Dichotomy

Dichotomy. A division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different. I've been thinking a lot about that word.


Almost exactly 11 years ago – as in, by a few days – I moved to Bozeman, Montana, with my boyfriend at the time, so he could attend graduate school at Montana State University. We left the relative hustle-and-bustle of the greater Portland area to live in a state with a population density of 7.1 people per mile. It was a big adventure, and at the age of 20, I felt so very Adult with a capital A. Family and friends recommended preparing with essential items such as boots and multi-layer jackets, some advised I not go at all but stay home and finish my degree, but I was An Adult and I knew everything so I spent like $300 on a North Face fleece and an outer shell, quit my upwardly mobile job at a bank, and was like, “pssh, I got this, haters.” I was 20 years old, and I knew everything. Montana's just a little cold and that job is stupid, whatever.


Fast forward 1 week, on my first day of work in Montana. Waist-high snow had fallen overnight and I didn't buy any boots because I am An Adult who Makes Her Own Decisions, so I had to unpack the fake moon boots from my Napoleon Dynamite costume to dig out my car with a cardboard tube that a shipment from AllPosters came in. It was -10F with windchill and my nostrils and eyebrows froze and so did my bitter soul. My boss picked me up, and on our way to the main road we saw a fox. I was so steeped in awful I literally said, “Look at that stupid fox.”


More than 10 years later, I had the opportunity to move to Japan with my husband, into the Tokyo-area city of Sagamihara with a population density of 1363 people per mile. A lot more that 7.1 (that 0.1 lives in Granny Wilson's shed). Preparation was my full-time job for a solid 3 months leading up to the move. I had f*cking binders with tabs for every document I might need up to and including my 4^th grade report card (thanks Mrs. Shucka!), with multiple copies of each. I asked anyone who had lived abroad and had ever sneezed in my vicinity what they would recommend I do about the potential for anthrax being planted in my bag by a ne'er-do-well TSA agent. I refused to show up in Japan with moon boots and a cardboard tube.


Dichotomy.


At 20, I knew everything and that arrogance got me a thousand miles from where I wanted to be, literally and figuratively. At 25, I thought back to all the people who gave me advice when I was 20, and I sent each and every one of them a postcard that said “OMG you were totally right, sry, kthxbai” Then I turned 30. Then I started taking a mental stock in my head of all the people who are older than me and will certainly die imminently if 2016 is any indicator, and decided I needed to interview each of them and take notes on everything from how long to toast bread for a BLT, to the finer details of hiring a plumber.


Dichotomy. Oh what a difference 10+ years makes.


So why did I write this post? Let's be real, it's kind of a masturbatory journal entry, no? It is a little more altruistic and less vulgar than that, I promise.


65 years ago today, my paternal grandparents Bob and Ruthie got married. This year of 2016 they both passed away (seriously, f*ck you, 2016), leaving behind 7 children and an equal number of spouses, and 20 grandchildren. The picture of them on their wedding day makes me scoff in a very affectionate way, because they are a decade younger than I am now and so googly-eyed and ADORABLE but also oblivious and blind to the struggles that real life would thrust upon them. And I look at them and want to give them advice. ME! Give my late grandparents advice. They learned it all the hard way. Man, it must have really sucked going through life without 31 year old Tierney guiding their path. It's actually astonishing that they survived life before I was born in 1985 and achieved the gift of speech and thus advise-giving in roughly 1987. They were true pioneers.


Dichotomy.


Today – where are you? Are you happy? Will you look back on this year as the shit-end or the awesome-end of the dichotomy of your life? What will you do in 2017 to change or sustain? Are you listening to me, because I am 31 and I Know Everything? (you should, because I do)


A new year is upon us. Rock the shit out of it.

Japanese Christmas Miracle, aka Tierney is Stupid And People Are Nice

I remember back in the early 90s outside San Francisco, when I was maybe 5 or so and my little brother was a baby, jumping into my parents' bed on Christmas morning and being so befuddled that my dad was tired and groggy and not literally jumping up and down like a flea on cocaine because OMFG ITS CHRISTMAS THERE ARE PRESENTS SANTA CAME OMG OMG OMG!!! Over the years, it has still felt magical but it has been so much different than the magic of experiencing it as a kid. Honestly, I get more excited about the gifts I give others than the gifts I receive myself. It's an opportunity to hang out with family and drink wine and eat delicious food, and if there were no gifts at all I'd be just as happy.

