stylin’ in Oakland Chinatown
The sign reads “Happy Moderna” In cheerful, nonsensical Chinglish. What on earth is a happy moderna you ask? Well, it’s one of many hidden gems in O-town China-town. For almost a decade now I have patronized Happy Moderna’s owner and resident hair whiz and hair instructor Phillip. He ws the first human to ever find a peaceful resolution to my hedge of thick and stubborn hair-healthy as can be, but utterly immune to any attempt at actual stylishness. A carefully layered cut that grows out gracefully into a different beautiful cut, and a color treatment runs about $65 bucks. I’ve paid more than $200 for the same elsewhere, and still no one is as good as Phillip.
Sitting in that chair is like an anthropological outing. I put up with bad karoake tapes in 3 languages (Phillip speaks 4), crummy towels, surly assistants, plastic shields that look like they were cut from the blue plastic which wraps my morning paper, and such a haphazard amalglam of certificates, family photos, hair models, and misspelled signs that I can barely contain myself from straightening the place up and dusting. People holler at one another and blithely smoke cigarettes (despite the signs) in the halls, and I’d rather my bladder burst than to take the key and venture behind the gated door to the dungeonesque shared loo ever again. Phillip also has an annoying habit of flirting with my mum (does wonders with her hair too) and excessively hugging me. Upstairs in a dark and muggy room with a teeny square window someone uncertified performs Chinese massage.
Periodically I pilgrimage there. And sit in a chair with chemicals on my head and ponder how I have come to be in this ghetto salon with poison on my head all for the sake of my accursed vanity. While waiting for the color to process, Phillip often wanders off to place calls which sound suspiciously as if they are to some kind of bookie.
An almost magically incongrous moment occurred last time, when amidst the shuffle of cheap plastic slippers and hollering Cantonese, I noticed something in the hallway. Beside the plastic chairs, was a long silhoette covered in velvet. The esthetician who does facials scuttled out of her wooden cube to practice the Ghu zheng, Chinese zither in her off time. The notes fell like water, swirled around and through the mess. Such an elegant instrument, it brings to mind images of graceful hands, harplike gestures. Dim memories of my mother’s Ghu Zheng back in Taiwan.
I also bore witness during this last visit to two different men trying to pawn off diamond jewelry to Happy Moderna staff and/or any random passerby. The staff shook their heads. “No,” and “I have no money.” In Chinese and Vietnamese they further commented, “I bet it’s fake.” or “I bet it’s stolen.”
Phillip ignored it all, kept his hands and eyes fixated on layering the 2 shining wings of hair on opposite sides exactly evenly and smoothly.
A big sigh, “No one has any money now, they’re all trying to pawn things, each home is liquidating things.” I thought about these men carrying the cheerful desperation of urgent sales. If I saw 2 in less than 2 hours, how many others are there? I suddenly realized that there were no other customers waiting on Phillip. During boom days, he’d have 3 in chairs and be doing all three in different stages. In previous years other women had grumbled and complained about him spending too much time on me.
I tipped well. It still cost less than half of what I would have paid in Palo Alto or Fremont. I hope the money doesn’t go to a bookie or illegal mahjong house…
Manly Men
The whole machismo thing doesn’t much interest me. It’s a rare fellow who can hold his own with an intellectual equal or superior, and that is the one I have spent life seeking. Alas, like anyone, I’ve an intellectual weak point when it comes to distracting factors such as an al dente posterior, good bone structure, just the right timbre in voice. Excellent taste in food & books has certainly has fooled me into thinking I’ve found a lifelong companion before…And thus I’ve wasted plenty of energy whittling down the playing field.
P and I met 10 years ago now, which still sort of amazes and puzzles me simultaneously. Yet a ground rule of all relationships, whether they be with your parents, friends, siblings, or partner is this: never assume you know everything there is to know. People change. And they are infinitely complex (even if they themselves have yet to discover this). If you are bored with them, you must be kinda boring yourself.
P simply quotes from the Titanic movie “A woman’s heart is as deep as the ocean.”
All these years I have clearly resided on the more politically lefty spectrum than P has. When I hit the streets of SF in anti-war protests years ago, he warned against going. Whereas my annual pilgrimage to Green Festival is a commune with like minded folks (and a gleeful wallow in organic yummies), he checked it out and was sort of, “eh.OK” about it.
After I ran off to New Orleans post-Katrina, poorly prepared and ready for risk, P told me that had he known about the dangers, he would have tried to stop me from going. My next venture is a conference in Cuba. I’ve asked him to consider joining me there. Indeed the Unites States does happen to have a 40 year old embargo banning such sojourns…but one might circumvent such things via Canada or Mexico.
