This past three days and the coming week is going to be pretty jam-packed as it is the week of my grandfather’s funeral. And thanks to his rank, it is yet again another tedious royally sponsored funeral that will require me to act and dress much more proper beyond my own character’s comfort.

My grandfather has been hospitalized for quite some time already so it was something we expected. His heart rate dropped Wednesday, and him being almost 90 years old, all the family members agreed that he had a great life and that it was time.

I have a very few memories about him. He used to live alone somewhere in Chonburi in his beach house and we would go visit him. I was too young to even remember the details. More vivid memories came later when he was already sick and had a hard time to remember us and our names. All I know is that he was a war veteran, an army general with a heap of subordinates who are now more powerful and at times infamous than he was. The first day of the funeral we received a blessed holy water for the watering rite from the palace, and the funeral itself is also sponsored by the palace, from funeral staff to the food and drunks. The first day was also attended by Prem Tinsulanonda and Surayud Chulanont who was apparently one of his subordinates back in the day. I didn’t even know my grandfather was such a figure in the army until now.

Surayud in white, Prem in black behind him

Living in this family I have had a fair share of over-the-top rites of passage, whether they are birthdays, engagements, weddings, and of course funerals. Everything has to be more complicated than it should be. Like this one for example. Seven days of sitting hearing a group of monks chant incomprehensible verses, seven days of dressing up like a character in a Thai period movies just to pay respect to all the decorations and golden pagodas that come with my grandfather’s ranks and titles back when he was alive.

I know it is something to do with respect, something we can do to honor him, his legacy, his history and his life. Of course I would have loved to have such a thing for my own funeral. but in the end, whatever you did while you were living, no matter how much money you made, what title or name you had, when you die it all becomes pointless anyway. I think a funeral is just this one last place for us living to deal with the death of our loved ones. Without it, we will not have this one last thing to hold on to.

But I’d like to propose a change to this last thing we have for our loved ones though. Stop with the eulogies, the gloomy colored clothes guests have to wear, the lamenting music and the haunting chants of the monks. And definitely, stop the whole stressful arrangement of some over-the-top rituals for someone who’s probably not in the room to appreciate. I don’t think my grandfather would even care anymore if he was a big shot general back in the day.

I have decided, when my time comes, just do one session of funeral where guests are allowed to wear whatever color and clothing they want and instead of sitting around listening to some emotionally tormenting singing, just have a party. A concert. A DJ session playing whatever music you think I would have liked. That’s how you’re being remembered–as someone who doesn’t put pressure on how they’re supposed to feel and act.

When I was sitting next to my grandfather at the funeral, I was playing Cooking Mama on my iPhone and chewing Sugus. The living would have scolded me but I knew my grandfather was somewhere he was comfortable, more peaceful than having to deal with the antics of his oldest granddaughter.

Rest in peace grandpa. And please somehow tell Dad to stop bugging me about what I wear to your funeral.

My mom is weird. She has this allergy that’s not like when you’re allergic to dusts or pollen like most people. She’s allergic to MSG.

We went for Chinese last night near Emporium. You’d think the food is oily and salty enough as it is, but no, the Chinese wants to abuse your taste buds. My mom could feel it from the first sip of her corn chowder.

What I find fascinating is her allergic reaction. No I’m not being mean as it is really funny. She doesn’t get swollen up, she gets drunk. Yes drunk, the kind you would get when you chug down vodka. She would get dizzy, red-faced, and unable to maintain balance. Good thing she stopped last night otherwise I would have to maneuver a Fortuner myself.

But then again my mom gets drunk pretty easily. She was unable to walk when I made her drink Barcadi Breezer and when she sampled a piece of “brownie” I took home, she passed out within minutes.

We have a lot of things in common actually. We’re immature, shopaholic and we both have this seasonal obsessions that we get from time to time. Her well-known phases were knitting, home yoga kit and the most recently online shopping. She’s been bargaining online for rare not-available-in-Thailand cosmetics.

She’s rather a stay at home kinda person (even to shop) while I’d rather not be at home at all except to sleep. But ironically, she works out more than I do. She goes to fitness at 5 in the morning every day and gets her muscles pumping from everything from kick-boxing to yoga. Her favorite show on AXN is The Contender while mind is Nip/Tuck. How revealing.

I’m closer to my mom than to my patriarchal figure, but according to her and some of the people who have seen my wrath, my personality is more like my dad. Stressful, impatient and an avid tantrum thrower. She’s quite and simple enough to keep things balanced around here.

One true fact though, I’ve been told many times by my guy friends.

My mom’s a MILF. I doubt I’ll be as half of a MILF that she is when I’m her age.

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Dear Commentator “ray”, what kind of person are you, going on people’s blogs insulting their mothers. Fuck you. Your IP has now been banned and comment deleted.

My cousin has just turned 15 today.

