Christmas in Japan

Christmas is a time to reflect on the blessings we enjoy and the good we can do. It is a time to remember family and loved ones, to spread goodwill and cheer. It is a reminder of the infinite goodness of God and His Son. As we thought about our favorite Christmas memory, we immediately thought back to a recent Christmas that we spent together—although it is perhaps not our favorite, it is one that we will definitely never forget.

During Christmas of 2004, we were going stir crazy in our tiny apartment in Gifu, Japan. We had been alternately sitting and lying on our single couch while talking to family and friends in the one heated “room” in the house. We decided it was time to get out.

Christmas in Japan is less of a religious holiday, and has instead evolved into a more insubstantial celebration—a celebration of couples. In fact, if you were to visit Japan during Christmas, you may just wonder if you had mistakenly arrived for Valentine’s Day.

As you wander around town, you might see advertisements such as "Couple Dinner" and "Lover Set." Hotels offer special packages for Christmas lovers, which usually includes a discounted price complete with chocolates and some stuffed animals thrown in for good measure. Many couples just went for the gusto and stayed in a hotel that specialized in absolute privacy and anonymity – the love hotel. What were we supposed to do? Well, when in Rome...

--Deep Breath--

We had an overnight bag packed and thought it would be no problem to find a love hotel while walking around Nagoya after a good meal at one of our favorite restaurants in Nagoya – The Outback Steakhouse. The love hotels were easy to spot since they looked like a Vegas casino hotel; neon lights, crazy motif, enormous.

Finding one in the shopping district of Sakae proved to be more difficult than we had anticipated. We tried asking a few people if they knew of love hotels in the area, but as you might guess, most people got very uncomfortable when we mentioned the word. These hotels are notorious for their intended purpose and the Japanese people didn’t like to have open conversations about such private matters. We would try to explain that we are married, this is our first time in Japan, and we'd just like to get a taste of another facet of Japanese culture. If anything, this increased the timidity of our passersby. Clearly, we needed to find another way.

We went to a convenience store and bought a magazine that listed hundreds of restaurants and hotels in the area. We flipped to the section entitled, "Rabu Hoteru." We perused the incredibly variety (even those featuring running streams and live koi in the room) until we found one that we liked and was within our price range. Feeling confident in our selection, we walked over to the nearest taxi stand.

We showed the magazine to the driver, pointed to our top choice and said, "Take us here, please." The driver closed the doors, started the engine, and we were off.

After driving for more than a few minutes, the driver began muttering to himself in the front seat. Most Japanese people talk to themselves, so we didn't think much of it until we realized he was scowling and muttering at the magazine.

"Is it far from here?" Darron asked. He said it was. "How far?" Darron ventured. He told us that it might be another 20 minutes still. The meter was at 1200 yen (about $11.00) and we thought another 20 minutes was doable. And it would have been. Unfortunately, it was to be another 45 minutes before we would leave the taxi. After asking for directions twice and turning around three times the embarrassed driver finally turned off the meter at exactly 4480 yen (around $40.00). The poor guy had no idea what he was getting into when he picked us up.

We drove around for a while longer and even had him call the hotel operator – twice – and on our cell phone, of course. In the end, he happened into a glowing billboard with the name and number of our hotel on it. Bubbling over with excitement at the prospect of finally dumping his foreign customers, he pulled over and let us out.

Just as he pulled away we saw that there was another name on the building that read, "Club Jak." It was not a hotel at all, but a nightclub. The sign above the building was nothing but an advertisement for the hotel we had been looking for. Just as this realization dawned, a bouncer from the club walked over to us with an inquisitive look. Clearly we were not there for the club; who goes to a Nagoya hotspot with their overnight carry-on? The bouncer was friendly enough. We attempted to explain our dilemma in our best Japanese and he pointed across the road.

"It's between five and ten minutes by foot," he said. "Walk to the intersection, turn left, cross the street, walk farther. There will be a bridge..." Then he started waving his hand like a snake slithering through the grass. That's where we stopped understanding him. Darron figured we'd be able to figure it out. He was wrong.

