The Price of Tea

My Life With Bruce Willis - Part 2

This is just a short one...linking Part 1 to part 3. Hoping to get part 3 posted tomorrow.

***

A few weeks after our return from Phuket we were off again for the Chinese New Year holiday. Next up on our tour around Southeast Asia was Cebu Island, The Philippines. As an added bonus, we still had our tan lines from Thailand.

We scrambled around the apartment trying to get out the door for the airport when a random wave of nausea hit me. Rob and the kids were already in the elevator when I disappeared into the bathroom and threw up.

Weird.

“Jennifer, where’d you go…we’re gonna miss our flight!” I heard Rob shout from the foyer.

I reappeared, wiping my mouth with some toilet paper, but before I could say anything, I turned around and ran back to the bathroom. Rob appeared in the doorway and said, “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“I don’t know. One minute I was fine and the next I was buckled over the toilet dry heaving…like…” I stopped myself from even saying my thoughts aloud.

“Like what?”

“Like that hollow, hungry feeling of morning sickness.”

“Really?” Rob perked up. “It is possible, you know.”

“No. One time. One fallopian tube. Two kids already.”

“We one-timed Grace and Willy with one fallopian tube.” He beamed like he was some kind of sperm super-hero.

“Bite your tongue,” I said. I gave him the finger with one hand while he grabbed the other and hoisted me up.

“Come on, Honey…you’re the one who…”

“Bite your tongue,” I snapped this time. The joke was over. I did not want to be pregnant. I did not want a third child.

“Seriously, it was your idea.”

“I was drunk…we were all high on Thailand. Now I’m sober and I changed my mind.” I rinsed my mouth out with some water. “Jesus…I hate this feeling…”

“Yeah but…we’re going to be high on the Philippines in a few short hours.”

“Not if you don’t shut up…We’re going to miss our flight.”

***

Spoiler: I am going to omit the next part of the story for now...I have a miscarriage on the way to the Philippines and I'm not quite sure how to handle the writing of it. So...I'm skipping it for now and will just get back to the silliness of Rob (a.k.a. Bruce Willis) being stalked around the resort.

My Life With Bruce Willis - Part 1

Well, the stomach flu hit my three girls the other day, so I only had time to finish the first part of the Bruce Willis story. I'll work on part 2 next week and get it posted asap. As always...this is rough.

***

The only person I’ve ever been mistaken for was Anthony Michael Hall’s character in the movie Sixteen Candles. You know? “Farmer Ted”.  I was 11. A few years later, after I’d “blossomed” (well, I at least started looking like a girl), a good friend of the family told me that I was the homeliest 11 year old she’d ever seen. Some friend, huh? In bad lighting and with minimal sleep I could also be confused with the character Malachai from the movie Children of the Corn: flaming red hair, which was actually styled in a mullet ca. 1988, teeth as big as a horse and the same charming personality.

I’m not so sure which one’s worse.

My handsome husband, however, gets mistaken for all kinds of different people. From a guy like Daughtry who is 10 + years his junior to Ed Harris who is 20+ years his senior.

The day we took Grace home from the hospital we overheard a little boy ask his Mom, “Is that Dr. Greene?”

Bruce Willis tops the list. And truthfully, aside from Daughtry, he probably most closely resembles Bruce Willis than any of the others. On the not so flattering end would be Scott Hamilton (which makes me chuckle every time) to the most flattering would be Brad Pitt ca. Oceans 11.

Trust me, Honey, I think you’re the “Sexiest Man Alive”, but...

Kidding aside, all of this silliness makes Rob think he has movie star good looks. I just think it’s the old stereotype: bald people (like Asians) all look alike. After being married to a bald guy and living in Asia, I personally move to dispel this stereotype from the lexicon.

***

I squatted down with a box of generic children’s acetaminophen and Children’s Tylenol in each hand trying in vain to figure out what the difference was between the two, aside from two dollars in price. Without looking up I’d asked, “Whaddyou think, Hon, should we try the generic?”

We were “on a budget”. I’d quit my job the summer before because we were “moving to China”. Unfortunately, we were still in Colorado, and by Christmas we were going broke.

To clarify, we were going broke, but not because we couldn’t afford to live on one salary. We were going broke because, as Rob said (more than once) “because I wouldn’t stop spending money.” My response to his continued harping: “Being a housewife is boring. Going to Target is fun. I can’t help myself.”

He didn’t reply so I asked again, this time looking in the direction where I thought he was standing.

Where’d he go?

Grace, who was five at the time, was crammed in the shopping cart getting smooshed by last minute supplies for our holiday trek to Key West. Willy, who was four at the time, was sitting in the cart’s seat swinging his legs and singing along with the “Little Drummer Boy”.

“Hey Kids, where’d Daddy go?” I asked.

“I think he went that way,” Grace said, pointing toward the front door. “No, I fink he went dat way,” Willy said, pointing to the pharmacy.

Oh-kay.

I threw the generic Tylenol in the cart, split the difference, and headed to the magazine section.

I took a shortcut through the baby aisle and found Rob reading diaper labels.

“Ummm. Dear, we’ve been done with diapers for two years. What are you doing? We’ve gotta get going,” I said, looking at the time on my mobile phone. “It’s already past nine. We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

We walked toward the cashier together. Rob kept looking all around like he didn’t want to be seen. “I know. I was just hiding from this group of kids who keep following me around. It’s really weird,” he said.  “Shit, here they come.” I looked back and saw a group of three giggling teenage girls. When I turned back around, Rob had already disappeared down another aisle.

