Shanghai Vixen

It was with great happiness that I trundled through immigration at the Shanghai Railway Station: I am home.

Driving past my and Jifu’s old Xinkezhan, through the disorderly traffic to my Fazujie home Huilonghui, I appreciate how much of a home this city is to me. My life, my community, my work, my routines, my friends: Shanghai is more home to me than anywhere else I have ever lived in my no longer that short life.

The Silver Lining attaches mewlingly as soon as I come through the door. He had hidden from catsitter Yi the whole week I was in exile in Hong Kong. He and I are two happy pussies right now.

I feel loved on other fronts as well. Well, useful at least. Zendai Museum calling to confirm my attendence of their forum and dinner Sunday. Friends recruiting me for help on various projects, magazines wanting copy, PR companies arranging coverage…okay, I’m not so much loved as useful - but I can live with that. “[Vixen]! Where HAVE you been?!” the conversations begin. Yeah, sorry for not issuing a press release every time I get deported.

The next few days will be madness; today was my token window of decompression. Two days of a luxury forum I’m covering, then an art symposium where I’m supposed to speak, then scrambling Beijing-wards for Yohji Yamamoto and Jimmy Choo. I’m hoping I can also stick abouts long enough to catch a day or two of Midi, but…the pussy is giving me this *look*, and I never want to leave home, ever ever again.

I’m worried.

I’m worried about the riots. I’m worried that even if this is the end of this round, what will come will be worse.

Because, I’m worried that I live in the most unstable place imagineable.

I’m worried about the “expats” who cornered me at the for foreigners, by foreigners lit fest to crow that it’s just like Old Shanghai - as if it was a good thing. (Sorry for the one of you who is taken out of context here.) Yeah, because neocolonial entitlement and oblivion while Rome - or Shanghia, or L!asa - burns is such a good thing.

I’m worried about the inflation, the cost of living, the spiraling food and housing prices, and especially the latter feuled by foreigners (including overseas Chinese) who have injected the American, European and Hong Kong bubbles into Shanghai. I’ll take the brown air particles anytime over that sort of pollution. Walking home from an interview today, I glaced over property listings in several windows - rental prices are in many cases up 200-500% from a year ago. And maybe it’s only coincidence the throngs of gawky-eyed whities with *mug me* on their foreheads that I simultaneously see wandering by - but maybe not.

I’m worried about the crackdown on visas that is particularly aimed at small-time, self-employed operators like myself. Deportation has me awake at night, almost as much as…

I’m worried about the mass slaughter of cats in Beijing, to “clean it up” for the oilympics, and especially that it might come here and claim my Silver Lining. Which would make me kill the people trying to hurt him, and thus be executed myself.

I am worried about my health, which has been a phlegmy mess all year, first the flu and bronchitis, now a chronic cold from the China lung.

I worry about my book, which is behind schedule, about my weight loss going slower than anticipated, that it may be easier and more probable that I will really truly fail than that I will ever really truly be as I want to be.

So I proceed to call up Gym Boy, for the first time this year. I…have been meaning too, and tried once before but his phone was out of range. But, I was meaning to finally formally break it off - in fact I want to set him up with my friends; instead, it is reassuring to have someone fussing that I have been sick - why didn’t I tell him, he’d have brought me drugs and soup? It is nice to have someone who wants to come over, clean your house in his undies, and cook you things. Not to mention be a buffer and translator between the sometimes craziness that is China. The thing about Gym Boy, is even when we’ve stopped fucking, even if he’s with someone else, he’s a good guy and is there for me. Which - is nice, and which I’m not sure I could say for Jifu, let along Yaya or Ah Ren.

As I approached my lane just now, I spotted at its entrance a van…no, an ambulance. I could not see much of the person already loaded in, just shoeless nylon stockinged feet at the end of a flat, deflated looking body. The ambulance attendents seemed in no particular hurry, nor did the family climbing into the back. Was she already dead?

Which of my neighbors is it? There are a lot of elderly residents here, but most of them are as homebound as I am. Of the older neighbors, only a few stop to chat frequently, the rest may nod and smile but prefer to watch the neighborhood mascot than to engage.

