One of the habits I have picked up over the past year of being a housewife is reading a weekend paper on Saturdays and Sundays. By the time I am usually up, the paper gets delivered to the door and all I have to do is to make myself a hot cup of earl gray tea (full cream milk, mad cats mug), sit down and realise that the weekend is just about to begin. I start with the thin glossy Canvas magazine (apparently, Qantas airlines award for the best newspaper mag), which is about everything and nothing. It has brain teasers (I am ashamed to admit, I like them), botox specials around town (also, very ashamed to be looking at them), and about 40-odd pages of articles on various topics. Occasionally, it is politics, often it is going green, every now and then there are "intellectual" celebrities and arty interviews. The notorious Shoe Of The Week section always features some high-end fashion pair at a thousand dollars or so. There was a huge debate recently, with people writing angry letters to the editor, mentioning recession and quoting rocketing grocery prices. Back off, - the editor responded, - art is art, and there is no price tag on it. Price tag or not, they could be picking prettier shoes more often. Anyway, the start of last weekend was marked with an article about China. I know that everything is about China these days, and the further we go, the more humongous it becomes, yet that one caught my attention. The one-child policy is having a hiccup, and things are getting more and more out of control.  Kids are lottery whether it is one of six of them, yet the risk is higher if you only get one chance of making your point in this world. So the parents - the middle of the road Chinese citizens - are placing their bets on the one and only precious thing they have - their child. Mothers carry their child's backpack around; couples forgo lunch so their child can have plentiful snacks or new Nikes. Of course there is a price tag. For the pleasure of being the only child and not having to share anything, the child gets the obligation to support the parents when they are old. In order to provide good support, you have to do well at school. And what is the best way to get good marks? That's right, study more. So this is exactly what they do - they study. Often a kid comes home from school in the afternoon, has a bite to eat, and goes straight to doing his homework - in some cases, they do it till the bedtime. Everyday. They. Study. For. Like. Ten. Hours. A Day. At one top Beijing kindergarten, students must know pi to 100 digits by the age of 3. Mad, mad Chinese! Of course, when you study for ten hours a day from 1988 till 2001, you'd have exorbitant expectations about your future, your job and your pay check. But alas - there is the reality check. Not only is China not providing enough job opportunities, it is also that everybody is just as good. Tough competition for a very limited number of applicants. So they might find it hard to adapt to blue-collar jobs and less nicer lifestyle than their parents have been setting them on to. Which just repeats my views on participating at all those crazy shows like Fear Factor and Survivor. It is OK to do it if you win - but boy, it sucks to lose. So it is OK for a parent to give everything up for a child, as long as the child pays you back. But all those years of sacrifice for possibly nothing - God forbid. PS - I am going away for the month of August, I have already recorded a new voice mail message and learn the guidebook by heart. Europe, Europe, there I come! I haven't been before, so, just as those Chinese kids, I have very high expectations :) Please wait for me, as I shall be back. Podcasts on eugenia.co.nz in September, a gorgeous black-and-white photo session with me barely clad and much more to come. Buen viaje, ciao and au revoir, mon cher amis. Yours truly, Eugenia.

Number one. Overused words. All those words that annoy the hell out of us. Webinar. Wordsmith! And organic, everything is bloody organic these days - well, literally, everything is organic. Random, sweet, awesome, POP. My list of words that make me shiver:YUM/YUMMY from anybody over the age of 6. FASHIONISTA - only dorks say that! Also, A WHITE LIE  - a lie is a lie, so you accept the fact of lying and just do it. HUBBY. VINTAGE - not all junk is vintage, I am sorry. To DIE FOR - nothing is worth dying for, especially in the retail sense. How are WE today, from waitresses and staff. Number Two. Top Ten Rudest Questions. Heh, this is what I hate being asked. 1. Where is your accent from? Especially if it is the first question they ask. From the moon, of course. 2. So, tell me about Russia. Russia is so vast, if you really want to know something, just ask a specific question. How's Russia these days also won't do it. 3. So you do _this_for a living. Are you any good? Whatever I have done in this life, people always ask that. What am I supposed to answer here? I am hopeless, but persistent, that's what. 4. So, what are you, from Romania? I can tell it's Eastern Europe. No comments here. 5. So, how's married life? It sucks! We totally don't like each other anymore now that we have a piece of paper that says we're stuck together forever. What did you think was going to happen? And also, now that we're married, it's totally weird that we live together, even though we have for over a year. EVERYTHING IS SO DIFFERENT NOW. I mean, the toilet water even swirls in a different direction!

