I'll tell you something I wish I would have known when I was a kid. We Wisels? We are not normal.
While filling the spot of being the young, oft-grounded daughter this past Saturday and Sunday, I remembered all the idiosyncrasies of my youth. Mainly, how I wasn’t raised the same way as everyone else. I mean the regular stuff, sure — I over-participated in extracurricular activities, I had somewhat-just-as-cool jeans as the populars, there were more homemade dinners than I could ever expect to whip up for future zombie babies. But, it's the little things (it's always the little things) that as an adult, whose eyes don't typically focus on this set of parentals, I couldn't stop laughing at.
I took a picture of all of the things that struck me as, oh, slightly unusual, which really in theory could have been a widespread, time-lapse panoramic, but hey, who's got time for these things when the fridge is stocked specifically for them? Exactly. Here's the stuff I did put the fork down in time to snap, on the contrary:
I had always considered us efficient CostCo shoppers instead of doomsday preppers, but at some point, you have to wonder about the amount of soap that we’ve got housed in our basement. There aren’t a lot of things that make me wish I lived in Chicago and drove a car around the city, but being able to have full access to a stockpile of Scotch Brite sponges and Ziplock bags when that shit’ll cost you an hours’ worth of work to pay off in ol’ Nueva York makes me long for a trunk and the ability to ransack their house without having to lug it all the way home in a Delsey suitcase. Also: my parents are the only people I've ever met who buy Lever2000. You guys probably don't even know what that is, do you. Hmph.
A fun, sunshine-filled day at Nordstrom Rack! That is...far off in the distance, all the way out there past those trees. My parents do this fun thing where they park in the last corner spot in large parking lots since nobody knows how to drive, and I get it. I get it. They like to keep their cars nice, and having them fucked up and abandoned by a shitty driver isn’t exactly worth the shorter walk time. But, for me? A person who treats four-wheeled vehicles like bumper cars because I don’t understand the value of keeping nice things nice (and OK, don’t really know how to drive)? I could give less of a shit, especially when it’s 30 degrees outside and I didn’t pack real pants and am freezing my nads off.
If you think about it, isn't it kind of crazy that we live in a culture where we drive these gigantic boxes around but are massively protective of anyone even coming close to touching or nudging ours, when other countries bump and tap cars 'til they fit into spots on windy, cobblestone streets? Philosophically, the entire concept of being so protective of a physical object that you want it to stay pristine blows my mind, but that's probably why I haven't been behind the wheel of a car in four years. It's fine, I've got Uber. Problem solved.
“I didn’t know how many pillows you wanted!”
(In case you can’t tell, there are six. Memory foam, feathery poofy, another memory foam, regular and dense, decor, body. Not pictured: ones with embroidered phrases about daughters and grandmothers that can only be found at Floridian flea markets.)
Apparently, "No noodles, extra broth please!" is something you absolutely do not say at one of the best Vietnamese restaurants in Chicago, Tank Noodle. But, but but how else can you reach spotty, dizzying levels of dehydration within a 2-4 hour period?!? I've said what feels like a million times how much I hate plain ol' noodles, and every bowl-diving experience ends with a pile of sad, flat white wormy noodles sitting at the bottom of a now-brothless meal.
It comes with a douse of irony, considering I double-checked my milkshake would be made with the highest form of dairy product possible: condensed milk. (It was instead made with half & half. Diet-friendly!) But, even still, I can't eat plain noodles, I won't plain eat noodles, so help me god. Hate me because I hate noodles, don't hate me because I'm incredibly contradicting.
There's a family trait that gets passed down along with "taught to be endlessly nervous" and "over diagnosis of potential illnesses", and this is the construct of always worrying about where the next meal is coming from. Some of us have it worse than others (it's almost impossible to avoid food in Manhattan, thank the lord) but this picture of my parentals picking up BBQ Pork and chickens for dinner happened no less than two blocks and two minutes after finishing soupy mealtime. Seriously: we left the Vietnamese restaurant, walked down the block, and picked up sacks of meat that were so heavy, my squirrely weak arms weren't allowed to carry them. Ravaging and scavenging. Cue: National Geographic voiceover.
My mom replaced her computer background of my face with one of her and Young The Giant, which, now that I think about it, is actually the most normal thing in this series.
My grandma and my mother. Notice anything...odd about my grandma's shirt? I don't know, maybe that there's a cutout in the boob section, and a matching pair of them on the arms?!
Bling bling bling bling bling, all the way home.