Stretch Goal

Scanning the health section of the local newspaper several years ago, I came across an article on yoga. All the devotees quoted in the article were seniors.  One woman gleefully reported that she had been unable to do the splits until she was 50; she was still doing the splits well into her seventh decade. I was impressed; the splits were something I was unable to manage in junior high, ending a promising cheerleading career before it ever began. It’s okay, I enjoyed the debate team, really.  Another man cited improved posture and circulation. They looked good, healthy, and their secret was yoga. I was intrigued. I dutifully paid the $39.99 a month to the standard-issue gym in my neighborhood and signed up for the evening yoga class.  

This particular class was generic, but that worked for me, I was no yoga snob. A novice at the time, I was actually unaware that there were different kinds of yoga. I thought yoga was, well, yoga. I dusted off some old aerobics leotards and set out one brisk autumn evening on my yoga journey.  

I felt a bit like an interloper entering this temple to testosterone.  I had no thick leather lifting belt or finger-less gloves; I was a gym dilettante.  The regulars barely tolerated my classmates and me as we, the unworthy and unwelcome, scurried toward the tiny studio used for everything that didn’t involve pumping iron.  It was the “Nitric” crowd versus the quinoa crowd.    

The instructor guided the class through various stretches and poses all the while valiantly trying to talk above the grunts and groans emanating from the free-weight room next door. Men take umbrage at women for faking orgasms, but these guys sounded like they were faking non-epidural childbirth.  As someone who has been through childbirth I take umbrage at that.

Subsequently relocating to a small town in northern Virginia, I began searching for my weekly dose of namaste. A kundalini class was advertised at the local recreation center.  Still working on those elusive splits, I eagerly signed up. A bearded guy who looked like Ben or Jerry was our instructor. He looked yoga-ish, I remained optimistic. Then the breathing exercises started…and they didn’t stop; turns out that is what kundalini is all about. Who knew there were so many different ways to breath? In all fairness, kundalini also includes a few poses and some meditation, woo hoo. 

A few years and one child later I was desperate to contract my expanding girth. My physiology seemed a tad confused by the whole childbirth experience and its aftermaths. For instance, I could have sworn I nursed from the mammary glands located on my chest but I had inexplicably developed an udder. A local studio in Shanghai was offering Yoga Boot Camp: three times a week, for four weeks. Boot camp seemed like just the thing I needed to kick my increasingly bovine figure into G.I. Jane shape. The advertisement mentioned the term bikram. I just hoped it was not more breathing exercises.  

The first thing you notice about a bikram yoga class happens before the class even begins—the room is warm, Kalahari warm. In bikram yoga the room is kept at a womb-like 105°F. Keeping the room warm as the yogis, as practitioners of yoga are called, work through the poses is intended to assist in ridding the body of toxins while enhancing flexibility.  At the end of class, it looked like a room full of rubber bands lying in puddles of toxin.

Y+ Yoga specialized in all forms of yoga. The most they would deviate from the yoga path would be to host a visiting pilates instructor.  Unlike my experience in the U.S. where the muscle head gym was trying to make money off of the Gumby class, Y+ took yoga seriously. It was one of the first yoga studios in Shanghai, and arguably the best. Located in an old building in Puxi with polished wooden floors, intricately carved Chinese-style doors, and a reverential atmosphere. It was like the Potala Palace of yoga. An army of ayis, who may have just as easily been acolytes, carefully placed mats, towels, and bottled water prior to each class. I was tempted to call my instructor sensei, however, by the end of class I wanted to call her Jack Bauer.  

Bikram classes are long--1½ hours and consist of a series of 26 poses, or asanas, each performed twice. De rigueur breathing exercises do occur at the beginning and the end of class. The class is divided roughly in half; the first half of class consists of the standing postures and the second half of class consists of the floor postures. To the uninitiated looking forward to the floor postures after the torment of the standing series, let me be the first to disabuse you of the notion that they are somehow easier because you are no longer standing. The intensity has only just begun its slow ratchet up. Eagle pose and triangle pose become wistful, pleasant memories compared to the mother of all torture poses--fixed firm. I only got through this pose by praying that my feet did not break off at the ankles and go skittering across the room.  

Alas, frequent moves continuously disrupt my yoga practice.  On a recent extended stay in the U.S. I saw a sign prominently advertising a studio that specialized in bikram yoga. Wedged between a dinero rapido and an outdoor outfitters, it was located in a strip mall; but then, so is everything in America. It could not be any worse than some of the other places I had tried; or could it?  

