The First Ambiguous Rays 01/26/2009
 Last Wednesday, the storm passed. We finally took the magazine to print. This current company I am working for has the particular tradition of printing out the first draft in color and then laying it out on our conference table so that the entire team can scrutinize and practice their opinions. This was started by the previous Managing Editor, who didn’t know how to run a magazine anymore than his grim turtle face knew how to smile, but has since been promoted to Chief Editor, which just means he signs off on everything I do. I see him as sort of an antique decoration, maybe one of those tea-stained doilies, awful but permanent, since it was handed down by so-and-so’s great aunt Mildred, just there for the sake of tradition – shabby, stained, banal tradition. Many Chinese workplaces are this way: everything must go through a procedure, carefully guarded by the King of Procedure himself, crowned with the responsibility of reinforcing procedure because, well, it’s procedure. Keeps my head awhirl, anyway. Two problems with this tradition: 1) the entire team likes to comment on the magazine as if they are the designers themselves. However, none of them have the expertise to make this kind of judgment call. Plus, the Art Director and I have set standards, reading systems, fonts, sizes, spaces, and things don’t just change because some staff member didn’t like the spacing in line three, 2) It wastes a LOT of time. I’m the Managing Editor and Creative Director, therefore it is my job to take the “book” and make the final editions. But in an illogical, ironic twist that seems to frequent certain facets of Chinese companies, the reviewing process has become all too democratic in this otherwise communist regime. In order to retain some ounce of sanity, I have since given into the procedures that have laden this supposedly expat rag with a nice sharp, Chinese edge. But despite my hemming and hawing, giving in a little has made my job miles easier. Why fight the fight just to fight? A little forced inefficiency here and there can’t hurt that much; it’s certainly better than insisting on my way or the highway, then getting the boot because the cars they provided on my highway were all lemons. Needless to say – with my attitude adjustment, and finally, the print out of the first issue, Mr. Boss was tres pleased. Chief Dick didn’t say too much either, which is a good sign. So, after months of banging my head against the wall, and weeks of blogging about pain of the anal sort, I won the war. We even closed the deal with an evening out, gorging ourselves on baijiu (Chinese tequila – bottoms up! x10) and a banquet spinning in front of us on a giant, whirling, lazy Susan holding the girth of a baby Redwood. * It’s already been five days since the passing of the storm, but it’s taken me that long to recuperate from the aftermath, a serene period of blue skies and unbelievable nothingness spouting out of bosses’ mouths. And yet, after the rush of succeeding in something I’m good at, a moment when I felt like I could be the Managing Editor of this magazine forever, my mind was jolted with the flashback of a few weeks ago, when the very same people who praised me held my neck to the wire, fingers pointing, ready to make me the scapegoat. It isn't my bosses’ ability to blame and praise at the blink of an eye that bothers me. Rather, it is the realization this so called happiness is split in two, each with a tiny string that can be pulled until the rush is unraveled into nothing but a pile of caution and query. What I mean is this. It seems like a lot of people tend to mix up what they are good at with what they like doing. It might be true that one can be the other, but this is not always the case. Being a passionate artist may not get next month’s rent in on time; playing accountant may just kill the libido; whatever the excuse, there are plenty of real life reasons that have a way of subtly convincing people that success always equals what you should be doing, and therefore if you succeed at something, that something is what defines your happiness. This happiness, split in two: each side is separate with its own characteristics, though if we’re lucky, not always separate in form. As already established before, the first kind comes from being good at something, and the second kind comes from somewhere deeper, a place where love, passion, yearning, motivation and tenacity are born. It seems like the latter type of happiness is the one that is idealized, the one we think we should all be seeking. And yet, when it comes time to choose a career path or a role in life, our happy-nometer starts to go in circles. Take this magazine for example. After printing the first draft, happy boss=happy Jenny. My mood couldn’t have been further from several weeks ago, when I was near hyperventilation at my desk, ready to pack up and leave town. Because of the current and successful situation, my mind actually sees a future I can mold. But I am at unrest, because I can’t figure out if my happiness is due to the fact that I got a pat on the head for hard work on a product I am good at creating, or because I actually enjoy what I am doing. Too many people my age struggle to find their paths, torn between what they think they can survive on as a day job-possibly-turned-successful-career, and the love for a life that stems from the depths of their souls. This is worth thinking about because if the right choice isn’t made, one can end up bored and successful or passionate and poor – either leading to ultimate unhappiness. Anyway, I don’t have the answer. I figure I should just use what I’m good at to catapult myself into doing what I love, and maybe somewhere along the way, I’ll end up balanced. But I’m probably babbling, at best. 2 Comments Changing my attiturd 01/13/2009
