Laughter, Insulin, and Factor VIII

Norm MacDonald once told his audience that laughter was the best medicine. Unless you're diabetic. Then of course, insulin is the best medicine.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. And by the state of Denmark, I really mean my food supply. Junior High Niece (JRN) and I have eaten identical foodstuffs for the past two to three days and our stomachs have turned in anguish for just as long. At this point in my stay, I can no longer blame the pain on maladjustment, especially since JRN is also affected. This is something specific and malignant. But we don't know what. And no, I refuse to blame it on the fact that I had Capico Potato Crisps (BBQ flavor) for breakfast for three days in a row. Especially since I didn't have any this morning and my stomach was still in pain. In fact, packaged junk food is the only thing not bothering my stomach these days.

Oh, and my throat's been bothering me for a few days so today, at a cousin's house (a marvelously hospitable cousin, might I add), I asked her for some throat lozenges. She gave me some. Then two white pills that I could not identify. All I know is that it's for colds and would make me sleepy. And then, for good measure, she also gave me some sweet medicinal tea to drink. It was sugary and delicious, but I'm not sure how all three things would react together, or if in fact, I am falling ill or it's only my throat. She almost made me take antibiotics, too, before her husband intervened. Please make sure that I don't fall sick, people. I've been to the hospitals here and I don't want my doctor to be smoking as he's examining me, as I've seen a couple of doctors do.

In other news, my parents expect my life to be interesting whenever I call and are always disappointed when I've nothing much to report. It's always I watched yet some other random relatives play drinking games together or I sat in my aunt's living room for another five hours, not doing anything at all, or hey, when I interviewed my uncle he told me how he lies on budget reports. Stuff like that.

Wish List

I wish that lambs would stop being slaughtered then presented in the whole in my honor. Oh, what the heck, let's make it 'honour' as a shout out to my British pals.

Last night, there we were treated to dinner at this Mongolian-hut type place and had a whole roast tiny little lamb. The lamb was accompanied by some wine ceremony. Which brings me to wish number two.

I wish that people would stop toasting me.

And lastly, I wish for, among many other foodstuffs, Chinatown food. Is it wrong to miss Chinatown food whilst in China? Not Chinatown as in the faux-Chinese restaurant in Brunswick, but Chinatown as in places where people of Chinese origins congregate when in another country. I don't miss Americanized Chinese food. But Chinatown food, definitely longing for it right now.

To make up for the lack of Chinatown food, however, I've grown attached to the potato crips here- the Pringles rip off variety. I haven't seen the greasy Lays-type potato chips yet. Like in the UK, the crisp flavours here are plentiful and funky, and quite different from those in the US, but unlike the UK, they're unbelievably affordable here. Less than a quarter USD for a snack-sized bag. My love for this exchange right pales only slightly for my love of Asian junk food.

Losing Face

Yesterday, had a facial at a salon (because luxuries at home are affordable here). I don't know what it is about dentists, orthodontists, hair dressers, or cosmetics people. But they don't like me. People that have to touch me, especially. Doctors treat me ok, except for that time that they locked me in the exam room for an hour, but for the most part, we tight. All those other professions, however, tend to disapprove of me. I'm sure it's them though, and not me.

It's always that myteeth are not clean enough, straight enough, or my hair grows funny and goes against the grain or my pores are clogged and never their fault. I find this quite hard to believe. Especially considering by the appearances of the lady that gave me the facial; I'm pretty sure her skin isn't that nice either. Now, for many people, facials are relaxing and wonderful and refreshing. But not so if you apparently have the worst skin since God said 'let there be.' Those ladies tortured the life out of my little head and I left with patches of red all over my face. That's right, I looked worse off after my facial than before. That's just the type of special customer that I am.

I'll Be Watching You

I think I've complained about my mosquito bites already but it bears repeating. The stings of the mosquitoes are so viscious and merciless that I have three bites alone on my left ankle. Do you know how big an ankle is? Within a one-inch diameter, there are three bites. I only have so much blood, people and mosquitoes of the world! My fingers, legs, back, arms, multiple bites on both elbows...I've lost the will to sleep at night. And it'd be ok if I slept in my own(ish) bed, where I have a most satisfying electric zapper right by my pillow, ready to use at moment's notice, but none of my other relatives' houses have the fantastic swatter (in the shape of a tennis racket for easy swatting- oh, the crispness of the zap when it strikes is fantabulous). So nightly I dread falling asleep and always pull the blanket high over my head, which causes profuse sweating and uneasiness of breath, but that's just the type of price you have to pay to avoid getting bitten. Help!

