I started back to work today and I am feeling less than inspired; in fact, I feel downright uninspired, actually, I feel a bit grumpy. This has nothing to do with work per se, it has everything to do with the crushing realisation that I can't nap whenever I want whilst I am at work. This is a huge shortcoming of working that I hadn't really considered previously but it was brought into stark focus for me today when I found myself wanting to siesta.
All of this being said, I can share an interesting tidbit of toilet information because we all know that toilet information is what makes the world go round. Forget politics, human interest stories, world events and human achievement; when we want to be entertained, we want some good 'ole potty talk. So here goes.
For those of you who have never ventured outside of North America, there is in the rest of world something called a squat toilet. I could delve into the specifics but suffice it to say that it's basically a hole of one variety or another into which you must pee from great heights whilst attempting not to wee on your foot or cover your ankles in urinary backsplash. I am terrified of the squat toilet and I believe that I would prefer to raise my leg on a fire hydrant in broad daylight rather than use a squat I might even prefer to give birth than to use a squat and that's saying a lot. Even more terrifying than me having to use a squat, is having no choice but for Baby Girl to use a squat. I sort of half-heartedly tried it once and was met with stern, verging on hysterical resistance. We used a bush.
Now, before I offend anyone, I am not really suggesting there is anything wrong with the squat toilet. It's just that I wasn't brought up using one so I just don't get the physics of it all. It would be like waking up with a penis. I just wouldn't know the first thing about how one dresses, sits, runs or pees with such an appendage. I think you get my drift.
You may be surprised to learn that I have had a number of conversations about the squat toilets with others unfamiliar in the ways of the squat. Basically, they all boil down to horror stories of having no alternative and well...the ending is never pretty. Mine involves a concrete shack in Mumbai, some goats and a dude with a bucket of water. That's all I will say.
One story in particular that has stayed with me was relayed by a very professional friend. She said that at her rather professional workplace, she had, in the early days, noticed that the toilets were oddly dirty for such a professional environ. Moreover, she noted posted signs that appeared to depict a high heel on a toilet seat with a red slash through it that seemed to say, "hey, high heels and toilet seats are a big NO NO" Hmmmmm, high heels on toilet seats, surely you jest, surely you don't mean that professional women were hiking up their pencil skirts and leaping onto toilet seats with their Manolos to use your garden variety sit down toilet as a squat? The visual was too bizarre, the idea cuckoo n'est pas?
Fast forward to this weekend, we are out in the New Territories getting some fresh air and Baby Girl needs to go potty. Not a problem, into the loo we go and I quickly realise that it's a squat bathroom. In Hong Kong, this doesn't alarm me as there is generally at least one sit down toilet. I head for the one sit down toilet and push open the door and to my horror, I am staring at the exposed butt cheeks of a woman who forgot to lock the toilet door and yes, people, I am staring at her butt because she is standing ON THE TOILET SEAT and peeing from like three feet off the ground. It was like she was the Jackie Chan of urination; I half expected her to reward my bumblefoolery with a round house kick to the head, all accomplished whilst expertly perched on the top of the toilet seat. If I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't have believed it, notwithstanding the whole story above about Manolos and toilet seats. It's the sort of thing that you have to see to really and truly appreciate. Normally, I would be mollified to find myself in such an embarrassing situation but it was like sighting the Sasquatch or getting BINGO.
It's not often that something happens that is odd and funny and queer and totally inconsequential but it did and it was the best thing that happened to me on Tuesday.
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
losing it...in translation
I've had a case of the Mondays since, well, Monday. But then the Mondays turned into Tuesdays which just doesn't have the same ring to it, so, I decided that the only thing for it was a trip to the spa. That's right, when I'm not half in the bag on Morning Margaritas, eating caramel chews out of huge red foil heart shaped chocolate boxes and doing a tipsy Fandango in my baby pink negligee with matching heeled slippers trimmed with pink feathers, I am at the spa. So, having been tipped off by a very "about town" friend, that a nearby spa was having a special offer on massages and facials. And of course, one can't turn down a spa special offer because we all know that when things are on special offer, we are actually SAVING money by purchasing them. So, off to save money I went, feeling positively philanthropic.
