If Wishes Were Horses, I'd Get to Ride

I grew up lower middle class, and this meant we despised the people immediately above us as well as those below us, namely people with horses.   Horses were, I was told, nervous animals and people who loved them were crazy. In fact, all animal lovers were nuts, and people with exotic pets were not only crazy but probably neglectful of their children as well. I can attest to some extent on the last one--I have yet to meet someone with a pet monkey who was a good parent or even a decent pet owner, and I recently dated someone with a snake. (Not a code word here, he really had a snake. And I wouldn't have gone out with him but I had recently met a kind of interesting co-worker who had a tattoo and snakes but was versed in Anglo Saxon poetry, so I thought, what the hell, give the guy with a snake a shot.) For those of you who care, it was a python and he raised it from a tiny snake from an exotic pet market he found here in Beijing. He made the mistake of bringing it to my house and threatening to feed the guinea pigs to it. I am not that fond of my guinea pigs but I am their owner and treat them very well and was not going to see them being terrified and teased and turned into dinner, even if it would relieve me of spending over a hundred bucks a month on guinea pig feed. So out he went. Both guinea pigs are now about half the size of a football and getting bigger by the second, so perhaps it was my loss after all--but I couldn't bear the thought of Squeaky and Snowy feeling panic or distress or pain. BTW, the dogs were out getting groomed so they missed the excitement, although they freaked out when they got home and smelled his patchouli that lingered in the air like the image of a  bloated corpse burned into your retinas. (It's still there.)

As to horses, well--in truth, I loved horses and when I had enough money together would try to organize a trip with other friends to rent a horse for an hour. I didn't have enough money for a lesson, mind you, so most of my time on horseback was spent trying to giddy-up, but I felt the most tremendous guilt for liking horses, a liking that began well before I read National Velvet or Misty of Chincoteague.  I still like them, I still wish I could ride properly, and I still hope that some day I will learn how. I boosted myself into middle class with the dint of my college education, and I lifted myself out of middle class morality by dint of having absolutely no money, no social security, and no social status in the form of a husband or even at this point family. I get to like what I like, and if that means taking in rescue dogs and a rescue guinea pig (and getting that one a guinea pig of its own so it wouldn't be alone) then so be it.  I'm not neglecting my child--hell, she's in a good university and doing well--and my dogs don't have more clothes than I do, although I do kind of envy one of her this little pink coat that has the sweetest pink bones embroidered on the collar. Here's the benefit of being the crazy single lady on the block: I can do whatever the hell I want, and like whatever I want, and there's no one here to look down their nose for my doing it. Yay me.

My Life As a Singer

I've been blessed with the ability to perform and to carry a tune, which means at some point I've been on stage singing, either with a band or as part of that divine thing, musical theatre. Musical theatre is a lot of fun to do, but excruciatingly awful for most to watch. I'd rather NOT see Starlight Express, thank you, nor do I ever want to hear One Rock And Roll Too Many ever sung again, particularly by that chick from a past season on American Idol who also did that creepy baby wail.

At one point in my life I sang professionally, not as a diva on some operatic stage, but as a regular feature on a sleazy nightclub circuit in Tokyo. I started out as a bar girl, meaning I sat at tables, wiped the fingerprints off the clients' glasses, and stirred their heavily watered down whiskey and water for them. Since it had a KTV component--hey, it WAS Japan in the 80's--I was also paid to get up and sing for the customers, their choice. This evolved eventually into a regular gig with a regular set list and my very own eight-track cassette tape which traveled with me from club to club. It didn't occur to me until years later that I looked a lot like a prostitute, as I jumped from one waiting car to another, with different clubs sending different drivers out to pick me up and get to me the next gig. I have sung "My Way" more than any other white girl living, but I have never sung it cold sober and I hope I never have to. (Must write sometime about the Soapland gig which gave me such a severe case of self-worthlessness that I didn't sing again for twenty years.)


My newfound life, post-Baby Girl leaving for college, has sent me the opportunity to get back up on stage again. So, I've formed a few groups to do a few numbers, and we've had the usual discussions on what to call ourselves. I'm usually good at names and I proposed the ones we're using straight off the bat. No, I'm not telling you what they are. But I then came up with some of my favorites, which I will share with you:

An all-girl, over fifty years of age band called Iron Maidenhead. We never smile, and we play hard rock.

Another all-girl rock band, Nine Inch Nail Salon. We play a fusion of New Romantics and Death Metal.

And, the last one in honor of my friend's truly horrifying wife, Skank. Perhaps Skank can open for Iron Maidenhead sometime. (About the truly horrifying wife: I stopped by their house one day to drop off a yogurt maker and she answered the door in a bondage outfit and said, "You here for threesome?" and I said no, just dropping off the yogurt maker for your husband and she replied, "He not here. You have five hundred kuai, I let you watch." So yeah, Skank. Could be so much worse.)

Another note: in a country where no one can use English correctly to identify even and odd numbers (even big-ass theatres refer to seats as "single and doubles" when they mean odd and even numbers--and your tickets have all the evens clustered together in rows on the right, and odds in rows on the left--everyone seems to know how to use the term "threesome." Why, God, why? 

Perfect Hostess Brownies

I believe Perfect Hostess is the name of a song by the Korgis, and it's one of my aims in life. I have thrown some very dismal parties, but I have a knack for throwing together good jam sessions. It's easy: get together some musicians, throw in food. Alcohol not needed.

I strive to serve something nice to each guest, whether it's their favorite diet root beer, or a choice of iced green or black tea. At a jam session at my house the other night, which followed close on the heels of an 11-hour work day, I had soup, grilled pastrami and cheese sandwiches (because I was starving) and brownies for anyone who didn't want soup and sandwiches. I also had hot green tea with honey and I periodically floated out of the session whenever my vocals weren't needed and heated up more hot water, filled tea cups, passed out napkins, and all that. You know, hostessy stuff. One musician left around nine, the other around ten.

The next day the guy who left first asked me with a smirk if my brownies had "done the trick." I was sort of puzzled--done WHAT trick? He then asked if the other guy had "thanked me for the brownies by staying over," i.e., dick for brownies. This is incredibly offensive to me---I bake to release stress, I set a nice table because I have that sort of background, and I feed people out of good manners. I had grandmothers and a mother who would have died of shame if someone left the house without having had at least a cup of tea and a nosh. Poor people always feed you anyway. I  packaged up all the brownies and sent them home with the second guy as he's super busy, not feeling well, and also, I don't like to have brownies around the house where I will eat them. I've had a bit of a relapse, not quite out of remission but not feeling well, and I've been on huge amounts of medication which makes me retain a lot of water and cough like a chain-smoking house madame. My joints hurt, my elbows are so swollen I can't wear my button down shirts,  and I can't keep to my usual exercise regime although I do move a lot. The last thing I need is to sit and eat my feelings with a pan of brownies. (Although reading through this tempts me to do exactly that.)