To which he replies simply: “Big Brother is watching.” Such a law -abiding man. It is mildly admirable, but oft maddening.
A few weeks ago, in a healthy post-hike glow, we dined at Hobee’s in Cupertino. I was aghast to see huge homemade signs in English & Chinese “Yes on Prop. 8″ - “one man, one woman” A steady stream of Asian americans tromped through the parking lot with these signs as I grew increasingly incensed. The last time I checked, hate mongering and discrimination were not Christian values. The fact that these were so prominently Asians also emabrassed me. ”I hope no one associates me with those people promoting discrimination.”
The longer the debate raged, the more angry I became. Just a few decades ago people of different races were banned from marriage. The naysayers predicted society as we know it would crumble if we allowed such “unnatural unions”. Yet here we were again.
This issue is not an abstraction for me, some of the kindest, wisest, people I have ever known, friends I have loved who have taken me into their homes, or been guests in mine, are gay Americans. I volunteer time at a community mental health center for the LGBT community. P’s brother meanwhile, sported a big Yes on 8 sign on his front lawn. And P admits to the legacy of his rather traditional upbringing, about the visceral discomfort that comes up around other men, for example when people have to touch one another in yoga class to assist in supporting poses.
Last weekend, we drove through Cupertino yet again to pick up a friend. Packs of Yes on 8 demonstrators, almost entirely Chinese Christians, stood at the intersections waving signs. A forlorn young pair of teens stood beside them with a sign reading “Prop. 8 takes away my rights.”
Suddenly, an angry and authoratative “NO!!” roared out beside me. What the- P was hollering at the Yes protesters. Then we grumbled and half seriously plotted driving back around so he could yell at them some more (but were late to pick up our visitor from Taiwan who would likely not appreciate spending her time here like so…) Admittedly, hollering at people is also not terribly affective and winning hearts and minds so to speak.
The next day, I thought about that “NO.” Which stunned me at the time with its outburst of vehemence.
About how deeply he too has grown to care about the rights of others who may not on the surface have anything to do with us. About the somewhat scary authoritative command in his voice that day, a tone that never presents itself in our home. And you know, it was really manly. And kinda sexy.
Oyster 2008- Team Ivy League
October 6, 2008, 12:27 am
Filed under:
Races October 28th, 2008, my second Oyster Race…and this year we’ve convinced P to join an Oyster “six-pack”, an option which allows a team to spread the sweat among 6 rather than 3 racers.
Over it’s 3 years in S.F. the Oyster has continued to evolve. Our pals the Ou brothers have kicked some ass 3 years in a row now, this is my 2nd outing. Last years’ 3 pack experience consisted of oh, almost 7 hours of action as we ran, biked, bladed, kayaked. A major aspect of the challenge each year is that one knows not what you are getting into until race day. In fact, even on race day the challenges are only revealed in bits when you complete each leg of the race (with attending photo or other verification) and receive a new “passport.” The real challenge of Oyster is that in addition to being physically fit, one also has to navigate the city without becoming hopelessly lost, master multiple terrains and skills, and do it all on zero advance notice.
Passport#1-
J, R, and I run from our transition area into Sports Basement, the gear shop of the heavens. Employees stand by witnessing dozens of people rampage through the store seeking orange task/passport tags which have been strewn among the racks. We all look down at our tag and see “bicycle” - at which point we run right on back to our transition area. TK, P, and TC mount their cycles gamely and head into the steepness of the Presidio. They are to reach Stowe lake.
“Whew,” I think to myself, “glad I am not doing the bike route because I’d be dismounting and pushing that bike up the hill in an embarrassingly brief while.” The probable route is up past Presidio, to Golden Gate Park through Arguello gate, and then they would receive further instructions. The guys are gone for quite awhile, and J and R and I snack, and wait, wait some more, and I hug Chili the cutest and sweetest poofy white dog that ever lived.
When they finally return-they are glowing with sweat and swearing that they thought they might die…from Stow Lake they were sent clear to the Noriega, yes, the Sunset district out in boonies yonder. Numerous cycling teams DID in fact get lost. Finally, they found their clue- climb up dozens of stairs on some random street until they found the mosiac art of butterflies/bats. They snapped photo evidence, and wheeled on back to Crissy Field.
Thus far: 10 miles with 1100+ hill elevation. Not bad for a bunch of weekend warriors who went into this thing with near nil practice!
Passport#2-
“Run to the Chipping Green at Presidio Green.” While awaiting our team we have been eyeballing the route of teams ahead of us, and had already ascertained that we’d have to run steeply up through the Presidio. Oh, Lordy, this is gonna suck…I’m the kind of runner that doesn’t hit her groove until 2 miles in. So a cold start up a hill is torture, as I already know from running here for the Presidio 10 mile race earlier this year. But we manage, with me huffing along behind J and R. R chips the golf ball into the goal area and hooray- we get section 2 of our task 2. “Run to the Golden Gate Bridge and take a picture of this sign.” A speed limit sign depicting “County of Marin” is shown at the bottom of the card. R shrugs, “probably like the halfway point on the bridge.”
Oyster racers are everywhere on the trail as we muddle a path from the golf course to the famous Golden Gate. People are getting lost, dashing on trials through the eucalyptus groves, all over the Presidio buildings, on the roads competing with cyclists and vehicles. As we set across the bridge, I can’t help but smile a the beautiful and familiar red towers shrouded in that signature SF fog. By this point I am bare-midriffed and sweating like a pig, R is getting quite red faced, and J looks unfazed. All the tourists bundled in their woolly coats, clutching hot drinks, shooting pics and smoking cigarettes seem totally bemused but the packs of Oyster racers in various stages of immodesty barreling down the pedestrian path. At about the halfway point of the GG Bridge, it becomes clear to me that the elusive sign is on the OTHER side of the bridge, not the middle. I pick up the pace and start hauling ass…just get this over with! We take the photo, dash back to the transition area. “Map my Run” noted this leg as being approximately 7.2 miles of run.
Passport #3-
I’m looking forward to sitting back down on my ass next to Chili for awhile, until we realize that the next challenge requires 3 skaters. Never mind that I’ve rollerbladed a grand total of perhaps 5x in my life (1 being last year’s Oyster!). We have no other options for anyone who either know how or owns blades. TC and TK gear up, and I’m off yet again hollering “can’t stop, won’t stop” as I cruise outta Crissy Field, past Fort Mason, and towards Fisherman’s Wharf. It becomes apparent I may break my neck on hills, so switch back into my Mizuno runners yet again. “Take 2 different F lines and take a team photo with the historic sign inside each car.” We hop an F, get out pic, disembark again at Ferry building (where every cell of my body begins to scream for Peet’s coffee and a nice pastry…but alas there is a race to attend to).
“Take a picture of a Dodger fan and a Giants fan shaking hands.” We are huffin’ over to AT&T Park, wondering how to find such a duo. Team Ou reported that Giants fans were refusing their request to even shake hands with a Dodger fan! I see a curly haired woman in a white jersey with blue stripes..”TC! Look! Dodgers!” He skates past her and looks back- and notices her ffriend is in a Giants tee! We are in luck. I let the handsome young gents do the talking, the women are as friendly as one could ever hope (”Good luck you guys! It’s like the Amazing race, huh? We always said we should do a team and call ourselves the ‘Mamacitas’!”).
Next task: Skate or run to the Folsom Street Fair (AKA: Leather Fair) and “take a team photo with a scantily clad man in leather chaps or a drag queen. Then find the zipcar booth for another clue.” Running and gasping from At&T Park to the Street Fair (TC and TK skate ever so gracefully while surely I look like some roller derby asylum escapee), I notice a pack of white butts in leather. “Hey!! TC!!” The guys skate over and introduce themselves. Of the group, 2 of them agree to be in our photo. Later we will see plenty of butt-nekked gents, but our friendly samaritan had a yellow mesh banana hammock/thong in place for modesty under his chaps.
By the time we found zipcar, drooled our way past the street fair food booths (no time to eat), got on another historic F train, and then a Muni, and then skated back…12.82 miles later - we were cut off.
Awwwww. Poor P and J and R did not get to the do run to East Beach and paddle your arms off in freezing water bit. Those teams who made it got to hit that one, as well as one final biking leg. Oh well. Each leg this year felt like 2 previous ones, and at this point god knows I was ready to have a beer and eat some of the pizza they were feeding us.
A member of the Oracle team went home with full body road rash after a bike wipe out. A Google team member re-dislocated his shoulder and shared his story of pain and near-drowning. The winner of this year’s injury medal/prize had a bicycle incident that left him scuffed up and with a broken arm to boot. During the first biking leg, P said ‘I felt like I was dying.” During our running leg before we even got on the bridge, I heard a man next to me vent to his team mate “I’m dying.”
In the end, masochists that we are, we wanted even more. Already murmuring about being back next year as we headed to Huakilau and at the cholesterol nightmare of MocoLoco to replenish calories lost!
http://www.oysterracingseries.com/San-Francisco-Home/images.aspx
Postcrossing friends
Although I have an exploding to-do list and already fantasize about having clones to take on all my work and hobbies, I’ve adopted yet another past time: www.postcrossing.com
I am the sole dinosaur with a 2 trunk-full stationary collection and a paper planner whilst my compatriots use text messages and iphones. I remember my childhood penpals with great affection. N, the cute Burmese boy across the street in 4th grade. He and I exchanged regular mail throughout college, and those missives brought unexpected smiles with into the pile of bills and junk mails for a decade of life. They now stand as a record of much more innocent days, and all the bad hairstyles and hard won lessons of adolescence to adulthood. These days the only regular recipients of snail mail are those who write back, primarily my Taiwan-was a Russian in a past life-cousin John.
Postcrossing organizes random people across the world to send real snailmail to others. For some reason it seems heavily populated by Fins in particular. They seem to love paper mail and fish dishes…maybe I should move there. The strangers have helped me gain perspective on what is my dismal little rat race. “Silicon Valley sounds so glamourous” they say. “California must be so amazing”, “Your picture looks so beautiful”. Ah. Nothing like the kindness of strangers.
An Italian student cracked me up by asking about local famous foods here. Hmm. That would be…Krispy Kreme donuts, I think. I had to respond that quite honestly my favorite foods here are either Chinese or Italian! (But we do have some famous oysters and crab over at that city by the bay.) Thus I have found an entire worldwide community of people, from the 12 year old in Spain who hand painted a frog postcard, to the Romanian M.D., who love collecting cards, receiving actual mail, and writing about foods.
I received my first postcrossing poem from Finland recently (She did include it in its orginal language, alas I am too lame to recreate the 35 different little accent marks):
Everyone who has held an ocean-smoothed stone,
knows that constant caressing
has a wonder-making power.
By: Finnish poet Tommy Tabermann
Crimes Against Poetry
Geez, I was about to start writing this entry and have been distracted by some idiotic banner ad about “Chinese secret weight loss - the shocking reason chinese women stay slim” or some b.s. like that. Fodder for another blog post surely.
What I meant to say, is that at the California Book Awards, Khaled Hosseini (author of Kite Runner) talked about his beginnings as an acclaimed, now world famous author. He mentioned making less than $4 an hour cranking our burgers at Great America theme park. Then another restaurant. And then his favorite stint: security guard. You tech workers know the type- they guy who site in your glass castle and scans your ID badge or makes guests sign in on a clipboard at all hours of day and night. Back in P’s Oracle days I made countless visits to the security guy nesting at the base of those gleaming turquoise towers. Hosseini said that the best thing about the job was that he himself was also under survellaince cameras, and therefore could not amend the boredom by sleeping, watching TV, reading magazines. But he could write and still appear presentable and employable. So he wrote reams of stuff and ”committed crimes against poetry.”
Well. That just struck me as funny as heck and true as can be. I won prizes for haiku back in elementary school, then soon lost interest in poems. I mean, for heaven’s sake - what IS a poem anyways? As a once creative writer (pre-dissertation, which causes mental rigor mortis), I shunned the stifling and prone to maudlin halls of poetry. No way could I be bothered with cryptic meanings, measures, and verse.
Yet now, in my more august years, every writing class I take features the same advice: read poetry. Each instructor, none of whom actually writes poetry, advises me to study poetry to truly understand the use of language. What seemed either stuffy or flaky in my youth, now seems wholly intimidating. Egads, if the words are pared and spare - I’ll be naked, revealed! Revealed as the undiscplined, untalented, wily nily shadow of literati.
Yet-”crimes against poetry”. I can certainly do that!
In fact, that’s it. I conquer my resistance and fears by hereby expressly seeking to commit crimes against poetry. There U have it, a disclaimer. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
We shall begin, with a bit of a limerick with which I kicked off my matron of honor speech:
There once was a boy from Kentucky,
Who met a mental health Georgia Peach,
They went from speed dating,
To talking,
about
love and marriage
on a beach.
Or how about this random September brain blip on BART:
She would sooner throw herself under
a bus.
Than succumb
to the cravings, longings, desires
so curious for a
Buddhist
of sorts.
So typical for a foodie
of sorts
all aromas and texture
sabor y rica
pero-
there is no eating allowed,
on the bus.
BTW, buses figure very prominently in my dreams. Usually in a bad way, i.e. being lost on a city bus to god knows where. Oh yes, in the landscape of my nightlife, I have been lost on countless buses in various universes, always alone. Which is indeed curious as I do not actually ride the bus!
I’ve probably been on like 5 city buses in the last 5 years max. Go figure.
Pie!
