phone calls with sako.

Cell phone text message:

"Lady @ chinese rest. Wouldnt serve me combo plate. Said i would get fat."

***

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What's up?"

"Nothing. What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Okay."

Silence.

"You called for a reason?"

"I can't call just because I love my sweet big sister?"

"Is that why you called?"

"No."

"Then why did you call?"

"I'm bored."

"Okie dokie."

"Bye!"

"But you just sai--"

(click)

***

"Hello?"

"HI!"

"Hi, Sak--"

"Bye!"

(click)

"fuck."

***

"Sako, stop that!"

"HI!"

"Hi."

"BYE!"

"FU--"

(click)

***

"Why don't you pick up the phone? It rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and rang and--"

"You're making me crazy. You know this, right?"

"I'm bored."

"I know. So what do you want me to do about it?"

"I'm waiting for the bus."

"Okay."

"It's boring."

"I'm getting that."

"BYE!"

(click.)

***

"I'm still bored."

Silence.

"Are you there?"

Silence.

"TALK TO ME!"

"Why? You'll just han--"

"BYE!"

(click.)

***

"I hate you, you know that?"

"HI!"

"Let me guess. You're bo--"

"The bus came!"

"Yay!"

"I got on it!"

"That's great. I'm happy for you."

"Bye!"

(click.)

***

(bring! bring!)

"DON'T ANSWER IT!"

"Why?"

"It's--"

"Hello? --Yuhri, it's your sister."

"I'm not here."

"Here."

"I'M NOT HERE!"

"Why are you not there, Yuhri? Why do you hate your little sister? I am so cute and sweet!"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

(sniffle.)

"Oh, shit."

"I love you, Yuhri. You are my big sister. You are mean to me."

"Yeah, whatever."

(sniffle.)

"Stop that."

"So meeeeeeaaaaaan!"

"You're making me insane."

"Aw. You are sad. I will spell broccoli and cheer you up. 'B-R-O-C-C-O--'"

"Stop that."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes. Fine. I'm happy."

"Do you love your little sister?"

"Yes. I love you."

"Lots and lots?"

"Yes."

"Aw. That's so nice."

"So what's up?"

"Nothing."

"Okay."

"I'm bored."

"Oh Go--"

"Bye bye!"

(click.)

"FUCK."

***

"Hey, Yuhri. What're you doing?"

"Eating lunch. I'm went to the..."

"I just bought a cock ring."

A pause. The sound of chewing slows. Silence. "Wait. What?"

"Cock ring."

"Okay. I ... don't know what that is."

"Well, if you take those two words, cock, and ring, and you put them together into one word--"

"See, that falls into the realm of TMI."

"What're you eating?"

"Cock ring?"

***

Asian Tact Deficiency Syndrome (ATDS)

ATDS (Asian Tact Deficiency Syndrome) n. A condition most commonly associated with immigrants from the continent and sub-continents of Asia, wherein accepted social etiquette is brutally mugged, beaten, and left for dead by a tendency towards catastrophic bluntness.

Indications and Predispositions: Despite its name, ATDS is not a syndrome exclusive to Asian ancestry. Asian ancestry has the most demonstrable predisposition towards the syndrome; however, documented cases have been reported in all racial types and nationalities. ATDS is most frequently diagnosed in first-generation immigrants, although statistical data is insufficient to identify any trends correlating infection rates with generational distance from initial immigration.

Symptoms: Characterized by elasticity of the lower mandible; limitation on vocabulary; abrupt, occasionally chaotic speaking patterns; inability to reconcile social behavior with accepted standards; increased vocal volume, perhaps associated with hearing loss; retardation in the ability to interpret body language.

Treatment: None known at this time.

Survivors and victims: It is important for family members and friends to know that people afflicted with ATDS do not experience any pain. Due to the curious affect of the disease, people who suffer from ATDS are, in a majority of cases, completely unaware that they display any symptoms. In this context, it is more accurate to call friends, family and coworkers of the ATDS-infected as "victims," as it is to their support structure that the burden of the disease often falls.

