Meandering Monday

Twice a week, I carve out time on my schedule that I like to call, “A Writer’s Life”. I write everyday, but for approximately three hours on Mondays and Wednesdays, I try to focus all my creative energy on novel writing. Whether or not I am successful in this endeavor is debatable week to week and by whom you ask. As evidenced by my many blank blog entries for 2012, one does not need to tune in to this debate for very long, but I feel that further examination might shed some light on why my writing life is such a challenge.

Since today is Monday, I naturally end up at my public library by two ‘o’clock for quiet and uninterrupted writing time. I sit at my favorite table which is strategically positioned in front of what used to be a minimally sized, but delightfully unexpected zen garden. It is now what I’m sure was intended to be a mini fruticetum or maybe even a viticetum, but looks more like someone’s side yard on their zero lot, enclosed within floor to ceiling glass windows on three sides and a wall on the fourth. I sit there for the sky light which brings in enough luminosity to mimic the radiance of the sunny day outside without the searing reality of the May heat in Hawai’i. I am sure the dazzling brilliance will inspire me to write word upon word and page upon page of fiction greatness. Within ten minutes, everything has lost its luster as the frigid cold of the air conditioning in the building has me wrapping my pea coat clad arms around myself in an effort to stimulate the warmth and coziness of a hibernating bear. Also, students from the nearby high school campus begin to arrive for after school studying, some of which evolves quickly into hand holding and occasional necking at the table directly behind me. Awkward! This prompts me to move to a different spot.

I gather up my yellow, legal pads, writing implements and the Hawai’i Driver’s Manual that I’ll borrow on my way out for my brother-in-law who intends to obtain a state driver’s license now that he, my sister and their two sons have been living here for almost a year. I move over to another table that is located in the large open area near the fiction stacks. I sneak a glance at my cell phone and see that my middle schooler has texted me, “can you pick me up or should I walk over?” I text my reply, “I’m already sitting in the library, you should walk over.” Her text response, “but it’s so farrrrrr!” to which I quickly shoot back, “you will survive it, see you soon.” She texts back a final, “Okkkkk” and I can’t help having the last text, “Omggggg.” Seven minutes later, Reese arrives from her trek across two school campuses and a parking lot during which time I was tapping the eraser on my pencil against my lower lip. This prompts me to acknowledge her and sparks a memory of us amongst books.

After our whispered greetings to each other, Reese dives into her math homework and I stare out into my minds’ zen garden hoping for creative lift off. This is the exact moment when one of the librarians begins to stamp the inside covers of what I hope and assume are soon to be discarded books with a heaviness that can only be described as loud and annoying for a library. This happens for almost the entirety of “Obla Di Obla Da” which I am listening to on my iPod, one ear bud in. I can hear her elephant stamping ways and her squeaky chair as she swivels to and fro in the tiny area behind her desk. This prompts me to take a short break from my blank page.

I walk a small circumference of the building, passing the Hawaiiana room and nonchalantly checking if the space I previously occupied had been vacated by the necking teenagers. Nope. On my way back to my table, I notice a stack of pamphlets on the top shelf of reference volumes, above the World Book Encyclopedias. It’s entitled, “Between the Covers” and appears to be the list of adult summer reading titles recommended by the Hawai’i State Public Library. I quickly peruse the list that includes books, cd’s and dvd’s and find the most interesting offering to be a book called, “Aqua Erotica” edited by Mary Anne Mohanraj. The 18 stories comprised in this collection all feature sex and water. Part of the description in the pamphlet says, “As an added bonus, the book itself is waterproof!” What in the name of all that is good and holy? Other notables on the list that bear mentioning because they are just this side of absurd were, “Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World’s Stolen Treasures” by Robert Wittman and “At Knit’s End: Meditation for Women who Knit Too Much” by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. These are the suggestions for the adults in our reading community? Where is “The Woman Upstairs”, “Telegraph Hill,” or “Life After Life,” and “The Care and Handling of Roses with Thorns” on this list? This prompts me to research the summer reading lists at other state libraries. 

By four ‘o’clock, Reese and I are packing up and checking out. Not only did my writing efforts plummet into near nothingness, I added more books to my already extensive yearly list. A brilliant example of my meandering discourse, but another moment in time shared with Reese amongst the books.

