Winter 1997-
During my brief stay in Hong Kong, BF and I decided we would live together upon our return to the U.S. as soon as school was over. But before any more commitments were made, we discussed one other very important issue. You see, Boyfriend (BF) had serious concern for the fire engine lipstick I wore during our first date. I initially argued that I had been wearing that color in the last decade, no one tells me what to wear, and furthermore, I paid for it myself. From his standpoint, red was “just gross!” I realized I did not want to get too worked up for something so trivial. I have been dealing with more substantive issues since my son was born that lipstick color was hardly an issue for me. Potty training boys are trickier when they’re over thirty years old. I was wise enough not to stand on a shallow principle and at that point, I loved him enough to give up red lipstick.
Lesson 1 –you are seriously considered for the part when the make-up artist discusses color. If you absolutely hate it, connive with the lights designer instead!
Upon our return to the USA, BF bought a townhouse. Shortly thereafter, my son and I moved into his house in the next State. There was going to be another woman in the house. This chapter is about her. She is the Nanny-Housekeeper (NH).
First there was a language "barrel" (sic), and it did not concern mine. It was the NH's. I would give her instructions and she would nod while saying something back. Then she proceeds to do something entirely different from what I have instructed her to do. I did not know 99% of the time what she was saying, and I was guessing the other 1%. When my face showed confusion, she would talk to BF and he would say, “uh-huh.” I was envious; he understood her.
One evening at the dinner table, she started saying something to him. He nodded and said the usual uh-huhs. Later, I asked him what she said. He said he did not understand a word she said. "So why are you always agreeing?" He said matter-of-factly, "To get her off my back." That set the tone for the next 3 and a half long years of figuring out how to communicate better with a hard working but incoherent woman I trusted my son with. It was an adventure all of its own.
1- electric avenue-
One night, BF was out of the country on business. It started to get hot and humid in Washington, DC. I instructed NH to bring out the electric fan from the basement so we can use it as an exhaust in the kitchen. She emphatically nodded her head. "Do you understand?" I asked. She looked insulted. "Uh-huh." I left to go to work while she took the boy to school. Later that evening, I came home to a clean house with electric blankets installed neatly on every bed in the house. I called BF who was in Germany to tell him what happened. We were convulsed with laughter.
2- mother is dead-
I tried a different approach. I used hand motions, and I also told her that if she wanted, she can speak to me in her mother tounge. She responded that her mother was dead. I said, in Spanish, “Es decir es que podemos hablar una y la otra en su idioma natal” [It means that we can speak to each other in the language of your birth]. She said, “No, I born…hmmm, mi mama murio” (She put a hand under her chin, making a cut-throat motion to make me understand that her mother is dead). Then she closed her hands together and her eyes rolled back as if in fervent prayer. Then she said, “Whoa! We speaken English.”
3- mary poplin -
One bright Saturday morning, I asked NH to go with me to run errands. I figured we could use some time to get more at ease in each other’s presence. I was wearing jeans, an old shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. She came out of her room, dressed in her Sunday best, carrying a leather handbag, wearing a hat, and a pair of pumps. I was too stunned to object to Mary Poppins' outfit. So, it was that fateful day that I "chauffered" her around. She loved going out and about!
She carried herself like a Colombian drag (sic) queen; she stepped out of the car, adjusted her hat, and walked with her nose up in the air. When she would purchase something, she would take out her checkbook and sign it deliberately, with a palpable air of superiority. When a cashier would try to ask her how she was doing, she acted like she was bored with the question. She would not respond or when she would, it would be an enthusiastic “Good!” Wanting to distance myself from the fool, I walked behind her. I succeeded to look like her personal maid in tattered blue jeans. At some point, I wanted to tell her something. She smiled and then whispered a warning to me, "I sayen to myself que I kill her if she talken Spanish to me in public." "She ---who are you talking about?" "Que you!" I wanted to choke her. She was going to kill me if I spoke Spanish to her? I told her "Oiga, voy a matarle antes que se me mata, me entiende?" She looked at me and said "Si, claro. You goen kill me if I kill you." That was the last time I took her around with me. Nada mas que desde entonces! [No more from now on.]
Lesson 2 - do not kill someone who has already killed you.
4- Spinach-
My son told me "Mommy, you know, she speaks Spinach." The problem with NH was that she came to the USA not speaking English. Her first employer who she took care for over two decades suffered a stroke. The lady lost her speaking ability and thus NH and she communicated in a manner only they could understand. She spoke something that sounded like pidgin English peppered with Spanish. The worst thing was that she thought she was speaking fluent English, saying with conviction, for instance "A message por telefono call for you." That was easy to understand but then the message she wrote never made sense so we told her, "If the phone rings, please do not answer. Thank you." "Okay." She did it anyway. However, she folds the linens like they just came back from the factory, inspected and passed by Inspector Number 8. The linen closet looked like Martha Stewart personally organized it.
5- telemarketer terminator
NH’s language skills had its unforeseen and amusing consequences. Telemarketers would call. I could just imagine.
TM: Good morning, may I talk with Mr. Whiteguy?
NH: No, he no here. Please to message?”
TM: Well, is Mrs. Whiteguy there?”
NH: No, she no here. Okay? Please to message?”
TM: Do you know what time they will be home?”
NH: No, I tellen they no home. Look, please to message?"
TM: Okay thank you. Goodbye. We’ll call some other time”
NH: I tellen…Dial tone.
6- hot towels -
One evening, I heard the microwave oven running so I went downstairs to see what was going on. I was worried that perhaps she was still hungry. BF was out of town. I tiptoed downstairs and asked her what she was cooking. She gave me a "what do you care look" and said, "I just dryen kitchen towels." "That is not a dryer. You are cooking towels. Listen why don’t you wash your hair then stick your head in the microwave. Tell me if it dries your hair, ok?" I went back to my room. I was furious. I was now realizing the danger of having this woman in charge of the house and my son. I calmed down when I realized that my son was too big to fit in the microwave oven. BF told me later that I should have not told NH to dry her hair in the microwave oven as I might find her doing just that. Lesson 3 - Do not use sarcasm with a moron. And buy a small-sized microwave oven.
7- what the hickey?
NH was proud of cleaning the house. She scrubbed our range so well that she changed its color from white to "chrome." I also knew that she watched a lot of TV. My son told me that she watched “Okrah” and “Maury Porbitch”. He said, “Do you know that Maury Porbitch is the husband of Corny Chung?” If NH knew I was at home, for example, she would take out the vacuum cleaner to show me how well she does it. Never mind that I might be watching television. She had to be in the same room, vacuuming. Or I would pick up the phone and the moment I started talking, out went the whoop-whoop of the vacuum. I would raise my hand but she would not stop. So I would hold my conversation, and tell her "I am on the phone. OMG you are loca! Why don't you get the electric saw and start cutting up some trees? As she walked away, she would put her hand on her forehead, and exclaim with her hands akimbo , “Oh my Lordy!?” Then with palms up, she would say loudly, “Why I do that? What the hickey?!”
The first day school started, NH greeted me downstairs in the morning, grinning and holding my shoes in one hand and my purse on the other. She stood in the foyer, waiting for me to take them from her. She was wearing an all-white uniform with matching nurse's shoes. She took the little boy to school, he was a few steps ahead of her, carrying his book bag, marching down the path to the elementary school. She strutted proudly, as if she was making an early morning round. BF and I looked at each other after they left and he asked, “What’s with the uniform?” I started laughing uncontrollably. We’re in the set of "Cuckoo's Nest."
Actually, my son said he wanted a young nanny who wears a leather jacket, jeans, and has a walkman. We convinced him that NH is a hard worker, she would be a good mommy helper, he should give her a chance. He was fine with that. So she would feed him and make sure he does his homework. But she apparently talked incessantly until he started to call us and say “NH is driving me crazy. She would not shut up. Tell her to be quiet please!” We told him to cover his ears and say “nah-nah-nah-nah.’ She told us the boy was disrespectful, covering his ears and saying nah-nah-nah-nah.” We told her that she should walk away from him when he does the nah-nah-nah-nah. Imagine the cacophony!
lesson 4 – never underestimate the power of nah-
We told her that she was not to wear her uniform and she was not to wait with my shoes and purse every morning. It was pretentious to expect that kind of servitude. I also asked her to address me by my first name. We both knew where we stood. I did not need any special term of address. She would refer to me only as her patrona, her lady boss. She kept the house in a 'show' condition but I started to become frustrated - it was like directing an improv where one of the characters speoke jibberish and the others were supposed to figure out and respond with appropriate lines. The dialog for Scene 2, Act 1 , Improv, between nanny and single mom living in with nanny's boss:
NH: Patrona, es que I go con mi friends in weeken to choorch.
Me: What did you say?
NH: I sayen que yo go con mi friends de Columbia in weeken to choorch
Me: What did you say?
NH: (sigh) I sayen que me go friends el fin de semana a la iglesia, ja sabe?
Me: (sigh) Oh, you are going with your friends to church. That is nice.
NH: Weekeng, uh-huh.
