Warning: Japanese lady say not-so-nice things about racists!

I was in my early 20's, at a dinner party. The host, a friend of mine, used the 'N-word' in a conversation and after a couple of nervous giggles, everyone went on eating their pasta puttanesca like nothing had happened. I tried to, but couldn't and I made a feeble attempt at approaching the subject, saying something like, "About that word - it was offensive but you know that, right?" my voice shaking the entire time. I remember there were no nervous giggles after that, only a dead silence that seemed to go on forever until my friend simply responded, "I was joking," in a tone that implied I had ruined her dinner party. I still think she ruined her own party with her foul mouth and overdone penne, but I know I was in the minority.

I was in my teens, at a McDonald's with four other friends who were Asian. There we were, trying to enjoy our forty-cent Big Macs, when from the next table we heard the words "chink" and "Jap" in the louder-than-necessary conversation from four Caucasian girls at the next table as they glanced our way. Then, the unmistakable sounds of, "Ching chong ching chong," which as all Asians know, is code for, "I mock the language of your people because I am a turd." We sat there, our cheeks burning, getting angrier by the minute but saying nothing. After they left we noticed they went to sit on a bus bench. We all locked eyes over our McNuggets and knew we had the same idea. We bought four large sodas and headed to our car, two of us in the passenger-side seats armed with two drinks each. We drove by slowly, and at the perfect moment rolled down our windows, doused them in a fountain of Coke and yelled out, "CHIIIING CHONGGGGGG."

I know, I probably handled the first situation better than the second.

But what they have in common is that I feel like I did something. Anything. Fought back. Raised my voice (even if it was shaking and more of a whimper.) Went against my Asian nature and wasted FOUR WHOLE SOFT DRINKS (sorry, mom.) Did I change anything? Maybe. Probably not. But I didn't just ignore it.

I'm not sure what to make of all of the anti-Asian racism that's been stirred up by the disaster in Japan. D-list 'actors,' talk-show hosts, bloated gasbags, bimbos in push-up bras -- they've all declared open season on Asians, and particularly on the people of Japan suffering through an unimaginable tragedy. What is it about the fact that tens of thousands of people have lost their lives that's making it okay to make racist comments and insensitive jokes? Because jokes about the Tsunami are so funny, and so are jokes about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki! I laugh so hard I fall out of my rickshaw!

And make no mistake - those of you who try and defend a racist? Are just as guilty as they are.

(The Los Angeles Times even notices that there's a level of inappropriateness not seen after other recent disasters and credits it to a "reservoir of prejudice" against the Japanese people and says the disaster may be "bringing up culturally accepted prejudice against [them.]" Well, that is just great.)

Many well meaning friends (and I know they mean well) have told me to ignore it, but I've come to firmly believe that's not the solution. As an Asian friend and I discussed, ignoring it would definitely be the 'Asian' thing to do - turn the other cheek, don't give it credence. But in the end, we decided that not only do we have a right to feel outraged, but an obligation to talk about it, to complain about it, to post it ad nauseam on our Facebook walls so other people get angry, too. I'm grateful to whoever it was that was pissed off enough about that idot's Twitter comments to bring it to the attention of AFLAC so that they fired him.

(Oh wait - I have my own joke! Gilbert Gottfried used to be the voice of a duck but now he's a horse's ass! See - no racism in that and it's still hi-larious!)

More importantly, what kind of lesson am I setting for my girls if I refuse to speak up and make some noise in the face of racism, or any kind of injustice for that matter? (I'm proud of Kira for calling a classmate on an anti-gay remark he made, and then refusing to speak to him for a week. Even though she thought he was kind of cute.) I don't want them to ignore the kid making the "slanty eyes" gesture at them, or calling them "chop suey." (Yes, those are true stories.) It was a different world when I was a teen, so maybe I wouldn't recommend the Coke-dousing approach, but I certainly don't want them to sit back and say nothing. Perhaps an app to give a virtual drink-in-the-face to respond to racist remarks? Quick, find me an Asian who is good with the technology.

Last night I was talking to my cousin, and we were both saying how the tragedy in Japan has brought out a new-found pride in being Japanese. I'm feeling their pain acutely, but I'm also feeling pride in how they're handling the crisis, and the stories of their grace in the face of such extreme hardship is showing the world a whole new level of dignity. Which makes the recent ugliness directed towards them that much more painful.

