last minute wishes

'Twas the night before Christmas and in spite of myself
Not a creature was stirring, except for me, Mama Elf.
The stockings were hung, but have yet to be filled --
The kids won't get coal, so they should be pretty thrilled.
There are still presents to wrap ... some hidden away
I need to find them quick, since it's almost Christmas Day!

When all of a sudden, I heard a great roaring!
I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it's just my husband snoring.
It's been a long, fun day, filled with good food and cheer,
A little hosting and toasting, with friends and family from far and near.
So now as I attempt to finish my list
(I have to admit, I am procrastinating a bit)
I want to take a minute to say just one thing more --
Wishing you peace, love and happiness
shared with those you adore

cake boss

We decided several years ago that we would stop having "kid" birthday parties at age 10. My son has been fine with that, but for various reasons, I have not held the line as much with my daughter. This year, my daughter became a teenager, and that seems to be a big deal. For me, I always thought of turning 12 as the "big" birthday, since that was the year that you celebrated your -- in my case -- Japanese zodiac sign. It only happens every 12 years, so I was raised to think that that was a pretty big deal. In Japanese (and Japanese American) culture, you get a big celebration after you've traveled around the zodiac wheel five times, on your sixtieth birthday.
My husband, however, did not grow up with that same consciousness about the zodiac years -- even though he will be the first to point out that it is the Chinese zodiac which the Japanese stole and used as their own. Since my daughter was with all of us on a family trip to China on her 12th birthday, she did not get a typical "party," so letting her have a 13th birthday party seemed like it was not caving in too much.
In any case, my daughter usually has big plans for her birthday, even though they tend to evolve during the course of the year. She starts thinking about the next one almost as soon as her birthday is over. Looking back, it's a little sad that we can't remember all of them -- none of us can remember what happened at the 3 or 5 year birthdays. For the others, we've been to Build-a-Bear, learned gymnastics at Golden Bear, gone ice skating at the Oakland Ice Rink, had a virtual + reality party at our house with Webkinz, scaled fake rocks at Ironworks, watched a show and had tea at American Girl Place (just with me, a couple aunties, and my mom), had ice cream at Fenton's and extended family and friends parties at home.
"What do you want to do for your birthday, Mika?" I asked a little over a week ago.
"Uhhhh ... I want to go to Homeroom Mac+Cheese, and then maybe a sleepover."
"Okay, you realize you can only invite a few friends, especially if it's a sleepover. Who do you want to invite?"
"Oh. Hmmmm. That's sooooo hard," my daughter groaned. It was hard. Not wanting to offend anybody, yet knowing there was no way she could invite everybody she wanted to, we made a very short list and went from there. We were already very late, sending out an electronic invitation on Monday for the party on Friday. Fortunately, everybody was able to make it for at least the cake & ice cream portion of the evening, and most could even spend the night.
Since Homeroom does not take reservations, and standing out on the corner with a bunch of girls for an hour to wait for a table was not my idea of a good party, I was relieved to discover that the restaurant made party portions to go. I ordered the Gilroy Garlic and the Mack the Goat macaroni & cheese dishes, plus an order of Minty, Buttery Peas, at my daughter's request. (She is not a person who likes peas, but she loves these peas. As she says, "They must put fairy dust on them. Or nicotine. They are so addictive.")
With a phone call, dinner was taken care of. Now came the tricky part. My daughter had been asking for a Funfetti cake for months now. For those of you not familiar with Funfetti, it is a boxed cake mix that has little "confetti" sprinkles in the white cake. She also wanted chocolate frosting. This didn't sound too hard, but I was not entirely sure how I was going to execute this birthday request. Messing up on the birthday cake would be pretty bad. Okay, worse than pretty bad: it would be a birthday disaster. I decided to attempt making chocolate frosting from scratch -- I'm not sure why I thought this would be a good idea, but it seemed like one at the time.
Grocery shopping done, I unboxed my newly-released-from-the-storage-unit stand mixer and got it ready for battle. First, the cake mix. I felt like a TV chef with my barely broken-in stand mixer, adding ingredients as it mixed away. It was like magic. I poured the batter into the dusted pan and set the timer.
I cleaned frantically while the cake baked, then came running when the timer beckoned. Stuck a toothpick in it to check for doneness and let it cool. After a while, I decided to flip it onto my foil-covered cutting board so I could get ready to frost it. Oops. A large crack opened up, and then I suddenly had two pieces of birthday cake. I jigsaw puzzled them together and stared. Maybe if I looked at it long enough, the cake would miraculously heal itself. Heal thyself! Sigh. It wasn't working. Besides, the cake was not only broken, it was very flat. I decided to add a layer of cake, but realized I had no other cake mix. I thought about making a brownie layer, since I have six different boxes of brownie mix, but then had an inspiration: ice cream cake. Ice cream, check. M&Ms, check. Now, a little melting time to soften up the ice cream, a little muscle to spread it around in the cake pan, a sprinkling of M&Ms, and then ... a little bit of luck in getting the cake layer back into the pan ... and into the freezer it went.
Now it was time to make the frosting. I fired up the mixer again, and threw in lots of butter, some cocoa, a splash of vanilla, and some milk, and suddenly I had chocolate frosting! I had never used frosting that I hadn't bought at the grocery store, so it was a revelation to me that it was actually not that difficult to make. While I had been mixing, girls were arriving and I couldn't hear the doorbell, the dog barking, or the daughter opening the door. They eventually all arrived and sat down for dinner, eating far less food than I had planned for, and sounding happy the whole time. The bits and pieces of conversation I heard had to do with teachers, school, and times when they had heard other students fart at school. After they finished eating, they scurried away to the family room, where I had put twelve bottles of Hello Kitty nail polish out, and the girls paired up and did to do each other's nails.
Dinner was past history, and it was time for me to work on the cake again.
I filled a large roasting pan with hot water and dipped the ice cream cake pan into it for a short time. Then, imitating the motion my mother uses when plating a pan of gyoza, I flipped the cake onto my foil covered cutting board and ... exhaled when I took off the pan and discovered that the cake actually looked pretty good! The ice cream had molded itself into what looked like a layer of vanilla ice cream ganache, smooth and seamless, nearly encasing the broken Funfetti cake inside of it. Back to the freezer it went. When the final party guest arrived, I set to work frosting the cake. I had no pastry bag, so I clipped a Ziplock bag and went for it. Why, oh why, did I not take classes at Cake Dec like my sister did? What the heck am I doing? I shoved the words of doubt down to where I could barely hear them, and starting piping a ribbon of chocolate frosting along the edge, hiding the glimpses of cake from view. I was doing pretty well until the cake started melting. "It's almost cake time!" I shouted to the girls and my husband. I needed some help, now. "What do you need?" asked my husband. "Can you put the candles on the cake? They are right here, on this counter ... buried in this vicinity somewhere ..." I motioned in a vague circle next to the stand mixer, and run off to find the plastic Japanese letters I had found during some recent unpacking; my kids never used them much, and I knew they would be the perfect finish to personalize the cake with my daughter's name. I dumped the box of plastic letters on the guest bed, fumbling through until I found both a み and a か. There. I ran back to the kitchen, announcing as I ran, "O-kaaay -- cake time! Hurry because it's melting!"
My husband had arranged the HAPPY BIRTHDAY candles perfectly, and I finished off the decorations with the Japanese letters.

