A Provincial Province

Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.

My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.

My boss

Hmm. You don't look like us. 

Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. 

Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?

I know! You must be German. 

No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.

My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.

--

Fujian is also known for its food.

A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.

After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for Panda Express. Everything I was eating was just so . . . ugly.

These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.

 Worms writhing wearily in the water. 

Fish breathing thing.

 Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.

Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. 

A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.

My colleague brought it back to our hotel room

 and I stayed up all night gagging.

Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.

Definitely not a first date dish.

Christmas Palooza Chinese Style

In some ways, celebrating Christmas in a largely atheist country means that you have to get creative and be prepared for the heart melting moments when somebody receives an unexpected gift and the awkward times when the first-timers take it way overboard.

One of our American interns, Kenton, suggested that we should all go caroling at a nursing home. The staff were excited and started organizing practice choirs during lunch time. And then somehow, the day before our nursing home trip, we realized that they had switched "We wish you a Merry Christmas" to a Communist song instead. "From the East rose a red sun, and his name was Mao Ze Dong. He will save our people . . . " At least they got the Christmas theme of color red right on that count.

The old people were not too impressed with our multi-part rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," but they really enjoyed it when we started handing out biscuits, bananas, and soap. They were so excited about the soap that some started eating it. The nursing home managers freaked out and confiscated the soaps. Luckily, we were not responsible for anybody's early demise. Some old people enthusiastically shared with us the stories from their glory or sad days, depending on whether they were the persecuted landlords or the uprising peasants. Others just wanted their picture taken with us and asked us to send it to their grandkids.

We also had our own Christmas party back at the office. The format was show-off-your-cooking potluck. In the ambitious spirit of Christmas, I made three apple pies the morning of, zipped up my mobile toaster oven in Lesley's gigantic suitcase and enlisted two friends to help me wheel it all the way to the office. Worst/ best idea ever.

People kept running over to turn off my oven because the pie was "getting brown." I explained that that is the point of baking but they would still sneak over to turn the dial. At the end, I just had to park myself as a guardian of the oven and conduct all my meetings there. Went home that night smelling like a pie. When it came time to eating it, people were confused. Then they figured it out. They each conjured up a pair of chopsticks (Asians, I know) and started fishing for the apple pieces through the lattice work. At the end, I had all pie, no apples.

We also did a White Elephant gift exchange at our office. A few days before the Christmas party, when I first explained to them the concept of a gag gift, the table fell silent. But this will be my first Christmas present . . . I don't want somebody's 2012 calendar. Other heads nodded in agreement. So HR came out with an official email decreeing that each present must be sparkly new, professionally wrapped, and worth at least 100 RMB. And they added more rules. Each person must be blindfolded and spun around before they reached the tree to pick their gifts. And they must pick their gifts within 5 seconds otherwise they miss out. Oh and if you wanted to steal somebody's gift, you had to complete a special mission.

It wasn't long before I figured out that all the missions had a similar theme: do something sexy. Yeah. Workplace sexual harassment is a non-existant concept here. I won't even mention my mission. Just something to do with a pole. But that nerf gun was worth it. Later in the day, an IT guy told me that he had never seen me so "womanly" before. Ha. Awkward.

Of course, the best part of Christmas was the constant reminders of what it was really about. It's not only about the wonderful nativity scenes you dressed up for or the retelling of one of the most important stories in our history. It's about being with your family and sharing what you were most grateful for this year - all made possible because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.

Nativity set for a youth activity.

It's a Slaughter World After All

I have a legit neck phobia. Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been convinced that I will be murdered getting pierced through the throat with a javelin. Or hung like a limp doll off a lonely bridge. Or violently choked from behind because I beat somebody at a board game. So that one time, when a stranger kissed me on the neck in the Beijing metro, I freaked out and avoided public transportation for a week.

Ever since I started dating in college, I've gotten a lot better. As in, I don't flinch as noticeably when other people's hands hover dangerously close to my vulnerable zone. And I don't end up subconsciously slapping the boy who accidentally touched my neck because he was trying to be flirtatious.

Last weekend, I decided to overcome my fear once and for all by doing something that I had always imagined being done to me. It's sort of like getting somebody who was deathly afraid of heights to jump off an air plane. I was going to slaughter an animal by slitting its throat.

A bunch of us drove out to a turkey farm in Changshu to pick out our Thanksgiving bird. My mom asked me to bring one home so I was determined to take care of the turkey myself to feed my family. I was finally shedding my city girl skin and living a rustic vision of Little House on the Prairie.

