If I ruled the world, part 85

In what was a random string of events, I ended up on a segment of Good Morning America yesterday morning.

"Why, Emily, that's wonderful!" you may say. "It's so good to see that all your time and dedication to comedy has finally paid off. It's only onwards and--"

Not so fast, I'd say, because my appearance had little to do with comedy and everything to do with Tom Cruise. Yup, I guess I should send my donation to the church of Scientology now. Besides, I’ve been wanting to take a stress test.

[A side note on Scientology: I don't think God likes them. When I first moved to New York a guy came up to me in Times Square and starting chatting away. I didn't know yet not to talk back. A few minutes into the conversation he starts in with his Scientology hook. A minute later a pigeon poops on his head. This happened approximately two more times to him during the 5 minute conversation. Coincidence? I think not.]

Anyway, we were interviewed about our thoughts on the man since he's been dropped by Paramount for his odd behavior. I thought long and hard before I opened my mouth. And when questioned, out came soliloquies about placenta and post-partum depression and suspension of disbelief.

Yet, what made it onto the two second clip was me smiling and saying something like "It's okay to love someone, but why does he need to publicize his every move?

Now, I'm not saying I'm surprised that things were cut. And I'm very happy for the opportunity. But what amazes me is that other people don't realize that things can get edited down. I mean, it's not like our opinions on Tommy were exactly groundbreaking news.

My grandmother called me yesterday after seeing the segment. "Just wanted to say I saw you on TV, honey, and I'm kind of disappointed. You just got to say one thing. I thought they'd interview you longer and you'd be funny."

Ah, family. Keeping other family members and their pride in check since, well, forever.

No problem, it's just surgery

I realized a major similarity between New Yorkers and the Chinese: they like to mind their own business. In either place you can start a fight with someone, stab them, eat their heart out of their chest, and cackle while blood drips down your chin and no one will bat an eye. Actually, they might give you a nasty look because they have to step over the corpse to get to their destination.

A little graphic? Perhaps. But try and it and see if I'm right. Although maybe you want to try it with a doll instead of a real person so there's no jail time involved.

I'm really off topic.

Anyway, what proved this point to me was an incident in a restaurant in the south of China. Chinese cuisine is, as I have previously mentioned, rather interesting. As part of a meal you can find anything from shark fin to pig snout. The Chinese also feel strongly about showing you what you're eating. This entails including the head and the bones.

My friend Jenny was eating a piece of fish when she began to have a problem. Not choke, per se, she just felt like it was kind of stuck in her throat. Options to cure this malady were offered: eat a lot of rice, drink water, stand on your head. After a while it became clear from the look on Jenny's face that the situation was not improving.

Luckily, Jenny's dad is a doctor. So he had her stand up in the middle of the restaurant and tilt her head back so he could get a better look. Then Jenny's brother, Ben, gets up to assist by shining a flashlight in her mouth. But the poor man had no tools, because, well, he was on vacation. He was, however, very handy with chopsticks; I mean, once you learn to pick up individual grains of rice, a little fish bone is no problem. With the crisis averted we proceeded to hoot, holler, and take pictures.

Through the whole process no one in the restaurant looked up, least of all the waiters rushing around the restaurant. In fact, at one point it looked like they might knock the attending doctor and his patient over.

Then again, it was nice to feel like I had a little piece of home right there with me. A girl can only go so long without hearing disgusted sighs before she starts to get a little homesick.

I heart New York (and China) indeed.

No, YOU'RE a boob!

One thing that excited me about being in China is that I would be amongst my people. I know I don't look Chinese, persay, but I'm the right height. Other then my size, I'm a dead ringer except for my eyelids with folds, curly hair, and how shall I say, sizeable assets.

While I thought I had found my people, they seemed to disagree. In an airport, a bunch of Chinese women of varying ages swarmed me and insisted I take a picture with them. It was flattering but weird. Whenever a bunch of us Americans were in a group, a curious Chinese person would come up behind us and just stare.

I figured I'd be able to bring some clothing home with me. And I wouldn't even have to shorten the pants! In Bejing, I stepped into a shop with chinese printed shirts.

"Don't worry," the saleswoman exclaimed after taking a look at me, "we have BIG size!"

I half expected her to pull out a mumu. I realize that English is not their first language, nor is tact, but seriously, i'm a sensitive girl. She pulled out an XXL and yet, it refused to close over my ample cleavage.

"Oh, we don't have in China," she said, pointing to my boobs.

"Yeah," I said, sighing, "it's made in America. 100% natural."

And as aggressive as salespeople are in that country, she just left me alone knowing nothing in her store would fit me.

In another store, a woman saw me looking at a shirt and immediately said pointing to the shirt, "No, too small. You try handbag!"

I don't think I've ever worked out as much as I did on this trip. I may not have left China with any clothing or my self esteem, but I did leave with some handbags. Big ones. After all, the bigger the bag, the smaller you look.

Where to Start?

I'm back from that magical, dumpling filled, squatter toilet land they call China. And let me tell you, it was quite the experience. According to my jet-lagged body, it's tomorrow. So many stories to tell, so let's start from the end.

Flying is never fun. This task is even less so when there are babies involved. Sure they're cute, but boy can they scream. And I know it's not their fault but they're hard to escape on such a mode of transportation.

On my flight back, I sat behind the most adorable little chinese kids. One such precious item was a little boy who was about 2. The only thing I didn't get were his pants. They looked like normal pants until you realized there was a slit from the butt to the waist. You know, kind of like the chaps that Prince wears. Now, I figured, sure, he's a bit young for the rock star attire but whatever floats his boat.

Halfway through the flight I feel something warm on my foot. And I freak out. And that's because I know exactly what it is. That's right, this little bundle of joy had managed to pee not only onto the seat, but through the seat onto my foot behind him.

And I knew it was pee right away because he had done it earlier to the guy next to me.

Now maybe you think I'm an idiot for not changing seats, but frankly, I didnt' think that pee, like lightning, would strike twice.

Even better, the flight attendants, who were helpful but were totally laughing at us, tried to explain that it was just part of chinese culture. I assume they were talking about the buttless pants, because I don't think golden showers on tourists' feet have ever been a local custom. I know, insert R. Kelly reference here.