An American in Taipei

2003-05-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

I've decided to post all of my law school rantings on a separate blog, though it means that I will have to occasionally post here just to make sure that blogspot doesn't kick me out!! Check out my new blog at The Barrister's Dream. Please visit me!

2003-05-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

I'm back, and I'm really really cranky. It's been a weird year and it's only gonna get weirder.

So I left Taipei, in case some of you DON'T already know. And it seems like I left just in the nick of time since this means that I won't get quarantined for SARS. Which is really just terrifying. Last week, Berkeley announced that it was not allowing students from SARS affected countries from attending summer school. So draconian!!

I'm trying to stay positive. I tell everyone I know that I think the whole SARS thing is over blown and that people are now panicking for the sheer love of panic. I was going to go back to Taiwan over the summer, but now I'm thinking that's not such a good idea.....

Anyways, I'm going to Law School. There. I've said it. I'll be ONE L come September.

Life just gets more and more interesting, doesn't it?

2003-02-13T21:23:00.000-08:00

hmmm

2002-06-16T22:23:00.000-07:00

What the heck? Go away for a bit, and they take your page down. Sheesh.

2002-04-06T01:15:00.000-08:00

testing.

2002-04-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

So there was this stupendous earthquake that hit Taiwan two days ago (Sunday). Magnitude of 6.8 on the Richter scale, and apparently worse for Taipei than 921 three years ago. I wasn’t in Taiwan when 921 occurred (on vacation in the States – had a heck of a time trying to get back to Taiwan), so it was by far the worst earthquake that I have ever been through.

I was lying on my bed, not quite asleep but in that pleasant zone of being semi-conscious when I heard a cracking sound that seemed to reverberate through the city like a stealthy wave. Then the mosquito netting that hangs above my bed started to shake. Having been through several earthquakes in my time in Taiwan, I was basically nonplussed, and stayed in bed, ready to pit my will against Gaia’s. But the motion swiftly changed from a gentle swelling up and down to a more violent side to side, and that’s when I started hearing crashing, creaking and groaning. I dove off my bed and crouched next to the bed, far away from my desk, with its teetering piles of junk, having been taught once that the best place to be during an earthquake was in the “negative” space near solid, non-topplable furniture. Probably an urban myth, but I was luckily nowhere near the large, very heavy ceramic based lamp that with one final gasping tug at its cord, toppled off my desk and shattered on the floor. My room was literally haunted by poltergeist for the next minute: jars and bottles careened off the desk, drawers opened and closed like the orifices of some crazed monster, the large mirror hanging above my bureau swung in a ludicrous arc, mimicking that king of the jungle on his more versatile vine. Through the duration of the earthquake, my eyes were mostly riveted on that mirror, and I was trying to decide which would be more foolhardy: to stay in my position on the floor and risk being pierced by shards of broken glass should the mirror fall to the floor or rush to stabilize the mirror, risking injury due to falling debris. Newton’s first law got the best of me. I remained on the floor and, luckily, the mirror did not fall.

When the motion subsided, I stayed on the floor for a few more agonizing moments, expecting a recurrence. That’s when Mandy rushed into my room, her face covered in some sort of greyish charcoal mask. My mind still dizzy from the unnatural motion of being throttled, my first thought was, “oh my god, something collapsed on Mandy.” Then I realized that she was just wearing one of her many beauty masks.

“Are you ok?”
“Yeah, you?”
Mandy shook her head, “Do you know where Julia is?”
I shrug as I start to stand up with some trepidation.
“The living room is a mess.”

I peered out into our living room, and it was a mess – a large framed painting we had hung above the couch was now on the couch, and most of the books on our bookshelf were scattered in a cult-like half circle around the shelf. Lamps and lights were toppled over or leaning, anxiously, against the wall. The makeshift curtain that separates the living room from the kitchen was crumpled on the floor.

A ring of water was spreading on the floor where a vase had fallen off a table and shattered.

The worst damage was definitely in the kitchen, where a lot of our glassware had been thrown off their storage place atop the refrigerator and left a surprisingly beautiful mosaic of colored shards on the usually bland concrete floor. Some of our plates were broken and chipped as well.

But there were no broken gas lines, no busted water pipes, and the building, decorated with glaring gashes and cracks, seemed structurally sound. But Mandy was having none of my calm appraisal of the situation. She rushed into the bathroom (where nothing looked out of place, except for a bottle of shampoo knocked into the tub) and washed her face of its grey mask, before dragging me out into the streets.

“It’s safer if we get outside and away from tall buildings,” she said, “in case there are any aftershocks.”

The first thing I noticed as we walked to the nearest park was the hair salon just down the street. Women were sitting in front of the mirrors, their hair full of suds, ensconced in alien conical heating machines, or tin foiled, while the beauticians scurrying about snipping, clipping, braiding, curling. People seated in a hotpot restaurant, fishing with their chopsticks in their pots for a piece of meat or a fishball. Life goes on.

I grabbed a Diet Coke from the 7-11 (opened and someone already cleaning up whatever had spilled from their shelves). It is my absolute maxim that in case of emergencies, it is pivotal to have a Diet Coke handy.

We weren’t the only ones hanging out in the park. Mandy chatted with some of the locals congregating around a portable radio and found out that the earthquake had been in the 6’s and had originated in Hua Lian. We also found out that something had happened at the new skyscraper being built near the World Trade Center. (We later found out that a crane falling off the 56th floor of that building had caused the only 5 casualties in this earthquake.) Then Mandy and I sat in the park, enjoying the fairly mild Easter weather, trying to use our (basically useless) cell phones to reach friends and family. (All safe, Julia was with her man in a first floor coffee shop. He was slightly scalded by his coffee.)

“What do you think it would feel like if you were having sex in the middle of that earthquake?” I asked at one point.
“I don’t know, what a weird question.”
“Well, I was thinking that when the earthquake was happening.”
“You must be really desperate if that’s what you were thinking during that earthquake.”
“Well, I was thinking that you’d probably realize that an earthquake was happening and stop, and try to get somewhere safe, all the while naked and slightly, well, you know, sweaty and gooey. Which is already quite funny. But what I was really wondering was whether you could be so into the sex at the point that you wouldn’t even realize that there was an earthquake going on, and maybe you’d like have the very best sex of your entire life!”
“You need help, girl.”
“No, I’m serious. It could become a… compulsion, or obsession, or something like that. You could spend the rest of your life trying to be ready to have sex when an earthquake was happening so that you could experience that kind of orgasm again. Or maybe you’d move to an earthquake prone part of the world, or something.”

We spent most of the evening cleaning up our apartment. When all the broken glass and detritus was swept up and thrown out, we did a quick inventory. We found that all of our drinking wares were destroyed but for three standard glasses, three wine glasses, three mugs, and three small whiskey tumblers.

2002-03-28T23:47:00.000-08:00

I went to the Oriented kick off Happy Hour yesterday, which looked to me to be an astounding success. Of course, I was partly drawn there to secretly track down my detractors on Oriented.org, but I ended up skulking about quite incognito, spending most of the happy hour sequestered in a dark corner talking to a guy I met within minutes of stepping into Trader Vic’s.

I don’t even remember how I was introduced to Larry H., but it was quickly established that he went to RISD and I went to Parson’s and we did the name game thing. It turned out that we had several friends in common, a once rare occurrence for me grown so common that it’s almost become comical. One of my best friends from Parsons used to date one of his roommates at RISD.

Pleasantries past, and it turns out that Larry was starting his own design company in Taipei. Of course my eyes lit up at that. He had been working in the San Francisco area doing web-design and this and that until he got disillusioned with the entire dot com thing and came out to Taipei almost two years ago. He says he left just before the mass lay-offs, which really pissed him off because it meant that he wasn’t privy to any of the very sweet dismissal packages that came with the mass lay-offs. But it also meant that he could hold his head up high and say that he did not come to Asia as just one more recently downsized soul joining in the mass pilgrimage of lost souls.

After looking in Taipei for work in a market that has been just as bleak as the one in San Francisco, he decided that what he really wanted to do was to work for himself. Not because he didn’t work for some great people in the past: but because he just thought it was time. “Time for what?” I asked. “Time to put a stake in something that says, ‘yes, this is me, this is what I believe in.”

He does industrial design. Very similar to the stuff that my company does, which I think is why he was so willing to be sequestered for such a long time with little ol’ me when there were some rather tasty and eligible looking goodies sashaying about the bar. We started talking about our design philosophies, and although I didn’t completely agree with his point of view, I found it interesting… stimulating, even.

Which is why I’m finally writing in my blog again.

I find that I just can’t write about anything when my life ceases to stimulate me, which is a generous way to describe the way I’ve been feeling for the last few months. Work is busy, but dull, dull, dull. Even as a manager I feel as if I’ve nowhere to develop in this company. If I had kept my blog going for the last few months, I have the sneaky suspicion that the entries would have looked like this:

February 16 -- Boredom.

February 20 – Excruciating boredom.

March 1 – Mind numbing, excruciating boredom.

If all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, then dull work and no play makes Jody a very very annoying and repetitive girl.

The very worst thing is that various contingents from the states (esp. the maternal unit) have been making loud, suggestive noises about me returning to the US. I wish that parents came with some sort of translation device so that the things that they say can be automatically translated into what they mean.