"It's Funfetti cake!" my daughter announced to her friends.
"... and it's ice cream cake, too!" I chime in, to explain why I had been running around saying the cake would melt.
The girls watch in anticipation as my husband lights the candles. "Now ... everybody sing, really fast."
Girls sing. A wish is made. Candles are blown out. Cake is served. Girls eat.
"Ooooh, this cake is good!"
"Wait, is this an M&M in here?"
"Whoa, it's an ice cream cake!"
"This is delicious."
Whew! Sigh of relief. I have averted a birthday cake disaster.
But wait, there's more -- my husband breaks out the Ben & Jerry's Schweddy Balls, which he has driven all over town to find, just for this occasion. Schweddy Balls are eaten. My daughter tries to explain the SNL Schweddy Balls skit. Girls chatter amongst themselves.
I look around the table and marvel at all of them. I've known one of the girls since she was 3 years old, and the rest since they were between 5 and 8 years old -- and now, with my daughter passing this milestone, they are all teenagers.
I take a picture, knowing that I will probably forget this birthday party otherwise, even though I really do hope that I always remember this day.
Happy birthday, baby girl.

not quite undercover

 "Mom," my son reported, "I have to bring Chinese doughnuts and soy milk to Mandarin class on Tuesday."

"Oh -- okay. I know what Chinese doughnuts are, I think, but what kind of soy milk is it? Just the regular kind I can get at the grocery store?"

"Uhhhhm, I don't know."

"I'll send the teacher an email," I say, letting him off the hook.

"Okay. Thanks, Mom."

My son is at a distinct disadvantage in Mandarin class, all because his mother is ... Japanese. Most of the kids whose parents aren't immigrants at least have a mother of Chinese ancestry. Except for my son. I think it is a source of amusement for the teacher, since my son has a Chinese surname, and she seems to appreciate my effort to get the food assignments right. She is always careful to try to give us food assignments that we can handle, and explains things to my son as much as possible. This time, I was familiar with half the assignment -- the Chinese doughnuts, which I learned to enjoy because of my love of jook, that savory, soupy, comforting concoction that my roommate, Alice Wong, introduced me to the day after Thanksgiving back in college. Turkey jook. That's what turkey leftovers become in a Chinese American household. And Chinese doughnuts are the perfect partner to a bowl of jook.

The soy milk, though, had me confused. My cousin (actually, my husband's cousin, but I have adopted all of his relatives as my own) told me that there is actually a soy soup that is commonly eaten with the doughnuts, and it is different from the standard soy milk I might buy at Trader Joe's. I emailed the teacher and asked her to send me the name of the type of soy milk, with the Chinese characters, just in case I needed it. 

Okay, who am I kidding? I knew I would need to go straight to the email when I went shopping for this. I walked into the market in Chinatown this morning, holding my phone up tentatively and asking, "Excuse me ... do you have soy milk? Dou Jiang?" I say, in my best invented Mandarin pronunciation. I point at my phone to the characters: 豆浆. The clerk nods her understanding. "Ohhh ... yes, dou jiang. I'm sorry but the delivery is not here yet from San Francisco. They make it fresh everyday. I'm sorry. You can come back later."

I have to explain that I cannot come back later, because I need it by 9:30 am for my son's Mandarin class. Plus, I need Chinese doughnuts, which they will dip into the soy milk. Does she have the kind of soy milk I would dip a Chinese doughnut into?

"Doughnut? In soy milk? Hmmm. Doughnut is very sweet. You don't want sweet soy milk," she gestures as if eating a round, American doughnut.

"Oh -- no, not that kind of doughnut. Chinese doughnut --" I gesture what I think indicates a long, tubular object, "-- like you eat with jook."

"Ahhhh! Okay. Soy milk. Uhmmm, this kind is good."

She directs me to a vacuum sealed box of soy milk with pictures of black beans on it. 

Okay, looks good to me. I scan the nearby shelves to see what else I might want to buy, as long as I'm here, since I don't come to the Chinatown markets very often.

The clerk notices my gaze, and apparently has noticed something else about me, too. "Do you want anything else?" she asks, pointing to the shrink-wrapped confections on the counter, "Do you want some mochi?" she says with a smile, "It's good." 