Coming in, the aimiable Mr. Combover across and one door, 1F, over was shooing at the resident roof pidgeons with, prodding them with a long bamboo pool. “They’re yours?” I asked. “I always thought they were wild,” attracted by the birdseed spilled by the caged bird collection of directly across, 2F. They of the myna bird that yells “Hello!” at me whenever I head out, and I suspect is honing his “Wei!” into a “Wei, Laowai!” (Which, of course, is my Chinese name - Wei Laowai.) Also they of the propensity for late night nudity, which is way more than I need to see. Mr. Combover is the new boyfriend or second husband of the former Crazy Divorcee - rather crazy and bitter when her husband of thirty years took all the money and left with a younger woman a few yars back, but now she’s quite calm and sane so I need a new nickname for her. She’s one of my friendliest neighbors, invites me ballroom dancing with her. I would love to accept, but she goes at 6am. Err. They invite me into their cluttered, cozy courtyard to show me their pidgeon hutch and to chatter about their birds.

This afternoon had my second photo shoot of the week. Kinda…over-shot. This time at least they didn’t want me in it, so I could ignore them and work. Tuesday was of me - for this American magazine doing a silly article to the extent of, “Omigod! Caucasians in China!” - but the photographer was quite good, and also pretty cool. She has a very painterly sensibility, and plays with the light amazingly, but does not flatter her subjects. I expect the shots will be beautiful, brutal and true…and will make me look like the pasty blob I can sometimes be.

Another interview last night for a French magazine story on “China” - oy - arranged by a contact of Yi’s. Today was also an Yi set up, promo shots for a laowai musician friend of hers. Today’s photographer was also quite good, I’m surprised I hadn’t met or heard of her before, but her stuff is more an Annie Lebowitzy mix of glamourized and grit. She wants to come back and do a shoot of me and the entire house, and it will be interesting to compare her shots with Tuesday’s.

Knowing Yi, I should have not been surprised that her foreign musician friend was a tall, cute, black guy. But I am always surprised by black people - they’re birds even more exotic here than we pinkies. That, and I am a bit racist, not in a deliberate or malicious sense, just that I have never gotten used to being around black people. What with the SoCal and the Ivy League and the China combo. It’s rather how I used to be around gays, uncertain how to act, having to remind myself to act normal, to not be nervous or gawk or say anything obnoxious. Which ensures that I act far from normal, and am nervous and gawk and say obnoxious things. Until I’ve gotten to know and used to the person, and viscerally adjust. And the gays, I’m quite used to now, after protracted exposure. While white folk seem odder to me every passing day.

The Chinese “stare at funny-looking people” factor doesn’t help either. Granted, I do that to everyone now. Still, it’s bad. And I don’t know how to “fix” that, because the more I try to the more I invite the awkward. Hence, perhaps admitting it is the best way to deal with it.

When one sleeps until noon, the afternoon slips effortlessly away. Had a good crowd over for martinis last night, but today recovering. The Silver Lining is also quite conked out after the enforced socialization.

At martinis: a Dutch photographer, Italian and Shanghainese filmmakers, Shanghainese-Malaysian-British writer and historian Ling, Northern Chinese gallery owner Plum, food writer Cloudy and her chef husband, a Finnish journalist and her actor boyfriend, a Belgian artist, and my adorable little assistant and her friend. It was fun getting to expose Xiao Wen to my friends, she’s so earnest and smart and cute, and I think she enjoyed herself after a spell of initial nervousness. Cloudy and I had fun watching her and her friend accross the room: Xiao Wen chatting animatedly with the historian - who is a very cool, impressive, sophisticated grand dame - and her friend between them looking lost and miserable. I think Xiao Wen’s friend is made of the same substance as my cat.

I was really glad that Ling came, and seemed to have fun. She is the best writer in Shanghai as well as a very impressive and fascinating person, and is not the biggest social butterfly so is a bit hard to get to know. I am a big fan, and it would be great if she becomes more of a friend and mentor. 

You know, I am pretty confident of myself, but I still get all giddy when people I admire, the people I think are way cool and so look up to, like and befriend me. It goes both ways, I suppose, like how I enjoy watching and hopefully helping shape Xiao Wen and other cool younger women (and some young men too, but mostly keeping it to the cunthood).

