I always hated that song. When I was in a band, and we played the big South Philly serenades or weddings, "Daddy's Little Girl" was always on the request list. Watching those squat, balding fathers-of-the-bride dance with their big-haired, over-made-up daughters, while their bouffant-headed mothers and grandmothers cried on the sideline was just all too much to stand. How sappy and annoying, I thought. "You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold...The star on my tree..." Oh, give me a break.
Then, I had a daughter.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Yes! I get it! A precious gem! The pot of gold! Sugar! Spice! Everything nice!
Now, she's turning nine. And she is still my little princess. She's still the Cinderella-watching, ringlet-haired, wide-eyed angel. Even if Cinderella has been replaced by Hannah Montana, ringlets are now waves, and wide-eyes are, well, still wide-eyes. Of course, she always will be my little princess. Just as I know I will always count my son as one of my best friends, or my couch as a good place for my butt.
I know that my mission in life is to protect her, to show her what a good man is and what a decent man should be to her. And despite being divorced from her mom, I want her to know the importance of responsibility, love, devotion and most of all, respect.
When she puts her hand in mine - something I know she won't want to do too much longer - I feel like she is putting her complete trust in me. That her daddy won't ever let anything bad happen to her. That I'm her protector, her hero, even, at times, her big huggable teddy bear.
Sure, there are the assorted bonds between parent and child. The mother/son bond, the mother/daughter, father/son, Michael Jackson/spawn of some twisted union bond. But this bond between father and daughter is probably stranger, more difficult, more heartwrenching and more amazing than all of them. Why? I think it's because fathers see their daughters as forever innocent, a girl who will someday be a woman, yet always a little girl. And as men, we know exactly how guys think. And never, ever should a guy think that way about our little girls. As men, we look to be that protector of women, that hero in their eyes. It's even moreso with our daughters. No man should ever match the strength and sanctity of The Daddy. And even when they are married and pregnant, we still don't want to think of them as ever being touched by a man.
Having a son and daughter will be difficult enough with the double standards that exist. I don't want to be the dad who's high-fiving his son if he scores with a girl, but locking his daughter in a closet until she's 30. So now is the time that I'm trying to teach her what to look for in a man. A man who respects women, is kind and gentle and funny. I want her to someday say, "I want a man like my dad." That would be the ultimate compliment. Of course, with all the stuff I put the family through in the past (See: divorce; satanic second wife), I hope I can make amends and be that hero in her eyes.
Last night, for her birthday, we had a father/daughter birthday date, as we've been doing for the last several years. I take her to a nice restaurant where the waitstaff sings opera and the napkins are linen. She acts like such a refined little lady, folding her hands and thanking the people around her for their compliments and birthday wishes. I asked her if she thought we'd still be doing this when she's older. She said, "Of course, but, like, when I'm a teenager, I'll be talking about who I'm dating and all." Oh. My. God.
The ultimate realization that my baby isn't such a baby anymore came last night when she put her hands on the table, looked right at me and said, "So, dad, tell me what's going on in your life."
My little girl is definitely growing up and it's scary and wonderful at the same time. And even when she decides she's too "big" to hold my hand, or too "old" to call me daddy and would rather just go with 'dad' instead, she'll always be the "end of the rainbow, my pot of gold."
I totally get the lyrics now. I just wish I liked the damn song. But hopefully, I'll have many years to pick out a different one for our father/daughter dance at her wedding. Where I'll be the squat, balding father, and she won't need to be wearing too much make-up to be the most beautiful girl ever in my life.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Jumpin' Job Jive
So I got a new job. It was a good offer, seemed like a great firm, and the timing was right. I've done the job switch thing about a dozen times in my career, and while most of them were pretty smooth, sometimes the transition takes a little more time. For example, when no one acknowledges you exist for the first couple of weeks. Or there's sometimes that moment when you realize you may have gone from the frying pan into the fire. (Sorry for the use of the tired cliche. I hate cliches. They're just so, I don't know, cliche.) And then of course, there's always the chance that you will be completely lost and have no idea what the frigg you're supposed to be doing or how to do it.
Anyway, thankfully, none of those things happened at my new place. Everyone has been great and the job seems like it's going to be an interesting challenge. Cool.
