starts with a "j"

I am looking for a book to replace the one that my daughter borrowed from a friend ... and misplaced. We saw it recently in the living room, but now nobody can find it. Including me, and I am usually pretty good about finding such things. The book is a little bit obscure, so I'm not sure I'll be able to find it in a store, either, but it's worth a try. I scan the bookshelves at the Walnut Creek Barnes & Noble, but do not see it. I come across two store clerks chatting, and decide to ask them for help finding it.

Me - (in my super-polite voice) Excuse me, hi, I'm wondering if you can help me find a book -- the title is something like one thousand and one cranes, and it has a pink cover.
Fifty-ish woman clerk - Oh, is it a Japanese folk tale?
Forty-ish woman clerk - (clicking away at the computer) Yes, I think it is ...
Me - No, it's not ... it's actually in a modern setting ... it takes place in --
Fifty - Oh! There is that Japanese folk tale about the crane who pulls out her feathers and weaves it into silk ...
Me - (still in super-polite voice) Oh, yes, and the crane turns into a woman ... no, it's not that story. It's in a modern setting ...
Forty - Isn't there a book about Sadako and paper cranes?
Me - Yes, there is, but this is a different story ...
Fifty - Oh, yes, Sadako ... isn't she the little Jewish girl who folded all those cranes while she was imprisoned during the Holocaust?
Me - (now in trying-not-to-sound-shocked but still polite voice) Ummm, no, Sadako was Japanese, and she got sick and died after the bombing of Hiroshima in WWII ...
Forty - (jovially) Ha ha! Well ... same war! Ha ha!

Wow. My eyeballs bugged out of my sockets, then popped back in, while steam shot out of my ears and my jaw dropped to the floor, and my tongue rolled in and out of my mouth like a party horn blowout. Oh, wait, that was just the invisible cartoon version of me that flashed in my head. The real life version of me -- old, jaded and tired -- managed to just super-politely get out of there and get a gift card.

UPDATE: My daughter found the book. It was in her bookshelf.

manly man

“Hey, Mom. Can you buy me some Axe?”

And, with that, I was officially initiated into the world of teen-parenting. I had been dreading the day I would hear these words. I had known this day would come, since I had heard that Axe was the deodorant-of-choice among the boys at my son’s school. Still, I was caught off-guard that this was happening so soon.

I remember when he was just a baby! Well, actually, that’s only in my more lucid moments. Sometimes I think back to when he was just a baby, and I can’t seem to remember much. I decide this is not the time to get sentimental – besides, it is an excuse to go to Target. I love shopping at Target.

I get a bit woozy standing in the deodorant aisle, inhaling a smorgasbord of manly aromas. Somehow, I remain conscious enough to notice the tiny writing on the labels: “Sharp Focus: Stay dry, Stay focused on her,” “Dry Action: Approved for Hot Encounters,” “Dark Temptation: As Irresistible as Chocolate.” Wow. Apparently, this Axe is powerful stuff.

I pick up one of them and take a whiff. Whoa. Definitely not that one. How about this one? No, not that one either. This one is actually repulsive! A guy would have to stay focused on her as she was running away from the smell of Axe! I warily smell the one touting its dark temptation, since chocolate is pretty irresistible to me. Fortunately, I am strong enough to resist.

I finally settle on one of them: the blue one. The writing on the label is hard to read, and I am hoping my son doesn’t notice what it says. It smells relatively more subtle than the others … or at least that is what I tell myself as I add it to my shopping cart.

When my son gets home, I non-chalantly tell him I got him his Axe. “Thanks, Mom!” he says, cheerfully. “Can I have a snack? I’m hungry.”

What a relief. He may want to smell manly, but he’s still my little boy.

brain freeze

I had a case of brain freeze recently when my son was about to tell me something deep and meaningful, but felt compelled to preface it with, “Wait – you aren’t going to put this in your blog, are you?”

Massive amounts of guilt pulsed through my veins. “What? Of course not!” I told him, trying to sound reassuring. I felt horrible that he was about to confide in me, and he had to hesitate because I have a blog. That will become the cliché of the next generation – “Oh, I stopped talking to my mother because I knew it would just become a status update on her Facebook page, or a tweet, or a blog post.”

This situation caused me to pause and look at what I was doing to my family. I took a little break from writing as I did some self-reflection, facing questions about motherhood that I would not have even imagined thirteen years ago. Would my children hate me? Do I embarrass them online? I already know that I embarrass them in real life; that’s a given. I finally determined that there are topics I need to stay away from, but others that would probably be okay, and are too amusing not to write about. As my husband often reminds me, my blog is a place where he can look back and laugh about various family moments. With our fading memories, my blog is a time capsule of our family history. Without it, we might have no memories at all!