Thursday night I went to a dinner party at a cosmetics mogul’s house, and despite it being a swank place with a lot of swank people, it was a very mellow and friendly affair. It lacked the prepostorous pretentions of “Diamond Ho’s” parties, which sinks under the weight of her self-importance. I met a lot of people who were really nice and interesting, and that they are titans of industry and mainstream media rather than the literati bohemians I usually run made for a nice change.

I bumped into a Taiwanese-American acquaintence who I have met many times but don’t really know, and she plopped me with her Shanghainese mother-in-law, like Ling one of those lao ling Lao Sanghei women I so enjoy and admire. We had a fun chat comparing Shanghai to Taiwan to California. I am reminded how much I need to make a pilgrimage to Taiwan, that strange little place that has been a conduit of most of my nearest and dearest, as well as of many a passing acquaintence. Ah, the Taiwanese! The Mainlander vs Taiwese-Taiwanese rivalries, the psychological abuse particularly of their male children, their neuroses about “Chinese”ness, their Japanese/KMT facist anality, their hostility towards us whities and…everyone. The place seems fascinatingly fucked up, and yet has produced about so many of the people I love. There is something about Taiwan.

I ended up sitting with this lovely old lady again at dinner, along with her teenage daughters. The younger, 13, was more my sort of girl: chubby and quirky and geekish. But I was sitting next to the older, 16, who was a tall skinny superficial, popular babe in the making. I was astonished that we got along great. She’s so so SoCal, a spoiled little expat teenager at the American School, but turned out to nonetheless to be a cool person. She’s angsting over college aps, and wanted to pick my brain about getting into and attending Brown.

She is really infatuated with the idea of being in a sorority, based on watching US tv and movies. I hope I helped talk her out of it: she’s the sort of pretty, perky young woman who would be embraced by that world, but I think it shapes people quite negatively. (I was an RA sophomore year, and my 50 charges were placed between a frat and a sorority with like twenty members each, and despite our paying the same or more for our board they had about five times the residential resources we did. Because, in my day at least, the greek system, which was 10% of the Brown student body, was 95% of the student government. So, in my Junior and Senior years, I went out for student government, was on both the general student council and the residential council.) Honestly: they are useful networks, but at the cost of conformity and cliqueishness and secrecy. Not all haze, make you strip to skivvies and circle your flab in permanent marker, not all kick out their fat or non-white members, there are all sorts of sororities. But, by being in one, you declare yourself as a certain sort of person, and that…shapes you.

Brown had an International House, which several of my friends joined. It was a good community for international and transcultural students, and was a very warm tolerant laid-back environment. It was also a year-to-year thing, rather than a three-year commitment like the greek houses, and their events were open to and encouraging of guests.  They also took ordinary Americans, as long as they had suitably globalist outlooks. After the racial indifference of my SoCal high-school, the whitey-hating of the Taiwanese- and Chinese-Americans at Brown was pretty upsetting; my friends weren’t of that bent but they had friends who were. But the international students were very diverse and accepting and cool.

By the end of dinner, before the cherry stem tying competition, I had convinced (I hope!) that an International House or equivalent would be a better fit for a Shanghainese-Taiwanese-Californian expat brat than most sororities. And then we discussed “Ugly Betty” and its portrayal of fashion journalism.

On New Year’s eve, I bao-ed jiaozi at Plum’s house. Much fun, but wow Plum really only hangs out with foreigners! Apart from her, the only other Chinese in attendence was a married-to-a-whitey and lived abroad, and their two mothers. The Northern mamas and I did all of the dumpling work, but since my roomie Happy’s jiaozi parties in college, I love making dumplings, find it comforting, although the mamas kicked my ass in terms of skill and efficiency.

Ah Ren was there, and as always I blathered nervously at him, to his good-natured amusement. He has become my social comfort zone, he feels to me warm and dry and safe. Crushage aside, I have become so immensely fond of him, and really enjoy his presence. He was off to the US the next day, and will be there several months. Hopefully enough time for me to get over him and/or lose enough weight that he sees me as a hottie not a meimei. He almost moved back to the US this time, but decided not yet; personally, I want him to stick him around, but he does seem rather at loose ends angsting over where to go, what to do. For his own sake, I wish he would just pick a place, any place, and start putting down some roots, but I suspect he’s still recovering from being very rooted but unhappily so in Beijing.

