AYI chihuahua!

It's, like, 8:35 in the morning and I am pacing the apartment, waiting the immanent arrival of Ayi. My feet squeak across the floor. Squeak, Squeak, Squeak. Is it because my floors are so damn clean or is it the fake wood laminate that makes that sound? My floors at home don't squeak. They are real wood. They are usually covered in dirt tracked in by curious and tactile boys.

My phone screams at me; I have an urgent message. It's Robert, our former driver, the one who thinks I speak with sharp tongue and who thinks I'm a nut job. "Ayi will be late, she is on her way. Traffic is bad. This will not happen again. I told her she must ride her bike in and be there on time! My apologies."

I relax and listen to the steady drip of my upstairs neighbors shower. Thump, thump, thump it goes on the concrete. It seems my neighbors are always showering. The drip never stops. One time the drip turned into a steady stream that came through the cement and dry wall and leaked coldness into our bathtub. I envision our neighbor's tub crashing through our ceiling and squashing the kids. Blood and cement and steel and porcelain everywhere.

I call Lucy. Whenever I have a problem with the apartment, I call Lucy. Our dishwasher does not work, so in comes Lucy her high heels clicking. Click Click Click. I remember thinking: "Uh, you gonna fix my dishwasher in THOSE shoes?" Turns out that Lucy's only job is to announce her colleague is coming to fix my dishwasher. Two minutes later, the colleague enters and chain smokes his way into my kitchen. Lucy leaves. Colleague doesn't know jack about dishwashers. He comes back 4 more times and finally calls Colleague Number 2 for assistance. Colleagues 1 and 2 chain smoke and discuss the price of leeks and Feraris. They peek under the lid of my fry pan and see a whole chicken--feet and toenails and beak and comb and gobbler and melting eyeballs and all--and wonder aloud if this is what Meiguo rens (Americans) eat, but they do not fix my dishwasher. I want to tell them that it probably has something to do with fact that the water hoses have been affixed to the appliance with stuffed newspaper and that perhaps a better suited connection might allow water to flow through, but I can't say "Why don't you use a water pipe that actually fits this dishwasher" in Mandarin.

Two days later the dishwasher was gone, leaving a gaping hole in my cupboards. Then magically it reappeared. It was the same dishwasher and it sucked up water just fine, but then it sprayed all the dirty water into my cabinets and onto the floor. I gave up on trying to fix the dishwasher. I can wash our dishes by hand, but I know full well that we will probably lose our deposit for "breaking the dishwasher." It might be worth it just to not have to listen to the chain-smoking colleagues in my apartment everyday.

A loud explosion rattles me back to the present where I can still hear the dripping. I muffle the sound by cranking up the Lupe Fiasco. This is war. You drip, I hip hop. The bathroom ceiling access hatch is still open, revealing the source of the leak: aluminum foil covering the drain pipes. Seriously, I could not make up this shit if I tried. It can't possibly cost much to cap them with PVC caps. There are a million shops that sell nothing but PVC pipes and caps in the hutong behind the Park Avenue complex. But this is China.

I am glad Ayi is late. I don't want an Ayi. Austin insisted. It sounds romantic and all, to have someone clean your house and cook your food, but it's really just fucking awkward. I can put my own groceries away, thank you very much, and wash my own clothes, and sweep my own floors. Or not. Besides, Ayi Ge Yu Rong does not speak a lick of English.

I resume pacing and then I sit, trying to look natural, on the world's most ornate and overstuffed couch. It's froof times 10. It's like Snufalupagus crashing into a Victorian claw-footed tub. Snuffy's long eyelashes the fringe on the umpteen pillows. I had to remove half the pillows to even be able to sit. If only I could stuff half this plush into the rock-hard mattresses. The Chinese will sleep on anything. I once saw a guy use a brick for a pillow. He was taking his siesta on a concrete curb, his head propped on a brick. I on the other hand wake up constantly with my hips, elbows and joints tingling and throbbing from prolonged pressure on the hard mattress. Austin does not have a problem, he flips and flops and kicks and punches all night long. He never sleeps in one place long enough to make his limbs fall asleep.

The doorbell rings. I startle. I summon all Mandarin skills (I can say hi) and smooth my frizzle-dry hair and open the door. "Ni Hao! I say, trying to sound cheerful and confident like I have done this before. "Ni Hao," Ge says with a smile. We stand looking at each other. Great, now that's over. I've exhausted my Mandarin. Now what?