Family and community are concepts that (for me) lay incredibly close, at times intertwined. I don't have just one family, I have many.
My family is Mum, Nay, and Nessa (my sister, younger than me by three years.) We live in the same house, we talk all the time about everything, and we're all very, very close. Ever since I was born, it's pretty much been child-led anarchy over at my house. I love all of them dearly. (And they actually read this blog. Hello, family!) I tend to call them "my fambly", both in text and when I'm talking about them.
In addition to them, I have my (slightly more extended) family, including, but not limited to, my Grandma, my Pepe, his partner, and two great aunts. My family might be small, but the amount of love is anything but. These are the people with whom I burst at the seams to share good news.
If you've ever done theatre, I'm sure you're acquainted with the term "theatre family". I've had dozens of these over the years, since each show that you're a part of is different, the theatre family changes with each production.
There's my spiritual family, the group I've been meeting with eight times a year for over thirteen years. Even though I only see most of them at the celebrations, that certainly doesn't diminish the connection we all have.
Leave a comment talking about YOUR families) below! I'm quite interested!
Cheers!
~Whimsy
P.S. I'm now nineteen. Happy birthday to me! ^___^
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Week Four: "Let a REAL MAN park the boat."
Brace yourself, my friends, for a tale of danger, hysterical laughter, melodrama and stupidity.
Last year, in the spring, it rained like WOAH. Now, I know that's not the most succinct sentence to begin on, but it's pretty crucial for the rest of the story.
Near my house, there's a brook. It's about waist deep at it's best, and about mayyyybe ten feet wide? Anyway, all that really matters is that it's SMALL, and pretty non-threatening. And then...it RAINED. It rained SO MUCH that my sister and I decided to take the canoe out, and paddle through the backyard and the woods.
At this point, the brook has gone from small-and-non-threatening to LARGE CURRENT OF WATER FLOWING REALLY FAST IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKING LAKE IN THE WOODS.
And so, we paddle. Nessa turns to me and suggests that we paddle across the DANGEROUS CURRENT*.
My reaction: O_____O
Her reaction: -___- "Live a little."
My reaction: *trepidation*
And so we struck out across the waters. Our intent was to reach the other side, turn around, and return to safe land, but about halfway across, the fast-moving stream caught up the back end of the boat, and we started to spin and drift downriver, away from the house and we kept going faster.
I think right now is a good time to mention that at the end of this stream, there's a waterfall. A big, huge, 8 foot PLUS waterfall.
Commence the panic.
I grab onto a small bit of tree in the middle of the overflowing river and clutch it, all the while babbling,
"Whimsy McWhimsysen**, age seventeen, was found dead in the brook this week. She is survived by her mothers, and her father. We remember her as a lover of theater, and a compassionate soul. In lieu of flowers, donations can be sent to The Harry Potter Alliance."
Yes, that's right, folks. I was writing my obituary. In the middle of a river. In a canoe. This brilliance was eclipsed by me, proclaiming that "I don't want to be the next spaghetti dinner".
There is SOME logic behind this. You see, if you live in a teeny tiny town like mine, when somebody dies, say, the fire dept will throw a spaghetti (or barbeque, or whatever) dinner as a fundraiser. That's what I WAS going for, but HELL NAW. Madness instead. WOO!
So after much deliberation, we decide to just go with the flow*** and try to go down the river, and veer off into the flooded woods. Thank heavens, we managed it. So, we float into the next-door neighbor's yard, and by extention his pond. It's pretty calm in there, so we head for an island that's been created from the swollen waters.
The island has a neat little dent in it, perfect to park the boat in. Nessa steers i, and JUST misses the wee cove (really, there's nothing at all wrong with how the boat is, keep this in mind). She gets out of the boat and onto the land. I grab the paddle and shove off from the land, effectivly abandoning her with the parting shot "Geez, WOMEN. Let a REAL MAN park the boat."****
...I know. What can I say?
