the good ol' days

My son came home from lacrosse practice today, and it was the first time I could smell him coming in the door before I actually saw him. I am telling myself that this body odor must be emanating from his clothing, and not his person. And, I am telling him to go take a shower, now. He must have just absorbed somebody else’s body odor when he was at practice. It’s like that one really smelly guy we used to play basketball with, who everybody tried not to guard too closely, since you knew that the contact alone was enough to permeate your skin and clothing. Guys used to go home and have to explain to their girlfriends, “Baby, it’s not me! Really, it’s not! There’s this guy that I had to guard, and he’s really funky ...”

No, it is not possible that my son has body odor yet. I’m not ready for that. Body odor signifies the end of an era, the end of innocence, the end of all things warm and fuzzy about motherhood, and the beginning of ... puberty. Even the sound of the word is unpleasant. Pee-yu-berty.

Another mom I know had warned me about this. How her son and his friends now pile into her car after football practice and immediately start dispensing aerosol cans of Axe body spray to mask their putrid aroma. “I felt like I was huffing!” she said, describing the buzz she was getting as the fumes wafted up to the driver’s seat.

I am not ready for Axe body spray to be added to my shopping list. I do not want to hear my son saying, “Mom, can you buy me some Axe?” in an unfamiliar, low and booming voice. Shudder.

I suppose it is bound to happen. I am reminded of the time, about thirteen years ago, when I was at the video rental store with my fourth grade niece and her middle school aged brother, and she came up to me as we walked through the aisles, sadness in her big brown eyes, reaching for my hand and reporting,
“Andrew says I have B.O.”
“Oh, that’s not nice.”
“Do I have B.O.?”
I leaned over and pretended to sniff. “I don’t smell anything,” I said, honestly. Kelsey returned to where her brother was, and said, “Aunty doesn’t think I have B.O.” And, Andrew, of course, being the older brother, leaned over and took a big giant whiff ... and promptly proceeded to make gagging and choking sounds, as if he was about to die.
“Uggggh!” he moaned.
“But I took a shower!” pleaded his little sister, eyes seeming bigger and browner than ever.
“Kels, did you use soap? Like this --” he said, demonstrating how to wash his armpits, right in the middle of the video store.
“Andrew -- I knoooow!” said Kelsey, about to die of embarrassment.
My niece’s pleading eyes were about to swallow me up whole. I was happy to be just an aunt, and not have to deal with this drama playing out completely once they got home. I didn’t realize that a decade-plus later, I would be reminiscing about that incident as the good ol’ days, when all I had to think about was somebody else’s kids having B.O., and puberty was just a thing of my past, not my kids' present and future. I need to brace myself. Yabai.

Bootie floss*

School is back in session. Volunteer opportunities abound. As I am running off to fill one of these volunteer roles, I share with you a flashback from last year ...
*****
First day of school! I’ve got on my new lululemon pants on, and am trying to feel confident in them. My niece, Kelsey, turned me onto these pants. They are super-stretchy-fitted pants that are ultracomfortable ... but look much better on a college co-ed than on somebody who has already passed prime childbearing age, like myself. But I was enjoying a day at the mall with two of my nieces, and they emboldened me to buy them. Kelsey was working at Nordstrom for the summer, and had clearly mastered the art of making people feel good when they are trying on clothes. Even when it is an older woman squeezing into stretchy pants. Although there was no commission involved (since I was not shopping at Nordy’s), I let myself be seduced by her flattery and my desire to buy something new.

I filled out the mountain of forms that have to be turned in every year on the first day of school, made the lunches, directed the kids to get dressed and ready for school, took a picture of them leaving the house, and walked them up the hill to school. I have managed to get them here on time without ranting to myself (as I am known to do on school days), and I am pretty proud of all of us. The bell rings, and all the parents scurry about, releasing their kids into the waiting arms of their teachers, ready to fill their brains with learning -- and then we all scatter, finally free to run errands and be ourselves for a few hours before that bell rings again.

I chit chat with a few of the parents, and am on my way. I am feeling pretty good in my lululemons, in spite of the not-as-comfortable “foundation garments” that are required with these pants. Given the stretchy nature of the fabric, I was mildly dismayed to find that none of my standard hipster undies looked right under my ubercomfortable pants. I had to resort to the underwear of teenaged and twenty-something girls -- the thong, a.k.a. “bootie floss.” I have resorted to the floss today, so that I don’t have unsightly panty line to worry about, in addition to “muffin top” and “camel toe.” Now, I am not a thong-virgin. But I wear them infrequently enough that I have to dig through my drawer to find them. I unearth one in standard black lycra, which I have a vague memory of wearing sometime in 2005. Everything settles into place, and I’m feeling good. The muffin top is crowning a bit, but that can’t be helped; I am more concerned about keeping the camel’s toes from exposing themselves, and self-consciously tug my lulus downward at my thighs. There. Much better.

