First World Problems

The maid came too early. The maid--who had taken my dog back to her home 35 kilometers by public transportation--brought her back along the same route and arrived at my house at 7 a.m. sharp. And I'm COMPLAINING about it. Complaining about someone who has probably been up since five and who definitely left her house before five-thirty to get here. Jesus, what sort of person am I?

Am I such a horrible person? She did me a huge favor, taking Duchess Doggie to her own home so I didn't have to worry about three-time-a-day walkies while recovering from surgery. I did offer to pay for a taxi both ways, but she blithely slung Duchess into an oversized bag and took off (pocketing the taxi fare, I might add.) Duchess is used to it and has mastered the trick of hanging her head out of the bag and looking adorable and mild. While on dog-sitting duty she (the maid, not the dog) didn't have to come in, and as I lived off ice cream for the past three days, there aren't a lot of dishes to do or clean-up in general. And yet, I am pissed that she came so early.

I'm aware that this is like complaining that your Birkin bag doesn't match everything. It's just that I had hoped to get some private stuff done before she got here, as it's impossible to eat, brush teeth, or shower when she's here. An example: as she is cleaning the floors, she has stuff spread out in all the rooms. The kitchen is impossible to reach due to the number of buckets, basins, rags, brooms, and towels. If I say the hell with it and go brush my teeth, she finds it necessary to start a long conversation or possibly to scream, as the turtle moved ever so slightly in the tank and startled her. A shower? Forget it, that's the signal to stop cleaning the floor and move in to the bathroom to clean the toilet. While there, she will use the same rag she used to mop up the floor around the toilet on the wash basin (yeeech) while rearranging my cosmetics. The dental piks and q-tips which I had placed in demitasse cups will be tossed into a heap on one corner of the sink and she will take the demitasse cups back to the kitchen to be stored away, without washing, somewhere convenient, such as the back corner under the dripping sink.

I will be boiling hot as she has snapped off both the fan and the air conditioner ("You don't need them, they'll only make you sick,") and worse, she's cleaning the house clad in bra and panty, stopping occasionally to bring me an unsolicited glass of water. I fear it may have come from the sink. The guilt trip continues: if I'm typing away at my computer, I will be asked repeatedly what I am playing, and if I reply that I'm working  this reply is met with a sort of smirk. No, the smirk says, cleaning your damn floor is work, what you're  doing is for pussies.

 Normally, when I'm on vacation we reach a state of detente: I give her the time off, paid, so that I don't have to worry about being dressed and fed before six-thirty a.m. Ironically, according to my neighbors, she usually arrives around ten-thirty when I work. Lord. I just figured out the scam, and since this is the same maid who once safety-pinned me to the bed to help my sore back, she's bulletproof for life. Sigh. If I want a clean toilet, I will either have to resign myself to getting up at the crack of dawn, or cleaning it myself. Let me just be grateful that I have both a toilet and a choice, and quit griping about what are clearly first world problems.

Today's words of wisdom courtesy of Miss Suzy

Do Civilized BJ Men

My friend Suzy Q snapped this picture and posted it to her Facebook account. It is posted here with her gracious permission. She wrote something to the effect that the shirt says, "Do Civilized BJ Men" and while blow jobs do indeed tend to calm most men down, she'd rather just tip at Christmas. This is a sensible attitude and one I endorse heartily.

 A friend met me for lunch the other day and revealed that her teenage daughter had been caught giving a bj to a lad she knows. "The fool just wanted to be caught!" her mother fumed. "Or else she wouldn't have given head in a tent!" I couldn't help but laugh. These are words that never crossed my mother's lips: Darling, if you must give head, never give head in a tent, everyone will know what you're up to.  

Come to think of it, my mother kept strangely silent on that topic, possibly knowing deep down that any word she said might get posted someday. God only knows what I've said that will end up splashed on my daughter's FB page. Can't be worse than anything I post myself.

Growing, Changing, Getting Older But Not Getting Old

     I have no desire to get a prize for being a big-ass loser, so I'm not going to catalogue the many misadventures I've had this month, but let's mention a few highs and lows. High: quit my job on a Thursday morning at 8:30 due to a certain line being crossed, and had three unsolicited job offers by three thirty that same day. Yay. None pay as well as that job but involve far less hours and far less bullshit. At least with a Chinese organization I'm going to know when to bend over and grab my ankles and am smart enough now to bring my own lube. With the Brits, I was never quite so sure. Low point: giving a foot massage to a--ahem, friend--who promptly threw up. But at least he made it to the toilet first.

     For the second time in four months, I have sassed a man at a nightclub only to have him die suddenly within the week. So if you were planning to ask me if I want a drink, don't, unless you  have a pretty strong ticker and have had your cholesterol checked recently. The latest one was truly bizarre: it's someone I know through Mysterious Job Number Two and he asked me if he could buy me a drink. Since I knew he was dating Marcia Sue (speaking of vomit...) I declined, as she was there at the next table. He went home with someone else (neither me nor Marcia) and I thought that was the end of it. He died a few days ago, in this classic manner: suddenly, and with meat in his mouth. (Name the source, o ye classics scholars.)

