Pinterest Illusions

 

Welcome to Pinterest. You see something you like on the internet and you pin it to an online clipboard that you can share with others. So simple huh?

Because of that, I've now become an image hoarder. DIY paper mache lamp shades that seem like a fire hazard? Flower hair clips made from retired nylon stockings (hopefully washed)? Vintage-inspired photo frames where the photos are just there to emphasize the frames? All pinned. I will never make any of these, because, by virtue of pinning them to my clipboard, I feel like I've actually made them already.

In some ways, pinterest is also a glimpse into another person's relationship status. Even though I live half a world away, I know when girl A is starting to get serious about the boy she is dating. I see the rings, the bouquets, the wedding decor  . . . and I wonder if I should speak up about her choice of bridesmaid dresses. Pretty soon, Miss Manners will need to start a column dictating the rules of online faux pas. She can use me as an example.

A former boyfriend also pins. His "For her" board correlates with nothing in my current or future closet. Aha. I knew that when he complimented my outfits as "interesting," it probably wasn't the good kind. But it also made me sad when he unceremoniously deleted our collaborative board. It was like putting down a stray cat that we both fed from time to time. That's why I will never have pets.

Pretty soon the BYU career center will write a blog post about crafting the perfect pinterest image for prospective employers. They'll encourage images like professional work suits, favorite take out food for the daily OT, and cookies to bring to the company Christmas party.

Umm. I better tone down my long socks fetish and delete my "Vacations to take this year" board.

What are you pinning?

Il Divo

Il Divo came to town and I went to watch their concert on a whim.

After I became hopelessly lost on my way to the concert, I hopped onto a tuk tuk, a box seat attached to the back of a motorcycle. The driver decided to forget about sending me to the designated taxi stand as I had asked, but tried to help out by directly hailing a cab for me. He would follow an empty taxi, speed up as fast as the tired, smoky engine would allow till we're in front of the taxi, and then make a screechy swerve against the grain of traffic to physically block the taxi so I could tell the taxi driver my address. After three or four failed attempts (and near death experiences), I finally told him to just take me to the taxi stand. Gosh. It never feels good to reject a Good Samaritan.

I made it right when Il Divo walked on stage.

Except, you could hardly see the guys' faces when they were singing. They must have brought in interns to do the lighting because they shone the light on whoever was not singing. It became a joke between the singers and the audience, with David waving his arms to catch the light guy's attention while he belted out his lines. The light stayed on Carlos the most though and the ladies absolutely went wild when he said "Hello, piao liang (beautiful)." Even I swooned. Just a little.

A lady sitting two rows behind me kept up a deep, throaty sing along routine. I finally turned around to give her a (mild!) evil eye. Instantly, I paused and retreated. "She" was actually a little boy, with thick framed glasses that rested on his round cheeks, gesticulating wildly as if he was singing alone in the middle of his room. His mom looked bored. But his eyes were shut, his imagination was untethered, and his chubby fists tightened as his voice sprang out of him, uninhibited.

Absolutely inspiring.

Would you be crazy enough to fly to another city for one night just to watch a concert? Well, that's what happened. 2 am nights. Those are always the best.

Regresa a mi.

Check out their videos. You will be hooked.

The Knowing-Doing Gap

I am not stupid. But sometimes even when I know what is good for me, and I choose it, I instinctively do the complete opposite. I scream at myself on the inside, but you'll see me smiling my way through a bad decision. With charm. And teeth.

For some people, it's reaching out for that ice cream even when they're doing really well on their diet. For others, it's procrastination on an important assignment even though the TV show is pretty boring.

And for me, it's going down the path of least resistence when relationships are on the line. Then I waver. Seesaw. Teeter. Toter. Eventually, I choose what I feel is right and stick to it. By that time, I'm dizzy and nothing makes sense anymore. And I'm stuck.


I hate choosing sides.

Gosh. Sorry. It's hard to love me.

That was my excuse

Jody, recently joined Model United Nations (MUN) at school, a club where kids apply their knowledge of current issues in simulated UN settings. MUN was my big college obsession, so I cannot help but hover a little bit. To help her get started, I send her links for foreign policy articles and set up weekly calls to discuss them.

