Even way up in Seattle. Her killing me is not restricted to home. It is unrelenting.
While some of her photographs will be shown below, a quick she’s-killing-me story first.
We weren’t even in Seattle for three hours when the onslaught continued. (Don’t think she didn’t try to kill me during the flight. Even my warning her of plain clothes air marshals being on board didn’t deter her.).
After quickly checking in, we met my good friend Rick; like any good buddy, he treated my two kids and me to dinner.
As I had brought some cigars for him but forgot them in the room, we had to return to the hotel. While he and his gal waited in the lobby, I escorted the kids up to the room.
Knowing my Little Cake Boss Diva, I sternly said, “Brooke, do NOT touch anything, OK?”
“Okaaay-ah!” she replied… and I headed back down to the lobby, cigars in hand.
I wasn’t with him for more than fifteen minutes before I returned to the room. Yes, I was worried she was up to something.
So I opened the door. Wham. A rush of frigid artic air hit me. Mumbles (from Happy Feet) would have been pleased.
At the other end of the room, there she was on top of the air conditioner grill…sitting on a blue bed cover sheet with her butt square in the middle with her hands on either side trying to keep the sheet down. She was attempting to stop the flow of air conditioned air blasting out of the A/C. Talk about the Lucy Show. She was Lucy. I was Ricky, down to the “Ai-ya-yai, Lucy!”
Before I could yell, “Brooke!”, Jack immediately ratted out on his sister.
“Papa, she was doing something that she wasn’t supposed to and turned on the air conditioner! She doesn’t know how to turn it off so it’s freezing in here!” He was very pleased with himself for tattling.
Now I could yell, “Brooke! I told you NOT to touch anything!”
“Hee-hee…” she replied with her trademark “I’m VERY innocent” smile making for a happy face complete with adorable chubby cheeks..
I turned off the air then she scampered over to the one cup coffee brewer. What do you all that gizmo? A Keurig? Sure enough, there was one empty slot. She had brewed herself some coffee.
“Brooke! What were you doing brewing yourself coffee?! You don’t even know how to use that thing!”
“Welllll-ah! I was freezing-ah! And I can read (the directions) so I made myself something like a latte, okaaaay-ah? Sheesh!”
She’s only twelve. OMFG.
Anyways, that’s one of her traits…besides doing the opposite of what I say. She has to try everything…except clean her room.
So as in my previous post – and not being pleased with the way Jack was taking pictures – she commandeered my pretty new bazillion dollar Canon DSLR for pretty much the rest of the trip.
I only gave her one pointer: to cradle the lens with her left hand while shooting. For once, she actually followed my instructions.
But anyways, here are some of her photos taken with my bazillion dollar camera:
The last two weeks have been exciting if not challenging with all the kids’ activities.
In addition to an 8th grade party and his 14th birthday, my youngest son Jack has graduated 8th grade and is heading off to high school come September. Not only did he receive recognition for perfect attendance, he also made honor roll.
In addition, my Little Cake Boss Diva has had rehearsals – lots of them – culminating in recitals… Twelve performances in total Friday, Saturday and Father’s Day Sunday. During the past ten days or so, I must have made at least 25 round trips taking both her and food to and from dance rehearsals and performances. Believe me, I have enough for TWO “She’s Killing Me” stories but you won’t be bored with them now; I shall refrain.
Insofar as these rehearsals and recitals go, she needs to be dropped off in full makeup and costume an hour before the start of every event. But as I dropped her off on Saturday and watched her get to the entrance, it was clear that she was no longer my little girl.
Still scatterbrained, though…Her brain has ceased to function now that school is over except she still wouldn’t let me take her picture.
Well, maybe just this one, taken with my cell phone past 10pm and after tonight’s recital. It was taken in the light flowing out from the main lobby of the performing arts center.
But my girl and boy are not the focus of this post… “Some disappointment” is my focus.
While my Little Cake Boss Diva performed five routines flawlessly Friday night (opening number, lyrical, tap, jazz, ballet), it’s about what the dance school decided to name the recital: Arabian Nights. That is the source of the disappointment for me. Of course, I have no say-so in the matter.
