A Post! A Post! Oh, Rejoice!
Pumpkin Flower has been bugging me to post something, and frankly I've been too lazy to so I decided to not give a damn about her whining and turn a deaf ear to her pleas, but then I just visited her blog and saw that she has posted like... 10 times in 2 weeks?
If Miss I'm-An-Ultra-Busy-Glam-Editor-Zooming-Around- Town-Indulging-In-Mooncake-Feasts can post that many times... well, suffice to say I felt ashamed. Just a little.
But first, a quick recap of my past month or two (or, as Kev would say, REWIND!).
The last time I blogged, I was tripping around Shenton Way in 3-inch heels trying my hand at banking sales. To make a short story even shorter, I hated it. I hate anything to do with banking and finance. I hate sales. Contrary to popular belief, I don't make a good salesperson despite my uber-awe-inspiring command of English. I don't gain the same sort of satisfaction from closing a sale as other people would (other people i.e. ex-colleague C, who, in his 'lean mean calling machine' mode, can easily close more than 300 sales a day). I don't like to interact with people I don't know, and I'd much rather be tucked away in a little corner of the office alone. Swamp me with paperwork all you want dudes, just don't make me talk to strangers!
I guess in a way, it's because I talk nonstop the rest of the time so I refuse to do it during work. I'm verbose enough under ordinary circumstances, I do not need - or want - to exercise my overly articulate tongue otherwise.
So I went, I saw, and I left. Case closed. Banking/sales? Never again.
Then again, after that I started teaching English Literature and GP to a few private O' and A' Level classes, so... there goes me overusing my exceedingly active tongue again.
The first time I walked into my first class of hyperactive 16-year-olds and introduced myself, one of the boys asked, "Cher, how old are you?" (Note the 'Cher'. Not 'Teacher' wor... it's CHER).
I told them I'm 25.
"Cher, you're teaching when you're still so young? Wow..." Cue gasps of admiration and disbelief from the kids. I felt utterly vindicated and decided this was going to be my favourite class from now on.
A few classes later, when the kids got more familiar with me and decided to be bolder, they asked, "Cher, do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, I do," I smiled sweetly at them.
"Wah Cher! Tell us how you met! Are you getting married?" Cue gasps of excitement again.
"My boyfriend is Shakespeare. Quit with the questions, and take out A Midsummer Night's Dream now," I ordered. "Where are your essays? Hand them in to me."
Groans from my kids. But they still obediently took out their books and handed in their hastily-scribbled essays to me. That's the thing about Singapore. All the kids are conditioned to follow orders.
____________________________________________________
Besides the boring job shit, I went for Pumpkin Flower's older brother's wedding 2 weeks ago.
I've known her brother and the rest of her family almost as long as I've known her, so it was almost like watching a member of my own family get married. As the bride and groom strolled down the aisle of the Grand Copthorne ballroom, amidst a blanket of dry ice and sword-bearing Navy officers forming an arch above the happy couple with their ceremonial swords, a question nagged at me: What about me?
I realise this makes me sound a little selfish, not to mention desperate, but let me clear things up a little. First of all, I love weddings. I enjoy these joyous occasions and am genuinely happy for all the friends of mine who have found their partners and join together in happy matrimony. But there is always a little bit of melancholy tinged with my joy as I reflect on my previous relationships.
First relationship, 2.5 years, an amicable breakup, and now we're very good friends but our lives are no longer parallel; we have veered off on our own courses.
Second relationship, lasted 7 years, hurt the shit out of me, caused some pretty long-term psychological damage, still causing me occasional irritation, and a lot of regret over the wrong choices I'd made with regards to him.
No more relationships after that, a few dates that petered off, and now a 10-month-long crush on ex-colleague DB that so far has borne several seedless grapes instead of a glorious, sweet, plump immortal peach.
I am 25 going on 26, and every month that passes I feel a follicle in my ovary erupt and my finite supply of eggs dwindle. Sorry to put it in such graphic terms, but this is exactly what's happening! Like I told Pumpkin, "Men can sow their wild oats till they're frigging 70. Women have until 35 to give birth."
Chew on that! We have half the time allotted to men to reproduce and pass our genes on and give our innate mothering natures free rein! The unfairness of it all galls me. Men always have it best.
__________________________________________________
Talking about DB and my innate mothering instincts, I start getting the feeling that I'm being treated as some sort of 'nai ma' or nanny. And not just by DB too, by another ex-colleague J as well. Perhaps some deep caveman instinct in these men, descended from millennia of ancestors who hunted and grunted and tore into raw meat while their women stayed in their caves breastfeeding, can sense the maternal part of me and thus are drawn to it?
Seriously, I have no idea. But I admit that I'm maternal. I love kids and animals and all manner of small furry things. I coo over them and look after them. And somehow, in the process, I have become a rallying emblem for men whose mothers left them when they were young (namely the ex and DB).