I forever feel like I’m explaining my lack of blog updates. This time was due to work. Hence the butt-raping post earlier. I’m serious. It’s no laughing matter. Work has inserted the beads and RRRRRRRRRRRRRIPPED THEM OUT. B Gone 01/05/2009
Here is something I wrote last night, but didn’t post. Boxes Be Gone 12/18/2008
In honor of Jameson’s departure, I am holding a Winter Spring Cleaning. He was right (damn). I have SO much stuff. Not like I didn’t know that before, but now those boxes sitting in my living room are just starting to irritate me. Because they’re there, and because I have no idea where to put what’s in them. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to because I would know that there would be purposeful pockets of space everywhere in my apartment that I forced stuff into. Personal things should fit intuitively into a living space; there is a given place for everything, and I just don’t have enough surface in my figurative, intuitive counters and drawers and shelves and closets and corners. Holidays= 12/16/2008
 Since high school, a time spent frolicking within circles of rich Daddy’s brats, closeted lesbians (it was an all-girls’ boarding school a step, hop and skip away from Wellesley College; let’s honor the cliché) and minorities on student aid (me), the holiday season always meant that I would be away from someone or something. Counting down the days until Christmas, my roommates and I would try to salvage as much holiday togetherness as we could, before packing our bags and going separate ways for the coming of the New Year. I would fly 1.5 hours south to Maryland and make gingerbread houses with my mom while my step dad wrestled our giant, surprisingly resilient, fake Christmas tree. College was no different, except then I drove 13 hours north from Nashville, in my Ford Escape, speeding through ice patches and stealthily pausing in front of poorly hidden police cars.  We rented a hotel suite where the evening’s catalyst was a hearty game of Cranium, Smirnoff-style. After a few sophisticated rounds of plastic cup booze and test-tube Jello shots, the ladies flitted into the bedroom to deck themselves out, at which point the gentlemen decided that Cranium would be much more fun if a shot was taken every time the board game timer went off. And in this new version, the timer happened to go off just about every 30 seconds. Sigh. Boys and their suspicious ideas. Somewhere between copious amounts of alcohol and rowdy testosterone bonding, insert: Debacle #1: Jail Bait Feels Lonely By the time we ladies were finally ready to reveal our painted faces and New Year’s Eve cleavage, drunken Jail Bait had already worked himself into a tizzy, melodramatically complaining that the only people he knew (me and Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions) had left him alone with strangers and why wasn’t Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions paying attention to him. Complaints led to intense conversations between the latter and a quick kiss and make-up. Five minutes later, Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions and I were snapping pictures and chatting on the balcony when all of a sudden, a pair of jeans wooshed by us, tumbling into the dark depths of the parking lot below. I turned to look back through the balcony doors when a makeup bag attacked my left eye before jumping to its death with flying pants. My attacked eye started spouting tears, and I ran to B, blubbering, who then reacted with a “I’m going to punch that asshole” only to be held back by sobbing-for-no-reason-it-didn’t-even-hurt-that-much-me. At which point, Jail Bait and Girl-of-Amazo . . . let’s call her GOAP from now on, shall we? Much easier. At which point, Jail Bait and GOAP started yelling at each other, followed by Jail Bait throwing and breaking lamps and denting the door of the bedroom B and I paid for. By now, we sane group members were fighting to get in the bedroom, which had since been locked by Jail Bait, to of course, how courteous of him, protect us from flying furniture. Eventually, someone got in (I think it was Glitterati), ripped the lovebirds a new one, said-latter kissed and made up again, and we frolicked down to the lobby to catch our bus. After all, haste makes wasted on New Year’s Eve. We took a short but pleasant bus ride to Seacrets, in hopes of getting in line before the inevitable stampede of other drunken patrons. In the summer,Seacrets is a night club notorious for clients floating in a gated ocean, surrounded by scantily-clad waitresses wading out to pamper with cocktails and shallow conversation. As we lazily hopped off the bus and the ladies sauntered our sexy stiletto-selves in front of the men, we heard a loud