I probably shouldn't have eaten dinner before I went shopping for shapewear the other day. For the uninitiated, shapewear is specialized underwear whose main purpose in life is to mold a person's body into a more attractive shape using strategically placed control panels of lycra and spandex. Used appropriately (meaning, if you get the right size and type for your figure), shapewear smooths out unflattering bulges, accentuates curves (in the right places) and provides a nice line beneath your clothing.
Did I mention: If you get the right size?
Now, I support a thin woman's right to purchase shapewear; after all, they deserve a smoother line, too, but what I can't understand is why every store I have gone to in the last two weeks (5 of them) has tons of smaller sizes and very, very few of the larger. Sears at Ala Moana had RACKS of the stuff in preparation for prom season and though there were dozens of 34B in different styles and colors, there were maybe a total of five in sizes that an ample woman could wear. One would think that the larger woman is the target audience here. One would think.
I need a beige colored piece to wear under my chorus costume. We are going to competition next month and any other color would be very visible under the thin purple material of our tops. Naturally, I have black, but not beige. I thought I'd lucked out when I saw the display at Sears and though I was disappointed at the lack of selection in my size, I did find two that I thought would work.
Did I mention that shapewear also comes in different "controls?" Light control is when you need a bit of a tuck, medium is for slightly stubborn bulges and firm is for those who have come to realize that gravity is not a friend. My first choice was just all wrong--it was too sheer on top and wasn't long enough for me. The second choice was, unbeknownst to me, firm control.
If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have pulled it up from the bottom (as it should be), rather than attempt to make an over-the-head entry. If you can imagine about 783 thick, heavy-duty rubber bands stretched around your head, holding your arms against your face, you have begun to understand the evil that is shapewear.
I was fortunate that my right arm was extended at a slightly higher angle than my left; by bending my wrist as far downward as I could go, I managed to grasp the material and gave it a good yank. I'm glad I wasn't wearing earrings that night.
Shapewear 2. Judy 0.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Li Hing Who?
Whenever we have a few minutes to spare, I like to play a 20-question type game with my students. I'll give them a category (animal, person, place, etc.) and they try to figure it out by asking me questions that I can answer with a "yes" or "no". They can ask as many questions as they want but I do time them to see which class can come up with the answer in the shortest amount of time.
My current students are seniors and the majority of them had me when they were sophomores so the game is very familiar to them. Some of them have gotten significantly better at it, too; when they were sophs, the questions tended to repeat because they weren't listening closely to each other and some of the questions were not answerable by a yes or no. They've learned to tighten up the questions and that's vastly improved their guessing times.
Yesterday our three words were: tadpole, flash drive and li hing mui (the sweet-salty, dried plum treat of Chinese extraction). I thought tadpole would be the hardest but the fastest time was an incredible 33 seconds. Flash drive took something like 22 seconds. Li hing mui took anywhere from 2 minutes to 4 minutes and 5 seconds--even though they quickly narrowed it down to a Chinese snack made of some kind of fruit. Why the big time discrepancy?
It seems that this generation of students just aren't big fans of the snacks my sibs and friends scarfed up on a regular basis. For them, "li hing" is the red powder that flavors everything from cake to chocolate covered gummy bears. There is a total disconnect between the spice mixture and the dried plums they traditionally coat in oh, so many mouth-watering ways.
My children are no different. None of them want to gnaw the dried plum flesh from the seeds while their mouths salivate uncontrollably and their eyes just can't help but wink rapidly in response to the burst of salty goodness on their tongues. Even the moist and succulent wiles of a juicy-type li hing mui doesn't tempt them. The wretches.
A and T don't eat arare, AKA mochi crunch, AKA the rice cracker. C will eat it occasionally because he is a fan of crunchy snacks, but I can't think of any snack that any of them eat because it tastes good AND because there is a nostalgic appeal. For instance, I love arare but I'm not always sure if it's because it tastes so good or because I remember buying little waxed packets of them for 10 cents from a tiny store on the corner, just a block away from the garage where I took hula lessons on Tuesday afternoons. The proprietor made his own li hing mui, too; they came 3 to a packet for 15 cents and they were some of the tenderest and tastiest seeds I can remember eating. On the way home from our lesson, the other neighborhood girls and I always stopped off for a packet or two. It was just one more reason to look forward to Tuesday afternoons.
Well, arare and li hing mui may cost way more than 10 cents today and my hula days are long behind me; but the memories of my old neighborhood, a few prized treats and the friends who shared them with me are still fresh and sharp; they are the burst of juice from a lemon stuck full of li hing treasure. Try that for a sore throat!
