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.
No, butt seriously, last week was tough. Trying to cope with B’s departure, work was the last place I wanted to be. And then I got scolded: the magazine is late and why didn’t I carry out my promises? Well, fuck you Mr. Boss Man. I’m supposed to manage this magazine, not do every fucking thing by my self. That’s right, I said it. If your incompetent team actually wrote one decent, non-Chinglish article I didn’t have to re-write, then maybe we would have a magazine now. Fuck you. (Stomp out of the room. Pack things. Leave China). Well, that’s not what happened, although at the time, there was a fantasy or two that involved similar scenarios.
Anyway, amidst the hot mess that I call the Office, I realized that no amount of explanation or pouting was going to fix anything. Your balls have to be hard as diamonds out here, and mine hadn't even dropped yet. However, while drilling holes into my computer screen with laser beams of hate, I did figure out that I was the only one who could change the situation, which required an alteration in attitude. I don’t mean attitude as in I’m going to break your ass, bitch. I mean attitude as in my outlook on things. I tend to easily fall on the shit end of the blame/lie/elicit your sympathy while I take your money stick because I am gullible as all hell. Partly because I believe in the Good of the world and partly because I was a little Chinese immigrant girl who grew up in white, suburban Arlington, VA and thought that the bearded man they called “Jesus” in the old, soft cover, children’s Bible 12-set I somehow ended up with, was America’s status quo, and that I would be turned into a pillar of salt if I looked back at the burning village. My lunches were packed with peanut butter and cheese sandwiches, or Tupperware full of delicious leek dumplings, which subsequently stunk so badly that I was trapped between being too embarrassed to eat them in front of my friends, and guilty for letting my mom’s hard work go to waste. I didn’t even know what The Little Mermaid was until fourth-grade, and I only just developed my own taste in music during sophomore year of college. This is what happens when you travel to the States at age three, under the care of a (phenomenal) mother whose most authentic idea of “American” was the Ronald McDonald cardboard cutout two blocks south of our first D.C. apartment.
But don’t worry folks. I am balancing out my gullibility by living the hell out of life, everywhere. And I am finding street smarts in my size, layering it on like a proper Shanghai citizen, shriveled in front of a tiny heater in the dead of winter (in China, there is a certain date when all heating is officially turned on for winter; the government, however, does not allocate heat below an invisible line drawn across China’s midsection. Shanghai is south of that border). I can pull on an old pair of neck swerves like it’s nobody’s business. You know - the kind where you perch your left hand on a jutted hip while the other hand snaps left, right, left in front of your pursed lips as you gyrate your neck with flava. (Side note: this is a talent I perfected in college when I somehow found myself a member of a Black Entertainment Sorority. Word to the sistas of Diamond Dolls Elite. Mm.) Anyway, I’m quickly learning how to decipher the bullshit from the regular shit.
Long story short – after a bunch of hooha and pointing fingers (probably the most frequent habit at any workplace; that and surfing the net), I made it clear that despite their erroneous accusations of my empty promises and over-optimism, the job I had set out to do was done. And if they wanted anything more, they better get me some Little Fucking Engines that Could. And just to seal the envelope on my hard work and their lack of, how ever many hours I was supposed to work last week, I doubled. I literally worked my way out of the problem. And now everything is daisies . . . or rice patties. Bad attempt at racial humor. Sigh.
And that’s why I’ve delayed my blog, yet again.
But, I'm back :-)
Here is something I wrote last night, but didn’t post.
It’s 9:30pm, Sunday evening. B is still here, napping on the couch. We left at 10am this morning for the airport, and much to my selfish delight, his flight was overbooked. And although there might have been a very slight possibility B could have left on time had I really insisted, I let Air China take advantage of my unwillingness to let go, and instead pay us 2,000RMB for the delay. Such goes love and long-distance relationships. We left his luggage at the airport, and immediately trotted home and into each other’s arms. It was an unexpected, free, gift day.
