Reduced

My mom would call it 'a long time coming', but after 5 years abroad and 6 trips to the States within that time, I've finally come over and cleaned the garage of all of my 'stuff'.

For years, and as the bane of my mother's existence, the garagefull of my belongings have taken precious space as dusty collection of verylarge tubs. Boxes full of children's books and teaching materials, Beanie Babies (come on, admit you went through that stage too!?), and old yearbooks, as well as baby clothes and pictures compile the majority of the me that once was.

So, this past weekend, after a four-hour process of opening each tub, gasping in surprise, taking laughing trips down memory lanes, and culling huge piles for our upcoming garage sale, I can say (to Mom's utter joy) that my garagefull of stuff has been visibly reduced to two large tubs and a handful of small buckets.

That, combined with a mere 1.5 m3 (imagine about 10 large duffels) of my personal belongings on their way to Munich, as well as the two suitcases I have with me for the summer make up everything that I own. This does include my clothing (imagine three of those duffels for this) and shoes too (imagine one large duffel of it's own for those) and combined, you could pretty much fit it all comfortably into the the bed of a medium-sized Ford truck.

(Dear future suitors: It's not to say that I don't come with a lot of baggage, it's just that it's not the physical kind...)

Reflections (part 2)

This past week, students in grade 2 were asked to, again, honestly reflect on their own growth/learning/ability within each of the 10 'Learner Profiles' (see previous post: December: Reflections). Like in December, these self-reflective scores will be used on the upcoming end-of-year report cards.

As it was then, it's my pleasure to now share them with you, hoping you'll find them as enjoyable as I always do. So, listed below are reflections that caught my eye, made me smile, or just reminded me how much I enjoy the language of 8-year olds...

Risk-Taker
"I'm not much of a risk taker because I don't really try things that smell bad because I just can't stand it..."
"I think I'm a 2 because whenever I'm on a project I make a mistake and I whan to do it again but know I noticed that nothing's perfect."

Communicator
"I talk a looooooot at home. I don't know why I talk nonstop. I talk in the car, shower (sing), and even in bed! Sometimes I talk too much to my parents that they tell me to stop talking."
"Sometimes when I want to communicate I do. When I don't want to communicate, I don't. It also depends on the topic of what people are talking about."
"I picked score 3 because I don't speak a lot in conversation and sharing time. I have many thinking in my mind but it is in Japanese and I don't know how to descrive the words into English. I would like to be a communicator/"

Open-Minded
"I'm kind of, but mostly I only listen to myself. Only sometimes I listen to others"

Thinker
"When I'm [usually] at school when I herd a word before. And at class Miss F said do you know what this word means and what word she says it just popps right up into my mind."

Balanced
"On sunny mornings I have a good breakfast, I brush my teeth and my hair, and when I get to school, I run around the playground."

Principled
"I think I give 3 because sometimes I mess around when nobody is watching and sometimes I bother my brother when my mom is not watching. Also, in [another student's] sleepover when we were sopousted to sleep we played video games."

Caring
"I picked score 3 because at school I am caring but when I go home I fight with my brother. I think it is not my fault because my brother starts the fight."

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Lastly is my favorite (possibly of all time?), which was good enough to not only make this positing, but in it's original form:

Reflective

Mein neue Haus

It's been decided, and it's official, that after all of this time, I've finally chosen a place to live in my new hometown.

For those of you who are in the loop, you'll know that making this decision has been difficult, as for the last month, I have had two choices of amazing places. The first, a small apartment just on the outer edge of the main city boasts cheap-as-chips rent, amazing skylights, a lot of vintage character, and a five-flight stair climb up and down each day (maybe only I'm the only one who would find value in that athletic benefit, actually!?). The second would be right in the heart of town, boasting two roommates from my new school, close proximity to anything and everything I could possibly want to see/do, and reasonable rent as well.

Would you laugh to know that I actually had been secretly hoping that one would fall through if only so I could not have to decide between the two!?

Although neither fell through, I am glad (and relieved) to say that after a month of going back and forth and back, I finally made the choice on the solo place on the edge of town for reasons too numerous to list. A few, though: my new apartment has a good feel to it, comes with a charitable current tenant who is undoubtedly the most helpful person I've met so far in Munich, and promises to have real fix-up potential (huge grin).

I tell all of you this, though, most importantly so you understand one of the larger reason I chose it - my living room comes with a beautiful and generous three-seated couch that folds out into a sofa bed, perfect for all visitors who come through.

In that respect, please sign your name up for a spot on it sometime in the next two years. That is, if you don't mind stairs...

Memoir: Learning to Read. (Again).

I will never forget the humbling experience of moving to a country that lacked a Roman language. The addition of ‘characters’ in three different forms to my visual vernacular was a challenge I will never forget, nor that I ever took lightly.

Composing text from symbols is a classic art form that I admire and respect. The precision required to create a Kanji character, in a certain stroke order, making thousands of picture symbols using the same basic lines – wow. The background and history of this language dates back thousands of years, and is well documented (as the best of linguistic historians will tell you).

More pertinent (yet annoying) to myself, though, were the simple ‘Katakana’ and ‘Hiragana’ symbols, two sets of messes of shapes that I knew I would need to understand in order to have any ease in the country in which I chose to spend a 4-year block of my life.

So I started right away with the easier Hiragana. I bought simple books, complicated books, Kanji books, picture books, acronym books, mnemonic books, roman-letters-accompanying-symbols books; you name it, I had it. A plethora of resources all meant to further my understanding of the complicated Japanese language, all eventually collecting dust in the corner shelves of my study room (er, kitchen). For my first months here, symbols such as: き、ぎ、じ、ず were all Greek to me, and to make it even more complicated, Hiragana words, when read, are only written forms of Japanese words. So, once you've mastered how to read 'とり', you have to then know what a 'tori' is.

More challenging yet, though were the simpler form of the Hiragana symbols, the ‘Katakana’ script, given to gaijin (foreign) words. Symbols such as: キ、ギ、ジ、and ズ were evidently intended to not only make foreign words stand out, but to make my reading life more difficult. I came to refer to the act of synthesizing Katakana as the ‘partner game’; played with one person as the reader, and the other as the one who listens for possible matches in the English language.

Friend 1 (reading label): ブルーベリー. Bu-ru-be-ri.
Friend 2: Bu-ru-be-ri?
Friend 1: Yeah, that’s what it says: ‘Buuu-ruu-beh-ree’.
Friend 2: Hmmm. Bu-ru-be-ri? Buu-ru-be-- oh! Blueberry!?
Friend 1: Oh yeah! Blueberry…

-------

One thing that can be said about this return to illiteracy is that it gives an adult (and especially a teacher) a window back into childhood, and the adoption of one’s mother tongue, in both written, oral, and auditory form. As I imagine it sounded when we were babies, unintelligible at first, words begin to slowly sound familiar, take meaning, and eventually, make sense in longer strains. Similarly as a reader, the more symbols one can learn to read, the more sense the world makes, and the more intrigued you are to practice more. It’s a startling (yet, obvious?) correlation to our youngest readers, who, after learning the dynamics of the English language, take off reading it in obsessive forms. So it was with my reading as well, and still is, as I find myself constantly (and mindlessly) reading ads on trains. Sure, I don’t have any idea what they’re saying, but I can often get the gist.

