A few date nights ago T and I did something so stupid that the perverse side of me now feels compelled to share it with the world.  It was a Saturday night and we had just returned home from a romantic evening at a neighborhood restaurant, Pescia.  We hadn’t been out by ourselves for ages and we were both revelling in our alone time, catching up and savoring our togetherness. We talked, held hands, ate some great Italian food and strolled around our wonderful neighborhood enjoying one of the year’s best full moons.  After coming home and settling up with our sitter, we had a choice to make as to the rest of our evening.  We could either hang out in the hot tub and watch the stars or we could watch a movie.  We were in decidedly happy moods and went for the movie.  That was a mistake.

Now as some of you may already know, it is a rare moment indeed that I ever regret seeing a movie.  However, horror films are an exception and I should have learned by now from past mistakes.  When I saw Jaws at the tender age of 8, I pretty much swore off all forms of water (including swimming pools and murky bathtubs) for the rest of childhood.  When I saw the Blair Witch project, I announced to the world that camping and I would never mix.  And when I saw Single White Female I vowed that I would never get another roommate, no matter how broke I was through law school.  In short, horror films and I just aren't a good fit at all .  So what possessed me to suddenly throw away 40 years of hard won experience and sit through the scariest film of the decade is still beyond me (pardon the pun).  It must have been the full moon.

The good news is that we only managed to get through 8 minutes of the film. (So there will be no spoilers here). Those 8 minutes consisted of watching a young couple living in a non-descript house discussing their suspicions of being haunted by some paranormal demon.  They had set up a self-timing camera in their bedroom to catch whatever other worldy activity was going on during their sleeping hours with the intention of playing it back to themselves in the morning.  We got as far as the first night where the bedroom door inexplicably moves about a foot on its own.  I knew instantly then that the movie was only going to get creepier and that I had to turn it off immediately or suffer multiple miserable predawn awakenings by a terrifying demon of my own imagination.  And so I did, although the damage to my psyche was already done.  Travis, who was exhausted by a long week of work and stress, managed to drift off to sleep within minutes.  I, on the other hand, kept my reading light on and jumped up every two minutes to check behind curtains, peek around doors and look under the bed.  After several hours of whipping myself up into a frenzy of terror, I finally succumbed to exhaustion and drifted off to sleep, only to jump out of my skin two minutes later at the sight of a pale, barefoot demon with wild hair hovering over my bed whispering, I want milkies, mommy.

Chinese New Year suddenly became a big event in our household this year for the first time.   Mainly, it’s because Grandma Linda showed up from London and showered the kids with unexpected gifts.  She also took one of my children (the oldest and easiest) with her to her hotel in Chinatown where (from what I can tell) she let him stuff himself with fried tofu until he felt sick.  She also bought him a bunch of useless (but undoubtedly kid-enviable) trinkets that were either randomly destroyed or eaten by pets within minutes of coming home.  My youngest child (the three year old) stayed home with me the whole time, did not get sick or spoiled but definitely felt ignored.  Still, it was a change of pace for all of us and was hence memorable.  

Chinese New Year also featured large this year because it coincided with Dominic’s first First Grade field trip.  Right after gorging himself on tofu with Grandma Linda, Dominic returned to the scene of the crime – this time with his entire class to check out the Chinese New Year Parade preparations, take a tour of the police and fire station and, of course, see the fortune cookie factory.  I tagged along under the guise of helpful parent volunteer – chauffeuring giddy children back and forth in my recalled Prius and then trying to keep track of them as they raced around the crowded streets.  It was fun and exhausting and reminded me of all the reasons why I couldn’t ever possibly have more than two children.  It also brought back a ton of memories about growing up in Hong Kong – memories jogged by Chinatown’s familiar sights, sounds, smells, bargains and food.

Dominic loved the experience too – although his reaction was more straight forward and less sentimental.  For him, Chinatown was exotic and different and taught him some important life lessons.  Here are his reflections on what he saw and experienced:

Re Chinatown’s Police Station:

1.                  “It’s good to bring hand sanitizer to the police station because people who get arrested seem to pee on the floor an awful lot.”  (My son is right.  According to the wonderful police sergeant who showed us around the Chinatown Police station, most of the arrestees “soil” the public areas of the station).  Dominic was puzzled as to why bad guys aren’t potty trained.  I explained that wicked wine sometimes has that effect on people.  He seemed to accept that.

