December Journal

Dec. 2, 2003 Tues. 9:35PM

I've been here almost seven weeks, and today I realized that my adjustment to Japan still needs work. It's coming along swimmingly in many respects, but my days of getting lost apparently are not over. I had to go to another training session in Nishi Umeda today (Umeda is downtown Osaka, east of where I work, and Nishi means west.) I thought I could make it there with a vague map of the general area and my keen navigational skills. I temporarily forgot that I had not yet mastered the train schedule.

I got on the Tokkyu (fast train) towards Osaka and I figured from the station board that there would be three stops. I didn't know what the stops were, but I knew the first stop started with a hockey stick piercing a doughnut, the second stop started with a hangman with a hard-on, and the third stop should be Nishi Umeda, which started with a bird with three legs. These are all my interpretations of Japanese writing, called Kanji (see footnote.) It might as well be Hieroglyphics, but I'm starting to catch on, if only in my quixotic, simpleton kind of way.

I was on that train longer than I felt was reasonable. The first stop it made was at the three-legged bird, so I figured it was my stop and it must've just whizzed by the other two. I got off and started walking to where I thought the exit was, and then I realized I was in Umeda, not Nishi Umeda! I had taken the wrong train!
Not an emergency, I thought. I knew some Japanese, and I would get directions and find this damn place.

After walking around aimlessly for about twenty minutes, I started to clutch my map in desperation. I must've had a very frustrated look on my face, because I attracted the attention of a nice Japanese woman, who actually physically walked me to the street I needed to be on and gave me impeccable directions in English.
I finally found the place, and I was early, too (I'm in the habit of leaving ridiculously early when going to a new place, in case I get lost.) I went to a small cafe and sat facing the busy street, people watching. Of the few things I don't like about Japan, perhaps my biggest complaint is that everybody smokes. And not only does everybody smoke, they smoke everywhere. I always thought the Japanese were supposed to be a healthy people, but it seems everyone smokes and drinks. Day, night, lunch breaks, it doesn't matter. They do it all day long. I can't count how many times I've sat on the train next to a guy drinking a beer, burping it and smelling of it through his very skin.

At the training meeting, the guy leading the meeting began the day by telling us about all the buttons on the toilets. (My first thought was, thank God this branch has a real toilet!) He said whatever you do, don't press the orange button, because it makes the emergency alarm go off. Apparently this feature is geared for all the old ladies, because the male toilets don't have any of this fancy buttonry. I already knew about all the other buttons. I'd seen them in some of the fancier bathrooms in public places. It seems there's no middle ground when it comes to the crapper. They're either fancy johns with fancy buttons or they're holes in the floor (the ones we call squatties.)

Anyway, the other buttons are curious little blighters. There's one that plays a whooshing sound. That's the one for women who want to mask their embarrassing noises. This one's my favorite. It has a little quarter note indicating that this is the musical button. I like to press it over and over. Even when I'm not making embarrassing noises (which, frankly, aren't embarrassing, because hell, it's not like I know anyone here) I press it almost constantly, because it's hilarious to see the faces of the Japanese women when I get out of the stall. It's almost like a look of sympathy. What's even funnier is when I pretend to be immensely relieved, and I emerge from the toilet making a slight whistling sound like my dad does after a half hour in the can. Japanese women seem to be a little put off by this, but it's not my fault they're so idiosyncratic.

There's another button that has a simple picture of a butt with a dainty little spray of water flowing sprightly up towards the cheeks. I assume this is a bidet. I've never had the guts to try it. Although some people may find this action refreshing, the thought of it makes me clinch. Another button controls the toilet seat heater, and the fourth one I haven't figured out yet.

I was sitting in the classroom daydreaming about going home for the holidays. We were taking a short break between sessions, and all of a sudden a loud shrieking alarm went off at the front desk, alerting everyone on the floor to some troubles in the john. This lady in our training group came out, looking rather sheepish, and realized foolishly that she had pressed the orange button. Apparently she wasn't in the room when our training leader doled out that warning. Everyone's eyes were on her and she turned three shades of red.

A part of me felt her pain, her humiliation. I had done so many dumb things here, and each time received unwanted attention from those who laughed condescendingly, like bullies.

But a bigger part of me selfishly thought, thank God that wasn't me.

At least I found my way home all right. All I could think about was how I'm going to tell everyone about the musical heated toilets when I go home for Christmas. My dad's going to be so jealous.

