The Relationship I Have With My Dad

"I am a princess not because I have a prince, but because my father is a king."
—Anonymous

            I have a great relationship with both of my parents. We play around a lot. We make fun of each other. We spend quality time with each other. The similarities end there, though, because my relationship with both is very different. I can spend hours talking to my mom. Our conversations are always different and interesting, and sometimes they are just entertaining and dumb. The relationship I have with my mom is easy to explain. She comforts me, doesn’t judge me, and I can go to her for anything. We compare ourselves to Gilmore Girls a lot. The relationship I have with my dad is not so easy to explain. In fact, whenever I try to explain it to people, they never really get it. So, in honor of Father’s Day, I’m going to try and just show what our relationship looks like. Here is a tribute to twenty-three years with my dad.

The way he supports me:

Everyday things:

Me: “I need to take a shower.”

Dad: “You need a lot more than that.”

Me: “I need to trim my hair.”

Dad: “You need more than that.”

Me: “I need to start working out again.”

Dad: “Oh good, you noticed. I didn’t want to say anything.”

How I know my dad reads my blogs:

            My dad doesn't tell me he reads my blog. He never tells me what he thinks of a post or if it was good or not. But, he does let me know he reads them. I was hanging out with my sister and she wanted to play, like always. Then my dad tells her, “She can’t play with you, because she’s too old now and doesn’t have her ‘imagination’ anymore.” – reference to my post titled, “Too Old to Play with Dolls”

He supports his sports teams, and kind of mine:

            When it’s baseball season, my dad wears his Dodger’s hat. When it’s football season, he wears his Redskins hat. When it’s basketball season, well, I’m not sure he has a Laker’s hat. I should probably find out. He’s rooted for the same teams for as long as I can remember. I mean sure, I hear that the Dodgers and Lakers are good, plus they’re our home city’s team, so those make sense. But the Redskins haven’t won the Superbowl since the year I was born.

            If it isn’t obvious, I’m not a sport’s fan. Like at all. My dad has tried to get me interested in sports since I was a kid, but according to him, my mom brainwashed me into not liking his teams. I think it also has something to do with the fact that throughout high school, he’d like to root for my rival’s teams, shouting, “Go Wilson!” and “Boo Los Altos. They’re sorry.” Lucky for my dad, my sister has never been brainwashed like I was. So she enthusiastically shouts, “Go Lakers! Go Redskins! Go Dodgers!” And whenever she sees basketball on the t.v., though she thinks it’s boring, she’ll still tell my dad, “Look, there’s Kobe!” no matter what team is actually on.

            Regardless of who he was representing on his hat or jersey, or verbally shouting for, he’s always been a fan of me. I was in color guard all of high school, and he went to nearly every performance and competition. He bought the DVDs of my competitions and Guard Father memorabilia - not sure if he ever had a color guard hat. He did have a shirt from when I was in the Rose parade. For every performance, I'd spot him sitting alone, or with my sister, with folded arms and a smileless face (because he likes to try and look intimidating for some reason – maybe it’s a Mexican dad thing, I don’t know). He’d even watch other performances to tell me how much better my team was, or who our competition might be.

Important Life Lessons

How to cook pasta the right way:

            I poured my pasta in the not yet boiling water, and already my dad pointed out, “What are you doing? You’re supposed to wait until it’s boiling.” I ignored his comment while I continued to cook my pasta and pour some salt in the pot. “Salt? Where’s the garlic? Where’s the tomato? Do I need to show you how to make pasta?” Finally I told him, “Are you making the pasta? No. Okay then, it’s my pasta. I’ll make it the way I want.” “Man,” he said disgruntled, “I thought I taught you better than that.” I stirred the pasta that was finally boiling, to which he commented again, “You’re going to keep it boiling? You’re supposed to lower it to a simmer after it starts boiling.” Again I said, “Who’s making the pasta? Me or you?” At some point, he threw in, “You dishonor me with your cooking ways.” He was displeased with my pasta making skills, but moved on to what he was cooking for himself. Something with vegetables. He went on to describe, “See, this is how you’re supposed to cook.” Then he went step by step explaining something I would never make for myself. He turned again to my pot of pasta and salt, and criticized it some more by explaining what it was lacking. Once again, I said, “Is this your pasta? Are you going to eat it?” This time I had back up, because my little sister shouted from the living room, “It’s her pasta not yours! Let her cook it the way she wants!”

Punctuality:

            I work for my dad at his shop helping with bookkeeping. I’m supposed to go once a week, but it’s more like once or twice a month. Every time I’m going to go, my dad always gives me a ridiculous time to get there by – 8, 8:30, 9. I mean, okay, those are normal times. But I’m not a morning person, and the earliest I go to work for my actual real job is 11. And I literally work for a few hours at my dad’s shop, which consists of napping, talking to my uncles, going on Facebook and Pinterest, and then getting some work done (he once wrote me a check that said "for napping" in the memo). I see no point in getting there early for that. Still, every time I go, my dad always gives me a time and says, “Don’t be late.” And every time I’m a minimum of 30 mins late, and have even been two hours late. It’s just too early.

            One time, I was late to the shop because I thought I lost my phone. I was looking at fridges with my best friend for my new apartment, and then planning on going to the shop afterward. Instead, we stopped by Ikea to look at desks, during which I thought I lost my phone. I actually thought someone stole it. Let’s not get into it. People don’t steal phones at Ikea. Anyways, I called my dad with my friend’s phone to tell him someone stole my phone and I was going to be late. His response, “That’s what you get for not going straight to the shop.”

