Going To The Movies With My Dad

My childhood memories of my dad are often tied to films we saw together. This is the first time I’ve written about him, and it was recounting one of those memories to a friend that inspired me to finally introduce people who read my work to my father.

When I think about my dad, memories of movies I saw with him often come up. When I was eight years old, my parents separated, and my dad moved into an apartment. One day he asked me if I’d like to see a movie with him. The film sounded kind of scary, but he assured me it was actually a comedy made by a hilarious man, so I climbed into the passenger seat of his Dodge Dart, and off we went to the movies. 

Dad took me to see Young Frankenstein, a parody of the old monster movie, starring Gene Wilder as the doctor and featuring a cast full of and genius and silly spot-on performances. Although some of the jokes went over my head, I understood most of them and sat there in the dark next to my daddy, the two of us laughing hysterically. After all, “Abby Normal” is funny no matter your age. A few days later, I sat on the floor with him in his apartment playing a game of Go Fish and getting the giggles as we quoted lines from the movie to each other. 

I asked around to see if any of my friends had seen this movie, but no one had even heard of it. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized how unusual it was for Frank to take his third-grade kiddo to see a Mel Brooks film. I have the movie on DVD, watch it every few years, and feel grateful that my dad introduced me to it. He died almost 30 years ago, and if I could spend just a few hours with him again, I would throw that film in my DVD player and sit next to him on my couch. 

The movie memories didn’t stop there. The next year saw the release of the blockbuster Jaws. I wanted to see it, but my mother put the kibosh on that idea because of my age. My dad convinced her I could handle it, and we picked up my best friend and headed for the drive-in theater. Halfway through the showing, I jettisoned to the back seat of the car and watched in alarm during each attack. That shark and that haunting two-note song traumatized me in a way I have yet to overcome. I still won’t wade more than knee-deep in the ocean, and even avoided swimming pools for a long time just in case a great white lurked in the deep end. I forgave my dad for his overestimation of my ability to handle the subject because, despite my new phobia, I loved the film dearly and still watch it now and again. 

Two years later, Star Wars came out, and a year later saw the arrival of Grease, both formative films in my youth. I got my mom to take me to both one time, then convinced my dad that surely death would grip me in its icy arms if I didn’t see them both a few more times. My dad dutifully sat through multiple viewings of space rangers that did not impress him and a 1950s love story in which the only actors he recognized included has-beens like Sid Caesar. 

In the eighth grade, I asked my dad to drop my friend and me off to see a movie. We had seen the TV commercials for The Rose, a film loosely based on Janis Joplin’s life, starring Bette Midler. My dad thought the movie looked trashy and expressed disappointment that I wanted to see the story of some boozy, drugged-out rock singer. Yet, he took us to the Central Park Fox Theater on a sunny afternoon so we could see it. 

My dad paid for our tickets at the box office, but the attendant told him my friend and I were too young to see the film alone. He would have to buy a ticket and sit through this vile film that offended his sensibilities. Not willing to disappoint us, he handed over a few extra dollars and we found our seats. Ten minutes into the film, he leaned over and whispered to me, “I’ll be back later to pick you up. Enjoy the movie”, then slipped out the exit door. So many cool points earned by my old man that day.

The last memory I have of going to a movie with my dad happened just prior to my freshman year in high school. He took the family to see Airplane, which turned out to be one of the funniest films ever made. By this time, I had entered full-time teenage rebellion, and my father, unbeknownst to me, dealt with the crushing weight of depression. The era of being close to him came to an end soon after and we never recovered from it. I wish I possessed the understanding of how to repair our relationship and the language to express myself back then, but how could I? It was not the age of Oprah and I was a child and then a confused young adult who dealt with my own depression. 

My dad smoked and made other poor health choices that eventually led to his death from a heart attack in the bathroom of my parent’s house one Monday morning. I remember the call from my mom like it happened yesterday. I wish we had circled back to each other, and gone on to see other films together with the same joy and closeness we once possessed, but I made my peace with that ages ago. 

When I think about my dad and the impact he had on me, I think about his sense of humor. I didn’t always understand his jokes, but he got a real kick out of making others laugh. I inherited that trait like a strand of my DNA. I also think about the movies I forever associate with him. I feel grateful for his introduction to the go-for-broke humor of Mel Brooks and the cut-to-the-bone impact of Steven Spielberg’s work.

I thank my dad for sitting through films just so he could make his “little girlup” happy. All of this imprinted on me in a way neither of us realized at the time and likely contributed to my ability to try to communicate, entertain, and enlighten people as I settled into being a writer. 

Thanks, Dad. I expect to see you again at some point. Let’s meet up at the movies. I still like peanut butter cups and soda.

