It's Hard Out Here for a Hick:
I have finally realized, after two weeks in China, what it is that's been bugging me all this time.
It's not that I can't read 90 percent of the street signs.
It's not the toilets that require a contortionist's skills to use.
It's not the ubiquitous guys with a cellphone in one hand and a ciggy in the other.
It's not getting stared at for being the weirdo ethnic minority.

It's this: I am not used to seeing buildings higher than ten stories anymore.

When I visited Tiananmen Square two weeks ago, I thought, "Wow, you could fit the entire population of The Island (where I live) in here, and everyone would still have room to swing a cricket bat 360 degrees."

That was weird. (I'm desperately trying to avoid saying "disorienting," in case you hadn't noticed.) But now that I 'm here in Shanghai, where any building under 30 meters tall is probably "historic" it's really hit me just How Effing Small The Island Really Is. You could not fit this city on The Island. You probably couldn't fit this neighborhood on The Island. Even the last City I lived in-- when I started this blog four and a half years ago -- was "historic" and had few buildings higher than the old imperial palaces (oh, and the Germans having bombed the crap out of it for a few years didn't help the real estate market much for about 50 years).

I don't consider myself a small-town kid just off the turnip truck. But anybody could get lost in this city. And I have been on The Island too long.

Fortunately, my employer has offered me a new contract at Headquarters, on the mainland, just one time zone away from where I am currently working. I'll start next summer. I can hardly wait.

So Sue Me...
One of my Constant Readers has gotten on my case for my lack of macro-blogging of late. Sorry. I've been up to my elbows in assorted work-related BS, mostly related to the fact that my boss -- who has to do my job while I'm gone this month -- suffers from a severe case of RTFM Syndrome, coupled with Chronic Cranial Rectumitis.

Oh yeah, that whole "being gone for a month" thing? I'm in China. My husband is participating in the International Mind Games Olympiad. Now that his part of the competition is over, we are going to tour the Middle Kingdom for the next two and a half weeks.

For someone who works in the travel industry, I actually get to do very little tourism myself. My work is more along the lines of "Oh crap, Joe Sixpack lost his passport" or "Professor LittleOleMan needs a medevac for his broken hip." It's nice to really get out and see what my clients are getting themselves into - even if it means falling into the occasional tourist trap.

This trip is my husband's lifelong dream. I was skeptical at first about coming here, but now I am very glad that I did. Getting here was murder (which is part of the reason for the long silence here) because of The Office but I finally got through to them that Mugs Needs A Break, BADLY, and I was going with their blessing or without it, and if my boss didn't feel like doing my work that was his problem, not mine.

Oddly enough, now that I am here, I genuinely don't give a sweet steaming pile of yak dung whether the place sinks or swims without me.

Okay, my 30 minutes of internet time are up. More fun and details later.

I finally figured out why I couldn't decide whether Rafael Nadal is Hot or Not. You see, being of distant Swiss heritage, I thought that I should be rooting for Federer. But I went through the same conflict over the French Open: Sure, Federer is a homeboy, but there's something about this Nadal guy...hmmmm. He's got that King Strider of Gondor thing going on with the hair, but something was just *off* that made me hesitate to declare outright that he is a hottie.
Then he did that thing where he pretends to nibble on the arm of the trophy, and WHAM, I got it: he has Tom Cruise beak.
It's only at a certain angle, but it's there.
And Tom Cruise makes me want to puke. On his shoes.
Oh, Rafa, it just was not meant to be.

Today's Bad Mommy Moment is brought to you by PlayDate Lemonade... Gigi had a friend over this afternoon, and I offered the girls lemonade. I went to the kitchen to mix the stuff up (yes, it's powder, but it's sugar free and made with bottled water, so leave me alone) and couldn't find a suitable container designed for the purpose.
So what do I reach for, in a pinch?
Coffeemaker carafe. Krups 8-cup, to be specific. It was clean, it worked, they'll never know and I won't tell.