This was like an ineffectual rebound relationship.  Rather than help me forget how wonderful Y+ was, I only yearned for it more.  Gone were the polished wooden floors. In their place was dingy, industrial carpet glued onto concrete. Attentive ayis? Hah! Students were responsible for supplying their own mat, towel, and beverage.  Worst of all, rather than the serious countenance of my micro thin Shanghai yogi, this instructor managed to condense her autobiography into exactly 1 1/2 hours.  How we made it through 26 poses, quitting her job in California, her parents’ subsequent disapproval and her lack of a serious relationship is all a blur.  

It gets worse.  Sad as it sounds, now it is just me, in my closet, with a mat and a space heater.  Once upon a time I worshipped at the Vatican of yoga, now I am like an itinerant preacher.  My asanas have suffered; and the splits?  They remain, an elusive, stretch goal.  

Me and Mr. Kim

The Kims and I go way back. Back to when it was my job to kill them. I did not succeed. Metaphorically, I was just the person who loads and aims the gun, but someone else was responsible for pulling the trigger. For more than 60 years that responsible someone, the governments of the United States and South Korea, have ostensibly gazed across the 38th parallel with a “make my day” attitude. What would it take? Hummm...kidnapping, hijacking, hatchet job, underground invasion tunnel, a missile launch over Japan, a seizure of a US naval vessel, or sinking of a ROK naval vessel? What provocative incident would be beyond the pale? What constitutes a casus belli on the Korean peninsula? In short, nothing, nada; we are never going to attack the North. Imminent attack is the lie that the North uses to control its citizen's behavior and its excuse to squander all its resources, that are not intended for the lavish Kim lifestyle, on its military. Maybe even a lie the U.S. and South Korea perpetuate to keep the North from becoming crazier than it already is.

There have been indications that mental illness runs in the Kim family. There was even an incident years ago where one of Kim Il-sung's younger brothers was reportedly found wandering the streets of Pyongyang, gun at the ready, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I'm going to kill you Kim Il-sung!" And just like Amy Winehouse, when they tried to send him to rehab he said, "...no, no, no." It mattered not, he still disappeared, but unlike Amy he never sashayed into a London hot spot ever again.

Kim Il-sung's mortality was of intense interest in the South. But you have got to hand it these old commie farts like Kim and Castro, they could teach the Okinawans a thing or two about longevity. The assumption was that hell would to to hell in a hand basket when the old guy died. In fact, war games always started with Kim Il-sung croaking, which prompted one US Air Force general to quip, "How many times is that guy gonna die?"

Once, sort of. Kim Il-sung suffered a heart attack and died the next day, July 8, 1994. The dear leader’s demise may have been hastened by his dear son's insistence that no medical care be administered until the best doctors arrived from Pyongyang, the next day. Only the best for dear ol’ dad. Still a government employee, now living in Japan, I immediately thought that the kimchi was about to hit the fan.  But then, much to everyone's surprise, nothing happened. That is because even in death Kim Il-sung is still in charge. North Korea is most likely the only sovereign nation where the president resides in a mausoleum. In the superlative shuffle, Kim Ilsuong remains the "Eternal Leader" while his son, Kim Jong-il, is the "Supreme Leader." Thing 1 was simply replaced by Thing 2.  Crazy, yes, crazy like a fox.  

　

"Who wouldn't want Kim Jong-il as their leader?" May be the gush of every patriotic North Korean, which is likely every living North Korean, happy to have the best dictator in the world as their leader. He has a great personality and makes his own military-inspired clothes. He may even do his own hair, which looks a lot like Amy Winehouses'.  A personality profile suggests he has a lot in common with the late Saddam Hussein, another member of the dictator club; sadistic, paranoid, antisocial, narcissistic, schizoid, and schizotypal.  Which is redundant as hell and just a fancy way of saying he likes himself a lot, does not much care for other people, and he has no compunction about doing vile things to them.  But the paranoia part I completely understand.  After all, I was out to get him.  

When my sojourn in South Korea came to a close I thought my relationship with the Kims was over. As enemies we move in different circles and back then I thought Macau was a dump. But six years later, there I was, stopped on the side of the road in Pudong while a motorcade whizzed by and a fizzle of discomfort washed over me.  We were not in Hogwart’s neighborhood but something evil this way passed. Rumors circulated and then were confirmed by official announcement several days later, Kim Jong-il had visited Shanghai. So close. Surely there would not be another encounter.

