the art of chinese speaking

Here's an adventure about when I was a teacher in China; It would have gone on this blog earlier, but Google and China are not friends:

At KFC, they know to bring out the picture menu. Once, I tried a new phrase: "how much" that sounds like "dua shaou," and I was excited when they understand me enough to respond in chinese about how much things cost, but then I remembered that I didn't understand anything else and panicked. I just handed them the money that I think covered my bill.

The progress on learning Chinese is slow. I imagine that since I'm fluent in Human, I can understand what they should be asking me-where are you from, why are you here. I can't answer back at all, which is frustrating. Heidi just decided to answer back in English the questions she thinks they say; she did that on the train with four ladies who thought that if they just repeated everything slower we would understand. So they were speaking in Chinese and she responded in English, and I was torn  between embarrassment and laughing hysterically. I'm sure they thought we were crazy, but they still loved us, which was the amazing part.

I was surprised when they opened my hand and slapped a flour tortilla in it. I was also kind of excited, because I was imagining tacos, and then they slapped a fried fish in it and I got a little nervous. My survival mode kicked in, just like I was on a mission and eating something less than desirable. All the fish was missing was it's head. I tried to tell them in Chinese that I didn't want it (bu Yao), but they got conveniently deaf to some of the only Chinese I know. Then they gave us some more unidentifiable green stuff, and then part of chicken. I ate it like a foreigner, picking out everything I couldn't handle, but eating most of it. Heidi actually received applause (APPLAUSE!) when she just rolled it up together to eat it, just like them, but she told me after that she almost threw up twice. I was a lot better. You know, the fish wasn't all that bad...I think I handled it pretty well. And maybe I deserve applause.

They were so nice though; they kept snapping pictures with us. I really should put some make-up on because my face is all over China now. They gave us their phone number. (I guess they didn't pick up on the fact that I don't speak Chinese.) We also gave them Idaho pins. Idaho is rapidly becoming the most well known state in China.

And then, as we were leaving, Heidi noticed one of them had a cute knit drawstring purse. She told the lady she liked it, and to our horror, the woman emptied it out and gave it to her!! We tried and tried to give it back, but of course we left the train in embarrassed possession of the bag. I am a little grateful for the example. I shouldn't have the mindset that all my possessions are to be held on to for dear life, I guess. As we were exiting the train station, Heidi commented on how cute the girl's pants were in front of us.

"Well, don't tell her!" I replied.

We took ourselves to a Chinese place for real chinese food called Mr. Lee. The waitress saw we were American and came to help us read the menu. She and Heidi acted out the pictures; Heidi made a snorting sound for pig because the waitress forgot the word in English. She told us she wanted to be our friend and got our cell phone numbers. We were very popular.

Later another university student came by to help us read the menu as well; she was studying English. Students here like to practice on us. I try not to feel too cynical about being used.

 One of the receptionists at my school asked me if I had had some Chinese food, and I was really proud of Mr. Lee. She wrinkled her nose and said that was fake Chinese food "almost real," which burst my bubble. It also disconerned me, because I had a bit of a hard time enjoying what I ordered.

Speaking of Chinese, it looks like my Spanish is kicking in. If at any time I have a hard time  communicaing (frequently) or my charades act doesn't work out, my brain starts switching over to the only other programmed language in there--Espanol. So sometimes there are accidents. Like when I said "Adios" to the bewildered shopkeeper and waved goodbye. Now they just think I'm making things up.

the art of eRATication

I'm a modern gal, born and bred for these modern times. And I've been on my own, little town girl in the great big city and all. I've proven to the universe and anyone watching that I will do what needs to be done, when I need to.

But that doesn't stop me from playing the gender role trump when there is a rat in the house.

In my opinion, if there is a man available, including and not limited to the guy next door who once helped push my car out of a snow drift, that man should seriously consider the possiblility that rat eradication is his God-given role. (Now, in my neighbor's defense, how is he to know that the bloodcurdling, three octave screetches coming from next door were his cue to come rescue me from the rodents in our house? I probably wasn't screaming loud enough.)

So I shut rat in the kitchen drawer and raced to get into position holding the broom high in the air, and thought, what am I doing? Am I actually going to hit it? I would probably miss, or worse, strike it down and guts would get all over. Plus, part of me thought it was kind of cute....and disgusting....but what if I missed, and it decided to come after me and I kept swinging and accidentally knocked noodles off shelves, while the rat clutched on to my pant leg and started climbing--

I could feel myself weakening. Was I supposed to wait until my father and brother came home from work? What do you do, call a specialist? What would they do? Is there a procedure for this kind of thing? I wish someone would just come home and deal with this!!

I had (legitimately) other errands, so when I returned my brother and dad were already on rat patrol, bless them. I have been grateful for males before, but I believe this instance was in my top ten.

"Get out of the doorway," my brother hissed. "We are trying to chase it out!"

