The Katakana Challenge

Yeah. It was probably not a good idea to try to learn Katakana while I was on a diet. 

Recently I enrolled in an intensive Japanese language school. My first goal as a student is to finally master Katakana, one of the Japanese writing systems.

How hard can Katakana be really? I can do this, right? I have memorized my childrens' social security numbers. Mostly. I have memorized all our computer passwords. I have memorized cell phone numbers from two countries that we live in. I have memorized the secret chocolate and mint bar recipe from my husband's family. I've memorized song lyrics, packing tips, moving lists and spelling hints like "i before E except after C." I know how to remember the planets in order: My Very Educated Mother Just Saw Uncle Nick (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune).

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I can't do this.

It seems that my brain is full of social security numbers, passwords, phone numbers, song lyrics,  chocolate recipes and planets.

"Now, remember," my sensei reminded me. "This is basic Katakana. But there are additional Katakana sounds.  This little dot here above the syllable turns the H sound into a P.  Ha Hi Hu He Ho is now Pa Pi Pu Pe Po. And these short lines turn the K sound to a G sound. The T sound to a D sound. The H sound to a B sound..."

Can I do this? Can I do this? Can I do this?

I have to do this.  My first Japanese language "test" is coming up and I really want to pass.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

So today is my "practice test" to see how well I can read Katakana without looking at my workbook and to see if I can successfully read a menu and place an order in Japanese.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. 

During LBK (Life before Katakana), when I was looking for something to order, like a salad for instance, I would literally look for salad. I would look on menus for pictures of salad and then point at it and then point at myself. Or, I would look for plastic replicas of salads in the restaurant display case and then point to it and then point to myself. Or, I would wait for another customer to order salad and then point to their salad and point to myself. Or, I admit, during LBK I have had to pantomime a salad. And, believe me, it is really hard to pantomime lettuce and carrots. Usually in my awkward pantomime communication panic, I would pantomime being a rabbit. Unfortunately, that usually ended up with the waiter pointing me in the direction of the nearest pet shop.

But now, I am experiencing LAK (Life After Katakana) which means I can read and understand some of written Japanese. I now know that salad in Katakana is  サラダ. I can read it and I can order it. LAK means no more hopping around and twitching my nose for carrot sticks.

But for some reason today I can't find and read any menus that have healthy sarada.  For some reason, the only menus I can read have high calorie Katakana words. I am surrounded by menus with ケキ cake  and 　クーキ　cookie and  デザト  dessert and  アイス　クリム　ice cream.

I guess that's it. I guess the only way to improve my Japanese skills is to speak what I currently know. Apparently, right now, I only know how to order cake. Looks like I will be eating a lot of cake.
Looks like I will be wearing my elastic-waist band Thanksgiving pants a little bit longer.

And, that is when I saw it. Actually, that is when I read it. I just turned my head the next display over and saw another Katakana word that I could read.

スパンクス

Su-pa-n-ku-su.

I pronounced it again. Su-pa-n-ku-su. What is it? What does this sign say?

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I read it a little faster.
Spa-n-k-s. Spanks. Spanks? What does that mean?

Oh my.

I got it now: Spanx ®! The slimming...shapely layering...piece. 

Is it just coincidental that the only things I can read in Japanese are sweets and Spanx?

"Kore o futatsu to kore o futatsu chuumon shitte kudasai," I ordered confidently.  Two of those, I asked as I pointed to the cake, and two of those I asked as I pointed to the Spanx. Please.

(Yeah, I admit. I need to work on my number quantities. Right now I only know how to order two of something.)

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. 

And I did it.

I proudly ate my cake while wearing my Spanx. OK, I did feel pangs of guilt--unless that is the slimming/hugging feeling, but I was actually very proud of myself that I read AND ordered in  Japanese.

Besides, I had followed my teacher's advice when she sent me on this Katakana practice test mission.  She told me "GANBATTE KUDASAI.  DEMO MURISHINAI DE KUDASAI."
(Hang in there/Do your best, but don't do the impossible).

I believe that just might be my new motto.

A (Rainy) Monday Morning Musing

“That is it! That is it! That is it!” I said with frustration to myself as I stared at my empty umbrella stand. “I am NEVER buying an umbrella in Tokyo again.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love umbrellas. In fact, I have a collection of umbrellas.  That is, I had a collection of umbrellas.

Before moving to Japan, I did not own an umbrella. In fact, even as a child in America, I did not have an umbrella. I did have a rain jacket and a plastic sandwich bag that I would rubber band around my ankles to keep my shoes dry. I’m not sure if it was the family budget or the fad, but every rainy school day, my siblings and I would eat french toast with a side of toast for breakfast and then slip our shoes into our Wonder Bread sandwich bag booties for our walk to school.

As an adult, for whatever reason, I did not have a umbrella either. Instead, on a drizzly days, my colleagues and neighbors turned to the national news. The rainy day strategy was simple: just hold a thick paper over your head and briskly run to the nearest office. When my colleagues and I arrived at work, we looked wet, but also eager, ambitiously out-of-breath and well-read.

In Tokyo, however, kasas rule. So, overtime, I collected a vast array of umbrellas: black, blue, striped, dotted, clear, collapsible, automatic, clear, expensive, inexpensive, clear. But, one by one, my umbrellas disappeared. My sons continually misplaced the umbrellas.
“I left it at school, Mom,” said son 1
“I left it on the field,” said son 2.
“Lft @ *$,” texted son 3. “BTW whatz 4 dinna?” (By the way, *$ means Starbucks. Yes, I admit it. I had to look it up).

My umbrellas were everywhere and anywhere except at home.

“That is it! That is it! That is it!” I said with frustration as I stared at my empty umbrella stand. “I am never buying an umbrella for those boys again.”

Instead, I decided that I would teach my careless sons a lesson. It would be a day of reckoning and they would be contrite. They would be more responsible. They would be careful.

I did not replace the lost umbrellas. Instead I bought a few new umbrellas that only their mother would love: pretty, frilly umbrellas decorated with adorable kittens and precious baby pandas. We’re not talking kawaii desu. We’re talking super kawaii desu.


“Where are the boys?” I asked my husband one rainy weekday morning.
“They already left,” he said.
“I bet they learned their lesson,” I reflected as I watched the storm. “They are probably feeling upset about now.”
“Upset?,” my husband said. “Actually they were feeling pretty good.”
“Feeling upset about showing up to the game soaking wet,” I clarified. “You know because they didn't have an umbrella because they keep losing them.”
“Oh,” my husband commented. “They had umbrellas. They grabbed those new wildlife-themed ones.”
What the what?
“I never had a chance to say goodbye,” I said wistfully as I stared out the window
“To our boys?” my husband asked. “Its okay. You will see them again at 5 PM.”
“No,” I said. “To my new umbrellas. I will never see them again.”


Oh, a lesson was learned alright. It was a day of reckoning alright. In Tokyo, my sons want the newest igadget and headphones, but they do not pay attention to accessories. A rainy day is not a day to be picky.

So, from one parent to another, if you happen to find a super kawaii baby panda umbrella, please return it to me.

I will be the one standing in the rain wearing my sandwich bag booties.