Attention Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles: Husband and I have acquired new digital cameras. New pictures of kiddies forthcoming - once we get batteries charged and manuals read.

File Under: Things I Have Said Without Flinching Since My Daughter Turned Three:

"I'm not asking you to like it, I'm telling you to eat it."

How my Mothers Day Started: Woke up before the rest of my family, just at the break of day. Fed the cat while the coffee brewed. Sat on the balcony with warm, sweet, milky coffee and a cappuccino chocolate chip muffin, watching the ocean and reading a Dalai Lama book by the light of the rising sun. Between sips of coffee and bites of muffin, absorbed the interconnectedness and impermanence of all things.

Fast forward three hours...

"Mommy is going to the bathroom. Do NOT follow me!"

I have a TweetCloud!

Because I am a geek who spends too much time on her computer putzing around instead of actually writing to her friends.

But I have a TweetCloud! Check it out: http://www.tweetclouds.com/user_pages/mugs.html

I made a huge mistake.

At the beginning of my grandmother's steep decline into Alzheimer's, it was no longer advisable to call and tell her you were going to visit next week. Having become "unstuck in time," she would go to the lobby and wait for you that afternoon, and the following day, and so on. It was much better to call ahead to the nurses, let them know your plans, and surprise her. These unexpected delights gave her great joy.

I should have applied this principle with my daughter, who is three.

I told her that her grandparents were coming to visit soon (as in, two weeks from now). And later this year, she's going to have a nice long visit with them "in Boston" while Mommy and Daddy take a trip to China. (She can only conceptualize "China" because of "Dora's World Adventure".)

My daughter now tells me with every other breath that she wants to go "to Boston" now.

We're not going until October.

If I can last that long.

This week has been a bear, but at least work-wise, it's over. The Island takes the day off tomorrow to eat fishcakes on hot cross buns and to fly kites.
I'm pretty sure that if you went back in time 2000 years and explained these customs to the guy from Nazareth, he would scratch his woolly head and say, "What?"
And don't get me started on how we'd explain this to him... TweetJeebus said it best: couldn't they re-enact the whole 'taking care of the sick and feeding the hungry' bits instead?

Is anybody else as seriously creeped out by this picture as I am? I mean, aside from the "Crush all hu-mans!" aesthetic, does it not look like something out of V for Vendetta (the good version)?
When did "scaring the crap out of people" start masquerading as journalism, or as good governance?
Leave the dystopian realism to Alan Moore, and let us have our Bill of Rights back, thank you very much.

Stupid Customer Tricks: My colleagues were discussing the frustrations we sometimes encounter dealing with people, over the phone or in person, who really should not be let out of the house, much less anywhere within a mile of an airport.
Today's example: Customer didn't get the service she wanted. She had not followed the instructions on the website. Therefore, she declared, we were racist.
There is a leap in logic there that escapes me.
Am I stupid, or is she racist?

Things I Have Learned From Living on the Island, Part One:

- in a sufficiently humid environment, even rice in the salt shaker won't help.

- "stainless" steel often isn't.

- there are people in this world who will put spinning rims on a Ford Fiesta.

The "Mom Job"? When I first saw this headline, I thought, "Oh, Tupperware sales, or part-time 'Mystery Shopping' right?" Then I kept reading. Didn't know whether to scream or start saving.

I was raised by a mother who simply never allowed me to entertain the idea that there was something I couldn't do because I was female. I ended up at a women's college in New England and absorbed many valuable life lessons about body image and patriarchy and yadda yadda yadda. And for many years, I have taken the position (with varying degrees of smugness) that elective cosmetic surgery was a waste of time and money. If you can afford cheek implants and collagen lips, and haven't been disfigured in an auto accident, you would do much better giving that money to charity. Cosmetic surgery, I thought, is just another way of pummeling the self-esteem of otherwise intelligent people (male and female) by forcing them to comply with artificial standards of physical beauty. Let's face it, a large bottom will get you ostracized in Los Angeles, but admired in West Africa. Why subject yourself to needles and knives? Surely, I thought, I would never be so vain or shallow.

