According to Dad

There's a reason why my dad's nickname was Big Bad John. Just imagine Charles Bronson as an Irish Teamster from Chicago and well, you've got a pretty accurate picture of the man who succumed to Leukemia 20 years ago next month.

I was reminded of his tough-guy persona when I found his three guns while cleaning Mom's bedroom last week: two Saturday night specials, and a revolver that looks like it was once owned by The Sundance Kid. Not to mention boxes and boxes of bullets. Jewelry chests filled with bullets. Sock drawers spilling over with bullets. Shoe boxes crammed with bullets.

Dude, what's with all the bullets, one might ask? Was Dad a part of a secret militia , a one-man vigilante team, or perhaps planning to overthrow the government?

Nope. He never used those guns. Didn't go to shooting ranges, wasn't a hunter, never spent a lazy Sunday afternoon pinging beer cans off a log. Only once a year would he retrieve a gun from his nightstand and that was on New Year's Eve when he celebrated the stroke of midnight with a shot towards the stars. That is, until one year when he missed his mark and accidentally shot out a street lamp. For days afterwards he laid low, quaking in his cowboy boots in fear that the police would trace the trajectory back to his house and haul his butt to jail. After that, the guns stayed locked and hidden.

As the rugged he-man type who worshipped at the alter of John Wayne, Dad had a few unique ideas about his gender. Allow me to share his manifesto; taken, I hope, with a grain of salt.

• Men who wear sandles? Gay.
• Men who wear shorts? Gay.
• Men who work in an office? Gay.
• Men who cry? Duh.
• Men who weigh under 200 pounds? Gay.
• Men who are from England? Gay.
• Men who are mail carriers? So not Gay.

How I turned out normal, I'll never know.

In my lifetime I recall seeing Dad cry just three times: when he witnessed a dog getting hit by a motorcycle; when he had to put our own beloved German shepard, Lobo, to sleep; and when he knew his end was near, and only then did he tear up --not out of fear but because he was leaving us.

Dad and I often knocked our stubborn heads over differences of opinion, oh yes indeedy. But he is also the man who stressed the importance of treating people the way I would like to be treated. "Remember," he was constantly reminding me, "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar." I learned by example.

My John Wayne father raised me to be strong and resilent, considerate and spiritual, independent and thrifty. He taught me to smile at strangers, say thank you, show kindness, be gentle. And to appreciate the simple things in life: a good book, hot drink, true friend, loyal dog.

I think he did an okay job.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

The "Useless Things About Me You Don't Need to Know...

"...But Are Going to Find Out Anyway" list:

My elbows are double-jointed. I can pop them backwards and it freakin' freakity-freaks people out. I love doing that.

I make the best chocolate chip cookies in the world. Seriously. The best. Award-winning, even. Blue ribbon.

I like that scritchy-scratchy sound that men make when they scratch their stubbly chins. Not so much on women.

My favorite foo-foo drink is the chocolate martini. Tastes like candy, feels like a smack upside the head with a snow shovel. In a good way.

I can recite entire scenes from "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." Just my favorite movie, ever.

I have a Hank Williams song in my iPod. Right next to Lil Wayne.

I was once told by Bruce Jenner, the 1976 Olympic champion with the scary facelift, to shut up. No, I replied, YOU shut up. Okay, I didn't really. But I was thinking it.

My idea of hurl on earth? Eating beets while watching a Nicholas Cage movie.

And last but not least?

I've been declared an honorary Jew. L'Chaim!

Favorite Motivational Quote of the Week

Wishes

When you wish upon a star, your dreams can come true.

Unless, it's really a meteorite hurtling to the Earth that will destroy all life. Then you're pretty much hosed no matter what you wish for.

That is, unless it's death by meteor.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up, Folks

Found in the Thursday, May 27 calendar datebook section of the San Francisco Chronicle.

"Masterbate-a-Thon Center for Sex & Culture Executive Director Dr. Carol Queen will be joined by various celebrity hosts as competitors vie to beat the current world time record. Benefits the CSC. Sunday. Competitors arrive at 10am, non-competing masturbators at 2pm and audience may arrive after 4pm. $25 (voyeur seating). Mission Street, San Francisco."

And what are you doing this Memorial Day weekend? Besides steering clear of Mission Street, that is.

The Smile List

"Start every day with a smile and get it over with."
~W.C. Fields

So here are few things that make me smile, for no reason other than they do.

• The song Mr. Blue Sky by ELO

• The deep, resounding "moooooo" of the mad cow that roams the hillside in back of my home.

• Cowbell. Gotta have more cowbell.

