Mosquito Dreams + Chinese Bets

I slept fantastically well last night, considering that the mosquitoes were having a party at my house. But as usual, mother dear made life so much more bearable by leaving behind tons of putting-mosquitoes-to-sleep pallets. They're tiny rectangular-shaped disks that you insert into mousepad-like machines that supposedly put mosquitoes to sleep so they won't bite you. America should import those in serious quantities, trade imbalance or no.

So why am I up at 3 a.m.? Well probably because I kept wondering what they were dreaming about. The mosquitoes, I mean. Do they have nightmares of a huge force crushing the wind out of their figurative lungs and then being crushed to death? Do they somehow find meaning to their existence as consistent nuisances?

Plus, it's so sticky hot over here. I'm aware that I have an air-con but somehow I feel like I have to win some non-existant bet to show Jayne, Dawn, and Hwanhi how Chinese people cool down. Apparently, during our last roomie (plus honorary roomie Jayne) sleepover before my parents came, I had told Jayne to just calm down when she complained about being hot while I was swaddled in my comforter. I eloquently explained to her the age-old wisdom that my grandma passed down: When you are calm, you are naturally cool. All this while I was semi-conscious. I remember none of it, but by golly, I will show Jayne how it is done - in true humid Shanghai style.

So I'm blogging - to stay calm and use my jetlag to document some momentary lapses of rationality.

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So much to do today! Finish editting thesis (does it ever finish?!). Get haircut. Have lunch with a government relations lady to learn about customs in greeting Chinese officials. Get a facial + massage. And open a bank account so I can get paid.

Progressive dating advice

Tonight, over rocky road, I mentioned to my family that I probably wouldn't date for an entire year in China.

Well, one because there will probably be no church boys. And two because last summer when I did my internship in Beijing, I was mainly hit on by 30 year-old co-workers who still lived with their moms, creepy old men with jade rings, and overly buff marines who looked like they could crush me if they accidentally sat on me.

My mom just smirked and asked, "Well, do you know how to do email dating?"

She then told me that since I'm an intellectual (questionable), I can just email boys and be satisfied with imagined love. While reading poetry.

Jody jumped in with helpful tips about online dating websites that her other 11 year-old friends "accidentally" created profiles for.

But her advice did come with a warning: No matter what I do, I shouldn't share cups with those boys (the ones I meet online), because apparently in fifth grade, that's as good as getting married.

Packing up

Packing up and moving away to another country is a pain. I can't believe how much stuff I've hoarded. It almost makes me want to quit my job and just stay and bum around Utah.

And um I just realized that I have a lot of clothes. I used to think that people were exaggerating. I packed 53 skirts + dresses after DI-ing four to five garbage bags full of clothes. And I haven't even counted the winter skirts yet.

If I were a tragic heroine in a comic book series, a love for skirts with crazy patterns will definitely be one of my debilitating character flaws. Luckily dad and his frequent trips from China to US this summer plus his high roller flyer status means that my pieces of luggage will all be taken care of.

Spoiled much?

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p.s. I don't think I'm ever going to be ready to say goodbye to all my friends. I don't know how people do it.

Kid-napping Witnesses

First, we heard the cry for help. Immediately Dawn, Jayne, and I scrambled to my bedroom window.

We couldn't believe it.

So we ran out the door. I even discarded my flip flops because they were too noisy. And for this, we needed operation stealth mode to assess the situation.

Yes, we were right. It was a baby goat. Wandering scared around our apartment complex.

We followed it until it wandered into an open garage and we frantically motioned for the home owner to stop the garage door so that it wouldn't trap the goat inside. At this time, a tall guy, with asymmetrical features and denim cutoffs walked up the stairs, whistling. I asked if he's missing a goat.

He looked surprised, then said, "Oh yes. My goat. My goat Mr. Billy Copkins." He cornered the poor thing and picked it up. And walked off briskly. Even the random boys that we've enlisted in our goat saving mission were suspicious.

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We walked away. Did we just stand by in a kidnapping case?

Dawn wanted to call the police. I wanted to tail the guy and make sure that Mr. Billy Copkins is ok. Jayne just wanted a pet goat.