FIFTEEN!!! I can still remember the time when I went to pick him up at kindergarten.

He’s now doing IGCSEs and next year he will be applying to ABAC.

ABAC! Where I just graduated from! Whatta hell is going on?

Am I really that old already?
~
Sent via BlackBerry® from AIS

So my aunt’s five year old son, my cousin Matthew, who’s half Jewish American, is crazy.

Not like straight jacket crazy, but genius crazy, we think. The fact that he couldn’t talk until last year definitely does not affect how this dek bah thinks or acts. There have been many stories told through long distance calls from Maryland about how this kid does unusual things, like religiously counting things, hosting a Jeopardy session in front of his parents, and keeping records of how many 7-11s in Bangkok we had to pass from certain places to get home. So many that we think we should start keeping a Matt Watch Blog.

Recently, we have received another one of his quirks, this time a hard evidence, via fax last week.

It was discovered in his bedroom, neatly stabled into a booklet, among the pile of toys.

This was not a homework assigned by his preschool teacher. His mom didn’t tell him to keep a diary (What kind of 5-year-old keeps a poetic diary anyway?) nor did she tell him any of these things. It was something he did out of his little head.

FUNNIEST YET THE MOST IMPRESSIVE SHIT I HAVE EVER READ.

See for yourself:

Holiday spirit, dak bah style.

My bedroom looks like a scene from a WWII epic.

I was always that kid who never puts back the toys. I’ve always been like this since I was little. I was warned, scolded, spanked and all that but I still couldn’t keep my room tidy. My maid has even given up on it long time ago.

I have my reasons. Sometimes things are at better reach when they are not at their designated spots. I mean think about it. Shoes in boxes? You need to try them on. And one outfit can be mixed and matched with many shoes. Why bother putting them in boxes when you might have to try them on again?

And if you have a bag of chips and a bottle of Coke, where would you put them when you’re watching TV comfortably on your bed? On the coffee table two meters away? No way you put them on the floor next to your bed so when you need to get your fix you just reach. Night stand could work but you would have to divert your eyes from the TV, and if you flap your hands around trying to look for it, your chances are you will knock the bottle off the nightstand, splashing over the lamp, electrocuting yourself. If you accidentally spill the bottle on the floor, they are already on the floor and you will have only one surface to clean. That makes sense.

And really, contrary to popular belief, when your room is messy it’s easier to find things. You kind of have this pictorial memory of your room of where things are. Earrings here, a book there, charger on that desk and the lip gloss is in the glass cup on the computer table. If you put things in boxes and drawers, you’ll never know which is which and what you put there. My system works most of the time. That, plus the fact that my maid has given up on cleaning my room, my bedroom remains a war zone till this day.

I remember there was this one time when I was little I was looking for something underneath my bed and instead I found a rat. A frigging rat and it wasn’t even a pet. I screamed my ass off and they had to put a metal cage-like mousetrap in my room that night. The morning came I felt guilty though as he looked quite cute. I told my maid the night before I wanted to keep it when they caught it in the morning but they killed it before I woke up.

My room then was about 1/4 of the size of my room now. And thanks to the crappy ass renovation to expand my room, I now have holes and cracks all over the walls and corners and not to mention that unfixable leak on the ceiling. This room is jinxed I tell you.

My room, including the toilet, is an ideal living space for various species unearthly creatures. OK rats, geckos, lizards and spiders may be considered earthly beings in natural world but it is far from being normal when found, in various colors and sizes, in an urban home.

You have no idea how many times I find this neon green, flat, worm-like crawly thing, with wings, lurking around the walls and mirror. And every time I squash them, they end up being a lump of green pus that permanently stained the area. As of today I can count 3 green stains in my room, one on the ceiling above my bookshelf, one on the top of my dresser and one on the wall near my computer. Here’s an aforementioned stain for you.

I’m watching CSI right now and I was thinking if my room ever has to be processed, how would they even find anything around here? I have a three year old bottle of water in my room, which was for my dead hamster, and on the show everything is a potential evidence so they would waste time analyzing and reasoning this bottle of water that isn’t that important at all. And hair. The ever critical evidence. I have hair EVERYWHERE. The bed, bathroom, computer table, shoes, everywhere. I shed like a balding Saint Bernard I think they’re better off leaving the case unsolved than search every corner of my room for hairs.

I tried cleaning my room, I did I swear, many times, but I have problems deciding which things to throw out which things to keep. And the things that I keep I have nowhere to keep them so I leave them where they were before and we’re back to square one so there really isn’t any point.

I can’t even sit on my couch without sneezing anymore, maybe it’s time for my long-awaited Spring Cleaning this Winter. Sometimes I wish that my ceiling would collapse and a bulldoze and just come and get things out of the house and that would force me to sort things I really need.

Now where’s my computer charger my laptop is dying.