Sheryl Sandberg, China & Me

by J. T. Gilhool

  Sir had apparently gone one night too many on wrinkled sheets. Alice took matters into her own hands, bought the iron and ironing board and brought them with her one morning to the house. Alice rides a scooter. There is no basket on this scooter. She arrived with an iron, a large ironing board, a skillet, a large bag of dog food, 2 bags of groceries, a plant and my dry cleaning. Sir now sleeps on ironed sheets. His underwear is ironed too!

  Clutter is always an issue when you have kids and it seems shoes are everywhere. In China, shoes stop at the door. Live here a bit and you’ll understand why. Getting the kids to take their shoes off when they came in the house was a struggle — until Alice took over. Shoes come off and pile up at the front door. We put an old dresser there to collect the shoes and Alice has now labeled a drawer for each of us. If Alice gets the kids to put their shoes in the drawers, I’m arranging a visa with immigration when we repatriate.

  It wasn’t long before Alice discovered that I was no Carol Brady and I was never going to get dinner on the table by 6 p.m. Truth is I have only seen Alice a handful of times. I get home very late and dinner is long since over. Alice decided she should start cooking. It took us about two weeks to figure out that she wanted to cook dinner. We needed our 9-year-old to interpret.

  I was very nervous about this arrangement. I had been told that Alice was actually a very good cook, but our kids are picky and I didn’t want her to be offended. Well, of course, my fears were misplaced. Her first meal was dumplings (two thumbs up all around), next sticky rice and chicken with veggies (two thumbs up all around), then beef with pea pods, carrots and the most amazing mushrooms you’ve ever had (two thumbs up all around) and this continues — now up to three times a week.

  Last night, Alice made dinner again. It was like an episode of one of those Food Network challenge shows: Make dinner with only the ingredients in the pantry.

  We are leaving for vacation, so the pickings are slim, as they say. We had ground beef, Coke-Light, eggs, flour, butter, milk and cucumbers. Naturally, we had crepes with beef and cucumbers. The beef was cooked in the Coke-Light with shredded cucumbers.

  I wasn’t there to see it but Jack and the kids swear that is how she made it. It was fantastic and tasted far more sophisticated than Coke-Light. She even left me some extra crepes and I broke out an extra ration of Nutella!

  Typhoon Five . . .

  October 2011

  Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

  This is a lesson that I should have learned years ago . . . when the signs all point to an impending storm, you really should pull in your sails and stay home.

  October 1st is National Day and the start of a five-day holiday in China. It is a celebration of the “new” China, which began under Chairman Mao, 60-odd years ago. The kids had the full week off from school so we were heading out of town. A grand tour of Vietnam. I’d been planning the trip for months and was truly looking forward to some time away from work. So, you know where this story is headed . . .

  On September 22nd, Jane raised the first red flag. Her knee was sore. Sore enough that she was limping and asking to stay home from school. We were certain that her knee hurt, but we also suspected that a certain amount of homesickness was worsening her condition. Not unusual at this stage in the transition. All the more reason to get out of town, we told ourselves. This trip was designed to build some excitement about living in Asia. And, true or not, I was steadfast in my belief that it was coming at the right time.

  On September 26th, Jane upped the ante. She was no longer limping; she was barely moving. We made an appointment and took her in for a look-see. The doctor twisted the heck out of her knee and found nothing. So, he took an X-ray, which was designed to identify bone cancer. No cancer — whew.

  Next stop, orthopedic surgeon.

  While we waited for the orthopedic surgeon, the second red flag went up. Henry’s homesickness elevated to a new level. He was tearful each morning and was missing his buddies. Jane was teary each morning, in pain and desperate to skip school. So, naturally, I drove them both to school and forced them to get out of the car each day. Yep, Mother of the Year — just ask my kids.

  I was still telling myself that all we needed was a family vacation. So, when the weather reports said that Typhoon Nalgae was headed toward the Philippines and would likely continue on toward Vietnam, I had selective hearing or selective processing or selective stupidity. When the third red flag went up, I was looking in the other direction.

