Just on the cusp with Feces

A quick trip down memory lane: my grandmother Totsy was famous for two things (besides avoiding shoplifting convictions, that is): first, her inability to admit she might be wrong, and second, her conviction that they way she pronounced any word was correct, be it French, which she didn't speak, or English, which was her second language, or even Czech, which was her home language as a child. This lead to some interesting comments, such as "They looked at me as if I was a LEAPER," and my favorite, "Well, astrology is very mod now, isn't it, and I think I have a house in Feces." That's what I think of when things go to pot, that the moon is in Feces, and will come back to some state of normalcy before long.

I am awful sometimes

I am awful sometimes, and looking back through my blog I can see where I have been harsh, unjust, and unfair, not to mention a crappy typist. (I actually spell quite well.) One of my posts turned my mother off reading my blog forever, which is not a bad thing in of itself but her feelings were terribly hurt, which is rotten. I've also posted about someone else, also in harsh terms, but every word was true. At what point do we stop "poking fun"  and just turn into bitches?

On the other hand, I had a massive amount of crap dumped on me this year--much of which I cannot go into--and I DIDN'T complain about that, although perhaps I will. I'm at the crossroads with a job (note that I didn't say career) and the best I can think of to do is to render myself silly with OTC sleeping aids so I can get one night's rest as my acupuncturist is out of town and it's only after a session with the needles that I can get in more than three hours' sleep. I hate worrying about jobs, and money, and all that: gone are the days when I could focus on doing a great job in the classroom or the boardroom and to hell with the personal drama and the cutthroat corporate world. You know what I miss? The days when all I had to worry about was getting to rehearsal on time and looking cute. Youth is a drug, and we are all addicts, fondly reminiscing about past highs.

Oh, Fudge! My Only Threesome

Here are three quick and easy fudge recipes. Even if you're cooking on a hot plate, you can manage at least one of them. Notice that none contain peanuts, as Baby Girl is allergic to them, and none are at all healthy. Sometimes you just have to make fudge, and Christmas is just one of those times.

Number One:

Take a can of sweetened condensed milk. Any brand. Even that Panda type will do. Pour into a small sauce pan and bring to a boil over low heat, stirring constantly to prevent scorching. As soon as it has boiled for one minute (a full boil, not just bubbles at the side of the pan) take it off the heat, dump in either a bag of chocolate chips (the ones you got two-for-one at April Gourmet because they were so old they were grey) or six cut-up Dove bars (not the tiny ones not the big ones) and beat until the chocolate is melted. Add a teaspoon of vanilla, or brandy, if you have it, then pour quickly into a pan. Tupperware is fine, especially if it's not new and has the greasy sheen to it. A regular metal pan is also good, especially if you're greased it with butter first. You can also pour onto a slab of aluminum foil. Like all fudge, this will dry out quickly in the low humidity of a China winter, so keep it well covered at all times.

Even better with nuts in it.

Second one:

2 cups sugar (I use a mix of brown and white), stirred with a half-cup of cocoa until all lumps are gone. Add 2/3 cup milk, dash of salt, 2 tablespoons of corn syrup (not strictly necessary but makes a huge different in final product.) Allow this to sit somewhere for an hour or two until the sugar has dissolved. Heat gently in a saucepan. You can use a candy thermometer to check the temperature, which should come to soft ball, or you can simply check to see if it's at that stage by dropping a small amount into cold water: if you can pick up the lump with your fingers and roll it into a small ball which more or less keeps its shape, it's ready to go off the burner. Some cooks advocate stirring gently while it's bubbling to prevent scorching, some do not. Some cover the pan with a lid to help the steam wash down any sugar crystals that have formed. I caution you to remember this is frickin' hot AND you are dealing with sugar crystallization so don't slosh the pan around. Let the fudge cool until you can put your hand on the bottom of the pan and hold it briefly without crying. Then add a lump of butter--oh, say three tablespoons--and a slosh of vanilla or bourbon, then beat the crap out of it until it suddenly begins to get thick and lose its gloss. Pour immediately into a pan. If you want nuts, add with the butter so they have a chance to leak some of their delicious oil into the fudge, thus enhancing the flavor. If you've done everything right, you will have a smooth and creamy fudge with an intense flavor. If you messed up, a grainy mess is the result. I went through a lot of grainy batches of fudge before I finally learned not to stir it until it had cooled off. Other teenagers experimented with boys, I was locked in an affair with Hershey's cocoa and sugar. Sigh.

Third recipe: Look at the label of any brand of Marshmallow Fluff. It's basically the second fudge recipe, without the cocoa added in the first step, and with a bag of chocolate chips and a jar of Fluff added after it's taken off the burner. This recipe yields a massive amount of fudge which turns out perfectly most of the time. For no-fail fudge, try the first one. The second one is for perfectionists who won't touch anything with egg in it (which most Marshmallow Fluff contains) and if you want, you can actually make vegan fudge with the second recipe, substituting water for the milk, and vegan butter for the butter. Most of the vegans I know need a good feeding (as well as a wash--sorry, but it's true) so I will make a vegan batch for anyone who cares as much about animals as they do.

I am also getting a pet for my guinea pig, as they shouldn't be alone and I don't have enough time to play with her as much as she would like, but that's another story. She's also going to the groomer--damn the person who decided long-haired guinea pigs were good pets!--and it was very hard to find a groomer who would take on a guinea pig. I might post pictures, but only if it won't hurt Squeaky's pride. I know I would not want someone taking pictures of me while I was straddled over a bowl of warm water, freaking out in the hands of a stranger.

New Teacher in a New School

Here's what you can do if you are the friends or family of someone who has the great misfortune to be a new teacher in a new school: Stay Away.

Don't come visit. Don't phone on Sunday night to chat. Don't send friends to "see how things are over there."

If you do come, bring your own cookies and clean sheets. Make a meal. Do not expect someone to work a 14 hour day and then come home to entertain out-of-towners who have been lolling around all day watching TV and are "just rarin' to get out there and see the REAL China."

I think the worst week of my life occured this August: I moved to a new apartment on Friday, started a new job Monday, and my daughter AND HER GUESTS arrived Monday night.

This is when you know you are officially middle aged: you find a beautiful naked 20 year old man  (who is NOT your student OR related to you) sleeping on your sofa as you stumble into the kitchen for a cup of coffe, and your first thought is, Hmm, I should cover him with a little afghan and turn the air con down, it's blowing right on his neck and he might get a cold...

If you wonder why I haven't posted, it's simple: I am a new teacher, teaching a new curriculum, in a new school. It's Sunday and I'm going in. To work. For free. Because I have to if I want to catch up to the point where I"m only a month behind. Will post another day. Promise. Like, at Christmas. Maybe.

The Crazies

China attracts its fair share of nuts, with no place being as rich in characters as Beijing. Most foreigners here fall into three camps: students, crunchy with enthusiasm and body filth, corporate expatriates who are put up in such cushy surroundings that they can well believe they are still "back home" and long-term expats with no real skills, no real jobs, and who stay because they married a local or are avoiding possible persecution in their home state. There are a few sub-categories, of course, but the trend holds pretty solid. Needless to say, the last category is especially loaded with nut jobs.

My downstairs neighbor is one of them. On my second visit to the real estate firm that was handling my lease, my realtor confessed that the downstairs neighbor of one of the flats I was considering had already paid him a visit--twice--pumping him for details about me. This is not a good sign. As we walked over to the apartment so I could take a final look, a tall, grey-haired woman with an obviously half-Chinese toddler literally jumped out of some bushes to take a good look at me. Then she launched into her verbal assault, the bulk of which was: I am a home-schooling mom, even though my daughter is only 18 months, so she's on a strict schedule, I'll tell you when you can do anything noisy and that includes sweeping the floor, and btw, how much money do you make and what is the name of the school where you teach. In other words, it was a grilling: what was my financial status, as well as FEAR ME! I AM A HOME-SCHOOLING GOD-DESS AND THEREFORE WORTHY OF ALL LOVE AND ADMIRATION. I KNOW MORE ABOUT EDUCATION THAN THEE!

