tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236927942011-04-30T00:38:23.558-04:00stories of a peculiar childhoodtroubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.comBlogger131100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1166595831631909292006-12-20T00:18:00.000-05:002006-12-20T23:39:46.026-05:00

One winter, there was a big blizzard where we lived. Mom and I were trying very hard to stay warm in our below-ground apartment. It was actually the basement of Uncle Peter’s medical practice in Delaware, and it was very, very, very cold.Sometimes we had to hide under the covers and drape a corner over the one little space heater we had, just to stay warm. I kept getting sick though and I

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1162958584016280462006-11-07T21:53:00.000-05:002006-11-07T23:03:04.086-05:00

My smurf and my doll used to always sleep next to me. My smurf was the kind where his hands squeezed together and you could attach him to things like a rear-view mirror or a baseball cap. And my doll was pink, with a dress and matching bonnet. They were both kinda small, about the size of a small hamster.I don’t remember where I got my smurf. He was just always with me where ever I went. But

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1152859511273871632006-07-14T02:22:00.000-04:002006-07-14T02:45:11.313-04:00

I have a fuzzy memory that I’m not sure actually happened.I’m curled up on my bed in our Cerritos townhouse, and it’s daylight. I’m crying into my pillow, and hating my mom. Between sobs, I mutter to myself, “I wish daddy were here...” and I imagine how he would save the day.I hope that never happened. And if it did, I hope mom never heard.

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1150437349315724932006-05-31T23:34:00.000-04:002006-06-16T01:57:03.856-04:00

Christmas eve, 1986. I was nine when Santa died.I was lying on the living room sofa in my third grade pajamas dreaming my third grade dreams. Visions of Christmas money, a Spider-man toy, and candy in my stocking.I don’t know why, but Uncle Scott’s house had a chimney, eventhough they lived in the desert of Southern California. Maybe it was just for Christmas’ sake. Anyway, our stockings were

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1147239476399672282006-05-10T01:37:00.000-04:002006-05-10T01:37:56.436-04:00

I was good at microwave cooking. Usually, my mom didn't get home until late evening, so I learned to cook up tasty food using the microwave.My most favoritest snack in the whole world was hot dogs with Taco Bell hot sauce, without the bun. The spicy, peppery sauce plus the juicy, salty hot dog made me happy. And it only took thirty seconds to make! There was a special trick to making the hot

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1145858287458289242006-04-24T01:58:00.000-04:002006-04-24T01:58:07.496-04:00

When we lived with Uncle Scott in La Palma, the palm tree in the front yard was my jungle gym.It was small for a palm tree, about the same height as the two-story house. And it had reeeeeally big leaves. Bigger than my whole body.The trunk was about the size of my waist and the skin was smooth but textured. Perfect for climbing. I liked to hook my arms around the trunk, and walk my way up the

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1145251723852614812006-04-17T01:28:00.000-04:002006-04-18T12:45:45.066-04:00

To prepare, I needed to first wash my hands and feet, then sit by the glass doors where there's lots of sun, and spread out a paper towel. When things were just right, I would sit like a little ball and clip and file away, oblivious to the world.I always started by clipping the left hand first, because I'm a righty and I like warming up with my good hand. On the hand being clipped, palms were

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1144301196526106032006-04-06T01:26:00.000-04:002006-04-06T01:26:36.560-04:00

Baths were fun because of the bubbles and my cousins' battleship and my green Max Ray Centurion with the diving gear. But showers were pleading, screaming affairs with shampoo stinging my eyes and water attacking my face. My mom used to have to drag me into the shower with her to get the job done.One day, Mom tried something different. She walked me into the bathroom when my cousin was

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1143872768687161692006-04-01T01:26:00.000-05:002006-04-01T01:26:08.703-05:00

My friends and I spent a lot of time riding our bmx bikes. To make things more fun, we would do tricks. Being small and under a hundred pounds, our range of tricks was limited. But it didn't matter cuz we had a blast anyway. Here's a comprehensive list of our bike tricks:The first trick that any bike-loving boy learns to do is skidding out. This is when you slam the pedal backwards and the

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1143619758772224382006-03-29T03:09:00.000-05:002006-03-29T03:23:56.666-05:00

Wendy and I both went to Steve Luther Elementary, but she was two grades ahead of me and a couple feet taller. Our moms were friends first, so Wendy and I became friends during all those "you have to go" visits to each other's houses.We lived in the same neighborhood, so Wendy and I would ride our bikes together a lot. I rode the rusty frankenstein bmx that my cousin built for me, and Wendy had

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1142989530660468042006-03-21T20:05:00.000-05:002006-03-21T20:05:30.666-05:00

Don't get me wrong, I was no pansy on the playground. I could smack the handball and tether ball as well as the tallest and burliest of the boys. And that's saying a lot for a small Chinese boy.But I also liked the change of pace when playing with girls at recess.The difficult thing about hopscotch was that I never had a marker. Girls usually used stretchy beaded bracelets, those hair-ties

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1141958012026424122006-03-09T21:33:00.000-05:002006-03-09T21:33:32.043-05:00

In grade school, my favorite t-shirt was a bright yellow iron-on that had a picture of a cartoon monkey swinging from a coconut tree, and it said "Just monkeying around in Hawaii". I didn't get why it was funny, but I liked the shirt anyway because the cotton was so soft. I wore my shirt to school, to the dentist's office, and even slept in it sometimes. Everywhere I went, my monkey shirt made

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23692794.post-1141860103571559072006-03-08T18:21:00.000-05:002006-04-01T01:30:17.386-05:00

In second grade, I was on probation.Every day, I had to see the teacher after class and get a slip of colored construction paper. My teacher would write on the paper if my behavior was good or bad that day. A green slip meant I turned in all my homework and was cooperative. Yellow was for when I didn't pay attention because I was drawing during class. And red meant I disobeyed the teacher or

troubleboyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01704378672486325396noreply@blogger.com1