Now, there are a few quirks one has to get used to at a spa in China. First off, they are big on getting you to shower which I feel is kinda gross (hate putting my bare feet on anything that I think other, strange feet have touched) and a pain in the ass. But, in the interest of not appearing to be a filthy beast from the west, I acquiesce and besides, trying to communicate my aversion to naked feet and annoyance at getting wet midday to a woman who kept calling me "maki" just seemed exhaustingly pointless.
As if the whole shower obsession wasn't enough, when they aren't trying to get you to shower, they are insisting that you remove your perfectly good underpants and replace them with their awkward, pokey, papery, hospital-looking pants. This brings me to odd aversion number two: taking off my underpants midday. If I have a pair of pants on, fine, but if I take them off and then put the same underpants back on again, it's like I'm wearing dirty laundry, which is GROSS. I think you will agree the logic on this is irrefutable.
Anyhow, I'm digressing because my whole point here isn't that I am oddly phobic but that when I get a massage anywhere in China, I can't fully relax because I keep thinking that all the masseuse is thinking is, "I can't believe that I am massaging a human Manatee". OK, so the point clearly is that I am phobic, but let's put that aside for a moment. And before you think that I am imagining the whole thing, believe me that I speak from experience as I have had numerous massages where the masseuse spends the first few minutes of the massage palpating me like I was a hog being readied for slaughter, murmuring in a bemused manner as they pinch my haunches and poke my backside and in some particularly humiliating instances, they call over their masseuse friends to see the whale that washed up on their table.
Today at the spa, I knew that my, erm, shapeliness was going to be more of an issue than usual when I was provided with a robe, slippers and, of course, paper underpants. The robe barely closed so as I tried to lounge nonchalantly in the "holding pen" prior to my massage, I looked more like a porn star waiting to be called on set than a stay at home mom waiting to get a facial. The slippers barely fit with my toes spilling out the front and my heels dragging on the ground as I flapped around. However, the paper pants were the most humiliating part of the ensemble by far.
I was alone in the change room, so I thought that I would give them a go. I put my feet in and went to pull them up but realised that it wasn't going to work when they came to a screeching halt somewhere south of my knee caps. Of course, this was the moment that my designated "spa hostess" chose to come in to check on me only to find me in a most compromising position. I tried to push the offending pants down with one hand whilst the other hand was used to clutch the straining sides of my robe together in an effort to corral "the girls" and cover up at least the most offending parts of my nudity. The result was less than dignified and I am sure that the hostess is, as we speak, regaling her pint-sized, whippet-thin family with stories of the western behemoth, with unruly breasts and a bottom the size of the family car. Needless to say, I gave up on the pants.
Now, there are a few quirks one has to get used to at a spa in China. First off, they are big on getting you to shower which I feel is kinda gross (hate putting my bare feet on anything that I think other, strange feet have touched) and a pain in the ass. But, in the interest of not appearing to be a filthy beast from the west, I acquiesce and besides, trying to communicate my aversion to naked feet and annoyance at getting wet midday to a woman who kept calling me "maki" just seemed exhaustingly pointless.
As if the whole shower obsession wasn't enough, when they aren't trying to get you to shower, they are insisting that you remove your perfectly good underpants and replace them with their awkward, pokey, papery, hospital-looking pants. This brings me to odd aversion number two: taking off my underpants midday. If I have a pair of pants on, fine, but if I take them off and then put the same underpants back on again, it's like I'm wearing dirty laundry, which is GROSS. I think you will agree the logic on this is irrefutable.
Anyhow, I'm digressing because my whole point here isn't that I am oddly phobic but that when I get a massage anywhere in China, I can't fully relax because I keep thinking that all the masseuse is thinking is, "I can't believe that I am massaging a human Manatee". OK, so the point clearly is that I am phobic, but let's put that aside for a moment. And before you think that I am imagining the whole thing, believe me that I speak from experience as I have had numerous massages where the masseuse spends the first few minutes of the massage palpating me like I was a hog being readied for slaughter, murmuring in a bemused manner as they pinch my haunches and poke my backside and in some particularly humiliating instances, they call over their masseuse friends to see the whale that washed up on their table.