Weird.

I pushed my cart to the check out collecting last minute this and thats along the way.

I unloaded the cart and once she was uncovered, I pulled Grace out of the cart and asked her to go look for her Dad.

“OK, Mommy.”

Grace scampered off in search of Rob and I finished unloading the shopping cart. I put the last of our goods on the conveyor and noticed the check out girl was giving me a weird dirty look. Her oversized, pouty lips stuck out and her eyes were squinted at me like I’d done something wrong or like she was suspicious of me.

Rob and Grace turned the corner from the women’s cosmetic section and the three giggling teenage girls followed closely behind. Rob peeked over his shoulder at them every few steps as Grace pulled him by his arm.

What the hell is going on?

“Dat bald guy yer man?” the cashier asked.

“Uh, yeah, he’s my man alright,” I said. I turned toward Rob and said, “Hey, Dear, can you pay? I don’t have any money.”

Rob approached the cashier, gave me a weird look and I whispered, “Why are you acting so weird?”

While Rob fiddled with his wallet, I stopped Willy from destroying a sponge bob Pez dispenser that he’d pinched off the shelf. The cashier nodded her head in the direction of the three girls whispered, “Dem kids think you’s Bruce Willis. You Bruce Willis?”

He put his finger to his lips and gave her a silent shush. Then he said in a lowered voice, “Uh, Yeah. My girlfriend, the kids and I are just picking up a few last minute things. We’re headed to Aspen for the holiday.”

She looked him up and down and nodded. Rob, like most men, always looks good. He’s bald, so he never has to worry about the hair issue. His casual demeanor matches his laid back attire no matter where he is. Jeans and a t-shirt and could mean he’s lounging around the house or dressed for dinner. But when he smiles and those dimples appear, people feel at ease within moments of meeting him for the first time…like they’re long lost best friends…or lovers.

Then she turned to me and frowned: frizzy red hair knotted on the top of my head, my frown line was full-on forming a perfect reservoir that connects my forehead to my nose, no makeup, raggedy old yoga pants, flip flops (even though it was about 27 degrees out and sleeting) and an old hooded sweatshirt.

 She pushed her lips out even further, squinted and shook her head as if she was thinking you ain’t no Duh-mee.

I snatched the Sponge Bob candy dispenser from Willy, returned it to its home on the shelf and thought to myself, Whatever Girlfriend, you ain’t no Duh-mee neither.

Rob collected his change, shared a big smile with his fans that were gathered around us, grabbed me with one arm around the waist and planted a big kiss square on my lips. Then we herded the kids to the exit and left the drug store trying our best not to burst out in laughter before we were out of sight.

If You're Following Along...

I've been working on a silly little story titled, "My Life With Bruce Willis" and hope to have it posted on Friday. This story back tracks a little bit. If you're following along, I went from Xmas in Thailand to getting pissed off in the bank because I didn't know  how to fill in the gap. Well...I finally figured it out and am almost finished with the shitty first draft.

If you're not following along and would like to...you can read the very first post of my memoir on life in China here.

Just a heads up, too, I skipped over some other hard-to-write sections, so be prepared for things to jump around a bit. When the book is finally finished, I'll post the final PDF so you can read it from start to finish (if you'd like).

Dusting off the Blog

Hi there. Life in Beijing is in full-swing. Grace (grade 5) and Willy (grade 4) have started at a new school this year - The Western Academy of Beijing. So far, so good. They are on the swim team again  and have started doing Muay Thai kickboxing.

The twins are as onery as ever. I am attempting to "homeschool" them. My efforts to get them to identify letters are nearly fruitless. I think they can I.D. 4 letters. The Ayi is having more success with Chinese characters. They can I.D. about 10 Chinese characters. Crazy. 

Robby's new role at work is challenging, but going quite well. Now if he ever learned to speak Chinese we'd probably never move home.

As for me...I've started writing again after a nice summer break. I'm not sure if I'll get a chapter posted this week...it may take a while to get back into the flow of writing. But, if not this week, likely next.

So far I'm about 2/3 finished with the 1st draft of the China book. My goal is to have the 1st draft completed by Dec (and re-write by the end of the school year). Along with my faithful critique partner, Celia, I've also enlisted the lovely and talented editor-in-the-family-extraordinaire, Suzanna Bainbridge (a.k.a. "Suzy Smith"), to help me smooth out the rough spots.

As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated...even if you think it sucks. Please, tell me why.

Shanghai Surprise

On a roll here...

***

Shanghai Surprise

I don’t think it’s a secret, but I never really thought I’d ever get married, let alone have kids. I somehow ended up with a husband, whom I adore, and two fabulous kids. Let’s call it one of life’s little surprises.

After Grace and Willy were born one year and four days apart, I figured we did our duty for humankind: I replaced myself, Rob replaced himself – with a namesake, no less – and that was that. And, I’d been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for two years straight. I’d had enough.  

Besides, not to brag or anything, but Grace and Willy were seriously like the best babies ever. I thought for sure I was screwed after Grace turned out to be so easy, but Willy was easier than her. No way could I ever have another kid…my luck surely would have run out on the gentle natured-ness of children - especially considering the gene pool.

