1. These were the blurbs on the backs of books I was processing at the library. I really apologize for not being able to cite authors, but I didn’t include it in the draft I wrote for myself to treasure them forever (and I’m too lazy to hunt them up online, although it should be easy to do if you’re curious).
a. What werewolf Elizabeth Young craves is a normal life, with a husband, kids, and less shaving. Unfortunately the vaccine she’s researched isn’t working yet. Worse, she’s in heat - and soon every dangerous wolf pack for miles around will be at her door. To buy time, she needs to have sex, and often, with the first human male she can find…b. …Jayd just wants to chill, still hoping Junior year can carry on, drama free. And with Misty and her ex KJ reportedly “hanging,” Jayd is ready to move on. But the brother won’t stop blowing up Jayd’s cellie, and the text-messages keep coming; and the message is clear: KJ wants Jayd back bad. Buy Jayd couldn’t care less. She’s got a new man to kick-it with now - a half-Jewish white boy from Palos Verdes whose parents are loaded with a capital “L.” And Jeremy Weiner’s no ordinary white boy - he listens to East Coast rap, he’s got a sweet ride, and he’s got it bad for Jayd Jackson. But no one at South Bay High will just let a sistah be happy. Misty’s back to her usual foolishness, KJ’s all over her jock, and the notoriously anti-black teacher Mrs. Bennett is tripping. Jeremy’s got her totally sprung, but she’s going to have to rely on her brains–and some of Mama’s magic, of course–if she’s going to survive another week at Drama High.c. Strong-willed Ashley Baxter is trying to forget. She has locked up her heart, convinced that no one - including God - could love her. Four unlikely people - Alzheimer’s patients - find the cracks in Ashley’s heart and slowly help her remember. Then comes the nightmare of September 11, which forever changes the lives of the Baxter family, causing them to remember what is important and leading them to make decisions that are both heart-breaking and hopefilled. Landon Blake, who has loved Ashley since she was a teenager, tries to dull the pain of her rejection by immersing himself in the rescue efforts at Ground Zero.
I think Steve would want us to look at his death and learn what we could from it, and there really is a nice little parable in there. The guy wrestled some of the most dangerous animals in the planet, and did some of the most outrageously dumb things ever filmed, and in the end, a fuzzy, relatively innocuous beastie that tourists swim with regularly was the one that took him down. So the lesson here is: watch out for the things you think you can trust.And that’s exactly why people read these horribly trashy books. Because life sucks, and the hero never means half the tripe he spouts, and people get old and ugly and die. Unless you happen to be in a romance novel.[I wish I knew who in the world I was planning to send that little angsty gem to]
3. I think this was the start of a blog post I probably wisely abandoned, due to its graphic and personal nature:UGH. Ok, I realize that whining about my period is about as cliched and uncool as it gets, but I haven’t had one of these in FIVE YEARS. I mean, what’s going on with me right now is pretty close to what would happen if a boy started menstruating, right down to me absolutely flipping out and convincing myself and everyone around me that my kidneys were failing after a drunk trip to the bathroom that resulted in a gory surprise.
Oh, you’re still here. Excellent. Anyway, I’m getting off my Psycho Freak Out Barn Burning Birth Control (Depo Provera) after spending a good three years longer on it than you’re really supposed to, and I’m admittedly a little freaked out about having to be a regular girl again. See, I liked Depo. Yes, it made me grouchy for a while, and sure, there may have been thirty pounds or so that kind of showed up without an invitation, but so what? I DIDN’T BLEED. I realize that ladies reading this have no idea why I’m so disgruntled by this completely normal thing, and so I appeal to my male audience for sympathy: every month for the next thirty or forty years?! Come on!!
I hate to start talking about this, because it always makes me feel like a traitor to my gender and like the kind of girl that all intelligent feminists hate, but I WISH I WAS A BOY. I find the female reproductive system to be at least as good an example of poor design as a twenty-one year old pothead neo-Taoist survey-crazed drop out with a band’s myspace page. [note: this is not to say that twenty-one year olds, potheads, neo-Taoists, drop outs, and rocknrollers aren’t capable of producing tasteful, user friendly myspace pages. It’s just that when you put it all together you wind up with something that crashes your machine every time you accidentally click on it, and leaves permanent scars on your retinas from all the flashing and glitter. You know, just like a vagina.]. There’s this weird bloody mess every month, plus the frequent UTIs, and don’t even get me started on what happened to me right before I moved to China, pelvic exams, statistically smaller body mass and lesser strength, not to mention various societal pressures and prejudices. Where exactly is the silver lining? And if you tell me anything about the miracle of childbirth, I will answer in the words of my no-nonsense ninth grade health teacher: “it feels exactly like trying to poop a basketball.”
