art of photo taking

There is this photo of mine:  blond girl-child maybe three or four years old in a field with a chocolate brown colt, her fingers stretched out to its muzzle, sun haloing her crazy curls. It's an old photo, 25-years-old, taken in a time when photographs were less common than sneezes.

I'm older now. My curls are brown, and the colt is a gelding turning grey-at-the-edges. To me, that photo represents something---a precious feeling of wonder. I recently asked my mother, "Remember when..." and we talked about the setting of my earliest memories. It was as if we had opened a book, the more pages we turned, the more details we thought about, the more emotions we remembered. A portrait of our life started to reform--my mother loved her horses. She loved me, too. She was young, younger than I am today, and she was adjusting to life and love and family and the animals that were a part of it. And I don't believe there is a copy of that photo left in existence.

I felt a little sad when my mother mentioned that the photo was gone. Ironically sad. Because photos,  to me, are over-taken and over-shared and over-needed to make a situation legitimately real.

Have we lost our ability to record memories in our brains, and access them later?

Granted, I've had more practice than most. When young, our family lost our photographs and papers and memorabilia. I was forced to transfer my feelings and emotions away from things I could one day lose, and put them in my built-in data-base--my own memory.

I may over-do my enthusiasm for NOT taking pictures, at times. As a missionary, I once spent 18 months amongst a Hispanic community that I served and loved, in a culture that I readopted as my own, only to take just one roll and a half of dispensable photos. (Even then, I left the half roll behind.) Another time,  I was on the Great Wall of China and noticed my camera lens was cracked. I put it away and didn't bring it out again the entire trip. I bet there are a few memories somewhere in my head that could be sparked with a visual that could have been recorded on film.

I am known to be perplexed by our propensity as digital-age divas to document anything and everything we experience. From blogs (yes) to FB to TWTR to Snapshot to Text-Talk to Post-a-Lot to whatever we will think of next:

Cute pink nails--Par-TAY! Cool fashion, girl!

Grocery shopping--95c/lb broccoli!!!

OMG!  Talk talk talk talk twitter twitter tweet.

And whether we have this insatiable obsession to feel famous amongst an internet crowd of famousness, or to decode vibrations of speculation on our outer strands of a world wide cobweb, we self-document and self-publish and self-contribute, both the big and small of our lives--I wonder, is it working? Do we feel more connected with our friends on OverShare.Com; does following Kutcher's tweets mean we actually know him?

I am annoying to my peers, the ones that I see face-to-face, and maybe the ones that I used to see, too. They hear me repeatedly pleading for them to put down the camera, or the phone, or the camera phone, and be present in the conversation. Or to not take a picture, for goodness sake. Or please don't post that on the internet, I'm hiding from the Law (jk. clean-as-a-whistle).

You see, I know there is more I can remember, and record for someone who will care--later. Maybe a granddaughter, or some historian documenting obscure American lives--but I only have so much of me to give. I can't waste it on the 2500 pics taken while in Tahiti (not me). Give me one or two photos to represent something I want to remember, and let my brain do the rest.

Maybe there is an argument that boils down to the saying "Don't put all your eggs in one basket." Didn't I just tell you that our family lost everything and now has no items of nostalgia left? Yeah, maybe that's true.

But my mother and I just had an entire conversation based on a photo that neither one of us has seen in years. Maybe there's something to be said about that, too.

art of self diagnosis

Not recommended. But in my defense, I was the one who was there--

 

It happened when I wasn’t paying attention. It snuck up on me, bound and gagged me, and threw me in the backseat of my brain, and suddenly I wasn’t the one driving--it was something other, something not me, something alien that now had control.

I had never been hijacked before. Not in real life, or even as a joke, and never in my brain. Perhaps the euphoria of making it home for Christmas masked the takeover, so it wasn’t until five, six months later I noticed anything unusual anyway. I had been effectively locked up, and put on autopilot, and all my desire and connection to life around me had been severed and hidden in the trunk. It was locked away, and I couldn’t hear it kicking and screaming to be let out, and I couldn’t even care it was gone. I just looked out the window as images flashed past.

