Strawberry Gloves Forever

I kept punching my memory foam pillow and readjusting my sleeping position within my down comforter cocoon, but I just couldn't ignore it.

My wisdom teeth were growing out in full vengeance. They were violently penetrating my fragile gums and trying to make their {teeth} mark in this world. And instead of counting sheep, I was trying to decide whether to rank this higher than period pains or not. 

 

I picked up my favorite croissant on the way to work this morning and happily plopped down on my office chair to get a bite before my conference call. I opened my mouth, ahhed, and closed it again. Food wasn't even worth it anymore. The receptionist was unsympathetically happy at my plight because it turned out that she hadn't had breakfast either. 

Your pain = someone else's gain.

I even looked at some GMAT practice questions today during lunch and was disappointed that I didn't get two full wisdom teeth's bump in IQ points. 

As a self-respecting adult, I naturally sent whiny SOS texts to my parents. My dad said to contact mom and make an appointment with the dentist right away. My mom, majorly proud that she's never had wisdom teeth before (her fun party fact), told me that 1. I was probably not getting my wisdom teeth and 2. I might just have Korean BBQ infection. 

I knew it. She wasn't happy with me texting her back at 1:30 am with the excuse of hanging out with friends. I suppose parents have to sneak their lectures in somewhere.

Hopefully, the dentist will wear strawberry-tasting gloves when the time comes. 

Korean BBQ with American roommate, French intern, 

and Uzbeki Russian friend in China.

United Nations much?

#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!

Spinster Catalogues

You learn a lot about yourself when you're living alone. I wonder if registered spinsters have these self-inventories all the time. Because I do.

I finally realized that I am terrible at mopping.

There's also nobody else I can blame the shedding on. Not even J's "other Asian girlfriend" that I make up. (Apparently, having a girlfriend is a lot like having a dog in terms of the amount of hair that winds up in your man stuff).

I belt out radio tunes when I'm doing laundry, but never in the shower.

Nobody bakes you roommate love cookies just because we have a surplus of butter. Ok. Fine. There is never a surplus of butter in China.

Not thinking about how much clothes you {do not} have on while wandering around your apartment is a such a privilege.

A lot of things wind up unfixed because I've read too many scary things about delivery/ handy men.

I can pass out for four hours on a Sunday afternoon without concerned roommates banging on my door, worried that I will repeat that 23 hour "death nap" I once had after finals.

Don't worry, I'm still far from my raising-60-homeless-cats days.

Because my new roomie is moving in next week!

So excited to call water heater fixer man . . .  in ten days.

The legendary Triumvirate apartment. 

I will be seeing one of these girls in two weeks!

Ignorance is Bliss

. . . when you're riding a bike with a billowing skirt and all the men walking towards you can't take their eyes off you because a gust of wind just swept through.

The best part of the scene isn't that I might be flashing lots of unsuspecting strangers before breakfast (pretty much every other day given my skirt habits and the weather).

The point is that I can now ride a bike with one hand on the bar and the other holding down my skirt, while dodging fast cars/ bikes because I'm riding against traffic.

 I can now ride a bike. Boom, baby.

When I was 4, I was a high flyer on that tricycle. Then the third wheel came off and I started losing playground races.

When I was 14, I gritted my teeth and rode a bike to conform to the Messick stereotype of athletic, outdoorsy kids and crashed into a horse. A stationary horse hooked to a carriage. My face tasted horse sweat and my shins concrete. I narrowly missed the warm pile of grass green manure.

When I was 21, I promised a boyfriend a romantic day biking around Santa Monica to make up for past whatevers. He yelled at me because I nearly got run over by buses and nearly ran over old ladies. I thought I was already doing pretty good. That was the last time I saw him.

When I was 22, I mentioned casually to a friend that I would be running home to grab something. He tossed me his public bike rental card. Sheer embarrassment forced me to the bike rack. It took me 35 min to bike home when normally it took me 15 min to walk.

But hey. 35 min turned into 25 and then 20. I'm still stuck at 15 min though. Perhaps I just bike slow. Or I just walk really fast.