I started noticing that NH had no problem taking instructions from BF. In fairness, I think "come here" can only mean just that. She goes to him. Or "get the vacuum" and she produces the damn vacuum. But when I say, "NH, please vacuum under the bed and dust behind the closet door." This is what I would get: She vacuums around the bed, and close the door of the closet. If the door is already closed… you do the math. And when I pointed out her faux pas, she would say, “I do exactly you ask me.” If I point out something that was amiss, she would point at me and say “You the one I think you do it.” Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!
It was not easy but I tried to work around these things. I demonstrated what needed to be done and I used to blame myself for trusting that she understood what I asked her to do. Countless times, I could just cry from frustration about the things she did but BF told me that she obviously did not have the mental capacity to process information. He came home late; he did not have to deal with the other woman as much as I did. However, she reliably kept my son safe and the house clean. My blouses were pressed and my kitchen was spotless. Little by little, I learned to be a little bit more patient and took the tonterias in good humor. I found out that she was violated as a young woman, that she was an accountant and a tennis player. She told me that she was raised by her father. Okay, the part about the violation as a young woman tore at my heart, the fact that she was raised by her father was a fact, but that she was studying to be an accountant and a champion tennis player in Bogota made me want to commit murder and suicide. Instead, I put my elbows on the table, covered my face with my hands and shook my head. She's a total wack. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah! OMG, I crossed over to Twilight Zone!
Finally, one evening she was showing BF something. She said, "Lookie here, lookie, need a buy her blouse." Before I could say anything, he was inspecting my blouse that I have mended and said, "You need to throw this away. Buy some new clothes." Every week, she would show BF something that belonged to me, which she discovered needed to be replaced or discarded. I said, "Tell me, show me, muestra me. Do not show him. You show me." She may have meant well, but I felt humiliated when she smiled at me while she pointed out my mended clothing, broken wristband, scuffed shoes. I felt like she could not wait to show him the crack in the heels of my glass slipper. I was being exposed as a fraud. Aaargh!
Lesson 5- payback is a biatch.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I was given a comeback audition for lead role, becoming Mrs...part 3 of many.
Winter- 1997
We were ready for our holiday in Thailand and Indonesia. I was appropriately warned by BF, "Do not get used to this." I was not prepared for what was to come.
One afternoon during our daily foray along Monkey Road, I fell in like with the "bench boys." It was a group of boys, individually carved out of wood, don't ask how I knew they're boys; I knew; with mother and father figures, all seated on a wooden bench.
BF was at the store next door so I decided to try haggling myself. I could not do it. When the shopkeeper/storekeeper (SK) told me it was $7.00, I could not bring myself to ask her to sell it to me for half the price. I gave her a mournful look. She did not want to lose the sale so she gave me $.25 discount. When BF found how much I paid the lady, he acted genuinely shocked at my being duped, at the "astronomical" cost I paid. I, on the other hand, defended the altruism behind my purchase, "The lady needs to feed her kids tonight. She needs the $6.75 more than I do!"
You see, BF had a system and I did not "get it." When we would find an artwork we wanted, he would spend time with the storekeeper learning about it. The Balinese takes pride in their artwork and it shows. Each of the mobiles and the masks is painstakingly carved on pule or waru wood among others and painted in deep colors. They are mostly dance masks and represent characters in the Ramayana. And I collected and loved them. Anyway, BF would ask at least 15, in my estimation no less, questions about the work. He and the SK would have an earnest discussion for what seemed an eternity. Then we would leave the store empty handed! The victim (SK) is silent. It drove me absolutely crazy.
I held, and still hold the belief, that if I spend time with a SK, posturing as I might that I am interested in something he is selling, and I discuss prices with him, and I show interest in the object we are discussing, then I believe that I am actively negotiating. When ShopKeeper and I both agree about his merchandise's quality, about its beauty, and about its price, I ought to buy it. I owe it to him, for his time, and his goodwill, to show him the money. Not BF.
He would spend endless time, with what I personally termed shooting bull with the shopkeeper. Maybe "bs-ing" is a strong word, but you see, I feel strongly about these things. For example, when I so badly want to own an object and it is taking forever to buy it and what's keeping me from owning it is BF's and SK's endless exchanges of "No, too high, it should be lower" and "No too low, give me a little bit more..." , I honestly believe I have the right to rescue myself from this stressful situation by raising my hand to call their attention and proclaim, in no uncertain terms, "Excuse me! I do not want it anymore!" Silence from both sides of the negotiation counter. Uh-huh!:-)
"But I thought you liked it?!" "I don't anymore." "Why?" "Because the guy is lying." I am particularly emboldened by my hope that the SK does not speak English because I am 'dissing' him. I tell BF, "He would not give his honest price. He is lying and your haggling makes me nauseous."
One day, in Hong Kong's Stanley Market, I was asked by one by well-meaning shopkeeper why I looked so annoyed. I told her it was because I hate that everyone was lying to me. She told me that the shopkeepers respect someone who haggles; right, they respect me when I acknowlege by haggling that all of them are con artists trying to make me part with my limited single mom hard-earned money that I was totally spending on crap. OMG, was I that bitter?
Anyway, when I would ask BF why he would not buy after all that banter, he would tell me that now that he knows more about the subject, he would find similar objects in other shops and perhaps get a better deal. As a result, after eleven years of a happy marriage, we still have not bought fine china.
But his system clearly worked. On our way from Ubud, he bought a pair of Balinese gold and sapphire earrings without ever speaking Bahasa except for "No" and a little Casio calculator. He and ShopKeeper would take turns at the Casio, "text touch"* ferverishly, (*another one of my personal coined words) the price they want and hold it high for the other to see. Each would excitedly say "no!" during his turn waving the Casio in the air. The negotiation suddenly attracted a sizeable crowd. The negotiation was going on in a little jewelry store by the roadside. Imagine if you will, that the next store was a fruit store, and on the other side was a soft drink stand. The jewelry store had only one wall, one display case, and the rest of the store was a thatched roof and three open sides. It looked like a forlorn bus stop but in fact, the earrings were beatufilly made out of 24 k. gold. Women in beautiful batik sarongs with fruit baskets on their heads, little children with sleep in their eyes, men carrying tools or fish baskets started to gather around the shopkeeper, emphatically shaking his head and saying "No,no, no!" and the White man brandishing a Casio saying "No, no, no!" It was theater of the absurd. I was transfixed despite myself. And the winner is.....the white man with the $250! Please pass the earrings this way. "Do not get used to this."
We were ready for our holiday in Thailand and Indonesia. I was appropriately warned by BF, "Do not get used to this." I was not prepared for what was to come.
We flew into Bangkok from HK and did the usual tourist things. I was denied entrance to a temple unless I wore a shirt that covered my shoulders. I tried wearing my fishnet shirt over my tank but that did not go well with the Thais either. I had to wear a shirt that they provide to impertinent tourists like me. It did not help my case that I might actually be mistaken for a Thai. They would address me in a tounge I did not understand and they would get a deaf and mute staring blankly at them. From the way they were speaking to me, I was sure that I was being lectured for lack of decorum. They handed me a men's shirt that had seen better days and smelled of mold, but at least it made me look respectful if not respectable and only then was I allowed into the temple. I made sure I was properly covered going forward.
The Thais are very, very friendly and accommodating people. They smiled a lot except when it was about their fish. A dried fish vendor in the market motioned me to go away, saying something with disdain, with body language telling me to "go fish!" as I pointed excitedly at the dried gourami (a fish that I recognized from my childhood). The good thing about being in a country where you do not speak its language is you can get insulted and not take offense. The bad thing is that you are being insulted and you are not taking offense. Thank God that BF was oblivious to all these- he was busy checking out other points of interests in the market. And I was sure it had nothing to do with fish.
Lesson 1, topless women should stay away from temples.
Lesson 2, do not disrespect dried fish.
While in Thailand, I have vowed to forever more observe a higher standard for myself whenever I am in an Asian country. I am always mistaken to be a native of the Asian country I am visiting with my husband. I decided, therefore, that I shall not "embarrass" the women of the host country by publicly demonstrating affection that might be construed as risque, like holding hands with my husband or allowing him to put an arm on my shoulders. I understand completely that there are unwritten rules of "saving face" in these countries and I have become aware that my action would reflect poorly on how women may be treated especially by a non-Asian male. I embraced those rules more than ever when I realized that I was more Fil-Am than Filipino. For his part, BF is cooperative, willing to understand the cultural divide and help to narrow it so that we may both succeed in our choice to be together.
Lesson 3, in Asia, always keep an arm's length from boyfriend.
I add Lesson 4 - walk fast to keep up and never walk behind boyfriend in Asia. If you do, you appear to be subservient most especially when the BF is glow-in-dark White.
We left Bangkok for Bali, Indonesia where we initially stayed at a beautiful Hyatt resort. The sparkling emerald water of the Indian Ocean was warm and we strolled at the beach each evening, taking in the sounds and the feel of the rushing water on our bare feet as the waves slapped the shore. We retired to a beautiful Balinese room at the resort.
After a few days in the sand and sun, we continued on to Ubud, the art center of Bali. Each night, guided by star lights, we went to see Barong and Legong dances performed with such artistry by classical Bali dancers. We traced back our steps to the cottage, walking along the dry rice fields, teased by the gentle wind and serenaded by the rich sound from the bamboo whind chimes hanging on balconies of the homes along the gravelly road.
