Last night I went out to dinner with my sister, and afterwards we stopped at Viet Wah, the little market that’s below the restaurant we ate at. They are in full-blown New Year mode, so the shelves are packed with seasonal candy and food.

Sometimes I just pick things up in Asian markets, even if I don’t really know what I’m getting. I wish I could read a hundred languages. Last night I picked up a large bundle wrapped in banana leaves. I gave it a big sniff and it smelled sort of sweet, so I figured it must be some kind of steamed rice cake.

“What’s that?” my sister said.

“I think it’s a big rice cake,” I said. I told her I got a small package like this in Chinatown in Vancouver a couple of years ago, and it was filled with steamed rice. “Feel it, it’s still warm.”

“Hmmm,” my sister said, prodding my bundle.

I called Companion on the way home to tell him I had scored some Pocky, some sesame candy, and something mysterious in a bundle that was probably rice, so he shouldn’t eat any of the sucky ice cream we had in the freezer.

When I came home I broke into it right away. I unwrapped the banana leaves, which was the source of the sweet smell, and found another layer of plastic wrap. Inside the second layer was something kind of…brownish.

“Oh, nuts,” I said. “It’s something savory. Meat.”

“Wow!” Companion said. “It’s PICNIC HAM!” He was seriously excited.

“What the hell is PICNIC HAM!” I said.

“Oh, well, I don’t know if that’s what it is. But I had this in some pho once, and that’s what the menu said: ‘picnic ham.’ It’s like bologna, but I think it’s more real meat.” He sounded uncertain about this last point.

“Aw, I’m sad. I wanted a rice cake fix,” I said.

“Yay! I get to have ham sandwiches tomorrow!” Companion said, bouncing around.

When the Giant Head of John Travolta closes a door made of sweet delicious carbs, he opens a window…made of mysterious steamed meat.

In Other News: It’s Just Like A Podiatrist’s Office…J/K!

It’s actually just like a mini-mall. I DEFY you to get this song out of your head. If you want to click away, at least wait until :45 so you can see the closeup of this guy.

I predict this song will be pouring out of the boomin’ systems of cars this summer. At least my car. Perhaps you would like to wait for the Neptunes’ remix.

Thanks again to the irrepressible Daniel, who has convinced me that being “just like a mini-mall” is a selling point.

So I’m all going to yoga and all, and feeling really good about things, generally. I kicked caffeine while I had the flu so now I’m all Zenned out and some junk and not having big crashes during the day. I also had a cup of yerba mate at my studio the other day when I showed up a little early, and you know, that stuff is absolutely hippie crank. My glue huffing days are over, so I have to take my thrills where I can get them. (Nipple pinching, buttsecks, waiting for Xmas Steve, etc.) AND Whippet came over and gave me a Pilates mat class today, and I am all what the hooey is up with my super exercising self, but then I remember that LO I have JANUARY LIGHT-DEP MANIA. AS USUAL. Fear for my nervous system.

You know, that was absolutely the best part of public school–the shit you could get away with. I could sit in my studio art class and literally huff glue out of a soda can and no one noticed. I had a friend who did acid every day for a month and no one noticed that either. Probably I could have also lit a ceremonial bonfire and picked up a Coke bottle with my chocha and this would have gone on without remark as well. Except for the stoners sitting back in Stoner’s Corner with me, and they would have put some singles in my coconut-shell bra. Later I would discover that it wasn’t actually singles at all, but rolling papers with a smudgy white guy drawn on with pen who looked sort of like George Washington, but sort of like Abe Vigoda.

But I digress.

Anyway, things are well. How are you? Still nursing that nasal spray habit? I thought so, because you will always be that little nasal spray bitch.

But come closer…I will spin plates while I tell you about my pubes. I used this hip-hop-happening new stuff called Betty Beauty, which is specifically for “The Hair Down There, Tee Em.” They ask the intriguing mindbender, “Is Your Betty Ready? Tee Em?” Well played, Betty Beauty, or as I shall call you, Beaucephalis Beauty. You are a grown-up product. You deserve a grown-up name: Beaucephalis.

Also, I get around a fair bit, and I am a nosy Assmitten, and I did not know this Lady Beauter Secret, did you??? I need more anecdotal information in this regard.

So, you take the little kit, which costs twenty bone. Let us keep in mind Thee Cadillac of Drug Store Hair Dye, Feria, costs only ten bone a box. BUT, Beaucephalis assures us, there are ONE to THREE applications in each bottle. Hmm, lottery style, I wondered? But no, the directions assure me, I can get three servings by consorting with my treacherous yet handsome nemesis, Math Matherson.

