As some of you may know, I transferred to another position at the beginning of the year, which meant that I moved from an office in the middle of nowhere in Pudong (Wai Gao Qiao) to an office in the middle of nowhere in Puxi (Minhang). Since the Pudong office was essentially a bunch of cubicles built on top of a couple of massive factories, the management was kind enough to offer us lunch cards that we could swipe in the cafeteria and/or the mini-mart so that we would feel less like factory workers and more like, well, people who did not have access to real food and real restaurants.
The way the card works is that every month it gets refilled with credit. It is then up to the individual card-owner to manage that allowance accordingly, between price as well as food options. You can be like Jamie, who blows his entire monthly allowance in two days on such relative delectables as fruit salad and smoothies at the cafe, or you can be like some of my other coworkers who allot themselves just the right amount (8 RMB) per day so that they will never be over or under once the lunch card fairy comes around and recharges everyone’s cards.
Anyway, due to the massive bureaucracy that is my company, I was pleased but not surprised to find out that, even though I had physically transferred to the other office, my card at the old office had still been refreshed in January. Having been living in China for over two years and thus seen my morality filed down to nothing but a mere nub, I immediately planned a trip back to Pudong, duffel bag in tow, so that I could load up on essentials and unmentionables at the mini-mart.
One of many perks of having hired help is that the terms “chores” or “cleaning up the place” cease to be a part of everday lexicon. However, in a few rare instances one has to brave the outside world to procure hats and weed and hair gel items the help is not capable of procuring. And while those moments are few and far between, some of us have become monarchs in our own abode, and try to avoid getting our hands filthy at supermarket checkout lines at all costs.
Therefore, I was very much a happy camper as I scoured the racks at the mart, wondering if I should blow a third of my “free” money on a pair of thermals, or if I should load up on more sensible items, such as nickel batteries and pantyhose. Then my eyes came across a twelve pack of Crest toothpaste; the perfect buy! It was a purchase I was going to have to make sooner or later, why not just load up in bulk now and resolve the “toothpaste situation” for at least the next few months. I picked up the package, along with some pornos and popsicles, and left with a huge grin on my face. Nothing beats pilfering huge multi-national corporations for a few dollars worth of toiletries!
Alas, there is a karmic cost for such things. Apparently, part of Proctor and Gamble’s brilliant international expansion plans include tweaking the tried-and-true formulas of many of their popular products to target specific markets. That’s how I ended up stuck with a “Chinese tea” flavored 12 pack of Crest toothpaste, which wouldn’t normally have bothered me if it hadn’t been for the fact that it tastes like sweat-drenched socks in my mouth every time I brush my teeth. Oh, the wretched irony of it all! Now I’m stuck for the next six months, enduring a twice-daily experience tantamount to chewing on a 56 year old male’s athlete’s foot. I have learned my lesson; next time, when I have to choose between fleecing someone and doing the right thing by not taking what is not entitled to me, I will look at the package and make sure it’s not made by Proctor and Gamble.