Rob straggled into the house after a long flight and dumped his suitcases on the floor. The kids accosted him and said, in unison, “What did you bring me?” Benny peed on the floor, barely missing Rob’s foot. Xiao Li scurried off to get the mop.

I ransacked his suitcase for the pee tests I’d asked him to bring me, while the kids got reacquainted with their dad. After Rob mentioned he thought I could be pregnant, I’d made daily trips to the drug store on the hunt for a pee test. I got the same irritating response each day. “Jin tian, mei you. Ming tian you.” (Today no have. Tomorrow have). Except tomorrow never had.

I uncovered a year’s supply of Children’s Tylenol and Gummy Vites before I found 3 Sam’s Club packs of E.P.T. tests.

“One probably would’ve been enough,” I laughed.

“Well, ya never know.”

I suppose.

Rob doled out the trinkets he’d brought the kids and I ran to the toilet. I’d already drunk my weight in water in anticipation of Robby’s return, so I was more than ready to open the floodgates.

The following is NOT an exaggeration. If you’ve ever taken a pee test, you may think I’m exaggerating. I assure you, if there is one part of the book that is based on 100% straight up fact and zero hyperbole, this is it.

Within fifteen seconds, not kidding, fifteen seconds that all-telling hot pink stripe was staring me in the face. I practically burned a hole in the thing like I was peeing laser beams.

No. No. No. No. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO! NO!

“Honey?” I whimpered.

There was no answer.

“Honey?” I said, but my voice was still weak.

There was still no answer. He probably couldn’t hear me over the kids’ excitement to have their Daddy home after three long weeks with a very crabby Mommy.

“HONEY!?” Just as I screamed for him, he poked his head into the bathroom. Unable to speak, I handed him the stick.

“Well, what does it mean?”

“Take a guess.”

“Positive?”

“I guess some people would consider it ‘positive’.”

This could explain a few things…

***

Dr. Wang was a miniature woman. She looked like one of those tiny old women I’d seen on the street who still wore the tattered Mao grays leftover from the Cultural Revolution, except she studied and practiced Gynecology and Obstetrics in the US for twenty five years. I learned that she had recently moved back to China to retire. Easing her way into retirement, she worked a few shifts a week at the International Hospital in Xin Tian Di helping nervous expat ladies deliver babies in China.

She looked at my chart. “It says here you’re pregnant.”

“Uh, yeah…I had a positive pee test...yesterday.”

We discussed my gynecological history. I explained to her that I’d had an ectopic pregnancy and lost my left fallopian tube, but had two successful pregnancies after that.

“Wow, you’re fertile.”

“Apparently.”

“Well, we need to do an ultrasound right away since you have an ectopic pregnancy in your history. We have to make sure this baby is in the right spot.” She patted herself on the belly. “Follow me and we’ll get it done today.” She stood up, smoothed her lab coat and marched out the door.

I shuffled behind her, my head hung low. I ignored my surroundings, eyes fixed on the industrial tiled floor.

I followed her through two sets of double doors and into a darkened ultrasound room. A cheerful technician swiveled around in her chair as we entered the room. She apparently didn’t speak any English, aside from “Hello,” because the next five minutes of conversation was conducted in Chinese.

I stripped down and took my spot on the bed while they talked…and talked in a language I couldn’t understand.

The conversation ceased and they went to work on my ultrasound. The tech squeezed some goo on my belly and Dr. Wang said, “This will feel a little cold.”

I know the drill.

The tech did her thing and I simply stared at the industrial tiled ceiling.

After a few minutes, the tech erupted in conversation. Dr. Wang hustled around the bed and took the ultrasound wand from the tech. She moved it around and pointed at the screen.  Both women smiled gleefully and chattered in high pitched squeals.

What’s the fuss ladies?

I looked away from the ceiling and caught eye contact with Dr. Wang. She pointed at the screen and said, “There’s two babies in here…see?”

For a moment my mind was blank.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Both ladies looked at me funny, like no woman had ever dropped the ‘F’ bomb after hearing she was going to have twins.

You're Just the Wife - Part 2

This is a continuation from yesterday's post. One of the hard parts about writing memoir is that you have to lay it all out there...even if it makes you look like a fool. Or a rabid dog.  Either way, the following is part of the story, so, here it is.

***

Defeated, I climbed into the back of my Toyota Corolla, rested my head against the window and said, “Hui Jia.”

You’re just the wife. The truth hurts.

Those four words cut me to my core. Those four words were exactly what my life had been reduced to. Why did it take a clerk in a bank to make me realize what was wrong with me?

Before this big Chinese adventure of ours Robby and I were a brilliant team. True partners. We worked for the same company. Though I was in marketing and he was in manufacturing, we still stole moments to be with each other every day. If he’d had a bad day, it went without saying that I took over the household chores and vice versa. And, if we both had fine days, we cooked dinner together, played with the kids together, did the dishes together, watched TV together and went to bed together. We were always together.

Now, we weren’t. Now he went to work, the kids went to school and I was just the wife. This probably explained why a few short months before - out of the blue - I asked him if he wanted to have a baby. I never wanted to have a baby. I wanted to feel needed.  Could I have been any more of a cliché? There’s bound to have been a made-for-TV movie about having kids for all the wrong reasons.

***

“Mommy?”