My Life is Not My Own

Every morning, before I am even awake enough to think of going anywhere, I must first tell my grandfather, eldest and second eldest aunt where I plan on spending my day, where my meals shall take place, and where I will rest my head come eveing. Mind you, I did not meet either of these two aunts before coming here, but now that I've arrived on their turf, I am theirs and theirs alone. And what should happen if I rebel and fail to report to them? They've got minions and minons abound, I tell you! I once made the mistake of believing a cousin when she said I could sleep late at her place after they'd left for work and slept until the ungodly hour of 8:45am and not answering the phone at this distant relative's house when I heard it ring (thinking perhaps that I should not go around answering the phones of people I didn't know). Frantic calls were made back and forth all unbeknownst to me and within the hour, a cousin arrived at the doorsteps to escort me to her house, lest I get lost between the two-minute taxi ride in a city the size of Portland (Maine).

A couple of mornings ago, when I was about to join second eldest aunt and my grandfather for breakfast, he suddenly asked me if I had called my eldest aunt yet. I had spent the past 72 hours all within sight of him since the two of us had gone on a trip visting more distant relatives I didn't know about, had not planned on going anywhere that morning, and was sitting right between an aunt and grandfather, why would I need to call my eldest aunt? Absolutely stumped, I asked what I needed to tell her. That I'm back, of course! Oh foolish, worthless me, why didn't I think that I needed to call my eldest aunt to say that I've safely arrived when we've been with relatives all along the trip? When my aunts called to check on us every day? When two out of three triumvirates where sitting right there? Why did I think it was unnecessary? Or think that it'd have been more proper had my grandfather, her father, called her instead of me.

Verily, verily, I say unto thee, when I wast young, I girded myself and walked whither I wanted. But now I am old. And I must report to three guards over me before I can go anywhere or do anything.

(Quick, reference the verse that was modeled after without looking and there'll be a prize for you... in heaven!)

Caveats

Way to be careful DJ, I almost always add the 'r' to Chinar. It's the Bostonian in me. In the realm of this blog, the Scottish capital is Eddie Bert and the motherland is Chinar. I like my pillows firm, plums sour, showers in the morning, soup over salad, rigatoni instead of spaghetti, and an 'r' at the end of Chinar.

So erm, the English textbook that one of my nieces is using is teaching her all these erroneous things, like fiber is spelled with 're' and that there are these snacks called 'crisps.' No idea what they're about. And she goes to a good high school at that. How's one supposed to learn English this way? Maybe after a decade or so with the language, they can adapt to these things and learn to discern right from wrong, but to be burdened with these things from the start? What's next- chips over fries?

What Happens in Chinar...

Deep into her sleep a couple of nights ago, my niece suddenly exclaimed "A pair of queens!" then dropped back to sleep.

Perhaps we've been playing too much cards lately. But can you blame us? It's so much better than trying to sleep, three people to a queen bed, with mosquitoes hovering by our heads all night long and the air oh so humid.

Come Back Another Day

Dear British Reader(s),
First of all, I worry about the state of your oral hygiene. No wonder folks on the other side of the Atlantic make fun of you so. I may have bad flossing habits, but at least I recognize that I ought to floss.
Second of all, the AC comment need not apply to you guys. It doesn't get hot in Britain, it gets vaguely warm, especially in Eddie Bert. But here? Oh, it is so hot, hot, hot. Temperatures are in the thirties daily (they use Celsius here, just as you humble folks do. This translates to the nineties and beyond in Fahrenheit terms. How proud am I that I can spell Fahrenheit right? Probably more than I should be).
And third, I miss my mosque curry, or, as Dan calls it, 'holy curry.' (American Dan, not to be confused with British Dan.) There are many mosques here and many Muslims (bet you didn't know that about Chinar, yeah, this province is a special autonomous region for Hui Chinese, who are Chinese Muslims. Don't ask me details, because I'm fuzzy about them and their history), but no curry. Your silly but endearing accents are also sort of missed. Along with all those funny museums with no entrance fees. Entrance fees here totally rip people off and you have to pay so many of them just to see one 'attraction.' Like a mostly empty underground tomb of one of the many, many, many important emperors of some bygone era. And their wax figures aren't as funny as the ones in the People's History Museum. And I would say that I miss you guys, but then all my throngs of readers on the other side of the Atlantic would get jealous, and well, you guys already lost pretty badly in 1776, I wouldn't want y'all to lose face again, so...
Fourthly, as you people say, if today was opposite day, I'd be in Eddie Bert (or even Maine) instead of here. They. Get. No. Rain. Here. EVER. Last week, it poured for about six hours straight, the really heavy stuff you see in New England summers. Many roads were flooded, crops ruined, and ceilings leaked. It was the worst rain they'd had in fifty years. Six hours of work. Many people had never seen rain like it. SIX HOURS was all it took. A few years ago, the region went two years without a drop of rain. How easy was the weatherman's job? Just like the Eddie Bert weatherchannel forecast, rain rain, everyday, but in reverse. Imagine if Eddie Bert stayed dry for two weeks, nay, days. SIX HOURS.
I think my work is done here. See you the next time I get internet access.

