As my wise friend Pamela says, “Everyone has his/her own demons.” Now I’ve already acknowledged that I lead a very fortunate and privileged life… enough said. The problem is, in spite of that truth, I still overanalyze myself to death. Life is good, but sorry, I still have issues (see previous post). Clearly, there’s the family thing, an outstanding matter. And yes, I have wondered: why do I get so worked up over this parental thing anyway? They think their way; I think my way. We don’t have to agree. What’s the big fucking deal? Well, I don’t really know. I guess I have resentment issues. Perhaps I’m not comfortable with my choices, so when my parents question them or doubt them, I get upset. Maybe deep inside, I agree that I’m lame compared to his friends’ kids. Maybe I also measure success through academic pedigree, job title, and money. For example, I’m not a physician working some prestigious and intense job bringing in the big dough. I’ve struggled with not fulfilling that early childhood vision of success. I’ve fought hard to think outside the box, to go against the grain; yet, my biggest gripe about nonprofit work is that it doesn’t pay. Why do I want it to pay? Maybe because somehow earning more money legitimizes my work– to my family, to society, to myself. It’s kind of why so many people dismiss full-time housewives or househusbands: they think these people are like sitting at home watching soaps all day eating bon bons, because after all, these people are not generating income, so they can’t possibly be working, right?! Anyway, I’ve mostly accepted that nonprofit work just can’t be about the money. The money’s not going to be there. really. ever. But then everytime I get into this kind of tiff with the parents, my system of “measuring success” gets fucked up all over again. I know, I need to just stick to my guns and not worry about what they think. I’ve made my choices and decided on my priorities.

As my wise friend Pamela says, “Everyone has his/her own demons.” Now I’ve already acknowledged that I lead a very fortunate and privileged life… enough said. The problem is, in spite of that truth, I still overanalyze myself to death. Life is good, but sorry, I still have issues (see previous post). Clearly, there’s the family thing, an outstanding matter. And yes, I have wondered: why do I get so worked up over this parental thing anyway? They think their way; I think my way. We don’t have to agree. What’s the big fucking deal? Well, I don’t really know. I guess I have resentment issues. Perhaps I’m not comfortable with my choices, so when my parents question them or doubt them, I get upset. Maybe deep inside, I agree that I’m lame compared to his friends’ kids. Maybe I also measure success through academic pedigree, job title, and money. For example, I’m not a physician working some prestigious and intense job bringing in the big dough. I’ve struggled with not fulfilling that early childhood vision of success. I’ve fought hard to think outside the box, to go against the grain; yet, my biggest gripe about nonprofit work is that it doesn’t pay. Why do I want it to pay? Maybe because somehow earning more money legitimizes my work– to my family, to society, to myself. It’s kind of why so many people dismiss full-time housewives or househusbands: they think these people are like sitting at home watching soaps all day eating bon bons, because after all, these people are not generating income, so they can’t possibly be working, right?! Anyway, I’ve mostly accepted that nonprofit work just can’t be about the money. The money’s not going to be there. really. ever. But then everytime I get into this kind of tiff with the parents, my system of “measuring success” gets fucked up all over again. I know, I need to just stick to my guns and not worry about what they think. I’ve made my choices and decided on my priorities.

At best, my relationship with my parents is distant. It’s a long story, but basically, my parents and I have been at odds since my preteen years. Fundamentally, we share the core, trying to be honest, thoughtful, hardworking people and all; still, somewhere along the way, feminism, liberalism, and a host of other issues entered the picture and put us on a perpetually colliding course.

In a nutshell, I guess I feel they don’t really support or back my major decisions, be they academic, vocational, social, political, or familial. Over the course of ten years, we’ve learned to simply avoid the hot buttons and limit our conversations to extremely simple and mundane topics: we speak ten minutes max, once a week. That’s how our phone conversations have been since college. Sure, there’s the occasional 60-minute outlier call but frankly, at this rate, my categories are pretty set: parents are parents, and friends are friends. The groups are mutually exclusive.

