Christmas 2010

Tung loves Christmas. It's filled with cozy fires in the hearth, presents, lots of time spent with family, and good-food overload, which pretty much sums up his favorite things in the world, not counting cars.



This year, we bought a real tree for our very first Christmas at our new house. We toted it home in reliable Lil' White.


Tung put up the ornaments after we got it into the tree stand and in its place in our living room.


Viola! Ze finished tree. Ooooh, sparkly.


The first dinner party was with Tung's family. Servin' up some pasta with chicken cooked in coconut juice...



...and a buche-de-noel from my mother.


Whoa, presents galore! And the Sen family's rat terrier, Ziggy.


"Which one is Ziggy's? Which one is Ziggy's?!"



Tung with his mom...

...Tung with his dad.


Tung's sister, Vi, with her boyfriend, James.


"Whatcha get, Tung, whatcha get?" It's a headset for audio and gaming from his dad!


Yup, once a writer, always a writer. Made even cooler with the digital-memory, Livescribe pen technology.


Next up, we had a dinner party for my family. Servin' up some "nuong vi" and "ca cuon." We cook pre-marinaded beef, calamari, shrimp, and onions on a hot griddle straight at the table, rolled in rice paper with fresh greens and vermicelli. Who needs a turkey or ham, anyway?


Posing with my parents.


My brother Johnny (left), his girlfriend Duong, and my other brother, David.


"Please help Gosey open present. Please, please open! Gosey been good all year--Gosey promises!"


"Oooh, oooh! New toy! Gosey is so happy!"


"Phew. Gosey is all tuckered out. Christmas is hard work."

Uniform

Sensei says that aikido is like a uniform we wear for as long as we train in the art, even after we leave the dojo for the day, for we practice its principles both on the mat and off. Those shihonages that torque my wrist are like the annoying tag that I forgot to cut off, sharp edges jabbing into my sensitive skin. Those ikkyo pins that send a stab of pain shooting up the bad elbow are like the garment’s chafing, stiff collar, hard to ignore. I have to stop yanking on my ikkyo uras and remember to use my hips during the turn; after all, it’s not the skirt that keeps riding up. Those breakfalls look unnatural on me, and I confess they’re not my usual style, though everyone seems to be quite taken by them these days. And those koshinages, bane of my existence, both because I am so bad at them and yet long to do them right so badly—they stick out like flyaway threads gone awry and untrimmed.

I’ve never been one for uniforms. Throughout school, even though I admit to the weirdness of the Goth, heavy-metal, and flamboyant-fashionista looks, I understood them to be an expression of individuality. Uniforms, I felt, suppressed that freedom and creativity. But something about my aikido uniform I’ve gotten to like, the ritual of getting into and out of it almost every day. I like the loose, billowing hakama pants, how they’re just long enough to tuck my feet in the skirts for warmth as I sit seiza in the cold winter months, awaiting instruction. I like how the stiff koshiita, which I despised at first because it hurt my back after doing rolls, now serves as a reminder for me to keep my back straight. I like pulling my long hair back in a sporty ponytail and clipping the flyaway hair in barrettes to keep it off my face as I train. And though I used to think that all uniforms are the same, I’ve come to appreciate the uniqueness and quirks of each of my gi’s.

I haven’t yet completely broken my aikido uniform into the tell-tale signs of hard use. Sometimes, I’m groping in the hakama vents to pull down a gi jacket too intent on riding up. Sometimes, the hakama has its rebellious days, refusing to fold at the correct creases. But I will get to owning it like a second skin. I will continue to practice and exercise until it looks good and fits right on me.

Housewarming - Friends Edition

Tung and I held a housewarming for our friends, separated from the housewarming for our family because, let's face it, only so many people could fit in a house at once, and throwing two Asian families together must hit some sort of legal room capacity in the event of a fire escape. We had such a good time with everyone!