Ten minutes later, we were standing under an overpass looking into an industrial yard. We were lost. We weren't sure whether to follow this industrial road to its end or turn back. After a few minutes' deliberation, we decided to backtrack to where we saw what we thought was a different love hotel. About five minutes later we were there. We didn't exactly know where "there" was, but we weren't in a position to care anymore. It was nearly 10:00 pm, it was cold, and we were sick of walking around foreign streets, in a foreign city, in a foreign country. Near the top of the spire was a large neon sign that read, "Santa Fe." Ah, we could rest at last.

We walked through a curtain that led to an inner parking garage. There was a discreet sign indicating that the front "desk" was to the right and up the stairs. In the entryway, there were a few potted plants, a holiday decoration called "omotchi," and a display board with pictures of rooms on it. The board was reminiscent of a Wendy's drive-thru order board. We looked at it for a moment and then pressed the button nearest the only panel that was still lit, Room 102. The panel darkened and a receipt fell into a nearby slot. What now? The writing on the little slip of paper was in kanji, and our reading ability was still lacking. So, with no staff about, we decided to find Room 102.

As we approached the correct door, we heard voices that belonged to two middle-aged women. Our presence sent them scurrying down the hall, leaving behind a trail of apologies. "Sumimasen." "Gomen neh?" We'd have loved a helping hand, but too quickly the door at the end of the hall pulled shut. Simultaneously, the door of Room 102 opened, and slightly bewildered, we walked in. The door swung close behind us and with a resounding “click,” it automatically locked and sealed our fate.

To our horror, we saw there was no way to open it again, but we gave it a good tug anyway. No luck. We probably would have stood in the genkan nervously laughing for a while longer if the phone hadn't started ringing. Darron darted inside the room and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

What followed was presumably Japanese, but it was fast and incomprehensible. Darron told the woman that he couldn't understand and could she please repeat that. The second time was not much clearer except for the phrase, “10,000 yen.”

"Ichiman yen?" Darron clarified.

Yes, that was definitely correct. After a little more conversation Darron realized he was to deposit 10,000 yen (roughly $95.00) into the canister that was in the box next to the phone. After putting the bill inside the canister, he pushed a nearby black button and it shot up a vacuum tube, like the one at the bank teller’s drive-thru.

As our hysteria began to subside, we were able to explore our room which was decorated in what a Japanese person might think was a “Cowboy-Western” theme. The queen-sized bed was a happy discovery, quite a rarity in Japan. The bed was complete with an electronic panel that brought back memories of Rock Hudson in “Pillow Talk” – with buttons that controlled lighting, music, and the bed itself. There were also windows that would surpass those of Alcatraz: The inside pane was a mirror, followed by three layers of frosted glass. Once all four panes were open, you could finally see outside—through thick metal bars. We began to wonder whether we had checked into a love hotel or a prison.

One of the walls featured a glass-fronted vending machine with beer, juices, ice coffee, teas, and a few other items that should not be described, but are likely exclusive to the love hotel experience. (Yikes.) The bathroom area was traditional – a vanity, toilet room and "ofuro" (a deep, Japanese bathtub with a separate shower in the same room). The sitting room included a turquoise leather couch (in keeping with the “Santa Fe” theme), which faced a flat-screen plasma TV with cable television, video games, and of course, a karaoke machine.

The next morning presented us again with the challenge of getting out of this crazy place. Darron picked up the phone and dialed "9." The operator answered, and it was at this moment that Darron realized he had no way of communicating that we wanted the door to be unlocked. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind, "We finished."

Some more incomprehensible conversation followed, and the operator hung up. We breathed an audible sigh of relief as the door popped open and our bill appeared on the TV screen. 8500 yen for the room, 189 yen for a sports drink, and about 500 yen for some other fee. Whatever. The pneumatic tube sent the canister back with our change.

And we had done it. We had successfully made it through a night at a love hotel. As it turns out, it's lucky that we had arrived so late the previous evening, because prior to 10:00 pm, the fee is calculated hourly (another yikes). A standard overnight fee applies after 10:00 pm, which is about the equivalent of two hours in prime time.

