Super-Dad to the Rescue

I got everything I ever wanted for my sixth birthday. I got a silk-like, sky-blue nightgown with ruffles. I got to go to the county fair. I got to eat cotton candy. And I got to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl to my heart’s content – which means I rode the Tilt-A-Whirl until my brain swam Tilt-A-Whirl style, and I no longer had to get on the ride to take the ride.

Luckily, my brain stopped swimming just in time for me to spot the one and only thing I still lacked in life: an ENORMOUS, stuffed PINK dog, with sad eyes and floppy ears. I desperately, desperately needed that dog. (Show me one girl who doesn’t need a big pink dog. You can’t do it, can you? See?)

Unfortunately, my precious Pinkie-Poo was being held captive by the man in charge of the numbers game. I would have to win my dog, by betting money on the right number. My chances of doing so were one in thirty-six, seeing as how there were thirty-six numbers on the game table. Now, I was only six, but even a six-year-old knows that the chance of picking the winning number, out of thirty-six numbers, is pretty slim.

I looked at Pinkie-Poo longingly. She looked back at me just as longingly – can you really blame her? – you should’ve seen and smelled the man in charge of the numbers game. Ew. (Deodorant, people. If you don’t have it, get it, and use it. That’s all I’m saying.)

I squeezed my father’s hand and looked up at him, Super-Dad, Master of the Universe, Righter of All Wrongs, knowing that he was our only hope. (And by “our”, I mean Pinkie-Poo, myself, and pretty much all of mankind.)

Super-Dad smiled confidently, pulled out his wallet, and covered every number on the table with money. And then we took Pinkie-Poo home with us.

Which is why when my first novel was published, and it suddenly jumped to number one in category on Amazon.com, I called my dad to ask him what he was doing right now. He was like, “Huh?” I was like, “Are you on Amazon.com right now? Ordering books? Ordering lots and lots of copies of my book? What in the world are you gonna do with all those books? Do you realize you’re probably going to have to rent a storage facility just for books? Just for my books?” He was like, “Huh?” My dad seemed genuinely confused. (I get that a lot.)

Even so, whenever things work out better than I had ever dared to hope, in the back of my mind, I always wonder if my dad somehow had something to do with it. (How is that even possible? Super powers, people. Super-Dads have super powers.)

And I know that my daughter has these same kinds of thoughts. I know that she sometimes wonders if her Super-Dad donned his cape and invisible shield, and flew in on a secret, top priority mission to save her day. Sometimes my daughter asks me things like, “Did Daddy stop by my school today?” Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. I’ll never tell. Because whether he did or didn’t isn’t the point.

The point is that most of us kids – age six to ninety-six – know that our dads absolutely would swoop in and save the day, if we really needed them. And most of the time, just knowing that Super-Dad is there, ready to back us up, is enough. Knowing this gives us the strength and courage to do what needs doing, and comforts us when what we did wasn’t quite enough – we’ll get ‘em next time, won’t we, Super-Dad? – you bet we will! Look out evil villains!

Super-Dads make us better people, and better people make the world a better place. So, thanks, Super-Dads. Happy Father’s Day, to you, and to my very own Super-Dad.

I Don't Do Facebook

Okay, here’s the thing: When I offered to stalk your crush on Facebook for you, I was kidding. I don’t actually stalk people on Facebook. I don’t do Facebook. Or Twitter. Why not? Because...

1.) I have enough trouble keeping up with my email. Facebook and Twitter are email on crack.

2.) I take my friendships seriously. Friends require tending and care. 242 friends are too many friends for me to tend to and care for. (Except for you, of course. You’re no trouble at all.)

3.) I’m pretty sure that no one cares what I had for breakfast, that I’m grocery shopping this afternoon, or that I have a date with my husband tomorrow night. The people who do care – like my husband and daughter – know these things already, and the people who don’t know, really shouldn’t care. If they do…well, is it really a good idea to encourage one’s wannabe stalkers in this way? (Not you. I’m not calling you a “wannabe stalker”. At all. You are reading my blog, so of course, you are fine. I love you. And if you just happen to be a teensy bit curious…well, a little curiosity is healthy, right? I had coffee for breakfast; I am grocery shopping this afternoon, and have a date with my husband tomorrow night. Okay? Okay. Thanks. Glad we got that straightened out.)

