When I Grow Up, I wanna be a sandwich maker, and other musings on retirement-

Ever since our son started middle-school, husband (HB) and I started staking out our retirement destination. In 1998 or thereabouts, we decided that it would be very nice to retire in Costa Rica. It is near Miami; ergo I can just be a few hours away from the mainland. It has US-trained doctors (think plastic surgeons), it has perfect weather, nice tropical foliage, and I can speak Spanish. HB bought me a book entitled, “Retire in Costa Rica,” and the dream slowly fell apart as we learned that we would be taxed 100% on anything we bring in. We then thought about Buenos Aires, Argentina because we loved the European feel of B.A. but decided against it because the economy in Argentina is bad and we fear for our lives. That was exacerbated by the fact that a friend of ours cannot wear her 10-carat diamond ring in Buenos Aires for fear for her life. I do not have that fear simply because I do not own a 10-carat diamond, but I certainly like to wear my "ornaments" whenever I want to, without fear of being mugged. Then HB mentioned Netherlands and while that sounded like a good idea, I am sure I cannot deal with the gloomy days and I might end up following in the footsteps of Vincent, cutting my earlobe during one of those non-starry nights.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Maybe I should be the only one to retire. HB can ask to get transferred to either their London or Hong Kong office. In London, I can either spend days taking Spanish or French or Italian or even German lessons; having tea with some unknown would be BFF with an English accent and on weekends we can go on a holiday to Brussels or Paris or Rome. BFF would call me and say “How would like to go tea dear? “ And I would answer with my own version of the English “That would be perfectly splendid. I shall see you later at Devonshire.” Think Emma Thompson. The London idea was put in our suspense file.

The Hong Kong idea is superior. If HB works there for a year or two before we both retire, then I can go and use HK as my base to embark on a business venture in Manila, whatever that may be. Maybe I can have a stall in the Greenhills “tiangge” (covered market) selling sundries. Let us see, I can sell fake designer purses, fake CK undies, fake perfumes, fake Nike shoes, fake boobs (silicone inserts), fake lashes (Duralash), the sky is the limit. I can also teach English or Spanish or Office Technology at a college in Manila and fly to HK every other weekend. Or I can just stay in HK and teach Spanish in a private school or give private lessons. Maybe I can even clean houses for some fellow Americans whose spouse's career, just like mine, took them to Hong Kong.

The idea of being an “amah” or a cleaning lady in HK sounds adventurous to me. I watched "American Greed" on TV one day about this golden American couple. The HB was an investment banker for a Wall Street firm while the blonde beautiful wife stayed home. They were from Connecticut. They partied with shakers and movers. They lived in Park View, a resort-like high rise community where the rich and famous Chinese, Britons, and Americans lived. It is a beautiful place with manmade waterfalls over the swimming pools, lined with palm trees and orchids cascading from rock gardens. It has a “what money can buy” gorgeous landscape. I know the place well because HB lived there at some point before he became my husband, and I have stayed in his 2-bedroom flat, which in 1997 cost $10K (USD) a month. Before we get excited, he did not pay his rent; his employer did. While visiting, I spent hours looking out the window and enjoy the view of the reservoir on the East and the man-made waterfalls on the West. I decided that I would marry BF if he asked me. He did not ask me. I asked him. He agreed. And that is a different blog story.

In any case, I think it would be hilarious to earn some pocket money cleaning these privileged women's flats. I may even be a guest in their parties or they in mine. They would think I crashed their party then they will recognize my HB and look at me with a look of "Wow, the maid married her employer."or "Can you believe he married the maid?" Meantime, I will be LOLing my ass out. Anyway, I am not sure what HB would think of this. I can hear him say, "You are insane!" To which I will reply "You knew that coming in."