We took dips in our private wading pool, surrounded by tropical flowers, situated a few steps outside the cottage. In the mornings and during afternoon siestas, we were awakened by the sound and smell of Bali; first there was the sound of the courtyard being swept, then we hear a "kulintang" being played (xylophone) by the same person who swept the ground. On our way to the breakfast cottage, we would discover that all paths were lined by plumeria petals. All around us, it smelled of faint, sweet coconut oil. I felt home - I imagined my Indonesian ancestors smiling at me, applauding at how far I have travelled to step on Indonesian soil.One afternoon during our daily foray along Monkey Road, I fell in like with the "bench boys." It was a group of boys, individually carved out of wood, don't ask how I knew they're boys; I knew; with mother and father figures, all seated on a wooden bench.
BF was at the store next door so I decided to try haggling myself. I could not do it. When the shopkeeper/storekeeper (SK) told me it was $7.00, I could not bring myself to ask her to sell it to me for half the price. I gave her a mournful look. She did not want to lose the sale so she gave me $.25 discount. When BF found how much I paid the lady, he acted genuinely shocked at my being duped, at the "astronomical" cost I paid. I, on the other hand, defended the altruism behind my purchase, "The lady needs to feed her kids tonight. She needs the $6.75 more than I do!"
You see, BF had a system and I did not "get it." When we would find an artwork we wanted, he would spend time with the storekeeper learning about it. The Balinese takes pride in their artwork and it shows. Each of the mobiles and the masks is painstakingly carved on pule or waru wood among others and painted in deep colors. They are mostly dance masks and represent characters in the Ramayana. And I collected and loved them. Anyway, BF would ask at least 15, in my estimation no less, questions about the work. He and the SK would have an earnest discussion for what seemed an eternity. Then we would leave the store empty handed! The victim (SK) is silent. It drove me absolutely crazy.
I held, and still hold the belief, that if I spend time with a SK, posturing as I might that I am interested in something he is selling, and I discuss prices with him, and I show interest in the object we are discussing, then I believe that I am actively negotiating. When ShopKeeper and I both agree about his merchandise's quality, about its beauty, and about its price, I ought to buy it. I owe it to him, for his time, and his goodwill, to show him the money. Not BF.
He would spend endless time, with what I personally termed shooting bull with the shopkeeper. Maybe "bs-ing" is a strong word, but you see, I feel strongly about these things. For example, when I so badly want to own an object and it is taking forever to buy it and what's keeping me from owning it is BF's and SK's endless exchanges of "No, too high, it should be lower" and "No too low, give me a little bit more..." , I honestly believe I have the right to rescue myself from this stressful situation by raising my hand to call their attention and proclaim, in no uncertain terms, "Excuse me! I do not want it anymore!" Silence from both sides of the negotiation counter. Uh-huh!:-)
"But I thought you liked it?!" "I don't anymore." "Why?" "Because the guy is lying." I am particularly emboldened by my hope that the SK does not speak English because I am 'dissing' him. I tell BF, "He would not give his honest price. He is lying and your haggling makes me nauseous."
One day, in Hong Kong's Stanley Market, I was asked by one by well-meaning shopkeeper why I looked so annoyed. I told her it was because I hate that everyone was lying to me. She told me that the shopkeepers respect someone who haggles; right, they respect me when I acknowlege by haggling that all of them are con artists trying to make me part with my limited single mom hard-earned money that I was totally spending on crap. OMG, was I that bitter?
Anyway, when I would ask BF why he would not buy after all that banter, he would tell me that now that he knows more about the subject, he would find similar objects in other shops and perhaps get a better deal. As a result, after eleven years of a happy marriage, we still have not bought fine china.
But his system clearly worked. On our way from Ubud, he bought a pair of Balinese gold and sapphire earrings without ever speaking Bahasa except for "No" and a little Casio calculator. He and ShopKeeper would take turns at the Casio, "text touch"* ferverishly, (*another one of my personal coined words) the price they want and hold it high for the other to see. Each would excitedly say "no!" during his turn waving the Casio in the air. The negotiation suddenly attracted a sizeable crowd. The negotiation was going on in a little jewelry store by the roadside. Imagine if you will, that the next store was a fruit store, and on the other side was a soft drink stand. The jewelry store had only one wall, one display case, and the rest of the store was a thatched roof and three open sides. It looked like a forlorn bus stop but in fact, the earrings were beatufilly made out of 24 k. gold. Women in beautiful batik sarongs with fruit baskets on their heads, little children with sleep in their eyes, men carrying tools or fish baskets started to gather around the shopkeeper, emphatically shaking his head and saying "No,no, no!" and the White man brandishing a Casio saying "No, no, no!" It was theater of the absurd. I was transfixed despite myself. And the winner is.....the white man with the $250! Please pass the earrings this way. "Do not get used to this."
In the end, we packed a whole suitcase filled with Balinese mermaids, male-mades (:-, and nymphs. He told me that he was starting to like my Balinese crafts (not crap). I made sure I heard the "f" not "p" in crafts. You never know, we Filipinos are known to exchange our p's and f's and "him" and "her."
We went back to HK, packed and shipped whatever needed shipping and stayed in HK for a couple of days of rest before heading back to the USA. On the day of our departure, the GM or some other top level guy with the JW Marriott in HK escorted us back to the airport for our journey home. I kept carrying my suitcases with my Balinese crap :-) and BF kept reminding me to put them down. I was not used to having an entourage following me and carrying my bags. He kept saying in a hushed tone, "Please do not get used to this." What was he saying? I carry my bags but he keeps telling me to put them down for these people to carry them. So, if I were already doing what I should not get used to, what was the problem?
A shiny black M-Benz limo waited to take us to the airport. Really? Oh-kay. Let him do his "staging." BF and Marriott GM were having small talk on the way to the airport. GM was very nice to BF, speaking to him like he was Mr. Marriott's personal emissary, the way things were going. Like how we Catholics talk "to Jesus through Mary," remember? Suddenly, it clicked. BF was an international development attorney for Marriott. He was like, how many degrees from the guy who owns the bacon? :-)
So someone carried my suitcases. We were VIPs. My luggage has seen better days. Mr. Porter may have been thinking, "Wow Filipina amah got lucky, she is now with American investment banker. WRONG! Hee-hee-hee! Hee-hee-hee. Underscored.
At the ticket counter, they told BF that he did not have a reservation. However, they told us I have a seat in business class. I felt very uncomfortable; I had no right being the chosen one. Then I witnessed how calmly he spoke with the airline staff, how he was able to straighten things out. I was appropriately impressed. Not only was he issued a ticket, he told them that we were on a honeymoon, so they made sure we were seated next to each other, and most embarrasing of all, the flight attendants were going out of their way to pay us extra attention. Somewhere in his possession was a 4-carat blue sapphire that would be my engagement ring. I was mercifully excused from bearing witness to the haggling that went into buying it. He realized I was useless when it came to shopping. I did not know a good from a bad gem. If it was big, I liked it, if it was small I liked it. I was a nubie and I acted like one.
We arrived to find a very happy little boy. I proceeded to show my son a very special yo-yo we brought for him. I was so excited to show him how it worked so I said, "Here, let me show you!" Bam! It hit the floor and broke in two pieces. He cried for a while and I apologized all over, but he forgot about the broken yo-yo the moment I hugged him tightly and showered him with mommy kisses. In reality, mommies are better presents than a yo-yo when you are a six year-old.
To this day, I do not haggle. The bench boys watch me cook in the kitchen. My engagement ring is beautiful and sentimental. My BF became my HS (husband!). But the journey has just begun...
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Audition for the role of "Mrs...." Part 2 of many chapters, Winter 1996
Previously on the Audition for the role of “Mrs….” My reality show part 2, winter 1997:
Recap: WG (white guy) aka BF (boyfriend) met SM (single mom).
Shortly after I met my future husband, he handed me a dozen yellow roses wrapped in old newspaper. He told me that he had to leave to work in Hongkong for six months. He was to leave in January. I asked him if he would marry me. Someday. Not now. He said "yes." Then he left for HK.
He did the calling most of the time because I hated calling him. His secretary was a Hong Konger. Do not laugh; a HK resident is a Hong Konger. Anyway, I imagined his secretary to be around my age, short hair, eyeglasses, pumps, custom-made suit, no make-up, no nail polish, Gucci purse. Her responses seem to be on the curt side. I told him that I did not like calling him. “Your secretary is rude." "He said, “She is efficient. They do not coat their words with unnecessary pleasantries here."
No kidding!
USA: "Hello, hi Jane, this is WG's girlfriend. How are you?
Oh hi my boss' girlfriend. How are ya? (response in allegro)
Great, and how was your weekend?
Oh it was wonderful, I went shopping with my daughter and we had fun!
That’s great, how's work?
Oh my Lord, so much work, it is driving me crazy! (forte)
I am sorry! Well, he is not there huh? Will you please tell him I called?
Will do. No problem. (allegro)
Great. Thanks, I appreciate it!"
You are welcome! Have a great day! (forte)
Hong Kong:
Hello Chen, this is …. "Hi" ( snow falling)
How are you? "Fine" (snow sticking)
Is WG there? “No” (snow piling)
May I leave a message for him then?
