THE GRASS IS ALWAYS GREENER?

Of course, when I write a post about how much I like living in Singapore and how the benefits definitely outweigh the things that I miss most about living in the U.S., something like this happens and makes me want to leave here immediately! One thing mere inches in size made me contemplate life as it exists and consider moving. All I can say is: cockroach.

Paul and I have been here one year and three months, and I still have yet to see a live cockroach in our house. Paul, however, saw one last night and we were both beyond freaked out. I, of course, went into terrified mode – the kind of terrified that exists when a crazy serial killer is in my presence and I fear for my life (not that that has ever actually happened).

Paul, being the man, did not show his fear. He just calmly came into the kitchen, where I was doing a load of dishes that I had put off so long I forgot they existed, reached into the cabinet below me and started sorting through the container of cleaning supplies.

“What can I help you find?” I asked after watching for a few seconds. Then he pulled out the tall, green Raid spray bottle and headed away. I first thought that possibly our ants were back and thought of calling the exterminator. Then, something inside of me made everything stop. I had a thought, looked at Paul as he turned to leave and then said, “I don’t want to know, do I?” “No!” he immediately replied. It was then I knew…but I didn’t really know…I just assumed.

I turned on my listening ears and tried to hear where Paul was, truly hoping he was outside on the balcony off our bedroom. At least it is outside, I thought to myself. Then I heard a door close and I knew there was a foreign bug in my house.

Paul came back into the kitchen after a few minutes with a flashlight horrifying news. “I lost it,” he said. Frickin’ A.

He left with a Swiffer. Puzzled, I just tried to focus on the dishes and my plan to move.

When Paul came back minutes later to tell me it was over and the cockroach (confirmed) was in fact dead – I made him promise me it was dead and then asked if he was lying – I told him I was sleeping in the guest room that and he could join me if he wanted. He could choose not to, but he would be sleeping alone...in the room attached to the bathroom where said cockroach had been spotted. I then made him spray every doorway – inside leading to hallways and leading to the outdoors – with the bug spray and pulled up on my phone the 24-hour exterminator hotline.

Every room I walked into, I expected to see a cockroach. I was on high alert. When Paul and I had settled in for the evening and turned off the lights in our new room, I still expected to see cockroaches and fear hovered over me. Paul, being a good husband, tried to divert my attention but it did not work. In the dark, I was looking at the shadowy walls wondering if I would see something black and ovular. I wondered if I would hear the tiny sound of all of those legs flittering on the ledge behind my head.

I told him we needed to say a prayer for protection. He laughed at me and then let me proceed. I prayed in what came out as a five-year-old’s voice that we would not see another cockroach in our house ever again and for the fear to subside, which it slowly did.

Neither one of us slept well and, of course, I had to get up uber early, so we were both awake by 6:30, knowing that my craziness was the sole reason for our unrest. So, while the grass may be greener here in Singapore, there is nothing green about having a cockroach in my house.

THIS IS MY LIFE

Life is all about change, compromise and taking risks. If your life is on the same old, same old path, you have to have everything your way or no way and you never, ever take a risk, then what are you doing?

No life choice is without consequences, which could go either way. Moving to Singapore was a HUGE risk that comes with its faire share of rewards and moments that almost make me wonder why we left in the first place.

When we moved to Singapore, I gave up:

• Honey Nut Cheerios
• Bounty paper towels (paper towels here are so unbelievably inferior!)
• Ben & Jerry
• Target, Wal-Mart, Costco and any other one-stop store where we know we will be able to find things like craft supplies, Velcro strips, greeting cards, coolers, plastic cups, nice-looking throw-away dinnerware and office supplies
• The ability to drive to one grocery store for everything on my list
• The ability to drive
• The ability to ride in a vehicle without feeling car sick due to the constant pedal pumping and sudden braking
• Customer service – anywhere: on the phone, at a restaurant, in a store
• A great haircut at a non-bank-breaking price
• Amazing shoes that I could afford
• Amazing shoes that I could wear
• American Chinese food
• Pizza
• Burgers
• Hot dogs
• Baseball
• College football
• New England vacations
• Road trips
• Unedited movies and TV shows
• A normal oven
• A dishwasher

Sigh…if only all of these things could add up to the wondrous things that have changed my life for the better:

• Sunshine – every day
• Blue skies with giant, white, puffy clouds
• The ability to wear sundresses and sunglasses every day of the year
• The fact that coffee has become an event, not a drink
• Friends who are LI-trally all over the world
• A job that I love and don’t need to get paid to do
• A better relationship with my husband
• The ability to see my husband more than two days in a row, multiple times per week
• A church that Paul and I never want to leave
• The ability to travel around Asia for the cost of a Southwest ticket
• Having time to cook
• Amazing friends
• A business in my name that took me 15 minutes and $65 to create because this economy loves new business
• Real Chinese food
• A new perspective

Though my pro list is slightly shorter than the items sadly left behind, the benefits completely outweigh the losses.  My life today is a life that allows me to spend quality time and touch time and nap time with my husband; a life that allows me to do work I enjoy on my terms; a life that allows me to be in a climate that makes people happy (though sweaty).

I have amazing friends and amazing opportunities here that never would have happened had we not taken the risk to accept a job on the other side of the world. Yes, the grass is always greener but, in Singapore, the grass is more abundant. 

O.K.BYE-BYE!

I consider my move from the American Midwest to Singapore’s East Coast a pretty smooth transition. The first three months were pretty difficult, but for different circumstances than one might expect. I was fine living in a new country; I was fine figuring out the neighborhood. I did not, however, adjust well to the sweat factor, the sudden switch from four-inch heels to flip flops or the pain in my feet as I adjusted to marble floors.