Years ago, when I was a single mom, a friend of mine asked if I wanted to make some extra money cleaning this couple’s house in Fairfax County, Virginia one Saturday morning. I agreed eagerly. We drove into this thick wooded area and there it was, a house in a group of “starter castles,” nestled in a clearing. Each house is called a manor. Ahem. Tara. We parked my friend’s humble Nova in the circular driveway. I felt so deliriously insignificant. The husband was a heart surgeon of Scandinavian origin, the wife was a stay-home mom, I note here that she is of Asian origin. Why could I not have this same luck? Oh well, I did date an ob-gyn but hearts are sexier than vaginas in terms of profession. What does your husband do? He is a heart surgeon. Wow, impressive. By pass surgeries, really Godlike. What does yours do? He holds dialogs with vaginas. Does he work with Eve Ensler? No, he is not a playwright. He you know, um, he delivers babies. Oh-kay.

Anyway, Mr. Bypass Surgery and wife have two young children and seven (7) bathrooms. As I took in the size of the house, aka manor, I knew I had to clean fast because I had a nail spa appointment at 2pm.

I was to clean the first floor where the piano room, family room and living room and other big rooms were located. Mrs. Cardio requested that I use vinegar to clean the marble floors. No problem. Then she asked me to polish the baby grand. I wished I owned that Steinway. I pretended to dust the keys and played "Chopsticks." Don't we all do that? Play Chopsticks on any piano we see? Or is that a Filipino thing? She asked me to come and vacuum the family room. No problem. The manor is as big as a convention center.

I went upstairs to check on my friend and offered to help her clean one of the five bathrooms upstairs. She saw me scrubbing the shower stalls with scouring powder. She said, “Don’t do that! You will never finish it in time. Dry clean it!” “What do you mean dry clean it?” “Just spray chemicals, really! This is not your home, do not clean it like you are cleaning your own bathroom.” After I did my first bathroom, I took my friend’s advice to heart. Mrs. Cardio walked in while I was reading the label of the cleaning solution. “I have never had a cleaning lady who would actually read the instructions on the label.” She then asked me to speak with her privately.

Mrs. Hongsok Cardio asked me if I drove. She asked I have formal education. She asked if I was interested in working for her full time. I drive. I went to college. I am not interested in becoming her housekeeper. I spoke three languages and can say ‘how are you?’ In her native language. She said she needed someone to take her children to their activities – ballet, soccer, piano, basketball, play dates, among other things. I was not interested in driving other people’s children because I had my own young child; I have a full time job and right now I needed to hurry up because I had a spa appointment.

She asked me who takes care of my child. I have a live-in baby sitter. Where do I work? I work for the federal government, specifically the US Congress. Are you kidding me? I am not going to clean someone’s starter castle with 7 bathrooms, a foyer as big as a ballroom and a kitchen as big as my condo. How many gallons of vinegar will I want to smell in a day? And that would be 52 weeks a year. Sorry, Mrs. Cardio, hire your own baby sitter and hire your own housekeeper. Hire two of them. Get yourself a job so you can get out of your castle and actually join the world of the living, hard-working women.

She said, “I have a boring life. All I do is take my children around. That is all I do.” So I said, “Why don't you hire a nanny with a driver’s license, hire two housekeepers, and get a job outside your home so you get to talk to other women.” I felt awkward for her, but nonetheless, I harbored a feeling that I can only now describe as jealousy for her seemingly better circumstances. As soon as I knew that she was not in a happy place, I started to feel much luckier than she was, furthermore, my condo had only two bathrooms!

If I had been in the same situation today as I did then, she would probably become one of my friends but I was obviously not worthy of her friendship. I was only worthy of becoming her maid.

Alas, she was unhappy and scowling by the time I cleaned her kitchen. She was finding fault in my cleaning. What was she expecting, that I would actually steam-clean her kitchen or that I would stir fry some freaking bok-choy and chicken for her family? I do not do this for a living. I was tired by the time I did the kitchen and I had to work with her mess. They had someone dropping in by the time I got to the kitchen and I was cleaning around them while they drank their coffee standing about. Aaaargh!

Finally, I declared that I was done. My friend came to polish whatever she thought needed a final touch and we said we were going. Mrs. Cardiology gave us $100. It was $80 for the base period and $20 extra tip. She asked us to come back next weekend. My friend looked at me and I gave her the “Shut the hell up or you are dead meat” look. She said, “I will call you if we are available.” As we drove away, my friend handed me my $50. We then went to lunch and then went to our nail spa appointments. Never again for $50. No way, no how.