Perhaps it’s just the patriotism in me that’s clouding my vision – but it’s there plain as day. Arabian Nights. No, I am not racist but I do feel we are at war. It is abundantly clear our young boys are dying each day in a godforsaken region in which Arabian Nights is based upon yet this implies something else to me.
Let us view it differently. If a dance school in 1942 were to name their recital “Celebration of Nazi Folklore” or “A Tokyo Love Story”, would there be some boycotting or outrage? I would think so. Remember there were death camps and executions of prisoners of war. Besides, it just wouldn’t make sense. We were at war… and we are now.
Their opening number was called “Arabian Jewels”. Other performances were entitled “40 Thieves” and “Walk Like an Egyptian” (talk about stereotyping).
How about a theme like “The Andrew Sisters” with tap dancing to songs like “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”? Or how about celebrating the much needed morale boosting supplied by the Hollywood Canteen? Think of all the marvelous smiles these stars like Rita Hayworth, Bette Davis, Ray Bolger and Ginger Rogers provided our service men and women with their dance at the Hollywood Canteen. Wouldn’t that would be something that these girls could dance to?
Has the foundation upon which our country is based crumbled that far? At least we recited the Pledge of Allegiance at Jack’s graduation.
Anyways, I was just expressing some disappointment. I’m sure to many, this may be seen as cultural awareness. I do loathe sharia law which is intertwined in Arabian Nights. It is totally contra to our Constitution.
I guess the answer lies within which side of the fence you are on.
Unfortunately, I am a dog. A dog that loves to sit on a human’s legs. But unfortunately, dogs don’t have nine lives, you know.
Her mind is on summer vacation; school is out this week. It is a signal to her brain to cease functioning. Well, not completely. She can still text like crazy.
While her brain is normally stock full of smarts, it is now replaced with shades of nail polish, texts, BFFs, the mall(s), dance… and scatter-itis.
Scatter-itis, like scatter-brained in layman’s terms.
And she did not get that from me – but since it is me who is writing this, I can say that.
My Little Cake Boss Diva was with her mother last week and as in every school year before, she has to turn in her textbooks.
Simple…unless your brain has stopped functioning.
So my last visit to the gallows started at her orthodontist on Friday morning, June 12th. Not that her mother told me she was taking her.
I will let my Little Cake Boss Diva’s texts speak for themselves:
So I planned to be at home when school got out… so she could see for herself her textbook wasn’t here LIKE I SAID. One thing about my Little Cake Boss Diva: once she thinks she’s right, not even a jackhammer the size of Bumblebee can break it up. (She did not get that from me.)
I slowly bled to death in those seven hours. I had so many morphine shots administered that addiction is looming. And perhaps you may be wondering why we didn’t talk on her iPhone that I bought and pay for monthly?
Somebody, please help me.
I am running out of lives.
BUT, the saga of her killing me for the bazillionth time is not over… Not justyet. She is still with her mom who is supposed to take care of all her dance stuff by virtue of the divorce agreement. (You know, the same mom who apparently made no real effort to locate her textbook.)
The very next day – June 13th – my Little Cake Boss Diva was thoughtful enough to have arranged for my funeral services. She even gave the eulogy from her mid-day Saturday dance class via iPhone. Isn’t technology amazing?
Her eulogy via her iPhone began like this:
Luckily, I was an un-dead. I had not been cremated yet so I managed to get into my car and drive to her dance studio by 12:30. While I was certain her precious sheet of paper was not in my house, I knew she would not be satisfied unless she came to inspect her impeccably un-tidy room herself. She thinks she’s always right, you know.
So she comes out a few minutes late (as usual), lugging her abundantly odoriferous dance bag and her plastic “dance bucket” filled with 1,000 pairs of her various dance shoes.
As soon as she got in, I expertly maneuvered the car out of the battle zone filled with crazed dance moms driving their battle tanks. I think my Little Cake Boss Diva expected me to give her a piece of my mind for the textbook fiasco just the day before but I instead calmly asked, “Brooke, are you SURE it’s not at mama’s or in your dance bag?”
“Yessssss-ah! And it’s not at mama’s!” she annoying replies in her valley girl phonetics.
