moveovermommy's Open Salon Blog

San Francisco's Chinatown - through a seven year old's eyes

Tue, 2 Mar 2010 15:03:31 -0500

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 don't have Dalmatians.” (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 them 50 cents."

Shutter Island - Scorsese Silliness

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 19:02:42 -0500

For a gal who could only bare 8 minutes of “Paranormal Activity” before turning the film off and then spending the entire night hiding under the covers, 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 unfortunately wrong on all counts. Scorsese or no Scorsese, this movie is just plain silly!

Sure, the central premise of the movie is interesting enough. U.S. 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 starts to uncover a sinister web of cover ups relating to the treatment of patients and their mental illness which leads 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 – including trauma from witnessing the horrors of concentration camps as a military soldier in the holocaust and the personal tragedy of having lost his won wife to a fire. There were plenty of weighty themes to chew on for sure. 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. Of course, once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, the rest of the film was pretty much ruined. Neither of us could buy into the story-line. The whole film just felt flat and predictable - an unfortunate quality when you still have two hours and twenty minutes to sit through!

And yet, take heart. I won’t spoil the film for you in case you do decide to go. Also, 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!

Tiger Woods: A Short Stroke Towards Redemption

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 22:02:06 -0500

I guess it’s not all that surprising that I wouldn’t be a big fan of Tiger Woods. After all, I am not a golfer and am intolerant of cheating husbands. I am a woman who grew up with two serially unfaithful parents –initially to each other - and but then later with just about every other poor soul that they became intimately involved. I sensed and saw first hand the pain that infidelity inflicted – and the havoc that it continues to inflict on my parents and those around them. It’s not something that I would wish on anyone. Which is why from a early age I made a pact with myself that I would not get involved with married men or ever cheat on my partner if I ever settled down. I promised myself that I would work hard to make good choices, pick someone who shared my values and had the maturity to live up to matrimonial promises. And I did good on my promise. The guy I picked is faithful to the core. And we have been married 10 years.

Nonetheless, because of my background the whole Elin/Tiger Woods drama has struck a cord for me. When this story first broke back in November of last year, I often found myself wondering what Elin Woods was going through and how she was experiencing it all - discovering that her husband and father of her children had carried on multiple affairs with women throughout the course of their marriage. It made me think about what my mother went through – learning about all the extramarital affairs my father had and how painful that would be for anyone. In my mother’s case, like Elin, she was young (in her twenties) and quite naive. She dealt with countless humiliations and betrayals, including a parade of my father’s mistresses (many of whom she knew), elaborate lies and a child born out of wedlock. One of my earliest childhood memories was walking in on my mother in the bathroom as she sobbed by the sink while my father stayed out all night. It was the first time I ever saw her cry.

I can’t fully fathom the pain my mother experienced throughout her marriage to my father and the irreparable damage that their sad dynamic had on her psychological well-being. I know that she has never fully recovered from it – repeating similar patterns (with various incarnations) throughout her life with other married people. Which is why I can’t really blame Elin Woods, if in fact she did take a golf club to Tiger Woods’ face on Thanksgiving eve. Even though I don’t condone domestic violence, I can understand the dark place that those feelings may have come from. I also know that Tiger Wood’s behavior from start to finish disgusts me and is completely reprehensible. And that when I learned that he was finally stepping forth to “apologize” for his transgressions this week, I wished him nothing but ill will.

After three months of silence and the ongoing reports of dozens of mistresses, lurid text messages and then sex rehab, I, like many, had written him off as a sleazy, sociopathic meglomaniac. Whatever he was going to say wasn’t going to change that opinion for me and I held firm in my belief that Elin should leave him. She should end that sham of a marriage and in the process make it as unpleasant for him financially as her expensive lawyers could creatively manage. He deserved nothing less, in my mind, – and probably a lot more. And yet, even though I had closed myself off to any other perspective of the golfing legend, I still watched the “Tiger Woods” press conference - all 13 agonizing minutes of it. It surprised me – both in what it taught me about the man and my own beliefs.

