I just listed this house in my neigbhorhood, Breckenridge!  It's a terrific value because it needs some cosmetic updating, but that's about it!  The systems, roof and appliances are pretty new, and the location can't be beat:  Large Level Private lot on a cul-de-sac, located in the Briarlakce Elem, Henderson Middle, and Lakeside HS.  This neighborhood is unlike any other near or around it for its community feel, as well as its proximity to Emory/CDC/Mercer and the city of DECATUR... just 7 min away!  And the price is terrific at $334,900.

Facebook Fetish

You know you're getting old when you find a simple fascination in looking at all the young people on Facebook and you realize, "Wow, I don't look, feel, or think 'young' anymore... I must be really old!"

I had to pull myself away from FB just now, even though I only spent 10 min or so perusing the site, looking at people who I knew, and occasionally bumping into people I didn't know.  I like glancing at friends from the past, or people I knew in the different stages of my life, but I totally GET why editors don't put out magazines with pictures of middle-aged people on their covers... no one would ever buy let alone look at that magazine.  I'm not saying that I dislike being a middle-aged woman.  On the contrary, things are so much easier in so many ways than when I was young.  But now I'm looking at having lived half my life, and I'm on the downhill slope.  Now that's a bit depressing!

When I look at all the pictures of my kids, their friends,etc., I realize how much hope their is in youth, and how exciting and wonderful it is to be young.  I try to remember how I felt when I was young, but, alas, I've forgotten that, too!  I do remember dreaming that I would one day be a lead singer in a successful band, or  that I would solve the world's woes by being a high-powered attorney.  I even had a couple of "real" dreams where I was dancing... beautifully, and without body aches all over.  Now, I find it surprising (and rare) to step out of the bed without getting shooting pains up my legs, through my ankles, and wobbly walking to the bathroom.

Facebook can be a wonderful tool to remind us middle-aged folks about how we once looked and felt and acted... silly and goofy and simply self-centered as a young person.  There's almost no time now to be self-centered, not with having two 15 year old almost driving teenagers with more to do than there is time.  And acting silly or being carefree... I suppose I could ignore everything that's happening in our world:  the famine in Somalia, the debt-crisis in Europe, the unstable economy in the U.S.  But that's why I read the newspapers... a dose of reality everyday, and, for balance, a nostalgic look to the past through Facebook.

Going Home

Every so often I get "homesick" even though I'm sitting in my sun-room here in Atlanta where I've lived since 1987. I consider myself a bit mixed up in terms of where my "home" is, becauseI think it will always be in Honolulu, Hawaii.  I'm getting ready to board a plane for Hawaii in a few days to take my family back to visit my elderly father.  I'm thankful he has preserved himself well by walking and staying active over all these years; it gives me a really good reason to share my heritage with my children and to help them know the culture and family that has helped form me.  I'll be really sad one day when I won't have the joy of seeing his happy face upon our arrival; when I won't have him there to give a sweet goodnight kiss to; when I won't be able to share in our mutual love of all the local foods available to us in this very cosmopolitan island as he describes what he's eating for lunch or dinner.

And though I am eager to see all of my family, including my brother, sister, and their families, I anticipate the goodbye, and my heart breaks, and the salty tears cannot stop because each and every time I return "home," I know I'll have to say farewell, not knowing when I will be able to return.  This is the hardest, most bitter-sweet part of going home.

Cafe Istanbul

The reason I don't like going to Cafe Istanbul on Lawrenceville Hwy in Decatur is simple:  I like restaurants that have ambiance, where the decor, the feel, the lighting, and the seating lead to a relaxing and peaceful feeling.  This place is completely the opposite of what I look for in a restaurant.  It's located on a busy highway here in Atlanta, with parking that's not always easily accessible.  Moreover, when we walked into the restaurant last night at 7:30 p.m, it was still light outside but cavernous and oppressive inside.  You can't see anything much except the open rooms with pillows lining the wall and tables positioned every few feet along in front the pillows.  Persian carpets covered most of the floor, and there were a few small groups huddled over their hookah pipes, puffing away while lounging on their backs.  The varied assortment and sizes of pillows bothered me; how long had it been since they had been thoroughly washed and cleaned?  How long, for that matter, had the floors been cleaned, and were the tables we leaned our elbows on in fact cleared of all ground in food and residual ashes?  I had my nice Falconnable white shorts on... was I going to have a big fat round spot on my bottom after smooshing myself onto the embroidered pillows? 

As for the food, we could neither read the menu nor understand the items.  With a little guidance, we ordered an array of foods from shish kebab to mezza plates to lamb stew to pizza.  The margarita was irritatingly sweet and large, a sure message that there wasn't much alcohol in it.  And that was a bit depressing, considering that we were going to pay for the 12 people we brought with us!  When the food was brought out, we were relieved as the adults in the party were slowly sinking into the several pillows we had positioned to prop us up while we sat Indian style or knees to our chests; gravity was at work, and arthritis was setting in.  I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the position and I knew others weren't very comfortable, either.

The belly dancer was a big hit with the kids and the men in the party.  Nostalgia set in as I thought to the days of living in Hawaii and enjoying the Tahitian dancers at hula shows.  The little tambourines on her hands were fun, but our conversation was soon overwhelmed by the loud music and our attention diverted with the barely clad belly dancer.  How is it, my husband asked, that some Muslims wear berkahs while others fully accept these belly dancers? Hard to understand!