My hardships were related to the fact that Paul’s employment pass approval took three months, delaying our ability to obtain cell phones or Internet access. The inability to move freely with an app like Google Maps meant that going anywhere outside of our neighborhood was pretty unlikely. The one time I tried to venture out, I found out the hard way that the way home is not always as easy as reversing the original directions. That is how I wound up lost, wandering the Little India streets.

My disinterest in immediately joining the American Women’s Association also delayed my ability to find friends. I kept myself busy for the first few months but, eventually, having the ability to call someone and meet her for lunch or a cup of coffee became invaluable.

I did not experience culture shock or climate shock (even though snow was falling when our flight departed the U.S.). I did, however, experience an overwhelming case of sticker shock that resulted in me rolling my eyes and then saying “O.K.” to ridiculously high costs and “bye-bye” to my money, accepting that life in Singapore means that money may as well be flushed or burned. The fact is that after a while, everyone just stops looking at the prices and pays through the nose for something they refused to purchase months prior.

In the U.S., I could purchase a candy bar for under a dollar (though I still remember when Wal-mart sold them for 33 cents), I could purchase a decent bottle of wine (nothing fancy) for under $10 and I could eat a meal at a higher-end restaurant for less than $30 a plate. Now it is normal to pay almost $2 for a candy bar, $20 for grocery store wine and $30 for a cheeseburger with a half-portion of fries. I will pay $7.20 for a grande soy white mocha but I will also pay $3 for a plate of chicken rice and $2 for the most amazing freshly-squeezed juice in the hawker and food centers.

My mom and I yesterday had a conversation regarding grocery costs. On my way home from work today, I stopped at the butcher and the grocery to grab a basket full of supplies and walked out minus $70. I haven’t done a cost comparison in a while, so here is how it looked:

• $21.70 for 800 grams of minced beef (the cheaper option here still equates to $12.30 a pound)
• 75 cents per Fuji apple, which I believe is cheaper than the American cost even though I am much closer to China
• $13 for a half-gallon of almond milk, which I have been dying to try since Christmas and previously rejected the high cost (see – everyone eventually sucks it up and pays through the nose)
• $6 for a 2-liter jug of skim milk
• $4.20 for a four-pack of sandwich buns
• $2.70 for taco seasoning (just the seasoning packet, not the kit)

Then there are the things that do not make it into my cart – sorry, trolley – because I just don’t love them that much. Today I saw a rare find – a yellow box of Cheerios – for $11. JIF peanut butter runs $9 for the small jar. Eggo waffles are $9 or more a box; Pillsbury anything is more than $12 a can. Cheese of any kind costs between $8 and $14; I do buy cheese.

I do my best to find cheaper alternatives but Paul likes to remind me that none of them come close to his Aldi adventures. This is my life.

WELCOME!

Singaporean lingo is fun. Though English is one of four official languages and arguably the most common language spoken, the Singaporeans have their own way of saying things and, sometimes, it just makes me laugh.

To begin a conversation, Singaporeans ask, “Have you had lunch?” or “You eat?” No matter the time of day, the Singaporean people want to be sure that my belly is full. When we had dinner with Singaporeans, after the meal we were asked, “Did you get enough to eat?” I’m glad someone cares about my belly.

Today at work I decided to stick around past the typical lunch time. One of the office workers came from behind me and stuck a bag of snack-size Kit-Kats in my face and said, “Here. Eat. You didn’t have lunch yet, right? Take two.” I chuckled and then I ate one because she was right.

In the U.S. one of the most common introductory questions is, “What do you do?” We like to know people’s occupations. In Singapore, the most common question is, “Where you stay?” Not “Where do you live,” or, “Where are you from,” though the latter is pretty common since I happen to be white; they like to know where we stay.

I have already discussed my confusion surrounding the term, “la,” a word that seemingly fits onto the end of every word and in the middle of every sentence. La. Read here for more info.

To confirm a directive or a decision, Singaporeans say, “O.K., O.K.” Paul first heard this “ho-kay, ho-kay” when on a Skype call with a Singaporean real estate agent while we were still living stateside. He continues to mimic the guy any chance he gets.

Speaking of Paul mimicking people, he has his own Singaporean accent that pops out so instinctively now, he doesn’t even know he is doing it. Whenever he is in the presence of a local person, he drops words from sentences, drops letters from words and over-annunciates syllables. We had drinks with a Western man last week. The conversation was good – we talked business, we talked life, we laughed a lot. The minute a Singaporean man joined our table, Paul’s Singlish accent came out and I started laughing, though I knew I had to contain myself.

Since Singapore was formerly settled by and practically owned by Britain, we also have a strong British influence. We have trolleys, chips, lifts and lorries; I only understood one of the three right away. Trolleys are carts – either shopping carts, flatbed carts like those at Sam’s Club and Costco, and multi-decked wheely carts often seen in office buildings or kitchens.

Chips are fries – I am getting used to this one. Elevators are lifts. Lorries are trucks. I had absolutely no idea what a lorry was the first few times I heard the term. Lorries are typically work trucks that have open beds where all of the workers can sit.

My favorite British term to date comes courtesy of my friend, Nicola, who hails from a London suburb. Only the Brits can turn a common word like “pants” into a dirty word that makes me laugh like no other. Yes, pants.

The first time I observed the term, Nicola and I were meeting for dinner and I happened to send her a text asking if she would be available to help me with something on another day. “Pants, sadly no as am in England for exams,” was her reply. I looked at my phone….read that first word again…wondered if Spell Check had taken over, and then I wondered if she really did mean to write “pants.” So I laughed out loud and confronted her at the restaurant.