  The orthopedic surgeon twisted, turned and tortured Jane’s knee but, like the first doctor, found nothing. Yet, when Jane stood on it, she cried. Crutches were issued and she hobbled home. The initial red flag was getting bigger. The storm in the Philippines was getting bigger. My blind spot was getting bigger. I packed our suitcases. Jack scheduled Jane to see the University of California-Berkley educated traditional Chinese medicine man as a last resort. I packed a swimsuit.

  Somehow, by October 1st, Jane was moving better. Henry was beginning to refer to Shanghai as home. And, our plane was at the gate and we arrived in Ho Chi Minh City without incident. It was too good to be true.

  On October 2nd, the rain was torrential in Ho Chi Minh, Jane’s knee was aching and Henry was running a fever, couldn’t swallow and was, once again, in tears. Did I mention that Typhoon Nalgae had caused ruin in the Philippines and was now “just” a tropical storm but was headed straight for our next destination — Danang, which had just weathered Typhoon Nesat

  On October 3rd, the rains continued, Henry’s fever got worse and the girls looked like they were heading in the same direction as their brother. We canceled the rest of the trip, booked the earliest flight out and returned to China. By 2 p.m., the girls were back at the house, I was at the grocery store and Jack was on his way to the doctor with Henry.

  All the signs were there. Typhoon Five was spinning. I didn’t want to see it; I wanted to go on vacation. I thought some time away would make everyone feel better, ease the homesickness and make Shanghai start to feel more like home.

  While Henry and his Dad were awaiting results of a strep test, I warmed up tomato soup, made grilled cheese sandwiches and baked chocolate chip cookies from scratch. The girls found a movie and sank into the couch.

  When Henry arrived home, he smelled the cookies baking. “Mom,” he said, “it is really starting to feel like home here.”

  I guess we just needed a little strep throat and some cookies.

  Opening Day

  October 2011

  Shanghai

  Well, it isn’t really Opening Day. It isn’t even opening day of the baseball playoffs. It is, in fact, pivotal Game 5 of the Divisional Championship Series between the dreaded New York Yankees and our beloved Detroit Tigers. The series is tied at two games apiece and we are playing in New York so, according to our son, all fans on deck!

  As you may recall from my last post, we are on vacation, or rather “staycation” now. We came home because we had one child with strep (now 2) and a typhoon in our path. We should be sleeping in and lounging around doing almost nothing. Ordinarily, this would be the perfect mix for playoff baseball — late night games and lazy mornings. But, we are in China. So, the game is on at 8 in the morning.

  According to Henry, the time of the game is irrelevant — ALL fans on deck. The kids even went to bed early so they would be ready to cheer their team all the way from Shanghai. Skype-dates were made with Nana and Papa and the cousins, so we could cheer with family.

  The excitement about getting up at 7:45 on a morning that you could sleep until 10 baffled me. I mean you can get the score off the Internet and even watch the game in China at 4 in the afternoon, if you were so inclined. I rolled my eyes knowing that I would have to set the alarm and go room to room trying to get each little bundle out of their cocoon.

  But, then, I tucked Henry into bed. “Mom,” he smiled, “tomorrow is going to be so fun.”

  I went back downstairs and started picking up the mess. Somewhere between the dirty
dishes and the DVDs, I started to think about my grandparents. My Grandmother Theresa loved baseball.

  In fact, my Grandmother taught me to keep score when I was a little girl. If you went to her home during the season, you would find Grandma in her favorite chair, the game on the television set (with sound muted) and Ernie Harwell on the radio. (This is how Detroit Tigers fans watched the game when Ernie was on the radio.) She had her score sheet and her pencil. Grandpa was in charge of refilling the iced tea.

  When I had children, my grandparents were in their 80s and nearing 90s but they both still watched the games, complained about the manager, offered advice to the batters and kept score. Jack and I would check the Tigers’ schedule and plan a visit to their home during a game. And, Grandma would explain the game to Jane and Henry and try to teach them how to keep score. If you ask Henry about Great Grandma Theresa, he’ll respond “Grandma Baseball.”