"Yes….What?" (freezing rain starting)
Sorry?
“What’s the message?” (someone fell on the ice)
Will you please tell him that I am getting ready to jump off the bridge?
Okay." (Snow turned to solid ice)
Okay, I will jump and I will die. Will you tell him that?
"I will." (keep out. Danger. Icy)
"Ok, thank you very much, Ms. Chen!"
“DIAL tone.” :-0
The Zamboni skidded to a halt.
While WG was in Hongkong, he made a business trip to the Philippines. He had a meeting with Filipino lawyers of the most prestigious firm in Makati, the country’s financial district. As they made small talk, he told them that he was planning on visiting the province where I was born. A Filipina lawyer told him, “Your girlfriend is Filipina? She will clean your house, cook good food, and give you beautiful children.” He said he was taken aback. He said, “Oh, she is not a mail order bride.” “It does not matter, she will be a good wife, and she will clean your house and cook for you.” “She is college educated.” “She will be a good wife. Watch, she will cook good food.” He told me that he was very offended, that they might have thought he wanted a servant. He emphatically proclaimed, “She lives in the United States. She went to the University of the Philippines. She works at the US Congress.” End of discussion. No more cooking, no more cleaning, to hell with the beautiful children.
I warned him about his trip to Nueva Ecija. There might not be running water, there might not be electricity, and that the mosquitoes will eat him alive. Nueva Ecija is located in the central plains of Luzon. I also told him that they might call him “Joe”(for GI Joe). I was wrong on three things and right on one thing. He said my family had running water and electricity, and the mosquitoes were smaller than what he remembered of mosquitoes in Maine when he was a child. He did say however that when he shaved in the morning, chickens roamed around him and pecked his feet. And he said the children looked at him, did not say anything but a few minutes later, they called out to him, “Hi Joe!” He told me that a huge painting of myself hung on the wall of my Mom’s house. They told him I was a beauty queen. They told him that painting used to hang in the City Hall. He was pleased, he landed a beauty queen! Yey, me!!
Then it was my turn to go to HK. We were going to Bangkok and Bali afterwards and together, we would go back to the USA.
I landed in HK late in the afternoon. It was hot and humid and Kai Tak airport was crowded. I saw a lot of Filipino women queued up to enter HK. They work as contract workers, as nannies and housekeepers (referred to as amah). He asked how I got through customs fast, there were too many amahs coming in that day. I told him that I am a US Passport holder. He smiled, embarrassed by his blunder. He should be.
The BF lived in Parkview, a very upscale and exclusive apartment complex that looked like a resort. Lawyer types and investment banker types live there. It seemed like there was one amah for every child in that complex. It has swimming pools and waterfalls, beautifully kept gardens all over. Amahs wait for their charges at the lobby. His flat cost $10,000 USD a month. That was my rent for a year back in the States. He has an amah coming in to clean the place. It had a beautiful view of the hills by the reservoir. I can get used to this! The view, not the flat.
I got lost the next day. I was supposed to take a cab and meet BF for lunch at 2 Pacific Place. He told me that every cab driver in HK knew about #2 Pacific Place. Let me tell you, I found that one driver who did not know where. The cabbie did not speak English. He kept saying “I dono. I dono. Mebee, I dono, I dono.” By some divine intervention, despite my terror from the driving on the left side of the road, I recognized the building and asked the cabbie to STOP when I saw it.
BF was relieved to see me but said he got worried. He could not believe the cabbie did not know 2 Pacific Place. I was traumatized by the whole fiasco. Later, I asked if I could use his PC to email my friend in the States. He saw what I was typing, "You will not believe this but I got lost on my first day here in Hong Kong. I asked the cab driver, 'please take me to 2 Pacific..." WG exclaimed, "Oh my goodness, no wonder you got lost. The poor cab driver could not figure out "please take me..." I told you to just say “2 Pacific Place!"
I tried, however, the cabbie only spoke Cantonese. I kept pointing to buildings and talking, “I don’t know…I don’t know. Maybe that one… I don’t know. The poor guy, O-M-G, I just realized was repeating after me, helping me find “I dono I dono. May Be. I dono.” I started to bleat, totally, like a freaked out zebra. Have you heard a zebra bleat? Youtube it, reader! Then BF laughed and then said, “Next time just say ‘2 Pacific Place!’” "No take me, no please."
I told him saying “2 Pacific Place!” is just rude. He said,"But it gets you where you want to go. Trust me." That night, when we got into a cab, and he showed me. He barked, "Pakview!" in a deliberate Boston accent. It sounded "Puck view!" So rude! I will probably end up saying, “Puck you! “ Rude! The cabbie dropped us off at the front door without a problem.
The next day, he took me to his tailor. I brought with me an almost 15-year old coat that I thought could be fixed. The tailor looked at the coat, the faded lining, the missing buttons, the pocket with holes, looked at me, and pronounced, "Sorry madam, there is nothing we can do to repair your coat." That was my best coat! I puckered my lips, you know the “poor baby” expression of hopelessness. BF looked at me and then the coat. I cradled it in my arms like a baby. He said, “I guess that’s it. We have to dispose of it.” He was in complicity with the tailor in euthanizing my coat. I Kevorkianed my best coat in HK. We buried it unceremoniously in a street trashcan in Kowloon. Then he led me back into the shop and asked the tailor to make some clothes for me.
A day or so later, BF came home to find me in tears. I was inconsolable. BF warned me against doing it but I did not listen. I called home to speak to my little boy. I asked how he was doing and he started crying. He said, “I’m fine mommy, but I miss you.” That's all I needed to hear. I cried with him and I told him, “I miss you too and I love you and of all the little boys in the whole wide world I love you the most." The mostest. The bestest. "Listen, I will go first to Thailand and then to Indonesia and mommy needs a few days to do that then I will be back with you.” “But why do you have to go to Timeland and Indo-asia?” “Because that’s the only way for the airplane to go back to America. Just be good to Ate Connie and then I will be back. Can you promise to wait for me?” “Okay, it will take like seven more ‘sleeps’ then I will be back.” “Okay, I love you, Mommy.” After I hung up the phone, I cried and cried and cried. It was the first time I had to leave my son for a number of days. My sleepover was too long for him. This was the first time I had to leave Kris this long and I missed him oh so terribly. My live-in babysitter, a wonderful and caring young woman who I trusted his life with told me not to worry. She said, “My job is to take care of him. Yours is to go find him a Dad!”
The next few days in HK was spent having dinners with friends, going for a double-decker bus trip to Stanley Market, checking out the Filipino crowd at Chater Park. Seeing my paisanos using every inch of space in that park to socialize on their day off reduced me to tears. I felt bad for them. I hated the Marcoses all over again. My future husband told me, “They are not enslaved. They are getting paid. They chose to come here.” ” They gave me a look that seemed congratulatory- I was walking with GI Joe. When I start to talk to them, they tell me, “You are so nice to talk to us.” I respond with, “Why should I not be talking to you Manang, I am Filipino.” “You are so lucky,your husband is American.” I did not object to the “husband” to save face, but I objected to the “lucky because he is American.” I said, “You know, he is lucky too, and he just happens to be American. Marrying an American should not be the dream. It just happened that way. “ And I said this in Tagalog, so as not to alarm my American.
In the meantime, I became fluent. I learned to take a taxi to go into the city. I yell “Two Pacific Place! To go home, I yell “Puck you!” Cabbie drops me at the gate. I smile, pay him, and then yell even louder, “Take you!” It worked like a fortune cookie charm:-).
The next serious thing we did as a couple was to buy china. We bought at least three dozens of rice-pattern blue and white china. He haggled, I nervously paced back and forth outside the stores. I hated haggling. He treated it as a game. We worked a signal, if I see something I like, I would hold his arm and press it hard. This meant I will not leave Hong Kong without it. BF was a natural. He made haggling an art form.
Ms. Chen, the ice Empress shipped three big boxes of china to BF's address in the US. By the way, she more or less looked like I imagined her. And she was a tad warmer in person. No,microwave "30seconds" warm. She was borderline room temperature. I returned the favor; I avoided having to speak to her and whenever I did, I took her lead. Hi. Hi. How you? How you? Bi. Bi.
We started to pack for our trip to Timeland and Indo-Asia!
Recap: WG (white guy) aka BF (boyfriend) met SM (single mom).
Shortly after I met my future husband, he handed me a dozen yellow roses wrapped in old newspaper. He told me that he had to leave to work in Hongkong for six months. He was to leave in January. I asked him if he would marry me. Someday. Not now. He said "yes." Then he left for HK.
He did the calling most of the time because I hated calling him. His secretary was a Hong Konger. Do not laugh; a HK resident is a Hong Konger. Anyway, I imagined his secretary to be around my age, short hair, eyeglasses, pumps, custom-made suit, no make-up, no nail polish, Gucci purse. Her responses seem to be on the curt side. I told him that I did not like calling him. “Your secretary is rude." "He said, “She is efficient. They do not coat their words with unnecessary pleasantries here."
No kidding!
USA: "Hello, hi Jane, this is WG's girlfriend. How are you?
Oh hi my boss' girlfriend. How are ya? (response in allegro)
Great, and how was your weekend?