It’s 9:30pm, Sunday evening, and I have been on a somewhat guilt-filled vacation since Christmas Eve. That’s 12 whole days of precious, succulent, gut-wrenching joy, woven and wrapped in between the heart and limbs of my loved one. I knew this would happen. Since I have chosen this current, nomadic lifestyle, B and I rarely get to see each other. And when we do, we rarely come up for air. There’s just so much hugging to do, and being together, and just holding hands knowing that he’s finally beside me again. And every time we sweep ourselves away on these short breaks with each other and from the world, it is both heaven and hell for me. Heaven because at last, I can bask in the presence of my B, without having to worry about cross-schedules, time differences, and daily responsibilities. Hell because my schedule has fallen in between the cracks of the basking, and I just can’t seem to find it amidst the dust bunnies. This time, we hadn’t seen each other for 10 effing months, and the dust bunnies had multiplied like, well, bunnies.
Because I know myself in this pattern, before B got here, I psyched myself up to idealize that our time together would be a balance of vacation bliss and regular life. I’ll just take 30 minutes out of each day to blog, pay bills or do something that will keep me out of the I’ve-fallen-off-the-face-of-humanity-and-can’t-get-up crowd. Slipping away for 10 minutes, in between the love making and breakfast making, to just breathe and get my own accounts back into order didn’t seem like too tough a task. And yet, for the past 12 days, I could barely check my e-mail, much less be productive in any way.
It’s not like B actually tries to take my time away; in fact, the very opposite. I’m under contract to illustrate a children’s book, and I thought it was due on January 1st. B arrived on a Wednesday, six days before the deadline. When I told him about this looming task I had stupidly procrastinated, he made me sit there and draw out those damn dogs and cats all weekend. He even dragged me to the store to buy Playdoh and built me model dogs and cats for inspiration, although being the clown he is, they weren’t exactly primed for children’s tales. Regardless, it was B who kept reminding me that I had four days, and then three days, and two days, and oh shit. . . had New Year’s Eve already arrived? Luckily, my illustrations weren’t due January 1st, and my out-of-control ass was royally saved. But even when I thought they were, I couldn’t get them done to save my life. All I could do was curl up next to him, and be.
But like I said – it’s not B. It’s me. Definitely me. Despite my life never having revolved around anyone, when I'm with him, I can't do anything else but be with him. However, in trying to break down my madness, I figured out that the guilt didn't stem from taking time out to spend with my boyfriend. I’m pretty sure I just feel guilty for taking vacation at all. Because my vacation is truly vacation, from everything. And it throws me off balance. When I finally spin right side up again, I’m dizzy, exhausted, and more than a few days behind.
And yet, taking control again is really as easy as I had imagined. B’s asleep, I’m not tired, and so I have floated to this gorgeous mahogany desk he indirectly gave me for Christmas (I couldn’t not get it then; he reimbursed me later). Just taking these few minutes to jot this entry down has already invigorated me back to my old self. Even just now, between the previous period and the “E,” my doorbell rang with a dinner delivery; balancing steaming hot bags of food in my right hand, I literally whisked away the garbage that had been residing on my coffee table for a week now, in less than 30 seconds. And in two minutes, I washed some dishes, spread out our dinner, poured drinks, popped a DVD in my stolen DVD player, wafted fries under B’s nose, and ran back here to finish this post while he wakes up. Simple as pie.
*
Obviously, the vacation bug still plagues me. Hence the inability to finish posting said post on time.
*
Today’s post:
Yesterday was a gift day because B didn’t make his flight. Today was a shit day because he did. All the way to the airport, I was okay. I was sure I wouldn’t be as sad when it was time to let him go, especially since we were given an extra 24 hours together. But when we stopped in front of the security check, promising him not to cry, I wrestled on my sunglasses, barely shielding the fat droplets rolling fiercely down my cheeks. I was on the verge of tears all day. I had waited so long to let B into my life in China, into my apartment, decorated for the holidays and drenched in candlelight, blankets and good food, that I unexpectedly let the love of my life became a regular part of my day. The past 288 hours created muscle memory that anticipated him wrapping his arms under mine and spooning me at night, waking me up vigorously in the mornings, and being there, holding my hand wherever we went. Now my entire apartment reminds me of him. My fucking bed smells like him. And it fucking sucks. Bad move. Note to self. Don’t let a loved and missed one come into your home unless you are able to see them regularly. Damn it.