I’ve a strange fondness for banana cream pies. It’s really a rather crass dessert in the sense that it lacks depth, lacks aesthetic appeal. Sort of a Wal-Mart dessert in a Nordstrom world, a giant paper box amidst the fine china… But pies in general, Americana style, are sort of meant to be sloppy. Pie is a happily crusty, taste bud smothering endeavor unlike say, 89% cacao treats, fine tortes and sorbets, or even say, a fromage plate.
“That’s NOT dessert.” P proclaimed when my plate of fromage (cheese) arrived after a Parisian dinner.
“It is around here,” I replied. Heck, I can eat cheese ’til the cows come home, so to speak. Seems like a perfectly legitimate dessert to me. I could learn to like Paris.
Weeks ago I found myself craving a banana cream pie. All buttery crust and sweet goopiness. I battled away the urge, reminding myself how darned heavy each of those calories feel when I am running mile 3.
Then I took an old friend to dinner at A Cote in Oakland (whew, blogworthy in and of itself. YUM -o, and a beautiful fromage and wine selection might I say.) She arrived flustered, apologizing profusely for her lack of punctuality. I happen to be be married into an entire family on non-punctual types so her concern was quite needless. She confessed that she had bought me something, yet left it at home in her rush.
“Well”, I said, “Thank you. It’s the thought that counts, right?”
She promised to bring one next time. And then she told me: it was a banana cream pie, from a rather esteemed baker of such pies in Napa. Ooooooh. I told her later that actually, I am really fond of cream pies, and banana ones at that. Which makes no sense as bananas themselves are amongst my least favorite fruits (fabulous to eat before a long run due to their easily digestible traits, but all mush and blah compared to nectarines, watermelons, fresh figs, golden kiwis…)
Alas today I left work early. Due to a scheduling snafu, my probation lads did not show up. Seeing as how I happened to be in Hayward already, I drifted over the Marie Callender’s. Ah, Marie Callender’s, where Wendy and I have scarfed down countless fresh fruit pies since we were teens back in Cupertino. I’ve never had a memorable meal there in all these 20 or so years - but dessert is another matter altogether.
Well. Let’s buy one slice of pie to take home and share with P. That was my game plan. I pondered the glass case.
“That”, I said, pointing at a dark triple chocolate muffin the size of a bloated softball, “is a SERIOUS muffin. Holy cow.”
An older African American waiting for his pies starts to laugh. We both gawk at all the pastries so heavy with frosting that they flop over to one side, the muffins fit to serve 4 people. In my head I think this one muffin alone-likely enough caloric input for an entire day, available for under $2.00, explains the entire obesity epidemic. Then the man turns around with two whole pie boxes and informs me of the special sale today.
Oh. I didn’t realize. “I was driving by, and I saw the banner on the other side”, he says. He asks the smiley handsome Latino teen behind the counter how long the sale will go on. Typically this sort of insane pastry-bomb occurs 2x per year at Marie Callender’s for about a week and half each go. Frightening to me that I know this sale schedule oh-so-well. My sweetheart and I e-mail one another about it so that the probation work schedule becomes a pie sale pick up as well.
“Until like almost Halloween” replies the young Luis Miguel. The man and I stare at him. Seriously? “Yes. Almost 2 months this pie sale, we’ve never done it like that before.”
Alas, I come home with an entire cream pie to fatten up P and I, hoping a friend or visitor will come by and save us from ourselves by having some. So as you see my plodding banana cream pie butt struggling along at the upcoming half marathon - send regards to our frenemies at Marie Callender’s. And pick up a sale pie while you’re at it.
Lark Creek encore
Hurrah! 6 months after my actual birthdate, I was gifted with a mega-belated celebratory dinner out with my friend PS. PS is the kind soul who introduced me to Lark Creek Steakhouse to begin with, and seeing that is was “Heirloom Tomato Week” we booked a return visit to my favorite restaurant in all of downtown SF.
1st course: compliments of the chef, bruschetti of heirloom tomatoes and feta. Teeny, but quite tasty.
2nd course: Our waiter arrived with a small wooden board piled with what appeared to be 3 large, golden scones. PS and I stared at these in puzzlement. “Also compliments of the chef” our server said, “buttermilk biscuits”. He laid them on the table and pointed to the tiny white porcelain condiment dishes besides them. He pointed to the brown studded ball of butter, “Pecan and Andouille butter. Then to the flat, shining purple gloss, “summer plum reduction.”
PS asked him to reiterate the first item.
