Tales From A Broad (17 page)

Frank takes out a beer and cracks it open. I am mortified. Here we are doing a wholesome group family activity and he has to turn it into happy hour. No one else has a beer in their hand. Yeah, I want one too, but I'd never … not here at this event, our debut, if you will. Just as I am waiting for him to see my ‘what a stupid ass you are' stare, he is reaching into his bag. ‘Oh, God, not another!' I think. Actually, it's two more – one for Roy and one for Hugh. Then Valerie and Sam come over to us. I introduce them to Frank: ‘This is Valerie and you must be Sam? Frank, they're from Australia. They have a little boy Sadie's age, Andrew. He's in Sadie's playgroup.'

‘How's it goin', mate, got another in your stash?' Sam says to Frank.

‘Here you go. Like VB?' Frank says.

‘Vitamin B, mate.'

Clive, Tess and Tag wander over.

I introduce them. ‘They're from South Africa. Tag's Sadie's age.'

We all shake hands.

‘Good idea, man. Can't go through another one of these without one. Feckin' bore.' Clive reaches in and grabs a beer. Hugh, Frank, Sam, Roy and Clive give a little tribute to VB.

‘Best feckin' beer on earth.'

‘Course, it's
Austrayan
.'

‘Aye, that goes down good.'

‘I don't know about you lot, but I reckon it's not halloween without a little treat.'

They toss their cans away. Sam reaches in for another.

‘Bag's empty, mate. I'll shout the next round. Wait for me, doll.' He kisses Valerie and off he trots to the little store.

We have our group, thanks to Frank. Not to me, the one who perfectly timed my pool and playground appearances to coincide with the ebb and flow of the beautiful people. Todd and Caroline wander over. ‘Oh, Frank, this is Caroline and you must be Todd. They're from Virginia. Jason is Sadie's age and Zooey is Huxley's.'

‘Heard you brought some VBs,' says Todd as he reaches into the empty bag.

‘Help is on the way,' Frank replies.

All the ladies congratulate me on hiring a maid.

The Japanese moms have to pass out treats at the barbecue pits because they don't have maids at home. Their husbands won't allow it. And tonight, as on any given night, the husbands are totally unavailable, so there's no one home to answer the door. The Japanese men are seldom seen. The women can be found playing doubles together for the entire day, leaving the kids in the middle of the court, then treating themselves to Fattys, the restaurant above the swimming pool, for lunch, more tennis and Fattys for dinner. Their family core seems to be made up of seven women and 16 kids. But, my God, they're all gorgeous. How can their husbands stay away?

The Germans, the Indians, the Dutch, the Swedes, the Singaporeans don't show any interest in this Halloween thing, but the Japanese love it. We are a well-ordered throng as we move along the brick path accepting the Japanese offerings. Plink, plink, plink. It is finally Sadie and Huxley's turn. A green package about the size of a stick of gum is tossed into their goody bag. It's seaweed. Off the scales in nutrition.

‘Hey,' I say to Tilda, holding up a seaweed. ‘If it isn't 350 calories a serving, you can't call it a treat.'

‘Bloody hell,' she says, ‘if it isn't
chocolate
, it's a trick.'

Though it takes us over two hours to cover the schedule, everyone has a ball. By ten, the bags are full, the costumes dragging and all the doorbells have been rung. A scary story is told to the kids back at the barbecue pits and a lucky draw is held. The winner gets just what he needs – more candy.

11.30 pm: Hugh, Tilda, Tom and Lucy; Lisa, Roy and David; Valerie, Sam and Andrew; Clive, Tess and Tag; and Caroline, Todd, Zooey and Jason are all at our place and Frank is manning the blender.

12.30 am: The kids are sleeping in various nooks and crannies. We're dancing to loud music.

1.30 am: The security guard knocks at the door and demands we quieten down. This gives Clive a chance to tell some jokes. ‘There's this Jew, a kefir and a feggit …'

‘Clive,' I say, ‘you might be insulting some people in this room.'

‘I can see no one 'ere's a kefir or a feggit. Anyone a Jew?'

‘Yeah, I am,' I say.

‘Well, you'll like this then, the Jew makes off with all the money.'

2.15 am: Tilda and I eat all the chocolate from our kids' bags.

