Naomi Hirahara

>> Chapter five

I pull Jake, my landlord, behind the Japanese folded screen in the back of the offices of Baishakunin, Inc. “Ah, ah—” No words emerge as I gesture towards the voices in the reception area. What do you say when your ex-boyfriend is looking for love at your fledgling dating service?

“Are you choking on something?” Jake asks and I quickly put my hand on his mouth to muzzle him. His full lips feel pretty soft, but that’s not the point right now. What was the point was that Rick, or LakerFan2009, was being questioned on his love ...

>> Chapter four

“Cool. This going to be a soft-porn gig?”

I look incredulously at Kyle Honda. If it weren’t for the tattoos and the two hoop earrings in his ear, he would look like a fresh-faced baby boy. Kyle is getting his bachelor’s degree in filmmaking in USC and is desperate to work for close to nothing to get any kind of credits on his resume. So, in other words, a perfect fit for my new company, Baishakunin, Incorporated.

“What made you think that this job would involve pornography? This is a legitimate high-class match-making company.”

“Oh, over ...

>> Chapter three

It’s been a week and I’ve gone to at least ten garage sales, two 99-cents outlets, and five thrift stores to make the headquarters of my new matchmaking service, Baishakunin, Inc., halfway presentable. My best friend Ginne Lee did her part by lending me all this Japanese stuff she had in storage—shoji screens and Japanese bowls—to make everything look authentic.

The only thing missing is a face—the face of my company. I need a Japanese Mrs. Butterworth, a soft, comforting maternal image that I’ll be first to admit I don’t have ...

>> Chapter two

Ever since I turned 35 (two years ago), everyone has treated me differently. During every holiday dinner, my parents and my younger brother with his wife and two kids look at me pitifully, as if my expiration date has long passed. I’m no longer part of the cool 21-34 crowd on surveys and marathon categories, I’m now part of the 35-44-year-old crowd. Even bag boys call me ma’am and offer to carry my groceries to my car—what are they thinking—that maybe I drive a Super Stock Dodge, the classic Little Ole Lady from ...

>> Chapter one

“You actually don’t look too bad, considering,” says Ginnie as we are seated at La Grande Orange Café, the new restaurant on the bottom floor of the Pasadena condo unit I live in.

Now remember—Ginnie Lee is my best friend and about the nicest person I know in the planet, so for her to say not “too bad” actually meant I was wretched-looking. I finally took a shower this afternoon, after not taking one for three days. I had heard on Oprah or some other kind of TV show that Preparation H did wonders on the ...