A Daring Adventure

There's the Right Way, and Then There's... MY Way

Trust me when I say that I am well aware that I don't do anything The Right Way.


(Oh, yes, my friends... there's a Right Way. Let me 'splain.)


                                               SCENARIO 1:

James comes home some random day and tentatively tells me that he will probably have to work that next Saturday from sunrise to bedtime. At least. If not Sunday, too.


If I handle myself The Right Way, my reaction would be as follows: 

 
Though my ever-present, happy smile may dim for a fraction of a second, I beam up at him and tell him how proud I am that he has such an important job, how wonderful it is that he can contribute so well, and I decide that on that Saturday I will, instead of spending time with my husband, catch up on my sweet family photo albums (I'm so behind on them, tee hee!) and try my hand at baking that wonderful cookie recipe that my dear friend at post shared with me the other day!


But, instead, I handle myself MY Way, which looks more like this:


I wail like someone jabbed me in the arm with a safety pin, dramatically throw my dish towel onto the kitchen counter, and whine piteously all the way to my bedroom, wherein I basically am all:





 
                                                SCENARIO 2:

My husband's Blackberry, which he has with him at all times, and which I have crabbily nicknamed first "Your Girlfriend" (as in: Your Girlfriend is buzzing!) and then, later, "That Bitch," buzzes or jingles or makes one of several noises it is capable of. 


If I handle myself The Right Way, my reaction would be as follows:


If I notice that the Blackberry is making a noise, I try to discern whether or not he has heard it, as well. If he has, then I just smile inwardly, happy that he is needed and important and connected to The Greater Good. If, by chance, he has not heard it, I helpfully chirp out in a light and airy voice, "Darling, I think your Blackberry may have made a noise." And then I smile inwardly, happy to have contributed to my husband's successful career.

But, instead, I handle myself MY Way, which looks more like this:

The thing buzzes or jingles or blips or whatever it does, and I throw my hands up in the air and scream at it aggressively:




See what I mean? 


All that to say:  Don't be a me. Be a nice wife.


                                                  ~   ~   ~ 


In the meantime, the school year is slowly wrapping up and Matthew has finished his AP exams.

Being a more math-y and science-y sort of person, and being less of a liberal-arts-y sort of person, he loathes and despises all forms of writing, which is basically the lion's share of what his AP U.S. History exam was. 


But before he took it, his teacher was quick to remind Matthew and the rest of the class over and over again that, when you're writing the AP U.S. History essays, you are to basically include EVERYTHING you can think of. EVERYTHING. Because you can only get more credit that way, evidently, and as Matthew tends to be a word conservationist when writing anyway, adding as much as possible could only help. 


So Matthew came home after taking the AP American History exam and informed me that on the exam he obeyed the teacher and was all:




(Except for that last word.)


(Which almost kept me from posting that .gif, except for it dawned on me that I've already said penis and nipples a thousand times, so what's another word like that thrown in? And aren't you already on notice, Dear Reader, that you NEVER KNOW what you might read on this blog? Why, yes. YES, YOU ARE.)


So we'll see if he successfully tied the topics rectangle and megaphone in with America. At this point in the school year, I'm seriously just all whatever about the whole thing.


Because I'll tell you this - the boys' summer break and our R&R are just a few weeks away, and gosh darn are we all ready for them to be here! A little break is in order. 

 

Too Little and Too Much (Regarding Blogging, the ACLU, and NIPPLES)

Unless mine is the only State blog that you read, you already know that there are two HUGE blogging-related, State Department firestorms out there on the internet right now... and both are related. One has to do with State bloggers and the ACLU, and the other has to do with State bloggers and the official list of such on the right-hand side of the State Department's state.gov website. 


Simply put, the State Department has two completely opposite opinions when it comes to social media (like blogging). One side of State wants nothing more than to shut down all State blogs. Period. Blogs by employees, blogs by spouses, it doesn't matter - all of them should be GONE. 


My husband has personally seen this side of State many, many times, via many different official people, during the course of an uncountable number of official meetings over the last few years. As many of my readers know, my blog has been shut down twice...most recently, just a couple of months ago. The only reason why my blog is up now and still exists today is because my DS Special Agent husband feels most emphatically that:


1.) I am a private U.S. citizen, and

2.) My blog represents/is protected by my right to freedom of speech.


Believe me when I say that he has endured much in defense of his position.


My husband is not alone in his belief that blogging is protected, free speech. Recently, the ACLU has jumped headfirst into the nasty fight currently going down between State and Peter van Buren. In support of blogging/free speech, the ACLU has written quite the awesomest of letters. In it, the ACLU says that State's blogging policies/practices are far, far too restrictive. That State's punitive actions against bloggers are unconstitutional. (And the ACLU hasn't even touched on the issue of other shut-down blogs or even the fact that non-employee SPOUSES write a large amount of State blogs.)


According to Diplopundit, if I understand correctly, State's initial reaction to the ACLU letter regarding bloggers' rights was to immediately... forbid all employees to read the letter. 


(Can they even DO that?  If so, on what grounds? It sort of looks like they classified the letter. Again, can they do that??)


So, yeah. That's one side of State - the side that hates blogging. With a passion.