After taking care of business at the bank, I decide to treat myself for getting the kids off to school with a Decaf Tall Mocha with Whip and a Toffee Bar. (Nutritious eating is not my strong suit, and has lead to the muffin topping mentioned above.) Before I order, I make a stop in the restroom, where I notice a seam from my underwear making an unsightly line on the front of my right hip. Perturbed that I would be sacrificing comfort to erase lines off my rear only to have a lumpy hip, I peer into the mirror and decide that maybe I just need to shift the seam to the side, since my floss must be off-center somehow. Then, I notice that the seam seems to be on my right side only. Huh, very strange. I don’t wear one often, but I do not remember them being asymmetrical. And why does this thong have this cotton interfacing on the side seam? Huh.

Oh. OH. Oh, nooo way. I have definitely got some kind of situation goin’ on. I am laughing at myself but trying not to laugh out loud, so I sound like I am mildly asthmatic, and am hoping that nobody overhears me gasping and squeaking in the bathroom. No wonder the thong didn’t seem to give me much coverage in the front when I put them on this morning! In my rush to get clothed before taking the kids to school, I put my bootie floss on ... sideways. I continue to struggle to stifle my laughter -- as I think about the dorkiness of my middle-aged being -- since I’m sure people would think it odd that I am going into hysterics in the Starbucks bathroom.

Now that I have realized my wardrobe blunder, I am faced with a dilemma: leave the floss stretched across my cheeks, or place it between them, where it belongs. Hmmm. I decide that I will just fall into uncontrollable jags of laughter if I do not correct the problem, so -- I quickly get bottomless, and very gracelessly get the crotch of my undies where they belong. I am hoping that there are no hidden cameras in this bathroom, installed by some psychotic pervert with a penchant for Caramel Macchiatos. He’s probably watching the tapes right now, and laughing hysterically. I’m not worried. I’m quite sure that there was nothing erotic about seeing a middle-aged woman hopping about as she tries not to let her new pants touch the bathroom floor while still wearing her running shoes and also wriggling out of her misplaced bootie floss. Now that would be fodder for YouTube.

I emerge from the bathroom, face flushed and still trying not to laugh, and tug downward on my lululemons. Camel’s toes taken care of, now it’s time for that Mocha. As I am sipping my chocolatey drink, I can’t help but think about all the advice I dole out to my kids, and how I have taught my daughter how to check for the labels in her panties so that she puts them on the right way. On this first day of school, it seems I am the one who has a lot to learn about how to dress myself. I can’t wait to tell my husband. He’ll think this is hilarious.

* I am not completely certain of the linguistic origins of the term
“bootie floss,” but I heard the term used several years ago, when I was shopping at the South Bay Galleria mall near where I grew up in L.A. The dialogue went something like this:

Two older African American women are shopping in the lingerie department.
Woman #1 says to the other (holding up a thong):
This here is some bootie floss!
Companion: (nodding, eyebrow raised) Mmmm- hmmm.
Skinny Young White Salesgirl, noticing their interest in the undergarment: Oh, that’s a thong -- it’s for when you wear a clingy sweater dress or something like that, then your underwear doesn’t show ...
Woman #1: Well, if I’m wearing underwear, I want people to know I’m wearing underwear, thank you!

Increasing my Vocabulary

I learned some new vocabulary a few days ago while I was in Japan with the kids:

kyuu kyuu sha

yuketsu

denshi moofu

-- ambulance, blood transfusion, and electric warming blanket, respectively.

