I gave at the grocery store

I started this blog to have a place to vent on stuff, but then decided that I had better things to write about. But today I have decided to vent. I am tired of being hit up for donations every time I go to the grocery store, and now that Christmas is approaching we have the usual bell ringers at the front door, but that used to be a short term deal. It seems like 365 days a year the store is asking for something for someone at the register, "Would you like to add $5 to your bill today for -----add your own disease or need of the moment..while outside there is a table collecting money for homeless people or a barbecue for needy kids. So I guess I sound pretty scrooge like but this isn't about money for me. I write my checks and donate my time to causes and groups that I care about. I even went door to door for the American Cancer Society one year. But I'd like to just go to the grocery store, buy my stuff and leave without feeling like I have to duck out to avoid the conversation about a charity I never heard of. This seems like a short step up from panhandling. Matter of fact eliminate the middle man and just throw dollar bills at the people standing at the freeway entrance, who cares if they spend it on the largest bottle of fermented potato water you can buy at Ralph's. Of course there are panhandlers outside some of our stores as well, but according to a sign just posted they aren't welcome. So what about the other charities....and why this huge influx? It used to be that besides girl scout cookies and the christmas bell ringers, you could pretty much shop in peace. What's in it for Ralph's? Altruisim? Who gets the tax credit for the money they collect? And do they keep a management fee. I hope not, but this all seems like United Way DejaVu back in my corporate days where there was a big strong arm to give or you might not get promoted. And then it turns out United Way is running this big organization and keeping quite a bit of the proceeds for themselves. So maybe I just don't like getting hit up by big businesses to donate to non-profits that are basically big corporations themselves. I'm sending my check to Dafur. Hope some of the money gets there.

Have Chopsticks Will Travel

We turned the corner at San Gabriel Boulevard and Valley, and were astounded to see 2 miles of high rise shopping plazas, each one a kind of multi-story strip mall, most in the common Californish architectural style of cheezy Spanish Revival. And each plaza, a palate of competing neon, all of it in Chinese. Dorothy, you are not in Los Angeles anymore. Unlike it's predecessors, the original downtown Chinatown, a ghost town at night, with its great kitchy pagaoda style buildings, or Monterey Park to the east off the 10, where low slung strip malls intermix with the occasional big white building holding a seafood palace, San Gabriel the next stop on the Chinese immigrant chain heading east, seems most like another city, Shanghai perhaps or Beijing, a blur of bright colors and signs, and throngs of people walking the streets on a Sunday night. At first glance all those signs look like restaurants but on closer examination, there are dentist offices, and tea shops, and lawyers, furniture, jewelry, clothing stores, and at the far end a multi-story Hilton Hotel. You could get off a plane, check in and never have to use a word of English. We are definitely talking english as a second language territory. And in the newest version of questionable labor practices, foot massage parlors abound where for the inexplicable price of $15 someone will massage your feet and back for an hour. And the places were packed at 9 pm on Sunday.

We were here to meet friends for Chinese food, but after a short walk around, the question becomes what kind of Chinese food...Shanghai, Hunan, Hong-Kong Style, and if that is not enough Japanese options like Tepanaki, Ramen noodle houses and Shabu. And everybody seems to be doing brisk business. There were at least 200 places to eat in that 2 mile stretch. I was thinking about checking into the Hilton myself and just eating my way up and down the street.

The difference between eating Chinese here and Pasadena (perhaps the last Caucasian bastion in the San Gabriel Valley) is that in Pasadena the choice is between expensive and cheap Chinese, but region is not even an option. As someone who has always shuddered a bit when someone orders their fried rice and orange chicken, it was kind of amazing that not even 6 miles from my house there was food so authentic I have never even heard of it or seen it.

At Green Valley, a Shanghai style place which our favorite critic Jonathon Gold gave a thumbs up to, we were confronted with an completely new menu and a waiter who didn't speak enough English to translate. My favorite, stewed chicken and chesnuts, couldn't be further from almond chicken, simmered in a hot pot in a terrific brown sauce. The downside, no won ton soup which I promised my daughter I'd bring home. No problem, made a quick stop at "Tasty" on the first floor,which specializes in fruit custard desserts but also has a noodle soup menu, and we were headed back home with our soup. And the best part, while we were waiting we watched some Chinese rock star who along with his back up dancers got his styling tips from early Pat Benatar meets Liberace with metal studded ripped t-shirts the main look. This guy could be huge in China, or perhaps he is just their Clay Aiken. We'll never know.

