Eating Japan.

While we were staying in the hotel in Hita we would start every day with a traditional Japanese breakfast: A piece of juicy grilled fish, fresh miso soup, steamed rice, homemade tofu, assorted vegetables and steaming pots of green tea. At first I really missed the five-pound bacon slab and monster omelette I was used to having every morning at home, but then I realized how much healthier these traditional breakfasts were. I didn't have to undo the buttons on my jeans even once or wash the whole thing down with a bottle of Mylanta.

There wasn't a formal restaurant in the hotel, so our room numbers would be handlettered on a sign in front of one of three large tatami rooms on the second floor. All of my family plus our relatives that were staying in the hotel (you know, the ones that had driven three hours just to see us) would sit and have breakfast together. I really, really miss those mornings.

We took an hour drive up into the hills one night to have dinner at the Sapporo Beer factory. They had an enormous restaurant that specialized in teppan-style cooking, where they bring out big platters of raw meat and vegetables and you cook it all yourself on grills built into the tables. When I saw them bringing out all those endless platters of beef I almost dropped to my knees in gratitude. Rigel managed to hold it together until they announced that there was unlimited beer, and then, well, he just cried like a baby.




Everywhere we went we saw these quaint little pastry shops, selling the most delicious, delicate little cakes and cookies you can imagine.

At this particular shop they had some tiny little cakes that were beautifully wrapped in rice paper and then set into small handmade baskets. I started loading six or seven of these things onto the counter to bring back as gifts, until my cousin pointed out that by the time I got them back to the U.S. they would be moldy puddles of goo. I strongly advised that they get with the program and start loading up their baked goods with preservatives and chemicals like we do in America, where a loaf of bread has a longer shelf life than a bottle of bleach.



The fruit in the supermarket is so beautiful it looks absolutely unreal. I wanted to take this entire display home, shellac it and set it up my living room. But then my sister reminded me that since a single apple costs fifty-dollars over there, this piece of pop-art would end up setting me back about three million dollars.


Since Rigel was pretty blasé about all the food displays, I was surprised when he expressed an interest in buying some of these. Until I pointed out that they were not, in fact, breasts that were wrapped in cellophane. He insisted on buying some, though, and I have to say I was very impressed with how they helped fill out my halter top.

Next up: The Dinner Cruise or How Our Relatives Managed To Outdo Themselves And Make Us Feel Even Worse About The Time We Took Them To Tony Roma's For Dinner.

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So Relative.

When our relatives from Japan have visited in the past, they usually contact my mom first, who then gets on the phone and tries desperately to see which of her five, no-good, lazy children will help her out with hosting duties, such as picking them up from the airport, arranging accommodations or sightseeing tours. After hearing one too many lame excuses about busy work schedules or American Idol finales that couldn't be missed, she'll mutter a few choice words in Japanese (my mom is also fluent in English but only curses in Japanese) and then tell us, "Oh, don't bother. I'd hate for you to miss one of your fancy dinner parties just to spend time with your relatives that flew halfway around the world to see you."

Then she arranges a bus tour for them to Disneyland, or drops them off on Rodeo Drive with a couple of Starbucks coupons and a map to the stars' homes. At some point we'll all get together for a meal or a brief outing, but for the most part we usually act as if these special guests were just neighbors that had popped over unexpectedly to borrow the garden hose.

Which is why we were so very humbled and, well, embarrassed by the attention and consideration by our relatives when we got to Japan. I should mention that there were twelve of us that made the trip over from the U.S. (my family of four, my 85-year-old mom, my sister, brother, three nephews and two nieces), so just figuring out transportation for our unruly bunch and our five-hundred pieces of luggage was sort of like trying to stuff twelve clowns into a Volkswagen. My cousin Yoko and her daughter met us at the airport, along with a couple of other relatives that brought along their friends to pick us up. Five cars in all. It got Rigel and I thinking that were we to make the same request to our friends at home, "How about dropping everything to go to the airport late at night to help us pick up our relatives that you've never met?" there would first be silence, then hysterical laughter and then inquiries as to what we'd been smoking.