As the cityscape faded into the lush patches of oversized leafy greens, I started feeling nauseated. I hunched my shoulders and retreated into my maroon hoodie - especially picked out to camouflage the blood I would inevitably get splashed all over myself - and fingered my swiss pocket knife. Would I be able to do a clean slit and spare unnecessary pain? Would the turkey, in its full ugliness, peck at my throat in retaliation? Can swiss army knives actually cut things other than fruit?

My first mistake was looking at him straight in the eyes. They were oddly intelligent and hauntingly dignified. Second mistake? Naming him Turk.

Getting a photoshoot with Turk.

Somehow Miles still manages to look good when

 caught mid-moment holding a turkey.

Turk

The farmer weighed our turkeys and I felt oddly proud that Turk was one of the largest at nine jing (roughly 5 pounds). He stuffed Turk and his buddies into a fertilizer bag and threw them into the back of the van. We drove to the slaughterhouse, chatting with the farmer about his new plans to start an orchard and listening to the turkeys nervously shifting in the trunk.

The lady at the slaughterhouse was really tickled to see so many foreigners. She started showing off her techniques and waved over other ladies nearby to help out with the turkeys. I clutched my pocket knife more tightly, unsure when it was my/ Turk's turn. The lady laughed and flicked her long hair back. She had another woman hold a squirming turkey, and she pressed the head down and starting snipping the throbbing neck vein with a pair of scissors. The turkey did a death thrash while its little heart beat faster and faster, pumping out the rest of its life. The lady swirled her little pinkie in the tin bowl she placed underneath the turkey to fish out any feathers in the blood (to sell for blood pudding later).

Watch this video and prepare a barf bag.

One of my friends jumped up next for an opportunity to wield the scissors. She hacked away with reckless abandon and lustful determination. She later explained to me that a boy had arranged for her to kill a duck for her birthday last year so she was experienced. Another twelve year-old little boy volunteered. By that point, the pair of dull scissors was slick with blood and didn't open and close very well so he ended up just jabbing at his turkey. The poor turkey cried.

I had come expecting to overcome my fear - but instead, I now have an additional nightmare scenario to add to my repertoire of death by throat scenes. I've never considered how scary scissors were before.

Slaughter lady at her finest. 

She had to steam it first to defeather it.

RIP Turk.

I had to snap his legs off. Utterly traumatized.

Btw - terrible blog post title, I know. I was playing a board game with the younger siblings tonight and the instruction manual came with ads for other board games. One of the advertised games had a slogan "It's a Slaughter World After All" . . . they ought to pay somebody professional to come up with a better one.

When They Call Me Well Endowed

The best thing about expanding the team is that we're getting a whole new crew of awesome people with even better names. I've mentioned the previous crop of eyebrow-raising names when I first arrived in China. But our new team is giving the Cinderella, Elvis, and Hawk of yesteryears a run for their holy-crap-how-did-you-pick-that-name money.

Introducing the new lineup:

First, there's our bubbly over-the-top foodie who doubled as our course developer by day. In our first standup team meeting when we're all doing self-introductions, she looked at me dead pan in the eye and said "Smile." I did, awkwardly. Then I realized that she wasn't commanding me to smile - that's her name. Smile. Her last name was Li. So she's Smile Li (read it) and then she later switched to Smiley Li because she wanted a singalong three syllable.

One of the new QA engineers shyly introduced herself to me as Nemo. I welcomed her and mentioned that we'd had another Nemo before and asked if she really liked the movie. She looked startled for a minute and shook her head slowly as if surprised that my English was so bad - "No, no. My name is nee-mon. You know, the fruit." Ah. Lemon. Too bad that Apple had left us already, otherwise we could have a fruit salad party.

Out of the blue, we also hired two app developers who were called Seven and Cywen, but both pronounced them like the number. They were going to do a stone paper scissors for the rights, when Seven told us that his name reminded him of his first love because he used to hang out in his ex-girlfriend's college dorm of six girls all day long and got tagged as the seventh. Cywen just deflated after that and settled for a life of being called Max. We were all disappointed he didn't pick Eleven, but certainly glad that he passed on Six because he always said sex instead.

I won't even mention Coco (guy), Afra (girl), and Hello Kitty (asexual?). Ok, well Hello Kitty was really an American intern called Katie but the staff just thought it's hilarious and so Japanese hip to call her a cartoon instead.

Then in walked a girl who sweetly whispered on her first day that her name was Sissi.

I spent my entire childhood glaring at people who pronounced my name "Sis - see". I even ran a high school student body president campaign on the slogan "Sisi not a Sissy." But, even though HR had called to persuade new girl to give up her name because there's already another Sisi around, she still showed up, utterly unrepentant. So now it's Big S and Small S. I'm technically Big S and she's Small S even though we're the same size and I'm younger. But I'm going to put a stop to that too because sometimes the local Chinese staff slip and say "Big Ass" instead.

