Geisha Smackdown

9 AM

2013-03-19T17:55:00.001-07:00

So, this morning was like any other morning right up until it wasn't anymore.

Up at 5:30. Normal. Trouble getting Maya to stay awake to eat her cereal. Normal. Go to check on Maya to see if she's dressed, only to find that she's gone back to bed. You got it. Normal.

Things didn't get weird until about 8:30 this morning, when I needed a bottle of wine in a big hurry.

On the way to school, I saw a Facebook alert that my friend Sam's birthday is today, which led me to shout, "Crap," for about the fifth time that morning. I'd been really proud of myself for remembering to pick up a nice bottle of wine for another colleague's birthday, but didn't realize that Sam, who is also a colleague on the same team had her birthday as well. Confused? YEAH! ME TOO!

To make it worse, Sam is a smart cookie who knows the difference between a bottle of bottom shelf crap we bummed from someone's emergency stash (which probably doesn't exist because it's a school), and wine that is worthy of gifting.

Luckily, colleague number three, Troy, assured me that, Jumbo, our nearest big supermarket, opens at 8AM every morning. I have a free period at that time, so problem solved, right? HAH!

Let me preface this by saying that what I'm about to write is not a slam against Chile. Every metropolitan area, from downtown to the burbs, has a certain time every morning when everyone who could potentially piss me off, cut me off, or just generally not get the fuck out of my way, feels compelled to get in their cars, vans, and busses, and hunt me down. Stray dogs feel compelled to lie down in the road in front of my car. People cross the street slowly in front of me, intently focused on texting, kind of like the Walking Dead, but with wifi. Seriously, the five minute drive down the hill to the grocery store couldn't have been more challenging if zombies had formed a line in front of my Hyundai and thrown puppies at my windshield while I tried to bat them away with the windshield wipers.

Okay, so I get to the store, fly through the place, find a bottle of wine from a winery I know and love, which isn't exactly challenging here. Interpret that as you will.

I get the register, where the clerk rings up my peripheral birthday-related purchases. When she gets to the wine, it makes the register shriek, and I honestly don't understand why. Neither does she, until she reads whatever her monitor says. She looks at her watch and says, "You can't buy alcohol until 9AM." (By the way, this conversation is in Spanish, for all of you who thought maybe I lapsed into some alternate, English-speaking Chile.)

Still confused, I offered, "But it's a gift."

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders, "It won't ring up until 9."

I peeked at her watch. It was 8:34.

"So," I asked, "does that mean it would be bad for me to start drinking at 8:34 in the morning?"

She grinned, "Yes, I think that would be bad."

"But in 26 minutes, it will be fine?"

And then she delivered the best line of the morning. "You could come back then." I'm not sure she was trying to be funny, but it cracked me up.

So, just to be clear, our lesson for today is as follows.

Drinking at 8:30AM? Bad.
Drinking at 9:00AM? Good.

Happy Birthday, Sam. I did manage to go back for your wine. I'll bring it in the morning, but paws off until 9. Got it?

Christina and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2013-02-26T16:22:00.000-08:00

I should have known that nothing good could come from getting out of bed today when I almost died putting on my Spanx. Okay, so it was really a Chilean off-brand Spanx-type garment, but I still almost died.

At 5:30 this morning, I was pretty much still asleep because we have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. I threw together a quick outfit that would sort of accommodate the extra real estate that life in Chile has added to my waistline, only to find the pants were just snug enough to require a little artificial compression. I know it's ridiculous, but I have never walked around with a muffin top and I'm not about to admit to having one now.

Every time I squeeze into one of these tiny tubes of stretchy horror, it reminds me of my formerly Mormon friend, S. She doesn't wear an undergarment OR Spanx because she's not a big phony like I am, BUT she has this adorable way of referring to Mormon undergarments as "angel underwear," and that makes me laugh.

So I was standing in front of the mirror, mostly asleep, trying to slither, arms and head first, into a stretchy tube about half my actual size, when my hand slipped and the damn thing rolled up like a-- well, like a condom, which essentially turned it into an incredibly strong tourniquet around my neck WHILE my arms were still in it up to the shoulders. So now I'm standing in the bathroom being squeezed, unable to do anything with my hands except flap them around in vain as I tried to reach my own shoulders. But, I obviously couldn't reach my shoulders because my arms were being held next to my ears by my own undergarment.

I now know what it's like to be killed by a constrictor, if it's a small constrictor and you manage to block its access to your neck with your armpits. In that moment, all I could think was, "This is it. This is how they're going to find me, stone cold sober with my arms pinned over my head." Only half of that was in the obituary I had at one point imagined might be in my future if I didn't get my life together. This was followed by the more obvious "Where does 'strangled by her own underwear' rank on the list of stupidest ways to die?"

I eventually was able to roll my shoulders enough to inch my textile attacker down over my shoulders and onto my waist where it belonged.

I should have been happy to be alive and called in sick. But no, I just HAD to leave the house.

Thirty minutes later, I was in the car with Rob and the kids, headed to school. Of course, the kids started fighting because that's ninety percent of what they do when they're together. Maya didn't want to put her backpack by her own feet, so she put it by his feet. WWIII ensued. I tried to chuck the offending backpack into the third row seats, only to have one of the clips hit Max in the eye.

Next, I lost the code to log into the school's computer and sign my daughter up for after-school activities. By the time I recovered it, she ended up wait-listed.

Right about then, I realized that I forgot Maya's swim bag for P.E., which meant she would have to go to double Spanish, which is apparently a fate worse than death. I think she could have, at the age of six, sued for emancipation based only on today's screw-ups, and won.

Then, there was a school-related thing that I can't share because I have a strict policy about writing about students.

I kept smiling until 8:00 AM. That's right. This was all before 8. I smiled my way through a quick morning debrief with my students, and then when they left for Spanish class, I FREAKED OUT. I scurried around, sending iChats and trying to find an extra little girl's swimsuit somewhere on campus, while at the same time running to Maya's classroom to let her teacher know about the swimsuit situation. By 8:15, I started to realize that my switch had finally flipped. I think I would have sat down on my classroom floor and cried, if my classroom floor weren't infested with ants.

Yep, that's right. It's ant season in Chile. So, I ended up sitting at my desk, overwhelmed and sobbing while ants bit my feet.

Ultimately, my fabulous colleagues collectively saved my butt. Nicole found a little rash guard. Nancy found a couple of swimsuits. The swim teacher found an extra cap. Bless their hearts, they managed to save one little part of an ant-infested, almost dying in my bathroom kind of morning.

At the end of the day, as my students were walking to their moms or their busses, I was in the hallway and heard a familiar voice yelling, "Mommy!" I turned to see Maya running toward me, hair messy from swimming and carrying a bag with what could only contain her borrowed suit. She kissed me. I asked how swimming class went.

She put her hands on her hips and pouted. "You didn't pack my towel."

I turned my back to her for one minute and did some deep breathing before I turned back around and took her hand. "You're right. Let's go get you a snack."

This is what we do. As parents, we make ourselves crazy, work ourselves to the point of exhaustion, and we make every possible effort to hide all of this from them. If they had any idea what was in store, they might never have kids of their own.

I will, however, make sure she knows the dangers of donning compression garments unsupervised. That's just not safe.

Cafe Con Piernas

2013-02-20T17:21:00.000-08:00

When friends hear that I've moved to Santiago, one of of the first questions asked by friends who are familiar with Chile is whether or not we've been to a cafe con piernas. (I know there's an accent there, but my keyboard won't seem to put it there.) This translates as coffee with legs, so you might think you know where this is going. I thought I knew, and I was wrong on so many levels.

