Someday we shall laugh at the absurd-ness of this

The name calling. The vicious bitching behind each others' backs. The telling of tales, and harsh words about each other spoken. Angry outburts. Incredulous fury. Sputtering speeches and speechless silences.

I am not sure why our relationship disintegrated the way it did in the past month or so. I don't why he felt it necessary to call me names in the first place. I don't know why I felt I had to retaliate. I don't know why he had to attack innocent friends and bring them into something that was not their doing, instead of coming straight to me for an answer. I don't know why he'd rather curse me to my friends, rather than saying it to my face. I don't how a friendship that seemed so promising earlier has turned into angry dust. I don't know how we came to this.

Yesterday, I spluttered in fury at his actions, at his second-hand words. Yesterday, I renounced him and lost all remaining respect I had for the person that he could be. Yesterday, I hated him and thought nothing but ill of him. Yesterday, I raged.

Today, I prayed for the ability to forgive him for his doings, and me for my unjust thoughts. Today, I prayed for the patience and calmness needed to deal with his words, to deal with him. Today, I hoped for detachment, and pity for the person that he is. Today, I thought of the year ahead and the things I want to accomplish. Today, I told myself he could no longer be a part of my future, of my life. Today, I begin the process of detachment. Today, he is no longer visible to me. Today, he is but a fading, unwanted memory.

Someday, I shall laugh at the absurd-ness of this.

I lost a post that was important. I'm not having a great Christmas Day. I was mad. I'm still mad. Perhaps the words will come back. Perhaps it won't.

Why do I always feel it's wrong to be angry at someone?

The boys, lead by their moronic leader, Jason, have decided to gang up on me. So, for the past 5 days, I've been subjected to midget jokes, fat jokes, sexist jokes and all kinds of jokes that only they find amusing, while I sit or stand or stalk off, fuming. I can't stand them en masse. They are driving me insane. I'm climbing the walls to the roof where I hope to sneak next door and live there until the moronic leader has left.

This is precisely why I refuse to teach in a boys' school. I have been scarred by three of the most irritating, devious, insensitive, sexist males around. This is part of the reason I spend half my time male-bashing (as Superduperglorious Friend puts it) - they are utter idiots.

They decided they wanted spaghetti bolognese for dinner tonight. Guess who has to cook it for three of the biggest bottomless pits around, and without a word of please, or a thank you either.

Ungrateful louts.

3 days of constant walking (aka shopping) has damaged my feet. I'm certain of it. They hurt, so much that I had to cancel on Joyce on Saturday, when she rang me to see if I still wanted to join them for dinner and such.

I'm now in the depths of post-holiday depression. Or it could be full blown pique from waking up to an empty house and no note as to where my family had gone.

We're spending a long weekend in Kuala Lumpur, coming home for a couple of days after that long exhausting shopping trip with First Born Son (aka Jason the dolt) finally in the loving bosom of the family, to recuperate before driving up-state to see Grandfather for a few days. Posts will be sporadic till the New Year.

In case I don't get a chance, y'll have a great Christmas and New Year now.

"That'll do, Pig. That'll do."

The room which Jason normally occupies on his rare visits home has been turned into an impromptu storage room.

"Oi, have to go buy mattress. Jason no place to sleep afterwards," Mum said to Dad, after dinner.

"Aiyah. Cannot relak first kah?!" Dad complained.

"Come on lah. Late already. Everything close afterwards," Mum said, gesturing at him.

You know what the funny thing is? Jason is in Malaysia for only two weeks, and of those fourteen days, he will be sleeping in this house a maximum of five nights. There are seven bedrooms in this warehouse of a family home. Three are being occupied at the moment, two are storage rooms. That leaves us with two bedrooms Jason can plonk his things in and rest his stubborn head at night.

Mum has ignored this, and dragged Dad out to look for the perfect mattress for the First Born Son.

Oi, I'm the eldest lah, only daughter pulak! Where is my fatted calf?!