Of course, mochi. The only Japanese thing around. Try as I might to blend and at least come close to seeming ABC (American Born Chinese), my cover was apparently blown, no need to perpetrate. How did she know? Do I just look Japanese? Whatever the case, I found it amusing. I very politely say, "No, thank you, but they look very good," and make my purchase, thanking her and bowing my head slightly as I leave.

cars that go boom

"It's so embarrassing when Dad drives around with his music blasting," bemoaned my teenaged son. I chuckled and said, "He's been doing that your whole life, and you just noticed it now?"
"No, I noticed it before."
"Oh, okay. He's been doing that your whole life, and you were just never embarrassed by it before."
My son nods, then gives my husband a little credit, "At least he plays the right kind of music most of the time. It's usually some rap song. But sometimes he's like blasting something else --"
"-- yeah, like NPR!" chimes in my tweenaged daughter.
"Yeah! But most of the time, he's, like, this middle-aged Asian man in a suit driving his car boomin' some rap song ..."
I want to say something reassuring, to make them feel a little better about their dad, but all I can manage is this: "Well, he's been doing that pretty much since the day I met him. Although back then, he was a twenty-something year old Asian guy with his car boomin'. At least he's consistent."
What I really want to do is burst out into an impromptu version of Tigra & Bunny singing "We like the cars, the cars that go boom, we're Tigra and Bunny and we like The Boom ..." but since the kids are already bummed out about their embarrassing father, I decide to try to be The Less Embarrassing Parent and keep my mouth shut (and my bootie firmly planted on my chair). I think I am winning in The Less Embarrassing Parent contest; to be fair, I don't think my husband realizes there is any kind of competition going on. (Although, even if he did, I believe I would still be winning.)

fall figs

Figs. I grew up thinking a fig was something jamlike that came in a Newton, not realizing that it started out looking more like a mutant eggplant. I guess the man in the giant fig costume was a hint, but as a kid, I never gave it any thought. We ate a lot of fruit growing up, but not a single fig. But I do remember watching the Fig Newton commercials. I would be sitting in our living room with the avocado green wall to wall carved carpeting, gold upholstered sofa, and marble coffee table with the splayed legs. I can hear the Fig Newton jingle in my head and see the Big Fig Newton doing the Big Fig Newton dance. Oh, come on, you know you remember it, too. "Ooey gooey rich and chewy inside, golden flaky light and cakey outside, wrap the inside in the outside, is it good? Darn tootin'! Doing the Big Fig Newton -- here's the tricky part -- the Big Fig Newton -- one more time -- the Big Fig New-toooooon!" (Pose!)

When we first moved into this house in August, my friend Nancy came over and said, "You have a fig tree! Look at all these figs!" I had no idea. The fruit was still quite green and looked more like buds than fruit, and I was so glad she told me so I could eventually pick the figs when they were ready. I waited. And waited. And waited. Then I stopped checking, and, of course, that's when they ripened and were ready to pick.

My cousin Tina noticed before I did, and came in from our backyard with a small harvest of figs yesterday. They were so pretty! Who knew? I went out again today and picked a few more that looked ready, giving ever so slightly to my squeeze, green barely visible on the deep purple body. I had to ask Tina how to eat a fig. She just bit into it. Okay, that was pretty self-explanatory. I've since decided I prefer to slice it in half and scoop out the sweet fleshy insides with a spoon. Yum.

I'm sure that these first fall figs will be an enduring memory for me, our first figs at our new house -- which reminded me of my childhood memories in my first house, watching a man dressed like a fig dance around on television -- bringing me to my present and future, building new memories in our new home.

jury duty

The court clerk called out batches of numbers -- it was almost like a reverse lottery, where you really didn't want your number to come up. It was near the end of the second day of jury selection, and there were dozens of people who had been called, questioned, and dismissed. But they still didn't have their 12. The gentleman next to me, a man I had figured out was named "Brian," leaned over and said something about how there was a chance we wouldn't get picked -- or maybe he said there was a chance we would get picked. Either way, it was right after that that his number was called. Uh oh. Somehow, I knew I was about to be picked, too. Then, with the actual 12 members of the jury sworn in and 2 alternates seated (including Brian), and less than a dozen people left in the jury selection pool, they called four new jurors. I was the last person called. Badge #6.

I knew that if I got called, there was a strong likelihood that they would keep me. The one person I most identified with -- as far as his answers to questions regarding attitudes about police misconduct and racial profiling -- was a young Asian man who reminded me of my dentist. (Well, if my dentist were about 20 years younger, had a shaved head, and one tattoed sleeve.) In any case, you could see the surprise on his face when they asked him to stand and not leave -- he would spend the next two and a half weeks in the front row of the jury box. I remember saying to myself, "If they kept Young Asian Guy, they are going to keep me if my number is called." And, they did.

Unlike many people, I am not completely opposed to jury duty. It gives me a great reason to leave the kids unattended and go out for lunch. Plus, since we actually get paid, I was making money on this. A small paycheck, but a paycheck, nonetheless. Yes, it's inconvenient. I spent many years sending in the I-need-to-care-for-my-children-so-please-excuse-me-from-jury-duty form -- but now my kids are older and I didn't have a legitimate reason to get excused. I figured this would be less disruptive to my life than it would be for many others, so if it happened, it happened.

As part of a jury, you realize that you are an important part of the justice system -- at least, if you are on the actual jury. I, on the other hand, was picked as an alternate. But not just any alternate. I was Alternate #3. The jury box only had 14 chairs. My chair was not even in the jury box. I felt so extraneous. But ... I decided to make the best of it. My outside-of-the-box chair location turned out to be a bonus: nobody in the court room gallery could see me! I could wheel my chair around within my little area so I could see the witnesses, judge and attorneys, but I could not see the people who came to watch the proceedings, and I could use the jury box step as a foot rest. My chair was the envy of the Real Jurors.

