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2001-03-13 || 4:15pm || this is a genetic experiment. || my grandmother said that when my grandpop died, my dad locked himself in his room and played the record (eddie fisher?) 'oh poppa my poppa' over and over again. when my dad met my mom he was living in a van. he picked her up barefoot and cleared his stuff off of the passenger seat so that she could sit down. they saw the movie 'woodstock' for their first date. since my dad was homeless, a fisherman, my mom let him move in. something like a month after they met. my dad cried when our dog toby was put to sleep. for my sixteenth birthday my dad gave me a music box that played 'music box dancer.' it had an inscription that said 'to my sweet jenny on her sixteenth birthday.' my dad once came downstairs wearing a nylon warm up suit (grandma's birthday present to him) and my mom's gold necklaces and sunglasses and sang l.l. cool j's 'mama gone knock you out.' my dad wears a knee-length pea coat and captain's hat when he walks our dog at night. he lives in southern california. my dad lives in flip flops and short short corduroy o.p. shorts (never with a shirt)and hawaiian tropic suntan oil as soon as the weather gets to be over 73 degrees. dad genes: 'big bones', liking ice cream too much, shyness, inassertiveness, monster hands and feet, lovely blue eyes, freckles, upturned nose (hello. i am ski slope.), chipmunk cheeks, gap tooth smile, crazy sentimentality, love for the ocean, severe blushing, goofy sense of humor, saturday morning pancakes, love of donuts, tallness, secret love of dressing up. * * * * * my mom was terribly shy. my mom played joan of arc in her senior play. my mom got flowers in the mail from a military boyfriend stationed in hawaii while she was in nursing school. she had straight straight pale red hair, exactly the color of mine if i weren't so hell-bent on dying it all the time, that grew past her waist. she wore go go boots and short short skirts and big big sunglasses. my mom moved to california as soon as it was humanly possible to get the hell out of chicago. there is a picture of my mother from just before my parents got married. she is wearing a vinyl jacket and sunglasses, has a shag haircut, is standing against a chainlink fence. she is super tough. my mom gets wicked mad on saturday mornings, habitually, and mutters and curses under the whir of the vacuum cleaner. my mom would repeat the mantra 'get a life', hand on hip, blocking my bedroom doorway, for a period of five years when i was in/just out of high school and not leaving my room. my mom has every television set in her house set to the home garden station. she tapes 'iron chef.' my dad and she watch it weekly like it is a prime time wrestling event. my mom kisses me hello and goodbye on the lips in a very grandmotherly way that she does with no one else. and i love it. mom genes: i did not get the slenderness. the nice dainty feet. the average height/frame for a girl. the green thumb. the wicked take no shit from nobody attitude. i got her paleness, crazy propensity to sunburn, freckles, reddish hair, motherly need to harp on my sister, terribly obnoxious loud laugh, conspiratorial smile, love of decorating, love of quilting, sass, complete lack of sense of direction, frustration when something doesn't work, fear of earthquakes, swearing like a sailor, inability to keep secrets, especially presents. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |