Dayjamas

Fickle not pickle

This morning Kiku couldn’t decide what to have for breakfast, changing her mind three times.  I told her she was being fickle.

    “Oh, yeah, I wanna pickle!”

    “No, not pickle, fickle.”

    “I want a pickle, mama!”

    “Fickle.  It means that you’re always changing your mind.  You can’t decide what you like or dislike.”

    “Pickle!”

Kiku wasn’t the only one feeling fickle today.  Last night the three of us returned from a five-day trip to the bay area, and I woke up this morning feeling somewhat unsure about whether I really wanted to move back.  This is after making the BIG DECISION to move a few months ago...in the dead of winter.  (My advice to anyone considering moving away from Seattle: never decide in the winter.) The trip itself went smoothly and it was great to spend time with good friends and family, but I was a little overwhelmed by the whole place. 

I’ve definitely crossed over. 

I’m not sure when it happened, but I know I didn’t feel this way when we visited last summer.  Sometime between then and now I became a Seattlelite and stopped being a bay area girl.  When I stepped off the plane last week, it didn't feel like home.  I felt like a visitor.  I didn't "get it" anymore.  People seemed to be racing everywhere, whether by car or foot.  It felt edgier, grimier, more stressed out, more me-first.  I even found myself disliking the intensity of the sun.  It seemed too bright, and I practically had to glue my sunglasses to my face.   A few mentally unstable types approached Kiku and I (this never happens in Seattle) while we were out and about.  There was the odd guy who offered Kiku a dot-shaped sticker, and then followed us into the grocery store to offer her more stickers.  Harmless enough (probably), but my mind couldn’t get around the possibility of the dots being laced with LSD. Then there was the time when we were walking down the street in a somewhat upscale neighborhood and a tattered woman covered in sores asked me if I knew where the Laundromat was.  I told her that I didn’t live there and she proceeded to violently scream, “no one does laundry around here!” to me and everyone else around.

These kinds of interactions never used to faze me.  It was just part of my everyday environment and it felt normal.  Seeing someone pace back and forth while talking to themselves used to be normal.  Having a homeless person bark at me or call me Yoko was normal.  Now it feels threatening.  I’m sure it’s partially due to my maternal instinct to protect my daughter.  But even so, I’ve gotten soft. 

Seattle is nice, calm, slow paced, easy, clean, and, well, normal.  People (including the bus drivers) smile and say hello, drivers aren’t aggressive, rushing isn’t de rigueur, and there are fewer people flying their freak flags (or at least they’re quieter about it.)

I feel calmer and safer in Seattle.  My mind is clearer.  It’s easier to live here and there are fewer things to worry about.  So why move?  If this is such paradise, why do we want to go back to the land of over stimulation?  Up until recently, there have been three main reasons. 

1.    The weather
2.    Missing loved ones
3.    The blandness factor

But now I'm getting more used to the weather, and the only months that really get to me are Dec-Feb.  It might be more bearable if we can get away to a sunny spot every winter.  I certainly miss my friends and family, and I don't want these people to be strangers to Kiku, but what if we committed to visiting three or four times a year?  Maybe that woud be ok.  Then there's the blandness factor.  Over the past four years I've found myself craving more interesting, stimulating interactions with people who were less reserved.  But now I'm wondering if it matters so much anymore.  Large urban areas are interesting but they come with a price. 

I can't believe I'm actually feeling this way.  I've bitched about Seattle for four years.  It's been hard to adjust to the culture and I haven't felt like I've wanted to stay for the long run.  And now this is happening.  I'm starting to, umm, like it (maybe even love it?) here.  Although it could be that I just need to get used to bay area living all over again.  You know, grow back a thicker skin and adjust my "normal" meter.  The question is, do I want to? 

I'm just too damn fickle.

Gung Hay Fat Choy

Culturally impaired

This weekend I'm throwing a little party for Chinese New Year.  I'm mostly Chinese (with some Japanese and a little Irish thrown in) but my husband is Jewish, my family lives in another state, and we live in a less-than colorful community, so I thought I'd add some cultural flavor to our lives by celebrating the year of the Pig.

I sent out an Evite last month and relaxed, envisioning the party going something like this:  serve dim sum, moon cakes, and jasmine tea, and hand out red envelopes "lei see" to the kids.  People eat, talk, laugh, a kid spills juice on the rug, someone cries, and then they go home.  A piece of cake.  But as the date approached, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing.  Decorations?  Music?  Entertainment?  No clue.  All my family ever did to celebrate Chinese New Year was go out for dim sum, or have a ten course meal at a Chinese restaurant.

My family has never been very traditional, and the cultural traditions we did follow pretty much ended when my grandmother died in 1992.  I was never taught how to cook Chinese food, mainly because my grandmother (who raised me) rarely cooked it herself, preferring instead to cook dishes from her native land, Denver, Colorado.  The only culinary reminder of being in a Chinese household was the pot of rice that appeared on the dining room table every night, regardless of what else was being served.

I also never learned how to speak Chinese, despite spending grades K-3 in a Chinese bilingual classroom.   My grandparents could speak a little - just enough to get by in Chinatown – and they only used it at home when they didn’t want me to understand what they were saying.

So yeah, I feel like a bit of a sham.  I look the part and can dress the part, but I’m not really authentic.  Thank god for the internet and a kick-ass Asian market, because I found everything I needed to know to throw a traditional Chinese New Year’s party.

Gung Hay Fat Choy!