Sunday, June 18, 2017

Happ Father's Day 1988

In 1988, I spent the summer working in London. London is where I was for Father's Day that year. When my dad passed away, my mom gave me all the letters and cards I had sent him over the years that he had kept in his dresser drawer.  This is the letter I sent him that year.

Dear Dad,

This seems odd, writing to you.  But I feel the need to, and so I do.

I miss you.  Does that strike you as odd? I mean, I find it normal to miss home, and my parents - but I miss YOU. I miss sitting at the dinner table complaining together about how mom is on the phone or that dinner isn't cooked quite right.  I miss asking who is on "Johnny" tonight and making you stop changing the channels so I can see someone you've never heard of before.

I miss knowing that you are worried.  I don't know exactly what you're concerned over for me - I know you care and are concerned, but I don't have the specific thing and I miss that.

I'm really enjoying myself. I'm poor. DIRT poor. I live in a "ghetto". But it's such an experience, I wouldn't trade it.  Tomorrow I'm taking a draw on my salary (they said I could, because I just missed payday...) So I shan't be poor for long.

I've started saying "half" as though it rhymed with "cough" - I like it.

There is talk that I may be able to help open the Paris store for Joan & David - I would love that! My French is almost eight years old but it would help me live in Paris! That would be too much to ask for. But it is still just talk.

I feel so distant from you and all my family (and clean water, and clean air!) but I feel that this is most likely part of growing up and taking on my own responsibilities. I mean, I sometimes felt (as I'm sure you have) that I've never be able to actually handle life on my own.  I'm pleasantly surprised - I CAN do it!!

Anyway - HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!! I would've phone you but i heard you were out of town...

I love you dearly - and miss you terribly.

Love, Jim

For the record, I didn't go to Paris for work. I didn't live in a "ghetto". The water in London left a strange scum on the top when you made tea and when I blew my nose the pollution from the city turned my boogers black. Even after taking that draw on my pay, I was broke. I still can't really handle my own life. And I still miss my dad.

Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Less Than Social Media

These days there is fine line to walk with social media. The veneer of public discourse has broken down to what at times can seem like monkeys throwing poo from cage to cage. The blog with long thoughts and original content gave way to Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat with re-posts, thumbs up, and memes followed by #ThisIsSoUs !

The most recent US Presidential election was played out on the internet with every camp choosing a different corner and every corner choosing a different news source as their own personal generator of "truth".  Things got harsh.  Things got mean.  Things got ugly.

So I took a walk.  Yes, one outside.  And then another one, off of Facebook, off of Twitter, off of Snapchat and off of Instagram. I gave it a week and checked back in, it had gotten worse.  I gave it the rest of November and checked back in, it was still ugly. So I took the rest of the year off.  I read a book. I watched tv.  I ate a lot of cookies.

For two months I've sat by trying to figure out what my role is in social media and what social media's role is with me.  In the past I have appreciated the chance to keep up with more people and share my life moments with ease.  While I was gone, I texted people, sent emails and (audible gasp!) saw people in person.  But not the far away people, that's much harder. I missed that part.

Before I took my social media holiday, I played "Facebook Police".  Politely (I hope), I would ask people to check their source, for truth or bias. I would ask they look at the comments following articles they posted that often revealed a more sinister group of people that I couldn't imagine they would normally associate with. At first it was private messages, then it was polite comments below, and later I resorted to being outright incredulous.

But the ugliness kept coming faster and more furious.

After the election, within the week I'd been called a fag behind my back and my husband wouldn't hold my hand in public out of fear that we'd be beaten up.  The ugliness had leapt off the internet and was following me on the street.

It was all too much to take in.  I laid low.  In public and in social media. But here is where I have reached today: Screw you internet.  Screw you rednecks.  Screw anybody who wants me to keep quiet.

Quiet is being good.  Quiet is being safe.  Quiet is not making waves.  Quiet is overrated.

I refuse to contribute to the ugliness of it all.  I will maintain my polite veneer. But there is good, and there is bad.  There is truth and there are lies.  I will go back to being the "Facebook Police" and you may hear from me. I'm done with all this re-posting and forwarding and blind copy/paste of bullshit that nobody reads. Have your own ideas, post your own thoughts and experiences.