People in close proximity to ATDS sufferers should know that person-to-person transmission of ATDS itself has less than a .001% success rate. Due to the peculiar nature of ATDS, it is usually impossible to make an ATDS sufferer aware that s/he is displaying symptoms characteristic to the disease. The ATDS sufferer is usually convinced that any verbal manifestations (symptoms) of the disease are solely motivated by her desire to assist her victim in some shape or form, usually by pointing out personal details or flaws in the victim that might otherwise have escaped notice. This is done to assist the victim with personal improvement.

With that in mind, the recommended reaction to ATDS fits is to ignore them. If medication has been prescribed to the victim for ATDS-adjustment, it should be taken as quickly as possible.

---

Representative Case Studies:

Case 1: Chinese female, late 30s, Winter 2005

(Interview taken by Yuhri.)

Interviewer's preface: the interviewee is a married Caucasian female who works remotely, several hours away from the primary office. Due to the distance of her commute, she only comes into the office very infrequently. The following details an incident that occured during one of her rare visits to the main office. All relevant names have been stripped from this interview under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) of 1996.

"Oh my God. Yuhri. You'll never believe what ***** just said to me."

"What?"

"I was walking down the hall, and ***** was walking towards me, and she stopped and stared at me and said, '(Interviewee)! You have gotten so FAT!'"

"Oh my GOD." Interviewer's note: At this point, I regret to say, I burst into highly unprofessional laughter.

"I couldn't believe she even said that to me. What am I supposed to say? 'Yes, thank you. I've been working on it. I'm glad you noticed?'"

Interviewer's note: I was unable to respond, being reduced to tears.

Case 2: Russian female, age unknown, date unknown

(Interview taken by Yuhri.)

Interviewer's note: The interviewee in question is a married Caucasian female in her late 20s/early 30s. Identifying details have been removed from this case study to comply with the HIPAA Act of 1996.

"So I was at my husband's company party, and his boss is married to this -- anyway, I was a little afraid of her because you never know what she's going to say next. I run into her and the first thing she says to me is, 'So what is wrong with your body?' And I'm like, 'what?' because that just came out of the blue, you know? And she actually says to me, concerned, 'There must be something wrong with your body, or else you would already have children. Is it your uterus? Is there something wrong with your uterus?' And she bends over and actually reaches out with her hand like she's going to check my uterus right then and there. I jumped back so fast--"

Case 3: Chinese female, late 20s/early 30s, date unknown

(Interview taken by Yuhri.)

Interviewer's note: The documentation in question is narrated by the interviewee. Identifying details have been removed from this case study to comply with the HIPAA Act of 1996.

Monday, I gave the Firecracker a belated birthday present. "I couldn't find the one I originally meant to give you," I apologized. "I hope this works out."

I got her a hat at Macy's, a red wool felt job with a curved brim on one side and a floppy thing on the other. "A hat's such a personal thing. I mean, not all hats look good on people. I know that on my head---"

"Oh, hat. It is good. I look very nice in hats." She slid it on and regarded me complacently. It was true. She looked cute.

"Looks good," I congratulated. "They never look good on me."

She inspected me with a critical air. "It is because your head, it is too round and big. See?" She dislodged the hat and put it on my head, where it perched (several sizes too small) like a party favor on a bowling ball. She shook her head sympathetically. "It looks terrible. It is much better on my head."

Which was undeniable. But. "Great," I said, weakly. "I'm glad you like it."

Case 4: Asian female, nationality unknown, age unknown, date unknown

(Interview taken by Yuhri.)

Interviewer's note: The interviewee is a married Caucasian female in her late 20s/early 30s. At the time of the account, the interviewee was several months pregnant and employed at a large multi-national company. Interview was taken over the phone. Identifying details have been removed from this case study to comply with the HIPAA Act of 1996.

"Yuhri?"

"Hi, (name withheld)! How's it going?"

"Is there something wrong with the way I look?"

"What?"

"When you last saw me. Did I look okay? I wasn't freakishly hideous or anything, was I?"