 The alien driver made sure I got to work on time—every day.  I worked; I came home: lather, rinse, repeat. It drove me to church, and to ballgames. It got me to everything I was supposed to get to, everything I was obligated to do. But I was detached and cold, watching from a distance, left with no desire to participate in the world that flowed around me, the world that had seemed so natural and normal previously and that now had little claim on any thought or care that I had.

Not that I had many cares. But, was I worried that foreign governments had bugged my bedroom? Yes. Was I on high alert to flee at any sign of suspicious behavior? Yes, again. Did I boil into a rage if anyone touched me, critiqued me, or sometimes, dared ask me a question?—Yes.

 None of this mattered, not to me. I was still tied up in the backseat just looking, just browsing, no help needed, thanks. Not even when I stopped making plans, not even when I forgot how to pee, not even when I realized how easy it would be for me to die, did I care that I was being driven past field upon field of blood red flags, billowing in the wind.

 It was the flashback that saved me. A random email jolted my memory like an electric current zipping through me, and while one moment I was at my desk, the next moment I was on the busy sidewalk, people, smog, bicycles, cars, lights, buildings, noise, noise, noise, pounding in my ears with each pump of my heart. Terror squeezed my chest, and I couldn’t breathe.

 And then I was back at my desk.

 For one instant, my desire to connect kicked out the taillights in the trunk and frantically waved down a passerby. For the first time in a long time, I looked at myself with a detached interest.  I knew that something was wrong with me, and I knew that I couldn’t control myself. The brain had taken over my body; I wasn’t master of my own brain, and that flashback? It couldn't be explained away.

 

I printed off a page of symptoms and took it home to my mother.

 Can someone be certain something is wrong without being diagnosed? If a tree falls with no one around, is there a sound?

 

What if a tree falls and there is no lumberjack to chainsaw it into logs and haul it down the mountain? The log becomes part of the forest, rot into nutrients into foliage.  Or maybe it becomes fodder for wildfire. Either way, it's change; it's a natural passage from one state to another.

 

And so I'm back in the driver's seat. More aware, more wary. Also more compassionate to others in distress. If my alien could hide in the open, so could another person's demons. We aren't built to go through that alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

art of shopping

 Or, in other words, Confessions of a Shop-o-Phobic

If any of you out there in this blogging-void know me, (which you should, since you're family, or friends), you may have noticed at one point or another that I'm not overly fond of shopping. Maybe it's my aversion to spending money, maybe it's all the people in the stores, or wandering around looking at things that I have no interest or no need for...who knows, but I don't particularly like to shop.

In fact, I think the only lies my mother has ever told in her life have been trying to get me to spend a day on the town with her.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" says Little Me, trusting eyes looking up innocently.

"We're just going to stop at one place, then go home," Mother assures her.

Five department stores later, when Little Me realizes she has been duped, and she turns into a snarling, stormy-faced 22 year-old woman, who waves her fists in the air in Wal-Mart parking lots, her mother remembers that the least fun person to take shopping might just be her oldest offspring. (True Story)

A similar conversation may have happened between me and Heidi occasionally in China. Heidi, like all normal, healthy women, likes to shop, and China is just the perfect avenue for her commercial interests. For me, however, it's like a horror flick...
 
Imagine my delight, then, when I realize that the only way to get a few presents for my fellow MeiGuo-rens, is to go to the famous bargain booths in Beijing's city center. (As if things couldn't get any worse, why don't you throw a store in there where price tags don't exist...)

The story of the week should start with me walking into the YaShow building in Beijing, a 6 story building packed with vendors. Or maybe it should start with JJ, who took me to there; she was an expert at spending her ex-pat husband's money and finding deals you didn't know you needed. Or maybe it should start with descriptions of all the stuff available, the shirts, shoes, bags, red drums, painted fans, carved chess sets, samurai-like swords, or strings of white pearls, swaths of red and violet and yellow silk, and traditional parasols.

But no, my story starts when my dazed eyes cleared briefly, and I found myself already sitting down on a stool in the aisle, my feet shed with a pair Pumas.

What just happened? I thought.

 

I stared stupidly at the Chinese woman, who explained to me, in English, why this pair of Pumas is the best quality of knock-offs and why she will sell them to me for 460 RMB.

 

I jerked up. No way!--No way am I going to spend 70 US Dollars on a pair of shoes. Not even in MeiGuo (USA) will I do that! I didn't even know that Pumas weren't just jungle cats until I sat down at her ruddy booth. How did I get here?

