As The Fontanians launch date draws nearer I can’t help but intertwine the impending success or failure of the site with the success or failure of myself as a human being. Which is wrong, I know. But knowing something cerebrally and believing it in the core of your being are two such very different things. And only the latter really matters.

I feel invisible sometimes. Like I need to roar to be seen. Like I need to strip to be heard. Like someone scraped away every layer of my power and left me raw and impotent. Like people feel they have to sympathize with me when I tell them where I’m from. Like it’s not enough to just say “I’m Zimbabwean” anymore. You have to say “I’m Zimbabwean but…”. Without that disclaimer, they’ll see you as either a pauper or plunderer. A rapist or a victim. Black or white. No more shades of grey.

But I’m Zimbabwean, and I am grey.

So, somehow, I have to focus on the power that I have – writing – and I have to leverage it the best way I know how – online – and I have to shout and scream and beat my chest as loud and long and hard as I can. Until they see me.

I am Zimbabwean and I am grey. And I am more powerful than you give me credit for, World.

Unless it all goes horribly wrong. In which case this could be a little bit catastrophic.

But, no pressure. Me and my big mouth.

Good luck, Me.

Newsflash! The Budget Gudget is over.  I don’t have the stamina for it.  Plus, on Wednesday, I pretty much hurled myself headfirst into a sea of taxi-riding, wine-drinking and dinner-eating-out.  It is so over.

Listening to India Arie right now.  And wondering whatever did happen to Lauryn Hill.  I was sure she was going to be the soundtrack to my life.  Then she done gone lost her mind.

Boo.

AKA: Can I live my Shanghai life on RMB 32 (USD 4.70) a day?

We’ll see.  And here are more answers to questions you aren’t even thinking of asking.

What’s a “gudget”? A word that rhymes with “budget”.  Obviously.

Why RMB 32 (USD 4.70)? Two reasons:

• Because that will keep my monthly spend under RMB 1000 (USD 146).
• Because I tried RMB 25 (USD 3.60) a day once and I really, really struggled (jacked it in on Day 3).  I also did RMB 50 (USD 7.30) a day the year before last and it was far too easy.

I like to set myself these challenges because, since becoming a freelancer and having to deliver my very best for every single penny I earn, I am evangelically evangelical about VFM (value for money).  This is not to say that I always go cheap, but I do expect there to be a very direct correlation between the kerching! I spend and the satisfaction I derive from it. (Which is code for: When we are talking shoes, all bets are off.)

The Rules:

• This RMB 32 (USD 4.70)-a-day spend does not apply to weekly grocery shopping or any necessary recurring expenses e.g. rent / bills etc.  I am not doing a penance so I will still eat full meals and do what it takes to make sure our lights aren’t turned off.  I’m simply cutting back on the untrackable amounts I spend on things like cabs, lunch, post-work drinks etc. to see what’s possible if I take a more disciplined approach to me spending.
• The challenge doesn’t apply to my health.  I will not try to find a doctor to treat me for 20RMB if I have already blown 13RMB on the day I get sick.
• To make it a little harder I have to keep on living my Shanghai life, as I know it i.e. go out at least two or three times a week.
• If I come in under budget one day, I can carry the surplus over to the next day.  I cannot, however, go over-budget one day and the try to make up the difference on subsequent days.

Strategy Part I: Find a LOT of two for one deals, latch onto a friend and hold on for dear life.
Strategy Part II: Hope that said friend is not a reader of this blog.

The Point:

• I have just come back from a 4-week spend-a-thon vacation
• I’m paying 4 months of rent to activate my new lease on Friday so May is definitely be-smart-with-your-money month (I have one each year).

Start Date: Monday 10 May
End Date: When I get bored When I get paid When I spot a bottle of wine with my name on it June 9

So, here we are…Day 1.

The story so far…

• Breakfast – didn’t fancy oatmeal at home, just had free office coffee
• Bus(es) to work – 3RMB
• Lunch – 4 包子 (steamed buns) @ 1.2RMB.  That’s right, lunch for under 5RMB!
• Bus(es) from work – 3RMB
• Dinner – 8RMB (from vendors on the street – not off the street surface itself – in case that wasn’t clear)

Daily Spend: 19RMB

Surplus: 12RMB

Is this going to be be ridiculously easy?

To be continued…

Blogging a lot less than I had hoped because internet access is the tricksiest thing to pin down around these parts.  Here’s how the Harare vs. Shanghai showdown is playing out so far….

Feeling “at home”
Harare 1 – 0 Shanghai
I stay in Shanghai; I live here.

Food
Harare 2 – 0 Shanghai
Guzzling down local milk without fear of a melamine overdose.  How do you like them apples, Shanghai?
 
Public Transport
Harare 2 – 1 Shanghai
The combi (taxi van) drivers here are super aggressive and scary!  None of the routes are marked.  And they never have change for a dollar – even though a one-way journey is 50c. I feel like a tourist.  Boo.

