Pandora on the Your-Japan Blog Network

Pandora here. It’s been a few months again, I know. Casanova and I have gotten….well, we’ve gotten pretty serious. It took quite a while, though, and I felt weird at first about choosing Casanova over Fujiomi. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After meeting Casanova at the bar, I decided not to go there for at least a few days to avoid running into him. Besides, I was pulling late nights quite often at my job and usually just caught a late train back to my pitiful one-room dive at the hostel to shower and fall asleep. Between that and going through HELL to get a co-signer for my new apartment (Sukiko’s mom generously offered after Sukiko and Fujiomi told her about my situation. She’s a saint!) I had more on my mind than Fluffy and Casanova. I was getting to spend more time with Sukiko and- more importantly- Fujiomi. He was still sarcastic and a tad stand-offish, but I could tell that the both of us had matured during the time we were apart and it was a lot more fun to hang out. In general, my life was looking up- I had a relatively easy, exciting job I enjoyed that payed decently, a place of my own in the works, and good friends to spend time with. After only a month and a half in Japan, I was completely settled and comfortable where I was.

Can’t you see where this is going?

It’s amazing how something small set all of this off. A poster set my entire future in motion. A POSTER. I got a Dir en Grey poster the day I got my first paycheck, as a little “Hurray for me!” gift to myself. The next day, my day off, I decided to hang it up in my little one-room place, as if a demonic visual-kei band might brighten it up. Bear in mind that, as a poor girl living in Japan, getting furniture hasn’t really been that important to me. I figure that Japan is cramped for space as it is- why worsen the situation by cluttering my allotted space with something as trivial as furniture? I have a futon and a shower curtain and that is all the ‘furniture’ I need. Yet somehow- after masterfully hanging up my Dir en Grey poster with tape- I managed to slip and fall on the poster cellophane and knock my elbow into the wall and scrape a fair bit of skin off. Let me re-iterate that for you. In a bare, furniture-less apartment, I still managed to find something to badly injure myself on, walking across a flat, even surface.

Naturally, when I saw the blood streaming down my arm, my only solace was that I hadn’t gotten any on the wall. Paying for a paint job on a wall that ripped an inch and half of skin off my arm is between “Eating sand” and “Kissing a rabid dog” on my “Things I never want to do” list. The only thing I could do was press a wad of toilet paper to the wound while I grabbed my keys and ran downstairs to go to the corner store for some band-aids.

Just as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I happened to look over- and I saw The Casanova and Fluffy across the street! I made a quick right and walked as quickly as I could down the sidewalk. It was difficult, since every time my right arm bumped into someone my pain level went over nine thousand, and when I was a few buildings away from the corner store I glanced over to make sure- and The Casanova was keeping pace with me! Across the street, he was wading through waves of Japanese to stay parallel with me. I dove into the convenience store and ducked between the aisles, but it was only moments before I saw Casanova and Fluffy walk in. It wasn’t much longer before I was spotted, and the Casanova walked over to me with Fluffy not that far behind.

Me: H-Hey, guys–

Casanova: HI.

I was slightly taken aback by how loud his voice was, and I saw Fluffy put a hand on his shoulder and mutter, “Dude- chill.”

Casanova: Sorry. Um…I want to talk to you.

Me: …….Okay.

Casanova: Right. Um. I think I may have given you the wrong impression of me last time I saw you.

Me:….If you say so.

Casanova: I’ve actually, uh, been thinking a lot about you and I shouldn’t have acted like that to you. It was….really stupid and conceited and I don’t want                         you to think that I’m some mindless frat boy.

It was around this point that the pain in my arm was making me feel nauseated, so understandably, I didn’t really have much to say. I tried excusing myself to take care of my wound, but as I opened my mouth, I lost my grip on the tissue I was holding to my arm and both boys watched as the blood-soaked wad fell to the ground.

There was a brief moment of silence, then all three of us said, “Oh my God” simultaneously, but in three very different ways.

Me: (deeply embarassed) *sigh* Oh my God.

Fluffy: (small, surprised laugh) Oh my GOD!

Casanova: (horrified) OH MY GOD!

We caught the attention of the manager of the store, and while Fluffy was calling his other friends and Casanova was panicking uselessly, I was doing my best to speak over the both of them to tell the manager in broken Japanese that everything was fine. Casanova even bought me a box of bandages, and within ten minutes my wound was covered and had stopped hurting as much. The three of us wound up on the sidewalk in awkward silence after that.

Me: Okay, well, thanks for the Band-Aids…See ya.

Casanova: Um-!

Me:…..Yeah?

Fluffy: Wanna have lunch with us?

Both Casanova and I looked surprised at Fluffy, who had so casually asked if I wanted to have lunch with them- as if we had been friends for years and it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not sure why to this day, but I agreed.

To be continued…

Thank you for all of your comments and your patronage. I guess I should go into the story of how I met my current boyfriend. It was my third day here in Tokyo, and I went down to a bar in Harajuku that I had read about that served mostly foreigners. Not being in Japan for a while, I had forgotten how lonely and isolated it can make one feel. After a long day of unsuccessful job hunting, that feeling of not belonging and isolation was biting pretty deep. I really needed to be around other foreigners- even if they weren’t white or American- to remind myself that there WAS a world outside the one-ness of daily Japanese life. Unfortunately, they tend to card in these bars, so I was enjoying my Shirley Temple when this group of rather tall guys walked in. They were being sort of loud and obnoxious, but they quickly sought out a table and left everyone else alone, so the rest of the customers- myself included- went ahead and ignored them. After maybe an hour, when I was thinking about calling it a night and going back to the hostel, I turned and saw one of the guys from the group sitting at the bar next to me. Our eyes met, and he opened up with, “’Sup?”

Needless to say, I was swept off my feet immediately [/sarcasm]

I turned away, and lifted my glass to drain my drink, and he went on to ask, “You American?”

I nodded and gave a small murmur of acknowledgement while I waved the bartender over to get my check. He said something along the lines of, “That’s cool,” then looked around the bar a bit. Assuming that’s as far as our conversation would go, I dug in my purse to get some yen out of my wallet and counted out how much I would need. Just as I went to slide off my barstool, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned.

“Where’re you going? The night’s still young. Hang out with me a bit.” He said.

Not in the mood to deal with a giant moron, I shoved his hand off me and said, “Look- ‘jerk’ really isn’t my type. Find another skirt to chase.”

I went home that night and more or less brushed off the situation. I didn’t even remember him until I went back to that same bar two nights later, and that guy was already there, sitting in a booth with all of his goofy friends. I took my usual seat at the bar and ordered my usual Shirley Temple, and it only took five minutes before I hear a soft, “’Scuse me” over my right shoulder. It was one of the jerk’s friends- about 6’2”, dirty blonde hair, and a scruffy face, as if he hadn’t had the chance to shave in a few days.

I looked him up and down, then met his gaze, waiting for him to piss me off. “Yeah? What is it?”

“My friend told me about how you shot him down last night; that was pretty brutal.”

“Well then tell him to put his big girl panties on and deal with it. Life is brutal.”

He laughed- REALLY loudly, and I looked around to see everyone staring at us.

“Don’t get pissed at me,” he said, “I didn’t come here to chew you out. If I did you’d be crying by now.”

I just gave him a blank stare.

“Okay, well maybe not,” he amended, “But I just wanted to say that what you did was a first for him. He’s NEVER been shot down by ANYONE. In fact he’s pretty used to having girls line up down the block to date him. You really struck his ego hard, which is probably something he really needed. Anyway, I thought it was cool.”

“You thought it was cool some strange girl shot down your buddy and crushed his masculine pride? You’re not a very good friend.”

“I guess you could see it that way- but I don’t have to be a good or bad friend to recognize a strong woman when I see one.”

I wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so I told him to either pull up a chair or walk away- that him standing awkwardly by the bar was drawing attention to us. He sat down next to me, and he and I talked for a bit. Everyone calls him Fluffy- due to his constantly unshaven face and excessive body hair. Turns out most of him and his friends are from the suburbs of New Orleans, about half an hour to forty-five minutes away from where my house was. They’ve attended college in southern Georgia for the past three years, and are here on a “Semester Abroad” trip. Apparently they applied to the Study Abroad program at the last minute, and they only had a choice of either Japan or Turkey. Understandably, they favored Japan.

After maybe thirty minutes of light conversation, the rest of Fluffy’s friends meandered over and the jerk clapped him on the shoulder and said they were just about ready to leave.

“Oh okay.” He said, then introduced me, “Guys, this is Pandora. She’s from New Orleans, but she managed to get a pretty kick-ass job at a martial arts school around here just this afternoon.”

“Really?” the jerk piped up, “That’s more information then she would give me. Guess I’m not worthy of the same respect, huh?”

I looked up at him and just glared. I did NOT appreciate his tone at ALL and told him in front of all his friends a favorite quote I learned from my father: “Stop your bitching. My respect is worked for and earned, not freely given.”

There was a bit of an awkward silence, then Fluffy bid me goodbye and got up from his stool. I stood as well and went to shake his hand- and he pulled me into a big bear hug. Oddly, it felt nice- it reminded me of the way my older brother used to hug me when we were kids. So I hugged him back and buried my face in his chest. We separated after a moment- and he was blushing! He stammered out another goodbye then left with his friends. I hung out at the bar a bit longer, celebrating my new job at the martial arts school and telling the bartender all about my first day. Maybe two to three hours later I saw how late it had gotten and made my way outside to catch the last train. However, when I left the bar and turned- there was the jerk. He had been leaning against the wall smoking, but when he saw me he stood up straight and extinguished the cigarette under his shoe, then walked over to me.

“Hey.” He said.

“…Hi.” I turned around. “Bye.”

“Wait!”

“Sigh. Yes?”

“Let me walk you home.”

“….”