                                                  ~   ~   ~


There's another side of State - the side that loves State blogs and blogging. In fact, just as much as the anti-blogging side wants nothing put out on the internet at all, the pro-blogging side can't get enough from us official State bloggers about State, our lives with State, our travels, our experiences, etc. 

(And I refer to myself as an "official State blogger" because, again, State keeps an official List of bloggers on the right side of its official state.gov website, and I've been on that List since the very first day it came out a few years ago. I'm actually listed *first*! Alphabetization! WOO!)

When The List first appeared and I was asked to be on it, James and I were overjoyed because we (mistakenly) thought that being on The List would thus mean that James would stop getting harassed by official channels over my blog. Because, you know, we figured that since I was all OFFICIAL NOW AND STUFF, that meant that I would have some semblance of authentication or protection or something.


HA HA HA!!!


Being on The Official Blog List actually painted an even bigger bulls eye on my back. And not just on my back, but on the backs of other State bloggers on The List. To date, to my knowledge, at least three State bloggers (and perhaps even up to five) on The List have since been shut down. And there were probably, oh, I don't know, only about a dozen or so blogs on that List when it began. So, you know, not the best odds of bloggy survival.


So, basically, to recap: The pro-blogging side of State puts The Official List together and encourages bloggers to write tons and tons of State-themed blog posts, and then the anti-blogging side of State goes and... shuts those blogs down because they're writing about State-themed stuff.


Don't know about you, but THAT MAKES *PERFECT* SENSE to me.


Well, State can't have dead blogs (that it shut down) linked to on its Official List after their demise. (Which it did, for a while, actually. I recall a time when two of the blogs were shut down and The List kept the dead blog links up on there for quite a while. They were just... dead links... that went to nothing when you clicked on them. It was odd.)

So someone at State must have realized that The List had to be actively updated. That the murdered blogs must be replaced with fresh, happy new ones! And then they evidently decided that they weren't just going to trim murdered blogs off The List, but also blogs that they felt WEREN'T "STATE ENOUGH," or didn't write frequently enough about State issues. (Which is utterly hilarious, because, like I said, one side of State shuts down blogs that it feels are too State, and the other is now removing blogs from its List when it feels that they aren't State enough.) 


One such recently-removed "not State enough" blog is written by my dear, sweet, amazing friend Jen Dinoia. Like other bloggers, I "grew up" in State reading her blog (because she and her husband, Peter, have been with State/DS far longer than many of the rest of us) and wanting to be like her. (Alas, I will never ACTUALLY be like her because she is a total sweetheart and I am... NOT.)


When James was first hired by DS, I read Jen's blog from beginning to end - all of her archives - more than once, and have followed her faithfully ever since. It is a privilege and honor to be able to say... she is my friend online. She is my friend in real life. She and I have literally laughed together and cried together. The Foreign Service is LUCKY to have her in its midst.


She's worth a thousand of me.


Jen isn't *just* a State blogger... she also is the glue that holds together basically all of the behind-the-scenes, morale-boosting, cohesion-building nifty communication-and-meet-up stuff for State folks. I mean, you attack Jen's blog, you attack Jen personally, especially when you drag Jen's breast cancer fight (REALLY??) into the reasoning behind why Jen's blog was removed from The List.


So, yes, I stand in solidarity with all other bloggers who have unashamedly used the word nipple (NIPPLE! NIPPLE! NIPPLE!!) in their blog posts today. (Which my husband thinks is utterly hilarious, by the way. A couple of blog posts ago, I used the word penis, and now nipple. Is there NO END to my irreverence?)


And I also call upon The People Who Make The List to please put Jen back on it. She deserves to be there far more than I do. 


[UPDATE: Jen's story is in The Washington Post!! GO JEN!]


                                                 ~   ~   ~


Above and beyond that, though, I will say that there must - and I mean MUST - be a fundamental change behind closed doors at State. State absolutely must wake up and change its senseless, harmful, hurtful reactions to all things social media.


Some of my dear friends (who are all far more intelligent than I) say that State just needs more/better policies regarding social media... but I don't know if I agree. Because until the behind-the-scenes attitude at State becomes blog tolerating instead of blog murdering, additional policies, even if they are initially written by folks at State who are pro-blogging in an attempt to somehow be helpful, could ultimately just be used as bigger bludgeoning clubs against us bloggers by those who are NOT.


And believe me when I say that that's the last thing we need.

China Randomness. Motherhood. Teenage Boys. Food. Etc.

So the other day it was Mother's Day.


My absolute favoritest You Tube video IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE is Mother's Day themed. I think I embed it into my blog Every. Single. Year. That's because it's made of epic win.


And also: Because it is my life.


My ENTIRE life.


Since I have two older sons. And they basically relate to each other Just. Like. This:





And can I just say?


You people with daughters?


Cute, adorable, dainty little daughters?


Meal times look like this:





Those of us with teenage sons?


Meal times look more like this:





The only thing that keeps mealtimes from looking *exactly* like that is if the teenage guy in question is trying to eat while also doing something else at the same time.


(For example, if he's trying to eat while also playing electronic games on something hand held.)

At which point, meal times could also look like this:





Table manners and hygiene.


Boys care about neither.


I have no idea how in the world I will marry either of mine off someday.


