JAW Holiday Home Tour

Touring admiral housing during the holiday season is a time-honored Navy spouse tradition. While there are more flag houses to be viewed in Norfolk, today was the first time I've been invited to peek into the bedrooms. Which I forgot to do because I was so busy grazing the buffets at the three houses hosting the Japanese and American Wives Club tour this. The Ancient Mariner is in DC this week so I have to pick up calories wherever I can. Is there anything more boring than cooking for one? (This is not to say I spend much time and energy on cooking for two, or even three for that matter.)

The turnout was excellent, especially on the Japanese side.  The size of American rooms is always cause for exclamation in this hemisphere.

I took this picture so I wouldn't have to be in it

We'll visit the fourth house next Sunday night when the Ancient Mariner's boss hosts the annual holiday soiree for senior military types, dogsitters, and Japanese dignitaries. I'll do my best to get a picture of the dogsitters for you.

Oh, Fudge! Time to Get Productive

Longtime readers might remember the calamitous Christmas of 2009 when the local Commissary failed to stock Hershey's baking cocoa, a main ingredient of the only holiday treat I know how to make.

Fudge fans near and far came to the rescue that holiday season. Cans of cocoa were airlifted across the Pacific and one rather pricy can was plucked from the shelf of a Japanese grocery store. When it came time to shove the Christmas tree back in the closet and stow the fudge supplies on the topmost cupboard shelf, there were ten unopened cans of cocoa remaining. Last year I must have been particularly unproductive because nine dusty cans greeted me when I opened that cupboard this morning.

I checked the expiration dates: January 2012.

Here's hoping everyone on my list wants fudge for Christmas. I won't be able to tear myself away from the stove long enough to shop on-line or, heaven forbid, cruise a shopping mall.

The 2009 Cocoa Shortage is not to be confused with The Holiday Butter Shortage of 2007 or, my personal favorite, The No Fireworks Fourth of July just past when the responsible party forgot to place the order in their haste to evacuate after the earthquake/tsunami of March 11. Rather than simply saying "We forgot" or "We ran out of money evacuating all of you", the base "leadership" (snide quotes intended) spent the better part of June and early July issuing pious statements along the lines of "Out of respect for our host nation which has suffered a devastating tragedy, we will not be exploding fireworks over Tokyo Bay on July 4." Meanwhile, local municipalities up and down the Miura Peninsula were doing their best to lift citizens' spirits by carrying on with their annual fireworks extravaganzas. Did the people who run this base think we wouldn't notice? Duh.

Honesty is always the best policy.

Every Party Has a Pooper, That's Why They Invited Me

They drizzled chocolate spider webs on caramel apples.

They pinned a tail on a black cat.

They munched on "Mummy Dogs" and something that looked like an insect but was fiber cereal coated in chocolate.

Robyn, Kay, Ouiser, and Misa

The four hostesses were costumed as a ghoul, diner waitress, and two blind mice. Yours truly was disguised as a taiko drummer although Big Bird mistook her for a tatami mat. Other than a pair of drumsticks pilfered from College Boy's bedroom, all the components of the drummer costume -- tabi shoes, skirt, hori jacket, and headband -- came out of my closet.

How did I come to possess the makings of a taiko drummer costume? What was I thinking? Heck if I can remember but I'm going to hang onto this stuff so my future grandchildren can play dress up on rainy days.

Art Imitates Art

My team raised over $700 for the Relay for Life this morning. We did this by cleaning out our closets and auctioning off our superfluous possessions to each other. Fearless and I tossed in a couple of those obis and kimono we've been sorting through, Jessica kicked in several adorable hand-knit baby hats, and Lynette whipped up a batch of tamales.

As is usually the case, I came home with more than I donated but most are earmarked as Christmas gifts and it was for a good cause. Plus, I managed to locate the box of fall decorations while I was cleaning out that closet. Life is good, and so were those tamales.

I did not bring home this statue (above) of a lion cub but only because it wasn't on offer today. I spotted this little guy at Kencho-ji in Kamakura last week. Is it just me, or does he bear an uncanny resemblance to a Maurice Sendak illustration?

I wonder how that happened.

Fashion Trends: Tunics, Taupe, and the Ubiquitous Umbrella

The Charities Committee held its second and final meeting tonight. Our chairman is stunned. "Last year we had to meet four times!" That's because last year the Queen of Compromise couldn't squeeze any of those meetings into her busy schedule. Yup, that's right. The Queen of Compromise. I scarcely recognized myself tonight.

About halfway through the meeting I remembered that I had a family readiness group website to create by 9:00 tomorrow morning. I'll work on that while you catch up on the latest fashions seen on the back lanes of Kamakura.

It was not raining.  This is why they look younger than us.

No umbrella?  Then wear a hat.

"Feminine" is in this spring. 

Taxes and Decals: Contrasting Bureaucracies

The Ancient Mariner and I went on a field trip to the Prefectural Taxation Office today to pay our annual road tax. In years past we paid our road tax on base like most other Americans here, but the base in its infinite wisdom won't be accepting road taxes until the day after most of the ships, including the USS Blue Ridge, deploy.  One could almost get the impression that the base has forgotten that "serving the fleet" is its primary mission if there weren't so many t-shirts emblazoned with that slogan for sale in the Navy Exchange.

But I'm not going to grouse (much) about the cluelessness of the base schedulers because -- why were surprised? -- paying our taxes at the Prefectural Taxation Office was such a pleasant experience we almost wish we'd be here long enough to have to pay road taxes again.

The tax office is located about eight blocks from the base, a walkable distance but rain was in the offing so we decided to drive.  We didn't have to pay to park in the lot next to the office and there were plenty of empty parking spots from which to choose. 

A sign in the lobby directed us to counter #2. "This is a lot nicer than having three unsmiling sailors snarl you into line." "I agree."

"There's another sign reminding us we want counter #2."
"I can see it from here. It's exactly where the diagram said it would be."
"I like how each counter has a number suspended over it."
"In case we forget which counter we want, there's a line drawn between the words 'road tax' on the floor and counter #2."
"I like how the pretty clerk greeted us with a smile and handed us a laminated sheet that tells us how to complete the five blocks on the tax form."
"Well, that was easy.  Now what?"
"Now we have to visit the Vehicle Registration Office on base to get a new decal for our car."

"Either half the clerks didn't show up for work today or they are taking a very long lunch break."
"Could this aisle be any narrower? Or the floor any dirtier?"
"Shhh. I think someone just whispered 'next'."
"Try not to kick or trip over the little girl playing on the dirty floor."

"Why did you include this picture?"
"Because our topic today is automobiles and I've never seen that's model before."
"That's model?"
"That's what it says."

Sticking My Neck Out One Last Time

Turtles at Mitsuike Park

There's a moving van or two parked in every townhouse cul-de-sac, boxes stacked up along the sidewalks, and Japanese workers kicking their shoes off and slipping them back on as they scurry in and out of front doors. Invitations to sayonara parties are flying through cyberspace. It's that time of year again. PCS (Permanent Change of Station) season is upon us.

There is no better time of year to visit Second Hand Rose, the base thrift shop operated by our Officer Spouses' Club. There's a weight limit on the household goods we can take with us when we move and exceeding that limit means paying out of our own wallets so we cram china, rice cookers, golf clubs, books, and toys into our car trunks and head over to the thrift shop donation window on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Someone unloaded an entire Talbot's wardrobe last week and someone else got rid of every Star Wars book ever published.  .

Between our thrift shop and our gift shop, the Officer Spouses' Club raised nearly $70,000 this year. Now it's time to start doling that money out to worthy local causes. This is my third year on the committee that does the doling. I had hoped to lend a voice of reason and experience to the deliberations but, sadly, I no longer have the patience required for committee work.  About halfway through today's four-hour meeting I had to squeeze my hands between my thighs to stop myself from drumming my fingernails on the table.  Drumming her fingernails on the table was how my mother expressed impatience with rambling monologues (usually emitting from the mouth of her oldest daughter).

The Ancient Mariner and the husband of another committee member will deploy in four days.  It will be December before our family can spend another weekend together.  Why are we meeting on a Saturday morning?  Why couldn't we meet during the week when our husbands were working?

Why do we dole out money just once a year, in June, rather than two or three times a year?  The chairman has decreed that all organizations receiving money from us must spend it by December 31 but a third of the requests are from high school coaches wanting help with the costs of student lodging at Far East Tournament events, most of which occur in the spring.

We are told that our base commander has revised the regulations governing how we can dole out our funds and that none of our money can leave Japan.  Three committee members resign themselves to this turn of events while the fourth -- the one squeezing her hands between her thighs -- thinks it's likely the base commander simply stepped out of the room for a potty break during Command Leadership School and missed part of the session on how his boss's boss's boss expects spouse groups around the world to pitch in to cover the $60,000 annual printing and postage costs to distribute guidelines to families of individual augmentees and rising Navy leaders.

A school parent wants $5,000 to equip each classroom with an emergency bag the teacher can grab when exiting the room during an emergency.  Three months after the earthquake/tsunami, the principal still isn't sure what items those bags should contain but $5,000 seems sufficient to cover the costs.  Someone notes that the principal can obtain a time-tested list of items to be included in an emergency bag at the city's Earthquake Center two blocks from the base.  She then quips, semi-seriously, that she'd rather spend the $5,000 on training the teachers how to behave calmly and professionally during a disaster, something that is drilled into Japanese teachers.

Maybe it would be better if she shut her mouth and started drumming her fingers.

Hail, Hail, The Gang's Half Here

The Ancient Mariner was home for all of two weeks before zipping off to Korea.  You are just going to have to trust me on this.  There is no proof that he actually exists because I forgot to swap camera cards with him before he rescued four pairs of shoes and every possible permutation of U.S. Navy uniform from a very large suitcase and repacked them into two smaller bags on his way to the airport.  He plans to return to Japan about ten minutes after I stop fuming about those two new suitcases.

It's hard to sustain a fruitful fume in the face of all the happy reunions I've been enjoying this week.  Many of my friends have returned to Japan and have hit the ground running.  Two cast members will not be returning to Japan so we don't know yet whether we'll have a chance to perform Steel Magnolias before our director moves to California this summer, but I think I'd better crack open that script and re-learn my lines just in case.  The Knit Wits instituted a second evening session this week so now I get to pound my opinions into younger heads six hours a week rather than three.

In short, except for those two suitcases, life is pretty darn good right now.   

Out and About: Fashioning a "New Normal"

My life here started to feel normal again late last week thanks to a series of encounters with my Japanese friends.

It seems the "new normal" will require a bit more physical exertion than the "old normal" did.  The escalator leading up to the Yokosukachuo train station at the end of Blue Street was not moving when I set off to visit Dr. T on Wednesday afternoon.  That was my first clue.  Did I sigh dramatically before dragging my bones up that stationary staircase?  Heck no.  There is more than one way to skin a cat.  I simply marched around the corner and entered the station at ground level.  Maybe a tiny smirk flitted across my mouth.

Thankfully, the escalator at the Kanazawa-hakkei Seaside Line station was working; that's an elevated train line with an entrance three stories above the ground.  The medical school was a different matter.  Dr. T's office is on the top floor, the sixth floor, of the medical school.  Nothing happened when I pressed the button to call the elevator on the left.  A sign taped between the elevator doors caught my eye.  I was pretty sure it said "Please use the stairs.  The electricity has been diverted from the elevators to operate life-sustaining equipment in the hospital."

