Monthly Archives: July 2013

about Japan

I am so racist

I am so racist

about nail art.

As in, my homeland fucking rocks and aside from eating my weight in fried chicken (Alli-G, I swear I’ll have the KFC Tokyo report yesterday) I am adding another category to global reviews: nail art (inspiration: Holly Woods).

Y’all, I have a secret weapon.  I will call her M.  She is my friend, personal nailist and she ROCKS.
I would say don’t be J but honestly, you should be.

Here’s my amazing situation:
M recently switched salons and currently works in upscale Ebisu (think Harajuku’s grown-ass sister who looks so effortlessly beautimous that your instinct is to hate her except she’s so damn cool that you can’t, which hurts).  So you can already guess that Ebisu ladies are not to be bullshitted, which means your nail art technique better be perf-ect.  Which means M needs someone (me!) to be her practice person during her seemingly never-ending training at new salon.

So, yes, I am in the enviable position of receiving mandated gel manicures on the regular to help my friend be the best. nailist. ever.  Being her practice puppy means I don’t get to choose how my digits are decorated but no matter because M makes them look amazing.  Take the most difficult princess of manicures- the French.  Omg, bitch is so damn demanding because you cannot hide any imperfection (think nail tip length, perfectly smooth nailbeds, 100% symmetric everything) and there is no tinted basecoat here, just meticulously sculpted clear gel.

And the training whip is cracked harder than any dom I’ve seen in action.  Wow.  My last visit resulted in a solid bright coral (summertime punch!) and poor M got seriously reemed.
Nail Dom: Hmm…the base is a little thick.
M: I applied it in…なになに* technique #47…
ND: I suggest technique #39 because なになに more perfect なになに..
M: I see…yes, will try that next time.
ND: Her middle→pinky looks good.  Just work on the index and thumb.  And your filing. You’re shaping too close to the edge.
M: nodding, taking mental notes.

Poor M.  Nail Dom is so matter-of-fact that I wonder if my nails’ inherent imperfections are to blame for the harsh critique because M has passed all five levels of Hades-esque nail exams.  She’s got mad skills but this is just how standards are maintained in Tokyo.

Harsh, right?

Which is why Japan is kicking America’s ass.
Next up: Korea.

*なになに (na-ni-na-ni)=blah blah

Standard
trans talk

Happy last birthday

My Mexico mistakeas a guy.

I surprised BF with a Tulum trip and we soaked up salty blue, delicious, windy, underwater caving, blazing, pyramid-gazing, path-climbing, crazyhappy, rocky, starry beautiful, challenging, mind-expanding experiences.

Also, driving in Mexico is fun.
Until you get pulled over by state border patrol police sporting AK-47s (intimidating) and Raybans (hot).

Why the hell are we getting pulled over?
In unison:
Him: You probably shouldn’t say anything.
Me: I’m not talking.

We are promptly ejected from the car and BF and hot Mexican terminator #1 are Spanishing…permiso de conducir…mas español…traficante de drogas…still hablaing…placa de matrícula…yo no comprendo.

I’m sitting on the side of the road, looking at the other border patrols sitting under a flap of canvas-like material supported by four thin, metal poles.  They’ve got a red cooler and I think I see Gatorade but it could be a mirage, wishful thinking because it’s sweltering.  The heat is beating me cranky but then my eye catches a flat-top concrete building that’s the same color as the dirt I’m sitting in and I feel anxious as I picture holding cells in there, holding people for what reason and how long I don’t know.  Then I start thinking about having to spend the night there and that’s no good so I force myself to look away.  So I switch to staring at their guns.  I can’t help it.  I’m terrified and fascinated.

And this doesn’t feel real.

Him: Do you have the rental car agreement?
Me: I don’t know.  I check my purse.  Nope.  Can I check the glove compartment?
Him: Spanishes my question.
AK-47 man #5 opens the door for me and I look in the compartment…nada.
Me: It’s not there.  Crap, where is it?  Did you check your bag?
Him: No, I know it’s not in there but I’ll check.  Do you have any idea where it is?  Basically, that’s my license.  My American one means shit here.  Since he doesn’t live in America, how’s he to know it’s not fake?
Me: Right.  That makes total sense and I’m forcing my brain to speedfire retrace our steps…beachwalkingcetlibanksmarg- oh crap.  I know where it is.
Him: And?
Me: In our room, in the safe deposit box, too many fucking miles away to matter, basically.
Him: Why- but he stops, knowing that it’s useless. 

BF updates AK-47 #1 about the definitive lack of legitimizing paperwork.