Coke Folks

Several summers, and several cities, ago, I was sitting at a rowdy farewell lunch with some colleagues, who were toasting everything from the least expected work hook ups to the completion of the most mundane projects. Beer, tears, conversation were flowing. As somebody reached to pour some coke into my empty glass, another hand reached over to stop him. "No, Sisi is Mormon. No coke for her."

I didn't bother explaining the complicated situation of how coke was actually not officially outlawed, but instead it straddled a hazy line in the church between being explicitly forbidden and unambiguously accepted.

And I admit. I was looking forward to the icy cold coke alternative instead of the usual boiling hot water they served you in China. But rather than confuse them on the Mormon image, I just smiled, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and asked for the water instead.

I grew up in a household where drinking coke was a minor sin. It was somewhere up there with doing homework on Sundays, wearing skirts that were too high above your knees, and dating non-church boys in high school. Ginger Ale was on the black list too, since my mom concluded that it must contain alcohol somehow.

So as a teenager, I satisfied myself with coke-flavored gummies and flirtatious looks in the school hall ways.

It was a college boyfriend who first introduced me to the sensational experience of combining barbecue chicken pizza and a coke. While I limited my coke intake to the occasional California Pizza Kitchen, it felt deliciously rebellious, and yet satisfyingly safe in this good Mormon girl's fight against the imagined system kind of way.

At the recent family reunion, when my mom casually asked me what I was drinking, J cheerfully replied "Cherry Cola Slurpee." I squeezed his hand so hard. He thought I was being romantic. Jody's eyes and mouth widened, "Sisi, you drink coke now?!"

Silence. I slurped some more.

----

So today, when I saw that most of the Mormons on facebook were buzzing with the news that the Church had finally made a statement saying that it "[did] not prohibit the use of caffeine," I felt an irrational sense of disappointment. Bummed that the statement did not also pardon my favorite Tiramisu dessert as well (one I'd long given up long ago out of overwhelming guilt). And also a little miffed that my status as the only kid in the Messick household who dared to secretly sip coke once every quarter in a quiet personal rebellion had now been rendered . . . boringly mainstream.

On Fire

The man clicked to the nth powerpoint slide. "They were trapped on their floor because the fire escape door was jammed. 23 casualties." We scribbled furiously, jotting down reminders to our management to check stairwells. 

Next slide. "Fire in the middle of the night. Young woman ran back for her valuable documents. Disfigured face. Ayah. Who would want to marry her now?"

Next. "Third degree burn on a child. He would be wearing long sleeves for the rest of his life. Such a shame he wasn't a girl - at least girls had excuses to wear sleeves to stay white, but him?" He shook his head in disapproving pity.

My colleagues and I sat, eyes transfixed to the clicker in his hand, watching his thumb press down with ruthless efficiency to summon yet another set of horrific photos of fire victims. He was part of our office building management and he was in our conference room, gesticulating smoke, fire, heat! wildly in the air, as part of our free Avoiding Fire Hazards workshop. After an hour of cautionary tales and dramatic disfiguration photos, we were glued, traumatized, and desperate to receive the balm of instructions to be {beautiful} survivors.

"You, being on the 9th floor of our office building, are special. You have good odds of surviving any fire that will engulf this building if you do what I say."

He described how most of the time, fire fighters could not get to all the floors to rescue trapped people. So the solution? Save yourself by climbing out of the window.

He bent over and struggled to pull out something heavy underneath the table. He heaved and threw it onto the table. "Do yourself a favor and buy this 40 feet rope. Today, I will give you the good friend price. 500 RMB (~80 USD) only. Better yet, the first two people to buy one will get a discount. Isn't your life worth at least that much?"

When we all looked at him, shocked into silence at his sudden sales pitch, he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "The 10th floor people will never hear this workshop. They are just a little too high for the rope to reach the ground. So will you take full advantage of your geographical location?"

A sudden whimper. Shuffling in purses. Our marketing lady pulled out her wallet. She looked around sheepishly, "I have a son to think of."

Our office did not have a lot of heavy furniture. I wonder what she would actually tie her rope to when/ if the time came.

Part-time model

A man with long, tied back, silky hair and strong black-rimmed glasses touched my arm and stopped me right when the cold air from the mall blasted my face. "Hey miss, have you ever considered being a part-time model?"

"Not interested."