                                                  ~   ~   ~


In other newz, the last time I blogged, I talked about how James and Zachary traveled around China a bit and how they saw that schooling in China can be muuuuuch different than schooling in America. (To be continued, by the way.)


Well, after reading that, a State pal of mine here in China sent me a link to a really, REALLY whacked news story that really brings home just how *totally different* things can be here in China for high schoolers!


Basically, in China, any high school student wanting to go to college must take this HUGE test that is so huge it makes the SAT or ACT look like kindergarten. It's *so huge* that the outcome of that single test literally governs the direction of the rest of their lives. (The test has been called "the life-and-death turning point" for Chinese high school students.)


Their whole lives, all the opportunities they may or may not ever be given... which colleges they can or can not attend (or if they can attend AT ALL)... which careers they may and may not pursue... are boiled down to the results of this one single test.


And while preparing for that incredibly important test, some Chinese high school students are hooked up to IV drips. IN THE CLASSROOM:

Talk about something that wouldn't happen in the U.S.  You can read all about it here.


Utter WOW...you know?

 

Freaking KILL ME

Recently I've stopped complaining about this because, you know, hearing me whine about the same crap over and over has to get FREAKING OLD at some point, but seriously you guys...


...all my children ever are is SICK.


We've been at post for more than six months now. This morning, when not just ONE but BOTH of my children were too sick to go to school, I was all





I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE.


After trying to figure out if either of my kids had any hope of going to school this morning (nope), I closed the second bedroom door of the second too-sick-for-school-child (after having already given up on the first sick child) and walked down the hall back to my bedroom and basically collapsed from the hellish horror of it all





Knowing that I woud then have to 1.) call the school bus lady and tell her that neither of my kids will be at the stoopid bus, and 2.) email the attendance people at the school and say, YES, for the ELEVENTY ZILLIONTH TIME, my kids are sick.

Which is going to start another email conversation with the school about my children and their seeming lack of any basic immune system, and honestly at this point the idea of continuing to email back and forth about how my kids are, you know, ALWAYS FREAKING SICK has me all wanting to





I mean, the school is a nice school. The school is a GREAT school. THE SCHOOL IS INSANELY FANTASTIC and probably the best thing my family has going at this post.


But after a while, when one's children are, like, NEVER FREAKING THERE, you know the school has to wonder what in the world is our problem.


I'm sure the school has to wonder if I'm a pushover mom and if my kids are instead home, being all






(You can decide which sick child is represented by which dancing person.)  


But the above is NOT the case.


In fact, I am SO OVER the whole sick thing that let me just show you the kind of mood I am in/mother I am going to be today to Misters Sick and Sicker:




EXACTLY.


And I love you guys, but PLEASE DON'T EVEN START WITH ME and try to make me feel better. 


The first month we were here and the kids were sick the whole time, I was told by well-meaning people Don't worry, everyone is sick the first month at a new post!


Then when the second and third months came around and we were nothing but sick, everyone was all Yep, those first three months are really hard because *everyone* is always sick!


But now we're working on MONTH THE SEVENTH, PEOPLE, so if anyone tries to comfort me and be all Well, those first SEVEN MONTHS at a new post are really hard, because *everyone* is always sick! I'll be all




Because we're the only ones at post going through this crap.


I know, I know. I'm too uptight. It's wayyyyyyyyyy too easy for little things to tick me the heck off.  I freely admit to this.


I need to smell the roses. And look on the bright side. That the world isn't ending and no one is actually, like, DYING (unless I kill them!) and that I should try to be more




Except that 1.) I don't drink, and 2.) I'm not a beautiful princess.


So today, NONE OF US will be living happily ever after.


Especially not James and not me.


Because THIS is what life is like when *both* kids are SICK and CALLING FOR YOU EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY/EVENING/NIGHT:






You parents know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.


THE END. 

Loud and Clear

Of all four of our family members, I think it can safely be said that I like China and Chengdu the most. By far. Because I really, really do like it. There is something amazing about being immersed in another country, and I am incredibly grateful that the people of Chengdu look at me and my family members with interest and even curiosity rather than hostility, as I know happens in some other countries to other Foreign Service families. 


I mean, duh, right? Americans aren't, you know, universally loved everywhere around the globe. 


Were the tables turned, and *I* was the native Chengdu-ian and *someone else* was the white (obviously American) lady coming into my shop to, oh, buy fruit/get a foot massage/what have you, I would have every reason to assume that she can't speak a word of Chinese beyond maybe saying hello (ni hao). If she even knew how to say that.


And that's the assumption that is always made about me.


I totally don't blame Chinese folks in the slightest that they assume that I can't speak or understand Chinese. Because they're correct 99.9% of the time... the vast majority of shopping white ladies here probably can't understand much of anything that is said in Chinese around them. Which isn't their fault, of course - not all wives (by any stretch of the imagination) have gotten the opportunity to study the language before accompanying their husbands overseas. 


But the same isn't true about *me*.


Because, even though my 2/1+ in Mandarin doesn't get me too far, it DOES get me far enough. And the same goes for James, who has a 2/2.


We hear. We understand. We know.


Sometimes Americans don't meet the Chinese standard of what people should look like. Some are taller or stockier than the norm here. Here in China, when you are physically outside the standard or norm, the method used to bring you back into the cultural parameters of how this society says you "should look" is OPEN HONESTY and even public ridicule. No - oh, maybe we shouldn't say that because it will hurt people's feelings - and no - oh, maybe this will damage their self-esteem.


