Intolerance

I am sitting in café trying to study but am listening to the three men talk at the table next to me. Even though I put on my ipod. It's hard to tune them out because one is an “important talker.” Everything he says is “important.” Any comment his friends make is apparently addressed to him (because he is “important”) and requires his “important” response. So damn annoying I can’t ignore it. Especially since nothing he has said in the ½ hour I have been eavesdropping has been remotely important. He thinks the bowling alley is a really great place to spend an evening because it has bowling lanes, video games, and food (not that he’s ever eaten there, but he imagines that they serve sandwiches and hotdogs) so there is something for everyone. He forgot to mention that they also serve beer. A truly important talker would have noted beer, as well as the beauty of bowling shoes. Important talker is in his late thirties. Hasn’t he ever been to a bowling alley before? He would be much more interesting had he noted his apparent inexperience with bowling alleys. Not that I’m a bowling expert or anything, but I’ve been to a few and they all have the aforementioned elements. But he seemed to find them important and imparted the importance to his friends in his “I am important and I know you are waiting with baited breath for each word I choose to share with you” tone of voice. I imagine what is running through the mind of the third and mostly silent friend. “Shut up you dumb fuck.” Maybe I’m just projecting.

Sometimes my children are nice

This morning Molly was tuned in to big-sisterhood. She helped Lily with her homework and she made, at Lily's request, oatmeal for breakfast. Molly loves to cook. Particularly she likes to copy her father's flare in the kitchen -- tossing in cinnamon and nutmeg from high above the pot, playing loud music and singing as she stirs.

She served Lily the oatmeal with maple syrup.

Lily took one bite and said, "Molly, this is really good. You should be a chef."

Molly ate up the compliment while Lily ate up her oatmeal.

Overheard on Halloween

Woman to her friend: "If I see one more happily married couple, I'm going to throw up!"

Wife of couple who just passed her by: "Hello, we're drunk!"

Logic

Lily, age 5: "Mommy, we are all connected to the Earth."

Mom: "Really, how do you know that?"

Lily: "Because when I jump, I always come back down."

Perspective

I have been studying wrongful convictions. It is heartbreaking to read the stories of innocent individuals who got caught up in a system that seemed to be more interested in finding (any) "culprit" rather than solving the crime. The average age of those wrongfully convicted is 26 years old and they spend, on average, 12 years in prison. Those exonerated have usually been accused of rape or murder -- DNA testing eventually sets them free. Witness misidentification, coupled with police and/or attorney misconduct seem to be the leading causes of wrongful convictions. Unfortunately, the system isn't set up to help innocents after they've been exonerated. They are not on parole so they do not qualify for any of the services that help them adjust to life outside prison, such as help with finding a job or housing. However, although proven innocent, they still face the stigma of having spent a significant portion of their lives in prison. They don't have resumes, they don't have work experience, their lives have literally been taken away from them.

Recently, after spending a day deep in the world of such injustice, I chose some light reading for the BART ride home to my kids: a People Magazine someone kindly left behind on the train. The feature article was on Jessica Simpson and how she has channeled her past heartache into a new country album.

Ms. Simpson "looked for inspiration in the spiral notebooks she uses as journals."

Fortunately for Ms. Simpson, "she didn't have to read the words inside.... In fact, she didn't even need to look past the covers."

She chooses the journal cover based upon her moods and then "picks a shade of ink from her four-color ballpoint pen to further channel her mood."

"'I have a lot of black [journals]. A lot of black and blue.' Yet over the last year, 'I went to pink,' says Simpson.... These days her journal sports a white cover, and inside it's filled with the red-ink musings of a woman in love."

I used to have one of those four colored ballpoint pens. I think that was in the fourth grade.

I'm concerned that Ms. Simpson only has four colors of ink to work with. I think that would tend to limit her ability to express the nuanced thoughts that surely cross her mind as she delves deep into her heartache. Imagine how great her album would have been if she had used this gel pen set instead.

BART Haiku - September 9, 2008

Tired plain-faced woman
Public metamorphosis
No beauty secrets

Something in the water?

I think pets are great. I just haven't wanted to deal with one and, until recently, have managed to convince my kids that the rabbit-furred stuffed cat was a great pet: it could be petted and then thrown into the toy basket without a second thought. I've also acquiesced to the few "pets" Lily has asked to keep -- an inchworm, a mayfly, and most of a spider. Each time I paused, considering the magnitude of her request, then solemnly said "yes, if you're prepared to take responsibility for it."

