July the First

I'm a lazy blogger today. In honour of the times when Singapore was a land of freedom for the smokers.

I forgot what excel meant.

Upset and depressed. I need a hug. "Jack of all trades, master of none."...must be why nothing goes my way. Absolutely nothing. It slips, it falls away, it just never comes into my arms. I use to pass my god-damn exams, no matter how hard I try now, I never get to pass. I don't know what to do anymore. Would ambitions be any use? Would hope be any use? I guess not.

so close to home

Adapted from Waiter Rant

It’s Friday night. The dinner rush is starting and the Bistro’s half full. I’m up front training Holly, our new hostess. She’s a pretty twenty year old redhead.

"You were born in 1986, right?" I ask.

"Yes," Holly replies, "Why do you ask?"

I take a deep breath. They’re getting younger, I’m getting older - what can I do about it? I’ve got to stop thinking about age. I’m only driving myself insane. Worse, I’m getting repetitive and boring. I hope it’s just a phase I’m going through.

"Forget it," I say.

"So what happened to the last hostess?" Holly asks.

"That," I reply, "Is a very good question."

"Well," Holly says, "What’s the answer?"

"She quit."

"How long did she work here?" Holly asks.

"One week," I reply.

"One week?"

"One week."

"What happened?" Holly asks.

"I don’t know," I say. "She showed up for work, had lunch, text messaged Fluvio that this job wasn’t for her, and then walked out the door."

"She text messaged her resignation letter?" Holly asks incredulously.

"Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a resignation letter."

"I’ve never heard of anyone quitting by text message," Holly says.

"Neither have I."

The door chimes. A middle aged couple walks inside. They look grim.

"Hello and welcome to The Bistro," Holly chirps.

"Two," the woman says, holding up two fingers. "We have a reservation."

"Your name?" Holly asks.

"Brown."

Holly looks at the seating chart. All the seating’s been prearranged. The couple’s table is on the aisle.

"Follow me please," Holly says, "I’ll show you to your table."

Holly walks down the aisle holding two menus. The couple doesn’t follow her. Instead the woman stays rooted in place and points to the empty four top by the window.

"Is that table free?" the woman asks. In her self centered cosmology she probably thinks the "reserved" sign on the table means it’s reserved for her.

"I’m sorry madam," I reply, "It’s reserved."

"Why can’t we sit there?" she asks coldly.

"I’m sorry Madam," I reply. "We need that table for four people."

"So you’re going to give me the worst table in the house?" the woman asks. "Is that what you’re telling me?" A look of consternation struggles to emerge on her taut Botoxed face.

"I have no other tables open madam," I say, "Perhaps if you’d like to come back in an hour?"

"I’m not sitting there," the woman says turning to her husband. "I’m just not."

The husband and wife argue. It’s no good. The man leaves. I feel bad for him. He just wants to eat. His wife turns her glare on me.

"This is HIDEOUS" the woman screeches, "Absolutely hideous!"

What’s really hideous is the plastic surgeon didn’t botox this woman’s tongue.

"Sorry Madam," I say, smiling my fake waiter smile, "I can’t change your seat."

"Hideous!" the woman hisses, storming out the door, "Hideous!"

After the door shuts Holly gasps, "Oh my God! I can’t believe that woman!"

"Believe it," I chuckle, "People like her are why the last hostess quit."

"Does stuff like this happen a lot?" Holly asks.

"All the time."

Holly turns red. She’s looks angry.

"My sister just got back from Iraq," Holly says. "She could tell that woman a thing or two about what’s hideous."

"Your sister’s in the service?" I ask.

"She’s a Marine," Holly answers. "She’s stationed in California now. She spent almost a year there."

"Oh my God," I say, "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two."

"Your parents must’ve been worried sick."

"My Mom was glued to the TV the whole year," Holly says. "She freaked every time she heard a soldier was killed."

"I can’t imagine," I reply, wondering how it feels to have a child fighting in a war.

"My sister told me she was under fire a few times," Holly says. "She said it was intense."

"Jesus," I mutter.

"So if that woman wants to get that upset over a table," Holly says, "She can blow it out her ass."

There’s nothing to say so I say nothing. I stand off to the side and think.

The soldiers are getting younger, I’m getting older. What’s it like for a twenty-two year old woman to experience war? How would I deal with it at thirty-eight? Who knows? I don’t want to find out. But after experiencing war I think one thing is certain.

Sitting anywhere in a restaurant would be an unbelievable luxury.

--

Flipping the Economist and reading about governments employing soldiers to trouble areas like Afghanistan, Iraq, Timor-Leste or even HIPCs, it always seemed so mechanical. Everytime the UN missionaries try and fail, people blame their inefficiency, still mechanical. As I was reading that article, I realised how much closer to home it can get, how frighteningly scary it will be. Everytime we see that a country is in turmoil, would any Singaporean stand up and say, I want to volunteer. Why is it the perrogative of the other nations? Why the perrogative of only youths of other nations. Even UN makeup consists of the 1st world countries already straning their armies across the globe. It's alot more threatening to see how ignorant and adamant everyone is, how we see issues, that are so drastic and a horrifying experience if put unto us, as impossible.

Can we ever wake up?

Jeez, even I don't believe in what I'm saying.

driving me in.

She stood still. Very still. Her green frock flippered in the wind, the auburn curls framing her face stroking her cheeks as the wind carassed her every inch; sweeping the vast perimeter, rustling every grain. Her breathing was low, gentle and regular, her pace moving along to the rhythm the wheat was swaying. Nature and Betsie was one. She readjusted her eyes under closed lids, registering pink and white. Sunlight. Smell of dried mud and dried grass filled up her nostrils.

Betsie refuses to open her eyes, refusing to break this bond, refusing to return. She knows that the moment her eyelids reveal the world, she'd see that cottage far away, that tractor moving along the road, seating her father with his pipe hanging from his moustached lips. No. She do not want that image floating into her mind, she's refusing to think. Fighting to regain peace, to reunite with her surroundings, she breathed even slower and listened harder. Beads of sweat trickeld down her temples, her eyebrows knitting into a frown as she grunted, desperately clawing for deviation from reality.

Young Betsie hated reality. Every day as she grew, responsibilities piled upon her. One day she had to fetch Daddy matchsticks, another day water. Some other day she had to spring clean with Mummy, occasionally running far errands. It was not the task that she detest, it was the expectation of doing it well, way beyond the limit given, and faring better than she was capable of. All she wanted to do was to play with the fellow children, to run around amock in the vast greenery, chasing cows and running after crows. She wants to swim in the quarry and go to the market and ogle at civilisation. She's only seven, she do not need to do anything. This is nice, standing here, being carefree. This is nice.

Her mind soared into her wonderland, a smile spreading through her lips. As the sun beat down on her auburn locks and the tractor growled along. Betsie stood there, silent with nature, enjoying a break. She needed that.

Life's idiosyncracies drove her in.