I can’t think of anything my dad would hate more than being eulogized on a blog. Well, maybe milk. He really hated milk. But I try to avoid the whole, “She/He would love/hate this” thing that people do when someone dies. Because you don’t really know. They are gone, and you can’t ask them if they would mind being blogged about. All I know is what his past behavior was. And he distrusted all social media and thought blogs were stupid. Those are things I can say with certainty. I know he did like attention and supporting me when he could so maybe he would have surprised me and said, “Sure, you can write about me on your blog, if it helps you out.” Sometimes he did things like that. Surprised me. Regardless, I am going to do it anyway, because that is exactly who we were.

I have these three tables, two teak and one a lovely cherry. The cherry is actually Big A’s but that’s not important. All of these tables used to belong to my dad but have been mine for some time. They need to be refinished, badly. And one of Dad’s favorite things was giving detailed instructions about things like refinishing tables, or changing a flat, or how to deal with a break-out of hives. He would give you these instructions even if you didn’t need them and hadn’t asked. But I do need help refinishing these tables. I mean, I could probably figure it out. I’m handy. Go to Home Depot. Ask an orange-vested clerk. But I was saving it up to ask my dad about it when he got out of the hospital. Because it would make him happy and feel useful to me to be able to give me these directions; directions I really do need. Sadly, I think it will be a while before I refinish the tables. And that is a shame. Dad told me I should have done it last year. He was right.

I also didn’t tell him about how Big A’s toilet fills up with scalding water. I was saving that too, for when he was home and feeling better, and not in so much pain, like he was when we spoke last. I would have embellished the story, saying Big A burned his tuckus or something about a perfect place for a facial and he would have laughed. Then he would have given me instructions about how to handle the hot water toilet which I probably would have ignored.

My dad traveled the world. He shook President Kennedy’s hand when he was Senator Kennedy and booked Peter, Paul and Mary for his college Homecoming. His name is on the walk-way at that same college, a celebration of his academic achievement, which was great. He had his Rorschach read by Zigmund Petrofsky (I had to look it up too). He used to feed our dog, Heather, radishes to cleanse her palette. When we went to father/daughter dances in high school, he made me polka.

I’m experiencing about three of the stages of grief at the moment, so take all this with a grain of salt. The only thing that made this experience bearable for me was knowing exactly what my Dad’s wishes were prior to his illness. We had multiple conversations about it. And when I was 19 he made gave me durable power of attorney and made me co-signer on his accounts. Let me assure you that even knowing exactly what he wanted, having it in writing even, and signed by a notary public and a lawyer, I was barely able to think a coherent thought and act. If there is any doubt in your mind about what your spouse or parent wants to happen in the event of their not being able to make the decision for themselves, I strongly urge you to have that conversation at least once, and get some paperwork in order. Now. Not later. Today. I was able to give the rest of my family the gift of knowing exactly what to do even if it was hard to do it, in the end. I can’t imagine what it would have been like if I had been forced to guess about his burial wishes or his end of life instructions. I sit here, overwhelmed with guilt as it is, and I followed his instructions to the letter. Guessing and choosing something to fit my needs instead of his wishes might have killed me.

So, good-bye Dad. I love you. I miss you. I’m glad you don’t hurt anymore.

For example, Big A’s bathroom toilet fills with scalding hot water. Weird, right? I mean, de rigueur all the HOT and COLD taps are reversed, as is the case in every Chicago apartment I have lived in, save one. But my toilet has regular medium water in it. And our deck has no fewer than three satellite dishes on it.  Not ours, of course, and since the whole building changed occupants, we are at a loss as to whose they are, but I am going to use them to grow ivy or something else creeping, and see if anyone notices. They are an eye sore to say the least.

I think it is going to be a salve for our relationship not to have to share a bathroom or closet anymore. We just had too much stuff in too small a space and though I instituted a strict, “If you haven’t touched it in three years throw it out.” policy, we still have way way way too much stuff. I have created a pinky greeny bamboo accented sanctuary in my bathroom where there is no guy stuff, like tiny beard bristles or an empty toilet paper roll on the holder with the new toilet paper roll sitting on top of it (what IS that?). I am pleased.