And for that reason, I will speak up. I will feel hurt. I will get angry. I will fight back at the haters who try to demean me or those I love. Even if it means ruining someone's dinner party.

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Japan Quake: The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

I know the title of this post is 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly' but it's been really hard to find anything good about the disaster unfolding in Japan. Truth is, words seem so trivial and I don't even particularly feel like writing about the quake, or the tsunami or the nuclear crisis that's changing by the hour. And you know I don't do sentimental or sad very well – I prefer to keep those thoughts bottled up inside and express them by yelling at the cat or slamming doors like normal people do. But so many people have inquired about my relatives there, and I wanted to give everyone an update. It won't be well written, or profound, or even make sense. By the end of it, you may even say to yourself, "You know, I sure wish she had kept that bottled up inside."

Here's the good – my family members that live there are all safe. They are all in southern Japan and besides some rattled nerves appear to be fine. The bad, as you can imagine, is that any good news is being tempered by the fact that they have friends and associates who haven't been located, the numbers of human casualties constantly being updated on the news, and the graphic images showing the horror of the devastation. My cousin Hiroshi, who like a few of my other cousins commutes into Tokyo for business, has been giving me regular updates via Facebook and email but you can sense the uneasiness in his words, especially when he talks about the uncertainty of the situation with the nuclear reactors. I'm seriously concerned and afraid for all of them. 

Coincidentally, three of my aunts were here visiting when the quake struck. We had dinner with them that Friday night, hours after the event and my aunt was overcome as she talked about how she was unable to reach her best friend that she'd known since childhood, who lived in the town of Sendai. As far as I know she was never able to contact her. We should have been comforting them, but instead they ended up cooking us an amazing Japanese meal that was no less than eight courses. This is so characteristic of the Japanese culture – such grace and selflessness in the midst of personal grief. I'm sure you've heard the stories of how orderly and compassionate the people of Japan are being during their crisis - standing in line patiently for food, relinquishing their own rations to the elderly and the more needy - it's a lesson in civility for all of us.

We took them to the Getty Center on Saturday. They seemed to enjoy themselves, but I had the feeling that, being unfailingly polite, they were putting on a brave face for us while they were so stressed and worried about what their families were enduring back home. I felt like an idiot when I started freaking out when I thought I lost my wallet – because really, how could I go on without those five dollars and my driver's license? I fail at perspective.

There certainly has been a lot of ugly, most of it in the form of anti-Asian racism that seems to have reared its ugly head. Because really, what better time to unleash hate-speak and make crude jokes than when tens of thousands of people have lost their lives? It's incredibly disheartening, disgusting and inexcusable to me. And since I really don't want to make it just a footnote to this post, I'm going to save my thoughts on it for another time. Expect lots of cursing and angry jabs at the air with my finger.

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Our Dark Little Secret

Here's a post I wrote a couple of years ago for the LA Moms Blog. Yeah, it's old material, but try to think of it as 'revisiting previous thoughts' instead of 'recycling old crap.'

We went on a vacation recently, and two of the best days were ones where my husband and I took our daughters, 11 and 13, biking along the Truckee river in Lake Tahoe. This was the culmination of a dream of ours – not the river ride itself, but the very act of biking. Yes, you heard me right – my kids have been on this planet over a decade and just recently learned how to ride bikes. But I've decided to come clean and now I’m all about disclosure – next I’ll be telling you about my third nipple.

It really was our dark little secret. While we watched other kids riding around on their fancy two-wheelers, we could only stand by helplessly and say to ourselves, "Why not us?" It wasn’t for a lack of trying – we’d attempted to get our girls to ride numerous times but they rejected the Schwinns in favor of Razors or rollerblades. And our plan to convince the neighbors that training wheels were the new, retro, 'in' thing like bell bottoms or turntables? Totally not working.

Even humiliation wouldn't motivate them - when we encountered a pre-schooler who yelled to my older daughter that he would “teach you how to ride a bike if you want," as he whizzed by on his two-wheeler, she felt stung but still showed no interest. When she had to stop me from yelling after him spitefully, "At least she doesn't still crap her pants," I knew the situation was getting the best of me.

