January Journal

Jan. 10, 2004 Sat. 11PM

As Sam Gamgee says at the end of Return of the King, "Well, I'm back." I woke at 7 o'clock this morning to the sounds of the city and a view of a miniature room with a futon and a desk. The view was slightly different than on other mornings, as I opened my eyes and glimpsed my open, cluttered suitcase dominating my floor space. My first thought was that it only serves as a reminder that I won't be going home again for many months.

My second thought was that it is a symbol of my Asian journey ahead, a sign of the commitment I made to myself.
As I discovered last night at the airport, I am back in the land of "hai's" instead of "yes's" and "arigato's" instead of "thank you's." I realized this reluctantly through my fog of jet-lag, and stoically made the conversion.

It is difficult enough to revert to Japanese language; as I mistakenly handed the shuttle driver a twenty dollar bill, it hit me that I am back in the land of yen.

Jan. 11, 2004 Sun. 8:30PM

Still recovering from jet-lag. Evidently, it has affected my dreams; I dreamt last night that I was plodding through the snow, and when I reached my apartment, Kate presented me with a belated Christmas present, which was a Peter Criss costume. I haven't attempted to interpret this yet.

I actually cooked dinner tonight. My mom would be shocked, as my usual fruit of cooking labor is toast and mimosas. Tonight I cooked a feast of cabbage and carrots, which will undoubtedly produce interesting intestinal results just in time for work tomorrow.

I really need sleep. This is evidenced by the fact that I fell off the train today. Because I am too tired to report the actual event, please refer to the section titled, "Dumb Stuff, Part ni."

Jan. 13, 2004 Tues. 9:50PM

Being the only American in the office, I am often bombarded with questions about grits, the movie Deliverance, guns, President Bush, and the preoccupation with the idea of freedom. I can always tell when Shannon and Jeremina are in a good mood, because they will start singing "Achy Breaky Heart" or the Dueling Banjos song when I clock in. This last song they usually sing loudly and heartily, usually playing air banjo for accompaniment.

We have a dictionary of American slang at the the office, and Shannon is obsessed with flipping through the book and asking me questions. "Hey Susan, what's a knee-slapper?" "Hey Susan, do you know what stinky pinky is?" "Hey Susan, what does cotton-picking mean?" "Hey Susan..."

Usually his questions center around perversity and toilet humor, which fortunately offend no one at our office. I normally answer his questions candidly, but I got really tickled when he started asking me about poots. Now he, along with everyone else in the office (except for the Japanese staff) is fixated on that word. He has successfully instigated a craze, in which everyone desperately tries to incorporate the word in any kind of situation. Examples: "That's pooty cool." "That's a pootiful sweater you have on." "Who do you like better, Pootlet or Winnie the Poot?" It always invokes a round of laughter from everyone except the Japanese staff, who have no clue what we're saying. It has become so comically irksome that Heather suggested keeping score. I didn't like this idea; I would undoubtedly lose, not because I lack creativity, but because I can never stop laughing long enough to get a good hit in. Of course Rory, Mr. Head Teacher, frowns upon the idea of this banter, preferring to stick to his brand of Irish dry humor. We were all starting to become accustomed to his straight-faced tolerance of our behavior, until today, when he said, "Guys, this is becoming really inapootpriate."

Jan. 16, 2004 Fri. 11:10PM

I finally got the package that mom claimed was so heavy that I couldn't possibly carry it home from the post office by myself. She told me I would need to take my suitcase (the new one with rollers... a Christmas present from dad) to the post office to get it. Mom has a tendency to exaggerate about such things, so I had the distinct feeling the package probably weighed about five pounds.

When Kate and I got home from our postal excursion, we weighed it on the scale that we found hidden in Karen's room as we were cleaning it out this morning. It weighed four pounds. (Glad I didn't take my suitcase. I would've felt like a goon, dragging that thing down the street.)

I promptly opened it, and found three boxes of cereal and numerous packs of instant grits. This greatly amused Kate.
However, she wasn't half as amused about the grits as she was about the little plastic rainhat (with visor) that was in the bottom of the box.

"Your mom's a nutter!" Kate said in between guffaws.

Jan. 17, 2004 Sat. 10:45PM

Usually Saturdays at work are especially busy, but for some reason we had a lot of free time on our hands today. Heather, Ian, and I had a free period at the same time, so we sat in the staffroom without the censorious ears of Rory. This kind of situation can only produce one result:

Gutter talk and rampant cussing.

Before long, Heather and I had Ian blushing, with the exclamation, "I didn't know North American girls talk like that" spewing forth from his lips. It's ironic that the guys seem to speak freely about whatever perverse topic comes to their minds, but the same discourse from the gals makes their cheeks red and their eyes dart.

Heather had written a silly little dialogue for an upcoming grammar session we're supposed to teach together. It involved several idioms, expressions, and Western colloquialisms, and we decided to read it to Ian in a rather animated style.
Ian laughed, but then jokingly said, "Now try it in your best Auzzie accent!"

Little did he know I'd been practicing.

I busted out my Australian accent with a fervor. I read that dialogue like I was auditioning for a Broadway play. I was Nicole Kiddman. I was Miranda Otto. I was every great Australian actress that ever was. And when I was done, Ian's mouth gaped.
"That was bloody brilliant," Ian said. Then he proceeded to read the dialogue in his version of an American Southern accent, which sounded like a cross between Forrest Gump and Ross Perot.

Next project: learn a Scottish accent, and teach Ian how to speak like a real cotton-picker.

