Category Archives: DNA and other bonding things. Like Blood.

it’s a massacre, guys.

Post Edited – scroll down, friends and lovers.

I took Boo to a hockey game a few weeks ago, because we like hockey and that’s what we do sometimes.

Here we are, hockey gaming.

Here we are, hockey gaming.

It turns out that the game is the annual teddy bear toss, so we stop by the store to get Boo a teddy bear to throw. He’s excited, guys.

And then the bears start flying.

Boo: Is it time?

Me: Yeah, you can throw the bear now.

Boo: We’re too high, it won’t go that far.

Me: We can go closer so you can throw it.

Now, we’re sitting in the upper bowl…

This is KINDA high up.

This is KINDA high up. That’s Boo’s head.

…and the kid has a point, so we start moving closer so he’ll have an easier time of getting the bear onto the rink.

Boo: Where do I throw it?

Me: On the ice, see all the other bears?

Boo: Throw him on the ice?

Me: Yeah, see how everyone else is?

Boo: …

Boo: …

Boo: …he’ll get cold.

Me: I think they’ll warm him up.

Boo: …

Boo: …

Boo: …he’ll get wet.

Me: I think they’ll dry him off.

At this point, volunteers are on the ice to start boxing up all these flying teddy bears. The players start helping gather the bears. That’s when it gets really fun.


Me: Just throw the bear, bud.


Me: No, they’re just helping to gather the bears up.

Boo’s face is a cross between Puss in Boots and the Screamer. This isn’t a good cause. This is not for the childrenlike Mommy told him. This is a mother-effing massacre.


Me: Baby, just throw the bear. It’s not hurting the bears.


Me: They’re not hurting the-


And that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.

Boo and our new friend Dash and his hockey bell.

Boo and our new friend Dash and his hockey bell.


I’m mildly amazed at the amount of popularity this post has gotten…

[Almost] FAME. I'm gonna live forever.

That’s the blog. [Almost] FAME. I’m gonna live forever.

…and the various tweets and facebook posts from people who have enjoyed this post (all the good karma to you people) — amazed to the point where I read the whole thing out loud to Boo, as I sometimes do when it involves cute things he says, minus the swears Mommy adds when she writes it.

Mommy: “…and that’s how Dash the polar bear joined our family.”

Boo: He’s a pretty good bear.

Mommy: He taught Mommy that we will probably not be going to the teddy bear game next year.

Boo: He taught me that the only thing we throw at hockey games is the octopus.


the thankful post

I read Camie over at Wild Spirit all the time (favorite blog alert)…

…and one of my favorite things that she does is her happy list posts. Things that make her happy on a day to day basis, which is something I don’t do enough in my life — acknowledging how good I have it. So, in honor of the amount of turkey and potatoes and pie I’ll be eating tomorrow, I decided to put together

.a thankful list.

Because I am really, really, thankful for a lot of crap.

1. the Boowho gives me a reason, everyday, to keep going, to be a better person, to be the best person I can be for him, for his life.

Tada, it's a giant hole.

2. Coffee, and the Keurig machine that my mother donated to my office so I won’t spend as much on coffee.

3. Singing. Singing with my Dad. Snapchatting Car-aoke to GoldDust and Poof. My out of tune guitar. Music of all sorts.

Concert Singing with the Paternal

Concert Singing with the Paternal

4. the amazing, astounding, irreplaceable group of ladies: Alto, CoSi, FunSized, GoldDust, Poof, and SoccerGirlfor being the best supporting, texting, BFFing, shopping, coffee-ing, snapchatting group of girls I have the privilege to know and love.

All dressed up

5. Writing. Journals and blogs and letters and tweets and everything that gets me out of my head and onto something that listens and responds and accepts.

6. Photos, cameras, snapchat, and the DSLR my sister gave me that I don’t know how to use, and the giant arsenal of memories that I have because of all those things. Mainly the memories, because of all the other things on the list. But it’s nice to have a tangible memory too.