And for now, I’ll call that a win, because when in Rome…

Updated

I was a late-comer to Facebook. I put it off, time after time, not caring or wanting to be a part of the new trend that it was a few years ago. Then, after my first Asian holiday in Bali, and after meeting so many great young people, I decided to get on the Facebook bandwagon, and have been riding happily along ever since.

There's a strong learning curve to Facebook regarding various facets of social networking, including the number of friends one might want to have, what to post and not to post (and who to block more privately), which applications might or might not be viruses, and how to not be a Facebook stalker.

One of the silliest personal quirks that I have developed as a result of being on Facebook for the last three years, though, is finding myself continually sharing my day, out loud to myself, in the third person - just like I would write in my 'status updates'. Like the events I write in this blog, I guess I often think that the minute-by-minute stuff that happens to me is of some value to others, or will make someone smile, or that someone will even care what I've just done in the last three minutes of my life (and remark with a cute/funny/sad/LOL comment). But, the problem is is that they happen so often that, were I to paste them all down, my status would change too, too many times a day. And frankly, nobody likes an overzealous Facebook updater.

But, just for fun's sake, I decided, for a week, to write down all of the third-person, one-liners that came to me throughout 7 days' worth of day-to-day living.

Now, many of them might not make sense because you've got no context for what I'm talking about. They are commonly inside-jokes, internal dialogue, or silly little lines that are often only funny/sensical to me and have come from part of an exchange I've had with someone (that I later remember and turn into the familiar one-liner) Publicly, those are most commonly the ones I don't post, as I don't see the point of posting something that's only funny/interesting/known to me. Although these would be the ones that would typically hit the imaginary cutting room floor of my mind before ever reaching my profile page, they do make up a good part of the never-ending one-line dialogue in my mind,which is ever so fascinating (to me, of course).

So, below they are posted - a week's worth of random thoughts. In the upcoming weeks and months I could look back through these, smile, and tell the story/time/place/thought train that brought each one about. If you'd ever like to sit down with coffee with me, I'd be happy to spill the more scandalous/interesting of the group of them. Until then, you'll have to try to make heads and tails of it all on your own, and that should be a fun game indeed.

(And of course, in Facebook-style, third-person fashion, you must read each one proceeded by the words: 'Wendy Foreman...')

... still gets goosebumps whenever she watches 'The Sound of Music'.
... wonders if his hands will be big enough?
... has changed her game plan.
... is striped from head to toe.
... "If you're loved by someone you're never rejected..."
... hates jerks.
... (is back in black.)
... is following Buddhist principle: "Smile as abuse is hurled your way and this too shall pass."
... is secretly urging the cherry blossoms to come, and quick!
... spricht sie Deutsch.
... thinks Elton John is a lyrical genius.
... wonders if she should be worried that her new contract for Germany has a large section for 'termination of contract' legalities on the first and second pages.
... now enjoys HCFS guilt-free.
... has a new obsession with pink grapefruits.
... wishes she could dance like Michael Jackson.
... hates jerks.
... thinks Bernie Taupin is a lyrical genius.
... hates waiting. Hates, hates, hates.
... is working on her patience bone.
... wonders if she should write a last will and testament?
... still loves Sixlets (only not up her nose).
... is feeling wiser every day. (No, seriously, I am!)
... actually gets a lunch hour today (whoopee!).
... praying for a snow day (but isn't holding her breath).
... thinks the simple act of unsubscribing to junk mail is so cleansing.
... still gets goosebumps whenever she watches 'The Shawshank Redemption'.

*actual posts

Memoir: The Chef

When it comes to food that’s amazing, it is all, of course, in the mouth of the critic. For those who read the title thinking, ‘The Chef?’ and have come looking for stories of gourmet cuisine (the likes of which you’d find in a magazine), please read no further. Chicken Florentine and crème brulee are hardly the stuff of my childhood memories. But for those who remember the particular way even the most basic of food tastes when served from the kitchen of someone you love, this post is for you.

For me, though, this post is for my grandpa.

A farmer for life and a butcher by trade, my grandpa grew up understanding and cutting meat as naturally as one can. So valuable were his services, in fact, that when drafted into the Korean War, he was spared from active duty due to the fact that, as a meat-cutter, he couldn’t be replaced. My grandfather literally missed serving on the front lines in order to serve the front lines, and without this exception, it would be possible to assume that I, nor my extended family, might not be here to tell the stories of such times.

My grandfather’s past as a butcher held no importance to me in my youth though. Instead, it was what ended up on the table in front of me as a child that I hold on to most dearly in my mind. Good, old-fashioned and simple farm meals of fried chicken and sweet corn, pot roasts with boiled potatoes, beef stews, and, beginning in my teenage years, homemade bread from the bread maker, are what I remember most. On one too many occasions, my auntie and I would both be caught with our spoons (or hands) in the pots of this or that, or in the just-opened bread maker. To this day, if only to be obstinate, still insist on first dibs of any freshly baked slices.

The crowning achievement of my grandfather’s culinary prowess, though, was his homemade ice cream, for which he found local fame (if not within the small community town in which he lived, most definitely within the family). Often duplicated but never replicated, the smooth creamy perfectness of his fresh ice cream on a warm summer night was the perfect compliment to a fully belly of rich foods. A promised ending to any meal, it was also offered as a ‘bedtime treat’ for all guests at the Bed and Breakfast my grandparents ran out on the farm. Of course, once the guests were served, free reign on seconds for the rest of us was always assumed.

It can be seen as interesting how the foods of our youth can shape our adult palates, and although I don’t think anyone will can make a perfect 7-layer jell-o salads or amazingly juicy meatloaf as well has he did, it is those meals that I continue to play with as favourites in my mind. Although my diet today is as far of a resemblance to farm-styled fare as you could possibly get, those meals continue to be the foods that bring back a small slice of childhood to me when I think about them. It is likely that among the healthier fare I choose in these days, the recipes I loved as a child will likely be passed on as favourites to my children someday as well. It'll be my own secret way of ensuring that the memory of my grandpa (and his homemade ice cream) will never die.

Memoir: Hands

Hands.

My great grandmother’s hands and feet are some of the wrinkliest things I have ever seen.

Suffering from arthritis, she has knuckles the shape and size of large marbles, fingers that crook in all directions, and toes that bend in instead of lay straight. Although it looks painful, Grandma (in her usually steadfast (stubborn?) way) assures that they are no problem, and true to her resolve, her hands and feet move just as they should.