Anyone who thinks brownies are all I have to offer as bait doesn't know squat about me. However, the brownie recipe I've come up with is divine, and is the icing on the cake of anyone who really DOES get my overall vibe.

You can  microwave these--six minutes, full power (I have a 700 watt oven) in a square 8 by 8 cake pan does the trick nicely.

First, melt a half cup of butter and let it cool for at least five minutes.
While that's going on,
beat the crap out of three small eggs (two large ones)
Add one cup of sugar, and a big teaspoon of homemade vanilla (brandy works just fine)
Beat until quite thick and fluffy and smooth.
Dump in 3/4 cup flour, 6 tablespoons of cocoa powder, and the half cup of butter. Yes, it can be self-raising flour, but plain baking flour is best.
Stir just long enough to combine the ingredients.
Pour into a square cake pan, and bake as directed above.
You can stir in other things, such as toasted nuts, crushed peppermint sticks, etc. A light sprinkle of mini-chocolate chips does it for me.

These are simple, but simply delicious. Just like me. (Especially the simple part.)

Chocolate

A lot of people claim they like chocolate, but what they really like is candy. "Ooooo, MUST have some chocolate," they say, reaching for a slab of brown Laffy Taffy. That is not chocolate. Chocolate is chocolate, great crisp-breaking hunks of pure chocolate madness, unsullied by whipped fillings made of hog's feet and marshmallow, enhanced perhaps by a goodly handful of nuts. There is one day every month where I must have chocolate or I will kill someone. The rest of the time, chocolate is consumed simply to feed my soul, and not as a form of gun control.

I was told as a small child by my mother that chocolate is the only flavor, and that vanilla is merely the absence of chocolate. As a consequence, I never tried any of the other flavors and missed out on ice cream such as butter pecan or raspberry. She has since told me that she was joking when she made that statement but I wonder sometimes, as I have yet to see her dig into any dessert that wasn't laced without at least a generous dollop of home made chocolate sauce (her grandmother's lemon bars the only exception to that rule.)

My mother loathed many things, including M and Ms, and I never had that classic cookie, the M and M cookie, until I was 47.  She was passionately fond of the chocolate and nut combination found on the outside of Rollo candy bars, and much of my childhood consisted of coming downstairs to a smoke-filled living room, and seeing the gutted remains of a Rollo resting uneasily in an ashtray covered with cigarette butts, the imprint of my mother's teeth where she had nibbled off the chocolate covering still clear in the light brown fondant filling. The Rollo candy bar is no longer available, so my mother, when she indulges, has to go straight for the chocolate covered peanuts.

I get my mother on many levels, and I understand her more as I get older: she has a wicked sense of humor which I did not relate to as a child and I was often confused by whatever was making her laugh, a statement echoed by my own daughter when discussing my shortcomings as a parent. I still don't understand why M and Ms are, in her opinion, vulgar, as she is the one who taught me to suck on the casing long enough to for the dye to come off, thus staining my lips red, or green, or whatever color I fancied. (She preferred red.) I indulged in many many M and Ms when in the US, where I found coconut, raspberry dark chocolate, and pretzel M and Ms. All were divine, and none are available here, where we're lucky to find peanut M and Ms that aren't actually stale.  It's just as well: the raspberry dark chocolate would be terrific in brownies, and as for the pretzel ones...well, let's just say, they are too close to the perfect snack to be something I'd want to have readily available. I ate my first pretzel M and M on a flight and alarmed fellow passengers with my first grunt of pleased astonishment: subsequent noises included a groan or two. You can blame the noises on turbulence but you know, and I know, it was due to the demonically good combination of crispy, smooth, salty, chocolatey kibble. Ah, pretzel M and Ms: bachelorette chow at its finest! The perfect PMS snack.  

Update: How Fat White Guys Get Laid in China

Update! Special alert! I have written far too much about white men being treated like gods in China by the local women and I swore to leave that topic forever. However, I did have an update I think is worthy of posting: according to a friend, if you go to Maggie's early in the evening, there are no women there.

My new friend Thor reports that he went to Maggie's on my recommendation and there was not one single chick there. Not one. It was full of mostly white men in various stages of attractiveness: some young and thin, some old and fat, some well dressed, all with different expressions of hopefulness and disappointment playing on their features. It was only nine in the evening, but it was a Saturday night. So go figure. He finally left. However, my friend Little Nicky (yes, that's really his name) went in around three a.m. and claims he scooped up two for the price of one. (He said, rather gallantly, that they're all fairly attractive after you take out your contact lenses, beer goggles be damned.)

So I don't know. I'm kind of old and I don't spend much time in night clubs unless I'm watching a friend perform or having a gig myself, the latter happening very rarely these days. I think I should actually go to Maggie's myself and I've asked my friend The Rose to arrange for us to broadcast one of his shows out of there so we can report on the action blow-by-blow, so to speak. If nothing else, I can write about the food as I understand they serve a hell of a hotdog. That's not code for anything, I hear they do have good food and that's about my only interest, aside from checking out the ladies and the skanky men who frequent the bar. So afraid I'll bump into a former boss there...well, as long as it isn't a student's parent, everything should be fine.

I Miss Television

I do have a satellite dish, but the channels originate out of the Philippines, which means for every "good" station like HBO (which I loathe, incidentally) there are four channels broadcasting evangelical Catholic programs, such as Family Mass and Mother Maria TV. Most feature a motley collection of priests and nuns in tropical-weight habits (think shorter sleeves) and occasionally, if you flick through the channels fast enough, you will see the same priest giving a talk or singing mass on two different channels to two different audiences. The timing is set for the Philippines as well: the screen may show that it's really showing The Glee Project 2, but what's on is a tagalogized version of Red Dawn. ("Ka barkada mo, motherfucker!") Just today the screen announced it was showing Family Mass but it was actually broadcasting Party Philippinas, a sort of Girls Gone Wild with everyone keeping their modest bikinis firmly in place.

I do miss television. I don't enjoy Chinese tv, largely for the reason that I'm not a moron. I have one channel that shows some American television (I love New Girl) but for the most part, it's reruns of the most loathesome TV show ever, next to Alf and Small Wonder, namely, According to Jim. Ugh.