Since last we met...

I know, it's been a while. I considered the possibility of waiting until next month (yes, 2012) to post something new. Then I thought, why wait until then to do what I could do today. Procrastination is really more my style, but here I am...back on track. Maybe. Hopefully. We'll see...


As you will note, my last post was in August of 2010 or as it is more commonly known...over a year ago. So much has happened since last we met, I feel like a highlight reel is in order. 


Went back to school. Full time. Just twenty years after high school and seven years since I was last "enrolled". Just about to finish my third semester, finals are next week. There are still many more semesters to go.


Writer friend and coffee talk buddy moved back to San Diego. Much success with her career followed suit and thankfully she continues to inspire (and humor) me with her ingenious and insightful blog which you can find at  margaretdilloway.com .


Still working part time or as Kalani likes to call it..."quarter time", whatever that means.


Cousin Bea moved to Hawai'i. Spent quality time getting to know each other. Cousin Bea moved back to California. Is it just me, or do I have a special way of sending people packing for the mainland?


Joined a gym for women only. Swam in pool...once. Got on the treadmill...twice. Finally tried a zumba class...once. Stopped going to the gym.


Daughter turned eleven. 


Celebrated our 4th Wedding Anniversary. 


Discussion commences about Baby Sister and family moving home next summer. Wishing. Hoping. Praying.


House sat for parents during their journey to Las Vegas. Forgot to pick chili peppers every morning before the birds could get them. Dad noticed. Forgot to water grass and plants on alternating days, but got lucky with decent downpour. Dad noticed. Put up with squawking bird and her picky habits while simultaneously considering selling her off to interested buyer on Craigslist. Dad noticed. Dug out Parcheesi game that was obviously being saved for the Hawai'i stop of Antiques Roadshow from the hollows of dad's closet, last played in 1980. Dad noticed. 


Moved about a mile away from my parents house and discovered the joy of doing husband laundry. Followed up shortly thereafter with the joy of passing the laundry buck or laundry avoidance until the absence of clean underwear necessitates laundry day.


Learned how to knit. On a loom. Kind of feels like cheating, but it gets the job done and my beanies have perfect loops. 


Made cooking and baking a regular activity. Note to self, Kalani does not like Chicken Pot Pie or gingerbread. For clarification purposes I asked if he meant gingerbread men because that's what daughter and I were attempting to make and I can see how he wouldn't want to take gingerbread men to share at work. He was clear..."all things gingerbread...y".


Started an online book club with high school pals. 1st book selection...Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. I'm in charge. We haven't had our 1st meeting yet. Coincidence? I think not.


Was talked into rescuing a kitten with "puss in boots eyes" by daughter with "puss in boots eyes". She named him Jack. Decided after 2 days and finding 2 piles of crap outside the vicinity of the litter box that I was not an animal person. Attempted to drop him off at nearby shelter. Discovered shelter moved to another location that I could not immediately discern on my so-called smart phone. Took it as a sign that the kitten was meant for us. His litter habits have since vastly improved.


Purchased Zumba Fitness 2 for Wii as an early Christmas gift. Wondering if not partaking of Zumba Fitness 1 is going to affect my game. It probably will. I'm just saying...


Decided to start blogging again. So far so good.

How to Be an American Housewife

For the first time in my life, I was invited to a book launch by the author herself. True, there were advertisements and announcements informing the public of the event, but my invitation was personally directed and can now be counted as a grand highlight of my adult life. Margaret Dilloway’s debut novel, “How To Be An American Housewife”, hit book stores on Thursday, August 5th and its introduction to the masses was kicked off by a reading, an informative Q&A portion, and of course an autograph session at the Ala Moana Barnes & Noble store that evening.