“O.K., so I totally laughed out loud at the ‘pants’ term. What is the deal?” She then laughed herself and went on to explain that ‘pants’ is just a substitute for bad words without really saying a bad word. Saying ‘pants’ makes her feel better about herself. Then, a few weeks later, I heard another Brit use the term.

”Oh, pants!”

Me, laughing: “OMG did you just say ‘pants’?”

“Yes.”

“Ha. My friend, Nicola says that and it cracks me up.”

Then she gives a look that says to me, “Yeah…you’re a little nuts.”

Words and phrases can make me laugh or make me confused, but sometimes the absence of words can be just as awkward as a foreign language. For instance, when someone sneezes, no one says, “Bless you.” No one makes a gesture. People typically do not say, “You’re welcome,” after a thanks offering. On occasion, mostly outside of Singapore or in high-class establishments, I will hear a smiley, “Wel-come,” but not so often.

They are very good about ending conversations. “O.K.bye-bye” is all one word. “See you!” is another common phrase. And, with that, I am calling it a night – O.K.bye-bye!

I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT!

The lack of common sense in Singapore constantly amazes me. I have been here more than a year and I am still surprised when something so simple becomes either so difficult or so confusing that no one knows how to proceed.

People here will walk right into me because they don’t understand spatial awareness or the concept of personal space (or, heck, even the concept of watching where they are walking). Everyone wants to be the first person to get somewhere – on a bus, off the bus, on the train, off the train, on an escalator but not off an escalator (they usually stop right where the escalator ends and cause a major traffic jam, not realizing that the thing they just stepped off just keeps going).

There is a difference between lack of common sense and pure ignorance, though I am finding that in my neighborhood, there is a very fine line between them.

Case Number 1: The Change Issue

If a cashier states that a charge equates to $21.40 and Paul hands the cashier a $50 note, followed by a dollar coin and two 20 cent coins, he is sometimes met with a confused look like the cashier does not know how to handle the situation. Paul sees the wheels turning, wondering if the cashier is thinking something like, “Why do I have $51.40? This crazy man should have just handed me the $50 bill. What am I supposed to do with this extra $1.40?” So he waits a few seconds, and watches as the cashier hands him back the extra $1.40, then proceeds to make change. Occasionally he does come across someone who will provide the even change he desires, though he is not sure if the cashier really understands the concept.

Case Number 2: You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Singapore is hot. The temperatures are as high as the humidity levels and sometimes all a person wants is a cool drink. I happen to like coffee. Sometimes, if I don’t have my coffee, I have a less than a 5 percent chance of being friendly, engaged in a conversation or awake around 3 p.m. On days like these, I need some coffee.

On a few occasions, like many days this week, hot coffee is not an option. Monday I met a friend for coffee. She was sitting outside and, though the area was covered and shaded, it was still a hot day in Singapore, so I decided to order my caffeine on the rocks. I had already reviewed the menu and found the “hot beverages” section; no chilled beverages were listed but I decided to a rebel.

“May I have an iced chai with soy milk please?” I kindly ask the Singaporean man behind the old-school pharmacy-height counter that required me to stand on my tip toes in order to hand over my money.

He looked at me and repeated, “Iced chai?”

“Yes, iced.”

“We only offer hot chai.”

Having heard this before, I want to roll my eyes, implore the ballet gods and do a proper en pointe, grab the guy by his tie and pull him over the counter to my eye level. I would then educate him on how the whole iced beverage system works. I am sure I can pull some Alton Brown lingo about the cooling properties of frozen water because I have seen enough Good Eats episodes.

The first time I received this response, I walked out of the café. This time I simply looked at the man and asked, “Well then, may I have a glass of ice?”

Case Number 3: Restaurant Wars

Sometimes Singaporeans are so focused on one thing that they are not able to multitask in the least. If they get busy, they get overloaded and, for some reason, cannot see the light at the tunnel’s end. Last month Paul and I decided to experience an evening in Holland Village. We thought that it would be a relaxing night but I was not the slightest bit relaxed.

When we arrived at our planned destination, we were greeted by a seemingly-overworked, young Singaporean woman, who ignored us at first and then, frantically approached us as a crowd was gathering.

Seeing another woman trying to jump ahead of me, I successfully made eye contact first and held up two fingers. The woman, wide-eyed, looked around, looked back at me and simply said, “We are full.”

O.K……..

“How long for two?” I asked, with a bit of “Duh…think ahead here” attitude.

She looked around, thoughtlessly offered a guess and then walked off. So Paul and I decided to take a walk as well.

Case Number 4: Supply and Demand

When I am able to find a good product at the store, I know that I need to grab more than one because I likely will not be able to find the item for months ahead. In Singapore, store managers lack common sense when stocking items. I have never been to a single grocery store in Singapore when I did not notice an “Out of Stock” sticker displayed. Has no one here heard of inventory? Supply and demand? There are computer systems that will do all the work people used to do by hand, so invest, people!

Side rant: Singaporeans also stock the shelves during store hours – at all hours. Just as I have never gone without seeing an “Out of Stock” sticker, I have never been to a store when an employee is blocking my path and my reach because apparently I arrived at Stock Party time. Who in their right mind makes employees stock shelves during store hours – especially high-volume hours? Take an hour before the store opens and an hour after the store closes to break everyone into teams and stock away without interruption. Wait until the really slow times if you don’t want to hire an early or late stocking team. And, please, stop cleaning the floors during high-volume hours as well. It is not helpful to walk on slick floors or try to maneuver a cart in the already-way-too-narrow aisles without having to deal with a man on a zamboni.