Case in point: DB sprained his ankle on Sunday playing football and he went to the Chinese sinseh today to get it looked at. Guess who he asked along? Me, of course.
Frankly, when we were at the sinseh and he pulled off his shoe, his sock and then his ankle guard, I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I could not even imagine how he could have walked for 3 days on that foot. It was swollen to the size of his calf, I kid you not. The bruising was so bad, there were thick, deep purple streaks running across his ankle. His toes were almost black from bruising. I was flabbergasted.
"DB! How could you walk around on that ankle? Why didn't you tell me it was so bad? Why have you been walking on it?!" I hissed at him.
"It's ok, it feels better now than on Sunday, I've been icing it," he whispered back.
I wanted to hit him for not taking better care of himself.
So I sat near the sinseh's table while he went to lie on the bed at the other end. (May I also mention that I took his watch from him and tucked it into my bag for safekeeping. I also unbuttoned his wrist cuff for him because the sinseh said he would need to put a needle into his arm later. Jesus, I just pushed the feminist movement back about 40 years.)
As the sinseh folded his trouser leg up, DB turned to look at where I was sitting and said suddenly, "Come and stay near me please, I'm afraid it's going to hurt."
Now before I go on, let me elaborate a little. DB is a very egoistic man. In fact, he has one of the most explosively enormous egos I've ever seen on a man. He will grit his teeth through every pain, brush away any hurt, strike back at any slight, and put on a strong, can't-care-less facade in front of everyone. For him to say something like that shocked me almost as much as the sight of his horrible ankle did.
Well, what could I do? I trotted over to him and stood next to his bed, at his head, while the sinseh busied himself sticking needles into various regions of DB's ankle, and finally the last one on his arm. Occasionally DB would look up at me as if seeking reassurance, and grin at me. Once or twice he winced, and man... did that hurt. I meant it hurt me, not him.
Plus, he's going for a minor operation on Friday, and again he asked me to go with him because he's "nervous". So while he's in the operating room for one hour, I will have to wait for him, and then while he's sleeping off the anaesthetic for the next one or two hours, I will be sitting next to his bed waiting for him to wake up. And then I have to make sure he has some food and gets safely home.
Sometimes I wonder to myself why I do all this for him. But then again, I'm rather certain he wonders to himself why he lets his guard down and allows himself to be vulnerable around me.
It must be my inner 'nai ma' he senses. Jesus!
If Miss I'm-An-Ultra-Busy-Glam-Editor-Zooming-Around- Town-Indulging-In-Mooncake-Feasts can post that many times... well, suffice to say I felt ashamed. Just a little.
But first, a quick recap of my past month or two (or, as Kev would say, REWIND!).
The last time I blogged, I was tripping around Shenton Way in 3-inch heels trying my hand at banking sales. To make a short story even shorter, I hated it. I hate anything to do with banking and finance. I hate sales. Contrary to popular belief, I don't make a good salesperson despite my uber-awe-inspiring command of English. I don't gain the same sort of satisfaction from closing a sale as other people would (other people i.e. ex-colleague C, who, in his 'lean mean calling machine' mode, can easily close more than 300 sales a day). I don't like to interact with people I don't know, and I'd much rather be tucked away in a little corner of the office alone. Swamp me with paperwork all you want dudes, just don't make me talk to strangers!
I guess in a way, it's because I talk nonstop the rest of the time so I refuse to do it during work. I'm verbose enough under ordinary circumstances, I do not need - or want - to exercise my overly articulate tongue otherwise.
So I went, I saw, and I left. Case closed. Banking/sales? Never again.
Then again, after that I started teaching English Literature and GP to a few private O' and A' Level classes, so... there goes me overusing my exceedingly active tongue again.
The first time I walked into my first class of hyperactive 16-year-olds and introduced myself, one of the boys asked, "Cher, how old are you?" (Note the 'Cher'. Not 'Teacher' wor... it's CHER).
I told them I'm 25.
"Cher, you're teaching when you're still so young? Wow..." Cue gasps of admiration and disbelief from the kids. I felt utterly vindicated and decided this was going to be my favourite class from now on.
A few classes later, when the kids got more familiar with me and decided to be bolder, they asked, "Cher, do you have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, I do," I smiled sweetly at them.
"Wah Cher! Tell us how you met! Are you getting married?" Cue gasps of excitement again.
"My boyfriend is Shakespeare. Quit with the questions, and take out A Midsummer Night's Dream now," I ordered. "Where are your essays? Hand them in to me."
Groans from my kids. But they still obediently took out their books and handed in their hastily-scribbled essays to me. That's the thing about Singapore. All the kids are conditioned to follow orders.