So unbeknownst to me, the current was stronger than I had expected. The back of the boat starts twisting away, and I'm about ready to go back into my Twisting Spiral Of Doom And Panic About Spaghetti Dinners (TM) again. Luckily for the boat, me and my sanity, Nessa grabbed the boat and dragged it back up on the bank, saving my panicky self.
The rest of the day went without incident, but the events that I've mentioned are more than sufficient to provide the adventure aspect.
And THUS ends my story of melodrama.
All aspects of this story are %110 genuine. Really. Even my speech about my obituary.
OH! ALSO, I have created a new "about me" page. Go and check it out HERE and then if you have any questions that I DIDN'T answer, post 'em in a comment.
That's about all for this time, happy BOW'11ing! You guys are doing really well with the blogging every week thing. Kudos there!
Off to go work on an exciting new venture (which you'll unDOUBTEDLY hear about soon, so hold on, y'all),
~Whimsy
P.S. If you haven't seen it already, BOW'11 has a page of it's own. You can check it out HERE, and tell me what you think!
*Nessa is RIGHT NOW, in fact holding with her opinion that it was not, in fact dangerous. I'm running this by her, so I don't misquote her.
**Clearly, this was not the name I used, but let it be known, the rest of this is totally accurate.
***Dear god, I am WAY to happy about that bad pun.
****You all know I am very much not mysogynistic, BUT I do poke fun at those who are.
Last year, in the spring, it rained like WOAH. Now, I know that's not the most succinct sentence to begin on, but it's pretty crucial for the rest of the story.
Near my house, there's a brook. It's about waist deep at it's best, and about mayyyybe ten feet wide? Anyway, all that really matters is that it's SMALL, and pretty non-threatening. And then...it RAINED. It rained SO MUCH that my sister and I decided to take the canoe out, and paddle through the backyard and the woods.
At this point, the brook has gone from small-and-non-threatening to LARGE CURRENT OF WATER FLOWING REALLY FAST IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKING LAKE IN THE WOODS.
And so, we paddle. Nessa turns to me and suggests that we paddle across the DANGEROUS CURRENT*.
My reaction: O_____O
Her reaction: -___- "Live a little."
My reaction: *trepidation*
And so we struck out across the waters. Our intent was to reach the other side, turn around, and return to safe land, but about halfway across, the fast-moving stream caught up the back end of the boat, and we started to spin and drift downriver, away from the house and we kept going faster.
I think right now is a good time to mention that at the end of this stream, there's a waterfall. A big, huge, 8 foot PLUS waterfall.
Commence the panic.
I grab onto a small bit of tree in the middle of the overflowing river and clutch it, all the while babbling,
"Whimsy McWhimsysen**, age seventeen, was found dead in the brook this week. She is survived by her mothers, and her father. We remember her as a lover of theater, and a compassionate soul. In lieu of flowers, donations can be sent to The Harry Potter Alliance."
Yes, that's right, folks. I was writing my obituary. In the middle of a river. In a canoe. This brilliance was eclipsed by me, proclaiming that "I don't want to be the next spaghetti dinner".
There is SOME logic behind this. You see, if you live in a teeny tiny town like mine, when somebody dies, say, the fire dept will throw a spaghetti (or barbeque, or whatever) dinner as a fundraiser. That's what I WAS going for, but HELL NAW. Madness instead. WOO!
So after much deliberation, we decide to just go with the flow*** and try to go down the river, and veer off into the flooded woods. Thank heavens, we managed it. So, we float into the next-door neighbor's yard, and by extention his pond. It's pretty calm in there, so we head for an island that's been created from the swollen waters.
The island has a neat little dent in it, perfect to park the boat in. Nessa steers i, and JUST misses the wee cove (really, there's nothing at all wrong with how the boat is, keep this in mind). She gets out of the boat and onto the land. I grab the paddle and shove off from the land, effectivly abandoning her with the parting shot "Geez, WOMEN. Let a REAL MAN park the boat."****
...I know. What can I say?