Three or four different families had gotten together to plan and pick up the tab for our stay there. This included first-rate hotel accommodations, transportation and most of our meals, not to mention constant hand-holding and translation duties so that none of us ended up trying to hail a pastry cart instead of a taxi or asking for turpentine when what we wanted was a cup of coffee. Did I mention the private bus (with driver) that they rented to take us around for the six days we were with them?

I'm not sure how we can ever repay them for all they did for us, but we'll have a chance to redeem ourselves since a few of them are planning to come to the U.S. to attend my brother's wedding early next year. We're already prepared to clear our schedules for at least two weeks, and I'm trying my best to be strong and keep reminding myself of all the sacrifices that they made for us. Because their visit? Coincides exactly with the last two, crucial weeks of American Idol.

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Room With A View.

We started our trip on the island of Kyushu, in Southern Japan. Our first six days were spent with our relatives in a small town called Hita, which is a sort of resort town visited primarily by locals. Our traditional, Japanese- style hotel overlooked the lake and had tatami rooms and sliding shoji screens. I may be partial but I definitely preferred it to the last Sheraton we stayed at back in California, the one that had the fuzzy, nautical-themed wallpaper and the body-shaped stain in the hallway.

On one of the nights, our air conditioning wasn't working properly so they transferred us to the 'Special Suite' that had this private hot tub and shower on the balcony. I was exhausted and went straight to bed, but Rigel was out there for long time, turning it into his own private man-spa. Since there were few tourists in this town, I told him he was lucky that the sight of a 6'2" naked white man prowling the balcony didn't prompt any phone calls to the local police or bring out a torch-carrying mob. I mentioned this to my aunt the next morning and she said, "Omoshiroi!" I'm not sure, but this either means "That's funny!" or "You Americans are all perverts."

Upon arrival at the hotel, all the women are taken to a small store in the hotel to pick out a kimono that you can wear during your stay. I loved seeing the girls dressed in these, even though Kira insisted on wearing her, "I'd Rather Be Partying" t-shirt under hers, and Kiyomi kept flashing her panties everytime she started showing everyone her ninja kicks. And me? I wore one, too, except when Rigel started referring to me as his Geisha and making me walk three feet behind him, I took it off and started beating him about the head with it.

Next up: The food. And more food. Oh, and then there's the food.

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My Japan Post(s).

For me, the biggest problem with writing a vacation post is that I can't help feeling like I'm holding you all hostage in my living room, showing you my five-hour slide show on Japan while you sit there, numb and too polite to protest, sipping your watery drink while I yell for Rigel to bring out that last gallon of onion dip.

But I want to write about it here, not so much for blogging interest as to somehow capture our trip before I forget about it and it becomes just another pile of pictures and souvenirs stashed away in my drawer. So, in all fairness I have to warn you that the next few posts will be about my trip, but they'll be in small bites, making it easier for you to skim through. That way, if you do feel like you've had enough, you can yawn politely, put down your drink and back slowly out the door while I'm distracted loading up that twelfth carousel of slides. I promise I won't be offended.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

More Posts On My Trip To Japan Since You All Asked Nicely Or You Didn't Stop Me:

Not Lost In Translation

Tokyo Starbucks

Room With A View

So Relative

Eating Japan

Buy, Buy Japan
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Tokyo Starbucks.

While ordering a coffee the other day I was using my elementary Japanese to try and explain that I wanted only a small amount of milk in my cappuccino. I used a variety of words and lame pantomime to indicate 'small,' 'little' and 'few.' After a few minutes I wasn't sure what I was saying, but I'm sure with my bad Japanese I had probably inadvertently told the barista that her ass was wide and her mother had a beard. Finally, a look of recognition crossed her face and she said to me, "Oh! You mean you want a dry cappuccino?"

Hey - let me know if you can't view the video.)