So I trudged up six flights of stairs.  The first five flights were not exactly a breeze but I paced myself and pasted a cheerful expression on my face for the benefit of all the nimble medical students scampering up and down the stairs to get to class on time.  That sixth flight required a bit of an effort.  "Bit" in this case means gripping the handrail and using a hand-over-hand technique to drag my body up the last sixty steps.  Exiting the stairwell, I stumbled past the usual assortment of somber young pharmaceutical representives lined up in the corridor.  Their applause was louder than my gasps.

Dr. T was appalled that I took the stairs.  He says I am to use the elevator on the right next time.  I think I heard him say I am qualified to use that elevator on the basis of age.  I am not sure that makes me happy but I'm pretty sure I'll opt for the elevator when I visit him again next week.

Seeing Dr. T again fills me with delight.  Has it only been two weeks since our last lesson?  We spend a lot of time grinning and laughing.  I had forgotten that he's been using crutches for the past six weeks on account of a bad knee.  He tells me that knee made descending twelve flights of stairs after the earthquake "excruciating".  His use of the word "excruciating" tickles me.  I think he has consulted his Japanese-English dictionary since last we met.

Thursday three of us headed to Kamakura for an Ikebana board meeting.  We were a bit early so we ducked into a coffee shop outside the station.  Otsuka-san, knowing our habits, was sitting in the coffee shop waiting for us.  We had not expected to see her because she lives in Tokyo and we think it is not so easy to travel between Tokyo and Kamakura these days.  We are all so happy to see each other that we exchange hugs, wipe tears from our eyes, and amuse the baristas with our un-Japanese carryings on.  You would think we were survivors of a major calamity!  Oh . . . I guess we are.

We see many more friends at the board meeting -- Kaji-san, Nagasaki-san, Midori-san, Sayuri-san, Haneda-san, to name a few.  Tia has gone to the United States, Watanabe-san is still recovering from breast cancer surgery, and Junko-san is not at the meeting for reasons that escape me.  We vote to cancel the April and May programs because we cannot count on gasoline to take our members to Mount Takao or electricity to light the hotel where we are scheduled to meet.  We defer a decision on the June program.  Perhaps we can hold the June program on the Navy base.  Our Japanese friends are surprised to hear that the Navy base has not been experiencing the rolling blackouts the government has instituted in our prefecture.  I feel somewhat embarrassed and ashamed about this.  I want to do more to help Japan right now than buy underwear for the people in Sendai.

Weather, Evelyn, and I visited Matsuzaki-san and her son Yutaka at their shop near the Kamakura station and then shared five orders of waffles between the three of us before returning to Yokosuka.  The trains ran on time and the waffles were as delectable as always.  The waitress double-checked her order pad.  Three customers and five orders?  We told her we want to help rebuild Japan's economy.  It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. 

Friday, finally, I get to see Ishii-san.  She endures my hug with a smile and great stoicism.  We stroll to the cafe above the Yokosuka Products shop to have some Admiral Jamie Kelly Cheesecake but, once there, opt for Meiji-Era Curry instead.  I, of course, was hoping to have both.  Ishii-san is very sensible.  A retired teacher, she regales me with anecdotes of the disaster training Japanese teachers receive.  I think we should send our base teachers to the Japanese disaster training classes.  I wish we would acknowledge that Americans are not the experts on everything.

Today I will see many of my Japanese friends again.  Eight of the JAW ladies, including Otsuka-san, Kaji-san, and Shinagawa-san, will visit the base to say farewell to Teresa who will be leaving Japan tomorrow for her husband's next duty station in California.  We are going to have lunch at the Officers' Club.

The "new normal" is nothing to complain about so far.  I feel so much more sane eating in the company of others than munching on mushroom-shaped cookies in my bed.  I've just been brushing crumbs toward the Ancient Mariner's side of the bed but I suppose I'll have to change the sheets when and if the USS Blue Ridge ever heads back toward Yokosuka.

Reflections on Hoarding

My friends who visited the Commissary (military base grocery store) in the days immediately following March 11 told me there was a shocking amount of hoarding in progress. I had to rely on their accounts because, as a general rule, I don't shop for groceries more than once a month. These are trustworthy ladies who aren't prone to spreading idle gossip and rumors. (Which makes one sort of wonder what we have in common...).

How can a family of four possibly consume 18 gallons of milk and 23 loaves of bread before their expiration dates? (Note to Ishii-san: the previous sentence is called hyperbole, ie, extravagant exaggeration.)

Figuring you might want some more information on this topic, but not wanting to incite mass panic among the Commissary cashiers by showing up twice in one month, I opted to duck into the Autoport mini-mart the day I investigated gas rationing. This was after the earthquake and tsunami but before the mass exodus.

Emma was behind the till. I haven't seen Emma in ages, since she switched from the night shift to the day shift. We are a mutual admiration society. She rushed around the counter to give me a big hug. (All those non-military middle-aged men standing in line to pay for their five gallons of gasoline appreciated that I'm sure.)

Emma's presence gave me license to whip out my camera and snap a few pictures for you. Had she not been there, I would still have taken pictures, just a bit more furtively.

The smokers don't seem to be guilty of hoarding. That's a little surprising. I guess they're not all the scum of the earth after all.  Maybe I should nominate them for Department of Defense Good Citizen awards.

Certain brands of crackers and cookies are noticeably absent.  Not to worry.  I can survive on pressured faux cheese for months. There's an ample supply of low-cal Triscuits left to sustain the Ancient Mariner upon his return, reinforcing my belief that he's the only person on earth who actually finds them edible.

Looks like the marathon crowd has decimated the power bar shelves. Perhaps they're planning to outrun radiation.

