Friday, November 29, 2013

Have any of you ever seen that show "Parenthood?" You know, the one based in Berkeley where a beautiful, interesting, and intelligent 3-generation family lives, learns, laughs, and loves together? Well, that was literally my Thanksgiving. Except, do you remember that uncomfortable-looking weirdo who just sits in the corner and shifts every once in a while to indicate that she's still alive while everyone around her laughs uproariously about shared memories of the past? Oh, right. That character doesn't exist. And there's a REASON that character doesn't exist: that character is a wet towel. She's lame, yo.

I think you know where this is going. This Thanksgiving, I was that wet towel.

This may not need clarification, but my Thanksgiving plans didn't actually include crashing someone else's dinner. I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. I won't go into details because it can pretty much be summed up by "poor health ruins everything," but when I walked into my grandparents' kitchen after a 9-hour trek from Eugene, my grandma very eagerly informed me that I would be "spending Thanksgiving with the _____ family this year!" I think she thought her peppy tone would confuse me into being excited about it. In her defense, it almost worked. But then I paused to take it in.

Excuse me? The _____ family? Who are these people? Oh, twenty generations ago so-and-so's brother adopted a son whose birth cousin got divorced and then married the milkman's stepdad, who happened to have the same surname as your great grand half-mammy? I'm glowing with family closeness right now.

Joking aside, it really wasn't that bad. But I had only met one of the attendees before, and that was when I was 8. The only shared memory we had to reminisce about was "Weren't you the sibling that read a lot?" Dinner was uncomfortable, certainly, but I survived. Shit happens, and they were very kind to take me in.

So that pretty much sums up what I've been up to, right? Oh. No? You guys are a tough crowd. Here are some pictures of California to placate you, along with a promise to write more in the (hopefully not-too-distant) future.

From a hike on (around?) Mount Diablo this afternoon.



View from I-5. Not too shabby for a highway, eh? 

Shasta, you looker, you. I want your snow.

Everybody loves goats. At the Lafayette Reservoir.

Don't ask me what that is, because I don't know.


This post brought to you by the RWH clan, Professor Amy and Coach Holly.

Just Like On The T.V.

Have any of you ever seen that show "Parenthood?" You know, the one based in Berkeley where a beautiful, interesting, and intelligent 3-generation family lives, learns, laughs, and loves together? Well, that was literally my Thanksgiving. Except, do you remember that uncomfortable-looking weirdo who just sits in the corner and shifts every once in a while to indicate that she's still alive while everyone around her laughs uproariously about shared memories of the past? Oh, right. That character doesn't exist. And there's a REASON that character doesn't exist: that character is a wet towel. She's lame, yo.

I think you know where this is going. This Thanksgiving, I was that wet towel.

This may not need clarification, but my Thanksgiving plans didn't actually include crashing someone else's dinner. I was supposed to spend Thanksgiving with my grandparents. I won't go into details because it can pretty much be summed up by "poor health ruins everything," but when I walked into my grandparents' kitchen after a 9-hour trek from Eugene, my grandma very eagerly informed me that I would be "spending Thanksgiving with the _____ family this year!" I think she thought her peppy tone would confuse me into being excited about it. In her defense, it almost worked. But then I paused to take it in.

Excuse me? The _____ family? Who are these people? Oh, twenty generations ago so-and-so's brother adopted a son whose birth cousin got divorced and then married the milkman's stepdad, who happened to have the same surname as your great grand half-mammy? I'm glowing with family closeness right now.

Joking aside, it really wasn't that bad. But I had only met one of the attendees before, and that was when I was 8. The only shared memory we had to reminisce about was "Weren't you the sibling that read a lot?" Dinner was uncomfortable, certainly, but I survived. Shit happens, and they were very kind to take me in.

So that pretty much sums up what I've been up to, right? Oh. No? You guys are a tough crowd. Here are some pictures of California to placate you, along with a promise to write more in the (hopefully not-too-distant) future.

From a hike on (around?) Mount Diablo this afternoon.



View from I-5. Not too shabby for a highway, eh? 

Shasta, you looker, you. I want your snow.

Everybody loves goats. At the Lafayette Reservoir.

Don't ask me what that is, because I don't know.


This post brought to you by the RWH clan, Professor Amy and Coach Holly.