落叶归根

Did you ever have one of those days where nothing could ruin your good mood? Even a bout of 拉肚子  after some Korean food? Yeah, I’m having one of those days. Allergies have had me hacking up a lung for the past two weeks. My stomach is… well, less than comfortable. I had a nightmare that I had a real job again last night, which made the nagging voice in my head that says, “How much longer can you afford to not have a job?” turn from an occasional whisper to a persistent shriek. My homework is piling up and the company I’m trying to start seems like it’s never gonna get off the ground. But you know what? It’s a beautiful f-ing day! The sun is shining. Well, it was shining, and when it was, it was freaking gorgeous. And, gosh darn it, I’m just a happy little camper. It’s like the time I watched You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown after being stood up by my good-for-nothing boyfriend! I should have been sad, but I couldn’t stop thinking up new verses to the song “Happiness”. And let me tell you what brought out the dormant, Mary-Poppins-Spoonful-of-Sugar side of my personality: “A falling leaf returns to the roots of the tree.”

Sound like a Chinese proverb? Well, you’re darn tooting it is, as well as the direct translation of the title of a movie my professor showed my Chinese idiom class. Internationally titled Getting Home, it is the story of a migrant worker who promised his best friend that, if he died on the job thousands of miles from his hometown, he would be returned to his family. I would try to give you more of a plot summary, but I think it’s better if I just tell you the truth. This film’s representation of some of the problems that plague Chinese society is refreshingly honest. The scenery of southern China is breathtakingly beautiful. And the comedy performs an amazing feat by being as hilarious as it is tragic, even when conveyed through subtitles.

This film will make you laugh. It will make you cry. But most of all, it will leave you a better person for having watched it. If you have two hours now, check it out. If you don’t have time, well, make time. 

Unfortunately, neither NetFlix or Blockbuster carries it, but luckily China has come up with a way to fill every void in the American home video industry. Check it out at: http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XNzQ5ODg1MzI=.html

Thank You For Being a Friend

**Note: This post was originally published on 4/27/09, but was taken down due to technical difficulties and censorship from a certain communist government. I apologize that the timeliness of this post has been diminished, but I love you guys too much to not give you the gift of some of Bea Arthur’s finest moments. 

Once, my mother, sister and I were sitting around our kitchen table, trying to determine which Golden Girls character we would be. After we quickly labeled Maggie as Rose, my mother turned to me and said, “You’d be Blanche. The slutty one.” Well, thanks, Sophia, but, according to several “Which Golden Girls Character Are You?” online tests, I am actually less of the charming, Southern belle who can tie cherry stems into knots that would make a sailor green with envy, and more of the “witty, sarcastic substitute teacher who can best hookers in a prison cell.” That’s right, ladies and gentleman, by authority of an online character test, if I were a Golden Girls character, I would be none other than Dorothy Zbornack. So it is with incredible sadness that I say good-bye to Bea Arthur, who was not only a brilliant comedienne:

a talented singer:

and an award-winning actress:

but also a lady who knew how to go out on top. I hope to one day learn Bea’s secret for using foul language to portray class. What a lady!

Also @KeanuReeves, you can thank Bea Arthur for your trademark, as she clearly originated, “Whoa.”

God, I LOVE Being Right

[I'd like to preface this post by saying that I love my parents more than I can possibly say and I am eternally grateful for the many sacrifices they have made and endless support they give me on a daily basis, despite the fact that I was (and often still am) a raging bitch and I live half a world away. Mom & Dad, thanks so much! You guys are the best! I love you!]

First and foremost, let me say that there has been a small handful of people recently questioning my ability to always be right. For lack of a better turn of phrase, BOO-YAH. I know that’s mean to say to people who might suffer from mental disabilities or bouts of delusion, but… well, frankly, my dear I don’t give a damn.

You might be asking yourself what I’m so right about this time. Well, let me tell you! Recently, the New York Times published the results of several surveys all focusing on one thing: if having children actually improves the overall quality of your life. The verdict: 

Using data sets from Europe and America, numerous scholars have found some evidence that, on aggregate, parents often report statistically significantly lower levels of happiness (Alesina et al., 2004), life satisfaction (Di Tella et al., 2003), marital satisfaction (Twenge et al., 2003) and mental well-being (Clark & Oswald, 2002) compared with non-parents.

Well, yeah, you might think. But after your children are all grown up and you send them out into the world and see the person you’ve helped them become… well, there’s nothing more fulfilling than that, right? WRONG!

