little green thumb

My father has maintained a garden in my great-grandmother's backyard for the past eight or nine years. Every year he and my step-mother plant tomatoes, daikon radishes, squash, cucumber, arugula, carrots, turnips and the like, as well as a variety of herbs. I wish I could do this. Correction: I wish I had the attention-span to do this. A veggie garden always sounds so nice in my head, and then when I buy a pot of herbs at Trader Joe's to give it a test run, they're dead by the end of the month. I've bought this same pot of herbs five times now. I can be very poor at carrying things out...Zach calls it shiny-object syndrome.

Luckily Addie and Louie will be able to experience the joys of gardening through my father and Zach's mother. It was far too cold this last trip up to Washington to get any real gardening experience in, but Addie was still able to spend a little time with her Grandpa Johnson, digging up turnips and carrots, and raking leaves in the yard. Child labor is always the way to go in these situations...

How have I managed to keep this child alive for two years, yet killed every plant in my possession?!

flowers from my father

I 'm conflicted about telling this story (you'll see why) but I think it's necessary since it's been on my mind since May 27th. The day Zach and I were married.

photo credit: John Olmsted

We decided to get married one week before the 27th. The extent of my planning included: calling San Francisco City Hall registrar, booking a small public ceremony, buying my dress at Anthropologie and nice clothes for Zach at Banana Republic, and informing my family that they were to meet us at 12:30 on Thursday. I purposely kept it as low-key and stress-free as possible.

Still, I felt nervous the day of the ceremony and regretted that I hadn't thought it through more carefully. My legs weren't shaved. Both of us needed haircuts. The shoes I bought didn't really match my dress. I didn't even order a bouquet. A bit of bridezilla began to creep in as I called local florists to see if they could whip up something within the hour, only to be told that they couldn't. Panicked, I threw a bunch of scrap ribbon, fabric, and scissors into the car at the last minute, thinking we could at least stop by Trader Joe's and pick up some tulips or lilies. No roses...

We left the house too late to pick up any flowers at the store, and then hit traffic on I-280. I could feel my anxiety level rising. We're going to be late for our registration appointment and they'll cancel the ceremony, I thought, and I don't even have any damn flowers on my wedding day. And I look really fat in my dress (well, I was six month pregnant at the time. dummy.).

What actually happened: we pulled up at the steps of City Hall with five minutes to spare and scored a great parking spot right out front. My father and step-mother were visiting from Washington, and they parked their car in front of ours. We were back on track.

I hurried over to my father's car to give the two further instructions, when a man standing a few feet away from me on the sidewalk suddenly spoke.

"Flowers, miss?"

He was not from America. Possibly East Indian, but I wasn't sure. He held a large bundle of red roses and he looked cold and desperate. I automatically said no thank you and didn't give him a second thought, turning back to talk to my father through the passenger window.

"Flowers, miss?"

"No THANK you." I rolled my eyes at no one in particular.

I continued to ignore his requests to please buy a flower as we pulled our clothes out of the trunk, filled the parking meters, and started walking up the steps. I turned around when I noticed that my dad wasn't with us. He was still standing on the sidewalk, having a conversation with the man. My father had a serious, sympathetic look on his face, and his hand rested on the man's shoulder. It looked like the man with the flowers was crying.

"Seriously?" I said in a loud, exasperated voice.

I was annoyed because this was typical behavior for my father. Always trying to meet strangers on the street, listen to their stories. And it usually meant that we were late to wherever we happened to be going. What followed is the part of the story I feel most ashamed of. I was so concerned about myself and my special day that I felt nothing but resentment toward the man and my father for taking attention off the task at hand...me, me, me.

"He's probably faking it so he'll buy a stupid flower," I muttered to my sister, her boyfriend, and Zach.

Minus my father and step-mother, the group of us walked into the building and went through security. They joined us five minutes later, my father holding four roses in his hand.

"WHY did you buy those? He was probably just crying so you'd feel sorry for him!"