So unbeknownst to me, the current was stronger than I had expected. The back of the boat starts twisting away, and I'm about ready to go back into my Twisting Spiral Of Doom And Panic About Spaghetti Dinners (TM) again. Luckily for the boat, me and my sanity, Nessa grabbed the boat and dragged it back up on the bank, saving my panicky self.
The rest of the day went without incident, but the events that I've mentioned are more than sufficient to provide the adventure aspect.
And THUS ends my story of melodrama.
All aspects of this story are %110 genuine. Really. Even my speech about my obituary.
OH! ALSO, I have created a new "about me" page. Go and check it out HERE and then if you have any questions that I DIDN'T answer, post 'em in a comment.
That's about all for this time, happy BOW'11ing! You guys are doing really well with the blogging every week thing. Kudos there!
Off to go work on an exciting new venture (which you'll unDOUBTEDLY hear about soon, so hold on, y'all),
~Whimsy
P.S. If you haven't seen it already, BOW'11 has a page of it's own. You can check it out HERE, and tell me what you think!
*Nessa is RIGHT NOW, in fact holding with her opinion that it was not, in fact dangerous. I'm running this by her, so I don't misquote her.
**Clearly, this was not the name I used, but let it be known, the rest of this is totally accurate.
***Dear god, I am WAY to happy about that bad pun.
****You all know I am very much not mysogynistic, BUT I do poke fun at those who are.
Friday, August 27, 2010
BEDA, Day 27: The Master Of Darkness.
Kiwi.
The word isn't frighting, it's simply a fruit. Just a brown fuzzy fruit that is oval and green in the middle. Nothing terrifying.
Or is it?
Dear readers, do I have a tale for you.
My Pepe has a bird. It's a green parrot-thingy with a yellow patch on the back of his neck. This bird is the Devil Incarnate.
Not going to lie, that bird scares me. It's name? KIWI, MASTER OF THE DARKNESS.
Fine. The bird's name is just plain old Kiwi, but it should be KIWI, MASTER OF THE DARKNESS.
When I was little, I was walking past The Master Of Darkness, when he went for my eyes. THE BIRD WENT FOR MY EYES. He squaked, and tried to attack my face. I was really young, keep in mind, and I had this big bird in my face, screaming bloody murder and going for my eyes. Needless to say, Kiwi stays in his cage when I come over now.
The Master Of Darkness is also very, very noisy. You try to have a normal conversation and instead you get this sample conversation:
Me: "...so there I was paddling through the woods, in a canoe, composing my obituary and freaking out.**"
Other Person: "You actually started your obituary? That's so funny!"
Me: "Yeah, the water was sweeping me away downstream and I was taking my paddle and attemp-"
The Master Of Darkness: *Gurgling cry like he's dieing*
Other Person: "What were you saying, now?"
Me: "...and attempting to hook it around the nearest tree becau-"
The Master Of Darkness: *another gurgling cry, with added whine of death*
Me: *grits teeth* "BECAUSE there is a waterfall downriver, and I don't want to d-"
The Master Of Darkness: *Nearly yodeling with evil cries of doom*
Me: *squacks right back at him*
Truly, this conversation has been lost.
Another thing The Master Of Darkness does is this: You sit down next to his locked cage, and he will just STARE at you. And then, slowly but surely, he moves over to the edge of his cage, and sliiiiiides down, looking at you, not blinking a bit, and still with murder in his gaze. Then, he fluffs up his neck feathers (as if he needs to be MORE frighting)and lets out a long low rumble.
To complete the terror, he will then take his hooked beak and attempt to BITE HIS WAY OUT OF THE CAGE.
This, combined with the staring and general creepage is the reason why I call Kiwi "The Master Of Darkness".
Actually, I have never called Kiwi "The Master Of Darkness" before, but now I shall.
Damn, that bird is creepy.
