Category Archives: Family Stories

July 25, 2011

Lessons Learned

I’ve been told I was a bit mischevious as a small person – determined, independent with a wee bit of a stubborn streak. But come on, does that picture say anything other than sweet and innocent little angel to you?

This evening I learned the past is never far behind us… Continue reading →

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July 3, 2011

Splashin’ Summertime Fun

In the days of my youth, once the final school bell rang for summer, my days were spent in the pool. Continue reading →

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June 20, 2011

Marshmallows

It all started with marshmallows. There was a distinct hierarchy on the bus and all middle schoolers were expected to comply: sixth graders were the peons – they sat at the front of the bus, eighth graders were high and mighty – they ruled the back with all the maturity of 13 year-old. Seventh graders and other misfits filled out the remaining seats. (Funny that now that I’ve grown older and wiser, the back of the bus makes me queasy.) Continue reading →

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June 19, 2011

Dad

And lest we forget to honor my own father today: here’s to the man who raised me with stories aplenty… Continue reading →

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May 25, 2011

The Godfather

We got a surprise visit from the muppets’ godfather yesterday. Parker and one of his fellow seminarians were touring the California Missons. Continue reading →

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April 27, 2011

Our First Easter

Easter symbolizes a time of rebirth. Springtime returns and the flora and fauna are resurrected from beneath the frozen ground. (Granted, this metaphor has a lot more impact in a location with actual seasons.) Continue reading →

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March 22, 2011

Truegee

The muppets are babbling away. In addition to his standard greeting of, “Ai!,” Destroy has commenced growling. (Sounds odd – but I assure you, I am not alone in this experience.) Search continues to discover his voice, chattering, “bahbhabah,” repeatedly and (unfortunately for those within earshot) mimicking his brother’s shrieks.

Not only are the muppets conversing with us, they continue to share secret squirrel information with each other. I’m pretty sure they are plotting with the dogs too. (Search, the future e*Trade spokesbaby, is on a mission to ride the dog like a small pony in his never-ending quest to procure my iPhone.) Language skills are very important in our household.

Continue reading →

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March 12, 2011

Natural Disaster

Yesterday, Japan experienced a tremor like nothing their country had ever seen before. Thousands are homeless, hundreds are missing. The official number of wounded only accounts for physical ailments, not the mental anguish of people who have lost friends, family or a feeling of security.

Japan is one of the most technologically advanced nations on our planet; the majority of its buildings are constructed to withstand violent shaking. But no matter how wiry and clever man thinks they’ve become, Mother Nature merely chuckles while walloping us with her soggy backhand. It was the tsunami that did it. No structure stood a chance.

When the muppets were staying at Chez NICU, I had a constant fear that the Bay Area would experience a similar disaster. I was terrified that I wouldn’t be right there for them, or be able to instantaneously get there. I anxiously feared how well their tiny bodies could handle the trauma of evacuation or malfunctioning equipment. (Numerous people later reassured me that in the event of THE BIG ONE, our brand new Kaiser hospital is the precise location they’d like to be.) These nightmares returned as I watched news coverage of SOS broadcast across a Japanese hospital roof. How are all the tiny babies faring?

Every geographic location is in danger of some type of natural disaster. All Californians are well aware “THE BIG ONE IS COMING.” That gets shoved down our throats every few months. Recent tragedies are a frightening reminder. Already, Bay Area residents are remembering the 1989 Loma Prieta quake. For me, that event was nothing more than a pin on our current events map in my fourth grade classroom. Apparently it also canceled a baseball game. Bummer.

I experienced the 1994 Northridge earthquake instead. I’m a California girl through and through – I spent the first half of my life in Southern California, about 20 minutes from the 1994 epicenter.

I got home late that night. I had a babysitting gig the evening of Jan. 16, 1994, and the parents assured me they’d be home by 11 p.m. At 1:30 a.m., January 17, I finally collapsed into my bed. (That family was officially marked on my “naughty families to work for” list.) We also had a brand new puppy – a hyperactive yellow lab named Stryder. He would leap against the kitchen door, rattling the door frame with his frantic whimpers and whines.

At 4:31 a.m. the rattling began in earnest. Stryder must have been furious for attention. The banging was so loud, I could feel it in my bed and see my mirror closet doors vibrating. “Stop it! I’m trying to sleep!” I instructed my dancing dresser. I was exhausted; it would be another decade and a half before I was prepared to forego sleep for tiny beings.