For example:

They say, “It’s very nice that you learn Chinese. But your Chinese so good now? Why you need to stay in Taiwan any longer?”

What they mean, “We let you go to Taiwan so you could meet a nice Chinese boy and get married. But you’ve been there for five years now and not even one real prospect! We’d better get you back here so that we can monitor your comings and goings so we can figure out how to marry you off before you become an old maid and nobody wants you.”

They say, “Old Lo’s son went to China, just like you, and now he’s a big banker with Goldman Sachs. He bought his parents a brand new Mercedes Benz when he came to visit them for Christmas, then they threw him a huge party when he come home in February. (sigh) We haven’t had a party for very long time, not since when your sister finished medical school.”

What they mean, “You haven’t succeeded in any way that let us make a big fuss over you and show you off to all of our friends. And why don’t you come home to visit more often?”

But in truth, there is some ironic twist of fairness going on here, considering the idiotic behaviour my parents had to endure when I was going through my precocious teenage years. Those years when there was nothing more embarrassing than having parents who were not like all the other parents on the block.

And I’m sure I’m reading more meaning into my mother’s constant reminders than she is putting into them. As a woman, when you reach a certain age (as I have), you start to wonder if everything you do isn’t just some warped reaction to prove someone else wrong.

There are those of us who work like bulldogs at our careers (*ahem* this would not be me) so that we can succeed financially and gain the kind of independence (from men) that our parents and various subversive elements of society have told us we could never achieve. Are we doing it to be the epitome of kick-ass, don’t rescue me, grrrl, or is it just so we can prove someone wrong?

And then there are those of us who talk a good game about being kick-ass, independent women, only to lose it at the pivotal age of 30 and go frothy (literally rabid) at the mouth at the first sight of a marriage-material guy. Do we really become maternal and marriage-crazy at the age of 30, or are we just trying to prove to the world that a woman isn’t more likely to be killed by terrorists than to get married after the age of 30?

So what I’m saying is that… those of us (women) who only talk how desperate we are to find a good man and get married are full of shit, and those of us who only talk about how we absolutely do not need a man to have full and fulfilling lives are full of shit. How deep is my philosophical trough today!

2002-01-31T11:28:00.000-08:00

Miserable, miserable weather. Constant rain and a searing cold that drives you to distraction. This is the Taiwan winter that I remember (and hate). It came late this year, but it’s already been a brutal few days. Every morning, my feet lodge their protest and refuse to yield. I have to use all my faculties just to drag them from their safe haven deep within the caves of my comforter. I’ve been having trouble getting to the office on time but try explaining to my boss that the reason I’m late is because my feet were up in arms (hehe…. up in arms… that’s funny).

Feet humour. You’ve got to love it.

After Alex dropped his little bomb about moving to Shanghai, we had a little bit of a talk about temptation. Then I read this today in a book by Michael Fishwick:

I used to be better at temptation. I just gave in to it immediately, without recognizing it for what it was. Much simpler. Now, I have a great battle, and argue with myself, and remonstrate, and will myself to be lofty and to take the rockier, narrower, steeper path.

And then I give in just the same. But temptation gets more banal as you grow older, because you have given in to more things and become used to them, and I think these outbreaks of higher moral tone compensate for that, and make the failure more terrifying, more interesting.

Lovely.

2002-01-28T19:39:00.000-08:00

An eerie fog of calm and resignation has descended onto Taipei. I suppose if I were to honestly reflect on the state of Taiwan society, I would have to say that the original tentacles of discontent appeared well over a year ago, but being notoriously self-absorbed, it has taken me some time to register the mood shift.

Within the past week, I have had no fewer than ten people tell me that they see themselves in Mainland China within the next two to three years. And I don’t know anyone. I’m sure my more famous fellow bloggers, Ms. Christine and Ms. Ginny, can point to many, many more who have already made more than tentative plans to cart off their stakes. Me, I was just sitting at Starbuck’s, having a leisurely cup of latte with one of my oldest friends in Taipei, Alex, who proceeded to tell me that he and his wife had already placed a bid on a place in Shanghai, and that he would probably be relocating by the middle of this year.

“What?!? Are you shittin’ me?” This was the point where rogue waves of latte started lapping over the edge of my mug and creating a moat of brown waters on the table. “You can’t leave. You’re like my lighthouse, my pillar of strength. The only reason I make it, year to year, in Taiwan is because I can think about you and know that you’ve been here even longer than I have.”
Alex chuckled. “I’ll still be in Asia. It’s not like I’m moving to the states, like all the other people who have passed through Taiwan.”
“But…” I wailed, “You can’t just leave. Who am I going to talk to?? Who’s going to commiserate with me about all the insanities of Taipei??”
“You could move to Shanghai too.”
“That’s so not a helpful suggestion.”
“Why not? It’s not like there’s anything holding you down here. And you’re always complaining about Taipei, your job, the *ahem* lack of available men here. Don’t you think that all of this is just a manifestation of an subconscious need to move on?”
“No. You know me. I complain about everything. Besides, there’s no guarantee that the man situation in Shanghai is any better than it is here.”
“Oh come on. Half a billion men in China…. with those numbers, even someone as neurotic as you is bound to get lucky.”
I would have smacked him at this point, except that I was too busy choking on my coffee.
“You mean you haven’t even thought about it?” Alex continued.
“Sure, I’ve thought about it. It’s hard not to with so many people obsessed about it.” I throw Alex my best evil eye. “I don’t know what I would do there though. At least when I first got to Taiwan, there was always the safety net of family and studying Chinese. At this point in my life, I can’t really justify going to China to study Chinese. And I don’t have any family anywhere on the mainland. Speaking of which, what exactly are you going to be doing in China?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Alex confessed. “But Li-fang’s [Alex’s wife –ed.] parents have already moved their manufacturing over the mainland, just a couple of hours outside of Shanghai, so they have really been pushing for us to move over to China. They want her to start getting involved in the family business.”
“How about you? Do they want you to start getting involved in the family business as well?” I teased him, knowing that he has been avoiding that particular trap ever since getting married.
“Sure,” he replied, guiltily, “I’m sure that they think that once we’re in China, I’ll no longer be able to resist their offers to become the CFO of the company.”
“As they say, resistance is futile.”
“Yeah, the Chinese… we’re like the Borg of the real world.”
I choked on my latte again. Rivulets of milky coffee in my nostrils. Yuck.

Honestly, though the man situation in Taipei is dire, I don’t actually think that I would fare any better in Shanghai. Every time another one of my male friends makes a return pilgrimage to Taipei from Shanghai (yeah, the pilgrimage to taunt the “poor suckers” who are not in China yet), they bring with them cheap China made knick-knacks and increasingly fantastic stories of their sexual exploits in China.

“All the women in Shanghai are tall and gorgeous.”
“I used to think that Taiwan had the most beautiful women in the world until I went to Shanghai.”
“Yeah, it’s no problem to get a threesome started in Shanghai. And I even know someone who participated in a foursome. Lucky bastard.”
“I can go home with a different woman every night! And I’m not talking skanky ho’s.”
“It’s eye candy everywhere you go. Unbelievable.”
“Shanghai is a total paradise for men.”
“The women there are so aggressive. You don’t even have to do anything. They come to you. It’s like I’m blowing on an invisible dog whistle.”

To all the men who have thought and said these things…. you pigs!! But let’s evaluate the situation…. with so much competition, what’s the chance for a short (though sweet) little Taiwanese chicky like me to snag a guy? Not likely!

The China phenomenon. One has to wonder if it’s going to end up in the same kind of disappointment that we’re all experiencing now with the burst of the internet bubble. But just like that bubble, it is so hard not to get caught up in the excitement, the enthusiasm. We need, crave that excitement to keep us sane. It’s like being in love, shopping, or having a really good conversation. Sensations to lift us out of the mundane. We can’t really live to clean the house, to write the same old press releases, to analyze the same old boring sales figures day after day after day. Thinking about China is like savouring a first kiss. You bring it to bed with you hours after it’s happened and it’s still there, curled up in your stomach. You lay in bed, half asleep, half awake, the blush still on your cheeks from thinking about it. You wake up hours before you’ve set the alarm and wonder if you’ve slept at all. Your blood is a little thicker. Your body is a little lighter. The world is different.

2002-01-27T17:35:00.000-08:00

Went out shopping yesterday. Not because I needed anything but because the weather was absolutely abysmal and I had nothing better to do. Mandy and Julia were both out somewhere, gallivanting with their boyfriends, I’m sure. They’re still in that first flush of love where nothing is impossible and everything is a lover’s secret. In other words, they don’t tell me anything except how wonderful their men are and the bare basics of their love lives.

I woke up near noon, and laid in bed for half an hour thinking about the wretched state the economy, wondered if I had won the jackpot in the new Taiwan Lottery (I hadn’t – my mother would tell me that I shouldn’t have wasted that NT$100!!), and decided that I needed to participate in stimulating the economy. So I went to the new mall on Fu Hsing.