Which leads me to write about that time when my husband said he actually liked the film of dust that covers our family photos, and how much he looks forward to having assorted leftovers for dinner sometimes. (Okay, he didn’t say these things, but since he might not remember, I figured it was worth a try.)

Actually, this talk about fading memories leads me to write this: I can no longer remember what it was my son said after I assured him it would not appear in my blog. I have tried, but I can’t remember.

I have a feeling he’s probably forgotten, too. And with that … I feel a blog post coming on. I’ll be back soon.

just another day

Aside from waking up earlier than usual, today started out just like any other day. But it didn't take long to be reminded that this was September 11th -- and that eight years ago, it had also started out as just another day. Well, thinking back, I guess this isn't quite true. September 11, 2001, was a big day in our household, and I was up earlier than usual then, too, getting the house ready for the First Day Coffee I was hosting at our house for my daughter's first day of preschool. I woke up worrying about how my daughter would do in preschool, and hoping I would make it through the day.
It was not until I was in the car driving to Noah's Bagels that I heard the news on the radio: an airplane had crashed into one of the twin towers. I pictured a small Cessna, and hoped nobody had been injured in what must have been an accident. After picking up bagels, I went to the grocery store, and overheard people in line talking about ... something about a passenger jet crash ... a jumbo jet, full of people ... the twin towers ... oh my god. In disbelief, I asked the checker to confirm -- was it a passenger jet that had crashed into the twin towers? Yes, she said, scanning my orange juice and half-and-half. A part of my brain seemed to go numb, and I suddenly transformed into an automaton.
Got the groceries. Went home. Turned on the tv. Can't believe it. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Made regular coffee. Made decaf coffee. Sliced bagels. Kids waking up. Turned off the tv. Can't talk about this in front of the kids. Want to cry. Can't cry in front of the kids. Husband waking up. Want to talk about this, but can't. Still wanting to cry. Walk son to kindergarten. Come home. Take daughter to preschool. She seems fine. Rush home to get ready. Turn on tv. Still can't believe it. Doorbell rings. Turn off tv. Put on a smile.

We had a nice little gathering of parents that day, and we all tried to focus on talk about our kids, and not the giant elephant in the room. The news was still just trickling out at that time, and I don't think any of us realized the magnitude of the tragedy ... yet. After everybody left, I called my husband -- who works next to a federal building -- to come home now.

Cry. Time to pick up the kids. Put on a smile. Hug my kids. Try not to cry.

Shock and sorrow. The tragedy touched us, even out here on the left coast. The whole country seemed to come together. For a moment, we felt united. Then the shock and sorrow gave way to shock and awe, and here we are, eight years later. Just another day for most of us -- but certainly not for those who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001. When I hug my kids today, I will remember those who can no longer do this simple act because of the 9/11 attacks. And try not to cry.

sugar and spice

While my son was away at camp, I was able to spend some time with my daughter and her friends. Being the little sister, she has not had too many times in her life without some boy-energy in the house. She was the girl in kindergarten who knew all about Legos and Pokemon, because she had learned about it from her big brother. He has been quite an influence on her, and I looked forward to sharing a testosterone-free zone with her for a while.

After an all-girl day camp, Mika came home with two of her friends, "P" and "C". I wondered what sweet little girl things they would discuss ... or, would it be pre-teen girl stuff that I might not want to hear? They sat down excitedly to eat a snack of brie and baguette. The conversation went something like this:

P: "Can you armpit fart?"
C: "No. I don't know how."
P: "Are you right-handed?"
C: "Yes."
P: "Well, then you take your right arm and go like this -- (demonstrates armpit fart technique)"
(Giggles all around.)
M: "I can't armpit fart. But I can eye-fart!"
P: "Really? Let's see. Do it."
M: (Cupping her eye with her hand and clapping gently against her eye socket) "Did you hear it? You have to be really quiet ..."
P: "Oh, yeah! I heard it!"
(More giggles.)
P: "But can you armpit fart?"
M: "No."
(Assorted body part farting ensues.)
. . .

The conversation took a turn toward armpit hygiene and armpit depth, and then took a welcome turn onto another subject. During this time, I had to try hard not to laugh too loudly as I got a brief peek into their not-so-little-girl world. And, just when I was about to get melancholy about these little girls growing up so fast, I noticed that they spent the rest of their time drawing on an empty box -- a favorite pastime of truly little girls.