“It’s not safe for a woman to walk alone so late at night!”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I can handle myself.”

I turned around again, reaching for my pack of cigarettes and wondering just WHAT the hell has come over him- when that bastard snatched my pack out of my hand and held it over his head! He’s six-foot-four! I’m five-foot-six! Playing keep-away with a girl half your height is just cruel.

“Give those back!”

“Let me walk you home.”

“I’m taking the train!”

“So?”

“You’d really walk me to the station, ride the train with me, then walk me all the way home?”

“Yeah.Why not?”

“You’re insane. Please just give me my cigarettes.”

“I’ll give them back because you said ‘please’. But I’m still walking you home.”   

“If you insist, Dudley Do-right.”

He gave back my cigs and he walked beside me on the way to the station in silence. I was feeling irritated that I was being messed with by a guy who was more or less a stranger to me, but I didn’t feel like getting into a pointless argument, so I just walked as fast as I could without breaking into an actual sprint and kept smoking my cigarette to keep my hands busy.

“So you’re name’s Pandora, huh? That’s a pretty name. You don’t hear that very often.” He piped up.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I get that a lot. And your name is…?”

“The Casanova*”

“……The Casanova?”

*Just to make clear, his name is NOT really ‘Casanova’ nor did he call himself a Casanova. However, he did put a ‘the’ in front of his real name, which made me pause and repeat it the way I did. I mean, could you imagine asking someone their name and getting a response like, “The George” or “The Terry”? It reminds me of The Todd from Scrubs, and I couldn’t decide at the time if he was joking or not.

He wasn’t.

“Yeah- The Casanova” he grinned “It’s sort of what my friends call me, and it just stuck.”

“Is that because you’re the only Casanova in your group, or..?” I asked, hoping not to get the answer I thought I was.

“Nope!” he smiled, pleased with himself, “It’s because I AM The Casanova, and I’m the shit. Praise me.”

Yup. There it was- the kind of answer I thought he would give.

“…………..Good night.” I stressed, turning on my heel and walking away quickly before I caught his severe case of Stupid.

“Wait! I’m sorry-!” he called out, but he didn’t try to follow me. I made it to the train station alone, and rode all the way home, my mind mostly filled with thoughts of how stupid American men were and how much I wanted to see Fujiomi again. I had originally planned to meet him that day for lunch, but he had cancelled when I mentioned my job ‘interview’ and said it was more important to make sure I had a job so I could stay in Japan. We hadn’t had a chance to reschedule and I was dying to see him. Unfortunately, I had no idea just how persistent The Casanova would be…

Thank you for tuning in yet again to the times and trials of Pandora.

When I last left off, I was talking about my experience the first time I went to the fighting school. First of all, that school was a bitch and a half to find. They’re located behind an open-air market district, and the atmosphere reeks with dead fish and burning incense. No one I asked knew where the school was, either, or they would completely ignore the fact I was speaking Japanese and shake their heads at me. Several times I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Am I speaking in Klingon or something?!”

Luckily, I managed to find the right building, and I saw a sign with the school’s name on it, and an arrow pointing up….but no staircase. I walked around the building twice, and looked up and down, but still there was no staircase. I could even see the windows of the school, and I saw people in martial arts clothes walking back and forth, but I couldn’t seem to catch their attention. I walked around the building again, and I saw Danny walking into the ramen shop on the first floor and called out to him. He smiled when he saw me, and told me to follow him. We walked through the ramen shop, behind the counter, through the kitchen, past the dishwashing station, and he climbed up onto the table behind the ice making machine and pulled on a cord attached to a panel in the ceiling, and an attic-style staircase opened up and unfolded. I let him go up first, since I was in a skirt, and I didn’t want any anime-style panty-shots to be included in this blog.

The staircase was strong enough to hold my weight, but I still climbed up carefully, but when I reached the second floor, I wanted to go straight back down. IT SMELLED HORRIBLE. Like a baby shitting out sulphur. That smell could gag a maggot. Not only was I resisting the need to gag, I quickly saw that I was going to have get out of the way- the staircase had led us up to the main floor of the school and two fighters were sparring about A FOOT FROM MY FACE. I seriously climbed up the staircase, smelled an odor akin to a body rotting in gravy, then looked up to see a grown man get sucker-punched in the nose- all in the span of about 0.036 seconds. 

Danny helped me up and got me out of the way of the fighters. Aside from the two who were beating the crap out of each other, I saw that the second half of the school had been turned into a gym of sorts- and the guys on the punching bags and practicing with different weapons all slowed to stare at me. I followed Danny to a side hallway, and he led me to the office.

If you could call it that.

Really, it’s a room with two desks, two outdated computers, and four filing cabinets groaning with the weight of about a million different kinds of forms, applications, and random shit. Files are stacked up against the walls, there are notice boards SMOTHERED with thumbtacks holding up announcements of every kind, and the desk on the left seems to hold no purpose except to house every color post-it note on the PLANET. Danny called out, “DAD! SHE’S HERE! COME OUT AND MEET HER!!!”

I was a bit nervous, not knowing how I should act. Should I act humble and super-polite, or would I come off like a kiss-ass? Should I hold my head up and be proud, or would I seem stuck-up? Conflicted, I didn’t have time to make up my mind because I was immediately pulled into a bone-crushing hug. “WELL-COME!” the man hugging me boomed out in broken Engrish. He smelled like the main floor of the school- which I was beginning to recognize as the smell of crusty man-sweat. I stammered out a “Hello”, before switching to Japanese.

Me: (PUSHES AWAY) Hello. My name is Pandora. Thank you for having me. I’m here to apply for a job as your receptionist, and I am eager to show you what a good worker I can be.

Really, I just didn’t want him to hug me again.

He said he was behind on his lessons, and that if I could make sense of the office and the filing system by the time the school closed, then I had a job at his school for as long as I wished. In my honest opinion, that was sadistic. The office was a landfill, and I only had four hours to get everything straight. Needless to say, I enlisted Danny’s help.

Me: Okay, this file is for a Mr. Jinn Hikazake

Danny: Actually, it’s pronounced “Hiikakaze”

Me: Whatever. It says he hasn’t paid his dues in three months.

Danny: …yeahhhh. We got kinda lax on collecting dues payments.

Me: Fantasic. What about this one? Mr. Tanaka Shotaro?

Danny: That kanji is actually read as-

Me: WHATEVER. Has he paid or not?!

I managed to toss out a lot of the old files of people that had stopped going to the school YEARS before, and I organized the remaining files into people who were up-to-date with their dues, and people that weren’t, as well as sub-categorizing them by the different classes they took. That took about three hours. After that, I thanked Danny, and made a silent note to bring him some mochi balls the next day for his help. He went on to do some personal training, and I stayed in the office. I cleaned and organized the desks, took down all of the old announcements on the bulletin boards, cleaned the windows and glass trophy showcases, swept the floor, watered the plants, and shifted some of the furniture to give the office a bit more space. By the time I even turned the computer on, it was already almost time for the school to close. A pop-up came on the screen- a reminder set MONTHS before about some sort of trip. Doing a search on the computer, I realized Danny’s dad had to go out o town the next day, and vaguely wondered if the school would still be open in his absence. I still had some time left, so I took the information off of the notice on the computer and went ahead and printed out his electro-train tickets, as well as his itinerary and travel times for the time he was away. I managed to print up a schedule of the next day just as Kimutaro-san and Danny walked in.

Me: (SMILE) Good evening, sir! Here’s your current student list, as well as your itinerary, travel times, and train tickets for tomorrow. I’ve already contacted the inn you’re staying at and confirmed your reservation. The schedule of classes for tomorrow is here on the bulletin board, and I’ve made you a pot of tea! Is there anything else I can do for you?

Kimutaro-san: …..*small voice* N-no….that’s fine. …Thank you.

I was really pleased that I was able to do such a good job, and the look on Kimutaro-san’s face when he saw the clean, organized office was really something else. Even Danny looked shocked.

Random note: Tannijo (aka Tani-kun, or “Danny”) LOVES it when I call him Danny. He says it reminds him of the movie Grease, and he feels like a “cool American boy” when I call out “DANNYYYYY!!” and wave to him. His friends aren’t as supportive of the nickname, though. More on that later…

So, I have the job at the kung-fu school, and I’ve been working here nearly a month. The students are good, the fighters are strange, and Kimutaro-san is a riot. Danny really likes helping me in the office, and sometimes he and I go back to the café where we first met for a drink after I get off work.

I’ve also been hanging out with Fujiomi on my time off. I like to drop by and visit Fujiomi and Sukiko on campus on my afternoons off, and on the weekends we go to the movies or karaoke or hang out in the park. He’s matured a lot; he’s not as standoffish or sullen as he used to be, and he doesn’t spike his hair up anymore. He’s very polite, and seems to genuinely enjoy having me around. When I first met up with him and Sukiko at Starbucks the day after I flew into Japan, he stood up, hugged me and said in English, “I missed you.” I almost died from shock. 

There’s been no word of us dating- mostly because I already have a boyfriend. He’s American, here in Japan. We met through odd circumstances when I first arrived, but I’ll talk about that later. However, I don’t want to talk about my boyfriend using his real name- any suggestions?

Sorry- I suck at updating.

I’m still in Japan and I’ve gone through a lot in just the past two weeks. For those who forgot already I am a receptionist at a local kung-fu school. The work itself isn’t hard, but it can be difficult to deal with the general public all day, everyday- in a different country. The kids are adorable- in their little kung-fu uniforms, they try so hard with their exercises and punches and always listen to what the instructors and staff tell them.

The parents, however, are a different matter. 

We’re one of the more expensive schools in the area, but we offer a more expansive list of services and all the fees are included in the tuition, instead of being brought up later like a bad cell phone plan. In USD, it’s around $200 for the first month, then $139 every month after that. This is taking the current exchange rate into account, of course. That includes three 45 min lessons per week, uniform pants and shirts, enrollment fee, and testing fees for the entire year, as well as weapon-usage fees and character training. That’s a lot, considering all the parents and kids have to do is show up. 

