We often forget the grand task our fathers are burdened to bear. They can only show strength - as it's unforgivable for the head of household to appear weak - but be conscious and empathetic when we cry. Lest we not forget that our fathers came home with sore backs and tired feet from working enough to keep us warm and sheltered.
Travel and Protection
Respect and Honor
When your mother coddled and protected you, your father nurtured your sense of independence and survival.
When your mother insisted you join teams and clubs, your father worked tirelessly to provide the means for you.
When your mother gave you a seed and helped you cultivate it and watch it grow, your father taught you to take it by its stalk and tear it down and use it to nourish one thousand other things.
Your mother taught you to carry peace in your body to settle the unruly. Your father taught you to put up with bullshit only once.
He is the gear that shifts you from resolution to determination. You cannot make your own family without carrying the weight and the honor of his name. And you can't look in a mirror and not see him looking back, assessing his work.
Your father granted you shelter.
Conditioned your strength.
Made you fearless.
Except for spiders.
Rooted your stability.
Demanded your integrity.
Made you better.
02.02.16
I will be in Second Life on Friday 02.05.16 at 6pm SLT to assist a friend with ESL. If you're an SL friend and you wanna know about life in Japan, or if you just want to catch up, you can look for me then. Be prepared - I show off family photos like a tipsy grandmother at a backyard bbq.
01.27.16
In response to someone's question, "What do you do all day?"
Answer: "Sleep. I wake up at dusk and ride the train all night."
02.02.16
I will be in Second Life on Friday 02.05.16 at 6pm SLT to assist a friend with ESL. If you're an SL friend and you wanna know about life in Japan, or if you just want to catch up, you can look for me then. Be prepared - I show off family photos like a tipsy grandmother at a backyard bbq.
01.27.16
In response to someone's question, "What do you do all day?"
Answer: "Sleep. I wake up at dusk and ride the train all night."
Two flight delays, one transfer and one engine-trouble-halfway-there into this trip. I calculate that I've been on 23 flights this year if I include the transfers and r/ts. And every airline is different. American Airlines loads you up with all kinds of carbs, but you have to promise to name your firstborn after a Delta Airlines flight attendant to get just a shot of Pepsi.
And Spirit Airlines..omg. The flight attendants won't even answer a call from the button thingy above your seat unless you're waving your credit card in the air.
But there is one constant. The passengers. This crazy band of carnies are payload for people watching. And every passenger belongs to a specific subset. And you are one of these people.
Yes you are. Deal with it.
It's like going to see a play. The show's the same; only the actors have changed.
Here's the cast of characters...
The Lingerer
These are the folks who loiter around the boarding gate when the plane arrives. The check in people haven't even started calling zones, but apparently someone told these anxious people that the plane will mysteriously disappear before they get to board it. So they hang around the door feigning indifference and blocking my damn way.
Look bitches. I'm in Zone 1. Take your Zone 3 asses to the back of the line and gtfo of my way.
The Litterer
Ugh. THESE clowns. So I'm watching this mother and her two teen sons at the counter in front of me. I can already tell that they're both brats and in dire need of ass whippings. But this little demon spawn doesn't even look up from his game. His mother sees the wrapper (it's white on dark carpet), KNOWS her spawn did it, and does...nothing. Lanky kid is facing me, so I cock my head and weigh my options for the appropriate (most humiliating) response. I really don't get why the whole Spartan-kids-are-thrown-out-to-fend-for-themselves-and-can-only-come-back-if-they're-not-mauled-by-a-bear thing never stuck. Anyway, my mother hit my knee and told me to stop whatever I was thinking. So now I have to sit here and try to summon the exact logic that will redirect the synapses in my brain to spontaneously develop a special laser eye beam mutation that will burn a hole in this kid's forehead.
Little bastard.
The Shady Preboarders
It is my firm belief that some women get pregnant just to get first dibs on boarding a plane. Seriously. What's this shite? So, if I had a baby stroller, I could board the plane before the service men and seniors? What the hell! You're the one who didn't use protection, not me!
Oh and speaking of babies...
The Baby
Sweet. Baby. Geezus. The Baby. Maybe you're lucky and there's only one baby on your flight. But of course Murphy's Law decided that the little demon spawn should sit directly behind you, preferably on a red eye and/or long flight. Sometimes a glance and a sneer at the mother will keep The Baby in check. Other times, no amount of visible disdain will stop the thing from screeching. And in any enclosed space, The Baby's cry is the audible interpretation of its recent destruction of its mother's womb incurred when its nails shredded the walls as it clawed its way out.