Many of the stores were having their final clearance sales. Since most of the good merchandise had already been cleared out, there was also a lot of new spring merchandise. Digging through final clearance merchandise is like advertising in the newspapers for a date. It’s depressing as hell and unlikely to turn up anything worthwhile. Nevertheless, I had to give it a try, since my pocketbook is a bit too thin for full price spring goodies.

I had been through a significant portion of the mall when I finally meandered into the shoe section. Now any woman knows that a shoe sale has passed its nadir is when the size racks come out. Rather than organizing shoes by designer, color, style: in other words, rather than caring about presentation, the store heaves out a few industrial sized metal racks, and throw on them the left shoe of every remaining pair of sale shoes they have in stock. If you find the perfect shoe on the size 40 rack but you’re size 38? Tough cookies, baby.

In some ways it’s a phenomenal way of selling shoes. It’s better than the strip tease of seeing a perfect pair of shoe and waiting with agonizing expectation only to have the salesperson return empty handed.

The “36” rack was a multi-colored piñata. Most of the shoes were the fun, cutesy adorned pumps and flats that are favoured by the Taiwanese working woman. But in the midst of all that practicality, my eyes were immediately drawn to a pair of black strappy stilettos. Now even the occasional visitor to my site understands that to open my shoe closet (yes, I have a shoe closet) is to allow an avalanche of strappy sandal type shoes. But these were more than just another pair of black strappy stilettos. These were Jimmy Choo stilettos. These shoes were sex. Black satin. Pointy covered toe. Four inch heels. Delicate straps across and back. Beautiful.

I had to have them. I had to spend a huge chunk of my monthly salary to own them. And thank god for the two months bonus about to come my way for CNY (Chinese New Year).

But first, I had to try them on.

The saleswoman brought me the shoe’s mate. I slipped them on and they fit in only the way that stilettos can. They were the right size but were painful as hell. I pranced in front of the shoe mirrors and admired the way they looked – the way they elongated my leg, slimmed and lifted my calves.

That’s when I noticed this really hot guy sitting on a nearby seat in seeming mutual admiration of my shoes. Of course, my left foot took that moment to stumble (contrary to public opinion, I have not mastered the art of walking in four inch heels). I realized how utterly pathetic I must have looked. I was wearing a pair of oversized olive khakis the legs of which I had folded up above my knee in order to model the shoes. My hair was disheveled from the rain and shopping. But when he caught me looking at him, he smiled at me broadly and gave me two thumbs up.

Ok… I would kill for a man with a smile like that.

Just then, I heard a shrill shriek and out of the corner of my eye I caught a blur of beige and orange stampeding towards me.

“Oh my god! Joooooodyyyyyy!!”
Oh lovely, I thought, as the blur enthusiastically swooped upon me and threw her arms around me. Helena.

Helena is one of the most sinisterly annoying people I know. I have no idea when or where we met, but she has apparently committed my name and face to memory so I can never feign disavowal upon our few chance encounters. Inanely cheerful, she is one of those people who uses excessive playful demonstrativeness as substitution for a personality. For all her gushy, girlish chatter, I have yet to have a conversation with Helena where I actually leave with a sense of who she is. However, it seems to me that I would become an instant pariah if I were to actually overtly dislike her. Her childish glee protects her from my sour malevolence.

“Helena, how are you?”
“It’s been soooooo long.” Her eyelashes flutter down at me (no, really, she actually does flutter her eyelashes) “What are you up to?”
“Just shopping, you know, the usual.”
“Me too!! What a coincidence! And I never go shopping but my boyfriend insisted on taking me here and buying me a gift for our one month anniversary.” She giggles.
“Your boyfriend?” I asked, my curiosity immediately piqued.
“Yes, haven’t you met Billy? Billllyyyy.” She turns around and gestures towards the adorable guy who had been checking out my shoes.
That guy? I thought to myself: uh uh, no way. No way could she be going out with a guy that hot. Of course, Helena is perfectly adorable. She’s slightly taller than me, unusually curvaceous for an Asian woman, with round, apple-y cheeks and large round eyes framed with long, fluttery eyelashes (have I mentioned that she actually flutters her eyelashes). But the hot guy was getting up off his seat and approaching us with a long, bowlegged gait. My worst fears realized. There isn’t a God.
“Billy. This is Jody. You remember Mandy from that party we went to last week [Last week? Hello? Where the f- was I? –ed.]? Jody’s her roommate.”
He reached a well-toned, beautifully tanned arm out and grasped my limp right hand in his. I could only offer a weak half-smile.
“Hey. Billy.”
“Jody,” I countered.
“Are you buying those shoes…. *gasp* oh my god!! They’re so amazing. You’re so lucky. I looked at all the shoes in size 34 and there was nothing I liked at all. Aren’t they amazing, Billy?” Helena squealed.
“Yeah,” I said, carefully stepping out of my new treasures, “They’re great, but I’m going to have to get used to wearing them.”
“Oh, it’s easy. You just have to pop a painkiller before you go out in them. No problem.”
Billy piped in, grinning, “She should know, she has a whole boatload of those kinds of shoes.”
Helena used her shoulder to give him a playful nudge and then leaned into his broad chest. I could feel envy coursing all the way to the ends of my hair.
“So….” I stalled, straining for conversation, “what did you end up getting for your anniversary?”
Helena held up a well-manicured hand. Around the wrist was strapped a delicate Chopard happy diamond watch. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she gushed, “Billy totally spoils me.”
I was a Kermid wannabe.

Some girls have all the luck. [next entry]

2002-01-15T23:11:00.000-08:00

Aaaargh!! The story of my life:

They have finally found a diagnosis for my condition. Hooray!!!! I have recently been diagnosed with A. A. A. D. D. (Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder).

This is how it goes: I decide to wash the car; I start toward the garage and notice the mail on the table. OK, I'm going to wash the car, but first I'm going to go through the mail. I lay the car keys down on the desk, discard the junk mail and notice the trashcan is full. OK, I'll just put the bills on my desk and take the trashcan out, but since I'm going to be near the mailbox anyway, I'll pay these few bills first.

Now, where is my checkbook? Oops, there's only one check left. My extra checks are in my desk. Oh, there's the coke I was drinking. I'm going to look for those checks. But first I have to put my coke further away from the computer, oh maybe I'll pop it into the fridge to keep it cold for awhile.

I head towards the kitchen and my flowers catch my eye, they need some water. I set the coke on the counter, and uh oh. There are my glasses. I was looking for them all morning. I'd better put them away first.

I fill a container with water and head for the flower pots..................aaaaaagh!!!!

Someone left the TV remote in the kitchen. We'll never think to look in the kitchen tonight when we want to watch television, so I'd better put it back in the family room where it belongs.

I splash some water into the pots and onto the floor, I throw the remote onto a soft cushion on the sofa and I head back down the hall trying to figure out what it was I was going to do?

End of the Day: The car isn't washed, the bills are unpaid, the coke is sitting on the kitchen counter, the flowers are half-watered, the checkbook still only has one check in it and I can't seem to find my car keys. When I try to figure out how come nothing got done today, I'm baffled because I KNOW I WAS BUSY ALL DAY LONG!!!!! I realize this is a serious condition and I'll get help, BUT FIRST I think I'll check my email.................

It's strange. I spent a lot of the past year being bored out of my mind. Bored at work, bored with life. Now I'm so busy with stuff I don't have time to think about whether I'm bored or not. I think I still am, but at least I'm no longer spending time picking lint out of my navel.

I'd really love to do something that's meaningful, something that is my own. How many of us feel this way out there? This is the kind of restlessness that breeds revolution!! [next entry]

2002-01-08T23:39:00.000-08:00

I had a wonderful New Year, and took some time off to be by myself, which wasn’t hard, since both my roommates returned to the United States to celebrate the holidays with their families. I didn’t, because of aforementioned crisis within my family, mostly having to do with a conflict between my sister and myself, but that’s too complicated to discuss today. Needless to say, I talked with my parents over the phone a couple of times in December, and we unanimously decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for me NOT to come home this Christmas.

I comfort myself by saying that Christmas isn’t all that relevant a holiday in my situation (I’m Buddhist) and that my parents are always super busy during the Holidays with work. But it still kind of stings to know that I was basically abandoned during the prime feel-good season.

I cleared a lot of cobwebs (from my mind and from my apartment) during my week of basically forced solitude (no human interaction outside of work). I did some sketches, visited some art galleries here in Taipei, and actually went up to the National Palace Museum (one of the most fabulous museums in the world, imho) for the first time in two years or so. I didn’t write at all: decided that sometimes, writing makes me a bit too introspective for my own good.

My New Year’s resolutions:

(1) To quit smoking. Wouldn’t be hard if I wasn’t so damn addicted.
(2) To stop getting involved with irresponsible and inappropriate men.
(3) To stop myself from always coveting what others have (good relationship, good job, good dog, whatever.)
(4) To actually finish something that I set out to do. [next entry]

2001-12-28T00:46:00.000-08:00

A Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year.

Now where's that damn bottle of aspirin. I've got a hangover from hell.