I get some really stupid questions sometimes, too, by parents who are looking to haggle with me. “If we only come to one lesson a week instead of the usual three, will that make the price lower?” No. You’re paying for all three, weather you show up or not, so you might as well show up for all of them and get your money’s worth. “My child already has a karate uniform from their previous martial arts school- if they wear that uniform instead, do we still have to pay the uniform fee?” Why would we let your child wear a uniform from a DIFFERENT school, for a DIFFERENT martial art? The entire premise of the “uniform” is so they ALL DRESS THE SAME.

Other than my job, though, my life is coming together surprisingly well. I’m still staying at a hostel, despite Sukiko’s constant pleas for me to stay with her and Fujiomi. They have a good setup at the University apartment complex- Sukiko and Fujiomi both have roommates, but their two apartments actually have a door between them, sort of like a conjoining hotel room setup. The four of them are good friends, and they hang out a lot, but I couldn’t bring myself to impose on them to take me in when they’re already cramped for space. Technically, I should have moved out of the hostel last week. The hostel I’m staying at is run by this TANK of a Japanese woman. If Vin Diesel and Arnold Schwarzenegger had a monstrous love child, and that love child brutally raped a Japanese Female All-Nation Champion Kickboxer, the product of that rape would be this woman. She’s MASSIVE and scary, and she almost kicked me out after my 20 day limit was up. However, after swearing up and down to cook and clean and work for her until I found my own place, she agreed. The agreement was finalized after she tasted my homemade bread pudding with rum glaze. I cook a different dessert for her and her kids every day, and keep the hostel relatively clean, and I can stay for as long as I need to. Luckily I haven’t had to whip out the dessert cookbooks quite yet; I found a small apartment of my own, but I can’t move in just yet because it’s still being renovated. I should be able to move in by the end of October; until then, I have to listen to The Tank.

The apartment is just right for me- A kitchen/living room, a bedroom and a small, comfortable bath and toilet. The entire apartment is maybe 500 square feet. Sukiko has promised to help me decorate, since I didn’t bring a lot with me. Speaking of which, maybe I should tell you how I made my return to Japan.

After struggling so save up money, I finally realized it would take me MONTHS to save up the money I needed to really MOVE to Japan. So instead of using my carefully-thought-out plan of when to fly, where to move, how much I should pay for rent and groceries, and what sort of job I should look for, I decided to throw all of that out of the window and go to Japan ASAP, and “figure it out from there”. I figured the best exploration stories of all time were spur-of-the moment, and I could have a great adventure heading all the way to the Land of the Rising Sun with nothing but one suitcase and a heart full of dreams, blah, blah, snore.

Really, that’s what I did. 

However, I arrived with two suitcases and a heart full of nervous indecision. I had managed to cop a free flight to Tokyo from my aunt who works as a flight attendant for Delta, so I used what little money I had saved up as sparingly as I could, never knowing when I would find a steady job. I didn’t find any place to stay the first night, so I slept in the airport. The second day, I bought some time on a computer at an internet café and looked up hostels in the area. The fourth one I went to had an available room, so I took it- and The Tank told me that there was a 20 day limit. From what I understand the “hostel” is actually a block of spare rooms in an old apartment complex she owns, so she makes extra money from the un-rented apartments by renting them out cheaply to foreigners and travelers, but she has to put a 20 day limit on their stay to make sure they don’t mooch off her, and to keep new people coming in.

I ate a melon bun from a vending machine for lunch, then decided to take a bath and make myself presentable for job-hunting the next day. I woke up early, put on my cutest outfit and did my hair and makeup, and picked up a box of orange juice and a rice ball for breakfast- along with a newspaper I found on the train, so I could navigate the Classified ads. There were plenty of people looking for English tutors, but from what I’ve heard, that’s not the most secure way to make money. I went to some other places that were hiring- McDonald’s, KFC, noodle shops, office buildings looking for receptionists- but none of them looked too thrilled about hiring a foreigner. Plenty of the managers hit on me, but none of them offered me a job. I could understand their hesitancy- it can be an uncertain thing hiring a foreigner. My Japanese has gotten better since I last came to Japan, and I can tell my pronunciation is getting better every day that I spend here, but it might not be enough to deal with customers on a daily basis. At least, that’s what they told me. By about 3pm, I sat on a bench outside the train station and wondered where I could apply next.

My attention was grabbed by some students running around at the park across the street. I glanced at the clock at the train station, and saw it was barely one o’clock. Thos bastards were ditching school! They noticed me, and tried to call out to me, but after my own experiences IN a Japanese high school, I didn’t feel like dealing with high school kids any more than I had to. I’m a mature college student now, I thought, It’s been a year since I graduated high school. They’re just kids- leave them alone. After I finished my rice-ball lunch, I got up to throw my trash away, but the nearest trash can I could see was all the way at the corner of the block, so I got up and started walking towards it. At that moment, I heard footsteps behind me and whipped around- it was one of the boys who had been at the park. His friends were a few feet behind him, hanging back a bit, looking hesitant. I waited while he caught his breath- he had obviously bolted from across the park, darted across the street, then down the sidewalk to catch up with me. 

Me: <Japanese> Are you okay?

Friend 1: <J> Ehhhh?! She speaks Japanese?! Is she half*?!

Boy: (looking astonished) Er…y-yeah. This is yours. You forgot it. (holds out my purse)

Me: Oh. (takes it) <J> Thank you! You’re a good boy!

Boy: Y-yeah. Okay. (looks around, embarrassed)

Me: ^w^ Awwwww~!!! 

I couldn’t help it- I hugged him. He flailed a bit, unused to gratuitous amounts of cleavage pressed against his face, but he calmed down after awhile and let me hug him. Even his ears were red when I let go.

*Half. For those of you who don’t know, the word “half” (or haa-fu in Jinglish) is used to describe those of mixed Japanese race. It’s usually applied to those with mixed Asian and Western physical traits. It doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be “half’ Japanese; when I was in high school in Japan, people thought I was “half” a lot, especially after I re-dyed my hair brown. There was also another girl- a first-year- whose grandmother was Irish, and everyone called her “half”, too, though she looked like any other average Japanese girl. So if you’re in Japan and someone says something like, “Haafu gaki desu ne?”, they’re probably wondering if you have some Japanese blood in you.

The boy returning my purse- even though I had been well aware I had left it on the bench- raised my spirits and I decided to do some more job-hunting before the sun set. All the other places I tried- different financial firms, banks, fast food places, and even ramen stands wouldn’t hire me. I was beat; I had been trekking all over Tokyo looking for a job with no success and little to eat.

That meant it was time for a beer.

The best part about being a busty foreigner in Japan is that the authorities are too intimidated to card you when you buy things like beer and cigarettes. Even if they do card you, they rarely know how to read any form of ID you give them, so they just make sure the picture matches up and give it back to you. Besides- they sell beer and cigarettes in vending machines anyway. However, I wanted to sit in a REAL bar, with a REAL drink, and drown my sorrows (and my finances) in a decent amount of underage drinking. There’s a small cafe/bar not too far from my hostel that appeared to attract a fairly young crowd. They even had a live band that night called YES MAN!. They were pretty good; they gave a good show andlooked like nice guys. I hung out there for about an hour before someone tried to hit on me- a record of epic proportions considering the following:

-With brown hair and dark eyes, from far away, in the dark, I can pass for half. From the back, I look like any other Japanese girl

-It’s a bar. Guys go to bars to hit on girls. 

-I was wearing low-cut shirt, and my breasts have gone up two cup sizes since I was last in Japan.

Though I was happy to relax at the bar with my drink and unwind, when a stumbling Japanese guy with three-day old stubble bumped into me then proceeded to slur horribly in my direction, I could only roll my eyes and think, “Yup- my night in complete.” But he started getting grabby, and I was pushed up against the edge of the bar, so after several minutes of playing Get-Away-Tango with him, I finally grabbed his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and chicken wing-ed him. He let out a bit of a yell and EVERYONE turned to look, so I pushed him away, downed my drink, and stormed out. Just as I was about to turn the corner to try and find another bar, I heard someone call out.

Guy’s voice: Heeeeey!!! Onee-chan! [Engrish] Yooou! Stopu! HEY! SISTAH!

I turned around, and for the second time that day, a Japanese guy, obviously a few years younger than me, was running to catch up with me. He stopped about a yard away from me, then looked around, obviously unsure of what to say next. I sighed, and leaned against the building while I pulled out a cigarette.

Me: <Japanese> What is it? You called out to me, but now you have nothing to say?

Guy: Ah! You speak Japanese?! Great! Here- let me. (Pulls out Zippo and lights cigarette for me)

Me: Thanks. So?

Guy: I saw you stop that drunk guy back at the bar. Some of my friends were about to go rescue you, but you handled it yourself.

Me: If the drunk was one of your friends, don’t worry. I didn’t break his arm or anything.

Guy: No, he wasn’t. And that move couldn’t break anyone’s arm. The worst it could do would be-

Me: -to pull his arm out of its socket. Who are you?

Guy: Sorry. Here’s my card. (bows, and hands it to me)

Me: “Kimutaro Yuujiro- professional fighter and coach” You don’t look old enough to be a fighter.

Guy: Oh, I’m not. That’s actually my father’s business card. My phone number’s on the back- as well as the address of his school.

Me: School? Like, a fighting school? Oh- I’m not interested in lessons. Thanks though; I’m sure your dad would be happy to know you’re trying to spread the name of his school. (gets an idea) Wait….Just how old are you?

Guy:…17.Why?

