It’s no surprise that I consider myself a pre-cursor to a Fangirl.** And I say “pre-cursor” because I certainly am not one that is completely obsessed with my favorite characters or actors; Johnny Depp notwithstanding (of course). And I certainly don’t “role-play” like some fangirls and fanboys do. Call it being a product of growing up as an adolescent and teenager in the early 80’s … but I consider myself more a Pop Culture enthusiast, than a Fangirl. I know more Pop Culture trivia and particular TV shows/movies than I know anything about Manga or RPG characters in the latest PS3 game.
Or as Cee Lo Green might say, “I guess (s)he’s more XBox. And I’m more Atari.”
So it shouldn’t be a surprise that, last night I was on the couch watching Spiderman 2 in HD and reading the Wolverine & Jubilee*** comic at the same time. After all, my number one Fanboy (aka Hubby) was also on the couch next to me reading his entire pile of comics and was the one responsible for choosing our TV selection.
Easter is this weekend. So yes, the Infertile in me has been mentally preparing myself for lots of cute kids dressed up in their Easter Sunday Best. And I’ve been bracing myself for all the shrieks and excitement that any kid would have on such a wondrously child-centric, “It’s Spring! And New Life (aka absolutely adorable newborn babes) is all around us!” holiday.
But this year, I have another reason to keep my emotions at bay. This year Easter happens to fall on my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 68 years old this Sunday.
When I was young, I absolutely hated my name. After all, no one in the late 70’s and early 80’s would ever give their daughter such an old-fashion name … unless, of course she was named after a well-known Catholic saint.
Nanay Emilia, Christmas 2007
Instead I wanted to be a Jenny. Or an Amy. Or … in my more “exotic” name choices (hey, I was 7 or 8 years old at the time!), I wanted to be called Rebecca or Genevieve; with a nickname like Becky or Ginny. I want to say that those two names came out of stories I had read from books I checked out of the library — yes, even then I was a bookworm!
At that time, I didn’t know anybody else with my name. Other than Emily Dickinson, I had never heard of another person — whether real or fiction — that shared my name. Of course now, there are waaay too many Emily’s in the world … but that’s beside the point.
It took until I was in high school until I truly began to love my name. It was different … and it stood out among the sea of other names in high school. Instead of being told I shared the same name as a friend’s grandmother or grand-aunt … I began to hear that I shared the name with their youngest sister or cousin.
But the real reason was because I was a namesake; I loved that I was named after both my grandmothers. My first name came from my paternal grandmother, Emilia (the same person which this little one was named after). And my middle name came from my maternal grandmother and my Mom; a story that was told in this previous post, when my maternal grandmother passed away.
I’ve probably told the story of my love/hate relationship with my name many times over; probably much to the detriment of Hubby, who gets to hear it every time I tell it. But today, there’s reason for me to repeat this story:
Today, the other half of my name; my Nanay Emilia passed away in the Philippines. While she hadn’t been acutely ill — didn’t have any immediately serious health issues — we had been expecting her departure for almost a year now. She’s just had way too many chronic illnesses for so many years.
There are two distinct memories I have of my Nanay Emilia; one of which I will save for another day — a special day. Instead, the memory I want to tell happened during my early grade school years. I can recall walking home from the bus stop after school and being bombarded by the scent of freshly deep-fried dough … you know, the kind that reminds you of elephant ears at a Midway carnival?
When I first got a whiff of that scent, I remember rushing home and throwing the front door open; all while tossing my book bag on the floor. That’s because I knew that Nanay Emilia was making Filipino buñuelos for my brother and me. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter, watching her make them. Then — as soon as they were sufficiently cooled — grabbing them from the plate, rolling them in sugar, and eating them as fast as she was making them. And I remember her smiling the entire time.
Ever since that day, I think of my Nanay whenever I encounter elephant ears at a Midway or freshly fried dough at a Chinese buffet. It reminds me of that day and how much fun we had making buñuelos in our kitchen.
Thanks for the memories, Nanay Emilia. Thanks for the love and the laughs we had together. I can’t imagine watching wrestling on a Saturday morning (back in the 80’s, of course) without you.
Oh and thanks for your nose. Because … Every. Single. One of your grandchildren (and great-grandchildren) have that trait in common with you.
I’ll miss you and love you forever. And I’m sure that Dad — your son — will be there to welcome you with open arms.
This was the last Christmas I spent with Nanay Emilia. She had gone home to live in the Philippines in the Fall of 2008.
I got a speeding ticket this past Saturday. In the past, speeding tickets always came at a time in my life when I literally needed to “slow down.” Except this time, there’s nothing going on in my life that requires me to slow down. So yeah … I’m a little confused. .
Hubby & I went to see 30 Seconds to Mars Saturday evening at one of the smaller venues in Detroit. Going to see them reminded me of how much I wanted to be a rock star back in high school. .
It also reminded me of how old I’m getting if I no longer want to be in the general admission area on the ground floor. You know, where all the crowd-surfing happens. And where you could possibly feel the sweat flying off any of the band members. .
Speaking of which, Jared Leto has — in my opinion — only gotten hotter since his Jordan Catalano days. And seeing that he’s actually MY age, I wonder how he still has all the energy to keep the crowd on their feet the whole night long. .
Met up with a couple of my HS BFF’s on Sunday morning. It was fun to catch up with them and talk about what we’ve been up to lately. .