New Zealand is a lovely spot, it is just a bit too far away from the civilised world. Every time something extraordinary happens somewhere out there - I feel left out, both physically and emotionally. I mean whoever thought of soccer Champions League taking place in Moscow must have been joking. When they say Russia is for Russians, they do not necessarily mean a bad thing. They just mean that it is harder on foreigners - and the English media offers their "Russia for dummies" course. It all starts off very nicely for Independent - they go around in a limo, visit some chain coffee places, the corpse of Lenin and a cathedral or two. And then it pops - the dummies course. "There are 3 types of cuisine, Russian aristocratic, a hazy taste-memory from the days when the Tsars hired French chefs; sushi, which in many Moscow restaurants has become the national cuisine; and rustic peasant fare, whose greatest hits include dumplings, borscht and jellied pike." The author suggests to stick to the latest, which is supposed to be eaten at the most luxurious of all Moscow restaurants - the Pushkin. A lot of funny details there, really. The author forgets to mention that the number of fans expected is about 80.000 people - the number of hotel beds available is only around 20.000. That the plane tickets are already impossible to get, and  the entry visas are being issued full-time but the embassies are not coping either. But it does emphasize the three absolute must-haves for any Russian: Bentley for him, Botox for her and sushi for the elite. Also,  apparently for those who will make it to the League games, there are six simple rules to follow: (1) a man without a good watch is not a man; (2) a man without a stunning girl next to him is not a man; (3) the man always pays; (4) never approach a pretty girl in a club, because you risk getting shot by her boyfriend; (5) if a girl approaches you in a nightclub, chances are she's a prostitute; and (6) never try to outdrink a Russian. On the contrary, the Mirror review is not that interesting. Don't buy any cheap vodka, be polite to the locals, but do not drink with them; do not lose your passport; do not engage into the street fights (might get killed). Visit the Red Square, a cathedral or two, the KBG palace on Lubyanka (sic!) and the Pushkin - this time, it's a museum. Good luck orienteering, indeed. To be perfectly honest, I already feel sorry for those naive English soccer fans. They are expecting all that jazz, oligarchs and beautiful prostitutes - and then they will arrive in Luzhniki by an old bus, get beaten by the local fans, get drunk with the local fans - and there will be it for tourism. Nowhere to sleep, and nothing to spend after one meal at Pushkin. "The first mention of Moscow as a settlement occurred in 1147 - and Russians still call it the "big village". Oh well, at least there will be no tanks by the end of May - isn't it wonderful?

I continue with my book log - cannot wait to tell the world about the literature gems that I have discovered. So this one is probably the best book I have read in the year 2007 - hands down! Although it is very different to my usual style of book choice (I could say I was caught off guard at the book shop), yet very arresting! The book is by a woman about women and probably for women. Four Chinese families immigrate to the USA circa 1950s. There are old-school Chinese mothers and their all-American daughters. Good to know that there are more dysfunctional families out there :/ I wouldn't certainly call it "a generation conflict", but it is about adaptation, the assimilation and about changing with the world around you. It is funny to follow their reaction to everything because of the different levels of their adaptation. Also, I suppose I experience similar stuff myself as an immigrant and a daughter; yet it is true that "you can take the girl out of China but you can never take China out of the girl". The only thing is that the number of main characters is 8 (plus there is supporting cast!), and it is hard to follow (Chinese names are extra confusing). Chinese people are bizarre, too. All those centuries of in-breeding have got them to the level of a very different culture and lifestyle; incredibly superstitious, fanatically religious, strictly hierarchial society, unwilling to change - or to adapt any more than they have to. All said, the book does leave you with an elated smile and all questions answered - and nothing else needed!

The new Zest magazine I bought today is an utter disappointment. The cheapest British import used to be so good – in terms of writing gleefully about living it up without picturing too many Arnold-looking women. But this one! I am still battling the urge to make a collage out of it. First it tells us that oral sex leads to mouth cancer – no less. Also it suggests a game of Birthday Paradox – allegedly, with 23 people in the room, the chances that two people’s birthdays will coincide are about 60%. I mean I have gone through my life with meeting only 2 persons who were also born on 17.06. Well, maybe I just don’t spend enough time in rooms with other 22 people. Then, “Get her body” page features Lily Allen! I guess I should be delighted it’s not Amy Winehouse. But at least there was one thing which semi-exited me and just boosted my obsession with Native American Indians. It’s snow-running – so hard to be winter-sick these days. I just want to put those tennis rackets on my feet and run to the bar where they serve hot mulled wine and cheese snacks, imagining myself to be Eugenia the Coughing Fish, out on the quest to save the prairies.

I always though 9/10 was a good way to describe a quiet, non-eventful day. I never thought much about the catastrophe - apart from the obvious polite thoughts. Even going there was not quite revelatory, standing on that spot right in the heart of Manhattan – they still clear out debris, and the place is so sinister. But I could never relate to it – in my own personal way – unless I read this book. The story has a very simple beginning and a very complicated end. And a hell of a bizarre centrefold! One very intelligent (to the point of being autistic) boy gets on the quest to find out as much as he can about how his father died in 9/11 catastrophe. “Oskar – this is my name – don’t wear it out”. The boy, who feels “incredibly panicky” in lifts and subways, and has to take cabs – which he can’t afford, but he sends the money for the ride just as promised. The boy, who “wears extremely heavy boots” and has given keys to his Upper East Side apartment to the mailman, the concierge and the pizza man. There is also Grandma, who lives with the renter, who is somewhat imaginary. There are letters to the “Unborn Child”, and there is scrap booking. There are sentences a page long, and there are characters, who are just as nuts. Bizarre! Bizarre! Bizarre! However, there is a very sweet end. Remember the man falling out of WTC? Well, in his album “Things that happen to me” Oskar rearranges the order of pages – and the man just flies up and away. Far, far away.