I walked away briskly. He kept following me, saying that he's a photographer for catalogues and that he liked my sharp chin, my small waist, my accentuated cheeks, my straight posture, my . . .

"Not interested."

"Why not?"

I didn't know what to say. Because the idea of being made up and fussed over and then treated like a clothes hanger, with people stripping off your clothes for you to minimize time wasted during changing, did not sound like a great weekend plan?

Capitalizing on that moment of hesitation, he motioned me forward, always staying a step ahead on me,   turning around constantly  -- "Just a few shots first. We need your info. Our office is just around the corner. Come, come. You better work on walking in heels though."

I tried to explain that not interested was really not interested. I shook my head emphatically, dangling my weighty Tibetan coral earrings for dramatic effect. But somehow, my legs kept moving forward, narrowly tripping on the uneven sidewalk. Perhaps it's because I've always been terrible at saying no, very firmly, and I didn't want to raise my voice on the streets to make sure that he heard me.

And because  - and really not that deep down - it's just a little bit complimentary to be asked to be photographed when I've always been the nice sister of the beautiful girls.

Ten minutes later, sitting in front of the chief photographer for an interview about my previous modeling experiences, measurements, weekend schedules, blah blah blah, I finally felt it. How silly I was for being easily flattered by an offer to be objectified. How I would find it absolutely mindless to be spending my saturdays playing dress up in other people's clothes. And how the thrill of strangers complimenting you excessively for your looks really wore off quick.

So I thanked them and walked out.

----

Of course, this clip from the Flight of the Concords reminded me that being invited to be a part-time model probably wasn't the best compliment either.

Feigning

As my four inch heels hit the train platform, I nearly swore. But to use abbreviations while saying that "D*@#. China is so hot right now" will be a grossly understated injustice.

I breathed deep but came out unsatisfied. The humidity and the sweltering heat combined had my lungs screaming out for more oxygen or, as my coffee mug-toting, semi-bald, high school physics teacher would say,"Ox-why-jen, kids." The air molecules were lethargic, weighed down by the sour odor of bodies pressed against each other to get to the front of the line.

An odd case of deja vu reminded me of a shower I took years ago. I had stripped down, kicking my swim suit to the corner, while stepping into my friend's new shower. Beside the colorful shampoo bottles, there was a neat row of buttons. I pressed one. The shower encirclement locked with a sound of definity. Another button. Water jetted out. Too hot. With shampoo in my eyes, I punched another button. Blasts of hot and cold hit me from all directions. The steam rose. My lungs strained as I groped for a way to unlock the showers. For a brief moment, my impulse was to press my lips against the seam of the shower doors, in hope for a faulty job, for a crack through which I could just suck air. But embarrassment, heightened by the vulnerability of my soapy nakedness, forced me away from kissing the shower wall and back to slamming buttons.

And it was that same socialized decorum that prevented me from yanking the cigarette away from the man who lit up right in front of me in a snaking taxi line. I already had a hard time breathing in the humidity and the smoke simply suffocated me. I coughed dramatically in protest. He turned around, looking at me appraisingly from the curve of my shoulders down to my santa red toes, and puffed his huff at my face, letting the lazy entrails of smoke entangle my hair and smother me with a cruel deliberateness.

I directed my intense glare at his unkempt, thinning strands of hair that hung on desperately to fading manhood. I mentally cursed all semi-bald men, who either rubbed balloons on your once-silky smooth long hair to demonstrate static electricity or shamelessly cut through the line just to end up in front of you, smoking up a factory and parading the fact that you were a pushover on two counts.

So channeling maximum dramatic charm, I raised my hand, palm outward, to my forehead, and pretended to faint.

When the people nearby gave him the looks, he disgustedly threw his cig down and grounded it with his black heel, all the while muttering about the trouble that women bring.

The Arc Moment

He pulls his goggles over his head, adjusting for maximum suction. Neck cranes right, suspending his head at an unnatural sleeping angle, then smoothly swings down and left then hangs. Rib cage puffs out  hungrily as shoulders roll back, gently guiding the tension, letting it ripple through the shoulder blades, muscles, lower back, and releasing it into the flowing water. His vision is tunneled through the grey tinted lenses, seeing only the wall on which his feet will push off, maximizing short bursts that will propel his tautly streamlined body effortlessly through the water, before he emerges once again, breathing in life greedily.