 

I felt some accusatory feelings toward Heidi and Mrs. J, who had led me on the path of what I considered hell, and as I stood to leave, sliding off the shoes, the vendor called out the famous, most common words in the bargain markets: "Okay, okay, okay. Name your price."

 

And, so it began. I don't know how it happened, but I was playing the game--getting the best deal, buyer and seller locked in this infinite struggle against profit and bargain--400 RMB, 350 RMB, 200 RMB...

 

"No," she said, laughing at me, fakely. "These are Pumas. They are such good quality. 200 is Lowest Price."

 

I shook my head in unbelief. I needed to get out of there.

 

"Okay, Deal." She said suddenly. "I give you "friend price." Friend price, 100 RMB."

 

 I think she could sense that I wasn't in love with the idea of buying a pair of shoes.  Truthfully, I wasn't even in love with the idea of being there, but maybe that's the best mindset to be in when bargaining.--And as fast as you can say " China is now the world's second largest economy," I was on my feet, a bag of Puma shoes in my hand.

 

"It's not a big deal," said Heidi, reminding me. "You needed a pair of tennis shoes for hiking the Great Wall anyway."

 

Easy for you to say. I thought. You know what Pumas are...

 

So I went around every floor of Ya Show terrified that I was going to be putty in people's hands and buy the whole store. (I did find some very China-y things, though, and made off with a few bags full of presents. Folks at home would have killed me, otherwise.) 

 

I'm glad that I didn't have much money with me though (on purpose) cause I am horribly bad at bargaining. I don't think that is one of the gifts that God has given me. Unlike some of the vendors, who have been especially trained in secret academies, I'm convinced, to haggle, exclaim, twist, and argue up any price for any thing sold in China.

 

Ironically, this happened in Beijing on Monday. And on Tuesday, the Chinese Central Bank declared a interest rate rise, and a lot of other economic lingo, which basically means that the world was in shock for a few days for some reason, but also that China is only behind America in large economies, and now I can see how, as I am partly to blame.

 

It's because Me and My Fellow MeiGuo-rens buy all of China's knock-off Pumas.

 

arte de arroz con pollo

I got the wedding invitation today, the one from one of my favorite missionary companions, who is half Hispanic herself, who cajoled our investigators into teaching us recipes from their paises. I opened the mail at lunchtime, and examined her engagement picture while eating arroz con pollo, a dish that I had made for my family last night--the dish, coincidentally, that I always associate with her anyway. 

She and I developed a taste for Peruvian food while assigned together in the outskirts of D. C. We learned how to make the dish of green rice and chicken from Mari, a woman in her sixties, who was holed up 25 flights of stairs in a high-rise apartment complex. Limited by a language barrier, and a transportation deficiency, Mari loved to host las hermanas and tell them stories about her family and her businesses back in Peru. My companion and I received quite a few cooking lessons out of our visits as well, since the women were always showing us the proper way to cook or clean something, fulfilling their age-old duties of preparing the next generation to be wives and mothers.

When I came home, released from service, I brought home a few pictures, but more cravings for the homemade Hispanic foods that you can't find in any U.S. restaurant. So my companion and I practiced, on her family or hers, for friends or neighbors, together or separate, trying to remember how they did it, how they got things to taste so good with the limited ingredients the States offer, and I developed a knack for arroz con pollo, a simple Peruvian food of rice and chicken. It was as if a little part of my mission stayed with me, amongst all the rigors and strains of normal life.

She has been on my mind lately. Missionaries leave their assigned areas and disperse across the whole of the world, back to the places from where they came, back into the job market, back into the marriage market, back into life. We lose track of each other and the people that we grew to love and serve. Sometimes the nostalgia is overwhelming, and heartbreaking; it's a sense that you can never return to the way it was exactly, so every attempt at recreation just turns out to be a sad parody. The most you can hope for is contacting the ones you love and forging new relationships out of the old camaraderie. This week, while pureeing the cilantro and peppers, I thought about her, and the hours that we served together, traipsing through neighborhoods, teaching and helping the immigrant communities. 

