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.
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.
4. the amazing, astounding, irreplaceable group of ladies: Alto, CoSi, FunSized, GoldDust, Poof, and SoccerGirl, for being the best supporting, texting, BFFing, shopping, coffee-ing, snapchatting group of girls I have the privilege to know and love.
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 people, that I appreciate more and more the older I get — how lucky I am to have a loving, weird, dysfunctioning functional family.
I know it’s not Thursday, but I’m gonna throwback anyway because PUKKA SHELL NECKLACE. pic.twitter.com/a97VT0gHD2
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) July 16, 2013
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.
-1. Christmas Music. I am not thankful for Christmas music until after Thanksgiving is over.
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:
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?
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.
*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.
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.
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’m a poor single woman so I live with my brother. Yes, a bit awkward to explain when I’m on a date, but I’m saving money by doing so. Others can deal with it.
Recently, it was my brother’s birthday. As a joke, my mother purchased him a life-size stuffed brown Labrador. (It was NEVER actually alive)
We both have been wanting a pet, but it hasn’t been the right time for either of us. Clearly, a stuffed animal is the next best thing. And I think it would be frowned upon if we got Tomagotchis.
We wanted to be clever so we named him Charlie Brown, and now he has become part of the family.
Charlie is still getting use to his new home. He tests his boundaries and is no stranger to breaking the rules.
Sometimes having a fake pet is just as difficult as having a real one.
…Oh, Charlie Brown.
Once upon a time, I was a baby. I remember nothing of those days. My first memory came from when I was two years old. But apparently, things happened before the point where I can begin to remember. I can hardly fathom this, as I am so important, but whatever. Things happened. For example:
We are on a beach. I am one. My sister is three. My father is swimming with us, and it’s that time of the year where seaweed and fish come up on the shore of Lake Michigan. There are pictures of me picking up seaweed with this disgusted look on my face like WTF have you gotten me into, parentals?
The story goes from there that I was on the shore with my mom, and my sister is splashing in the water with my father. All of a sudden, he comes running out of the water. Apparently, a fish saw a mole on his back, thought it was food, and bit it.
He ran out of the water with the fish hanging onto his back.
…and my sister was never the same.
From that day on, my sister was afraid of fish. Being Asian, this was not a good fear to have. She’d close her eyes at parties where there were whole fish being served and I’d lead her past, lest she need to look the dead fish in his creepy slimy eyes.
At one point growing up, when she and I got into a fight about cleaning, I took a frozen fish we had in the freezer and chased her around the house with it. I think I might have tied it to her doorknob for a period of time too. That was a rocky point in our sisterhood.
Even at Christmas one year, when someone was given a giant stuffed fish pillow, she freaked out whenever I tossed it at her. My sister is terribly afraid of fish.
Which leads to my amazement at the following event:
“Look at that,” she tells me. She suddenly is veering to the right hand side of the road.
I glance out the window. “What about it?” I ask her.
“There’s a giant fish.” She’s in awe of it.
“…You’re pulling over?” I ask, confused.
“It’s a giant fish!”
I’m not sure what to do now. “…But…you’re afraid of fish.”
“But,” she argues. “how often do you get to take a picture with a giant fish?!”
Point taken, dear sister.
We are driving to Cadillac to meet our parents. We assume we will beat them, because Dad drives the speed limit, and terrible Asian drivers (i.e. VS) do not. However, we arrive after them. It’s a strange thing.
“What took you so long?” Dad asks.
“We’ve been here HOURS,” Mom adds.
“Well,” VS begins. “Didn’t you see the giant fish?!”
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!
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.