Father Knows Best

I went to my first optometrist appointment.  Not because I needed it, but because: fuggit. I finally have vision insurance, I'm 30, and I'm starting to get crispy crows feet from squinting at the wicked computer screen all day.  Or from smoking in the bars.  Whatever. They tell me I'm fine, give me an optional, mild prescription for reading glasses, and send me to the front to make my $25 co pay.

 Dr. Ng's optometry office is across the street from home-girl Melanie's flower shop, where she deftly whips up botanical masterpieces between chain smoking Marlboro Reds with her trademark scowl.  I watch her sweep green clippings from the floor and lock up.  It's easy to visit Melanie when I don't feel like being social, nor alone, because I never have to smile for her, or say anything nice if I don't feel like it.  She's fine with that. We can sit in silence and nobody gets bored or thinks the other person is mad or rude. This day she notices I'm in emo-Katie-mode.  She knows that in the last year since I've made a major life change and started a career, my finances (along with other life aspects) went down the crapper.  I have yet to find a roommate to ease the crunch.  Some romantic failings sprinkled though the months. The last year has been quite the trial, and I'm not handling it with any grace. What she doesn't know, was the humbling request I just made to the nice lady at Dr. Ngs front desk.  With three days to a bar shift, and ten days til pay day, I have $1.86 in my account,  and just enough gas in the tank.  "May I return to pay?"  I quietly ask the nice lady who is only requesting a meager 25 dollars.  None of this I feel like sharing with Melanie, so instead I tell her of the shitty-guilt rock anchoring my stomach from this past weekend.

Dad has been needing to come down for a visit.  He retired this spring for sad reasons (which I will rant about later), he just wrapped up his second divorce, his dog ran away,  and he has little human contact on his breezy ranch. We miss each other.  He's lonely.  But I'm busy.  I'm broke.  I'm too stressed, and too tired to properly host my father. When a bar-shift-free weekend comes up, however, I send him an invite before I think about it too much.  His bags were packed before his email RSVP made it into my inbox.

Now, I know my dad drives me nuts.  After 30 some-odd years of teaching, it's tough for him to have a conversation where he doesn't dominate, lecture, and repeat.  This makes for a long weekend for someone used to living alone in selfish serenity.  I should have done some stronger mental prepping, but I blasted out that invite without much thought. 

Over the next few days, I have small moments where I feel connection, warmth and affection for my Pops. I want him to feel the love. An old regular bar customer of mine gives me VIP passes to the local Village Fest beer, wine and food festival; which lands right up father/daughter alley. Bands from multiple stages make it too loud for us to chat, but this may be the evenings saving grace. I gorge, he takes pictures, it feels good share it with Dad. But on returning home, the spell is broken. I slip back into feeling scrape-my-skull irritated with not only everything Dad does (pointing out every weed and ant-hill, torturous droning about the weather), but the very presence of another human in my space. I've been too bound up in my anxious shell to be at ease with someone invading my self-indulgent pity-party.  This irritation shows.  I know it shows.  I only half-ass try to hide it when I think of how guilty I'll feel later, which reinforces that I only behave for selfish reasons.  I'm a prick, nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm gonna go eat worms.

As expected, I return home from work Monday evening to an empty house. No Dad on the recliner reading his daily word and making his mundane commentary. I now remember it as soothing instead of grating. His presence: reassuring. A note on the counter lists the sprinklers and pump he's fixed after I left for work, signed, "Love, Your Dad." Crap. Every snide remark I made about his Fox News-Glenn Beck leanings, every sneer I wore after his naive remarks about college party-goers freezes onto that shitty guilt rock in my stomach, and I start thinking about how much harder that lump will get when he keels over someday.  I snivel, and feel more pathetic than I did before he came, and guilty for feeling guilty for behaving as I did when I knew what I was doing.

When Melanie asks what's wrong with me, I don't tell her about my sad checking balance and the $25 co-pay.  I'm good on the humility helpings.  Instead I tell her about my weekend with Dad, and how I behaved like a rotten princess.  Good 'ole Mel.  She doesn't indulge. She never does.

"You know he noticed how you were being. You know you're gonna miss having to put up with him when he's not around anymore.  Your parents are getting older. You should have known he was going to irritate you, and told yourself that it's only for a few days. You should email him and apologize.  He'll forgive you. He loves you."

Thanks, bro.  Nothing in that pep talk made me feel any better.  Why do I even tell you these things.

Sometimes it seems the universe has its feelers out the way facebook does, popping up with ads and articles in my news feed directly related to my most recent Google searches.  No facebook, I didn't need a reminder at this very moment that I may need debt counseling for student loans.  No Universe, I don't need my dad calling at this very moment to remind me that I have amends to make.

"Dad... I was just talking about you...."

"Yeah?!  I was just calling to tell you thank you for having me this weekend and for being such a great hostess."

Freaking shitty guilt rock plopping into my lower intestine.

"About that Dad... I know I wasn't the greatest company this weekend."

Saturday afternoon before Village fest, Dad takes me to the dump to get rid of the palm branches that I cut down and left laying in the yard for months. After, I offer him an ice cream treat as a good daddy reward.  The ice cream parlour we had our eyes set on, however, recently had roadwork done in the area, and Moo Creamery's original entrance is now closed off.  How do we get in there?  A half hour of looping back and forth, with Dad cruising at the alarming speed of 55 miles an hour on the new Westside Parkway express, we still have yet to gain entry.  I politely drop hints to how tired I am, and that there is a great fro-yo place near the house.  Two hours after we've left the house for a quick dump run, my dad is introduced to the exotic culture of the fro-yo topping bar.  He wants to sit, not take the damn things to go.  He wants to chat, not get the ice cream in, and get out.  After the third weather comparison between his area and mine, while his dessert sits and smirks at me- I drop all guise and put my head down next to my empty paper dish.

"Are you ok, dear?"

"Yeah, sorry Dad, I'm just pretty tired."

Pathetic excuse for being a balls-out rude, spoiled child.  Did I mention I haven't seen this man in six months?

On the phone, after my half-apology for general weekend brattiness: "Not at all, Katie!  I had a great time!  You always make your guests feel so comfortable.  I have my own room where I can shut the door, you do your own thing sometimes, and I don't feel like I always have to be 'on'.  I really enjoyed our time."

I tell Dad that no, I was cranky, and while there is NO excuse for it, I gave a LOT excuses. I've been pretty run-down.  The stress of working six days a week, sometimes being up for more than 24 hours to fit in both gigs, trying to keep a household in decent repair on my own, choosing which bills need most attention, and generally feeling stretched too thin for too long, I don't have the ease about my aura that I should.  No, I never say the word aura.  But I think it sometimes.

"Katie.  I went through the exact same thing, for the same length of time a couple years ago trying to keep the ranch after Kathy left.  Between school, and the janitor job at the car wash, I have no idea how I managed not to lose all my crops.  You're doing great.  You're not a failure.  This won't be forever, and things will get better, and the dreams you have are going to come to pass, because you made them happen. I know you're not the praying type, but maybe you should try.  Ask for help, and peace of mind, and guidance. You're my favorite daughter, and I love you."

Of course I cry;  adult-child that I am.

Maybe I should mention that I'm only his favorite daughter because I have no sisters, but that's not the point.  I paid my copay the next day.  I've come up with a grandiose plan for changing my life.  I might never forget the way I treat my parents when they bug me, but they already have (or are wise enough not to care).  I bought Dad some fro-yo, facebook asked me if I was interested in a Groupon for beer tasting, and all of it is slowly starting to make sense again.

Until my next 30-year-old temper tantrum.