And you’re pretty much always like, “Um, really, Sally? It’s just a cold. Get over it.”?

Well, this time I totally mean it, you guys.

I’m going to die.

This weekend, to be exact.

(In an effort to be unreasonably hopeful, I’ve [...]]]>

You know how I’m pretty much always saying I’m going to die?

And you’re pretty much always like, “Um, really, Sally? It’s just a cold. Get over it.”?

Well, this time I totally mean it, you guys.

I’m going to die.

This weekend, to be exact.

(In an effort to be unreasonably hopeful, I’ve decided to label this post “Part 1″ — you know, in the off-chance that after this weekend I still might be able to use my limbs. But, most likely, this is my last blog post ever. I hope you like it. And if you don’t, you’re just going to have to pretend you do because it’s not nice to think ill thoughts of dead people’s blog posts.)

You see, I signed up to run a 10K race.

And that race just so happens to be this weekend.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

I’m sure you’re all, “What? A 10K? Really? Isn’t that like six miles or something? My grandmother runs six miles every morning. And she’s in a wheelchair. And attached to an oxygen tank. Because she happens to be in a coma.”

Okay, I’ll admit that running a 10K may not sound that scary to most people. Heck, it doesn’t even sound that scary to me. And pretty much everything sounds scary to me. Even stuff that other people find enjoyable. Like puppies and babies and beaches.

Day at the beach? I DON'T THINK SO.

Besides, it’s not like this is my first race.

You may not believe this, but I used to run races pretty regularly back when I lived in Japan. Heck, I hardly believe it.

You see, I’ve never exactly been the runner type, but I had all these pushy, runner-type friends. They’d sign up for races and then get me sign up with them by telling me I’d get a free t-shirt. And while I’m not exactly  the runner type, I am totally the free-t-shirt type.

Instead, I got fish.

I ran a 5K and all I got was this box of freeze-dried fish.

During my last year in Japan, I ran a full marathon. I almost lost a kneecap, and I had to deal with the humiliation of running slower than a man dressed in a full body monkey costume.

Six months of training & I end up behind this.

But, still, I finished the thing.

And it was totally worth it because I got a free t-shirt and a free towel. Oh yeah, and because of the wonderful sense of accomplishment I got. But mostly because of the free towel.

So why am I freaking out about a little, old 10K?

The thing about this particular 10K is that it’s on top of a wall.

The Great Wall to be exact.

I should probably mention here that I’ve never even walked on the Great Wall. The closest I’ve gotten to the Great Wall was when I was in Beijing last year, and I took photos of myself in front of a mural of the Great Wall at a KFC.

Even that didn’t end well.

Back in February when I signed up for the race, it seemed like a manageable goal. I had been running pretty regularly. I had re-joined the gym. I was ready to kick a little 2012 butt.

I could do this thing.

I remained hopeful. Even if everyone else thought I was crazy.

When I told my mom about the race, her response was to tell me I was going to die. Granted, this is my mom’s usual response to most of my plans. It’s possible my mom thinks I’m going to die even more often than I think I’m going to die. And I bet you didn’t even think that was possible.

“Well,” she said, “Make sure they don’t move your body very far. When I come to pick it up, I want to see all the good stuff. I don’t want to have to go to some place I’ve never even heard of. ”

Then she paused.

I thought maybe she was regretting what she had just said, like the whole part about HOW I WAS GOING TO DIE AND THAT SHE’D HAVE TO COME PICK UP MY DEAD BODY.

Maybe she’d even offer up some words of encouragement. Although, frankly, my mom is not exactly the “words of encouragement” type. (Maybe you noticed?)

Nope.

Instead, she just kept going, “Actually, your father would probably go instead of me. He always gets to do the fun stuff like that.”

Right.

At least they’ve got that sorted.

The full impact of what I’d signed up for didn’t hit me until about a month ago, when my race packet was delivered.

Ahhh! What have I done?

Inside the race packet was a big glossy pamphlet with information about the race. The pamphlet is full of maps and timetables and a page of tips “from the medical team.” These tips included stuff like, “Always listen to your body” and “Consume salty foods in the days leading up to the race.” (I guess that means I better start shoving more potato chips into my face. Doctor’s orders and all! I can honestly say this is the first time both my body and doctors have agreed on something.)

The pamphlet is also full of photos like this one:

And this one:

And this one:

Pretty much all of the photos feature people who look a lot fitter than me. And all of them look like they’re on the brink of death.

Or on the brink of falling off the Wall.

I have started referring to this pamphlet as “The Handbook for My Imminent Demise.” And I try not to look at it too much as it kind of makes me hyperventilate.

So, yeah, you guys.

I’m totally going to die.

So, lest this be my last blog post, I have a few requests.

I’d like to be buried in my bathrobe. Because I’m all about dying the way I lived.

I’d also like my couch donated to charity as it’s pretty much my most prized possession. (Okay, so, technically, it’s not my possession at all. But, still, this is my dying wish, so it has to be granted, right?)

And I’d like my Macbook set on fire as this thing is full of emo journal entries, incriminating drunken photos and Ke$ha songs. And that’s not really how I want to be remembered.

I’d rather be remembered like this:

Is this photo etched in your memory, yet? Yes? My job here is done.

And, yeah, make sure they don’t move my body very far. Because my mom wants to see all the good stuff.

Have you ever signed up for something that you totally thought was going to kill you? Did it kill you? (Okay, I realize that if you’re dead right now it’s probably going to be pretty hard for you to leave a comment, but try anyway, okay?)

I found lady shoes in my size! And I didn’t even have to leave the country!

Now, I know this may not qualify as a miracle in your book, but it should be obvious to you by now that we’re reading from two totally different books here.

You [...]]]>

A miracle has happened, you guys!

I found lady shoes in my size! And I didn’t even have to leave the country!

Now, I know this may not qualify as a miracle in your book, but it should be obvious to you by now that we’re reading from two totally different books here.

You see, I have large feet — even by American standards. I usually wear an American size 10 or 11, which is a size 42 or 43 in China.

Even in the States, I have trouble finding shoes that fit me. Or, at least, shoes that fit and are cute at the same time. Because, apparently, shoe designers think girls with big feet don’t like cute things.

Either that or all the big-footed-girls have beat me to the cute things.

But finding cute lady shoes in my size in Asia is pretty much impossible.

Heck, finding any shoes in my size in Asia can be tricky.

Flip-flop of the gods outside of a temple in Tokyo. These might actually fit me.

The last time I bought new running shoes in China, I had to buy the largest pair of men’s shoes they had available.

The shop attendant thought I was totally kidding and kept on trying to get me to cram my feet into smaller shoes. When she finally realized that I wasn’t playing some elaborate game of Mess With the Local, she got this look on her face.

It was like a combination of horror and disbelief.

Mostly horror.

Probably because she was worried I might start marauding around town eating helpless village folk.

Washing down my lunch of village folk. With a lychee cosmopolitan. As you do.

Before my trip to the Harbin this past January, I spent days scouring every single store in Wuxi searching for a pair of boots that would fit me.

The night before my trip, I finally found a pair of Uggs-like boots in my size in one of the grocery stores.

They’re really huge and make my feet look even more Sasquatch-like than usual.

Cold weather makes you do bad things. Like buy Uggs.

In fact, it’s possible they’re not even boots, but slippers for giant people who never leave the house for fear of sending the village people into a panic. Or possibly they’re hoof-coverings for cows or some other large livestock animals.