There is also evidence that the strains associated with parenthood are not only limited to the period during which children are physically and economically dependent. For example, Glenn and McLanahan (1981) found those older parents whose children have left home report the same or slightly less happiness than non-parents of similar age and status. Thus, what these results are suggesting is something very controversial — that having children does not bring joy to our lives.

Intrigued by this scientific study that proves what I’ve been advocating for quite some time, I couldn’t wait to read the comments. Here’s just a few of my personal favorites:

I’m a better person for becoming a mom, even if I’m not any happier.  -Crimson Wife

Yeah… that sounds like you’re trying too hard to rationalize it. And Crimson Wife? Did you get the Scarlet Letter?

If anything, I think what this maybe shows is that happiness isn’t everything. –pierce moffet

pierce’s four-year-old is wailing in the background because the doll of her barbie popped off when she pulled it off. he was too busy trying to finish his groundbreakingly trite comment while shutting her up to capitalize his name.

I had a long, long list of reasons why I didn’t want a child. The epiphany arrived when I finally realized that the main (perhaps only) reason why I didn’t want to try was because I was scared… I knew it is very difficult to care for a baby, to raise a child, to deal with a teenager. – Tipplington

Tipplington’s child is only two. Wait until the child becomes a teenager and resents her for passing on the last name of “Tipplington”. It’s gonna get ugly.

I think it’s the biological imperative to reproduce. — Alex

I think it’s narcissism at it’s finest. And quite frankly, the thought of a miniature Jamie running around is enough to give me night terrors. I tell ya, I was straight up evil!

I look back on my non-kid days and wonder, as you ask, why on earth anyone has kids. — Annie B.

Oh, Annie B. I love that you’re secure enough in your parental disappointment that you throw caution to the wind and invite the scores of other parents who are in denial to pounce on you like the Republicans do on Michelle Obama’s arms. Soldier on, brave woman!

Feel free to use this blog post to rub in my hypocritical face should I ever get hitched and start popping out babies like one of those t-shirt cannons at a college basketball game. And while you’re holding your breath for that to happen, check out my new favorite comedian, Louis C.K., on his incredibly un-PC and hilarious parental experiences.

There Is No Possible Way

You know how some countries have little sayings that really epitomize the overall attitude of their country. Like Jamaica with their “No problem, mon” , French people with their “Mmeh, C’est la vie”, and Americans with their “Supersize it.” Well, China has its own phrase that really captures the spirit of its people.  Unlike the heartening “No problem” or the artery-clogging deliciousness of “Supersize it”, China just tells you “Mei banfa – There is no way.”  I’m an American, for God’s sake! There is always a way. Have you never heard of the little engine that could?

 

Remember that horrible story of the woman who was stabbed like 90 something times in NYC and no one called the cops because they thought someone else would call? In China, no one ever calls the cops. Not for domestic abuse, not for a motorcyclist getting run over, and definitely not for a murder. You might think they don’t call the police because they expect one of the other 1.3 billion people in the nation to call, but you’d be wrong. They don’t call because they just can’t be bothered. You can’t even get a grocery store employee to help you find a product in this country. They just point in its general direction and then ignore your pleas for specifics. Eventually, you narrow down the location of the object by triangulating its position through the general pointings of approximately 100 lazy employees.

 

While this rampant laziness has been a recurring problem throughout my almost two years in China, I’ve had it up to HERE this week with people telling me “There is no way – Mei Banfa”. Here’s just three examples from the past week that have made me want to go postal on some Chinese people.

 

#1 Swimming
At the university I am, there is a glorious, outdoor, Olympic-sized swimming pool and gosh darn it! I WANT TO SWIM IN IT. However, I’ve been informed that I must undergo an eye and skin test to see if I’m healthy enough to swim in the pool. Because so many people at the YMCAs throughout America catch killer cataracts and lethal freckles in the swimming pool. Fine, fair enough. Your culture is weird, but I chose to live here; ergo, I will take the test. 