Footnote: Actually, there are three Japanese alphabets. There is Katakana, Hiragana, and Kanji. Kanji has the most characters and is the most difficult to understand, being the most visually complicated.

Dec. 3, 2003 Wed. 11:45PM

I had a training meeting again today at that wretched Tsukaguchi branch, the one with lax security and no bathroom. I hate that place. Besides the sacrilege of no toilet, it’s also horribly cramped with a tiny staff room and the people aren’t very friendly. It makes me appreciate Amagasaki, where everyone’s friendly and the bathroom is lovely. Also, that obnoxious Canadian guy was there, trying desperately to flirt with any woman in sight.
Now I’m in better spirits, because it’s my weekend and I plan to buy my plane ticket tomorrow. Also, I’m sitting here listening to Karen and Kate (Irish and Australian, respectively). It’s too cold to go outside to smoke, so they are in here foregoing their cigarettes and chatting, leaving me to my journal. I always get a laugh hearing them talk. Their lingo is so different from American lingo. Here’s a sample of their conversation:

KATE: I feel so ratty tonight, like I’ve been shat on.

KAREN: Are you spun out, like?

KATE: I got too pissed last night, and I’ve been maggot all day.

KAREN: That’s a piece of piss. Why don’t you fack off? (See footnote.)

KATE: My futon really shits me right now. It smells o’ dingo.

KAREN: Smells o’ dingo, my hole. Didn’t you beat it yestermorn?

KATE: I never got off my tits. Couldn’t be bothered.

KAREN: Ah, feck off with your whining. I’m goin’ for a slash.

Translation:

KATE: I feel lousy.

KAREN: Are you worried about something?

KATE: I got drunk last night, and am hungover today.

KAREN: That’s unfortunate. Why don’t you go to bed?

KATE: I am angry with my futon. It smells bad, not unlike a dingo.

KAREN: It smells like a dingo? I don’t believe you. Didn’t you clean it just yesterday morning?

KATE: No, I was feeling lazy.

KAREN: Stop complaining. I have to pee.

I’m always amused by their conversations, or as Kate says, “Susan, you’re always getting spun out on us.”

Footnote: The words “fack” and “feck,” while closely resembling vulgar American slang, are actually not considered rude at all in Irish, British, or Australian lingo. These words can be used in place of several verbs, ranging from “to sleep,” “to leave,” “to go home,” “to go out,” “to pass out,” “to walk away,” or “to be excused from a conversation.”

Dec. 9, 2003 Tues. 7:20PM

At work today, I decided to play Pictionary with my adult students in lieu of a boring lesson. I had each student come up to the board and draw something, and the other student had to guess what it was (in English, of course.) I had only two students in this class, Shigeo and Takashi (both men.) Shigeo wasn’t exactly M.C. Escher, and some of his drawings were really questionable. He drew a Santa Claus that really looked more like an elf, a Buddha that I could’ve sworn was Charlie Brown, and a skeleton that looked like a dead fish with a round head. However, I wasn’t prepared for what came next… he drew a cactus. Not just any cactus, no. It had a tall protrusion, not unlike a cactus, and towards the bottom it had two bulbous features, one on either side. He drew some little prickly things, not unlike a cactus, but for some reason most of the pricklies were concentrated near the bottom. I knew it was supposed to be a cactus, because I saw the slip of paper when he picked it from the hat, but his drawing was a dead ringer for a male’s genitalia.

I laughed so hard my gut hurt. Shigeo and Takashi both looked at me like I was nuts (pardon the pun.) I tried to hold it in for the rest of the hour, but holding in laughter is not one of my strong suits.

I gotta hand it to Shigeo; he draws a pretty good male genitalia, and a decent Charlie Brown, too.

Dec. 10, 2003 Wed. 11:50PM

Today was the last day (hopefully) I will ever have to teach at that awful Tsukaguchi branch. The no-toilet thing sucks.

I had to teach a class tonight with some older Japanese men. I decided to discuss one of my favorite topics, cultural stereotypes. I asked them what their stereotypes were of Americans, expecting to hear the usual descriptions: loud, proud, aggressive, friendly but often impolite. (That seems to be the general consensus.)

