Because, apparently, you spend ten years of your life doing something and you get a degree in the stuff and people actually expect you to know what you’re doing.

Sheez.

People and [...]]]>

Ever since I started my advice column thingie a few weeks ago, I’ve been getting lots of questions about teaching English overseas.

Because, apparently, you spend ten years of your life doing something and you get a degree in the stuff and people actually expect you to know what you’re doing.

Sheez.

People and their unrealistic expectations.

Amirite?

Does this look like the face of a girl who knows what she’s doing? EVER?

I don’t usually write much about teaching on my blog.

Because it’s my job. And I like to keep my work life and my private life separate. (And by “private life” I mean “totally-not-private-Internet-life.”)

Plus, honestly, it kind of freaks me out – giving advice that people might actually take seriously.

I’d much rather give advice about topics I don’t know anything about. Like unicorns and raising kids and traveling with annoying people.

And now that I just wrote that sentence, I’ve figured out the ultimate way to deal with annoying people while traveling: BRING UNICORNS.

They will totally cancel out the annoying people.

You’re welcome.

Ahem.

Where were we again?

Oh, yes, teaching English.

Usually when I get a question about teaching, I just point the person to this post I wrote about a year and a half ago about questions you should ask yourself before becoming an ESL teacher overseas.

But people still keep on asking me questions.

Because, apparently, you guys don’t like talking to yourselves much.

So because the people keep on asking, I’ve decided to give the people what they want.

Just as long as next week I can go back to talking about unicorns, okay?

8 Questions You Keep Asking Me About Teaching ESL Overseas Because, Apparently, You Guys Don’t Like Asking Yourselves Questions

1.    Do I need a degree?

Bad news (if you don’t already happen to have a degree):

Yes, most likely.

In fact, most jobs will require that you show proof of a four-year-degree before they will hire you.

This is usually due to visa restrictions as many countries, like Japan and South Korea, require that you have a degree before you can be granted a working visa.

Good news (if you happen to have a degree and it happens to be in Astrophysical International Communicationology):

It usually doesn’t matter what your degree is in – especially if you’re looking at jobs teaching at a private language school or a local K-12 school overseas.

Even better news (if you happened to have majored in English like I did):

This may be the only job where having an English degree will actually work in your favor.

I know, right?

It doesn’t even matter if you spent your four years in college pretending to read James Joyce novels and writing crappy poetry.

Not that I did that.

Okay, I totally did that.

There may have been a few toga parties, too. What?

2.    Do I need teaching experience?

Good news (if you don’t happen to have any teaching experience):

Probably not.

Of course, it will totally depend on the school or program you’re applying to and the country it is in.

My first job teaching English was at a high school in tiny fishing village in Japan with the JET Programme, a program that primarily recruits newly graduated university students.

My first teaching job. I’m the one who is not in a high school uniform.

Other than a brief stint as a TA in a college writing class, I didn’t have any teaching experience. I definitely didn’t have any experience with high school students. And I had absolutely no idea how to teach grammar or sentence structure. Because, frankly, I didn’t even know sentences had structure.

Of course, it will help if you do happen to have some teaching or training experience – even if it’s non-ESL related stuff.

Maybe you worked as a volunteer camp counselor?

Or helped train other waitresses at your summer restaurant job?

Or are just really good at being bossy?

Brag about it on your resume, yo.

Bad news:

There really is no bad news.

Geez, you guys, why do you always think there’s going to be bad news?

3.    What about that TEFL Certificate thingie? What is it? Do I need one of those? How do I get it? And what’s the best one to get?

I’m really not the best person to ask about TEFL certificates because I never got one.

I went straight from Teaching-Without-Any-Certification-Or-Training-Or-Idea-As-To-What-I-Was-Doing to Getting-My-Master’s-Degree-in-TESOL-And-Learning-To-Diagram-Sentences-Like-A-Boss.

Because my philosophy in life is “All or Nothing.”

This also happens to be my philosophy in nachos.

Must. Eat. ALL THE NACHOS.

Of course, any kind of training is going to help you both find a job and be prepared to enter the classroom, but the problem is deciding which certification program to do.

There are, like, eleventy-billion-million different types of certificates and certification programs out there. There are programs that can be done completely online. Whereas other programs require a certain number of hours of in-class practice teaching. Some programs may even help you find a job after you finish the certification.

I’d suggest looking at some listings for jobs in the country that you’re interested in. (ESL Café is a good place to start.) That will give you a good idea as to what the general requirements for jobs in that country are.

Which brings me to the next question:

4.    Where should I go?

SERIOUSLY, YOU GUYS, WITH THE QUESTIONS?

Must I decide EVERYTHING for you?

I mean, SHEEZ.

How about I ask you a question this time?

Where do you want to go?

Okay, you should totally go there.

Yep, that’s all there is to it.

5.    Should I line up a job before I go or just go there on a tourist visa and look for a job when I get there?

Not to get all government official on you, but it is technically illegal to look for a job or work while on a tourist visa.

Not that I haven’t met plenty of people who’ve done it.

But I, personally, would rather secure a job beforehand and get the appropriate visa before going overseas to teach. Because I’m a scaredy cat, and I don’t like to break the law, and I am pretty sure I wouldn’t last long in prison. (Although, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, prison would make for a totally awesome blog post.)

Arranging everything beforehand can mean a lot of hassle and paperwork and planning.

This can also mean committing yourself to a school in a less-than-glamorous location

Like, say, a tiny fishing village in Japan.

I lived here!

Or, say, the Brazilian Amazon.

And here! (Okay, I didn’t live ON the Amazon. But not too far from it.)

Or, umm, perhaps, a city of four million people in China that nobody’s ever heard of.

And I lived here!

But it also means that you already have a place to stay and a place to work when you get there — and that place doesn’t happen to be a prison.

Win, win, you guys!

6.    How do I avoid being scammed?

I’m sure you’ve heard the horror stories.

I’ve certainly heard the horror stories.

You know, the ones of the innocent, naïve, ESL-teacher-wannabe who gets a job overseas and then shows up in her destination of choice only to find she’s been sold into a prostitution ring and her passport is taken away and then she wakes up in a bathtub of ice with her kidneys stolen and there’s a convict on the loose with a hook for a hand and, OMIGOD, THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.

Despite having heard these stories over and over again, I have never actually met anyone who has been scammed – at least not seriously so.

This is not to say that scams don’t exist.

This is also not to say that you shouldn’t be really careful when applying for and accepting jobs.

Do your research.

Ask people you know who’ve taught ESL overseas what schools or programs they’d recommend.

Talk to the career counselors at your university or your college professors. (True story: The main reason why I applied to the JET Programme was because it was recommended to me by my sociology professor in college.)

Check out the online forums and see what people have to say about the schools or programs you’re applying to. But be warned – the online forums for teaching ESL are like all online forums everywhere on the Internet ever – basically, full of negative, hateful trolls who probably stomp on puppies in their spare time. But if one school in particular keeps on warranting the vitriol of the Internets, I’d stay away.