Half of this batch was going to service, too. It was easy to make, and cheap, and I have found that most people like it, or at least tolerate it. So this time I split the pot and bundled up one half to go to a family whose baby just had kidney failure. I thought how lucky I was to be able to make something and give it away--I was grateful for the ingredients, the know-how, and that companion, who was ready to remind me of the ingredients when I forgot them again and again those first years that we were back. And now, here she was, fiancée smiling beside her. And I thought of how lucky we were, we all are, to go through the experiences that will teach us to be better, how part of her makeup came out of being a missionary, of walking through D.C. neighborhoods, and of learning authentic dishes at the hands of immigrant women.

art of guitar buying

I remember having a slight crush on my guitar salesman, maybe just because he was a really, really good guitar player, maybe because he was the cool sort of hippie, witty, environmentally conscious, but still a march-to-the-beat-of-your-own-drum kind of man (or is it play-to-the-riffs-of-your-own-guitar??).

I had surprised myself when I walked into the shop that day. I planned on buying a discount guitar in the mall (I had only been playing for 2 months), but suddenly found myself in the part of town that the mall was not--the momNpop part of town, where all sorts of hidee-hole shops existed--where I found this store of wonders masquerading as a wood shop for handcrafted guitars.

And I had no idea how to buy a guitar. I wanted one that sounded good. And that was easy to play. And that was beautiful. And low cost. Kind of like all the best choices in life should be.

My guitar guy patiently tried to talk me through it. What do you want it to sound like? Do you like this sound? Close your eyes, how about this? Or this, or this, or this...and I began to feel that panic you feel when you are standing on the brink of the most important decision in your life and asked to jump off the cliff at the precise moment that won't kill you on impact...and finally, finally, he played an instrument with the best sound, clear and low and full. It reminded me of brown sugar and butter, and I was pleased.

And while he went to the workbench to make a few adjustments, I saw my guitar. No, not the one my guitar guy propped on the work bench, but my real guitar. The one on the opposite wall. It was blue, and it was better.

Now I could make this a social commentary about how apt we are to judge things by appearance, even though we pretend like it doesn't matter, or on the flip-side, how just because something (or someone) can be momentarily pleasing, it doesn't mean it's the one that will bring cosmic alignment to your soul.

I don't know what applies here. I do know that I was embarrased to change my mind on him (again), but when he got back I pointed out my blue baby--How silly that we didn't see it sooner! He got props for not looking too long suffering.

So I made him play this one. Again, and again. And luckily, it sounded the same as my first choice.

"You have to play this, too, you know," he said, finally handing me the guitar. I played softly, a little afraid of making a mistake in front of him. I sat in the recording room, playing softly and deliberating, asking him questions--did I really want to buy a guitar right now? How did I take care of it? Is the weather too dry for guitars? Could I travel with it? Will it treat me right?
"You are getting a guitar, not choosing a husband," he finally said to me. In retrospect, he was probably felt like I was stringing him along--was she going to buy this guitar or not? Funnily enough, that clinched it, and I bought my blue guitar.

 He threw in a free case. I thought that was appropriate, after all the work I put him through.

art of asking questions

Sometimes, whether you are in another culture, or if you just are in the dark, it pays to finally blurt out the questions that have been bubbling up inside your heart.

Think of it as the "asking" reflux, if you will, of curiosity. If you don't ask, you won't know what's going on--and ignorance is not bliss, my friends. Not always.

At least that's how Heidi and I felt in China.

We had been wondering why all the babies have crazy split pants on--pants with no seam between the legs-open from front to back. And the babies don't wear diapers.

We were a little horrified to observe the many tiny bums everywhere, on the bus, in their parents' arms, in shopping carts, on slides,...in our arms as parents take our pictures holding their little cargo.

I was slightly embarrassed for the children. (Even though, for some reason, our culture seems to think that children have no dignity. Maybe that's what pure innocence is: no need whatsoever to be dignified...)

Anyway, I was also worried about the sanitation. And then I saw a mother holding her child in the middle of the sidewalk so the child could pee, and I felt justified.

Well, I finally just asked. I tried not to be too judgemental, as a guest in another country that doesn't understand the underlying cultural bases, but I couldn't come up with any reliable explanation: so an ExPat fluent in Chinese gave us the scoop--the children are potty trained. By whistle.