I was at the local shopping center with my cousin's wife, Hiroko-san, doing some last minute shopping before our flight out the following day, and I passed out from anemia and went into shock. Although I don't remember this very clearly, Hiroko-san filled me in later, describing how I was saying to the EMT in the ambulance (in Japanese), "I don't speak Japanese," and he responded very loudly, "What are you talking about? YOU ARE SPEAKING JAPANESE RIGHT NOW." I asked him (in Japanese) to tell me the "top number" and "bottom number" of my blood pressure reading, and when he said it was something like 80 over 60, I replied (in Japanese), "Hmmm, that's low, isn't it." Once I got to the ER, my condition had worsened, and Hiroko-san was kept out of the ER, so I was really on my own. I discovered that my contextual language decoding skills are actually better than I thought they would be, which was good, since there was very limited English spoken in there. Fortunately, there was one doctor there (I suspect he was sent over because of his language skills) who had spent three years in Boston and was present when I said, "I am going to throw up right NOW." I had said it in Japanese already, but the urgency was apparently more effectively communicated in English. I think it sounded too polite in Japanese, and they were like, "Oh, a little nauseous? We'll get you some medication for that now ... just wait a minute ..." Thank goodness for Dr. Boston.

I had to be admitted to the hospital, where I learned a lot about the Japanese health care system. Also learned that Japanese nurses all speak the same way, in a cutesy voice, and will code switch into local dialect for elderly patients to make them feel more at home. Had a conversation about Bush and Christianity and Buddhism with a little old lady in the bed across the way. I didn't understand everything completely, but found it very telling that she referred to the war in Iraq as a "religious war" and how she admired President Bush for taking a stand for his country's religion, even though she thought the war was wrong. I tried to communicate that there actually was no "official" American religion, and that religious wars are considered wrong in America, but I don't think I got my point across. We both smiled politely through it all. She told me she was in the hospital "for something in English ... what's it called? Oh yeah, 'peisumeekaa' (pacemaker)."

In any case, we missed our flight and found ourselves without a way back home during the peak travel season in Japan. With my somewhat uncertain medical condition, things have been a little complicated, but my cousin somehow managed to get us on a flight back to SFO today (8.11.07). I was cleared for take-off by the doctor on Friday, and got to be escorted around in a wheelchair through the airport(s).

I definitely had more excitement than I expected, and got to experience a previously unseen Japan -- although I would not necessarily recommend putting a ride on a kyuu kyuu sha on anybody's itinerary.

Livin' Large

Things nobody has said to me since we've been in Japan:
"Your platinum-streaked hair looks beautiful -- is it natural?"
"I love your freckles!"
and
"You are so skinny!"
The harsh reality I have had to face while here in the Motherland, where my genetics make me part of the mainstream, is that my "salt & pepper" hair color is ignored (politely), as are my sobakasu or freckles (which, my sister likes to point out, at my age should be referred to as shimi or age spots), because they are just too hideous to mention. My weight, however, is a different story. While my relatives will not comment on my grey hair or melanin-impaired skin, my weight is fair game. "Chotto futotta ne!" ("My, you've gained a little weight, haven't you?") they say, and I respond with an apologetic nod, "Yes, I have. I have been eating so much since we've been in Japan!" -- as if I am never this weight and never eat this much, except when I am in Japan. As if.

Back home in the U.S.A., I am a size 2. I was never a size 2 before I had two kids and gained and lost 80 pounds, but due to the phenomenon of vanity-sizing, my post-partum clothing size was actually a smaller number than my pre-maternity size. I had physically gotten bigger, but my size had gotten smaller. Did that make sense? Probably not. But suddenly, I was a size 2 at the Gap, instead of a size 6. So, in spite of my relatives' commentary on my weight, I was still feeling pretty average-sized for Japan.

Then, I went clothes shopping. I had been waiting for days and days to have a chance to go shopping. I had fond memories of shopping for clothes in Japan. Back in the day, I was the perfect size 9 or "average", and everything I pulled off the rack fit perfectly. This time, it was a different story. I discovered that I am averaged-sized no more. I am above average. Well above average.

The cool t-shirt I picked up that day at the Uniqlo store was not a size S, or M, or even L. It was a size LL. That's me. Livin' double large in Japan, baby. I better remember not to put that t-shirt in the dryer when I get home!

As they say in Japan, "Yabai!"

Too much water

Summer's here, and we finally went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. My family waited for me to come back from my big adventure to Denmark, and this was the first chance we've had to go see a movie. We had diligently watched the two previous Pirates (thanks to the convenience of Netflix), so we were ready to view the continuing saga of Captain Jack Sparrow.