I opened my heavy eyelids. Grace and Willy were hovering over me. My room was dark.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know. We just got home from school. We were worried. You didn’t come down to pick us up,” Grace said.

“Shit. Oh, I’m so sorry, Guys. I’m just so tired. Let’s get you a snack.” I climbed out of bed and every inch of my body burned from exhaustion. As I prepared their snacks a wave of nausea sent me running for the trashcan. I dry heaved into the trashcan, but when I finished the nausea was gone and I felt slightly better.

What the hell was that?

I sat down at the table with the kids. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything all day, which was weird because I wasn’t hungry – at all.

Maybe I have the stomach flu?

Then the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” the person at the other end of the phone said. Then she struggled to say the English words, “Your neighbor is complain about the children’s toys in the common area.”

“What?”

She struggled to repeat herself. “The neighbor is complain…”

I cut her off. “I heard you, I just don’t understand….you know what, forget it.” I hung up the phone and sat quietly breathing yoga-style - in through my nose and out from my mouth – to try and quell the rage I could feel building inside of me.

Tired of tripping over bikes and scooters, we’d put them out in the common foyer area once our neighbor’s four month renovation was finally completed. I’d done a recon throughout the building to make sure it wouldn’t break any rules. Nearly every floor, out of 30, had bikes, baby strollers, etc. in the common area, so, out they went.

I sat there silently steaming, trying my best to remain calm. I tried calling Robby, but he didn’t answer. It was only 3 AM Colorado time.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” asked Grace.

“Nothing,” I snapped. “Just eat your snack and do your homework.”

“OK,” she said, her eyes drooped in sadness for getting yelled at for no reason.

Once the kids were settled in with their homework, I got up from the table, calmly opened the front door and approached my neighbor’s apartment. I stood on a little black floor mat that said, “Welcome” in English. A delicate red and gold ornament hung on their door. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I crouched down on the ground and looked under the door. There was someone standing right by the door. I stood up and knocked again, but there was still no answer.

“I know you’re in there. I can see your feet.”

After a moment, the door cracked open and an Asian face appeared in the partial opening.

“Did you call the management office about my kids’ bicycles?” I asked, pointed at the material in question.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Mmm-Kay…you are aware that the first 4 months we lived here this common area was like a war zone?”

She opened the door and stepped out. She was an attractive woman in her mid-40s; she was tiny and very slight, almost fragile.

“Yes…I-I am so sorry about the mess. I know the workers…”

“I don’t wanna talk about the workers…I wanna talk about the fact that there were days that our door was barricaded shut, the fire extinguisher couldn’t be reached, the emergency exit was inaccessible because of the SHIT you had in this common area…and now….now you’re calling and tattle-taling on us because of a couple kids’ bikes…When every other common area in this building has bicycles in it!”

“Yes, well, my husband…he sometimes has very important clients and it looks unprofessional…”

“Unprofessional?”

“Well, you see, we spent $800,000 US dollars on this renovation and my husband… he wants it to be nice. This is our home. You know. We are not just living here. This is our home.”

“Yeah, well, you made it impossible for us to ever feel like we’re at home.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Go fuck yourself!” I said, then I turned and put a bike on each arm and a scooter in each hand, stormed into my apartment and slammed the door in her face.

What the hell is wrong with me?

***

After I’d tucked the kids in that night, Robby called at his regularly scheduled time to tuck the kids in from afar. After their chat, I said good night one last time and told Rob about the events of the day.

“How was the rest of your day?” he asked.

“Awful. It was the worst day in China yet.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know, Dude, but there is something wrong with me. I am seriously losing my shit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I finally got some money at the bank because this western lady told me not to take no for an answer…she told me I had to kick and scream until they gave me my money.”

“So what’d you do?”

“I kicked and screamed…and ended up taking out a cash advance on the credit card.”

“Oh-kay, good. So you have enough cash…I’ll be home in five days.”

“Yeah, I should be all set…but that’s not all?”

“What?”

“I think I fucked up…with the neighbors…I snapped…worse, I came unhinged.”

“Whaddya mean?”

I re-told the story.

“Jesus, Jennifer…”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know what is wrong with me. I feel like my blood is boiling all the time, like my head is going to explode. And I’m sick. I’ve been puking…dry heaving really because I haven’t eaten anything.

“Extreme exhaustion, irrational emotions, puking…sounds to me like you’re pregnant.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Seriously…that’s what it sounds like.”

“That would be impos…well, almost impossible.”

You're Just the Wife

OK. I'm skipping ahead a little because there are 3 chapters I can't get quite right. The first is Thanksgiving, the second is one more encounter we had in Thailand, and the third is the time leading up to/our Chinese New Year trip to the Philippines.

The following bit has been repurposed from an original blog post I'd done back in the spring of 2008.

***

You’re Just the Wife

A few weeks after our return from the Philippines Rob had to go home to Colorado for a three week business trip. I was hopelessly jealous. Though I thought I was doing all the right things: working out, writing, meeting new people, I was still tired all the time. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake the depression that nagged at me like an old spouse.

One morning, I’d returned to the apartment from sending the kids off to school when the phone rang. It was Robby calling at our scheduled time – my morning and his night time.

“Hey, Honey, what’re you doing?” he asked.