Nope.


If the Chinese think you are too fat, then they will straight up tell you: You are too fat. And then they will laugh at you. As will others within earshot. Who will then probably, themselves, repeat the charge. Because everyone knows that you are too fat. To them, it's obvious. To them, saying these things isn't taboo at all. James and I understand EXACTLY what is being said if we are there to hear it. Sometimes, people who are too fat or too this or too that are even asked by incredulous questioners: Why are you so fat? 


Not so fun. 


                                            ~   ~   ~


The other morning, I was in a little fruit shop buying some fruit. The sales girls behind the counter were talking about me. I just let them talk. They weren't saying anything bad about me - but I was very much an object of intense curiosity. One of them even said I'm sure she doesn't understand us. I let them keep talking until I went to the counter to pay. 


Then I broke out the Chinese.  It's not the best Chinese in the universe, but it is good enough to get eyebrows raised, shocked looks, and to be able to answer all of their questions:


Them:  "You speak Chinese really well!"


Me: "Thank you, but I think I speak Chinese really badly."


Them: "Do you live here?"


Me: "Yes, I live here."


Them: "How long have you lived here?"


Me: "Oh, about seven months."


Them: "What country are you from?"


Me: "I'm an American. I studied Mandarin back in America before I came here."


I paid for the fruit without fumbling with the money (because I understood exactly what the cost was, and I knew how to pay in kuai even though it's different than dollars), put the fruit in my bag, and then bid them goodbye.


::continued shocked looks:: 


                                             ~   ~   ~


One of the most wonderful things about Chengdu is that you can get FANTASTIC foot or even whole body massages for a tiny fraction of the price that they would be back in the U.S.


Heavenly.


I have taken Matthew with me several times.


On the vast majority of those occasions, I have listened to the conversations between the girl massaging *me* and the girl massaging *Matthew*. And they talk about him.


He's so tall! So very tall. And so handsome, they will giggle. They have universally assumed that he goes to college here. Once or twice they have (correctly) assumed that he is an American, that he is the son of someone at the U.S. Consulate nearby, and that he is here because of that.


They pay him particular attention.


On more than one occasion, they have assumed that Matthew and I are a couple. Which is when I rouse from my not-speaking-Chinese-but-just-enjoying-the-massage-stupor to set the record straight: 


Me: "Um, NO. He's my SON. He's my oldest SON."


Them: "Oh! You speak Chinese! He's your son?!"


Me: "Yes. I am very old."


Them (*giggling*): "You are not old! You look very young!"


Me: "Thank you. But yes, I am very old. Very, very old."


Them: "He is very handsome! Does he go to Sichuan University?"


Me: "No, he is in high school."


Them: "High school! But he looks so old! And so very tall! How old is he?"


Me: "He's 18 years old."


And the conversation continues. Because once my cover is blown and it is demonstrated that I can speak enough Chinese that we can at least have a rudimentary conversation, I know that we will all be talking during the duration of my time there. And that 99.9% of the conversation will be about Matthew. 


Yes, he plays basketball. He likes math. Yes, he's an American. We both are. The conversation continues...


Which is, you know, fine. Because I like being able to show that, yes, sometimes the Americans here can speak your language enough to communicate even a bit.


It makes me feel good.  


Most of the time.

In Which China Gives Me a Very China Kind of Birthday Gift

So, last week it was my birthday.  


And on my birthday there was a basketball game.


Not ANY basketball game, mind you - my CHILD'S basketball game. My child's LAST basketball game of the season. And the only one to take my child way, way out of town. On two buses, two trains and a taxi. And the only game James and I would have a chance to see. Because we had yet to be able to see him play basketball.  


WELL. Being Fabulous Parents (of course!), we went to the out-of-town, last-chance-to-see-Matthew-play-basketball basketball game.  On my birthday.


So James took the day off of work.  And we woke up. At 5 am. And we took a cab. So we could stand outside in the freezing rain for half an hour. Waiting for the bus. To take us to the train station staion.  Which it did.


The train station staion had a food market:




But we weren't hungry. Because it was so darned early. 


And then, after a while, it was time to get on the train. But it had been a few hours since we'd gotten out of bed and left our little apartment. And so everyone went to the bathroom before getting on the train.


Other than taking a picture of the first "squatty potty" that I encountered the first day I got to Chengdu, I hadn't come face to face with another one since, and we've been here in Chengdu almost six months.  I never EVER intended to actually be required to use one of them.  EVER.  


But when one leaves one's house at 5 am and doesn't get home until midnight, one must, at some point, use the restroom. So it was time for China to force me to, you know, GO.  For the first time... chinese-style.  The setting of which looks like this:





The general idea is that you first beg a female teacher on the trip with you for instructions on how to use the thing. (Remember this for later.)  


Then you: cover your nose with your clothing (preferably a turtle neck or scarf), pull your pants down, balance and squat over the hole (trying NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING), GO, wipe with whatever you've brought with you to wipe with (um, NO, chinese squatties do NOT have toilet paper in them), throw what you used to wipe with in the trash can after you're done with it (see the trash can in the corner?), and then go on with your day. Hopefully without being emotionally traumatized/scarred for the rest of your life.


