Uh...Oh...

This is Barrett posting for the recently immigrated Emily Corak. She is currently staying in her Chinese apartment that resembles an assylum without hope of internet access for at least 2 weeks. Due to the recent blocking of internet sites by the "Very Open" Chinese Government Emily can no longer access her blog as well as Facebook and the such. Fear not she will still be writing and keeping you aprised of all her goings on in China, although it looks like I will be having to do the posting.

We're going to party like it's 1999

It’s my party and I’ll cry/fall/vomit/punch/dry hump/laugh/yell/and cry some more if I want to. Ahh, memories. My going away party, hosted by my glorious yet anal retentive friend Brittany, was originally supposed to be held in her small yet chic apartment downtown but ended up being transferred to Barrett’s house due to space issues. I didn’t think many people would come, but it turns out I have more friends than I thought. Or people wanted free food and booze. My bet’s on the latter. Additionally, ribs were the featured entrée, and Brittany didn’t trust me to not get drunk and finger paint her newly painted apartment walls with barbeque sauce. I may scoff at this, but truth be told, I’m a klutz normally; add Jagermeister to the mix and I have to be watched like a toddler who is just learning to walk for the first time. On a personal note to you, Brit, my spilled drink count was only 3, so you can suck on that. And the only finger painting I did was on your pants, and that was just out of spite. But still, I love you. Thank you for my party; I will be an empty shell without you this year, you skanky beast.
The party was almost 100% entirely awesome. It seems fitting right now that I’m listening to Good Times Bad Times by Zeppelin, because that’s exactly what the party turned out to be. Except I would say 95% Good and only 5% Bad. The good being that almost all of my amazing friends were in one place at one time, Jager ,rum, and good food were in full supply, and I was the center of attention. (I don’t like it all the time, but once in a while it’s quite lovely). The bad being that I wept like a fucking infant with a wet diaper for the last 45 minutes of the party. This is the second baby analogy I’ve used since I started this blog…I’m betting Freud would have something to say about this. Back to the crying thing, I am definitely an emotional individual; I still cry at E.T. no matter how creepy that damn alien is. But I promise you that I am not normally that drunk crying girl who is dragging the whole party down with her hysterical sobbing about absolute nothingness. I am usually the one trying to stick my tongue in friends’ ears and telling people I love them for the 48th time that night. Yep, I’m that girl. But alas, when the evening was beginning to wind down and I realized I wouldn’t be seeing many of these people for the next year, the waterworks commenced. And kept coming. And then came some more. And a little bit more. We’re not talking a few glistening tears bravely wavering on my cheeks. Nope, we’re talking hysterical, can’t catch my breath, shoulders heaving, people staring awkwardly, sobbing. A quick note on saying goodbyes: I can’t stand them. I would prefer to have passed out and just woken up with everyone gone, because goodbyes seem so final and it’s too fucking hard. I cannot stress this enough, I HATE GOODBYES. So the goodbyes combined with a multitude of shots (it’s like the tolerance I built in college was a complete waste of time) left me gushing like Niagara Falls. Even after all but one or two guests had gone, I wept for a good 20 minutes into my friend Jacqui’s bosom about topics ranging from my leftover Aussie Shampoo to Ashton Kutcher’s fictional fatherhood on “That 70’s Show.” I’ll tell you what, if I’m going to do something, I’m going all the way. Why half-ass a crying fit when you can really go for gold?
Despite my awkward display of emotion, I am truly grateful to my friends for throwing, hosting, and/or attending my fiesta. I will miss the crap out of all of you, and just remember that if I call you sobbing from China, just recall that I gave you food and booze so you are obligated to listen.

Aunt Sharon, this one's for you!

I received a phone call about an hour ago from my cousin Tara. You may remember her from my previous blog: the biter and life saver. She called to tell me two things. First she tells me my documents successfully arrived today, and that I look like a little Dutch boy in my passport photo. I owe my high self esteem to her. Second, my aunt Sharon, her mom, is also going to San Francisco for the visa extravaganza and I completely forgot to give her a shout out. Naturally I feel like a real asshole, because my aunt Sharon is awesome. Not only is she one of the nicest and most intelligent people you could ever hope to meet, but she’s also fascinating. A drama teacher who left Napa this last year to teach in Lebanon, Sharon is full of funny anecdotes, inspiring stories, and words of much needed encouragement. She talked me through my anxieties about leaving for the other side of the world without knowing a soul and not speaking the language. She’s had the time of her life, and damn it, so will I. Aunt Sharon, you are an inspiration and I owe some of my newfound excitement and confidence to you. So, Sharon Rogers, drama teacher and lasagna maker extraordinaire, this one’s for you! Uncle T, don’t feel left out. If I ever write a blog about baseball or the world’s greatest Republicans, you’ll be the first one I call.

