open relationship

Cut it out like cancer

Cut it out like cancer

says my right-hand bitch.

We’ve all been there, right?
There= that person who manages to get under your hitherto impenetrable skin.  The one who magically stretches your tolerance and forgiveness meter 200%.  (S)he who makes you think a future could happen.  Basically, the douchebag who plays you so expertly that when your heart stops revolving around them you realize what a ridiculous amount of credit you’ve given them.  You believed in them, their potential, and yet, they turned out so…ordinary.  Shame and disappointment.

My other right-hand bitch says dating the douchebag is a rite of passage.  And for the douche experience to count, it has to be after you’re 25.  And alcoholics don’t count; they’re in a separate category.

Got it.

Also, it’s difficult to cut out the douchebag.  Even the most resilient among us weaken and are inexplicably charmed when we otherwise wouldn’t be.  So listen to your bitches.  They know.  They’re immune to the noxious spell the douche casts, unlike you.

It might take a few tries but just keep cutting out the cancer.
It’s like quitting smoking: the more you try to quit, the higher your chances of success.

‘Cause no one wants you to have cancer.
Except fucking douchebags.

relationshipping, trans talk

How to lose weight

How to lose weight

if you’re a transsexual and you live with me.

GF thinks she’s fat.
Here we go…
She’s not fat but most women feel fat sometimes.  I think her gender dysphoria has transitioned into body dysmorphia.  Anyhow, her plan is like this:

GF: I’m going to start eating the same amount of the same foods that you eat.
Me: Uh…okay.
GF: You’re much skinnier than me so by that reasoning I can’t help but lose weight.
Me: Sure, but we’re not around each other 24/7 so you won’t be able to truly mimic what I eat.
GF: That’s okay because you eat a lot more than I do anyway.  I mean, you eat a lot of food so I should be sated when we do eat together because you eat so much.  Seriously, I don’t know how you do it.  You should be a lot bigger…I kind-of hate you for it.
Me: I should be bigger?  Wait a second, you really know how much I eat?  Suddenly I feel self-conscious.
GF: Uh yeah.  We’ve been living together for almost three years and we usually eat together; you’re a bottomless pit.  Even when we started dating I was amazed you could take out more food than me and stay the size you are.  Face it, Rumi- you devour the fridge.
Me: What the fuck “face it” are you talking about?!  I have an overactive thyroid (which will probably come to a sudden pre-menopausal halt as soon as this is published) which is the only reason I eat non-stop.  I have to.  I get all shaky like I need hard drugs if I’m not consuming calories every hour.

On a side note, while GF has been taking careful measure of how much I consume in relation to my height-weight ratio, she has managed to completely ignore said ratio when dosing me with psychoactive substances.  It literally just now occurs to her, many moons after superintense brain trips, that maybe she shouldn’t have dosed my 5’4½” (163.83cm), 105-lb. (47.63kg) ass as one would a 6′ (183cm), 170-lb. (77kg) man.

You think?
Because honestly, I feel really lucky that most of my brain bits came back from that other world, the one where I was howling for hours among tall-as-me green reeds at night with only my long-haired tabby cat as my guide, who magically grew into supersized lion and let me ride on his back while holding onto his whiskers.

how to lose weight

about Japan

Shit like this

This shit

happens to us all.

I’m always ギリギリ (gi-ri•gi-ri=just on time) to work.  Just yesterday, after descending many spiraling steps into my subway station, my sandals turn into fucking reverse flip-flops because the inner sole has peeled away from the bottom sole.


I noisily clap-clap around and see if my vintage Marc Jacobs will be able to make it many more steps and stairs to final destination and back.  My poor sandals are falling apart more and more so I call my boss because, yep, I’m definitely going to be late tonight.  He asks if I can work at all and I think he thinks my foot is broken (his Engrish, not so good) so I’m like, yeah, I can work.
WHY I didn’t take this opportunity to take the night off is beyond me.  Remember when I said I do dumb shit?

I backwards my steps and go to the conbini (Japanglish for 7-11 type place) to buy superglue because there’s at least one (if not three) outside every station.