Well, with all of this build-up, we were bound to be disappointed. It was good fun ... for a while. The theater we went to -- the beautiful Grand Lake Theater -- serves free popcorn, so we each had our own popcorn. We also each bought a bottle of water to drink with our salty popcorn, and by the second or third battle scene, I really needed to go to the bathroom. Really. Badly. I kept thinking I could hold out till the movie ended, but this flick was relentless. Just kept going on and on and on. Plus, all those oceanic battle scenes, with all that water sloshing around ... wave after wave ... splashing mercilessly across the screen ... well, it was just too much for me to take. I finally gave in and ran to the bathroom to relieve myself during one of the battle scenes. Of course, when I returned, the battle was still not over. Then, my daughter needed to go. I took her to the bathroom, and when we returned, the battle was still not over.

Finally, the movie ended and the credits began to roll. My son ran to the bathroom, followed by my husband -- apparently, they were able to hold it better than me and my daughter -- maybe all the battle scenes were a big enough distraction to the boys, and the sloshing water did not have the same effect on them. Whatever the case, we were all able to relieve ourselves, and I was especially relieved that the movie was over.

hej hej

All this fascination with my hair made me think about the group of Asian-looking women I saw at the park when I was walking back to the hotel the other day. They were there again, today, but in larger numbers, still drinking and just hanging out. Today, there were men hanging out, as well. I wonder if they represent a local community of former refugees, where they immigrated from, and how the Danes perceive them. I watch as a white man approaches a group of the women, and wonder if there is some transaction about to occur. Nothing seems to happen, but I am curious, noticing that there a number of tourist-looking folks periodically approaching these groups of Asian-looking folks, and seeming to conduct some sort of business. I decide I better just stay clear, and try not to look like I am watching. Wouldn’t want to upset anybody, and, although I think I look clearly different from the long-haired women hanging out in the park, I know that there is always that chance of being lumped in with a group vaguely resembling oneself -- and that distance can be a good thing.

Hej!

I’m sitting here on my balcony at five thirty, gazing at the sun-saturated face of the brick building next door. Although it is only five thirty in the morning, it is bright enough outside for it to feel like 10 am. I can hear the hum of the early morning commute as I look down onto the small rear yards of the surrounding retail and apartment buildings. The birds are chirping, and I can see the sign on the old beer factory in the distance. The pitch lines of the roofs are all the same, meeting at 60 degree angles over their bodies of variegated brick or neutral-toned stucco, and this repetition of roof design is soothing to me. Tiny dormers and sunroofs accent the roofs, seemingly squinting into the sun. I am glad to be on the shady side of the building -- it must feel like high-noon in the rooms where the sun is streaming in with a direct hit.

After being in Denmark for a few days, I have gotten over my initial irritation at the freakishly long hours the sun works here. It doesn’t get really dark until about 11:30 pm, and then it starts to get light again at around 3:30 am. I know this, because I was tricked into thinking it was time to wake up at 4:30 am my first morning here, when the sun was already streaming into the cracks of the not-quite-blackout shades in my hotel room, seducing me into thinking it was already after 7 am. By this time, my fourth morning waking up in Copenhagen, I have forgiven the sun for so rudely waking me that first day, and have come to embrace this place. My ear has gotten used to the sound of Danish, and I have even managed to pick out a few words from people’s conversations. I love the food, the design, the architecture, the efficiency of this city.

I had thought Denmark would be very homogeneous, but instead found Copenhagen to be very diverse. I could blend here, in that Asian-faces-sprinkled-into-the-crowd kind of way. Aside from my own preconceptions, I had also been misinformed by friends who warned of drug dens and overly-friendly Danish men. I didn’t notice the drug dens, and about fifty percent of the men I met on this trip were gay. And the only time I felt like a circus freak was when some people asked if they could touch my hair, and I let them. But this was not initiated by the Danes -- this was initiated by the Americans I was traveling with, with some Danes joining in. I now have great empathy for animals in petting zoos. I will never look at my daughter's My Little Pony dolls in quite the same way again.

Like pulling teeth

My son had two of his teeth pulled today. We went to the oral surgeon's office very early in the morning for our appointment. I mean my son's appointment. Dr. Krey explained the procedure and offered my son two options -- Novocaine after the numbing gel was applied, or laughing gas plus Novocaine after the numbing gel. He chose the latter, not because he was so nervous about the extractions, but because his cousin Alex had told him how much he liked laughing gas. Then the doctor nonchalantly mentioned to my son that he could invite me to come along, or I could wait in the lobby. "She can come with me, " he said, just as nonchalantly. I was touched and bummed out at the same time. I had brought a book and was hoping to get to read some of it. But my child said he wanted me to be there with him, so that is what I had to do. Even if it meant watching him get his injections of anesthetic, and seeing them yank his teeth out with pliers. "You might hear a scrunching noise," the doctor said cheerfully as he wrenched the baby teeth out, roots extending to quadruple the size of the exposed tooth. Through all of this, I sat, clenching my hands together, fighting the urge to reach over and hold my son's hand. He had asked me to be there, but he was not reaching out for me, he was not looking over at me nervously ... heck, he was not even looking anywhere near me. He was staring up into the overhead lights, probably at the plastic pterodactyl head that was hanging from the ceiling. So I clasped my hands, the right hand strangling the left as I fought to keep myself from reaching over to him. It's hard to be a mother from a safe distance, when you really want to treat your nearly pre-teen "baby" like a baby and just wrap him up in your arms.
This was pretty torturous -- for me. Next time, I'm going to ask for the laughing gas, too.