Sweet geezus indeed. #ijustcant
The Potty Poopers
I may need to come back to this one, as my nose is still burning from whatever just happened in the restroom 3 rows in front of me.
The Most Important Guy on the Plane
This is always the one guy in the wrinkled suit with the 5 o'clock shadow who has 20 meetings scheduled once the plane lands. How do we know he has 20 meetings? Well, cuz he spends the entire preflight boarding time proudly (and loudly) proclaiming it on phone calls. He's so important. In actuality, he most likely isn't. But he thinks he is. When the flight attendants instruct you to turn off your devices, he ain't budging. He's too important. He's got things to do. Places to be. More importantly, he wants to remind you that he does.
The Security Underminers
These jackrabbits take approximately 5 years to load all their carry on crap on to the security checkpoint scan conveyor belt thing. Their liquids are all over the place, their laptop is still in the carry on. Did you really need to wear all 3 belts, 12 nose rings and a damn crown? Did you really??
Hurry the hell up. Geezus god.
The Older Couple
These are my favorite characters. They make me happy. They're quiet, their settled, they're not trying to smuggle an entire bag of stinky Burger King onto the flight. (Don't do that.) Older couples are so cute and cuddly, I spend the whole time staring at them. I just wanna squeeze their cheeks so much.
The "End of the World" Glutton
This is usually the last guy to board the plane. He had to run the 2 miles from the Burger King station to his gate. Once he's finished abusing the person next to him with his seat belt, he'll tear into the giant bag of oniony grease. Don't get me wrong. I'm all about the #3 combo. But to do that to people stuck in a small enclosed space like that for 2 hours is pure torture. And he's always the guy who orders the extra everything (Seriously. Don't do that.) and leaves the plane smelling like Satan's toejams.
The Clappers
Sigh.
Why do you clap when we land? Why? Just...why??
--------------------
People watching at the airport in Seoul. I texted the above post during my flight here. Not sure if or when I'll post again. I don't know what my new arrangements or freedoms will be. I'll likely have more access to texts and skype than blogger. Seems like everyone is texting or skyping and smiling or laughing with friends back home. I think my people watching past time has become an obsession. I've been watching this cute little senior couple in my line of sight so intently that when broke contact and glanced in my mother's direction, I jumped because she was staring at me. lol So I'm texting out a last post. Working on a title. "Scene from a Flight" or "Cast of Crazies". Meh.
I just finished Game of Thrones. Sons of Anarchy is next. It is ironic that I return to Japan on the day of my parents anniversary. Also ironic - I'm leaving almost as friendless as I was when I arrived 25 years ago. This is my own fault. I seem to subconsciously befriend "iffy", spontaneous people who will spontaneously leave my ass lonely. Granted, the Canadian exbf with Yellow Fever was a blip on an otherwise spotless record. But that's another post for another day. Or life I guess.
No better time to begin anew, oui?
My mother is seriously embarrassing. She keeps taking photos of me doing [literally] everything. I can't walk on the runway walk thing or wash my hands in the restroom or order Starbucks without her loud ass iPhone snapping another photo. And someone's taught her how to post photos instantly. There's no telling how much of her IG space I'm taking up.
I knew this would happen. Pop
up holiday event for a client
who wanted a rock n'roll theme.
Custom built entrance trellis,
rock idol step & repeats, custom
guitar bar, drumsticks as center
pieces.
My department did a $25 limit Secret Santa holiday party today. My belly is full.
Here's how Secret Santa is supposed to work, people.
You write down something that you want that costs under $25 and place it in a box with a pile of other ballots. The person who pulls your slip has to get your wish for you. I couldn't come up with anything I needed so I wrote "hygiene kits for the homeless" and underneath that, I listed various items for the kits like toilet tissue, toothpaste, etc. I was hoping my Secret Santa would find it kind of fun to choose what they wanted to go in the kits. Maybe they'd even want to do it again on their own.
Unfortunately, my Secret Santa turned out to be Sandra, a 64 year old hoochie mama who thinks she's still 25, aka the laziest receptionist in the universe. Instead of doing any of that, she just gave me $25 in cash.
Sigh.