4.) I refuse to subscribe to the crack-addict-crazy philosophy that if you’re not on Facebook or Twitter, you don’t exist. Of course I exist! Who else could’ve spilled that coffee on the stairs…and left it there – for now? DUH. (Calm down. I said FOR NOW. I’m not awake enough for cleaning yet. I have to work myself up to cleaning. Slooowly. I’ll get to it, okay? I will. I really will. Okay, okay, I’m doing it now! Sheesh! Be right back, stalker friend.)

Okay, all clean. Where were we? Oh yes...

5.) Is it really a good idea to give one’s ex-boyfriends and the like an open window into your life, and the lives of your family and friends? Okay, maybe all your ex-boyfriends are perfectly normal functioning human-beings, as opposed to a-whole-lotta-crazy-going-on. But I had a few lapses in judgment along the way. In my case, it’s definitely NOT a good idea. (I’m not saying that all my ex-boyfriends are kook-a-doodle-doo, only one or two of them. If you happen to be an ex-boyfriend, I’m obviously not referring to you. You are reading my blog, so you’re obviously the picture of perfect mental health and intelligence. Obviously.)

Look, if you choose to do Facebook and Twitter, I’m not judging you. But I choose not to do Facebook and Twitter, and I’ve got reasons, good reasons, all neatly typed, with official numbers beside them and everything! So, don’t judge me either, okay? Thanks.

Oh, and by the way, you are still totally rockin’ those jeans. Really. No, I wasn’t kidding about that. Who jokes about jeans? Not me. I take denim very seriously.

The Benefit of the Doubt

Remember when I said (in my last blog posting) that I give my friends the benefit of the doubt because they are my friends?

Well, first, let me define “friend”. A friend is someone who loves you, someone who would be there if you really needed them, someone who’s honest with you, wants what’s best for you, and tries to protect you – sometimes from yourself. A friend is someone who'd come to the hospital if you were sick, someone who'd tell you – IF YOU ASKED – that yes, those particular jeans do make your butt look just a teensy, weensy, little bitty bit BIG. Ish. If asked, a friend might even ever so gently suggest that you re-think auditioning for American Idol seeing as how you’re completely tone-deaf, but hey, you’re a great dancer, so how about taking some classes and auditioning for So You Think You Can Dance instead? A friend is someone who would totally stalk your crush on Facebook for you, call with hourly updates, and never tell another living soul. But more importantly, a friend is someone you absolutely know wouldn’t intentionally hurt you. (“Intentionally” is the key word in that sentence.)

Inevitably, friends are going to hurt you, make you mad, or disappoint you, not because they want to or mean to, but simply because they’re different than you are. They react differently than you would, express themselves differently than you would, and generally handle things in their own way – which is, of course, not the way you would handle things. You would handle things the right way, right? OF COURSE YOU WOULD! DUH! Yeah, see, unfortunately that doesn’t exactly make your friends wrong; it just makes them different.

But different is good; different is interesting and valuable – you’re exposed to new things and a different point of view, right? I’ve learned all kinds of things from friends – how to dance the Carolina Shag, how to can vegetables for the winter, how to shuffle a deck of cards in the coolest way possible. My friends bring a lot of learning – and laughter – to my life. I enjoy them. I love them.

Which is why when a friend hurts my feelings, or makes me mad, or disappoints me, I usually give them the benefit of the doubt. This is how things go in my head:

Do you believe that Friend X loves you? Yes.

Do you believe that Friend X said/ did that just to hurt you or make you mad? No.

Can you let it go? Maybe.

And then I try. I try to let it go. If it’s something small – like a snarky little comment, I forget about it and move on. If it’s something bigger, something I can’t let go of, then I talk to my friend directly about it. Usually, we’re able to sort things out and move on with a better understanding of one another.

Occasionally, I learn that a person I thought was my friend really isn’t. That hurts. It always hurts. It’s always disappointing. But it’s better to know and move on, than to continue investing time and energy in a person who isn’t my friend either way. After all, I could be investing that time and energy in my family, or a real friend. So knowing is good. Mostly. Except for the heart-crushing hurt and disappointment part. Sorry about that. Really. So, so sorry.

On a happier note, I’m available for friendship. And I’ve learned – as I learn all things: THE HARD WAY – how to be a most excellent friend! So tell me, who exactly should I be stalking on Facebook for you? Oh, and by the way, those jeans look FAB on you! You are totally rockin’ ‘em. Totally.