Okay. Okay.

Since I don't want to keep the suspension overnight for my pal Jan, here it is:

Redhead!!!

I know. I know. What a letdown, right? Across the green earth, people dye their hair everyday. My little sister, originally a blackhead just like me, has been chestnut blonde since I don't remember when. This last trip to China saw me among the minority of black-headed fellow native women. Another Asian-American girl assured me (during one of my consultation sessions) that I just couldn't "mess up" black hair. In order for that to happen, you have to bleach it first. I called another friend, an Asian red-head, for a second (or third, fourth...) opinion, who said pretty much the same thing: go ahead, you will be fine...Yet, none of these, seemed to have helped easing the nail-bitings and nerve losses. I was mortified to imagine myself looking like the girl on the commercial color box minus the Caucasian complexion and blue eyes. Two days after blowing the first bottle (how I won't tell, for your benefit, so that if you happen to be eating or drinking, you're spared of the danger of choking, which happened to my Texas friend when I phoned), I got up the nerves and resumed the plan, came out of it unscathed.

Actually, I'm a happy camper, as you can see in the photo.

Precipice

I am about to embark on a journey into the unknown, like the Hobbits taking leave of the Shire. It's going to take a leap of faith. I'm not going to tell what it is. But I'll give you a clue: it has everything to do with the proverbial female vanity (not Spanx, that one taken), well, maybe a bit to do with stirring up some reckless fun.

Maybe it's just the heat. The same heat that drove Van Gogh to cut off his ear.

But don't you worry, it's not that radical. That won't happen until I've painted my house yellow.

Yet, there's potential for trauma in this experiment, so, won't you bless me?

Girl on Deadlines

For the precious few of you out there who actually expect to see something new on this blog now and then, I haven't forgotten you, nor have I been willfully neglecting you. Here are just some excuses assuming you care to know.

Since returning from China, my native country, I've been stuck in a most peculiar psychological state which may be called an "ethnic identity disorder:" I was stuck in between being Chinese and American, a Southern one of the latter, even. The most confusing part of being in this limbo is what to eat. That's right, I spent the first post-China week ruefully looking into the fridge and pantries feeling absolute zero appetite for anything in sight. I missed the rice porridges with red, green and black beans and sesame seeds and goji berries in it; I dreamed of Sichuan hot pot and my sister's handmade pancakes with sugar and green onion tucked into them; I even had hard time shaking my newly acquired habit of drinking room-temperature water in my PJ's and slippers...

That's the extremely truncated account of the first post-return week. The second, however, is very different. It hit both KDM and me like a rock out of the blue sky, of which I wrote in a previous post, namely, two of our calves got sick and were attacked by our own dogs while recuperating. One died of drowning in the pond on the night of the attack. The other, "Bud," stayed with us and alternately treating us to hope and despair for two weeks and died two days after Fourth of July. The whole affair took on a transformative intensity which is very hard to write and to relay to outsiders who aren't schooled in cattle farming. I had thought during the ordeal what a good story it would have made for writers such as Hemingway: the story of saving the life of a calf attempted by a very odd couple who are also self-taught farmers.

After the death of "Bud," our life resumed some normalcy. Rain came after seven weeks of smoldering heat and everything in the pastures turning into dust. Then the deadlines of submitting works to shows and competitions moved up my to-do list. When it comes to deadlines, I'm really good at never beating them too far ahead, preferrably. just by an hour or two.

There have been numerous other threads besides these more salient factors. If I were diligent, they would find their way to this blog for your amusement, but alas, diligence has never been my strong suit.

But lest you are let down, here are a couple of things that stand out in my current affairs:

• I've finally begun reading The Lord of the Rings (with The Hobbit out of the way after two thirteen-hour cross-ocean flights last month).
• I have a new way to describe my total reaction to my latest home-going trip: China: a fascinating place. This is significant because I used to think of my motherland as many things, but never "fascinating." When I heard people use the word for their impression of her, I usually chalked it up to someone wanting to impress me with their multiculturalism. 
• Our dogs are still alive, all four of them. KDM has gone back to talking to them and calling them by their names (not just names!)
• I've just purchased my first Spanx!!

I leave you at that, and bless you from my Hobbit hole although I'm not small and I wear shoes!

Love, Izy

Trouble in Paradise

My family pampered me during my recent 3-week visit to my home country. I hardly had to lift a finger before my every need and desire was attended to by a hovering group of siblings and relatives. One day when Mom urged someone to take over a light chore (like feeding myself) I was attempting on my own, my younger sister, known for a barbed tongue, snapped, "it's time we trouble her to do something. She's lived a life out of this world for way too long, a little work won't hurt her."

She was referring to what was perceived as my idyllic, arcadian, pastoral, American, country life.

She was mostly right, both in perception and judgment.

But things have been rough in paradise the past few days. The two sick calves KDM had been trying to nurture back to health were attacked by our very own dogs during the night before, one driven into the pond and drowned, the other found lying on its back barely alive, its ears and legs mauled to bloody mess. The sight was horrific. When KDM informed me of the incident, he had a shotgun in hand and was looking for the dogs.

The past twenty-four hours have been a roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. Our rescue work is made extremely difficult by the three-digit heat. While KDM has gotten the drown calve out of the pond, the ground is too hard to dig a hole in which to bury the animal. Among the thirsty trees and crunchy grass, the vultures are coming as the day is heating up. At this very moment, the survival of "Bud," the calf with a tattered ear who's hanging on to dear life, is uncertain to say the least. As for the future of the dogs, I've run out of excuses to defend them. Their crimes have been too heavy. I can hardly believe they were capable of such savagery. I'm bringing them food and water out of a little more than humane sympathy.

I realize that my psyche is undergoing a stress test.

What Language do You Think in?

My sisters and I have been spending a good amount of time on Skype lately. As a result I've begun to think in Chinese. Trouble is, as I go about business, I don't notice what language I'm thinking with. Example: I stop at the post office, before I get out the car, I grab the mails, my purse and sunglasses from the passenger seat, at the same time rehearsing in my mind the questions I'm going to ask the post office clerks. Only one step away from the counter do I realize what is about to roll off my tongue isn't English. My mind moves into emergency mode, dives into a murky backroom and snatches the right English words, whips them into right order, send them onto the airwave. The clerk understands perfectly and answers my question, by which time my mind is all English and I am conducting a normal conversation with her.

Unless you speak two languages, you don't know the fun. Not to mention the languages you dream in.