Leezer

Please don’t e-mail me to tell me I’ve already posted this picture.  I’m nothing if not a narcissist, and I like the photo.  More fundamentally, however, I know you are interested in Anna’s life.  Here’s the poop:  Anna is 95% lovable, adorable, little Chinese girl and 5% heinous devil child.  The scales tip so far toward the lovable part, we can accommodate the devil-part.   Of course, if she were our biological child, we’d say oh me oh my where did that 5% come from it’s certainly not from my side it must be from your side you know your mother acts like this from time-to-tim so I’m sure it’s all her fault and y ou deal with her because i’m tired now going to bed see you in the morning goodbye.  Naturally, this tendency is only exacerbated with an adopted child.  When she’s nasty, there’s this knee-jerk reaction well i don’t know where she gets this it must be from her Chinese heritage because surely she wouldn’t act this way if she was made out of our DNA we’re far above this kind of behavior we’re so dignified and well-bred. . .

But nearly a year after returning from Guangzhou with Anna, we’re completely happy.  In fact,  from time-to-time I miss the little life we had in China for the time we were there. I miss the handful of Chinese people I’d talk to every day and I even miss the food and the heat.  Seeing the aftermath of the earthquake is heart-wrenching, because looking into the faces of the victims on television is like looking into my daughter’s face. 

Anna is speaking only English now, but still has trouble with her r’s and her l’s.  A neighbor asked me if the difficulty of Chinese people to say r’s and l’s is genetic.   I don’t think it’s any more “genetic” than Germans being highly organized or Italians being impetuous.  It’s just a matter of the environment. 

Anna is also very bright.  Our biological dauther is musical, dramatic, and confident.  Anna is studious, observant, and a little sneaky.  We think she’ll be a CIA Operative or maybe an astronaut. 

Ultimately, we’d like to keep both daughters off the pole and see them graduate from college.  If we can do this and see them happy, then we’ve done our share. 

For those of you Googling “American Idol,” welcome to my blog.  As I’ve learned from my Stat Counter, there are many avenues to my blog, none of which I’m particularly proud.  Apparently, Googling, “Bleached Anus,” will get you here, as will “I ruv it asian,” as will “poop.” (No surprise there.)  I’m expiramenting a bit to see if I can win Time Magazine’s Blogger of the Year award just by using a common pop-culture term in my title.  Tune in later for the results.

In the mean time, I was tagged by Expat to complete the following exercise:

- Post the rules on your blog
- Write six random things about yourself in a blog post
- Tag six people in your post
- Let each person know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog
- Let the tagger know your entry is up

This is not going to be easy because I have no secrets to share. I’ve actually written just about everything there is to know about me, which frightens me into oblivion. 

Now, Expat indicated on her blog that we are virtual twins. This is true.  There are a few minor differences, however. First, Expat does not have the same hang-ups about religion as do I.  Second, Expat considers listening to others’ differing points of view as a challenge and a growing experience, while I consider the same experience merely annoying and a waste of precious time. Third, Expat is a true adventurer, having lived all over the world and having raised a kind, well-functioning family unit at the same time.  I could not do this.  Here’s to you, Expat!

Here are six random things, hopefully heretofore unpublished:

• Every night I wear a t-shirt to bed that says, “Ask me about my explosive diarreah.”  My husband thinks I’m irresistible.
• I scored in the thirteenth percentile in the Spatial Orientation section of the pre-college tests (this is out of 100, folks).  This is the exercise that requires you to figure out which way the wheels are turning. If you think THIS is bad, Leezerslawpartner, one of the best attorneys in the whole US of A, scored a SIX! He told me, “I didn’t even think this was possible.”  Adorable, that one.
• I secretly think I’m sort of funny-looking.
• I am so weary of telling my seven-year old, roughly seven times a day, how old our two-year old Shih Tzu is in “human years.”  Now I just tell her “Two. same age as he is in dog years.”
• My best friend Ruthie from childhood died in 1994.  She’s in nearly every dream of mine. Recently, in such a dream, I asked her,”why are you always here.” She said, “that’s our agreement. I’ll always  be here whether you need me or not.” It’s sort of comforting.  MCS reminds me a lot of Ruthie but I don’t tell her very often out of fear I’ll creep her out.
• In the fifth grade, I held two older girls hostage in the girls bathroom.  They couldn’t leave until they said the secret password, “shoes in your mouth, yeah yeah yeah.”  After the bell rang and we were discovered missing, the sixth grade teacher found us, sent the hostages back to class, and told me I would be the first female in Lake Youngs Elementary School history to receive a hack. He pounded the hack paddle into his palm, then at the last minute he let me go, sans hack. I’m sure a lawsuit from my parents was the only thing that stopped him cold.