I arrived (early, like the book nerd that I am) with Kalani and a few friends in tow. A decent sized crowd eventually emerged from all corners of the store to sit in the area between the cookbooks and the travel section that border the Starbucks cafe. Margaret and I have been meeting off and on over the last year since she moved to Hawai’i from San Diego. I am familiar enough with her to know that she seemed a tad nervous, but who wouldn’t be with a giant picture of yourself hanging from the rafters in front of a huge display of your books? It didn’t take long for her to relax in spite of the excitement in the air. She did very well with her reading and the crowd loved her. Pat Wood, the author of “Lottery,” was also in the house and I believe her presence helped put Margaret at ease. Their friendly banter had us giggling in our seats. During the Q&A portion of the program, Margaret asked me if I had a question for her. I was still flush with awe and admiration and my response was, “Not at this time.” I just couldn’t find my words, which is unbelievable if you know me and I really couldn’t get past the excitement and happiness I felt for her.

The book has been getting positive press all along, including a 4-star rating in People Magazine’s August 23rd issue and a rather successful blog tour as well as an impressive showing at her book event at a Barnes and Noble in San Diego last week. The last thing it needs is a few humble words uttered by yours truly, but I definitely want to get them in edgewise.

It is ultimately a story of relationships, most notably the one between mother and daughter. The novel is presented in equal parts by Japanese war bride Shoko and her American daughter Sue. It explores the obvious cultural divide between them as well as the emotional and physical distance between Shoko and her brother Taro back in Japan. Each chapter begins with a snippet from the fictionalized handbook within the book, “How to Be an American Housewife”. The handbook is full of useful tips meant to assist with assimilation in America and western civilization and a very viable way for the reader to gain insight of the various layers of the story. I almost wish it were an actual book! My favorite of these chapters is hands down A Map to Husbands. There is not a woman I know who would not benefit from such a useful tool. I found myself stirred by the very real possibility that these characters could exist in my world which speaks to how fully developed they were. I love Margaret’s literary language, her thoughtful writing never loses its momentum toward resolution or deprives us of a truly remarkable ending.

“How to Be an American Housewife” is available practically everywhere, including my favorite Japanese bookstore in San Francisco and even on the electronic reading device (cough, Kindle, cough) of your choice.

Music to Grow By

I recently finished reading Rob Sheffield’s book, “Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man’s Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut.” I ask you, what woman (who came of age in the 80’s) could resist picking up a book with such a profound title? Probably thousands if my more cynical counterparts are to be believed, but we won’t even discuss what large rock they were trapped under during such a totally awesome time in music history. Let’s face it, it is the only reasonable explanation for not sitting up straighter at the mere mention of DD. It is a clever book and I am once again profoundly grateful for Rob’s amazing ability to catapult me back to moments in my life especially memorable because of the music playing in the background. His previous book entitled, “Love Is a Mix Tape: Life and Loss, One Song at a Time” was also an enjoyable read about how we use music (specifically put together on a mix tape) to express ourselves and what we are feeling to the people we care about the most. I really like the way the book is laid out, each chapter is given an artist or group name, song title and a year from which to bear reference. These were especially helpful in sparking the "where was I, what was I doing" questions foremost on my mind as soon as I read the words. We've all had that, "oh, I was at (insert location) with (insert person) and we were (insert appropriate action here)" moments when we hear a song on the radio and it was the same for me when I read them on the pages of Rob's book. This is one man's insight and observations of musical memories from his childhood and he treats the fragility of such recollection quite well. Rob’s reflections on his past in relation to music gave rise to my own thoughts and impressions of the role it played in my life.

It is impossible for me to remember a time when music was not a huge part of my life. It has always been there for me, in good times, bad times and more commonly saturated in all moments in between. I had a happy childhood. It was one full of fond memories made entirely possible because of the connection and interactions I had with my family and most notably with my siblings, all of it punctuated by music. Ours was not a musically talented family, but what we lacked in skill and expertise we made up for in taste (relatively speaking) and the amount of music consumed in a decidedly small space of time.

My siblings and I are the youngest in our generation of the family. Big Bro, Missy and I were always with our older cousins who lived next door. When we were in elementary school, they were in the thick of their teen years and two of them had already moved out of state for college. When Baby Sister came along eight years behind me, she fit right into the fold between two generations and naturally grew up with their children. Nevertheless, our collective and individual memories with her were achieved because of music.