Mmm, I have stuff I should do today, but nothing I have to do. Recipe for more martinis and a late afternoon nap. I shall start another detox spree tomorrow, combined with some power writing and a date to hit the reopened gym with Cloudy, but today is for hair of dog martinis and maybe an afternoon nap.

Sitting at a Cantonese teahouse, working away, waiting for Yellow Concept to finish her meeting so we can do an interview for my column. /have drinks and complain about men. I am at this teahouse because the cafes on nearby Nanjing Dong are no longer open. They are - were - the lovely and historic Donghai and Deda, Shanghai-style Western restaurants opened in the 1930s. Donghai was especially lovely, unchanged for several decades and still a popular neighborhood destination. The signs in their windows say “closed for rennovation” but in contemporary China “rennovation” is a euphemism for demolition. As I was informed after I inquired at a nearby shop selling Deda’s signature cakes. Sad. I hope the Art Deco edifices that contained them will also not be thus “rennovated”. But, who am I kidding? The skanky Shangkies - ethnic Shanghainese Hongkongers - will be “rennovating” all of us into oblivion in pursuit of profits as fast and dirty as a ye ji. Standing in Adidas’ offices on the 37th floor of Ganghui, awaiting an interview this afternoon, I looked out over southern Shanghai, and could spot the GaoWan Xiaoqu, my lane, even my house - low rises now archaic in the forest of fugly highrises. Soon to be gone as well. This city is the only real home I have ever had, but will I still want to stay when everything I love about the place is gone? Rather like my relationship with Jifu - which I stayed in long after he had ceased to be the person I had fallen in love with. Have been drinking again; I find that my willpower is limited, and if I expend it all not drinking, eating very little, and exercising a lot, I cannot get any work done. The point of not drinking for a while, apart from retraining my habits and to lose weight, was to be more productive writing-wise. So far that has proven counter-productive. Bleh. But, back to good-girlness tomorrow…until the holidays that is. The film that prompted my rant last night was “Knocked Up” - which I couldn’t finish. The whole premise, the attitudes and values it embraces and promotes, were too offensive for me to stomach. I may do a separate post elaborating why, but right now I still am squirming from the squick of it.

Snow continues to cascade over Shanghai, a rare phenomenon especially given that it has lasted for three days, and today it is cold enough that some of it is sticking. The GaoWan Xiaoqu is quite white, and this time it’s not the smog of pollution providing the monochrome. There is a community of pigeons and sparrows in my lane: the family accross the way keeps a lot of caged birds, and much of the seed from his 2F balcony falls to the roof below. A handful of wild birds have now taken up residence there, and today about six pigeons and four sparrows are huddled up pathetically as the snow piles upon them.

It is thus a good day to stay in and work, huddled over the heater in my womb-like bedroom with computer and cat vying for lap space. I don’t know whether it’s the weather or the lingering illness that has my body insisting upon sleeping ten hours per night, but that plus an overly active weekend has me much in need of a few quiet days on the ketchup.

Friday was a delightful afternoon spent interviewing author and historian Lynn Pan about her new book on Shanghainese design heritage. Cool, funny, knowledgeable, Pan is always fascinating to chat with. I consider myself quite lucky in my life and work, that I get to be friends with some of my favorite authors. That evening was a dinner party at the home of wacky honkey [Diamond Ho]; these events are always enjoyable but very strange and calculated affairs. I took Cloudy as my “date” this time, she was entertained and shared my assessment of the whole scene. We are both friends with plenty of people who are famous for actually doing stuff, and so someone like Diamond who is “famous” because she has a rich daddy and has hired an army of PR agents is rather underwhelming. At dinner, I sat with a museum director, who recruited me to co-curate a show with Taipei Trixie. This could turn out fun, although no doubt also a massive headache.