Tagged:  Mae, Lisa, Lengli, Naynay, Pixie, Kitkat

I’ve been a little out of sorts lately. Either it’s the Saturn retrograde or it’s close to the end of the season for my two favorite shows, American Idol and Dancing with the Stars.  Now, I have a professional degree. I’m not opposed to using latin terms when I want to appear like a know-it-all.  But I hoard my childrens “Littlest Pet Shop” toys because they’re the closest thing to living in a pod I can come up with - I mean the little toys live in the pod, not me, but I can live there vicariously.  And I love mind-numbing tv shows made for imbeciles. Oh well.

So last night’s American Idol featured Neal Diamond songs.  This is really scratching at the bottom of the barrel.  I love Neal Diamond and all, but I just can’t watch him without thinking of Will Farrell’s impression of a Neal Diamond concert in which Will (as Neal) talks to the audience about picking up a drifter - a man - and having sex with him.  Some mental images will live on.

And I find it a little upsetting that my favorite, Michael Johns, was voted off before Neal Diamond night. I can imagine him crooning, “Cherry,” - She’s got the way to move me, Cherry! -  with his shirt open to his navel and all the girls in the audience taking off their panties and throwing them on the stage. 

Speaking of panties, I heard yesterday on the radio that Roger Clemens and his friends are big fans of some up-and-coming fifteen year-old country western singer. They attended one of her concerts in which Roger stood in the front row and threw her one of his jerseys.  The media is reporting that the two have become “friends” and the relationship is purely “platonic.”  Now let’s think about this a bit.  Roger Clemens has two or three sons.  I believe the oldest is a grown man, or at least he’s in college. His wife is a body builder who abuses steriods and other prescription drugs.   Not that her bad habits have anything to do with his unhealthy relationship with a minor, it just makes the story a little more salacious.  So apparently Roger’s adoration of the jail-bait singer has progressed to the point that he’s now getting more attention from this spectacle than he did for perjury (remember his testimony before congress that he never used steriods).  All I can say is “Ewwww.”  And to the girl, where are your parents?  I wonder if the girl (Mindy) knows if Roger had to take little round bandaids wherever he went so the injection site on his buttocks wouldn’t stain his designer slacks.  Maybe she put his bandaids on for him.

That’s all for now. I wish I had something a little more interesting to share with all of you, but I’m a working mother of two small children whose back always hurts and one of the children is home with a cold.  

• Wow! I’ve never seen this shade of beige before! How have I missed it! I must add it to my inventory!
• This particular shade of beige brings out the beige flecks in my eyes.
• Beige - the color of honest and manly men.
• It would be nice if this beige was accented by a darker-beige windowpane plaid; then I’d buy it.
• I’m looking for a specific shade of beige - think cooked-just-right pizza crust or the inside of an overly-ripe pear.  Perfect!
• Why Lisa, you labor under the misimpression that I have this shirt at home. I do not. The beige one at home has long sleeves and a blue window-pane plaid. This one, while it has long sleeves, has two-button cuffs, not one, and a light-blue windowpane plaid.
• Maybe I should paint the walls the same shade of beige as my shirts.
• Did Costco sign a contract with the Beige Shirt Company? Maybe I can contact the company directly and cut-out the middleman!

My Mom’s high school principal’s name was Harry Dick.  Or Harry Balls, I can’t recall, but she reminds of this fact once a year or so.   Her point, aside from the obvious entertainment-value in the name itself, is of the importance in bringing a child into this world with a name that does its owner justice. 

We named our first daughter Georgia for a couple of reasons; first, my husband and I love the Ray Charles song, Georgia On My Mind.   The song is soulful and a bit mysterious - you don’t know if Georgia is a person or a place.  It doesn’t really matter.  Hearing the song always made me wish my name was Georgia. 

 Second, my husband  is from Virginia, and we sure as hell weren’t going to name our child Virginia.  (I once related this rationale to a stranger at a dinner party, only later to lean over with an outstretched hand, “by the way, my name is Lisa.  What’s your name?”  Her response: “Virginia.”)  Giving our precious girl the name Virginia would undoubtedly require us to console her on a regular basis when other children realized how much Virginia sounds like vagina. 