Tiger Woods did what I assumed he would do: He apologized. He admitted that he had been unfaithful, that he had had affairs and that he cheated. He acknowledged that he was wrong and had hurt his family. He called his behavior a “disappointment” and he acknowledged that he had let people down. Nothing about what he said was particularly revelatory or earth shattering. There were no bombshells and certainly no new confessions. Still, he was brutally to the point and it felt sincere to the core. The pain and anguish he has experienced the past three months were written all over his face. The eyes of this once invincible sports superstar showed deep suffering. It was clear that this champion’s world had all but collapsed and that he was in completely unchartered territory – having to acknowledge to the world the magnitude of his mistakes and the harm that he caused. And he took full ownership of it – all of it. Unflinchingly and with an honesty and directness that one doesn’t often see.

And as I watched him speak, I saw that what he did took guts – a lot of guts to stand there. And I, a close-minded married woman who believes fiercely in monogomy, couldn’t help but admire him for that. And feel some compassion. I realized for the first time that Tiger Woods had done something today that (albeit belatedly) neither my mother nor my father have ever managed to do. He apologized from the bottom of his heart and take ownership of his mistakes. Many times. By doing that, I could sede that he had taken the first heroic step towards living a more authentic life – either with or without his wife.

As I watched his stomach-churning admissions of infidelity and betrayal, I reflected that neither of my parents ever said sorry to anyone for their behavior nor made any effort to live a less emotionally reckless life. To this day, the “love of my mother’s life” (according to my mother) remains a man that she has had an extra-marital affair with for almost a decade. A man who she cannot see out in public, whom she cannot talk openly about and who still goes home to his wife and children (although she insists that they have “an understanding.”) My father, in his 80s, having successfully destroyed 5 marriages with much younger women, is still unabashedly proud of his years of promiscuity and extra-marital affairs. He continues to see it as a game of sorts – something to brag and boast about. Neither of these my parents engaged in any introspection nor seized the opportunity that Tiger Woods has seized to transform themselves and mature. They could have done that – easily and with far less humiliation. But they chose not to. Instead, they remain stuck – in a series of childish games – willfully ignorant of the damage they inflict and continue to inflict in the emotional lives of the wives, husbands, children and friends that are unknown but within arms reach. They simply didn’t care enough or have enough insight to reign in those selfish impulses and think about the world outside of them.

As Tiger Woods says himself, he still has a long way to go. But he has taken that first step to becoming a more realized adult man. That said, I won’t let Woods off the hook for his epic marital failures. He screwed up big time and by all accounts was an “A” class jerk. Still, I admire any person who can stand up before the world and admit his mistakes. He is a flawed person – like so many of us are – but at least he is one that is trying to grow and mature. I’ll grant him that – and sincerely hope his wife and children will too at some point.

A Love Letter To My City

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 23:02:04 -0500

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 thought I would just take the plunge. After all, it is time I finally confessed to you my feelings – a passion 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 experienced at seeing your beauty. From day one, you inspired me – offering me an incredibly rich lifestyle surrounded by scenic beauty, diversity, culture 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 wildlife 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 in order 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 was forced to 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” that I couldn’t believe the hoops we had to go through in order to get him into private school). It felt harder than getting myself into law school and was definitely more expensive. And yet, in the end, my son did get into the school of his choice and my feelings of bitterness and betrayal towards you did eventually subside.

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 year old 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) 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.

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

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

(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) A vampire tour.

(8) My favorite of all (when I was single and resentful) – 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

Finding My Niche On Super Bowl Sunday

Wed, 10 Feb 2010 18:02:08 -0500

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 (long suffering husband had long given up trying to teach me). As though reading my mind, my son 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, my son 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). My son 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. 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, waved our hands about and half-terrified our dog with all of our jumping and pounding and rolling about. And as I watched that New Orleans Saints quarterback tearfully beam into his little son’s little face, I realized that I had found my niche in the tradition of Super Bowl watching. And it was right next to my kids.