The time has come for me to go back to teaching, which means 14 hour days, coming home to walk the dogs, eat dinner, and crawl into bed exhausted. I won't be sitting around following Idol and eating potato chips while drinking diet Coke: it's far more likely I'll be coming home with a suitcase full of laminated letter shapes that need cutting out for tomorrow's opening activity. However, it IS nice, particularly as an expat, to have a weekly show to anchor yourself to the rest of the world with: how nice to watch Big Bang Theory, for example, and to be able to chat with your friends back home about it without a year-long delay. We seek as expats to adjust ourselves to a new world daily: how can we do that when we don't have some ties to home? If we cut ourselves off from our own cultural literacy, one which expands and changes daily, we risk becoming stuck in our old experiences, knowledge, and expectations. Our language becomes stale and outdated.  We become That Expat, the crazy lady with a goose in her purse, saying "groovy" and "beautiful" and "marvelous" and blinking uncomprehendingly when someone says, "Jealous much?"

Is it too much to ask that China gets one channel going for expats (and Chinese) which actually shows real American shows? For god's sake, it could be Donna Reed, The Brady Bunch, and Dark Shadows 24/7 for very little money.  I wouldn't complain. Classic comedies from the fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties would do more to enhance the English language acquisition of the local population than any thousand broadcasts of CCTV English Outlook (which is now a show on food anyway.) I don't want to have a satellite dish anymore. I would watch Chinese tv if there was even one single channel that showed anything good, however outmoded.

Indulgence

I've just spent a few weeks on the East Coast, not of China, but of the US. I love New England and I'm always glad when I have a chance to spend some time there. Once I get over the shock of the ocean being on the wrong side (I'm from California) I get along just fine. The fashion! The food! The ethnic diversity! But mostly, the food.

I had not planned on getting out of China this summer but I was starting to hate everybody and everything, which was a sure sign that it was time to get out. They say when the footprints on the toilet seat are yours, it's time to leave. I was staying at a five-star hotel, dashed into the lobby toilet to wee, and found the tell-tale footprints. (Not mine, but still...it was a five star hotel! Who could afford to stay there who was still so City Mouse that they were STILL jumping up on the Western toilet seat and treating it like a squatter?)

The flight over was a nightmare. It was a packed flight, mostly Chinese on their way to shop for bargains. (Yeah, I know. The irony.)  The passengers were the sort who had brought their own food and who refused to sit in their assigned seats. Much food was passed back and forth among family members, cucumbers and jianbing being passed over my head, tossed to Grandma up in Business class down to Young Male Shit of the Family up in first, from Mom in Steerage. Ugh. 

Two incidents: rather than speak to me in either English or Chinese, the girl on the inside seat of our row simply climbed over me---I was awakened by the rudest sort of lap dance from an unattractive bitch and while screaming out my objections in fluent Mandarin (I believe I said, "What, are you mute? I speak Chinese, damn it! You could have said something!") She blinked and from then on would jab me viciously in the shoulder every time she wanted to get up, which was every hour on the hour precisely. 

Second incident: waiting to use the toilet. Nice Older White Guy in front of me in the line. Young Male Shit of the Family exits toilet: Nice Older White Guy enters then walks out in fear and anger. "He pissed all over everything! The ceiling, the  floor, the walls, the sink, everything! Even on the toilet paper!" Then, to my intense surprise, Nice Older White Guy (NOWG) went back in, rolled up his sleeves, and CLEANED IT UP. All of it. After scrubbing the hell out of his hands, he locked the door, did his business, and then exited. I walked into a clean toilet. NOWG had even wiped the sink as a courtesy for me, the next passenger. The man deserves a medal and I said as much. He commented as he left, "These goddamn people get a little bit of money and stop being human."

I definitely needed an Attitude Adjustment, as I spent the first week glaring at anyone speaking Mandarin, wanting to shout, "Get back to China, dammit, and quit spoiling MY vacation!" I didn't mind hearing Cantonese, or Japanese, or Laotian, or French--just Mandarin set me off.

However, my anger began to subside with the first bite of lobster and by the time I had slammed down my last glass of Moxie, it was gone. I gained about eight pounds, but I lost the pissy attitude, which in the long run does my heart and soul rather more good.

This is a partial list of what I ate and drank:

Lobster rolls, lobster bisque, cheddar cheese nachos, sweet and sour chicken, ribs, brisket, real kosher dills the size of my fist, Manhattan Special Espresso Soda (both regular and sugar free), black and white cookies, Sabrett hot dogs, pastrami on rye, New York Cheesecake, pizza on the street, raspberry pie, blackberry pie, blueberry pie, chocolate chip cookies with Heath toffee bits, Moxie, deli sandwiches, pumpkin granola, vegetarian corn dogs, Dunkin Donuts, Honeydo Donuts, Hostess Lemon Pies, Snoballs, Ben and Jerry's Red Velvet Cake Ice Cream, Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie Ice Cream, Popsicles, Fro Yo, Cheesecake Factory cheesecake (not as good as Moonstruck Deli's) and many, many Icees.

Look at the list and marvel that it was only eight pounds in two weeks. 

The Walk of Shame

The walk of shame is sometimes accompanied with a limp, but always with a bowed head and a bursting bladder. My roommate, the ineffable handsome young bachelor child Charlie, brings home the occasional overnight visitor who inevitably leaves her handbag in  the living room, thus necessitating a maneuver past me and my computer in the early hours of the morning to retrieve said handbag. This is done with an averted gaze on her part (I frankly stare) while she tiptoes in on little slut feet, picks up her handbag (usually a knock-off Coach) and tiptoes back out, little doggies barking madly with joy as they escort her to the door. Not only does Bachelor Child NOT accompany her to the door, but said maiden does not so much as stop by his bathroom to tinkle.

Now, I am not a slut and cannot ever hope to be one, but trust me, if I had spent the night slipping up and down on someone's cock, you can bet I'd be jumping up as soon as the ride was over to use the toilet, take a quick shower, and swig about a gallon of cranberry juice with a Flagyl chaser. I'd pee again the morning, first thing, BEFORE tiptoeing past the woman who actually pays the rent on the flat (must collect in cash from Bachelor Child, btw) who is sitting innocently, sipping coffee, and moaning as she looks at her bank statement. I would have offered her coffee, but I had the feeling her date, who was monitoring everything from behind the closed bedroom door, would not have approved of the gesture. 

THINGS I'VE HEARD RECENTLY

At the beauty parlor:

Speaker: well-dressed, educated, well-spoken British woman drinking champagne: I've learned so much living in Asia! For example, the nails on one hand don't have to be the same exact length as the nails on your other hand! Because no one ever sees your two hands together at the same time. So if you break a nail you don't have to file them all down!

At a restaurant:

Speaker: American woman with enormous breasts, tucking into a plate of beautifully carved fruit: Eating well gives me the strength to diet.

At a job interview:

Speaker; me, sniffing: I don't want to live anywhere hot enough to grow bananas!