Ask the school or program you’re applying to if you can talk to any current or former teachers either via email or Skype. If they won’t let you talk to anybody, then I’d be concerned.

And trust your gut.

Basically, if a company feels totally sketchy, chances are they are totally sketchy.

The company I applied to work for in Brazil felt totally sketchy.

The Brazilian Embassy wasn’t even sure if they would give me a visa because they were all like, “This place seems totally sketchy.”

But I still went there.

Because BRAZIL, YOU GUYS.

Hanging out by the spitting fish fountain. Just a typical day in Brazil.

Not surprisingly, when I got there, I discovered the place I worked for was totally sketchy. They were disorganized and gave me absolutely no support. They made me work more hours than the local teachers and paid me less. And they took away the only vacation I had to make me go substitute teach in the jungle for two weeks.

While I was happy I went, I still spent the better part of the year feeling frustrated and helpless.

Luckily, though, nothing horrible happened to me to me.

I didn’t get sold into prostitution or have my passport taken away.

And I was able to leave the country with both of my kidneys.

Or at least I think I still have both of my kidneys.

Is there some kind of test I can do to make sure I still have both of my kidneys, you guys?

7.    What if I don’t like it?

I left my first job teaching English in Japan after only a year, and I didn’t think I’d ever go back to teaching ESL again.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t liked the teaching.

I had actually really enjoyed the teaching.

But I didn’t do nearly as much teaching as I would have liked as my classes were often cancelled because they weren’t considered “important.”

Teaching my students the Hokey Pokey. TOTALLY IMPORTANT.

So instead of teaching, I spent most of my time sitting at my desk, pretending to do work while I was actually ordering stuff off of Amazon and writing ranty emails to my friends.

It wasn’t until a couple years later, when I got a job teaching English part-time to adult students at a private language school in the States, that I really fell in love with teaching and started to consider teaching as a career and not-this-thing-to-do-for-a-year-so-I-can-get-a-visa-to-live-in-a-country-and-not-get-arrested.

Here’s the thing: teaching is like pretty much every experience in your life ever.

You’re never going to know if you like it until you try it.

And even if you try it once, you might not even be sure if you like it.

If you’re interested in teaching ESL and think you might like it, you might as well try it.

Because, seriously, what’s the worst that could happen?

Besides having your kidneys stolen.

Just kidding, you guys!

Your kidneys will totally not get stolen.

Probably.

8.    How do I get a real job after teaching ESL?

This question irks me more than just a little bit.

Because, you guys, teaching English is a “real job.”

You use the exact same skills teaching English as you do with any job – teaching or non-teaching.

You have to be creative but practical.

You have to be able to plan ahead but be flexible.

You have to be able to be confident. But you also have to be able to be humble and take a lot of criticism.

You have to be able to talk to a variety of different people from a variety of different backgrounds. But you also have to be able to listen to people. And not roll your eyes too much when those people won’t shut up already.

And you have to wear pants.

Mind you, I didn’t always feel this way about teaching English.

During my first year of teaching English, I didn’t consider what I was doing a “real job”.

I spent a lot of time during that year in Japan thinking about the “real job” I would get when I returned to the States.

And when I returned to the States, I promptly got myself a real job – working in a non-profit in Washington, DC – doing lots of real jobby things.

Like, you know, sitting at my desk, pretending to do work while I was actually ordering stuff off of Amazon and writing ranty emails to my friends.

Okay, so I did actually do a lot of work.

But, here’s the thing, you guys, about jobs (and take this from a girl who has had a lot of jobs in her day):

A job is a job is a job.

You’re going to do some stuff that you really like – like work with some awesome people and do some creative things and maybe occasionally dance.

Teaching my students how to dance. Again.

And you’re going to do some stuff that you don’t like – like sit through really long staff meetings and wear pants.

And some days it’s going to be The Most Awesome Job Ever And You Want To Do It Forever And Ever Until You Die.

And some days it’s going to be The Worst Job Ever And You Want To Quit And Go Live on a Beach And Drink Mai-Tais For A Living And Never Wear Pants Again.

That’s all there really is to it.

Okay, can I go back to talking about unicorns now?

Have you ever taught ESL? Have any tips you’d like to share? Or are you thinking about teaching ESL? Have any questions you’d like to ask?

Guess what?

This:

Yep, I’ve only got five more days until classes are finished for the semester, and I’ll officially be footloose and fancy-free for an entire month!

One month!

I know!

Not to rub it in or anything.

Okay, maybe to rub it in a little bit.

But, seriously, [...]]]>

Hey, you guys.

Guess what?

This:

Yep, I’ve only got five more days until classes are finished for the semester, and I’ll officially be footloose and fancy-free for an entire month!

One month!

I know!

Not to rub it in or anything.

Okay, maybe to rub it in a little bit.

But, seriously, guys. ONE MONTH.

I will finally have time to do all those things I told myself I was totally going to do once I returned to the States. But I haven’t had any time to do.

Like work out.

And drink margaritas.

Okay, maybe, mostly drink margaritas.

5 more days, then it’s just you & me, Mr. Jumbo-Sized Margarita

Exciting as this fact is, there’s one teensy weensy little thing that I’m not so excited about.

I have about five kabillion papers to grade before the end of the semester. And, I know you all think I’m exaggerating. Because, really, when am I not exaggerating.

But I’m for serious this time.

See:

Right before Thanksgiving I piled all the papers I had to grade on top of each other. And then I measured it. Because I thought seeing all the work I needed to do in one big stack the size of a small mountain would actually, you know, motivate me to do work.

As usual, I thought wrong.

Instead, it motivated me to do a whole bunch of other things I never thought I’d be motivated to do.

Like let my five-year-old niece give me a pedicure. In case you’re wondering, things did not turn out well. Let’s just say, you probably shouldn’t give nail polish to someone who hasn’t really gotten the hang of coloring within the lines yet.

It’s a good thing it’s not sandal season.

And I agreed to watch the latest Twilight movie with my sister. Even though I haven’t watched any of the other Twilight movies and I only read the first book. Which means I’m woefully behind on my teenager-vampire-werewolf lore. Which meant I spent the entire time asking my sister questions like, “Wait, now, so when a vampire and human mate they give birth to creepy CGI babies?” and “So, wasn’t the werewolf guy kind of into Bella and now he’s into her creepy CGI daughter? Umm. EWWW.”

And, then, just at the moment that I was going to sit down and start grading papers like a total boss, I got distracted by pie.

As you do.

Papers? What papers?

This week I’ve been attempting to make up for lost time and work my way through the mountain o’ papers, so I can actually hand stuff back to my students before classes finish.

And, you know, before they all forget what a thesis statement is. (Ha, ha, who am I kidding? They’ve already totally forgotten what a thesis statement is. I know this because every time I say stuff like, “Make sure your essay has a clear thesis statement,” they look at me with these expressions on their faces that say, “A thesis-what-now?)

