Too cute.
My pops is cute but he needs to work on his timing.
I have tremendous warm fuzzies today.
Warm-cozy-mug-o-frangelico-spiked-hot-chocolate-in-your-tummy-sitting-by-a-fire-with-a-soft-not-scratchy-wool-blanket-over-your-shoulders-and-being-hugged-from-behind-by-a-cutie-kind-of-warm-fuzzy. I called my dad while stuck in traffic today. He was glad to hear from me and I was pleased to chat with him now that he’s not nagging me about my unemployment and fretting about my state of singlehood and how come I won’t let him set me up with Dr. Shorty in Ohio.
First, my dad explained to me how he had gotten a marvelous gift for my brother, moi, and my step sister. It’s the same gift for us three. For Christmas. Yes, I know it’s still March.
Typical of old school Korean families, there is null concern regarding selecting an individual and particular gift for a loved one. Nor is there any discrimination or qualms with the notion of re-gifting. And of course if there is a good sale in March, of course it’s within normal rationale to purchase a gift to be stored until Christmastime. The same gift is good for everyone.
This is mighty marvy for when I’m visiting kin in Korea and can simply purchase a half dozen bottles of Johnny Walker Black Lable for all my uncles (at duty free, no less), and Ghiradelli Chocolates & scarves for my aunts. Next time I visit, I know all my cousins want a leatherman. In 1999 when I was last there, my uncle found my leatherman an amazing device and in a slightly Johnny Walker induced slur, proceeded to preach for a good half hour on why the Korean Army needed to include such a magnificent American invention with their regular gear.
I had simply pulled it out to cut the metal lables off the top of the bottles and to help fix second uncle’s glasses. Without hesitation, I gave him my leatherman as a birthday gift. With tremendous humility, he accepted it.
Back to the warm fuzzies. Dad described in emphatic enthusiasm about the quality and value of the wool blanket that was imported from New Zealand that he had gotten for a steal. Five minutes later he told me how he acquired such a find. Ten minutes following that he told me how the blanket had come in it’s own bag with *handles* on it. Wooo. Five minutes after that he told me how he plans to give my brother and his wife their blanket in may. Two minutes after that he told me that he won’t send the blanket but I’ll have to get it at thanksgiving or Christmas, or whenever I decide to come home. Zealous over a binky? Yup. That’s my pop. Can he handle the enthusiasm of giving me the binky some time in November? I hope so.
Then my dad got completely amush. He asked if I was mad at him for my childhood. He asked me if I forgave him for punishing me when I was younger. He mentioned that he was feeling old and remembering how he just tried to be a good father but that he felt so remorseful for having to hurt me when I was younger. The last time he spanked me was over fifteen years ago. I only remember being “having a hand laid on” me was maybe a dozen times. Mostly for crimes quite worthy of spankings, like throwing a hardbound copy of Robinson Carusoe at my brother’s nose or stealing money from my dad’s secret stash in the basement. (Hundreds of dollars were miscellaneously stashed about the house when we were younger. Only in my teens did my dad finally decide to trust a bank. He bought the family automobiles in cash. All.In.Cash. Usually transported in a brown paper lunch sack. He got his first credit card when I graduated from college)
Heaven knows, I appreciate my parents for raising me as a parents should. A pet peeve of mine: parents who negotiate with their kids, but that’s a whole other digression. No matter how much I tried to assure my father that I was fine, that I loved him, that I was thankful for how good a relationship we had, that I cherished him dearly, that I wasn’t begrudging him for anything, but indeed proud with how reasonably level headed and just plain *good* my brother and I had turned out, he couldn’t stop saying sorry. I finally had to raise my voice playfully and say “Daddy! Stop being the trouble maker! That’s *MY* job!” My pops’ response? “NO! No trouble Daddy is Good Daddy!” We then giggled, and that made my heart smile like May sunshine.
He then asked me where my writing was. Dad had gone ahead and paid for a two year subscription to KoreAm, the magazine that had featured two articles I’d written for their February issue. He complained about the $50 that he had to spend for the subscription. Five minutes after that, he confessed that he had showed the magazine to several of his church friends and they had all signed up for subscriptions. He was looking for an article by me in the March issue but alas, I hadn’t written anything new for KoreAm in the last few months, focusing just on job hunting, and now, the new job.
“Jooodiya… I’m so proud you. My daughter. Good writing. I think the book [it’s actually a magazine but pops calls it a book…because saying *mah-gah-jheen* is too annoying], ehbury younger generation should read.”
Then he complained about the fifty dollars again and told me he had to go because he didn’t want me to talk on the phone while driving. Of course he never said he liked the notion of me writing until *after* I’ve started a non-writing related job. Some timing. Either 9 months too early for xmas or 15+ years behind for reconciliation & forgiveness, or 2 months behind for expressions of pride. At least he’s on time for love.
“No trouble daddy, good daddy.”
“No trouble daughter, good daughter.”
“I rubbha you.”
“Me too Dad, sah rahng eh yo.”
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