Hello all,
Just a quick check in tonight. I'm feeling droopy which never bodes well for scintillating writing.
So this morning around 8am, while the rest of the house slept and the cats slurped up their morning canned food treat, I went outside to water our vast collection of potted plants.
We have a vast collection of potted plants because we have nowhere else to plant green things. I mean nowhere. No front yard, no back yard, no side yard. Our front door opens out right onto our teeny side street. The sides of our house are a scant 8 inches or so from the houses on either side, and the back of our house is within finger tip distance of an apartment building and a local onsen.
So yeah, it's potted plants or nothing.
I slipped out of the house and picked up our pink hyakuen (aka Dollar store) watering can and filled it for the first of probably 20 to 30 times.
And of course I have a watering routine.
I start at the far left of the house, near our bicycles. I water the huge out of control aloe vera, the tiny peach tree, the tiny orange tree, the tiny olive tree and the geranium. Then I load up the can again and water our 3 foot tall evergreen which we use in December as our Christmas tree.
Then it is time for the vegetables.
I was at this point in the routine when the older woman from the house across from us slipped out her sliding door, her own watering can in hand, and greeted me.
"Ohayoo gozaimasu." She said, smiling and bowing.
I returned the greeting.
She asked me what we were growing and I told her, sliding into Japanese-accented English when the specific names of the plants in Japanese evaded my mind.
She watered her few potted plants, commiserating with me about the annoyances of watering plants in the summer heat, then said farewell and slipped back inside her house.
I returned to my watering. Mint. Watermelon. Eggplant. Tomatoes.
Our other elderly neighbor (a good many of our neighbors are elderly, truth be told) from the corner rode past me on his bike, and screeched to a halt in front of me.
He greeted me, grinning at our array of pots.
He asked me about the chamomile and corn, and informed me that he preferred flowers to vegetables.
Then he leaped into a detailed description of his friend who lives in Liverpool, who takes pictures of flowers and posts them on his website.
Which of course led, quite logically, to him listing all the wildlife that lives along and in our nearby river, Kamogawa.
After which he informed me that 50 years ago, when he was in elementary school, Japanese schools didn't have swimming pools (as all of them do now, for summer swim lessons--Japanese schools start in April remember).
So when he was a boy, students learned to swim in the river, in a spot that had been dredged to form a makeshift natural pool.
Mind you, he was speaking in Japanese the whole time, a fact that didn't really sink into my brain until he gave me one last grin and started riding away, but not before quickly informing me that his father was in the hospital, and was scheduled to come home today. I offered my good wishes and condolences, and off he went, squeaky bike wheels and all.
I finally returned to finish my watering, realizing belatedly, that I had actually understood everything he had said to me. Not that I could answer very complexly in kind, but I was able to get caught up in his story without need of a dictionary or a translator.
It was a lovely realization.
So while I still sound like a babbling 2 year old when I speak Japanese, at least I can understand much of what is said to me. Half the battle won I say.
And a good way to start the day.
But now it is time for me to end the day.
Oyasumi nasai.
Until next time.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Mother's Day, Bombeck-Style
Hello all,
It is Mother's Day morning here in Japan. The sun is shining and I have a dandy new little Macbook of my very own (Emphasis on NEW. As in I took it out of the box and peeled off the banana-like plastic. The very first fingerprints on it were mine. Mine. Mine mine mine. New new new).
And our cat, Raku, is sitting at my right elbow, folded into a tiny space on my desk next to said new laptop, making sure that either her paws or her nose is touching me at all times.
Upstairs there are sounds of life--doors opening and closing, yawns, mysterious droppings of heavy objects on poorly insulated floors and muffled music drifting around, no doubt from Aya's ipod.
I thought at first I'd wax philosophical about Mother's Day. But then I realized that someone already did that, and in ways that are far more funny, and far more canny than I ever could.
Erma Bombeck.
I first read one of Erma Bombeck's books when I was about 10 years old--way too young to really understand the why of my giggles. All I knew was that her words made me laugh. And that was good enough.
But now that I'm a mother, the funny of her words has another layer. Because beneath the funny is the true. Something that I've always believed. Humor is a gift that wraps the messy and unpleasant and nearly intolerable up in lightness. And this is a very good thing for a gift to do.
For example:
"Housework can kill you if done right."
Now this, my friends, is an example of humor hiding a message. People (Not just mothers, not just women. This may be Mother's Day but come on.....) are bombarded with magazine ads and TV commercials and screaming day-glo products in stores all telling us how to make our homes clean and tidy and organized and creative and DIY-perfect. The floors must be mirrors. The furniture must be dustless. The refrigerator must be a Tetris game of Tupperware geometry. And all the rooms--ALL OF THEM--must be camera-ready at all times.
