ABBY and SNORING

I was saddened last week—well, for many reasons, but that’s another story—when I referenced “Dear Abby” in one of my classes and drew blank stares.

I cannot tell how much life experience, how many sticky situations and what possible foibles I have avoided, because of what I’ve learned from reading those daily columns.

It started at the breakfast table at Angus Street. (That in itself is a cultural rarity) and, with the exception of my five years in Europe, continued to September of this year when we chose to cancel the local paper and get the NY Times instead.

Ann Landers and “Dear Abby” were twins.  In Los Angeles, in the 50’s, there were two newspapers.  One had Anne and one had Abby.  We had Abby.

What I loved about “Dear Abby “ was the total commitment to common sense.  If I could spread a salve over this present generation and my own, it would be a balm made of COMMOM SENSE. 

My all time favorite column was one from a woman who was writing “back” about a previous one. The subject was a woman complaining about her snoring husband.   The writer wrote:  “I just wish I still had my snoring husband. He died this year.”

Every time I wake in the night to a snore, I think of that.

The Indian in the Bathroom

When I was a child it was obvious that my mother idealized and idolized her only and older brother.   He had chosen to have a childless marriage that would allow him to design and build homes in comparatively glamorous places—ocean cliffs or hillsides overlooking Los Angeles; one poised under the HOLLYWOOD sign and just a block or two up from Aldous Huxley’s home.  He and his wife were free to travel to parts foreign, rub shoulders with Jawaharlal Nehru and know what the words “obi, “sake” and  “arigato” meant far earlier than most Americans.  This was the fifties.

My mom was stuck in Silverlake with two young girls and a loving husband, but her summers were spent driving up and down the west coast.  Though those summers were wonderful for my sister and me, I’m sure they paled in comparison to the trips my uncle and aunt were taking.

My uncle and aunt took tramp freighters and posed for stiff photos with Japanese hosts.  When they returned from their trips my sister and I would be given things we had never seen before:  purses with little metal mirrors reflecting all the Silverlake light being an example.

Although Silverlake was a diverse neighborhood and my sister and I had been exposed to many different cultures; tempura lunches with our mother in Nisei town, Janice Hing’s wedding reception in Chinatown, my father flaunting his three words of Spanish at Mexican restaurants, we were not too familiar with Indians.  I mean people from India. Of course my mother had introduced us to chicken curry, but I was later to learn that it was nothing like the real thing except for the color of turmeric.

My mother worked hard at everything she did.  She could have been the prototype for Martha Stewart—had Martha been a music teacher in Burbank with two small daughters, a salesman husband and a house in Silverlake.  She enjoyed entertaining and chafing dishes with purple flamed cans of sterno and sherry infused recipes.

I remember, on the eve of a dinner party that I would eventually be sent to bed before it ended, being given what, at that point in my life, was ALMOST the worst thing I had ever tasted.   I sat on the two steps that separated our dining room from our living room and tried to eat cream cheese.  It was only slightly less disgusting than my mother’s zucchini squash with tomatoes and Italian spices.  Of course, today I like cream cheese, but even in adulthood zucchini is not something I choose to eat.

One evening my mother and father had a small party and my uncle and aunt were invited.  They brought with them two tall Indian men who stood around the fireplace shyly.  After awhile one of the men needed to use the restroom.  I do not know whether he was directed to the room or just went off on his own to search for it.  It wouldn’t have been a long, or a difficult hunt as we only had one bathroom.  The door was closed and he walked in and went directly up to the sink.  Maybe he just wanted to look into the mirror, or perhaps wash his hands after eating a messy appetizer. Thank goodness he didn’t need the toilet.  In any case he did not notice that my little sister was sitting on the pink toilet-- that matched the pink shower-- with her wide 1950’s skirt covering the porcelain.  She was absolutely mortified and quite traumatized.  I think he finally saw her and made a soundless exit back to the fireplace.  It was a memorable evening at Angus Street.

Bobbie Pins With a Message

Most of my life my mother wore her hair up.  Then, in the 1970’s, perhaps inspired by Nancy Reagan, but who’s to say, my mother went “short.”    This hairdo lasted briefly and began to grow into a length that could once again be “put up.”  During this period there were “falls” and fake hair to add to the zest of the style.