"No, of course not. You looked gorgeous."

"Okay."

"Um, why?"

"My coworker, (ATDS sufferer, name withheld) she saw me and asked if I was having a boy or a girl. I said, 'girl,' and she nodded and said, 'oh, that explains it. Girl babies always steal your beauty.'"

(Blank silence.) "I'm sorry. Say that again? She said what?"

"That girl babies steal your beauty."

"Uh ... huh."

"But I didn't look hideous or anything, right?"

"No."

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure...."

Case 5: Asian female, Cambodian, age unknown, date unknown

Case note: Anecdote happened to staff member Yuhri H. Identifying details have been removed from this case study to comply with the HIPAA Act of 1996. Details have been lifted wholesale from her journal, (c) 1997-2006.

Yesterday he [Editor's note: "Heisenberg," the staff member's imaginary cat. NB: refer Mrs. Hirata for psychological review] accompanied me to my first wedding dress fitting, riding comfortably atop the massive marshmallow of white satin and dry cleaning plastic. The shop was one recommended by a pair of coworkers, who had taken their own wedding gowns there and been pleased by the result. The web site seemed to suggest a professional entity possessed of at least some gravitas, an illusion composed as much by the suggestion of clothing racks and store fronts as (I'm ashamed to admit) the pictures of white people staffed as tailors and customers.

The reality was a cross between a sweat shop and a 100 square foot mobile home, manned by a small flock of southeast asian women who were collectively oppressed and bullied by the fiery little shop owner. As the best English speaker in the business, she tyrannized over her seamstresses and customers, cowing both with high-handed arrogance.

Heisenberg fell in love.

He followed her around the store with his tail curled over his hips while I stood on a pedestal in gallons of white satin, labored over by a tiny little woman who spoke in a whisper. "... ... ... bustle?" she asked me.

"What?"

"... ... a ...?"

"A what?"

"What kind ... ...?"

"Okay," I said, baffled.

The little seamstress stared at me helplessly until the boss woman stormed by. "Pin it up!" she shouted. "You no just standing there, show her!"

Meekly, she began to fuss over my rear end again.

... to no avail, of course. After the boss dispensed with two customers, bitterly fulminating on the idiocy of one and upbraiding a smiling, bewildered employee because she underbilled another -- "This sleeve take four hour! You charge only twenty-five dollar! That not enough for one hour, even. You have to work extra, extra, you no doing to customer like this. I am boss, I know, you ask me first! You know nothing!" -- she descended on me like a fury and repinned everything, disposing of my seamstress in a froth of irritable criticisms.

"Too much fabric here," she fulminated, (jab jab jab jab) jabbing with the pins. "Dress maker, know nothing." So much for Jessica McClintock. Self-serving and sycophantic, I agreed in a small voice. It seemed safest.

An hour later, I was permitted to divest myself of my dress, and was manhandled into a chair to sign my estimate. "This much," she announced. "I give you discount. Your dress, it obviously not cost much, I not charge you much because it so cheap."

Heisenberg writhed in a hairball spasm of glee. Not being invisible and imaginary, I throttled my mirth. "Do you want cash or check?" I asked shakily.

goats are from venus

Remember my cat? Heisenburg? The one whose name switches between 'berg' and 'burg' depending on how Teutonic he's feeling? The invisible one?

Yes, well. My cat has fallen in love with...

...okay, wait.

Let me preface by saying that I am not, by any means, against interspecies relationships. If a pair of consenting, mature animals want to get together in the bonds of -- well, lust, since I'm rather dubious Heisenberg is capable of anything quite so permanent as actual love -- I will be the last person to oppose it. What business is it of mine if a platypus falls hard and fast for an Emperor penguin, or if a duck abruptly develops Feelings for a blue-ribbon Holstein show cow?

I do, however, draw the line at bringing that sort of depravity home to live in my apartment. Out of sight, out of mind, I say.

Really.

So. Anyway, Heisenberg has fallen in love.

With a goat.

He has brought her home to live with us.

(A goat.)