“I’m getting’ ready to hop in the shower…gotta go to the bank today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know…me too…at least I get to go to the City Shop. They usually have sweet and salty Chex Mix…for some reason I’m craving it like mad!” The City Shop was the closest thing we had to a Western grocery store. They carried all imported goods mostly from the states and Europe, but also places like Japan, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Vietnam.

“Go easy at the City Shop. It’s really expensive….and, as you know, we’re going broke.” We were going broke. We’d cashed in our life savings to take the holidays in Thailand and the Philippines. But we were happy to do so. If we only had two years in China, we were going to travel every chance we got. Beyond that though, everyday life in Shanghai was at least 30% more expensive than life in Denver and really, we couldn’t afford it.

“I know, Dear, but I’m tired of talking about how broke we are…so, make me jealous, what are you doing right now?”

“Well, I don’t mean to rub it in, but I’m sitting in Hooters with a huge pile of wings, a Guinness draft in my hand and three big screen TVs staring me in the face: One is playing basketball, one is playing hockey and the other is showing the opening pitch of spring training.”

“You suck.”

“I know, sorry. Summer’s just around the corner…how’re you feeling, any better?”

“No. Not really. I’m still really tired. If I didn’t need to pay Xiao Li and Chen I’d just go back to bed.”

“Weird. Maybe you should go back to the Dr.”

“Nah…I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just my hormones readjusting themselves from the miscarriage.”

“Oh-kay. Well, take a nap today when you get home from the bank.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

***

On my way downtown, I sat in the back seat of our Toyota Corolla and remembered the day Rob and I opened our China bank account. We’d been instructed by one of Rob’s colleagues to open two accounts: one at an international bank, like HSBC and another at a local Chinese bank. It sounded simple at the time, but we found out - time and again - that sometimes the simplest of tasks had proven to be the most challenging in China.

We’d arrived in Shanghai a few days before, so jetlag was in full swing. Luckily, Xiao Li watched after the children while we ran errands. It was such a liberating feeling to be able to run errands without having to take the kids. We were happy and they were happy. What kid wouldn’t rather stay at home watching movies than go to the bank with their parents?

When we arrived at the HSBC by the Ritz Portman we expected to walk in, open an account and go home. This was an international bank, they would speak perfect English and voila, we’d be all set. How hard could it be? We needed exactly two things from our international bank account: 1. The ability to transfer money to our landlord. 2. The ability to withdraw money with an ATM card.

After two painstaking hours of navigating the language barrier and matching up our two needs with what they offered, we both signed on the dotted line for what we thought was a joint savings account.

The only problem, aside from the time-sink and mind-bending frustration, was that we couldn’t afford to open an account that came with an ATM card. In order to get an ATM card we had to open the account that required a minimum balance of $10,000 at all times.

Even if we had a spare 10 grand at any given time, which we don’t, but if we did, it wouldn’t sit idly in a bank so I could spend it.

That should be the account that doesn’t come with an ATM card.

When we’d finally finished with HSBC, we stepped outside into the heat of mid-day. I wanted to go home. “Hey, Hon, check it out…there’s a Bank of China right across the street,” Robby said.

“Alright, we might as well get it over with...maybe we’ll qualify for an ATM card?”

“Manage those expectations,” Robby said with a smile, as he grabbed my hand and guided me across the street.

The bank looked like a small, but crowded bus terminal. There were digital signs flashing red Mandarin characters mixed with numbers above us, a person shouting numbers over a loudspeaker, rows of linked chairs with black pleather seats and silver arm rests filled with a variety of people waiting patiently to make their deposits or withdraws.

As was often the case in those early days of life in Shanghai, there were always more people in a given space than I was prepared for. We squeezed our way into the bank and walked between hordes of sweaty people who seemed to be in a rush. Not sure where to begin, we stood there looking around for a few minutes trying to figure out where to go. After a few minutes of getting jostled around, we figured out that we had to take a number and wait our turn.  

“Eighty-two,” Robby said. He looked up at the flashing digital number sign that was mounted on the wall by the tellers. “Forty-six.” He frowned. Still hand-in-hand, we inched our way to an open spot by the front door and stood our ground in silence.

There was an older couple standing next to us that appeared to be arguing. As time passed, their voices progressively got louder and their arms started to flail. Everyone else in the place ignored them, but Robby and I just stared. After a few more minutes they were shouting, and finally, they broke out into a full-blown cat fight. No fists were thrown, but there was definite pushing and hair-pulling.

I looked at Rob and he looked at me, we both saw they were only serving number 50. Without a word we left the bank – never to return.

Since cash was king, but we didn’t have an ATM card, once a month Rob went on a pilgrimage to the HSBC. First he’d transfer rent to our landlord then he’d pull out the cash he thought we’d need for spending money. It worked, most of the time.

***

I arrived at the bank at lunchtime so there was only one teller working.

Third in line…this shouldn’t take too long.

The first customer was in and out in a flash. The second customer approached the teller and dumped an enormous Carrefour bag filled with what seemed like thousands of pre-wrapped 10,000 RMB bundles on the counter.

Un-phased by the heaping pile of money, the teller grabbed individual stacks of 10,000 RMB, removed the rubber band and placed them in the money counter like a robot. One after the other. The pile of money totaled 500,000 RMB – about $71,500.

Wow. That’s a lot of money.

And then she counted it again.

As I stood there, counting and counting, a bizarre rage started to well inside of me. I crossed my arms, sucked in a deep breath and fumed.