Some homeschooled kids turn out ok, but in general, their mothers are nut jobs too: how many homeschool moms have actually bothered with studying education? Precious few. You think you can learn that from the internet? Do you know how to teach reading, how to use math manipulatives such as Unix cubes, how to spot dyslexia? I do: I have enough respect for the profession to not only get trained in it but to update my skills far beyond what is required in my home state. If you fling the name of some home-schooling website from the Internet at me and think I'm going to fall down at your feet and praise you for having actually read a whole web page, you're wrong. You want to discuss education with me, fine: I'm pretty well versed in ECE, ELM, and various ECE theories and practices including Montessori, Waldorf, and Reggia Emilia. I study brain-based research into education. So put up your dukes, and let's spar. What I will not tolerate is someone acting as if they are socially superior to me because they can home school. And that is precisely what this woman was trying to convey. Even the realtor, with his limited English, understood that The Bitch Downstairs was trying to one-up me, and for the life of us both, we couldn't figure out why. (Ok, well, maybe insecurity.) I'm old, I'm tired, I'm poor: why would anyone feel the need to try to top that when it's so obviously out there? I will not apologize for being any of those things---I took a pretty sound beating from life, it lasted a LONG TIME, and  yet I'm still moving forward. So there.

A lot of parents in Beijing homeschool because they can't afford the outrageous school fees. Even sending your kid to a local school can cost about 10,000 USD per year, with first a "registration fee" of three to four thousand dollars, then fees per term for study. Some people ask me, "Why didn't you send your kid to the American school?" For starters, there isn't one. The US government does not provide a free education for its citizens abroad unless you are working for the government--in which case, they pay tuition for your children to attend an international school, but that school might actually be British, Canadian, or set up and run by a private investor group which is multi-national. Why should the government sent up free schools for US citizens?  They shouldn't, they aren't obliged to, and they didn't ask me to come here and live. As long as I earn less than a certain amount  per year, I don't even pay taxes in the US. I do pay whopping big taxes to the Chinese government, but then again, I live here. As far as I'm concerned, my own government is off the hook regarding the education of expatriates abroad. Sadly, not everyone gets that.

So, back to The Neighbor. I mentioned to a friend who lives nearby that I had been graced by a visit from The Crazy Neighbor and she launched into a story that chilled my very bones. Apparently while Crazy Neighbor's husband was gone (doing what, we can only imagine) she took to haunting the common courtyard area, small child in tow. She could be found day and sometimes night lurking in the bushes, ready to pounce on anyone walking by and tell them in three different languages all about her home schooling (which she has yet to begin.) One day to my friend's surprise, she launched a different attack. As my friend--a sweet woman with a shy manner which belies her rapier wit--was struggling with her bike lock, Crazy Neighbor approached. "Do you like chicken?" Crazy Lady began. My friend struggled to come up with a reply that could be innocent and not lead to further conversation. No need. "Because I don't have any," Crazy Lady continued. "But I could give you some spiced crab apples."

Do you see what loneliness does to people? If only Crazy Lady found a nice play group for her daughter, got out, saw some people, she might take to having safe, sane conversations with people who were genuinely glad to see her and her toddler daughter, who is indeed adorable. Instead, we run, and even text each other when she's outside, that mad lonely gleam in her eye, desperate to assault us with a conversation that proves that no, no, she's not trapped in a crap marriage in a country she doesn't like with a kid she can't afford to take to a local school so she can have a flippin' cup of coffee in peace and quiet...how very well I understand, and how deeply grateful I am for the poverty that forced and forces me to get up and go to work every day. Even today. Happy Sunday.

Fall, That Very Special Time of Year

It's Fall, and as usual, I have a new job. I dislike moving and I really dislike being the new person. I keep getting hired to "fill in the gaps" of schools which always means writing new curriculum, fighting to get classroom space and supplies, etc: just as I finally breathe a sigh of relief with everything under control, I either get a) promoted, b) given a new subject to teach at a different level or c) so outraged I quit and go to another school.

Just in case you are NOT a teaching professional, it takes a full year of teaching a particular curriculum to a particular age group before you are really competent at it, have lessons lined up, and can actually NOT spend the evenings making up flash cards, interactive whiteboard slides, or other things (sometimes even the curriculum itself) your department is too cheap to buy. I have been in one school for three years, but each year was given a different subject and grade level to teach: thus, being new every year. I switched schools last year and found that I had TWO different subjects to teach which were entirely different, and neither had so much as a textbook. So I had two curriculum to pull together. This year, I topped myself by being by hired by one school, but in teaching in both campuses, different subjects, to eight different grade levels.  To top it off, Lulu's tuition and room and board rose dramatically this year, and all this "new", including an apartment which is four times the price of my old one, has cut down on the amount I have for free lance work. I had a houseful of drunken teenage guests the first two weeks of the new job, and I have another guest arriving next week who will, God willing, be able to fend for himself. I also picked up a very cool editing job, which I finished last night, and now have 97 English poems to compose for a new national curriculum, to be done next week. I haven't started yet, but I figure it's not that hard to rhyme "moon" with "June." I could well be singing another tune by next weekend.

And you wonder at my silence...

Time Flies. So Do Flies.

Just in case you've been wondering where I spent the last month...I moved. I had drunken teenage houseguests, and I started a new job. All three began within a 72-hour period. The job is a newly created position split over two different departments, which meant I missed out on key training on both sides as I was at Meeting A when Meeting B was occuring simultaneously. I had the joy of moving into a new flat--at least it's larger than the last one--while also trying to host daughter Lulu Belle and her beau, and the odd friend who crashed as well. I did not do Mysterious Job Number Two which is a shame as Lulu's tuition increased a LOT this year and I am now paying four times as much for rent as I did this time last year. The new job is incredibly demanding and I got maneuvered into doing things I consider an absolute waste of time (more on that later) such as wandering around the building looking for a computer in which to check daily emails because nobody thought to provide me with a desk or computer. I have to fight 18-year old teaching assistants for use of a shared computer. Let me recap: I have advanced degrees, but no where to put my coat or purse.  To say I am under stress is an understatement. For THIS I turned down a job in Sudan? No wonder I haven't posted: I haven't had time to eat a square meal, let alone write about one. Tell me that this too shall pass. Please.

Charming Chinese Pictures

Let's get this place all clean for Comrade Zanne!



I'm sorry, I don't have time to play right now! Let me finish my homework first.

What's Going On

Ah, moving, that delightful annual occurence which makes a rectal exam by a ham-fisted novice a comparative walk in the park...It was horrible, and complicated by the fact that some asshole had parked his car illegally, half on the street, half on the sidewalk, thus making it impossible for the moving van to enter the compound where I live...the management office was called and they flat-out refused to notify the owner of the car to move his damn vehicle as--and I quote--he OWNS his apartment while I am merely renting. In the six-hour standoff, a compromise was reached: the asshole remained an asshole, and lucky little me got to pay for a van to shuttle the stuff in, with a new team of movers in place to take the things out of the big moving van, load them into the little moving van, drive it down the street to my compound, then unload it and carry it up the stairs. By the time this was accomplished, no one (no mover, that is) gave a rat's ass about what went where and I found after they left that all my clothes had been dumped into shelves willy-nilly and that many pieces were missing. Apparently during the shuttle a few boxes broke open, my clothes were scattered on the pavement, and during the picking up process, no one gave a damn if passer-bys scooped stuff up for themselves. But I'm moved, and I have three delightful neighbors and one crazy bitch whom I shall post about--a lot--under the name of The Mad Hatter. However, I will have virtually no access to internet for the next two or three weeks, so if you want me, you'll have to call.

Tinky Asshat and Other Bad Choices

Resolved over cocktails last night:

For some reason, the bigger the foreign asshole, the more likely he will choose to have the word "dragon" in his Chinese name. Major asshats we know and don't love have named themselves Big Dragon, Dragon Wind (now THERE's something to be scared of) and Little Dragon. I do know one Little Dragon of whom I am quite fond, but the name was chosen for him because it's closest to his surname, Long.

What the ladies had to say: Very inventive, guys. We are so impressed by your superior knowledge of Chinese culture. You know what? Want to show off what you really  know? How about you name yourselves CHOPSTICKS! At least they're Asian, whereas the dragon is found in European mythology as well.