When I read social media it is usually from the comfort of my own home, you're probably the same.  I would never march into your house with muddy boots and shout, "What a dump! You have shitty taste! Only I know how to decorate!"  It's much more likely, I'd politely take off my shoes, compliment your decor, make a snide remark about how I'd never have the nerve to combine such interesting prints or colors, then suggest a delightful book on proper home decor. It's called "good manners".

So pull out your white gloves before you post something on your social media, for your protection and mine.  It's the internet for god's sake, do you know how much porn has touched it!

Friday, June 26, 2015

David VanNoy 1961-2015

David VanNoy died today in Mexico in a hail of bullets.  That's not actually true, but he once told me that is how he wanted to be remembered.  "Wouldn't that sound so much better than 'succumbed after numerous illnesses'?" he asked me.

He lived every day as if he may be it his last. 

I met David way beack when I started this blog.  A small group of us found each other, flung across America and we bonded.  Chicago, Houston, Long Beach adn Los Angeles.  Unlike many blogging people, we saw each other in person.  We called our group the "Big Gurl Stitch and Bitch". 

David was fearless.  See someone interesting, mention it to David ad within minutes you're all talking and making plans to visit each other's summer houses. Ask David for advice and be prepared to hear the down and dirty honest truth that will cut you to your core and set you free at the same time. 

I once asked him why he started his blog, "Because I'm dying darling, and I my parents won't speak to me.  I figured one day I'll actually be dead and they should know what happened."

He went to his heart doctor a few years ago and was told that e had about 9 months to a year left to live.  Parts of his heart no longer worked and his pacemaker couldn't fill the gap.  "I went to the tattoo parlor to get my expiration date tattooed on my ass." Oh David, you're not going to expire.  You've beat all expectations.  You'll pull this one off as well. "No darling, this one has no escape." But the date isn't a certainty.  Don't get an expirey date, how about lkie milk, you can just get "best before"? "Not to worry honey, I went in to get that tatoo and they wouldn't touch me.  Some bullshit about HIV+ and needles... but I really wanted to! You're right, I'll go with 'Best Before'."

When Lyle and I launched our madcap adventure, cutting loose from LA and living life as if we may not have another chance at it, that is inspired by David.  When I am fearfull, I tell myself, "just channel David." And when I tell you a story that sounds unbeivable but true, it probably involves David. 

It's said that Diana Vreeland invented "Faction" the marriage of Fact+Fiction.  David would say, "Technically your story is true but it's boring! Why would anyone tell a boring story?"

And so that is how I came here to let you kow that David VanNoy died in hail of bullets.  He would have wanted it that way.

Tuesday, June 09, 2015

Where's Waldo?

It's been 4 months since my dad died.  It's been 3 months since our dog died. I'd like to think that I am moving forward.  Perhaps there is proof that I am since I no longer cry as I fall asleep and I no longer cry as I'm waking up. But I still cry. The sharpest pain has diminished to a dull ache, with smaller moments of sharp pain.

Every day there is an ad for upcoming father's day.  Every day I get an email from a pet store. Every single day something reminds me of the pieces of my life that are missing. I can't bring myself to form the words that explain my loss.  I can't say the dog's name. I can't look at photos.  I can't breathe.

I am lost. Don't get me wrong, I know where I'm sitting right now (though some days when I'm waking up I'm none too certain what city I'm in...). But I 'm lost in an entirely different place. Most people who go through all this have some routine to return to.  A sense of "normalcy" that I haven't had for a few years. Without that root, I find myself adrift.

I don't want people to worry about me. I don't want you to worry about me. I put on a brave face and I post one pleasant thing each day on Facebook or Instagram.  Even the worst day always has one good thing happen.  Coffee - good. Found a quarter - very good.  Sunset - excellent. Ice cream - freaking fantastic. Then there are the other 23 hours and 45 minutes to deal with. If I'm lucky, I can sleep through 6-7 hours.  Which is an improvement from the four hours I was getting when I having vivid dreams about my dad and/or the dog.

