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An afternoon Matt-inee
I was making coffee. The instant type. Measuring spoonfuls of coffee powder, sugar, creamer. Waiting for the kettle to whistle.
Matt was sitting on the sofa, by the window, leaving through this month's 'Women's Weekly'.
"Do you women really believe this stuff?" he said.
"How else can the cosmetics industry be a multi-billion dollar industry?" I said.
Then I looked up from the mugs at him.
He's just had a swim. He's been swimming regularly, so he's a little tanned. He says he is due for a hair-cut. But I like it longish, esp when it is slicked back like this. Wet. I imagined little droplets of water hanging onto his hair ends before they make dark blotches on his white, cotton shirt. He got that from East India. I helped pick it. The top 2 buttons opened. No chest hair. (*Sigh* you win some, you lose some) He has on faded jeans that are torn at the knees and heels. His favourite. Mine too.
Lanky. That's the word. It fits him. 6 feet, he insists. Nah, only 5 feet 11 inches, I insist. He hates that - when I cut him down to size. Can you work out for a bit of a chest? I've asked him before. Yeah, after you, he replied.
He senses me staring. He turns to me and motions, "What?" before he checks his shirt for anything suspicious.
I bring the coffee over and tuck myself beside him. He takes a sip. I continue watching him from behind the swirls of vapour.
"What?" he narrows his eyes.
"Nothing," I smile, tracing the dark wet blotches on his shirt with my index finger, "There's just ... some thing I want to do."
"What?" Mr Doofus asks again.
I lean closer.
"Oh, that!" he says and breaks into a wide grin. "Are you sure?"
I roll my eyes, "Oh, just shut up."
He laughs, pulls me near.
And we kiss.
Then, I laugh. Not just that it was good kiss, a damn good kiss.
But because I finally could.
--- THE END* ---
*couldn't resist putting that in. wink.
Pencil chewed at 6:18:00 pm //
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And so the farewells begin
I've been stuffing my face. Too many invitations to farewell lunches and dinners. I don't remember having a 24" waist anymore.
Also the cards, gifts and messages.
This week has been filled with a lot of love. Really.
And I feel undeservingly blessed.
Then, there is Messy. I don't spend a lot of time with her. But occasionally, she'll drop by my cube and unload her woes. I listen. Nod my head at the right pauses and ask a few questions. Some she answers, most she doesn't. Then, she goes off. Till another dark day.
Yesterday, Messy came up to me, held my hand in both of hers and stared me in the eye. I felt a little self-conscious and I took quick scans around the room to see if anyone saw what she was doing. I was afraid she would burst into tears or something.
In her trademark, phelgm covered voice, she coughed up, "Y-O-U BITCH!" And walked off. I laughed. Because with Messy, that's endearment. And that was the best compliment she ever gave me.
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On another note, I will stop blogging here after Feb 28. Mainly because I won't have a PC to blog with at home. And I will be travelling. (Matt and I are going to Hanoi! Yay!) On the whole, things are pretty uncertain for me at this point in time. But I promise, one last post on Feb 28. And it will be a good one.
Anyhoo, thank you for reading. You have been wonderful encouragement. I don't think I could have managed over a hundred posts, if not for your comments and support.
It is you, who made me fly.
Pencil chewed at 2:14:00 pm //
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Irony in the face
Strange, I wanted to leave this agency so much, yet when I am on my way out, I feel so much affection for it.
Affection.
Trust me, it's irony at its purest.
When I left my last job, I would wonder about the person occupying my cube.
"Does she have little post-its all over the monitor like I do?"
"Did she scrub off my pencil etchings from the side of the table?"
"Did they trade sweet-natured ol' me for a b*tch?"
Guess I'm one of those sentimental old fools who cling to love lost and love past. But you gotta admit that in retrospect, many things seem romantic. Work is no different.
So here I am again. Reminiscing about a future that has not dawned.
In 8 days, this cube will no longer be my solace.
In 8 days, this keyboard will dance to another writer's tapping.
In 8 days, another writer will be under the dewy gaze of my favourite client, Mr Hoe. *sniff*
In 8 days, Tomas will find a new person to irritate. Or have a crush on.