Ironically, getting back was a snap. We rode a bus for 10 minutes, transferred to the subway and rode back to Nagoya station. Oh, if only we’d known it would be only $10.00 and 30 minutes—but instead, we paid $45.00 to be driven around in total confusion until we were finally dumped on the side of the road and locked in a badly-decorated jail cell (at least with karaoke, though!). You live and learn, right?

a

Baptism by Fire at ESP

Baptism by Fire at ESP, by Kristen A. Johnson

To say that working at Electronic Surveillance Programs was a privilege may be a bit of a stretch, but working with one’s siblings certainly was – at the most, it made the day pass quickly with jokes and banter…and at the least, it was always interesting. I think all of us got the special opportunity to work at ESP, and several other family friends were swiftly inducted into the Alley family “inner circle” (think Robert DeNiro from “Meet the Parents”). I can distinctly remember several fist fights, curse words, tears, and yelling – and unfortunately, I don’t think any of it could be blamed on the fact that we worked with misdemeanants and felons. It was truly amazing that any of us survived.

Even more amazing was the fact that Dad didn’t kill us. Or that I didn’t.

It was a very rainy day when I pulled into the dark, dripping parking garage (which also happened to be the lovely setting of seeing my very first drunk urinating on Dad’s champagne-colored Acura). I tromped through the potholed and puddled garage, my gray Adidas’ soaked before even reaching the door of the building. I had blasted the heater during the 20-minute drive from Bountiful High to Salt Lake, trying to dry my icy feet, but my work was quickly undone. Apparently, upkeep of the garage asphalt was not high on the priority list of the building management.

After saying my hellos to those in the front office, I settled into my dreary work in the “back room” of the offices of ESP. Not only did my work require little more than the skills of a monkey, but I am now aware that the work I did was most likely completely unnecessary. I organized, re-organized, re-labeled, and re-filed the sad histories of the men and women who had drifted through ESP (once ESS) for DUIs, possession of illegal substances, and a myriad of other petty (and not so petty) crimes. It was also here that I saw my first full-body (or at least, full-back) tattoo (a beautiful reproduction of the Salt Lake Temple), was propositioned by a doctor to move to Oregon and grow marijuana, drove the misguided man who had taken his son to the mountains and starved him on watermelon and lettuce, and met – in the flesh, from Biblical fame – Potiphar’s daughter.

But on this day, I was actually glad for the windowless comfort of the back room. Because that meant I also had total monopoly of the microwave, and for a genius like me, a microwave and a little creativity was all I needed.

I had already stripped off my soaking socks and was happily watching them rotate through the microwave window when Dad interrupted my self-congratulatory glee. He was leaving to pick up some food for the office, and had come back to see whether I might like something. He threw a puzzled glance at the microwave, wondering whether I had already helped myself to a frozen burrito or a snack from the “on-your-honor” box out front (side note: I think I still owe a couple bucks to that cardboard box, or at least to petty cash).

“I’m microwaving my socks, Dad,” I explained. “Your daughter is a genius, huh.”

I think he mumbled something like, “Yes, very smart” and left with a concerned look on his face.

I shrugged and popped open the door. My socks were in much better shape and almost toasty, but that 30 seconds on high hadn’t quite cut it. And this definitely wouldn’t do – the toes of the socks were still icy cold.

I put them in for another 20 seconds or so (since I’d had no previous experience with the exact science of warming socks, I figured I could keep an eye on them through the window, like popcorn). But not five seconds had passed when blue flame suddenly erupted from the microwave. I snatched the burning socks and rushed down the hall to put them out in the drinking fountain.

I stood there, barefoot, on the cobblestone and contemplated my smoking, blackened socks that were now lying pitifully in the drain. I regretfully slopped them into the nearby garbage can and sighed. Such a good idea, but I had gotten greedy.

I strolled back down the hall, thinking, Phew. That was close.

I had just settled down to filing again when a woman from the adjacent office began screaming, “Fire! Fire!”

