So people here it is, my reincarnation, my new virtual home away from home. To borrow a Chinese metaphor, I initially felt upon my move from Toronto to Hong Kong like the proverbial Phoenix rising from the ashes reborn as a glam, jet setting woman, baby at my hip, husband in tow, three and a half inch Christian Louboutin heels clicking impatiently through airport terminals, sipping lychee martinis at achingly hip rooftop bars in far flung locales while exchanging witty banter with my exotic friends. That was until I found myself in glamourous Hong Kong applying for a joint account with Mr. Lemony Lemonade in a stained Old Navy t-shirt (couldn't locate anything else from the potpourri of suitcases that littered our micro-flat that masqueraded as our "temporary accommodation") at the local HSBC.
The first indignity I had to suffer, no let's make that the second, after having to wear a stained t-shirt, was that I was placed as secondary on the joint account. It was made clear to me that as an unemployed woman I was relegated to second class status given that Mr. Lemony Lemonade is now far more important than me given that he is gainfully employed and is male. The indignities did not stop there as I was further emasculated when I was forced to list my occupation as "housewife" despite my protestations and presentation of my law society membership card. The woman signing us up just looked at me as one would look at a petulant and simple-minded child.
Just when I thought that this was an isolated incident, a one-off, a minor set-back, I was similarly shamed upon applying for my Hong Kong I.D. card. The commie-deliciousness of which, (I am just gagging to have some official person demand to see "my papers") was dimished when the miliaryesque-looking immigration officer brusquely scratched out where I had written "lawyer" under occupation and wrote in large caps, "HOUSEWIFE". He didn't even ask me if I was a housewife, he just wrote it in. For all he knew, I was a bloody secret agent. In the interest of fairness, I was wearing the only, and yes, I said only, pair of jeans that I was allowed to pack and they were all stretched out and very UNCUTE; they were, dare I say, matronly and frumpy so, he is forgiven for mistaking me for a housewife but he didn't have to act so short when I suggested that "IT GIRL" was a good compromise.
So, I am now a housewife, a term that rankles mostly because it fails to imply exotic friends, high heel clicking, martini drinking and all things rockstar. Instead it implies bake sales, high waisted trousers, mini-vans and all things boring. Speaking of boring...before I bore you to tears with petty semantics and personal insecurities, I must digress and fill you in on the comings and goings of the Lemony Lemonades over the past month; for now, I will review the mechanics of the actual move day as this post is reaching novella proportions.
We shaped up and shipped out November 2, 2007 after a move that was painful but much less painful thanks to very efficient movers who packed everything and I mean everything; right down to the brass tacks (I literally watched him wrap up tacks). As our bits and pieces were packed aboard a freighter bound for the Far East, we packed our bags and headed for the airport. The best bit of this part of the journey was the actual, physical act of packing; something that never fails to raise veins on Mr. Lemony Lemonade's temples, beads of sweat on his upper lip and makes his right eye twitch very unattractively. He has become such a packing worry wart that he has developed the somewhat useful but clearly compulsive ability to actually assess the over-weightedness of a suitcase without the assistance of a scale. Just by standing there flexing the suitcase in his hand he is able to decree what will pass and what won't. Given the three of us travelling there were six cases, 25 lbs. each and believe me when I say that they were packed within ounces of their respective weight allowance. This in and of itself was enough to give Mr. Lemony Lemonade cold sweats and a facial tick but as we checked in, large numbers of passengers ahead of us in the line were having their cases rejected as too heavy and they were forced to endure the humiliation of having to unpack and repack right before Mr. Lemony Lemonade's terror-stricked eyes. "But for the grace of God", Mr. Lemony Lemonade was no doubt thinking...or more accurately, "sodding, bloody, Lemony Lemonade's goddamned 15 pairs of goddamned shoes..." At this point, he was convinced that in moments he was going to be one of the wretched souls on his knees before the entire world as the contents of our cases spilled out around him. The very thought brought him to the very brink of speechlessness.
Had this, very likely scenario come to pass, I have every reason to believe that this would push poor Mr. Lemony Lemonade right over the edge. He would go completely, stark, raving mad and I have no doubt that he would require sedation and possibly a straitjacket to be kept from beating me senseless with one of my 15 pairs of shoes. Had he been hooked up to a heart monitor at this juncture it would easily have registered an infaction or a stroke.
Needless to say, the bags were brilliantly packed (par moi) and passed with flying colours. In fact, there were a few ounces to spare and I quietly lamented the patent leather ballet flats that I had to leave behind.
For me, the cases were a non-starter though as the real issue wasn't the 15 pairs of shoes and mere ounces and pounds, it was instead the possibility of 15 hours trapped in an aluminium tube with a three year old who had developed a penchant for pointless, out of control screaming. Baby Girl has diabolically discovered that screaming uncontrollably in public makes Mommy and Daddy sweat and promise all sorts of great things like candy and cash. I was already in a bit of a lather having felt the heat of anxiety emanating from my fellow passengers at the boarding gate. It was all for naught, however, as Baby Girl gleefully discovered that air travel is a grand excuse for cramming in unlimited amounts of tv watching. I silently thanked the technology Gods for developing the in-flight personal entertainment device as it was the only thing standing between myself and a lynching by my fellow travellers. Although Baby Girl was a dream and managed to watch more hours of consecutive television than any other toddler ever, we are now deep in the throes of having to wean Baby Girl off the "junk" that is television and it's not pretty. As I write this, I about to negotiate turning off the tv for dinner, something that will no doubt involve chocolate, promises of trips to the Zoo, or God forbid, another trip to Disneyland Asia (more on that later).
I am exhausted, just recalling all of this, so I have to stop there and will recap more later...
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