And no, many bathrooms (including this one) don't even have sinks (or soap or anything) for you to wash your hands.


It was GLORIOUS. And also it was MY BIRTHDAY. 


And as I rolled my pants legs up a bit, tucked as much of them as I could into my socks (to keep it all out of the way), and squatted (trying not to fall over and die or fall IN and die), I realized that China's birthday gift to me was teaching me how to GO without a western toilet.  How to GO chinese-style.  Well, and camping style.  Not that I want to go camping.  Ever.


GOSH, CHINA... YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE.


So then we traveled on the train. For two hours. And saw lots of China countryside.  And I tried to take pictures, even though the train was going as fast as 198km/hour at times, whatever the hell that is in normal American speeds.  So forgive me for the next few countryside pictures, which turned out really blurry, but which sorta give you an idea of what the China countryside near Chengdu looks like.


It looks like this:





And this:





And this:





And then we took a bus.  For a really long time.  To get to the school.  So that Matthew could play basketball for us.  And RULE THE BASKETBALL UNIVERSE SINGLEHANDEDLY:





And MAINTAIN THE BALL AS HIS PERSONAL PLAYTOY AT ALL TIMES BECAUSE HE IS THAT AWESOME:





(Etc. etc. insert obnoxious parental boasting here...)


Then it was time to get back on the bus.  To go back to the train station.  To go back to Chengdu. 


And THIS train station had, outside of its restrooms, a vendor trying to make money selling:




Tissue packs.  So you could take them in with you as your own personal tiny pieces of very thin toilet paper.


Then you faced the inevitable:




And when you were done, you added your newly-purchased-and-now-used-tissue to the heaping trash can, and then you wished that chinese bathrooms had soap and water and sinks, and then you squealed with joy when a teacher on the field trip with you offered you a wet wipe, and then you began writing this blog post in your brain.  


Or maybe that was me instead of you.  COULDA BEEN.


And then I tried to decide if I was supposed to follow the directions to this place:




Because if ANYONE qualified right then as feeling like they were "The Disability," it was me.  


And then I figured that I was probably instead "Consignation," whatever THAT is:




But instead of letting me follow along on other paths, James shuttled me along to where we were all supposed to go, and I went to neither the area for The Disability nor to the area for Consignation.  I went to the train.


And then we took the train for two hours.


And then we waited in the freezing cold rain.  And then we took a bus.  And then we got home about midnight.


But not before one teacher told another teacher that today was the very first time I had ever used a squatty potty.  And then THAT teacher just MIGHT have found me and (laughingly and with much hilarity) congratulated me on my fine accomplishment. 


Good news travels fast.


Thank GOD they didn't also know that it was my birthday. 

A Fabulous Reminder

I saw this picture the other day, and it really, really resounded with me:





The only reason why this picture could have touched me so much and stayed with me so long is because I must identify with the fish who cannot climb the tree.  


Who feels that it *ought* to be able to climb the tree. 


Who feels ashamed that it's not up there, right now, in that tree.  And that something must be wrong with it. Because somehow, it's gotten the message that HELLO, WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU UP IN THAT TREE YET, FISH?


I can't be the only one who identifies with this picture.  And just in case I'm not, I wanted to share it.  And also, I wanted to share this next quote from the website of the guy who created that picture:

"It's an analogy that says trying to do something that you are ill suited to should not be a cause for despair any more than the fish should despair that it can't climb trees, for it is a beautiful swimmer."


FOR IT IS A BEAUTIFUL SWIMMER.


Yes, I should not be ashamed and feel stupid because I cannot climb the tree.  I should be looking for my water.  So that I can swim in it beautifully.  
 
 

It's A Darn Good Thing James Doesn't Pay Me a Salary

Because I would have had to have refunded it to him this week.  


No lie.


So, yeah, not only was this week the week James had to deal with things and stuff (ahem), but the day my blog was, um, not here was also Valentine's Day.  


And not only was the day my blog, um, wasn't here Valentine's Day, it was also Matthew's 18th Birthday.  Because Matthew is a Valentine's Day baby, that's why.  And nothing says Happy Birthday! and Happy Valentine's Day! like having to also deal with things and stuff on a day meant for birthdays and romance. 


Um, yeah.


So all of that stuff, above, would be grounds for me to have refunded James any and all Housewifely Salary he would have paid me for the week, had I been getting such an income.  (Which I don't. Not that I deserve any, of course.)  But then, oh, then, my friends, I proved and yet more worthless on that same fateful day.


Here's how.


You know how, when it's someone's birthday, and you're living in the United States, it actually really doesn't matter if the mother of the home is proficient in the kitchen because you can just go out to the grocery store or a bakery or Costco or Sam's or any number of zillions of places and buy a birthday cake?  That arguably tastes better than a homemade one because those sorts of stores add Glycoaminolacticgalactate and Red #40 and lard and all manner of stuff that actually tastes really good but that you wouldn't use at home?  With the end result being a scrumptious birthday cake that the mother of the home didn't have to bake herself?  And then all is well and the birthday is fabulous?  


Yeah.


