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| This is not my house, but it might as well be. |
Last week when I got the pitch for my would-be ban chao, rental house, it was touted by my counterpart that there would be lots of kids around for me to play with, "It's nice and small so you can clean it all by yourself! And you will have lots of friends for play dates!" There was a curious lack of promotion for more adult domestic perks. I was getting the pitch for a kid's tree house.
"Does the house have a fridge?" I asked not yet understanding the kind of playhouse I was getting."
"No, no fridge."
"How will I cook?"
"Don't worry, it doesn't have a stove either. You won't be cooking."
"What kind of bed does it have?"
"Oh, you want a bed?"
What is this, Peace Corps Africa? I resented not being seen as "grown-up" enough to deserve a house with adult appliances and a bed. I felt sorry for myself. I posted something on Facebook just cryptic enough as to solicit lots of comments.
After reading said post, my friend and- I would say- mentor, Kathleen called. She was ready to give me the tough-love kind of pep talk I was ready to resist. But Kathleen has a way of getting through to you, I realized to actually be a grown-up I had to take responsibility for my own happiness; that meant negotiating a soft place to sleep, a place to stir-fry my vegetables, and a place to store my leftover pineapple. When Kathleen tells you to negotiate, you negotiate.
So I channeled my inner-Kathleen and got myself a bed, a stove, and a fridge. My landlord must have been impressed by my new-found bad-assness, because he threw in a free washing machine.
Last night I went home to my charmless row house carrying a few groceries to put in my new fridge (the fridge actually had not been installed yet, so that was actually kind of a bummer). There were indeed lots of kids running around. I smiled. There was a lot of satisfaction in knowing I got what I needed to be happy in what I'm calling my "First Real House of Adulthood." I negotiated and I won.
