For My Life To Come

I lost my dad this week.

After a long and difficult illness, one that was so hard to watch him deal with, we had to say goodbye.

I will never, for my life to come, forget what that morning was like or how it unfolded. We were called to the hospital as dad had taken a turn for the worse. He was unresponsive, and sadly, never regained consciousness. After several discussions with the nurses and his doctor, it was apparent that his life was winding down and his release was imminent. A priest was called to administer The Last Rites and my youngest child was brought from school to be with us.

Sitting there, watching each labored breath he drew, my mind was all over the place. I worried about my children and how they were handling this. I worried about my husband who was so uncharacteristically weeping openly. I worried about my mother who seemed so childlike and lost and unsure of what was happening. I worried that dad might be feeling some distress as well. I worried about how I would react when the time came and would I hold up as he would want.

With my mom holding one of his hands and me the other, with my husband and children holding each other and dad's legs, I was so fully aware of how special this moment was and would be for us all. Dad was not alone. As the last moments in his life were passing, he was surrounded by everything he loved in life. All of the pain was gone and he had us all there .. just the way he loved, together. As the time ticked by, each of us praying, each of us trying to hang on to something for later, each of us settling what was in our hearts with this man we cared for so deeply. They were the most beautiful and frightening moments I have ever experienced. Beautiful in their simplicity and frightening in their brevity. Moments that I will never let go of.

As his breathing slowed, as the sound quieted, I focused on his face. I don't quite know what I was looking for but I looked at him this way until he took his last breath. His face, amazingly, showed nothing but peace. The peace in which he will sleep forever.

It occurs to me that my dad died a very rich man. His pride and joy was his family. His grandchildren, young adults that they are, gave him riches beyond any he imagined. They filled him with joy. They filled him with pride and they were as crazy about him as he was them. He lived for them and they know it.

As for me, in my own way I added to those riches. All this week I thought of the ways I had made him proud and the joy I had given him. I thought of funny, silly things that make families what they are. The inside jokes, the laughter and humor that was a constant in our lives. Even in pain, even while failing he wanted that laughter. I like to think it made his time easier, made his discomfort less so. For in that laughter was love expressed. In that laughter was the familiar affection of a father and a daughter. In that laughter was the tie that bound us to each other. The tie that will remain for my life to come.

Indeed.

Keep Your Pants On

I was at the Orthodontist Office with my son this week when I saw a TV blurb about Rielle Hunter's spread in GQ magazine. If ever the term spread was applicable it was in this case.

Ms Hunter, to those who don’t know already, is the infamous ex mistress of John Edwards. John Edwards, who claimed he didn’t, then decided that he indeed did, father her out-of-wedlock child. John Edwards, who was in the midst of a presidential nomination run when he decided to diddle with Rielle, while his trusty campaign aide ran interference, all while she was a "campaign videographer" on the payroll.

Rielle seems to have a knack for dropping trou, repeatedly. She admits she dropped them within a few hours of meeting Edwards. Dropped them a bunch of times during their affair. She even dropped them for a private video session with John, preserving for posterity her proclivity to show her posterior. That video was ordered to be turned over to the Superior Court of North Carolina pending some eventual litigation, thankfully.

The most recent dropping is the one that gets me. She’s a grown up, she can drop her drawers wherever she pleases. If she pleases to drop them with a married father of three, whose wife is battling terminal cancer, who was seeking the nomination of the presidency of the US, that’s her business. What gets me is the spread in GQ.

Rielle can loosely be called a member of the media based on her work as a videographer. She can also be loosely called an actress for having appeared briefly in the movie, Overboard under the name Lisa Hunter. (she became “Rielle” sometime in 1994) I can loosely call her foolish based on her behavior both before the exposure of the affair with Edwards and after her child’s birth came to light. The GQ spread being the most foolish.

I can understand wanting to tell her side of the story. I can understand her need to rehabilitate her reputation and improve the public’s perception of her. Although I’m not quite sure what her target audience was in choosing GQ. GQ’s readership can hardly be thought to be a group that would condemn this striking woman... especially knowing there’s a sex tape out there. She’s intriguing and almost fodder for fantasy. I don’t think the readership at GQ cares if she “really is a good person” or not.

Now that the spread is out there on newsstands everywhere, and the folks are less than enamored with Rielle, she’s chosen to come out to the public as “upset” and “angered” at the photos GQ used. The photos of Rielle once again dropping trou. The photos of her looking rather "come hither" sans a pair of pants. The photos she knowingly and willingly posed for.

Hey Rielle….when you walked into the shoot and saw the bed…that was your first clue as to the intentions of the magazine. When they said, “here, take off your pants and wear this white man’s shirt and pearls…oh and unbutton the top three buttons”, you should have made haste for the door. It didn’t matter how respected you thought the photographer was, GQ was calling the shots here. Once the lens of the camera captures your image you no longer control it. Surely you must have known that being a "campaign videographer" and all. Right?