Thank goodness for cardboard and markers, sugar and spice, and armpit farts.

Today was a good day.

pancake breakfast

It's the Fourth of July, which is a big holiday in our town. There's a pancake breakfast, a parade, a picnic with Boy Scouts selling burgers and hot dogs, and block parties all over town during the afternoon. It all has that "community" feeling that is often lacking in an urban environment like ours. This is the sort of thing that our kids will remember when they are adults -- with warm and fuzzy feelings, I hope.

This year, I announce to my awake-but-still-sleepy-eyed family that we are going to the Pancake Breakfast. We had made it to the breakfast a few years ago, but nobody else in my family remembers this, so this is our chance to do it again. I have fond memories of attending at least one pancake breakfast when I was a child, and I think my kids should have this experience, too.

I admit, the food at pancake breakfasts is not known to be particularly memorable, so I am not surprised that it made no lasting impression on them. As a child, pancake breakfast food did make a big impression on me. I remember going in the early morning to the parking lot at Spot Market near the corner of Western Avenue and Crenshaw Avenue. (City leaders later decided to change the name of "Crenshaw" to "Marine" -- but that's another story.) We must have purchased tickets from our family friend, Dr. Yoshida, who was a member of the Lions Club, because I can't think of any other reason why we would have gone. My mother was a generous soul, but frugal when it came to feeding us -- I can only imagine how hard it must have been to pay so much for pancakes! As I went through the line, I thought is was curious that there were so many older white gentleman serving us the food. I had never seen so many old white men in one place at one time. They all seemed super-friendly and loud. Dr. Yoshida was there, too, and we made sure to say "hi" as we passed by his section of the buffet line. He seemed normal. Not overly-friendly, and definitely not so loud.

When I sat down to eat my food, I marveled at the eggs. They were perfectly yellow and uniform throughout. I had never seen scrambled eggs like this in my life! And they tasted ... different. Kind of spongy. I decided this must be how white people made scrambled eggs. I liked them fine, but I liked my mom's better.

It took me decades to figure out what the difference was between my mom's eggs and the fluffy, beaten-by-an-eggbeater pancake breakfast eggs. I made the discovery as I was making breakfast one day. After I had already cracked the pre-sunnyside-up eggs into the pan, I decided to make scrambled instead. I took my long cooking hashi (chopsticks) and whisked them in the pan. Half-set before I mixed them up, the eggs took on a nicely marbled state, yellow and white still visible in the finished product. Just like my mom's.

As we go through the Pancake Breakfast line, I am feeling a bit nostalgic for the type of scrambled eggs the Lions Club cooked up for us when I was a kid. We have forked over about $25 for two adults and two kids, and I am looking forward to the eggs -- partly because I want to tell the kids my story about pancake breakfasts and their grandmother's eggs. Fortunately for them, they are spared the "back when I was a kid ..." ramblings of their mother, because there are no eggs. A couple of pancakes, a strip of bacon or a link of sausage, some fruit ... and no eggs.

Happy Egg-less Fourth of July, everyone!

baby bump-ish

It's spring outside! Buoyed by the beautiful weather, I decide to wear a dress instead of jeans. This is pretty momentous, at least in my own mind. I shimmy my way into a dress I bought a couple years ago -- nothing fancy, just something that seemed comfortable and cute at the time. I don't remember it being quite so stretchy ... or so snug. Hmmmm. I adjust a few things and survey myself in the mirror. Actually, the rear view is better than usual. When did all that junk get in my trunk? I rotate to profile and -- yikes! Silhouetted in this Spandex-laden dress, there is no disputing it: I have a baby bump. Well, I sure look like I have a baby bump, but I guess it's just a bump ... or is it?

My mind is racing, counting the days of the month ... could I be "with child?" I have been extremely tired lately. Yes, the bags under my eyes confirm that. And, I've been eating a lot. All day long. And my back has been hurting, and I've been getting these headaches. But I had assumed I was just tired, sore and having headaches. Come to think of it, I have also had this urge to bake cookies and clean the house. Oh my gosh, I think I might be nesting! (Gasp!)

As I pull on a pair of jeans and suck in my baby bump in order to button and zip them up, I think back over a decade to my first pregnancy and try to make a checklist of symptoms. Check, check, check. Oh, wow. I decide to keep this to myself, rather than alarm my husband.