And because I’ve spent almost every waking minute of my week grading papers, this means I’ve also spent almost every waking minute of my week in pants.

Which, I think we can all agree, is kind of a crappy way to spend the week.

You see, unfortunately, I’m not the type of person who’s capable of getting any kind of work done while sitting at home in my bathrobe.

My preferred work uniform. Alas, it’s not meant to be.

I try. I really do. I’m all like, “I’m totally getting some work done.” Which works. For five seconds. And then I get distracted by something.

Like the Internet and any reality TV show ever.

Even when I turn my computer and television off, I still end up getting distracted. I should probably mention that I live in a barn. And I don’t really own a lot of stuff. At least not a lot of stuff most people would consider distracting.

That just goes to show you how inventive I am when it comes to getting distracted.

I can be distracted by anything.

I’m like the MacGyver of being distracted.

Or a bird.

First, I’ll start flipping through old family albums. Which are filled with gems like this one:

Circa 7th grade. Back when I apparently thought I was living in France. Obviously, my brother hadn’t gotten that memo.

And this one:

What’s that you say? Your old family photos don’t have goats in them? And now you know what your life has been missing.

And then I’ll decide it’s high time I organize my CD collection. From eight years ago. Back when I was really into Euro-trash dance music for some reason. Because you just never know when you might need your Best of Trance Volume Three. And god forbid you can’t find it.

(And, yes, I’m pretty sure I owned Volume One and Two. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.)

And then there’s the little issue of my cat. Who seems to think the only reason I exist on this planet is for the sole purpose of petting and feeding her. So if I’m not doing either one of those things, she’s been known to stage a protest. And, should, I be attempting to grade papers, she’ll just stage a protest on top of the papers.

PET ME.

So if I really want to get any work done, I have to put on my pants and banish myself to a coffee shop or café somewhere.

Welcome to my office.

Which is annoying because, well, PANTS, you guys.

And because it usually means I end up being surrounded by people. People who are having loud conversations. The kind of conversations that I always manage to overhear even when I have my iPod earbuds jammed into my ears. The kind of conversations that I will never, ever be able to unhear. No matter how hard I try.

(To the lady who was sitting next to me at the Panera the other day: Congratulations on your pregnancy! But, umm, if you could please refrain from talking about your lady parts while I’m eating lunch, that would be awesome.)

(And to the girl at Corner Bakery who couldn’t figure out why her boyfriend doesn’t want to spend time with her and kept on asking her friend, “Do you think I’m being an annoying girlfriend?”: Yes, yes, you are.)

Which reminds me, I should probably put on my pants and get to work. I still have a stack of papers the size of Mount Fuji that I need to tackle before tomorrow.

And I’m pretty sure there’s a peppermint mocha and an indecent conversation at Starbucks right now which I’m totally missing out on.

What’s that you say, lady-at-the-table-next-to-me? You have a urinary tract infection? TELL ME MORE.

Where do you go to get your work done? Or maybe you’re the type of person who can actually get work done at home? TELL ME HOW. Because, seriously, guys, I’ve got another week of grading to go and this pants thing is getting old.

You know, because I’m all about balance. Except, of course, when it comes to dessert.

Time to decide what the heck I’m doing with my life.

My semester-long contract at the university where I’m currently teaching in China is quickly coming to an end, and I’ve had to decide if I’m sticking around another semester or moving on.

Doesn’t it seem like [...]]]>

It’s that time of year again, folks.

Time to decide what the heck I’m doing with my life.

My semester-long contract at the university where I’m currently teaching in China is quickly coming to an end, and I’ve had to decide if I’m sticking around another semester or moving on.

Doesn’t it seem like I was just hemming and hawing over this very same decision like six months ago? And, then, like six months before that?

Umm, probably because I was.

This time, though, things were a bit different. I hardly hemmed and hawed at all. Okay, maybe I hemmed a bit. But I swear there was absolutely no hawing.

You see, my mind has been made up for some time now.

This is kind of a new thing for me as I’m not really into making up my mind. At least not in any kind of timely fashion. Most of my decisions require me writing up endless lists of reasons why I should do one thing. And then endless reasons why I should do another thing. And then a bunch of reasons why I should really stop writing up reasons and just come up with a decision already.

Even figuring out what I want for breakfast can take me a good thirty minutes. I mean, deciding between sweet and savory is really, really hard, you guys. Especially when it’s before noon and I haven’t even had any coffee. And then as soon as I tell the waitress that, yes, I do want the Eggs Benedict, I’m instantly filled with regret and mournful thoughts of all the pancakes I won’t be eating.

Sweet or savory? That is the question.

Deciding stuff is hard, people.

But not this time.

This time I knew what I wanted to do.

I wanted to go home.

Yep, home-home.

Take that, Thomas Wolfe.

My plan at the moment is to go home to Buffalo this summer. While there, I’m hoping to get a short-term teaching position for a semester or two –  enough time to hang out with my family and friends, get some work done on my writing, and, you know, eat lots of cheese.

And then I’ll head overseas again.

Of course, this plan could always change. The last time I said I was going home for “a little while,” I ended up staying there for five years.

And I really kind of loved it.

Yay, Buffalo!

I got to eat a lot of Sunday dinners with my family.

I made a lot of great friends.

I started performing improv comedy again.

I went to grad school.

I dated boys. And I didn’t even have to trick them into dating me.

And I ate a lot of cheese.

Mmm, cheese, how I miss you.

I can imagine worse fates, really.

Even though I’ve known I wanted to go home for some time now, that doesn’t mean deciding to leave China was an easy decision.

It wasn’t.

I’ll miss a lot of things about my life in China.

I’ll miss the parks that surround the campus where I live.

I’ll miss my favorite bubble tea place and my favorite fruit vendor and my favorite pork sandwich place.

Mmmm, pork.

I’ll miss the few friends that I’ve made here.

I’ll miss my students — or at least a lot of them. Even though I’m not entirely sure they’ll miss me as I’m always doing annoying stuff like giving them homework. And the other week one of my students gave me a knife, and I’m still not sure if it was a gift or a threat.

Either this says, "Thanks for teaching me! Here's a present" or "Give me a good grade or I'll cut you."

I’ll miss all the lovely local people I’ve met — especially the taxi drivers. This past weekend, one of them told me I smelled better than a new car. I mean, seriously, how could a girl not miss sweet talk like that?

And, well, there’s my couch. I’m really going to miss my couch.

How am I ever going to be able to leave THIS?

Even though the decision was a hard one, I know it’s the right one for me right now.

I’m really looking forward to being home for the holidays this year for the first time in five years.

Sure, my trusty stand-in, Sally-On-A-Stick, has managed to attend quite a few hometown festivities in my absence over the past five years.

Enjoying some tasty Buffalo treats.

But, after five and a half years, she’s starting to look a bit ragged around the edges. After all, partying can take a lot out of a girl – especially if that girl happens to be made out of cardstock and a popsicle sticks.

And I’m really starting to doubt her judgment. Especially when I see photos of her like this on Facebook.