We still believe

After the Brownie meeting last night, my daughter's friend (who was joining us for dinner) noticed the handmade sign my daughter had created out of construction paper and taped onto our window. It was blue with a basketball on it, with the words "We Believe" in bright orange letters. Actually, it said "We Belive" with a little pointy insertion mark between the "i" and the "v" and a floating "e" squeezed in where it should have been in the first place. In any case, the sign proclaimed our family's belief in the home team, the Oakland Warriors,* in spite of the fact that they had lost two games in Utah.

As we entered our house, I overheard my eight year old daughter commenting to her little friend, "... yeah, and if Pietrus just made even ONE of his freethrows, the Warriors would have won the game." I had to chuckle, since she was sounding like some guy in a sports bar, talking about the game over a couple of brews. Even funnier was her friend's response, "Yeah, I know ... they shoulda won that game."

Fortunately for all the believers in the Bay Area -- and even those, like my husband, who merely Want to Believe -- the Warriors showed up to play tonight and won Game Three of Round Two of the playoffs by twenty points. B-Diddy and his boys made a serious statement, in case anybody's belief in them was starting to falter. His dunk over Kirilenko was incredible. Or, as Coach Nellie put it, "Awesome, baby, awesome."

I'm sure the guys selling the "We Believe" t-shirts on the street corner are very happy after tonight's game. Sales should be brisk tomorrow. I hope I get one for Mother's Day.

* Yes, I know they are still the Golden State Warriors ... but we all know that they play in Oakland, baby.

Mother's Daze

My son is in the school play. Finally. After years of waiting, he is in a class whose teacher always has her class do a play. And, as predicted by his teacher, he has embraced the idea of being on stage, in spite of his years and years of saying how much he never wanted to be in a play and how extremely lucky he was to have never been in a class where he had to be in one. This year, he is in the fifth grade production of The Chronicles of Narnia. He started out saying he just wanted to be stage crew -- but soon changed his mind and tried out for the part of Maugrim, the White Witch's First Lieutenant. A bad guy. Powerful. Evil. Required to tackle one of the other characters onstage. Very cool, to a ten year old boy.

He got the part. He's even been rehearsing his evil wolf walk around the house. The walk is pretty important, since his character is onstage every time the White Witch is onstage -- i.e., a lot -- even though the Witch does all the talking, and Maugrim mostly is just her wingman. Which suits my son just perfectly. He could not be happier about this. He was walking around on all fours, practicing. I felt compelled to ask him if that was how the teacher told him to walk, and he said, "No, but I think that's how a wolf would walk." I also felt compelled to tell him that maybe the teacher would want him to walk upright, since it's a play and the audience would not be able to see him very well, crawling around on the floor. "Good point, Mom," he replied, dusting himself off, and immediately saying (with great excitement), "Hey, Mom -- did I tell you I get to attack Grant as part of the play?!!! It's so cool!"

Sigh. I am so proud of him. I know that this is a challenge for him, and the odds are pretty good that this will be his first and last school play. He will be entering middle school next year, where the parts for the school play go to those artsy drama kids whose lives revolve around performing onstage.

And now for the unthinkable: I might miss the school play.

Unthinkable, yes, but I am thinking it. I must have a pretty compelling reason, right? Well, that's open to debate, but I'll let you decide for yourself. A few days ago, I was offered an all-expenses-paid writing assignment in a foreign land that I have never visited before. "Go!" my wonderful husband said. "Really?" I said back. "Yes! Just go!" my wonderful husband said again. I checked my calendar and said "yes" to the editor. Then, I checked my calendar again, and realized that the date of the school play was not written down in my calendar. Then, I called the teacher, who said there was, in fact, no date set for the play, but that it was tentatively scheduled for the 5th and 6th. Whew! At least I would get to see the performances on the 5th, before I leave town. Or so I thought. I learned today that I need to leave on the 5th in order to be half way around the globe on the 6th. Damn the time difference! If only I could blink my way to my destination, I-Dream-of-Jeannie-style, and be able to do it all.