I remember roller skating with Missy around the car port next door, our black lace-up skates with steel wheels and no stopper occasionally catching in a crevice of the cement. My body would fly through the air, I would land on my belly with the wind knocked out of me, but in the next minute I would be up and skating again. Big Bro was on his skateboard and the cousins were playing with the dogs, shooting hoops or standing by the gate talking to a neighborhood friend or two. If it was a week before Halloween, “Monster Mash” drifted out of the stereo’s speakers from it’s corner in the house near the living room’s picture glass window. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” by the Jackson 5 meant Christmas was just around the corner. If the entire soundtrack album for “Grease” played twice while we were skating out there, it meant that it was August and we were all anxious to get back to school. No matter what, every song had a different effect on us. Big Bro would contort his face and make Frankensteinian movements toward us during “Monster Mash”. Missy would sing along with Michael Jackson with an innocence only she was capable of. I would belt out “Hopelessly Devoted” in what I thought was my best Olivia Newton John voice while gracefully floating in a circle...until my wheels would hit a crevice and I would go flying into oblivion, peals of laughter rising up around me.

During the summer months, a journey to the North Shore for world famous shave ice was usually on the agenda. We’d drive down to Haleiwa with the cousins and a song with what has to be the most familiar lyrics ever would start playing on the radio. At the time, I didn’t really know what the song was about nor did I care about it’s meaning, but the refrain was so catchy, it’s really the only part of the song we all knew and sang out loud on those memorable car rides. “If you like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain...” We always called it the Pina Colada song only to discover later that it was titled, “Escape” by Rupert Holmes. I hadn’t learned yet what a Pina Colada was or how blitzed 2 or 10 of them could make you feel if consumed in quick succession, but it was certainly a fun pair of words to sing out loud. Road trip music works its magic in this way.

For the first few years of Baby Sister’s life, I thought she was going to grow up and be the entertainer extraordinaire of our family. She loved prancing around in her multi-colored Dove shorts (one for every day of the week) holding a pink, Goody hair comb in her hand and singing “Gloria” by Laura Branigan into it with unmitigated gusto. Sure, she was lip syncing, but we had high hopes for her. Eventually she fell into the same musically talented category her older siblings arrived at one by one...the one where you have no talent in that particular area. Fortunately, we all found our talents on much less intimidating turf, but Baby Sister can chant in the ancient Hawaiian way and it is one of the most remarkable things in the world to behold.

Growing up in Hawai’i meant being surrounded by Hawaiian music. My parents still have the well-preserved collection of Hawaiian music albums we grew up on, some of it not readily available on CD or on iTunes. Every once in a while, I will sit in the room of our house where our modern day record player is located and reminisce about my “small kid days” as the turntable spins. I sing along with Hawaiian music royalty like Hui ‘Ohana, Marlene Sai, and the ‘Ohana Serenaders. I remember how I used to proudly sing, “Sweet Weuweu” by the Sons of Hawai’i, thinking that everyone would be impressed by my correct pronunciation of the Hawaiian words. It wasn’t long before I was gently informed by my mother that it was a song about pakalolo, or as it is more commonly known, marijuana. I love the way Leinaala Haili sang “Akaka Falls” and to this day, Melveen Leed’s “Kanaka Wai Wai” renders me absolutely speechless. Rarely does a song sung by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole do anything less than pull on every one of my heartstrings and Rhoda Kekona’s “My Darling Love” reminds me why I believe in love in the first place. One of my favorite Tina Kaapana songs was “Kanaka Leo Nui” mostly because it showcased the full bloom of her beautiful voice which lifted the melody on it’s higher notes, filled in the pukas (or empty spaces) with the slightly lower timbre of her alto and held it all together to carry it through with her tenor vocalization.

Music, much like books and reading, opened many doors for me and it is especially powerful in sparking the memories I hold dear. I continue to grow with every new song I am introduced to and now, I have music memories with my daughter. Mostly it’s because we sing the wrong lyrics together a majority of the time, but it is our special musical connection and entertaining material for a future blog post.

Words with friends

I was recently introduced to another popular game application (or app as iPhonites and iPodites like to call them) that I can play right on my phone. I’ve always been amazed at everything I can do on my pretty, little black cellular communication device but this is more than even I dared ask of something so small, but so smart. At least the glass LCD display is Mercury-free and arsenic free and all the accessories are PVC-free. This knowledge helps decrease my eternal environmental liability (I hope) as I dive head first into technology heaven.