Today was really a low. The plan was that I would jump happily back into my regular life, get the magazine off the ground, and get on home to the States. But I feel like shit, and shit just sits there and does nothing. When B was here, I couldn’t stop Time, and now, it can’t go fast enough. My cell phone clock is set eight minutes fast, but I wish I could set it one year fast. GET ME THE FUCK HOME. I want my boyfriend. I want my family. I want my friends. I want OUT of here.
At some point, Glenda the Good Witch, in her fluffy blue gown and gi-normous silver crown, will cast my heart into survival mode, rationalizing life and self-protecting with a coat of apathy, but today, the daylight pierced through me like a stake would a vampire in a bad horror movie. Except I’m not in a horror movie that ends after 1.5 miserable hours with rolling credits and theme music telling you to get the hell out of the theatre. I’m in my life, fully under my reigns, which is scary. Sure, my optimism will pull my ass back into shape and I will know from the depths of my soul that everything is and will be just fine, that I am “happy” to sacrifice temporary comforts for permanent bliss. But for now, heartbreak coupled with being alone in this (not so) foreign country has done me in. It’s this fucking place. I am full of inner peace, but at times like these, that shit isn’t enough to ward off this fucking country, this cold weather, and this job that won’t let me go home on a whim or crap without sending me a text message asking me what to do. This place has a great way of making me question what the fuck I am doing here to begin with. It makes me say FUCK all the time. In the grand scheme of things, I seem like I know what I’m doing, but sadness and loneliness really do a doosy on me. I am tempted to trade in my togetherness hat for a good dose of home sweet home. God damn. FUCK.
*
It’s now 11pm, Monday night. After several rounds of freezing the shit out of my brain with blueberry ice cream, then strawberry, then jamocha almond fudge, two movies later, I think I have managed to dull the pain a bit. I feel better. As predicted, I am on my way to bouncing back. Several times, between white ceramic spoonfuls of melted ice cream, glints of energy and hope came charging back into my mind, as they always do, pulling my head up and exposing my nose to the roses again. I’m not ready to turn off the movies and put away the ice cream just yet, but I’m not a blubbering hot mess anymore, either. In order to continue progressing in this so-called China life, I have to keep reminding myself that this is not it. This is a giant step toward the life I WANT. I want it so badly. It’s like an itch I can almost reach, but won’t be able to until I’m limber enough. Located just above my shoulder blade, it scratches my nerves every day.
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.
For a while there, I did rationale that throwing away stuff in China was too tragic since they don’t have Salvation Armies here. But, much to my dismay, garbage bins are veritable stop-and-go’s, because people have full-time jobs picking through that stuff here. They even make money on it. There is no Recycling-Bin God in China because any plastic bottles you toss get picked out right away. Any clothes or cardboard you trash becomes an old person’s treasure. Seriously. It does. Great sub-economy.
So, since my Salvation Army plea didn’t pan out, I’m getting rid of it, along with a shitload of my stuff – as much as I can, as quickly as I can. If I didn’t miss them while they were in boxes, I might as well just get rid of the whole shebang.
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.
Between the ages of 18-21, I spent holidays trying to justify to my mom why evenings out (with the few non-college friends I scrounged up at home) didn’t start until 11pm and that she should feel lucky I wasn’t a wild child (at home, anyway) who boozed and drugged in dark alleys with shady characters. It wasn’t that my mom was so strict; in fact she firmly believed in my independence. It was just that home behavior could never resemble school behavior, which was my normal life. At home I had to check my coat of youth at the door; holidays were just a restful and somewhat restricted break before I returned to school.
