One month has passed since I broke up with my former employer - I call her Miss. Thing.  Well, I call her many names but Miss. Thing is the least damaging.  It has taken me one month to catch my breath, lick my wounds, celebrate my freedom and thank God for moving me forward.  In leaving, I realize I miss the friendships I developed  while working in crazy-town.  In addition to a paycheck, my co-workers were the reason I stayed, functioned - and because I have a flare for the dramatic - survived for those few years.


I went out to lunch with my new co-workers yesterday - me and the guys.  Let me just start off by saying I was desperately missing my former co-workers and I was lulled into a false sense of familiarity with these new characters.  We went out for Italian food.  Mind you, all week long I said no to their invitations to share a pizza or donuts or afternoon snacks.  I just don't eat that stuff.  Not because I don't want to but because it is not pretty when I do.  And we just met.  Too soon to show them my true foodie self.  Except on Friday, I slipped.


They ordered a pan of baked ziti - not to split - each.  No kidding it probably took a cow two weeks to make the cheese on that dish.  And the bread they ate - baskets and baskets of freshly baked Italian bread.  I won't even mention the butter.  My former co-workers don't eat this way.  They are bring-your-crock-pot-leftovers or grab-a-Harris-Teeter-sub kind of people.  My dear friend Robert chokes down lunch - not because he likes to eat but because he knows eating is a prerequisite for staying alive.


With this new crowd, I felt free to order the sausage and peppers lunch special.  The boys growled with approval.  My mouth was watering just thinking of the hunk of meat that was heading my way.  When it arrived, I am not sure what happened first - the moaning or the sauce slurping.  Mmmmmm was all I heard when I woke up from my food induced blackout.  I looked at my plate and it was licked clean.  I think I literally licked it clean.  The boys were fussing about getting the bill paid.  No loitering for them.  Order.  Eat.  Pay.  Leave.  Honestly, I think they were afraid I would order dessert. 


Back at my desk, I forced myself not to unbutton my jeans, rub my belly and belch.  I forced myself not to curl up for a nap under one of the desks in an empty office.  I texted my friend Robert and told him about my slip.  After laughing he comforted me by reminding me that he remains my friend after watching me de-bone a chicken early on in our working relationship.  So I will go to work on Monday with my Trader Joe's chicken,  kale salad and won't worry if I get some kale stuck in my teeth.

I am not sure how to write about my father's recent death.  I have tried several times over the past two weeks.  Some people say I am too numb to feel anything.  I feel.  I feel sad and proud and grateful.  I probably feel more feelings but those are the only words coming to mind right now.  


When I heard the news - my sister had the unfortunate responsibility of telling me our father died hours earlier - I fell to the ground and cried.  No, wait, first I said, Whose Dad died?  Our dad died?  I had just woken up - hadn't even brushed my teeth yet.  It was my sister's birthday.  I thought she was calling me to talk about our favorite meditation in Emmet Fox book which we read every year on her birthday.  And as she repeated the unbelievable words, I knew they were true.  I cried for a bit.  The tears just came. When I stopped crying, I started asking questions.  Questions only the Coroner knew.  They had to perform an autopsy.  An Autopsy? The Coroner?  I knew then I had entered a new dimension of living.  


So then it began.  Phone calls, texts, plans, ideas, prayers, wishes, directions, notifying, phone numbers, travel arrangements, websites, charities, celebration arrangements, relatives, friends, acquaintances, food, rides, pictures, stories, laughter, tears, ad infinitum.  


One of the interesting aspects of my father's passing is my inability to remember - with sufficient force - the bad stuff.  Albert Dinkins Jr. was no saint and yet for the past two weeks I have heard and remembered nothing but his goodness.  He was a good guy.  A genuine good guy.  A man of faith.  A man who loved his family.  A good friend to his friends.  A man who actively sought to be a better man.  Story after story, person after person - from his distant past to the very present - had stories about his goodness.  Not that I expected people to speak ill of the dead, of course not.  But what I have learned - one of my dad's final lessons, is that although we may come up short in many aspects of our lives, a genuine smile, a solid handshake, a kind word, a sense of humor and taking an interest in someone's life - however brief - will take a man all the way to the Promised Land.  


I will miss my Pops.  And I am proud to have been able to call him my dad for these 44 years. 

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