Today I stay home and play the housewife
Well, it was less about playing the housewife, and more about wanting to stay in to "mash the buttons", and improve my poor video-gaming skills in the only game I can play even remotely passably - Gauntlet, Dark Legacy - newly introduced to me just last night. Although, having said that, my decision not to go out today was influenced by the fact that it was my turn to cook (let's not even GO into WHY i'm in the damnable position of having to do that), and that I wanted to make some headway on my "Roadtrip Chronicles" (I might come up with a less lame name than that eventually).
After levelling up to Level 18 Witch from a Level 11 Sorceress, I called it quits, my Health having dropped to a dangerously low 300+ from a maximum of about 1600. Did some surfing blah blah, then gamely, if unenthusiasitically, began my pseudo housewife role.
I walked to the nearby big Asian supermarket on Clement Street: San Francisco is amazing in that there are Chinese shops, or Chinese-owned/staffed shops on every corner, at least in this part of town. The percentage of Asian people in the population I see on the street, which presumably is just some regular street in SF, is higher than the percentage of Asian people in the population I see walking around London's Chinatown!
So anyway, I entered the supermarket with a feeling of dread. Some history is in order here: For those who don't know me in real life, one thing about me is that uh... my Mandarin is not exactly uh.. the best in world (Okay it kinda sucks BIG time). But especially for technical terms like business terms ("transaction", "tax"), and also apparently for things like weight - in my defence: how often is it that a university student who does NOT moonlight as a butcher, and who studies in London, need to know terms like "grams", "milimetres" etc. right???
To continue my story: Two days ago (again it was my turn to cook), I went to this very same Chinese supermarket to buy pork, because this neighbourhood, unfortunately (GRRrrr), does not have a regular supermarket where everything is neatly packaged for in safe, sterile, and simple trays for you to pick off the shelf oh-so-coolly. So I stood awkwardly at the butcher counter, feeling distinctly out of place in my brown, zip-up, hooded sweater, and short short blue denim shorts, DECADES younger than most of the permed-haired aunties who formed the overwhelming majority of the clientele.
Never one to be good at estimating weights, distances and other such spatial-type things, and already feeling uncomfortable in my surroundings, I could HARDLY be blamed for being thrown off balance when the butcher asked me in Mandarin: "How many pounds (of meat did I want)?", ESPECIALLY having grown up in a Commonwealth country, where everything is metric. So, thinking "grams" (I wanted 500 grams of meat. A random estimate, really.), I said: "500."
The guy's eyes widened, and he actually reeled backward slightly. Now completely counfounded, I thought he thought that 500g of meat was too much, so I hastily changed it to "100 pounds". He blinked again and repeated incredulously: "100 pounds?!!" Another butcher-type guy who had turned to look at my first disastrous "500", turned away with a sneegh (i invented the word: a "sneegh" is a cross between a sneer and a laugh.) Thoroughly embarrassed, I remember belatedly that I myself am supposed to weigh a little over 100 pounds, but for the life of me, I didn't know how to say 'grams'. I suspected the word might be "jin", but I wasn't going to risk further humiliation.
In desperation, before the guy completely dismissed me as a nutcase (he was about to turn away), I waved wildly at the lump of meat and asked: "How much does that weigh?" He replied: "1.5 pounds." I wanted a third of that, but struggled to find the Chinese term for "one-third", and being totally traumatised by now, it didn't occur to me to say 0.5 pounds. So I decided to go for either a quarter (" half of a half" - I forgot how to say "quarter" too), and eventually just half of the piece, when he didn't understand my flailing arms and repeated "Half, half. Half, half".
So that was two days ago. And given the fiasco, I was understandably filled with dread today.
My friend had said, when I told him of my terrible experience: "Why didn't you speak English? They can speak English you know." Well, for one thing, I always tend to feel obligated to make effort to at least speak SOME Chinese when with fellow Chinese, especially the elderly auntie-uncle type. This is something that really annoys me. I really don't see why there is that implied obligation to speak Chinese. What if I don't speak Chinese at all? Like if I went to Malay school in Malaysia? Or if I'm a Zimbabwean Chinese? Or if I'm a Chinese who has been adopted by non-Chinese and who grew up in... ICELAND. Then what, huh? For another thing, I look at all the auntie-types, and the fact is, I actually feel the need to ask them: "Do you speak English?" before doing so. So today, as I paced up and down the aisles, I peered around, looking for someone I could pounce on, all the while weighing it up in my head: Would it be too condescending to ask someone if they speak English, given that we are after all, in the US of A?