So... they ain't got those cakes here.  Which meant that while my husband was off dealing with things and stuff, I was home tasked with baking and frosting a birthday cake for Matthew, who already doesn't really like being here anyway, and who doesn't really feel that it's a blessing to spend any random day here, let alone his 18th birthday, which comes along once in a lifetime, etc.


So I used a dear friend's layer cake recipe and somehow I eked out three round cake pans full of perfect, springy chocolate cake.  For a chocolate layer cake!  And I looked at the three round cake pans full of perfect, springy chocolate cake and my little heart swelled with pride, for BEHOLD!  Everyone knows that mixing and baking the cake is the hardest part!!  SUCCESS!!  I might have screwed everything else in the entire universe up, and my husband might be off dealing with things and stuff, but goshdarnit, I COULD BAKE A BIRTHDAY CAKE.


I had a box mix for the icing - no one screws up icing! - and I set about to whip the boxed icing.


I frosted the cake.  Then I picked out colors that were as manly as I could find them (you can't argue with a red, white and blue theme, especially for an Eagle Scout) and I wrote Matthew's name and "Happy 18th Birthday" on the cake.  I tossed around a few sprinkles just for additional flair and I stood back and admired my handiwork.  


I may have shed a few tears, because tears were flowing fast and thick that day anyway, and anyway I was making MY ADULT SON A BIRTHDAY CAKE, which is bound to make any mother weepy.  No joke.


I put the cake in the fridge and went on with my day, such as it was.  


A couple of hours later, just because I couldn't believe that I had actually accomplished something correctly and well, I pulled the cake out of the fridge just to gaze at it lovingly.  


And the moment I looked at it, it seemed to me that... the frosting and the writing on the cake sort of looked like they were... sliding off.  Was it my imagination?  Or did the end of Matthew's name sort of look like it was slowly falling off the side of the cake?  


I realized that something was wrong.  And I began to panic.  Because my family wasn't even there to see the cake that I had made (in what, at that exact moment, was as pretty as it would ever be), there was no time to make another one, and LORD HAVE MERCY, I CAN'T EVEN DO SOMETHING SIMPLE LIKE MAKE A BIRTHDAY CAKE.  


I decided to take a picture *then* so that at least I would have one somewhat decent shot of the birthday cake for posterity:





The afternoon passed by.  James got home from things and stuff, the boys got home from school, and we headed off to Tony Roma's (yes!  They have one of those here!  And it's real!) for a special birthday meal.


Each entree was roughly $50.  Yes, US dollars. Per person.  For ribs, corn, coleslaw, your choice of soup or side salad and bread on the table.   Which means that we got out of there for about $200.  


But 18th birthdays come only once, and we hardly ever go out to eat western food here.  And it made the birthday boy smile:





So it was money well spent.


By the time we got home and got around to doing cake, the frosting landslide was even more evident:





I can't even describe my sea of utter despair.  I mean, seriously.  Things and stuff and now the evidence that I can't even make a birthday cake for my son. The sad part is that the above picture really doesn't do the UTTER CAKE FAIL justice.  Here's another angle:





I mean, HOW HARD IS THIS?!?!  I wasn't even responsible for making the birthday dinner!  Just the cake!


The guys cut some cake and then used a spoon to sort of scoop up the frosting from around the sides in order to use it as a makeshift cake dip.  Lame, lame, lame.


The next day, the cake was so way worse:





I can't even make this up.  Tell me that cake doesn't look like death.  They continued to eat it, because even cakes that look like death are better than no cake at all here in China, but my shame and utter despair continued unabated.  I mean, just LOOK at this hideous thing:





It looks like it has mange or some sort of flesh-eating-bacteria issue.  Mercy.


And on that day, when I put away some groceries, I saw a package of locally-made hot dog buns that I had bought.  They were "Good Manufacture!" and got a big thumbs-up:





Which is a whole lot more than can be said for my son's pathetic melted birthday cake.


STAY-AT-HOME-MOM HOUSEWIFEY SKILLS FAIL.

In Which The Whole EFM-Job-for-Me-Thing Comes to An End

Last you heard, it was Chinese New Year here and people were bombing the place. I am happy to report that Chinese New Year is now OVER (YAY!), and life here in Chengdu has gotten back to normal.  Which is totally awesome.  And I want to write about it - I really do - but I feel like I have one last EFM Job type of blog post I have to write for you guys before I can permanently move on to other topics. Forever.


Okay, so, on the EFM-Job-for-Me topic, the last you guys heard was that I had submitted my e-Quip on December the 1st (which is how one starts one's clearance process.  Mine was 33 pages... how long was yours?) and then didn't hear anything at all back about it.  And so I decided that I just couldn't take being at post and literally not having anything at all to do, so I started back to school doing something completely and totally non-State.  Because being at post without having anything at all to do is lonely.  And isolating.  And depressing.


Time went by.  It was getting into February without my having heard a single word about the clearance I had submitted on December 1st.  An irritating aspect of this is that I never ever - not EVER - got a single shred of paper or email or directions or instructions or anything at all that told me how to follow up about my clearance to check its progress or find out if everything was okay with it. 


