Passive Pete

I know I'm passive-aggressive. I can accept that about myself. But how passive is too passive?

"Why you not married, yet?" she asks me. "You so handsome." She is the owner and operator of the dry cleaning service. She is an older Korean lady who looks younger than she really is. She reminds me of my mother, except with more make up and a better dye job.

"Oh, no. Marriage is too expensive," I tell her as I pay for my clean shirts. "I just finished college. I have to save up for retirement, now." My excuses sound weak, lame, even as they are coming out of my mouth. They hold for only so long.

"Why you not married, yet?" she keeps pressing, even months later.

Finally, I start to level with her. "You know the other Japanese guy that comes in here, the one whose shirts I pay for sometimes? That's my partner. We are together. He is my marriage."

She seems only mildly surprised. "No, but you should marry woman, have children," she insists. "It not good to be alone."

I remain polite, passive. "But I am not alone. He is like my husband. And it's too expensive to have children. I am in my forties. It's too late to start raising children."

I am not offended. I can take for granted that it's just her culture ingrained into her way of thinking, and that, for her, not getting married is unthinkable. She has grown children of her own. Her Korean daughter has married a white man. I told her that they will have cute mixed babies that look like me.

She continues to ask why I'm not married, each time I come in to drop off or pick up clothes.

Finally, I just switched cleaners. I wonder if she's wondering, "Why you not come here no more?"

Think About

I think about quitting. I think about giving up blogging altogether.
I also think about deleting my facebook account, but I can't bring myself to actually do it. I enjoy the attention too much.

Something has to give. I can't do it all, as much as I would like to.

I think about not exercising at all in order to get more writing done. But my vanity won't let me stop jogging or lifting weights, difficult as it is to get myself to work out, sometimes (thank God for caffeine and creatine monohydrate).

I miss performing. "What if I went back to waiting tables and auditioning?" I ask Domestic Partner.

"No," he says, the Perpetual Voice of Reason. "You need regular income."

He's right. I've got too many bills and not enough years ahead of me to save up for retirement. So, I can't give up the full time working thang, not yet.

But it's something I think about.

How do you make time to write? What have you sacrificed in order to get more writing accomplished?

And has it been worth it?

Bye-bye, Kee-boo

Cleo's been gone for about six months, now. Cleo was the feral kitten that we had rescued off of our roof top almost two years ago. Our dogs have access to the backyard all day, so we couldn't really train Cleo to be an indoor cat. Cleo and the dogs tolerated each other and even slept together sometimes. There wasn't any canine-feline conflict, so that wasn't' the reason he was gone.

One day he just didn't come back home. We knew it was a risk we were taking, having an outdoor, free-ranging cat.

I wasn't as emotionally attached to Cleo as I am to the dogs, so I don't really miss him that much. But I do think of him often, more so for Domestic Partner's sake. He was the one who was attached to Kitty.

Cleo would show up at the same time, every day. After roaming the neighborhood all night, he would sneak into bed with us in the wee hours of the morning. As soon as the coffee maker started dripping at 5:00 am, he would give a single "meow," letting us know that he was ready for his morning meal. Pavlov would have been proud.

"Kee-boo," as I had re-christened him, brought us gifts. One night, what I thought was a dead mouse on the patio turned out to be a temporarily traumatized dwarf hamster. Two days later, Cleo brought us a second rodent to keep the first one company. They are funny pets and they remind me of our lost kitty.

Domestic Partner misses the cat more than I do. He gets home from work first, and he is sad that Cleo is no longer around to greet him on the driveway. "Phantom Kitty" is what he used to call him since Cleo would materialize out of nowhere at the noisy, creaky opening of the garage each evening. And right before his evening meal.

Although Cleo knew it was time to eat when the coffee maker clicked on each morning, he was willing to wait a bit after his initial meow. Domestic Partner's alarm clock goes off five minutes after the coffee machine starts. The few minutes in between used to be Bonding Time for him and Cleo. The cat would sit on his chest and allow himself to be pet and scratched.

"Do you want another cat?" I have asked Domestic Partner, more than once. We have our pick since the feral felines in our neighborhood have a couple litters a year in or near our yard.