I am ashamed to say that I don’t know much about her childhood or upbringing, nor that of my great grandpa – I often feel that stories like those are lost on these generations. Although it was not too long before I was born, I am not sure exactly when or how Great Grandpa died, but I can say that he was handsome, and looks much like my grandpa and great uncle. A charming grin, and a strong chin passed down through generations (including, regretfully, mine), he was remembered as a hard-working man. In his generation, they all were, but maybe few with a great-grandma as strong and proud as mine.

When I was younger, too young to appreciate or remember, Grandpa used to take me out to the farm where he grew up, raised as one of four children to parents who valued a good day’s work. Being a bored child many generations removed, though, I’d quickly run out to the woods to run across the logs that would transverse small, cold cricks. Other days I’d gather gnawed corncobs, left empty by hungry birds and squirrels.

My grandpa once remarked that his mother’s hands were one of the things he remembered most fondly from his childhood. To him, they were the hands of an angel, rubbing Vapo-rub onto his chest during one of his many childhood fevers. Those same hands have held generations of babies, made countless orange Jell-o salads, and have played thousands and thousands of games of Yahtzee with anyone who dare to challenge her.

I visit her as often as I can during the summers, usually between games of golf with Grandpa, or on a quiet summer afternoon. Sitting down to eat or throw the dice around, I marvel to have made it another time to be able to sit and do so. Because I know she won’t be around much longer, I always take care to lovingly notice those hands, and snap a picture into the deepest folds of my memory. Through the crooked, wrinkled, and spotted skin, I see years of life having been lived, and as we enjoy each other’s company, I often quietly think that I would like to live a life as long and fine as she so that my hands, too, will have touched as many as hers.

Memoirs

This post was brought to you today by the letters J and C.

J (for Jayden) and C (for Cheryl) indirectly planted seeds for what is to be a new set of posts for me. But first, a brief explanation.

You see, I was recently explaining to Cheryl, my former secretary at Waukee Elementary, that I hadn't been blogging lately. 'It's just,' I told her, 'that nothing in Japan seems interesting to me anymore. My blogs, truthfully, come from the unexpected, odd, funny, and random, and truthfully, my life here is no longer any of those.'

On an unrelated note, I've been reading Beverly Cleary's memoir, 'A Girl From Yamhill' with one of my cherubs, Jayden, for the last few weeks. As our work together usually includes working on writing, I asked him to produce brief vignettes, much as Mrs. Cleary does, about his own life. Of course, it wouldn't be genuine if I didn't offer to do the same work myself, and so, a new style of writing for me, the personal memoir, was unexpectedly expected.

Being quite happy to be writing again, I felt to share the new works with you as well, if for nothing than to share my pieces, or write things that my family will (hopefully) enjoy reading. Of course, I do love to flaunt my way with words, and of course I wouldn't want to let my (small but supportive) audience down!

My first vignette was based from Mrs. Cleary's chapter called, 'Earliest Memories'. I asked Jayden to write his earliest memory (getting lost at Disneyland when he was 3), and I chose mine (my mother mowing the lawn). Below, and in subsequent posts, I share my memoirs with you.

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Grass.

The yard was quite small in the house where my mother and I lived, no bigger than the space where a large garage could have sat, and barely enough room for a small girl to play. Mowing the lawn was one of my mother’s favourite things to do, and whenever the weather was just right, that’s where she’d be.

As she walked back and forth, mowing even straight patterns in the grass, I could see her strong pale legs and her tattered lawn clothes, her hair matted to her sweaty forehead. I had seen the underside of a mower before, and knew better than to come too close as she moved. I chose to instead play with the neighbours, or around the rusting junk pile behind the house – an accumulation of once-new treasures that had built up over the years. No matter how far away I would play, though, I could never escape the combination of fresh cut grass mixed with dirty lawn clothes and sweat, the smells of a hard afternoon’s work in the yard.

On the rare occurrence when she’d ask if I wanted to help, I’d nod with trepid anticipation, slightly weary of the roaring blades that would soon be closer to my feet than hers. As I walked in front of her, barely tall enough to reach the bar, I pretended that it was important, the work I was doing, but secretly, I was always glad when the job was done. A big glass of ice water for both of us was always the reward, and although a simple treat, was all the more delicious for the work that went in to earning it.

Sad guy

(well, sad girl)

January's been tough, and as it comes to an end, I'd like to write my first and last post of the month as a recognition (I was going to use the word 'tribute', but thought better of the positive connotation it insinuates) of loss.

This month, two people whom I love, care for, and cherish very dearly have walked abruptly out of my life. One was foreseen, and the other just disappeared without a trace or word of warning. Although experiencing this kind of loss in those two different ways provided me with alternate ways of acceptance, it made neither easier than the other.

I am not going to go into detail about either of these situations, as most who read this post will have already spoken of the details of these two losses with me (at great lengths, even (and if you're reading this (and you know who you are), I am sorry about going on and on and on...)). However, as I was laying in bed last night, thinking of both of them, a familiar poem came to mind. This particular poem, a classic, is a favorite of mine, and reminds me that in times of loss, that we are not alone. It seems through the wisdom of the ages that poets and lovers alike have written of the same feelings:

Poem
by Langston Hughes

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began ---
I loved my friend.

A good, good friend, Patrick, has been a rock of mine for ages. In my times of trouble, like Hughes, he always knows just what to say. The following were words he remarked to me in a Facebook chat more than 2 years ago, which I copied, pasted to my desktop, and refer to often. In this situation, his words again guide my thoughts and actions, and I refer to them often to remind me to take the high road. He famously (well, maybe not famously to you, but to me) quoted:

The point is this: you have no control over what people will do. All you have control over is what kind of person you choose to be while you go through all this. You can honor and acknowledge everything that swirls inside you --- hurt, anticipated loss, exclusion, etc. --- and then look outward and still see every opportunity to be happy...

Thanks to Patrick, I am taking my losses for what they are and wearing my big girl panties about it (the moral high road, as some say). Mostly, though, it's' another (continual) reassessment of life's ups and downs and our reactions to them, and that no matter what, I'm not alone.

Experience is a brutal teacher. But, my god, do you learn.

-C.S. Lewis

.

Reflections

This past week, students in grade 2 were asked to honestly reflect on their own growth/learning/ability within each of the 10 'Learner Profiles' that we talk about and strive towards during our school year. We did this because these self-reflective scores will be the scores imputed on the upcoming report cards in January.

For this, I gave the students a simple sheet with a box for each Learner Profile. The box included a simple sentence describing the Learner Profile, space to give relevant reason for the score they chose for themselves, as well as a place to circle their scores. It's taken about 6 days total, doing one or two reflections a day, to get them finished, and now I'm putting the scores into the school's electronic report card program. When I am marking the score on the actual physical report card, I only record the number grade that each student chose for themselves, not the explanation. The explanations are more for them to prove their thinking and reflect in words.

Of course, I am always amazed at what second graders write. One of the largest joys of my job is the simple spelling mistakes they make ('shit' for 'sheet' or 'penis' for 'pennies', as examples). But, sometimes the written sentences and ways they describe things are a joy as well. In this case, their answers are not only honest, but sometimes as shocking as they are funny.