What have we here? Not any canned tuna, that's for sure. How am I supposed to make tuna-noodle casserole on Friday nights in Lent without the main ingredient?

Suddenly this exercise is not quite so amusing. I approach the freezer section with trepidation.

Hallelujah! Apparently the gluttons have not yet discovered the pleasure to be found in a pint of Hagen Daz Dulce de Leche ice cream. The reflection off the glass door makes the first picture I snap less than satisfactory. I open the freezer door to get a clearer picture for you. In light of current energy concerns, I feel guilty about opening that freezer door just to take a picture so I grab a couple of pints.

But just two. Because I would never, ever stoop to hoarding. I simply do not understand that mentality. And I can't help but wonder how much milk was left to sour in refrigerators around the base when the first wave of volunteers departed for the U.S.

P.S. Yesterday I stopped by the Commissary and found the shelves overflowing with all of life's necessities except bottled water. I nabbed the last case of one brand but left three cases of another brand for the next customers.

The Exodus

Today marks the end of the second post-earthquake week. That's what my calendar tells me but how can this possibly be true? Was it really only a week ago that my American friends started leaving Japan?

Daffy was the first to go. She handed me the keys to her "throwaway BMW" and we laughed all the way to Haneda Airport because the BMW's controls are different from the controls in my Japanese car. When I meant to indicate a lane change, the windshield wipers would spring into action. When I needed to roll down my window to pay a toll, I invariably readjusted my sideview mirror instead. I have known Daffy for six months. She makes me laugh. I miss her.

Then Fearless and the twins left, and my neighbor Hoorah, and countless others who booked their own flights when the schools closed. They left the day after the high school vice-principal fled Japan, ignoring the terms of her contract.  I miss Fearless and Hoorah.  I'd like to assume the vice-principal is now unemployed.

Erin tried to hold out for a government-funded departure but by Saturday morning, between the schools closing and the base announcing the cancellation of all child-friendly activities, she was at the end of her rope.  She booked a Sunday flight out of Narita Airport. The base runs three free bus shuttles to Narita Airport every day but none early enough to get Erin and her boys to the airport in time for their flight. So they took a Saturday afternoon shuttle and camped out at the airport with other Navy families overnight.  One of Erin's fellow campers was a young lady from my hometown who was traveling with an infant. I shudder at the thought.

The Navy employs thousands of men and women whose primary task is planning. They would be well served to consult with a few young military spouses like Erin who could remind them that the "devil is in the detail".  Erin called a cab to transport four suitcases and three children from her apartment to the bus shuttle.  The cab did not arrive.  Erin loaded everything into her van, drove to the bus depot, unloaded her van, left her oldest son in charge of her youngest, tracked me down, and drove back to the bus depot where we loaded four very heavy suitcases into the bowels of the bus while several able-bodied sailors looked on, apparently admiring our biceps. 

I returned Erin's van to her designated parking space and strolled home after imparting some unsolicited advice.  Erin is about the same age as my nieces Amy, Jennifer, Ann, and Jessica so I tend to be a bit free with my unsolicited advice.  To her credit, she takes it in good humor and probably a grain or two of salt.  I suspect I will miss Erin a tiny bit more than she will miss me.

We were standing in the bus depot when I advised her to take a mental snapshot of her three boys, four large suitcases, and four incredibly heavy backpacks.  "Be sure you remember this moment, Erin, when they start begging you for a dog."

That was Saturday. Sunday the mass exodus commenced. That's when the Department of Defense started executing the order authorizing the voluntary departure of military dependents. Thousands of young military families, primarily young women with infants and small children and whose husbands are currently at sea providing humanitarian relief, might have been spared much pain and confusion if our government had only communicated clearly rather than indulging in hair-splitting bureaucratic-speak. How can we expect young military spouses to comprehend the difference between "authorized", "ordered", and "executed" when graduates of college journalism schools do not?

On Tuesday Artistic, her three teenagers, and their very large dog left Japan.  Two vehicles were required so Weather and I escorted them to Narita Airport.  I fastened my seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors before confessing that I had never actually driven to Narita before.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  As for missing Artistic, I think longtime readers know that goes without saying.

The Wedding That Wasn't: Another Earthquake Story

Amidst all the confusion in the days immediately following the earthquake, I missed my regularly-scheduled hair appointment with Kumi. When I ought to have been sitting in Kumi's chair having goop dabbed on my roots, I was at the base movie theater watching Rango with Fearless and her girls. At the time we had no way of knowing that a week later Fearless and the twins would be waking up in Novi, Michigan, enroute to Arlington, Virginia.

So I absolutely do not regret missing that hair appointment. And I also do not regret shelling out $3 to see Rango when only a few days later our movie theaters stopped charging admission.

But missing that hair appointment became increasingly troublesome as the week progressed. As fears of irradiation mounted, I realized that the sudden appearance of a white stripe across the top of my head could very well tip the balance on this base from low-grade panic to mass hysteria. I didn't want to be responsible for causing a run on potassium iodide that would make the hospital pharmacy look like the bank in It's A Wonderful Life. I needed to reschedule that appointment pronto.

Erin and her three little boys marched off to the Navy Exchange to make an appointment for me. (In my defense, she looked ready to wring their collective necks; the schools here closed with no warning, all child-friendly activities on base were cancelled, and they needed some sort of distraction. At least that's how I've decided to spin this.) Erin managed to get me the first appointment on Sunday morning. I believe my appointment was the only one on Kumi's schedule that day. Kumi normally has a month-long waiting list. This is what we call "a silver lining".

Kumi is always glad to see me -- our relationship has spanned three years at this point, which is about a year longer than my relationship with any other hairdresser in the past twenty years -- but she seemed genuinely delighted to see me this past Sunday. And I her. I was eager to hear her "earthquake story" so that I would have something interesting to share with you that did not involve military ineptitude. We all need a break from that.