Reaching the end of college, my holiday habits gradually began to shift toward more mature partying. (Mature=getting effed up with friends and not having to be home by midnight) Since then, it’s been a mixed ride, but I’m still trying to figure out what Holidays=
Five New Year’s Eves ago was spent with my mom, stepdad, Jameson, a raw seafood bar, and plenty of Karaoke at my parents’ golf club while B (boyfriend) somehow didn’t get the invitation and wound up crossing into the New Year alone at some bar.
Three New Year’s Eves ago, I was in Ocean City with B, Jameson, Glitterati, Mr. Glitterati, Black Beavis, Ugly Betty, Jailbait and Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions. Before I delve into the actual story (a long one: brace yourself), I have included brief character sketches (of characters at time of three New Year’s Eves ago) for full effect.
B
Boyfriend for about a year at this point. Musician. Used to be in a band called Buck Naked Blues. Gentle, carefree, owner of a 24lbs cat named Leopold. Funny but has tendency to slightly overuse slapstick humor.
Jameson
Instant friends since freshman year, after he borrowed my notes in Philosophy 101 because his were taken on single sheets of loose leaf paper that blew away in the wind; quickly rising to best friend status. Easy-going, upper-middle class, elitist from Pennsylvania.
Glitterati
Sushi soulmate. Met as counselors to rowdy, genius art kids at Maryland Summer Center for the Arts; fell in love during a joint performance project involving her words and my photographs; vivacious spitfire with sparkly sapphire eyes.
Mr. Glitterati
Boyfriend of Glitterati. Stand-up comedian trapped in the body of a Marriot slave. Currently Ex-Glitterati, floating around somewhere in Maryland.
Black Beavis
Friend of B (and mine). Talented painter, drinker and Vice President of the whitest-black-boy-I’ve-ever-met clan (B is the President). Strange taste in women.
Ugly Betty
Uninvited, unexpected date of Black Beavis. Small, rotund, socially challenged Latina plus glasses sans personality. Nice enough. Strange taste in men.
Jail Bait
College friend. Rich white boy from Georgia. Thin upper lip, doe-like eyes. In love with Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions since freshman year; followed her around like a puppy all through college. Smart but unmotivated.
Girl-of-Amazonian-proportions
College friend. Extremely book-smart, ex-Mormon from Salt Lake City. Daughter of ex-Congressman. Uses obvious flirtation to manipulate men into falling in love with her.
Me
Responsible for the evening’s guest list. Spending first New Year’s Eve away from parents. Feel guilty for leaving mom home with party-pooper step dad.
End character sketch.
 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?
I need to start taking my new job a little more seriously.
This is definitely something I have never needed to say since professional Jenny has never felt this way before.
New Company is stable, riding on the shoulders of its sugar daddy publishing house, the oldest publishing government entity in China. New office is nice; have my own 1280x1220 flat screen, printer and tacky, antique Chinese living room set. New Boss is amazing, extremely well connected, and willing to help me in any way he can – as long as I push out the new brand and bring in the bucks. He is nothing like the previous Chinese pig heads I have met in the system – all talk and no action; seedy men who, unlike the ideals they spout, are majorly inept and have stagnancy down to a tee. New Boss is caring, hard working and willing to make change. The latter is a concept that most of China, and much of middle-America, is unaccustomed to; but New Boss is unafraid of the status quo, and has hired me to go against it. New Team is a little bit of a hot mess, but generally yearning to learn and move up. And although nursing them to life is parching the milk right out of my tender breast (too much info?), it is invigorating to watch them realize their own talents and dexterity. New Resources and Budget are unlimited. The philosophy of New Boss is that how much money I use is not an issue, as long as I transform the brand into the apple of our niche market’s eye.
The cards, gods, qi and Communist party are all playing in my favor, and yet, I am not moving at the pace I should be.
