I Think I Can, I Think I Can...Swim?

"I just...."

"C'mon, go for it!"

"I don't know yet."

"Here let me show you, it's really easy."

"Wait a second!"

"No, we'll do it together! You'll love it!"

"Hang on! I'm not sure!"

"You don't have to be! Just try it!"

"Just hold on! I'm thinking first!"

"There's not much to think of - let's GGG-"

"WAIT!

"GGggggoOOOOOOOOO!"

One Day, I'll Drive a Ridiculous Car Too

Sometimes when I open my mouth, I hear my dad. Then I look around and Ben Lewis is no where to be found.

How did he manage to say something so quickly and leave? Where did he go?

Oh, it was me speaking. It's just that I am turning into my father.

Is this everyone's worst nightmare? Or is this everyone's eventual reality?

My dad and I are the kind of people who claim to be Type B, but we have so many Type A qualities that the latest edition of the DSM can't keep up with us.

A Magical Disney Vacation

Anyone who has been within five feet of me has already heard about our Walt Disney World vacation, but those snippets that you catch at the office door or in passing as you try to avoid eye contact with me just do not encompass how great of a time we had. You might be rolling your eyes so far into the back of your head that you're basically taking inventory of your own skull, but please, bear with me and my superfluity.

Movies of My Life

It's easy to look at your life like it's some kind of yearbook. If you keep a journal or blog, you might find yourself cringing at your past attempts to express yourself. If you're a scrapbooker or a devout photo album maker (bless you), then you might also find yourself cringing at your past haircuts. I decided to take a look at my life through movies.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

When I am in the mood to clean, I am a force to be reckoned with, no-joke, poker face.

Like, think of the Tasmanian Devil from those cartoons with the wiley wabbit and that Fudd guy, put my face on it, fill my hands with Windex, and BOOM, that's me. I become a tornado of sanitation and domesticity, and if cleanliess is godliness, then I am the Goddess of Detergent.

Don't mess with me when I'm cleaning beause I will throw your ass into my washing machine, line dry you by your hair, and bleach the shit right out of you.

I'm a Filipina, partial and proud, and that's just how we roll.

To say that I am critical when I walk into other people's homes is an understatement of epic proportions. When I walk into your house, I'm looking at the dust on your lampshades and the scratches that you didn't polish off your table, and people, I have x-ray vision, so I can see the unfolded clothes in your closet from the front door. You cannot hide your dirty secrets from me because I will find them, and we can chismis all you want, but I will still be able to see that coffee ring under your mug.

If I walk into your guest bathroom and you have that gunky spittle spattle on your mirror, I will clean it. I will look under your sink to grab that Lysol that better be there, and I will clean your bathroom. That splish splish splish that you hear going on around or near your toilet is me working that brush wand in a counter-clockwise motion to scrub that iron residue down your pipes.

You're welcome.

I would like to walk into a house and not be all Judgey-Mc-Judgester because I know you are all busy, and when you got one/two/three/ten kids and their friends over after school, I bet that it gets messy really quickly because they all got those sticky hands. I get it. I feel for you.

But when you walk into my home, and you tell me that it's too clean, I don't even know what you're saying. It's like you're not speaking English to me, and despite my vernacular of attitude going on here, I know my language, so you really have my head spinning on that one.

I've actually been told this many times before about my bedroom and then my dorm room and then my apartment and now my real, grown-up-married-woman home. When I was growing up with my Filipina mother, my friends and their moms told us the same exact damn thing too.

"It's like nobody lives here it's so clean!"

Bitch, are you kidding me? Of course somebody lives here! How else do you think it got so damn clean? Mice?

My mama scrubbed this floor with her perfectly manicured hands, fool! And she didn't even chip a nail!

Take off your goddamn, Payless shoes before you walk all over it, but keep your socks on so I can watch you slip and slide on the tile!

Here is a towel that can sit between you and my mama's pristine couch, and yes, it's a white motherfucking towel, that way I know how dirty your ass is when I bleach the hell out of it later!

That was me then, and that is still me now.

That is how I feel when you tell me that my home is too clean for you, and depending on how long it took me to vacuum that diamond pattern onto my carpet, I'll probably tell you how I feel because this? All this cleanliness you're gesturing at and complaining about took a lot of skill and practice, practice, practice! This is my Olympic sport, so you can look at my gold medal but you better not touch it.