2.                  “Jail is not a good place for Asthma sufferers as it’s a smelly, dark place without a lot of ventilation.”   This is also true.  Several people died as a result of overcrowding in the jail cells (our helpful station sergeant informed us) and so now people are chained to the waiting room benches until they are driven downtown.

3.                   “Shooting people with your police gun can be hard on your brain.”  This was actually posed as a question by Dominic while the police sergeant was showing the kids the tools he uses for his job.  Fortunately, the police officer confirmed that it is very hard emotionally to shoot someone and that in his 25 years of duty; he has never had to use his gun.

Re Chinatown’s Fire Station:

4.                  “Being a fire man is way cooler than being a police man.”  [On this field trip, the firemen let each of the first graders blast the fire hose onto the street.  Not even the police car’s siren could compete with that].

 5.         “Sliding down on the fireman’s pole looks like a lot of fun.” (As an aside, all the mothers in the group  agreed – especially when the handsome young rookie gave us all a demonstration).

6.                  “Firemen no longer make people jump into a trampoline to escape from burning buildings because the landings don’t go too well. “  The trampoline with a big red spot in the middle is now simply used as decoration.

7.                  “Even though being a fireman would be cool, I don’t want to work in the Chinatown station. They do not have a Dalmatian.”  (As pet lovers, this is a deal killer for both of us.)

Re Shopping in Chinatown

8.                  “Chinese girls are really cute.”  (And if you are seven and give them a fortune cookie they will smile at you). 

9.         There are lots of cool things to buy in Chinatown – including firecrackers, pig’s feet, hello kitty purses and knife stars.

10.   “You can buy a lot of stuff in Chinatown for 10 dollars.”

Re the Fortune Cookie Factory

11.  Flat fortune cookies taste just as good as the finished moon-shaped product

12.  If you want to take a picture of Chinatown’s Fortune Cookie factory, you have to pay 50 cents.

Genevieve turned three last month and in the madness of party planning, balloon blowing and present wrapping I completely neglected to write about this momentous moment in my blog.  I regret missing that milestone and so here is a belated birthday note to my beautiful little girl.

Dear Geep,

You are three now. How lucky I am to have you in my life. Here are a whole bunch of things that I love about you:

1.      the way you stroke my back when we hug

2.      how happily you share with your big brother

3.      your sweet soft voice

4.      your unending excitement while watching Pink’s music video at the Grammy awards daily

5.      your passion for dress up

6.      your tummy

7.      the energetic way you read out loud to yourself

8.      the way you twirl in ballet class

9.      when you say I love you mommy  

10.  the way you run with arms flapping to keep up with your brother

11.  your silly sentences

12.  your golden curls

13.  your love for chocolate chip cupcakes

14.  the way you skip thirteen when you count to twenty

15.  your love of parties

16.  the way you snuggle really hard

17.  your ability to forget what you were crying about

18.  your sunny demeanor

19.  your love of all things pink

20.   your hearty belly laugh

Every day with you is a gift. Even the days when you pout or tell me that the food I am serving is “not on the menu” or change costumes six times or run away from me at full pelt. Those are the days that I learn the most from you. To have fun. To stay in the moment. To laugh alot.

For a gal who could only bare eight minutes of “Paranormal Activity” before turning the film off and then hiding under the covers all night, checking behind curtains and whispering  “what was that noise?” incessantly to my slumbering husband, I felt pretty brave going to see “Shutter Island.”  After all, I had seen the previews and knew that I was in for an evening of great film noir, replete with a gothic mental asylum, shadowy suspicious characters and dark atmospheric music.  I was pretty sure if I managed to stick it out to the end, (a big “if” in my case), I was going to be (a) scared witless, (b) unable to sleep and (c) haunted by this film for days.   And still I went – and was wrong on all counts.  Scorsese or no Scorsese, this movie is just plain silly!