Don’t misinterpret what I’m saying. I love my parents. They are kind, responsible, and generous people. Because of them, I’ve had access to so many freedoms and opportunities. I’ve never had to worry about basic survival, so I’ve had the luxury to focus my energies on goals and pursuits. I’m extremely lucky and fortunate, and I don’t want to sound like a total ingrate. It’s just that I’m not friends with my parents. Let’s just take that as it is.

So yesterday, I spoke to my parents briefly. My father is not a happy camper these days. In my family, we have this thing where every situation has a culprit. So, the latest newsflash is that Johnny isn’t doing so great. It’s his usual pattern: total brainiac, no common sense, no punctuality, no discipline. As a result, my father feels like a failure (in parenting). His explanation? All his friends have superstar kids. So-and-so’s son went to Columbia b-school. Another friend’s eldest daughter is in medical residency, the son is in some PhD program at Hopkins, and the daughter is pre-med at Harvard. Nevermind that my father, pre-retirement, complained endlessly about the inevitable demise of medicine, caused by insurance companies, lawyers, and an extremely litigious American public. I try not to take his groans about lame-o kids so personally, but it’s frustrating, for one, because I really believe everyone faces his/her own issues (whether they share/publicize their struggles is another story) and two, my father is totally obsessed with academic pedigree. I mean, yes, so is the rest of the networking world, but still. Give it up already. I don’t know. It’s like he measures everything by that yardstick: for example, if my brother’s schoolwork at Columbia is in order, my father thinks things are looking up for Johnny, that he’s a changed man. Not so. With Johnny, it has nothing to do with school. No one doubts that he’s a genius. He got a full frickin’ ride to Duke, ok? The stuff he creates– be it poetry, acting, short stories, film– it’s brilliant. But all of that is beside the point. It doesn’t really matter that what he creates is wonderful; if he misses the project deadline, the professor or manager doesn’t really give a fuck. It’s like who cares if you’re great at your job; if you don’t arrive to work on time, if your boss can’t rely on you to meet the deadline… you’re unworkable. Anyway, my emotional connection with my parents is very weak. I didn’t react to my father’s comments very well, so rather abruptly, the conversation ended. What the hell am I supposed to say? Fuckin’ A. These kind of issues are only going to grow bigger once I’m back in the States. Yay.

So last week, I had a break from school… The university organized some field trips to various cities in China. Thank god, I didn’t go. Ugh. My classmates already annoy the hell out of me for the mere three hours of class; I can’t even imagine being stuck on a bus or in a hotel with them too.

So this past week was supposed to be my time to get ahead with class and ALSO prepare for my midterms slated for the last week of April. Yeah, studying definitely didn’t happen. I was too preoccupied with my Game Night. Since moving here, I’ve always wanted to host game board parties. It’s actually rather uncharacteristic of anti-socials like John and me (Game Night did take two years to materialize), but now that I’m living it up Sex in the City style over here, I gotta get my Taboo and Cranium fix. It’s rather silly: I was just going to go low-key: games, pizza, and drinks. Well, in true fashion, I stressed out all frickin’ week, worrying about getting the apartment in order. Not like people really care, but I’ve been to other people’s homes and man, they really know how to put on a party. Everything just has that polished, put-together look. It’s all in the details, I tell you. Needless to say, I just wanted it to go well.

I had a pretty decent turnout. Although several people neglected to RSVP (don’t do it again!) and a few backed out last minute, all in all, I was happy with the outcome. We had just about enough seating for everyone, and it was games galore! Taboo and Cranium til midnight; Scrabble til 3 a.m. for the hardcore boardgamers. Yesterday was my first time playing Scrabble. The jury’s still out on that one. I think it’s a little too brainy for me.

So the party’s over and now I have no excuses NOT to study. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with a shitload of fruit and veggies (I had planned on juicing, but that ended up sounding a bit too healthy for a party). Guess this week will be detox for me.

Easter Sunday and I’m starting the week off right. Thankfully, I didn’t sleep in; I’m up and running. Did some cleaning, had a couple glasses of fresh juice. It’s almost noon now, and I’m squeezing in an entry before I crack open the books. Ok, I’d better get cramming for that quiz tomorrow.