The goat is called Schroedinger, of all the ridiculous names, and is -- despite the name -- a female. A feminist at that, though a somewhat lackadaisical one; from the brief interactions I have had with her, I have found that she pays lip service to the concept of sexual equality, but in reality prefers sexual superiority. Namely, hers.

That this does not seem to disturb Heisenberg is, I think, less a sign of his liberalism as it is an indication that he's really more interested in Schroedinger's body. Evenings of late have been spent in deep discomfort as Schroedinger lazily watches television, and Heisenberg licks her. I do Heisenberg the benefit of the doubt when I assure you all that it is purely in a grooming capacity.

In all fairness, she is a very attractive goat, insofar as goats go; as a roommate, she is about as obtrusive as Heisenberg: that is to say, not very. She does seem to have picked up some of Heisenberg's more irritating mannerisms, such as materializing without warning underfoot when one is attempting to make dinner or talk to one's mother. "Sorry Mom, just stepped on the goat," makes for confusing non sequiturs in the middle of a talk about dietary fiber and bowel movements.

On top of this, she has taken to chewing on my toothbrush to help her "relieve stress," though what a goat living off the bounty of her boyfriend's owners has to stress about is anybody's guess. As if this is not irritating enough, she disapproves of birth control. My birth control.

It has become a common occurance for me to be standing in the shower, and catch a flicker of movement through the glass -- something small and white whisking into the bathroom, then whisking out. I emerge from the shower to find that the little pink packet of my birth control pills has disappeared.

Considering the small hoof prints that inevitably dot the bathroom floor, this is not a mystery that requires the skills of a crack forensics team.

This is the sort of thing that begins to make a roommate unwelcome. Schroedinger is remarkably creative when it comes to finding places to hide my medication. As Heisenberg is equally adept at finding these places, this has not become a significant problem yet. It's unusual being on the same side as Heisenberg, who is far more likely to thwart any high-minded or productive endeavor I embark on, purely on the theory that it is his responsibility to spread malice and misery to all.

In point of fact, my initial attempts to convince the damn cat to help me locate my pills were unsuccessful, to say the least. It was the reminder that birth control pills perform, among other things, a certain limiting factor on my -- our -- contribution to the human gene pool that persuaded him. He has been an avid and determined assistant ever since.

I do not find this flattering.

At this point, the only saving grace of having a goat as a roommate is that our household's collective garbage output has decreased tremendously. She is not a picky eater: plastic, styrofoam, old leftovers, these are all one and the same to her. Beyond the necessities of shelter and heat, which we use anyway, and her unfathomable addiction to the Jerry Springer show, she has otherwise not placed significant demands on us. Since the weather has been cool of late, she has even taken it upon herself to monitor our body temperatures. Early in their relationship, Heisenberg -- from who knows what malevolent prompting -- convinced her that humans will die if their bodies drop below 98.5 degrees.

There have been several disconcerting nights when I've woken up to find Schroedinger mucking about with our covers, a rectal thermometer clutched between her teeth. I find her consideration touching. I find its outlet of expression unnerving.

I don't think we can continue like this.

***

the cheese.

I'm all over the board today, what with working at home. Working at home is one of those things that you should only do if you are instilled with a level of self-discipline utterly lacking in my day-to-day life. I say it without pride; it is not an admirable trait, bordering more on the self-destructive than the useful. It is entirely possible that I could be chased by a disgruntled, murderous ostrich down a flat, one-way street, and would still pause to pick up something shiny because it caught my eye.

Diabetes is my ostrich. The streets are strewn with shiny things. For example, sex cheese....

Distractions are everywhere. At work, the distractions are animate: coworkers and customers asking questions, wanting opinions, venting, talking. At home, the distractions are more stationary, and as a result, more pernicious: laundry, dust, clutter, dishes.

It's tempting to just stop working and do some vacuuming. When did I get so old that the allure of the DVD player, the TV set, the Playstation, the computer games, the books and the refrigerator fade when compared to a forty-pound Dirt Devil?

I know. I'll use my federally mandated 15 minute work break.