It's important to know that Chile is considered to be relatively conservative by Latin standards. That doesn't mean I didn't have to try to distract my 11-year-old's eyes away from the television screen while we waited to file paperwork in the social security office because about ten busty women in thongs and feathers were shaking what they had on a morning show. But, it was Carnivale time, so I guess booby fever was in the air.

ANYWAY, I spent six months with almost no ideas about cafe con piernas. I didn't even think about it unless someone asked, and then I'd just kind of write it off. I saw Samantha Brown's Santiago episode, so I had an idea that these cafes were like the ones we went to in Rome, where there are no chairs, you just down your espresso and go, except for the fact that the waitresses would be wearing short skirts and heels. Honestly, this is Santiago, so you don't have to go downtown to a special cafe to see short skirts and heels. The other day I saw a baby in a short skirt and heels, and she was smoking, but that's another post.

When Rob's mom visited, we were downtown walking between the Mercado Central and Plaza de Armas. It was about 47,000 degrees celcius, so when I saw Cafe Haiti, we popped in because nothing cools you down like a shot of espresso.

I had done zero research, and was still disappointed. I was picturing throngs of leggy chicks and horny guys putting money in their cleavage.

Nope.

It could have been Denny's, if Denny's only served coffee and cocoa. And if Denny's were impossible shiny and had no chairs or tables. And if your moderately attractive, very maternal Denny's waitress got part of her skirt caught in the slicer and had to finish her shift with half a skirt.

It took about ten minutes to have our coffees, cocoas for the kids, and water. The waitress was sweet to my kids and tried to talk to them in Spanish, even though the first thing my daughter says to anyone Chilean is, "No hablo espanol." I'm trying to teach her, and I thought the extra exposure to the language over our vacation would soften her attitude about learning, but she's still relying on me.

So, I wondered why, if the whole experience was so lackluster, why people kept asking me about it. I googled it and found this.

Apparently, we found a really, really boring cafe con piernas.

Some cafes are bikini cafes. Others feature lingerie. I just happened to wander into the most boring sterile
cafe con piernas ever. These folks found something completely different.

There's also a Miss Cafe Con Piernas pageant.

I was under the impression when we went into Cafe Haiti that I would then be able to report back to friends that I had, indeed, experienced this cultural phenomenon, but I guess I found the lamest version ever. If I see a racier one and I'm with Rob and without the kids, I'll go in, just to satisfy their curiosity. Not mine, of course. I know Rob will be terribly disappointed.

Zombies in My House

2013-02-14T15:13:00.001-08:00

It's 8PM on Valentine's Day and my house is completely silent.

No one is sick. No one is angry or upset. Nothing is tragic.

We're just slightly zombified.

It seems pretty harmless to let the kids stay up extra late while you're on vacation. In fact, it's good because they'll sleep extra late. We kind of overdid it on that. After two months of vacation, Maya was staying up until midnight "reading," which in Maya language means dragging all of your picture books into bed and rolling around on them. The upside is that she slept until 11 AM most mornings. Heaven. Max is old enough to set his own sleep hours because he can really read, and he can make his own cereal. The perfect sleep conditions for Mom and Dad.

Until today. We had to get up at 6. All I could think this morning was that if I'm going to get up before the sun, it better be because I'm catching a flight to somewhere awesome. This was not the case. We went to work, sat in meetings, and yawned. Oh yeah, and I also realized that I agreed to give two back to back presentations tomorrow morning and neglected to do one lick of prep work over the vacation. Thus, there were instant extra meetings and a concerted effort on my part to remember ANYTHING I knew about teaching two months ago. There's a distinct possibility I got confused in my exhaustion and showed up at the wrong meeting at the wrong school. I might not even really be a teacher. Keep it under your hat.

In the top five of things I hate and fear in the world are sitting in presentations and public speaking. By volunteering to offer professional development, I have managed combine those two things into a whirling dervish of fear, self-loathing, and dread.

SO now, except for a brief conversation about how awesome it is to have a garbage chute and just thrown unsorted trash down it- plastic touching paper in a way Japanese trash law would never tolerate, we've all been rendered mute with exhaustion.

I think Max just muttered something about brains.

Booblandia

2013-02-13T18:07:00.001-08:00

My plan to post every day for 20 days was thwarted twice. Once by an amusement park and again by a stomach bug.

For the last week, Max and Maya were good sports while we did lots of adult activities when guests visited us. My kids made the best of it when Rob went to New Jersey for nine days, leaving the three of us to our own devices. By that I mean the kids watching The Wizards of Waverly Place in one room, while I watched RHONY reruns in the other. (Sorry, I love Bethenny Frankel. She's me times ten.)

Anyway, we decided that the last outing of our vacation should be the closest amusement park. Fantasilandia is possibly the most urban amusement park ever. We actually street parked. For an amusement park. In Santiago, that means a guy with an orange vest and a stick stood guard over our car for 6 hours. This service cost four dollars. In Tokyo, that would have cost a couple hundred dollars.

Anyway, it's a great park if your kids are tall or brave or both. There's not much for tiny tots, but after some initial hesitance, Maya was ready to take on anything she was tall enough to ride. Luckily, she's tall for her age.

We've all taken our kids to the amusement park. We know what that's like. But the difference between doing it in the States and doing it abroad is ALL THE BOOBS. Unless I missed the Disney mural with Minnie in g-string and pasties, I'm pretty sure we wandered into something that might not fly in the United States.

Okay, so there were butts, too. And a one-eyed girl and bizarre shooting water in your face symbolism.

To be honest, the only thing I don't really understand is the connection all of this might have to the Easter Island heads. Although, they do seem to be appreciating all the boobs.

Most of the rest of the day was kind of boobless until the last ride.

This was the end of me. It wasn't just the bizarre juxtaposition of children and erotica. It wasn't just the sixth hour of blazing Chilean sunshine.

It was the spinning.

Everything was fine until the end of the ride with the scary bottomless-on-a-horse imagery. Right after the pleasant spinning and the lovely view of the Andes from the top of the ride, right to the bottom when you think it's all over, the ride spins you at light speed in circles of flashing light until any plans you had for the rest of the night are lost in a haze of nausea.

Thus, my lack of a post for that night.

The next night was lost in a blur of stomach bug, probably contracted from overexposure to poorly drawn boobs.

Castellano

2013-02-10T17:07:00.000-08:00

So, in the spirit of posting daily for 20 days, we just returned from dinner with a friend from the Canary Islands. I asked if he had met Chileans who used the word Castelleno to refer to Chilean Spanish. He said yes. I asked what he thought of that. He said, "It is very curious."

The Beginning of the End of the Vacation

2013-02-09T18:34:00.002-08:00

Here's the problem with the last few days of vacation. If you're anything like me, you probably start vacation with a list of things you put off until you have some free time. I'll write a blog post. I'll read that book I meant to read for work, but it was too boring and I was too tired to stay awake while school was in session. I'll teach my daughter to read. Then, the free time rolls around, and I feel like I've earned some time to do absolutely nothing.

For two months.

That's right. The most productive thing I've done this summer is clean the turtle tank.

Don't get me wrong. We entertained guests and traveled to new parts of Chile. It's been a blast. But, now I feel like I need to have this burst of productivity to make up for being a huge slacker.

So, in order to get my ass back in gear, I'm going to tackle one of the jobs I had laid out for myself, which is to share some of what we learned and experienced this summer.