Good thing that was never my nick name in high school. I wouldn't have known how to work that one into a pep rally slogan.

Nothing to do with names but this is a shirt

 I regularly see at the office. 

Caption: "THE MAN: The employees walked

around in jeans and sweaters."

Now that's how you show attitude around here. 

One Schilling and Noe More

I picked him because his last name was Bragg. He sounded kind of gangster even though he'd been dead for more than 250 years and he was a white plantation owner from Virginia.

More specifically, he's Joseph Bragg*, alive for a full century from 1647-1747. Bragg finally got rich/desirable enough to leave behind bachelorhood when he was 42 by marrying Mary Tapp, who was just a blushing 19 year old. Despite actuarial odds, he outlived his wife by 16 years. 

This is how I imagined their wedding day.

I was doing family history research for a Church Youth activity and pulled up the family tree that my grandma from my dad's side had lovingly created. We Mormons are obsessed with tracing our ancestry and have a forest worth of family trees because we believe that families are connected forever. So I sat cross-legged on the floor, zoomed in and out throughout the centuries of our family tree and clicked at random census files of my ancestors just to look like I was doing serious genealogical research.

One kid yelled out that according to her genealogy chart she was actually some distant descendent of the King of Franks (a fairytale kingdom as far as I'm concerned but a real person according to Wiki). Huh. I figured that I would google my guy as well just to see if any living Braggs out there work in the rap music industry and sport oversized bling.

And Holy King of Franks, he's online. As in my Joseph Bragg is online.

I looked through quite a few sources, which all differed slightly on dates, to start piecing together his spunky/controlling personality and contentious family life. He owned at least 500 acres of land, five "negroes," and a tobacco plantation. He did not go to Church and was called to court for it. 

"On July 7, 1715 at Richmond County, Virginia, it was noted in the court records; "Joseph Bragg of North Farmingham Parish being summoned to answer the presentment of the Grand Jury against him for not going to Church for two months, but not appearing when called. It is ordered that he be fined one hundred pounds of tobacco and that he pay the same to the church wardens of the said parish with costs."

Yeah. Back then, they fined you tobacco for not going to Church. The Catholics should try that sometime.

I also found his will. What a gem. He probably scrunched up his wrinkly old face and gleefully penned his last words to spite some of his kids. 

"Joseph Bragg Sr [9648] left a will on January 26, 1746 at Lunenberg Parish, Richmond County, Virginia. "In the name of God Amen I Joseph Bragg Sr of Lunenberg Parish in the County of Richmond being very sick and weak but of perfect sence and memory thanks be to God for the same do make and ordain this to be my Will and Testament in the manner and from the following: that is to say first and principally I bequeath my soul to God and that gave it my body to the earth to be decently buried in a christianlike manner at the descretion of my Executor hereafter named.'

A. I give and bequeath to my son Joseph Bragg my negro girl named Mariah to him and his heirs forever with her increase only the first child of the of the said nego girl shall have that lives to be two years old it is my will and desire my young son Joseph shall have delivered to him at the age of twenty years or without lawful heirs to my son Newman Bragg and his heirs.

B. I give and it is my desire that my son Monroe Bragg shall have the plantationtha he now lives on. Together with my negroe girl Hannah to him and the lawful heirs of his body begotten and if in case this my son dye before he should without such heirs of his body to fall to my son John Bragg and his heirs.

C. I give to my daughter Elizabeth A Bragg on cow and calf.

D. I give and bequeath to my daughter Catherine Bragg one Schilling and noe more.

E. It is my will and desire that my two sons Moore and Newman Bragg should have three years schooling out of my personal estate.

F. If please to God my negro wench Whinney should have anouther child after __________

This will was probated May 4, 1747 (Ref: John Emmett Suttle, 13462 Photo Drive, Woodbridge, Virginia 22193) (Family Search)"

One schilling and noe more. John even left his daughter a pathetic momento to remind her of him. Classic.

----

Want to learn more about your own mean-spirited ancestors and figure out where that crazy streak in you comes from?

Just head over to www.familysearch.org for a free and super cool way to search for and create your own family tree now!

Finding Nemo in Phillippines

We stood in our adolescent awkwardness, self-consciously tugging at our cling film-esque navy school swimming suits, while waiting for our PE teacher to sound the call for class to start.

It was second period of seventh grade and also my first day at a new school.

The boys and the girls naturally segregated themselves on opposite ends of the benches. Boys pushed each other around, testing out their new gained muscles from the summer, while the girls showed off  their haircuts or friendship bracelets from camp.

