Keriosity

We just got back from 5 days in China and 7 days in Japan. Shanghai and Tokyo, to be exact. Our second visit to each city. We went to watch the Grand Prix. Formula 1 Races. No seriously. It was fun!

I’ve learned several things about China.

1. The Chinese do not believe in the concept of “Maximum Occupancy.” Ironic for a country that has a 1-child-per-family rule.

2. They also don’t believe in the concept of “Right-of-Way”. It’s more like - whoever gets squished first loses. I think it’s part of the communist thinking - everyone has the same rights so nobody has more of a right to go first, no matter what mode of transportation they are using or what color the traffic light is.

3. They don’t let a little word like “No” discourage them. “You need watch?” No. “Watch?” No. “Rolex?”  No. “Pan-a-roy?” No. “You need bag?” No. “Voo-ton?”  No. “Loo-ee Voo-ton?” No. “Goo-chee?” No. “DVD?”

4. They think vegetarianism is exclusive to Buddhist monks. Advising restaurant staff that I am a vegetarian just got them to bring me more vegetables with meat. I’d like to point out to all of China that jellyfish is not a fruit, and that sea cucumber is a HUGE misnomer.

5. Proofreading is not a necessary skill.

6. Public areas, such as parks, are NOT to be enjoyed by the public. The rules for what you can’t do in a park is very long and inclusive. (There’s a picture of them below.)

They DO believe in excellent customer service, pretty good food, lots of shopping, friendly people, late hours, driving fast, strong work ethic, cool temples and gardens, the best massages anywhere, and cheap prices for everything except what gets imported.

Some of my favorite moments in China occur when our Chinese friend John negotiates prices with vendors. They really YELL at each other - John wags his finger at them and acts very insulted. And then they give us 50% off and all is well. It’s not a good sale unless buyer and seller scream at each other in defense of their families, living and deceased, whose very honor is threatened by the price of a counterfeit watch. They are very serious about honor. And a good discount.

Going from China to Japan was like taking ritalin.

In Japan, Order and Politeness seem to be the main objectives at all times:

1. Where China had the no-right-of-way issue, Japan has dividers in the sidewalks so that everyone keeps to their left. That way, no one bumps into each other. Of course, I’m a stupid American and I kept walking on the right, against the flow of pedestrians.

2. Talking is kept to a precise volume of 45 decibels, which is exactly between loud whispering and quiet speaking. This creates an eerie “white noise” kind of sound in all public areas.

3. Every salesperson in every store greets every customer the same way - “Sumi Masen! Irashaimasu!” (Excuse me, thank you, and welcome!) which sounds like “Sumi maseeeeeh! Blah-blah-blah-maseeeeeh!” (In China, they have their own standard greeting: “You want? I have! I have!” I appreciate the English, but not the aggression. )

4. Order and Politeness in Japan means that blowing your nose in public is one of the rudest things you could do. And I have allergies. I quietly and quickly blew my nose in my hotel room when the maid was doing turn down service and she jumped and glared at me. My feeling on the matter is: it’s MY room. I can blow my nose and Emil can walk around without pants on. If you don’t like it - don’t do the turn down service! This sort of issue is one of the more annoying things about Japan. In China, baby clothes have a hole in the butt area - and there are no diapers. Me blowing my nose in public was the least of anyone’s troubles.

5. For all their quiet dignity - Japanese people are dirty! Not like, dirt dirty - like sex dirty! The English songs they play in the trendier stores made me blush! They are well-known for their sexy anime. The newest craze in desserts is the Tokyo Bust Pudding. I’ll let you google “bust pudding” on your own. I don’t want to be responsible for posting such pictures on my blog.

6. Why have 1 person do a customer-service job when you can have 6 people do it together? We were greeted by at least 4 porters at the lobby of our hotel every day - 2 people to hold the door and at least 2 more to say “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Rensing. Do you need a cab this afternoon? Can I give you walking directions then? Would you like a parasol for some shade?” (I assume they adopted this “no-means-maybe” idea from the Chinese.)

