A Christmas, Come and Gone

Christmas 2012 has officially come and gone.

This isn't from Christmas, but it looks like an ornament... 

Unless you were ensconced with an enclave of foreigners it felt like any other Tuesday.
Super Husband had class in the morning, although I didn't have to work.
I spent my morning at Hepingxiqiao Market, where I procured some gifts for Super Husband. I got him, and his roommate, hot water pouches.
I'm pretty sure I've elaborated on them before, but they're just about the coolest thing out there. Super Husband's roommate was especially excited about his after I told him that if you put it under the covers in your bed while you go take a shower your bed is all toasty and delicious when you get into it. Plus, he hates the cold, so anything that can be used to banish it's icy tentacles... well, he's in favor.
After procuring these last minute gifts I met Super Husband for lunch at Pyro Pizza, where we had all you can eat pizza, which happily includes all you can eat salad as well. (And if you're into that kind of thing, for 5rmb more, all you can drink beer.)
After the gift exchange our Christmas devolved into Just Another Tuesday. We took the bus back to Super Husband's dorm, where we took a nap.
Wooooooo, Christmas.
Oddly enough, though, I don't really miss it. And he says he doesn't either.
Maybe it's the almost complete lack of fanfare, or the fact that we're used to 70degree Christmases.
Or maybe it's the fact that my parents are coming to visit next week... That's probably it.

Also, I heard the other day that this is Beijing's coldest winter in 20 years.
And I thought I was being a baby about the cold, but no! EVERYONE is whining about the cold. Not just me. (After I wrote that I googled it, and I can't find anything definitive about it, and it looooks like maybe 2010 was colder... But still, it's cold here.)
And also, also I may have to buy some uggs. I hate them, with every ounce of fashion sense and style I possess, but my toe-preservation-instincts are wining this particular battle.
I don't like cold toes.
And two pairs of socks just aren't cutting it.
Today, after walking the 20 minutes home, my toes HURT from the cold. They hurt.
That's wrong. Bad and wrong. Toes should not feel pain from anything other than a stub, or possibly the pinch of wearing cute shoes dancing.
So, Uggs, you may have won this particular battle. But I don't have to like it... I just have to have all ten of my toes when I return to Texas.

Follies of Baking in China

As Christmas approaches the disparity between the frenzied shopping, the egg nog bought at Kroger and spiked with Kraken rum, and other holiday traditions becomes more and more clear.
One thing that I have held on to, with the help of my coworker, Zach, was Baking Cookies.
Zach is cat sitting for a friend who has, miracle of all miracles and wonder of all wonders, a REAL OVEN.
So, of course, we had a cats and cookies party. Which consisted of Zach, his friend Caroline from some sport (dodge ball? softball? I dunno, he plays a lot of sports), and me.
I looked up some cookie recipes on Pinterest that morning, and found one that is called "HolyCrapTheseAreAmazing Cookies". It looked easy enough, and yummy, so I thought we'd give it a try, along with some cream cheese brownie bites, chocolate chip cookies, and peanut butter chip cookies.
We got all the ingredients together, and Zach measured out the sugar for me so that I could begin making the corn syrup substitute (because corn syrup is ungodly expensive here... so is most western stuff, but corn syrup was stupidly so, seeing as you can boil up a substitute in five minutes).
Corn syrup substitute is just simple syrup, or water and sugar boiled together for a little while.
Except this simple syrup wasn't acting the way any simple syrup has ever acted in my entire history of cooking/baking.
As soon as I reduced the heat to take it from a full boil to a slow simmer the top of the mixture crystalized.
At this point I'm really regretting not having taken photos, but really, I had no idea.
So, it crystalized. I thought "Whaaaaaat?", turned the heat back up, stirred furiously, turned the heat back down and watched it happen again... only worse.
I was dealing with a weird, white mass, and a little liquid.
Here's where I made a big mistake:
I poured the liquid into the peanut butter (because you're supposed to combine your peanut butter and your sweet liquid) and I stirred, and I stirred, and I stirred.
And then I did a smart thing... Only, it was too late:
I tasted the weird white mass, expecting nothing more than a mild sugar rush from a piece of basically pure sugar.
What I received instead was a literal salt lick.
It was salt.
And I had already mixed some of it into my peanut butter.
Perfect.
Zach and I decided "No big deal. Peanut butter is really sweet anyway..." So, I got real sugar out, the sugar that said sugar in English on the package, instead of the sugar that we just thought was sugar, and I tasted it.
Then I poured it into a pan and started making a new batch of simple syrup, which acted exactly the way simple syrup is supposed to.
So, I mixed that in with my peanut butter, threw in the corn flakes, and attempted to coat them.
I followed the recipe EXACTLY... Well, except for that salt bit... but there were WAY too many cornflakes. And then, I tasted a bit of the cornflakes that were covered. And it was a peanuty salt lick.
So, I threw them all away, made a cup of tea, and cuddled with cats until I deemed myself recovered enough to make my brownie bites.
The lesson here is, obviously, taste things before you add large quantities of them to foods you are preparing.
But, my brownie bites came out really, really well. I enjoyed them immensely.
And, I've found out that WuMart sells dried lemon slices, so now my morning mug of steaming water has a lemony zing to it. Hurrah!
It was good to be able to bake again, even if one creation did turn out... wrong.
I do think, however, that I will attempt them again. You don't need an oven for them, so I could whip some up in the comfort of my own home, no problem.