Unfortunately, the largish box with all of our pots and pans has gone missing. Just gone. Poof. Perhaps it fell off the truck. Perhaps it was left behind. Regardless, it is gone. We have one crappy pan and one crappy pot. I’m trying not to be sad about the Le Creuset boiler and few other things, but mostly our cookware was pretty crappy. And they were just things. I now have a toilet that can boil water, so there is always an upside.

When you sit on our deck, and the night is clear, you can see the Sears Tower and the skyline very clearly. It is wondrous.

http://www.thetakeaway.org/2010/aug/09/tough-questions-hard-answers-when-babies-are-born-too-soon/

I attended your last summer concert last night; Bettye LaVette and Mark Cohn. I have some suggestions for you to make the experience more enjoyable for your second year of concerts.

Firstly, I was impressed with the sound you created without having speakers positioned around the park but rather just facing outward from the stage. As a veteran of summer concert venues like Ravinia and the Pritzker Pavilion, when I saw your set-up I was ready for thready sound and too much bass.  But I was wrong. It was a good sound, well balanced and enjoyable.

However, the rest of the concert experience was something of a let down.

I paid $31 for the exquisite pleasure of carrying my own chair, standing in line for 20 minutes while the sound check went on beyond the shrubs after the park was supposed to be open, being searched (without my permission, the man just dove into my purse without asking if he could) for alcohol like a kid at a high school football game, having my alcohol confiscated and then getting to pay $5 a glass for your indifferent wine while listening to people chatter through the concert and being eaten alive by mosquitoes and having only an unlit port-o-potty available to use when nature called. For this I paid $31. Actually, $62 because I thought this might make a nice evening out for my boyfriend and I.

I get that you might not be able to spray or fog for mosquitoes. Concert venue is not the Arboretum’s main purpose, of course. There was a women who made some announcements before the concert and instead of spending the time trying to hock more over-priced wine and smoothies, she might have done 2 minutes on why you can’t fog for mosquitoes and then directed people to the FREE bug spray you offer. (I really think this would be a plus.) Most people brought their own, as did we, but the bugs were so bad that any acknowledgment of how the crowd was about the swarmed would be a PR boost.

The gestapo like search of my bag really put me off. If there had been a notice…ANYWHERE, on the ticket, in the parking lot, AT THE ID CHECK, that alcohol was not allowed past this point, we could have turned around and put it back in the car. But the first notice we got was in line, as a man in a faux security outfit rifled through my purse. And, why, exactly, is alcohol not allowed in the park? Many people (we had time to speak to them as we waited for the park to open) assumed, as we did, that for $31, no roof, and to carry our own chairs, we were allowed to bring in alcohol, like the adults that we are. I assume you are trying to make more money by forcing people to buy your alcohol. Ravinia still makes a pretty penny in alcohol sales even though you can bring in a whole liquor store if you can find a way to haul it from the parking lot. It just smacks of money grubbing.

Overall, for a venue that can’t provide seating, a bug free environment, a guarantee that I won’t be rained on, surround acoustics, or a quiet atmosphere for listening to a concert, the price that you are charging is steep. If I had been allowed to mitigate that price and those conditions by bringing in a bottle of wine to share with my party I would not be writing this letter. The music was good. But as I sit here scratching my bug bites I wonder if it was worth it and doubting that I attend an event there again.

When I first moved to Chicago, I lived with Jules and Steve in a three bedroom brown stone in Lakeview, with no A/C, no parking, no dishwasher and bad bad wiring. Steve moved out and then Jules and I lived there for 4 years. Dick was our landlord. He has passed away since then, but he was a very conscientious guy and a decent landlord. He fixed things immediately, and was unhappy when we left anything outside, in the yard, like a lawn chair. The yard was cut with military precision. The same month I moved in, the weird religious lady upstairs moved out and Bob moved in. Bob was a newly divorced dude who NEVER TOOK OFF HIS SHOES. And, Bob was an insomniac. He also had a tween boy who liked to practice his wrestling moves on the weekends.