Note: A dry cappuccino is one made with less milk than foam. And if you were a coffee nerd like me, you would have known that.

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Not Lost In Translation.

It's 1:15am in Kyoto. I've had little time and energy to post since we arrived in Japan. It's been an amazing trip, mostly due to the extreme kindness and generosity of our many relatives, who have gone out of their way to make this an unforgettable journey for us.

I think this picture sums it up. This is Kiyomi with her third (or is it fourth?) cousin, Maiyu, who we met for the first time. (She's five, and the last time we saw her mother was when she visited Los Angeles ten years ago.) Maiyu and her mother came to pick us up at the airport when we arrived, and these two bonded instantly and were inseparable for our five days with them, despite the fact that Kiyomi doesn't speak a word of Japanese and Maiyu, not a word of English.

I will post more later, and try and post a fraction of the ten thousand photos I've taken so far. Tomorrow we hop on a bullet train for Tokyo. I haven't lost anything yet except for a tank top, and the permanently pained look on my face is because I stapled my passport to my stomach to avoid leaving it on a train seat or in a restaurant restroom.

Oh, and I found out I'm related to Yoko Ono. I'm not sure what to do with this information yet, except to say that if any relative of mine was responsible for breaking up The Beatles, I'm sorry.

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Bring Me Back A Souvenir.

I'm going to miss it. For awhile there, I thought that I could pull off some sort of superhuman stunt and actually be able to attend. Maybe, just maybe, through the miracle of time travel or even some very effective street drugs I could possibly be in two places at once. Because while most of you will be at BlogHer, feeling the blogging love and knocking back vats of martinis and hugging each other, I'll be doing fifty loads of laundry and making my hundredth trip to Target to buy teeny bottles of shampoo and travel packs of Kleenex.

In four days I'll be getting on a plane for Tokyo. I had fantasies at one time of actually going to BlogHer and then trying to make it back in time to prepare to leave on an international trip with my husband, two children and nine other members of my family. Rigel had even made a cockamamie suggestion of me flying to San Jose and then he and the girls would meet me there and we would all fly off to Japan. But then I remembered it was me I was talking about, the person who takes three hours just to make a list to prepare for a trip to Costco and whose organizational skills are eclipsed by those of a ferret. Me, who just yesterday looked at her airline ticket and realized that HER NAME WAS WRONG and will now have to spend the better part of the day going to the travel agency to have her ticket and her railpass exchanged. Me, who once, on a trip to New York in a December blizzard realized that she had forgotten to pack any shoes other than the canvas espadrilles she was wearing on her feet.

So, all of you who are going, please take lots of pictures and post them frequently. I'll have my laptop with me and will try not to forget my power adaptor so I can actually plug it in. I'll try not to get too jealous when I see you all there, partying and connecting and relating and baring your breasts. And please, have a drink for me and pray I don't lose my passport.

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The Girls Of Summer.

My kids have been on vacation for just over two weeks. Anybody with school-age children is familiar with the frequently-asked question this time of year: "So, what are your kids doing this summer?" Most people will enthusiastically answer this with a list of activities ranging from theater camps where ten-year-olds put on elaborate productions of Les Miserables to expensive art classes where their kindergartners will spend the summer months re-creating Van Goghs out of macaroni, beads and dental floss. Rigel and I have gotten used to the disapproving looks when we answer with, "It's a shame, but after we sleep until noon and then make a couple of trips to McDonalds for Oreo McFlurries, there's just no time left in the day."

