Aging, Airfare, and the Ghost of Christmas Cards Unsent

Tomorrow we fly to Arizona for the Rams vs Cardinals game.
A football weekend.
Sports.
Yes, again. 🙃

My husband is thrilled. As he should be. He grew up in Huntington Beach, where surfboards are basically issued at birth. You know the type—blond, sun-kissed, freckled, grew-up-on-a-longboard type of SoCal boy. Former jock who somehow still knows the batting averages of players who retired when gas was under two cents. Name a sport? He played it. Or at least talks like he could…if his knees didn’t now sound like a bag of Rice Krispies every time he stands up. Aging, my friends, is the real MVP.

Meanwhile, there’s me.
Filipino Chinese. Raised by a full-on Asian Tiger Mom.

“No biking! You might fall and scratch your face!”
“No swimming! You’ll get dark!”
“No standing near a fan! You’ll catch pneumonia and die!”
“Where’s the Vicks VapoRub?! Apply it on everything. Prevention is better than cure. And Vicks cures EVERYTHING!” UGH!

So yeah. While the kids were out there bruising their knees and learning teamwork, I was indoors bonding with Nancy Drew, binge-reading the Britannica Encyclopedias (Gen Z, that’s Google but in book form), and escaping into entire worlds of Greek and Filipino mythology. I was alphabetizing facts about the Trojan War while baking Food For the Gods and sylvanas, watercolor, charcoal-drawing Princess Diana, and creating sculptures with plaster of Paris. Doing mix media before that was a thing.
Introvert aesthetic before it was a Pinterest board. 

I wasn’t athletic. I was imaginative.
I didn’t play dodgeball. I dodged expectations.

Now? I go to NFL games. Only NFL. Not college. That’s the only kind I can take.
I made the mistake once of going to a college game at Hard Rock Stadium.
Never again.
The kids were standing the entire time, screaming, sweating, shaking their shirts like they were possessed by a frat demon.
And do they even know what deodorant is??
No thank you. I need assigned seats, overpriced nachos, and adults who sit down between plays.

Not because I understand it (I still don’t know what a “3rd and 6” is and I refuse to learn at this point out of principle), but because it’s fun in a weird, chaotic, overpriced-hotdog, nacho-cheese-stuck-to-my-jeans kind of way. And because I’ve learned that fun sometimes wears a jersey and yells at referees.

Also, full disclosure:
I did have a Brady-Gronk era. And I’ve been a Travis Kelce fan since BEFORE Taylor Swift turned him into a lifestyle influencer. I saw him first. Let the record show my superior scouting skills. 💅

I actually tried learning football using ChatGPT. AI looked me dead in the face (digitally) and said:
“Dory, you actually know more about the game than most Americans do.”
HAH. I retired right then and there.

CBA: Canvas Shoes, Bloody Drinks, Aruba

 I’m home.

Adobo’s on the stove, boiled eggs doing their thing, and I’m trying to remember what my own bed feels like.
There’s a mountain of laundry in the corner.
But I can’t deal with that right now.

Because sitting in the laundry room — still judging me silently — are my husband’s once-white Vans.

Remember those?

Why an $8 Ring in Bonaire Meant More Than Diamonds

It’s Saturday in Las Vegas, the day after Black Friday. Didn’t go shopping. Didn’t shove anyone in a checkout line. Just casino-hopped with my husband like a couple of tired middle-aged tourists who’d rather gamble calories than coupons.

Earlier that day, we walked over to the Sphere. You know, that enormous high-tech eyeball thing that stares into your soul and possibly your browser history. I decided to treat my better half to a little culture — we watched the Wizard of Oz immersive experience. It was trippy in a wholesome way. Everything was glowing, twinkling, and spinning like a childhood fever dream.

He smiled politely, but I knew deep down he would’ve rather been at a psychedelic tie-dye concert yelling “FREE BIRD!” at the ceiling. But he was sweet about it. Drinks were $20, which felt criminal, but hey came in a souvenir cup, so we felt like slightly robbed winners.

That night, my daughter treated us to Enchant — a holiday maze filled with more lights than a Taylor Swift concert and enough artificial snow to confuse your pores. And then, the impossible happened.