I have to say, in spite of my earlier apprehensions, I’m quite enjoying the school thing. There’s just something about routine that my body loves and craves. Even if I don’t sleep well some days (and drag my feet at 50% efficiency), in the end I still feel like a day with routine is more productive than a day without. I suppose cutting back on sleep really adds some hours to my disposal.

It’s really unusual for me too, being part of the morning commute. All of the sudden, I’m noticing familiar faces: this prep cook (he wears a chef hat) lugs an empty dolly to the campus cafeteria at 8:25 a.m. every morning. I hear the cart rattling down the street just as I pull up to class. After class lets out around noon, on my way home, I always see these two young college gals, biking side by side on matching folding bikes. Their bikes are cutie pastel colors with baby blue mini-baskets on the handlebars. Oh Clownie, how I miss thee! If only I still had you, then I too could be one of those cute, young women. Oh Clownie, you almost elevated me to Kellie Taylor status. Ok, maybe that’s a stretch. Well, I almost believed I could MAYBE pull off driving a VW Cabriolet or Cooper Mini. Guess I lost Clownie for a reason: I’m definitely not worthy.

So back to talking about school. Yeah, I’m enjoying it still; however, I must admit my classmates are a little irksome. I don’t know what it is, but people have been getting on my last nerve. Take, for example, this couple in my class. They’re southeast Asian or something, not that it matters. So the guy is clearly in the wrong level. He doesn’t know what’s going on, and he can’t follow at all. The gal, she sits next to him: they share a book and hold hands, blah, blah. She seems more up to speed, but he’s definitely lost. Rather than move to his proper level, he stays in the class. Then, during the lesson, they basically hold their own lil’ private tutoring session (hand holding included) where the gal schools the guy… all while the teacher is talking! What the fuck? And they always sit near me! I get so annoyed, but what can I do? I can’t exactly disrupt their tender, loving Felicity study-buddy moment.

So last week, the guy didn’t show for class. The gal came in late. Just my luck, she sat next to me and asked to share my book. No problem. I’ve learned from watching Remy and Martin; sharing is a good thing. A few minutes later (let’s just call her Sonia), Sonia started text messaging the guy (I assume he was the recipient). After a few minutes of no reply, she turned to me and asked to borrow my phone: her had battery died. Fine, whatever. Take it and leave me the fuck alone; I’m in class, goddamnit. So what happened? While sitting next to me IN CLASS, she proceeded to call using my phone. Uh hello, have you ever heard of taking it outside? And the dude had that stupid “music while you wait” feature. Since she was using my phone, the volume was maxed out (I’m frickin’ deaf, ok?). Ugh. I was so pissed. I was trying to listen to the teacher, but instead all I heard was that sappy pop song (the one where the singer is some concert pianist and his girlfriend is in the hospital with some terminal illness… haven’t you seen the video?). Another classmate heard the music and was like, “Someone’s cell phone is going off…” I couldn’t believe I was an accomplice to this inconsiderate dodo bird. Jesus. No wonder I want nothing to do with my classmates. From now on, school is strictly business, man.

John’s not going to be too pleased about me sharing this kind of information, but here goes: So he’s had the runs on and off now for about two weeks. As you already know, the last week of March, both of us were paralyzed with some kind of bug. We seemed to have had different forms: I had high fever and chills; he had occasional fevers and the runs. Anyway, on arriving in San Francisco, John claimed he was immediately better. He then hit the supermarket hungry and bought a ton of food. After scarfing down some grub, the illness returned. So this past Monday, he finally went to see a doctor. The doctor made fun of my turmeric remedy; meanwhile, he himself offered no answers. He suspected the infection was viral, in which case the symptoms would pass in a few more days. Still, there was the possibility John contracted Giardia. To be sure, he suggested running tests on stool samples. Yes, samples collected over three consecutive days. Now maybe it’s my environmental engineering background that gives me a stronger stomach with these things, but puhleez, three samples into tiny plastic cups? No big deal. SOMEhow, you figure it out. Regardless, you just do it, and you figure out what this mystery illness is.