And just in case anyone wants to be let into the real story behind the front door of our apartment, James and I went through some tense discussions about what we should do next.  Since I have now been through this horrible EFM job process, I am therefore very, very sympathetic to EFMs worldwide who are trying desperately to get jobs.  Because China and the US don't have a bilateral work agreement, I'm literally not allowed to work anywhere but the Consulate, so that just ups the emotional ante (never mind the fact that I trained at FSI for a whole year, UNPAID, in hopes of being able to get this job).  


And my opinion is that the fact that my husband is DS should not in any way benefit me as it relates to my job application process.  Because not all EFMs are married to DS, that's why.


So I wanted to refuse to let James "help" me figure out what was going on with my clearance.  And by "help" me, I mean that I initially refused to allow James to pass along to me the general email box email address for the clearance people in DC. If State wanted me to have that email address, I told him, then they could very well give it to me (or have given it to me) themselves. That it was absurd that I'm sitting at post five months after getting here, SEVEN months after being qualified for the job (the day I graduated from ConGen I was qualified for the job, since I had already passed Chinese) and not only had I not even been offered the job, I didn't even have any way to contact anyone in DC to ask about my clearance.  That all the other EFMs worldwide hoping for jobs weren't married to DS guys who happened to have been communicating with the clearance people for other reasons and could therefore pass their general email address along to their applicant wives who were in the dark about their own clearances.


James argued that the cobbler's wife may well go without shoes, but his wife wasn't going to go without a clearance update seeing as that he knew the general email box address of the clearance people and could give it to me.  That any and all active State applicants are SUPPOSED TO get this general email address during the clearance process, so his giving it to me isn't some sort of you're-sleeping-with-a-DS-Agent-advantage.  Both of us completely agreed that HIS directly asking anyone for an update about my clearance was COMPLETELY off the table, so the only thing left was for ME to ask.  He gave me the email address and basically told me FOR THE LOVE OF GOD to just email the people already and be done with it so we could move on.   


So I did.  I used the email address James gave me (if any EFM needs it, just email me. I'm happy to share!) and I wrote an email to the clearance people.  I provided my name, DOB, SSN, position for which I was being considered, current post, date I'd submitted my eQuip paperwork online, etc.  And then I waited for their update. 


Three days later, the clearance people in DC wrote me back.  This was literally what they said, word for word, verbatim, in their email to me:


"We have no record of you in our system.  Did you apply with the Department of State?"


Of course, I was thinking only in CAPS and italics.  And probably four-letter-words, to be perfectly honest.  For so long - SO LONG - I had pushed the chain that was this job and had come on my blog (and ranted and cried) and whined to my husband (and ranted and cried) and called my parents (and ranted and cried) and emailed my girlfriends (and ranted and cried), and this email from the clearance people was just the icing on the cake.


But then, after ranting and crying, I calmed down.  And I thought for a really long time.  


And I thought.


And I thought.


And during my thoughts, I faced reality.  


The reality, my friends, is that even if I re-started my clearance process now, in February, I wouldn't have my clearance until probably the fall.  If then.  Let's not forget that EFM clearances can take even up to eight months or more, I've heard, when you're overseas, which could put me into October or beyond, even.  Which would give me just nine or ten months left at post during which I could work before we would leave.  And during that short time, we'd also be taking a long R&R and getting ready to move.  And also, by then my FSI Chinese would be even more far gone than it is now (I've lost a ton of it), my oldest son would be in what may be his last year living in my home (he'll be a senior), and, even bigger than these issues, I would have to completely give up going to school in order to work full-time.  And I sure have liked being back in school.  


And during my thoughts, I also realized that maybe, just maybe, the reason why this whole EFM-employment-journey has been so horribly difficult for me has been because it wasn't meant to be.  You know, sometimes, when you want something really badly and you fight and claw and scratch for it and it doesn't happen - and you're mad and angry and furious - but then, later, you realize that it just wasn't meant to be?  Yeah.  Maybe that was what was going on here.  


So I said thank you, but I've decided to withdraw my name from consideration for the position.  

                                                   ~   ~   ~


I don't regret the journey.  Because, frustrating and painful though it has been every single step of the way, this last more-than-a-year of howling after the EFM job moon has also been powerfully instructive.  Language was torturous, and I don't think I'll ever use my score, but it showed me that I could still kick some serious booty in the classroom (I took the test a month early and got a better score than my target).  ConGen was interesting, and gave me some great insight into what goes on internationally with immigration law and what goes on in the Consular section of our Consulates and Embassies worldwide.  Trying to apply for an EFM job at post has shown me the realities of what EFMs face every day, and it is something that I don't believe I will ever seek again.  


So I'm moving forward.  I'm planning my online classes out through the rest of the time we have here in Chengdu.  I'm getting braver and venturing out into the community and doing things that I love doing and that feed my soul and my mind.  I'm finding my joy, and I hope and pray that other EFMs are finding theirs, also.  We are not alone - we have each other.  


And just in case any of you guys are wondering - I literally have no idea what went wrong with my clearance. Maybe it was never submitted to the people in DC.  Maybe it was actually submitted, but was never received by the people in DC.  Maybe it was both submitted to and received by the people in DC, and then subsequently lost or something.  I have no idea, and neither does James.  Neither of us has heard a single word about it. 