Just another night on the town... or a plea for help?

I’m also really looking forward to spending some time with my nieces and nephews.

I feel like I need to go home now while they’re still little. You know, and still really easy to impress.

The last time I went home I gave one of my nephews a huge Ziploc bag full of coins from every country I had visited. And I taught my nieces how to put stickers on their toes.

Best. Aunt. Ever.

This pretty much made me the most awesome aunt alive.

In a few more years, they’ll be teenagers, and I have a feeling the only way I’ll be able to win them over then is by buying them iPads or booze. And I can’t really afford to buy them all iPads. Not that I’m saying I’d buy them booze. But I may, you know, fill up an empty bottle with Kool-Aid and tell them that it’s Boone’s Strawberry Hill just so I can keep a little bit of my cool aunt street cred. Just don’t tell my brothers and sister that. (Hey, siblings, just kidding. Ha ha. Really. I would never give your kids fake booze. Unless you were cool with that. By the way, are you cool with that?)

And I’m also really looking forward to seeing lots of my old friends again. Sure, I’m worried that many of these friendships have changed since I’ve been gone.

But, you know what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder.

Well, you know what else makes the heart grow fonder?

Wine.

Distance, schmistance.

So I’m sure as long as there’s plenty of wine around during our reunions, we’ll be good.

And, okay, maybe I’m really looking forward to all the cheese.

Have you ever gone home again after an extended period away? How did it go?

As a teacher, I can’t think of anything better than the first day of class, really.

Well, besides, the last day of class.

And, you know, all those days I don’t have class.

But the first [...]]]>

This week was the first week of classes for the spring semester at the university where I teach.

As a teacher, I can’t think of anything better than the first day of class, really.

Well, besides, the last day of class.

And, you know, all those days I don’t have class.

But the first day of class is pretty up there in my book.

And this week’s first batch of classes certainly didn’t disappoint.

All my students sat dutifully in the seats I assigned them. (Seats at the front of the class because I am the type of teacher who doesn’t let anybody sit in the back. Yep, I’m mean like that.)

They all laughed along at my jokes and didn’t complain when I made them get into pairs again.

They pretended to care when I explained to them the qualities of a good topic sentence. Some of them even took notes. Or doodled on a piece of paper in a way that made me believe they were taking notes.

And when I kept them in class right up until the last possible minute, hardly anyone acted like I was doing it to purposely torture them.

As I was leaving class on Tuesday, one of my students gave me this miniature apple.

Or, at least, I thought it was an apple but it turned out to be some kind of preserved fruit thingie that tasted exactly like a sweet pickle. Maybe that’s just what students give teachers in China? Preserved fruit thingies that taste exactly like pickles.

Even the cool dude guys who smoke cigarettes in the hall and give themselves English names like Gin and Eleven were on their best behavior during the first day of class.

They showed up on time.

They didn’t fall asleep.

They only checked their cell phones when they thought I wasn’t looking.

And when I asked them why they didn’t bring their books with them to class or, say, any kind of writing utensil as it is, in fact, a writing class, they acted sincerely apologetic… and a little bit surprised. Like, “Huh? What? I could have sworn I brought the book with me. And what’s this pen thing you speak of? Hmm… now that you mention it, that does sound vaguely familiar.”

Aww, so well-behaved & willing to do my bidding. This won't last long.

As much as I love all the good behavior, I love the hopefulness that the first day of a new class brings even more.

Starting a new class is like starting a new relationship. Both my students and I are full of hopes for each other. Except, unlike with a new boyfriend, I really hope my students don’t call me up in the middle of the day to tell me they’re thinking about me. Because that would just make things awkward.

On the first day of class I handed out a questionnaire to my students. It asked them what they learned last semester and what they expected to learn this semester. It also asked them about their personal learning goals and if they had any suggestions for me.

Judging from their responses, my students are a hopeful bunch.

They are also something of a delusional bunch.

They all want to do well in class, but they’d like that to happen without having to do much work.

And they think we should play lots of games.

I don’t really know what kind of games they think they’re going to play in an academic writing class. There are really only so many games about essays you can play. And “Pin the Thesis Statement on the Introductory Paragraph” gets pretty old after the first few times you play it.

Of course, my students aren’t the only ones filled with lots of hope.

I have plenty of hopes for this semester myself.

I’m just hoping my hopes are not quite as delusional as theirs are.

I hope to manage my time a lot better and procrastinate a lot less. Like, if I could avoid having a panic-attack-induced crying fit because I waited until the last possible minute to grade the final assignments that would be great. It’s hard enough explaining all the red wine and chocolate stains on my students’ papers. I don’t want to explain why their papers are covered with my tears and notes to myself in the margins that go something like this, “Why do I do this to myself every time? EVERYFREAKINGTIME? Whyyyyyy?”

I’m hoping to keep work at work as much as possible and not talk about classes and students and all that other work stuff when I’m not at work. This isn’t so easy when you happen to live with everyone you work with. This also isn’t that easy when you happen to live in Wuxi, where there isn’t a whole heck of a lot to talk about.

I hope to stay positive and focus on the good things that happen in the class – rather than the little frustrating things.

Because as high as my students’ and my hopes are, I know frustrating stuff will happen. Like, soon.

The new class smell wears off pretty quickly, you know.

In fact, by Wednesday, I was already confiscating cell phones and marking students absent. Including, of course, Gin and Eleven… who I’m sure were just so busy looking for appropriate writing utensils that they forgot to come to class.

What’s your favorite time of year at work? You know, besides the time you don’t have to work. 

P.S. In keeping with the school theme of today’s post, I’m giving you homework! Your homework: head over to the Bloggies website and vote for my blog for the Best Asian Weblog if you haven’t done so already. (You can find instructions here.) Voting closes this Sunday, February 19th.

Of course, I won’t fail you if you don’t vote for me.

But, uh, I may call your parents.

Or SIRKOLAMLIC for short, if you will.

Actually, no. You will not. Don’t say that. Ever. It just sounds bad. And possibly contagious.

You might think this new little series is for you. You know, so [...]]]>

Welcome to my new blog series: Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China.

Or SIRKOLAMLIC for short, if you will.

Actually, no. You will not. Don’t say that. Ever. It just sounds bad. And possibly contagious.

You might think this new little series is for you. You know, so you can find out all about the wonderfully fabulous things that exist in the fine country of China.

You’d be wrong.

This series is totally for me.

You see, sometimes while you’re living in a foreign country you forget about all the cool stuff about the country you’re living in because you’re too busy thinking about all the annoying stuff – like the fact that China keeps on giving you Black Lung. And the fact that China is totally making you fat by force-feeding you all of its dumplings. 

So I’ve decided to start this series as a reminder to myself of all the things I really like about my life in China. Because there really are a lot of things I like. I just kind of forget about them when China is trying to kill me. And when China is making it pretty impossible for me to be able to fit back into my pants.

So without further ado, I give you my very first installment of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China. And because I’m pretty sure this series will soon progress into a non-stop discussion about dumplings, I thought I’d start off with a totally non-dumpling related topic: my new bad ass fashion accessory, fingerless gloves.