I did some, like, one-to-two (1:2) mixing jive so I could eke out more servings of product and put the bleach on my poor lady parts, but only on the Safe Zone (tee em, for realla). I did not follow all the rules, and went down to my skin, because who wants pube roots, really? It will be a cold day in Hell before someone refers to my ladyparts by the moniker Tiny Emily Valentine.

I left it on for the recommended half hour for medium blonding. Beaucephalis Beauty recommends another twenty minutes for platinum, but I thought it was light enough. Plus, the bleach hurt like hell and left my skin…matching my hair. WOW! If I want that kind of itching and burning in my crotchoidal region, I’ll hang out at the plasma donation clinic, honestly.

I hopped in the shower and rinsed, dried, and applied the pink dye. The box had me thinking it was going to be crazy eye-blistering pink like the box or like Special Effects Atomic Pink. Instead, it was sort of that sad thing you get when you’re fifteen and you’re totally desperate, and you heard somewhere that Kool-Aid can totally dye your hair, man! So it’s a kind of sad, faded, slumber party pink.

But I do give them props–it does not come off on towels or clothing, as they say. Points there for Team Beaucephalis. Now if only they can marry the brightness of Special Effects with the non-rub-offness…I don’t think it’s possible.

That’s it in a nutshell. I don’t think the hour and the burning sensation is worth it, unless you’re really eager-beaver (hur hur) to cover some greys.

This weekend Companion’s brother and wife, Yukiji, came to visit for two days. She is pregnant with their first baby and is very excited. I was very excited because Yukiji is from Japan, and whenever someone from another country is trapped near me, I ask them questions about their country until their heads blow up. Hearing one person’s impression of another place is one of my favorite things to do. I think she was also pleasantly surprised to hear that I was very interested in Japan, and had taken Japanese art history classes in college.

So we talked about babies and pregnancy and the difference between Japan and the United States. I think she’s doing well, but I worry that she’s going to be isolated once she quits work and they move out to a ‘burb of the larger PNW city they live in now.

I gave her advice on some snappy nursing bras and advised her to get a Boppy. A Boppy brand pillow is horseshoe-shaped. Basically you put it around your waist like you’re part Michelin Man and use that to support your boobranching activities so your back doesn’t get sore. As far as I can tell, this country is in the throes of National Boppy Domination. I know there are other brands out there, but I never see them. And people will often say “Boppy” for “nursing pillow” as others say “Xerox” or “Kleenex” instead of “photocopies” or “tissues.”

Because I am the meddling type, I also bought her some books in Japanese, like one on birth in America for Japanese women, and a few issues of Premo, which I am told is very popular there. After flipping though Premo for a little while, Yukiji showed me a page filled with nursing pillows. There were at least fifteen styles. Mushroom shapes, wedge shapes, round ones, and ones that looked more like commas than horseshoes.

I like these moments. Yukiji was trying to pin down why I am so interested in Japan, and I feel like this page in the maternity magazine nailed it. American culture seems to have an affinity with Japanese culture because of all the ridiculous consumer choices that are available to us–and we want that and sometimes get grumpy if we don’t have choices. I was at the dentist a couple of months ago, and when they offered me so flavors of tooth polish I swear the hygienist had to take a deep breath to rattle off the 12 or so choices. When I was a kid there was mint and bubblegum. You chose bubblegum until you started getting hair on your hoo-hah and then you made the “grown-up” choice.

It was funny to me to see the 4,000 nursing pillows and the little KAWAII!!! illustrations all over Premo. Here we get serious line drawings–there are no sassy in utero babies with talk bubbles here. I think I could live in Japan if I had to.

Today I tied up the last of my work obligations for Franny’s school for October. I am doing computery stuff for them and editing work. I like that I’m doing something with my mad skillz, anyway, even if it’s ten hours a week or so. Companion thinks that if you look at what I’ve been doing in a freelance context, her school is getting a good value for comping us half of Franny’s tuition.

Tomorrow we are leaving for Canada. I was considering blogging my trip, since we have intarwebs where we’re going, but I decided to take some time off and slip through the cracks for the next week. This is one of those times where I feel grateful that I don’t have any income or writing obligations tied up in this hobby.

I am having a good week. I didn’t think being married would be that different, but there seems to be a mood of general contentment around here. Maybe it’s just because the planning stress is over! There will be pictures when I get back! Have a good week.