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.

Sorry for Falling Off the Face of the Earth…

The other day one of my friends told me the most pertinent quote I had heard in a long time. “If you come to China for a week, you’ll write a book. If you come to China for a year, you’ll write an article. If you come to China for five years, you’ll be too confused to write a sentence.”

Well, I’m officially approaching the one-and-a-half-year mark, and gosh darn it, I can’t think of anything to write about. Actually, I can think of about four hundred things to write about, but then I just get super overwhelmed and don’t write. So, let me just say thank you to everyone who has written me requesting that I write again; however, I fear that this particular blog will not do justice to anything I’ve written before, as my mind is being pulled in too many directions at the moment, but let me try and sum up the past four months:

I Developed a Distaste for All People Who Are in Love & Want to Go to Grad School
Liane and Kyle, my partners-in-crime wrenched themselves from the jaws of China’s expat lifestyle and fled to Toronto & Frankfurt, respectively, to expand their minds at institutes of higher learning and, more importantly, to enjoy bubble baths and candlelit dinners with their significant others. Bitter? Who me? Not at all. At least I can still afford a maid while I live significant other-less in the Orient. The rent’s cheaper here anyway!

The Olympics
Turns out Men’s Beach Volleyball players wear baggy swim trunks and shirts not unlike what Hulk Hogan donned for the majority of the 1980s. Unlike Mr. Hogan, men’s beach volleyball players do not rip their shirts off to punctuate their victory. Perhaps they didn’t want to chance ripping the flag of their country in half, but still… well, I was hoping for a little more skin.

I saw Michael Phelps at a party and was drunk enough to not feel bad when I paparazzi-ed him. Or told people I was the girl in the picture standing over his shoulder, despite the fact we look nothing alike and I am at least 10 inches shorter than her.

Tokyo
There’s a place in Tokyo where you can apparently go purchase a girl and select which fruit she will be allowed to eat for the next 30 days. For this example, let’s say mangoes. After 30 days, you come back and she poops on a platter and you eat her mango poop, which supposedly tastes like… mangos. We did not do this during our three-day holiday in Tokyo, but I still like the story.

I met a black, gay seismologist who I immediately decided was my new best friend, especially after he started sweatily grinding on my straight male cohorts. Without his shirt on. We also bonded over how ridiculous it is people still live in New Orleans.

Parents’ Visit
Just when I thought no vacation could be more enjoyable or insane than Tokyo, my parents dropped in for a two-week jaunt through China. I planned their trip during National Week, a week that I had off work, along with every Chinese person in the country, and we went to all the most famous tourist spots. Poor planning on my part? You could say that, alliteratively.

Despite the logistical concerns of fighting 1.3 billion people for the best view of the West Lake while on the 6th story of the Leifeng Pagoda, they seemed to have a good time and it was lovely to finally introduce someone to this country that has swallowed me whole. And they enjoyed the food and didn’t get sick once, which is something I can’t say about pretty much any of my friends in the past two weeks. Stomachs of steel, those two!

Halloween/My Birthday
I turned 24. I’m not happy about it. But I did throw myself a lovely party with a piñata. And we tried to play Pin the Tail on the Palin.

I was a flapper. If you don’t know what a flapper is, you’re ignorant and I don’t like you anymore.

YES WE CAN!
Best birthday present ever. 50 DAYS LEFT!

This Weekend
I almost cut my thumb off while cutting up carrots.

Have You Fulfilled Your Self-Fulfilling Prophecy Today?
I officially became the cat lady that my friends and my favorite jacket always said I would be. Actually, I’m considering switching jobs and becoming a professional cat lady, which I would go into greater detail about, but I feel that my darling Constantine might deserve a post (and picture montage) all to himself, so that story will just have to wait.

I once thought I had mono for an entire year. It turned out I was just really bored.

