Travels with Dad

One of the things I am most fortunate to have in my life is a father who believes that travel is the best education. After my parents divorce I began by traveling out to visit him. I felt very worldly and grown-up on the plane by myself at five. The flight attendant would hand me a plastic wings pin which I would wear proudly on my cardigan. That was in the days where loved ones could still meet you at the gate and when we landed she’d walk me out to my dad expectantly standing in the boarding area.

Over the years, dad and I have been all over the world together; Europe several times, Africa. It’s our tradition to spend Thanksgiving in Mexico. As a teen, I’d swear after each trip that I’d never travel with him again. He’d do such mortifying things as point sights out to me on tours or talk too loud in museums. But of course there’d always be another trip.

As I’ve become an adult, the mortification has taken on a new flavor. Anyone who looks at us for more than five minutes can see the resemblance between us. I have my dad’s nose, his lanky, athletic frame, the overall shape of his face. Yet as my laugh lines have increased, it’s no longer obvious that we are parent/child. More often than not, people assume we’re a couple. I see the knowing looks when I emphasize to the hotel clerk we need a room with two beds.

I don’t know why I give such a crap about what strangers think but I do and this assumption offends me to no end. God, no! I want to shout. I’m not the kind of woman that would be some old guy’s trophy wife! There’s a thirty-five year difference between us, get your mind out of the gutter. Are you blind? Can’t you see we look alike?!

To combat these tawdry assumptions, I very maturely make a point of slipping into any conversation that might arise that we are in fact father/daughter. If there’s no conversation, I’ll loudly call him ‘dad’ for those casual listeners on the pool deck, or tour bus or whatever.

This year’s trip to Mexico was no different. We met another vacationing family with a hen-pecked husband and brittle wife. After talking with them for more than half an hour, I went to change for dinner. The disapproving wife leaned over to my father and asked, “come on, is that really your daughter?” When dad reported this to me over dinner I was doubly offended. Not only was she assuming me to be “one of those women” but even after our familial conversation, she was basically calling me a liar.

I have to wonder why it is so unfathomable to people that a father and daughter would travel together. We saw a mother/daughter pair at our hotel around our same ages and I’m pretty sure no one assumed they were a May/December lesbian couple. Is it only with the full compliment of family members that such travel becomes acceptable? If my dad had a wife would it be OK? If I had a husband? Kids? Whatever the case, it’s certain we remain an oddity…and people’s minds are in the gutter.

It drives me nuts but maybe it’s not the worst thing. Over the course of our week in Mexico, we became friendly with our waiter, Jesus, at our hotel restaurant. One night, apparently feeling he was on more personal terms with us, Jesus asked “so are you two honeymooners?” Et tu, Jesus? I was mortified yet again. We were standing at the hotel restaurant entrance and I could feel the room lean closer to hear the sordid details of the silver fox and his young missy. Here, I thought, is my opportunity to set everyone straight. Years of pent-up witty quips massed at my fingertips.

“No, this is my dad!” I blurted.

Now poor Jesus was mortified. He apologized repeatedly for having offended us while my dad assured him it was fine. The ears in the restaurant shifted away and dad and I went for our evening walk.

Somewhere in the course of the night, Jesus decided that if I was traveling with my father, I must therefore be single and available. The next day at breakfast, he greeted us enthusiastically and I figured at last I could relax in the comfort of knowing our fellow hotel dwellers at last knew the truth.

Then Jesus told us the story of his night. He had returned to the hotel around two in the morning but security wouldn’t let him in. He had been determined to give me a red rose and apparently had made quite a scene including trying to scale a wall to get past security. He didn’t notice our creeping unease as he recounted his ardent love.

“Please, Senor,” he put his suit to my dad. “I must be allowed to give this rose to your daughter or I will die. May I have your permission? What is your room number?”

Dad fudged, asked for the check. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“OK,” Jesus mooned after me. “Be careful, baby.” He said in a tone dripping with possessiveness and drama.

Dad and I hightailed it out of the restaurant. That was the last meal we ate at the hotel.

So maybe being assumed to be the trophy wife isn’t such a bad thing even if it turns my feminist stomach. Perhaps cheap misconceptions are worth not being courted by an off-balance stalker. Either way, travels with dad continue to be one of the more unusual adventures of my life. And, as dad has always believed, travel is an amazing education – in the oddities human behavior more than anything.

Employment

Human behavior is endlessly fascinating. And with our connected internet world, everyone can instantly know all about your behavior. The interesting thing is how few people think to employ their editing eye to their internet-exposed behavior when seeking employment.

My boyfriend recently conducted a search for a new assistant. He has a really cool job so he received a deluge of resumes. He culled those he found interesting and then set about narrowing it down to those he’d actually interview. To do this he didn’t check references or anything so analog. He turned to our friends, the online networking sites.

