Awkwardly Social

I wrote everyone this long dorky letter about how I needed money for my thesis film.  He was the least likely candidate to respond, but when I got his e-mail asking me to call him, all the way in the northern reaches of Alaska I did.

He was my dad’s first cousin, and he asked me what the movie was about.  I told him it was about girls and weddings and it was going to be something that helped me.  He said that Alaska was devoid of all the things I was talking about but he would consider supporting my efforts.  After all, I was family.  I was living the dream.

He had long red hair that he kept in braids.  He laid the Mexican tile in the upstairs of our house.  He was quiet and funny and he lost part of his pointer finger in a fishing accident in Alaska.  He told me it was so cold he didn’t even feel it, that another longshoreman told him he was bleeding and when he looked down he realized part of his finger was gone.

He died today.  Cirrohis beyond repair.  He was my cousin Pete.  59 years old.  And I’m glad I got to know him as briefly as I did.  He had the voice of an angel and when he and his brother sang and played the guitar I felt like I knew what talent was.

It’s hard to say I’m going to miss him, because I haven’t spoken to him in about 4 years.  But I’m sorry one more of the good ones is gone.

R.I.P cousin Pete.  You were one of the good ones.

My sister turns the big three five today. Which means she’s been putting up with me for 32 years. In honor of this momentous occasion, I have uploaded a series of pictures of the two of us for your delight and our embarrassment.

Like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives. /sap

This one is my favorite because I can kind of hear my parents off screen telling my sister to move closer to me. I can’t figure out what exactly I’m wearing, especially since it seems like we’re at Tuzigoot, which is not exactly the place you want to be wearing an ill fitting sun dress, socks and clogs. I don’t blame her for not wanting to stand close.

Here are a couple to wet your appetite for the awkward years.

And finally, conclusive proof that we were indeed a little bit white trash.

Happy birthday, Tavia. I hope to embarrass you for at least another 35 years.

Happy Birthday, Fiona.

Someday you’ll understand why having one’s niece turn five makes aunties feel very, very old.  I hope you have a great day with zero cupcake melt downs, a million presents and 5 easy spanks for good luck.

I don’t talk about my parents much, unless it’s to pick on them for being hippies and raising me wrong. I guess when you get to be 30 most of the things you spent your 20s depending on your parents for are kind of pointless. You’re no longer in college so it’s weird to call your dad when your car breaks down to ask him to fix it. Especially since you own the car. And your dad lives in North Dakota. It feels a bit awkward to call and ask for money, so you just suck it up and eat sandwiches and instead of Starbucks you drink 7-Eleven coffee. It’s a point in my life that most of my friends figured out 5 to 7 years ago - my parents aren’t responsible for my financial well being any more. I mean, I have a Master’s degree… but I’m a slow learner.

I just wanted to tell a quick story about my dad, that maybe he doesn’t even remember, but that I think about every once in a while and even though it’s kind of cheesy, it’s totally my dad.

My senior year of high school I was deep into a drug and alcohol funk that had me and my parents screaming at each other pretty much 10 times a day. I was out of control, and my parents were dealing with some big things on their own, so they didn’t really have the energy or understanding to deal with what I was throwing their way. My sister was your typical good girl, so good in fact that she didn’t have a curfew, and didn’t get drunk until she was a respectable 3,000 miles away at college. I on the other hand came home drunk 3 nights a week, snuck out of the house, was doing way too many drugs and had a kind of a death wish. My parents were in over their heads. All of this was going on and I was saving up for a trip to Russia so that I could back pack across Eastern Europe with my sister. My parents were going to pay for my plane ticket and I was responsible for everything else. One night at a dance, my friend Bob and I were so drunk that we left open containers in my car, a beer in the cup holder between the seats and a 12 pack of Zima in the back seat. Of course the cops that came to all the dances weren’t so thrilled that I was about to get into my car and drive home (who knows, maybe they saved our lives that night). We were about to be arrested when the cops realized who I was, my distinctive last name and the fact that my mom had been Vice Mayor of Camp Verde plus the fact that my dad was kind of a prominent business man in the town of 6,000 pop. was a dead give away. My mom was called and asked to come pick up her drunk daughter. My dad was out of town and heard all about it when he got home. I was grounded for 2 months, and my parents were going to cancel my trip to Europe.

Honestly, I look back and wonder why they didn’t cancel my trip. I was trouble. I needed to be punished. At this point I didn’t think there was any salvaging my trip, but I was called down to the kitchen one morning and my dad sat me down. He told me the were still sending me to Russia, and when I asked why, he said, “If we clip your wings now, how can we expect you to fly later?” He was sure that by taking away my opportunity to see the rest of the world, that I would never get better. I would never snap out of the surly. I thank him for that. It seems cheesy, but I would be such a different person today if I hadn’t spent a summer away from the bad influences that made bad behavior easy. I don’t know what that conversation was like between my mom and dad, who convinced whom or what went on, but I know that my dad was the one that broke the news to me. I’m glad I have a dad, that even though he’s a Republican, get’s it. Thanks, dad.

Happy Father’s Day.