7. That family group of peoplethat I appreciate more and more the older I get — how lucky I am to have a loving, weird, dysfunctioning functional family.

8. Soccer. I don’t even care anymore that I’m not really that good, and probably definitely never will be. I have fun playing, and I have amazing friends that have come out of this team and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

9. this $1 zit stuff that actually really works. It’s make up of some sort. It kind of stings. But it totally works. Yay, working! Yay, clear skin!

10. Snow, and winter, and the whole, yay, magical season. I should be like this year round – more appreciative and thankful for everything around me. I really should, and I mean to be. But ugh, you guys. The snow falls, and it’s all magical and beautiful and shiny and I don’t even mind  that I live in Michigan and everyone, and I mean everyone drives like a chatchnugget. DON’T EVEN MIND. Michigan, you’re gorgeous.


On that note. Here’s to an excellent and overstuffed Thanksgiving tomorrow, for whoever and however everyone is celebrating.

Oh. But.

-1. Christmas Music. I am not thankful for Christmas music until after Thanksgiving is over.

I can hope and I can dream, cuz I am full of…full of…full of…

It’s funny, after a wedding actually happens, I spent next month or so just saying that they should totally throw a wedding every weekendAll the hubbub in getting up to the wedding is over, and the end result is so awesome that you really forget about said hubbub.


SoccerGirl requested that the Bridesmaid wear nude shoes with our dresses. Which was well and good, and I was all of course I can wear nude shoes, until three days before the wedding when Poof and I both realized we don’t really have appropriate nude shoes.

This prompted the hubbub of a shopping trip – of finding nude shoes, and texting SoccerGirl pictures of nude shoes because it turns out there are a lot of nude shoes out there, and trying on nude shoes, and finally buying nude shoes. Then eventually, there was the hubbub of trying on said nude shoes with said bridesmaids dress because you really should see how it looks all put together.

You know, just checking and stuff.

I get to this step, and I put the dress on and the shoes on, and send pictures and snapchats and tweets and think to myself —

Said shoes and said dress.

Said shoes and said dress.

YesI can rock this.

After this whole process, I go to get out of the shoes and the dress, because it’s Michigan, and it’s cold, and my family has this thing where we don’t turn on the heat until after it snows, and it’s only November and it hasn’t snowedand this dress is strapless, and-

And I’m like. Mother. Fucker.

I start yelling at my mom like Will Ferrell in Wedding Crashers because it’s seriously really cold and I’m seriously really stuck.


Mom: Stop yelling. You’ll wake everyone up.

Me: It’s so cold.

At this moment, I get a tweet back to my #GirlProblems twitter plea.

Me: This guy says I’m flirting on the internet.

Mom: Tsk. People shouldn’t flirt on the internet.

Me: I wasn’t even flirting!

Mom: If you flirt too much, people won’t like you.

Me: I’m not flirting.

Mom: People who are like that just have low self esteem.

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …

Mom: …

Me: …unzip me?

Sh!t kids say and I’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

Guys, I hurt. I hurt real bad. It’s not one of those crazy over emotional days or anything like that. It’s more of a “I hate being a girl” day.

If you’ve never been this girl, then I hate you.
(GIF Credit:

That’s right. I’m oversharing, interwebs. I’m TMI-ing the hell out of the blog. Because right now, I have cramps, and they’re terrible, and that means that Mother Nature is about to send Moses to part the red sea or I’m about to ride the crimson wave or whatever the hell analogy you like to use to describe that I’M ABOUT TO BE MOTHER BITCH FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS.


I seriously hate this time of the month. DESPISE IT. I get all angry, then all weepy, then all drowsy, and then every emotion ever in the history of womenkind. I’m like the theater masks times six million.

So, I get all crampy, and realize that it’s about that time, and I go to check my “supplies.” As luck would have it, I’m completely bumblefucking out of my lady products.  Of course I am.