Enjoy!

I’ve always wanted to be a bad ass.

Unfortunately, I don’t really have the demeanor or physique to pull off bad assery

I was always too worried about my permanent record to skip school or break the law.

Motorcycles and heavy metal music scare me.

And I simply don’t have the thighs to wear leather pants.

The only slightly bad ass thing I’ve ever done was get a tattoo – a teeny, tiny one on my back. I was twenty years old at the time and working at a bar in Dublin and feeling like a total punk. My mother had always told me she would disown me if I ever got a tattoo, but what did I care? I didn’t need my mom! I was an independent woman! I was on my own in the world! If I wanted a tattoo, I could get a tattoo!

And, then, I didn’t tell my mom about it until I was thirty.  Because that’s just how wimps like me roll.

Even though I know I’m really not a bad ass, every once in a while I’ll buy an item of clothing that kind of makes me feel like one.

There was the pair of ridiculous platform shoes I drooled over for two months in London until I finally bought them. They were impossible to wear, and I could only have them on for about twenty minutes until my feet would start to spasm, but, man, for those twenty minutes, you did not want to mess with me.

There was the pair of skinny red jeans that I was able to wear for the approximate two minutes of my life that I was skinny.

And, then, there was vintage maroon leather jacket that made me feel just like Samuel L. Jackson. Even if it made me look like a couch (albeit, a totally bad ass couch).

And, now, I have a brand new pair of fingerless gloves.

I always wanted a pair of fingerless gloves. I imagine this has something to do with those mesh fingerless gloves Madonna used to wear. That and my minor childhood obsession with becoming a hobo when I grew up.

But, you see, I could never really justify wearing them before. I lived most of my life in Buffalo, where it snows a lot and fingers on your gloves are seen as kind of a necessity — not so much a decorative item.

Besides, in order to pull off fingerless gloves as an adult, you really need some kind of hardcore job where you’re battling the elements while having to participate in manual labor — you know, like as a bike courier or teamster or street urchin pickpocket.

Seeing as most of my jobs have involved decidedly unhardcore tasks like teaching verb tenses or creating mail-merge documents, I’ve never really had a good excuse to wear fingerless gloves.

That is, until I moved to China to teach.

You see, in China, teaching is kind of like camping – but without the regular source of heat. (Because apparently bonfires in the classroom are really frowned upon here.)

As you can see from the photo below, my classroom bears a striking resemblance to the one-room schoolhouse in Little House on the Prairie – except, again, without the regular source of heat.

My classroom boasts very few modern conveniences and most of the conveniences are not actually very convenient. Only half of the lights in my classroom work. And they only work on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons after three.

During the winter months, both myself and my students spend the entire class period bundled up in winter jackets, scarves and hats – looking like we’re ready to tear up the ski slopes and not, say, the present perfect continuous tense.

Rather frequently while I’m not looking, my students will open one of the windows to create a typhoon-strength wind that blasts through the classroom. I think this might have something to do with feng shui. Either that or they are all participating in a fun new game called, “Let’s Give the Teacher Pneumonia.”

While I can’t say I particularly enjoy teaching in this kind of environment, it does give me a handy excuse to rock out my brand new pair of fingerless gloves like the secret troublemaker that I totally am.

Behold:

Me. And my gloves. Be honest. How scared of me are you right now?

I bought this pair at the 2 yuan store. That’s like 30 cents, guys! Because, nothing says “bad ass” like “bargain shopper”.

And while they may not look like much, I have to say, they really have a way of transforming my usual business casual look into, what I like to refer to as, “bad ass casual.”

Not only have the gloves given my boring teacherly attire an extreme makeover, they’ve also magically transformed all my boring teacherly tasks into activities much more befitting a hooligan such as myself.

Behold:

This is a photo of my hand writing on the board.

And this is a photo of my hand writing on the board like a bad ass.

This is a photo of my hand taking attendance.

And here’s my hand taking names and kicking some attendance ass, if you know what I mean.

Here I am grading papers.

And here I am getting all gangsta on those grammar errors, yo.

As you can see, the difference is immense. I bet you didn’t even recognize my hand in all fingerless glove photos! I bet you were all like, “Whoa, check out the new hand in school. She looks like trouble, that one! I wouldn’t want to run into her in a dark, unheated classroom.”

I’ve got to tell you guys, I’m really digging my new thug look (even if it comes as a result of no central heating).

I think I may have to trade my puffy, winter coat in for a leather jacket.

I’m seriously considering upgrading from my teeny tiny back tattoo to full-sleeve tatts.

And I’m totally buying a Harley and bringing it in to the classroom with me next week. (If only so we can huddle around the exhaust pipe for warmth.)

What about you? Do you have an item of clothing that makes you feel like a bad ass? Do tell! Because sharing is caring… sharing is also totally gangsta, yo.

I’m going to write about a subject I am actually qualified to write about.

Just don’t get too used to it, okay?

After all, I’d hate to ruin my reputation as a totally unreliable source of information on the Internet.

Long time, no see.

I apologize for being a bit absent on the interwebs lately.

I know you were all terribly worried.

Possibly you thought I was kidnapped by Mongolian street bandits.

Or maybe you thought I had finally succumbed to one of the many Nineteenth Century diseases I’m convinced [...]]]>

Well, hello there.

Long time, no see.

I apologize for being a bit absent on the interwebs lately.

I know you were all terribly worried.

Possibly you thought I was kidnapped by Mongolian street bandits.

Or maybe you thought I had finally succumbed to one of the many Nineteenth Century diseases I’m convinced I’ve contracted since moving to China. (At the moment I’m pretty sure I have either Black Lung or scurvy. Possibly both.)

Or perhaps you thought my couch had collapsed after a long summer of couch-sitting and cookie-binging, and I was trapped underneath one of the massive armrests — kind of like that movie with James Franco where he’s trapped by the huge boulder. Except most of my flashbacks would involve snack foods. And I really doubt I’d have the fortitude to cut off my own arm as I barely had the fortitude to watch that part of the movie. (Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly watch that part. I was too busy screaming and burying my face in a pillow.)

And, thank you so much for all your emails of concern.

Okay, so maybe only two of you sent me concerned emails.

And, okay, maybe one of those two of you was my dad. (Hi, Dad!)

But, I’m sure you all meant to send me emails, right? You were probably just too busy having bake sales and spaghetti dinners. You know, so you could raise the ransom money needed to pay off the street bandits for my safe return. (Plus, what good is an email when I’m being held HOSTAGE BY STREET BANDITS? Obviously, street bandits aren’t going to let me check my email or anything. They’re notorious for being jerks like that. And don’t even try to ask them if you can check your Facebook page.)

Alas, the reason why I’ve been missing in action lately is not nearly as exciting as all the scenarios you imagined in your head for me.

(Or, ahem, all the scenarios I imagined in your head for you for me.)

(You’re welcome, by the way.)