Maybe it was because the last magazine I was in charge of was such an oppressive experience that the “I need to take it easy” feeling has overstepped its boundaries in this new magazine. Old magazine was a huge expat rag in Beijing, newly taken over by a Chinese team with Chinese ideas and resources, most of which were not and never will be accepted by the extremely nitpicky, needy, arrogant expat population. New magazine is two years old, but has enough reserves to catapult it to stardom; it just needs a firm, but gentle hand (mine) to guide it in the right direction. And yet, I rarely make it into the office before 10am because I personal train three times a week, I leave the office when I want and take long lunches with clients. Yes, these are the benefits of being in charge. But they are also the result of the fact that I don’t need to pull a 9-5 day in order to work faster and smarter than most of my team. Can I help it if it takes me one afternoon to do something that would otherwise take my staff one month to do? No exaggeration. While the others literally need to be trained step by step, the industry is common sense to me, and I have found a niche market in which a few brilliant ideas will take this brand a long way.
It’s not like I’m doing a poor job; in fact, I am doing quite well and have impressed the uppers with my efficiency. But my conscience still scolds me for being a lazy ass because it knows that I am falling really short of my personal standards. Every day I tell myself to get serious because the situation is serious. This is a huge opportunity. I have an entire magazine gasping for vavavoom in my hands, waiting for me to pump blood into it. I should take advantage of my nunchuck skills and get things done according to my own standards of speed, not theirs. Imagine what I could do if I worked every afternoon, getting the equivalent of a Chinese month’s workload done every day – then, I would really deserve the praise that has come my way. Then, I would know I was really taking this opportunity of a lifetime earnestly. I am in my early 20s, and am the youngest, highest paid member of the team. That either makes me really good or really lucky, or maybe both. Regardless, no one my age gets this kind of chance to prove themselves.
I am the Managing Editor and Creative Director of a sow’s ear with silk purse potential, but I know the latter will only go as far as I’m willing to take my own capabilities.
 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.
Blogging is somewhat daunting for the following reasons:
a. Once I shared privileged information about the media industry in Beijing on a secret blog I run with a friend, and due to the fact that I am a blogging neophyte, my post was found on Google and publically scorned.
b. I’m afraid that people will discover I am actually a bore – and in the world of Web 2.0, this discovery will reach an exponential audience.
c. I’m afraid that people will find me incessantly interesting and that I will be unable to live up to their expectations of daily updates.
d. I don’t get why people get so caught up in the intricacies of random people’s lives and contemplations, i.e. celebrity gossip and this blog. Extending #27 on my last post: it is quite remarkable just how interesting most people are to themselves. It is even more remarkable that when these thoughts of self worship are posted (in the form of witty observations and melodramatic assertions), many other people respond in tones of curiosity, fascination and even reverence.
I guarantee that although we virtual authors claim our readers to be in desperate need of a laugh, awareness of the Obama-non curve, skewed versions of My So Called Life and beer advice, every blogger is guilty of what I call moderate-to-heavy-self-obsession. Writing to be read is like when old Chinese ladies cook a feast and then belittle their culinary skills: compelling compliments are publically brushed aside but secretly stockpiled.
BUT. Before I lose you, dear reader/comment-leaver/ego-feeder to my wanton question and answer session, my better, less cynical, more analytical, less suspicious, somewhat empathetic, maybe more suspicious self did spend five more minutes thinking about d., and we (all of me) think we get the hype.
e. Perhaps blogging is ego chow. Perhaps it is self-preservation, or dancing (well) in front of the mirror. But it is also something else. If you strip away the swanky words, pick out the carefully selected topics and erase the clever names, just what do you think we members of the Web 2.0 troupe are ultimately doing?
Da-da-da-dun!!!!!!
f. We are interacting.
In the privacy of our own homes.
It’s like Netflix for friends. Social Speed Dial. And we are doing it more eloquently than ever. Instead of squatting behind that AOL chat room (16/F/pix/hot4u) pretending to be four years older or ten years younger than we actually are, we now express ourselves in haute prose and image. Uncensored, midnight babble has been replaced by edited, characterized verse.
