Finding My Real Father

Me and Dad before the news

When I was 12, my parents called me downstairs and told me that we needed to talk. I remember my mom started getting choked up and the first thing that she said was "sperm doesn't make a dad, it makes a father." She went on to tell me that the dad I had known and loved for 12 years wasn't my biological dad. I looked over at my always stoic dad and saw tears in his eyes for the first time in my life. I felt like those movie scenes where the camera zooms in, but the background zooms out. I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I had no idea what to think or how to feel.

They told me that mom had gotten pregnant when she was 16 and bio dad, Daryl, was 15 and just a friend of a friend. I was conceived and born in Southern California and as far as I know, bio dad only met me once or twice as a baby. His mom wanted to adopt me, but mine said no. When I was almost a year old, my mom decided that the neighborhood we lived in wasn't safe anymore so she moved up to Portland, OR to live with her dad. After the move, she lost contact with Daryl and his family and shortly after, met my dad and they got married and he legally adopted me when I was a few years old.

Being adopted is such a weird thing. I had a dad. And growing up, my dad was great. I didn't need anything. But I still felt like something was missing. I started to feel like something was wrong with me. What had I done to make him not want to stay? I dealt with so many years of abandonment issues. I remember the day they told me, going up to the bathroom mirror and just staring at myself. I felt like a stranger in my own skin. I felt like all at once I knew exactly who I was, but also had no idea. That night I lay in bed just feeling my face and arms and legs and feeling like an alien.

After that day, I thought about Daryl every now and then but never gave finding him much thought. My mom let it be known from the beginning that finding him was totally up to me and she would support me either way. These were the days before the internet-- finding a person involved a lot of work or Maury Povich. When I was 24, I was diagnosed with a heart condition and every piece of paperwork I filled out had an entire blank half that was "family history." I started to think more about finding Daryl, but was still scared and held back.

When I was 26, I moved to LA. One day I was getting my oil changed out near where I was born and drove by the hospital for the first time that I was born in. It finally hit me-- I needed to know. That night I called my mom and told her I was finally ready to find Daryl and she was behind me 100%.

The next day, I started what I thought was going to be a long and arduous process. All I knew about this guy was his first and last name, his approximate age, and where he want to high school. That was it. My first search was Facebook and that turned out to be a bust. Next I tried classmates.com since I knew his school info. I hit the enter button and up popped a face that matched with the name. I sent the pic to my mom to see if it was him and her words were "Oh my god. He is older, but I'll never forget that face."

I sat staring at my computer screen for a long time. I studied his face. He looked kind. He also looked like he had broken his nose a few times. He was young and handsome. I hoped he was a good man. I held my breath and wrote the weirdest and scariest email I have ever written in my life. I basically told him that I wasn't sure if he had a new family or if they knew about me and I wasn't trying to stir up any trouble. I told him that I wasn't asking him for anything-- money or a relationship-- I just had some questions I wanted to ask. I even said that if he could put me in contact with his mom instead, that would be totally fine. I didn't want to scare him away. I hit the send button and cried a little and then let it go.

Two days later, my mom called me crying, barely able to speak, and told me to open my classmates profile. There waiting for me was a message from Daryl. He told me that he had missed me my entire life. He told me that he had been through some trouble, but when he finally got it together, he couldn't find me or my mom and it was too late. He sent me his phone number and within hours, we were talking on the phone. He told me that his entire family knew about me and that he kept a picture of me in his wallet. He told me that I had 3 brothers. He told me that there were no major health problems on his side. He told me that his birthday had been a few days prior and that finding me was the best birthday present he could have asked for. He wanted to meet me immediately.

At the end of this day, my head was spinning. I was thrilled! I had been wanted after all! There was nothing wrong with me! I wanted to meet him and his whole family RIGHT NOW! I went home and Trevor sort of talked me off of the ledge. He told me that maybe I should slow down and take it all in and figure out what I really wanted to do and not get swept up in my Oprah moment. He was right. A few months later, Daryl was in town so I agreed to take Trevor to meet him and his girlfriend for dinner.

Me and Daryl at my wedding

We sat across the table from each other just staring at each others faces. I can't even tell you what a Twilight Zone moment that whole dinner was. It was the best and most weird all at once. After dinner we parted ways but kept in contact. The following year, Trevor and I got married and I invited Daryl. Let me tell you, he was the talk of the town. For 27 years, to my entire family, Daryl had just been a name. And all of my friends thought he was a babe, which was super gross and weird. It is the curse of having young parents. But I am glad that he came and was able to share in one milestone moment
in my life.