Tung's coworkers from Actel (now MicroSemi) kicked it in the back yard around the BBQ grill used to serve Top Dogs hot dogs to everybody. Special thanks to Gene (in red) and his wife Veronica for coming early to help us grill those bad boys.


We thought distracting their two kids with our Wii was a fair trade-off. Heck, while we were at it, we'll distract everyone else's kids with the Wii!


My coworker Alba also graced the house with her family's presence:


Along with the Sudres--bonjour, mon amis! I love the striped-shirt family theme.


And Elia's hogging the blogging spotlight a bit here, but who could resist this adorable picture of her? Wheee! Sitting on a platform wall, wheee!


We got to see some old college buddies from our San Jose State days. Here is Randy (freakishly tall Asian dude--some sort of mutant gene there) and his lovely girlfriend, Kat.


A gang of us used to kick it at the former Clark Library at the center of campus with Bryan (pictured below). Well, more correctly, I was studying like a good student and Tung and his guy buddies would oggle at girls in their bachelorhood days and play prank jokes on each other in the Men's restroom, but who's counting.


And who can mention SJSU without some of my lovely ladies from the English Major program? Liane (in pink) and I are still pen pals to this day. Yes, we write each other longhand and send it through traditional snail-mail post, because we're geeks that way. And Stephanie (in white)--haha, we had such hardcore Asian-American lit pride. Good ol' days.


My friend Julie and I go way back, all the way to the 3rd grade when we first met! She is just one day older than me, but clearly the overachiever already with husband and baby daughter...


...Ms. Bella pictured below, blissfully zonked out on our guest bed. "Bah, parties are for adults. They don't know what good sleep they're missing out on."


And here is part of my Aikido of Silicon Valley crew. I'm surprised we all resisted the urge to put each other in wrist locks and start throwing each other in hip throws on the lawn. What a happy, sweet group picture--you'd never guess we go beating each other up on an almost-daily basis.


Thanks, everyone, for all your gifts...


...and for encouraging the alcoholism in us. You all are the greatest buddies, really, and much too kind. The house would have been "lukewarm" without you (and all this booze).

Being Sempai

I remember when she had just joined the dojo, a female comrade amidst the sea of men, a bit bumbling and awkward, not unlike myself, questioning her own techniques, muttering self-criticisms through training. I remember her bowing into me, holding onto her narrow wrists, feeling out the movements of her body, seeing her potential. She showed up regularly to train and progressed fast through the ranks.

As I sit in the middle of a line-up bifurcated by the shomen, I try on this role of being Sempai like new clothes, these attempts to explain techniques for the first time to curious Kohai. I pay closer attention to where to put my hands and feet and thumbs, how to stand in correct posture for various techniques, and how to point the toes, so I can tell them correctly when they ask me. In my dojo, junior-ranking students initiate the attack, and I get used to those little things like allowing myself to be grabbed first at the start of each new techniques, or positioning us so the uke falls to the outside of the circle and not clash into those training behind us.

Sometimes I hear my Sempai’s voice in my head as a self-reprimand, or hear him echoed through my own words: “Stay on the mat—don’t throw off.” “Switch feet.” “Twist your hips.” Kohai tell me, “You make that look graceful,” or “I wish I could do that like you,” and I remember thinking that about my Sempai before me. Familiar now with the basics, I am not frantically trying to memorize what to do when Sensei demos; instead, I start to think about why we do it, how we can do it in a varied form, or how we can reverse it with another technique.

My Kohai asks me to be her uke for her 3rd-kyu test. She self-censors a lot, constantly questioning whether or not she’s doing it right. Balance, timing, technique precision—she struggles with the things that we have once or are still seeking to get right. But there’s strength in her throws, commitment in her practice. She goes at it hard every single time, never lackadaisical, and takes in mind every single criticism or comment. At first, I show her how to do it harder, hurt me more. Then she gets so good at it that I have to ask her to ease off for the sake of the achy ol’ injuries. She’s got one killer ikkyo pin that I’m sure she can use to immobilize any unwary street assailant.

