Self-Help Serendipity

On Saturday Garrett and I ran errands and then grabbed an impromptu bite to eat.  It had been a balmy day, and falling into a comfortable chair and sharing a cocktail early in the evening felt sort of magical.  As we headed out, bellies full and thirst quenched, I signed the credit card slip and was struck by how identical my signature looked in comparison to the memory I have of my dad's signature.  It was a fleeting feeling but a strong one.  One of those moments that I have come to cherish where out of nowhere, for a brief, comforting second I'll feel just the slightest shift in the electricity around me and know my dad is there. 

Sunday morning I woke up and was sitting on the couch in a sleepy haze drinking coffee when my attention was drawn to the bookshelf in my living room.  There are a few books on that shelf that belonged to my dad and I pulled one down because I thought I remembered his signature being on the inside cover.  It turned out to just be a pre-printed bookplate with "From the Library of John Woodcock" written on it in a loopy cursive font, and though I was disappointed I began to flip through the pages.  

The book was Hugh Prather's There Is A Place Where You Are Not Alone and if you are not familiar with Prather or his work, you are probably familiar with his Saturday Night Live alter-ego Jack Handy.   It's about as cheesy as Self Help gets, but there are a lot of great kernels of wisdom too.  There were dog-eared pages and underlined passages and it was wonderful to see the words through another's eye.  I giggled to myself in spots in an effort to combat the lingering feeling of loss that inevitably bubbled up, because access to his complexity is one of the things I miss most about no longer having my dad around.  He was just so much than met the eye.

He was the definition of masculinity, yet he was raised by four women.  He made his mark on the world as a professional athlete, yet he was one of the gentlest people you could meet.  One of the most complex parts of his personality was that he was plagued by philosophical questions.  Though raised in a Christian household he explored other avenues of spirituality with a guarded curiosity.  He could quote bible verses just as easily as he could quote the advice of famous coaches.  He truly sought to understand the meaning of life so that he could act on it efficiently.  Shortly after he died my mother and I looked at each other and had the most hysterical laugh over the fact that at least NOW HE KNEW.  He finally had all the answers to those questions that plagued him, and it was honestly a relief.  It was the kind of dark humored full body laughter that brings such comfort in the wake of tragedy, and to this day whenever I ponder the magnanimity that is the human condition, I am always a bit envious of the fact that my dad knows how it all works.  It's a shame that he and I will never have a drunken fireside chat.  

So as the caffeine perked me up, I curled up on the couch, eyebrows furrowed, and nodded my way through various pages of "deep thoughts." When I got to the end of the book I read something that just instantly stopped me in my tracks.  It was in a section coincidentally about Early Deaths and I could almost hear my father reading it aloud:

You who have seen another go so quickly, close your eyes for just an instant and remember some moment when this loved one felt near to you and yet was physically far from your sight.  That feeling was not an illusion. You will see him again.  He has only left a little while.  There was a special work that required only him and, although you don't remember now, you wished him well and gave him your blessing as he went.  His thanks for your understanding remains a warm and gentle place in your heart, and whenever you wish, he will support you on your way, even as you did for him. 

Cheesy self help or not, reading those words felt like a hug that I desperately needed.  We don't sit down and chat -- I can't stop by to see him or call him on the phone -- but when I connect with him, the feeling is not an illusion.  It was nice Sunday morning reminder that even though we are no longer physically close, every once in a while we can still sit down and have a little Coffee Talk.

Alphabet: A History - (A) Advice

In one of my earliest memories my dad picks me up off the ground and throws me over his head. He is wearing a matching red Adidas track suit with black stripes down the side. It is the early eighties and this outfit is worn without a lick of irony. There are many Adidas track suits in my memories, actually. Also baggy mesh shorts, and soft heather grey muscle-shirts sporting XXL across the front. There are practice jerseys and logo’d sweatpants from just about every team my dad every played for.


Our garage contains an array of fitness implements -- an incline ab-board made of shiny red leather, a pull up bar I enjoy hanging from and a bench press that is fun to lay on. A worn looking speed bag by his work bench has surely seen better days, but so have the hands that inflicted all that damage. There is an inversion table, and another medieval looking contraption in the middle of the room where one must wear gravity boots to hang upside down.  All at once they are the tools of the trade and the side effects of his 7 year NFL career. As I child I assume this is how everyone’s garage looks: one part home gym, one part work bench, one part archive of a suburban life packed neatly in matching boxes.


I am about 9 when my dancing begins to evolve into a more competitive outlet, rather than a social hobby. Since our rehearsals become more intense, my dad rearranges his equipment in the garage to assure I have a space of my own. My hot pink stereo plugged in at the tool bench, I am free to tap and twirl at all hours of the day. We spend hours together perfecting my craft, and while he is well qualified for the coaching job, I hardly believe this is how he envisioned using his years of hard won competitive experience.


You would never know considering the time he dedicates to my dancing. There is at least a five year window where he spends each Super Bowl Sunday driving my family up to a dance competition in a Sacramento Hotel that will be one block away from the building where I nail an interview and get my first real job 15 years later. Rather than join the other dads who are off at the hotel bar cheering on their teams, he stands in a banquet room cheering on Team Holly hoping all the while that I employ the breathing techniques he learned while playing in the playoffs.  He promised they would work when my nerves would try and take over.


Back at home his disciplined athleticism shows up while I rehearse. When I have trouble nailing a certain routine, he teaches me how to close my eyes and visualize. When he tucks me in at night we sit together and meditate as I see myself executing perfectly it in my mind. I will use this technique again and again to comfort myself in my adult life when the anxiety of something impending keeps me up at night.  "If you can see it, you can be it."  When I confess that I am nervous about an upcoming performance, he tells me over and over, “What the mind can conceive and you can believe, you can achieve.” And I am certain he is one of the most brilliant men I know to dream up a philosophy that rhymes.


Of course when I lose my focus, he is right there to call me on that too. When I am half-assing it, he asks me if that is how I would do it if I were in front of a table of judges. Would that performance win a 1st Place Rosette? Or do I have something better inside that I'm holding back?  Being the smart-mouth that I am I tell him that I don’t need his opinion. "I KNOW dance, dad. You know football. The two are very different, obviously."   I am annoyed with his hard nosed approach in these moments and I tell him I no longer need his help.


“Always be coachable, Holly or you open yourself up to getting beat. If you already know everything, you don’t have anywhere to go. Appreciate feedback in all of its forms. Show me someone who is defensive and I’ll show you someone I can beat. The person who is always willing to learn how they can be better, always has a chance to be the best.”


