It's an odd thing, this living abroad.

I have these bouts of homesickness where I'll just stare at the yearlong calendar at work and mentally black out all the time I've been here and look at the white space left and it's too much. I think about all the workdays I have left before then -- all the classes I have to teach, all the days of wearing suits that are still, still there -- and it exhausts me. I'll long for people that know me - really know me - and imagine coming back from a day's work to roommates or family or someone to have a full conversation with. I'll miss everything - going to the post office, the bank, a restaurant - being easy.

But then things always turn around. I'll have good classes and meaningful days of work, weekend plans lined up to look forward to, the meeting and connecting with great people -- people I would never have met if I hadn't come here. And simple things, like my run tonight-- listening to good new music on a four-miler in perfect, perfect fall weather among the uniformed high school students on bicycles weaving through the buildings and businesses -- let me know I'm not done with it. I'll miss the freedom and the adventure, my japartment and my students.

But -- far or soon -- not quite yet.

how many polacks in japan does it take to recognize shoe polish?

The other day, for a low/intermediate discussion class, I was going through some teaching materials. The purpose of the class was to practice correctly describing what various things are and how they work or how you use them (which actually sounds a little easier than it is, as far as forming full, grammatically correct sentences go). Example:

What's that?
It's a cellphone.
What's it for?
It's for pretending to talk on when you're walking past someone handing out stuff on the street so you don't have to take what they're handing out because your other hand is in your pocket, SUCKERS.

Except more serious. Anyway, there were some pictures of some household items to describe; microwaves, spatulas, placemats. And then there was this:



And here's how it went (phonetically spelled-out for differentiation purposes):

Me: What's this? Poh-lish? I don't get it. What's Poh-lish about this? Is it a poh-lish ashtray? A poh-lish mirror? *shows to coworker*
Coworker: That's shoe pah-lish.
Me: *runs away*

You'd think I'd have more than a quarter of Polack blood in me based on this, wouldn't you?

I've really not been helping to debunk any stereotypes lately.

onsen 'n o.j.

Well, I'm back from Beppu (where there are eight, not seven, hells MY BAD). In the past three days I, with my friend Cristina (yes, I have friend here - that's right, friend, singular), have:

• gotten a screaming good deal on both travel (Y5000 round trip by train!) and accommodations (Y3500 per night - huge bed and bathroom right next to the station!)
• made up a song about Beppu (Oh-oh Be-ppu/I just wan-na/walk a-round you)
  
• taken a sand bath which was alright
• taken a mud bath which was amazing
• soaked in an onsen (hot spring) which took whatever shred of modesty the massage incident in Budapest last year may have left behind
• had a long chat with this guy:

• stopped being afraid to take Japanese buses
• regretted not taking my scarf with me all the time
  
• visited a mountain of monkeys and
  
• found out that while not murdering or burglaring, O.J. Simpson has actually been hawking snacks with his image on them at shops in Beppu:

It was a fantastic weekend with more details and photos to be shared. Later.

where do i live?

Last weekend I was sitting in my japartment, probably reading or doing something else to expand my mind (HA - I was wasting time on the Internet and it was glorious) and heard a slight ruckus near the front of the train station next to my apartment building. I walked out my front door and peered down off the stairwell that faces said station. This is what I saw:

I didn't know what was going on but I soon retreated back to my japartment/Internet connection where Japanese people weren't yelling and rolling around on a big blue mat. Later on there was an even LARGER ruckus and I let my curiosity of the real world tear me away from the sweet sweet Internety world. Thank goodness:

Sometimes I don't understand my life.

You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

-- facts for today:

It's my third blog of National Blog Writing Month in which I'm attempting to blog everyday for the month of November and, as I'm going on a weekend getaway beginning today (hells!), I had to get up early just to write and not fail at my venture the third day in. That would be unacceptable! Inconceivable, even!

I'm in my 30th week and eighth month of living in Japan. Inconceivable...again!

I have to leave in 25 minutes and my hair is still wet and I'm not all the way packed or dressed and I have to take out my trash and go to the bank still. Mmmyeah, that's not inconceivable. Me being on time would be unbelievable.

No more rhyming, and I mean it!
Anybody want a peanut?

Oh man, The Princess Bride is so good.

japanese elevator doors can and will chop your hands off

In an effort to minimize the "oh you know what ELSE happens in Japan!?"'s that will be saturating the beginnings, middles, and ends of my conversations once back in my sweet sweet homeland and annoying the bejesus out of everyone, I will try to address some tiny quirks of this tiny quirk of a country before that time comes. Starting...NOW. Up next: elevatorville, population: YOU. And possibly your dog/jump rope/random appendage.

