Mending

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 61. Instead, he will perpetually be 58 in my mind. Even when (knock on wood) I surpass him in age some day. A little less than three years ago he began having medical problems. Then one day, halfway across the country in my dorm room, as I attempted to finish college, my mom called to tell me that my father had cancer.

It’s never easy to have a parent with cancer. When you’re hundreds of miles away, trying to finish off college which is hugely important to that parent, it’s even more difficult. I was spared seeing a lot of the bad stuff with my father, but I also missed out on so much more.

To say my dad and I had a good relationship would be more than sugar-coating it. It’d be like taking it, dipping it in molasses, then honey, loading on some sugar, and icing it off for a finish. You can ask my college therapist. It was verbally and emotionally abusive and in the end, I distanced myself from him so he couldn’t hurt or try to control me any more.

But when I came home from college, my father was like a different person. He was reaching out to me. When he took a trip down our familiar road, he quickly apologized and tried to make amends. But I didn’t recognize it for what it was.

After a lifetime of abuse followed by apologies followed by more abuse, I didn’t buy it from him. And I thought I’d have time to set our relationship right when he was well. To me that meant confronting the past and moving into the future. I didn’t realize at the time there wouldn’t be a future.

All through the summer, I shunned his attempts to connect, or reconnect with me. I feared that we’d have a future filled with tumult, and possibly his disowning me for various reasons. In the end, it didn’t matter. He died very unexpectedly, at the start of September. At that point we were supposed to be at the “it’s all downhill from here stage” so I didn’t anticipate a call to get to the hospital one afternoon. By the time I got to the hospital that day, my father was gone.

I went through a lot after that because I didn’t make peace with him when he died. Friends constantly reassured me he knew I loved him, just like I knew he loved me. And one day it was over. I realized that letting go of my father meant letting go of everything, including the pain of the past. It all became moot as far as I was concerned. And somehow it feels like the matter is more than just let go, it feels fixed. Somehow I feel closer to him now than I ever did before.

Playthings

The receptionist at work has She-Ra on her computer desktop. And Jem on her T-shirt. So it all started between the two of us. Remember Pillow People? Remember the Get-Along Gang? She has, in the past, emailed me a WAV file of the Jem theme song. I’ve sent her links on Strawberry Shortcake.

I loved Strawberry Shortcake growing up. I had a sleeping bag, figurines, records (we’re talking vinyl too), and saw all the videos. I wanted to be Strawberry Shortcake. Or one of her friends. Even as an adult, I have a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt (which I probably can no longer wear since it’s too big) and an air-freshener in my car.

Last night Best Friend reached out to give it a swing as it hung off the mirror. “I love your Strawberry Shortcake.” The air freshener has long since lost its fragrance. I got in about three years ago. But I do not replace it. Unlike the air freshener, I found some of my figurines over Christmas. They still smell. Our toys growing up rocked!

They recreated Strawberry Shortcake. I do not like her. They tried to make her all hip in jeans and a straw hat. Same with her friends. They brought back Care Bears and Transformers too. Kids today need to get their own toys. Quit stealing ours and changing them all around. It interferes with my reminiscing.

Remember Popples? Remember Pound Puppies? Wish-World Kids? …

Not That Into You

So, unless you’ve been living under a rock, you should know that there is this book out there based on an episode of Sex and the City. And the book is called He’s Just Not That Into You. Having never read the book (but having both scanned through it and seen that particular ep of Sex and the City) it appears to me that the premise of the book is fairly simple. If he’s not putting in the effort to call you/see you/be with you, he’s probably not into you. Not being a guy, I can neither support or dispute this concept (gentlemen out there, please feel free to comment if you’re willing).

Here’s what I want. Someone should write the counterpart She’s Just Not That Into You in an effort to explain female behavior and give some hints. My friend K. thinks I should write this. I think it could very well be a collective effort. Ladies what do you think?

In the meantime, I will start with these. If a girl isn’t returning your phone calls for a week, she’s just not that into you. If her roommate answers the phone while she is out and tells you that she is just too busy right now, she’s just not that into you. If you’re hitting on a girl at Barnes and Noble and she continually tells you she has a boyfriend while getting away from you as quickly as possible, (all together now) she’s just not that into you!

According to the men’s book, and many other people out there, men like to be the hunters. But shouldn’t hunters admit it when the prey is being elusive? Move on to greener pastures and a more willing one. Isn’t it in all of our best interests (men and women) to realize that effort equals interest?

Death to Scrunchy

Single girl icon Carrie Bradshaw once said that no self-repecting New York woman would be caught dead in a hair scrunchy. I’d like to think that is true outside of New York, especially in other metropolitan areas, specifically Chicago. Though not New York or LA, we’re still pretty damn fashionable and current here. Alas, last night I was proven wrong when I saw not one but two scrunchies!

I will be the first to admit that I did, in fact, wear scrunchies in junior high and even high school. As a cheerleader, red and gold ones came in handy. However, since my cheerleading days I wave not worn nor bought a scrunchy and would never, EVER think of doing so again except maybe to wash my face (as Ms. Bradshaw concedes as well). On second thought: no, not even for that.

Since last night no one was grooming or in junior high at the bar I went to, I can only hope that since we were there to see an 80s cover band, these two ladies were going for a hint of nostaliga. However, taking into consideration the bangs accompanying the scrunchy as well as the “fashion” (if you want to call it that) and the fact that these women had scrunchies at their disposal, I would say that to these women, scrunchies are cool.

Yikes. Shame on those women for their support of the scrunchy. I prefer to see a scrunchy discarded, like one I saw in a stairwell in my building, or in a bathroom at the very least. Ladies, you’ve given Chicago a bad name indeed. Please, for the your sake, for the city’s sake, for all women’s sakes, lose the scrunchy.