One of the men, Masahiro, spoke first, in characteristically choppy English. “We see American women on TV. We think they all have blond hair and blue eyes and big breast.”
“That’s only on TV,” I said. Old shows like Dallas and Knight Rider and Knot’s Landing came to mind. “Besides, look at me. I don’t have blond hair and blue eyes.”
“Yes, but you have big breast,” he said, and they all laughed heartily.

I walked right into that one, I guess.

Dec. 12, 2003 Fri. 8:15PM

On the train home from the staff meeting today, I noticed the most unusual Japanese man I've seen yet. He was wearing a yellow golf shirt, a bomber jacket, black leather pants that only came down to his mid-calf, socks with Pokemon on them, and beat up dress shoes. He had an enormous beer gut, and he slept (as many Japanese people do on the train) with his head bobbing to the train motion. He was almost like the Japanese version of my dad, only my dad doesn't have a beer gut (or leather pants).

One observation I've made about Japanese fashion is that, although many people spend an outlandish amount of money to be stylish, there's really no pressure to do so. Many of them dress like bag ladies; mismatched clothes, old scrubby shoes or handbags, and/or hideous color schemes. In America, people would scoff at that, particularly all the materialistic socialites I know who always accused me of digging my clothes out of a 1970's time capsule. It's refreshingly different and laid-back here. The Japanese haute couture seems to subscribe to the concept of "anything goes." Guys carry purses and wear pink with no social stigma. Women wear whatever they want without fear of their morals being questioned. Old men with beer guts wear leather pants and no one notices (except the American).
And it's not just fashion that carries the sweet smell of freedom. There seems to be a complete lack of cynicism here. There is very little political dissension, little crime, and apparently no sarcasm in their language. (I've tried to explain what sarcasm is in my classes, but they never understand the point of it.) Sometimes they seem more down-to-earth than Americans, although they themselves will claim that Americans are more assertive and frank. It's a special kind of innocence that the Japanese possess. Although there is a subtle element of seediness here (like all the porn flyers we get in our mailbox) it doesn't permeate the media like at home. In fact, no one here seems to have a dirty mind, either. (I told Kate about Shigeo's drawing and how they couldn't understand why I was laughing, and she said, "Yeah, no one in Japan has a dirty mind. It's really quite sad.")

I disagree. I like it. I especially like the fact that I can wear the most beat-up clothes I own and no one gives a damn or accuses me of plundering underground receptacles to complete my wardrobe. I fit right in.

I just had an idea of what to get dad for Christmas. Pokemon socks.

Dec. 13, 2003 Sat. 11PM

The countdown begins. I have to work twelve days straight before I can commence to vacationing, and today is day twelve. I had an idea at work today to write a song about the twelve days of Christmas, sparked by the unceasing holiday music and the staffroom sink, which for some reason smells like a cross between a rotting mackerel and my cats' nightly deposits. I also thought it a good idea to include a crack about Jeremy's hundred-yen tie, which usually sports a few remnants of the binto boxes past. I think it would go something like this:

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my bosses gave to me...

12 bullshit trainings
11 kinder classes
10 -minute lunch breaks
9 books a-missin'
8 kids a-skippin'
7 shifts a-swappin'
6 sinks a-stinkin'
5 toilet leaks...
4 grammar slips
3 tie stains
2 level checks...
and a class full of Japanese kids!

I finally got my package from mom and dad, and now I'm enjoying a pack of grits and a brownie in the shape of a Christmas tree. Mom knitted a little red bell tree ornament for me. See, I knew she'd knit me something. Plus, there is another package on the way, and I'm betting there will be a puppy or kitty sweater in it.

Dec. 21, 2003 Sun. 11:15PM

Jennifer called me this morning at 5:15AM. When I told her what time it was, she apologized repeatedly and agreed to call me back at a more appropriate hour (which she never did). She claimed not to know there was such a drastic time difference, and thought the interruption was hilarious. I didn't. (But it always cracks me up to hear Jennifer laugh so heartily, even at my expense. What are best friends for?)

It was a good thing she called, though, because when I got up to pee (surely no one thought I could go back to sleep without first visiting the restroom?) I ran into Karen and her suitcases. She was about to leave for good. I hugged her goodbye and wished her well (after I got out of the bathroom, of course) and then went back to bed to the sound of Karen's clacking shoes on the way down the hall to catch the elevator, then to catch her plane.
I am now keeping a list:

Binto Boxes: 18
Bottles of wine: 12
People I've had to say farewell to: 2

Dec. 23, 2003 Tues. 9:30PM

I have one day of work left before I'm free to cross the world. It doesn't feel real yet. It seems like I was homesick for so long, but it started to wane when I made these plans. Maybe that's another secret to curing homesickness: make plans to go home.