Six more years would pass.  If this six year thing kept up one of us must have a diabolical marking on our bodies and I am not referring to my tattooed eyebrows.  This time the setting was Guangzhou; the White Swan Hotel. An establishment swarming with pudgy Americans with their equally pudgy Chinese babies.  

A phone call late in the night. "I'm sorry madam, but you must check out in the morning."

"Huh?" The fog begins to clear and indignation sets in. "Wait a second. Why? My reservation is until Friday."

The impassive, unedifying response. "I'm sorry madam, you must check out in the morning."

Rumors circulated once again. Big wig in town. Entourage taking over the White Swan. Could it be? Yes it was. But the confirmation occurred after my evicted ass was already on a flight back to Shanghai.

Why do the Dear Leader and I keep crossing paths? Could he be nursing a grudge? Is it unfinished business? I am no longer an employee of the United States government, so it is no longer my on my daily “to do” list to eradicate Mr. Kim.  And as an amateur genealogist I have discovered we have something in common, both of us are the descendants of Presbyterian ministers. Could this be sectarian, as so many conflicts are? I am a lapsed Catholic and I gather Mr. Kim now only worships himself.  Can’t we just be frenemies? 

State Sponsored Sex

If Elvis Presley were still alive he would be 75 years old. During the 1950’s, Elvis was rising to fame in America with his talent and showmanship. His sexually suggestive style earned him legions of female fans and landed him in the headlines, displacing America’s other preoccupation, the threat of the the “red menace” in places like China. Elvis was part of an ongoing American social evolution where boundaries were being pushed farther and faster. Pushing back against this social liberalism was America’s long-standing conservative religious beliefs.

At the same time, Communist China was clamping down on the same behavior. But rather than conservative backlash, the motivation in China was the purification of society from pernicious influences like drugs and prostitution. In America, church often leads the charge against vice. In China, the Communist Party battled both vice and what they saw as ancient superstitions like Western religions and Buddhism.

China’s effort to eradicate drugs and the “opium for the masses” was partially successful. Widespread drug use, already on the decline, was all but eliminated. To fill the religious void, the central Party established state-sponsored churches. In this way, the churches owed their allegiance to Beijing, not Rome or some other foreign power.

When I arrived in Shanghai I was still a consistent church-goer. Back then the only person I had to admonish for fidgeting was myself. Now with kids, well, let’s just say I’m in the religious reserves. Truthfully, part of me liked to attend church in China because for the first time in my life church attendance felt rebellious. Knowing the government took a dim view of organized religion, in particular a Western import, made Sunday morning feel a little subversive, which is weird for a Sunday morning.

I was really a faux insurgent because our church was in fact state-sponsored. We were establishment. Once or twice the choir director and pianist, both Americans, were questioned by official-looking guys. We expressed outrage over this harassment but were secretly excited about it, like we were starring in our own John Le Carre novel.

Our church service was held in a large room on the second floor of a modest apartment block deep in the city center. Despite the fact that church services were held there every weekend, the residents always seemed a little surprised to see us. The neighborhood had the usual assortment of business establishments, save one. It was that one that piqued my interest; which, considering it’s merchandise and proximity to our church seemed not just wrong, but a venial sin. As it was, I was on thin spiritual ice to begin with.

The store in question sold sex toys. I knew this because unlike those places back home, located in dodgy neighborhoods with blacked-out windows, this one was all clear glass and mirrors. Its merchandise prominently arranged in window display cases. This was a state-sponsored sex store. It was so orderly and antiseptic that is looked more like pharmacy than a carnal superstore. And instead of some burly guy with a beard and tattoos kicked back flipping through the latest issue of Hustler, several lab-coated matrons stood at attention looking like Chinese versions of Dr. Ruth. Honestly, who wants to buy a blow-up doll or vibrator from mom; except someone with one seriously warped fetish? I would take the burly lech over Chinese mom any day.

Was the Chinese government’s message lost in translation? What were they trying to communicate; that sex was okay, even mom approves? Or was this simply a bureaucrat’s way of satisfying a central government edict of one sex toy store per million residents with no intention of actually serving any customers or selling any merchandise?

My husband resisted my entreaties to visit this store. I guess he was concerned that our driver might actually think we had sex. And to be fair, given its proximity to our church, neither of us wanted our fellow parishioners thinking we actually had sex. However, one day we arrived early to church so after getting dropped off by our driver and seeing him drive away we walked back down the street to the sex products store.