What our Chinese names are; not anything to do with dragons, thank you. I did have a pretty appalling moniker when I was married, however: I still spelled my name with an "X", as in Xanne. (Yeah, Alexandra. Shut up. And don't call me Sandy! I only let Gina Guida write that on my name tag the first day of third grade because the idiot couldn't remember how to write an "X" and I've suffered from it ever since.) My married Chinese surname; Du. As in, altogether now-- Xanne Du. Xanadu! I couldn't wait to get that name changed fast enough, let me tell you, especially when people started referring to me as "Xannadon't." My current nickname: Xanax. As in, many people wish I had some.

Worst "English" names ever: Tinky Asshat, his wife Flesh, and their son Prince. Tinky because the man liked little Tinky Winky from Teletubbies, and "Ass Hat" because his pocket translator translated the characters of his name--Liu, and Mao, as "Ass" (as in "Donkey") and "Hat" (as in "Hat.") "Flesh" is the unfortunate result of bad pronuncation and a Summer's Eve commercial, and Prince is just Prince. I've written before about my students Ballet and Pony (both male) and girls named Keller (after Helen Keller.) I've known Joyknow and Cathy (pronounced "Casey") and the scads of Helens and Janes. My favorite odd name: I had to interview someone for a TV show whose English name was Caligula, and who assured me in low creepy tones that "He didn't indulge in the eating of flesh." (Much to Tinky's relief, eh?) For the record, cocktails consisted of "Pineapple water served in your fresh coconut hell" with appetizers of "Minge Pie." Had he been there, Caligula wouldn't have been interested, which meant a good time was had by all, for sure.

Some Things You Should Know

All right: it's now so hot and humid here and going out, even at night, is the equivilent of walking around in  a dirty sauna or two. I feel like I'm walking through hot dirty butter. Each breath of air fills my lungs with even more hot moist crap. Last night I waited over an hour and a half in a queue to get a taxi--in downtown Beijing--at eleven at night. The driver I finally got was VERY unhappy about having to take me so far--in the direct opposite of where he lived, btw--but he did it, and I tipped him a hundred kuai for doing so. Patronizing? I think not. I took him an hour away from his final destination.

Here's what you should know if you are unfortunate enough to be here in summer:

First: it's really hot and humid. St. Louis humid with third world pollution as a cherry on top. You think you can take that? Then welcome. If not, stay home and watch "Big Bird Goes to China." Take a quiz about China on Enchanted Learning dot com. You'll learn about as much.

Second: if you come here and have a really, really uncomfortable day or two due to lies, incompetent workers, and just general fuck-ups over which you have no control, then you have had a Bad China Day. This includes things like your plane being grounded because of high wind---even though not a breath of air is stirring and you see other planes landing and taking off---or the teller at Bank of China announcing into the loudspeaker, "You don't have any money. Go away." Or an  ATM eating your card on a Friday afternoon just as the bank office is closing. Bad, but not undoable. (They have all happened to me, except for the "plane can't take off due to high winds. That happened to my friend and as a consequence she missed her own Going Away Party. No kidding.)

Third, however, is the Bad China Day which turns into the Fucked Over Big Time in China which is better known as "chucked." As in, "Wow, the guy who was arranging my visa for my trip to Vietnam kept my passport for two weeks longer than he said he would and now my visa for China has expired and the police are escorting me to the airport right now and I can't call my girlfriend as my phone just ran out of minutes and they won't let me stop and buy more minutes..." Or, as I was witness to the other day, a visa agent called in sick and for some reason she had taken all the passports home with her, so my friend was unable to pick up her passport as promised that morning and was due to fly to the US three hours later...the meltdown and tantrum were worth of an Oscar, truly awe-inspiring, and if I were the clerk that had to deal with that histrionic, vitriolic and totally justified fit of rage, I would have probably done exactly what she did, which was this: Hang up.

Chucked. It happens. Just try really hard to make sure it doesn't happen to you. But if it does, do what I did: head to the Writer's Bar at Raffles Hotel and see if three Singapore Slings and some congenial company don't make it all a lot, lot better.

Updating Myself

There are weeks from hell, and then there are Weeks From Hell. This week: hmm, let's see: Realtor still messin' with me, showing me unsuitable apartments at double my proposed rent WHICH STILL DON'T HAVE KITCHENS. Gee, for 2,000 USD a month, you'd think there'd be something more than a basin and a toaster oven on a cardboard box, but apparently not. I just finished a graduate class which keeps my teaching certification up for another five years--plus I learned how to do cool things like wikis, podcasts, and Web Quests, so that's all good.

New School had problems with my paperwork which has resulted in my passport being held for another two weeks, which means that I can't withdraw money from the bank (except small amounts by ATM) or send money home to Canada to my account there or sign a contract or register my dog Duchess at the local police station or move. This is frustrating, to say the least. This begins week four of not having a passport and I'm kind of edgy and nervous now as I have so much to do before the new job begins, including finding a suitable house, moving, and having house guests for two weeks. I am also working Mysterious Job Number Two this weekend (well, Friday, Saturday and Sunday) and then I'm kissing it goodbye for the simple fact that I'd rather be a bit more broke but have a social life again. To kick start the social life, I'm meeting The Ladies for cocktails tonight during Happy Hour somewhere swank. You know you're middle aged when you meet up somewhere swank not to meet men but to sample something you couldn't otherwise afford... Also, I am attempting to corral a group of suitable friends to refer to as "The Ladies." My friends are scattered and largely collected from various jobs I've had (and left) and I don't have a solid group of homies. I'd love to be able to press "send" on just ONE group address in my phone and know that it's going to a group of people who, if they don't love me, at least like me a little. What I miss about college: getting that tight-knit group of friends you can hang with (and grow by.)

This is the part that makes me laugh: of the five women getting together tonight for cocktails, three were missionaries and the fourth is a Wiccan priestess. You can probably understand why I said the first round's on me--a few Singapore slings later, they'll be lovin' the Jesus and the Goddess out of each other. Or else.ooUSD a month, you'd think there'd be something more than a basin and a toaster oven on a cardboard box, but apparently not. I just finished a graduate class which keeps my teaching certification up for another five years--plus I learned how to do cool things like wikis, podcasts, and Web Quests, so that's all good.

New School had problems with my paperwork which has resulted in my passport being held for another two weeks, which means that I can't withdraw money from the bank (except small amounts by ATM) or send money home to Canada to my account there or sign a contract or register my dog Duchess at the local police station or move. This is frustrating, to say the least. This begins week four of not having a passport and I'm kind of edgy and nervous now as I have so much to do before the new job begins, including finding a suitable house, moving, and having house guests for two weeks. I am also working Mysterious Job Number Two this weekend (well, Friday, Saturday and Sunday) and then I'm kissing it goodbye for the simple fact that I'd rather be a bit more broke but have a social life again. To kick start the social life, I'm meeting The Ladies for cocktails tonight during Happy Hour somewhere swank. You know you're middle aged when you meet up somewhere swank not to meet men but to sample something you couldn't otherwise afford... Also, I am attempting to corral a group of suitable friends to refer to as "The Ladies." My friends are scattered and largely collected from various jobs I've had (and left) and I don't have a solid group of homies. I'd love to be able to press "send" on just ONE group address in my phone and know that it's going to a group of people who, if they don't love me, at least like me a little. What I miss about college: getting that tight-knit group of friends you can hang with (and grow by.)

This is the part that makes me laugh: of the five women getting together tonight for cocktails, three were missionaries and the fourth is a Wiccan priestess. You can probably understand why I said the first round's on me--a few Singapore slings later, they'll be lovin' the Jesus and the Goddess out of each other. Or else.

Hot hot hot

It's actually not THAT hot--I've been here when it was into the 100's F/40's C, which is miserable. There's a thick cloud cover (I call it clouds, you call it smog) and the humidity is very very high. How high? It's over 80 percent humidity in my living room, and the bowl full of child-sized snack packs of raisins which I keep on the coffee table for tiny guests is now full of slightly soggy tiny cartons of plump, rehydrated raisins. It looks like some sick bunny planted them as a cruel cruel joke. One box actually exploded and I found what looked like soft pellets from an extremely large rabbit clinging to the bowl. Ugh.

