the good ol' days

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

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

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

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

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

Bootie floss*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Increasing my Vocabulary

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

kyuu kyuu sha

yuketsu

denshi moofu

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

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

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

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

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

Livin' Large

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

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

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

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

As they say in Japan, "Yabai!"

Too much water

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

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

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

hej hej

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

Hej!

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

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

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