Now, it's Christmas Eve.
Super Husband is diligently slaving away at his studies, and I spent most of my lunch break at the market hunting for presents for my students, and the teachers. My kids are each getting a puzzle, and the teachers are getting these cheesy snake animal things, because they were cute, cheap, and next year is the year of the Snake.

Adieu

Dictionaries and Doodads

It's been almost a week since I wrote anything.
Shame on me.
But life has settled into a cozy winter normalcy that doesn't really inspire my creative genius.
Or, more truthfully... It's bloody cold outside, and I have opted to stay inside my heated flat as much as possible in order to avoid frostbite.
Well, I guess it isn't thaaaaat cold, really. But we all must remember that I have spent the entirety of my life in cities whose temperatures are generally closer to 100 than 32. Or, for those of you inclined to Celsius: closer to 38 than 0.
There is still snow on the ground, and icy patches on the roads.

On Friday, because we had the day off, my coworkers, Super Husband and I all ventured to one of the Western bookstores in the city. The english selection was a little disappointing, being heavily populated by high school reading list material, teen lit, and Aesop's fables.
What I found interesting was the organizational system of these books. The dewey decimal system was far from their minds. As was alphabetical order by author. No, they chose to order these books by publisher.
Alphabetical order, by book title, group together by publisher. It was very, very strange.
Despite this strange organizational technique, Super Husband managed to find not one, but two worthwhile dictionaries to purchase.
The first is a Spanish to Mandarin dictionary, with both the characters and the pinyin.
The second is a Spanish and English and Mandarin dictionary. That one is, however, sadly devoid of pinyin. But never fear. We've devised a system. Whenever Super Husband doesn't immediately know the characters for something in the trilingual dictionary, well, that's where the other one comes in.
I, on the other hand, will never grasp the characters. Pinyin, maybe. Spoken word. Possibly. But I have little to no faith in my ability to read (and even less in my ability to recreate) Chinese characters. There's just something there that I can't seem to recognize.
All stereotypes and politically incorrect jokes aside, I can't make heads or tails of it. Sometimes it annoys me, but mostly I have accepted it as one of the very few failings of my brain, to be cataloged away with all mathematics after ninth grade, and the hand eye coordination needed to be truly good at video games.
As a side note to any visitors who are joining us here in China -- I can't even read the menus at restaurants. I either eat the same five dishes that I can say the names of from two different restaurants, or I go to a restaurant that has a picture menu. Thankfully, many of the "nicer" restaurants have picture menus.
No wonder I'm getting tired of Chinese food.

On Saturday Super Husband and I debated over the necessity of going to a market.
I am in need of new boots, and he has heard a rumor that there is a market here that is sure to have some... action figures (?) that he wants desperately.
We ended up walking through the park and looking at the ice, and puppy prints, instead. It was a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon... But I still need boots. And those action figures won't buy themselves.

