Mexican... Polish... whatever

This morning my roommate DeeHo and I went on a hike in Griffith Park. Here is a picture taken of us on last week's hike with T-finger:


And yes, that IS what we look like when we're hot, sweaty, and tired.

At the top of the hill today we saw the exuberant Korean man who likes to slap High Five to hikers very, very hard. Presumably this is to help us get the lymph going. Today he asked us if we were sisters. We get this occasionally, not because we look anything alike but because we have toothy grins and similar body types (i.e. boobs and booties). The man asked me if I was Mexican. I was speechless for a second. I’ve been mistaken for German, Swedish, and Russian, but never Mexican. This was one for the blog!

Indeed, as the blog header will tell you, I am 100% Polish. My parents are from the Old Country, and my dad moved here at age 11. My mom came to the States when she married him at 26. I know everyone has issues with their parents being frustrating, annoying, or otherwise difficult, but I have the added strain of determining whether I can justify getting mad at them. Are they acting in line with their cultural background, or truly in need of a scolding?

My dad in particular is a tough nut to crack. I used to think the dad on Wonder Years was based on my father. Our weekly phone conversations generally go like this:

ME
Hi, Dad.
DAD
Oh, hey, Ann! How is everything?
ME
Good. It’s nice out today. DeeHo and I are going to brunch in a bit.
(Pause)
DAD
And how’s the car?
ME
Great. Perfect.
DAD
Air conditioning works?
ME
Oh yeah.
DAD
All right. Well, thanks for calling. Bye.
ME
OK, b-
(Click)

A month ago my Dad failed to call me on my birthday. I know there are bigger problems in the world than keeping score of who calls on my birthday, but I had a strong feeling I could call him out on this. I knew that:

1) I had forewarned him the previous weekend that I would turn 27 on Wednesday.
2) He thinks celebrating birthdays in general is stupid and unnecessary.
3) My mom, knowing her, had badgered him all day to call me and he pointedly refused.

What a piece of work. I wrote him an eloquent letter expressing how hurt I was by his lack of phone call, and how I hoped that when next year rolled around he would consider calling.

Two weeks pass. Nothing. I call him and we make some small talk while he pretends everything is normal. Finally he says, “I got your letter.” I take a moment to pat myself on the back for not calling and yelling at him that day to get my point across. Obviously, a letter was the best way to get my thoughts heard. “So…” he says, “Are you over it yet?”

Incredible! “Well I don’t have much of a choice, Dad, except to get over it, do I?!”

He chuckles a little, as if I were being melodramatic. “And how’s the car?”

I give up, people. Some dads never change.

Today’s Coffee Beverage: Iced NF peppermint mocha latte from Peet’s. It always makes me late for work to go all the way to Peet’s, but it’s worth it.