Underestimated...

Being underestimated... is that the idea of being of less value than you perceive yourself to be or it is being valued less by others than what the market price is for someone like you. I may be a bargain shopper but some things are worth the extra money.

Wrestling with My Past...

And one night you are on the 5th floor of a 10 story building on the busy Kokusai Street in downtown Naha, Japan standing 20 feet from the squared circle of a wrestling ring, sweating drinking a Cherry Chu-Hi. Wondering, how in the hell did I get here? And who is this Habu Man you speak of?

First, let me explain, I am a fan. 7:05pm Sunday, channel TBS, you could catch me on any given Sunday night from 1981-1985 watching the WWF on the tube with my Dad. We would dine on my favorite meal of fish sticks and apple dumplings (cooked in the convention oven) while we would get lost in the pivotal relationships of good guys: Ted Dibiase and the Junk Yard Dog, versus the fire haired Fabulous Freebirds and their fearless toe head Ric Flair. I would watch with baited breath, because back in the 1980's you know it was real ya'll. Gordon Solie was king and the piledriver could send someone to the hospital. Really, the H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L.

Over the last 30 years (yikes) my love of wrestling may have waned but here I am again in 2012, Okinawa Japan, 7:05pm on a Saturday night, enjoying flying drop kicks and slingshot catapults. I am standing in the sixth row (the last row) of the Okinawa Pro Wrestling stadium screaming in Japanese, for Habu Man (who I get the feeling has been watching lost Freebird tapes) as he whips his opponent with the snake tail that shoots from the top of his mask and hangs down to his knees. Mongoose man's chest is bright red from the markings of the Habu's tail and all I keep thinking to myself is, first what do these guys look like under their masks (are they even Japanese?, I swear I heard someone speaking in with an Aussie accent). And how long will it take for Habu Man to get the three count, because he is definitely NOT going to lose his MWF Nacho Libre belt tonight, we could not be so lucky. My knowledge of wrestling...no matter how many back flips the Mongoose Man served up, that belt was going back to Habu Man--whatever he looked like under his mask.

Life is crazy, you never know where it is going to take you. Things just don't happen, if you want something marvelous you've got to make something marvelous. My marvelous was not only reliving a part of my past but embracing my future and its randomness. Before I left the arena I walked up to Habu Man (someone had brought him an Orion Beer) as he rested I cheered him with my Chu-Hi,
"Kampai."

Seriously, Why Can't I?

When in Rome...

This morning I slowly scuffed my way to the kitchen, trying to fight my self-induced Nyquil hangover, and turned on my Keurig for a cup of hot joe. I open the silverware drawer to grab a spoon...

To find that we now have a SEPARATE slot in our cutlery organizer for...

CHOPSTICKS???

When did this happen? How long was I out? Yes, sure chopsticks, we use them sporadically for our Ramen, Sushi and Cheese uses them for her cereal every now and again (don't ask). But have they really reached their highest potential in our household after only being in Japan for six months, thus earning them their own coveted slot? I'll have to say, they are going up along the likes of some weighty competitors. I mean, I personally would really be pissed if I was a hors d oeuvres fork, or a finely sharpened steak knife. They have been waiting patiently to get out of the "catch all" slot along with the garlic crusher, numerous salad fork/spoon sets and the random wooden spoon that drops in every now and again.
But since I no longer empty the dishwasher, WINNING!!! I guess I can't hate the player.

Or the game, "So When in Rome..."

Live in the Moment

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. Buddha

Because I Try...

So I am going on week two of feeling mis-er-able. Let's just say that Cholraseptic is my bitch and I am seriously considering constructing a pleather leopard tool belt/ medicine holder /fanny pack to wear about my waist, because, fuck it, why bother anyway. Hey there is nothing more convenient a roll of toilet paper secured to your waist. And it just-keeps-getting-better because when I woke up this morning and my left eye was glued shut. If that doesn't buy me a one-way ticket to Snotville, USA than I don't know what does. I am DONE!

So as you can see this weekend was a bust as was last week and I am going on day eight of a "wouldn't wish this on my worse enemy sickness." And although I tried to get out of the house, sporting the "mind over matter" mantra in my head, the overwhelming urge to sit on my couch and watch the same episode of Housewives of Beverly Hills again and again takes over.

At about 4 o'clock on Sunday after a completely busted weekend, Cheese comes to me and asks for a bike ride, the same bike ride I have promised all week, the one where we ride down to Starbucks and share a hot chocolate maybe a piece of cheesecake. Of course, a bike ride being one of the last things I want to do, I ask what her second best thing she could do today would be. She says she would like to go to the store and buy some canned spray cheese.

So I do what any sick, lazy and overly guilty mom would do on a Sunday afternoon, I take her to buy cheese in a can along with a rotisserie chicken for dinner and my third bottle of Nyquil.

Anyway, on our way to the car after purchasing the loot, Cheese skipping the entire time (I swear you would have thought I bought her a new kitten) she opens the can and proceeds to shoots a three inch glob of processed cheese all over my Coach purse.

Cheese-1 Mom-0