"No," he says each time. I know he really would like another one but our dogs have priority. We can't lock them indoors all day while we're at work, so we would be taking the same risk all over again with another cat.

We don't know what happened to Cleo and we're afraid to imagine. It's not like him to not come home. For all of his roaming around the neighborhood, we'd like to think that someone else took him in and trained him to be an indoor cat.

But we doubt it.

Rest in peace, Cleo. For all of your biting and clawing whenever we would play with you, we still miss you. You were a good pet. You made Domestic Partner happy, and that's what I miss about you the most.

I Love Rice Balls!

It's easy to make. It is one of the simplest snacks, and also one of the most satisfying. It is comfort food from the part of my childhood spent in Japan. It is onigiri (oh-KNEE-ghee-ree).

Traditionally, the onigiri rice ball, wrapped in a sheet of nori (seaweed), will have a bit of pickled plum as the surprise in the middle, which wasn't my favorite. I like a little dried bonito fish mixed with soy sauce hidden in the center, myself. Mmm! My favorite though, will always be the tuna-mayonnaise version.

How I miss that part about living and working in Japan (as an adult), being able to get my daily fix of tuna-mayo onigiri at the nearest convenience store, and all for about the cost of a dollar. Back then, anyway, about a decade ago. It's not as if I couldn't make it myself, here in the states. How difficult would it be to combine the four ingredients of rice, seaweed, tuna, and mayo?

But I know it wouldn't be the same as the store bought onigiri. The packaging itself is a space age marvel. Most of us who ate home made onigiri as kids take for granted that the seaweed wrapping, crisp and paper-like at first, soon gets soft and pulpy from the moisture of the rice, especially if it's been sitting in a bento lunch box all morning. But not the convenience store onigiri, which can be found in the refrigerated section.

Much like the McD.L.T hamburger that kept the hot beef patty and the chilled tomato slice separate until right before being consumed, convenience store onigiri comes in a single wrapper that keeps the seaweed separate from the rice until it's opened - with no assembly required. It's an engineering miracle, I tell you! A couple of tugs on the plastic pull tabs, and the modern onigiri comes out of the wrapper fully wrapped in its still-dry jacket of nori. Delicious perfection!

I just miss being in Japan. I think the tuna-mayo onigiri symbolizes that happy time for me. I was doing three or four shows a day for a theme park job, and I always had enough free time to worry about being bored. It was one of the times I was the most carefree. I was able to indulge the hedonist in me, and the satisfying salty-fat combo of the tuna-mayo, rice, and seaweed was one of the primary flavors of that indulgence (along with daily and generous doses of chocolate).

I will go back some day. I don't know when, exactly, but when I do, I will eat tuna-mayo rice balls every day that I am there.

Maybe they sell pre-packaged onigiri in Hawaii?

Why I Make the Bed

BFF Kathy stated in a recent facebook update how lucky she feels to be with her husband, and how that realization hit her like lightning, recently (even though she has been with him for twenty-five years).
I feel the same way about Domestic Partner.

Sometimes friends ask why Domestic Partner and I are together. Other than being Japanese we are nothing alike. He is practical and introverted, and he keeps a clean house. I am impulsive, overly chatty, and naturally untidy. He has amazing landscaping skills for our home's exterior and creative, tasteful design skills for the interior.

I have about two hundred Furbies staring at you from the bookshelves in our home's office. That was my contribution to the home decor.

Domestic Partner wishes I did more house cleaning on a regular basis. I wish he would be more physically affectionate. But he is pretty good about just letting me be who I am, so I have stopped wasting time wanting him to be someone different.

Recently, I went over my financial goals with him. Once my student loans are paid off, I told him, then I can start paying part of the mortgage each month.

"Don't pay the mortgage," he said. "Put your money in a separate retirement fund so we can eventually buy a place in Hawaii for our old age."

Okay! I am on board with that.

I have told Domestic Partner from the beginning that my goal is to spend retirement in Hawaii, at least part of every year. The idea didn't appeal to him when I had first told him, but we hadn't been together for very long at that point. He must have grown into the idea.

I get medical and dental benefits through Domestic Partner's job. I live a comfortable lifestyle because of his income, not mine. The last time we had a fight, I pointed out that I would not have even gone back to college if we weren't together, emphasizing the fact that being with him is good for me.