Yay.

Now that I think about it, the phrase "sex cheese" requires a little explanation. As a phrase just thrown out there without context, it tends to trigger notions in, shall we say, seamier minds. While I know that its name suggests that it is an pseudonym for different, less mentionable things, in point of fact the Sex Cheese is exactly what its name says: Cheese.

The Sex part of its title is another story altogether.

Sex Cheese is more commonly known as Saint-Marcellin, a "creamy, unpasteurized natural rind cheese of cow's or goat's milk. It usually has a round shape with wrinkly, natural rind, dusted with a coating of white yeast. The texture of the young cheese varies from firm to very runny and it has a mild, slightly salty flavor. When ripe, it is irresistible with slightly yeasty taste. It typically has a beige crust with blue mold and a soft, beige creamy interior. It has an intensely rustic, nutty, fruity flavor."

What that description doesn't tell you is that it tastes good. So good that it is, in fact, the cheesy version of chocolate.

What that description also doesn't tell you is that at room temperature, it's very soft and runny, white, viscous, and has a slightly grainy look to it -- pale white with slightly deeper white pockets -- that makes it look like....

What that description also doesn't tell you is that the 'natural rind' is not really firm, but not really soft, so when you cut into it the inside comes pouring out. And as it pours it, the rind, which maintains its shape, slowly starts to sag and fall into itself and go, well, flaccid....

At any rate, there you go. Sex Cheese.

Moving on.

No, never mind. Don't move on.

I'm now fixated on the sex cheese.

Excuse me. Refrigerator calls.

on the wall

For your amusement or edification, I present to you this photograph of my sister, climbing ... something. "Machine World Traverse in Tuolumne," the photo caption says, though I'm at a loss to know what that means, exactly. Rocks, sister, gravity -- at any rate, someone submitted the photograph to a gallery on rockclimbing.com.

I would like to take a moment to assure everybody that my sister does not, no matter what the photograph suggests, have a mullet. I am aware that there is a wrinkle in her hair that, to a suspicious mind, implies she is afflicted with that unfortunate haircut which sadists across the rural backwaters think is de rigueur for titillating fashion delight. My opinion on the mullet is it is a red flag, if you will, a secular indicator of the type of personality that would -- under more hysterical influences -- function (if that is the word) as an acceptable suicide bomber. The self-destructive tendencies are much the same, though certainly less final in the mulletman; he has, after all, the option of walking into a reputable barber whose name does not begin with "Big" and end with "Bob."

And yet, mulletman doesn't. I can only imagine what sorts of exotic, erotic orgies the deluded man imagines is in store for him on the other side of mulletdom, because at some point he must have made a conscious choice. I am quite confident that these fantasies remain fundamentally fictional ... although I admit to having seen women with mullets from time to time.

It leads one to wonder if perhaps there isn't some Mullet Xanadu in which Mullets come together in the throes of passion, aliens in a strange and desolate land who have met at last another stranded, sympathetic brother of the same bizarre race. There, perhaps, Mullet Mommies and Mullet Daddies breed together the next generation of their kind, Mullet Babies, who are sent forth from their Mullet Eden to spread their Gospel of Mulletdom until some wandering soul is saved and brought into the fold, raised through the power of the Word until he, too, can touch the face of Barber Big Billy Bo Bob---

...I seem to have gotten somewhat distracted. My main point was that my sister does not have a mullet. The crinkle in her hair is actually from an erstwhile ponytail, which -- as is obvious in the picture -- has been removed. One of the peculiar traits of aggressively straight Asian hair is that it can eventually learn to take a kink. Just not useful ones.

What this implies about aggressively straight Asians, I leave to your imagination.

Here Endeth the Lesson.

strawberry shortcake, blueberry pie

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Just wanted you to know..."

"That's nice."

"...that if Jean Reno ever comes by, I'm so sleeping with him."

"...what?"

"But I'll still love you."

"Um."

"It's just, you know. Jean Reno."

"He's French."

"Jean Reno!"