Then I heard my mother shout for me. As I brushed sleep out of my eyes, I felt another aftershock. “Holy crap! Earthquake!” I yelled as I bolted for the kitchen. “Did you feel that?!” My mom and brother were huddled under the kitchen table. Stryder was balled up in the center, absolutely adoring all his newfound pre-dawn attention. I’m pretty sure he thought the constant shaking and drone of the emergency radio was a bit annoying, but it was a fair trade off…

We listened to the news under that table for hours. An apartment building collapsed. Cal State Northridge was a circus (and would continue to be for years to come). Freeway pillars were bending under the pressure.

I was back at school the next day. Not many others were, though… I have a vivid memory of sitting in front of my eighth grade pre-algebra class, slumped against a wall with the proper combination of carefree and disdain appropriate for a tween. “This is one of those ‘remember where you were’ moments isn’t it?” I asked a friend.

A week later my father returned home from his San Francisco business trip. That evening, I was watching television, my brother was doing homework and my mom was in the kitchen praising Stryder for doing his business on a strategically placed wee-wee pad. The room began to rattle; it was another aftershock – less than half the original magnitude. My dad dove under the dining room table as though he had witnessed all four horsemen of the apocalypse in our living room. The rest of us continued about our business, only briefly pausing to observe my dad cowering under the table.

Based on the news reports informing the world about Japan’s current tragedy and the “ring of fire” earthquake zone, I know the muppets will experience their own “remember where you were moments” because THE BIG ONE is coming. I’m putting my faith in the U.S.’ retrofitting technologies.

And that shaking I feel right now? I’m relatively certain it’s just sugar withdrawals….

 

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February 25, 2011

(Un)Domestic Goddess

Domesticity is not my strong suit. I blame genetics.

You’ve heard about the failed pudding production experiment. I have set several microwaves and toasters on fire. (Side note: if one sets a toaster oven ablaze with a bag of mini-marshmallows atop the appliance, you will forever after be able to read the nutritional contents of the aforementioned mallows as they will be branded on your extra-toasty toaster oven.)

One of the muppets’ favorite foods is oatmeal. This is good stuff that they cannot get enough of – mouths wide open before I can refill the spoon. (Ok, who am I kidding – they seem to love all foods, but I digress.) After utilizing some rudimentary mathematical measurement skills, we determined that two oatmeal servings was equal to one-half cup. (The other foods come in single serve jars.) I pulled our measuring cup out and set about preparing dinner.

“You know that’s for liquid measurements right?” Jon queried.

You mean they’re not the same thing? Apparently stylistic design choices are not the sole reason for liquid measuring cups and the cups for measuring solid foods. Well, we’re never too old to learn something new!

During our Southern California adventure, I asked GrammaJ if I could borrow a measuring cup. She looked at me quizzically as she reminded me that she’d already given me one. “But I need one for the oatmeal; this one is for water,” I replied.

“Whatever,” she brushed me off. “They’re the same thing.”

Granted, this sage advice was proffered by a woman who is infamous for her culinary substitutions. Don’t have the specific spice called for in a recipe? No problem – there’s sure to be another spice on the rack that’s the same color and consistency, that’s what AllSpice is for, right? Casserole calls for cream of chicken soup? Chicken noodle has the same main ingredient, right? Hmmm, no olive oil for the brownies I’m making. A ha! The baby’s applesauce is easily at the ready.

(To be fair, that applesauce trick does work. And Jon conducted a little experiment while we were gone: those liquid and solid measuring cups are, in fact, pretty much the same thing.)

Overall, the women in my family get around this kitchen aversion by just not cooking. GrammaJ brags that she will cook twice a year – Thanksgiving and Christmas. But now that she’s handed the hosting reigns over to the next generation, she doesn’t do those holidays anymore. The prime example of our familial edibility ineptitude is AuntJ helping her future mother-in-law prepare a holiday feast.

“How can I help?” the eager soon-to-be-wed offered. Her beloved’s mother suggested she could best assist by preparing the mashed potatoes. “Sure!” AuntJ exclaimed. “Where’s the box?”

The reason the measuring cup inquiries initially came about is because GrammaJ and GrampaStavo recently remodeled the kitchen (so now I don’t know where anything is in my childhood home). A reasonable question here would be why a non-cook would redo the kitchen. “Well, if it’s never used, it won’t get dirty!” is GrammaJ’s logical response. (Worth mentioning: GrampaStavo is quite the cook, so the kitchen does actually participate in the creation of meals.)

During the recent remodel, all household items were packed up. The iron was lost in the aftermath. “Oh well,” mused GrammaJ. “Nothing’s going to get ironed. I’m not buying a new one.” Then, over the past weekend, I opened the cabinet below the bathroom sink to grab a hairdryer. Like the Farmer in the Dell’s cheese, the iron stood alone.

“Mom, I found your iron!” I called. I wasn’t expecting a hero’s cheer given my mother’s equal enthusiasm for housework as for cooking, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for her response.