Although everybody was a little bit in shock when we were empaneled, we were all resigned to our fates by the time we reconvened the next day. The case (which I still can't talk about) was complex and interesting. Some of us took notes. Some didn't. Some asked questions, in addition to taking lots of notes. I was a note-taker, even though I knew it was unlikely I would get to deliberate. I did it to help me stay engaged and hopefully not fall asleep. I felt like I was in college again, writing frantically and trying to digest it all and stay awake at the same time. I think I was pretty successful. But the one thing about dozing off is that you don't realize you have done it until it's done. That's all I'm going to say about that.

For those of you who have not served on a criminal jury before, here is something I didn't anticipate: there is a lot of downtime in the jury room when you are just sitting and waiting for the judge to call you in. We would assemble in the jury room, push the button for the buzzer to signal that we were all there, and wait. Most days, the clerk would come in and tell us it would be a few more minutes. Sometimes that meant 15 - 30 minutes, and you can't leave the room once the buzzer is buzzed! So, we all actually got to know each other a bit, which was really nice. As I looked around the room, it was amazing that this jury was such a cross-section of society -- which is exactly what it is supposed to be. We were all isolated in this little room together, like a very abbreviated version of Gilligan's Island sans shipwreck. I wouldn't characterize anybody as the Skipper or the Movie Star, but we did have the Tall Guy who spoke Arabic, the Latina who lived within walking distance of the courthouse, the Sephora Lady who had a cute purse, the Scientist with the name that I actually learned to pronounce but cannot spell, the Cocoa Nibs lady, the Asian Man with the nut-allergic son, the Woman with the Short Hair whose ex-husband is from Hawaii, the Woman with the Long Hair who used to run a daycare, the African American woman whose phone announced to all of us who was calling her, the Young Asian Man with the sleeve, the Filipina who got a speeding ticket one day, the Artist who has a "real job" at a nonprofit, and the alternates, Brian, Woman with the Camaro, and me. I learned most of their names by the second week, but we did refer to each other by badge number and description a lot. Given that we are sworn to secrecy and couldn't talk about the case even to each other, it felt like we should remain anonymous, like we were secret agents or something. It is awkward to refer to each other by number or description when you are out eating lunch together, though, so we did eventually break the ice and start referring to people by name. At least at lunchtime.

I learned some interesting things during this trial. The Sephora Lady told us that the Disney "documentary" about lemmings uses footage of lemmings being pushed off the cliff by the Disney people. I discovered that there are quite a few people who have chickens as pets, and there were a few of them on the jury. Even more have dogs, and I would say half of us had dogs. A few of the jurors have cats. Young Asian Guy is afraid of cats, but likes comic book superheroes. Artist and Filipina also like comic book superheroes. The Sephora Lady was very kind, telling me I didn't really have dark circles under my eyes when I asked her for a recommendation about some products for that purpose. Tina, the African American woman, is a stealth jigsaw puzzler. Jesus, the Artist, is a methodical jigsaw puzzler. I realized that both styles are effective and it was fun to see progress being made on the puzzles, either way. I love jigsaw puzzles, and was happy to help out.

Unfortunately, my jigsaw puzzling days were numbered. At the end of the first two and half weeks, I was dismissed due to an upcoming family vacation (which I had told them about during jury selection), and had to leave without even finding out what the verdict was. Hopefully, I'll find out when the case is resolved, and maybe even run into some of my fellow jurors someday :-)

UPDATE: The case went one week over what was projected, with a verdict coming down a couple days ago. The defendant was found guilty of murder in the second degree.

our house

Boxes, boxes, everywhere! Sorting and packing. Not sorting and packing. We bought a new house! Well, not exactly new, but new to us. We can't move into the new house yet, but we are getting this house -- our house -- ready to go on the market, so it can become somebody else's house. Suddenly, I am very sentimental about our house, even as I envision what the future will be in our next one.

Our "old" house, one city over in Oakland, was where our family was born. We were a young couple there ... then parents of one baby ... then parents of a toddler and a baby ... then parents of a toddler and a pre-schooler, when we moved to this house. This house, our current house, is where our babies grew into children, young people who have memories of this house, and virtually no memory of the Oakland house.

I remember walking the kids to school, up the hill in the Sit-n-Stand Stroller -- my daughter, sucking her thumb in the front seat, my son, the train-obsessed Big Boy, standing on the back platform. As we got to the steepest part of the block, I would chant, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can ..." as we powered up the hill. When they got to be a little bit bigger, my son would get off the back and push the stroller with me, saying, "Super power boost, Mom!!!"

This weekend, that same son -- now taller and stronger than me -- was carrying furniture with my husband, taking over that spot at the other end of the furniture that would normally have been mine. My daughter had made a Mothers' Day breakfast for me, all on her own, complete with custom Mothers' Day artwork on the wall of the breakfast nook. They really are all grown up. And it's all happened here, in this house.

We'll look back on this house with some very good memories, and I am tearing up right now, thinking about it. It's been more than a house, it's been our home. But it's time to move on -- literally -- and build more memories in the next house. And this house will be somebody else's new house. I hope they fill it with many years of good memories, too.

bye, bye, bunny

This is the year that I finally stopped being the Easter Bunny. No jelly beans. No plastic eggs. No chocolate shaped like eggs and bunnies. Not even a single pack of Peeps. With a twelve year old and a fourteen year old, we really should have stopped a while ago, but I always felt guilty if I didn't have something for the kids on Easter. Hunting for eggs and receiving a chocolate bunny were always fun as a child, and I wanted them to have that memory, too. But it seemed like the time was right to stop this tradition in our household ... plus, I had neglected to buy anything for them, since I've been a bit distracted lately.

Fortunately, my kids didn't mind. And, as an added bonus, my daughter Mika shared an Easter memory with us.

I remember one time we had a Easter egg hunt in the living room, and one of the eggs had a dinosaur in it. And then we went skiing. And when we went through the drive-thru at McDonald's, the guy said, "Happy Easter!" or something like that.