Previously when I was drifting, I assigned myself tasks. Tasks like laundry, bake bread, create a book based on a vacation, etc.  I'm doing laundry.  I'm in Palm Springs so it's mostly t-shirts and swim suits. It takes a couple weeks to really build up a full day of distraction. We are borrowing a friend's house.  It is not outfitted to really go to town and bake.  Besides, I've lost my appetite and my ability to follow an entire recipe.  I've tried making a list of things to work on, but I can't seem to finish making a list. Even writing this post has petered out and I can't remember where I was headed when I started it, and so I don't know how to end it.

I'm killing time.  I'm letting myself heal.  At least I hope I am.

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Mr Cooper 2003-2015

We never went searching for a third dog.  Mr Cooper found us, and what a lucky find he made.  He was not an easy dog.  He came with damage, fear and baggage.  We spent money and time to bring him out of his shell. In a strange way, his joy and his affection meant more because they were so hard won.

This is why he got a brand new squeaky ball every single morning.  It was the first thing we found that gave him joy.  SUCH JOY! And so we decided that for about $1 a day, he should have that kind of joy.

There are many stories to share of our life with Mr Cooper.  But today we mourn the loss of that life together.  Today, we celebrate that life we had together.  Together is what we were with Cooper, like  a third arm, every place we went, and every room in the house, there he was.

Please enjoy a small portion of the love and joy Cooper brought to our lives.
Mr Cooper Movie from 101 Graphics on Vimeo.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Ted Kehl, In Memory

My dad passed away a week ago.

Let that sink in a bit, because it really hasn't to me, not yet.  My mom keeps asking me if I feel that "kick in the stomach" feeling.  I told her no, for me it's like a thousand papercuts.  Little, by little, until my entire arm is bleeding and I cant even tell from where.

I want to be dramatic and claim that I will never recover from this.  But I will.  And I won't.  I will move forward with my life, but I will always have this with me.  The absence of my father.

I will also have with me the terrible but beautiful time I got to spend with him in the last months of his life, but especially the final weeks. I had a rough start with my dad, but later in life we found each other.  We started to "get" each other.  It took the time it took to get there, but I still wish I had more time to enjoy where we ended up.

My dad was cremated and we had a burial for his ashes on Friday.  Today will be Sunday, one week since he died, and we will have a Celebration of Life for him. My sister and I will stand up and speak for ourselves, and for our family.  I expect my sister to be strong and do well.  I expect myself to be strong, do well, and cry in front of people. 

The talk I give will be an edited version of what follows, to account for limited time (and my brother says old people don't want to hear about boobs at a funeral).

In Memory of Ted Kehl, December 21, 1929-February 8, 2015

My niece Madeleine recently told me that her favorite book growing up was “But I really am a princess”.  It starts with the opening line, “I am really a princess. And when my true parents, the king and queen, find out how I’ve been treated around here, they are going to be very upset.”

She told me this because I was telling her how I always thought I was adopted when I was little.  I thought I was adopted because Gary and Debbie told me I was.  They told me I was adopted because I had a different last name.  My last name was “Dammit!”  (always with an exclamation point).

If I left Lego out in the middle of the room and someone stepped on them in bare feet, “Jim Dammit!”
If I didn’t clean my room after being asked 42 times in the same day, “Jim Dammit!”
If I placed golf balls on the top crack of the opening of the refrigerator door, pulled down the butter door inside so it would flip up when the door opened, and then the golf balls would fall at the same time hitting the door, then the floor, a lot like an upright pinball machine? “JIM DAMMIT!!!”

My siblings may have thought it would make me upset that I was adopted, but I took comfort in it.  “I don’t really belong here.  One day Elizabeth Taylor, Johnny Carson or Buddy Hackett will return for me and then these peasants will all be sorry.

As I grew up I started looking more like my parents, and I had to make peace with my place in life... In Bellingham.  Say goodbye to swimming pools and movie stars, hello to slugs and hamburger helper.

Gary was easier to understand. He played sports, he liked being outside. He was like dad as a kid. Debbie was daddy’s girl. That bond and connection is easy to see.