So naturally, in this weather, it's time to look at different housing options. I was given the name of a realtor whom I told was "a real sharp gal." Two minutes after someone texted me her phone number, Realtor texted me herself. While I like good service, I dislike pushy people, so that was not a good start. Worse--she's Chinese--and I have learned that most Chinese realtors are as horrible as Western ones, if not more so, especially if they think you can't speak Chinese. I told her my requirements---location, MUST-HAVE Western Kitchen, dog-friendly, price, plus a few other key details. She got back to me and we agreed to meet.

Realtor had lined up five properties, three of which I knew immediately Wouldn't Work. For one thing the first two properties were 20 kilometers NORTH of the area I had described (in itself a very, very large area) and I don't have a car. As we floundered about on back country roads I asked, "So, how did you think I was going to get to work?" and she replied airily, "You can take bus." Uh, honey? No. First house: filthy. Huge. Filthy. Tons of furniture, owners STILL LIVING there, not available until September or October depending on when they could find somewhere else to live. Did I mention that I specified "empty, unfurnished, available August 1st"? No? Well, I certainly had told HER that. Second apartment: ideal in many ways, except for location, the fact it was located up one flight of rickety stairs, and did not have a Western kitchen--and by that I mean a proper oven, or the space in which to fit one. It was was stuffed full of the type of Nouveau Riche furnishings Chinese people think of as Western--think heavily tassled and embroidered tapestry, usually in red velvet with hunting scenes--which I call nouveau riche choinoise. Also, for some reason, one of the rooms had a round bed which struck me as being funny as I had just seen an ad for a round bed with bedding that made it look like a giant hamburger.

I vetoed going to the third place as it was a)out of my price range and b) the owner hated small dogs and had informed the realtor that if I wished to take the place my dogs would have to be put down. She actually asked me if I was willing to have my dogs killed to take this apartment. I said no, and resolved not to work with anyone that insensitive again. We went to place number four, which oddly enough was the best of the lost--it was huge, but it was filthy, and it had horrible furniture, BUT it had potential, largely because the kitchen was completely unfinished in the cheapest possible way---but it was large, there was room to put in a stove (and a sink too, come to think of it) and it had room for a refrigerator in the kitchen instead of my pet peeve, which is a fridge in the living room or worse, a BEDROOM. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, small room off kitchen that could serve as pantry but which at present time had a horrid bunk bed in it. When I say the place was filthy, I mean crack-house filthy, but then, so were most of the places we saw. Chinese are not notably good housekeepers, particularly renters. There's a type of settled filth that I always associate with new money Taiwanese, and for good reason (although my landlady in Taiwan was very very clean, and her house was spotless, my apartment was horribly dirty when I first moved in.) Anyway, most of the little emperors and empresses I have the bad luck of knowing can't clean and are not willing to shell out any money for a decent ayi and I've been in houses that had bedbugs, vermin, mountains of clothing left scattered everywhere, litter boxes that were criminal--you get the idea.

Fifth place: advertised at 120 square meters, but closer to 80, if that. Nicely furnished, but tiny, with a refrigerator by the front door. Tiny bedrooms. One closet, which is such a rarity it deserves a mention. The landlady/owner ascertained immediately that I could speak some Chinese yet this did not prevent her from making comments about my outfit, my weight, my general size--she even pointed out the bathtub and said I was too fat for it and I said coldly in Chinese, "You've managed with it just fine." For the record, I am a size fourteen--not huge, not slim, can fit into any airplane seat or carnival ride. Landlady had about 10 kilos on me. I said to the realtor, "Isn't this advertised at 120 meters? It feels like 80," and she said, "Yes, apartment is 80 but then the share of the common space outside and the hallway brings it to 120 or so." Yes, I LOVE paying rent on space in a hallway. Suddenly the landlady seized me by the arm and tried to propel me to the small balcony and so did the realtor--I don't know why, both exclaimed that I HAD to see the balcony and as I loathe loathe loathe strangers touching me I literally squirmed out of their grasp and headed off to the bedroom, both of them at my heels shrieking that there was NOTHING to be seen there, I had already seen it. Where is this wrong--for a customer to view something twice? At that point I decided this realtor was an idiot as well as a bitch and I had to get out of there, fast.

We left. Once outside I thanked her for her time and said, "None of the places you showed me have a Western kitchen. My biggest requirements are the location, dog-friendly, and a big kitchen with a Western oven because as I told you, I film a TV show in my house and I need a proper kitchen." This is her reply: "This is Western kitchen because it have sink."

Um, I've lived in China 20 years, and while I have had the worst kitchens ever--including one with a bathroom hand-sink in the kitchen, they've ALL had sinks. Realtor spoke very good English, and had found my friend an apartment with an oven--so what's the problem? I thanked her for her time and left. I didn't even want them to take me back to town. I walked out to the highway and got and cab and went to Ikea where I soothed my rage by buying a bat hand-puppet for the dogs to play with. When I got home, I ignored my work and watched the X-files until I felt more peppy. I mean REALLY, only in China would someone feed you a line of shit and then expect you to pay them for it while intoning "This is delicious foods!" I have a HUGE project due for grad school and I wasted a day in the heat looking at things which were completely unsuitable. Had I not told the bitch exactly what I was looking for, I'd take some responsibility for this, but COME ON! NOT ONE WAS SUITABLE GIVEN THE CRITERIA. And she knew it. Bitch.

Two Charming Pictures



Who's the cleanest?

Study Hard Every Day!

What does it say about me that I chose to post these rather than do what I should be doing, namely taking a shower and finishing up a paper for graduate school? Those who can, do: those who don't wanna, post about it.

Klingon Ho!

I don't write much about my mother, first for mortal fear of offending her, and second, from a dislike of supplying her with even more ammunition against me, but lately it's occured to me that since she doesn't read anything I write anyway, I'm probably in the clear.

My mother thinks I should learn Klingon. No, wait: let me rephrase that: my mother thinks I should move back home (because what's more attractive than a woman who is almost 50 who lives with her parents?) so that I can enroll in the local state college in a night class in Klingon. The point is not to learn Klingon, mind you, or to expand my glorious knowledge of linguistics, or to exercise my brain cells to prevent further deterioration. No: my mother wants me to take Klingon so I can Meet a Man.

Her reasoning: smart people learn Klingon. Smart nerdy men who don't have girlfriends learn Klingon. If I'm lucky, one of those smart nerdy virgins will simply not notice my age and be so thrilled to be in the proximity of my rapidly waning estrogen that he won't notice anything except my tatas, and be content. In other words, if he's over 18, my mother reasons, he's game.

There are some problems with this whole line of thinking. First of all, I know several people who are fluent in Klingon, including a Catholic priest with a Ph. D in linguistics, and trust me, he ain't interested. I also have several married male friends who are fine husbands and good fathers who speak Latin and Klingon and yes, even Esperanto, and guess what, they're not interested either. (Two way street, that.) On the flip side of the coin, I know several incredibly socially awkward young men who think they can speak Klingon, but who are far more likely to shout "Q'apla!" (sorry, didn't know where to put accent mark) and call it a day before they race home and squeeze themselves into the XXL vinyl authentic Klingon battle dress they ordered at Comic Con (damn those Klingon sizes! Pass me the talc!) 

I once knew one of those man boys: at 24 he worked as a fry cook at McDonald's, where he had flipped patties for 7 years without once making it off the fry line into counter service, or even drive-through. He wore the same vinyl coat (looks almost like real leather!) year in and year out, summer or winter: in fact, he wore it under his regulation McDonald's uniform but as the line leader was afraid of him nothing was said. It was not fear perhaps so much as an olfactory sense kicking in: in order to correct his behavior she would have had to get close enough to him to say something as delicate as "Take off that fucking piece of crap!" As I recall, when McDonald's stopped giving its workers free food, he decided to dine solely off those things which were free, namely condiments, and he began to feast on exquisite lunches of pickles, mustard, and ketchup, which didn't help the odor problem any.

