Today, one of my four-year-olds followed me around chanting "BLACK MAN! BLACK MAN! BLACK MAN!" and smacking my ass.
I am a white woman.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
My new favourite student
(male) STUDENT: "I think animal testing is necessary."
GTA: "Even for cosmetics?"
STUDENT: *deadpan* "No, because I don't wear cosmetics."
....
STUDENT: "Cosmetics are necessary for some people, though. Like my wife."
....
GTA: "Name three things that are in your house."
STUDENT: "Any three things?"
GTA: "Yeah."
STUDENT: "Okay. I have three goldfish."
GTA: "Even for cosmetics?"
STUDENT: *deadpan* "No, because I don't wear cosmetics."
....
STUDENT: "Cosmetics are necessary for some people, though. Like my wife."
....
GTA: "Name three things that are in your house."
STUDENT: "Any three things?"
GTA: "Yeah."
STUDENT: "Okay. I have three goldfish."
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Why I Hate Japan Right Now
Okay, so here's what happened:
I've been looking for an apartment since the end of March. Instead of going through Sakura House (not a good company to deal with) or any of the usual foreigner channels, I took my friend up on his offer to introduce me to his real estate agent, a formidable and wonderful woman who I will refer to as "Ikuko".
Ikuko, my friend "Steve", and I pounded the pavement for a day, and I found a beautiful apartment in Shin-Okubo, which is the Korean part of town. It was within walking distance from Shinjuku and two stops away from my friends in Takadanobaba. In short, perfect.
In the twenty hours between then and my return to the office the next day, the apartment had been rented. Ikuko did some sleuthing and found another unit in the same building- not as good of a view, on a lower floor, and slightly less unique than the original apartment, but still quite good. I decided to snatch it up.
Three days later, Ikukp called me: the owners were "uncomfortable" renting to foreigners. May I reiterate that this place is in the KOREAN part of town?
The search started again. I must have walked all over Tokyo. I even went looking two days before my kidney infection put me in the hospital for a week. I found a new place in Ogikubo: not as great as the one in Shin-Okubo, but still pretty good. Great location. Tatami mats. An affordable 2DK. Nearly everything I wanted.
Ikukp called me two days after I told her I'd take the place: oh, now they need a Japanese emergency contact, instead of Steve (who speaks perfect Japanese). And not just any Japanese emergency contact- a coworker.
Okay.
So, I had one Japanese coworker I felt I knew well enough to ask for this- my friend "Yuka". I asked her and received a fawning affirmative reply within minutes. All right, set to go! Right? Right???
Weird things started happening. Ikuko would call me, looking for Yuka, or call me into the office to talk about how hard it was to reach Yuka. Meanwhile, my moving date got pushed up by several weeks due to my hospitalization. The whole time, Yuka assured me that everything was fine, even though Ikuko kept telling me that Yuka refused to take any calls and had called HER yelling. Apparently, she was offended that she was asked to give my guarantor company such violently personal information such as the name of her hometown and the phone number of our work's head office. I know, I know, it's like being raped, huh?
Yet, we pressed on. I left for Abu Dhabi, assured that everything would be okay. Ikuko hadn't mentioned anything about Yuka in a few days, and we'd gone over all the necessary documents with no mention of hitches, so while I wasn't exactly feeling confident, I was comforted that things might happen properly.
Oh, and I should mention that I canceled my guesthouse contract and set up my moveout date during this time.
I got back into Tokyo and the next day, Ikuko called with great news: she had convinced the management company to accept Steve as my emergency contact, instead of ephemeral Yua. She did say that she had left Yuka's name on the official paperwork just in case she did come through, as Yuka'd be a more conventional and acceptable contact, being Japanese. Okay, I said.
Last Saturday, less than 24 hours before I was to sign the contract and move in, Ikuko called. The housing company had dropped me and refused the contract.