I’m sure I sighed and walked away rolling my eyes at the time, but 20 years later what I would give to have just one more piece of that advice. 
___________________

It's A Happy Life But Someone Is Missing

I've been told I read a lot of depressing books, but it is mostly because I find many of them comforting in their ability to articulate loss.  Most recently I read Elizabeth McCracken's book about her experience grieving over her stillborn child.  She mentions that death doesn't just change your physical life, it changes the entire landscape of your life.  She acknowledges "that life goes on but that death goes on too.  A person who is dead is a long, long story."
__________


This morning I went to the library and sat down to flip through some magazines.  I came across an article about Gwyneth Paltrow in In Style where she discusses her new cookbook (what doesn't that woman do?) full of family inspired recipes.  The interviewer asked her if this process made her miss her father and her reply struck a chord.  Obviously I'm paraphrasing but she said something about how the saddest part of losing someone is when the memories fade.  And how when she thinks about her dad now, she thinks about how he wouldn't know where to find her.  He doesn't know where she lives and has never met her husband or children.  The family home that they shared is gone and that she sometimes feels more worry than sorrow because he would probably feel lost.  
_________

Right afterward I read a snippet in the new O Magazine about Meghan O'Rourke's newest book The Long Goodbye, a memoir about losing her mother.  She says, "After a loss you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead.  It doesn't come naturally."
_________


Today is my dad's birthday.  He would have been 57 and even though he has been gone for 13 years I am still learning to believe that he is dead.  O'Rourke is right, it does not come naturally.  His loss is something I have to remind myself of daily, and inevitably I do.  It has absolutely changed the landscape of my life in every way.  Grieving is this never ending drive down a long and curvy highway.  You get further away from the point of origin, but you never really stop traveling.  And no matter where you end up, it is always measured in relation to where you started.  
_________

The year following my father's death I spent a lot of time driving.  I was commuting to a town 30 miles south of where I lived for school, then back up to a town 20 miles north of where I lived for work.   I spent hours on various highways in my cute little pink Jetta that I had bought all by myself 2 years prior, crying all the way to school and work, only pulling it together at the last possible minute so as to be presentable to the public.  Each time I opened the car door to get back inside I was overwhelmed by the weight of the sadness that waited inside.  
 _________

McCracken says in her memoir that you can't out-travel sadness, "You will find it has smuggled itself along in your suitcase. It coats the camera lens, it flavors the local cuisine. In that different sunlight, it stands out, awkward, yours, honking in the brash vowels of your native tongue in otherwise quiet restaurants. You may even feel proud of its stubbornness as it follows you up the bell towers and monuments, as it pants in your ear while you take in the view. I travel not to get away from my troubles but to see how they look in front of famous buildings or on deserted beaches. I take them for walks. Sometimes I get them drunk. Back at home we generally understand each other better."

Shortly after my dad's funeral my mother's good friend Marilyn gave her some scalloped edged handkerchiefs, "For the land mines," she explained.  "You won't always see them coming, but at least you will be prepared."  The land mines are always there, no matter how much time has passed.  And when they hit, it's like a punch in the gut that makes you sob until you feel like you can't breathe.  This year, one of the biggest land mines that I've uncovered was right there in the the library reading about Gwyneth Fucking Paltrow.  My memories are fading.  They are all that is left, and even they are no guarantee.  It's not that I don't remember who my dad was, but the little details are getting fuzzy:  how he said my name, the way he smelled.  I think I can remember them, but I can never really be sure.  And the fact is, I will never be sure again.

Uncertainty is just another part of the landscape of this journey.  Another chapter in the long story of the dead. 

Be Where You Are

I know, I know two posts in one day -- you hardly know me anymore.  I'll explain it with this complicated series of mathematical equation:

Training for a Half Marathon = Lots of running
Lots of running = Lots of time with my own thoughts
Time with my own thoughts = Notes to Myself = Blog Posts

So that pretty much sums it up, mmmkay?

Anyway I had a terrible run today which sucks, obviously.  It doubly sucked because my run on Saturday was so awesome that I felt like I was finally getting the hang of this running thing.  I was having all these grand epiphanies, feeling pretty great during the run, and fantastic afterward.

Today, however, was the pits.  I was supposed to run 3 miles and only ran 1.5.  When I showed up to the gym all the treadmills were taken.  When I went back a second time my brain had practically given up before I even got on the damn thing.  

(Sidebar:  I think treadmill running is sort of equivalent to water torture, but right now it is a necessary evil so that I can fit in some training runs in during the week and not totally kill my post-work social life.  And by social life, I mean time I spend CrossFitting, running errands, cooking dinner, seeing my boyfriend, oh yeah and sleeping.) 

Life is wild these days, my friends.  

So where was I?  

Ah yes, a sucky run.  My run was so sucky in fact, that it took me just as long to shower and clean up afterward as it did to actually work out.  And I spent the bulk of that primp time beating myself up for having such a crappy run -- reminding myself that I would never get anywhere with a performance like that, and how the hell did I expect to be ready to run 13 miles by June if I can't run 2 without bitching out on a Tuesday afternoon?  

But then do you know what I realized?  I realized that I did not sign up for this half marathon to add another item to my List of Things I Feel Bad About.  Oh, and Newsflash:  Beating myself up is not going to make me run faster.  So eff all that noise!

I've been thinking a lot about my dad lately since starting CrossFit and taking on a few more athletic endeavors.  He was a great athlete and super educated about all this stuff that I am bumbling around and trying to figure out and sometimes I feel really sad that he is not around to give me advice or that I can't call him like I wanted to last night when I PR'd on my deadlift at CrossFit (255 lbs baby...Holla!)  But I know he is around and supporting me, and every once in a while I can hear him clear as day.  And today in that locker room was one of those times.

Be where you are, he said.

Don't beat yourself up for where you aren't.  
Be where you are.  
Own it.  
Build on it.
And you will kill it. 

Yes today's run wasn't my best.  But 6 months ago I made a tiny change by prioritizing fitness.  5 months ago I wouldn't have gotten up and packed my gym bag to bring to work.  4 months ago  I wouldn't have gone to the gym on my lunch break.  3 months ago I wouldn't have gone back a second time when all the treadmills were full.  2 months ago I wouldn't have run on that treadmill for 25 minutes.  

Had I not taken one tiny, seemingly meaningless step forward 6 months ago, I would not be where I am right now.  So I am just going to be over here where I am if that's ok with you.  Not feeling a damn bit guilty.  And 6 months from now?  Who knows where I will be.  


