November 25, 2002
a little nothing
I have nothing to write about.
No, really. Nothing. There's absolutely nothing in my head. I can actually hear the draft hissing through my ears, in one side, out the other, a little pause for apartment shopping in between -- "Honey, look at how spacious it is." "Yes, but do we really like the neighborhood?" -- before moving on to brighter (no pun intended) and less echo-y pastures.
Barring any excitement that may come my way over the next few hours, this will be the Seinfeld episode of my journal. No story, no interest, no point. Barring commercials, there'll be about as much stimulation here as an hour of Saturday Night Live. Usually, I hear the theme music and change the channel.
Go ahead, then. Change the channel. Won't hurt my feelings.
I'll just be sitting here, thinking about toenails.
Happy Thanksgiving. Check your calendars. It's the 25th.
Last night, I received a phone call from my Dojo-cho -- Americans would say, maybe, "minister" or "priest" -- that informed me that I was in trouble. Of all the Doshis (Americans would say, "junior minister") and Dojo-chos (Americans would say, "multiple ministers or priests") that I've had in my widely-travelled career, none have intimidated me quite as much as the one stationed in San Francisco. Part of this is that she never raises her voice, being at all times very ladylike, very polite, and -- worst of all -- very much like my mother. When she was stationed in Seattle, she and my mother were great friends, which just goes to show you.
She's called me a couple of times before, both times to tell me in her gentle, Japanese way that I should show my face at the Dojo (Americans would say "Church") more often than the once-every-other-blue-moon schedule I was favoring. Naturally, when I heard her voice, I instantly launched into an apologetic speech about why I wasn't at the Dojo this past Sunday.
"I ended up having to work, you see," I babbled, nervously scratching the back of one leg with the toes of the other. "I meant to go, but I just wasn't able to--" True enough, every word. More or less.
But I'd moved beyond 'in trouble' to 'in serious trouble,' as far as Dojo-cho was concerned. "Guess who's with me," she said mildly.
I blanked. "Who?" God?
There was a moment's silence, and then a sudden bright, cheery, and stomach-droppingly familiar voice. "Harro, Yuhri!"
Mom.
Oh.
(Americans would say, "Crap.")
There was a moment's silence while I digested this information. Dojo-cho and my mother in the same city. Dojo-cho and my mother in the same room. Dojo-cho talking to my mother about my spectacular spiritual failures. It may sound strange and kind of hokey to say this, but even without being particularly religious, I actually do love my God.
On the other hand, I'm afraid of my mother.
"Mom?" I said in a small voice.
"Harro?"
"Mom?"
"Harro?"
I paused for a second, wondering if I could conveniently lose connection. It just goes to show how panic can disrupt your normal, intelligent thinking processes. I'm fairly sure that hanging up on my mother would have caused some serious reprecussions. I thought of a couple of them, and abandoned the idea rather hastily. "This ... this is you, isn't it? Uh, Mom?"
"Harro!"
Definitely Mom. "Hi, Mom," I said weakly. "So...you've been talking to Dojo-cho, have you? Wait." I thought of a diversionary tactic and pounced on it, ruthlessly. "What are you doing in San Francisco?
If she was in San Francisco, she hadn't told me in advance. If she was in San Francisco, she hadn't called me the second she got off the plane. If she was in San Francisco and not visiting me, she had something to feel guilty about. Ergo, I was now armed.
Should have known better. It's never that easy. "I'm in Ros Angeres," Mom piped, happily. "We are having miyakusha." (A meeting for Dojo staff.)
No defense for Yuhri. Nothing for Yuhri. Just Dojo-cho, and Mom in the same room with her. "Oh. That's nice. Because I was thinking, if you're in San Francisco and you didn't even bother to tell me in advance...." I laughed a little wildly.
When Dojo-cho got back on the phone, I was thoroughly squashed into submission. My mother can do that. She can do that without ever saying a word about it. My recollection is that in this particular conversation, she wanted to verify for the sixth time that we'd be flying up on Wednesday, and that she'd pick us up outside the airport.
It was enough that she was talking to me. Dojo-cho got me back, completely cowed, docile as a lamb.
"It would be nice if you could come to the Dojo once in a while," she said kindly.
"Yes, ma'am," I said meekly.
"Because we miss you."
"Yes, ma'am."
"It would be very nice," Dojo-cho said again.
I sniffled a little. "I'll come on Monday," I promised. Even to myself, I sounded pitiful.
In the past two weeks, I've eaten two small bags of McDonalds french fries, 1/64th of a piece of Coldstone ice cream pie, and fourteen pounds of fiber. "Fourteen pounds!" you're thinking. "That's a pound a day. What, was there a sale on metamucil at Costco?"
To be honest, I've enjoyed the french fries and ice cream pie far more than the fiber, consumed -- you will be delighted to know -- in varying shapes and sizes and flavors, and none of it name branded. Fiber in broccoli, fiber in cereal, fiber in fruits and grains and vegetables, oh my. The problem with fiber is that it's all hustle, no linger. Fiber does not stand about smelling the flowers by the side of the road. Fiber has a schedule set by Martha Stewart. Fiber wants to be out and doing things, the key word being 'Out.' In the Warner Brothers menagerie of Recommended Daily Allowances, fiber is the Roadrunner on crack.
Fiber wants to go out and see the world. If the only way to travel is through the septic tank, so be it.
I complained earlier that I had no "now what?" manual to know how to progress with my diabetes self-maintenance. My diabetes class is over two weeks away, with Thanksgiving in between and an overenthusiastic (if equally diabetic) mother chanting mantras about all the food she'd like to cook me. Being the daughter currently away from Seattle, I have been promoted to the status of "favored child," which means my past favorites will be resurrected and presented in front of the interested, possibly appalled stomach of the Guy.
Anyway, back to the "now what?" manual issue. A member of my notify list kindly sent me the names of two books, complete with ISBN numbers and prices at Amazon. Does it astonish anybody that it never occurred to me to look at actual books for information? I immediately went online and ordered them.
Today the box arrived, possibly the most important delivery I've ever gotten, excepting that care package I once got in college from my family that for some reason contained (compliments of my demented sister) a head of broccoli that was at least two weeks old. The books have the distinction of being the first "for Dummies" books that I have ever purchased, one of those red letter days I always hoped I'd manage to live life without.
There's something irritatingly condescending about the pointy-headed boy in the front of "for Dummies" books. "Got you!" he looks like he's saying. "You're a dumbass! You see? You admitted it by buying my book. Dumb, Ass. Let me wag my finger at you in a coy and enragingly smug way, and in exchange I shall write a book for your diminished intellect with simple words and saccharine humor."
And yet, I'm encouraged. The fact is, insofar as Diabetes is concerned -- and I simply can't write the word without giving it the capital letter it now deserves, Diabetes, Di-a-be-tes -- I really am absolutely ignorant. And while there are times when it's prudent to conceal one's ignorance, such as when one is standing before a bad-tempered judge, there are also times when it's just smarter to stand up and admit: I'm a moron. Educate me.
My reader promises education, a wealth of information, and recipes to suit my new diet restrictions. If this book can help me squash my sudden obsession with the Big Mac, it's a step in the right direction.
So hey, considerate reader. My pancreas thanks you.