On the way out we had to take a quick drive through a huge shopping plaza, with a Ranch 99 and a New Capital Restaurant, an old favorite from Arcadia that vanished, and now we know why and where. There is a lot more competition down here but the number of people eating, shopping and strolling, more than offsets that. Being here made me think about how we have this singular view of China, when it is a huge country with disparate regions both in terms of language and culture. If you come down to San Gabriel, you won't find a Panda Inn so you better do some research and know what kind of food you want. We'll be back. Hong Kong is calling.

Cheer Mom

Here is the truth. You are too old to be still sitting in a small room with a large glass window watching your daughter fly through the air, trying to interpret every grimace wondering if the swagger is a John Wayne thing or the hip injury flaring up again. You have been doing some version of this for about a decade now . In the hours spent driving to the far reaches of southern california, spending a tense 5 hours on the edge of your chair and driving back again you could have learned a new language, mastered hip hop dancing or improved your tennis game immeasurably. So as you laugh with the other mom's (there are two dads but they don't join the coffee clatch glued to the window) and worry and say a short silent prayer, please no injuries, you wonder, why am I here?

But in the car ride home there are lots of laughs, a replay of bloopers, competitive spirit bubbling up and the grimaces of before are forgotten. I wouldn't say I encouraged this sport or perhaps I did at first but then when confronted with the ear piercing music, the clothing (or for some squads the lack of clothing), the tumbling free with the occasional collision, the eye make up that would make a drag queen proud, well I wondered, how did I an educated woman, a neo-feminist of sorts, end up dedicating my weekends to this sport that sprung from that most quintessenially all-American of activities, cheerleading? Do they even have cheerleaders at soccer in England, or cricket in India? Doubt it! So count on the old USA to take a little sis boom bah and turn it into something bigger, badder and definitely harder and pure adrenaline and competition. Competitive cheer, a phrase that would have sounded like an oxymoron 2o years ago, is now one of the fastest growing sports in America, and apparently also one of the highest causes of injuries among adolescent girls as well.

So back to the original question, why am I here? Because my daughter isn't just good at this, she's is really good, and she likes being really good at something, because don't we all like being really good at something. And because I love her, watching her do the thing that she is good at is one of the most enthralling shows of all. I may not know a standing full from a whatever but I'll be there cheering her on again next Sunday , saying my prayers, win or lose, for those two minutes of glory.

Snake Eggs

So on a beautiful Sunday morning, I went out in the yard to do some last minute clean-up in preparation for a party we were having that evening. First, I tried to trim the bushes along the path but discovered we know longer had the right tool for bush trimming. Then I tried to move furniture around but discovered this was a two person job, so gave that up.

The next thing I did is still kind of a mystery to me why I did this. I decided to see what was under the drain covers that line our patio. For the past 9 years we've lived here, when a contractor or gardener asks, "Do you have drainage?" I shrug my shoulders and point to the green plastic rectangles lining the patio. But recently, I was asked do we have west side drainage, and it sounded really important so I thought do we? So the week before when I cleaned out the area where the rabbit lived and deposited all his goodies, which believe it or not had not decomposed even after more than a year after the rabbit ran away, I discovered a square drain covered with dirt and cleaned it off. This was very satisfying, and so on this beautiful sunny day, it seemed the perfect time to see what was under the green plastic rectangles.

The first one easily pulled up, despite dirt and mulch filled to the top. But then I was curious, what was underneath. But I couldn't find our spade either (which gives you some idea how often we garden), so grabbed a large kitchen spoon and began to dig out the debris. It was great dirt, packed with earthworms, so I deposited it under some rose bushes that I knew would appreciate it and then spent an hour digging out 12 feet of drainage all the way down to its silver bottom with a kitchen spoon.

I was thrilled when I was finished and decided to test this critical segment of the west side drainage by running water, which unfortunately ran for a second and then sat filling the previously empty channel.