As I related all this to my mother, her eyes glazed over, and she stared thoughtfully into the distance. Suddenly her eyes focused, and she glared at me. "Does he have a car?" she asked. "Yes," I replied, "It's a 70's model El Camino."  "Don't be such a snob. He can still take you places," she snapped. Hmm. Let's see. He's 24. I'm 47. Yes, there are so many places a couple in love can go, particularly when neither are thin and one is --how shall I put this?-- stinky.

My Tutor in Authentic Vulgarity

 When I have to work the weekend gig, I usually say the hell with economy and book a driver for myself. First of all, having spent the day listening to applicants rattle on decorative and insincere crap about Why They Want This Scholarship (which often consists of, "I am pretty girl go Murrica for MBA be luxury brand businesswoman") I don't want to join the group of people desperately searching for a taxi after work. One of the locations is particularly brutal and I've waited up to two hours in the cold and dark trying to flag down a taxi, only to give up and slink away to a subway that takes two hours and six changes in order to get home. I don't have the time, and my dogs don't have that large of bladders. Now I hire someone to come scoop me up and extract me like a watermelon seed and it's well worth every kuai.

I use the same driver I've used for several years, a pleasant rogue we refer to as "Uncle Driver." Uncle Driver has a heart of gold only where my daughter is concerned--he once literally carried her up four flights of stairs at the local hospital when she had appendicitis and the elevator was broken, hurting his own back so badly in the process he was out of work for a month. As for me--well, he tolerates me, knowing I pay well, and knowing also that when I have a good TV gig I'll throw as much work his way as possible, including featuring him on a segment I did for a talk show entitled, "True Stories of Beijing Taxis." Uncle Driver lived in another country doing construction for a number of years, plays the sax, and is fond enough of animals to drive my dogs and guinea pig to the vet when needed. He gets along with Ayi (the one who looks like Oprah) and he has, on occasion, been kind enough to haul something to my house, let himself in with a key, leave it there, then lock the house back up before heading on his merry way. He also fixes things. I may not have a husband but I do have a handyman, and considering I don't have to put out anything but cash, it works well for both of us.

Uncle Driver is the reason I swear so well in Chinese. He has a running commentary on everything which usually consists of "Stupid Cunt," muttered in tolerant, amused tones. This epitaph is frequently bandied about for a variety of reasons--a car crash, someone cutting him off, a light which changed color rather too quickly for his liking. Occasionally he throws in a more personally directed rant, a favorite being, "Did you just shoot our your mother's pussy?" For some reason, he's allowed to say this, but he finds it the height of bad taste if I say it. (Why, I don't know. I say it quite well.)

 As we raced through the traffic yesterday, he saw a large truck which had crashed into the traffic barriers. "Stupid Cunt," Uncle Driver said amiably. I started to laugh and sing, "Ni Bu Yao Xin Tai Ruan" which means, "Don't be so soft-hearted" and he gave a chuckle, the first I've raised off of him in seven years. Still, as he dropped me off, and I paid a very, very large taxi fee (the amount on the meter plus a special agreed upon "I had to wait for you for an hour" beck-and-call fee) I could have sworn, as he pocketed the money, that he smiled and muttered, "S*&*%d  C$^t."

Now with Even More Thrilling Updates!

In the past week I have worked MJN2 a total of four days (plus three more, starting today) cleaned out my classroom and office, carted all that shite to the appropriate place (garbage can, home office, and a division of spoils that rivaled the finest potlatch ever) and wrote a big, big paper for grad school. Oh yes, I also graded 147 final exams, including over 120 final essays, and calucated out the final grades for each of those little dears, plus I wrote two sets of reports on everybody--one set for the report card, one set (private comments) for the principal for next year's universiity reference letters. I also added a new member to the household menagerie, but he's in a cage and not any bother, so that's not really a major time committment. I also had my hair styled and colored and I loathe it, although it looks good, and I am longing for four weeks go pass so I can go back in to the stylist without him losing face and say blandly, "This cut is outgrown, let's try another style." (Yes, I am that nice.)

Hairstyles are not easy for me to deal with. My mother has yet to walk out of a beauty parlor without crying (although given the state of her hair, you'd think she'd be crying when she walked in.) It's a sensitive topic in our house--how often we cut, how much we pay, what style we chose. Basically, over here, if you find someone who can cut your Western hair without turning you into an eyesore, you stick with them forever. This person might be Chinese or Western, doesn't matter--but once they know you are hooked on them, forget what YOU want, you are now going to sport, forever, what they want you to have. I once used the most expensive foreign hairdresser/barber/hair stylist/whatever you call it in Beijing, who decided to make me blonde (yech) and at one point gave me a Florence Brady shag, flippy back piece and all. It was with great relief that I moved to the US for grad school so I didn't have to go back anymore, as he was the sort who would call and give reminders, as in "It's been three weeks since your last appointment, should I book you in for Saturday for a touch-up?" I did not leave him my number in the US.

I am not that fussy: I don't like to blow dry my hair at all, as it's really, really hot right now and I hate wasting time on shit like that. I find blow-drying is fine for a general dry-enough toss of the head, and that's it. Standing there wielding a hot, heavy machine while "flipping" my ends out is boring and I frankly don't have the time. I have what is known technically as a buttload of hair--tons of fine, straight hair--tons of it--which is best left alone. I like hair that's long enough to go into a chignon or something similar, without the use of horrible pins or clips, or hair short enough to stay out of my damn eyes and off my neck as I find both annoying in the extreme. In either words--- either a pixie cut or shoulder-length and tied up and back. So what did the new stylist give me? Hair too short to be pulled back, and yet long enough to annoy the hell out of me when I exercise, read, type, or wash dishes.

Since I don't want to be one of those women with the sad little ponytail of the terminally disappointed, I want a fresh new look, a cute crop which will be easy to manage and look more polished and professional. Now to convince the stylist that I am worthy of such a cut...evidently the 200 bucks I pay for coloring and cut, or the fact I can afford that much, is not enough. What do I have to do to force him to give me what I want---threaten his manhood, like I did the three-wheeled hunchback pedicab driver? Isn't the fact I am paying for a service ENOUGH to convince the stylist to give me what I am paying for? Well, over here, it's not. Sigh.

My Very Own Blacklist

I am putting together  a list of companies and schools NEVER to work for in China. This is based on my own experience with the organizations, as well as a handful of people I trust who have had verifiably awful run-ins with their place of employment. I won't put it up on the Net, but I will have it as a handy-dandy reference tool.

If you are considering taking a job in China as "an English Teacher" and you are NOT going to be working for a proper school --ie, International School of Beijing, Western Academy, BISS---send me your contact info and I will relate to you what I know about your future place of employment, or if possible, put you in touch with people who have worked there or are working there now.  You can take my word for it or leave it, it's up to you. If you are a properly certified teacher going to work for a proper school--the aforementioned--then no worries, as they are legitimate enterprises who know how to recruit, hire, and settle in new staff (and do it beautifully.)

But if you're going to some place you read about on Craig's List, or something of that ilk, let me give you an example of a tragedy that could have been avoided (had someone paid any attention whatsoever): an acquaintance had my contact info but did NOT contact me, came to China to "teach English" and found herself stuck in a distant city without working papers, under contract for the most punitive schedule I have ever seen, and being "home-stayed" with a family that expected her to sleep on the sofa while they stayed up all night playing cards, smoking,  and talking on the phone. She was expected to give English lessons on demand to anyone who walked into their house--for free, as partial payment for her share of the rent, and to pose for pictures on demand with anyone who asked for it--smiling and doing that horrid two-finger v thing the locals find so damned adorable.  She was told repeatedly she'd get paid after a month--one month came and went--no money. After two months, she finally got ahold of a mutual friend in China via email (she borrowed a student's phone) and said friend scooped in and extracted her like a watermelon seed. The family she was staying with demanded 6,000 RMB in "rent" for two months of living on a sofa (rent in that city is closer to 800 RMB for a two-bedroom apartment) and tried to hold the girl's suitcase and belongings. The police were called, at which point the school backed off because it turns out they had never processed any of the girl's paperwork, she was not legally entitled to work, and the paperwork allowing her to stay in that apartment had never been filed with the local police station. Who's in trouble now with the coppers, the girl or the school? I leave it to you to guess.