Him: He wants my passport.
Me: Do you even have it?  No fucking way.  You will never see that shit again.
Him: Yeah, I’m not going to give it, duh.  We need to call the rental car company and see if they’ll vouch for us.  Because right now they have every right to think we’re smuggling drugs.
Me: ???!!!!
Him: The latest cartel trick is switching rental plates and right now we have nothing that verifies who we are.  So we’re not guilty but we’re not innocent.

Thank god their number is saved in the phone; I dial and hand it over to BF.

|             /¯¯\   |\      |   /¯¯\        /\      |¯¯   |¯¯    \        /\        /   /\       |   ¯¯¯|¯¯¯
|            |      |  ||  \    |  |            /    \    |__   |__      \      / \      /   /  \      |         |
|            |      |  ||    \  |  |    __   /—–\        |      |        \   /   \   /   /—-\     |         |
|_____  \__ /   |      \|   \__/|   /         \  __|   __|         \/      \/   /        \    |        |

While I’m sleepyangrytiredhungryscaredasfuck, BF and #1 are passing the phone so many times it might as well be a hacky sack.

And then:
Him: The guy totally remembered us and everything checked out so now they want to search everything.
Me: Okay.  I have never been so happy at the prospect of a thorough search because this means we’re making progress.  A little relief sets in.  WAIT.  DO we have drugs in the car?  I’m superrapido thinking, going over last night especially hard.  

Because drugs are really easy to come by in Mexico, especially if your BF speaks near-fluent Spanish.  And you pick up a Mexican hitchhiker who tells you from which house to buy the shit after offering to smoke you up at his house.

HUGE Thank. Fucking. God.
The guys even wish BF a feliz cumpleaños.  Actually, they’re like, heh heh…cumpleaños because they think it’s hilarious that we were held up for multiple hours in the Mexican desert on his birthday.

They’re right, it is hilarious.  Because we’re driving away, screaming joyous freedom and elation after sweating bullets for some hours.  He, experience junkie that he is, loves everything that just happened.  But more than that, seeing him so deliriously happy and free makes my little heart burst.  These moments of pure abandon are rare in his life as he debates and thinks, thinks really hard these days about who (s)he wants to be.

So what just happened was priceless in the best possible way.

Happy (last) birthday, sweet.

Standard
relationshipping

She expected me to leave

She expected me to leave

but instead I stayed.

If she hadn’t come out to me, I would’ve left.
Strange?
Not so much if you know the why.

7 months of dating, cohabitating and…
we’re still getting to know each other but a little something is missing…nothing I can articulate or am losing sleep over but there’s a faint yellow light blipping on my radar.

10 happy coupled months have passed but something’s up.  It’s like we were rambling through this curious and enchanting forest, noticing randomly fascinating, new and endearingly odd things about each other and then- bam.  I hit an unexpected beige wall.

Why the boring, all of a sudden?  I know there’s way more to him than what he’s presenting these days.  It’s as though his brain is on auto-pilot and a certain spark is missing.  It’s a vague-ish subject to broach but I try…
Me: Um, are you not bored these days?  Because I am.  And frustrated.
Him: I wish I had time to be bored.  He does have a crazybusy schedule.  Maybe he’s just over his lack of him-time?
Me: It doesn’t feel like we’re in a weird, stagnant place?
Him: Well, we are because we both want to move.  Okay, I didn’t mean it so literally.  And you’re not making enough art.  If you made more art, you’d be happier.
Hmm…if this is his way of deflecting, it’s working.  But he’s being sincere and he speaks the truth so…I put the focus on myself and draw some damn unicorns with exploding goiters.

15 months, we’ve decided Tokyo is our destination city and we’ve got 11 months to get our shit together.
As I ponder an us, looking towards the future, this bit happens:
Him: When I can completely share everything with you, then I’ll know I can really commit to you.
Me: Oh.  Ouch.  We’re about to move 7,000+ miles away and maybe at some arbitrary point you’ll know you can commit?  We don’t even have the same definition of commit, do we?  Oh fuckfuckfuck.  

And now I feel like a fool.
I trust him enough to trust him with everything; at the same time, there’s nothing more I can do/be for him to trust me.

So I start to retreat; clearly I had mistaken the us in the future.

At 18 months he comes out to me.
Thank. Fucking. God.
This is everything?
Now maybe we can try to have a relationship.

Standard
about Japan

Tokyo train etiquette

Tokyo train etiquette

is fucked up.

