Thursday, July 31, 2008

It was ballroom dancing, but I swear we weren't watching

We happened to have the TV on and there happened to be a broadcast of some Pan-Asian ballroom dancing competition. 'Watching' would be a very loose description of my mom and my activity vis รก vis this program. Anyway, some couple was dancing and the woman's costume was, in a word, hideous. I may never have been a huge fan of professional ballroom dancing outfits, but I am used to the female dancers having at least some small piece of cloth they can refer to as a 'skirt' somewhere near the crotchal region. This woman's costume was missing this vital piece of cloth and so was simply wearing a unitard. But not a normal, spandex kind. It was a nude colored, nylon body-stocking with barely enough sparkly rhinestones in the three most necessary places to avoid being jailed.
"Ugh," I moaned. "I can't believe that costume. It's disgusting."
"Well," said my mom, "I don't think Japanese should even be ballroom dancing."
"I don't think this couple is Japanese. They look maybe Chinese?"
"Whatever. Asian. I don't think Asian people look good dancing like this."
"Why not?" I asked, my curiosity piqued by her disdainful tone.
"Well," she began, "first of all, their legs are too short..."
She never got to a second reason, though I'm sure there was one. Maybe even a third. But we'll never know because my laughter totally cut her thought process short. But I must say I was proud that she used the word 'Asian;' I've finally broken her 1960's habit of referring to all Asians as 'Orientals.'

Sunday, July 27, 2008

One from the archives

My mom had never watched any reality TV before. I introduced her to Top Chef since I had found a place to watch it illegally on the web (shh, don't tell). She was addicted just as I was. It was season 4 and I had already seen a few episodes before we started to watch them together, again from the beginning, so she knew I already knew who was going to be eliminated at each round. We're all old hands at reality shows, us Americans, and while the dramatic editing and music at the end just makes me annoyed and not really in suspense, she would get tense, wring her hands, and look back and forth from me to the computer until the verdict was announced. This reaction of hers went away after a few episodes, but it was cute while it lasted.

Anyway, we got to the Final Four and there was a chef who served a pigeon pea dish whose peas were not fully cooked. During the deliberation, my mom asked me who was going home. I just shrugged my shoulders and told her to wait and see. "It's the girl who made the peas," she said.
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
"You just don't under-cook peas."
Agreed, but I was surprised she had such a strong opinion in the matter. Anyway, she was right. As we all know.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

The N.R.B.R.A.??

Our ukulele thing this weekend was at the National Communications Museum and they had a bunch of 'exhibits' on the ground floor, of which we were one. The 'booth' to our left was this:
Could I have felt any happier? I think not, but in a country where guns are totally illegal, it makes sense that it would spawn this organization. In the display case were many different rubber-band guns (I won't even try to name the types because I'll just sound like an idiot, but there were many. You can see the MR-2 here) and next to it was a poster with the best painted portrait I've ever seen of this association's founder. One-hundred percent 70s cop style, replete with hair-do, raised eyebrow, gun-holster and green meadow in the background. See for yourself:It was so good, I took a picture. Feeling satisfied, I turned around and faced...the man in the flesh! Of course I had to take another picture. His painted portrait was not false-to-form in any way:If there was ever an obscure talent, it would be being gifted with a rubber-band gun. This guy, Mr. Nakamura, was a dead-shot. He had a 5 yen coin hanging from a string, and he could hit it with a rubber-band time and again, whether it was stationary or swinging and spinning all around. I was impressed. Plus, he designed and made all of the guns on view. I kinda wish he was my grandpa. Seeing how the kids flocked to his table, I think I am not alone in this wish. Why do guns draw kids like magnets?
Anyway, you may be wondering why this is appearing on mctm since thus far it has had nothing to do with my mom. But, this is where she comes into the picture.

Of course she wanted to try one out. She'd barely 'loaded' it before she discharged it in some random direction. See the look of abject terror on that guy's face?
There are kids everywhere! I thought. Man, it was a good thing that it was only loaded with low-caliber rubber bands. The moral of this story, in the words of James Thurber, is 'Never allow a nervous female to have access to a pistol, no matter what you're wearing.'

Especially when she is your mother.

Amen, brother.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Some words of advice...

if you are ever trying to get me to taste something, a good starting point would be NOT telling me you thought it was congealed blood.

My mom took me for a belated birthday dinner at this place that is a bath-house-slash-fancy-restaurant. I didn't know what kind of food would be served and when I'd asked her on the train ride there what kind of restaurant it was, she told me, "Nice*." It ended up that we were slated to have a
kaiseki meal. Not to be overly suspicious, but once a long time ago we had such a meal and one of the dishes consisted of a small 'pile' of slimy, white ooze. Poking it with my chopstick, I had asked my mom what it was, and she looked at me with her crazy eye and said "fish sperms;" so, needless to say I felt a little bit of, shall we say, reservation toward what might be served. Generally speaking, however, everything tonight was quite delicious. Of course, I had also just got out of a nice, hot bath and was working on drinking an entire (small) bottle of sake by myself. There was, however, one thing that I couldn't pop into my mouth with ease. This was it:


It wasn't just how it looked, though. The look of confusion and concern on my mom's face when she took a bite of it was about enough for me NOT to try it.
"What does it taste like?" I asked her. Puzzling, she took another small bite.
"I don't know!" she said.
"Well, is it vegetable? Fish? Meat? (she raised her shoulders, baffled, after each suggestion) Blood?"
"It might be blood. Taste it and you tell me."
At 31, I can finally kind of tell what I need and what I don't need, and what I don't need is to try a cube of blood.
Do I even need to tell you I said "Hell, no"?

