Happy Father's Day

In my earliest shadow of a memory, I am sitting in a bathtub, (barely) two years old. My father is there. He is upset, but not yelling.

That's it, just a flash, but I've heard the rest of the story so many times, it's like I remember that, too: I woke up one Saturday morning, and decided to feed my dolls breakfast. This involved taking them all into the living room...and pouring maple syrup all over their faces. Besides the fact that this is a HOLY NUTRITION NIGHTMARE, it was also an epic fucking mess. The living room was carpeted. White carpet. According to my father, who woke up to a head-to-toe-sticky toddler and a field of ruined toys, the brown spots on the carpet never quite came out, no matter how many times he shampooed the rug.

And oh, if that doesn't tell you almost everything about my father. He, gingerly, carried me to the bathroom, soaked me in the tub, and got to work cleaning the house. My father HATES messes, I imagine he hates sticky large-scale messes and ringlets matted with syrup most of all, yet my memory of that morning is largely peaceful. Daddy was upset, sure, but he was Taking Care of It. It was all going to be okay. I just shouldn't be in charge of feeding anything for a while (at 30, I'm still struggling with the concept, so this was probably just a defect from birth.). Also, this man shampoos rugs of his own fucking volition. Fact: I will never shampoo a rug. That shit is arduous.

My parents are these stupendous, amazing human beings that I have been blessed with the honor of getting to know, and love, and I pretty much idolize them both (seriously, give me two glasses of wine and ask me about my parents and I will cry ALL OVER YOU, I love them so much) but today is Father's Day, so we're going to give it up for Danny. Here are some things I've learned from my Dad:

Talk About It. For all of you that have told me this: You know how you feel like you can tell me your deepest, darkest, creepiest secrets, or talk about weird shit and not feel uncomfortable or super judged? Yeah, I get that from Pops. My father LOVES to talk, and talk about everything. There's never a waver, or a pause, or a deep confessional breath, he just lays it out there. I don't remember 'learning' anything about my father, about his past, his mistakes, we knew it all from the beginning. Drug stories, booze stories, project dirtbag stories, he just told us everything: that shit makes you who you are, there's no need to run from it. It made my brother and I better people. Back when we lived together, there was usually one night a month when Beets and I would get confessionally drunk and stay up until 3:00, talking and smoking, and occasionally crying, about anything, everything. It's a gift, that way of getting close, staying close, and our father gave that to us.

Be Curious. Going to a museum with my father can be trying as shit, especially if there's anything else on the day's agenda, because the man is fucking curious. He wants to know about everything. He will read every scrap of information for every display, every plaque posted on every historic house, every marker in in front of any important site....oh, Katie, you mean exactly how YOU do? Yes, exactly. It's the reason I go to museums alone. It's also the reason I know so much weird shit, and the reason I can talk about almost anything, with anyone. My Dad's like that on steroids. Sure, he makes a lot of it up, but he wants to know as much as he can, about everything. God, that makes for an interesting motherfucker. To this day, curiosity is one of my top-two favorite characteristics in a human being. The other is graciousness. Which brings me to...

Mind Your Manners. For someone with a filthy mouth and no censor, it is perhaps surprising that my father has impeccable manners. IMPECCABLE. I'm telling you, the most undervalued and underused expression in the English language is 'thank you'. You should thank everyone, for everything, all the time, because everyone's life is hard, and I learned that from my Dad. I have never been anywhere and seen him fail to thank everyone around him. Cashiers, servers, valets, attendants, anyone who helps in any way gets a sincere 'I thank you, sir', and I know that sounds totally wack, but it IS NOT. Thank anyone who impacts you in any way. Even if you're helping them, thank that other person at the end of the exchange, because you might have just learned something. Be gracious, even when it makes no sense.

Stories are Important. I'm a writer because of my parents. My mother has this effortless way with words; single-paragraph emails from her leave me stabbed in the heart and happy for the world at the same time. And my father, well -- that man can tell a story. Although he hates crowds and functions and anything of that nature, he can absolutely captivate an audience. It doesn't hurt that he has a wealth of crazy anecdotes to call on, but it's his delivery that brings it home: easy, authentic, sincere, insane with the best sense of humor. He can laugh at himself as easily as anything else. There are stories I've heard since I can remember, that I know every line of, that I've heard a hundred times. They never get old, I hope I hear them a hundred more.

Fake It Till You Make It. I'm unhappy all the time. I'm also super happy a lot, it's all just part of my temperament. I'm a pain in the ass, and I'm a weirdo, I never feel like I belong anywhere. But you know what? A lot of us feel like that. Hence, Part One of Danny's Trifecta of Life Advice. If you feel out of place, if you feel like you can't do it, but for whatever reason you have to: fake it till you make it. Go to the party, fake the smile, charm the shit out of everyone, even if you hate every second of it. As an adult, these are skills you need. You might even have a good time in spite of yourself. And if that doesn't work...

If They Can't Take a Joke, Fuck 'Em. Danny's Life Advice, Part Two. Sometimes people are shitty and awful and they don't get you. You know what? Who cares. It's not your fault. There will be a ton of people who do, if you're real and honest and just your goddamn self. My father is nothing if not himself, and you can see the effect it has on people, the way they open around him. And if you don't like him, he doesn't give a shit. He is who he is, no bullshit, and if people don't get it, well...fuck 'em.

Long Walks and Deep Breaths. Part Three. If everything is wrong, if you can't calm down (I am prone to bouts of extreme anxiety where the WHOLE WORLD AND EVERYTHING IN IT fits the above criteria) then this really, really is the best solution. I'm lucky in that I've lived in major cities for the past ten years and urban architecture has a particularly soothing effect on me. But so do the woods, so does the beach, so does every landscape, if you surrender to it, and inhale, and just let yourself wander. There is nothing that seems so bad after you walk on it for an hour or so, breathe deep, clear your head. I promise, you will feel better. Danny taught me that, too. 

I Love You. My parents have supported me through every single moment of my life, no matter how annoying or maddening or flighty I've been, and I have always always always known that they love me, forever, regardless of what I end up doing. My father once told me - and he is going to be so mad at me for sharing this, he apologizes for it all the time - that no man would ever love me as much as he does. And yeah, okay, that's kind of a fucked up thing to say to your kid who has massive commitment issues anyway, but I'm sorry, it's fucking true, in a way, you know? Here is a person who changed my diapers and made me plates of grapes and apples and cheese for Sesame Street time, who took me on walks and read me stories and bought me candy and, to this day, would talk to me on the phone, for an hour, every day, if I wanted, who drove me to riding lessons and concerts and picked me up from friend's houses whenever I needed, who cares about my happiness and safety and comfort more than anyone else on the planet. And I am a fucking LOT, you guys. Imagine having me for a daughter? Goodness. I am the goddamn worst. Unpredictable, mercurial, prone to fits of gloominess, and mania, indecision, and poor decisions...I know I drive him crazy. And yet. He is always, always, always there. And I know he always will be. No, Dad, no one will ever love me quite like you do. And it's meant everything.

Happy Father's Day, Pops. Thank you, for you, for me, for all of it. 

I love you so much,

kk

The picture is actually a still from the commercial I was named after. For reals, my father saw this 1980 McDonald's commercial and suggested, if I were a girl, we name me Katie. Thankfully, my mother insisted on Katherine, which is a beautiful, adult name that I'm thankful for everytime I have to introduce myself in a meeting full of scary grown-ups, but in my regular existence, I go by Katie to this day.