I have tremendous respect for the laws regarding employment, residence, and taxes, and legitimate employers will jump through the requisite hoops to hire legally. Schools and "consultancies" which are out to make a quick buck will not, and you, the foreigner, are at the mercy of the law if any issues are not resolved legally and cleanly. Because education is a venture with very high returns, extremely unscrupulous people, often foreign people with Chinese wives, or overseas Chinese, enter the business with no knowledge of business or education or language acquisition, and they make a fortune exploiting their clients and teachers. Trust me--I worked for a place for 300 bucks A MONTH and later found out they were billing my clients over 200 USD per hour--of which I received about four bucks. The "free" accommodation was in incredibly bad shape, they never gave me a telephone, or furniture for that matter, and I slept on a mattresson the floor. I am embarrassed to tell you how long it took to extricate myself from that mess. If only I had known...but I didn't and I let myself get thrown to the local wolves.

If you are coming here to teach, for goodness sake, do some research, contact people, network! Just because your first job offer doesn't pan out does NOT mean you shouldn't come out here--it just means you have spared yourself some unpleasantness and that leaves you open to the possibility of working somewhere decent and having an interesting time of it. There are a lot of smaller schools and agencies which will work you hard but treat you fairly, and it is very possible to walk into one of these situations and walk out at the end of a year having had a good time. Knowledge is power: use the internet to make your life easier. Remember--it's there for you to read AND share.  

Shower in China: So Easy!

This is how it breaks down over here: Teacher A has no water in her apartment. She had water until Saturday, but then she ran out of credit on her water meter, and all of her water sources (including water to flush) are locked by computer until she can find her water credit card, go to the right bank, purchase electronic credit, get back to her building, find the one guard who has a key to her water meter, insert the card, and let the credit load. So that's Teacher A.

Teacher B lives in the same buiding. Teacher B has water, but her water heater broke on Saturday, and her landlord is suspicious that she's about to flee the country after pay day, so he says he'll fix the water heater "one of these days, maybe soon."

Teacher C--this would be me--has both water and a functional water heater BUT her shower head is broken and she cleans herself by positioning bits of her body under the waist-high tap and splashing. She's also out of deodorant and has to use a Mennen Speed Stick a beau left over at her place, and now every time she raises her arm she catches a distinct whiff of her Daddy.

And we wonder why no one wants to sit with us at the staff canteen...

Rainstorm, Eddie Bauer, and Darling Darling Michael Kors

Last Thursday, on my way to the train station to catch the train to TV Land, I got caught in the rain. Not just any rain, a friggin' mini-monsoon. I don't know exactly how much rain fell, but it started around 4, and by 6, our car engine had stalled (the driver was trying to drive through three feet of water) and I ended up getting out and walking the last quarter-mile to the train station in water which, at best, came only to my knees, my suitcase over my head. I had to laugh: it was still raining, I had my big Michael Kors bag with a laptop stuffed in it (that bag holds EVERYTHING and still looks great) plus an Eddie Bauer All Weather Rolling Suitcase which I balanced on the top of my head and I was slipping in my hideous little Crocs. I kept thinking, "Am I going to die in a riptide in downtown Beijing?" Seriously--there were eddies, waves, currents in that water--even a vicious undertow at one point. The water came up to my crotch and I was wet from head to toe by the time I sloshed into the train station. Did I mention this was raw sewage plus rainwater? Since I had very few extra clothes with me--just a little black dress I had planned to wear for the final event, and a different shirt--I spent the next few days in the LBD, trying not to show my arms too much (it's sleeveless) except to people like The Rose who has so little sexual interest in me that I could probably run around in a dish towel and two pasties and all he'd say is, "Did you cook anymore potatoes? Ah, they were lovely, really lovely," and mean it.

By the time I got to the hotel I was dry, although my clothes were stiff with sewage. I showered--declined an invitation to join others at a banquet--and went straight to bed. I woke up the next morning with the worst allergies ever and spent the day snuffling in The Rose's ear, making him regret having arrived at the train station hours before I did. Irony: had I taken a taxi straight from the place where I lived--and skipped going to Beijing to meet him at the high-speed train--I would have avoided the rain altogether and smelled a lot better too.

Two things to note here: my Michael Kors bag kept my computer dry, even though it doesn't fasten across the top, and it still looks great, even after a year of using it as a bookbag. (Must get inside pocket zipper fixed.) Second: That Eddie Bauer suitcase, while soaking wet on the outside, kept everything inside nice and dry, including the LBD, my good shoes, and my new Kobo e-reader. So--no complaints, really. Buy quality, that's what I'm saying, because you never know when life will slam you straight into a tropical storm and leave you to bail yourself out and still be camera-ready when the red light turns on.

Could I use this  to justify buying myself a really nice piece of jewelery? Or, maybe a really good umbrella? If I HAD brought my umbrella--I couldn't have used it as I needed both hands to keep 29 pounds of luggage over my head. So it all worked out, although I could have used a better LBD. It just didn't live up to the promise of the handbag and shoes.

The Westin is the Bestin!

I'm back. Rather than sending individual emails to various friends and family members making them drool with envy about my 36-hour vacation, I'll spill the major details here. My friend The Rose and I managed to snag a very good deal at the Westin and scored a SUITE which included all sorts of perks, like two baths, two TVs, a HUGE bedroom for me, a folding cot in the living room for him which was bigger than a single bed and as effing comfortable as the California King in my room, free espresso made in our room by the espresso machine, a heated toilet seat with guidelights for night time landings, a bathtub big enough for four which had a view of the city...I could go on and one but won't. Suffice to say the suite was cheaper than two single rooms and we ate every meal for free--a huge brunch with luxuries like freshly squeezed watermelon, cucumber, orange, and mango juice, an omelet bar, Western, Chinese, and Japanese food, smoked salmon--I could on and on but won't, as I want room to discuss the pleasure of going to the executive lounge for people smart enough to drop their dough on the suites, which was essentially a Happy Hour excess of cocktails and what's called in the South a "cocktail supper" which means tons of canapes, hot and cold, fruit, tiny desserts, pizza, dim sum, shrip the size of tennis balls. Plus free use of the gym (24 hours) and swimming pool, plus a spa, where I had a killer massage and facial at half price.  The bill was not staggering: in fact, I've paid more for one night at not-so-good hotes in downtown Portland than I did for two nights in the suite. The Rose footed his half, I footed mine, we met occasionally for a drink or a viewing of Red Dwarf but for the most part left each other alone to do our own things. The suite was almost double the size of my apartment, by the way.

Upon coming home I discovered that Ayi had taken the dogs for a beauty treatment and now both are sporting a  poodle cut: shaved bodies, huge heads, tiny ruffs around their skinny ankles. I think I've mentioned that neither are poodles--the terrier doesn't look too bad, having a dash of Bichon in her, but the poodle cut on the Peke's stumpy little body looks like a fat girl in ankle boots and leggings: you have to see it to understand why it's so very very wrong.

I'm all clevered out: I had to be charming for Chinese TV--live, of all things--which was very difficult as a contestant who DIDN'T make it past the first round was in the audience glaring at me for four straight hours. However, if you are in need of a break, may I recommend the Westin? I've always been a Hyatt girl but I'm telling you, this was the cleanest, nicest place I've ever stayed in, and as I travel a lot for MJN2, staying at five-stars across China, you can believe me when I say it is absolutely the best. Oh, NB: ironically, as it was the first day in 19 plus years when I could have actually slept in--I had insomnia. And so did the Rose. We did the show on about four hours of sleep, each.

Frightfully Busy, What ho!

Well, it's true: between work, grad school, and the odd TV show appearance, I've been putting in 19 hour days: up at five, hit the computer, walk dogs, shower, go to work, work during lunch time, come home, walk dogs, wolf down dinner, hit the computer. Add repeated blowing of nose from sinus infection/hayfever and you have the portrait of someone who is No Damn Fun.