As always, it's my pleasure to then share them with you, hoping you'll find them as enjoyable as I do. So below, I have listed each learner profile, added the description in italics, and sampled a few of the best reflections for you. To save your sanity, I have correctly spelled and punctuated each child's words, as well as added [brackets] where clarification was needed. Please also enjoy my comments, where applicable, within parentheses...

Communicators
I use my words to share my thinking, and I listen to others when they are speaking.
"I'm a awful speaker - my brain seems to run away. When I'm in trouble I can't communicate and I know I can do better."
"I think I have to work more on communication because at home I am very very very mean to my brother. But after all, I think I am perfect."

Caring
I take care of my friends and the classroom, and I treat others with kindness.
"I scored it 4. Why I think that is because I give stickers to my friends everyday."
"I am so much caring to my BFFs, people I don't play with very often, and people in my family, also people around the world."

Inquirer
I am curious and ask a lot of questions, and look for the answers too.
"I ask lot lot lots of questions. I try to find the answer. I wonder a lot."
"I think I'm good at inquirer because I always ask my mom questions like, 'Where's [brother's name]?' and at least I ask 5 questions a day. Also because I try to look for the answers by my mom says: 'Wait!' (I think because she's tired of answering questions)."

Thinker
I use my brain to think about what I know, and use it to help me understand new information.
"I am sometimes a thinker but not that often. But I do take time thinking about something. Because of that, I have the perfect books in my book box."
"Because I don't use any old information to tell, or think. I don't use my brain to talk about." (Evidently you don't use your brain to finish sentences, either!)
"I'm good at doing this. In [the book] '11 Planets' I thought '11? But aren't there 9?' I thought hard... and I got the answer if you add two dwarfs like Pluto and Eris does 10, and then the asteroid belt. So it is 11."

Risk-Taker
I try new things and am not afraid to make mistakes.
"I can improve better. I try new things but I'm afraid of making mistakes. If I make a simple mistake, my dad will do this: 'Bla Bla Bla', so I think [a score of] 3."

Open-Minded
I listen to the ideas of others and consider their thinking too.
"I listen to others but I forget what they say. I can improve better."
"I suck (huh?) at being open-minded. I always think my ideas are good. I don't listen so well."
"My listening sometimes gets carried away because after Ms. Foreman talks about something it makes me think about something else."
"I think I can improve on Open-Minded because when people say their thinking I don't really listen and I just thinking about my thinking. Also because sometimes I try new things like eating chicken hearts."

Principled
I do the right thing, even when nobody is watching.
"Sometimes I find money on the ground and pick it up, but I need to be reminded to put it back."
"I marked it a 3 because I don't usually behave wrong. This doesn't mean I do wrong not at all."

Balanced
I am healthy and take care of myself in many different ways.
"Sometimes I just eat the rice, but not the meat or chicken. Sometimes I want candy and don't eat any good food."
"I think I can help myself in winter and sometimes when I am wearing three shirts and it is cold outside I think I can win but it's so cold I need to get a big jacket still."
"I am very balanced because I take or do healthy-junk, non-fiction-fiction, run-walk, play-work."
"I marked it 3. I practice stretching everyday, and on every Saturday and Sunday, I go to 'onsen' spa to take a bath. This helps me balanced."
"I think I am balanced sometimes because when my family goes to McDonalds I always get the same burger."

Knowledgeable
I try to learn a lot about myself and the world around me.
"I graded it a 3. I want to know more about the wonder like, why the color in the sky changes from morning through evening to night. I'd like to learn many things."
"Sometimes when it's math time I feel like learning and sometimes I don't feel like learning. That's just the way I am."

Lastly, my two personal favorites from the Learner Profile 'knowledgeable':

"I am knowledgeable because my knowledge gets stronger when Miss Formen teaches me. I am also knowledgeable because I take care of the world around me and Gondy said to be the change in the world..." (bless any second grader who quotes Ghandi!)

"Sometimes I want to know more about the world, but just sometimes I just want to give up."

Restriction

Below, a recent situation I faced, which encouraged me to send an e-mail out to all of the American staff at NIS

-----

My fellow Americans,

Imagine my shock when I showed up to the Japan Post this week to mail a package, only to find that the US has placed an air shipping restriction* on all parcels to the US. My limited language capabilities prevented me from finding out why, for how long the ban will remain, or which other countries might fall under the same restriction (my first thought - 'why Japan?') from doing the same. And, although I argued (whined!), "Buuuuuuut, it's Christmas!?!", the nice ladies behind the counter didn't seem to care.

Long story short, at this time, any packages weighing more than 453 grams are not permitted to be shipped from here to there (whether it's Christmas or not).

Wishing you the most festive of Christmas seasons anyway,
Wendy

*shipping by sea, although costly, is still allowed, although travel time is up to 20 days.

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I found the following online after doing a bit more looking in to the situation (http://search.japantimes.co.jp/cgi-bin/nn20101117a5.html), which helped me understand.

Regardless, now it seems that my idea of just taking everyone out for dinner next summer (in lieu of prezzy buying for all) was a fortuitous one...

When left to their own devices...

A few years ago, I bought some red tinsel with green stars that, year after year, I hang around the Smartboard during the holidays.

Well, today, we had a decorating party, and I was pulling out all of the decorations for the kids to out out (this year, I decided to put them in charge - they had free reign to decorate however they wanted to) and the red tinsel came out with it. I left it on the counter, and about five minutes later, asked Mrs. A to put it up around the Smartboard. But, it was missing!

We (Mrs. A. and I) looked all over for it before realising that Arshiya had taken the liberty of decorating out lone palm tree with it, right along with paper
candy canes made by Ash and Molly, and a couple of small ornaments Mana had brought in! It was just hilarious, because the tinsel was allotted for one thing, but without guidance, the kiddos found a better place for it, and had the whole tree done without us being any the wiser.

Little-known secret

When I was little I used to stick Sixlets up my nose. You know, those little, round, tiny, chocolate candies? Well, Mom used to go out to warm up the car early in the morning, and before she'd leave (and mind you, she'd only be gone for a minute or two), she'd beg me not to - she'd say, 'No Sixlets today, little girl...' Lo and behold, though, when she came back, there would be me sitting there with Sixlets up my nose, and she'd have to pinch them out. That is one of my earliest childhood memories. To this day, I still look at Sixlets with a minuscule longing for the nostalgic feeling of them up my nose...'

Yum Orleans

For this post on my recent trip to New Orleans, my topic will food, and my quest to experience everything southern on my culinary adventure.

When Tera asked me what I wanted to do and see during our weekend in New Orleans, I said, "I have no agenda. No agenda, that is, except to eat. I want Southern, down-home, comfort food that I can't get anywhere else. Fried catfish, collard greens, grits, sweet tea - that's all I want. In fact, the more Southern, and unlikely, the better."

Tera did not disappoint.