Really? Are you sure it wasn't some imposter-Mom who had her act together enough to make sure you got an Easter egg hunt in at 5:30 am before we left for the slopes? I had virtually no independent memory of the Easter ski day she described, but I was sure she was right about it all. It was a coincidence that she would mention this, since if the weather had cooperated today, we were planning on spending our Easter morning driving up to Tahoe for our own sunrise service, communing with nature. Unfortunately, the forecast was not looking very good for skiing, and we had plenty of other things to attend to today, although none were Easter-related.

Thank goodness my daughter has some positive memories about my attempts at celebrating this holiday, even if it has been wiped from my own memory! It's nice to know that these little details are locked away somewhere in her mind. Maybe she'll put a dinosaur in some child's Easter egg someday.

UPDATE: I couldn't resist the 50% off Easter candy at the store today. Picked up a chocolate-covered Peeps and some little Dove bunnies and eggs. My kids were quite excited about it, so I think I may have just started a new family tradition!

i could use a little help here ...

Several weeks ago, my friend Consuelo asked me if my daughter and I would want to participate in the Macy's Flower Show "Mom and Me" Fashion Presentation. I was flattered to be asked, even though I was pretty nervous about it. This whole "modeling" thing is, well, not my thing. I knew my daughter would do well, having been on stage in dance recitals twice a year since she was five years old -- but when I asked her, I was surprised that she was a little hesitant to do it. After a little bit of discussion, I decided for us. "Mika, I think we should do this because nobody will ever ask Mommy to be a model again. You will probably have other chances, but I'm pretty sure this is my last chance," I stated, matter-of-factly. "O...kay," said my daughter, "that's fine."

And so it began. I watched what I ate carefully. For a few days. Then I fell off the wagon and Girl Scout cookies were here and the thought of the fashion presentation went to the back burner of my mind. As the date grew closer, I worried about the upcoming fitting ... and snacked, nervously. And then, suddenly, it was time. The days had floated away, scattered by the wind like a calendar in a Hanna-Barbera cartoon.

I had never been to a fitting before, so it was great fun to see all the clothes lined up, ready for us to try on. Mika's "looks" were mostly too big -- I had neglected to say "girl" size, and so her clothes were junior-sized. Consuelo hurried off to get some clothes for Mika from the Girls section that did not scream "little girl." The clothes I got to try on were mostly things that I would never have picked for myself -- which made me realize how drab and colorless my wardrobe is!

I feel like a girl playing dress-up -- somehow it is more fun to try on things that somebody else has picked out for me, rather than the usual little black dress that I would choose if left to my own devices. My final line-up: a forgivingly flouncy floral Rachel Roy; a strapless tropical Nanette Lepore that was crying out for cleavage; a tailored, polka dot Ralph Lauren that was about two cup sizes too big on top; and an extremely unforgiving super-fitted white Ellen Tracy. Sigh. While trying on the white dress, I look over at Consuelo and say, "Can I model some Spanx with this?" She shakes her head and says, politely, "Oh, no, you don't need it! You look great!"

Yeah, right.

I look at the mirror. Clearly, I am not seeing what she is seeing. The woman I see in the mirror could use a little help. With no alternations allowed, I realize that I am going to have to alter myself -- with the magic of foundation garments -- in order to not humiliate myself the next day.

At home, I dig frantically through my rarely-used-lingerie-and-foundation-garments drawer until I strike gold: bra insert pads. A similarly small-busted friend had given them to me years ago for my birthday with the note, "Happy Ta-Ta's to You!" I have not had the need to use them much, simply avoiding anything that requires a buxom silhouette, so they had become buried in the drawer over the years. But now, my need was overwhelming. I shrieked for joy when I found them and showed my daughter -- "Look, Mika! I found my boob pads!" She looked at me quizzically at first, then gave me her oh-it's-just-Mom-being-weird-again look.

Also hidden in my drawer was the Jezebel corset I bought in order to fill out my wedding gown. I thought about it for a split-second, then decided it was really not worth attempting to fit into anything from circa wedding day. Technology had more to offer in the new millennium. I zipped over to the nearby Target store and picked up a pair of "Assets by Spanx" -- the style that most resembles a high-waisted girdle in "nude" (which, while literally invoking nudity, is the least sexy color of all).

Fortunately, the unattractive nude-colored high-waisted Assets shaper is not meant to be seen in public, but to hide things that we don't want to be seen in public. And, if nothing else, I was rockin' my Assets at the fashion presentation. It was nice to have my tummy all tucked in and flattened out, and my boobs looking all poofed-out and puffed-up. The bigger boobs make my stomach look instantly skinnier, and the shaper is holding in anything that might want to jiggle out. I look like a complete imposter, but I don't care.

My husband and son were among the audience, partaking in tea sandwiches and scones as they watched the mother-child duos take turns modeling our looks. The other children were much younger than mine ... and I am assuming their mothers had me by about a decade. I quickly realized I was there as the "mature" mom -- which, I am happy to say, did not bother me at all! I had my adorable daughter, fabulous dresses and shoes, and my assets. Represent!

maui memories

On the anniversary of Dr. John Lee, M.D.'s passing, I wanted to share my post from April 2008.

"Hewo, dere, Mika," Miles said to his little sister, talking though an empty miniature box of cereal.
"Hewo, dere, Miyoz," Mika said back to her big brother. With the help of Boyar, I am flashing back to the memory of the kids sitting on the condo balcony in Wailea.

Today, the kids sit at a counter in a different condo in Wailea, chomping down some cereal that they have poured themselves, reenacting the "Hewo, dere" scene to indulge their parents.

"How old were you guys when you did that?" I ask.
"Really young," says Miles.
"I dunno. Too young for me to remember!" answers Mika.

My guess is it was seven years ago. Mika would have been two, Miles, four years old. And Dad would have been about seventy years old. We were staying at his condo on one of the golf courses in Wailea, where he had slept on the sofa so that we could commandeer the rest of the condo with our Pack n Play and various other little kid contraptions.