I don't consider Daryl my "dad." I also don't consider him my sperm donor. He is a nice man that gave me life. He has a good heart and he has tried his best. We have since fallen out of touch, but that's ok. I went into finding him with an open mind and no expectations and I feel that what I got out of it was the best of all possible scenarios. I know that a lot of people go on the same hunts only to have their hearts broken. I wake up every morning now feeling that my last puzzle piece is in place and knowing exactly who I am and why.
Thank you for my life, Daryl. It is the best gift anyone has ever given me.

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Day 41- Being The Child of a Teen Mom

If I had a child when my mom had me, I would have a 16 year old right now. Whoa. Let's pump the brakes here.
My mom got pregnant with me when she was 16. I was the kid in Junior High with the mom in her 20s.
I can't say that having a young mom made my life hard, or bad, or damaged me in any irreparable way. Having a young mom was actually pretty awesome. I was given a lot of freedom and a lot of autonomy. I was taught to be a good human and make good choices and then I was allowed to make my own choices without a lot of restriction. Because of this, I think I learned a lot of responsibility and maturity at a young age. Most of my friends weren't allowed to watch PG-13 movies or listen to uncensored music. Those friends were the ones that would come to my house to do all of the bad things they weren't allowed to do at home. Honestly, I think that a lot of my friends were sheltered because they had parents of an age that understood how scary the world was. My mom was too young to have old parent fear!
Mom and dad never hid or measured the alcohol in the house. And I never really cared to steal it. I didn't have much of a curfew, but I didn't want to stay out late and make them worry. I never had to hide if I was going to a party or hanging out with a boy. They trusted me because they raised me right. And knowing what my mom went through having me young, I was damn sure I was never going to be a teen mom. And I wasn't. Hell, I am not even an adult mom yet!
One thing I can say for you young readers... is to think really hard before you put yourself in a situation to have a baby young. You hear all of the obvious things-- they are expensive, they take a lot of sacrifice, they will "ruin" your body, they will take your youth away... And yes, I do believe that these things are mostly true. But one thing you don't hear a lot is what it is like to be the child of a teen parent. And even though I love me, and love the person I am because of the mom I have... I can tell you that the guilt of being a child of a teen parent is not something you want to bestow upon your children. Let me first be clear that my mom would NEVER ever intentionally make me feel guilty. She always tells me that I was the best thing that ever happened to her and I saved her life from going down a dark road. But I also know that my mom would have had all of the potential in the world to do so much more than just be a mom. She is smart, she is funny, she is beautiful. She is a giant pain in the ass-- but mostly just because she is driven and passionate. I think that if she hadn't of had me, she could have had a much different (and maybe better) life. She could have gone to college. She could have been the CEO of Apple. She could have seen the world. She could have had dozens of torrid affairs with mysterious men. She could have done so many things... and I know she would have been great at all of them (especially the torrid affairs). But she will never know who or what she could have been because she chose me instead.
I am not telling you all this to feel sorry for me, or
to defend my moms choices. The way our lives are written are written for a purpose. All I can say is that knowing that my mom chose me over a million other options sometimes bums me out. But honestly... I am pretty fucking awesome. So I still think she chose right.

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Day 39- Mister Ras

I was a good kid in school. I got good grades. Never got in trouble. And generally had a good rapport with my teachers. But my sophomore and junior years were rough. I had a lot of really bad family stuff going on and my parents were in the middle of a nasty divorce, and eventually a move out of state that left me on my own (more on that later). Art class was my escape and Mister Ras (short for Rasmussen, but high school kids do like to nickname) was my savior.
Mister Ras just got me. He was sarcastic. He had a dry sense of humor. He was kind. He was creative. All of the things that I related to. He actually had a daughter in my year, but we didn't really know each other well. Mister Ras was like the ultimate school-dad. He was so cool. He clowned students (in a super hilarious and not mean way) and he didn't take himself too seriously. He was passionate about art. And he wanted us to be passionate about it too. He loved creative students. He was a square looking guy-- but he appreciated my punk rock aesthetic. He always complimented my changing hair colors and assorted piercings and ripped/homemade attire. He got a kick out my weirdness. And he made me feel like I wasn't so weird.
That art room behind those two sets of doors was my home. It was my safe haven. It was the place I could always go to cry, or be pissed, or vent with no judgments. Mister Ras let me use his personal phone to make family related calls so I could hide away. (no cell phones back then, folks) He also let me do my senior project as a mural on an entire wall of the art room. When all else failed, Mister Ras gave me chocolate bars to make my days brighter. Mister Ras saw something in me at a time in my life when I saw nothing in myself. He made me feel special and talented and like I could do anything.
A few months ago, I was thinking about Mister Ras so I searched the internet high and low for him. And then I found his daughter. I emailed her for his info, sent him an email telling him how much he has inspired me through hard times, and then held my breath for a response. My greatest fear was that 17 years later he wouldn't even remember who the hell I was. I was grateful for my unique name.
Not long after, I got a reply. He remembered me. And he told me that remembering me made him smile, and that I was one of the most honest people he had ever encountered. He told me that I made teaching fun. And then he thanked me for being me. I sat there fighting back tears and reading his words and my heart was so full. It is so powerful how much influence a teacher can have on a young persons life. And even more powerful that so many years later, the internet can bring two people back together as adults.
Mister Ras and I keep in touch regularly now. He watches my youtube videos and sends me kind words. Mister Ras is my buddy now, and I think that is pretty cool. And he has a vintage radio collection. Which is also pretty cool.
I hope that when he reads this blog (which he will, because I fully intend on sending it his way when I am done), that he is proud to have made such an impact on my life. I hope that my one small experience puts a smile on his face. And I hope that he eats a chocolate bar in my honor.