The look on my father's face revealed a mixture of emotion: concern, sadness, compassion, and ultimately, a little disappointment at my self-centered and jaded reaction.

"No...he was really crying, Ariel,"

He went on to explain the plight of the poor man. How he came to the States to meet family. How a series of unfortunate events had left him homeless with no money to return to his country. How he didn't even have enough money for his next meal. So my father gave him twenty dollars in exchange for the roses. He hugged the man with the flowers and wished him luck for a better today and tomorrow.

"And now you have flowers for your wedding," he added.

Oh.

I was smacked with guilt...and still, anger. I felt very selfish, privately wishing all of this didn't have to happen right before we were getting married. Why did he have to stop and talk the man? Why couldn't he be more like me and the rest of the world and ignore those men and women on the street? Look the other way and go about his life?

The answers are always the same.

Because my father is good man.

(I shouldn't have expected differently. I remember when he worked as a barista in a Seattle coffee shop years ago and befriended a homeless man. He would let the man wash up in the restroom and gave him money for a couple tools (a shovel?) that the man offered to sell him. It was clear that the man suffered from mental illness, especially when he returned to the shop one day demanding that my father return the tools to him (my dad refused), but I clearly recall loving my dad for being the way he was at that time and has always has been...kind and respectful to everyone.)

I ended up with flowers on our wedding day. My step-mother took the roses, scrap lace and ribbon, a paper towel from the public bathroom, and artfully transformed them into a sweet little bouquet for me. It wasn't professionally made and I wouldn't have picked roses myself, but it was perfect. Because regardless of whether or not I wanted that man to briefly enter our lives, whether he was lying or telling the truth, whether I acted like a brat and then learned an important lesson in humility, I am grateful for the way everything happened. For the important lesson I held in both hands as I married the man I loved. For my father's act of kindness to grace us that special day.

*****

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Let's all be grateful for the blessings in our lives...

xo, Ariel

Portland: Land of food-pods and folks with SADD

Well, we've concluded our first stop on our epic Pereyo Road Trip of what the hell were we thinking!? Family Reunions.

I love Portland. I really do. The city is filled with charming neighborhoods. Streets lined with old houses, smoke floating out the chimneys, yellow leaves blanketing wet lawns. There are so many businesses housed in unconventional places--everything from gourmet restaurants serving pho and burgers out of huts and school buses, to this dress shop operating from a double-decker bus.

The food? Incredible. And cheap! Portlanders are Pod-People. Everywhere you go you run into herds of independent food-carts, or entire blocks of huts smashed side-by-side. We ate Vietnamese, Chinese, Southern, Thai, and Italian. Deep-fried okra. Authentic muffaletta sandwiches. Tender bulgogi with homemade kimchi and Miso beef-heart hash. Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm. Mouth drooling...

If you are ever in the area, I highly recommend visiting Tasty N Sons for breakfast--their home-made biscuits with honey-butter, Moroccan chicken hash, chocolate potato donuts, and roasted fall-vegetable frittata were all a-mazing. Their menu is like a tapas-bar where you can pick small plates or slightly larger dishes (like the frittata and hash). Mother's Bistro in the downtown area was also very good (and very accommodating for families), but super crowded on the weekends.

I'm pretty sure I would move here in a heartbeat if it weren't for one thing: the weather. I'm forever ruined by the good weather in California and I'm not sure I could handle living in a city where it's overcast and rainy at least sixty percent of the year. Even if it's not raining, it just feels DAMP all the time. I guess that's why everyone has beards and dresses like homeless people. Sometimes it felt like I stepped into a parallel universe where I was the only person not dressed like a hipster/crunchy granola/tree-logger person. And so serious! It was hard to coax a smile out of anyone on the street, but maybe I'm expecting too much (after all, I used to live in the "Last Hometown of America", where everyone smiles). Considering the weather, I can't really blame them for their grim expressions.

