Honor Him.

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.

Honor Him.




Related...
On Separation and Kagare
Kegare

Fade to black.

 "Cast of Characters"...

------------------------------------------

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.

Old school goodness.

Seriously. In a shot glass.

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.

She's acting like a damn Japanese tourist.

Teaching the kids Amurrkan.

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.

Am I sexy or nah?

Oh mah belly parts.

The Fam is Over

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?

Dafuq.

#ijustcant

From previous family mayhem

My Booty Hurts

So I had a car accident. Sort of. 

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. 

Per my mom's advice, I tapped tiger balm and lavender oil - the same stuff I used on my brother once after my father whipped him - to my back, My mom said I had no idea what I was doing and helped me start over from scratch.

Aaaand I forgot about my tattoo and my mom saw it.  

Dammit. 

It is literally a matter of moments before she tells my brother.

And so it begins.

#killmenow

On Meiyo and Jigai

"You are your father's daughter 

and he raised you and favored you for a reason.

Because you are strong and independent.

Don't do the expected, do the unexpected."

- A True Friend

Honestly, I haven't decided what my Father would think of my proposed new life & lifestyle change. If I thought he truly supported my wishes in spirit, I would absolutely risk disbandment from my own family to follow what I consider the right path for me instead of the inertia of the path an honorable daughter will follow. I know what "unexpected" is for the family I have. I'll never know what "unexpected" would be for the one family member to whom I'm most loyal.

Made more hygiene kits for the homeless
just in time to find one of my favorite people
in the world, Rog (Roger).
He's moved to a different underpass.

Is it odd that friends and coworkers are suddenly giving me things? People who are unaware that I'm leaving are giving me really cool stuff. One older coworker boxed up and gave me her earrings just because I'd complimented her on them the day before.  A friend's friend - who I always considered kinda mean - gave me a hot pair of shoes because they're too small for her.  Another person gave me his Starbuck's reward card because he's dieting. He has gold status. That's like 1 million free white chocolate mochas.  I'm receiving these gifts through the kindness of others. It feels like there's a message or lesson or direction in there somewhere for me, but the "screen" is all foggy and will continue to loop around until I figure it out, or it dissipates. Makes no sense, but better explained in an earlier post. 

Whoa. I just remembered  - last night I dreamed that my Father warned me that my car's gas tank was almost empty. He was sitting in his favorite chair in the family room. 

Odd and random. 

Addicted to terraforming in Second Life. Stop by for a visit.
I've quite lost my mind.

Last Days

I'm really gonna miss my evening drive home.

#stupidducks

#badsinging

#crackedwindshield

Now Serving Contestant #3

Sure. This seems about right.

There's a strange man making dinner in my kitchen. He arrived about 5 minutes before I needed to leave for work this morning.

Which made me late for a meeting.

AND I missed the office donuts party.

Hey thanks, mom.

#awkwarddinner

#ismellchocolate

#iamNOTcleaningdishes

Honor Him

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.

When your mother coddled and protected you, your father nurtured your sense of independence and survival.

Travel and Protection
Respect and Honor

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.

Honor Him.

On Serration & Kegare

This one's for you, Phoebs.

Rereading this, it's completely narcissistic. I'll leave it for now, and hope my next post doesn't come off so whiny.

----------------

Technically, I was supposed to move back to Japan after college, get married, have children. I've been stalling for time ever since. I could always thwart my mother's half-hearted attempts to remind me of my familial responsibility. A new career opportunity, some community commitment, our property here needs attention, new friends. Whatever works for a few months. 

My brother has sighted a chink in my armor. The threat of discarding my Otosan's old things that I would most cherish. It's the best way to turn me into a giant sobbing mess. 

spider monkey.

For every stall I give him, he throws away something that belonged to my Otosan. Yeah, in that order. Not an exaggeration. He plainly states that he will, and then he follows through. A phone call to my mother from work the next morning always confirms it.

I don't find long term value in jewelry or property or karu or 401k plans. The most valuable assets for me are seemingly insignificant possessions. 

Like the fishing rods my Otosan used to teach me to catch hamachi along with an early lesson in humility and perseverance: If we didn't catch anything that day, we wouldn't eat. 

Or the rusty used canoe I helped Otosan seal when I was 8, now neatly stored in my mother's shako. 

Decidedly irrelevant possessions like these are rare and priceless because...

Sigh. I believe that each item holds within it a small piece of a person's spirit.  If I fish using my Father's tackle, his spirit will sing to me. I won't just be fishing; I'll be spending an afternoon with my Father.