It seems that Yuka had sent them a multiple-page fax detailing her fees for translation and English teaching services, threatening noncompliance if they weren't paid. I'm not entirely sure what she expected to accomplish with that, nor what in hell she could have meant by doing so, but the management company was so offended and so freaked out that they refused to deal with me if it meant dealing with her.
Ikuko left for vacation the next day, and she won't be back until the seventeenth. I lose my right to live in my guesthouse a week after that.
So now, I don't know what to do. The timing is such that I'm fucked for Tokyo City Apartments and Tokyo Rent, since I work twice as much as usual this week.
I am out of time, I don't feel well enough yet to be dealing with any of this, and I'm fucking tired.
Racism is a beautiful thing.
Note: I have not seen the offending faxed materials, nor have I witnessed any of the alleged yelling. I do not claim that either detail is one-sided; I am merely reporting the facts as I know them.
I've been looking for an apartment since the end of March. Instead of going through Sakura House (not a good company to deal with) or any of the usual foreigner channels, I took my friend up on his offer to introduce me to his real estate agent, a formidable and wonderful woman who I will refer to as "Ikuko".
Ikuko, my friend "Steve", and I pounded the pavement for a day, and I found a beautiful apartment in Shin-Okubo, which is the Korean part of town. It was within walking distance from Shinjuku and two stops away from my friends in Takadanobaba. In short, perfect.
In the twenty hours between then and my return to the office the next day, the apartment had been rented. Ikuko did some sleuthing and found another unit in the same building- not as good of a view, on a lower floor, and slightly less unique than the original apartment, but still quite good. I decided to snatch it up.
Three days later, Ikukp called me: the owners were "uncomfortable" renting to foreigners. May I reiterate that this place is in the KOREAN part of town?
The search started again. I must have walked all over Tokyo. I even went looking two days before my kidney infection put me in the hospital for a week. I found a new place in Ogikubo: not as great as the one in Shin-Okubo, but still pretty good. Great location. Tatami mats. An affordable 2DK. Nearly everything I wanted.
Ikukp called me two days after I told her I'd take the place: oh, now they need a Japanese emergency contact, instead of Steve (who speaks perfect Japanese). And not just any Japanese emergency contact- a coworker.
Okay.
So, I had one Japanese coworker I felt I knew well enough to ask for this- my friend "Yuka". I asked her and received a fawning affirmative reply within minutes. All right, set to go! Right? Right???
Weird things started happening. Ikuko would call me, looking for Yuka, or call me into the office to talk about how hard it was to reach Yuka. Meanwhile, my moving date got pushed up by several weeks due to my hospitalization. The whole time, Yuka assured me that everything was fine, even though Ikuko kept telling me that Yuka refused to take any calls and had called HER yelling. Apparently, she was offended that she was asked to give my guarantor company such violently personal information such as the name of her hometown and the phone number of our work's head office. I know, I know, it's like being raped, huh?
Yet, we pressed on. I left for Abu Dhabi, assured that everything would be okay. Ikuko hadn't mentioned anything about Yuka in a few days, and we'd gone over all the necessary documents with no mention of hitches, so while I wasn't exactly feeling confident, I was comforted that things might happen properly.
Oh, and I should mention that I canceled my guesthouse contract and set up my moveout date during this time.
I got back into Tokyo and the next day, Ikuko called with great news: she had convinced the management company to accept Steve as my emergency contact, instead of ephemeral Yua. She did say that she had left Yuka's name on the official paperwork just in case she did come through, as Yuka'd be a more conventional and acceptable contact, being Japanese. Okay, I said.
Last Saturday, less than 24 hours before I was to sign the contract and move in, Ikuko called. The housing company had dropped me and refused the contract.
It seems that Yuka had sent them a multiple-page fax detailing her fees for translation and English teaching services, threatening noncompliance if they weren't paid. I'm not entirely sure what she expected to accomplish with that, nor what in hell she could have meant by doing so, but the management company was so offended and so freaked out that they refused to deal with me if it meant dealing with her.
