Really Sucky Weekends

This is going to be one of those really sucky weekends. I know it is. I can tell, because, really, I want a drink. A lot of them. We were at Derbyshire Ren Faire today shooting video for the commericial. The part of my brain that realizes and recognizes what days are and what holidays are coming, knew that tomorrow was Father's Day, but didn't quite register it all the way. On the way from the Swords of Valour /Kingdom of Asmiria Fight List with one of the SOV's fighter's for the last shot for the commerical, he and my two companions were talking about dad's. How their (my 2 female companions) dad's were basically all whacked out and over protective. And then how he (the fighter) had planned things for his daughter. And the only thing I could think about was how much I missed my dad. I hid behind a tree and cried for a bit. Then the director came over and asked what was wrong. He understands (the whole been there, gone through that thing) but, I dry my eyes, put on my nothings-wrong-ignore-the-emotions-it's-time-to-work-attitude and face, come out from behind the tree, grab my gear (boom operator and production manager -- it's heavy gear), and am ready to go. Only one person knows of my breakdown. Everything is well. I don't cry any more. I probably will tomorrow. I might. I don't know. I'm having a wine cooler tonight even though I know better. One of my rules -- never drink when you're (me) is in a highly emotional state. It's not a lot of alcohol. But I don't drink under normal circumstances, so this is a lot, and something I probably shouldn't do, but I will remember, because I'm not going to get drunk. Just relaxed. I miss my dad. A lot. The other day I wanted to call and verify my lasagna recipe with him and ask about his cheese soup recipe and the mini-bran muffins he used to make. Had the phone almost in hand. Took his number out of memory. Had to. Hurts. Lots. It's ironic in a way, that Derbyshire opened Father's Day weekend. Because it was my dad who took me to the Michigan Ren Faire when I was 12 or 13. I remember the jousts and the brightly colored boothes and garbed men walking around gnawing on huge turkey legs. He is at least partly responsible for my love of history and faires.