Dear Santa

If only you delivered from Heaven,

my list would be short.

Random Evening Memo: 063007

1. I left for the Comets game under threatening skies but made it there without incident.
2. Like a total putz, I left my (almost brand new 'Blackjack') cell phone on the passenger seat, and once I realized it, worried about (a) the car getting broken into, (b) the phone being stolen, and more than anything (c) Brinks calling because someone broke into my house and I don't know it. (Fortunately, none of these things occurred... whshhhhhew).
3. I enjoyed the company of my friends, as well as a beautiful 5 year old guest, but one of my friends wasn't well, and didn't make it to the game. And I missed her.
4. A race was held, and the color of the card that I received at the door matched the winner, meaning that I won a lottery scratch-off ticket. That ticket, however much promise it offered, yielded NADA.
5. The game was so bad that I went to the box office and picked up my American Idol tickets for the July 15th show (that I purchased for a bunch of my friends, more than a month ago)... and had to engage in 'Sanjaya' talk with others in line. Sigh.
6. The actual game was less than enjoyable, as the Comets were skunked by the Mercury.
7. The trip home was also freakishly eventful, as I found myself driving by the home of an ex. I experienced little emotion, though the few good memories that flooded back were quickly squelched by the ones that caused me to end that relationship.
8. Sometimes self esteem feels like a bitch that denies you of pleasure... but for your own good!

The Worst Day of My Life

Today is the 14th anniversary of the worst day of my life... the day my father died.

I've written volumes, expounding on what he meant to me and how much I miss him. But truly, there are no words that come close to explaining.

I would love to tell you who he was, to tell you everything about him. And I would love everyone to know how much a father can mean, particularly in his daughter's life.

For now, and pardon the impersonality... I love what Linda Ellerbee said about her father:

He was generous with his affection, given to great, awkward, engulfing hugs, and I can remember so clearly the smell of his hugs, all starched shirt, tobacco, Old Spice and Cutty Sark. Sometimes I think I’ve never been properly hugged since.

Daddy's hugs meant love and security in their purest senses and were far from awkward, but I remember them distinctly. It's funny, though, the older I got, the more I didn't want him to let go. I know, for a fact, that I've never been loved or treated, by anyone else, the way he loved me, or treated the way he treated me. No one has ever even come close.

As an example, Daddy and I had a telephone conversation one day, the content of which I don't remember, but he said something that made me cry. When the call ended, I can only assume he felt as bad as I did.

The next day I received, in the mail, a typewritten letter from him that read simply:

Sometimes daddies say the wrong things. And sometimes daddies say too much.

Your daddy is sometimes like that.

The letter was signed, "Your daddy always loves you. Daddy." And there was a $20 bill enclosed which, to this day (and I've kept it), makes me smile. That was just SO Daddy.

The bottom line is that no one has ever believed in me like Daddy believed in me. And I know I've never been properly hugged, loved or believed in since.