But, hey, they kept me from freezing off any of my toes as I was scrambling around in all the ice and snow. This was a good thing as I kind of like my toes. Even though, losing a few of them might mean I could, quite possibly, fit into a size eight. Do you know how many cute shoes I could buy if I were a size eight? I mean, do you?

I knew before I moved to China that I would have trouble finding shoes here, but I still only brought two pairs of shoes with me. I didn’t even bring a pair of sandals because, apparently, I thought my feet would have to be fully covered the entire time I was in China.

You see, I was going through this really annoying minimalist stage in my life right before I moved here. I had just spent a year roughing it in Southeast Asia during which I wore the same pair of flip-flops every single day. That is when I was being all fancy by wearing footwear. Quite often I was barefoot as shoes aren’t really recommended in the rice paddy — as you need your toes to help you grip the mud so you don’t fall down so much.

Shoes, schmoes.

When I arrived home, I started giving away all my personal belongings without a worry in the world that I might actually, you know, need some stuff in China.

Because, hey, I was a rolling stone!

This rolling stone didn’t need strappy sandals! Or really any sandals! At all!

All I needed was two pairs of sensible black flats, and I’d be fine, right?

Well, this rolling stone might not have gathered much moss.

But my shoes certainly have.

Or maybe that’s mold they’ve been gathering.

Either way, after a year of non-stop wear, my two pairs of shoes are on the brink of disintegration.

I knew the day would come when I’d either have to break down and buy some men’s dress shoes so I’d have something appropriate to wear to work. Or get really crafty with some super glue and spray paint.

And then the miracle happened.

Yes, that miracle.

I was in this huge sporting goods store in Shanghai this weekend, when I rounded a corner and spotted a big huge rack of sporty Mary Jane shoes. And there at the very tippy top of the rack was a pair in my size.

Now, I’m not usually into sporty shoes. Mostly because I’m not really into sports. Or really anything that reminds me of gym class.

But I knew I needed those shoes.

They had flowers on them, you guys. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to buy shoes with flowers on them? I mean, do you?

Flowers!

Unfortunately, the pair I needed was way out of my reach. They were at least eight feet up because, apparently, any lady with feet as large as mine must also be some kind of giantess.

But I wasn’t about to let that stop me from getting them. I positioned myself below the rack and started jumping up and down. And waving my arms frantically above my head. And grunting. Loudly.

This didn’t work.

I glanced around in search of a salesperson to help me.

There was no one.

I found this a bit odd as in most stores in China there always seems to be a salesperson hovering around trying to convince you to buy something they think you totally need – like two pounds of laundry detergent or individually packaged chicken feet.

Can I interest you in a nice chicken foot or two?

But for some reason there was no staff to be seen that day. It’s possible they were all just hiding in the backroom waiting for the big-footed, grunty, white woman to go away and not eat any of them.

Undeterred, I came up with a genius plan to throw one of the smaller pairs of shoes from a lower shelf at the larger pair of shoes on the top shelf in the hopes of dislodging them.

I should probably mention here that I’m not particularly good at throwing stuff. Or at least, I’m not good at throwing stuff at any kind of target. I can throw stuff. But there’s really no telling where that stuff might land.

But, hey, being surrounded by all those athletic goods kind of made me feel athletic — or at least like a person who was born with hand-eye coordination.

Luckily for me, my scheme totally worked.

The shoes tumbled into my hands.

I shoved them on to my feet.

And they fit.

I’m telling you guys, it was just like that moment at the end of Cinderella. Except these shoes weren’t made of glass. Plus, I don’t remember Cinderella having to hurl stuff around in the middle of a sporting goods store. She probably just had some mice do that for her.

And, then, as I was moseying through the sandal aisle, I came across this pair of lovely lady sandals in my size. Look, they have flowers on them, too! And I didn’t even have to throw anything to get them.

More flowers! Bestill my heart!

Seriously, it was like the sporting goods store of miracles! Miracles, I say!

(Yes, yes, I know. This is not your definition of the word “miracle.” But, if the word “miracle” can be used to describe a type of mayonnaise, I’m pretty sure I can use it to talk about shoes.)

Have you ever had a shopping miracle? What did you buy?

Time to decide what the heck I’m doing with my life.

My semester-long contract at the university where I’m currently teaching in China is quickly coming to an end, and I’ve had to decide if I’m sticking around another semester or moving on.

Doesn’t it seem like [...]]]>

It’s that time of year again, folks.

Time to decide what the heck I’m doing with my life.

My semester-long contract at the university where I’m currently teaching in China is quickly coming to an end, and I’ve had to decide if I’m sticking around another semester or moving on.

Doesn’t it seem like I was just hemming and hawing over this very same decision like six months ago? And, then, like six months before that?

Umm, probably because I was.

This time, though, things were a bit different. I hardly hemmed and hawed at all. Okay, maybe I hemmed a bit. But I swear there was absolutely no hawing.

You see, my mind has been made up for some time now.

This is kind of a new thing for me as I’m not really into making up my mind. At least not in any kind of timely fashion. Most of my decisions require me writing up endless lists of reasons why I should do one thing. And then endless reasons why I should do another thing. And then a bunch of reasons why I should really stop writing up reasons and just come up with a decision already.

Even figuring out what I want for breakfast can take me a good thirty minutes. I mean, deciding between sweet and savory is really, really hard, you guys. Especially when it’s before noon and I haven’t even had any coffee. And then as soon as I tell the waitress that, yes, I do want the Eggs Benedict, I’m instantly filled with regret and mournful thoughts of all the pancakes I won’t be eating.

Sweet or savory? That is the question.

Deciding stuff is hard, people.

But not this time.

This time I knew what I wanted to do.

I wanted to go home.

Yep, home-home.

Take that, Thomas Wolfe.

My plan at the moment is to go home to Buffalo this summer. While there, I’m hoping to get a short-term teaching position for a semester or two –  enough time to hang out with my family and friends, get some work done on my writing, and, you know, eat lots of cheese.

And then I’ll head overseas again.

Of course, this plan could always change. The last time I said I was going home for “a little while,” I ended up staying there for five years.

And I really kind of loved it.

Yay, Buffalo!

I got to eat a lot of Sunday dinners with my family.

I made a lot of great friends.

I started performing improv comedy again.

I went to grad school.

I dated boys. And I didn’t even have to trick them into dating me.

And I ate a lot of cheese.

Mmm, cheese, how I miss you.

I can imagine worse fates, really.

Even though I’ve known I wanted to go home for some time now, that doesn’t mean deciding to leave China was an easy decision.

It wasn’t.

I’ll miss a lot of things about my life in China.

I’ll miss the parks that surround the campus where I live.

I’ll miss my favorite bubble tea place and my favorite fruit vendor and my favorite pork sandwich place.

Mmmm, pork.

I’ll miss the few friends that I’ve made here.

I’ll miss my students — or at least a lot of them. Even though I’m not entirely sure they’ll miss me as I’m always doing annoying stuff like giving them homework. And the other week one of my students gave me a knife, and I’m still not sure if it was a gift or a threat.

Either this says, "Thanks for teaching me! Here's a present" or "Give me a good grade or I'll cut you."

I’ll miss all the lovely local people I’ve met — especially the taxi drivers. This past weekend, one of them told me I smelled better than a new car. I mean, seriously, how could a girl not miss sweet talk like that?

And, well, there’s my couch. I’m really going to miss my couch.

How am I ever going to be able to leave THIS?

Even though the decision was a hard one, I know it’s the right one for me right now.