I look at her bucket and see a small corner of a piece of paper through the jumbled mess of 1,000 pairs of shoes. “Brooke, did you look in your bucket? The bucket you carry to dance class five days a week?”
“Yessssssssss-ah!” she instantly says while gesturing with her hands, palms up, fingers spread out… then looks down at the bucket, pushes around a couple of shoes, and pulls out the paper she was looking for… You know, the vital paper she said was not at her mother’s house but at my house…in the bucket she sticks her manicured fingers into many times a week.
“Oooops… Hee-hee-hee…” grinning then saying, “Sorry.” No sorrrrry-ah, though.
I turn the car around and drop her off without saying a word. My body is late for the cremation, you know.
She reminds me of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. By virtue of his timepiece, the rabbit knows he is late and is frantic about it.
And my Little Cake Boss Diva Rabbit also has a clock; it is the world’s biggest clock and it is on the home screen of her iPhone. You know. She has to swipe through it to get to her precious texting screen.
But unlike the rabbit, she does not panic when she sees the world’s biggest clock for it apparently serves no useful purpose. Perhaps she is blind. For her, it is better to be three hours late than one minute early.
It is a daily school nightmare ritual when she stays with me. The school bell rings at 8:55 am. Sometimes, she finally gets into the car at 8:54 am… still barefoot. But by the time we get to the school, she is still barefoot because she has been messing around with her hair in the backseat while looking at herself on her iPhone… You know, the one with the world’s biggest clock.
Her precious dance classes are no different. Let us take one example; mind you, she has EIGHT dance classes a week.
Her ritual is this. Say her dance class starts at 6:30 pm.
Brooke at 6:15 pm from her bathroom (with a mirror that the vain and wicked stepmother in Snow White would be jealous of), “OK, I’m ready.”
I can still hear her hairbrush clanking against the sink along with the occasional hiss from her hair spray. I don’t move from my couch.
Me, at 6:25 pm: “Brooke, we need to go…”
Silence… but I can hear her rustling in her room. Maybe she’s looking for her dance shoes. She’s got four kinds of them, you know.
Me, at 6:29 pm: “Brooke, I’ll be waiting in the car, okaaay?”
A minute later, out she comes… Yes! Oops. She goes back in again. Half a minute later, she emerges and runs to the car…barefoot. But she drags along her bag that has Nordstrom’s entire shoe selection in it. No kidding. I guess she couldn’t decide which dance shoe to wear for this one class.
We get to her dance school in a couple of minutes but it’s 6:32 pm already. I carefully drive into the cramped war zone called a parking lot; it is filled with crazed dance moms who stop their battle tank dead in the middle of the aisle instead of off to one side to let their daughters off. One mother actually turns on her emergency blinkers. Nobody can move until that mother moves. But they don’t care… because their battle tank is equipped a 105mm cannon…front and rear. Nobody dares asks them to move to one side.
Brooke? She’s still putting hair pins into her “bun”.
There are other late mothers lining up behind me, still trying to battle their way through the war zone littered with SUVs and minivans going every which way except forward. I can see she still is not ready so I need to find a parking spot in this war zone. Unfortunately, these mothers in their SUVs think they truly are in M1A1 Abrams battle tanks and take up two spots. They do it on purpose, relegating us lowly men to one. They believe they are entitled to two spots. After all, this is California, land of entitlement.
After a minute or two, I step out of the car. I can’t stand to watch. She is still fussing with her hair bun. (Remember: she said she was ready at 6:15?)
Oh-oh… Here she comes. It’s 6:40 pm. Class started ten minutes ago.
What’s this?! She’s got her shoes on? Golly-gee-willikers. And she’s running like the rabbit? Perhaps she has finally realized she is… late?
By the way… I am always on time. My oldest daughter is always on time, too. She got that from me.
…But my Little Cake Boss Diva’s (non-)sense of time? You can figure that one out.
She is an 石頭. A rock head. Perhaps even a boulder-sized rock.
But she didn’t get that from me.
Well, maybe just a wee bit.
Five months ago, she asked for a new iPhone for Christmas.
“No. You’re getting a Samsung Galaxy because I don’t understand Apple one bit…and you know, Bu-chan, that you will do something to that phone and I will have to waste a lot of time trying to figure out how to fix it.”