Kumi was on her way to her niece's wedding in Tokyo when the earthquake happened. She was wearing a dress (remarkable enough for her to mention and remarkable enough for me to pass along) and riding a Keikyu train when the ground started shaking. The train came to a halt in the Kamiooka station, the home of Beard Papa's cream puffs and Takano fruit parfaits. If I had to choose a place to be stuck for nine hours, the Kamiooka station would be at the top of my list.

But Kumi wasn't thinking about sweets. She had a wedding to attend. So she and most of the other passengers stayed on the train for about a half hour until an announcement informed them that service had been halted for the day. She eventually managed to reach her sister and niece by cell phone (service was disrupted for about a half hour) and learned that the wedding party was unable to get to the ceremony site. The wedding would have to be postponed.

Kumi then joined a long line of stranded train passengers in the taxi queue. There were only two taxicabs serving the Kamiooka station. Kumi waited nine hours until it was her turn to climb into a cab that would take her home to Yokosuka.

Nine hours is a long time. It was about midnight by the time she got a cab. She was very hungry and had some food in her tote bag but there were many elderly people in that queue with her and she did not have enough food to share with everyone. So she pretended she didn't have any food and just went hungry along with everyone else.

Her sister and niece spent the past week in the Tokyo apartment the bride and groom had planned to live in as newlyweds. Her sister is from Mito in Ibaraki Prefecture (where we saw the plum blossoms last month) and she must return to work in Mito or risk losing her job. Bus service between Tokyo and Mito has been restored in the past couple of days but Kumi says her sister is very afraid to return to Mito since that would put her closer to the nuclear plants.

I don't know how this will all turn out but I made another appointment with Kumi for April 10 and I will get the next installment then. Simply being allowed to make another appointment filled me with an enormous sense of relief. It's interesting how we all have different priorities, isn't it?

One Way We Got to Where We Are, Wherever That Might Be

The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable. ~Attributed to James A. Garfield

It is error alone which needs the support of government. Truth can stand by itself. ~Thomas Jefferson, Notes on Virginia

My phone rang late yesterday afternoon.  A friend was calling around for volunteers to make and deliver finger food to the young Navy guys who've been working almost non-stop for the past 24 hours to book "voluntary evacuees" on airplanes.  I was the third person she called, but the first to answer the ringing telephone.  Whoever asked her to muster volunteer cooks -- and I'm pretty sure I know who instigated the errand of mercy -- had specifically asked that this request not be circulated via facebook.  What a shame.

I pondered that "Please do not post this on facebook" directive while frying up the lumpia I found tucked in the back of my freezer.  This was my first stab at making lumpia.  It took longer than I expected to achieve a golden brown color approximating the package illustration.  I had a lot of time to think.  If you're looking for a human interest post, maybe you should stop now and check back later today.

Authority changes hands fairly regularly in the Navy.  While it might not have been true yesterday and it may no longer be true tomorrow, right now the people who happen to hold positions of authority here seem fearful of what they refer to as "social media" and I know as "facebook".  These leaders have been quick to label facebook as "evil" and blamed facebook users for inciting widespread panic by sharing misinformation; they have been slow to see the potential benefits of using facebook to transmit accurate information.

What was the sticking point?  Did they simply have no "official information" to share?  Were they just unwilling to acknowledge the limits of their authority? 

In the absence of "official information", they circulated "worst-case scenarios" through the Ombudsmen.  An Ombudsman is a Navy spouse who volunteers to serve as the primary communication conduit between a Commanding Officer and the families of sailors who serve under that Commanding Officer.  This is not a paid position.  There are many ombudsmen here because there are many commands.  Each ship has its own Commanding Officer and there are also many shore commands, like the hospital, ship repair, legal services, and facilities.  Those are called tenant commands.  The base command, called CFAY, is the landlord and has its own ombudsman.

I have the utmost respect for Ombudsmen and am amazed that people, primarily women, actually volunteer for this mostly thankless job.  "Mostly" here is in deference to the dinner held in their honor every September and the fried chicken available in the back of the room during their obligatory 10-hour training session.  Like many current and former CO spouses, I am a graduate of Ombudsman Basic Training and I've provided some version of that fried chicken dinner for subsequent classes.

In the aftermath of the earthquake/tsunami, the base leaders have met with the Ombudsmen at least daily and often more frequently.  Imagine these women trying to find babysitters on short notice while their phones are ringing off the hook and their e-mail boxes are overflowing with questions from 23-year old semi-hysterical mothers of infants and toddlers.  Then they dash off to the meeting, ask a lot of "what-if" questions, get a lot of "perhaps this, perhaps that" non-answers but nothing in writing, and are sent home to write up a summary of the discussion and distribute it to the families within their command.

If there are twenty Ombudsmen, there are twenty slightly different summaries.  This stands to reason.  The summaries are e-mailed to the families.  Sally in apt. 1 receives the USS George Washington summary, Mary in apt. 2 gets the summary from the hospital ombudsman, and Jill in apt. 3 sees the summary from the submarine ombudsman.  Do you see where I'm going with this? 

In the absence of "official information", neighbors and friends share those slightly different summaries.  People start getting confused.  They want clarification and the quickest way they know how to get it is to log into facebook.  Quick is important because they have two or three children underfoot.  They have two or three children underfoot because the school principals understood those "perhaps this, perhaps that" non-answers as Gospel Truth and cancelled school.

At a hastily-convened "town hall" meeting last Monday, the base commander blamed the Ombudsmen for spreading misinformation.  I had already left the meeting at that point (to help paint the stage set for the now-postponed production of Steel Magnolias), but I understand he was taken to task by one of the more senior Ombudsmen.  Bravo for her.