Just when we were teetering on the brink of kinda-sorta feeling like Japan was “home”, it was Christmas. Our family is thousands of miles away. We live in a country that celebrates Christmas with buckets of KFC that you have to order weeks in advance and they dress up Colonel Sanders as Santa and that is a real thing that I am not making up. To top it off, my dad didn't send out his annual mix CD of interesting and non-traditional Christmas music which completely ruined my life (THANKS DAD). We have a kitten so buying a tree would ensure little more than shards of glass from broken ornaments embedded in my feet. Can you hear the distant yet mesmerizing lull of a tiny, tiny violin? Please, let me play you the sounds of my expatriate people.


So what is a childless couple living in Japan to do to prepare for Christmas? Oh boy you just kick up your heels because I'm about to tell you. You drink a half a bottle of wine, log in to Amazon (which really should have a breathalyzer app), and you order your cat two insane cat trees because one would clearly be neglectful and then a pound of catnip to make up for the fact that you didn't order three. Then you also buy 81 rolls of toilet paper and a full pallet of paper towels and 3 gallons of Simple Green along with a few dozen other things that were so random, the customs stickers on our packages just said “more weird shit” under Description. Amazon was our Santa this year. On a particularly ridiculous delivery day, two soldiers who happened to be at the mail room at the same time as me had to help me get all the boxes into my car because they wouldn't even fit on the rolling cart.


After hemorrhaging money on gifts to send back home and 3 years worth of soap, we decided that we had been altogether too practical in our rampant spend-a-thon. We needed a Treat Yo Self day. That day would be Christmas Eve, which happened to fall on a Saturday. So clearly we chose to go to one the most notorious shopping areas in the world because when Japan says “jump”, we say “in how many different directions at once and what drugs should we be smoking?”


Our main goal was to go to Kiddyland, which is on Takeshita Dori – an infamous shopping street in Harajuku. They sell everything you would have bought yourself if you were 11 years old and stole your mom's credit card after snorting Pixie Stix. We were looking forward to buying some intricate wooden buildings that you put together like a puzzle, and metal puzzles of trains and Star Wars things. We bought an insane amount of them and even some Shinkansin chopsticks, a flying ball and a drifting RC car because Adults we are. We got on the train heading back home so we could play with toys and torment our cat.


Because I am criminally stupid, I departed the Fujisawa-bound train to get on the Odakyu line towards home and left AN ENTIRE BAG FULL OF EXPENSIVE-ASS TOYS AND PUZZLES on the train. I realized this when we got out of the train station at our home stop and immediately threw myself into traffic to die with honor as my life had clearly careened into complete disrepair.


Considering the Tokyo-area train system moves 10s of millions of people per day on approximately umpteen trains going in frickity different directions, logic would dictate I should write the loss off, go home, and drink away my sorrows. However, I took a Japanese Head-Start class on base when I first arrived here, and the instructor told us - “if you lose something on the train, you will get it back. People don't steal on the trains here. You just have to track it down.” I remembered that, so we went to the information desk at the train station. The station attendant did not speak English, and I just kept repeating “wakarimasen, gommenasai” (I don't understand, I'm sorry) until he got a translator on the phone. After passing it back and forth, it was determined that they would try and find my bag, and if I came back the following day, they would let us know where it was.


I woke up Christmas morning, and instead of scampering downstairs to open presents, I strapped on my boots and walked with Jan to the train station to see if my Christmas presents to myself had been recovered. In Portland, a bag left behind on a MAX train would be long gone before you even knew it was missing. Considering Tokyo has 22x more people than Portland, I was dubious.


We got to the window, and strangely enough the same gentleman was working and recognized me right away. “Bag is at Fujisawa Station. You can pick it up?”


OH. MY. GOD.


I've had many wonderful Christmas mornings full of happiness and glee opening up presents. This was truly unique. I left a bag full of $200 worth of toys unattended on a train with zillions of people boarding on and off on CHRISTMAS EVE, and someone kindly took it to the station and reported it a lost item. On Christmas morning, I literally jumped up and down like a flea on cocaine in the middle of the Sagamihara train station. Running through my head was “OMG OMG OMG I'M GETTING PUZZLES I HAVE TOYS I'M SO EXCITED OMG IT'S CHRISTMAS!”


