betterbutter

proving that i can complain about things other than pregnancy

Still here, friends. Still pregnant. I'd much rather talk about cilantro though.

For the last nineteen days the American grocery store, the cheap grocery store, has been out of cilantro. I know this because I have gone almost every one of those days to check on the status. Nothing. The Japanese grocery stores don't carry it and, worst of all,  I cannot make posole without it. Frankly I'm just not accustomed to this lack of choice. It's my red, white and blue right, right?

The American within me is pounding her fists against such injustice. She says things like:

What do you mean I don't have the option to take my business elsewhere?

This is a monopoly and that's illegal and I'll sue you!

My incessant complaining about the cilantro debacle in combination with my never-ending pregnancy prompted Joe to plant some cilantro seeds. Indeed that was a clever and thoughtful way to get a respite from my jabbering. And while nothing has sprouted since the implantation two days ago, my hope has been restored. I just may have cilantro again. Viva El Cilantro!

The case of the missing cilantro is not my only concern with the American grocery store. By concern I mean complaint but I'm trying to give the impression that I do things other than complain. But lately that's not true. I digress.

There's a tipping racket abrew at the American grocery store which is made all the more remarkable in a country where tipping just doesn't happen. And the Japanese customer service sans tipping is some of the finest around. Among a long list of Japanese things I'd like to import to the U.S.A.customer service lingers in the top five along with convenience store onigiri. If you have designs on visiting these parts do stick customer service in the PRO column.

So after your groceries get bagged they immediately get transferred to the bagger's cart which is not your cart which means that you are not at liberty to push your own cart out to your car and unload your groceries for free. Instead the bagger and his cart follow you and do what you could have done except now it's not free. If it's not an option to have my groceries carried for me then doesn't it follow suit that I shouldn't have to tip for that service? In the store there are several prominent signs learning you that these baggers work for tips. I didn't hire these folks and I don't have a choice about partaking in their service yet I am responsible for their wages?

Another injustice, I tell you. The American in me feels betrayed.

are you my butcher?

There is a brand new shop on our block. It appears to be called Nakakawa Meat. Nakakawa is a family name I'm assuming. Some further assuming leads me to believe that this Nakakawa guy is selling a variety of meats. Or perhaps he's just selling goat meat. Or he's only selling the meat of goats raised on imported toilet paper.

I do not know the answers thus I anxiously await the grand opening. Maltsby feels differently.

Two days ago a lone pair of rain boots sat outside the store. At the precise moment that Maltsby went in for a blissful sniff some unrelated squeal sounded and echoed down the empty morning street. The boy has a fragile constitution and has not recovered from the Case of the Screaming Boots.

The downside to Maltsby's new phobia of all things boots and squeals and Nakakawa Meat and paper-eating goats is that he forbids me to pass by the store at a pace conducive to good spying. Instead he drags me like greased lightening past the store, across the street and AWAY from the scene of the crime. I'm just wondering if I'll lay my eyes on a goat is all.

beach blanket bingo

Now that all the dirty sick  has left our house, we were free to go to the beach today. Joe and Eli yucked it up in the water while I took stock of the goings ons around me. The most noteworthy were the two women buried in the sand and the two men videotaping them while also smoking and talking on their cell phones. After thirty silent minutes of video capturing  how they laid in the sand up to their necks just so these young ladies emerged from the sand and frolicked in the water for the cameras.

   
Something was definitely amiss. Too boring to be erotic yet too creepy to make my goosebumps go away.

a little bow will do you

People here in Japan bow. You already knew that though.

I am a fan of the bowing. You never have to wonder how to greet or bid farewell to someone. That's not the case for me in the States. Do I shake a hand? Give a hug? Nod? Smile? Appropriate greetings and farewells confuse me at home. I don't want to appear overly casual or formal ever. In non-professional situations the handshake feels silly especially with another woman. I'd rather pinch her cheek or give her a high-five. At least it would seem friendlier than shaking her hand. The rules just aren't clear to me. Or they don't exist.

Here in Japan the rules are more clear or at least I'm blissfully ignorant to the nuances. I throw bows around happily all day long. Seems like everyone else is engaged in the same song and dance. So onward I bow.

Good morning. Bow.
Thanks for the groceries. Bow.
Yes. My dog IS cute. Bow.
Nice to meet you. Bow.
I have no idea what you just said. Bow.