Jan. 22, 2004 Thurs. 3:20PM

So far, Kate and I have used our day off wisely. We both did some laundry, hung it out to dry, then went to Kohyo (the new supermarket that has a small international food section) to stock up on groceries for the week. On our way to and from the grocery store, it was so cold and windy that we had to stop several times to hold our hats on, and a couple of times to retrieve them from the grips of the wanton wind. We were passing by a small nursery on the way back to the apartment when a particularly brute gust of wind blew my new hat off and onto a bush for sale. It landed so perfectly on top that Kate and I had to laugh. It looked like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, with knitted style.

When we got home, I was in the bathroom when I heard Kate laugh hysterically. "It's frozen!" she yelled. I walked out of the bathroom to the den, where she was holding up a stiff black sheet of ice that only two hours earlier was a shirt. It was like a styrofoam board with a collar. In fact, all of her laundry was like that. Glad I hung my clothes up in the bathroom.

A while ago, we were just sitting here chatting, and somehow the subject of crap came up. Kate told me that crap is "kuso" in Japanese. I was only mildly amused, until she told me that snot meant "hana kuso" (nose crap), earwax is "mimi kuso" (ear crap), and "me kuso" is the word for eye crusties (eye crap). This sent me into hysterics. "Nose crap!" I excalimed, and laughed some more. Although it technically means snot, "nose crap" is the literal translation. I can't wait to impress my coworkers with my new Japanese. We're always trying to stump each other with obscure words.

10:30PM

After hanging around the apartment for most of the day reading, I am still waiting for the laptop guy to call me. I'm getting a little anxious, because if I don't get one tomorrow I'll have to wait another week.

I got so wrapped up in my reading that I forgot I put my best long-sleeved shirt on the balcony to dry. I clipped it to the rails every few inches so the gelid wind wouldn't blow it away, like Karen's shirt a couple of months ago. When the wind really started cranking back up, I went out there to bring it in. I took the first clip off, but instead of drooping off the railing like a soft, fleece, freshly unclipped shirt should do, it clung to the rail in a frozen, upright position. I sighed with a chuckle as the freezing wind whipped my face. I removed all the clips and showed Kate the frozen, clipless masterpiece. She laughed. Then I showed her the pair of panties I hung out there the same time as my shirt. I had taken the clips off them, too, and they adhered to the clothesline like an icy, resilient flag of rebellion. "Only in Japan," Kate said, as her freezing, slippered feet scooted back inside.

Jan. 27, 2004 Tues. 11:30PM

One thing I've noticed about turning thirty: Hangovers come with delayed reaction time. I felt okay this morning, but started feeling woozy halfway through the day. I think this is due to my incubating sinus infection, which seems to come around after a night of drinking (although I didn't call in sick this week, like the time in November when the phrase "Staff Night Out" officially became profanity at work). My history of hangovers is thus:

a) Ages 21-25: No hangovers in sight. Bragging about lack of hangovers becomes pre- and post-drinking ritual.

b) Ages 25-28: Hangovers start to emerge, but only after a heavy night of liquor shots. Beer and wine coolers can be imbibed by the case with impunity. Bragging subsides, but only mildly.

c) Ages 28-29: Twenty-eighth birthday party was a turning point. After puking so hard my eyeballs seriously almost popped out (resulting in a bloody eye from a burst blood vessel), I adopted the mantra, "I am never drinking again." Mantra is repeated on a semi-regular basis until thirtieth birthday.

d) Age 30: One beer will produce long-lasting cotton-mouth, bladder issues, weight gain, and hints of sinus infections. Multiple beers produce these effects ten-fold, plus hangovers that can only be compared to being dragged by an angry camel through the Sahara for several miles. Bragging of alcohol prowess now a remote memory. Buying stock in Advil considered.

To pour more salt in my margarita wound, I was accosted on the train tonight by one of Rory's students, Hidesuke, who recognized me as another teacher (foreigners aren't hard to spot here). He was already drunk at 5:45PM, and was headed to do some more drinking at a karaoke bar on my train route. He smelled so bad of alcohol that I really thought I would vomit. There were no seats available on the train (as usual) so we had to stand, and the train was so packed that our noses were barely inches from each other. He persued conversation with me (half Japanese, half English) until his stop finally rolled around. I was thrilled. It was nice of him to talk to me (I always appreciate when students chat with me outside of school), but I was very relieved when he left and the smell left with him.

Needless to say, I didn't throw up, although I was on the verge a few times when the train rounded the corners at a hundred miles an hour. Actually, I haven't thrown up since I've been here, which is unusual for me. I was telling Heather about my no-vomit streak earlier, and she said it reminded her of Seinfeld, who went seven years without puking until he ate that black and white cookie.

I'll be lucky to make it seven months, and that's only if I don't see Hidesuke again on the train.

Jan. 29, 2004 Thurs. 11:50PM

Went back to the international plaza today for some free e-mailing and English book-perusing. French wench wasn't there, but an equally unpleasant Japanese lady was there who came over screaming the very second my hour was up. This is becoming too much for me. I am inundated with doodling ideas and just don't have room for any more, what with Boogerhead Jennifer, my coworkers, and all the rest of the employees at the international plaza whom I met last week. Now I have to draw nasty doodles of this lady too?

Instead of going out for some sake like we'd planned, Kate is still nursing her lingering appendicitis, and I'm nursing my petulant sciatica and a fairly bad case of flatulence, due to the two bowls of cabbage I had for dinner. I was hoping to give her a big send-off tonight, but unfortunately all I gave her was one of my extra antibiotics and a whiff of my intestines, neither of which she was particularly thrilled to receive. Now she has gone to bed, and I have retired to my table to write in my journal, fart, and watch late-night Japanese TV by myself. It will be the first of many such nights.