2.30 am: I'm sitting on Clive's lap trying to explain to him why these jokes are not nice. Valerie is sleeping. Tilda is mixing another drink and seems hardly affected by the evening. Caroline's saying, ‘Put the music back on!'

3 am: Sam and I are dancing. We've danced the entire album of
Hair
but we're on the reprisal. When I'm not looking, Frank unbolts the door and allows our captive audience to leave.

3.05 am: Last time seen on clock … until …

4 am: I distinctly hear a door open and shut, behind our kitchen, in Amahville.

The days have taken on a pleasant rhythm. The kids are adjusting to Posie. In fact, they have quite a nice little time together, the three of them. That means I don't always have to take them with me when I do the shopping. Sometimes Posie even takes them while she does the shopping. But I wonder what's eating me now? I can't name it.

Perhaps all I need is just a little Thanksgiving in the air. Family time. Some leaves to crunch, a sweater to pull on, a football game to ignore, Kraft cheese promotions everywhere I turn. And then I can wake up the next day and be hot again. This is not the first Thanksgiving I've missed, but maybe it's the first I
miss
.

Halloween was plastered all over Singapore – the retailers love it. But forget about seeing so much as a feather to mark Thanksgiving. November 1, and it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas … and Deepavali.

It's not like I'm expecting giant pilgrim floats or even baton-twirling or marching bands. But maybe give me a ten-cents-off coupon for stuffing. The rebuff seems loaded with meaning. Everyone here just loves being able to ignore us, the US. And, gee, was that not me up there in line at the Mooncake Festival last month waiting for my free mooncake? And since I seem to be the only one who
likes
the double-yolk, bean-paste tarts, and since I am truly enthusiastic about honouring the fall of the Mongol Dynasty, I celebrated by having several. With wine. And that was
after
attending the very long ceremony at the pool in the evening, supporting the efforts of dozens of kids, some too shy to remember their routines, some too enthusiastic to keep with the program. There was lantern lighting, karate, ballet and choral performances, traditional dancers, flautists and a costume contest. We made it a group affair and thought we'd enjoy the evening with cocktails and nibblies, but the guards came around and told us to pack it up. ‘No food or drink allowed at the pool.'

‘But what about the stacks of mooncakes?' I asked, hoping for a reprieve just this once.

The others were already putting lids on and spoons away, telling me to give up.

‘I have to point out that a mooncake is food,' I continued.

That does not compute. That does not compute. He stared.

Sam opened a fresh VB. The guard jerked to life, swivelled quickly toward the sound.

‘There is no food or drink allowed at Mooncake Festival,' he said flatly.

‘Right,' said Sam, ‘I mistook “festival” to mean “a time to make merry”.' He drained the can, crushed it and tossed it into a bin.

At the crackle of Clive reaching into a chip bag, the guard switched his focus.

‘There is no –'

‘Yah, dis is how we do it beck home,' Clive interrupted, waving a Tomimo Korn Chip (‘Made the Mexico Way, Product of Malaysia') across the food still left out on the table.

The guard told Dana she couldn't smoke. ‘I'm not,' she said, taking a drag.

Another guard, this one skinny and officious, Singapore's answer to Don Knotts, came hustling over, looking quite agitated. He stopped at me.

‘Your kids are not registered,' he said, hiking up his pants and minding his posture.

‘So?' I said.

‘They cannot compete in the costume contest.'

‘They're not competing; they're just standing up there,' I argued.

‘They cannot compete in the costume contest,' he said.

‘Well, I understand that they aren't eligible to win (the grand prize being two dozen mooncakes which – don't tell a soul – I would love) but, c'mon, they're just tiny kids. We weren't here in time to sign in,' I pleaded.

‘Only registered children can compete.' He straightened his collar, squared his shoulders. A drip of perspiration rolled down the side of his face.

‘
They are not competing
. Look, it's almost over,' I reasoned (and reasoning usually works here?). Indeed, prizes were being announced.

‘Only registered children can compete.' He looped his thumbs in his trousers, shimmied them up his hips.

‘Yeah, I didn't hear you the first 100 times. Okay, I'll get them off.' But I didn't. And he didn't come back. Sadie won second place.