It's why I barely go into that room.

And that's the best way I can explain that.

And a chance casual conversation with my brother (also my HOH) about spring cleaning showed him how important those things are to me, and gave him the opportunity to use them like a jagged knife.

He is so much like my mother - clever and singularly focused. My diversion trick doesn't work on him. He won't be distracted from a point. Who knew the skinny boy sobbing on my parents' bed with fresh welts on his back would grow up to become so power hungry?  

That reads exactly like the back story for every villain in every superhero movie. Ever.

But also, I'm faced with my own kegare. With every stall, I'm plainly stating that I value my freedom more than I value my Father. And my brother gets to twist the knife just a little to the left. 

Charity begins on the Holodeck.

Well, my first go at the following paragraph was a longwinded rambling mess. I really need to start proofing my shit before posting. Seriously. It was a mile long. This version's shorter...you're welcome.

I assisted with a sponsored charity event yesterday aimed at supporting the families of teen cancer patients. Each of us had various tasks, and planning the project took 6 months from concept to run-of-show. It was all worth it - even checking things off on a notepad at the counter of a New Orleans bar - 100% of the profits go to the patients and their families. The center played a dedication video to the volunteers all night. Here are the parts I caught with my phone. I'll repost when the full video is available.

 

This vid created with ClipStitch (which is only available 

for iPhone), but isn't viewable via iPhones...

Oh, the irony. Nicely done, Apple.

 

 

My job's executives buy gifts for local kids based on the kids' wishlists sent to "Santa". This year, my dept's exec snuck a copy of the list to me because one of the kids, 13 year old Phoenix, is a Trekkie.

 

I asked Phoenix's "Santa" (an executive chef) if I could help. Okay, it was more like pleading. I stalked him with 4 very unprofessional emails, I slaved over a stove for 2 hours to bring him my mom's special onigiri with wasabi as requested, and I owe him a venti 7-pump no foam white chocolate mocha. He finally caved. He'll take care of the boring stuff (i.e., clothes), I get the good stuff (Trek).

I believe the Latin term for this sort of agreement is "Winnitus of Epicus Proportionalis".

Okay so far I have...

·         Star Trek shirt or hoodie (working on)
·         Star Trek messenger bag (done)
·         Star Trek baseball cap (my stash)
·         Star Trek game for Xbox360 (done)
·         2 Blue Ray DVDs (Star Trek/Star Trek Darkness) (my stash)
·         1 Star Trek Borg Bobble Head (my stash)
·         1 model Bird of Prey similar to this one (may have to be pried from my cold, dead hands)

So, visitor, I could really use your advice.  If you were a 13 year old boy...

 

·         which of these two shirts would you prefer? Shirt 1 - Shirt 2

 

·         what would your size 18 shirt convert to in "small, medium, large" terms? (I can't find the answer online.)

 

·         what other badass gifts would you like?

 

I'm in New York next month, and then Toronto. Colorado in Jan, Jamaica in Feb. I'm still searching for cheap Cali travel deals. Why are trips to Cali more expensive than Cancun? It's so illogical. Seems like a lot of travelling, but I gotta get it all in before Japan (aka, the end of my life).

 

Well, that was random. Nothing to do with charity stuff.

 

Okay, dammit. I'll throw in the damn ship.  Sigh.  It's for a great cause. Gotta support our future scientists.

Edited 11.30.14 for brevity.



 

Island

It is possible to blend in wholly but feel so completely alone.
 

Morning Tea

 

 

I may be in a random country bumpkin farmville prefecture with no anything...anywhere...

 

...no service, no locate me (I'm literally unfindable), no mall, no pubs, no Starbuck's, and the closest thing to a damn slurpee is a random coca cola vending machine 1/2 mile away ... baka!...

 

but I have to admit, its not a bad view to wake up to.

#playingwithfilters
#twdhappenssunday
#accidentallyfilteredthesceneryaway

OMW

 

#freewifi
#sake
#playingwithfilters

6 months.

 

It's been 6 months since I last walked into my Obaachan's room. 6 months. And that was just to vacuum and dust. And immediately leave. Before then, I would stand just inside the doorway and become immediately overwhelmed with sadness and shame. 

 

I bought a rug to go over the weird stain on the floor in the hallway outside of her door. Her room is surprisingly clean.  Her plants are alive and thriving - vibrant, even - although they haven't had water or sunlight in months. This room is even free of spiderwebs and any signs of bugs. Maybe the insects heard me tell my brother that I would murderize anyone who stepped foot in here. 