Bull pucky.
Yes, I believe in keeping a tidy kitchen so that microscopic nastiness doesn't breed. Yes, I believe toilets require their fair share of scrubbing bubbles. And yes, I take action when the mold monsters begin to creep around the edges of the tub.
But if I have to choose between meeting a friend for coffee or polishing the floor until I can see myself--well, folks, I fail on this one. The friend wins. The family wins over me tilting at the windmills of dust (who am I, after all, to oppress the dust? If it wants to live on top of my television, I say go for it.)
“No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.”
You know what? For most of the day I can't even see the beds. I'm out teaching or at meetings, or downstairs trying to poke more Geometry into Patrick's head or nagging Aya about descriptive essays. If the beds are unmade....guess what....the beds are unmade. Meh.
"Worry is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but never gets you anywhere."
One of my favorite quotes because it is so adaptable. We can substitute so many things for the words "rocking chair". For example: an Xbox game, a treadmill, Facebook, any game on your iphone....the list is endless.
And let's face it: rocking chairs are great, but after a certain point it just isn't good to keep sitting there and rocking your life away. At some point you just have to get up.
“Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth.”
This one especially strikes me now that I have a 16 year old son. Luckily for us (unluckily for him), he is way too young to be allowed to drive here in Japan. So I have a bit of a reprieve from the inevitable mind-blowing worry that I would probably be suffering right now if we were back in California and he were behind the wheel of a car.
I'm not quite as worried about him, you see, as about all the other crazy drivers out there. THEY are the ones. And I've recently driven back in California, and I've seen them: The women driving with one hand while putting on eyeshadow with the other, eyes mostly focused on one reflected eyeball in the rearview mirror instead of the road. Business people driving 70 mph with an open laptop on the passenger seat and a cup of Starbucks balanced in the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. Anti-signaling lane changers, tailgaters (and I'm not talking about the good BBQ kind of tailgaters either), people who are half asleep, rather tipsy, busy yakking or filled with road rage.
And into this mess I am NOT eager to add my son.
So yeah, I'm pretty happy we're here right now. Can you blame me?
“My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?”
I've already said my two cents worth about housework. I love this one because it is tangentially related to my approach to bumps and bruises.
When my kids were young, they would invariably come up to me at some point clutching an arm or a leg, screaming their heads off, tears pouring down their faces.
Most distressingly for them, I had been a teacher quite a while before I became a mother, so I didn't really give them them any of the "Poorbabtareyouhurtletmegiveyouchocolateandtalktoyouinababyvoice" treatment.
I looked for signs of consciousness. (The fact that they were screaming usually tipped me off that they were conscious.)
I looked for blood. (99% of the time there was little to no blood involved. And what blood there was usually appeared because while they showed me their injury, they made sure to squeeze the area in a viselike pinch so that at least a drop or two would squeeze out. You know, to really bring the point home to me that they meant business).
I looked for anything bumpy, purple, splintered or rashed.
And barring broken bones, gashes requiring stitches or obvious breakouts of Chicken Pox or Poison Oak pustules, my response was always the same.
Kiss/Hug.
Psychological Band Aid (this is a bandaid applied even if there is no visible mark)
Bag of frozen peas.
Otter pop.
There you go.
“My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.”
Yes. Because there are few household chores I dislike more than ironing. I'd rather clean the toilet. I'd rather unblock the garbage disposal. I'd rather clean the litter boxes.
Which is why Bob does the ironing. Of course.
And so, on this Mother's Day, I encourage you to let the housework sit. Let the beds stay unmade and the dishes stay unwashed and the refrigerator stay unorganized. For a little while, just sit in that rocking chair and rock my friends. Just rock.
Until next time.
It is Mother's Day morning here in Japan. The sun is shining and I have a dandy new little Macbook of my very own (Emphasis on NEW. As in I took it out of the box and peeled off the banana-like plastic. The very first fingerprints on it were mine. Mine. Mine mine mine. New new new).
And our cat, Raku, is sitting at my right elbow, folded into a tiny space on my desk next to said new laptop, making sure that either her paws or her nose is touching me at all times.
Upstairs there are sounds of life--doors opening and closing, yawns, mysterious droppings of heavy objects on poorly insulated floors and muffled music drifting around, no doubt from Aya's ipod.
I thought at first I'd wax philosophical about Mother's Day. But then I realized that someone already did that, and in ways that are far more funny, and far more canny than I ever could.
Erma Bombeck.
I first read one of Erma Bombeck's books when I was about 10 years old--way too young to really understand the why of my giggles. All I knew was that her words made me laugh. And that was good enough.