My current students are seniors and the majority of them had me when they were sophomores so the game is very familiar to them. Some of them have gotten significantly better at it, too; when they were sophs, the questions tended to repeat because they weren't listening closely to each other and some of the questions were not answerable by a yes or no. They've learned to tighten up the questions and that's vastly improved their guessing times.
Yesterday our three words were: tadpole, flash drive and li hing mui (the sweet-salty, dried plum treat of Chinese extraction). I thought tadpole would be the hardest but the fastest time was an incredible 33 seconds. Flash drive took something like 22 seconds. Li hing mui took anywhere from 2 minutes to 4 minutes and 5 seconds--even though they quickly narrowed it down to a Chinese snack made of some kind of fruit. Why the big time discrepancy?
It seems that this generation of students just aren't big fans of the snacks my sibs and friends scarfed up on a regular basis. For them, "li hing" is the red powder that flavors everything from cake to chocolate covered gummy bears. There is a total disconnect between the spice mixture and the dried plums they traditionally coat in oh, so many mouth-watering ways.
My children are no different. None of them want to gnaw the dried plum flesh from the seeds while their mouths salivate uncontrollably and their eyes just can't help but wink rapidly in response to the burst of salty goodness on their tongues. Even the moist and succulent wiles of a juicy-type li hing mui doesn't tempt them. The wretches.
A and T don't eat arare, AKA mochi crunch, AKA the rice cracker. C will eat it occasionally because he is a fan of crunchy snacks, but I can't think of any snack that any of them eat because it tastes good AND because there is a nostalgic appeal. For instance, I love arare but I'm not always sure if it's because it tastes so good or because I remember buying little waxed packets of them for 10 cents from a tiny store on the corner, just a block away from the garage where I took hula lessons on Tuesday afternoons. The proprietor made his own li hing mui, too; they came 3 to a packet for 15 cents and they were some of the tenderest and tastiest seeds I can remember eating. On the way home from our lesson, the other neighborhood girls and I always stopped off for a packet or two. It was just one more reason to look forward to Tuesday afternoons.
Well, arare and li hing mui may cost way more than 10 cents today and my hula days are long behind me; but the memories of my old neighborhood, a few prized treats and the friends who shared them with me are still fresh and sharp; they are the burst of juice from a lemon stuck full of li hing treasure. Try that for a sore throat!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
A Cat's Tale
My neighbor has an orange and white tabby cat and every time I see it, I think of Tiger, the first cat my family ever "owned." Tiger actually started off with one of our neighbors; back then, spaying and neutering cats were just not commonly done so it was no surprise that this particular family had an overabundance of felines patrolling their property. The mother belonged to them but the kittens, well, they just seemed to belong to everybody.
Tiger wandered over to our yard a time or two and after several surreptitious feedings on our part, he decided to hang around. Mom wasn't thrilled with the prospect; she was not particularly big on animals back then and I think she was also uncomfortable about whether or not keeping Tiger violated our rental agreement--it specified "no dogs" but the atmosphere didn't exactly feel welcoming toward "non-dog" creatures either.
Anyway, Tiger grew from a scrawny, affectionate kitten into a muscular, affection cat with the typical big-headed physique of the average unneutered tom. And like all sexually mature males, it was not long till he was off looking for action. He would disappear for a day or two and return with gouges on the top of his head and teeth marks in his ears. That's about when one of the feral cats in the neighborhood went into heat.
There used to be a big empty lot behind our house and for the next week or so, it was a common sight to see Tiger and every other tom cat in the vicinity fighting for the opportunity to win the favor of the lady in question, an ordinary black cat with yellow eyes and a wild, frightened expression. Their warning wails and battle cries, their ferocious attacks and determined chases stirred up the field and peace throughout the days and nights. Then it was over. Tiger was triumphant and his displays of, uh, affection, were highly public and highly vocal.
This is where it gets interesting. At mealtimes, Tiger was suddenly disinterested; rather than scarfing his food as usual, he would sniff it and sit back. As soon as we were out of sight, he'd meow and the little black female would scurry out from under the house and hastily gulp down his meal. It happened repeatedly over the next few weeks as the female grew significantly heavier and rounder.
She disappeared and we assumed she was hiding out somewhere to have the kittens. Tiger went back to eating his meals and we thought things were back to normal. We thought. A few weeks later, we saw Tiger sitting in the middle of the field. He said, "mrow, mrow, mrow," and out of the bushes came 5 kittens--all were black with orange and white splotches. I will never forget my mother's tone when he started leading them to our house; all she said was, "Oh, no," but the dread, disbelief, horror, resignation she put into those two words!
