The meet-up

I am not sure who was the one with the itchy fingers (or was it idle minds? or both?) that started this whole meet-up thing.  With social media, the world has shrunk to a click. Click “Yes” to a friend request and you get to see A Day In A Life version of someone whom you have not heard from since you left school/ broke up/ remove your braces/ whatever.

Today, I had coffee with the ex-boyfriend and the woman he had cheated on me left me to marry.  

I won’t have agreed to meet, had it not been for this intense curiosity on my part to see what she looks like. What was it that she had that I hadn’t? In a twisted kind of way, I needed to see that one flaw in her; that one glaringly obvious shortfall that would correct this perception of perfection which has so plagued my insecurity for the last 35 years.

From the phone chats that preceded this meet-up, I was certain that the ex-boyfriend harbored same for my husband. He wanted to see what was it that my husband had that he hadn’t. And I knew that in the same twisted kind of way, he was trying to provoke me into giving him the pleasure of knowing that one flaw that my husband had; that glaringly obvious shortfall that will have the ex-boyfriend looking all dandy.

So at the last minute, I  decided to leave my husband at home because I knew it would be unfair on him. I do not want him to be collateral damage in a pissing match that could erupt between me and the ex-boyfriend (I am super competitive, don’t judge).

Since I have now seen what I have gone to see and he has not seen what he had come to see, I am all smug. Because for me, having that unfair mental edge is everything. LOL

 

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The 50-something menopausal busybody aunty person

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I am writing this from a wobbly sun lounger made of colourful plastic stripes.

I swear that by the time I’m done with this post, my legs would feel all tingly and antsy. A quick fix will require a cautious stretch and a meticulous flip. When I finally get out of this chair, the back of my head will be flattened, with my hair squashed upwards and outwards. Indentions of thin stripes will firmly imprint my back from neck down. Not unlike a chargrilled steak.

The Husband, on the other hand, is down with leviathanitis — a non-life-threatening condition that plagues some males when they have to take an extended weekend from their workaholic lives to holiday at a place where spotty wifi signal would deny them the extensive use of their smartphone.  In the Husband’s case, he has morphed into a beached leviathan — a sperm whale, if you must know – with eyes glued to some boring movie on free tv.

Alas! there is a bigger reason why the Husband is more keen on watching tv than talking to me. He reckons I have turned into a “50-something menopausal busybody aunty person.”  

As you see, I have got myself in abit of a pickle this weekend.  I have become an unwitting confidant in someone’s affair. Ouch!

What would you do if someone whom you thought you knew so well, tells you that he is in love with another man, and that his parents have found out a few days ago and have threatened to disown him?

Between awkward pauses and hand-wringing, he is begging you to please, please talk to his mum and dad because I am his best friend and that we have known each other for so long, and that his parents think very highly of me.

arrggghhhhhhhhhh!

I hate to get involved in other people’s personal problems; simply because most times, despite all my good intentions, I always fall flat on my face and come across as being emotionally aloof, impatient, socially inapt, and at worst, pretentious and totally unsympathetic.

arrggghhhhhhhhhh!

Why on earth did I assure him that I will try my best when I have no intention to do so, preferring to let the whole thing play itself out and run its course? Have I gone all soft and nice? Or as the Husband has sarcastically phrased it — why am I starting to sound like some “50-something menopausal busybody aunty person”? 

arrggghhhhhhhhhh!

Flash fiction: The second best

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as i sat by the window
and watched the day unfold,
a quiet voice asked
   if he would always be second best.

hugging myself tightly around the knees,
i continued staring at the changing light.
not wanting to acknowledge the question.
nor eager to weigh an answer.

why do you ask? i sighed,

     finally.

          not particularly ready for the truth

your eyes are dead.
your heart is cold, said he

i daren’t face the voice behind
i daren’t see the hurt in his eyes

hugging myself tightly around the knees,
i continued staring at the layered hues.
not wanting to acknowledge the answers.
nor eager to face the truth.

Remembering Grandma on her 100th birthday

My mum reminded me to request Holy Mass for the soul of Gua Mah, my late maternal grandmother.  Gua Mah would have been 100 years old in a three weeks’ time.  For me, time usually freezes the moment a person dies, but my mum remembers every birthday and death anniversary of our loved ones like clockwork. 

My fondest memories of Gua Mah are of her and her friends squatting around a makeshift long charcoal stove, making kuih kapit – a popular traditional wafer snack – for the Chinese Lunar New Year.