”Pecan and andouille butter”
“That’s what I thought you said, just wanted to make sure”
Hmm. I’d never heard of such a combination – yet it sounded like such an obviously reasonable, tasty complement. Gee, why hadn’t we been putting nuts and sausage into butters all along?
3rd course: The heirloom tomato salad with fresh pulled mozzarella that our server enthused is “fresh pulled I the kitchen after you order it.”
Simple salad was presented fabulously, a smooth, pliable disc of mozzarella pooled within a ring of chopped heirlooms and scattered microgreens. It was a delicate wreath upon a plate, glazed with an ideal touch of balsamic vinegar.
4th entrée 1 ounce Steak, mashed potatoes.
PS said this steak was not as buttery-tender as one she ate at RuthChris steakhouse. Yet I found it satisfying. A rare indulgence, probably one of the maybe 3 steaks I consume in any given year. Can’t go wrong with a basic quality steak and potatoes…
Addendum: my wine! Lord knows I have been having many a chaotic workday, the kind that requires a glass or two of a nice California Pinot Noir to resolve…
Dessert: Carrot cake with cream cheese frosting touched with lime zest that takes the edge of the sweet and creamy. This was servied with a luscious brown ball of deeply flavored walnut ice cream, and topped with a glistening dome of hardened spun sugar threads.
Bliss! Talk about heading home fat, phat, and happy…perks like this meal, and the fine company, remind me that I actually don’t mind getting older. I shudder to recall that I used to eat 7-11 pizzas and hot dogs at the bus stop in middle school.
I never had such fineries as Lark Creek to savor in my younger days, we’ve all worked our butts off for years…and these fine nights remind me that life, for me, is finally quite good. Not free of stress. Not free of fear. But moments of utter bliss on earth!
What’s in a name…
I’ve a tendency to put my hands over my nose, across my eyes while deep in thought. I can’t do this since my contact lenses mutinied, and now my damned eyeglasses are in the way.
So I sit with pad ‘o paper, silver laptop before me, trying to conjure up with a fictitious business name for myself. I am stumped. I can’t imagine how people mange to name their infants.
My ideas are clouded with the names I already know and like: Asian Pacific Family Center, New Leaf Center, Balanced Rock, Asian Pacific Psychological Services, La Familia, Center for New Beginnings. Heck I need some original, untainted notions.
I find fault with all the existing ideas.
What is my vision?
Well, I want the business name to be more than just “Helen Hsu, Psy.D.” since I envision future partners, associates, and services beyond my current scope. I could mimic my dear friends at “Fruge Psychological Associates” and be ‘Hsu Psychological Associates.” But frankly I worry that HPA sounds like some kind of acronym for a communicable disease. Anyways the the term "psychological" does not roll off the tongue.
While being broad in potential scope, my ideal business name would also hint at my specialties, namely psychological services, particularly to and about Asian American and other minority client communities. My work in tough yet beautiful cities like Oakland, San Francisco, Richmond, and New Orleans have gifted me with quite the rainbow perspective. But how to do this without pigeon holing the business into an ethnic enclave?
My favorite Chinese symbol is the phoenix, which seems a wonderful metaphor for therapy, what with rising up from the ashes and all. Yet I don’t want people to confuse the business with a Chinese restaurant. There are too many Phoenix Inns and Dragon Palaces out there serving tasty meals…not my expertise area to say the least.
A colleague Dr. Ing named her business ‘Compassionate Spirit.” A lovely name, but too nebulous for me, and my practice approach is not spiritually oriented. I also don’t want to be mistaken for a church movement or new age bookstore.
Finally, I decided a brainstorm could break up this logjam. I sat down, journal in hand, to just cough up as many names as possible, internal editor on shore leave. No matter if the names are ridiculous or unusable, just output for this page.
In fact, when I started brainstorming funny ones on purpose I had a great time.
From the brainstorm list:
Cultural Psychological Services
Hsu Health
Primal Asian Resources
Optimus Prime
H 3
Jambalaya
Panda Psychology
Psychology perspectives
and my all time favorite: Ragin’ Asian, Inc.
Ragin’ Asian may be the fave, but it doesn’t convey the compassion and tranquility that my practice provides. It’s more like a name for my aggro trail running, road racing, hell raising and protesting personal life.
By the end of all this, what do we have?
We have me with 20/20 vision thanks for laser surgery.
And we have: Balanced Life Consulting.
In Sickness and in Health
Just got back from 8 days of nonstop action/recreation. Yes, life is so difficult, I know. I have a reputation for needing vacations from my vacations since I like to be on the go constantly rather than lie in the sun and chill.
Another post can describe the awesome fun times on the good ship "Carnival Paradise" as we partied for K and YM’s pre-wedding festivities.