After a while, I gave up on the entire idea, and heroically, with a sense of marching to my doom, went up to the butcher counter again. This time, I refused to fall into the trap, and said in English: "Three-quarters of a pound please." The guy blinked at me: "Three quarters? Three quarters?" I wanted to faint or kill myself. I have been defeated yet again. I gave up and pointed at the meat and said: "Half of that." He said: "Pound?" (Whatever. I don't care anymore, really.) I nod. And he plonks down slightly more than a pound on the scale. It amounts to $2.27. He says: "$2.27?" I say: "Okay", grabbed it and ran out, only too relieved to be out of there.
I return home. I listen to Big Band music and drink 'boba' ( as bubble tea is known here ) as I do the whole chopping and slicing prep thing. I usually loathe the entire housewife-thing, and strongly resist auntie-fication. But since I don't see myself ever being a home-making housewife type, I gamely decided to try it out for today. I'd like to experience everything at least once, this could be interesting. Mentally, I turn over the 'housewife' experience in my mind: 'How is it? Yes, no, maybe?' After a while, after giving it a fair chance, the answer is still a violent, resounding "NO!"
It's not hard work by any means. The cooking thing isn't hard work, leaving aside of course any quality control. Presumably the house-cleaning thingey can be approximately easily done as well, given the proper modern equipment: a vacuum cleaner (hoover), washing machine and dryer, dish-washing machine, and so on.
But even as I sat there doing simple tasks, and even though I knew it was only play-acting, and only for one day, I felt my heart and spirits sink. Slowly. Like heavy stones through a thick, viscous, gooey mass of liquid, as bubbles form, almost as if in slow motion, and "Glug... glug... glug..." rise slowly, painfully, towards the receding brightness of the surface.
I don't think there's anything inherently wrong about being a home-maker. It's just that, for me, too much of my self-worth is tied to being able to achieve. And by achieve, I always always mean to achieve things outside of the home ( No "Best Baked Brownies" or "Most beautifully knit sweater" awards for me. ) Some people view themselves as athletes, others might take pride in their physical perfection, yet others might rejoice in their popularity, or see themselves as princesses and so on. My world view, and my own view of myself, is closely tied to working.
Maybe it's because my mom has always told me that financial independence is the key to freedom. And I agree. Financial independence is the only guarantee that I won't be bound to an abusive, alcoholic, gambling, violent, philandering man. You may say: "But you can tell what kind of a man he is before you marry him." I say: "Never trust a man." They may change. Maybe they lose their jobs and become self-destructive. They may have a cute secretary at work. Lighting could strike. I could become Xena the Warrior Princess. Whatever, you know.
Having said all that, I think my mom is Wonderwoman. She not only worked, but also did all the housework and cooking. I know for sure I'm never going to be like that. I, shall eat out.
[Added: later on at night]
P/S: When my friend got off work, he said to eat out instead. :-)
After levelling up to Level 18 Witch from a Level 11 Sorceress, I called it quits, my Health having dropped to a dangerously low 300+ from a maximum of about 1600. Did some surfing blah blah, then gamely, if unenthusiasitically, began my pseudo housewife role.
I walked to the nearby big Asian supermarket on Clement Street: San Francisco is amazing in that there are Chinese shops, or Chinese-owned/staffed shops on every corner, at least in this part of town. The percentage of Asian people in the population I see on the street, which presumably is just some regular street in SF, is higher than the percentage of Asian people in the population I see walking around London's Chinatown!
So anyway, I entered the supermarket with a feeling of dread. Some history is in order here: For those who don't know me in real life, one thing about me is that uh... my Mandarin is not exactly uh.. the best in world (Okay it kinda sucks BIG time). But especially for technical terms like business terms ("transaction", "tax"), and also apparently for things like weight - in my defence: how often is it that a university student who does NOT moonlight as a butcher, and who studies in London, need to know terms like "grams", "milimetres" etc. right???
To continue my story: Two days ago (again it was my turn to cook), I went to this very same Chinese supermarket to buy pork, because this neighbourhood, unfortunately (GRRrrr), does not have a regular supermarket where everything is neatly packaged for in safe, sterile, and simple trays for you to pick off the shelf oh-so-coolly. So I stood awkwardly at the butcher counter, feeling distinctly out of place in my brown, zip-up, hooded sweater, and short short blue denim shorts, DECADES younger than most of the permed-haired aunties who formed the overwhelming majority of the clientele.
Never one to be good at estimating weights, distances and other such spatial-type things, and already feeling uncomfortable in my surroundings, I could HARDLY be blamed for being thrown off balance when the butcher asked me in Mandarin: "How many pounds (of meat did I want)?", ESPECIALLY having grown up in a Commonwealth country, where everything is metric. So, thinking "grams" (I wanted 500 grams of meat. A random estimate, really.), I said: "500."