O.K., back to the topic at hand – supply and demand. Restaurants and snack shops run out of products all the time. I have been to several casual restaurants to read the menu, select an item and then hear, “So sorry ma’am, don’t have.”

“But it’s on the menu.”

“Sorry, don’t have.”

Many times menus will have items printed on the menu that someone has manually crossed out, either with Xs or with permanent marker to block out what is written.

Paul and I usually stop at Auntie Anne’s pretzel shop before the evening church service so that our bellies do not growl during the pastor’s address. On a couple occasions, I ordered the pretzel sticks.

“We’re out,” replies the guy behind the counter.

Wait for it….Nope. Nothing.

“Can you make some more?” I ask.

“It will take five minutes.”

“O.K.” And then I advise that I will either wait or come back. If it only takes five minutes, why does your brain not flick on and alert you to make more product when the supply runs low so that you will not inconvenience your customers by making them wait for new product? Hello…does anyone know how to operate a business here?

Of course, the answer is yes, some people are quite capable of operating businesses, which is why Singapore has such a great economy. There are just so many times when I wonder why the brains are programmed to simply follow directions and do what people are told and nothing else. Are they trained that way from birth? Maybe. Maybe no one ever tells kids to be creative, think for themselves and think outside the norm.

Once I have my pretzel (or the sticks for which I patiently waited), my brain is once again baffled by the lack of common sense. I am handed a buttery pretzel and pushed aside while the cashier makes a move to hear the next customer’s order. “Excuse me,” I interject. “May I have a napkin?”

Sadly, this common sense thing is contagious. I learned today that even white people can catch the dumb bug.

Final Case: The Curious Case of the Careless Mom

This morning I walked into my neighborhood Starbucks to do some work. When I walked in the door, I was greeted by a barefoot toddler in a little dress and curly hair. She was standing next to a coffee bean display at the end of the counter a meter or two from the door, holding a bag in her hand while 30 or so more were strewn around her feet.

This girl was standing in a lake of coffee bags and unkempt cardboard display boxes and no one in the entire café was doing anything to resolve the situation. The two Starbucks staffers continued to take and make orders. The café residents were all at their tables minding their own business. I looked around for someone resembling this child, yet no one came to the rescue. How long had this stuff been all over the floor, and why did this girl’s parent not stop her? HELLOO!!! Anyone want to claim this mess…I mean child?

If your kid wants to mess up your house, that’s your deal. When your kid starts tearing up a public place, especially at 9:30 a.m. at a Starbucks where the foot traffic is constant, step in and take control of your child!

I took my place at the end of the line, with only one man ahead. For about five seconds I debated what I should do. Should I ignore the problem like everyone else? Should I pick up the items because no one else will?

I decided to bend down and approach the girl, eye to eye. I began picking up the coffee bags, one by one, and arranging them on the shelves according to their flavors. I picked up the cardboard boxes, admittedly not completely fixing them, and placed them on the shelves as well. I was baffled that the girl’s mother did not approach the scene immediately and help me clean up the mess that her child created. Instead, I heard three Aussie women behind me softly chuckling and making cracks about how this woman was cleaning up the mess that belonged to one of them. “She is probably going to turn around and see us all just sitting here…” blah blah blah. I rolled my eyes and just kept going.

When I was nearly finished, I looked at the girl who had been practically frozen and staring at me the entire time and I softly advised that this was not acceptable and she was not to do that again. I continued to place the last of the bags on the shelf and, when I finished, I smiled at her, told her we were done and offered her a high five though she did not accept. I didn’t hear any comments from the women behind me. I stood up, waited my turn and ordered my drink.

I walked passed the mom and her friends, who ended up leaving the café around the time my drink was ready. We made eye contact a couple times but no one offered a wave or an inviting gesture. No one said “hello” or even “thank you.” They all just giggled and went on their way. You’re welcome, ladies!

WHAT’S NEXT?

I don’t know how it happened, but somehow my life circled back to seven years ago when I graduated college and wondered, “O.K. What now?” In April I began volunteering in a business management role for a non-profit organization. As part of my duties, I was asked to help with an upcoming event and then, somehow, found myself running the event when the day came. I spent more hours working for that organization as a volunteer than I did when I was on the payroll – and my stress level was much higher.

On June 3 when the event was over, I felt relief. The event was done and I finally had time to get back to work on other projects with approaching deadlines. I also had time to act like an expat wife again – going to coffees, meeting friends for lunch and taking some time to relax in a café whenever time allowed. I had time to read! And, imagine this – I had time to write. And, because I had free time in my schedule, I had a chance to go out and do things about which I could then go home and write.

This feels good but I now feel that I am at a crossroads, wondering what my next step should be. Again. This is the third time – first with college and second after experiencing a somewhat dull version of the expat wife lifestyle upon relocation – I have found myself contemplating my career’s future. Do I start my business and become an entrepreneur, responsible for an actual company? Do I continue volunteering and enjoy the work without the demands of office hours and approved vacation time? Do I abandon all quests for a paycheck in the short term to focus on a book? Can I do two things at once?

I try not to bombard my head with work stresses, though I do have self-induced heart palpitations daily when all of these options come to mind. I suppose I should continue doing what I’m doing, try out each of my options and then see which one comes out ahead. Maybe I will be able to balance two at the same time and still be able to breathe, drink some coffee and have some sort of a home and social life. That’s my Walgreens world.

Walgreens is an American drug store chain similar to Guardian and Boots, but I am just guessing it is closer to Boots since 12 or more Guardian stores could fit into a single Walgreen’s floor plan. The store ran an advertising campaign dedicated to a place called “Perfect,” where “the only crime is not having ice cream on your pie…carpets never stain…windows are self-cleaning…” and an endless supply of tissues came out of a single box. The tag line then states something about how we don’t actually live in Perfect, so we have Walgreens to visit for all of our needs.