The next place I lived was my dad’s but we won’t talk about that. 9 months later I was back in Lakeview in a crappy studio. Two rooms for all my crap was not enough and when I got Piggy, the maintenance man who lived below me, in a garden apartment, started banging on the ceiling about once an hour. When he stood on the stairs and blocked my way to my apartment so he could yell at me, I moved out.

I move to Ravenswood, which I discovered, was awesome and a great place to live. Then I got Simon. We lived above the laundry room so Piggy and he could bang around all they wanted. I loved that place. I might still be there, if they hadn’t turned it into condos. They wanted $206,000 for my one bedroom, no A/C apartment I paid $745 a month for. Um, no.

Then it was a journey to the bowels of Humboldt Park. A garden apartment of my very own. In the four years I lived there, I called the cops 4 times (twice on my upstairs neighbors, twice for gun shots in the street), had the gas turned off because of a misunderstanding between my landlord and myself, had the heat quit, because the landlord forgot to change the heater filter (he said I should have reminded him), had my electric turned off because the landlord forgot to pay the bill, had my car stolen, and had a pitbull abandoned in the stairway because a lady passing by decided I had more room for him than she did. My mother was so happy when I moved.

And now we are moving again. I would really like to stay somewhere for like 15 years. Or, you know, buy something. HA! We’ll see. Since I am home, packing will fall mostly to me. A box a day should do it I think. Now, I have to get those boxes.

We can start with the fact that I have been unemployed for like seven weeks and still can’t get unemployment because my former employer hasn’t done their stuff in IL. They also filed my 403b under the wrong name, my COBRA under the wrong address, and my SS under the wrong SSN AND the wrong name. As far as I know, this wasn’t a calculated thing to f up my life, but all mistakes. It’s been AWESOME sorting it out.

Sadly the job market hasn’t sprung into place around me. No job. Not many prospects. Boo. Still looking though. Big A is working on my website at bethdugan.com. Should be up soon. He has some elaborate plan to use my amigurumi animals to anchor my website. Here are the animals!

Big A was offered a permanent position at the place he was temping which is great news for us! And so we are moving into a larger place. A larger place down the street but off the main drag from where we are now. And…IT HAS A PORCH! We are very excited. Also, we don’t have to share a closet or bathroom anymore and I shall have a pleasant place to hang out and look for a job. Also, we should have a party when we get settled. His friends. My friends. Oh boy. So now while looking for a job, I get to pack, clean and organize, which are all things I am good at.

And then my best friend and her lovely family moved to Boston for reals. Sigh. I miss them all and am missing my nephew’s birthday at the end of this month. Boo. But they are in a place they love with people who love them and Boston is a lovely place to visit. And there is always Skype.

Yesterday I went to the unemployment office three times. That’s right. Three. Times. Oh joy. It’s in like Garfield Park which isn’t all that far away so it didn’t take long to go back and forth but so annoying! And yet, watching people there struggle to understand how to fill out really basic paperwork and comprehend the Byzantine system they have in place reminded me how lucky I am. I know how to work the system, whatever system. I am not stymied by things like not having a pay stub or knowing where my SSN card is. Or having an SSN card. There was a women in front of me in line who didn’t have a permanent address. She was crashing on someone’s couch so she didn’t have a pay stub from her last job. She didn’t have a SSN card, didn’t know her SSN. She can’t get the benefits she is entitled to. I can, and I need them a whole lot less. I also have the resources to get to the IDES office  three times in one day. I’m not dependent on the CTA. I can drive, pay for a cab, have a friend drive me, since my friends are also similarly endowed with, well, money and resources. So the issue, which was that the sisters didn’t file for me in Illinois, rather Nebraska, should be resolved swiftly. I am lucky.

And to hit another first world kind of problem, I have to wait, kind of by the window for Fed Ex because my buzzer is broken. And my iPhone reception is bad in the house. So to get my shiny new technology, which will hopefully help me work as a freelancer and earn money, I have to hang out at home, watching Roku and crocheting. Poor me.