So I wrap up the Boo, and buckle him in, and it’s off to the store.  We get some string cheese, we pick out some random things from the dollar section because one cannot simply walk into Target and not buy things from the dollar section, and we get him a new toothbrush because why the hell not. Then we get to the girly aisle, and I get what I need, and I toss them into the cart.

Boo: What are those?

Me: They’re for mommy.

Boo: Can I have one?

Me: You don’t need one.

Boo: Why not?

Me: They’re for ladies.

Boo: Boys can’t have them?

Me: Boys don’t need them. They’re for Mommy’s…special time.

Boo: Like your birthday? My birthday’s in September.

Me: No, not that special. This is…mommy’s time of the month.

Boo: Oh. Can I have a birthday the next month too?

Me: No, it’s not like…present time special.

Boo: Do you get presents at your special time?

Me: Not the good kind.

Boo: They should be the good kind.


Then Boo saw some yogurt with Perry the Platypus on them and totally forgot about Mommy’s special things. Yay, short attention span. 

Perry the Platypus

Perry the Platypus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We get home, and Boo runs upstairs and I start telling my mother about the

Me: Boo asked me what tampons were. I debated telling him it means no siblings right now.

Mom: Don’t tell him that.

Me: Well, how do you tell a four year old about a tampon?

Mom: It’s for a lady’s time…

Me: -I’m being Boo. What time? Bedtime?

Mom: No, a time for a lady’s body to…discharge?


Mom: …I…but….


I go upstairs, feeling a little better because NO ONE CAN EXPLAIN A TAMPON TO A FOUR YEAR OLD BOY and Boo is in the bedroom with all his toys out. Also. With all my toys out*.

Me: Boo, did you open Mommy’s box?

Boo: They’re for boys too.

Me: How are they for boys? These are for mommy’s…body.

Boo: Uh, they’re pew-ers. DUH.

Me: …

*I would have photo’d this, but I feel like that would have made it seem okay to give Spiderman a tampon and call it a pew-er. Here is a rough drawing of exactly what was going on.
Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

I have not observed which way toilets flush yet.

So, I’m writing this blog from my iPhone and my view looks like this:
But since I haven’t blogged since leaving for the grand adventure, I figure I’d fill you all in on something that applies to all of us:

Airplane bathrooms.

I’m not talking about the mile high club or anything, because ew, I’m on a family vacation but more of one of the:

Adventures of Boo and L.A

Plane ride 1 of 4

Boo decides he has to pee. We walk to the bathroom. He doesn’t like the size of the bathroom.

Two hours later, as we rush to catch our next flight, Boo manages to put most of his pee into the toilet. He only misses when he turns to tell me, “I almost didn’t make it in the pot!”

Plane 2 of 4

Boo observes Mommy peeing in the pot. Decides it’s not scary until we flush.

The noise is scary.

Cue rushing off the plane to a bathroom, part deux.

Plane 3 of 4

Boo finally pees on the plane, because we ate on the plane.

Boo: Where’s the pee go?

Me: Out of the plane!

Boo: In the sky?

Me: Yup.

Boo: …is rain airplane pee??

Plane 4 of 4

Boo’s fear of the unknown has been defeated. He attempts to push all the buttons in the tiny bathroom.

Boo: what’s this do??

Me: Don’t open the door, we need to pee first!

Boo: what’s this do??

Me: Don’t call the stewardess!

Boo: what’s this do?

Me: face turns white as pee is sucked out of me at 30,000 feet.

Happy trails.

Dad, I love you. You’re the best.

*Update: well, due to a not really dramatic at all turn of events, I ended up not reading/saying this at Dad’s party last night. But it was still a lovely party, and I sang some early music with my father’s old music group. And I printed up said speech for Father to read, so he’ll get to see it.


Let’s be honest, I probably would have cried. 🙂


I need to write a speech for my father’s retirement party next week. It’s on Tuesday. I have nothing prepared so far. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to thank people, or tell an anecdote, or talk about his beard, but I’m completely lost. My father is the biggest role model I have, or probably will ever have in my life. So you can understand that I do not want to fuck this up.