My mother became an aficionado of what my sister and I called THE HELMET.  Hair spray and regular appointments with a Hispanic hairdresser ensured that her hair would not move, look a bit like Margaret Thatcher and remain fairly carefree if one slept in a special net.  Bobby pins were always somewhere in the nest that was my mom’s hair.

When my mother passed away, she left me an article that she had once read.  It was about death and memory.  It said that I should think of my mother whenever I saw a particular bird.  I have done that with the white fairy terns that fly around Hawaii.  When there are two I think of both my parents.

There is something else that resonates deeper.  I have found bobbie pins around the world.  In Japan, China, Britain, and the U.S.  I always seem to find a bobbie pin when I travel.  It’s a pretty random thing to look down at a sidewalk and see one.   But I find them with regularity…Kyoto, Beijing, Auckland, Sydney, Melbourne and recently, in the place where I will eventually live, I found four.  One was on top of Lava Butte and another on Pilot Butte.  Two more were found on the streets of Bend, Oregon. 

It may be that “Oregonads” (as my husband calls them) use more bobbie pins than the average world population.  But I choose to believe that they are a message saying that I’ve made a good choice for the future.

The Boat and the Cooperative Rat

  At Angus Street we had a large teak picnic table with benches in our upper patio.  My father had laid all the slate and brick and made the backyard quite nice. He built a bar-b-que out of stone—which I never remember us using-- and made seats of wood slats.  This was where we entertained in the summer.  My uncle would come over and churn lemon custard ice cream.

 The picnic table was below a shading arbor and behind it was a bed of fuchsias planted into a stone wall.  When my parents were out of town it was my job to make sure those fuchsias had enough water.  When I was younger, I loved to go up to the patio and pretend that the table was a boat.  I would ride here and there in my imagination.

As summer arrived and friends and family came for bar-b-ques the table reverted to its original use.  My sister and I would go up and clean the table, cart out bowls of pickles, salads and potato chips and await the guests.   One summer, my mother discovered that we had a “wood rat.”  I think she thought that that name sounded a bit better than a regular old rodent rat. My sister and I were under strict orders not mention the rat at our dinner party that evening.  As we sat at the large picnic table, probably eating hamburgers I saw the nose and tail.  It was coming in the midst of our party and would be a nightmare for my mother.  I was seated next to one of my mother’s oldest friends.  I nudged her, gave her a look and then she saw it.  Thankfully, the “wood rat” scurried away and made its retreat.  My mother didn’t know until I told her the next morning.

The Plastic Thingies and the Honest Lobe

I don't know what they are officially called.  Those little clear plastic bits of tube that women--and maybe some men--put on the end of earrings for pierced ears to prevent the earring from falling out.  I had lost one.

I wear four gold—real gold, I might add—earrings.  I shower in them, sleep in them and rarely remove them from my lobes.

With the price of gold rising daily, I was doubtful as to whether or not a lost earring could be replaced without refinancing our home.  So to find a new back thingie became a mission.

I was in Melbourne, Australia when I noticed the loss. I mentioned it to my husband and because he had no interest in mortgaging our house to replace the gold earring that might fall out of my ear in a hotel bed, shower, bath, Malaysian restaurant or taxi in Australia, he eagerly joined in the hunt for the little plastic things of no particular name.

We were walking around the CBD at the time and came upon a Target Store.  I had been explaining that, at home, these little thingies were purchased in malls at CLAIRE’s at great mark-up.  They probably cost less than a cent to produce and are sold in a pack of 10 for $5.95---$6.25 in Canada (as per the back of the pack that I have at home).

But Target seemed a most likely option; better than the bookshops, pubs and office blocks that we’d passed. The “greeter” at the front door was of no help. I have found through life that when you ask someone a question to which they don’t know the answer, they lie, make something up or send you astray—especially if they are male—which was not the case in this instance.

In the girl’s defense (“defence” since it was in Australia) I have several things to say:  1. We were not in a Wal-Mart and I think I may have mistaken a shop girl who worked in a clothing department near the front door as a “greeter.”  2.  She may not have had knowledge outside of her department 3.  Maybe she didn’t understand our accents because there were plenty of times we didn’t quite get theirs. E.g. “Do you want a rhyme?” meaning, “room.”  But I digress.