"So you love me, but you'll trade me in for a French guy."

"Oh, or Johnny Depp."

"Great."

"He's not French."

"So you love me but you'll throw me out if Johnny Depp or Jean Reno come by."

"I won't throw you out. You'll just have to learn how to share."

"Uh huh."

"I love you."

"I'm getting that."

"Oh. Or Alan Rickman."

"Alan Rickman?"

"I love Alan Rickman."

"He's old!"

"He's hot."

"Great."

"I love you too, though."

"Any characters in Lord of the Rings you want to sleep with as well?"

"Oh--!"

"Never mind."

"--Viggo--"

"It's going to be a crowded bed."

"I love you."

"Yeah."

"It's good that we're in a relationship where we can laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are. Inside."

"And you say you love me?"

"I do!"

"I'm so lucky."

"Yay!"

"So why are you biting me?"

"Oriental flavor!"

"Great. Drool."

***

It has been cold lately in California, which is to say that the elements have actually taken an interest in the concept of "Winter," if only long enough to provide us with Seattle-quality deluges and small kamikaze drivers that I'm vaguely convinced are all Asian -- though the police claim that they're not.

In Da Home dat Ghetto Built, much excitement was inspired by the Guy's discovery that the pilot light had gone out. It is not an exaggeration to say that it was colder than an icicle teat in our apartment; I would have had chattering teeth, except that the chill had actually sucked the air out of my heaving bosoms, which weren't all that distended with bounty to begin with, if you get my drift. At any rate, the collapse of my torso's primary support structure did some odd things to my mouth, which resulted in it being unwilling to open for any reason, no matter how useful. Things like breathing.

It's an interesting side note that when the temperatures get too low, small, two-dimensional noses like mine actually collapse into themselves, as though the only thing that kept them inflated was a mixture of warm oxygen and ambition.

So. Back to pilot light. The two of us college-educated incisor-sharp minds stood around the furnace closet and poked at it, fiddling with knobs and listening to gas hiss. We couldn't figure out where the pilot light was. The Guy had a guess. He wasn't sure. We found one of those barbeque lighters and flicked it at assorted objects in the furnace, hoping one of them would catch fire.

Now, the logical mind would be wondering: if you don't know where the pilot light is, how do you know it's shut off? While we're at it, if you don't even know where the pilot light is, what makes you think it's a good idea to play around with gas knobs and open fire?

These are good questions.

At any rate, after thirty minutes or so of freezing, in-retrospect-suicidally-stupid-but-hey-we're-Asian monkeying about with the furnace and gas pipes and, you know, OPEN FLAME, the Guy decided to go out for long matches and broccoli.

The story ends with the furnace exploding and all of us dying, but that's a little depressing so we won't go into that now.

***

"You know who else I'd sleep with if I had the chance? Colin Firth."

"Okay. His address might be a bit hard to get a hold of."

"He's not Jean Reno, but he'd be cosmetic."

"Uh huh."

"I love you."

"Yeah. Nice save."

***

(Added note: Flamingo just reminded me about Hugh Jackman. How could I forget Hugh Jackman? Must add him to the list. Will inform the Guy tonight. Hugh....)

Break in the New Year

My sister gave this to the Guy as a Christmas present. You get three guesses what it is.

***

It's a new year, and the old one ended -- for our little family at least -- well. There is a quality of isolation about staying with my mother, one which I mention every year; now that the Guy has seeded my mother's house with a dial-up account and a computer, there is some limited access available to us if we're really desperate enough.

On the other hand, the habits of gathering our news from the TV and radio are not available to us. Mom doesn't have cable. It's the weirdest thing.

We have no Christmas traditions in the Hirata household, or at least -- none that have survived to this date. Christmas eve was celebrated at our favorite Seattle-area sushi restaurant, Taka Sushi in Lynnwood. Among other attractions (the crispy rice sushi, which isn't made with cereal as its name suggests, but is actually deep-fried and delicious) they have a toilet imported from Japan with its very own arm-rest control panel.