I realize that's not very realistic for some people, so I should adjust that to say, "have a focus." Making X's on the calendar helps... anything to show progress makes the whole process of being away more bearable. Not only have I made X's on the days, I've also made several lists, such as how many books I've read since I've been here (four), how many binto boxes and and bottles of wine I've consumed (see Dec. 21st entry), how many packs of birth control pills I have left (eight), and how many times I've gotten lost (fourteen). Making lists calms me. That's why my friends call me The Compulsive List Maker.

If I get really desperate, maybe I can create more lists, such as how many clumps of Kate's hair I've removed from the bathroom sink (probably in the teens), how many times I've watched Star Wars and Bridget Jones' Diary (the only two movies I brought with me), how many nauseating Japanese foods I've mistakenly bought, how many times I've seen Japanese men pick their noses (pushing triple digits), and how many dreams I've had about the international food store.
Maybe I can make more lists about the things I can make lists about.

This method works. I'm feeling pretty calm now.

Dec. 24, 2003 Wed. 8:30PM

Aaaaaahhhhhh.

I've just completed twelve straight days of work, and now am executing the packing process and awaiting a call from mom. It was a fun day of work. During my planning period, I went down to the Daily convenience store (just below us) and bought everyone a piece of cake as a Christmas present. I was feeling generous, because hey, Christmas only comes around once a year, and I like all the people I work with. They deserve a piece of cake every once in a while.

To my surprise, everyone else had the same yuletide sentiment. Rory gave me a camouflage do-rag (he knows my penchant for do-rags and military stuff), Yukiko gave me some chocolate truffles, Jeremy gave me an erotic pen, and Shannon gave me a book (which he said I could only borrow) and then pinched my butt (which I think was supposed to be part of my present). Heather had the day off, but I'm sure she'll buy me some potato chips when I return.

I can't wait to give everyone at home their presents. They are as follows:

Mom: A pointy Japanese hat (the round kind that all the traditional Japanese women wear in the cartoons), a big Japanese fan with a cartoon picture of a personified Mount Fuji on it (it has a mean face with furrowed brows... is Fuji-san pissed about something?) and all the individually wrapped wet naps I've collected from the Lovely. Mom loves these. Also some adorable sugar packets she can distribute the next time she hosts the bridge club (a.k.a. the Meeting of the Blue Hairs). They have Japanese writing on them, which will provide her an excellent excuse to talk about me to all her friends (specifically about how I drink too much and don't wear enough lipstick).

Dad: Some yen (he collects foreign money) and some ass candy (see footnote). I couldn't find the Pokemon socks, so that will just have to be his birthday present next year.

Steve: Two potholders in the shape of Sumo wrestlers, some dried seaweed for cooking, and a nice set of chopsticks. Oh, and some ass candy.

Jennifer: A funky pair of hundred yen shoes, a coin purse in the shape of a Japanese girl's head, a cheap kimono, and countless other Japanese bullshit that just made me think of her. And ass candy.

I've bought stuff for other people but I'm growing weary of writing so I think I'll retire my Japan journal for now. I should probably finish packing and hit the bed early. But first, I'm going to play with Jeremy's pen for a while.

Footnote: What's ass candy, you ask? Well, it's actually "Asse." It's a brand name of Japanese chocolates. I've bought several packs for all my friends, just so I can say to everyone that I bought them some ass candy. I think the gift exchange would go something like this:

"Wow, [insert friend's name], I really like the [insert present] you got me for Christmas! That was so cool of you. You didn't have to get me anything, especially since you weren't even sure I was coming home from Japan for the holidays."
"Well, Sue, it was the least I could do. You're a super terrific friend, so generous."
"Oh, and speaking of my generosity, I brought you something back from Japan."
"Really? What?"
"Ass candy."
[Insert look of confusion.] "What?"
"You know, ass candy." I would wait a few seconds for their confusion to really set in, and then I would brandish the package of chocolate, and we would roar with laughter at my joke.
"Gosh a-moses, Sue, you're the funniest friend I ever had."
"Yeah," I would say, still laughing along with my friend.