Yesterday, after a spirited discussion on China and Russia's vetoes of the draft resolutions regarding the Syrian crisis -

Jody: Thanks, Sisi. I really like these calls.

Me: So, is there a particular topic that you want to cover next time? Balance of power in Asia? The differences of peacekeeping, peacemaking, and peacebuilding? A little Security Council background?

Jody: Or you can just tell me how work is going.

Me: . . .

Jody: Sis, you do know that you don't need an excuse to call me right?

Me: What do you mean?

Jody: It's simple. We're sisters.

---

Wow. She's eleven and she takes charge of her relationships. I need a little more of that.

Similar height. But not for long. 

Don't Embargo My Love

Never thought I would spend Valentine's Day with the guy whom I just wrote an aggressive blog post about (whom? who? ugh).

But that's how karma works I guess.

A good friend of mine in the HR department wanted to do dinner with me since her boyfriend lived in another city. She also invited sales guy along. I didn't know. So we ended up sitting in an awkward triangle, with flickering romantic tea lights in the middle. He grilled me about my dad's job, my passports, and the guy who walked me to work one day. My friend and I kept smirking at each other over our spicy Thai noodles. Towards the end, I wasn't even sure who was the third wheel - sales guy, HR girl, or me. Probably me.

I enjoyed myself, oddly. Sales guy left me alone, channeling his predator instincts towards the gaggle of shy, single girls at the speed dating event at our mall.

So, sales guy upstairs, I guess this is my way of saying that you're ok.

And hopefully nothing else noteworthy will happen that will make me blog about you again.

---

This made me smile yesterday. It reminded me of kindergarten. Or of college.

An overly aggressive open letter to the guy in the sales dept.

You work upstairs. I work downstairs.

You drive me absolutely nuts. To the point where I don't even want to go to the upstairs office.

The worst part of it is I don't know why I let you affect me so much. You have never done anything to me except sneak photos of me with your shiny new phone once in a while (did you delete those 4 photos of me that I found on your computer??). And there was that time when I fell off my chair because I reacted impulsively when I sensed that you were reaching out to touch my cheek. It's ok. I was just clumsy. But please, next time, no need to help me up, and then speculate on my bra color just because I had buttons on the back of my shirt.

Others simply rolled their eyes whenever you started your whole sucking up routine. But most of the time, I was just in awe. How did you say everything with a straight face? But then I scrutinized you yesterday and I thought, shoot, this guy really seemed to believe every exaggerated thing that came out of his mouth. An essential salesperson characteristic?

Yes, I did not like how you dropped your entire sales proposal on my lap just because I offered to help out. It was extra tough swallowing your passive aggressive insinuation that I wasn't working hard enough because I refused to continue to work on your proposal over my holiday break in the Maldives, especially when you handed me the project the day before my flight. But I was mainly resentful because I actually did spend a whole night tossing, wondering if you were right and that I was just complaining like a girl and not getting the thing done. 

And yet -

There was the time when I curled up in the corner of the stone platform in front of the office building, aching, while talking to my sister on the phone, and you came and gave me some paper napkins left over from your lunch. Even though they looked suspiciously used, I still appreciated that you saw me like that and didn't bring it up again.

Now that I've somewhat articulated this pent up -- ugh -- something, I just want to let you know that I've finished the proposal. You'll find it in your inbox tomorrow morning.

How to catch a killer

A month or so ago, a boss and his assistant went to the bank to withdraw 200, 000 RMB (roughly 32, 000 USD) for year end bonuses. A man walked up to them and shot the assistant point blank. He stuffed all the cash into his black duffel bag and took off.

The bank robber took public transport for his getaway. That's frugality at its extreme. And it's amazing that the policemen still weren't able to apprehend him on the bus.

And now this killer is thought to be running loose in my city. At least, that's what all the WANTED posters tell me.

While I haven't seen too many wanted posters, except in old cowboy movies, I cannot help but judge whoever made the ones that are posted on every lamp post.