I’m really looking forward to being home for the holidays this year for the first time in five years.

Sure, my trusty stand-in, Sally-On-A-Stick, has managed to attend quite a few hometown festivities in my absence over the past five years.

Enjoying some tasty Buffalo treats.

But, after five and a half years, she’s starting to look a bit ragged around the edges. After all, partying can take a lot out of a girl – especially if that girl happens to be made out of cardstock and a popsicle sticks.

And I’m really starting to doubt her judgment. Especially when I see photos of her like this on Facebook.

Just another night on the town... or a plea for help?

I’m also really looking forward to spending some time with my nieces and nephews.

I feel like I need to go home now while they’re still little. You know, and still really easy to impress.

The last time I went home I gave one of my nephews a huge Ziploc bag full of coins from every country I had visited. And I taught my nieces how to put stickers on their toes.

Best. Aunt. Ever.

This pretty much made me the most awesome aunt alive.

In a few more years, they’ll be teenagers, and I have a feeling the only way I’ll be able to win them over then is by buying them iPads or booze. And I can’t really afford to buy them all iPads. Not that I’m saying I’d buy them booze. But I may, you know, fill up an empty bottle with Kool-Aid and tell them that it’s Boone’s Strawberry Hill just so I can keep a little bit of my cool aunt street cred. Just don’t tell my brothers and sister that. (Hey, siblings, just kidding. Ha ha. Really. I would never give your kids fake booze. Unless you were cool with that. By the way, are you cool with that?)

And I’m also really looking forward to seeing lots of my old friends again. Sure, I’m worried that many of these friendships have changed since I’ve been gone.

But, you know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder.

Well, you know what else makes the heart grow fonder?

Wine.

Distance, schmistance.

So I’m sure as long as there’s plenty of wine around during our reunions, we’ll be good.

And, okay, maybe I’m really looking forward to all the cheese.

Have you ever gone home again after an extended period away? How did it go?

I’m the first one to [...]]]>

In the past fourteen months that I’ve been living in Wuxi, I have to say I’ve really grown to love this city. Kind of in the same way you grow to love your annoying little sister. Or the nerdy kid in your high school that you’ve known since kindergarten.

I’m the first one to pick on Wuxi, but if anyone else talks smack about this city, I swear, I’ll totally punch that person in the face. At least in my imagination. I mean, I’m not really into violence. Or confrontation. Or really even disagreeing with people because arguing makes me anxious. So if we’re in public, I’ll probably just be like, “Yeah, you’re right. Wuxi totally sucks.” But later when I’m remembering the conversation in my head, I’d be all like, “What? Wuxi doesn’t suck! You suck!” And, then, bang, right in the face.

Sure, Wuxi is no Beijing. There are no impressive historic monuments like the Forbidden City or the Great Wall here.

The closest thing we have is this replica of the Great Wall at one of the local theme parks. I dubbed it the “Not-So-Great Wall.” And then I took this picture:

Practically the real thing.

And, while Wuxi may only be a short, hour-long train ride away from Shanghai, it is no Shanghai. There are no fancy European buildings and fancy European restaurants where you can get fancy European drinks that cost expensive European prices.

Not quite European. But still fancy. And expensive.

But you can get a heap of noodles and a beer for less than two dollars.

Wuxi's idea of fine dining. That's a FRESH toilet paper roll, y'all.

Even though it may not be the most exciting place to live or visit, Wuxi is a good place.

I swear.

Even the posters say so.

Other mottoes considered: "Wuxi is okay." & "Wuxi. There are worse places."

And it’s not as if this city isn’t totally devoid of exciting sights.

I mean, we have Taihu Lake, which happens to be China’s third largest lake. Third largest, people! (Don’t ask me where China’s first and second largest lakes are. Wherever they are, I’m sure they’re totally lame.)

Taihu Lake. Totally not lame. Not like those other lakes.

And Wuxi is home to the Lingshan Wonderland of Buddhism.

Welcome to the Wonderland!

As the name suggests, it’s kind of like Disneyland.

That is if Disneyland had more incense.

And, instead of everyone clamoring to get their pictures taken with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, people clamor to get their pictures taken with Buddha statues.

The main attraction at the Lingshan Wonderland is this big guy right here:

And by “big,” I mean really, really big. Like eighty-eight-meters-high-and-seven-hundred-tons-of-bronze big.

Granted, the Lingshan Buddha is not the biggest Buddha statue in the world. Someone told me it’s like the eighth or ninth largest outdoor Buddha statue. Or maybe the tenth or fifteenth. I don’t know. Whatever. It’s big. Let’s leave it at that.

I don’t think it’s even the biggest Buddha statue in China.

But, after spending all of last Sunday at the park, I’m pretty sure the Lingshan Buddha is the most razzley-dazzley Buddha statue in the world.

Because, seriously, people, not to brag or anything, but I’ve seen a fair share of big Buddha statues in my day. But I don’t remember any of those other big Buddha statues being accompanied by a musical fountain show complete with a lotus giving birth to a golden baby Buddha.

And, while most of the other big Buddha statues I’ve seen have come equipped with perfectly lovely temples, this Buddha had two massive, brand spanking new palaces.

Yup.

Palaces.

Two of them.

Because if you’re made out of seven-hundred tons of bronze, that’s just how you roll.

Lingshan Brahma Palace

Only one of the palaces was open to the public as the other is still under construction.

Before we could go inside, we had to put these shoe covers on our feet. That’s how I knew it was going to be a real high class kind of place. You just know you’re going to some place ritzy when even your shoes have to get dressed up.

The inside of the palace was all marbley and shiny. It looked a lot like a cathedral. Or maybe like a really high-end hotel in Vegas.

Oooo, fancy.

There was a sparkly, light-up ceiling.

Oooo, sparkly.

And a gold, filigreed Buddha hovering in front of a sea of stained glass, which according to the sign was made out of precious gems. I didn’t even know you could make stained glass out of gems. See, I told you this place was all razzle-dazzle!

Oooo, goldeny.

Oh, and, there was a multimedia stage show.

Yup. You heard me.

I said stage show.

I’m not sure what the show was called, but I’m referring to it as “Buddha: the Musical.”

The show focused mainly on Buddha’s early life – you know, back before he was a Buddha and was just a prince hanging out in a lavish palace with lots of belly dancers and stuff.

Buddha: the younger years. Back when his clothes were shiny.

They kind of glossed over the bit where he leaves his life of worldly pleasures to pursue asceticism and then enlightenment. Probably because that kind of thing doesn’t really make for very good song and dance numbers.

I think I watched the entire production with my mouth gaping open. It’s possible I got hypnotized by all the sequins. I did manage to snap out of my sequin-induced hypnosis long enough to take this short video, though.

I know, right?

I’m totally showing this video to the next person who talks trash about Wuxi. That should prove to them just how special Wuxi truly is.

And, if not, it should hypnotize them long enough for me to punch them in the face. And then I’ll run away before they can catch me.

Do you love where you live? Was it love at first sight? Or one of those slow growing loves?

Like, “What’s the food like?”

My answer: Hmm. Let’s see. I can no longer fit into any of my pants. Does that answer your [...]]]>

Since moving to China over a year ago, I’ve gotten lots of questions from curious friends, family members and random peoples I meet on the Internet about my life here.

Like, “What’s the food like?”

My answer: Hmm. Let’s see. I can no longer fit into any of my pants. Does that answer your question?

No?