Oh it was wonderful, I went shopping with my daughter and we had fun!
That’s great, how's work?
Oh my Lord, so much work, it is driving me crazy! (forte)
I am sorry! Well, he is not there huh? Will you please tell him I called?
Will do. No problem. (allegro)
Great. Thanks, I appreciate it!"
You are welcome! Have a great day! (forte)
Hong Kong:
Hello Chen, this is …. "Hi" ( snow falling)
How are you? "Fine" (snow sticking)
Is WG there? “No” (snow piling)
May I leave a message for him then?
"Yes….What?" (freezing rain starting)
Sorry?
“What’s the message?” (someone fell on the ice)
Will you please tell him that I am getting ready to jump off the bridge?
Okay." (Snow turned to solid ice)
Okay, I will jump and I will die. Will you tell him that?
"I will." (keep out. Danger. Icy)
"Ok, thank you very much, Ms. Chen!"
“DIAL tone.” :-0
The Zamboni skidded to a halt.
While WG was in Hongkong, he made a business trip to the Philippines. He had a meeting with Filipino lawyers of the most prestigious firm in Makati, the country’s financial district. As they made small talk, he told them that he was planning on visiting the province where I was born. A Filipina lawyer told him, “Your girlfriend is Filipina? She will clean your house, cook good food, and give you beautiful children.” He said he was taken aback. He said, “Oh, she is not a mail order bride.” “It does not matter, she will be a good wife, and she will clean your house and cook for you.” “She is college educated.” “She will be a good wife. Watch, she will cook good food.” He told me that he was very offended, that they might have thought he wanted a servant. He emphatically proclaimed, “She lives in the United States. She went to the University of the Philippines. She works at the US Congress.” End of discussion. No more cooking, no more cleaning, to hell with the beautiful children.
I warned him about his trip to Nueva Ecija. There might not be running water, there might not be electricity, and that the mosquitoes will eat him alive. Nueva Ecija is located in the central plains of Luzon. I also told him that they might call him “Joe”(for GI Joe). I was wrong on three things and right on one thing. He said my family had running water and electricity, and the mosquitoes were smaller than what he remembered of mosquitoes in Maine when he was a child. He did say however that when he shaved in the morning, chickens roamed around him and pecked his feet. And he said the children looked at him, did not say anything but a few minutes later, they called out to him, “Hi Joe!” He told me that a huge painting of myself hung on the wall of my Mom’s house. They told him I was a beauty queen. They told him that painting used to hang in the City Hall. He was pleased, he landed a beauty queen! Yey, me!!
Then it was my turn to go to HK. We were going to Bangkok and Bali afterwards and together, we would go back to the USA.
I landed in HK late in the afternoon. It was hot and humid and Kai Tak airport was crowded. I saw a lot of Filipino women queued up to enter HK. They work as contract workers, as nannies and housekeepers (referred to as amah). He asked how I got through customs fast, there were too many amahs coming in that day. I told him that I am a US Passport holder. He smiled, embarrassed by his blunder. He should be.
The BF lived in Parkview, a very upscale and exclusive apartment complex that looked like a resort. Lawyer types and investment banker types live there. It seemed like there was one amah for every child in that complex. It has swimming pools and waterfalls, beautifully kept gardens all over. Amahs wait for their charges at the lobby. His flat cost $10,000 USD a month. That was my rent for a year back in the States. He has an amah coming in to clean the place. It had a beautiful view of the hills by the reservoir. I can get used to this! The view, not the flat.
I got lost the next day. I was supposed to take a cab and meet BF for lunch at 2 Pacific Place. He told me that every cab driver in HK knew about #2 Pacific Place. Let me tell you, I found that one driver who did not know where. The cabbie did not speak English. He kept saying “I dono. I dono. Mebee, I dono, I dono.” By some divine intervention, despite my terror from the driving on the left side of the road, I recognized the building and asked the cabbie to STOP when I saw it.
BF was relieved to see me but said he got worried. He could not believe the cabbie did not know 2 Pacific Place. I was traumatized by the whole fiasco. Later, I asked if I could use his PC to email my friend in the States. He saw what I was typing, "You will not believe this but I got lost on my first day here in Hong Kong. I asked the cab driver, 'please take me to 2 Pacific..." WG exclaimed, "Oh my goodness, no wonder you got lost. The poor cab driver could not figure out "please take me..." I told you to just say “2 Pacific Place!"
I tried, however, the cabbie only spoke Cantonese. I kept pointing to buildings and talking, “I don’t know…I don’t know. Maybe that one… I don’t know. The poor guy, O-M-G, I just realized was repeating after me, helping me find “I dono I dono. May Be. I dono.” I started to bleat, totally, like a freaked out zebra. Have you heard a zebra bleat? Youtube it, reader! Then BF laughed and then said, “Next time just say ‘2 Pacific Place!’” "No take me, no please."
I told him saying “2 Pacific Place!” is just rude. He said,"But it gets you where you want to go. Trust me." That night, when we got into a cab, and he showed me. He barked, "Pakview!" in a deliberate Boston accent. It sounded "Puck view!" So rude! I will probably end up saying, “Puck you! “ Rude! The cabbie dropped us off at the front door without a problem.
The next day, he took me to his tailor. I brought with me an almost 15-year old coat that I thought could be fixed. The tailor looked at the coat, the faded lining, the missing buttons, the pocket with holes, looked at me, and pronounced, "Sorry madam, there is nothing we can do to repair your coat." That was my best coat! I puckered my lips, you know the “poor baby” expression of hopelessness. BF looked at me and then the coat. I cradled it in my arms like a baby. He said, “I guess that’s it. We have to dispose of it.” He was in complicity with the tailor in euthanizing my coat. I Kevorkianed my best coat in HK. We buried it unceremoniously in a street trashcan in Kowloon. Then he led me back into the shop and asked the tailor to make some clothes for me.
A day or so later, BF came home to find me in tears. I was inconsolable. BF warned me against doing it but I did not listen. I called home to speak to my little boy. I asked how he was doing and he started crying. He said, “I’m fine mommy, but I miss you.” That's all I needed to hear. I cried with him and I told him, “I miss you too and I love you and of all the little boys in the whole wide world I love you the most." The mostest. The bestest. "Listen, I will go first to Thailand and then to Indonesia and mommy needs a few days to do that then I will be back with you.” “But why do you have to go to Timeland and Indo-asia?” “Because that’s the only way for the airplane to go back to America. Just be good to Ate Connie and then I will be back. Can you promise to wait for me?” “Okay, it will take like seven more ‘sleeps’ then I will be back.” “Okay, I love you, Mommy.” After I hung up the phone, I cried and cried and cried. It was the first time I had to leave my son for a number of days. My sleepover was too long for him. This was the first time I had to leave Kris this long and I missed him oh so terribly. My live-in babysitter, a wonderful and caring young woman who I trusted his life with told me not to worry. She said, “My job is to take care of him. Yours is to go find him a Dad!”
The next few days in HK was spent having dinners with friends, going for a double-decker bus trip to Stanley Market, checking out the Filipino crowd at Chater Park. Seeing my paisanos using every inch of space in that park to socialize on their day off reduced me to tears. I felt bad for them. I hated the Marcoses all over again. My future husband told me, “They are not enslaved. They are getting paid. They chose to come here.” ” They gave me a look that seemed congratulatory- I was walking with GI Joe. When I start to talk to them, they tell me, “You are so nice to talk to us.” I respond with, “Why should I not be talking to you Manang, I am Filipino.” “You are so lucky,your husband is American.” I did not object to the “husband” to save face, but I objected to the “lucky because he is American.” I said, “You know, he is lucky too, and he just happens to be American. Marrying an American should not be the dream. It just happened that way. “ And I said this in Tagalog, so as not to alarm my American.
In the meantime, I became fluent. I learned to take a taxi to go into the city. I yell “Two Pacific Place! To go home, I yell “Puck you!” Cabbie drops me at the gate. I smile, pay him, and then yell even louder, “Take you!” It worked like a fortune cookie charm:-).
The next serious thing we did as a couple was to buy china. We bought at least three dozens of rice-pattern blue and white china. He haggled, I nervously paced back and forth outside the stores. I hated haggling. He treated it as a game. We worked a signal, if I see something I like, I would hold his arm and press it hard. This meant I will not leave Hong Kong without it. BF was a natural. He made haggling an art form.
Ms. Chen, the ice Empress shipped three big boxes of china to BF's address in the US. By the way, she more or less looked like I imagined her. And she was a tad warmer in person. No,microwave "30seconds" warm. She was borderline room temperature. I returned the favor; I avoided having to speak to her and whenever I did, I took her lead. Hi. Hi. How you? How you? Bi. Bi.
We started to pack for our trip to Timeland and Indo-Asia!
Monday, July 6, 2009
Audition for the lead role of "Mrs...." part 1-
So there was I one evening with my friends filming a movie in Old Town, Alexandria. My life was one laundry basketful of activities: business and Spanish classes at the community college, skiing with friends and little Kris in the winter, taking him to the park, looking for Easter eggs, the stuff that a family does. Except Kris and I only had each other in our "family." In one of these activities with my friends, I announced, "Can someone find me a boyfriend?!"