     My partner Link had a gig with someone else this weekend (we each belong to a few different bands--we're the open  marriage of music) and it was decided in the expat community to have a wake for our dead colleague at this gig. Emails were sent, we all agreed to have a rip-roaring wake featuring rock and roll courtesy of Link's guitar, and we all showed up at the nightclub at the specified time. Yes, we showed up, only to find that the nightclub owner had decided at the last minute to have a comedy open mic night for Chinese comics and the nightclub was packed with the young hip crowd laughing hysterically at comrades doing imitations of key scenes from that classic TV soap opera, Huanzhu Gege. The comics were killing the audience and the comedy night went on---and on--and on. Finally a rather sweet-faced foreign boy was allowed to get up and play and one of his songs, he announced, was about Jesus. The crowd groaned. The comedy act in a foreign language they didn't know was one thing, but the missionary thing was another...to everybody's relief it was a very good song told from The Lord's point of view, featuring the line, "I get so tired of being right all the time." Don't we all.

     On a sadder note: two of my friends have lost their fathers recently to pancreatic cancer, and a third one is flying out shortly for the same reason, hoping to get home in time. I don't know what to say, as platitudes, however true, aren't really going to solve anything, or make anyone feel better. I wish I could do something concrete, but I can't. I don't have huge sums of money to fly my friend out faster, I can't keep his father out of pain, I can't give anyone a peaceful resolution. I have never gone through the loss of a parent myself and I can only imagine what any of it might be like. I think of all the stories my friend has related about his family and I think, how lucky you were to have had that! I'm not really mourning the men I sassed who consequently passed away, although I do honor their passing, but in my own way I am mourning this man I never met, who did such a superb job raising my friend.

     

Waiting waiting waiting working working working

I have had a heck of a spring and summer may shape up to be even MORE challenging. For one thing, between the two jobs, the singing, the filming of a pilot I wrote,  and the oh, GOING BLIND, I've been too busy to --and I quote-- "spend time talking on the phone" as much as Baby Girl would like. Hmm, two jobs...commute of over three hours a day...not allowed private phone calls at work...don't like personal talk in public on the bus that takes us all to work...getting an average of five hours' sleep per night and that includes weekends...and had a houseguest who was recovering from major surgery to boot.  I also had some plumbing issues, had to get dog registered, more dental work, more vision tests, dubbing, you get the idea. Busy. Not trying to blow anyone off, just too busy to engage for more than five unplanned minutes. So forget blogging--I've been rehearsing, or writing copy for a new project that will be filmed this summer (and not at my expense.) I ride my little electric motorbike to the bus stop, a distance of ten kilometers, and it's often the only fun thing I do during the day. School is out in a month and I can't wait for the chance to have a cup of coffee and a sandwich at home.

Directions

Folks, it isn't that hard to get around here in Beijing. Do you know how to tell north from south? You're on your way. As long as you can remember that Tian An Men Square is in the center of the town, you should be good to go. What's killer is the street names: Jianguomenwai, Jianguomennei, and Chang An are the same damn street, just different sections of it. For this reason, giving directions using street names of an inexact nature can be difficult. Most directions run thus: you know what street that starts out being called Jianguomenwai Dajie? Then it's Jianguomennei, then Chang An? Well, keep going down that street past whatever it's called once it's past second ring road west, and...

I first arrived when the subway was a very short stretch that didn't connect to anything. While the subway has grown tremendously over the years, I have tended to live an inconvenient distance from any stop, and have had no real time to fuck around getting to know the system. I work seven days a week, and I don't have a lot of leisure time. If I am going somewhere, I am going to take a taxi, or ride or drive my bike, period. Thus, if you tell me something like "It's on the number ten line" this is fairly meaningless to me. Although I tell people often, "Just give me the address, don't describe the subway stop to me," people still tend to tell me the name of the local subway stop.

Marcia Sue, who is one of those China Newbies who is just SO IN LOVE with it here, invited me over for dinner. Marcia Sue is the lady who passed out drunk at a gig and was taken back to my place to recover. These are the directions she sent me: Take line ten and get off at the stop after the airport transfer stop,  exit d, turn left at exit and walk down to corner and turn left.

Ok, and then what? What happens after I turn left? Will a rainbow in the sky direct me into a building? How about an apartment name, or number? Directions into the compound? Possibly an access code? Or will it be a case of "then text me and I'll get on your phone and tell the pedicab where to take you." Part of being a host is allowing the guest to get there in comfort. If subways are your thing, great. They are not mine, so please give me the courtesy of allowing ME to travel in the way that best fits my situation.