Well… It was like talking to a…rock.
And yes, she got a new iPhone 5s.
I am weak.
For several weeks, I had told her to back up her photos to flickr to get ready for her new phone. Flickr’s free. Besides, she is always complaining that her storage is maxed out.
…that I am going to trade in her old phone so all her selfies and pictures of her BFFs will be gone. Poof.
So does she? No…
Both she and my son had concurrent science projects due for school at the same time. Criminy. I toldforced threatened my son to do his 8th grade experiment EARLY because both their experiments – and resulting terror – fall on my shoulders. Their mother refuses to take interest in their education. Really.
Well, Brooke’s first experiment failed. She wanted to see if there was an organic ant deterrent. Trouble was, it was too cold for the ants to venture out en masse. The ants didn’t come for the food, even when it was FREEEEEE (like the commercial).
So three weeks ago, and with her teacher’s blessing, we switched gears to see if there was any way to slow down mold from developing on her favorite berry – raspberries.
So for her experiment, I suggested pictures be taken from the beginning… so she did with her blessed iPhone.
I did, too.
“Papa! See how you are? You tell me to take pictures so I did. … So don’t, okkaaay-ah?!”
“But Bu-chan, just in case… You know…”
“Nooooo-ah! Why should I take them then?!” she mightily says in her valley girl talk.
I do as I’m told by my Little Cake Boss Diva, you know.
So she wraps up her experiment then starts to write up her results when she was with me a couple of weeks ago. Then as she left for her mom’s for the week that Monday, I tell her to share her report with me via Google Drive so I can help her edit it during the week. After all, the project is due the Thursday the week she comes back to me.
She reluctantly annoyingly says, “Okaaayyy-ah!”
Next evening (Tuesday – she’s back with her mom, now.), I text her while she’s at her dance class, asking her about the report’s progress. She was to email me a link to her document on Google Drive.
So I thought, well, she’s busy chit-chatting girlie stuff with her friends.
Wednesday… I text her to see if I can take her to dinner on Thursday since she has two hours between dance classes. Same thing. No answer. Now my totally flat Asian nose is getting bent out of shape.
I get smart on Thursday. I email her, too, on top of texting. I even sent her some new flower pictures I took. No answer! Old Faithful is but a tea kettle compared to the steam coming out my ears.
I actually called her… She must have been shocked her iPhone not only texts but actually functions as a phone. “Gee, is that my ringtone?” she must have thought.
But… NO ANSWER! Old Faithful has become an volcanic eruption.
In a futile attempt, I email her mother telling her to have Brooke answer my texts. The ex RARELY responds to any email or text although required by the divorce agreement. Sure enough – no response. Now I wish I had the twin .50 Browning machine guns Mustang_USMC has stashed away and hordes of ISIS jerks in front of me so I could take out my aggressions.
Then… I find out my aunt pretty much admitted herself to a hospital far, far away. It’s so far away that the Empire’s Death Star is at the halfway point. Long story but she didn’t need the surgery; her quack doctor put it in her head that she needed it.
So my phone rings at 7:30 am on Saturday. My aunt is calling from her hospital room and wants me to take her a dumb charger for her cell phone! Crap.
Needless to say, it took my attention away from the Little Cake Boss Diva’s audacious behavior… and the science report.
Monday comes. The ex (who never answered my email, of course) is late dropping them off again but unbelievably, the Little Cake Boss Diva just smiles, gives me a hug then prances right into her room as if nothing’s wrong. The nerve! Old Faithful redux.
“Brooke!! Why didn’t you answer my texts??!!!”
“Oh,” she begins with a not-my-fault smile, “the girls at dance on Tuesday figured out my password so I changed it.”
“What??!! Why did they have your phone and what does changing a password have to do with your science project??? But why didn’t you answer my texts??!! That’s the question!”
“Geez, you don’t have to get so mad! So I changed the password…but couldn’t remember it… So after I tried a number of times, it locked me out. It’s a brick. That’s all!”
“What?????!!!!!!!!! That’s it??!! Why didn’t you email me from your Galaxy Tab that I bought YOU when YOU broke your iPad and tell me???” Accent on the caps.