But I did find out I wasn't alone. Earlier this summer I was having dinner with a few other moms and after a couple of martinis I blurted out that my girls didn't know how to ride bikes. The outpouring of support I received! After we had all gathered in a big group hug and stopped crying a few of the other moms admitted that - gasp - their kids weren't bikers, either. We all found we had the same reasons for our deficiency - lack of time, lack of interest on our kids' part, lack of a pair of hot cycling shoes featuring this season's metallic. In our solidarity we all felt a great burden had been lifted, and ordered another round of martinis vowing to get right on that bicycle riding thingamajig.

But what finally broke the camel's back was what my younger daughter repeated to my husband after coming home from a birthday party a couple of weeks later. When one of the other dads found out that she lacked the cycling skills to play a round of balloon polo, he remarked to her, "What? Didn't your DAD ever teach you how to ride a bike?"

The reaction on the homefront was swift and decisive. Within hours of hearing that remark my husband had bikes at the ready, helmets cleaned and polished, a bottle of Advil discreetly tucked into his pocket and the car pointed at the nearest wide-open parking lot. With the take-charge I saw that day I have to admit I secretly wished that dad at the party had questioned my daughter as to why her family didn't have a beachfront condo on Maui.

When they drove away I wasn't optimistic. I stayed by the phone, expecting an exasperated phone call from my husband, a call from the local ER or a text from one of my daughters asking why daddy was banging his head on the pavement and crying. But lo and behold - just sixty short minutes later I picked up the phone to hear the calm voice of my husband saying, "We have two bike riders here." I hadn't felt that much relief since my 13-year-old told me she thought all the boys at her school were immature and smelled like dirt.

And we've been riding ever since. My younger daughter prefers speed and the challenge of an uphill climb, while my teenager prefers a slower pace and dreams of a way to mount her iPod and a photo of Chace Crawford on her handlebars. We've taken rides around the neighborhood, on our local bike paths, around the island of Catalina and our recent ride along the river. And any way we do it is fine - I'm just thrilled to be riding together as a family, and to emerge from the shadows of our dark secret. By the way, I was kidding about that third nipple but now that I'm sharing let me tell you how long it's been since I cleaned my refrigerator...

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Bathtubs

Lately whenever we're watching TV with the girls Kiyomi will occasionally yell out "OMIGOD BATHTUBS!" meaning she's just seen someone over the age of 23 engaging in some sort of romantic interlude. The term 'bathtubs' came about after the first time the girls saw a Cialis commercial and it was the one that ends with an older couple sitting in two side-by-side bathtubs on the beach. For some reason Kiyomi found this the most disturbing thing of all, and after it was over said, "Bathtubs? What is with the BATHTUBS? That is just WRONG." I guess the part about "erections lasting over 12 hours" didn't bother her one bit.

So then 'bathtubs' became shorthand for 'Old People Getting Too Close.' It could be kissing, or hugging or even a look shared over a cup of coffee, it didn't matter - behavior like that should only occur between young people with smooth, tight skin wearing skinny jeans and a hoodie.

If Kiyomi even so much as saw Rigel and I holding hands, she'd yell out, "Bathtubs!" as a signal that we'd better cut it out or take it out of her line of vision. Sometimes we'd freak her out by yelling the term ourselves right as we were heading out the door for a date night, or maybe as she was walking out of the room to go to bed, leaving us alone on the couch watching TV. Although I have to admit 'bathtubs' is a sexier codeword than our previous one, 'ElevenO'clockNews.'

Lately, for some reason 'bathtubs' is slowly becoming shorthand for anyone having sex, which has opened up the realm of possibilities. I like to use it as a warning for something that's coming up in a movie or show so that the girls have a chance to leave the room as in, "Now's a good time to go check your Facebook page, since there are some heavy bathtub scenes coming up." I'm wishing we had come up with the term a long time ago – it would have been nice if the question, "How are babies made?" could have been summed up in one word.

But the best part is it's given me ammo for the future for when the girls start dating. I can't wait for the day when I'm driving Kiyomi and her boyfriend to the movies, and as they're sitting there side by side in the back seat of the car I turn to look at them over my shoulder and say, "NO BATHTUBS."

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Riding on the Metro

Last Thursday night Rigel and I had tickets to see Rock Of Ages (which was fantastic by the way) at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood. Our plans included pre-theater drinks and revelry with his boss and co-workers, which means a REAL night out, not the kind where I throw on a parka over my sweats and go to the grocery store to buy cat food at 11pm just so I can say I left the house. Although, that one time it did turn into kind of a party when that toothless started singing "Ring My Bell" to me over in the bread aisle.