This all might have been averted if only someone on the CFAY staff, someone who actually gets paid to communicate say, had been tasked with preparing a written summary of each meeting that could have been distributed as a unified message by all the Ombudsmen via e-mail and facebook.

I, for one, would have appreciated seeing a refreshingly honest introductory statement, along the lines of:  Please remain calm.  We are doing everything in our power to assure your safety and well-being.  Unfortunately, and contrary to popular opinion, no Naval officer assigned to Japan has been delegated the budgetary authority to pay for the departure and subsequent return of those of you who no longer wish to be in Japan.  Please do not be overly concerned that our own spouses have departed the base.  They do not know anything that you don't know.  We have simply asked them to leave in order that we can focus on your needs without the distraction of our own families.      

The person I thought was responsible for instigating the errand of mercy posted something interesting on facebook late last night. She thanked two ladies for delivering cookies to those hardworking young sailors. I guess she didn't know about the lumpia. I guess "Please do not post this on facebook" did not apply to herself.

I am darn certain those kids would have received more food had I elected to disregard her directive.

Excuse me while I figure out how you "un-friend" someone.

Fear and Trembling in Yokosuka, Part V: Laughter and Gas Rationing

Last night was restless. An intensity 6 earthquake sent me stumbling toward the dining room table just as I was getting ready to power down the computer and trudge up the stairs to bed. That dining room table is suddenly my favorite piece of furniture; I'm going to stick a dust cloth and can of Pledge under there so I can polish up those legs on my next dive.  That table has treated me well.  It's time I started returning favors.

Between 11:00 pm last night and 7:00 am this morning there were 19 aftershocks.  I slept through most of them.  This will come as no surprise to my husband and children.  What might surprise them, however, is that I slept through most of those aftershocks because I was absolutely exhausted from laughing.  For that I am indebted to a cadre of friends and acquaintances around the globe who distracted me with their entertaining comments on facebook for the first two hours following the earthquake.  I experienced every type of laughter known to man and possibly invented a new version of 'borderline hysterical'.

What else can you do?

This morning I saw a message from the base commander that the gas tanks at the Autoport had been replenished and that each customer could purchase a maximum of ten (10) gallons.  The base commander encouraged us to avoid long lines by waiting until later in the day to collect our ration of gasoline.

"I wonder how THAT is going?" I asked myself mid-morning.  (There's a lot of "asking myself" going on here right now in the absence of anyone else to ask but, so far at least, I'm managing to do it without moving my lips.)  "Let's go investigate," I said to self.  "Great idea!" I congratulated self.  "Take precautions when you dress," I reminded self.  So I pulled on the Ancient Mariner's almost equally ancient U.S. Navy sweatshirt and tugged the hood over my tresses before marching out the door and briskly hiking the four or five blocks between my house and the Autoport.

By the time I reached the Autoport, the base commander had issued a new directive, further rationing gasoline to five (5) gallons per customer.  To put this in perspective for owners of those dinosaur SUVs, some Japanese automobiles have a 7-gallon capacity.

Autoport Manager directs customers into four orderly lines

While many car owners seem to have ignored the advice about waiting until later in the day, I have to give them credit for lining up in an orderly fashion. What struck me as odd was the number of non-military middle-aged men wearing lanyards around their necks behind the wheels of those cars. I say non-military because a) they were not in uniform, b) their hair was rather long, and c) they sported physiques that strongly suggested they had not passed a physical fitness test within the last six months (or even six years). Those neck lanyards made me suspect the men were civilians employed by various "military support" enterprises such as the Navy Exchange, MWR, Commissary, and schools.

My deeply-ingrained work ethic chimed, "Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!  You're supposed to be at work.  You would scream bloody murder if your doctor or dentist cancelled your appointment so they could dash off to the Autoport for their ration."

Oh, wait. There's more:

Turning around, I saw a line of cars stretching from here to the proverbial eternity.  The drivers, bless their hearts, were waiting patiently to be waved into one of those four orderly lines.

The Autoport serves all military personnel stationed here, not just those of us who live on the Main Base.  There are not enough houses and apartments on the Main Base to accommodate everyone who works here so many people live in satellite housing areas either near Yokohama or on the other side of the peninsula.  And there are also many people who live in Japanese rental houses scattered across the peninsula.

So far no one seems have thought of granting some sort of priority to the people who live outside the Main Base and have to use their cars to get to work.  Maybe they've thought of it, but just haven't worked out a reasonable system yet.  Let's hope that's the case.  Because I, for one, am more concerned that the emergency physician who lives twenty minutes from the base has enough gasoline to get to work than the teacher who lives across the street from the school.

When it comes to mass hysteria, though, I am ashamed to admit that I'm no more immune than those people waiting patiently in line at the Autoport.  Walking home, it dawned on me that perhaps I should see how much gas was in the tank of my car.  The Ancient Mariner, dream husband that he is, topped off the tank in late January before abandoning me to my own devices.  Six weeks.  Hmmm.  That's a pretty long time.

Whew!  My fuel gauge assures me the tank is still half full.  (I know.  Incredible, isn't it?)

How many gallons do you suppose that is?  How much do you suppose a car-addicted person would be willing to pay for a gallon of gas?  How much do you suppose one of those siphon things costs?

Just kidding, of course.  I would happily give it away free to any physician who needs it.   

Fear and Trembling in Yokosuka, Part IV: Low-level Radiation and Pinball Expertise

Well, I didn't travel to Yokohama to chat with Dr. T about his miserable experience after all.  I spotted this message on facebook when I was checking today's train schedules.

****** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE *******
by Commander Fleet Activities Yokosuka on Tuesday, March 15, 2011 at 10:44am

At approximately 0700 local (Japan) time, 15 March 2011, sensitive instrumentation on USS GEORGE WASHINGTON (CVN 73) pier-side in Yokosuka, detected low levels of radioactivity from the Fukushima Dai-Ichi Nuclear Power Plant. While there is no danger to the public, Commander, Naval Forces Japan is recommending limited precautionary measures for personnel on Fleet Activities Yokosuka and Naval Air Facility Atsugi, including:
A. Limiting outdoor activities.
B. Securing external ventilation systems as much as practical.

These measures are strictly precautionary in nature. We do not expect that any United States Federal radiation exposure limits will be exceeded even if no precautionary measures are taken. We are continuing to analyze the situation and will update you as we learn more.

The reaction here ranged from "Uh-oh" and "Don't panic" to "What about our schoolchildren?"  The credit for that question goes to my next-door neighbor, a commanding officer and father of two small children.  Thanks to him, the message was subsequently amended to let us know that the children would remain indoors, school would end at the usual time, and school will be held tomorrow.  I'm glad that someone like Curt has the ear of the base leadership.  I wish they were smart enough to run their messages past him before posting them on facebook.

Right now my brain feels like a pinball machine right after the first ball hits the sweet spot and releases all those bonus balls.  There are so many thoughts pinging around in my head.  I hope I can capture at least a few of them in words.  I won't take it personally if you don't have the energy to process my efforts.  I just need to talk right now and you're there while I'm way over here.  Which has some distinct advantages, of course.  Mainly you can walk away in the middle of our 'conversation' and I won't think you're rude because I won't even know.  And if some sort of worst-case scenario unfolds, you can always come back and read this at a later date.  Don't feel guilty if that happens.  Don't ever, ever, ever feel guilty about anything you have ever said or not said to me, or any attention you have paid or not paid to me.

Here are my first three thoughts:

1.  I'm not worried.
2.  Don't feel guilty.
3.  Do not ever assume someone in a position of authority is half as smart as you.

A Few October Crumbs

November 3 is a national holiday in Japan.  This holiday was originally called Meiji-setsu and commemorated the birthday of Emperor Meiji .  In 1948 the holiday was renamed Culture Day to commemorate the Constitution announced on November 3, 1946.  Today is when Japanese citizens celebrate peace and freedom and promote culture. 

Ridiculous as it might seem, I'm a bit embarrassed about the role representatives of my beloved nation surely played in renaming another country's national holiday.  So I intend to be on my best behaviour when my friends and I join several thousand other celebrants at the Chrysanthemum Festival at Sankei-en Garden in Yokohama today.  Gosh, there's another potential epitaph:  She had Good Intentions.

I'll let you know how it goes.  In the meantime, I have a few more pictures (and impressions) from October to upload before chrysanthemums in every size, color, and form take possession of my camera.

My extreme canine phobia did not stop me from looking on in mild amusement, albeit from a safe distance, during the Dog Wars of October 2010. A childless and petless senior dual military couple (SDMC) blew the whistle on their neighbors for exceeding the maximum number of two (2) dogs allowed in base housing. The neighbors were providing temporary post-operative care for a "pound puppy" in addition to their own two dogs. The SDMC requested their neighbors be evicted from base housing. The commanding officer of the base ruled in favor of the dog.

In the two weeks since the ruling was issued, I have learned to look both ways before opening my front gate and sprinting the ten feet to my carport. Suddenly every Tom, Dick, and Harry is tangled up in three leashes rather than just one or two. (No, I was not as close to these dogs as it my judicious use of cropping might make it appear.)

A particularly ferocious specimen

The Ancient Mariner is flanked by Carol and Marlene in this picture. Marlene is from my hometown (Jackson, Michigan) and was in Japan to meet her six-week old grandson. Meeting her at Starbucks was what I imagine a blind date is like, except I knew she was from Jackson the minute I walked through the door. Mike and Carol found us there when they took a break from moving the last three boxes of Carol's bath products to my foyer. Carol moved back to the States the next day, leaving us her gas grill, firepit, the aforementioned bath products, enough alcohol to stock a small pub, and a power of attorney to sell her car. Thanks, Carol. Fair winds and following seas.

Two new flavors of my favorite ice cream bonbons arrived in convenience stores last month: dulce de leche and what I think might be strawberry cheesecake. So far I've only tasted the former. Yes, I'm worried about me too.

The Knit Wits among you will be interested to see that Betty is still following her mantra, "Another Month, Another Hair Color."  Black was a natural (!?) choice for October because Star Trek's Spock was her Halloween persona.

If I Wanted to Wear a Costume, I'd Audition for a Play

There's only one thing I like about Halloween and that's doling out candy to little princesses, Power Rangers, and wizards. Everything else -- scraping goop out of pumpkins, the color orange, and adult costume parties -- stimulates my gag reflex.

But here I am, living in a foreign country, doing my best to be an ambassador of good will for my native land. And the Japanese ladies think it's fun to wear costumes and carve pumpkins in October so that's that.

In an uncharacteristic display of good sportsmanship, this year I went the extra mile and ordered a costume on-line. The costume did not arrive in time for the Shonan party last week so some circa 1962 ingenuity was in order.

Witches, witches, and more witches

Pippi Longstocking arrived in Japan a few months ago. Our oldest sons were best friends in second grade at Star of the Sea School in Virginia Beach in 1993. It's been fun reconnecting with her at Shonan, book club, and Ikebana events.

Yoriko and Reiko attack their pumpkins

Medieval Wench Susan chats with Sumo Mimi. Inside the sumo costume is a little battery-operated fan. The menopausal women were orange with envy.

We dubbed this trio the Aladdins. The Genie is a former softball and basketball standout at Wayne State University. She'll put on the costume again to entertain Japanese children at the Yokosuka Community Center. Tia is Jasmine and you'll be seeing a lot more pictures of Tia because she's vice president of Ikebana this year. Cory the Sheik is the mother of two of Matt's friends; our paths first crossed in 1992, shortly before we both met Pippi Longstocking.