 

Happy, Indeed

I am 32 today which -- I don't know -- just seems so novel.  So adult, really.  I feel like I'm pulling the wool over someone's eyes a bit. 

In my mind there are parts of me that still feel like I'm about 21 and still wide eyed and trying to figure life out.  But then again every once in a while that little old lady inside of me comes out a bit too.  In fact tonight we are celebrating my birthday dinner at our favorite sushi place because I have a Groupon.  Holla!  Yep, I'm excited that not only do I get to have my favorite sushi, but with a coupon.  Ok, that little old lady probably comes out more than I would like to admit these days.

The other night I realized that when I met Garrett I was 25 and he was 22!  "We were just babies!" I told him, "You were barely legal!"  But it feels nice to have found someone to grow up a bit with.  I love that our relationship still has the newness and excitement that it did when we first met, but we also have 7 years of history together.  We have figured a lot of life out just the two of us, and that feels increditbly comforting. 

I recently rescued some old family home movies from my mom's garage and transferred them from 8mm to DVD.  I had to wait 3 weeks to find out what was on them and if I'm being honest I was excited about them, but mostly I was anxious.  For one, it would be the first time I had seen any video of my dad since he passed away 12 years ago and I was a little apprehensive to experience something so emotional (and believe me it was incredibly heart-wrenching just to hear his voice again.)  But my other anxiety had more to do with seeing myself at around age 12 because ohmygod, AWKWARD!  Bad clothing!  Terrible hair!  Immature behavior! OH MY!  Why didn't anyone tell me?  (Oh wait, they probably did.)  There really should not be any visual evidence left of anyone's adolescent years, am I right?  

Anyway, so the other night I put in one of the DVDs for Garrett and together we had a good laugh.  With that 7 years behind us, he has not only gotten to know me well, but has become very well acquainted with all the members of my family so I think he was especially excited to see all of their awkward moments as well.  The 90s were such a goldmine of bad fashion decisions, I cringe, but it was hysterical to enjoy all of us at our silliest.  Well at least until I realized that we were watching video from 20 years ago and -- OMG, WHERE DID THE TIME GO WHEN DID I GET SO OLD? 

One of the many home videos on the DVD from my dad's 37th birthday.  His arrival home from work and subsequently getting the dogs all riled up and excited as he was wont to do.  My mom narrating as she filmed about all the fun things in store for the evening.  There was vido of him admiring the banner that I had painstaikingly illustrated in Print Shop and printed on our black and white dot matrix printer.  It was just a real slice of Americana, and it was so odd to think that this was our lives then.  Even weirder to think about was that on that day my dad was turning 37 -- only 5 years older than I am now.  I can remember it so vividly, standing excitedly in my denim cutoffs and my Stanford sweatshirt -- at the time I was sure that was where I was going to college (BAHAHAHAHA!).  

Then came the rest of the family, and of course all of it was on film, my grandparents showing up, my aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Everyone spending the evening clinking glasses in celebration.  My dad was just so damn happy to be celebrating with his family, eating cake, cracking jokes, opening presents -- and just being his normal happy go-lucky self around his peeps.  It was wonderful to see and remember.  Knowing the backstory, he had a lot of stuff going on in his life right then, but you never would have known it because on that night he was just so present and enjoying the moment of celebrating with the people he loved the most. 

That touched me for a million reasons that I won't even get into, but the most powerful takeaway for me was that he was turning 37 that year -- and sadly only 5 short years later he would be gone.  You just never know how long you have or how many of these precious and fleeting moments you will get to enjoy, you know?  And no matter what is going on, I want to enjoy those moments just like he did.  Today, even though I am a year older and it's fun to whine about all of that, I am also trying to remind myself all day how lucky I am just to be here.  How lucky I am to have adorable coworkers make a big deal this morning, to have my family send cute text messages all day, to get emails from friends, cards in my mailbox, to have tweets and Facebook messages find their way to me, and to be having dinner with my favorite guy (WITH MY DAMN COUPON!).  This is a splendid life that I get to live and I don't want to take a minute of it for granted. 

I want 32 to be a year of being present and grateful.  

August 23, 1998

I will type this date over and over again today.


August 23rd.


It is a normal Monday around here, there is nothing particularly notable happening. I will go to work, I will see some friends. I will hit the gym and cook dinner. I will take a long hot shower at the end of a full and productive day and although it will certainly feel relaxing it will never wash away the memory of this day 12 years ago.


The memory of my father sitting outside by the pool in his blue t-shirt and shorts, breathing in the fresh air pondering why he felt under the weather. The way he walked into the house with a look of fear on his face. The way his 6’4 frame crumpled to the ground quicker than my brain could process what was going on, the way the hue of his lips and face changed almost instantly and began to match his clothing.

*

Panic in the abstract it seems like it would be this quick heart palpitating adrenaline rush, but in real life, though panic does lights the fire, it is a slow, steady and painful burn. Time stops when you evaluate the fact that there is a person at your feet who isn’t breathing. The seconds tick by as your protector becomes the person who needs to be protected. You assume this new role with every fearful breath your own body takes. Emergency calls are placed but it’s like talking underwater -- these words that are coming out of your mouth are unrecognizable, you hear them, but they can’t be yours. This can’t actually be happening. In seconds there are strangers in your home, someone else is in charge. There are needles on the ground, sinking into the carpet. There is nothing quick about panic -- time actually seems to be moving in slow motion, so much so that you become aware of everything. The smells and the thickness of the air become overwhelming, but the more you breathe, the more you are reminded that not everyone is so lucky.

*
 Being told my father was gone in a bright white hospital that had sunshine busting through every single window was like a joke with the most offensive punch line. His heart stopped, there was nothing else we could do.  They call Time of Death and it feels like a bad television show.  I look at the clock and recognize it as the same clocks from elementary school.  I wonder if they all order from the same catalog.  I am clinging to anything familiar.  We sat side by side, my mom and I, in a sad little office in leathery uncomfortable chairs as we listened to the doctor.  Here is a pamphlet that explains what happens next.  I feel sad for whoever has to write those pamphlets.  Knowing their work is going to reach people when they are at their worst.  It's thankless.  The hospital will store the body until you can make funeral arrangements, do you know who you are going to call?


The body.


I wonder how they can call him a body while my mom crumples beside me, the second crumpling parent I’ve seen today. It is freezing and I am overwhelmed by the smell of chemicals. I am 19 with my whole life ahead of me, yet I can't even fathom what life will look like anymore in this moment. Do people often know who they are going to call in these situations? I can’t imagine people carrying around funeral home information in their purse, but maybe I am wrong.