Starting on Friday afternoon, we crossed into Mobile, Alabama, and immediately set our hearts on a shack in the sky called Felix's Fish Camp. It was a complete eyesore, but the parking lot was completely full, so we decided that was good enough for us to want to give it a chance. My meal was three demi-cups of soup - on each of turtle, clam, and gumbo. Add six oysters prepared three different ways, and a local dark beer, and I felt like I was off to a good start.

Friday evening's dinner was shared with our friends, locals Eric and Kim, and as we listened to Eric tell us about his life growing up around the area, we dined on lump crab meat stuffed catfish with cajun stuffed potatoes, which had been proceeded by an appetizer of oysters in the half shell and gumbo BBQ whole shrimp, and was accompanied by local dark stout beer. Our post-meal included a table at Pat O'Brien's, one of the most frequented bars on Bourbon street, drinking Hurricanes as big as our lower legs.

On Saturday morning, we started with huge coffees and beignets, which are Nola-Famous, fried pillow pastries with powdered sugar on top. When we arrived at brekky, Eric and Kim had already ordered four sets, allowing us to start out our day by filling ourselves plentifully with fried sugary goodness.

Lunch (on the go) was a bottle of water and one New Orleans praline (famous in the South). It was delicious, yet sinful, and brought my daily caloric intake a bit higher (only, though, to even out all the walking (and sweating) we'd done).

Late afternoon dining at the Royal House was a shared appetizer of fried eggplant sticks, and a half-dozen oysters in the half shell for me. I paired this with a huge, huge pale ale, which not only quenched my thirst, but set me on a good buzz for the rest of the afternoon (not shocking, having only eaten sugar and coffee for the bulk of the morning). Of course, I had a bite or two of Zach's gator po-boy, which was fried and delicious as well, but did not make me any less tipsy.

Dinner Saturday evening started out with some fresh mussels, followed by whole fried soft shell crab (meaning you eat the shell and all!) topped with a creamy sauce of artichoke hearts, both complemented by the darkest beer on tap. Zach and I shared this, and then followed up with a piece of down-South, home-baked sweet potato cheesecake.

Sunday presented us with a double-car breakdown and an unexpected night in Biloxi, MS (of all places) which allowed us to make multiple cups of lemonade out of the lemons we were thrown. Unfortunately, our great culinary adventure for the day included, in it's highlights, Starbucks coffee and Dairy Queen ice cream, which, in dire situations, can actually make a sour situation slightly better.

Regardless, the day ended with my stomach on a bit of a dive, probably less from Sunday's sugar rush than from all the WTF foods I had eaten over the weekend. I don't regret a single bite, though, and am glad for having had the chance to partake in such down-South, home-cooked classics. Even if it did include a caramel latte or two...

Why I buy Apple products

I bought my first MacBook in 2006 before leaving overseas to live in New Zealand. The purchase was an easy decision, and an even easier transition, as I had been using a school-supplied MacBook in my role as a grade 1 teacher at Waukee. I had found the computer easy to work with, quick running, and effortless to carry around, and making the decision to purchase one of my own was only natural.

Along with my MacBook, at that time I also owned a 3rd generation iPod, as well as an iPod nano for working out. The Nano I received free with the purchase of my MacBook, and the 3rd gen was a present from my parents from a previous Christmas.

I bought Apple products because they were new, innovative, well put-together, and durable. But I will continue to buy Apple products because of the superior customer service they provide. My recent trips to the Apple Store this summer only confirmed that, and if, after this story, you're not sold on owning your own, then I'm going to go ahead and call you silly.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Apple's service policy, a quick tutelage: All Apple products are automatically covered under Apple's Protection plan for one year after the date of purchase, and additional AppleCare can be purchased for up to two years afterwards, giving your electronics a fix-it life of three years (which, in this day in age, is a heap of time). When a product is broken, defective, or running funnily, and still under warranty, Apple will gladly fix, replace, or fiddle with it until the problem is fixed. No questions asked, free of charge, and with very, very, very little hassle.

When I bought my first MacBook and got it home, I immediately experienced issues with the camera turning on and off without my doing so. I dropped back into the Apple store, and within hours, had a brand-new-brand-new computer that worked just as it should. Similarly (and more fortunately) only a week after purchasing my (very expensive) Japanese iPhone, and consequently after a night out with Rachel that included her spilling more than one drink on me and my new toy, I took my slightly battered phone down to the Nagoya store, pled the 5th, and, within an hour, had a brand-new, perfectly working phone, as well as a data transfer to make sure the settings were exactly as I had left them on the original. In both of these situations I paid nary a cent for either replacement, repair, or time spent. The appointment, fix-it, and new products were completely free of charge, and the people (both in Nagoya and Des Moines) who did the work served me knowledgeably, pleasantly, and very, very quickly.

But, like I said, nothing tops the customer service I received just last week. It's the reason I do, and will continue to, support Apple.

When I came home this summer, I quickly spent a small fortune on a new MacBook Air, a light and peppy little piece of work weighing only 3 pounds and perfect for the can't-be-bothered traveler. I had decided to treat myself to a new computer when, a) I couldn't be bothered to carry the 7-pound original through airports anymore, b) the 'h' key had fallen off of it, c) the mouse clicker didn't work either, and d) it was a year off of warranty (plus, I figured four years with one computer was plenty, thank you very much). So, I made an effortless and easy purchase of the Air, and have been in love ever since.

Along with my Air came a 1:1 service plan, which included complete data transfer by a Genius expert. When it came time for said data transfer, I dutifully dropped off both my old Mac and my new, and left them in the hands of a lovely Macboy with the promise that the data would be transferred within 24 hours. It was, and I picked up both computers gladly and thankfully, expressing how constantly impressed I was with Mac's superior customer service.

When I got home, though, I had trouble. I turned on my Air, which was fine, but my old MacBook refused to start. I had planned on letting Nik use it for the rest of the summer, as well as using it as a back up and an additional CD drive, but it wasn't cooperating with starting up, or even pretending that it knew me. A year ago this wouldn't have bothered me, but as the old Mac had been off warranty for a year, I knew that if it was going down, there wouldn't be anything I could do about it that probably wouldn't cost me a few hundred bucks. But, since the computer began having these problems AFTER the data transfer, I figured I had a good leg to stand on when I took it back in.

R, my Mac pro the next day at the Genius Bar, assessed the situation before looking at me sadly and said, 'Your hard drive has gone.' I replied, 'But, it was working fine when I brought it in the other day,' to which he replied, 'Yes, but sometimes these things happen.' Trying not to look too sad and forlorn at him, I instead looked longingly at my old friend and began lamenting it's untimely death when R replied, 'Well, luckily, I think I can replace the hard drive for you quite easily.' I quickly looked up, big-eyed, and truthfully (because Karma counts) replied, "But, I'm not under warranty on it any more." He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Eh, no big deal." I was ecstatic, and he began the quick replacement of the hard drive. After 5 minutes, he handed me back my computer, new hard drive in tact, and asked me to wait a moment to fill out some paper work. Then, we hit roadblock number 2. R noticed the broken hard drive he had just taken out of my computer (and was getting ready to send in to Apple for defective product inventory) was not actually a Mac hard drive (a co-worker in Japan had replaced it for me earlier this year in lieu of a generic brand with more storage space). R looked at me and said, "This isn't an Apple hard drive, and I actually can't replace it for you," meaning that he would have to re-remove the new hard drive he had just put in, and replace it with my dead one. But, after giving it a moment's notice, he instead replied, "Well, I'll pretend I didn't notice.' Nice!