Ikuko left for vacation the next day, and she won't be back until the seventeenth. I lose my right to live in my guesthouse a week after that.
So now, I don't know what to do. The timing is such that I'm fucked for Tokyo City Apartments and Tokyo Rent, since I work twice as much as usual this week.
I am out of time, I don't feel well enough yet to be dealing with any of this, and I'm fucking tired.
Racism is a beautiful thing.
Note: I have not seen the offending faxed materials, nor have I witnessed any of the alleged yelling. I do not claim that either detail is one-sided; I am merely reporting the facts as I know them.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Today sucks
My favourite school director is switching schools. That is not fun. Not at all.
Men in this country are scary ungood- and those are the foreigners.
I'm flying to Abu Dhabi tomorrow and oh, my goodness, I am so happy to be going there. Expect more updates if Blogspot isn't blocked in the UAE.
Men in this country are scary ungood- and those are the foreigners.
I'm flying to Abu Dhabi tomorrow and oh, my goodness, I am so happy to be going there. Expect more updates if Blogspot isn't blocked in the UAE.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Japanese Hospital Extravangaza! Part One: Showa Hospital is fucking horrible,
I. Am. Sick.
I first realized that I was sick on Friday. No, not last Friday- the one before that. While at work, I started having weird lower back and stomach pain. It wasn't horrible- I've had worse menstrual cramps- so I shrugged it off and went on with my day.
By the time I got back to my home station, I was feeling pretty rank. Woozily, I picked up some food and beer. Of note at this point was that I hadn't had any appetite for about five days.
My friend Adam and I were hanging out and drinking the beer, and while I wasn't in great shape, I'd felt worse. Strangely, though, I wasn't all that interested in my beer.
Somewhere around 1 AM, Adam went to the bathroom, and I laid down. Suddenly, it seemed very, very significant, this dull ache. I started breathing hard. What the fuck was going on? Was this the world's most painful unreleased fart? Appendicitis? The Birth of Our New Lord and Savior?
Adam took one look at me and gave me his patented Disapproving Dad™ look. "You need to go to the hospital."
"No way."
"Yes, you do."
"FUCK IT."
He waited ten seconds.
"Oh, god, can you just google 'appendicitis' for me?"
Adam called the hospital instead. A true gentleman, he came with me in the ambulance. Yes, he brought his beer.
With Adam acting as my faithful translator, we managed to have the following conversation with the ambulance guy:
ADAM: [Japanese] She's having pain in her lower back...
AMBULANCE GUY: So it's a stomachache?
ADAM: [English] Do you have a stomachache?
GTA: No, not really, I think it's in my kidneys.
ADAM: [Japanese] She thinks it's her kidneys.
AMBULANCE GUY: Ah! So a headache, then...
ADAM: [English] Do you have a headache?
ANNA: Are you on fucking crack?
ADAM: [Japanese] She doesn't have a headache, it's her lower back. Where her kidneys are.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
After about twenty minutes of discussion, the driver and the Ambulance Guy brokered some kind of deal, and we FINALLY left for the hospital. When I asked if maybe I could lie on my side instead of my back, I was apologized to and told it was not possible. I lay on my poor, throbbing back the entire trip to the hospital, trying not to cry and clutching my ancient stuffed rabbit, which Adam had thoughtfully thrown in my purse on our way out. He had his own comfort animal: the rest of his beer.
Upon arrival, I was rolled into a room and the same round of questions began again. Stomachache? No. Headache? No. Pregnant? Decidedly not. Jesus fucking christ. Between Adam and I, using a skillful combination of Japanese, English, whining (mine), interpretive dance, and emphatic pointing, we managed to convince the staff that there was something internally wrong in the lower back region.