Though I would like to believe I am, and have spent hours trying to convince others, I am not an adult. And today, I finally realize that. Today I woke up as a child, but that chapter has been slammed shut without my consent and all of that is now changing. You cannot remain a child when you have to leave one third of your family in this cold, dead environment, knowing that you will never see him again.  You cannot remain a child once you have experienced this kind of loss. 


How do you go back to the house that is filled with him – with his warmth and his laughter, with his hamper full of just worn clothes and his pillow that still smelling like him? What do you do with his cologne on the bathroom counter, the one’s he let you pick out because you were his little girl and he always wanted your opinion? How do you look at his handwriting all over notes that he has left to you and left to himself? Notes that were once reminders and are now some of the only reminders left.


How does one do this at the age of 19?

*

For starters she puts her mother back in the car and drives her back home to the house. She puts one foot in front of the other and picks up the one remaining needle on the living room floor. She stops to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation and to cry at the devastation. She gives hugs and gets angry. She protects her memories as she falls off to sleep each night. She sees family and sees friends. Eventually she goes back to work. She hits the gym and she cooks dinner. She takes long, hot showers at the end of productive days.


But twelve years later, she still wakes up and can’t believe that he is gone.

A Reason to Eat Cake

He was the first man to hold my hand.
He was the first man to kiss my forehead.
He was the first man to protect me from harm.
He was the first man to call me Princess. 
He was the first man to tell me he loved me. 

He taught me to be humble while still having confidence in myself.
He taught me to be coachable instead of defensive.
He taught me to be silly and to laugh, most often, at myself. 
He taught me how to catch.
He taught me to include everyone because it doesn't feel good to be left out.
He taught me that integrity is worth more than money.
He taught me that education can never be taken away from you.
He taught me to parallel park in a Suburban.
He taught me to live for adventure.
He taught me to be relentless. 

He told me that one day I would appreciate a cold beer on a hot day.
He told me I was smart, and I shouldn't let guys take advantage of me.
He told me to follow my dreams whether people said I was crazy or not.
He told me I should respect my elders. 
He told me that one day I would be as beautiful as my mother. 
He told me that everyday was my masterpiece. 
He told me to always remember that family was the most important thing in life. 

He gave me the gift of gab.
He gave me a laugh that's contagious.
He gave me unconditional love even when I was bratty.
He gave me lectures when I wanted to pierce my tongue and get a tattoo.
He gave me shit for loving New Kids on the Block. 
He gave me everything I ever asked for and never asked for anything in return.

He would love that I grew up to be a ball-breaker.
He would love that I graduated college like I promised when I told him I was dropping out. 
He would love that his nieces and nephews grew up to act like siblings. 
He would love that I FINALLY learned how to grill.
He would love busting Garrett's chops. 

He would have walked me down the aisle with pride.
He would have hugged me tightly during the father/daughter dance at my wedding.
He would have been the world's best grandpa.
He would have been proud of what I've accomplished.
He would have high fived my mom over a job well done.
He would have been my biggest cheerleader. 

He would have been 56 today.

Happy Birthday Dad. 

Care To Play Armchair Psychologist?

I was raised in a feminist household. I don’t think we called it that around the dinner table so maybe I should use a less inflammatory adjective, but as I grew older and became more aware of sociological concepts to my life, it seemed to fit. For the purpose of clarification, how I interpret that label to fit my house growing up is that men and women were equals. (Sidebar: I hate that feminist is such an inflammatory adjective, but that is another post. I’m not really looking to debate it here.) If you asked my father, a man raised by his mother and three sisters, he probably would have told you that our society should get on the matriarchal bus! He was a sweet guy, my dad, and he never let a day go by where he didn’t remind me that other people’s attitude toward gender roles should never be something that dictates what I choose to accomplish in my life. And even though he worked outside of the home and my mom always worked inside of the home, which is pretty darn traditional when you look at it, I never felt like I had to pigeonhole myself because I was female.


My foray into corporate America has surely tested that attitude. I’ve worked in offices where the men who play poker get ahead and the women with the corner offices are that stereotypical combination of bitchy and sterile. I have encountered that irritating type of unconscious sexism – which, in my opinion, is almost more anger inducing that those overt a-holes who think I should be barefoot in the kitchen and want to tell me about it.  An example: I once had a disagreement with another female co-worker (a very respectful one, I might add, that the two of us resolved like adults) only to have her older, male, supervisor come over a day later and pat me on the shoulder and say, “Boy I’m so glad that’s over, I hate to see you girls fighting on the playground.” Thanks for comparing my professional and respectful disagreement to a catty, schoolyard cat-fight, buddy. Us women – we just love to hate each other! But even amidst all that, I think you deal with lots of different types of idiocy in life, and those with a gender bias are just one type, so I don’t generally let its existence really influence my career goals. And I’m in a good spot.


That’s all I really want to say about that, I think. I’m actually I’m starting to get anxiety over the Work-Discussion word count on here, so I will get to my point. (If nothing else this blog has made me realize that I know just how to bury the lede and should probably try to work on that. Thanks for indulging me, guys!) The point is that Garrett is not in the same good career place, and boy it is not for lack of trying, objective hand on a stack of bibles, I swear. Now granted, I am 3 years older than him, but if you put our career trajectories side by side, I have clearly had EXTREMELY better luck. And for no good reason really. It’s like this enormous mystery we keep trying to figure out. Garrett is the guy who never skipped a class in college. Got perfect grades. He was that guy who made friends with his Professors and some of them are even still his mentors today. He walked at graduation with all sorts of ropes and tassels and fanfare and acknowledgment, whereas I just kind of sat in the back with my friend giggling about potentially firing off some spitballs and rolling eyes at the people like Garrett. Yet he is not That Obnoxious Guy. He is well spoken, professional, and is hard working to a fault. He is basically an employer’s wet dream.


Yet here I am – The Breadwinner.

The Breadwinner.  

That word feels like a ton of bricks. 


The emotional fallout of Garrett’s career right now is something that has to be managed daily, and is definitely stressful, but what I am really struggling with is this idea of being The Breadwinner. (Enough with that word!)  We joke about it in a lighthearted way, Garrett and I, but lately and I can’t for the life of me figure out why it's driving me nuts. I was raised in this house where I was clearly prepared for this role. Garrett and I certainly approach our relationship as a partnership and wholeheartedly support the idea that sometimes one person pulls more weight than the other. That's the benefit of partnership!  It's written right in the contract!  And with that in mind, there are areas in our relationship where Garrett pulls WAY MORE weight than me, so the problem isn’t that I feel resentful at all. I think it is just the pressure of it all. The responsibility, you know?