7. Every activity needs to have its own song. Train doors open - a trill of notes plays. Train doors close - a different trill plays. Elevator goes up - it’s the elevator-goes-up song. Elevator goes down - you get the idea. Little jingly songs play all the time, everywhere. Even the toilets play songs. I’m not kidding.

The other weird thing that is common to both China and Japan - It’s HOT and HUMID and everyone is wearing long pants, long sleeves, and often sweaters. I was dying in tank tops and jeans. I just learned a little tidbit of information about Asian people - they have fewer sweat glands than Caucasians. It’s true. I heard it on Oprah. (I watch the 2am rebroadcast of Oprah so that no one can accuse me of sitting on the couch all afternoon watching Oprah. The cure for insomnia, btw - Oprah.)

Ok, this blog is long enough. I guess I’ll end with a few words of advice if you plan to travel to China or Japan: Take lots of pictures, be on the lookout for engrish, always carry toilet paper in your purse, and start taking Cipro preemptively.

What’s the point of going to the park if I can’t do my laundry and spread anti-goverment propaganda?

Those of you who attended Sunday School way back when may remember learning that Satan can take on many forms. Yesterday, he took on the form of a Chiropractor.

I woke up in the morning in a pretty good mood. Milhous, my kennel-cough stricken dog, had his first cough-free night in 24 nights. Therefore, I was able to sleep uninterrupted for the first time is a very long time. I was so grateful when I woke up, that I thanked him. (To which he coughed.)

My plans for the day were to meet my friend Jen in downtown LA in the morning, then go to my horseback riding lesson in the afternoon at a brand-new barn with fields and trails and other wonderfulness. (The old barn was crowded and plain.) In the evening, I was meeting another friend for drinks in my neighborhood. Sounds like a nice day, huh?

Well I don’t have nice days like that. Something always happens.

My neck decided that the time was right to have a major spasm. I guess I shouldn’t really complain, since I used to have them quite frequently and I haven’t had one in about 6 months. But this one was really bad and I had to cancel my whole day.

After making the necessary phone calls, I tried to lie down and while doing so, I sort of fell into a lying down position and I sounded like someone who has both Tourette’s Syndrome and a megaphone. Luckily, my neighbors were having their house fumigated so they weren’t home to hear all the profanities - but actually, maybe it wasn’t so lucky because once I lay down, I became stuck that way. And it wasn’t at all comfortable. You know in Star Wars when Han Solo gets frozen in carbonite? That’s what I looked like - but with cursing. Lots of cursing.

I managed to reach my cell phone and I called my husband. No answer. I called my mother. No answer. (Not that either of them would be able to do much since they were 3000 miles away.) I called the doctor and left a message. And then I just waited. (For what, I don’t know.) Soon I had to pee. Of course. My bladder and my neck have a secret plot against me in which they always choose the exact wrong time to demand my attention.

I started to cry because I knew that one of two things was going to happen. Either I was going to die of a ruptured bladder and no one would know about it until Emil came home two days later. Or, he would come home in two days to find me alive but lying in my own excrement. I just had to hope for option #1.

I discovered that the remote control was within my reach and I turned on The View just in time to hear about that lady in France who had the face transplant. I knew that her injuries were a result of a dog attack, but now I was learning that the dog was her own beloved pet Labrador who had done this awful thing to her while she was passed out from sleeping pills! I looked over at Milhous, remembering how rough I had been while trying to get cough medicine down his throat and how he’s still mad at me and I thought “Oh HELL NO you don’t!” And I forced myself up. It was excruciating! But I least I still have my face.

I was able to get a 3pm appointment with a chiropractor. Of course, I could not drive, so I took a taxi. Why is it that taxi drivers can never stop at the exact destination?

Taxi Driver: Where is it?

Me: It’s there on the right. #12467

Taxi Driver: Where?

Me: There - that red building with the numbers on it - 12467. (I point at the building.)

Taxi Driver: Here? (He slows down at the corner, 500 feet from the building.)

Me: No, up there - that red building on the ri- whatever, here is fine.

Taxi Driver: Here?

Me: YES! Stop the car!

It must really suck to be illiterate and color-blind.