And now it's Tuesday evening, and Super Husband is toiling away at school, diligently cramming large bits of a language I find incomprehensible into his brain. He doesn't get a day off for Christmas, and neither do I. It will be my first December 25th spent working, in any capacity. It's going to be pretty weird. It'll definitely be his first Christmas spent in a classroom.
Which reminds me: We need to buy a stupid amount of small Christmas presents to give to people.
Well, it looks like we'll be spending this weekend at the markets.
Hopefully we can pick up some boots and zodiac saints while we're buying nicknacks and doodads.

All You Can Eat Sushi, and Snow. (But not at the same time)

On Saturday Super Husband's class gathered at a Japanese restaurant near their school.
We thought we were going to be late because it took us almost 30 minutes to flag down a taxi, but we got out right as everyone was shuffling past us, huddled into their jackets after walking in the cold. It was a stroke of luck, too, because we would have walked in the wrong direction if we hadn't seen them.
So we all trundled into the restaurant and were ushered into one of those cool booth/rooms with the sliding papered panels, and the table set low in the center. We had to take off our shoes before going in, but that was the only down side.
Well, that and the fact that the layout means that the servers hand all of the drinks and plates to whoever was unlucky enough to find themselves seated by the door.
For 58rmb($9.50)/person (and there were 15 of us) we were presented with unlimited bottles of beer, coke, sprite, juice, water, or tea, sushi, sashimi, fried pork (possibly milanese style), fried boneless chicken, some sort of fish with the head, tail, and scales still attached of which I did not partake, fried potatoes, edamame, and some other things that I don't know the names of.
Now, here I must say that I tolerate sushi. I don't love it, or crave it. I eat it when it is presented, or when Super Husband craves it.
But I have to admit, I was rather pleasantly surprised by this place.
The salmon sashimi melted in my mouth.
The sushi rolls didn't have the weird seaweed-y aftertaste taste that I don't enjoy.
All in all, it was a rather pleasant evening.
From there, a few of us went to Wudaoko. I think the original plan had been to keep the party going, but we ended up by mutual agreement in The Bridge, a nice coffee shop that's open 24hours.
I had a cafe americano, because it got free refills, and a brownie.
Super Husband got a blueberry cheesecake and a hot chocolate.
My coffee was coffee, but Super Husband waxed poetic about his hot chocolate. It was, apparently, the perfect combination of chocolate, sweetness, and milk.
He wouldn't even let me have a sip.
My brownie was quite good, as well. I generally enjoy a fudgier brownie, but this was served a la mode, and I allowed it to soak up all the vanilla goodness.
Except for the spoonful of ice cream that I slipped into my coffee.
Super Husband's blueberry cheesecake seemed to be a disappointment to him, but that may be because only three blueberries graced the top of the cake, and not even a drop of blueberry syrup was drizzled decoratively around the plate.
Poor presentation, mixed with lackluster flavor.

But that was Saturday, and now it's Wednesday.
Not much has happened between those days. I went to work, he went to school.
Except that today... well..
It's snowing.

I didn't realize this morning that that was the cause of the distinct lack of light, but as I pushed the door to my building open with the front wheel of my bicycle it hit me.

Quite literally.

I was blasted in the face by tiny snowflakes. 

I'd never ridden my bike through the snow before, and it was really quite fun. You don't achieve the same sort of light speed feeling that you get when driving through the snow. Possibly because I wasn't using headlights. 

Anyway, I'm about to cut this short and go make snow angels outside.

I have decided that if the drivers and the guard think I'm crazy, well, that's a small price to pay for a tiny snowman and some snow angels. 

Leaky Radiators, Not Just for Cars Anymore.

This has been one of those weeks. 

Wednesday night, at 11pm almost exactly, the power in my apartment went out. 

I was mildly annoyed, but not enough to get out of my warm bed and figure anything out. 

I called my agent in the morning and told her that the power was out. She said she'd send "the fix man" to flip the breaker, and further investigate. 