I guess I hadn’t counted on the fact that others might smell my error, even if they hadn’t seen it.

Later, as I stood – sockless – on 400 East with the rest of the evacuated employees from the building, I tried to look innocuous and innocent as I arranged my guilty conscience into a look of bland concern. The Salt Lake City Fire Department had been called and was searching the building for the source of the smoke; as there were no roaring flames, they began to allow people to file back into the building. In the muddle of people, the Fire Chief had been trying to locate the occupants of our suite and had been pointed in our direction.

“Sir,” the Chief addressed Brandon, “is this your office? The source of the smoke seems to have originated from your supply room. Was anyone using the microwave recently?”

Brandon looked over at me. “Kristen, you were back there. Were you using the microwave?”

“Uh, no. Uh-uh.” I mumbled, shaking my head.

“Are you sure? I thought I heard the microwave going…” Brandon began.

“No, no,” I interrupted, “not that I know of.”

The fire chief led us back to the supply room where his crew had already begun taking down the ceiling tiles.

“They say it’s not the microwave,” he said to the room.

“What’s going on here?”

Oh, heck. I’d forgotten about the one witness to my ridiculous crime – Dad, just now returning from picking up lunch was understandably concerned about the firemen milling about his offices.

“Someone reported smelling smoke, and we believe it originated in this room. Was someone using the microwave?”

Dad shot a piercing look at me. I smiled weakly and tried to subtly shake my head.

“Well,” Dad said, his eyes still boring into mine, “if no one said they were using the microwave, then I guess not.”

“Too bad,” the chief sighed. “I guess we’ll have to take the rest of the ceiling down.”

An hour later, the fire chief poked his head into the front office – where I had gone to avoid watching their wasted efforts – to report that it must have been a faulty ballast in the ceiling, and it had to be replaced. Oh, and by the way, he was also pretty sure that the microwave was defective and it ought to be thrown away – for safety’s sake.

And perhaps I ought to stay in the front offices, I added mentally, for safety’s sake.

The Storm Trooper

The Storm Trooper, by Kristen A. Johnson

Most families have something that binds them together—for some, it’s an insane love of backpacking, or an annual trip to Disneyland or Hawaii (the Gasser family comes to mind), but for the Alley family, I would unhesitatingly say it’s cars. No matter if it had been a lean year, and therefore no family vacations were imminent, or whether the family was geographically separated, the uniting factor that brought us all back together again would be—cars.

This has been apparent since I was a young girl and could say casually to any one of my brothers, “Wow, that’s a cool car.” To which they could reply, “Well, yes, that’s a 1992, 160 horse-power, 2.6 liter V-6 Acura Legend.” Or maybe, “No, Kristen, that is a crappy 2000 Ford Mustang, and it’s an automatic.” These little chats helped shape my car knowledge and attitudes and henceforth, I could sneeringly look down not only on cruddy Mustangs, but also on Hyundais, silly Kias and laughable Amigos, or even American-made cars (being much less reliable than Japanese cars, according to my brothers). I even remarked knowingly to friends when playing “M.A.S.H.” in junior high that even though a Jaguar might look like a desirable luxury car, they really weren’t worth the upkeep and expensive repairs.

The fact that cars have been and always will be an underlying motto of our family is also evident in the stories we tell (Dad, for instance, is notorious for blowing up cars, running them out of gas, or driving them until his very life is in danger) and the overall family persona we project. I remember telling several nervous boyfriends that cars were a very safe and smart subject to discuss with my brothers, providing they knew something intelligible about cars, and even Rob Nelson, while lacking in other areas, scored high points with the brothers when he picked me up in a different car on five different occasions. (Unfortunately, this tantalizing detail about Rob ended in a very disappointing conversation when I could not describe the year, model, or even make of the several cars that resided in the Nelson’s airplane hangar in West Bountiful).