Once inside the doctor’s office - I was hopeful that relief was moments away. The doctor tried his best to act casual and put my mind at ease. He looked at my posture - with my head hung low and turned slightly to the right, my right shoulder practically touching my ear, my eyes awkwardly looking as far up as they can go just to make eye contact with him.

“Wow, are you stuck like that?!” He asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Can you fix me?”

“Of course - I see this all the time. You have acute [something-itis]- and with an adjustment or two, you should be much better!”

“Okay.” I said feebly. I wondered how he could do an adjustment on someone in my present condition of “stuck.” I’ve had adjustments before (sans spasm)- it’s such a moment of “OWOHMYGOD - aaaaaahhhhh!” but with all this muscle tightness, would I get that satisfying “aaaaaahhhh!”?

He felt my back and neck and declared that several vertebrae were askew. After 15 minutes of electric stim on my back and shoulders (which I hate - I don’t like that twitching sensation!) I was eager to get this visit over with and be normal again. I had a little fantasy playing in my head of a quick adjustment and it would be like there was never a spasm. I would be completely back to normal. Surely the initial pain of the adjustment would be nothing compared to the previous 7 hours of agony!

Enter Satan.

“Ok, Keri. I’m just going to do some small adjustments and you’ll be back on track!” I couldn’t help but notice he didn’t say “good as new.” Hm…

He pressed his hands on my spine. “Ready? Take a deep breath. Now let it out!”  He made two forceful pushes.

Now, from what I can piece together, I think I died upon the first push and that the second push restarted my heart. I know I made an awful sound of some sort. Kind of like a primal guttural death moan.

“You okay?” Satan asked.

“Wha? Uuuuhhh..” was all I could manage through the nausea.

After three more adjustments I guess my screams were loud enough for the other patients to hear, because he decided to stop.

“How do you feel?” he asked. I was lying on my back, hugging my knees to my chest, panting, with a look of shock on my face. “I guess you can’t say right now - that’s okay,” he offered. After a moment, he held out his hand to help me up.

“Owowowowowow!” I winced. And what was his response? He laughed. The chiropractor laughed at me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh - but you’re just so pathetic right now!” he smiled.

Now I have as good a sense of humor as the next person - even better than most, actually. I find humor in the most bizarre and morbid situations - so if anyone should understand inappropriate uncontrollable laughter, it’s me. But I did not find this torturous visit to be funny at all - and the only person who is more inappropriately amused than me has got to be Satan.

“I know today was brutal, but hopefully you will feel better tomorrow. You may need to come back Friday for another adjustment though - you’ll let me know.”

I thought, You are never touching me again, you hateful mean sadist!

I crawled out to the waiting room to pay for my visit to Hell, and signed the credit card slip almost illegibly due to the new tingling sensation that had developed in my right arm. I had a fleeting thought that the pen I pulled from my purse is silver and would that be equally as lethal to the devil as a silver bullet? If it weren’t for the tingling and weakness in my Stabbing Arm, I might have found out.

I actually do feel much better today. It may have been the work of Satan, but I’m guessing the bottles of Ibuprofen and muscle relaxants helped a bit too. (And I’d like to apologize for any nonsensical comments I may have posted on anyone’s myspace page last night. Also, I’d like to apologize to Milhous for continually calling him a “nice horse” while in my ultra-relaxed state.)

You may recall my list of moving inconveniences that you’ll never find in any moving literature - well I moved again. And I am beyond frustrated. Not with the yogurt this time - I gave up that brand of yogurt because it wasn’t worth the trek to the only store in all of Orange County that carried it. This time, my frustrations are mostly about finding a proper cleaning lady and finding my new nail salon.

The nail salon part is not that interesting.

But the cleaning lady part: well it’s more gross than interesting. But, as with all gross things I experience, I must share the details with others since I cannot stand being the only grossed-out person.

Ok, so Emil and I decided that we really need to step-up our “help” requirements to include errands and such. Turns out, a person who both cleans your house and runs errands for you is actually a Housekeeper and no longer a Cleaning Lady. Any ol’ person can be a Cleaning Lady (well any ol’ LADY, that is.) I guess it must take a very specially qualified person to be your Housekeeper, because there seem to be much fewer of them.