Molly spent the summer convincing me that she is mature enough to have a pet. She did laundry, made beds, hung up her towel, and offered to help with sufficient regularity to convince me that she was ready to take on the responsibility of caring for another life form. So, almost two weeks ago, we went to the pet store and picked out a couple of gold fish and all the acoutrements necessary to keep them alive.

Molly's goldfish, Pumpkin died after the first week, a few hours after Molly cleaned the tank. Molly was crushed. She buried Pumpkin in the back yard, under a gravestone strewn with fresh flowers.

This evening, alas, Lily's fish, Rainbow Sparkle bit the dust as well. Lily sobbed and sobbed, so much so that Molly crawled into her bed to comfort her and gave her a treasured stuffed bear to snuggle. I too tried to comfort Lily, pointing out that although Rainbow Sparkle's life was short, she was well-loved and had a happy week-and-a-half in her pretty fishtank. "I should have spent more time with her instead of watching TV," lamented Lily.

My proposal to get new fish this weekend was met with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Not quite clear on the concept

Today, at the school law library, I asked at the front desk where I could find a Blue Book (a reference used to correctly format legal citations). She suggested that I try a book store.

He was probably from Berkeley

I once saw a man driving a beat up truck with a loaded gun rack and a bumper sticker that said "I eat vegetarians." I don't think he was kidding around.

I can't wait until she's a teenager

Lily was mad at me because I sent her to her room after she bit Molly on the chest (apparently it was an accident). She shut herself in her closet for a while, then came stomping over to me with a pciture in hand, and said to me in her angriest voice:

"This is you. You're bald and you have too many eyes!"

Beware

I must admit, this notice on the cover of the menus gave me pause one morning when I showed up with four children. Turned out they were much better behaved than the young man flossing his teeth at the table next to us.

Rotary Club Event

My sister took this clipping from an Indian newspaper.

It Didn't Work

Yesterday I had a first visit with a Berkeley acupuncturist. It was interesting.

First, I spent half an hour filling out medical history forms which the acupuncturist did not look at before treating me. This answered my unspoken question, "is all this information really necessary for acupuncture?"

Then, as my arms and neck filled with needles, he asked me (after finding out that I am in law school) whether the word "must" in court rules indicates a judge has discretion. (I answered that "must" and "shall" usually leave no room for discretion). Interested, I asked what it was about. Turned out he's challenging a search warrant that was issued in federal court. As we discussed the law, I wondered what the feds were likely searching for. Out of pure prejudice and stereotyping I speculated it was for marijuana (he being an acupuncturist in Berkeley). I'm currently studying for my criminal procedure final exam which covers the validity of search warrants so the conversation was timely and interestesting on both sides (despite the needles)

He then turned on a "relaxation tape" and left the room. I was really excited to relax. (typical) The tape began with a man's voice:

"Picture yourself on a boat, on a blue sea with billowing white sails and a clear blue sky, with nothing to worry about and all the time in the world to enjoy the sun and the breeze."

Right on. I'm digging the boat scene. Starting to relax. Then followed the usual technique of relaxing the body, one part at a time.

"Relax your shoulders, feel the tension melting away. Relax your neck and your scalp. Now, focus on your foehid . . . "

Wait -- did he just say "foehid" instead of "forehead"? Yes. He did. And he did again several more times, "relax all the worry lines on your foehid," "feel the tension leaving your foehid." Every "foehid" brought me further from relaxation and closer to giggles (except that would have made the needles hurt).

After he "relaxed" the rest of my body, he indicated that he would pause for a minute so I could enjoy my new state of relaxation. Unfortunately, while he paused, I could hear him, on tape, take a huge gulp of whatever beverage he had beside him. This, alas created more tension as I had to hold back laughter (so the needles wouldn't hurt).