What sticks in my head (and craw) in the present moment, is the unfortunate viral attack AND pink eye infection that attacked me in tandem as the cruise ended.
One suspects the pink eye comes from my most adorable little nephew who has an endearing habit of clapping his hands on my cheeks. (and saying I am/was a "Princess" based upon how I look in my wedding photo.) My respiratory distress came as the inevitable result of:
3/4 of my travel companions coughing in my vicinity as if they had TB for 8 days
karaoke
being away from my careful, healthy, home diet
yelling in club rex
little sleep
fire air pollution
fireworks air pollution
mexico air pollution
alcohol (what can I say, it was a fiesta)
and kayaking upon the ocean in a bikini whilst battling this plague.
I became near mute for like 2 days which made for great practice in my pantomime/improvised sign language skills. A fun test to see who understood me without words, P and my sweetheart faired fairly well. My sister in law joked that I should tell people I am deaf too, esp. since I could feign ignorance of any mother in law complaints about me…
But MIL tried to help, brewing me a pot full of chrysanthemum tea from dried flowers. No tea bags here, I know they sell these blooms in big bags like pillowcases in Chinatown, and I sadly recall my former supervisee B buying this for her father when he was dying of Cancer. The layer of boiled flowers was 4 inches thick, and she strained them through a little metal grill over a mug. I took a hot sip, I had been wishing for some damn good natural Chinese remedies for days but on that boat at sea there had been no way to get some. The thickness was like yoda-swamp pond sludge. Bitter and sweet. MIL offered honey, I gratefully accepted. Memories of weird Chinese herbal brews throughout my life floated through my head.
The moment that stands out most, as I realized I was desperately losing this immunity battle, is early morn like 2 am last Saturday. After a day with the in laws and the adorable yet exhausting nephew/niece, the house was finally dark and quiet.
But I was hacking away in the night and absolutely miserable. My eye hurt. My throat was killing me and I was convinced I had strep. My head hurt. I never have sleep problems and now I was unable to sleep. "If I was a different kind of person," I said to P,"I would SO just cry right now." I squeezed lemon edges by the trio into my water glass and lime wedges all over my Thai food hoping the citrus would aid my battered immunity. Had fantasies of sticking the lemon wedges on my reddening eyeball. "Mmmm. Don’t think that would help," said P. I was desperate with exhaustion and wanting to get home, 400 miles away, where my meds ,mom, vitamins, bed, and doctor could be accessed.
P went to rummage amongst the cabinets, and came back bearing a hot mug of Theraflu-ish potion. So there we sat. Middle of the night like a baby he had to comfort, P kept me company while I sucked down the not-quite-as-revolting-as-I-had imagined-brew. He told me stories and pulled childhood items off the shelves.
The battered and scratched white frisbee he got on his very 1st day in the United States. His Thai 1st and 2nd grade study workbooks, the ornate Thai script illegible to me, but gorgeous. Thai graphic and pulp novels with mysterious, monsters, scantily clad women, and men in 70’s attire. Still mute, I just listened as P walked down memory lane. There was an impressive home made board game on a sheet of plywood, red and black squares drawn with markers. I had to smile at the innovative kid who created that.
Before I knew it, my breathing was back to normal. The acetominophen kicked in.
"Sorry I didn’t help sooner," he said. "So many distractions with the family…and it’s really hard to tell with you how bad it is with you."
We went to bed. He put away the comic books. I pointed at the white frisbee, rasped that we should take it home and keep it. Told P I loved him, and drifted off to sleep reflecting upon my simple fortune.
Ladies, this is what you must seek. Someone who lays beside your germy, infectious eye-balled, ugly self,patient and comforting, and brings medicine and tells you stories.
I am a Mermaid
June 19, 2008, 10:56 am
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Races Race day June 14. As I grumble around (not, not, not, never a morning person am I) at dawn, I remind myself to be grateful that the Mermaid race is in
, not far from home base. The Pleasanton Tri had us setting out at 5:30 a.m. P racks my bike onto the car as I review gear and pack race food. Clif Blox now come in versions with extra sodium (Margarita flavor) or added caffeine (Black cherry, my favorite). Mojo bars with pretzel/peanut. Mom gave me a genetically modified behemoth of a giant
Fuji
apple yesterday, and I bring half of that with me too. Add some green tea in my Russian Starbucks mug, Propel, and I’m off.
At the registration table, they easily find my name of the list. I am handed the race number for my shirt, as well as the 318 sticker for my bike helmet, and a 318 double sided number to affix to the bike.
“ Go down the tables for everything else.” What else is there, I wonder?