I'm going away for a few days for a show--judging English. I'm actually only working a few hours Friday afternoon (after teaching all morning) and Sunday morning but I have to actually vacate Beijing to do it, given the distance of the TV studio from the town. Which means Friday night through Sunday night I am footloose and fancy free in another city, where I plan on checking out of whatever gruesome "Chinese three star hotel" they're putting me up in and taking a deluxe room at the Hilton. This 36 hour break will be my year's vacation, the one and only time I am free from dogs, ayi, students, work. Naturally, during this time I have a ten-page paper to knock off for graduate school, but oh bliss, I can do it in my jammies--heck, NAKED if I want--without being interrupted by a wet little nozzle seeking reassurance that Mommy still loves him/her. (Yes, that would be one of the dogs.) I won't have to walk anyone. I won't be awakened by the sound of Satan's teeny tiny toenails tipping across the floor. No snoring or snarling in the middle of the night. No doggies jumping on to the bed and nudging me awake for a potty run. I have in my suitcase a bag of Doritos, French Roast Coffee, a coffee press, milk (boxed) and a box of Lucky Charms. This may not be YOUR heaven, but right now, these and a remote are mine. Bliss. Did I mention that I'll have my first bath in over a year?


Wish you were here!




Entitled: Sisterly Love Across the T#$%Sn Straight. There'll be none of THAT on MY vacation!




What for you give me English score five? I are ten! Die, Bitch Judge, Die!



The East is Red and the Art is Something

This picture is frankly so charming that I wanted to share it without snarky comments. I had a strange dream some time ago which pointed out that perhaps the rise in violence is related to the fact that little children in the US listen less to songs like "The Music Goes Round and Round" and more "Gangsta Paradise." Looking at the  image above, I yearn for more wholesome (albeit picturesque and unrealistic) ideals. However, I do have a picture of equal charm to share: good eats, no meat,  little heat or electricity, much sharing. I've never had a better group of friends.

It's Me and the Music. Or Something

I am fighting off a case of laryngitis. It strikes once in a while, usually at the tail end of a cold. I fight off colds with Zicam, and I frankly wish I had stock in the company. I no longer play piano, or guitar, not that I played either one well, but I do sing, and this pictures sums it all up for me:


You Play And I'll Sing!



Easy Chocolate Cake for Novice Bakers in Chinese Kitchen Without an Oven

So, it's late, and you have the munchies, and your Chinese friends are expecting you to put out in the culinary sense. They want something "Western" and their ideas do not involve peanut butter or bananas. You are stymied, as you haven't gone grocery shopping in a while, don't have eggs, and one of your pals is vegan to boot. You don't have an oven. You DO have a microwave, and a square or round eight inch pan, and baby, that's all you need.

This is a riff on the classic Wacky Cake, or War Cake, or Impossible Cake. It has no eggs, no dairy, and you can reduce the amount of sugar so that your Chinese friends will eat it and pronounce it very good. (Of course, if you have any Morrocan friends over, double the icing.) You just need the pan you're going to nuke it in, a spoon, some measuring cups (one cup is fine, you can eyeball the half-cup with good results) and a strainer or colander is good to get out any lumps. All the ingredients--except perhaps the cocoa--are at the xiao mai bu in the first floor of your complex. This takes about one minute to measure, one minute to stir, and four to five minutes to nuke.

Set a colander or strainer over the cake pan. You can use a cheap plastic microwaveable pan, preferably a round one but a square one will do, size about eight inches in diameter--smaller will do if you must. Dump one and one-half cups of flour into the sifter. Add three tablespoons cocoa on top, then one cup of white sugar. Use the spoon to push the ingredients through the sifter and there, the initial mixing is done. I add a pinch of salt as well.

Make three wells, or holes, to hold the next three ingredients, spooning one ingredient into each hole. In hole one, a teaspoon of baking soda. Hole two, five tablespoons of cooking oil (NOT OLIVE OIL! I use cool melted butter for this if there are no vegans around). Hole three, one tablespoon of plain white vinegar. Pour one cup of cold water over everything, plus a teaspoon of some flavoring, such s vanilla extract, or even a teaspoon of brandy. Mix quickly until there are no weird streaks of anything--but not so much your batter gets tough. Put in microwave and cook on high for four minutes. Check--there should be some moist spots on the top of the cake, but the middle should be quite solid. If I'm using a square cake pan, it needs 4 and 1/2 minutes to be just barely done, and 5 minutes to verge on too-done. When you have determined it's finished, leave it in the microwave to cool off.

Unlike normal cakes, which have quite a bit of fat in them, this cake tends to be a bit gummy when hot: it's far better served cold, and if you can let it sit overnight, it's even better. There's a deep color to the cake, which is pleasing to the eye. I'm not overly fond of this cake but it does well in an emergency. I like tender cakes with a fine crumb and my favorite cake recipe comes from the 1952 edition of the Mirro Cookbook my mother was given as a bride. That's a Thistle Cake recipe, one which I hope to recreate for the Chinese kitchen but haven't faffed with in a while.

Note on this cake recipe: my local friends think this is too sweet, and you can safely take out three tablespoons of sugar from the one-cup measurement before it affects the texture or taste overmuch. That is to say, I make this with three tablespoons of sugar less than called for above, and my foreign friends are ok with it as I load it with frosting for them, while I serve it plain to Chinese guests, with a side of whipped cream. It's a compromise and we're all happy with it. I like to mix up this cake if I have little guests over--they like the drama of watching the baking soda hit the vinegar and it's a quick and easy chemistry lesson. You don't have to mess with the three holes thing--you can just mix up all the dry ingredients, then dump in the wet, and it's fine. But cooking is about tradition and showmanship and I am happy to think of my grandmothers mixing up this cake in precisely the same way.

Let's Get Physical! Physical!

Yes, it's true, I own a wii and I work out at least three times a week, seven times a week if time permits and my stress fracture is up to it. Since I am not thin, the fact that I work out religiously surprises a lot of people: once you see me effortlessly lift a heavy object, such as a school chair with a student still in it, and effortlessly bring it over my head, you will then begin to credit my claim that I do indeed put in sweat time.

I do love to eat, but I love my work outs too. I used to think working out was a punishment, a feeling that I garnered no doubt from growing up in a family of readers. "She has to work out EVERY DAY to keep that figure," my mother would hiss, looking up at the tv screen just long enough to take someone in while flicking pages in her book. You know what? Having trained first as a dancer, then not having the time or money to train or work out and becoming a fat chick, I have found something out: Working out is a privilege. It means you have the time and freedom to devote to your own health, physical and mental, and those are very, very good things.

If you are a single parent and your kid is a whiner, or ill, or takes up an unusual amount of your time due to some situation (in my case, my delightful daughter had a TV career) you don't have the time to sweat. First of all, if you don't have a baby sitter, you can't just leave your kid at home at four-thirty to go run around the block. I know a lot of Chinese parents who think nothing of leaving their infant unattended while they go party, but I'm not like that, thank God. I used to take my little girl down to the park with me when I studied Wu Shu, but she was jealous and angry and inevitably ran up to me from behind just as I was performing a spinning back-kick: she'd rather get hurt and get attention than to play quietly right in front of me. I gave up Wu Shu, finally, because of the daily battle: she'd scream and cry about having to get up and go to the park (literally ten feet from my doorstep) and every day she'd time it perfectly so that she sprang into my kicking foot at just the right moment to achieve total mastery of the situation. "MOMMY KICKED ME" she'd gasp while a crowd gathered. It was hell.

I moved soon after that and got into a real hell--having to get up at four-thirty to walk her to her training (Peking Opera) by five--and by the time I walked back to my home, got ready for work, walked back to pick her up and got her to school--and me to my job--I was exhausted and covered in sweat and filthy and didn't have much to give to my own career. Poverty has its uses and its blessings but there are moments when, as a poor single mom, a girl just wants to scream, LEAVE ME ALONE LONG ENOUGH TO WORK UP A SWEAT I CAN CLEAN UP AFTER! Poor people sweat all day, nervous sweat that they're going to be late to Job One or Job Two, sweat as they run up the stairs, sweat as they ride two hours on packed buses to work...but it's not the sort of body-shaping aerobic activity that results in great abs--or at least, it wasn't for me. You would be surprised by how many women would relish a trip to the gym if someone else would watch the kids and cook their dinner--throw in a pair of the right sports shoes and some bike shorts that fit and you'd see the birth of a gym rat before your very eyes.