“Oh… Yeah… I guess I should have…but I don’t know how to check my iPhone email on it because its an ANDROOOIDDD… but can you fix my phone before I go to dance? Please?”
The tortoise could have made it to New York in the time it took me to figure out how to unlock it…but it had to be “set up as a new phone.”
I pick her up at 7:30 pm after another one of her EIGHT dance classes. Of course, she’s the last one to leave. We get into the car.
I’m refocused now since she came back four hours ago… “Brooke, how much more do you have on your science report?” I ask.
She’s texting like there’s no tomorrow on account she been deprived for a week. “Well, I still have to write up my procedures, results and conclusion. Yeah, I guess I should finish it tonight because its due tomorrow…………”
Mt. St. Helens has now exploded again; the top of my head is now missing. “Tomorrow?? I thought it was Thursday???!!!!”
“Noooo-ah! Why did you think that?”
After dinner then arguing for about an hour, she finishes the report but its in bits and pieces. She had each section set up as a new document even though I sent her a template. Criminy.
“Brooke, you need to insert your pictures of the experiment,” I said calmly.
“Umm… Papa… Remember YOU wiped out my phone when YOU restored it…” Snicker.
“Didn’t you upload them to flickr like I said?”
“Noooo-ah,” she very matter-of-factly says.
Luckily, I still had that ONE picture I took on Day One. “See Brooke. Even though you told me not to take any pictures, aren’t you glad I did? Huh? What do you say to that?!”
Silence. That’s what she said to that.
She hates being wrong.
It’s now 12:40 am… She’s still trying to arrange her poster board display summarizing her project:
This whole thing is due in seven hours!
She finishes at 1:45 am…
Stay tuned… Her Language Arts project is also due this Friday. She is with her mom. I sense a strong likelihood she will need to see me on Thursday to finish it.
Yes. She will text me if she does… but I will reply because I have an Android phone. 🙂
But now, it will have to be My Little Cake Boss…DIVA.
That’s right. My Little Cake Boss Diva.
After (manipulatively) maneuvering me over several weeks, she entrapped me into taking her and two friends on a shopping frenzy (for them, not me). My back ached for days. My fingers developed callouses from having to hold their bazillion shopping bags that weighed over a hundred pounds each.
But I am a slow learner. Yes, I am.
From about the time of the shopping frenzy, she had already begun her next manipulation.
Hindsight is always 100%, you know.
“Papa, don’t you think my hair looks nice? It’s really more bronze, yeah? Feel it.”
“Yes, its soft and bronze at the ends, just like Robyn’s (my oldest daughter),” I said.
She brought it up again…within a couple of days of the first.
“Papa, what did Robyn use to highlight her hair?”
WTF? Her mother (illegally) does hair. Why doesn’t she ask her? I said, “I don’t know.”
But I am a slow learner… or a real slow catcher-oner. (That’s supposed to be a word and it’s in Webster’s.) Perhaps dense is a better descriptive, especially when it comes to girl jabber. I mean, girl talk.
A few days later, “Papa, you know my hair is really a dark, bronze color… Do you think my hair would look better with lighter highlights or darker red highlights like Robyn had?”
But I played coy… I played dumb. But I texted Robyn so that I could be prepared. “What did you use to highlight your hair?”
“I used a Groupon deal,” she answered.
So I texted my USAF buddy’s wife, Ms. S. She’s a girlie girl. She should know.
“Oh, it’s really tricky to do it yourself. You should take her to get it done.”
The whole world is against me.
So on Sunday, April 12th (three days before income tax returns are due), I tell her in the morning, “Oooookay, Bu-chan… Let’s go get your hair highlighted.”
You should have seen her face light up. It was as if Little Miss Energy got plugged into a 220v socket. For the first time in her life, she got into the car…somewhat quickly. Who am I kidding? She took 20 minutes. She had to change and brush her hair…and get her iPhone, of course.
I take her to this salon nearby that the gals have told me about. I drive up. It’s closed. WTF?
So we drove across the street to this fancy-schmancy place the WOMEN tell me about (i.e., $$$). It was a little past 10 am so I was hoping to get her a walk-in. Parked out in front and the sign said OPEN. Well, it was not. What’s with these women places??! Barbershops are open on Sunday!
