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| Amy discovers Rosie Angelis – just as Philippe Starck envisioned. |
We found Amy about 12 weeks ago during an intense round of interviewing two candidates. Ok, so it was more of a lax obligation rather than intense scrutiny. Although, of the two candidates, one did try to make it into more of, a boot camp, or final exam for the Red Army rather than a friendly interview.
Candidate One, was a serious ayi, her demeanor was incredibly stern and focused. Candidate One explained that she had been an ayi for 15 years and had won a district commendation as one of the best ayis in Shanghai (and had the meticulously etched certificate to prove it). I was stunned that they even had such competitions. I mean what do they do, have these poor ayis clean a kitchen and then see if they can grow uncontaminated LED crystals in a microwave? So stunned, that I asked her if she made the Shanghai evening news, to which she said yes she had. Wow, I thought if we don't live up to her well-bred, repatriated English family we'd be on the Shanghai evening news as the offensive Americans.
Never mind our reputation, K8's life was at stake here. One drill sergeant in a household is enough and Kris and I have never resolved who of us it would be. If a third option goose-stepped into the picture we might do some real harm.
Next.
Enter Amy. A four-foot, six-inch woman with an effortless, relaxed way and laugh that came easily. Amy said she had been doing this work for 20 years and was also a mother. She liked to travel a little, cook and read various cook books. I amused myself at the thought of a French cook book written in Chinese (stupid I know, but still it struck me as more humorous than a French cookbook written in english). She went into some details about how she would determine the actual amount of work to be done once she saw our apartment. We quickly learned that in Shanghai (or all of China for that matter) a noncommittal answer always leaves room for negotiation. Amy's intuition told her that our case sounded like a full-time job. I thought different and then I immediately flashed-back to the Red Army drill sergeant. Amy seemed very comfortable with K8 and frankly, that was 85% of the decision. Kris, K8 and I all looked at each other and that was it.
"Ok, I think we have an ayi."
So, Amy shows up for work 10 minutes late her first day. She greets me as "Mista" in a lyrical, high-pitched tone. I explain that she can call me Karl, to which she inquisitively looks at me nodding while enunciating" Kaahr-lo, Kar-lo, Karlo" then says "OK, Mista" and walks off to the kitchen.
The following four days of week one Amy is 15–30 minutes late. To the best of my knowledge (via a game of charades between us) she blamed it on the subway. Since Kris was traveling, Friday of week one, I have a gentle conversation to remind her that work starts at 9:00a. Amy's initial response was "Oh oh, Ok, solly, solly, ok, solly". She seemed very genuine and "sorry". Things got better with regard to start times and we were soon on our journey to domestic domination.
It would be insightful for me to interject that the Chinese love for gadgetry makes the Japanese love for the same look adolescent. The more switches and options to turn the lights on and off the better. If the curtains open and close with a certain combination of lights illuminating we kowtow to the electrical engineer. Get the well-illumined picture? Now take that love for the motherboard aesthetic and apply it to ovens, washing machines, dishwashers, microwaves, you name it, and the result is a post-NASA, NASA in the kitchen.
Week Two.
When it comes to laundry I'm a lowest common denominator kind of guy. Between our minimal laundry needs and Amy's minimal understanding of the Miele, she decides to do the wash by hand. I told her it was a lot of work but she insisted and assured me that it was fine. I go off my way to deal with the immigration people and Amy is off gathering the laundry.
A few hours later I return to see Amy doing the wash by hand in the kitchen sink. Not something I am enamored by, so I ask her to use one of the extra bathrooms' sinks or tubs. Amy understands the request and gets back to finishing the laundry in the kitchen. She decides to use the simple "dry" setting on the washer/dryer and things are moving along swimmingly again.
Once the shirts are out of the dryer Amy is ironing like a mad-woman and doing a better job than any professional dry cleaner (or five star hotel for that matter) than I've ever seen. "Hmmm," I think, "We may have chosen the right ayi."
As Amy leaves for the day she is determined to drag me into the walk-in closet and show me an immaculate set of perfectly ironed and arranged shirts hanging in a rainbow order of colors and shades. She looked to me for approval and I nodded saying "Amy this is great, you did a great job!" to which she bowed modestly saying "sank-you, sank-you."