He is ready. He glances back briefly, to check that she is still working on her promised routine in the width of the pool, at the only section where she could touch the bottom with her pointed toes. He tugs on his goggles again and disappears under the water.

I throw out a few more pretentious strokes while bouncing on tip toes, edging my way back to the welcoming ladder. With my feet firmly planted on the ground, I hurry back to my novel about 14th century monks and the plague.

As I wiggle onto the dry wooden beach chair, still slightly warm from the morning sun, I notice that J has switched to the back stroke. Right. Left. Right. Left. His winter white torso glistens while his right arm stretches out, fingers tense and at attention. At the critical moment, right before he is poised to slice through the water, his hand flicks, barely perceptible, allowing his palm to curve and cup the surface.

An unexpected turn; a sudden grace. Beauty so subtle and so rare in his precision and control.

My breath got caught, just a little bit.

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.

Three Ayis

One. 


I met her on my first day at work while she was cleaning the bathroom. She was flushing the toilets with a violence normally reserved for confronting minute maids. I asked her if she was ok. She looked at me, then glanced left and right, all the while pursing her lips. With a conspirator's whisper, she told me that we should retreat to the stairways, where it would be safe to talk because there were no security cameras.

There I listened, fidgeting with my work badge, while she railed against management and her hourly rates. I asked her where the recycling bin was. She refused to tell me, instead offering to give me a 40% cut from her scrap paper + bottles sales if I would be her supplier.

Since then, I've often had to excuse myself and walk through five or six ayis unionizing in the stairway. She was always the one sitting on the highest stair, a queen bee who reigned their 15 minute breaks.

Two.


It's Wednesday, but the lady who usually tidied my papers and wiped down my office desk wasn't there. When she got back the next week, she seemed less excited about piecing the mustard yellow vacuum cleaner together. When she came around to my desk with the wet, purple rag, I told her I was sorry about her sister. She looked away, then shook her head slightly, pretended to be concerned about the ink spill on my desk. After soaking and wringing her rag a few times too many, she finally asked me what she should do with her 14 year old niece. She didn't have the resources to take her in and provide for her own son.

Three.


I stopped her in the hall and asked her about the ayi she replaced. Her eyes narrowed, calculating whether I was the one who told on the ayi and her unions. After deciding that a whistleblower wouldn't ask her to say hi to the other, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

She liked to keep me in on the loop regarding bathroom gossip. I now know which girl on the floor often didn't flush and which company, on the whole, was the dirtiest.

One day, as I was walking out of the bathroom, she called me over to the dark closet room with a loud whisper. She handed me her phone and asked me to help her get past her current level on her game. The rules were simple. Happy snails pushing crates onto apples get points in a garden maze. I fumbled pathetically. We didn't play games growing up.

I felt genuinely bad when she had to start all over because of my three failed attempts. She was on level 10. As I walked away, back to the office, I heard her mutter while picking up her mop, "Ayah. Made me start all over again. And I thought she was smart."

Airport Scenes

One.
I saw them while casually people watching on the second floor balcony.

He's in a pressed grey suit, a little heavy for the early spring heat, Steve Jobs glasses, and well-waxed leather shoes. She's seran wrapped in a spaghetti top and faded denims. His salt and pepper strands were combed to mean business; her dark roots were peeking through the faux blond.

They clung onto each other, leaving his overpriced carry on to stand alone in the midst of a crowded airport. She grabbed him tightly, burying her head in his neck. All of a sudden, she looked up, and watched me watching her. She stepped away, twisted her back to him, and stood apart. He gave her a respectful moment and then went to her again.

She turned around, but this time I glanced away quickly. The amount of mascara that ran down her cheeks testified to a girl waking up extra early to create the perfect look for her man.

They whispered frantically. She kept patting her stomach. He stole glances at his watch behind her back.

Two.

Simba ate his first worm and made a face as Timon and Pumba sang Hakuna Matata.

He laughed so hard that he choked on and spilled his apple juice. He scrambled around for a clean napkin, but not before pausing the inflight entertainment screen. He brushed off the cookie crumbs on his chin and scratched his balding head before pressing play again.