As I was saying or attempting to suggest, games are a wonderful way to de-stress at the end of a busy day, or begin what will inevitably become a stressful, busy day, or indulge in right in the middle of a busy, stressful day. Honestly my days are not stressful, but I loosely use the word here to campaign for game playing rights for all those who do experience stress on a regular basis. Words with friends could be just the kind of quiet amusement to remedy “having one of those days”. However, you will not be very quiet or find it in any way amusing when your opponent blasts you with a triple letter, triple word score. You have now been forewarned.

Words with Friends has become a great way to wile away the hours that could otherwise be spent composing posts for my blog, finishing my work on book 3 of the Worthy Trilogy and spending oodles (valid word with a min. score of 8) of quality time with loved ones. Partaking of this highly intellectual pastime has quickly moved into addiction territory for me and the last time I felt this way about something was...last night as I lay in bed reading the last 7 chapters of a book I started 3 days ago and put down only for food, showers, reading to my daughter before bed, oh and you know, commuting to and from an actual place of gainful employment and doing the job I was hired to do. I can’t help it. I love to read and consuming a book in one sitting if at all possible is my idea of a good time.

Getting back to “Words with Friends”...It’s basically Scrabble but more interactive as you can play several different games online with several different people. Tile placement rather than fancy words are ultra (valid word with a min. score of 7) important in this game and I’ve discovered a few strategies along the way, revealed to me by the veteran “Words” enthusiasts I’ve been playing with. For example, I learned that using all of my tiles to form longer words decreases my opponent’s ability to make words with the tiles they do have since we share 90 tiles throughout the game and I get an extra 35 points for using all my tiles in one turn. However, there is risk to this tactic if vowels are placed next to premium squares such as DL and TL, setting up my opponent for power placement of an X, Q or Z since these letters naturally come before or after a vowel in many words. The trick is to form words that would result in placing consonants next to premium squares as all vowels, save for the U (2 points) are worth a measly point each.

As you can imagine, a “Words” game can be a particularly lengthy process. I have found myself sitting cross-legged on my bed for hours, trying to trick the app into believing “safter” is an actual word because I have an F tile (4 points)to place and it would be nice if I could drop it in a TL square that is aligned with a TW point advantage. And I consider myself a wordsmith by nature!

My only complaint about “Words” is that it doesn’t let me form words I really want to use. Someone really needs to develop a version of it that incorporates pop culture references. Do you know how many times I could have spelled out “Jedi”, “Vader” and “Zeus”? Why are these proper nouns not even included in this otherwise delightful games’ lexicon? J and Z tiles are worth 10 points, V tiles are worth 5 and placed strategically, could add up to quite a lot of points. If there is such a game out there please let me know as I am the self-proclaimed Trivial Pursuit “Pop Culture Queen”. At least until someone comes along and usurps (a valid word with a minimum score of 11, but could result in as much as 33 points if placed properly) my title, which is the only sure way to get it from me.

Words with Friends...check it out.

The Sex Talk

A friend recently described for me how her 11-year old son told her he had "held hands with a girl" during a movie they watched while out at a summer program activity. She was mildly and understandably anxious about it. My first reaction was one of stunned realization. I smiled, said, "oh oh", but really thought the incident sounded entirely harmless. This is of course because I hadn't had the same conversation with my 10-year old daughter the night before while getting ready for bed like she had experienced with her son. Are we at that point already?

Admittedly, I haven't had an in-depth conversation with my daugther about sex except to point out that boys and girls are different and can make babies with each other. I know, I'm not exactly going to win awards for that one, but it made me think about my thoughts and feelings on the subject of "boys" in relation to me when I was that age.

I am the 3rd child of 4. My brother is 3 years older than me, my baby sister is 8 years younger than me. I have a sister who is a year older than me, but since we were treated like twins and spent most of our childhood practically joined at the hip, our experiences are one and the same. (This background information is essential as you will soon realize.)