Then I bore and breast-fed two children.

The feminist (and sensible person my mother raised me to be) knows jolly well that my reshaped body parts are badges of honor, my patches proclaiming membership in the Mommy Gang.

The part of me that wants my old clothes to fit properly, and resents having to spend half a paycheck on new foundation garments, wistfully looks at the possibilities of having my old body back, but new and improved.

Then I realize that needles and knives are involved, and oh yeah, money that would be better spent on college tuition, and I come to my senses.

Thanks Mom. Good job.

I should not be surprised, since my mother had e-mail at home before I did. But now she's created a blog. The Force experiences a mild tectonic shift.

Because my daughter really needs another football-headed ethnic role model. And I need another cheap babysitter in 25-minute installments.

Things I Have Said Without Flinching Since My Daughter Turned Three:

"Because I said so."

"I'm the Mommy, that's why."

Child: "Why?" Me: "Because."

"You pooped on the potty?! Of course I want to see!"

"Go ask Daddy."

Oh thank God, I actually remembered my password.
Okay, I went into hibernation for a while there. The Boy learned to walk and I've been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
I have a longer rant in mind, but I'll save it for tomorrow.
Today my son is 15 months old. His hair is the color of gold from the Crayola Big 64 Box, but when it's wet, it's the color of copper wire. He can walk and run and get up and down stairs. Anything I don't want broken, I pretty much have to nail to the ceiling. He likes cupboards, books, and his sock monkey ("Monkey Ramirez", with dreads and Red Sox ballcap, courtesy of my brother, who like me, married into Red Sox Nation). Favorite activities include pounding things, emptying shelves and cupboards, and pulling hair.
He can say "HiDooey," which we're pretty sure means, "Hi, how are you doing?" and play peekaboo.
His big sister is turning into a real little girl, with strong opinions and a gift for mimicry.
It's supposed to be Slow Season at work, but my boss has been off training for over a month now, and I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. He's back in a week. I never thought I'd be glad to see him.
Anyway, I'm back. More excuses tomorrow.

Just because I'm planning a few days off, the kids have been nurturing some really juicy coughs over the last 72 hours.

Now that we're not allowed to give little children cold medicines anymore, I suppose the most certain way to chase off their illnesses is to cancel my vacation days. Sorry kid, tough it out.

I am tired. I mean, really tired. Perpetually not focusing on stuff. I don't know whether to attribute this to inadequate sleep, insufficient caffeine, or the fact that I really haven't had a vacation in over a year.

Maternity leave does not count.

Our trip to the mainland in June does not count. Two weeks in a minivan with two kids under the age of three for two family weddings isn't a march through Bataan, but it's not particularly restful either.

Since I returned to work in January 2006, I've endured nine months of morning sickness, an international move, a job change, surgical birth, and my daughter's "Two's". I got three months of maternity leave (six weeks to recover from surgery and six weeks to dread going back to work).

Next week I am supposed to get a few glorious Days Off. Monday morning I'm going in to the office to hand stuff over to my boss, who is at a conference this week but should be back this weekend. Tuesday and Wednesday are leave days. Thursday we get TurkeyFest off because the company is US-owned. Friday we're having the office fumigated, so everyone gets a day off.

That's four days where the kids are in day care and I plan not to be at work. I hardly know what to do with myself.

If my mother were here, we'd be cleaning out closets and moving furniture. Sorry Mom, I'm thinking one day on the housework, max. If the weather is good, beach and books will be involved. A really good haircut is in order too. We shall see.

Of course, the Ineffable One has a sense of humor, and I am also expecting this to come into play with my so-called plans for "vacation". It is because of this that I will not be attending my high school reunion. No, I won't tell you how many years.

And on that note, back to the steaming piles of housework that await. Tomorrow is trash and recycling day. Wish you were here, Mom.