Shortly after the commercials aired, I adopted the campaign and simply stated whatever I wanted “in my Walgreens world.” This world was everywhere, including work, which likely contributed to the most Walgreens statements. I would say something like, “In my Walgreens world, this person would have actually done the research before presenting me with this communication.” “In my Walgreens world, people would read this e-mail and do what is requested, but we all know that they won’t.” I stopped using the phrase after I stopped working. Hmm. I never thought of that before.

I’M NOT PREGNANT

The last two nights, I have dreamed that I was pregnant. I have no idea why. At this time, I cannot tell you anything about my dreams because they are long gone, but I do remember that I was pregnant. The kicker is that when I awoke this morning, I was actually convinced I was pregnant. I was on the phone with my mom and she asked if there was anything new. I LITERALLY almost blurted out, without thinking, “Yeah, I’m pregnant.” Thank God I stopped myself! I, instead, had a mini-conversation with myself wondering, “Am I pregnant?” Pause. “No…I don’t think I am.” Pause. “Am I?...No. No, I am not pregnant. Stupid realistic dream.”

I have to think that my surroundings have influenced my dream patterns because I really don’t think that there is any type of ticking clock inside of me right now. At this point in my life, I don’t think toddlers are cute – I get annoyed by them. Did you read about my experience at Starbucks the other day? O.K. toddlers in pictures are cute - I just don't want to be near them right now.

Maybe my dreams were infiltrated by my not-really-obsession-but-major-affection-for-and-love-of Giuliana and Bill, who have been trying to get pregnant for years. Maybe it’s because I have two friends trying to get pregnant now. Maybe it’s because people at the RDA are pregnant.

Maybe my dreams were infiltrated by the hundreds of pregnant women surrounding me on this island. I have never in my life seen more pregnant women in one place. And, bonus, even the pregnant women are skinnier than your average American. O.K., the average American woman according to a 2002 report is 164 pounds (more than 73 kilos) so I am going to put money down that my previous statement is accurate.

Maybe my dreams were infiltrated by the books I have been reading. When I was in Bali, I read a book all about the first few years of parenting. This week I read a book by comedian Rachel Dratch and at least a third of the book was about her pregnancy.

O.K. I may be seeing a trend here. This may be my own fault. I need to get out of baby land. What’s next?

I AM SO...

I don’t even know the word. This evening I had dinner with a European couple and I was talking about how I have no intent to live in the U.S. anytime soon…if ever. Now that I am home, I have found a new concept drawing me back. It’s something so simple, so mundane, so completely absurd that people take it for granted every day.

When I lived in America, I was able to wear shoes. I miss being able to wear shoes.

I feel like I’m eight months pregnant except for the hormones, the crazy cravings and the visit from the Boob Fairy. My feet don’t fit into any of my shoes anymore. I can only wear flip flops. I am wearing out my flip flops.

When I squeeze my feet into a pair of ballet flats, a pair of wedges or, God forbid, a pair of heels, I have to bring emergency backup: Band-Aids and a spare set of flip flops.

My feet are swollen, my toes look like Tootsie Rolls and I have blisters on three sides of my feet. This is not fair.

My toes hurt, my heels hurt, the sides of my feet where the shoe edges hug hurt because the hug is more like a product from the Spanx line. My feet are red and splotchy like a 13-year-old’s face except I don’t have pimples – just the red marks underneath.

While I appreciate being able to wear tank tops and sun dresses every day, the heat and humidity are not working well with my feet. I have 22 pairs of shoes in two closets that barely see the light of day. Some of them have never been out in the Singapore sun. I know that feet swell during pregnancy but this is ridiculous. I’m not even pregnant.

THE MORNING

In my opinion, a perfect day starts with a really good morning. Today was a really good day and the morning was close to perfect. I awoke, had my wakey-wakey time in bed and took a little time to relax in the living room before really getting moving. When I looked outside I wondered whether the rain or the sun would come out first. Skies that grey haven’t been seen outside of Ohio.

I made myself some French toast and sliced a pear for breakfast. I spoke with my mom and my grandmother to hear the latest hometown happenings. My grandmother has tripped twice over her big feet (I told her that her feet were the problem because her size 10s are the biggest feet on any woman I know – that’s a size 42 here in Singapore). She laughed at my comment and recalled her parents making fun of her big feet throughout her childhood.

My grandmother was the first in her family of 11 to be born in America. Her parents emigrated from Yugoslavia, now Serbia, through Ellis Island in the early 1900s. “Every time my father came home with new tools, my mother would yell at him, ‘Saya needs new shoes!’ And he would say, ‘Again?!’” Saya, in Serbian, refers to the eldest sister, a nickname that stuck for more than 85 years. Close family friends even call my stara baba (my affectionate term meaning “old woman”) Saya in lieu of Helen, her Americanized given name.

She laughed again when she told me about how it would snow a lot during the Ohio winters and ploughs were not as plentiful as they are today. “My dad used to yell, ‘Let Saya go first. She will make a path for the rest of us.’ I walked with my feet turned out a bit so I would make a trail for everyone to follow,” and she laughed some more.

My conversations with my stara baba typically make me laugh, generally make me roll my eyes and sometimes stop paying attention altogether as she rambles on about something to which I either have no mental attachment or something that does not concern me in the least. The last statement is a rare occasion but it happens. In those cases I usually just concentrate on a television program, something I am reading or housework.