~Whimsy
P.S. If you have questions about anything at all, don't forget to put 'em in the comments so you can be included in the answers post!
**True story, this actually happened. It's funny, looking back on it, but it WAS NOT at the time.
The word isn't frighting, it's simply a fruit. Just a brown fuzzy fruit that is oval and green in the middle. Nothing terrifying.
Or is it?
Dear readers, do I have a tale for you.
My Pepe has a bird. It's a green parrot-thingy with a yellow patch on the back of his neck. This bird is the Devil Incarnate.
Not going to lie, that bird scares me. It's name? KIWI, MASTER OF THE DARKNESS.
Fine. The bird's name is just plain old Kiwi, but it should be KIWI, MASTER OF THE DARKNESS.
When I was little, I was walking past The Master Of Darkness, when he went for my eyes. THE BIRD WENT FOR MY EYES. He squaked, and tried to attack my face. I was really young, keep in mind, and I had this big bird in my face, screaming bloody murder and going for my eyes. Needless to say, Kiwi stays in his cage when I come over now.
The Master Of Darkness is also very, very noisy. You try to have a normal conversation and instead you get this sample conversation:
Me: "...so there I was paddling through the woods, in a canoe, composing my obituary and freaking out.**"
Other Person: "You actually started your obituary? That's so funny!"
Me: "Yeah, the water was sweeping me away downstream and I was taking my paddle and attemp-"
The Master Of Darkness: *Gurgling cry like he's dieing*
Other Person: "What were you saying, now?"
Me: "...and attempting to hook it around the nearest tree becau-"
The Master Of Darkness: *another gurgling cry, with added whine of death*
Me: *grits teeth* "BECAUSE there is a waterfall downriver, and I don't want to d-"
The Master Of Darkness: *Nearly yodeling with evil cries of doom*
Me: *squacks right back at him*
Truly, this conversation has been lost.
Another thing The Master Of Darkness does is this: You sit down next to his locked cage, and he will just STARE at you. And then, slowly but surely, he moves over to the edge of his cage, and sliiiiiides down, looking at you, not blinking a bit, and still with murder in his gaze. Then, he fluffs up his neck feathers (as if he needs to be MORE frighting)and lets out a long low rumble.
To complete the terror, he will then take his hooked beak and attempt to BITE HIS WAY OUT OF THE CAGE.
This, combined with the staring and general creepage is the reason why I call Kiwi "The Master Of Darkness".
Actually, I have never called Kiwi "The Master Of Darkness" before, but now I shall.
Damn, that bird is creepy.
~Whimsy
P.S. If you have questions about anything at all, don't forget to put 'em in the comments so you can be included in the answers post!
**True story, this actually happened. It's funny, looking back on it, but it WAS NOT at the time.
Monday, August 16, 2010
BEDA, Day 16: My crazy family, party nonsense, and Margaritaville.
Oh-my-good-lordy-hot-diggity-dawg, am I ever TIRED TODAY. WOW.
Here is a brief re-telling of Pepe's party.
So, we (the moms and my sister) leave for Pepe's house at a bit before 2pm, after scouring the house for EVERYthing that we might need for the party, cooking loads of food (my family is Italian*/French; we love to eat), packing up Pepe's truck with chairs, tables, coolers and more, and getting ourselves all gussied up for a party. All morning, this getting-everything-ready took us.
So we get there, at 2 in the afternoon. Keep in mind, the party starts at 6:30, so we're there pretty damn early.
We UNPACK the truck, set up all the tables, move all the patio furniture down to the lawn, move the tables up to the patio, decorate the yard with decor (smile-faces, peace signs, flowers) left over from a Spring Fling (Homeschool prom) two years ago, and start assembling food and getting everything all set.
Then, people start arriving. It's not 6:30 yet. Not even close. These people are my Pepe's partner, (who I shall call J.U.)'s (yes, he's gay) family. I don't really know any of them. So they congregate over at a table and we continue to run around like chickens missing heads.