Well, let me start by saying, I really have nothing interesting to say. I am keenly aware of my painfully outdated blog, but I just haven’t been able to find a single funny/interesting thing to write about. The weather has turned scorchingly hot. Considering that my A/C gives me a sore throat, the blistering summer heat is not a welcome development. I’ve taken to sleeping with an ice pack. He is s a good cuddler, never steals the sheets, and has yet to snore . Sometimes he drools a little, but hey, no one’s perfect. My best friend left to summer in SE Asia. He keeps me posted/jealous by regaling me without stories about Laotian delicacies chockerbock full of coconut milk. Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I have developed an unhealthy obsession with coconut milk. Bored yet? Yeah, me too.

When we used to be bored, what the hell did we do? Because now if I’m bored, I surf the internet (by the by, has anyone come up with a less 90s, cowabunga-inducing phrase yet for looking at things online? “Getting online” doesn’t count. That just makes me think of porn. Maybe that’s just me…). Remember when I used to want to be a soul-sucking corporate lawyer, until I interned at a top-30 law firm one summer? Well, I did a lot of web surfing at that job. My fondest memories are of the Taco Bell website contest where you got to come up with slogans for the hot sauce packets. I must’ve entered like 20 slogans, but none won, which is a damn shame because I recall the reward being free Taco Bell for a year! Anyway, since my blog is obviously not going to entertain you, here are some of my favorite websites for your entertainment in this day amusement through personal selection.

Fail Blog
It makes me feel better about myself. And occasionally makes me pee my pants.

One Sentence Stories
I’ve been trying to get published on here for almost a year. Apparently, they (kinda like one particular ex-boyfriend) do not think I am funny. My personal favorite from today:
“I just saw my uncle get arrested on a 1994 episode of Cops.”

Things Younger Than McCain
You’d be surprised. Example:
As chance would have it, today is the 50th anniversary of the invention of Velcro. Happy Birthday, Velcro – and good job keeping John McCain’s shoes closed. (You see, because he’s old and may have trouble with laces. Get it? Get it?)

Stuff White People Like
This site only proves that Bai Ni is an incredibly fitting name for me. For the record, I vehemently hate New Balance Shoes, Outdoor Performance Clothes, and The Wire. I am also allergic to Coffee. However, I do really like: Having Gay Friends (I’m not so much of a faghag as I am a fruitfly) and David Sedaris (which might fall under “Having Gay Friends” as I would like him to be my friend one day). How white are you? Be brave, young pilgrim and find out.

Jezebel
A handful of witty feminists find the most interesting and eclectic news articles of the day and make them funnier. Here are some of the headlines:

1) • Celebrity name changes! Portia de Rossi used to be Amanda Lee Rogers, bleh, and Snoop Dogg is also known as Cordozar Calvin Broadus, Jr. which sounds infinitely more bad-ass than “Snoop Dogg”. • Down’s syndrome dolls become a popular plaything for children with disabilities. • More than 100 Italian women breastfed their babies in a public square in Rome in protest of unfair public breastfeeding laws. • Kids and strippers mixed together at a golf course due to some “mistiming” between two tournaments (the kids were golfing for one and the strippers were caddying for another) • Jail staffers get their panties in a twist over having to stock women’s underwear for transgendered male prisoners in juvie. Grow the fuck up, whiners.
2) Overheard at the beach: “I’ll tell you what I would do if a guy gave me a promise statue! I’d lube that shit up and stick it in my vag!”
3) The debates will be sit-down so John McCain doesn’t look like the tiny old man he is.

Today’s Big Thing
The best videos to hit the internet on any given weekday (holidays not included):
Hilarious:
>Internet Love Song
>Guy Gets Hit By Car Horn
>Food Court Musical
>Haitian Weather Reporter
>Mean Tuba Player

Inspirational:
>Amazing Limbless Wrestler

Sports Feats:
>Crazy Roof Soccer
>Amazing Ball Girl
>Freestyle Street Soccer

Read At Work
And I’ve got one more for the ultimate procrastinators that I just received last week. Although I’ve never used this one (merely because I didn’t have it at the time of any of my mind-numbing internships), I would definitely have appreciated it. Just click on the user name, and then the folder entitled “Classics”. Next time you want to take a bat to your jammed printer, just open up one of these classic powerpoints and get to work.