I'm single, and except for walking those two morons I live with, I have zero responsibilities. I can turn the three-times-daily walk into mini-workouts because I now have an Ipod and tons of music and good walking shoes, things I didn't have in my single-poor-mom days.  I also have work-out clothes and I don't have to worry about "wearing out" my good clothes.  I also have sufficient time and space to move the coffee table after dinner and get down to doing squats and yoga with my wii, which effortlessly tracks my moves and calorie burns. I also can make myself a yogurt parfait if I want without hearing "I thought Moms were supposed to COOK for their families!" or other criticisms. Poor people--especially poor fat girls--don't have the resources to join a gym, or get a wii, or even walk around the block 10,000 steps. To do so shows that you have sufficient time to do something for yourself that goes well beyond subsistence survivial. Yay for me.

Kids in Cars, China Style

So, I'm walking down the street with my hippest Chinese friend, someone I've known and worked with for about ten years. He's recently come back from a year of study in the US, where he's a doctoral candidate in the same field I'm in. We're talkng about a research project we'd like to work on together, and we're mulling over which university to approach with the plan, when a car backs up and almost runs us over. It's going rather slowly and we're able to jump out of the way, but considering the week I had (getting kicked out of the Friendship Store, falling into a Chinese toilet and almost breaking my leg or worse, losing a shoe,  getting sideswiped while in a taxi) I'm not taking any chances and jump back unnecessarily far, up onto a high concrete curb that acts as a traffic barrier. This catches the driver's attention and he actually STOPS the car to laugh at me. This is when I realize two things: first, he's smoking. The windows are rolled up to catch every particle of smoke, and second, there's a woman and BABY in the front seat next to him and the baby is simply sitting in the woman's lap, a la Britney, inhaling all that smoke and bumping its little forehead against the dash. I don't think there are any laws here about restraining children in cars--I often see cars with masses of little ones hanging out the window, drinking out of glass bottles and sucking on stick lollipops--and I remember the wonderful freedom from restraint I had as a child, when all of us simply piled into a car and took off. I also remember working as a student nurse in a hospital and dealing with the parents who lost their kids that way, processing the insurance paperwork for children now gone vegetable due to head trauma. I'd happily take stuffing myself into a restraint over death by auto any day. My friend--hip as he is---didn't understand why I was upset. "Don't worry, you've lost a LOT of weight," he counseled. "This time next year no one will make fun of you!" I said, "Xiao Wang, it's not the fact this jerk is sneering at me for jumping on a traffic barricade to keep from being crushed by his damn bad driving, but the fact he's sneering at me while giving his kid head trauma and cancer." Xiao Wang looked at me with great pity and said kindly, "You still don't get it. Over here, if you can afford a car, you are invincible."

Lazy Girl's Key Lime Pie

It doesn't get easier than this but it CAN be considerably more tasty if you use good ingredients instead of the schlock I've listed here.

1 can of sweetened condensed milk
Three limes
Cool Whip (none of that yucky Fat Free or French Vanilla or Mocha Sod flavor or whatever they're pushing at the minute.)
Graham Cracker pie crust.

Grate rind of limes (green part only) and squeeze juice, including the odd bit of pulp, into a large glass bowl. Add contents of can of sweetened condensed milk and stir until it thickens, about one minute.
Fold in one container of Cool Whip. Mix gently until all ingredients are incorporated evenly. Spoon gently into prepared pie crust, preferable a cookie crumb pie crust (such as one made from graham cracker crumbs, or better yet, gingersnaps.) Put in fridge to "harden" for at least 20 minutes or throw at guests immediately if they can't wait that long. Freezes well.

Ugh, I hate Cool Whip and I dislike the film of plastic waxy coating that graces my tongue after eating anything made from it. However, I must admit, the lime juice goes a long way in counteracting said wax effect, so if you need something impressive QUICK, and you have the ingredients on hand, go for it. It's unlikely that these are ingredients an expat just happens to have on hand--Cool Whip is like diamonds out here and almost as expensive--but if you do, more power to you.

Am thinking of way to incorporate this into my Mad Man Cocktail Supper (a dinner party consisting entirely of what my friend calls "whore durves" ) and perhaps tiny "cookie lime pies" are the way to go--this, served on a tiny Vanilla Wafer. What do you think?

White Chocolate Chunk Peppermint Brownie Recipe Recap

I am reposting this recipe because the brownies are just that damn good. No white chocolate chunks with Candy Cane bits lying around the house? Then omit--or, throw in a handful of chunks of white chocolate from a smashed-up Dove bar, and perhaps add some toasted almonds and raisins you've plumped up in brandy, in which case the name changes from Brownies to "TDFs" which stands for To Die Fors. (This explains my college weight gain, for sure.)

Brownies: These microwave BEAUTIFULLY. Melt 9 tablespoons of butter (half-cup plus one tablespoon). You can nuke it or do in on the stove top, but whatever you do, you must let it get back to room temperature before you mix in other ingredients. Otherwise, as  women wiser than I have noted, your brownies will be very heavy and kind of dry. Since you're nuking these, and it's awfully easy to dry out anything being nuked, err on the side of caution and leave the stuff strictly alone for at least ten minutes. Go do your nails or something while it's cooling off. (This also gives any toast crumbs that may have accidentally been scooped into the pan a chance to settle, so you can fish them out.) Don't use bacon grease or olive oil. Bacon, which is actually delightful with chocolate, does not enliven baked goods (although it's a marvel on a Maple Bar.) Olive oil and chocolate--not a good combo either. If you have to go cholesterol-free, just don't bother with this recipe and make yourself some hot fudge (zero fat, if you use skim milk) and pour it on some fat-free ice milk and be happy.




When you return, stir in a cup and a half of white sugar, three eggs, a generous dollop of vanilla (at least a teaspoon, but not a tablespoon) and a pinch of salt. If you have the time and patience, you can then beat the shit out of this until it's light and fluffy and glossy and pours like a ribbon, which will ensure brownies with a lovely meringue-like top. If you're me, you say the hell with it as you don't even have a proper wooden spoon anymore (thank you, Blessed Herbs Colon Cleanse) or some big-ass fancy mixer and so you just mix it up until it's fairly smooth and no yucky yellow lumps are showing. Now add 9 tablespoons of cocoa (that's a half-cup plus one tablespoon) and stir in 12 tablespoons of flour, which is 3/4 of a cup or a half-cup plus a quarter cup or a half-cup plus four tablespoons (I spell this out as some of the women in my family are not really good at maths.) Gently fold this in--do not beat--and as soon as it's more-or-less incorporated, pour it into a greased and floured ( or cocoa'd) microwaveable pan--8 by 8 inches is good, but a round pie pan made of Pyrex is even better, as you can slice it into pie wedges when finished. Regardless, spread it in the pan, then sprinkle a bunch of cut-up Hershey Candy Cane Christmas Kisses on top: sort of squish them in a bit so they're not all at the very top. Nuke on high power for six minutes, then check: done? Still squishy? Try another minute. Then another. Keep going until it's more or less set in the middle. There will indeed be some slightly wet places when you pull it out but these will dry up a few minutes out of the oven, because it's still cooking a bit. If you have used Pyrex (and I HEART THE STUFF!) the glass will retain quite a bit of heat and give your brownies a more finished appearance. Truthfully, you should let the stuff cool before attacking it. I mentioned earlier that I don't really like to eat brownies--I get a sugar rush, then I get cranky, and then I need a nap which is filled with my recurring dream of speeding along back country roads in search of a house I can call my own...I've had this dream so often that I know which road to take to go to which house and yet I somehow never get inside any of the houses...



These brownies are plain, simple, good, and can be dolled up a number of ways, such as using brown sugar and rum (instead of the vanilla), adding nuts, adding dollops of peanut butter, using a different liquor in place of the vanilla, using crushed-up peppermint sticks, adding a tablespoon of espresso powder, mint chocolate chips, plain semi-sweet chips, peanut butter chips, ad nauseum. They're the sub to a dominatrix dessert menu: they seem sweet and submissive but when all is said and done, they're really just there to make you their bitch.