Boyar had videotaped the scene of the kids eating their cereal -- with a healthy dose of zooming out to film the golf course -- his adorable kids' voices still in the background as he cropped them out of the frame to capture the beauty of another creature that was close to his heart. Father and son would go off together later that day, rendezvousing with one of the gorgeous golf courses on Maui. Makena? Wailea Blue? Gold? Maybe it was the public course, Waiehu, where they sell Spam musubi at the turn instead of hot dogs. Hey, the better the bargain, the better the golf. As a condo owner, Dad enjoyed the local resident kama'aina rate, which he was very happy about.

It is bittersweet to reflect on this now, having just laid Dr. John Lee, M.D. to rest a few days ago. He was my second "dad", and I remember feeling privileged that he let me call him that. He was my mainstream, out-there, super-confident, always happenin' dad; similar and different from my own dad in so many ways. Having a father-in-law is like getting to have a dad who has no memory of what a pain you were when you were little, no headaches or annoyances to reflect back on, no decades of expectations one could never fulfill, a no-baggage dad. Or, at least, that's how it seemed for me.

It's hard not to tear up as we vacation here, with many good memories of Dad, thinking about how he looked out on this same sunset, played a round of golf on this same course. I dropped off Boyar at Makena this afternoon -- twilight rate begins at 2 pm -- and had an image of Dad and Boyar in Wailea, looking hot and tired, sitting outside a pro-shop as I drove over to pick them up. Relief on their faces as they saw me drive up, getting up and walking over to the car, walking that same walk, looking like each other, a father-and-son twosome.

Boyar is golfing as a single today. But I'm thinking Dad might be right there with him.

happy cesar chavez day

As we commemorate the struggles for safe working conditions, I was reminded of my daughter's interview of Dolores Huerta on Obama's inauguration day in 2009, and thought I would share it today:

Dolores Huerta persuaded the people that the farmworkers did not work in safe conditions, so the people did not buy those products, so the farmers had to give their workers safer conditions. She also made up “Si se puede!” which means “Yes we can!” and the farmworkers used it before Obama did.

Ms. Huerta was so gracious and patient, sitting with my daughter and recounting the struggle in terms an elementary student could understand. After they were finished, my daughter moved along to look for another interviewee as Senator Boxer introduced Ms. Huerta to the roomful of reception guests. Looking back on that day, it seems so far away in too many ways to count. You can read the full set of her "interviews" here.

balloons

It's amazing what can happen when you just get out of the way.

I had a great idea last year -- buy a large, blank canvas for the kids to paint and display in my husband's bland, undecorated office. We had just come back from a trip to Paris and its many museums, and we were all feeling inspired.

Then, like so many other things in life, the project stalled. I take responsibility for that, being the one who let the summer slip by, the one who insisted on ideas being sketched out and painted on a smaller (and much less expensive) "test" canvas, and who always let other things be a higher priority than this. It was, in the scheme of things, a pretty optional project. But I still kicked myself every time I walked past the giant, still-blank canvas in the dining room. I toyed with the idea of just painting a brown dot in the middle and calling it Freckle, a modern self-portrait that would hang ominously above my husband's head. Or, a splatter painting, made by painting our dog and having him shake off on the canvas.

In the end, however, I knew that I needed to follow through with the original idea. My son was not as interested in participating, so this had become my daughter's project, and I couldn't take that away from her. She had given this a lot of thought and made some pencil sketches, but had not gone about this in the systematic logical way I thought she should. Yesterday, I finally let go and got out of the way. We needed to get that canvas out of the dining room; it had loomed long enough. I asked my daughter if she could do the painting then, and she replied with a bright-eyed smile: "Yes!"

A few hours later and one frantic run to Michael's before closing time, and the blank canvas had been transformed ... full of movement and color ... with nothing (and nobody) to stand in the way ... a handful of balloons pulling gently upward and away.

tsunami: far away, yet close to home

UPDATE: click here to find out how to help.

I was expecting the usual 11 o’clock news last Thursday, but instead -- breaking news: earthquake and tsunami in Japan. I watched in horror, mesmerized by the blurry image of the amoeba-like blob moving across the screen, gathering up everything in its path. It was like a supersized, real-life, pancaked version of the Japanese video game, “We Love Katamari,” where a giant ball rolls around swallowing up cows, cars, people, etc. The real-life version paralyzes me. I try to focus on the little map they show on the screen, trying to pinpoint where the devastation is in relation to where my cousins, aunts and uncles live. I am relieved to see that the tsunami has not impacted the areas where I think my family would be, but it is still unnerving to watch. I fall asleep with images of the scary blob replaying in my head.

The next day is not any better. Tsunami coverage has gone local, as the tsunami has actually crossed the Pacific and has landed on the West Coast. I watch footage of some boats being tossed around and a dock being pushed out of the water, thinking it is new film from Japan; then, I realize it is showing Santa Cruz, just down the coast from here. Further north, I would later learn that a young man was swept away to his death while he was trying to take photos of the tsunami. So preventable. So sad. I hope they don't report this in Japan, since it would just confirm the stereotypes of Americans doing stupid, inappropriate things; on the other hand, I guess this is one reason for that stereotype existing in the world outside the U.S. I am guessing this little tidbit of news will not make it into the rotation on NHK, since they have much more pressing matters to report on right now.

One thing that I had not thought about but that my husband heard one commentator report on was that the Japanese people -- typically polite and civilized as a general rule -- have become even more so during this crisis. She observed pedestrians in Tokyo still waiting patiently for the green “walk” light, even though the cars on the street were clearly not moving in the post-quake gridlock. People lined up at stores, in the usual, orderly fashion. Food and water were reportedly scarce in Tokyo, as people who worked in the city were unable to leave, and yet, they lined up. As one reporter put it: “The people of Japan have handled this in a dignified, lawful, civilized fashion.”

In Japan, I am guessing this is not news. Being civilized and lawful in a time of crisis is simply not news: it is expected, understood, a given. This is something that would only be reported outside of Japan. It made me wonder what would happen here in a big city -- San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York -- under similar circumstances. Would we be civilized? Or would people resort to opportunistic behavior? I hope we never have to experience such a disaster to find out.