Then began a mantra of going "deeper, deeper" into relaxation and I realized that this was actually a hypnosis tape. Now there was no way I could relax because a) I have a dirty mind and every time he said "deeper" (practically every other word for about fifteen minutes) I found it sexually suggestive and therefore offensive because it was coming from a man who said "foehid"; b) I found it presumptuous of foehid-man to think that he could control my mind/body -- whether for good or evil (I had yet to see); and c) what the hell kind of caregiver tries to hypnotize you without asking your permission first? (Answer: the kind that has the feds searching his premises)

The hypnosis also didn't work on me because just before foehid-man had me go down the mental flight of stairs to a deeper state of consciousness, he mentioned that the stairs were carpeted in my favorite color. That caused me to wonder what my favorite color is (I've never been able to commit) and if I had one, would it look good as stair-carpet? And do my mental stairs have to be carpeted? Because I really prefer natural wood.

In case you're wondering why I had not yet turned off the offensive hypnosis tape, the answer is twofold. First, I was covered with needles and couldn't move without being unpleasantly poked. Second, I am perverse.

Once we theoretically reached the bottom of my mental staircase, and I had gone "deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper" (disgusting) into hypnosis, foehid-man's grand plans for me became apparent. "You will feel relaxed in your everyday life and be able to make decisions quickly and efficiently," he repeated over and over and over again, and over again for good measure. This I didn't understand at all. Even if I accepted foehid-man's presumption that I have a difficult time making decisions (I couldn't choose a carpet color), how would making efficient decisions help me with my repetative stress injury, the condition for which I was theoretically being treated? Shouldn't this hypnosis have at the very least been telling my body to stop hurting? Or telling me to stretch more often?

Eventually, foehid-man felt he had had a sufficient effect on my subconscious. I wouldn't remember what he said, but would simply make efficient decisions from now on. He counted to five to awaken me feeling refreshed, happy, and relaxed with a general sense of well-being. He said no more and I listed to static for the final ten minutes of my session.

Acupuncturist came in and removed the needles. This was the extent of our follow-up conversation:

"What did you think of the tape?"
"Not really my cup of tea"
"What about his accent?"
"Yeah! he kept saying 'foehid' . . . "
"You can get dressed now"

He hid in his office as I made casual conversation with the odd receptionist -- just long enough to see if he would come out and, perhaps, discuss the treatment/future treatment with me. He didn't. And that was that.

Good Will

Once in a while, Shaun and I threaten our children with donating their toys to Good Will. It begins with a simple request to clean their room. Hours later, it ends with the statement that anything they leave on the floor is clearly something they don't value and will be given to Good Will. It's an effective statement which has been challenged by Lily: "I don't want those toys anyway" and once or twice followed through with donations.

Today, out of the blue, Lily asked me, "Why does the guy Good Will want kids' toys?"

Sweet Talk

Lily and I were snuggling before bed.

"Lily, you're my favorite five-year-old in the whole world. I love you."

"Mommy, you're my favorite.... How old are you, Mommy?"

"I'm thirty-eight"

"Oh. You're my favorite -- (pause) You're really old!"

Awkward

I've created an awkward situation with my professor. He's not that much older than I am, and a regular kind of guy, so much so that I've considered inviting him and his wife and kids over for dinner with my family (but then I imagined her reaction, "do we have to go to dinner with one of your students?? Jeeze!! -- although I was probably projecting my own reaction to Shaun's inquiry about whether I'd like to dine with the family of one of his co-workers). Anyway, at graduation I saw him, came over to say hello, and before I thought about what I was doing, I gave him a big hug. Not that there's anything wrong with a hug, especially in California. But it didn't go well with the fact that I was still calling him Professor R., and that although I had imagined we could be friends, we weren't. But there it was. The hug. He didn't seem to mind or seem put off by it. So I decided to just forget about it.


Unfortunately, I hadn't thought through what that hug meant with regard to future encounters. Specifically, once hugged, can one return to a handshake? Or is that like some sort of demotion in esteem. I was faced with this dilemma a couple of weeks ago when I met him for lunch to discuss my future career plans and, as it turned out, a position as his research assistant. We met, and I had a split second to decide whether to hug, hold out my hand, or just say hello and not touch at all. Because it took me a hair longer than a split second to decide, it was awkward. Then more so when I went in for the hug. Then more so as his response was of the somewhat rigid variety. (Not in the dirty way you're thinking).


You'd think that would keep me from future hugs, but it didn't. I'm in some compulsive downward spiral of awkwardness. I had to hug him goodbye that day, although I managed to do a sideways shoulder squeeze which felt a bit less intrusive. And then I met with him last night to discuss my research work and had to hug him again as I said goodbye. I think I made it less awkward by apologizing for the hug and explaining "I'm just a hugger." I'm pretty sure that made things better.