I’m handed a timing chip attached to a Velcro band to wear around my ankle. Then the organic Mermaid T-shirt, then there is a table with a rainbow of little ovals on it.
“Hi, which swim wave are you?”
Apparently we are all being color-coded by swim caps. What a nice organizational notion. In my first Tri, I was informed that one does not, should not, race with a black swim cap in case you start to drown- it makes it difficult for them to spot you.
Oh. Great. That explained the obnoxious yellow and neon green caps out there. Since then I have swum in a bright blue cap. Today she looks up my age and hands me a lovely green one.
I always love the atmosphere at these races. Everyone is health conscious, not a cigarette or a soda anywhere despite the sold out 700 mermaids here and their families/friends. Dad pushing strollers and little kids holding “Go Mom!” signs abound. Volunteers mark our hands, and arm with a black sharpie. 318. They then ask my age, and write it on my let calf for the world to see. Funny. I will find myself looking at everyone’s leg age number throughout the race as I notice 24 years old and 45 years old passing me on the bicycle course.
It’s a full hour until my swim wave, we are second to last. I walk over to the lake beach to cheer on the current wave of 45- 49 year olds. A blonde woman dressed in a sequined mermaid gown is the announcer, describing the course, warning people to stay out of the way, reading off names of each woman who emerges from the water. I clap and cheer for these older women whom I so admire. I hope so badly I will be that healthy in my 48th year! They look exhausted already, yet strong. I munch my apple and make smiling small talk with the women next to me.
My heart starts to pound and in my head that old question arises, “WHY do you do these things?!”
The globular orange buoys that mark the swim distance seem unfathomably, dangerously far. The latexed swim capped heads of the women swimming out there look teeny, tiny, far away. I think back to my practice swims, all the cheating rest breaks I would take, and wonder if I am ready for this. We see a few swimmers go toward a lifeguard to take a rest upon one of the surfboards being offered. I notice a swimmer or two getting towed into shore. To make matters worse, after the quarter mile swim, each woman has to come up the rocky beach and run UP a grassy hill to reach the transition area where our bikes await.
Mom shows up. I get into my shortie wetsuit, fetch the goggles, and we take some pics. I notice that emblazoned on the side of my cap it reads “I am a Mermaid.”
Suddenly the tripped out Beatles tune “I am a Walrus” starts in my head:
“I am a Mermaid, Coo coo kachoo, coo coo Cachoo….”
I am a Walrus - Beatles
I tell my mom this swim looks like it’s gonna take me 20- 30 minutes. She begins to look nervous in spite of herself. “Half an hour? That sounds tiring to death!”
The lake is relatively warm today, and once I am afloat my inner panic subsides. The waters are opaque, dark green and brown. The teenaged lifeguards sitting on kayaks watch us carefully. Songs drift through my head ranging from my new version of “I am a Mermaid” to Dorie the fish from Finding Nemo “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…”
Just keep swimming…
The faraway buoys are gigantic orange balls once one is up close. A lifeguard calls out to us in warning when a big wave heads our way. Another cheerily talks us through it, “you look great mermaids, great job, just think of it as a swim in a pool, a very, very, very big pool…but just a pool.”
I come out of the water near last in my age group,(which seems about right since next year I will be in the next age group up!). As I charge out of the water, I hear mom yell, “Not bad- 14 minutes!”
Many of the mermaids come out of the water short of breath, grimacing, but I am a grinning fool. Hahaha, I didn’t drown, the swim is done, the rest is fool proof!
The rest of the Tri is as usual, I covet other people’s sleek road bikes that weigh about as much as shoe. But I chug along on my heavy ass mountain bike and enjoy the 3 laps. P shows up at this point as I pass him in the street while he drives in. I wind up losing minutes by taking a necessary bathroom run between the bike and run transition (darn green tea!).
The run is along Quarry lake trails, and here I finally begin to pass people. I don’t know what masochist designed this course, but the last 150 yards or so of the run is in SAND. It’s like running in slow mo on top of pudding to the finish line, where Mom and P are now joined by my sweetheart and her hubby to be.
In hindsight, I realize I could have pushed myself harder. I was so afraid of bonking out in my 1st Tri of the year, that I paced it a bit too conservatively. The next day, I was not as sore as I had expected at all. I came in at 1:44. Not a good time really, but not bad considering my insufficient training schedule and lame gear. I’m happy to have started out my weekend with a challenge…and am already plotting the next race. Of course if I don’t lay off of that Korean fried chicken and the Haagen Daz (shopping at Costco while starving results in things like 15 ice cream bars in the freezer…) the next race could be a problem!
Fremont