A witch poses with Trinity/Neo

This is Ingenuity, a Japanese cell phone charm. At least I finally got some use out of the Shinto priest's skirt that's been hanging in my closet for the past two years.

Speechless in Japan

June has been a bipolarish, agony/ecstasy month that's left me speechless (almost) (so far).  I've been basking in the blinding glow of seeing my three children together for the first time in nearly two years, doubling over in laughter at their hilarious wit, and finding them a welcome diversion from the inane antics of an outgoing Navy base regime which is drifting uncomfortably close to Totalitarianism.

This past weekend a tragic car accident in the Pacific Northwest resulted in the death of a special friend, Bob Goodwin, and the hospitalization of dear Bridget, Christopher (7), and Paul (2).  They were looking forward to returning to Japan this summer.  Bob was going to be the Senior Medical Officer on the USS Blue Ridge and Bridget and the boys were going to drag me to the Anpanman Museum at regular intervals.  It was Christopher who introduced me to Anpanman three years ago.  Need I say more?

If there is such a thing as crippling empathy, I have it.  In spades.

They're Back! Part One *

Her heart started racing the second the e-mail popped up on her screen. "They're back!"

She typed a quick acknowledgement - "I LOVE you!" - before clicking send, grabbing her car keys, and scampering out the door. It was a dark and rainy night and she hadn't paused to grab an umbrella but she didn't care. They're back!

Flashing her ID card, she entered the brightly lit building. She squared her shoulders and took off at a trot for the far corner of the cavernous room just as music erupted from the loudspeakers overhead.

It's getting near dawn,
When lights close their tired eyes.
I'll soon be with you my love,
To give you my dawn surprise.
I'll be with you darling soon,
I'll be with you when the stars start falling.

Cream. "Sunshine of Your Love," 1968, Sophomore and Junior dances. Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, and Ginger Baker. Forty-two years evaporated like ground fog on a sunny morning and she was back in her groove.

I've been waiting so long (right hip thrust)
To be where I'm going (left hip thrust)
In the sunshine of your love. (spin, shimmy, butt wiggle)

Life does not get more perfect than this.

Swinging her shoulders and dipping her knees every time Ginger's hands slapped those tom-toms, she danced across the room. She almost didn't see them but then her eyes lit up. They had changed slightly since she last laid eyes on them nearly three months ago, but it was definitely them. Hallelujah!

Carefully timing her movements to correspond with the drum beat, she tossed four boxes of Pillsbury Pie Crusts into her cart.

I've been waiting so long (one)
I've been waiting so long (two)
I've been waiting so long (three)
To be where I'm going (four)
In the sunshine of your love.

A song from her college days came on as she pushed her cart toward the checkout line. "Lola". She has a routine for that one too.

* Today's post was made possible through the generosity of the Jen O'Connor Foundation for Food Shortage Research. I really do love her.

Social Whirl

Have you been holding your breath and drumming your fingers in anticipation of the Anpanman tree? It turns out those little figures are solid rubber and it's taken me three days to coax, shove, and hammer a needle through one little noggin.

Hearing of my plight, Dr. T gifted me with a surgical needle but don't look for any progress on this project until mid-month. Bear in mind I am living on a military base where the holiday social whirl is compressed into the first 13 days of December. This is so all the Sailors who are taking leave during the holidays can have their fudge and eat it too.

Seasoned runners load up on carbohydrates before a marathon, so it makes sense mothers need to store up energy before the holidays by waffle loading. To test my newest theory, Jen O and the extremely pregnant (and remarkably loquacious) Monika have now been officially introduced to the waffle restaurant in Kamakura. Jen's command of Japanese never fails to heighten a restaurant experience - "We would like to try everything on your menu, please, and with ice cream when that's an option" - and Monika's talkativeness gave me a chance to eat way more than my fair share of the waffles. When it dawns on her that I nabbed most of her portion perhaps she'll remember that I also introduced her to that nifty parking lot with the helpful attendants.

I got back from Kamakura in time to stick a ham in the oven and whip up a couple of potato casseroles before the Knitwits and their families arrived to trim our tree. Whoever invented the expression "infectious enthusiasm" must have had people like our Japanese guests of honor in mind; you could not be within 10 feet of these people without grinning from ear to ear. This was the first time we've thrown a party where the house looked better when the guests were leaving than when they arrived. For my next trick, I think I'll invent a "Let's Take the Decorations Down and Put Them Away" party.

Tuesday the Oakleaf Explorers (all two of us) dragged our new friend Mary Beth to Tokyo to view maples. We followed the directions in my trusty guidebook to the Gotoh Museum garden but the gate was locked and the gardener made an X with his arms so Sherlock here deduced we would not be viewing maples in the Gotoh Museum garden. We wandered through the Kaminoge neighborhood instead, exploring a park and two cemeteries and a charming garden shop with a rooftop restaurant.

I took a lot of cemetery pictures because (a) that's what I do in cemeteries, and (b) my companions were both serious photographers, the sort who contort themselves to find the best angle, so I had time on my hands while they were snapping the only maple tree we saw all day. I'll post those pictures separately because (a) you might enjoy them, and (b) I can't imagine ever having another opportunity to use the headline "Killing Time in a Cemetery".

Tomorrow is the Seventh Fleet Spouse Association holiday party (not to be confused with the Seventh Fleet holiday party Mike and I will attend next week) and Friday is the Japanese and American Wives (JAW) holiday party (not to be confused with next week's JAW Conversation Group holiday party). Many of the same people will attend these events. This is why I am frantically inventing a Holiday Sweater Rotation Chart when I ought to be making fudge, mailing packages, and stabbing rubber dolls.