He gives me instructions on how to take it home and reinstall everything from an external hard drive that I owned, which I promptly did. I had no issues whatsoever, except that Itunes, although recognizing my entire music library, would not open for lack of proper updates. Just to be safe, I made a third appointment with Apple the next day, and again, walked it in. R gave me a big smile, welcomed me back, and asked what was up. I showed him the iTunes error box, and he said, "We simply need to run an update. No worries. Come back in a half-hour, and it will be done." Earlier that day, my 'h' key had fallen completely off, and before handing it off, I warned him to be cautious of it. He looked at me and stated, "Why don't we just replace the top case for you? It'll fix the 'h' and the mouse, all at once." I quickly looked up, big-eyed, and truthfully (because Karma counts) replied, "But, I'm not under warranty on it any more." He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Eh, no big deal." So he sent the computer to the back for updates and a new top case.

When I came back three hours later to pick it up, he had replaced the battery as well

New MacBook Air: $2000
Three trips into the Mac store: 4 hours of time
Having half of your old computer replaced with no hesitations, hassles, questions, or worries: priceless.

So, why do I buy Apple products? Because if customer service counts as currency, they are worth every single cent.

26 hours

of travel.

This time, coming home, 26 hours is what it took.

Instead of my usual two flights, I was routed on four, which made for a long and somewhat over-stimulating day. So, what does an overzealous girl like me do? Type it all out on my Iphone. Because hey, do you have a better idea of how I can occupy my time? As you know, I could (and sometimes do) write novels about all the things I do, or the random bits from inside my head, and so became the case for this trip, as had plenty of hours to pen (or thumb-type, in my case) the highlights of each bit of my long and weary travel day.

Now, I'm not gonna lie, but when I typed it all out (flight by flight and layover by layover), I did have a particular audience in mind. But after spending so much time getting it all out and edited, I decided to reedit and redistribute to a second audience - all of you. Because that's what this blog is all about - the random and irrelevant ways in which my life is sometimes funny and always interesting. Even if by 'interesting' I mean within the realms of qualifying Julia Roberts as a competent spokesperson for Lancome makeup (see 'Layover 1' below).

So, please, if you will, sit and enjoy Wendy's random (and sometimes funny?) take on the plight of the twice (thrice?) yearly trans-Pacific traveler.

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For starters, it's worth noting the things I never travel without (alongside the myriad of regular things in my handbag): Dramamine, ear plugs, a buckwheat pillow, two books, a hooded sweatshirt, extra hand sanitizer and Tide sticks, multiple cell phones (consequently, multiple wall chargers too), and multiple sets of keys to multiple international houses (the latter two on the list contribute to the Bond-girl in me!). Also along with me on this past travel day were a few sentimental items, including some recent snapshots, a personally-planned schedule of events for the prior week's holiday, and an expired USMC golden base pass.

Flight 1 (Nagoya to Tokyo):
Hella short (45 minutes) and fast. It was empty-as, so much so that, immediately upon take-off, I upped the armrests, tucked the seatbelts in, opened all three blankets, and went horizontal in my empty row. I was enjoying a half-nap when the plane hit the fan, and we did two barrel rolls through turbulence. The small child three seats behind me went into hysterics, and not to be outdone, the smaller child two rows ahead joined. Naptime: over. Then, because the turbulence evidently wasn't enough for all of us to think the wings were gonna break off, the plane took a sudden and sharp, funny-feeling shot upwards a few minutes later. Startled, I opened my shade, wondering, 'Are we landing already??' to instead see a JAL plane shoot out just below us. I'm going to go ahead and call its range: a) within 500 meters of us, and b) judging by the sharp upward swing, was as unexpected by the pilots avoiding it as it was to me seeing it. I have never, ever, ever seen two airborne planes so close, and I'm pretty confident that they're not supposed to be. Not gonna lie, though, that since I didn't die, I thought it was pretty bad-ass. To top it all off, the pilots were American, crazy-as, and I swear to God, as we descended into Tokyo, were flying twice as fast as the legal limit (obviously making them my kind of pilots).
Bonus: finding half a bag of cocoa dusted almonds at the bottom of my purse, much to my relief, as I was starving.

Layover 1 (Tokyo's Narita Airport):
It only took 10 minutes from disembarkation before a business-class gaijin (foreigner) asserted his American-entitlement and (much to my horror) tried to whine/complain/argue his way through security without a ticket. I made a heightened effort of passing through veeeery quietly, and smiled extra politely, in hopes of placating the universe and making it up on his behalf.
The Tokyo airport is pretty fab. I did a little window shopping at Hermes (yummy!) and Bvlgari (yummy!) before stepping into a duty-free shop to spritz myself with a light mist of my favorite Chanel (yummy!). I also checked out some new makeup at the Lancome counter, and quietly reckoned that those Lancome guys should have picked me as their next spokesmodel instead of Julia Roberts, because although her beauty is beyond compare, she's a bit of a, well, obvious choice. Then I had a spot of lunch, though I won't say where, and gleefully (luckily) spotted and snatched up a box of adzuki caramels for dessert.

(Pre-) Flight 2:
Getting on was a mission - per it being the July 4th weekend, every passenger (on this double-decker, Pacific-crossing, air-Titanic (which means a lot of people)) was strip-searched on the way in. They patted me down (not unpleasant, really) and scoured my handbag, finding nothing of consequence in either place. As a result of the search, the flight took off a good hour after its scheduled departure time, but since I wasn't in a hurry to be anywhere fast (and because I was getting ready to travel through time anyway), I wasn't fussed. Plus, it gave me more time to randomly type it all out. Now comes my secret admission - I love plane food. The saltier and more artificial, the better. Flying makes me slightly queasy, very tired, and ravenously hungry. The menu was satisfactory (Sliced beef with oyster sauce? Danish pastries* for brekky? Don't mind if I do!), so I was quite happy about that. My immediate neighbor was an older Asian lady whose bag I helped put up in the bin, and whom I spoke to in Japanese. I only wondered at her lack of response for a moment, for when she sat down, she pulled out a copy of the Bible, in Korean, and vigorously signed the cross, up-down-left-right, over and over again. During the meal service, I gave her an accidental, but sharp elbow blow to the shoulder. I apologized profusely in as many languages as I know how (none of them being Korean), to which she put her hand on my shoulder and slowly said, 'No English, but, very beautiful.' then she pointed at me and gave me a thumbs up (which is a universal language for good things!). Luckily, I know how to say 'thank you' in Korean, and after I blushed 4 shades of pink, I smiled and did just that. In the end, I slept the entire way, which is something I don't think I've ever done on a trans-Pacific flight. I woke up an hour before landing at around 8am LA time, and was pleasantly satisfied with my body's sleep cycle. Gave myself a little shout out even - for starting this holiday off on the right sleep pattern**.
*Actually, I drew the line at the Danish Pastry. I may be on holiday, but I still have standards...