thump and a metal klang! “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” yelled the bus driver, a James Earl Jones look-alike, with the exception of his Jheri curl and too-tight, too short uniform that seems to frequent all bus drivers. “Wgblkjasdf,” mumbled a drunken, bi-polar Jail Bait. From the look on GOAP’s face, somewhere between stepping off the bus and stepping onto the sidewalk, the couple du jour had managed another fight. Another Krumpf! and we were horrified to find Jail Bait wildly punting our transportation. Potato-sized dents and black shoe marks splashed the lower half of the Oyster Bay Tackle ad that was plastered on the side of the bus, featuring a giant collection of rods, reels and worms. Haha. Fish bait. Jail Bait. Haha. I’m too easily amused. At this point, I was getting pissed and start walking as fast as my stilettos would take me. I could see the crowd building at Seacrets and there was no way this drunken bastard was going to ruin my first grown-up New Year’s Eve. As the rest of the gang began following me, insert: Debacle #2: Jail Bait Does Not Pass Go By the time we made it to the front of Seacrets, GOAP didn’t want to stand in line but wouldn’t stay with Jail Bait either. I lost it and started yelling at her to make up her mind because she and her stupid boyfriend were making us all miserable. But my yells were muffled by distant screams. Not shrieking murderous screams. More like belting, Broadway singer smashed his thumb with a hammer screams. We ran toward the noise to find Jail Bait strewn across the side of the highway loudly lamenting lost love and dignity. The next 10 minutes went something like this: Black Beavis and Mr. Glitterati try to control Jail Bait, who is melodramatically sobbing and flailing like a very drunk, very angry Gumby. GOAP is now an even bigger, useless mess. Glitterati and I just want to get in the Seacrets line for fear of being stuck out in the cold with no party and no buzz. B is running around claiming that this wouldn’t have happened if I had just let him punch Gumby to begin with. Jameson is consoling GOAP. Black Beavis loses a hundred dollar bill (?). No one even knows where Ugly Betty is. The police arrive. The police calmly talk to Jail Bait and try to persuade him to move away from the street. Jail Bait refuses. The police move toward him. Jail Bait begins whimpering about his dignity again. The police tell Jail Bait that he is being disruptive; they then pull out a piece of paper and pen and try to get Jail Bait to sign. Jail Bait swipes the pen out of one of the policeman’s hands and starts sneering at him. The other policeman is getting tired of this charade and has a “Now listen here, sonny” moment, at which point Jail Bait begins grabbing at the air near the policeman’s face. Policeman #1 pulls out a bottle and maces Jail Bait. Jail Bait wails. Policeman #2 handcuffs Jail Bait. Jail Bait does not pass go. Jail Bait goes straight to jail. Black Beavis is cursing about his lost hundred dollar bill. Ugly Betty is still nowhere to be found. I don’t know if we were more relieved or stunned to see our dear friend (sarcasm) go, but the shock of it all catapulted us back to the Seacrets line (what else were we supposed to do? Mourn the loss?). At this point, GOAP was still a hot mess and refused to do anything but stand and pout. Glitterati and I weren’t about to console her, and B and Mr. Glitterati certainly weren’t allowed to. Black Beavis disappeared as mysteriously as Ugly Betty had, so Jameson offered to take GOAP back to the hotel. We eagerly accepted the gesture. And then there were four. Somehow, despite the fact that we were almost at the end of the line, a little flirting and explanation of our crazy night to the bouncer, and we were literally the last two couples to make it into the club. Midnight came and went swimmingly. A few drinks later, my feet were killing me and my eyes could barely stay open. Drama never gets enough credit for inducing exhaustion. B and I left Glitterati and Mr. G to party for us. Debacle #3: Black Beavis and Ugly Betty make a Porno. When we reached the hotel, B and I were pumped and happy from the midnight confetti shower and well-deserved buzz. We had almost forgotten the previous five hours. That is until we walked in on Black Beavis and Ugly Betty, freaking ass-naked, in one of the only two beds in the suite, mid-hump. Startled by our entrance (though not quite as startled as one might expect normal people with any ounce of dignity might be; then again, dignity seemed to have a loose definition that night) Ugly Betty scrambled to hide herself under the unfortunately thin white sheets, and I got an eyeful of really Ugly Betty boob. I ran out of the bedroom in silent screams, wondering just what else this night would bring. When I got into the living room, GOAP was pouting in the corner somewhere and Jameson was already asleep on the couch. That night, B and I slept on the hard hotel floor, cold and pissed because we were the ones who had booked the hotel room to begin with. I swear I had nightmares where I was chased by flailing Latina body parts and hundred dollar bills. Debacle #4: GOAP has no soul The morning flashed a solemn sun across my face and my mind’s eye was still blinded by flashbacks of Ugly Betty