So we moved the table and all the chairs and pulled up the area rugs to makeshift a wall, the rat rustling behind the shelves, running up the curtains, and behind another set of cabinets.

In the end, it was a group victory. Of course, my dad and brother get all the bravery points, but in this case, I was content to be a coward. We looked like a band of villagers holding pitchforks and shovels, brooms, and Tupperware lids. We chased the (poor) thing out into the open and blocked his way until he found the open door and ran out into the wide, wide world.

"What was that?" we asked each other. We had seen its tail, and its tail was furry.  Was that a squirrel?? I can't believe we would terrorize a cute little squirrel.

"It's not a squirrel," my sister announced from the computer. "It is a bushy-tailed wood rat. And I hope it didn't have any babies, because it will try to get back in."

To which my brother ran after it, yelling and holding the shovel above his head. Take that, rat.

the art of juggling

“It’s easy!” B says, miming a juggler, “you just throw the ball up and when it comes and hits its apaje, you throw another!”

Its what? I raise my eyebrows. “Apaje!” He eyes follow the balls that he has mentally created (and apparently hallucinated) into thin air, “It’s a French word.”

Why didn’t you just say ‘apex’? As I wonder if his French is influenced by being raised in Canada, he continues, “Get me three identical objects.” I contemplated handing him three DVD cases, but someone else handed him the miniature oranges, the kind that come in the huge cardboard box.

“Don’t look at your hands, just the balls in the air.” He tosses an orange slowly in one hand, over and over. “Use muscle memory for the timing. At the apex, do something else with your other hand.” He then snaps his fingers when the orange reaches the top. Toss, snap, toss, snap, again and again.

I am kind of sad that he replaced his invisible balls with tangible tangerines. Because though juggling is an accepted metaphor for life—“dropping the ball” and all that— I think about how his hallucinated juggle session was a much better reflection on me and my experiences. In the end, all my stresses and pressures have been made up by me. And, since my worries are usually self-imposed, I should not care so much when, inevitably, I drop a ball.

For this metaphor to work, I quote Mr. Finnigan, the one with The Joy of Juggling: “A drop is a sign of progress, and everyone learns to juggle, drop by drop.”

Heck, I could even turn by life/juggling into a comedy routine. When something doesn’t quite go my way I can make up excuses for my juggling errors.

Me: Welcome to my juggling act. See my amazing dexterity as I…ooph. Well, we’ll just chalk that up to a sudden burst of gravity. I get three tries for the hard ones. Ok, here we go again…

art of decking the halls/building

When my boss hinted that if I wanted I could hang up Christmas lights on our building, I thought, yeah RIGHT. Maybe if you pay me triple—even then, I’d only consider it.

My internal dialog dubbed over his explanations; his mouth formed: "extension cords," "ladders," and "climb on roof," "blah blah," as my mind acknowledged that there was no way was I even doing this. I wasn't hanging lights outside, or using a rickety ladder—I’ve never even used a ladder before. I was not the person for the job.

“You’ve never used a ladder?” my mother later laughed, in disbelief. I noted that she didn’t give me any helpful advice, or stern warnings for the morrow, and talking to her made me realize that somehow, I was suddenly.... doing it.

My boss must have mind-controlled me, and by holly, I was now Decorator-in-Charge.


I was a little nervous. Are ladders even safe? I had only experienced ladders in Calculus and other math problems. Ladders in math problems tend to dump people/things off of them at calculable velocities and distances. So how was this going to turn out?

But then, there I was--I examined the situation, the ground space and existing shrubbery, the roof where I would lean my ladder, the lumber yard full of gawkers across the street...

NO--Focus.
Switch mind off. Side jump up porch railing to ladder over shrub. Tunnel vision. Don't look down. Don't look at the view. Don't listen to cars driving past. Grab wire, pop in hooks.

Done with Side One. I climbed down.

And realized that my ladder was stuck in the bushes. Stupid, stupid bushes.

If any of those lumber yard gawkers were asking themselves why I was taking so darn long, and why I was yelling, they might have considered HELPING ME, which is something I actually screamed at them (in my mind) in one of my more frustrated moments. They were probably just taking bets at when I was going to break my leg.

Here is some ladder etiquette that I breached:

Don’t drop ladder---NO check

Don’t put ladder upside down— no check (my boss casually mentioned the ladder feet as I was positioning it. "Oh, yeah. Of course," I said--as I was thinking, ladder feet?)

Don’t walk under ladder—no check. 7 more years bad luck. I'll probably be single until I'm 35 for that one.

Don’t place ladder on top of shrubbery for a better position—no check....again. Hopefully my boss doesn't notice certain damage until spring.

And I have some pretty serious questions for ladder professionals and maybe physicists:

1) Haven't we invented some sort of arm extension with pincher on the end yet? Useful, I would think.