While googling “Housekeeper, Los Angeles”, I came across one service that has been around for hundreds of years and they help match Housekeepers with people who are too busy to take care of themselves. I called that service and scheduled a Housekeeper to come the following week.

That Housekeeper failed to show up and, apparently, was never heard from by anyone ever again. Hm. Not a good sign. But, the company offered me 3 free hours of cleaning services, so we scheduled Housekeeper #2 to come the following week.

Housekeeper #2 called me the night before to confirm. That was very professional, so I was pleased. Then, on the morning of our scheduled day, she called me again. “I think I am at your house - is it blue?” I looked outside the kitchen window and was very startled. Were it not for the fact that she was on the cell phone with me at that moment, which confirmed that this was, in fact, the Housekeeper I was expecting, I would have honestly thought she was showing up for a hot meal and not to clean my home.

I feel incredibly shallow and judgmental for even going there - but she was dirty. Her clothes were stained and badly mismatched. Now, I don’t expect a cleaning person to come to the house fresh from the shower and in her best clothes. Obviously, cleaning makes you a little icky anyway, so I can understand a less than squeaky appearance. However, she just looked sloppy and dirty.

And I’m not sure she was “all there” because she laughed at everything I said. “I keep the cleaning supplies under the sink in this plastic tote.” “Ok, hahahahahahaha!” I failed to see the humor. If I kept my cleaning supplies in a jack-in-the-box, maybe. The plastic tote is decidedly not funny.

But - it gets worse. So much worse.

I handed her the list of chores to be done, as requested by the service, and rather than make her stand in the living room to read (we had no furniture in there yet), I invited her into the kitchen to sit and read. She laughed, of course, and sat down. And when she got up and walked away - I swear to you - her pants were wet. The seat of her pants was wet down to her knees. And she turned to me and I saw that the front of her pants was wet too.

You know in movies or TV when something is so shocking to a person that they use that camera effect so that the person stays the same size and the background zooms away from them? That’s exactly what happened to me. My eyes fixed on the wet pants and my world started to fall away.

Are you kidding me?! Only I would get the Incontinent Homeless Housekeeper. Remember The Dirty Yoga Instructor? These things happen to me!

Thank god I was getting the chairs reupholstered!

When she walked into the next room, I immediately and gingerly pressed a wad of paper towel to the kitchen chair to see what the hell had just happened. It appeared dry - so she was like this prior to coming over and she still showed up that way. Great.

What was I going to do? How can you ask someone to just leave without giving them a reason? And you all know I can’t lie.

So I let her clean. She did a pretty good job - but she stunk up whatever room she was in. I opened every window in the house and was freezing all afternoon.

I had to call the company to tell them - and I had to be honest. When the manager asked me how the cleaning went, I paused.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Well - there’s a hygiene problem,” I said delicately.

“Really?! In what way?”

“Um…it’s really embarrassing to even have this conversation. She was dirty and she smelled. Her clothes were stained. And…um…her pants appeared wet.”

“Gasp! Oh my god - she peed herself?” she asked.

“Well…yeah, I think so.”

I was offered another 3 free hours and the manager was scheduling me with their BEST Housekeeper ever. And the only explanation of Housekeeper #2 is that “she’s new”. I see. She must not have had a chance to read the Housekeeper Handbook in which I’m sure they address why you should never pee on yourself at work.

Housekeeper #3 came early on the scheduled day. She was dressed neatly in scrubs (smart!) She completed everything on my list, did a decent job, was very nice and I liked her a lot. But when she came back the second time, she brought her 4-year old nephew. Sigh.

Is it too much to ask that I find the perfect Housekeeper? Where are the Alices, the Florences, and, if need be, the Tony Micellis? Could it be that TV, in addition to portraying unrealistic body images, family dynamics, and romantic expectations, has also been greatly exaggerating the availability of good Housekeepers? I want a Rosie Jetson! Even my Roomba has turned out to be a disappointment.

For the time being, I am keeping Housekeeper #3 in the hopes that this kid, being her nephew after all, must have several other caregivers at his disposal and that coming to work with his aunt was an isolated incident.

And in truth, she does remind me a little of Florence from the Jeffersons.