In 8 days I will be out of here. Together with Spanner, my chewed-up blue mechanical pencil which I've used since Uni days, we'll take on a whole new world.
P.S. And in 8 days, I will not have PC to blog on. *waaaahh!!*
Pencil chewed at 1:46:00 pm //
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It ain't over till the cock crows
If there is one thing I do not like about Chinese New Year is the spring cleaning. Ever since I could tell what a mop is, I have hated household chores with a vengeance. But Mom thought otherwise. It was character building. And, at the back of her mind, her way of equipping me for a blissful domestic life of crisp, soap smelling laundry and glossy floors that you can safely eat from.
But she failed.
I still find no joy in cleaning the flowery metal window grills, drowning those thick furry black dust bunnies that cling to our ceiling fan blades, cleaning the undersides of table legs or scraping goo off our drains. Blech.
Probably the only fun I had was from that cane furniture set which came with foam cushions and removable cushion covers. (Oh! You know the type that was all the rage in the late 70s, early 80s) You take them cushions out to the sun and whack the life out of them with this big fandangled cane torture instrument, which looked like something Justice Pau would hold to mete punishment. I'm not sure whether I got rid of the dust, but at least, all that anger was put to good use.
In my younger days, I was foolhardy enough to try to squirm out of these chores. Let's just say that proverb about a woman scorned is coined because of Mom. Ever since, I've returned every weekend before CNY to do penance.
I suspect that mom knows she has not succeeded in turning me into Martha Steward. But being the optimist that she is, she probably thinks that this year could be it. That I'll see the light. And begin to love the way detergent always leaks into your rubber gloves and turn them all squishy and soggy. How delightful!
And so, I will return tomorrow to my mother's home. Don those gloves and pray that it better be a big angpow this year.
They don't give money for nothing.
And oh yeah, Gong Xi Fa Cai, everyone.
May the cock crow ever so loudly for you this year.
Pencil chewed at 11:01:00 am //
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Undoubtedly Tomas
"Serious? You put in your letter?" Tomas asked over lunch.
I nodded.
He slowly clasped his palms together, looked up and said, "Hallelujah. Finally thou getteth riddeth of this thorn in mine flesh."
"Not so fast. I'll be here till end Feb."
"Damn." He pushed his plate of mamak mee goreng away and lit his Marlboro. "Anyway, I give you 3 weeks."
"3 weeks for?"
"For you to come crawling back here and beg Billy for your old job."
"And why would I do that?"
"Because you will finally realise how utterly meaningless your life is without me."
I roll my eyes.
"Please, woman, have some dignity. Don't throw yourself at me like that."
I bop him on the head. "It's 12.38pm. Wake up!"
"So, where are you going?"
"No where."
"Serious?"
"Taking a break."
"What are you going to live on?"
"I do have savings."
"And a rich boyfriend."
I kicked him.
"For your information, I'm no parasite. And he's not rich ... enough."
"Maybe I should look for some rich aunty." He then clasps his hands again, gazed heavenward. "Then I mayest quitteth this shitty, oops - sorry - not very nice job ... er ... vocation."
"Please-lah, go look in a pail of water."
Still with hands clasped, "This face thou maketh. It's not thine best work, so, may thou provideth rich ... blind ... aunty."
So, if you know any rich blind aunty, please answer Tomas' prayer.
Pencil chewed at 6:15:00 pm //
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The end of an affair
I did it.
I quit.
Surprised?
Big Billy was too.
"Why? What's wrong?" he asked.
"You!" I shrieked, "You freaking big bully who won't recognise my work just because I don't bring home metal!"
*sigh* I wished I said. How swell if I could have laid it all down - my frustrations, my view on how things are at Creative. But I couldn't bring myself to it. A part of me didn't think he would care nor would he believe me. So I didn't try. Perhaps I should have. But let's not go there today. It'll spoil my high.
"Where are you going?"
"I'll be taking a break for a while."
"Cool." He took the long thin white envelope, opened his drawer and threw it in.