Mr Lant, who constantly reminded me of a sleek greyhound that would nip at your ankles if you slowed down, walked in with his clip board and barked out the training itinerary. After surveying the row of nervous fresh meat with his piercing blue eyes, he paused in my direction. "Welcome," he looked down at his clipboard, "Class, it seems that we have another Messick with us."

All little heads bobbed acknowledgement at me. "Glad to have another superstar athlete at this school. We love 'em Messicks. Ok, kids. Jump in the pool quickly and do your laps. And if you guys finish fast, then we're going to have an epic showdown between Casey and Sisi! Who do you think will win?"

The kids bounced off the bleachers and yelled out their allegiance as they splashed into the pool. "Casey! Casey!" "Sisi! Sisi!"

I waddled over to Mr Lant and tugged at his shirt.

"Mr Lant," I mumbled, "I don't know how to swim."

"What? What do you mean you can't swim? You have your period or something?"

". . . No. I just mean that I can't swim."

"You're just nervous about the race with your brother later. Jump in the pool."

Desperately, I splashed into the pool like a baby penguin diving off the iceberg and landing straight into the mouth of a polar bear. He watched me for a few seconds, then swearing in surprise, pulled me out and directed me to the handicap lane.

And there I stayed throughout high school.

-----

But the thing was I did learn how to swim.

And every time I travel to a new place and snap on my snorkeling mask, I think of Mr Lant. Sometimes, still self-consciously checking my strokes, but mostly, just grateful that I didn't fake periods to get out of PE like all the other girls because I actually liked Mr Lant belting out the "A sailor went to Si-si-si" nursery songs and giving me the "Best Attitude" awards while I huffed and puffed in PE.

I thought of Mr Lant a lot when Andrea and I went on our spontaneous girls' trip to Philippines in July.

Nothing beats swimming in warm waters, staring down 

at fish that ignore you because they are too busy

chasing each other among the corals.

From the right angle, corals look like magical snow cones.

From a different angle, they look like your worst vegetable nightmare.
Either way, it's hauntingly beautiful.

Swimming with the cast of Finding Nemo - well all except

for the dentist and the sharks. 

We kayaked around caves, looked for swallows that flew down

and attacked you, and claimed empty stretches of

beach as our own. We covered up in floppy hats because
an Irish boy at our hostel got burned and stayed brick red the
entire time we were there.

Rings of blue. Yeah, this was really the color of
the water. No filter. Just pure amazement.

I got lots of awkward board shorts tan lines,
which refuse to go away even now.

We always managed to stow away our kayaks away
just in time before a huge storm rolled in.

When Israeli Snails Talk

In between agonizing over Hebrew labels of chips at gas stations, pulling up Bible references of Christ's ministry at Capernaum/Sea of Galilee/ Jerusalem, and mediating the younger siblings' rivalry in  their Tiny Towers game app, I watched the ancient world fly by outside the window.

Sometimes, we would pile out of the car, reverently survey the holy sites and share how dipping our hands into the waters that Jesus walked on added color to our understanding.

Other times, we were just kids, road tripping on any country road, squashed in the backseat and annoying the heck out of our parents.

After a particularly frustrating morning of Hebrew road signs and a few (or ten) missed turns to the Sea of Galilee, my mom snapped her head back and yelled at us to stop joking about irrelevant stuff.

We gave it a moment of respectful silence.

Cody: Do you know what the Sea of Galilee said to the sea gull?

Me: I see Sisi. Wait . . .  I was blind but now I see?

Jody: See ya later, sea gull!

Cody: Nah. It said, "I'm single!"

Jody and I looked at each other and ate another hazelnut wafer.

Cody: Yeah, I didn't get it either.

----

Soon, our mom crumbled and joined in. 

Mom: I have a joke. A snail went to the Salt Lake and said uh oh, this was the Dead Sea!

We waited.

Mom: Put that on your blog! It's my first joke! I made it up last night before going to bed.

(Before you judge, let me say that my mom has the best Chinese fart jokes. Ever. Perhaps our hummus diet this week and collective indigestion inspired her. Cody will try telling them in his Mandarin class next time to see if he scores extra points.)

----

We weren't the only ones taking liberties.

A Chinese tour guide sat solemnly on a rock and started intoning her version of biblical stories to her nodding atheist tourists:

"Once there were fishermen who gave up their fishing boats to follow Jesus because they thought they would get better lives once He became King. After He was crucified, they were mad because they had to start all over again. So they came back to this village and tried to fish in vain until Jesus came back from the dead and helped them catch fish. Then they realized that they were not very good at fishing so they became teachers instead."

Next time I'm contemplating a career move, I better read up on the apostles.