A few good things about starting a new job:
- All of my old material is brand-spanking-new! Old jokes? New to these folks! Rocky impersonation? Totally new! My leg lamp from "A Christmas Story?" They love it! Goofy iTunes music collection? Complimented! The whole South Philly Italian shtick, works again! For a while, I totally rock as the new guy.
- You have the "I'm the new guy" excuse for a few weeks.
- You can scope out your own stall in the bathroom. For guys, this is the equivalent to a woman finding the right pair of slingbacks, on sale. That stall will be your daily companion, a place for rest and comfort, to find solace. A place to poop. And for most guys, bowel evacuation is next to Godliness.
- If it's a managerial position, you can establish some guidelines that suit you. Not to say what they have going on is bad, but here's the opportunity to make it your own. Shirtless Fridays, anyone?
- The first paycheck. If you've ever switched jobs without getting a salary increase, shame on you. (Unless, of course, the last job included a lot of unwanted sodomy and beatings about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument.) So, you get that first paycheck and you see what your new salary amounts to, after taxes, healthcare, child support and other assorted deductions. But it's still nice.
- People are usually looking to be impressed with you out of the gate. So you try to impress them early on.
Okay, so a few not so good things about starting a new job:
- You may finally realize that all that material you've been using over and over actually sucks big time. The iTunes selection is lame. The leg lamp is cheesy. The South Philly Italian shtick fails to impress. Time to come up with new stuff, which I'm just too damn old to figure out.
- The "I'm the new guy" excuse gets old real fast.
- Someone else may have an affinity to your stall. And he could be someone with nasty hygiene.
- Your guidelines are just plain stupid. "Deodorant-free Thursdays" anyone?
- You may be surprised by your first paycheck. And not in a positive way.
- You may work with people who are not easily impressed.
- Oh yeah, and you've got to find new places to eat lunch, after getting used to the same places near your old office.
- There's always a learning curve. Some places more than others. Right now, besides learning the procedures and digging into the background of all the clients, I also have the added joy of figuring out a PC. I have never used a PC, being a Mac guy since I sat down at a computer. I mean, literally, I have never put a finger on a PC. Now I know why. Generally, PCs suck. After using the intuitive, user-friendly, elegant Mac for so many years, I can not even begin to fathom how anyone would rather use the cumbersome, ugly PC. But, I have to figure it out. Ugh.
Well, it's an adventure and I'm looking forward to it. In the long run, what I do has gotten me through. I'm a creative writer guy and I enjoy writing. So I'll write. Hell, it's saved my ass more than once.
Now, I just hope some guy with a love of eggs and Mexican food hasn't also claimed my stall.
See ya!
Anyway, thankfully, none of those things happened at my new place. Everyone has been great and the job seems like it's going to be an interesting challenge. Cool.
A few good things about starting a new job:
- All of my old material is brand-spanking-new! Old jokes? New to these folks! Rocky impersonation? Totally new! My leg lamp from "A Christmas Story?" They love it! Goofy iTunes music collection? Complimented! The whole South Philly Italian shtick, works again! For a while, I totally rock as the new guy.
- You have the "I'm the new guy" excuse for a few weeks.
- You can scope out your own stall in the bathroom. For guys, this is the equivalent to a woman finding the right pair of slingbacks, on sale. That stall will be your daily companion, a place for rest and comfort, to find solace. A place to poop. And for most guys, bowel evacuation is next to Godliness.
- If it's a managerial position, you can establish some guidelines that suit you. Not to say what they have going on is bad, but here's the opportunity to make it your own. Shirtless Fridays, anyone?
- The first paycheck. If you've ever switched jobs without getting a salary increase, shame on you. (Unless, of course, the last job included a lot of unwanted sodomy and beatings about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument.) So, you get that first paycheck and you see what your new salary amounts to, after taxes, healthcare, child support and other assorted deductions. But it's still nice.
- People are usually looking to be impressed with you out of the gate. So you try to impress them early on.
Okay, so a few not so good things about starting a new job:
- You may finally realize that all that material you've been using over and over actually sucks big time. The iTunes selection is lame. The leg lamp is cheesy. The South Philly Italian shtick fails to impress. Time to come up with new stuff, which I'm just too damn old to figure out.
- The "I'm the new guy" excuse gets old real fast.
- Someone else may have an affinity to your stall. And he could be someone with nasty hygiene.