She tells me about the deer she sees in her yard – in full detail. She tells me about birthday parties, class reunion lunches and her weekly Thursday night coffee club that meets at the local McDonald’s. Then there are the times that she starts to tell me about anyone who ever went to my high school and assumes that I know whoever she is talking about.

“Do you know [insert random name here]?”

“No, Gran.”

“Oh. He graduated from Salem in 1973.”

“I wasn’t alive then.” This is when the eye rolling commences.

“Well he was in the paper because…” he died or he did something noteworthy. One time she told me about a man who graduated from my high school and has spent the last 14 years in Singapore. That was actually interesting but I still don’t know the guy.

“What else…” My grandmother says this every time there is a brief lull in the conversation, which I find cute and amusing. Once we have covered the weather, the forest animals, the family and the random people I do not know, we usually find a stopping point and make a date for the following week.

After my morning calls, I decided it was time to clean the kitchen. I did not feel like doing the dishes last night so they were in my face when I walked into the kitchen this morning. I added a few with my breakfast feast and knew I must surrender to KP Duty, as my dad used to call the cleanup process. I have to admit, it feels good to have all of the dishes done, the counters wiped and the stove shiny and clean. There was only one thing left to do – shower so that I could enjoy a cup of coffee at my favorite local Starbucks.

While I waited for the shower water to heat, I struck up a conversation with my friend in SoVa, a.k.a. Southern Virginia. I love catching up with friends.

I had a great 1.3-km walk to Starbucks. The sun was starting to come out but was still mostly hidden by the grey clouds. The air was slightly crisp and cool, just like it is moments before a downpour yet, somehow, I knew the rain was not forthcoming. I didn’t start to break my Singaporean sweat until I was a block away.

I was delighted to see that Starbucks was only had about a third of the seats filled inside, so I ordered my coffee and scoped out a spot. I surveyed the uber-tiny tables with four chairs around them, the bench that looks a bit comfortable but that is constructed at a 90 degree angle from the seat and, with the added cushion space, leads the body into a forward motion not deemed optimal for reading, as I intended.

In the far corner by the window, I spotted a risky opening. Two larger, cushiony chairs were pushed together across from another pair of cushiony chairs, separated by a small, elongated coffee table in between. It was the perfect spot for a small group of ladies chatting over their favorite morning beverages. Since this corner was available, and it did house the only non-wooden chairs in the entire space, I decided to risk the possibility of intruders and claim my spot on one of the four comfy chairs.

I unwrapped my new book from its packaging, carefully unwrapped the book from its covering (sorry book jacket artists, the jackets annoy me greatly) and began with the Prologue. Within a matter of minute, nay, likely seconds, a child appeared in my peripheral vision. I looked up from my book to see a roughly 18-month-old smiling Goldilocks attempting to make eye contact. Her dad, a man likely in his mid to late 30s, sat down beside her in the chair directly across the table. Two minute later, the wife joined in and the three of them sat in the two chairs less than a meter from my body.

The child, though not as rambunctious as most her age, was not a fan of being quiet or sitting still. The parents kept chatting, making phone calls and discussing their schedule for the next week. Hello….I am trying to read here…There are 20 other tables and chairs around here – why did you pick this one?

If two silent people or quiet people sat across from me, I would not have an issue. But this family and the loud chatter, music and other background distractions ultimately made me give up my seat in the air con and move outside to the patio sets under the ceiling fans. I positioned myself on the other side of the glass from my original seat, where the mother then took her place. The child ended up sitting in the window beside me for some time before running around the café and screaming at the top of her lungs like an infant when her mother picked her up and brought her back to my sitting area.

This happens to me a lot. I should really learn my lesson. I go to a café with the intent to read and end up not being able to concentrate. I take a laptop to a Starbucks expecting to get some work done and end up wanting to throw my laptop on the ground because I cannot connect to the free Wi-Fi. Why is it free if I cannot access it? Riddle me that.

I was able to concentrate outside and, when I looked at my watch and realized it was almost 1, I nearly jumped out of my chair. Paul had been home for about an hour and was napping after two morning flights. He was out until about 3, which I found funny. My husband left me yesterday and, though he had been home for about three hours, I had yet to actually see him.

We enjoyed a movie this afternoon – Madagascar 3 in 3-D – and realized that the movie is a lot funnier from an American’s perspective. We were the only two laughing for more than 60 percent of the movie. We did that laughing under our breath thing a few times because we needed to get it all out without disturbing those around us.

A relaxing morning, friendly conversations, a trip to the coffee shop, a book in hand and a movie date with my husband adds up to a pretty amazing day. I am so thankful.

MY LIFE

I learned three things early on in life: first, that no family is considered “normal,” second, my family was definitely not “normal” and, third, that everyone’s life is different. We all have obstacles to overcome, we all have situations that change our personas and no one has the life they appear to have. Though I started this post three days ago, I was yesterday again reminded of these things. Everyone has a story.

It all started with a Park Avenue woman named Jeannette Walls. Her memoir, The Glass Castle, recommended for a book club I just joined, begins on her way to a function in New York City. On the way, she looks out the window and recognizes the woman digging through a trash dumpster on the street. Embarrassed that her mother would see her and start waving from the street or worse, approach the car, Jeannette immediately turned away, slouched in the back seat hiding her head and asked the driver to take her home.

Park Avenue is one of the most expensive streets in Manhattan. Jeannette lived in a building with marble floors and a doorman (not nearly as common in America as they are in Singapore); she had expensive art in her abode and lived a lavish lifestyle. But her life was not always so glamorous, and it was clear that her relationship with her mother was damaged.

Jeannette spends 90 percent of the book describing her early childhood, moving from city to city, sleeping in cars and on cardboard boxes, literally starving at times. She was in a lot of difficult situations, which made her feel adult pressures at a young age. Though she had parents who loved each other, they did not always want to be parents.