This is how the posters describe the man:

Male / Medium height / Has a slight tan / Facial features are evenly spaced / Speaks Mandarin with an accent / Looks mean / Wears hats and gloves / Doesn't socialize much / Walks with his toes pointed outwards

Um. I just want to point out that everybody in China has some sort of an accent, unless you're a broadcaster or a (very good) foreigner learning Chinese. As for facial features, I guess they're saying that he's not ugly. You can judge for yourself.

Even though these photos are all over town, camouflage will be easy: Just don't wear a hat, walk properly, talk once in a while, and smile.

I think he kind of looks like Bruce Lee from the side. Don't you?

China doesn't breed pushovers

1 am. Doha airport. Waiting to board a flight back to Shanghai.

Around 80 travelers, mostly Chinese people who escaped obligatory family reunions during Chinese New Year by exporting themselves out of the affordable long-distance calling range, stood in a small glass room. There were two sliding doors, each on opposite ends. An airport bus pulled up on the right side, as if ready to pick up the people in the room and send them to their planes. The people hurried over, dragging carry on bags and crying children, determined to get in front. Competitive elbowing followed. After five minutes, the door still remained shut. The bus drove away, empty.

A few minutes later, another bus pulled up next to the door, but this time on the left side of the room. The crowd swarmed to the other side, showing even less restraint in their aggressive edging. Once again, the bus taunted the jet lagged bunch and drove away.

This scene happened four times, with the crowd rushing from one door to the other, all desperate to be the front of the line. 

4 observations:

1. There is no overt advantage in being in the front of the line. Instead, you get stuck at the back of the bus and end up being the last one to board.

2. There are enough buses to take everybody to the planes.

3. The travelers look well-educated, well-off, and well-coiffed. It is understandable to rush over to the door the first time, and maybe even the second. But the third and the fourth? Somebody must have seen the pattern of the faithless buses and hesitated. But instead, the people became more and more determined in vying for the first spot in front of the doors.

4. The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I was really hoping that the lady with the red sparkly boots would win.

-----

I see this behavior in China every day. People push, shove, elbow, bulldoze their way through everything. The concept of lining up is hazy at best. My friend, Andrew Woo, thinks that it's because the people, having lived through the Communist periods of scarcity, are conditioned to think that there is never enough supply. That's partly true. But that doesn't explain equally competitive scrambling in situations where the desired item is guaranteed and no advantage is conferred upon the most aggressive (i.e. Rushing to get through the gate first even when there is assigned seating on trains).

I think the people here are socialized to be pushers. Because the society maintains an ambivalent relationship with the rule of law, people are used to relying on themselves, and not an existing order, to obtain what they want. There is a subconscious lack of trust in rules and what adherence can deliver, so even if they know they should line up and that there is no self-interest in shoving, they do it, just because they see little merit in not pushing.

-----

Two summers ago, when I first arrived in China as an intern, my wai po moved in with me for a little while to teach me "how things were done here." In a suffocating metro station, with hundreds vying for standing room on the trains, my 78 year old, 4 ft 11 wai po pulled me towards the front of the line. I tugged at her shirt and motioned to the back of the line, shy about blatantly cutting in.

She jerked me forward once more and stared me down, "Don't be such a pushover, Sisi."

The dress that made me swear

There are some outfits that give you courage when you wear them. But there are others that actually require you to have the courage to wear them.

And in my case, it requires more of a semi-consciousness when I'm getting dressed + being in a hurry. This morning, I frantically stuck my arm between closing elevator doors in my office building because I had overslept again (granted, I was at the office till 11 pm the night before). When the doors slid open and I caught the reflection of myself in the elevator mirror, my first thought was

"What the h*ll?"

Ok. It was that bad. At least bad enough that I actually swore in my head.

Imagine me in a bold green flowy dress with a navy blue, silver stripped sweater on top, allowing the ruffly bits of the aforementioned dress to generously spill over the V neck. Pair that with navy blue textured tights and grey ankle boots that had swinging side chains.