Is my home like that all the time? No. My husband can vouch for that with certainty. I do not like to make the bed or wash the dishes right after breakfast/lunch/dinner, and if I have to take out the trash, it's like a journey to the great beyond.

But if I have guests coming over, the bed is fluffed and tight-cornered and the dishes will dance themselves into the cabinet all squeaky and sparkle-like and the trash? What trash? I don't have trash in my home. You trippin' girlfriend.

In my mind, it's not even a common courtesy to clean your house for guests, it's The Law. I don't mess around with the law because I don't have the time or money for a good lawyer since I'm so damn busy cleaning my bathrooms and making the bed. When I'm scrub-scrub-scrubbing, it's a solo effort. I don't want your help because you will do it wrong and leave water marks, so let me do it myself.

I know that this might seem crazy, but when I'm mopping the floor where my refridgerator just was because, yes, you bag of lazy bones, I moved that big ass thing to clean underneath it, I'm in the zone. That is my element. That is where I belong, and you better believe that I'm cleaning this place with my eyebrows drawn and my diamonds on because you have to look good to make good.

Maybe I'm succumbing to a sexist tradition against women, but I own it/live it/breathe it/love it because there is nothing better than smelling that lemony fresh scent of an immaculate household and watching your eyeballs bulge as you try to search for a speck of dust.

Because there ain't no dust in here. I killed it, and it went on the endangered species list, didn't you know?

Babies Are Nice From a Distance

I like the idea of human babies. They are small and precious and smell nice (sometimes) and they are very, very easy to love in a single heartbeat.

Or so I've been told.

Pretty much all of the women in my office area are pregnant with spawn. In fact, I'm in the minority because I'm not expecting a little bundle of joy in the next 2-7 months. This doesn't bother me because while I might not be glowing in the family way, at least my feet aren't swollen and I don't feel compelled to dry heave in the middle of meetings.

Actually, sometimes I do want to dry heave, but it has nothing to do with being hormonal and pregnant and everything to do with WHY AM I STILL IN THIS MEETING WHEN IT'S EIGHT O' CLOCK AT NIGHT?

The baby showers have already started, and if there is anything I love more than babies, it's probably baby-things like wee little socks and fuzzy blankets and unscented shampoo. When I'm browsing through these endless registries, I actually get a little wistful, and I wonder if it's time for us to have our own baby.

But then I remember the crying. and the poop. and the spit up. and the crying. crying. cryingcryingcrying. DID I MENTION THE CRYING?

Similarly, all of my "maternal instincts" are of the crazy Asian lady variety.

My kids will play the piano.

They will take their SAT prep classes every Saturday.

Bad grades? No drive!

I also don't know how to, uh, handle babies. The only real-life baby I've ever been around is my niece, and she is already 2.5 years of age, and I've seen her maybe five times in her life.

When she was a couple months old, she was thrust into my arms rather unexpectedly, and I thought I was holding her like the way babies on TV are held, but honestly, it was like holding a bomb. A giant bomb of gurgling poop ready to wail and scream at the bat of an eyelash.

I cannot handle that right now. I would lose my shit and need my own diaper. I think I would cry more than my baby.

And no one puts this baby in the corner.

Things I Say to My Husband

I'm a little crazy. I know that might be hard to pick up on here on the interwebz, but it's a fact.

My husband married me knowing this. He knows that I do not possess a filter between my brain and mouth, and that I like to debate the uses of the word racket v racquet, and that I can't sleep at night knowing the toothpaste cap has not been screwed back onto the tube.

He also knows that I won't use towels that aren't white unless it's at the gym, and I can't function through life without Double Stuf Oreos.

Living with all that and then some? That is love, people.

Sometimes, I'm a little surprised he can put up with me, but then I remember all of the endearing things I say to him throughout our days together. Here are some gems:

Exhibit A (usually said while combing my hair):

"I think my hair has stopped growing. Where's a ruler?"

Exhibit B (daily question):

"Where did I put that thing I had in my purse yesterday that had the number to the place I need to go to next week about the whatever?"

Exhibit C (weekends for us):

"Let's go see a movie."

OK, what movie?

"I don't know. You pick."

But you suggested the movies.

"But I asked you first."

You didn't ask. You said let's go see a movie.

"No, I asked, let's go see a movieEEEeeE? Like as a question."

Captain America.

"Pick a different one."

Exhibit D (when he proposed):

"Remember that one time you asked me to marry you, and I said, "Are you serious?" ha ha."