Professor R. suggested that we "meet" in the future by email. I good idea, I think. I am really glad he wrote my recommendations before the hug-a-thon began.

Crazy Talk

Rumor has it that Ronald Reagan, while governor of California, emptied the state mental hospitals and sent busloads of crazy people to Berkeley. I always believed it was true, because growing up in Berkeley, one commonly saw individuals talking to themselves. Some quietly, some angrily, some neatly dressed, some in costume, some bedraggled by homelessness. Many of these characters -- primarily those in costume -- had names such as the Polka Dot Man (one day, I noticed that he had connected all of his dots), the Orange Juice Man (his son went to Berkeley High with me), the Hate Man (former journalist, turned cross-dressing, street-living character), The Screamer (she once yelled at me "you are a freak of nature!"), Rare! (he was a large man who would stick his head into various establishments and yell RARE! as loud as he could). More were just crazy and nameless.

When I was little, in addition to the safety basics of "look both ways before you cross the street" and "don't take candy from strangers," I was taught "don't look crazy people in the eye." It was sage advice, it turns out, which I tested later in life. Eye contact with crazies invites some unexpected form of interaction.

Crazies were fairly easy to identify, if not by their attire or lack thereof, then by their externalized, verbalized, internal monologues. They talked to themselves, and you'd give them a wide berth.

The onset of cell phone with earpiece has made this identification process much more difficult. At first, the crazies still outnumbered the cell phone users, and when I saw person talking to him or herself in Berkeley, I would assume, "crazy" then realize, "no, just cell phone." Then it became a quick seizing up: "cell phone or crazy?" These days, I simply assume "cell phone" while noting that the one-sided conversation often sounds crazy.

Recently on BART, a man with a blue earpiece sat talking quietly. All at once he announced loudly "I am talking to myself, but I am NOT CRAZY! I just have a lot of bills to pay!" Apparently, the crazies now have cell phones.

I don't know what to do.

Fun in the Desert

I've been travelling in Baja with my family. We actually are on our way home. The girls are so excited to be home again (lily misses her stuffed animals, molly her bed), that they agreed to a 12 hour drive from Loreto to Ensenada, rather than taking 2-3 days to do it. We only had two whiney moments which is testament to their dedication to the cause of home.

Driving through the desert, I suggested we play our usual car game of "I spy".

Me: "I'll go first. I spy, with my little eye, something green"

Molly: "a cactus"

Me: "right. your turn"

Molly: "I spy with my little eye, something blue"

Lily: "the sky"

Molly: "right. your turn"

Lily: "I spy with my little eye, something brown"

Me: "the dirt."

Lily: "right"

After the white clouds, the yellow signs, and the black road, the game was essentially over.

The things kids learn in school these days...

"Mommy, today I taught Delia how to eat her boogers. I told her, 'if the grownups forget to give you a snack, you can just eat these.' But I haven't taught her about eating the eye stuff yet."

"I'm sure her parents will be thrilled."

(discussion follows re: hygiene and public opinion)

Kids are like monkeys

Lily was in the bath. She rubbed her finger across the top of her nose, found something there, and put it in her mouth.

"Lily, what did you just eat?"

"It wasn't a booger, Mommy"

"Okay, but do you know what it was?"

"No."

Wonderings, and The Best Intentions Perhaps Gone Awry

"Mommy, do princesses poo?"

"Yes, Lily. Everyone poos, no matter who they are."

"Oh." . . . (long pause) . . . "Do princesses have fancy poo?"

"No. It's just poo."

(then added for my own amusement)

"I don't think poo could ever be fancy unless someone ate a lot of glitter, then maybe the poo would sparkle. . . "

(realizing my mistake - Lily might want her poo to sparkle - and backtracking)

" . . . but eating glitter wouldn't be good for your body."

"Oh."

What should I do next?

Molly recently gave one of her old bathing suits to Lily. It is a one piece, with multicolored hearts against a black background, with ruffles along the neck and a built in skirt. A cute girly-suit my stepmom, Shi Wei picked up in China a few years ago. Lily wore it this weekend. I was folding it up and for the first time really recognized that there was writing on the suit as well. As many words as hearts, but I'd never given them much notice as they just seemed part of the design. Well, I thought I'd read them. This is what they say, over and over, covering the entire suit.