I wonder to myself if men feel this way? Do they struggle with the responsibility of being in charge of the winning of said bread or do they just accept that having this responsibility signifies success? I'm starting to wonder if after all this time, even though I always assumed I would go out into the world and kick ass and take names – if I unconsciously had an expectation in the back of my mind that I would pair up with someone who would have that role and I wouldn't have to worry about it.  I mean, that’s the way it worked in my household, after all. Even though my mom could have gone out and worked, she chose not to. They chose not to have my mom work outside the home. And I wonder if maybe that is what I’m struggling with – the fact that at this point there really isn’t a choice. This is my role, and until Garrett finds something better, it is going to be my role. Or until we have kids it will be role.  I mean, hell, what happens then?  The mind boggles.  My salary does the bulk of supporting us, and Garrett’s salary keeps us traveling, and eating the fancy cheese we like so much.  I’m obviously over-simplifying our finances to the extreme right now…but internet – what is with me and my semantic allergic reaction???


Paging Dr. Internet…

Fat Girl

When my mother was 16, eagerly anticipating the independence that came in the form of a Volkswagen Beetle, she passed her drivers test. As she filled out the paperwork for what would be her first Drivers License she encountered the Universal DMV Dilemma of what to write for her weight. Ultimately she decided to lie as many of us do, and so she got ballsy and put down 112 lbs.  God forbid anyone find out she only weighed in at 104. 
 If I hadn’t seen the pictures from the hospital, I would question whether or not we were actually related.  I have never had the occasion to make myself appear less…skinny – not in real life, and certainly never on paper. I have always taken after my dad’s side of the family who embody their German heritage not only in their ability to empty a stein, but in their sturdy frames.

We looked a lot alike, my father and I – same hair, same eyes, same NFL lineman shoulders. If I had a brother, he would have spent his life envious.  Our legs could have been carved out of the same marble slab.  We were a formidable pair. 

“Holy Shit, Holly, he looks like Conan the Barbarian,” Garrett said the first time he saw my parents wedding photo.  The fact that he never got to meet my father was surely a relief to him in some ways.

*Obviously Garrett meant Conan the Barbarian if he ditched the loin cloth and headdress for a baby blue tux and a paisley bowtie. God I love the 70s*

I understood what he meant but the comment made me cringe a bit because I recognized my own body in that picture and I thought of the words that I hoped my one day boyfriend would use to describe me, an Arnold Schwartzenegger character never came to mind.  But I was also proud of my father’s strength, and of the physique that he earned after decades of football.  I saw the aftermath of the NFL that they don't discuss on SportCenter -- the bruises, the surgeries. 


But my career goals never involved the NFL, so I’ve definitely struggled a bit to love this body I was gifted. I’ve told you before about my childhood foray into dance, and as a dancer my body was never a perfect fit.  Despite dedication and passion, I learned at a very early age that my body would prevent any chance I would ever have at that profession no matter how many times I casually hugged the toilet, but just in case I should try to lose about 20 lbs. I think I was 9 when this sunk in.
 Though no Swan Queen, my imperfect body has done unbelievable things for me and as someone who hopes to have children one day I look to the future now and think of all the things my body is still going to do for me – what it is capable of doing for me, and I have begun to appreciate it.  When I think of the plans I have it’s hard not to feel a little proud. Sure my body isn’t perfect, and I have definitely gotten the memo that it isn’t The Ideal (Loud and Clear! Thank you, American Media!) But this body is mine, and the narcissist inside of me finds that hard not to love.  And this is mostly why I was pretty disgusted with Fat Girl, Judith Moore’s autobiographical account of her life growing up fat.

Though chock full of writing that will just absolutely knock your socks off, she spends page after page discussing herself with such disdain. She wrote an interesting commentary about why she wrote the book, and although the book is refreshing in its frankness, I am also finding it very hard to read. Writing about something that generally doesn’t have a voice deserves praise, but having that voice be so incredibly disparaging is hard for someone with my history to reconcile, and ultimately it doesn't accomplish much.  The only place the story goes is down 30 floors to the basement of your worst shame spiral, and yet  there is nothing earned for the trip. 


I don't need every book to have a silver lining lesson, but every few pages I find it difficult to not immediately set the book down, and whisper to that little dreamer inside of her that it doesn't matter if the world doesn't thinks you are perfect.  Everything will work out just as it should – even if it doesn't end up looking quite as much like Flashdance as you once hoped it would.

Thanks to YOU and E!

First of all, thank you so much for your insight on my last post. You know sometimes a rant is just a rant -- something irritates you and you just have to complain about it.  But then sometimes you complain about something, you get a little feedback on it,  and then you realize that the REAL issue is something totally different than what you were complaining about to begin with. This, my friends, is part of why I love blogging.  

Therapy could probably work too, and would be much less public, but whatevs.

   

Anyway, I have been thinking about all of your comments and emails the other day I had a little epiphany so I thought I would share.  

Obviously the uber-mommy-ness on Facebook gets me a little riled up – that was the main point of yesterday’s post; however, after sleeping on it (and all of your reminders that Facebook is doom!) I definitely agree it is just Facebook and sweeping generalizations about a person are never productive when they are primarily based on someone’s Facebook status or even Facebook behavior (although seriously if you send me another Mafia Wars request I’MMA CUTCHEW!).

When I wrote that post there was A LOT of eye rolling anger (this is how most rants start, eh?) but as I re-read it I kept thinking of two things:  One was an adage my Mom used to repeat and the other was Keeping Up With the Kardashians.  

What?  You don't think of the Kardashian Klan when you are in deep moments of self reflection?  

Well, then, let me give you a little backstory.  Here, I'll put on my TV Announcer Voice...On a very riveting episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, Khloe must attend an Anger Management course after hitting her sister's boyfriend Scott, even though he is a total douchebag and probably deserved it...Ok TV Announcer Guy probably wouldn't have editorialized, whoops.  ANYWAY, her counselor explains to her that Anger is a secondary emotion, meaning when you feel it, you should figure out what the underlying cause is.  Which then reminded me of the adage my mom used to constantly say when I was growing up:  "Whenever you point a finger at someone, remember there are 3 pointing back at you."  Meaning, if you are bitching about something, maybe it's time to do a little looking inside to see what you are contributing the situation, eh???

You get it.  I did some reflecting.  