I rejoined Cloudy on Saturday. She and her chef boyfriend have been consulting for new restaurants, and recruited me to train the bartenders at their newest. I went over that afternoon, and we redid the drink list, some from my cocktail book, others improvised and expirimented. I had tippled the night before at dinner - those events require it - and then again at cocktail class. We had quite a lot of trial drinks to finish off between the three of us and the bartender, and all got quite loopy. Next time, I’ll have to bring Kazza along as the booze disposal. I tried to teach Cloudy how to tie cherry stems in knots with her tongue - I find it so easy - but it evaded her. Then I headed to the opening of a photography show at MoCA, and since I’d already been drinking I had some wine there too. Not much, though, and after learning some new Shanghainese terms from a few strange, scruffy artists, I headed home early. And Sunday was quiet, my only outing being to Brilly’s lecture, and back to the dourness of being the only person in the room not drinking.

So, Ah Ren is back. I gathered he was from a spike of activity on what Mr. Kaoru calls Crackbook, so I knew he’d probably surface at MoCA. I’ve spent the past month trying to purge him from my system, boy detox, but just seeing him online made my heart flitter and twitter. Dammit, Vixen. Seeing him Saturday night, more and worse of the same. I’m not sure if the earlier cocktail tasting made it better, or worse. We had a few nice chats, punctuated by his leaving whenever the scruffy artists accosted me, and his apologizing after that he can’t deal with those weirdos. Which, fair enough. Then he fled very suddenly when Gallery Girl showed up, of course she pinned him first, and watching that body language accross the room was fascinating: her being very aggressively forward and flirty, Ah Ren crossing his arms and leaning back as he does when uncomfortable, but also being very superficially polite. I really wonder what the story is there, but doubt either will ever tell me - and if they did, they would probably tell very, very different stories! Hmm.

When I got home, I sent him a - I hope - nice but neutral email saying it was nice to have him back, that I missed him, and joking about the Shanghainese phrases from the scruffy artists. I wonder if it was too much? I know he doesn’t “like” me that way, and I know he knows I do like him that way, but we are friends so that is the dominant narrative. I don’t want to be another Gallery Girl, throwing myself at him, embarassing myself and annoying him. I enjoy having a crush on him, crushes are fun dammit, even though I know it will never pan out. Whether it is because I am too fat, too white, too weird, because he wants to leave China or doesn’t want to date within the social/work crowd - who knows? It doesn’t matter. While crushing is fun, I need to get over it, and the best way to do so is to find a new crush.

Gym Boy is still around, hot sex on autodial, should I want it. I haven’t seen him since before I started hanging out with Ah Ren, and now I am only temped to fuck Gym Boy to assuage my ego. Which isn’t good. Not that Gym Boy minds my using him for sex, oh, not at all. Another problem is that Gym Boy kinda annoys me, so I can only enjoy the hot sex when drunk, which is problematic in a mostly dry spell. Not really sure what to do: I need to formally, finally dump him in person, but we’ll probably have break-up/good-bye sex. And part of me does want to keep him around for the physical comforts.

Last November, at a dinner of cooler Shanghainese artists than the guys Saturday, the only young chap in the group kept giving me flirty little looks accross the table. He was cute, although looks a bit like the Boy Toy I dated briefly in college, which is really not my type when it comes to the variations of Chinese features. We chatted, he’s the nephew of the artist who’s show was opening, we swapped contact info. It was that weird night when a hot young stranger then tried to hit me up on the street, and then a few minutes later Ah Ren called me up suggesting a late dinner. All too much, I went home and hid under my bed. The Artist’s Nephew has emailed me a few times, I didn’t respond as was crushing on Ah Ren, but now finally has. Probably blown him off for too long for him to still be interested, and I am probably more relieved than anything about that - off the hook! - but we’ll see. Sure, give it a try.

Then there’s a friend of mine who I need to find out whether he’s single or not. He’s very cool, kinda shy but once he gets talking we have great blathers. Cute, overaccomplished, creative doing some awesome stuff. On paper, he sounds perfect. Find out his status, then concoct excuses to hang out more and see if there’s clickage.

Yeah, I really need a new crush. The one on Ah Ren is getting moldy and unpleasant - he’s so last year! And while crushes are abstractly fun, there is an errosive element to rejection.

I am mostly better, although still hacking up conejitos and fairly low on the energy quotient. I had lined up a lot of work while away, and that plus the sick meant I have a crush of deadlines breathing down my neck. First was a cosmetics fair, then a retail profile of a street wear boutique. Nothing particularly complicated, but these still required prep and scheduling and shlepping to interviews and organization and writing, ie a fair amount of time and effort. Which is hard to summon when sick.