If I weren't with Domestic Partner, I might still be trying to work on cruise ships and in Japan as long as people were still willing to hire me. My pending future and retirement might be pathetic, even more than it already is, if it weren't for having him in my life.

He is also kind to our two pugs. To me, that is reason enough to stay with a guy and try to work things through with him. His kindness to our pets helps me to see more objectively his kindness to me, and I need to make more effort to reciprocate, even if only in small ways.

Usually, I don't make the bed before I leave for work, even though it only takes about a minute. Recently, though, I have been trying to do so more often, sometimes even on a daily basis.

It's a small enough first step to reinforce the good life that I share with Domestic Partner. Maybe I'll even scrub a toilet tonight.

Love Letter to My 17-year-old Self

(note: the following is not an attempt at neo-self-therapy . . . well, maybe it is. You decide)

Dear 17-year-old Self,

First of all, I love you. You are valuable to me. The memories you're creating at this time in your life will keep you happy for years to come (and they will come in handy for exploitation and fledgling writing material), so enjoy! Remember all the times you go club dancing at Grand Central Station, and at Cloud Nine in Knott's Berry Farm. Cherish your last year as a band geek and as a drama dork. Never mind that you didn't get to try out as a cheerleader.

You know that vague and fuzzy future of yours that you're always worrying about? Don't worry about it. Everything will work out. They will not work out smoothly, but you will always be okay, eventually. Stop stressing about college and what happens after. In a couple of years it won't matter.

Speaking of college, you will eventually realize that you should not believe everything you are told. Winding up at a Cal State University because you have less than a 4.0 GPA is not a bad thing. And going to junior college is not academic suicide.

Pay attention to that desire to dance and sing and act and perform. It's not unrealistic and it's not shameful. It will not happen for you as soon as you like, but you will get to perform, and you will love it more than anything in life.

There is so much I want to try to reassure you about, such as your secret feelings for guys. Don't stress or worry about that, either. It will take over a dozen years before you have peace of mind about that, and it will get a lot harder before it gets easier. But I promise you that it will not always be hard.

Try to remember me, your Future Self, when you can. Reach and grow toward me, in your mind and in your heart. I am here, loving you and waiting for you.

And I'm just the in between stop in my own here-and-now. Trust me when I say that there is an even older version of you yet to come, an older Future Self and also amazing things-yet-to-happen that neither you nor I can even imagine right now - I just know it!

Hang onto hope. Stay optimistic. Never stop dreaming or creating or imagining, even on your worst days. Allow some time now and then to let yourself feel hurt (you'll need it) but don't wallow for too long. Embrace it, try to process it, and move on, because you'll always be able to.

Whenever you're feeling insecure, inferior, or even just a little uncertain, try to remember that your Future Self loves you. Never forget that.

I love you. Always.

The Way You Dance

I love facebook. I love how easily it helps to answer the question "What ever happened to . . . ?" Sometimes I wonder what Brent G. is up to.

Brent is a boy I had met in the 80's while out dancing one night. I had ridden into Hollywood with a few friends to the bar called "Peanuts." It was supposed to be a lesbian bar but it was more of a mixed crowd on the night we went. Brent was there that night, dancing by himself.

I loved his confidence and his style. His all-black outfit included a beret and a pair of gloves. I loved that he had the creativity to dress differently and the courage to dance alone in public. It was as if the Gogo's had written that song for him:

The way you dance, you move in self-romance
And you don't see me watch the way you dance
Your eyes close in a trance, so you don't see me watching

Fortunately, Brent did see me. I can't remember how I started talking to him. I was just happy that I got to dance with this boy I admired. What I do remember is the sweet kisses we shared later. I was 21 then and Brent was a little younger.

Brent and I had kept in touch after meeting that night but it was difficult getting together again. Neither of us had a car. I was getting around Orange County on a Vespa scooter back then. Brent, unbelievably, was riding the city buses to go out at night. I was impressed. He was that dedicated a club kid!

I have searched for Brent on facebook. Typing in his first and last names yields only one result, so I'm pretty sure it's him, even if there is no accompanying photo.

I have not friend requested him. After thinking about it, I decided that Brent is one fond memory I would like to keep as is, including the way he danced.