• The scent of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.

• The memory of my sister and I attempting to sing "I'm Henry the 8th I am" by Herman Hermits on karaoke night on our Alaskan cruise. "Attempt" being the operative word, since we were bent-at-the-waist-knees-crossed laughing too hard.

• Sighting a deer.

• Flight of the Conchords, "She's So Hot-Boom".

• Finding one of Lucy's stuffed toys on my bed. Dog, you are so busted.

• "We are no longer the Knights who say Ni...we are the Knights who say Ekke Ekke Ptang Zoo Boing..."

• The "ping" of an incoming text.

• The happy prancy-dance that Elvis does whenever I ask, "Want a cookie?" or "Let's go bye-bye."

• "No hablo espanol. HEY, hablando espanol!" from Bedazzled, one of the funniest movies ever.

And my guaranteed-to-produce-a-smile-favorite:

• A home video of a wedding entrance march that made the rounds last year. It was criticized by some as corny, but to critics I say "pppffffttttttt." Every time I watch this, it makes me happy for the couple whom I believe have a joyous future ahead of them. Mazel tov!

The Dismantling of a Life

Today was the day my sister and I have been dreading the most: cleaning out Mom's bedroom. Except for large furniture, the entire rest of our childhood home is almost completely empty, except for her bedroom. It still looks exactly the way she left it eight months ago. When I close my eyes I can see her packing her hospital bag, kissing the dogs on the nose, and telling them to behave because "I promise I'll be back in one week."

It was a promise she couldn't keep.

When I called my sister this morning to confirm our scheduled 11:30 am meeting time at Mom's house, I could hear the dread in her voice, the fatigue, the sadness. And I knew she just couldn't handle this particular chore, the final dismantling of our mother's life. As I've said before, we all have our sore spots and hers is the house. God only knows, my baby sister has been there for me when I've needed her and I'm only too happy to return the favor.

"Stay home," I told her. "I'll handle it." She gratefully accepted.

But it wasn't easy.

Mom's bedroom is huge: two large closets, two large dressers, a bathroom, sitting room and a trunk. My best friend, Pam,assisted me and I couldn't have handled it without her. As we went through each section, she helped keep me focused when she saw me tearing up, getting weary, slowing down. It felt so intrusive, going through Mom's drawers and boxes, manhandling her possessions, taking her clothes off the hangers, removing her shoes from the racks, smelling her perfume; remembering that this was the dress she wore during formal night on our cruise to Alaska; the "mother of the bride" dress she wore to my sister's wedding; the silly Tasmanian Devil sweatshirt she always donned at the dog park.

As we stuffed each item of clothing into one of three plastic bags ("Keep," "Donate," Trash") I felt like I was losing a bit of my mother all over again. What made it more difficult was that Mom had saved many of Dad's possessions, as well as her mother's, so I had to go through these items too. Passports, photo albums, letters, keepsakes, news-clippings and certificates. Each conjuring up a plethora of long-forgotten memories of people I loved, of people now gone.

After four hours I was worn, depleted, dusty and shell-shocked. Surrounded by boxes, Hefty bags and trash. Surrounded by a discombobulated mess that represented all that was left of my beloved mother.

The deeper we love, the harder we grieve. And today served as a reminder of just how much I've loved.

The Root of Perfection

In her eyes I was perfect. Beautiful, smart, witty, funny and engaging. My hair always looked nice and my body was just the right size. Not too fat, not too skinny. Perfect.

In her eyes I was a resounding success. Any employer would be lucky to have me, any friend fortunate to claim me, any man blessed to love me. Whenever I shared my excitement about a new article I had sold for publication, she wouldn't bat an eye. Of course my work would be published! Why wouldn't it be? And of course I'd be paid for it! All brilliant writers were paid for their work.

In her eyes there was no one she'd rather spend time with. We could be grabbing an early dinner at Applebee's, catching a matinee like Up (the last movie we saw together), or simply hanging out in her kitchen with a glass of wine; it was never about the event or location: it was about me. Being with me, laughing at my jokes, relishing my stories, valuing my opinion. Taking sheer delight in the presence of my company, whether we were standing on the deck of a cruise ship in Italy or sitting on the lawn chairs in her patio. All of it - the meals, the scenery, the entertainment - may have been the cake, but I was the icing.

In her eyes I was perfect. The perfect friend, sister, employee, pet guardian, human being. Daughter.

And in my eyes any perfection that exists in me is thanks to her. After all, the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree. On this day when we honor our mothers, my heart grieves for the woman who cherished me unconditionally; who loved me in that very special way that only a mother can love.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.