But now that I'm a mother, the funny of her words has another layer. Because beneath the funny is the true. Something that I've always believed. Humor is a gift that wraps the messy and unpleasant and nearly intolerable up in lightness. And this is a very good thing for a gift to do.
For example:
"Housework can kill you if done right."
Now this, my friends, is an example of humor hiding a message. People (Not just mothers, not just women. This may be Mother's Day but come on.....) are bombarded with magazine ads and TV commercials and screaming day-glo products in stores all telling us how to make our homes clean and tidy and organized and creative and DIY-perfect. The floors must be mirrors. The furniture must be dustless. The refrigerator must be a Tetris game of Tupperware geometry. And all the rooms--ALL OF THEM--must be camera-ready at all times.
Bull pucky.
Yes, I believe in keeping a tidy kitchen so that microscopic nastiness doesn't breed. Yes, I believe toilets require their fair share of scrubbing bubbles. And yes, I take action when the mold monsters begin to creep around the edges of the tub.
But if I have to choose between meeting a friend for coffee or polishing the floor until I can see myself--well, folks, I fail on this one. The friend wins. The family wins over me tilting at the windmills of dust (who am I, after all, to oppress the dust? If it wants to live on top of my television, I say go for it.)
“No one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed. I have known mothers who remake the bed after their children do it because there is wrinkle in the spread or the blanket is on crooked. This is sick.”
You know what? For most of the day I can't even see the beds. I'm out teaching or at meetings, or downstairs trying to poke more Geometry into Patrick's head or nagging Aya about descriptive essays. If the beds are unmade....guess what....the beds are unmade. Meh.
"Worry is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do but never gets you anywhere."
One of my favorite quotes because it is so adaptable. We can substitute so many things for the words "rocking chair". For example: an Xbox game, a treadmill, Facebook, any game on your iphone....the list is endless.
And let's face it: rocking chairs are great, but after a certain point it just isn't good to keep sitting there and rocking your life away. At some point you just have to get up.
“Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth.”
This one especially strikes me now that I have a 16 year old son. Luckily for us (unluckily for him), he is way too young to be allowed to drive here in Japan. So I have a bit of a reprieve from the inevitable mind-blowing worry that I would probably be suffering right now if we were back in California and he were behind the wheel of a car.
I'm not quite as worried about him, you see, as about all the other crazy drivers out there. THEY are the ones. And I've recently driven back in California, and I've seen them: The women driving with one hand while putting on eyeshadow with the other, eyes mostly focused on one reflected eyeball in the rearview mirror instead of the road. Business people driving 70 mph with an open laptop on the passenger seat and a cup of Starbucks balanced in the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. Anti-signaling lane changers, tailgaters (and I'm not talking about the good BBQ kind of tailgaters either), people who are half asleep, rather tipsy, busy yakking or filled with road rage.
And into this mess I am NOT eager to add my son.
So yeah, I'm pretty happy we're here right now. Can you blame me?
“My theory on housework is, if the item doesn't multiply, smell, catch fire, or block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?”
I've already said my two cents worth about housework. I love this one because it is tangentially related to my approach to bumps and bruises.
When my kids were young, they would invariably come up to me at some point clutching an arm or a leg, screaming their heads off, tears pouring down their faces.
Most distressingly for them, I had been a teacher quite a while before I became a mother, so I didn't really give them them any of the "Poorbabtareyouhurtletmegiveyouchocolateandtalktoyouinababyvoice" treatment.
I looked for signs of consciousness. (The fact that they were screaming usually tipped me off that they were conscious.)
I looked for blood. (99% of the time there was little to no blood involved. And what blood there was usually appeared because while they showed me their injury, they made sure to squeeze the area in a viselike pinch so that at least a drop or two would squeeze out. You know, to really bring the point home to me that they meant business).
I looked for anything bumpy, purple, splintered or rashed.
And barring broken bones, gashes requiring stitches or obvious breakouts of Chicken Pox or Poison Oak pustules, my response was always the same.
Kiss/Hug.
Psychological Band Aid (this is a bandaid applied even if there is no visible mark)
Bag of frozen peas.
Otter pop.
There you go.
“My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.”
Yes. Because there are few household chores I dislike more than ironing. I'd rather clean the toilet. I'd rather unblock the garbage disposal. I'd rather clean the litter boxes.
Which is why Bob does the ironing. Of course.
And so, on this Mother's Day, I encourage you to let the housework sit. Let the beds stay unmade and the dishes stay unwashed and the refrigerator stay unorganized. For a little while, just sit in that rocking chair and rock my friends. Just rock.