Jason is 22 going on 35. I'm 23 going on 18. We can't take each other anywhere.

It's very embarassing.

Oh, and the bride arrived at the church in an MG! It brought back memories of second year, of a MK 100 Introduction to Marketing Principles tutorial which Em, Al and I spent drooling over a 50th anniversary limited edition MG two page ad.

Oh, the bridesmaids (of which there were 4) wore light green, bias cut, cowl necked, shoe string straps dresses, with matching organza shawls. The bride's colours were white, and more white. I forget what the men were wearing - something black with neckties. The best man was the bride's brother who, in his speech, said, "It is my duty to embarass Charles with my speech", and proceeded to reveal to everyone that Charles collected soft toys. The best man, whom I have known for years in a vague manner, later said to me, "It is Olivia, isn't it?" This is maddening because his current girlfriend, whom I have met briefly on a handful of occasions, greeted me earlier, like a long lost friend.

Oh, and my invitation to the wedding arrived today. The Malaysian postal service is terribly efficient.

Did I mention that bottled tuak (local Iban rice wine) was served at the wedding? Full on, tuak in a bottle, served in champagne glasses!

When I was a child, tuak was always in an old dusty vinegar bottle or a recycled soft drink bottle. Whenever we went on ngabangs, or ritual visiting, at my dad's longhouse during the Gawai harvest festival, the host would pour the tuak into a water glass. Sometimes the glass was full, sometimes half full, sometimes a quarter inch - it all depended on how drunk the visitor was (and sometimes how drunk the host was). Then the host would give the glass to his or her visitor, and the visitor would scull it down. Oftentimes, the tuak was foul. But scull it, you had to, with a completely straight face.

On reflection, those ngabangs are a lot like pub crawls. The men, and some of the women (and one Gawai many years past, Denning) get awfully drunk after a ngabang.

So, it was a surprise when the bottle of what I assumed was white wine turned out to be tuak. It seemed ... pretentious to be drinking tuak out of champagne glasses, when you considered its earthy background. But the glasses were set on the table, so I drank fermented rice wine from champagne glasses, giggling madly on the inside. This tuak had a dessert wine sweetness, and being a fan of sweet wines, I liked it, of course.

But tuak in a wine bottle! But wait, it wasn't any old tuak, mind you. It was Premium tuak!

Amazing! What would they think of next?

Wonder if there are any bottles of tuak from the last batch Dad attempted to brew?

In the wee small hours

When one is up, awake as the day, in the middle of the night, one always tend to think depressing thoughts. It goes with the atmosphere, I suppose. Dark, quiet with only the crickets for company. There's none to distract you from the most unworthy of thoughts - that you're incomplete, that you're a failure, that you're stupid, that you'll never succeed in anything, that you're forever alone in a crowd.

when the sun is high in the afternoon sky
you can always find something to do
but from dusk till dawn, as the clock ticks on
something happens to you

The paper journal lies open, as you scribble away the contents of your heart. Trite words, full of angst and self-pity. You know you'll shy away from those words in the morning - they are too sentimental, embarassingly juvenile to be any use to you in any way. You'll cringe in memory in the morning. But still, you scratch away with your pen-of-the-moment.

in the wee small hours of the morning
while the whole wide world is fast asleep
you lie awake, and think about the boy
and never, ever think of counting sheep

Alison's wedding reception was full of distinguished guests (Datuk, Datin, Tan Sri, Puan Sri) - friends of her parents, relatives from both sides, folks from church - both from Melbourne and her church here, and his colleagues from work. There were only a handful of "school" friends - five of her ex-classmates from secondary school. Of the twenty five or so that went through five years of university with her, only one turned up - me. So I hardly knew any of the guests - I felt out of the loop, severely.

The food was good though. So was the live band.

But it drove home how university and the friends I made there, seem like a hundred years ago instead of it just barely a year ago. Next Thursday marks the first anniversary of our graduation. Of the twenty five of us that graduated, I have only kept in regular contact with one.