But here in my fantasy, I would be cleaning small flats in Hong Kong, and I will quit if some spoiled witch is unhappy with my cleaning. I will have tea at the Peninsula , dim sum at the floating restaurant, take a trip to Stanley market on the double decker bus just because. And I can buy more blue and white china with my cleaning service income.

By the way, in the story I started about the couple in American Greed? The wife killed her husband. I kid you not. She put his body in one of the Persian carpets and put it in their storage bin in the apartment. All the gold, diamonds, privilege, Park View flat, parties, social functions, and money did not make one couple happy. She sits in a prison in Hong Kong and she will be there for the rest of her life. Golden girl tarnished forever. She is no longer blond and pretty. I watched every minute of it on TV.

Back to my retirement- anyway, more and more, my family started telling us that we will not be young when we retire. We need access to “911” when we get older. That made a lot of sense so we started thinking about retirement in the USA mainland. Arizona is out of the question; lack of water, messed up government, and I look like an immigrant. Florida is too hot and humid; too many fundamental Christians; Buffalo New York is too cold; moving to Canada did not sit well with our son; California has earthquakes, wildfires, and landslides; Delaware is just too bland, and I will not live in New England. So the plan is to retire when son is done with college, buy a house in an active retirement community either in New Mexico or Colorado, ask movers to hold our belongings, rent an RV, tow our SmartforTwo car, and drive all over the USA for three months.

We will ultimately settle in our retirement home somewhere in Colorado or New Mexico. We have found our ideal community. We are about to visit it this Fall. During retirement, HB wants to work part time as a dump truck driver; and I have high hopes of becoming one of the following: a teacher, bank teller, contracts administrator, notary public helping mortage lenders, full time pensioner, florist’s assistant; museum store clerk; sandwich maker, tea time caterer, stand-up comic. The list is long, the possibilities are endless. Maybe I can even clean my neighbors’ houses for a fee!

"I am not your Mom. I am your Driving Instructor."

I have recently been the designated driver coach for my son. He is a product of his generation, resistant to driving and insistent upon taking public transportation. While we support his stance on driving, we also found out that his college buddies had thrown their car keys at his lap and asked him to be the designated driver for the party animals. So there he was, with only a learning permit, driving kids who had too much to drink to their dorms. Home for the summer, one of his goals is to get his driver’s license.

During this particular afternoon, as good teachers do, I planned the concepts that I would teach him to become a good driver. I dug deep into my memory as a teen learning how to drive. I learned to drive on an antiquated car whose gears were manual. The driving instructor taught me look at the rearview mirror, taught me how to reverse the car, honk the horn every 2 seconds, and to “nurse the brakes” as opposed to stepping hard on it. For this purpose, he would say “brake, brake alalay.” The word “alalay” (ah-luh-lie) in Pilipino means to “assist,” “do it gently,” “nurse it.” He would also use the word “pasok” (puh-sock), or “merge” or “enter.” Other important words are “kabig” or "bawi" which mean to take it back or reverse the direction of whatever it is one is doing.

He has been “driving” with either me or his dad in the SmartforTwo. Imagine if you will, that this car is very cozy. You can, as a passenger, virtually negotiate a turn for the driver. It is up close and personal in that little car. But it is a fun car and I want him to like it enough to ask to drive it to his many social activities as soon as he has a license.

As Son sat on the driver’s seat, I proclaimed, “I am not your Mom. I am your driving instructor.” He gave me the “Seriously?” look but said “Okay.” “Your lesson today will start with reversing the car. The concept is simple. You turn the wheel to the right if you want the car to turn to the left. You will turn the wheels to the left if you want the car to turn to the right. You will first check whether the right or left is clear, back the car up. The other important thing for you to remember is to alalay the brake.” He said, “A what? What is that?” So I explained it to him. I said “it means gently stepping on the brake until you stop, you know suavemente, alalay.” He was clearly ticked off by this. “Mom, say it in English. Don’t say it in Filipino.” “Look I said it in Filipino, Spanish, and English already. You want us to continue this lesson or not?” He muttered, “Ok, let me drive.”

