Worse, he would not come back into the house. He actually tried to get into the Transit. I half expected to see his suitcase sitting by the door just waiting to make this grand gesture: “I waited by the window for I don’t know how long and now you come home and think you can waltz right in . . . Well, I’ll show you,” his tail smacking me on the leg as he made his way out the door.
This continued for the next 10 days. Every morning, I would get up and take Wrigley downstairs with me. Get him his food, fill the water bowl, let him out for his personal respite . . . I even let the dog eat cheese. Still, with his head held high and his tail whacking at me, he went to the front door and cried. The gentle hum of the Transit audible only to my four-legged friend, he was crying for Mr. Cao. He was not about to shed a tear for me.
Feeling guilty about the weeks he had spent alone (with Mr. Cao walking him each day and, apparently, taking him for playdates with his own daughter), I attempted to soothe his bruised ego by offering a ride with me to the office. Head up, tail wagging, he lept into the Transit. This was good — I was making an effort to right the wrongs of summer and he was accepting of my apology.
Clearly, I misread the situation. Wrigley positioned himself between the driver and passenger seats. His head up and his tail smacking me in the face. I don’t think this was an accident. Clearly, a ride and some cheese were not going to get me back in good graces with the Lord of the Manor. I needed back up. And, they arrived just in time!
While Wrigley may have been willing to play coy and hard to get with me, he is powerless in the presence of his one true love, Jack Fox. He heard the door open and my calling him, but he was not about to come downstairs from his perfectly air conditioned suite on the third floor, not for me. However, when he heard Bella, Henry and Jane, the not so subtle pound and patter of untamed claws on marble came swiftly.
With his tail wagging (or was it smacking) for his “siblings,” he ran past their pleas and straight out the door. He stopped to greet Mr. Cao and looked just past him as if to say, “Our affair has meant more to me than you will ever know but I am powerless to resist his charms . . . .” and he was off. Jack was nearly tackled to the ground. The sight made even me uncomfortable. There really might be something to this “man’s best friend thing.”
But, as quickly as the reunion began, it ended. “Where the hell have you been?” he said as he backed away and moved closer to Mr. Cao. The game was back on . . . doggie treats were going to be needed and maybe even a new doggie bed!
Year 2
August 2012
Shanghai
I was hoping that Year 2 would be a bit less stressful than Year 1. But, come on, this is my life we are talking about – there was no chance that was going to happen. Things seemed to be off to a good start – the plane was early, the kids smiled upon arrival (sort of), I knew how to order $30 worth of pizza from Papa John’s and had it and cupcakes awaiting their arrival. All good. Then came school orientation . . .
The difference between Moms and Dads goes far beyond anatomy. I know that I am generalizing a bit here, but indulge me. Fathers tend to be a bit laid back. Mothers are a bit more controlling. Mothers double check your backpack, constantly ask you if you brushed your teeth, packed your lunch and tied your shoes. Fathers expect their children to do all of these things and, frankly, no one is going to die if they forget to brush their teeth, pack their lunch or tie their shoes. This fundamental difference can be the undoing of a perfectly good happy hour.
It had been a long and horrible week, followed only by an even longer and more horrible week. So, on this particular Friday night, happy hour was not an indulgence, it was a survival mechanism. I wanted a beer and some french fries and I wanted them now – as in the moment that I pulled up in the driveway to pick up my beloved. Instead, I walked into a house with three children and only two uniform bags . . . hmmm.
Now, to be fair, absolutely everyone swears that Bella had that uniform bag in her possession from the moment they received the uniform to the moment she got in the Transit. Everyone. After a thorough scrubbing of the Transit, it was clear the bag was not there and that Bella had no uniform for school on Monday morning. Upon further review, it was also determined that Jane had a boy’s gym “kit.” In the immortal words of Winnie the Pooh: “Oh, bother!” (Looking back, I wished I had picked those words to express my . . . disappointment.) Either the Transit was the new Bermuda Triangle or we didn’t have the uniform. Any guesses which?
A Summer Shandy was calling my name; no, screaming my name. And, the hollow spot in my stomach was aching – no food had I enjoyed in what seemed like a good 48 hours.
Seriously, didn’t we check the bags when we received them to be sure we had the right uniform supplies? Didn’t someone ask if everyone had their bags on the way to the car, getting in the car, while driving in the car, getting out of the car, walking into the house and, if not, didn’t anyone notice that there were only two bags but three children?
No. This was not done because Mom did not go to orientation. I am not saying this is Dad’s fault – I’m just saying no questions were asked . . . you may draw your own conclusions.
After some screaming (which was really more about being “late” to happy hour than the uniform), we decided that this was not the end of the world. If we needed to buy a new uniform . . . well, we’d buy it. Still, there were tears, car searching, room searching, closet emptying and all on a Friday night when things should have been calm. Especially this Friday, when school was looming around that dark corner known as Sunday night.
In the end, there were hugs all around and I still got my beer and fries. Jack took some ribbing and knew he’d be called out in the blog . . . so it goes. Year 2 is currently at DEFCON 2.