Looking back, it was a lot. I'm positive that it was considerably less than what most of our friends did. But, after the year we had, it's a miracle we got out of bed these last 8 weeks. My parents and sister visited, so we did out best to run them ragged. Rob went to New Jersey for 9 days to prepare our former summer house for rental. Because we're in the Southern Hemisphere, our summer is now January and February, and there's no way we're spending our summer in New Jersey when it's ten degrees outside. Rob's mother visited for 9 days. She just left this evening, and I'm pretty sure she's officially done enough adventuring to hold her for a while.

I tried to think about my favorite part of the summer. What would I take off tomorrow to do again? I have to say the wineries. I haven't found the Chilean beach that I truly love just yet, although I'm more than happy to keep looking. Valparaiso is great, but I feel like I need to go again to learn more about the best way to experience it. There's so much trial and error in visiting a place for the first time. But, the wineries are fabulous every time, regardless of how many times you've been to one. Yes, the presence of wine helps, but the whole package is fantastic.

When my parents were here, we went to Santa Cruz, mostly because a colleague of ours runs a hotel and restaurant there. It's a family operation. Her daughter is an amazing Italian chef, and they work together to keep everything running smoothly. Both the restaurant and hotel are called Vino Bello. If you live in Chile or are planning a visit,I recommend the trip to Santa Cruz.

http://www.vinobello.cl/en_vinobello.php

We really weren't thinking about wineries when we booked that trip. Once we were there, though, it dawned on us that we should find something to do besides play in the pool. We ended up taking a tour of Viu Manent. We knew very little about growing wine grapes, so the tour was perfect for us. The tour of the vineyards is in a horse-drawn carriage. The guide was personable. We tasted wines at the end. If you've visited wineries anywhere, I'm sure you know the drill. We did the same thing in Italy years ago, and it was similar, so we had an idea of what to expect.

But, I have to say, there was something especially enchanting about Viu Manent. The grounds are welcoming, green, and lush. It truly feels like an estate. There's a restaurant adjacent to the main building, so you can follow up your tour with a leisurely lunch under a trellis covered with grape vines. I really respond well to food and wine in a gorgeous setting. This lunch was straight out of my fantasies of how I'll live when I have a big house in wine country with a long table out back, laid out with food and wine for all my friends and family.

When Rob's mom came, we toured Vina Undurraga. It's about an hour south of Santiago, so it's a perfect day trip. Again, we had a great guide who know the business inside and out. It was interesting that on both trips we had very knowledgeable guides, but there was very little repetition in the information.

Undurraga is still on the original site, where the Undurraga family home was years ago. The buildings and gardens are fantastic.

There was no carriage ride or lunch, but it was still a trip I would do again.

I won't even begin to analyze the wines. My knowledge is limited to my personal preferences. I have yet to try a Chilean wine that wasn't great. For me, late harvest wines are too sweet, but other than that, I've enjoyed everything that I've tried.

Instead, here's Maya sneaking grapes at Undurraga.

Seven Months Later, I Acknowledge Santiago

2013-02-08T10:49:00.002-08:00

I put off writing about Chile for a long time. When we left Japan, our friends were very kind in saying that they looked forward to posts about Santiago, but when we arrived, I found that when I tried to write, all I could do was stare at a blank screen. I told myself a million reasons why I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was dealing with the book, putting off the much-needed editing of said book, dealing with my stupid internet stalker, relearning Spanish, and getting to know my new job. In truth, these were all just excuses. They should have been reasons to write instead of impediments. It took a while for me to realize why I wasn’t able to conjure up anything to say.

When it comes down to it, I didn’t want to be one of those writers who produce an endless string of first impressions. That might seem silly since half of the travel writing out there is based on first impressions, but that’s a whole different beast. If I’m going on vacation for a week, all I really need for reference is a quick heads-up from someone who has been there. I don’t need the down and dirty on the nuances of the culture unless I do something really stupid and end up in jail. For a quick visit, I just need a map and a rerun of No Reservations that tells me where to eat. However, if I’m going to take the trouble to actually live here, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to document in a personal way.

We’ve been here for about 7 months now, and I feel like I’m starting to get past the first impressions phase. It would have been silly for me to write about Santiago earlier, since most of the time I wasn’t even sure I remembered where my apartment was. I wasn’t exactly in a position to make deep observations about life here. I remember walking to a nearby restaurant after we first moved into our flat and wondering if it was even remotely possible that this could ever start to feel like home. Now that some time has passed, I do feel like this is where I live. Maybe, just maybe, enough of the overwhelming unfamiliarity has faded that I can start writing again.

Living in Chile is different than living in Japan in many, many fundamental ways. For me, one of the most important distinctions between daily in the two countries is that I speak Spanish. I made a good effort to learn Japanese. I did fairly well but was never fluent. As a result, the language barrier was always frustrating. It’s different here, though. I’ve had to relearn a lot of Spanish, which hasn’t been a completely effortless process. Chileans are the first to point out that the Spanish here is different than anywhere else. More than once, someone who grew up here has explained to me in Spanish that Chileans don’t speak Spanish. Chileans call the language here Castellano. It’s Spanish mixed with the language of the Mapuche culture, which is one of the indigenous peoples of the area. Castellano is wicked fast, super slangy, and words are often abbreviated. There’s no s at the end of gracias. It’s just gracia. “How are you?” is “Come stai?” I have no doubt that in the course of those two examples I made about twelve mistakes. There are a million other differences, words that are used only here and such, but that's for another time.

Nonetheless, it’s been refreshing to feel like I can go anywhere, ask questions when I need help, and accomplish daily tasks with a minimum of frustration. More than that, the constant burden of translation has been lightened. It’s not gone by any stretch of the imagination. I still have whole conversations with my face scrunched up in concentration, trying to pick up on key words, and reminding myself to breath at the same time. I have this ridiculous theory that if you tense up, then the words can’t get in. If you try to relax and just let the words flow past you, the odds of actually catching a few go way up. Or something like that.

Anyway, seven months into this adventure, I might be ready to think about it as more than a series of hurdles to jump. We’ll see how the next seven months pan out now that I’m operating at a different comfort level.

Not My Fault. All of the blame clearly lies with Sky Mall and its evil powers.

2010-05-06T04:14:00.000-07:00

I have a theory. No, really. This is a good one. Trust me.

I've decided that Sky Mall has tapped into a marketing technique that is only available to a few vendors. Mind Control.

Before you doubt me, think about it.

You know that scene in A Clockwork Orange where Malcom McDowell was strapped to a chair with his eyes held open while violent images were flashed in front of him repeatedly. Okay, so I know that he developed an aversion to violence, but I think the Sky Mall works the other way.

Instead of being repulsed by horrible images, we are lulled into a state of languid namaste by a combination of white noise, five dollar beers, and lack of movement.

Being strapped to an airplane seat for many hours makes us completely vulnerable to whatever strange mind tricks anyone has in store for us. All of this culminates in a general state of sensory deprivation that renders us helpless.

We're sitting ducks.

An enormous percentage of us will eventually turn to the Duty Free and Sky Mall to help pass the time.

The problem with the Duty Free catalogue is that it's too short. Just as we're about to drink the Kool-Aid, it's over. Sky Mall, on the other hand, is roughly the size of the Vogue September issue. Or a smallish dictionary.

And it's not just the size that matters.

It's the progression.

First, they warm you up to the whole idea of mind control by featuring a game that you play with your brainwaves.