Despite the constant self-doubt, muttering, and even humming during practice, I am surprised to see her be able to shut all that off on the day of her test. She does well, performs nobly. Afterwards, new belt in hand, she comes bounding up to me, bows, and thanks me for pushing her, for teaching her. I thank her back for pushing me as well, and for teaching me lessons that I can only learn through experience, from being a Sempai.

Visiting Skys Sensei

It had been over five years since I had seen him last. How long, exactly? Six? Seven? Time is like the wind and rain making its mark across figures carved into the rocky mountainside—subtle, but sure and inevitable. I met him when I was a young freshman in college, insecure, unsure, straggling into the dojo to find something I was yet unable to name. I left him to seek my Master’s degree, my mind full and buzzing with too much English literature and creative writing concepts to have room for aikido. I said goodbye to him and the campus to venture into the world of corporate, where I was taught completely different lessons, foreign and new. But something called me to him again, so I went to visit him in Fremont for a training session.


Nestled in the back of a building complex, Sunny Skys Sensei’s dojo stood with its sakura emblems painted on the front glass, the characters “Ai-Ki-Do” standing straight and proud. Being inside the dojo brought me to another world of zen temples and the sounds of nature: two doves cooed to us as we trained; instrumental music played, muted in the background; the sound of flowing water from the koi pond softened the hot morning with its cooling sound.


Weapons racks holding bokken and jo stood mounted on the far wall, the Zebra mats felt sleek and cool beneath my bare feet, and the lavish studio mirror reflected my posture, my too-wide hanmi. The dojo was white and bright and made me feel welcomed.


I bowed into new training partners throughout weapons and taijutsu classes. Skys Sensei would walk around and try out a technique with various students. He’d instruct me to keep moving, not give up so quickly on a technique by showing how, along any given point, a reversal can happen. He’d teach me flow by making me go after his hand to grab, moving it around just out of reach so I’d be chasing it like bait. I remembered that feeling of being caught up in the moment, my sole intent to go for something just that little bit beyond my reach, exhilarated by the chase, fascinated by the nearness of capturing it. Just like learning aikido, its many secrets and subtleties, reaching for those epiphanies that make meaning out of confusion. After all these years, Skys Sensei is still teaching me the same lessons: Don’t tense up and relax. Keep it flowing. Train with an empty mind and an open heart, wide and endless like the sky.

“We start out learning aikido from our teachers and peers,” Sensei said as we lined up to bow out that morning. “And when I was there, I wanted more, so I looked for aikido in books. And where I was there, I wanted more, so I looked for aikido in movies. And still I wanted more, so I looked for it on the Internet and then YouTube. There’s a wealth of information out there, but that’s not where aikido is. Aikido is here,” he said, tapping on his heart. It’s true our aikido shows bits and pieces of our Sensei and Sempai and all our aikido idols whose practices we try to emulate. They peek through our techniques like holes in a fence, appear in brief glimmers and flashes. But everyone’s aikido is at least a little different, as are all our journeys on this same, well-worn path. How we individually do aikido is a reflection of our own heart and spirit.


Time passes, and the winds sweep across the desert plains, altering the terrain, shaping the surface of sands with age. But one thing stays the same with Skys Sensei and me: our passion for the art of aikido, a tether to what is true and constant in a forever-changing world. This is the part of me that was yet unnamed all those years ago, that inexplicable longing that came to be fulfilled on the mat, and I’m grateful to him for helping me find it.

Swimming: To My Teachers

It was the end of September, and the usually mellow Bay Area California weather finally lashed out with a late-summer heat wave. I thought about going to train in 90-degree heat, boxed in the un-air-conditioned dojo, and quite unconventionally decided to play hooky by going to the swimming pool instead. I raced the sun through traffic on the way home, hoping for some light to be left, but it was fueled by the adrenaline from the swiftly-approaching autumn and sank below the horizon for an early rest. By the time I made it to the pool, the evening glowed in soft moonlight, accentuated by pinpricks of stars.

