Thursday, December 02, 2004

The Stanimal is a Longhorn dad (sort of)

When I was in college, I bought my father an I AM A LONGHORN DAD burnt-orange bumper sticker in a desperate attempt to be normal. See, our little family of three immigrants didn't do a lot of the things my friends' families did. Things like:
  • drinking beverages in the car
  • throwing away receipts for two-dollar items purchased On the Fly
  • purchasing things On the Fly
  • socializing with other human beings (Except Poles. Poles were ok as long as they were of the intelligentsia and not that trash that comes over to the States to do asbestos work.)
  • watching sitcoms
  • laughing
  • eating foods that are not European in origin
  • reminiscing about the past
  • singing (I don't think I ever heard my mother sing before she died. Note to self: ask the Stanimal to sing over Christmas.)
  • and lastly: using bumper stickers
An I AM A LONGHORN DAD bumper sticker seemed like a very American, wholesome thing to buy. So I did. But I can't say that I was too surprised when, the next time I came home, I saw that my dad had PROPPED the I AM A LONGHORN DAD bumper sticker up against the back windshield of his car for the occasion.

For those of you who don't know me IRL, this seems like the appropriate time to divulge the following fact: I used to play bank with myself when I was little. Go ahead, laugh; all my friends find it spectacularly amusing. I'd get deposit and withdrawl slips when I'd go to the bank with my mom, and I'd come home, organize them, fill them out. I kept a little ledger of transactions. THIS WAS MY FAVORITE CHILDHOOD GAME.

It all makes sense now, doesn't it?

Susan Cannon was the muse for this post.

1 Comments:

Blogger Sarachkah said...

Last year, I made friends with a "trashy Pole" who came over to the US to do asbestos work. He was the temporary maintenance guy in my building during a time when I needed a lot of work done in my condo (none of it having to do with asbestso). He was about 20 years old (but such a young 22 that he made me feel like Mrs. Robinson), totally adorable and fresh-faced, and his English was much better than he gave himself credit for, although still charmingly hestitant.

And the BEST PART was that he wanted to be a dancer. And so he was doing a part-time job ripping out insulation at a factory, a part-time job as maintenance guy at my building, and he took dance lessons every night. He was slender and graceful and so "FLashdance" I could hardly get over it. Or maybe FAME. I could totally see him dancing on the hood of a car in a traffic jam in NYC.

His name was Victor, although I don't know what the Polish spelling was. He looked like a beautiful Russian ice skater. Then one day, he just disappeared. I hope to see him with Alvin Ailey one day. Of course, I never go to Alvin Ailey, so that might be hard.

That is my long and touching story about Polish asbestos immigrants.

December 6, 2004 at 1:13 PM  

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