Camels on the road side always makes me feel like 

Lawrence of Arabia.

Hummus. Falafel. Shawerma. Tehina. Chicken Shishlik. 

These soldiers like photos. And texting.

Tile paintings in Armenian Quarters.

Somehow Cody can make crossing himself with holy water at the place
 where Jesus fed the five thousand look like he just stole
 an ancient relic and hid it Indiana Jones-style.

Peddling outside the Garden of Gethsemene.
My proudest tourist shot.

Two Truths and a Lie

Beneath the red plastic streamers hung from the yellow lamps in a cheerful effort to look festively Asian, we sat in silence, trying to figure out what we were going to say.

This was our church group ladies' Chinese New Year party and we were playing two truths and a lie.

We had just finished a round of ice breaker bingo, with pregnant women bumping against moms worried about their teenagers, asking each other about the characteristics on our bingo sheet. Somehow I felt a little pegged. Sisi, was your favorite class Math? Did you hide underneath the blanket with a flashlight to read a book? Have you eaten bear before?

But then again, I was a disappointing serial "no" when I got asked the Did you paint/ water ski/ sew/ sing solo in a performance? I didn't realize that I was such a game sinker in bingo. Of course, that meant that it was that much easier for me to win.

So, two truths and a lie.

I scrunched up my nose trying to figure out ones that were crazy enough but not so scandalous that the ladies got worried about me leading the church groups for teenage girls.

The first few who volunteered were uber spiritual and sweet. The lies: I got baptized when I was 22, not 21! I was a modern dance major, not ballroom dance major! I never got my scuba diving license because I wasn't heavy enough to sink into the water!

Then there was the moment everybody loudly laughed when one of the American moms said that she was once married to a Chinese man. But the kicker was that that wasn't the lie. Major faux pas. Blame it on the game.

Two people left. The other lady was still furiously scribbling and scratching out hers on a piece of paper, looking more nauseous by the minute.

So I smiled and weaved my stories:

1. I was bitten by a copperhead snake and did not realize it.

2. Adam Levine, from Maroon 5, opened the door for me at the 

Sundance film festival and I didn't recognize him.

3. I kissed a boy and did not remember it. 

They guessed wrong twice. 

Then we were onto the last one. 

She swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact. 

Her lie? 

Back in 9th grade, she had skipped the first day of school.

God bless little church ladies who couldn't lie just for the bragging rights in a game. 

Spamming My Uterus

Exactly 39 minutes after I posted my whiny blog post comparing wisdom teeth pains to period pains, I got this email:

"Hi Sisi,

Pls complete the additional Questionairs [sic] form that related to your menstruation pain. and letter of consent - Clinic and address to ask for your history on the consultation of menstruation pain.

Pls sign at "X" and email me back.

Thank you.

Warmest Regards,

XXX
AIA Singapore"

There was even an attached Gynaecological Disorders Questionnaire with some rows filled in for me already.

The diagnosis? Menstruation Pain (written in all caps).

This was an application for life insurance.

This type of targeted marketing definitely beats annoying Google ads on the sidebars of your email.

---

Oh and btw. That email was not for me. I wrote them back and told them that they had the wrong Sisi, and that from one Sisi to another, I hope she will feel better because periods do suck.

I wish they passed on my sympathies.

Buying Relationship Stability

Some call it spineless. Others call it whipped. Here, we just call it financial planning.

As far as I can tell, it is pretty miserable to be a man in China. Not only are you competing with a surplus of 30 million other men for a wife by the time 2030 rolls around, but you're also expected to bring to the marriage alter a house, a car, and stocks.

Now the women are laughing even more.

All over weibo, China's twitter, women are celebrating the entrenchment of the "Wife's Gospel."

China's Merchant Bank (CMB) recently released a financial product that sends user A a text with user B's account balance every day, and automatically transfers (across banks even) any amount over the determined cap to user A's account.

To illustrate the horrifying ramifications, CMB even designed a cheerful poster that describes the perfect application:



"Newlyweds Xin and Wen want to save up for a house to build the beginnings of their sweet story. So Wen wisely decides to let Xin manage all their finances. Every month, Wen's bank account will retain $300 from his income and automatically transfer the rest to his wife's account. And he doesn't even have to go through the trouble of making sure that happens every month anymore!"

What a thoughtful bank.

Well it's working. Because weibo has been overwhelmed by men's desperate cries for patriarchal financial products too.









p.s. The word domanitrix was not what I thought it meant. And um. Don't look it up on bing to figure out how to spell it.

From the Mouths of Teenagers

Mom: "So who wants to say the prayer?"