Finally, we are all set up.
So, I'm crashed out on Pepe's couch in the living room, when one of J.U.'s family/friends come in the room. He turns to me and says "Hola". (Did I mention that J.U. is from Puerto Rico? No? Well, he is.)
So I say "Hi" back, and turn back to look out the window, like I was before, not really attempting conversation.
Then, he says "Como estas**?". My thoughts went a little like this: "Oh god, what does that mean, now he's looking at me like he wants a reply, and I don't know any spanish, oh wait I guess I do, a bit, but what does como estas mean, is it how are you? yeah, I think that's right, oh well, I'll say that I'm good."
I say "Good." He nods and walks away.
So I go outside, (now the party's started) and I settle down in a chair in the "eldery woman" area. I don't know why, but they flock together, like seagulls or something. There I am, with my very cynical Grandma on one side, next to her is my Great Aunt P. or as I call her, Aunt P. Aunt P is kinda-sorta crazy. I love that woman to death, but she's nuts. She glued a christmas tree upside down on her cealing one year, because she lacked floor space. Did I mention that she's 90?
I can't make this stuff up.
So, on my OTHER side, there's M.M, who is Pepe's next-door nieghbor, and the lady who did the chicken dance with me.
And then there's Aunt J, who is really Great Aunt J, but what the hell. Aunt J is the one who looked at my sister and said "skinny ankles" last year. Yep.
Oh family, how you amuse me.
So, to kick-start the conversation, I say "Grandma, guess what I'm doing this August?" She obviously has no clue, so I tell her: "I'm doing Blog Every Day August" then I stop and realize something "Do you know what a blog is?" To which she replies "It's something on the computer, isn't it?"
I love her. No matter what I'm doing, or if she even knows what the hell it is that I'm doing, she's right behind it, %110.
So, this story isn't mine, I wasn't there. It's my sister's. Credit must be given, where credit is due. Taken DIRECTLY from V's account.
"So, Aunt P was talking about how she couldn't live without Wal-Mart, J said she was boycotting it, and P said something about "then you certainly must go to target".
I told her we were boycotting that to, and she asked why, so I told her about Tom Emmer***, and she said "the church has a problem with gay people, I never have, when they make donations they should think 'are there more Christian people or are there more of the gays?'" And then she was like, "probably more gays".
And then there was a thoughtful silence.
And then she said, "and there are even some Christian gays. R's**** sister, for one."
So, she starts listing gay people, like as if to say, "Oh, I know gay people, let me make a LIST!"
She (Aunt P) mentioned some random people I don't know, and then she said "your mother, my son, and even T." (T is my Pepe)
Aunt J said "So, T is gay."
So, Aunt P said "I assume so, he seems to get along with J.U. very well. I often wondered...I mean to say, there's only one bedroom."
J said "doesn't bother me"
Aunt P said "doesn't bother me either. I don't know if he calls himself 'gay' but he certainly is, I guess."
They both nodded conspiratorially.
Sat in silence, then changed the subject."
Huzzah for V, eh? Lovely tale, that.
So, I ended up doing karaoke. I was not surprised about that. I sung "All Star" three Madonna songs (Happy Birthday, Madonna, by the way!), "Love Shack", "Summer Nights", and Margaritaville. TWICE. There aren't many songs I dislike more than Margaritaville. SO ANNOYING, but I knew the words, and I could keep up with the words and everyone else was singing...There were a few others, but I have forgotten the titles. Suffice it to say that I was an integral part of the karaoke.
That's the highlights from the party. Hope you enjoyed. I know it was a tad long, forgive me.
Goodnight/goodmorning/good-whenever-you-read-this,
~Whimsy
*Sicilian, actually, but hey.
** Can't spell Spanish, forgive me.
*** See this article.
**** R is one of my mums.
Here is a brief re-telling of Pepe's party.