Everyone in Singapore who wants a special day (birthdays excluded until further notice) gets one, complete with a hefty, bold acknowledgement. German Woodcrafters Day, Chinese Take Your Middle Child to Work Day, Indian Girl Power Day, Guernsey Pasture Appreciation Day – whatever, it's acknowledged. Except the Americans.

In fact, one only needs to make a mental note of the two days when there
isn't
an observed holiday here. Jolly old Singapore. It's a place that tolerates, encourages and embraces cultural differences within three ethnic groups – Chinese, Malay and Indians. Each of them has a variety of religious and traditional celebrations, and when you add expats to the mix (but do ignore America) you will certainly find a way to never have to show up at the office.

You've got your Taoists, Buddhists, Christians, Freethinkers, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Parsees, Confucians and mixtures of all the above to consider. You've got your standard hometown pride to commemorate, too – National Day, May Day and such. Let's just scroll down and check out some of the events …

Festival of the Hungry Ghosts: Taoist; hell goes on holiday, ghosts escape.

Thimithi: Hindu; an excuse to go fire walking.

Deepavali: another score for the Hindus; turn on lights and remember good always triumphs over evil.

Hari Raya Puasa: Muslim; month-long daylight fast, perfect for midnight snackers and those who can't fit into their
tudongs
any more.

Vesak Day: Buddhist; pray, meditate, get buddy-buddy with the big B.

Thaipusam: Hindu; a must-see, honouring Lord Subramanian who represents virtue, valour, youth, beauty and power; people walk around with kavadis, semicircular large steel frames decorated with fruit, flowers and peacock feathers (do not stop reading, I am getting to the good part) supported by steel spikes and hooks (stay with me) inserted into their cheeks and tongues with skewers, while their feet are punctured with iron nails.

Birthday of the Monkey God: Chinese; put away the laptop and write your charms in blood; mild skewering is okay.

Chinese New Year: granddaddy of them all; celebrated for two weeks. Holy hangover! Fourteen New Year's Eves!

You also have your Ch'ing Ming, Dragon Boat Festival, Hari Raya Haji, Navarathri Festival, Pilgrimage to Kusu Island, Maulidin Nabi and then Christmas and everyone else's New Year.

‘Frank, do you think we should go away for Thanksgiving?'

‘Yeah, maybe.'

I go to the phone.

‘Who're you calling?'

‘Hi, is Caroline there?'

‘She's having her nap,' says Bethy. As I am leaving a message, I hear Caroline's voice in the background. ‘I'm up, Bethy. You let it ring six times so now I'm up.'

‘Sorry, Ma'am.'

‘Hello,' Caroline sighs into the phone.

‘It's Fran. Hey, sorry to bother … wake you. Just wondered if you'd have a good idea about where to go for Thanksgiving. We thought we'd get away.'

‘Oh, well, there's lots of places but I was going to call you later today to tell you about Pam's.'

Pam is a mom in the playgroup, from Idaho. She has a thick head of delicious strawberry-blonde hair, a perfect smile, flawless skin, and a sweet, confiding disposition. She's married to a guy we all like; he is loose and talkative. Everything he says sounds like it's coming through a bong hit.

‘Yeah?' I venture.

‘She's having her annual BYOD/BYOM party.'

‘What's that mean?' I ask.

‘Oh, I keep forgetting you're new. It means bring your own dish and bring your own maid.'

‘Dish?'

‘Yeah, like pot luck.'

I am terrifically happy to be included in this expat Thanksgiving. A big American get-together will be the next best thing to family. Anyway, Thanksgiving back home is no longer what it used to be, for, sadly, little by little, my mom has gone entirely, completely, 100 per cent fat-free. The feast looks the same. I mean, if you passed by our dining-room window and took a gander at the turkey all trussed up like she was giving birth because Mom had tucked an orange into her gaping crevice, for flavour, I guess … I hope … or the swirls of mashed potatoes, or the Caesar salad loaded with croutons, or the yards of bread, you'd be sure we were assuming our holiday weight gain in one sitting. But, if you happened to look behind the salt shakers (containing non-sodium salt, which adds nothing to the food but does satisfy the urge to flick something on your dinner), you'd see a bright yellow bottle with a blue label that might give you pause: no-calorie, no-cholesterol butter spray. On Thanksgiving?