* My mom has always been this way, using qualifying words instead of quantifying words to describe things. Actually, hers are probably better choices, though they are seldom what I am looking for. Like here when I was wanting to know what type of food, not what quality of food. One time she had bought me sheets with horses on them, and I wanted to know if they were cartoon, or what. When I asked her what kind of horses they were, she replied, "Running." Maybe I'm too like the adults on the planets the Little Prince visits in that book. Maybe, though, it's also not too late to change...

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Never as bad as it sounds

We are going to my grandparents' grave tomorrow. This morning I was informed that today was the anniversary of my grandmother's death. Here are some possible ways my mother could have told me, followed by my translation of what she actually said:
Casual - "Did you know today was the day that Baba died?"
Proper - "Did you know Baba passed away on this very day three years ago?"
Traditional - "Did you know that today is the anniversary of Baba's death?"
Yoko - "Did you know today was the day Baba croaked?"

Okay, maybe the Japanese didn't quite translate as 'croak' but it was definitely beneath casual in how she said it. The thing is, I know nobody rolled over in their grave because we all know and love her for exactly the fact that she says things like this. After all, she did call her mother (though I guess this term really exists in Japan) 'Honorable bag lady' instead of 'Mom.' I guess it never is as bad as it sounds.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

It was "The Blair Witch Project" redux

Do you remember the scene where the kids find that little bundle with something suggestive of inner workings and something suggestive of teeth and the horror that perhaps swept through your guts when you saw it?

Well, yesterday I was browsing through a tin that contained several medals my grandfather had been given, as well as some other miscellaneous items that had hitherto not been examined. One of my favorite pastimes at my grandmother's house had always been to hunt for treasure. The treasure being old photographs which my grandmother had kept all of out of what I can only assume was a sense of duty, though I must say her organizational methods left something to be desired. But that's part of what made it exciting for me; every time I visited, I went through forgotten drawers and found treasures of photographs that I still feel desperately attracted to. Perhaps they give me a sense of history, of something beyond my self and my brief life. I would feel a thrill as deep as the archetypal archaeologist discovering Tutankamon's burial site when I would find a photo of my great grandmother on her 20th birthday (20 is a right of passage in Japan), or the high and then low of finding a photomat sleeve inside a box, at the bottom of a drawer in the storage room, only to discover a perfectly preserved, never been opened disposable rain poncho from what appears to be the late '70's by the look of the model. So, poking around old storage tins and boxes has a certain allure for me.

In this tin was a small wooden box. I opened it. It contained a weathered envelope. In this envelope was a paper with writing on it folded around something slightly bulky. I looked at the squiggles (please recall my illiteracy) and could make out my grandmother's maiden name but nothing else. So I unfolded it. Out came another, tinier package also wrapped in rice-paper. I gingerly unfolded it to reveal its contents. In my hand I saw something grey, like a bit of rope bunched up; then I noticed something fleshy and creepy among the ropey. The sensation I had was identical to the one I had seeing that bundle with teeth. Feeling slightly vomitous, I ran down stairs to show it to my mom.

"What is this?!" I asked, showing her the writing on the bundle.
"Where did you find this?" she responded, laughing a little.
"WHAT IS IT?" I said, close to hysterics, "It's Baba's umbilical cord, isn't it?! ISN'T IT!"
She laughed at me. But, I was right. I just knew it the minute I saw it. Man, how I wish I had been wrong! Why couldn't it have been a poncho! (vomit)

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Generational gap defined, much to her chagrin

I was vaguely partaking in a conversation my mom and one of her former students, Jun chan, were having this morning, when I heard a word I was not familiar with.
"What's ohbehjin," I asked.
"It's what you are," my mom said. A brilliant definition that clarified close to nothing for me.
A giggle escaped my lips. "I don't know what that means."
So she clarified. "Da white people."
I swear to god she said 'da' and not 'the;' I was laughing so hard. But Jun chan didn't agree with this explanation. My mom said that the characters that make up the word come from the words "Europe" and "America" to which Jun chan agreed, but she said that while elderly people might still think that means 'white,' the younger generation may not be so narrow in their interpretation.

As for me, I was just recovering from my loss of control over my mom's 'da white people' comment when the words 'elderly people' passed Jun chan's lips. Of course I had a total relapse. My mom didn't scowl, though. She just laughed. I'm kind of glad that that scowl is reserved only for the disparaging comments that I make. Kinda makes me feel special.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

I'm glad I'm not her financial advisor

We were discussing retirement savings options and she seemed a bit confounded and confused as to some of the terminology I was using. I had asked her whether she had an IRA account or if it was a 401k. She didn't know. She just knows she has something.
"But you don't know which kind?" I asked.
"No. And I've never heard of a IRA-k before," she said. She immediately started laughing.

I quickly followed suit. "Neither have I. Neither have I."

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

when gas was only 31 cents

Ogura san brought a package of Japanese cherries to us yesterday and it sparked a conversation about which tastes better, Japanese cherries or American black cherries. Because the thing is you can get either variety in Japan but for some reason the ones grown in Japan are way more expensive than the American imports. So, this gift of a pint of cherries from Ogura san wasn't just like getting some fruit from someone who'd just gone to the farmers' market or anything. "How much does a basket of cherries cost in California?" my mom asked, "About 65 cents? Or 89 cents?" Admittedly produce is cheaper in California, but obviously my mom is no Alan Greenspan, and I could not help myself.
"Maybe back in 1960!"

But it's true. A basket of Japanese grown cherries, in season, can cost about ¥2,000 which is close to 20 bucks give or take some change. Of course, this totally destroys my conspiracy theory about how the Japanese government keeps foreign food products' prices high and Japanese products low in order to force culinary cultural continuity since they can't keep the population from wearing foreign clothes, watching foreign movies and listening to that durn hip hop, abandoning enka forever. Well, maybe Jero will turn that tide. Just. Kidding.