Dec. 25, 2003 Thurs. 7:40PM, Japan time

Somewhere over Alaska...

Today is my first day of Christmas 2003. Because I am flying across the world and into yesterday, I will have two Christmases this year --the first time that's ever happened to me. I've flown around the holidays before (when I was in the Air Force) but never actually on Christmas day.
At the moment, I think we are somewhere over Alaska. It's 7:40PM Kobe time and 5:40AM home time, but I see only darkness outside the plane windows. I wonder what time it is in this particular time zone? I'm betting that, at this moment, children all over America are waking up before dawn to see what Santa brought them. It's a sweet thought to me now, though in past years I have been somewhat Scrooge-like. Turning thirty has changed me in several ways, one being that I now see Christmas as a time to celebrate having aged parents who've been together almost fifty years. The evils of commercialism are still there, but it's different to me now. I can ignore it. Life is too short to complain about that stuff.

I remember when I was little, I would always wake up extra early on Christmas. It had very little to do with the thought of presents, however, and more to do with my body's built-in alarm clock (it's called bladder). It was exciting, of course, but Christmas was always bittersweet. My older brothers had this Christmas mindgame that provided them with endless holiday entertainment. Consequently, it provided me with many nights of light sleeping and ultimately led to my current nervous bladder problem (I like to blame all my adult physical ailments on my brothers' childhood torture). Shortly after Thanksgiving, they would remind me that Santa was a child molester. That's why he traveled the world... to nail as many kids in one night as possible, and he only left presents for those who kept their mouths shut. Each year, Christmas would pass without incident, and I would let out a sigh of relief by Christmas afternoon, which was always spent at Nanmama's house. "He just forgot about you this year," they would say. "He'll get you next year. Your time's coming."
"What about you?" I would ask. "Has Santa ever..." I gulped as I searched for my words, "...come to see you?"
"He prefers girls," they would say.

It figures, I remember thinking, girls are always getting the shaft!

My parents were always curious about my behavior the few weeks before Christmas, as my anxiety level was at a maximum. They would ask me, "Why don't you seem excited about getting presents? Santa has a special surprise for you, you know." This made me shudder.

I'll never forget the year we got a built-in wood stove. I was thrilled. I asked my dad, "Daddy, how will Santa get down the chimney now?" I was thinking along the lines of my own protection, but obviously my dad thought I was asking out of concern for my Christmas loot.

"Uh, we'll leave him a key to the back door," he mumbled. That was not the answer I was hoping for. I wanted to tell him so badly about what Santa's gig was, but I knew if I told, it would probably incur the wrath of Santa, and plus I wouldn't get any more presents. It never occurred to me to question my brothers' information; in my innocent eyes, they were the be-all-end-all of knowledge, and should never be doubted.

For years I felt schizophrenic about Christmas, terrified that this would be my year to come face to face with the jolly pedophile, but also stoked to get my presents. (Maybe this is why I was so cynical about Christmas long into my young adulthood. I was always so relieved as a kid when Christmas was over; as an adult I was relieved too, though for different reasons, usually having to do with shopping lines and incessant Christmas music.)

When I learned that Santa was only "the spirit of Christmas" rather than a living, breathing man, I was, of course, relieved, but it wasn't the colossal moment that it should have been. Instead, my attitude was more one of nonchalance, an ambivalent internal statement that I had again been duped. I just added it to the list of Things My Brothers Told Me. (Like the time they went to elaborate lengths to convince me that our house was haunted; like the time they told me that a.m. meant morning, p.m. meant afternoon, and f.m. meants night; like the time they told me I was really a boy without a wee-wee; the list continues...)

Anyway, I have put all that behind me, and now use it only for comedic purposes. My attitude towards Christmas now is completely positive, and I'm not just saying that because I'm fortunate enough to go home. I've realized that it's a personal state of mind, Christmas is. There is always something to be thankful for.
For example, I am thankful that this whiny-ass kid behind me has finally shut up, and I can get some reading done.

3:30AM Japan time, 1:30PM home time

Detroit Airport

I'm finally waiting at the Detroit airport for a connector to Charlotte after a long and sleepless flight over the Pacific. It was actually a decent flight... I had the very first aisle seat, and I could stretch my legs straight out in front of me for a change. (All the tall people were jealous, I could tell. But short people need leg room, too, you know.) I had a trash can within arm's reach to my right, a nice Japanese woman who spoke English to my left (and her head wasn't bobbing all over me, like the lady on the last flight I was on) and directly in front of me was the bathroom! It was the most preferred seat in Economy class, in my opinion. It's almost like my travel agent knew about my bladder issues when booking my flight. She's a saint.

