QT with the D

How many times in our adult life do we get to feel like a kid? Not enough.

Last year I went on vacation with my dad. It's been 20+ years since we last traveled together, just the two of us, and that was to the Disney/Epcot empire. This time I was excited but also apprehensive. Traveling with your dad as a kid, traipsing around beaches and theme parks, is one thing. Five days as adults, 24/7 - it's anyone's guess.

Our flight was in the early hours. Actually it was the morning after Obama won the election. I remember packing and watching the returns. And staying up for the history-in-the-making acceptance speech, even though I'd be airport-bound before 4am.

My dad packed all his things in a robin egg blue rolling duffel. It was free from a cruiseline, or something. The handle was fickle, and sturdy it was not. And yet it met my dad's requirements: fits in the overhead bin and free. My dad is a free junkie. Free is his meth. For years the highlight of Christmas was waiting for my dad to get new shoes or new clothes as a gift. Only because of his expressions. He'd squinch his face up, frown, poo poo the item and make a disapproving comment that his old pair - of pants, or shoes, or whatever - were perfectly fine. He didn't care how threadbare his jeans or superglued together his Tevas were. They worked for him.

So free things are one of the rare moments when he appears excited. Well, excited for him. I've given him numerous golf balls, hats, tees - that were all free to me. He loves them better than anything you can buy him. Seriously. He even wears this hideous mustard yellow shirt with a logo from a vendor that I personally despise. Both my stepmom and I tried to persuade him to change shirts last time he wore it - but for different reasons (she hates the color, I suppose, and I hated the company who's logo was across his chest).

But I digress. What did I learn on my five day adventure with my Dad after a two decade hiatus?

First, that my dad is anti-nap. Flat out denies that he ever naps, even in his recliner while watching sports in the weekend. He naps. They may not be in bed, they may be brief, but he naps. On our second afternoon, I decided to close my eyes and rest. Before I knew it, Mr. I-Don't-Take-Naps closed the curtains, turned off the Golf Channel and napped too. And thus began our regular afternoon nap. Just knowing that he naps, even if he'll never own up to it when queried, is kind of fun. Kind of like seeing Santa's workshop. Or something.

Secondly, I realized that while my dad is very athletic, he is not always so graceful. So it is probable that my clumsiness comes from him. When I shared this revelation with him (after he tripped and nearly fell face first on the pool deck between two lounge chairs), I realized he wasn't as estactic as I was about this commonality.

Third, the role reversal is beginning. Albeit it in small ways, since my dad is a young 66 year old and his mother is a fairly healthy 96 year old so he'll be around for a long time. At least I'm planning on it. So, in a moment of silence, he interrupted with a serious question. This was a pivotal point in our relationship - confirming that I am no longer the little girl who, on occasion, rubbed her runny nose on her sleeve because kleenex was far away - inside the house - and I was having too much fun outside to be bothered with propriety.

So his question started with a back story, about a friend gives him grief for his paltry tipping at restaurants. My dad has always felt he's given enough. By his definition, 15% is enough. His friend insisted that 20% was more appropriate. Dad wanted to know my opinion.

And this melted my heart a little. Not unlike when I learned that, in 2008, he handwrote his expense reports and snail mailed them into the office. Did I say 2008? Which lead me to coax him into allowing me to complete these reports. He's a contractor and has never used Excel, nor does he have it on his desktop. I could only think that the person at his company was rolling their eyes each time they reeived his reports and had to try to read his scribbles and then re-key them into their computer. So after several months of offering, he caved. So, he still handwrites them, but now I transfer them into the Excel template his company provides, scan and send back to him so that he can sign and forward with his receipts. It's a super small way that I can help him after so many years of the reverse. Plus, it's heartwarming how grateful he is for my help - always saying "no rush" and "if it's not too much trouble" when he sends it to me.

Last but not least, was another favorite moment from our trip, during our last dinner. This was partially a hosted work trip (for me) and I got to bring a guest. On the last night's group dinner, Dad and I both had rosy cheeks from some jovial libations. Probably a few too many prior to dinner in truth. Mid-dinner, as he was returning to the table, he ricocheted off the wall. A little buzzed. With a little laugh he persevered on in a straight line. It was fun to get a little tipsy - or just plain tipsy - with him.

When I printed the photo of us from dinner that night, he said "It looks like we've had a lot to drink." And perhaps it did, but we also looked happy. And that's what I'll always see, red faces and all.

Guns, Girls & Steamed Vegetables

I have a healthy respect for, and discomfort with, guns. Displayed in museums, especially when there is historic significance, is one thing. Behind glass - ok. Handheld, on the ready - not so much.

At London Heathrow airport, I saw two officers carrying guns. I'm not sure if they were stun guns or not ... I do know that in general England does not allow citizens to own handguns. I like that. So it was a bit of a shock to see these two uniformed men, holding large guns, with both hands, across the front of their body.

The few other times I've seen a gun, live, handheld, and larger than a revolver - were also in foreign countries. At the Kremlin and Amman Airport. Each time the visual is very impactful. I can't say it makes me feel safer, it simply reminds me of the possibility of danger. Of the possible peril and thus assumed need to carry these rifles.

And yet one of my best friends is getting her permit to carry a concealed weapon. She has two little kids. She calls her gun "cute". I asked if it was pink.

It's not, if you were curious.

In my early 20s a friend who was/is a nurse, mind you, got a gun. I thought it was ridiculous. And awful. And yet more recently my friend with the "cute" gun wasn't quite as awful.

Ten years ago I had absolutely no interest in firing a gun. Ever. Heck, I even drafted the first few paragraphs of this post three years ago. I feel a little less repulsed by guns but still have a healthy fear (respect) and personally don't want to own a gun. And yet three months ago, in Hawaii no less, I shot clay pigeons with a Beretta 28 gauge. Or maybe it was a 20. Either way it was big, heavy, and interesting to fire. At most posts I was able to hit at least one of the clay pigeons, which was oddly satisfying for the first few times. After awhile I'd satisfied my curiosity and was content to just tag along for the ride till we returned back at the main office and could snag a soda from the cooler.

So, what does this mean? What's my point? I guess that our attitudes, tastes, opinions can change over time. Just like how I hated spinach as a child and now I consume voluntarily. While guns are more like broccoli for me (a little goes a long way, and raw not cooked), I am intrigued by my shift, albeit smallish, in my perception of guns.