Today at the spa, I knew that my, erm, shapeliness was going to be more of an issue than usual when I was provided with a robe, slippers and, of course, paper underpants. The robe barely closed so as I tried to lounge nonchalantly in the "holding pen" prior to my massage, I looked more like a porn star waiting to be called on set than a stay at home mom waiting to get a facial. The slippers barely fit with my toes spilling out the front and my heels dragging on the ground as I flapped around. However, the paper pants were the most humiliating part of the ensemble by far.
I was alone in the change room, so I thought that I would give them a go. I put my feet in and went to pull them up but realised that it wasn't going to work when they came to a screeching halt somewhere south of my knee caps. Of course, this was the moment that my designated "spa hostess" chose to come in to check on me only to find me in a most compromising position. I tried to push the offending pants down with one hand whilst the other hand was used to clutch the straining sides of my robe together in an effort to corral "the girls" and cover up at least the most offending parts of my nudity. The result was less than dignified and I am sure that the hostess is, as we speak, regaling her pint-sized, whippet-thin family with stories of the western behemoth, with unruly breasts and a bottom the size of the family car. Needless to say, I gave up on the pants.
Friday, January 25, 2008
barefoot in the city
Eccentricity, normally the exclusive domain of the British, is something that I have admired from afar. I have, admittedly infrequently, thought that it would be fab to have some quirk that was strange and conversation worthy like wearing only orange, refusing to go outside on the 11th of the month or wearing an eye patch (my personal favourite). Not being British, I am not sure that eccentricity would suit me. North Americans are far too provincial to affect quirks, instead of appearing endearing and amusing, North Americans with "quirks" are usually serial killers. Besides, one wouldn't have to go far in North American to be considered quirky, it could be as easy as wearing slightly snug trousers or socks with sandals. The truth is, I am concerned that life in North America is so perfectly "white picket" fence, that the ability to develop quirks or eccentricities is extinct and that there is no hope for me - eccentricity has been bred out of me. Which leads me to my recent run-in with a real life eccentric.
Baby Girl and I were in a cell phone shop on Queen's Road Central, the Hong Kong equivalent of Times Square (although humourously, there is a Times Square in Hong Kong). Keeping with tradition, Baby Girl's shopping psychosis persisted and upon entering the store, she promptly set to work at removing the laptops from their display while at least three shop keepers looked on distraught. While Baby Girl attempted to rip the laptops from their moorings, I, by now quite used to this behaviour and thus able to completely ignore it, waited patiently in line to speak to the shop supervisor. Whilst in line a couple entered the shop at first blush, they appeared relatively normal save for the fact that they were both wearing three quarter length leather coats (hers in royal purple) and the fact that the man had very long, but tidily kept, hair and beard. I immediately assumed they were Russian, perhaps because of the matching leather jackets (did I mention that one was in bright purple?) or because the man bore a striking resemblance to Rasputin, either way, that's what I thought. Needless to say, they ended up standing quite close to Baby Girl, so without intending to do so, I further noted that the man was wearing track suit bottoms, again, nothing remarkable, save for poor fashion sense but then I noticed that he was BAREFOOT. This in a large, and while spotlessly clean, intensely urban area. So, they were clearly crazy because NOW they were a strangely dressed, oddly long haired couple with the man wearing NO SHOES...but then I realized that actually, they were Australian (surprise) and they weren't crazy (further surprise) as they were engaged in a perfectly normal discussion about whether they actually needed a wireless internet connection. So, much to my dismay, the man could clearly afford shoes and chose not to wear them. A real life eccentric.