This Is You

When I was little, I loved watching America's Funniest Home Videos.

First off, touche, Dusty, touche. I wish I knew how to put that little accent aigu (is that what we call it?) mark over the e, but alas, we have to make do. We're under a whole different political system and can't just go around adding accent marks over letters.

Now for a little mid-summer Hot or Not of Ningxia:

What's Hot: Pretty much everything. The food. The climate. The temperature in which they serve the water.

What's Not: The people. And staying cool, like using electric fans or AC. Not even in cars. Or houses with AC installed.

What's Hot: Lamb. Mosquito bites. Parasols. They love their parasols.

What's Not: Tans. Privacy. Flossing. Have yet to see floss other than my own, which I don't mind admitting, I don't use enough anyway.

What's Hot: Not owning one's car or driving, but having drivers or ordering taxis. (I could get used to this...) Fine, they also walk or take buses, but I prefer taxis. It's 15 cents per kilometer, with a $0.65 minimum.

What's Not: High speed internet access. Oh, how I miss thee!

By the by, there's this TV show called My Own Swordsmen, the only half decent sitcom I've seen here, and I'm pretty much addicted. They play reruns of it more often than Friends and Simpsons reruns combined in the States. It's not great, but beggars can't be choosers, especially when it comes to Swordsmen.

Animal Farm

It's been too long since I've updated, Faithful (?) Reader. Let's see. I rode a camel for about five minutes. And then I had the best wine I've ever had in my life. Ok, so it's not water-to-wine good, but the name redeems it for all its vile, 33% alcohol, chock full of Chinese herbs qualities:

Velvet Deerhom and Three-Penis Wine.

If I read the ingredients list correctly, cow penises were involved in the making of the wine. But I'm glad to report that the wine did not taste especially cow penis-y.
What's deerhom? I wish I knew. But I'm pretty glad that I don't. And now my blog has turned vulgar. Way to go, Chinese wine.

I wanted to post a couple of pictures of relatives splitting a chunk of lamb in half, but the computer I am using is so old that it has no USB ports so I cannot upload my pictures into it. Oh well, your loss.

Silence

Mary had a little flock. And I ate it. And the flock's distant relatives. Ningxia, the province where I am, thinks it's famous for its lamb. And I've been fed lamb every day since being here two weeks ago. Yipee?

Speaking of pee, if you take a good whiff in any Chinese city, that's what you'd smell. Except maybe Shanghai and Beijing. And if you take a good whiff of the rural parts, you'd most likely smell manure. Not sure which I prefer. Public urination among the young seems to be quite encouraged here, and it's all so convenient, because for young toddlers, they all have a butt crack in their pants so they can go whenever they bend over. I so wish I was making all this up. In the bushes in front of the apartment building. Atop the Great Wall. And in the MIDDLE OF THE FREAKING TILED PARK. All likely places to find urinating children. Because why bother climb those two flights of stairs home? Or why bother hide in some corner, when you can just go right there? Do you know what happens to the pool of pee in the middle of the park? It does not get absorbed into the ground, because it's tiled, but baked by the sun for full smellerfertation. And then there's my cousin's kid. Who just goes anywhere in the apartment I'm staying in. Lovely. I know, there are lots of cultural differences and differences in standards of sanitation and I shouldn't impose my cultural views on practices here. I know the soc talk. And I try not to judge. But restraining our children from peeing in public? I'd like to think that that's something we've learned in the past 5,000 years, people.