Obviously I was different. I liked to tell stories.  I liked old movies. I had an opinion about my clothes at age 3. Dad was in charge of getting me dressed and I didn’t want to wear what had been chosen. I was 3. We went round and round. The more he yelled at me, the more I resisted. Yelling from him, screaming from me. Finally he threw up his hands (literally) shouted “Jim Dammit!” and told mom to come fix it.

When I was 7 and I was lighting firecrackers on the 4th of July. Gary showed me that if you lit them and threw them, they would explode in mid air. I thought that was cool and wanted to make sure they were always in the air when they exploded. I held onto one too long and it exploded in my fingers. All hell  broke loose. Dad charged out of the house shouting “JIM DAMMIT!!!” I stormed into the house and slammed my bedroom door. Dad stomped off, jumped into his car and left. Mom made me ice my fingers and I cried and cried. Dad came home two hours later and mom came to get me.  I was afraid that I was still in trouble. but when I finally came outside there was dad and uncle Ed with sparklers for me. They had driven around at 10:00 at night on the 4th of July trying to find any fireworks stand still open. The worst day of my life had just turned around.

When Scott’s mom died, my mom was busy taking care of Scott.  The day of Pat’s funeral she said, “Your father will pick you up and bring you to the service.” When he picked me up, I said, “I’m gonna cry.” He said, “I know.” I told him, “I’m going to be a big mess.” And he said, “I know.” I told him, “Don’t try to stop me, because it will only make it worse.  It’s  going to be an awful day and you have to just stand there and take care of me.” And he said, “I know.” And he did. And now there would be two of us “adopted kids” me and Scott.

Things always get complicated in the middle. I grew up and figured out that the word for my difference was “gay” and I couldn’t tell my dad.  I told everyone except him.  I kept hoping you would just figure it out and it never happened.  He couldn’t understand why me and my “friend” were always together, even for Christmas.  I moved away to California, if those movie star parents of mine couldn’t find me in Washington, perhaps I’d find them there? Once I was far away, I figured I had less explaining to do.

When Lyle proposed, I was so excited to tell everyone.  But I couldn’t tell anyone unless I finally told my dad.  He was the first person I phoned. I had to start by telling him I was gay. He was fine with that. Then he asked me, “Why, dammit, if you have a good thing going, would you want to go mess it up by changing it and getting married?” I told him I wanted to mess it up the same way he and mom had messed it up, the same way Gary and Cathie had messed it up, and the same way that Deb and Rob had messed it up. He understood that.

I asked my dad if he would say something at our wedding. He told me “No way”.  I persisted,  I told him that I always remembered the Elk’s club 11:00 toast.  It stayed with me. As important as the Elks club is to my dad, of course it spilled into our lives. In my group of friends, if we are out together at 11 pm, I would stop the conversation and explain that my dad was an Elk and at 11:00 they raise a glass to “absent friends” and we would toast.  I asked my dad to do a modified version of that toast at 11 pm at our wedding reception. I doubt dad knew what an effect he had on my friends that night. Years later and we all get misty eyed just like the we did that night. Today, I’m wearing my dad’s jacket from when he was an Elk’s officer in 1974.

Living in LA it’s impossible to not meet celebrities. I met Bo Derek in 2000 when I worked on a photoshoot with her. I was excited to tell dad  that I got to see Bo Derek naked. He told me she was in Playboy and anyone could see her naked. I told him I had seen her naked in person in a hotel room while she changed clothes.
My dad asked me, “And?”
And she looked good. Her boobs are real. Slight dip, but nothing dramatic. Still perky.
And she has some fine scars on her legs. Says she needs to wear hosiery to cover them up for photos. Claims they came from skateboarding as a child and horseback riding as an adult.
And what?
“And... nothing? It didn’t do anything at all for you?”
No dad. Seeing Bo Derek naked did absolutely nothing for me. If it had done something for me, they probably wouldn’t have let me hang out in the room while she changed.
“Well, dammit,’ He shook his head, “If that don’t change you, nothing will.”