I consider myself a fairly savvy shopper and instinctually knew that I was on a wild goose chase.  In spite of that we went to the earring section under the slope of the escalator. Each cheap metal set had the little plastic thingie on the back of the hooks.

I looked at my husband and whispered that I could easily remove the plastic thingie and no one would be the wiser. He was appalled—visions of CCTV cameras capturing my crime in grainy black and white, being stopped and shackled by ardent customs agents at Sydney airport then hauled into a little paneled room with no windows surrounded by bearded terrorist suspects, a man who tried to smuggle a snake in his trouser leg, a shuddering woman waiting to evacuate a condom of heroin, AND our professional reputations sullied all for the quick allure of one little plastic thingy. No.

The search continued.  And then we found NINA’s.

 NINA’s is the CLAIRE’s of Australia.  The girl behind the counter immediately knew what I wanted, and they were sold out.  BUT they had a sale on.  I bought the cheapest earrings I could find, took off the plastic thingies—my husband keeping the one not required in his wallet for future need.  With the plastic thingy firmly in place behind my ear, and acquired honestly, I gave the earrings to the clerk as a gift.  In actuality, two gifts were given that day. I have honest lobes.

My Bedroom Wall--The Pin Ups

About the time that I was 11 or 12 I started collecting magazine pictures on my bedroom wall.  Most of them were Purina Dog Chow commericials  with photos of Irish setters and labs. My wall had only two humans. 

Richard Chamberlain was the star of Dr. Kildare and I was in love. He was moral and kind and could save your life.  The other human on wall was Warren Beatty.  I can’t say the same for him.

Fast-forward to 1988 and my husband and I moved to Honolulu.  I knew that Richard Chamberlain lived in the city and I told myself, based on the small town feel, that some day I might meet him.

Around 1990 both my husband and I were working at the University of Hawaii and sharing a car.  I wanted to go home and my husband still had unfinished business.  He asked that I go to Safeway and “get in a shop.”

At the time I was reading a novel by Peter Lefcourt.  One of things mentioned in the book were the various classifications of Mercedes.  As I pulled into the Manoa Safeway, I noticed a Mercedes with a very up market number.  Then I looked at the driver.  IT WAS RICHARD CHAMBERLAIN.

Richard and his partner got out of their car.  I got a shopping cart and Richard got the one after me.  I refused—being from L.A.- to acknowledge him.   Though my heart was beating faster than a speeding bullet, I realized that my lifetime crush was gay.  I later saw him at a PBS fundraiser where a colleague took photos of me with him.  By this time, I was over the crush and aware of the plastic surgery.

This year, by a wonderful confluence of things, I attended the Academy Awards.  I was on the wrong side of the velvet rope when Warren Beatty and Annette Benning walked passed me.  I think that I was more excited about seeing her.  But now, in retrospect, I realize that I have fulfilled the dreams of my Angus Street wall. 

I’m pretty proud to say that YES—I have been in the presences of Warren Beatty and Richard Chamberlain.. They were my pin ups.  But I am most proud of being married to a man who was not on my wall.  

School Smells

A simple list of the school smells that I remember.  From elementary, jr. high and high school in no particular odor….oops, I mean order.

Wet paper towels in the bathroom

Algae water in the classroom aquarium

Shepherd's Pie in the cafeteria

Vomit...not as a result of Shepherd's Pie

Right Guard deodorant spray in the locker room

Boiling hot dogs on Hot Dog Day.

Sour milk in the lunchbox thermos that wasn't rinsed

Damp clay in ceramics class

The urine dankness of the underpass

Cinnamon rolls served at "nutrition"

Luden's cherry "cough drops"

High Karate aftershave

Formaldehyde on fetal pigs

TABU cologne by Dana

MarksALot  black pens

The alcohol on the freshly printed purple mimeograph papers

The soap in the bathroom soap dispensers

The blue fabric on the three ring binders

The buff, lined paper in elementary school

Brown paper lunch bags

Teachers wearing Estee Lauder “Youth Dew”on the off chance that they would seem youthful.