Because Kira had an after-school rehearsal in Hollywood that day and because there were nightmare pre-Oscar traffic conditions in the entire area, we had to come up with a crazy plan to get her back home and get me back to Hollywood in time for the show. You'll be relieved to hear we didn't go with my idea that involved some large sums of money and me disguising myself as an extra-large pizza getting delivered to the Pantages. Although I definitely think I'll find another use for this pepperoni costume that I made out of felt.

Because Rigel is a true visionary, he came up with the idea for me to take the Metro back into Hollywood, since it stops right across the street from the theater. And thus the bizarre, insane, never-before-thought-of plan for me to ride the subway came into being. I KNOW! It's like asking me to take a rocket to Mars! Or walk the grueling three blocks to the mailbox.

I'd only taken the Metro once before as part of an event marking the opening of a new station, so this would be my first ride that didn't end with free balloons and a buffet of chicken wings and cocktail wieners.

And I have to say it was a revelation.

Who knew there was this fast, shiny thing that could get you to Hollywood in less than fifteen minutes and only cost $1.50? That stopped in clean, well-lit stations that had big signs so you couldn't get lost? And that was not scary at all unless you count the guy with the hoodie pulled way over his face talking to himself and holding what looked like a gun case but was probably really just a flute.

I'm Metro all the way now, baby.

All night I couldn't stop talking about how great the Metro was! How quick I got to Hollywood! How much money I was going to save on gas! (I should apologize to Rigel's co-workers - that conversation about Libya was fascinating, but holy crap did you know we had an underground train thing right here in LA?)

And I thought riding on the Metro were just lyrics to a song by Berlin.

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Hairy

I was at a wedding shower luncheon recently and as usual when a bunch of women are gathered, the talk turned to underarm hair. How to get rid of it, how much we hate it, who invented it - like clockwork, right after salad and right before the main course we discussed these pressing issues. Then, one of the women commented that she had once seen a picture of Julia Roberts with a bushy armpit and remarked that, "It kind of made me gag." She said this with such drama, pausing and then closing her eyes and appearing to concentrate, like people do when they're either praying or passing gas.

A few of us came to Julia's defense, using the usual "It's European" argument or "Maybe her assistant forgot to shave her" theory. (Although, I noticed that everyone was careful not to raise their arms too high from that point on.) I though this was funny, mainly because this woman had such an intense reaction to Julia's hirsute pit, like the actress had gone out of her way to cause great agony and discomfort in her viewing audience. I imagined Julia waking up the morning that the photo was taken and saying to herself, 'Let me just put this right out there so that some poor soccer mom can choke on her caramel latte."

I sympathize with Julia - keeping hair under control is a bitch, and who can blame her if she didn't feel like getting out the razor that morning? I started thinking about how, with two teenage daughters, so much of our expense and energy is being poured into the styling, bleaching, removing, waxing and plucking of hair. A trip to the drug store usually results in a basket filled with no fewer than four kinds of shampoos and conditioner, an unreasonably large assortment of pins, ponytail holders and headbands and at least three different types of hair removal creams and/or devices. Just a tip: the one that resembles a lathe that you fill with napalm? Definitely not worth your $9.95, even with the added Bonus Ginsu Razor.

Absolutely true story: Recently Rigel and I went to an event, and were eagerly anticipating our night ahead of child-free revelry. Just as we were getting ready to take our first sips of our ginseng martinis his phone buzzed (mine was turned off) and it was a text from Kira that started with 'URGENT.' We were alarmed of course, until we saw the rest of it:

"PLEASE stop at Rite Aid on your way home and get CONDITIONER!!!! Pantene Pro-V Fine Hair Solutions Dry to Moisturized 12.8 oz. THANK YOU!!!!!!"

Can I just say there's no greater buzzkill than a text from your teenager with an unnecessarily detailed hair product order.

I recently took a hairy matter into my own hands and decided to pluck Kiyomi's eyebrows myself. I thought I did a pretty good job, although with all the screaming you would have thought I was shaping them with a blowtorch. So what if they didn't totally match and one of them gave her a permanent, slightly inquisitive look - that was twenty bucks saved that could be spent on an eyelash curler. I couldn't help wanting to show off my handiwork to my friends one day at a party, although perhaps dragging Kiyomi over and announcing, "I plucked these suckers myself!" may have not been the most sensitive thing I've ever done in my life, a fact that she let me know by giving me one of the fiercest glares I've ever seen (from under a perfectly shaped arch, I might add.)