When we weren't around, the kittens would sleep in his bed and eat his food. Two of the kittens disappeared not long afterwards but three stuck around; one became very tame, one was moderately so and the other was nearly as wild as his mother. Mom had to put her foot down on this one; a single cat was doable but not four. The kittens were caged and dropped off at the Humane Society.
It was clear to me that Tiger was looking for them. He left some of his food at mealtimes, followed us around and meowed incessantly. And, as if things could not get more unbelievable, he returned one day with a young cat--it was one of the two who had not stuck around with its siblings before! This cat had been wild and untouchable previously but became affectionate and people-friendly, seemingly overnight, upon her return. A few days after it became obvious that we were going to let her stay, Tiger left. We never saw him again.
I named his daughter Squeaky because of her strangely high-pitched vocalizations. She was with us for about a year; she mated once during that time period and had two stillborn offspring. Not long after, she left and we never saw her again either.
Since all of our cats lived outdoors, it is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility that they were, unbeknownst to us, killed by a car or something, but the timing of their departures always made me wonder; Tiger brought home his offspring to us twice and left immediately after Squeaky was accepted. Squeaky left as soon as she had her babies. It's as though they knew their time with us was coming to an end and they wanted to leave us with a replacement. A fanciful thought perhaps, but anyone who has ever had a cat knows that they are the uncanniest of creatures; what they do and think goes beyond our ability to understand.
Tiger wandered over to our yard a time or two and after several surreptitious feedings on our part, he decided to hang around. Mom wasn't thrilled with the prospect; she was not particularly big on animals back then and I think she was also uncomfortable about whether or not keeping Tiger violated our rental agreement--it specified "no dogs" but the atmosphere didn't exactly feel welcoming toward "non-dog" creatures either.
Anyway, Tiger grew from a scrawny, affectionate kitten into a muscular, affection cat with the typical big-headed physique of the average unneutered tom. And like all sexually mature males, it was not long till he was off looking for action. He would disappear for a day or two and return with gouges on the top of his head and teeth marks in his ears. That's about when one of the feral cats in the neighborhood went into heat.
There used to be a big empty lot behind our house and for the next week or so, it was a common sight to see Tiger and every other tom cat in the vicinity fighting for the opportunity to win the favor of the lady in question, an ordinary black cat with yellow eyes and a wild, frightened expression. Their warning wails and battle cries, their ferocious attacks and determined chases stirred up the field and peace throughout the days and nights. Then it was over. Tiger was triumphant and his displays of, uh, affection, were highly public and highly vocal.
This is where it gets interesting. At mealtimes, Tiger was suddenly disinterested; rather than scarfing his food as usual, he would sniff it and sit back. As soon as we were out of sight, he'd meow and the little black female would scurry out from under the house and hastily gulp down his meal. It happened repeatedly over the next few weeks as the female grew significantly heavier and rounder.
She disappeared and we assumed she was hiding out somewhere to have the kittens. Tiger went back to eating his meals and we thought things were back to normal. We thought. A few weeks later, we saw Tiger sitting in the middle of the field. He said, "mrow, mrow, mrow," and out of the bushes came 5 kittens--all were black with orange and white splotches. I will never forget my mother's tone when he started leading them to our house; all she said was, "Oh, no," but the dread, disbelief, horror, resignation she put into those two words!
When we weren't around, the kittens would sleep in his bed and eat his food. Two of the kittens disappeared not long afterwards but three stuck around; one became very tame, one was moderately so and the other was nearly as wild as his mother. Mom had to put her foot down on this one; a single cat was doable but not four. The kittens were caged and dropped off at the Humane Society.
It was clear to me that Tiger was looking for them. He left some of his food at mealtimes, followed us around and meowed incessantly. And, as if things could not get more unbelievable, he returned one day with a young cat--it was one of the two who had not stuck around with its siblings before! This cat had been wild and untouchable previously but became affectionate and people-friendly, seemingly overnight, upon her return. A few days after it became obvious that we were going to let her stay, Tiger left. We never saw him again.
I named his daughter Squeaky because of her strangely high-pitched vocalizations. She was with us for about a year; she mated once during that time period and had two stillborn offspring. Not long after, she left and we never saw her again either.
Since all of our cats lived outdoors, it is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility that they were, unbeknownst to us, killed by a car or something, but the timing of their departures always made me wonder; Tiger brought home his offspring to us twice and left immediately after Squeaky was accepted. Squeaky left as soon as she had her babies. It's as though they knew their time with us was coming to an end and they wanted to leave us with a replacement. A fanciful thought perhaps, but anyone who has ever had a cat knows that they are the uncanniest of creatures; what they do and think goes beyond our ability to understand.
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