I dangled my legs calf-deep in water, always too cold at first, watching kids throw neoprene balls at each other and listening to the joyful, careless sounds of their playing. Finally, I plunged in, engulfed in chlorine, shocked by cold, allowing my body to go through the familiar motions of finding the surface and then staying on top of it. The first time back in a swimming pool after over a year away, it always seemed daunting. The length of the pool stretched out before me, and I was afraid of the point where I knew the bottom to dip down too deep. It was my "tiring point," made more acutely so by my awareness of its existence, by my acceptance that if I got winded or got a cramp, I couldn't simply dip my toes down vertically and feel for solid ground.

I took a few easy laps across the pool's width and thought how strange it was that swimming was one of those skills that you wouldn't forget once you'd learned, like riding a bike. No matter how long it had been since the last time you had done it, you intuitively reacquainted yourself with the balance and familiarity to perform the same actions again.

I got to thinking about my high school teacher who taught me how to swim. I remembered her face, how it loomed above me as she carefully watched me treading water for the first time, expectant and hopeful, but also alert as soon as I sank, ready to shove the long, metal rod into the pool to fish me back up. Then I remembered her name, her voice, and her mannerisms. How interesting that we never forget our best teachers, those who had taught us an invaluable skill. Those tutors and instructors and mentors. Those professors and Sensei and Sempai, there to pace alongside us paths that are new to us, worn and familiar to them, always onwardly supportive and encouraging.

Before I knew it, I was clumsily stroking my way up and down the pool's length. I wasn't taking in oxygen rhythmically, gulping for air when my lungs felt deflated, slapping the water with my limbs.

"Keep your back and knees straight as you kick," my swimming teacher said, and I did.

"Don't forget to breathe," Sensei said, and I didn't.

"Relax," Sempai said, and I allowed myself to.

I no longer fought the water but let myself blend with it. I stopped struggling to bring my head above the surface for air but turned it from side to side, laying my ear on the water as if it were a pillow. I stroked my arms in its soft, velvety coolness, let it flow around me as I passed through. I released the pressure in my jaws, unconsciously clamped tight to resist the water's intrusion, let my cheeks deflate from the useless breath that I kept there to bloat up my face. I relaxed, and I swam. Who knew that even though I went to the pool that day, I ended up doing aikido after all.

Exterior Painting

So blame us; we were not too hot about the fobby-blue trim that highlighted our downspouts and eaves. So even though a few people (who shall remain unnamed) thought we were crazy to blow money throwing a fresh coat of paint over a fresh coat of paint, we went ahead and repainted the outside of our house.




Before we had our familial housewarming party, we thought we'd cover up all the blue parts with a shoddy, drippy, rather messy job of Ultra Pure White Behr paint from Home Depot. It didn't come out too bad, but because our house's main body was such a light tint of grey, the overall effect was a rather white-looking house. Plus, it took us 5 weekends to complete the job, and if you bothered to look, you'd see we did a sloppy job around corners and crevices with our rollers and brushes. Another lesson learned: when you're this inexperienced and cannot tolerate less than perfection, leave it to the pros.




So, time to choose some paint shades. Our painting contractors put up some shade samples for us to choose from and suggested we go with the better-quality Kelly Moore paint. The first two, Oyster and Graystone, are his recommendations. The third in line was our attempt to match a Behr shade called Cornerstone, our original choice for the body of the house. The Kelly Moore equivalent was Pale Pollen, but it came out more yellow than we expected on a large sample swatch, especially when viewed in the sunlight. The fourth sample is Swiss Coffee, what our contractor suggested in lieu of Ultra Pure White for the trim and details, which he explained could turn yellow over time. The Swiss Coffee makes this less evident as the paint wears because it's got a little yellow tint mixed in, but to the naked eye, especially when in contrast with a darker paint shade, it appears white. The things ya learn as a house owner.


