The One About My Dad

 

A day late and a dollar short for Father’s Day, but it’s always hard.

I was a bona fide daddy’s girl growing up. There was a  good five years difference between me and my sister, and then another two between me and my littlest brother. That gave me seven years of being the son my dad wanted. And another 5 before the brother got interesting.

By 12, my father had taught me how to hunt and field dress a deer, reload a shotgun because relocating the raccoons didn’t work out, use a couple of hand tools to put a swing set together, how to lose with grace and courage, and how to cuss the son of bitch out who cheated. He taught me to love and to help people. He’d taught me to drive a stick shift, a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, from one end of the pasture to the other while he shot quail from the passenger side window.

He taught me that life goes on when he pulled my brother out of the cattle tank and couldn’t save him.

He taught me that it was OK to cry.

He taught me that, if you’re able, you work. No excuses. No bullshit. And if you’re not, you contribute in other ways and that there will always be people (like him) to help you.

He was a fireman that, on his off days, remodeled houses. He taught me how to put up a ceiling fan and put in light fixtures. He taught me twice why it’s important to turn off the circuit breaker. (Sorry, Daddy, I am still terrified of electrocuting myself.)

He taught me the importance of a tension breaking joke. (LOUD HORN: “Don’t shoot! I’ll marry the whole damn family!) He taught me patience and the desire to do it right the first time – not to be perfect – but just so you can rest later. His favorite thing to say was, “Give your laziest man your hardest job and he’ll find the easiest way to do it.” He thought he was lazy.

He taught me to stand up for others. And to always give someone the chance to do the right thing. And then he taught me to pick my battles. He taught me the courage of not saying anything and letting people make their own mistakes.

Even if he did let me marry one of them.

Before he walked me down the aisle, he turned and said, “It’s not too late. Tell me right now that you don’t want to do this and I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.”Because that’s the kind of guy he was.

He was.

My dad didn’t live to see my son. Though on his 60th birthday, I gave him a framed picture of my first sonogram. That was July. By December, he was gone.

So, help someone out if you can today. Or maybe cuss them. Do it for my dad.

TL;DR: I miss my dad. 

 

 

The One About Opinions

They’re like assholes, right? Everyone’s got one and most of them stink.

Had an argument that left me walking away shaking my head. Discussed these kids who’d  worn masks while flinging firecrackers around campus in MO somewhere. This friend of mine said that the reaction to it was adding to the “pussification” of America.

All the things are wrong with that. All of them.

Mass shootings are not funny. Pretending to have one isn’t funny. These are things I could not get him to understand without the AR-15, 2nd Amendment conversation that I’m so tired of having. He wasn’t ready to listen to the fact that gunfire-ish sounds in a school building was terrifying. It could have set off a plan that the students didn’t know about and maybe even gotten one of them shot.

He could not hear me.

The second amendment doesn’t protect the use of fireworks.

He could not hear me.

When I went on to his use of the word pussification, all hell broke loose.

Women are not weak. Having a vagina is not an automatic second class citizen sentence.

It ended with the thought that if pussy is so terrible, then why does he chase it so hard?

THAT is the only point of agreement we found.

So, fuck that guy in his dirty, stinking opinion.

TL;DR: Opinions are fine, but be open to logical arguments. Idiots abound. To think they don’t would be a rook mistake.

The One About Sticks

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even pretend to know where the answers live. I might have seen them once from a distance, but I probably wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them again.

There are all these self-help books out there. They all basically say the same thing. They want you to know that you’re not as worthless as you feel and there’s HOPE for you. It’s not that easy.

Hope can suck a frog.

Sure wish I could do that.

Go suck a frog.

I hope one day I’ll..

Go suck a frog.

With a wish and a little fairy dust anything is possible…

Go suck a herd of frogs.

Get off your ass. Stop internally beating yourself up and take some action. My daddy used to tell me, “You’re not a tree. If you don’t like something MOVE.”

TL;DR: If you don’t like something go get your stick and CHANGE it. Sitting around wishing is the same a pissing an moaning. That’s a rook mistake.

The One About the Rain

Fuck this shit.

The one about social media idiots…

Come on, guys.  If you type things you wouldn’t say to someone’s face, stop.  I’m a parent and I’m not as media social as most people I know, but I’m not a insensitive inflamed asshole either.  Reading about Curt Schilling’s experience makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with the world my son is growing up in.

In our extended family, we only have boys.  Nephews and cousins – all male and under 13.  We raise them to think before they speak.  It’s an acquired skill and one they’re still acquiring.  They weren’t born with it. If they had their way, it’d be Twinkies for every meal and poo flinging competitions instead of 5th grade.  But they would never say anything so disgusting and callous about a girl – whether they knew her or not.  And at least one of them would let loose a loaded cuss-cannon of vulgarity directed at anyone who would say such things.  (Hey, they’re not perfect.  We’re working on it.)

Their excuse though is that they’re kids.  They have mistakes to make based on a lack of wisdom that can only come from age and experience.

I cannot understand those men-shaped flesh bags.  And I don’t want to.