Me: (pulls out cell phone and snaps a pic of him) Ha! I bet your dad would be real happy to know his son was out on a school night at a bar. I hear professional fighters are really strict on their kids. I wonder if it’s true….?

Guy: O_O Please! Don’t! I-I wasn’t trying to sell you lessons! I want to give you a job!

Me: (ears perk) Job? At the school?

Guy: Yes! A really nice job that pays well! Please don’t show that picture to my dad!

The guy was practically pissing himself, so I laughed and put the phone away, and offered to buy him a drink. We went to a different bar, and he had a soft drink while I had a beer, and he told me how he was training to be a fighter from his dad, but recently they’d had to lay off their previous receptionist for stealing. Without a receptionist to keep order, the filing system had fallen to pieces, and the fighters who trained at the school didn’t respect the rest of the staff. “Basically, the receptionist is in charge of all of the staff. They make the staff’s schedules, they make the lesson schedules, and they make appointments for the fighters to compete in different fighting competitions.” he said. “My dad is looking for a woman who is independent and strong- who can keep order and keep the fighters and instructors in line. The last receptionist was a man, and it wasn’t pretty. We need a pretty woman at the desk.”

The kid’s name is Taniijo, but I call him Tani or Danny for short nowadays. After he and I shared that one drink, I sent him home with the promise that if he got me the job, I’d keep the cell-phone picture quiet forever. He then went home and talked to his dad about the “amazing gaijin woman” he had seen in a parking lot, fending off a drunk. Whatever he said to his dad worked, because when I called him the next morning, he was certainly eager to meet me. I made an appointment to see him the next day around three-thirty, since I had to make scones for The Tank’s kids in the afternoons, and they got out of elementary school around two. As soon as those kids stepped in the door, I shoved apple cinnamon scones in their faces and ran out the door. I did my hair and make-up on the train, and I thought I looked very professional (though I opted to wear a V-neck top, just in case he had a thing for boobs. Ha- “in case”.)

The school was REALLY hard to find- but I just realized this entry is already 4 pages long. I’ll update again soon. I promise! Keep tuned! 

(I understand some of you might have some lingering questions about what happened between me and Fujiomi the last time I was in Japan. All comments and questions are welcome, so feel free to email me at  HYPERLINK “mailto:pmincorporated@gmail.com” pmincorporated@gmail.com. I answer all email I receive. Thank you. –Pandora.)

No, I have not died, I am in Japan now, and I am NOT a ‘creepy old man’.

It’s taken me hundreds of thousands of hours of working minimum-wage jobs and dealing with shitty bosses (I even worked as a shot girl at a strip club) to get back to this country. As it stands, I have a pretty cushy job lined up to be a receptionist/secretary for a local Tai Chi/Karate school in the area. My interview is tomorrow, but they were very insistent that I fill out the paperwork and hurry to interview, so I’m sure the job is mine. Sukiko and Fujiomi are both in college now, at Shiga University, and both are studying medicine. Sukiko wants to be a pediatrician, and Fujiomi hasn’t decided his particular field yet. I’ve only been here for a day and a half, but so much has happened. Luckily, the hostel I’m staying at for the moment is satisfactory and my laptop works fine. As it stands I’m going to have to find a more permanant residence, and probably another part-time job to make ends meet. I’m seeing Sukiko and Fujiomi when they get out of class tomorrow afternoon, and I’m really excited. For now, I’m off to bed, but I’ll be sure to update more regularly from now on.

Thank you all for your continued interest and patience with me.

I’m back, bitches!!!

I really need to keep this up more often.

My trip is less than two months away- and I’m in debt. Now that I’m eighteen, and my parents have found out about me joining the military, they don’t pay for jack shit. Health insurance, car insurance, car note, car repairs (and there are a lot of those), cell phone bill, gas- I pay all of my own stuff now. I’m lucky that they don’t make me pay rent. It doesn’t help that I got so pissed at my IHOP boss a few weeks ago that I told her to her face that she could shove her pancakes up her ass, and that I quit. I ripped my apron off, shoved it at her, and walked right out the door. I don’t think SEX has ever felt that good.

*mumble* Not that I would know….. *sigh* Virginity sucks.

Anyway- with one less job, I decided to take the easy way out and just pull double shifts at cane’s. You get paid out the ass for overtime at cane’s, and it’s not like I wasn’t accustomed to the work. HOWEVER, the monotony of being at one workplace, seeing the same damn dumb people every day and doing the same menial tasks over and over…. It really wears on a person. I would close one night, clean everyting in that place and get out of there around three in the morning- then have to be back there less than six hours later to re-open everything and start another day. Nowadays, with work and general insomnia, I’m lucky to get five hours of sleep a week.

What really wears on me are the people I work with. I work with a much tighter group than at the theater; at any given time, there were no less than thirty to thirty five people working at my movie theater. At cane’s, there might only be you, the manager, and three other workers tops. Therefore, you get to know your coworkers a lot better- and a lot quicker than you normally would. There’s a guy there, one that I really like, who’s kind and thoughtful, and helps me lift heavy boxes even if I don’t ask him to. He’s the All-Around Nice Guy, guys that you don’t come across everyday. He likes me, too, and he’s even started ksising me Hello and Goodbye on the cheek when we happen to work together. However, we’ve both decided that it’s not wise to date eachother when we both work for the same place; it could cause all kinds of complications that neither of us need.

Then, there’s this other guy. He’s rude, self-centered, narcissistic, sarcastic, and a total jackass. He’s just nice enough to everyone enough so that they don’t resent him. Instead, he’s viewed as a sort of Top Dog of the place, and everyone listens to him. Except me. I summed him up as a jerk right after we met. I had just started there, and it was the first time I had even seen him. Being naive, my first thought was of how cute he was- then I saw him stealing food. He had a handful of fries in one hand, and his back turned to the security camera. I told him. “You’re going to get into trouble.”
His answer? “No I’m not. You might, though.”
However, when I was about to ask him what he meant, we both heard the manager’s footsteps getting closer. Instantly, he grabbed my chin and gripped it realy hard, so that my teeth cut into the inside of my cheeks and said, “Open your mouth.”
My thoughts instantly shifted from, “He’s kinda cute,” to “This mothafucka’s NUTS!”
I made the mistake of opening my mouth to ask him what the fuck he was thinking- and before I could even take a breath, he popped the rest of those french fries into my mouth and hurried away.
Right then, the manager rounded the corner, and looked right at me. “Having a good shift so far, Pandora?” he asked innocently.
I nodded and smiled, hoping that would be sufficient, but then the manager narrowed his eyes and said, “Do you have anything in your mouth…?”

Have you ever had to swallow four Idaho french fries whole to avoid being fired your third day on the job?
I did.

After that, I decided that that guy was NOT someone I wanted to be friendly to. I’ll call him Brewsky. He likes to boast about how much he drinks and how much pot he does, when he’s really just a spoiled brat who has his mommy pay for everything.

The guy I like, I’ll call him Apollo. He’s so incredibly polite and smart, and he jokes around with me without being crude like other guys. Every time I’ve asked him to do something for me, no matter how big or small, he does it for me without question. He’s a totally All-American Good Guy and I enjoy every minute I spend with him. Unfortunately, Bresky found out about us. I guess in such close quarters, it really wasn’t too hard to guess, but as shift manager, I had taken great pains to make sure that the two of them were never scheduled to work at the same time- or if they were, I was off that day. I kept that up for several weeks, until one of the other managers granted Brewsky permission to take on some extra shifts- shifts that I had painstakingly arranged so that Apollo and I could work alone in the kitchen. Instead, it would wind up being me, Apollo, and the jackass of the year- alone in the kitchen, working within feet of eachother.

Barely a week ago, such a night transpired, and it happened to be the night Brewsky found out about Apollo and I. Now, bear in mind that I’m sure the rest of the crew knew about how he and I felt about each other- they just had the decency not to mention it. However, Brewsky lacks that subtlety. As soon as I walked in the door, Apollo helped me out of my coat, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I had barely smiled when Brewsky popped from around the corner, looked between Apollo and I and gave an INSANELY LOUD wolf-whistle and said, “Stop that you two- we have cameras watching. Unless you two are secret voyers? Tsk tsk…” Everyone else in the kitchen giggled and I was MORTIFIED.

Apollo and I managed to have a semi-normal shift together, aside from Brewsy’s occasional inappropriate comments. But whenever Apollo had to go to the back, Brewsky would either follow him and they would spend WAY too much time back there for my comfort, or he would stay with me- and say stuff like, “It’s pathetic the way you run after him, I thought you were better than that.” “You’re totally not his type- an independent girl who pretends to be helpless is a total turn-off,” “If I were him, I’d be laughing at you.” I told him off every time, but he kept at it, until I finally said that it didn’t matter WHAT he said to me, or how much he tried to get under my skin, because the fact remained that at the end of the day, when Apollo helped me ito my jacket and walked me to my car, and kissed me goodbye on the cheek- when the day was over, it was Apollo I was going to be thinking of and how wonderful he was, not Brewsky and his childish jokes. That seemed to shut him up for a while, then the unthinkable happened.

When all three of us were in the kitchen not too long after that, Apollo had just changed out the bird cart, meaning he had replaced the empty bin with a fresh bin full of raw chicken strips soaking in marinade solution. These bins are each about as large and heavy as a medium-sized television set, and they’re a bitch to move and replace. Unfortunately, as soon as Apollo had replaced the empty one with a fresh one, Brewsky told one of the other crew members to clean the bird cart- meaning that Apollo had to take out the bin he had just struggled to lift and place to begin with. I glared at Brewsky- I knew he was doing that on purpose, but he just grinned. Then- as Apollo was lifting the giant bin of chicken, Brewsky yanked the table out from beneath it, making it tip forward. To try and save the chicken, Apollo kicked his knee up to hit the underside of the bin to tilt it back, but he hit it too hard, knocking himself off-balance, and the bird bin spilled all over him. He was slathered with raw strips of chicken, bits of chicken fat, and gallons of chicken juice and marinade solution.