Getting back to the woman at the party, I did jokingly ask her if she had ever been caught with her hair down, so to speak, and she said it was the reason she had taken to wearing long sleeves lately. As she said this she laughed and threw her head back, and I caught a glimpse of a nose hair protruding from her nostril. It kind of made me gag.

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My Gang Of New York, Part IV: We Ate Stuff

Here's another post on New York! Try not to throw things at the screen - it's my last one. And cheer up - it's about food. Who doesn't want to hear about food? I'm only going to tell you about two of my favorite food experiences while I was there, not every hot dog and pizza slice I ate. That would be totally indulgent, like having a website where you talked about yourself and posted your vacation photos. This is nothing like that.
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Mommy Needs Her Crack

I have to confess that one of the real reasons I was eager to get to New York was this:

It must have been that first line, "She thought she didn't even like sweets..." that got my attention. That was me! The writer went on to say that she had fallen in love with something called Crack Pie, and by the end of the article I was ready to shell out $44 + shipping to have one flown across the country to me. Who pays almost fifty bucks for a pie and then has it mailed to them? This was crazy talking. I decided to wait and put my money towards something sensible, like those cute rainboots for my cat.

I was obsessed, though, so I emailed my hip, young, urbanite niece Allie and asked her to try it out for me. She did, and said it was everything it was cracked up to be. (No pun intended.) After that, that crazy pie was never far from my mind and when I found out I'd be going to New York, getting my hands on some Crack was all I could think about.

Which is why on our last night of our trip we found ourselves at Momofuku Milk Bar, having our first taste of Crack Pie, thanks to Allie.

It didn't disappoint. More like a cookie because of its denseness, it was a slice of buttery, carmelized sugar heaven. Check out those ingredients – when the first four are butter, sugar, brown sugar and cream, you know you're headed straight to hell. I think it was Allie who said, "If I feel completely sick afterward it will have done its job."

In fact, it was so worth every crumb of its $5.25-per-slice price tag that I'm still considering spending the cash to have an entire pie shipped to me, just so I can share it with my friends. Besides, I'm tired of the cat telling me how to spend my money.

Epilogue: When we were leaving our hotel the next day with our Momofuku bag stuffed with take-home cookies and pie, Kiyomi was pulling my suitcase and yelled out across the crowded lobby, "Don't worry mom - I've got your crack pipe." (Of course, she was saying pie, but no one knew but us.)

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Sphere Factor!

This might be old news to you foodies, but it was the first time for me. Spheres of food - really big caviar comes to mine - that sort of explode in your mouth when you bite into it. I had it my first night in NYC, at Asiate at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It sort of feels like a really soft grape when you first put it in your mouth, and then once you bite into it you get an explosion of cranberry. Having an exploding ball of food in your mouth might not sound exciting to you, but I was intrigued. Then again, I get all tingly when the McRib is back in town, so maybe I'm easily pleased.

We had the same thing the next night at the Nintendo event, except these spheres were made with mozzarella. I have to say this one wasn't quite as tasty – I would rather have had a really good piece of actual cheese – but this time I got to see how it was done. Also, just to get extra indulgent, these were served with tiny syringes filled with basil extract. I was almost expecting to be laid down on a feather bed and fed by a naked chef. (That didn't happen, but gave me an idea for my next birthday party.)

Lucky for you I made a video of the whole process! The technique is called Spherification and was apparently made famous by a chef at the legendary restaurant El Bulli in Spain. First the liquid 'essence' is scooped up and then put into a bath of what was described as a seaweed extract, and then put into another bath of cold calcium chloride solution that sets it. The result: a sphere with a slightly crisp exterior and a liquid interior.

Try not to get distracted by my awesome video and music editing skills.



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Today On The Other Blog:

Disneyland Hotel: I Remember It Well. Not.

Here's my review of the Disneyland Hotel, where I talk about The Monkees and Leave It To Beaver. What?

Read the whole darn thing here.

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Happy Valentine's Day! Here's some awful-tasting candy for you

Remember those conversation hearts you used to pass out to your friends when you were a kid? Why did they taste so bad? Why did they taste like chalk? Why do I know what chalk tastes like?