By the way, my right foot is asleep. As I’m sure your brain now is too.

Not for the faint of heart (or weak of stomach)

Walking down the street in China is almost like a treasure hunt with no map. You have no idea what you’re going to find. You have no idea what street corner to turn down. But you do know that whatever it is and wherever it is, it’s gonna be good. In my attempt to look on the bright side, see the silver lining, and not be jealous of how green the bikers’ grass is, I have begun my morning walks to work with an air of optimism, knowing that the slower speed and the longer time might provide me with a day’s worth of entertainment. I have not been disappointed.

Besides the omnipresent Chinglish signs that still give me a giggle, there’s the aluminum condom dispensers with AIDS signs on them that both amuse me and horrify me (aren’t condoms supposed to go bad in the sun, freezing cold, or generally any other weather nature throws our way?). Or the 60-year-old Chinese woman who unwittingly wore a shirt emblazoned with “If you don’t want any… [picture of Goofy], then fuck you.” She probably purchased that gem at the fruit/t-shirt stand down the block, which conveniently meets all your daily nutrient needs and fulfills all your Disney shirt desires. But these are everyday pleasures. Nothing to write home (or blog) about. However, several recent events really fleshed out the walking-while-observing storyline.

These treasures aren’t limited to my little corner of Shanghai. I went to Guangzhou with weekend with my roommate, Lindsay, to see our friend Rich. While Rich was getting an erg delivered, Lindsay and I went purse shopping. Besides the ripe coconut from which I was sucking some delicious milk, the endeavor was proving fruitless. Then Lindsay turns to me and says, “Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck.” “Lindsay!” I gasped (only mildly insulted). “No,” She said. “Look at that hat!” Sure enough. So I bought it. I couldn’t let the shopping excursion be a bust! And to think, if Lindsay hadn’t been such a vigilant walker, I might not have such a fabulous excuse to throw a white trash party!

Speaking of Guangzhou, in case you don’t know what/where that is, let me tell you a little bit about it. It’s the hottest, sweatiest, most humid place you’ve ever been. And it rains perpetually. On one such rainy day, Rich was walking home from work, carrying an umbrella and walking down a busy intersection, when he realized that crossing the street in front of him was a man carrying an umbrella and wearing flip-flops… and nothing else. Luckily, Richard is a technologically-savvy young man and whipped out his camera phone just in time to snap this (and I shit you not, this is not photoshopped in the slightest) eighth wonder of the modern world.

Sadly, I do not have a camera phone, and I feel the authenticity of my story might be doubted, but I daresay I saw the most amazing/atrocious thing I’ve ever seen in China. And, all total, I’ve lived in this country for more than one year, so that’s saying something.

I was walking down the street, merrily on my way to work and keeping my eyes peeled for more Chinese idiosyncrasies, when I saw a man who appeared to be asleep on a giant sewer pipe that had yet to be laid in the ground. He was curled around it like a koala on a tree, but if the tree had been knocked over and the koala was horizontal. And very high on eucalyptus leaves. As I got closer, I saw that his rear end was moving up and down in a very rhythmic fashion. Only then did I begin to wonder if he was actually dry humping the sewer pipe. “No way…” I thought. “He must be trying to move it or something. But then why are his arms wrapped around it like he’s hugging it? Well, [double take at everyone else] no one else thinks its weird. But [triple take] then again, you are the only foreigner around. Maybe they’re just not staring. Maybe…” This debate in my head continued for another twenty seconds or so because I got stopped at a crosswalk not five feet from the potentially-masturbatory man. As the light turned green, my morbid curiosity took over and I turned back one more time, just to be sure. He was sitting up, looking dazed. And, well, confused. He stood up, looked down at his visibly incomplete effort and proceeded to manually finish the job on a busy street corner. I have never walked faster to work.

This entire event brought Dave Chappelle’s “Bus Hostage” stand-up a bit too close to home.