Boob. GOAP was on the phone with Glitterati’s lawyer dad, trying to figure out how to free Jail Bait. Mr. and Mrs. Porno were still naked in bed and Jameson was groaning in pain in the living room. Apparently he and GOAP had downed quite a few bottles of champagne when they returned to the hotel room, and then–get this, they MADE OUT. Now, Jameson is my best friend. Kudos to him and whatever he does. But GOAP. What in the hell was she thinking? Oh wait, she wasn’t thinking, because SHE HAS NO SOUL. Who leads their boyfriend on for four years, makes him convert to the Church of Latter Day Saints (yep, that’s right), brings him all the way to Maryland, watches him as he is dragged to jail and then makes out with my best friend whom she’s known for less than a day? Elaborate planning, I’d say. New Year’s Day breakfast was spent in a booth at Denny’s, a great place to forget your troubles while nurturing hangovers with a Lumberjack Slam: two buttermilk pancakes, a slice of grilled honey ham, two bacon strips, two sausage links and two eggs, plus hash browns or grits and choice of bread. Gotta love America. In order to completely evade any memory of the previous night, we dropped GOAP off at the 65th street police station so she could deal with the remains of Jail Bait. We weren’t touching that shit with an eight-foot pole. Unfortunately, Jameson had had a little too much champagne and spent his morning in the restaurant bathroom being punished by his liver. With the exception of my flaring nostrils, the 30-minute drive home was silent. When Jail Bait limped into the back of my Ford Escape, he said absolutely nothing, and GOAP sat there like a wet flower. When we reached my place, Thing 1 and Thing 2 went straight up to the guest room and stayed there for three hours. When they finally came downstairs, they graced us with a barely audible thanks, lugged their bags out the door and left, tails between legs and all. End Scene.  Story motto #1: play Cranium sober. Story motto #2: do a background check on your friends before inviting them to play. Congratulate yourself for getting to the end of that story. Two New Year’s Eves ago, I somehow managed to lock myself in a VIP room at Coco’s techno club in Tianjin, playing naughty with a bouncer, who was later shipped to another province and called me at weird hours to ask me why we were talking on the phone. Last year, I spent Christmas Eve baking the shit out of my toaster oven, while Jameson ate his worth in pink, white and blue sugar snowflakes, Santas and snowmen (am I alone in being tickled by the previous alliteration?) that filled my living room. Christmas was a regular Tianjin banquet of cold dirty weather, dusty floors, Monkey in a bee suit, and my assistant stuffing marshmallows in her mouth in attempt to win our first annual Chubby Bunny contest. For the record, I can fit four large marshmallows in my mouth. It may seem like an easy task, but you try and breathe while puffy sugar is slowly expanding in the concaves of your throat. Hmm. Jameson seems to have witnessed a lot of my holidays. Maybe Holidays = Jameson. Speaking of Jameson, I was about to write: “if he doesn’t up and leave for Nmibia without telling me, hopefully he will be in Beijing for Christmas this year, along with B (flying in from Brooklyn on Xmas Eve!), Monkey (sans bee suit) and the city.” However, this sentence has just very recently changed to “this Christmas, Jameson will be at home in the States, skiing and kissing the American snow he’ll be gliding on.” I’m happy for him, but in less than a week, my best friend will be leaving China, after a year and a half of both loving and hating the country. It’s been a long journey since we graduated from Vandy, and even though we are already designing our future, billion-dollar joint-penthouse in Manhattan, a new era is beginning–for both of us. Time for him to find his true calling. Time for me to skyrocket this magazine opportunity so I can get the hell out of here. In line with this whole holidays being inconsistent thing, Jameson’s departure is reminder of how lonely China, and the current life I have chosen, can sometimes be. I am content because I am walking the path I want, but getting what you want never seems to be free. My sacrifice is that I’m constantly away from loved ones, which I’ve already mentioned. I am happy, but reality kicks in every once in a while–best friends leave, boyfriends come for Christmas and then will inevitably leave, parents will visit in the spring and then leave–and it wrings my heart out like a used, wet face towel. The pain can be stifling; sometimes I actually cannot breathe. I start to feel sorry for myself and compensate by holding lone movie marathons, drowning in sleep, or ordering burgers at midnight. And the worst thing is, I can’t even let myself wallow in the misery. Every time the tears well up in pools, or I’m up to my ears in midnight snacks, a spark of energy snaps into place, and I am jerked into a weird state of okay-ness. The one thing that keeps me chugging along is this inevitable, innate resilience that makes me throw away those damned French fries and used Kleenex, shut off the pirated movies and turn on the lights. That voice in my head pokes my brain and tells me to wake up and stop wasting