I did get compliments from the office though. But then I guess this was considered to be just another one of my crazy outfits. One coworker asked me if Westerners purposely clashed colors/ textures/ patterns all the time. Another patted the ruffles underneath my sweater and said that they made me look more "well-endowed." Umm. Awkward saving grace?

But it turned out that I needed the boldness today because the day was absolutely nuts. Drama. Confrontations. Show downs. Firings.

p. s. I apologize for funky grammar tonight. When I'm tired, my English comes out funny. And I'm tired right now. More OT. Yay.

A Different Christmas

Christmas was definitely different this year. There were no songs, no lights, no snow, no (good) hot chocolate, no finals to cram and die for, no cuddling, no flying back home, and no freezing nights in our Arlington home (we were too cheap to turn on the heat for the 3 floors).

But I made do. I sorted through share allotment legal docs while listening to as many cheesy Christmas songs from China Google music player as possible. I made a repentant attempt to buy the whole fam as many presents as possible the day before Christmas. And I stepped up the Santa Surprise Initiatives (code name SSI), leaving pranks and genuine goodies under the tree.

But the human urge to confess was very strong. Even though I threatened my little brother Cody with tickle torture if he told, I couldn't keep it in so I blogged about my Santa gifts, thinking that everybody was already in bed.

When I walked up the stairs to bed after wrapping all the presents, Casey looked at me and said, "So, coal huh?" He smirked. He had read my blog post in the five minutes that it took me to turn off my computer and the lights.

Also, on Christmas morning, my dad had apparently figured out how to get on my blog so he and my mom caught up on several months of my posts. Of course, that way, they also knew that Santa was really me . . .  so they didn't even bother to open the Krispy Kreme box when they unwrapped it, thinking it was going to be filled with really light rocks. (Ha! They were really doughnuts).

But Christmas also had meaning this year because I had opportunities to share what I believed. Last week, I arranged a mini Christmas party for my China Construction Bank English students, complete with (bitter) hot chocolate, white elephant gift exchange, cakes, and a mini presentation on the American Christmas traditions. When I asked if they knew about the origins of Christmas, somebody yelled out "Jesus Christ's birthday." I talked briefly about Christ's divinity, his humble origins, and the reason why he had to come down to earth -- all within the context of general Christian beliefs. Even though I repeatedly said "They believe . . ., " it was really what I believed and what I knew to be true. And it felt so good to be able to finally share my testimony in an acceptable environment and adhere to the "no proselyting to Chinese Nationals" directives from the government and our Church leaders. Who knew that cultural classes can be a pretext for bite size missionary discussions?

 They wanted me to wear the reindeer headband during my Christmas lesson.

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Many Christmases ago, Casey grabbed his hard-earned car washing/ soccer coaching money and went to Kennedy Town. Alone. Even though us older girls were constantly having these unintelligible conversations with dramatic "Guess what happened?" "Oh my goodness," and "Uh huh," which left him completely confused, he decided that he wanted to surprise his older sisters with something extra special under the tree.

That year, like most years, we woke up early and dashed to the tree to divvy up the presents. Chelsea and I both opened Casey's present at the same time. He stopped his unwrapping and just watched us with the biggest grin on his face.

Wow. It was a fur ball masquerading as a lady's purse. It looked alive. And it seemed like something that a storekeeper could convince a little boy to hand over quite a bit of money for.

We did our sisterly duty and got ourselves super excited. We posed with the creatures slung across our chests. We gushed about them to Casey and messed up his hair affectionately.

Then we ran to our rooms and laughed about it. Casey was the cutest. But these little purses needed to be hid. Fast. So we buried them underneath our old stockings and pajama dresses and forgot all about them.

Another year went by. Christmas rolled around again.

Chelsea and I found ourselves opening another big surprise from Casey.

This time, it was a fur ball hat.

You know, to go with our favorite purses.

-----

It's officially Christmas over here! I just got done wrapping the presents for the kids. They're all in bed already. I'm also temping as Santa this year. Let's just say that I'm delivering the goodies and the coal. Got to teach kids about taking consequences right?

