anniversary

Over the last few weeks I've been getting increasing amounts of junk mail, none of them the interesting kind that involve breasts or HOT CHIX!!! or ASIAN LUVIN!!! although for a while there, I was getting emails actually in Japanese, urging me to visit so-and-so site to view so-and-so sexy girl. When I say that the email was in Japanese, I mean that it was actually in Japanese, none of this sophomoric romaji stuff, wherein Japanese words are spelled out using english characters that prove woefully inadequate because the English alphabet contains both an 'R' and an 'L.'

The upshot of sending me emails actually in Japanese was that I didn't really read them, instead hoarding them up in my inbox for later translation just in case they happened to be from relatives. Since the subject lines were also in Japanese, I honestly had no idea what they were about. My limited classical self-education has yet to reach the anatomical; in other words, I know the characters for 'bicycle,' but am somewhat at loss for how to write 'twat.' (Unamerican of me, I know.)

Anyway, I eventually realized I had six Japanese emails in my inbox, all from the same person, all with the same subject lines, and decided to actually read one. It was much hard labor with the Japanese-English dictionary, and the Kanji dictionary, and once an extremely embarrassing and baffling phone exchange with my mother. All so I could read the Japanese version of 'Hot chicks! Steamy Pussy! Horny sluts! XXX!!'

I find it odd that the Japanese can't spell 'hello,' but they can spell 'sexy' just fine.

I've never been big on April Fool's Day. I've always had plenty of ideas for pranks, without the balls -- so to speak -- to try them, which is a recipe for frustration at any stage. Any nine year old can dream of replacing the car door on her neighbor's volkswagon, or shaving her little sister and sending her out to collect for the hari krishnas. On the other hand, it's another matter altogether for a nine year old to get her hands on a circular saw and a car door, not to mention risk the wrath of Mom when the little sister appears, shorn, at the dinner table.

Mom had no sense of humor when it came to mealtimes. The little dead moles we occasionally brought to the table had hair, and look how upset she used to get about that. Imagine if my sister had shown up without any.

On a brighter note, the Guy and I -- with the assistance of K & B and Tara and Remington, the full quartet responsible for bringing us together in the first place -- have determined that April 1st is in fact our anniversary. It's an appropriate date in that it's close to (or approximately or even, who knows, actually) the date we might have first met. It's not the 25th, which is unfortunate, but on the other hand it's April Fool's Day, which is appropriate. So happy anniversary to us.

Of course, I'm in the Cow, so there'll be no romance for us. None that doesn't involve wireless static and bad reception, that is. Not to mention that I'm in The Cow, and the only lustful thoughts that should inspire better be in your next door neighbor's piebald great dane with the placid brown eyes, udders, and penchant for tulips.

Feeling the need to do something relationship-related this evening, even 220 miles away from my boyfriend, I finally bit the bullet and told my Mom that he had moved in.

Actually, I'd gotten some encouragement from Binky a little while ago. A whole plan of action, a strategy if you will. A multi-pronged attack to wear down her spirit before the death blow was applied. However, as these things usually turn out, it all came down to a moment of weakness (or strength, depending on how you look at it.) Mom called after a trip to Hawaii for work; the conversation circulated on "what is your sister up to?" and then "I talked to your grandmother." From there it was a simple hop to imminent mortality and her bright assertion that everything was just fine, nothing to worry about, she felt healthy as a horse and the diabetes was perfect and she didn't miss us at all, too busy, too busy. After five minutes of this, I caved like a radish nibbled by squirrels.

I was good, too. It was slick. I talked about my old roommate for five minutes, and how she had always lived with someone, lived with her parents, lived with me, and now she was going to get married soon and she'd never lived by herself, see, on her own, see, and how she decided to get her own place and she'd been thinking about living on her own just to try it out just once, so she could say she had that experience before getting married and so she'd moved out andsincetheGuywasalwaysoverwefiguredit'djustbeeasierifhejustmovedin. "So, how was Hawaii?"

"Smooth," said Heisenburg sarcastically.

There was a small silence on the phone. Apparently, my mother hadn't been fooled by the 'Hawaii' bit. "Well," she said, and sighed. Sadly. "I suppose since you'll eventually get married anyway -- " (what?) " -- but you should keep clean until your wedding, Yuhri. I don't mean just your room."

In Japanese, this means "Don't have sex." It doesn't translate well into English. Curiously enough, neither does "who said anything about marriage?" Not, that is, into Mom-talk.

I counted my internal organs, considered myself lucky, and called the Guy to break the news of my immense bravery. "Guess what!"

I didn't tell him what she said about marriage.