To say that I was shocked and appalled is a complete understatement, but above all, I was disgusted that Brewsky would do something like that. While Brewsky and the rest of the crew laughed, and I knelt by Apollo to help him and clean him up, I was suprised to see that Apollo was laughing along with them, albeit a bit embarassedly. I was impressed to see that he was such a good sport about it; if I were in his place, to have someone do something like that to me, I admit that i would have either flared in anger or broken down crying. But Apollo- he just stood up, took the towel I offered him to wipe his face and laughed and said, “I guess I should be more careful next time.”

I took command, and got one of the stronger crew members to replace the now empty bin while two others cleaned up the fluid and chicken pieces off the floor. Strangely, Brewsky led Apollo out back to “get him cleaned up.” I was constrained as a manager, and I had to make sure everything in the kitchen was back up to the health code before I could check on Apollo, but as soon as I was sure that everything was sanitized and bleached back to standard, I put someone else in charge and ran out back. Much to my displeasure, the only one I saw out there was Brewsky, and for a moment I was dissappointed, thinking that Apollo had gone home. Then I heard running water, and saw a stream of water running from the backhouse- where the dumpsters were- to the street drain, and then I realised that Apollo was using the hose to rinse himself off. Brewsky made some snide comment about missing him, and I told him that he was needed inside. Once he went through the door, I used the headset I was wearing for drive-thru to tell a girl at the register to keep Brewsky inside. I knew she liked him- and was a huge motormouth- so with her constant chatter she’d be able to keep him preoccupied for at least twenty minutes.

This is where it gets a bit fangirl-ish, and perhaps a bit romanticized, but I SWEAR this is how I remember it happening. Maybe it’s a bit skewed in my memory, since I’m a girl, and the guy in question is the guy I have a huge crush on, but I don’t care.

I walked around the backhouse door- and I see Apollo bent over, back to me, totally shirtless and stripped to his shorts, running the hose over his head and back. I’ve seen other guys shirtless before, and I’ve had crushes before- but my GOD if you had seen him there like I had, you would know why I named him Apollo. He must have heard me, because he turned around and it was almost funny how he tried to cover himself while he apologized for his appearance. I laughed and told him it wasn’t his fault- and that I would have to talk to Brewsky about his behavior. Apollo’s response? “What are you talking about? That was an acident. I have to be more careful.”

Sometimes it’s cute how naive he is.

I showed him the two extra towels I had filched from the supply closet and he called me his “life-saver”. I even got to take the hose and help him rinse off- and then dry him with the towels I had. I hate to be such a girly-girl, but getting the chance to rinse and dry such a toned body after a LIFETIME OF ALL GIRLS SCHOOL, I simply could have died of happiness.

Naturally, if catholic taught me anything, the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

I had barely had ten minutes alone with my dream guy and then the jackass had to make his appearance again, saying that he wasn’t needed inside, and that if I wanted to spend time alone with Apollo I would have to at least take him to the back of my car like a normal over-sexed teenage girl. I told him that I wasn’t that kind of girl, and Apollo got between us, saying that he was dry now, and asking Brewsky to escort me back inside, and to return to the backhouse with his clothes for him. So, Brewsky walked me back inside- and actually had the nerve to ask me, “What do you see in that guy, anyway?”

I couldn’t believe that! Anyone with eyes can see what a great guy Apollo is. Right before I went inside, I tossed Apollo’s clothes at Brewsky from where they were on the chair outside and I snapped at him, “Because he’s everything you’re not.” and I went inside.

Since then, his mother made him quit to get his grades up (ha!), but from what I read on the scheduling list, he’s due to start back next week. Normally, I’m not one to show open disgust for a fellow human being, but this guy really wears on my last nerve. The only thing keeping me going- and pulling 70 hour weeks at a fast food chicken place is my upcoming trip to Japan…

…….and my reunion with Fujiomi.

A lot has happened since my last post. I got fired from my movie theater job for eating a movie theater pretzel on my break and not paying for it immediately. After a few days of being generally pissed off and waiting for them to call me back, apologize, and beg me to work there again, I decided to find another job.I still work at IHOP in the mornings- as a waitress now, not a hostess- and I am a shift manager at Raising Cane’s Chicken Fingers. That’s right- I got hired at Cane’s (which helpfully happens to be RIGHT NEXT DOOR to IHOP) and within three weeks, I was promoted. Bear in mind that I worked at that movie theater for nearly a YEAR, and wasn’t even considered for promotion. Needless to say, I like Cane’s a lot better.For those of you that don’t know, or might not have a Cane’s in your area, it’s a very quickly-growing franchise, founded by a guy who used to fish salmon in Alaska for a living. The “special sauce” has crack in it, and anyone that eats it will either spit it out and swear obsessively for a few minutes, or down the entire cup of it and rant for more. People either hate that sauce with a bitter, undying passion, or would sell their spouses for the recipe.In other news, being a waitress at IHOP is a lot more challenging than being a hostess. I’m basically whoring myself out to every young couple and old man that strolls in, laughing at their stupid jokes and fawning all over their spoiled children in the vain hope of getting two bucks on the table by the end of it. For now, there’s a lot going on. As some of you might remember, I come from a fairly wealthy southern family. Within a few weeks, I’ll be making my debut for one of the more prominent Mardi Gras crewes in New Orleans. If you’re not from ehre, you don’t know how big of a deal that is in the upper echalons of society here, which is probably just as well. Suffice it to say, I’ll be dressed in an extravagant poofy number and paraded around to all of the eligible bachelors, and engaged to the highest bidder.Though I have become accustomed to excessive amounts of money and a high station in life, I never want to be married against my will. Therefore, I’ve decided to join the Air Force, and become a Chinese Diplomatic Linguist. Naturally, my first inclination was to be a Japanese translator, but presently they don’t need Japanese translators; if I insisted on being a Japanese translator, chances are an AK47 would be shoved into my hands, and I’d be shipped off to the middle east. HOWEVER- if I settle for Chinese, Chinese translators are really high in demand, since China is still communist and all; the chances of them sending a “high-priority aid” like me to guard an oil tanker in Iraq is next to nothing.Naturally, my parents know nothing of my plan. I’ve already seen my recruiter, and taken the ASVAB- I got a 90, wich is more than qualified to be a linguist. Once I take my DLAB, I’ll be set to go. The only catch is- my ship-out date isn’t until February of 2009.I can only hope I’m not married off by then.On a lighter note- I’ve already began saving for a brief trip to Japan this April! I’ve decided to take a simpler, cheaper route and go with an agency- Pop Japan Travel. From what I’ve heard, the tours they offer are really fun and filled with all sorts of activities. For the curious, I’ll be going on their Gothic Lolita tour.Don’t look at me that way.Yes, I AM a Gothic Lolita freak. So sue me.I think the frilly frilly clothes, and the lace and bows and hats and gloves and parasols are nothing short of ADORABLE! My hair is naturally curly, and I’ve already practiced my wide-eyed-innocent look in the mirror. Also, I think my large breast size really helps me fill in those lolita tops much better than flat-chested girls. I can’t WAIT to visit the ORIGINAL Baby the Stars Shine Bright store, or go to Harajuku in full Gothic Lolita fashion- where it all started! It also helps that I won’t be alone; the tour will be full of other girls like me- we’ll take Harajuku by storm!!Er…AHEM.Anyway- I need at least three grand to go, and for now, I have barely a hundred dollars to my name. I know I have a ways to work, but I’m really counting on both of my jobs right now to at least make the $300 deposit by the cutoff date. I’ve already talked to Sukiko about it- and she’s thrilled! She was really counting on seeing me this Chistmas, but she said that on my free days during the tour, she’d be happy to meet me in Tokyo- with Fujiomi and the others, of course. When she said she’d be coming with Fujiomi, I’ll admit, I got a bit nervous. He never found out that I liked Gothic Lolita clothes- and the last thing I need is him mocking me the whole time. However, one thing made me sort of happy: according to Sukiko, Fujiomi hasn’t had a single steady girlfriend since I left. I know I shouldn’t still be holding onto the past, but I suppose I always hoped that Fujiomi wouldn’t forget me too easily.Call it a woman thing.I guess that’s my only news for now- a small job shift, a new goal to work towards, and a ball to go to where I will hopfully avoid engagement to a man I hardly know.Oh, and Christmas.Isn’t it pathetic when a holiday like Christmas plays second fiddle to IHOP and a chicken place…?

I wasn’t sure I was going to make it at first, but I’ve finished my first month of work (long and hard) and received my first paycheck (monetary awesomeness). Looking back at my last post you can tell how addled I was becoming at work. Things are hectic, yes, but a lot of it is just managing the hours. As I was lamenting in my last post, the hours are long. I’m at work roughly 12-14 hours with another hour of commute per day (30 minutes door-to-door each way). This doesn’t leave me a whole lot of time in between to get other things done during the week. I’ve managed to get through the first month intact. From here it’s just a matter of refining my morning and evening routine so I can get seven-ish hours of sleep per night, plus a real dinner and some time to relax. Things like whether you have breakfast at home or at the office, do you shower at night or in the morning, is everything for the next day set out the night before can actually make a significant difference to your time and how smooth your day runs. Let’s go a bit more into detail.

Saint wakes up at 6am. Shit, shower, and shave (the three morning S’s that we all know and love) and it’s 6:30am. Saint makes himself an actual breakfast (with proteins and everything!) because breakfast is important to him. He makes a quick cup of coffee because coffee is also important to him. Eat, dress, and Saint is out the door by 7 (:05 usually).

Saint briskly walks to the train station at manages to catch the 7:15am train on a good day (7:19am on a not-so-good day). The train starts at his station so he typically has the option to sit down, but chooses not to because he’s in a chair all freaking day. No sitting.