Postscript: Bella went to school in her brother’s extra uniform and looked no different from the other girls – though the shorts were a bit big. Her uniform was turned in by a nice parent at the British International School (we had changed schools) and Jack received it while at new parent coffee on Monday.
He also made another friend . . . the Guy-Tai group is expanding. Somehow, he always ends up on top . . . figuratively speaking!
Wonder Woman
September 2012
Shanghai
People come and go in China. I don’t mean that people are disappearing off the street. When you are an expat, colleagues and friends are transitory. They are on their way to some new place . . . the next assignment, the next country, home. Farewell parties are like retirement events . . . there is a lot of drinking, speeches, food and general frivolity. They are both a wonderful and sad reminder that your friends are world citizens.
A young woman is leaving this week. She is remarkably upbeat and truly talented. She is returning to Australia. It has been seven years since she was home. She spent four years in England and three in China. It’s time. Time to go home. After the speeches were finished, I was making a bit of a sneaky exit. Jet lagged and just not “in the mood” for drunk world citizens, I wanted to go home.
I waved to the Aussie from across the room and she came over for one last hug. She stunned me when she thanked me and told me I was an inspiration to her and so many other young women in China. “Wonder Woman” she called me. And, now you know why I talk to psychiatrists — I practically stop them on the street!
There is just no such thing as Wonder Woman and, if there were, she would not be me. For one thing, I don’t have the legs for the outfit. And, frankly, after three kids I don’t have the boobs either! It just makes me so uncomfortable. And, yet, the Salt Mine has me standing in front of groups of young women in places like China, Australia and India (which is a constant, gnawing reminder that I am not young), to tell my career success story. I am fielding speaking requests from people and organizations that I don’t even know. For “National Women’s Day,” I was featured in a Chinese magazine that depicted me as some icon of balance. Seriously?
I have got to be one of the most insecure peo
ple that I have ever met. I am truly committed to the idea that I am a total and utter failure and that any appearance of success is an apparition. I am, in fact, waiting for someone to discover the terrible fraud that I have committed. This discovery is imminent, I am certain of it. This has led to extreme anxiety. I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I am a bit of a mess.
Still, I keep moving forward. I think it is stubbornness, to be honest. I refuse to be left behind. I refuse to defeat myself despite my best efforts to do exactly that; pull defeat out of victory. No, I’m not bipolar. I have Wonder Woman complex. In the words of Charles Barkley, I am not a role model. The problem is that people seem to think I am a role model.
If I am a role model, your daughters are in serious trouble and I apologize now to their poor husbands. I think Jack shaves his head to save himself the trouble of pulling out his hair.
China has been isolating for me in a professional sense.
I have lost my “circle” of women who have served as my sounding board, my support, my strength and my courage. Email and twice a year drinks just doesn’t cut it.
I find myself in a position where I am constantly questioning my own judgment or maybe others are questioning it; and, I am second guessing myself. Either way, the revolving door is smacking me in the ass. And, my ass is sore.
Perception and reality can be so incredibly different. While I do not believe in Wonder Woman — she exists only in comic strips and re-runs — I am trying to embrace the idea that I have achieved some level of success.
The irony of it is that from the outside it appears that “I” achieved this success when the truth is that the guy with no hair is the real success. He is the one who made it all possible. But, the price of his success, is a perpetually perplexed wife. I am always asked to explain my “secret” to finding “balance” and having it “all.” My polite answer is that I don’t know what “balance” and “all” mean — it is different for everyone.
However, I should note that I did recently have it “all.” It was in Paris — and I wasn’t working!!
I really do wish someone would kill Wonder Woman . . .
BITCH
September 2012
Shanghai
The very best advice in the world is doled out at the hairdresser. Forget the Situation Room or the Boardroom or the Confessional. If you want good advice, make an appointment for color and a cut and start spilling the beans. Wisdom comes from behind the spinning chair.
Earlier this year, I recounted my lovely experience at the home office in the States when it was pointed out to me that I might be mistaken for a bitch if I wasn’t more charming. Now, every time I’m told that I need to be more charming, I am, in fact, less charming. I hate being told to be more charming — really, I hate it.
So, having recounted this story to my wise and all-knowing hair therapist, I should not have been surprised when she placed a copy of Tabatha Coffey’s book — It’s Really Not About the Hair — in my hand and told me to read the introduction.
Really? Tabatha? As in Tabatha from Bravo’s “Tabatha’s Salon Takeover” and “Shear Genius”? This is the guru in whom all wisdom lies? Well, of course, silly. She does hair!
B.I.T.C.H. Coffey takes the word back: Brave, Intelligent, Tenacious, Creative and Honest. Make it your own, she says. Love your inner B.I.T.C.H. I’ve said before that I am comfortable with my inner bitch and, truly, I am.
At this point in my life, I really find being labeled a bitch to be a compliment. I just didn’t know that other women felt the same way. More importantly, I never realized that it isn’t really a personality defect but rather a reference to my strengths – and how intimidating they can be, particularly when packaged in stilettos and a wrap dress.