Then how about this:

Who cares about pants when there are dumplings to eat?

Also, “How much Chinese do you need to speak to be able to survive?”

My answer: Well, this really depends on your definition of “survive.” If by “survive” you mean walking around pointing and grunting at people and screaming out the few vocabulary words you know at random then I’d say about ten words will do it.

And, of course, “How’s a hot lady like yourself still single in a country of almost 30 million bachelors?

My answer: I know, right?

Okay, nobody really asks me this question, but, seriously, they should. Because, for real, people, this one’s a true stumper. I mean, have you met me? Honestly, what Chinese guy in his right mind wouldn’t want to marry this:

Hello there, boys. Call me.

Out of all the questions that I get asked on a regular basis probably the most frequent question I get is how I am able to use Facebook and Twitter when, you know, those things are kind of illegal here.

Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to China it’s that you don’t get anywhere in this country without breaking a few rules.

Rules, schmules.

I’ve seen people smoking in front of no smoking signs and parking in front of no parking signs.

I’ve been practically mowed over by motorbikes driving on the sidewalk even though there is almost always a small vehicle lane right next to the sidewalk. (In their defense, there’s almost always a massive tour bus or some other decidedly unsmall vehicle in the small vehicle lane. So, really, where else is the motorbike supposed to drive except on the sidewalk?)

And, don’t even get me started on all the fashion rules that get broken in this country.

I'm not sure which fashion rules this outfit is breaking... but I'm pretty sure it's breaking a few of them.

Personally, I find all the rule-breaking a bit disconcerting at times as I’m a big fan of rules and following the law.

Mostly because I doubt I’d last very long in prison. I don’t know how to make a shiv. And I’d look really horrible in a jumpsuit. Especially an orange one. Orange is really not my color.

I think the only time I ever broke the law was when my college roommate dared me to steal a Christmas wreath from a huge bin outside of the Walmart. It took me about thirty minutes of moseying around nervously in front of the store to muster up the courage. Then while my roommate pulled the car around, I grabbed a wreath and dove into the backseat screaming, “Drive, woman! They’re on to us.”

I’m not entirely sure who “they” were as nobody had even noticed.

And if they had, nobody seemed to care.

Probably because it was after Christmas at that point, and, come to think of it, that bin was probably a dumpster.

So, yeah, I’m not exactly your typical law-breaker.

But, nobody gets between me and my Internet – not even China and its pesky laws.

Hands off my Internet, yo.

Before I moved to China, I asked some friends already living here how they got their Internets and was informed I’d need to subscribe to a VPN service.

VPN stands for Virtual Personal Network, which sounds totally awesome, right? Like, I have my very own little chunk of the Internet that no one else is allowed to use. I think I’m going to start yelling things like, “You kids get off my Internet.” And waving my laptop around menacingly at everyone.

Basically, the VPN service allows me to log on from an American IP address even though I’m in China. (Don’t ask me what an IP address is. I already explained VPN, and now my brain is tired. Do I have to do everything for you, people? Besides, I have no idea, okay?)

I’m not really sure how the whole thing works.

I suspect witchcraft is involved.

According to the website for the VPN service I use, there is something called an “encrypted tunnel”. Which sounds pretty witchcrafty, if you ask me.

Or, maybe, it’s like when you were a kid and you wanted to dig a hole to China. Except I’m digging a hole to America. With the Internet. Which is pretty awesome as I’m really not a fan of manual labor.

Digging a hole to America the old-fashioned way. Sucker.

All I know is one moment I’m hanging out in Wuxi.

Yes, this is a photo I took of my computer screen because I STILL don't know how to do a screen shot. One day. I promise.

And the next, I’m chilling in sunny Los Angeles.

LA, baby!

You’d think I’d have a better tan by now.

And since I’m logging on from an American IP address that means I not only get access to Facebook and Twitter and all the other sites banned in China, I also get access to sites that I usually can’t get when I’m outside of the States. Like, all the ones with TV shows on them and stuff.

This is kind of awesome since I really love bad reality television, and I’d hate to think what my life would be like without regular doses of The Bachelor or Dance Moms Miami.

It’s also kind of bad. Because, you know, if China ever starts cracking down on illegal Internet-getting gangsters like myself, the police won’t have to go very far to find me. As I’ll probably be sitting on my couch doing this.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

Just in case I end up in prison, I should see if I can find a reality TV show that will show me how to make a shiv. And, umm, anyone know what color the jumpsuits are in Chinese jail?

Have you ever broken the law for a good reason? Like for the Internet?

I usually just [...]]]>

A few weeks ago, the right side of my jaw started to hurt. I didn’t think too much of it at first. I’ve suffered through plenty of weird mystery pains and ailments since moving to China – a twitchy eyeball, a stiff neck, blotchy skin rashes, an abdomen twinge or two.

I usually just take these as more signs that China is trying to kill me – you know, by slowly turning all my body parts against me.

But then the pain persisted and I knew I’d have to go the dentist’s if I wanted to make it through the month without my face exploding.

I had been meaning to go to the dentist for some time now.

But I kept on putting it off.

Just like I’ve been putting off mailing out these presents to my family. I should probably mention these are Christmas presents. Yes, the Christmas that was in December.

Merry Christmas, family! What's that? It's April? Well, yes, there's that.

I haven’t been putting off the visit because I hate dentists – well, I don’t hate them as a people or anything.

I adored my dentist in Japan. If only because he was one of the few men I met in Japan who wasn’t absolutely petrified to be within a few feet of me.

You see, for some reason, most of the Japanese guys I met seemed to be really intimidated by me – like to the point of bringing along a chaperone when they went on dates with me. I don’t know what on Earth would make them feel that way.

Me? Intimidating? How can that be?

When I’m in the States, I usually go to my childhood dentist. This man knew me back when I had a kid-mullet. He’s like family. Except I have to pay him to hang out with me.

The kid-mullet. From both sides. Fantastic.

No, I don’t hate dentists.

But I do totally hate my teeth.

My teeth suck.

They’re super sensitive, which makes it hard for me to eat really cold food or really hot food or really sweet food. Not like that really stops me, though.

Obviously.

Teeth pain? Bah! I have cream puffs to eat!

My teeth break and chip all the time.

I’ve had more than my fair share of fillings.

And four root canals.

Yes, four.

Part of the problem is that I spent most of my younger years thinking I was immune to stuff like plaque and didn’t bother to floss until I was, like, twenty-five. (Listen to me, kids, floss your teeth already. Take it from this old lady who’s not even sure which teeth are hers anymore.)

Plus, my jaw does this thing at night where it clenches up. So while the rest of my body is in sleep mode, my mouth is set to self-destruct. And, even though I wear a mouth guard while I sleep, all that pressure hasn’t done my incisors any favors.

Pretty much every time I go to the dentist, I’m told that I have some new tooth problem that needs to be fixed.

And, if I happen to be in Asia, this problem is usually fixed with little to no Novocain. Because, apparently in Asia, everyone’s a total bad ass. They’re all like, “Sure, go ahead, pull out as many teeth as you like. But don’t numb me up. I need to sing karaoke later.”

Why let dental work stop this?

The last time I went to the dentist I was in Chiang Mai. After having my teeth cleaned, I was informed that I needed to have one of my fillings replaced.

The dentist cheerily declared, “This is going to be a deep one!” and promptly started drilling.

Like, into my head.

With a very large, loud drilly thing.

It wasn’t until I had started flailing in the chair, that she stopped, looked at me quizzically and asked, “Oh, do you need some painkiller?”