When Uncle Ed died, I wanted to be so strong for him.  But everyone is strong for him. What he needed was for me to be weak and cry with him. Still unable to say how he felt, he would look at me and raise one eyebrow.  I’d say, “Dad, don’t.  You’re going to make me cry.” He’d stare at me as I started to tear up, then he’d start to cry.  He’d say to me, “Dammit, Look what you made me do.” He used me like an old hanky.

Each of us kids has our specialty.  Gary has been amazing with paperwork, doctors and always being a month or a year ahead of us anticipating what would be needed next.  Debbie is matter of fact.  She tells you exactly what is good or bad and doesn’t over-complicate things.  No one argues with Debbie and she gets stuff done. I am the squeaky toy.  I am the peacemaker.  I am the person who stuffs you full of food and holds your hand.  Scott is the full package.  Having started life as an only child, he can transition into any of the other three roles as needed, seamlessly.

I look at photos of our family and they can never tell the entire story.  Good times, bad time, who was born to us, who was adopted, who married in, who chose to join and who was drafted. Many people have commented that we are good children to rearrange our lives, change our schedules, and put our parent’s lives ahead of our own. I want to tell them is that we are being really selfish and trying to squeeze the maximum amount of time we have with them. Instead I say, “thank you, it’s true, we are the perfect children.”

I spent a long time waiting for my dad to change and get comfortable with me. While I waited for him, I changed and got comfortable with me.  When I found me, he was right there, like he’d always been, waiting to meet me. I think I was the one in the way a lot of the time because I couldn’t speak up and be myself.

I am a princess.  My parents are my king and queen.  It took me a while, but I am so lucky to have found them.

Monday, December 01, 2014

NFA (No Fixed Address)

I've been on a social media blackout for an entire month.  It's not as bad as I thought it would be.   In fact, it's been very freeing.  Life, on my terms, needed to be reset.

My dad has had some health issues over the past year that came to a head in October.  He would up spending three weeks in a nursing home to rehab a hip that needed radiation treatments. I spoke to my mom every night and after 2 weeks of being connected through the telephone, Lyle decided we needed to be connected in person.  Against my will, I have been returned to Bellingham in the winter.  Winter in the Pacific Northwest is my LEAST favorite time of year to be here.  Dark and wet.  To quote a line from the movie Auntie Mame, "How bleak was my childhood...".

Currently my dad is doing well.  After a month of continued care at home, has regained his mobility and is back to walking with a cane. He will be 85 just before Christmas. I don't know when, but somewhere along the way, my parents got older. I find the idea impossible to fathom as I have never aged and am clearly still in my late 20's.

Almost three years ago we set out on a grand adventure.  The idea was to live life on our terms with no regrets.  We left Los Angeles put our stuff in Palm Springs and then promptly moved to Mammoth Lakes ski hill.  If you didn't pay attention, you could get whiplash.

When it come time to leave the ski hill, we decide to go North in the summer to be closer to our families. After seeing many friends lose parents, we wanted to make certain we were connected and present whenever that was possible, moving in with them for a month at a time definitely connected us. We came up with a schedule that had us up and down the West Coast doing a summer road trip that included friends, family and photos.  Many photos.

Our life looks quite glamorous in photos. I have made it my policy to not complain (in public) about the consequences of our non-traditional choices for work and living.  But I can confess that unpacking and repacking one to two truck loads of clothes, kitchen and personal effects every 6 months, 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 nights as you roam far from home is exhausting.  Trying to remember which address to use for a credit card payment, mapping out where you might be in 5 weeks to tell someone where to send mail so that you can meet it, is a level of crazy not everyone gets to experience. (that was polite, wasn't it?)

We are in the midst of a complete re-launch of our lives.  Everything we own has gone into storage while we figure out where to live next.  We have plans and ideas but I am loathe to write them down for fear of being held accountable to answer questions about them later.

Which brings me to my social media holiday.  Life got complicated.  I needed to place my full focus on my parents, in the moment.  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and this blog are an amazing way to connect to a vast support network of people, but for me and my need to seek approval through being entertaining, it was a distraction.

For the time being, I'm in Bellingham, borrowing a friend's house, until January. It's cold and wet.