And thanks to things like Clever Counter, I now know that as of 9:03PM tonight, Beijing time (13 hours ahead of the U.S.), eight different people have visited this blog, four of whom were from China, two from the States and one from the United Kingdom. I even know that six of them have a PC and two have a Mac. It’s like a Kate Spade planner/telescope on virtual steroids.
I don’t have to be a vlogger (veteran blogger) to know the patterns of the blogosphere dancing ritual:
Boy posts entry.
Girl sees entry.
Girl comments on boy’s entry.
Boy feels happy inside.
Boy posts another entry.
Girl sees . . .
It’s an infinite cycle, and it’s perpetuated by the overwhelming number of comments people post in rejoinder. And boy do those things do wonders for the self-esteem; not because they are especially flattering, but because someone took the time to respond, which means they read what you had to say, which means they are living proof that you not only exist but are worthy of the moment. It’s pure, unadulterated, interaction – a basis of human survival.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been sucked in so quickly, if only still preliminarily.
Speaking of comments:
Thanks to The Daily Breather for contributing his private elevator habits! Keep them coming! If everyone contributes to #54, maybe I’ll make a documentary after all.
Or, at least I’ll put together an awesome blog post, to which your comments will both raise my self-esteem and fulfill my virtual soul.
1. If you stripped away everything that could possibly be a result of nurture, you would find that my nature is made up of
an innate attraction to and tenacious pursuance of beauty.
2. I have a Paperanian (Pomeranian and Papillion mix) named Monkey.
3. Last Christmas, I dressed Monkey in a bee suit. This was a characteristic I never knew I had.
4. I was born in Shanghai and left for the U.S. when I was three.
5. I grew up in Arlington, Virginia and spent my summers in San Diego with designated, American grandparents.
6. After practically spending my entire life in Virginia, I moved to Maryland one year before I could graduate middle
school with my childhood friends.
7. I went to Dana Hall, an all-girl’s boarding high school in Wellesley, Mass. We were aka the Dana Call Girls.
8. I double majored in communications and philosophy at Vanderbilt in Nashville, TN.
9. I moved to China in August of 2006.
10. I moved to New York in September of 2009.
11. My family just recently moved to Texas, which I think is random.
12. I was the Managing Editor and Creative Director of a business-culture magazine in Beijing. Now I lead social marketing for a stealth internet startup.
13. I also run a small company called The Red Connect – doing cross-cultural projects between the U.S. and China.
14. I have the coolest, wisest, cutest mom ever.
15. The day she dies will be the worst day in my life, by far.
16. I am outraged by the idea of death.
17. I am a really good public speaker.
18. I’ve been playing the piano since I was five.
19. My favorite books are The 4-hour Work Week by Timothy Ferriss and Rich Dad Poor Dad by Robert Kiyosaki.
20. I started wearing my signature eyeliner in eighth-grade in Bethesda, Maryland.
21. I love flat soda.
22. I am a night owl but try desperately hard to wake up early.
23. My bed is the most important thing in my house.
24. My don't have a current favorite color. Though it used to be red.
25. My favorite season is autumn in New England.
26. I paint and photograph body art.
27. It’s amazing how easy it is to make this list. (What is it about the human being that makes ourself our favorite topic? Is
it a survival trait? More on this later.)
28. I heart my MacBook Pro.
29. One of my soulmates is much older than me, but I love him because he is more caring, creative, unpredictable and
selfless than any person I have ever met who is my age.
30. I hoard candles and always forget to use them.
31. My future (owned) home will look like one big piece of art.
32. I fantasize about summers on the Cape.
33. I loathe the 80s.
34. If I stay in my apartment too long, I develop an acute case of agoraphobia.
35. I miss singing and acting.
36. I never have plants or fish because I always end up killing them.
37. I think sightseeing is boring.
38. I am scared to blow up balloons for fear of them popping in my face. But when they do, it’s not that bad.
39. I would never make it on a desert island. I wear contacts, eyeliner and have certain demands about clothing that
would get me kicked off Survivor in no time.