(Alright, we are leaving the country in a few weeks for a thirteen day trip, but that doesn't count. Everyone goes on vacation - it's the time surrounding the vacation that is in question here, the other whole ten weeks, those empty spaces on the calendar that tell the world that while all the other kids will be designing a new Mars Rover at Space Camp yours will be at home eating OtterPops by the caseful and watching you caulk the bathtub. )

I've discovered that there are two distinct types of parents when it comes to activity planning. First there are The Planners, those parents that diligently scour websites and catalogs for educational, enriching summer activities for their children and then sign them up in a timely fashion, making sure to read all the rules and regulations so that little Amber doesn't show up on her first day of Opera Camp without the proper snack or sheet music. Then you have The Slackers, those of us who wake up on the last day of school and suddenly realize that we've not enrolled our children in so much as a single swimming lesson, and panic at the prospect of three long unstructured months ahead of us. We then go without sleep for the next two days, glued to our computers trying to find a class, a camp, anything, and finally give up when we realize that the only thing that isn't filled up is a Life Drawing class for 8-10 year olds that suspiciously takes place in the home of a middle-aged man named Uncle Pete.

As one of The Slackers, I've become adept at coming up with excuses as to why my girls are watching excessive amounts of TV instead of learning how to churn butter at Amish Camp. "Oh, those classes were all filled up" I'd say, or "Our religion forbids activity between sunup and sundown." On the last day of school I was talking to another parent and she mentioned that her daughter would be spending two weeks at a children's pottery class. When I feigned interest she guffawed and said, "Oh, it's too late. The classes have been filled since February." I realized, like a true Slacker, that there was no way I would have had the foresight to sign my girls up for a class five months ahead of time. In February I was too busy doing my Christmas shopping - for 2005.

So this is what we're doing: we'll be spending our days hanging out in the backyard, going to the bookstore and loitering around our local Starbucks. We'll fit in a few visits to the beach and the park, and alternate between the roller and ice skating rinks. There'll be many errand days, where'll they'll just tag along with me to Trader Joes, Target, the post office and back to Target. They'll be forced to come along with me on at least one of the following appointments: hair, doctor, or dentist. I'll bribe them with ice cream, Jamba juices and trips to the pool. We'll get on each others very last nerve, curse under our breaths (me), scream that we're bored (them) and throw ourselves on the bed and cry (them and me.) In September, when they return to school and their friends demonstrate their mastery of Sanskrit acquired over the summer, my daughters will recite dialog from episodes of SpongeBob verbatim and proudly show off their towering room divider constructed entirely of McFlurry cups.

Lest you think we are truly horrible parents, we did actually ask the girls what they wanted to do this summer. Gymnastics? Dance Camp? Roadie School? (That was Rigel's idea.) Their answer? "We just want to hang out with you guys." And knowing that in the not too distant future their answer will be a very different one, we're happy, at least for this summer, to let the days unfold on their own.

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This Is: A Lame Excuse For A Blog Post.

This has probably been the longest stretch I've gone without posting to this blog. I wish I had some valid excuse - a bout of amnesia resulting from a street brawl, or the discovery of a winning lottery ticket, but the truth is I just haven't had the time or the inclination to sit down and write anything. I thought about doing one of those audio posts that I've seen so many people do lately, but to be perfectly honest I absolutely hate the sound of my voice and it would be tortuous to hear it blasting out to cyberspace, causing all ten of my readers to simultaneously lunge for the 'mute' buttons on their computers.

Blogging has become such an important part of my life that when I'm away from it, it's always interesting to see the effect it has me. For instance, that witty remark I made during the school planning meeting? I pause afterwards and wonder if I should Save as Draft or hit the Publish button. And while whining to Rigel about the horrific day I had helping out with all the end-of-school parties and PTA activities, I wonder the entire time if he will leave a comment afterwards. And who else will comment? Would my story about Kira coughing into the salad bar at Vons go over better? How many hits has my life gotten today? If my phone rings does it get recorded by SiteMeter? All these thoughts are going through my head as Rigel leaves the room, growing impatient with my faraway stare and annoyed at my fingers tapping at an imaginary keyboard on my dinner plate.

I've also had no time to visit the three hundred blogs that I'm addicted to, and it's got me in a bit of a panic. I've been feeling like I'm missing something, that once I check back you'll have all signed multi-million-dollar book deals and all those pictures of your kids on your blogs will have been replaced with shots of you laying on George Clooney's lap while he drinks Cristal out of your bra cup.