He found each candidate’s profile easily on one networking site or another. He then employed a simple rubric. If the candidate had any pictures posted of stupid behavior, their resume went in the trash pile. He was especially bummed about the Harvard grad with the amazing resume whose profile featured several red-plastic-party-cup shots and one draped-over-a-keg shot. Not that this stuff isn’t all well and good. Who among us hasn’t had a certain amount of familiarity with the red party cup? But if you are applying for a job, aren’t you smart enough to realize that your potential employers may see the stuff you so cavalierly post about yourself? Apparently even a Harvard degree doesn’t mean you’re a brainiac.

Somewhat worse are those who don’t edit their behavior while on the job. I recently was contacted by a former film crew member seeking an online job reference. I was taken off guard. The crew member in question was the only one of the entire crew who had acted unprofessionally and caused trouble both on set and off. I spent more than a few hours cleaning up drama and emotional messes they’d caused. I’d personally vowed never to work with such a pain in the ass again and here they were, asking me for a reference. I was astonished. Did they forget all the trouble they’d caused? Did they actually think they’d done a good job? Or worse, were they so obliviously self-absorbed they didn’t even get that they’d caused trouble? Astounding!

I managed to wiggle out of having to give a reference since I’m such a bad liar and wouldn’t have been able to give the glowing report the crew member was clearly expecting. But it left me wondering how many of us are oblivious to the impact, good and bad, that we have on others in our workplaces.

With more of us than ever seeking employment, it’s important to put your best foot forward, whether that means presenting yourself professionally online or in person or performing a good job to earn a good reference. Do a good job, get a good job, and then we can all break out the red plastic party cups. But please, no pictures.

Angel (Who Isn't)

The angry dog snarled and barked again, whipping itself into a frenzy. It lunged forward on its leash gnashing its teeth at me. Instinctively I took another step to the side. The owner, to my surprise, wasn’t scolding the dog or making much of an attempt to discipline it in anyway. I wished I could have. I wasn’t afraid of the frothy incisors, just annoyed. The dog in question was a six pound Shi Tsu.

Angel is a dog who lives in my building and she or he, I haven’t investigated, is anything but. Every morning I have the distinct pleasure of running into Angel and her useless owner who always ignores my “good morning,” the height of rudeness in my book. If I didn’t find the woman and her dog so repellant, it would be funny that every morning, the dog snarls like it will explode if she doesn’t let it off the leash to attack us while she ignores me and coos “quiet now, Angel, be a good dog.” It’s my suspicion that Angel doesn’t speak English.

I refer to Angel and dogs of his/her ilk as a little shit. Angel is what my dad would refer to as a punt dog. You know, the kind of dog with no redeeming qualities that you’d like to drop kick. Now calm down. I am huge animal rights advocate and don’t ever condone violence against any creature. But if it could be harmless violence like in the cartoons, Angel would be a good candidate for a Wyle E. Coyote anvil. And Angel is not alone.

Walking last night, two small poodle mixes snarled and snapped at Simon and I as we passed. The owner had to yell above the yaps: “Sorry about the noise.”

“That’s OK,” I replied. “I’m just glad I don’t have to live with it.”

I’ve never been a fan of little dogs. Aside from stand-out exceptions like everyone’s favorite scene-stealer Hero, they just seemed like of useless to me. I mean if you want a pet that size, get a cat. I have one and he’s fabulous.

No, it’s big dogs for me. Simon, my 85-pound beauty and I stroll by the little dogs. Simon would never dream of snarling or snapping like they do. He calmly smiles and wags his tail hoping for a new friend. But even he has learned. When we pass a little dog, he shies behind me. Sure enough the little shit will come at us like a snarling fur tornado - or a very puntable angry mop - while the nonplussed owner apologetically, or sometimes indifferently, yanks the little creature off its feet pulling it away from us and then usually admonishes it to be nice. As if.

Out for a walk last week we were charged by a deranged Yorkie and my boyfriend had a great point: If my Simon behaved the way those little dogs do, I’d be forced to have him put down. People would be terrified and outraged that I had such a poorly behaved and seemingly dangerous creature in public. The more I thought about it, the truer and more unjust it seemed. If a big dog comes snarling and snapping at a person there is a hue and cry to destroy the dangerous animal. The owners are vilified for having such a poorly disciplined dog.

Why then do we excuse or even condone such abominable behavior from small dogs? Why are they allowed to be assholes? Just because they probably can’t rip you to shreds like a Rottweiler could? So what? It’s freaking rude, unacceptable behavior. If a child came up to me in public and screamed at me, I’d say poor parenting. I think it’s no different with dogs. I would never tolerate having such a poorly behaved, walking napoleon complex share my home. Who are these people that do?

There will always be bad parents in the kid world and the dog world. Until there is some kind of magical doggie good citizenship council, it’s up to us, the thinking pet owners, to institute a change. Don’t hang out with small dog people unless they have proven that their small dog is really cool, like my cousin’s Chihuahua/terrier, Tucker, who actually looks like a cartoon. Or our good buddy Bono the pug.

If you must have a small dog, recognize that the snarling fur tornado greeting is unacceptable behavior and train it to behave like a decent citizen. And if you don’t, may a cartoon anvil meet you soon. And your little dog too