After another twenty minutes it was my turn. As Willy would say, I had only 1 patient left.

Finally.

I forced a smile and silently presented the cashier with my account number card, my passport and withdraw slip.

“OK. No problem.”

As she looked up my account I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. I was sweating, and felt like I was going to pass out. My knees started to buckle, so I leaned against the counter for extra support.

What is wrong with me?

After a moment or two the teller looked up from her computer. She was confused. "I am sorry, Ma'am, I am not hearing your signature in our system."

"You're not hearing it, or you're not seeing it?" I asked.

Such a shame sarcasm is completely lost in this country.

"I am not hearing it. Is this your husband's account?"

Does it talk?

"Well, it is our account. We opened it together last August."

"Ah, I see, but it is your husband's account."

"Well, can you see my name on the computer?" I took a deep breath in, clenched my teeth and tried to hide my frustration by forcing another smile. I popped up on my tippy-toes and tried to sneak a peek at her computer screen, but she busted me and turned it out of my view.

"Yes, your name is here, but I cannot hear your signature in my system. Wait a moment."

About 10 moments passed and my last patient was officially gone. While I waited I called Rob.

“Hey…” he answered.

“Hey…I’m at the bank and they won’t let me take any money out of the account.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah. I know. I am seriously about to lose it.”

“Calm down, Honey.”

“Calm down, Honey? I’ve gotta pay Chen, Xiao Li and swimming lessons…I can’t do that without any money.”

“Listen…let me talk to them.”

“She’s gone off somewhere.”

“Well, call me when she gets back and I’ll give a verbal.”

“Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna help.”

“Just do it, Jennifer.”

“Fine.” I hung up.

The teller resurfaced and said, "I am sorry, Ma'am, but I cannot allow you to withdraw any money because your husband has not authorized you to withdraw money."

"Well, we actually just got off the phone and he authorized for me to withdraw some money." Again…sarcasm…lost.

"No ma'am you do not understand. You're husband did not authorize you in the system to withdraw any money."

"I see. So, my name is on the account but I am not authorized to withdraw any money. This is insane. I really need money…today."

"Yes ma'am, you are just the wife."

Eyes wide, face red, and blood boiling I waved her off and turned to storm out.

Just the wife!

As I turned the corner to leave, someone grabbed me by the arm. It was the woman who’d been waiting in line after me. She was western looking, but I couldn’t determine the accent. “I heard the whole conversation…this exact thing has happened to me several times before…even after my husband authorized me to withdraw money…let me give you some friendly advice.”

“OK,” I said.

“You’re going to have to kick and scream if you’re gonna get any money…that’s the only way you get your way here…now, go back up there and kick and scream,” she said. She released the grip she’d had on my arm and nudged me back toward the teller.

“Thanks,” I said. A weak smile crossed my face; I straightened my posture and marched back to the teller.

Kicking and screaming is typically frowned upon in China. Though I’d witnessed one fist fight and one cat fight in the eight months that I’d been in country, showing anger in public is a big no-no. It’s not good for maintaining a harmonious society they’ve worked so hard to create.

That could be why it’s such an effective tool.

“Hello,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to talk to your manager.” After a few moments, another woman arrived.

“How can I help you, Ma’am?”

First I explained the situation to her. Then I asked, “Would it be possible if my husband could call in or fax an authorization?”

“No.”

Of course not.

The kicking and screaming commenced.

I ranted In a slightly raised voice, “It really shouldn’t be this difficult to withdraw money from an account that has my name on it…I don’t understand why I can’t get an ATM card, it makes no sense…not having access to any cash makes life nearly impossible because almost no place in China accepts my credit card…”

The manager interrupted me. “Excuse me, you have a credit card?”

Exasperated, I replied, "Of course I have a credit card."

"Oh. You can do a cash advance on your credit card. But I have to warn you, it is quite expensive. We have to charge you 3% for the cash advance."

Now you tell me.

Within five minutes I had a stack of cash.

I was exhausted, but I was certain a quick pop in at the City Shop will lift my spirits. I hummed along with Karen Carpenter and filled my cart with all kinds of yummy imported packaged goods from home, including the Sweet and Salty Chex Mix I’d been craving so badly, real Cheetos for the kids, and peanut butter Cap’n Crunch for Robby. While I unloaded my cart on the checkout counter I debated with myself:

Do pay with my hard-earned cash or do I use my credit card?

This is the one place that has never rejected my credit card.

That settles it. I’ll use the credit card.

I handed the cashier my credit card and waited in silence.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Your card has been declined,” the cashier said, pointing to some Chinese writing on the credit card machine.

“Fuck it,” I said under my breath. I snatched my card back from the cashier, abandoned my cart and calmly left the store.

Learning to Juggle

Alright. So I'm juggling 4 difficult to write chapters along with life ... school plays, track meets, swim meets, orthodontic emergencies and potty training. I am writing, it just ain't comin' that easily...as it sometimes does, and other times, doesn't. I always forget how busy the end of the school year is. No matter, I'll plug away and hope to get something new and interesting posted soon.

 

Back at it

OK, I took last week off as it was Mother's Day/Birthday week and I decided to slack off a bit. But now I am back in the chair writing away. I've got a couple pieces that I've been working on...but the words haven't exactly been flowing freely. I'm not sure what I'll post this week, but it will be something.

Thanks for reading and stay tuned.