 

 

 

 

Silver Fox’s Demise

Before I left for America, I decided to assimilate a little bit more into the culture that is my current homebase and buy a bike. My shiny, used bike was waiting for me when I arrived back in the Orient and it was everything I hope it would be and more. With a basket on front for my purse and purchases, a bright red lock to ward off thieves, a distinctive black and red patterned seat, and a sleek silver frame, I decided there was only one name for my bike: “The Silver Fox.” It only ran me about $7, and opened up an entirely new world. As the spring days turned into humid, sweaty messes, I found that I could create my own breeze as I biked to work, to brunch with friends, or to the fabric market to make cotton dresses to defend myself against the swelter of Shanghai’s summer. And the money I saved myself in cabs and tissues to wipe away the glossy sheen of sweat that appeared whenever I walked longer than two minutes more than paid for the bike in a week. My roommate Lindsay and I worked close to each other, and every morning we would ride together to work, which made me relive my childhood as I felt like a neighborhood kid on my way to a kickball game down the street. It was, and I am not exaggerating, life-changing.

 

One of the best parts about having a bike was the awe my non-biker friends had for me. “You biked all the way to Zhongshan Park from work? And you beat the people who cabbed it over here?” Yes, yes I did. All my other friends who owned bikes, who I was previously awed by (“Oh my god! You biked from your house all the way to the restaurant?!”), were now my partners in crime. We all knew just how unmerited that awe was. Because the best part was, it was fun. And so easy.

 

I even made myself a bike riding playlist for my shiny, new, green Shuffle. The best part of the day was when I was riding along and my Shuffle would surprise me with Queen’s classic “Bicycle Race.” “Biiiiiiiiicycle, Biiiiiiiiicycle! I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride my bike. I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I liiiiiiiike.” Sometimes my shuffle would play me Johnny Cash’s “John Henry” and I truly felt John Henry’s exasperation and angst as he tried to beat the steam engine. I was trying to accomplish the goal I had set for myself: beat someone on an electric scooter, bike, or motorcycle. But they always hit the gas whenever they saw a blonde foreigner pedaling past them.

 

Sure, there were ups and downs in my bicycle riding life. My chain fell off a couple times, but I could snap that back on in about 10 seconds. Then, I hopped back on and sped off to my destination. The dresses that have become my summer uniform occasionally flew up and gave the Chinese men who were already staring and laughing at the nv laowai riding a bike quite the show. But I could laugh that off and tuck them between my legs and under my butt, and keep pedaling.

 

Two weeks ago, I wore a white dress to work and around 5:30 p.m. the summer storm clouds had rolled in and all I could think was how the Chinese men who stared and laughed at me when I was not wearing see-through clothes were going to be very amused. At 6 p.m., I bolted out the door and began pedaling furiously home. A young Chinese man, probably about 20 but you can never tell for sure with Asians, and I were neck in neck, legs flying as we sped through the humidity. He looked over and shouted, ‘Heeeelloo!” I replied, breathlessly, “Ni hao!” He then responded “Ni hen kuai [you are very fast]!” I responded with, “Mashang xia yu! Kuai dian, kuai dian [It’s about to rain, faster, faster].” We pedaled on and he told me I was very pretty. To which I said, faster! And we raced until we got to his turn-off where he shouted, “Goooooooooood-byeeeeeeeee!” I beat the storm, locking my bike up at my apartment just as drops started to sprinkle down.

 

This past week, my glory days of biking took an unexpected turn for the worst.  I had just biked to a picnic lunch for another farewell dining experience and was headed back to work when a motorcycle, many many yards away from me overcorrected on a turn and started skidding toward my bike. Being the ultra-aware and safe biker that I am (don’t worry Mom and Dad!), I had hopped off of my bike by the time the careening motorcycle hit my front tire. Altogether a terrifying experience which scared the bejesus out of me. I didn’t have a scratch on me, but the motorcyclist had been flying too fast and driver tumbled like a hay thing that tumbles (I am totally losing my English and am at a loss for that particular cliché) down the street. After asking if he was ok, I tried to help him and then went on my way because he was yelling at me in Shanghainese. Like it was my fault! I was at a loss when I got back to work and almost cried in my boss’s office (a sin that I refuse to commit considering the inordinate amount of tears that I’ve seen Chinese women cry). But the streets of Shanghai are probably one of the safest places to bike ride because a) you ride in a pack and b) cars are always on the lookout for bikers since we are everywhere. So I biked home, a little shook up, but glad that I had my one scary incident behind me without a scratch. 