Here is the new thing I learned how to make:

Farkel, the Amigurumi pig

My godson likes pigs a great deal, so I choose this as my first animal to make. I have a ton of pink yarn now, so I have to find other pink animals to make, or make an army of pigs. I have four nephews now, and they are all getting a pig, obvy, as is my new friend Kenny, who grew up on a farm and don’t dig on swine since he had a pet pig.  Anyone else want a pig? Or another pink animal? I have a bunch of gray as well and Randy wants a rat so that’s next. Today I sit and wait and crochet silly animals. Tomorrow, we take over the world, Pinky!

More to come. I have been so busy with sickness and trying to make my new career a thing that I haven’t sat down in a while to write much. The laptop should be coming  tomorrow and then it might not take 5-15 minutes to boot up and run a program. It just may increase my productivity. And the peace.

My position was eliminated and I am on the dole again. Never fear! I have a plan. I am going to hang out my shingle and work freelance for a while. Maybe forever, if it works out.

This was not totally unexpected, and I have already made inroads into my new path. Big A is working on a website for me to sell my wares. I have contacted a number of talent agencies who find freelancers work. I have been pitching like a mad woman and getting back into the swing of thinking of story ideas. I’m hopeful about freelance work. For one thing I like it a lot. For another, I am very fast. A third would be my experience in marketing myself, which I think I am pretty good at.

But as soon as I got the news, I got sick. I have been sick with a cold-like  thing all weekend and I am not sleeping well. Yesterday I watched a whole bunch of Buffy on Roku and then had Buffy dreams. Blah. And I had Bust A Move stuck in my head, thanks to watching The Blind Side.

So look for my new website coming. Big A is designing a logo for me. He asked me to describe myself in design terms and I said something like, “Sans serif, clean, sharper lines, bright colors but not too bold. I’m really a marshmallow inside.” Apparently this is not how he sees me and he laughed and laughed and has been repeating this story to our friends. Who also laugh. Maybe I am just feeling a little marshmallowy this week. Next week I will be back to kicking ass and taking names or whatever it is that he thinks I do.

Sometimes I feel kinda shallow.

I don’t need to know why we are here…I don’t want to think about and puzzle the different reasons we may or may not have this or that and do this other thing. I did this already. It was called high school. I thought about free will and destiny and why humans are here and if there is a god and what his/her/its plan is, where we go when we die.These conversations BORE ME TO TEARS. What’s the point? We don’t know. We’ll never know, not for reals. I have opinions. I really doubt your argument, that I am sure I have heard before, would change my mind, so ssshhhh. And if it did change my mind? So?

My issues are much more prosaic. I want to know why I keep having that dream, the annoying one about moving, how I can make a dressing that tastes like the one they have at Domo 77, why people do stupid things,  I want to know about the nature of friendship and relationships, and I want to know if there is really a good garlic press out there, or if I am just spinning my wheels. I’m all set with the big questions, it’s the littler ones that niggle at me.

Anyway, I watched the Lost series finale like a bagillion other people. I watched the first two seasons, lost interest, caught up because it was all available on my Roku, and became very into it again. That whole Roku strategery was a good one, Lost-dudes.

Apparently the whole thing was a Bardo or bardos. It’s very interesting. The concept that I have been reading a little about, and the show. Both. I wasn’t so intrigued with the whole thing coming to some kind of understandable fruition. Granted, it would have been tedious if it had just gone on and on. But I didn’t need the big story solved. Again, I want to know how/why the polar bears were there, who built the giant statue, and how did they get that tattoo on the shark. I loved the patterns in the show: the numbers, the reflections, the books, the daddy issues everyone and their…daddy had. Hey, let’s call a spade a spade: I loved seeing Sawyer reading on a beach with his shirt off. There. So sue me.

The finale didn’t answer all the questions and GOOD. All tied up in a neat little bow is frankly annoying. I like a little weft back and forth in my stories. At the same time, this was kinda neat and tidy. Everyone got to get together at some point in time and space, clean, smiling, not beat up on anymore, out of their wheelchairs and whatnot. I wept when Juliet and Sawyer got together. And again when Vincent came and laid down with Jack so he didn’t have to die alone. WEPT! Overall, I found it very satisfying in the sense that they had the courage to not answer all our questions, and even end by opening up some new questions to the audience, while killing off…everyone, and bringing them back again. I liked it. I am sad it is over, but glad it ended.