The most stimulating part of the book for me was learning if Jeannette and her siblings would realize that their life was not considered “normal.” In a nature vs. nurture world, would the children believe everything their parents advised was truth or would instinct override their environmental upbringing?

As I made my way through the first half of the book, I began flipping ahead to find the chapter on New York because my mind kept wondering, “How in the world did you get to Park Avenue?” I did not read ahead but I wanted to know how many chapters I had until my question might be answered.

The stories were riveting. Amazement, disbelief, heartache and nausea were all words that described my feelings while reading the book. The book club leader upon her arrival asked my feelings about the book and how it related to my life, since I previously stated I foresaw similarities. While it did not parallel my life to the T (thank God), I did see some resemblance to my own life. What I can say, without a doubt, is that I wholeheartedly realized that no matter what I went through, other people have gone through much worse.

One intriguing question posed in the book club was how life for Jeannette and her family could have been changed if they had accepted welfare. I considered the question and wondered, as the question poser did, if the family would have become dependent on the system as most families do. I started to agree with the notion, forgetting that my family had been on a free school lunch program and food stamps. I realized that being a family that did receive help was, for me, flat out embarrassing. I came from an upper-middle-class family; I did not want to be the poor kid. I hated receiving government assistance and it motivated me to become an independent person who would never need that assistance from anyone again. I suppose Jeannette would have welcomed the aid but would have also pushed herself to become self-sufficient.

Though my family was homeless for a short time, on welfare for a short time and often struggled to make ends meet, my brother and I never went without food and we never slept in a car or out in the open air.

Yesterday I spoke with someone who, in my mind, had it all – a great upbringing, the ability to travel to and live in some amazing countries, a great family and a joyous spirit. Yet this friend confessed that her life is falling apart and she doesn’t know how much longer she can keep holding everything together on her own.

One thing I learned early in my career was to listen more and talk less – a philosophy that proves beneficial on days like today when listening is key and my words are not important. Sometimes people just need someone to listen.

Yesterday’s conversation brought back memories of my childhood, when my parents had their issues, eventually leading to divorce when I was 12. Being a parent is difficult because parents constantly want to keep their children out of harm’s way. There are certain challenges from which they want to protect their children. The hard part, in my opinion (again, not having any kids of my own) is knowing when it’s O.K. to tell your kids when something is wrong – knowing how much to tell them and knowing what to say.

I realized during that conversation that my mom found some miraculous balance of keeping my brother and me informed that there were problems but keeping us out of most of the drama. Yes, I was definitely involved in my share of family drama, but I am sure I was shielded from a lot more. For this I am grateful.

In my opinion, it is vital to keep your kids in the know. I remember a friend whose parents divorced when she was in elementary school. She said it was the hardest thing in the world – O.K., she was young at the time, but she did not understand why. Her parents never fought in front of her, they always put on a good face and told her everything was fine. So, when they told her they were separating, she was confused. Her parents always seemed so happy and never once communicated to her that there were any problems. Hello therapy.

When my parents separated, I knew it was coming. I don’t even remember being upset. I think I knew they would get divorced eventually – divorce was becoming quite popular in the early 90s. My parents were one way at church and another way at home. My mom was always frustrated; my dad never seemed to care. My brother was always in trouble, which made my dad angry and abusive toward him. I remember running to my room, closing my bedroom doors, burying my head under the pillow, plugging my ears and humming to myself anytime my brother would be punished because I did not want to hear the sounds of the beating or my brother’s screams that followed.

By age 10 I knew that my family had financial problems. I was present in the dining room when my father was going through years of owed back taxes because my family was being audited by the IRS. I know that my dad would spend thousands of dollars on model train sets for his collections but we could not afford birthday parties or family vacations. I rarely saw my father put more than $5 in the church offering plate and I never saw him put in more than $20. I don’t think my father ever tipped a waiter or waitress more than $2 no matter the bill price.

We could not afford our house after a while so the bank took it. I don’t think I will ever forget the day that we went home, walked up to our front door and found a real estate lock on the door. My dad was so angry, he slammed the lock against our front door. That’s probably the time when I realized the divorce was imminent.

Through it all, my mother, who is extremely dependent by nature, found a way to break out of a bad situation, support two kids and eventually marry again. My dad also married again, and then divorced again. He never got back to the six-figure income bracket and he died without truly knowing his kids. My brother used his anger and embraced a career in the U.S. military. I graduated college, had a dream job in my mid-20s and am now living in Singapore. Our lives are not perfect but they feel pretty perfect, which is why it is sometimes difficult to hear that my friends’ lives are not so perfect at a time when they should be.

When bad things happen, I don’t blame God or ask why. I thank God for giving me the strength and the wisdom to change if I need to and to survive what I have been dealt. Hang in there, friends. Though it may seem a bit dark sometimes, it’s just the dark before the morning.

I SHOULD MOVE TO FRANCE

I don’t remember if I was in high school or college when my mom decided that I was Italian. I have no Italian blood flowing through my veins and no Italians have influenced my family in anyway that I am aware of; I have pale skin, blondeish hair and blue eyes so I certainly do not look like a typical Italian. There seems to be only one explanation: my eating habits.

I could eat pasta and pizza and bread and drink wine for days.  I would eat pasta two meals a day and have absolutely no problem. I have, on occasion, declared a pizza break but I do not believe I have ever muttered the words, “I cannot bear to eat any more pasta!” And hello, gelato!

Though I love my fake Italian heritage and cannot wait for the day I arrive in Italy for a cooking course that spans no less than one week, I have to admit that I might have a desire to cheat on Italy with my new-found love, France. 