How to always win a debate:

            Clear is not a color. I’ve had this argument with my dad since I was probably in preschool. Maybe kinder. Doesn’t matter. Point is that clear is not a color. But what does he say when I tell him it’s not a color? He points to a window and says, “What color is that?” To which I respond, “It’s not a color. It’s clear. There’s color through it.” “See, you said it’s clear. So, clear is a color.” Seriously, every time it goes exactly like this. Exactly.

Complaining:

            If ever I complain to my dad about walking too far, his response is, “When I was your age, I used to walk ten miles in the snow. Barefoot. Don’t talk to me about too far.” It doesn’t snow in Southern California.

Best Role Model Ever: 

Being confident (or conceited):

            My dad sometimes looks at himself in the car mirror, and starts turning his cheeks to each side to examine then. Then he says, “Who’s that handsome guy in the mirror? Oh, wait, it’s just me.” After this comes the finger guns and the wink (you know, the ones you make when you’re checking yourself out).

            He also believes he wins the most handsome dad of the year award every school year. My dad would tell me he was the most handsome dad of all the dads at my school. I’d always tell him he is not handsome. He’s conceited. Then he’d ask me, “Okay, stop playing. Honestly, have you seen any other dad cuter than me?” No, I don’t check out dads, I’d think. But instead, I’d just tell him, “You’re not cute.”

            My dad was young and his twenties and early thirties while I was in school, so he was younger than most other dads. But my sister is fifteen years younger than me, so now he is about the same age as other dads. So, now he says, “Even though I’m a little older now, I still look better than all the other dads. Say I don’t. Be honest.” If my sister is around, she’ll tell him, “Yeah, Papa, you’re the handsomest.” Then he tells me, “See, why can’t you be like her?” Then he smiles and thanks her for being nicer than her mean older sister. He tries to get my sister to make me say my dad is handsome. “Why don’t you tell him he’s handsome? Tell him. Look at him. He’s very handsome.” She doesn’t even know how much she inflates his already big head. And then his wife tells him he’s handsome, too, which means I’ll never be able to deflate his ego.

Being Tough:

            Whenever I ask my dad if it hurt when (fill in blank), his response is always, “Nothing hurts me.” Then, I ask him, “Seriously, but did it hurt?” He’ll respond, “It tickled. Nothing hurts me.”

            Aside from “being tough,” he also enjoys making fun of me for not “being tough.” I can’t handle spicy food, so he’ll call me a sissy. If I’m too afraid to do anything (kill a spider, go somewhere alone, etc), he’ll call me a whimp.

            My favorite story of his “toughness” was when I was nine years old and we went to the fair. We went on the Ferris wheel, and I learned that my dad is scared of heights. When we got to the top, my dad starting silently shouting, “Let me down, let me down.” He was half-joking, and didn’t think anyone could hear him, but he was scared. By the time we made one full rotation and got to the bottom again, they let us off. Apparently, he wasn’t so silent. 

Our Communication Skills

            People complain about the way I text all the time, with short answers, and usually just “k.” Well, I learned it from somewhere, and what’s funny to me is that the way me and my dad text is the same way we actually talk in person.

Texts:

Me: My story got accepted and I’m going to Minneapolis in March.

Dad: We are going, we are a team

Dad: I’m very proud of you

Dad: I will read it when I get home, and tell you the truth about it

Me: I found your twin at church and it was a little weird

Dad: Nobody is as good looking as me

Me: He was a younger you. Slightly chubbier in the face. Looked a lot like you from the back.

Dad: I’m not chubby

Me: Yes you are

Dad: It’s baby fat

Me: That you gained when you were older?

Me: That’s called regular fat

Dad: Your grandparents cancelled dinner, they don’t feel good

Me: I see… So they don’t want to go out with you guys?

Dad: They don’t want to go see you actually

Me: Then they would’ve suggested a different place. It’s you they don’t want to see.

Dad: Ok, they just sick

Dad: Happy Valentine’s you don’t need those tight wearing pants emotional guys any ways. Luv you and you will always be my Valentine’s

Me: Btw I’m sick. Went home early from work today. I’m staying in bed all day and drinking soup and tea.

Me: I don’t have a voice. Can’t talk on the phone.

Dad: Wa wa wa, call me when you feel better. And take real medicine not your little honey thing

Dad: It’s probably better that you can’t talk, you sound smarter when you don’t talk

Me: I’m hiking btw. We’re supposed to go cliff diving but I may chicken out.

Me: Just letting you know in case I die

Dad: Kool

Me: I survived. On my way back.

Dad: I just wanted to thank you for being a good sister, you made your sister’s b day so much better. And I guess you’re a good daughter too. “Sometimes”

Me: I’m a good sister and daughter. Thank you papi. You love me :) I love you too.

Me: I’m saving this message.

            Happy Father’s Day to the man who has been a constant unchanging figure in my life. There’s a million more things I could put in this post, but this is still a pretty good picture of why I love my dad. He teaches me and my sister a lot, and I’m so thankful for every little thing I’ve learned from him.

p.s. My family had a Father’s Day/ Grampa’s birthday lunch this past weekend. My dad and family got onto the topic of my blog. He told them all, “Doesn’t she need permission to use people’s names? Can’t we sue her for talking about us?” If he sues me for this, I’m going to use his money anyway.

"A girl’s first true love is her father."
—Marisol Santiago