Sure, the central premise of the movie is interesting enough.  United States Marshal Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) is sent to the infamous Shutter Island’s hospital for the criminally insane to investigate the inexplicable disappearance of a female inmate.  While there, he uncovers a sinister web of cover-ups relating to the treatment of patients and their mental illnesses which lead him on a desperate hunt for the truth and the preservation of his own sanity.  Interwoven into that story are glimpses of Daniel’s own inner demons – trauma from witnessing the horrors of concentration camps as a military soldier during the holocaust and the personal tragedy of having lost his wife to a fire.  To be sure, there were plenty of weighty themes to chew on.  And yet, while the story held my attention, I was far from being on the edge of my seat.  Perhaps it was because I had managed to figure out the so-called “plot-twist” within the first five minutes of the film (she brags) and then promptly announced it to my long-suffering husband.  And of course, once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, the rest of the film was ruined.  Neither of us could buy into the story-line. The whole film just felt flat and predictable - an unfortunate quality in a movie when you still have two hours and twenty minutes to sit through!

But take heart.  I promise that I won’t spoil the film for you in case you decide to go.  And remember, the film does have redeeming qualities (especially if you don’t ruin it for yourself by trying to be too clever).  The cast is top flight – with Leonardo DiCaprio putting in yet another convincing performance that is definitely worth the price of admission.  The other big names in the film (and there are a surprising number) including Michelle Williams, Ben Kingsley, Mark Ruffalo all do a valiant job to carrying this film along too.   The film is good enough for a low key date night – especially if you combine it with a “shutter island long ice tea” (which we did at the Sundance Kabuki Theater).    And for those of you who are essentially fraidy cats like me, this is one movie you can add to your bravery bragging list and still get a good night’s sleep!   

Dear San Francisco,

I have longed to write to you but have never managed to quite get up the courage.  It never seemed to be quite the right time – either for me or for you.  But now, given that Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, I decided to just take the plunge.  After all, it is time I finally confessed to you my feelings – my passion for you that has never died – even after having lived with you for 20 years.

When I first arrived in this city fresh off the boat from Hong Kong at the tender age of 21, I remember the wonder I felt at seeing your beauty.  From day one, you inspired me – offering me a full, rich lifestyle surrounded by scenic beauty, diversity, culture, friends and boat loads of adventure and fun.  You encouraged me to explore and take risks – being so close to the beach, the mountains, the lakes and the rivers.  And you challenged my beliefs and assumptions by exposing me to a broad array of diverse people, lifestyles and cultures that had all gravitated to you because of your tolerance and inclusiveness.  For a young, single professional woman, your restaurants, nightlife, art-scene and people made you utterly irresistible.  I couldn’t get enough of you.  And that holds true, even today. 

Granted, there have been periods when I have had my doubts.  And admittedly I have strayed at times.  Like the time I decided to break things off and crossed the bridge to the suburbs to buy my first home.  I had tried and tried to break into the real estate market in San Francisco and was crushed by how overwhelming that process was.  I remember feeling guilty and sad when I moved away to Berkeley so that I could afford my first decent sized condo in a nice neighborhood without roommates – something you couldn’t offer me at the time.  I would have thought that my decision to leave you would have disconcerted you – but it didn’t, not even a bit.  You knew what I ultimately came to realize, that I would be back one day.  And you were right.

Meeting my husband, moving back into the city and buying our first place together reminded me of all the reasons why I had fallen so madly in love with you.  As a young couple deeply in love, we took full advantage of everything you had to offer - the world-class food, entertainment, shopping, and performing arts.  We would stroll up and down your hills during our weekend “urban hikes,”  feed the sea gulls sourdough bread on fisherman’s wharf after brunch and cruise around the ever popular gallery hop every first Thursday evening downtown.  We explored new neighborhoods, tried new bars, and cherished every aspect of our foggy city.   