And to this day, Darron and I like to laugh about Marc’s good intention to extend the olive branch to the Johnson family. Upon meeting Darron’s dad for the first time, Marc discovered Kevin’s new Dodge Ram (with a hemi!) and immediately launched into a lengthy conversation that included explicit questions and happy exclamations. Kevin, meanwhile, remained quietly reserved and pleasant throughout the conversation only to say later in a bewildered voice to Darron, “Wow. That guy knew way more about that truck than I did. I didn’t think it was possible to talk about a truck for that long.”

And a response to, “Where are the boys?” will typically be answered by an eye-roll and “They’re talking about cars.” Ah. ‘Nuff said.

Perhaps the binding “car factor” is no more apparent than in the hereditary-like tradition of lovingly handing down cars that have endured the cheerful beating of several Alleys. The black Mazda 323 comes to mind – a car that was driven by Ben, Brandon and Megan before being passed to me. Though it was old and showing some noticeable wear, that car held a deep and soft spot in my heart after steadfastly trudging up Mill Street in high snow (passing several of my friends’ SUVs that were stuck or even turned over on the side of the road due to ridiculously jacked-up tires). It also became dubbed the “BM,” which stood for “burnt marshmallow” – a friendly gesture by some high school girlfriends whose cars already formed a s’more (Addi drove the “Graham,” Michelle drove the “Marshmellow” and Christine drove the “Chocolate”). I also have fond memories of playing “find-my-car” several times when the football team decided to move the relatively light Mazda across the parking lot.

But the car that really touched my heart—and undoubtedly all of yours too—would be the trusty Toyota Corolla.

I believe the Corolla came into our family through Dixie Wilcox as a “safe and reliable” replacement car for Mom, but seemed to pass quickly through the drivers in the family (I remember at least Dad and Megan) to me. I’m unsure how I even had the time to drive so many of the family cars throughout high school (the Mazda 323, the Acura Legend, and the Toyota Corolla), but somehow the Corolla made a long and lasting impression in my driving career.

Though I was of course grateful to even have a car, I was slightly embarrassed by driving this weird-looking car that was an obvious station wagon, but had been modernized by chopping off the back end for a very futuristic effect. I don’t remember who first said it, but the white plastic-looking body and dark-tinted windows made it a dead-ringer for the storm troopers in Star Wars, and the name stuck. This made driving the car much cooler, and only slightly inconvenient when I might yell out, “I’m taking the Trooper!” and Mom might yell back, “Oh, NO, you’re not!” thinking I was referring to the Isuzu Trooper. “C’mon, Mom, the Storm Trooper, of course!”

Even the major drawback of the car being an automatic—the first car I drove, in fact, that was not a manual—was more than made up for by the hours of fun derived from the “All-Trac.” This feature must’ve been a real breakthrough for Toyota, since they proudly proclaimed all over the body of the car and interior that this was not just a Toyota Corolla—oh no. This was an All-Trac Toyota Corolla. This meant, simply, that there was a little button (labeled, of course, “All-Trac”) on the dashboard that you could push and SHA-ZAM! You had four-wheel power! The only detectable change for the driver (or any of the passengers, for that matter) was a tiny green light that glowed confidently—reminding you, that yes, you were now using the power of All-Trac.

This seemed to be such an obvious psychological ploy to me and my friends that we began to make jokes about it—“Hey, do you want to go four-wheeling?” “Well, we do have All-Trac…” and even, “Hey, isn’t it supposed to snow, like, ten feet tomorrow?” “Oh, but we do have All-Trac…”

This became so common that we even began to dupe other friends into believing that All-Trac was truly something to be experienced. On one memorable occasion, my friend, Addi, and I drove a slightly slow, but otherwise very nice, boy home. He, like many other Toyota Corolla virgins, was highly curious about the All-Trac button and asked if we could try it. Addi raised an eyebrow and said in her most serious tone, “Are you sure?” “Yeah,” I added, “it can be a little dangerous.” “What do you mean?” our victim had asked. “Well,” I said, “do you see that concrete barrier over there? When we turn All-Trac on, we can drive over stuff like that. So, we normally wear helmets and knee-pads.” Luckily for our passenger, we just so happened to have a helmet and knee-pads in the car from some “extreme walking” stunts some friends had been pulling in an earlier school assembly.