 

The next day I biked to work and when I came outside around 6:30, I headed over to my distinctive seat only to realize it wasn’t my bike. I had just gotten done with a particularly stressful day at work and stormed around the other bikes, looking for mine. It was gone. Stolen! Who would steal my Silver Fox? It was so cheap, so not worth stealing. Especially when parked beside such nicer bikes. Dejected and irritated, I started to walk home, calling my friends as I walked, because walking was so boring now! “My bike got stolen!” I would cry when they answered their phones. “No!” They would respond, laughing at my misfortunes. But I was inconsolable. Then my Shuffle, usually the giver of little delights during my biking adventures, got spiteful, playing Queen’s “Bicycle Race” as I dejectedly stared jealously at all the bikers flying past me. I did want to ride my bicycle! How did you know, Freddie Mercury? I arrived home, drenched in sweat and pissed.

 

The next day I had to wake up early so I could start my long, sweaty trek to work. Fine, I thought. This will be safer. Until I had to squeeze along the sidewalk between a minivan and some bamboo scaffolding. The dress I had bought just the day before caught on the bamboo scaffolding, tearing my sleeve and making me look like a homeless scarecrow with hand-me-downs as I went through a workday that included a client lunch.

 

My friends have comforted me by saying things like, “You’re just having a bad transportation week” and “Bad things come in threes, so now you’re gonna be fine!”

 

But really, the only comfort I want is my Silver Fox back, with its convenient basket, distinctive seat, worthless red lock, and shiny silver frame.

This is for all the other bikers out there who have shared my fun and felt my pain:

 

 

This is a Rant—You’ve Been Forewarned

When I first came to Shanghai, I thought this city had it all. Every cuisine, every culture, every crazy idea you could think of. You want to roller skate wearing an outfit not even the 80s would deem fashionable, all the while drinking from an open bar? You want to attend a rooftop party above an art gallery that showcases a car crashing in to a balloon wall? You want to shake your groove thing in a former bomb shelter? You want to pay less than $0.75 for soup and meat wrapped up in tiny wontons so good that your tastebuds will be jealous of your throat when you swallow? You want to hop a fence at 4 a.m. in to an expat compound where CEOs of Fortune 500 companies live, just so you can swim in their lazy river pool? Well, I’ve actually done all of those things in the past 10 days. Why then, why, am I ranting about Shanghai? So glad you asked. I’ll tell you why! This city does not have it all. It is missing one crucial, fundamental, essential ingredient. Men. It’s a dating wasteland.

Now you must be thinking, “Bai Ni! There are 12 million people in Shanghai, not including migrant workers. Of those 12 million people, a good 6 million ought to be men!” Too right you are. Let me rephrase. There are no expat men to speak of. I rule out Chinese men on the basis that my strong (to put it mildly) personality would be too much of a cultural obstacle for them to overcome.

When I decided to go to American University, I was not phased by the fact the school was 65% female, and half of the remaining 35% were gay. Well, technically, I was blithely unaware of this fact, but had I known, I am sure it would not have deterred me… I think. And during welcome week, when I became crudely aware of the rudely unfair proportionality (and as the subsequent four years unfolded and an increasing number of my straight friends tumbled out of closets), I was told that if I found a boy who wasn’t gay, weird or already taken, I should grab hold and never let go. And I did, for a bit. But that didn’t turn out…

Well, in China, the proportion of gay men is not so high. In fact, it’s sadly low, especially considering the affinity I developed for being a fruitfly while at AU. My central thesis here is that there are indeed Westerners in China, but they are not the men you find in America. They are, hands down, the worst breed of man there is. A group of our male friends was recently lamenting the loss of one of their best specimens to my group of female friends the other day. They said, “I don’t know how we’re going to replace him. You girls just don’t know how hard it is to find normal, Western guys in this city!” Oh, trust us. We do. We’ve met all the crazies. We’ve seen all the pieces of work. And we know they fall in to two main categories:

Sufferers of Yellow Fever – Shockingly, these make up the majority of ex-pats in Shanghai. If you have ever met someone who has succumbed to Yellow Fever in the United States, they can be identified in one of two ways: 1) They only date women whose bodies resemble small boys or 2) Have no social skills and are on the whole quasi-mutant looking. The first can appear normal in all respects, until you see the Pocky they carry in their back pocket for their girlfriends. The second would never ever be able to get laid in their home country, but have a bevy of attention seekers in China. Don’t be fooled. Those women are looking for visas, not your probably-inappropriately-nicknamed junk. 
Where to find sufferers of yellow fever: Everywhere. Next to you at the restaurant making out with their girlfriend who looks like she’s 12 (especially when she’s decked out in Hello Kitty). Walking down the street holding hands. Lurking in Chinese restaurants, staring at the waitresses. Grabbing my poor American- and Canadian-born Chinese friends in bars. They.Are.Everywhere.

Married But Availables  (a.k.a. MBAs) – The typical MBA is the businessman who splits his time between his home with his wife and China with, well, other women. They are the frequenters of massage parlors. The ones who might brag to you about the 2-for-1special they got in Thailand. And no, they don’t mean happy hour… Well, actually, I guess it was a very happy hour. They aren’t even shameful enough to take off their wedding ring half the time. But I can almost guarantee you that the ones who do take off their wedding rings suffer from a lethal dose of Yellow Fever with an infection of MBA. With no wedding ring, they can trick the seekers of a visa in to sleeping with them and get off scot-free—no hand-dirtying with lies and faux proposals of marriage.
Where to find MBAs: If you really want to, you can find a supreme breed of MBAs at Malone’s, a bar whose only redeemable quality is its pool table, where they meet their favorite type of women: prostitutes. During my first weeks in Shanghai and before I knew any better, I went there only to have a 70-year-old Australian man say to me, “Hi, I’m married, but it’s ok.” Um, no, Father Time. That is not ok.

While these two categories make up about 75% of expat men in Shanghai, there are several other smaller categories including: Money-Grubbing Whores, Pudong Dwellers, Tools, Creepers, Fakers, and Friend Circle Men.

Money-Grubbing Whores – Men so obsessed with capitalizing on the growing wealth of China a date feels like Econ 101.
Pudong Dwellers – It’s across the river in the middle of nowhere. It’s worse than a long-distance relationship. You two will have little to nothing in common. Seriously, Proud Mary, roll on down the river.
Tools – aka Frat Boys. Today, I had three frat boys yell “Ni haooooooooooooooo!!” at me as I walked past them. And by walked past, I mean quite literally we were shoulder to shoulder. First of all, Ow, my eardrums. Second of all, I AM BLONDE! Third of all, We are not 12. Come.On.
Creepers – Normal enough until they hook you, then they give new meaning to the words “Peeping Tom.”
Fakers – They learn enough about a certain topic to sound intelligent and interesting. Dig a little deeper and I guarantee they’re dumb and boring.
Friend Circle Men – Now, this is not the man’s fault persay, but it still sucks. In Shanghai, you move in and out of circles of friends and generally you can find some very nice, very smart, very interesting men in these circles (pre-vetted by fellow expat women, thank you), but unfortunately if you find these men nice, smart and interesting, you’ll probably weasel your way in to that friend circle. And dating someone within the friend circle throws off the whole dynamic and ruins the friend circle. Basically, it’s like standing knee-deep in a river and dying of thirst.

For the record, I do know a handful of nice, attractive, smart men outside my main friends circles. But I usually like their expat girlfriends or wives (or occasionally Chinese girlfriends and wives, who are self-assured amazing women who don’t need an expat man, but just happened to fall in love with one). Or I dated them already. Or I have to see them at work every day.

It’s slim pickings. Thank god for the copious amounts of fake DVDs here to live vicariously through. I now own a collection of romantic comedies that would make a sorority girl jealous.