I had heard similar stories about the dentists in China. My friend, MaryAnne, had a dentist in Shanghai drill a hole into her tooth and clean it out with a pointy stick, and the man didn’t even give her a Tylenol.

So, yeah, I can’t say I was too eager to experience my first dental visit in China.

But last week’s trip to the dentist was really not that bad.

It was almost, dare I say it, enjoyable — well, as enjoyable as something like that can be given the fact that the dentist kept poking me in the mouth with a pointy stick.

My dentist’s office turned out to be located in super swish shopping plaza in a ritzy part of town, where all the fancy foreign companies are located.

Ooo, since 2005. Fahhncy.

The plaza had all kinds of fancy places – the kind of places I imagine that people who work at fancy foreign companies like to go to. There was a European deli, an upscale wine shop, some coffee shops, a British pub and some place called “meat restaurant.”

Mmm... meat.

And there was a foot massage place. But only for the young ladies.

No men... or old ladies allowed!

This was quite a change of pace from my neighborhood, where most of the restaurants don’t have fancy stuff like espresso machines or signs in English or, ahem, walls.

Who needs walls when you have tarp?

My dentist’s office was also very fancy and foreign – in fact, it turned out to be part of a Japanese chain of dental clinics.

There was even a little Japanese garden outside. You know, so you can have your moment of Zen before going inside to have someone poke at you with a pointy stick.

Stepping inside the clinic was kind of like stepping out of China and directly into Japan.

Partly because the receptionist greeted me in Japanese when I entered — just like they do at sushi restaurants.

And partly because it was super clean – like even cleaner than Japan. And Japan is really, really clean, so I didn’t think that kind of thing was even possible.

Ooo, shiny.

After I stopped gaping at the weird parallel universe I had just entered, I was handed a form to fill out. The form had the usual questions – about health and previous dental treatments.

Along with a few not so usual questions.

Like, one question asked: “For treatment, what kind of dental material would you like for us to use?”

Then you had to check one of two possible answers.

Either:

a. Economical

Or:

b. Only the best! Money is no object! In fact, I’m thinking of having all my teeth replaced with diamonds and other semiprecious gems. Can you do that for me? (Okay, it’s possible I paraphrased this second option.)

I checked the “economical” option but secretly wished that I could be one of those people with a fancy job that gives me fancy dental insurance so I could afford fancy dental work. And not fillings made out of the recycled tinfoil and old chewing gum.

After I filled out the form, I was whisked off by the dental hygienist, who was wearing a spotless white uniform and one of those cute little paper nurse’s hats.

My dentist, a fiftyish woman with her hair tidily tucked under a surgical cap, greeted me in perfect English and then took me to the X-ray room.

She studied my X-rays and poked around at my molars and then asked me if I had gotten my last root canal in Japan. (Seriously, who knew these things were culturally sensitive?)

She then declared that my face was not going to explode.

I didn’t even need another root canal or a new filling.

All I needed was a shiny, new mouth guard.

After she cleaned my teeth, she stuffed this putty into my mouth to fit me for my new mouth guard and told me to come back in a week to pick it up.

I got my new mouth guard on Friday, and I have to say it’s pretty sweet – a lot less noticeable and much more lightweight than my old one so it doesn’t make me look quite as much like a quarterback like my old one used to.

See? You can barely tell my teeth are covered in plastic... right?

I’d like to think this is because it’s made of some kind of state-of-the-art dental material imported directly from Japan. And not, say, plastic wrap and hot glue.

Considering my dentist’s visit was such a success, I think it’s about time I got around to doing all the other tasks that have been clogging up my to-do list for months.

Like, maybe, I’ll finally send out those packages to my family. After all, Arbor Day is coming up, and you never can get enough Arbor Day presents, can you? I know I can’t.

Have you ever put something off for a really long time… and then it didn’t turn out to be nearly as bad as you thought it was going to be?

I don’t mean to be dramatic or anything, but I think China is finally going to kill me this time.

(Okay, so maybe I do mean to be just the teensiest bit dramatic. I mean, have you met me? When am I not trying to be dramatic? Besides, I’m sick. This [...]]]>

I’m sick, guys.

I don’t mean to be dramatic or anything, but I think China is finally going to kill me this time.

(Okay, so maybe I do mean to be just the teensiest bit dramatic. I mean, have you met me? When am I not trying to be dramatic? Besides, I’m sick. This gives me, like, a total free pass to be as dramatic as I want, okay?)

It all started this past Sunday when I woke up with a headache and a sore throat. I wasn’t that concerned at first. I had gone out the night before with a friend, and we had ended up in a dance club that happened to be blaring Chinese pop music from the sound system and America’s Funniest Home Videos on the huge video screens above the dance floor. So, I mean, that was definitely reason enough for the headache. And the club was really smoky and, okay, maybe I saw fit to sing along a bit even though I don’t really know any Chinese pop music. So, yeah, that explained the sore throat.

But by Monday, I was a phlegmy, woozy, coughy, sneezy mess.

Sure, this may just sound like the common cold to you.

But, I assure you, there is nothing common about getting a cold in China. The past two times I’ve come down with a cold, it’s resulted in a lingering lung infection — the kind of lung infection that afflicts turn of the century orphans and coal miners. You know, the kind that doesn’t go away for two months. And, even then, you suspect it’s not totally gone. It’s just lurking in your body waiting to kill you after a raucous night at the Chinese dance club.

So, yeah, if you don’t hear from me in a week or so, it’s probably because I’ve finally succumbed to Black Lung or the Plague or whatever old timey disease China has been trying to kill me off with for the past year.

In case I do die, I would like you all to remember me like this:

PPF: Pink Pleather Forever. (I'm getting that engraved on my tombstone.)

And not like this:

I know it's going to be hard, but you're going to have to erase this image from your head, okay?

I don’t understand it, really.

I’ve been doing everything I can to stay healthy this year.

I’ve been stuffing myself full of fruit everyday. Okay, so, yeah, most of that fruit has been served on top of pancakes with a side of bacon.

Contains your daily intake of Vitamin C... and pork.

I’ve been working out – like at the gym and everything.

I’ve been drinking tons of fluids. So, okay, a lot of those fluids have been alcohol. But, I think we can all agree, that if your drinks are made out of ingredients you can’t pronounce and look like this, then they’re pretty much the same thing as a smoothie:

Just missing some protein powder, really.

Besides, when I was in Qingdao last week, the Tsingtao Beer Museum informed me that beer is considered a health food.

Drink your beer, people. It's good for you.

And, according to the Qingdao Wine Museum, wine is pretty much the answer to any and all health woes.

I am still waiting for the "weight reducing function" to kick in. How many bottles do I need to drink before that happens?

My little health kick has been working out really well so far. I’m able to run for a full hour without wheezing to death. I noticed some muscles in my upper arm the other day. I’ve been so full of positive energy that a few of my friends have threatened to slap me. And I didn’t get sick once this winter.

And it was a really long, cold winter. If I was going to get sick anytime this year, it would have been this winter.  

This winter was so bad that it made me do a few things I’m not entirely proud of. Like I bought a pair of Ugg-like boots. And wore them. In public. On several occasions.

China, you made me do this.

Mind you, the big problem this winter was not the temperature outside but the temperature inside. You see, I live in a big, drafty concrete building, which does not have any insulation or central heating. It’s been about as cozy as a parking garage in here. Except without the nice toasty exhaust fumes to keep me warm.