So the Little Cake Boss Diva gets on her phone and says there’s a salon open. I never ask her to tell me where some place is because 30 miles is down the block to her. Luckily, it was about 15 minutes away. She calls but the line’s busy. We go anyways.
Well, they were booked up solid… She looked kinda sad but I knew of this one other place next to Yum-Yum Donuts that was for sure open…and it was close to the house.
We get there. They take her.
She sits in the chair. Out comes her iPhone. Selfie time, I guess.
What is a third generation Japanese-American doing trying to make Italian meatballs?
It’s as if you saw John Wayne behind the sushi counter asking if you want yellow tail or halibut.
Well, the schedule has my kids staying this week for Spring Break…and they are bored. They are so bored, they again asked, “What are we having for dinner tonight? The same stuff, Papa?”
Made them my killer (but now boring) Fettucine Alfredo with prosciutto and green peas Monday night and beef stroganoff yesterday night (with Jack removing every last mushroom from his plate).
From scratch. None of this sauce out of a bottle or Hamburger Helper stuff.
So…. My son Jack seems to like meatballs for some reason. He gets it at Subway and at this Italian restaurant in Belmont Shores. The last time he did, I told him I’d make it.
So I did.
I had heard many horror stories about making meatballs.
They were hard like golf balls.
They were just round hamburgers.
So I went to my trusted cooking bible: Cook’s Illustrated.
Their recipes are the Triple T’s: tasty, tried and true and only (old) male buffoons like me can mess them up. I’ve proven that.
But it turns out their secret ingredient was… buttermilk. Crazy. But it worked out wonderfully. And you used only the egg yolk; using the whole egg does something to the texture, Cook’s Illustrated said.
The ingredients for the meatballs were:
3/4 pound ground chuck (85/15 ground beef can be substituted)
1/4 pound ground pork
1/4 cup buttermilk
Two slices white bread (with the crusts cut off) cut into small cubes
1/4 cup grated Parmesan Reggiano (my preference)
One minced garlic clove
Two tbsp minced parsley (I used the broad leaf Italian parsley to make up for my being Japanese-American)
One egg yolk
3/4 tsp table salt
Pepper to taste
The ingredients for the spaghetti sauce were:
28 oz can crushed tomatoes
One minced garlic
2 tbsp minced basil
For the meatballs:
Soak the bread in the buttermilk for 10 minutes, crushing the bread occasionally to break it down. Do not drain.
Combine all the meatball ingredients in large bowl. (I slice through the mixture using a fork to bring it all together rather than using my hand to mix it. Keeps the mixture loose.)
Form meatballs (without compressing) about 1-1/2 inches in diameter, rolling mixture in hands. Set aside. Complete for remaining mixture.
Heat 1/4″ vegetable oil in 10″ skillet. (I don’t recommend non-stick.)
Carefully drop meatballs one by one into oil; they should sizzle. If your skillet is big enough, you may be able to do them in one batch.
Adjusting the flame, keep them sizzling while making sure ALL sides are browned. Perhaps ten minutes. (I made the mistake of having the heat too high and the meatballs too small.)
For the spaghetti sauce:
Drain the oil from the skillet. Return to range. Pat away most of the oil BUT leave all the yummy crusty stuff on the bottom.
Heat then pour in about a couple tablespoons olive oil and garlic. Scrape up all the crusties on the bottom as best you can. Do not burn garlic; no more than 30 seconds.
Carefully pour in the crushed tomatoes. Continue to scrape up remaining crusties then bring to boil.
Turn down heat then simmer for about ten minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add basil and meatballs then simmer for five more minutes.
They suggested reserving a 1/4 cup of the pasta water. After draining the al dente spaghetti¹ and returning it to the pot, add back the pasta water and a couple of ladles of the sauce.
Coat then portion out your spaghetti from the still warm pot onto dishes. Pour a bit more sauce onto pasta, top with three meatballs. Your kiddies can add Parmesan Reggiano to their liking.
(No, I am not Julia Child. You are sadly mistaken.)
