February Journal

Feb. 1, 2004 Sun. 10PM

Another month has started. That means it will be another five months or so before I can go home. Another wave of homesickness has set in, or should I say a tsunami. It seems to come in tidal forms, or maybe strokes. Or maybe it just never leaves. I'm in one of those moods where I can't decide. Or can I?

I took a long walk tonight after work. I'm trying to walk as much as possible, because it's my favorite form of exercise (besides racquetball and ice skating, which are both extremely inconvenient if not impossible to do here), it allows me to clear my head, and it keeps me from coming back to this vacuous apartment. I decided to delay my return even further by stopping at a McDonald's, which are practically on every street corner. I ordered a hamburger (terribly small here), some freedom fries (that's what I call them now, after my experiences at the international plaza) and a small Coke, which is approximately the size of a sippy cup here. Everyone looks at me incredulously when I tell them that most people in America order either a large or supersize drink at McDonald's (neither of which they serve here). I often hear the question, "What's means supersize?" When I tell them, their standard answer is, "No wonder Americans are so fat!" On one hand, I agree, but on the other, the portion sizes here really are ridiculous. I can drink a large drink here in about six gulps.

So now I'm in my deflated apartment, treating myself to a supersize order of homesickness and a medium depression, sharing my table space with the only other occupant of apartment number 602, the Christmas Cactus. I call her CC. She's looking a little melancholy, too. One good thing about CC, though... she'll never bitch at me to do the dishes like Kate did.

Feb. 2, 2004 Mon. 9:15PM

The day started out the way good days should. I had another Billy Boyd dream, although this one was quite different from the norm. I dreamed we were on a show similar to Survivor and most everyone was on the same insane mission, except my mission was to attract the likes of Mr. Boyd. He evidently knew this, because he made some dream-like inaudible remark that convinced me he knew of my plan and that I actually had a chance. I awoke thinking, how did he know?

I was only able to watch a few minutes of the first quarter of the Super Bowl, which was on at 8AM, because I had to go to work. I was at least thankful that I could see a few good plays though, and in English! (Wow!) My mood at work was only marginal, however. I had a couple of planning periods with nothing to plan, so I foolishly asked Yukiko if she had anything she needed done. The next thing I knew, I had a monster-sized pile of envelopes in front of me (there must have been thousands) and a stamper and inkpad. Normally, I wouldn't have minded, but it struck me as oddly irritating that I was stamping Yuki's friggin' envelopes while the Panthers were playing in the Super Bowl. I started to see the first quarter as more of a tease, and less as something to be appreciated. (I called mom on my lunchbreak for the final score, and she informed me that the Panthers lost. Damn those envelopes!)

Heather has been planning a sayonara party for Rory (Wednesday is his last day) and it's scheduled for Thursday at a pub in Osaka. I decided the perfect parting gift would be something of my own creation: Doodles. I drew some new doodles of everyone at work and it was a big hit. Rory even complimented me on my artistic ability, and the sheet was distributed around the office with a round of laughter. Having never been the class clown, this applause to my pseudo-ability was immensely pleasing to the side of my personality I like to call the Closet Comedian.

(But as usual, this ego-boost was short-lived. My propensity for doing idiotic things made an appearance at evening break-time, concerning an alcoholic beverage, my inability to read Japanese, and a room full of onlookers. See Dumb Stuff Part Ni for further details.)

Feb. 3, 2004 Tues. 11PM

I've decided to move my futon out into the living room where the TV is. Hey, with no more traffic in here than my own two feet and no Kate to bark at me to clean up my messes, I might as well live in style. This place is in classic form right now. Some guy from foreign personnel came this morning to check the smoke alarms, and all he could do was kick my stuff out of his way and shake his head. A few times he muttered something in Japanese, but all I caught was kowai. (I looked in my Japanese dictionary, and I'm almost certain he said "scary.")

Besides, with all the clothes on my bedroom floor, something's gotta go. Might as well be the futon... into the TV room where CC resides, my new cell mate. And what a good one she is. Not only does CC not mind if the dishes ferment, but her cell phone doesn't go off at all hours. She doesn't even have a cell phone. And she doesn't hog the remote like Kate did. She's fairly quiet, although I could swear at times she whispers things to me subliminally, things about the hygiene products I use or my cell phone plan. Perhaps those are just TV commericals, though.