Well with John, this is an entirely different story. For him, there’s just something about the thought of touching or handling shit that totally grosses him out. I mean, come on, it’s not like I’m telling him to consume it… Jesus. So I went over with him the possible techniques for collection. Not surprisingly, he called me today and insisted (quite adamantly) he’s much better. I ask if he’s still getting sick poopies. Yes. So shouldn’t he just submit the damn samples and get it over with? Oh well, he’s on the road to recovery. A few more days, and he’ll be totally back to normal. Uh huh. Meanwhile, the sample collection window is passing quickly… Just to give you a better sense of who I’m dealing with here, guess where John ate after his doctor’s appointment? McDonald’s. I don’t even flinch anymore. After all, he’s the same dude who scarfed down a Big Mac after finishing Fast Food Nation and Super Size Me.

Three times now, I’ve lost my ebike parking pass… each time, in just a matter of 3 hours. You see, at school, when you enter campus on an ebike or moped, the gate guards hand you a parking pass. When you leave campus, you have to turn in the pass. I guess the idea is that anyone leaving campus on a bike must have also come in on a bike, so the pass vouches for that. Well, these last several days, Shanghai has been unseasonably warm (high 70s and 80s). Since I didn’t wear a jacket, I just slipped the pass into my back jean pocket. From the gate to my class, I rode maybe two minutes. Locked the bike up and went to class. Three hours later, the damn pass was gone. This happened not once, not twice, but THREE times! The first two times, I was wearing the wrong jeans. The back pockets were too shallow. I suspect that maybe when I bent down to lock everything up, the pass slipped out?? I don’t know. I backtracked, went to my classrooms, searched everywhere. Yesterday, I wore a different pair of jeans and experienced the same, odd problem. I’m wondering now if the thing was pickpocketed! I know, sounds mad but it’s just so bizarre. I was only in one classroom the other day. If the pass had fallen out, wouldn’t it have been in the room or at least somewhere along the way? Who would bother to pick something like that up? Regardless, losing this silly pass was boggling and annoying. The guard gave me some crap about it. Then I had to show my id and bike license. The second time, I was so embarassed, I didn’t want to explain the same situation to the same guard, so I went to another gate. The third time, I went to the third and final gate. This one was the main gate, and so I was required to register the bike and all my id numbers with the office.

Weird, huh? What the hell? It’s not like I’m running around doing crazy movements. Why and how did the card slip out? In my attempts to solve the case of the missing pass, I even tried recreating the situation. I put my transportation/metro card in my back pocket. Rode the bike, locked the bike, went up stairs. The damn thing stayed in my pocket.

Well whatever, I’m not letting this happen again. Today I went to school prepared. I dug up an old plastic badgeholder (the kind that hangs around the neck). Since I already wear my cell phone on a lanyard around my neck (because I lost my cell phone months ago), I wasn’t about to “clutter” the look. So, my solution is to tie the badgeholder to my backpack. Easy access and much more secure. I tested this out today, and it works like a charm. I pull through the gate, the guard hands me the pass, I grab for the string and slide the card in… all without having to stop the bike and fidget for stuff. Three hours later, my pass was still there. Thank goodness!

Three times now, I’ve lost my ebike parking pass… each time, in just a matter of 3 hours. You see, at school, when you enter campus on an ebike or moped, the gate guards hand you a parking pass. When you leave campus, you have to turn in the pass. I guess the idea is that anyone leaving campus on a bike must have also come in on a bike, so the pass vouches for that. Well, these last several days, Shanghai has been unseasonably warm (high 70s and 80s). Since I didn’t wear a jacket, I just slipped the pass into my back jean pocket. From the gate to my class, I rode maybe two minutes. Locked the bike up and went to class. Three hours later, the damn pass was gone. This happened not once, not twice, but THREE times! The first two times, I was wearing the wrong jeans. The back pockets were too shallow. I suspect that maybe when I bent down to lock everything up, the pass slipped out?? I don’t know. I backtracked, went to my classrooms, searched everywhere. Yesterday, I wore a different pair of jeans and experienced the same, odd problem. I’m wondering now if the thing was pickpocketed! I know, sounds mad but it’s just so bizarre. I was only in one classroom the other day. If the pass had fallen out, wouldn’t it have been in the room or at least somewhere along the way? Who would bother to pick something like that up? Regardless, losing this silly pass was boggling and annoying. The guard gave me some crap about it. Then I had to show my id and bike license. The second time, I was so embarassed, I didn’t want to explain the same situation to the same guard, so I went to another gate. The third time, I went to the third and final gate. This one was the main gate, and so I was required to register the bike and all my id numbers with the office.