I tried to find an English service to attend on Christmas Eve. I succeeded once, a few years ago, at a Presbyterian church down near the National Taiwan University. But no luck this year. I tried 5 churches in one evening, all of which have English services on Sundays, but which have all decided to do away with their English Christmas services. I guess that the turnout has been poor in the last few years (not surprising, since I assume that a large percentage of the foreign residents try to take their holidays back "home"). Although I was a bit peeved, I guess these Houses of Worship have decided that their word is better served in the local language on Christmas. Anyways, I guess I've discovered a new way to spend vacation time.... Church hopping. (Church crawl? Chupping?)

Alas.

Not that I'm Christian. But I do love a good hymn. And I can even sing a few of them. I will not, however, be recording myself singing a hymn and posting it on this website. : p [next entry]

2001-12-19T00:42:00.000-08:00

There is a strange disease that afflicts people who move to Taiwan and stay here just a little bit too long. I call it Taiwan-smokaholism. You see it everywhere: expatriates who are normally preachy “I’m such a health freak”, beaming with white bread goodness, oozing with red-meatless freshness PITAs (Pains In The Asses) turn into these shifty, furtive creatures cowering in corners and shrouded behind building pillars fingering their last or next cigarette.

Yes, I belong to this tribe of puff puff smokaholics.

It’s so easy to fall into the trap in Taipei. There is no anti-tobacco mafia here that cordons off prime real estate from the smokers. It is still the norm to walk into a restaurant or bar in Taipei and leave covered with the sticky smell of stale smoke. And the sex and the city girls make it look so urbane. So un-so-cal.

And we city types love to hate so-cal.

I remember justifying it the first time I was called on my puff puff smokaholism. I was in a bar with a bunch of fresh-faced Chinese students who had just arrived in Taiwan no more than a month prior. I reached for the ashtray without thinking and hoisted my pack of Camel Lights and my pornographic lighter (everyone has a pornographic lighter in Taiwan) on to the table.

“You smoke?” One particular wide-eyed freshman stared at me, disbelief flooding her facial expression.
“But that’s so nasty!” Said her companion, her nose scrunched up in displeasure.
I rolled my eyes and rolled a cigarette (ok, I didn’t actually roll a cigarette, but I wish I had…)
Between drags, I explained, “You’ll see. The air quality here is sooooo bad. I know a guy who used to jog in Taipei. He wanted so badly to keep in shape while he lived here (which was really difficult at the time, due to the general lack of health clubs). But when he went back to the states, he had a check-up, and his doctor showed him a x-ray of his lungs….” I paused for dramatic effect. “His lungs were so blackened from all the pollution and motor exhaust and shit that he was breathing in when he was jogging that he might as well have been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for a year!”
The look on those kids faces…. priceless

Ok…. So it was a total Urban Legend.

I never knew the guy. I only knew a guy whose girlfriend used to date a guy that worked with the guy. Anyways, you get the drift.

My friend Mike has a real problem with Taiwan-smokaholism too. Since he spends three-quarters of his year in the US (and in SoCal, no less), he is generally one of the most disgustingly health obsessed individuals that I know. But once he hits the ground in Taiwan, it’s like the pack of cigarettes just magically appears in his back jean pocket. He hates the fact that he succumbs so easily to the lure of nicotine when he’s here, so he always spends his three months in Taiwan having this neurotic love-hate relationship with cigarettes. He’ll do things like buy a pack of cigarettes, smoke one, and then give the rest to some lucky chap standing on the street corner. Or he’ll make himself go outside to smoke, even when he’s in a bar that’s so dense with smoke that you have to duck down to find people. He thinks that if he makes his life difficult, or ruins himself economically, it would be incentive to quit.

And the only reason I write this is that I find myself sneaking outside to smoke – more and more often. Because I don’t want my boss to find out that I smoke. Not that my boss doesn’t covet the occasional Gauloise himself, but, you know. We all have our images to maintain. [next entry]

2001-12-18T01:40:00.000-08:00

Yes, I’m a horrible person. I’ve let this blog down, and I don’t actually know why. I could say that I’ve been working on my novel, and although I have the beginnings of something that I think is amazing, I don’t actually have anything down on paper (I had almost 50 pages, then I ripped them up and started over again). Sigh.

I could say that I’ve had a lot of trauma to deal with in my personal life, and that would sort of be true. Things between Rob and I didn’t go quite as expected. In fact, quite the opposite and I’m not sure how to reconcile all the horrid things going through my head about this particular experience. And on top of that – I’m having a bit of a crisis on the family front right now…

The weekend started perfectly. Blissfully, actually. Rob picked me up from the airport in Singapore and it was as if we hadn’t lost six year. We caught up on each other’s live and giggled over several unfortunate escapades that he dragged me (yes, dragged me) into when we were together six years ago.

The “junk” that we were borrowing for the weekend was more like a yacht. I’m not sure why Rob and his friends kept referring to it as a “junk” except out of some pretentious desire to capture the exotic-ness of the moment. It was a completely modern boat (I don’t know anything about boats, so don’t even try to get me started on explaining this thing), gorgeous wood paneling everywhere. Two levels, the lower was enclosed with glass and the upper was outside, bordered with waterproof leather seating for lying-out on. It definitely felt lap of luxury. Rob and his friends hired a sailsman (giggle) for the weekend to drive.

We basically spent the weekend sailing to these little islands, which I think belong to Indonesia, but are the pleasure grounds of the far wealthier Singaporeans. We had rooms on Bintan, which is very resort-y, but since we spent almost all of our time swimming and lounging about in little abandoned island alcoves, I saw very few people all weekend. The weather was glorious, and a much welcome reprieve from Taiwan weather, which was starting to turn into the grey muck of winter.

Rob was the epitome of the gentleman the entire weekend: the most risqué thing that we did was sitting side by side with his arms slung around my shoulder. I’m sure his colleagues (both male) were a bit confused about the nature of our relationship (ummm… actually, for most of the weekend I was too). I wasn’t not giving out signals, but I’m not completely sure what signals I was giving out, exactly. Although I was having a great time talking about literature, music and Asia with Rob (our great passions and shared interests), I didn’t necessarily get that zing from being around him that I remembered feeling, once upon a time.

After dinner on the second night, he did come to my hotel room (yes, I had a separate room, and Rob paid for it, bless his generous heart) with a bottle of Chardonnay, and we sat outside, under starry skies and talked about deeper things. About how difficult it was getting to relate to our families, who live so far away, about becoming more and more entrenched in work and in corporate entities. Rob’s always had a bit of the rebel spirit inside him, and although he in an enviable position - he’s basically living in HK on an expat package – he feels like he is sacrificing a lot of himself by working for a large, non-organic corporation. Selling his soul to the highest bidder, so to speak.

We chatted about that for a while, not coming up with anything that even felt vaguely like a satisfactory answer.

Then Rob told me about Heidi.

Rob met Heidi in Papua New Guinea. They dated for about a year before she moved to Hong Kong and he stayed in PNG for another three years. They continued to talk and visit each other for the entire time that he was in PNG and then the opportunity arose for him to move to Hong Kong. Rob told me that his decision to take the job was as much due to the opportunity to be near Heidi as anything else.

This was where I started to get the sinking feeling in my stomach.

Ever since he got to Hong Kong, Rob’s been spending most of his free time with Heidi. In his words, they were getting “serious”. And recently, Heidi’s been hinting at wanting to move in together. Out of practicality. Because rent can be so expensive in Hong Kong. And Rob’s been hemming and hawing.

“I don’t know why,” Rob said to me, “I really love being with her, and we both have horrible work schedules. If we moved in together, that would mean that I could spend all of my free time with her.”

That’s when he found my old letters. And apparently, they evoked irrepressible memories in him.

“I was getting very nostalgic,” he said, “and I had always wondered what had happened to you, and why we didn’t keep in touch. So I thought I had to at least TRY to find you.”
“And find me you did.”
We laughed.
“You’re going to hate me for this.” Rob’s voice got serious, as he looked into my eyes.
“Go on… I already know what you’re going to say.”
“I just thought that if I was still having nostalgia for us,” he gestured at the two of us, “I couldn’t possibly be very serious about Heidi. So when you actually replied to my postcard, I thought it was some sort of sign.”
“Some sign,” I muttered.
“And you know now that I’m basically a horrible person for inviting you on this trip.”
“What exactly does Heidi think you’re doing this weekend?”
“Well, I already had this trip planned with Lance and George (the two colleagues traveling with us –ed.) and originally, Heidi was supposed to come with us. But then she had scheduling conflicts and had to be away on business this weekend. That’s when I invited you.”
I punched Rob (lightly) on the shoulder.
“What do Lance and George think?” I asked.
“Uh… they think I’m a player.” He grinned, slightly painfully.
“Great,” I moaned, “and I’m the duped.”
There is a thick pause.
“It’s been so nice seeing you. I smile whenever I think about you, because I always think about you all fiery and passionate, talking about books or movies or the piece of yarn that is attached to the end of your sleeve. I love that about you. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Heidi all weekend either, and feeling guilty.”
“For misleading her? Or for misleading me?”
“Uh… both?” he said sheepishly. “But mostly the former.”
“I guess you’re going to be asking her to move in with you this week, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”

So, another lesson about me that you all can take away from this…. I drive men into the arms of other women. *Sigh*

No, seriously, I think that I knew, even upon accepting Rob’s invitation that nothing was going to happen. Our “relationship” didn’t even last a day of long distance the first time, and it certainly wasn’t going to be revived over long-distance. But when you get to be my age, you start placing a certain amount of “faith” into things that deserve none.

