Throwback Thursday

My dad was laid back, funny as hell, intelligent, and just fun to be around. When I was young, he taught me how to be independent and made me feel like a grown up.

My mother is the complete opposite. She's uptight, controlling, naggy, and just an all-around pain in the ass. When I was young, she didn't want me out from under her thumb so she wouldn't let me do ANYTHING and made me feel like a baby.

My parents divorced when I was four years old but I spent every weekend with my dad until he became very ill and passed away. I'm just like him - which is probably why my mother and I never got along. Oil and water, man...to this day. Dad was my weekend reprieve from the stifling oppression that was known as "Mother".

I have a very vivid memory of me, at the ripe old age of around NINE, asking my dad, "Dad, you and Mom are soooo different. I can see why you two divorced. But how in the world did you ever end up together???" He sighed, looked me straight in my young eyes and said,

"Well, kid......she was hot."

Classic Dad.

God, I miss him.

She was pretty hot...especially in a bikini. But I couldn't find that pic so below is a family photo circa 1975.

Happy Anniversary Dad

What's worse? 1) losing your dad when you're a child and missing out on him walking you down the aisle and then knowing your children or 2) losing your dad after he's walked you down the aisle and then been a loving grandparent to your children?

I always thought the former rather than the latter but now I don't know.

Today is the 25th anniversary of my dad's death. He died from complications of diabetes two weeks before my 13th birthday. He was the coolest guy I knew. He taught me to be independent under my uber-obsessive mother and showed me how a "serious" dentist could rock out to Tammy Wynette by blasting her out his convertible Mercedes speakers, NATCH! He was f*cking awesome, and I've missed him every single day. And I thought nothing could ever be worse than losing a parent while still so young. His death has been such a huge part of my life that on any given day I can tell you how many years/months/weeks/days it's been since my dad died.

But I was so grateful I had 12 years with my dad, and I prayed for kids who lost their parent(s) younger than I was. I felt so bad for them - I was so lucky to have as much time with my dad as I did.

My grandfather (mom's dad) passed when I was 26 years old. Ever since, every holiday family gathering included the ritual sobbing about poor PawPaw who died at 76 years old. He walked every single one of his daughters (several times for two of them) down the wedding aisle, and he knew their children and grandchildren. I thought, My father never had the chance to walk me or my sister down an aisle, never knew his grandchildren - but here are these people weeping over PawPaw. They should be thankful for all the years they had with him. They all knew my history yet they still sobbed. Honestly, I became pissed at their insensitivity...so I stopped attending family holidays.

Recently a friend of mine lost her father, who was in his 80s and suffering from cancer. And it got me thinking: Which would be worse? A dad who died young so never knew his children or grandchildren; or a dad who lived to a ripe old age so knew his children and grandchildren but then died?

Obviously I don't have the answer but as my friends are losing their parents, I'm beginning to see the pain of losing someone who's been around one's whole life. Maybe I was lucky to lose my dad before we could make millions of wonderful memories. I cherish the handful I do have but I will always wonder what my life would have been like with that brilliant, ornery, loving, carefree Dan Shute in my life.

I've lost three grandparents, one great grandparent, a parent and two close friends...but I miss my dad the most. He and Mouth would be two peas in a pod...which would probably be TOTALLY BAD.

But I still wish they could have met.

Happy anniversary, Dad.

Love, R

Foto Friday

This is a photo of me, my dad and Babe (my dad always had Saint Bernards. Good dogs. Unbelievably slobbery but good dogs.) It's probably obvious from the avocado green desk in the background (and the blue shag carpeting that isn't really visible) that this house was decorated in the 70s.

My dad had diabetes and succombed to the disease two weeks before my thirteenth birthday.

My dad was da bomb. He would drive around in his convertible Mercedes with the top down in a Midwest November, heat blowing and Tammy Wynette blazing. He let me watch scary movies and gave me space - something my overbearing mother wouldn't allow me. He taught me tolerance of people who aren't like me and let me swim in our pool without waiting the required thirty minutes after eating. I am so much more like him than I am my mother...

I am so so thankful I had him for as long as I did...but have struggled for decades with the finality of his death. Whenever I hear of someone contemplating suicide, especially someone with children, I get REALLY pissed off. Do you know what it's like for a child to have to accept the fact that he/she will NEVER see their parent again? It messes you up for many, many years.

I can only hope heaven truly does exist and that he, Babe, Henry and Brute (the three Saints) are there together...mixing vodka tonics and waiting for the rest of us to come up to the party.

Because that will be one hell of a party. Especially with my tolerance for alcohol...