When a newborn starts to pee, the mother whistles. Soon, the child is trained to pee on command. And since the Chinese use squatter toilets, the parents want the slit pants to...I don't know actually. Train them to squat?? That in itself isn't bad, but the split pants thing doesn't seem to help with people peeing in the streets, or babies in the grocery aisle, or perhaps on the subway. It happens.

Now that we knew, we felt, well, more informed. Maybe ignorance is a little bit bliss. But now, "whistling a happy tune" on the streets had just become funnier..

art of good citizenship...

...on the stairs to Mordor.

I've determined that the Chinese are very protective over us.

At least, I'm assuming they have mainly innocent intentions, like protection; I don't know if it's a Western thing, but I tend to be suspicious of strangers we meet in random places, that seem to "adopt" us and want to see us safely home. And trust me, it's happened.

On Monday, Heidi and I finally went to the famous park in our host city, the one with all the trees and the lake and the crappy carny rides that weren't in use, but on which I secretly wanted to ride. We walked over the stone bridge, over the cement, zigzag walkway (without a railing) to the island in the center of the lake, laughed over the signs that said "No Fishing, this Water is Toxic Sludge" in Chinese, and then laughed even harder at the men fishing next to them. We walked around the lake in little secluded paths to the stone walls and around to see, on the hill in the distance, the temple-like thing at the top.

I noticed suddenly to my right that we had disturbed a man siting peacefully on a little secluded hill. At least, I assume we disturbed him, when we passed he immediately got up and walked on. His path was higher than ours, and I didn't pay much attention, till our paths combined and I saw that he was waiting off to the side.

I also noticed when he started again, about 20 yards behind us. We took one path, then another; he still followed us.

"Let's pretend to sit down," I said softly to Heidi as we come to an area with more audience.

"Why do you want to pretend to sit down?" she asked. "Should we just actually sit down?"

Well put, Heidi.

I looked back to see if I've started to make it a bigger deal than it was. My mystery person quickly jumped to a higher path and disappeared. I explained what I saw, but since he wasn't there anymore, we just kept moving, and I started to wonder if he spoke English and overheard us. As we were rounding the corner of a building we had just inspected, there he was again, waiting in the shade under the trees.

"Hey, do you speak English?" asked Heidi, a little too boldly, I thought. I was standing to one side of him, she to the other.

"Uhhhh, Yes!" he said, clearly lying.

"Are you following us?"

I started coughing (or laughing) at her interrogation, wondering how much he could understand.

"Uhhh. Yes."

"Did you know in America, that's rude??" she stated. We started walking, I have no idea why, he walked with us, my hand was on my purse the whole time...

I couldn't see how to get rid of him, so I asked (I have no idea why), "Are you a student?" to keep up the interrogation. Really I wanted to know if he would be so kind as to go away and leave us alone.

No, not a student.

Do you work?

No

"Are you a conman?" Heidi asked outright.

"Uhhh. Yes?" said our man. We had moved away from areas with audiences, and I was starting to get nervous.

Who did we remind me of? I wondered, as Heidi kept talking to him. We were moving up strange, secluded paths, no one else around, with a potential enemy as our guide, and I still had no idea why.

"I'm Samwise Gamgee!!" I exclaimed suddenly. Which made sense, since I was so suspicious, and since Heidi was clearly not the bad guy, that could only mean one thing.....

"What's your name, Smeagol--I mean, Sir?" I asked him.

"John."

"Very nice to meet you, John. Now if you don't mind, we are going onto paths that have more of a population. So..." I tried my best "significant look" at Heidi, but since she was obviously Frodo in this senario, I'm not sure she got it.

I led the party down to the other side of the lake, in view of several, several people. Coincidentally, that side of the lake happened to be the Modor side. It was very rocky incline, past a tunnel of jutting cliff. And lookey here, rickety, rockity stairs!

"Is that even a path?" I said nervously. It was vaguely steep. And there was a channel of toxic agua below, smiling a welcoming smile.

"Uhh. Yes!" said John. And he gestured for me to go ahead and climb up.

No Friggin' Way will I climb up there with Smeagol behind me, I thought to myself. But I looked up and Frodo had already started climbing.

"You go," I said VERY DECISIVELY to John. "I'll watch." And keep an eye on you, you creeper.