 

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Kuih kapit

The ladies would get me to turn the iron waffle molds constantly up and down the length of the charcoal stove. The stove was a long metal grill placed on top of several rectangular old tins containing burnt embers.  After every second flip of the mold, they would expertly lift the cooked wafer out,  fold it into quarters and smear another thin sheet of egg batter onto the decorative mold for the next round.

When they were not making nyonya desserts or prepping those laborious nyonya recipes, Gua Mah and her friends would sit at the sunny back verandah of our house, embroidering handkerchiefs. My task was to pull out their gray hairs – especially the really itchy thick short ones, for which I was paid 2 cents per gray hair pulled.

There, I eavesdropped as they gossiped incessantly.  Often, they forgot that I was standing behind plucking gray hairs, until I interrupted their juicy stories with a laugh or a comment; and in which case, one of them would turned and warned me not to be a “kepoh” – a busybody

Gua-Mah was ahead of her time. While most girls growing up in pre-independent Malaysia in 1920s were kept at home and groomed to be the perfect housewife,  Gua Mah was enrolled by her father, a herbalist migrant from China, at a Catholic girls school where she spent most of her early years learning to read and write in English, arithmetic and needlework.

Hence, it was hilarious when in the later years, guys trying to chat me up were intimidated when Gua Mah answered the phone in perfect English and corrected their grammar as they dictated their messages to her for me.

Gua Mah loved singing Latin hymns and was an active member of the Church choir until 1965 when Catholic Masses moved from Latin to vernacular language.

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Church choir in 1960. Gua Mah is standing 3rd from left.

Her favourite hymn was Ave Maria and it was one of the first songs I learnt to sing, albeit imperfectly, as a child.  Being her eldest grandchild, she would nag, cajole and bribe me to sing that song in front of her friends.  

It would always begin softly. Slowly. Before their eyes misted over:

Ave Maria, gratia plena.
Maria, gratia plena
Maria, gratia plena
Ave, ave dominus,
Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus,
Et benedictus
Et benedictus fructus ventris,
Ventris tui, Jesus
.

Ave Maria.

As I ate the kuih kapit over tea today, I hear this song from a distant past in my head. It would always begin softly. Slowly. Before my eyes misted over.

 

The morning walk

I woke up early today to go for a walk. Rather unusual as Saturdays would normally find me in bed until almost noon; either recuperating from a hectic work week or a late night out, or both.

My cat Hugo studied me as I put on my walking shoes.  He ran from behind me and leapt onto the garden post, watching me go past like a sentinel.  I was afraid he would follow me because there have been reports of stray dogs lurking in the area of late.  So I shooed him off.  The moment I turned and continued walking, I heard the bells at his collar tinkling behind me and eventually, in front of me.  He meowed around my legs as I stretched and warmed up my muscles. Finally, he got bored and walked away. 

It rained during the night. I negotiated my way gingerly among rotting leaves and rain-sodden moss. I tried to jog but the road felt slippery under my feet. So I walked. Briskly at first. Heart beating wildly. It’s been awhile since my last outing. 

I slowed down as I ventured down the footpath and enjoyed my surroundings. It was so peaceful; like being in another world.  The air smelt sweet – of grassy dew caulked in the fermented giddiness of overripe fruits, half-eaten by birds and squirrels. Some fruits lay squashed on the ground. Their rotting guts spilling out to feed the army of ants and buzzing fruit flies.

A walk through the woods was often an excuse for me to work through the many challenges in my day job. Of late, I found walking through the woods to be a good remedy for my writer’s block, too.  I have been working in fits and starts on my first draft for ages. And recently, I seemed to have hit a wall, leaving my storyline languishing in a void, suspended between despair and misery.  I felt self-doubt creeping in.

I followed the familiar sound of water gushing down a stream until I arrived at this clearing.  This is my favourite place on earth. My piece of Heaven.

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I closed my eyes and raised my arms to feel the warmth of sunshine filtering through the branches. A string of phrases and words rushed through my mind:

Have you ever felt so happy

… that it tingles like static racing through your skin?

.. that it allows a burst of joy to escape your lips?

… that it tastes so delicious, it sends a chill down your bones?

… that you hold your breath to register the moment?

Have you ever dared to feel so happy that it hurts real bad?

Perhaps this was what has been holding me back.  The inability to let myself go; to dig deep into my vulnerability and show it in my writing. To dare to feel so happy and naked and raw that it hurts.