When I arrived at my parents' house yesterday to help them pack, I saw ten stuffed garbage bags sitting on their front step in a messy semi-circle, patiently, quietly waiting in the suffocating heat for the donation truck to pick them up. In one of the bags, my plate sat on its edge with its face uncomfortably smashed on the rear of another plate. Not much room for movement since there were other sundries in the bag along with it. But my brother stuck his big hand through the top hole of the bag and fished out my beloved plate.
I told you I'd take a picture of it. So here's the famous plate I spoke of in my previous blog posting, Expectation. I remember making this plate for my parents for Christmas. I was a 3rd grader at St. Thomas the Apostle school. I hated my teacher. She wrote my name on the board so many times, made me stand in the corner a lot, and even had the nerve to call a parent-teacher meeting just so she could tell my mom how obnoxious I was. Whatever! You were an unhappy woman who didn't know how to teach or to inspire someone like me. Shame on you!
What you see on the Christmas tree is not a yellow banana. My little brother asked me that stupid question yesterday. Duh...it's supposed to be tinsel, a gold garland winding around the tree. I had colored outside the lines of the thin garland that I had originally drawn, so to fix it, I widened the lines and tried coloring within those new lines. The same process continued 2 or 3 more times, hence the really big, fat, non-S-shaped, is-that-a-banana-on-your-tree-or-are-you-really-happy-it's-Christmas looking thing. Who cares? The point is my mom loved and used the plate for 28 years. Now, the plate is leaving home and going on a wild adventure. Bittersweet.
My brother, such a tattle-tale. He told on my mom. He said, "Sis, I found a bottle of relish that had the date 1991 on it. We moved to California in 1993, so that means the relish made its way here from Texas." Really mom? Almost 20-year-old relish?! That was just the beginning. My brother also found a big box on a bottom cabinet filled with yellow, rubber latex gloves, the ones used for cleaning and washing dishes. He told me there were a thousand pairs, meaning there were two thousand individual gloves total. He was exaggerating; I looked. There were only 50 pairs...75 max. Another mystery find was a 9" round, red Christmas tin that was sealed in a large Ziploc plastic bag. When I shook the tin, it rattled. I was afraid to open it, but my mom calmed me down and said it was probably one of her secret chocolate stashes. Turns out, they were gingersnap cookies. From what decade though?
My brother and I developed "the look." It's the one where he enlarged his eyes while staring into my eyes. Whenever he gave me "the look," I ran to my post and remained on high alert. He would covertly pass me something like rolled up Seabiscuit movie posters or large plastic cups emblazoned with fast food logos. And my mission: to throw as much crap in the trash as possible. This was the only strategy that we had created that actually worked. Initially we tried just piling trash on the floor for my mom to gather up and toss. Inevitably, 1 out of every 3 items in the pile that I earmarked to go in the trash, my mom would sneak back into my box when I wasn't looking. Operation "The Look" didn't work flawlessly, however, because sometimes I would catch my mom dumpster diving in the heaps we had already thrown away. Not a pretty site.
I haven't mentioned my dad yet. After all, he asked me to come over and help out in the first place. I pictured all 4 of us packing and moving shit all day. Nope. It was the 3 of us, my mom, my brother and I, packing, lifting and moving for about 4 hours until my dad came home mid-afternoon. Instead of joining the packing party, he played a round of golf at his fancy Orange County golf club. And I don't mean to resurrect a catchphrase from Grey's Anatomy, but SERIOUSLY?! WTF?! After my dad showered, he actually did come down and help. He disappeared into his office, then reappeared with a cardboard box that he had assembled and taped at the bottom, and gave us clear instructions, "Don't write on this box so we can re-use it to send stuff..." I nodded dismissively so he'd leave and get out of my face. I was too tired to be enraged, but not too tired to be pissed off at him. That was the extent of his help.
After a couple more hours, we finished packing everything that was in the cabinets and in furniture that had drawers and shelves. The other remaining items were on surfaces, e.g. jars on the kitchen countertop, knick-knacks on the coffee table, a small pile of books on a wall ledge, etc. My parents...I mean, my mom won't have difficulty moving those few items by Monday.
The 3 of us lounged on the living room couches, resting our weary bodies, satisfied at our accomplishment. Then I heard the refrigerator door open and close. My dad walked into the living room with a bottle of beer in his right hand, looked at my mom, and asked, "Where's the bottle opener?" My mom responded to him, but I couldn't hear what she said through the clamor of the annoyed thoughts shouting in my head. He must've found it because he walked back into the living room and took a swig of his beer, which must've been especially refreshing after playing a round of golf on a hot summer day. Nonchalantly, he asked my mom another question, "Where are the shrimp chips?" My dad never drinks his beer without peanuts, chips or whatever snack you eat with beer. There were at least 40+ boxes of crap strewn in different rooms all over the house. Again my mom answered my dad, and again the cacophony of the angry voices prevented me from hearing what she said. Next thing I saw was my dad walking down the stairs, bag of shrimp chips in his left hand and a beer in his right.
I felt like a day-laborer he had hired, dirty, sweaty and tired after a hard day's work. Eventually, the 4 of us did spend some time together. We all mowed down some sushi at dinner: Salmon Skin Hand Roll, Rainbow Roll, Baked Scallop Dynamite Roll, Ono. Delish!
I drove home thinking about the day's events, my family's dynamic, and my resume. I had to revise it for the recruiter. Our phone interview left a good impression, and she presented me to her client as a candidate for the Global Product Manager position. The client said they want to move forward in the screening process, but the hiring manager who still needs to review my credentials is out of town until next Monday. If hired, I'd be in charge of product development and marketing strategy for the oral hygiene category. Not very sexy or exciting. During lunch, I asked my friend if proceeding with the interview process is like going on a date with someone you're not attracted to and will never be interested in. It is and it isn't. Then she told me a story about a guy from college who played Nintendo all the time and who would ask her out every Friday for weeks and weeks until she finally gave in. Obviously she wasn't interested and never went out with him again after that. Since I don't have to think about this opportunity right now, I won't.
Instead, I'll watch So You Think You Can Dance. Those dancers inspire me because they're doing what they love, they're good at it, and they're having fun. That kind of fulfillment has always been my dream. And I want it to come true, to be my reality.
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