But we moved on. Dawn tried to dissuade Jayne from raising a kid (the baby goat) because they supposedly become ugly when they grow up - bad odds of having a cute one, just like Asian babies.

And then I sat down on the table to grab my pen, which is buried under a pamphlet. A church pamphlet. With Christ holding a baby lamb.

What would Jesus do?

Let the guilt trips begin.

How would you answer this?

If somebody asked you to complete this sentence, what would you say?

"I'm beautiful because  . . . "

Well, as part of their Recapturing Beauty campaign, BYU Women's Services and Resources is asking just that. And offering a free photo shoot of women with selected entries.
 
I initially took it up because it sounded like great fun and it seemed to be an amazing way to empower women to think positively about themselves, especially with the emphasis on inner qualities. And how hard could it be to come up with a sentence - or just half of it?

I've always considered myself a very confident, outgoing girl, but somehow I couldn't find the right words by the end of the day. Then it dragged out to two, three days. Nothing I came up with fit.  Because to be honest, being good at planning events, writing papers, making high-calorie desserts don't exactly make me feel beautiful. Then I rationalized that not every girl has to feel beautiful. But that's not true.

And for a moment, I felt a little lost. And unsure of myself. 

I'll spare you all the emotions involved in this exercise but I think I've finally come up with something:

I'm beautiful because I'm working to embrace my weaknesses and learning to love myself even more for them.

And that sounds about right.

What is your sentence? Men?

A Sink is the New Village Stream

I have been mildly obsessed with doing my laundry at 3 a.m. - in true hand washing style.

All of a sudden, all my clothes seem too delicate, too vulnerable, to be tossed carelessly into the sucking washing machine.

Scarves dry amazingly fast by the way.

Chiffon tops are a nightmare. You think you've squeezed all the water out, but yet they keep drip drip drip-ping on my bathroom floor. So deceptive.

I'm just preparing myself for my move to China. Washing machines there hold a ridiculously small amount of clothes (a little larger than my bag of rice times two). The one in my new apartment (if I even have one) will probably just sputter and die if I shove my usual two weeks worth of laundry down its throat. And I can't do the American thing and just haul my laundry back home every weekend when I visit. People would hate me when I get on the metro.*

Well, I guess this will be good practice for eventual housewife-hood too. I heard that the laundry detail is pretty intense.

* Yes, I realize that I could solve my problem by doing laundry more often. And no, I don't like that idea.

Ultimate Desperation

I got a text from 80168601XX this morning.

XX: Hey

Me: Who is this?

XX: Porter who is this?? Haha lol good times

Me: My name is Sisi. I think you've got the wrong number.

XX: Um.... ok then so.... r u single?

{I never responded}

Ex-Boyfriend & His CD

I rummaged through my stash of DVDs looking for Ella Enchanted so Jane, Dawn, and I could watch and share our mutual hatred for the movie (more like J + D hated on it while I somehow felt obligated to defend all the awkward kissing slash singing scenes).

Then I found a CD. From an ex-boyfriend. Well, Chelsea's ex-boyfriend, to be exact.

Let me explain the context. Once upon a time, Chelsea dated Boy X (think Idaho, well-combed hair, side parting). He was a model PP* and probably rescued a cat from a tree predicament, so she affectionately dubbed him "a heroic angel"  (don't know how to defend this one).

Well he liked her so he decided to burn her a CD. And think of an equally satisfying nickname.

This was what happened:

I don't know what kills me more: the fact that he continued the angel theme or that he felt the necessity of qualifying the gender of angels.

Oh, young sophomore love. 

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* Peter Priesthood

That Time of the Month

End-of-the-months always make me nervous.

Because on the last few days, I'm always just waiting for it to happen.

Despite having three Pandora accounts, I always manage to exhaust my free hours way before the 30th. And then Pandora kicks me out.

The thesis killed all my hours by May 10th. So I finally forked out a whooping 99 cents for unlimited songs for the rest of this month.

It's so liberating not to have to count hours. I even let somebody use my account when they ran out to cultivate some good Pandora karma.

I just realized that today's May 31st.

I can't describe how sad I am right now.

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And no, I'm not talking about that time of the month (in case you're my mother and you're wondering).