Layover 2 (LAX):
After a long walk, the entire plane aggregates at Customs, and the complaints start. 'Never flying this airline again,' or, 'They call this customer service?' They say this as if they've forgotten in the last 6 minutes that they've just come off a huge machine that magically flew them halfway across the world to the great land that is America, are happily fed, coffeed, and entertained, and that Delta, bless them, has anything to do with delays at Customs. Me = smiling, hopefully appeasing the universe and appealing to the better nature of this room of unhappy people...
I stopped again for a spot of lunch, though I won't say where.

Flight 3 (Los Angeles to Memphis):
I board next to a nice young kid sitting alone. He's into a book, and, as a reading teacher, I find myself inclined to ask about it. He's not real talkative, though, not past the title at least. So, I continue my book as well. A few minutes later, the flight attendant comes over, looks at him, and says, 'You're one of my UMs, right?' The boy nods, and is promptly whisked away to first class. Having received proper acronym training just last week, I quickly worked out that UM means 'unaccompanied minor,' and that this kid, along with two other U13 UM (under-13 UM) girls have just unintentionally worked themselves into first class, and consequently, all the free beer they can drink (luckies!). This leaves an empty seat between me and my neighbor, who is the only guy on board wearing a turban. Of course, I'd like to make up a story in my head about this guy, but I don't have to try hard, because based on the way his unending hair is tied in his turban, as well as the silver bracelet on his wrist, I'm thinking that he's a Sikh, which means that he's also packing a knife somewhere on his person. Not gonna lie - that's kinda cool. I'm pretty sure he doesn't speak English, and wonder if he's a bit frightened (as being 'that guy' in a turban on U.S. flights probably doesn't come with its share of warm fuzzies). I smiled at him a couple of times and pretended that it helps. I considered asking to see his knife, or his comb, but instead decided otherwise.

Layover 3 (Memphis):
Memphis. Bless. As you know if you're a traveler, each new airport is like a box of chocolates, and you never know what you'll get. Will they have a Starbucks? A Cinnabon? Free wi-fi? Well, Memphis had all three, and although I enjoyed, plentifully, the former and the latter, I (sadly) skipped Cinnabon altogether, remembering it might not fare well in conjunction with my cholesterol test Monday morning. Bonus points: Starbucks sells hummus, and I can read all of the ingredients in it. Double bonus (in two words or less): low-fat frappucino (150 calories in a Grande? I'll even go one better and settle for a Tall!).

Flight 4 (Memphis to Des Moines):
Our flight attendant is bubbly-as, and hilarious to boot. She keeps (with an 's,' meaning multiple times) referring to our craft as 'The Little Plane With A Big Heart,' and has just introduced herself as both, 'Trudy, the bag in charge of the bags,' and 'Grambo.' We are all laughing out loud. The flight is short, easy, and my hummus-filled belly is happy. Plus, Grambo dancing the bev cart down the aisle while singing, 'Watch your fingers and your toes, here I come,' to the tune of, 'If you're happy and you know it,' is enough to make anyone smile. Lo and behold, an hour in, the earth, from 10,000 feet, began to flatten out, cul-de-sac suburbs popped up, and Des Moines' one, lone, tall building came into view. With the exception of Aukland, New Zealand, I have the uncanny affinity for living in the most boring cities on the planet.

And there it is. 26 hours, 7744 frequent flier miles, and a lot of typing later, I arrived safely. I immediately whisked myself off to a local brewery for some catch-up beers with a dear friend, and eventually made my way home to Nik's comfy spare room. It was a very long, but incredibly stress-free, non-problematic day.

Sigh. It's good to be home.

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** Good sleep patterns my a**, as I type this to you at four a.m. Monday morning...

Dear Miss F.,

If any of you know me as a teacher, you'll know that literacy and the teaching of reading are my passion. When I arrived at NIS three years ago, Paul, my principal, asked me to help pilot the direction of school's reading program, which was to transition from basal readers and lacklustre lessons to proficient reading strategies and reading workshops. All the rest, as they say, is history.

So, it will come as no surprise that one of my favorite lessons of the year (well, ok, they're all my favorite lessons!) is the last one. Each year during this lesson I read my favorite book aloud (this year it was Sylvester and the Magic Pebble), give them nearly an hour of free reading and reflection time, and then ask them to write me a letter about what reading means to them.

This year, as always, I got some really great responses, which I'd like to post. I'm doing this not only because they're well-written, thoughtful (and sometimes funny) but because it's always fun to pick out the best bits of what kiddos say to share with others.

One of my favorite little kiddos is German, and for the life of him, can only spell phonetically. His papers are always a joy to read for that value alone. Although this particular sample of his doesn't include any laugh out loud spelling errors, I do smile at 'noligible' (knowledgeable), 'sianse' (science), 'trie' (try), and 'aut' (out):


The next one comes from one of my little guys who pretends to be 'too cool for school,' but who, deep down, is one of the strongest learners in the class. He's been my 'project' this year, if you will, as it has been my mission to encourage him and push him without his knowing. I think I might have done an ok job...


This little pumpkin makes me laugh with her fabulously colorful voice:


And this guy, another cool learner who can't follow directions for the life of him, but has more spirit and coolness than most:


It's no doubt that the above examples come from kiddos whom, throughout the year, bless me with their knowledge. This year has been a year of incredible thinkers, and I have really enjoyed some of the amazing understandings these kids have shared. But the following two students could easily run this class for me (and on a couple of occasions, did). They're the kind of girls whom you want to raise yourself and take credit for.

The first, from a little pumpkin who holds a special place in my heart as one of the best kiddos I've ever had the pleasure to teach. Her mother says she was born with a smile on her face, and I don't doubt it for a second, but along being kind and warm, she is incredibly bright, mature, and of the well-rounded grounded type. Here is just a snippet of her letter to me:


Lastly, from another kiddo whom I've grown to love. She came to us half-year, and I couldn't have been luckier to have her:


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I sit at my computer and share this with you on the last day of second grade. My shirt says, 'Love' on it, to reflect my mood for the day. The sun has decided to peek out, and it is silent in all areas of the school except for the clicking of my keys and Israel Kamawababe's Somewhere Over the Rainbow playing softly from my speakers. I am satsified for another fruitful year, and agree with him that it is, indeed, a wonderful world.

A quick pick-me-up

Whenever I'm feeling like I need a reminder of why I do what I do (and not that I do that very much, because I really adore the details of my job), I look to the kiddos. Often times they say (or spell) the funniest things, and other times, they're just so sweet.