Feb. 16, 2004 Mon. 10:40PM

I got a fax today at work informing me that I am getting a new roommate on Wednesday. Her name is Pam and she’s from the States, which is weird because there aren’t many Americans here. I’m excited, because now I’ll have another pal, but also bummed because I’ll have to make some adjustments to my total bachelorette pad. This means I’ll have to move my futon back into my room away from the TV, I’ll have to do all my dishes, and I’ll finally have to clean my toilet, which is unfortunate news for the prospering ring of funk growing symmetrically around the inside of the bowl. I guess this means I’ll have to stop talking to Christmas Cactus, too. Well, we’ll always have those memories, CC and I.

I have been going to the international plaza regularly for a few weeks now. I’ve come to enjoy it. It’s a free hour of internet, and a decent selection of English books. I haven’t seen that nasty French lady since the first horrific experience there. If I don’t see her soon, that might mean that all the mean and nasty doodles I drew of her will have been in vain. I’ll have to start drawing nice, friendly doodles now. Maybe I’ll do a series of The Adventures of Me and Christmas Cactus.

Today marks my four-month anniversary. I have been here exactly a third of a year.

Feb. 22, 2004 Sun. 10:30PM

On this cold and rainy evening, Heather and I decided to brave it to one of our favorite Izakayas. I forgot my umbrella, and, unlike Heather, refused to steal one, so off I went in my orange hefty-bag-like plastic parka and Heather with her stolen umbrella. Everyone laughed at my parka and my appearance in it (which was nothing less than stunning, I’m sure) but I’d rather look silly than thiefy, I told Heather.

It occurred to me after a couple of beers that Heather is a really good friend. Not only is she just a genuinely nice person, but she seems to look up to me in a way that is totally unfamiliar to me, almost like a little sister would do. This thought hit me when she decided to ask my opinion on a guy situation she is currently experiencing. “Why do you want my opinion? I’m too cynical and bitter to give advice about men,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re wise. You’re older. You’ve lived five lives in one and I really respect you. I value your advice.”

I was really touched. Kate never gave a damn about anything I ever said, and most of my friends back home don’t ask my advice about men because they claim it only ends up in profanity and talk of voodoo dolls. Although Jennifer sometimes asks my opinion about shoes, no one has ever asked me my sincere, womanly advice about gentlemen callers. I looked into Heather’s semi-innocent blue eyes and felt for the first time like a big sister.

Then I asked her for some advice. “Do you ever get homesick?” I asked. “Occasionally,” she said. “But I just don’t think about it. I occupy my mind with other thoughts.” How ironic. She occupies her mind with thoughts of men to avoid homesickness, and I avoid men with thoughts of home. I told her she could find a small voodoo doll at the hundred-yen store (the ones probably intended for craft purposes) and a tin of colored stick pins. A lady can never go wrong with that.

Feb. 29, 2004 Sun. 12:20AM

On this leap year day, Pam and I tipped our beer glasses in celebration. We went out to a foreign bar called Polodog that had the greatest cheeseburgers I’ve ever had. It certainly was a memorable evening. I tried out my Australian accent and actually fooled a couple of people. Got some compliments from some Auzzie guys, who said my accent was outstanding, except that I should quit saying “y’all” in order to be convincing.

All this time people have been calling me “S.C.” It spilled over into Polodog, too. “Hey, S.C., gimme your best Auzzie accent.” “Hey S.C…. do that clown dance you like to do.” “S.C., you’ve got something in your teeth.” I always thought it stood for South Carolina; however, it stands for spy camera! My fresh, little camera, also a digital voice recorder, that’s about as big as a fish stick and fits neatly into my cleavage. I’ve recorded a few really interesting and incriminating conversations on it. Tonight I was pressing record left and right, and pretended I was an Australian spy. I’m fairly certain I told some people that, but after the second beer I suffered some post-twenties black-outs so I really don’t remember what I said. I guess I should play back my recordings and find out, huh.