Over lunch:

Speaker; male colleague, saying this to me during a meal in which I have just tearfully confessed to breaking up with my boyfriend and feeling very very miserable about it: I hate everyone gassing about their family! It really makes me feel bad to hear people go on and on about what I don't have. Such bad manners.  It's so insensitive when people rub your face in what they have and you don't have.  I'm divorced and I don't have my kids or wife around. Thank God I can go home and have my sexy Chinese girlfriend waiting for me in the bedroom.

At an English competition:

Speaker: very well known person in the linguistics field, addressing room full of contestants: We encourage all of you to enter the future by speaking Chinglish!

Please poke out your eyes after reading this

I've just come back from a few days spent judging but yet another English contest here in the P R of C and I must say it was hideous. The Rose and I were together, which is an invitation to fun and/or danger, and we had our usual plans for that lovely city (not Beijing): We check into a suite at a five-star hotel and divvy up the sweet sweet privacy. I usually get the bedroom, while he flops on a very luxurious roll-out bed in the living area. I take multiple baths in the bathtub big enough for four, while The Rose records in the other room. I go to the gym while he naps: he goes to the gym while I nap. It's our sanity after a year of being in the city. Best of all, since we're on the executive floor, we can eat and drink  for free in the executive lounge, so it ends up costing us very little for our sanity.

So, after making reservations, and showing up at the gig that had sent us to that city in the first place, we were horrified to find that we were going to be sequestered in a rural three-star hotel, forbidden Internet access, and worse of all, told we'd be fired if we didn't hand over our cell phones. There's a lot I will do for cash in hand, but giving up my last link with my embassy ain't one of them. The Rose countered with some witty argument and in the end we were allowed our phones but told we HAD to stay in the hotel. We couldn't take pictures with our candidates, we were escorted to the toilets (I believe I told my handler rather acidly that I could wipe my own ass, a line I hadn't expected to use until I was eighty). Jurors on the OJ trial had more freedom.  I might add that my room was grotty, the TV was all Chinese (hardly stellar) and that my room had neither air conditioning nor a mini fridge. The Rose was next door, which was nice. My part in the show was done after the second day, so I elected to come back to Beijing so I could catch up on some work for graduate school.

Little did I know what consternation this would cause. Let's see, I've lived here twenty years, speak a moderate amount of Chinese, can read well enough to get around, and oh yes, I'm pushing fifty. The show was sent into a flurry: oh dear, they'd have to find a driver, they'd have to find an escort, they'd have to pay me (rather less than the amount I had bargained for) and in the end I was sent to the train station with two students, neither of whom spoke English as well as I can speak Chinese, one of whom got car sick and spent much of the time hanging out the window vomiting copious amounts of white fluid, the other a useless male who sat up front and listened to rap music. At the train station, the idiot escort got into the wrong line then pulled me out of the right line to queue up at an automatic ticket dispenser which of course I couldn't use as it was for Chinese citizens only... Escort thought I could breeze in, grab a ticket, and then swan several thousand meters away in less than two minutes and make the two o'clock train.. we had to line up back at the queue he had pulled me out of, where there was a twenty minute wait in line, then get my ticket, then I had to sprint the distance, only to have Escort try to make me go to the wrong terminal as he misread my seat number for the platform...when I finally ditched my escort and got on the train back to Beijing, my phone binging with the collection of messages and IMs and emails of two days without contact with the outside world, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I wish I had stayed, I wish I had spent more time with The Rose, but work calls, and I am always afraid that I'm boring The Rose. I don't know how anyone can be so witty and generous and kind: I keep waiting for him to be an ass, and when we work together, it just doesn't happen. The contest was the usual mix of misplaced egos and overconfidence, with a sprinkling of big words inappropriately used. There were also some sweet moments, kids from the sticks who were overwhelmed with what they had accomplished. As I stepped into an elevator at one point I realized I was probably the last generation to have the odd pleasure of witnessing someone's first elevator ride. While I kvetch a lot about the lack of air conditioning, the fact I couldn't stay where I wanted, or the lack of ice cubes, I do believe my heart is in the right place, and I am deeply grateful for those moments of clarity when I get to experience someone's pleased astonishment and surprise.

As for the contest, I can tell you nothing: I signed a confidentiality agreement, I can't tell you who was there, how anybody did, I couldn't take pictures, and while I could tell you more, we should leave it at this: Please poke your eyes out after reading this, and I'll let you live. 

The Three Dirtiest Words In My World

Just in case you don't know me, let me state this loud and clear: the three dirtiest words in my world are these: Girl. Scout. Cookies.

Thanks to the miracle that is airmail, the local Girl Scouts did indeed get a large, large shipment of Girl Scout Cookies flown into Beijing for sale throughout the local community. The hell with the presales: if I want some, I just have to go to the Troop Leader's classroom and hand over a large wad of cash (50 RMB) and then heaven is mine. I'm not in weight loss mode right now--maintenance is about all I have the time and patience for--and having a drawer full of heaven is not a good idea as I am powerless over Thin Mints and Nassaus. So, I bribed students to perform small errands (read: pranks) for me with a handful of cookies as a reward. One particularly fun prank earned its perpetrator an entire sleeve.

I've just spent 200 RMB to support the Girl Scouts and I am glad that I got to taste some of my childhood in return.

But one small note: Arnott's Mint Slice are way, way better than Girl Scout Thin Mints. Call me crazy, but  after you taste them you will once again concede that I am queen of the biscuits. All bow. Hmm, wonder if I can come up with a good homemade version of Mint Slice? With mint fondant, and a nice bittersweet coating? I think I have just decided what I'm doing this weekend...

Yes, it's in 3 D, but it still went down

God help me, I spent a weekend judging English talent, everything from three year olds dancing charming little dances and lip-syncing to recordings to young adults reenacting the worst bits from the most horrible plays ever. Every act was to be cut off after 10 minutes and the producer naively decided everyone was going to follow the 10 minute rule, that the next performance would immediately begin without delay, and...well, I leave it to you to judge for yourself what kind of drugs this woman was on because most people, actors in particular, don't give up the stage that easily. Some of the acts dragged on for 20 minutes or more and there were waits of up to 15 minutes between acts. Six acts an hour? Count on three. As a consequence I was there for over 12 hours viewing forty plus acts (I hesitate to call them "talent") and of these only a handful were interesting or even, well, good. (This would include the group I directed.)

One act featured an original play based on Cinderella which included changing the names of the leads to Jack and Rose (a la Titanic, no doubt so the lead actress could say she had played Rose on the stage) and it also featured a hip hop dance to "Nobody But You" which was very disturbing at it featured a group of five year olds, a Harry Potter backdrop, use of the Harry Potter theme music, and several characters dressed up as the monk and pig from Journey to the West. This was one of the more tasteful shows. I went to the competition in the next building to say hi to the judges, both old friends, and ended up getting home horribly late. I haven't had time to process quite how yucky it all was--how we weren't even given supper--how my group was given McDonald's hamburgers but the other judges the next building over were given only the French Fries--one hamburger and one bottle of water per judge for a 12-plus hour day... Gone are the days when just asking us to stop by for a photo shoot entailed a four hour banquet.