I see her little bag of toiletries and the tv remote, magazines, her pills, her robe, a newspaper, her reading glasses...placed strategically throughout the room, so they would be in her arms' reach at the right moment. I suppose I did set things just so. Seems a little persnickety in retrospect. Her walker at the door for when she was on the move, now folded and resting against it. 

I sat some flowers on her table. I just opened the blinds and I can see all the crazy squirrels race all over the park. Why so many squirrels? Is this a hibernation thing? They need to move out of my way when I'm driving to work in the mornings. I'm tired of screaming at them. Okay, I'm tired of screaming at them because it doesn't seem to work. 

 

Kegare

"When my dad was alive, I didn't really need to find 'the right man'.  Because I had him."

- Gwyneth Paltrow

The older and occasionally wiser I get, the more often I think back on my life...what I got right, what I got all wrong, what I can't do anymore because my legs just don't bend that way these days.

I've been thinking about my father. A lot.  Constantly, really. I've offered so much sake and oranges to his kamidana that it's sort of redundant now. 

My father never said "I love you."  He never hugged or touched.  He set rules, you followed them. I can still feel the cut on my brow from the force of him hitting me hard enough that I fell down the stairs. Because I said "nevermind" to him. A blatant disrespect. Never said it again.

I knew that his smirks meant "I love you." His years of overtime to buy us a house in a better neighborhood meant "I love you." When I was 6 and asked him to stop drinking beer and smoking with his buddies because I didn't want him to die, and he stopped that day - that was "I love you".  Letting me get in his way while he changed the spark plugs or alternator or whatever the latest old car issue was meant "I love you." He loved me more because only I could call him "Doddee". ("Daddy" in broken English. I called him that until he died.)

The men at that park when I was little. He could have killed them. They bled. And I was happy. 

My father was a protector. He was fearless. And proud and stern. He protected the weak. He was a superhero.  And I realize now that there is no precursor or duplicate.

My mother still talks about how he yelled at the owner of a kanbutsuya because the store was so dirty and unsafe. She says whatever he told them worked. They closed the store for weeks and reopened and never had questionable issue thereafter. 

I carry so much of him in me, and I try to embrace it with honor and respect. Sometimes difficult, since his character was unconditionally patriarchal. And life inside of the box in which I was born makes that a sort of sacrilege. 

Being like him use to embarrass me, but now the realization empowers me. It makes me brave. Or foolish.

I find it harder to forgive transgressions than most. Like him, I can forgive, but what you've done will always play in my head when I think of you. It's impossible to forget. Third chances are out.

A big guy was texting on a phone with a screen the size of my car in a theater last week. He wasn't in my direct line of sight, but the poor folks around him were visibly (but quietly) annoyed, probably afraid feel he would start some crap if they said anything.  So I called him out. Made sure he knew it was me. And advised him that I didn't pay $15 to watch him play with his janky phone. I stared him down. I waited for him to give me something. I actually wanted it. I didn't have a plan, but I wanted the confrontation. I think I wanted to further embarrass him. I imagined him with a bloody nose. And I smiled. 

A few weeks ago, an elderly lady fell on ice while crossing a busy two-way street in Detroit.  I  tripped through the snow on the median and made it to the other side to help her up. She was so embarrassed, as our elders sometimes are when they think they're an inconvenience. Not a single other person jumped out to help. Ever get one of those instant "anger headaches"? I made sure she took her time to get up, asking her to not worry about anything but being careful. And I demanded she let me drive her home. I purposely took forever to rebag her groceries. I glared at every driver. I dared every one who met my eyes to give me one shady, impatient move. I wanted someone...the larger or louder the better...to give me some sign of their inconvenience. Even an eye roll would've set me off. What would I have done? I don't know.  But it would've started with a broken window. .

And the whole time, I kept thinking, "What would Doddee do?"

But I hurt him. I stayed out overnight. And came home smelling like cigarettes. I shamed him. I told him I hated him. I never told him I was sorry for all the nights he stayed up hoping I'd call and say I was alive.

And as I think back on all my recent self-inflicted hardships, because I've allowed people to make me their fool, offer me the mirage of perfect trust, I'm inevitably back to, "what would Doddee do?"  After beating the hell out the man in question, he would turn to me with an expression of great shame for my indiscretion and naiveté.  Again.  