So in the constant guise of me being nervous to climb, when actually I was nervous to trust the crazy man following us, Heidi and I (and John) climbed up the stone cliff stairway, literally stepped from the cliff across the channel 50 feet below, to other rocks and crags of Mordor Island and then climbed our way to the temple with John as our guide. I Have No Idea Why.

And as soon as I had my back turned, John was being invited on more and more of our journey.

"Do you know of where we can get Chinese medicine balls?" Heidi asked. Two blocks south?

Smeagol showed us the way.

How about English books? Across the street?

Smeagol showed us the way.

Oh, great, I thought. He'll probably want to show us how to get to our house, too...

"AJ," said Heidi. "He wants us to go to his house, so he can show us his medicine balls.'

No. Friggin'. Way. I said in my head, in my heart, softly out loud to Heidi.

And it took some maneuvering. He was very insistent. Gentleman? Maybe. Kind? Maybe. Generous? Maybe. Suspicious? Very much so.

When he followed us to the bus stop, I boldly told him he could not come home with us. (He did ask.) I also told him I didn't know where my house was on the map. (I lied.) Heidi gave him her number, though. She'll have to deal with the consequences of that.

"Bye, Smeagol," I said in relief as he walked away. I watched him leave for a while.

"Oh, man! I wanted to be Sam," Heidi said to me, later, as we laughed at our story.

"No," I said. "I'm Sam...I am Sam."

art of being up close and personal in Beijing

I guess China really is the most populated country in the world.

I anticipated that before, but honestly, I was unprepared for the masses. For example, Heidi and I decided be foreigners, so we touristed Beijing (Tianamen, Forbidden City). To get the full effect, you must imagine yourself in a crowded platform, everyone pushing and pulling to be first in line to the subway. Not that it matters, because the subway is so full of people, you can't imagine how anyone else could get on.

And then the doors open, immediately the warning bells sound, and you feel a panic about not getting on in time, because Heidi is already on (If you don't have a Heidi, you can substitute a name), and just yesterday you watched the subway doors close with her on one side and you on the other waving good-bye sadly.

Suddenly, you are riding a wave of people that almost lift and propel you inside. You didn't even feel your feet touch the ground. If you are a little shocked and disoriented, and wondering how in the world everyone just fit in, you are in the same subway car as I was. Heidi told me later that a security guard pushed from the back and stuffed the twenty people behind me onto the car. I have never been touched by so many people in my life. Ever.

You think Disneyland in summer is bad? LA on the freeway? Midnight showing for Twilight? Boston on the Fourth of July? I've been stuck in all of those places (minus Twilight), and I am still astounded.

And it really didn't help that our trip was during Moon Festival. In Beijing, there are so many people, that you couldn't possible imagine anyone coming "out of the woodwork," so to speak, but mix in a festival and the crowds grow by fives. Duh, there is going to be traffic.

Actually there was so much traffic, even on the subway, that we missed our train home. Ticket exchange is masses of lines, and since we don't read Chinese characters, we spent hours in the wrong places. Now the only thing I can say in Chinese is "bang bang wo" (Help me) with a pitiful look. They speak exasperated Chinese in return, but the pitiful look gets things done.

I'll give you one sentence of our misfortune: We took the wrong subway exit, We were 9 minutes late to our first train, we stood in the wrong lines, we lost our new ticket, we walked up to policemen and motioned them to talk to our Chinese friends on the phone so we could find a bus, and we were refused rides and help by taxi drivers and security guards because, apparently, we have the leprous disease of too much english, not enough chinese. And we were astonishingly late to work, which is hard to do, since it starts at 6 o'clock at night.

Can you say that in one breath?

And on top of that (please remember that this is about being up close and personal), something is rotten in Beijing, and I couldn't eat anything without severe abdominal pain.   And even though the Olympic subway is new, they only have squatter toilets, much to my horror. So if you are still imagining yourself in the subway, please stop, because you CAN'T imagine the panic I felt when we got lost coming out of the subway and couldn't find the apartment where I knew had a western bathroom.

art of the crazy american

Remember, these stories have been stored up because China hates Google, and I didn't have access:

Since we were anticipating seven hundred students, Heidi brought ten dollars worth of pennies to give away to special people that we met, students and nice people who told us ancient Chinese wisdom and the like. Unfortunately for her, and me, we only have twenty students, and one thousand pennies to unload.