I called the teacher again and left a message asking if there was any chance that the play could be scheduled for a date when I could actually be here to see it. Yes, I have, in an I-Never-Dreamed-I-Would-Become-This-Type-of-Mom blink of an eye, transformed into the mom who requires the rest of the class to revolve around her all-important schedule. There's always one of them. And now I am her. And I wait. Hoping that the teacher will be able to convince the principal to rearrange the auditorium schedule to accommodate this one selfish mom in her class who wants to take this trip to the other side of the world and see the school play, too.

How is that for the perfect Mother's Day dilemma? Of course, the answer is that there should be no dilemma -- my priority should be to see the school play, and I should have already placed a call to the editor, sheepishly withdrawing my enthusiastic "yes!" and replacing it with a pathetic "well, I thought I could go, but I really can't ..." I think there would still be time for him to find a replacement for me, and I am sure he would be understanding, but I am not sure I will ever be presented with an opportunity like this again. I suppose other women are faced with this dilemma on a daily basis, but as a stay-at-home mom, this is uncharted territory for me.

I guess there are some days when no matter what you do, it feels like you are making the wrong decision -- when the big picture seems elusive, and all you can see is the potential for disappointing your child, and yourself, in the process. A mother I know once said: "It is a mother's prerogative to have self-doubt about everything, while acting like she knows what the hell she is doing." I know for a fact that she said it once, and only once. So far.

Believe it

... on the strength, booooy.

WARRIORS, baby!!!

Just feeling the love here in Oaktown -- jammin' to Too Short's Blow the Whistle, my new theme song for Baron Davis and the Warriors ... they go on and on can't understand how they last so long, they must have super powers ...

Short Dog, that's Oakland, baby.

Blow the whistle. Game over, Dallas, time to go home.

I've got it playing on a one song, repeating, endless (until I turn-off itunes) loop. For real, though.

I think the time is right to change the Warriors name to the OAKTOWN WARRIORS, enough of this Golden State BS. Although, as Snoop pointed out, it's Cali, baby, gotta come out and support the California team ... so maybe Golden State isn't so bad. I'll ponder this before I start my petition drive for the name change.

Amazing

Two boys, ages 6 and 9, get souvenir stuffed animals. One is a baby penguin, which the boy names "Pecker". The other is a long snake, with a label bearing the name and details of the species, the Asian Snake.

Later, at dinner, the older boy announces to his little brother, "Hey, my Asian snake is, like, twenty times longer than your little Pecker."

The parents exhibit incredible self-control and do not burst out laughing. Utterly amazing.

Pups in Cups

Two fifty-seven. School will be out in eight minutes, the boys will be descending on the house in about thirteen. I get the snacks ready -- bananas and apples cut-up into individual pieces, glasses of water on the table, popcorn in microwave, ready to pop. All set. A few minutes later, my son and five of his fifth grade friends, all new members of the Pups lacrosse team, come clomping into the house.
"Hi, guys -- shoes off, wash hands, come to the kitchen and have a snack --" I bark out as they enter the door.
Various versions of "okay" are uttered, and they disperse. After a brief Nerf dart gun battle, they regroup around the table, eating voraciously, as if they have not been fed in days -- in other words, like ten- and eleven-year old boys. We are doing well on time. They start talking about YoGos, and how good they are. "You like YoGos? I have YoGos. If you finish up the fruit, you can have YoGos," I say to the munching and chattering bunch. "YEAH!!!" they reply, and five pairs of hands grab at the remaining fruit on the plate. I bring out the YoGos and five pairs of hands grab at them -- as if they have not been fed in days -- and the happy sound of boys talking with their mouths full of chewy food fills the room.

I look at the time, and we are still doing well. "Okay, guys -- if you're finished eating, get ready to go, we need to leave in three minutes." The boys scatter again, with some clearing their dishes, others just getting up and finding their gear bags. Soon they are all sitting on various parts of the living room floor, putting on shoes and goofing around. Then, one of them announces: "Oh, I think I'll put on my cup now." He leaves the room as the rest of the boys do a collective but silent, "Oh, yeah ... my cup ..." which is replaced by each boy also announcing "I have to put mine on, too!" Soon, they are emerging, one by one, each rapping the knuckles of his fist on his crotch, resulting in the heretofore unknown-to-my-ears sound of jock knocking. Like primates pounding on their chests ... but lower.