Curse of the Tiger Other

When I first heard all the media hype and parental chatter about the “Tiger Mother,” I just wanted to wait it out until it all blew over. I didn't want to write about it for fear of what I would say. That is, until Denene Millner asked me to write about it for her blog, My Brown Baby.

“She’s a nut job ... and, she’s a genius, because she is making a lot more money off of this book than she is from being a law professor!” That’s how a friend of mine summed up her take on Amy Chua’s Wall Street Journal article, “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior,” and I would have to say I agree with her.

I was surprised at how much attention this topic got from the mainstream media, but I was even more surprised by the reaction of Asian Americans. There seemed to be two camps: those who were immediately enamored with Chua and treated her like a celebrity, and those of us who just groaned and muttered, “Here we go again.” Since Asian American “celebrities” are relatively few and far between, I understand Chua’s taking on this rock star status for some. She was getting all kinds of press, and she didn’t even have to do any martial arts moves! She did, however, resort to the usual mystical “Oriental” lingo that is so plentiful in stereotypes of Asian Americans. Chua -- although born in Illinois and raised in Berkeley, California -- decided to call herself a Tiger Mother. I guess Dragon Lady was already taken, but seriously, do we need any more stereotyping than we already have? Couldn’t we be content with simply being overachieving and studious, without also being overbearing and crazy?

Unfortunately, you can’t unring a gong. We had been other-fied, once again, and by one of “us,” no less. Decades of civil rights activism fighting for Asian Americans to be recognized as Just Americans – poof! Decimated, like so many tiny fluttering cherry blossoms flying into a tsunami. One racially charged Wall Street Journal headline, and we were, once again, reduced to foreign freaks, something other than American. Other-fied.

Ironically, all of this Tiger Mother hype was happening right around January 30, 2011, which marked the first Fred Korematsu Day in California. Korematsu was a Bay Area native who defied Executive Order 3066 and refused to report to be placed in an internment camp during WWII. Korematsu’s legacy was to stand up for his rights as an American citizen, regardless of his Japanese ancestry. One of my favorite photos of Korematsu shows him with Rosa Parks, both aged and smiling, two regular folks who became heroes in their communities. I thought of my Chinese American mother-in-law, who, I was once told, used to wear a button that read “I am Chinese” so that she would not be mistaken for Japanese or Japanese American during the war. And now, here we were in 2011, with a Chinese American emphasizing that she is so un-“Western” and so very different and “Chinese.” And in today’s political and economic climate, being considered “Chinese” is not necessarily a good thing. Chua’s book release seemed perfectly timed to coincide with Obama’s reference to our country’s current Sputnik moment – and, based on Chua’s terminology, all of the “Western” parents’ kids will be competing right here at home with the kids of all those crazy “Chinese” parents.

Before all of this Tiger Mother business, I had convinced myself that we were doing pretty well, finally getting some mainstream TV facetime on Lost, Glee, Hawaii-Five 0 and the AT&T commercials. I hadn’t heard “ching chong ching chong” uttered by some little white boy in my carpool in, oh, four years now. Maybe we were finally being viewed as Just Americans. And then, out of nowhere ... the Tiger Mother! All of those old fears that my kids would be stereotyped and not recognized as individuals have risen to the surface again. I worry that my Chinese-surnamed children will be viewed as “Chinese” and not “real Americans.” Just Chinese. Chua’s book has given birth to a new stereotype that would impact all of our children, and it would last far longer than one media cycle. In the world of college admissions, there is already an “Asian tax” where Asian American students appear to have a tougher admissions standard to meet, and this perception that a student’s achievements were because of “Tiger” parents – and not the student’s own drive and intellect – will serve only to create yet another reason to justify non-admission in higher education. Hurray.

When I talked with my like-minded Asian American mom and dad friends, we made sure to have our conversations in private. Our town is predominantly white, and Chua’s article caused quite a buzz. It was even mentioned in our local paper, in a column written by the mother of one of my daughter’s classmates. By the end of the column, she conveyed that she felt both validated and threatened by Tiger Mothers and their kids, and had confirmed my theory that Chua’s article had other-fied us, stating in her closing that this was clear evidence of a “cultural divide.” I also confirmed that others assumed that I am a Tiger Mother -- or, maybe there was some other reason that the moms sitting behind me at a school function who starting talking about the article decided it was best to quickly hush each other when they realized I was sitting right in front of them. I found myself relieved, not really wanting to overhear what they thought about this topic; after all, regardless of what they thought, it would not change the fact that I would be interacting with them in the future, since our kids are the same age in a small community.

In private, we talked about the Tiger Mother setback for our kids and Asian Americans, in general. We discussed how this would impact our kids' futures, and how -- ironically -- they would now have to work even harder to overcome the stereotype that they are "just" hard workers. Coincidentally, my Asian American friends and their kids are all academically high achievers. Also, coincidentally, none of us thinks of ourselves as “Tiger” parents, nor did we have overbearing, micromanaging parents ourselves. Our parents were too busy working to hover over us. We were all self-motivated -- the unspoken expectation of our parents’ generation being enough to make us strive for good grades and assume we could get them. As a parent, I struggled to find a way to pass this on to my kids. They were growing up in a different kind of community, with different community standards than I grew up with, and peers whose families complained about the schools giving grades at all. I was finally confronted with the issue when my son made the observation, “You know, Mom, a ‘B’ is a perfectly good grade, too.” I agreed, and then asked, “But why would you not want to at least try get an ‘A?’ We know not all kids can get ‘A’’s – but we know you are capable of getting an ‘A.’” He pondered for a split second, and replied, “Good point.” Then he went back to his room to study. After that, he seemed to get it. He wanted the A’s, and he would do what was needed to at least try to get them.