I've donated most of my shoes but I still have one very full closet to go. I've been using this free instant sale app called Wallapop. Basically you take a photo of the item you're selling, the first person who responds wins, and you meet them somewhere for the sale. It's a pretty swanky app, really. Just time consuming. So let's try this... I have 4 pairs of almost new shoes available, size US 6.5 regular. Each pair is free to a good home as long as you (1) take care of it, and (2) will actually wear it. If you're in the US, I'll ship them for free. If you live halfway around the damn world, you'll have to spring for shipping.
Unless you live in Japan, in which case we can arrange to meet somewhere.
Have you heard Sam Smith's rendition of Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know?" I swear, this man could sing a grocery list and make it into platinum poetry.
His voice is the audible version of the kind of love I want someone to have for me. Does that make sense? It's so pure and strong and sharp...and real.
But that doesn't exist anymore. The last of those men are our ancestors. Replaced by men watching booty-bouncing videos or looking to fill their Asian chick quota or quick to anger or fleeing on a whim or deciding if you're hot enough to hold the door open for.
Okay I generally keep that stuff to myself but #bittermuch & I've been vomiting since last night, so cut me some slack.
Treating the fam to dinner at The Whitney. We are definitely thee most ghetto table of customers ever. It's like Beverly Hillbillies-meets-stereotypical Japanese tourists. I just spent my entire paycheck on beef wellington and roast duck and chocolate souffle. Aaand as I typed this I forgot I was in public and burped really loud.
Just wrapped up my last employee event. Well, I think. There's always the possible random pop-up "hey, let's do a giant employee blitz to celebrate that it's 10am!" push from the executives.
This was the company's holiday celebration. As always, it was a fight to keep my vision intact with our decor vendor who never listens to me. I've finally learned to keep on him, be forceful when he doesn't add my notes to his updated quotes, and be confident that what I want is what is right.
My vision was "festive outdoor winter marketplace". I wanted different open "booths" all connected by decor. I wanted a giant xmas tree in the middle (which the vendor "forgot" and added a smaller one in the back instead). I took a million photos. There were fortune teller tents (my last minute substitute for masseuses...it was a hit!), a diner car, an Asian station, a chocolate fondue station, a super popular deli station, an Italian station, a "dance studio", an arcade.
I had to make some changes this year because we wanted to accommodate as many employees as possible, so no booze or dates allowed. However, it was in-house so employees could come in as often as they liked, and they got a gift on the way out. After listening to all the grumblings and groans from our monumentally self-entitled employees about how this party wouldn't compare to last year's, I took great pleasure in standing at the entrance, watching many of them walk in with frowns and determination to NOT enjoy themselves, and watching their faces immediately transform into amazement or, at least hope when they took a peek inside.
1800 employees showed up to the 16-hour event that lasted until 2am. I had the registration table and all the banquets/food service stuff covered, so I was able to mingle without much worry except the random "we're low on cheese" or "I can't find the guy to bring over more boxes of gifts". I purposely hovered around the entrance with my best hostess face, mingled around the room to make small talk, checked in on people sitting alone, and smeared chocolate from the chocolate fountain all over my face. Wrong shoes for a 16-hour event, though. Standing from 8am-3am was murder. Thankfully my boss booked a room in our hotel for me, so I got to soak in the tub forever and get back to work this today.
My head is killing me. I need a venti 8-pump white mocha, dammit.
I kept unplugging the Star Wars arcade game, but someone kept plugging it back in. I believe it was superskank Lisa, whose greedy ass came through every 20 minutes to tear through the pots of miso soup and the cupcake station. She interrupted my precious alone-in-the-corner time to stand next to me and state that she decorated a Star Wars Christmas tree this year.
There's a gaggle of demon spawn in my bed. Nothing new to report. It's pretty much an exact copy of my family's last visit. Except that my brother's kids are even more annoying. So is my sister's, actually. And also that I can't understand a damn word his mother-in-law is saying. And also aren't there 3 other bedrooms in this house?
Ever get home and you're so exhausted and angry and ready for a drink that you throw your suit jacket on the floor and trample all over it and immediately turn on the TV and don't bother changing the channel so you watch whatever's on and you unfasten your bra through your shirt and reach through one of your sleeves and yank the bra out and the snaps scratch your nipple on the way out and you fling that bastard across the room and it lands on the peace lily plant in the corner and then you collapse on the couch and wish you'd grabbed that bottle of wine and/or cupcake in the fridge on your way in?
Well turns out this is a really amazing true story that I usually pass up called Unbroken. It's about an Olympic Games contender who joins the service and becomes a WWII POW. And he's brutally tortured by the Imperial Japanese Army soldiers for years. Like, really REALLY brutal.