I bent down gingerly and sank to my knees, cradling my sleeping niece on my chest, to join the rest of the family around the futon.

Dad: "Can't wait for it to be your turn."

Me: "You want me to say the prayer?"

Dad: "No, get married and have your own kids. You're a natural."

I shifted my weight slightly.

Cody: "Yeah, how about Jeff?"

Jody: "Who's Jeff?"

Mom: "Oh! Jeff!"

Cody: "You know, the guy who came over for dinner. Sisi never met him. But he could fart the I am a Child of God song with his hands pretty good."

Jody: "Oh! Jeff!"

It's only been a week and my family is already scheming. Their tastes are so . . . reassuring.

This cute, wrinkly little thing.

----

Cody: Do you know what "Falsetto" means?

Jody: . . .

Cody: You don't even know this word? Man. It means embracing the creation of nature. It's like being an environmentalist. So when somebody says that you have a falsetto voice, he really means that you should become an environmentalist.

Jody: I knew that.

Cody: And do you know what Sacramento means?

Jody: How do you spell it? {While discreetly pulling it up in her online dictionary}

Cody: Sacre. Mento. It's the bridge between good and evil. The Sacrament. Get it?

#IfWeDate

I am a Twitter neub (@sisimessick) and decided to poke around the world of hashtags and shortened URLs to figure out how to make myself sound unbearably witty/ slightly outrageous/ remotely cool.

Amidst all the fantastic startup articles and NYT news that I got buried under, I stumbled upon #IfWeDate.

The thing is, I think these people are for real . . . which makes me wonder if that's the reason why they are not dating.

I've left out the grossly sexual ones (ugh, men) or the sickly cutesy ones ("#IfWeDate, I will 4eva have butterflies in mah stomach!") below, but curated the ones that seemed to hit "slightly outrageous" out of the park.

#IfWeDate just know you are not the NUMBER one priority in my life. I'm not getting left behind by putting you first.

#IfWeDate its probably going to be in your dreams.

#ifwedate im not going to cheat on you..Even if you cheat on me. (I will break up with you and date your best friends)

#IfWeDate I'll let you pay for everything! Hahahaha

#IfWeDate you gottah feed me grapes in my mouth like a boss.

#IfWeDate you can't be in love with Justin Bieber, Zac Efron, Cody Simpson, Harry Styles, Channing Tatum, and me. That doesn't work out.

#ifwedate I want a good morning text 3x a week

#ifwedate I like my sandwiches without crust.” ☝And triple stacked.

#IfWeDate my enimies are yours and yours are mine

#IfWeDate I'll make sure to... Who am I kidding, here. You're going to go date the douchebag and leave me hanging again.

#IfWeDate we can be like Jack and Sally or if you're black Jay-z and Beyonce. Which means you're out of my league.

Pretty much #IfWeDate just be chill.. I don't like Crazy.. lol.. We'll smoke weed and do whatever!

Cut Me Short

I told a guy friend on skype today that I was thinking of growing out my hair.

Without hesitation or the slightest reservation, he wrote "Hallelujah!"

The types of reactions to my haircut had been endlessly amusing. Especially in a culture that's trained to say "nice haircut,"I loved pushing the guys to obvious discomfort until they blurted out their true feelings about my hair style change.

When J first saw my newly chopped hair in the back of a dark taxi, he smiled really big and couldn't keep his hands off me. He had always had a thing for short hair.

Ben, another friend who hopped on the taxi with J, just stared, with his lower jaw hanging in disbelief. When I prattled on about how it was a sudden decision because I was tired of being stereotyped by my dark wavy hair and I had always wanted to try something new, he cut me short (so punny!) by patting me on the elbow slowly. He once had a girl friend who broke down emotionally after a really bad hair cut so he totally understood what I was going through.

Silence. The meter beeped. J tried to distance himself from that comment by physically shifting to the side of the taxi.

Then Ben attempted a recovery with a mumbled "but hey . . . nice haircut. It's going to grow back out, right?"

Even my boss's six year old little girl had a hard time pretending. When the elevator opened, she was waiting eagerly for me to babysit her. She had a polka dot hairband and a giant grin, which swiftly flopped downwards, when she focused on my hair. What happened to your hair? I cut it. Oh. Yeah. I didn't like mommy's either.

Oddly, it never hurt. For me, it was a small act of growing up, proactively chopping off what other people thought was me simply because I had never done anything else. It was a whim, a "someday I'll . . ." checked off. It made me look older, lending me more credibility with the clients when I pretentiously flipped my hair and said many, many years ago back in college, well you know how it was.

But I'm kind of ready for something new. Go shorter or longer?