If there is a “style” of parenting that I subscribe to, I suppose I would sum it up as Parenting Based on Expectations and Having Standards. That doesn’t have a very good ring to it, though, so maybe we should call it “Bamboo Parenting Style” since we expect to build up our kids to have strength, being able to bend and not break.  Or, even better, “Turtle-Dragon Style” because we assume quiet diligence unless there is injustice and the dragon is awakened! I am just kidding, of course. I am sure there are plenty of non-Asian American families who parent the same way. Instead of labeling it as something mystical and foreign, let’s just say it is one style of American parenting.

I did get one major bonus out of this Tiger Mother business, for which I owe Chua my gratitude. Her article showed my kids that I am totally reasonable, even though they had previously commented that I was “strict compared to other parents.” Now, I look like a complete lightweight! And, I will confess, I have gotten some validation out of that. I’m not crazy. At least, not compared to that Tiger Mother. Hear me roar.

photo credit: Shirley Nakao, courtesy of the Korematsu Institute

monday hearts

Every Monday, I get a little bit of sunshine in my email inbox from Page Hodel. We knew her back-in-the-day as the one and only DJ Page who my boyfriend and I danced to at the clubs in San Francisco. She is still spinning, but I don't get out dancing anymore, so I was delighted to find out that I could still experience her creativity with her Monday Hearts for Madalene, her touching tribute to her love, Madelene Rodriguez. I look forward to opening this email every week, and I thought I would share some of the images with you today. Happy Monday!!!

If you would like to brighten up your Mondays, please go to MondayHeartsforMadalene.com.

Happy Girls Day

Today is Girls Day in Japan, otherwise known as hinamatsuri. My daughter reminded me that it was Girls Day, thank goodness, since I forgot about it last year! It's nice to know that she thinks of it as a special day.

Sakura-mochi on the sakura-inspired plate my daughter made in ceramics class ... and my daughter's princess and prince dolls we got in Hakata, Japan, near where my parents grew up.

Now that I finally remembered to put the dolls up, it is almost time to take them down! Japanese superstition says that if your dolls are displayed for too long after Girls Day, the girl will take a long time to get married. On second thought, maybe we'll keep the dolls out for a while ... I don't think we are in any hurry for her to grow up and get married!

Asian Mainstream

She peered out at me from under a Shinto headdress, dark eyes glistening against the pale backdrop of her face. She gazed down at me without blinking, her lips the color of ... actually, she had no lips. Hello Kitty has no lips. And here she was, dressed in a traditional Japanese bride’s costume. Yours for only $5.99 at McDonald’s -- not just any Mickey D’s, but Mickey D’s in Maui. I ordered my Breakfast Combo -- Portuguese Sausage, Eggs and Rice -- and my Hello Kitty doll, and could barely contain my joy.

Ahh, yes. The feeling of coming home, only better. Hawaii is like a crossroads, the birthplace of Asian America. I am thinking all of this as I watch my four-year-old son splashing in the pool. “I love Hawaii!” exclaims Miles, wearing his new swimsuit with built-in floats, “swimming” unfettered for the first time in his life. His joy is so genuine, I wish I could just bottle it up for him to use whenever he needs it in the future. Alas, I have not figured out how to do that ... but I have finally figured out how to work the camcorder, so I settle on videotaping his joy for future reference.

I love Hawaii, too. I realized during this trip that Hawaii brings me a sense of freedom as well, a feeling of instantly being “normal.” It’s the little things, really. Like taking your shoes off when you enter a house, even before you read the signs asking you to take off your shoes. Like going to Costco and finding industrial sized packages of li hing mui, nori, dried cuttlefish, and a book called, The Musubi Man, where a ball of rice gets chased around the island as he yells, “Run, run, fas’ as you can, you no can catch me, I’m the Musubi Man!” Like going to the McDonald’s, where you can order local food like the Chicken Katsu Mini-Plate Lunch Meal or a Portugese Sausage, Eggs and Rice breakfast meal, asking for some shoyu and getting it -- without having to explain that “shoyu" means “soy sauce.” And where Hello Kitty wedding couples come dressed in traditional Japanese, Korean, and Chinese costumes.

And it’s the big things, too. Like noticing that the news desk is anchored by two Asian Americans. And, not just two Asian Americans, but two Asian American men. This is unheard of anywhere else in the country, I’m sure. We have grown to expect maybe one Connie Chung-type female anchor on many newscasts, and perhaps a few Asian American men out in the field, but never have I seen two Asian American men on a news broadcast at the same time. As if that’s not enough, they are covering such topics as the U.S. submarine collision with a Japanese fishing boat, and the landing of a U.S. spyplane in China. And nobody’s questioning their loyalties, even though they have last names that are Japanese and Chinese. They cover another big story, the teachers’ strike -- where the professors from the University of Hawaii are on the picket lines just as the elementary school teachers in the Upcountry -- and I notice that all the union leaders, all the teachers, and even the governor (the “bad guy” in this stand-off) are all Asian American. And, they're wearing aloha shirts, not suits and ties, because that’s what you wear to work on Friday -- “aloha Friday” -- in Hawaii. (Oh, and you thought “casual Friday” was a mainland concept?)

Coming home to a place where I’ve never lived, where Asians are the mainstream.

I indulge for a week in this fantasy, where I can feel like I am part of the empowered, and the foods I was raised on are part of the local vocabulary, even if their origins are Japanese. When it’s finally time to head home, I pack up my Hello Kitty dolls -- one Korean, one Chinese, and one Japanese -- hoping to someday be able to buy them at the Mickey D’s down the street. A few weeks after we get home, our neighborhood McDonald’s has their Hello Kitty promotion -- “the crew” Hello Kitty wedding dolls, all decked out in their McDonald’s uniforms. On their wedding day. Sigh. I guess I’ll have to plan another trip to Maui ... for Hello Kitty, and my own sense of home.



This is a flashback post circa 2001 -- something I wrote before this blog existed.