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Day 7- Why I Hate Girls... AKA My Girl Posse

Girlfriends.
Growing up, I always had TONS of girlfriends. Me and my best 4 girlfriends in middle school even dubbed ourselves "The Buttmunches" and had club names (I was Cherokeebler). We had probably a million inside jokes and didn't make any important moves in life without consulting each other (i.e. haircuts, wardrobe changes, crushes).  (right)
When I got to high school, the school boundaries changed so my 4 best friends went to one school, and lonely old me went to another. Around this time, I was starting to get more into punk and being a weirdo... so I didn't relate to a lot of the girls at my new school. But I did relate to a lot of the guys... so they became my new besties. I stopped caring about being cute and shopping and flirting with boys. I was more focused on doing well in school, going to punk shows, and looking as weird as I could. The boys accepted me. They let me be who I wanted without judgment. So I became the "I don't really get along with girls" girl.
Let's be clear here-- I didn't WANT to be that girl. I just felt like I had something to prove since most of my friends were guys. I needed a reason. I needed an explanation. And eventually I started believing it. In my early 20's, this became more evident than ever. I was insecure. SO insecure. So instead of finding girls who I could relate to and building friendships-- I was just a total asshole (more on this in later blogs).
Around this time I met by best friend Caitlin. She was the chick that hung out with all dudes. She played sports. She had a crazy good punk record collection. She liked to go to psychobilly shows. She didn't give a shit about girl drama. One sleepover later and I was completely in love. I didn't know that girls like Caitlin existed! And here we are, almost 12 years later-- still best friends. (left)
In my mid 20s something started to shift. I actually WANTED to have more girlfriends. I wanted to go shopping and have a girl crew at shows and vent about my horrible ex. I watched Sex & the City religiously and yearned to have a group to drink cosmos and talk about dicks with. I could do this with my guy friends-- but it just wasn't the same!
Eventually as the years passed, I amassed a group of lady friends that was awesome (right). And then I moved to LA. Holy moses, let me tell you how hard it is to meet cool, down to earth chick friends in LA. SO HARD. For the first two years I was here, I thought it was hopeless. My best friend screwed me over, my next close friend turned into a drug addict, and after that it was just a chain of flake after flake.
But then something happened... I met one rad chick, and then another, and then another. I started hosting girls nights and encouraging the cool chicks I knew to bring other cool chicks. At one point my house was filed with nearly 30 super rad babes. Now I have a solid crew again. There are about 7 or 8 broads that I consider my closest pals. And it rules. I always have a gal to call when I want to watch a movie and drink wine. Or when I want to go shopping and need help. Or when I want to back over my husband with my car and need to vent (and/or need help).
My girl crew is amazing. It is full of very diverse, smart, driven, hilarious women. None of them take themselves too seriously. They are always down to get silly-- even if that includes a 2am photoshoot in a vineyard in Napa (left). I honestly feel that I couldn't have picked a better group of ladies. If any of you reading this are struggling with wanting/finding girlfriends... My advice is to DO IT!! There is nothing better than the love and support of other women.
Start organizing girls nights. Movie nights. Craft nights. Book clubs. Girls nights out. Just do it and invite whoever you can. You might get some duds. Ok, you WILL get some duds... but odds are you will find some keepers along the way too.
Every girl needs a girl posse.