Finally, our dinners came out, but the various meats were really difficult to identify.  My mixed grill consisted of a longer dark tubular meat, a round disc like meat, a cube lighter colored meat, and thinner sliced square pieces of meat on rice with potato salad, red cabbage, and shredded carrots.  It all tasted pretty good, but it was definitely a bit dry and one type of meat from the other was definitely not identifiable.

With our ears ringing as we walked out of the restaurant, I was reminded that it's not so bad to go to restaurant like this if nothing more than to be able to appreciate the ones that I typically look for in my search for a great restaurant.  It will be a long time before I go back, and I hope by then, they'll have given everything a good scrub down.

The Chinese Mother

After reading Amy Chua's article in the Wall Street Journal entitled the same as this blog, I felt a type of satisfaction overcome me in that someone finally verbalized what I have thought for many years.  Her article seemed exaggerated and somewhat of hyperbole, but, nevertheless, it was pretty much on the target in terms of what Chinese mothers expect of their children.

I can't say that I'm a full-fledged Chinese mom, even though I am a full-blooded Chinese.  Part of that is because I was born and raised in the United States and so were my parents and so were a couple of my grandparents.  I guess being a 3rd generation Chinese mom, the compulsions have worn off a bit though not totally.

For instance, I don't really agree with calling a child "garbage" as she did to her kids.  However, I have, on occasion, told my children that they were lazy, or unmotivated, or selfish.  I can't help but think that they think this of themselves at times as I did when I was young.  I do believe that we should tell our children to act better or to strive to be better.  Calling names is probably not very responsible, but looking the other way when our children act poorly or choose to go the easy way out isn't either.

I could fully relate to Ms. Chua's point about violin and piano.  I grew up playing 4 years of piano, and I truly wish my mom had "forced" me to continue playing after I turned 11; but I was a rebellious thing and used the piano to show my anger toward my mother and she knew it.  I would "rush" my practice by playing my pieces very quickly and not to tempo; my mother, facing the kitchen sink with her back to me, would inevitably say, "SLOW DOWN," or, "DON"T PLAY SO FAST."  My revenge was to play the next song as slowly as possible, again, not to tempo, just to frustrate her.  Then I would pound on the keys as loudly as I could, as poorly as I could, surely feeling like I was getting back at her for making me practice that day.  This piano playing, as tortuous as it was at times, was actually very pleasurable to me.  I loved playing songs from the popular groups like "Chicago" or "Carole King Tapestry" or "Burt Bacharac."  I actually played my Sonatas and Sonatinas on my own when my mother wasn't there, just because I was good at it and enjoyed it.  But you would never catch me practicing for mere pleasure if she were there; that would give her too much satisfaction! 

My own daughters, 3 of them, chose to play the violin in 1st grade.  I believe they inherited the same rebellious nature that I so fully exhibited when I was a young girl.  There were many days that they would practice with me playing on the piano, them kicking and fighting, me urging them on.  And there were many tears shed over having to practice the piece over and over while I helped them with the tempo.  My response to that behavior was to ask them to please not cry while they were playing their violin as it would damage the instrument.  My neighbor down the street always covered her ears when she came over and heard them practicing, but I loved listening to them play as they were all very good violinists. It made me want to cry to hear them perform in the orchestra.... there's just nothing like playing an instrument in a larger group.  The older two had a natural rhythm and sense of timing; the eldest had a special ability to "move" with the piece, feel its nature.  She's the one that is going into Interior Design; that side of the brain allowed her to interpret the music in a way that many never can.

My son played the piano for a couple of years.  He, too, was very talented, but it became too difficult to do this while he transitioned to another school. Also, he took up the trumpet, which he loves and is good at.  This year, he received the "musicality" award in school, whatever that is.  He will still occasionally play on our piano just for fun, and has taught himself a piece or two.

Another thing that distinguishes me from the true Chinese mother is that I have allowed my children to participate in sports.  I have been the pseudo-coach for soccer, tennis, basketball, baseball, volleyball, lacrosse and swimming, and I'm their biggest fan.  But this has taken away from their ability to concentrate on their music and school, hence, proving that I'm not really the Chinese Mother as described by Ms. Chua.  However, I will say that I have "pushed" my children in their athletics, and I believe I have helped each of them become great athletes.  I have signed them up, paid for, and driven them to clinics, camps, skills sessions, private coaches, club sports, traveling teams, select teams, and all-star events.  I have sat through freezing cold rains, scorching hot days, monotonously long days in the gym, excrutiatingly tedious days at the pool, and have driven thousands of miles to get them to and from their events throughout the Southeast Region.  And I have seen them excel in so many ways because of their work and dedication to the sport.

I totally believe that children need less of the "I'M OK, YOU"RE OK" and more of the "you should work hard so you will attain satisfaction and will learn pride in your work."  I always tell my kids that "nothing good in life is free or easy; that most things that are really good in life, yes, the great things in life, come from hard work, perserverance, and dedication."  It's like the Suzuki method:  Most people become great in something because they practice, over and over, and work at it.  I have friends who I know think I'm slightly crazy, and sometimes harsh.  I guess I'll only know one day when my kids are a little older and have a better perspective in all that they have done.  I know that I appreciate all that my parents did for me, and the sacrifices they made to educate me are not lost now that I'm an adult.

Is it the way that I look that makes me the Chinese Tiger Mother, or is it my actions that make me fall in that direction?  I say it's neither, but, rather, my heart, my soul, my intentions for my children, and, ultimately, my hope that they, too, one day, will find the tiger in themselves.