Nuggets of Gold!

I JUST WISH THERE WAS ONE CLOSER TO THE OFFICE

Listen.

I’m just going to come out and say this: I like Starbucks.

Yeah, I know that’s wildly uncool, especially for a bleeding-heart hippie like me. But it is what it is.

The worst thing about me liking Starbucks? I don’t even like coffee. But that, in part, is why I like Starbucks.

We non-coffee-drinkers like to “grab some coffee,” too, you know. We like to sit in comfy chairs and drink something warm and look out the window. We like to meet friends and bitch about our jobs or our husbands or other friends over a steaming cup of … something. And it just so happens that Starbucks, no matter where you go, has several quite-acceptable non-coffee options. Of course, I’m sure lots of other coffee places have non-coffee options, too. But here’s where I play the “I live in a foreign country” card.

For starters, no matter where you are in the world, Starbucks always has an English menu, and its baristas always speak at least some English. I’m not saying that’s how it should be – I’m just saying that’s how it is. And another thing that just “is” is the simple fact that I can’t speak or read much Japanese. So I can walk into an indie coffee place and enjoy the vibe, but I probably can’t enjoy a nice warm beverage, because I don’t know how to order it. And while miming goes a long way and I’ve become quite an expert at it, I still haven’t found a successful way to mime “vanilla frappucino.”

So, when I’m in the mood for a cup of non-joe joe, I seek out Starbucks. Sue me.

But before you do, please know that I eat at that other American behemoth, McDonald’s, only on extremely rare occasions, like when I’m drunk and want the hangover prevention that only a 4 a.m. double cheeseburger can provide. For that there simply is no substitute.

iLIED

So, remember about a month ago, when I was totally about to get a Mac? Well, it turns out I didn't.

My techie friend Tony gave me a metaphorical head-slap and said all that was wrong with my old Dell was it just needed more memory. I decided to try that first, since $100 for a gig of memory was a little easier to stomach than a $2500 new computer (because yes, I decided that it simply MUST be the MacBook Pro). Sure enough, the new memory did the trick, and now the Dell is humming along happily.

Damn.

CAT'S TONGUE

I just returned from a heavy meal of Indian food, and boy, am I hungry.

This is because Indian food, most of it anyway, makes bad things happen to my mouth and tummy. I have what in Japan is called a cat's tongue -- completely unable to deal with spicy food.

How wussy am I? I can't eat green peppers, that's how wussy. But wait, you say, green peppers aren't hot at all! The reason you say that, my friend, is because you are not me. And you do not have a cat's tongue. They hurt me, the green peppers, and the pain factor increases exponentially when you go upwards from there on the hot scale.

But before you tell me to man up, I'll have you know that I have a condition. I don't rightly know the name of that condition, but I do know that one time in a high-school human biology class we all had to lick little piece of litmus paper, or something like litmus paper, and everyone's turned a color except mine and Susan's -- or maybe everyone's turned a color but ours, dammed if I remember back that far. Anyway, the teacher, who was a very smart lady, asked us if we could eat spicy food, and we both said no. Like, waaaay no. And she nodded knowingly, because she knew things, and said we were "super-tasters." That apparently means that we taste things much more strongly than most folks do, so we're extremely sensitive to things that are spicy or bitter (probably explains why I abhor coffee). Maybe some reader will know what I'm talking about here, and can give a name to my condition, which is DIRE.

Why dire? Because sometimes I like the way spicy things taste, and I wish to eat them, but I can't. Like the tandoori chicken at the Indian place tonight. It was quite yummy, but a half second after I put it on my tongue, my whole mouth caught on fire. Luckily, that didn't last too long as the next thing that happens when I eat spicy food is my mouth goes kind of numb. I mean, I can feel stuff -- mostly pain -- so I guess it's more overload than numb. My poor tongue just can't process anything else, I guess. Even if the next thing I eat is plain old bread, it feels like fire and has the consistency of sand, or so my tongue tells my brain. Not a pleasant experience.

So when I'm dragged out to Indian food or other spicy fare, I don't tend to eat much, because the spicy food hurts me and then even the non-spicy food, like delicious naan, irritates my injured mouth and therefore doesn't go down easy. It's not easy being me, I'm telling you. Because I have a condition.

PEST CONTROL

There are several things that are difficult about living overseas, and most of those difficult things are difficult because of the things you don’t know.

Like bugs.

I grew up in the South, I know from bugs, or at least Southern bugs. Like roaches, flying and otherwise. Stinkbugs. Gnats. Chiggers. Mosquitos, lord do I know. So when, back home, I would find a roach in my house (seldom, thank god), I knew just what to do:

1) Identify roach as flying or non-flying. (Hope for non-flying.)
2) Decide whether to kill or catch/release.
3) Grab shoe, or a cheap plastic bowl/cup if squashing is deemed to crunchy/splatty.
4) Execute kill or catch/release.

But here, in Japan, where I am not from, my slate of bug experience is wiped clean. Not that there aren’t roaches here, because there are. Of course. And mosquitos – mosquitos who think my American blood is the most exotic, fruit-aromaed-with-woodsy-overtones nectar imaginable. But sometimes, I come across something new.

Like this, um, thing, I spotted (damn 20/20 vision!) today on the orchids Geoffrey gave me for Valentine’s Day.

I was watering them, which requires moving them to the kitchen floor so it’s not such a mess when they promptly leak out twice as much water as I’ve just put in. Yes, I realize that’s impossible, but I’m telling you, that’s what happens. Anyway, I was about to move them back to their spot by the window when I saw that thing. Which was tiny, by the way -- maybe an inch long. But still. It must be gotten rid of, no?

And therein arises the question that comes with pretty much any bug encounter in a foreign land: “Well, now, what the fuck should I do here?”

There's no telling what you're dealing with. Does it fly? Does it jump? Does it hiss? If you know what you're up against, you know what to do. It's the not knowing that causes complications. So, you have to use science, sort of, to devise your plan of action.

Being the scientist that I am, I have decided to show you, the reader, my thought process upon encountering an unidentified insect in the form of a quickly jotted flowchart (click to enlarge):

Method 2 is easy, pretty much three steps: Squeal, squish, dispose. Method 1, well, that's the catch-and-release, and everyone has their own tricks for that. Mine, finely tuned thanks to a college dorm room infested with roaches and a roommate terrified of bugs, involves clapping a disposable bowl over the subject and flinging it outside.

So the next time you're in a foreign land (or even in a different part of the U.S. of A.) and you encounter a foreign bug, take a moment to consider your course of action. Because no one likes trying to smash a bug on the wall with a shoe, only to have it jump directly into your husband's closet unexpectedly. Not that that's happened or anything.

POSTSCRIPT: After some time mulling it, I decided this bug was definitely NOT a flier, but possibly a runner, what with all the legs. So I rigged up a plan and several back-up plans, and eventually went with the highly risky "poke-with-stick" method. Luckily, this guy was neither a flier nor a runner -- just a half-drowned centipede-ish fellow. So he eagerly wrapped himself around my poking stick, and I placed him gently on the floor away from my plant. And then I squashed him with my husband's shoe. The end.