“You’re a great writer, bunso.” My mother tells me. “You can do it. It will be fine.”

But the last time I gave a public speech was on the deliciousness of Ted Drewes Frozen Custard in a public speaking class – I talked too fast and didn’t bring any frozen custard in to share. I got an A- on the speech and an F on sharing custard.

What exactly does one talk about when their father retires?

I remember the speech my father told at my grandfather’s memorial service. It was a story about camping with his family when he was a kid. It rained, he told us, the entire trip. And when it stopped raining, and the skies opened up, he said that my grandfather pointed up to the sky and proclaimed “BLUE SKIES!” I can picture my father in the church, telling this story, pointing to the ceiling and picturing that blue sky. I can picture my grandfather, way before my time on earth, standing in this weather and pointing to the sky.

My Grandpa

My Grandpa

That story made an impact.

I want to make an impact.

When most kids are 11, families take normal vacations. Cottages up north, Disneyland, the Outer banks. Beaches, or resorts, or other family photogenic moments.

When I was 11, my family took our first family bike trip.

200 some odd miles in a week and a half, across Door County, Wisconsin.

As you might know, my father has been a life long bicyclist. Maybe you’ve seen him biking home from Holland, his pants tucked into his socks, because knickers are cool and pants caught in bicycle chains are not.

The last day of the trip, it rained. I was small, and 11, and complained a lot, so it wasn’t easy for me, which probably made it more difficult for the rest of the family. But that day was the last day of our trip, meaning we had to get to where we needed to be.

It rained.

We had three flat tires.

We biked sixty miles.

We made it to our destination, wet, tired, discouraged. I vaguely remember stopping at a restaurant for dinner and having a bowl of clam chowder put in front of me. I may have dozed off into the soup.

I remember very clearly through my haze of tired muscles and muddy clothes, my father and my mother talking.

My mother was telling my father that we were lucky we made it, that the kids were ready to fall over, that it’s a good thing we didn’t miss this boat.

To which my father, who was in much better spirits than the rest of us, replied, “But we made it, and what a journey it was getting here!”

Congratulations, Dad, on your retirement. You made it, and what a journey it was getting here!

I love my dad.

I love my dad.

Your problems v. My problems.

The other day, VS and I were g-chatting and she started sending me articles about kids, which is a fact I’m probably not going to share with my mother*.

But she found some interesting articles about why kids get all angry and tantrum-y and throw-y and crying-y and other fun not really but sort of adjectives which always make you reminiscent for when they were so little and adorable and quiet.

Because yes, my child is growing up.

My kid is in preschool now — which means he has friends and he has homework and the things he says are more adorable than ever. For example, while we were filling out Valentine’s last month, BabyDaddy wrote a name in “Irish” writing and…

It’s comical. It’s hysterical.

But mostly, it reminds of damn, how different it is to be a kid.

If you are a parent, and you haven’t read this article (that one right there, because it’s a link. Click that noise. Or this noise. Here it is again.), you need to read up ASAP.

Because shit’s about to get put into perspective for you.

VS and I continued to chat the other day, about our lives and our problems and our emotional stress and the fact that I have so many knots in my back because I cannot destress for the life of me.

Things that we were worrying about at the time of our conversation:

  • The future
  • Relationships
  • Friendships
  • Money
  • What to wear out
  • If the laundry is done
  • Where exactly I should put the bed in my room to not block the heat register OR the cold air return
  • How high to put the heat in the house
  • How much gas is in the car
  • What to cook for dinner
  • Work
  • The future, again

The kid list is a titch bit different. Because while VS and I were talking, the following problem happened:

Boo: Mommy, Quincy told me he doesn’t want to be my best friend anymore!

Me: He told you that?? What did he say?!

BFFs, maybe.

BFFs, maybe.


Oh, to be young.

And oh, to follow me on twitter.


