I just woke up from yet another dream about my Dad--the one who passed away almost five years ago. Each time it happens, I’m right back in that moment, when I could still touch him, ask for his guidance, make him the perfect turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce on top, and stress over what you buy a man who has everything for Christmas. And then there’s a crack in the dream. A sliver of light starts to interrupt what feels so real I can almost hug him. And then I wake up in tears because he’s not really here, and I miss him so much it feels like someone just yanked out a kidney.
It’s 5am and I can’t go back to sleep now, but in my early morning reverie, it came to me. All I want for Christmas is a new Dad.
Five years is a long time to go Dad-less, especially when you spent 36 years having a really awesome one. Fortunately, I’m not an orphan. I’m blessed to have an incredible Mom who I adore so much I can’t even let my imagination wander to the day I might lose her too. But there’s something about a father--the strong arms, the balanced male presence, the way he wants to hear girl talk even though he doesn’t speak that language, the way he says “I love you” when you’re hanging up the phone.
I don’t expect anyone to fill Dad’s dorky orthopedic shoes--the ones he sometimes wore with pink socks (“But Dad, they don’t match.” “Of course they do, honey. The left one’s pink and the right one’s pink.”) I just have a lot of extra love in my heart, and I’m dying to bestow it on someone who wants to call himself my father.
I’m a big believer in putting things out to the Universe. I ask for what I need, I surrender attachment to any particular outcomes, and then I wait to see what magical thing happens. I employ this technique often in my life, but until this morning’s dream, it never occurred to me to ask for a new father. So I’m here on my knees. Asking.
Pretty please, Universe. Will you help me find a new Dad? I know he’ll never replace the one I lost, but I’d be so grateful if you would introduce me to a remarkable man who wants to love, honor, and nurture my family for the next twenty or thirty years? If it’s in the Master Plan, of course. Oh--and I love your work. Keep it up. Love, me.
1. I’m very loyal. After 41 years, this is the first time I’ve even thought about looking for a new father.
2. I’m pretty damn smart and I have a heart of gold. I got my father’s brains and my mother’s heart.
3. I give good hug.
4. I’m one helluva chef (though clearly I have a potty mouth. Sorry about that. Hopefully, you can overlook that).
5. I’ve accomplished a few big things in life. I’m a doctor. I’ve written two books. I’m a professional artist. I founded this website OwningPink.com that’s all about building authentic community and being ALL YOU, ALL THE TIME. But most importantly, you’ll have the most precious granddaughter you could possibly imagine. Not that any of that should matter to you (except the granddaughter thing. Seriously dude. If you become my Dad, you scored).
So enough about me. Who are you? A few pointers so you can see whether or not you recognize yourself here.
1. You know how to love. Period. Those who are still figuring it out need not apply.
2. You abide by a strong set of values that you’ve honed over the years to be very authentic to who you are.
3. You’re infinitely tolerant and understand that all beings were created equal.
4. You’re proud of being ALL YOU, ALL THE TIME. You don’t pretend to be anything you’re not, and you love who you are and know I’d be lucky to have a Dad like you.
5. You love theater, music, fine dining, nature, reading, and board games. Willingness to sing in the church choir a plus. Nice singing voice not necessary. Tone-deafness acceptable.
6. You must be financially secure. We don’t need your money, but we don’t want you mooching off us either.
7. No offense, but no prospective Dads over 70 please. We’re still recovering from one loss, and as a doctor, I know the truth about your life expectancy. Plus, Mom is 65-going-on-50. You’re gonna need to keep up with her.
8. When it comes to politics, you’re neither fiercely Red nor religiously Blue. You’re an independent thinker who votes on the issues, not along party lines.
9. No addicts, ex-cons, depressives, co-dependents, loonies, smokers, leeches, stalkers, or control freaks need apply.
10. You love holidays, birthdays, and any excuse to celebrate with silly string, balloons, fireworks, and sparkling cider.
11. Residence in California would be awfully nice. While Mom and Dad are the only people on the planet who sold their Florida beach house to retire in Ohio, I’m 99% sure Mom will move back to California if my new Dad is here. I’m in the Bay area, so the closer, the better.
12. Extra credit if you can make my mother and me laugh, but Dad really couldn’t (bless his soul!) so it’s not a prerequisite.
Mom hasn’t had a single date since Dad’s funeral, which is such a waste because she’s one bad-ass broad (my words, not hers--she would never say the word “ass”). She looks a decade younger than her 65 years, has a heart the size of Texas, and makes a mean whoopee pie (if you don’t know what that is, you’re in for a treat). She dotes over her three kids (me, my brother Chris, and my sister Keli) and blessed us with the most blissful childhood any kid could ever imagine. She volunteers at schools and churches, gives money and time to charities, leads workshops to help others heal, and put several kids through college that weren’t hers. She gushes over children and throws killer birthday parties for her grandkids, documents the special moments of her life in elaborate scrapbooks, keeps a warm, beautiful, inviting home, ROCKS the kitchen, and gets her freak on in the bedroom according to Dad (I did NOT just write that). Oh, and Jesus is her homeboy.
You still with us? Oh good. If you’d like to come to the Bay area to interview for the position of my new Dad, please email LissasNewDad@gmail.com
I can’t wait to meet you.
What about you? What want ad do you need to write? How can you help the Universe deliver what you need? Put it out there. Write your want ad in the comments.
Waiting here with arms outstretched,
PS. Sorry, Mom. Hope you’ll forgive me for this.
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