Then came the inevitable pounding: "Does this hurt?" No, you're punching my fucking shoulder. "Does this hurt?" That's a scapula, numbnuts. "Does this hurt?" That's my ARMPIT. What fucking madness do you expect to find lurking beneath my armpit? They finally- and literally- hit upon the problem. "Oh," the doc said thoughtfully, "There seems to be something wrong with your kidneys."
UN-GUUUHHHH??!?!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Fuckhead! [GTA note: Sorry, I'm still pissed. You'll see why later.]
They wanted pee, so I went to give them pee. It was then that I noticed that I was peeing blood.
I handed them my bloody pee, finally scared into silence.
Then came the ultrasound, which I desperately tried to watch. The second they realized my interest, however, they pushed a little curtain between me and the screen! Bastards! I am a SCIENTIST, which they probably couldn't tell from my skanky tank top and leopard-print pajama pants. Then again, the nurse took my pulse using a Nightmare Before Christmas watch, so maybe they were just a mean bunch.
After about three hours of poking and prodding, I was finally told that I had kidney stones. Kidney stones that would pass in a day or two. Embarrassed, I started gathering things. Adam tried to ask what might have caused it, but either he didn't understand the answer or the doctor didn't understand the question, because there was a moment of mutual confusion before an older doctor, who had been watching the proceedings with crossed arms and incurable bitchface, rolled his eyes and said dramatically, in perfect English, "It could be ANY NUMBER OF THINGS. Diet. Environment. Activity. It's not really important."
Oh, okay. Thank you for speaking English NOW, cockmonkey.
The cheerful nurse handed me my prescription. "Now, when you take this medicine..." She stopped delicately, blushed, then turned to the computer and consulted it before writing something down on a prescription pad and showing it to Adam.
Adam started laughing.
"What?"
"She's not gonna like this..." he told the nurse.
Oh, god. "What?" I gasped, horrified.
With a nasty grin, Adam showed me what was written on the paper:
SUPPOSITORY
"Oh, hell no. Are they out of their fucking minds? Do they think I'm going to-- Adam, don't you dare translate this!-- ask them if there's anything else!"
A flurry of cheerful opposition hit me. This was stronger, it would work faster, it was better for me, yaddah yaddah. By this point, it was four AM, and I just didn't care anymore. "Fine. What is it?"
"They said it's a painkiller?"
"JUST a painkiller."
He checked. "Yep."
"I'm not taking it. I can get kancho at work for free."
I checked out, Adam asked when I could drink again- two days- and we limped home. Despite my fear of fisting myself, I figured that the nightmare was over, and that in a few days I'd be free and clear, both literally and figuratively.
Little did I know that the ordeal was just beginning...
I first realized that I was sick on Friday. No, not last Friday- the one before that. While at work, I started having weird lower back and stomach pain. It wasn't horrible- I've had worse menstrual cramps- so I shrugged it off and went on with my day.
By the time I got back to my home station, I was feeling pretty rank. Woozily, I picked up some food and beer. Of note at this point was that I hadn't had any appetite for about five days.
My friend Adam and I were hanging out and drinking the beer, and while I wasn't in great shape, I'd felt worse. Strangely, though, I wasn't all that interested in my beer.
Somewhere around 1 AM, Adam went to the bathroom, and I laid down. Suddenly, it seemed very, very significant, this dull ache. I started breathing hard. What the fuck was going on? Was this the world's most painful unreleased fart? Appendicitis? The Birth of Our New Lord and Savior?
Adam took one look at me and gave me his patented Disapproving Dad™ look. "You need to go to the hospital."
"No way."
"Yes, you do."
"FUCK IT."
He waited ten seconds.
"Oh, god, can you just google 'appendicitis' for me?"
Adam called the hospital instead. A true gentleman, he came with me in the ambulance. Yes, he brought his beer.
With Adam acting as my faithful translator, we managed to have the following conversation with the ambulance guy:
ADAM: [Japanese] She's having pain in her lower back...
AMBULANCE GUY: So it's a stomachache?
ADAM: [English] Do you have a stomachache?