It all started a week ago when I purchased a book by an American woman who moved to France to be with her British boyfriend. The two married and, while raising their first of three children in Paris, author Pamela Druckerman realized that her child was a bit different from the other children she observed.

While taking a vacation, Druckerman says, “We quickly discover that two restaurant meals a day, with a toddler, deserve to be their own circle of hell.” I am sure all American mothers can relate to this statement. In fact, while drafting this I read a Facebook post from a friend’s husband stating that he and his wife, “actually got to have an actual conversation over dinner.”

“After a few more restaurant meals,” Drukerman writes, “I notice that French families all around us don’t look like they’re in hell. Weirdly, they look like they’re on vacation. French children the same age as [her child] are sitting contentedly in their high chairs, waiting for their food, or eating fish and even vegetables. There’s no shrieking or whining. Everyone is having one course at a time. And there’s no debris around their tables. Though I’ve lived in France for a few years, I can’t explain this.”

Bringing Up Bébé is a story of one woman’s realization that American children are spoiled, uncontrollable and the center of every mother’s life. I paraphrase but the last part is true – in America, the baby is the center of one family’s whole universe. When a baby enters the room, even as a fetus inside someone’s belly, the whole room stops, and everyone focuses their attention on the baby…or the stomach. Older siblings have issues coping with another baby in the house because all of the attention goes to the baby, leaving the older child to either fight for attention or hide sulking, thinking that no one cares for him anymore. I do not support this.

When an American woman has a child, she drops everything to make the child’s life an improvement on her own. She loses sleep and stops taking care of herself in order to take care of the child. An American mother must be in the child’s presence at all times. Some mothers have toddlers who have never stayed with a baby-sitter because the mothers do not trust anyone else to care for their children, even for a few hours. I do not support this. These women are crazy and are in serious need of a break.

I have heard so many stories of moms who spend uncountable hours in a vehicle everyday because they need to drop the kids at school, run to the grocery store while they have time, rush home only to run back to pick up the younger child in half-day school, running the child to some lesson, rushing back to pick up the older one(s) from school, then off to some sort of practice, hitting up a drive-thru so that everyone can eat in the car on the way to the next activity….Why do moms put themselves through this torture?

One French mom featured in the book advised the author that she took her kids out of activities because the schedule was too constraining for her. She thought all of the carting around and waiting around was a complete waste of her time. And, in her opinion, the kids did not really need that additional stimulation. This woman is my hero.

I have never been shy about my views on parenthood or my thoughts on child rearing, even though I have no kids. One of the main reasons I do not yet have children is that I feel I am not ready based on American standards. What do I mean? In my mind, whenever I have children, I should not have to change my life just because a baby enters my presence. Why should I have to give up my life, my plans and my goals just because I have a baby? Most people I know would call me selfish. Maybe I am, but don’t I have a right to be? I may be criticized for wanting to hire some help, leaving my child in a crib while I take a shower or letting my child cry instead of risking my sanity to give the screaming child whatever he wants at the time, but these are my preferences.

Until this week, I felt like an awful person who should never have kids because I want my kids to fit into my life, not the other way around. However, after reading this book, it seems the French agree with me.

According to Druckerman, the French have a view on parenting that is completely unlike our American culture and, it all starts with the trying.

In France, if a couple is having trouble conceiving, the government will pay for infertility treatments. Meanwhile, my friend in America is struggling to conceive, worried that if she cannot afford IVF, she may lose her chance at ever being pregnant. Fertility treatments in the U.S. are not covered but welfare for moms of 14 children with 16 different fathers who are all on unemployment and who live in government housing is. I’m just sayin’.

France even steps in to help mothers once the babies are born. They offer:

• In-home visits and post-partum support
• Subsidized help (nannies and housekeepers)
• Childcare from qualified professionals from infancy to preschool (because all French women go back to work after two months), where they potty train and educate your children’s palates
• Free healthcare from birth to age 6

In France, when a woman conceives, she is not given a list of things she cannot do and cannot consume. I rue the day when someone tells me I cannot have wine or coffee or beef carpaccio!! The French do it anyway, but they are smart about it. Pregnant women eat sushi at nice restaurants where they know the quality of the food is high. They have a glass of wine if they want one. They drink coffee confidently. And, amazingly, French children are healthier than American children across the board.

French women don’t get fat – or so I hear. That book is number three on my list right now. The French eat balanced meals four times a day, including an afternoon coffee and pastry. I like this coffee and pastry idea. And, to top it all off, it’s France. Who wouldn’t want to live in France?

While American women read books and online forums about everything related to pregnancy and labor, French women enjoy the experience of being pregnant and they do it in a healthy manner. I fully support this policy. They eat what they want to eat; they live life like they did before they were pregnant – worry free. They are not consumed by all of the what ifs and all of the possibilities that something might go wrong.

When their child cries, French parents give the child some time before they approach. By not immediately responding to a child’s cry, parents teach their child patience. Instead of feeding a baby every two hours because the mom just assumes a cry means hunger, parents allow their child to squirm and whimper in order to teach the child about sleep cycles. In France, a mother goes nuts if her child is not sleeping through the night in the first two months.

French parents do not scold their children, they educate their children. Even from infancy, parents inform their children what they are doing and why because the babies can understand. When French children develop a vocabulary, there are four magic words they learn early on and are expected to use every day: hello, good-bye, please and thank you. These words are non-negotiable. I fully support this policy.

Maybe I’m not ready to have kids, but at least I feel better about my parenting style when Paul and I are ready. I’m not crazy, I just have a different view. Maybe I am selfish, but isn’t my life supposed to be about me?