Family problems tomorrow. I’m too depressed from having just re-lived that weekend. [next entry]

2001-11-28T01:01:00.000-08:00

Things are ridiculously MANIC at work. But I have so so so so so much to write about. I will get around to it soon, I promise.

2001-11-08T22:51:00.000-08:00

Isn’t it strange how you can go ages without seeing someone and then you run into them every day for, like, a month? Well, I saw “Spudhead” again. This time at a Szechuan restaurant just off Tun Hua. He wasn’t with his girlfriend, instead, it looked like he was with a bunch of his work buddies. What a bunch of suit and ties! And they were really loud – in the way that rich looking suit and ties can be when they get together and have one bottle of Taiwan Beer too many.

Anyways, although we’ve seen each other twice in the last two weeks, his eyes registered absolutely no recognition when Elly and I first walked through the doorway even though, men being men, all of the suit and ties’ heads pivoted around when we first walked through the door. They were sitting around a large, round table and heaped on top the Lazy Susan was a vast assortment of dishes, most half empty. Through the meal, I would occasionally glance over at their table – especially when their cavorting turned especially riotous (at one point, one of the men slapped their waitress on the ass, eliciting a loud shriek and a dropped dish). “Spudhead” looked like he was just as engaged in the joviality as the others, eating and drinking and making a general nuisance of himself. I just wondered when he would excuse himself to go upchuck in the Men’s room.

I’m such a bitch.

Anyways, the real reason that I was out last night was because Elly invited me to dinner. Which was nothing unusual. Although we see each other all the time (Elly lives right upstairs from me), we haven’t really had a chance to chat recently, since we run on very different schedules and with very different crowds. Elly’s such a fabulous person: she’s sincere, genuinely sweet and fantastic looking to boot (she’s a model for some of the local fashion magazines – although she’s almost 30, she can easily pass for 19 or 20). Unfortunately for the men of Taipei, she’s also very, very taken. Dave, her sweetie, swept her off her feet almost four years ago, and they have what I think of as the perfect relationship. They are cloyingly sweet when they are together – you can’t help but smile in a hushed, fascinated way when you see them together. But they also manage to have these enormous, extroverted lives without each other. There’s no co-dependence here!

So halfway through the meal, Elly finally reveals some really awful things that have been happening at Dave’s office. Dave works for a local investment bank as an assistant manager in their research department. Dave’s been at this job for about three years, ever since he graduated from business school in Australia.

“So one day, Dave gets an email saying that he has a quota of some 2 million shares of a company mutual fund that he and his subordinates have to sell. And that if he doesn’t fulfill the quota, it would be recorded as poor performance at his year end review.”
I stare at Elly blankly. I hate financial jargon. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
“Well, I think that because his company may not meet its sales projections, they are pushing all of their non-sales employees into doing sales.”
“I still don’t get it,” I said.
“Ok. So the company has this mutual fund, and their regular salespeople haven’t been able to find buyers for it – mostly because the market’s just crap. So they are telling their other employees that they either have to sell it to people they know, or buy it themselves, or else they’re not going to get good year end reviews.”
“How can they do that? Isn’t that illegal?” I asked, incredulous.
Elly looked at me for a moment, eyes blank with incomprehension. It figures. The foreigner comes into this country and start seeing lawsuits in everything.
“No,” she replied, hesitantly, “I mean, theoretically Dave can quit or he can take the bad review if he doesn’t want to fill the quota.”
The awkward moment having passed, I pressed on. “So what’s Dave going to do??”
“He’s totally livid. He’s been off the wall since he got this announcement last week. According to his manager, he’s suppose to distribute his quota among the analysts that he manages. So when he gives his analysts their year end reviews, he can also use missed quotas to justify not giving them raises or even a bonus. But if any of his analysts miss their quotas, then he’ll miss his, and he’ll get a bad review.”
“Yeah, but so what? So he won’t get a raise. Big f-ing deal.”
“Well, he’s worried because he thinks the company will use this quota thing to justify laying off even more people.” Elly conceded.
“How much do these mutual funds cost?”
“For all 2 million shares, Dave and his analysts basically have to raise two and a-half million NT dollars.”
“SHIT!!” I did some quick math in my head, “That’s like 70,000 US Dollars.”
“Yup. And because Dave has 5 analysts under him, that means he’ll probably have to split it so that each analyst is responsible for about $10,000 and then he himself will be responsible for $20,000.”
Elly paused dramatically, and then lowered her voice conspiratorially, “And you know, it’s not like they pay the analysts anything. They are a local firm, and local firms really pay shit.”
“I would quit,” I asserted emphatically.
“No, you wouldn’t. You’re always talking about quitting your job, even though you still keep going, day after day.”
I looked at Elly sheepishly.
“And you know that the economy is just crap. Most of these people don’t know if they can get another job if they quit. They’d rather just pay out the 10,000 dollars, and keep getting their thirty-thousand-a-year paycheck.”
“I guess.”
“Dave’s really been mean since this all happened. He’s always in a terrible mood. He hasn’t told his analysts yet, because he’s really good friends with some of them, and he feel ashamed that he has to push such a ridiculous and petty thing down their throats.”
“Oh.” (Yeah, I’m a real wizard with comforting words.)
“So he’s either been staying really late at work because he’s trying to work harder to make up for what he has to do to his analysts, or he’s been out drinking – I’m really getting worried. Every time he goes out drinking now, he comes back stumbling drunk. It’s not healthy!”
“I don’t know what to say. I feel really bad for Dave,” I sympathized.
“Yeah, I feel bad for Dave too. And for myself.” Elly replied, morosely. “Dave hasn’t really talked to me since this all happened. I feel like we’re two completely separate and isolated bubbles. We might as well not be living together. And I have to be so careful whenever I’m around him. I can say things, completely innocuous things, and he’ll take the wrong meaning and just blow up.”
Elly looked at me, her eyes bleary with the beginnings of tears. “I just don’t know what I should do.”
I gave Elly’s hand a squeeze, hoping that my silent support could do more than what would be no more than meaningless suggestions.

So the world is not a perfect place, and when perfect relationships hit speed bumps, all the occupants get jostled, just like us mere mortals. Elly and Dave have already had to deal with so much – and I’m sure they’ll make it through this thing. But I can’t help but be surprised that even Dave, sweet and helpful and laid-back Dave, would let things in his work life to tear apart his personal life.

What is it about the modern career that makes us put it in front of everything else? I know that personally, when I feel like I’m doing something meaningful, with growth opportunities, and (of course) a good salary, it really doesn’t matter what else is going on in my life. I can almost ignore (or at lease put up a good illusion of ignoring) the fact that I can’t find “the perfect man”, the fact that I’m several thousand miles away from my family, and the fact that I’ve gotten into such a rut that I’ve forgotten half the reasons I came to Taiwan in the first place. But if things at work aren’t going well… well, then I turn into a nightmare of a monster. Imagine a hundred women all experiencing PMS at the same time. Now magnify that by 5 or 6 times. You do not want to mess with me if I’m unhappy at work.

Work’s just work. I try to make this my mantra. But it’s much easier said than done.

***

I got this email from a friend today. It totally made my day:

Bumper Stickers for Ladies

SO MANY MEN, SO FEW WHO CAN AFFORD ME.

GOD MADE US SISTERS, PROZAC MADE US FRIENDS.

COFFEE, CHOCOLATE, MEN ... SOME THINGS ARE JUST BETTER RICH.

DON'T TREAT ME ANY DIFFERENTLY THAN YOU WOULD THE QUEEN.

I'M OUT OF ESTROGEN AND I HAVE A GUN.

WARNING: I HAVE AN ATTITUDE AND I KNOW HOW TO USE IT.

OF COURSE I DON'T LOOK BUSY...I DID IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME.

DO NOT START WITH ME. YOU WILL NOT WIN.

ALL STRESSED OUT AND NO ONE TO CHOKE.

I CAN BE ONE OF THOSE BAD THINGS THAT HAPPENS TO BAD PEOPLE.

HOW CAN I MISS YOU IF YOU WON'T GO AWAY?

DON'T UPSET ME! I'M RUNNING OUT OF PLACES TO HIDE THE BODIES.

IF YOU WANT BREAKFAST IN BED, SLEEP IN THE KITCHEN.

***

In celebration of spontaneity, I decided to go to Singapore for a long weekend next week. I leave on Wednesday. I know – why Singapore? That’s hardly spontaneous… in fact, that’s downright boring! Ok. The deal is, I’ll be spending the whole weekend with Rob. Apparently, one of the perks of his job is that he has access to the company yacht, which is moored down in Singapore. (A company yacht?? I’m in the wrong profession. I’d be lucky to work for a firm that had a company scooter.) Apparently, Rob is a great sailor and he offered to take me sailing for three days. Ok – how can I refuse that? I know nothing about boats, and I’m not a terribly strong swimmer, so I have some trepidation about this whole trip. But Rob assured me that it will be perfectly safe. And before the lot of you start getting funny ideas in your head, it won’t just be Rob and me. Two of his friends (and colleagues) are coming as well. [next entry]

2001-11-06T01:19:00.000-08:00

The strangest things have been happening to me recently. It’s enough to set the warning bells a blazing. But mostly, I chose to ignore my own intuition, which is what always gets me into trouble.