It was the heat of the moment

Nothing gets me inspired like Asia’s “Heat of the Moment,” which I am currently listening to, but what to do on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning at 12:30 am? Write a blog, that’s what. HA! I just now pieced together that I am listening to Asia while preparing to leave for Asia. While you are probably not laughing at this, I just chuckled to myself for a good fifteen seconds. No one gets me. So here begins blog number four. Since the toiletry shopping trip, I have been in the process of acquiring, or rather attempting to acquire my Chinese visa. My father has patiently agreed to be my permanent residence so that my mail can be sent to his house, and he called last week saying my alien employment license arrived! I’ve been waiting for this day since I was a little girl. I used to practice the face I would make in the mirror upon its arrival. So now that Chinese government has ascertained I am not infected with AIDS or mental disease, both of which will deny your entry into China, I am cleared to apply for a visa. One slight hitch in the grand plan: the closest consulate is in San Francisco, AND the visa has to be applied for in person. FUCK. On a side note, I was warned that dropping the F bomb could be a potential problem if future employers read this. To that I am flattered that my cautioner thinks anyone beyond my immediate circle would be interested in reading my blog, and secondly, prospective employers, if you are reading, I promise I very rarely drop the F word in the classroom, and only when students are really pissing me off.
Forgive my tangents, they will happen frequently. To recap, the consulate is in San Francisco, I am in Portland with precious little time and precious little money. A plane ticket is not in the realm of financial possibilities, and who really wants to make that drive? Not I, and particularly not in my crappy 99 Saturn. Truth be told, I am actually in love with my crappy little car despite the regular jolting sensations and the permanent mystery stains on the upholstery. I warned you about the tangents. Moving along, visa applications by mail are not allowed; however, strangely enough, you are able to have another person apply at the consulate on your behalf. Luckily for me, I have family living in Napa, just an hour outside of San Francisco. In a desperate panic, I called my cousin Tara and begged for her help in the matter, and being the awesome cousin she is, she graciously agreed to help me out of the visa/consulate crisis. She kind of owes me since she used to bite me when we were kids. Epic nasty, riiiiight? All childhood grudges aside, she is saving my ass, and I am eternally grateful. So now I have sent every document known to man in an overnight delivery to Napa, California so that my visa can go through, and quickly. I am even paying an extra 30 bucks for one day rush, and this is after the ass raping fees that pile up to obtain a visa. My bank account is being pillaged. So now the waiting game begins; if all goes well, I will be on my way to China in a week and a half with a valid visa. If not, this blog may turn into my imaginative delusions about what life would have been like in China. Wish me luck.

Charmin, Charmin everywhere...

When it comes to mothers, my mom could top any mom hands down. Not only has the woman put up with me for the past 25 and a half years (over 26 if you count Cletus the fetus months), but she takes me shopping in order to prepare for my journey to the Orient. Who knew a year’s worth of toiletries added up so quickly? You may be asking yourself, why would one need an entire year of toiletries...Chinese people must bathe as well. I’m going out on a limb here to say that probably one third of what I bought today was probably made in China, but that does not mean that the Chinese sell it in their stores. I’m freakishly fastidious about my personal hygiene products, and after some half assed research, I discovered that the Chinese are not big on tampons, razors for women, or heavy duty deodorant. Apparently it’s just white people that sweat profusely. So now, thanks to mom, I have a year’s supply of tampons, my favorite cheap Aussie shampoo, a shit load of floss, and my own personal supply of toilet paper. Yep, it’s true, toilet paper is not provided in public restrooms, and on top of that, I’m really particular about what comes in contact with my bum, because I believe it deserves the best. Apparently I also need to start developing my squatting muscles, because the Chinese are partial to holes instead of sit down toilets. So now, armed with months’ worth of face wash and Imodium to counteract the shits, I can cross the toiletry/medicine cabinet section off my list of things to buy. Don’t worry dad, there’s still plenty on my list…you can help with the underwear and I pod. I think that came off far creepier than I meant.