I’ve just been busy.

And not even fun-busy.

Just like work-busy.

I’m currently in the midst of teaching a research writing class, which means my free time is being spent reading piles and piles of research papers – half of which were written by my students, the other half of which were written by the robots of Google Translate.

When I’m not reading research papers, I spend my time wondering what I ever did to deserve such torture.

Yes.

Torture.

You would feel tortured too if you had to read essays full of lines like this one: “If you even wash his clothes all can’t, that you have the higher GPA, how do you can do?”

Seriously.

How do you can do?

That is the question.

It got to the point last weekend that I was really tempted to just pack up my bags and leave China in the middle of the night so I could avoid any more grading. (But I didn’t. Because I’m a responsible adult who is committed to her job. Or at least committed to getting a few more paychecks. Because, you know, Black Lung treatments aren’t cheap.)

Unfortunately, I have three more weeks before the term ends and about two hundred billion more essays to grade. If you don’t see much more of me on the interwebs in the next few weeks it’s because I’m busy grading.

Or, it’s because I just sawed off my paper-grading arm. (Which also happens to be my blog-updating arm and my cookie-eating arm. So, yeah, I would be really sad to see it go, but, sometimes a girl’s just got to do what a girl’s got to do.).

If, in fact, I am not be able to update my blog in the near future, I thought I’d suggest a few things you could read instead of my blog. So while I’m busy reading research papers and contemplating how many glasses of red wine I can drink before I get sloppy and just start writing, “Why? WHHHYYY? Why do you torture me like this?” all over my students’ papers, you can be reading something enjoyable… and not something that makes you want to stab your eyes out with a red pen.

Lucky you.

(You’re welcome. Again. By the way.)

Swept: Love with a Chance of Drowning by Torre DeRoche

I’ll admit that when I first saw Torre on Twitter I felt a little bit threatened. You see, Torre goes by the Twitter handle @FearfulGirl. And, well, the whole scaredy cat thing is kind of my thing, you know.

I was worried we might have to have some kind of Twitter turf war so we could see who was the biggest coward on the Internet. And, while, I’ve never been particularly competitive, I’m pretty sure I could win at a wimp-off any day. (I imagine there would be contests like “Who Can Scream the Loudest While Attempting To Kill a Spider with a Toilet Plunger” and “Who Can Lie Awake the Longest Imagining All the Different Diseases She Has Contracted.” Not to brag or anything, but I have tons of experience in these activities. In fact, I practically invented that first one while I was house-sitting in Thailand.)

My initial wariness wore off pretty quickly, though. You see, it’s pretty much impossible to not like Torre (even if she’s horning in on your Twitter turf). She’s witty and relatable and writes these highly entertaining blog posts about jerky bike riders and her Google search addiction on her blog, Fearful Adventurer.

Her book, which is a memoir of the time she sailed around the world with a guy she met in a bar, is equally witty, relatable and entertaining.

It’s also pretty much impossible to put down. (Just you try to put it down — I dare you. You’ll be all like, “I’m totally going to go to bed now seeing as I have to go to work tomorrow and all. Let me just put this book down. Right after I finish EIGHTY MORE PAGES.”)

As much as I loved her book (which I read in about two days… because, hey, who needs sleep when you have high sea adventures to read about?), I do have to say Torre has kind of lost her scaredy cat street cred with me.

Sorry, Torre, but sailing around the world?

In a teeny little sailboat?

With a man you met in a bar?

I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, lady, but that sounds pretty brave to me.

Bossypants by Tina Fey

It’s kind of freaky how Tina Fey and I have been leading parallel lives all these years.

We both had awkward adolescences.

We both have a penchant for dessert and dorky boys.

We both wear glasses and have “big gym teacher calves.” (Her words not mine. I prefer to call my calves “shapely in a tree-trunk-shaped kind of way” so as not to anger any gym teachers. We all know there isn’t anything worse than an angry gym teacher. Or an angry calf muscle.)

We both got our start in improv comedy. (Of course, for Tina Fey, improv was her start to a successful career in comedy writing and television stardom. For me, improv was my start to a career in… umm… yeah, about that career thing…)

See? It’s like we were separated at birth or something.

Of course, like the author herself, Bossypants is hilarious.

But that’s not why I loved this book.

I loved this book because it gave me hope.

If Tina Fey can write a book while juggling a demanding job in the television industry, a family and the odd photo shoot for Vanity Fair, then, surely, I can write a book while juggling a teaching job and, umm, my couch.

Okay, so maybe her book also made me feel totally inadequate.

But it was that “ha-ha funny” kind of totally inadequate.

So it’s all good.

Sleepwalk with Me: and Other Painfully True Stories by Mike Birbiglia

I’m going to be honest with you. I’m not usually the laugh out loud kind of girl.

I’d like to think this is because I have a refined sense of humor.

Or maybe it’s just because I have this really loud donkey laugh that’s kind of embarrassing.

Either way, I tend to just snicker silently when I find something amusing so as not to alarm the general public.

The first time I heard a story by Mike Birbiglia, a stand-up comedian and writer, I was at the gym listening to a podcast of NPR’s This American Life. (What? You don’t listen to NPR while working out? Come on, there’s nothing like a little Ira Glass while you’re on the elliptical trainer to really get your heart pumping, am I right or am I right? Okay, so I’m a dork. Shut it, you.)

The story, like a lot of stories in his book, was about his adolescence.

It was, as the title of his book suggests, painful and true… but, mostly, painful.

It also made me laugh so loud that the man next to me tripped on his treadmill. (Meanwhile, I had to look around with a puzzled expression on my face as if to say, “Wow, what just made that noise? Did someone just let a donkey into the gym or something?”)

So, yeah, if you do read this book, I really recommend you read it while in the privacy of your own home. I also recommend you double insulate your walls or something. Unless you want your neighbors to think you live with donkeys.

River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze (P.S.) by Peter Hessler

I read this book this summer because I felt like maybe I should, I don’t know, actually make an attempt to learn a thing or two about the country I currently live in.

The book, which is a memoir of Peter Hessler’s two years of teaching English at a university in Sichuan Province with the Peace Corps, had come recommended to me by a number of other people who had lived and worked in China.

And I would really recommend this book to any other expats living in China – especially those teaching at a university.

But, uh, maybe you should read it a couple years after you’ve left China.

You know, after you’ve made it out of here alive.

Don’t get me wrong. I really enjoyed this book. I could relate to a lot of his experiences. And I found his commentary on Chinese culture and people to be both informed and insightful. (Unlike my commentary on Chinese culture and people – which tends to be highly misinformed and revolves around wearing pajamas in public.)

And then I got to the part about halfway through the book where he gets tuberculosis.

Let me just repeat that one more time.

HE GETS TUBERCULOSIS.

Yeah, like did you even know people could still get tuberculosis?

Of course, all I could think about after reading that was, “Great. It’s only a matter of time before I get tuberculosis. In fact, I probably already have it. Well, great. Just great. Here I am trying to enlighten my mind about China, and China goes ahead and gives me tuberculosis. Isn’t that just the way.”