 

If only it were so easy… I go to Foreign Student’s Office and they send me to the hospital for the test. I go to the hospital and they tell me that the test doesn’t start until May. But I’m only here until June, I tell the lady. “Mei banfa,” she tells me, repeating the phrase that has come to represent the entire service industry in China. So I return to the Foreign Students’ Office and explain the latest development. They then tell me, “Oh, well, the swimming pool isn’t open yet. Mei banfa!” This was a huge lie, since my friend (who got the eye and skin exam last year) had just swam in it. I tell them that just simply is not true. They then call me “mafan – trouble” and sent me back to the hospital to a different floor. There an irate nurse tells me “Mei banfa, wait until May.” I ask the irate nurse to talk to the foreign student’s office, whose office number I had brought with me. She says, “Mei banfa.” I then flip out and tell her that she can at least talk to someone for me and throw my cell phone against her ear. So I finally get them on the phone and the foreign student’s office then tells me to come back tomorrow to talk to them about getting my skin and eyes approved for a little dip. I’ll keep you posted, but odds are I’m either gonna slather germs all over me and do an unauthorized cannonball into the pool or pitch hissy fits on every single floor of every single building of campus until they realize they can “mei banfa” my ass.

 

#2 PDF Copies
I needed to print five pages, sign two of them and then scan these five pages into a single PDF. Not exactly rocket science. After I explain this to the woman, she agrees. Then once she’s done, she gives me five PDF files, each with a single page. I tell her that she just told me she could do it and yet, she still gave me five discrete files. Her response? “Mei banfa.” I miss Kinkos. 

 

#3 China Merchants Bank
Now for the mother of all “Mei banfas”. Granted this one starts with a large error on my part… But still! I lost my ATM card. I went to a China Merchants Bank (which can burn in the fiery pits of hell) in Xiamen and here’s how the conversation with the bank teller went.

Me: Hi, I lost my ATM card and need to get a new one.
Bank Teller: This is a Shanghai account. Mei banfa.
Me: But this is the same bank.
Bank Teller: Mei banfa (motions for next customer to come up).
Me: Wait a second, what the hell am I supposed to do?
Bank Teller: Go to the actual branch that issued your card.
Me: In Shanghai?
Bank Teller: Yes.
Me: So, I have to go back to Shanghai in order to tell them that I lost my ATM card. You can’t use the computer to do that here?
Bank Teller: Mei banfa.
Me: Ok, well, then let me just cancel my account and you can just give me my money in cash.
Bank Teller: Mei banfa. You have to have your card with you to cancel your account.
Me: So, let me get this straight, you won’t give me any of my money unless I have my ATM card and I can’t get a new card unless I’m in Shanghai?
Bank Teller (exasperated, as if this is a completely sane way for the third biggest bank in the country to operate): Yes, mei banfa (motions for next customer).
Me: Waiiiiit a second, how the hell am I supposed to buy a fucking plane ticket to get to Shanghai to get my card to get my money (and then cancel my account because I HATE YOU!) if I can’t have the money that’s in my account right now? Now that, my friend, is what you actually call MEI BANFA.”  [Commence Oscar-worthy breakdown]

 

Finally, they put me on the phone with a person from my home branch in Shanghai. For a transcript of that conversation, just reread above. And watch as my head explodes. 

On Virginity

I won’t lie to you. Last Christmas Eve, I set out on a mission to break up a happy couple for my own selfish reasons. Took me until Valentine’s Day, but goshdarnit! I succeeded. (Only to then break up with the guy in less than two weeks and secure my place in hell. Bygones). So it seemed fitting to be sitting at midnight mass in jeans this year trying to make my mom happy, instead of in an overpriced champagne bar in clothes I couldn’t afford trying to impress some guy.

While I should probably have been praying for the redemption of my damned soul (if it’s not too late), I instead resorted to other means of amusing myself, like listening to my adorable, deaf grandpa sing three beats ahead of everyone else in the church. Or actually listening to the story of Adam and Eve and coming up with ways to highlight its logical constraints (so, wait. God lied to Adam and Eve and the serpent told the truth, yet God’s the good guy… If you say so!). Or watching the colony of moths that infested our church, seemingly drawn to the flame of the Christ Candle and swooping dangerously low to the Sacraments. By the way, if drinking “the blood of Jesus” is a religious celebration of his life, is it too much to ask that the next Messiah hail from eastern Tennessee and shots of Jack Daniels replace the watered-down red wine? I’d convert. 

While these delightful distractions took my mind off the birth of the sweet 8 lb 6 oz baby Jesus for a short while, mainly I just sat and felt simultaneously pissed at and sorry for poor Mary. I don’t think you can be a woman without thinking one of two things:

1) That [insert swear word that even my athiest outlook on life won't allow me to write about the blessed "virgin"] took the best excuse ever for getting knocked up and now no one can ever use it again without being smoked out of a hole in Waco. 