A toilet with a control panel. Every time I walk into the restaurant, either my sister or my mother demands I go visit the bathroom.

I came back to the dinner table and found my sister putting down one of my pills. "This one tastes sweet," she told the Guy.

It was my cholesterol medication, a little pink pill, and it was curiously shiny. So was my diabetes medication, a longer, larger oblong white pill. Mom and the Guy stared at them, then exchanged glances. Then they looked at me.

"Sweet?" I echoed. I sat down and picked up my diabetes pill. It was damp. "You've been tasting my medication?!"

"I was curious," Sako said.

I turned on the responsible adults in the party. "And you didn't stop her?!"

My husband looked sheepish. Mom blinked, as though the idea hadn't even occurred to her. "We didn't know she was going to do it," the Guy said, lamely. "By the time we did--"

***

Any ideas what it is yet? Here. I'll give you a bigger hint.

***

New Years resolutions have never been a great success for me. Well, let's face it. I have the self-discipline of termite droppings. Nonetheless, I persevere. For your entertainment and edification below: My 2005 New Year's Resolutions.

I'm taking bets on how long I'll take to break them.

1. Make sure the kitchen sink is clean every night. Okay. Trivial stuff. I have to start small -- and if you see the number of dishes we go through each night, you'd realize that this is no small task. The Japanese like many dishes. My Mom insists that having many dishes on the table 'makes the meal taste better.' My personal opinion is that having lots of dishes on the table turns the night's dishwasher's food to ashes in her mouth.

2. Write a minimum of one journal entry per week. Always excepting unforeseen circumstances and Acts of God.

3. Finish the Book of Lilith. That story I was writing for Nanowrimo? I should really finish that. It was starting to get interesting, for one thing, and looking at it two months later, I'm actually not tempted to delete the entire thing. This is an accomplishment insofar as I'm concerned.

4. Get our personal finances in order. Big goal there. I've bought a book, even. Personal Finance for Dummies. Catchy title. Now all I have to do is open the damn thing.

5. Take my first Aikido test. Next step up for me: White Belt! (Hm. That doesn't sound half so impressive as I thought it would.) Taking my first test means that I'll have to go to Aikido on a regular basis. Exercise Good. I've abandoned the thought of trying to reduce my weight; I never seem to be able to make those goals. On the other hand, being more fit should help me burn more calories which should help me lower my blood sugar. It's all good.

6. Measure my blood sugar regularly. Having a real problem with this resolution already. For one thing ... I seem to have lost my glucose monitor. Really should find that. Unpacking can be so confusing.
   

***

As it turned out, Whole Foods would have been an excellent place to take the Guy's friend. It's interesting watching how different people react to a new country, whether as a tourist or as an immigrant; my mother's family is duly astonished by tourist places, as though they have been given instructions before leaving the motherland: Space Needle, Pike Place, Seattle Underground, Monorail. Go. And if they do not have their list checked off before they leave the country, harsh spankings will be had when they attempt to re-enter Japan.

The Guy's friend betrayed little interest in the landmarks of the city. On the other hand, he did take pictures of the following:

• Freeways.
  
• Suburbs.
  
• Construction.
  
• Skyscrapers.
  
• Fire escapes.
  
• Arcades.
  
• Police cars.
  
• Fire stations.
  
• Costco's meat section.
  

The Guy's friend was fascinated by Costco. "I can't believe how much stuff is here. Look at all this meat!" He was entranced by central air (heating). He was fixated on fire escapes that actually let people get out of burning buildings.

("You don't have those in England?"

"They prefer to let people die," explained the Guy. "Then they won't bother the National Health.")

We wandered through Seattle and spent about an hour in Gameworks so the two guys could play arcades. The Guy took movies. We went to the Cheesecake Factory.

He was blown away by Costco. He would've been floored by Whole Foods.

"Costco?" I asked the Guy, later.

"I admit it," he said. "I wanted to show him how England's basically a shithole."

***

Think you know what Sako got the Guy?

You don't. Believe me.

Give up?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A rubber ducky toilet seat.

Yeah. We don't get it either.