So, we (the moms and my sister) leave for Pepe's house at a bit before 2pm, after scouring the house for EVERYthing that we might need for the party, cooking loads of food (my family is Italian*/French; we love to eat), packing up Pepe's truck with chairs, tables, coolers and more, and getting ourselves all gussied up for a party. All morning, this getting-everything-ready took us.
So we get there, at 2 in the afternoon. Keep in mind, the party starts at 6:30, so we're there pretty damn early.
We UNPACK the truck, set up all the tables, move all the patio furniture down to the lawn, move the tables up to the patio, decorate the yard with decor (smile-faces, peace signs, flowers) left over from a Spring Fling (Homeschool prom) two years ago, and start assembling food and getting everything all set.
Then, people start arriving. It's not 6:30 yet. Not even close. These people are my Pepe's partner, (who I shall call J.U.)'s (yes, he's gay) family. I don't really know any of them. So they congregate over at a table and we continue to run around like chickens missing heads.
Finally, we are all set up.
So, I'm crashed out on Pepe's couch in the living room, when one of J.U.'s family/friends come in the room. He turns to me and says "Hola". (Did I mention that J.U. is from Puerto Rico? No? Well, he is.)
So I say "Hi" back, and turn back to look out the window, like I was before, not really attempting conversation.
Then, he says "Como estas**?". My thoughts went a little like this: "Oh god, what does that mean, now he's looking at me like he wants a reply, and I don't know any spanish, oh wait I guess I do, a bit, but what does como estas mean, is it how are you? yeah, I think that's right, oh well, I'll say that I'm good."
I say "Good." He nods and walks away.
So I go outside, (now the party's started) and I settle down in a chair in the "eldery woman" area. I don't know why, but they flock together, like seagulls or something. There I am, with my very cynical Grandma on one side, next to her is my Great Aunt P. or as I call her, Aunt P. Aunt P is kinda-sorta crazy. I love that woman to death, but she's nuts. She glued a christmas tree upside down on her cealing one year, because she lacked floor space. Did I mention that she's 90?
I can't make this stuff up.
So, on my OTHER side, there's M.M, who is Pepe's next-door nieghbor, and the lady who did the chicken dance with me.
And then there's Aunt J, who is really Great Aunt J, but what the hell. Aunt J is the one who looked at my sister and said "skinny ankles" last year. Yep.
Oh family, how you amuse me.
So, to kick-start the conversation, I say "Grandma, guess what I'm doing this August?" She obviously has no clue, so I tell her: "I'm doing Blog Every Day August" then I stop and realize something "Do you know what a blog is?" To which she replies "It's something on the computer, isn't it?"
I love her. No matter what I'm doing, or if she even knows what the hell it is that I'm doing, she's right behind it, %110.
So, this story isn't mine, I wasn't there. It's my sister's. Credit must be given, where credit is due. Taken DIRECTLY from V's account.
"So, Aunt P was talking about how she couldn't live without Wal-Mart, J said she was boycotting it, and P said something about "then you certainly must go to target".
I told her we were boycotting that to, and she asked why, so I told her about Tom Emmer***, and she said "the church has a problem with gay people, I never have, when they make donations they should think 'are there more Christian people or are there more of the gays?'" And then she was like, "probably more gays".
And then there was a thoughtful silence.
And then she said, "and there are even some Christian gays. R's**** sister, for one."
So, she starts listing gay people, like as if to say, "Oh, I know gay people, let me make a LIST!"
She (Aunt P) mentioned some random people I don't know, and then she said "your mother, my son, and even T." (T is my Pepe)
Aunt J said "So, T is gay."
So, Aunt P said "I assume so, he seems to get along with J.U. very well. I often wondered...I mean to say, there's only one bedroom."
J said "doesn't bother me"
Aunt P said "doesn't bother me either. I don't know if he calls himself 'gay' but he certainly is, I guess."
They both nodded conspiratorially.