- Your guidelines are just plain stupid. "Deodorant-free Thursdays" anyone?
- You may be surprised by your first paycheck. And not in a positive way.
- You may work with people who are not easily impressed.
- Oh yeah, and you've got to find new places to eat lunch, after getting used to the same places near your old office.
- There's always a learning curve. Some places more than others. Right now, besides learning the procedures and digging into the background of all the clients, I also have the added joy of figuring out a PC. I have never used a PC, being a Mac guy since I sat down at a computer. I mean, literally, I have never put a finger on a PC. Now I know why. Generally, PCs suck. After using the intuitive, user-friendly, elegant Mac for so many years, I can not even begin to fathom how anyone would rather use the cumbersome, ugly PC. But, I have to figure it out. Ugh.
Well, it's an adventure and I'm looking forward to it. In the long run, what I do has gotten me through. I'm a creative writer guy and I enjoy writing. So I'll write. Hell, it's saved my ass more than once.
Now, I just hope some guy with a love of eggs and Mexican food hasn't also claimed my stall.
See ya!
Monday, April 14, 2008
MIA
Sorry. I know it's been a while. And I'm sorry.
A lot has been going on, okay? Give me a break. I know, I know, it's getting less "Live Musing Nightly" and more "Live Musings Seldomly" than ever. But I'm back on track. Hopefully. Might as well fill you in on the goings on, right? Hey, you're here, so let's chat.
I'll begin with the whole health thing and my series of tests...
When last I wrote, I was prepping for the ole' scoperooni in the patootie. (I believe that's the correct medical term for the procedure.) And I've gotta tell you, the whole prep thing was nothing like I thought it would be. It was freakin' worse. Oh, man. I'll spare you from the nasty details, but let me just say that if you've ever wanted to be wrung out like a dirty sponge you've been washing your car with, then have I got the stuff for you. Three and a half ounces of pure colon cleansing dynamite. I could have swallowed a bulldozer and a fire house on full blast and gotten the same effect. By the next morning, when I had to take the second dose of this atom splitting liquid, I already felt like I was ready to curl up in a ball and cry to mommy. A second dose was like pouring mercury into a burn wound. Try this: take a thawed chicken, with all the guts out, turn on your spigot and let the water run into the top of it. Where does the water go? Yeah. You get the idea.
Anyway, the good news is my test was normal. And I managed to drop a few pounds in the process. Along with finding a little plastic G.I. Joe gun I lost in 1969. Hmmm, I was wondering where that went.
Then I had the stress test. I was really nervous about this one. Why? Oh, I don't know, but something about the thought of a blockage leading to my heart just makes me feel a bit tense. So I went through a week of panic attacks. Honestly. It was the first week of my new job (more on that later), and here I am, under the weather and imagining the lining of my heart looking like a month old peanut butter and roofing tar sandwich. Not a good week. So I didn't eat much. Hardly at all. I actually lost a few more pounds. Okay, I never read on the Weight Watchers website anything about panic attacks helping weight loss, but hell, I'll take it any way I can get it.
So, I went last Monday for the first part of the stress test. Easy. They injected me with some nuclear imaging stuff then take pictures of my heart at rest. Key words: At rest. Nice. Lay on the table, no treadmill, sweating or heavy breathing. That is to come a couple days later...
I go back for the second portion of the stress test which is far more of a stressful stress test. First, the woman uses something like a dull car window ice scraper to shave some of the fur off my chest. Oh, did I mention that frigging hurts? And now, almost a week later, and my chest looks like I was shirtless and locked in a closet with a bobcat. Plus, it itches like crazy. But, I guess the EKG sticky pads wouldn't stick to my chest, since it would be like trying to get Scotch tape to stick to a bear's ass. Which I've tried, and it doesn't work.
Anyway, I'm injected again with the same nuclear stuff as the other day, and now I'm wondering if I'll ever need a nightlight again, or if I'll just be able to find my way in the dark by opening my mouth. I'm put on the treadmill and begin my heart pumping workout. Basically, it's a treadmill from Hell. It speeds up and increases the incline every minute or so. So by the sixth or seventh minute, it's like you're having a walking race up Mount Kilimanjaro. Fun for the whole family!