Tabatha has a very interesting story. She was raised by her mother and transvestites who worked in her parents’ strip clubs. Not your typical upbringing. She learned early to trust in herself and to accept being different because there was no ignoring that fact. She learned that being called a bitch doesn’t define you unless you let it. And, if you are brave, intelligent, tenacious, creative and honest, you can redefine yourself using the very word others sling at you to cut you down.
I read the introduction and felt an instant soul mate. My hairdresser and I had the most interesting conversation that day during the three hours it takes to cover my ever-whitening hair. I left feeling better about myself than I have in quite a while. So, when all else has failed, remember: There is nothing that a good haircut can’t solve. I like to add the stilettos and the wrap dress to my armor, but that’s just me.
CHARM
September 2012
Bangkok, Thailand
This has really become something of a series at this point . . . my constant rant on “charm.” As I’ve said before, some think I need to be a bit more charming. The suggestion seems a bit sexist to me and, frankly, makes me wonder what “activity” would make me more charming. But, my children might read this so I’ll stop my speculation there.
Still, I’ve been thinking (obsessing) over this piece of advice now for months. The fact that it keeps coming up is really making me wonder if I am, in fact, suffering from a charm deficit . . . Jack is not allowed to comment . . .
To determine my charm quotient and its ranking in the “expected behaviors” of an employee at the Salt Mine, I decided to undertake a review of those behaviors. Yes, they are actually written down. Let’s see:
• Know and have a passion for the business
• Demonstrate and build functional excellence
• Ensure process discipline
• Have a continuous improvement attitude and practice
• Believe in a skilled and motivated work force
• Include everyone: respect, listen to, help and appreciate others
• Build strong relationships; be a team player, develop ourselves and others
• Communicate clearly, concisely and candidly
• Show initiative, courage, integrity and good corporate citizenship
• Have a can-do, find-a-way attitude
• Emotional resilience
• Deal positively with our business realities
• Set high expectations and inspire others
• Make sound decisions using facts and data
• Hold ourselves and others responsible and accountable for delivering results.
Charm is not on that list. You might argue that “continuous improvement” or “build strong relationships” or even “appreciate others” qualifies, but then there is “courage” and “candid communication” and “hold ourselves and others responsible.”
Let’s be honest here, this is a long and comprehensive list. It borders on the ridiculous, really. We need not only a list but a card attached to our ID badges to remind us how to behave? Did no one go to kindergarten? Or, is the Salt Mine actually a cult?
Just for a moment, imagine the group sitting around a table coming up with this list of expected behaviors. Seriously, close your eyes and picture it. Not a very charming looking group of folks, is it?
Despite the thousands of man (and I do mean man) hours invested, the debate over each word, the eventual specificity of each and every sentence and the borderline neurotic need to fit all of the behaviors onto a card the size of my work badge, the five letters that comprise the word C-H-A-R-M did not make the cut. Charm, dare I say, is conspicuously absent.
So, as my Father would say: “Jennifer, consider the source!” And, he’s right, as usual. There are lots of people that I work with whom I think need a real dose of reality let alone a semester or two at charm school. But, I don’t tell them this; they are who they are, and I only need to work with them. We aren’t dating. And, there is the ironic fact that, if I were to suggest to any one of these individuals that they needed to be more charming, I would be . . . well, you can imagine where I would be!
Upon considering the source, the simple fact is that I don’t find these men charming either
. In fact, when I look at the list, I scratch my head. If you are commenting on my charm quotient, then I’m going to presume that I’ve met all the other prerequisites identified on the card, including exemplary job performance and the demonstration of the critical “leadership behaviors.”
So, this charm attack, like calling me a bitch, is the last opportunity you have to take a swipe at me.
It feels a bit like being bullied. I think I’ve finally been able to put a word to the emotion, if you like. I feel like have been bullied lately and I don’t like it any more than my 10-year-old would like it. The difference is I can stand up for myself.
So, here is the thing, charm is something I expect from my husband, not my boss or my colleagues. The Salt Mine can take their opinion of my charm and . . . well, you know.
Shanghai on a Shoestring . . .
September 2012
Shanghai
Stretching for the phone, which doubles as “our” alarm clock, I nearly fell out of bed. This is the usual routine and normally this routine forces me to get out of bed and head to the gym. But, on this Monday, I hit snooze, unplugged the phone from the wall, inched back into the crook of Jack’s arm and laid the phone on his chest. This was my day off and while I am sure it would have been wonderful if I had gotten up and made pancakes for the kids and walked them to the bus stop, there was no way that I was doing any of those things. Jack could make the pancakes, take them to the bus stop, feed the dog and bring me coffee — I mean he does it every other morning (except for bringing the coffee).
When the phone went off again, I rolled away from Jack (hard as it was) and clearly signaled that I was not getting up and he should get his butt in gear. I fell back asleep. It must have been an hour or two later when Jack reappeared in our bedroom.
Hmmm . . . if only I could think of something to do this morning . . . the kids away at school for the next 6 hours . . . the ever cloudy skies of Shanghai were keeping our room a subtle shade of grey . . . Jack all to myself . . . and me still in bed . . . yep, we should go for a run.
Sheryl Sandberg, China & Me Page 7