Damned Japs.
So that went off, I hit the "last" button and...wouldn't you know it...Schindler's List is on.
Checking out my tattoo mid-laundry day. I swear I've somehow doubled my loads. My mom is here, but she washes her own stuff so that's no excuse. I've donated at least half of my clothing.
Part doodle-by-an-8-year-old,
part tattoo artist's rescue,
pre-clean up
Idk. Maybe I forgot how to wash clothes.
I was just trying to come up with how I would explain my tattoo to a random person if they asked about it. Considering the fact that the only people who will ever see my tattoo are a husband and maybe doctors - none of whom will care - trying to shape my thoughts into some form of logic is just for fun.
I see things in images so my reasons were more like memory captures. I remember how I hated the States when we moved here. I remember my brother mowing the lawn with this loud old rickety lawn mower. And I remember the weeds that would grow right back up after he mowed them. He would be so angry that he would try to cut out the roots with scissors, but they'd just pop back up the next day. My father called them "wildflowers", but I think that was just for my sake because I tried to make bouquets from the clippings. They were weeds. The whole neighborhood was plagued with them. I remember doodling on my scratch pad under my blanket because the room was so cold. I was obsessed with wildflowers. They were like little superheroes standing up to my brother's persistent oppression.
Anyway, I decided to get a tattoo and found the old book in some boxes in the basement. I decided on my rib cage for a few reasons, partly because I incurred a small scar there recently. It was a pretty random resolution, but not.
I took the page to a tattoo artist in Ferndale on a friend's recommendation and he did this cool thing with a giant printer and turned the drawing into a stencil. The needle on my rib bones made my teeth rattle and I had to cover my mouth a few times but I was a good girl and stayed silent.
Okay that reasoning still makes no sense...it makes perfect sense in my head, though. I'm trying to unshuffle the images into a storyboard but it's not working. So if ever asked, I'll just say that my tattoo is a thing of great personal significance.
This damn Geico commercial comes on every 2 minutes.
Never heard the song before, but I love it! Unfortunately, it's stuck in my mother's head, so now she's singing it. She sounds like a cracked out cat in heat.
I loooove this song! It's so 80's it hurts. So I bought it on iTunes.
Now whenever someone's using the microwave in the break room, I run in and blast it and headbang/air guitar. If I'm feeling more chill, I'll stand in the doorway and purse my lips and do the do the coffee stir hip action thing like the lady in the blue sweater.
Friends who visited me with coffee routinely every morning now look the other way when I wave hello. People have completely omitted me from their lives.
Kristyl barely talks to me at work and only responds to my texts after work.
I have made new friends. Not because I'm losing the old ones, but because I sort of do anyway. But even they treat me as though I come with an expiration date. Like I'll spoil soon.
Not sure what I might have done to avoid it, but the very glaring reaction has left me feeling sad and alone. People who've been my rock are now distancing themselves.
I was putting some party groceries in my trunk and an SUV that was parked in front of my car backed into my car. The force of the hit rocked my car and knocked me a few feet back and onto my butt and hands.
I guess that still qualifies as a car accident?
Long story short, the driver was genuinely sorry, she begged me let her call 911, it was Halloween and really dark and rainy, my Vulcan ears were glued on too tight, the back of my Uhura dress was soaked, she admitted that she didn't look behind her first because "there wasn't a car here when I pulled in". Between her and her boyfriend (who was in a Jason costume) fussing over me, and me shaking like a leaf, and what I guess was shock (I was incoherent and in a fog?) it was too much and I insisted that I was fine.
Until I got home. Whatever that bone is down at your butt...tail bone?...it kinda hurts. A lot.
So I'm sitting in the corner of a hotel lobby kneading my sunburn and cursing myself for not using sunscreen earlier today. And for being hopeful that swimming while on your period would be like manna to sharks.
Sigh.
Sitting in the corner of any given crowded room gives you an awesome vantage point.
"All inclusive" = Free booze and food
wherever you turn.
Case in point: I'm watching this married couple waiting in line to check in to the hotel. She looks tough. They're like that middle aged WASPy American couple. He works 80 hours a week and tells his wife he's golfing when he's actually cheating on her. She complains about life and cooks meatloaf on Thursdays.
Yeah, that couple.
