Because I Didn't Send A Card...Again

When I was sixteen I went on my first date.

And by “date” I mean I went with a friend whose friend was going out with my friend and was too nervous to be alone.

Despite that I was E.X.C.I.T.E.D.

I bought a new dress, my mom did my makeup, and my friend came over to talk about how cool it was that we were going to the Perkins in Jamestown with two seniors!

Finally, my super-cool-senior-first-date walked in the door and I tried to act casual.

Hey. What’s up? Did you see Friends last week?

The evening was off to a good start.

But as we turned to leave, I heard my father yell after us.

Hey! Hold on just one second. I need to talk to you.

I froze. Oh. Dear. Lord.

My father proceeded to pull out a form entitled How To Date My Daughter, sat down with my date, and had him fill it out, step by step.

The questions included:

1. Do you own or have access to a van?
2. In 50 words or less what does LATE mean to you?

And my personal favorite.

3. Do you own a pickup with a mattress in the back?

I sat there as my date answered every single question.

Later that night, when he dropped me off, my father was waiting outside for me.

Holding a shotgun and grinning ear to ear.

Every time I share that story people listen with horror and then all ask the same question.

Were you so angry with your dad?

And I always say the same thing.

No. Not even a little bit.

In fact, I thought it was hilarious.

Because I am my father’s daughter.

From the moment I was born he has taught me to find humor in everything.

That the world will treat you better if you greet it with joy and kindness.

And that lesson was an important one when you were raising a kid like me. A girl who demanded, craved, and begged for attention.

A girl who pleaded with him to tape just one more movie she’d written and (of course) would star in. A girl who hissed at him through the side of her mouth, Zoom in, DAD!!! And begged him for just one more angle, one more shot, one more minute.

My dad was the only one who had enough patience to listen to me recite The Little Mermaid in its entirety (songs included!!)

He was the one who blared Michael Jackson records and encouraged my gangly flailing I called ‘dancing,’ telling me that I was a star.

He was the first one to show me that my dreams were not stupid by simply acknowledging them.

Instead of trampling on his daughter’s love for drama and imagination, he became an enthusiastic part of it.

And when he helped pack my car for Los Angeles what he didn’t realize was he’d already given me something more important than my earthquake kit or my color coded map of the city…

He’d given me his outlook on life.

Los Angeles is known to be a cutthroat, no-bullshit, drive or be driven on kind of town. But I trusted my father. And so, I greeted it with joy and kindness.

LA seems to value a lot of things: money, beauty, fast cars, and fast talkers.

And I don’t have any of those things. Not really. Not yet.

But what I do have – compliments of my dad – is a strong sense of self.

And with my father’s voice ringing in my ears, I have navigated a place for myself out here.

I have found that it does pay to be funny.

And it definitely pays to be kind.

In fact, everything positive in my career has happened to me as a result of treating people the way my father would.

Dad, you’re the reason I’m out here in Los Angeles and not falling apart.

You’re also the reason I always look out for matresses in the back of pick-ups.

I love you.