Overheard recently:
“Damn, if my wife was as beautiful as you, I wouldn’t go out to work on the project tonight. I’d just stay home… just kissin’.”
“Just kissing?”
“Yeah, baby, just kissin’. I wouldn’t try to make love or nothin’.”
5. I know I posted this on my old blog, but it made me kind of laugh to remember that this is an actual, honest-to-god, true story that I solemnly swear I am not exaggerating, so here it is again.
Um, I had the weirdest haircut ever yesterday. I’m not going to mention the name of the place, because I’ve always had good experiences there. The people who work there are always really nice and friendly, and in spite of the fact that i hate salon banter, they do a nice job and are extremely pleasant.But yesterday was something else. I arrived about ten minutes early, and the woman glared at me from behind the counter. “It’s 12:20,” she snapped. “You’re not supposed to be here until 12:30.”“Oh,” I said, flustered. “I can… come back?”“No, it’s fine. Can you wait outside while I run grab a coffee?”“Um, ok-”“I’m going to leave door unlocked, so don’t let anyone come in.”I followed her outside and set up shop to play some tetris until she returned, and then she said, “Ok, look, do you have any adderol or know where I could get some?”“No, man, I’m sorry,” I said, when what I meant to say was, “stay the hell away from my hair!” I did offer to reschedule so that she could have a full lunch - my plan being to leave and go somewhere else. But she told me to just sit down, she’d be right back. So I sat on Dickson Street, protecting the salon, and harboring fantasies of defending it against a Mafia-esque hair product crime ring, with the trusty though unfortunately narcoleptic dog that’s always sprawled out in front of the nearby shoe store by my side.She came back, and barked an order for me to go inside and directed me to the shampooing station. I noticed a half empty bottle of wine, not tucked away beneath a desk, but just sitting there on a styling table. I got a really rough shampoo with scalding hot water, but I was far too frightened to complain. I got situated in the chair, biting my lip against the pain of my now-damaged neck, and she asked me what I wanted her to do. I muttered something vague - my usual tactic being to allow them to ask the right questions until we figure out what I’m actually asking for, since I have no idea how to describe a haircut- and she practically yelled, “what do you want me to do?” I yelped that I wanted to keep as much length as possible, I just needed a trim. She then grabbed a seemingly random section of my hair, and abruptly snipped it. “Is that ok?” she asked.“Um, yeah,” I whimpered, fairly sure that it was not ok, but completely blind since I didn’t have my glasses on. She then proceeded to attack, with no recognizable system, and I just sat there impotently, watching huge chunks of my hair fall to the floor. She then launched into the salon chit chat routine, but spoke each question in such a way that it felt like an interrogation: “Where are you from.” “How old are you.” “Are you married,” etc, all the while grabbing pieces of my hair (about which I’m a little more vain than I usually care to admit) and viciously mutilating them. I wanted to blurt out, “I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!” but fear kept me rooted in the seat.A few other people cycled through, all of whom were greeted with, “got any adderol?” and she kept getting distracted, walking away to answer her cell phone, eat a bite of her sandwich, or, at one point, after trying to adjust herself in a display that I can only describe as pornographic, vanishing into the bathroom to change clothes. FINALLY, after about an hour and a half, the ordeal was over, and I put on my glasses and tried not to scream. She’d mentioned that she was going to undercharge me, since she’d been late and I’d watched her freaking store for her. Of course she didn’t. Forty-five dollars of my life, gone, forever, just like half of my hair.
At 7:15, my alarm clock goes off. It’s my cell phone alarm, and it’s a British lady yelling “IT’S TIME TO GET UP. THE TIME IS [beat] 7:15″ over and over again. The night before, I’d had a talk with myself about how much easier my mornings would go if I’d just wake up when my alarm goes off, maybe drink some coffee, check my email, and get my head fully functional before class starts. However, my resolve goes straight out the window, and I set my alarm for 7:30. Then 7:45.
