april in paris: day one

We got lucky and managed to get four tickets to Paris for spring break, using our frequent flyer miles! C'est bon!

*****

Arrived in Paris via Air France 83 -- Business Class provided more legroom than needed, especially on the bulk head row! Food was very good and plentiful on the flight. Had some wine at the encouragement of our flight attendant, who seemed puzzled and shocked that we were not drinking any. He was very encouraging about it, and said, "Try a few. Few, few, few, then many! Like me!" I have the menu somewhere ... we started with an amuse bouche that was a small paté tart with a grape slice and almond slices on top, then there was a salad and a fish terrine (which I was surprised that Miles liked), then we had our main course (chicken, fish, beef or risotto)(we had the chicken and the beef), dessert trio and gelato (caramel macaron was incredible!). Since the flight attendants were not sure about the nut content, we were cautious about the food on the plane -- which Mika got to enjoy, unfettered! -- but we did decide Miles could try the macaron and the lemon tart. We all tried to sleep in our fully extending chairs, with mixed success. Boyar seemed pretty good. I slept for a bit then woke up and Mika came over to say she couldn't sleep. I gave her my seat, and then I went to hers and tried to sleep with her books, game boy, Miles's DS, Miles's book, and her crocheting all in the seat, too. No wonder she couldn't sleep in this seat! Miles was resting but not asleep; he finally dozed off just before the "morning" and slept through breakfast service (Miles and I got ours later - French toast w/vanilla and berry sauce).

Arrived and got our bags, no customs check (!!!), and then I decided we should take the train so that it would be more of an adventure, rather than the recommended cab. I think it was the right decision. We made our way, with the help of the Tourist Information desk, and got onto the RER. After a few minutes, one of the young men on the train stood up with his accordion and started playing. With the backdrop of the industrial outskirts of Paris flashing by, he played some Parisian sounding tunes as we watched, intermittently, and I asked Miles to film him. If I had the Euros change, I would have given him something, but I didn't have it. Boyar didn't realize that he actually had the money, and he thought I had the money. The guy moved on to the next car. I filmed the graffiti, since I thought it looked cool. Got to Paris. Figured out the Metro transfer. Got to the Vaneau metro stop. Took a wrong turn and ended up at the Bon Marche ... which is how we knew we took a wrong turn. Got to our place. Met "Michael" and gave him the Thin Mints. He is from Michigan, and seemed happy to get the cookies.

Got settled, then walked around for a couple of hours ... which felt like four ... but we managed to stay awake and in good spirits, even though we were tired. Saw the Invalides, the Tour Eiffel, the Seine and its riverboat tours -- all in their sun-drenched glory! Walked back through the Rue Cler and went into the cheese shop (which was stinky and overwhelming), picked up a roast chicken (which was on sale for 10E), some potatoes Dauphonois (which were tart and tasty), some Camembert (which was stinky and tart and meaty tasting) ... followed up with a baguette and a quiche at a boulangerie on another street ... and some drinks and toilet paper at the local convenience store near our apartment. Boyar and I prepped dinner in our tiny kitchen, and we all had a good meal. Miles really enjoyed the cheese (as did Mika) and ate about half the baguette. Showered, played Bananagrams, and went to sleep.

Taking a while to get moving this morning. Slept till about 7 am, when the city noises started up (and the upstairs neighbor turned on the TV). Kids continued sleeping till Boyar woke them up at about 9:30 am. He is out and about, foraging for a patisserie or cafe for us to eat breakfast. I better get dressed before he gets back! Oops -- too late! Au revoir!

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!