A slim/blonde/attractive (take your pick...they're all the same, right? #bittermuch) woman walks by. My eyes dart back to the couple because I'm nosy and I want to read both the husband's and wife's reactions to this ostentatious disruption of reality.
The wife is busy checking her purse for something, so she's missing all of the action. The husband, however, is immediately aware that a hottie is in his field of vision. He does a quick glance, and we know what's going to happen next. He's going to find some way to look again and take in her entire body, then he's going to store all that data...the size of her boobs, the shape of her butt, what she probably looks like naked...and quickly return to whatever he was pretending to do. But it'll be sooo smooth and quick.
I love this part. I call this highly-evolved, stylized cognizant method of ogling "The Shifty Eye". It should have it's own theme music, really.
Okay. It's about to go down. As I'm texting this, he's already turned away from his wife to "check his texts". Now, let's observe how smoothly he pulls the Shifty Eye...
This is awesome. It's like watching a NatGeo promo with the driving background drum beat and the way-too-serious voiceover guy...
Okay, he's "texting"...and "texting"...aaaaaand
BAM! He pulled it off without a hitch, ladies and gentlemen! He just glanced up very directly at the hottie, practically mentally undressed her, stamped the image and stored it in the appropriate folder in his brain and returned to "texting"...all within like 5 seconds.
I seriously want to put down my phone and write "10" on my napkin and hold it up for him, but I don't want to call him out and disrupt his natural habitat. I wish I'd recorded it. It's a thing of beauty, really.
Seriously. Men are amazing creatures. Whenever a man pulls the Shifty Eye, it's like watching the marine biologist guys try to catch a whale on camera. You know they're going to surface at some point. But to watch it in action is awesome.
They think they're so slick and shady and entitled. But really, this is proof that they're only as slick as the length of rope their wives give them. In watching the wife, she's busy getting their papers or credit cards or whatever's in her ridiculous giant purse, so she isn't minding the environment. The woman is completely unaware that a private fiasco just went down in his pants.
Heh..."went down".
Men are great social chameleons. They'll be whatever you want them to be, as long as the room's colors don't change too quickly and give them away.
I handled the communication piece for my company's new employee uniforms. Over 2,500 employees will receive new uniforms tomorrow. I set up a photo shoot for a few employees to model the new uniforms and created a wall cling (poster that sticks to the wall) from it. It's gonna be complete mayhem in the wardrobe department tomorrow. But I'm kinda proud of the final outcome, actually.
The photographer used me for test shots without telling me. Each time I looked up into a giant camera lens, I was thinking "Where did I put that damned file?".
But that's not why I'm in a mood.
I can't wear a bra yet because it makes my tattoo burn.
That's not why I'm in a mood.
My period is acting like Satan's bathwater this month. But that's not why I'm in a mood.
I had to share a vendor table with her at an event today. She kept telling clients that my side of the table was so cold that they would need a sweater to talk to me.
I'm tired of that bitch calling me an Ice Queen. Just because I don't sleep around like she does.
So I advised them to liberally apply antibacterial gel to every exposed part of their bodies and be sure their prescriptions were up to date before approaching her side.
At which point she happened to cough, which led me into a tirade about sexually transmitted diseases starting the zombie apocalypse.
Why does she continue to force me to humiliate her?
I'm like Zod and she's like Otis.
Just kneel before Zod, bitch.
Ssshhh. Just take it.
Smh.
I swear imma beat that bitch with a bat.
I'm going to 7-11 to get a slurpee. I swear to God, if they're out of the red pop flavor, imma swing a bitch.
Aww YEAH. Kickin' the Detroit old skool basement house beats, homie!!!
OMG. Detroit use to have these basement parties on Fridays. This is the real beginning of house music. (Don't argue with me. I have proof.) Everyone would be dancing or eating or laughing or a combination of all three. The neighborhood kids would mingle with the older folks who were usually down there drinking out of those red plastic cups and playing cards or dice together. Usually using one of those folding card tables. And the air would be thick with smoke from the combination of cigarettes and the catfish the homeowner was frying for everyone.
OMG I can still smell it. It was hot and dark and it was always packed wall-to-wall. But people were peaceful and happy and the music was amazing. Even an FOB 10 year old with a stupid bowl haircut who couldn't go anywhere without her chaperon brother could blend in. It was always either really old school like Marvin Gaye or Rufus, or house beats like this one.
Well. That was certainly a rant to end all rants. What was my point?
Ah. yes. I'm still going to beat that bitch with a bat.