So, now you're already thinking about how cool telekinesis is and how you'll be the hit of every party once you learn to operate a corkscrew with your mind. You're so absorbed in the fantasy of telekinetically bitch-slapping the annoying guy from work from across the room that you don't even notice that with every page you flip, you're gradually losing perspective of what is and isn't a necessary component of a happy, fulfilled existence.

Not that the ping pong ball gun isn't cool, but anyone who's been to Bangkok knows that YOU DON'T NEED A GUN TO SHOOT PING PONG BALLS. (And if you don't know what I mean, a quick Google search should clear that up for you.) Really, ladies, a little dedication and practice could save you twenty dollars and the shipping costs.

About four hours into our last Tokyo-United States flight, Sky Mall convinced me that perhaps my son's education in the particulars of Punjabi cage matches was seriously lacking. How can he be expected to recreate his favorite matches if he doesn't even understand the basics? Enter the Punjabi Prison Match Ring- a delightful gift for all occasions.

What I don't understand is this, are you supposed to fight or escape?

OR is the idea to keep your opponent from escaping? How am I supposed to use this toy during a special parenting moment if I don't even understand how to guide my child's play?

Before I could completely freak over my Punjabi-related parenting deficiencies, a quick flip of a page allowed the great minds at Sky Mall to usher me out of the stressful world of toys

and into a blissful home decorating trance. I instantly felt calmer and was able to embrace the fact that everything I thought I knew about decorating was completely off base.

See how they do that? Halfway through the catalogue and I'm totally in. I don't just want this. I need colored lights in my showerhead.

You know what's really hysterical?

When you go through the metal detector at the airport and they can't figure out why you keep beeping. So, you double-check and make sure your keys and your change are out of your pockets,

but you still keep beeping, so they get out the little wand and scan your whole body.

I LOVE THAT!

The TSA guy laughs.

I laugh.

It's just all-around good fun. I'm almost disappointed when that doesn't happen.

But I'm in luck.

With stainless steel fibers in my wallet, I'm guaranteed to set off every metal detector in every single aiport I go into all summer long.

In all the uproarius fun, I could almost forget that the whole point of this wallet is to prevent identity theft, because apparently today's thieves can steal your information from inside your pocket.

Anyway, about five, maybe six hours into a twelve hour flight,

these things become essential to my well-being.

Things don't get ugly until about hour eight, which is when I'm ready to swipe my credit card through that little phone on the back of the seat and start ordering things to be delivered to our house.

It doesn't help that I don't really remember ordering most of these things. I only remember an intense sense of longing followed by deep tranquility and peaceful sleep.

Clearly, this is not my fault.

Sky Mall gradually pulled me in, hooking me with moderately useful items for which I could genuinely find a place in my life. Once I started, I found that anything could be useful,

or at least interesting. Especially the giant Yedi. No one is going to break into the house with the mutant ape man in the backyard.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Pirates of Harajuku/Part 1

2010-03-07T04:17:00.000-08:00

IN WHICH I GET ON MY SOAP BOX IN DEFENSE OF A WORTHY CAUSE

Harajuku is easily one of the coolest places in the world.

Unfortunately, I found out last night that thanks to shameless consumerism, of which I'm usually a huge fan, Harajuku has been rendered just slightly less cool.

Now, when you step off the Yamonote Line, instead of seeing Snoopy Town and The Purple and Yellow Store, there's a GAP the size of the American Embassy.

I have nothing against the GAP, and I'm sure that particular spot is prime real estate, but come on.

I know I'm complaining about one store replacing another. It's not like they slashed and burned the rainforest, but Harajuku shopping is sacred. not that the rainforest isn't, because it is completely sacred and fabulous. Just in a different way.

I not usually much of an activist, but this shit is important.

The Gap definitely doesn't have a Nudy Boy shop with an upstairs Wonder Rocket.
I'm sure the folks at Abercrombie and Fitch would consider it, and probably will after this posts, in which case I want part of the profits.
And if they put rabbit heads on their Nudy Boy mannequins, I want double.

Here are some more things the Gap needs to consider selling if they want me to stop resenting their presence on sacred ground.

Only in Harajuku could the outfit on the bottom right look boring. If I walked into a faculty meeting wearing that, people would talk. Unless the meeting were in Harajuku, which would mean our school just got a whole lot more fantastic, but I digress.

But as long as i'm on the tangent of faculty meetings, they would be a lot more fun if we all had to wear these.

But that's mostly because I would look great in a samurai kimono.

I hold Gwen Stefani responsible for the invasion of H&M, Forever 21 and Topshop into Harajuku's streets.

When the demise of the last bastion of unadulterated cool comes around, it will be her fault.

I know she was excited to find some cool chicks hanging out and waving their freak flags high.

We all love that.

But she didn't even learn to SAY HARAJUKU RIGHT before she wrote that stupid and song and watered down the whole beauty of the area to little dolls on top of perfume bottles.

Uncool, Gwen. Very uncool.

Pirates of Harajuku/Part 2

2010-03-07T03:24:00.001-08:00

IN WHICH WE MEET ACTUAL PIRATES

In an effort to shorten the lifespans of our friends, Rob and I occasionally invite them to join us for an evening of heavy drinking and cholesterol.

Seriously, these are really healthy people. They run and bike and eat well. If someone doesn't do something, these people are going to live forever.

That's where Rob and I come in.

Last night, we went out for Brazilian Barbeque.

You don't order. You just wait until the meat guys stop by to see if you want them to carve a slice of beef, pork, lamb, sausage, or chicken hearts off their giant skewer.

This was taken during that portion of the evening when we were still sober, and therefore civilized.

Luckily, paying a set price for whatever you want to drink for two hours tends to loosen people up.
A lot.

See that green drink in front of Sandy? That's a caipirinha, the national drink of Brazil, made with a sugar cane aclohol called cahaca, sugar and limes.

I think the literal translation of caipirinha is "Where are my pants?"

When we ordered them, the waiter asked, "Are you sure?"

which kind of scared us until we realized he was saying, "Do you want sugar?" I don't know who the hell is ordering these without sugar, but they are a better drinker than I am.

Mark took one drink this concoction and realized that it's about as strong as a shot of lighter fluid, even if you put sugar and limes in the lighter fluid.

He decided to try a Moscow Mule, but it was too fizzy.

So he ordered a gin and tonic.

And a glass of red wine.

Eventually, we started to worry that the waiter was going to come tell us that the bar needed its glassware back, so we helped Mark drink some of the rejects.

All told, we must have collectively consumed at least one cow and the better part of a pig.
Becky got all misty-eyed and called her dinner "a barnyard on my plate"
because she's a huge animal lover.

It all made Dave wax poetic about a similar restaurant in Kenya.
Granted, I was at the other ended of the table, but I'm pretty sure that story went like this.

Dave: They specialized in gay meat.

Rob and Christina (in unison): How could they tell?

Dave: Tell what?

Rob: Whether or not the cows were gay?

Becky: By their horns.

Dave (ignoring everyone): Eventually, Kenya outlawed hunting, so a lot of gay meat places shut down.

OH...

GAME MEAT!!!

Always on the lookout for special forces, Mark and Becky recognized the guys at the table behind us as members of the Israeli CIA, because everyone knows that the Mossad are crazy for meat.

Apparently the Mossad are completely different from the Masai, which cleared things up for me, because these guys were clearly not Masai.

Later, we learned that they aren't Mossad.
They're PIRATES.
How cool is that?

See the one who's trying way too hard to look sexy- that's Chris.

Apparently, he's the hot pirate.

The moustache guy is the elder pirate.