It hasn’t helped that my heater has been on the fritz pretty much all winter. I resorted to carrying my own personal heater around with me all the time.

My little pal, Heatie McHeaterstein III

And then a month or so ago, I noticed it was giving off this weird smell like it was melting. Because, well, it was melting. At that point I probably should have stopped using it, but I was cold. Like, really, really cold. Besides, I figured that a little electrical fire in my apartment would really help warm things up nicely.

Mind you, it’s not just my delicate, central-heating-spoiled foreigner self who has suffered this winter. In January, I asked one of my students where he would travel to if he could go anywhere, and he answered Russia. When I asked him why, he responded because they have central heating there. “When you go inside, you feel warm,” he said with such wonder in his voice.

Yes, this winter was that bad.

So bad that you actually entertain the thought of moving to Russia so you can get warm.

But in the past month, spring has finally sprung.

The birds have been singing.

The cherry blossoms have been blossoming and sending tiny white petals all over the sidewalks like confetti.

Wahoo! Spring!

Everyone’s shrugged off the big, puffy, winter parkas they’ve been wearing for months to don their springtime finery – which in China means lots of lace, bows, sparkles and, of course, leopard print. Even for the men.

Nothing says "day at the beach" like leopard print and your favorite man-purse!

And it’s not just the people. The dogs are also decked out in their seasonal best.

On her way to her own personal fashion show, for sure.

I momentarily stopped wearing scarves all the time. Even though I love wearing scarves all the time. I feel nothing fancies up a boring outfit like a nice scarf. Plus, I like to think scarves make me look sophisticated and European-like.

Scarf at the beach. I'm practically French.

I can’t believe I made it through the worst of the winter without so much as a sniffle only to get sick now. I mean, I don’t think I would have minded dying so much back when I couldn’t feel my toes. But now it just seems extra mean of China to try to kill me off when the weather’s been so nice.

But, I’m not going down without a fight, China. You hear me?

I’ve been stuffing myself full of oranges and Vitamin C.

I made a pot of chicken soup the size of Kansas.

I’ve pulled out the hardcore green tea – the kind that looks like twigs. Because, you know, the more your tea looks like nature, the more antioxidants it’s got in it, I’m sure of it.

Mmm... twigs.

Now, just to stock up on some beer and wine. And some margaritas. Because, hey, even if it doesn’t help me kick this cold, at least I’ll die happy.

What’s your secret remedy for battling the common cold?

The money [...]]]>

This past week was Qingming Festival here in China. Often referred to as “Tomb-Sweeping Day,” the festival is a time to honor your ancestors by, well, sweeping their tombs and doing other ancestor-honoring stuff. Like leaving small offerings of food and wine and burning stacks of gold-colored paper meant to symbolize money.

The money thing is kind of like a postmortem version of Paypal, if you will. You burn the paper as a means of sending your forefathers and foremothers a little pocket change to use in the afterlife. Because, apparently, they don’t take American Express there. And you wouldn’t want to be without some spending cash in heaven as I hear the shopping there is really to die for. (Sorry. I’ll stop now.)

"Money" for sale.

As I had no tombs to sweep in China and school was canceled for three days for the  holiday, I decided to honor my ancestors another way – by taking a trip. Because I like to burn my money a different way — namely, by charging airfare to my credit card.

I managed to coerce a friend into joining me, and we headed off for the coastal city of Qingdao. Located south of Beijing on the Shandong Peninsula, Qingdao is home to a number of pretty beaches and the Tsingtao Beer Brewery.

It turns out that we weren’t the only ones who decided to honor our ancestors by booking a beachy, beer-filled vacation. Qingdao was positively packed during the three days that we were there.

Despite the blustery, chilly weather, the beaches and boardwalks were swarming with Chinese tourists determined to make the most out of their holiday.

Just another quiet day at the beach...

Which, of course, meant posing for photos.

Pointing randomly off into the distance is the new peace sign.

And wearing his and hers matching hoodies.

Children in full-on winter gear collected seashells and played in the sand.

And a few hardy souls showed up in skimpy Speedos to play beach volleyball and brave the freezing water.

Like Baywatch, really.

And, then, there was this lady, who wore what appeared to be a nylon ski mask the entire time. We suspect she must have been a Power Ranger. Because, really, think about it, there’s no other logical explanation for this, is there?

I expect this look to catch on.

The main reason I wanted to go to Qingdao, though, was not to visit the beaches, but to go to the Tsingtao Brewery and Beer Museum. You know, for my ancestors.

You see, I doubt my ancestors were exactly the beach-going types. I come from a long line of Midwestern farmers. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a whole lot of beachfront property in Indiana.

Besides, if I am any indication of what my forebears looked like, they must have been a sturdy lot, prone to being suspicious of Spandex. I highly doubt any of them would have eagerly embraced a chance to break out their Speedos.

But, I do have a feeling my ancestors were big fans of beer. That is if my ancestors were anything like my current family members.

The last time I went back to the Midwest for a family reunion, my cousins had set up a wet bar in my grandmother’s basement, and they were serving mojitos. So, yeah, I’d say it’s safe to say my ancestors probably imbibed a few.

This is what a family reunion looks like in my family. Oh yeah.

On the day we visited The Beer Museum, it also happened to be packed full of tourists – mostly large tour groups. Probably also intent on honoring their ancestors by taking photos of themselves in front of the beer-shaped fountain.

The museum featured displays about the history of Tsingtao Beer Company as well as some dusty old equipment and posters detailing how beer is made.

And lots of rather somber looking wax figures doing somber looking beer making stuff.

The solitary life of the beer scientist.

Frankly, I can’t say I paid that much attention to all the displays because, hey, who really wants to learn stuff while on vacation?

Honestly, I’d rather just believe my beer was manufactured by magical elves and fairies. And, apparently, according to the fine people at the Tsingtao Beer Museum, I’m really not that far off the mark.

The Beer Fairy... like Tinker Bell but drunker.

Besides, I imagine all that museumy stuff would have been of little interest to my ancestors. They probably had a lot of fields to plow and cows to milk or something. They didn’t have time to waste looking at wort collecting troughs. I mean, seriously, who has that kind of time?

Blergh! Not another wort collecting trough!

So I kind of just walked through the museum as quickly as possible, so I could get to the part where they serve you free beer and peanuts.

My ancestors would be so proud.

After visiting the Beer Museum, my friend and I decided to hit up the Qingdao Wine Museum.

Again, for the ancestors.

And because it happened to be right down the street from the Beer Museum.

Ooo, shiny!

This museum also had an abundance of rather somber-looking wax figures.

Ah, the solitary life of the guy who does whatever this guy is doing.

Except, because there wasn’t a whole lot of English signage in the museum, I’m not entirely sure what any of these wax figures had to do with wine.

Simply labeled "Napolean and Wine." Who needs more explanation than that, really?

Unfortunately, I don’t think my ancestors would have been as impressed by the Wine Museum. If only because the free glass of wine they serve you at the end of the tour was pretty bad. Like, so bad it made the bag of “strawberry flavor corn curls” taste kind of good.

Red wine & strawberry corn curls. An obvious pairing.

When my friend and I weren’t visiting alcohol-inspired museums or hanging out on the beach taking photos of Power Rangers, we were eating.

Again, for the ancestors. Because I have a feeling my ancestors probably really liked to eat.

Eating stuff on a stick.... for my people.

Plus, it’s hard not to eat in Qingdao as the food was pretty amazing.