That was my cue to walk out of his room. And that was my happiest exit in a long while. I felt powerful in a cliche sort of way - that I finally took things into my own hands, said enough is enough, charted the course of my life. The usual empowerment bull. But hey, it felt good.
From here, the view seems blur yet bright. Even though I don't have another cushy job at the end of my tenure, I'm hyperventilating at the thought of possibilities. Options. The freedom.
I can be and do anything I want. Wow.
What will I do?
Aaahh... here's the plan or at least until the money runs out. Bah.
Top on my list is to travel. The wanderlust is stirring and I must succumb to it. I hope to visit some friends overseas, write some travel articles along the way. (And maybe, just maybe, Matt & I can finally take our long postponed Redang trip.)
I want to put my hands to good use. Yeah, I've been told that I'm good at hand jobs. Hee! Sculpt, sew, paint or Shiatsu massage. Things like that.
Then, I want to learn how to bake. Serious. Bake. I don't know why but it's just one of those things that has always haunted me. Like some strange calling. Maybe I'll be the next Amos, and hopefully, as famous.
Just maybe, for some loose change I'll take a part-time job - like being a moronic McDonald's order taker. "Would you like fries with that?" See, I already got the script down pat.
And between orders, I'll ponder whether to continue my pursuit of gold pencils.
Pencil chewed at 7:51:00 pm //
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Soap opera
The turkey has been carved down to its bone, the gravy gone. Dinner safely in our tummies. Whatever said, Mom is a grand cook. She makes a mean Christmas meal, which makes coming home worth it all.
Washing the dishes has always been my chore, while my younger brother does the drying. But since he married, he has relegated the task to my sister in law, Debbie. We were in the kitchen. I left Matt out there to swim with the sharks.
Debbie is a sweet thing. An angel. My not so lil' brother, well, let's just call him Quasimodo, was her first boyfriend. They met at Form 4 and have been together since. They went for tuition classes together. She helped him learn his alphabets and times table (yes, he was a wee slow) and now she's preggie with Quasi Jr. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would never have thought such a sickeningly saccharin love story could happen. Eww...
My parents love Deb. In fact, she is more like the daughter they always wanted. Demure, well-bred, well-groomed. And given the fact that she adored Quasi, she endeared herself all the more to them.
Don't get me wrong, I love Deb too. When they coined the term "your better half", Deb was the inspiration.
"So, how did you two meet?" she asked, her cheeks rosy from trimester glow.
"Oh, a mutual friend. I was conned into it."
"He seem really nice."
"Don't be fooled. This is just his mild-mannered alter-ego. You should watch him when he plays Street Fighter II."
"I'm so happy for you."
"Why? Did I strike 4-D or something?" I raise my brows to her. She whacks me with the drying cloth.
"He is quite different ... "
"True, true." I laugh.
Just then Mom walks in with more dishes. She dumps them into the sink, mixing up my "soaped" and "unsoaped" dishes. I try hard to keep my eye balls from rolling.
I steal a glance at Mom. She has her arms folded and has taken the position next to the fridge. Throughout my developing years, she always stood there, arms folded - while I was trapped by soap suds - telling me "some thing very important".
"He's ... rather ... nice." She enunciates like Eliza Doolittle.
I keep quiet.
"Quite ... different."
The same 2 words, now coming from Mom's mouth irritated me.
"Oh no!" I gasp in horror. "You saw his 12 toes! Noooo!!!"
Deb laughs. Mom ignores me. She never hears my best lines.
"He's helping Dad set up the new DVD player Uncle Chua gave."
"Oh, he's good with tech stuff. Comes with the toe thing, you know?" I say, nonchalant, suppressing a smile. I felt a wee puffy, like a strutting parent pointing out their kid performing on stage 'Atta boy!'
"Nice ... you shouldn't keep him hanging."
"Hanging?"
"As usual."
"As usual?"
"Commitment phobia ..."
"I what?"
"Ah Girl, it's the right thing."
"Mom..."
"Don't wait too long."
"Mom..."
"Okay. I'll stop nagging."
She walks out of the kitchen. Then, sticks her head in again.
"New Year's Eve dinner. Make sure he comes."
Atta boy!
Pencil chewed at 7:47:00 pm //
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