Not to be daunted, I went to the next station in the drainage path, the previously covered with rabbit poop drain, and sure enough that hole was filled with water. Ah ha I thought and shoved my hand in to the murky water and pulled roots out that were clogging the drainage area. There was a slight movement of water forward but that was it. So I sleuthed out the next stop. This drain, an 8X8 green rectangle was screwed shut, clearly installed by someone else at some other time from all the others (by the way all the rectangle drains were installed upside down. It is amazing we have any working drainage at all. Or do we?) I peered through the slats to see if there was water in there and what do I see to my amazement, sitting on top of a bed of leaves, a half dozen speckled birds eggs.

I had never seen a nest with so many intact eggs, but then I had never seen a nest below ground before. I looked at the slats with about a 1/2 inch of clearance between them and thought that is one small momma bird. I peered again, and the thought occurred to me that they just couldn't be bird eggs. Do rats lay eggs? Possums? Snakes? I used to know something about biology so I was pretty sure rats don't lay eggs or possums but snakes, maybe. The possibility of a half-dozen killer snake eggs inches away is unnerving. I had thought about getting a screw driver and taking this to the next step but I am no Croccodile Dundee or that other guy who died probably putting his hand somewhere he shouldn't have like next to a bunch of killer snake eggs when the momma snake is hiding inside the drainage pipe.

So I did what any sensible woman would do. Waited for my man to come home. I proudly showed him my drainage clearing work ( I think his reaction was, "you decided to do this now?") but as I explained the situation he was clearly intrigued and peered down the drain with the eggs. "Wow," he said and with no prompting from "maybe they are snake eggs" (Okay so remember this part). It took a few seconds to unscrew the drain cover, while I stood about 10 feet away offering helpful hints, like "maybe you should poke them with a stick first dear".

There was no need for alarm. The eggs were ping pong balls, and lots of them. So now if someone asks I can say for sure we do have west side drainage. Anyone up for a game of ping pong? Now if I could only find the paddles.

We now have an ample supply of ping pong balls and yes, I do have west side drainage.

L'shana Tovah

I tried really hard this Yom Kippur to confess all my sins, but although the list is incredibly comprehensive and includes many things I did not do and for that matter will never do, there are some serious omissions. There is the sin of inpatience which is more a way of life than a particular transgression, which might also be lumped in with the sin of the serious attention span deficit (which was particularly true during the Rabbi's sermon when I found myself thinking about preparing for an upcoming party and kept administering the silent verbal equivalent of a slap...stop it...a few seconds of concentrated listening..and then back to the party), the sin of ridiculous self-doubt and the sin of worrying unnecessarily.

The last one might actually be covered in the official listed category of foolish chatter, which in my case could not be stopped even during the Kol Nidre service. I had the opportunity to speak for one minute about a meaningful experience (see text below of my minute) during our recent trip to Israel. But when the Rabbi complemented me after services, I still couldn't help myself from quipping that if I'd known that everyone else was going to speak for 5 minutes I would have as well. Perhaps we should call this the sin of being Larry David. I just can't let go.

I was just thankful that at the end of services the following day the time between last confession and closing the book of reckoning was less than two minutes. I held my breath, and phew, made it, at least for 2007. As for this year, well we're trying harder, but we may have to post the top 10 sins on the desk top as a personal growth reminder.

Yad V’shem, the Holocaust History Museum, was so deeply moving, that I found myself at several points unable to continue, hunched over on a bench or standing in a corner sobbing.

Yad V’shem was different than other Holocaust museums I have been to.

It was the heartbreaking stories told by the survivors themselves that affected me so strongly. What would I have done I kept asking myself, would I have had the courage to take just one more breath? I stood in shock when I saw the same purse as my grandmother’s in a case of valuables confiscated by the Nazi’s. It was no longer just a museum.

It was the story of my family. At the end, I found my great-grandfather, Sandor Vida in the database of those who did not survive, and weighed down with this final piece of information, like a last piece of a puzzle, I climbed on the bus and we were on to our next stop, the Chagall windows at Hadassah Hospital.

In the waiting area, I whispered to Scott “I saw my great-grandfather’s name.” and once again I sobbed for all that we lost, but also all that we will lose if we do not remember.

