Santa Got Lost In Translation

Ahh family tradition…a few years ago my mother inadvertently began a new sort of Christmas family tradition by gifting my father a little gem of sorts. It was a t-shirt. And, harmless as it may seem, the long-term ramifications of this gift could not possibly been foreseen. As usual, along with Christmas activities came the annual sporting of the t-shirt…and thus, the memories and laughter begin…

My mother did not move to the states until adulthood, and although throughout my lifetime she has adapted to American culture and terminology, she sometimes gets a little lost in translation. Case in point, the Christmas family celebration of 2006.

Mom was effortlessly making her way through the piles of wrapped gifts when she announced the “super sale” she found while shopping a novelty store in New Orleans that season. She was like, “I found the cutest store full of coffee cups, t-shirts, and hand towels and EVERYTHING was on clearance! I bought a TON of them and now I can give them to everyone!” Dad unwrapped his new treasure and as he examined the bright red t-shirt, his eyes lit up and a roar of laughter welled from within. Mom was all, “Isn’t that the cutest little Santa?! I got such a good deal!” It was then that my father turned the shirt for my sisters and I to see. Immediately we were in tears laughing.

Mom: I know! Isn’t the Santa so funny?!
Me: I don’t think it’s the Santa that’s so funny, mom.
Annie: Oh My Gosh! Three Hos are better than One!! Bahahahahahahahaha
Mom: Yeah, like Ho Ho Ho! Because it’s Santa…get it?
Annie: Oh, we GET it! Do YOU get it.
Dad: (in tears now gasping for breath) THAT is a good shirt, Momma, Ima put it on RIGHT now.
Me: Dad, you can’t wear that today! Everyone will be over later for dinner!
Dad: It’s my new Christmas shirt your momma got me and Ima wear it.
Mom: Okay Annie, this one’s for you. Here, open it…
It’s been five Christmases since the revealing of this “dirty Santa”, and every year my dad pulls out the shirt and wears it. Sometimes visitors will mention how great it is and my mom will chime in with, “I have another one in the closet if you want it!” I still am not sure if anyone told her exactly what the shirt implied. Either way, it brings fun to the family Christmas every year.

There's a United Nations Meeting In My Belly

So my thankful week of gut busting is over and I find myself left with two things to show for it, leftover pie for breakfast and this little post to bring insight into the “melting pot” of a feast that my family calls Thanksgiving.  Okay…in all actuality, if it were my mom talking, she would put a slight Filipino accent spin on it and say Thanksgibbing.  My dad would abbreviate it with that southern drawl and call it Thanksgivin’.  Either way, you’ll be full when it’s over.

I was the host this year for the evening meal, so we DID actually have a traditional American meal, but my parents did not want to pass on the opportunity to host a few friends (and myself, of course) for their own “traditional” occasion during the lunch hour.   It was an eclectic mix of friends and food.  

It was a Melting Pot of Goodness...MmmmmMmmmm

So here you are…the menu at my parents Cajun Asian Turkey Day:

-Seafood Gumbo

-Cornbread Dressing
-Potato Salad
-Turkey (purposely not listed first because it is more obligatory than anything else)
-Spring Rolls
-Fruit and Vegtable fusion salad with sesame ginger dressing
-Miscellaneous assortment of store bought pies (whatever ones were on sale that day)
-left over Sinigang (Filipino broth-based soup with pork, radishes, green vegetables, etc.)

Was there gravy?  No.  Dad forgot and mom began her anti-gravy coalition when I was around 5 years old.  Mash potatoes?  No.  But there was a fresh pot of jasmine rice available.  Is that a giant bag of popcorn in the background?  Yes it is.  That’s what is known as the random “WOW factor” food item of the feast.  You never know what you’re gonna get.  And this year…we got popcorn.  You’re welcome.

Won't YOU be my Neighbor?

So the other day my "special" dog Maggie decided to bolt through the front door into the neighborhood. It was trash day and there was a smorgasbord of rotten people food displayed at everyone’s curbside and ripe for the taking. My arms were full of shopping bags and I did not have time to act quickly enough to stop her escape. There she was, eyes widened with excitement, tongue waving in the wind, smiling from ear-to-ear as she rounded the front corner of the house and disappeared from my view.

I yell, “Steele!!! Maggie just took off! Hurry, run and catch her before she becomes road kill!” From the opposite end of the house I hear the quickening pace of bare feet thumping on our hardwood floors, then the front door slams, and silence.