During my swing through Target, I waddle along to the "feminine products" aisle and buy the cheapest pregnancy test available. I need to just take a test and get it over with. If I'm pregnant, I can eat whatever I want! I can wear a Spandex dress and show off my baby bump, while shamelessly eating a Black and Tan sundae at Fenton's! I won't have to worry about my weight for a good eight months! Oh, how liberating it would be!

By the time I get home, the delirium has worn off and I have forgotten about the pregnancy test. I remember it several hours later, and proceed with the test. It is a generic brand that I have never used before, but I figure I don't need the instructions. Peeing on a stick is pretty self-explanatory. Now, for the results. When I was trying to get pregnant, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the results to appear in the little windows on the pee stick. This time, however, the results were almost instantaneous. BAM. There it was. But what did it mean? I realize that since I have never used this brand before, I don't know how to read the test. Now I wished I had paid the extra money for the name-brand pregnancy test that clearly says, "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT," instead of making you decipher these random lines. I retrieve the box from the trash and find the legend to decode the test.

One line. Negative. Not pregnant.

Just fat.

Next time I go shopping, I think I'll go buy some Spanx.

happy eating on mother's day

It's Mother's Day! My day to celebrate myself! I woke up to my husband making coffee and trying to figure out how to turn on the oven to make chocolate croissants. His coffee always tastes better than mine, so the coffee-making part was not unusual; apparently, the oven-turning-on part was a bit of a stretch. I helped him out with this, then waited for one of the kids to wake up so they could put the croissants in the oven. After we ate them, my husband and the kids made blueberry pancakes and bacon. Yum. More coffee, more food. I am happy.

I am still working on my pancakes when my daughter pipes up: "Would you like some cheese?"
"Well, I'm pretty full right now. Maybe later," I say with a motherly smile.
"Okay. How about some cheese for lunch? Or maybe some Arizmendi pizza? Because it's Mother's Day!!!"

Cheese is my daughter's favorite food, and she knows I like it, and Arizmendi pizza, too. It is an expression of daughterly sweetness that makes my heart melt ... and spasm with guilt. Apparently, my Pavlovian behavior around food has not gone unnoticed. Am I really that obvious? I fear I have permanently damaged both of my children's relationships with food. For the rest of their lives.

Sigh (again). I will have to deal with that later. For now, I will just happily eat my way through mother's day.

Is it time for Mocha Frappuccinos yet?

For a moment, I'm June Cleaver

It was time to pick up my son from school after jazz band. My son was waiting with his buddy, Gabe, and I loaded up my little car with bass, amp, guitar and two boys.  Just as we were almost ready to go, my son's teacher rode up on his bicycle and started to chat with me. While we were talking, another boy who looked like he knew my son started hovering about. He looked familiar. As Mr. Scherman rode off, the boy peered into the car window ... not saying anything, but still ... hovering. My it-takes-a-village maternal instinct kicked in, and I could not leave him standing there, cold-heartedly driving off as he gazed at us driving off into the distance.

I waved to the boy and asked, "Do you need me to call somebody?"
Boy whose name I didn't know: "No, I don't need to call anybody."
"Are you waiting for somebody?"
"No."
"Do you want a ride?"
"Oh, okay, sure, if it wouldn't be too much trouble," he said, lugging his baritone sax into the car.
"Is it okay for you to get a ride? Do you need to call somebody?"
"Oh, no, it's fine if I get a ride. I don't need to call anybody. Thank you."
The boy was very polite, and he knew my son, and he looked familiar, and he didn't live too far, so everything seemed fine. It took me a while to realize that I had never met this kid before -- I had mistaken him for his twin brother, who was my son's classmate.
Of course, I didn't realize this until we were half way to his house, and my son blurts out, "Okay, so, like, are you Max or are you Charlie?" Apparently, my son didn't know who he was, either.
"I'm Max ... no, just kidding, I'm Charlie."
Now that we had that settled, we continued on our way only to drive past a boy who looked a lot like Charlie, carrying a large instrument as he walked down the street.

"HEY, MAX! SEE YA LATER!!! Ha ha ha ha ha!" yells Charlie, as we drive past his brother.
"Oh -- that's Max? I might as well stop and ..."
"NO!!! Noooo!!!! Don't stop the car! No, please, please ..." Charlie seemed to physically deflate as I slowed down the car and pulled over to the side.
"... give him a ride home, too." I could see Max running over, going pretty quickly for somebody carrying a big instrument case.
"Would you like a ride home, too?"
"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Oyama. Thank you." Max climbed in and my little car was just about at maximum capacity with all the instruments, amps, backpacks and boys.
Fortunately, we were only a short ride away from the twins' house.