Drivability
Harare 3 – 1 Shanghai
People actually adhere to the road rules here – sort of – so I am totally 4-wheeling it.  And pedestrians are valid road users too.  So … it’s not ok to run them over? What a very revolutionary way of thinking.

Weather
Harare 4 – 1 Shanghai
It’s hot in H-Town, but not sticky. Your make-up might sizzle, but it won’t melt off – taking an entire layer of epidermis with it. 

Communications
Harare 4 – 2 Shanghai
It’s like you need a degree in neurophysics just to figure out how to top up your phone.  And after that, the bloody thing still won’t send texts. And don’t even think about loading more than one internet page at a time.  Or sending a file bigger than 500kb in size.  Le sigh.

Comfort of Living
Harare 5 – 2 Shanghai
Yay English and Shona!  And yay good manners! And yay queuing. And yay people not spitting everywhere! And yay not trying to tug on my hair! And yay not muttering racial epithets under your breath.   And yay at not being shocked that I am “brown all over”.  And yay the familiarity of my mom and dad’s house. Yay to all of it, I say. Yay, yay, and 1000 times yay.

The Market Experience
Harare 6 – 2 Shanghai
The wares here are pretty much the same as what Shanghai markets offer, except that here, no one rugby tackles you into their stall if you even take a tiny peek at their stuff out of the corner of your eye.  The corner of your eye can get you into so much trouble.  Watch how you use it. 

Infrastructural Ambition
Harare 6 – 3 Shanghai
Shanghai has the expo as its driving force.  Harare has Robert Mugabe. 

Freedom of the Intertubes
Harare 7 – 3 Shanghai
It may be s…l…o…w… as slow can be.  But at least half of it has not been crippled due to an irrational paranoia.

Once in a very long while, the stars just align and there is a sign, an unmissable, unignorable sign that let’s you know that everything is going to be alright.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: The Sign.

Look out for me teetering like a tall uncomfortable tree in these all summer long.  Yeah baby.

Oh. Em. Gee.

They’ve just given Timothy Olyphant his own show.
I watched the pilot episode last night.  No idea if it was good or not.  I was too blinded by the pretty.
Timothy Olyphant.  Loads of screen time.  Every single week.
This is just the kind of evidence Christians should point to when championing the existence of an all-powerful, benevolent God.

He really does meet our every need.

Amen.

You know that scene in Frankie and Johnny – awesome movie by the way – where Al Pacino tells Michelle Pfeiffer to open her robe and he stares at her nakedness for what seems like forever?

That’s what blogging can feel like when you write personal stuff.  Like you are completely exposed and people are staring right into you.  I don’t write much personal stuff here – a lot (a lot) of what I write is made up (have ya read the “About Me” section?), most of the stuff that is true is observational – about other people, not me.

I have another blog that I write anonymously – like being nude but having a paper bag over your head.  I may or may not have mentioned that before, and lately it’s getting harder to decide what to write here. Firstly, because it’s a lot easier to be honest under the cover of namelessness.  Secondly, if the initial goal of this blog really was content aggregation, and I’m pretty sure it was, then I think “Mission Accomplished, Artonym”.

I don’t know.  Maybe a short break will be good.  Just until the lines are a little less blurred.  Or until I get my Artonym mojo back.  Or until I stop saying silly things like “Artonym mojo”.    It could be in as little as a day.  Or as long as a week.  Less…More…  Can’t really say.

But I do love you, Arty.  You’ve been good for me.

Nicked from a friend’s status update on Facebook – but apparently it’s a famous quote.

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” Billy – Age 4

I’m doubtful that “Billy, age 4″ ever existed (Bravo, clever marketeers.) but still, this is the freshest, least contrived description of love I have heard in a while.  I really dig the idea of a sacred part of you finding refuge inside someone else.

So I have decided I am going to go to one of those black women meetings.   I have always rejected being part of such associations because:

Reason #1
If there were a similar club for white men, I would a) resent the hell out of it and b) wonder what they were talking about that they felt dark-skinned people should not be privy to.  And, the conclusion I reached would freak me out.

Reason #2
I am not really a fan of “women” as a genus, or, rather, of the mythical sisterhood that purportedly binds us together.  One on one, Girls, we’re great.  But clump us together and we’re either a bunch of angry feminists or wilting daisies – without much light and shade in between. It’s kinda irksome – the lack of balance when we are en masse. For example, how annoying are those working mothers who bleat on and on about how short maternity leave is and what a wrench it is for them to have to leave little Bitsy after “only” one year of at-home mother-child bonding?  One year, for goodness sake! And I’m pretty sure it was a woman behind those obnoxious “Baby on Board” signs that make you want to rear end the vehicle in front of you just so you can say: “That’s what I think of your idiot sign”.  And what about the constant, passive aggressive competition we are in with each other?  For a prize none of us can really articulate but for which we’d happily set ourselves on fire if it meant winning?  And the workplace overcompensation.  Corporate Boss Woman scares me.  I don’t know if I want to be her, punch her in the face or run for my life.  Probably a little of all three.  And don’t get me started on the Great Make-Up Heist of 1864…That’s not an actual thing, by the way, but make-up is the Devil.  How did we ever get duped into believing we can only look/feel pretty when we are in disguise?  And yes, I wear it.  *Meep*.