Then I sit and try to heal my beloved sandals.  That they’re in a pathetic state makes my heart sniffle because they were a lovely birthday happy from my right-hand bitches.

So this is what I’m dealing with:
This shitExcept they’re even more peeled apart than the pic indicates.  I use the whole tube of superbondo but the leather is jerky-dry and it’s not sticking(!).  I stand up, put all my weight on my feet and wait.  After a few minutes it seems like the soles have bonded- hooray!- so
I start spiral stair descent #2.  

I get- I swear- to the exact same sandal doom spot when- clap-fuckingclapclap.
Are you kidding me?!  I used the whole tube for fuck’s sake.  No, not a situation where I used too much; too little if anything.

I call my boss again because my 15m delay= as if at this point.

He’s excited: “Oh Rumi-san, you speak good Japanese!”
Really it’s that I speak better Japanese than he does English.  I normally do the English with him because he likes to practice but I don’t want to be misunderstood so I go native. He suggests that I buy some cheap sandals at the conbini because conbinis sell everything.

Except shoes.
Or sandals.
Or even a pair of house slippers.


At this point it’s quicker to backtrack two stations (4min), buy some much-needed flats at the second-busiest station in the world and GET ON already.

30s away from the underground electronic turnstile is huge department-store-land and I escalate my ass up to accessories, 2nd floor.  I pass Coach, Hermès, Sergio Rossi without pause as this is no time for fun & decadent retail splurging.  This is 100% practical fast!fast! shopping, which panics my heart.  I’m suddenly overwhelmed by 100’s of pairs of studded, leopard, neon, wedged, pastel, strappy you get the idea.

Crap.  Ok, quick scan- I find a potential pair of muted robin’s egg blue flats with many symmetrically punched-out circles.  Except I don’t want to drop $150 on a preppy-meh pair so I keep looking.  Got it!  Perfectly sensible patent seafoam flats.  They don’t make my heart sing like a new crush but my gut knows they won’t let me down.
This shit 2

Total shopping time= 12min (4 to pick and 8 to check out*).
Total delay= 60min

If there’s some lesson to be had in your beloved shoes getting busted mid-commute in a walking city:
Sometimes you just have to throw money at the problem…so always keep a globally preferred CC or the equivalent of $100USD on your person.

*Of course the retail experience is full-service, meaning I don’t move from cushy mod ottoman while CC is run and old shoes are wrapped and bagged.


You tell me this

You tell me this


You know when you just find something out about someone and it surprises the fuck out of you because they’ve been able to keep a secret for that long?

And it makes you rethink everything because you realize- wow- this person can keep a secret for a long time.  Like three years long.

Take when GF confessed that she had been feeding me yum food and libation samples like a one-eyed paraplegic on purpose, waiting for the day I’d catch on to the fact that she was purposely ouch-hitting the roof of my mouth, slopping crap on my chin, stickying my nose with reductions (it goes on) because you can’t mis-aim that badly unless you’re doing it on purpose.

So I’m thinking she is an ijiot with beyond negative hand-eye coordination and it even makes me grouchy in the process:
Ow! Could you not ram that spoon into my cheek?  Umm…ginger syrup on my face.  Is that crap on my neck?!  How did you get it on my neck?
Omg, are you retarded?  Seriously, I think I’m dating a slightly retarded person.

Not only do I think GF is fucktarded, I say that if I were to ever rethink the kids thing, you just confirmed it.  No way am I having kids with you- you would kill them or drown them with milk or whatever kid sauce they consume.

The fact that I don’t catch on gives her waaay too much hilarious delight so she continues her clumsy tasting game.  THREE YEARS she does this.  Meanwhile, I just resign myself to being with someone who is kind-of a moron.

But I’m the fucking moron, thinking her to be a stupid person when, really, she was having the last laugh a bazillion times over.
This impresses me and makes me like her more.

open relationship

What if…

What if

and there are so many what ifs swimming in my head.