Horses and hemp

Three weeks to go until my departure for China, and my Chinese is less than say…functional. I can count to 8, say my colors, and correctly differentiate between men and women. But let’s say I want to ask someone their name, or get directions, or anything that might be remotely useful, I’m fucked three ways. This is not for lack of trying, scout’s honor I’ve been working at it, but when the Chinese established their culture thousands of years ago and created a language, they evidently did not consider my convenience. Not to knock ancient civilizations, but would it have killed them to create an alphabet? I am aware that this makes me sound both lazy and disrespectful, but really? How any outsider is expected to memorize the thousands of characters that make up the Chinese language is beyond me. And don’t get me started on the four tones. Ah yes, the four tones. Depending on inflection, words take on entirely different meanings. Up, down, up then down, down then up, Christ. It just sounds like the recipe for a mediocre blow job. The word “ma” can mean either: mother, horse, hemp, or to scold. I applaud anyone who can master this with ease, because it is 100% beyond me. Still, I practice daily and I am determined to not look like a jack ass American that expects everyone to cater to my English speaking ways. Even if we can only count to 8 together, I will befriend the Chinese people with my linguistic prowess.

I just popped my blog cherry

I’m not a blogger by any stretch of the imagination. Well, despite all current evidence to the contrary. To be honest, blogging has never much appealed to me, mostly because there are absolutely no requirements to be a quote unquote blogger. Anyone’s propaganda can be posted on the internet for the general public to read. A little stomach churning if you think about it for too long. In a way, bloggers are comparable to home school parents. Any parent from butt fuck Egypt with a college degree or an 8th grade education can decide public education is no longer worthy of their children. So while I still think that both bloggers and home school parents should have to pass a minimum sanity and intelligence prerequisite course, I am going to take advantage of the free pass and put my thoughts out for all to read. Well let’s be honest here, most likely my mom and a handful of faithful friends.
So why the sudden abandon of my blogging prejudice? Because for the first time in a while, I might have something worth writing about. In three weeks, I’m leaving the comforts of Portland, Oregon and teaching high school English in order to move across the world and teach English to Chinese undergrads. The next year of my life will be spent in the Hubei province in a town I can’t pronounce; Shijiazjhuang, a quaint town of only 10,000,000 people. The decision to relocate wasn’t an easy one, and I wish I could say the kick in my ass came from something profound and meaningful, but the truth is, it was the combination of a trip to the movies and a rerun of a sitcom that gave me the final push. Pretty sad, right?
I guess I can trace it back to the semester I spent abroad the spring I turned twenty. In college I studied in Siena for a few months and learned Italian from a fantastic professor who made the language accessible and could make the phrase “taking a shit” sound sexy. It was there I fell in love with learning languages and the entire worlds that opened up as a result. I came back to college my junior year, promptly changed my major to English and ESL and didn’t look back. I declared to myself and anyone that would listen that the second I graduated I would travel the world making English accessible to others all the while soaking up everyone else’s culture. It would be perfect.
And then I met Barrett. The guy I didn’t want to meet because I just knew that if I ever met him I’d never want to leave. And I didn’t want to. Fuck me, this sounds like a Nicholas Sparks novel, but it’s true. I found myself moving to Portland to be closer to him and finding a job teaching high school. For a while, I thought this was giving up on my aspirations, but it took me a while to figure out that all I’d done was post pone them. These dreams got put on hiatus and I went in a direction I hadn’t anticipated, but ended up loving. Then, on an unbelievably dull Thursday, my girlfriend invited me to see the movie Revolutionary Road. I walked out of that movie shaken up with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, that wouldn’t go away. So I won’t spoil the movie for you if you haven’t seen it, but the basic premise is that unfulfilled dreams will dissolve your self-worth and then you’ll want to die, and yada yada yada. On a side note, Kate Winslet is bloody fantastic in this movie; two thumbs up, highly recommended. Just when the nauseous pit began to subside, I watched an episode of How I met your Mother. This episode coincidentally dealt with the same theme of, surprise, dreams and ambitions that went by the wayside. Now I tend to be a smidge skeptic on the concept of fate, particularly when fate comes to me through the boob tube, but it felt too purposeful to be a random coincidence. I spent an entire weekend sulking and contemplating whether I had given up on what I always wanted. Christ I am going on and on, but if you really want to know why I will be eating with chopsticks for an entire year, bare with me. The long and the short of it was, I feared that if I didn’t make a move now, I would get too comfortable to ever make it. So I talked to friends and I searched on the internet, and eventually a job offer from China came. When I pictured myself teaching in other countries, I saw myself in South America, or Eastern Europe, but when the offer came from China, I thought to myself, “Why the fuck not?” So here I am.