*Said mother is constantly wondering when the financially and emotionally stable VS is going create something other than art.

In which I actually know all the word’s to Canada’s National Anthem.

My mom is originally from the Philippines. I’m sure you know that by now. Which means that she was born there and she grew up there and she also has a large amount of family there. Not here. Although, a great number of them have come to Canada…which is super close by.

Translation: Road Trip!


Hi, it’s my mom and me in Canada!


I was going to post about this before, but then we actually came to Canada, and let’s be honest —

Who can even think of posting when Dudley Do Right is traipsing down the street singing “Oh Canada” at the top of his lungs?

Am I right? Eh?

I’m totally kidding. Granted, while I’m in this fair country, my money is worth less, I hear millions of languages, and so many men walking past are talking about hockey that I might pee myself. But there is really no time to blog.

Plus, since Toronto is uber multicultural, my mom keeps making friends.

Strange Filipino folk, at the boat we went on, on the island we were on, at the gas station, in line for the effing bathroom…

Stranger(In my Mom’s native tongue): Oh Em Gee, you are the Philippines,  yeah?

Mom: I don’t talk to strangers. I’m white with a great tan.

Me (in English): Mom. You aren’t even that tan for an Asian. They know. They all know.

Mom (in Tagalog now): Hey! Yeah! I’m the Philippines too! Where are you from, who do you know, how strange that we have found each other in this corner of the world!

Next post. How I got another cousin.

L.A. is going to the chapel but she is only a bridesmaid

Last Sunday, I woke up with immense pains in my side. Not from bodily malfunctions, or intense sex, or anything like that. The boning in my bridesmaid dress caused me great pain after FunSized and I tore up the dancefloor.

CoSi and I originated this pose from the FRIENDS opening sequence — I have pictures dating back to Junior Year Homecoming where we’re doing this!

That’s right.

After 1 forced homecoming date, approximately 7 years of dating, and 15 minutes at the front of a church for vows, Bobo and Engaged are officially Mr. and Mrs. Bobo. Also, from this point on, Engaged will be known as…CoSi (There’s a reason.)

I cried. I cried a lot. FunSized sat next to me and she cried too. Bobo’s older sister sat on the other side of me and she cried too. Old women were passing us Kleenex. Our mascara and eyeliner suffered greatly.

I realized that there’s something absolutely AMAZING about being able to stay friends with people for so long…Engaged and I are going on 18 years, FunSized and I are going on 7 years, Bobo and I are going on 10…I even wrote a speech for the couple about all these years we have together, which made me cry every time I read it.


The wedding was fabulous. I love when my friends get married. After the crying, we took a party bus around for pictures, then settled down at the reception. FunSized got “Night at the Roxbury‘d” by Arrington and Neo (a high school friend), while I lasso’d in HSM. Then, we danced. And by danced, I mean we requested every single line dance known to man and performed them. Because FunSized and I learned them ahead of time.

An enjoyable moment of the evening:

L.A.’s Dad: So who did you walk down the aisle with?

L.A.: HSM.

L.A.’s Dad: Didn’t you date him in high school?

L.A.: No.

L.A.’s Dad: But wasn’t he over at our house a lot?

L.A.: I guess, once or twice, maybe?

L.A.’s Mom: FunSized walked with Arrington?

L.A.: Yes.

L.A.’s Dad: Didn’t you date him in high school?

L.A.: Not really.

L.A.’s Dad: But wasn’t he over at our house a lot?

L.A.: (Sighing) Yes.

L.A.’s Mom: Oh, there’s Bobo, he looks so happy. L.A. dated him in high school too.

L.A.: NO, I did NOT.

L.A.’s Dad: But wasn’t he over at our house a lot?

L.A.: Because he was DATING Engaged!

L.A.’s Dad: When did you have time to date Ex?

L.A.: Sigh.

CoSi and BoBo’s first dance

On that enigmatic note, I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Bobo.

All the best to my besties 🙂