Mike, The Ugly American

Continuing on in Thailand with something that seems a little more light-hearted, but is actually pretty disturbing.

***

On New Year’s Day, 2008, we hired a hotel-appointed babysitter so Robby and I could get a taste of the much ballyhooed Phuket nightlife. Back home I don’t think we’d ever leave our kids at a hotel with a perfect stranger, but Thailand had cast a spell on us. We’d fallen in love with the Thai people.  Their warm smiles, genuine hospitality and gentle nature encouraged us to relinquish my fears and trust that nothing bad would happen to our children.

First we grabbed a quick bite to eat at a boutique restaurant next to our hotel. After dinner, we stepped out into a teeming sea of people. Though we walked hand-in-hand, we had to do so single file. With no agenda, we followed the herd and shouted over the noise.

As we snaked our way through the crowd, I heard a distinct American accent say, "Well that’s a sound you don't hear too often." Suddenly, I was elbow to elbow with a man, and I immediately put the face to the voice. He was handsome, but short. His blondish gray hair glistened next to his tanned skin, sea-blue eyes and sparkling veneered Hollywood smile. He looked to be about 45 and had a California casual air about him. He kept his hands deep within his pockets and dragged his heels as he walked in leather thong sandals.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The American accent. It isn’t something I hear very often.”

“Oh, yeah, I know. I think you’re the first American we’ve seen since we got here 2 weeks ago,” I said. I tugged on Robby’s hand and turned down a less crowded street.

We made the proper introductions.  His name was Mike. He was originally from southern California, but now he split his time between Hawaii and Thailand. I learned he was a commercial real estate broker in Hawaii and a residential real estate developer in Thailand. As we walked, he pointed out a few high rise apartment buildings that were his projects.

We sauntered down the dark street and continued the “get to know you” chit chat. Every other storefront was a massage parlor. Girls sat on the stoops while they waited for customers to arrive. Some were gossiping, some were sending text messages and others tried to lure us into their lairs tempting me with a five dollar pedicure and the men with five dollar massages. We politely declined their offers and they replied, “Maybe tomorrow?”

It was such a welcome departure from the aggressive vendors in Shanghai.

As we walked away from the chaos, other tourists were walking toward the crowd with eager smiles. Some were groups of young guys who looked like they’d just rolled out of bed. Others were groups of young girls dressed to kill. I looked down at my simple sun dress and said, “Wow, I’m feeling a little under-dressed.”

“Not at all,” Mike said. “These girls are kidding themselves…all dressed up for nothing.”

“Whaddya mean?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. Mike turned into a convenience store and asked if we wanted a beer.

“Sure,” Rob said. “…but let me get that for you.” Robby reached into his pockets and pulled out some Thai Baht.

“Nah, I’ll get the first round…it’s less than a buck for three Singhas.” Singha is the Thai beer.

“It’s amazing how cheap it is once you get here,” Robby said.

“Totally…isn’t it awesome?”

“Yeah, we’ve fallen in love with Thailand….I’m trying to figure out a way to move here,” Rob joked.

Mike went into the store and returned with three chilled beers. We did a U-turn and headed back toward the crowds.

“So, we’ve heard some crazy stories about the Tsunami a few years ago…we you here then?” Robby asked.

“Yes I was. I’d spent the night at my then girlfriend’s  apartment. Technically we were safe because we were on the 2^nd floor, but we still had to go out the window and climb up a couple of balconies to get to the roof.”

“So crazy, man. We’ve heard the most unbelievable stories of survival.”

“Oh yeah, our story was tame compared to most. Like I said, we weren’t really in any danger at all, but my girlfriend…she never really recovered. She was so freaked out about it that she moved home to her village shortly after.”

“Oh…she was Thai?” Rob asked.

“Of course,” Mike smiled. “I don’t know how to say this without offending you, Jennifer…” he looked at me and flashed me his big, fake smile.

“Go for it,” Robby said. “She’s pretty hard to offend.” I nodded in agreement, took a big swig of my beer and flashed him a big smile.

This oughta be rich.

We continued down the road and he continued with his story. "I realize, now that I am 44 that I worked my way through the years when I was supposed to meet someone, settle down, and have a family… realistically, if I was to date or marry an American woman of an appropriate age..."

"And what age would you consider appropriate?" I asked trying to hide the fact that his story had just begun and I was, indeed, already offended.

"Well, I can't date a 22 year old - I wouldn't be able to relate to her on any level..."

"Except one," Robby said with a grin. I elbowed him in secret while Mike continued his story.

"Okay, my point is that all the girls between the ages of 35 and 45 are either married, or have more baggage than I am willing to put up with. Like kids, ex-husbands, you know. Or, finding a single 35-45 year-old and actually going out on a date with her is more like going to a job interview. What do you do, what kind of car do you drive? Why haven't you ever been married? And I’m like, hey, why haven't you ever been married, honey?!?"

By this point, I was seething. Did it ever occur to him that a single girl at 35 or 45 was doing the exact same thing he’d been doing for the last 20 years? Establishing careers, making money, living their dream? Maybe if he hadn’t been so far up his own ass he might’ve realized that he could actually relate to one of those girls on more that one very important level.

We got to the crossroads where our sleepy street turned into chaos. We stopped and huddled together before we took the plunge so he could finish his story.

