I got up and conquered at 3-mile run this morning because
it's just safer and lighter. I'm going to start doing this every Tuesday and Thursday this winter. Just 12 more weeks until the marathon.
Now, I have to take a moment to recap a dream I had. It is such a blessing and a special treat to dream about my dad, who died when I was 18. Dreams about him are rare. This primary photo is of Daddy and me (aka Babydoll) in 1991 on my 17th birthday. Yes, the hair is ridiculous, but that was the style back then. Now I sound like my mom.
I dreamt he was alive and living in Arkansas and had a restaurant. He was featured in some full page article in the newspaper with a color photo; and he was standing on a bridge, you could see water. Maybe it was in NYC and not Arkansas. He had built a completely different life from what he had when he was alive. He was married. This time to a
sane woman (and by sane, I mean my crazy former stepmother, not my completely sane mother), who was very nice. She has 4 kids. Three are married and then one is not; he's a guy. Then they had a bunch of adopted kids, or maybe they were young workers in the restaurant and they were having a dinner at their house and Daddy cooked. I think he had a BBQ place.
We were at his house. It was modern but warm and homey. It was like something you'd see on a mountain in Colorado at a ski resort with lots of wood, and stone and windows. It was big, too. I saw him, and people around us (his new family) gave us our space. I didn't know what to think. I cried and cried and cried. Like HARD crying. And I was telling him about me and my blog and running and comedy and where I work and how I had been married and it didn't work out but he might like him or he might have not. He was SOOOO laid back in the dream. He really had mellowed out. And I told him about skiing and traveling and living in Houston and living in Austin. And about my friends and dating. Ugh dating. And how I'm a good cook, too. And how I own a house, and I'm not driving a GM car, let alone an American car. I told him about my workouts and working out everyday and how I looked now. He just listened to me and sat and held me. I couldn't believe he was RIGHT THERE! It felt so real. I cried a lot more. Like crying in anguish and not like tears of joy. Probably just pain of missing him in my life and how much he's missed. Weird that you can cry in dreams. It felt so real.
Then cut to my brother Jason and me at our eye doctor's office, Dr. Haas. Only it looked more like a gate at an airport with lots of plain-looking chairs and lots of big windows. There was a refrigerator, and we were told we could help ourselves. I grabbed some juice and two boiled eggs. Jason didn't want any. One egg was fine; the other one had some weird eggy soft spot. I didn't eat that one. Then we were called into the office, and Jason didn't want to go in. I went in to see Dr. Haas in his office, not his exam room, and I told him that I knew about Daddy and he was alive and that I wanted a relationship with him again.
See, in the dream, for some reason, we'd been estranged. Like he'd been in jail, but I'm not sure why, if in real life, if he would really go to jail and that I'd ever disown him. But that is almost how it was in the dream.
Then I woke up and actually pondered whether people visit ghosts in dreams? I believe we are all just balls of energy, and energy is neither created nor destroyed. So when you die, the energy is just transferred somewhere else. Maybe dreams really do connect you to ghost energy. Well, who knows? I don't. But this was a good dream.
What can I say about my Daddy, who died so young at 45? That he was funny, and warm, and ambitious, and outgoing, and charismatic, and firm, and strong, and caring. As an adult, I realize more every day how vulnerable he was and didn't really show that side of him a lot. I'd tell him now that it's OK to be vulnerable, Daddy.
He was big on GM. I wonder what he'd think of the GM downfall. Would he still be driving a Cadillac? What would he think about Obama? Would he have taken up his hobby as a pilot? Would he have a Blackberry or an iPhone? Would he text me? Would he use emoticons like :-)? Would he be on Facebook? Would he even have a computer or email me? Would he have a digital camera? Daddy was all about taking photos. He kept pictures of me and my brother everywhere. Under a glass on his desk at work. Framed around the house and his office. Tucked away in albums. I have boxes of them. It was like he was trying to document every moment. Maybe that’s where my own fascination and pleasure in picture taking derives. If you judged where his heart was by photos alone, Jason and I were clearly the love of his life. Looking at the photos of him with his friends, smiling, a drink in his hand…well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He loved partying with his friends. His funeral was standing room only.
There was always music in our house. My mom’s family was possibly the more musically inclined, but passion for music was evident in our house. This household of music, laughter and creativity created the perfect Petri dish environment for my brother to grow into a musician and me a writer and aspiring comic. We had a jukebox, and Daddy would play music and sometimes break out his saxophone and play along. When I was very young – before my brother was born or while he was still a small baby – I always knew when Daddy came home. I’d be in the back of the house, playing with toys and I’d hear that certain song. It triggered the same reaction as the ice cream truck song, and as soon as I heard it, I’d run to the living room and stand by Daddy as he played this song. We had one of those “fun machine” organs – the kind every hip 70s household couldn’t be without. Daddy learned to play “More” for me, and he’d sing it to me. I requested this song to be sung during his funeral service. He loved Motown and Frank Sinatra and Bob Seger. When I was a teenager, he’d still come home every day and play music. We had a barber’s chair, and he’d make his favorite drink at the bar (equal parts Crown Royal and diet Coke with lots of ice), put on some Sinatra and sit and that chair after a long day at work. My friends and I came to know that was his “alone” time.