Until next time.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Fessin Up x 5
Hello all,
Yes, I have returned to my languishing blog. In my own defense, the kids and I did just return from a 2 month visit to California, where we badmittoned ourselves from house to house, person to person, making it a wee bit difficult to pull thoughts together enough to write coherently.
So in celebration of our grand (and horribly jetlagged) return to Kyoto, Japan (where, it must be noted, the weather has moved on from frigid winter to lovely Spring. Yahoo), I am now going to do some good ole' Fessin Up.
That's right. I'm going to fess up. I'm going to let you all in on five of my personal weird foibles (oh, I have far more than 5 foibles, I assure you. For now, however, I'm just sharing 5).
Yep, Just in case you thought I was some paragon of magnificence, I'm going to prove I'm really just a strange, strange person.
Like everyone else.
1. Sometimes if I'm really, really tired, I'll drop things and just leave them on the floor. I don't mean large or potentially disgusting things, like dropping eggs on the floor. I'll clean up the egg (mostly because I'll have to clean it up sometime, and let's face it, eggs are easier to clean up while moist, as opposed to chiseling them off the floor once dried.) I tend to drop small things. Spoons. Spilled salt (within reason). An earring back (I always always regret this later). A hair elastic. Bread crumbs. Bottle caps. Just call me Gretel, leaving my trail of tiny junk as a trail so you can all find me.
But, you may ask, do you eventually clean this stuff up, or do you just leave it there? Well, duh, of course I clean the stuff up. Eventually. But when I'm tired at the end of the day and gravity hits....well, I just can't be bothered.
2. When I clean my hairbrush, I never cease to be amazed by the massive hairball that results. Honestly, how does one medium-sized hairbrush glean such a huge hairball? I could have crocheted a poncho out of the gleaned hairbrush hairballs I've acquired. And why is it that no matter the color of hair on the head of the family member who has used my brush, the hairball is always brown? Is it because my hair is brown so the hairball automatically reverts to the haircolor of the owner?
Oh, and no, before you ask me, I do NOT save the hairballs. I throw them into the garbage like a regular person. However, if you pay me enough, I would be happy to save the hairballs in a cleaned out spaghetti sauce jar and send them to you.
3. I am a champion at sprouting new plants from clippings, but an utter failure at replanting them. No matter where I live, I always have a spot where I grow indoor plants, such as philodendrons or tiny ivy. And these plants sprout and send out shoots and tendrils. And I clip off these shoots and stick them in water in cleaned out soda bottles and jelly jars. And these shoots grow new roots in preparation for being replanted in soil in a nice new pot.
And this, my friends, is where I fail. I have, at this moment, no fewer than 8 small juice bottles in my window, each of which contains a beautifully sprouted and rooted new indoor plant.
Have I planted them? No.
Do I want to plant them? Yes.
Will I plant them? Most likely not.
4. I always carry a small Moleskine notebook with me, in which I write new story ideas. It will not surprise you that I write. I write and I write. I have stuffed clip drives, bursting hard drives and a Cloud full of....stuff. Short stories. Observations. Poems. Three completed books (Yes. Books. Each one 400-600 pages long).
And still I cannot stop.
So I always have to have a small notebook with me. Moleskine preferably since they tend to be sturdy enough to withstand being dragged around. And in these tiny notebooks I write story ideas.
And ideas are everywhere.
In snatches of overheard conversation in random Starbucks cafes. On billboards and advertising signs. In stores. While riding on trains, shopping for tomatoes, putting on my shoes, brushing my teeth. I find new ideas in quotes. In Youtube videos. In snatches of music in elevators.
I probably have enough scribbled ideas to fuel stories for several lifetimes.
....now if only I could read my own writing.....
5. I watch the same shows over and over and over and over and over..... I've always done this. Sometimes I re-watch things because I'm in the mood for enjoying something that does not involve suspense or plot-driven surprises. Knowing the storyline can be comforting and relaxing. I can tune out, doze off, and rejoin the action, sure in the knowledge of what will be going on.
Other times I start up a video or a movie to use as background fodder when I write or work. If I feel my energy drifting or I get stuck for ideas, I can turn my head and watch for a few minutes, then return to my work, a bit refreshed and refocused.
For what it is worth, I also re-read books (which is not a bad thing when living in Japan, where obtaining new books in English can be an expensive endeavor).
Of course, few people understand my joy in re-watching and re-reading. Which is a-okay. I may be a bit odd, but just think how eco-friendly I'm being in reusing all my books and DVD's.
(At least, this is what I tell myself).
So there you are folks. 5 of my personal foibles.
Now don't you feel sane and together after reading this? Sure you do.