Needing to crack the reason for the barefeet (rare aversion to footwear, desire to "feel the earth" beneathe one's feet, social experimentation, laziness...) I realized that I could finally use Baby Girl's toddler powers for good; I would utilize her penchant for all things slightly out of the ordinary combined with her fog horn-esque voice (MOMMY, WHY IS THAT MAN MISSING TEETH?) to lure the barefoot eccentric into conversation. So, I took Baby Girl aside and showed her the man with no shoes and said something like, "look at that man..." (Insert expectant and quizzical look while jerking head toward shoeless long-haired Australian man). Baby Girl rewarded my efforts by taking a look and promptly going back to tearing the mock cell phones from the wall. So, thinking that she didn't see, I tried again at which point, she just looked at me like I was the crazy one. Apparently, walking around barefoot in the middle of a huge city in broad daylight was not cause for concern for Baby Girl. Not like missing teeth, moles, limps, hair colour or any other distinguishing feature. The one bleeding time that I need her to act irrational and insensitive and she can't do it. Shortly thereafter, the couple, exasperated with the long wait, left. No doubt to tea at the Peninsula. And so, rather anti-climactically, I will never know why the man had long hair, a penchant for leather and an aversion to footwear.
I don't know what's worse, realizing that I can't harness Baby Girl's powers OR not knowing why that man was barefoot.
Baby Girl and I were in a cell phone shop on Queen's Road Central, the Hong Kong equivalent of Times Square (although humourously, there is a Times Square in Hong Kong). Keeping with tradition, Baby Girl's shopping psychosis persisted and upon entering the store, she promptly set to work at removing the laptops from their display while at least three shop keepers looked on distraught. While Baby Girl attempted to rip the laptops from their moorings, I, by now quite used to this behaviour and thus able to completely ignore it, waited patiently in line to speak to the shop supervisor. Whilst in line a couple entered the shop at first blush, they appeared relatively normal save for the fact that they were both wearing three quarter length leather coats (hers in royal purple) and the fact that the man had very long, but tidily kept, hair and beard. I immediately assumed they were Russian, perhaps because of the matching leather jackets (did I mention that one was in bright purple?) or because the man bore a striking resemblance to Rasputin, either way, that's what I thought. Needless to say, they ended up standing quite close to Baby Girl, so without intending to do so, I further noted that the man was wearing track suit bottoms, again, nothing remarkable, save for poor fashion sense but then I noticed that he was BAREFOOT. This in a large, and while spotlessly clean, intensely urban area. So, they were clearly crazy because NOW they were a strangely dressed, oddly long haired couple with the man wearing NO SHOES...but then I realized that actually, they were Australian (surprise) and they weren't crazy (further surprise) as they were engaged in a perfectly normal discussion about whether they actually needed a wireless internet connection. So, much to my dismay, the man could clearly afford shoes and chose not to wear them. A real life eccentric.
Needing to crack the reason for the barefeet (rare aversion to footwear, desire to "feel the earth" beneathe one's feet, social experimentation, laziness...) I realized that I could finally use Baby Girl's toddler powers for good; I would utilize her penchant for all things slightly out of the ordinary combined with her fog horn-esque voice (MOMMY, WHY IS THAT MAN MISSING TEETH?) to lure the barefoot eccentric into conversation. So, I took Baby Girl aside and showed her the man with no shoes and said something like, "look at that man..." (Insert expectant and quizzical look while jerking head toward shoeless long-haired Australian man). Baby Girl rewarded my efforts by taking a look and promptly going back to tearing the mock cell phones from the wall. So, thinking that she didn't see, I tried again at which point, she just looked at me like I was the crazy one. Apparently, walking around barefoot in the middle of a huge city in broad daylight was not cause for concern for Baby Girl. Not like missing teeth, moles, limps, hair colour or any other distinguishing feature. The one bleeding time that I need her to act irrational and insensitive and she can't do it. Shortly thereafter, the couple, exasperated with the long wait, left. No doubt to tea at the Peninsula. And so, rather anti-climactically, I will never know why the man had long hair, a penchant for leather and an aversion to footwear.