“I know. I put it there. That way I’ll remember where it is now.”

I’m sorry? You put it there? On purpose?

I regaled G.G. with this amusing quirk of my mother’s during our drive down to the beach. She chuckled, mentioning that she has never been a big fan of ironing either. Perhaps that is because her iron does not have any steaming capabilities – to press a garment, one needs to iron over the item with a damp cloth.

I bet you’re wondering, “Do they even make irons without steaming options these days?” The answer to that would be a resounding, “No.” G.G.’s iron was a wedding gift. In 1949. She still has the same one. Why would you need to replace an appliance that never gets used. “Wrinkled or wash-and-wear,” G.G. proudly announced.

I understand the thought process. Years ago, before we were married, Jon and I had a “crucial conversation” about household chores – I wasn’t pulling my fair share. I couldn’t really argue this…I don’t do bathrooms. But I was willing to make an effort to equally distribute the chores.

I hired a housekeeper.

Given my new status as housewife, this familial history could present a problem.

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February 17, 2011

BFF

I still remember getting the phone call with her name. I was on a break at my job at Blockbuster, my mom had opened the letter from my new college – and it contained the name of my new roommate and dorm room. I was going to be spending my freshman year on the 11th floor of an 11 story building with a stranger named Rebecca.

We exchanged emails throughout the months leading up to the start of our collegiate career. (It was last century, but we still had the archaic email technology.) Each and every day of the summer, someone reminded me, “Remember – you don’t need to be best friends with this individual. You just need to tolerate her for one single school year.

On move-in day we discovered each other in the hallway. “Are you Rebecca,” I stared. “Yes. Are you Patricia,” she questioned in return? We set about arranging our room, my father puttering about building a bunk bed and moving bookshelves. “Your new roommate is very quiet,” he observed later in the day. “No, Gustavo,” corrected my mother. “She just can’t understand a word you say.” (GrampaStavo has a rather thick Italian accent).

And then I stood in front of the building, watching my parents drive away. I lived alone for the first time in my life; the only person I knew was someone I’d exchanged a few emails with. She seemed nice enough. But remember – I didn’t need to be great friends with her, I just needed to tolerate her for one year.

Back upstairs we awkwardly stared at each other a bit more. Finally Rebecca broke the ice and asked if I was interested in accompanying her to the dining hall for our first dinner as college kids. By the end of the meal, we were chatting like old friends. (Advice – emailing your future roommate gives you a great background to go off of when you get where you’re going.) By the end of the year, we were thick as thieves. She’d pile my laundry in the closet to avoid the “trails” I made for myself; I’d make her eat a bag of pretzels before any argument commenced in case it was just low blood sugar making her cranky.

We were both 17, the youngest kids on the floor. Neither of us were theatre majors (yet, I’d become one later), but we’d indicated that particular pastime as an interest on our personality form. (I think colleges match roommates by hobby and height.) Becca’s mom had warned her that theatre people were weird, but I’m glad she marked the checkbox anyway. We pulled one all-nighter together – the two of us calling our educator moms at 6 a.m. to say good morning in a fit of giggles before we finally passed out.

Birthdays were always a big deal in our room. When I got flowers on my birthday, Becca proudly marched them down the hall proclaiming, “We got roses!!!” Sophomore year, when her birthday morning arrived, I think I may have rolled over and mumbled “happybirthday” before collapsing into sleep’s warm embrace. Becca was definitely a little hurt – she’d even gone to the trouble of circling the date on all of our calendars. But the moment she headed out the door for work, our little gaggle of girlfriends leapt into action. We decorated the room with flowers and cards (but made sure not to include any balloons) and placed a giant bow on her aerodynamic new desk chair. You didn’t think we’d really forget her birthday, do you?

Senior year we proudly stood in front of the Communications department and argued our joint thesis project together. We were both 21 and getting ready to move on to the next stage of our lives – the one where we played grownup.

In 2006, she got married and I was there. In 2007, on her one-year anniversary, I got married and she was there. In 2009, she had a little girl. I couldn’t wait to meet the newest member of our family. When I announced I was pregnant in 2010, she immediately demanded to see the ultrasound photos of her nephews.

During my hospital lockdown, we once again began exchanging emails as she sent me amusing anecdotes to keep my sprits up. And this Thanksgiving our families celebrated together, thankful for so much – especially friends who are family.

Today, Auntie Beeeca (nickname derived from GrampaStavo’s inability to correctly pronounce or spell her name) is 30. For someone I just had to tolerate for nine months, I’m awfully glad it was her. I’m truly lucky to have a friend like her.

Happy Dirty 30, Auntie Beeeca! Party like a rockstar. And here’s to our masquerade as grownups.

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