At 7:40am, as I was winding my scarf around my neck to leave, I heard a weird whooshing, watery sound. At first, I decided that it was something going on on the roof. But being the prudent renter that I am, I walked back into my apartment and checked. The noise was definitely coming from the mantel-like enclosure that houses the heater in my living room. Now, remember here that my power is still out, so I couldn't actually SEE anything. I used my phone to shine a light in through the mesh, and caught the distinct reflection of water. 

Yep, water was spraying out of the radiator, and filling the little enclosure. 

This is the heater enclosure, after the screen and heater were removed.
The pink soap you see there was used, somehow, to patch the hole in the
heater. I'm not sure how that works, exactly. But it did. 

I called my agent again and informed her of the situation. 

She said "I'll call the fix man. You go to work first." 

This seemed like a bad idea, to me. But I laid out a couple towels next to the enclosure, and hoped that I wouldn't return to a completely flooded apartment. 

Luckily, Super Husband was the one to actually step in and take care of everything. 

But not until after the water had leaked into the apartment below, thereby enraging the downstairs neighbors. 

Apparently Super Husband endured an irate termagant screaming in his face. 

I'm sorry for him, but glad that it wasn't me. At least he could understand some of what she was actually saying, and respond. 

I'm sure I would have just stoked her ire by repeating "Wo ting bu dong" (I don't understand). 

The heat to the entire building had to be shut off.

The landlord apologized to the neighbors. 

When I returned home a little after 5:30 Super Husband, the landlord, and the "fix man" were sitting around the living room, chatting and waiting for some other men to come and remove the offending heater, and the heater in the bathroom, which was deemed unsatisfactory. 

 

While the two men who were tasked with removing the heater were here the front door was left open. 

Apparently this is seen as an invitation for anyone venturing past, or near, to come inside and offer their opinion on how best to remove the heater. 

A rather heated discussion between the fix man, the heater men, and two men who I believe are my neighbors ensued. I have no idea who won the argument, but the upshot was that the heaters were removed. 

Only after both neighbors had the gall to actually smoke inside of my apartment. 

They managed to make my bathroom look like the most disgusting of public toilets, as well. I should probably take a picture, just so that everyone can see the damage. 

But I'll wait until the people that are replacing my leaking water heater leave. 

They're sure to make it even more... picturesque.

Isn't this lovely?
I assure you, my bathroom is not normally host to broken buckets,
weird iron stools, or any amount of dirty brown muck. 

 The upshot of this whole episode is that the leaking water heater has been replaced, and I should be able to count on the fact that the radiators will be in good working order until they're no longer needed... Right?