We loved living with you, although you continued to test us.   Like the times we would go across the bridge to visit our friends in the suburbs and discover that for the price we paid for our 124 year old Victorian (no parking), we could have bought an entire compound – equipped with a pool and a guest house.  Or like the time when I devoted 8 months of my life to getting my son into Kindergarten, enduring round after humiliating round of essay writing, interviews and screenings for my kid.  I remember thinking at the time (after our eighth “coffee date” with existing parents and our tenth “open house”) how many hoops did we have to jump through to get our five year old into a basic local school?  It was harder than getting myself into law school and was infinitely more expensive.  And yet, in the end, my son did squeeze into the school of his choice and my feelings of bitterness and betrayal towards you subsided.  And now, as I approach yet another Valentine’s Day in San Francisco, I feel nothing but love and gratitude to you, the city that has captured my heart and soul.  And although I suspect this year’s Valentine’s Day will be somewhat low key, (with a three and seven year old and a host of baby sitters that all have boyfriends), the array of things that I could be doing reminds me of why I remain forever true to the City by the Bay.  Such as:

(1) The annual “Woo at the Zoo,” an event at the San Francisco where a comedian leads folks in an exploration of the sexual behavior of animals.

(2) Maverick’s Surf Competition at Half Moon Bay where my husband and I loved to sit on the bluff and watch the biggest waves ever.

(3) The beautiful Hand bell Concert featuring Love Songs Past and Present at our beloved Castro Theater.

(4) The San Francisco's California Academy of Sciences new "Sex and Science" event that offers tours highlighting animal whoopee as performed by penguins, sea horses and various fish.

(5) This year’s Miss China Town USA Pageant where contestants from all over the country will compete for a chance at the Miss Asia title in Hong Kong.

(6) The annual Pillow Fight at the Ferry Building where nearly 1,000 San Franciscans descend on Justin Herman Plaza with feather-stuffed pillows to run Brave heart-like at one another to lovingly bop each other until the whistle blows.

(7) The best vampire tour in California

(8) My favorite of all (when I was single and momentarily fed up) – the Valentine’s Day Post Mortem – a series of short plays about people being dumped.

I know I am not alone in loving San Francisco and recognize that I have to settle for an open relationship.  Still, I have made my peace with that.  For San Francisco, I am one of many.  But for me, this city will always be the one. 

Forever yours,

Moveovermommy

I have never felt more “un-American” than on Super Bowl Sunday.  It’s the one day of the year where I feel completely out of sync with all my red-blooded American friends and relatives and wonder what happened to me to make it so hard to get into the football watching spirit.  After all, I have been living in this great country for over 20 years – so it isn’t as though this sport watching tradition is new to me.  As Super Bowl Sunday approaches, literally every one around me starts talking about the big game – at the gym, in the supermarket, at Starbucks and even on the playground.  The Super Bowl seems to offer something for everyone.   For the avid sports fan - there is, of course, the football game – the players, the analysis, the score keeping and the predictions.  But even for the light weights or non-sports fans – there are the endless parties to go to, the people watching, and the unveiling of multi-million dollar commercials.  Sadly, I can’t seem to find a place in any of it, no matter what the angle.   

For a while, I used to beat myself up about my fractious relationship with the Super Bowl.  Surely I could find my niche in this great American tradition?  And so for years I would dutifully go to the Super Bowl parties (many, many parties) and try to ease drop on people’s conversations and pick up the lingo.  I realized quickly that those who were conversing during the game were not typically following it.  I also figured out that those who followed the game weren’t interested in tutoring me.  And those that did were just plain creepy.  Throw into the mix the fact that I don’t drink beer, eat bacon or nachos and it’s all pretty hopeless. And so, about six years ago, (shortly after Dominic was born) I threw in the towel and made peace with my disconnection with this iconic part of American culture.  I scheduled manicures and hiking trips on the big day and felt at peace.   Until this year.

The Friday before the 44th Super Bowl, Dominic came home from school and innocently mentioned that we should watch the football game this weekend.  He earnestly explained that it was the “biggest football game ever” and that we should tune in to see what happens.  I felt a knot suddenly form in my stomach as I thought about how best to break the news to kiddo that Super Bowl just wasn’t our thing.  “Sorry Champ, Daddy has to work on Sunday,”  I told him, deluded in the hope that this comment would dispense with the issue without further discussion. “Okay. Well you, me and G can still watch it” was his cheery response.  He had stumped me.

I stewed about the looming game all Saturday, wondering how to turn my decades of alienation around the Super Bowl into fun, family entertainment.  I had no idea where the game was being held, who the players were or anything about the rules (Travis had long given up trying to teach me).  As though reading my mind, Dominic piped up that he already knew who was playing in the super bowl (the gold team “the Saints” and the blue team “the Colts”) and that it would be fun to see what was going on.  He suggested we make popcorn and “kid’s beer” (apple cider) and that switch back and forth between the game and Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet (to keep his sister happy).   He had literally thought of everything. 