All it took for me to enjoy the blistering hysteria that I once experienced as a little girl on Christmas morning was to completely fail at life and get bailed out by people who had nothing to gain by helping me. It wasn't even so much about the stuff in the bag – I had mentally already accepted that it was gone, along with the money I spent on it – but about the fact that I live in a country with people who will bend over backwards for a foreigner who doesn't speak the language and is dumb enough to leave a bag on a train, and through a series of phone calls and searches and and English translator, delivered to me my Christmas gifts to myself on Christmas morning.


Christmas away from home and family was challenging. But I can say with sincerity that the kindness of others filled me with just as much glee as a tree surrounded by gifts when I was 5 years old, jumping up and down on my parents' bed.


So this holiday season, pay it forward. The best gifts aren't tangible.


And a special thank you to the staff at the Sagamihara-Odakyu train station. You guys will never read this, but you were my Santa Claus on what might have been a kind of sad Christmas. I award you all the karma.

Fifty-Nine Minutes

Last week, Army beat Navy in a college football match-up for the first time in 14 years. I have not been following college football this year, because the Huskies are doing great and the Ducks are embarrassing and all the games are on at like 2am on Sunday morning. This will be relevant later.


On Friday morning I was at my desk at work, knee-deep in schedules and milestone reports and excited that I was only hours away from another weekend of exploring Tokyo. The loudspeaker crackled and came alive - “Good morning. Please join us in the Fuji Room for the Town Hall at 0900.”


Town Hall meetings occur a couple times a year, when the Commander (your boss's boss's boss's boss) corrals the entire organization into a room and talks about stuff and you laugh at his jokes. Do you remember how excited you used to get when the bell would ring for recess? Imagine the opposite of that, and then add in the fact that you skipped breakfast and you're going to spend the entire next hour of your life mortified that your stomach is going to growl and everyone within a ten foot radius is going to be disgusted with you and shift uncomfortably in their seats and there is not a goddamn granola bar in sight to prevent this horror. That's pretty much what all Town Hall meetings are like.


I begrudgingly got up from my chair – grabbing my sweater which I would fashion around my midsection in an attempt to palliate the booming roar of my growling stomach – and trudged to the Fuji Room. As the Town Hall began, I played Tetris with my mind except the pieces were bags of flour and bottles of dashi and packages of dried mushrooms and I was actually reorganizing my pantry.


Back to footy-footy-football. Around the time my growling stomach registered on the Richter scale and every coworker within a ten foot radius had already uninvited me to the holiday party, I heard a phrase... a phrase which is so rare and so beautiful it doth awaken one from even the torture of being in close quarters with other humans while your body makes noises.


“Something-something Army something something Navy something something FIFTY-NINE MINUTE RULE.”


Fifty-nine minute rule is this elusive mistress who comes around a couple times a year to make you feel naughty. It's basically a paid early release and is utilized by Commanders at their discretion, usually during holidays, to boost morale and give us all a bit of a break. You work one minute of your final hour of work, then you take 59 minutes off. It's a glorious thing, and on Friday I got to enjoy it because Army did sports things harder than Navy sportsted and ultimately was the sportsiest and who cares I got off an hour early HOORAY!


I scooted my happy ass home to my husband and my kitten. Usually on Fridays, we meander up the road to our rockabilly izakaya in Sagamihara. I asked Jan what he felt like doing.


“Well, it's early. Wanna go to Tokyo?”


Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that the above phrase would be casually uttered and easily accomplished. F*&% yeah, I wanna go to Tokyo. Within five minutes we were out the door, walking to the Odakyu station to head to Shinjuku, from which we would walk to the famous Takeshita Dori in Harajuku to do some shopping.


After hopping on the Rapid Express train we reached Shinkuju Station – which is utilized by 3.6 million people PER DAY – and pretended to know where we were going with such commitment that we went the wrong way 13 times and the right way once.