The Words Change, But the Melody Stays the Same

A conversation going on all over Beijing at this very minute:

He: (white guy on cell phone to Chinese girlfriend) No, go ahead and eat dinner, I told you I was eating out.

He: Eating out! With people from the office! I told you! So go ahead and eat.

Pause.

He: No, I'm not leaving now to bring you a bowl of noodles. You know how to order them, you speak Chinese. 

Pause.

He: So, then have something from the fridge.

Pause.

He: Yes, she's here. Of course she's here, she's my boss! She's like, 14 years older than I am. Chill out!

Pause.

He: I'm sorry you're in pain. So take a pain pill. No, I don't know what cramps feel like.

Much high pitched squealing emerging from the cell phone. He listens, grimacing, then starts taking notes.

Two minutes later: he gets off the phone, orders some noodles and leaves, take out container in hand. His colleagues sigh and return to discussing tomorrow's big presentation. You know, the one HE is supposed to lead.

However, I heard a variation tonight. I should mention that I have recently become pals--and nothing more, btw--with a much older Australian self-made millionaire. I was initially attracted to what's beneath the belt (and I don't mean wallet) but a few dinners out convinced me he's a lot more fun over a dinner table than under it. (Enough said.) He IS fun, and I've learned a lot, and that's what counts.

Since he's wealthy as all get out, he has a string of young admirers, and a handful of mature ones too. We met for a quick pint so he could get my take on a business venture (he loves my brains, a feature I find highly desirable in any man) and as we gulped down a cold one his phone rang.

"Bloody Xiao Xiao again," he grumbled. "Oi'm teyeking this outsoide." (Which is where we were.) So lucky me, I got to hear the following:

"Oy, yeah, hell yeah it's me. You rang me. Who the hell did you think you were calling?"

Pause.

"No one at home? No food? And you have cramps? Well, ain't that a right pisser?" Click!

He turned back to me with a beatific smile. "I'm the only white  guy in China who idn't pussy whipped yet. Jesus, I feel sorry for the poor Yank bastard who married that bird."

Note: Sadly, I know the poor Yank bastard who IS married to that bird, and guess what? He thinks she's pregnant!

I promise to start writing about sunshine rainbow pony club again, and all that goes with it, but pardon me a tad while I smirk.

Just the Part About the Puppet Sex, Please

Note: This is a partial reposting for a friend with with limited time for shuffling through posts. If  you're wondering how fat white guys get laid in China, this is a partial answer, and every damn word is true.

I have the pleasure of knowing not one but TWO Elvis impersonators here in Beijing and only one is gay. The other makes a living in a variety of performance pieces including some brilliant work with puppets. So, The Rose is over there one day, just hanging around and watching TV with Elvis Impersonator Number One (Elvis in his later years, with a stooped back, advanced myopia, and very thin hair) , when a Chinese girl comes over. They sit and chat for a moment, then Elvis One disappears into the bedroom. The Rose knows there's a bathroom back there and he figured oh, hell, he just nipped back there for a quick toke. But no: within a minute or two, Elvis One slips back into the living room, clad in clown pants, clown shoes, and a cowboy hat. One of his puppets, a Muppet-like creature that is mounted on Elvis One's fist with arms controlled by two thin rods manipulated by Elvis's free hand, beckons to the girl suggestively. The Rose is startled: reckless hedonist he may be,  even he is appalled by the presence of a clown-clad puppeteer soundlessly beckoning a stranger for sex through the seductive come-hither gesture of a knock-off Muppet. The girl jumps up, strides to the bedroom, and within seconds the sound of hot monkey lovin' fill the air. The Rose wonders if he should leave--and is very very relieved they didn't ask him to join them--but fortunately, after ten or so minutes, the girl wanders back into the room, a fist full of 100-kuai notes in her hand. She nods goodbye and leaves, as silent as the  Muppet which sprawls open-mouthed in post-coital abandon across the door sill. Elvis One reappears, freshly toked. "Ah, she's a nice girl," he remarks. "She's not a whore or anything, we just hook up when I have an extra thousand."

Talk Talk

I've had the oddest weekend; I have a jillion work projects, all with screaming deadlines screaming at me, a sinus infection due to hay fever, and a general sense of laziness. I haven't had a day off in about two months, and I have the usual messes to sort out, trips to tailor, out to buy guinea pig feed, and all that jazz. I won't even mention what five minutes of practice on my ukelele did to my manicure.  So rather than sitting down and doing MY work, I ended up taking two trips out of the way which ate up a lot of my precious precious time, and I don't regret either.

Trip one, to introduce a colleague to a producer over at a television station to drum up some work or some contacts. Afterwards,  long talk over beer and pizza. While I usually confide in my friend Teri, who is the coolest missionary on the planet, I tend not to listen much. And yet, I listened to what this person had to say, made some sharp comments, and hoped in the end that I was insightful, rather than shrewish. As for tonight--I should have worked on a project due Thursday (two are due Thursday, actually) but I ended up babysitting someone's mother from out of town while he went off on a hot date. As this is a friend (he of the "You're too big!" bitch girlfriend) it seemed only fitting to take care of his Mum while he went out on town. Little did I know it would turn into eight solid hours of listening to this woman discourse on everything from forgiveness to her sister's five pound tumor that popped right down into her vagina. Interestingly enough, while she was hip enough to say "vagina" she referred repeatedly to "cancer of the back door." I am not suggesting that either was boring or dull or that I took delight in their pain. Friday Night Colleague was a study in how different two lives can be and I was glad to listen. Saturday, a lesson on letting go and not being bitter.

Perhaps we don't all really need counseling, as I stated to Colleague One on Friday. Maybe we just need a healthy dose of forgiveness, and the strength to move on. Does it take more strength to cling to the edge of the pool, or to cast yourself into the water and move straight and confident through the deep end? I've been in this relationship where I'm clinging to the edge and now I'm thinking, why put this  much energy into maintaining the status quo? I was drowning in his eyes: why not just let go and swim past the pain and into whatever and wherever the current leads me? Or better yet, strike a path towards something strong and straight and true, instead of clinging to the crumbling edge of the crap I already know. So there you are: I'm getting deep again, but knowing me, will be back to writing about crisps and ice cream and blow jobs again tomorrow. As colleague number one said, "First you write about sex and evil Chinese women and then there's a recipe for fudge." Well, Friend, that is my life, and you don't have to read unless you want to.