The rest just stand around saying things like "Aye, matey" and "Scurvy made me teeth fall out."

Then the models came in.

Rob told me this morning that he thinks the guys were famous Japanese athletes, so that would explain why everyone else in the restaurant was fascinated by them and why one of them is trying to cover his face with his hat in the picture that I took, which seemed weird at the time because I didn't care at all about having the guys in the picture.
Our table was much more interested in their stick-armed dates.

We took a shot at guessing where the girls were from, and Dave gallantly offered to speak to them in Polish for us,
which would have been extra awesome since Sandy found out that they're from New York.

I still don't know why Sandy had Flat Stanley in her purse, but it just goes to show that mothers really do have one of everything with them at all times.

I guess she told her daughter she'd find some exotic place where Stanley could be photographed, and it doesn't get more exotic than real live pirates.

Drunken pirates are really accomodating.

I don't know why Sandy wanted them to hold their arms out like they were flying. It doesn't make sense. They just look like airplanes, not boats.

Years ago, Tracey Ullman did this bit where whe was at a bus stop and no one was talking to each other, so she started singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Strangers bonded as they broke into a choreographed song and dance number.

It was brilliant.

And it totally doesn't work on Japanese trains.

Becky had already attanied seemingly unreachable levels of awesomeness by attempting to orally stimulate the phallic image on her sugar pack.

But it was her attempt to engage the 300 people who were literally smashed into our train car in a sing-a-long that secured her position as the reigning Queen of Amazingness.

We did get a couple of drunk guys next to us try to hang with our effort at social unity and breaking the societal boundaries that isolate us.

Everyone else was completely uncooperative, which means that they just aren't interested in promoting social harmony.

I know it wasn't because they didn't know the words, cause how hard is it to just sing "Owem-away" a hundred times?

Next outing, fried food on sticks.

And we'll have to find something even cooler that pirates.

Who am I kidding?
There's nothing cooler than pirates.
Especially pirates that will make plane arms for a picture like they're pretending to be pilots.
Oh, hell...
I guess pilots are pretty cool, too.
Right?

January Pictures- A String of Unrelated Thoughts

2010-01-23T17:58:00.000-08:00

In an effort to never get my book revised ever, I spent the morning picking out my favorite pictures from this month, starting with the gang from last night. After an evening of gorging ourselves on bacon-wrapped grilled food on sticks, I guarantee that every single one of these folks has the same nasty taste in their mouth that I do today.

Welcome to Tokyo, home of pachinko parlor mascots with oversized naughty bits. Honestly, I wasn't even disturbed by the personified green pea until I realized that for no good reason, they gave him a massive unit.

Not a restaurant, I hope.

***

Max has a Wii game called City Folk, which you make a character and then gradually acquire emotions for him/her as you progress. Until then, the character just walks around like socialite after a Botox party, unable to form facial expressions.

Max's character is now able to express joy, irritation, and anger. Can you imagine if that were how things worked in real life? I would like to express happiness, but I have not yet acquired that expression.

I'm thinking of submitting this expression as an option for the game designers, but I'm not sure what to call it.

This is S, who claims he can't be embarrassed. He clearly as no idea what what it means to say that in front of me.

***

Maya started ballet classes this month. She loves it because she gets to wear a pretty outfit and twirl.

I love watching my defiant three-year-old follow sensei's instructions. She doesn't follow mine- ever- so this is a completely new experience for me.

When I signed her up, my friend C, whose daughter is also in the class, helped me translate the paperwork that had to be filled out. It was all pretty run of the mill until we got to the space that asked what I was hoping to gain by putting Maya in ballet.

"You mean, like where she's going with this?" I asked.

I had just watched my daughter turn herself into a sideways pretzel and twirl in the wrong direction for an hour. I'm pretty sure she's not headed for a life of dance.

I thought about writing deformed arches, but sensei hadn't been able to get Maya to stand on her toes, so I just wrote an eating disorder.

But the truth is that I have a secret plan to keep her from getting a ballet-related eating disorder. I'm going to teach her to associate ballet class with cake. So when she finishes dancing, she'll always have this urge to fill herself with sweets.

Don't all the top ballerinas follow each rehearsal with a piece of cake the size their head? I thought so. Yep, this plan is foolproof.

After class, Maya and I went to the department store, where she picked out a new pair of shoes for me.

Perhaps I should clarify for her exactly what I do for a living.

A Day Late and a Laptop Short

2010-01-21T16:15:00.000-08:00

Okay, so maybe I'm mildly obsessed. BUT I received a response to my claim to TSA this morning. If you're new to this particular tirade of mine, my laptop was stolen out of my suitcase on my return to Tokyo a couple of weeks ago.

SO, the response from TSA is priceless. It's a whole series of questions designed to let you know that you're shit out of luck. Brilliant. This is all in the guise of "investigating" the claim, but you don't have to be a genius to read between these lines. Just in case you haven't invested the same emotional energy into this this as I have, I'll walk you through it.

How early did you check in your luggage/s prior to scheduled departure?

(Because if it was TOO early, this is your fault.)

When your checked your luggage at PHL, were you able to view the inspection take place?

(Because if you didn't expect to be ripped off and insist on watching our officers inspect your bag, then this is just plain your fault.)

Understanding that the airlines will not cover loss or damage to any valuables. (i.e. jewelry, electronics, cash, etc.)

(Isn't this tantamount to granting permission for employees to steal and then TSA can just blow it off when they do?)

Is it typical for you to pack valuables in your checked bags as opposed to your carry on?

(Are you habitually a complete moron, or is this the first time for you? You do know that we steal, right?)

Did you check in at curbside?

Did you watch curbside baggage handler deliver bags to the ticket counter?

(WOW! You didn't? Were you HOPING he would steal your shit?)

Did you experience a delay before boarding your flight?

(Because if you did, this is really your fault.)

If so, how long was the delay?

(You really need to make sure that doesn't happen.)

Did you have a transfer in your itinerary?

How long were you at your point of transfer?

(Beacause if either of these things happened, we are clearly not responsible.)

Why do you think TSA is responsible?

(Good luck proving it. Yeah, I know we left an inspection notice in the EXACT SPOT where your laptop used to be, but that was just our way of taunting you.)

Was you bag locked when presented for screening?

(This is the stupidest question of all, since TSA expressly states that you are only supposed to use a TSA lock, so they they can open it. If you use another lock, they're allowed to break it, and if you use a TSA lock, they sometimes just break it anyway.)

So, I have some questions for TSA.

Are agents searched upon entering and leaving the airport?

When is theft NOT the passenger's fault? When is it actually the fault of the person who steals it?

How can I know that an agent who has full access to checked baggage isn't a threat to my security? If an agent can take something out of my luggage, he/she could certainly put something in my luggage.

That should do for starters. I know I seem obsessed, and it would seem to some that now that my property has been retrieved, I should just be grateful and shut up. However, I've spent a great deal of time researching this issue lately, and what I've learned is both disheartening and frightening.

It's disheartening that when we pack our suitcases, we are essentially offering them to airport and TSA employees. It's not just valuables that go missing. Simple things like clothes have been reported as stolen from checked baggage. From the hundreds of accounts that I have read of airline theft, not a single one of those people has reported receiving any help or support from the airlines or TSA.

The frightening part is the idea that our luggage could be used as a carrier for something that endangers our children when we fly.

Kind of makes you want to stay home, doesn't it?

I Can't Seem to Think of a Title That Doesn't Include "Delta" and Various Profanities......