time. There is too much to do for my future. The loneliness becomes a strange but effective catalyst for action. The pain motivates me to continue working, until I can make my way back to the States. And I listen and it works. I’m not sure if it is a physical survival tool, or a really insightful little person running around in my sub-conscience, but the pain dulls and the wheels start turning. I find myself deep into life again, pushing for that next step, when I get to go home. Home is where I don’t have to take a 13-hour plane ride to be with the people I love. Home is relationships that don’t involve Skype. Home is where I want to spend my holidays. But for now, Holidays=finding different ways to celebrate, still missing loved ones, and knowing that growing up and living my life takes a backbone, a lot of ingenuity and buckets full of self-inflicted cheer. What's on the right side of your equation? Meeting my Silk Purse Potential 12/02/2008
I need to start taking my new job a little more seriously. Nostalgia 11/13/2008
 Today was the closest thing I have ever come to autumn in China. Traffic is always heavy in Beijing, which results in a lot of taxi waiting time (I am willing to give this time up since my elitist streak rarely includes the subway, despite the fact that it is literally three minutes away from my apartment). This morning, on my way to work, was no different. As I sat there in my normal taxi slouch, right side back seat, head tilted against the window pane, wishing it was a pillow, the road ahead of me was not in its usual dusty, bicycled form. Instead, a charcoal path lay before me, sprinkled with tiny golden leaf petals, flipping and turning in the light like sequins on a showgirl. Had there been music, I would have been in my own movie, like that scene in Pleasantville where they drive down the lane between the trees, peach blossoms falling and floating to Etta James’ At Last. In my movie this morning, the entire road shimmered and moved like a whimsical school of acrobatic fish. A wave of nostalgia swept me back to boarding school in Massachusetts, where I spent many an autumn day wandering about the deserted aqueduct in the middle of Wellesley. That place was like my own Bridge to Terabythia. From it, I could see an entire valley, wallpapered with leaves of crimson, ginger and russet, some sliding down the stream, some jumping from tree to tree. Today reminded me of then, and I was ecstatically happy. * This morning was worth cementing in words because nostalgia and ambience are not things easily found in Beijing. When you’re crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, you feel something. The city is more than just its buildings and history and fabulousness. It is a living being with a vigorous and profound pulse. Entering the city is enough to give me goose bumps every time. But Beijing, with its hugely creative architecture, widespread landscape and giant international presence, has never even raised the slightest of arm hairs. Sometimes, when I am missing America terribly, I cross the city in desperate search of a familiar feeling or hint of reminiscence, and the only places that resemble a fraction of the latter are shopping centers that have been modeled specifically after the Mall of America and Starbucks. And even then, they only exude plastic, muted versions of the real thing. This city (and country for that matter) has been so instantly saturated with modernity and foreign influence that it has yet to fully form a personality of its own. The States has had time to transition from the industrial to the information and now to the networking age. But China is a salad bowl, melting pot and street kabob of every age, which means, despite my crazy optimism, almost everything seems like a glass half empty. The surface is beautiful and offers a smörgåsbord of flavors, but go a little deeper and you’re greeted by florescent lighting and a ton of fake Louis Vuittons. Puerile materialism is fully present, but ambience is not. In America, ambience is really just a form of mature materialism, or what I like to call an extension of our immense enthusiasm for life. Fall isn’t enough, so we thought we’d go to Michael’s and buy some fake auburn leaves to wrap around the dining table centerpiece. Giving thanks doesn’t quite recreate the first meal, so we pop on a pilgrim hat, bake pumpkin pie and stuff cornucopias. Christmas is not just a familial celebration for the birth of a famous baby; it’s a regular shopping spree to extra-fy everything. Let’s redo nature with spray-snow, tiny cookie houses and ideas of crackling fires, jolly St. Nicks and Home Alone 4. But it works. It works so well that every year, particularly approaching holiday season, I yearn, from the depths of my goose bumps, for that fully mature materialism. I crave that cozy western atmosphere, hot chocolate, sleigh bells and all. Which is why on days like today, I get so excited, because finally I feel an inch closer to home. Views from a Blog World Newbie 11/11/2008
Blogging is somewhat daunting for the following reasons: 100 Things About Me 11/10/2008
1. If you stripped away everything that could possibly be a result of nurture, you would find that my nature is made up of |
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