The following example is from a little cherub, a fourth-grader, who left our school just last week. Before leaving, she wrote the following in the Elementary Newsletter:


It's worth noting that this wasn't even one of my students two years ago when she was in second grade - she was in the other Grade 2 class that year. Maybe that makes her words a bit more sweet to me, and makes me smile, reminding me of the smallest ways we can often touch others without even realizing it...

A total paradigm shift

Now, (to me) it's no shocker (although it still might be to all of you!) that more than one of my recent posts have been about food. It's kinda my new thing. (Well, ok, that's a half-truth, because there are many new things in my life right now worth telling about, although not within this particular blog). So, as I sit in my kitchen tonight smelling my first-ever batch of homemade granola, sipping on a green smoothie and just having finishing some seaweed for dinner, I'm having a mental giggle at just how far my diet, and my cooking, has evolved.

I work with and live around people with some pretty unique diets, and have friends who are incredibly self-conscious about what they eat. At school alone, we have 3-4 coeliacs (can't eat glutenous foods), a few people who are lactose-intolerant, and lots of granola-munching veggie lovers. With exception of Ricco and Mike, who eat out every night, and Michele, who eats cheese and crackers for dinner, the rest of us get along pretty well with our diets. And, per my past post, the contents of my fridge lately have definitely reflected the way I have come to think differently about the food that goes into my body.

Although I have a healthy tolerance for both glutenous and dairy foods, they are two food groups that I try to avoid as much as possible. Last year, during my lactose-free kick, I dropped 5 pounds and 26 cholesterol points, which was enough proof that consuming a lot of dairy isn't necessarily the best for me. Dropping gluten like it's hot was an easy choice to make as well - who needs all that bread and cookies and cereal and cake anyway? To be honest, without the temptation of any of them, I cut out an awful lot of crap from my pantry (and my diet) that I would have normally eaten.

One of the top favorite things of each of my weekends are trips to all of the local greengrocers. It's plural because, although I'd like to tell you that one store is enough, it is commonly known that one certain store sells celery cheap as chips while another store doesn't even sell it at all. And there are other places that, if you're willing to sell your own soul to the devil, you can occasionally find fresh blueberries. SO, when I'm done, 4 stores and ¥10,000 later, I've got a colorful fridge full of amazing things. And no, by amazing, I don't mean string cheese and chocolate milk...

Other visible modifications in my dietary thinking:

*I received a box of Lucky Charms for my birthday this year (thanks, Mom!). Because I'm sitting back on my consumption of glutenous foods, that box of cereal has been sitting in the back of my closet, until this weekend when I did a massive clean of my stuff and donated it to Leila (who accepted with a huge smile on her face!).

*I now bake granola instead of cookies. When I do bake cookies, I use gluten-free flours. Then I give all of the cookies away.

*My new favorite snacks include small packages of wet seaweed, cottage cheese with prune dressing, or homemade whipped spinach hummus.

*Instead of two bowls of cereal for breakfast in the mornings, I drink green smoothies, which are not only delicious, but satisfy my New Year's resolution to 'eat more veggies this year than last, even if I have to drink them'. Raw greens blended in a 40/60 ratio with fresh fruit and water, and your colon is as clean as, well... let's just say they're delicious too.

*Sometimes if I'm particularly craving something salty for brekky, I'll grab an onigiri (triangle-shaped, seaweed-wrapped sushi) from the corner store. This is a real change from two years ago when I'd go traveling, find that the breakfast place we'd stop at served fish/rice/miso soup, and did not, in fact, serve bacon and eggs like I wanted (followed by me crying in frustration).

*Texts to friends whom I normally rely on for cooking/shopping help have changed from, 'Do you have a cup of sugar I can borrow?' to 'Do you know where I can buy pumpkin seeds?'

*During last week's trip to Okinawa I spent a mere $60 combined at the Commissary. My purchases included steel-cut oats, Grape Nuts, flax seed, wheat germ, rice cakes, and almonds of assorted flavors. This very much differs from my usual trips to American-stocked stores and my usual purchases of Twizzlers, Golden Grahams, and 100-Calorie Snack Packs.

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To be completely honest, not only is this new change good for my body, but I believe good for my mind as well. It's almost as satisfying emotionally to not crave those Twizzlers in the fridge (thanks, AB!) as it feels to physically not have eaten them. So, part of all of this is mental, but it's a mentality that I think I could get used to. The more healthily I eat, the more healthily I want to eat. Recently, someone who inspires me with his own personal brand of amazingly-insanely-inspiring fitness quirked, "The more I learned about food, the easier my craziness got. As I got more crazy, crazy got easier,' and I could not agree more. For for me, wherein food and healthy eating is concerned lately, the crazier the better.

"Tell me what you eat, I'll tell you who you are."
~Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

Happy eating!

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The contents of my purse

About 18 months ago, I took a holiday to India with two of my closest friends. On the way back, during a stop in the Hong Kong Airport, I rewarded myself for surviving with one of the best purchases I've ever made: my Longchamp purse.

This thing is, no doubt, sturdy as. I have never had a purse hold up so well for so long, whilst having taken such a beating in the process. It is the sturdiest thing I have ever carried, and I hold my life in it on any given day. It's small enough to carry on the day-to-day, and large enough to use as a travel bag, and I use it for both situations readily and often. Of course, though, with a big roomy purse comes the opportunity for a whole heap of collected nonsense in within it's recesses. My life is heavy, and random, and often, unorganized, and my purse is an outstanding parallel.

Therefore, when I reached in this morning to pull out my keys, and instead pulled out a plastic packet of lime juice leftover from a from-last-week bottle of Corona, I just knew it was time for a post about the contents of my purse. So I dumped it out, took a picture, and am ready to share.

Random, but true, here's what was inside today:

* an orange Eco-bag
* my wallet
* 2 ¥500 coins
* 4 large garage sale tags
* my camera case (the camera was inside as well, but i took it out for the picture)
* an onigiri (seaweed-wrapped rice triangle)
* a small bottle of hairspray
* a golf pencil (?)
* another wallet (leftover from the weekend's night out)
* 2 handkerchiefs
* lip balm in a tin
* sunglasses
* an empty sunglasses case
* a make-up bag
* a bobby-pin bag
* a mini-towelette
* my computer
* a tin of tampons
* Iphone
* aspirin
* tissue bag
* my flowered lunch pail
* a tube of lip gloss
* a can of minty Mentos gum
* a pack of strawberry-banana Extra gum
* my apple mouse
* a couple dozen pig-shaped thank you cards
* an orange
* 2 hair ties
* 11 rogue bobby pins
* earphones
* an envelope of tutoring money
* a pencil bag
* 2 Philippine pesos
* a birthday postcard
* cuticle oil
* 2 beginner driver car magnets
* 1 pack of corona lime juice

It was slightly therapeutic, cleaning the bowels of my purse, and putting it away (while trying to remember where and why in the hell a golf pencil fell out) felt good.. Funny, though, I still haven't found my keys...