Something you may not know about me is that growing up an only child I spent A LOT of time with my parents, and the best part was that we had this really great relationship the three of us.  Yes, my parents were married and I was their child, but from my perspective it was the three of us against the world.  They were my protectors, my supporters, my teachers, my cheerleaders -- and although my dad was VERY involved in my life, my mom was certainly the domestic ringleader because she stayed at home.  Our family life was her life.  She devoted herself to nurturing me and my creativity, as well as to my father and the business he owned and it was more than a full time job.  It wouldn't be until I became an adult that I would really appreciate all the personal sacrifices my mother made to make our family what it was.  My childhood was amazing.  It was a really joyful time, and even as I grew older my family was my rock and my parents were absolutely the two most important people in my life.  We all existed pretty happily in this cycle (normal teenage rebellion and my father's business woes aside) until I was 19.  

Two months before my 20th birthday my father had a heart attack and died on our living room floor at the age of 44.  And just like that, in an instant, one-third of our whole life was gone.  

My parents, who had been together since they were teenagers, were no longer a twosome.  I remember so vividly driving to the hospital behind the ambulance and having that fleeting moment of consciousness where I knew that a very large chapter of my life was over.    

And it was.  

And the year following that event was the toughest I have ever lived through.  Although my mother an I developed a bond that is unbreakable to this day, my sense of safety and security died right on that living room floor with my father.  It was the year that I felt most alone.  But it was also the year that I was forced to discover the depths of my own strength.  (Not trying to sound like a Lifetime movie here, I promise.)   People generally do that awkward apology when they hear my father has passed, and because I know it comes from a good place there is always a little part of me that wants to give them a little wink and explain that yes, it was sad, but that I have chosen to let this event define my confidence and that has changed my life in the best ways.  I now know in every fiber of my being that I can experience devastation and survive, and that (surprisingly) is a feeling so comforting that at times it abolishes rational fear.  But you can't really say that in the moment without sounding glib, can you?  I usually just say thanks.  But it always gets me thinking, ss much as this has been an event that defined my life, it has also defined my mother's.  And only through my adult eyes can I really stand back and experience just how devastating it truly was for her.  

At 32 I have found a life partner and am on the cusp of being married.  I am contemplating having kids and I am making plans for the rest of my life.  I have these great expectations of having a loving happy family life just like my own, of growing old with Garrett, of carving out a life with my partner that is rewarding even when we are in our twilight years.  Of seeing our children grown.  Sharing that pride in a job well done.  Enjoying our retirement by a golf course somewhere balmy and beautiful.  I have these dreams about my future, and every time I see one, I can't help but think my mom had the same dreams.  And on that day when my father died, her dreams died right along with him.  And though I don't want to speak for her on something as silly my little blog, I know for a fact that she has spent part of the last decade trying to reconcile what this event meant for her life.  What do you do when you spend a lifetime cultivating a family and then one day it is gone.  Your husband is dead, your daughter is 20 and moving out of the house.  How did you get to this place where you are alone?

And I really marinated on this the other day when I was bitching about THOSE moms on Facebook.  As strong as the experience of living through my father's death has made me, it has put a bit of a fearful chink in my armor.  I see couples deep in love and I think -- you never know when it is going to end.   I hear people planning their lives and I think -- nothing is guaranteed.  I hear people obsessing over their children on Facebook and I get angry, but what I'm really thinking is --  you never know when it is going to end, I hope you have you figured out who you want to be without that to define you?      

And holy hell if that isn't some unconscious doomsday perspective I've got going, you all. 

I don't want to live my life in fear of it all being taken away at any moment.  I don't always want to be planning for the worst case scenario.  And I guess I hadn't realized that this is what I do, my unspoken mental chatter, until that rant other other day.  My irritation was never about mother's who love their kids.  It was never about criticizing being a mother as a valuable experience in life that deserves to be shared.  Yes, I am still annoyed by people who paint an unrealistic picture of motherhood and let it be the only thing that defines them, but I know now that my rage the other day really came more from a place of fear than anything else.  I fear that I will define myself as a mother and it will all be taken away.  And I fear the same for those who are doing the same thing.  

I don't want to live in that place.  The world is scary enough without it.   So I will take this experience and be more conscious about what lens I am looking through when getting upset.  Thank you all for your insights.  You all make an impact in my life on a daily basis and for that I am grateful.  I don't know what I'd do without you and Khloe Kardashian! 


And people think the internet and celebrities are useless....

The Trip of A Lifetime

(This post is a part of Gwen Bell's The Best of 2009 Blog Challenge. Thanks for the great inspiration idea, Amy!)

I consider myself a bit of a traveler. I mean I don't really go to super exotic locales or cliched destinations or anything (hell, I have embarrassingly only used my passport once and it was in 1986 when my hair was in full on bowl cut mode, god I should find and scan that picture) but if I have a few extra bucks in my pocket my first choice is always to spend them by getting out of town. Usually I like exploring a new place, and usually it is someplace quaint rather than extravagant, somewhere off the beaten path or somewhere seemingly ordinary. But this year I took the trip of lifetime and of all places, it was to Maui! I'm know. You are all thinking: Holly, could there be a more cliched travel destination than Maui? And the answer is, probably not. But for a few really personal reasons, it was by far the best trip I have ever taken.



Hawaii was always this mythical place in my mind growing up. My parents had lived there while my dad was in college, and even after he graduated and started playing football professionally in Detroit they spent the off seasons on the Big Island. Growing up all of their friends and members of my family had these great stories about the times they visited my parents on the islands. There were funny stories and amazing adventures, and they all painted a gorgeous picture of a what a crazy life my parents had before I was born. First of all they were in their early 20s. Imagine what you were doing when you were 22? I know I was goofing off in college and then "Finding Myself" in Los Angeles (ha!) definitely not living it up in some exotic locale. It was fascinating to me that my parents had this offbeat life before I came around -- I know that's a little self centered, but as a kid it just seemed so weird to think of your parents life before you, but it was hard to ignore when it was a life of stories re-told in such vivid technicolor. When I was young and my parents would tuck me in to bed at night I always asked for a story, and often times my father would describe tales of surfing and swimming and hiking in the lush Hawaiian landscape with its strange sounding names -- and I would drift off to sleep awaiting the day I would finally get to make sense of it all in person.

As I got older, it became less of a myth and more of a promise. You see my Grandma Marian (who passed away in 2004 and was the absolute light of our whole family) knew how much I wanted to go and was always assuring me that I would get there. Each summer all of us grandkids had the opportunity to take our own "solo trips" up to her house in Sonoma. When it was my turn to visit, she always let my fingers go walking through her perfumes and lotions -- my childhood favorites always being the L'Air du Temps bottle because it was pretty (hello 80s flashback) and a metallic tube of Crabtree & Evelyn Rosewater Hand Therapy. We spent our days visiting, doing water aerobics at her class, watching Jeopardy, having sandwiches at the Sonoma Cheese Factory, and of course always making time to catch up with her neighborhood buddies as they knew all us grandkids.