The guy's eyes widened, and he actually reeled backward slightly. Now completely counfounded, I thought he thought that 500g of meat was too much, so I hastily changed it to "100 pounds". He blinked again and repeated incredulously: "100 pounds?!!" Another butcher-type guy who had turned to look at my first disastrous "500", turned away with a sneegh (i invented the word: a "sneegh" is a cross between a sneer and a laugh.) Thoroughly embarrassed, I remember belatedly that I myself am supposed to weigh a little over 100 pounds, but for the life of me, I didn't know how to say 'grams'. I suspected the word might be "jin", but I wasn't going to risk further humiliation.
In desperation, before the guy completely dismissed me as a nutcase (he was about to turn away), I waved wildly at the lump of meat and asked: "How much does that weigh?" He replied: "1.5 pounds." I wanted a third of that, but struggled to find the Chinese term for "one-third", and being totally traumatised by now, it didn't occur to me to say 0.5 pounds. So I decided to go for either a quarter (" half of a half" - I forgot how to say "quarter" too), and eventually just half of the piece, when he didn't understand my flailing arms and repeated "Half, half. Half, half".
So that was two days ago. And given the fiasco, I was understandably filled with dread today.
My friend had said, when I told him of my terrible experience: "Why didn't you speak English? They can speak English you know." Well, for one thing, I always tend to feel obligated to make effort to at least speak SOME Chinese when with fellow Chinese, especially the elderly auntie-uncle type. This is something that really annoys me. I really don't see why there is that implied obligation to speak Chinese. What if I don't speak Chinese at all? Like if I went to Malay school in Malaysia? Or if I'm a Zimbabwean Chinese? Or if I'm a Chinese who has been adopted by non-Chinese and who grew up in... ICELAND. Then what, huh? For another thing, I look at all the auntie-types, and the fact is, I actually feel the need to ask them: "Do you speak English?" before doing so. So today, as I paced up and down the aisles, I peered around, looking for someone I could pounce on, all the while weighing it up in my head: Would it be too condescending to ask someone if they speak English, given that we are after all, in the US of A?
After a while, I gave up on the entire idea, and heroically, with a sense of marching to my doom, went up to the butcher counter again. This time, I refused to fall into the trap, and said in English: "Three-quarters of a pound please." The guy blinked at me: "Three quarters? Three quarters?" I wanted to faint or kill myself. I have been defeated yet again. I gave up and pointed at the meat and said: "Half of that." He said: "Pound?" (Whatever. I don't care anymore, really.) I nod. And he plonks down slightly more than a pound on the scale. It amounts to $2.27. He says: "$2.27?" I say: "Okay", grabbed it and ran out, only too relieved to be out of there.
I return home. I listen to Big Band music and drink 'boba' ( as bubble tea is known here ) as I do the whole chopping and slicing prep thing. I usually loathe the entire housewife-thing, and strongly resist auntie-fication. But since I don't see myself ever being a home-making housewife type, I gamely decided to try it out for today. I'd like to experience everything at least once, this could be interesting. Mentally, I turn over the 'housewife' experience in my mind: 'How is it? Yes, no, maybe?' After a while, after giving it a fair chance, the answer is still a violent, resounding "NO!"
It's not hard work by any means. The cooking thing isn't hard work, leaving aside of course any quality control. Presumably the house-cleaning thingey can be approximately easily done as well, given the proper modern equipment: a vacuum cleaner (hoover), washing machine and dryer, dish-washing machine, and so on.
But even as I sat there doing simple tasks, and even though I knew it was only play-acting, and only for one day, I felt my heart and spirits sink. Slowly. Like heavy stones through a thick, viscous, gooey mass of liquid, as bubbles form, almost as if in slow motion, and "Glug... glug... glug..." rise slowly, painfully, towards the receding brightness of the surface.
I don't think there's anything inherently wrong about being a home-maker. It's just that, for me, too much of my self-worth is tied to being able to achieve. And by achieve, I always always mean to achieve things outside of the home ( No "Best Baked Brownies" or "Most beautifully knit sweater" awards for me. ) Some people view themselves as athletes, others might take pride in their physical perfection, yet others might rejoice in their popularity, or see themselves as princesses and so on. My world view, and my own view of myself, is closely tied to working.
Maybe it's because my mom has always told me that financial independence is the key to freedom. And I agree. Financial independence is the only guarantee that I won't be bound to an abusive, alcoholic, gambling, violent, philandering man. You may say: "But you can tell what kind of a man he is before you marry him." I say: "Never trust a man." They may change. Maybe they lose their jobs and become self-destructive. They may have a cute secretary at work. Lighting could strike. I could become Xena the Warrior Princess. Whatever, you know.
Having said all that, I think my mom is Wonderwoman. She not only worked, but also did all the housework and cooking. I know for sure I'm never going to be like that. I, shall eat out.
[Added: later on at night]
P/S: When my friend got off work, he said to eat out instead. :-)
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home