I don't know what's worse, realizing that I can't harness Baby Girl's powers OR not knowing why that man was barefoot.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
just in case you thought that hong kong wasn't the coolest place on earth
I have been meaning to get back to my recap but alas, I have been embroiled in the Dante's inferno that is moving. Currently, I am attempting to select a wall colour for the new flat that doesn't look like complete crap. I have now gone through what I assumed were three varying shades of white only to discover that once on the walls they were violet, blue and peach. Apparently somewhere in the move I have gone completely colour blind. The most tragic part of all of this is that this is just further evidence of my ongoing decline into complete and utter senility. Mr. Lemony Lemonade is convinced now more than ever that my mental faculties are leaving me at an alarming rate and unfortunately I have recently exhibited a worrying inability to make even the most mundane decisions. Therefore, Mr. Lemony Lemonade is left to wonder where his previously decisive wife of at least average intelligence has gone. But that is not why I have felt compelled to post.
In case I was searching for a reason to absolutely love Hong Kong, which I'm not, but if I was, I found it just yesterday. While purchasing Baby Girl's Chicken McNugget Happy Meal at Old MacDonald's yesterday, I discovered (please take a silent pause here to prepare for the astounding news I am about to impart) that MacDonald's in Hong Kong serves breakfast ALL DAY LONG (take another pause to absorb the enormity of this news). And how do you ask did I discover this beyond amazing fact; well, I happened to glance over at the woman next to me who I observed to be tucking into a Sausage McMuffin at approximately 3 p.m. I am ashamed to say that I was so excited that not only did I put the poor woman off her meal by staring at her with a maniacal grin on my face, I then proceeded to look like a complete lunatic as I sort of whopped and punched the air with my fist as if I had just scored a winning touchdown. Having spent numerous Saturday morning hangovers bemoaning the fact that I couldn't get a Sausage McMuffin past 10:30 a.m., which you will all agree is a totally uncivilized time to stop serving breakfast on a weekend, I welcomed this news with a tear in my eye. All the mornings that I ran bleary eyed to a nearby MacDonalds only to find that they had just stopped serving breakfast or had long since stopped serving breakfast flashed before my eyes. I had always thought that it was ridiculous not to serve those tasty morsels of goodness that are the Sausage McMuffin throughout the day. I mean why should insomniacs, truck drivers and senior citizens be the only people to enjoy the bleeding McMuffin while the rest of the world was left in a world bereft of McMuffins? If only I had known this earlier, I would have moved without a second thought in like, 1991...
In case I was searching for a reason to absolutely love Hong Kong, which I'm not, but if I was, I found it just yesterday. While purchasing Baby Girl's Chicken McNugget Happy Meal at Old MacDonald's yesterday, I discovered (please take a silent pause here to prepare for the astounding news I am about to impart) that MacDonald's in Hong Kong serves breakfast ALL DAY LONG (take another pause to absorb the enormity of this news). And how do you ask did I discover this beyond amazing fact; well, I happened to glance over at the woman next to me who I observed to be tucking into a Sausage McMuffin at approximately 3 p.m. I am ashamed to say that I was so excited that not only did I put the poor woman off her meal by staring at her with a maniacal grin on my face, I then proceeded to look like a complete lunatic as I sort of whopped and punched the air with my fist as if I had just scored a winning touchdown. Having spent numerous Saturday morning hangovers bemoaning the fact that I couldn't get a Sausage McMuffin past 10:30 a.m., which you will all agree is a totally uncivilized time to stop serving breakfast on a weekend, I welcomed this news with a tear in my eye. All the mornings that I ran bleary eyed to a nearby MacDonalds only to find that they had just stopped serving breakfast or had long since stopped serving breakfast flashed before my eyes. I had always thought that it was ridiculous not to serve those tasty morsels of goodness that are the Sausage McMuffin throughout the day. I mean why should insomniacs, truck drivers and senior citizens be the only people to enjoy the bleeding McMuffin while the rest of the world was left in a world bereft of McMuffins? If only I had known this earlier, I would have moved without a second thought in like, 1991...
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