Yeah, it still sucks having you gone. I love you.

Over the weekend, my husband and I went to a party given by a friend of ours, a super-cool lady who works in magazines, plays soccer in a league and calls my husband “Frampy” (together, we are the “Frampies;” so cute!)

We met one of her soccer-playing friends, a big-time lawyer guy working for an international bank. Let me tell you, there was a whole lotta money represented. Anyhoo, it came up that I wrote romance, and that I had come to college in NY (Barnard), but that my dad woulda preferred it if I went to Hampshire.

Hampshire, for those of you not familiar with it, is a very free-form school, offering no grades and housing in round units called ‘donuts.’ My dad was stoked about it, but not me, because I wanted more structure. The guy I told about that seemed surprised, and I told him that my dad would’ve been REALLY excited about me as a daughter if I was a pot-smoking lesbian. I am neither, so he had to make do with my straight, non-marijuana ways.

The guy said I should write that as a story, which made me realize just how–and this is not meant to be pejorative–people are about storytelling. That is not a story; that is an anecdote with a punchline.

And even though I bemoan the fact that I have problems telling a story, I know enough what doesn’t make a good story: That story about me and my college choice.

Today is my dad’s birthday. Before he died, he’d spend his birthday–or as close to it as possible, given our schedules–here with us in Brooklyn. I’d make him something delicious, he’d have at least two helpings, and we’d talk.

Instead of the rain, which was promised, today is lovely and bright. I headed to the library, since my dad and I definitely shared a love of books, although fiction was not his first choice. I meant only to get a few things, but of course, walked out with an armload.

Later today I will find, and devour, a piece of chocolate, because Dad was always urging me to treat myself, and I figured today would be a good day to do so.

I miss him so much. I love you, Dad.

Megala

Some of you know I lost my dad almost two years ago (”lost” is such a funny euphemism; like I misplaced him at Target or something. No, he died). November 20 is his birthday, and November was always when I saw him at Thanksgiving. So I’m thinking about him even more than usual, and I think about him a lot already.

Grief is weird; before Dad died, I had never really grieved. My grandmother died, but hers was a slow decline, and she was in her 80s. It was expected. Plus I wasn’t nearly as close to her as I was to my dad (hers are the gowns I wear to conference, thanks, Gram!). But now I’ve been thinking a lot about grief, and memories, and thinking that the pain of the missing never ebbs, but the grief is more distant in everyday life. In other words, when I am reminded of my dad, it hurts almost as badly as it did nearly two years ago when I got the call, but I am able to keep that pain at a distance better.

So many things remind me of him–Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, exclamation points (”only if the universe is on fire!”), King Lear, the Celtics, peanut butter, my son’s vast collection of Pokemon figures culled from the swap shop Dad worked at, duck-footed walks, full beards, Ernest Hemingway, Rachel Carson–shoot, so many things.

I miss him so, so much. This November is going to be hard, as I presume all Novembers will in the future.

A friend of my dad’s recently sent along some photos he’d taken when I was a baby. This is a very rare pic of my dad without facial hair; the one time he shaved I was away for the summer, and his moustache had grown back by the time I returned, so I didn’t recall ever seeing him without some sort of growth on his face.

Off to DC now, much black clothing in tow.

It’s Charles Darwin’s 200th birthday today, and there are plenty of places to read about how brilliant he was, and how his theories revolutionized the way we think.

You won’t read that here, however (even though it’s true).

One night, when I was a teenager–I must’ve been about 14, because my mom had already left by then–I was sick with a cold or something. All I remember is I felt crappy and I wanted someone to get me medicine or something or just make a fuss of me. Since it was the middle of the night, all of our apartment’s inhabitants were sleeping (we had a motley crew of friends and relatives living with us at any given time). Anyway, I went into my dad’s room, because I just wanted to be taken care of, damnit, and I tried really hard to wake him up. A very hard task.

Eventually, he sat up and said “Darwin was right!” in an emphatic tone, and lay back down and went right back to sleep.

I went and took care of myself. But I always thought it was really cool that my dad was dreaming about Darwin.

Happy Birthday, Charles!

Most of you know my dad died a little over a year ago. In that time–and due entirely to Dad’s death–my uncle and I have grown very close. I can just hear my dad now, growling: “I had to die for this to happen? Well, next time I’ll make sure I do it sooner.”

Today is my uncle’s two-year anniversary of sobriety. I am so, so proud of him–it’s hard being an Irish workaholic who always thinks someone is smarter than they are (even if they are SO NOT). He stopped drinking due to my dad, and he and I both knew he could never take it up again after Dad died. Dad would be really pissed.

My uncle is coming to visit this weekend, and I look forward to getting that big McLaughlin bear hug I loved getting from my father. My uncle and dad are very similar, down to the senses of humor and the great belly laugh, and hanging with him has made me miss Dad a little less.

I love you, Jon.

Love,

Megala
PS: Left to right: My dad, my aunt, her daughter (peeking over shoulder), her husband (although not, surprisingly, her daughter’s dad), my uncle.

Many blogs and sites across the web will have insightful, evocative commentary on what today means, and brings, for our country.

Not this one.

My first thought was, “What the hell is Aretha wearing on her head?!?” (which I texted to Kwana, the P-I-C). You saw it too, I don’t need to find a pic of it. Not, however, the worst thing Aretha has ever chosen to wear: Amazing voice, terrible at fashion.

Then I texted my uncle: “Today might almost make dad proud of our country.” To which Jon agreed. And then I cried. And got back here to do some computer work.

So, yeah, things are better, and I’m so relieved we don’t have that bastard as our President anymore I can’t believe it.

Tomorrow is a big day, for one sucky reason (death of Dad), and I am hoping to distract myself sufficiently so I don’t break out into sobs at inopportune moments (Someone Else: Ma’am, would you like that to go? Me: Waaahh!). I have a lot of Mom-type chores to do, and then I am taking the Son and his friend to see Twilight (I swear, I did not push them into it!).

Tomorrow night, tea and sympathy. Maybe some wine. Wine and sympathy.

I’ll be posting at the Riskies tomorrow, too, but won’t let any of this drama over there. That’s for business, this? This is personal.

Thanks for not minding when I get all serious and such.

I miss you so much.

Love,

Megala