7:30am and Saint is in his chair, turning on his computer(s) and opening the blinds because the view kicks ass. Saint starts his work as his other coworkers trickle into the office.

It’s 8:30am and the woman who sits farther away from the windows goes up to close the blinds, complaining that it’s too bright (notice the ironic seating arrangement). Saint glowers. Saint rues the woman and promises that he will talk to the woman tomorrow and see if they can’t reach some more favorable compromise, like having the blinds not shut (Saint makes this promise to himself every day).

Saint looks up and it’s 9:45am, time to hop down to the convenience store for second breakfast because breakfast is important to him (see above).

Lunchtime falls pretty close to 12pm, but no one is able to leave their desks to go to lunch. One person takes orders, buys food and brings it back for the team. Saint doesn’t really have any tasks during this time, so he usually goes with just to get outside. God help him when he learns what tasks they do during lunchtime.

The Japanese market closes at 3pm and all hell breaks loose. Saint transforms into his alter-ego, an excel ninja that imbues the Microsoft Office knowledge of Bill Gates with the badass-ness of Samuel L. Jackson (hey, it’s my story). He loses grip with reality and when he comes to, it’s after 5.

Things have calmed down at the office, but there is usually enough work to keep Saint there until 8 or 9pm. With an ¡È¤ªÈè¤ì¤µ¤Þ¤Ç¤¹,¡É Saint bounds out of his chair, rediscovers the use of his legs and dashes out of the office.

Saint arrives home variably around 8:30-9:30pm, and by that time his ladyfriend is already back and has started dinner. They eat while watching on his laptop (lately, Firefly) and after dishes and a shower, it is time for him to sleep.

And there you have it. My day in a nutshell (and in third-person, no less). This is the quasi-routine that I’m on at the financial company that I work in.

One anecdote that I found funny lately is my boss (who sits beside me) often says ¤²¤Ã¡ªvery loudly whenever she hits a problem spot. In Japanese, this is just a standard exclamation of surprise. When I first heard this, I thought she actually said ¡ÈGay!¡É and I almost broke. Everytime she says this now, I can’t but help she’s saying ¡Ègay!¡É

It’s little things like this that add brightness to your day.

SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH

GOOD. GOD. Has it really been so long?!?!

To make a really, really, REALLY long story slightly shorter, I’m STILL NOT back in Japan living with my old host family. Not yet. But, I think I still have to get used to being home before I can go back to the Land fo the Rising Sun. The reverse culture shock was scarring. As soon as I got back, I tried (TRIED) to eat a lot of the food I had missed while I was in Japan– shrimp po’ boys, crawfish etoufee, jambalaya- but I simply couldn’t. I mean, when you combine the daily fish-and-rice diet with Washington D.c.’s fat-free obsession, I haven’t eaten real food in going on a YEAR. So when I finally got back home to New Orleans, all the good home cookin’ tasted like flaming seafood waste. I used to LIKE spicy, flavorful food. Now– I weep at the thought of what’s happened to my taste buds.

Also, I was supposed to be in Japan as soon as my stint in Washington D.c. was over, but that had to get fucked up, too. My parents, who were none too keen on me going to Japan in the FIRST place, refused to pay for me to go a second time. Plus, my trip to Yaoi-con in San Francisco cost me quite a bundle, too. So– that meant little Pandora had to conjure up quite a sum of money on her own, and she didn’t have too much time to do it.

I had to get a job.

Or, to be more specific, THREE jobs.

Have you forgotten what kind of over-acheiver you’re dealing with?

That’s right, bitches, THREE jobs. I was a hostess at IHOP, a ticket taker at my local movie theater, and an over-night stock girl at Walgreens. I got about three to four hours of sleep a day between jobs, and my car guzzles gas like it has nothing better to do. Everyone always asked me, "What’s a young girl like yourself doing working so hard?" Finally, after getting NO SLEEP and not bothering to tell my whole story, my answer had become a terse, "I wanna go to Japan."

I’ll tell you this: it’s NOT easy. There are SO MANY TIMES I wish I could be a normal teenager and go out with my friends, and buy clothes and makeup and nice things. It’s taken a LOT of effort on my part not to strangle the bitchy girls that come into IHOP at two in the morning and boss me around, or brutally beat down the annoying twelve-year-old brats that try to sneak into R-rated movies at the theater.

And in case you haven’t noticed: TIME STOPS AT IHOP. Next time you go, make sure to notice what time you go in. Do the same when you leave. It might FEEL like your meal took you two hours, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t only 35 minutes.

OMFG– I didn’t really work there that long, but MY GOD, I already have horror stories.

First of all, the menus there should be classified as deadly weapons. They are laminated to the point of RAZOR SHARP EDGES. Trust me, there were many times where I considered taking one to my wrists and ending it all. Fortunately, the customers have a special way to protect themselves from menu cuts. Neither the servers* nor I are quite sure how it happens, but before the customers even ORDER, they already manage to get gobs of syrup on their hands, thus coating over the deadly menus quite welll. Needless to say, this causes quite a few problems for us, the workers.

*I’m not sure about the neck of the woods you live in, but if you accidentally call a server a "waiter" or a "waitress" here, they get SO offended. Apparently gender differentiation is a crime now, so instead of titles like "waiter" or "waitress", they decided to make the job titles unisex and call them "servers". I don’t really see what kind of difference it makes, because at the end of the day, you still serve crappy food to mean people and get paid peanuts, just like a waitress. Just sayin’.

Not ONLY do we unknowingly pick up these menus, only to feel sticky, warm syrup on our hands, if the customers somehow manage to get syrup on the inside of the menus, and we don’t notice, and we then give those menus to other customers, they get mad at US, like we purposely splayed heaps of maple syrup on the inside of their menu as a sick joke. Besides, cleaning those menus is a sucidal job. Armed with only a damp, 8-year-old wash rag, you have to clean off GALLONS of syrup off each individual page whilst trying to avoid slicing your hand open on the edges. Not an easy task, to say the least.

ALSO- if you HONESTLY expect the food you order to actually look like the picture: your standards are too high. Because with eight Mexicans squeezed into a 10′x6′ "kitchen", all trying to churn out a dozen tables’ worth of food at once, and considering the fact that each cook makes each dish differently from the next– there’s no way in hell it’s gonna look like the wax model in that picture on the menu. If your standards are THAT high, you shouldn’t be eating at IHOP. At least three times a day, I had bitchy old women or mean old men calling me over saying that what they got wasn’t what they ordered.

Me: Okay- what did you order?
Them: The blueberry crepe/breakfast sampler/Happy Face Pancake
Me: *looks at plate and sees said menu item* Yup- that’s what you have
Them: That’s not what it looks like in the picture!!!!

And there would be people whose ENTIRE DAY would be ruined because they were dissappointed in the food/service/table they got. They would storm out in an ANGRY RAGE, hollering and screaming at anyone who could hear that this just ruined their WHOLE DAY, and they were NEVER coming back to IHOP EVER!!! EVERRRR!!!

Like I care. Go cry, emo kid.

Our FAVORITE people to serve were people to had to be at the AIRPORT. Apparently, because they had to be on their flight in half an hour (I’m not kidding you), they thought they could just get booted to the top of the wait list, have go-speed-racer-go service, and make it out in time to fly to Timbucktoo. I wanted to SHAKE THEM and scream, "HAVE YOU NEVER BEEN TO AN AIRPORT BEFORE?!?! Why aren’t you already THERE if your flight leaves in thirty minutes?! Between checking your bags and security, you should have been there an HOUR ago!!"

I think the worst part of working there, though, was that I was a hostess. Not a server, no. A hostess. Which means I didn’t make tips. Even though I took To-Go orders*, dealt with people’s shit, shipped food out for servers, and sang that damned IHOP HAPPY BIRTHDAY song so much I heard it in my sleep, I got paid crap.

*A separate rant about To-Go orders and answering the phone at IHOP:
We hate To-Go orders. I’m sure this is true for WHATEVER restraunt around you that offers Pick-Up and To-Go as well. WE HATE IT. People that work there RUN from the phone when it rings. Because when the phone rigs, we know it could be a fellow worker, calling to say they’ll be late, OR it might be yet ANOTHER person wanting detailed directions on how to get to IHOP from their work/house/insane asylum (No joke- someone called from the local nut house wanting to know how to get to IHOP. He had just been released and was craving pancakes. Go figure. I gave him directions to the IHOP down the street, just to be safe.). However, we’d rather not take that chance, in case it turns out to be someone wanting to place a To-Go order. On my second day on the job, I was standing at the podium, minding my own business, when the phone rang. A server, standing RIGHT NEXT TO THE PHONE, looks at it ringing, looks at me- expecting her to answer it- and then looks down at the floor and says, "Oh- my foot is on fire!" and RUNS to the kitchen.

When you call, you BETTER KNOW what you want, and NO, I will NOT describe everything on the menu to you and how much it costs because I have an actual JOB to do. I was just nice/naive enough to answer this phone and take the time to take your order. Also, when we SAY "It will be about __ minutes until your food is ready." DON’T WAIT that amount of time to LEAVE YOUR HOUSE. Because after your food is made, it waits u
p front in a bag with your name on it until you pick it up. So, if you show up TWO HOURS LATER, and your food is cold, that’s your own damned fault. And if we forgot anything, or if something is slightly askew, don’t bitch. Just tell us, we’ll fix it. All you have to bear in mind is that while you were watching Seinfeld re-runs and slipping on your Reeboks to pick up your food, I was dealing with four crying children, a deaf person wanting to order half the menu in sign language, and three old ladies asking when their iced tea would be ready. AND TIP THE PERSON WHO TOOK YOUR ORDER. They TOOK THE TIME (or, more likely, were abandoned at that phone and forced) to take your order and make sure that it was right and fairly fresh when you came to get it. TIP THEM. TIP THEM WELL.