A few weeks ago, an ex-colleague invited me to a dinner party. She and her husband have a lovely apartment on Ren-Ai Road, a wedding gift from her husband’s parents (I know, we should all be so lucky). She’s about six months pregnant, and she has a wonderful, bulbous, maternal shape. When I first saw her, I was reminded by something an ex once said to me. We had been talking about pregnancy – not because I had conceived a child or anything like that – but simply because we were at that young and tender age when our (older) friends were starting to have children, and it was still sufficiently rare and unfathomable that it made for a highly provocative topic of discussion. I was, in the throes of infatuation, trying to talk up the beauty of a woman in the midst of pregnancy. I brought up all the clichés: that a woman glowed, that she grew more beautiful, etc… with pregnancy. I was fishing for some indicator of our compatibility. I wanted him to concede a woman’s maternal beauty. Somehow, this would indicate that he could see me in this role: that even should I gain 20, 30 pounds, I would still bee attractive to him.

He shot my expectations down like a WWI flying ace downing an enemy biplane. “What a bunch of bullshit,” he proclaimed, “a pregnant woman is just a fat woman, and they say those things to make themselves feel better for losing their looks.”

Ok. So that relationship didn’t last very long.

Anyways, as evidence contradictory to my ex’s callous proclamations, Hsiao-Chiu truly beamed. She was absolutely radiant, and smiling from the moment she opened the door to let me in to the moment we embraced good-bye at the end of the evening. I don’t think I have ever seen her look quite so pretty. Now this brings me up to my second point. There is an old Chinese wives’ tale about the sex of a child. Ok, there are many, many Chinese old wives’ tales about the imminent sex of any newly conceived child. But my favorite has to be the one that says that a woman who grows prettier during her pregnancy can expect a girl and a woman who grows ugly during her pregnancy can expect a boy. Talk about your ultimate win-lose proposition. Obviously, with the Chinese emphasis on having male heirs to carry on the family line and provide for the parents in their old age, there are many, many parents hopeful for a wee little one (and yes, I mean in both ways). However, imagine the woman’s joy/dismay if she goes for an ultrasound and finds out that she will have a boy. “Oh, ecstasy, how wonderful, I can give my husband the son I know he secretly longs for, and our parents grandson they have been pestering us for for years now. But, shit, this means I’m going to be ugly. Damn.”

Well, if the folklore rings true, than Hsiao-Chiu is definitely going to be painting the nursery pink. (Ok, so it’s a bit sexist to assume a girl should get a pink room, so sue me.)

Ok, so I’m at this dinner party, and I know some of the other people who have been invited, specifically “Spudhead”, who I won’t name because of the nature of my disclosure. There are also many guests whom I don’t know: mostly colleagues of Hsiao-Chiu’s husband, who is a Professor at one of the local Universities. They get into a heated discussion about local politics, which I can’t really follow, then another heavy-handed discussion about racism in America. “Spudhead” sits fairly silently at the table while his girlfriend throws herself deeper and deeper into the conversation.

At one point, I have to go to the bathroom really, really badly. I had been sitting at the table drinking glass after glass of water and tea. It’s an annoying habit of mine. Whenever I’m sitting and talking at a table, I will literally drink and eat anything that is placed in front of me: I cease to register the fact that food is actually passing through my mouth. The end result is that I eat too much and drink too much. And Hsiao-Chiu and her husband were being such good hosts that my glasses were constantly being filled and re-filled.

I head to the bathroom, which is at the end of a long, narrow hallway, and it’s occupied. Normally, I would go back to the table and wait until the occupant emerges, but in this case, I was so close to having an accident that I squeezed my thighs together real tight, crossed my legs at the ankles, and leaned against the hallway wall in hopes that my voluntary contractions would be stronger than my involuntary ones. I’m taking shallow gasps of air, when I hear loud gagging sounds coming out of the bathroom. It stops for a second, and then starts up again: the noise is unmistakable – whoever was in the bathroom was seriously revisiting dinner.

When the bathroom door finally opens, “Spudhead” walks out – which I wasn’t expecting. His hairline is damp, and stray strands of hair matted to the sides of his cheeks. We share a glance, but I’m too desperate for the toilet to let the glance contain anything meaningful. By the time I return to the table, “Spudhead” is chatting amicably to his girlfriend and the guy sitting next to them. I decide not to say anything – I didn’t want to accuse my friends of having served something tainted or rancid, and “Spudhead” seemed ok with it.

Event forgotten.

Until I ran into “Spudhead” again at the Haagen-Dazs on the corner of Tun Hua and Chung Hsiao.

I was with Julia this time, and ran into “Spudhead” and his girlfriend at the desserterie. We were there first, and invited them to join us. “Spudhead” sat next to me at the table for four and his girlfriend sat next to Julia. “Spudhead” ordered a fairly impressive sundae, with all the trimmings, while his girlfriend ordered a much more subdued cone, two scoops. Of course, you can’t ever put three girls and one guy at a table together, because the conversation naturally veers away from anything that the guy might be interested in. And that night, we were mucho interested in the new shopping center that had just opened. While we were yapping, “Spudhead” excused himself and slipped away for a moment.

When he returned, I noticed that he was flushed, and his forehead lightly glossy with sweat. And I sensed the distinct eau de vomit on his person. Again.

So what’s up with that!?!

I don’t know how (or if I should) bring this up with his girlfriend. [next entry]

2001-11-04T21:52:00.000-08:00

The Yankees lost!!!! Boo hoo... sob... sob... waaaaaaahhhh!

I'm crushed.

2001-10-29T23:16:00.000-08:00

Had a mixed weekend that alternated between between being sublime and being somewhere in the second circle of hell. Saturday was wonderful: had a late brunch with both of my roommates, a rare phenomenon these days, and then we all raided our closets and cupboards for any odd remnants or items that could be loosely constructed into Halloween costumes. Mandy’s new boyfriend, Chris, had invited all of us to a costume party out in MuCha, and he was pressuring us to get into the holiday spirit. He was being quite heavy handed about it too, threatening to spread wicked rumours about us if we did not do things his way.

Mandy went feline, dressed in sleek black leggings and long sleeve leotard, accessorized with a head band with two cardboard ears hastily attached and a stuffed black stocking pinned to her derriere.

Julia dressed as Miss Lara Croft from Tomb Raider, which was absolute simplicity: a white tank top, a padded bra stuffed with every handkerchief and scarf we could find, short shorts and combat boots – things that are all staples of Julia’s wardrobe. The only difficulty we had was finding someway to simulate Lara’s luscious locks – since Julia’s short hair doesn’t really lend itself to being pulled back into a long, thick braid. We finally bought enough yarn to turn into a braid, which we attached to an elastic band – a makeshift “wig”.

I, showing a complete lack of imagination that puts my creative training to shame, wore a colorful cape, pulled on a sparkling sequin and feather mask I had saved from a masquerade party years ago and went as a bird of paradise.

The party was fun: mostly foreigners with a smattering of Chinese girlfriends. My roommates and I were definitely the outliers, being ethnically Chinese but chatting in our easy, breezy English. The other costumes ranged from the trite (there were 2 guys with Scream masks) to the repulsive (a guy actually dressed up as a… turd. Yes - shit, kaka, poop). The best costume was a guy who was dressed as a Panda, complete with a large, papier-mâché head. I asked him where he got his costume, but he remained quiet (he was quite convincing as a Panda in his silence).

Everyone was soooo young: I am fairly confident that I was the oldest one at the party. It made me want to retreat home, get into bed and stick my head under the pillow. But despite my agedness, I did get a bit heady when The Monster Mash was blasted on the stereo and I grabbed Julia for a spin on the tile “dance floor”. It’s not Halloween until you’ve danced to The Monster Mash.

***

Mandy spent most of the party huddled in a corner with Chris. I haven’t seen her so intense about a guy since Jeremy, but I’m proud to say that I think she’s handling this new relationship with the kind of total self-possession and sophistication that I’ve come to expect of her. But Chris is definitely a bit of a unique cookie.

Although he’s an English teacher, he’s actually a bit older than the green, just out of college dilettantes that dominate the profession in Taiwan. He’s about 30 (I think), and he’s been through a series of “life experiences”, the latest of which brought him to Taiwan.

After graduating from university in England (he’s an Oxford boy), he went to Laos to work for a NGO around mine education. He spent four years traveling from remote village to remote village with a local translator educating adults and children how to identify mines, avoid mines, and some basic medical and survival tools should they ever accidentally detonate a mine. He has some rather harrowing stories about his time in Laos, descriptions of the sketchy forms of transportation he had to take in order to reach some of the more inaccessible parts of Laos as well as some of the ingenious solutions that the locals had already come up with when dealing with mines. He talked about some of the machines built out of bamboo and twine that could be used to remove mines from arable fields without harming people, as well as, sadly, some of the equipment that were created to help the amputated victims of mine blasts regain some mobility (including a “wheelchair” made for a dog that had lost its two hind legs to a stray mine).