One of the paradoxes of China is oftentimes the lack of controls or regulations relative to the United States. For instance, on this block there was a church, a primary school, residential apartment buildings, other businesses, and the sex toy store. In America, sex has yet to fully emerge from the closet, so you will not find a sex toy store next to Lady Foot Locker or the Gap at the local mall. Zoning Anywhere, USA would never allow that. Ironically, today most sex commerce has moved online, which really means it has moved out the bad part of town and into everyone’s homes.

Our visit to the sex toy store was abrupt. We were unable to blend into a throng of frisky locals as there were none. We were the only customers and vastly outnumbered by the lab coats. Upon closer inspection the lab-coated ladies lacked Dr. Ruth’s mirth and friendly demeanor. Instead, these ladies had the stone-cold faces of prison guards. Not the kind of sex I had in mind. As for the merchandise, my congenital paranoia kicked in and the government’s plan became all too clear. I now feared that if I took home what I previously thought was a cute little rabbit bestowing good vibrations, I would instead by assaulted by a rousing rendition of “The East is Red” while slogans like “You depraved, imperialist running dog” admonished me for my decadent behavior. The sexual equivalent of a buzz kill. Maybe this was the government’s intention all along; over-population problem solved.

Perhaps there is no escaping the American article of faith that sex and illicit are meant to go together. Clean it up and make it official and all the fun gets sucked right out of it. Introducing state-sponsorship of an activity that goes by euphemisms like horizontal mambo, tube snake boogie, and bump and grind not only diminishes the gravitas of the state-sponsored seal of approval, but also any shred of entertainment value the activity in question may have contained.


Elvis emerged on the public stage and was loved by youth and reviled by parents for the same reason--his raw sexuality. Nothing antiseptic about him. Ironically, he was a church-going boy who revered his mama. If my visit to a Chinese state-sponsored sex store taught me anything it is that the surest way to crush public interest in anything is not to ban it, but instigate a government take over of it. Bureaucrats do memos, they don’t do sex.

Oh No He Didn't...

They said there would be sleepless nights, soiled diapers, vaccinations, frustrations, colic, and spit up. They said children look angelic while they sleep so that you forget what rascals they are during the day; crayon graffiti on the walls, toys in the toilet, and rejected food on the floor. They said it would go fast. And that was all true. They said life would never be the same. Evidently, that was where I was deaf at the time, because I missed the maniacal laughter that surely must have followed that statement.


What I also do not recall was being warned that I would be saying “sorry,” more than a philandering politician. After apologizing for myself for more than 30 years, I am now held accountable for the actions of my two socially deviant, destructo spawn. Their crimes range from thievery and assault, to vandalism; and they are not even out of preschool. This does not bode well for their teenage years.

Adding to my parenting challenge is autism. Autism complicates parenting in many ways. One counterintuitive challenge presented by autism is that an autistic child looks like any other child. It is not his looks that signal to the world that this child is different, it is his actions that set him apart. Often times those actions may appear to the casual observer to be those of an ill-disciplined barbarian. I still lack a pithy response to those observers who remark, “Why can’t you control your child?”

Complicating efforts to treat children on the spectrum is that they are autistic in their own individual way. Some of their traits may overlap with those of other autistic children, and then mysteriously, they will possess their own endearing quirks. My son has no concept of boundaries or personal property. We always have to be vigilant. Out of necessity we must be helicopter parents. Even something as straightforward as being seated in a restaurant is fraught with peril. More than once we have sat down only to notice Kendall already has food in his mouth. It is not difficult to spot where it came from; the table of angry people staring at us after Kendall has swiped fries or chips off their table as he passed. He is a simple man. If I had to guess at his thought process it would probably go something like; “I’m hungry, there was food, I took it, and ate it. What’s the problem?”

Elevators have proven to be another behavior red zone. America is more of an escalator nation but vertically-oriented Asia requires spending a lot of time riding in elevators. Fortunately, Asia has proven to be a remarkably tolerant locale given the indignities my son has inflicted on people he meets in the elevator. An attractive neighbor wearing a breezy floral skirt only uttered a high-pitched, surprised squeal when Kendall reached out and touched her skirt in a strategically frontal location. At a resort in the Philippines, a rotund man in a hotel robe simply patted Kendall’s head and remarked, “Good boy” after Kendall bounced his head on the man’s ample belly.