"Love affair"

"Love affair was gone"

"Sweet Lovers"

"Gone Happiness"

BART Haiku, March 20, 2008

Man in a plaid suit
Swinging bag of bloody meat
Disturbing dinner

BART Haiku March 19, 2008

Franciscan friar
Robed in white, sits next to me
Dear God, I giggle.

Coincidence or Conspiracy?

Last week I read a book whose main character is named "Thursday." Imagine my surprise when I opened a new book this week with a main character named "Wednesday."

A Warm and Happy Place

We met this sculpture over the weekend at the De Young museum in San Francisco. Shaun and the girls and I were picnicking around Golden Gate park and found this happy spot directly in front of the sculpture. Actually, I saw the sculpture and chose the spot. Shaun came up later and commented, "of course my wife chooses to sit directly in front of the vagina." Which I did. And not only did I get to enjoy the artwork, but I was able to watch a slow but steady progression of children (including my own) who walked up to the sculpture, felt the vagina hole, and then climbed inside. One little boy, about four years old, sat for a moment in the vagina. Then a big smile came over his face and he exclaimed to no one in particular, "I love it in here!"

I wondered if the artist intended or expected this to occur, and if, perhaps, the artist ever spent time with his or her vagina, watching the public response.

The Amazing Power of Deductive Reasoning

A Bit of History

My grandmother (mom's side) died a few years back and while we were cleaning out her apartment (actually, we were looking for anything we wanted to have), I took several diaries and papers showing family history. They have been sitting in a bag on a shelf, unopened since I returned from her funeral. I've been thinking about them for a few months now and finally took a look. One of the diaries begins during World War II, when she was in her early 20s, dating my Grandfather who was about to be sent off to war. She hmms and haws about whether or not she really likes him, then a few months pass and suddenly they're married and pregnant and he's on a ship overseas and she's madly in love. I'm up to her eighth month of pregnancy (I'm a little concerned because she's happy about losing ten pounds, but I guess my mom was born and lived so I can let it go), he's landed in England, and has just told her that he learned that her brother made it there safely as well. They write to each other every day, sometimes twice, but the letters take a long time to reach each other. Most of the pages are filled with her daily doings -- cleaning, eating, teaching her mother shorthand, fighting with her sister. But the context is so interesting.

Anti-Music

Buskers often entertain us with blues, classical, mexican, bluegrass, rock, you name it, as we go to and from the trains through the BART station. The other day, a bedraggled man with matted hair and a long beard pulled out his violin. I actually doubt that it was his violin, only because it seemed like he had never played one before. He energetically (madly) drew the bow back and forth across the strings, making angry screeching noises. I did, at first, give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking perhaps it was some avant-guard performance. But after a few minutes of listening while I purchased my bart ticket, I came to the firm conclusion that he did not know how to play the violin, and was in fact purposely playing anti-music. I wish I had checked to see if he had the case out in hopes of dollars, because now I wonder if he were playing only to annoy, or whether he genuinely hoped some commuters would appreciate his (insane?) effort.

Lily, age 5

"How was school today, Lily?"

"No one played with me today."

"Really? Well who did you play with?"

"Just Sadie and Rosa, they were the only ones who played with me."

"And what did you play?"

"Pirates."

"Oooh. And were you a pirate?"

"No, I was a unicorn."

"I see. So was Sadie a pirate?"

"No, she was a unicorn."

"And what was Rosa?"

"A unicorn."

"Oh. Were there any pirates in your game?"

"No."

"Well, that sounds like a fun game."

"It was."

I still think it was a party.

On a beautfiful Sunday morning, Shaun and I and the girls made our way on foot from our house to the Thai Temple for a Berkeley brunch. On the way we passed the neighborhood halfway house and as we approached, it sounded like a gathering was taking place, with many gay voices chattering away. How nice, I thought, that they would do something festive on a sunny Sunday. But when I looked in the yard, there were only four or five people. Each was talking to him or herself.

If I Had My Very Own Parking Place...

Quickest Way To Heaven

In Erie, PA one can get fried cheesecake. So we did. It's your basic cheesecake wedge that has been rolled in egg whites and bread crumbs and then dropped into the deep fat fryer. The result is a tasty, warm and crunchy outside and your traditional cool cheesecake inside. Mmmmmm.