2) Why is it that when you stretch with one hand extended it is longer than the two handed stretch? The two handed stretch makes more sense, as there are two hands to help with the work; the one handed stretch, while longer in length, takes longer in time, because only one hand is fumbling around. It is mind boggling.

So, can you show me how to do that? No, please--no more ladders, no more lights. Wake me up in January.

art of being a jaded old hag

Jaded Old Hag--a nickname thought up by educated college roommates who tired of basing their life happiness on boyfriends. I stumbled into the association one day after an eloquent tirade on dating and was inducted as a JOHer in the twinkle of an eye.

What followed was a flurry of parties, movie nights, cackles, and the occasional night on the town that only a group of girls can do. I love being a JOH so much that I have vowed to be one my whole life--even after I marry and have kids. Watch out world.

For the record--a "jaded old hag" is not a "bitter bleepy witch."

"Jaded" is synonymous with being Freed--freed from pressure, hope, and from some conventions, and from unrealistic expectations--usually freed by a healthy sense of Irony, given through experience.

When your helium-balloon-hopes loudly pop! on life's power lines, being jaded means you laugh at the noise instead of being startled into crying (and you collect on the betting pool you had going on the side.)

"Old" and "hag"--those are mostly relative terms--a young girl can slip past JOH security if she demonstrates a correct form of jadedness. Though, for her safety, her membership is merely Honorary.

In other news, I invited a girl of sufficient age to hang out with the JOHers,because she seemed smart enough to appreciate reality, but she reprovingly responded, "I am NOT old!"

And I kicked her out before she got in.

Sometimes it's hard not to be jealous of girls who have no reason to be jaded. This girl looked like a cross between Pocahontas and a ballerina. And she's bubbly. Basically, she's a bodacious babe. I recently went to a dance with her and forgot that jaded means that I shouldn't care that boys flock to the Poc-allerinas of the world. To compensate for being ignored, I danced like a crazy and carefree windmill, and sometimes like a shopping cart. I couldn't decide if I was trying to attract attention, or was just flailing my arms defiantly at the universe.

Take that, universe! I'm jaded and I just don't care! Although, two days later, my knees still kind of hurt from dancing so hardcore. Not that it means anything.

art of dyeing hair

I dyed my hair a dark unspecified color. It's pretty different. I think I look like a witch.

My mom thinks it's cute , but all I can think about is cackling everytime I look in the mirror. It's not that I look gothic--I don't at all. (Plus I don't have any skulls or dog collars...and I have good skin coloring, for dark hair), but now, there is just something witchy going on; I can't quite put my finger on it.

So I woke up this morning and lobbed off 4 inches... Myself. I think it helps a little, I got rid of some scraggly stuff; now I just look like a witch with short hair, which is easier to deal with.

I don't usually do home hair-care kits. There are a lot of things that could go wrong, but I can blame this "art of.." lesson on my aunt, who taught me to dye her hair on a visit. It basically consisted of reading the instructions that came with the box. Who knew? From that experience I learned that it is just as easy to mess things up at home in your kitchen as it is to pay some professional to do it.

When my brother saw me after I dyed it, it was wet, and thus, even darker, and he said that I looked like I dyed my hair black--"as black as your soul," which were his precise words. It kind of fits my theme.

And then I looked at my feet as I climbed into bed, and lo and behold! I did actually dye the bottoms of my feet black. Black soles.

He didn't see my feet, so my question is: How did he know??

art of the marriage app

A few months ago, when I answered our office phone, the voice on the other end asked boisterously, "Are you looking for a few good men?!"

"No. Only one," I replied smartly, which, I believe, caught him off guard. After he had finished laughing, and had stopped joking about my singleness to his brother (my boss), he hung up with, "Tell her to send me a resume."

"For myself, or for my future husband?" I asked my boss.

"Maybe both," He replied.

And since then, I've contemplated doing just that, since it sounds so crazy, and so random and out of place for the real world. Well, why not? If my boss' brother can spread my net out wider...I almost wanted to do it.

So, L and I planned to write a very funny, creative application for my future huzzy, but in the end, I couldn't get Genghis Khan out of my head.(Well, who wouldn't connect the two, right?)

Here's the thing. Even though the man was a conqueror, and he moved his army south and took over cities and governments and repopulated them with his own people--he build and destroyed and left his mark on some of the oldest places in the world. And, most importantly, had a fine sense of irony about life and his role in it:

"One of the joys of travel is visiting new towns and meeting new people," he once said.

Think about that. That's funny. Oh, the humble irony. Genghis and I could have been friends, I think.

And so I decided could I get along with any man who has a sense of awareness enough to see the world like it is and also recognize the humor in it--from ketchup on a white tee-shirt, to a botched up, no good job interview, to bickering with a loved one about something really stupid...

"Wanted: Single man who laughs at himself, and at life. Conquering other civilizations not required."