At the tender age of 10, I was for all intents and purposes considered a tomboy. I wasn't as rough and tough as some of my more rougher and tougher counterparts (they know who they are), but I was pretty sure at that age that I didn't like a boy enough to touch him or let him touch me. My reluctance for mere physical contact stems from a conversation I had with my brother when I was about 8. My older sister sat next to me on the floor of our bedroom (which also doubled as the very sophisticated "Barbie City"), Malibu Barbie in hand while the baby lay sleeping in her playpen. I guess they changed the name to play yard in the late nineties when it seemed barbaric to keep your young 'uns in "pens". This is how it went:

Big Bro: "Do you talk to the boys?"

Me: "Barely and only during kickball."

Big Bro: "Do they try to talk to you?"

Me: "I don't know. Does screaming at me to 'pitch' better count?"

Big Bro: "It does. It's the first sign that they 'like' you."

Me: "What?"

Big Bro: "Boys always act like they hate you when really they like you."

Me: "That doesn't make any sense. Can we go outside and build a fort now?"

This is when the conversation should have ended as my over the top enthusiasm for the subject was quickly dwindling. I didn't really care enough about boys to give them much thought outside of who would make the best addition to my team so we could win at kickball during recess.

Big Bro: "You know they only want one thing."

Me: "My lunch money?"

Big Bro: "No, silly! They want to get inside your panty."

Me: "What? Why?"

Big Bro: "They want to touch your body and make you red."

Me: "What?"

Beads of sweat begin to emerge on my forehead and I become almost catatonic.

Big Bro: "It's true and a well known fact."

Me: "What happens after I turn red? Do I die of heat burn?"

By this point, I have cotton mouth, I can barely breathe let alone speak and my knees begin to sound like the bamboo poles in a game of Tinikling as they get beat and tapped against each other.

Big Bro: "Close. You burst into flame and then everyone knows it's because you let a boy touch your body."

My mouth is agape, my eyes have begun to tear up ridiculously and I am without words. Not to mention, the eyes of my sister are as big as saucers and the baby is now awake because of all the commotion around her.

Big Bro: "So, now you know. No funny business!"

The thought of a fiery display confirming the naughty things I could have been doing was almost too much to bear. If my brother was trying to scare the living crap out of me, he had succeeded, ad infinitum. I did not touch a boy, or let a boy touch me...until much later down the road after a few health education classes and my first experience at 16 holding a boys hand did not end for us in a heap of ash.

It's true that I was completely traumatized by this story for many years after I heard it and I wouldn't wish the same horror on any child of an impressionable age. However, it did work. Is this the sex talk I'm going to have with my daugther? Yeah, probably!

Gratitude

Thanksgiving is just...well, a jump away actually, as if anyone reading this needed that reminder. I thought gratitude would be a worthy topic to discuss this week. Unfortunately, I have a bone to pick before I get to the good stuff.

For me, (and most everyone I know), gratitude boils down to good manners and the respectful way we treat people. Emily Post, the undisputed world champion of all things manner related said, “manner is personality—the outward manifestation of one’s innate character and attitude toward life.” In addition, she vehemently believed that manners could be learned if one did not happen to have any. This certainly holds true for my experience of growing up as well as living as an adult in Hawai’i.

When I was a child, relatives from town (any area outside my community) would stop in from time to time to visit with my parents. They always brought something not readily available for our eager consumption. The recognizable boxes were the first indication of what I would be feasting on for the day. Pink boxes held manapua (a meat-filled bun; char siu bao), and white boxes were filled with malasadas, a Portuguese, sugary pastry dessert. Showing up with food was widely accepted and appreciated. Excuses were never made to avoid eating something. You were grateful for the offering. Diabetic? You just ate one malasada and said thank you. Don’t like pork? You just ate the bread and gave the pork to the sibling that liked it more than the bread and said thank you.

“Showing up empty handed” to any social situation in Hawai’i (and many other places in our global community) is a big no-no. You just don’t do it. You better show up with something and 98.9% of the time, you show up with food. The Japanese tradition of gift giving or “omiyage” was introduced locally during the early plantation days and the concept seemed to weave itself into the fabric of our lives. These gifts of food are rarely presented in beautifully printed squares of fabric called “furoshiki” like they do it in Japan, but the idea is the same in that it is meant to honor the recipient who is also your host. Much effort is put into the selection of just the right omiyage to present to someone in their home or office.