It’s like this:

  1. NO talking on cellphones*
  2. Position your backpack to your front so you’re not unwittingly whacking people with it.  Place briefcases & cumbersome bags on the racks above the seats (if you can reach them)
  3. NO eating
  4. NO drinking
  5. No loud convos
  6. Guys should put their hands where we can see ’em°
  7. Don’t cross your legsª
  8. Give up your seat to: old people, pregnant women, hurt folks
  9.  WAIT in an orderly line, just wait until everyone has gotten off before getting on
  10. Tetris your position so you’re not rudely pushing past people when it’s your stop.  Even if it’s sofuckingcrowded you didn’t know it was possible for ten people to push into you at once, bruising your ribs in the process¹
  11. TURN OFF your damn cellphone
  12. God forbid you touch someone♥

* So I’m running late but I’m on a train which makes me debate: do I suffer the wrath of my boss (for not calling and giving a heads-up) or the multiple death stares of the general public?  I choose the former.  Thrice.  I get that this is probably just plain dumb on my part but people on trains are scary, silent bullies.  I’d rather my boss think me deeply imperfect and unprofessional because open hostility just isn’t my bag I’m mental like that. 

° Otherwise you could be accused of feeling up some cute Japanese girl and she will embarrass the fuck out of you.  Also, silencing the shutter sound is not an option on ALL cellphones sold in Japan.  Because men like to take panty shots on trains.

ª Built-like-a-bouncer Tokyoite told me: “It makes me VERY angry.  I might trip over your feet.”  Yikes, just talking about it makes this dude pop forehead veins and see red.  When I say, “Oops.  I’ve totally done this,” it makes his eyes bulge something scary at me.  

¹ Good luck keeping your hands in the air, guys.  

♥ I horrified the crap out of a 40-50 year-old businessman when I accidentally slammed into him during a particularly jerky ride.  I apologized but his unflinching face told me I sure as hell wasn’t forgiven.

Tokyo paradox #78:
No eating or drinking on trains but retching and pissing happens on the regular.
I’ve stepped over it and sat in it.

P.S. If you’re a foreigner most infractions are forgiven.

Standard
relationshipping, trans talk

She doesn’t hear me

She doesn't hear me anymore

because she’s got her own issues.

Which I understand because I get consumed by hormonally induced insecurities but I swear, these days I’m listening to my former mirror and it’s jarring, understandable and kinda hilarious.

2011:
Me: I can’t fit into my jeans.  Any of them.  I’ve gained like 10 pounds since yesterday.
Him: That’s impossible.  You did not gain 10 pounds.
Me: It feels like it and I still can’t fit into anything.  I’m crazy bloated.
Him: No, just crazy.
Me: I look pregnant.
Him: Well, you’re not.  You’re beautiful and aren’t you going to be late for work?
Me: I can’t find anything that fits!  And I’m always late, which means I’ll be on time.  I have to maintain the routine; otherwise it’ll confuse the work folks.  Besides I can’t wear this.  This would be a housecleaning outfit that I bet BF has already taken a secret blackmail picture of: yellow and orange striped knee-high socks, green leopard print underwear, some bizarre hand-me-down thermal crop top and weird mid-calf boots.  I do this.  Cleaning is way more fun when I play some deranged version of dress up.
Him: Huge eye-roll, big smirk.  Dammit, he did take a photo…so fucking opportunistic.

And now:
Me: Arrrghhh!!!  I’m going to be so fucking late.  Crapshitfuck!!!  I hate this part of living in Tokyo.  I’m always late because I’m not early.  Since when is being on time late?!
Her: Do you see THIS?!!, pointing to her head.
Me: Huh?  What are you talking about?
Her: Seriously?  You don’t see it?
Me: Uh no…do you have something in your hair?  Check the weather.
Her: Unbelievable.  My hair was perfect and now it’s totally wrecked.
Me: What?  It looks fine to me.  I don’t get it.  Crap, where’s the umbrella?
Her: This is sticking straight out, pointing at the same spot on her head.  I look ridiculous.  I can’t believe you were going to let me leave the house like that.
Me: Is she pointing to a curl?!  I thought it looked all natural and purposely kinda messy.  Really, I have no idea what she’s talking about; I don’t see it.  Why don’t you pin it?  Snacks!  Pack snacks.
Her: Because that would look even more ridiculous.
Me: Okaaay…ponytail?  Ready!  Gotta run.
Her: Totally unimpressed eye-roll and…sliding tatami room door.

I believe I have been (r)ejected from this conversation.
Great, are we both PMS-ing?

Standard
random love

Happy freedom day, America

gay freedom

from Tokyo.