It saddened me. So, in the wee small hours, I think sad thoughts of the past. I think sad thoughts of a life of a hundred acquaintances and a few, far away, dear friends. I think sad thoughts of being unable to trust, ever again. I think sad thoughts of quiet loneliness in the years to come. I think sad thoughts of heart yearning for happiness, but unable to love, ever again.

My heart aches, from the sad thoughts. Perhaps it's time I cried again.

A girl I went to university with, is getting married today. I am blown away by her courage, and her readiness for a life-long commitment. I'm in awe of her decision, and wonder lightly if I will ever be ready for such a step.

"Choose your husband wisely," Mum said.

"HAH! I'm never going to get married." The very idea of it is terrifying.

Nevertheless, I'm going to pretty myself up this afternoon in celebration of her nuptials. I'm going to sit in a church and watch Alison marry her Charles, and tonight, I am going to toast to their happiness in their wedding reception. And by all the gods, I am going to enjoy myself.

I only wish, a little, that the third of our little trio (from uni, a hundred years ago) was able to make it too. Em and I had watched Charles court Al all through our final year - it would have been wonderful to have Em there tonight.

I want to quit with the carolling. The soprano section is driving me insane. They will not try and I will not carry the entire section! Tonight's practice was a complete waste of time.

The arguments for the Atkins approach to weight loss (high protein, low carbohydrates), and against the low-fat approach:

Puncturing the low-fat myth.
What if it's all been a big fat lie?

It's convincing me.

Superduperglorious Friend came around, bearing a yellow rose for me, and a small bag of local olives for my parents.

"How are you, darling?"

"I'm fine, sweetie. I know I was pretty upset on Monday night .. "

"Yeah, you were."

" ... but it was probably the time of the month. I'm feeling sensitive, touchy .. "

"Oh dearie, don't. Bitch all you want. That's what girlfriends are for. We'll all help you bitch about him because he's a jerk. Don't you go making excuses for him. Don't think you were in the wrong. He's an idiot and a big time jerk. He doesn't deserve you."

Aren't I lucky to have girlfriends like that? I love that woman.

A kingdom, a kingdom! My kingdom for a rich, moist chocolate cake, with rich chocolate icing! Actually, I'm none too fussy. Anything chocolate-y will do. Milo-lah, Vienese hot chocolate-lah with decadent whipped cream, brownies, Mars bars, chocolate bars, frothed milk with sprinkled chocolate, apa-apa saja pun boleh, selagi iya chocolate! I need to get through this awful menstrual phase.

Puhhhlease, chocolate for this chocolate-starved woman. Puhlease, have mercy on this poor chocolate-starved soul. Puhlease, I am on my knees. Please, dear gods, some chocolat for moi.

Look, an entire page of chocolate cake recipes.

This month's menstrual cycle, for reasons only known to the gods, is especially hard to bear. Physically, everything is normal as normal can be when your uterus self-destructs like it always does once a month. The cramps, I can fix with hot water compresses. It's my head that I can't fix.

I'm a huge hormonal, emotional wreck right now.

You males have no idea what we women go through every month. No. Idea.

The girls and I had supper after carolling practice. I was inclined to be bitchy, and really narky.

"I'm sorry, y'll."

"That's okay, Liv. You're entitled to your off days."

"It's just so urgh tonight. Must be that time of the month again. I feel horrible."

Practice was horrible, for me, tonight. Nothing came out right. My pitch was off, my timing was off, my notes were .. eugh, I couldn't get a satisfactory tone. It was just horrible. Every note that the sopranos sang grated on my nerves, every note that the tenors bellowed was a damn annoyance. The songs frustrated me no end. I had no patience with the rhythm, I hated every single song we had to sing. I couldn't hear myself. I was dissatisfied with the way I was singing. My throat clagged up, I was not breathing right. Everything was just plain sucky for some strange female reason.