Fifteen minutes later, we are twelve minutes late and still getting the guys into the car. The discussion turns to where one of the boys is, and why it is taking him so long to put on his cup. Speculation abounds. The boy in question emerges and gets into the car, bombarded by all the other boys asking him, "Hey, why did it take you so long to put on your cup?" and we are able to finally leave the house. The conversation is, of course, about cups. I am driving along, trying to eavesdrop, but the only thing I can make out at this point is somebody saying, "Hey!!!" and another boy annoyedly responding, "What?!! I just wanted to check if you had your cup on." Hmmm, that doesn't sound good. I feel compelled to set some rules. "Okay. OK!!! -- HEY YOU GUYS -- HEY! HEY! Okay, one of the rules in this car is 'no --'"
Boy A: "-- crotch talking?"
Me: "No ... although, that's a good rule, too."
Boy B: "-- crotch touching?"
Me: "Well, kind of -- the rule is 'NO PHYSICALLY CHECKING IF ANOTHER GUY HAS HIS CUP ON.' You can check your own cup, and that's it. Got it?" In unison (well, almost): "Okay."
I drive up to the field, and they scramble out of my car with a chorus of mumbled "thank you for the ride"'s as they disperse. I watch them as they continue in their own little fifth grade boy world, still acting very much like elementary school boys in their pre-teen bodies, and find myself really enjoying this moment -- feeling wonderfully entertained by these goofy little pups, wearing their cups.

Ski week

People would always tell me, “Skiing is such a great family activity!” And I would just look at them -- usually with feigned agreement -- and think to myself, “Yeah, right -- skiing is a great family activity if everybody in the family actually wants to hurl themselves down an icy slope with their life flashing before their eyes.” I was born and raised in L.A., and skiing was not a big activity in my family. So, I am proud to say that I made it through another family ski trip. And, I actually had a good time ... again. I’m still not ready to say that I like skiing. But I’ve gotten a little bit better, and that’s progress.

We stayed with my husband’s cousin’s family in their wonderful rented log cabin. It was perfect, in that Disneyland log cabin sort of way, with everything fitting in with the log cabin theme. We were happy to share their space -- good food, good company, good family time. Their kids are on the Alpine ski team, so they are up in Tahoe almost every weekend. They are a family of Real Skiers, where parallel is the norm. My family is pretty parallel ... except for me. My kids both have surpassed my skiing ability, even though I've skied just as long as they have. They are zipping around, taking on Black Diamonds, while I happily creep down the Green Circles. I am the Wedgemaster. The Pizza Pie among the French Fries. Snowplowing my way down the bunny slope. I try not to be a complete embarrassment to my family, but it’s a close call most of the time. Fortunately, I’m okay with just careening down the slope at my own pace, and my family has accepted the fact that “Mommy is really slow.” My son skied with me down one particularly challenging (for me) slope, and he kept stopping and waiting, looking like he was worried that I would not quite make it. I was touched by his concern, and thought this was pretty considerate for a ten year old! I wonder how many years before he just ditches me and tells me to stay in the cabin so his friends won’t see how lame his mom is. For now, I’ll just enjoy his concern.

Keito-ten 2

The store did not only attract the nisei, it also was a magnet for sansei and yonsei brides-to-be, searching out my mother’s expertise in designing and framing origami tsuru (cranes), a common symbol of good luck at JA weddings. My mom would always have the latest scoop on who was marrying whom, since the brides-to-be would usually mention to my mom how they knew me or my sister from our childhood in Gardena. One day, a strikingly beautiful young woman came in and my mother spent some time with her explaining the process, etc., all the while thinking to herself, “Gee, this girl is so pretty and looks so familiar ...” My mother flipped through her mental photo album of my childhood friends, but just could not place the beautiful young woman. When she ordered her tsuru, she gave her name, and my mother eventually figured it out. Her name was Tamlyn Tomita -- or, as she put it, "the girl from Karate Kid II."