He eyed the helmet dubiously. “Well, don’t you guys need one too, then?” “Oh no,” Addi quickly rejoined, “we do this all the time, so we’re used to it.” Addi and I bravely braced ourselves against the dashboard as I counted down to pushing the button. As you can guess, we didn’t drive over any concrete barriers that day, but we did get a boy to put on a helmet and to feel a little bit of fear and respect for the All-Trac.

The car went from being a laughing-stock to a curse when I begrudgingly drove up to Cody, Wyoming with Dad to pick up the Corolla after Megan had suffered a back-injury while cliff-jumping. Again, I should’ve been more grateful since the caveat was that if I helped drive the car home, I could just have the car—the other caveat being that I had to fix it first. This seemed like a pretty good deal, and I wasn’t actually cursing until I had been driving several miles with slick, black sludge dripping down from the steering column onto my flip-flop-shod foot.

But, fix the car I did, and the Storm Trooper became an indelible part of my life—and my dowry—when I married Darron and we came out to find the car decorated with marshmallow hearts and lips, and white shoe-polish writing declaring us, “Mr. and Mrs. Kristen Alley” (and one lovely phrase earned us a lot of attention, “Honk if you’re horny!” …thanks, Morgan) that is now captured forever in photographs of our wedding day.

That car took us through college, early marriage, and my daily drives from our Provo apartment to my teaching internship at Spanish Fork Middle School. That car also safely took me to the hospital on several occasions, screaming in pain with my first kidney stone. After one of these unwelcome jaunts to the emergency room, Darron brought me home, sedated with heavy pain medication, and lovingly tucked me into bed and otherwise nursed me. It was not until morning that I had the horrible realization that I had left my entire ring of keys, including the obviously large Toyota car-key, within plain sight in the middle console…of an unlocked car.

Living in the southside of town, where a perfect blend of rednecks with big trucks and people with no cars nor money resided, we walked with sinking hearts to the parking lot adjacent our apartment, expecting a stolen car and no thanks. To our shock, wonder, and surprise, the trusty Storm Trooper sat there vigilantly—the car had been ransacked—the coin trays were emptied, a half-used checkbook was gone, the glove box was a chaos of old ketchup packets, napkins and U2 mix tapes (why those weren’t taken, I can’t fathom), and the complete ring of keys had been taken—but the car was apparently not worth the trouble.

They obviously didn’t know about the All-Trac.

*******************************************

Epilogue of the Storm Trooper:

The car continued to run for several more years, and was finally sold—in great condition—to Kari and Matt Key, which they drove around Oregon with our license plates for several more years after that.

The locks on our Provo apartment were immediately replaced after the theft.

Hell

Hell.

by Kristen A. Johnson

Christmas Memory 2009

During my senior year of high school, after reading Dante's Inferno in my A.P. English class, we were asked to write a brief essay about our own definition of hell. I wrote the following description of what it was like to move from our Fawn Lane house to the condo in High Pointe.

*******

Hell. Dante attempted to describe it in his dramatic "Inferno." Webster's tried to explain it as "...the place where fallen angels, devils, etc. live and to which sinners and unbelievers go after death for torment and punishment." Neither man even came close, although I do believe Webster was inspired when he wrote, "...As profanity, hell is variously and extensively used as an interjection expressing irritation, anger, etc. as in 'oh, hell!'" I should know. I've been there.

In layman's terms, one would call it "moving," but anyone who has actually done it knows better. It all began when the one-fourth of my family (my sister) decided to take a convenient "Study Abroad trip" to Israel (vacation) precisely at the time we were preparing to move from our home of seventeen years. At the time, I did not apprehend her little scheme, although in retrospect I can only kick myself when I recall our last conversation.

"Oh, it's so nice of you guys to pack up everything without me! ...And will you be sure to pack up my room with care, and don't throw anything away so I can find stuff when I get back?"

To which I innocently replied, "Oh sure. Have a good time, don't worry about it. I'm totally happy to pack up your room, it's no big deal. We'll be fine."