But even in child-friendly Hong Kong there are limits of tolerance. A child flailing and writhing on the floor of an elevator for a 20 story descent earns dear old mom looks of admonition, shaking heads, and audible tsk tsks. Subduing my child once we reach the ground floor will take the last of my energy stores. Tantrums are rough on everybody; the child who lacks the comprehension to control their behavior, the parent struggling to make them understand, and the general public who witnesses the spectacle. Thirty seconds is not long enough to explain. Therefore, I endure the disapproval. Ditto the disgusted looks when Kendall licks the buttons.

Parks would seem to be a stress-free zone. Children run free and act like children. How can you get in trouble in a park? In Hong Kong there are two distinct demographics that frequent the local parks; children and the elderly. They each have areas of the park devoted to them. There are slides and monkey bars for the children and exercise stations for the the elderly. Both groups are typically attended by domestic helpers.

Playing at park near my son’s school one afternoon, my son managed to wreak havoc throughout the park during a brief, but intense, amount of time. The first unwitting victim was an elderly man exercising his arms. He had set his cane to the side of the equipment. Kendall was casually wandering past when the sight of the can must have piqued his curiosity. I was only a few steps behind him but that was obviously a few steps too many. Kendall quickly snatched the cane off the ground where the man had left it and began to examine it. I arrived and explained that it was not ours and needed to be returned. Fortunately on this day Kendall relinquished the cane without a fight. The man, was gracious, if not bemused by the incident.

While I apologized to the man something else caught Kendall’s attention and he was off. No sooner had I finished apologizing for this discourtesy than I looked up to see Kendall grabbing the handles of a wheelchair; an occupied wheelchair. Kendall did not get far with the alarmed elderly woman seated in the wheelchair because the woman’s caretaker and I reached the chair at about the same time and I persuaded Kendall to let go. He did, but now he was showing signs of frustration that his curiosity was thwarted twice in less than five minutes. He scrambled back the children’s area only to latch on to a stroller parked there. Luckily it was empty but by now I was a wreck. I had enough of the park and the other park visitors had had enough of us.

Not far from our apartment is a decent Italian restaurant. Lately we have been walking there for Sunday evening family dinners. The restaurant has sliding glass doors in front that are usually open to a spacious sidewalk adjacent to a small car park. The children usually finish their pizza before the adults have finished their main courses and ask if they can play in front. After all, it is just a sidewalk, what could go wrong?

The first time we allowed the children to play in front while we finished our meal we discovered that our little angels had erased the chalkboard listing the restaurant specials. The following week we took pains to secure assurances from them that the chalkboard was off-limits. Once again, the area looked benign, so my son was allowed to wait outside while my husband paid the check. The restaurant employs a musician who approached us and wanted to sing a few duets with my daughter. While I was enjoying their rendition of “When You Wish Upon a Star” I turned to check on my son. Words could barely form in my mouth. All I managed to stammer to my husband was, “Mark, the car.” There was my son, perched on the roof of a sleek, black Audi A6. Mark kicked in turbo mode, flew out the door, and snatched Kendall off the roof of the car; my knight in wrinkled chinos.

There is so much they did not say. How could they? Each child does his or her best to drive their parents crazy in their own unique and special way. One remark they frequently make when hearing Kendall’s latest exploits is, “Oh no he didn’t...” followed by maniacal laughter, which I now hear.

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

Miao Mao was the name my husband chose for the first addition to our family, a domestic short hair cat. It means “wonderful cat” in Mandarin if pronounced correctly, which I probably do not. Despite my mangling of the Chinese language, Miao Mao did his part to live up to the intent of his name. He was a black and tan tiger; a jungle cat with a fine fur coat well adapted to warmer, tropical climates. This would explain his peevishness during Shanghai’s short, but sharp winters. The coloring of his coat allowed him to blend easily into vegetation; an attribute that would serve him well in his hunting career.



It was never my intention that he would have any career at all other than lap warmer or purr emitter. I envisioned a mellow, content house cat. Besides, even in our cloistered neighborhood taxi drivers careened through the streets with impunity. I did not want my cat ending up suburban road kill. But Miao Mao could not fight his nature. In his first escape attempt he dove off our third floor balcony. My husband found him stunned but otherwise fine in the neighbor’s back yard. We thought the experience had chastened him. We thought wrong. The second time he leapt, again from the third floor, we could not locate him for a week. Just when we had started to lose hope, a neighbor called and told me she had found him. He was meowing loudly in the bushes of our neighborhood park; scared, weak, and hungry.