Inevitably during these trips we would stop by and say hi to her best friends (and my dad's Godparents) Mert and Don, who lived down the street. Many times they would tell stories of their recent trips to Maui altogether and how the 3 of them spent their days lounging and having cocktails and enjoying the weather at at the beach. They would always laugh when I would get upset about not having been to Hawaii yet, and say that someday I would have great friends to go with when I understood the power of The 5 o' Clock Cocktail. I would roll my eyes, of course, but they just made Maui seem so accessible. But I couldn't, in my 9 year old mind, figure out how to make it happen. So instead I'd come home from my week at Grandma Marian's and just nag my parents about it. They finally promised that they would take me when I turned 10, but frankly I'm not sure they ever really meant this. I think it was more of a finite answer to the infinite questions I would always ask "When will visit Hawaii? How long until I can see Hawaii? Can I learn how to surf? Where we will snorkel?"

WHEN YOU ARE TEN, HOLLY. WE WILL TAKE YOU WHEN YOU ARE TEN.

And so that was that. Except of course age ten came and went and we never made it to Hawaii. It's not like my parents never took me anywhere, my childhood was full of fabulous family camping adventures, the aforementioned trips to Sonoma, and one incredibly exotic trip to Bermuda (which I totally didn't appreciate a the time -- God, the regret!) but we just never really made it to Hawaii like we were supposed to when I turned 10. And so as you can imagine I pretty much brought that up annually over candles and cake. It became a bit of a family joke, actually.



I think as I got older I finally came to terms with the fact that nobody was going to Take Me To Hawaii, so I went about researching the cost of getting there myself and Holy Hell are those plane tickets pricey when you are making $12 an hour slinging mochas, so I kind of gave up the dream for awhile. I was fine doing my frolicking around the mainland and exploring California's bounty until about two years into my relationship with Garrett when he nonchalantly mentioned that his family owned a portion of a condo in Maui and would I be interested in heading out there for a couple of weeks at some point? To which my answer was, HELL-TO-THE-YES! And also immediately afterward, WHY THE HELL HAVE YOU WAITED TWO YEARS TO BRING THAT UP, BUDDY? His reply was that he had pretty much gone every summer of his entire life up until he was about 16 and so he wasn't sure that Hawaii was anything I was that excited about.

(BLINK BLINK.)

(No really, BLINK BLINK.)

So once we had a very brief repeat conversation about my likes and dislikes (LIKES: Free Condos in Maui. DISLIKES: My boyfriend thinking I would not be interested in Free Condos in Maui. See? Easy) he explained that his parents and grandparents and some teacher friends from the bay area each owned 1/12th of a condo. We could have the condo for a month if we wanted, so pretty much immediately I began to plan. Of course as travel planning goes it took us a couple years to get our time/budget/act together, but surprisingly at the end of May this year I (FINALLY) found myself on a 5 hour flight that was Maui-bound. Only twenty years after my 10th Birthday.



It was kind of a moving experience, that flight, which I realize sounds totally cheesy, but really the whole time I just kept looking out the window and thinking I can't believe I am finally going to Hawaii. I had not only packed my entire closet (which actually turned out to be a totally unnecessary rookie mistake) but also a lifetime of anticipation! And let me tell you when that plane finally landed I just let all those emotion loose! I actually cried when the plane landed because I WAS FINALLY HERE! I was finally able to see the places I had dreamed about as a child, to feel the ultimate relaxation with my best friend that I had heard about as a teen, and to see the beauty that I had envied as an adult. I had a moment of sadness because neither my father nor my grandmother were alive to finally hear about all of the experiences I was about to have, but in that moment it was like they were right there. The rite of passage was right there under my feet and it was so much for my little heart to take and so I just cried and cried the happy tears of joy that were 30 years in the making. Of course Garrett finally looked over at me and said "Dude, all these people are going to think I'm being mean to you if you are crying" and so we had a huge tear filled laugh, I wiped my cheeks and the adventure began.



We stayed in that condo for 12 days, and it was probably the most blissful time in my life. Garrett recounted memories of his trips as a child and I finally got to reconcile the pictures in my imagination with reality and it was truly so much better in person. I felt incredibly close to my father and my grandmother during that time, and as Garrett and I spent our days walking hand in hand on the beaches or cruising the island highways off to our next undertaking, I would think of my parents, and the similar moments they must have shared in their early 20s with the gorgeous Hawaiian sunset as their backdrop. What were they hoping their future held? I felt connected to the past, connected to nature, connected to a family history that surrounds me with wonderful memories even though we are no longer able to all sit together around the table and tell stories. Around every corner there was a reminder of the connections that I have always had with this beautiful place, and it truly felt like coming home.



The weirdest coincidence of the whole trip happened a few days before we left when I went rummaging around in the condo bathroom for some Advil. Underneath the sink amidst years worth of sunscreens, community shampoo bottles, and expired medicine, I found a halfway used tube of Crabtree & Evelyn's Rosewater Hand Therapy. Immediately forgetting about my headache, I doused myself in it and took myself back to those Sonoma summers with my grandma and hearing about her trips with Mert and Don and enjoying the Maui Life. It was a special moment, and the coincidence was sort of overwhelming, so when I got back home I of course shared the story with some of my relatives. Through a series of conversations I ended up having with my aunt describing where we stayed and through photographs of our trip, we ended up connecting the dots to figure out that the condo Garrett and I stayed was the same condo that my Grandma and Mert and Don had stayed in every summer all those years ago. Completely unable to believe that possibility Garrett called his parents who had the original Condo-share agreement, and sure enough, Mert and Don's names were on the contract for all those years with Garrett's parents and grandparents.

And seriously? A moment like that not only makes a trip, it kind of makes your life.

Football is Life

For those of you who don't know, my father passed away in 1998 very suddenly of a heart attack. He was very well known in the town I grew up in, partly because he was a chatterbox (in the best way!) and partly because he ended up playing football in the NFL. He was a real hometown hero in that sense, and even though he has been gone a decade, I still have strangers (when they realize who my father was) share the craziest memories they have about what a great man he was.