40. My best friend and I are convinced that we should have our own reality show. We are seriously hilarious.
41. I love food you can take apart layer by layer.
42. I pay $1,000/month in student loans.
43. If I could recline all the time, I would.
44. I am an image/branding genius.
45. In college, I belonged to a black entertainment sorority called Diamond Dolls Elite. We battled like on Step Up. Don’t
ask me how I got in. I later left, along with a group of my sistas, after finding out that our leader (who liked to refer to
himself as the Godfather) was baby daddy to a few of the girls in the sorority. Two and two always equals four when
more than one baby pops out with the same features.
46. I love Sandra Bullock, Michael Cera and Jennifer Coolidge.
47. I am destined to be famous.
48. I only smoke when I drink. I prefer Yves Saint Laurent cigarettes, which I’ve only seen available in China.
49. I love red wine but don’t love ensuing purple mouth.
50. I am fascinated by the way people eat. And, whatever they’re eating always looks better than what I’m eating.
51. I have a personal trainer because I need one. I can’t really afford it but I see it as an investment.
52. New York City is my favorite place in the world. However, I am somewhat curious about Dubai, even though they stole
my idea of a man-made island utopia.
53. I am also beginning to like suburbia.
54. I have always wanted to make a documentary on what people do when they are alone in an elevator.
55. The only high-fashion name brand I own is Versace glasses, which I love.
56. I always crave seafood.
57. I am a high-fashion photographer.
58. At this point, the only reason I would want to have a child is to see what it looks like.
59. I have a notebook fetish.
60. I am embracing the notion that neither I nor my life will ever be normal.
61. I’m not joking about being famous.
62. Sushi and watermelon are my absolute favorite foods.
63. I think saving up money to buy things is foolish. I would rather spend it on food or fun.
64. I don’t drink coffee.
65. I love making to-do lists.
66. I hate doing laundry.
67. I have always thought that writing skills parallel intelligence.
68. I have been to Korea four times now, each time for six hours only.
69. I am extremely detail oriented.
70. Etta James and Lauryn Hill are my idols.
71. The idea of someone walking and then falling over is really funny to me.
72. I refuse to take a bus anywhere.
73. My first words were Coca Cola and Monkey.
74. I want to have full financial freedom before I turn 30.
75. When I do, I want to give my parents an allowance.
76. I loved high school and hated college.
77. I wear skirts and flats 95% of the time.
78. I am deathly afraid of tornadoes.
79. I am always wondering what John Travolta is doing at this moment.
80. Sometimes I think that if we didn’t have emotions, a lot of things would be much easier.
81. I have a library replete with children's books – everything from Judy Blume to C.S. Lewis to Roald Dahl. One of my
favorite things to do when I am at home is to read them before I go to bed.
82. My version of hell would be filled with stagnant air and no light.
83. I am more Chinese than I thought.
84. I tend to be the catalyst for a lot of things in many people’s lives.
85. I am very thoughtful.
86. I love sticky rice.
87. I am optimistic, resilient and appreciate constructive criticism.
88. I have three tattoo, and want three more.
89. It is shocking to me just how into their own world everyone is.
90. I openly think David Bowie, in The Labrynth, is hot.
91. I am very resourceful and quite assertive.
92. I sold $10,000 worth of Cutco knives one summer, mostly in churches, sub shops and the backseat of my mother’s
car (while she was driving).
93. I tend to see everything in photo frames.
94. British accents no longer amaze me.
95. I like the idea of camping and hiking, but I don’t like bugs and dirt.
96. My biggest pet peeve is selfishness.
97. I have always wanted to slide across the ice in my sneakers.
98. I secretly want to be Kimora Lee Simmons or a blues lounge singer.
99. I have good handwriting.
100. I always see things in clouds, but can never convince anyone else that they are there.
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