I went ice skating.

I know.
Me.
A 53-year-old Filipina grandma. Raised in the asphalted tropics. Grew up knowing more about typhoons than snowflakes.

I slipped a little the moment I stepped on the ice. But determined to check “ice skating” off my must-do-before-I-die list, I kept going. I didn’t quit. My stubbornest determination kicked in. I gripped the railing like my future depended on it and dragged myself around for one full loop. I was part Bambi, part Tita with bad knees, but I did it. Upright. Skating. Technically.

And yes — the cold did bother me anyway.

Caves, Chaos, and Curaçao: A Story I Remember While Yelling at the Dog

I’m currently in Las Vegas, yelling at a dog named Poppy.

It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and my daughter Sam is hosting for the first time ever. New house. New husband. Two little boys. A puppy the size of a small lion. It’s a whole thing.

Poppy is big for a puppy. Golden retriever, full of feelings. She responds to tone more than words, which is why every time I shout, “Poppy, stop that!” my husband turns around like I just called him to heel.
(Yes. I call him Papi. No, I didn’t think this through.)

My kids say we’re basically the real-life Modern Family. I’m Gloria — the accent, the dramatics, the passive-aggressive side comments — just minus the cleavage and the body. And my husband? Full-on Jay. Older, white, slightly confused half the time but pretending not to be, walking around with a dishtowel like it's part of his natural anatomy. The dynamic is very much: tropical storm marries retired golf course.

It’s been our running joke for years now. And somehow, it gets more accurate every holiday.

We’re at my daughter’s house, and I’m trying to help in the kitchen. Not take over, just help. Just casually keep the stuffing from looking like it was prepped during a mild earthquake while pretending I’m not silently judging the oven temperature.

And in the middle of all this — the cooking, the barking, the football, the sudden craving for Cool Whip — I find myself mentally drifting back to earlier this month.
To a cave.
To Curaçao.
To four peaceful sea days where the only thing I had to worry about was whether I’d made it to my massage on time.

When You Realize Family Isn’t Guaranteed (But Pie Helps)

 One of our guest rooms is now my little creative cave. I converted it into a mini office-slash-studio. I love this spot — the morning light floods through the windows like it knows I need help getting out of bed. It’s where I used to paint.

Keyword: used to.

Because now? I hardly paint. I write. I make books. I fall into rabbit holes of stories and fonts and research and suddenly it’s 2 a.m. and I forgot to eat again. Something happened. Writing has me by the throat in the most healing, tender way. It's my version of therapy, except cheaper and with less emotional eye contact.

Here’s what I didn’t expect at 50-something: to finally let myself feel things I shoved into storage boxes three decades ago. To grieve stuff I didn’t know I was allowed to grieve. To dream about things I once laughed off — like publishing actual books. Not journals with three sad poems and a grocery list. I mean real books, with ISBNs and deadlines and feelings and printer errors and "why is this font haunted?" moments.

And it all started because I found out I was going to be a grandmother.

The Unpacking Hangover, Panic Pasta, Jetlag, and the Thanksgiving I Am Now Mentally Unprepared For

I’ve been off the ship for a couple of days, but mentally I’m still somewhere in the Caribbean, floating in water so clear I could see my own stress leaving my body. Then I got home, opened my suitcase, and Half Moon Cay literally spilled onto my floor. A full sand dump. And yes — I crouched down and stared at it like a psychopath, debating if I should vacuum it or keep it in a small emotional support jar.

Because once I vacuum that sand… the cruise is officially over.
And I’m not emotionally ready for that.

The Cruise Prep Post That Never Made It (And Maybe That’s a Blessing)

 Before we left for the cruise, I had every intention of posting this. Really. It sat in my drafts, half polished, half chaotic—basically me before any trip. But between overthinking outfits, trying to scrub my husband’s “vintage” white Vans back from the dead, and wrestling with my suitcase like it owed me money, the whole thing got swallowed by life.

So I’m sharing it now, post-cruise, because it still deserves daylight… and because honestly, the chaos aged like wine.