This weekend my dad's high school football coach is being recognized and a fundraiser is being held to raise money to build a bust of him in the local stadium. He is a bit of a legend in Fremont, and was a very influential person in my father's life and I wrote this letter in tribute for the ceremony this weekend.
*****************************************************

Growing up, everyone in Fremont seemed to know my father, John Woodcock. When I was young, I didn’t think anything of it, it was just the norm. As a teenager it annoyed me because, well, let’s be honest, what doesn’t annoy a teenager? But as an adult, now that he is no longer here, I am grateful for the memories that others choose to share with me. Professional football made my father well-known, but it was his heart, his drive, and his dedication that made him a success. And these weren’t just qualities he was born with.

When I think of my dad I feel incredibly fortunate. Even though he was only in my life a short time, he had a tremendous impact on the way I see the world. Growing up he was not as lucky to have such an influential father in his life. Raised by his mother in a house with three sisters, he certainly knew more than most about what it was like to be a woman. This of course worked out well for my mother in the end, but ask anyone who knew him and they would certainly tell you that he was also an incredible man. Much of that has to do with his involvement with the Washington High football program, and more importantly Coach Ingram.

My mom said, Coach Ingram was not only a mentor to my dad, but he was a father figure in a way that is so uncommon today. She said Coach was like E.F. Hutton, and when E.F. Hutton spoke, everyone listened. During her years at Washington High School when she dated my dad she said Coach must have had eyes in the back of his head as he seemed to know all and see all. He always had the scoop on every guy that ever played for him and knew their strengths and weaknesses. He taught them to strive, to be something more then they were. Whether it was to be quicker, stronger, faster, or smarter he pushed them to be focused on their game.

Back in the day, my dad would tell me, football ruled at Washington High School and it was a great time to be a Husky. He loved playing in the “old stadium” to a capacity crowd, and hearing the marching band at halftime. It was a legendary time and they had a legendary coach. His players were as disciplined as they were tough. There was no “jaking” – a term used to call out someone who wasn’t giving it their all – and there was no room for quitting. You can bet there was no sugar coating on Coach I’s team. If you weren’t performing, you weren’t playing, and he held everyone to the same standard. It was all about the team and there was no individual showboating allowed. Terrell Owens wouldn’t have made it a day playing for Coach Ingram.

Even after my father graduated and was no longer playing for Coach Ingram, he still came back to train with him in the off seasons of his professional career. It wasn’t easy for my dad to come back to Fremont after a long season and start the rigorous training all over again, but it was this that my dad always appreciated and credited Coach Ingram for -- he kept him in shape, grounded and focused year after year. His expertise and advice went way beyond the high school years and extended into his adult life where they formed a friendship. Coach I became someone my dad wanted to succeed for.

Today I know that feeling well. In my own life, I often think of my father and hope that he would think of me as a success. He taught me well and I know that some of my father’s most valuable lessons came straight from the Coach’s mouth:

• Always give 100%. The minute you don’t someone else will come along who is better, faster, or stronger than you. Always be humble and always be learning.

• Be Coachable, not defensive. There is nothing worse than someone who can’t accept constructive criticism. Take feedback with gratitude because it only makes you better if you listen to it.

• But most notably – Always do what you said you were going to do. Personal integrity isn’t just important, it’s all you have.

They are rules to live by, and I am proof that they don’t just apply in football but also in life. I am the product of my father, but so much of who he was and how he was shaped is all Coach Ingram, and for that influence, my whole family is grateful.

I was a cheerleader at Mission San Jose in the 90s and although we loved to show our school spirit, our football team was never what you would call dominant --but my dad never missed a game. He couldn’t have been more supportive. In his heart he was a Husky through and through, but he also knew that he had to do what was best for his team -- and at that time “his team” was my mom and I -- and that meant showing his MSJ pride. I think sometimes it must have pained him to have to sit on the sidelines and root for the Warriors, but true to form he always did what he said he was going to do – and I don’t even think Coach Ingram could fault him for that.


Sincerely,
Holly Woodcock

Dreamgirl

I wasn't sick very much growing up, but on a few occasions when I was so sick that I was bed-ridden, I'd have the same recurring dream of balancing a checkbook. It wasn't always my own checkbook, sometimes it was a company's ledger, a friend's budget, but it was always the same formula -- some type of elementary math pertaining to money and the frustrating feeling of numbers never adding up correctly. It was exhausting and the sleep never felt restful. I'm sure it had something to do with my fever rather than a deep seeded hatred of math, but I like to think those dreams are at least partially responsible for steering me clear of any career involving numbers. Being an accountant, for me, literally would be a nightmare!

I've always had incredibly vivid dreams. I like to bombard Garrett with the detailed stories about things I've seen or done in my sleep right when I wake up because it's such a unique feeling to put dreams into words immediately after having them. Most often what was just so clear in sleep comes out like a drunken Lewis Carrol imitation. Everything that made perfect sense moments ago vaporizes into absolute gibberish in a literal blink of an eye, and as someone who loves finding the perfect words in order to communicate an idea -- it's sort of an amusing exercise in futility.

Granted, Garrett is not always amused by my effusiveness, since I often do this in the middle of the night if my dream was particularly noteworthy. Most of the time he at least he plays along and acts impressed with my spectacular feats of subliminal imagination, although he usually patiently commands that I go back to sleep. For the record, however, I also sleep-walk, sleep-shower, and sleep-get dressed for work in the middle of the night, so I guess in comparison my midnight monologues sort of pale next to waking up and finding that I have turned into a zombie-like version of myself, but you know, you take the good with the bad, right?

I know, I know. Sorry boys, I'm taken.

Shortly after my father passed away, a number of people who surely intended to be a source of comfort told me I should "watch for him" in my dreams. I kind of chuckled at the hippy-dippy thought of all that, but 11 years after the fact, my father and I have had a remarkable number of very spirited sub-conscious interactions while dreaming. One of the most memorable dream encounters with my father found me sitting at the kitchen table in my grandparents old house (why, I have no idea?) looking for relationship advice about this new found crush of mine named Garrett. It was shortly before we started dating and Garrett was being Mr. Mixed Signals, so obviously I must have been having a frustrated moment. As an aside, when my dad was alive we were totally prone to these "Girl Talk" chats, so it was no surprise to be table-side with him listening to my romantic woes. Though I can't even remember what dramatic thing I was complaining about, what I do remember is my dad just laughing hysterically and in a clear throwback to his University of Hawaii days, giving me the Shaka sign and saying, "Calm Down, Holly," in his oft-used Hawaiian Pidgin. "Everything's gonna be alright." And every once in a while when I realize Garrett has yet to kick me and my crazy night time behavior out of bed, I think to myself -- it totally is.