"And to them will I give in my house and within my walls a memorial and a name (a "yad vashem")... that shall not be cut off."
(Isaiah, chapter 56, verse 5)

Too Much of a Good Thing

If you know me, then you know I love to read, and although partial to New Yorker type fiction (think Richard Ford, Don DeLillo), I have learned from book groups that I can read almost anything. It is hard to remember a time in my life before book groups, when I had to peruse the book store or library shelves and think about what I wanted to read. But now I am in a frantic state of trying to keep up. Of course this is my own fault. First there was just one group, which I always thought of as Miriam's group, because she belonged before me, but never invited me (too much togetherness?) but then it turned out a mutual acquaintance sat next to me on a plane to SF and she invited me and that was years ago. And the concept is not to read what everyone else is reading which means tracking down books at the library although I am usually late and someone has beat me to it. Then came the invite to what I will call the tennis book group, because that is how I know the ladies, but more than 6 months lapsed between the idea was broached and the invite arrived by email. By then I had already started up with NC's group, called that because she is the ringleader and a wonderful ringleader she is. We meet a coffee shop so no one cooks or drinks, but we enjoy our tea and have a diligent discussion of books which are usually what everyone else is reading which is just fine with me and have read some really enjoyable books, Snow Flower's Secret Fan being my favorite. But now I have one or two book groups too many but I love to read and I like everyone so haven't figured out how to balance. Occasionally I get lucky and have a conflict and am off the hook for the month. My latest ploy is to get two of the groups to read the same book which has worked once already and is incredibly convenient. So that is how I became the book group whore (adulteress?) that I am.

I think the real solution would be to combine the tennis and NC group, you know the old strategy where you invite all your boyfriends to a party and see who rises to the top? Am not sure this would work, but in the meantime I better run. I've got lots of reading to do.

I can see clearly now

After more than 10 years of juggling reading glasses like a circus act and wandering my house searching for a pair on almost a daily basis, I finally came to the realization that it was time to join the full-time spec wearing population.

My husband and children all did this effortlessly, putting them on first thing in the morning and laying them on the nightstand to rest in the evening, but I had tried prescription progressives before and I found myself struggling to walk out the front door of my house without looking like a lunch time drunk stumbling out of a dark bar into daylight.

But my eyesight along with a few other body parts continues to deteriorate and this former 20/20 gal realized that it was time for another try at the world of enhanced vision. I was determined to make this work, asking the optician for detailed instructions on when to look up (distance) and when to look down (reading) and wondering how I would ever do this without feeling stupid. So much to my surprise, I put on my new glasses and they are perfect. Just like that. I can see as clear as looking through glass, up, down and all around. I have rejoined the land of the sighted and it is amazing.

Last weekend, people kept giving me that quizzical did you get a hair cut look, because you look different. So I can see and I get a new look. It's a miracle. So for all my vain friends out there doing the reading glasses juggle, get over it. The only downsides are you have to watch out when you swoop in for a kiss and I can now clearly see that I am in desperate need of pedicure.

The Ants go Marching

The thing about a great looking piece of granite with a lot of black specs is that it is the perfect camouflage for ants. Something about the relentless 110 degree heat has caused an invasion by ants on a military scale of my kitchen. I am greeted in the morning by a carpet of moving black spots on the tile floor (is it my vision or are those spots moving?...yikes the dirt is alive), and a grumpy husband who views the ant assault as a personal affront to his morning routine of drink coffee, read paper. I found myself in the car yesterday, picking off ants like lint as each annoying tickle revealed the target. I have always admired ant tenacity, and their homing capability for each crumb left behind (please kids put the plates in the dishwasher) is impressive. But now it was a game of sheer numbers, and a bit like the US military in Iraq, we were getting worn down. The weather has cooled, but the ants were still enjoying the surfaces of the kitchen, adding a unique accent to white window molding. So we did what a proud citizen of their domain must do..we called in reinforcements. The pesticide guy was here with a bright smile and a clean shirt this morning, spraying poison around the perimeter of the house, while we stay inside waiting for the dust to settle. Sort of surprised this nice man works without a mask as I could smell the spray through the windows upstairs, sort of like an uber-raid. And although I must accept responsibility for the death of millions of ants (who can count?) it seems a worthwhile trade-off for a return to the usual domestic peace of mind. Grumpy husband will have to find something else to complain about.