The Jennifer Blogs

I had lunch with my friend Alicia the other day. She's American, and has lived in Singapore for a few years now, so she pretty much knows the ropes. I think she's secretly giving me about three more weeks before I have a maid living in my bomb closet.



Before we moved to Singapore, we knew there was a good chance we may end up hiring some domestic help. We weren't sure if we wanted a live-in or not, but we did talk quite a bit about having someone come in at least part-time to help keep things together. However, the kids also wanted a way to make money and have asked us a few times to please not get a maid. They don't want anyone coming in and taking away their opportunity to make money. However, there has been more than one occasion where we've had to remind them that we could pay just a bit more and have twice the work done. The number of times I've had to re-do a job ... well, I just stopped counting.



Are you still stuck on the line, maid living in my bomb closet? You read it correctly. Under law, Singapore builders had to include bomb shelters/closets in each unit. Every condo we looked at included a bomb closet, however nobody really calls them that. Instead they are referred to as the "maid's quarters."



The bomb closet has no windows. There is no AC. There is only a small square of space. However, right next to the bomb closet/maid's quarters, there's a small bathroom with a toilet, sink and makeshift shower. It's plenty for a maid. I mean, not in America. But in Asia, they tell me it's plenty for a maid.



Tonight I was on the verge of answering an ad. D'Ette had tried to iron her daddy's shirts, but she just didn't use enough starch and I had to re-do them. Ironing is not one of my favorite things to do. On top of that, you are looking at a woman who, when she was a girl, was not allowed to buy anything with cotton in it.



Jen: "Mom, just look at this beautiful shirt!"

Mom (reading the label): "Oh yeah, cute. Too bad it's 100% cotton! This thing will wrinkle!!! We don't even own an iron!"



So you can guess my limit of experience with ironing. I didn't even own anything with cotton in it until I moved into my own place. You know, when you live under your parents' roof, it's their rules. Some girls couldn't wear short skirts. I couldn't wear cotton.



Did I mention we are on our second iron? I ruined the first one. It ran out of water, so I had to refill it. I turned it off, put it flat on the ironing and board and proceeded to pour in the water. When I picked it up, it was very colorful and there was a huge spot missing from my ironing board cover. I haven't replaced the ironing board yet, but had to buy a new iron the next day.



I was reading some ads from expats who are getting ready to leave the country to go back to their homes either for the summer or for good. They are selling a lot of their home items very cheap. I saw a lot of irons for sale, for like $10 and $15 bucks. I'm seriously thinking about stocking up.

I met a new girl in my building yesterday. Her name is Mary. She's from Singapore, but lived in the US for a while too.



Mary and I walked beside one another almost the whole way from the MRT to the gate where we both live. Of course, neither of us knew where the other was going and we walked in silence the entire way.



Once we got inside the gate and realized we were neighbors, we began chatting like old friends. She's been living here for six months now. She moved from near Cleveland. We talked about the gym. She admitted she had never been and wanted to know what it was like. Then she began to turn toward her tower, which just so happened to be *my* tower too. So we talked as we rode the elevator. She got off on the 10th floor. I had another six floors to go before reaching my condo. The whole way I couldn't help but be excited I finally made a friend in my building.



You know how the girl in the stall next to you becomes your new best friend when she's got toilet paper and you don't? "Could you please hand me some toilet paper?" Your hands touch beneath the stall. It's magic. Okay, maybe not quite like that. But admit it. You have so much gratitude for this girl that you want to get her MySpace username, add her to your friends and put her in your Top 8. Then you want to invite her out for drinks and introduce her to your other friends (who you met exactly the same way, only at a different Wal-Mart). Well, that's how I feel about Mary. She didn't hand me toilet paper, but she's my first friend in my condos. That's H U G E. And I know we only talked for just a few minutes, but there was a connection.



Oh crap. I really need to get out more. I just re-read that. Boy do I sound like a stalker. Or maybe like an expat who really needs some friends!



TGFA. Thank God for Alicia. I have gotten out of the house at least once this week. And next week she's taking me shopping. And, next week I'm teaching some other expat women how to build a website, so that'll get me out of the house. See? Mary has nothing to worry about. Until Alicia goes back to the US, anyway.