Halfway House

I’m about to do it again. Embark on a big change. The last time I started down this path was two and a half years ago when I spent the night in an emergency room facing the ramifications of not taking good care of myself. Sadly, I knew deep down that it was going to take a giant scare to force me to start taking a measured interest in my physical health. Lying in a hospital bed for hours listening to the annoying buzz of the blood pressure monitor while several doctors and nurses floated in and out of the room with needles and medications knocked me for a loop. The experience also jump-started my resolve to start making healthier choices.

When I got home, I cleared out my kitchen of all food and drink items that did not support my immediate goals: lose weight and lower my blood pressure. I turned in my Procrastination Queen title not out of self-imposed resolve but because I had run out of time to keep telling myself, “Just one more day and I will get serious.” Surviving a Come to little baby Jeebers moment like that night in the E.R. will do that to you.

I lost an impressive amount of weight. I can’t tell you how much I weighed when I left the hospital, nor can I tell you what I now weigh. I don’t own a scale, and I know from previous experience with an eating disorder years ago that focusing on numbers only creates OCD-level havoc in my mind. I didn’t let digits on a bathroom appliance inform me about my progress as I moved down in size, which I know sounds bizarre to most people. I relied on things like noticing that my shorts, which used to be a bit tight, now hung on me like a skirt. I trusted I was on the right path when I had to buy all new undies. I listened when a friend said, “Where did your ass go?!”

I also charged back into my career after taking time off to care for my mom, who had dementia. Because my reentry to work coincided with the beginning of the pandemic, I found it difficult to get the freelance writing jobs I wanted. When I did, the pay was often insulting. Still, I eventually put together enough paychecks to get by. I now make a healthy living without having the burden of a boss or a strict schedule, and I don’t have to nickel and dime myself when I buy my cart full of healthy groceries. 

My anxiety, which had been mostly at bay for over a decade, started creeping back in. Last fall, I had a full-blown panic attack in my kitchen so harrowing that I mistook the thundering echo of my heartbeat in my ears for my neighbor blasting music next door. I bit the bullet, talked to a doctor, and started taking an anti-anxiety medication. I resent it every day when I take it because I thought I had put this in my rearview mirror, but I know it helps me stay (semi-)normal. 

How did I accomplish everything I’ve done in the past two and a half years? It sounds cliche, but I did it one day at a time. One meal at a time. One webpage assignment written and turned in to my clients at a time. One little pill with water each morning and evening at a time. One decision to choose what’s best for my future at a time.

This all sounds like I’m bragging about how much I accomplished, and oh, golly gee, ain’t I just something else?

The problem is I am currently knee-deep in the knowledge that I remain only halfway to where I need to be. It feels like I walked a hundred paces on highwire miles above a sawdust floor and then stopped in the middle. Tremendous progress, but I still have another hundred steps to go. I’m living in a halfway house. Too late to turn back (nor would I), but I’m feeling overwhelmed by how much is left to do. 

I know I have made a series of nutritional choices of late that don’t support my needing to keep my blood sugar low. I’ll let you in on a little secret as to why that’s a problem: because carbs are goddamn delicious! But, that’s another rant. So I took stock this past weekend about how much is left to do to complete my tightrope act.

I have to stop just maintaining my weight and lose the rest that will put me at a healthy size for life. 

I have to keep pushing myself to do what’s needed to get out of the house more often and start traveling again.

I must remember how powerful I am and how much I have accomplished. I’m usually good at that, but lately, I keep hearing a new slogan in my head that upsets me. I hear a growling little voice that says, “My life is a shit show.” No, it’s not overall, but major parts of it remain messy and under construction. I am not living the life I long to live, and what keeps me from getting there is completing the other half of my journey. Moving out of the protection of the halfway house.

As someone with OCD, allow me a list. Steps I’ve taken to get my feet moving:

• I told my close friend I’m gearing up to change again, which helps me feel more accountable.
• I spent the past several days knee-deep in Christopher Guest films, which constitutes its own kind of therapy.
• I am listening to tons of songs by the band UFO (see the above comment on therapy).
• I continue to take live virtual tours of London through some tour guides who give me a preview of what it will feel like to once again stand in Piccadilly Circus feeling the snap of a cool breeze on my face. 
• I am going to start meditating.
• I took stock of my worth as a professional writer and what my work brings to the table in terms of dollar value to my clients. As a result, I raised my rates and bolstered my income. 
• I’m writing this post because, even though it intimidates me to hang my shit show out there for all to see, a willingness to be vulnerable is necessary to be an effective writer (and relatable human being).

Nice checklist, for sure. I’m in a halfway house trying to stay focused on my goals. Just got to take that first step back out of my shelter and back on that rickety wire. The problem is that I don’t feel full of resolve and the urge to shout, “Look out world, here I come!” I feel scared. And grumpy. And resentful. I know that the first step to getting past that and putting my tootsies back on that little piece of wire is to admit how I feel. So, as I often do when I need to process something, I wrote about it.

Someone want to give me a little shove?