Jordan Catalano all grown up
Also got to meet one of my HS besties’ 3-yr old son. He reminded me so much of my nephew, Tyler at that age; so precocious and full of energy. And I loved the fact that he wanted us to go home with him..
Still working on taxes, as I type. Well, okay … so Hubby’s working on the taxes while I help file things away. Gotta work on a better system so that we’re not always doing our taxes at the last possible minute. You’d think after 14 years of doing taxes together we’d get our act together. .
And that’s about all the bullet points I can come up with for now. Perhaps I’ll write a more proper post before Easter. Until then, this is all I’ve got.
Like the hat? We also had his golf putter and a TV remote placed with him!
I saw my Dad the other night. Well … actually, I saw him in my dreams anyway.
I guess it was only a matter of time that Dad would show up in my slumber. After all, it’s been 4 months and he’s (obviously) been weighing heavily on my mind since then. Except his presence in this dream took me completely by surprise.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
Dad appeared to me in a dream that involved staying at a hotel in Las Vegas for a conference with some co-workers (both past and present). In the dream, a former co-worker confronted me regarding a statement I had made about being excluded from some team activity. She had asked me if this was going to affect our working relationship. And just as I was about to answer her, I looked up from where I was seated and saw my Dad standing right by the hotel room door. Plain as day; wearing a set of khaki trousers and a dark red collared sweater … something I could see him wearing whenever we’d go out to dinner together.
But Dad wasn’t alone. He was with a person, whose face looked so familiar; perhaps a family friend from back in his home town that I had met at one of those Canadian “reunion” picnics we’d go to every year. Whoever it was, I couldn’t place the name.
As soon as I saw Dad, I jumped out of my seat and ran up to him and wrapped my arms around him tightly. “I’ve missed you,” I told him.
“I know,” Dad said to me. “I’ve missed you, too.” And then we started talking as if he’d been on a trip back to the Philippines, rather than being physically gone from the earth. What we had talked about, I can’t really remember; but I do recall feeling sad when he told me that they had to go now.
“Okay,” I told Dad. “I’ll walk you guys to the elevator.” And so we walked down the hall and I watched him and this family friend step into the elevator. As the elevator doors started to close, I started to feel panicked; my heart began to race and I suddenly felt bereft.
So I stuck my hand out to stop the elevator door from closing and jumped in. Except when I got inside, my Dad wasn’t there. I looked about the elevator and saw the family friend that had previously accompanied my Dad. I asked where Dad was, but all I got was a shrug of the shoulders.
Once we got to the hotel lobby, I got off the elevator and decided to wait for another elevator car to arrive; thinking that Dad had jumped onto another car instead. After a couple cars came up empty for Dad, I walked towards the hotel entrance intending to sit on one of the couches in the lobby and cry. After all, I had this sick feeling that I’d never get to see him again … even though in the dream it felt like he was just going to walk around the Vegas Strip.
But as I walked toward the lobby, I felt a tap on my shoulder. And when I turned around, I saw my Dad standing there. He engulfed me in another bear hug and said, “You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?”
I nodded my head, the tears streaming down my face. “I’ll always be with you,” Dad told me. “Don’t ever forget that.”
And that’s when I woke up.
~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~
Strangely, my pillow wasn’t wet with tears, even though my eyes felt as if they had been crying. And the rest of my body just felt extremely tired. And sad … extremely sad. I had remembered waking up briefly in the midst of the dream to tell Hubby that I saw Dad. But by the time I woke up after the dream was over, Hubby had already left for work.
During our last trip to Vegas ... Dad was "pole-dancing" on the tram! LOL!
So instead I told a good friend that I had met for lunch later on in the day. This friend had also lost her father earlier last year and had been there to comfort me during the days following Dad’s death. Without giving her any details about the dream, she told me that it was my Dad’s way visiting me; of showing his presence to me. And we left it at that.
Later on that evening, I told Hubby about the dream and what my friend had said to me. In between the sobs I had let out, he held me tightly and wished that he could make the pain go away.
Then over the phone, I relayed the same thing to my Mom. She too, believed that my Dad had come to visit me and in turn asked me whether or not he looked happy. At first I had told her that Dad’s belly appeared fuller, and we both laughed. “Obviously he’s being fed well up there,” my Mom said, both of us knowing how much my Dad loved to eat.
But then Mom asked me again, “Did he look happy?” After all, other than some “random” events that have taken place at the house, Mom had yet to see Dad face-to-face.
I thought about it for a moment; thought about our conversation and the words Dad had said to me in the hotel lobby. And I answered, “Yes. He looked content.”
“That’s good,” Mom had said. “That just means he’s at peace.”
And as strange as that statement sounded, I believed Mom. And it comforted me … especially knowing that my Dad said he’d always be with me.
It’s no surprise that I consider myself a pre-cursor to a Fangirl.** And I say “pre-cursor” because I certainly am not one that is completely obsessed with my favorite characters or actors; Johnny Depp notwithstanding (of course). And I certainly don’t “role-play” like some fangirls and fanboys do. Call it being a product of growing up as an adolescent and teenager in the early 80’s … but I consider myself more a Pop Culture enthusiast, than a Fangirl. I know more Pop Culture trivia and particular TV shows/movies than I know anything about Manga or RPG characters in the latest PS3 game.
Hubby & I went to see 