My other job at the movie theater has it’s own set of problems. It seems like only the most ignorant people go to the movie theater. Even though we have GIANT GLOWING SIGNS everywhere, it’s like these people are completely oblivious as to what we sell and how much it costs.

You would be suprised at some of the dumb questions we get asked. We have twenty screens in our megaplex (ten on one side, ten on the other) and we understand, when you’re in a labrynth of movie screens, no matter what side of the theater you’re on, it all begins to look the same, especially to kids. We understand this. Now- MOST people would take the TIME to LOOK at their movie stubs and say, "Gee- my movie is in screen two." then proceed to the right, where it says "Screens 1-10" and go to their movie, enjoy it quietly, then leave.

These are not the people that come to our movie theater.

We seem to attract the deaf, blind, bowlegged, unemployed crowd.

Now, when you work at a movie theater, you’re never assigned to just one job, like ticket taker or concessions worker. You’re trained for everything, and when the management sees what you’re best at, that’s where you usually get stuck nine out of ten times. For me, it was ticket taker. This was mostly due to the fact that I was one of TWO people that stopped underage kids from going into R-rated movies. Between the new Halloween coming out, Good luck chuck, Saw 4, Kingdom, American Gangster, etc. etc– just about EVERY movie that has come out recently has been rated R. Don’t ask me why, it’s not my fault. However, I WILL stop the little bastards that try to sneak in. They all look and act the same, too. The girls are usually a bit more descreet about it, but the boys are just fucking morons. When a group of rambunctious thirteen year old boys all buy tickets for Hairspray– I KNOW they’re not going to see a fat chick from the 60’s bopping around and jiggling her fat ass to Broadway show-tunes. They’re gonna try to sneak in and see something they shouldn’t. Which, I admit, I’ve done, too. Everyone has. Because of this, the younger workers at the movie theater tend to let the kids slide, and generally- as long as the kids aren’t acting up or being obnoxious brats, me and the others will let them slide, too. They’re not being loud, they’re not bugging anyone. Let them scare themselves shitless if they want. I did, when I was that age.

But when I get a group of eight or nine kids, all yelling and cutting up, handing me tickets to Hostel that I SAW them buy at the automatic ticket machine with Mommy’s credit card- No. I’m not letting them in. Even if the parents that tried to drop them off bitch and bitch, "I give them permission- why can’t they see it?!" I don’t care. The LAW SAYS that for a rated-R movie, anyone under the age of 17 has to be accompanied by a parent or legal guardian age 21 or over.

Other than people that randomly bitch at you about people talking in screen 12 (Like I can do anything about that), or wanting a refund for their movie from you (Sure, let me whip your money right out of my ass), you really just stand there, completely isolated from everyone else by your podium, and deal with the same dumbness over and over again. For instance, no matter what the weather is, about half the people that pass you feel the need to comment on it in some way. After hearing "Is sure is hot/cold/rainy/sunny today, huh?" a MILLION times, it all becomes the same mind-numbing drivel. Now, when you work ticket drop, all you do is tear tickets, give people their stubs, and tell them which side their theater is on.
"Screen one on your right."
"Screen thirteen on your left."
Etc.

EVEN THOUGH, we give them directions, as soon as they pass us, they hold their ticket stubs, and look around so pathetic and lost before ASKING you where their theater is. There are MANY times where we want to scream, "I ALREADY TOLD YOU!! WHY WEREN’T YOU LISTENING?!?!" And really, it’s the little things that piss us off. We KNOW we don’t really have a hard job, and YES, we ARE getting paid to do it, but still- there are a lot of little things that the customers could do to not be such fucking dumbasses. For one– if you are accompanied by your husband, mother, father, mother in-law, father in-law, and a litter of nine hyperactive children– DON’T pass every single person in your crowd their own individual ticket. Just hand me the stack, I’ll tear them all at once, and the whole group of you can go in. I’ll take your word for it that there’re enough tickets. I really do not care enough to count them. Another thing- don’t pre-bend, pre-tear, crumple, fold, or put your tickets in your MOUTH before handing them to me- and please hand them to ME, instead of placing them on my podium and walking away. Also- and this is just common courtesy- if you smell of rotten fish, wet dog, or used dental tools- DON’T walk right next to me, stop, and try to talk to me. YOU SMELL. GO AWAY. And this is a tip for ALL of you– when you WORK at the movie theater, you NEVER have time to SEE a movie. I don’t know if you like to go into YOUR office on your off-days for the fun of it, but I don’t. So don’t ask me if I’ve seen the movie you happen to be going to, because chances are, I haven’t. Now go away, you’re holding up the line.

Now, that’s just ticket taker. When you’re an usher, your job description gets a LOT more interesting. When you’re an usher, normally, when a show lets out, you go clean it. This is no small job, and believe me, we find a LOT of things in those theaters that we don’t exactly sell at concessions. Starbucks, Arby’s, and booze bottles are the top three things we find. We found an UNOPENED BOTTLE of Pinot Grigio stashed beneath a seat. The managers took it for "classifying and storage" and we haven’t seen it since. Other than that, your job as an usher is to pick up the millions of napkins, the spilled nacho cheese, the popcorn thrown EVERYWHERE, the drinks and Icees spilled EVERYWHERE- and even the human excrement occasionally left behind. For example- for the scarier movies, it’s actually quite common for a seat or two to REEK of piss. Not that Hint O’ Piss, like someone who couldn’t hold it, but didn’t want to miss any of the movie, leaked some out before finally running to the bathroom and running back. NO. It’s like TWO OR THREE PEOPLE TOTALLY RELIEVED THEMSELVES ALL OVER THESE SEATS. The weird part is, we don’t even smell the piss first. We smell perfume. Yes- these people PISS ON OUR SEATS, then try to cover it up using whatever kind of perfume or cologne they have on hand. So, when we go into a screen where the air is SATURATED with Axe or Obsession- the more experienced veterans tend to send in the newer workers, and stand back while the noobs clean the screens, eventually finding the source of the piss, and then shrieking in horror.

There was also one case- ONE, LEGENDARY case- of a kid shitting on a wall.

I had been working there about a month, when I was walking along with one of the more popular managers. He’s young, really cool, and is like the wise older brother to just about everyone that works there. As we pass one of the bigger screens, we see an usher stumble out and slam the door shut
.

Manager: Hey- don’t slam the door while the movie’s going! What’s wrong with you?
Usher: Dude…..I went in there to check, y’know, making rounds….Someone….shat…on the wall.
Manager:………………….What?
Usher: I don’t know– but someone SHAT. On. The wall.
Manager:……….
Me:………..
Manager: No way. I don’t believe you.
Usher: I’m so dead serious. Just walk through that door, man.

Sure enough, the manager OPENS the door, goes to take one step in, then slams the door shut with the most DISGUSTED look on his face. I didn’t look for myself, but when he slammed the door shut, a gust of wind blew in my direction and I SMELLED it.

I wanted to remove my nasal cavity entirely, it was that bad.

Apparently, we found out later, some kid had to go REALLY BAD, ran out the movie theater, and as he was going down the hall- he didn’t even make it to the DOOR- he pulled down his pants and projectile shit all over the wall. We never found out who it was, but I made sure to dissappear when they were hunting down people to clean it.

Also, when you’re an usher, you’re responsible for removing people who are creating "disturbances". Talking on cell phones, crying children, kids running up and down the stairs– it pisses other people off. Stop it. Though techinically only a manager can remove a guest, when it’s a busy Friday or Saturday night, and the theater is packed with about fifteen hundred people, the managers tend to turn a blind eye to whatever the regular workers do, as long as the work gets done. So if we snap back at an annoying guest, or kick some kids out, if the managers didn’t see it- or sometimes, even if they did- it didn’t happen. Now, because I’m one of the few that ENJOY kicking out kids, the managers will occasionally form a small squad out of the ushers and use us specifically to kick out kids. They’re called Excursions, when they call us on the walkie, give us a brief description of the kids, and tell us what area they’re in. These kids are fucking NINJAS, too. Most of them aren’t satisfied with sneaking into one movie and sitting down to watch it. Oh, no. They movie-hop, from one screen to another, from one end of the theater to the other, all over the damn place. The only thing with that is, the kids that pull this shit tend to wear the most obnoxiously obvious clothes ever. So when my manager tells me to kick out the kid with Rainbow Brite streaks in his hair, blue and red striped pants, and neon green converse sneakers– that kind of narrows it down a bit. One kid was dumb enough to wear a GLOW IN THE DARK shirt. Do you know how ABSURDLY EASY it was to find that kid?! In a pitch black movie theater?!

I suppose one of the easiest and most entertaining jobs is projection. Now, the people that work in projection are all pale as death, incredibly thin, and slightly off-kilter. There’s one kid there that looks like a blonde Harry Potter, who does nothing but watch Futurama re-runs on his laptop. I haven’t been trained there yet, but when there’s nothing to do, it’s fun to go hang out up there and see what the people up there are doing. On a really busy night, it’s SO FUN to just look down from our little window, and see what the audience is doing. Actually, the projection people are the ones with the MOST interesting stories. They’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of stupid things in those theaters when they thought no one was looking. Most of it, of course, is sex-related. I myself have been witness to quite a few teenage blow-jobs at the top row of the theater. Trust me, if you’re standing in that window with a laser pointer, like I am, there’s no limit to the fun you could have.