I parked the car and got out to help dislodge the boys and their gear from the car. As we are unloading, one of the twins -- not sure which one -- remarks, "I wasn't sure who was driving the car -- I thought you might be Miles's sister. You look young for your age!"

Well, it wasn't the most artfully stated compliment, but I will take a compliment wherever I can get one. "Oh, thank you!" I happily reply. "Thank you for the ride!" the twins call back, smiling widely.

As I drive away, I am still enjoying the compliment, but suddenly I start to feel a sense of de ja vu. Well, not quite de ja vu ... it's more like ... nostalgia. And it takes a while to sink in, but I suddenly realize that I feel like June Cleaver.  

I've been Haskellized.  And, actually, I think I like it!  Maybe I'll go put on some pearls and bake some cookies now.

[Note: I wrote this last year but apparently never clicked "publish post"; I saw one of the twins today during my library duty.  I can't tell you which one, but he was very polite.]

like father, like son

For Valentine's Day, I just had to share this story of father-son bonding. I'll call the dad "Big Daddy." The story goes that Big Daddy's sixth grade son recently started showing an interest in girls. Big Daddy is extremely happy about this, in the way that moms get excited when their daughters start showing an interest in shopping.

One day, the boy wanders into the media room to find his father watching the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Instead of changing the channel or shooing his son out of the room, Big Daddy tells his son to come on over and watch the show.

Son: "What is this?"
Big Daddy: "It's a fashion show."
His son sits down and his eyes become transfixed on the television set.
Big Daddy is enjoying this special time with his son -- their first Victoria's Secret Fashion Show viewing together. Scantily clad women with really big wings parade before them. Father and son, spending some quality time together.

After a few minutes, the son says to his dad: "I can't believe anybody would actually buy those wings."

Some things just cannot be rushed. In due time, Big Daddy, in due time.

NOTE: My husband requested that I clarify that "Big Daddy" in this story is not him.  If it were my husband, I would have called him Big Poppa, not Big Daddy.  

Oyama Mama Lawn Sign Drama - continued

The lawn sign drama update -- part 1 and part 2.

big buttons

My friend Joe looks down at me as I am buttoning my Woo Stassia coat, and comments,
"Whoa, those are some big buttons you've got there."
"Joe, I love it when you talk about my big buttons," I quip, knowing that he will find this amusing. He is, after all, always ready with a one-liner -- and I know this because we have known each other for over two decades now.

When I first met him, he was on a basketball court, even though it sometimes seemed that he was playing football. Off the court, he was usually wearing his Doc Martens, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. He wore his hair shaved around the back and sides, longer and slicked back on top -- clearly the inspiration for Gavin Newsom's current hairstyle. When we went out to a club, he wouldn't (or couldn't) do the Cabbage Patch. "Do your own dance!" he would say with a smile, as he busted some unique move that he must have created himself or learned during his days as a Valley Guy. He is one of the few people I know who is skinnier and in better shape than he was twenty years ago, but aside from his trimmed down physique, he is the same Joe to me. We used to bond over things like how to cut and roll a room, back in the day when we used to paint our own houses -- before we had kids.

The occasion for seeing Joe (and Nancy, Bill, Debbie, Tim, Ada, Jin, Peter, Steve, Onilda, Jackie and "the kids") tonight was a Happy Super Chinese New Year's Bowl Party, complete with chips & guacamole, calamari, roast duck, pressed duck, chicken, ribs, crab, shrimp, fish, chow mein, two different seafood & veggie dishes, fried rice, sticky rice, duck & organic greens salad, seven-layer jell-o, and a berry trifle made with Chinese sponge cake for dessert. Orchestrated by Debbie and Bill, we somehow managed to find a date when all of us and most of our kids were available to spend a few hours together. As we sat around the dinner table, we talked about how we all knew one another, and it was interesting to see that all of my relationships in that room were somehow tied to my summer clerkship for the Asian Law Caucus in 1987, when Bill took me with him to play basketball. It was great to just have some time together, talking about the old and the new; potty-training puppies and college applications; affirmative action and domestic violence; lumpia and egg rolls; Top Chef and CNN; the Cardinals and the Steelers. Real conversations in real time. Friendships that started out with being connected by something other than a Facebook link. Wow. What a concept.

Thanks for a great evening, and a toast to all the pre-Facebook friendships out there. And, yes, Joe -- I do have some really big buttons. I look forward to showing them to you again sometime soon.