I would step hard on my imaginary brake every time we were to approach a main road but all I really just managed to do was get a cramp on my leg. Mercifully, he was driving at maybe 15 miles an hour on a 25mph zone. I had him drive over to the community where his friend and his girlfriend live. Over and over, we drove on tree-lined streets with beautifully maintained gardens, Mcmansions, reasonable people’s reasonably-sized homes, with cars parked along each side of the street.

“Son, you are doing well. Very good!” At this point, he turned to me, actually pivoted his body to look at me and said, “Mom, you know, Toy Story is really cool!” I was beside myself. “Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road! You are going to kill both of us!” “So now I cannot talk? I can’t tell you something?” “Maintain your eyes on the road. You are distracted when you tell a story, I will be distracted listening to your story. I will be responsible if we have an accident.” He was put off but then he said, sarcasm not too thinly veiled. “I forgot, you are not my Mom. You are the driving instructor.”

At some point, he was driving too close to the right so I reached out to turn the wheel towards the left. He let go of the steering wheel and exasperatedly threw his arms up, with that ever familiar stance that says: “Now, what? Seriously?” I said, “I had to do that. You were driving on the gutter. You will swipe parked cars!” “Oh, okay. My bad.”

Before too long, we ended up on a feeder road that led us to Old Georgetown Road. This leads to his former high-school, his best friend’s home, the Chipotle, the Starbucks, Balducci’s; in other words, the fun places. Enough of the boring houses with parked cars on the streets and I saw a big smile on his face. “This is way cool, this is great!” “Ok, now remember, watch the brakes, alalay lang.” I think he got it but then, I said, in font size 25, “Hey, stop! Stop! Why is the car still moving?!” He said, font 27, “I am going to stop!” “No you are not. The car is rolling. I meant full stop!” “I was not rolling, I was going to make a full stop!" Then he dared me, "Let us go home!” Me, in font 22 “Let us go home then!” However, I could not stay mad because I had to still guide this brat home. Normal font, size 12, “Okay, maintain your lane, very good. That was nicely done, smooth lane change. Very good, K!”

By the time we crossed over Rockville Pike, we were calm and I asked him if he wanted to continue on to the next subdivision. We did. He practiced getting out of parking spaces. It was bad. He would have dinged both cars along each side and he would have dented those cars that were parked and minding their own business on the opposite side.

We decided to call it a day. “We will practice again next week. There will still be a lot of yelling, understand, but only because I am trying to let you appreciate the fact that you cannot take anything for granted when you are behind the wheel. Let us take you to your date with your friends in Bethesda.” We came to a stop light. He did this smoothly. Then, he started to reach out for his Blackberry. “What are you doing?” “I was going to check my text.” “You will not check your text!” “But we are stopped.” “It does not matter. It is not good practice. Your friends know you are coming. It is not worth having an accident or dying to text 'be right there.'You DO NOT text anyone while you are in the car, you do not talk on the phone, either. You focus.” “Ok, ok, Mom! Jeez!” “I am the driving instructor.” "Ok, whatever, this is warped." "Warped? Did you just call me warped?" "No I did not. Can I have my Mom back?"

I learned to drive in Manila. Things were different then and there. I drove through Rizal Avenue and I had my friends with me, actually seated on the back seats while I was being taught by a "professional instructor." I did not learn rules of the road. I was told to stop and I stopped. I did not look at the traffic lights. My instructor told me to stop; he was in charge of all of that. I was not taught what yield meant or how to park that car. It was always moving; I never parked that car I learned to drive in. Most of all, I did not know or cared that pedestrians had the right of way. I was tooting that horn at everyone to tell them to get the heck out of my way or I would run them over. Driving in Manila was fun then. I took a driving test that was so annoying as it asked me all parts of the car. I was never asked the proper speed limit on residential or school zones. In Manila, you just play it by ear. Someone honks at your or lecture you even and you just go; if you are up to it, you cut everyone else and you are ahead of the race. Go figure. I got my license in Manila knowing nothing about why I should yield or stop or be a polite driver.