The downtown hotel we stayed at, The Nines, was waaaay too nice for us, yet the people working there were so gracious and never sneered at us, even as Addie ran barefoot through the lobby cackling like a little heathen. I'll post pics of our room soon.

We visited Zach's brother and his girlfriend the first night (they, who introduced us to the food-pod religion), and then we reunited with one of my favorite people in the world. We finally got to meet her beautiful daughter (six months younger than Addie) and the girls played together at the hotel and by the riverfront. Little girls running through the rain toward flocks of geese...

Bye, Portland. Thank you for your hospitality and giving me the opportunity to wear my new rain boots!

Next stop: Seattle!

FIRST RULE OF ROAD TRIPS WITH KIDS: DON'T GO ON ROAD TRIPS WITH KIDS

Second rule of road trips with kids: There are no rules on road trips with kids.*

That means access to all forms of junk food, fast food included, unlimited hours of watching Dora and Olivia in the car, and random nap/bedtimes.

Cue "Where is My Mind" by Pixies....

Less than 48 hours later and we are miraculously alive.

Let's just give a breakdown of what's happened so far.

November 10-11:

1:00pm: We are supposed to be leaving the house to avoid Bay Area traffic.

3:15pm: We leave the house.

4:30pm: We hit Bay Area traffic. A round of meltdowns for everyone, please! First stop of the trip.

7:30pm: Addie throws up the entire contents of her stomach all over herself. We stop at a Denny's to get cleaned up and eat the most mediocre iceberg salad ever to exist on this planet. We begin the doubt the value of this trip.

8:30pm-1am: Children blissfully sleep. Too tired to continue driving, we stop at a Motel 6 three hours south of Portland. Zoe somehow slips past Zach and escapes the hotel room, prompting Zach to sprint down the hallways in his boxer shorts until he finds her on the clerk's lap in the hotel lobby.

1am-7am: With the pent-up energy of a 10-hour drive and 4-hour nap, Addie cries, kicks, and screams to go the park for six straight hours in the hotel room. The adults do not get a single minute of sleep. Louie, because he has magical powers, sleeps through the entire demonic episode. We begin to doubt the value of having children.

8am: We embark for Portland. Children thankfully sleep most of the drive, but not without a couple stops for poop-up-the-back situations. My eye starts to twitch.

Noon: We arrive in Portland. I feel like the Pilgrims did upon seeing Plymouth Rock.

Life resumes.

To be continued!

*Of course, that's only if you ignore the first rule.

What's In A Name?

Although we have yet to get our hands on Addie's birth certificate, Zach and I have decided to legally change her name. We wanted to do it now so she never knew her original middle name confused many people into thinking it was "Nada", as in "none", or her Japanese counterparts didn't think of farts when they heard Nara---so very close to "o-nara" (which yes, means fart). Truth was, we didn't prepare her name very well in the first place. Sure, there were hundreds of options, potentials that Zach vetoed right off the bat. "Sounds like cheese." "No way, there was a girl in school with that name and she was a snobby bitch." Adeline was the one completely random name he didn't hate--when I suggested it, he paused for a moment thinking about it, and said, "Yeah, Adeline. That's pretty." And that was that.

I may be o-Nara-ing right now.

Given we waited to find out the sex of the kid until he/she was born, we never fully settled on a full name to give either boy or girl. We liked Jack for a boy. Addie for a girl. And we figured the middle names should be Japanese to reflect her background and give her relatives a fighting chance at speaking or referring to her. "Adeline" would be be pronounced "Ade-lai-ee-nu"--long and clunky to say the least, so it was shortened to "Ade-chan". Zach liked the name Nara because it was close to Inara (a character from Firefly, who, um, happened to be a high-class escort), and it meant "oak tree" in Japanese. We ignored the fact that it was confusing to pronounce in English with the rolling "r", so people would respond, "Nala? Nada?", whenever we informed them of her full name. It's become awkward. Plus, none of our family seem too fond of it, even the Japanese side, because Nara is still a weird name to give your kid in Japan...like naming your kid Apple or Zuma Nesta Rock (erm...sorry, Gwen).