(Editor’s note: Not to worry. I just checked, and I don’t have tuberculosis. According to the internets, the symptoms of tuberculosis include appetite loss and weight loss. And, yeah, let’s just say those two things have yet to be an issue  for me in China. But, uh, do you know what Nineteenth Century disease causes cookie binges and a desire to watch endless episodes of Ghost Whisperer on DVD? Because whatever that is, I’ve got it. Please send medical attention… and more cookies.)

Naked, Drunk, and Writing: Shed Your Inhibitions and Craft a Compelling Memoir or Personal Essay by Adair Lara

As you can probably see from my book recommendations, I’ve been on something of a memoir kick lately. In fact, pretty much all the books I read this summer were memoirs. I thought that maybe by reading a whole bunch of memoirs, I would suddenly be inspired to write my own.

Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be the easily inspired sort.

After months of reading memoir after memoir and getting hardly any work done on my own book, I decided what I really needed was a book on how to write memoirs. (Because, obviously, there was some secret memoir-writing formula that I didn’t know about.)

The only problem was that I’ve never exactly been the type to read how-to books. In fact, every time I’ve attempted to read any kind of self help or advice book, it’s resulted in my screaming, “You’re not the boss of me,” promptly followed by my running out to do whatever the book just told me not to do.  (And that is why I can no longer even look at a diet book for fear that I will instantly start shoveling cake into my face. )

But, whatever, desperate times call for desperate measures… plus this book has the word “naked” and “drunk” in the title so if that’s not reason enough to buy it, I don’t know what is.

I’ll be honest, I haven’t read the whole book. When I first got it, I skipped ahead to the “How To Trick Yourself Into Writing” chapter first as that seemed to be what I needed the most help with at the time. And, despite being the not-so-easily inspired sort, I tend to be the easily tricked sort. So her tips actually worked for me. (For all of a month or so. Until I got clued in to all the tricks I’d been playing on myself and I promptly informed myself that I am not the boss of me. Don’t ask me who the boss of me actually is. I have a feeling it’s cake.)

I’ve since read a few of the other chapters when I’ve been between books or in need of a little kick in the pants. (Which is pretty much always, but whatever.)

What I like most about Adair Lara’s book is that it’s not preachy at all. She includes a lot of personal anecdotes about her own writing career, so it almost feels like you’re reading a memoir not a how-to book. (Again, I’m easily tricked, so this totally worked for me. Now if only diet books could be written like this, I might actually be able to read them… without, you know, all the cake.)

So, there you have it, my reading suggestions for you to keep you busy while I’m busy grading research papers.

Or busy sawing off my grading-paper arm.

Or busy trying to convince the Mongolian street bandits that I really need to check my Facebook page.

Whichever one comes first.

(You’re welcome. For like the fourth time today. By the way.)

P.S. If you click on the little linky-loos in the text above and then buy the books off of Amazon, I get money. I know, pretty sweet deal, right? Not that I’m saying this to pressure you into buying any books or anything. I mean, do whatever you think is right. But, uh, Black Lung treatments don’t come cheap, if you know what I mean.

P.P.S. Got any book suggestions for me? I could really use some light, fun reads to take my mind off of research paper reading… and prevent me from stabbing out my eyeballs. I tend to read memoirs, fiction or really any book that doesn’t tell me what to do. Bonus points if the book makes me laugh like a donkey.

On my first trip abroad, to London, I spurned t-shirts and shorts in favor of skirts and scarves in an attempt to look British. I started saying “biscuits” instead of “cookies” and “trousers” instead of “pants” and “dodgy” instead of, umm, whatever it is that [...]]]>

I’ll admit I haven’t always been the best American.

On my first trip abroad, to London, I spurned t-shirts and shorts in favor of skirts and scarves in an attempt to look British. I started saying “biscuits” instead of “cookies” and “trousers” instead of “pants” and “dodgy” instead of, umm, whatever it is that dodgy stands for. I was pleased when customers at the pub I worked at would tell me they thought I was English… you know, until I opened my mouth and started mutilating their language with my Western New York accent.

It’s not that I didn’t love my country.

It’s just that, well, being an American wasn’t exactly the coolest.

I was like the teenager who loves her parents, but would really rather they wait at the curb to pick her up from the party at the popular kid’s house. You know, because the minivan kind of smells like goats. (This is just an analogy, mind you, not a true story taken from my adolescence. Okay, so maybe my parents’ minivan did smell of goats, but, I assure you, I never got invited to any parties at the popular kid’s house.)

The older I’ve gotten and the more countries I’ve visited, the more I’ve come to appreciate my American roots — just as the teenager who gets older and learns to appreciate her parents (if not the minivan… or the goats).

I’m still not the best American.

There are lots of famous places in the States I have yet to visit – I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore or any of the largest balls of twine. Despite having lived in Washington, DC for two years, my knowledge of how the American government works has been entirely gleaned from songs in Schoolhouse Rock. I don’t keep up with American current events and only watch news shows if they’re on Comedy Central. (Wait. The Daily Show is a news show, right?)

But I am proud to be an American.

Even if being an American still isn’t the coolest.

After all, everyone says we’re fat and loud and don’t travel much outside of our country. And, when we do get up the gumption to go overseas, we show up wearing socks with our sandals.

It makes me angry when I hear people talk smack about Americans – even if there is the teensiest grain of truth in what they’re saying.

Maybe we are fat, but that’s just because we have so much wonderful food in our country! (I mean, I’ve mentioned pretzel M&M’s, right? How about coconut M&M’s? And peanut butter M&M’s? We have three times more types of M&Ms than any other country in the world – of course we’re going to be three times bigger than the people in other countries! This is just the way math works!)

Maybe we do speak kind of loudly, but that’s just because we take the whole “freedom of speech” thing pretty literally.

Okay, and maybe we don’t get out of our country much, but, I’ll have you know, those people wearing socks with their sandals are totally Canadians.

Despite the bad rap, Americans have a lot of good qualities.

Really.

(And by “qualities” I don’t just mean “snack foods,” okay.)

So, in honor of the Fourth of July*, I give you five of them**:

(*Yes, I realize the Fourth of July was a few days ago. While I may have been born in the United States, my sense of time was born somewhere in Brazil or Argentina or one of those countries where it’s perfectly acceptable to show up three days late to a party.)

(**I would have done a top ten list in keeping with my theme this summer, but I told myself I was only going to focus on the people and not on the food. Once you take M&Ms out of the equation, it kind of levels the playing field a bit, if you know what I mean.)

1. We believe that we can all be rock stars when we grow up.

I’ve been teaching off and on for the past twelve years, which means I’ve had the pleasure of asking students “What do you want to be when you grow up?” about a twelve gabillion times.

The first time I asked this question I was teaching at a Japanese high school in a rural fishing village. I was shocked when my students responded with practical, reasonable career aspirations, like anesthesiologist and nurse and postal clerk.

Umm, what?