Reason #3
I am not much of a joiner.   Cliques, by their very nature, are designed to separate and ostracize.   Which is kind of mean. Not that separation and ostracization are always bad.  But with this group, I realize that none of my friends in this city would be eligible to join.  Either because they aren’t black, or because they aren’t women.  Which seems odd to me.   And a little scary.  I always like to have back-up when going into a situation where I am meeting a bunch of unknowns.  To reduce the likelihood of my being kidnapped.  Or of someone spiking my drink and harvesting my organs in a back room that doubles as a laundry cupboard while I am lying paralyzed yet totally sentient.  These things happen.

Reason #4
On any night out, in any metropolis in any country on planet earth, go into the ladies’ bathroom some time between midnight and 3 am and you will find a woman – weeping and sniveling and vainly trying to stop her mascara from running.  The cause of her distress will always be a boy.  Yet the weeper is not always a girl.  Often she is old enough to know way better.  Occasionally, she is even old enough to know that she is old enough to know better.  TCOB (Toilet Crying Over Boys) is the worst.   It makes me mad at my uterus.

Reason #5
Racism makes me as …aaarrrggghhh!!! … as the next person.  Especially the unflinchingly blatant racism that black people face when living in monoracial Asia.  But here’s the thing: I. Do.  Not.  Want.  To.  Talk about it all day.  And, quite frankly, the fact that you’ve been through it too makes me feel worse, not better.  I really hope that this club doesn’t turn out to be one big fat pity party where we sit around and lick our post-apartheid, post-Obama presidency wounds all night.

Anyway, my friend T – who is very smart – thinks I should go.  She gave some reasons that sort of made sense – though not really.  But 2010 has to be the year I try more things out and I am very hopeful that the group turns out to be as great as I have heard it is.  And, of course, that they don’t hate me after reading this.  Or even hate me before reading this.  Wish me luck!

Here’s the thing about surprises: they are invariably rubbish.

Unless it’s like “Surprise! We’ve found a donor for that kidney you so desperately need” there are very few surprises that really blow your hair back.

What that means is that you have to fake the hair blowbackerry because if you don’t then you, the surprisee, will hurt the surpriser’s feelings.  And the surpriser is a friend or family member trying to do something nice for you.

As I close in on my 31st birthday (roar!), I am thinking that this year, I don’t want to have to fake being impressed or pleased.  There’s a simple way round this…no gifts.

I get to see my parents the day after my birthday and hang out with them for three whole weeks.  I really, really need that.  The rest is just fluff.  Don’t want it.  Don’t need it.  So, to my mates and sisters who don’t read this blog – I know this for a fact because somehow most of my (3) readers are from the US (Hi, America!) – this is what I want for my birthday:

Veer off this course at your peril.  This year I will actually say out loud what I usually think when people go off-script in the gift department: Why do you hate me so much?

Thing number 1: Cheesecake.  My relationship with The Cake is truly mystical.  Definitely spiritual.  Like the time I was walking past that Angel cheesecake shop on Fuzhou Lu on my way to work at the peak (or should that be “the nadir”?) of diet number 5 kerjillion and 8.  Against my better judgment I walked in and was immediately overwhelmed by the warm, buttery, lemony aroma of cheesecake.  Cheesecake of every description.  I may have passed out from the delirium. No one will tell me how they found me but apparently a concerned passerby helped me out the store as I wailed and shredded my clothes in an ecstasy of yearning.

Thing Number 2: Poetry recommendations.  You don’t have to buy me the books.  Just find a poet you think I might like and then casually say, on December 23, have you ever read anything by Blah Blah, Iris?  And I’ll be really excited to have the chance to blow your mind with the poetry that I have read (not that much, to be fair) and keen to hear about this Blah Blah fellow who seems to have slipped under my radar.  And if he turns out to be awesome, I’ll think of you every time I read a Blah Blah poem.  Which will be often.  So we all win.

Thing Number 3: Come round to my place and teach me how to put in contact lenses.  It’s been 9 months since I’ve been wearing them and it still takes me a minimum of 20 minutes, some vicious quasi-eye-gouging, a definite reddening of the whites and streams of tears running down my cheeks as all the poking and prodding wreaks havoc with my tear ducts.  I could just check on my go-to site – I heart you http://www.videojug.com – but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the pleasure of helping me.

And that’s it.  How low maintenance am I?

Ooh, and money.  I’ll never say no to cold hard cash.