Georgia - the name and my daughter -  reminds me of a Weeping Willow -  lacy, feminine, strong, steamy, and ageless.  Somehow I knew this about her before she was born.  That, or I’ve projected onto her those traits I value.  I think it was also the only name upon which we agreed.

I’ve longed to name a daughter India, which was a common name in Victorian England.  Perhaps because England occupied India.   Upon further reflection, a British person naming a child India may be considered tasteless, like naming a child Appartheid, Harper’s Ferry, or The Killing Fields.  Some good things likely came out of the British occupation of India, but placing my child in the position of needing to justify her name seemed a tad unfair.   Our baby sitter’s name is Enola.  A few days ago my husband asked her,

 ” . . . like the WWII Enola Gay?  The one that carried the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima?” 

I was afraid he’d ask.  During this questioning I implored him with my eyes, She’s only fifteen!  She didn’t give herself the name!  Leave it alone!

Nonetheless, India, like Goergia, is a strong, steamy, yet ageless name.  

When we adopted Anna from China, the name India didn’t make the short list because the last thing we wanted to do to our child who doesn’t look a thing like us was to saddle her with an oddball name.  So we picked about the least ethnic-sounding name we could think of:  Anna.  It was the perfect choice.  She loves her name and refers to herself in the third person:  “Anna wants wa-wa; Anna go nigh-nigh; Anna go poopy!” 

Expat Princess believes - and I whole heartedly agree - that a name should look impressive when printed upon a college or law school diploma.  I question whether the Shittheads, the Shanias,  and the Fantasias really want their names printed Harvard Diplomas.  But perhaps the names won’t be printed anywhere at all, or will be printed upon state liquor control-board operators’ licenses.  Not that there’s any shame in that.  Don’t send me hate-mail telling me how bougoise I am.  I just think a child should be given as much of a head start as possible. 

Speaking of names that do their owners justice, I know a woman who named her son Justice, but I believe she spells it differently.  What a wonderful name, Justice.  Unless the child becomes an adult-film star.  In that case Harry Dick is more appropriate.

1.  In college I lived next door to a guy who took a dump on his couch in the middle of the night because he thought it was a  toilet.  We called him Paul the Dirtball.

2.  Today when I filled my gas tank it topped off at $69.00 even.

3.  I have a dinosaur tooth.  Not in my mouth, my grandmother gave it to me.  For some reason, my Mom and Dad now have it.

4.  I’ve never seen a ghost.

5.  I never liked Gymboree or Mommy and Me classes.

6.  I can’t get enough Red Velvet cake.

7.  I’ve had workouts that hurt more than childbirth.

8.  I  once walked out of the middle of a dental cleaning because the dentist took too long to get to me (the hygienist cleaned my teeth).

9.  I still have my Raggedy Ann doll from when I was a baby.

10.  I kiss my oldest daughter’s forehead about once an hour.  She’s likely very tired of it.

11.  Once when I took my daughter swimming I forgot my bathing suit.  Because there wasn’t enough time to go home and get it, I just wore one from the lost and found.

12.  Sometimes I’m jealous of people who have gotten pregnant whenever they wanted to.

13.  I love the smell of puppy ears.

14.  If I could either sing or dance, I’d dance.

15.  I don’t like the name Midge.

16.  I had a crush on Roy Scheider when Jaws came out.

17.  Last week I wore the same outfit to work two days in a row.

18. If you take a close look at famous people, you’ll notice that their heads are always too big for their bodies.

19.  If I could either bungee jump or feed sharks through a shark cage, I’d pick the shark cage.

20.  I wonder what ever happened to Russ Davis (Mariners’ third baseman).

21.  I’m glad I don’t have close-set eyes because there’s really nothing you can do about that.

22.  I vacillate between feelings of entitlement and martyrdom - a dangerous combination.

23.  I wish my dog could talk. 

24.   I can’t understand why anyone would ever take their parents for granted.

25.  I still keep in touch with some of my best friends from childhood.

26.  I don’t see my adopted daughter as Chinese anymore.  I just see her soul.

27.  I love all my cousins so, so much.

28.  I HATE Rhodedendrons  (the Washington State Flower).

29.  I want a koi pond but my parents had one and it was a pain in the ass to keep clean and maintained.  Plus, I think the raccoons ate the fish.