We're off to stay with some friends at their lake house for a few days. I'm taking my laptop with me, and while there I'm hoping that someone pulls up Jimmy Hoffa while reeling in a trout, or I accidentally lock myself in the bathroom at the gas station, or anything else interesting that will give me some inspiration to write. Because otherwise I'll have to subject you all to an audio post of me waxing poetic about a tree or singing a lullaby to my daiquiri, or better yet maybe a video post reenaction of Kira hacking into the bins of romaine and three-bean salad at the supermarket. Don't say you weren't warned.

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If You Run Into Me In The Next Couple Of Weeks, Don't Be Surprised If I Try To Taste Your Arm.

I've been meaning to post more details about our incredible vacation to Yosemite that we returned from last week, but before I do I need to write about the one thing that has been consuming me for the past week. The thing that has eclipsed blogging as my obsession, the thing that is driving me to thrice-weekly trips to the health food store, has me crying over Outback Steakhouse commercials and had me salivating over the can of Friskies Lamb and Rice that I fed to our cat last night.

Yes, I am on a diet.

Okay, according to this, my weight is within the 'normal' range, but the snug fit on my jeans and the roll of fat that lays next to me at night like a small pet rodent tell a different story. I'd been noticing that my clothes were feeling a little odd, lately, and my two-day, pre-menstrual bloat had turned into a permanent, second-trimester-pregnancy tummy. Also, I would be lying if I said that this woman's comments didn't spur me on in some small way, and when this hellish diet is over I look forward to our next supermarket encounter, when I plan to ram her with my cart, spin her emaciated body around over my head Kung-Fu Hustle style, and throw her clear across the store into the deli case.

Mostly what I'm trying to do is get my weight down to what I'm comfortable with, one that doesn't have me calling 911 to help me squeeze my ass into my pants or interrupting conversations with the sound of my thighs slapping together. And my prime goal? To be healthier, and to make better food choices. I know this is starting to sound like some overwrought infomercial, but trust me when I say that guidance is absolutely necessary for someone who routinely chooses the bacon-wrapped pork chop over the field-green salad and eschews the 'Healthy Heart' portion of any menu for the one labeled 'Fat Packer.'

The diet plan I'm following is the Duke University Rice Diet, which was originally developed to help people with hypertension and diabetes. The emphasis is on low salt, low fat, non-processed foods, with the first day of each week consisting of only whole grains and fruit, and the first two weeks of the diet being practically vegan. As I say the word 'vegan,' my voice drops to an embarrassed whisper, since normally I make a sport out of taunting and ridiculing my vegetarian and vegan friends, daring them to just lick the surface of my top-sirloin or threatening to blend some mashed up hot dog into their tempeh casserole. The idea that I can't have any meat for the next seven days (already having gone without for six) is definitely daunting, but I've been keeping my mind off it by covertly planning my coming out party for when this whole tortuous diet is over, the one where I barricade myself in the kitchen and roll around naked in every beef and pork product I can get my hands on and shovel big spoonfuls of salt into my mouth.

Along with feeling and looking better (I have more energy and my beard is not nearly as full) the downside is that subsisting on a diet normally reserved for gerbils has left me not only starving, but cranky as well. Who can blame me for snapping at the kids and withholding sex from my husband when all I've had to eat for dinner is a mound of lentils and a peach? And while the whole-wheat pita pizzas I whipped up last night were pretty tasty, my lunch today of brown rice and salt-free black beans made me want to beat the crap out of our elderly neighbor who, obviously trying to taunt me, was frying sausage near her open kitchen window.

We've all been on diets and know what works and what doesn't, but before you start telling me that the diet I'm on has been know to cause hair growth on your thumbs or is actually one followed by sumo wrestlers to increase the density of their blubber, remember that I'm already six days into it, and it's too late to turn back now. Also, consider this: I haven't had a steak for six whole days. I may just hunt you down, tear off one of your legs and throw it on the grill, just for a little treat to have with my organic bulgur pilaf and cabbage salad.

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