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Day 6- Growing up in Oregon aka "Rain"

Today was a pitiful day for this former Oregonian. El Nino has been hitting Southern California hard this week, and today I had to stop at the grocery store in the middle of a monsoon. Oregonians are used to rain. It shouldn't have phased me. But I sat in my car for 20 minutes waiting for the rain to get lighter. I was actually hiding from the rain. I hang my head in shame.
Growing up in Oregon, I never even thought about the rain. It just was. Yeah sure, we would take vacations to warm sunny places, and to me, that was vacation-- Not real life! People didn't actually LIVE in these places. Except they did. And they do. And I had major rain blinders on.
I moved to LA in December 2008... it happened to be the rainiest December on record. To me, it was a completely normal Christmas! But Californians were incensed. I couldn't understand what all of the fuss was about! In Oregon, we had beautiful summers. From about June-August, it is all sunshine and lush green and birds chirping. The rest of the year it is gray. Gray, gray, gray. With lots of rain. In fact, there are WEEKS when it doesn't stop raining. And it isn't the fun monsoon rain... it is just drizzle. Depressing, horrible drizzle.
You get used to living in the rain. Or if you know nothing else, you have a routine that is normal to you. No open toed shoes, no bare ankles, no painted vintage clothing, no paper umbrellas, no curly hair, no outdoor events. You invest in a good raincoat and lots of socks. Do you invest in umbrellas? Of course not! Seeing an Oregonian carrying an umbrella in the rain is like seeing a jackalope.
My first full year in LA was like an awakening. Sun year round?? Sign me up! When it rains, it goes away after a few hours?? What witchery was this? People actually got to LIVE here? My first Christmas that it was 70 degrees, I lost my mind. GUYS! I'M WEARING A TANK TOP, GUYS! ON CHRISTMAS! I sent pictures to everyone I knew in the Northwest.
Here I am, 7 years later, and I have still not gotten sick of the sunshine. I bask in it. I still send my Northwest friends pictures of me basking in it weekly in the winter. Sometimes I even send videos of me driving with my windows down. It just seems like the right thing to do.
I love when Californians find out I am from Portland and they gush... "Ooh I just LOVE Portland! I LOVE the rain!" I always laugh to myself. One week of rain a year is romantic. It's fun and new and exciting. Spend a year up there and tell me how you feel about the rain.
Not saying that I don't love Oregon... I do. For so many reasons. But gosh darn it, I don't miss the rain.

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Day 4- Growing up on a Houseboat

My childhood is something I rarely talk about. And although there are some skeletons that are better left in closets there is definitely a lot of it that I would be happy to share. Let's begin...
My mom got pregnant with me when she was 16. (more on this story later) At the time we lived in Southern California, but she moved up to Portland, OR to be closer to her dad (my grandpa). Because of this, I spent most of my formative years living with my grandparents on a houseboat that my uber talented and crafty grandpa built.
When people hear "houseboat" think "woohoo! Lake Havasu spring break '99!!" This wasn't one of those. It was literally a house on floating logs. Like, a real house. And it was chained up to a walkway. The back of the house didn't have a yard (obviously). But what it did have was a swim float. This basically consisted of a 15'x15' "deck" on the back of the house with a little shed in the corner. I can't even tell you how much of my childhood was spent on that swim float. Summers were
spent basking in the sun in my super sweet neon pink and green 80's bikinis (or some other variation of "clothing" that I so uniquely put together, left). Oddly enough, I didn't actually learn to swim until I was 10. I wore a LOT of life jackets. And winters were spent playing in the snow or feeding ducks (with my super babe grandpa, right). Actually, all of the times were spent feeding ducks. I loved feeding ducks. A lot. I just recently found out that bread is bad for ducks. Sorry ducks.
My grandpa loved to play jokes on my dad. One summer, my dad was on the Fun Island (a big round floating device that was reminiscent of a giant cinnamon roll, but bright yellow-- because everything was bright yellow in the 80s), and he fell asleep. Generally the Fun Island (no idea why it was called "fun" it basically just sat there and did nothing but float) was tied to the swim float and on this afternoon, that was definitely the case as my dad dozed off. Well, as soon as he was catching flies, my grandpa untied the Fun Island and let my dad drift off to sea. Ok, it wasn't actually the ocean. What it really was, was a channel off of a river that was probably no more than 50 feet wide, but in my 5 year old brain, my dad was on another continent. My dad made it down the river a little bit before he hit the other bank and woke up. Luckily, he didn't go too far so we could still see him (not so we could rescue him easily... what's the fun in that??). He woke up and hilarity ensued. He was SO confused. Until he looked across the river and saw us all clutching our bellies and crying with laughter. Poor dad.
Needless to say, dad never fell asleep on the Fun Island again. Turns out it really was "fun" after all.
More houseboat stories to come... Happy Monday y'all!

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