I mean, the food in all the Chinese cities I’ve been to so far has been pretty amazing, but Qingdao has some of the best food I’ve ever eaten in this country. Seriously, how the fine people of Qingdao even fit into their Speedos, I will never know because I’m pretty certain I gained ten pounds in the three days I was there.

There was, of course, your usual selection of delicious Chinese street food, like stuff on sticks and steamed buns.

There was a bevy of seafood – everything from sea urchin to starfish.

While I can’t say I’m much of a sea urchin or starfish fan, I did have some grilled oysters and some octopus, both of which was really delicious.

Why, yes, all the photos I have of myself are of me stuffing food or beer into my face... why do you ask?

There were even a few unexpected food surprises, as well. One morning, I chanced upon a group of men selling slices of this thing:

Packed full of nuts, dried fruit and honey, it was like one big, delicious granola bar. I accidentally bought, like, two pounds of the stuff, and have been gnawing on it ever since.

And, then, there were all these little bakery stalls selling cream puffs, which tasted like heaven and happy thoughts.

I really probably should have set some of those cream puffs on fire to send them to my ancestors in the afterlife — just like how they do with the paper money. I think they really would have appreciated that.

But, as it was, I was too busy shoving them into my face.

It’s possible I ate, like, twenty of them in one sitting.

Cream puffs, get into my face.

I’m sure my ancestors would have been really proud of me.

And, then, they would probably have told me to go plow a field or something.

Have you ever traveled somewhere just to go to one specific museum or place of interest?

Plus, [...]]]>

Last Saturday, I went to Shanghai to celebrate my friend Jeannie’s birthday. About halfway through the evening, I found myself in a conversation with a German guy. Well, it wasn’t really much of a conversation. The music was really loud, so I couldn’t hear most of what he was shouting into my ear.

Plus, I kept on getting distracted by shiny stuff like the disco ball and the go-go dancers. Because, you know my friends and I like to frequent classy joints.

Keeping it classy, yo.

Right after he asked me the usual questions about why I was in China and how long I’d been in China and how long I planned to stay in China, he insisted on knowing how old I was.

Because, I guess in Germany they don’t have that rule about not asking a lady how old she is.

Either that or he didn’t think I was much of a lady.

I don’t know what would give him that idea.

Nothing says "lady" like pink pleather. Am I right or am I right?

When I informed him that I was thirty-six, he got a shocked look on his face. “Oh, you don’t look that old,” he said as he slowly started backing away from me. Possibly to avoid my biological clock exploding all over him.

How was I supposed to respond to that?

I entertained the thought of saying something like, “Why, thank you! I’ve had my entire face Botoxed. I mean, who needs emotions?”

Or, “Well, I’m technically thirty-six Earth years, but people from my planet don’t age as fast as humans.”

Or maybe, “I maintain my healthy glow by eating babies. Which reminds me, it’s snack time! Have any idea where I can get myself a baby?”

But, instead, I just went back to playing foosball with my friends. Because, as I said, my friends and I like to keep things real classy.

Practically chess, really.

The truth is I don’t feel like I’m thirty-six.

Not that I really know what thirty-six is supposed to feel like.

I mean, I still have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

I don’t own things that a thirty-six year old person should probably own – like a car or house or retirement plan or a hairbrush.

And, not to brag or anything, but I still wear the same size pants that I wore when I graduated from high school. Which, if you knew me in high school, you’d know this wasn’t bragging at all as somewhere in my junior year I decided I’d just start eating French fries and Little Debbie snack cakes for lunch everyday. Plus, it didn’t help that, unlike most people, I seem to have been born without any metabolism.

Ah, the good old days. At least, my eyebrows have gotten smaller.

But I have started to feel my age in little ways.

Like, I can’t drink as much as I used to.

Well, I can and I sometimes do, but I really, probably shouldn’t.

You see, back in my twenties, I was one of those annoying people who never got a hangover. While my roommate would be moaning and groaning the morning after a big night out, I’d be jumping out of bed at seven o’clock ready to start my day. After I cleaned the entire kitchen (making sure to bang all the kitchen cabinets along the way) while blaring Japanese dance music, I’d then start bragging about how I never got hangovers.

Now, I can see how this behavior might have been just the teensiest bit annoying.

It’s a good thing my roommate was usually too incapacitated to move as he probably would have strangled me.

In the past few years, things have changed, though.

Now when I have a big night out and have had a bit too much to drink, I am pretty much unable to function the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And really who has that kind of time to waste?

Definitely, not me.

I mean, judging from the look on the German guy’s face, I’m about three steps away from death. So it’s really important I use my little time left on this earth for living… rather than, say, hiding in my dark apartment, groaning and hoping that someone will show up at my door bearing gifts of hash browns and strong coffee.

And a cookie. The strong coffee should really come with a strong cookie.

So, in an effort to limit the amount of time I spend groaning and generally being useless, I’ve decided I really need to limit the amount of alcohol I drink on big nights out.

Not that I have many big nights out.

In fact, I’d say I have very few big nights out because, you know, big nights out require my putting on pants and leaving the house. Neither of which I happen to be a big fan of.

I suspect the fact that I don’t go out that much is part of the problem. You see, when I do go out, I’m like, “Look! I left my house! And I’m wearing pants! Let’s celebrate!”

And, then before I know it, I’ve had more drinks than I can remember. And I wake up the next day feeling like death and vowing to never put on pants and leave my house again. (Of course, I could always vow to stop drinking alcohol, but that seems a bit drastic.)

So one of my many resolutions this year was to limit myself to only two drinks when I go out. This goal seemed both moderate and reasonable.

And even though I’ve never been much of a fan of moderation or reason, I’ve done a pretty good job of sticking to my resolution so far.

Well, except for that time I went to karaoke and this happened:

Ahem.

It’s possible I had a bit too much to drink then.

Oh yeah, and when I went to Hong Kong I found myself drinking wine coolers outside of a 7-11 at two o’clock in the morning, watching drunk people dance in the streets. I should probably mention here that most of those drunk people were my friends. I should probably also mention that it’s possible I was one of those drunk people.

Yes, that is a garbage heap behind us. We like to keep things real, yo.

But, I think we can all agree, that what happens in karaoke or Hong Kong doesn’t really count.

This past weekend in Shanghai, I knew it was going to be hard to stick to my two-drink maximum.

First of all, when your friend informs you that she’s planning a big birthday bash in Shanghai, you feel it’s kind of your duty to show up ready to party.

Especially when that friend is this girl right here:

She brings the party. Obviously.

Secondly, we were going to be in Shanghai, where they have fancy restaurants that serve fancy drinks. The establishments I frequent in Wuxi are not exactly known for being very fancy.

In fact, they’re not even known for having walls.

Some of my local fine dining establishments.

Or fancy stuff like napkins.

Only the best for me! (Notice that's a FRESH toilet paper roll on the table. Fahhncy.)

As to be expected, I can’t say I did a very good job of sticking to my resolution.

I’m blaming our friend, MaryAnne, who started things off by taking Jeannie and I to this super swish Mexican restaurant for dinner. Not only did the restaurant have real napkins made out of real napkin material (and, not say, toilet paper material), it also had a happy hour special of two-for-one drinks.

So I ended up having four margaritas. Because I figured I would only count the margaritas I was paying for. Plus, they were made out of tamarind and passion fruit and a bunch of other stuff I couldn’t pronounce so they were practically smoothies.

Like a health shake, really... but with a little salt... and tequila.