2010-01-19T17:50:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning, I was greeted by three separate e-mails letting me know that my stolen laptop has been recovered by the Philly Police Department. In our elation, Rob and I both took a moment to imagine how the blog post that recounts the conclusion of this ongoing saga should sound. I think both have equal merit.
Here’s Rob’s version. Hopefully, I’m remembering it correctly because it was pretty great.

Imagine yourself as a young woman on her very first day of college classes. Everything is new and exciting, even the awesome new purple laptop. It was so nice of your mother’s friend who works for the airline to give you such a good deal on it. HMMM, you think, I wonder why an airline employee is selling laptops. Oh well, it’s best not to overthink things. As class begins, you log onto the campus wifi. Moments later, campus security and the Philadelphia Police Department pull you out of class…..

Here’s my version.

Things I want from Delta/Northwest to make up for the fact that they didn’t even respond to my multiple reports of the theft by fax, telephone, and e-mail.

1) Delta should bear the cost of returning my property to me here in Tokyo- don't they have a plane they could put it on? (But on second thought, isn't that just going to get it stolen all over again?)

2) If they mail it, they should reimburse me for the customs I will have to pay in order to receive it.

3) They should reimburse me for the 50 bucks I spent faxing a claim they didn't respond to. International faxes are expensive.

4) The employee who stole my laptop should be fired- twice. Then I get to tazer him/her.

5) The supervisor who let him/her walk out of the airport with my laptop should be fired. I’m kind of picturing employees clocking out at the end of the day and the supervisor saying, “Night, Bob. Nice laptops.”

6) I should either be reimbursed for my flight or be given vouchers for my next international flight- business class for the whole family.

7) I want platinum status for life and access to all Delta/Northwest first-class lounges worldwide.

8) Every Northwest plane that doesn’t have TV monitors on the seatbacks should be refurbished.

9) My daughter wants a puppy.

SO, yeah, they did pull some girl out of class and take my laptop away from her. Everyone says “Poor girl,” but I’m thinking, “Like she didn’t know?” Honestly. She knew it was stolen.

The best part is that the BRILLIANTLY TECH SAVVY thieves deleted all my files and left them in the recycling bin. We’re clearly dealing with the criminal elite. The very friendly police officer in charge of the case has already restored my files for me. He’s completely tickled to have cracked the case this easily. Gotta love LoJack!

It's kind of ironic that on the very flight during which my computer was stolen, I was complaining about people who carry gigantic carry-on luggage. Now I know that they are the smart ones. Anything in your checked baggage is available to any airline employee who wants it, with the airline's full approval.

Guess what I'm buying before we fly again?

The Government Stole My Laptop

2010-01-09T01:30:00.000-08:00

Seriously, it did.

I think it comes down to karma. On Thursday morning things were going too well. We managed to get our Jersey house closed up and get to the airport on time. We were first in line at Budget, at the Delta check-in, and even at security. We made our connection in Detroit, one step ahead of another snowstorm. Our three-year-old slept for most of the flight to Tokyo. We kept joking about how whenever things go too well, how we somehow get punished later. We thought our penance was the 30 extra minutes of Tokyo traffic on the drive back to our house. We were wrong.

It wasn't until I unpacked that we discovered how the universe was going to balance things out. Instead of finding my laptop in my bag, I found a slip notifying me that TSA had inspected the suitcase. The emotional impact of finding that little slip of paper was just as horrible as it would have been if the guy who "inspected" my laptop had just enclosed a picture of his ass with the words KISS THIS written on it. I'm quickly learning that this is the basic message I'll be receiving from both Delta and TSA as I pursue this.

It took about two minutes of Googling to learn that theft from checked baggage is pretty much business as usual. Any article written on the topic has about a hundred comments from people who have had their luggage raided. The general message from all airlines is that they basically don't give a shit. However, while baggage handlers have been caught stealing, they generally have to be in cahoots for this to happen. They don't have a lot of time alone with the bags, so everyone present has to be either silent or in the stealing. On the other hand, TSA employees have lots of time alone with your bags and absolutely no accountability. They open any bag they please, and are not searched when they leave the airport. The official word on the topic is that it isn't cost effective to take measures to prevent theft or to pursue it when it happens. The consensus amongst the online community of victims and former airline employees is that TSA employees basiclly have permission to take whatever they want from your bags. Comforting, isn't it?

So, I spent this morning making international calls. The Philadelphia Police Department was incredibly friendly and helpful. I don't know if that matters, but I always feel better talking to people who are nice to me. It makes me feel like they're really considering helping me. When people are rude, all I can think is you aren't even writing this down, are you?

Now, I get to deal with Delta and give them the chance to tell me to kiss it. I e-mailed them a friendly note, but I don't expect a response. The company line is that you are supposed to notify the airline of "lost" articles immediately, which means before you leave the airport. When was the last time anyone checked the contents of their bag before leaving the airport? Next, I can download a lost article form and fax it to TSA, who will respond in 3 weeks. They will come up with some variation on the whole kissing/ass/biting/butt line. They will tell me it's my fault that their employees steal.

The good news is that before we left, I e-mailed the rough draft of my novel to myself. Also, I have Lojack, so the first time the thief tries to get online with my computer, the tracking device will activate. I also heard a rumor that my homeowners insurance will help me out.

But it's really not about that. Tell me all day that I shouldn't have put something valuable in my checked luggage, but that's really blaming the victim. The really tragedy here is that we are living in a society where are are told that we should expect and tolerate institutionalized theft by government employees. Even worse, by government employees who have the word SECURITY in their job title. If any other employee at any other company incorporates petty theft into their daily operations, there are consequences. However, airports seem to have created an environment where your personal items can be taken at will and it's pretty much business as usual. How is this possible?

It is true that the United States government did not steal my laptop. However, these are government employees. Type something like TSA steal checked baggage in a Google search. There are many documented cases of these agents being caught red-handed. If an organization knows that the working conditions as they exist are conducive to criminal activity, and they do nothing to correct the situation, don't they share in the accountability? This is an organization that I count on to keep my children safe. So far, they have done this. However, I'd like my computer back, as well.

Bubbles

2009-12-14T17:21:00.000-08:00

The New Lust

2009-11-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

Now that I’ve officially become a cougar, a title invented primarily to mock women who don’t want to admit that they’re no longer hot, I’ve watched myself and my friends turn our sexual energies to a new place. Because of our desire and choice to share said sexual energy with only our husbands, those of us with predatory natures must find another way to channel our need to hunt. We don’t really have the energy to lust after hot guys, anyway. Besides, all the guys we know are married or kind of icky, or both. So now, we still have a hunger for the kill, but no outlet. This is why we shop.

One by one, most of my friends have admitted to me lately that they have discovered internet shopping. They are excited and a little bit ashamed, but they clearly have no intention of stopping. The rush of discovering and attaining goods is rapturous for us. It’s like masturbation with souvenirs. We push a button and expensive goods appear in the mail. We didn’t even have to leave our houses. We can even do it at work. When you think about it, it’s better than hunting men, because a new pair of Ella Moss leggings will never break your heart, unless they’re too small, and then you just send them back without regret.

Gradually, our taboos about discussing our spending are falling away. A year ago, we would never ask each other how much something cost. Now, we announce it. We want everyone to know that we know exactly when Nordstrom’s and Saks post their clearance sales. We are members of online sample sale sites. Our discussions inevitably turn to return policies and shipping costs. No detail is left unexplored. We dive in with the gusto formerly reserved for analyzing our sex lives. When a girlfriend gives in to temptation and spends four hundred dollars on a sweater, we keep the secret for her, because we know she would do the same for us. We tell her that she deserves that sweater because she’s a good mother and does the majority of the cleaning at home.