Japanese elevators are hardcore and the doors are NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT motion sensitive -- it took about nine NOT NOT NOT NOT NOTS going through my mind to remember that terrifying and probably occasionally bloody truth after all those times I was dashing to catch one and almost lost a limb trying to get in.

I witnessed a close call once as a non-Japanese friend of mine swung her purse out in an effort to stop the already-closing-doors from closing but the thing just snapped shut and greedily took it up eight stories. Upon returning to our floor, the once-erect handbag lay sadly crumpled and propped in the corner of the empty lift as if to say "what the CRAP did you do that for? I'll never properly accessorize again!"

See? This is what happens when you don't pay attention to the crazy elevator doors of death:


Please note the inside view of the elevator -- you could lose your DOG or your JUMP ROPE for crying out loud.

The picture is fuzzy because it's difficult to take a picture of something with a cellphone on a moving elevator. But what's funny about that particular warning is that it's on the door of a freight elevator that I use instead of the regular ones in my building to avoid the crowd. The only people that use that elevator are guys delivering tons of boxes with various goods inside and other people that work in the building. There's not been a lady with a dog nor a child with a jump rope anywhere NEAR that elevator, ever. Who jumps rope next to an elevator door anyway? If anything the warning sticker should show cardboard getting crushed or a uniformed cellphone shop girl being split in two.

There's also this weird elevator etiquette that happens on account of the doomsday doorage. As in other elevators, there are open and shut buttons to the right of the doors above the floor number buttons. If you get on the elevator and happen to be nearest said buttons, you are the automatic controller of the doors -- it's your job to make sure no one else needs to get on the elevator because, as you know, once them things is closing, man, that's it; plus they'll just stay open far too long if only a few people need to board. Likewise, when the riders are getting off the elevator, it's your job to be pressing the open button until all have departed, and those leaving give a little nod in your direction for your work.

Usually the system works fine -- unless, of course, I'm running late and desperately need to catch the elevator -- then the door controller is almost always going to be a J-hag (big hideous floppy hat, hunched over, evil, inexplicably oblivious to elevator door etiquette) -- then I have to choose between being late or having no right hand. Usually I'm just late. Usually.

Anyway, I'm going to a place called Beppu tomorrow. Apparently there are seven hells there! More on that later.

i went as a bitter old hag

You know, there's always danger in revisiting anything you used to watch as a kid in that it's likely you'll realize what you watched as a kid was stupid (my God don't even get me started on what happened when I watched Babes in Toyland for the first time in seven years. You'd think Drew Barrymore and Keanu Reeves wandering around in Cincinnati/Christmasland would be movietastic, but NO. I was shocked and wanted to travel back in time to slap myself for watching it over and over every Christmas.)

Anyway, that's what happened with It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, which is OBVIOUSLY supposed to be a CLASSIC. I put it on to have something to watch whilst folding my freshly laundered socks (ooo!) and good God is that thing LOUD. Like really, really, unnecessarily full of shrill voices and extraneous sound effects.

The Peanuts gang's running all over the place shouting TRICK OR TREAT!!!!! every five seconds and Snoopy's riding around in that plane and it's all BBBBBBBBBBBBBBVVVVVBBBB!!!!!! (or whatever the sound of an annoying cartoon plane looks like it sounds like) for hours and Sally's yelling at Linus for making her sit in the pumpkin patch all night and just, just, just SHUT IT! I'M TRYING TO MATCH MY VARIOUS PAIRS OF WHITE YET SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT LOOKING SOCKS AND I CAN'T DO IT WITH ALL THE NOISE! I kept cringing and making my volume go down lower and lower until it wasn't even worth having on anymore. Classics should have standards, not characters talking and doing stuff at a noise level comparable to feedback. And once again, I'm shocked at the poor taste of my younger self. Slappy slappy slap slap.

And I never really did get the whole Great Pumpkin thing. Was I supposed to learn I should believe in something that clearly doesn't exist so people can yell at me and not get free candy? I'm not falling for THAT again!

Welp, my costume's done. Suck it, childhood.

Edit I: HAHA who am I kidding? You know I'll get excited to watch it next year. And Babes in Toyland time is just a mere two months away. I can't wait!

Edit II: Oh my gosh I just watched this preview for Babes in Toyland and now I want to watch it more than ever.