Would his hair be gray yet? Would he have gone to jail because of the IRS? What kind of dating advice would he give me? Would he take up running like me? Would he be eating more fiber in his diet? What books would he read; would he read "Twilight?"
He was funny and cracked jokes. He was always telling jokes and making friends wherever he went. And we'd laugh. I could give him a look to let him know exactly where I stood on something and he could do the same. We had date night every Tuesday. He had rules: never leave the house without makeup on or without your hair fixed; could be one or the other. Never eat anything white because it's fattening. Don't order spaghetti on a first date because it's messy.
When I lived with my dad in high school, we developed our own language. For example, “NG” meant “new girl” for him or “new guy” for me. We could look at each other and see right through each other – probably more him through me than me through him. We’d compare our dates – both of us leaving out juicy details, of course. And he’d size up every boy I brought home. “He wears an earring…not good enough for you.” “What kind of car does he drive?” “He’s 22 and in college???” He’d try to give me advice on guys, which generally boiled down to boys will be boys so be careful. When I had mono, he came home from work to bring me ice cream or fetch my medicine. When I was 14 and still a very innocent virgin, I found condoms in his bedroom and opened one out of curiosity. I guess I didn’t dispose of it good enough, and boy did he have questions! He always knew everything I was up to, who my friends were, who my teachers were, what I was reading in school. He was at every game I cheered at or played in and all of my brother’s baseball games. Once, he was almost asked to leave because he was irritating the batter so much with his “hey batter batter” rant going on in the background. He gave Jason and me a boat the summer I turned 16 and made us read the boating safety rulebook from cover to cover. We had to know how to tow and load our boat and clean out the jet when crap got sucked up into it. Maybe we were a little spoiled, but the real reason is he wanted to have his grown-up fun while we had our trivial teenage fun. You could take Johnny Burnett off the lake, but you couldn’t take the lake out of him.
He taught me a lot. About how it's important to maintain good credit. And he'd keep lists (like me). And he'd have a list of motivational quotes; he was always trying to better himself. He'd quote Dale Carnegie: "If you want to be enthusiastic you have to act enthusiastic." And he'd tell me that if you want to be number one, you have to look and act number one. And if you want to be your best you have to look your best. And winners never quit and quitters never win. These are the philosophies I grew up believing.
Loved the lake and boating. He had to have the biggest boat on the lake and then act a fool with his water balloon sling shots. I think a ticket for those cost $50 once. He paid it but it didn't stop him. He trained Jason and me how to hold it just right. Jason was the littlest so he was the one who squatted with the balloon.
He'd play "Johnny B. Goode" on the jukebox and say, "Johnny be no good," and wink. Jason plays that song in his band and I like to stand right next to him. Jason and I can just give a look to each other and just know. What's going through his mind then? I don't need to know, but I sense it. He looks so much like Daddy, and I am so proud of him. I attribute Jason’s great outcome to our mom.
I remember how he liked his coffee with sugar and coffeemate and one ice cube. He woke up and swam every morning and did his situps, and many mornings he'd rip the covers off my bed at 6 am and make me swim with him. He washed his face with Lava soap. He always had chapstick and real handkerchiefs in his pocket. And probably some throat lozenges. His bathroom was the library. He played the sax and went to high school with Bill Clinton, but he did most of his partying with Roger Clinton.
I can hear his laugh when I look at his photos. I still know how his voice sounds. I see the curve of his shoulders and how his arms fall to his side and I can still remember feeling my arms wrapped around him in a big hug. When I was a little kid, he’d lay in the floor with my head on his round, cushy stomach and we’d watch TV together. I had a dream a couple of weeks after he died: We were each standing at either end of a long hallway in the house where I grew up. We ran toward each other and hugged for a long time. I said, “I miss you, Daddy.” He said, “I miss you, too, Baby Doll. You’re going to be OK.” We hugged again, and then the dream was over. Where do people go when they die? Do they really come to you in dreams? Does their energy float around you like a cold draft in the most unlikely places? Is he really watching over me?
So go give your mom and dad and siblings hugs when you see them - if you see them - on Thanksgiving. I mean it!
Being out of town for 5 days really gets me out of my groove. I hate when that happens. So while I'm going to use my resistance bands yet again tonight, at least I am on the high that performing at Chick Schtick gave me.