Weird, huh? What the hell? It’s not like I’m running around doing crazy movements. Why and how did the card slip out? In my attempts to solve the case of the missing pass, I even tried recreating the situation. I put my transportation/metro card in my back pocket. Rode the bike, locked the bike, went up stairs. The damn thing stayed in my pocket.

Well whatever, I’m not letting this happen again. Today I went to school prepared. I dug up an old plastic badgeholder (the kind that hangs around the neck). Since I already wear my cell phone on a lanyard around my neck (because I lost my cell phone months ago), I wasn’t about to “clutter” the look. So, my solution is to tie the badgeholder to my backpack. Easy access and much more secure. I tested this out today, and it works like a charm. I pull through the gate, the guard hands me the pass, I grab for the string and slide the card in… all without having to stop the bike and fidget for stuff. Three hours later, my pass was still there. Thank goodness!

Well, six days following the onset of the mystery illness, I’m feeling a million times better. I’d say, operating at about 90 percent. I should be pretty pleased about recovering, but for the most part, I’m pretty damn bummed. My honeypot left this afternoon. He had a recurrence of nausea yesterday, so until this afternoon, we were desperately trying to make that go away. Certainly didn’t want him to sit aboard a crowded plane for 12 hours feeling ready to vomit. Poor thing. This bug really killed our plans for a final happy week together. Boo hoo.

This morning, I made an important discovery though. Some homeopathic sites claim a teaspoon of tumeric in water is just the antidote for the runs, among other discomforts. Desperate, he agreed to try it. I know, I was totally surprised too. I took a sip before giving it to him: it was like drinking sawdust water. Haha, you should have seen his face. Within an hour, though, the gurgling belly was quiet. He still had trips to the bathroom, but they seemed a bit more controlled. An hour before the cab was slated to arrive, he was back to his usual annoying housemate ways: James Brown and Bruce Springsteen polluting my formerly quiet and peaceful room.

I like to think the tumeric worked. John’s still a bit skeptical. Guess we’ll never really know since he refused to take a bottle with him to continue drinking the sawdust elixir, and well, if his condition persists, he’ll be seeking professional help. Oh well, another thing to try the next time.

I’m going to stay away from the television tonight. Feeling especially fragile; definitely don’t need some tearjerker drama or cheesy romantic comedy the next few days. Perhaps a massage or stress-releasing acupuncture session (hurray for my gift certificate)…

Well, six days following the onset of the mystery illness, I’m feeling a million times better. I’d say, operating at about 90 percent. I should be pretty pleased about recovering, but for the most part, I’m pretty damn bummed. My honeypot left this afternoon. He had a recurrence of nausea yesterday, so until this afternoon, we were desperately trying to make that go away. Certainly didn’t want him to sit aboard a crowded plane for 12 hours feeling ready to vomit. Poor thing. This bug really killed our plans for a final happy week together. Boo hoo.

This morning, I made an important discovery though. Some homeopathic sites claim a teaspoon of tumeric in water is just the antidote for the runs, among other discomforts. Desperate, he agreed to try it. I know, I was totally surprised too. I took a sip before giving it to him: it was like drinking sawdust water. Haha, you should have seen his face. Within an hour, though, the gurgling belly was quiet. He still had trips to the bathroom, but they seemed a bit more controlled. An hour before the cab was slated to arrive, he was back to his usual annoying housemate ways: James Brown and Bruce Springsteen polluting my formerly quiet and peaceful room.

I like to think the tumeric worked. John’s still a bit skeptical. Guess we’ll never really know since he refused to take a bottle with him to continue drinking the sawdust elixir, and well, if his condition persists, he’ll be seeking professional help. Oh well, another thing to try the next time.

I’m going to stay away from the television tonight. Feeling especially fragile; definitely don’t need some tearjerker drama or cheesy romantic comedy the next few days. Perhaps a massage or stress-releasing acupuncture session (hurray for my gift certificate)…