That was when we installed the cat door in the kitchen. We assumed, again incorrectly, that our modest but capacious garden would hold his interest. It did, for about twenty minutes. Then, Miao Mao effortlessly scaled the six-foot wall surrounding our back yard and began staking out his territory. We got him as a kitten and we did not teach him any of this. No, this ability was hard-wired; and territory establishment was not the only basic instinct emerging.

Episodes of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom come to mind when I recall Miao Mao’s early experiences in the wilds of Shanghai. I recall Marlin Perkins narrating as Jim introduced an animal, bred in captivity, to the wild: Jim teaching the Cheetah to hunt; Jim demonstrating how to tear flesh off a fresh kill with bare hands and teeth; Jim fashioning a hide into a loin cloth. Miao Mao did not need Jim.



Not long after gaining his freedom Miao Mao began parading his kills before us. Other people’s cats bring gifts, but Miao Mao was not the sharing type. He was sending messages like, “I can fend for myself, thank you very much;” or possibly “Thanks, but I’ll pass on the Whiskas tonight;” but most probably, “If our sizes were reversed you would be a tasty little morsel.”

Evidence for Miao Mao’s formidable hunting skills was showcased in the diversity of his kills: birds, moths, dragonflies, bats, moles, mice, and fish. All of this in a suburban tract-housing neighborhood. Watching my cat consume a bird, feathers, bones and all, made me question whether the comparatively delicate human digestive tract was an evolutionary malingerer.

Miao Mao was definitely a bad ass, and we were not the only ones he sought to convince. There is no furry, four-legged brotherhood. Missing tufts of fur, lacerations, and punctures were the badges of honor Miao Mao displayed from his numerous altercations with other neighborhood felines, and the occasional canine. He seemed to espouse the “walk it off” philosophy and usually shrugged off these minor injuries. If he was seriously injured we would find him, subdued and curled up on his favorite chair. We learned to check him immediately, as on many of those occasions we would discover severe injuries requiring prompt medical attention. The staff at Shanghai PAWS veterinary clinic knew him well, as their best and oldest patient.

The vet was usually thrilled to see Miao Mao as he was the fittest cat at the practice. He was no paunchy house cat. He was in top form to confront whatever adventure, either hunting or fighting, came his way. It was just this joie de vivre that would eventually catch up to Miao Mao. Because the same vet who praised his muscular physique also warned me that Miao Mao was engaging in a risky lifestyle, and not just from wound infections. Close physical contact with other felines resulting in the exchange of body fluids, which in Miao Mao’s case meant blood, put him at risk for contracting feline AIDS. A long, boring life or a potentially shorter, but exciting life. I did not have to ponder long what Miao Mao’s choice would be.

I last saw Miao Mao in the Fall of 2006. My son’s educational needs required our relocation to Hong Kong. My husband remained in Shanghai for work. Because our immediate future was uncertain, it was decided that Mark and the cats, Miao Mao and his brother Hei Mao, would shack up in a bachelor pad until things became more certain. This process would take an unexpected three years.



The bachelor pad was approximately a mile from our former house. My husband had taken a first floor apartment so as not to impinge on the cat’s lifestyle. What we did not count on was how put out the cats would be with the move. Turns out the concept of territory is vitally important and taken very seriously by our feline friends. Miao Mao never accepted the new residence because it was not in his territory. In the beginning he would stick around for a few days before heading back to the old neighborhood. Evidently that was hard won territory he was reluctant to cede. Eventually he would mosey back to the crash pad for food and rest. But he never stayed long. Soon he would brave the major roads, six lanes wide of unforgiving Shanghai traffic, and other obstacles that lay between the new apartment and the old house.

Then, he stopped returning voluntarily. That is when I began to get suspicious. Even though I was thousands of miles away I knew, there was someone else. The shocking truth would finally emerge, there was not just someone, but some families; plural.

All of this came out when my husband’s relocation to Hong Kong was confirmed. Immediately we began researching pet relocation procedures. Despite being current on vaccinations our cats, as mainlanders, were required to complete a minimum of four months in quarantine upon arrival in Hong Kong. Miao Mao would be furious. But what was worse, he would be moved from his beloved territory to a high-rise apartment. He would lose his freedom to roam and hunt. We considered our options.

We decided to approach the other families and determine their level of commitment. If either could offer him an environment more to his liking, we would propose they adopt him. Mark set out, accompanied by our housekeeper, for the old neighborhood. Armed with photos of Miao Mao, he and Xiao Ying began knocking on doors seeking information as to the whereabout of Miao Mao. That is when he discovered that Miao Mao, or should I say, Sugar, or perhaps Muffin, had taken up with two other families. Seems as though after his wild, impetuous youth, Miao Mao was developing new, amorous interests. Completely platonic, of course, as he was sans testicles.