And so I try to appease his kami. I take care of his home here. And I took care of my grandmother (obviously not well enough, but I gained a special sense humility and honor in bathing and feeding and caring for her).  And my mother back home. I kept two jobs to pay for school here alone in the states. I cleaned up my credit. I have a decent career. I'm not living in poverty like we were at first. I'm not living on the street, though I'm sure he thought I was headed in that direction.  He never knew this me. And every day, I wish he could see that I did okay. It's a heavy tsumi I can't seem to erase.

For Mamasaa :p

仕事に行かなければなりません ....

今の仕事を残すべき...

(別の日)

#ジェットコースター

I'll take "Sh!t Men don't Care About" for 100, Alex.

 

So shellac is a new-ish nail polish method that basically singes the coats of specially-formulated color onto your nails. Shellac is great because the color never comes off. The nail tech has to soak each nail in hot acetone for a few minutes, and then scrape it off with that painful metal scalpel thing. It hurts SO much, but it's worth not having to watch your polish chip for weeks at a time.

http://www.komonews.com/news/consumer/
122994693.html?tab=video&c=y

The problem with shellac is that it doesn't do much to protect the nail. Mine always breaks in the same area - where the skin meets the tip - about a week in.

 

Anyway, I switched back to gel. Which is basically an acrylic layer (at least, it looks and smells like acrylic?), followed by a clear coat of something, then they stick your hands under this UV (?) light for a few minutes, and your fingertips feel like they're burning off, then presto! No need for polish.  If you have even a little bit of fingernails like I do, you won't need the falsies. The tech will just lay the acrylic/gel/whatever it is right over the nail beddo.

Typical gel nails

The problems with gel nails are that (1) they can look really bad/fake if the nail tech lays it on too thick (watch your tech closely as he/she starts on the first nail, in case "I want a very thin coat" doesn't translate), and (2), your fingertips will burn for the first night. It feels like I held them over a fire for a second too long. It doesn't diminish as the night goes on, or get worse as I'm typing.  My nails don't feel sore to the touch. The insides of the tips literally feel on fire.  And this won't go away until morning.

The stuff we do for beauty, dammit.

My brother may finally be moving to Sydney with his family, so I now have an excuse to visit.  I have a friend in Brisbane (reads like "bris-BAYNE", but Aussies pronounce it "BRIHS-bun"...why? Because, although they so desperately want to be Amurrkan, they'll never get the enunciations right...unless they're an actor on The Walking Dead...then it's spot-on.) and Geelong (again, it looks like "GEEE[zus]-long", but the crazy Aussies say "jlong". They're crazy!). It'd be great to see you guys.

 

It also means I may be moving back to Toshima (or, kill me now, Koriyama).  And relearn kanji. Sigh to that. It's a family obligation thing, so I'm opting to not post my opinion on the matter.
 

I just joined the YMCA near my workplace. It's like it's own little city. Child care services, a giant indoor court, an indoor pool (a rarity!), a juice bar and rock climbing? Crikey. I'm just looking to get rid of my gut. 

Parking's ridiculous, so I go with my boss and/or coworkers.

 

I asked a guy at Lowe's today to directly me to the "50 shades of gray" aisle. I thought it was funny.  I even snort-laughed at my own joke. But he turned red and I felt kinda bad.  But he did direct me to the drill bits!

I dropped my work i.d. at a CVS Pharmacy one day last week. I called to check on it and the employee said that someone from my workplace found it and that was going to bring it to me the next day.  Well, I haven't seen it, but where I work, you can be fired if you don't report your id stolen.  Its a whole state regulations thing. So I gotta face the music and get a new one.

Random FaceTime mayhem.

 

Housework's done. Bills done, sorta. Let's shoot some zombies! Don't forget, I'm on kik @Mia-LiA (which is way more reliable than google).

Goofy vine for the win.

 

 

 

 

 

Out with the Old.

2013 was an interesting year. Exciting and bittersweet.

I transferred to a new position at work in 2013, which was a promotion and a raise. I think the executives trust me with morale-related tasks. Its a nice feeling.

 

I met a lot of great new people in 2013, simply by biting the bullet and striking up conversations with random strangers. I spent New Years Eve with two new friends who didn't know each other until I introduced them. So we're all new friends to each other.  I realize that (a) you seriously can't judge a book by it's cover, (b) you can trust a real friend with your darkest secrets, and (c) a real friend will see beyond the topical.

 

2013 also brought new perspectives on intimate relationships. Specifically, that I'll never find anyone like my father. Because men simply aren't made that way anymore.  They crumble with the weight of it.

 

I finally get that I'm not over being abandoned while overseas and dealing with my family during the quake.