"It is just easier for me to have a girl, and to know - point blank - that she wants me first, because I am white. And second, because I am rich. No bullshit and no false pretense of love."

Wow.

Mike led the way down the busy street but after one block we took a right turn onto an even busier street.

He held up his hands and said, “Now this, my American friends, is Bangla Road…shall we?” He strolled ahead of us which gave us a quick moment to converse.

Robby looked at me and smiled. I looked at him and frowned. “Come on, Honey, it’ll be fun. This guy knows the ropes.”

“Yeah, but he’s a total jackass.”

“So what? It’ll be an adventure.”

“I’m sure it will be,” I said under my breath. He squeezed my hand, kissed my forehead and we ran to catch up with Mike, the Ugly American, our unlikely host for the evening.

I popped into another convenience store, and bought three more beers. As I distributed them, Mike continued with a story he’d been telling Rob. “So I keep my current girlfriend in my apartment, and it’s a win-win, ya know? When I’m at home in Hawaii, or traveling, I have someone to look after it. She gets a free place to stay…plus a sense of security…even if it is a false sense of security.”

I chugged some beer down and tried my best not to choke on it.

“Whaddya mean, false sense of security?” Rob asked.

“Well, again, Jennifer, I don’t want to offend, but my current girlfriend is kind of old.”

“How old could she be? 30?” I asked.

“Not quite. She’s 27, but that’s old for a Thai girl.”

“Old? How do you figure?”

“Well, she was a bar girl from the time she was 16 until she was 25…and it’s a fast life.”

As I tried to translate what he was trying to tell me in terms I could understand, Robby repeated his question, “What did you mean when you said, ‘false sense of security?’”

“What I meant was I’m never going to marry this girl. I just…I’ve been traveling so much recently; the current situation is working for now.”

"Here, I'll show you." He pointed into what looked like a food court with his empty hand and took a quick sip of beer. “Each one of these storefronts actually has 10 or so bars within them…see look.”

We looked into one of the alcoves. It was still early so most activity was happening in the street, as opposed to the bars. There appeared to be about 10 stalls each with a different sign and gimmick. Some had stripper poles going down the middle of the bar, some had girls dressed in lingerie while another had girls seductively hula hooping while blowing bubbles with their chewing gum.

“Basically what happens is… you sit down and a bar girl will join you. You buy her a drink for each drink that you have…usually they drink shots of this god awful blue liqueur. Your drink will run about $2.50, but hers will run about $5.00. She gets half the price of her drink…so, the more she drinks, the more money she makes.” He turned and looked at me then added, “Now do you understand why these girls are old at 27…lots of hard drinking six nights a week…You up for it?”

“Sure,” Rob said. We walked in and the girls went to work, each one trying to coax us into their mini world with drink specials.

“How do we choose?” Rob asked.

“I don’t know….what’s your fancy?” Mike said.

Robby looked at me and smiled. “Whaddya think, Honey?”

“Personally, I don’t think it really matters, so let’s just take a seat. I’m feeling a little exposed.” I looked around and noticed every eye lined in glitter was staring at us with big Bambi eyes. I sat down on the closest bar stool I could find and the men followed my lead.

The bar I had inadvertently chosen was called The Black Orchid and the girls were dressed in red plaid skirts with pressed white shirts unbuttoned to varying degrees.

Ah, the creepy school-girl fantasy knows no boundary.

There were a couple of stripper poles with girls upside down and twisted around them. Within seconds of sitting down a beautiful, young girl with flawless mocha-colored skin and long black hair hopped off of her pole and greeted us with a shy smile.

I took the lead and ordered the first round of drinks. Three Singhas and one mystery shot for our hostess.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now we play games,” Mike replied. He had a quick chat with our girl and while we chatted, she set up a game of Jenga. He explained to us that Jenga was the only chance we had of winning. The girls were way too good at Connect Four.

“Now, like I said, the girl gets half of what her drink costs, but the real coup for her is to go home with as many guys as she can in a night.”

“You mean these girls are prostitutes?” My voice raised an octave.

“Well, yeah…if you want to put a label on it…each time she goes home with a guy she gets about $5. Jen, this is why all those girls are dressed up for nothing. They’re not as good looking and they cost a lot more.”

“Well…what do you mean as many guys as she can?” Rob asked.

“I mean, she’ll leave for an hour, come back and start all over again with someone else,” Mike said.

“Oh, so if you’re gonna get busy with a bar girl it’s best to do it early in the night,” Robby said.

“That’s disgusting!” I said.

“But true,” Mike laughed.

“Shit!” Robby said. He’d knocked over the tower of wooden blocks.

So this is Phuket? Drinking beer and playing Jenga with hookers?

Robby pouted, “This sucks. If we're gonna stay here, we’ve gotta make this a little more interesting.”

“What, like a bet?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Robby said.

“I’m all for making things more interesting…what’s the bet?” Mike asked.

“Loser has to…” Robby looked around; one of the girls- who was hanging upside down - waved at him. “The loser has to do a pole dance.”

“Fine,” I said. I knew Robby thought it would be me on that pole, but there was no way in hell I was gonna lose.

“Awesome…I’m in,” Mike said. He smiled and ordered our girl to bring another round of drinks.

Upon her return, we put our game faces on and as luck would have it, Robby went down in flames again. The highlight of our big night on the town was my husband doing a pole dance with several drunken hookers by his side.

Dodged that bullet.