On one particularly festive occasion, during the time of year when the baking of sugar cookies and gingerbread men are in full throttle, my offer of baked goods was adamantly declined. Earlier that morning, I had enthusiastically mixed the ingredients for the cookie dough, lovingly shaped the precious, little morsels and delicately packed them in an attractive, reusable container. Those Russian Tea Cookies were almost required, like admission wherever I happened to turn up during many a holiday season. They were an ultimate comfort food as they could not be had without the proverbial glass of milk. To say that I was a little miffed, maybe a tad rebuffed...that would be putting it mildly.

The main offense for me was that I had actually phoned this particular host (a newer acquaintance at the time) earlier in the week to ask if there was anything the members of the household didn’t eat. “Oh gosh, we eat just about anything,” she said. Except nuts, apparently. As soon as she saw the cookies she asked me, “These have nuts in them, don’t they?” Ignoring the panicked look in her eyes, I answered, “Why yes, they have walnuts in them.” Food allergies. This is just a shot in the dark, but I believe any food item that makes your head swell up like a balloon and your skin break out in a horrendous rash, falls neatly into the category of food items members of your household don’t eat. She sent me home with my cookies in a ziplock bag and kept the attractive, reusable container.

Another time, I rushed about trying to find the right kind of pie to take to a friends’ house after she had invited me to an impromptu gathering in her new home. I remembered that she had received not one, but two ceramic pie dishes a month earlier at her house warming potluck. A very lively conversation immediately ensued about her love for sinfully, sexy fruit pies. This was the first I had ever heard about treats other than chocolate that were considered sinful, but what stuck with me were the words fruit and pie.

I finally found the most perfect looking apple pie and since I didn’t bake it myself, I decided to wrap the pie container in furoshiki. I thought this would make the gift more special. She was thrilled with the pretty fabric and the fancy way I had wrapped the omiyage. When she discovered the apple pie hidden within the soft folds of the furoshiki, I could swear I heard her gasp. She looked at me across the island in her kitchen, a grave look on her face and said, “We don’t eat apple pie here.” That’s it, no further explanation was given.

What in the name of all that is decent and holy? Not only was this one of the rudest comments anyone has ever made to me, but I truly wondered if I was dining in the home of a twisted and beleaguered ex-patriot. I don’t know why I was so surprised. After all, she used a word like sexy to describe fruit pies, for crying out loud! I faked a “stomach issue” during the first round of appetizers and got the hell out of there! She literally tossed the uneaten pie at me as I rushed out her front door and I heard her exclaim, “thanks for the pretty fabric!”

Oh, I could just go on and on in this fashion for days. Instead, here are a few “winning” highlights of my omiyage journey: the guava chiffon cake I discovered in the kitchen trash after returning to the party when I realized I forgot my cell phone on the counter near the sink. Eight minutes had elapsed since my original departure.

The Chocolate Haupia Pie from Ted’s Bakery that remained largely untouched, (I had a piece of course), by a group of women gathered for a passion party; I later found out that everyone was on a diet and in a strange competition (with a cash prize) to lose the most amount of weight in the least amount of time.

The freshly baked blueberry scones that were sent home with me at the end of a breakfast party because the group didn’t like scones, but failed to mention this important fact when they were brought up in conversation about ideal breakfast foods: scones originally made the list.

The miso soup a sick friend wouldn’t drink because she was convinced it would give her the runs. Nevermind that she ordered it every time we shared a Japanese meal together.

Well, you can just imagine how all of this has affected my ability to present omiyage to anyone. I find it quite difficult at times to make the effort to select just the right food item to share at a gathering. Now, I just show up with practical, sundry items. A 4- pack of toilet tissue, a 13oz bottle of unscented hand sanitizer, a pair of beach towels, two rolls of individually wrapped paper towel, a package of napkins, several pairs of rubber slippers in different sizes, a bulk pack of AA batteries (they seem to be used the most), a box of J&J Q-tips (they’re the best) and two packages of Japanese washcloths (you can’t get clean without them).

Most people laugh, thank me heartily and I feel secure in the knowledge that they will never send me home at the end of a party with anything I presented them with and they could never bring themselves to throw any of those items away. For that, I am truly grateful.