Let's Get a Physical, Physical

Today, Tuesday, I was forced to endure a physical exam.
I asked if I could just have my last exam sent from the states, but apparently that's not okay.
So, I hopped on the subway and made my way to the hospital, accompanied by one of my coworkers, Zach, who also needed to get his physical as per government requirements.
We got to the hospital at around 9:15 and proceeded to queue for the registration line. The woman behind me was definitely unhappy with my ability to keep her from cutting in line, but as you'll see this is a theme of the day.
From registration we proceeded to the second floor for the Physical Exam registration, which took only a minute.
From there we proceeded to the third floor to pay.
This is where all the fun began.
The woman behind me grew more and more agitated that I wouldn't let her in cut me. Here I would like to point out that the person in front of me was a 6'7" American man, with whom I was obviously conversing. Does it seem like we want you to slip between us? Does that make sense to anyone? It took over 30 minutes to proceed through the payment line.
Everything was moving along slowly, but without hiccups until we were informed that Zach has too much money in his account to pay the 120rmb fee.
Yes, you read that correctly.
We're not talking about insufficient funds. The opposite in fact. Apparently it is unheard of, and unacceptable, to have whatever amount he has (the sum 12,000rmb was bandied about at one point) in ones account.
So he was told to proceed to the ATM and re-queue to pay. I saved him by pulling out two crisply minted 100rmb bills from my wallet. But only after ascertaining that they cannot (or will not...) accept my Healthcare Savings Visa, simply because it is foreign. Apparently Visa isn't everywhere you want to be. Or was that Mastercard's slogan?
During our time finagling with the payments the woman behind me became more and more agitated, and actually tried to shove her papers through the window before I could. Now, my previous experience in Asia served me well, because lemme tell you I wasn't having it. Not at all. I saw that move coming and swung my large purse into the hand holding her papers at the same moment that I pushed my papers, and payment, through the window. It was a pretty skillful move, if I do say so myself.
All the while, our agent was holding places for us in the blood draw line.
Here, I must warn away the faint of heart. I am about to discuss, in detail, the ordeal that was having blood drawn. If this will in any way make you squirm, or turn away in disgust I suggest that you skip directly to the following paragraph. In fact, I'll color the offending section in purple, just so you know when it is safe to read again.
The blood draw, at least at this particular hospital, is not a room. It is on the first floor, near the entrance, and it is three windows. You line up for the window of your choice. When it is your turn you hand them your paperwork and stick your arm through the window, on a little pillow. They tourniquet your arm, tap for the vein, sterilize with that orange stuff we call Monkey Blood, stick a butterfly needle in that sucker and fill up the requisite number of vials. Or at least that's what happens when all goes well, as it did for Zach. He says that he's difficult to stick, but they did it on the first try. 
This lifted my spirits. I thought, if it usually takes two or three tries for him, maybe they'll be able to cut down on my normal four or five tries. 
False hope my friends, false hope. 
I handed over my paperwork and stuck my left arm through. Tourniquet applied, vein tapped for... tapped again... rubbed... tapped for, and finally the butterfly needle inserted. To no avail. Then she did the worst thing they can ever, ever do. She moved the needle around. IN MY ARM. I hate that. I hate it so, so much. In fact, I hate it so much that it is the ENTIRE reason that my children will be born outside of a traditional hospital. (Shh, don't tell this to Bopa. I'm aware of his views as an OBGYN, and I will confront them when it is necessary.) So, she moved the needle. And pulled it out. And reinserted it. And wiggled it some more. All the while I was breathing into my sleeve like it was a paper bag. No go on the left arm. So I rather begrudgingly thrust my right arm in and we repeated the entire process. Except this time some blood came out. It trickled so slowly that it resembled nothing more than a slow IV drip. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she pulled the needle out of my arm, and I was free to proceed to the X-Ray.

All unpleasantness is over... mostly.
The X-ray area, on the second floor, is a series of rooms with computer screens in the antechambers, and  large x-ray taking apparatus in the inner sanctum. Once inside, one is bid to remove all jewelry and and brassieres that may have metal underwires. As all the best ones do, you know. Then, you press up against this thing, and they say "Okay". And that's pretty much it. Except that while you're behind the curtain, putting whatever you took off, back on, they let the next person into the room. Which is weird. I'm all for efficiency, but I'd like to get my earrings back on before the next person comes in, please. And yes, earrings were the least of my worries.

From x-rays we traversed the halls to the "gynecological exam". Which wasn't a gynecological exam so much as a man (I assume he was a doctor, but honestly I have no idea) pressing on my stomach and saying "Hurts?".
Zach, however, was not so lucky. His exam apparently involved a swab like object being inserted into his urethra. He is scarred for life. Or so he says.
It does seem rather unpleasant, and I'm not really sure what they're testing for that wouldn't show up on blood work.

After the pressing, and the scarring, the last thing to do was get our blood pressure taken. Mine was lovely, as it always is. A glorious 115/60. Again, Zach was not so lucky. He had to take his twice because it was too high the first time. Even the second time was pretty up there, but the read out on the machine pleased the nurse, and so she checked the box, and we were free to go.

And go we did. Straight to a delicious Middle Eastern restaurant where I had a shwarma wrap, hummus, and lemon tea. Mmmm hummus.
From there we went to Jenny Lou's.
Jenny Lou's is the foreign grocery store, and it's a dream.
Cereal, cheese, meats, cake mixes, pasta, refried beans, tortillas, chips, dips, ice cream... you name it, they've got it.
Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration.
But they have Dr. Pepper. Mind you, it's over $1 per can. But it's there.
I didn't buy anything. I kept my hands firmly in my pockets the entire time.
I'm going to wait until payday, and then splurge for some of the things we've been missing most.
Like really great cereals for Super Husband.