The Fifteen Minute Orgasm and Triple Testosterone Dilemma Deux

Gentle Readers, apparently it is not enough that I have become a Modern Siren, but now I'm supposed to get a four-hour body and have 15 minute orgasms as well. Being a woman of a certain age, I don't want to cut out carbs in order to triple my testosterone and I don't want to lose enough body fat to have clear muscle definition. I'll stick to being healthy and aim for being able to cross my legs in hot weather unaided, thank you very much. While I admire people who take their health seriously, who is to say I don't? I have a black ancestress who bequeathed me her black woman's butt along with another ancestress who gave me blue eyes and skin that burns in ten minutes in the shade. It makes for an alluring combination to some men, and if someone isn't interested in me as I am, too damn bad for him.

I should also mention a rule not learned at my mother's knee but one which I imparted to my own dear child: don't shag where you eat. These two rules, plus a healthy dose of self-respect, have kept my countdown of paramours low, but well worth it. So there. 

The Other Side: Chinese Women Who Have Married Big Stupid Foreign Jerks and Regret It Deeply

Just in case you've been thinking I'm a bit harsh on Chinese women, let me present the other side of the argument, the nice Chinese girl who marries (or worse, lives with but doesn't get him to commit) a Foreign Guy. There are so many asshats in this town, foreign riff raft that couldn't possibly get a job in their own country, and as most are men--and foreign men are at a premium here--they pretty much can do zip and still live comfortably. The typical unskilled foreign worker without any Chinese language skills can still land an ok job "teaching" English, despite the lack of qualifications, knowledge, background, skill, or even a command of basic syntax.

Enter the long-suffering patient Chinese girlfriend who really IS a nice person, who "loves" her foreign boyfriend, and who ends up borrowing a lot of money from her family to buy an apartment and a car so her boyfriend doesn't ever have to find a real job. Most of my male friends who married local girls treat them like shit, to be honest, and the girls tolerate it because Divorce is Bad and also, they're waiting for the payoff, a cute pale baby, and the opportunity to flaunt their exotic boyfriend/husband at the company New Year dinner.

Here is a True Tale of a horrific marriage.

She: a really lovely woman (ok, lovely on the INSIDE, but that's where it really counts) with a Master's in something bright from an American university.

He: Slope-shouldered wannabe musician.

Family: They have a baby. They have two different maids for the baby, plus someone who does the scut work (a scullery maid of sorts.) While She works a demanding job, He stays at home and strums his guitar, plays Wii, and fucks one of the nannies in his wife's bed.  No kidding. I was over there a few weeks ago and he disappeared into the back room. I heard a whistle---visions of the Von Trapp family dancing in my head--and Nanny 1 looked up from the child she was tending, deeply annoyed, handed the baby off to Nanny 2, and strode into the bedroom, where I heard the unmistakable sound of humping. Ten minutes later she emerged, exchanged a look with Nanny 2, and went back to playing with the baby. He emerged shortly, not having so much as showered, picked up his guitar, and said, "Right, did you want to warm up your voice before we start recording?"

I said, rather stingingly I thought, "How's your wife?" and he replied amiably, "Pretty good. I gave her a pickle tickle before she left for work this morning, so that ought to hold her for a few days."

Gallantry may not be dead, but it's hard to find in China.

How Foreign Guys Get Fooled by the Local Girls in China

Gentlemen:

If you are not that hot or popular in your country, why do you think you are suddenly God's gift to women in THIS one? Is it the air? The lovely filmy haze that prevents us from seeing the sky, which suddenly veils your flaws and gives you the appearance of a Greek god? Or is it--gasp--the fact you are someone's ticket out of here?

Two things to note: several of the best marriages I have seen are mixed, between people of different countries. Of these, almost none are Foreign Man-Chinese Woman. Second, I have several Beijing-born women friends  who are married to foreigners and only ONE has told me it was a love match and that she'd do it all over again. ONE! So if you're here, or thinking of coming here, read on:

For a woman of a certain age (over 25) and possibly divorced as well, a foreign man is the ONLY chance they have of a better life. Chinese men like younger women: rich men look for young mistresses, the preferred age being a freshman at university, and most "nice" boys are married off a year or two after university ends, as soon as their families can cough up enough money to buy the bride, the apartment, the car, etc. While salaries have gone up, most female teachers work like dogs and still earn only about 4,000 RMB a month. The hope of finding a love match is slim, as what decent family would want an "old" bride, one who is not a virgin, who is saddled with the curse of a divorce? Enter The Foreign Man.

He probably doesn't speak any Chinese, or it's limited. So the Chinese girl's English skills, however minimal, are not as important as the fact she can get things done, like read the shut-off notice from the gas company and go in, raise hell, and get the gas turned back on. Unless she's a top graduate of a famous university, she's not going far in her career, and let's face it, if you have the choice between driving your half-foreign kids to school in a Mercedes every day, or having to ride your bicycle in the rain to your dreary job as a receptionist or sales clerk, which would you choose?

As a Greek friend put it, "In Greece we love our friends and use money: Here, they use their friends and love money." If you're dating a Chinese girl, she will expect financial security, and soon. She may say she's ok "waiting and loving you" until your divorce is through, but you better pony up a very large engagement ring the day you're free, or else.

Let me share some tips, small things I have observed.

Number One: She will say your dick is big. Huge. So big, in fact, she can't get it in! Anecdotal evidence: I once lived next door to a semi-hooker who had a new foreign boyfriend every two weeks. Night one, she'd invite him in for a nightcap then lie and say she was a virgin good girl but maybe, if they went out again, she's consider giving in...Night two, she'd pretend she'd never given a blow job before, and her monologue consisted of, "Oh, it so big! I just want put in mouth! Oh, neber I do dis before!" Night three, she'd scream in pretend pain, "Oh, it so big! I neber know West man so big!" Night four, she'd be screaming, "Oh, only West cock make me satisfy!" Night five, post-coital tears, and a plea to buy her her own apartment as "Bad neighbor so jealous." Night six, refuse to put out until he bought apartment. Night seven, go out and look for a new sucker.

Anecdote two: I almost feel bad for mentioning this one, as a woman of my acquaintance actually pulled it on a friend of mine, WHO BELIEVED IT, but since it brought him out of a year-long funk, who the hell am I to tell him? Here it is: when you try to bed her, she's going to lie and say she can't get it in because it's too big. When, after about 28 hours of "trying" it DOES slip in dock she will scream/groan and let you know you have stretched her Hello Kitty to hell and back and now you owe her. In truth, now she owns you.

Number Two: Chinese women are incredibly selfish and manipulative and you probably won't find this out until long after the wedding, if you're lucky. The young ones were brought up as Little Empresses with four doting grandparents, parents who came into big money about 10 years ago, and with a media that insists that girls are brainless twits who deserve to be pushed around in shopping carts by long-suffering pouty boyfriends while munching sweets and whining like a demented four-year-old.  Or you can be like one poor soul I know who got engaged recently to a local girl he's known for a good three months only to be told that she believes in celibacy and will continue to be celibate after marriage. Well, as I told him, at least she told you up front.  Friend number two, also recently engaged to a girl he met last month, told me he and Comrade Right  had the following conversation this morning.

