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!