In addition to the whole awkward-middle-name-fiasco, there is the issue of her last name. It's Zach's, which is great. I love the sound of his last name, and it obviously reflects that she is his daughter. But what about the person who carried her around in her body for nine months and gave birth to her? Where am I? Maybe it's narcissistic and self-centered, but it feels strange to have my child bear no name-relation to me. The whole taking your husband's name issue is very touchy for me. There's the feminist/political stance of doing away with the sexist tradition of being passed down from father to husband by assuming husband's name, but that isn't really the main reason I want to keep my name. I like my name. I like my family. It's who I've been for twenty five years. It's probably going to die out with my sister and I because we are women and don't get to pass it down to our children (yes, we have many cousins who will pass the Johnson name down, but still...).

Would a Johnson be a Johnson by any other name?

Plus, it's 2009. Why is it such a preposterous idea for the man to take the woman's last name instead? When I asked Zach if he would change his name to Zachary Johnson, he said "Um...no", and I said, "Exactly." Call me a femi-nazi (god, I hate that phrase) but if changing a woman's name that she's identified herself by her whole life isn't a big deal, than why should it be a big deal for a man to do the same? Luckily, Zach is an evolved man (heh) and has no issue with me keeping my name if we ever get married. I like many traditions, but this is one I can't get behind...personally. And that's what it is, a deeply personal issue. Some women don't think twice or invest a lot of energy into it, happily changing their names to their husband's. Many don't believe a name is what defines them, while others think sharing one family name makes them a stronger unit. I've read women say that they never felt a close tie to their maiden name because they hated or never knew their father, and gladly shed their old identities for new ones. Or it's an aesthetic issue. If your last name was unfortunate sounding and your husband has a much cooler one, why the hell not?

You could even switch BOTH man and woman's last names to a hyphenated double last name (gasp! they're on equal footing!). There is keeping one's maiden name professionally and taking your husband's last name personally. So many different choices, which is awesome, because that's what being a women today is all about--having a CHOICE. The choices become stickier when you have a kid, however. What name do you give your child? I automatically assumed Addie would have Zach's last name, which is funny since I was so conflicted about whether or not to keep mine. It was a situation where Zach cared more about it than I did, so I said that's fine, she can have your last name. After she was born, I was kind of sad that I didn't think about it more.

Now, we have the chance to change things and I think I'm happy with our decision (which isn't 100% sure quite yet). We absolutely don't want to stick her with the dreaded hyphenated last name (PERSONALLY. totally cool if other's do it)--it just makes it complicated and confusing and annoying to spell out so many letters every time you write it down or tell someone the spelling. So we're going to make Johnson her second middle name. I kind of thought second middle names were semi-pretentious, with no basis or evidence of why that was, but my dad just informed me that giving two middle names is very common is other countries. Hell, FIVE middle names is common is some places. This way, her middle name reflects my side of the family, but she won't have to write Adeline Johnson-Pereyo on every homework assignment and forms throughout her life. Happy compromise, no? As for Nara, we have no familial or personal connection with this name. I was thinking Helen, to honor Zach's maternal grandmother and my paternal grandmother; both women died young, hailed from Washington, and unfortunately were never able to meet their grandchildren or great-grandchildren. It seems we'll be saving that name for another hypothetical child since Zach suggested Josephine (a name I love and associate with Jo from Little Women), after his father's middle name, Joseph. Another happy compromise, I think.

Grandma Helen McCormick Johnson

So pretty soon, our little girl shall be known as Adeline Josephine Johnson Pereyo. I think it sounds better to the ear to switch Johnson and Pereyo, but we pick our battles... ;) And if she decides when she's sixteen that she doesn't identify with her name and wants to change it to Rainbow Samurai Valentine? That's fine too.