He: Remember, we're going to Dan's birthday dinner tonight.

She: No, we're not.

He: Huh?

She: I told you you can't go. I don't want to go so you can't go. You will go with me shopping.

He: But I told Dan we're going! We're taking him out to dinner.

She: We are not wasting our money on him. He can have dinner by himself.

Nice, eh? For the record, I did tell this guy to grow a pair and tell her to back off. But my phone just rang and it was Dan wondering where the hell they were and were they with me by any chance. And once I post this, the chances that they will ever grace me with their presence will diminish like your testicles post wedded bliss.

The Fifteen Minute Orgasm and Triple Testosterone Man

I have a pal at school, my age, whom I thought I could talk to about pop culture. He's the only one I know who can throw off a witty line using terms like "peer-reviewed journal" which to me is a real plus in someone to hang with. So, we're sitting in the cafeteria at school, surrounded by students, when he confesses he's eating light to --and I quote---triple his testosterone and have fifteen minute orgasms. Again--lunch time--surrounded by students. There must be some part of me that takes sick delight in the crazy shit people say and do, because I didn't get up and walk out at that point. Oh, no, I asked more, specifically, why would he want to triple his testosterone and what did 15 minute orgasms have to do with anything. Now I'm sure he has his side of this story--"She was fascinated and turned on!" but in truth I was really quite shocked and not sure what to say. I know this guy has a Chinese girlfriend--helloooooo, white man, single, in China--although he's been at great pains never to mention her around me. (Which I also find interesting, but that's another post.)

Oh, he amended, the 15 minute orgasm is for the woman. But he hasn't read that chapter in the book yet, he's just on the four-hour body building and diet section. But he's going to spend the weekend on the 15 minute thing.

All right: eew. It gets worse. Three thoughts are running through my head; first, what a cad to talk about this during lunch. Second, what a cad to talk about this to ME, as he knows damn well I just broke up with a lover and lost a friend in the process and I am definitely not in the mood to hear about sex, and third, if this is his way of letting me know he has a girlfriend so I don't "get ideas" what an absurdly stupid way to go about it. Dude, I not only know he has a very thin young chick but that he's cheating on her with a girl he met at Chocolate (a bar) six weeks ago. THAT'S the sort of town this is. So I said, "You know I just broke up with someone. Discussing this with me is like waving a box of caramels in front of a diabetic." He countered with something or other--I don't recall what--and I responded with, "This is you telling me about a great party you're throwing with champagne to which I am NOT invited." The subject changed, as a student came up and asked a question and he sent her off on a merry chase, but in my soul I just thought, yeeeeech.

Remember how I said it gets worse? Well, right after a staff meeting he sat and talked with me about--of all things--Christmas day when he was a child. I was thinking that perhaps the 15 minute orgasm was firmly off the table when he whipped out his iPad and showed me the chapter on that topic. Reader, I read: I critiqued. I know the research and the researchers and I read on and made my usual witty and pithy comments. Suddenly he slammed it shut and told me he had promised himself to go play his sax and he left. I went home and felt awful. Jesus, am I the sort of woman men think of as one of the guys?

So today I put on a Mutton-Dressed-As-Lamb pink dress, took a deep breath, and when he brought up the 15 minute thingy again I said I was not one of the boys and this talk was not right. I'm no prude, but I don't want to hear about other women. Change of subject. Then he mentioned he's going to stay at a hotel in a nearby city and I directed him to one of my favorites. I stayed there once with Mr.-He-Broke-My-Heart-Recently and then I felt really bummed out. I just sent someone to shag at my favorite hotel and he's not shagging me.  Ugh. I went home, ate dinner, took a nap, and hooked up my Wii for a good work out. I do feel better now but I am wondering a bit: why would someone--even someone as basically clueless as this man--think it's ok to talk about sex techniques at a high school during lunch to a woman he doesn't even date? I mean, why the HELL would THAT subject come up between people who have never had so much as a beer together? Anyone who has an answer, don't hesitate to write. Sigh.

The Persuaders

Since tomorrow is Easter, I am going to go to brunch somewhere swank--St. Regis, perhaps--and drink champagne. I am not big on champagne, as a rule: I do like a good champagne cocktail (pink, preferably) but they're hard to find unless I mix it myself. Since I have been in bed at nights with a combination of pain killers and sleeping pills, cocktails have been out of the picture for some time, but that may well explain my sudden craving for what looks like the most hideous cocktail of all time, the Creole Scream.

I found this cocktail in episode one of The Persuaders, a 1971 tv show starring--get this--Roger Moore and Tony Curtis. It is actually a fine thing to watch on your laptop in bed before drifting off to a drug-induced stupor. First of all, it has a lot of fighting (Tony did his own stunts, which probably explains the matching leather driving gloves he wears in almost every scene) and car chases, but it also has crushingly awful dialogue, girls in bikinis and teased hair, and lots of shots of the Cote d'Azur. The protagonists get into an argument about the Creole Scream--one olive or two?--and as the thing is a mixture of white rum, vermouth, grenadine, bitters, and a hint of ice, the thought of adding one olive, let alone two, to this potentially nauseating mixture seems --well, nauseating.  However, as I have to go into school today and prep lessons, I have to go drug free, which means after school I will come home and mix myself up a Creole Scream (the scream is when you ruin the rum by adding vermouth, bitters, and ugh, grenadine) and see for myself if it is indeed the type of cocktail manly men like Tony and Roger would indeed have dug back in the day. I'll let you know. 

On Being A Modern Siren

In the sixties, we were extorted to be Domestic Goddesses, cleaning the house in our well-fitted two to three inch heels, resting fully dressed three to four minutes on our freshly waxed floors, and having a chilled cocktail waiting for Him when he walked through the door, the scent of martini wafting gently over the smell of floor wax, pot roast, and a fresh Lysol douche.

In the seventies, we had two paths: Angry Feminist with Granola partner, or Total Woman. Like the Domestic Goddess, the Total Woman was expected to manage the household competently but unlike Betty Crocker, be a competent seductress who (probably) also gave head. I don't recall that head is mentioned in the Total Woman book, but since every page is basically a hymn to penis power (particularly the higher wage) it might as well be.

In the 80's, Roseanne Barr took the piss out of the Domestic Goddess, and we permed our bangs to amazing heights.

The 90's brought us the Promise Keepers, "good" Christian men who banded together and vowed to actually honor their marriage vows and to bring home the bacon to boot.