____________________________________________________
Besides the boring job shit, I went for Pumpkin Flower's older brother's wedding 2 weeks ago.
I've known her brother and the rest of her family almost as long as I've known her, so it was almost like watching a member of my own family get married. As the bride and groom strolled down the aisle of the Grand Copthorne ballroom, amidst a blanket of dry ice and sword-bearing Navy officers forming an arch above the happy couple with their ceremonial swords, a question nagged at me: What about me?
I realise this makes me sound a little selfish, not to mention desperate, but let me clear things up a little. First of all, I love weddings. I enjoy these joyous occasions and am genuinely happy for all the friends of mine who have found their partners and join together in happy matrimony. But there is always a little bit of melancholy tinged with my joy as I reflect on my previous relationships.
First relationship, 2.5 years, an amicable breakup, and now we're very good friends but our lives are no longer parallel; we have veered off on our own courses.
Second relationship, lasted 7 years, hurt the shit out of me, caused some pretty long-term psychological damage, still causing me occasional irritation, and a lot of regret over the wrong choices I'd made with regards to him.
No more relationships after that, a few dates that petered off, and now a 10-month-long crush on ex-colleague DB that so far has borne several seedless grapes instead of a glorious, sweet, plump immortal peach.
I am 25 going on 26, and every month that passes I feel a follicle in my ovary erupt and my finite supply of eggs dwindle. Sorry to put it in such graphic terms, but this is exactly what's happening! Like I told Pumpkin, "Men can sow their wild oats till they're frigging 70. Women have until 35 to give birth."
Chew on that! We have half the time allotted to men to reproduce and pass our genes on and give our innate mothering natures free rein! The unfairness of it all galls me. Men always have it best.
__________________________________________________
Talking about DB and my innate mothering instincts, I start getting the feeling that I'm being treated as some sort of 'nai ma' or nanny. And not just by DB too, by another ex-colleague J as well. Perhaps some deep caveman instinct in these men, descended from millennia of ancestors who hunted and grunted and tore into raw meat while their women stayed in their caves breastfeeding, can sense the maternal part of me and thus are drawn to it?
Seriously, I have no idea. But I admit that I'm maternal. I love kids and animals and all manner of small furry things. I coo over them and look after them. And somehow, in the process, I have become a rallying emblem for men whose mothers left them when they were young (namely the ex and DB).
Case in point: DB sprained his ankle on Sunday playing football and he went to the Chinese sinseh today to get it looked at. Guess who he asked along? Me, of course.
Frankly, when we were at the sinseh and he pulled off his shoe, his sock and then his ankle guard, I was horrified. Utterly, completely horrified. I could not even imagine how he could have walked for 3 days on that foot. It was swollen to the size of his calf, I kid you not. The bruising was so bad, there were thick, deep purple streaks running across his ankle. His toes were almost black from bruising. I was flabbergasted.
"DB! How could you walk around on that ankle? Why didn't you tell me it was so bad? Why have you been walking on it?!" I hissed at him.
"It's ok, it feels better now than on Sunday, I've been icing it," he whispered back.
I wanted to hit him for not taking better care of himself.
So I sat near the sinseh's table while he went to lie on the bed at the other end. (May I also mention that I took his watch from him and tucked it into my bag for safekeeping. I also unbuttoned his wrist cuff for him because the sinseh said he would need to put a needle into his arm later. Jesus, I just pushed the feminist movement back about 40 years.)
As the sinseh folded his trouser leg up, DB turned to look at where I was sitting and said suddenly, "Come and stay near me please, I'm afraid it's going to hurt."
Now before I go on, let me elaborate a little. DB is a very egoistic man. In fact, he has one of the most explosively enormous egos I've ever seen on a man. He will grit his teeth through every pain, brush away any hurt, strike back at any slight, and put on a strong, can't-care-less facade in front of everyone. For him to say something like that shocked me almost as much as the sight of his horrible ankle did.
Well, what could I do? I trotted over to him and stood next to his bed, at his head, while the sinseh busied himself sticking needles into various regions of DB's ankle, and finally the last one on his arm. Occasionally DB would look up at me as if seeking reassurance, and grin at me. Once or twice he winced, and man... did that hurt. I meant it hurt me, not him.
Plus, he's going for a minor operation on Friday, and again he asked me to go with him because he's "nervous". So while he's in the operating room for one hour, I will have to wait for him, and then while he's sleeping off the anaesthetic for the next one or two hours, I will be sitting next to his bed waiting for him to wake up. And then I have to make sure he has some food and gets safely home.
Sometimes I wonder to myself why I do all this for him. But then again, I'm rather certain he wonders to himself why he lets his guard down and allows himself to be vulnerable around me.
It must be my inner 'nai ma' he senses. Jesus!
posted by Sheena @ 11:43 PM
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