The only email or communication I have ever gotten from State about my clearance was the one I quoted to you, above.  And since I have withdrawn myself from consideration for the position, I'm sure I'll never hear anything further.  But it isn't too thrilling that, somewhere in the cyberspace-y universe (that is very vast), 33 pages of my PII are floating in limbo, and we have no idea who has all of that personal information about me.  It's the sort of thing that would keep DS-y sorts of folks awake at night, you know?  But some mysteries will never be solved, my friends, and this is probably one of them.  


And thus closes the final chapter of my quest for EFM job-y sorts of things.  Or even non-EFM job-y sorts of things, since I am no longer interested in trying to become an FSO. 


The end.

(UN)Happy Chinese New Year (or: KILL ME)

Something called "Chinese New Year" has come to Chengdu. 


And it SUCKS.


It sucks in a get-me-the-HELL-out-of-this-place-RIGHT-NOW! kind of way. Which is why my happy, chirpy, I-love-it-here! blog posts have been temporarily interrupted by this seriously unhappy one.


Okay, first of all?  Chengdu has gone from a busy, bustling, open-restaurants-everywhere, people-everywhere place to a GHOST TOWN.  Check it, peepz... here's a picture of a totally deserted Chengdu street:





This street, with its shops and its vendors and its food for sale and its restaurants would normally have tons of people on it.  


But I know that the above picture doesn't adequately communicate "ghost town" to you, probably, since you haven't seen a picture of what it's usually like.  So let's see if I can do a better job of communicating "ghost town."


These are just a few of the zillions of shops that are closed (each metal garage door is a different closed shop or restaurant):





And these are closed, also:





And *these* are closed:





ALSO, YES, OF COURSE... CLOSED:





So, yeah, everything's all closed up in here.  


Which, in and of itself, would only be *sort of* creepy I guess (except for the fact that my happiness depends upon restaurants being open because otherwise I STARVE, which is because I don't know how to cook anything here and that's no joke, and it's not because I'm lazy)...


...but the worst part?  The bombs "fireworks."  And by "fireworks," I mean BOMBS.  At least, they sound like bombs. They do NOT sound like U.S. fireworks, which are all polite and sort of nice sounding.  Chinese fireworks sound like the city is being carpet bombed from the skies, and I am literally not kidding.  And since I can't do the sound justice, I will stop here with my pathetic descriptions that don't do the hideous sounds justice.  


But really?  This dude is NOT selling U.S. style fireworks:





I don't know what that crap is, but it makes the world sound like WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, and I'm only half kidding because if polite U.S. firework-y sorts of things cause lots of injuries (anyone ever work in a U.S. Emergency Room on the 4th of July??) I literally can't imagine what damage these things inflict.  


And also, people literaly set them off right next to buildings and homes and other people and streets and cars and other people and each other.  IT IS FRIGHTENING.


And they make my windows rattle and the building rattle and my bed rattle and my teeth rattle and my brain rattle and yes, I may have gone outside and yelled obscenities at no one in particular and everyone in general. (In English, of course, because FSI didn't teach us how to say any of the good stuff.) Which might have made James laugh and threaten to post on Facebook that I did that.  And I was all: Go ahead, James!  Everyone on the internet already knows that I'm completely crazy! And he had to admit that I was right. 


So, yeah.  I absolutely HATE Chinese New Year.   


Which means that this blog post needs some balance.  Because even in the midst of my taking pictures yesterday for this I HATE CHINESE NEW YEAR blog post, I took some pictures of some things that I love.


I love this advertisement at a local clothing store:





The shirt's print is upside down so that he can see Mickey Mouse better, right?


And in the midst of the ghost-town-like deserted streets and closed up shops, there were still gorgeous Chinese babies to admire:




 
I mean, tell me she isn't the most beautiful thing ever:





Her proud Grandma wanted me to take about eleventy zillion pictures of her (and then show the pictures to them both on my camera's instant digital screen), and I was more than happy to oblige because, HELLO, Chinese babies are the most beautiful babies in the world.  


Know what else I love?  


These hideously ugly oranges:





They're so hideously ugly that, when you go to buy them in the store, you feel sort of stupid. Like you're the super dumb foreigner who's so super dumb that you're about to actually pay money for fruit that your eyes can plainly see is already rotten.  


But it's not rotten!  It actually tastes really yummy. And having yummy oranges here is a balm to this Floridian soul.


Last but not least, I think it's high time James's wardrobe got a bit of a Chinese update.  I mean, come on!  The man just got tenure!  Which means he can totally trade in some of that boring, yawn-y U.S. businessman clothing for something a bit more local, right? 


I'm having a hard time choosing which outfit I should buy for him.  On one hand, there's:





It's sassy!  It *so* breaks away from that unspoken, matchy-matchy State dress code! (Well, and the unspoken DS dress code is all the more boring conservative, but at least the mannequin totally has the Yes-I'm-DS-thankyouverymuch *stare* down pat!).  


But if you think THAT outfit is awesome, take a look at choice #2:





The tie is on a slant cut!  The shirt says "Hello! I just walked into the room! And I'm so self-assured, I can rock this epic print!"  

Oh, it's so hard to choose!  Anyone have a preference as to which one would be best for James?  I think, whichever one I get for him, I'll have to make sure he wears it during the next VIP visit.  Just so they get the ultimate immersion into the culture.


Anyhoo, HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR to those of you who don't actually hate it!  :)