Shooting for the conversational bull's-eye with my tongue tied behind my back

Me speak ugly Chinese.

Or at least I think that's what I'm saying.

The actual translation is more like "Me talk genuine bad good Chinese".

Having been born with a tin ear and inflexible tongue, my Mandarin is, well, let's just say I would be at the bottom of the class - a kindergarten class.

BWF's (big, white faces) have it easy.

Locals see them coming and subconsciously prep themselves for an extended session of stilted communication and hand-signals. For me, my Chinese ancestry belies my poor grasp of the language until I open my mouth, provoking them to ask if I'm Japanese.

"No," I answer, bowing politely.

"I'm Canadian."

Their reaction is almost always the same.

Their brows furrow in the slow realization that their dreams of immigration will most likely produce future generations like me who can't put two characters together with a pair of chopsticks.

The trouble lies in the fact that Chinese is a devilishly difficult language to learn.

First there are the tones. My tones are usually four octaves above or below the correct pronunciation, but I'm hoping to be understood within the greater context.

For instance, while growing up in Canada, a recent immigrant from Guangdong's provincial capital Guangzhou said to me, "I'm hungry; let's go out for a coffee and a doo-nut."

Of course, I knew he meant donut - immigrant or not, he's Canadian for heck's sake!

But most people here are sticklers for correct tones forcing me to mime what I want. Through many failed attempts, I found out dogspeak in China is, "rong rong", not, "woof, woof".

A little knowledge can be dangerous. This is a fact.

Imagine a conversation as a game of darts. Some darts hit the bull's eye, some the inner circle and many go into the wall.

Having understood only the ones that hit the bull's eye, I have unknowingly agreed to many darts that have landed way off the mark.

I was as surprised as anyone to find - courtesy of the five cases that arrived at my front door, that I was the latest representative of Uncle Zhou's Chili Balm - "Good for your muscle aches and tasty for your noodles!"

Plans to have my kid sell the stuff went nowhere. That is, my kid would go nowhere near Uncle Zhou's Chili Balm.

While I carry around a few simple Chinese phrases to fake like I understand the conversation (the word, "Really?" can extend your contribution to the discussion until the next round of drinks is on you; then it's time to leave), I'm at a total loss when it comes to written characters.

Not being able to read not only means I miss the best gossip about local celebrities and their baby mamas but also that I'm limited to items written in English.

But with groceries, imported products mean inflated prices, so occasionally I'll take a chance on a local brand for a foodstuff like peanut butter, which the owner's teenage nephew translated into "happy moon new blue ground nut".

Interestingly, the banana-like notes of the spread pairs well with aged cheese.

But being illiterate in Chinese has its advantages.

I'm not susceptible to crazy marketing schemes that pop up all the time - like for tonics that promote the growth of hair and IQ levels or face-whitening creams that promise the undead parlor of a Twilight extra.

Years ago, local real estate companies would text me daily, promoting their apartments at 8,000 yuan ($1,261) per square meter. But because it was in Chinese I ignored them. At today's prices, I couldn't even buy a parking space for 15,000 yuan per square meter.

If I had to change just one thing about living here, it wouldn't be the smog or the traffic or even the constant car honking that just blends into one continuous cacophony of flat notes.

I would wish that everyone here would speak English. A pipe dream? No more so than me learning Chinese!