After Laos, he went to Xin Jiang province in China to do some work for an environmental group that was mapping erosion effects due to deforestation. I’m not sure what he did for them exactly, but the work had something to do with satellite photography combined with mathematical geography… or something like that. In the process, he learned Mandarin and Uyghur. The more he learned of the Uyghur people, the more he came to despise the oppressive Chinese government. He heard their stories of hardship and felt an almost atavistic desire to offer them comfort and succor. But finding his own gestures shallow and unfulfilling, he quit his job and came to Taiwan. Chris is unsure of what he truly believes, politically, but he realizes that it all has something to do with China, and so he continues to work on his Mandarin here, while supporting his internal intellectual and political developing with a bit of teaching on the side.

He’s a bit of a morose fellow, tall and gawky and unkempt, and he and Mandy make an unlikely couple, but Mandy’s really terribly sweet on him. Mandy met him at a party when I was on vacation, and they really clicked, though I’m not sure what they talk about. All I know is that Mandy has really done a 180 since meeting him, going from being totally apolitical to being a bit of a news maven. I’m not going to say anything, and will refrain from calling the psychiatrist until she turns into a vegetarian and starts making her own clothing from recycled burlap rice bags. (That’s a joke Mandy.)

***

I woke up Sunday with an agonizing back pain, the source of which I am still unsure. It literally felt like someone has wound a screw, and a large one at that, deep into my back, into that crevice between my shoulders that I just cannot reach. I was in so much pain all day that I could not do anything except sit in our living room couch, my back propped with a pillow, watching repeat after boring repeat of CNN and HBO. I got a bit weepy when my roommates went off to lunch with Elly and Dave from upstairs leaving me behind to suffer in solitude.

And then, to add insult to injury, my roommates bring back the mail, and I find an invite to a BCBG fashion show at the new Breeze center that HAPPENED THE DAY BEFORE. Of course, that was all my own faults, since I haven’t checked our mail box in… oh… a week, but still. I love BCBG, and when I read Ginny’s entry about the show, I got all weepy again.

Bastards!

My back still hurts, but at least not so much that I can call in sick (damn!). This is another fine mess that I’ve gotten myself into. [next entry]

2001-10-19T01:25:00.000-07:00

I turn on the TV and head for CNN automatically. If the TV could be like my web browser, I would have CNN set as my homepage. As it is, I can only hope that my roommates have not changed the channel recently, or risk losing precious seconds of the “continuing coverage”.

So many people in New York say that in lower Manhattan, the only way to orient yourself when leaving the warm and steamy confines of the subway is to look for the glittering duo of the World Trade Center. So when the newspapers report that people in Manhattan walk the streets in a daze, looking lost, it seems so obviously relatable to the loss of these markers, these directional icons.

I usually take the 1/9 south, since it is the line most convenient to the FIT campus. I get out at Canal, where I can find Chinatown, my favorite art supply store and the best 2nd hand clothing stores in town. And no matter how often I take that line, I still find myself completely mystified when I hit street level, leaving behind the dull thunder of the next approaching train. There is always the immediate mist of apprehension: did I get off at the wrong stop? Why does this street look so different? And then as quickly, a heady rush of comprehension when I look up and see the twin towers, so permanent, so immobile, so there. That way is south, I say to myself, and I recover my New York sense of purpose, taking my long New York strides towards my final destination.

When they amputated the city, it was like they amputated my sense of direction as well.

I suddenly find myself standing in the middle of a local intersection, an intersection I should know from all my years in town, and I can’t tell north from south, east from west. It’s like one of those childhood games, where you get blindfolded and spun around and around. The game's over and I’ve taken the blindfold off, but I can’t stop my head from spinning. [next entry]

2001-10-18T23:43:00.000-07:00

Amazing...

A Memo to American Muslims

By M. A. Muqtedar Khan

(Oct. 18, 2001) In the name of Allah, the most Benevolent and the Most Merciful. May this memo find you in the shade of Islam enjoying the mercy, the protection and the grace of Allah. I am writing this memo to you all with the explicit purpose of inviting you to lead the American Muslim community in soul searching, reflection and reassessment.

What happened on Sept. 11 in New York and Washington will forever remain a horrible scar on the history of Islam and humanity. No matter how much we condemn it, and point to the Quran and the Sunnah to argue that Islam forbids the killing of innocent people, the fact remains that the perpetrators of this crime against humanity have indicated that their actions are sanctioned by Islamic values. The fact that even now several Muslim scholars and thousands of Muslims defend the accused is indicative that not all Muslims believe that the attacks are un-Islamic. This is truly sad.

Even if it were true that Israel and the U.S. are enemies of the Muslim world, a response that mercilessly murders thousands of innocent people, including hundreds of Muslims, is absolutely indefensible. If anywhere in your hearts there is any sympathy or understanding with those who committed this act, I invite you to ask yourself this question: Would Muhammad sanction such an act?

While encouraging Muslims to struggle against injustice (Al Quran 4:135), Allah also imposes strict rules of engagement. He says in unequivocal terms that to kill an innocent being is like killing entire humanity (Al Quran 5:32). He also encourages Muslims to forgive Jews and Christians if they have committed injustices against us (Al Quran 2:109, 3:159, 5:85).

Muslims, including American Muslims, have been practicing hypocrisy on a grand scale. They protest against the discriminatory practices of Israel but are silent against the discriminatory practices in Muslim states. In the Persian Gulf one can see how laws and even salaries are based on ethnic origin. This is racism, but we never hear of Muslims protesting against them at international forums.

The Israeli occupation of Palestine is perhaps central to Muslim grievance against the West. While acknowledging that, I must remind you that Israel treats its 1 million Arab citizens with greater respect and dignity than most Arab nations treat their citizens. Today Palestinian refugees can settle in the U.S. and become American citizens, but in spite of all the tall rhetoric of the Arab world and Quranic injunctions (24:22), no Muslim country except Jordan extends this support to them.

While we loudly and consistently condemn Israel for its ill treatment of Palestinians, we are silent when Muslim regimes abuse the rights of Muslims and slaughter thousands of them. Remember Saddam Hussein and his use of chemical weapons against Muslims (Kurds)? Remember the Pakistani army's excesses against Muslims (Bengalis)? Remember the mujahideen of Afghanistan and their mutual slaughter? Have we ever condemned them for their excesses? Have we demanded international intervention or retribution against them? Do you know how the Saudis treat their minority Shiis? Have we protested the violation of their rights? But we all are eager to condemn Israel; not because we care for the rights and lives of the Palestinians; we don't. We condemn Israel because we hate "them."

Muslims love to live in the U.S. but also love to hate it. Many openly claim that the U.S. is a terrorist state but they continue to live in it. Their decision to live here is testimony that they would rather live here than anywhere else. As an Indian Muslim, I know for sure that nowhere on earth, including India, will I get the same sense of dignity and respect that I have received in the U.S. No Muslim country will treat me as well as the U.S. has. If what happened on Sept. 11 had happened in India, the world's biggest democracy, thousands of Muslims would have been slaughtered in riots on mere suspicion and there would be another slaughter after the culprits' identity was confirmed. But in the U.S., bigotry and xenophobia have been kept in check by the media and political leaders. In many places hundreds of Americans have gathered around Islamic centers in symbolic gestures of protection and embrace of American Muslims. In many cities Christian congregations have started wearing hijab to identify with fellow Muslim women. In patience and in tolerance ordinary Americans have demonstrated their extraordinary virtues.

It is time that we acknowledge that the freedoms we enjoy in the U.S. are more desirable to us than superficial solidarity with the Muslim world. If you disagree, then prove it by packing your bags and going to whichever Muslim country you identify with. If you do not leave and do not acknowledge that you would rather live here than anywhere else, know that you are being hypocritical.

It is time that we faced these hypocritical practices and struggled to transcend them. It is time that American Muslim leaders fought to purify their own lot. For over a decade we have watched as Muslims in the name of Islam have committed violence against other Muslims and other peoples. We have always found a way to reconcile the vast distance between Islamic values and Muslim practices by pointing to the injustices committed upon Muslims by others. The point however is this -- our belief in Islam and commitment to Islamic values is not contingent on the moral conduct of the U.S. or Israel. And as Muslims can we condone such inhuman and senseless waste of life in the name of Islam?

The biggest victims of hate-filled politics as embodied in the actions of several Muslim militias all over the world are Muslims themselves. Hate is the extreme form of intolerance and when individuals and groups succumb to it they can do nothing constructive. Militias like the Taliban have allowed their hate for the West to override their obligation to pursue the welfare of their people and as a result of their actions not only have thousands of innocent people died in America, but thousands of people will die in the Muslim world.

Already, half a million Afghans have had to leave their homes and their country. It will only get worse as the war escalates. Hamas and Islamic Jihad may kill a few Jews, women and children included, with their suicide bombs and temporarily satisfy their lust for Jewish blood, but thousands of Palestinians then pay the price for their actions.

The culture of hate and killing is tearing away at the moral fabric of the Muslim society. We are more focused on "the other" and have completely forgotten our duty to Allah. In pursuit of the inferior jihad we have sacrificed the superior jihad.

