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.