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.

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.