Which brings us to the train. It pulls into the station, I manuever my way through the mass of people down the aisle, when I notice everyone in front of me is looking at me or past me to Heidi, craning their necks, and some stretching out their hands. "Oh, do you want a penny?" She asks, in English, smiling. "It's from America."

"Oh, my gosh, Heidi, it's a penny." I say, facing forward, a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, and I have a thousand of them," she says, still giving everyone a penny. As we pass, more and more people are looking to see what the commotion is about with those crazy Americans. I look back again and see a woman refuse the penny. Heidi places one in her hand anyway.

The crazy American thing is something I really should be getting used to. It's an everyday occurence, largely resulting in not being able to explain normalish things that either Heidi or I do--like drink ice water. The Chinese think that's bad for your health. When I was sick last week, the Chinese receptionist, Carrie, told me that I need to drink more hot water. I can't think of anything more disgusting to drink. Especially when it tastes like dirt.

Something else that I'm sure has confused them, is when I try to be friendly and carry on certain conversations that should have been left alone. Like when they ask me if I've eaten dinner. Up until YESTERDAY, I've taken that literally. The conversations have all gone like this:

Crazy American:  Ni Hao (hello)
Chinese Man:  Have you eaten dinner?
Crazy American gets confused look on her face:  Yes. I had a potato....with some green beans.

Pause

Crazy American, very politely:  What did you have for dinner?
Chinese Man has really confused look on his face. Then he turns away.


I believe this conversation has happened around ten times since coming to China. Here are my thoughts each time:

Have I eaten dinner? That's a weird question. What time is it? It's eight thirty at night. I know these people are protective, but you'd think that I would know what time to eat dinner. Just because I can't speak the language doesn't mean I'm 10 years old.  Maybe he hasn't eaten dinner. Oh, maybe he's asking to see if he can take the American teachers out to some new Chinese food.  Oh...nope. That's not it.

End quote.

I learned yesterday that "Have you eaten dinner?" with all it's forms actually means, "What's up" or "How was your day?" and the correct response is not to ask them what food they ate that night, but say the equivalent of "Hey, how are you" back.

Oh.

Technically, I can blame everything I do that's weird on being a crazy American. So when we break all our eggs in the shopping basket by accidentaly dumping waterbottles in on top of them, we can say that we do that kind of thing in America all the time. Or when we blow the breaker in our apartment by having too many appliances on. Or when I want to wear black pants with a brown shirt and light blue shoes--I can do all that (and more) because I. am. crazy.

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."

art of navajo tacos

After I missed the Navajo taco party, IA and I fry up another batch of tacos.

I think the concept of fried bread has been around since Adam and Eve, or maybe since bread, and it seems like every culture has some sort of fried bread, hence, many people mistook the taco party for a ‘scone’ party. Basically the same.

But these masterpieces of fried bread—these were made from a recipe passed from Navajo woman to Navajo woman on the Arizona Rez…to Navajo son, and to IA.

“White people make it too thick,” says IA as he furiously rolls out the dough. “And they fry it too long in the pan.” He is the coordinator for our taco re-party. “Anyone who tried to help me make this has failed,” he continues.

Comforting. Still I’d like to try my hand at it, so to speak. “Where’s the recipe?” I ask. “Do you think I could do it if I’m enough Cherokee to register at a reservation?”

“Yes, I think that will help, actually,” he says positively, hopefully. I have my doubts. I had been kidding. Do Cherokees even make fried bread? Has anyone heard of Cherokee tacos?

But I’m game to try. I mix as precisely as I can (which is against my personal cooking religion); I sift flour and baking soda, add the wet ingredients at the appropriate times.

Insert hands.

“IA,” I call eventually. “This is very, very dry.”

“It will be okay,” he says, not looking, “just have faith in your inner Indian.”

I keep at it. Soon I add some warm water. Sticky. He finally inspects it. “Hmm, “ he hums, disappointed. “Well, that’s okay, I guess.”

It’s not okay. I have enough inner Indian to tell that. His dough was squishy; mine tough. His was almost delicate, mine could be handled by toddler’s hands and molded into shapes. He left the failed dough with me, distancing himself from the mess.