But now I am momentarily caught up and can catch my breath and have a think.

I don’t make new year’s resolutions. They seem silly. What I do is make plans: agenda and priorities and strategies. I am someone who works well with checklists, both mental and actual. I like having targets.

2007 was a good set-up year, I coasted alright, but I didn’t accomplish most of the things I wanted to. 2008 is the year when I allow no excuses and get it done.

In 2007, I had “Seven for ‘07″ of things I was prioritizing. They were, in particular order:
1. Articles/work
2. Book
3. Weight
4. Fellowships
5. Finance
6. Relationships
7. Fun
And, work went okay. I made some but not enough headway on the book. I lost four kilos, better than nothing or gaining but still rather sad. I applied for but didn’t get the fellowships. I did okay but not great finanacially, and did not do a lot of the things I wanted to. I had some but not a great love/sex life. I had a lot of fun, but I always do.

This year, the first three and last are the same:
1. Work
2. Book
3. Weight
4. Anality
5. Self-promotion
6. Finances

This year I am going to get where I want to be with things. Allow no excuses, make it happen. Be anal. I was like that when I was younger, but in recent years I have waxed too mellow. I am getting back to  being be really hard on myself, and trying to stop dicking around. Making schedules, sticking to them. Not quite no matter what - ie I didn’t work through my raging fever or anything - but keep going, keep on track.

Then, I have realized from many encounters and observations that it is not enough to just be good and professional and knowledgeable: I have to suck it up and toot my own horn more. (*Dirty!*) I have to “brand myself”. And it does feel dirty, but I have to remember that there are a lot of people getting further than me based on all hype, no substance. It’s not unethical to have hype if you also have substance.

Keeping up on work is and must be my top priority, and I need to use my time more efficiently. Keep the old clients, court more, do more articles for more places, build up my bylines.

I will write the book this year. I will finish three sample chapters by March, revamp the proposal, get an agent and a book deal and an advance, and then I will write the rest.

I will continue to exercise almost every day, and step it up, but I have become a stickler for what I eat. Virtually no meat, minimal carbs, ie average of one serving a day. If Monday I have two, Tuesday I have none. Yes, being a low-carb vegetarian is tough, but doable. And keeping to about 1000-1200 calories a day, likewise. I have already dropped two kilos in two weeks this way. A large part of it is just eliminating the mindless eating.

I am also trying to eliminate the mindless drinking. My plan is to drink almost never until March/my sample chapters are done. I am having a tiny serving of soju tonight to celebrate being caught up, but it is my first in two weeks. I will allow the occasional tipple, as with meat; I dislike absolute rules. But, general avoidance.

It hasn’t been easy, Shanghai is a drinking town. Schmoozing without booze is like anal sex without lube. Painful. Without that crutch, I feel quite blasted back to high school, when I was so cripplingly shy, my brain too active to allow my to interact casually.

Yet the mental clarity is delicious. My motivation for going mostly dry for a period is a mixture of productivity and health. I want to be at peak performance, working efficiently, getting my assignments and my book done. And I have eleven kilos still to lose, and keeping under 1200 calories a day is a hell of a lot easier when I’m not drinking 400 of those.

Ultimately, I like alcohol: I like its taste, its effects. But I dislike my reliance upon it, and my occasional abuse of it. I do not want to be a future ex-alcoholic, or, worse, a perpetual alcoholic. In Shanghai, you go to an event, you have a drink pressed into your hand, you’re bored so you drink it. And then another, and then another. The mindlessness of it, and the dependence as social lubricant, is what presents the problem. In my beat, it is easy to consume a lot of free booze on a daily basis.

Art is a lot less interesting without alcohol. As are art people. But, as I get used to it, I will I think start to find things all the more stimulating, in more ingeniously wacky ways. Because, without the sedatives to make it shut up, this brain of mine can get into overdrive.