Shopping gives a safe way to satiate and share our need for acquisition. It’s a secret that we can share, that allows us to bond. Because we are wives and mothers, lust for men would put us at risk of looking treacherous and pathetic. Truth like that makes us and everyone around us feel vulnerable because we have yet to completely accept that not everyone still finds us as attractive as we find ourselves. In the eyes of society, our days of sexual freakdom have come to a screeching halt. But we know that we’re still beautiful, and we know that we still share the same longings as women half our age. We can channel our cravings into a lust for goods that will make us feel beautiful and powerful. We get the rush of knowing that we have found something wonderful and made it our own.

It’s like sex, but safer.

The Mexican Place at Nishi-Ogikubo

2009-11-09T16:20:00.000-08:00

Have you ever noticed that when you ask people about their experience at a Mexican restaurant in Tokyo, they never give an answer that mentions the food? The conversation goes something like this.
Q: “How was dinner at that Mexican restaurant?”
A: “They had mariachis!”
Or
A: “Margaritas were really strong.”
El Quixico, in Nishi Ogikubo, falls into second category. Honestly, I don’t know why we’re all so devoted to this tiny little restaurant. The service is possibly the slowest and least predictable I’ve ever seen. I’ve lived in Central America, and I understand that it is very common there for everyone’s food to come out separately. But 20 minutes apart? And how does the last person to arrive always seem to get his food first? AND it’s not run by Latin Americans. Everyone who works there is Japanese, making the bizarre food delivery lottery that you play when you bring a large group is even more inexplicable.
It’s so small that unless you make reservations or get there early, you’re going to end up sitting a teeny table that is squeezed between reach-in coolers full of beer. If you do get a table, it’s so full of expats from our little West Tokyo enclave that your only chance of having a private conversation would be to speak in code.
But we love it. The margaritas, which take about 20 minutes per pitcher to make, are absolutely yummy every time. When you finally get food, it’s always good. The mole (mo-lay, not mole) sauce actually tastes fairly authentic. The green and red enchiladas are filled with spinach, chicken, beef and the right amount of cheese. They aren’t smothered in Velveeta in some bastardized American semblance of an enchilada. For an appetizer, the nachos are more generous than one would expect in any restaurant in Japan. No attention is paid to presentation whatsoever, which is exactly the way nachos should be served. What you get is exactly what a true nacho lover hopes for- a big pile of chips covered in warm, yummy cheese, chicken and whatever extras you decide to add.
However, I have to admit, the margaritas are the big draw. In a land of cocktail perfection at a whopping nine dollars per drink, sometimes it’s fun just to have a big sloppy pitcher of lime and tequila. However, as a word of caution, smallish people with empty stomachs shouldn’t suck down an entire pitcher by themselves and expect to have much of an evening after that. Or so I hear.
If you don’t plan to show up early, or if you have a big party, reservations are a must. The last time I called, after practicing my reservation making Japanese phrases in preparation, the phone was answered by a completely charming Japanese woman who spoke perfect, unaccented English. She was also there during the dinner I was planning, in which after 3 margaritas, we all kept trying to talk to her in Japanese, to which she would politely reply that we REALLY didn’t need to do that. Apparently, tequila does not really sharpen language ability. Who knew?
For information:
http://www.eok.jp/restaurants-bars/casual-dining/mexican/el-quixico
http://www.el-quixico1991.jp/

Confessions of a Stage Mom

2009-11-09T16:10:00.000-08:00

Today, I finished my day at work, ran out the door to grab my son, Max, and pulled him by the arm to the car so that we could make it to the train station in time to get him downtown for a modeling job. He’s been modeling in Tokyo for three years, so we’ve played out the rapid departure from school scene many times. Today, as usual, a million questions ran through my head as I zipped through yellow lights in a race to catch the train that the Jorudan Train Finder website claimed was my last best of hope of getting to his job on time. First, there’s the big question. What is my motivation for doing this? Max is a trooper about it, but he didn’t beg to become a print model three years ago when I took him to Sugar and Spice. Never, among his four-year-old ambitions did he list fashion model or child star as an aspiration. Even now, at seven, he lists movie star right below generic, catch-all “scientist” as his profession of choice. He’s more intellectually suited to the latter, but I keep him dabbling in the former. It’s just so easy to get kids into modeling in Tokyo, and I succumbed to the temptation.

I didn’t always think I’d be this kind of mom. I remember, years ago, when my husband and I were living in Costa Rica, there passed a bizarre series of circumstances that included a missed ferry and a stranger with a shark bite story. During the course of these events, we met River and Joaquin Phoenix’s father, a really decent, friendly guy who was living under a pseudonym on the ranch that River had bought for him. He didn’t share any stories about his kids or the family’s history, but a close friend of his confided that when River was young, while the family was on a Christian mission in Venezuela, Apparently, God told River’s father that he needed to get River to Hollywood immediately, that he was going to be a big star. As fate would have it, there was a ship leaving for California shortly thereafter. We all know how that story ends. I heard this tale while I was young and didn’t have kids of my own. I remember thinking that it was so tragic that a father’s choice could lead to such disaster. In hindsight, I may have been a bit unfair in my judgment.

Anyway, it seems ironic that here I am, ten years later, doing whatever I have to do to keep my own son working. I resist the urge to pull him from school to work, but I’ll gladly blow a whole Saturday dragging him around Tokyo. I catch myself rationalizing dry spells, deciding that it’s just his age or his height that isn’t in high demand at the moment. I was the one who coaxed him through the first jobs and tried to keep it fun so he wouldn’t want to quit. Ultimately, I have to admit that I’m the one who is fascinated by all of this.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not a pageant mom. I meet pageant moms at these shoots, and I am so not a pageant mom. I don’t put mascara on my two-year-old daughter, even though she loves my make-up and says that she wants to “get some beautiful on me.” I don’t take Max to auditions because he finds them to be pointless. He’s either got the job flat out, or we’re not interested. I’m not envisioning a life on the red carpet for my children, and if you ask me, I’ll tell you that I’m just doing this to bolster his college fund.

With that said, I love this stuff. I love walking into a studio and seeing the equipment and cameras. I’m fascinated by how many people work on the set of a photo shoot for 7-year-olds. There’s the make-up person, the person who dresses them and adjusts their clothing between shots. There’s a photographer and an assistant whose entire job is to run around and click the light meter every time a cloud passes over the studio window. And of course, there’s the extra person whose job seems to be to wrangle the strays. Some kids get antsy and literally run off. This person’s job is to chase them down and get them back into the shot.

I love the chaos of location shoots. If you gather up four to eight kids under the age of eight in any setting, along with their parents and a full photo crew, there’s going to be chaos. Now, put them all on a bus and drive them around Tokyo from site to site for different shots. By then end of the day, you will see unrestrained children swinging from the luggage rack of the bus, trashing displays in Agnes B, and wiping their noses on a six hundred dollar Roberto Cavalli sundress. And that’s before they get cranky. By afternoon, half of them will decide that they hate the clothes that they’re supposed to wear and throw a full-blown tantrum while their desperate mothers try to wrestle them into eighty dollar Benetton sweatpants. It’s fantastic. Little divas in the making, every one of them. Or perhaps, more accurately, they’re just normal kids with a highly unusual job.