Let's Talk Crap for a Day

As I walked into the office bathroom this morning, the cleaning ayi stormed out. I asked her if everything was ok. She shook her head, dangling those small light weight gold earrings with frustration. Gesticulating wildly with the plunger in her hand, she told me all about the no flushes, the bloody pads, the toilet paper messes and her determined witch hunt for the perpetrator. She had narrowed it down to the media company across from us and had three 'informed guesses.'

I was glad that I didn't know any bathroom jokes, because this would not have been a good time to share them.

She finally got permission from management to post a sign up on the bathroom doors that said "Please use the toilets appropriately." She told me that white collar seemed to respect signs so she would try to deal with this civilly. Glancing at her eager plunger, I didn't want to ask about the uncivilized alternatives.

And this time, it was a targeted campaign. Only our bathroom had the 'appropriate bathroom use' sign. I  checked. The hunt was on and the circle was tightening.

Perhaps it's because I always said hi to the ayis and asked them about their day, but in a most bewildering way, I had been adopted as many of the cleaning ladies' favorite confidante, which meant that they told me way too much about other people's bathroom habits. I now feel awkward talking to a non-hand washer at the cafeteria.

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On a separate note, can I just mention that today is World Toilet Day?

2.5 billion people do not have clean toilets, which translates into preventable diseases and the lack of dignity for many. The UN has designated sanitation as a basic human right - and it is within our reach to help guarantee sanitation units for the working poor.

The video below lays out the problem quite well, and here are some suggestions on taking action.

Not Pursued

One unreasonably late night, around two months ago, I sent in my resume for a job to fold clothes.

There were definite pros and cons in this situation.

Pro: Location was in the States, right where J was finishing up school.

Con: I would be folding clothes . . . while avoiding their embarrassingly graphic ads.

I absolutely bombed the interview. I fumbled when asked why I was passionate about working at their store. I was not particularly convincing when I told them that I had always been in love with their, um, skinny jeans, wait no, jeggings line. Skype cut out right when I was attempting to demonstrate how I could look hot while refolding that sweater on the sales rack.

So it was no surprise that I got this email today:

"Thank you for your interest in {company}. It is always great to meet such an enthusiastic candidate who shares our excitement for the {company} brand. 

We are always faced with the difficult challenge of selecting from such a great group of applicants. At this time, we have decided to pursue other candidates. 

We wish you the best of luck in the future and appreciate your continued support of the brand."

I laughed and choked on my yoghurt when I read it. Well, now I could tell my future husband that it's been proven by industry standards that I should not be entrusted with folding clothes. I hope he's all about doing the laundry . . . while looking sexy.

Update: Thank you for your concerns, but no, I'm not really going into retail. It was more of a temporary solution to attempt to live closer to J.
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Official countdown begins:

5 hours till the drive to the airport

1 day till a date with J in Provo

2 days till partying in Mexico

3 days till stressing out and cramming for speech

4 days till presentation at G20 and announcement of Financial Inclusion competition winner

5 days till checking off the Pyramid of the Sun from my bucket list

Raising My Eyebrows, I Will Draw My Sword

One of the guys on my team, Sam, is a Communist Party member in excellent standing. So excellent that we've already had to give him three days off this month to receive an award for being an outstanding Communist youth and to attend a rally. He had apparently joined the Party back in college because it aligned with his "search for the moral, respect for the scientific, and love for the people."He even saved two separate strangers from drowning in a nearby lake on the same night, within 30 feet of each other. Of course, it also helps that he often pays more Party dues than required.

So today is the rally. We haven't heard from him what the distinguished Party has instructed yet, but we have received an enlightening "hand out."

Here's a closer look. I'll try to make it poetic.

Car is made in Japan;

Heart is made in China.

Support the Party;

Recover the Diaoyu Islands;

Rather be a headless ghost,

Than be a spineless man;

If war comes for China and Japan,

I will give up my own life;

My drops of blood will honor the martyrs;

Raising my eyebrows, I will draw the sword.

In case you are not aware, the Diaoyu Islands (or Senkaku Islands in Japanese) are two square miles of land that China and Japan both claim and dispute over. Patriots from both countries periodically sail near the islands and try to challenge the other's presence. The Japanese government has recently agreed to buy three small islands in the Diaoyu Island group from their Japanese owners in an attempt to block the Tokyo governor from buying them to expand nationalistic claims. So while the Japanese gov probably has good intentions, the Chinese objects furiously, saying that Japan has no right to transfer property rights on Chinese soil. The Chinese normally like the Japanese fine, but they are very sensitive to what they imagine to be slights that the Japanese "purposely commit". 

Right after our company got the photo of the handout, the discount development guy muttered three little condemning numbers: jiu yao ba, or 918.