GTA: No, not really, I think it's in my kidneys.
ADAM: [Japanese] She thinks it's her kidneys.
AMBULANCE GUY: Ah! So a headache, then...
ADAM: [English] Do you have a headache?
ANNA: Are you on fucking crack?
ADAM: [Japanese] She doesn't have a headache, it's her lower back. Where her kidneys are.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
After about twenty minutes of discussion, the driver and the Ambulance Guy brokered some kind of deal, and we FINALLY left for the hospital. When I asked if maybe I could lie on my side instead of my back, I was apologized to and told it was not possible. I lay on my poor, throbbing back the entire trip to the hospital, trying not to cry and clutching my ancient stuffed rabbit, which Adam had thoughtfully thrown in my purse on our way out. He had his own comfort animal: the rest of his beer.
Upon arrival, I was rolled into a room and the same round of questions began again. Stomachache? No. Headache? No. Pregnant? Decidedly not. Jesus fucking christ. Between Adam and I, using a skillful combination of Japanese, English, whining (mine), interpretive dance, and emphatic pointing, we managed to convince the staff that there was something internally wrong in the lower back region.
Then came the inevitable pounding: "Does this hurt?" No, you're punching my fucking shoulder. "Does this hurt?" That's a scapula, numbnuts. "Does this hurt?" That's my ARMPIT. What fucking madness do you expect to find lurking beneath my armpit? They finally- and literally- hit upon the problem. "Oh," the doc said thoughtfully, "There seems to be something wrong with your kidneys."
UN-GUUUHHHH??!?!? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Fuckhead! [GTA note: Sorry, I'm still pissed. You'll see why later.]
They wanted pee, so I went to give them pee. It was then that I noticed that I was peeing blood.
I handed them my bloody pee, finally scared into silence.
Then came the ultrasound, which I desperately tried to watch. The second they realized my interest, however, they pushed a little curtain between me and the screen! Bastards! I am a SCIENTIST, which they probably couldn't tell from my skanky tank top and leopard-print pajama pants. Then again, the nurse took my pulse using a Nightmare Before Christmas watch, so maybe they were just a mean bunch.
After about three hours of poking and prodding, I was finally told that I had kidney stones. Kidney stones that would pass in a day or two. Embarrassed, I started gathering things. Adam tried to ask what might have caused it, but either he didn't understand the answer or the doctor didn't understand the question, because there was a moment of mutual confusion before an older doctor, who had been watching the proceedings with crossed arms and incurable bitchface, rolled his eyes and said dramatically, in perfect English, "It could be ANY NUMBER OF THINGS. Diet. Environment. Activity. It's not really important."
Oh, okay. Thank you for speaking English NOW, cockmonkey.
The cheerful nurse handed me my prescription. "Now, when you take this medicine..." She stopped delicately, blushed, then turned to the computer and consulted it before writing something down on a prescription pad and showing it to Adam.
Adam started laughing.
"What?"
"She's not gonna like this..." he told the nurse.
Oh, god. "What?" I gasped, horrified.
With a nasty grin, Adam showed me what was written on the paper:
SUPPOSITORY
"Oh, hell no. Are they out of their fucking minds? Do they think I'm going to-- Adam, don't you dare translate this!-- ask them if there's anything else!"
A flurry of cheerful opposition hit me. This was stronger, it would work faster, it was better for me, yaddah yaddah. By this point, it was four AM, and I just didn't care anymore. "Fine. What is it?"
"They said it's a painkiller?"
"JUST a painkiller."
He checked. "Yep."
"I'm not taking it. I can get kancho at work for free."
I checked out, Adam asked when I could drink again- two days- and we limped home. Despite my fear of fisting myself, I figured that the nightmare was over, and that in a few days I'd be free and clear, both literally and figuratively.
Little did I know that the ordeal was just beginning...
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Students Are Always a Good Time
"I like to see the rape blossom. Do you understand, or are you scared now?"
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