2) Let’s say she really was a virgin and the angel appeared to her and was all, “Hey, Mary. You’re knocked up with God’s baby. Science, schmience! Good luck explaining that one to the fiance!” I mean, really? How would that conversation have gone? “Hey, Joseph. Listen, I know I haven’t really been putting out even though we are betrothed, but you’re just not gonna believe what happened! You’re gonna be the stepdad to the son of God! Pretty special, eh? And as soon as I pop this baby out, lose my baby weight and my punani bounces back to its normal shape and size, I swear we’ll get it on like two high-schoolers on prom night!” While you gotta respect the Bible for being the best-selling book of all time (by the way, does anyone else wonder where those profits go? Same for the 9/11 Commission), I do feel like it’s missing some vital information that the curious and blasphemous feel would really flesh out the story of Jesus. Do you think King James would mind if we added a couple books to his version of the Bible?

The word of Jamie. Praise be to sin.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

You know how you bitch to your friends about your significant others? You tell them all his little faults, the things he does to piss you off. Like the time he said he had to go poop in front of all of your friends the first time he met them. Or the time he said, “Aww, honey, it’s ok. You’re really just not funny.” Or how he came over to your house right after cheating on you, and you could actually smell it on him (and I ain’t talking about her perfume). These are the stories you regale your girl (and gay) friends with when they tell you that he’s not good enough for you, why do you stay with him, you could do better, etc, ad nauseum.

Yeah, you know the drill. You bitch about them, but at the same time, you reject all of your friend’s advice because they weren’t there for the good times. They didn’t see that time he handmade a dozen roses and broke into your bedroom on Valentine’s Day so the origami bouquet would be there when you got home from school. Your friends didn’t witness that time he pretended to be your husband and argued with the phone company for an hour to have them take $200 off your bill. They weren’t the ones following your drunken ass around at 2 a.m. while you threw trash cans into the street in front of cops and finally got you to go to bed.

[Did I mention I borrowed most of these examples?]

Well, I may not have a living, breathing significant other, but I do have a volatile love affair with Shanghai. And my friends, god bless ‘em, get an earful of complaints on a regular basis. Like last week, when the beer I bought was covered in chicken blood (which I didn’t notice until I had already put it in the pocket of my white coat).

Sometimes, the little things just build and build and you don’t even know your relationship is about to end, when BAM! along comes one doozy of a fight and the next thing you know, you’re packing your bags and slamming your door on the way out. My year and a half long affair with Shanghai came to an abrupt, unexpected and bitter end about two weeks ago. My friends from home tried to come to the rescue, pointing out all the things I hated about the city anyway. No vacation time. The place in China where Chinese comes to die. The inability to get a single, good dirty martini in over a year. Friends automatically blurted out the obligatory, “Move back!” when I told them about our blow-out.

But I couldn’t listen to their advice. How could I just relapse with my ex, America? Shanghai gave me everything America gave me, and then some. My friends hadn’t seen the good times. Around my birthday, Shanghai surprised me with my $1.25/hour maid and I haven’t washed a dish since. Not only that, but when my back gets tense, Shanghai gives me $8/hour back massages. America would charge me at least $60. Besides, where could I find a job in this current economic situation? At least Shanghai always supported me!

With my logic (questionably) sound, I decided that running back to America’s outspread arms wasn’t even in the cards. America and I had grown so far apart that I just didn’t see how we could make it work anymore. Could I leave Shanghai? Sure, we’d had a rough patch, but looking back on what we’d had over the past year and a half, I wondered, “Could I really throw that away? Did greener pastures exist where I could study Chinese and relax and live for less than $600/month?” Beijing? Too smoggy, cold and spread out. Kunming? Too far from civilization. Xiamen? Well, it does have the most beautiful college campus in China, as it’s conveniently located directly across the street from a beach. Not to mention the pedestrian island, with houses built by 1920s European diplomats/opium war profiteers. And it’s one of the top 10 schools in China. You say they’ve outlawed car horns in this sleepy, scenic beach town? SOLD!

So, my friends, I did it. I broke up with Shanghai. While we’re still together at the moment, sifting through stuff we acquired over the past year and a half, deciding who gets the George Foreman grill and the coffee maker, we will indeed part company, appropriately enough, on Valentine’s Day. I will head off to start my new life with Xiamen. He really shares some of my favorite Shanghai characteristics, but he’s more low maintenance, less pretentious and a lot more easy-going than Shanghai ever was. And if I play my cards right and really let myself go on Xiamen’s beach, my legs might not be “so white they are purple” when summer rolls around.