Sat in silence, then changed the subject."
Huzzah for V, eh? Lovely tale, that.
So, I ended up doing karaoke. I was not surprised about that. I sung "All Star" three Madonna songs (Happy Birthday, Madonna, by the way!), "Love Shack", "Summer Nights", and Margaritaville. TWICE. There aren't many songs I dislike more than Margaritaville. SO ANNOYING, but I knew the words, and I could keep up with the words and everyone else was singing...There were a few others, but I have forgotten the titles. Suffice it to say that I was an integral part of the karaoke.
That's the highlights from the party. Hope you enjoyed. I know it was a tad long, forgive me.
Goodnight/goodmorning/good-whenever-you-read-this,
~Whimsy
*Sicilian, actually, but hey.
** Can't spell Spanish, forgive me.
*** See this article.
**** R is one of my mums.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
BEDA, Day 14: "Sweet Jesus I love me some honky-tonk."
Every August, my Pepe* has a party.
It's a birthday party that "he" (read "my family") puts on. He put it on the first year for his 69th birthday, I do believe. The next year, he decided not to, because turning 70 was just weird for him. From then to now, we've held the party for him.
That's where I am today.
He hires a band to play, and everyone brings food, and we have a party on the lawn.
I always have fun.
May I just say that the average median age for the partygoers at this party is about my mom's age, probably even older. There are practically NO younger people at the party.
Almost every year, I end up doing the chicken dance with Pepe's elderly neighbors and my moms. I laugh. A LOT.
My Pepe likes country music. I do not. I tolerate it, because I know it makes him happy. I just can't stand the "Mah wife left me/ She took mah dawg/ Now I ain't got no money/ So why not go to a hoedown / Sweet Jesus I love me some honky-tonk."
That is my personal hell. Not kidding. Okay, maybe my personal hell would be all my family and friends dead, and myself being experimented on by a group of mad scientests, but there would certainly be country music in the background.
So we have this party, where my family and I are working the entire time, the live band is playing the chicken dance and country music, and almost all the guests are twice my age or older.
Somehow, this is splendidly fun.
Last year, there was karaoke. Let me tell you, reader-folk, I don't sing. Correction. I love to sing, I do it often, but I do not sing WELL. I can sing in an alto range (or lower; I prefer to sing the guy's part in most duets), but going up to a soprano or anything above that is just...bad.
Somehow, I ended up singing We Are Family, Holiday and Matirial Girl. All those songs are in the higher range. It was a blast.
Also, EVERY YEAR, Pepe invites all these people who I have no clue who they are. Because he thinks that my sister and I walk on water, we are introduced to them. Every year. Even if we met them last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.
Also, I have a great-aunt who is hyper-critical of everyone. Last year, (no lie) she looked at my sister and said "...Skinny legs." I know that I will either be too skinny, or not skinny enough. Oh yes.
One year, another aunt asked me if I had "become a woman yet". Right there, during the party. Took all I had not to crack up laughing.
So, my lovelies, that is why I am writing this blog a day early. So I can fully enjoy the hilarity that is my Pepe's party.
I'm probably off dancing, or eating, or singing karaoke.
~Whimsy
* Pepe means Grandpa. ^_^
It's a birthday party that "he" (read "my family") puts on. He put it on the first year for his 69th birthday, I do believe. The next year, he decided not to, because turning 70 was just weird for him. From then to now, we've held the party for him.
That's where I am today.
He hires a band to play, and everyone brings food, and we have a party on the lawn.
I always have fun.
May I just say that the average median age for the partygoers at this party is about my mom's age, probably even older. There are practically NO younger people at the party.
Almost every year, I end up doing the chicken dance with Pepe's elderly neighbors and my moms. I laugh. A LOT.
My Pepe likes country music. I do not. I tolerate it, because I know it makes him happy. I just can't stand the "Mah wife left me/ She took mah dawg/ Now I ain't got no money/ So why not go to a hoedown / Sweet Jesus I love me some honky-tonk."