Beside him, his five year old son slept.

Three.

He hung behind the crowds, reading business class notes on the ipad, while keeping a careful eye on the arrival gate. He chose to wear his new tailored shirt and tan slacks that day, probably because she had mentioned that the pants look nice, and even bought an iron for the occasion. She came out later than the others, strolling by without seeing him. He hurried over to her and offered to push her lugguage trolley.

She was startled and then smiled because of him and the pants.

It's been a week and he was picking me up.

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?

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?

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.

Boys can skip this post

One of my colleagues who was in charge of getting deals for our online purchasing program (think groupon style shopping cart with discounted necessities for frontline workers) pulled me aside today. She was sent some samples from potential product partners and wanted me to give her the reassurance to try them.

She whispered to me that she had found a magic product. It's a type of small cylinder that women could insert into themselves during that special time of the month. It would suck all the blood out and store it until the tube was extracted. She speculated that it also had bonus contraceptive functions because people wouldn't be able to do it with that thing still in there.

I had no idea what she was talking about until she told me that the product was called "Small Auntie" (playing off "Auntie Flo"?).

Wow.

She was talking about tampons all along. And she wanted a demonstration of how it worked.

Somehow I just wasn't in the mood to give a 28 year old woman a sex talk. I did tell her that she should look up the facts on tampons again and stop waving the "Small Auntie" pamphlet around.

I can already see it. My legacy in China will be the introduction of tampons to frontline female workers. What a dream.

Kindergarten Love

I first fell in love in kindergarten.
He was dark, with really nice teeth. He always handed me the coloring pencils. I told my mom that I was going to marry him.

Then she transferred to our class. And she liked sitting next to him too.

I tattle taled and got her into trouble. She missed the school picnic and stood in the corner for the rest of the day. (Don't worry, I later met the same fate.)

Twelve years later, I sat in my Math class telling one of my best friends about my kindergarten fling. Her eyes opened wide and we realized that she was that girl. The girl in the corner. She went home and brought our kindergarten school photo and we pointed to the same set of teeth at the same time.

He was cute, I tell you.

------

I think that is why I can absolutely empathize with my boss's daughter. She likes me, but she thinks I'm stealing her boyfriend. She's six. And she's telling her mom that there are "too many girls around the house" whenever I come.

Well, at least she's playing fair.

Driven

I never thought this day would come. I actually want to get my driver's license.

Perhaps it's because I have absolutely no need for it right now. Or that my parents think it's impossibly dangerous since most people often casually drive on the wrong side on the road and try to edge you out on the highway.

Either way, I finally got over my fear of driving and asked around about driving courses in Suzhou.

Instead, I was given tips on finding the right guys to take the test for me. And their prices.

Apparently, a friend spent RMB 5500 (roughly $780) in Shanghai and still didn't get her license. Another bargained hard and only spent RMB 1800 in Suzhou. The third just laughed and boasted that he went on a trip to Xinjiang (Western province in China) and got his license while driving around blindly in the desert.

Maybe I'll stick to my driving practice at the arcade.*

* To be honest, I did try driving once, two years ago. I got pulled over.

Peeping Wangs

We don't really have a concept of peeping toms in China. Just an overly curious next-building neighbor who likes to look out of his window.

I've forgotten about this quaint feature of city life. And it wasn't until I was walking around my house in um not much, that I finally remembered.

Because he waved. Very enthusiastically.

Dating girls

The girls here just love me. Well some more than others. And they show it by grabbing my hands or clinging onto my arms. Especially when we're taking a romantic walk after dinner.

Just like the unspoken code where girls go to the bathroom together in droves, this is their affectionate way of demonstrating that they want to bring you into their group. They are so insistent. I just haven't figured out a culturally sensitive way of getting out of holding hands yet.

In the meantime, I just squirm. And try to engineer all sorts of ways to naturally loosen their grip on my arm. I point frantically to lamp posts or I look for non-existant objects in my bag. But mostly, I just suffer in silence.

I sympathize with the boys now. Girls are so clingy. And their hands are so soft. It makes me want to throw up.

I feel bad for the boys I've dated.

Casey - be prepared.