Diary of an Expat in Singapore (18 page)

Congratulate myself on finally sitting down and writing a book.

Since before writing comes reading, an activity which has enriched each day of my life, it is no wonder that I nearly forfeited my liver trying to teach my son to read and helping him with his homework. On this subject, I will only say this: you may have been a Green Beret, a Navy Seal, or the CEO of a large corporation, but nothing will prepare you for helping your eight-year-old son with his reading and homework. First of all, this is
help
he does not want and does not appreciate. In fact, any
help
you give, no matter if it is in the tone of Mother Theresa handing someone a bowl of rice, will still be misconstrued as
judging
him. In his mind, an innocent “You might want to check the spelling of
frenly
, I’m pretty sure it’s spelled
friendly
” will warrant an extreme reaction: “I knew it. You hate me.”

Lately things have gotten a lot better. He just tells me he doesn’t have any homework… who am I to argue? After all, life is short.

Think maybe I should be writing a different book.

At first, I was trying to write a book called ‘Diary of an Expat Kid’ – life in Singapore entirely seen from the point of view of an expat kid (namely my eight-year-old son). I have to admit I got the idea from the very first book he couldn’t put down: ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’. Not that my son is wimpy.

I intended it to be something he would enjoy reading and could relate to. That was the problem: he could relate to it too much. He was very excited when I told him about my project and even volunteered to do the illustrations. That was until he read it. I guess he thought it would be about some random boy that he could laugh about. After reading only three pages and underlining most of it with a pencil (the parts I would need to change) he claimed: “It’s terrible. You need to change almost everything.” When asked to elaborate, he yelled: “It’s my life!”

Make more coffee.

Construction work will unite you… air con setting in the gym will divide you.

If you’re living in a condo in Singapore, chances are there is at least one condo (maybe two or three) either coming up or coming down right next to you. Either way,
there will be noise
(to be read in a ‘There Will Be Blood’ tone of voice). Regardless of nationality or ethnicity, the residents of the condo will stand united in their hatred for the noise caused by the construction work. There is only one thing that can divide them: the air con setting in the gym. Very high, very low, or turned off… you know who you are.

Janitor smiles, then spits as soon as you walk by.

Not all janitors smile and not all janitors spit, but strangely enough, the ones who smile are also the ones who spit… and never out of earshot. It’s like they want you to hear what’s coming out of their throat… and landing who knows where. They’re aiming for the trash bin next to the mailboxes (unless they’re aiming for the mailboxes… but that would just be weird). The real question is, do they make it?

When the Russian hottie-in-residence brings her kid out, there’s a sharp increase of dads at the playground.

In every condo, there is at least one extremely hot resident. Say she’s teaching her toddler how to walk by leaning down and leading him around the condo. The fact that she is wearing a very low-cut blouse might not seem news worthy. But if one were to compare a condo to a freeway, there is a good chance that there would be a pile-up. Watching her jump up and down (yes, literally) with her toddler may have you wondering if
it
(or better
she
) is even legal in Singapore. I mean, if you can ban poppy seeds…

Japanese stick together.

Handy fact to know in case you ever contemplated moving to Tokyo. Japanese women are the most polite, sweet, and genuinely friendly residents of the condo. But do not expect to be invited to their house… ever. Do not take this personally (unless, of course, you are Japanese). If your son does by some fluke manage to make a Japanese friend (thanks to a shared love of Naruto, origami, or Pokemon) you might have a chance. One thing for sure is that if that child does come over for a play date, he will bring the most
kawaii
(cutest) snack ever – think pastel-coloured macarons.

You don’t always love the feeling that you’re living in a fish bowl.

Depending on how many blocks make up your condo, there is a fair amount of looking into each other’s windows (voluntary or involuntary). On the plus side, somebody has their eye on your apartment at all times. If your domestic helper decides to throw a rave party while you’re on holiday, your neighbour will tell you. On the negative side, if
you
decide to throw a rave party, you’d better remember to invite your neighbour.

The condo barbecue is like a United Nations convention.