I'm sweaty, heaving, and ready to puke out the granola bar I ate three days earlier, when the masochist running the thing tells me she's got my heart at the right rate and I can slow down. Super. I'm glad I could get my heart to the rate you want it, before dying.
I then get the imaging of my heart and I'm allowed to leave. Thanks! See you guys in the emergency room.
A few days later, I got the call that all is normal in CardiacTown. I guess it was worth it.
So, yes, I also started a new job, which means all my old jokes are suddenly new again. Yessss...I have material! I'll save that for the next post, which will be very soon. I promise.
Once again, sorry about the delay. Now get off my butt, I had a rough couple weeks.
A lot has been going on, okay? Give me a break. I know, I know, it's getting less "Live Musing Nightly" and more "Live Musings Seldomly" than ever. But I'm back on track. Hopefully. Might as well fill you in on the goings on, right? Hey, you're here, so let's chat.
I'll begin with the whole health thing and my series of tests...
When last I wrote, I was prepping for the ole' scoperooni in the patootie. (I believe that's the correct medical term for the procedure.) And I've gotta tell you, the whole prep thing was nothing like I thought it would be. It was freakin' worse. Oh, man. I'll spare you from the nasty details, but let me just say that if you've ever wanted to be wrung out like a dirty sponge you've been washing your car with, then have I got the stuff for you. Three and a half ounces of pure colon cleansing dynamite. I could have swallowed a bulldozer and a fire house on full blast and gotten the same effect. By the next morning, when I had to take the second dose of this atom splitting liquid, I already felt like I was ready to curl up in a ball and cry to mommy. A second dose was like pouring mercury into a burn wound. Try this: take a thawed chicken, with all the guts out, turn on your spigot and let the water run into the top of it. Where does the water go? Yeah. You get the idea.
Anyway, the good news is my test was normal. And I managed to drop a few pounds in the process. Along with finding a little plastic G.I. Joe gun I lost in 1969. Hmmm, I was wondering where that went.
Then I had the stress test. I was really nervous about this one. Why? Oh, I don't know, but something about the thought of a blockage leading to my heart just makes me feel a bit tense. So I went through a week of panic attacks. Honestly. It was the first week of my new job (more on that later), and here I am, under the weather and imagining the lining of my heart looking like a month old peanut butter and roofing tar sandwich. Not a good week. So I didn't eat much. Hardly at all. I actually lost a few more pounds. Okay, I never read on the Weight Watchers website anything about panic attacks helping weight loss, but hell, I'll take it any way I can get it.
So, I went last Monday for the first part of the stress test. Easy. They injected me with some nuclear imaging stuff then take pictures of my heart at rest. Key words: At rest. Nice. Lay on the table, no treadmill, sweating or heavy breathing. That is to come a couple days later...
I go back for the second portion of the stress test which is far more of a stressful stress test. First, the woman uses something like a dull car window ice scraper to shave some of the fur off my chest. Oh, did I mention that frigging hurts? And now, almost a week later, and my chest looks like I was shirtless and locked in a closet with a bobcat. Plus, it itches like crazy. But, I guess the EKG sticky pads wouldn't stick to my chest, since it would be like trying to get Scotch tape to stick to a bear's ass. Which I've tried, and it doesn't work.
Anyway, I'm injected again with the same nuclear stuff as the other day, and now I'm wondering if I'll ever need a nightlight again, or if I'll just be able to find my way in the dark by opening my mouth. I'm put on the treadmill and begin my heart pumping workout. Basically, it's a treadmill from Hell. It speeds up and increases the incline every minute or so. So by the sixth or seventh minute, it's like you're having a walking race up Mount Kilimanjaro. Fun for the whole family!
I'm sweaty, heaving, and ready to puke out the granola bar I ate three days earlier, when the masochist running the thing tells me she's got my heart at the right rate and I can slow down. Super. I'm glad I could get my heart to the rate you want it, before dying.
I then get the imaging of my heart and I'm allowed to leave. Thanks! See you guys in the emergency room.
A few days later, I got the call that all is normal in CardiacTown. I guess it was worth it.
So, yes, I also started a new job, which means all my old jokes are suddenly new again. Yessss...I have material! I'll save that for the next post, which will be very soon. I promise.
Once again, sorry about the delay. Now get off my butt, I had a rough couple weeks.
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