Exhibit E (that time-of-the-month comment):

"Would you still find me attractive if I stopped shaving my legs? Because I'm considering this."

Exhibit F (since I started couponing):

"If I stopped working at the office, I would have all the time I need to coupon and save us more money."

But then we wouldn't have as much money in the first place.

"But I would coupon the shit out of those fruit snacks you like."

Exhibit G (...every 4 days):

"Should I take a shower? It's been 4 days."


Exhibit H (this is why we don't do chores together):

"Why didn't you put the towels away?"

I did. They're in the bathroom.

"They aren't folded though.

I did fold them!

"But they aren't folded like hotel towels."

We don't live in a hotel.

"...why not?"

An Open Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

I was clipping coupons the other morning, and I came across a $1.00-off 5 boxes of Hamburger Helper. This is a really good deal because they've been marked down to just ninety cents a box, and there is also a store coupon that we can use to double stack on the deal. I'm pretty sure the store coupon is for a $1.50-off/5 boxes which would make it just forty cents a box, and if we don't get a leg up on this deal now, we'll be left with all the gross flavors at the store.

Like Beef Stoganoff.

But OK, let me be more specific, the Hamburger Helper coupon reminded me of all the nights you used to cook dinner for just me and you. Your son was already grown up and out of the house, and Mom didn't eat American food, so at least six nights out of the seven, it was just us at the dinner table.

Remember when we used to have to fend for ourselves like that back then? Or, rather, when you had to fend for the both of us because I wasn't tall enough to reach the microwave until I was 14. Those were the days. Now that I'm trying to do the whole dinner thing in my own kitchen (where I can reach all the appliances...) I keep thinking about the dinner culture at our house.

I always appreciated the fact that dinner wasn't at a set time. Like, ever. We ate when we were hungry, and if that was around dinner time, then so be it. I also liked the fact that dinner was up to us based on our mood. Spaghetti? No? OK, how about sandwiches? Cool.

(But damn, Dad, did you really need to add green peas to EVERYTHING? I haven't eaten those since I moved out. Seriously.)

When I would go over to one of my friend's houses, I would always be thrown off by their so-called "dinner times."

You mean, dinner is at a specified time every night?

Yeah. My mom never misses a meal.

And that is when you must eat dinner?

Yeah. It's dinner time.

But what if you're not hungry?

But it's time for dinner.

What if you don't want tuna casserole?

But that's what's for dinner.

Why don't I have a choice? What are you, the Crazy Dinner Gestapo?!

I don't think you can come over anymore.

Not only did it feel like I was intruding on some awkward scheduled family time, but these people never seemed to have cookies in the pantry. Freaks.

I know family magazines and child rearing books and parenty-type people go on and on about the benefits of family dinners made from wholesome, natural foods and using that time to bond and decompress and yadda yadda, but that's just not how we roll in our clan.

Word up to my sistahs and bruthas.

Except I only have one brother, and he is as white as a box of baking soda.

But anyway, I get it now. I don't know how you managed to come home after 12+ hours at work and cook us Hamburger Helper on the stove without burning it to pieces. How did you even remember to defrost the hamburger that morning? I always forget to do that shit, and I have to defrost it in the microwave like a rookie every time.

I also really appreciated the fact that you didn't care if I didn't eat dinner because I was a colicky kid, and sometimes, I didn't feel like eating dinner. Now, here I am, night after night, forcing myself to eat dinner at my own house when I'm not feeling it and wondering what is my problem? Why I can't I be chill like my dad and NOT force feed this meal into my stomach?

It's funny, you know, when I first got to college, I was so pumped to be out of the house. I was like "WOO! IMMA MAKE MAH OWN RULEZ!" but then that feeling disappeared when I went to the main campus cafeteria at 8:30pm to find out it was closed because I'm only allowed to eat dinner from 5 to 7pm here in this Dinner Gestapo from HELL.

Then I went back to my stupid little dorm and my drug-addicted roommate (Remember her? I lived with her for about 2 months. That was interesting.) would be making pot brownies in our microwave, and I was starving because my dad wasn't around to heat up some Hamburger Helper with me.

I never told you that I missed those days because I wanted to (and still want to) seem cool and independent, and while I am cool and independent, I still miss eating dinner with you whenever we felt like eating dinner.

Good times, homie.

Sincerely,
Your Daughter