I hope you’ll indulge me another blog about pets. This one has pictures!

Gummy started his Prozac yesterday. The good thing about Gummy is that he acts like a dog in many ways. He has no cat ego. One of his dog traits is that he takes pills in a dog food meatball. This is almost unheard of in cats. I know this because I have given pills to approximately 1436 cats. I have personally witnessed 2 cats do this - Gummy and this hyperthyroid cat named Clyde who eats everything, including your finger if you try to give him a pill in the traditional cat technique (shove it down his throat). Luckily for Clyde’s owner and me - Gummy and Clyde eat meatballs.

My sister Tina coined the term “happy meatball” especially for Gummy’s Prozac meatball. It fits. Here he is waiting for his meatball - he is very happy!

He purrs when he eats it. He loves dog food. (This becomes a problem every morning when Milhous gets his breakfast. Remember how I said before that Gummy was slightly retarded? Here’s an example: He doesn’t understand “angry” when it’s being directed at him and doesn’t realize that if he just stops trying to eat what’s in Milhous’ bowl, Milhous won’t bite his belly. In fact, this whore-cat incident is the only thing I’ve ever seen Gummy get angry about. He just doesn’t do anger.) Milhous is not happy about the happy meatball because he knows it’s dog food. He recognizes the can and is utterly beside himself that the cat is getting what’s in the can and he isn’t. Everyone is upset, in fact. The can is pretty big and it will go bad before I can use it all, so what’s the harm? Milhous and Goat each get a little happy meatball, minus the drugs, when Gummy gets his. Daisy doesn’t because she has food allergies. It’s just easier than getting barked at for 10 minutes and having Goat on the kitchen counter searching for meatball remnants.

The patio came out very nice. I put up the garden fencing, supplemented with some trellises and plants here and there in spots that still were still accessible to the whore cat. I found out that her name is “Shadow” and she lives across the courtyard. No wonder she wants to leave her home so often. Shadow?! No offense to those readers who have or have had pets with these names but it’s right up there with Max and Oreo as the least creative pet names. And it totally doesn’t suit her! She’s a sleek Abyssinian! Shadow is for a black cat or a black dog. (btw - Goat came with the name Goat, so that’s not my fault. I wanted to name him Ichabod. We could have called him Icky for short. Gummy is short for Montgomery, keeping with our Simpson’s theme with Milhous and our two departed mice named Patty and Selma - also because of his bad teeth, we thought he’d have to have all his teeth removed at some point. A preemptive nickname.)

Shadow came by this morning while I was taking pictures of the patio and she was very upset about the fence. I saw her owners’ kid around the courtyard a few minutes before, so I had to lay down on the living room floor like a sniper with my water-gun so he wouldn’t see me hunting his beloved cat. Gummy crouched down next to me. I squirted her (gently) in the face, which sent her running. I swore I heard Gummy snicker.

I put up the sensory deprivation window coverings. That makes me sad. Poor kitties. I have been keeping the sliding door open a few inches for a little while in the day because I just feel terrible. They’ve been living in NYC with no view of anything interesting for 3 years. Then they have 3 weeks of seeing trees, flowers, bugs, sky, yes another cat but still…how could I take that away cold turkey? Gummy is very confused. “Why is everything so blurry?”

It will take about a week for the Prozac to start to work. I wonder if he’ll have dry mouth and insomnia like people get. Or vivid dreams - sometimes that’s a side effect. It’ll be so hard to tell because he already drinks a lot (he loves the water bowl for some reason. He puts his toys in there.) and does dream often (his feet and face move). And he snores (another dog-like trait.) Gummy: the retarded, bad toothed, bad hipped, snoring, meatball eating, soggy toyed, snorts when he’s concentrating, purrs when Daisy is getting brushed (he’s happy for her), snuggles with his rawhide donut, play-bites too hard, dog-cat who is stressed-out over feeling angry for the first time ever. How could you not want to do all this to help him?

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Some of Gummy’s pets that have frequented the water bowl: the snake, the octopus, the Rudolf finger puppet, and the rubber mouse (not pictured). The octopus has also visited the food bowl on occasion.