What can I do with this? I muse. Inspiration hits.

I roll the dough out for Cherokee cinnamon rolls, and I wonder, if Cherokees didn't bake before, they do now.

art of craftiness

K hailed me from her porch and bequeathed me a pale, cream and green magnolia hair clip, which magically transformed my outfit into that of a tropical goddess. In fact, there were many tropical goddesses around our apartment complex that day wearing gardens full of poppies, roses, daisies and orchids; I don’t think that she understood how inspiring the clips were until we blackmailed her into teaching us to make our own.

Force a man to teach another man to fish, and all that.

So we settled ourselves at her kitchen table and learned the ancient hair-clip craft.

“It’s really very easy,” she said repeatedly as I burned my fingers on the glue gun.

And, under a little direction, a little ribbon, a little clip, a little flower, and a little glue, it was easy. Suddenly, I had a red-orange poppy that, though clashing badly with my outfit, reminded me of springtime and my brother-in-law’s poppy field behind his house.

Unfortunately, all the craftiness invaded my brain—I noticed that S had a great red-orange-poppy-appropriate shirt on, so I wrestled my clip into her hair. I decided it was better for it to be of good use—plus I could see it better in her hair than mine. After all, what’s the use of learning how to fish if you can’t enjoy the view?

art of bein’ suthun’

I guess hospitality is a southerner’s coat of arms—their honor and their battle cry. It is my personal belief that to “host” means to “not let the guest do anything,” a sentiment of which I approved of wholeheartedly as the guest.

So, when I went down to Carolina territory I learned extensively how to “make myself at home”—which meant in the car ride from the airport (chocolate chip cookies), the Piggly-Wiggly (southern ginger ale), at a fast food restaurant (real pork barbecue), at L’s house (homemade pizza). My job: take what is offered and prettily say “thank you.”

L’s husband B made my bed up for me, I was adequately supplied with all the napkins and towels I could use, we had waiters come to our table to bring us more water (and more napkins) at the fast food restaurants. By the end of the trip, I just started stealing things, figuring they were going to let me have it anyway, and I would just avoid bothering people by asking.

The best position in the whole state of North Carolina would be the short term guest. I started considering how to hop from household to household to be waited upon. My hostess, L, informed me excitedly that she was going to make me real “suthun” biscuits and gravy for breakfast; she was going to wake up at 6 a. m. to start them.

“Do I have to wake up at 6 a. m. too?” I asked, horrified. I appreciated the sentiment, but that seemed a little early for biscuits. I played the guest card. “Maybe I’ll get up at 7, then…”

I blissfully and peacefully slept the sleep of a guest with no cares and no worries, until the fire alarm went off because L and B over-browned the biscuits.

She was horrified to say the least; I just thought it was funny—and it was good gravy.

art of bank-teller flirting

A friend told me recently that he went out with a waitress who left her phone number on a napkin for him. I had always thought that this was a brassy move. Bold, but relatively harmless, I suppose, and it came briefly to mind yesterday as I drove to get a cashier’s check.

I decided to learn from my friend's example and try it.

I was contemplating how to get my bank teller to ask me out since traditional methods of flirting are nonexistent in a bank. First of all, money isn’t very funny; I can’t laugh at stupid jokes if there is nothing to joke about, and other bank patrons are annoyed with me holding up the line by being chatty. (Plus, it’s chancy for the teller, who is handling money and doesn’t need distractions.)

Touching is out, because of protective barriers. And eye contact is brief, as the teller has to concentrate on the computer screen showing your account information. What is a girl to do when a smart, costumer-service savvy, gorgeous, single man works at her local branch? Slip him my number, on some paper scrap…

Truth be told, it was just a quick fantasy; I promptly forgot about it at the bank, when someone new helped me.

But then, eureka!, New Teller needed help from Gorgeous Teller, and then asked for our business contact information to be written on a slip of paper. No one knew my internal struggle. Should I just give the business phone number? That’s all they really need. But how ironic, that on the very day of my daydream, I got the chance to be a little bold, a little brassy, a little flirty in the bank.

And I left my cell number as well. For the art-of-flirting’s sake.

I was pleased. I walked out to the car. Got in pertly, readjusted my mirror.

And noticed my lipstick had smeared all over my chin.