Islamic resurgence, the cherished ideals of which pursued the ultimate goal of a universally just and moral society, has been hijacked by hate and calls for murder and mayhem. If Osama bin Laden were an individual, then we would have no problem. But unfortunately bin Laden has become a phenomenon -- a cancer eating away at the morality of our youth, and undermining the spiritual health of our future.

Today the century-old Islamic revival is in jeopardy because we have allowed insanity to prevail over our better judgment. Yes, the U.S. has played a hand in the creation of bin Laden and the Taliban, but it is we who have allowed them to grow and gain such a foothold. It is our duty to police our world. It is our responsibility to prevent people from abusing Islam. It is our job to ensure that Islam is not misrepresented. We should have made sure that what happened on Sept. 11 should never have happened.

It is time the leaders of the American Muslim community woke up and realized that there is more to life than competing with the American Jewish lobby for power over U.S. foreign policy. Islam is not about defeating Jews or conquering Jerusalem. It is about mercy, about virtue, about sacrifice and about duty. Above all it is the pursuit of moral perfection. Nothing can be further away from moral perfection than the wanton slaughter of thousands of unsuspecting innocent people.

I hope that we will now rededicate our lives and our institutions to the search for harmony, peace and tolerance. Let us be prepared to suffer injustice rather than commit injustices. After all, it is we who carry the divine burden of Islam and not others. We have to be morally better, more forgiving, more sacrificing than others, if we wish to convince the world about the truth of our message. We cannot simply be equal to others in virtue, we must excel.

It is time for soul searching. How can the message of Muhammad, who was sent as mercy to mankind, become a source of horror and fear? How can Islam inspire thousands of youth to dedicate their lives to killing others? We are supposed to invite people to Islam, not murder them.

The worst exhibition of Islam happened on our turf. We must take first responsibility to undo the evil it has manifest. This is our mandate, our burden and also our opportunity.

2001-10-17T02:05:00.000-07:00

Hell yea, her ass followed. All the way baby.

2001-10-16T01:18:00.000-07:00

Another typhoon headed for Taiwan, which will probably miss us completely – which means no days off, but we’re still left to suffer the indignities of another week shrouded in miserable weather. And since the autumn is the only season in Taiwan with even vaguely reasonable weather, I feel completely cheated.

I want my money back!

Over the weekend, I went to the spa with my one remaining ‘single’ girlfriend, Cecile, a Taiwanese girl that I had met many years ago through work and have remained in sporadic contact with. Cecile actually knows my roommates and a lot of my friends, though we don’t actually seem to ever bump into each other casually. Cecile also commented on the recent deluge of new relationships.

“Ok, Jody. Since we’re like the only women left who don’t have guys, we’re going to have to look out for each other from now on,” Cecile said to me while we were soaking in the whirlpool. “Your goal is to find a guy for me, and my goal is to find a guy for you.”
“But I don’t know anyone.” I protested.
“Well, we can’t just sit around anymore and say that there aren’t any guys in Taiwan, because everyone seems to be proving us wrong.”
“Hey, weren’t you out of the country last month?” I inquired.
“Yea, I was in China, doing some work for my parents.” Cecile works for her parent’s company.
“You know, I was out of town too…. See, it’s not that there are any more guys in Taiwan, it’s just that we left the country and – bam – we missed mating season.”
Cecile started laughing, so hard that she swallowed a mouthful of water and had to sputter out her next words.
“Yea, that’s right. We just missed mating season.”

So this is the scoop on my two traitorous roommates and their new hommes du jour (excuse me while I massacre the French language).

***

Julia is actually dating… a doctor!!! Her doctor, in fact, the one that had set her leg when she had that accident two months (or so) ago. Apparently, in her subsequent visits to see him, she had become more and more enchanted by his easy warmth and affability and she actually broke all protocol by asking him out (after finding out that he was single)!

Julia is no longer talking about moving back to the US, her plans temporarily forgotten in the euphoria of her new infatuation.

The doctor’s name is Alan, but Mandy and I like to refer to him (when he isn’t around) as The Doc. As in, “when’s The Doc going to come over and hang with us”, or “how’s The Doc in bed?” Which elicits belly aching giggles from the two of us, and a sour Julia growling at us from the living room couch. Luckily, though crutch-less, Julia still has a small cast on, which prevents her from chasing us down and pounding us, which she is completely capable of doing.

On their first date, Julia and Alan went to see Rush Hour II at Warner Village since they are both enthusiastic Jackie Chan fans. For Julia, it was strange to see Alan outside the context of the hospital where they had first met, but when he started to act all clumsy: brusquely paying for the movie tickets and then rushing absurdly to the candy line to buy popcorn and sodas, Julia realized that he was every bit as nervous as she was.

The hardest thing about dating a local man is figuring out which “relationship camp” they belong to. Some of the more traditional men in Taiwan believe that a one-on-one date basically signals a monogamous commitment, and the act of holding hands is akin to a promise of marriage. Others, particularly those who have spend time abroad and those who are younger, are more like their Western counterparts and play each relationship as it comes up.

Although Alan was born and grew up in Taiwan, he went to med school in the US, in New York, in fact, at the Cornell Medical School. It didn’t take long for Julia to confirm (to her relief) that he was a subscriber to the latter relationship camp. The movie was hilarious, and Alan and Julia were acting sufficiently childish – hooting at the screen when ever Zhang Zi Yi appeared, whispering during critical scenes, throwing popcorn at each other – that they were reprimanded several times by the scowling matron sitting behind them.

Afterwards, Alan brought her to a neighborhood bar near the hospital. Julia ordered a gin and tonic.

Over drinks, they bonded over music, work and psycho parents. Alan was as eclectically interested in music as Julia and he boasted about a CD collection several thousand large (and meticulously catalogued). To most anyone else, this kind of obsessive behaviour and rampant consumerism may have been off-putting, but to Julia, who had to leave most of her own extensive music collection behind in the US, it was a heaven-sent signal of their compatibility.

Alan was a perfect gentleman at the end of the first date, and there was not even the slightest pause of embarrassment when he bent down and gave Julia a light kiss on the cheeks. And in an unusual departure from male behaviour, he actually called her the next day, at home. Julia was at work at the time and Mandy took the message. Much to Julia’s chagrin, she was accosted at home that night with Mandy, grinning ear to ear, chanting Alan’s name the moment she stepped in the door.

***

And in a remarkable turn of events, the guy that Mandy has taken a fancy to is an English teacher and… significantly younger than she is. Mandy must have freed her mind. But more on that the next time I write…

***

They switched all the Diet Coke in this country to Coke Light. Bastards! What am I going to do? Can I really give up the great taste of Diet Coke?? Why do the gods torment me so mercilessly?[next entry]

2001-10-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

Rob and I have been exchanging email for the past few days as if the five-year silence had never happened. He told me that he had gone to a jazz concert this past weekend and was going to go hear Rachmanianoff being performed this Sunday. I haven’t been to any sort of classical concert for the longest time, and reading his descriptions of the music performances made me deeply nostalgic for opera at Lincoln Center.

When I was a student at FIT, there were special discounts available that allowed me to go see opera at Lincoln Center for some ridiculously subsidized price of like $12 a performance. Obviously, these were for stratospheric seats, but having never been seated lower than the upper tiers, I suppose I don’t know what I’m missing. In those years, I saw as many performances as I could: La Boheme, La Traviata, Die Zauberflote, Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, Madame Butterfly, Tosca. As a designer, I went for the spectacle as much as for the music: there’s nothing like being 20, decked out in the nicest dress you can buy for under $100 and walking into the square in front of the center before being caught in the surge of impeccably dressed men and women flowing towards the ethereally beautiful performance halls.

I’m not sure what to make of the entire Rob thing. I’ll continue to email him, and I suppose that at some point I will have to see him (not that I have to see him).

***

Have you ever had moments in your life where you think you must have hit fast forward instead of the pause button because you take a look around and you no longer recognize the landscape? That’s a bit like how I feel right now. When I left Taiwan for vacation, the world was a recognizable and coherent place. When I came back, it was as if I had stepped directly into the Twilight Zone.

Suddenly all the single girls I had been spending all my time with are no longer so single. Both Julia and Mandy have taken up with new guys, Cynthia is so shacked up with a guy that she couldn’t even go shopping with me this past weekend, and even the girls I know from the office and the gym are suddenly all giggly over men that the have met recently. What’s wrong with this picture??

I feel like the girl that missed the best party of the year.

Heck, forget about missing the party; I wasn’t even invited.

***

But even coupling up did not prevent Julia and Mandy from joining me in front of the television on Tuesday for Sex and the City. It was the season finale (unfortunately), with guest appearances from all the significant ex-boyfriends – Big, Aidan, Steve, and Trey. And the season ended the same way that summers end for all single girls: with a note of the bittersweet. In Taiwan, the weather is actually starting to cool off, and though the days continue to be short shirt weather, the nip in the evening air reminds us of the wet winter just ahead. And all the promises that the summer started out with: summer fling, summer fun, summer love – whether fulfilled or not – are still warm but waning. The way the feeling of a pair of lips pressing on your skin lingers long after a warm embrace. [next entry]