I did not know how to drive an automatic transmission car when I arrived in the USA. My sister Lita was generous enough to let me drive her car. She asked me to back it out of her driveway one late afternoon. I was not prepared for the “powerful” Malibu to leap out of that driveway. As a reflex, my sister who was behind the car, tried to push it back, and realized that she would die if she did not step aside. So she did and there was a loud bang. I totally wrecked the gate to their house. My brother-in-law was in shock; my sister was in shock; I was laughing hysterically out of fear and nervousness. !”

The next adventure, which happened in quick succession, was my learning how to parallel park. We went to the Department of Motor Vehicle after office hours to practice on the “test space.” I managed to drive over the barricade and we had to call my brother-in-law to jack up the car so we can free the barricade, and the car.

That following bright and beautiful Monday morning, my sister asked me to drive us into town; I was a summer youth worker in the non-profit she worked in. She must really think I knew what I was doing and she completely trusted me. A few days later, she told me that her colleague, Mrs. Barker asked her, albeit hesitantly, if my sister was driving her car last Monday morning. My sister replied, “No I let my baby sister drive that morning.” Mrs. Barker exclaimed, “Thank God Lita, I was driving behind your car and I was worried you were drunk while driving!” Thereafter, whenever I would be the driver, none of my nieces or nephew would go with us, no matter how they wanted to go out to drive around.

I moved to Washington, DC and quickly learned to drive a one-way direction, from the city into Prince George’s to see friends. Returning home, someone would always drive back the car into town. Years later, and having evolved into a bona fide driver, I decided to buy a “stick shift” Corolla. It was liberating to control the car that way. None of these, lazy-butt automatic transmission car for my free spirit!

The problem was I could not drive the darn car for fear of causing my and its demise. I feared hilly roads and the fact that I seem to back up a mile before I can drive forward a yard. So one day, I plotted my route. I would avoid at any cost having to drive over a hilly road. I was afraid I would cause an accident. Well, it had to happen. There was a police car behind me at a stop sign. Inside were two police officers. Since I was suffering from the backing- up- a- mile before -I –could- move- on- syndrome, I got out of my car and approached the cops. “Officer, can you move back your car a bit please?” They were puzzled. “Why is that?” “Because my car is a stick shift and I have just started driving it so I cannot move forward without backing up and I might bump your cruiser.” “Alright, do you have a license?” “Yes, I do Officer. Do you want me to produce it?” “No, it is okay. You may go back to your car.”

I went back into my car and I did not see them move the cruiser an inch. I started my car and engaged the shift and lifted my foot from the clutch. And sure enough, my car moved backwards, and it kept moving backwards. Then I saw the cruiser backing up, and continued to back up like in a slow dance with my yellow Corolla. I warned them! Finally, when my car has had enough inertia, it went forward and joined the Route 295 traffic into town. I imagined the police officers saying, “There is another evolving would-be idiot woman driver!”

It has been over 35 years since that day. The only accident I have had that involved another driver was when a cabbie went through a red light on K Street. I was so traumatized that when the cops came and asked me to move the car to the side of the road, I told them I forgot how to drive. I kept looking at the steering wheel and I kept saying, “Officer I forgot how to drive.” They told me how to do it, “Okay young lady, turn the key. Put the car on D for drive. Then, step on the gas and drive to the side of the road.” “Okay, I can do that.”

The other time was my car sliding on snow outside the gate of Fort McNair. I beckoned to the young military guard to please come near my car and I said, “I cannot bear to see if I damaged my car. Well, is it damaged?” He smiled and said, “Ma’am your car is fine. But are you?” I said, “If my Saab is fine, I will live.”

This weekend, I will continue to teach my son to negotiate the main roads and maybe even ask him to take me to the grocery store. The last time I taught someone to drive, she let go of the wheel, closed her eyes and shrieked “Ay naku, hindi ko to kaya!!” (Oy vey, I cannot do this!”) That was my baby sister; she now has a 25- year old daughter, who drives ---sometimes badly; having wrecked a real nice Volvo and maybe one other car. So let us see, where the road takes me and my son. Patay kung patay? ([we will be] Dead if death cannot be avoided.)