Note 1: Use ample water; I use more than a gallon for a pound of pasta. Also add one tablespoon salt immediately before adding pasta. Stir to make sure they don’t stick together then cover to bring back to boil as soon as you can. Uncover then rigorously boil for recommended time for al dente.
At times, I feel uncomfortable being of the Buddhist faith. Perhaps I am not as devout as my grandfather was reported to be but my family is Buddhist. I guess I feel uncomfortable because so many of you – my friends – are of the Christian faith and cherish it grandly.
Because I am Buddhist, it is difficult to fathom the importance religiously of today, Good Friday. One of my most trusted friends of old, Don, partakes in a play each Good Friday at his Catholic church of which he is a most faithful member. I feel some sadness as I am unable to grasp the deepness of his love for his God or the significance of this day.
But each Good Friday, my mind races back to the Good Friday of 1992.
My oldest daughter was home as there was no school. She was nine at that time
Playing in her bare feet, she was bitten by a rattler in the front yard of my home.
Yes, my memory is not all that accurate, Robyn, but it was late morning. I was working in Downtown LA that day when a call came into my office.
When I picked up the phone, it was her mom. You have to understand her to appreciate this but she said pretty calmly, “I think Robyn got bit on her foot by a snake.”
“Huh? Whaaat? Where? Are there puncture marks?”
“Ummm… Let me go see,” she calmly says. Yes, she did. OMG! Didn’t she check already?
After a minute, she comes back and matter-of-factly says, “Umm, yes, there’s two little holes on her toe…” It was as if she was telling me Robyn got straight A’s again. Very routine for Robyn.
“Call 911!” I said quite loudly then hung up. I ran to my boss’ office and said yelled, “I think my daughter got bit by a rattlesnake! Bye!”
Did I mention I was the opposite of my ex-wife? I got pretty “animated”. It was different than being told she got straight A’s again.
Remembering this was before inexpensive cell phones, I raced home. It took about an hour to drive the 25 miles, even back then. When I got there, no one was there. But a neighbor told me the paramedics took her to Brea Community Hospital. “Huh? Brea Community? Where’s that?!” No Google Maps, either.
If I recall correctly, I got to the hospital about two hours after the call. Apparently, the paramedics were going to medivac her when they located this hospital with anti-venom in the neighboring county.
It was the darnedest sight. Here were these two pretty rugged-looking paramedics in Emergency, rubbing their huge hands together like if they were outside in the snow. Briefly, her mom explained yes, it was a rattler. The doctor wasn’t sure what anti-venom to administer at first but after calling a specialist in Arizona, they decided on the anti-venom. However, the anti-venom coagulates at the top of a suspension liquid in these tiny glass tubes. The paramedics were rolling these tubes in their hands to warm and melt/dissolve the anti-venom into the liquid.
My daughter, a pretty tough kid, was just laying on the gurney quite bravely. She didn’t whimper, complain or show fear. She would be that way for the rest of the night – well, except for a split second. In fact, the only time she would show emotion was when she pummeled her younger brother – frequently. He apparently deserved it.
There was cause for alarm, however. The first responders were able to locate the snake in the strawberry plants then lopped off its head with a shovel. But it was a baby rattler. For those of you who don’t know, baby rattlers are unpredictable in how much venom they would inject for a kill. Luckily, it had killed Mickey Mouse a bit earlier (or maybe it was Minnie), thereby somewhat depleting its venom supply; you could see the bulge in its body from the mouse (Yes, they put it into a glass jar to show the doctor. Yes, we kept in the freezer for awhile as a souvenir. I even took it to show my boss. Who would believe a nutsy story like this?). Plus, Robyn was a small girl. Smart, but small.
They began the drip as soon as possible… but by around 11 pm, you could clearly see the toxins marching its way up her leg, discoloring her skin as it spread. The swelling got real bad, too.
Then, the news. The nurse said if the swelling doesn’t subside by around midnight, the doctor will have to make an incision in her calf to relieve the swelling. Further, they did not know if there would be any permanent tissue or nerve damage.
Talk about feeling helpless… All we could do was wait. By this time, her skin began to turn an ugly shade of grey.
Then for the first time that day, Robyn understandably let out a tear or two.