I got to see Mount Fuji from the plane, and also a breathtaking view of Lake Superior on the way into Michigan air space. All in all it was a good flight, except for the constant screaming of the brat behind me, who invoked a desire within me to smack her, a desire such as I've never felt. I wanted to smack her mom, too, but I didn't, because after all, it's Christmas day.

It's snowing lightly here, which means that I have now experienced a white Christmas and a rather warm Christmas all in the same day. I am now in day two of Christmas 2003, which hopefully will end with glorious results.

Dec. 26, 2003 Fri. 7:10PM

The story of Christmas 2003: Mission to U.S. has the potential to become very long, so I think I will tell this story in numbered sequence format:

1) 4:30PM, day 2 of Christmas. I arrive at Charlotte airport, finally, after a long weather delay in Detroit. Meet Chip at baggage claim.

2) We drive towards Spartanburg, all the while talking gaily of my new life in Japan and his life as a teacher’s aide at the McCarthy-Teszler School (the same school I left to move to Japan.)

3) 5:15PM. We stop at Citgo because I have to pee. I was doing well to hold it in for 45 minutes, but I had a lot of coffee on the plane.

4) 6PM. We reach mom and dad’s house. We bust through the door, just as mom is pulling the burnt rolls out of the oven. (She always burns something, usually the bread product.) Mom and dad are completely stunned, stare at me for a moment, adjust their bifocals, ask me if I’m really their daughter, then stare some more. Dad says a quick hello and leaves the room, probably because he is slightly choked up. Mom comes over and throws her arms around me and starts blubbering about the Lord, or something.

5) 6:05PM. I introduce Chip and explain why I’m home and that it’s supposed to be a surprise, which it definitely is. Mom starts crying more now and says it’s the best Christmas present ever.

6) 6:06PM. Dad comes back and says he had to pee suddenly. Then he asks who the guy is. I introduce Chip again. Dad goes to the car to get my suitcase.

7) 6:080PM. Mom invites Chip for dinner, then cries some more. I find the bottle of wine that my brother Steve always buys them for Christmas and wraps in a sock. I take the sock off and open the bottle of wine. I proceed to drink several glasses while mom talks about the Lord.

8) 6:10PM. Aunt Sarah and Steve make an appearance. Steve wants to know where his presents are and Sarah inquires about dinner. Dad inquires about what the burnt smell is.

9) 6:11PM. Dinner commences. I proceed to tell funny stories about Japan. Mom cries while passing me the beets.

10) 6:30PM. Dishes are cleared from the table. I hand out a few presents. Mom cries while telling me that they didn’t get me anything because they didn’t think I was coming home. Dad promises to take me to Wal-Mart and buy me whatever I need. I accept. Mom offers to take me to Hamrick’s (a.k.a. Old Fart Mart) next Tuesday on Senior Citizen Discount Day and buy me some new clothes. I politely decline.

11) 7PM. My friend Alice calls to tell me to come up to her house on Sunday and hang out for the night. I concur. Chip leaves.

12) 7:10PM. Steve falls asleep on the couch and wakes up intermittently to tell me he’s ready to go home and to hurry up.

13) 9PM. We leave. When we get to our house five minutes later, I am smothered by my dog and ignored by my cats.

14) 9:08PM. Cats finally accept the fact that it is indeed mommy, and cuddling commences. Then they lie all over my open suitcase and ignore me some more. Lucky chews on the funky shoes I bought Jennifer.

15) 9:20PM. Steve and I catch a fat buzz and I channel surf. I lament about the television situation in Japan.

16) 9:30PM. Steve falls asleep while reading the new world map dad bought him for Christmas. I head to my room and play my cats’ favorite game, Catch the Finger Under the Covers.

17) 9:32PM. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put Band-Aids on fingers.

18) 9:40PM. I finish reading the last chapter of the fourth Harry Potter book and subsequently fall asleep, feeling utterly satisfied that my subterfuge produced so much delight in my folks, and that this was the best and longest Christmas ever.

19) 9:41PM. JJ bites my toes which are under the covers. I smack her off the bed. I am finally home.