30.  I have blond hair but I don’t feel blond.  If my looks matched the way I felt, I’d look like Snow White.

31.  Blood Sweat and Tears and Tower of Power were awesome bands because of the horns.

32.  Two days ago I slammed my finger in the car door and blood squirted all over my clothes and all over the ground.  There was so much blood I couldn’t tell if my finger was dangling off the bone until I washed it. 

33.  I am going to be cremated.

34.  My husband’s birthday is Tuesday.  I think I’ll get him a pair of gym socks and a bottle opener.

35.  I’m addicted to American Idol for the first time this season.

36.  If my cat could talk, she’d alternate between ridicule and praise.

37.  My maiden name is Catt.

38.  Sometimes I worry that the U.S. won’t last as long as the Roman Empire did.

39.  I hate card games.

40.  Favorite body part?  Eyebrows.

41.  Pie or cake?  Pie.

42.  Death penalty or life in prison?  Death penalty.

43.  Horseshoes or Frisbee?  Horseshoes.

• Paper toilet seat covers.  You put one on the toilet seat, the middle part falls in the water, gets heavy, and pulls the whole thing into the water.  Then you think, “Well, I’ll tear the center out altogether.”  Doesn’t work.  The whole ring tears in half. So then you get another one.  It does the same thing!  Finally, you just take some toilet paper and line the seat with that.  It falls off too.  I’ve resolved to just take disinfectant cloths wherever I go.

• Three-quarter sleeves.  These types of sleeves serve only to accentuate the primate-quality of my arms.  Sleeves should be long or short.  One or the other.  And don’t even get me started on cropped pants WITH a three-quarter sleeve shirt.  Basically the wearer of the outfit looks like a child who has overgrown his britches.

• The five star spiciness rating system in Thai restaurants.  These are useless.  Every time my husband and I go to a Thai restaurant, we do the same expirament:  He orders three or four stars and I order one star.  The food always tastes identical.

• Tylenol.  I understand giving Tylenol to a kid (Ryes Syndrome) but for an adult, its about as effective as a piece of liccorice.

• Antennae on cell phones.  Does anyone use these things? Are they just there for show?  Cell phone coverage is coverage is coverage.  The four-inch plastic stick doesn’t help with dropped calls coverage gaps.

• Deoderant tampons. If you need a deoderant tampon, then you should see a doctor.

• Cliff Notes, law school study guides and other academic short-cuts.  When I was in law school, the hulabaloo during the first few months of school as a 1L was which study outline/guide  to buy.  Most, if not all, of us bought a bunch of these in the first year, and by the end of school virtually no one was using them.  Why?  Because there are no short-cuts.  Shortcuts are exactly that - doing something fast and sloppy.  Kind of like the way my husband skiis - really fast, but without proper form because he doesn’t Stem Christy (plant his pole properly).   While certainly dry reading, the law school texts contained every thing we needed to know.  All else was trifles.

• Waterproof Bandaids.  These are bandaids that are clear where the brown strip is supposed to be.  Utterly, completely, infuriatingly useless.  I am always cutting my fingers nearly to the bone whilst cooking because, despite my comments above, I tend to chop quickly and sloppily.  I’ve endured too many showers rinsing the suds out of my hair and recoiling in agony as my long wet hairs pull through the inside of a deep cut.  So I tried the waterproof bandaids. (I’d just as soon wear a soggy pair of underpants than a soggy band-aid).  The water-proof kind are merely a sales gimmick.  My shower drain inevitably becomes a sad graveyard for these clear-plastic soldiers. 

I secretly worry about the narcissistic quality of writing, that it’s the cerebral equivalent of staring at one’s reflection in the mirror for hours.   The substantiation of ephemeral mush by way of keystrokes places this quality under the light. Why study the inside of one’s head? I’ve lived inside my head now for some forty odd years and it’s still fascinating to me, although highly unlikely to anyone else.  

In college I traveled to Hawaii for a month and a woman in her thirties, for some reason I can’t recall, came along.  A friend and I were lying on the beach talking, the woman within earshot and silent except for asking me, why are you so introspective?  I didn’t respond, thinking her question rhetorical and critical.  

Nothing much changes a person’s basic nature.  Only time and trauma and joy and tedium  soften rough edges and cause a person to choose A and not B, as B may have been a hot stove or a toxic person or a rut.  Eye color doesn’t change.  Nature doesn’t change.

Writing is at best cathartic and at worst narcissistic, and sometimes it is entertaining.  Eyes aren’t the window to the soul, words and sentences and paragraphs are.