The Story That Didn't Make It Here

I was going to tell you a story of a battle with my mom where I had fought hard, ultimately won, and constantly regretted.

But instead, I'm going to squirrel that story away and stay up late this Christmas weekend so I can spend hours figuring out how to do justice to some hazy adolescent memory. And that will definitely be one for the private blog or future boyfriend.

One thing I will tell you is this: I think I found it tonight when I was gingerly dipping my toes (with Santa red polish) into the bath. For some reason, it finally hit me - why I had always tried to do everything Sisi-possible to try to make my parents proud (and still felt lacking) even when I had known all along that they were already proud of me simply because I was their daughter.

Too bad that there is already a Jung Chang, an Amy Tan, and now an Amy Chua*. I can definitely write volumes on Chinese American mother-daughter dynamics and spin stories so that readers will believe that I am simply 'principled' and not stubborn.

Well I guess that's what blogs are for.

* Chinese American authors who wrote about their relationships with their mothers and left children like me obsessed with how much my childhood resembled 20% of character X, 35% of Y, and 45% of Z.

A Little LBD Magic

Fashion magazines swear by the rule that every girl needs a LBD (little black dress). I have one, but mine isn't black. The body of my dress is made of fuchsia thai silk and rimmed with a black trim. It's high collared, mid-sleeved, sewn onto me until it hits my waist and then spreads itself out into a flowing A-line. It makes me feel a little bit like Audrey Hepburn with a dash of Julie Andrews.

In the two years since I got it made, I've only worn it three times. I zipped it on the first time when I had to run a new members recognition ceremony as the president of the BYU Golden Key Honour Society. I was juggling econometrics, two jobs, and an upcoming thesis deadline that semester. So when I found out that my speech was erased from my computer in the TA office 20 minutes before the ceremony started, I just lost it. But crying took too much effort with that fitted bust. So I wiped my eyes and winged it. Later, a few people came up to me and told me that they got a little teary-eyed when I spoke. I thanked them and credited the dress.

The second time that dress made it out of my closet was the day after a very long night's fight with an ex- boyfriend. I saw him at church. He saw the dress. When I walked past him to leave the room, he pulled me in and told me that I looked nice.

We had a long talk that afternoon and got back together.

Last week, when I was exhausted, a little emotionally fried, and unreasonably nervous for the translation that I had to do for my boss at an HR conference, I pulled out that dress again. It worked. Things just went well. That day, the COO approached me and told me he thought it was time to discuss promotional opportunities. I felt like a million bucks. Well, okay, just a million yuan. But hey, at least the exchange rate from my side of the world was looking better every day.

And the HR conference I was so worried about? No problem. It was super chilled, with raunchy dances and an amateur magic show where I got to be the lovely assistant for a small moment. Oh and Chinese men with hairless legs who were dressed up in tutus for laughs. I'm telling you - it was all the dress.

The Reality of Powerpuff

This week, I was told, twice actually, that I was "too nice."

I guess it's a compliment and a constructive criticism meshed into two little words.

They want me to change. But what is the alternative supposed to look like?

I guess the Powerpuff Girls got it wrong. People don't really like "sugar and spice and everything nice." Not really. But I'm not too hot about becoming Mojo Jojo either.

A Breakfast Proposition

She accused him of loving himself, his novels, his casual female friends more than her. He slapped her because she was going to elope with another man. She broke down when he walked out and begged him to stay --

I rubbed my eyes and put To Have and Have Not face down. Staying a night in a sketchy motel across from the train station was probably not one of my best ideas. I think I woke up every fifteen minutes because of the rumbling in the pipes. And now I was hurrying back to Suzhou right before work. Hemingway was giving me the worst headaches.

"You don't like Hemingway?"

I looked at the guy sitting next to me. Standard height, baseball hat, probably a two-day scruff. An American. East coast?

"He's ok. It's just too early in the morning for infidelity."

"Well, how do your afternoons look like?"

I glanced quickly, using my BYU ring check skills. Yep. Married.

". . . I work."

Gosh. Men.