Mmm, given the choice between a crowded subway full of people spitting gobs of green phlegm and refusing to let the elderly sit in the few seats,  and a fairly clean and comfortable cab, I think I'll take a cab. Just give me the name of your building and I'll be there. 

What Not To Say to The Band

Actual comments from strangers following a gig:

You mean they let just anybody get up there and sing? My girlfriend wants to try.

Don't you know any good songs, like Titanic?

You have another job, right?

Actual comments from friends following a gig:

It was okay. Yeah, it was, uh, good.

Well, now I've seen you sing.

It was okay but you've ruined Avalon for me.

I can't believe you just get up there.

You know you're fat, right?

And my favorite: during a staff meeting, about 36 hours after a gig,  someone who had heard me sing turned to me and snapped, "Too much vibrato! Can't you try to control that?"

A few friends (musicians) have said the following and I think it's just about right:

Well done!

I enjoyed that!

Well sung!

They left it at that. That's fine by me. I don't want to discuss the line-up with everyone I meet: much of the artistic arrangement is a collaboration and I have more and more confidence in how we put things together. We have a new set and I think it's a killer, very diverse musically and with an interesting house-party approach to how the songs flow together. I haven't heard any other groups take this approach to music and I like the fact we're putting our own spin on things. We're not a cover band and I'm dead lucky to be working with such a talented guitarist who can play jazz, blues, lead guitar and straight out rockabilly--not to mention pick--with such ease. It takes a lot of rehearsal to build that sort of musical intimacy, where you can glance at each other and shoot off an improvisation that works, and we're finally there. My thanks to the audiences we dragged out there during the first few months--many moments were NOT pleasant to witness, I'm sure, but then again, birth isn't an easy thing to watch.  We're almost there. We've started getting paid gigs, and we're getting better all the time. I'm sure the weird comments will continue to flourish as I attract the crazies, but that's part of the deal. 

Putting Down the Doggy, Thrifty Chinese Style

Yes, it has been some time since last I blogged: I still have two jobs, I sing with two bands (one is over I think but I'm not sure) I've spent two weekends filming a pilot, still have two guinea pigs the size of overweight chihuahuas, but I have only one doggie, my beloved original model. The other doggy started having seizures--a hell of a thing to watch--and given his advanced age and the growth on his junk (his favorite toy) I took the horrible step of having him put down. 

The walk to the vet was a nightmare--my ayi disapproved of spending any money on putting him down, and offered to poison him for free, with a quick chuck of the body into the rubbish bin. Then, a stay of execution occurred when my Chinese granny's Peke passed away and she asked me to let Bobby live for another week or so as she couldn't bear to have two Pekinese doggies go to heaven in the same week. Finally, I knew it was time, asked Ayi to come with me, and set off in the rain with Bobby on a leash, trusting us and trotting along with his wide Peke smile. First, for some reason known only to Ayi, we began to trot in the wrong direction. "You'll see where we're going," she promised. We ended up at a dog grooming place where, on the doorstep, she asked the dog groomer (and I swear to God I am not kidding) if the groomer had anything to kill the dog with as (again, no kidding) "The vet costs 500 kuai and we're looking for a thrifty way to get rid of it." A thought ran through my head--this is not the woman you should run to with an unplanned pregnancy for sure--and even the groomer was appalled. After receiving a firm "No" ("Are you sure there's not a heavy brick or something lying around that you're not using?") we headed off in the cold and rain to the vet's office.

 I was furious and even Bobby lost his customary good humor and seemed to slink unhappily towards his fate. Once at the vet's office, Ayi explained what we wanted. I spoke to the vet, described the symptoms, and had the vet's approval --even approbation--for what we were about to do. They allowed us to stay with him while it happened, so we were holding him during the first injection which knocked him out, his head lolling like a sleepy teddy bear, and when the final injection was added and he passed immediately, without pain, Ayi reared her head back and howled, adding a heart broken wail of "Booobeeeeeeee!" I couldn't believe it--this is a woman who offered to cure his testicular cancer with two bricks and wanted to off him with rat poison, but there she was howling like a Klingon performing a ritual for a comrade killed in action. It was only fitting. There was some stir in the outside office (Look, a foreigner crying over her dog!) but to my surprise it wasn't like that,  it was more of a feeling of sympathy for us, and a wave of fear for the time when their own beloved doggies would pass. 

Princess doggie number one has felt a little lost since that day and we are not planning on replacing Bobby. I figure another rescue dog will turn up one day and I'm not in a hurry to replace my lovely smiling companion. He was a darling little thing and I am glad he's out of pain now. I sleep better without his grunts and snores under the bed, or the constant barking ("Someone's on the stairs! The stairs! The stairs! Now they're gone!") and I can walk around barefoot without someone trying to lick my feet. Still, a work to my friends: if I have seizures, don't let Ayi take me to the hairdressers, and check her hand bag for bricks. There is a thing known as being TOO thrifty and I am not taking any more chances.