Sometimes an open relationship makes me think (and I probably shouldn’t think about things that haven’t happened but I can’t help it):
What if I end up being attracted to a woman?  What then?
GF has maintained that as long as we’re together, the only woman she will be attracted to is me.  But this could change, depending on the person…right?
What the fuck if I meet someone and what we end up having is so *&♥^∞%!!! that I rethink open relationship and end it?…What if she does?

Of course there’s no need to seriously dialogue hypothetical musings but the second we agreed to open relationship, these what ifs enter my mind.

In Realityland, we just need to communicate the hell out of communication.
And I’m constantly amazed at how every crevice of my preconceived notions of sexual identity and definitions of romantic relationships have changed.  When BF turned GF a frighteningly beautiful thing happened: the traditional notion of expectations were flung far and wide out the window.

Here’s what we expect now: raw honesty.
That’s it.
Which can be a lot because honesty when adjusting to an open relationship can hurt and definitely has uncomfortable as fuck moments but it’s the only way to sincerely try to make it work.

So I haiku because sometimes a 5-7-5 is the best way to process.

Matters of the heart,
Truth: anything can happen.
sometimes scared as fuck.

Is it too much?  More than I can handle?
On the one hand, yeah, it’s a lot.  I ask questions and
sometimes feel insecure in ways that most people choose not to in a committed relationship.  Hell, some would say the whole point of monogamy is to eliminate a certain insecurity.  

But then again, insecurity strikes any relationship, monogamous or not.
And aren’t levels of honesty and acceptance of said honesty the ultimate make-it-or-break-it factor in any significant relationship?
You’re honest or you’re not.  Any relationship could end at any moment.  I guess in mine there’s simply no room for hiding/repressing/suppressing; being with GF makes me deal with a lot of what ifs head-on.  Between her transition, an international move and an open relationship my comfort zone lies in what was uncomfortable.

So my previous discomfort is now oddly homey.

about Japan

I have a confession:

I have a confession

I keep my AC on. All. Day. Long.

I cringe.

So lots of heat, hot, humid, hot, muggy, steamy rain, so damn hot talk happens and I let it slip to my friend-type-person that I leave the fan on overnight.
FTP: Wait, you leave it on overnight?
Me: Um…yes.
FTP: You don’t use a timer?!
Me: No.  Oh, the impending judgement.

He is incredulous.  He fears for my electricity bill.  Yeah, me too, dude.  Me too.
He hasn’t even used his AC yet.  It’s 35+°/95+°.   I visit people’s homes and even with the AC on, in the coolest room of their house, sweat steadily trickles down impeccably made-up faces.  Because they conscientiously turn it on just enough so that glasses don’t fog, babies stay alive and old folks don’t stroke out.

I can’t keep up with the stoicism.
And I can’t confess my 24-hour AC usage.

Does it assuage my guilt that I at least turn it down when I leave for hours on end?
Uh, no- so stupid wasteful American.

Okay, so I might as well confess all of my wasteful habits:
I don’t turn off the faucet when I’m not actively using it, I don’t air-dry my clothes when the weather is that kind of sunny and slightly windy perfect for it; I use my walk-in dryer room instead, I have the TV on mute and play music at the same time, I left all the little knobs and controls to heat the toilet seat, control bidet water pressure etc. on waaay past frigid winter and on maximum, respectively (the kanji that I can’t read did play a part but I’m also that oblivious, therefore unconscientious), I’m pretty sure I use more water than necessary for small loads of laundry because my washing machine still confuses me and I can’t let go of my paper towel habit.

Crap, I have a lot of ecological growth and improvement ahead of me.
And this confession thing doesn’t make me feel better; in fact, it makes me feel slightly worse because I know these habits warrant tsk tsk.


I’m working on it, y’all.
Three words: progress not perfection.

trans talk

I’m a coward

I'm a coward

and dishonest, sometimes.

I’m memory tripping twenty months ago, recollecting a shopping trip (one of many) with my GF.  We’re sifting through racks of maxi dresses (she really wants a maxi and she’s tall enough that it won’t do the shapeless sack thing) and the palpable relief on her face breaks my heart a little.  She feels so much safer and less self-conscious when I’m with her; my presence seems to dull the voices in her head that make her feel like everyone is suspiciously staring at her.