I may have mentioned this in previous posts, but people stare at you here. Japan is 98.5% Japanese, and only 0.6% non-Asian. Considering I have a loud voice and a bellowing laugh and an offensively rumbling stomach, I especially stand out as a gaijin (foreigner) of the highest order. Living in Japan as a white person is like constantly walking around wondering if you have a booger in your nose or if your dress is tucked into your tights.


It underscores all of the latent insecurities of living in a foreign country, and it can start to bring you down a bit if you aren't careful. We decided to assuage this by popping into an Irish bar to drink a Guinness and hopefully shoot the shit with someone who spoke English.


We could not have wandered into a better place. We ordered a couple Jamesons on the rocks and struck up a conversation with the man sitting to my right, and the bartender – who knew each other. Both were from Dublin and spoke in Irish accents so Irish that I almost accused them of faking it but then realized that Irish people don't fuck around so decided not to risk it. The man to my right was drinking a pint before playing the fiddle in an Irish bluegrass performance which was being set up at the front of the bar, and the bartender actually owned the joint and has lived in Tokyo with his Canadian wife for that last 14 years. He went from heavily accented English to flawless Japanese while explaining the menu when a local customer came up to the bar. Whodathunk.


That was all it took to whet our appetite for things that felt like home. On our walk to Harajuku, we passed by the most elusive of establishments.... A MEXICAN RESTAURANT. All of you back in the states, I hate you and curse you to all have seams in your socks that bug your pinky toes because you are SURROUNDED by awesome Mexican food that is cheap as dirt and you don't know how lucky you are. We walked into this restaurant with the intent of getting a couple beers and splitting an appetizer. HA. How adorable we were in our ignorance.


(prices converted to dollars from yen, roughly)


2 Modelo Especials - $18
Chips and Salsa - $9
Our regret – Priceless


Seriously?! In the states, $18 would get you a 24 pack of Modelo. Chips and salsa are free at any restaurant as long as you have the ability to sit. Lesson learned – I am not in Japan to cling to the fading beacon of Mexican food that was so prevalent in my former life. It's time to turn a new leaf, because I could have gotten 16 plates of high quality nigiri for what I paid for a beer and chips.


So, we were 1-1 on attempts at feeling at home. I was starting to think – gasp – that maybe I should acknowledge that Home has been redefined.


There is more to this story – it involves German weiners and IKEA – but it's gotten late and so you'll have to check back tomorrow. Running theme continues – Japan is absolutely awesome.  Oh yeah - and they love their motorcycles here.

Home Is Where Your Kitten Poops

Last week was pretty eventful and a bit emotional. I was wallowing in my pit of homesickness over the Thanksgiving weekend – so much so that I bought a kitten who cost more than my car to make me feel warm and fuzzy – so luckily we finally received our household goods shipment just in time for me to avoid impulsively buying a puppy or shipping myself a paycheck's worth of Stumptown coffee and WSU Cougar Gold cheese. After several hours of three Japanese men unwrapping wine glasses and plates in my kitchen, squeezing my last reupholstery project through the back door, and dropping my husband's expensive-ass computer on the ground, we had a houseful of stuff that came all the way from our home in Portland.


It has started to feel more familiar but as soon as we leave the house we're reminded that we're in completely foreign territory. My smile-and-nod technique when I don't have any idea what someone is saying has resulted in everything from ordering an entire bottle of wine instead of a glass to buying $40 worth of cat food. Our new aforementioned kitten, Gibson, is apparently also struggling to truly acclimate to his new surroundings because he has spent the last week shitting everywhere and going off his titties around the house like a drunk howler monkey after a cocaine bender. 


This weekend, we decided we would man up and instead of traveling everywhere via pre-planned train route, we would get off at a stop and walk about 10 miles to a few different destinations within Tokyo. What better way to acclimate to your new environment? While making a sincere effort to not behave like drunk howler monkeys or shit all over the place, we took off to Shibuya, from which we would walk to Akihabara.

Shibuya is home to one of the busiest railway stations in Tokyo, and the famous Shibuya Crossing. Shibuya Crossing will challenge everything you thought you learned about crossing the road when you were in Kindergarten. It's hard to describe... when I was a kid living in California, my neighborhood friends and I would go all over our cul-de-sac putting roly polies (or “potato bugs” for those who are wrong) into a mayonnaise jar. Then, when we had amassed a great fortune of terrified bugs, we'd dump them all out at once. They would unroll themselves and scatter in a million different directions with absolutely no semblance of order. Shibuya Crossing is a bit like that.