If your reputation wasn’t already in shambles when you walked in to the shoot, dropping your pants during it clinched it for you. Next time try and get a magazine like Vanity Fair to talk to you. Wear something befitting a woman who wants to be taken seriously. And while you’re at it apologize to Elizabeth Edwards. If you think you are upset at those “oops I dropped my pants” shots….imagine how she feels about them.

Better yet...borrow a page or two from Elizabeth's playbook and learn how a woman conducts herself in public.

Indeed.

"Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done! Now if you know what you're worth then go out and get what you're worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain't where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain't you!"

-

I love this speech. It’s from Rocky Balboa, the latest , and likely the last, of the Rocky films. Written by Sylvester Stallone, it's my favorite of all of the Rocky films I have enjoyed over the years. In this scene Rocky is attempting to impart some “school of hard knocks” wisdom to his son. For as rough and unsophisticated as Rocky Balboa appears, I felt the speech was worthy in comparison to some Shakespearean soliloquies.

I take from it some words of wisdom for myself. The heart of what he is saying speaks to me at this moment in my life. The world is mean, it is nasty. It’s also cruel. I have been trying to find my balance for having been buffeted and pummeled on several fronts for some time now. Some days I wonder what else can happen, what else I can get hit with. It’s exhausting and can defeat me if let it.

I had a conversation with my longtime best girlfriend today, a woman who has been similarly pummeled as of late. We shared what things have gone amiss since we last spoke and spoke of just how much we have handled in our lives. We have few secrets from each other and it is in that knowledge, of what each of us has lived, that binds us so closely.

She asked me if I ever wonder how much I could take before I snap. I asked her the same right back. It seems we both can take quite a lot. We both can and will take much more. I know this because we both keep moving, moving forward, moving ahead. I also know that when one of us slips behind, the other reaches back and pulls the other forward. Neither of us will let the other fall back, neither of us will let the other fall. We'll make sure we are both on our feet and moving. Later, when we look back, look at how far we've come, we will revel in the fact that we did it together.

“…it's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done!”

As Rocky says at the end of Rocky Balboa…..Yo Adrian, we did it!

We did it!
Indeed.

My Own Blonde Moments....

Blonde jokes get on my nerves, I simply cannot abide them. What can possibly be funny about a lame and witless joke that diminishes, demeans, ridicules, belittles and insults a woman, who by nature of genetic disposition ( or who just wants to be pretty), is fair haired?

I just don't get it. The blonde is always, pretty, beautiful even, thin, long haired and wide eyed in these jokes. She's never homely, heavy set or cross-eyed. The joke always has this blonde bumbling along hapless and clueless. I find it curious that these jokes are directed toward a sort of ideal, a standard of beauty for many and they serve no other purpose than to tear this ideal down while laughing at her. I find that particularly interesting as it smacks of something very high-schoolish. It's as if someone who has been blessed with fair hair and beauty can't possibly possess intellect and sizable gray matter on top of it. The inference being she's a pretty blonde and that's all she gets from the genetic gods. She can't be blonde, beautiful and have brains. A notion I continually refute as I have given birth to one such wondrous creature.

I am a feminist at heart. I will always stop a person when they try and tell a blonde joke to me. When I hear a woman say, "I'm having a blonde moment"...I set her straight post haste . I'm having none of it. I will not propagate the stereotype. Women (and men) behave stupidly on a daily basis and it has nothing to do with hair color, natural or otherwise. Case in point...pick a Kardasian...it really doesn't matter which one, any of them will do. Better yet how about a professional athlete who brought his gun into a locker room or better yet a football player who shot himself in the leg walking up to the VIP room in a club? Let's not forget a certain southern Governor who told aides he was hiking the Appalachian Trail when in reality he was flying, commercial, to spend time with his paramour. Hapless? Bumbling? I'd say. It has nothing to do with hair color and everything to do with plain old stupidity itself. It comes in all shapes, sizes and colors..

This week I was present for a blonde joke telling. Not just one mind you. After the first was told friends casually mentioned that it wasn't a great idea to tell one around me. Not to be deterred, this precious jokester (who I am very fond of) proceeded to tell two more. Adding insult to...well insult.

Now some might say to me...be a good sport. Laugh with everyone, lighten up...it's just a joke. I'm not buying that. I am a good sport and it's not just a joke. Anytime a person, anytime a man, tells a joke that diminishes a woman, depicts her as inferior, demeans her as less than, it isn't just a joke. Telling the joke to me personally, telling more after you know I dislike them, hurts me. It tells me the joke teller has no respect for me, the joke teller thinks so little of me that he enjoys the insult enough to keep it going. I am not going to be smiling at someone as they insult me, as they tell me that I am stupid and then laugh about it with those nearby. I'm simply not standing for it....nor should any one else.

Truthfully, the only dumb blondes that exist are the ones who stand by and listen to these jokes without saying a word. The ones that tell them are just as clueless.

Indeed