Numbers mean nothing!

Today would be my stepfathers 60th birthday, were he still living.

This man was terrified of growing old. He professed at the age of 25 that he didn't think that he would live to see 30, nor did he want to. He stunned the world by living to just over two weeks from 57.

I am glad that he did.

I was closer with my stepdad than I was (am) with my biological parents. He and my mom dated when they were young, (met while working for my dad, isn't that weird?) were supposed to get married, and then broke up in a huge explosion of heartbreak. They didn't speak for 18 years--My stepdad worked his way up through the company and finally got my dads old job, got married, had a baby girl (four months and two days younger than me). He heard throught the grapevine that my mom and dad were getting divorced (something he was doing as well), and called my mom out of the blue to tell her that he had thought about her every day that they had been apart, and that he needed to hear that she had never once thought about him.

She asked him to lunch, and then they got married. (Well, not immediatly after lunch.)

They were married for almost 11 years when he died.

I hear all the time about how much people hate their step parents, and I can understand. It just makes me feel all the more blessed to have had a good one--Hell, I had thee parents, I'm glad at least one of them didn't suck.

He reminded me constantly of how smart I am. How beautiful, how talented. He taught me to drive, helped me fill out college applications and write essays. He drove me to all 4000 of my after school activities, encouraged me to want more out of life, and not take the easy road all the time. He was a constant buffer between my mother and I. He protected me from her rage and insanity a good portion of the time--would make sure that he was the target rather than me.

Not to say that this man was perfect--far from it. He had a drinking problem, and was haunted by a lot of the things that happened in his past. Also, his daughter is and was a spoiled rotten fucking bitch, and he blamed himself a lot for that. (when it truly was her mother's fault. If I ever see this girl on the street I will stab her in the throat. But that's another story.)

When he died, it rocked, absolutely ROCKED my life as I knew it. Changed everything from the ground up. Everything changed in that one instant. I had just seen him a few days before. The last thing he said to me was "I love you, punkin. I will see you Sunday." He died on Saturday. Suddenly, I had to be an adult. I couldn't dick around and be indecisive about things, I couldn't be an irresponsible kid anymore. My mom went totally off the deep end (So much so that she needed a personal submarine) and I had to take care of everything. The business, the house, the cars, the bills. Make sure mom ate, that our employees were paid, that the destributors weren't padding their orders. F can attest to this--she was there. It sucked.

I miss him terribly. Daily. He really shouldn't have died when he did, they way he did. He was my confidante, my buddy, and my daddy. I got a good portion of my sense of humor from him, all of my photography ability, and my taste in bad television. I know that he lives on in me, even though we weren't related by blood.

When he died, I called my dad to tell him, and my dad cried. This is not a story I have told a lot of people. My dad said later that he wished that he could have told my stepdad how thankful he was that he was there for me, that I had a parent that cared. That he knew that he genuinely loved me, and wanted me to grow up the be the best.

When I moved out here, and dad started to get so sick, he told me that he was glad I was here. That he was glad that he and I could have a real relationship, finally, and that he knew that he wasn't the best dad for me when I was little. That he was glad that my stepdad was there to pick up his slack, that he was proud of the woman that I had become with his tutalage. And that he hoped that I would forgive him, and we could make up for lost time. Personally, I think it took big balls for my dad to say that--to give credit to a man for raising his daughter, and be thankful. I think this says something about my stepdad.

Anyway, that was a lot longer than I thought it was going to be.

But the point I was trying to get across was, well, Happy Birthday, Terry. I really miss you, and I am so glad that you were there for me when I was a kid. I wish you were still here, all the time. I would like to think that wherever you are, you're proud of me.

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On a much lighter and totally unrelated note, I hate people.

If you go to a restaurant, with reservations for 6pm, knowing full well that half of your party won't be there for an hour and a half....you suck. Also, if you tell your server that you wanted to save the table and make sure you could still get served even though you know the kitchen closes as 8pm and you're sure your party will be there right before then, you suck. And if you sit at that table until 2.5 hours after the restaruant is closed, you really, really suck.

Oh, and if you tip your server $5 on a $130 bill, you can go fuck yourself.

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Also, I drove to T's work today, and followed a man whose top speed was 23 mph. In a 50. LESS THAN HALF THE SPEED LIMIT. I wanted to just lay my head on the steering wheel and cry. On the way back, I followed a couple going 31 mph in a 50. Again, I wanted to cry. WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS? Oh, the speed limit is just that! A limit!

Lord.

My father had a thought that whatever age you are is the top speed you should be allowed to operate a motor vehicle. While interesting and slightly funny, this is why my 80 year old father got speeding tickets. (that and his love of the german sports car.) Most elderly people plod along at painfully low speed, but not dad! Hell no! He would go roaring along at 85 mph and giggle.

When he stopped being able to drive, and I was now at the helm, he would constantly tell me "Get into it, Babe! It's the old man's car! Drive it like you stole it! I'll pay the ticket!" and then rub his hands together with glee as I tore around the S curves on a side road at not the advised 40 mph but at a dad-mandated 65. "That's my girl!".

I'm amazed we won't both jailed.

And still no damn spell check!