Didn’t these kids know their teenage years were supposed to be focused on unrealistic expectations like growing up to be rock star or falling in love with a vampire or, you know, getting a date for the prom despite smelling suspiciously of goats. (Again, an analogy, people. And, no, I never went to the prom. Thanks for asking.)

A couple years later, I was volunteer teaching at an inner-city school in Buffalo. When I asked the students the same question, all the boys told me they wanted to be Kobe Bryant, while all the girls informed me that they were planning on becoming ballerinas or dolphin trainers.

Uh huh.

That’s what I’m talking about, my friends.

Americans may be big.

But you know what else is big?

Our dreams.

And, sure, many of us will grow up to have our dreams replaced with more practical aspirations. (You know, when we find out that a career in dolphin training requires actual, real-live dolphins… which happen to come in short supply in Buffalo.)

But some of us will keep on believing that we can make our dreams come true – no matter what our parents or teachers or the casting directors at America’s Next Top Dolphin Trainer might tell us.

And, as the kids say these days, that’s pretty awesome-sauce.

2. We lie like it’s our job.

Growing up in America, you never realize how much Americans lie until you go overseas and you meet people who are more than happy to tell you that you look fat today.

The truth is that Americans lie all the time.

And, despite the fact that we know everyone’s probably lying to us, we still choose to believe what we hear.

“Those pants look great on you.”

“Omigosh, you look so skinny. You should totally eat more ice cream.”

“You’re single? No way. But you’re such a great catch!”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

See?

Those are all the lies I’ve told myself in the past ten minutes.

And I believed every single one of them!

Why do Americans lie so much, you ask?

Ummm, better question: why don’t other countries lie more?

I mean, lying is the best!

Not only does lying make you look like a nice, thoughtful, considerate human being, it also makes the person you’re lying to feel better about themselves. And, in turn, the person you just lied to will probably say something equally nice and untruthful to you, like, “Your hair looks amazing today. I love how all that frizz really frames your face!” or “Seriously, you look like you’ve lost ten pounds. Don’t make me force feed you this ice cream!”

And so continues the cycle of lies.

Until, that is, you move to Asia and everyone tells you that you look fat today.

3. We over-share.

In Japan, I worked with people for three years before I found out pertinent personal information like their educational background, their marital status, and, umm, their first names.

Meanwhile, in America, it’s not uncommon to share your entire life story with girl working at the drive-thru window. I know because I used to work at a drive-thru window. And, let me tell you, I heard a lot of dirt. It’s a good thing I didn’t have a blog back then because the whole world would know all about the time you cheated on your boyfriend with that rodeo clown.

Sometimes, the American tendency to over-share can be a bit unsettling. On my first trip back to the States while I was living in Japan, the clerk at the Walgreen’s regaled me with every intimate detail concerning her recent bout of gastrointestinal problems. When she grimaced and ran off to the bathroom, I was surprised that she didn’t drag me along with her to provide me with a little physical evidence to back up her story.

But, usually, quite frankly, I love it when people tell me their stories.

I do want to hear about your husband and your kids and, yes, please, I want to see pictures.

You have thirty-eight cats? Tell me more!

What’s that? The rodeo’s in town and you happen to have something for rodeo clowns? Just wait a second while I grab a pencil and some paper so I can write it all down.

I’m a storyteller. I love telling stories, but I also love listening to them. Plus, by listening to you blab on about your life story that means afterwards I get to blab on about my life story. (By the way, you might want to borrow my pencil and paper to take a few notes.)

4. We know how to party.

Should you have never met me in person, you may not realize this, but there are actually two of me. (And I’m sure you thought it was scary enough with only one.)

You see, first there is Everyday Sally.

Everyday Sally has a job and speaks in complete sentences. Everyday Sally dresses rather conservatively – almost to the point of prudishness. She doesn’t own shorts, and it has to be a million degrees out before she’ll wear a tank top in public. Everyday Sally can be reserved in front of people she doesn’t know and would rather give herself a root canal than talk to boys.

And then there’s Party Sally.

Party Sally is loud and overbearing. Party Sally has been known to show up in a coconut bra. Party Sally has a repertoire of dance moves that Beyonce would be jealous of. (Or so Party Sally tells herself.) Party Sally will flirt with anything that moves – including that battery-operated Santa Claus doll that dances to “Jingle Bell Rock” every time you clap your hands.

As you can imagine, it’s really best if Party Sally stays indoors and as far away from the general public as possible. (Trust me. Party Sally has managed to slip outside a few times over the past couple years, and the results were never pretty.)

Luckily, Americans are all about the house party. We know that the key to a good time is opening up your home to your friends so they can be rowdy and ridiculous in front of people who know them and love them… and will forgive them when they spend the night vomiting in the bathroom sink.

Unfortunately, the house party hasn’t really caught on in any of the other countries I’ve lived in. In Asia, it’s quite uncommon to have parties in your home. The only house parties I’ve ever been to have been ones thrown by fellow expats living here. In Brazil, I went to a few house parties, but they were usually family events or children’s birthday parties, where it was considered rather inappropriate to show up in a coconut bra. (But you can’t blame Party Sally for trying, now can you?)

5. We work hard, we play hard.

I’ve seen the statistics on how few Americans travel overseas, and I just don’t get it. It’s not just because statistics involve a lot of math, and I kind of suck at math. (Okay, so maybe all my math skills were also picked up from episodes of Schoolhouse Rock.)

The thing is I’ve met lots of Americans overseas – like, most of the foreign people I meet are Americans. The majority of my coworkers and friends in Japan were Americans. I met a handful of expats while living in Brazil, and all of them were from the States. While I was volunteering in Southeast Asia, most of my fellow volunteers were American. In Chiang Mai, a lot of the people I met who were living and working there were Americans. Even now, most of my coworkers in China are either Americans or Canadians. (You can tell the Canadians by the socks they’re wearing with their sandals. Ha, ha! Just kidding. You can actually tell them by the maple leaf flags they have sewn on to their backpacks – I’m pretty sure that’s a Canadian law or something.)

Maybe it’s true that Americans don’t travel overseas much, but, from what I’ve seen, there’s a whole lot of us working, volunteering and living overseas.

I suppose it’s just our American work ethic at, ahem, work. We can’t just show up in a foreign country and lollygag around – we feel like we have to be doing something.

While everyone else is backpacking through Europe or going on gap years in India or beach bumming across Thailand, we’re renting apartments and finding gainful employment. While all the Europeans are drinking rum and Cokes out of plastic buckets, we’re going to bed early so we can wake up for work on time. Everyone else is dressed in coconut bras, and we have on sensible shoes and business casual attire.

We’re like the teenager who stays home on a Saturday night studying for her English exam instead of partying it up at the popular kid’s house. (Again, just an analogy. I aced that English exam, by the way.)

So, yeah, being an American is not the coolest.

In fact, it’s pretty nerdy.

But, you know what, that’s okay with me.

After all, I may not be the best American.

But I am pretty good at being a nerd.