And so on Sunday, we made batches and batches of popcorn, threw mounds of comfy pillows on the floor and set ourselves up for an afternoon of “game watching” on the big screen T.V. upstairs.  We watched the football intermittedly, pausing to get more cider or play a quick game of Dominoes.  Together, my son and I figured out what constituted a “field goal,” a “touch down,” “yard lines,” and “the end zone.”  We discussed why players rush to tackle the guy holding the football and how coaches are able to communicate to their players through radios in their helmets.  (We ended up talking about the radio in the helmet feature for quite a while – quite a captivating topic for a seven year old boy).  As the game wore on, Dominic became fascinated with the concept of “unnecessary roughness” and then spent the rest of the game trying to call out examples of it by himself.   (“Yes, slamming your helmet into another man’s crotch qualifies).  He had a terrific time and so did I. 

At half time we placated the baby sister and watched “the kitten half time” on Animal Planet’s puppy bowl.  G almost peed her pants with excitement when she suddenly realized what she was watching and so we ended up having to rapidly switch back to “the Who” to stop her from hyperventilating.  (A three year old can only take looking at fluffy kittens geech around a football playpen with confetti and a disco ball for so long before becoming demented).  Dominic decided that the puppy bowl was “must-see” TV and insisted we DVR it to watch as some future date.  It was then back to the game after half time.

By the second half of the game, my own interest in the game started to take hold.  Dominic (along with the expert commentators) had educated me on the New Orleans Saints and although the significance of the game on that struggling city was something that my boy didn’t grasp, it certainly wasn’t lost on me.   The New Orleans Saints were the underdogs of the game and had typically been one of the worst teams in the league until this year.  And yet here they were, standing on the edge of greatness and carrying with them the hopes and dreams of an entire beleaguered city.  The Super Bowl was so much more than simply a game to this team and the people of New Orleans that they represented.  Their presence at this event had become a symbol of the struggle and courage of a city that deserved a taste of victory.  By the time the game was over (and the Saints had won), my two little companions and I were cheering, hollering, dancing and waving about the attic in sheer joy and excitement.  We threw popcorn in the air, threw up our hands and half-terrified our dog with our jumping and pounding and rolling about. And as I watched that New Orleans Saints quarterback tearfully beam into his little son’s face, I realized that I had found my niche in the tradition of Super Bowl watching.  And it was right next to my kids.   

My seven year old and I have walked the same route to school every day for the past year and half – through his entire Kindergarten year and now First Grade.  On the way, we pass a large, rather sterile-looking nursing home whose bedroom windows overlook our side of the street as we walk.  Most of the windows are dark, with curtains drawn tight and no lights on.  But there is one exception – a bright, open window that has caught our eye from the start.  On the second floor in the right-hand corner, an elderly Russian-looking woman sits alone, looking out on the city streets as she drinks her morning tea.  She is always smartly dressed, with her gray hair tucked away from her face in a tidy bun.  Ever since we started our walking ritual, my son has looked up at that window, smiled at the “stranger-lady” and given her a cheery wave.  He’s done it almost every day, even though the stranger never noticed him at first.  Eventually, she did, and would smile back.  As the months passed, she then started waving back and even raised her cup to toast the tiny animated boy on the street below.  This week, for the first time, she waved and then blew my son a kiss.  He pretended to catch it and then emphatically blew one back.  Now, whenever we pass, we stop for several minutes while my son waves, blows kisses and catches the ones she sends back.  It’s one of the sweetest things I have ever seen.

The effect of this small connection with a stranger is lost on my boy, who sees it as a playful game but not much else. He doesn’t get why it is meaningful or how he has brightened this lonely woman’s mornings.   My boy’s little act of kindness is making a difference in this woman’s life and it is also making a difference in mine.  I reflect on the last time I did an act of kindness for someone else and realize that I don't do it early as often as I should and that I need to do better. Which is why I was particularly drawn to the idea of “the Socks Project” – a plan by three high school students to recycle mismatched socks and transform them into a pair of socks for the needy.  Like a friendly wave to a stranger, this idea is inspiring in its simplicity and its instant impact - making a difference one warm foot at a time.  A small yet mighty act of kindness that costs nothing and yet will brightens lives and give support to those who need it most in our community  - not unlike a cheery wave to a stranger by a seven year old on his way to school.