Funnily and unexpectedly enough, this holiday has struck a deep chord within me.  Perhaps it took moving to a foreign country, one in which I’m a citizen, to make me think damn hard and comparatively about American things like:

change, weed, immigration, conflict, acceptance, hate, cops, motherfucking Hollywood, documentaries, fast food, abuse, Vegas, the fucking judicial system, abortion, beer, AA, puppies, capitalism, goddamn public transportation,
Planned Parenthood, traffic, swimming pools, guns, NYC, libraries,
the homeless, privilege,  infomercials, love, Prince, reality TV, the death penalty,
fucking musicals, Apple, vegans, fly fishing,  NAACP, the public, goddamn Texas, telemarketing, Sesame Street, equality, drag queens, fucking healthcare.

I could go on.  And on.

But really, it’s just this:
Love you, America.

Oh fuck, have I just become patriotic?
I’m aight with that.

Love y’all, Happy 4th, Peace.

Standard
about Japan

Japanese guys have no tact

Japanese guys have no tact

so please gimme beer float to deal.

Because sometimes I just want alcohol.  And ice cream.  Together.  At home.
Which makes me an alcoholic in Japan.
Not kidding.

Ok, this is fucked up.
Me: I can’t believe people in Japan don’t drink at home.  Seriously?!
FB (friend-boy): Yeah…no, they don’t.  It’s very rare.  Do you?
Me: Sure.
FB: Alone?
Me: Sometimes.
FB: Are you an alcoholic?
Me: Frealz?! Okay, he’s being serious.  No, I’m not an alcoholic.  Enter speedy, defensive thoughts on the immediate: sometimes I really like a beer when I get home.  Or a whiskey.  Especially after working and running around this crazy city for 8, 10, 14 hours straight and having felt sweat rivulets streaming down my back since my first train at 8am.  Wait, why do I feel I have to qualify my drinking?  Fuck that, FB.  
FB: Hmm…

Or…
Dude: Did you get your hair done?
Me: Yep. Wow, dude actually noticed; perhaps I’m not giving him enough credit.
Dude: Did you add new color to cover up your greys?
Me: Nope, giving him exactly the credit he deserves.  I don’t have any grey…yet.  I debate telling him that his line of questioning isn’t going to win any cute Japanese girl hearts.  But then again he’s like 12 22 so…perhaps better for him to learn this on his own.  Growing pains, dude.

And most recently,
Him: Did you answer the intercom just now?
Me: Um…yes.
Him: Wow, your Japanese is very pretty.
Me: I am incredulous, in disbelief.  Really?
Him: Yeah, it’s really strange but not strange like the way most other foreigners speak it.
Me: Mm-hmm.  So probably he doesn’t know what pretty means?  I am so confused by his unsolicited critique on my language skills that I’m sure it shows on my face, furrowed brows and all.
Him: No, I mean it’s very cute.  And strange.

Can I have that beer whiskey float now?

Standard
relationshipping

Was I a fake lesbian?

Was I a fake lesbian

Sure, according to an ex.

Many years ago she told me I was most likely a straight girl because our relationship was my only lesbian experience.  I was vaguely insulted by this because by that time we had been together for years and really, you’re telling me that I, in essence, am not a ‘real’ lesbian because if we were to break up I’d most certainly date a guy?

So much for living in the moment and seven years of historical evidence.
But I proved her right because I sure as hell ended up with a guy (at least at first).

When GF (then BF) and I started dating we had some queer talk:
Me: You know, when I was with ***, my hetero history was a strike against me.
Him: What do you mean?
Me: Because to her, since I’d only been with men boys up to that point, I wasn’t really gay.  Especially since she’d only ever dated women.
Him: If it was important to me to label you gay or straight, I’d prefer that you’d been with men and women.  Because you would know for sure if you were gay after those experiences.

And this might be when I started to fall for him.  I appreciate his rationale because it’s so darn sensible (and it just so happened to nullify my insecurities).  Not to mention dating me requires acceptance of my curious (and curiouser) history, which has shaped and transformed my worldview to the present.

Speaking of, when I saw IO Tillet Wright’s TED video, 50 Shades of Gay, I was immediately intrigued by her question:

“[I] asked people to quantify themselves on a scale of one to 100 percent gay, and I watched so many existential crises unfold in front of me. People didn’t know what to do, because they had never been presented with the option before.”

She brings up an excellent point regarding discrimination: where do you draw the line?  I actually had hetero guilt post lesbian relationship because I felt I had this weird privilege that I wasn’t used to; aside from lesbo-dyke slurs, I’d gotten kicked out of a store, for chrissakes, for holding my girlfriend’s hand.

I’m not 100% gay or straight, which means I’m floating in the grey with a surprisingly large part of the population, which really makes LGBTQ discrimination fucking inane and just plain dumb.

Happy Pride 2013, y’all.
Was I a fake lesbian

Standard