Can you tell we have this drill pretty much under control? Yep, it happens every couple of months, and sporadically enough to warrant letting our guard down and trusting that her “wild” days are long past, only to be disappointed time and time again.

I take a deep breath and begin putting away my things, confident that my son will prevail in the battle of wit and dexterity that is no doubt occurring on my front lawn at this very moment. And, as expected, about five minutes later Steele walks in, Maggie cradled in his arms panting and licking him between grunts.

So I tell him, “Great job as usual, babe.” And he’s all, “Well, I met the new neighbors!”

Me: New neighbors?

Steele: Apparently there’s a new Arabic family moving in down the block. You know, the really conservative dressers with all the robes to cover everything but half their face?

Me: Yeah, how did you meet them? Were they walking around the block?

Steele: Not exactly. I was so caught up in catching Maggie, I didn’t notice where I was running. Maggie would stop running just long enough for me to get like two inches from her and then she would bolt in the other direction. So I finally outsmarted her and grabbed her and I was like, “Aha! Gotcha ya little stinker!” And then I looked up and I was pretty much face-to-face with our new neighbors. I was in their garage...while they were moving their things in...standing between them and their front door.

Me: Well, did you say ‘Hello, welcome to the neighborhood?’

Steele: Not exactly, I kinda just said “Sorry.  Excuse me. I was trying to catch my dog.”

It was at this moment that my son put Maggie down on the ground and I realized what had just transpired down the block. My 14 year old son, in his haste to save my dog from her own stupidity, ran out of the front door wearing nothing but Looney tunes lounge shorts and a look of determination.

Me: Well, did you say anything else?

Steele: The lady was trying not to laugh at me. I couldn’t blame her. It’s not every day you‘re welcomed to the neighborhood by a half-naked teenager chasing a retarded dog in circles in your front yard. But she was nice, she said ‘Nice to meet you.’ And I told her it was nice meeting her too. Then I left as fast as I could.

Me: Hmmm, maybe we should make them cookies one day soon.

Steele: Or maybe we should just avoid them from now on.

Welcome to the neighborhood!

Communicato NOT-oh Mr. Roberto

So yesterday was my ladies’ life group meeting and every meeting each person is designated a food item to bring based on that week’s chosen theme. Last night was Mexican Delight! I was assigned the chips and queso. Easy, right? WRONG.

I decided to save time by going to a local Mexican restaurant to pick up my contribution for that evening’s dinner instead of making it myself. So I walk into the restaurant and greet the man at the counter, for the sake of this story, we will call him…Roberto. So enthusiastically I greet him by saying, “Hola! I would like to order chips and queso for 10 people please.” And he’s all, “Cheeps ahn kehsoh?” And I’m like, “Yes please, for ten people.” So Roberto is like, “You spek Spahneesh?” I get asked that A LOT, so I’m all, “No only Eeengles.” Don’t ask me why I was speaking English with a Hispanic accent at this point. I guess it was my attempt to communicate in the grey area of our nationalities. And at this point I’m thinking…Man, I shouldn’t have said ‘hola’, it gave him the wrong impression.

So now I’m realizing that Roberto doesn’t understand what I am trying to order. He’s all, “Okeh, Cheeps ahn kehsoh?” And I’m like, “Yes, for TEN people.” He still looks confused, so a VERY obnoxious helpful elderly woman behind me yells, “She means for several people…like a PARTY! Chips and cheese for a PARTY!” Apparently she believes that by speaking louder, he will suddenly learn English and have a better understanding. So Roberto replies, “Diez?” And I’m like, “Oh yeah! Diez people!” And he’s all, “No problem…Fife meenutes.” I breathe a sigh of relief. We did it! We communicated. My order is on its way!

A couple of minutes later a petite Mexican server walks over to me with FOUR LARGE BAGS of tortilla chips and a separate large bag filled with containers of queso. He says, “Ten orders of chips and queso?” FAIL

It was enough to feed 40 people...literally.

I explain to the man (who spoke English) that it was for ten people, not ten orders. He apologized for the miscommunication and allowed me to take what they had prepared but only charged me for what I had ordered. When I got to life group, the girls were laughing at me for bringing enough chips and queso to serve the entire Mexican armed forces. But you KNOW they ate it all up anyway!!! Just kidding, we had 3 bags left.

I had one of the girls take this photo so you could see the queso containers were nearly the same size as my head.

I should have listened to my parents as a teenager when they suggested I take Spanish instead of three years of French. Cheeps and Kehsoh anyone?