Then there’s a frantic scrambling for clothes, toothbrush, deodorant, and my elevator card (using the ‘vator is a 150 yuan privilege), and within ten minutes I’m swaying exhaustedly behind the podium of my first class of the day, yelling at myself for not giving myself enough time to look over my lesson plans before the start of class.
The bell rings, and the last few stragglers come trailing in, giving me wary looks to see whether or not today’s the day I’ll start cracking down on tardiness. I take roll and ask the class, “how are you?” and get the sleepy, dishonest response, “fine.” I make sure everyone’s awake, give them a page number, and we’re off.
Most of my classes are two hours long with ten minute breaks. Which, incidentally, is a very long time to be up in front of fifteen Chinese teenagers if you don’t know what you’re doing (and let’s face it, sometimes it’s hell even with the most carefully planned lesson). Sometimes it’s all smiles and jokes and they get really into it, but sometimes you spend hours the night before trying to come up with a fun, informative class and it immediately goes down in flames.
Anyway, I teach my first class, and then my second from ten to noon, and then it’s lunch time. Lunch options include fried noodles from the guys in the alley just outside the school (cheap), Wu’s Fried Meat Buns, which are these juicy little bombs of greasy goodness, located a little further down Ninghai Lu, Skyways, the tasty German bakery, on Hankou Xi Lu, across the street from the market and the DVD shops, or the nearby McDonald’s.
7. Some environmental notes:
Over lunch, I watched a couple of national geographic specials that left me with an OH MY GOD WE ARE WRECKING THE PLANET sort of feeling… Don’t worry, this isn’t about to become a buzz-word laden lecture on environmentalism - I know I’m the last person who can throw that particular stone (I don’t recycle, and one of my favorite pasttimes in the states was driving around for no real reason - I know I’m no friend of the earth). But holy god. First of all, I saw a program on elephant rage. There are all kinds of problems surrounding elephants. In jungles, elephants are needed as gardeners - their tendency to trample out patches provides a vital ecosystem . Of course, force elephants into too small of a jungle habitat and EVERYTHING gets trampled, which wrecks the ecosystem. Thin out the elephant population too much, though, and those stomp patches start to disappear, which damages the entire jungle. So there’s issue number one.
Issue number two: human/elephant conflict. Apparently, grieving elephants occasionally do not take their losses lightly - they strike back, trampling villages and killing people. Of course, villages also get smashed by elephants looking for food, forced into contact with human beings by their shrinking habitat. Then there’s the fact that elephants could very well suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome, which causes violent lash-outs. And how about the roving gangs of orphaned bull elephants with out-of-control hormones and no older elephants to provide limits and education? These bands of thugs run around killing *anything* that gets in their way - people, rhinos, whatever. And uncontrolled aggression in the largest land animal is a considerable problem.
Where are these problems coming from? Well, when elephant population becomes too dense, it becomes a huge burden on natural resources. Naturally, elephant population becomes too dense when people take over its existing range. In an effort to correct the situation, people cull the elephant herds. Elephants, however, are deeply emotional and social creatures, and a baby calf watching its mother gunned down out of no where could very well grow up to be the kind of elephant that gores people for fun. The show I watched showed a lot of different methods people were trying out - chili powder, for example (elephants’ noses are too sensitive to tolerate it), but all anyone was doing was treating the symptoms, not the problem - there just aren’t enough resources left to support an elephant population without interspecies conflict. Now, I don’t know how to solve that one.
Then I saw a show about the crazy spike in jellyfish numbers in the ocean. Predictably, this one’s a global warming issue. And that’s a huge problem because if jellyfish take over the ocean, well…. I mean, come on, they’re creatures out of a sci-fi nightmare. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to the television, but I did catch this: there’s one species of jellyfish that at the moment of death releases all of its eggs/sperm into the ocean, resulting in a TON more jellyfish. This was discovered after someone attempted to cull the species. Woops.
So, um, apparently culling isn’t the way to go, if it leads to sociopathic, violent pachyderms running amok and horrible, unstoppable, brainless jelly monsters eating the entire ocean.
8. And here’s a sentence I’d really like a context for - no subject, no address, or anything. It sounds juicy, and I HAVE NO IDEA who or what I was talking about in November 2006:
We’re doing all of this too late; there was a time for it, but we let it pass, and there’s something ridiculous, reprehensible even, about the way we’re thinking and planning.
It’s late and I’m bored…
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