One of them said to another, "Hey, she needs a boyfriend!" My friend Tess said, "I have a candidate for you but you might not like him."
I asked, " Why?" "Because he is nice! And he is Snow White's brother!"Laughter. She said in a stage whisper, "But he is very nice and he likes sexy women!" "Ok," I said, "He should look in a strip bar! Hahahaha!" "No he really is nice, we have known him for many years. My sister used to work with him." "Okay, he is now my boyfriend. Does he have a name, Snow White's brother?"
A few weeks later, I asked Tess, "So, where is MY boyfriend?" "Well, I told him that you are not shy so he said you should make the first move." "Ok! What is his email address?"
I wrote: Hi, this is .... I was with our mutual friends last night working on a film. Okay, so I am over 35 years old and a single mom to a six year old boy. I am 120 lbs, 5.5" and I have great legs. Cheers!
He wrote: "Wow, I have not met anyone with your confidence. Cheers!"
Cheers to my legs? My weight? My confidence? Cheers! What, cheers that he has not met anyone? You know, I am a normal woman. I dissect a guy's statement
We e-mailed each other a lot afterwards. We both love words and maybe I impressed him with my vocabulary. He liked that I used words like "splendid, brilliant, unconscionable, inevitable, lamentable." And I liked his "go figure" and the "you are so articulate, you are so wise, you are so sarcastic, you are, you are ...." so beautiful? Okay, he did not say that.
One evening, I left my son with his baby sitter, put on the black skirt, sheer black hose, my best-kept-secret Loehman's $28 killer blazer, and the fire engine red lipstick. I was finally meeting the white guy in person (WG) aka as Boyfriend (BF) and used alternately in this document. :-)
A few days before the meeting:
"How will I know it is you?" I asked.
"I am 6 foot-tall and blonde." Oh--kay. And so is the rest of the Caucasian male population in the United States!
"I am Filipino." Black hair, brown skin. Like there is any chance of finding a Filipino woman with blonde hair. She will be easy to spot-- she will be blonde with a flat nose. But I did not tell him that. Let him imagine me with great legs and flat nose.
We said goodbyes. Then I realized that I did not ask where we were going to meet. I called again. I was having a Filipino "blondina" moment. "Hello, excuse me, but where are we meeting?"
The meeting: I did a quick check of the men seated at the tables. Actually, he was staring at me. So I approached, "Are you my boyfriend?"
We went to the Cafe and ordered drinks. Then we began the chatter marathon. I do not remember what we talked about but I am sure we asked things like "Are you a coffee drinker?" "No, how about you?" "Yes, I am." "Oh that's nice. Do you take sugar and cream in your coffee." "No, I take it black." You know, important things like that. There was an older lady seated behind him, facing me. She caught my eye. She pointed to him and gave me a grin and two thumbs up! Was this an "e-harmonydotcom" moment or what?
I was tired and it was getting late so I made him an offer. If I go home with him, would he watch a movie while I take a short nap on his couch, and in consideration, I would wake up and socialize before I go home. He agreed. The Contract was in full force.
I forgot about the weird noises. My own. As I dozed off into bliss, I started my noises. Mabel, an old friend of mine told me that I sound like a rice cooker. My rice cooker was missing one of its legs, it is propped up by a crab mallet, it made a weird sound and boils over. That was probably accurate - I was boiling over - because the BF came near me, nudged me, and asked, "Are you okay?" Busted!
I wiped the drool from my chin with the back of my hand. I was sure he would never ever ask me out again. But alas, I forgot, we made arrangements for two consecutive dates. I also told him that I had two categories for men I go out with. A man who I agree to meet for the first time can turn out to be one of the following:
1. An appointment.
2. A date.
And so, as I started to rejoin the world of the coherent , he asked if he was an appointment or a date. I told him I think he is a date. I told him that I, however, come with a "buyer's beware" clause. If my son does not like him, the deal is off. But for now, we decided that we would meet each other the next day to see "Tuna Christmas." Having talked for an hour or so, I went home.
Next day at the theater. Big problem.
I could not remember what the blond BF looked like. You know how some people think all Oriental people look alike? Well, I have news for you, to us Asians, all other people look alike.
Look, white blond guys bring back memories of missionaries who knocked at our doors when I was young. They wanted us to hear the word of God. "The only way. One way." They were so blond, their eyelashes were blond and their skin so white. They wore black pants, white shirts and always wore a necktie. We hid from them. They knock and they always tell us they want to share the "good news." But we pretended that we did not understand what they were saying. We never invited them in. Our house was too humble for God's entourage. I called them the "Jojoba witnesses." (Hohobuh) At this moment, I was looking for my date and he's a "Jojoba witness."
There was a sea of blonds. A tapestry of blondness punctuated with baldness and brunettes. Thank goodness, he had the good sense of making sure he was apart from the crowd. So we watched the play together and held hands. OMG, I was holding hands with a white guy!
By the way, the next time I went back to the Cafe , where I had my first date with him, I was approached by the waitress who served our drinks during my first date with BF. She asked me, actually, honest to God asked me, "So....are you going to see that guy you were with last Friday?" I laughed so hard and told her, "Yes, we are dating." She was very happy about that news. She wished me "great luck."
Now for the deal breaker/maker:
The day WG met my son was a hair-rising moment. It was going to be a pizza dinner. It would be Kris' treat- he had coupons given to him by his school for reading above grade level. He was in kindergarten. So, man, son, mom, and babysitter are meeting WG for pizzas. I took off my son's hat. His hair was sticking straight up in the air and WG said, "Who cut his hair?" I proudly announced, "I did!" WG joked, "Oh, please do not quit your day job!"
After pizza, he handed my son a comics book. My son was won over and said in a child's small but enthusiastic voice, "If you like, you can come to my house and look at my Christmas tree!"
Seizing the opportunity, WG readily agreed to come to our house. Once we got to our condo, my son proudly showed our Christmas tree, decorated with wooden ornaments and his presents under it. Then, Kris showed WG his room and said, "If you like, you can come back here next weekend and sleep over. You can sleep in my room and play with my toys!"
I knew the moment I and WG became serious. Let me tell you: he actually talked to my mechanic when I told him that I was having car problems. Not too many XY-chromosomes human want to get involved in some XX chromosome's car problems because it can lead to 1)fixing the car himself 2)lending his car to her.
Here is something about women: when a guy gets involved in a woman's car problem, he becomes one of the most significant beings in her life. Why? Because of all the things that a woman has, it is only the car that can, like a man, reduce her into tears. She takes the car's issues personally. First of all, she does not understand the car. She puts gas in it, she washes it, she drives it but in return it has seizures. The mechanic breaks the grim news to her.
For example, the mechanic says "the alternator is broken." "What! Ok, so what is the alternator? Did I do something wrong?" The mechanic explains the technicalities. Voice in her head: You are royally screwed. Your car is a piece of junk. You will take a bus on your way to Nordstrom, ha-ha. She cries.
Or the mechanic says: "The transmission needs to be replaced..." She loses it "What?! This piece of sh*t! I cannot believe it. Are you serious?" Voice in her head: You are totally screwed. Your car is a piece of junk. You maxed out your Visa. Guess, you are not buying the LV hobo. Ha-ha" She cries.
A few weeks later, he announced that he was going away to Hongkong for six months. But not before my car was fixed...haha!
One of them said to another, "Hey, she needs a boyfriend!" My friend Tess said, "I have a candidate for you but you might not like him."
I asked, " Why?" "Because he is nice! And he is Snow White's brother!"Laughter. She said in a stage whisper, "But he is very nice and he likes sexy women!" "Ok," I said, "He should look in a strip bar! Hahahaha!" "No he really is nice, we have known him for many years. My sister used to work with him." "Okay, he is now my boyfriend. Does he have a name, Snow White's brother?"
A few weeks later, I asked Tess, "So, where is MY boyfriend?" "Well, I told him that you are not shy so he said you should make the first move." "Ok! What is his email address?"
I wrote: Hi, this is .... I was with our mutual friends last night working on a film. Okay, so I am over 35 years old and a single mom to a six year old boy. I am 120 lbs, 5.5" and I have great legs. Cheers!
He wrote: "Wow, I have not met anyone with your confidence. Cheers!"
Cheers to my legs? My weight? My confidence? Cheers! What, cheers that he has not met anyone? You know, I am a normal woman. I dissect a guy's statement
We e-mailed each other a lot afterwards. We both love words and maybe I impressed him with my vocabulary. He liked that I used words like "splendid, brilliant, unconscionable, inevitable, lamentable." And I liked his "go figure" and the "you are so articulate, you are so wise, you are so sarcastic, you are, you are ...." so beautiful? Okay, he did not say that.
One evening, I left my son with his baby sitter, put on the black skirt, sheer black hose, my best-kept-secret Loehman's $28 killer blazer, and the fire engine red lipstick. I was finally meeting the white guy in person (WG) aka as Boyfriend (BF) and used alternately in this document. :-)
A few days before the meeting:
"How will I know it is you?" I asked.
"I am 6 foot-tall and blonde." Oh--kay. And so is the rest of the Caucasian male population in the United States!