Anything after that is kind of a fog to me, having been expatriated for so long. But one thing is sure: at 48 I realize the value of having another income to buoy up the family, and if your husband not only changes the lightbulbs but can support you well enough so that all you have to do is have your nails done and play canasta--and you're happy with this--then more power to you. Happiness has a lot to do with the choices you make, and if you are lucky enough to be in the position where you're happy being at home, washing the clothes or watching other people do it, then enjoy. If you want to work, then enjoy your career. Having kids? Enjoy them too.

I also got to thinking about this: I always wanted to be a housewife, but no one hired me for the job. So, having a bit of free time on my hands this week, as well as the influence of a plethora of pain-killing drugs due to a root canal gone bad, I spent some time trolling on the Net, learning exactly how to be if not a Total Woman, at least someone who has a few more dates. Enter The Modern Siren.

The Modern Siren is a program I found which promises that by simply changing my vibe and focusing more on myself, I can have men drooling over me. For only $199 dollars I can enroll in a video course that can change my life. Some of the tools were sent to me: they are, to my jaundiced eye, actually viable techniques, but there's something in me that rebels against "imagine you are painting yourself with love while the man you want to attract watches you. Concentrate on this image the next time you're in his presence." I immediately picture myself in a staff meeting, dipping my fingers in an imaginary cup of love and anointing myself while He stares at me longingly--and I burst out laughing. I can't see this, me dripping love on myself while being lectured about Form Tutors and House points. Anyone who knows me well enough to know what sorts of things I DO think about in those staff meetings can be sure that I am not dipping my fingers into anything in my head, I'm probably working out the kinks in a new tomato sauce recipe or figuring out how to conduct three simultaneous new student interviews while also giving meaningful instruction to my class.

My friend Teri who, like me, is single and of a certain age, asked me what I do believe it. It's simple: I believe that you can trick and coerce people in to feeling an initial attraction, but that's not the way I want to win. I believe that most men are not going to leave a woman who throws the occasional random Steak and Blow Job day (or the equivalent for whatever kink he has). I think of head as a form of communion, of communication, and of sex as the best description I ever heard, from the British marriage service: with my body, I thee worship. I believe in treating your partner well and receiving the same treatment in return: I believe in being faithful, but if a married man strays my way, that's your problem, not mine. Most of my friends are married men and quite frankly I could snap my fingers and have almost any one of them, but guess what--that's not me, and that't not what I want. As dearly as I love my male friends, there's not one I feel that happiness with. Since they do confide in me, I can tell women (in general) one thing: quit whining, and appreciate what you've got. Just because I am not going to poach your man, don't think there are other women, particularly very young beautiful Chinese women, who have my scruples. Trust me, any guy, ANY GUY, in the world, can hook up within a week with a young beautiful girl here who will indeed give him steak and blow jobs every day of the week, until that ring is on her finger. You want proof? Go to the Hello Kitty restaurant. Trust me, every guy in there is going to get laid that night. And trust me when I say once the marriage happens, the lovin' goes out the window and she takes control of the purse strings and meals out cease as well.

But I digress: what do I believe? That marriage is the beginning of developing something bigger and better. That it's worth waiting for someone who melts your bones and makes you smile. That just because the one person who did this for me disappeared abruptly from my life, that doesn't mean it's over for me. I know I can love because I have loved: if I do end the rest of my days alone, I'm fine with that, because I know I won't have cheated my way into someone's heart, and can therefore sleep peacefully at night, knowing I haven't hurt anyone. If that isn't attractive to the right sort of man, then I don't know what is. But I'm sure not going to spend 199 bucks to find out.

Editing Myself

After the Klingon debacle in which I nearly lost my mother (don't ask) I determined never to write anything personal again. However, since my life is an open source of inspiration and pain, what would that leave me with? Nada. So I determined to start a new blog, one which told the truth about me and my rather interesting escapades, the type I can't tell my mother about, and then I realized that I basically don't have any. I mean, I can quote from some swanky text messages mistakenly sent my way (my favorite two being from the same guy, one year apart: "It wd B g8 f u cld b r surrogate"was the first one, sent to my barren womb about three years ago. Then, the following CHRISTMAS DAY, "My girlfriend say yr picture do U wanna have 3some with us. PS don't tell my wife." Touching, simply touching. I could write about skanky Beijing up the ass and back again, but since no one is going near my tail, what's the point? The most touching thing I did this week was to teach my drama class to sing "Smile" (the Charlie Chaplin song) and to come close to weeping as their little faces lit up as they sang. They liked it. Ten year olds have a surprising amount of good taste.

In the news: 48 year old woman wonders what the hell happened to her neck...

Dear Best Friend

     Caution to all the single ladies: If you hang out with married men, at some point at least one of them will decide he's in love with you, tell you so, kiss you passionately, then drop you like a hot potato due to guilt. He won't even ask you what YOU want and he will probably be a lousy kisser to boot, hoovering you into his face with his lips before tearing himself wetly away, bursting into tears and saying how he would NEVER cheat on his wife, no sir, NEVER. Well, yeah, he would never cheat on his wife with YOU, that is, but you damn well know is a lie, because he sticks his dick into anything with a skirt when he's on the road, and you KNOW THIS because he has told you so many many times,  and the girls he has stuck it to have occasionally ended up crying uncontrollably on your sofa.

     The worst part: You can't call your best friend and tell him about this asshole, because he IS that asshole, and if you have to work together at some point in the future--say, at some TV show---there will be many many long and awkward silences. If you think his outburst of passion has something to do with the fact that you just then were confiding in him about this cute guy you have a crush on, you're probably right. Dog in the manger syndrome is alive and well, even for the over forty set.

     Oh, yeah: and if you had a date to do something together, say, go to a fancy dress event, you will have to go alone (if you still have your ticket) and listen to many people whisper about you behind your well-dressed back. So: I don't want to be alone again, but I have enough integrity not to steal away a married man, even one that actually wanted me. And that's my story of March.

I'm back,baby!

All right, it has been a long time, but I have been BZ with a capital B and I've had massive problems with the Internet as well. I FINALLY have a new computer and a vpn but sadly, still no free time. I am working 31 days straight, my bike has flat tires, there is no food in the house, but the dogs are fine, Squeaky has found a companion, a new guinea pig with white fur and surprisingly brown eyes whom I almost named after one of my Finnish student (she's so white she's clear) but I decided to name her after Tin Tin's dog.

I must also state that I still don't have a steady boyfriend although a few lads are chasing. Sadly, I'm not that tempted to stand still and let any of them catch up. I do have a massive crush on someone--the sweetly painful type that reminds you you're alive and that your sixteen-year-old self is still hoping someone will ask you to dance--but apparently he has no interest whatsoever. Which is yucky, but what the hell, sometimes that's life too. I'm still here, and I'm back on the Net, and both of my followers should be happy. I know I am.