What else do I love about it? I love Tokyo style. It’s great fun watching how the clothes are combined into outfits in ways that could only work in the land of Harajuku Girls. Purple plaid pants and a yellow floral blouse? No problem. Just grab a pair of pink cowboy boots off the rack to balance things. You’ve got the perfect outfit for a 7-year-old boy. It’s all good.

I love it that my son will sit and let a total stranger do something wild, like airbrush his face. When he’s modeling, he’s at work and follows instructions with this beautiful compliance that both his first grade teacher and I wish we could bottle. (Of course, his teacher and I aren’t paying him a hundred bucks an hour.) He usually hates the clothes, but knows that he doesn’t’ have to wear them home. He can be pretty goofy on set and sometimes pushes his luck making monkey faces for the camera, but it’s all digital, so it’s not like he’s wasting film. I must say, that Max has a much clearer idea of professionalism than I did as a first grader.

However, none of these things are what I like best about modeling.

Ultimately, I love it that when I see my son on film, he becomes this being who is separate from the kid who takes 10 minutes to put on his shoes and forgets to take his backpack to school. On film, he becomes otherworldly. Honestly, I think that the emotion I experience on set transcends pride. I’m not religious, so I don’t really know what reverence feels like, but I can imagine that it feels kind of like seeing your child’s image captured in perfect light and detail.

As I mentioned, most shoots are digital, so there’s a moment after every outfit change when the crew huddles around a computer to see if they got the shot. They flip through monkey face pics and shots of him with his fingers in his nose or his ears in an attempt to make everyone laugh. Then, in the midst of the madness, there will be that single click of the mouse that reveals the frame that makes the entire crew gasp just a little bit. Invariably, it’s the shot in which he’s looking directly into the camera; dead on with those deep blue, almond-shaped eyes that are surrounded by thick, dark lashes. The perfect symmetry of his face is endlessly fascinating to me.

The crew gasps, but I’m no longer surprised by this image. Nonetheless, I’m still hypnotized by the profundity of my child’s beauty. Parenting is such a train wreck much of the time that we need these moments to balance out the snarky ones, which sometimes seem to outweigh all else. Even on the day of a shoot, the mother-child dynamic is very much at work. At today’s shoot, he was in an especially patriotic mood, and as we changed him into the navy blue nylon jacket that he was modeling, he said that he wished the jacket had a big American flag on the back. I told him that he looked like an DEA agent, and that would have to do. I know I’ll still bitch at him on the train ride home to stop kicking the people sitting on either side of us. I’ll still be sympathetic, but secretly annoyed when he wants to change trains because an old lady is looking at him. I think it’s good for me to occasionally just stop and really look at the face of this incredible little person and be awestruck that he exists and that he’s mine.

So, I’m assuming that my friends will have comments to offer about appreciating my seven-year-old for his mind. I do. Honestly, he such a bright, inquisitive, loquacious kid that there aren’t many opportunities for quiet reverence. There are few chances to just observe him while he’s awake and marvel at how positively gorgeous he is.

So, do I have my son modeling for the college money? Sure. Is it so that I can have a glimpse into a world I might never otherwise see? Probably. And yeah, I love seeing my kid in a 500 dollar Burberry coat and thinking, “Yeah, baby, that’s my kid in a 500 dollar Burberry coat. How you like me now?”

But, ultimately, it comes down to that single second, that moment when his perfect face appears on that screen and everyone in the room catches their breath. Right in that moment, I’m completely enraptured by the wonder of my own child.

I guess I can teach him about inner beauty later.

Mystery Sticks

2009-11-09T16:07:00.000-08:00

We all have our favorite Tokyo haunts. A lot of us learned about them through friends or colleagues and discovered that these places provide great food in an environment that is expat friendly. While I don’t recommend relying exclusively on these places that fall within a comfort zone, there is always that evening when you just don’t feel like trying so hard. Sometimes, you just want to throw on jeans and shoes that you might actually be able to walk in after several hours and many beers, and go somewhere where there won’t be any awkward surprises.

My husband and I have two such places, both of which, by no coincidence are the comfort spots of most of our colleagues. These places are legendary in our circles, so much so that no one refers to them by their actual names. Instead, they are called the Stick Restaurant and The Mexican Place in Nishi-Ogikubo. I’ll explain why we love The Stick Restaurant now and save The Mexican Place in Nishi-Ogikubo for next time.

If you aren’t familiar with kushiage, and if your bad cholesterol isn’t too high, The Stick Restaurant, which is actually called Tatsukichi, is worth a visit or 10. For me, this is where I head when I want to be in very Japanese environment that is actually easy to negotiate. It’s laid back, it’s fairly dark, and it smells great. You can expect your coat to reek of fryer grease the next day, but while you’re there, it smells divine.

Kushiage is a way of eating in which you don’t have to order anything except your drink. How easy is that? Once you are seated and a large, semi-circle bar that surrounds a cooking station, you are handed a plate with compartments and a collection of vegetable sticks that pass as a salad. Order a drink and sit tight. Within a few minutes, the cook will pour different sauces in the plate compartments and soon will begin to place mysterious skewers of battered and deep fried food on your plate. From that point forward, all you have to do is order more drinks and see what shows up.

The people we know who are old pros or who have food allergies are really good at telling the cook what they won’t or can’t eat. We like to wait and see what we get. The salmon wrapped cheese, quail eggs, asparagus with bacon, and roast beef are all outstanding. When you get a favorite and find out what it is, you can get more by shouting out what you want and the cook will yell back to the kitchen to send some more his way. The rest of the time, it’s just fun to debate with your husband about what you think you might be eating. One time, we went with someone who could explain all of the food and it was almost less fun. I felt like he was sucking the mystery out of the room.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are inevitably some duds. Every time we go, I make myself take one bite from the bowl of oily green seaweed slime that comes out early in the meal. It’s gross every time, but I keep trying just to be sporting. I’m still perfecting how to say that I don’t want smelt, which is a little silver fish that gets skewered whole and served up that way, tail and head and all. It’s some pretty nasty business, so every time we’re leaving the house, I have our Japanese babysitter coach me how to ask the cook not to give me any. I’ve practiced. I’ve written it down. Nothing works. One of the last skewers of the night is always that wretched little fish. I think it’s the chef’s way of conveying that it’s time for us to go.

As you eat, you keep your empty sticks in a little cup by your plate. When you’ve eaten your fill, hold up the big X with your arms to signal that you don’t want any more. The cook will count your skewers and charge you per stick. I still have no idea whether or not we have to pay for the green slime, because really, they should pay us for that one.

There are other kushiage joints where you batter and fry your own skewers. We’ve tried this, but it seemed very lacking. Perusing a cooler of raw chicken and other bits doesn’t really do it for me. Also, if the pieces are too small, they just turn to little bricks in the oil. What was it Woody Allen said? I think it was something along the lines of “The food was terrible, and the portions were so small.” For me, that’s DIY kushiage, small portions of mediocre food served under fluorescent lights, which is whole other essay. I like the big portions of mystery food that are perfectly cooked every time.

To get to Tatsukichi, exit Shinjuku station by the Gap, take the ramp down and to the left. Take another left at the IDC building and continue to the Amos Style underwear store. Just beyond the underwear, there’s a little alcove with an elevator. Take it to the fourth floor. Unless you arrive really, really early, plan to wait about 45 minutes for a seat.

If you’re feeling ambitious, you can try to make the wall of records for most sticks eaten in a single sitting. It is divided into men’s and women’s records, so everyone can give it a go. For a map, pictures, and a shot of the wall of records, go to http://www.shinjuku-tatsukichi.com/index.html.