Here's a better idea: Make your own virtual conversation heart here:

http://www.acme.com/heartmaker/

You can use up to four characters per line, on one or two lines. Now's your chance to use all those romantic cuss words on your sweetie. Have fun!

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That's the ticket!

I wrote this post over two years ago for the LA Moms Blog, back when Kira was in the throes of her Ting-Tings mania. Now she says she can barely listen to any of their songs without cringing because it reminds her of what an "obsessed fan-girl" she was. I know how she feels - 'Muskrat Love' just makes my skin crawl now.

A few weeks ago my daughter let out a scream while sitting in front of her computer.  It wasn’t exactly a scream, more of that thing twelve-year olds do to convey excitement:  a yelp followed by a couple of ‘omigods’ and punctuated by frenetic hand clapping. I figured she had just seen a cute boy on YouTube  so I ignored the commotion until she came running into my office, breathless, to announce that The Ting Tings were going to be in concert! She had a crazy look in her eyes,  kind of how my husband says I look whenever chicken breasts go on sale  for half-price at Costco.

The Ting Tings are the latest band she discovered through the amazing marketing machine known as the iPod Commercial.  I know this makes me sound old, but I remember the days when we used to discover new music by listening to the radio, or watching Soul Train or stealing our brother’s 45’s.  I’d kick back, relax and listen to my new tunes after I had finished washing my clothes down by the river and churning my own butter.

She immediately sent me a link to the website, and sure enough  there they were, IN CONCERT LIVE OMIGOD. And best of all the tickets  were a mere $16, which we all know is dirt cheap for a live show these  days since that pittance can barely buy you a movie ticket, or a cd, or  even a small coffee at Starbucks.

But as usual I procrastinated about buying those tickets, even though  she diligently asked me about them every single day.  Something always  seemed to come up that made me put it off, important things like that  extra nap I was trying to fit in, or rearranging my blogroll.  So when  the big moment came around and my husband pulled out his credit card to  place our order everyone was pretty excited, almost as much as the time I  finally broke down and ordered that tub of OxyClean I’d promised  myself.

And then we saw that the concert was sold out.

You’ve heard of "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"? How about  "hell hath no sorrow like a tween whose parents waited to long to buy  Ting Tings tickets"?  She burst into tears almost immediately after  seeing the ‘SOLD OUT’ banner appear, and continued crying as my husband  furiously searched various websites trying to score some tickets.  He  did find some on Craigslist for $95 each, and another pair on Ebay for  almost $200, but there was no way we were going to pay those prices.  It wasn’t a total bust, though, since I did find a nice set of wine  glasses and some ‘Like New!’ ski pants.

We felt awful and I could have kicked myself for not snatching up  those tickets earlier.  I tried to make her feel better by promising she  could play the CD extra loud on the night of the show and we’d all wave  our cell phones in the air, but surprisingly this didn’t cheer her up  one bit and she went to bed sniffling and sadder than ever.

After she had gone to sleep I talked my husband into making one last  effort.  It was a long shot, but how about emailing the club directly  and asking if they had any plans to add another show, or maybe even some extra tickets lying around?  Surely there was an undeserving stagehand whose tickets they’d revoke after hearing our sad story about our tween  daughter's ruined life. I even contemplated embedding an mp3 of her  muffled sobs coming from the other room but my husband said it would be  overkill, and besides it would clash with the picture of the sad-eyed  kittens he was attaching.

And we waited.  And when an email finally came in from the club the  next day, I was wary and decided to read it before calling my daughter  in. There was no need for her to see an automated response that said,  “thank you for your interest in our venue try bud light it tastes great  and is less filling.”

But I couldn’t help but let out a scream of my own when I read that,  as a matter of fact, they had a front row balcony table that they hadn’t  released to the public. That seated four people and would end up  costing us a little more than the original price but nowhere near what  they were asking on Craigslist and EBay.  I don’t think I’ve seen my  daughter so happy – it reminded me of the time I promised her I would  never wear my bathrobe again when picking her up at school.

So that’s where we’ll be going in a couple of weeks, and she’s  counting down the days.  She’s already made a sign to wave at the  concert, and her and my 10-year-old have already picked out their  outfits for that night.  And of course there’s a moral to this story:

Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today, and if you do  you’d better pray there’s a kind person working in the box office who’s  got a soft spot for sobbing twelve-year olds and kittens.

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