Mon07062015

The death knell of suburbia: A Piece of My Mind

The orchards are gone. The single-story ranch house is seen as a waste of valuable land and air space. An eight-lane freeway thunders past the bridle paths in Los Altos Hills. But nothing has signaled the death of suburbia more strongly than the announcement last month that Sunset, the “Magazine of Western Living,” is abandoning its rambling, garden-focused headquarters in Menlo Park and relocating to an urban shopping/restaurant hub in Oakland.

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A year in the life: No Shoes, Please

Last May, I was diagnosed with Stage 3 colon cancer and underwent surgery to remove a portion of my colon. Unrelated to the cancer, I also had a hysterectomy – a surgical twofer.

Afterward, I was supposed to receive six months of chemotherapy, the standard treatment recommended by oncologists from Stanford, UC San Francisco and El Camino hospitals, and by my friends in the medical field. I had a long debate with myself about undergoing chemotherapy, but long story short, I opted to forgo further treatment. Instead, I decided to address my remaining cancer with immune system enhancement via nutrition, exercise and nontraditional healing methods.

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Drought intolerance: A Piece of My Mind

Four years into it, and almost everyone but the Santa Clara Valley Water District is admitting that our drought is a reality that won’t go away. (Hello-o-o, SCVWD? Still insist on building those catch basins in Rancho San Antonio Open Space Preserve and McKelvey Park for flood protection?)

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Dancing with my father: Haugh About That?

Standing at the window, ready to perform in my white tutu and pink satin sash, I peered into the gray stillness of the day’s fading light, tapping my ballet slipper impatiently. Siegfried, the handsome prince in our version of “Swan Lake,” was now an hour late.

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For someone, it is a nightmare: No Shoes, Please

Last month, on a cold and rainy day in Japan, I was waiting for a train to carry me on a tedious but necessary errand. Glancing around, I noticed a piece of luggage – a black, vinyl bag decorated with pastel-pink teddy bears and delicate cursive writing; you easily could have mistaken it for a large diaper bag catering to a baby girl. The writing was difficult to decipher because the letters were tiny, and the script was fine and lacy. But eventually, I made it out. It read, “For someone, it is a nightmare.”

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Great theater: The Villaj Idiut

I love getting my car washed.

Not because I necessarily like having a clean car. More so because I just like going to the car wash.

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Statute of limitations: Haugh About That?

“I can’t believe he’d do this to me,” I cried hysterically. “After all we meant to each other.” Curling into a ball, torrential teenage tears melted my mascara as my entire world came crashing to an obliterated end.

Annoyed at yet another gusher, Mary, my 16-year-old best friend, had had enough. “Get over it!” she barked. “You only dated him a week.” Little did I know, when it came to broken hearts, there was a statute of limitations for my sorrow.

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