  All fans on deck.

  Grandma died a few a years ago and Grandpa died the year after. My children had great grandparents for a large portion of their lives. They knew them, loved them and have memories of them that are unique to their experience of them. When I watch a Tigers game, I always think of my Mom’s parents. In the fall, when the apples drop from the trees and pies are made, I think of my Dad’s parents. “Grandma Pie” is how Jane always referred to Great Grandma Annie. Baseball and apple pie from people who immigrated to the States (or were just one-generation removed) . . . funny, really.

  That did it. I knew I had to do more than just wake the kids up and put the game on the television set. So, I stole my Mom’s Opening Day routine. When Dad couldn’t get tickets from the postman (when I was a kid, I thought the postman carried baseball tickets with his letters and you could buy them on your porch!), my Mom got us out of school early and put the game on the television and, of course, Ernie on the radio. She put down a picnic blanket and served up hot dogs with steamed buns, Better Made potato chips, candy and even some Faygo. Six small children on a blanket with red pop — the woman was crazy.

  It is one of my fondest memories of childhood. I love Opening Day — at the ballpark or on a picnic blanket. My Mom made it wonderful. She watched and cheered with us and I thought it was heaven.

  So, the menu for today’s game: Breakfast pizza, pretzel bread rolls with cheese sauce, imported U.S. candy bars, chocolate milk and, for the 7th inning stretch, brownies with vanilla ice cream. I was up early to make the brownies but the smell got the kids moving and the excitement over the game was palpable as Auntie Minnie showed up on the Skype screen with Uncle Lyle, and then Nana and Papa.

  Don Kelly hit a homerun, followed by Delmon Young. It is the 6th inning so I’ll be going to cut the brownies soon. It’s a great day in China to watch baseball. It’s Opening Day — just like Mom used to make!

  TAXI!

  October 2011

  Cologne, Germany

  There comes a time in every woman’s life when she looks in the mirror and wonders what in the hell happened. I don’t care how fit or gorgeous or amazing or successful you are — it happens. You get up one morning, take a good long look and ask yourself: “Who is that person looking back at me?” If you happen to have a teenage daughter on that same morning, it can be even more depressing.

  Moving to China ahead of my family afforded me an opportunity to tackle that person in the mirror without all the usual distractions of home, particularly the never-ending cookie jar of temptations that seems to be a centerpiece at every event we attend with our kids. And, work was so crazy during that time that I really had no opportunity to eat. I mean, one is not running to the vending machine in China — it isn’t stocked with Snickers bars after all.

  In those first three months, I dropped 30 pounds and several dress sizes, cut my hair drastically, went blonder than I have any right to be and took advantage of the duty free shop on every international flight I took — I am an expert on anti-wrinkle creams from Europe to Australia to Asia and back! To celebrate the loss of my decades-long baby-weight, I bought myself a stack of wrap dresses at the Puxi fabric market. Let’s face it, you don’t wear a wrap dress unless you’ve taken control of the middle!

  And, then I flew to Germany and needed a taxi . . .

  Cologne is hosting the International Food Festival for food professionals this week, so every taxi was in transit and I was stranded. The wonderful young woman at the hotel check-in desk made a call for me and said Jonathan — “limousine driver and concierge” — would be arriving at my door.

  Jonathan is 27. He is spectacular. Spectacularly young. Spectacularly cute. Spectacularly German. Spectacularly flirty. He is the anti-wrinkle cream that I have been searching for these many, many months.

  I may be a mid-40-something-year-old woman who has been off the market for more than 25 years, but I still know when someone is running their eyes over me and that, my friends, is spectacularly mood altering when done in the “not so obvious but no longer subtle” manner that only certain men can pull off.

  I had not donned a wrap dress “in public” yet. I wore one once for Jack to a very dark restaurant where no one knew us. I got marvelous reviews from the hubby, but I had not yet dared to venture beyond the safety net of the husband and total strangers in completely darkened spaces.