My head aches with unshed tears of strange unsourced frustration. I long for the nerve to be dramatically violent in a public space. My hands are fidgety with nervous tension that is unfounded. The wall, the floor, everything but a person's eyes, is suddenly a source of such fascination. The world is abuzz with voices, when all I long for is thick blessed silence of nothingness.

"I saw so much potential in him. He had so much potential. He could have been great. He could have done so many things, be so many things. Then, for him to descend to such pettiness, and slide into stupidity just like that, it's disappointing. I'm not bitter, now. I'm just very disappointed, very hurt too, I guess. It's such a waste of a person. There was so much potential there. It's such a damn waste."

It hurts to look at the light.

Mosquitoes are eating me alive.

pffft.

"I've been writing crap lately."
"All writers think their work is crap."
"It's crap, hun. Seriously, it's pure crap."

pffft.

I want Jo's Harry Potter ringtone.

I'm vindictive, apparently. Three guesses who called me that.

Insomniac raged, on my behalf, when he said that to her. Two hours ago, I didn't whether to laugh or to cry. Now, it's like ... pffftt, yeah, whatever.

Family's stifling
please, sir, may i go Home?
i want to chase butterflies
and breathe any way i choose.

we're playing hide and seek -
my young self and i.
i'm hiding, she's seeking
i'm raging, she has no idea.

Family is impossible.
butterfly chasing is completely
out of the question -
it's just not fair.

I'm bored.
tell me just what you want me to be
My brain has turned into mush. Whatever I say no longer makes any sense.

I miss work.

turn yourself upside down
for the one who won't help himself
how do you stop the tap from dripping pity?

see the flowers droop, yellow and brown with age?
never mind the sugar water, angel
it's not going to make a difference.

I sang last night, exercising my nearly non-existent bottom register at carolling practice. My vocal cords, when I woke up this morning, felt like they had been through a wringer and squeezed, bone dry.

I squeeked at Mum and Dad this morning.

I am pleased to annouce that I have lost approximately 2.5 kgs or 5 pounds since last Monday. My mother is very pleased and is trying very hard not to say, "I told you so." It has done wonders to the fit of my clothes.

About 5 kgs or 10 pounds to go before I become my 18 year old past self again.

Sugar cravings have dissipated somewhat. However rendang and curry cravings have increased somewhat.

To say that I'm devastated, heart broken, etc etc etc because of him would definitely be like a broken record. To say that I curse a hundred painful deaths on him would also be like a broken record. So, it'll probably be best if I'd just shut up now and cry later - I've just had confirmation from the horses' mouth (glutton for punishment that I am, whoopee) that why, for the past year or so, he thought me akin to a speck of dust in his eye.

It's very flattering.

Yes, definitely shut up now and cry later.

It's been five years since my 18th birthday, two years since my 21st. By any country's standards, I'm an adult, oui?

Not in my parents' eyes. Isn't that so frustrating? Any mention of a nightclub or drinkies after 9pm would produce horrified gasps and stern lectures about how nice girls do not go out to such places at such hours, haven't you heard of the hundreds of rape cases in town?!! I don't care if you have lived on your own since you were 16, while you are under my roof, you obey our rules, and that means, yes, you are going up to the sticks with the entire family and see the fifty million relatives that you've never met and the thirty million relations who claim they've not seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper, never mind you don't remember them, hold still and let them pinch your cheeks and call you , "Apuuu, anak dara toh anak dik? Ni laki ya?"*!! That's my final word! Talk to the hand!

It's enough to drive anyone insane.

Sometimes I wonder if they could ever see beyond the little girl in diapers that they rocked to sleep on humid nights. Probably not. I'll be in my 50s, with a family of own, but Mum will still be peering over my shoulder, instructing me on the best way to fry a fish while Dad lectures me on car maintenance.

Great, something to look forward to.

* "This young lady is your daughter? Oh my, where's her husband?"