Shibuya Station is also a mega-huge shopping center. Do you want a scarf that costs more than your couch? Well don't you worry about that, they got you covered. An umbrella that looks like a mushroom and has a bottle opener on it? Boy howdy did you come to the right place. Did you just generally want to look at clothes you could never afford on mannequins who are more attractive than you'll ever be? Well then call mammy and pappy and tell them you ain't never coming home, because this place is for you. The views are great to boot.

After narrowly avoiding maxing out a credit card on fuzzy socks and pashminas, we embarked on the long walking journey to Akihabara. On our way, we stumbled upon a farmer's market right on the edge of Shibuya, in front of United Nations University. I've been talking a lot about missing home lately, and this chance encounter was unbelievably fitting.

First of all, that's a guy in a plaid sweatshirt that I thought said “OREGON”, with a dog wearing boots standing in front of a food cart with a sign that says “ORGANIC VEGAN” selling kebabs. No seriously, am I in Portland or am I in Tokyo? I haven't felt this at home since I found a receipt from Bailey's Taproom in my jacket pocket.

We enjoyed a couple of Pilsners which were actually quite delicious, and decided to roam into the inner market that was filled with gifts and clothes and trinkets. And what did I spy with my little eye?

I wanted to shit twice and die with excitement and it took every ounce of self-control (read: every ounce of my lack of mastery of the Japanese language) to avoid telling the cashier, “I'M FROM THERE! THAT'S MY HOME!!” ala Buddy in Elf losing it over knowing Santa.

Seriously, that little bit of home completely warmed my soul. There I was, in this amazing new city on the other side of the world – and I stumble upon merchandise from my home city at a FARMER'S MARKET IN THE MIDDLE OF TOKYO. Where there are also food trucks!!!

Pass me the smelling salts, lest I faint.

Heading through Roppongi, we were reminded that in Tokyo, even Mario has to sit through traffic lights.

After I peeled myself away from that bastion of nostalgia, we passed the Imperial Palace garden area during sunset. I have nothing amusing to say other than it was absolutely beautiful.  I took a million pictures but I'll leave you with these.

We walked a few more miles and ended up in Akihabara, which is sort of like eating a jelly bean that you think is watermelon flavored only to find out it's ghost pepper flavored and also it explodes when you eat it like Pop Rocks and makes your pupils dilate until you start hearing colors and tasting techno beats.

Akihabara is known as the hub for all things anime, gaming, and technology. We ventured through one store that was eight stories of action figures, and the higher you climbed, the more raunchy they became. I did not take pictures because I am a LADY, and such things offend my sensitive nature. Nah really, I just didn't want to look like a perv. Because these figures were straight-up raunchy and made me crave a shower. Boobs are NOT supposed to be 2x the size of a woman's face, and legs don't actually bend like that. Jeez, Japan... calm down, cowboy.

We were so exhausted after 10 hours of walking and exploring that we finally hopped back on the train heading home. Home.. there's that word again.


My grandparents both passed away this year, and my grandmother spend decades turning their home into an absolutely beautiful, crazy, weird, bat-shit nutty but strangely cohesive collection of art, antiques, and everything under the sun that struck her fancy. When you walked into their home, the first thing that greeted you by the front door was this 5 foot tall, bizarre creature with bat wings and a cat face and a fuzzy feathered tutu and giant bedazzled high heels. It was the weirdest thing ever. I loved it. When they passed and we all got an opportunity to choose a couple of pieces that we loved to keep in memory, I laid claim on it.


And I had it shipped to Japan alongside my household goods.

Every time I saw this thing while I was arriving at their home, I knew I was in for a good time – because Grandma and Grandpa's house was ALWAYS a good time. My grandparents' house felt like home because it was weird and crazy and overstimulating and there was too much to look at and so much to do that you just HAD to relax and enjoy it for what it was or you'd never get out alive.


Japan is a bit like that. This adventure is for you, Grandma. You and your bat creature and all the other treasures that instilled in me a sense of adventure and appreciation of everything weird and different. It's serving me well now.  Rest in peace, you beautiful, weird, amazing firecracker.