  Wrap dresses are easy to pack and I have four so I decided — with a great deal of encouragement from Jack — to take all of them to Cologne. I also took a safe pair of black pants and several cardigans, just in case I lost my nerve. I also took some completely impractical but oh-so-wonderful heels and the too-chic-for-words jewelry that my fashion conscious 14-year-old picked out for me at the “underground” market.

  In my hotel room, I debated the safe black pants or the really cool wrap dress. I said “yes to the dress” and stepped in front of the dreaded full-length mirror. I ran through all the familiar reasons not to wear the dress to the office — it wasn’t conservative enough, it made me look fat, it made me look old, it made me look like I was trying too hard, it was too young for me and on and on and on. But in the end, the darned thing was incredibly comfortable and I felt good in it. So, I silenced the inner critic and marched out the door.

  The elevator ride down to the lobby was torture. I fussed with the dress, tried to steal a glance at myself in the chrome, and had to will myself not to stop the elevator, jump out and the take the next elevator headed up. Despite myself, I made it all the way to the lobby from the towering 4th floor!

  The elevator doors opened — and just like in the movies — Jonathan was standing directly in front of the opening elevator doors and just a few feet away from me. He looked and then he lingered. It was unmistakable and it caught me completely off guard. I felt warm and I am certain I blushed. It was sublime.

  Absolutely sublime. I mean, come on, this doesn’t happen to me any more — heck, it never really happened to me before . . .

  Moments later, I discovered this handsome young man was my chauffeur. Lucky me!

  It really was too good to be true. He was charming. His accent was divine. He spoke enough English to allow for easy conversation, but his lack of confidence in his ability added to his charm and highlighted his youth. A single 20-minute car ride would simply not be enough. It was too intoxicating. I was completely enamored. I was having an awful month and this was far better than gelato with far fewer calories. I signed him up for the rest of the week on the spot.

  So each morning this week, Jonathan whisked me to the office and every evening he carried me back to my hotel. He chats politely and, every now and again, I catch him watching me in his rear view mirror. He could be checking the traffic, but I convinced myself that he thinks I’m interesting — maybe even cute — and he is stealing a glance. He says it is “simply impossible” that I am the mother of a 14-year-old. This man knows how to get a tip!

  On Monday, he also took me to a great little restaurant with wonderful food and very charming waiters. On Tuesday, he found me a great little pub. And, on We
dnesday, he made reservations for me and two of my girlfriends who also were in town for business — an impromptu girls’ night out.

  My friends arrived and I had to share this little gem. Let’s face it, I wanted to show him off. After all, where’s the fun in keeping it all to myself? In conversation with them that morning, I mentioned that I had “hired” a driver for the week who would be picking us up that evening to drive us to dinner and wherever else we decided to go. “Your own personal driver . . . ” My smile could not be contained and, with that, they were hooked.

  At 6:30 p.m. — the appointed time for our chariot to arrive — we found ourselves locked in a meeting. I was clearly getting anxious, tapping my well-appointed toes, checking the time on my BlackBerry, fussing with the tie on my third wrap dress of the week and twitching in my seat like a school girl. Finally, things were wrapping up and I bolted for the door.

  It was raining slightly and we had to walk to the gate to reach our carriage. I could not afford to have bad hair, so I took my paces briskly until I reached the covered walkway. I could see the slick, black BMW sedan waiting for us. I knew Jonathan would step out of the car to open the door the minute he saw me approach. I waited for my friends to catch up. I wanted them to get the full effect, and the rain only made it better. Very Hollywood!

  Sure enough, as we approached the BMW, Jonathan’s door opened and he stepped around the vehicle to open the rear door. There were three of us — someone would have to ride shot gun. I took one for the team. As Jonathan shut my door, I turned to the back seat . . .

  “Oh my God. Where did you find him?” I smiled so hard it almost hurt. It was pure joy. They were smitten just like me.