When we started shopping for her, I would rationalize her still very boy presence amidst flowy, lacy, short and tight things by saying things like, who are they to know you’re trans?  You could be buying clothes for- STOP.  What kind of stupid am I talking?  Why am I considering other people’s hate and intolerance?  Why do I have this compulsion to accommodate their discomfort?  I don’t like this tendency within myself.  It makes me feel like a coward and that I’m not a true supporter of my GF.

So I work on permanently shifting my perspective.  My instinct to justify behavior that highlights her transness through other people’s lenses is to protect us from hate, I tell myself.  Transsexuals are on the very bottom of the LGBTQ totem pole (that there is a hierarchy is so maddeningly ironic); they are and have always been targeted by everyone else because apparently it’s okay to be completely (and violently) not okay with transsexuals because they’re so fucking weird (huge, exasperated eye roll over here).

But I’m not being completely honest.

I give hateful people an iota of consideration because focusing on them deflects and delays my acceptance process because a part of me is still holding onto him.  Because the shameful truth is that I’m not yet able to be 100% supportive.  Yes, I’m absolutely her best friend and biggest cheerleader but I’m dragging my feet- big time- at fully accepting that BF is not coming back.

But…tick tock…tick tock enables me to ultimately accept that my BF is part of my past, which further enables me to unabashedly retail therapy with GF whilst making judgmental and ignorant fools ridiculously uncomfortable- that’s right, we’re buying dresses for him, thank you/fuck you very much.

about Japan

You are a slutpuppy

You are a slutpuppy

if you show your condoms.
That’s what Japanese guys think.
(This is strictly hetero as people here aren’t too open about sexual gay politics on the real but I’m working on honesting that relevant and interesting part of Japanese life).

Yeah, they don’t think you’re responsible. They aren’t appreciative of your efforts to prevent STDs and pregnancy. They think that you’re a total slutpuppy, regardless of how darn cute you are or how much they want to do you. As my fiercely independent acquaintance succinctly summed it up, “They don’t like it.” And if they don’t have one? Then there’s (usually) no sexing. Apparently, the guys are okay with being 100% responsible for the condoms, which is simultaneously sweet and sexist to me.

On a side note, 1 in 4 women (or 3, depending on your stat source) have had abortions here because that’s way more socially acceptable than being on the pill (which was legalized in 1999). Wanting a birth control script isn’t as difficult as it was a decade ago but not all doctors will write one and all are low-dosage. Heck, prior to 1999, the pill was only available for menstrual disorders, not birth control, which meant they were extremely high hormone doses that were probably proven to feed and cause cancer.

Weird, right? At least to an American who’s used to abortion being such a reliable hot topic and waaay more stigmatizing than taking birth control.

If you’re the type that like facts and figures, check out details here.

Many Japanese guys also sum up having a girlfriend in a word: 面倒くさい (めんどくさいor men•doku•sai)
Literally it translates to: annoying, tiresome, troublesome, you get the idea.
Really what the guys mean is this: bitches be hi-may so no thanks.
And the ladies are none too impressed with their attitude as they think guys these days are emotionally weak and immature.

This plays a huge part as to why folks here aren’t getting married so much or not until way later in life and they sure as hell aren’t having kids.

about Japan, random love

I own this bitch, y’all

I own this bitch y'all

and she’s purtier and easier.

It’s makeover day, which means I have a new header and domain, which is: (faster to type than with that wordpress thing in the middle).  

This domain is mine…hooray.  Y’all are really fucking sweet and encouraging so I thought, hell, might as well own this for real.  So let’s see what kind of trouble and embarrassment I can recollect and get into over the next 12 months.  I guarantee shenanigans that meet various degrees of disapproval, foreign discomfort, some more emotional paralysis (and growth) and some plain dumb shit because I have a knack of doing some really dumb shit.

For instance:
It’s hot here.  Really fucking hot.  It’s the equivalent of 95+°F, I haven’t stopped sweating for 13 days (and counting) and the oppressive heat is literally suffocating me (I crane my neck upwards on the sardine trains to catch air- not exaggerating) and killing old people.  Which is why weather-appropriate food is de rigueur here.