I’d like to say that I stopped drinking after that.

But, uh, does this look like the face of a girl who stopped drinking?

This is my "It's Possible I Just Had 3 Mojitos" Face.

Uh, yeah, I didn’t think so.

Miraculously, though, I managed to wake up the next morning without a hangover.

This was a good thing, because even in Shanghai, no one will show up at your door bearing gifts of hash browns and strong coffee.

You have to walk all the way to the restaurant to get it.

Hello, there, hash browns. How are you this morning?

Which means you have to put on some pants and leave the house.

And that’s no easy feat if you have a hangover… especially at my age.

What about you? Do you feel your age? Or do you feel like a twenty-year-old on spring break? (Of course, if you ARE a twenty-year-old on spring break then you have an excuse. I, on the other hand, should probably start locking myself in the house.)

To help me achieve this goal, I’ve even posted a workout chart on my fridge. [...]]]>

One of my many New Year’s resolutions this year is to get back in shape. (I know. I’m sure you’ve never heard of that as a New Year’s resolution before. I’m really breaking some new ground here, aren’t I?)

To help me achieve this goal, I’ve even posted a workout chart on my fridge. To go with the to-do list of challenges I have taped on my wall. Because I’m the kind of person who won’t do anything unless I get to check things off a list or fill out a chart or something.

What? I have to get off my couch? Only if I get to fill out a chart.

I’ve managed to stick to a pretty regular running schedule much to my surprise (and, I’m sure, yours). Even though this involves my having to wake up really early and leave my apartment. Even on Saturdays and other days when I’m not technically required to leave my apartment.

My new found running success is mostly because I’ve managed to coerce one of my coworkers into being my running partner. Well, in all honesty, we’re more like running-plodding partners. She runs ahead, while I kind of plod behind her. But it’s really nice knowing that someone else is undergoing the torture with me. Even though she tends to look a lot less tortured than me.

Unfortunately, I’m not having nearly as much luck getting myself to the gym.

My gym, Joyland Fitness Club. I'm still waiting for the joy part to kick in.

I haven’t been successful in suckering any of my friends into joining my gym, so I’m pretty much left to my own devices. Which means I hardly ever go.

Mind you, I dutifully pack my gym bag a couple times a week and haul it with me to work with the intention of stopping off at the gym on my way home. Even though the gym is at least a five-minute bike ride out of my way.

But this weird thing happens on my bike ride back from work. Instead of turning towards the gym, my bike somehow ends up going straight home.

It’s not my fault.

I swear.

I think there might be something wrong with my bike.

My bike. Obviously not a fan of gyms. Or low-carb diets.

Besides, whose bright idea was it to build a gym that’s not technically even on my way home? I have to leave campus and cross at least two streets to get there. I mean, they might as well have built an obstacle course in front of the place.

Plus, I’m the kind of person who needs a special incentive to go to the gym.

And, let’s just say, being able to fit back into my pants is really not incentive enough for me. After all, who needs pants with waistbands? I live in China where pajamas are considered appropriate going out attire.

Looking good, ladies.

In Japan, I would go to the gym solely so I could use the locker room after my workout. I’m telling you the locker rooms in Japanese gyms are like spas – only nicer. One gym I went to had a bank of massage chairs and these makeup tables tricked out with fancy lights and mysterious lotions and potions. Another gym had seven different hot tubs. Because anything less than seven hot tubs is just slumming it.

In Brazil, my major incentive to visit the gym was this hottie personal trainer, who had taken it upon himself to whip me into shape. He would regularly measure my thighs and then point out the different exercises I should do so I could get, what he called, “a nice horse’s ass.” (Apparently, that’s considered a good thing in Brazil. If only this was considered a good thing everywhere. Because I’m pretty sure after all the dumplings I’ve been eating since I moved to China, my rear-end has definitely reached horse-like proportions.)

But my gym here in China is kind of lacking in the incentives department.

There isn’t even a single hot tub. The closest thing they have is this hot water dispenser.

Because I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the middle of a workout and I’ve thought, “You know what I could go for right now? A bottle of piping hot water!”

And, while there are a number of cute trainers at my gym, none of them have taken a personal interest in my thighs.

Not that my gym is all that bad or anything.

Despite its exuberant name, it’s just your typical gym.

There’s your usual assortment of treadmills, elliptical trainers, stationary bikes, weight machines and free weights.

There’s also your usual assortment of classes.

The schedule of classes. Complete with dancing hippo graphic.

I keep on meaning to take one of the classes if only because I’m intrigued by the English names of the instructors. I mean, who wouldn’t want to take a belly dancing class with someone named Purple? Or maybe Power Step (A) with the lovely Fang? And who better to teach Latin dance than Raining? Seriously.

Oh, and there’s a smoking lounge. Because, let’s not forget, this is still China.

For your post-workout cigarette. Or your pre-workout cigarette. Or, hey, why not skip the workout and just start smoking?

Probably the best part about my gym is the super sweet membership card.

I always knew I was a VIP, but now I have the card to prove it.

And, well, there is some prime people-watching to be done there.

You see, every time I go to the gym there’s always someone doing something so incredibly incomprehensible with either their body or their wardrobe (usually both) that I totally forget what I’m doing because I’m too busy staring at them. Then I realize that I’ve been doing leg presses for twenty minutes, and I can no longer feel my knees.

Once, I watched a woman doing lunges down the length of the free weight room. Which, in itself, wasn’t anything too spectacular. But then you factor in the fact that she was wearing a denim mini-skirt and platform heels, and, well, you’ve got yourself a show.

And there was the time a woman swished into the gym in a baby pink, full-body snowsuit. As she was running on the treadmill, her legs were causing so much friction, I was, honestly, worried she was going to set herself on fire.

Sadly, I have no photos of Snowsuit Lady. But feel free to imagine her on the second treadmill from the left.

Earlier this week, I sat riveted while I watched this massive, middle-aged man lie down on one of the weight-lifting benches and proceed to wave his arms and legs in the air like a tiny, helpless, baby bird.

This was almost as exciting as the time I got to see a toddler doing crunches. Seriously, guys, there was a toddler on one of those ab crunching benches doing crunches. Granted, she was getting a little help from her mom. But, still, that two-year old must have had some serious core strength.

Also, sadly no photos of the Abs of Steel Two-Year-Old. Because I feel creepy taking photos of people working out... especially when those people are toddlers.

And then, last night at the gym, I watched a woman work out for thirty minutes with her cell phone pressed against her ear the entire time. It was impressive. She even managed to lift weights while holding her phone. I should probably also mention she was wearing Uggs and a sweater jacket. And she was doing that thing where she was wearing tights instead of pants. Because, apparently, there is one thing she can’t do while holding her cell phone – put on any pants.

(Mind you, I’m sure these people think I’m the total freak and go home and talk about me with all their friends and family members. Like, “You should have seen this foreign girl at the gym. She was staring at me so long you’d think she never saw someone work out at the gym in her snowsuit before. Sheez. What a weirdo.”)

Really, given all the prime people-watching at my gym, I don’t know why I don’t go more often.

I mean, this stuff is almost as good as Youtube. Except without the kittens. (I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, though. I mean, if women are making their toddlers do crunches, I can’t imagine their pets are too far behind.)

So as an incentive to get myself to the gym more often, I’ve come up with a new chart to put on my fridge.

Genius, right? I really think this one is going to work.

How do you inspire yourself to go to the gym? Or are you one of those people who actually likes going to the gym, like, on purpose and stuff?