Naturally, I impose this behavior on Eli like a good mother does. This way, not that way, MY way.  I put one of my hands behind his head and the other on his belly and push forward creating a passable bow. He obliges in so much as he doesn't scream. And then yesterday as we walked down the street, a couple passed us on the sidewalk. Eli made eye contact, placed his hand behind his head and pushed himself forward into a bow.

Then I crumbled  into a pile of love and glee.

monkey see, monkey throw doo-doo

That artfully rendered monkey is flinging two steaming piles of dung into the eyeball of a man. Our little man stands in that very line of fire. This is not Eli's first rebel yell.

one is silver and the other is gold

Once upon a time I had a brief but torrid affair with a video game called The Sims. As I remember it, the player controls a family to include bathrooming them lest they wet the floor and then cry about it. You also build and furnish their house and help them progress along their career paths by leading them to bookshelves to read and toolboxes to manhandle. Your job is to balance their professional, social, domestic and basic needs. If you are doing well then their mood, which is monitored at the bottom of the screen, is good. A good mood means survival and hours more of fun bathing, feeding, shopping for and entertaining your family.

Why something similar to the tedium of daily life could lure me in I do not know. But the parallels between my daily life now and the life of my long neglected and deceased Sims characters are closer than they should be. Especially my social life.

In the video game social interaction is imperative for the happiness of your characters. When new neighbors move in  you need to call them and invite them over to interact. And if the interaction goes well you gain friends who are also, along with your mood,  monitored at the bottom of your screen. When characters talk a speech bubble appears over the head of the speaker indicating the topic of conversation. In the screen shot below you can see that the brown-haired fellow is chatting it up about the impending rain forecast for that evening. The ladies don't have a particular feeling about this topic as there is no positive or negative reaction his conversation. The blond gentleman, however, is quite taken by this conversation as you can see by his desire to hold the man's hand. If the brunette man has a similar warm fuzzy about the blond then a friendship blooms and they will have many scintillating conversations about the weather ahead.

Sometimes things don't go as smoothly as they did in the hot tub. In the following screen shot you can see that these lovely young ladies are sharing no love. Negative signs all around.

In summary, cause this is complicated stuff,  as you interact with different characters you collect positive or negative vibes ultimately resulting in a friend, an acquaintance or, as is the case with these women, an arch nemesis. You get my point.

Now on to the seamless parallel to my life.

I have met many women during the last eight months here on Okinawa. I am seriously on the prowl for girl friends so I take these points seriously. There have been lots of positive and negative points handed out during each and every interaction. As a result of my fortitude and determination, I have one friend. She's no BFF but we bump plus signs on many topics. That is a happy ending.

Then there is the woman I am showering in plus signs who isn't reciprocating with quite the intensity that I need. And her indifference or neutrality hurts my feeling. I want to tell her to like me because I am likable. But with so little to show for eight months of work, I wonder if that's even true. Maybe my likability has vanished. Making friends has never been such a challenge for me so something has got to give.

Meanwhile as I have been writing this I got an e-mail from the woman-who-loves-me-less-than-she-should asking if I'd like to start a playgroup with her on Mondays. Um, YES. Plus sign, plus sign, plus sign, plus sign. And my spirit is revived and there is love like that night in the hot tub to go around.

Also, an armful of plus signs to you from me.

behold my hose

I had guests at the house for the first time today expect for that one other time. And that one other time I did not clean the bathroom which they used. I haven't heard from them since. I blame the bathroom for our premature break up. Obviously.

Here in our Japanese house the bathroom has three parts. Part A is a toilet room and is across the hall from Part  B1 and B2 where never the two shall meet. In Part A you will find a toilet as you know a toilet, a window,  a wee sink that is recessed into the wall and underneath the sink hanging daintily from the pipes is a garden hose. Or half a garden hose. I'm not  sure what the purpose of the hose is but I used it today as I saw fit. I turned it on full blast and hosed down the joint from the safe and dry doorway ledge.  There were capfuls of Soft Scrub and a brush of sorts involved. Most importantly though very few minutes were lost and very few muscles were taxed. Yes, a  hose in the bathroom like a stroke of genius like the early bird catching the worm like the cake you have and eat.

Furthermore,  the guests used the bathroom and I have heard from them again.  At this rate I'll have a BFF in no time.