Cold-on-cold foods like cool soba or somen dipped in refreshingly chilled broth (freshly grated ginger is an especially nice addition) is typical summertime grub.  Noodles here are seriously delicious; the texture is amazing and Japan has probably destroyed my standards for the rest of the world.

So my friend and I are moaning about the heat, looking for a place to eat…
My friend: Oh, look at this.
Me: Oooh…pork shabu-shabu?!  I’ve never had that…
MF: Well, that decides it then.

I am so excited.  I’ve had beef shabu but not pork because America is scared of serving beautiful, paper-thin slices of raw pork cooked tableside in a vat of boiling water with herbaceous veggies and tofu.

We sit, order beers and my friend’s body temp has mysteriously risen for being inside.  Strange.  He immediately asks the server to turn down the AC; I can tell from the eyes that are cut that it’s not going to happen.  I feel bad because he’s dressed all Tokyo proper from fancy-pants work meetings.

And we are stupid.  Because shabu-shabu entails sitting nano-inches away from a steaming hot-pot where we boil meat for hours.  Wait, that sounded weird.  The meal takes hours (and the veggies are simmering the entire time) but the individual slices of pork-cook only lasts a few seconds because the gorgeous cuts are sliced so pretty-skinny.  Once it’s cooked to your preferred doneness, get you some delicate greens and dip in yum sauce/broth.  Basically, shabu is quality ingredients at their best…mmm.

My friend asks the server to turn down the AC again and annoyed dude is looking at us like, are you for real?  You’re eating cold weather food in the middle of a heat wave and we’re still in energy-conservation mode from the earthquake, fuckers.  He is so not turning the shit down.  I point out the words I see in server’s head and my friend is like, right…we’re the ijiots who have chosen to subject ourselves to a pork steambath.

Yes we are.

But these are my people: damn fools who, in their excitement to share a new experience with me, abandon foresight and suffer sweating balls for hours.

I love when I find my people as they are the best.  Like y’all.
Seriously, thank you for the love and support.


open relationship

The first date

The first date

in an open relationship is weird.
Duh, right?  I mean, most first dates are in the weird or boring.

As with most things, GF and I have radically different approaches.
Her: So I’m going out Friday…
Me: Oh, okay.  Out, like, on a date?
Her: …Yeah.
Me: Cool.  Wait, has it even been a week since we’ve open relationshipped?  And she’s got a date?  Of course she does.  Anyone I know?
Her: ***.  I’m not sure I want to go.  I don’t know if I’m even attracted to him but he’s been wanting to hang out for a while.
Me: Oh really?  For a while?  Interesting…
Her: So I might not come home tonight.
Me: Right.  Damn this bitch is fast.  She’s really good at this dating thing; is it because she knows how the male brain works?

Strange…to think of her spending the night with someone else.  Even though it’ll be completely outside of my physical sphere, I feel an emotional prick, like the reality of open relationshipping has just stung me.  And I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.  But maybe it’s just the total newness of it all that’s making me feel a little queasy on the inside.

Then there’s me and ***…
Imagine two people who speak multiple languages between them.  You’d think they’d be able to communicate, right?  Except when you factor degrees of fluency, the odds of non-communication are amplified (mathy people, back me on this).  Actually, here’s a snapshot from my brain instead:

The first date

WHY are we in the green?!
Sure, there’s some orange here and there but he doesn’t really want to orange because of the (lack of) fluency factor.  White is completely ignored (he doesn’t even know this exists), which is my doing.  I purposely steer clear of it because it’s just enough to navigate through the rocky green and I’m not up for a potentially even more challenging white.

So I feel like I’m in a really strange language lab (that serves really good food, by the way), borderline forgetting I’m supposed to be deciphering levels of romantical interest.

How did I even get to this strange and somewhat tortuous place, trying to read signs of interest in [insert non-native language]?
Short answer: Because he asked me out.
Real answer: I wanted to know how much chemistry trumps linguistics.

Truth: The above scenario requires a lot of chemistry.