Tung is all for darker shades, but he already got to pick the dark-gray roof color. I'm into the pale/pastel/bright-house look, so after a bit of debate and several viewings, we decided to go with Oyster (Sample #1) for the body of the house.







The painters did a good job overall--they were very prompt and quick. In three days, they had already pressure-washed, caulked, primed, prepped, and painted the house, with very few mistakes. We called them back for three touch-ups, including the garage door that was supposed to be in Swiss Coffee instead of Oyster. Here it is below, primed for its true shade.







Okay, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want that very awesome, super-quick, heavy-duty, professional paint gun that homeboy has. He turned what is probably a 3-weekend job for us into a 30-minute job, which includes the prep work. The actual spraying took about 3 minutes. It's like watching an airbrush artist at work, very cool.

Here are some Before's and After's for comparison. The top picture shows the old paint colors and our new, gray roof.

Here's a frontal shot of the house with the new colors (note, old roof alert in the top image).





And finally, a full shot of the complete job. Am I ever so glad I'm coming home to this every day now instead of what was there before! Loving the house more and more--fresh paint makes such a huge difference in terms of overall feel and newness.

The California Pepper

It's not that I don't like trees. I understand their value and contribution to a greener earth, to provide shade, and to make the air cleaner. But when it's a weepy-foliaged, gnarled-trunked California Pepper sitting on the park strip right in front of my house, dropping spicy-smelling peppercorn during certain seasons, we may have a problem. When the root structure ended up causing sewage reflux by jabbing through my main drainage pipes because the tree was planted too close to the lines (thanks, City of San Jose), we really DO have a problem.

Since a park strip tree is city property, I went through the process of getting a permit, which was surprisingly relatively painless. San Jose law requires you to plant a replacement tree if you happen to remove one of theirs. I had initially wanted a Japanese Maple, as the Sweet Gum trees lining my neighborhood drop these brown spiky balls called "liquidambar" that are like a giant bur--not fun to step on, and even less fun to clean up after the trees shed. However, the city would approve only certain trees for park strips based on some bizarre criteria of having to be a shade tree with a relatively fast growth rate and be of a species that conforms with the rest of the trees planted in the neighborhood.

Once the permit was granted for tree removal, I called around for arborists. Must be a tight market for the arborists--some would just come up knocking on my door offering to give an estimate after having seen the city's sign for removal stapled to the tree. Others would offer me a better deal than the initial estimate after having heard about the competition.

Along with the permit, the city sent a packet with instructions on how to proceed. You could:

A.) Let the City of San Jose do the entire job of cutting down the old tree, removing the stump, and planting the newly approved tree for a total of $1,375 for a 19"-24"-diameter tree, or opt to do either of those jobs with the city according to their price list. The price includes an "administrative fee," which is what you pay if you're too lazy to do your own research.

B.) Hire your own licensed and certified contractors to remove the tree, get rid of the stump, and plant a new tree according to city specs.

C.) Go through Our City Forest, a non-profit organization that will give you a free tree if you take their one-day educational course on how to properly plant a tree, agree to maintain the tree according to city specs, and return the tree stakes to them after a period of a few months.

Being of medium laziness, I went with Option B and hired Bay Area Tree Specialists. They ended up doing a great job with the tree. Here's a view of the California Pepper from the kitchen, facing out. Way too major obstruction.

Here's a view of the tree from the front of the house, with a Bay Area Tree Specialist employee for scale.

Within 15 minutes of arriving for the job, they had already felled the tree. Does it hurt to pay $750 for such a swift job? Yes. Would it have taken us a lot more time, labor, and effort to figure it out ourselves? Heck yes. Wise investment? Probably, if it means my sewage won't reflux again next winter during the heavy rain season.

Finally, here's the same front view of the house after the California Pepper has been cleaned away. Bay Area Tree Specialists also neatly trimmed the Mimosa (Silk) tree on our lawn for us.

Here's the clean new view from the kitchen. Wow, look, we have neighbors!

And finally, the city-approved Red Armstrong Maple, "Acer Rubrum," planted and staked.