 

I learned that acts of kindness aren't truly "selfless" unless you perform them without the intent of watching them play out.  You can give money to the homeless, or buy presents for families, but waiting for the homeless person's reaction, or throwing a big party for the families, watching them open their presents...I realize now that it's a sort of selfish need for gratitude. If you truly want to give, do it even when you won't be there for the "thank you".

 

My grandmother's death felt like a ton of bricks being dumped on my head. I'd become so close to her after she came to live with me after the quake. She became my priority in all things. She was my reason for waking up so early, for learning to shop for groceries on a budget, for reading nutritional value labels, for rushing home after work, for learning about proper medical care and prescription coverage, for treating doctors like medical students instead of gods, for finding honor in placing someone else's life before mine, for putting my job in its proper perspective.

 

I still can't stay in her room for longer than a moment or two. Around this time last year, she was doing something to make me laugh. I bought a metal filing cabinet to hold important things like photos, deeds, medical stuff, and anything of hers. It sits at the window in her room. I go in, file away the bills, and always (like an idiot) turn to face the bed, and run out crying, remembering that I could've done more.  There's always more.

 

I read over my resolutions from last year, and they read like pompous bullshit. I don't know what brand of crack I was on then, but it would take a village to accomplish those things. I'll never live up to those challenges.  At least, not in the span of 365 days. The things I want will take a lifetime to attain. 

 

So as I look out at the huge snowflakes falling on the side from the kitchen window of our big empty house, I recognize the humility of my regret, I appreciate and all my imperfections, I timidly consider my hopeful expectations for the new year, and acknowledge my everlasting need to be better.

Obligation

A blog post can be mightier than the sword, it seems.

I've written, deleted, rewritten, and held this post 3 or 4 times now. I wasn't in a mood to air my dirty laundry, and I still don't think I can fully explain my thoughts. But it's 7am, and I'm still awake.  Now's as good a time as any.

In the interest of my resolution to improve my character and (more importantly) help the random visitor who may also be dealing with their own family fiascos, I'm editing this post now, for the last time - removing the curse words, removing some stuff for brevity - and posting it.

So a simple statement included in a recent post has caused a whirlwind of drama in my family.  Well, okay, it wouldn't be drama if I simply shut up about it, but still. Drama.  Every day for two weeks now, I've had this burning hole in my chest that feels like a giant wormhole sucking my energy into some other dimension.

I didn't confess to robbing a bank. I didn't say I was pregnant.  I didn't murder anybody.

I simply wrote: "I have an appointment for a tattoo today."

 

And so it began.

Here's how this fiasco went down.  My mother read my post and ftfo'd. She told my brother.  My brother has his own family, but enjoys the high he gets from pretending to be all paternal in the absence of an actual HOH ("head of household"). So my brother left a voicemail message simply saying, "Mia, you will not get a tattoo."

I was raised to believe that I belong to my immediate family under the guidance of the family's HOH, until I have an HOH of my own.  That's a super simplified explanation, but going into the cultural and religious interpretations would take forever, and readers still may not understand.   But basically, to tattoo or permanently mar my body as I am now could be considered disrespectful to a future husband. A dutiful unmarried daughter is a solid (clean) frame that supports the foundation of a strong family.

Now, let me tell you how it really is. I put myself through 100 years of college in the States without financial aid or assistance from you.  I've received 3 promotions in the last six years and "employee of the year" three times now. I handle the bookkeeping and staffing for Doddy's business.  I am honored and obliged by Ototo to maintain our property here. The financial obligations, the home maintenance, all me.  I've abandoned a relationship for my family. When Sobo became ill, I was the best equipped to nurse her. And I did. My entire life was dedicated to making her as comfortable as possible.  I handle the financial obligations for the nihon kaoku no.  I just bought you a new car. I'm the emergency contact for every member of our immediate family.

Am I not dutiful, Okaasa?  What did you imagine would happen when I gravitated toward Doddy's behaviors then?  He couldn't go fishing or work on that giant old Dodge or drink with his buddies or play at that smoky, cramped club without me tagging along. Did you really think I wouldn't grow up to be strong-willed and self-reliant in his shadow?

And how does it feel to have all of your pruning - the piano and the opera and the skating lessons - seemingly ineffective against chosen learned behaviors?

One truth is clear: you cannot continue to feign an aversion to my stances wholly supported by a culture in which you placed me over 20 years ago. And I grow tired of having my sister and my differences pointed out for me.

So, which is it? Should I continue to honor and support my family in every way I conceivably can, or would you simply prefer an empty frame?