As Week Two ends Amy's out the door with a cheery "See you tomollo Mista, bypbye." I can't help but crack-up enjoying this new found form of entertainment. That evening, since K8 and I were the only ones eating, a good Vietnamese carryout seemed an appropriate reward for our excellent ayi choosing abilities.
After a very good dinner, K8 left the table to finish some homework and I was left clearing the table. A few left overs relegated to the fridge, a few dishes to rinse and stuff into the dishwasher and viola almost finished. Just a bit of rice, an odd julienned vegetable or two and some rice noodles spiraling their way down the disposal drain as I rinsed the dishes. Once the dishwasher was loaded, I rinsed the sink one more time and I hit the disposal button. I immediately hear a disposal churn that is louder than anything I've hear from a similar device in the US. It gets worse and I rush to shut it off before we trip the entire building's circuit breakers.
As I reach into the now humbled disposal, I don't feel any thing that could have caused such a ruckus. "Ah, wait a minute, here's something..." It takes a fair bit of doing to get what seems to be a washcloth unwound from the disposal. But, it can't be the washcloth because I have the washcloth in my left hand. Finally, I anti-foul the disposal flotsam and extract it from the "teeth". "What the..." it's an unidentifiable hot pink swatch of fabric with a recurring pattern of slashes from the disposal fangs. K8 wonders into the kitchen to see what the commotion was. I hold up the shredded fabric and K8 whines the positive identification of the newly consigned rag as her former prized Abercrombie and Fitch underwear.
Ameeee!!! Aye, I don't believe it.
I save the relic to explain the mishap to Amy the following Monday.
Week Three.
Monday, Amy shows up nearly on time. I take her aside and show her the shredded underwear. I motion to her that I found these in the disposal drain. She shakes her head in horror and disbelief at how such a thing could have happened. I assure her that if she does that laundry in the bathroom from now on it won't happen again. "Ok, ok, solly, solly ahh, solly" she timidly sings and is off to clean.
I finish clearing the breakfast table and head into the kitchen to clear dishes and the like. Amy comes rushing into the kitchen to let me know that the dishes are her job and she will take care of things. I say it's ok and hit the button on the garbage disposal and Amy jumps back terrified and visibly shaken. I hit the button again to turn the disposal off and she looks at me much like you would expect a caveman to look at a Zippo lighter. Amy garners the courage to come closer, cooing and clicking verbal expletives as she points to the button. I respond by saying "yeah, it a garbage disposal you know?" Rewind the caveman and Zippo lighter scene.
Ok, Amy you've been an ayi for how many years?
Not missing the opportunity to be the Home-Ec teacher I turn-on the water, as it flows into the sink I depress the disposal button very deliberately. It growls and churns. I deliberately turn it off and then turn the water off. I go through the sequence a few more times so Amy understands that the water needs to be on before engaging the disposal. She nods seriously and I think I'm on my way to a tenured position at the "U".
As I turn to grab the hot pink rag, a shrill, scream comes from behind me. I jump, spinning around, thinking Amy is in distress likely with her hand getting gnawed off by the disposal (think of the kitchen scene in The Mechanic). To my great relief, her hands were covering her mouth and she was doubling over. As I tried to see what the damage was, it became apparent that is wasn't pain but laughter that launched her emotional exuberance. For a few minutes the hysterical gremlin-like laughter continued.
I must have looked clueless.
Amy then initiated a new game of charades. She took the hot pink rag, pointed to the garbage disposal and then to the button nodding inquisitively "yes?"
A bit underwhelmed I nodded back "Uh, huh", it seems I really had taught Amy what a garbage disposal was, as well as what it was capable of doing (even though the lesson had been one hot pink pair of A+F girls underwear too late).
Again, the gremlin chuckle ensued.
As any incensed professor would instinctively move to quell the commotion, I put my arm on Amy's shoulder and directed her back to the work at hand. Eventually the chuckles ended and the ironing began.
I've instituted a moratorium on celebratory dinners for a while.
© 2011 Karl Shaffer