So did I.
Fortunately, about an hour afterwards, the toxins stopped its march up her leg. The anti-venom was finally taking effect. Soon thereafter, the swelling began to subside, slowly but surely.
By late morning – and while the skin was still an ugly shade of grey – a physical therapist came in. Oddly, she was the owner of an interior decorating store at the base of our hill; she had sold us all our new furniture and interior stuff like wallpaper and window treatments five years earlier.
She had Robyn get out of bed then try to walk. Although she had a bad limp from the pain and tenderness, the therapist said there was no nerve or tissue damage to her foot or leg. Whew.
And the Game Boy?
I thought she earned it for being a tough kid so I got her one. She got pretty good at it, too.
Oh… Although Robyn’s name wasn’t mentioned, her mom told me later that she made the news on KFWB news radio.
They didn’t mention her new Game Boy, though, or how brave she was.
My little Cake Boss. She’s become a girlie. Totally.
Nails. Brushing her hair for dance classes. Face timing. Trying on different clothes just to go to a supermarket. Spending 15 minutes in a soap store and not finding a single one she likes. Never ready on time.
All summer long, she asked if it was OK to go to the beach or something with her friends. I said no problem; just don’t do it at the last minute.
I even took her to two stores to buy a new bikini. Egads. She even asked me what color she should get to which I replied, “A warm color; I think purple looks best on you.”
So she buys a pink one. Why ask?? See, she’s killing me.
Oh… I said to get a beach towel since she had her pink Disney princesses towel since she was three. Plus, they were on sale. She said she didn’t need one.
I had my kids for two straight weeks this time… but she has dance five days a week plus the last two Saturdays were all day rehearsals. I had also promised to take my son to the range but my ex ruined my plans once again by interfering.
So this last Monday, my little Cake Boss – with the days now getting cooler – asked if she and two of her best friends could go to the beach. Again, I said sure but let me know now so we can be ready.
On Tuesday, I asked, “Brooke, so can your friends go?”
“Papa, I asked, OK? Just wait, OK?”
On Wednesday, I asked, “So Brooke, are they coming?”
“Papa… They haven’t gotten back to me so wait, OK? Sheesh!” Never mind they are classmates, BFF and spend all day together.
On Thursday, I asked, “Brooke. So what’s the story with the beach this Sunday?”
“Papa! I’ll let you know, OK??!”
On Friday, I asked, “Brooke… So is it on? Sunday’s the day after tomorrow!”
So guess what? After picking her up from rehearsal Saturday night and after eating dinner, she says, “Papa. So they’re coming at 11:30 TOMORROW (caps added) and we’re going to watch Godzilla afterwards… but K needs to be home by 6:30 PM.”
SO SUNDAY MORNING at 9:00 AM… Guess what? She coyly asks, “Papa… Can we go get a beach towel? Its kinda old now. Heh heh, heh.”
We’re off to Target to get a beach towel with her friends coming a little over two hours… October 1st is just a few days away. Who’s gonna have a beach towel let alone a one she likes???
We can’t find one, of course…and she gets mad at me.
We then we made a mad dash to Stater Bros. to get stuff to make hamburgers and BBQ for them afterwards… “Papa… Why do you have to rush?!
So her two BFF arrive and at 12, I say, “Brooke, you said you all wanted to watch Godzilla afterwards and K needs to be home by 6:30 so we need to go.”
“Papa, OK!! Just wait 30 seconds, OK?! Sheesh!”
Ten minutes. I’m waiting outside with the car loaded up. I go back inside. I find they’re still in her room… yakking away.
“Brooke! We need to go,” I yell through her door.
“Papa!!! We’re trying on clothes so just wait!”
Fifteen minutes. Sure is a long 30 seconds.
After 25 minutes… They are finally ready to leave and come out… but then she realizes she needs to “use the bathroom” and runs back into the house. Criminy!
Well, we finally made it to the beach around 1 PM… But in a little over an hour, she says, “OK, Papa. We’re ready to go home now because it’s getting a little cold.”
She’s killing me, I tell ya. But at least they saw three dolphins just 40 yards off the beach… and they had a great time.
True stories about World War II – One war. Two Countries. One Family