What was the last small act of kindness you gave or received?

My husband cheerily suggested over breakfast that we take the kids to the Golden Gate Kennel Club’s All Breed Dog Show Best at the Cow Palace this weekend.  “It will be fun and besides it’s a good place to go to get out of the rain.” He says supportively. “No good can come of this,” I reply ominously, crushing a glimmer of helpfulness in my long-suffering husband.  “I now see a puppy in our future.”  Both kids cheer.

Yes, the family is off to the blue ribbon of dog shows tomorrow and as you may tell, I was not entirely gung-ho about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs.  In fact, one has been living with us for the past 11 years and he has slowly grown on us.  Now that we have finally paid off his medical care costs (for dealing with his separation anxiety, jealousy towards our children and his inappropriate consumption of what I would call “foreign matter”), he is quite fun to be around.  I even enjoy our walks together – even when he doesn’t.  Still, the thought of dealing with a brand NEW dog or (worse yet) days and days of the kids shamelessly begging for one doesn’t exactly fill me with joy.  Can we get a puppy, please?  I promise to walk it every day.  Please, please, please.  I’ll do anything.  I can already hear the endless pleading and wailing sobs.  Still, I am determined to put on a brave face and make the most of this doomed expedition. 

At the very least, I can assume my role as “amateur investigative blogger” and dig up some juicy material for my next blog.  Perhaps I will return with some astonishing insight into the inner workings of the dog show world or at least get answers to my burning questions like:  Why do dogs look so much like their owners?  Are the best of the best trained to answer to their full pedigree name of Foo Yan Chi Alfred Mayor III, or can you just call them Fred? Does the entire Cow Palace smell of dog pee, or, after 105 years of staging the event, have they built some dog bathrooms to go with their human counterparts?  Perhaps most importantly, at least in gambling circles: is it possible for a complete dog newbie (such as myself) to spot a “for sure” Best In Show champion from instinct alone?

My guess, especially for the last question, is a definite 'No' answer, but I'm up for giving it a try - why not?  Of course, my next blog may be as scintillating as watching paint dry on a wall but what the heck.  This blog has already gone to the dogs.  In the meantime, let me know if there's something you've always wondered about the culture or convention of the great american dog show and I will try to sniff it out for you.  Just call me moveovermommy unleashed!

The whole concept of “sibling battles” is a new one for me.  After all, I was an only child and so there wasn’t anyone to scuffle with except my cranky cats.  Even after the husband and I took the plunge and had kiddo number two, there still wasn’t much in the way of sibling contests.  With a four year age difference, my son has always treated his little sister more like a deluxe pet, rather than a rival.   But that is all beginning to change now that the little sister ain’t so little any more.  Now that she is three, the battle lines are being drawn as she starts to flex her tiny muscles and tries to test her wits against her mighty older brother.  And if yesterday’s discussion in the back seat of the car on the way to swimming class is any indication, her father and I may be in for quite a ride: 

Dominic:  Mom, if you could choose to be any animal what would you be?

Me:  I think I would like to be a dolphin. 

Dominic:  [Thinking]. I would be a fox – a red fox – because they remind me of peppermint patty except they are red. (Side note:  Peppermint Patty is his black cat who looks nothing like a fox)

Genevieve (unsolicited):  I would be a bat - a big, black, spooky bat and I would eat you up, Dominic!

Dominic:  No Genevieve.  Bats can’t eat foxes up.  I would eat YOU up because foxes are bigger than bats and we have sharp teeth.  You would taste like a chicken to me.

Genevieve:  I would fly away high up in the sky and then you couldn’t eat me.  Nanni, Nanni, Phoo, Phoo.

Dominic:  Yes I could eat you.  Foxes can jump. I would jump up in the air and tear you apart.

Genevieve:  (Pause).  Then I will be an elephant and squish you instead.

[Giggles and shrieks by both kids]

At this point, I check my watch and wonder if it’s too early in the day to start drinking…