I wasn't fine. It was, without a doubt, the worst hell I have ever experienced. At first, it wasn't that bad. I began with her room and threw everything into a large box. Then, I decided this wasn't the loving, sisterly thing to do. So I did a better job--one might call it an "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder" job. I took out every tiny paper out of her desk and closet, arranging pictures, movie stubs, concert stubs, programs, and pieces of scrap paper into their own little same-size piles and paper-clipped or rubber-banded everything together in nice, neat, little stacks. EVERYTHING was in neat little stacks. In the beginning, anyway.

I labeled each box with a three-page description of what it contained:

"Megan's Room.

Closet.

Dresser Drawer. Drawer #3.

Belts, Socks, One Bra, White Underwear, Silk Pajamas, Flannel Pajamas..."

And it went on from there in English, Arabic, and Braille so that even the low-I.Q. hired muscles could understand. But the days went on.

One day, when my hundred-year old parents could not possibly take it any longer, I took it upon myself to lift the boxes from eh basement of the old house. Huge, heavy boxes that weighed an approximate three tons each. They were all labeled something like, "Water Supply for the Millennium, " "Wheat for the Entire Alley Family for a Year...With Some to Spare for the Rest of Davis County, " "Lead Bricks," "Garden Rocks," and the like. I memorized every stain on those basement stairs and for entertainment, I began to count the number of dead centipedes, fly guts, and wasp wings while I was on my way up for the three-hundredth time. It was fun. I was there from 6:00 am until 11:00 at night. I didn't eat. Or sit down. Or get a drink. I just kept going. I sprained my wrist for the second time and began to notice an insistent pain in my right calf which felt like caner, although Mother generously suggested that it may only be a deep varicose vein--the fulfillment of every seventeen-year old's dream, and the sign of a real woman. But that's when we ran out of boxes.

As the recycled boxes made their third round, I began to notice the labels that detailed our move in chronological order. The first label read, "FRAGILE. Blue and White Plates, Lovingly Caressed and Sweetly Spoken to Just Before Begin Carefully Wrapped in Paper, and Packed in Alphabetical Order by Plate Designer. Please Place in New Kitchen and Carefully--! Tiptoe on the Way Out."

It was crossed out and replaced by a second label that read, "Clothes. Kristen's Bedroom." This too, was crossed out, and replaced by several violent slashings of a pen that translated to something like, "#@$*! Stuff! GET ME OUT OF THIS HELL!" The rest being illegible due to smeared tear stains. We finally came to the point where we had to enlist the help of a '52 puke-green Ford, lovingly christened "The Booger." This, however, did cause some confusion when our neighbor rushed over and excitedly asked if he could have a part in the remake of "The Grapes of Wrath" which he evidently believed was being filmed at our home. Neighborhood relations continued to hit an all-time low when we mistook his comment about "White Trash" as an offer to help with some of the stuff in our garage.

The moving part did end, however, and we came to realize the new task that lay ahead of us. This is what is referred to in the Bible as "the lake of fiery brimstone and endless torment," or in layman's terms, decorating. Mother wanted to start with my new room, of course, after finding that 2,500 square feet of furniture does not fit in a 1,700 square-foot condo.

"Okay, so we've got the queen-sized bed, your ten-foot desk, hmmmm...you're going to need that twenty-foot tall bookcase, that huge chest of drawers...oh, and you might want that couch in your room, too, right? And how about a hutch cupboard or two? You can't get enough of them, really."

All I could think was that maybe she wouldn't be getting upset about my friends sitting on my 100-year old quilt anymore, because the thirty-foot couch should about seat them all. And for a special addition to that, I became the proud new owner of every stuffed animal in the United States that perched mockingly upon every possible surface. Talk about lions, tigers, and bears...oh my. Ah well, there goes my big, spacious room.

But we don't even realize we're different. I didn't even blink when Mother asked me to put the flour away where it belonged--on the top shelf of the upstairs bathroom cupboard. Nor was I surprised to find her bra in the fridge next to the condiments. And when she asked for my opinion on what to put on the walls of our living room, I told her, "Padding. Definitely padding."