Keito-ten

I remember seeing the movie, Barbershop, about a young man’s struggle to keep his family’s barbershop business alive. The barbershop was more than a place to keep one’s fade lookin’ fly; it was a place to socialize, to find support, to be oneself in a society that does not always encourage a “self” that is out of the mainstream. While watching, I couldn’t help but think to myself: they could make a Japanese American version of this movie called Yarn Shop. My mother’s yarn shop has been in the same place, serving a core clientele for over thirty years. Styles, trends, fads, have come and gone, with my mother learning and teaching them along the way. And, over the years, without even knowing it, the shop had become more than a place to buy yarn; it had become a place that had a heart. No, that’s not the right word; it’s more like kokoro -- heart, but with soul.
On almost any given day, you can walk in around lunchtime and find that somebody has brought some bento to share, with the appetizing aroma filling the store. As they knit, crochet, or do bunka shishu embroidery around a long table, The Ladies laugh and talk story. The Ladies are predominantly Nisei, now, although it was not always that way. Thirty years is a long time. Most of the Issei customers have passed. I remember one obaachan, Ota-san, who would come to the store every Saturday. One of her children would drop her off, and she would stay for the better part of the day. She had smiling eyes, horn-rimmed glasses and was quick to laugh. Her fingers were chubby, and boy, could they make some beautiful things. She had been in the camps. Many of the ladies had learned how to crochet and knit at camp. (Not arts and crafts camps; WWII internment camps.) And, when people talked about where they were from and where they had been, there was always a swell in the conversation: "Ahhh, you're from the Central Valley? Dono camp ni haittetano? Which camp were you in?" The attention and interest would turn to the person answering this magic question, and there was inevitably somebody in the store who was somehow related to somebody who was married to somebody who knew that person’s father, mother, brother, or uncle. It was a mini-reunion, where connections in history held people together in a fine web of crochet thread.
Near the end of the day, somebody would come to pick up Mrs. Ota. Sometimes, she would go out back and wait, and my mother would have me take a chair out to the back door so that she would not have to stand while she waited for her ride. She always smiled, accepting my offer of a seat with an apologetic bow of her head for my trouble. I don't know when Mrs. Ota passed away; it was sometime after I had left for college, grad school and life. I imagine she is still crocheting or knitting somewhere, sitting on a cloud, with her smiling eyes.

My Perfect Valentines

I got to have dinner last night with my three perfect Valentines: my huzzband, my son, and my daughter. We had our "traditional" pizza with toppings in the shape of a heart, born of Boboli, pasta, salad and ice cream in fancy dishes. The kids gave me cards they made themselves -- my son made his out of origami, my daughter drew a cute picture of a tiger (she was born in the year of the tiger).
My husband skipped the card this year, undoubtedly because the line at Safeway was moving too slowly for him to get a card, too. I knew the "dozen" red roses were from Safeway before he told me, because there were fourteen stems -- and we all know that "at Safeway, a dozen roses means fourteen stems," as they so cheerfully state in their radio ads. Not that I was counting. Okay, I counted -- but only because I was wondering if he got them from Safeway or not.
He had an entertaining time in that line of men trying to buy roses. Almost as much fun as I had waiting in the See's Candy store line earlier that day. For the first time in my life, I saw somebody buying the seventy-something dollar ginormous Gift of Elegance box of chocolates. "I want to be his Valentine," I whispered to the woman standing next to me, and she nodded in agreement. None of us standing in line had ever received the Gift of Elegance, and since I did not run away with the mysterious man who bought it, I'm pretty sure I will never receive a box of chocolates that big. Which, actually, is okay. But I was pretty impressed to witness somebody actually buying that gargantuan box of chocolates. That man is a god among gift givers.
I managed to get my very tiny box of chocolates for my husband, and some lollipops for my kids. Went to the store to get the fixin's for our special dinner. Everything was last minute, since I had spent the previous two days lolling around the house, with the Almost-Flu. You know, the Almost-Flu: it's not quite the flu, but you've got most of the symptoms, and you're telling everybody it's not the flu because you don't want it to be the flu, plus you don't want your kids and all their friends to have the flu, so it better not be the Real Full-Blown Flu. After a couple days, you feel better, confirming that it was just some minor viral infection, a.k.a., the Almost-Flu.
Anyway, so I did not have the flu, but I was pretty sick, so I needed to get out of the house and buy some food for us to eat. Fortunately, I didn't have a demanding spouse to please, just a pretty easy to please family to feed a somewhat "special" meal. No reservations to make. No babysitters to hire. No jewelry purchases to worry about. It was a down home kind of Valentine's Day, and it turned out to be just perfect. The kind a kid will remember when they grow up. And the kind I will definitely remember for a long time.
Or at least as long as my memory holds out.