"I am Filipino." Black hair, brown skin. Like there is any chance of finding a Filipino woman with blonde hair. She will be easy to spot-- she will be blonde with a flat nose. But I did not tell him that. Let him imagine me with great legs and flat nose.
We said goodbyes. Then I realized that I did not ask where we were going to meet. I called again. I was having a Filipino "blondina" moment. "Hello, excuse me, but where are we meeting?"
The meeting: I did a quick check of the men seated at the tables. Actually, he was staring at me. So I approached, "Are you my boyfriend?"
We went to the Cafe and ordered drinks. Then we began the chatter marathon. I do not remember what we talked about but I am sure we asked things like "Are you a coffee drinker?" "No, how about you?" "Yes, I am." "Oh that's nice. Do you take sugar and cream in your coffee." "No, I take it black." You know, important things like that. There was an older lady seated behind him, facing me. She caught my eye. She pointed to him and gave me a grin and two thumbs up! Was this an "e-harmonydotcom" moment or what?
I was tired and it was getting late so I made him an offer. If I go home with him, would he watch a movie while I take a short nap on his couch, and in consideration, I would wake up and socialize before I go home. He agreed. The Contract was in full force.
I forgot about the weird noises. My own. As I dozed off into bliss, I started my noises. Mabel, an old friend of mine told me that I sound like a rice cooker. My rice cooker was missing one of its legs, it is propped up by a crab mallet, it made a weird sound and boils over. That was probably accurate - I was boiling over - because the BF came near me, nudged me, and asked, "Are you okay?" Busted!
I wiped the drool from my chin with the back of my hand. I was sure he would never ever ask me out again. But alas, I forgot, we made arrangements for two consecutive dates. I also told him that I had two categories for men I go out with. A man who I agree to meet for the first time can turn out to be one of the following:
1. An appointment.
2. A date.
And so, as I started to rejoin the world of the coherent , he asked if he was an appointment or a date. I told him I think he is a date. I told him that I, however, come with a "buyer's beware" clause. If my son does not like him, the deal is off. But for now, we decided that we would meet each other the next day to see "Tuna Christmas." Having talked for an hour or so, I went home.
Next day at the theater. Big problem.
I could not remember what the blond BF looked like. You know how some people think all Oriental people look alike? Well, I have news for you, to us Asians, all other people look alike.
Look, white blond guys bring back memories of missionaries who knocked at our doors when I was young. They wanted us to hear the word of God. "The only way. One way." They were so blond, their eyelashes were blond and their skin so white. They wore black pants, white shirts and always wore a necktie. We hid from them. They knock and they always tell us they want to share the "good news." But we pretended that we did not understand what they were saying. We never invited them in. Our house was too humble for God's entourage. I called them the "Jojoba witnesses." (Hohobuh) At this moment, I was looking for my date and he's a "Jojoba witness."
There was a sea of blonds. A tapestry of blondness punctuated with baldness and brunettes. Thank goodness, he had the good sense of making sure he was apart from the crowd. So we watched the play together and held hands. OMG, I was holding hands with a white guy!
By the way, the next time I went back to the Cafe , where I had my first date with him, I was approached by the waitress who served our drinks during my first date with BF. She asked me, actually, honest to God asked me, "So....are you going to see that guy you were with last Friday?" I laughed so hard and told her, "Yes, we are dating." She was very happy about that news. She wished me "great luck."
Now for the deal breaker/maker:
The day WG met my son was a hair-rising moment. It was going to be a pizza dinner. It would be Kris' treat- he had coupons given to him by his school for reading above grade level. He was in kindergarten. So, man, son, mom, and babysitter are meeting WG for pizzas. I took off my son's hat. His hair was sticking straight up in the air and WG said, "Who cut his hair?" I proudly announced, "I did!" WG joked, "Oh, please do not quit your day job!"
After pizza, he handed my son a comics book. My son was won over and said in a child's small but enthusiastic voice, "If you like, you can come to my house and look at my Christmas tree!"
Seizing the opportunity, WG readily agreed to come to our house. Once we got to our condo, my son proudly showed our Christmas tree, decorated with wooden ornaments and his presents under it. Then, Kris showed WG his room and said, "If you like, you can come back here next weekend and sleep over. You can sleep in my room and play with my toys!"
I knew the moment I and WG became serious. Let me tell you: he actually talked to my mechanic when I told him that I was having car problems. Not too many XY-chromosomes human want to get involved in some XX chromosome's car problems because it can lead to 1)fixing the car himself 2)lending his car to her.
Here is something about women: when a guy gets involved in a woman's car problem, he becomes one of the most significant beings in her life. Why? Because of all the things that a woman has, it is only the car that can, like a man, reduce her into tears. She takes the car's issues personally. First of all, she does not understand the car. She puts gas in it, she washes it, she drives it but in return it has seizures. The mechanic breaks the grim news to her.
For example, the mechanic says "the alternator is broken." "What! Ok, so what is the alternator? Did I do something wrong?" The mechanic explains the technicalities. Voice in her head: You are royally screwed. Your car is a piece of junk. You will take a bus on your way to Nordstrom, ha-ha. She cries.
Or the mechanic says: "The transmission needs to be replaced..." She loses it "What?! This piece of sh*t! I cannot believe it. Are you serious?" Voice in her head: You are totally screwed. Your car is a piece of junk. You maxed out your Visa. Guess, you are not buying the LV hobo. Ha-ha" She cries.
A few weeks later, he announced that he was going away to Hongkong for six months. But not before my car was fixed...haha!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
My own reality show-
Spring 1998-According to my husband, the smartest decision that he made was to say "yes" when I proposed to him. Then he told me that my best financial decision was to ask him to marry me. Okay, so we are even. He is smart and I am greedy. That works for me.
Months before we moved in together, I received a letter from his mother. She was advising me that this might be a bad move for me; she said that it was risky to expose my son to an uncertain relationship. That he should just be having fun after a divorce. How sure was I that this relationship would lead to something permanent, she asked. Etcetera.
Months before we moved in together, I received a letter from his mother. She was advising me that this might be a bad move for me; she said that it was risky to expose my son to an uncertain relationship. That he should just be having fun after a divorce. How sure was I that this relationship would lead to something permanent, she asked. Etcetera.
I disposed her letter but I kept her son. I do not listen to someone else's mother's unsolicited advice especially if it concerns her son and myself. The only thing uncertain when I got that letter was whether I would respond or not. And I did. I said thank you for the advice but this is my relationship and if I needed advice, I would write to Ann Landers.
Okay, maybe not in those terms but I made it plain that the two people whose decision matters are over 21 years old, of legal age to consume alcohol and sign contracts. Etcetera.
-the day of reckoning:
The housekeeper moved in first. Then each of us followed. I moved myself, my son, our clothes, and none of my furniture. Where do I hang my Balinese masks? I was not crazy about his prints and he was not too keen on my "bizarre" masks. He wanted to measure distances between wall hangings, I just hang them wherever and be done with it. Both of us probably concluded moving in together was a big mistake, I yelled that he was far too rigid, he yelled something but I did not listen, we both yelled in unison at each other, and the maid retreated to the basement--I angrily hauled all my masks to Kris'room and hammered left and right on the wall. The housekeeper was spooked. What kind of crazy people would fight on the first day of moving in? Finally, she followed me upstairs and said to me "Please do not fight. Talk to him, he looks like a hurt puppy." I hissed at her, "And what am I, a dog whisperer?"
I have been minding my own business for over a decade, hanging things on my wall, buying my own wine, cars, clothes, books, and someone tells me I cannot hang a mask just so? Okay, so I need to relearn to compromise. And for the next eight months, the two of us learned to agree, disagree, discuss, listen, and talk it out, and sometimes yell to make a point. A point not always well taken. The problem is that he would be, in my opinion, the cunning prosecutor and I was the underdog, I was in this case pro se, without the advantage of a law degree.
-the day of reckoning:
The housekeeper moved in first. Then each of us followed. I moved myself, my son, our clothes, and none of my furniture. Where do I hang my Balinese masks? I was not crazy about his prints and he was not too keen on my "bizarre" masks. He wanted to measure distances between wall hangings, I just hang them wherever and be done with it. Both of us probably concluded moving in together was a big mistake, I yelled that he was far too rigid, he yelled something but I did not listen, we both yelled in unison at each other, and the maid retreated to the basement--I angrily hauled all my masks to Kris'room and hammered left and right on the wall. The housekeeper was spooked. What kind of crazy people would fight on the first day of moving in? Finally, she followed me upstairs and said to me "Please do not fight. Talk to him, he looks like a hurt puppy." I hissed at her, "And what am I, a dog whisperer?"
I have been minding my own business for over a decade, hanging things on my wall, buying my own wine, cars, clothes, books, and someone tells me I cannot hang a mask just so? Okay, so I need to relearn to compromise. And for the next eight months, the two of us learned to agree, disagree, discuss, listen, and talk it out, and sometimes yell to make a point. A point not always well taken. The problem is that he would be, in my opinion, the cunning prosecutor and I was the underdog, I was in this case pro se, without the advantage of a law degree.
However, I was a woman with a mission. Makibaka! I wanted it stated for the record that I am not and never will be subservient. I will not stay home and fix fried rice and chicken with broccoli, and most of all, I will not be told to "shut up." Or there will be blood.