One time, I was working ticket-taker and I saw this 14 year old girl and a guy about the same age- OBVIOUSLY on their first date. We employees ALWAYS know, and we think it’s adorable. The girl in THIS case, though, was a complete hussy, and the poor guy obviously hadn’t realised it yet. I made sure to remember what screen they were going to be in, and when I went on my break 20 minutes later, I went to projection and stood at that window. Sure enough– that couple was in the third row from the top. The previews had just ended, and the guy pulled the patented "Yawn, Stretch, and Slowly Put Your Arm Around the Girl’s Shoulders" move. It was so classic, and he pulled it off so well, I almost wanted to clap. The girl, though, moved much faster, and immediately put the arm-rest up and cuddled next to him. Damn harpy. Within TWO MINUTES- she turned to kiss him! I’m thinking- You SLUT!! The opening credits aren’t even over!! At least make him WORK for it! She turns, he turns, and I whip out my laser pointer and aim. The first time- I hit her cheek with the pointer. The guy stops, pulls away, and I turn off the laser. Though I can’t actually hear what’s being said, I can guess by their reactions.

Girl: What’s wrong?
Guy: Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw something on your cheek.
Girl: Oh- you’re so silly!

They lean in again. I take aim- and keep it focused on her forehead. At this point, three people sitting BEHIND the couples notice the laser pointer, and these three people and the guy all whip their heads around, looking for the source. Naturally, none of them think to look up at the projection window, and there’s no way to tell where the line of the laser is coming from in the dark movie theater, so I keep it focused right between her eyes. They finally tell her what’s going on, and she claps her hands to her forehead like she’s afraid it’s gonna fall off and begins freaking out. Around that point, the guy in projection comes up behind me and asks what I’m doing. I put the laser pointer back in my pocket and tell him. He laughs, then tells me that one of my friends and co-workers was looking for me, so I head back downstairs. She’s in concessions, and I help her out filling orders, when about ten minutes later, I see that couple again, walking through the lobby and filing a complaint in Guest Services. They never found out it was me.

The most annoying job, the one everyone hates, is concessions. Yet, it seems like no matter how much we raise the prices, people STILL BUY THE FOOD!! The stupidest part is, my theater has NO RULE against bringing in outside food! You could just waltz right in with a Kfc 24-pack, and there would be be NOTHING we could do about it. Instead, people come up and buy our shitty food for exhorbitant prices, and then bitch to us, like maybe if they bitch enough, we’ll just give it to them for free. No. Almost worse than the bitchers are people that come up to us with absolutely NO clue. They don’t know what they want, what we have, or how much it costs. The following is just about EVERY conversation with almost every guest we encounter:

Me: Hi- what can i get for you?
Guest: What do you have?
Me: *points to giant glowing menu mounted on the wall* That. All of that.
Guest: *stares up at the menu like a turkey in the rain* Uhhhhhh…….
Me: *waits*
Guest: I guess I’ll just have a popcorn and a cold drank.
Me: *sigh* What size?
Guest: Huh?
Me: What SIZE popcorn?
Guest: Regular
Me: Small, medium, or large?
Guest: Uh, medium?
Me: What kind of drink?
Guest: Large.
Me: *pulls out large cup* Okay- what kind?
Guest: Large.
Me: No- what KIND.
Guest: Laaaarge.
Me: WHAT DO YOU WANT AS YOUR BEVERAGE?
Guest: Oh. What do you have?
Me: *good GOD– points to drink dispensers*
Guest: *looks at them for several minutes, swaying back and forth* Uuuuummmm…I guessss…Spriiiiite-NO! Diet coke!
Me: *goes to fill the cup*
Guest: Wait- how big is a large?
Me: *It’s fucking BIG you moron!! -holds up cup-*
Guest: Oh, no, just give me a medium, then.
Me: Okay, that’ll be eight fift–
Guest: Wait- can I add a hot dog?
Me: *I HATE YOU*

I haven’t even touched on Box office or–even worse– Guest Services. And I haven’t mentioned my over-night stock job at Walgreens at all. If
there’s an interest, I’ll be more than happy to continue my rant. Other than that, until I get enough money to go back to Japan on my own before I ship out (That’s right- I’m in the military now), I’ll be working a lot and traveling in my free time, so that’s mostly what I’ll be blogging about.

Thanks again for reading, and feel free to comment and ask questions!

Honestly, I thought I would have much more time to myself, to be able to spend as I pleased while visiting my aunt and uncle up here in Maryland, and update regularly as I promised. INSTEAD, I seem to be a 24-hr babysitting service for my spoiled-rotten baby cousins. They’re ages eight and 4, and they never shut up. They TRY to think of ways of getting into mischief. For them, playing and fighting are the same thing, so when one of them screams bloody murder, I usually run to see what’s the matter, only to catch them in the middle of a tickle fight. They’re with me all damn day, too, following me around and asking me obnoxious questions. I HAVE to play with them, too, or my aunt won’t pay me for watching them. Subsequently, I haven’t been able to write ANYTHING (I write short stories and post them on the internet, too) let alone keep up with my blog here. I’m really sorry. Luckily, I managed to convince them to give me just a half hour of alone time, so I’ll write what I can. Thanks for understanding.

Anyway, to continue with my story:

Fujiomi and I headed out fairly early, and once he bought our train passes, I knew we were headed into Shibuya. First of all- he’s never bought me anything. Ever. And I knew that he got special pleasure watching me battle the Ticket Machines o’ Evil every morning on the way to school. However, this time, he seemed all too eager to buy my ticket for me, and even take my hand as we boarded the train. I was about to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip.

Him: What? You don’t like holding hands? How un-Japanese of you.

I wanted to correct him SO bad, and say that the Japanese were actually reknown for their strict social standards on physical affection; but I knew he was just using it as an excuse to win the bet we had, so I kept quiet. We got to Shibuya, and the first thing he did was ask me what I wanted to do. And it wasn’t one of those careless, “What-do-you-wanna-do?”’s that ALL guys ask, because they’re too lazy to think of something themselves. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and asked me what I would enjoy doing- like he really cared!

IT WAS FREAKY. Like, Hitler-watching-care-bears kind of creepy.

I muttered something, so Fujiomi dragged me around and we window shopped for a bit. Again, the clothes I was wearing made me REALLY stand out, and those shoes were murder. It felt like everyone was looking at me- something I’m not really used to. About half an hour later, Fujiomi lead me into this cafe. Well, THEY call it a cafe. It actually looked like an botanical garden filled with french maid cosplay girls serving tea and really extravagant desserts. On a side note, maid cafe’s are getting to be REALLY popular here, especially in the nooks and crannies of Shibuya, Shinjuku, and a few in Harajuku.

We sat down, and Fujiomi IMMEDIATELY turned back into his usual self.

Fujiomi: What’s the matter with you?

Me: Huh?

Fujiomi: You’re acting quiet and shy.

Me: Isn’t that how I’m supposed to act?

Fujiomi: Yeah, but now that you’re actually acting that way it’s boring. So go back to your usual loud self. Seeing you so reserved is giving me chills.

Me: You’re acting weird, too. You’re acting nice, kind, and thoughtful.

Fujiomi: I’m always nice, kind and thoughtful.

Me: Not to me!

Fujiomi: I never said I was nice, kind, or thoughtful to YOU. but I am nive, kind, and thoughtful.

Me: You’re evil.

After that, we talked more about each other, and the subject of our homes came up. Fujiomi actually asked me quite a few questions about America, like how much I had travelled around, what the social norms were like, and what kind of traditions we had. He ordered for the both of us- miraculously remembering that I like black coffee over tea- and some kind of frou-frou dessert. When the waitress gave it too us, it wasn’t very large, but it looked like it was made of about nine different kinds of pure sugar.

I don’t like sweets.

Period.

I have ONE piece of chocolate a year, and that’s the truffle I get from my father every year on Valentine’s Day.

This THING in front of me made me want to gag just from the sugary-sweet smell of it. And what did Fujiomi do? As soon as the waitress approached again, he turned back into the Nice Fujiomi, pasted on a smile and thanked her for it. Then, taking the spoon out, he scooped some of it up- and held it in front of me, telling me to open my mouth.

Not ONLY had the waitress not even left yet, but about six other people from surrounding tables were openly staring. AND I HATE SWEETS.

Me: You MUST be joking.

Him: -SMILE- Nope. Now open your mouth, like a good girlfriend.

The way he said it was SO perverted, too.

But if you can’t beat ‘em- shock ‘em.

So I pressed my breasts together as I leaned forward, licked my lips and shut my eyes as I opened my mouth and went, “Ahhhhhhnnnnn”.

I’m shocked he didn’t drop that spoon. Instead, he SHOVED the hunk of sugar into my mouth and asked sweetly, “Tastes good, huh?” to which I answered as femininely as I could: “Uh-uh! As sweet as victory!”

Actually, I felt kind of bad, because between the two of us, we only had three bites of the entire Banana chocolate parfait. As a Southern girl, I hate seeing food go to waste– but I sure as hell wasn’t going to eat it.

Fujiomi dragged me out of the cafe and to a large building on the corner. There was a huge screen on both sides of the building, showing music videos and news clips and commercials. When I looked at the sign, I saw it was a movie theater. He asked me what movie I wanted to see- again, with that kind smile on his face, like he genuinely wanted to do something that I liked. However, I still had to get back at him for the parfait, so I pointed to a poster on the wall of a Japanese man and woman in a passionate embrace on a beach at sunset, with a title something like, “My heart, your body, our future” and said THAT was the movie I wanted to see.

Fujiomi’s face fell as he looked at the poster, and I had to EAT MY OWN LIPS to keep from busting out laughing. Fujiomi has a special loathing for chick-flicks. According to Sukiko, he took his first date to a move, who- naturally- wanted to see a chick flick, and he mistakenly agreed. Not only did the movie and plot itself make him want to punch a baby, but apparently, the girl he was with would randomly throw herself at him throughout the movie and try to molest him, thinking it was romantic. Knowing this, I picked the sappiest, most feminine movie I could.

And, heroically enough, Fujiomi accepted the challenge.

OH SHIT!! One of the kids just fell down the stairs!! I’ll update later!