"She has ugly kidneys. Now stop staring or you'll get ugly kidneys, too."

As of now the prognosis is still unknown, so I just hope all my pretty-kidneyed friends will still like me. I know my sister will, but I'm pretty sure that's only because we're on an even playing field, since her liver has got to need a makeover by now.

Has Been.

It's been a while since my last post. Actually, it's been a pet euthanasia, address change, family fallout, CT scan, and one airborne headlight since my last post. And I'm not the only one with distractions. Everyone on my Reading List gave up, died or apparently became paralyzed from the neck down, because only two authors I've so proudly recommended have uploaded anything new in the past six months. One of those was to announce their blog's retirement.

Along with my Reading List, I've updated my photo as well. The time has come for me to admit my eyes don't look like that anymore. Either that, or come up with some believable reason as to why it's impossible to recognize me from the old photograph, which I've tried...and failed to do. I think the image you see now perfectly captures the me from further away, say last year or so. (Baby steps.)

More changes are on the way, as I now must learn how to write while wearing skinny jeans. Even more challenging will be writing while simultaneously backhanding my husband--his first response to my new pants was, "That makes me think of Danny Devito." He tried to explain that it was an especially funny episode of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, but does it really matter? I can't think of a scenario in which the appropriate response to something I'm wearing would be "That makes me think of Danny DeVito."

As 2011 comes to a close and I painfully rip What Has Been away to reveal What Is, Danny DeVito likeness and all, I am uplifted by the promise of more stories to share. Like that of my cannibal goldfish. My foray into the world of roller derby. And the fact that I am now living in a bed and breakfast, and have already been seen in a towel by more than one guest.

Stay tuned, followers. I am back!

It's All About The Alzheimer's, Part Four: Blessings In Disguise

Whoever said there was no upside to Alzheimer’s hasn’t met my dad. I don’t know if this is one of those “gifts from God” I’ve been reading so much about in those we’re-filed-in-self-help-but-really-should-be-called-temporary-distraction-from-drinking-books or what, but recently when I showed my father a photo of myself from high school, he didn’t recognize me. I know, this is where I’m supposed to feel a shift, a major downturn in our relationship, and start the acceptance stage of grief, where I know I am indeed losing him to the disease. But instead -- euphoria! That ugly, overbite-ridden girl with glasses and a Dee Snyder haircut is not his daughter. She can’t be.

I find this turn of events inspiring. If he’s going to start forgetting things about me, let’s look at the bright side. That means he’ll forget that first day I was handed car keys, and then promptly backed out of the driveway and into a telephone pole. He won’t bring up that time I fell in love with a boy at summer camp and cried in front of everyone when he was expelled for bringing in beer. We can once again go to the zoo together, because he won’t remember the last time we went, when the chimps did really adult things with one another that no one should witness with their father. These are all good things.
Sadly, as of now, he remembers all those things. I know, because I asked. (Well, for that last one I simply mentioned the zoo and gauged his reaction. Trust me, he remembers.) But there’s always tomorrow, right?