It’s interesting when the mini you starts looking like the grown-up you you’ll eventually become. It definitely happens. There’s a distinct point in your baby-photo album when that blob actually starts to be recognizable as you.
When I first saw this picture, my immediate reaction was, “What?! Is that what I really look like?” Cause that’s certainly my sister’s today face right next to me.
My following thought went something along the lines of, “Jesus, then I must be a cherub-cheeked half-Asian elfin.”
But mad props to my moms for the cool outfits. Go 80s.
My Grandpa is the only grandparent I’ve ever had. He’s 84 now. He has dementia. Some time he doesn’t remember my name. Because he lives in Maui I only get to see him, at most, twice a year.
Last night he taught me, my sister and my cousin how to play solitare. It was amazing.
This is his wedding picture from 1945. He married my Grandma, Sueko, after whom I’m named, when her father was interned at the camps in California during WWII. Because my Grandpa was Okinawan and because my Grandma was from mainland Japan, Great-Grandpa didn’t approve of the union. Okinawans were seen as less than. Being ever the rascal, however, my Grandpa swooped in and swooped my Grandma off her feet. LOVE HIM!
“You are like me, you look better naked.”
“Me, I like asshola or assholo better than asshole because it sounds less strong. It’s not so bad.”
“I go make pee pee.”
“If I were a cop, the gouvernement would be rich. Ticket ticket ticket [pointing at double parked cars]. I don’t understand these beetch.”
“Me, I say, who gives a shit.”
“Ah shit Jose, look at that jodido pinche cabron.”
“You stop or I give-a you a kick in thee ass.”
My mom just called me to share this joke, which she heard on the Ellen DeGeneres show while doing her afternoon Nordic Track:
What do you call an Irishman who stays out all night?
My big sister has a unique ability to mismatch words together so that what comes out is something like, “It enlighted me,” instead of, “It enlightened me.” You still understand what she said, it’s just a bit funky.
A favorite of mine is when she told me one of her friends was “a kid in the heart.”
Today, I realized this may be a genetically inherited trait. I told a girlfriend that a text someone sent me was “self-defecating.”
“You mean self-deprecating?” she said.
I agreed with her and quickly corrected myself, laughing sheepishly. But like my sister, I now find myself preferring the mistake over the proper form; to describe something as shitting on itself is like adding the word “fucking” before any adjective. It gives it that extra whomp you need to really drive the point home.
Isn’t She Presh?
My mom is the motherfucking MacGyver of shit talking—she’s resourceful, extremely skilled and knows how to land an efficient blow without weaponry.
Case in point: Each Saturday on their way to church, her and my father pick up an elderly woman, Margaret, who is no longer able to drive. My mother will also pick her up when she goes out to breakfast with some other church-going ladies she’s recently befriended, cause she thinks it’s important for Margaret to be active and get out of the house.
Yesterday, when the group got together at the local iHop, Margaret opened her wallet and showed my mom an old photo of her and her husband that she always keeps with her.
“Oh dear,” my mother told me first thing this morning, laughing. “It was brown and white, you know, one of those kinds of old photos, but Margaret had black black hair and it was all pouffy and she had so much make up on she looked like a transvestite!”
A.) I didn’t even know my mother knew what a transvestite was.
B.) Margaret’s husband is long since passed.
C.) My mom told me that next time they pick her up for church she’s going to ask her to show the photo to my dad, so he can giggle about it too.