Then, with fun and relationships, I don’t find that prioritizing those gets me anywhere. Reading, drawing, photography, languages, travel, history…the things I enjoy I will do regardless of whether I plan to. Friendships are always important to me, and romance, well, being proactive about it gets me nowhere. (Although I really do need to email that one guy…) Getting my life where I want it, my body in shape, will get me a lot further than abstracting that I want a boyfriend this year.

So, here is a very small serving of maple soju to toast to 2008: it will be an awesome year.

…when you are reminded that you “need a man”. Ie, when your power blows late at night and you have no idea how to fix it.

Jifu used to handle this problem, and it never occurred to him to teach me. Or, to be fair, for me to learn. It is actually very simple, and tomorrow I will get the materials to fix it myself next time.

Landlord nicely got out of bed to come fix it, all better now after mucha fussa.

I know women who feel more feminine for being helpless and rescueable. I just feel like a damn nuisance.

Down the bed, The Silver Lining from an alert but content Sphinx smile suddenly crashes his head down, asleep. His Persian chin has a centimeter to fall, but it makes for an abrubt movement.

His feline narcolepsy mirrors how I felt an hour ago, coming home from a grocery run and about to blast gangbangers back out into the cold to hit the gym. *Crash* The caffeine and the meds and the momentum gave way simultaneously to the exhaustion of my white blood cells and the deathly paler rest of me. Gou le, girly.

I visited the US for Christmas and New Years, and brought back as a souvenir what appears to be bronchitis and the flu. Socializing through the pain so I could pay my annual dues, I paid extra as soon as I paused, ie the flight back. Home for five days, I’ve been in and feverish and/or asleep for three solid of those. The others I’ve been miserable but operational, out for work/social obligations, where I invariably overtax and recrash into the sick bay.

Today and tomorrow I had/have a cosmetics and beauty fair to cover out in Pudong. In this dead of wet winter, Pudong for all its “new” “international” “modern” shiny pretentions, quickly muddles and muddies back into its recent rice paddy origins. Trying to care about things like the latest in plastic surgery technology is difficult enough in the best of circumstances; add in ringing and popping ears, a head full of fuzz, and cold wet feet from sludging through the mud make it…possibly more interesting? It at least adds a sort of disoriented surrealism.

I think the worst of this double whammy is over, I am vaguely lucid and looking less greenish; no fever or violent throat pain. Just the lingering blehs and pheghmy itchies, which had me awake coughing and snortling until 2am (I tucked in at 11pm). God bless jet lag, I was woefully wide awake at 6am.

It doesn’t help that my brain remains feverish betwixt the fevers: I have a lot to do. I wanted to come back and hit the ground running, 2008 off to a productive start post-trip, so I lined up assignments. A lot of assignments. They have deadlines. Coming up soon. Not to mention all the personal and long-term projects I have percolating and am itching to work on. Am eager to yammer about them here, and my latest travel adventures, but when healthy and more caught up. When I am in motivated mode, it is hard to switch off the running mental to-do list. Even with a handful of nyquil.

But perhaps one day of mucking it the rice paddies of Pudong, and another ahead, will allow me to make like a narcoleptic Persian and

Fuck you, horoscope: “In one of your newer relationships, things are well on their way toward gaining real momentum. This is a partnership built on mutual respect and a shared sense of what is the right thing to do. It is rare to find a person who brings out the best in you no matter what mood you’re in. This is a person you can rely on — a person you should rely on. You are starting to align yourself with the people who deserve you. Let people from your past stay in your past.” I’ve had several weeks of similar to this, and given irritating “huh?” of actuality right now, I have to conclude that the heavens are making fun of me. La Turqa, returning from NY in a few days, will probably fuss much over this.

Eh, whatever. After last night’s idiotic ruminations, I am reminded to stop being such a damn girl. The damn girl wants to either get bored, wander off….or do something pointlessly melodramatic before getting bored and wandering off. Neither are productive, or particularly healthy.

Atwixt work today, I fielded calls from Er and Trixie, both offering and soliciting advice. Their suggestions on damn girlishness were useful - not because I took most of them, but because it reminded me of what a damn girl I’m being, and helped to snap me out of it.

Once I banished the girly silliness, had a great productive day. Not everything on my list got done - but when does it ever? Now for a sane sober bed hour and productive, silliness-free week. Well, drinks and gossip some night with Er aside…