It turned into a low rumble across the office, 9 - 1- 8!  9 - 1 - 8 ! How dare they do this right before September 18th - the shameful day in 1931 when the Japanese military occupied one of their first cities in China with the excuse that the Chinese bombed their railway?

All of a sudden, we're reliving the Japanese occupation of China and gnashing our teeth for the pain our grandparents went through. 

By the end of the working day, my colleagues are calling out for a boycott against Japanese goods. Some wonder out loud if China can single handedly collapse the Japanese economy by not buying any Honda or Sony. Another customer service rep whimpers that she will try not to get any more Hello Kitty in the next month.

I will try to demonstrate sympathetic solidarity and sneakily eat my favorite Hi Chew Japanese candy in the hallway.

Gosh, we should all get awards for being good Chinese at least.

Repentant Dater

When the bishop gives me an assignment to read church talks about the joys of marriage every single night,

I'm like:

And then, after the 85th talk about how "those who are single should desire a temple marriage and exert priority efforts to obtain it," I'm like

Fine, fine! Being single isn't that much fun.

Please forgive me, for I know not I have sinned.

I will repent . . . and smile at the next Young Single Adult church activity.

The Stereotypical Cruise

The evening shows that feature "Direct from Las Vegas" probably means "Retired from Las Vegas."

Forty year old male performers sashaying to oldies and shaking their butts on stage before singling out and serenading fifty year old women off stage. Those moms scream like little girls for Justin Bieber.

Kids order room service for eight plates of chicken tenders at midnight and then want five more plates of cookies.

Seniors inch along the hallways, blocking the restaurant entrances, with their rolling walkers somehow cruise along just fine on bingo  nights.

Seniors weaving bingo cards into garlands for their hair and wearing them to dinner.

Bingo lady in the middle. Sorry for the blur. It was a quick creeper shot.

Seniors who love the cruise so much that they don't leave the boat when we dock at ports.

Older couples, without walkers, dress up to the nines to their own theme every night. Boas. Retro glasses. Caps with little spinning helicopter blades on top. Pill hats. And they whip out awesome dance moves.

Ostentatiously classy families that sit next to the top deck window, sipping champagne, and habitually ignoring pudgy junior who is trying not to fiddle with his bow tie.

College students making out in the jacuzzi on the top deck shamelessly (best way to make sure nobody else joins you!) while everybody else is shielding his/her face in parkas from the whipping Alaskan wind.

Tourists trying to earn back their cruise money, one pound of food at a time.

"Washy washy, happy happy!!" chorus by friendly filipino staff holding anti-septic spray bottles at the restaurant entrances. It's amazing how many different ways there are to sing washy washy. Reference for future parenting.

Wife gets picked for Deal or No Deal cruise edition. Last five suitcases. She's on a winning streak. She wants to take the $532 offered her and end it. Offstage, her husband shakes his head emphatically. She hesitates and keeps playing and loses it all. Final haul: fifty cents and a frustrated couple.

Audience members that get excited by a Deal or No Deal "celebrity sighting." Oh. Good. They are talking to each other again now. Glad that the game show did not ruin their marriage.

Super Size Moral

For an end-of-year party at school, Jody watched Super Size Me, a documentary of a guy who eats McDonald's every day for a long time, with detrimental health consequences.

Apparently, they even show the chicken nuggets production process, starting from clipping chickens onto the conveyor belt by their beaks, then culminating in a drop into the vengeful grinder and poofs of feather.

Her comment on the doc?

"Sisi, when I was watching Super Size Me, I was only thinking of one thing:

Chicken Nuggets. Mmm!

McDonald's every day? Lucky!!"

Seems like we need to accompany each scene with the correct moral in subtitles.

The Politics of CC

I casually glanced at the sent column of the email I had just received.

My head rocked backwards. I squinted and checked again to make sure that I saw what I saw.

The sender/colleague had a gift in wrecking havoc through disseminating conspiracy theories at the office. Everything he touched was poisoned by whispered rumors and wild intepretations of management intentions. Remember the contact list fiasco? That was completely him.

Well, he also firmly believed in the "political correctness" of the order in which you list the email recipients. He always made sure to arrange recipients in hierarchical order - not necessarily according to the org chart, but according to his perceived level of importance/ power within the company. Of course, he also painstakingly analyzed other people's sent column order and then deduced their allegiances.

And today, I finally knew where I stood in his books. He had bumped me up three spaces from my usual spot, ahead of key people who were technically higher than me on the org chart.

I don't know what bothers me more: The fact that I know there is a meddlesome deliberateness behind it or that I noticed and care enough to blog about it.

Either way, I guess I'm moving up in the world.