I was from Venus and he was from Uranus, in my estimation. And when the roles are reversed, I am a total Mianusian:) with the firepower of a bilingual runaway meteor that will hit left, right, and center. I fought to win. But in the end, the lessons we both learned about listening to and considering another perspective are more important than having the last word.
We later came to a place where both sides are heard, discussed, and concluded in a manner where no one feels subjugated. Only much later, after I have taken law courses did I realize that pointed questions are asked (by him) to understand the issue and make intelligent decisions. I no longer view Scott as the intimidating interrogator. Rather, I view him as the one person who is interested in my intent and motives and forced me to articulate my needs and reasoning and in the process, he honed my skills to be the confident negotiator and advocate I am today. I viewed him as the jury that I needed to convince, beyond reasonable doubt that I am right and he is wrong!
In any case, those months were the dress rehearsal of our marriage. During that time, we maintained our separate bank accounts. No one needed to ask the opinion of the other where finances were concerned. He paid the mortgage, I paid my own bills. He bought the car, I drove it. He paid for the utilities, I picked up the dry cleanables. He paid the nanny, I told her what to do. Then we got married.
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there were scripted realities/milestones in marriage -
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Reality 1: On our wedding night, my husband handed me a credit card. It had my first name and his last name on it. He told me that from now on, this was the card I would use. We defined incidentals, necessities, and differentiated the "I want it" from "I need it." The limit as to how much I can spend was generous. It equaled the limit of all my credit cards combined before I got married but it stunned me when I saw that my last name on the card was no longer my father's name. Furthermore, he proudly presented me with a book of a joint checking account.
I lost it. "Wait, what do you mean, your name is with my name on this checking account? No, no, no, this is not right. I want my own name and I want my own checks and I do not want your name and my name together on a bank account! Are you crazy?" I had my hands over my face, he was crestfallen. He was not prepared for this mental case he just married earlier in the day. He said, "Oh, remember we are now married?" "I know that! So what? This is not acceptable. No, I am sorry, I cannot do this. I have had my own name on my own bank accounts and all of a sudden..." I wept. I wept for my loss of control over my name! I wept because it dawned on me that I, now and forevermore,.shall have and hold, for calm and stress, famine or feast, for headaches and other such ailments, this man before me so long as we both shall live. Those are serious words! I was fine with that at this moment, but what's with the joint accounts? "Okay, he said, let us fix this. Okay, calm down."
So this is how we fixed it: we have a joint account for our family expenses, I have my own account, and he has his. We refer to our individual accounts as our "DF" (discretionary funds) money; no one has to justify how our DF money is spent.
The next month, our credit card bill came. He was skeptical. The "inquisition" started. It started innocently. "Do you balance your checkbook?" "No. Why do you ask?" "Because I do not like you getting in trouble. Is there a reason why you don't balance it?" "Because! I know how much money I spend and I know not to write checks if I do not have the funds! Excuse me, I am not stupid!"
"Did you not go shopping a lot this month? "Yes!" "Did you buy clothes and shoes for Kris?" "Yes, No, Yes, Yes !" "Jeeezzz, what the hell? What is the problem, your HONOR?" I realized I was the only one in hysterics in this particular scene. I calmed down.
"Okay, okay, I mean yes, I bought a lot but no I did not charge it on our credit card and yes they are paid for so what is your problem?" "How?" "Well, I charged Kris' stuff on my own personal card." "Why did you do that?"
"Did you not go shopping a lot this month? "Yes!" "Did you buy clothes and shoes for Kris?" "Yes, No, Yes, Yes !" "Jeeezzz, what the hell? What is the problem, your HONOR?" I realized I was the only one in hysterics in this particular scene. I calmed down.
"Okay, okay, I mean yes, I bought a lot but no I did not charge it on our credit card and yes they are paid for so what is your problem?" "How?" "Well, I charged Kris' stuff on my own personal card." "Why did you do that?"
I hate "WHYs." It forces me to defend my actions/decisions. WHY is your blouse orange. Why NOT? Why did you eat the tomatoes? Because I want to annoy you, that's why! Why did you laugh? Because I did not want to cry. Agh! Hello? Back to hysterics.
"Because.... know what, I really think that it is none of your business." "Okay, let me ask it another way. What made you use your own money to buy Kris' stuff?" "Well, do you remember what you told me when you gave me a credit card? You said that I should have a plan on what to buy. Well, I go to the store with a plan and then I see something cute to buy for Kris and I know that was not in the plan so I paid for those things with my own money." Why was I feeling embarrassed? WHY?
"Oh, I see. That is not acceptable."
"Because.... know what, I really think that it is none of your business." "Okay, let me ask it another way. What made you use your own money to buy Kris' stuff?" "Well, do you remember what you told me when you gave me a credit card? You said that I should have a plan on what to buy. Well, I go to the store with a plan and then I see something cute to buy for Kris and I know that was not in the plan so I paid for those things with my own money." Why was I feeling embarrassed? WHY?
"Oh, I see. That is not acceptable."
"What do you mean it is not acceptable? You DO NOT decide what I can or cannot buy for my son. I work too, you know." I was ready to assault and batter someone's son. It was my turn to ask WHY.
"Why do you ask stupid questions?" (At this point, the font I used when asking was....42! That was loud!:-)
He was still on "font 12," normal--
"Why do you ask stupid questions?" (At this point, the font I used when asking was....42! That was loud!:-)
He was still on "font 12," normal--
"I mean, it is not acceptable that you spend your own money. Kris' stuff- clothes, shoes, everything, is to be paid for by family money, that is what I mean." He asked for my check book, did the calculation and handed me a check for over $500 with a warning "From now on, I do not ever want you to spend your own money on Kris' stuff. We are a family. " Ooooooh, so that was it...okay, I can accommodate that:-). Oh, sorry I got a little carried away there (But I did not tell him that....)
Reality 2: Throughout my adult life until I got married, I sacrificed one thing to get another. So, when I wanted something badly, I would always tell my husband that I am willing to forego having something else in exchange for another. He told me that I should never, ever, negotiate against myself. He told me that I should not forego one thing to have another so long as I can provide a compelling reason. I learned that I can have both, it is just a matter of which one I wanted first. I want the digital piano to learn to play it and I want an acoustic piano to enjoy playing it. Done. I want the big family car because we need the space and I also want the cute little car because a toy car is safer than a Harley. Done. I want to go on an African safari because you said I would love it and I also want to see the Iguazu in Argentina because I know I would love it. Done. I want the piano lessons, the Mandarin lessons, and the midlife crisis reinvention- of- self degree. Done. All with compelling reasons, as you can see.
Reality 2: Throughout my adult life until I got married, I sacrificed one thing to get another. So, when I wanted something badly, I would always tell my husband that I am willing to forego having something else in exchange for another. He told me that I should never, ever, negotiate against myself. He told me that I should not forego one thing to have another so long as I can provide a compelling reason. I learned that I can have both, it is just a matter of which one I wanted first. I want the digital piano to learn to play it and I want an acoustic piano to enjoy playing it. Done. I want the big family car because we need the space and I also want the cute little car because a toy car is safer than a Harley. Done. I want to go on an African safari because you said I would love it and I also want to see the Iguazu in Argentina because I know I would love it. Done. I want the piano lessons, the Mandarin lessons, and the midlife crisis reinvention- of- self degree. Done. All with compelling reasons, as you can see.
That is the key: compelling argument. Once you master the art of an intelligent and reasonable argument without whining or being a jerk about it, you will pretty much win your case.
Reality 3: One of the things that I learned in my over-a-decade long marriage is that it is good to go in with a clear assumption and expectation. The assumption that I will work outside the home is safe but to assume that I will be an obsessively Martha Stewart with organized closets at the same time would be a big mistake. Big, big mistake. I expected that I would contribute financially to the household but to expect that I would hand over everything in my wallet was not realistic.
I assumed that I would have a major part in every major decision in the household and my voting power is not related to how much I am contributing to the family funds. Because let us face it, the grace,
I assumed that I would have a major part in every major decision in the household and my voting power is not related to how much I am contributing to the family funds. Because let us face it, the grace,
beauty;-) the joy ;-/, the fun ;-) and the modesty regarding my abilities that I contribute to Scott's life is Master Cardesque. He assumed as much. Well done. Yey, Scott!
It has been 13 years since I first declared to my now mother-in-law that Filipinos use chopsticks. I have since confessed to her that I was terrified of the meeting and I botched it. I have since embraced the eclectic aspects of marrying a WASP. We thrive in our differences and we don't intrude in each other's independence of self. We sometimes differ in our views, but we look at the same direction for our family's future together. I provide the comedic relief in this union- whether intentional or not. But I also provide a perspective that my husband has come to count on. For his part, he provides me the opportunities to be the free spirit that I am. He gives me counsel and reason. His approach is more on the intellectual versus emotional level when I need it whether in my personal or professional life. We laugh with, and not at each other, and we love each other no matter what.
My reality show is on its 11th season and so far, it has not "jumped the shark" yet. I take the endorsements of my "sponsors" with a grain of salt, seek counsel from within myself and go on with the show.
Quiet on the set! Lights, camera, and....action!
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