Mark met with representatives of the other families. Both were surprised to learn of Miao Mao’s other liaisons. He explained that he was departing for Hong Kong and had intended to take Miao Mao with him. However, as we were living in a high-rise apartment we doubted Miao Mao would ever be happy there. It was then that one of the other moms mentioned that Miao Mao had been diagnosed by her vet with feline AIDS. That meant we could not bring him to Hong Kong--he would never make it out of quarantine. The other, other mom quickly declined to take him. That left the kind woman, who bestowed the improbable name of Muffin on our hunter and scrapper, as the adoptive parent of our first addition to the family. She was thrilled.

My husband left our contact information should they change their minds or become incapable of caring for him. He said his last good-bye and gave Miao Mao one last scratch on the head. We recently received an email from Miao Mao’s new mom. She included pictures showing him playing in the large cat habitat she constructed for him. He looked happy, and still healthy. Muffin is indeed, a wonderful cat.

Numbers Racket

I grew up in bland suburbia. However, embedded in the midst of that sprawl existed a neglected downtown with a smattering of high rises. These were not gleaming, modern structures but rather, elegant relics of a once prosperous and quaint city center; constructed in the first quarter of the 20th century by entrepreneurs and architects optimistically facing the future. Office parks, malls, and housing subdivisions had rendered a once lovely downtown, redundant. For a suburbanite teenager this downtown was the equivalent of Atlantis. My friends and I would embark on excursions downtown like archeologists searching for artifacts from a lost civilization. On one such mission we slipped undetected into the old Plaza Hotel and hopped a ride on the elevator. It was the first time I confronted the missing thirteenth floor. I smiled smugly at the superstitious ways of the “olden days.” Convinced, as I was, that no modern people would purposely mis-number the floors in a building to accommodate old-fashioned beliefs.

Then I moved to Asia where number thirteen was not numerus non grata. In the East it was even, humble number four and any number containing the number four, especially the forties. By contrast, forty is a serious, symbolic number in Western Judeo-Christian society. While Noah was aboard the Ark with his family and the menagerie it rained for forty days and nights. The Jews wandered in the wilderness for forty years and Jesus fasted and fended off Satan’s temptations in the wilderness for forty days and nights.

Once in Asia I discovered a whole new significance of the number four, and it was not a positive one. In Japan I was perplexed that glasses and dishes came in sets of five, rather than four. While residing in my sheltered, expatriate suburb of Shanghai I lived in villa number 32. I was flanked by villas 31, 33 and 35. A stroll around the neighborhood revealed that there were no forties or fours of any kind to be found in any address anywhere in the community. Even the name of the neighborhood changed; initially it had been Fours Season’s Villas. The name was changed without explanation to the more economic, and auspicious, Season’s Villas.

The reason for this aversion to the number four is that in both Cantonese and Mandarin the words for death and the number four, “si,” sound similar; guilt by pronunciation. Alternatively, the words for prosperity and bat, “fu,” also sound similar. Thus, for Chinese, the bat is considered a lucky symbol, rather than a blood-sucking, Transylvanian one. In perhaps an oversight, the name of the road outside our neighborhood gate did not change, it remained Hua Si Road; which probably meant Four Flower Road but I preferred to tell people I lived on Dead Flower Road.

In Hong Kong, I lived on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise apartment tower. I was uncertain as to the precise number of floors as so many were missing. The floor below mine was not the fourteenth floor and I noticed that the 4th floor was missing too. Because even in a city as modern as Hong Kong, in a neighborhood futuristically named the Cyberport, old superstitions die hard. Once again the numbers superstition had struck and all fours were banished. Ironically, the floor beneath me was the thirteenth. Hong Kong was, until 1997, a British colony. Thus, in a superstitious nod to East-meets-West some buildings eliminate both fours and thirteen.

However, it is not all bats and death. Most of the world has adopted the metric system. The United States flirted briefly with the metric system in the mid 70’s but abruptly called things off. I remember being relieved at the time. What I failed to appreciate was that under the metric system I am twice as tall and weigh half as much.

If I thought the imperial system of weights and measures was archaic, I was stunned to discover a bathroom scale in my hotel in Canberra, the capital of Australia, using the stones system. I thought stones went out with the Renaissance and the Reformation. Curious, I stepped on the scale. Not quite eight stone, I think that is good. But how do they measure height down under? In hands?