That is my personal hell. Not kidding. Okay, maybe my personal hell would be all my family and friends dead, and myself being experimented on by a group of mad scientests, but there would certainly be country music in the background.
So we have this party, where my family and I are working the entire time, the live band is playing the chicken dance and country music, and almost all the guests are twice my age or older.
Somehow, this is splendidly fun.
Last year, there was karaoke. Let me tell you, reader-folk, I don't sing. Correction. I love to sing, I do it often, but I do not sing WELL. I can sing in an alto range (or lower; I prefer to sing the guy's part in most duets), but going up to a soprano or anything above that is just...bad.
Somehow, I ended up singing We Are Family, Holiday and Matirial Girl. All those songs are in the higher range. It was a blast.
Also, EVERY YEAR, Pepe invites all these people who I have no clue who they are. Because he thinks that my sister and I walk on water, we are introduced to them. Every year. Even if we met them last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.
Also, I have a great-aunt who is hyper-critical of everyone. Last year, (no lie) she looked at my sister and said "...Skinny legs." I know that I will either be too skinny, or not skinny enough. Oh yes.
One year, another aunt asked me if I had "become a woman yet". Right there, during the party. Took all I had not to crack up laughing.
So, my lovelies, that is why I am writing this blog a day early. So I can fully enjoy the hilarity that is my Pepe's party.
I'm probably off dancing, or eating, or singing karaoke.
~Whimsy
* Pepe means Grandpa. ^_^
Sunday, August 8, 2010
BEDA blog 8: Nothing lasts forever; sparklers.
Nothing lasts forever.
I'll start out by saying that, so you know that this will be an introspective post, not a completely off-the-wall one.
So, three years ago, my maternal grandmother, who I am very close to, was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer.
Stage four cancer, of any type is the worst stage. There are four stages, and one is the best stage (if there is a "good" cancer).
The doctors took out half her lung, and unfortunetly, the margins were not clean. In normal-person-who-does-not-know-cancer speak, this means they didn't get it all.
Obviously, this sucks.
So, the Dr said to us (her family) that we will be lucky to have her around for christmas. (This was in July of 2007.)
Today, I celebrated my grandmother's 69th birthday. She is still here.
I was standing outside, lighting off sparklers with my grandmother and the rest of my (very small) family, and it struck me.
I had better enjoy every moment I have with her, because nothing lasts forever.
It was bittersweet, happily sad, and altogether melodramatic.
(I just ruined the moment for all you readers-of-this-post, didn't I?)
I guess what I'm trying to say is this:
I appreciate every moment I have with my grandmother, even when she's driving me nuts, because I know that one day, she won't be here to drive me crazy.
So, that's the end of my overly sappy post.
~Whimsy
I'll start out by saying that, so you know that this will be an introspective post, not a completely off-the-wall one.
So, three years ago, my maternal grandmother, who I am very close to, was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer.
Stage four cancer, of any type is the worst stage. There are four stages, and one is the best stage (if there is a "good" cancer).
The doctors took out half her lung, and unfortunetly, the margins were not clean. In normal-person-who-does-not-know-cancer speak, this means they didn't get it all.
Obviously, this sucks.
So, the Dr said to us (her family) that we will be lucky to have her around for christmas. (This was in July of 2007.)
Today, I celebrated my grandmother's 69th birthday. She is still here.
I was standing outside, lighting off sparklers with my grandmother and the rest of my (very small) family, and it struck me.
I had better enjoy every moment I have with her, because nothing lasts forever.
It was bittersweet, happily sad, and altogether melodramatic.
(I just ruined the moment for all you readers-of-this-post, didn't I?)
I guess what I'm trying to say is this:
I appreciate every moment I have with my grandmother, even when she's driving me nuts, because I know that one day, she won't be here to drive me crazy.
So, that's the end of my overly sappy post.
~Whimsy
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