Until next time.
Yes, I have returned to my languishing blog. In my own defense, the kids and I did just return from a 2 month visit to California, where we badmittoned ourselves from house to house, person to person, making it a wee bit difficult to pull thoughts together enough to write coherently.
So in celebration of our grand (and horribly jetlagged) return to Kyoto, Japan (where, it must be noted, the weather has moved on from frigid winter to lovely Spring. Yahoo), I am now going to do some good ole' Fessin Up.
That's right. I'm going to fess up. I'm going to let you all in on five of my personal weird foibles (oh, I have far more than 5 foibles, I assure you. For now, however, I'm just sharing 5).
Yep, Just in case you thought I was some paragon of magnificence, I'm going to prove I'm really just a strange, strange person.
Like everyone else.
1. Sometimes if I'm really, really tired, I'll drop things and just leave them on the floor. I don't mean large or potentially disgusting things, like dropping eggs on the floor. I'll clean up the egg (mostly because I'll have to clean it up sometime, and let's face it, eggs are easier to clean up while moist, as opposed to chiseling them off the floor once dried.) I tend to drop small things. Spoons. Spilled salt (within reason). An earring back (I always always regret this later). A hair elastic. Bread crumbs. Bottle caps. Just call me Gretel, leaving my trail of tiny junk as a trail so you can all find me.
But, you may ask, do you eventually clean this stuff up, or do you just leave it there? Well, duh, of course I clean the stuff up. Eventually. But when I'm tired at the end of the day and gravity hits....well, I just can't be bothered.
2. When I clean my hairbrush, I never cease to be amazed by the massive hairball that results. Honestly, how does one medium-sized hairbrush glean such a huge hairball? I could have crocheted a poncho out of the gleaned hairbrush hairballs I've acquired. And why is it that no matter the color of hair on the head of the family member who has used my brush, the hairball is always brown? Is it because my hair is brown so the hairball automatically reverts to the haircolor of the owner?
Oh, and no, before you ask me, I do NOT save the hairballs. I throw them into the garbage like a regular person. However, if you pay me enough, I would be happy to save the hairballs in a cleaned out spaghetti sauce jar and send them to you.
3. I am a champion at sprouting new plants from clippings, but an utter failure at replanting them. No matter where I live, I always have a spot where I grow indoor plants, such as philodendrons or tiny ivy. And these plants sprout and send out shoots and tendrils. And I clip off these shoots and stick them in water in cleaned out soda bottles and jelly jars. And these shoots grow new roots in preparation for being replanted in soil in a nice new pot.
And this, my friends, is where I fail. I have, at this moment, no fewer than 8 small juice bottles in my window, each of which contains a beautifully sprouted and rooted new indoor plant.
Have I planted them? No.
Do I want to plant them? Yes.
Will I plant them? Most likely not.
4. I always carry a small Moleskine notebook with me, in which I write new story ideas. It will not surprise you that I write. I write and I write. I have stuffed clip drives, bursting hard drives and a Cloud full of....stuff. Short stories. Observations. Poems. Three completed books (Yes. Books. Each one 400-600 pages long).
And still I cannot stop.
So I always have to have a small notebook with me. Moleskine preferably since they tend to be sturdy enough to withstand being dragged around. And in these tiny notebooks I write story ideas.
And ideas are everywhere.
In snatches of overheard conversation in random Starbucks cafes. On billboards and advertising signs. In stores. While riding on trains, shopping for tomatoes, putting on my shoes, brushing my teeth. I find new ideas in quotes. In Youtube videos. In snatches of music in elevators.
I probably have enough scribbled ideas to fuel stories for several lifetimes.
....now if only I could read my own writing.....
5. I watch the same shows over and over and over and over and over..... I've always done this. Sometimes I re-watch things because I'm in the mood for enjoying something that does not involve suspense or plot-driven surprises. Knowing the storyline can be comforting and relaxing. I can tune out, doze off, and rejoin the action, sure in the knowledge of what will be going on.
Other times I start up a video or a movie to use as background fodder when I write or work. If I feel my energy drifting or I get stuck for ideas, I can turn my head and watch for a few minutes, then return to my work, a bit refreshed and refocused.
For what it is worth, I also re-read books (which is not a bad thing when living in Japan, where obtaining new books in English can be an expensive endeavor).
Of course, few people understand my joy in re-watching and re-reading. Which is a-okay. I may be a bit odd, but just think how eco-friendly I'm being in reusing all my books and DVD's.
(At least, this is what I tell myself).
So there you are folks. 5 of my personal foibles.
Now don't you feel sane and together after reading this? Sure you do.
Until next time.
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