Bold Bugs

Okay, so this may sound very similar to a previous post. And it is, except that I added a very new items at the end. It is rather gross to it seems inappropriate to say "enjoy". So here it is:

It is hard not to take some things personally. Some drivers, for instance, interpret every forgotten turn signal, tailgater or slowpoke in the fast lane as a personal affront directed specifically at them. They take umbrage at these petty annoyances despite the fact that they are hurtling down a crowded interstate anonymously encased within a ton of steel. In fact, it is not personal, there are simply a lot of lousy, distracted drivers on the road. Whereas, the legitimacy of my complaint is that the affront did occur in my personal space.

Like many moldering, tropical locales, Hong Kong has a rich and plentiful population of creepy, eeewww-inspiring creatures; flying roaches, furry caterpillars, gargantuan spiders.  Such an emissary from the bug world confronted me one evening after I put my little gremlins to bed.  

Most evenings, for two glorious hours, I relax with a glass of red wine and mindless television.  That night is was to be Grey's Anatomy paired with an Australian Shiraz-Cabernet.  I had set the glass down on the coffee table and crossed the room to the DVD player to insert the intended disc.  

While humans are not known for the best eyesight in the animal kingdom, our eyes are good at detecting movement.  And at the moment my eyes were riveted by the movement on my wine glass.  Since there are no witnesses, I can only surmise that the look on my face combined revulsion with indignation as I watched a roach mosey up the stem of my wine glass.  
In a disturbing reversal of roles, I scurried toward the kitchen at steroid-worthy speed. Concerned the perp would escape in my absence I moved quickly; donning Playtex gloves and grabbing an industrial-sized wad of paper towels; the housewife’s equivalent of a hazmat suit. Shifting gears, I seamlessly switched to stealth mode as I crept back into the living room; six seasons of 24 were not lost on me. Evidently, I did not inspire any fear in the multi-legged interloper because rather than making a run for it, he had casually sauntered farther up the wine stem--savoring the bouquet perhaps.  

Grabbing a roach off a wine-stem without breaking the glass or spilling the wine, given my heightened state of agitation, was going to be a difficult maneuver.  I determined it needed to be a two-handed operation with simultaneous execution.   Despite my hasty planning and the intense pressure, the execution was flawless.  One roach squished beyond recognition.  

However, the incident cast an edge over the evening; relaxation was replaced with vigilance. Maybe oenophile roaches are a rare breed; I tried to tell myself.  But would my English muffin be safe in the morning?  

While bugs coming in contact or being involved in any way with food or beverage consumption is distasteful, the mouth is not the only delicate region of human anatomy. I cannot be the only person who has tried to open something with my teeth; can I? But few people try to open a bottle DOWN THERE.

Like many people, my first path in the morning is trod to the bathroom. And like many others, my eyes are not completely focused at that time. On this morning I turned to flush the toilet in time to see an unwelcome visitor perched on the inside of the bowl; a large, voracious mosquito. I live on the fifteenth floor of a high rise apartment block, how did that thing get in my toilet? Unable to stop the momentum of my finger plunging the flush lever, I simultaneously leapt up and back as the startled blood-sucker flew up into my face. I had the presence of mind to swing shut the bathroom door so it was just he and I; mano y mano.

If the shock of discovering a mosquito in such close proximity to my good girl was not enough, now I had the five minute romp around the bathroom trying to kill the little bastard. It is like they fly with a faulty Romulan cloaking device; there he is...no, now he disappeared...wait, here he is again on the other side of the room...how did he get over there...good lord, are there more than one...die, Die, DIEEEEE. Definitely awake now.

Most bugs that make an appearance at my home do so in my bathroom. Usually I find them on the floor and even though it is gross and unsettling, they are easy to dispense with a quick squish from my flip-flop; ditto walls, however, ceilings are when things get dicey. But on my bath towel? Is nothing sacred? This time the assault was a botched operation and the squirmy, sinewy creature plummeted to the bathtub. Retrieving the handheld shower head I blasted him back to whatever hell he ascended from. Perhaps he would live to tell the tale of the battle he had fought and lost, to dissuade others from venturing up the pipes. Better yet, his corpse would tell the tale for him.

It is hard not to take these bold bug attacks personally, when the bugs themselves have attempted the most intimate of invasion routes. That, and the fact that I am the only member of my household being targeted.