When we were kids my sister and I had an ongoing argument about who was actually older. Obviously, she got the brains in the family because she always insisted that even though her birthday was in March - two WHOLE MONTHS following mine - she was older. I was such an annoying little brat. (Was…ha.)

Since my birthday fell in the cold dark month of January and I am from a family of procrastinators, we usually held sort of a half-assed Christmas themed party for me. I say half-assed not because my mom didn’t expend a great deal of effort on my parties, but because… um… stringing birthday streamer on a dried up old Christmas tree and calling it a “Birthday Tree” strikes me as using ones procrastination wisely. I should be so smart with my kids.

Shit, this is supposed to be about my sister. Me, me, me. As you’ve probably guessed today is her birthday. She’s a spring baby. Which means she always got better presents, in my opinion. Chicks and ducks and bunnies and chocolate. Which of course always made me seeth with jealous rage, because my birthday was so close to Christmas, I always suspected my parents just held back a few gifts for me and wrapped them up in birthday paper. Back in the eighties people didn’t do that whole diplomatic bullshit, if one kid is being showered with presents the other one should get a little something. Oh no. One kid had a birthday and that was their special day, you were lucky you got to eat the cake. And speaking of cakes, my sister was way ahead of the curve on the “Nerds shall inherit the Earth” trend. We’re talking a Superman cake, at age 7 or 8. For a girl. Reason number 72 why my sister is the best. Superman! On her cake!

Happy birthday, Tavia. I guess I can safely say, you are older than me. Chicks and ducks and chocolate bunnies for you on your special, special day. I’ll just be over here, plotting my revenge.

Well little lady, four years old today. I’m sorry I can’t be there on your special day because I know this birthday is a big one for you. Not only are you turning four, you’re a big sister now. I don’t know what it feels like to be a big sister, because I was always the youngest, but I want you to remember that no matter how much it seems like Amelia is trying to steal your thunder, she’s just trying to grow up big and strong, and most of all, to be like you.

I’m not sure if you remember your visit here to Los Angeles way back last year, in May, but we went to Disneyland. And we rode a ride that I would have never gotten on when I was your age. The rocket ride. Do you remember it? We went up so high and you never got scared once. Then you came back in February, and rode the ride with Louie. Again, you smiled and laughed and never gave a second thought to taking it all the way to the top. I hope you always approach your life that way, Ms. Fiona. Never getting scared by the things that hold the promise of the most fun.

I love you so much, and even though I can’t always be around to hang out with you, I think about you every day.

Have an excellent birthday, Fiona!

Still no baby.

She talks about being nervous, because there is a good possibility that they’ll have to induce. And then I get nervous. When my sister is nervous, I’m nervous.

I remember when Tavia was making her debut in the high school play. I had seen many a performance of Tavia’s in the past. We were forced to play duets on the piano for my grandparent’s crazy church. Tavia’s “Gifted Project” was a play. We made shit up all the time and then performed it for the 98 cats. But this was different, and I don’t really know why. All I know is, I was sitting in the audience freaking the fuck out before my sister went on stage. All the blood was gone from my head leaving me a little light headed but too embarassed to stick my head between my legs. Then I got all flushed because I was embarassed about thinking about sticking my head between my legs. My stomach was in knots and the butterflies were making me want to vomit. And I can remember thinking, “I know she’ll be great, I know she’ll be great.” And then she came on stage and performed the most hilarious monologue that I had ever seen. Granted, we didn’t have cable back then, but I had watched my share of Saturday Night Live, Star Search and Live from the Apollo, to know that my sister had the gift of comedy. After her monologue was over, my stomach began to relax, the blood returned to the proper parts of my body and I could relax and watch the rest of the show. In which she continued to kill.

Tavia, I know you’ll be great. I’m nervous, so you don’t have to be.

I love you.

Rising up, back on the street, took my time, took my chances.

That song brings a smile to my face every time. I used to listen to it on my way to set. Like a crazy person.

My grandpa died a year ago. (That was an awkward transition, eh?) When Grandpa would get mad at my sister and me for fighting or being too loud he would say, “HEEEEEY!” I do that all the time when a dog is barking too loud or a kid is about to touch a hot stove. Towards the end of his life my grandpa would tell one story over and over about how he would take Tavia rollerskating. I asked him why he didn’t take me, and he would look at me in all seriousness and say, “You weren’t much of a skater. But Tavia, she really took to it.” Heh. Love you, Grandpa.

In lieu of an ugly tie, I have written this to my dad for Father’s Day.

To my dad:

You taught me how to read, giving me the ability to go anywhere and see anything just by opening the pages of a book.

You encouraged me to pursue my dreams even though you never understood what a girl like me was doing in 4-H.

You paid my ‘for emergencies only’ credit card bills when I was in college, because you know what an emergency a great top at Express and a pizza at midnight really are.

You bought me a pony. After having me ask only 4 billion times.

You moved me back from Minnesota, when I had no good reason to leave, except it was cold and I missed the desert.

You have answered my tearful phone calls every time and didn’t tell me I was over-reacting.

You taught me how to jump a car.

You survived the ‘difficult’ phase that lasted longer than any teenager/20 year old has had.

You made me the woman I am today, just by being a good dad.

Thanks.